Month: January 2019

Can you be bad at art?

Earlier this month, I decided to explore my inner artist. While I am creative in the sense I write and cook, I have never given visual art much of a go. I don’t read the comics, because I don’t relate to the images. I’m a word girl.

I started with a simple decoupage project to make coasters out of stone tiles. Coasters with inspirational quotes, because I’m a word girl. I was talking with my neighbor and said I was experimenting with art. I mentioned the coasters, and she said, “Oh, you mean crafts.”

That seemed a bit pretentious to me, the differentiation between arts and crafts, but whatever. I plodded on. All but one of my coasters is in the trash, and the other one is headed there soon. I don’t like the way the coasters look, and they don’t even come close to what I imagined in my head. However, I enjoyed the effort and am not quitting on decoupage just yet.

My next stop was a two-day class in making clay masks. The class was offered at a nearby arts center, and it was part of a grant supporting art therapy for women veterans. I’m a veteran, so the class was free. Nothing to lose, right?

Well, not so fast. I didn’t feel comfortable as a veteran or as an aspiring artist. The other women were a lot younger and have stayed connected to various veteran’s organizations. I got out in 1977 and never looked back. The women veterans I know got jobs with defense contractors and built high-profile careers.

These women didn’t have jobs and spent their days tending to husbands and children and juggling appointments at the VA hospital. I did my best to listen, contribute and be supportive. Three of us had bouts with breast cancer, and on a break, we compared scars. One woman told me she was 100 percent disabled from PTSD resulting from MST. I asked, “What’s MST?”

Military Sexual Trauma.

It’s heartbreaking to see such vibrant women defined by the bad things that happened to them. But here they were. Making art. Laughing and telling their stories. It wasn’t my community, but I was glad these veterans found theirs and were so open about their experiences. I was also happy they were good at art. I mean, somebody has to be, right?

Because it would not be me. Oh, I know all the talk. You don’t learn to play a violin by picking it up once. There’s no such thing as artistic talent. You either do art or you don’t.

All I know is my mask looked awful, and it got worse by the minute. I thought paint would help, but that was the beginning of the end. There was no rhyme or reason to the colors I picked. Toward the finale, I was just slapping paint on there, whatever color was left, eager to be done with it.

Go me – I finished first! The teacher will now put the masks in his kiln, and I guess we go back in a couple of weeks to pick them up. I don’t even want mine, but maybe it will serve some yet undisclosed purpose.

I suppose it was good to get outside my comfort zone, but honestly, I did not enjoy myself. I don’t have a deep appreciation of art in general. There was a little gallery adjacent to the workshop, and they invited me to look around since I was (of course) the first one there, but I could not have been less interested. Try as I might to change, I think I’m still all about starting and finishing tasks subsequently evaluated on the basis of perfection.

Hearing about the terrible experiences of these women veterans depressed me. I know. That is so self-absorbed. One of the women who had worked for the VA said she quit because it was too depressing, and she often sat crying with the veterans who came in for help.

The women and their stories left a mark on me. Maybe that’s why I was supposed to attend this class. It wasn’t necessarily good for my mood, but it was probably good for my soul.

At the end of the day, I don’t think art is my thing. Maybe my neighbor was right. I’m more likely to enjoy making crafts. Something that has a purpose – not just art for art’s sake. I know arts and crafts take practice and patience, but I do feel bad that so far, I suck at it.

On the other hand, I’m glad I opened my eyes to the possibility of creating something crafty or artistic, if there is indeed a difference.

My first slab pie

Although I don’t make dessert pies often, Dale and I both adore savory pies. There’s one with fresh summer tomatoes and basil with cheddar cheese in a biscuit crust. Oh, and the recipe from an old Gourmet magazine for broccoli and sausage pie with Swiss cheese and a whole wheat crust topped with sesame seeds.

My most important rule for pie making? Never trim the excess crust – just bulk it up so there’s more.

As a crust fanatic, I’ve made my share of winners and losers. I enjoy making pie dough, but there is nothing worse than screwing it up. I’ve done reasonably well since I abandoned fancy and reverted back to my old recipe with Crisco. But I’m all about continuous improvement.

I read about a new cookbook by Cathy Barrow: Pie Squared: Irresistibly Easy Sweet & Savory Slab Pies. At first, it didn’t appeal to me, because slab pies are big, and there’s just two of us. But then I saw the book at the library, and I had nothing to lose by checking it out.

What a unique and well-done book! I curled up on the couch and read it from front to back. She talks about pie crust in ways I have never heard it discussed. She’s an excellent writer, who explains the art of making good pies in easy-to-understand language.

Cathy includes great ideas for substituting ingredients and tips for making it ahead, which simplifies the process … because as you know, I’m retired and quite busy! She also tells you how to freeze it and how to reheat it. Stuff you want to know but cookbook authors rarely tell you.

Oh, and it turns out crust is not just flour and shortening. Recipes include cream cheese crust, caramelized onion crust, rye crust and a host of press-in crusts using crackers, cornbread, potatoes and more. The book is really a crust-lover’s dream. My only complaint is that she says to trim the excess.

Slab pies look huge, but when I saw they were made in ¼ sheet pans, it seemed less daunting. I started with Curried Chicken Pie with All-Butter Crust. The filling includes chicken, cauliflower, carrots and sugar snap peas. This is the first time I made a successful all-butter crust, and it was the first time I put the pie pan on top of a pizza stone in the oven.

I have some things to learn about rolling the dough for this new shape, but is that not a beautiful pie?

Beautiful and delicious. We’re having it again tonight. I assume it’s only a matter of time before I break down and buy the book. If you love pie, I encourage you to explore this book. I learned so much and can’t wait to try another recipe.

Maybe Poblano and Chorizo Slab Pie with a Hash Brown Crust?

Postscript: For second-night dinner, we found ourselves raiding the corners because … well … more crust. Then we had a whole middle to deal with, and that leads to the only downside of these pies. They are big. Even if you freeze the leftovers, it’s more pie than we need.

I’m still going to get the book. The recipes and instructions are fantastic, and I believe I can tinker with quantities to make a smaller round pie or even individual rustic pies, the kind where you just flap the dough over the filling. But if you have more people to feed, go for the slab!

My stuff doesn’t spark joy

I bought Marie Kondo’s tidying up book a couple of years ago and started folding t-shirts, socks and underwear according to her guidance. But a week later, I stopped. In the meantime, she has made it big on TV, and my drawers are a mess. Socks gone wild!

As I recall, Marie wants us to spend time with our stuff, folding and tucking, and thanking them for performing well. It has been quite a few years since my underwear was involved in anything involving performance excellence, unless you count bladder control.

She also encourages us to get rid of stuff that doesn’t spark joy. Honestly, none of my stuff sparks joy. It’s just stuff – stuff I either need or want, and it resides in my home. I’m careful about not having too much stuff, and I regularly toss or donate, but if I purged on the basis of joy, I’d have a mostly empty house.

But here’s the rub – I do have obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and it wouldn’t be all that hard to push me off the ledge into the dark abyss of tidydom. Under my careful tutelage, records, CDs and spices are all in alphabetical order. I take my vitamins and meds in alphabetical order. A for aspirin, C for CoQ10, D for vitamin D, F for fish oil, L for Lisinopril and M for multivitamin.

Dale keeps asking what the W is for. There is no W. It’s M, and he knows it. There are days he does not spark joy, but I don’t make him leave, do I?

And yes, it’s Dale, who sort of keeps me within the boundaries of normal. He is the moral opposite of Marie. Dale doesn’t believe in the magic of tidying up. I wouldn’t call him a slob or hoarder. That’s a bit harsh. Let’s just say he’s differently organized. Mess-tolerant. Stuff-friendly.

But because we are married, and people who stay married have learned to compromise, I’ve lowered the bar and somewhat willingly sink toward his standards of cleanliness and order. It’s just too hard to fight about it. Dale makes an effort to meet me in the middle. The house is never as tidy as I would like it, but it’s not the frat house of his dreams, either.

So, I don’t know. Is Marie married or living with someone? That can’t be easy. In our 40-year marriage, we’ve found it is sometimes hard to find joy in each other, let alone each other’s stuff. We’ve reached a détente of sorts. It’s like whatever, do what you want, keep what you want. Let’s just love each other until this party is over.

Sure, we’ll have to deal with it at some point. Or the estate will. When we lived in South Carolina, the owner of an antique car museum passed away, and they were interviewing his widow on TV. The reporter asked if she was keeping the museum. She said, “No, that’s his dream, not mine.”

Dale and I still crack up about that. I joke that five minutes after his last breath, all the books about World War II will be gone. Stacks of them. Sometimes I even day dream about how I’m going to do it.

Donate? Sell online? One must be prepared.

Technology gremlins

I’m pretty good with Word, PowerPoint and Excel, but that stretches the limits of my technical expertise. When I started this blog, WordPress was supposed to be easy, but for me, it has been anything but.

From the very beginning, I had problems downloading a theme and experienced subsequent issues with the banner across the top … because it wouldn’t go across the top. That’s why I always had a weird box with the blog name in it.

The details are mind-numbing, so I’ll spare you that, other than to say a whole year went by, and I only discovered today my theme was linked to the wrong site. I guess that’s why shit didn’t work.

I’ve uploaded a new theme, and that took me through lunch because I was scared to push the publish button. Or as they say in the South, I was afraid to mash the button. Lots of reading on the Help site and lots of f-bombs later, but I did it!

I rather like the new template. It’s certainly easier than the one that didn’t work. All my content appears to have migrated, but please do let me know if you notice something missing or have problems commenting. My email is on the contact page.

I’ll probably tweak it as I go, but this is it for now. Only so many accomplishments in one day. I hope you find it easy to read and navigate. As always, I welcome your feedback.

Rainy day tuna

It’s a cold messy rainy day, and I’m thinking about tuna. I got to thinking about tuna because I love tuna and Dale was thinking about potato chips. If you put the two together, it adds up to a chunky tuna salad sandwich with just the right amount of mayonnaise and dill pickles or perhaps a creamy tuna melt with cheddar on sourdough and a side of crispy chips. Crinkles?

Perfect for a rainy day. Unless you’re thinking about tuna casserole.

That’s what I’m thinking about, anyway. I haven’t made it in years, but tuna casserole is on my brain now. I recall egg noodles, cream of mushroom soup, peas and a topping of crushed potato chips. Probably some cheese involved, and that can’t be a bad thing. I never met a cheese I didn’t like.

I looked through some of our old cookbooks and couldn’t find the combination of ingredients that spoke to me. So far, this recipe sounds the best. It’s a bit boujee compared to what I grew up with, but it sounds good to me. I would probably add some peas.

Certainly, there are those among you who do not care for canned tuna and are horrified by the thought of tuna casserole. It’s hard to fathom, but I know everyone has different tastes. I bet a bunch of us still love it.

I’m excited about making tuna casserole … but I don’t know, the tuna melt sounds good. Maybe with corn chips? I’ll probably cook tomorrow, since we are actually going out tonight (a rare occurrence). A new Asian bistro opened up not too far from our house, and it’s getting good reviews. Rain is forecast through the end of the week.

I tell you all this so you have time to send me your tuna tips. Thanks in advance.

Can you recession-proof your nest egg?

I try not to pay attention to the stock market, but it has been awfully difficult to see it flitting about as it has. My nest egg hasn’t taken too big of a hit, but that’s a fluke.

You’ll remember back in October, I rolled over my 401K from my former employer’s plan administrator to an IRA with Morgan Stanley, where the rest of the money is invested. That transaction was completed just before the market started dropping, so I saved a nice chunk of money by accident.

Although I am no longer working, I don’t plan to start withdrawing money from my retirement account for another three years. I still have a few long-term incentives from work. Add Dale’s military retirement, his social security and cash we set aside, and we’re doing fine.

Our adviser suggested we park the IRA in something safe until we had more insight into what the market is up to. We’ve been talking regularly, and by that, I mean he regularly talks me off the ledge.

Bob Lowry at Satisfying Retirement had an excellent post along with thoughtful comments submitted by readers about managing your portfolio in retirement. I’ve since seen more than a few horror stories from the Great Recession.

For example, I read this in bed during one of my 2 a.m. financial retreats:

“Between October 2007 and March 2009, the S&P lost 55 percent of its value. An investor with $1 million exposure to an S&P fund would have lost $550,000 in the span of 17 months.”

Yikes!

While impacts were felt across the board, I believe those hit hardest were people heavily invested in stocks. And that begs the question – what’s the right balance of equities and safer assets? I’m barely literate when it comes to finance, so please don’t mistake me for someone who knows anything. I can only share my own experiences.

There is no single solution. There’s no magic bullet. Some people can tolerate more risk than others. Some people have more money to play with. Some people have less. Our adviser suggested a 50/50 split, but that seemed too aggressive to me. I’ve read that’s actually a conservative allocation.

Just to make it confusing, factor in we don’t have children and don’t plan to leave an estate. We’re on board with the “Die Broke” approach, but because we are financially conservative by nature, it’s unlikely we will actually die broke. In our case, big growth is not a requirement. Our investment philosophy is hang onto the money we have and keep pace with inflation.   

I talked again with our adviser, and we settled for now on a 35/65 allocation. For us, that means 35 percent in index funds and 65 percent in bonds and money market investments. There’s still a bit of risk, but we could ride out a recession if we had to – and maybe I can get some sleep.

Retirement planning isn’t easy, especially when you are already retired! In weak moments, I blame corporate America for abandoning pensions and forcing financial illiterates such as ourselves to eke out a retirement plan. But it is what it is, and we are fortunate to have a good adviser with a solid plan that includes Dale’s military pension.

For most of us, managing money is one of retirement’s greatest challenges. I say accept it, learn all you can and seek expert advice, if needed. I’m feeling pretty good since we settled on a prudent approach for our future.

As for words of wisdom, I’ll quote Bob’s conclusion, “Whatever comes now we believe we can handle it. And, that is a great feeling.”

Team-building with tamales

Dale and I love tamales and usually buy them fresh at the farmer’s market. However, we’ve been talking about making them ourselves and finally decided to just do this thing.

I like to research everything to death, and Dale flies by the seat of his pants. I pulled out the Diana Kennedy cookbooks and read up on the historic art of tamale making. I studied masa from A to Z, while Dale played computer games and thought about tamales.

He surprised me by sharing he spotted all critical tools and ingredients at the local market I’ve been to once. When did he go? Is this what he does while I’m playing golf? Cruising the markets looking for who knows what?

We were ready to make our trek to the market, when I asked about filling. He unilaterally decided to make a pork filling he’d apparently unearthed on the Internet. I might have liked a vote, consulted with Diana and others, but it sounded good to me, and it was one less thing I had to worry about.

The market delivered as promised. They had pre-prepared masa, husks and even a tamale steamer, which we bought because none of the other 10,000 pots we have would work.

For the filling, Dale braised a pork butt in the oven with not much more than an onion. After it cooled, he shredded it and added his homemade chile sauce. That’s all there was to filling. But then I didn’t make it, and I know chile sauce is messy work involving the rehydration of dried pepper pods. I find it in our freezer already made!

We set up the work station. Dough, soaked husks, filling. We began to prep and realized neither one of us knew how to roll these things. The masa was too thick, so we added a bit of juice from the pork butt to thin it out.

As for rolling, we were in hysterics trying to figure it out. The first one Dale made looked like a monster burrito, and I weighed it just to see. The mother of all tamales weighed in at nine ounces. I wanted to name it El Hefe, but Dale insisted on El Capitan. I mean, wrap it in a pizza and it could be on the menu at Taco Bell.

They got smaller after that, but I never did understand the art of the roll. Dale was better at it than I was. They were looking like tamales, and we were argument-free, when we began to discuss steam time.

Dale’s sources, real or imagined, said 45 minutes. Diana (real) said two to three hours. That’s quite a discrepancy. We pulled out other cookbooks, and yes, it varied from 45 minutes to three hours.  How do you know?

We decided it probably depends on how many are in there and the thickness of the masa. The problem was I did not want to be starving at 8 p.m. waiting another hour because the masa wasn’t cooked.

I thought this would be the big fight, but we got through it without incident, probably because neither one of us was really sure about anything. It’s harder to pick a fight when you have no ground to stand on. We decided to make them early and then reheat when it was time for dinner.

The tamales took about two hours. They were probably too thick, and the rolling technique was inconsistent and weird. However, they were absolutely delicious! We had them two nights in a row and then froze the rest in their husks. A decadent treat we learned in Texas is tamales smothered in chili.

All in all, it was way fun. We laughed a lot because we were so outside our comfort zones. As retirement partners, I highly recommend taking on a joint project of some sort. Something where you have basic skills, but you are stretching them to new limits, so you learn together.

The whole experience reminded me of a team-building exercise from work, except you can use the f-bomb, and we got to kiss at the end.

DIY cannabis balm recipe

I made another batch of cannabis balm, and it occurred to me I never shared the complete recipe. Be sure to try commercial cannabis balm before investing in tools. Buy some at your local dispensary and make sure:

A) It works for you

B) You can’t live without it

C) You’d like to save money

D) You are willing to go to the trouble of making it at home

It’s easy to make more than just cannabis balm at home – tincture, edible butter, magical oils and bath salts to name a few – and for me they all start with a Magical Butter Machine. Cost is $175, but I’m close to the break-even point by now.

The other tool I use is the NOVA Decarboxylator by Ardent. It’s $210. I like the ease and effectiveness of the machine, which heats and fully activates the THC in your flower. However, I have also used a covered glass casserole.

To decarb without a machine: Break up flowers and small pieces with your hands – add to the casserole and cover – cook at 250°F for 30 minutes. This technique is less precise than the NOVA, but it worked fine for me.

Here’s more info on decarboxylation.

The balm is made in two phases. Phase I is making the infused coconut oil. Phase II is the balm itself. Ratios of cannabis-to-oil vary by recipe, but this is how I make it.

Cannabis-Infused Coconut Oil

1 ounce of decarboxylated cannabis flowers and/or trim (look for strains on sale, preferably high in CBD).

2 cups liquified organic coconut oil

2 tablespoons lecithin

Place the ingredients into your Magical Butter Machine, and secure the head.

Press the Temperature button, and select 160°F; then press the 2 Hours/Butter button.

After the cycle is complete, unplug the unit at the outlet, and remove the head of the appliance. Put on the special glove that comes with the machine and pour the pitcher contents slowly through the filter that also comes with the machine into an airtight container. I use a mason jar.  

Cannabis Balm

Jars (I use these)

1 cup cannabis-infused coconut oil

1/4 cup olive oil

1/3 cup beeswax

Essential oils (I use 9 drops of Tea Tree and 9 drops of Peppermint)

Put all ingredients in the Magical Butter Machine at 160°F for one hour.

I like to hang close to the MBM while it makes the balm, because wax firms up quickly, and you want to get it out while very liquid. Once it’s ready, some people whip it, but I don’t see the point. I pour it directly into the jars and let it sit for awhile before refrigerating. The balm will keep nicely in the fridge. I pull one jar out at a time and leave it on the bathroom counter. It stays fairly firm but liquefies in your hands.

For clean-up, I use a combination of wet/dry paper towels. Beeswax will trash your kitchen sponge. 

As for usage, in my opinion, you’re not getting the maximum benefits unless you apply it every day, preferably twice a day. An occasional missed application is fine. I have neurological pain across my mastectomy scars, so I use it all over my chest. I also focus on my knees and spine. If you don’t include expenses for the MBM and NOVA, cost is about $4 per ounce versus $20 per ounce for commercial balm.

If I’m extra-sweet, Dale will massage it in thoroughly, which seems to make it work better. At least that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Finding your inner artist

How long did it take you to decompress from work and adjust to being retired? Right from the get-go, I was happy to be done with my job and thought that meant I had adjusted, but I was wrong. Just read through some of my old posts, and you can see how my thinking has evolved.

Work? Not work? Who am I without a job? Who was I with a job? What’s my purpose? Is there a second act? Do we have to reinvent ourselves? Aren’t we pretty OK already?

Life’s eternal questions. I kind of stopped thinking about them and focused on what made me feel good and what made me happy. Amazingly, my creative juices are flowing. I’ve been feeling artistic!

While writing is an art, I’ve never been otherwise inclined to pursue artistic activities. My crafty quilting sister got those genes. If I needed help with a Halloween costume or gift packaging, she would take my emergency phone calls from Michaels, where I panic. Seriously, what is all this stuff?

And in minutes, she’d talk me off the ledge. She’s the Michaels Whisperer, “OK, stand with your back facing the door. Go three aisles down and turn right. Look up. No, not that way. 3 o’clock. Bend your knees slightly and reach out in front of you. Pick up the tube on the left. Glitter glue.”

So, where to start? I took this quiz, and it said I am destined to be a print maker. I got a book from the library, and making prints looks hard. Actually, everything looks hard.

I’m calling in all my lifelines for help deciding how I will scratch this itch. I have virtually no experience making art, unless you count a ceramic ashtray I made in grade school and cookies decorated with royal icing. My friend, Carole, who is an artist, recommended decoupage. I went to the library and got a book on decoupage. Looks doable.

My sister warned me I need to be patient. Immediate results are not to be expected. Like I need to be warned about patience! I don’t have time for such nonsense! We’ll be talking this weekend, when she will share other important sisterly advice.

I’ve been thinking about what might come naturally pursuant to my interests. I like things with function. Surfaces like wood, glass, ceramic and tin. I like kitchen stuff. I’ve been doodling spirals since I was a kid. I see more spirals in my future.

It’s exciting to think about getting started in art, but it’s even more exciting to think my brain is finally in this place. This is year two of retirement, but my first full year. I’m decompressing from my work life and embracing my creative urges. Urges I didn’t even know I had.

Are you an artist? Or have you found a new creative side of yourself in retirement? How’s it going?

As for other creative urges, Dale and I are embarking on a journey this weekend to make tamales from scratch. You know there will be a story.

Pink sky at morning

Red sky at night, sailors’ delight. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning. Does anyone know what pink sky at morning means? It has been cold by my puny standards, and rain is on the way. Wusses take warning?

I was all jammied up when I went out to the backyard to take this picture of sunrise over the Sierra foothills. Something about a pink sky makes me happy … particularly happy to be retired with nothing on the agenda and a full pot of coffee on the counter.

Dale and I jokingly call it “California Cold.” That means anything below 50. I had to force myself to go out for my long walks this week, so I over-bundled, which is my signature winter style. When we go out, Dale and I look like we’re dressed for different hemispheres.

Yesterday I played my first round of golf in 2019. It was in the high 30s when we were scheduled to start. Yikes! I was wearing so many layers it was amazing I could even hit the ball. But it warmed up nicely, and we had a great time out there.

I don’t make resolutions, but I had given thought to focusing more on my social game. There was a frost delay, so I chatted up some of the other players while we stayed warm in the clubhouse and mentioned my New Year’s resolution was to party more. That got some laughs and cheers.

Just saying, but it seems like the popular girls wanted to hang out with me after that. I learned one of my playing partners has a husband who grows pot! She’s going to bring me a little jar of bud, and I’m going to bring her a little jar of my homemade cannabis balm. A gift exchange! Dale thought that was hilarious. I mean, we’re still shocked you can go out in the backyard to smoke a joint, and no one can call the police.

My more relaxed attitude certainly helped my golf game. I had two birdies and a chip-in par for a grand total of 88. My best score ever is 84, and that was several years ago. I’m essentially a bogey golfer, which is fine, but I would like to improve, and who knows? With a little more partying, I might just do that. I have a golf buddy in Georgia who enjoys her rounds with a Bloody Mary in tow.

I’m not sure if it’s the weather or what, but my sciatica has been acting up, along with my right wrist, which I broke several years ago. I’ve been making sure to brave the cold and keep walking, using the cannabis balm twice daily and sleeping with a brace on my wrist. Seems to be working!

Oh. A word about the cannabis bath salts. I got the water super hot for my first bath and soaked 30 minutes or so. I felt remarkably pain-free that evening. But the next bath wasn’t as hot, and I’m also wondering if my cannabis-infused oil wasn’t evenly distributed, because I didn’t feel much. Two baths use 1/4 cup of infused oil. That’s kind of a lot, which sort of hints that it has great potential, but for now I prefer to use the topical balm I make with infused oil and beeswax.

I will say my aches and pain improved dramatically after I retired. That 2.5-hour commute on the bus to what was basically a desk job did nothing for my body. I don’t even complain too much about housework, because I figure it’s good for me.

For the record, I have attempted to lure Dale into the Housework-is-Healthy-and-Fun club, but he continues to resist. Although full credit due – he loads a mean dishwasher.