Entry #70

Entry #70

Saturday, May 19

1:00 p.m. Today’s the big Ironman competition in The Woodlands, a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike ride and 26.2 mile run. It's hard to fathom someone completing a single part of this ultramarathon, let alone all three over the span of one day (or, in the case of winner Jordan Rapp, a mere eight hours, ten minutes, and 43 seconds).

I was presented with a different sort of challenge today—finding my way home. I’m glad I know The Woodlands a bit better than when I first arrived here or I would’ve just given up, since the main streets were all blocked off. After driving in circles, I finally asked a policeman who was directing traffic how I could get to Flintridge, the street that leads to our neighborhood. “Just turn right,” he said. “But there’s a no-turn sign here,” I noted. “Just turn right,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m going to remember you said that,” I remarked, noticing two more cops looking my way as I made an illegal right turn.

4:00 p.m. We needed to pick up some groceries, but didn't want to get back in the car, so David and I decided to walk to the nearby HEB. There's a PetCo along the way, so we stopped in to get Izzie some water. While we were there, a clerk offered Izzie a cookie. She gave her something that looked like a chocolate chip waffle. The clerk then asked if Izzie could have another as she reached into the vanilla creme Oreo bin. I politely declined.

When the folks at PetCo offer to give my dog a cookie, it's really a cookie (as opposed to a dog biscuit or liver treat). Izzie loves going to PetCo.

Since I'm more familiar with our local grocery store than David is, I offered to do a quick shopper while he waited in the shade with Izzie. David wanted to grill a flank steak, so I went to the butcher and said something like, “I’m a vegetarian, so I have no idea what to get. Can I have a flank steak please?” The butcher responded, “A vegetarian?” as though saying, “So what the hell are you doing living in Texas?” 

To my surprise, he told me, “My daughter’s a vegetarian. We thought something was wrong with her when she was a baby. She kept spitting out meat, so we took her to a doctor. We were worried she wasn’t getting enough iron.” He went on to explain that she’s just never liked meat, "but my two boys sure do!"

How ironic is it that a butcher’s child would be a vegetarian? Then again, my dad is a major carnivore, and here I am. Still, he didn’t spend his days chopping up cows, lambs and pigs, only to come home to a daughter who preferred vegetables.

Sunday, May 20

11: 30 a.m. While reading the news on my Google home page, I happened upon an image of a “micro piglet,” from England’s Pennywell Farm, where they’re bred to be extra small (8 oz. at birth) and extra-friendly. They grow to be about the size of a Springer Spaniel and are supposed to be very smart. “Can we get one?” asked Noah.

“If I wasn’t here,” said David, “You’d be in the poor house with all kinds of animals wandering around the house.” He’s right, too. We’d probably have at least two dogs, several cats, rabbits, and Lord knows what else. Good thing David’s around to keep us in line.

7:00 p.m. We finally went blueberry picking today at Moorhead Farms, about a half hour away. The kids did a beeline for the “shave ice” stand, which beckoned them in the sweltering heat. Seems “tiger’s blood” is the most popular flavor these days, a combination of cherry and berries—dark red and sickly sweet. "That's the flavor that always runs out first," said the woman helping us. All I can think of with regards to tiger's blood is its infamous association with Charlie Sheen. The kids loved it though.

Just outside the blueberry picking area, a woman and her daughter were selling canned jams, pickles and pie filling. “My daughter grows it all, and I can it,” said the mom. We promised to patronize her outdoor stand on our way out. (Her dill pickles were so good, they were gone before we got home.)

After picking ten pounds of blueberries among the four of us, I gained a newfound appreciation of how long it takes to fill up just one bucket of blueberries. The kids aren’t big fans of blueberries from the grocery store, but they really enjoyed them freshly picked. I think it’s a texture thing. Mushy blueberries aren’t all that enticing.

Izzie enjoyed romping around the 20-acre blueberry farm, especially after we hosed her down with cold water. Still, she was happiest when she discovered the bathroom’s cement floor and later, the cool fans at the checkout area. I’ve never seen her tongue hang down so far. The hotter she is, the longer her tongue seems to get. I’d say she’d definitely reached her maximum overhang at the blueberry farm. The temperature gauge read 94 degrees.

On the way home, we passed a roadside stand with the advertisement, “Knives and Sunglasses, $3 each!” They also sold giant beach towels illustrated with fierce-looking pit bulls. After all, what more do you need for the beach than some sunglasses, a knife and a guard dog towel? 

Down the road we passed a billboard that read, “Fresh fingers cooked just for you!” It was an advertisement for chicken strips, but didn't bother to mention the word "chicken." The thought of eating "fresh fingers" just doesn't sit well with me. Then again, I still recollect the infamous "Wendy's Chili" incident and don't really care whether or not the found-finger was an urban legend. 

Upon coming home, I froze several bags o’ blueberries, then baked a lemon custard pie (per David’s request) with blueberries on top. Seems I didn’t quite cook the custard long enough, or didn’t let it cool sufficiently, because the “slices” were more like pudding troughs. By the look of the scraped-clean plates, no one seemed to mind all that much.

While my normal inclination would be to deliver some freshly picked fruit to neighbors and friends, I just don't know anyone well enough around here to ring the doorbell and say, "Hi! I brought you some blueberries!" It's too bad, because sharing the wealth seems like an integral part of the fruit-picking adventure.

So, if you’d like to come over and have some blueberries, feel free. We have plenty to go around.

Entry #69

Entry #69

Monday, May 14

8:00 p.m. I took Izzie for a walk this morning along the waterway, just for a change of scenery. On the way, we happened upon an area with several fountains, some of which light up and “dance.” Izzie approached the ground-level fountains to get a quick drink, which were erupting and retreating at varying rates. Izzie kept sticking her nose in a fountain hole, only to have a spray of water shoot up and squirt her in the face. She was initially scared, then seemed to learn which hole wasn’t squirting. This would've made a great video. 

Noah was home sick from school today, and Izzie nurtured Noah by resting beside him. “Why is Izzie making weird chewing sounds?” asked Noah from across the hall. I figured that she was probably drinking water in her sleep like she sometimes does.

Later that afternoon, Noah hollered to me from across the hall, “Mom! I found out what it was!” Turns out Aidan had seen this odd chewing action going on, too, so he opened up her mouth to find a tiny gray Playmobil cat stuck behind her front teeth. 

Aidan couldn’t get it out, so Noah gave it a try and managed to extract the wee kitty from between Izzie’s teeth. Seems instead of getting her tongue, “the cat got her teeth.” This indeed proves that cat food is bad for dogs.

Friday, May 17

10:00 a.m. On Wednesday evening, just before dinner, Noah went for a quick longboard ride around the block and returned with a scraped up elbow. Scrapes and bruises are an everyday occurrence around here, so I wasn't all that fazed until Noah told me he’d wiped out and might’ve broken his arm. Since Noah could still bend his arm (and nothing was protruding from odd angles), we figured we'd just ice the area and get an X-ray the next morning when the offices reopened.


Izzie came to the rescue by licking the entirety of Noah’s scrapes, gently stepped over him, licked his face and chin, then lay next to him. Very Nana-like.

I’m in a haze from yesterday, not so much because it was stressful, but moreso because it was insanely boring. Waiting was the theme of the day: waiting for appointments, waiting in the waiting room, waiting to be seen, waiting for X-ray results...Noah and I are both wasted today with what I can only describe as a "waiting hangover." We literally waited for one person or another from 8 a.m. until 4:00 p.m.

I’ve been remiss in finding the kids a pediatrician, partly because we haven’t needed one, and partly because the kids already have appointments for their annual appointments this summer back in Berkeley. Besides, our next-door-neighbor is a pediatrician, as is a neighbor down the street, so we have two emergency back-ups.

In order to get an X-ray, Noah needed a pediatrician’s order. I found out about a pediatrician located just across the hall from an X-ray office, so we walked in first thing after dropping off Aidan, only we couldn’t be seen for another two hours. The receptionist looked at Noah, then looked at me as though I was in the wrong place. “He’s only 14,” I told her. She smiled and said, “Oh. I thought he was much older!” Despite the fact that Noah is within the normal age range to see a pediatrician, his 6'2" frame did look out of place among the infants and toddlers in the waiting room.


I filled out forms with a new gizmo called a Phreesia. It looks like a cross between an iPad and a Romper Room toy in bright orange plastic.

When it was finally our turn to be seen, we were placed in “The Sports Room.” Apparently each room in this doctor’s office has a theme. Photographs of kids playing tackle football, participating in triathlons, shooting rifles and dancing were clipped along a clothesline-style display.

We were sent, as I predicted, to the office across the hall for an X-ray. So we walked across the hall and waited. After the X-rays were taken, we returned to the pediatrican’s office and waited some more. “I don’t think it’s broken," said the doctor, "But it could be dislocated and it might need a splint. We’re making you an orthopedic appointment now.” We waited for awhile to find out about our next appointment, but since we didn’t hear anything, I thought we’d better just go. Had there been any decent magazines, I might be inclined to wait a little while longer...

Turns out our orthopedic appointment wasn’t until 1:10, so I was relieved we’d gone home. The orthopedist’s office was at least somewhat interesting, with sports paraphernalia from former clients. I got a kick out of a signed photo from a rodeo dude with the message, "Thanks for your help." I imagine that a guy who gets thrown off angry bulls for a living would need all the help he could get.

The doctor, who looked a bit like a middle-eastern George Clooney, only less charming, told us that Noah definitely bruised the bone, that “there was blood inside” (the most dramatic news du jour), but that all Noah could do was wear a sling and try to bend his arm every hour.

So, after going to three places over the course of seven hours and being charged who knows how much, Noah came out with a $5 sling and advice to stretch his arm.

12:00 noon: I met up with Sam this morning to to see his completed comic book. He presented me with my very own color copy, a thank you note, and a gift card for Godiva chocolate, too. All most unexpected surprises.

What I found most ironic—and also very sweet—was the acknowledgements page: “This comic would not have been capable without the help from Mrs. Gabriel who saw it through and helped tremendously by showing her perspectives...” In all honesty, I didn't really do much more than listen. Sharing my perspective on the concept of original sin (the main theme of this student's comic book) would not have been the best idea.

There’s a page in the final draft that reads, “We refer to ourselves as the ‘Unblessed.’” “Why?” “Let’s just say, back in the day, God didn’t really like a certain group of people...So when Jesus died on the cross to teach those few people he was almighty, he did not forgive their sins...We are their descendants.” After my initial shock about the "Unblessed," I decided it was best to simply sit back, inhale deeply, and let Sam tell his story.


Still, it's a far cry from the comic books of my youth...

Entry #63

Entry #63

Wednesday, May 2

Noon: “Dem some ugly vegetables.” This is what came to mind when I took a look at my weekly delivery of farm-fresh organic veggies. I had forgotten to pick them up the previous afternoon, so they were already limp and withered by the time I came to fetch them at morning drop-off.

I had to refer back to the labels on the plastic bins to actually see what the vegetables were this time. Apparently there were beets (that looked like elongated yellowish roots of some sort), cucumbers (also of the yellowish-brown persuasion), wilted chard (we seem to get this every week), more onions, white radishes (I think), and dirt-caked lettuce. I can now understand why people appreciate the “triple-washed” varieties from the grocery store.

On the way home, I stopped at PetCo to find something to eliminate the fleas that now seem to have welcomed themselves into our backyard. The cashier asked if Izzie could have a treat. I said, “Yes, of course,” so she reached into a bin that looked as if it contained vanilla cream sandwich cookies.

“Those look like human cookies,” I said. “They’re made by the same company that makes Oreos, only with less sugar and better ingredients,” she smiled, adding, “Sometimes when I forget my lunch, I eat those, and sometimes the chocolate chip cookies. They have carob instead of chocolate.”

Little did I know that PetCo offers treats for canines and cashiers alike! As I left, I noticed a silver package of Pop Tarts glimmering behind the register. Guess Pop Tarts are about the human equivalent of doggie Oreos.

2:45 p.m. I just finished peeling the cooked beets, or what were labeled as beets. I assumed that they were a variation of golden beets, only when I poured the water out, they looked more like pond water, a brownish green. Still hopeful, I cut off a piece and tried it. I ordinarily like beets, even crave them, but these tasted like salty dish soap. 

So now all I’m left with from my $32 delivery are some wilted lettuce, bug-eaten chard, white radishes, and odd-colored cucumbers. Ah, well. At least I’m doing my part to support the local, organic farmers, right? If only we had a composter here, I could at least rationalize...

4:45 p.m. On the way home we passed a van from ARS Rescue Rooter. I wonder if the original owner was British. It would be more fun to simply call it what is is: Arse Plumbling. “Got a backup? Blocked pipes? Our Arse experts will help you get to the bottom of things...”

6:00 p.m. While cleaning the chard, which I thought I might make for dinner, I got to the bottom of the bowl and discovered a live beetle. “That’s nasty,” said Noah as I deposited the beetle in the backyard. This bug-eaten chard, though now thoroughly washed, is even more unappetizing than it was before. On the plus side, Noah enjoyed the yellow cucumbers (after I removed the seeds). Now all that’s left are some white radishes and a few salvaged lettuce leaves. Too bad my bunnies aren’t here to enjoy this feast of greenery. They wouldn’t mind the occasional bug, or even the crunch of fresh dirt between their teeth.

Thursday, May 3

8:00 a.m. Before leaving for work, David tossed The Woodlands Villager, our weekly freebie paper on the breakfast table. The front page featured the following headline: “Fun Run builds rivalries...” What is fun about that? I would think a kids’ fun run would be one that builds collaborators, or perhaps “friendly competition,” but “rivals”? "Fun" and "rival" just don't seem to go hand-in-hand. Then again, we're in Texas, where competition is the name of the game.

In the Entertainment section, there was an article entitled “Transplant patient recovered, now cast as CYT’s Wicked Witch.” One would think this teen might be cast perhaps as Dorothy (as in “I want to go home [from the hospital]...I want to go home...”). But instead, after a liver transplant, she recovers only to be cast as a witch. While liver failure does, in fact, give the skin a jaundiced hue, this could have caused offense. Seems the girl didn’t mind one bit. “The role fits me so well," she said. "The evil part just comes off so naturally."

10:00 a.m. This morning’s walk at George Mitchell was very peaceful and almost Snow White-like at first, with Black Swallowtail butterflies flitting overhead. About a mile in, however, two women with a pack of dogs came up to me, saying, “About 30 feet ahead on your right is a copperhead.” The woman walking with her added, “It’s GIANT!” I saw the snake, and while it really wasn't that big, it was obviously upset by the five dogs that had just disturbed it. Its head was lifted and its mouth was open in a threatening pose—not a good sign. I was thankful I had Izzie on a leash. We leapt past it and to our relief, it didn’t move, just stayed there staring, mouth wide open.

In an article entitled, “How dangerous are copperhead snakes?” Whit Gibbons writes, “A Copperhead snake bite needs medical attention, is extremely painful, and may cause extensive scarring and loss of use.” Loss of use? This part scares me even more than the extreme pain.

2:00 p.m. I got a call from the woman who runs HomeSweetFarm after asking for a refund on my less-than-palatable veggies this week. The word “sweet” didn’t come to mind at any point during our conversation. In fact, I felt reprimanded. Not only did she say they wouldn’t give me a refund, she had the audacity to say, "You're obviously not the right type of customer for us," adding, “We actually received quite a lot of compliments about this week's delivery.” In other words, I have no idea what I am talking about and hence, am undeserving of any compensation whatsoever.

Truth is, I rarely complain about food-related stuff, except perhaps if I’m at a restaurant and my soup is luke warm. I admit I like my soup really hot. Other than that, I’m not a big “send-back” kind of gal. However, if I’m spending $32 for six items of produce, I’d like to be able to enjoy it as much as the beetle in my chard apparently did.

In an attempt to say something positive, I complimented her on their ($5/dozen) eggs and asked if I could still receive them. “No,” she said flatly. “We only provide those for our regular customers.” Ouch. 

 At the end of the conversation, the woman said, “Well, now at least I understand that your vegetables weren’t good because you got them the next day.” Yes, that would explain the filth and bugs and poisonous flavor of the oddly shaped beets. “We can’t give you a refund until we find someone to fill your place, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Give us a call in a couple weeks.”

I would say this was a new low in customer service. Upon sharing this conversation with David, he said, "Seems you've been fired as a customer." Guess I'll just have to take my reusable bags elsewhere. 

I won't miss the bugs or dirt, but I will miss the anticipation of my weekly delivery—there was something fun in anticipating the arrival of farm-to-home produce each week. Mostly I'll miss those eggs—each one unique, slightly different in shape, speckled hue...with vivid tangerine-colored yolks. They were as real as anything I've seen here, and one step closer to nature. I know hens lay eggs all the time, but it still seems magical to me.