Eight Pounds of Sloppy Joes

Jacques Cousteau (Adam) educating the masses

A walk on the flood wall this morning before the rain starts. The day clears in early afternoon but the pools remain closed. Thinking about calling the mayor on this one . . . Guess I will need to start cleaning this house although I am loathe to do so. The bathroom on this floor needs immediate attention. This is the bathroom the grandsons use and I have witnessed eight-year-old Adam doing some creative peeing. Hand on hips as he swivels in a circular pattern all the time trying to keep the urine in the bowl and always with limited success. As Adam has been known to say, the bathroom? That's where the magic happens. I don't know what that means but a BM keeps him in there for thirty minutes sometimes. The man cannot be rushed. Several times toys have needed to be run through the dishwasher due to an accidental dunking while Adam is sitting on the pot. Living with Adam means always having bleach in the house.

Hah! The wusses have finally opened the pool. I am in for a pleasant surprise as there are only four women at the pool. The laps lane is smooth and I glide along the surface with barely a wave behind me. I didn't realize the water plant next to the pool makes whoosing and whirring sounds. The screaming hordes always block it out. I can see the bluffs of Wisconsin on one side of the pool and the woods of Eagle Point on the other. Small batches of yellow leaves dot the trees here and there. Autumn.

I cooked eight pounds of sloppy joes for Mom's family reunion tomorrow. Enough for an army and that is what will be there. Groan. Whose idea was this? I will not stay long - I am not the reunion type. I smell like an onion.

Taught Dad how to sew a button on a shirt today. Everybody should know how to sew a button, make a pot roast, and do his own laundry. Love his questions: why shouldn't you wash towels with clothing? Why are there two different water temperatures with each wash cycle? How often do you wash a toilet? How often do you water plants? Dad's turning into a housewife.

I'm getting too brown. And I get brown. It's that Slavic, Mediterranean skin tone I inherited from my middle European relatives. I'm in too much of a hurry to get into the pool. While working at the nursing home a woman with dementia - she came from one of the wealthier families of Dubuque - and I became fast friends and had many conversations - not all of them with a specific point. Last year at summer's end she did not recognize me but told me with a slightly patronizing look, it's good that they give you people a job. When I was 15 I was crossing a street in Chicago to meet my father on the other side. Two black men whistled at me and Dad laughed saying, that's what you get for getting so brown. Years later I think, this was about the time that black men were whistling at white women and not having to pay a terrible price. I need to get the sun screen.

My Blue Heaven and Rhubarb Pie

See this? This is perfection. This is an empty laps lane and why am I taking this picture when I could be in that cool lagoon . . .

I did get some laps in this morning. Only had to share with two messy swimmers. Messy swimmers flop and splash a lot. They attack the water instead of going with the water. They did 30 minutes of intensive swimming and I loped along for the full 60 minutes. I suppose the same energy gets expelled with the two different methods. I just want the pain to last longer.

And how did I get in morning laps on a Monday morning when I am usually cooking up scrambled eggs for the grandchildren? The grandchildren are somewhere else today! Well, I do need to pick up the little beast at 4:00 from the "other babysitter." Gretchen also sits for three baby boys, two are nine-month-old twins. I fear that these boys will grow up with an innate fear for the opposite gender. Cameron can be a terror if they mess with her stuff. Stay out of my tea set and I'll let you keep your hair!

I now plan to attack the bottomless rhubarb bag. Dave has a friend at work who had the nerve to purchase an acreage with fruit trees. rhubarb and other naturals that require a lot of preparation before consumption. And she doesn't cook. I wish I had made that clear at the beginning of Dave and I that I do not cook. I have known other women who have said this and their families thrive just fine. But I did not. I cooked lasagna for him one Tuesday night fourteen years ago and he never left. This woman gives me rhubarb in a bag heavy enough to choke a Clydesdale and I can never get rid of it. I push it to the back of my fridge and put a watermelon in front of it but sooner or later we eat the watermelon and then there it is. Calling me: wash me, chop me, cover me with sugar, stuff me in a pie crust and then spend an hour cleaning up your sticky kitchen. Every time I go to look in it the rhubarb it has magically multiplied and it is still crisp and red and juicy. It is rhubarb from another dimension and I accidentally invited my father to supper so rhubarb will be in my life today. My mother was a chef of excellent qualifications - one who can taste the stew and tell you exactly what five herbs will make the meat sing from the pot. I keep adding and adding: garlic, bouillon, onion, beer, tomato paste, pepper, red wine, Italian seasoning until the stew doesn't resemble what its original ingredients set it out to be. No one ever wants a second helping and a lot of bread gets consumed at my meals. Mom's pies were delicate and fruity and smelled like home on a wintry afternoon. My pie will not be in that category but Dad will not complain. He is happy he does not need to eat the leftover TV dinner chicken he had planned on.