Lift Up Your Hearts!

Diplomacy.  It was Henry Kissinger's favorite game.  It was also a significant part of our lives in the early 1980s, back when Porter thought he had time to spend on interminable strategy board games.  He played in person; he played by mail.  He designed and implemented a multi-tiered rope-and-pulley game board system for our basement, so he could keep track of several games at once.  By far his favorite—no doubt because it is all skill, no luck—was Diplomacy.

I doubt the number of games Porter persuaded me to play exceeded two, but that didn't stop the whole family from being sucked into the vortex.  Somewhere in the process of all the conventions, fanzine activity, and of course, game playing, we made some lifelong friends, including two for whom Porter would subsequently be best man at their weddings.  Heather gave Porter his less sinister nickname, Dippy Daddy.  (The other, bestowed by one of his favorite opponents, was Porter the Knife.)  Two of our close friends published their own "Dipzines"—small publications with a few articles that primarly served the purpose of managing play-by-mail games—to which I occasionally submitted an article.  In one of them I even had a short-lived cartoon, which I called Dip City. (More)

Li'l Writer Guy has return from his monastic retreat (we picked him up on our return from The Wedding), but is still experiencing re-entry, so you'll still mostly be getting quick takes and pointers to what others have written.  Probably lots of both, however, as the number of comment-worthy events and posts has multiplied almost out of control.  The most efficient way to deal with them is probably to present them with a simple "here, you might find this interesting."

I'm also working on a restructuring of this blog, so please bear with me as I play around.  For the first time in months I haven't had the immediate pressure of travel/new grandchild/wedding/holidays driving my life, and I'm looking forward to some signficant housecleaning in many areas of my life.  This feeling of reduced pressure is probably a fool's paradise, as there are still major wedding plans to work out (for the U.S. ceremony in the summer), other travel coming up, and the backlog of important work that was set aside for the more urgent (but also important)—but let me enjoy the moment.

Li'l Writer Guy completely understands that what you are all waiting for is the story of our trip and the reason we made it, and plans some serious work on that once his desk is dusted and the piles organized.

With a fair amount of admitted prejudice, I have said that Heather and Jon's wedding was the most perfect, beautiful, and appropriate wedding ever.  Now I must expand that statement:  Janet and Stephan's wedding was totally different, yet equally perfect, beautiful and appropriate.  (I can say this because I had little to do with the planning and execution of either wedding.)

The all-day festivities deserve a much longer post, but the day is very nearly over, so details will have to wait.  But to all you who were praying for and/or thinking of us today, rejoice that from the ceremony in the ancient church to the dinner in the Medieval castle, from the radiant bride to the adorable ring bearer, from the live Medieval music to the lively Renaissance dancing, all crafted and infused with the great love of family and friends, the wedding was a magnificent success.

Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Stephan Stücklin!

Here in Florida we have our own way of celebrating great events.  It helps to know a Disney big-wig or two.

 

Congratulations, Janet and Stephan!

 

(Click on the link.)

The homeschool group my nephews belong to has been meeting once a week for ice skating, and today I joined them.  I can't tell you how long it has been since I've skated, but I think my ankles can.  Normally I leave the lacing of my skates rather loose for comfort and blood circulation, but today I found I needed a little more support.  Having made that adjustment, however, I had a blast—and so, I believe, did my nephews.  What a great way to get exercise without knowing it, at least until the skating is over.  I'm also reliving my childhood, apparently, having just a few days earlier gone bowling, a sport last attempted even longer ago than skating.

After the skating was over, I made a point of thanking the person in charge of the music that played while we skated.  The music itself was not spectacular, nor even enjoyable.  It did include the obligatory Hokey Pokey, though not, I now realize, the Chicken Dance.  What made the music so unusually delightful was that it was played at less than jet-engine assault volume.  In this it contrasted starkly, not only with most skating rink experiences, but also church services, movie theaters, the above-mentioned bowling alley, and even Yorktown.  (The last has some excuse, there being no volume knob on a cannon.)

Isaac Christopher Daley
November 21, 2002 - November 23, 2002

Six years ago I stumbled through a small speech as our first grandson's ashes were interred, along with a cross made of Legos, a small toy car, and innumerable hopes and dreams.  In honor of what would have been his sixth birthday, I think it's time for me to hear again what I had to say then.  You may eavesdrop if you wish.  (More)

Once when we were visiting Pittsburgh, we had the pleasure of attending a Stephen Foster festival at the cemetery where he is buried.  While there, we heard the group Home Front, and bought their CD, Parlor to Campfire.  It was somewhat amusing (better to laugh than to cry) to hear our stereo system, which randomly plays tracks from a rather large collection of music, wail forth with Hard Times Come Again No More—right after I had sneaked a look at the rapidly plunging (again! still!) stock market.

As I said to the clerk at the post office—in response to his, "What?  You're here again?"—I'm doing my part to support the economy.  The world is apparently falling down around me, yet life goes on as usual.  I think that's not an unreasonable attitude at the moment, but I also sometimes wonder if there's not a bit of Madame Ranevskaya in me.

Games are a traditional part of our family gatherings.  On any given occasion you are likely to find games in process as varied as Lord of the Rings Risk, Settlers of Catan, pinochle, Quiddler, and n-tuple sol, and a long-time family favorite, Boggle (the 5x5 version, of course).  Because one of our number is the perennial, unassailable Boggle champion, I need to stay in practice to be any kind of competitor at all.  To this end I occasionally indulge in an Internet version of the came, called WordSplay.

There's some fierce competition out there, and I'm usually happy when I find myself around the 50% mark at the end of a game.  Once I almost made it into the top 10 and was elated.  (It helps to play at odd hours, such as early on a Saturday morning, when the number of opponents I face is much smaller.)  This morning I saw my name in third place, only one point shy of the top score, and can't resist reporting the accomplishment.

This is how I know that our own Boggle Champion wasn't playing the game. 

I don't expect my resolve to last long, but I'm going to attempt to put a gag on Li'l Writer Guy.  I love to write, and there's always a large backlog of issues, large and small, on which my mind is constantly spewing forth essay fragments.  Crafting them into some coherent form and publishing the result usually offers some relief, but recent political and philosophical discussions (of which what is published is but the tip of the iceberg) have instead left me enervated.

When I consider the long hours it takes to get my thoughts into shareable form, hours that have much more pressing needs tugging insistently at their sleeves, I'm thinking Li'l Writer Guy needs to spend some time with the Carthusian monks.

Yesterday we capped a busy day (at church till mid-afternoon for a special event, followed by—oh, joy!—flu shots) with our second Orlando Philharmonic Orchestra concert of the year.  I'm greatly enjoying Chris Wilkins' approach to concert programming:  he chooses a good blend of old and new, familiar and unknown, comfortable and challenging.  Well, just barely challenging, but that's okay; I prefer my musical challenges on a smaller scale and with explanation, as with Bernard Rands' Memo 8, which came to mind when I was pondering "challenging."  That was one of my favorite Eastman concert experiences, and I would love to hear it performed again, but I don't see that happening; even a Google search nets little, and my favorite oboist has gone Medieval—not that I mind that!  Ah, well—I have my recording.  But I digress greatly.

Last night's concert showed Wilkins' programming strengths and his willingness to venture into non-traditional concert territory. The theme was Abraham Lincoln, and the program a collaboration with the Orange County History Center. (More)

I've been an adotive Red Sox fan for more than 30 years now, and duly celebrated when they won their long-awaited World Series title, and when they did it again.  But I'm from Philadelphia (among other places), and the only major league game I've ever seen live and in person was with the Philadelphia Phillies.  That was back in the Connie Mack Stadium days, which incidentally makes it fun for me that one of Florida's Congressmen is also Connie Mack, grandson of the original Philadelphia manager.  I wonder if he suffered conflicting loyalties in the recent World Series.

Had it been a Red Sox - Phillies battle, loyalties here—and in at least one other household in our family—would, indeed, have been conflicted.  But it wasn't, and my identity with Florida is not enough to extend to Tampa Bay if they're going against the Phillies.  Not that I watched any of the games myself, though I read that the final game so was exciting I almost wish I had.

Congratulations, Phillies, and our favorite Phillies fans!  Enjoy the moment!

To all those following and praying for Heather, Jon, and Judy Wilson:  Judy's trial resumes this afternoon.  I'm no longer there to continue my blow-by-blow commentary, but I'll pass on the news as I am able.  Jon is now scheduled to appear as a defense witness, so prayers for him and his testimony would be appreciated.   (I find it bizaare that he was ping-ponged that way—he was originally scheduled, like Heather, as a witness for the prosecution—but my prosecuting attorney friends don't.  Facts are facts, and you use whomever you need to establish them.)

There may even be a verdict today, so prayers for the judge would also be a very good thing!

I spent several of my formative years in the City of Soft-Pretzel-y-Love.  Not the fancy, cheese-filled mall variety, or the bake-at-home frozen blandness, but the soft, chewy, salty Philadelphia Pretzel, preferably from a germ-laden street vendor's cart and drizzled, of course, with mustard.  Nothing ever tastes as good as memory makes it, so for over thirty years I have been making do.

Enter Facebook.  Bear with me here, it's a convoluted story.

It all began, for me, when Janet joined Facebook.  I no longer remember what brought her, reluctantly, to that point, but she had so much fun re-connecting with old friends that she persuaded me to join as well.  The connecting-with-old-friends bit only works if one's friends are also on Facebook, which is much less likely for folks of my age, but nonetheless I've made a few enjoyable connections.  As a whole I find the Facebook package more annoying than not, but can put up with it for the few gems it tosses my way.

Like the inspiration for this post.  This summer I met a friend of my son-in-law-to-be.  Enjoyable as our time together was, we are far apart both generationally and geographically, and in the old days the chances of her sharing a recipe with me would have been nil.  But she is on Facebook, and graciously accepted my "friend request," the result of which is that when she posted a video on pretzel-making, I found it.  There are actually two in the series:

It is a very good thing we do not have cable television.  Put me in front of a food channel and I might not move all day.  Other shows by this guy are proving a major temptation getting in the way of progress this week.  "This guy" is Alton Brown, and his show, Good Eats, is on the Food Network (whatever that is).  Some related links:  One set of shows on YouTube, another set of shows on YouTube, and the fan page.  (I spent a fair amount of time trying to determine the legality or lack thereof of having the shows posted on YouTube, without success, but they've been there for quite awhile without being removed, and one of the posters runs the fan site and knows the chef, so I'm feeling free to enjoy them unless convinced otherwise.)

After all the preliminaries...ta da!  What I Did Yesterday:  I made the pretzels!  It was easy!  Dark brown, shiny, chewy, and exceedingly delicious, with or without mustard.

 

Did I say they were good?  I mean really, really good.  Even without the umibacillus vendorophilus.

We've lived in Florida over 20 years and have had a few interesting animal encounters, like the time we were driving home from choir rehearsal and had to stop while an alligator crossed the road ahead of us.  Usually, though, it's pretty tame around here, once you get accustomed to lizards in the house, palmetto bugs (aka cockroaches on steroids), and spiders half the size of your hand.

There is a small part not far from our house that hosts a suprising variety of flora and fauna for its size.  From pileated woodpeckers to herons and sandhill cranes, from squirrels to gopher tortoises, you never know what you'll encounter on the jogging trail.  Once I even met a red fox. (More)

I love to cook, but that's something I keep forgetting.  Maybe I need an audience; it hardly seems worth the time and effort when I'm eating alone, and even when I'm not we're usually so busy it hardly seems reasonable to spend much time cooking.  But Porter keeps talking about how this is the best restaurant in town, so it seems only fair to work towards making that a reality.  On Saturday, we had some of our favorite company over for dinner—the best kind to cook for, because they're always appreciative and don't mind being guinea pigs for whatever I want to try out.

Earlier this summer, my nephew had feasted us on Hazelnut-Crusted Chicken with Raspberry Sauce, a Bon Appétit recipe from Epicurious.com.  The taste was even more amazing than this beautiful presentation (click on picture for larger view):

It was a recipe I knew I had to add to my repertoire, so that's what I served.  Sort of.  Well, actually, that was the starting point, but I never can resist changing things along the way.  One of our guests doesn't eat meat, so I used salmon instead of chicken.  I had the store take the skin off the filet, then sliced it into pieces about two inches wide.  I could have bought hazelnuts, but had pecans in stock, and I used raspberry balsamic vinegar instead of white wine vinegar, canola oil instead of safflower, Cherchies' Champagne Mustard instead of honey mustard, Penzeys' Florida Seasoned Pepper for half the black pepper—you get the picture.  And because it was fish, I baked it for about 20 minutes instead of frying it first.

Despite all the changes, the end result was still really, really good.  I'm going to go raid the leftovers now....