So many colors, some nice, some very nice and some not so very nice at all, a whole table full of t-shirts on sale at my local supermarket.
And I allowed myself to buy two, since the price was only 13 pesos a piece.
13 pesos is a tad more than a dollar.
But then the decision was which colors to get and after much soul searching and mulling things over, I decided on a beige and a baby blue.
And then I finished my shopping and went home and unpacked and looked at the new t-shirts and thought:
"Why the frick did I only buy two?
What skewed idea about frugality made me buy only two?
At the price of 13 pesos I could have bought a handful and not yet blown my budget.
And sure as manure by the time I make it back to the store for more comestibles, the sale will be over."
It was.

My mother, Mathilde, was not so much adventurous as curious, so one day when we were children, she brought back from the store a container of something we had never seen before called "jordnoeddesmoer" or better known as peanut butter. Now anything with butter had to be good, because butter to most Danes is like blood to a vampire.
We start with breakfast, on the bread for lunch as a base for whatever else you stack on top, for frying stuff for dinner--the famous 'frikadeller" are best fried in butter--and on toast for the late night cup of coffee. Butter is good, butter is smooth.
Not this......the first bite was pure disaster. it was salty and stuck to the roof of your mouth. This was not butter. No way. Thumbs down from all us kids.
One of my aunts--to make my mother feel less bad I think--said she might try it again some time....
And my mother never bought it again.
It took me a long time after I moved to the USA to give it another try, but now I rather like it. Every two or three years I even get the inkling of a craving for it.
So I think about the first time I tasted it and agree with the assessment we then gave it....it is nothing like good old butter, but as a thing of its own, it is rather good.

The Quilt

When the Worthless Ones started to jump on my bed with muddy paws and no respect, I decided to remove the quilt and folded it up and placed it in the linen closet, where it remained to recently when I needed something behind the quilt.
And to my horror I discovered that the rodents had made use of my quilt to gnaw holes and pull batting for their nesting.
This is just a thing, I assured myself, and things can be fixed. Sort of. Maybe.
So I started the process of fixing it, because not to would mean the rodents had won the battle, and that would never do.
The back, being a plain, white muslin, was not a problem. The problem I am still trying to solve is the damage to the front, to the pieces of printed calico that makes a quilt such a wonderful thing.
It is going to take all my ingenuity and skill to fix, but I won't give up.
This is my quilt, and no rodent is ever going to declare victory and destruction of that.
This is war and I aim to win.

So many kind people have said lovely things to me about the demise of Toby.
What if, I thought, what if it had been one--or all--of the Worthless Ones ?
What would the response have been ?
Something like:
I am sorry for your loss of, um, what was the name again? Oh yeah...that one [them ones]
And the fault is all mine.
Toby was an integrated part of my life, before and after Chuck died.
The Worthless Ones ?
I'm not at all sure. They are "here". I am "here".
They share my house, but do they share my life ?
Or will they always be relegated to the secondary class, the ones that are just "here"?

In 1952 Hollywood made a film about Hans Christian Andersen starring Danny Kaye in which they decided, for no reason I know of, to pronounce the name of the capital of Denmark a hybrid between English and German and some other language.
Most people had never heard of that city, so the only reference they had was this spectacle with the mispronounced name.
But now, with the climate conference going to take place there, I hear on the news that the grip that Hollywood has had on the name for so many years has loosened, and the city is finally getting its name back.
Copenhagen. : \ˌkō-pən-ˈhā-gən
Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen.
It only took about 55 years, but we are a patient lot, we Danes.
After all we are still waiting for our national hero Holger Danske to come to our rescue and tear his beard from the table where he has been resting his elbows from about the 15th century, so we are indeed a patient lot.

The TV Saga

I had finished watching another episode of "Rome" and it was too early to go to bed, and it was too late to start another one, and frankly, I had had enough of Roman blood and gore for one night, so I--as I have done on occasion these many weeks when my satellite signal has been missing--turned on the satellite box and LO
I got a picture
and sound
and when I gingerly pressed a button on the remote, it changed channels.
And then I went to town, watching a bit here and a bit there, having a wonderful time watching regular TV for the first time in over six weeks, and then
KABOOM
A blackout.
No power and hence no TV.
The one and only night when the stars aligned and I had a signal, there had to be a blackout.
When the power eventually came back the following morning, the signal was gone.
I fear a dark and sinister conspiracy.

I was laughing.
Good, I thought, Things are looking up.
I was reading a column in the New York Times, concerning grammar and the correct use of words.
I know this is a tad sad, but better that than endless sniffling and sobbing, listening to songs by Piaf and Becaud available as all is these days, on Youtube.
So if bad grammar and misuse of words will get you going, fine says I.
But maybe I should think about getting a life.

The little things

Its the little things that get you. The empty food bowl that will never be used again. The blanket he used, the joy he had when I whispered the magic word......walkies, and how he , unlike the mutts who scampered hither and thither, always was like some little gray shadow walking close to me, and the feeling of a gentle nudge when sitting at the computer, where he would place himself in easy reach for a scratch or a pat on the head. Content.
The little things that were uniquely him.
I am going to miss them very much, indeed.

I am not doing well. I am not doing well at all.
I thought that opening and imbibing a carton of cheap wine would help
well, it did not.
I can still smell the smell of Toby, and I can still see the places where he liked to rest. And I can still see where he chose to lie for his final moments.
And the unlovable mutts are totally ignorant of the demise of Toby.
Blast them.
I want them gone.

Toby the Schnauzer 1999--2009

He was maybe not the brightest crayon in the box, but he sure knew how to love, and he was a gentle soul who allowed his house to be invaded by a gang of mutts after his friend of many years, Asta the Scottie died.
Now he is dead too.
He died lying on the front stairs, seeing the trees and hearing the sounds of the jungle.
He had been doing poorly for a while and I had decided that Monday we would go the vet, he and I.
Now there is no need.
He is resting next to his friend, Asta.
Rest In Peace.

Goldang-it, I said to myself, just do it.
If not now, I said, then when ?.
I am very good at platitudes when I talk to myself.
So I did it. I painted my front door red.
There it is. And I love it.
My red front door.

I just had an argument with myself.
And the subject ? Well.....I went to town this morning and got some much needed stuff for the house, including a new supply of cheap wine.
And so I thought, it being Tuesday and all, that I would start the imbibing a bit earlier; a lot earlier in fact.
So there was a discussion-- better than an argument--and to facilitate this, I opened a new carton of cheap wine.
That kind of blew the side for moderation and patience.
Aw Schucks.......

Most amazing insects. They start out their lives as black and when they die, they slowly turn this bronze color and look very much like Egyptian scarabs. Most amazing.

Gourmet Magazine

I remember so clearly how Chuck and I would fight over who should read the latest edition of Gourmet Magazine first. And who should have the chance to make one of the recipes in this bible of good food.
And how regretful I felt when, many years after his death, I moved the stash of Gourmet Magazines out of the cupboard and down to the garage.
And now it is going to stop. No more monthly joys, no more a secure source for good food and quaint stories and complicated, but tasteful, recipes.
I am glad that Chuck did not have to see this.
Whenever I search for a recipe and find it originating at Gourmet, I shall think of him and his absolute love of all things of taste.
So rest in peace, Gourmet Magazine. We shall never forget you.