Biding time . . .

Laying low, things are quiet out here at Wrenwood (that's the name Bob gave to our little house in the woods when we first moved in), yet each day, feels like something is boiling below the surface, increasing in intensity as the time goes by . . . biding time, serving a sentence . . . Bob's spirits have been dramatically boosted, and I can hear in his voice, he's getting stronger. Much of that I attribute to a break in the wicked treatments and medications leaving his body, time to rest, recover, time to rest, maybe even some of the food I've been making for him . . . After his last heart attack, and the weeks following, his voice has been so weak, thin and wavering, like an old man. The other day, he made a smart-ass comment to me (wish I could remember it, to share with all how, nasty that boy can be, even in illness), and but I was taken aback. Not by the comment, but by his voice. Strong, definitive, Bob. That, my peeps, is a wonderful sign. Another is his wicked sense of humor, back in full force. Now, if only his body followed suit . . . we're working on that. Hard.

Went to the farmer's market on Sunday with my sis, Jill and her daughter, Amelia. My mission is to try a few new things each week to experiment with, break out of the ol' comfort zone and expand the cooking horizons. I'm so damn happy that Bob's taste buds are branching out again, embracing flavors, textures, nuances—almost back to his old palate, though hot (spicy) things still present a challenge, poor guy, who used to like things with a good kick . . .

Love, love, love the St. Paul farmer's market. I've discovered that going on Sundays, a little later, close to closing, is a good time to go, a little less frantic than Saturdays, it seems (crap. Now I'll have to kill all of you, since I just gave away my Best Kept Farmer's Market Secret). Though this late Sunday morning was about as nutty as any Saturday, perhaps due to the idyllic weather—shiny, happy people enjoying a shiny, happy Sunday at the market. Balloon artists, flowers, sweet-buttery bags of kettle corn co-mingled with the aisles upon aisles of beautiful veggies . . . Came home with collard greens, Swiss chard, BEEEEOOOTEEFUL organic tomatoes (FINALLY!!! my GOD! I will never eat a store-bought tomato EVER again, as long as I live, mark my words. EV-er!), leeks, fennel, red potatoes, and of course, more basil. Can't have enough basil—I could bathe in the stuff, I love it that much.

Sunday was Clean-out-the-fridge-to-make-room-for-farmer's-market-bootie Night. AKA, leftovers. Had a bunch of beet greens that I just couldn't bear to part with, but already had enough other greens to saute, etc. so I Googled a recipe for Beet Green smoothies. Blended them up Sunday night, and portioned off into single-serve containers, for upcoming morning meals. Was a gorgeous burgundy-almost bordering on brown color, but the taste was very earthy (e.g. tasted like shit). . . can't bear to throw all 4 containers out, so will work on tweaking that to make it more palatable . . . stay tuned!

Lunch yesterday (Monday), insalata caprese—fresh mozzarella, basil and farmer's market tomato (angels from heaven singing inserted here), drizzled in olive oil, sprinkled with sea salt and ground pepper, served with fresh fruit, sliced roast beef, to complete the meal. . . dinner was collard greens with sweet Italian sausage, I added sun-dried tomatoes,

mushrooms, red onion, tossed with whole wheat bowtie pasta, topped with the three-cheese extravaganza, a blend made from some of the gorgeous cheeses from Surdyks—parmigiano reggiano, one called Pleasant Ridge Reserve (patterned after cheeses made in south eastern France, says the package) and another called Comte St. Antoine . . . I sound like such a galloping gourmand, but really don't know what the hell I'm saying, as I'm simply typing the names of the cheeses as I read them from the labels . . . I loved this concoction, but got a luke-warm review from Bob. He hasn't been too keen on cooked greens lately, since all this "c" shit began, so trying to sneak them into his meals is often a futile effort. That, and I added a few shakes of hot pepper flakes, which were tough for him to take. I should have known. The mouth sores are pretty much gone, but his tongue is so sensitive still . . .

BUT, I took a container of beet green smoothie

out this morning, to tweak the concoction a bit . . . added more fruit and a few scoops of plain yogurt. I gave Bob a taste of mine—he loved it. In fact, asked for his own glass of the beet-green goodness and devoured the whole serving. My dastardly plan is to replace at leastone ice cream serving with a green smoothie . . mmmmmwwwhahhahahahaha!!!! Yeah, we'll see how long that'll last . . .

I'm sorry to bore everyone with the food stuff, but that's what our life is these days, attempting to nourish Bob, laying low, waiting for definitive word on his surgery. . .

Speaking of Bob ("ummm, isn't that who this blog is about, Jen?" Yeah, whatever . . . ) he had a really good day today. Pain wasn't as bad as it had been even yesterday. I know better than to get too damn excited about that, but still, I haven't heard him say that in a long time, so even one day's slight reprieve from pain is a blessing and a gift. Not gone, mind you, just less. His spirits have been so good lately, despite being confined to the bed much of the day. I know many people have been holding back on calling him, given the hellish past few months he's had, but I assure you, if you call, text, e-mail, whatever, these days, you'll get a response from him. Hell, c'mon out for a visit! Our li'l house in the country is begging for visitors in the summer . . .

I was out and about, running errands in Woodbury today and got a message from Bob, "You should stop and pick up a bottle of Kim Crawford Sauvignon blanc or maybe some Belle's Two-Hearted Ale. You deserve it. Big Top liquors in Woodbury should have them." awww, always thinking of me, the big lug . . . Since I'm drinking for two these days, I decide I deserve both the Kim Crawford and my beloved Bell's, so I swing into Big Top Liquors in Woodbury, where a colleage of Bob's is wine manager, and I'm sure will stock both. I find the Bell's easily enought, but end up wandering the wine aisles, a stranger in a strange land, eyes scanning the rows up on rows of bottles, clueless. See, I just do not set foot in a liquor store; haven't had the need to in about 15 years . . . the clerk behind the counter asked if I needed help, I said, "Yes, please!" He called his wine expert over, who just happened to be Bob's colleague/friend, Bill A! He helped me find the Kim C. sauv. blanc, we chatted a bit, then said our goodbyes. (I had Trader Joe's premium vanilla ice cream melting in the sauna of the Jeep. GOOD stuff, btw, peeps! Sooooo creamy, delicious . . . ) before I forget: a big shout-out to Bill! Thank you for your generous assistance! And soon, I was off, heading toward home.

When I got home, I told Bob I ran into Bill, and reminded him that, even though it may not seem like it, there are millions upon gillions of people thinking about him praying for him, wanting to reach out to him, via phone, text, e-mail—hell, a visit would be the ultimate "Bob encounter . . ." almost like traveling to Lourdes . . . people—friends, family, colleagues—they want to connect with him . . ."Just give Bill a call or send him a message," I asked more than told Bob. I know it's been so hard for him over that past several weeks, being so ill, so mentally foggy, so physically weak, but I still maintain the idea that connections with friends, family, are so powerful, so good for the soul, the fighting spirit. Later, Bob told me he exchanged a few texts with Bill tonight.

Was so freakin' hot and humid all day today, I didn't want to make a huge effort for dinner, so what do I do? Tried a new soup recipe—leek and fennel soup. I wish I could somehow share this with all of you, it was sooooo good! Leeks, fennel, taters, onions . . . as usual, I messed with the recipe so what I ended up with didn't much resemble the original, but wasn't too far off. I added garlic, more potatoes, and then pureed about 1/2 of it, so it ended up thicker than the original soup recipe. For those omnivores in the group, I could totally see bacon in this soup, but as it were, it would satisfy the pickiest of vegans. Had it with a simple pesto with angel hair pasta. Who said eating vegan can't fill you up? Poor Bob ate so much, he was whining for a good hour after dinner.

Took Rocco-maniac on a walk tonight, as he was relentlessly irritating me while I was trying to write. It was ungodly hot and humid, even at 8 p.m., so I didn't want to take him far, just enough to burn off some crazy energy, not far enough to kill him. Walked down to the north, on Oldridge, and saw the image to the left before me, to the south, on the right, behind me:

We got to the end of the road, about 1/2 mile from our house, when the wind picked up, and I swear the temperatures dropped a noticeable 15 degrees. We turned around in the cul-de-sac at the end of the road and high-tailed it back home as that dark blanket of clouds crept up on us, around and above us, enveloping us in eerie blue before we reached the house. No sooner did we reach home and get inside, when the wind picked up, the skies went as dark as midnight, and the winds kicked it up a few more notches and the rain pummeled the house.

As far as a storm goes, this one was sorely disappointing. I didn't feel the need at all, to head to the basement, much less drag the patio furniture into the garage. Maybe it was the the two glasses of Kim Crawford that instilled the liquid courage . . the storm passed quickly, and now all that's left is the faintest of rumbling off to the east, barely discernible. . .