February 9th will mark the day that twelve years ago Quinn Padraig arrived and completed my family. Of all my babies, my pregnancy with him was the most challenging – there was an amnio, second trimester spotting, and enough ultrasounds to make a flip book of his growth. Gestating that guy was an intense combination of joy and stress and I couldn’t decide if I wanted it to last longer (since I knew it was my final pregnancy) or just to be over (because I was so worried something could go wrong).
That conflict between wanting it to last longer versus wanting it to be over was the perfect precursor to my general attitude towards my youngest son’s childhood. As time marches on, I have moments when I wish I could stop the clock and keep this awfully tall little one of mine young for a bit longer. His generosity when it comes to hugs and I love yous will be sorely missed if they fall by the wayside as he becomes a teen. There are times, however, when I can almost begin to imagine having an empty nest and it doesn’t necessarily seem to be such a bad thing. To everything a season and all that, right?
What 12 looks like at my house.
Until that day arrives, though, I’ll continue to appreciate the time I get to share with my “baby.” The kitchen dance parties, his knowledge of geography, history and politics and his remarkable vocabulary will never fail to impress me. I know he’ll make me laugh more often than he frustrates me and I’m hopeful that he’ll always insist upon kissing me goodbye when I leave for a run.
How about we all wear our jammies inside out tonight and get Quinn what he really wants for his birthday – a snow day. He’ll sleep in at his dad’s, and then I’ll make him pancakes and bacon and we’ll watch as many movies as he wants. I promise to make the day last as long as I can.
On a mellow Sunday evening, I was fortunate enough to revisit Brava Wine Bar in Lenox. It’s hard to say exactly what made it the perfect evening, but the scenery, complete with a dusting of fresh snow, certainly contributed. Seriously, with the holiday lights still on display Lennox looked absolutely magical! What a beautiful little town that is…
We pulled up to Brava early, probably at about 6:00, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. The only other time I was there was Labor Day Weekend and the place was humming. This night, though, things were quiet. We selected a spot at the bar, as far from the door as possible on a cold evening, and joined two other parties in the small space.
After ordering a couple of red sangrias (they offer white as well) , we decided to make a meal from a kale salad, roasted Brussels sprouts with bacon, and a pizza with Italian sausage, onions and mushrooms. Noticing the charcuterie options, we quickly added two meats (a mousse/pate and prosciutto) and a Spanish goat’s milk cheese with a paprika rind to our order. Then we sat back and let the refreshingly professional and competent staff take care of us. What a treat.
The food, like my last visit, was right on. The salad was adorned with a light, creamy dressing and was perfect for sharing. The Brussels sprout were cut in half prior to roasting and they were tender and coupled with crispy bacon. The add-on charcuterie plate was delightful with plenty of pâté for me and some of the most buttery prosciutto I’ve ever had, while the cheese had a not unpleasant funk to balance both of the meats. The accompaniments, including dried apricots reminiscent of my childhood, made for the perfect foil. And that pizza? Blistery on the bottom and topped with simple, but delicious flavors. I’d go back just for that again.
The atmosphere was relaxed and cozy and the company was perfect. We extended our meal with a moist, delicious bread pudding, a tawny port and a fantastic “bowl” of coffee. Two leisurely hours after we arrived, we departed Brava and headed back to Albany. That, my friends, is how I do Sunday. How about you?
Filed under Dinner, Eating, favorites, Food, friends, love, pizza, Recommendations, road trips, snow, sunday, Wine, winter
If you’re an outdoors exerciser, you’ll probably agree that we’ve arrived at shoulder season – or, as I like to call it, ass season. As in, falling on your ass if you’re not cautious because it’s so damn icy. We’re somewhere between skiing and running/cycling season and each day brings the question of which activity will be best attempted in conditions that seem to vary daily.
The golf course has deteriorated into an icy landscape, complete with bare spots and piles of dog poop. I skied it Friday and it was treacherous. After walking it on Saturday, I reluctantly concluded that ski season was over. I consoled myself with my first run in weeks – 5 slow, wet and slick miles. My quads are screaming today, so I guess I guess we can call this shoulder, ass and quads season to be accurate.
This morning, there was an unexpected (to me) period of snow. Fluffy flakes quickly accumulated and frosted the icy snow changing my prospects for the day. A ski it would be.
Work last night, an obscenely early soccer game (7:30), and the time change had combined to kick my ass, confirming the appropriateness of my naming the season after the gluteal region. After a nap between fresh flannel sheets, I felt prepared to attempt the golf course, hoping that the trails would be improved. It proved to be beyond my expectations.
The sun had softened the snow’s crust and the newly fallen flakes had filled in the worst of the divots. The sky was blue with fluffy white clouds and the ski was sublime. Although I am generally conscious of being present in the moment, I focused even harder on experiencing this ski, imagining it as being my last of the winter.
The interior trails, particularly the Coca-Cola, were beautiful and easily negotiated. Jeter and I explored a new path or two and when we completed our long loop it seemed we both felt pleasantly fatigued. Regardless of which part of my body feels sore, that soulful place inside me feels satisfied. Time for a glass of wine.
Many years ago, there was a girl who once jumped out of her second story window to sneak out of the house and go to a party. The landing on the concrete slab front porch wasn’t as light as she would have liked and her ankle took quite a turn, an injury that was only compounded by the subsequent 2.5 mile walk to town. By the next morning, her ankle had swollen to twice its size and was quite painful.
Since that long ago time her ankle has never been the same. Sometimes it randomly twists out of place, always taking her breath away. Each time it happens, it never fails to remind her of the lasting effects of being a dumb teenager. Live and learn, if you’re lucky.
What’s the connection between a permanently, albeit mildly, damaged ankle and a pain in the neck, you ask? Well, this girl is now a grown up with teenage children of her own. Apparently, the teenaged idiocy gene is something shared with her children. Case in point – one of her children (unnamed to protect his
idiocy innocence) recently was inspired to dive head first into a snow bank. Despite the remarkably powdery quality of the snow, he hurt his neck and shoulders. Badly.
Days later, he is still walking with a stiff neck and erect spine. He reports that while the pain is somewhat diminished, it remains pretty intense. Maybe that will remind him to not be so reckless in the future. I really hope so. There are enough ways to get hurt in this world without trying so hard.
Three day weekends should leave those fortunate enough to have had 3 consecutive days off feeling relaxed and satisfied. There definitely were some moments during the 72 hours which prompted some pretty positive emotions, but the overwhelming sensation I’m experiencing right now is simple exhaustion.
As I am inclined to do, I scheduled the weekend pretty tightly. My agenda included a ski, some yoga, a house party or two, and a whole lotta driving the Lilly boys where they wanted to go. All in all, the weekend was a success, but not everything went as planned. I mean, really, does it ever?
Lesson 1. Plans need to come with alternatives, options and flexibility. Sometimes the unexpected is welcome, like running into someone special at a party. Those are the moments we’ve got to hold on to.
Saturday I dropped my middle son off at the train station in Poughkeepsie. I resisted the impulse to get out of the car and walk inside with him to help him get his ticket and find the right track for NYC. Griffin’s independent trip to Grand Central Station was the second leg on his journey to his first show at the Beacon. Upon his arrival in the city, he met his older cousin and he went to see a jam band that his father assures me I would have hated. He loved it.
Lesson 2. My children are growing up and I need to encourage the pursuit of entertainment and adventure, even if the thought of sending my 15 y/o son to Manhattan solo is scary. It’s time.
Sunday, my oldest child took the train from Albany to meet me in Poughkeepsie (I had spent the night with friends nearby). We immediately got on the road for an epic trip to Elmira College for a Monday morning tour. The roads were insanely icy as the rain fell on highways that were ever so cold and the drive took much longer than expected. After our visit on Monday, Liam decided that while Elmira had a lot to offer, it was probably too far away from his family for him to continue considering it as an option for the fall.
Lesson 3. Often the road to where we want to get to is treacherously slippery. Sometimes, once we arrive we find that the place isn’t really where want to be. The thing is, you’ll never know unless you make the trip.
I attended a meeting Tuesday evening in the Club House at Capital Hills. The weather, snowy and wet, was perfectly appropriate for the topic at hand – the sharing of ideas about winter activities at the golf course. As a year round, non-golfing user of the course, I knew this was a meeting I didn’t want to miss.
The meeting was hosted by golf course staff and attended by city recreation department employees as well as interested residents, in total, approximately 20 people or so. For the first 20 minutes, the conversation centered upon the lack of notification about the meeting and dog poop. Once that crap* was out-of-the-way, we got down to business.
Here are some things you may not know about Albany Muni Capital Hills:
• There are 4.75 miles of cart paths. Typically, snow is removed from these paved routes to facilitate dog walking.
• Generally, after 8+” of snow there are more than 6 miles of trails groomed for skiing.
• The golf course is comprised of nearly 300 acres, approximately two-thirds of which is not greens.
• The nearby Normanskill Farm adds an additional 200 acres of basically undeveloped land.
• Martel’s Restaurant has meeting, fundraiser and banquet space available.
Ideas bandied about include:
• Having ski rentals and how-to clinics available on designated days, organized perhaps by local ski equipment outfitters.
• A Winter Carnival and other events.
• Formal bird watching/nature walks.
• An Easter egg hunt.
• Fundraising opportunities via photography, i.e. a calendar of the Dogs of Capital Hills.
The meeting felt very much like a starting point in a potentially awesome initiative. There’s plenty of time for you to get involved. Contact the City Parks and Recreation Department or the course’s superintendent, Scott Gallup to be part of it.
Filed under Albany, Events, Exercise, family, ideas, Local, Normanskill, skiing, snow, Uncategorized, winter, x-country skiing
I’m afraid of the impression we’re making, we Americans, as I browse my favorite dirty little secret website, the Daily Mail UK, and read the post titles about America’s Thanksgiving holiday. Titles with words like shopping and bargains and outrage. Sigh.
This is what we’re telling the world that we’re about? This is how we celebrate a holiday based upon giving, upon sharing?
We don’t vote. Our nation essentially provides a potential voice to every person in the land. Why don’t more Americans use it? We’re apathetic about important things but we talk obsessively about women’s asses – Beyoncé, Kardashian, Lopez, Minaj…
The violence in this country is often unbearable. Young black men seem to die with far too great frequency. Violence begets violence. The more methods of communication we create the less likely we are to communicate effectively. Connecting feels harder than in the past.
And, it’s Thanksgiving. The tree branches are piled high with heavy, wet snow, some still with leaves. The lighting is striking, a sky made of cotton. It’s beautiful.
And my son was accepted into one of his chosen schools.
He can’t wait to register to vote.