Pumpkin Cheesecake; a French Perspective

Cheesecake in and of itself is a strange concept for my Frenchman to embrace. In his world there is cheese and there is cake. They are different. One is sweet and one is savory. He can see no advantage in combining the two.

Add to that the notion of mixing in canned pumpkin and an overdose of cinnamon, to create something that is more likely to be visually pleasing to someone still reminiscing about how cute changing a baby's diapers can be, and the Holiday's become a potential minefield wherein any invitation could lead to aforementioned Frenchman being asked to eat and show enjoyment of pumpkin cheesecake.

One such Thanksgiving Invitation was to join friends and their friends for a sumptuous and elegant spread with charming conversation, a musical interlude and a variety of wines from a local vineyard.

When dessert appeared my Frenchman volunteered to cut and serve, not something I would normally see him do. He graciously went around the table, making sure that each guest had a piece and that, coincidentally, there was none left over for him.

His clever plan was foiled by the Hostess with the Mostess; a second pumpkin cheesecake was standing by and brought triumphantly to the table.

"Not Another Bloody Poem"

Friko, over at Friko's Musings recently wrote a post with the same title as above. Friko's blog is well worth a visit with a varied content of enjoyable posts. In this instance her rant about people who don't enjoy poetry provoked some thoughts/questions of my own.
-Why do we like poetry? I definitely enjoy words. The right word or phrase is satisfying. It feels like an achievement.
I was always susceptible to some poetry; fairly obvious stuff that didn't require digging too deeply to understand meaning; Keats' "Ode to Autumn" is a beautiful example. As I have matured and have more of life's experiences under my belt I enjoy poetry that can stand some interpretation. A poem can reach out to us on a personal level due to subject matter to which we can relate. Find a visceral connection to the anguish or joy expressed and be swept along with the feelings of the writer. The conversation is between the reader and the poem. Not everyone will hear the same intonations and nuances. Some are reflected from ourselves.
There are many bloggers who would tell you that they neither "Get" nor enjoy poetry. These same bloggers will often use a familiar song to showcase and represent their feelings. Is that so different? The words mean as much as the music, in most cases. Visit "The Watercats" to experience a blog that straddles musical and poetic leanings. Most of the contents are original works and the lives you will peek into through the blog are a lot of fun.
If you want an irreverent, rambunctious trip on the poetry bus go to "Totalfeckineejit"
His poetic spirit overflows like milk frothing over the edge and down the sides of an unwatched saucepan.
-Why do we post poetry on our blogs? For me it is the desire to share and so relive the pleasure of something that I found to be unique, clever, useful, moving, etc. Sometimes a thought is expressed that is clarified by someone else's aptly chosen phrase. I nod my head in agreement. I too thought that, I just had not framed the thought in words.
We also sometimes use poetry to garnish our blogs and keep them current and alive on days when we are too short on time and creativity to compose something of our own. It's a way of saying "I'm still here!"
What once would have been a very private diary has evolved into something; still private because it is as anonymous as we choose; yet shared, critiqued, supported and enhanced by the interaction of comments. Those who comment become known to us on our terms, in the world we choose to present.
My world includes poetry.

Walk in someone else's shoes.

This morning was fabulous; a bit of a break in the heat due to thunder and a few splish-splash drops plink, plinking on the metal cover of the barbecue, on the deck outside the open door and windows to our bedroom, during the night. A varied sky making me smile as I did the first relay of dog-walks around 7:30 am. Not too early, but it is Saturday and quiet. The low sun beaming through miscellaneous clouds, creating unrealistic cartoon-rays, dividing the heavens in segments of pale gold, puffy white and under-lit lilac.

A quick power-walk around the block to relieve the foster-dogs before feeding them, grabbing a quick cup of coffee, then the exercise walk in earnest. Fitting in a stroll with old Diva between the others; strategically exiting the house whilst the demanding orphans are eating; as quiet as mice so that the tantrum howling of "those who want to go everywhere with me" does not start and alienate my neighbors.

The air feeling cool, compared to the previous days, but still pleasant to be sleeveless. Persimmons half eaten by deer in the night, left scattered on the sidewalk. Heavy fruit-laden branches supported by wooden props. Naked twigs where the lower leaves usually make me duck to pass beneath. The fruit are barely starting to glow with ripeness; more green than orange. I wonder if deer have lips that pucker after tasting unripe persimmons.

A few starlings cluster and whistle, a sign of seasonal migrations. The Japanese Maples have a few leaves changing color. It is almost offensive. It feels too early to be reminded of summer's end.

I have time for a real walk with "those who will one day be adopted". We are working on our manners; not trying to kill all cyclists, squirrels and skate boarders. A few reminders are necessary in the excited rush and swirl of our launch from home. Our walk takes us through residential streets without sidewalks. There are a mixture of older homes and a few McMansions. A bungalow with a pot bellied pig in the yard next to something similar to the home of The Adams Family. There are always a couple of American flags. Today is September 12th, there are more than usual.

Our path takes us down a steep hill, with more momentum than is comfortable for my knees until we hit bottom and start up the other side. Across a wooden footpath, pedestrian bridge, past the golf club-house and uphill some more until we crest above the newly renovated and re-opened Blackberry Farm, which will take us via woodland trail and stream-side valley back through the trees to the base of the final climb home; a choice of eighty-five steps or a forty five degree incline loop of winding sidewalk.

On the way we say hello to a league of nations cross section of our community. These dogs really seem to appeal to my Asian neighbors; even those older walkers who have limited English, smile and pronounce "Beautiful" as best they can. A few younger people raise their phones and snap pictures as we flounce by in a red-carpet paparazzi flurry of proudly elegant collie profiles and contrasting black, tan and white fur. The banner tails curve up and over their backs adding drama to the prancing, high-stepping paws. Diamonds would not be out of place.

Back home, satisfied, the morning continues productively and I am in a good mood as Hubby and I sit to lunch. I mention how much I enjoyed my walk and that, even dog-less, I plan to continue nurturing my need in the future.

Hubby's response is to launch on a description of how torturous he found it, as a child away at summer camp, that people would expect him to go on hikes. "Not even on paved pathways!" he exclaimed, in defence of his, then, nine year old recalcitrance. "On uneven, sometimes hilly goat tracks". "Oh my God! When you walk you move slowly and are forced to look at the same tree for much too long!" "You see it in the distance. You see it approaching slowly, and it takes forever, with no change of scenery, to get past that tree!" Hubby's solution, on the second day of summer camp, was to volunteer to peel vegetables in preparation for returning lunch-time campers. Sitting peacefully in the kitchen without a darn tree in sight.

Reading my Own Advice

In the interest of fairness here's a rebuttal to my "why can't he see it my way" rant of a few days ago.
When I signed up as a foster home for Collie Rescue I knew that there would be some inconveniences to our lives and I also knew that my husband would not want to do it, if given the choice. I went right ahead and did it anyway, without discussing it. My theory being that I would rather postpone the inevitable arguments, which I had no intention of listening to, so why bother?
There's Diplomacy in action for you; "a la George Bush"
After writing about what an unreasonable bully hubby was being and getting some comments, I wrote that the underlying problem in life is that we expect people to react as we would in a given situation, and then are shocked that they see things differently and are coming from a totally different point of view. Misunderstandings (and sometimes wars) ensue.
Something hubby said as we engaged in our Battle-Royal this weekend, festered in a corner of my mind. Did I really hear him say "You know I don't like dogs"? Maybe deep down I did know that, except I think it is closer to "You should know I'm a little afraid of dogs". Which served up an epiphany regarding several past situations.

I know hubby had a dog as a kid. He has often told of his English Setter which accompanied him around the hills and fields of his childhood. However, the dog lived outdoors and was not allowed in the house. It was a farming community.
When our daughter started campaigning for a dog she was nine. She had seen the French movie "Diva" about an Opera Singer and announced "when I get a dog, it will be a collie and I will name her Diva". It took three years of solid pestering against equally solid resistance from her Dad, who clearly expressed that he did not want a dog. I decided that a dog would be perfect for a twelfth birthday surprise and went ahead finding a puppy who would be available at the right time. Hubby was again not consulted. Then I set him up to have no recourse.
I asked him to meet me at the end of our block, on his way home. I pushed a cute, furry bundle into his arms and told him to drive the rest of the way home. I called our daughter from the car to come outside and see what her Papa had for her.
White picket fence, climbing roses, puppy kisses, daughter in floods of joyful tears. Sucker! No back-tracking possible there. Machiavelli's got nothing on me.
Over the years Diva has made friends with everyone she has met, whether two or four-footed. Hubby is no exception. She is an easy, gentle dog and she adores him. Unfortunately some of Diva's play-date buddies haven't been as well socialized. O.K. I admit that she has hung out with a couple of junk-yard rescuees who were always fine with me but hubby had to phone from outside the garden gate or he would be eaten alive upon entering his own home. I had them stay overnight a few times when their owners were hospitalized etc. I am seeing a bit of a pattern emerging here, that I could have noticed before.
One evening we were invited to some dog-owner friends' dinner party. They asked me to go early to show them my recipe for roast chicken. We all had a glass of wine, set the table and then hubby arrived. Max the dog was a pound-rescue, part German Shepherd and very protective of his space. His owners were always very careful and responsible about him. They held his collar as they answered the door. Next thing I see is my husband lunging into the house. It took a moment to see that he had a dog clamped onto his hand and was being dragged in, going with the flow, trying to avoid losing too big a chunk of flesh. Dinner was a little tense after that. That was one of those moments when it was better that I not translate what he was saying.
So last week, when hubby came home from his travels and forgetfully opened the door between house and garage, I shouldn't have laughed at how perturbed he was by an energetic cascade of unknown canines dancing all around him and barking with excitement.
No one likes to be afraid and few will admit that they are. I pride myself on my powers of observation and my interpersonal skills. I guess I pay more attention to clients and strangers than to family.
On Sunday, I took the time to introduce the dogs to hubby and we had a pleasant afternoon relaxing by the pool with Diva, Boomer and Darcy; although Boomer, at 85 lbs, doesn't leave much room on the chaise. What a couch potato!
The battle is over. Peace has been restored, until the next time that I steam-roller hubby into something.