The year of the cat

The new year is a time for cleaning out the old, cleaning up what you’re going to keep, and cleaning up your act, otherwise known as resolutions. The image I hold is of German women scrubbing their doorsteps in snowy weather to ring in the new year, presumably to booby-trap their stoops with ice to incapacitate visitors with muddy feet. Last year, my resolution was easier on my back than scrubbing steps: try to clean up my eating habits, making a difference on a small scale, and blogging my thoughts as I went. The latter, it was hoped, would serve to test my discipline for writing on a regular basis, and, I humbly hoped, serve as an example to those so inclined, though, given my limited readership, this cannot be considered a primary goal. I have been mildly successful, so will keep at both, working to keep both habits from accumulating grime without too much scrubbing.

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Hannah’s personality is emerging, and it appears that she is quite the right cat for us. After having recovered from the trauma of going from stray to foster home to shelter and back to a home (ours) again, and after shaking off the kennel cough that turned into kitty bronchitis and conjunctivitis, she is today the picture of both physical and mental health. Her Christmas present was a homemade toy engineered by Number One Son and a bit of freedom: as we cut down the tree from the front yard, she came out with us, nose and tail twitching. She soon asked to go out more and more, and we have settled into an easy rhythm of spending a few daylight hours outside each day, punctuated by breaks for her power naps. It is reassuring that she has not fled; indeed, if she spots one of us in the yard or through the window, she will come running to tell us all about her adventures. This weekend, we knew we had won her heart: her loud mews summoned us to the back door to ooh and aah over the treasure she wanted to share with us: a freshly killed bird (we think it was a chickadee, it was frankly hard to tell at that point). And even in this she fits in with us, embracing our frugal ways: after sharing the pleasure of the red-tinged carcass, and even offering us a turn to bat it around too, she ate it. The whole thing, down to chewing any flesh off feathers.

The new year will hold some special challenges for me, as I transition “back” to the working world. I will have to travel in my new leadership role, which takes me out of my comfortable home and kitchen and my comfort zone. My aching hips and tightening waistband remind me that I do need to work harder at taking care of myself, as well as taking care to reduce my footprint. My old neighbor has persuaded me that carbon offsets do make sense, and not just as “Catholic guilt,” but as a way to make my voice heard in the messed-up energy market. But I also need to be mindful of the environment in my body, and do a little cleaning up there (especially right now, with fondue and Christmas-cookie induced sugar overload). Travel will test my resolve on both fronts.

I used to joke that my cat taught me the importance of ergonomics by making me get up from my desk and change my focal distance from time to time (open door, close door, open door, close door…). But I realize, as I slip gently back to professional life, that what both the felines and the offspring in my life have taught me is that balance is absolutely key: neither cat nor child does the same thing all day long, and neither shall I.

Après Silvestre

After the cheese fondue—nearly three pounds of cheese melted and scooped up with chunks of chewy ciabatta loaf and rinsed down with a lovely German Gewürztraminer (Bloom)—and the company of good friends; after the decadent princess torte from Hoffman’s, with its layers of delicate sponge cake, cream, and marzipan; after the bottle of bubbly from Château Ste. Michelle and the fireworks, the kisses and hugs; and after the late night punctuated by wandering children, cats and neighbor’s fireworks, you would think that we were done with revelry.

But no, we woke to greet 2008 late and lazy, and after a leisurely photo shoot of matching Hanna PJs and cute family toes, we headed to the kitchen at an awkward hour: far too late for breakfast, way too early for lunch. Luckily, New Year’s day and the leftovers in our fridge work well enough together. We pulled out the cut loaf from last night and melted the last bit of cheese, then uncorked the leftover champagne and had ourselves a brunch fondue.

Stymied by the leftover cake—cheesecake, angel food and princess—we invited one more friend over in the afternoon to help take care of it. We melted some chocolate in the fondue pot (easy, since it was already out). And thoroughly decadent.

We slide into our “normal” routines tomorrow, the boys to work and school, myself to the pile that has accumulated on my desk over the past two weeks. That means a healthy supper and early bedtime, for we must rise before the sun tomorrow. Needless to say, no one was particularly hungry after the melted debauchery, but a quick toss of broccoli and carrots in some garlic and oil over some leftover brown rice went over well, and should get us back on track for living not only well but right.

Dear John

I hate to be the one to have to say it, but we were never meant to be. You came home with me on an impulse, because it was easier to say yes than no. My sensible side would never have aquiesed when I was younger, but you made me feel youthful again, full of potential. And we have had some great moments together, working on projects, camping near the river, times when you’ve more than pulled your own weight. And I cherish those times. But most of the time, you just sit there, expecting me to provide for you. And provide for you I do, nothing but the best.

But, let’s face it: we have a problem, and it’s not going to evaporate on its own. I’ve tried ignoring it, but now my husband knows, and he’s not going to put up with you any more. So I’m sending you away for a bit, to dry out, and then I’m posting to Craigslist to find you someone new. That’s right, Green Pickup, you’re going to find a new home where they make you earn your keep, and I’m going to tuck those crisp bills into my Prius fund. Trust me, it’s for the best.