Careful!

When I was a sophomore in high school, I enrolled in the first of many Shakespeare classes of my academic career. In addition to trying to teach us a bit about the literature, Mrs. Brandon, an enthusiastic and passionate teacher, tried to give us a little perspective on things, no small task for an audience of teenagers. I could almost grasp that the Elizabethans had a different world view, but scoffed when she admonished us, “If you’re careful enough, nothing good or bad will ever happen to you!”

But in the past few years, as the culture of fear has grown tentacles that reach into seemingly all corners of our lives, I find myself repeating Mrs. Brandon often. I shake my head when I pick up Mothering Magazine and read how C-sections are on the rise again, as each woman is convinced that it’s the safest thing to do. I groan at the admonition in the Hanna Andersson catalog that I must make sure my children’s organic cotton long johns are tight-fitting, since loose clothing is more likely to catch on fire, and I have (apparently unwisely) chosen untreated pajamas.

When we went to adopt Hannah, we quickly learned that no animal adoption agency will allow a cat to go home with a family that intends to let it outside. Interview forms contain a trick question about the indoor/outdoor intentions of the family; flyers posted prominently shout that the lifespan of an outdoor cat is considerably shorter than that of an indoor cat. I think back on all the cats I have had: only one died “young,” a runty kitten rescued from being drowned for her birth defect. Her palsy certainly contributed to her demise far more than her outside habits. Indeed, she was never happier than when romping outdoors.

Wednesday evening, as I cut real butter into flour for pastry and my Darling Husband put together spaghetti for supper, I reached for the bottle of red and grabbed a wine glass to share from the drain board. It was one of the oversized balloon stems that I purchased for the auction rather than our everyday stemware. My Darling sighed and said we shouldn’t use them; they might break, especially because they were hand-wash only. I assumed the hands-on-hip stance I learned from Mrs. Brandon, and reminded him that there was a reason for the shape of the glass. It was designed not to fit into a dishwasher, but rather, to allow your nose to fit into it, doubling the sensory input when sipping wine. I handed him the glass, and he tried it. And smiled. It does taste better this way, notes he.

I print out a recipe for stuffing for some guidance on proportions, and happen to glance down at the instructions for cooking it. There it is, in black and white: we do not recommend cooking stuffing in the bird. Apparently, it is safer to cook the stuffing in a casserole dish, and moisten it with stock. We shall not do this, however, because the payoff of stuffing a heritage turkey with local artisan bread is far too tempting to pass up. Yes, I shall risk it, as so many things in my life, for if I am not careful, I shall find joy.