and the ocean said no.

Marc and I took the 6 train back up to The Bronx. By the way, it was my first ride on a new 6 and I have to say, the hype is worth it. Once you get past 125th, I think, the automated voice announces the train as "Pelham Bay PARK bound," emphasis on the PARK.

Since it was an outdoor holiday I'd already decided I wasn't going to leave the city that night. And since I was staying over, I decided to take Thursday off. And why come back to work just for Friday? So a few disagreements with my boss on Tuesday drove me to an extended weekend. I convinced Marc that another beach day was in order for Thursday. After Sunday's beacheriffic day, I was anxious to get back and see if I'd really changed as much as I thought. Especially with Marc's father, who has to be the best beach bum in The Bronx.

We were up early that day (he earlier than I, as usual) and ready to go (he readier than I, as usual). Turned out we didn't get going until much later, however, as we decided to get his whole family involved. Which was fine with me -- we got to have breakfast at the diner, and even got to hear his brother, Nick, order cheese "blitzes."

When we finally reached Jones Beach, after typical LI traffic and the long drive through the outskirts, we found a spot in Field 6 (Field 6! Field 6!) and trudged halfway to the water. The waves were huge. I was scared to go in. I covered myself in sunblock and read my Book Magazine. For the record, sunblock will pull the ink right off the page. I am not being figurative.

I was cold. The wind turned fierce. The barometer fell. The sea rose. We headed back.

Back at Marc's, I found my keys on the floor of his car. Offering to the sea, indeed.

on the road, again.

The following morning I packed up and headed North, up one of my favorite roads in NY, the Taconic. Now that I live in Jersey, I rarely get to take the Taconic to my parents' house, but since I wasn't starting at home, I took advantage of the opportunity. It was a little cold for topless driving, but I cranked up the heat and made do.

The nice things about the Taconic are the lack of traffic and tolls, the decent scenery, and all the different spellings of Taconic that you see on the signs on the way up.

The unfortunate things about the Taconic are the lower speed limit (55 as compared to the NYS Thruway's 65 mph) and the complete lack of convenient restrooms.

When I reached my parents' house, I felt like a Saratoga pony on Lasix.

much ado about little.

Friday and Saturday passed with little of note. Saturday night my mother and I had a little disagreement about whether Kitchenaid mixers are the devil's tool. I say yes, she says no. All I have to say for myself is that my grandmother, the baker, the one who wrote the recipe, never used an electric mixer on cookie dough. For shame. However, when two tired women are baking a double batch of sugar cookies, and one refuses to stir, I'd use a pitchfork to stir if it would make my job easier.

So with the spirit of my grandmother boiling up in my veins, I carefully pressed three non-matching M&Ms into the top of each cookie. After baking them until the edges reached the color of the walls in my grandmother's kitchen, I pulled them from the oven and let them set for exactly one minute before relocation to cooling racks covered in paper towels. When I bake, I am one-half Gram, one-half Kate the Engineer. Actually, make that two-thirds Gram.

Tragically, I am not as coordinated as I am picky, and so I wound up burning my leg on the hot oven door not once but twice. After nearly cursing and with tears welling in my eyes I retreated to the bathroom. My mother wouldn't stir but she did offer to finish baking the last two cookie sheets' worth so I could go to bed. When I woke up in the morning the cookies were neatly divided into two plastic dishes and my mother was all hugs and smiles again.

much ado about slightly more.

Sunday morning brought a phone call from Nana, my one surviving grandparent. She wanted me to join her for breakfast, so I drove to Albany to meet her. When I arrived at her apartment I found her arguing with the visiting nurse about whether the sore on the back of her leg was infected. She didn't want to go to the ER when she could be eating with me. My opinion was requested. I refused to make the call, though I said that truthfully her leg didn't look bad at all. The visiting nurse called her supervisor and my aunt. My aunt asked to speak to me and told me that "a leg infection is a terrible way to die." We all want to be in control of the situation, and I know she acted out of a feeling of helplessness, but I don't think she realized what a fatalist she was being and how that would stick in my head. As the oldest grandchild I am frequently expected to take on a role of adult when I'd rather still be one of the kids.

Fortunately the head nurse was already in the building. Her decision was that this wasn't ER-worthy, just Monday-doctor-visit-worthy, and so we had breakfast after all, with one stocking rolled down to Nana's ankle.

there's still more to come.

Posted at 3:08 PM in category Old (this category is huge!)