The days grow short

[rootbeer1]

OK, OK, we're getting my brother and his wife a real housewarming present, maybe a set of Fiestaware and a bottle of hooch that we can drink while we're visiting. And I won't mention his broken disco light present to us unless he complains about our present, or if we get really drunk on the hooch.

* * *

From about age 10 on, I had a tradition in my family of making pizza on Friday nights. This would give my mom a break from cooking, plus giving me a meal of a food I loved. (Plus, it started out as the perfect accompaniment to my Friday night slate of TV shows -- Brady Bunch, Partridge Family, Love American Style, etc.) I made the dough myself -- basically a yeast bread, which I refined over the years, sometimes adding a bit of rye flour, sometimes adding some Italian herbs, etc. I kept up this tradition until I went away to college, and then started it again when I was living on my own, since home-made pizza seemed a pleasant capper to the workweek, even if I was just making it for myself.

I haven't made it much in recent years, but qbear and I are starting to diet again on Tuesday, so last night was one of my last chances to keep to the Friday night tradition for a while. I made the dough in the afternoon, and let it rise while I went off to physical therapy.



On the left, a sausage-and-bacon pizza with black olives, onion and mushrooms, and on the right, a meatball pizza with green olives, onion and mushrooms.

I'm pretty proud of my pizza-making abilities, but then I have been making them for more than 30 years.

* * *

Just got back from dacubsf's memorial service where we saw, among others, sf_luke, castrowoof, dhbearguy, boyshapedbox, downshifft, backawayslowly, fuzzygruf, double_ohsteven, cruisebear, beg1n, tonymorg, bvig01, gregorbehr, kevin_v5, kitchenbeard, bearzbub, arkanjil, pyrogeoff, poohbearjim, enhydrasf, etc. It was a pleasantly simple service, with a reading of Psalm 23, lighting of candles, and people sharing their memories of Jeff. I was tempted to get up and share my own memory of Jeff -- we'd only met twice in real life, but last fall when we were both confined and recuperating, we sometimes talked on bear411, mostly to gripe about a lack of visitors. Since I couldn't really draw an uplifting conclusion from this story, I decided it didn't really merit retelling at a celebration of his life.

After the service, I got in the car with Jack, and what comes on the CD player but Frank Sinatra's version of "September Song," which seemed like a poignant way to end the day.

Well, it’s a long, long time
From May to December
But the days grow short,
When you reach September.
And the autumn weather
Turns the leaves to gray
And I haven’t got time
For the waiting game.

And the days dwindle down
To a precious few . . .
September, November . . .
And these few precious days
I spend with you.
These precious days
I spend with you.

Comments

[excessor.livejournal.com]

The service sounds like it was simple and nice, as they should be.

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When I was growing up with my two brothers, we were not allowed to cook anything. Ever. It's funny that all three of us love to make pizza—and we all make the same kind: square in shape, tomato & cheese only.

My grandmother and mother both made pizza all the time, and I didn't eat a pizza that was made outside the house until I was a sophomore or junior in high school. I once brought one home. My grandmother asked me what it was. “Granny, it's a pepperoni pizza.” She replied, “Well, pizza doesn't have meat on it. I don't know what that is, but it's not pizza!” I love purists.