Good Morning.
I was sitting at my desk when an admittedly dumb little tune alerted me to a call on my phone. It was my son, the one with whom I regularly converse about politics. He had come to town a day early to avoid what was supposed to be a whopper of a snow storm.
"I'm at your front door. I rang the bell. Where are you?" he wanted to know.
"Sorry. I'm at my desk. I've got Andrea Bocelli cranked up to the max. I'll be there in a sec," I answered.
"Let's have a Manhattan," he suggested when I let him in.
"I'm out of sweet vermouth," I said.
"How can you be out of sweet vermouth?" he asked. "You're never out of sweet vermouth."
"I used it up on Christmas night. I had an interesting Christmas night."
"I'm off to HyVee," he said and out the door he went.
HyVee, for you people outside of the Midwest, is a supermarket chain.
"Get some cherries," I called. "I'm also out of cherries."
He was back fifteen minutes later and by that time I'd whipped up some crab tartlet things and popped them in the oven. He likes seafood and would probably eat some form of fish with or without shells every day of the week.
"Global warming," he remarked. "It's not supposed to rain like this in December. It's supposed to snow. It's because of global warming."
"You're probably right," I said.
"It'll turn to ice overnight and be a real mess. Don't you dare go anywhere tomorrow with all that ice. Say, look at that," he continued as he glanced at the TV I had on mute. "Ruth Bader Ginsburg is already out of the hospital."
"She's tough as nails," I said. "She'll probably be back at the gym by Friday. She lifts weights."
"She still needs to be sensible at her age and so do you about that ice."
I don't like the phrase at her age. It's like the word circa among antique appraisers. The silver tray is circa 1850.
"Have you got enough food?" he asked.
"I always have enough food," I replied. "I just ran low on cherries."
"They're not a food, they're a garnish," he said. "Promise me you won't go out on that ice," he added.
My children give me a lot of instructions these days, but we'll call them suggestions for the moment. No ice, lock your doors, keep your phone charged, don't wear that sweater with the hole in it outside of the house. My daughter was particularly insistent about the last item and got me a replacement sweater for Christmas. She also recently announced that I need to find myself what she called a companion.
"Not after Jamie," I said.
"I didn't mean a husband. I meant a companion."
The next day I called a woman friend of mine.
"Apparently I'm supposed to hook up with some old guy in dark socks and white tennis shoes whose idea of a swell evening is eating bland food and playing Cribbage with a cup of de-caf. That's not a companion."
"So what is a companion and a swell evening?" she asked.
"Andrea Bocelli," I replied, "and not at my desk. In person."
"You mean in concert?"
"No, in person."
"I think you'd better go with the old guy in dark socks and tennis shoes," she said.
"Thanks but no thanks," I told her.
Best regards,
Elisabeth
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