We went out together for my first ride today, going about three quarters of a mile. Being no longer 20, horribly out of shape and considerably heavier than I was last time I rode, I’m taking baby-steps. There’s no time limit or rush about it, after all.

I don’t ever expect to use it to run errands, so I didn’t get anything like saddle bags. It isn’t the distance into town; once I’m accustomed to riding the 5 miles or so into Hebron shouldn’t be an issue. But there’s no way to get there that doesn’t involve a 50 mph road with no shoulders, and I really have no interest in arguing with cars. I’ll ride around here, or load it into the van and take it to a park or something like that. I’m not riding to save gas or anything of that sort. I’m riding purely for pleasure. That’s reason enough.

This weekend I had the delight of being a guest as she and her high school sweetheart exchanged vows legally in Washngton, D.C.. It was everything a wedding should be. Their families were there, and their closest friends. It was a mark of how far my friend’s family, in particular, had come. Her sexuality had been a source of considerable discord for years; now her mom kept saying how delighted she was to welcome her daughter’s partner as a real member of the family after all this time. Her brother sang, as did her best friend and her new bride’s foster son-in-law. I watched all the various couples dancing with each other, hearts in their eyes, completely unselfconscious. I even found myself asked to dance more than once, and dance I did, with great delight. I can tell you that the women who came in a classic suit and tie were striking. It was extraordinary in its very ordinariness.

Best of all was that when we went down to the hotel bar after the reception, no one gave the group of us a second glance, echoing what I’d noticed through the day. The wedding wasn’t until 4:00, so after breakfast I walked down to the National Mall to visit the Smithsonian. My goal was the National Museum of American History, but by the time I got there I hadn’t time to see it properly. I’d spent my time in the Botanical Gardens, the Sculpture Garden and the Natural History Museum. (The living, fluttering butterfly exhibit was exquisite.) Everywhere I’d gone, I’d seen same sex couples and their children, obviously families, small children swinging between the hands of the two adults. It was normal. No one blinked; no one hustled their own children away so they wouldn’t see it, as I have seen happen in the middle west. It was as unremarkable as it ought to be everywhere.

I had a thoroughly amusing encounter at the Botanical Gardens. There’s a sign on the door which reads “Shirts and shoes are required”. The woman next to me said, to no one in particular “It doesn’t say bras, does it?” I glanced over and commented that even if it did, it would hard to enforce, and she grinned. As we came through into the conservatory itself she added “Ooh, it’s warm! I’m staying in here until the rally”. Color me curious; I asked who was rallying. “Your uterus, darling” she said, giving “darling” that quintessential east coast twist. “From 1:00 to 5:00, you should come.” I blinked; she seemed ready to take my arm and drag me over to register right then and there. I said no, I had a prior engagement, and when she raised her eyebrows added “and it’s just as important. I’m going to a wedding that couldn’t have happened until now.” She squealed, hugged me, held me at arms length beaming and said “Have a wonderful time, and be sure to kiss the brides for me.”. I laughed, took a picture of her t-shirt, (It read “NO MORE NICE GIRLS!”) and we went off to wander around, she to the orchid exhibit and I to see the all-important Cacoa tree.

Sunday morning I’d planned to walk over to Chinatown, all of 5 minutes away, but my feet informed me in no uncertain terms that I’d been on them, with a few brief breaks, from 9:00 a.m. until 10:00 p.m. the preceeding day and declined to cooperate. So I went back upstairs and slept another hour, and my friends took me back to the airport because the train only runs Monday-Friday. By 9:00 Sunday night I was home, hugging my guys and reassuring the cats of my reappearance. (It’s Wednesday as I write this, and Sophia still hasn’t let me out of her sight.)

It was an amazing weekend.

Milkweed, to be precise. Scientific names are useful. They made it clear that the butterfly weeds I was looking at in the garden catalogue were assorted varieties of milkweed. They were bright, pretty, and by all accounts darn near indestructible in their proper environment. The problem was finding a variety well adapted to where I live. “Perennial in zones 9 and 10″ is not terribly useful in zone 5.

Ah, but we have milkweed growing in the drainage ditches around here. I’s a native plant. You can’t get better adapted than that. So last fall I watched a nearby patch until I saw a ripe seedpod, picked it, brought it in and popped it into a bag so I didn’t have milkweed fluff all over the house when the pod opened. Then I stuck it in the freezer.

A week or so ago I figured it was time to get it going. But how? Gardening websites gave such conflicting advice it was hopeless. One said refrigerate the seeds in a container of damp soil. Another advised keeping them dry until ready to plant, then soaking them between layers of damp paper towel. Another recommended freezing them, while the fourth said one should under no circumstances freeze them. Germination rates would be high or low. Germination would take 2 weeks, or maybe 4. I gave up, grabbed some seed-starting pots and a windowsill mini-greenhouse and poked seeds into peat.

That was 3 days ago. I don’t know how long it’ll take to get actual leaves, but the flat black seeds have split open and shoots are pushing aside the peat. Germination rate appears to be close to 100%. They’re taking off like, well, weeds.

What I have is classic common milkweed, which can take over the world if given the chance. They’re one of the few things that can out-compete thistles, and that’s what I have in mind for them. I have an area I can’t get to easily. It’s going to grow weeds of some sort, so it might as well be something I consider desirable. This year I’ll put in half a dozen milkweed plants. They’ll grow like the weeds they are, and that exactly what I want them to do.

My dad was a child when that happened, just past 10 years old. He told me once that he first heard the news reports on the radio at his aunt and uncle’s store. They listened to President Roosevelt’s speech later on the same radio. Dad’s description made it clear that like the attack on the World Trade Center, it was not a thing anyone old enough to vaguely understand what had happened would ever forget.

Oddly enough, as shameful as that episode of American history was, I find hope in it. We recovered from that particular insanity. It was very clear who “The Enemy” was and where to find them after Pearl Harbor, and we took the war back to them. We also pinned the label of Enemy on anyone who had the remotest genetic connection, and suspended civil liberties in the name of “security”. To me it looks remarkably similar to our reaction to Al Qaida’s attack, though our response was far less well considered. But once again, we pinned the label of Enemy on anyone with a remote connection to the real enemy, this time based on religion as well as nationality. Certainly our attackers were genuinely evil men led by intelligent, ruthless, utterly evil fanatics. I’m even sure they have the quiet aquiescent backing of some of their countrymen, out of shared hatred or fear or simple indifference. That doesn’t make a third generation Arab American an automatic terrorist or sympathizer, any more than it automatically made the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Japanese immigrants spies for the Emperor.

As a nation, we didn’t recover from the fear engendered in 1941 until that “other” was no longer The Enemy, and we went from that pretty directly in the anti-Communist hysteria of McCarthyism. I don’t know what it will take this time. There is no single nation or alliance we can point to, which makes it that much harder to figure out when we are safe. Osama bin Laden is dead, as are many (possibly all) of his chief lieutenants. We’ve arguably been at war for all the ensuing ten years against the wrong enemies. We are, at the moment, ethically and financially near bankrupt. We have people in office who, like McCarthy and his House Committe on UnAmerican Activites, feed the fear and hatred to stay in power. But we did, eventually, remember what our Constitution said. We did, eventually, repudiate the purveyors of fear. We did, eventually, relearn that we were Americans first, regardless of where our ancestors came from or a few rotten apples in their baskets.

So yes, I remember where I was on that perfect clear Spetember morning. I was driving to work listening to NPR, when I heard the report that a plane had been flown into the first tower earlier that morning. They were describing it as a tragic accident. Then less than five minutes later the report came that the second tower had been hit, and my immediate thought was that someone was declaring war on the United States, and that we didn’t even know yet who or why. I watched in horror and in pride as the country and the world responded. Since then I have watched in grief and in shame and in dread as we have quietly surrendered our constitutional rights and as our alleged leaders continued to milk the events of that single day for political capital and personal profit. But we have been this way before. Today, ten years after, I hope we find our way back to the nation I grew up loving.

But everything I’ve read or been told agrees on one thing: especially if you are a novice candy-maker (which I am), a good quality candy thermometer is an absolute necessity. Yes, I have made fudge before, but it has always been the kind that uses marshmallow creme, which is pretty difficult to ruin. You can burn it – one can burn anything, with sufficient talent – but short of that you can’t get large crunchy sugar crystals no matter what you do.

Not so the kind of fudge I’m trying to make now. This stuff could be used to teach a lesson in physical chemistry. And the key is contolling the temperature, both in the cooking and in cooling it before you start beating it. My Aunt Judy might be able to judge by eye when to take the pot off the heat, and by a hand on the side of the pot when it’s time to start beating, but she’s been making fudge for more than 40 years. I haven’t had reason to try doing it the hard way before this.

So I have taken the first necessary baby-step, and acquired a really good candy thermometer. I ordered it online from a store with the delightful name of Kitchen Kaboodle. It was in today’s mail. Next will be a trip to the grocery for cream, which I don’t normally keep on hand. For the first batch (or 2 or 3) I’ll use the regular recipe, until I have the hang of it. Then I’ll start modifying, one variable at a time.

I foresee a lot of fudge in my future. Fortunately for our waistlines, I seldom have trouble giving such things away.

And yet this year I’ve had a horrible time getting myself up off my butt and outside. Some of it has been the weather – either it’s been unbearably hot, raining or both. But some of it has been a combination of lack of energy and sheer inertia. The end result is that not only did I not get anything in the ground this year, but the weeds have overrun everything.

I don’t know exactly what changed, but something did. I noticed that I had a tangle of exceedingly healthy vines at the base of the maple nearest where we park the cars that was comprised of a combination of poison ivy, nightshade, multiflora roses and wild grapes. None of those are desirable plants, to say the least. I sprayed them with vinegar several times over until most of it withered, then got in there with a rake and gloves and yanked it out. It all went into the trash can, not the compost nor the marsh across the road where I’ve dumped other things to decompose. Another couple of weeks went by, but I’ve managed to spend an hour or so most days doing the long delayed work. All the weeds and grass in my raised bed have been pulled, running through the soil until I stopped finding roots from grass or creeping charlie. It’s thoroughly mulched now, in hopes I’ll have a usable bed again come spring. The cottonwood, maple and mulberry saplings have been cut down. I’ve yanked barrowloads of Queen Anne’s lace and wild lettuce, though I’ve as much and more yet to go. I’ve come in sore and tired, but after a week of it I’m okay by the next morning. I’m even starting to see perceptible progress. I’m enjoying myself.

I still have to kick my behind out the door in the first place, but that’s okay. At least I’m finally doing it.

I took this as a challenge. What purpose, I wondered, does corn syrup serve? It turned out to involve the chemistry of sugar crystslization. Corn syrup is an interfering agent, keeping the sugar from crystalizing too quickly and forming large clumps. That was something I could work with. There are other invert sugars, among them brown rice syrup and Golden syrup. First substitution determined.

Onward…what does the milk do? It provides a certain sort of protein, which almond milk also contains. I like the flavor of almond with chocolate, so I don’t care if my fudge has an almomd undertone so long as the texture is right. Second substitution found.

The last one was the easiest. If I use a recipe with unsweetened chocolate instead of semi-sweet, I don’t have to worry about lecithin. It will be somewhat tirckier than fudge made with marshmallow fluff and the best bittersweet or dark chocolate I can find, but that’s okay.

I found rice syrup at the grocery today. Next up will be acquisition of an instant-read digital candy thermometer, and then the ultimate test of whether theory survives first contact with reality. I’m looking forward to the experiment!

A lot of the time when I’ve noticed that wall getting a bit shaky, I’ve just kept going. I am, as I may have observed previously, ridiculously stubborn, and besides I hate to miss anything. I just shove the loose brick out of my way and proceed to ignore it.

There’s just one problem with that. It doesn’t go away. If I don’t take the time to rest, bricks continue to tumble at an increasing rate until there are simply too many to shove aside, climb over (or out from under) or otherwise slog through. If I push it to that point, I’m pretty well useless.

If you look up fibro you’ll see “fatigue” as one of the primary characteristics, but that word isn’t strong enough. It’s not just being tired. It’s being unable to keep your eyes open. It’s knowing that you aren’t alert enough to drive safely. It’s feeling as if your thoughts are wrapped in batting, disappearing into softness when you try to pin them down. At its worst, it’s what a friend and I call “cat days”, when instead of being awake for about 16 hours in a day, that’s about how much you sleep.

So about the fourth day of the visit, when I found myself asleep by 10:00 and dragging at 8:00 the next morning, I didn’t fight it. I cancelled plans other than a late-afternoon expedition promised to my son and dinner with his godparents, and rested. When other adults were available, I went back to sleep. It worked – the following day I was fine, and we went on with our plans. But I hate calling and making those apologies, hate disappointing people, hate disappointing mysef. I look in the mirror, and the woman looking back at me doesn’t look like there’s a thing wrong with her other than her weight. It’s a good thing most of the people I know are aware I’m more likely to push myself too hard than to shrug off an obligation on a whim. As a society, we are not kind to those whose problems aren’t physically obvious. We are suspicious of any sort of weakness, often viewing it as a moral failing. It’s hard not to judge myself that way, even when I know I know it’s not valid, when I know the people whose opinion matters to me don’t judge me so.

I’m learning. I’m working out how to pace mysef. I’m learning to say no, to remember that if I have a lot to do, it’s far more likely to get done if I stretch it out over several days than try to get it all done at once. I’m learning to notice when those first few bricks start to shake loose, rather than going on until the whole thing lands on my head. I’m learning that not only do I not have the energy reserves of any two normal people, I no longer have the reserves of one. If I were battery operated, it wouldn’t be holding anything close to a full charge.

It’s aggravating (very), but really no more than that. It isn’t life threatening, and if I’ve finally had to acknowledge I’m not superwoman worse tragedies have occurred. I have a wonderful, loving, non-judgmental husband, who will point out to me when I’m the one being hard on myself. I have friends who will look at me and tell me it’s time to stop for the day if I start into the “just one more thing” script. I’ve never been particularly good about taking care of myself, but I have people around me who help with that, and will give me a metaphorical kick in the tochis if I’m disinclined to listen. And I’m finally learning to do it for myself. I would say that is a Good Thing.

Now I have become accustomed to washing my pots, mixing bowls, etc. before I use them as well as after. My house is anything but rodent-proof, and while my organic self resetting mouse traps do their best, they’re more likely to dispatch the invaders after they’ve come out through the kitchen cabinets than before. All three girls are excellent mousers, but I digress. Anyway, I had the sink all ready tp wash the pot as soon as it was out.

The big soup pot usually lives at the far back of a very deep cabinet, so other pots don’t end up stacked in it. You might imagine my surprise when I grabbed the handle and lifted to find that it had definite weight. It’s a heavy stainless steel pot, but it doesn’t weigh ten pouns. So instead of lifting, I pulled, sliding it toward the front of the cabinet.

The pot protested.

It said “Mrouw?”

I pulled it the rest of the way out to find the pot a bit less than half full of black cat. Tornado had curled up comfortably in the bottom, and was blinking at me as I pulled her cozy bed out into the light. Hmm. Leek, mushroom and cat soup was not what I had planned.

That pot was at the far back wall of that cabinet, as were my dutch oven and double boiler. The one nearest the entry is the double boiler. She had to step through it, but it was too small for her to curl up in comfortably. Next to it was the dutch oven. She likely curled up in it for a bit as well, but it is a wide pot and she is a smallish cat. The last one was stock pot.

I must say, she did fit perfectly.

I should start calling her Goldilocks.

I hadn’t intended to make rye bread any time soon. I made a large batch a couple of weeks ago. (A small batch isn’t worth the effort, as you have to mix the starter three days in advance.) I love it, but I’m the only one who eats it. I have five of my six small loaves left in the freezer. On the other hand, I had not reckoned with the baking gremlins. I was intending to make Indian chapattis to go with lentil and tomato soup for dinner. I grabbed the nearest canister of non-white flour and mixed. Only one problem – once blended with water, it became very clear that the grain in question was quite a dark brown and sticky into the bargain. I took a bite, and sure enough, I had grabbed the rye flour instead of the whole wheat. That left me a choice – either toss it out, or add another cup of water and a bit of yeast and let is start fermenting. So after I’d pulled out another bowl and made the intended chapatti dough, I turned my mistake into the basis for another batch of rye bread, which is now bubbling away happily. It’ll be ready to bake with on Sunday, and I’m figuring that this one will be seedless raisin rye, just for fun.

Our son will be a C.I.T. (counselor in training) for the day camp he attended last summer. They’ve never had a C.I.T. program before, but they had a couple of kids they really wanted to keep that would have otherwise been too old – Joseph and his girlfriend. He starts Monday, and he’s tremendously excited. I’m not sure if it’s about camp, about the prospect of some responsibility, or about spending every week day for the next six weeks with T. It doesn’t really matter, though; what matters is his about-to-jump-out-of-his-skin enthusiasm. But one of the things that came with it was a staff meeting this last Tuesday, and after it we got some carry-out and went to have a picnic.

It was the perfect day for it; sunny and warm but not hot. Indeed, it was the first rain-free day in most of a week. J. was done eating long before I was, so he went off to explore the park a bit. It wasn’t long before he was back, urging me to hurry and finish so he could show me something.

“Something” turned out to be a whole colony of bird’s nests made out of mud. It took us a few minutes to figure out that there were birds sitting in them. They’re up in corners on the park buildings, no more than 3 or 4 inches under the eaves, so it’s quite shadowed. But there was the line of a feathery tail, and then we noticed the curve of the top of the head at the other end, one eye watching us carefully. We walked around, finding that every suitable corner had its own nest, some of them with distinct cheeping sounds coming from inside. We watched for awhile, until I saw a bird fly in and another fly out, and there was that distinctive divided tail. They’re small, fast, and absolutely beautiful in the air. Finally, after much wandering around, one of the adult birds hopped up to sit on the edge of the nest and I got a picture with my phone. Not a great shot, but good enough to compare to a photo at home, and sure enough – barn swallows! I’m trying to figure out how to set up a place they would consider appropriately safe from our cats to lure them to nest here. Not only are the a delight to watch, but they evidently eat their weight in insects daily. Given the bugs around here, that sounds wonderful! It shouldn’t be too hard, as the birds actually prefer rough wood to painted surfaces. They need something that their mud nests can adhere to.

And that’s life. I just let Tornado in the door, and watched as she got past her nemesis (Cloud) by the simple expedient of jumping over her. Tornado ignored my laughter; Cloud licked her paw and then wandered off as if to say “We planned that game of leap-frog”. Tomorrow I’m planning to drive over to Chicago for the day, and Sunday His Boyness wants to go swimming, weather permitting. Not terribly eventful, and even though some of the eventfulness of the past month or so was joyous, the calm is wonderful.