¡Tequila!

 "Cuervo, no salt." That's how I order my margarita.

I never thought much about Cuervo, where it comes from, or who makes it. I was just happy to put the glass to my lips on a hot summer day and partake of the tasty concoction of tequila, triple sec and lime.  

Until Mr. Ginley and I stumbled on the display at Giant Eagle of a large, studly guy with a hoe and a sign that simply said, "Jose Cuervo." 

"What's that big round thing," Mr. inquired, pointing to a large, round ball beneath the gentleman's foot.

I shrugged, preoccupied with the next thing on my shopping list. 

"It's probably an agave," Mr. said, knowledgeably.

I found it mildly annoying that I didn't know this. I'm the one that orders the margaritas, after all. On the other hand, Mr. does crossword puzzles all the time, so I suppose that's how he knew.

Still, I wanted to know more. The logical thing seemed to be to go to the Cuervo website. (How benighted we were before the internet!) Cuervo.com did not disappoint. Now I know the rest of the story, which I will share with you. (Hold the applause, please.)

In 1758, the King of Spain granted land to Jose Antonio de Cuervo y Valdes, who started making tequila. His enterprising son (also a Jose) got the first official charter from the King to start producing tequila commercially in 1795. (Fun fact: Mexico didn't gain its independence until 1821.) 

And yes, they use the best blue agaves, which look like cacti but are actually from the lily family. The Spanish called the center of the agave a "pineapple," or "piña," (because, as you can see from the picture, it kinda looks like a pineapple). The heart of the agave is where all the good stuff comes from to make tequila. 

According to Mexican law, beverages can only be called "tequila" if they're made with blue agave or agave azul, which is grown in five particular states in Mexico. And growers must be patient – it takes 6-12 years for the agave plant to mature. 

Another fun fact: people sometimes mistake tequila for mezcal, but tequila requires a lot more fuss. Mezcal is only distilled once (compared to double distillation for tequila), and it can be made from any old agave. You've probably heard of the worm in the bottle thing. It only appears in certain varieties of mezcal – not tequila. 

If you're interested in sustainability (and who isn't, or shouldn't be), you'll be pleased to know that other parts of the agave don't go to waste at Cuervo. Thanks to the Agave Project, they're using discarded parts of the plant to make other stuff, like biodegradable drinking straws. Some ingenious folks have made other things like a surfboard and a Stratocaster® guitar. 

Who knew?

Well, thanks for hanging out in the rabbit hole with me today. I know I'm feeling inspired.

And, given the scorcher it promises to be today, it looks like it will be the perfect evening for a margarita. 

P.S. Props to those of you who, like me, visualize Pee Wee Herman when they hear "Tequila!" (I linked it here for Kim and Chris.)

For Whom the Bird Screeches

The grey catbird is back, he's pissed, and he's not gonna take it anymore.
At least, that's how it feels. 

attribution below

The bugger screeches outside our window from early morning into the late evening. You'd think by now he would have worn out his vocal cords, but alas, he carries on and on, first in the backyard, then in the front yard.

He's positively relentless. This is the second year in a row that he's made an appearance. He doesn't seem to torment the neighbors, so why us?

Admittedly, things heat up when the cat sits in the window, but even when the noise gets to her and she slinks away, the racket goes on. 

I went to my friend, the Google, to try and determine why. The upshot is, the male yells loudly to claim his territory. He will call out if you approach the nest, but it's supposed to be a softer call. And then the female calls back.

This morning, I noticed that when he took up the racket in the backyard, it was answered by a sort of cooing sound that came from the bushes by the fence. I have this handy-dandy app on my phone called "Merlin" that identifies bird song, and sure enough, it informed me that it was indeed the female catbird answering.

The upshot is, there's a nest in the bushes in the backyard, and we're stuck with the screeching until the little ones head off to university (or wherever baby catbirds go when they leave home).

While I love having the windows open, it's getting pretty old. 

It's supposed to be hot this week, so I guess we'll have a good excuse to turn on the AC. With the windows shut, maybe peace will be restored. 

I'm hoping for rain, too, to wash the windows on the car.

Squawking isn't the only annoying thing about the resident catbird.

Photo credit: Peterwchen, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Bits & Pieces

"Hey, check it out," Mr. Ginley called to me this morning.

I took a quick break from work to see what he'd unearthed this time. He held up a business card with the name of a friend from J.B. Robinson Jewelers.

Me being me, I had to take a snap and send it to my friend, who married the guy whose name is on the card. 

Back in the day, business cards were handed out like candy during business meetings. It feels like this practice has gone the way of fax machines and land lines and civility.

A short while later, Mr. whooped again. It was the mother load.

Years ago, he went to my siblings (and siblings-in-law) and asked them for their business cards. The collection is an interesting snapshot of who-worked-where and did-what in the beforetimes. It was also sad because one of the business cards belonged to a much-loved, very much missed family member. 

Among the stack were a few of mine, too. I was never high enough on the food chain to get a business card at J.B. Robinson, but I did get one at Kay, then Sterling, then Signet. Then...bupkis. Well, this isn't technically true, because I had some printed when I was freelancing, in between – and during – other gigs. 

In addition to business cards, Mr. has collected some other interesting detritus. Which is probably why he enjoys the annual Case Western Reserve University Book Sale so much. Of course, I can't say much because I was right there with him at the ephemera table last weekend, picking through the piles of books, pamphlets, postcards and other odds and ends in search of treasure.

And yes, we came home with some more stuff that someday Joe will be sorting through, shaking his head, and muttering, "What possessed them?"

Don't tell him I said this, but I've secretly enjoyed some of the stuff Mr. has unearthed lately. The map to the parking lot of our apartment in Virginia. The Alexandria Visitor's Guide. Prayer cards from those who have gone before. And an old address book filled with names and places of people who moved on long ago.

Artifacts all.

I know that disposing of things that have no purpose is probably a good thing. Hoarding can be scary.

On the other hand, these little bits of flotsam and jetsam have taken me to long forgotten places. 

And that's not such a bad thing after all. 

A Really Big Shoe

I texted Diane earlier this week and sent her this picture.

"There's a blog post in here somewhere," I quipped. With a smiley face.

No reply at all.

Which, of course, I took as consent. So here I am, writing about my wonderful trip to C-Bus last weekend. (That's Columbus, if you ain't from O-H I-O.)

It's been a bunch of time since I saw my sister, and I was feeling the urge. So I packed my bags, made sure Mr. Ginley had plenty of food to keep from starving, and hit the road Friday afternoon. 

Two hours later, I pulled into Diane and John's driveway. 

Our visits have a certain pattern. Diane and I traverse the neighborhood and catch up. Then we eat and crack open a jigsaw. John chooses the music, and we puzzle the evening away. Normally, Diane and I would watch a Hallmark movie, too. Honestly, there was a time when I thought I was the only one in the family with this particular guilty pleasure, but no, it seems we both have the fever. However, the puzzle Diane chose was a little more challenging, so we worked all weekend on it instead. Alas, Hallmark took a pass.

Saturday morning, Diane took me to the Worthington Farmer's Market. She found the most amazing fresh, organic strawberries (which later magically turned into strawberry shortcake). I found some unfortunate cookies. (Well, they looked good.)

Later, we went to Eaton Place and walked ourselves silly and got the boot in front of LL Bean. I marveled once again at how cosmopolitan Columbus has become. Way back when Diane (then my other sister, Denise) moved down there, it was a whole lot of farmers and fields and OSU and not much else. These days, there are a ton of restaurants and shopping opportunities and a diverse population. The contrast is pretty wild.

Saturday evening, Denise joined us for dinner at the Cap City diner. The four of us broke bread (or sandwiches, as the case may be). It was so nice to yack and then lure Denise back to D&J's for the aforementioned strawberry shortcake. 

All in all, it was a wonderful, relaxing weekend. And watching the variety of birds in Diane's backyard was an extra special treat. I got to see woodpeckers (two varieties), hummingbirds, cardinals and several others whose names escape me. (I know they're called something other than "the grey ones with the beady eyes.") 

Sometimes I think I'm getting agoraphobic, and I have to push myself out of the house.

This time, I was so glad I did.

Pomegranate, 500 pieces, Pat Scott, Taking Off

Becoming "It"

It seems to be a generational thing that the older we get, the more nostalgic we get about our summertime childhoods.

attribution below

Ah, those were the days. Playing outside all summer long until dark. Mom making up a batch of Kool-Aid (1 packet + 1 cup of sugar = a little slice of heaven on a hot day). Summers seemed to go on and on, playing and chasing fireflies and such.

This makes me wonder what the current crop of kids will be nostalgic for when they get to that certain age.

"Why, in my day, my parents wouldn't let me have a phone until I was five. And it was only an Apple 15. Can you believe it?"

While I still occasionally see kids playing catch with their dads or riding bikes, things are certainly different than they were in the beforetimes. Activities are scheduled and regulated in a way they seldom were back then. And I think it's a little sad that many of the traditional games and rhymes have been lost over the years.

I'm not sure what sparked it, but the other day I began reciting, "Engine, Engine, Number 9, running down Chicago Line, if the train should jump the track, do you want your money back? Y-e-s spells yes (or n-o spells no), and out you go into the deep blue sea, you dirty old dishrag you."

Mr. Ginley says he remembers the first part, but not the dirty dishrag part. (I couldn't find that part on google, either, so maybe it's something unique to our freaky family?)

For those of you who are scratching your head at this point, permit me to explain.

When you were choosing someone – for example, the kid who was going to be "it" in Tag – each of you would hold out your fist, and the designated leader would tap each hand as he or she recited the above. At the end of the question, the person whose hand they landed on would answer "yes" or "no," and the tapping would continue until the leader tapped the final fist. That's how someone was chosen.

There were also a lot of ditties that we jumped rope to. (Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black, had silver buttons, buttons, buttons, all down her back, back, back...)

I'm fairly certain it was an older sibling who taught me these things, but I wonder who taught the oldest kid? 

Memory is a funny thing. So many childhood memories are cemented firmly into our minds, while current bits and pieces are lost in the ether.

Oh, well, thanks for strolling down memory lane with me. Feel free to share your own childhood rhymes!

Photo attribution: Agriculture And Stock Department, Publicity Branch, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Shoop, Shoop

We were driving down the street last night when Mr. Ginley whooped.

Miss Swivel Hips*

"Hey, somebody back there was playing with a Hula Hoop!"

Boy, howdy, did that take me back.

It's hard to explain to someone not of our generation how cool the Hula Hoop was. My sisters and I each had one. I spent hours spinning it around my waist. Ah, those were the days. When I had a waist.

For the uninitiated, the Hula Hoop was a circular tube with some kind of magic inside that made a "shoop-shoop" sound as you wiggled your hips and tried to keep it aloft. You could do tricks with it, too. If you spun it on its side, you could get it to come back to you.

Seriously, this was cool stuff in the beforetimes.

Of course, these days, I'm sure the Hula Hoop would be looked upon with disdain, much like jump rope and Kick the Can and Red Light, Green Light and tag.

But once upon a time, it was a prized possession.

For years, I kept it in the basement here. I even tried to get my kid interested in it. No such luck. I don't remember who I gave it to, or if I threw it away. Once I had a baby and my waist went away, so did my ability to rock the Hoop.

Ah, well.

I'll just have to be content to hear the shoop-shoop sound in my dreams. 

 

*My Mom wrote the caption for this photo. 

Living in the Wild

It occurred to me recently that I'm the only one in my immediate family who doesn't garden.

I've been to everyone's home at some time, and my eyes have been treated to beautiful blooms and lush greens and, occasionally, vegetables to boot.

I, on the other hand, cringe to think what the former owners of our house would think if they could see how nature has run amok over just about every square inch of our property.

Yes, I cut the grass. But the original flowers that sprung up every year have sadly been choked out by overgrown shrubbery and weeds. 

The only good thing is that we have a pretty small yard, so the carnage goes only so far. But I can see the neighbors across the street, they of pristine lawns and impeccably trimmed hedges, shudder a little when they look this way.

Someday, you'll see me on the news: "Crazy old cat lady wields a chainsaw, goes postal on her shrubbery. Film at 11."

I suppose I should (and do) take some joy from seeing wildflowers in vivid colors poke their heads from the foliage. And you can just imagine my delight when I discovered something called "foraging." You go around your yard and pick a bunch of weeds and wildflowers and interesting greenery, then arrange them artfully in a vase. (Or place them in "forage foam," – yes it's a real thing). The only downside is you're supposed to identify the stuff you pick. I don't suppose "teeny yellow flowers" or "those big purple things" will cut it.

Oh, well.

On the plus side, my lilies of the valley have managed to survive nigh onto 30 years of neglect. They still come up next to the house every May. They're just so stinkin' cute, I have to take the time to pay them homage. Today, after mowing the lawn (it doesn't really qualify as "grass"), I paused to admire them and take a snapshot. 

It made me a little sad because they reminded me of my Mom. She of the original green  thumb who grew flowers and fresh produce with abandon. Tomorrow will be my 13th Mother's Day without her. And boy, howdy, is she missed.

I hope all you moms (including those of the 4-legged, furry or feathered variety), have a lovely Mother's Day. 

And if you're missing your Mom like I am, know that I'm sending you hugs. 

But alas, no flowers!

Happy Mother's Day, Momma