Noise or Signal?

Noise is everywhere. It’s random and distracting. Sometimes it’s self-inflicted (AirPods et al) but often it’s an unbidden assault. Constant auditory clutter can lead to an exasperated, “ It’s so noisy I can’t hear myself think.” And Not Thinking’s partner is named Trouble.

Signal is the flip side of noise. It’s sound that is valuable because it conveys meaningful information that you’re aiming to detect. Alas, the assault by noise drowns out much of what is useful and necessary.

In quieter times, the town crier, the belfry and schoolhouse bells, and factory whistles all conveyed important information to those in earshot. When the bell rang, people listened. Bells sent signals, not noise. Contrast that with today. The fire alarm goes off and people ignore it as a distracting annoyance. The overhead speaker scolds, ad nauseam, not to accept items from unknown strangers to carry on to the plane. Another distracting annoyance. The inbound Redline will be approaching the station in 2 minutes. I’ll believe it when I see it. Please shut up. The leaf blowers, the incessant beep, beep, beeping of the truck, the jackhammer tearing up the pavement- a whole lot of noise. To mangle Macbeth- sound, signifying nothing, creating fury.

According to Frank Wilczek, a physicist who tries to make the universe understandable to non- physicists, separating interesting signals from obscuring noise is a big deal in experimental science and statistics. All well and good for those who toil in those disciplines, but what got my attention wasn’t science or statistics, but how noise compromises our ability to “hear ourselves think” or to listen thoughtfully to others or to pay attention to what we are reading or writing. In a word, noise is distracting. It keeps us from being present for ourselves or for others. It keeps us from paying attention to interesting or important things.

Clutter is anything you do not use or need. Physical possessions. Electronic trash. Crazy schedules. Noise. As we teeter between relief in an easing in Age of Corona and a worry about future re-tightening, do yourself a favor.  Appreciate the quiet. Listen, and hear yourself think.

In Defense of Leisure, In the Age of Corona

Revisiting an essay from July 24, 2017

Crazy busy, covered up, snowed under, swamped… you get the drift.   At face value, all of these sound dreadful, so why would we want to be in that boat?  The simple answer is that crazy busy and its ilk have become badges of honor that convey self-importance, relevance and worth as a human being.   We like to believe that crazy confers bragging rights.  And of course, that’s crazy. The real problem is that it’s become fashionable to be very, very busy or at least claim to be. 

Maybe it’s time to develop a more thoughtful relationship with time and in so doing, cultivate a more thoughtful relationship with ourselves and with others.   Can we quit the one-upmanship of comparing how busy we are?  Can we stop running late which sends the message that “My time is more valuable than your time. “?  Can we appreciate that having time to breathe, and think and sometimes do not much, isn’t a sign of worthlessness but rather a sign of worthiness.   

It sounds almost heretical, but the English philosopher, Bertrand Russell touted the notion “that time we enjoy wasting is not wasted time”.  Wasted carries some bad baggage. It’s in the batch of undesirables, like squandered or misused.  It wouldn’t be the word I’d have chosen, but what I think Russell really meant by “wasted” was time that was unstructured, relaxed, or not demonstrably productive or profitable. It is pleasurable time spent on oneself and on others who matter.  In Praise of Idleness, Russell’s 1932 treatise might be a bridge too far. So instead, try In Defense of Leisure. We’ve become desensitized to the benefits of leisure because of the 24/7 work cycle, the immediacy of communication and the expectation that we’re supposed to be busy, or better yet, crazy busy.  Idleness is a miscreant- akin to slacker, sluggard, or nogoodnik.  But substitute some kinder words like unstructured, relaxed and pleasurable and some idleness sounds pretty good.

It’s not just rodents who are in the rat race.  We humans are hell bent on emulating the rat. Might we leave the wheel and the maze to the rodents and try some leisure without a trace of guilt?  Start in small doses and you’ll see that the stars won’t fall from the heavens.  Most of us aren’t as important as we imagine ourselves to be and that should come as a relief.  Some of what we busy ourselves with, doesn’t need doing.   And the things that do need doing, are better tackled when we’re not crazed.

Time is very consistent. Sixty seconds per minute. Sixty minutes per hour. 24 hours per day. So time is not what we manage. We manage ourselves by setting priorities and giving work and leisure both their due. It’s become fashionable to blame time when we under-deliver because we’re over- scheduled. Time’s an easy target- it can’t talk back or deny the accusations.  But we should blame ourselves when we don’t get things done that need to be done.  Figure out what you must do, and do it.  Things that don’t need to be done can be left undone- without handwringing and guilt.

Enjoying a bit of leisure can be the spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down.  And titrating leisure with duty requires thoughtful balance.  One man’s leisure is another man’s burden. What’s your idea of relaxing? Bonbons and Netflix?  Yoga?  The morning paper with coffee?  

The White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland was right. “The hurrier I go, the behinder I get.”  Slow down and remember that the bit of time you’ve enjoyed wasting was not wasted time.

Find your pleasure.  Always… even in the Age of Corona.

Confessions: I miss the canine, but found considerable pleasure in correcting the spelling of nogoodnik that I mangled in the earlier essay.

Elegant Excess

This spectacular table was the setting for a memorable 2019 Christmas dinner party hosted by Julia Child and Jacques Pepin. Well, it was Jacques and Julia’s local stand-ins, but they did their muses proud. The small guest list was just right. The food, somehow humble and lavish, was just right. Foie gras and Sauternes. Caviar and Champagne. Beef bourguignon, homemade mashed potatoes, haricot vert and baguettes. Remarkable wines both red and white. And something totally delectable for dessert but owing to the Sauternes, Champagne and good wines, I’m fuzzy on the details. There was a replica of the Eiffel Tower on the hosts’ front porch- a marvel of chicken wire and lights. La Tour Eiffel paled in comparison to the centerpieces- table top and aloft. We dressed in berets, chef toques, and French neckwear. It was a festive and fabulous evening and I felt lucky to be included.

You’re probably wondering why in the world I’m telling you about this now. I’d intended to share this a while back as a reminder that excess on occasion is not only ok, but desirable- even essential. Good intentions went awry. But an article in the weekend WSJ got me back on track. No Company? Be Your Own Guest, reminded me that we can treat ourselves as we would invited guests, especially while we’re mostly keeping to ourselves in the Age of Corona. The article shared readers’ suggestions about ways to indulge in small pleasures to take the edge off aloneness and tedium. Drinking Diet Coke over crushed ice in Tiffany flutes. Using the best bed linens and thickest towels. Buying fresh flowers. Enjoying English Breakfast tea and biscuits on good china. Hand washing with fancy French milled soaps. You get the idea. Now make it yours.

From Rules, Aesthetics Matter. Use your nice things. Otherwise, what’s the point? You and your family are the worthy occasion! Avec moi-même. Avec famille. Très élégante!

Trolling, Corona Style

Collections are funny things. What inspires devotion in one, fuels indifference or outright disdain in another. Whether driven by intrinsic value or staunch indifference to it, collectors are a passionate bunch. For most, the right number of trolls is “none”. But for one whose childhood I curate, the right number was “many”. Surfer trolls, princess trolls, wedding trolls, Christmas trolls, even professional trolls. With this picture, I could rest my case if my case were collections are funny things. Alas…

This actually is about trolls. A jaunt down memory lane brought this particular troll, a harried “front line worker” with a face mask, out of quarantine. He and dozens of others had been safely tucked away and completely missed SARS, Ebola and Swine Flu- how bad could the Covid -19 pandemic be? The trolls got me thinking about how we’ve all become somewhat troll-like in the Age of Corona. In Scandinavian folklore, trolls were diminutive beings who dwelt as small family units in isolated places. That pretty much sums up what we humans have been doing. If it goes on much longer, the trolls might be asking who does our hair or how to order a cuter face mask from Etsy.

Living in small, isolated units and growing wild hair may suit the trolls, but the humans are getting restless- ready to not be quite so troll-like.

Not With A Grain Of Salt

Here are two quotes that I’ve thoughtfully considered before serving them up for you.

From Sother Teague, a celebrated chef turned cocktail crafter extraordinaire-

“A chef can do a lot of things with rosemary. He can’t do a damn thing without salt.”

From Marie Kondo- who needs no introduction-

“I realized my mistake: I was only looking for things to throw out. What I should have been doing is finding the things I want to keep.”

Figure out what is important. What is essential. What guides. The rest can be taken with a grain of salt.

Ignoring Can Be Bliss

I love the upper left hand corner of this page from a “house porn” magazine. “LIFE End Note” Sounds like something from an obituary or last will and testament. But nothing could be further from the truth. Instead, it was the last word on how to live in the Age of Corona. Isolated from other people, this unabashed bibliophile had a simple strategy for surviving social distancing. Reading- widely and deeply. It’s old friends from her vast book collection and a few new ones as well that are keeping her company these days.

She knew herself. She wasn’t much interested in tidying and purging. Those were not part of her best nest strategy. Her hall closet which could have been set right is still a holy mess. She failed the Kondo Method without a trace of self-recrimination or a half-hearted promise to do better. Instead, she admits the Method that suits her best is keeping the closet door closed- problem solved! Curating bookshelves beats battling closet shelves. Ignoring can be bliss.

So now my End Note. Decide what can you ignore and what will gnaw at you. What enlivens and what deadens? Who better than you to make your best nest…

Weird, Even Before Corona

A piece in a recent WSJ, “My Lifelong Crusade Against the Useless Paper Towel” was eye-catching. Crusade is maybe aspirational, but I’ll grant it at least a soap-box. I felt like the columnist and I were kindred spirits. Corona sales-boost aside, “… paper towels are the most overrated household cleaning item in the history of American tidiness… There is almost nothing a paper towel does that can’t be done equally effectively with a chamois cloth, a strip of cotton, a sponge or an old sock.” That should put the paper towel in its place. (Which in my kitchen in the back corner of the cabinet under the sink which accounts for this roll’s slightly ragged edge.) The columnist concedes that his has been “a lonely crusade, a quixotic tilting against quicker-picker-upper windmills.” …” a giant squandering of money on something totally extraneous.”

Curious about just how much money is being squandered, The Atlantic provided some answers in “Americans Are Weirdly Obsessed With Paper Towels.” Worldwide, $12 billion annually. And half of that is by Americans. These two year old numbers are low, especially given the huge bump in consumption from coronavirus-abatement efforts. America’s relative wealth enables us to spend more freely on nonessentials. Our national obsession with instant gratification engenders an “out quickly, damned spot” mentality. The rag, mop and broom that satisfy the rest of the world get little respect from us. We use so many paper towels because we can afford to. In what seems a step in the wrong direction, the rest of the world is catching up and the pandemic has only quickened the pace.

The Crusader’s closing argument: “ Stick paper towels right in there with handle-less coffee mugs, raspberry-lemon-flavored sparkling water and emerging- nation municipal bonds.”

Caveat emptor, particularly in the Age of Corona.

Covered from Corona 2.0

Who would have ever imagined that a face mask would join the chasuble, stole and collar for proper liturgical vesting. Blame the Age of Corona. And also credit the Age for bringing out our best. When the officiant needed a “wedding- appropriate” mask, she knew just where to turn. The maker of this mask is everyone’s go-to person. Her talents, deep and broad, are exceeded only by her generosity.

Simple. Elegant. And going one step better- repurposed. This rarely used linen hand towel’s rebirth calls to mind Victor Hugo: “The beautiful is as useful as the useful. Maybe more so.” I can think of no better embodiment of Hugo’s belief than the one pictured above.

Perfection achieved.

Covered from Corona

The mind is a mysterious thing. My first thought this morning was, “She’s a year old today.”, she being my first grandchild. A happy thought no doubt, but what does this has to do with Rules? Or this picture of the masked Greek?

Indulge me. As I was thinking about the gift that I had sent to the wee one, I was fishing around for a new handkerchief-my two workhorse coronavirus bandanas being in the laundry. And voila! It’s almost as if my thinking of birthday gifts made this one appear, for it too was a birthday gift.

My father was one of the few men I know who always had a clean, cloth handkerchief in his back pocket. It was usually plain white cotton with a rolled edge. Simple, unadorned. For one of his advanced birthdays, when he had become “the person who has everything”, there was still a strong pull to find something that he might like and use- or at least something that wouldn’t be a burden. Irish linen handkerchiefs with a tiny monogram fit the bill. He used them a bit reluctantly claiming they were almost too nice for “blow” rather than '“show”. When he died a few years later and we were sorting his odds and ends, we found them, neatly ironed and folded. And this sentimental keepsake has been tucked away in my dresser drawer ever since-until today.

I wondered if it could be folded into a triangle and worn bandit-style like the bandanas. What a happy discovery. This oversized hankie works perfectly in this new capacity. It makes me realize that they were probably too big to be what my father would have preferred, but he knew that not burdening someone with unwanted and unusable gifts mattered to me, and even if he hadn’t, he was too polite and generous to have told me that the darn things were really too big.

Today, a new lease on life, not despite, but because of the Age of Corona. A footnote: when checking to see if the plural of handkerchief was handkerchiefs or handkerchieves, (which both looked strangely correct and incorrect), I read that the hankie is a symbol of love, thanks to Othello and Desdemona. True for JHMT as well.

And the answer to plural- take your pick.

Finished!

You can see why I don’t have an Instagram account. This heavy, pale sourdough loaf looks more like the underbelly of a bloated fish than something that Instagram followers would envy. So why expose my failing? To remind us all that it’s ok to close a door. As Paul Coelho says, “Close some doors. Not because of pride, incapacity or arrogance, but simply because they no longer lead somewhere.”

Well, today I closed the door on my sourdough bread baking enterprise. Rather than messing with “Starter”, I embraced, “Finished.” There were so many reasons this didn’t work for me. The demands of the starter, the mess on the kitchen counter, the finished product that makes a loaf of store-bought bunny bread look ok… I bet I could have gotten a lot better if I were willing to stick with it. But every time I looked at the slurry in the jar or the pathetic loaf, I was saying to myself, “Why don’t you just make the easy, never fails, no- knead bread from Mark Bittman? It makes one large, delicious loaf with 4 ingredients in 24 hrs- almost entirely unattended. The recipe is simple. The technique is simple. And the fruit of minimal labor is simply delicious so I’m keeping this door open!

Maybe especially now, in Age of Corona, give yourself permission to close a door that no longer leads somewhere you want to go.

It's Enough To Make You Scream

Performance anxiety. Separation anxiety. Social anxiety. As if those weren't enough, add contingency anxiety to the mix. Contingency anxiety, as defined by the car guy in the WSJ: “It’s that fear of needing extra seating, once in a blue moon and not having it that pushes buyers toward third row seat car models. It’s a kind of hoarding of cubic inches.”

Contingency anxiety, like its cohorts, is born of worry that is out of proportion; of fear that has gone from reasonable to irrational. Perilous at best. Ruinous at worst. Rather than settling on a reasonable work-around, we settle on expensive and irrational. It’s more than a weird form of hoarding. Keeping up with the Jones (the toxic combo of social and performance anxiety) often plays a part.

Contingency anxiety and contingency planning are very different. Planning is reasonable and prudent. I highly recommend it. Whole industries are devoted to this and forward-thinking businesses, well-run households and thoughtful individuals routinely plan for the unexpected, the once in a blue moon. An oft quoted adage is “Plan for the worst and hope for the best.” Maybe it’s the other way around- hoping before planning but either way, it’s good advice.

Cars don’t have a corner on the contingency anxiety market. It manifests in myriad ways and it’s easy to be bamboozled by bedrooms, appliances, apparel- you name it. A huge house for a small family. A trophy kitchen for the very occasional cook. Dozens of subtly different white shirts to suit any situation. All of these are born of contingency anxiety which is enough to make you scream. So consider contingency planning and you’ll realize that if/when your car, house, kitchen or closet have encountered “once in a blue moon'“, there are reasonable work-arounds. A rental car, a hotel room, a caterer or someone in the rag trade will come to your rescue. I promise.

But in the Age of Corona, when toilet paper has joined the ranks of things about which we are anxious, go ahead. Scream. Edvard Munch would approve.

If You Give A Mouse A Cookie...

He’s going to ask for a glass of milk. And then a straw. And then a napkin to wipe his milk mustache… And that’s only the beginning of the proverbial slippery slope.

If you buy a bike, it will need a wicker basket. And the wicker basket will beg to be filled with baguettes or bouquets- or both. I picked baguettes. Having no flowers handy gave the baguettes an edge, and lots of discard from the sourdough starter sealed the deal. This sourdough starter has been more of a commitment than I’d bargained for. It’s sort of like a needly houseguest- asking to be fed twice a day. Feeding involves lots of fiddling with a scale and measuring utensils and metric conversions. But when you’ve got time on your hands, why not. My hands were itching not to be idle so I busied myself with baguettes.

This experiment was a mixture, literally and figuratively. San Francisco meets Paris. (A quick search shows that SF is a sourdough johnny- come-lately, by many centuries; the baguette is really Austrian, but why mess up the story with facts.)

It’s a strange process. About half of the sourdough starter has to be discarded before you feed the remainder. After several days of dutifully but reluctantly throwing it away, it occurred to me that what I’d been tossing would be poolish if I added a single gram of dry yeast. And what is this poolish? It’s the wet, messy stuff the Parisian bread baking school uses to start a baguette.

My finished product doesn’t like the ones from the boulangerie. It would fail on all the metrics by which French law defines a baguette- length, width, height and weight. My baguettes are bien blanche, less cooked, whiter. That apparently isn’t a flaw- just a fact. And the croûton- the very tips of the baguette, like the heel of a loaf of homemade bread- delicious. Or in the land of boulangeries, délicieux.

Happy bike. Happy basket. Happy belly. All thanks to the baguettes. Bon appétit in the Age of Cororna.

Sheltering In Place

Place. In the Age of Corona, we have learned our place. We’d do well to remember that we humans haven’t cornered this market. Our things should have a places too. A place where they shelter. A sensible place. A place that allows for adequate distancing. A place where they’re hidden but not hiding. No matter how much has changed, you’re still in charge of your things. And now is a good time to remind them who’s boss. Be a benevolent boss ( dictator even). Give them a good home and in return they’ll be loyal and dependable and findable. It’s a good arrangement.

From the WSJ, “Almost every single household has a utensil holder for their silverware and every single person agrees that the spoons go here and the forks go there. That drawer tells the story for the rest of the kitchen and honestly the rest of the house. It’s about routine and training everyone that this is where something goes.”

The simple message to your things:” Welcome home. Shelter in this place.”

Penni's Hennies

Deviling, in The Age of Corona

These eggs really are from Penni and her organic, free-range chickens. And unlike Henny Penny, who was certain the sky was falling, Penni’s hennies are blissfully unaware of medical and monetary armageddons. Being more like Penni’s Hennies than Henny Penny is probably a good thing. So rather than being deviled by it all, I did some deviling.

In a fit of tidying up my kitchen, I’d tossed the very old jar of mayonnaise (circa 2017 post-Thanksgiving turkey sandwich making) and hadn’t bothered to buy more. How do you devil an egg without mayo? Well, you improvise. Caesar would be proud. His dressing was the stand-in. Briny capers and a dusting of Hungarian paprika either pulled it all together or made a mess of things. I guess it could go either way, but no matter how delicious they are, Caesar will have to content himself with the salad and let Devil have the eggs.

Inconvenience or Opportunity?

I thought these overly-ripe bananas would be perfect for banana bread. I should have read the label. They didn’t even look like bananas but that didn’t stop me either as I was hellbent on getting in and out of the grocery store.

It was only when the batter was mixed and ready for the last addition- the eponymous ingredient, I realized I’d been a little too hellbent. If it looks like a plantain and is labeled plantain, don’t blame the plantain for not being a banana. Now what? Back to the store for a couple of bananas? Nope. APB to friends to share some overly ripe ones? Nope. My perfectly-ripe-for-eating bananas would have to do. The loaf isn’t great, but it’s good enough.

But the plantains- that’s another story. When I 1) expressed annoyance at my careless mistake and 2) wondered what was I to do with two plantains, my sister 1) said she’d have been even more annoyed than I was and 2) suggested Puerto Rican style mashed plantains with lots of garlic and spices which did sound delicious. But the recipe was kind of complicated and I was already done in by the banana bread. But plantain chips- easy peasy. The recipe called for 3 ingredients, all of which I had. So far so good. Getting to use my mandolin; even better.

The reward is a big bowl of delicious plantain chips. A bit of flaked Maldon sea salt made them just perfect. And this little kitchen mixup was a good reminder of G.K. Chesterton. “An inconvenience is an opportunity wrongly considered.” Actually he said adventure, not opportunity, but I got it mixed up and have kept it that way. Take your pick.

Finding opportunities in the Age of Corona.

A Tree Grows in Charmin

I’m writing about toilet paper- again. Blame coronavirus. But this time, I’m not giving the roll away. I made my fortnightly trip to the grocery store early this morning. It was mostly well-stocked and most shoppers were well-behaved. Curiosity, not necessity, led me down the aisle that’s home to toilet tissue and paper towels. That’s where you learn the real state of pandemic affairs. The news isn’t good. The toilet paper demand curve isn’t flattening. The shelves were bare save for a few lonely boxes of Kleenex. Not a single roll of anything was to be had.

Why toilet paper is in short supply is a mystery. Manufacturers say they’re cranking it out as fast a possible and expediting shipments to retailers. And why it’s being hoarded is another mystery. Covid-19 causes respiratory distress, not GI blues. Whatever. We’ve got our hands full with social distancing.

I’d heard from folks in Cambridge that local stores were limiting toilet paper to two rolls per customer. At least there were some rolls up there to ration. All this makes me glad I bought a 12-pack two weeks ago when I happened to be at the right place- the toilet paper aisle, at the right time- as a huge pallet of Charmin was being restocked.

What seemed like an absurd amount of toilet paper two weeks ago, now doesn’t. Today a friend told me that in her book, twelve is hardly a stash. A 45 pack- now that’s a stash! If things take a turn for the worse, I’ll redefine stash and be glad that I only gave away one of my twelve rolls. Using a precious roll as a tree stand was partly functional and partly Age-of-Corona playfulness. But as soon as the tree comes down, that roll is headed right back to the bathroom. No more messing around with scarcity.

This Easter, maybe a basket full of Charmin would be more welcomed than one of Peeps, jelly beans and foil-wrapped chocolate bunnies. Strange times.

Happy, healthy Easter.

Stockholm Syndrome, With Better PR

I don’t think I’ve ever let someone else write my essay. But this little piece from the WSJ on how to be a good hostage seemed a fitting first, so I’ll only add a bit of commentary. As have many others, Mr. van Dyk survived his ordeal in captivity, in part because of the Stockholm Syndrome. This coping strategy that has comforted many a victim of kidnapping or abuse seems counterintuitive; How can befriending your captor make a bad situation tolerable, or even better? A paradox perhaps, but documented cases from nearly fifty years cannot be denied. Abject fear of being held hostage by someone or something may at first be paralyzing. Once the reality that you’re going to be trapped for a while settles in, making friends with your captor might be a good idea. Maybe even a lifesaver. Even if the enemy is invisible.

We can’t see the pandemic-causing virus but we certainly see its effects. And it’s sobering. We’re holed up at home- isolated and adrift. I commend van Dyk’s suggestions. Routines. Restraint. Reading and writing. Productively using found time to do something worthwhile that you’ve been talked about doing for so long that even you don’t believe you ever will. Practice French, master the simplest Bach minuets, clean up the inbox. Surprise yourself.

Fraternizing with the enemy is generally frowned upon because it gives them an advantage. But when cozying up to our captor gives us the advantage, isn’t it worth a try? Closer and stronger, quietly proud and more grateful are four good reasons. Toss in learning some French and Bach, and you’re up to six!

“Do or don’t do, there is no try.” Yoda

Fine Feathers

I picked these up on my morning walk. The one with the yellow tip is especially beautiful. What a find. I’ve never seen one like this before. A new feather is like finding a new seashell, a differently constructed bird’s nest or if I’m in the land of porcupines, a plump quill. The bright yellow tip that I thought was a bit of pollen, is anything but. It looks like it was dipped into a pot of paint. Having no idea what bird shed this fine feather, I consulted Google. I think it’s from a cedar wax wing- one of the most under-appreciated birds around. In addition to their waxy wings and cadmium yellow tail tip, they wear a black mask over their eyes. These “Lone Rangers” of the bird world are endowed with spectacular “uniforms”- nothing extra and nothing lacking. Effortlessly. Naturally.

If only we humans looked as fetching in our face masks as the cedar wax wing! We might not give them up, even after taking flight in, this, the Age of Corona.

"What's A Weekend?"

You remember how charmed we were by the Dowager Countess’s clueless question. (That’s a statement, not a question.) Well, now I’m wondering the same thing. In the Age of Corona, the Weekend’s stock is way down. But I’m not willing to short it. In fact, I’m going long- doubling down. I’m bullish on the Weekend.

The big Jura in the background is like a semi-automatic- of the caffeine dispensing kind. The kettle, the grinder and the French press are the single-shot version. Lots of fiddling and more time consuming, but really quite elegant. And when there’s time to fiddle, why not.

The Jura is fifteen years old. It was an extravagant gift and it’s been well-loved, well- used and well-maintained. I suspect it’s one of the oldest Juras in use today. And I still love it. It makes great coffee in a jiffy but it’s had some health problems. So far, it’s recovered but one day, it will not. And how I would function if it died during the time of corona? Of course I could simply order another one- with “ new and improved” features that wouldn’t be. And the price tag for a new one would make the cost of the old one look like a bargain. So I’d already decided I would soldier on with the French press that had been waiting in the wings for years. But how to grind the beans? Of course- with a grinder from Amazon. Before I could spend (formerly known as waste) some time looking at options, this handy coffee mill arrived at my door. Yes, Arrington to the rescue. And thanks to coffee-loving Patrick, a hand crank version was selected. It is brilliant in its sleek simplicity. As long as you’ve got two hands with some time on them, this little grinder is perfect. It’s quiet, it’s functional and it’s pretty fun too. It does everything you need it to do, and nothing you don’t. If we have a pandemic and a failure of the power grid simultaneously, I’m still set. As I said, perfection.

So to the Dowager, here’s my answer. “Jura takes care of Monday through Friday. Grinder, kettle and French press handle Saturday and Sunday. And that, for now, is the “The Weekend”.

When "Off Duty" Is Not A Relief

Normally I can’t wait to get my hands on the WSJ’s weekend section, but not last week. The problem is that being sprung from duty is only a relief when you’ve endured some duty. When you’re feeling at loose ends much of the time, suggestions on how to take a break fall flat.

A Guide to Survivor Slumber nearly put me to sleep. It was a timely play, but the suggestions felt out of touch at best, even bordering on clueless. Hand-beaded silk slippers for $1,450? An LV mink sleep mask for $1,040? Still too pricy? How about a snuggle robot for $500 or the anti-insomnia- high-tech headband which will only set you back $400?

By the Journal’s own admission, “ Such extravagance might seem at odds with the sort of bunker-like mentality we’re all forced to adopt these days.” So they aren’t as out of touch or clueless as it might appear. And playing fair, there were lots of suggestions that would set you back less than $50, but they mostly still seemed frivolous.

And now my own admission- the recipe for Golden Milk Elixir and the Egyptian cotton percale sheets were tempting. I doubt I’ll buy the sheets but the Elixir is calling my name.

But what I really want is on duty again. Now that will be a relief!