Night watch

Forget counting sheep. Count fireflies! Our little glowing friends seem to be disappearing, which has got researchers concerned. Or maybe they’re just all coming to our backyard, because we seem to have more than ever.

Volunteering for Firefly Watch is quick and easy, and the actual observation and record-keeping takes a few minutes a week. It’d be a fun project to do with kids, I think. An insect that lights up never gets old. And it’s a great reason to be outside in the evening quiet, taking in your surroundings.

Go look for some lightning bugs! (Thanks much to Dave for the push.)

Paw to paw

Training to replace the New York Public Library lions, practicing their synchronized sleeping -- all I care is that they’re not bickering. I give it another five minutes, tops.

One down, 49 or so to go

“Does it feel like it’s been a whole year already?” I asked.

“No,” my sweetheart said. “Longer.”

And with that we both cracked up and wished each other a happy anniversary. The phone call was interrupted a couple of times by the sound of freedom, but those roaring engines couldn’t do much to damp our moment.

I hadn’t been looking forward to today, because I was afraid it might be sad, or at best bittersweet. But really, it’s been pretty good; I’ve had much worse deployment days than this. Having a badass husband who’s temporarily diverted is much better than a lot of other scenarios I can imagine.

We’ve spent our first year of marriage more apart than together (that makes us different from any other military couple how?), and I doubt this’ll be the last anniversary we spend away from each other. No matter; there’s gonna be a lot more of them after that. That’s a threat and a promise, sweetie. Thanks for being the love of my life.

All the news that’s fit to not print

My first thought upon hearing that New York Times reporter David Rohde had escaped the Taliban after seven months in captivity: Good for him! My second thought: Wait a minute. Why don’t I remember reading about this?

None of us read about it. The Times requested that the media not report on the kidnapping, in regard for the safety of Rohde, and they complied. Although I’m a lover of the First Amendment, I believe this was the right decision.

“It was an unusual and difficult news judgment to withhold reporting on his abduction, but our practice is to avoid transmitting stories if we believe they endanger someone's life,” an Associated Press senior managing editor said.

This is the same Associated Press that in 2005 ran a photo of a U.S. soldier being held by Iraqi militants. Turns out the photo was a hoax, and the “soldier” was a 12-inch action figure. Obviously the AP didn’t know it was being duped, but apparently it didn’t consider the safety of that purported hostage. What has changed?

I’d like to think the media have learned something in these years of war coverage -- that freedom of speech doesn’t require the reporting of everything you know, especially if it could mean life or death.

I’m not convinced of that, though. I don’t often jape the print media; I still have a little bit of ink running through my veins, and I know it’s a hard job to get things right while reporting and editing breaking news, especially with 24/7 television coverage subverting the cycle. Nonetheless, my cynical side thinks this could very well be a case of the media taking care of one of their own.

I’m happy as can be that Rohde and Afghan reporter Tahir Ludin made their escape. I’ll also be happy if the news outlets can show the same respect and restraint for folks who aren’t fortunate enough to be journalists.

Five things

Kanani has asked me to name five things I’m proud of about myself. At first I was hesitant to respond, because Iowegians are generally averse to saying anything that might be construed as bragging. I am much more skilled at self-deprecation; better to knock myself down before anyone else can, right? A therapist would have some observations regarding that behavior, yes.

However, I enjoyed reading her list and figured the least I could do is respond in kind, especially after she called me a writer and an advocate for pork products. Flattery will get you everywhere! So here we go.

• I know who I am, and I know myself well enough to accept what I can’t change about myself. Also, I’m secure enough to tell people to go jump if they try to change me. It may have taken 30-odd years, but I’m there.

• Acceptance doesn’t mean I’ve stopped trying to learn (or to be a better person). After years of lazily playing the piano pieces I already know, I’ve taken on a new Joplin rag. So far it’s winning, but I will eventually claim victory. After that, I will learn another new piece, and another. Knitting is another project on the near-term docket. I’d like to learn enough to contribute to afghans for Afghans without shame.

• I’ve found a profession that I’m pretty good at, and although I can’t take all the credit for how my career has unfolded, I did know enough to work with, not against, the good fortune and lucky breaks that have come my way.

• Little stuff delights me. Not long ago I looked out the kitchen window to see the first lightning bug of the season, which made me gasp aloud. At that moment, a firefly was a better gift than a Coach purse or tickets to the Super Bowl. These few weeks later, it still is.

• I had the good sense to recognize what a special person my sweetheart is, the courage to chart (or not chart) an unknown course to be with him, and the fortitude to stick out the rocky parts. Sometimes the flying leap for love turns out well. This one sure has.

My customary shyness prevents me from asking anyone else to name five things, but if you feel moved to do it, let me know, because I want to read them!

Rank amateur

I’m relatively new to the hooah business, but I am learning that if I’m with a group of military wives who firmly insist that rank doesn’t matter, I’ll soon know their husbands’ ranks and resumes nonetheless. Perhaps the nod to equality is a form of noblesse oblige, but the ladies doth protest too much, methinks.

Lonely newlywed dreams of meat

This headline was offered up by a dear friend who happens to be a journalist, after I described to her my latest culinary experiment: maple bourbon bacon ice cream.

Why? Well, why not? I like maple syrup. I like bourbon. And I really like bacon.

My favorite DQ product has always been the Peanut Buster Parfait, with the salted peanuts offsetting the oversweet hot fudge. At home as a kid, I’d crush potato chips over my ice cream. The sea salt shortbread I had at a Kansas City favorite got me so excited I called friends. This salty-sweet obsession is not a new thing.

For the basic custard, I used the recipe from the latest issue of Fine Cooking. It was a little fussy and rich for my purposes; I was loosely halving the quantities to fit my 1-pint ice cream maker, and next time I will probably round down on the egg yolks instead of up.

I diced the bacon small, to keep the porky goodness as evenly distributed as possible. Also, I didn’t fry to the point of hard-crispy, figuring that freezing would make overcooked bits unpleasantly hard. I blotted it extra diligently, because much as I like bacon drippings, congealed in ice cream is not the preferred delivery method.

I added the maple syrup and bourbon while the custard was still cooking, thinking that the syrup would incorporate better and the alcohol would dissipate in the heat. I stirred in the bacon pieces after the custard had partially set up, so they wouldn’t fall to the bottom. The end taste was all I’d hoped for, and the texture too. All three flavors melded well, but were still distinguishable. The silky, almost unctuous texture of the custard contrasted with the chewy bits of bacon. It was a success.


This got me to musing about other meaty combinations -- perhaps ham bits in a brown sugar and clove ice cream base? My headline friend suggested barbecue ice cream, an homage to Kansas City. I appreciate her good intentions, but that’s just weird.