If I’m going to make a cooking mistake, it’ll be the seriously rookie mistake of adding too much salt.
We use kosher or sea salt for everything. I don’t like the taste of table salt; it’s too sharp. We have a shaker by the stove, and bamboo salt boxes on the counter and table.
Here’s what I do, time after time: pick up the salt box, swivel the magnetic lid, and shake right from the box into the dish. (This morning it was some tea biscuits, which you might call graham crackers or some such.) Here’s what happens: our brains see a lot of something, and misjudge portions accordingly. This is why using smaller plates is a very effective dieting tool. Honest.
So instead of a few shakes of salt, just to kill the raw taste of the flour when it bakes, I got salty cardamom crackers. If it was green cardamom they could be chai crackers if I’d used pepper.
But not. Cardamom and honey and too much salt.
Maybe I’ll use that empty cardamom shaker for salt.
Railroad ties make a good retaining wall. Heavy and thick, they’re impregnated with creosote so they’re nearly rot-proof. Peg them together with 3/8″ rebar and they’ll be there 20 years later (according to this picture. Neighborhood has sure run down since I lived there.)
The process is to lay down the first layer of ties, drill holes where the pins will go through, lay down the next layer, drill, and repeat. Somehow, I kept performing the miracle of drilling the holes exactly where they needed to be. Stupid confidence sometimes turns into wild good luck.
I’d finished the fronts of the walls, tied into the sides next to the steps. I do not remember why (trauma, perhaps) but as I neared the end, I asked my teenage son Tristan to come help.
“Here, hold this,” I said, with a 3-foot chunk of rebar placed in the top of the hole in the railroad tie.
… more … “How Not to Hit Your Child With a Sledgehammer”
It’s easy to get caught up in what has to get done today, this week, this month.
We spend less time on what we want for this year. Or before my children are grown.
Or in my life.
When you’re 82, you won’t remember or care about today’s missed deadline, spilled milk, harsh words.
You will care if you loved and were loved. You will care if big dreams came true.
Today’s tree matters, to be sure. But you’re planting an entire forest. When it’s grown, a few imperfect trees won’t even be visible and wouldn’t matter if they were.