​I know cooler days are coming when I start thinking about making brown beef stew.
 
Like my spaghetti and chicken soup, this filling wintry dinner starts with the recipe my mother used. But similar to her other scratch-made meals, I’ve jollied it up to fit my own taste buds.
 
Here’s the first and most important step.
 
I retrieve mom's ancient Dutch oven out of the bottom cupboard next to the oven, and place it on a front stove burner.  
 
Heavy and a dull silver color, the pot measures 10 inches in diameter and five inches high. I wish it was a tad bigger, but it still does the job nicely, making spaghetti sauce for six and all kinds of soups for a few more bowls. The Hubster brought a larger and lighter stock pot to our marriage, but the Dutch oven makes whatever I’m cooking taste better.
 
I don’t know why, but it just does.
 
One more thing.
 
It’s probable that once upon a time, a brand name was etched somewhere on it. But now that this pot is about seven decades old, and has boiled and simmered and baked thousands of dinners, there’s no visible stamp anywhere.
 
That makes this Dutch oven that much simpler and more basic, just like the stew.
 
With the pot now on the burner but no flame turned on yet, I take the meat out of the fridge so it comes up to room temperature. Then I get to work slicing, chopping and assembling the requisite vegetables.
 
This means a large sliced white onion (preferable over yellow because it’s sweeter and milder); one cup of frozen peas which I start thawing in a glass Pyrex measuring cup, and three big carrots. Like my chicken soup, the latter are peeled and cut into sticks instead of round nickel shapes because I’m convinced they’re prettier this way.   
 
Once the veggie prep is done, I finally heat the Dutch oven over a medium low flame, and melt a couple of tablespoons of bacon grease for the needed fat.
 
No other fat options are allowed.
 
The next step is spreading out my two-and-a-half pounds of chuck roast, already cut in one-and-a-half inch cubes at our local meat market. This is by far the most expensive ingredient with a price tag of over $25.
 
But heck, it’s beef stew, so the meat has to be good because it’s the star.  
 
Just before dropping the chuck into the now-sizzling, bacon greased pot, I lightly sprinkle almond flour over every cube. I once used all-purpose flour, but now have this alternate thickener since it has more fiber and less carbs. Arrowroot could be another way to go.  
 
I then let the cubes brown evenly, and after that add boiling water and the onion, a squeeze of fresh lemon juice and spices that include sweet paprika, allspice, sugar and salt and pepper. A couple of sliced garlic cloves and broken up bay leaves are thrown into the mix as well.
 
When the meat and onion mixture come to a rolling boil, I reduce the heat, cover the pot and simmer the yumminess on a low flame for two hours. During this time, I occasionally stir the ingredients with a wooden spoon to ensure nothing is sticking to the bottom, but mostly, leave it alone. Sometimes I’ll add a bit of Kitchen Bouquet for deeper color and flavor, and if I think of it, a splash of red wine.
 
After this, it’s time to toss in the vegetables.
 
However, you might be wondering right about now why there aren’t any potato cubes, which is a brown beef stew tradition.
 
The answer is that I have potatoes, but make mashed spuds instead, complete with a generous amount of butter and warmed cream, as well as kosher salt and white pepper. (When I don’t want the carbs, I’ll mash cauliflower. It’s not the same and never will be, but it’s a decent substitute.)
 
After half an hour, I remove the now tender meat and veggies in order to transform the thin sauce into a thicker gravy. This is done by mixing a few tablespoons of almond flour and a heaping teaspoon of white flour together, along with
a quarter cup of so of the hot stew liquid.  Once the concoction has dissolved, back it goes into the Dutch oven.  
 
Pouring this in doesn’t make the liquid thicken immediately. But start stirring, give it a few minutes, and the
magic happens.
 
Once at the consistency I like, I put the meat and veggies back in to heat up for a few minutes. Then the burner gets turned off; the lid goes on, and I let everything set up for three to five minutes
 
While that’s happening, my already-made potatoes or cauliflower are piled onto dinner plates. When the stew is ready to eat, I use a ladle, covering the dish with at least a couple of big spoonfuls of stew. I make sure to get in as many chunks of beef as I can handle. I’m also a big fan of fresh black pepper, so I grind a bunch of that on top.  
 
Finally, it’s time to dig in.
 
Chilly days don’t get any warmer.

Earlier this year, I had high hopes that I’d never need to write about COVID-19 again.
 
But here we are.
 
Despite the easy availability of three very effective vaccines, all of which are free of charge, millions of Americans are continuing to resist the jab. Meanwhile, death rates are again on the rise.  

As I write, one in every 500 of us has now passed from COVID-19. Also, there are now close to 2,000 reported deaths in the United States every day, and about 114,000 new cases per day.
 
Looking at these stats from a longer lens, over 692,000 Americans have now passed from the virus—which more than matches the number of Americans killed in World War II, Korea, Vietnam and the 9/11 attacks combined.
 
Lastly, pretty much everyone who has died this year was unvaccinated.    
 
Generally speaking, members of The Anti-Vaxx Crusade hang out in one of three circus tents.  More often than not, there’s some overlapping.
 
The largest and loudest group insists that personal freedom should always take priority over public health and safety and the greater good of the community.
 
They’re the folks we hear the most about because they make great TV sound bites—captured by news crews at rallies, hoisting signs and yelling outside hospitals. Part of their noisy platform, too, is that lawmakers will never be able to force them to inject or ingest anything that they’re not 100 percent sure about. 
 
However, this group ignores the fact that mandated immunizations for children is the law in most states, and has been for decades. They also seem to have forgotten about downing artificial sodas; eating mystery meat in fast food tacos, and purchasing iridescent-colored yogurt for their kids’ lunch boxes.
 
The second faction is those who insist they have “natural immunity.”
 
These folks proudly announce that they’ve never had a flu shot and never will. Also, they swear that their super healthy bodies can fight off every infection that will ever come their way since they eat organic; meditate regularly, and take herbal supplements. The owner of an established health food store in my town is a vocal advocate. He’s also a
city councilman. 
 
Finally, there are those who have made the vaccine political. 
 
Most of them voted for Donald Trump, who very early on knew how bad the virus was, but decided to “play it down.” In fact, just before the country entered its initial lockdown, he also said, “One day—it’s like a miracle—it will disappear.”
 
Where I live, a good number of these believers are uber evangelical Christians, who think masks and social distancing are ridiculous because God will always protect them. This group is also comprised of those who insist the virus is a liberal global hoax created to scare us, and that the number of deaths is far less than what we’ve been told. 
 
I remember a different time and a different virus.  
 
One of my earliest memories is standing in line for my first polio shot at the community center in our neighborhood park.
 
This vaccine really was considered a miracle—so much so that when its approval came down the pike, church bells across the United States pealed in celebration. There was, of course, no social media, Fox News or YouTube influencers with zero scientific background to tell us otherwise.  
 
Today, polio has been eradicated.
 
It’s hard to say where we stand now.
 
There was a short window of time, maybe only a month, when all of those who were completely vaccinated took our masks off. The Hubster and I had dinner with another fully jabbed couple at a crowded bar; made travel plans, and thought about taking in a play.  
 
Then a monster wave called the Delta variant arrived.
 
Despite pummeling India and the UK earlier this spring and summer, this way more contagious and dangerous deviation came as a surprise. Indeed, its advent was especially disconcerting to those of us who were sure the worst of the pandemic was in the rear-view mirror.  
 
Physician J. Stacey Klutts works with the National Director of Pathology and Lab Medicine for the entire Veteran’s Administration, and in a Tampa Bay News article, unpacked Delta this way.
 
“It has a particular collection of mutations that make it extremely effective in attaching to human cells and gaining entry,” he wrote. “If the original COVID strains were covered in syrup, this variant is covered in ultrafast-drying Gorilla Super Glue, the industrial strength.”
 
Klutts added that Delta is also problematic for youngsters not yet eligible for the vaccine.
 
“You spew enough of any human pathogen on someone without immunity,” he said, “and it’s not going to end well.”
 
However, some hope might be at hand.
 
Following the science, mammoth corporations including Google, McDonalds and United Airlines are now requiring that employees be vaccinated. The Biden administration has also announced that our more than 1.3 million military troops on active duty must get the shot.
 
Too, federal employees and contractors doing business with the government have to follow the same protocol. Also, workplaces with 100 workers or more fall under this policy. Finally, the White House is putting pressure on entertainment venues to require patrons to show proof of vaccination or a recent negative COVID-19 test.
 
Once this multi-tiered approach is complete, another 100 million Americans will have had their shot in the arm.  Still, with the central question of exactly how much authority the government has to regulate workplace safety, there’s a long road ahead to that end. Lawsuits have already been filed.  
 
Ultimately, it’s up and each and every one of us to do our best to reduce the level of virus around us.
 
And, getting the COVID-19 shot is the very best road to that end.
 
So, please.
 
If you haven’t done it yet, get vaccinated. If you’re eligible for a booster shot, get that as well.
 
Remember, too, to keep clean masks at hand and wear them properly. Also, play outside; continue to social distance,
and wash hands thoroughly. Most of all, heed the good advice from trusted virologists and medical centers,
​including Anthony Fauci, Johns Hopkins University and The Mayo Clinic.
 
All have a front-row seat to what’s coming next. 
 
Until then, know that in time, winter always turns into spring.  

I was making some Thousand Island dressing a few weeks ago when I remembered that I’ve wanted to write about it
for a few years now.   
 
An uber popular salad topper in the United States, it’s on the menu in nearly every American-style coffee shop, restaurant or diner. Also, Thousand Island dressing is like meat loaf or deviled eggs because everyone seems to have a favorite variation.
 
As a child, the first version I learned had only two ingredients—ketchup and mayonnaise, blended to completion with a whisk. Later I added a tablespoon or so of green pickle relish for extra sweetness and contrasting color, and a few years after that, a smattering of sour cream or cream, or both. A thicker approximation of this, I think, is what comes in condiment packets when ordering a hamburger.
 
These days, my most-liked Thousand Island recipe is more complex than what I made as a kid—but putting it together is time well worth it.  
 
From The Settlement Cookbook, ingredients include finely grated onion and one chopped hard-boiled egg, as well as minced green bell pepper and heavy whipping cream. Only a tablespoon of ketchup goes in, but two tablespoons of chili sauce, along with a sprinkling of paprika, gives the dressing its signature pink hue. Other online recipes call for tomato sauce or paste, dill pickles and even almond milk.
 
Where I live in Oregon, there’s even an adored Chinese restaurant version, called pink sauce.
 
Mayonnaise isn’t an ingredient, but it does feature a full cup of sugar and twice as much vegetable oil. I recently made a different Asian inspired take called yum-yum sauce, which has the mayo and ketchup combo, but adds butter, onion powder and rice vinegar. Thinned with a bit of water, this sauce is superb on salad as well as ground pork and chicken.     
 
Given the many ways to enjoy Thousand Island dressing, it’s probably not surprising that no one really knows who first invented it, or even where it was originally served.
 
But according to a 2012 segment on CBS’s Sunday Morning, there are three possibilities.
 
The two most repeated legends come from the same place, an area known as the Thousand Islands. Located between northern New York State and Canada on the St. Lawrence River, the moniker comes from the numerous tiny islands dotting this part of the water—to be precise, exactly 1,864.
 
For many, this fact is reason enough to assume that the dressing had to have made its debut here. Carrying the idea
​a step further, some fans believe the itsy-bitsy pieces of pickle or chopped bell pepper found in most Thousand Island recipes represent an homage to the locality.
 
The first and more detailed story from the region focuses on wealthy hotelier George Boltd, who summered on the
St. Lawrence with his family in the late 1800s.
 
It was said that Boltd’s wife Louise very much enjoyed Thousand Island dressing while dining on their yacht. After her sudden passing, Boltd honored Louise by bringing the recipe to the famed Waldorf-Astoria in New York City, where he served as manager. From there, the topper gained national prominence.
 
The second tale comes from the town of Clayton, New York. The proprietor of the now-closed Thousand Islands Inn there says that after he bought the over 120-year-old hotel, he decided to rummage through its ancient office safe. There, written in the careful penmanship so often seen a century ago, he found what he calls the first, and still secret, Thousand Island dressing recipe, author unknown. Some swear this find was penned by the wife of a local fishing guide, but there’s no surefire information to back this up.  
 
Story number three is the most ho-hum, merely saying the dressing debuted in 1910 at the Blackstone Hotel in Chicago where it was invented by a chef named Theo Rooms. In a bit of a twist, the Settlement Cookbook has a Blackstone dressing recipe, which has some Thousand Island ingredients but adds a different flavor profile by including olive oil, vinegar and pearl onions.
 
Ultimately, where this most American of salad dressings was first created will likely always remain a mystery.
 
Given that I’m a researcher and reporter, I wish I knew more.  
 
Still, as long as I can break out a head of crisp iceberg lettuce and top it with my homemade Thousand Island dressing, I’ll have to be content with what is known.
 
For now, that has to do.
  

I woke up last week to one droopy eyelid.
 
Some people call this a hooded lid, but for me, that means smooth skin hovering in symmetry over both eyeballs.
Think about the smoldering sexiness of classic Hollywood star Robert Mitchum, or the gentle vulnerability of
Sylvester Stallone as boxer Rocky Balboa.   
 
My lid looked nothing like this.  
 
First, given that it was a single eye, my whole face appeared lopsided. And while the droop didn’t reach my pupil, which was sure to impede my sight big time, I immediately worried that it could.
 
It’s not like I haven’t treated the skin around my peepers with care.  
 
Starting in my late 20s, I rolled a vitamin E stick around the area every morning and evening, a ritual that lasted
for decades. Thanks to the inevitability of aging, there’s no escaping the wrinkles there now. Getting a good night’s
sleep makes them less visible, but trying to apply the shimmery eye shadows of my youth left that train station
a long time ago.
 
Nonetheless, this droop added a new twist, and not in a good way.
 
After obsessing in the mirror for more than a few minutes, I asked the Hubster to look at my left eye. Then, he was instructed to tell me the difference between that eye and the other.  
 
He wrinkled his brow. “Do you have deeper crow’s feet on that side?” he asked.
 
This wasn’t what I needed to hear. When I pointed out the problem, he said, “So what? We’re old!”
 
Again, not the optimum response. So instead, I went to my laptop.
 
Luckily, Harvard Health Publishing, a division of its famed medical school, had the answers I needed. And, perhaps not surprisingly, there’s not one reason for droopy eyelids, but several. 
 
Take blepharitis, a fancy word for inflammation of the lids which might be from a bacterial infection. A second possibility is ectropion, which causes the muscles of the lower lid to weaken, making the lid sag and turn outward away from the eyeball. As a result, the upper and lower lids can’t meet when the eye is closed. Another culprit is blepharochalais, which occurs when eyelid skin loses its elasticity. Brand new folds then appear, which could hang over lashes and block the upper field of vision.
 
I’ll admit to chuckling when I read that Botox injections can also cause droopy lids. While these shots work well to temporarily smooth brow and forehead wrinkles, the sagging side effect can last up to four months.
 
Eliminating all of the above led to what I likely have. 
 
The official name is ptosis—but really, it’s another indignity of aging.
 
As a physician friend pointed out, gravity always gets us in the end—whether that means breasts pointing down; jiggly upper arms that could star in a Jell-O commercial, or a no-longer-perky rear end.
 
Like the above examples, the muscles in my eyelid are sagging because those muscles have begun to lose the strength they once had. Also, in People of A Certain Age, ptosis is the primary reason for lazy lids.
 
In my case, heredity might also be a factor.
 
As I began researching this piece, I remembered that for as long as I could remember, my father squinted out of one eye. The more I thought about it, I realized this wasn’t the case at all, but rather, a droopy eyelid which got markedly worse with each birthday.
 
By the time my dad passed in his 70s, that lid covered most of his pupil. The procedure done to correct the imperfection never happened, and to my knowledge, he simply accepted that he could only see out of one eye.
 
His younger brother, my Uncle Joe, had not one but two age-related droopy lids. But when they began to mess with his vision at around age 70, he opted for surgery on both lids. Actor Jack Lemmon had the same thing done, and both were left with a permanent but not unpleasant look of surprise afterwards.
 
Thankfully, the repair job isn’t that big of a deal. 
 
According to Harvard Health, it’s performed on an outpatient basis under local or general anesthesia. Also, most health insurers cover the cost, but only if the ptosis affects vision.  When and if that happens, I’ll see a specialist to determine if this is the appropriate next step.
 
To this end, I’ve put the Hubster on notice that if one eye begins to look like I’m winking 24/7, it might be time to step up my game toward surgery.
 
So far, though, so good.  
 
For this, I’m blessed and grateful.  
 
What health issues run in your family that could likely need attention as you age?
 
 

Like millions of Americans vaccinated against COVID-19, we’ve already sprinted away from the stuck-at-home cocoon brought on by the virus.
 
The first big thing we did might not seem like much, but it was A Very Big Deal to us.
 
We left our house for more than a day.  
 
Pre-pandemic, we’d been talking about taking some sort of road trip for well over a year, but then the global
pause happened.
 
Now, the initial challenge was to decide where to go because there are so many choices. Southern Oregon boasts several pristine lakes just a few hours from our town, and there’s also what locals call “The Coast”—at least half a dozen picture-perfect beaches that take around the same amount of time to reach.
 
Ultimately, we headed to Union Creek Resort, only 73 miles and less than a 90-minute drive away from home, with most of the route well-marked and maintained by the Oregon Department of Transportation.  
 
I only knew about this redwood refuge because my hairdresser recommended it. Indeed, when the Hubster told someone else where we were going, she replied that while she knew it well, the region remains one of this state’s best-kept secrets.

This unincorporated outpost inside the Rogue National Forest is also listed on the U.S. National Register of Historic Places, and just as many of today’s tourists haven’t heard of Union Creek, it was the same in the early 1900s. Back then, these woods and trails were secret stomping grounds for Teddy Roosevelt, John Muir and Jack London.

As terrific as it all sounded, leaving after so many months still made me anxious.
 
Still, after being pretty much here in our town for over a year—the Hubster accurately says grocery shopping is now his social life—we understood the dire need to both mingle and skedaddle. I also knew that if we postponed, I’d blink and six months would pass.

But calling Union Creek a resort is a misnomer.

There are no luxe spa services, golf courses or restaurants on site or nearby. The main lodge has a smattering of rooms, but mostly there are rustic cabins, some built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s.

Since I was in the mix, we opted for an updated model with a heater; tiny-but-full kitchen and bath, and queen-sized bed. There was still space to lay my yoga mat, and the shower provided plenty of hot water.

It was cold and rainy, but none of that really mattered.

We took a couple of easy hikes, really more like strolls, in the mist.

One remarkable walk was the Natural Bridge, a five-minute drive from our cabin located along the upper reaches of the Rogue River and surrounded by many hundreds of ancient trees. Stately trunks cling to cliffs above rushing water that literally disappears underground into a 250-foot lava tube. Then, all of the water slowly reappears at the surface further down the river.

Like every vacation, there were downsides.

We missed Sadie and Hank, but also knew they were in the hands of a loving and capable dog sitter.

Also, I’m a news junkie, so not having a reliable internet connection was a drag.  But we found a good signal a dozen miles away in the town of Prospect, where The Hubster ate what he says was the best hamburger of his life accompanied by perfectly cooked crinkle fries.

Will we go back to Union Creek Resort?

Absolutely.

Our reservation has already been made.

Where have you traveled since the pandemic started to wane?
​
P.S. To see part of our stunning Natural Bridge walk, copy and paste this link to your browser. Turn up the volume, too! https://www.facebook.com/larry.grant.798/videos/4675419789169782

Those who know me will likely be astounded to learn that I’ve joined a gym.
 
Having never ever wanted to be anywhere near any sign that has the words “fitness” or “workout” or even “club” in it,
I’m surprised, too.
 
In fact, I’m more up for a laid-back stroll, no hills please, and after that, an afternoon nap.
 
Choosing to move as little as possible was already apparent in high school.
 
That’s when my best friend and I talked our P.E. teacher into decorating the locker room bulletin boards rather than going outside. We still suited up, but spent the entire period cutting out construction paper into shapes and writing headlines with felt pens. I can’t be sure, but some collaging might have been in the mix, too.
 
There was more activity in college.
 
At UCLA, and only because there wasn’t any other option, I walked 20 minutes from my dorm to school on a sidewalk that ran parallel to Sunset Blvd. After my Girl Clown time, I transferred to San Jose State and rode my three-speed bike
a mile or so to class and then, living in New York City, walked more than I’d ever had to before.  
 
On the heels of a bad car accident a few decades back, I settled into a yoga practice with some walking on the side.  
 
I stayed on the mat after moving to Oregon, and had just found a yoga teacher I really liked. I paid upfront for
10 classes, and then, of course, COVID-19 shut everything down.
 
Those workouts resumed recently. But when the teacher refused to honor the punch card, and also said she wasn’t about to get a COVID-19 vaccine, it was time to move on. 
 
A neighbor mentioned the state-of-the-art gym three blocks away, complete with yoga, personal trainers and a pool. After taking a tour, The Hubster and I realized that its set monthly cost—which includes an unlimited amount of classes—was way more cost-efficient than yoga from the anti-vaxx instructor.
 
A week later, I had a new patient appointment with a physician.   
 
As expected, I was pronounced to be in excellent health. But scanning the paperwork as I walked out the door, I
stopped walking.
 
I’d put on 30 pounds in the last 15 months. 
 
Or maybe, because I’m loathe to keep a scale, some had piled on before.  
 
Still, I can justifiably blame the gain on the pandemic, during which I mostly stayed home. Like a lot of folks, I also parked my caboose in front of Netflix and Amazon Prime, surrounded by tons of highly-caloric, made-from-scratch comfort food. (Three different posts from last year are about carrot cake, Jell-O salad and snowball cookies.)
 
Still, seeing that number was shocking.  
 
But thanks to the gym I’d already joined, there’s a plan.
 
I take five classes, one each weekday. I’m also walking to and from the venue, which comes out to about 150 blocks every month. The facility was shut down for most of last year and is just getting back on its feet, so there are no weekend classes yet. On those days, I walk laps around a nearby track.
 
Besides yoga, I’m also trying out something I’ve never done—exercising in a warm pool.
 
Its official name is aqua therapy, and this sort of regime first appeared in the United States in the early 1900s as a treatment for cerebral palsy.  A few decades later, it had become so popular that Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who was paralyzed from the waist down, was a regular adherent.
 
This makes sense, because aqua therapy is especially beneficial for those who want to increase their strength and range of motion, and to decrease pain from arthritis and pain related to various types of surgeries. I especially admire one woman in my class who needs knee surgery, but says her physician won’t consider it until she takes off 100 pounds. 
 
For me, the buoyancy and pressure of the water has me successfully, and surprisingly, executing moves and poses that have always been impossible to do on land. The sole downside is that my solitary bathing suit has begun to fade, but that’s also a reason to buy a new one, or maybe two.
 
Now, having been a gym member for only three weeks, I’m amazed that I’m already stronger.
 
But more important is my upbeat emotional state.
 
As it turns out, there’s fresh research that shows why.
 
A new study—which tracked more than 18,000 middle-aged and older men and women, a demographic that I’m a part of—concluded that our exercise habits may influence our sense of purpose in life. Taking these findings a step further, a certain amount of regular exercise will likely give us a positive sense of purpose. Finally, those who commit to a  consistent regime are the most likely to stay active over time.
 
Don’t get me wrong.
 
I’ll never be as thin as I was in my 20s.
 
Likewise, I’m a very good home cook, and I enjoy both making and eating my comfort food recipes. If you tried any of them, I’m sure you’d feel the same.
 
But now that this once-every-100 years pandemic is finally abating, at least in this circus tent and likely in yours, a  healthier way of living has me on a high that feels very, very good.
 
Of course, I have no idea what this journey might bring.
 
But for now, my intention is to find out.

We’re hoping for sweet pea flowers this year in our garden. 
 
Of course, I’ll need to assume that the seeds, which were first soaked overnight in water and planted a week ago,
will germinate.
 
Next, they’ll have to push up toward the sunlight; morph into itty-bitty tendrils, and then twine around the white wood lattices bought just for them. If the vines turn out to be exceedingly fond of the spot I picked, they might reach
an astonishing height of nine feet.  
 
Finally, and if all goes as intended, I’ll gaze out our dining room window in a few months and see hundreds of blossoms
in hues ranging from deep red to soft pink to pale white. With a bit of luck and the right proportion of sugar to water,
I might even manage to keep a few vases full of the dainty-winged beauties inside the house.   
 
The luminous coloring and honey-like orange blossom fragrance of sweet peas are reason enough to keep them around.
 
But there are other, more practical details.  
 
These flowers will provide food for the neighborhood hummingbirds, who are most likely to be most drawn to the deep magenta and inky purple tints.
 
Sweet peas also complement a vegetable garden—we’re bringing in baby tomato plants next week—because they attract bees and other pollinators, which improves crop yield. The vines can also be stir-fried for a delicious side dish, and
if those bouquets inside the house work out, houseflies hate the odor and won’t linger long.
 
Sweet peas and I have our own history.
 
I was six years old when I glimpsed my first ones over our backyard fence.
 
A next-door neighbor had designated several feet of an exterior wall of her house to plant a bunch, where they grew to be nearly as tall as the wall and bloomed for months.
 
Indeed, she had so many sweet peas—the more they’re cut, the more they flower--that I came home at least once a week with bundles for my teachers.
 
Eventually I fell in with other flowers, including lavender lilacs and white daisies and yes, pink carnations. However, sweet peas stayed my first love. Indeed, when the time came to create my wedding bouquet, I made certain that a few went down the aisle with me.  
 
Given their popularity, it isn’t surprising that sweet peas were domesticated centuries ago.
 
Sicilian monk and botanist Father Francis Cupani is credited for discovering the wild sweet pea, named Lathyru odoratus, in the 1690s. So enamored was Cupani with his find that he sent specimens to friends in Holland and England. A few years later, new colors were budding throughout Europe.
 
But Scottish horticulturist Henry Eckford was The Game Changer.
 
Born near Edinburgh in 1823, Eckford’s spent his early adulthood as an apprentice at gardens throughout Scotland and England. Then, starting at 30 years old, he began cross-breeding sweet peas, which became his life’s work.   
 
In fact, Eckford is recognized as the person who transformed the plant from a humble garden subject to the Queen of Annuals, improving overall performance and making its blossoms larger and fuller. Some varieties that Eckford
​is credited with are Apple Blossom, Orange Prince, Indigo King—and over 150 more.
 
Finding out about how my best-loved flower came to be is fascinating.
 
But really, it comes down to this.
 
Sweet peas made me smile when I was six years old.
 
They still do.
 

​You can blame Jane Fonda for why I've stopped coloring my hair.   
 
Nope, I’ve never met the 83-year-old actress and activist*, whose first movie came out in 1960 and who has dual Oscars; a fistful of Golden Globes, and enough lifetime achievement awards to fill a couple of mantels.
 
But scrolling YouTube a few weeks ago, I caught a recent Zoom chat between Ellen DeGeneres and the still sassy and still stunning Fonda.
 
Right off, DeGeneres mentioned how beautiful Fonda’s nearly collar length, silver locks are looking these days.     
 
“I’m so happy I let it go gray,” she replied. “Enough already!  So much time wasted, so much money spent, so many chemicals!” Then, sliding a finger from one end of her throat to the other, Fonda said, “I’m through with that!”
 
I watched the exchange two more times.
 
Then came my epiphany to do the same.
 
Longtime friends, especially my California hairdresser, are no doubt astonished to hear about this hard turn.   
 
That’s because they know that for decades, I’ve had my hair professionally colored once every month. Years ago, the cost was $35; the price tag today has nearly doubled. Still, it was never not worth it because I always felt prettier and more confident when I left the salon.  
 
Eventually, there was another reason: I was sure these visits made me look much younger than my actual birthdate. 
 
But of course, the cycle was never-ending.  
 
I’d see those first gray roots peeking out two to three weeks after a session at the salon. So, having already booked
an appointment my last time in the chair, I’d return with checkbook in hand. I joked that my hair might be gray, or
it might not.
 
In any case, no one was ever going to find out.
 
When COVID-19 required my salon to close last March, I knew one thing: I wasn’t going to stop coloring my hair. Instead, I trotted to the nearest drugstore to buy over-the-counter hair dye for the first time ever, playing it safe with a name brand in dark brown.
 
Then I recruited the Very Reluctant Hubster to do the deed. 
 
With our bright dining room light directly above me and a few old towels draped over my shoulders, I’d hoist myself up on the swiveling stool that he had once used to sing at weddings, fundraisers and community get-togethers.
  
Now he had another job.  
 
Pulling on the thin plastic gloves that came with the tint, my spouse sighed deeply and covered my entire scalp, and sometimes a cheek, with the dark goo. I’d pile the mess into a ponytail and wait 25 minutes, and then jump in the shower to shampoo it out. 
 
It looked good.
 
But, perhaps because I also saw him cringe whenever I mentioned it was once again time for the tall chair, I began weighing other options.
 
Months had gone by, and I’d found a new hairdresser who took masking to the next level. She worked by herself in a stand-alone salon her husband had built on their property, allowing only one client in at a time. My spouse immediately said this was a great idea.  
 
However, I realize now that I’d already been thinking about going gray.
 
That might be because I’d recently heard of something called color correction, the technique that makes Jane Fonda’s hair look so terrific.  
 
Here’s what it means.
 
First and foremost, this isn’t a one-and-done situation.  Instead, it’s a two-year commitment.
 
The process starts with letting the gray roots grow out two to three inches. Then, my hairdresser will do something called stripping, which lifts the dyed color out. Once stripped, the hair is lighter and therefore more evenly matches the emerging gray on top. Another stripping appointment comes soon after, perhaps in a few days or if my hair isn’t as healthy as it needs to be, a few months.
 
As more hair grows, small “baby” highlights are applied to the darkest parts of the hair, which ensures that the overall color will be evenly toned. There might be several of these sessions, but this relaxed schedule also means the chances for breakage and dryness are greatly reduced. In-between, I’ll use a sulfate-free, purple or blue-hued shampoo to prevent brassiness, and also have regular trims to eliminate split ends.  
 
Because the process is so exact and purposeful, the final look is nuanced and beautiful.
 
Also, it’s not only Jane Fonda’s hair that’s looking terrific these days.
 
Eighty-one-year-old Ali McGraw boasts a long ponytail streaked with shades of light and dark silver. Seventysomethings Helen Mirren, Glenn Close and Meryl Streep are rocking the look as well, as well as many other Hollywood celebrities.    
 
Sooner than later, I’ll be in their ranks. 
 
I can’t wait.
 
* I did shake her father’s hand once, though. He was taller than I expected.

Girl Clown Dancing is six years old this month.   
 
So, as I’ve done each February since 2016, here’s a roundup of my favorite GCD essays from the last year. Looking
back helps me remember where I was over the last 12 months; also, it’s a glimpse of where I might be in 2021.    
 
Not surprisingly, almost every post touched on COVID-19.
 
Of course, just like most folks on the planet last January, I knew nothing of the coming pandemic.
 
So, I wrote then about having to stop the yoga class I loved after one pose that screwed up my glut so severely
that I needed to go to urgent care (https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/hip). (Initially, I thought I’d
injured my hip; hence, the post’s title.)
 
I took some time off and in early March, found a different teacher who had a gentler practice. I paid for a series
of classes, but my timing was lousy. A week later, the plague was official and as of this posting, the studio
remains closed. 
 
However, and still blissfully unaware that the Hubster and I were going to be home a lot more, another purchase
was spot-on.
 
On an impulse, we bought an oversized puffy recliner not long after the glut incident, placing it in front of
our nearly floor-to-ceiling bay window. For a piece of furniture, it’s given us many hours of peace and
comfort (https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/reclining).
 
Also, like many folks who have found that spending time in the kitchen is cheaper than therapy, cooking and baking
old-timey favorites helped me cope.  
 
To that end, I wrote about the Zen that comes from making snowball cookies in March
(https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/snowballs); the nostalgia of whipping up a vintage, lime green Jell-O
salad in June (https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/jell-o), and finding the best carrot cake ever in a
most unlikely place in October (https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/carrot-cake).
 
There were somber essays, too.
 
May’s post is my take on a sermon from the Hubster’s pastor, first heard on a spring Sunday via Zoom. I knew
this piece probably wasn’t going to get the same number of views as my thoughts on snowball cookies, and
I was right. Now, I’m hoping more people might take the time to read it (https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/in-between-time). 
 
My final post of 2020 reviewed one of the worst years ever. And because there was a lot of not-great stuff to
cover, it's one of the wordiest posts of the year. (https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/2020).
 
On this topic, raconteur Mark Twain once wrote, “I didn’t have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead.” I concur; mindful wordsmithing that produces a just-right piece is absolutely more challenging to do than spilling out every thought about every little thing.  
 
So, a promise.
 
I’ll continue to do my best toward keeping a tight rein on posts, trying for 1,000 words or less.
 
Thanks for continuing to hang with this Girl Clown. 
 
Also, here’s to a year of great fortune, which includes wrangling a once-in-a-century pandemic that in one way
or another, has affected all of us. 

I’m not rich, but having a warming mattress pad makes me feel like I am.
 
Now, right at bedtime, I turn on a plastic dial near my pillow, which has heat settings between one and 20. A few minutes later, a perfectly even, toasty temperature has enveloped the sheets underneath me. The Hubster keeps an identical gauge, also close to his head, on number one. But since I’m always colder, I start at number 12 and during the night, work my way down to a four. 
 
In any case, I fall asleep, and stay asleep, a lot faster and a lot longer.
 
I never knew mattress warmers existed until well into adulthood.
 
This lack of information could be because I grew up in Southern California. In fact, I had no knowledge of flannel sheets until I was in my 30s. That being said, my mother did join the electric blanket craze when I was a teenager, buying a pastel one for each bed, then carefully packing them in their original boxes once spring came around.
 
Still, I never felt entirely comfortable using one. They absolutely kept me warm on top. But those fat coils full of electrical current also gave me a vague feeling that if I happened to turn around the wrong way in my sleep, I’d wake up on fire.
 
My first mattress warmer experience was a few decades ago.
 
I was spending an unusually cold night at a friend’s house in Hollywood, and slept in the guest bedroom with a twin
bed. When I got in, I immediately noticed how cozy and warm the bed felt. My friend explained that the mattress pad
was the warming kind, and that she had found it in a J.C. Penney catalogue. Also, she was from Canada, so knew
about such things.
 
I wanted my very own pad warmer after that, but considered it a luxury item because even the smallest one cost nearly $200. There was also the fact that I was a single mom then, and needed the money for other things like food and rent and diapers.   
 
Then, last year, we moved to Oregon.
 
This is a place, as my Ohio-born Hubster likes to say, with “real seasons.” What he means is this: winter brings snow; fall boasts gusty winds, and for at least three months of the year, freezing temperatures at night are the norm.
 
So, it was now an easy-peasy decision to invest in a mattress warmer because it had become a necessity. Another plus is that the price tag was considerably lower than when I’d last checked, with our purchase costing only a bit over $100.
 
As it turns out, getting a bed warm before climbing into one is a tricky issue that’s been around for a long time.  
 
In the Medieval era, a servant or woman of the house heated a stone or brick by the fire, then took it to bed. By the 1500s, a brass or copper warming pan shaped not unlike a large banjo hung by the hearth. At bedtime, hot embers from a woodstove were placed inside this contraption, and grabbing its long handle, were carried to sleeping quarters. There, sometimes in a zig-zag pattern, the person doing the warming started at the head of each bed, quickly rubbing the warmer in-between sheets.
 
When he was a small boy, my spouse remembers something similar.
 
He recalls visiting a very old great-great aunt and uncle who lived in upstate New York. The bed he slept in was made of feathers, and got warmed with a cast-iron version of the afore-mentioned shape. The sheets, he says, were perfectly heated when he climbed into them a moment later. 
 
Knowing how clumsy I can be, I’m grateful to live in a time where electric mattress pad warmers are available online. 
 
But if I was forced to, even knowing I might burn a few fingers along the way, I’d try to use an old banjo one.   
 
Because honestly, there’s nothing quite as wonderful as a warmed bed on a cold Oregon night.