Sadness

Doing the right thing with “items of no significance” from my late aunt’s estate has been a major focus this week.  First, there was washing whatever needed washing.  Next came the listing of items going to nonprofits: pen refills, 20; swim goggles nose-piece replacement kit, 1; shoehorns, 4; and so on.  Then came the delivering.  Most meds to the box at the sheriff’s office, the rest to the box at St. Joe’s.  Eyeglasses to the Lions box at Dr. Uslan’s office.  Tired towels and blanket to the Humane Society. Personal care items to Safe House.  Most everything else to the Thrift Shop.  There was satisfaction in recycling Aunt Norah’s things, but sadness as well.      

     A few of her effects have come to stay with us, of which my favorite item is a jar opener.  The days of carrying recalcitrant pickle jars to my husband in the living room are over.  Huzzah!        

     Now, if there were just a gizmo for opening easy-open cans–the kind that have a ring you’re supposed to pry up and then use to lift off the lid.  The third-to-last such can I tried to open, the little ring came off and went flying across the kitchen.  The second-to-last and last cans, the ring stayed on, and so did two-thirds of the top. 

     The ring-top-can issue arose yesterday because I had recently come into possession of a Big Zucchini.  Big Zucchinis are the ones that conceal themselves under leaves until they’re too large to saute, so gardeners just leave them to grow.  And grow.  Till you need both hands to pick one up, and you carry it cradled against your shoulder like a baby, giving it little pats and saying, “There, there.”  This is false comfort, though, as you fully intend to turn that B.Z. baby into zucchini bread.

     This B.Z., I figured, was good for five loaves, and I gathered supplies accordingly.  When the first three loaves were in the oven, I realized I’d made a mistake.  The bread recipe is for two loaves; for three, the amount of each ingredient needs to be increased by fifty percent.  Not a problem.  Only, for the nuts and raisins, I had, in distraction, doubled the amount.  Which meant the leavening agents wouldn’t be up to the task, and the loaves would be denser and flatter than they’re supposed to be.  Bummer.  But they’d still taste good, right? 

     I got to work grating the rest of the B.Z. and, surprise, ended up with enough for three more loaves, not two.  I only had enough of some ingredients for two more loaves.  A trip to the store later, I had everything I needed, including yet more crushed pineapple in a ring-top can.  By the time I’d prepped all the ingredients, I was tired.  And hot.  Our oven’s temperature sensor has gotten to be pretty casual in its work and is sometimes off by a hundred degrees.  I’ve hung an oven thermometer on a rack inside but, where the racks need to be for baking bread, you can’t read it through the door.  So I’d been opening the oven off and on, on a hot August day, for over an hour.

     I suggested to my sweetheart that we go out for dinner.  He wondered if our neighbors would like to go with us.  Whereupon, one of said neighbors came to our door to ask whether we’d like to go to dinner with them.  We had a lovely meal at Corner Brewery in Ypsilanti, sitting outside in the shade with our friends.  It was the highlight of the week.  And when we got home, I made the second three loaves of zucchini bread.  Successfully, this time, once I’d borrowed an egg from our neighbors.

     The sadness that came with my aunt’s death is distracting.  Yesterday, I messed up a recipe I’ve been making for decades.  Wednesday, I missed a vet appointment.  The same day, I tripped and fell in the living room.  Because the sadness is more than distracting.  It has settled like a pall over my shoulders, heavy, a nearly palpable weight.  I’ll be helping my cousins pack the remaining portion of Norah’s estate next week, and then they’ll close out her apartment.  And that will be that. 

Ah, Aunt Norah, I miss you.

20 August 2021