second floor living without a yard

canned friendship

I'm excited about the weekend. In part, because I won't have any grading to do (okay, maybe a little, but nothing compared to the last two weeks). And, in part, because we are going to see John Stewart. With friends. Yup. That's right. We've found ourselves some friends... I think.

Making friends in D.C. has not been an easy prospect. In part, because we were spoiled. Both Mr. Beeton and I had fabulous friends in undergrad, and when we moved on to graduate school, we found equally fabulous friends. Since coming here, though, it's been hard to connect with people. My campus is an "urban institution," so many of the people that I work with live far outside the city - commuting to work is a problem for them let alone coming back to hang out. Mr. Beeton is finishing up at a school outside the city. His commute is long (though fun on his Stella scooter), but he doesn't much care for going back outside the city in the evenings or on weekends. Of course, we have a handful of people that we met through his old job, mostly graduate students in the Chemistry department (hence, our connection with The Chemist). But, they were all part of a previously established group, and while they are gracious enough to include us on their outings from time to time, an old, married couple like ourselves are not their top priority (nor should we be!). As a result, we spend a lot of our spare time in our railroad apartment, petting Ella, and wishing that we lived in Savannah so we could go out for some Thai food and drinks with friends.

I told Mr. Beeton that I had an idea. One of my favorite bloggers, Shauna James Ahern, had written recently about a canning party that she had. I thought we should put an ad on craigslist. Mr. Beeton said, No. He finds the people who come to our house to buy our old appliances and furniture, chatting about the design of our apartment, creepy.

So, instead, we are going to dinner with two people who seem interesting and fun. And, if it doesn't work out, there's always John at the end of the evening.

Keep sweeping, Martha

bon appetit

I have a confession to make. 

I went to see Julie and Julia.

Over a month ago.

And I haven't blogged about it.

I had intended to, of course. My plan was to see the movie, buy Mastering the Art of French Cooking, cook the now infamous boeuf bourguignon, and then blog about it. 

But, I kept getting foiled. First, I couldn't find the book. I went to a couple of bookstores in and around Georgetown, and Julia's tome was no where to be found. I then ordered it online. But, when it came, we had just made some sort of beef stew in the crock pot. And, while I know our crock pot concoction couldn't compare, Mr. Beeton and I were just not that hungry for beef. Then, I read the recipe. I got scared, mainly by the bacon. And the intensity. I thought I'd try something else. A chocolate souffle, raspberry bavarian cream. Each time, though, I chickened out. And, then the papers came, obscuring the entire dining room table. I think Julia's book might be buried underneath.

So, instead, I thought I'd blog about how I had intended to cook something from Mastering the Art of French Cooking. And how you should go see Julie and Julia. It's really, really good. I'd compare its goodness to the boeuf bourguignon, but as you know, I haven't gotten around to making it yet.

Keep sweeping, Martha

Watched Julie and Julia.

foiled again

It's been a rough week here in the railroad apartment. A bright spot, though, was an email we received indicating that there were three plots available at the community garden down the street. We were told to stop by, take a look, and rank our preferences. We did just that. And then the next night, we went back to look again, dreaming of rows of beans and plump tomatoes.

But, then today, we got another message, saying we'd been passed over in favor of those higher on the list who had responded after we did. You may remember we got our hopes up before, too. Maybe third time's a charm? Fingers crossed.

Keep sweeping, Martha