"The Only Pressure You Feel is the Pressure You Put on Yourself"
This sage advice is courtesy of my friend, Patty Carney-Bradley.
We had lunch yesterday, then toured the exhibits at the Dali Museum in St. Petersburg. While I enjoyed the museum and certainly learned a whole lot more about Salvador Dali and surrealism (still has a tendency to give me a migraine), I mostly enjoyed spending time with Patty.
In previous lives, we taught together at the Edina Family Center as Licensed Parent Educators. Those were synergistic years; speaking for myself, I learned a great deal about the value of being introspective, then accepting the challenge to change. Much of this had to do with my interactions and friendships with the women I worked with. Some of us are now Facebook friends (you know who you are), allowing us to keep up with, in particular, the children who have morphed into adults. Such a gift to have that richness serving as a foundation for the later years. Thank you.
Patty and her husband are pretty much bona fide Snowbirds, spending a significant part of the year at their Florida home. She was reflecting on life in the Sunshine State when she said that the primary difference between living "at home" in Minnesota and in Florida was that at home, though retired, she still feels there is pressure on her while here, the only pressure she feels is the pressure she puts on herself.
That struck a chord. I almost pulled out my phone to jot it down. That would have been rude. So I muttered it over and over to myself while being surrealized at the Dali in order to remember it.
I think Patty's right. Even after being retired a year, I still have days when I feel pressure and boy, that's interesting to me. I'm thinking it's my interpretation of how my time is spent because not all of it is on what I guess I would consider my own terms. I still engage in activities that I don't initiate--not that I don't enjoy them or find satisfaction and enjoyment in them. Am I so ingratiated from having worked all these years that anytime anyone asks me to do anything, it brings with the request at least a modicum of pressure?
And then why is it, when we're away from home, not necessarily in Florida but not at home, does that pretty much automatically slip slide away? We still develop a rhythm if not a routine. Plans continue to be made and followed--routine within a circle of flexibility, and that is, in all honesty the same at home, but the feeling around it is not. Is there something magical about not looking at your own 4 walls that, like Calgon, takes it away?
My preliminary thought is the distance between us and our family/friends dissipates the "pressure" and I don't want anyone in my life to think that I'm saying time spent with them is predicated on a feeling of pressure. We've talked with quite a few people who make a move to warmer climes, some permanently, some for a significant portion of the winter, others for weeks at a time. Some have children and grandchildren at home, wherever that may be. Within a very short period of time, often before we've learned their names, they're telling us about their families and friends, who's come down to visit, who's yet to come. At the airports, we've seen grandparents awaiting the arrival of their children and grands like thoroughbreds in the starting gate. We've exchanged knowing glances with them in the baby aisle at Target as they load up their carts with diapers and wipes and pouches, asking each other, "Is this the right brand? Does he eat this one?" Is that pressure that is put on you or pressure you put on yourself?
Does this make sense? I'm ruminating.
A Pilgrimage to Harbour Lights Tower
Previously I wrote that our infatuation with Florida has its roots in my parents spending about 15 years on Sand Key, part of Clearwater. I believe we visited them almost all of those 15 years. They rented a two bedroom, two bath condo in the above building, Harbour Lights Tower, sixteenth floor so that we could invade like a hurricane for a week. My mother was a master of "Anticipation is Greater than Realization." She couldn't wait for us to arrive; she couldn't wait for us to leave. (To be fair, she had similar feelings about our Chicago visits.) And she loved every action packed moment of our being with her.
This year we're renting in Belleair Beach, which is located about 1.5 miles south of Sand Key (4200 steps according to the spousal unit, who keeps track of such things). A couple days ago, we decided to make the Pilgrimage up the beach to pay homage to Harbour Lights Tower in remembrance of my mom and dad, who continued to be missed every day. I feel it a bit more acutely down here than at home. I hear my dad's voice on the beach, calling after the kids, or saying, when driving behind another silver haired driver, "Come on, Mac, drive that thing." They would have loved being with their great grands on the beach (if we could get my mom out of the condo). In particular, my dad would have probably been beyond himself with pride when my son in law, Darin Mastroianni, played in spring training. He would have gotten that particular smile on his face which displayed his feeling of, "Does it get any better than this?"
So much to be grateful for.
Cooking
I haven't pulled out my friend Max's New York Times cookbook yet but I will.
Yesterday I made what should have been a really good dish but I WAY overcooked the pork chops so they were tough and you know how nasty an overcooked pork chop is. I will share the recipe because it has potential and could also be used with chicken or, I suppose, fish. This comes from AllRecipes.com. (Take THAT, NYTimes, with your charging for the recipes.)
Pork Chops with Gouda and Spinach
4 pork chops, large enough to slice open to make a pocket and stuff
8 slices smoked gouda cheese
1/2 lb. spinach, rinsed and torn into bite sized pieces (I find the bagged spinach works well for this)
3 T horseradish mustard
1 c breadcrumbs
1. Preheat oven to 400. Spray baking dish with cooking spray. NOTE: 400 is what overcooked the chops. I suggest 325-350.
2. Lay each chop flat on cutting board, cutting a pocket, leaving 3 sides intact. Stuff first with spinach, then with cheese.
3. Coat each chop with mustard, then with breadcrumbs.
4. Place in baking dish. Cook for 45 minutes or until brown and crispy. NOTE: 45 minutes is too long unless you have very thick chops. Even at 350, turn fter 10 minutes, then cook 10 minutes more. These can also be cooked on the stove top.
We had lunch yesterday, then toured the exhibits at the Dali Museum in St. Petersburg. While I enjoyed the museum and certainly learned a whole lot more about Salvador Dali and surrealism (still has a tendency to give me a migraine), I mostly enjoyed spending time with Patty.
In previous lives, we taught together at the Edina Family Center as Licensed Parent Educators. Those were synergistic years; speaking for myself, I learned a great deal about the value of being introspective, then accepting the challenge to change. Much of this had to do with my interactions and friendships with the women I worked with. Some of us are now Facebook friends (you know who you are), allowing us to keep up with, in particular, the children who have morphed into adults. Such a gift to have that richness serving as a foundation for the later years. Thank you.
Patty and her husband are pretty much bona fide Snowbirds, spending a significant part of the year at their Florida home. She was reflecting on life in the Sunshine State when she said that the primary difference between living "at home" in Minnesota and in Florida was that at home, though retired, she still feels there is pressure on her while here, the only pressure she feels is the pressure she puts on herself.
That struck a chord. I almost pulled out my phone to jot it down. That would have been rude. So I muttered it over and over to myself while being surrealized at the Dali in order to remember it.
I think Patty's right. Even after being retired a year, I still have days when I feel pressure and boy, that's interesting to me. I'm thinking it's my interpretation of how my time is spent because not all of it is on what I guess I would consider my own terms. I still engage in activities that I don't initiate--not that I don't enjoy them or find satisfaction and enjoyment in them. Am I so ingratiated from having worked all these years that anytime anyone asks me to do anything, it brings with the request at least a modicum of pressure?
And then why is it, when we're away from home, not necessarily in Florida but not at home, does that pretty much automatically slip slide away? We still develop a rhythm if not a routine. Plans continue to be made and followed--routine within a circle of flexibility, and that is, in all honesty the same at home, but the feeling around it is not. Is there something magical about not looking at your own 4 walls that, like Calgon, takes it away?
My preliminary thought is the distance between us and our family/friends dissipates the "pressure" and I don't want anyone in my life to think that I'm saying time spent with them is predicated on a feeling of pressure. We've talked with quite a few people who make a move to warmer climes, some permanently, some for a significant portion of the winter, others for weeks at a time. Some have children and grandchildren at home, wherever that may be. Within a very short period of time, often before we've learned their names, they're telling us about their families and friends, who's come down to visit, who's yet to come. At the airports, we've seen grandparents awaiting the arrival of their children and grands like thoroughbreds in the starting gate. We've exchanged knowing glances with them in the baby aisle at Target as they load up their carts with diapers and wipes and pouches, asking each other, "Is this the right brand? Does he eat this one?" Is that pressure that is put on you or pressure you put on yourself?
Does this make sense? I'm ruminating.
A Pilgrimage to Harbour Lights Tower
This year we're renting in Belleair Beach, which is located about 1.5 miles south of Sand Key (4200 steps according to the spousal unit, who keeps track of such things). A couple days ago, we decided to make the Pilgrimage up the beach to pay homage to Harbour Lights Tower in remembrance of my mom and dad, who continued to be missed every day. I feel it a bit more acutely down here than at home. I hear my dad's voice on the beach, calling after the kids, or saying, when driving behind another silver haired driver, "Come on, Mac, drive that thing." They would have loved being with their great grands on the beach (if we could get my mom out of the condo). In particular, my dad would have probably been beyond himself with pride when my son in law, Darin Mastroianni, played in spring training. He would have gotten that particular smile on his face which displayed his feeling of, "Does it get any better than this?"
So much to be grateful for.
Cooking
I haven't pulled out my friend Max's New York Times cookbook yet but I will.
Yesterday I made what should have been a really good dish but I WAY overcooked the pork chops so they were tough and you know how nasty an overcooked pork chop is. I will share the recipe because it has potential and could also be used with chicken or, I suppose, fish. This comes from AllRecipes.com. (Take THAT, NYTimes, with your charging for the recipes.)
Pork Chops with Gouda and Spinach
4 pork chops, large enough to slice open to make a pocket and stuff
8 slices smoked gouda cheese
1/2 lb. spinach, rinsed and torn into bite sized pieces (I find the bagged spinach works well for this)
3 T horseradish mustard
1 c breadcrumbs
1. Preheat oven to 400. Spray baking dish with cooking spray. NOTE: 400 is what overcooked the chops. I suggest 325-350.
2. Lay each chop flat on cutting board, cutting a pocket, leaving 3 sides intact. Stuff first with spinach, then with cheese.
3. Coat each chop with mustard, then with breadcrumbs.
4. Place in baking dish. Cook for 45 minutes or until brown and crispy. NOTE: 45 minutes is too long unless you have very thick chops. Even at 350, turn fter 10 minutes, then cook 10 minutes more. These can also be cooked on the stove top.
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