Ricotta Pie the Hard Way

How many times, I wonder, does a senior moment change history?

I decided recently to bake a ricotta pie, ordinarily an Easter tradition, for my visiting husband and myself.  It's an easy recipe, and I had 15 ounce containers of ricotta in the freezer.  My recipe, on a stained note card going back to 1971,

was originally taken from the Providence Journal, my home town paper.  The recipe called for two pies, so I took one 15 ounce container of ricotta out of the freezer (the recipe dating back to the days when said cheese actually came in one pound containers), planning on halving the recipe.

Except that after I dumped the first ingredient, the ricotta, into the bowl, I promptly forgot to halve the rest of the ingredients.

I considered trying to scoop out excess stuff, but where I could probably get most of four eggs out, I had no idea how I could remove 1/4 pint of heavy cream.

So the only other option was to increase the cheese.  I walked over to my unnecessarily massive freezer,

opened the door, and gazed up at the frozen containers of ricotta.  Took out a container, felt it to be certain it was indeed solidly frozen, and sadly put it back in the freezer and closed the door.

In my younger days I might have panicked, but in my older, wiser years I thought, okay, the worst thing that can happen is that I have to throw the whole thing out.  And then improvised.

You all know that to me keeping supplies in excess is merely a matter of security; I always keep two three-pound boxes of Costco cream cheese on hand.  Cream cheese is, indeed, a staple, and those tiny eight ounce packages don't go far, and are way overpriced.

So I cut off eight ounces and beat it into the mix.  Then it occurred to me that I still needed 1/2 pound.  But I didn't want to overwhelm the taste of the ricotta.  I did have an unopened container of cottage cheese for post-holiday diet days, but I have not yet substituted cottage cheese for fattening, i.e. real, cheese, and was certainly not going to open up a new container and start now.

Hmm, I did have a container of sour cream with a bit left...and sour cream is about as yummy as cream cheese, even though it's not a cheese...hmm....

Well, as it turns out I had just enough sour cream, and repeated to myself that the worst thing that could happen was that I'd end up throwing it out.

In fact, it tasted amazingly good.  The texture was even ricotta cheese pie-like.  I made one pie and froze half of the custard.  Who knows how it will freeze, but what's the worst that could happen?

The Champagne of Champaign

I have never been a "bar hopper" although the phrase lends it a bit of appeal.  In my past, I recall a Saint Patrick's Night drunk and crying in a bathroom.  A better one was the night my sister and I had a double blind date with what I fondly refer to as "a couple of guidos."  If you're an Italian woman you know what I mean.  My sister, by the way, claims no recollection of the night.  I only recall the highlights, which involved my sister and me laughing a lot and the guys not getting it, because they were actually "it."

But for the most part, my idea of bar hopping is and has always been:  go to a bar that has music, drink and listen to the music, and when the music isn't playing, talk to whoever you're with.  When you're not with anyone -- and I'm proud to say I've done this -- read a book.

So my daughter and I were in the planning stages of meeting each other in Rhode Island a couple of years ago, and she was surprised when I said I would enjoy going out drinking if that's what she and her fiance wanted to do one night.  We didn't make it out for drinks on that visit, nor when I visited them in Illinois that fall.

We finally accomplished the mission, however, last month, in Champaign.

I'm older now, that and dieting have totally wrecked my capacity for alcohol, and the last thing I wanted to do was go from sober to hungover, or get tired, or nauseous, or any of the neat things that go with drinking.  But I needn't have worried.  My future son-in-law was in charge of planning, and he had the night well in hand.

Our first stop was primarily to line our stomachs, and we did, with excellent burgers at Farren's Pub and Eatery.  I was nearly intimidated by the description of the Fireburger, but I threw caution to the wind, and was glad I did.  As I recall, it was topped with habanero mayo and a pound or so of jalapenos.  I took precisely three slices of jalapeno off the burger, so it had the perfect amount of heat.

Next we headed to Boltini Lounge,, specializing in martinis, and for some reason bronze baby feet:

Not sure if there's a point to these.

With the good judgment of my advanced years, I opted for what turned out to be the absolutely delicious Sammy Davis Jr. Mint chocolate martini, which was one of two choices if you wanted dessert with your alcohol.  Having fewer years and proud of it, future son-in-law ordered the aptly named "Mumbler", and daughter ordered something nearly equally potent.  I have to say, my chocolate martini was the drink that assured my survival.

On to Blind Pig,

which is apparently, "Better than the Champagne of Beer, The Beer of Champaign," which was certainly good enough for me.

Nick was very confident that I would love Duchesse de Bourgogne, which is much easier to drink than to say.  For someone like myself, in other words, of a certain age, the table in the back room was a great place to have animated discussions about Red Sox and Cardinals and whatever other stuff we talked about which was also very interesting.

My compliments on the restroom as well, in particular the graffiti.  My daughter read something deep and poetic from her stall, and I read back something to the effect of "Here I sit...," you know how it goes.  But exiting the individual stall gave one an even better perspective on Blind Pig, the Duchesse, yes, and even the transitory nature of existence:

Sartre meets Tao Te Ching

Upon reflecting on those sentiments, we opted not to have a second really delicious Duchesse, but to move on to the more nuanced Quality Beer, Inc.  Being an establishment of quality of course meant a library,

and being an establishment of beer meant games, including Pac-Man.

Oh, and a Smuttynose Pumpkin, which is probably the only thing that could adequately follow Duchesse.  I am happy to say that by that time, we were inebriated enough to engage in lively political discourse.

Our last stop was Radio Maria, which was way too loud, which was okay because I think we all had less to say at that point.  It just occurred to me, in doing this research, that the theme was things Brazilian, as was the delicious caipirinha that I sipped slowly.  My daughter, who is extremely smart, knew enough to order tapas to sponge up some of the alcohol  She also knew how well an order of arancini would go with the caipirinha.

And so we made our way home.

What could top that?  A wine tasting maybe?  Good thing we had that scheduled for the following night. 

Fleabitten

I have a wonderful cat, named Molly.

She's a shelter cat, and ended up adopting me when I fostered her and her three babes, just over a year ago.  Like me, she is polite and slow to warm to people.  After a year, she still startles easily, but not quite as easily as when she first came to live here.

Which is important, because she has claws.  Enormous shiny, sharp claws.  So, one does not want to startle Molly.  

While Molly enjoys tracking bugs, flying or floor bound, she is hopeless at coming in for the kill.  So we have become a team of hunters.  She will dash across the room, and I will immediately either take off my shoe or go grab the flyswatter or bug spray, depending on what is in season.

She does have a phenomenal sense of smell.  Combined with her hyper-alertness, it is impossible to do things that are the norm with most cats.  Like put on a collar.  Or get her into her cat carrier, to take her to the vet to get rid of those claws.  So I can rub flea-killer into her fur.

Nope.  I can't do any of the above, and I have tried.  So when a month ago I saw her scratching vigorously, I knew it was the inevitable flea incursion.

Soon I was scratching vigorously as well.  I tried one of those little teensy tiny tubes of stuff that you're supposed to rub into the fur around the neck, but no sooner did my finger touch the fur than she took off.  I even tried putting the goo on her brush, which she likes, but no sooner did the brush touch the fur and she was gone.  To her credit, she has learned to split without taking skin off me in the process.

What to do?

If you are not strong of stomach, you should read no further.

Because, after washing my bedclothes in scalding water, I took out a huge container of boric acid, which had become my go-to pesticide for ants over the years, and read the hit-list.

I was delighted to see that fleas were on the list.  But also, I was looking at a container that read 100% boric acid.  I was also looking at a flea infestation that would likely kill us before the boric acid could do us harm.

So I started to spread the stuff.  Not just around the floor, but on my white socks (white attracts fleas).  And, yes, on the bottom of my sheets, where the little buggers lie in wait for my ankles to hit the bed.

Then I bought a spray bottle of flea stuff that says you and your cat should wait for it to dry before contact, and it was okay to spray once a week.  Nonsense.

In 84 degrees, I walked around with my white socks, tracking whether I still had fleas, and where they were hanging out.  I sprayed Cutter on my feet when they were bare, but since it repels rather than kills, that was just to protect my feet from bites while we were at battle.

The question remained, what to do about Molly.  It was agonizing for me to watch her ferocious scratching.  I hated to put her in direct contact with the various poisons, but I finally figured there was not another option left.  So I sprayed in certain strategic areas, thinking she would set herself down on top of the flea-killer, which would then kill the fleas and leave Molly intact.  After some bizarre antics attempting to avoid the apparently nasty-smelling or -feeling area, like climbing into the window sill to avoid her usual night table watch-post, which is now covered with a poison-covered towel, she just gave in and made herself comfortable.

And yesterday, I hit on a winner:  a black knit glove, which I think she thinks is another black cat, as she tries to play with it whenever she sees it.  I dusted it with boric acid, and then eased up on her and rubbed her neck.

I know, it's an ugly business, but poison is poison.  And the sooner we can get it to work, the sooner we'll be done with it, Molly and me.

And I am seeing signs of success.  Fewer little rascals hopping onto my socks, and decidedly less energetic when they do.  I believe Molly is scratching less.  On the other hand, I am imagining the stuff in my nose and throat.  So we'll just have to see who goes first, Molly and me or the fleas.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation -- Go Red Sox!

July 16 -- Fenway

So, proving that you're never too old, I ventured to Fenway Park for my first Red Sox game.  I was being shown the ropes by two crazed Red Sox fans of many, many years, my sisters.  Drink was involved.  Gladly, we were a short walk to and from.  I snickered at those poor folk who had to find parking at exorbitant prices.  And then actually drive away after the game.

Had we not very recently had lunch, I could have filled up on the great food being sold outside the park.

Photo by ballparkguides.com

But my Fenway guides promised me good food inside, so we went in and settled into what I was repeatedly told were, "AWESOME SEATS" to the right of home plate.

We were soon approached by a dude with a camera.  My inclination would have been to think, "somebody trying to sell me something" and ignore the man, but sisters fell upon him happily.  Apparently, it was their long-standing tradition to buy an "official" photo when they came to Fenway.  He offered to pose us standing right in front of the Big Green Monster, so I started looking around for Wally, the furry mascot.  This turned out to be hysterical, because the green monster was the 37-foot high left field wall.

Awesome seats with a great view of the Monster

More hysteria ensued when I learned that it was going to be an all-sox night, the Red ones playing the White ones, the latter which another dear person in my life has rooted for since his birth.  Even more exciting (apparently) was the fact that the beloved and recently traded Kevin Youkilis would be playing back at Fenway for the first time since the trade.  I have to say, you could feel the love.

"YOUK!"

I did a noble job of sampling the food.  After I found out what an "ice cream helmet" is,

I realized I could fill my constant craving for soft ice cream with my need for a unique souvenir at the same time.  Since I'm disinclined to do dessert before I am thoroughly done with dinner, the trick became to stand in line and get the helmet before Neil Diamond sang Sweet Caroline in the middle of the eighth (inning, for those of you with even less knowledge of baseball than I).  Not only is Neil Diamond -- and Sweet Caroline -- among my favorites, but there is a very funny family story about me playing a Neil Diamond tape in my car, for days, leading my sister to wonder that there was an All-Neil-Diamond radio station on Long Island.

While I'd been told with the great fondness of the true fan that this year the Red Sox sucked, in honor of my premier visit they clobbered the White Sox.  In the final minutes, we were busy trying to text my favorite White Sox fan in Chicago to ask him if he was enjoying the game, but hey, we won!

I'm just hoping I make it back to Fenway before another 61 years pass.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation -- The Long Walk

July 16 -- Boston

Way back in 1969, I spent a semester at Boston University.  Didn't do much there; I was too young and timid.  But I did make that 40 minute walk from Beacon to Comm Ave for classes everyday.

When my son started school at Harvard, I determined to a) get to know Boston, and b) do a reminiscence tour of BU.  That last resolution hadn't happened yet, and here he is, almost a senior.

So I began my second day in Boston, map in hand, looking for BU.

It wasn't hard, even for me.  I only got turned around a couple of times before I found where Commonwealth Avenue and Beacon Street make an X.  Instead of heading toward BU, I started walking the other way, down Beacon Street.  Sure enough, I found those gorgeous brownstones where I lived those few months, up on the third floor, looking out the huge bay windows.

Or maybe here....

I lived here...

And one of my favorite things -- some things change, some things don't -- was the huge and delicious meals at the wonderful dining hall on my way to and from school.

Lower level serving comforting food.

There were special meals on certain days, lobster dinner and prime rib.  It was comfort food before there was comfort food.  A young woman, dressed too well to be a BU undergrad, was leaving the building, so I asked if it was a dorm, and was told, sadly, no.  I guess even BU had to cave to the cost of real estate in the 21st century.

Instead of turning around and heading to the university, I decided to see what would happen if I continued east.  What discoveries!  I found the Harvard Bridge, right at the intersection on Mass Ave.  I decided to throw caution to the wind and leave Beacon Street for Commonwealth Avenue, and headed to Boston Commons.  It's a walk I highly recommend, and I'm glad I did it, 40 years later.  Beautiful houses,

Breathtaking monuments of tribute,

Boston Women's Memorial

Tribute to firefighters -- Vendome Hotel

Had I taken this walk back in 1969, the homes may have been lovely, but the memorials are new.  The Vendome fire happened in 1972, a few years after I had passed through Boston.  I imagine the Public Garden has changed as well.

Weary feet, and with time passing, I walked through the Public Garden and glanced in the general direction of The Commons, where there have been so many important gatherings.  Not today, it just looked like a baseball diamond and grass.  Definitely not worth the walk.  On the other hand, as I walked toward what should have been the T (once again, sense of direction fails me), I happened upon a true photo op:

Eventually I did end up on the T.  En route I realized that while visiting my son, I had once stayed not a block away from where I was standing.  Amazing.  Great fun finally piecing Boston together in my head.

The T came above ground on the way to Boston University.  I had never taken public transportation to school while I was there, not out of a great need for exercise, but because -- I swear -- I had no idea how to use it.  I felt like I had become quite the daredevil and world traveler in the intervening years.

I had figured out where my school -- The Division of General Education (Deej, I believe they called it then) -- should be, and got off.  There it was (I think...), only the once experimental program had become the more mundane College of General Studies.

On the long walk back, I was able to guess other buildings that I may have had classes in.  There were a few student tours being conducted along the way, and I slowed down to walk with them.  I learned that Boston University has a College of Communications and they have their own TV station.  In fact, students who take the class have their own show about being a BU student.  I was told that undergrads really look forward to the last episode of the season to see how the writers have decided to kill off all the seniors each year.

And the School of Management has an advertising course that includes designing the billboard at Kenmore Square, which currently has a Pizzeria Uno display.  And as a marketing tool they announced at a Red Sox game that if the Sox hit the billboard, everyone would get a free pizza. I think.  It was getting hard to stay with the group at this point, so I went my own way, heading back to Hojo, and later, my first Red Sox game.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation--Boston Cuisine

July 15 -- Boston

So, back to Hojo, showered, and ready for lunch.  With sore feet I was hoping it was a short walk, and that I would not make a mistake.

A great little restaurant, minutes away from Hojo:

Veal Parmigiana -- Mama mia!

It was worth noting that across the street from Canestaro's, the gryphons were not doing their job....

I expect more of gryphon protection

And then back to Hojo, where I noted that the hotel was really, really close to Fenway.

In fact, any closer and the bed would have been on home plate.

Shortly thereafter, I met up with my son and we went in search of food.  The North End truly makes me heartsick for Italian cooking.  Where I live, we have southern Italian, but not southern as in southern Italy; southern, like, y'all want some eye-talian food?

My lunch had been the appetizer, and yet I couldn't resist a stop at Bova's Bakery for a fresh loaf of Italian bread, to tide us over till dinner, and a couple sfogliatelle, for later.  Munching on the bread, we walked the five minutes to La Dolce Vita, where I had two summers ago had a lunch of stuffed calamari that took me back to my childhood.

Posing with the Chef, 2010

Franco, the proprietor, said the words I'd been hoping to hear:  "Let me know if there's anything you want, you don't see on the menu...."

And gave me the recipe after dinner.  He said it was easy, and maybe I'll try it some day, but so much nicer to visit La Dolce Vita.

Now, I know I had a bag with a couple sfogliatelle for dessert, but I also knew that they would keep for an emergency, like tomorrow's breakfast, so we stopped by Mike's Pastry for, what else?  Cannoli.

You can't miss Mike's Pastry, because you can't walk past it.  There is always a line out the door and spilling over the sidewalk.  Even at 9 at night.

And the other thing I can't do, is just choose one pastry.  So my son, also a proud gourmand, enthusiastically helped me choose six cannoli with six different fillings.  We are not gluttons, so we did not eat them there.  We chowed down at the hotel.

And that was how I spent Day One of My Vacation.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation--Hitting Boston

July 15 -- Boston

South Station.  I am treating myself to a taxi, now that I am days away from being 61.  I did agonize over it a bit; if I took the T it would be much cheaper, but I have wrestled with luggage and believe me, it's not worth it anymore.  But if I got off at Back Bay instead, I would save half the taxi fare.  Alas, I would have to lug the luggage on and off Amtrak if I do it that way.

So I splurged.  As the taxi driver put my luggage in the trunk, he asked something I did not quite understand.  Assuming he wanted the address of the hotel, I searched desperately in my bags, but by the time he had repeated it twice more in his heavy Greek accent, I realized he just wanted me to confirm that the Fenway Howard Johnson was the hotel, or, the "yauthel".

Fenway Howard Johnson Yauthel

We had a pleasant ride.  He asked where I was from, and then proceeded to tell me just how hot it has been in Boston, hot as in Charleston, I agreed.  When it was time to pay the man, I got to play with the credit card machine I had heard about from my son, who claimed they were now "in all the taxis."

It was now 8:15 a.m., so I anticipated dropping my luggage off and walking around for many hours before check-in, but the grouchy woman at the counter assured me that she would check me in now, just have a seat.

Free of my luggage, I decided to postpone a shower in the interest of a quick walk to coffee and breakfast.  Unfortunately, the restaurant that was supposed to have the best breakfast near Fenway, conveniently located across the street from the hotel, was not open:

Special Breakfast -- Eggs Over Hard

Undeterred, however, I headed in the opposite direction of anyplace that would have had breakfast.  Let me tell you, I am determined to be able to follow a map, and someday I will get the hang of it.  It seems that however I try to orient myself -- turn it upside down, fold it into the tiniest relevant square, even pre-mark important locations -- I end up going in the wrong direction.  After about half an hour, I ended up going back toward the hotel, and found a Panera's and had an adequate breakfast.

More important, though, headed back to the hotel I fell right smack into Fenway Park.  Which is, of course, hard to miss.

You really can't miss it.

I was having great fun, but dressed for the air-conditioned train and not for the 80-plus degree day it was turning out to be.  So after taking lots of great pictures:

Far out, indeed.

I located myself on the map, realized I was a minute away from the hotel, and took a left on a side street.

Which was, of course, the wrong way.  I ended up going around in circles, in a very nice neighborhood, filled with places like the Berklee College of Music and the Boston Conservatory, but not anywhere near where I should be.  And with no idea why my map wasn't telling me what I was doing wrong.

The houses were gorgeous, though quirky...

Early on in my adventure, enjoying whatever area I was in, I was walking past three Boston police officers, who were apparently taking a break in front of the Berklee College of Music, I heard the following:

"The guy puts 2 bullets in his back, turns 'im over, puts 2 bullets in his head, kicks 'im, and then takes a pitcha."

Ah, good to be back in New England.

Eventually, after going around the block a couple of times, I even figured out the odd outdoor furniture in front of the brownstone:

Fraternity Living

And if that weren't proof enough of being in a college town (upscale though it was):

I was thrilled that I had had this adventure, but the blisters on my feet were telling me I really, really needed to be back at the hotel.  Of course, the first few students I asked had no idea where Fenway Park was, but I eventually stopped a fan, who pointed out the obvious.  I had in fact been going the wrong way, and would have continued to do so, because the directions he gave did not look at all right.  But they were, and in fact I was minutes away, and past another not-to-be-missed sight:

Back Bay Fens

And, finally, another not-to-be-missed sight:

How I Spent My Summer Vacation--Home to New England

July 14-15 -- Still Traveling

Headed for the Quiet Car, which is the very best idea Amtrak ever had.  It only happens at night, and there are times, like this night, wherein by the second stop there is enough room for the young woman with the laptop next to you to scoot out of her seat and claim a double, conveniently leaving you with a double as well.

I have lots of travel rituals.  For example, my first night at a hotel, whether I am there for one night or nine, I order in pizza and somehow or other get a beer.  Then, before bed, a shot of a decent gin, these days it's usually Bombay Sapphire, and some chocolate.  I always take a small bag of kisses, or M & M's.  Then I'm ready for bed.

Packing for train travel means traveling as light as possible, so I freeze two bottles of water, which keep the subs and the chocolate cold and provide drink over the 24-hours.  Not possible to pack a bottle of gin, plus which I'd prefer not to draw stares from fellow passengers, so a third water bottle gets a couple of inches of gin.

Once I settle into my seat in the Quiet Car, I take out my gin and chocolate, have my nightcap, and then settle down.

Settling down is a bit of an exaggeration.  No matter how comfy you thought the seats were when you were sitting, trying to extend yourself while contracting yourself within the short space is a challenge.  However, I once was the person who did not nap.  I did not sleep while traveling no matter how long the trip.

I'm older now.  I may have to readjust fairly often, but I do get my sleep.  I once had anxiety over all the trips I would need to take to the restrooms, but not so much anymore.  Sleeping on the train is infinitely better than driving those night-time hours, so I've learned to do it.

And by the time sunrise rolls around, 5:30ish, I crack my eyes open and get to see the most beautiful part of the trip:  the waters of Mystic Seaport.

Stock Photo -- too early for camera-wrangling

Now I'm content because I'm almost there.  First stop is Boston, scheduled at 8 a.m.  So I take out my eReader.  I remember my daily Diovan, so I take out a pill and my bottle of water.  I'm surprised I have that much left.  Swallow the pill with a mouthful of...

...Bombay Sapphire.

Well.  Quite a shock, but hey, it's summer vacation!

How I Spent My Summer Vacation--DC Reminiscences

July 14 -- En Route

Here I am back on Amtrak.  Every year I ask the all-important questions:  1) Will I ever ride on Amtrak again? and 2) If I don't, how will I ever get anyplace?

I rejected driving all the way to Boston and all the way back, due to memories burned into my mind of the trip I took in August three years ago to drop my son off at Harvard.  It was the trip back, stop-and-go from an hour outside of New York in Connecticut, with bouts of rain, a swerve and near-crash at a toll booth entering New York, hair-raising driving through New York and the Washington Beltway.  That did it.  Every time I try to tell myself driving isn't bad, I flash back.

Flying is just out of the question, until they stop scanning naked bodies looking for the retro-terrorist that's going to try something that's already failed.  Oh, and since they can't seem to take off and land a plane on time anymore.  Oh, and don't forget how much it costs to deal with this tortuous process.

So I packed my lunch and dinner and midnight snack, loaded a bunch of books on my new eReader, and headed for the Amtrak station.

I would say it was delightful, but I reserve that rating for getting two seats to spread out on.

The trip was, however, not merely uneventful, but on time.

I landed in D.C. with over two hours till my connection.  It was a beautiful though warm early evening, and I had cleverly stowed my luggage from Charleston to Boston, so I headed outside.  As much as I gripe about American politicians, I inexplicably love the Capitol.  But I walked away from the Capitol this night, since I had wandered around it the last time Amtrak left me a couple of hours to fill.

I hadn't planned on taking pictures, opting for a simple walk in the humidity.  But I reconsidered when I approached:

From a former life

My old stomping ground, kind of.  Way back in the days when I believed psychologists could make a difference, while fighting my way through the most competitive (as in hard to get accepted to) graduate education in the country, I actually had a student membership to the APA, and went to any events I could.  And conveniently, I was living in Maryland, ever-so-close to the pulse of the nation.  Wasn't I hot?

Without giving too much thought to just how long ago that was, I remembered the Kennedy Center, which to be honest I enjoyed far more than the museums and monuments.  For just a few years I "did the Capitol" with anyone  who came to visit me.

And then I backtracked to a picture I debated taking before I had been motivated enough to actually hunt for my camera:

While it's still there

Because who knows how much longer it will be there.  There must be a lobbyist or two with eyes on this piece of real estate.

But of course it was inevitable.  I ended up at the Capitol, taking hundreds of pictures in the beautiful sunset.

Never enough of it

My biggest disappointment, and something I just don't understand:  Why there is not a single ice cream truck sitting by Union Station.  Whenever I end up there the weather is hot and humid and I would think it would just be the best way for our Nation's Capitol to prove that they truly do have the pulse of the nation.


So, sans ice cream cone, I headed back to Amtrak for the night.

Ready for bed