Murder

We had a rash of murders at our house lately, and I definitely wanted them to stop.

For the past several weeks we would go downstairs to the cats' room in the morning and find one of the following:

• A mouse tail without a body
• A mouse head without a body
• No mouse body, but a little trail of mouse blood

When asked about this disgusting situation, the Tooley Cats just smugly licked their whiskers.

My husband and I suspected that our local field mice either have the IQs of zucchinis or masochistic tendencies.

Action was clearly needed. We applied people logic and concluded that the mice must be coming in from the garage which is attached to the house. A long afternoon was spent in the garage sealing tiny cracks and looking for evidence of mice habitation. Oddly, there were no signs of mice. The mouse massacres continued unabated.

It was time to start thinking like felines. And that's how we solved the case of the murdered mice. The mice weren't running into the house. They were being carried into the house.

The Tooley Cats have a wonderful outdoor "porch", a huge dog crate accessed via a cat door set into a basement window. Apparently, while we were sleeping, the cats were spending their nights trolling for hapless mice who wandered too close or into the dog crate. Naturally, any self-respecting cat would bring their treasures inside.

The cat door is closed every night now. Mornings are much pleasanter.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Murder

We had a rash of murders at our house lately, and I definitely wanted them to stop.

For the past several weeks we would go downstairs to the cats' room in the morning and find one of the following:

• A mouse tail without a body
• A mouse head without a body
• No mouse body, but a little trail of mouse blood

When asked about this disgusting situation, the Tooley Cats just smugly licked their whiskers.

My husband and I suspected that our local field mice either have the IQs of zucchinis or masochistic tendencies.

Action was clearly needed. We applied people logic and concluded that the mice must be coming in from the garage which is attached to the house. A long afternoon was spent in the garage sealing tiny cracks and looking for evidence of mice habitation. Oddly, there were no signs of mice. The mouse massacres continued unabated.

It was time to start thinking like felines. And that's how we solved the case of the murdered mice. The mice weren't running into the house. They were being carried into the house.

The Tooley Cats have a wonderful outdoor "porch", a huge dog crate accessed via a cat door set into a basement window. Apparently, while we were sleeping, the cats were spending their nights trolling for hapless mice who wandered too close or into the dog crate. Naturally, any self-respecting cat would bring their treasures inside.

The cat door is closed every night now. Mornings are much pleasanter.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Abandoned

I am fascinated by old, abandoned farmhouses. They dot the American countryside from east to west. If they are haunted, it is only with memories.

Deserted homesteads, crumbling into the ground, are poignancy made visible. Who can pass one without wondering what dreams, loves and heartbreaks occurred within the walls?

Adobe buildings are particularly metaphorical. The adobe bricks are made from earth and water, dried by the sun. Generations can live within the earthen walls, but when the home loses its people, it soon recycles itself back into the ground.

Our Midwestern, clapboard farmhouses are a heartier breed of dwelling. The sun's energy is still stored in those boards, and decay takes its time. Only broken windows, sagging porches, peeling paint and collapsing roofs tell the world that no one is left to care.

A few miles from our house is a humble and intriguing little cottage. It stands alone and decrepit in a field. Yet someone carefully plants and harvests the alfalfa around it. It's an island in a sea of grass.

I've asked around the local grapevine about the house's history to no avail. The house is in a different township from mine, and local history here seems to end at the town line, or in this case, the range line.

The house exerts a magnetic pull on me. Even though my photography skills are few, I take the home's picture at different times and seasons. I get a surge of happiness every time I drive over to visit the little house and find it still braving the elements.

Click on the images for a larger view.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Abandoned

I am fascinated by old, abandoned farmhouses. They dot the American countryside from east to west. If they are haunted, it is only with memories.

Deserted homesteads, crumbling into the ground, are poignancy made visible. Who can pass one without wondering what dreams, loves and heartbreaks occurred within the walls?

Adobe buildings are particularly metaphorical. The adobe bricks are made from earth and water, dried by the sun. Generations can live within the earthen walls, but when the home loses its people, it soon recycles itself back into the ground.

Our Midwestern, clapboard farmhouses are a heartier breed of dwelling. The sun's energy is still stored in those boards, and decay takes its time. Only broken windows, sagging porches, peeling paint and collapsing roofs tell the world that no one is left to care.

A few miles from our house is a humble and intriguing little cottage. It stands alone and decrepit in a field. Yet someone carefully plants and harvests the alfalfa around it. It's an island in a sea of grass.

I've asked around the local grapevine about the house's history to no avail. The house is in a different township from mine, and local history here seems to end at the town line, or in this case, the range line.

The house exerts a magnetic pull on me. Even though my photography skills are few, I take the home's picture at different times and seasons. I get a surge of happiness every time I drive over to visit the little house and find it still braving the elements.

Click on the images for a larger view.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Cake

I can only bake one cake. Fortunately, it is a very luscious cake. It is definitely not a layer cake.

How anyone can put a layer cake together is a mystery to me. I am in awe of my son-in-law and all the French bakeries that can turn out gorgeous, multi-layered masterpieces.

A myriad of things can go wrong when making a layer cake. For example, the layers should be the same height. When I'm not looking, a little extra batter seems to creep into one of my cake pans. Or I take my pans out of the oven to discover that the baking powder has gone ballistic. One side of a layer is three inches high, the other a mere inch and a half. There is only so much frosting you can add to fix that situation.

If by some miracle the cake layers come out of the oven level and equal, you can be assured they won't come out of the pan. A big, ragged chunk of cake will remain firmly stuck on the bottom.

And the final disaster, crumbs in the frosting. How do those master cake bakers keep jillions of cake crumbs from merging into the frosting?

For all of you out there who share my layer cake trauma, click here for my grandmother's totally easy, foolproof and guest pleasing apple cake recipe.

If you ever need to sell your house, bake this cake an hour before the showing.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Cake

I can only bake one cake. Fortunately, it is a very luscious cake. It is definitely not a layer cake.

How anyone can put a layer cake together is a mystery to me. I am in awe of my son-in-law and all the French bakeries that can turn out gorgeous, multi-layered masterpieces.

A myriad of things can go wrong when making a layer cake. For example, the layers should be the same height. When I'm not looking, a little extra batter seems to creep into one of my cake pans. Or I take my pans out of the oven to discover that the baking powder has gone ballistic. One side of a layer is three inches high, the other a mere inch and a half. There is only so much frosting you can add to fix that situation.

If by some miracle the cake layers come out of the oven level and equal, you can be assured they won't come out of the pan. A big, ragged chunk of cake will remain firmly stuck on the bottom.

And the final disaster, crumbs in the frosting. How do those master cake bakers keep jillions of cake crumbs from merging into the frosting?

For all of you out there who share my layer cake trauma, click here for my grandmother's totally easy, foolproof and guest pleasing apple cake recipe.

If you ever need to sell your house, bake this cake an hour before the showing.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Dogs

When I was three, our neighbor's dog knocked me down and stole my graham cracker. I was traumatized and immediately developed a fear that all dogs were graham cracker grabbing monsters.

This phobia continued well into my middle age. "Cross the street, even in mid block, but don't walk past a dog," was my rule.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that this behavior needed serious modification. I started making friends with dogs. Dog guests are welcome visitors at our house now. The first dog visitor came alone. Late one afternoon, I heard a persistent scratching at the front door. Going to see who was there, I saw a large, white dog with a big doggy smile enthusiastically pawing the glass.

I went outside on the porch and asked him to sit. He did. Then he shook paws and gave me some dog kisses. Had the pet goddess sent me the perfect dog?

Our local radio station and constable helped us find the dog's owners. This lovely dog, a Samoyed, had been stolen from his yard, fourteen miles from our house. How he ended up on our front porch will remain a mystery.

Quill is our favorite dog visitor. After flunking out of guide dog class for chasing a porcupine, Quill was adopted by a good friend of ours. Quill loves coming to our country house and even tries to help her lady with the 70 mile drive. "Back seat" and "Stay" are difficult concepts, but Quill is learning.

The Tooley cats have let us know quite emphatically that they are not in favor of us acquiring a Tooley dog. However, our son and his family in San Diego have a great Tooley dog. Her name is Della, and she choose to live at our son's house. She started out to be the neighbor's dog who came over to visit. But one day, she just forgot to ever go home again.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Dogs

When I was three, our neighbor's dog knocked me down and stole my graham cracker. I was traumatized and immediately developed a fear that all dogs were graham cracker grabbing monsters.

This phobia continued well into my middle age. "Cross the street, even in mid block, but don't walk past a dog," was my rule.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that this behavior needed serious modification. I started making friends with dogs. Dog guests are welcome visitors at our house now. The first dog visitor came alone. Late one afternoon, I heard a persistent scratching at the front door. Going to see who was there, I saw a large, white dog with a big doggy smile enthusiastically pawing the glass.

I went outside on the porch and asked him to sit. He did. Then he shook paws and gave me some dog kisses. Had the pet goddess sent me the perfect dog?

Our local radio station and constable helped us find the dog's owners. This lovely dog, a Samoyed, had been stolen from his yard, fourteen miles from our house. How he ended up on our front porch will remain a mystery.

Quill is our favorite dog visitor. After flunking out of guide dog class for chasing a porcupine, Quill was adopted by a good friend of ours. Quill loves coming to our country house and even tries to help her lady with the 70 mile drive. "Back seat" and "Stay" are difficult concepts, but Quill is learning.

The Tooley cats have let us know quite emphatically that they are not in favor of us acquiring a Tooley dog. However, our son and his family in San Diego have a great Tooley dog. Her name is Della, and she choose to live at our son's house. She started out to be the neighbor's dog who came over to visit. But one day, she just forgot to ever go home again.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment