Having a birthday on New Years Eve is no picnic. Restaurant prices are inflated, drunks fill the roads, everyone is sick of buying presents and the weather is atrocious.
But one memorable year when I was a young mother, my birthday was a picnic - literally. My husband and kids cranked up the thermostat, dressed in shorts and sandals, moved back the living room furniture and spread out our picnic sheet in the middle of the room. We all sat around feasting on our favorite summer picnic foods... tuna sandwiches, potato chips and raw vegetables. The sheet kept the cake crumbs moderately contained.
The years passed and our family scattered, mostly to the southwest. I realized that the perfect cure for a winter birthday was within grasp. Money was no longer as tight, and I could leave the birthday blizzards behind.
My dear mother-in-law in Tucson gave me a birthday party for many, many years. She had finally figured out that my favorite color was not brown. Therefore the kitchen table in her trailer sported her best Vera designed tablecloth covered with purple violets. Everything she cooked tasted wonderful, and her cakes were legendary. She pegged me as an angel food type.
I wish these birthdays could have lasted forever, but, as Robert Frost noted, "nothing gold can stay". So here's fair warning to my family and friends in warm climates... don't be surprised if you find me on your doorstep on December 31.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Tree
Your children should never forgive you for certain things. In my case it would be the living Christmas tree.
Like many disasters, this one started with the noblest intentions. I had read that in many parts of the country people bought small, real pine trees balled in burlap for their Christmas trees. After the holidays, the tree was moved to a patio or deck and then planted when weather allowed.
Our nurseries in Wisconsin are all closed for the winter as our yards are solidly frozen.
So I was delighted to spot a nursery in South Bend, Indiana, that had rows of these living Christmas trees for sale. Our family was returning home from a Thanksgiving trip, our two children tucked in the back seat. I must add that we have never owned a large car.
I rallied the troops. "We can do this", I pleaded. "It's only 170 miles. We can save a tree." The kids were aghast, but they stoically allowed us to jam the tree with its sizable earth ball between them in the back seat.
Somehow our mobile nursery arrived home, and the tree was appropriately adorned for the season. The kids would have preferred a 10 footer. After New Years, the tree was removed to the deck to await Spring's arrival. In Wisconsin a four month wait is de rigueur.
My husband dutifully dug the hole as soon as he could get his shovel into the ground. The little tree was planted with high hopes. I'm sure you all know the 3 word outcome of this story. The tree died. To which I will add that my son plans to spend the rest of his life in California, a state where living Christmas trees stand a fighting chance.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Gadgets
Gadgets are primarily guy things. I figured this out many years ago when my brother-in-law gave me a battery-operated paper towel dispenser as a Christmas present. Push a button and, voila, one sheet winds down. He was smitten. I was dumbfounded. This device defined superfluousness to me.
My husband loves gadgets, too, but he tries hard not to impose them on me. Occasionally, he cannot resist trying to enhance my life with gadgetry. The electric broom would be a good example. No, this gizmo is not a carpet sweeper. It looks exactly like a good, old-fashioned broom, bristles and all. The electric part zooms into action to suck up the pile one has manually swept up. In other words, the broom fills up with dirt. Give me a dust pan any day.
Needless to say, I have very few gadgets around the house. I absolutely do not need electric toothbrushes, Cuisinarts, bread machines, leaf blowers or electric cheese graters. Don't get me wrong. I believe a few gadgets are so essential that they should be in a gadget hall of fame. I would nominate:
- The compact hand-held hair dryer
- The Swing-Away manual can opener
- The gizmo that opens stuck jar lids
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Recycle
We had one of our best Christmas trees in July, and it required absolutely no effort on our part.
This very special tree started out with hundreds of others on a tree farm in Central Wisconsin. We met up with it one blustery December day in our Piggly Wiggly store's parking lot. Once home, the tree was ensconced in the dining room and carefully decorated by my husband.
When the holidays were over, we recycled the tree. Down to the beach it went to ultimately be turned into driftwood by the wave action in Lake Michigan.
We would occasionally see our tree, now sans needles, when we were able to take long walks on the beach in spring. The tree would wash up and down the beach, but it also disappeared for weeks at a time. By the start of summer, the tree had vanished.
One July day we were coming back to our beach stairs after a hike, and there it was on our neighbor's beach, our tree, planted upright in the sand and completely decorated with dead fish. You will just have to imagine this, as we were laughing so hard our last thought was of getting a camera.
We later found out that the fish tree was the brainstorm of our neighbor's grandson. He hung the dead fish from the holes where their eyes used to be. (Gulls eat the eyes of the dead fish that float in) You might say our entire neighborhood is big on recycling.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
This very special tree started out with hundreds of others on a tree farm in Central Wisconsin. We met up with it one blustery December day in our Piggly Wiggly store's parking lot. Once home, the tree was ensconced in the dining room and carefully decorated by my husband.
When the holidays were over, we recycled the tree. Down to the beach it went to ultimately be turned into driftwood by the wave action in Lake Michigan.
We would occasionally see our tree, now sans needles, when we were able to take long walks on the beach in spring. The tree would wash up and down the beach, but it also disappeared for weeks at a time. By the start of summer, the tree had vanished.
One July day we were coming back to our beach stairs after a hike, and there it was on our neighbor's beach, our tree, planted upright in the sand and completely decorated with dead fish. You will just have to imagine this, as we were laughing so hard our last thought was of getting a camera.
We later found out that the fish tree was the brainstorm of our neighbor's grandson. He hung the dead fish from the holes where their eyes used to be. (Gulls eat the eyes of the dead fish that float in) You might say our entire neighborhood is big on recycling.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Grinch
It appears as though the Grinch has stolen the American economy. Moreover, it doesn't look as if he's bringing it back any time soon.
Every since 1957 when Dr Seuss, aka Theodor Seuss Geisel, invented the cantankerous Grinch, the annual telling of the Grinch story is as traditional as the Nutcracker. Christmas almost can't happen in America without the Grinch.
Any toddler can tell you that the poor residents of Whoville have all their trees, trimmings, presents and feasts stolen by Mr. Grinch. BUT CHRISTMAS COMES JUST THE SAME! Eyes all over America tear up at this point in the telling.
We have a reality check about to occur. Will American children delight in playing board games with their folks as opposed to getting a 58 inch plasma TV under their tree? Can Christmas come for our kids without a boatload of toxic Chinese made toys waiting to be unwrapped? Can Christmas occur for the big folks without the latest techie gadgets?
Everyone professes to believe that the Whos in Whoville had a true Christmas, sans presents, trees and trimmings. But what if the Grinch's heart, aka the American economy, doesn't grow three sizes? We are probably about to find out the truth behind the legend.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Every since 1957 when Dr Seuss, aka Theodor Seuss Geisel, invented the cantankerous Grinch, the annual telling of the Grinch story is as traditional as the Nutcracker. Christmas almost can't happen in America without the Grinch.
Any toddler can tell you that the poor residents of Whoville have all their trees, trimmings, presents and feasts stolen by Mr. Grinch. BUT CHRISTMAS COMES JUST THE SAME! Eyes all over America tear up at this point in the telling.
We have a reality check about to occur. Will American children delight in playing board games with their folks as opposed to getting a 58 inch plasma TV under their tree? Can Christmas come for our kids without a boatload of toxic Chinese made toys waiting to be unwrapped? Can Christmas occur for the big folks without the latest techie gadgets?
Everyone professes to believe that the Whos in Whoville had a true Christmas, sans presents, trees and trimmings. But what if the Grinch's heart, aka the American economy, doesn't grow three sizes? We are probably about to find out the truth behind the legend.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Grandma
Over the river and through the woods was definitely not the route to my grandmother's house on Thanksgiving or any other day. The road went past the factories and around the taverns.
My grandmother lived upstairs in a dreary German flat on Milwaukee's south side. Even on the sunniest day her house was dark inside; the frugal Germans built these massive blocks of houses with only a few feet in between them.
My father dropped me off at Grandma's house every Sunday afternoon, and I adored being there. My grandmother, a typical German Housefrau in her faded, sagging house dress and run down carpet slippers, was wonderful to me.
Her house did not have a single toy in it, but the hours were richly filled. When I was very little, Grandma filled the old fashioned kitchen sink, and I would stand on a chair and simply play in the water. She also let me bang on the old, out-of-tune piano for hours, a monumental act of patience on her part.
Grandma taught me Canasta when I got bigger. She also made a valiant attempt to teach me to crochet, but I could never get beyond the chain stitch. She was definitely more successful in introducing me to cooking. I watched with fascination as she rolled out homemade noodles and hung them on the chair backs to dry.
My parents came back at dinnertime. The evening meal invariably involved something with noodles and schaum torte for dessert. Ed Sullivan always followed dinner, although he was barely discernible through the snow on the TV screen. Grandma's favorite show came next.
My grandmother, a staunch German Lutheran, was the biggest fan in America of the Yiddish comic, Molly Goldberg. She would have loved to have had Molly as a next door neighbor. My multi-cultural education began early.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
My grandmother lived upstairs in a dreary German flat on Milwaukee's south side. Even on the sunniest day her house was dark inside; the frugal Germans built these massive blocks of houses with only a few feet in between them.
My father dropped me off at Grandma's house every Sunday afternoon, and I adored being there. My grandmother, a typical German Housefrau in her faded, sagging house dress and run down carpet slippers, was wonderful to me.
Her house did not have a single toy in it, but the hours were richly filled. When I was very little, Grandma filled the old fashioned kitchen sink, and I would stand on a chair and simply play in the water. She also let me bang on the old, out-of-tune piano for hours, a monumental act of patience on her part.
Grandma taught me Canasta when I got bigger. She also made a valiant attempt to teach me to crochet, but I could never get beyond the chain stitch. She was definitely more successful in introducing me to cooking. I watched with fascination as she rolled out homemade noodles and hung them on the chair backs to dry.
My parents came back at dinnertime. The evening meal invariably involved something with noodles and schaum torte for dessert. Ed Sullivan always followed dinner, although he was barely discernible through the snow on the TV screen. Grandma's favorite show came next.
My grandmother, a staunch German Lutheran, was the biggest fan in America of the Yiddish comic, Molly Goldberg. She would have loved to have had Molly as a next door neighbor. My multi-cultural education began early.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Duck
The lone duck was hunkered down in the sand on the beach in front of our neighbor's cottage. We spotted him when we were going down the stairs to take a beach walk.
We both suspected a problem. Ducks are flock birds; a single one is usually sick or injured with a broken wing, bullet hole or broken foot.
We mutually agreed to take our walk in the opposite direction so as not to frighten this wild, possibly immobile creature. When we came back a while later, the duck had not moved.
"Don't interfere with nature" is a wise rule. However, I suggested that we might bring a pan of water and a dish of cracked corn down and place them a distance from the bird. Rehabbers have told me that many injured birds die from dehydration.
I went back to work in the house, and my husband took down the food and water.
A short while later he walked into the house with a smile and said, "Don't worry, the duck is fine. In fact, he came up with me. He's on the deck now."
I was incredulous. But there he was on our deck.
The duck was a decoy washed ashore by the waves.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
We both suspected a problem. Ducks are flock birds; a single one is usually sick or injured with a broken wing, bullet hole or broken foot.
We mutually agreed to take our walk in the opposite direction so as not to frighten this wild, possibly immobile creature. When we came back a while later, the duck had not moved.
"Don't interfere with nature" is a wise rule. However, I suggested that we might bring a pan of water and a dish of cracked corn down and place them a distance from the bird. Rehabbers have told me that many injured birds die from dehydration.
I went back to work in the house, and my husband took down the food and water.
A short while later he walked into the house with a smile and said, "Don't worry, the duck is fine. In fact, he came up with me. He's on the deck now."
I was incredulous. But there he was on our deck.
The duck was a decoy washed ashore by the waves.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Stitches
My cousin sews a mean seam. She selects gorgeous fabrics, makes her own patterns and sews stunning clothes. I am in awe of great seamstresses.
Unfortunately, I did not inherit the family gene for sewing. Early in our marriage, my husband gave me a sewing machine as a very special, surprise Christmas present. The real surprise turned out to be how ill-suited this machine and I were to each other.
The instruction manual for my sewing machine was positively frightening. Plus it was written in a strange hybrid language best described as Japanese English. No matter how hard I tried to follow the directions, bad things always happened; big loopy stitches, puckered up stitches, very wavy lines of stitches.
I quickly figured out that putting a garment together also required accurate measuring. My preferred method of measuring has always been "eyeballing".
Fortunately for me, sack dresses were in style at that time. I actually managed to sew several large rectangles together with a drawstring on top. Fashion was on my side.
My sewing machine and I parted company one day when I was mending split seams. The bobbin had turned itself into a piece of tumbleweed. I yelled to my 10 year old son for help. He took a long, hard look at what I had done to the machine.
"Just go do something else," he said. "I'll do the sewing for you."
Through the years I have inherited two more sewing machines. I immediately put them out for adoption.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Unfortunately, I did not inherit the family gene for sewing. Early in our marriage, my husband gave me a sewing machine as a very special, surprise Christmas present. The real surprise turned out to be how ill-suited this machine and I were to each other.
The instruction manual for my sewing machine was positively frightening. Plus it was written in a strange hybrid language best described as Japanese English. No matter how hard I tried to follow the directions, bad things always happened; big loopy stitches, puckered up stitches, very wavy lines of stitches.
I quickly figured out that putting a garment together also required accurate measuring. My preferred method of measuring has always been "eyeballing".
Fortunately for me, sack dresses were in style at that time. I actually managed to sew several large rectangles together with a drawstring on top. Fashion was on my side.
My sewing machine and I parted company one day when I was mending split seams. The bobbin had turned itself into a piece of tumbleweed. I yelled to my 10 year old son for help. He took a long, hard look at what I had done to the machine.
"Just go do something else," he said. "I'll do the sewing for you."
Through the years I have inherited two more sewing machines. I immediately put them out for adoption.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Voting
It's election day, and I won't have to call my kids and remind them to vote. I tried that once and learned my lesson.
Years ago I phoned my married son to remind him it was election day. When I was shortly into my diatribe, he asked me to stop.
"I know what you are going to say," he said. "You're going to tell me about your grandmother." And then he added, "Of course I've voted."
I laughed and reminded myself that it is wise to desist when your message has been delivered effectively. The following is what I didn't have to tell him... again.
When I was growing up, we always got a phone call before every election from my long widowed grandmother. "Edward," she would say, "can you please take me to vote next Tuesday?"
My father unfailingly assisted his mother year after year in the performance of her civic duty.
My father's family was poor, and my grandmother lived most of her lifetime in a dreary "German" flat. She rented the choicer downstairs flat, thus getting a little extra rent income to help pay the bills. In her final years, climbing the steep, dark and twisted flight of stairs was almost impossible for her. But until the end of her life the pre-election day phone call was ritual.
I must add that she often told my dad, "I have to vote for Frank." For those of you unfamiliar with Milwaukee's history, Frank Zeidler was the last in a long line of Milwaukee's socialist mayors. They studded Milwaukee with beautiful schools, parks, libraries and natatoriums.
To me "socialist" is not an evil word. My grandmother couldn't possibly have been wrong.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Years ago I phoned my married son to remind him it was election day. When I was shortly into my diatribe, he asked me to stop.
"I know what you are going to say," he said. "You're going to tell me about your grandmother." And then he added, "Of course I've voted."
I laughed and reminded myself that it is wise to desist when your message has been delivered effectively. The following is what I didn't have to tell him... again.
When I was growing up, we always got a phone call before every election from my long widowed grandmother. "Edward," she would say, "can you please take me to vote next Tuesday?"
My father unfailingly assisted his mother year after year in the performance of her civic duty.
My father's family was poor, and my grandmother lived most of her lifetime in a dreary "German" flat. She rented the choicer downstairs flat, thus getting a little extra rent income to help pay the bills. In her final years, climbing the steep, dark and twisted flight of stairs was almost impossible for her. But until the end of her life the pre-election day phone call was ritual.
I must add that she often told my dad, "I have to vote for Frank." For those of you unfamiliar with Milwaukee's history, Frank Zeidler was the last in a long line of Milwaukee's socialist mayors. They studded Milwaukee with beautiful schools, parks, libraries and natatoriums.
To me "socialist" is not an evil word. My grandmother couldn't possibly have been wrong.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Juggler
My husband is a dexterous juggler, and he has Halloween to thank for this delightful skill.
Shortly after we were married, I received an invitation to a Halloween costume party. This was not the type of party where a ghost costume fashioned from an old sheet or a witch hat and broom would suffice. The hundred or so guests were all artists and writers. Imagination and creativity would be running rampant. In other words, the pressure was on.
Since I regard even everyday clothes as costumes, I was in my element. My husband, however, was mortified. This is a man who regards sunblock, hand lotion and even first aid cream as disgusting slime. Dressing up as a giant Twinkie, Cyclops or a three headed dragon was unthinkable to him.
I hesitantly inquired, "What are you going to be?"
"A juggler," was the reply.
"But", I noted, "you don't know how to juggle."
To which he said, "I will."
And he did. No grease paint or bizarre costume was necessary. He wore a black turtleneck and slacks. Ironically, I have absolutely no recollection of what I wore to that soiree.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Snake
I have to confess that I've lost my snake. And what's worse, I've lost it before I could determine if it was alive or dead.
Let me explain. Last Sunday we took a walk down our lovely Lake Shore Road. On the way home I found a small snake (7 inches long, as thick as a pencil) on the asphalt shoulder of the road. It was not squashed by a car, but it was not moving, either.
Unable to check a snake's vital signs, I decided to get it out of harm's way.
When we all arrived home, I put the inert little snake in a Tupperware bowl, sans lid, just in case it was still alive. I put the bowl on a table in the "suitcase" room downstairs.
Then I consulted my "Snakes of Wisconsin" book. Since our state only has 21 kinds of snakes, I quickly identified my little guy as a Northern Redbelly Snake. The book said, "This species is often seen on warm sunny days in September or October basking on back roads."
Yesterday, when I came home from work, I went downstairs to check on the "dead" snake. The bowl was empty. The cats aren't talking, and the snake (alive or dead) is nowhere to be seen.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Upstaged
I was definitely upstaged last week, and I don't mind one bit. Anyone who would try to compete with a mouse for children's attention is a fool. Fortunately, I have learned that people charm is trumped every time by animal charisma.
The mouse in question was spotted scampering around a classroom just minutes before I arrived to do a program. Not one child had anything but mouse on their mind. All I could be was a second tier act. My career has prepared me for such humbling incidents.
The bookstore cat comes to mind. My program was going smoothly, and the bookstore cat was discreetly hanging out on the fringes of the group of children. Then I brought out my cat marionette. Bookstore cat proceeded to arch its back, make every hair on its body stand on end and hiss like a cobra. No strange feline was going to invade his territory. Nothing I could have done would have topped that act.
The lonely dog episode was another challenging scenario. I was at a very small library, and the program had to be done outside on a grassy lawn. I was facing the library with my back to the brick walled building next door. As soon as I started, a dog appeared in the second story window above my head. And this pup was extremely happy to have 50 kids and a program lady right below him. His owner was obviously not home, and the dog wanted to come out and join the fun. He communicated his desire by barking happily for the entire hour.
But my most challenging program involved 50 girl scouts and an open air park pavilion. As I was doing the program, I spotted the skunk heading out of the woods directly toward us. I told everyone to freeze. By some miracle and the influence of great scout leaders, the girls became statues. The skunk waddled into the pavilion, got into a trash can, had lunch and left. I am happy to report that none of us needed tomato juice baths that night.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Gibraltor
I am a failure as a consumer of durable goods. I have only bought one stove in my entire life.
For over thirty years I cooked and baked with the Rock of Gibraltor. That was the name we lovingly gave to our free stove. The rock was 30 years old when we inherited it. The woman who sold us her house was moving to Seattle and had no desire to move her ancient behemoth of a range.
In the 30 years I used it, I never figured out all its remarkable features... a deep well burner complete with kettle for soups, a cracker crisper drawer, a warming oven, dish towel drying racks, various timers and automatic starters. The stellar feature was its solidity. If anything rolled under the stove, it was gone. The Rock of Gibraltor did not move.
The Rock was easy to repair. My handy husband would occasionally replace a burner or broken element and the stove would keep on cooking year after year.
When we finally moved to our present home, we couldn't conceive of moving a 10 ton, 60 year old stove. We reluctantly left it behind and bought a shiny new Maytag range.
I knew I was in trouble when the Maytag arrived with these instructions... "do not use burners at high heat for prolonged periods of time." I did. The supports that held up the burner coils immediately melted causing the pans and teakettles to slide off. In retrospect, we should have moved the Rock.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
For over thirty years I cooked and baked with the Rock of Gibraltor. That was the name we lovingly gave to our free stove. The rock was 30 years old when we inherited it. The woman who sold us her house was moving to Seattle and had no desire to move her ancient behemoth of a range.
In the 30 years I used it, I never figured out all its remarkable features... a deep well burner complete with kettle for soups, a cracker crisper drawer, a warming oven, dish towel drying racks, various timers and automatic starters. The stellar feature was its solidity. If anything rolled under the stove, it was gone. The Rock of Gibraltor did not move.
The Rock was easy to repair. My handy husband would occasionally replace a burner or broken element and the stove would keep on cooking year after year.
When we finally moved to our present home, we couldn't conceive of moving a 10 ton, 60 year old stove. We reluctantly left it behind and bought a shiny new Maytag range.
I knew I was in trouble when the Maytag arrived with these instructions... "do not use burners at high heat for prolonged periods of time." I did. The supports that held up the burner coils immediately melted causing the pans and teakettles to slide off. In retrospect, we should have moved the Rock.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Monday, September 29, 2008
Minnesota
I spend a fair amount of time in places other than my Midwest Wisconsin home. Therefore, I need to lodge a complaint to the rest of America. I am not, repeat not, from Minnesota (or Minn-ah-soda, if pronounced with the regional accent). Nor do I have any desire to be a Golden Gopher.
People in New Mexico are amused that many Americans mistake their state for an entire country, Mexico. We Wisconsinites have no such luck. We are diminished to the status of a gigantic Minneapolis suburb.
My aunt's eye doctor (in New Mexico which I know is a state) is a prime example. He knows I fly in to accompany my aunt to her appointments. Yet every visit he says to me, "How are things in - um - Minnesota?" "Great, as far as I know," I reply. And then I tell him for the umpteenth time that I live in Wisconsin. I am seriously considering wearing a large cheesehead to my aunt's next appointment. A Green Bay Packer sweatshirt will probably be necessary, too.
Wisconsin is desperately in need of a serious branding campaign. Our license plates meekly say "America's Dairyland". I suggest we replace this with "Eat Cheese or Die". That will get us a bit of well-deserved attention. Residents of the Big Mitten, rise up! We've got nothing to lose - but Minnesota.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Treasures
Japan wisely designates certain special citizens as living national treasures. If America ever becomes enlightened enough to emulate this practice, I know exactly who I would nominate. The apple lady would get my vote.
I met this amazing woman by default. Every fall I do a children's program, "All About Apples", which combines botany, folklore, nutrition and my own unabashed love for the fruit. I start the program by introducing the apple family - Mac, Milton, Jonathan, Paula Red, Granny Smith, Fuji, Ida Red and more choice specimens from the apple family tree.
In pursuit of as many apple varieties as possible, I head to the West Allis Farmers Market. One memorable year, I stopped at the sprawling stand of one of the biggest orchards and politely asked for one apple of each variety. The owner derisively replied, "Oh, you're one of those", meaning, of course, another grade school teacher wasting his time.
I left his display and found a small stand in a far corner of the market. A solitary older woman manned the stall, and her face looked exactly like that of an apple doll; browned, happy and weathered by many seasons in the sun.
She met my request with unparalleled enthusiasm and told me about her family's orchard which is devoted to saving antique apples. I learned that America loses hundreds of apple varieties each year. I already knew that most kids think an apple is a rock hard, utterly tasteless, corporately grown Red Delicious.
She introduced me to her apple family - apples grown since the time of Thomas Jefferson, apples perfect for pie making, an apple called Alexander which was first cultivated in Russia in the 1700's. And then she showed me an unassuming smallish Pink Pearl apple which wasn't very pink at all; that is, until it's cut open. The entire inside of the fruit is a delicate shade of pink. What kid, especially girls, can resist the charms of a pink apple?
"Come back next month," the apple lady always says. "Wolf River and Spy will be ready then." I'll take her up on that.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Monday, September 15, 2008
Scoop
My father once bought a half gallon carton of Sealtest New York Cherry Vanilla Ice Cream every week for thirty-two weeks. When my father discovered something good, he saw no reason to change course. It took me about thirty-two years to be able to put a spoonful of that flavor in my mouth again.
We always ate out on Saturday night, and my dad's unbroken record in this department outlasted the cherry vanilla siege. My mother would ask, "Where would you like to go to eat?" Breaking into a huge smile, my dad would say, "How about a nice chop suey dinner?" Year after year we were faithful weekly patrons at La Choy Chinese Restaurant on North Avenue in Milwaukee. By the time I reached high school, I knew I would never willingly enter another Chinese restaurant for the rest of my life. The words "egg foo yung" still strike terror into my heart.
But genes are tricky things. After I bought my twentieth consecutive box of Trader Joe's Ginger Granola, my husband delicately suggested that there might be other flavors available. He chides me when I am unabashedly my father's daughter. I laugh at myself, too.
I know I'm being completely unadventurous when I discover a favorite dish at a restaurant and order that dish every time. But for me, a dependably great entree trumps the unknown one every time. So if The Flying Star Restaurants ever take Pasta Pomodoro off the menu, I know I'll stage a protest right on the spot. Life is too short to waste a meal and calories on anything else.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Aliens
My husband came home one day last week and said, "You have to drive past the big cow when you go into town." Although prodded, he declined to elaborate.
A few hours later I drove past the gigantic fiberglass bovine which graces the front lawn of our local ice cream plant. She was wrapped in aluminum foil, shod in foil moon boots and had a green inflatable alien riding on her back.
A drive further into town revealed more aliens looking out of store windows and taking over the townfolks' lawns. Obviously, our closest town, Manitowoc, is giving Roswell, New Mexico, a challenge to their alien supremacy.
The occasion for the invasion was Sputnikfest, the brain child of the new head of our art museum. I applaud her; she apparently reasoned that if art won't get people in the doors of the museum, maybe aliens will.
Sputnikfest memorializes the night of September 5, 1962 when a 20 1/2 pound piece of metal from Russia's disintegrating Sputnik IV was found embedded in the street in front of the museum. A capsule account follows:
Two police officers on routine patrol spotted what they thought to be crumpled cardboard on the roadway at 5:45AM. Passing by again at 6:45AM, they noted the object was metal and stopped to move it. It was too hot to handle, so they shoved it to the curb with their feet. Cruising by once more at 8:00AM, they noted it was still warm. At noon the officers learned that the Milwaukee Astronomical Society was asking for reports from anyone finding pieces of the disintegrating Sputnik Satellite. The officers returned to the spot, loaded the suspicious, smoldering metal into their patrol car and brought it to police headquarters for questioning.
It is only logical that the anniversary of this event makes a perfect excuse to drink beer, listen to 60's music and view spacey art.
Aliens
My husband came home one day last week and said, "You have to drive past the big cow when you go into town." Although prodded, he declined to elaborate.
A few hours later I drove past the gigantic fiberglass bovine which graces the front lawn of our local ice cream plant. She was wrapped in aluminum foil, shod in foil moon boots and had a green inflatable alien riding on her back.
A drive further into town revealed more aliens looking out of store windows and taking over the townfolks' lawns. Obviously, our closest town, Manitowoc, is giving Roswell, New Mexico, a challenge to their alien supremacy.
The occasion for the invasion was Sputnikfest, the brain child of the new head of our art museum. I applaud her; she apparently reasoned that if art won't get people in the doors of the museum, maybe aliens will.
Sputnikfest memorializes the night of September 5, 1962 when a 20 1/2 pound piece of metal from Russia's disintegrating Sputnik IV was found embedded in the street in front of the museum. A capsule account follows:
Two police officers on routine patrol spotted what they thought to be crumpled cardboard on the roadway at 5:45AM. Passing by again at 6:45AM, they noted the object was metal and stopped to move it. It was too hot to handle, so they shoved it to the curb with their feet. Cruising by once more at 8:00AM, they noted it was still warm. At noon the officers learned that the Milwaukee Astronomical Society was asking for reports from anyone finding pieces of the disintegrating Sputnik Satellite. The officers returned to the spot, loaded the suspicious, smoldering metal into their patrol car and brought it to police headquarters for questioning.
It is only logical that the anniversary of this event makes a perfect excuse to drink beer, listen to 60's music and view spacey art.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Endings
My husband has been increasingly more morose lately, and I know exactly what's wrong. He abhors fall. What I view as the glorious signs of late summer, he sees as the ominous portents of winter.
I have to use every feminine wile I possess to keep him from ripping out all our beautiful yellow plumes of goldenrod. He is unfazed when I point out that our local nursery sells a small pot of it for nine dollars. To him those glowing plants are sure signs that blizzards are on their way.
I love autumn and see it with different eyes. All the plants and animals have been working at peak speed all summer, growing and reproducing. Now is the time to ratchet down and relax for a while.
The prairie grasses have given up on pumping out their chlorophyll and are content to bask in shades of gold. The tree leaves forget about green as well and reveal the glorious colors they were hiding all summer long. The giant sea grass that lines our front drive are sporting white plumes. No more pushing to the sun for them. The cup plants are also at their full eight foot heights and have invited all the finches and butterflies over to drink and dine.
Meanwhile, the sun has noticeably given up its northern journey and is content to set much earlier. Monarchs and many of our birds begin following it in pursuit of never ending summer. Those of us who stay behind gather up the largesse from summer and cache it. I use my freezer; the squirrels and jays prefer holes in trees.
My husband will never believe this, but, if we are lucky, these lazy, generous days can last all the way to Halloween. It's not over until the last leaf falls.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Endings
My husband has been increasingly more morose lately, and I know exactly what's wrong. He abhors fall. What I view as the glorious signs of late summer, he sees as the ominous portents of winter.
I have to use every feminine wile I possess to keep him from ripping out all our beautiful yellow plumes of goldenrod. He is unfazed when I point out that our local nursery sells a small pot of it for nine dollars. To him those glowing plants are sure signs that blizzards are on their way.
I love autumn and see it with different eyes. All the plants and animals have been working at peak speed all summer, growing and reproducing. Now is the time to ratchet down and relax for a while.
The prairie grasses have given up on pumping out their chlorophyll and are content to bask in shades of gold. The tree leaves forget about green as well and reveal the glorious colors they were hiding all summer long. The giant sea grass that lines our front drive are sporting white plumes. No more pushing to the sun for them. The cup plants are also at their full eight foot heights and have invited all the finches and butterflies over to drink and dine.
Meanwhile, the sun has noticeably given up its northern journey and is content to set much earlier. Monarchs and many of our birds begin following it in pursuit of never ending summer. Those of us who stay behind gather up the largesse from summer and cache it. I use my freezer; the squirrels and jays prefer holes in trees.
My husband will never believe this, but, if we are lucky, these lazy, generous days can last all the way to Halloween. It's not over until the last leaf falls.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Atomic
Unbeknownst to me at the time, our family lived for thirty years in an atomic ranch. That is the 21st century name for mid-century modern houses. Now there is even a magazine of that name, Atomic Ranch, which is completely devoted to 50's and 60's design.
At first sight, I fell in love with our 1950's atomic ranch. With 1,100 square feet, it featured a low-pitched gravel roof, cathedral ceilings, huge floor to ceiling windows, redwood paneling and a carport. There was no attic, basement or garage. Is it any surprise I'm a minimalist? I had no storage for 30 years!
Our wonderful house also was sans stairs. This was a delightful feature until our young children started walking. Navigating stairs is a learned skill. We had to go to grandma's house for stair practice.
Appropriately, we furnished our mid-century house with mid-century furniture. Bertoia, Saarinen, Panton, Eames and Knoll are my design heroes, and I expect their chairs and tables will last us a lifetime.
The house, however, had a sad ending. When our kids were grown and married, we decided to pack up and move to the lake.
My husband and I made superhuman efforts to find buyers who would appreciate the architectural value of our home. But we couldn't even find a realtor who understood design. She tartly informed us our house was in "mint condition, but badly in need of modernizing".
After we moved, my son advised me never, never to drive past our old home as it had been "brutally remodeled".
I have taken his advice. Our dear mid-century modern home lives happily in my memory - exactly as it was.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
At first sight, I fell in love with our 1950's atomic ranch. With 1,100 square feet, it featured a low-pitched gravel roof, cathedral ceilings, huge floor to ceiling windows, redwood paneling and a carport. There was no attic, basement or garage. Is it any surprise I'm a minimalist? I had no storage for 30 years!
Our wonderful house also was sans stairs. This was a delightful feature until our young children started walking. Navigating stairs is a learned skill. We had to go to grandma's house for stair practice.
Appropriately, we furnished our mid-century house with mid-century furniture. Bertoia, Saarinen, Panton, Eames and Knoll are my design heroes, and I expect their chairs and tables will last us a lifetime.
The house, however, had a sad ending. When our kids were grown and married, we decided to pack up and move to the lake.
My husband and I made superhuman efforts to find buyers who would appreciate the architectural value of our home. But we couldn't even find a realtor who understood design. She tartly informed us our house was in "mint condition, but badly in need of modernizing".
After we moved, my son advised me never, never to drive past our old home as it had been "brutally remodeled".
I have taken his advice. Our dear mid-century modern home lives happily in my memory - exactly as it was.
Atomic
Unbeknownst to me at the time, our family lived for thirty years in an atomic ranch. That is the 21st century name for mid-century modern houses. Now there is even a magazine of that name, Atomic Ranch, which is completely devoted to 50's and 60's design.
At first sight, I fell in love with our 1950's atomic ranch. With 1,100 square feet, it featured a low-pitched gravel roof, cathedral ceilings, huge floor to ceiling windows, redwood paneling and a carport. There was no attic, basement or garage. Is it any surprise I'm a minimalist? I had no storage for 30 years!
Our wonderful house also was sans stairs. This was a delightful feature until our young children started walking. Navigating stairs is a learned skill. We had to go to grandma's house for stair practice.
Appropriately, we furnished our mid-century house with mid-century furniture. Bertoia, Saarinen, Panton, Eames and Knoll are my design heroes, and I expect their chairs and tables will last us a lifetime.
The house, however, had a sad ending. When our kids were grown and married, we decided to pack up and move to the lake.
My husband and I made superhuman efforts to find buyers who would appreciate the architectural value of our home. But we couldn't even find a realtor who understood design. She tartly informed us our house was in "mint condition, but badly in need of modernizing".
After we moved, my son advised me never, never to drive past our old home as it had been "brutally remodeled".
I have taken his advice. Our dear mid-century modern home lives happily in my memory - exactly as it was.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
At first sight, I fell in love with our 1950's atomic ranch. With 1,100 square feet, it featured a low-pitched gravel roof, cathedral ceilings, huge floor to ceiling windows, redwood paneling and a carport. There was no attic, basement or garage. Is it any surprise I'm a minimalist? I had no storage for 30 years!
Our wonderful house also was sans stairs. This was a delightful feature until our young children started walking. Navigating stairs is a learned skill. We had to go to grandma's house for stair practice.
Appropriately, we furnished our mid-century house with mid-century furniture. Bertoia, Saarinen, Panton, Eames and Knoll are my design heroes, and I expect their chairs and tables will last us a lifetime.
The house, however, had a sad ending. When our kids were grown and married, we decided to pack up and move to the lake.
My husband and I made superhuman efforts to find buyers who would appreciate the architectural value of our home. But we couldn't even find a realtor who understood design. She tartly informed us our house was in "mint condition, but badly in need of modernizing".
After we moved, my son advised me never, never to drive past our old home as it had been "brutally remodeled".
I have taken his advice. Our dear mid-century modern home lives happily in my memory - exactly as it was.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Raucous
This summer two crows have taken up residence in the small pine woods next to our house. Every morning in the predawn and dawn hours they proceed to organize the neighborhood for the day. Crows have 23 distinct calls, and strident variants of these calls shatter the morning silence.
Fortunately, corvids (ravens, crows, magpies and jays) are definitely my favorite birds. I can handle the morning cacophony.
Corvids are highly intelligent birds - no "bird brains" among them. A raven, for example, is half the size of a chicken but with a brain five times bigger.
Years ago, I observed a terrific con game pulled off by a pair of crows. Our neighbor's dog was fed chunks of liverwurst in his outdoor dog dish. One day crow number one flew right over the dog and then took off on a low flight path down the alley. Of course, the dog rocketed after it. That's when crow number two neatly scooped up the sausage chunk in his beak and retreated to the top of our gigantic willow tree. Crows share food, so crow number one soon joined in on the feast.
Ornithology books abound in observations of clever corvid behaviors. Ravens drop clams and walnuts on highways and let the cars crack the shells for them. Northern crows haul up the fishing line at ice holes when people aren't watching. A bird pulls some line up with its bill, steps firmly on the line and keeps pulling until the fish comes up. And, at one memorable Easter egg hunt in Alaska, the ravens made off with over 1,000 hidden colored eggs before the kids arrived.
Raven looms large in all Pacific Northwest Indian mythology. He is the creator, but also a powerful trickster. When the sun was stolen from the sky by an evil magician, raven is credited with returning it to its proper place. Perhaps that is why my neighborhood crows are so talkative in the morning. They are just welcoming back the sun they so generously returned to the heavens.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Raucous
This summer two crows have taken up residence in the small pine woods next to our house. Every morning in the predawn and dawn hours they proceed to organize the neighborhood for the day. Crows have 23 distinct calls, and strident variants of these calls shatter the morning silence.
Fortunately, corvids (ravens, crows, magpies and jays) are definitely my favorite birds. I can handle the morning cacophony.
Corvids are highly intelligent birds - no "bird brains" among them. A raven, for example, is half the size of a chicken but with a brain five times bigger.
Years ago, I observed a terrific con game pulled off by a pair of crows. Our neighbor's dog was fed chunks of liverwurst in his outdoor dog dish. One day crow number one flew right over the dog and then took off on a low flight path down the alley. Of course, the dog rocketed after it. That's when crow number two neatly scooped up the sausage chunk in his beak and retreated to the top of our gigantic willow tree. Crows share food, so crow number one soon joined in on the feast.
Ornithology books abound in observations of clever corvid behaviors. Ravens drop clams and walnuts on highways and let the cars crack the shells for them. Northern crows haul up the fishing line at ice holes when people aren't watching. A bird pulls some line up with its bill, steps firmly on the line and keeps pulling until the fish comes up. And, at one memorable Easter egg hunt in Alaska, the ravens made off with over 1,000 hidden colored eggs before the kids arrived.
Raven looms large in all Pacific Northwest Indian mythology. He is the creator, but also a powerful trickster. When the sun was stolen from the sky by an evil magician, raven is credited with returning it to its proper place. Perhaps that is why my neighborhood crows are so talkative in the morning. They are just welcoming back the sun they so generously returned to the heavens.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Wine
One of the greatest openings of any book I've ever read is from Glitz by Elmore Leonard.
"The night Vincent was shot he saw it coming. The guy approached out of the streetlight on the corner of Meridian and Sixteenth, South Beach, and reached Vincent as he was walking from his car to his apartment building. It was early, a few minutes past nine.These lines pretty well sum up my feelings toward wine. Dinner isn't complete without a glass of wine, but Gallo red is just fine. I'm a wine lover not an oenophile.
Vincent turned his head to look at the guy and there was a moment when he could have taken him and did consider it, hit the guy as hard as he could. But Vincent was carrying a sack of groceries. He wasn't going to drop a half gallon of Gallo Hearty Burgundy, a bottle of prune juice and a jar of Ragú spaghetti sauce on the sidewalk. Not even when the guy showed his gun..."
If given a taste test, I would only reject wines like Boone's Farm and Mogen David. Wine should absolutely not be a stand-in for NyQuil cough syrup, nor should it taste like some solvent in my art room.
This concise discussion of wine leaves time for the topic of wine glasses. We drink our daily wine out of slightly upscale juice glasses. Why? Because one memorable night our 26 pound cat, Gato, jumped up on the dinner table knocking a stemmed glass full of red wine over on to the back of his brother below. Alarmed, cat 2 proceeded to run all over the house shaking red wine everywhere. I donated all my wine stems to Goodwill the next day.
Wine
One of the greatest openings of any book I've ever read is from Glitz by Elmore Leonard.
"The night Vincent was shot he saw it coming. The guy approached out of the streetlight on the corner of Meridian and Sixteenth, South Beach, and reached Vincent as he was walking from his car to his apartment building. It was early, a few minutes past nine.These lines pretty well sum up my feelings toward wine. Dinner isn't complete without a glass of wine, but Gallo red is just fine. I'm a wine lover not an oenophile.
Vincent turned his head to look at the guy and there was a moment when he could have taken him and did consider it, hit the guy as hard as he could. But Vincent was carrying a sack of groceries. He wasn't going to drop a half gallon of Gallo Hearty Burgundy, a bottle of prune juice and a jar of Ragú spaghetti sauce on the sidewalk. Not even when the guy showed his gun..."
If given a taste test, I would only reject wines like Boone's Farm and Mogen David. Wine should absolutely not be a stand-in for NyQuil cough syrup, nor should it taste like some solvent in my art room.
This concise discussion of wine leaves time for the topic of wine glasses. We drink our daily wine out of slightly upscale juice glasses. Why? Because one memorable night our 26 pound cat, Gato, jumped up on the dinner table knocking a stemmed glass full of red wine over on to the back of his brother below. Alarmed, cat 2 proceeded to run all over the house shaking red wine everywhere. I donated all my wine stems to Goodwill the next day.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Slowathon
Is the opposite of a marathon a slowathon? If so, sign me up.
I don't understand triathlons, weight lifting, channel swimming, mountain scaling or the Tour de France. The only yellow jersey I will ever wear will be one of cowardice. I have no desire to beat my body to a pulp to achieve an adrenaline induced state of nirvana. I'm saving my adrenaline for dangerous situations that come uninvited.
When I first heard the term "sports medicine" I thought someone was joking. My second grade health book told me the purpose of sports was to build a "healthy body and mind". Now a billion dollar a year sports medicine industry exists to repair torn ligaments, ripped muscles and ravaged joints.
When asked why he climbed Mt. Everest, a famous mountain climber stated, "Because it is there."
My problem is I know the mountain will be there whether I climb it or not. Nor will I be more "there" if I climb it. What I might very possibly be, however, is injured, maimed or dead, no jolly outcomes from my vantage point.
This kind of thinking is not going to make me rich or famous, America's most prized cultural values. But I will have plenty of time for long strolls on the beach. That's my idea of a splendid slowathon.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
I don't understand triathlons, weight lifting, channel swimming, mountain scaling or the Tour de France. The only yellow jersey I will ever wear will be one of cowardice. I have no desire to beat my body to a pulp to achieve an adrenaline induced state of nirvana. I'm saving my adrenaline for dangerous situations that come uninvited.
When I first heard the term "sports medicine" I thought someone was joking. My second grade health book told me the purpose of sports was to build a "healthy body and mind". Now a billion dollar a year sports medicine industry exists to repair torn ligaments, ripped muscles and ravaged joints.
When asked why he climbed Mt. Everest, a famous mountain climber stated, "Because it is there."
My problem is I know the mountain will be there whether I climb it or not. Nor will I be more "there" if I climb it. What I might very possibly be, however, is injured, maimed or dead, no jolly outcomes from my vantage point.
This kind of thinking is not going to make me rich or famous, America's most prized cultural values. But I will have plenty of time for long strolls on the beach. That's my idea of a splendid slowathon.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Slowathon
Is the opposite of a marathon a slowathon? If so, sign me up.
I don't understand triathlons, weight lifting, channel swimming, mountain scaling or the Tour de France. The only yellow jersey I will ever wear will be one of cowardice. I have no desire to beat my body to a pulp to achieve an adrenaline induced state of nirvana. I'm saving my adrenaline for dangerous situations that come uninvited.
When I first heard the term "sports medicine" I thought someone was joking. My second grade health book told me the purpose of sports was to build a "healthy body and mind". Now a billion dollar a year sports medicine industry exists to repair torn ligaments, ripped muscles and ravaged joints.
When asked why he climbed Mt. Everest, a famous mountain climber stated, "Because it is there."
My problem is I know the mountain will be there whether I climb it or not. Nor will I be more "there" if I climb it. What I might very possibly be, however, is injured, maimed or dead, no jolly outcomes from my vantage point.
This kind of thinking is not going to make me rich or famous, America's most prized cultural values. But I will have plenty of time for long strolls on the beach. That's my idea of a splendid slowathon.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
I don't understand triathlons, weight lifting, channel swimming, mountain scaling or the Tour de France. The only yellow jersey I will ever wear will be one of cowardice. I have no desire to beat my body to a pulp to achieve an adrenaline induced state of nirvana. I'm saving my adrenaline for dangerous situations that come uninvited.
When I first heard the term "sports medicine" I thought someone was joking. My second grade health book told me the purpose of sports was to build a "healthy body and mind". Now a billion dollar a year sports medicine industry exists to repair torn ligaments, ripped muscles and ravaged joints.
When asked why he climbed Mt. Everest, a famous mountain climber stated, "Because it is there."
My problem is I know the mountain will be there whether I climb it or not. Nor will I be more "there" if I climb it. What I might very possibly be, however, is injured, maimed or dead, no jolly outcomes from my vantage point.
This kind of thinking is not going to make me rich or famous, America's most prized cultural values. But I will have plenty of time for long strolls on the beach. That's my idea of a splendid slowathon.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Wagons
I don't know if any of you have noticed, but a significant number of the sparkling new cars on the road now are reincarnations of station wagons. Of course, no one is calling these vehicles station wagons. That would be way too old-fashioned. They are called crossovers, which sounds vaguely transgender.
I, however, recognize a station wagon when I see one. In our family history of vehicle ownership, we owned one, our beloved, mud brown Ford Torino wagon.
Nobody pretended our Torino was glamorous. We bought it because we had two kids, one who always got carsick, and we all loved to travel. Bear in mind, this was in an era when seat belts hadn't been invented. Our road sick passenger could take a dramamine and stretch out on a mattress in the back. Her sibling could share the "way back" or have an entire back seat to himself. Our kids became great travelers (still are), and we enjoyed being with them.
We got our station wagon in the 1970s - just about the same time our American schools threw out all the geography books. Kids were apparently supposed to learn the globe by osmosis. My daughter told me many years later that she had a working knowledge of geography, unlike many of her peers, only because we "went places".
Many happy trips and our Wisconsin winters took their toll on our faithful brown wagon. Specifically, our back tailgate totally rusted out. We certainly didn't want our children to roll out somewhere in the Plains States.
My father-in-law, an auto body man who lived in Tucson, came to the rescue. One day the kids and I drove to the local truck terminal to pick up a big crate. Our almost new, rust-free Arizona tailgate had arrived... and it was bright red.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
I, however, recognize a station wagon when I see one. In our family history of vehicle ownership, we owned one, our beloved, mud brown Ford Torino wagon.
Nobody pretended our Torino was glamorous. We bought it because we had two kids, one who always got carsick, and we all loved to travel. Bear in mind, this was in an era when seat belts hadn't been invented. Our road sick passenger could take a dramamine and stretch out on a mattress in the back. Her sibling could share the "way back" or have an entire back seat to himself. Our kids became great travelers (still are), and we enjoyed being with them.
We got our station wagon in the 1970s - just about the same time our American schools threw out all the geography books. Kids were apparently supposed to learn the globe by osmosis. My daughter told me many years later that she had a working knowledge of geography, unlike many of her peers, only because we "went places".
Many happy trips and our Wisconsin winters took their toll on our faithful brown wagon. Specifically, our back tailgate totally rusted out. We certainly didn't want our children to roll out somewhere in the Plains States.
My father-in-law, an auto body man who lived in Tucson, came to the rescue. One day the kids and I drove to the local truck terminal to pick up a big crate. Our almost new, rust-free Arizona tailgate had arrived... and it was bright red.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Wagons
I don't know if any of you have noticed, but a significant number of the sparkling new cars on the road now are reincarnations of station wagons. Of course, no one is calling these vehicles station wagons. That would be way too old-fashioned. They are called crossovers, which sounds vaguely transgender.
I, however, recognize a station wagon when I see one. In our family history of vehicle ownership, we owned one, our beloved, mud brown Ford Torino wagon.
Nobody pretended our Torino was glamorous. We bought it because we had two kids, one who always got carsick, and we all loved to travel. Bear in mind, this was in an era when seat belts hadn't been invented. Our road sick passenger could take a dramamine and stretch out on a mattress in the back. Her sibling could share the "way back" or have an entire back seat to himself. Our kids became great travelers (still are), and we enjoyed being with them.
We got our station wagon in the 1970s - just about the same time our American schools threw out all the geography books. Kids were apparently supposed to learn the globe by osmosis. My daughter told me many years later that she had a working knowledge of geography, unlike many of her peers, only because we "went places".
Many happy trips and our Wisconsin winters took their toll on our faithful brown wagon. Specifically, our back tailgate totally rusted out. We certainly didn't want our children to roll out somewhere in the Plains States.
My father-in-law, an auto body man who lived in Tucson, came to the rescue. One day the kids and I drove to the local truck terminal to pick up a big crate. Our almost new, rust-free Arizona tailgate had arrived... and it was bright red.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
I, however, recognize a station wagon when I see one. In our family history of vehicle ownership, we owned one, our beloved, mud brown Ford Torino wagon.
Nobody pretended our Torino was glamorous. We bought it because we had two kids, one who always got carsick, and we all loved to travel. Bear in mind, this was in an era when seat belts hadn't been invented. Our road sick passenger could take a dramamine and stretch out on a mattress in the back. Her sibling could share the "way back" or have an entire back seat to himself. Our kids became great travelers (still are), and we enjoyed being with them.
We got our station wagon in the 1970s - just about the same time our American schools threw out all the geography books. Kids were apparently supposed to learn the globe by osmosis. My daughter told me many years later that she had a working knowledge of geography, unlike many of her peers, only because we "went places".
Many happy trips and our Wisconsin winters took their toll on our faithful brown wagon. Specifically, our back tailgate totally rusted out. We certainly didn't want our children to roll out somewhere in the Plains States.
My father-in-law, an auto body man who lived in Tucson, came to the rescue. One day the kids and I drove to the local truck terminal to pick up a big crate. Our almost new, rust-free Arizona tailgate had arrived... and it was bright red.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Frontyard
Our frontyard is a 70 foot bluff. Before having my current frontyard, I thought geological change proceeded at a snail's pace. I was wrong.
When we moved here, my husband built a sturdy 70 foot long set of stairs to get us from the top of the bluff to the beach. One day he walked into the kitchen and asked me to define "rubble". Before I could answer, he led me to the frontyard. The seventy feet of stairs were gone, either buried or contorted like a modernistic sculpture. A giant section of the cliff had let go during the night; the stairs were history. My husband applied advanced engineering techniques on stairs number two.
Various cliff-dwelling neighbors try ingenious schemes to shore up the bluffs. We, however, think it's futile to turn our frontyard into a graveyard of sidewalk slabs and demolition rubble. We prefer the natural rubble of mudslides. It's just a fact of geology that nature whittles down the high points. Mountains do become valleys. Our egos get whittled down, too, if we refuse to recognize this scientific principle.
Some years our cliff will be almost nude, brown sand with crater-like pits and vertical gullies. Other years it will be lush green and home to large swaths of wildflowers. The best year occurred when my husband dumped a wheelbarrow of seeds he had raked up from under our bird-feeders over the edge. By August we had a parade of sunflowers cheerfully marching down the bluff to the beach.
Poplar trees brave the volatility of the cliff. We learned their survival secret after our first major landslide. A 50 foot tall poplar simply slid 25 feet down the cliff. We were certain it was doomed. Not only did it send down its roots again, it has spawned a grove of baby poplars. If only we could go with the flow this easily.
But, to me, our most amazing cliff dwellers are the swallows. Hundreds of these swift little birds dig holes in the top of the cliff for their nests. What a marvelous act of faith.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Frontyard
Our frontyard is a 70 foot bluff. Before having my current frontyard, I thought geological change proceeded at a snail's pace. I was wrong.
When we moved here, my husband built a sturdy 70 foot long set of stairs to get us from the top of the bluff to the beach. One day he walked into the kitchen and asked me to define "rubble". Before I could answer, he led me to the frontyard. The seventy feet of stairs were gone, either buried or contorted like a modernistic sculpture. A giant section of the cliff had let go during the night; the stairs were history. My husband applied advanced engineering techniques on stairs number two.
Various cliff-dwelling neighbors try ingenious schemes to shore up the bluffs. We, however, think it's futile to turn our frontyard into a graveyard of sidewalk slabs and demolition rubble. We prefer the natural rubble of mudslides. It's just a fact of geology that nature whittles down the high points. Mountains do become valleys. Our egos get whittled down, too, if we refuse to recognize this scientific principle.
Some years our cliff will be almost nude, brown sand with crater-like pits and vertical gullies. Other years it will be lush green and home to large swaths of wildflowers. The best year occurred when my husband dumped a wheelbarrow of seeds he had raked up from under our bird-feeders over the edge. By August we had a parade of sunflowers cheerfully marching down the bluff to the beach.
Poplar trees brave the volatility of the cliff. We learned their survival secret after our first major landslide. A 50 foot tall poplar simply slid 25 feet down the cliff. We were certain it was doomed. Not only did it send down its roots again, it has spawned a grove of baby poplars. If only we could go with the flow this easily.
But, to me, our most amazing cliff dwellers are the swallows. Hundreds of these swift little birds dig holes in the top of the cliff for their nests. What a marvelous act of faith.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Dodos
(This blog is dedicated to Judith, Nick Nick and Tin Tin)
I recently came across a small story I wrote for children many years ago. Here it is in its entirety.
Mimi, ever the artist, has been spotted in Lapu-Lapu in the Philippines where she is doing art in the Dada style. She listens to Lang Lang in her spare time and drives a Nano from Tata Motors.
If you hear news of these irrepressible dodos or their friends, send emails or postings chop chop.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
I recently came across a small story I wrote for children many years ago. Here it is in its entirety.
This is a little story about two dodos, Lulu and Mimi, who lived in New York, New York. Lulu liked to dance the cha cha with her pom poms. Mimi would can can in her pink tutu for hours. Both Lulu and Mimi liked to yo-yo in time to tom-tom music. When the dodos weren't dancing or yo-yoing, they would eat their favorite foods, bonbons and pawpaws. But all good things must end.Rumor has it that Lulu has turned up in Walla Walla, Washington where she is now a go go dancer (a go go dodo). She dines on mahi-mahi.
One day Lulu waved bye bye and boarded a choo choo for Baden Baden, Germany. The next day Mimi took a choo choo bound for Pago Pago, Samoa. These trips were two big boo-boos. Everybody knows you can't take trains to Baden Baden and Pago Pago... you have to take boats. What dodos!
No one has seen Lulu or Mimi since. The end.
Mimi, ever the artist, has been spotted in Lapu-Lapu in the Philippines where she is doing art in the Dada style. She listens to Lang Lang in her spare time and drives a Nano from Tata Motors.
If you hear news of these irrepressible dodos or their friends, send emails or postings chop chop.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Dodos
(This blog is dedicated to Judith, Nick Nick and Tin Tin)
I recently came across a small story I wrote for children many years ago. Here it is in its entirety.
Mimi, ever the artist, has been spotted in Lapu-Lapu in the Philippines where she is doing art in the Dada style. She listens to Lang Lang in her spare time and drives a Nano from Tata Motors.
If you hear news of these irrepressible dodos or their friends, send emails or postings chop chop.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
I recently came across a small story I wrote for children many years ago. Here it is in its entirety.
This is a little story about two dodos, Lulu and Mimi, who lived in New York, New York. Lulu liked to dance the cha cha with her pom poms. Mimi would can can in her pink tutu for hours. Both Lulu and Mimi liked to yo-yo in time to tom-tom music. When the dodos weren't dancing or yo-yoing, they would eat their favorite foods, bonbons and pawpaws. But all good things must end.Rumor has it that Lulu has turned up in Walla Walla, Washington where she is now a go go dancer (a go go dodo). She dines on mahi-mahi.
One day Lulu waved bye bye and boarded a choo choo for Baden Baden, Germany. The next day Mimi took a choo choo bound for Pago Pago, Samoa. These trips were two big boo-boos. Everybody knows you can't take trains to Baden Baden and Pago Pago... you have to take boats. What dodos!
No one has seen Lulu or Mimi since. The end.
Mimi, ever the artist, has been spotted in Lapu-Lapu in the Philippines where she is doing art in the Dada style. She listens to Lang Lang in her spare time and drives a Nano from Tata Motors.
If you hear news of these irrepressible dodos or their friends, send emails or postings chop chop.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Locavores
One of the newest words in the Merriam Webster Dictionary is "locavore". The word is defined as a person who only eats locally sourced food.
As lovely as this concept may be, I will never achieve locavore status. Those of you who know me realize that I can't grow grass, let alone something as agriculturally challenging as a tomato.
If I ever did succeed in getting a foodstuff to sprout, I'm sure our animal friends in the Tooley Cafe, locavores all, would view the garden as a delightful annex to the Cafe.
Since gardening is ruled out, I would have to resort to gathering. This course is also problematic.
For example, we have a local cheese factory and creamery fifteen miles northwest of our house. It features 100 Wisconsin cheeses, butter made on the premises and 50 cent ice cream cones (in case you need a cholesterol fix before you get the cheese and butter home). Unfortunately, the store that supplies our house with toilet paper, laundry soap and cat food is fifteen miles in the opposite direction.
It gets worse. Our local farmers' markets are 15 miles away at other compass points, and their hours of operation coincide perfectly with my work hours.
At this point you might be viewing me as the perfect subscriber to a weekly produce delivery (aka "a surprise box") from a local farm.
Alas, I'm not that noble! The thought of coming home from work to an overflowing crate of turnips and kohlrabies or 75 zucchinis is completely unbearable. I foresee no "Animal, Vegetable, Miracles" for me.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
As lovely as this concept may be, I will never achieve locavore status. Those of you who know me realize that I can't grow grass, let alone something as agriculturally challenging as a tomato.
If I ever did succeed in getting a foodstuff to sprout, I'm sure our animal friends in the Tooley Cafe, locavores all, would view the garden as a delightful annex to the Cafe.
Since gardening is ruled out, I would have to resort to gathering. This course is also problematic.
For example, we have a local cheese factory and creamery fifteen miles northwest of our house. It features 100 Wisconsin cheeses, butter made on the premises and 50 cent ice cream cones (in case you need a cholesterol fix before you get the cheese and butter home). Unfortunately, the store that supplies our house with toilet paper, laundry soap and cat food is fifteen miles in the opposite direction.
It gets worse. Our local farmers' markets are 15 miles away at other compass points, and their hours of operation coincide perfectly with my work hours.
At this point you might be viewing me as the perfect subscriber to a weekly produce delivery (aka "a surprise box") from a local farm.
Alas, I'm not that noble! The thought of coming home from work to an overflowing crate of turnips and kohlrabies or 75 zucchinis is completely unbearable. I foresee no "Animal, Vegetable, Miracles" for me.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Locavores
One of the newest words in the Merriam Webster Dictionary is "locavore". The word is defined as a person who only eats locally sourced food.
As lovely as this concept may be, I will never achieve locavore status. Those of you who know me realize that I can't grow grass, let alone something as agriculturally challenging as a tomato.
If I ever did succeed in getting a foodstuff to sprout, I'm sure our animal friends in the Tooley Cafe, locavores all, would view the garden as a delightful annex to the Cafe.
Since gardening is ruled out, I would have to resort to gathering. This course is also problematic.
For example, we have a local cheese factory and creamery fifteen miles northwest of our house. It features 100 Wisconsin cheeses, butter made on the premises and 50 cent ice cream cones (in case you need a cholesterol fix before you get the cheese and butter home). Unfortunately, the store that supplies our house with toilet paper, laundry soap and cat food is fifteen miles in the opposite direction.
It gets worse. Our local farmers' markets are 15 miles away at other compass points, and their hours of operation coincide perfectly with my work hours.
At this point you might be viewing me as the perfect subscriber to a weekly produce delivery (aka "a surprise box") from a local farm.
Alas, I'm not that noble! The thought of coming home from work to an overflowing crate of turnips and kohlrabies or 75 zucchinis is completely unbearable. I foresee no "Animal, Vegetable, Miracles" for me.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
As lovely as this concept may be, I will never achieve locavore status. Those of you who know me realize that I can't grow grass, let alone something as agriculturally challenging as a tomato.
If I ever did succeed in getting a foodstuff to sprout, I'm sure our animal friends in the Tooley Cafe, locavores all, would view the garden as a delightful annex to the Cafe.
Since gardening is ruled out, I would have to resort to gathering. This course is also problematic.
For example, we have a local cheese factory and creamery fifteen miles northwest of our house. It features 100 Wisconsin cheeses, butter made on the premises and 50 cent ice cream cones (in case you need a cholesterol fix before you get the cheese and butter home). Unfortunately, the store that supplies our house with toilet paper, laundry soap and cat food is fifteen miles in the opposite direction.
It gets worse. Our local farmers' markets are 15 miles away at other compass points, and their hours of operation coincide perfectly with my work hours.
At this point you might be viewing me as the perfect subscriber to a weekly produce delivery (aka "a surprise box") from a local farm.
Alas, I'm not that noble! The thought of coming home from work to an overflowing crate of turnips and kohlrabies or 75 zucchinis is completely unbearable. I foresee no "Animal, Vegetable, Miracles" for me.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
P.O.
I have the perfect post office. Being a person who loves mail, this is a fortunate circumstance.
My post office is the size of a stamp. Not many of us postal patrons can fit in the lobby
at one time; fortunately, there aren't many people in Cleveland, WI 53015, and we just don't choose to go to the post office all at the same time.
I'm sure the average New Yorker, or any big city dweller, would give a week's wages to have a post office like mine. Even at Christmas, we never have to wait in long lines. Granted, we might encounter a neighbor or two, but standing forever in a queue of grumpy strangers just doesn't happen here. The situation is akin to having your own personal post office.
One glitch did present itself when we first moved up here. I ran over to the post office around noon to mail a letter and found the doors locked. The postmaster had gone home for lunch. The postmaster goes home for lunch every day, a real anachronism in today's America. I might apply for this job.
Naturally, blessings like an incredible post office don't come without responsibilities. Little P.Os live or die based on the volume of mail they process. You will be getting snail mail from me frequently. I must do my part and keep the mail flowing at 53015. Hundreds and hundreds of Valentine, Easter, Halloween, Christmas and birthday cards are among my outgoing contributions. My twenty-three magazine subscriptions insure the incoming flow.
I can only think of one feature my post office lacks. (Anyone who has read Rita Mae Brown's charming mysteries, ghost written by her brown tabby cat, Mrs. Murphy, will know what's coming.) My post office doesn't have a resident cat or dog.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
My post office is the size of a stamp. Not many of us postal patrons can fit in the lobby
at one time; fortunately, there aren't many people in Cleveland, WI 53015, and we just don't choose to go to the post office all at the same time.I'm sure the average New Yorker, or any big city dweller, would give a week's wages to have a post office like mine. Even at Christmas, we never have to wait in long lines. Granted, we might encounter a neighbor or two, but standing forever in a queue of grumpy strangers just doesn't happen here. The situation is akin to having your own personal post office.
One glitch did present itself when we first moved up here. I ran over to the post office around noon to mail a letter and found the doors locked. The postmaster had gone home for lunch. The postmaster goes home for lunch every day, a real anachronism in today's America. I might apply for this job.
Naturally, blessings like an incredible post office don't come without responsibilities. Little P.Os live or die based on the volume of mail they process. You will be getting snail mail from me frequently. I must do my part and keep the mail flowing at 53015. Hundreds and hundreds of Valentine, Easter, Halloween, Christmas and birthday cards are among my outgoing contributions. My twenty-three magazine subscriptions insure the incoming flow.
I can only think of one feature my post office lacks. (Anyone who has read Rita Mae Brown's charming mysteries, ghost written by her brown tabby cat, Mrs. Murphy, will know what's coming.) My post office doesn't have a resident cat or dog.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
P.O.
I have the perfect post office. Being a person who loves mail, this is a fortunate circumstance.
My post office is the size of a stamp. Not many of us postal patrons can fit in the lobbyat one time; fortunately, there aren't many people in Cleveland, WI 53015, and we just don't choose to go to the post office all at the same time.
I'm sure the average New Yorker, or any big city dweller, would give a week's wages to have a post office like mine. Even at Christmas, we never have to wait in long lines. Granted, we might encounter a neighbor or two, but standing forever in a queue of grumpy strangers just doesn't happen here. The situation is akin to having your own personal post office.
One glitch did present itself when we first moved up here. I ran over to the post office around noon to mail a letter and found the doors locked. The postmaster had gone home for lunch. The postmaster goes home for lunch every day, a real anachronism in today's America. I might apply for this job.
Naturally, blessings like an incredible post office don't come without responsibilities. Little P.Os live or die based on the volume of mail they process. You will be getting snail mail from me frequently. I must do my part and keep the mail flowing at 53015. Hundreds and hundreds of Valentine, Easter, Halloween, Christmas and birthday cards are among my outgoing contributions. My twenty-three magazine subscriptions insure the incoming flow.
I can only think of one feature my post office lacks. (Anyone who has read Rita Mae Brown's charming mysteries, ghost written by her brown tabby cat, Mrs. Murphy, will know what's coming.) My post office doesn't have a resident cat or dog.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
My post office is the size of a stamp. Not many of us postal patrons can fit in the lobby
at one time; fortunately, there aren't many people in Cleveland, WI 53015, and we just don't choose to go to the post office all at the same time.I'm sure the average New Yorker, or any big city dweller, would give a week's wages to have a post office like mine. Even at Christmas, we never have to wait in long lines. Granted, we might encounter a neighbor or two, but standing forever in a queue of grumpy strangers just doesn't happen here. The situation is akin to having your own personal post office.
One glitch did present itself when we first moved up here. I ran over to the post office around noon to mail a letter and found the doors locked. The postmaster had gone home for lunch. The postmaster goes home for lunch every day, a real anachronism in today's America. I might apply for this job.
Naturally, blessings like an incredible post office don't come without responsibilities. Little P.Os live or die based on the volume of mail they process. You will be getting snail mail from me frequently. I must do my part and keep the mail flowing at 53015. Hundreds and hundreds of Valentine, Easter, Halloween, Christmas and birthday cards are among my outgoing contributions. My twenty-three magazine subscriptions insure the incoming flow.
I can only think of one feature my post office lacks. (Anyone who has read Rita Mae Brown's charming mysteries, ghost written by her brown tabby cat, Mrs. Murphy, will know what's coming.) My post office doesn't have a resident cat or dog.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Roadtrip
I was coming home from work last week, driving through Green Bay, when a van pulled in front of me. The back window of the van was covered with a film of dirt. Written in the dirt was the following message: The plates on the van were from Washington state.
I'm sure that many of us have taken road trips that could have benefited from similar, large infusions of humor.
One of my more memorable trips started out calmly. I had just finished school in June, summer days lay ahead, and my husband and I were setting off on a road trip to NY City to visit our daughter and her husband.
I was happily driving through Pennsylvania, relaxed and carefree. My husband was napping. Then, as I paid another toll on the Pennsylvania turnpike, a small voice whispered in my head, "There are no tolls on the road to New York City." I pulled over at the next rest stop, woke up my husband and announced that I had made a rather major navigational error. Apparently I thought I could get to NYC on automatic pilot. I was actually well on the way to Washington D.C.
Moments like these can be the beginning of the end to a marriage. But my husband had the best possible response - he started laughing. Soon we were both laughing so hard we could hardly read the road map. The map revealed I had gone 130 miles on the wrong road. To get back north again the route went through Hershey, Pennsylvania. Who can't be happy in a town that smells of chocolate and has street lights shaped like Hershey Kisses? We even hit the Holland Tunnel by 6:30 that night.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
HELP!
2000 miles, 2 kids, sleeping wife.
Its true!
I'm sure that many of us have taken road trips that could have benefited from similar, large infusions of humor.
One of my more memorable trips started out calmly. I had just finished school in June, summer days lay ahead, and my husband and I were setting off on a road trip to NY City to visit our daughter and her husband.
I was happily driving through Pennsylvania, relaxed and carefree. My husband was napping. Then, as I paid another toll on the Pennsylvania turnpike, a small voice whispered in my head, "There are no tolls on the road to New York City." I pulled over at the next rest stop, woke up my husband and announced that I had made a rather major navigational error. Apparently I thought I could get to NYC on automatic pilot. I was actually well on the way to Washington D.C.
Moments like these can be the beginning of the end to a marriage. But my husband had the best possible response - he started laughing. Soon we were both laughing so hard we could hardly read the road map. The map revealed I had gone 130 miles on the wrong road. To get back north again the route went through Hershey, Pennsylvania. Who can't be happy in a town that smells of chocolate and has street lights shaped like Hershey Kisses? We even hit the Holland Tunnel by 6:30 that night.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Roadtrip
I was coming home from work last week, driving through Green Bay, when a van pulled in front of me. The back window of the van was covered with a film of dirt. Written in the dirt was the following message: The plates on the van were from Washington state.
I'm sure that many of us have taken road trips that could have benefited from similar, large infusions of humor.
One of my more memorable trips started out calmly. I had just finished school in June, summer days lay ahead, and my husband and I were setting off on a road trip to NY City to visit our daughter and her husband.
I was happily driving through Pennsylvania, relaxed and carefree. My husband was napping. Then, as I paid another toll on the Pennsylvania turnpike, a small voice whispered in my head, "There are no tolls on the road to New York City." I pulled over at the next rest stop, woke up my husband and announced that I had made a rather major navigational error. Apparently I thought I could get to NYC on automatic pilot. I was actually well on the way to Washington D.C.
Moments like these can be the beginning of the end to a marriage. But my husband had the best possible response - he started laughing. Soon we were both laughing so hard we could hardly read the road map. The map revealed I had gone 130 miles on the wrong road. To get back north again the route went through Hershey, Pennsylvania. Who can't be happy in a town that smells of chocolate and has street lights shaped like Hershey Kisses? We even hit the Holland Tunnel by 6:30 that night.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
HELP!
2000 miles, 2 kids, sleeping wife.
Its true!
I'm sure that many of us have taken road trips that could have benefited from similar, large infusions of humor.
One of my more memorable trips started out calmly. I had just finished school in June, summer days lay ahead, and my husband and I were setting off on a road trip to NY City to visit our daughter and her husband.
I was happily driving through Pennsylvania, relaxed and carefree. My husband was napping. Then, as I paid another toll on the Pennsylvania turnpike, a small voice whispered in my head, "There are no tolls on the road to New York City." I pulled over at the next rest stop, woke up my husband and announced that I had made a rather major navigational error. Apparently I thought I could get to NYC on automatic pilot. I was actually well on the way to Washington D.C.
Moments like these can be the beginning of the end to a marriage. But my husband had the best possible response - he started laughing. Soon we were both laughing so hard we could hardly read the road map. The map revealed I had gone 130 miles on the wrong road. To get back north again the route went through Hershey, Pennsylvania. Who can't be happy in a town that smells of chocolate and has street lights shaped like Hershey Kisses? We even hit the Holland Tunnel by 6:30 that night.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Diet
It's not easy sleeping with a 26 pound cat. The space Gato takes up in our bed is exponential.Why do we share our bed with this feline behemoth, when we have an array of less obese cats to choose from?
The answer lies in Gato's new diet. Gato is one miserable cat. The least we can do is let him enjoy his favorite space, our bed.
His troubles began a few weeks ago when our vet gave Gato an ultimatum. Note, I did not say the vet gave us the ultimatum. The vet and we have been working hard for years to control this cat's diet... to no avail. So Gato was told directly - lose pounds or be diabetic.
"You're going to be eating in your own private room", the vet told Gato, "and you'll get one can of fat-be-gone cat food per day. Don't plan on helping yourself to your friends' food dishes, either, because there will be no more open dish feeding at your house."
The trip back from the vets was uncharacteristically quiet. Gato got home and threw himself on the bed.
At this point I cannot report any dramatic diminishment of Gato's girth. I can say though that we are having a bit of difficulty watching Netflix on our tiny PC after turning in for the night. Gato is slightly larger than the dimensions of the screen.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Diet
It's not easy sleeping with a 26 pound cat. The space Gato takes up in our bed is exponential.Why do we share our bed with this feline behemoth, when we have an array of less obese cats to choose from?
The answer lies in Gato's new diet. Gato is one miserable cat. The least we can do is let him enjoy his favorite space, our bed.
His troubles began a few weeks ago when our vet gave Gato an ultimatum. Note, I did not say the vet gave us the ultimatum. The vet and we have been working hard for years to control this cat's diet... to no avail. So Gato was told directly - lose pounds or be diabetic.
"You're going to be eating in your own private room", the vet told Gato, "and you'll get one can of fat-be-gone cat food per day. Don't plan on helping yourself to your friends' food dishes, either, because there will be no more open dish feeding at your house."
The trip back from the vets was uncharacteristically quiet. Gato got home and threw himself on the bed.
At this point I cannot report any dramatic diminishment of Gato's girth. I can say though that we are having a bit of difficulty watching Netflix on our tiny PC after turning in for the night. Gato is slightly larger than the dimensions of the screen.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Chickens
The hot item on President Bush's European trip last week was the chicken washing issue. The European Union is in a flap about our method of washing chickens (dead ones, I presume) in chemicals. This news item instantly brought back happy memories for me.
One of my favorite jobs was being the "Children's Programmer" for a library. I got to create or choose all the programs for the kids. Without a doubt, the best and most popular program I ever dreamed up was the chicken washing program.
At that time my friend, Donna, was the poultry Superintendent for the Wisconsin State Fair. She was on a one woman crusade to educate urban children that the fair was more than the midway and endless junk food.
One day Donna was telling me how the 4H kids get their chickens ready for the prize judging, when, presto, an idea clicked in my brain. Why not invite the 4H kids to the library to do a summer program on how they groomed their animals for the fair?
I might note that for space reasons we did all our library programs in the City Hall basement. The looks on the aldermen's faces were priceless when the chickens began arriving at city hall with their proud owners, water buckets, shampoo and blow driers.
The 4H kids were true pros at chicken wrangling. Our kids were mightily impressed with the knowledge and poise of their country counterparts. A few of our city kids even realized that there were interesting worlds they knew nothing about. And, we got through the entire afternoon with no wayward chickens ending up in the Council Chamber... at least, none of the avian variety.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
One of my favorite jobs was being the "Children's Programmer" for a library. I got to create or choose all the programs for the kids. Without a doubt, the best and most popular program I ever dreamed up was the chicken washing program.
At that time my friend, Donna, was the poultry Superintendent for the Wisconsin State Fair. She was on a one woman crusade to educate urban children that the fair was more than the midway and endless junk food.
One day Donna was telling me how the 4H kids get their chickens ready for the prize judging, when, presto, an idea clicked in my brain. Why not invite the 4H kids to the library to do a summer program on how they groomed their animals for the fair?
I might note that for space reasons we did all our library programs in the City Hall basement. The looks on the aldermen's faces were priceless when the chickens began arriving at city hall with their proud owners, water buckets, shampoo and blow driers.
The 4H kids were true pros at chicken wrangling. Our kids were mightily impressed with the knowledge and poise of their country counterparts. A few of our city kids even realized that there were interesting worlds they knew nothing about. And, we got through the entire afternoon with no wayward chickens ending up in the Council Chamber... at least, none of the avian variety.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Chickens
The hot item on President Bush's European trip last week was the chicken washing issue. The European Union is in a flap about our method of washing chickens (dead ones, I presume) in chemicals. This news item instantly brought back happy memories for me.
One of my favorite jobs was being the "Children's Programmer" for a library. I got to create or choose all the programs for the kids. Without a doubt, the best and most popular program I ever dreamed up was the chicken washing program.
At that time my friend, Donna, was the poultry Superintendent for the Wisconsin State Fair. She was on a one woman crusade to educate urban children that the fair was more than the midway and endless junk food.
One day Donna was telling me how the 4H kids get their chickens ready for the prize judging, when, presto, an idea clicked in my brain. Why not invite the 4H kids to the library to do a summer program on how they groomed their animals for the fair?
I might note that for space reasons we did all our library programs in the City Hall basement. The looks on the aldermen's faces were priceless when the chickens began arriving at city hall with their proud owners, water buckets, shampoo and blow driers.
The 4H kids were true pros at chicken wrangling. Our kids were mightily impressed with the knowledge and poise of their country counterparts. A few of our city kids even realized that there were interesting worlds they knew nothing about. And, we got through the entire afternoon with no wayward chickens ending up in the Council Chamber... at least, none of the avian variety.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
One of my favorite jobs was being the "Children's Programmer" for a library. I got to create or choose all the programs for the kids. Without a doubt, the best and most popular program I ever dreamed up was the chicken washing program.
At that time my friend, Donna, was the poultry Superintendent for the Wisconsin State Fair. She was on a one woman crusade to educate urban children that the fair was more than the midway and endless junk food.
One day Donna was telling me how the 4H kids get their chickens ready for the prize judging, when, presto, an idea clicked in my brain. Why not invite the 4H kids to the library to do a summer program on how they groomed their animals for the fair?
I might note that for space reasons we did all our library programs in the City Hall basement. The looks on the aldermen's faces were priceless when the chickens began arriving at city hall with their proud owners, water buckets, shampoo and blow driers.
The 4H kids were true pros at chicken wrangling. Our kids were mightily impressed with the knowledge and poise of their country counterparts. A few of our city kids even realized that there were interesting worlds they knew nothing about. And, we got through the entire afternoon with no wayward chickens ending up in the Council Chamber... at least, none of the avian variety.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Monday, June 9, 2008
Patience
Patience was on sale the other day at my Goodwill Store. This "patience" consisted of 4 inch tall wooden letters P.A.T.I.E.N.C.E mounted upright on a wooden board. Apparently someone had given up on patience.
I'm not surprised. The virtues in America have been shifting around. When I was a kid, patience was a virtue and greed wasn't. Now greed is the virtue (as in "be patriotic, go shopping") and patience is relegated to thrift stores.
I am old fashioned enough to think that patience is still worthwhile. And I'm also introspective enough to know when I have it and when I don't.
My patience is endless for listening to my very elderly friends in nursing homes repeat the same stories scores of times. An interesting phenomenon happens when you hear a story many times... in a way it becomes yours, too.
So I can tell you about Mrs. B's amazing barn cat who actually dipped its paw into the bowl of mushed up bread and milk and daintily ate with its paw - just like a person.
Unfortunately, my patience checks out instantly when I see a recipe with more than 8 ingredients. I do love to cook, but I'm the queen of quick in the kitchen. I am delighted, however, that other people actually have the forbearance to make the recipes in Gourmet Magazine. I promise endless praise and appreciation to anyone who invites me to dine on the results of these intricate recipes.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
I'm not surprised. The virtues in America have been shifting around. When I was a kid, patience was a virtue and greed wasn't. Now greed is the virtue (as in "be patriotic, go shopping") and patience is relegated to thrift stores.
I am old fashioned enough to think that patience is still worthwhile. And I'm also introspective enough to know when I have it and when I don't.
My patience is endless for listening to my very elderly friends in nursing homes repeat the same stories scores of times. An interesting phenomenon happens when you hear a story many times... in a way it becomes yours, too.
So I can tell you about Mrs. B's amazing barn cat who actually dipped its paw into the bowl of mushed up bread and milk and daintily ate with its paw - just like a person.
Unfortunately, my patience checks out instantly when I see a recipe with more than 8 ingredients. I do love to cook, but I'm the queen of quick in the kitchen. I am delighted, however, that other people actually have the forbearance to make the recipes in Gourmet Magazine. I promise endless praise and appreciation to anyone who invites me to dine on the results of these intricate recipes.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Patience
Patience was on sale the other day at my Goodwill Store. This "patience" consisted of 4 inch tall wooden letters P.A.T.I.E.N.C.E mounted upright on a wooden board. Apparently someone had given up on patience.
I'm not surprised. The virtues in America have been shifting around. When I was a kid, patience was a virtue and greed wasn't. Now greed is the virtue (as in "be patriotic, go shopping") and patience is relegated to thrift stores.
I am old fashioned enough to think that patience is still worthwhile. And I'm also introspective enough to know when I have it and when I don't.
My patience is endless for listening to my very elderly friends in nursing homes repeat the same stories scores of times. An interesting phenomenon happens when you hear a story many times... in a way it becomes yours, too.
So I can tell you about Mrs. B's amazing barn cat who actually dipped its paw into the bowl of mushed up bread and milk and daintily ate with its paw - just like a person.
Unfortunately, my patience checks out instantly when I see a recipe with more than 8 ingredients. I do love to cook, but I'm the queen of quick in the kitchen. I am delighted, however, that other people actually have the forbearance to make the recipes in Gourmet Magazine. I promise endless praise and appreciation to anyone who invites me to dine on the results of these intricate recipes.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
I'm not surprised. The virtues in America have been shifting around. When I was a kid, patience was a virtue and greed wasn't. Now greed is the virtue (as in "be patriotic, go shopping") and patience is relegated to thrift stores.
I am old fashioned enough to think that patience is still worthwhile. And I'm also introspective enough to know when I have it and when I don't.
My patience is endless for listening to my very elderly friends in nursing homes repeat the same stories scores of times. An interesting phenomenon happens when you hear a story many times... in a way it becomes yours, too.
So I can tell you about Mrs. B's amazing barn cat who actually dipped its paw into the bowl of mushed up bread and milk and daintily ate with its paw - just like a person.
Unfortunately, my patience checks out instantly when I see a recipe with more than 8 ingredients. I do love to cook, but I'm the queen of quick in the kitchen. I am delighted, however, that other people actually have the forbearance to make the recipes in Gourmet Magazine. I promise endless praise and appreciation to anyone who invites me to dine on the results of these intricate recipes.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Youall
Try as they might, the likes of Wal-Mart, McDonald's and Starbucks have not succeeded in obliterating all the regional differences in the United States. Even though every town in America has its predictable landscape of chain stores, observant travelers can still find many things that don't remind them of home.
Hot dog buns come to mind. Every Midwesterner knows that hot dog buns are split on the side. Imagine my surprise when I bought a package of hot dog buns in a New England grocery and discovered they all looked like little canoes. Time spent in the region revealed the brilliance of the top split bun. It can be stuffed with lobster salad, shrimp salad or clams and the aforementioned will not fall out onto your lap. I would love to see this regional product go national.
The South has a reputation for relishing its regionalism. They love their eccentrics, mint juleps, bourbon and regional authors.
I love the South, but do have a problem when I visit. After placing my order in a Southern restaurant, I had a waitress look at me and say, "Honey, I didn't understand a word you just said." Everything down South moves a bit more slowly, including the words.
Regional differences in the West are most apparent in traffic issues. Want to make yourself the instant center of attention? Just venture off the curb at any unsignaled pedestrian crossing out West. I had no idea I could bring all traffic to a screeching halt by merely putting a toe in a crosswalk. Where I'm from, this courtesy is unheard of. Just yesterday I was trying to cross a busy street without traffic lights. Scores of cars just whizzed by me. I dashed for my life when there was a break in the traffic. It's a predator-prey type relationship here.
I, however, become the menace when I drive out West where the stoplights are on the FAR side of the intersection, not on the corner where you actually stop the car. We midwesterners might be a tad tough on pedestrians, but we don't put stoplights where you aren't supposed to stop.
And could someone tell me why California freeways are always referred to with the article 'the' as in, "You take the 8 to get to the 5"? I can unequivocally tell you that I do not live just off the 43. I do know my place.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Hot dog buns come to mind. Every Midwesterner knows that hot dog buns are split on the side. Imagine my surprise when I bought a package of hot dog buns in a New England grocery and discovered they all looked like little canoes. Time spent in the region revealed the brilliance of the top split bun. It can be stuffed with lobster salad, shrimp salad or clams and the aforementioned will not fall out onto your lap. I would love to see this regional product go national.
The South has a reputation for relishing its regionalism. They love their eccentrics, mint juleps, bourbon and regional authors.
I love the South, but do have a problem when I visit. After placing my order in a Southern restaurant, I had a waitress look at me and say, "Honey, I didn't understand a word you just said." Everything down South moves a bit more slowly, including the words.
Regional differences in the West are most apparent in traffic issues. Want to make yourself the instant center of attention? Just venture off the curb at any unsignaled pedestrian crossing out West. I had no idea I could bring all traffic to a screeching halt by merely putting a toe in a crosswalk. Where I'm from, this courtesy is unheard of. Just yesterday I was trying to cross a busy street without traffic lights. Scores of cars just whizzed by me. I dashed for my life when there was a break in the traffic. It's a predator-prey type relationship here.
I, however, become the menace when I drive out West where the stoplights are on the FAR side of the intersection, not on the corner where you actually stop the car. We midwesterners might be a tad tough on pedestrians, but we don't put stoplights where you aren't supposed to stop.
And could someone tell me why California freeways are always referred to with the article 'the' as in, "You take the 8 to get to the 5"? I can unequivocally tell you that I do not live just off the 43. I do know my place.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Youall
Try as they might, the likes of Wal-Mart, McDonald's and Starbucks have not succeeded in obliterating all the regional differences in the United States. Even though every town in America has its predictable landscape of chain stores, observant travelers can still find many things that don't remind them of home.
Hot dog buns come to mind. Every Midwesterner knows that hot dog buns are split on the side. Imagine my surprise when I bought a package of hot dog buns in a New England grocery and discovered they all looked like little canoes. Time spent in the region revealed the brilliance of the top split bun. It can be stuffed with lobster salad, shrimp salad or clams and the aforementioned will not fall out onto your lap. I would love to see this regional product go national.
The South has a reputation for relishing its regionalism. They love their eccentrics, mint juleps, bourbon and regional authors.
I love the South, but do have a problem when I visit. After placing my order in a Southern restaurant, I had a waitress look at me and say, "Honey, I didn't understand a word you just said." Everything down South moves a bit more slowly, including the words.
Regional differences in the West are most apparent in traffic issues. Want to make yourself the instant center of attention? Just venture off the curb at any unsignaled pedestrian crossing out West. I had no idea I could bring all traffic to a screeching halt by merely putting a toe in a crosswalk. Where I'm from, this courtesy is unheard of. Just yesterday I was trying to cross a busy street without traffic lights. Scores of cars just whizzed by me. I dashed for my life when there was a break in the traffic. It's a predator-prey type relationship here.
I, however, become the menace when I drive out West where the stoplights are on the FAR side of the intersection, not on the corner where you actually stop the car. We midwesterners might be a tad tough on pedestrians, but we don't put stoplights where you aren't supposed to stop.
And could someone tell me why California freeways are always referred to with the article 'the' as in, "You take the 8 to get to the 5"? I can unequivocally tell you that I do not live just off the 43. I do know my place.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Hot dog buns come to mind. Every Midwesterner knows that hot dog buns are split on the side. Imagine my surprise when I bought a package of hot dog buns in a New England grocery and discovered they all looked like little canoes. Time spent in the region revealed the brilliance of the top split bun. It can be stuffed with lobster salad, shrimp salad or clams and the aforementioned will not fall out onto your lap. I would love to see this regional product go national.
The South has a reputation for relishing its regionalism. They love their eccentrics, mint juleps, bourbon and regional authors.
I love the South, but do have a problem when I visit. After placing my order in a Southern restaurant, I had a waitress look at me and say, "Honey, I didn't understand a word you just said." Everything down South moves a bit more slowly, including the words.
Regional differences in the West are most apparent in traffic issues. Want to make yourself the instant center of attention? Just venture off the curb at any unsignaled pedestrian crossing out West. I had no idea I could bring all traffic to a screeching halt by merely putting a toe in a crosswalk. Where I'm from, this courtesy is unheard of. Just yesterday I was trying to cross a busy street without traffic lights. Scores of cars just whizzed by me. I dashed for my life when there was a break in the traffic. It's a predator-prey type relationship here.
I, however, become the menace when I drive out West where the stoplights are on the FAR side of the intersection, not on the corner where you actually stop the car. We midwesterners might be a tad tough on pedestrians, but we don't put stoplights where you aren't supposed to stop.
And could someone tell me why California freeways are always referred to with the article 'the' as in, "You take the 8 to get to the 5"? I can unequivocally tell you that I do not live just off the 43. I do know my place.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Fads
Fads are like a rash. First only a few spots appear, but soon they are everywhere. I confess to trying to spot these trends before they are epidemic.
Take the pillow people for example. There is a decided fad among young people to bring their bedroom pillows to the airport. These pillows may not be relegated to duffel bags. They must be conspicuously displayed such as clutched under the arm the way young children cling to their teddy bears.
I was sitting next to a pillow person on a recent long flight. The young lady placed the pillow vertically over her chest & lap and clutched her arms around it for the entire flight thus doing a great impersonation of a woman in her ninth month of pregnancy. I'm clueless as to why a bed pillow has such cachet.
I read about the absolute latest wedding fad in an unimpeachable source, an airline magazine. You've no doubt heard of the craze for destination weddings. But now there's a new twist. After the lovely poolside ceremony, the bride immediately jumps into the pool. Soon the whole expensively clad wedding party is in there with her. An alternative is for the bride to do an ocean swim the next day... also in her wedding gown. America has been called a nation of teenagers, and this behavior seems to be supporting evidence.
The swimming in your wedding dress fad was probably started by the bridal industry to nip the burgeoning market in used wedding gowns.
Food and beverage fads are omnipresent, and I only need to consult my daughter for the latest trends here. She says that mojitos are really hot now.
A computer search enlightened me on the mojito's makeup - muddled mint, limes, sugar, rum and club soda. Since I don't own a muddler, I won't be indulging anytime soon. However, I suspect that more than one of those water soaked brides had a few mojitos before their vows.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Take the pillow people for example. There is a decided fad among young people to bring their bedroom pillows to the airport. These pillows may not be relegated to duffel bags. They must be conspicuously displayed such as clutched under the arm the way young children cling to their teddy bears.
I was sitting next to a pillow person on a recent long flight. The young lady placed the pillow vertically over her chest & lap and clutched her arms around it for the entire flight thus doing a great impersonation of a woman in her ninth month of pregnancy. I'm clueless as to why a bed pillow has such cachet.
I read about the absolute latest wedding fad in an unimpeachable source, an airline magazine. You've no doubt heard of the craze for destination weddings. But now there's a new twist. After the lovely poolside ceremony, the bride immediately jumps into the pool. Soon the whole expensively clad wedding party is in there with her. An alternative is for the bride to do an ocean swim the next day... also in her wedding gown. America has been called a nation of teenagers, and this behavior seems to be supporting evidence.
The swimming in your wedding dress fad was probably started by the bridal industry to nip the burgeoning market in used wedding gowns.
Food and beverage fads are omnipresent, and I only need to consult my daughter for the latest trends here. She says that mojitos are really hot now.
A computer search enlightened me on the mojito's makeup - muddled mint, limes, sugar, rum and club soda. Since I don't own a muddler, I won't be indulging anytime soon. However, I suspect that more than one of those water soaked brides had a few mojitos before their vows.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Fads
Fads are like a rash. First only a few spots appear, but soon they are everywhere. I confess to trying to spot these trends before they are epidemic.
Take the pillow people for example. There is a decided fad among young people to bring their bedroom pillows to the airport. These pillows may not be relegated to duffel bags. They must be conspicuously displayed such as clutched under the arm the way young children cling to their teddy bears.
I was sitting next to a pillow person on a recent long flight. The young lady placed the pillow vertically over her chest & lap and clutched her arms around it for the entire flight thus doing a great impersonation of a woman in her ninth month of pregnancy. I'm clueless as to why a bed pillow has such cachet.
I read about the absolute latest wedding fad in an unimpeachable source, an airline magazine. You've no doubt heard of the craze for destination weddings. But now there's a new twist. After the lovely poolside ceremony, the bride immediately jumps into the pool. Soon the whole expensively clad wedding party is in there with her. An alternative is for the bride to do an ocean swim the next day... also in her wedding gown. America has been called a nation of teenagers, and this behavior seems to be supporting evidence.
The swimming in your wedding dress fad was probably started by the bridal industry to nip the burgeoning market in used wedding gowns.
Food and beverage fads are omnipresent, and I only need to consult my daughter for the latest trends here. She says that mojitos are really hot now.
A computer search enlightened me on the mojito's makeup - muddled mint, limes, sugar, rum and club soda. Since I don't own a muddler, I won't be indulging anytime soon. However, I suspect that more than one of those water soaked brides had a few mojitos before their vows.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Take the pillow people for example. There is a decided fad among young people to bring their bedroom pillows to the airport. These pillows may not be relegated to duffel bags. They must be conspicuously displayed such as clutched under the arm the way young children cling to their teddy bears.
I was sitting next to a pillow person on a recent long flight. The young lady placed the pillow vertically over her chest & lap and clutched her arms around it for the entire flight thus doing a great impersonation of a woman in her ninth month of pregnancy. I'm clueless as to why a bed pillow has such cachet.
I read about the absolute latest wedding fad in an unimpeachable source, an airline magazine. You've no doubt heard of the craze for destination weddings. But now there's a new twist. After the lovely poolside ceremony, the bride immediately jumps into the pool. Soon the whole expensively clad wedding party is in there with her. An alternative is for the bride to do an ocean swim the next day... also in her wedding gown. America has been called a nation of teenagers, and this behavior seems to be supporting evidence.
The swimming in your wedding dress fad was probably started by the bridal industry to nip the burgeoning market in used wedding gowns.
Food and beverage fads are omnipresent, and I only need to consult my daughter for the latest trends here. She says that mojitos are really hot now.
A computer search enlightened me on the mojito's makeup - muddled mint, limes, sugar, rum and club soda. Since I don't own a muddler, I won't be indulging anytime soon. However, I suspect that more than one of those water soaked brides had a few mojitos before their vows.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Barista
The best thing about my husband's retirement is the coffee. Although most kitchen functions still remain inscrutable mysteries to him, he has become a fantastic barista.
Before retirement, he would frequently stop on the drive home from work for a latte or espresso. His critiques would go something like - too much milk, too bitter, over-roasted beans.
My husband saw retirement as an opportunity for learning how to make the perfect cup of coffee. Being a minimalist, he only invested in a $29.99 Mr. Coffee espresso maker. "You are only getting an eagle for the extra $200." He believes that skill and quality beans make good coffee, not big buck equipment.
After much grinding, steaming, frothing and taste testing, a perfect cup of coffee has emerged. And every morning he gets up and produces this masterpiece for me to take on my morning commute. Lucky me!
Except one morning last month, when tragedy did strike. As I was pulling out of our driveway, I saw in the rear view mirror my coffee mug sailing down the road behind me spewing coffee. You guessed it - I put the precious brew on the roof of my car as I loaded my school gear and then took off.
No coffee that morning; I couldn't lower myself to Starbucks.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Before retirement, he would frequently stop on the drive home from work for a latte or espresso. His critiques would go something like - too much milk, too bitter, over-roasted beans.
My husband saw retirement as an opportunity for learning how to make the perfect cup of coffee. Being a minimalist, he only invested in a $29.99 Mr. Coffee espresso maker. "You are only getting an eagle for the extra $200." He believes that skill and quality beans make good coffee, not big buck equipment.
After much grinding, steaming, frothing and taste testing, a perfect cup of coffee has emerged. And every morning he gets up and produces this masterpiece for me to take on my morning commute. Lucky me!
Except one morning last month, when tragedy did strike. As I was pulling out of our driveway, I saw in the rear view mirror my coffee mug sailing down the road behind me spewing coffee. You guessed it - I put the precious brew on the roof of my car as I loaded my school gear and then took off.
No coffee that morning; I couldn't lower myself to Starbucks.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Barista
The best thing about my husband's retirement is the coffee. Although most kitchen functions still remain inscrutable mysteries to him, he has become a fantastic barista.
Before retirement, he would frequently stop on the drive home from work for a latte or espresso. His critiques would go something like - too much milk, too bitter, over-roasted beans.
My husband saw retirement as an opportunity for learning how to make the perfect cup of coffee. Being a minimalist, he only invested in a $29.99 Mr. Coffee espresso maker. "You are only getting an eagle for the extra $200." He believes that skill and quality beans make good coffee, not big buck equipment.
After much grinding, steaming, frothing and taste testing, a perfect cup of coffee has emerged. And every morning he gets up and produces this masterpiece for me to take on my morning commute. Lucky me!
Except one morning last month, when tragedy did strike. As I was pulling out of our driveway, I saw in the rear view mirror my coffee mug sailing down the road behind me spewing coffee. You guessed it - I put the precious brew on the roof of my car as I loaded my school gear and then took off.
No coffee that morning; I couldn't lower myself to Starbucks.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Before retirement, he would frequently stop on the drive home from work for a latte or espresso. His critiques would go something like - too much milk, too bitter, over-roasted beans.
My husband saw retirement as an opportunity for learning how to make the perfect cup of coffee. Being a minimalist, he only invested in a $29.99 Mr. Coffee espresso maker. "You are only getting an eagle for the extra $200." He believes that skill and quality beans make good coffee, not big buck equipment.
After much grinding, steaming, frothing and taste testing, a perfect cup of coffee has emerged. And every morning he gets up and produces this masterpiece for me to take on my morning commute. Lucky me!
Except one morning last month, when tragedy did strike. As I was pulling out of our driveway, I saw in the rear view mirror my coffee mug sailing down the road behind me spewing coffee. You guessed it - I put the precious brew on the roof of my car as I loaded my school gear and then took off.
No coffee that morning; I couldn't lower myself to Starbucks.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Woodchuck
Woodchucks, a.k.a. groundhogs, are the largest members of the squirrel family. Their name comes from the Cree Indian word, wuchak, so don't expect any wood chucking behaviors from your local groundhog.
You may be wondering why I did not address this topic on February 2, America's official Groundhog's Day. I am not overly fond of that day, nor, I would suspect, are the groundhogs.
Bear in mind that groundhogs are true hibernators. After a hot shower and a cup of coffee, we non-hibernators wake up fairly easily. For hibernators waking up is a big deal. Seven month slumber sessions involve a vastly slowed down heart rate (100 beats a minute to 4), breathing (one breath every 6 minutes) and temperature (97°F to less than 40°).
It's positively unkind to bother these guys in the middle of their winter naps especially when we already know that six more weeks of winter is a certainty, shadow or no shadow.
We celebrated Groundhog's Day two weeks ago. That's when we spotted our newly
awakened groundhog sitting in the middle of the birds' seed table, stuffing his face with oiled sunflower seeds, the perfect lunch for a herbivore.
A few days later we watched him ambling down the path the animals have made along the edge of our bluff. He would stand up and look around, sentry duty, every foot or two. We've noticed that Woody is a cautious guy.
This morning we put out a few stale cookies on the birds' feeding table. Shortly after, we saw our favorite guy in a state of groundhog bliss shoving cookies into his face... Groundhog's Day for him. (Click thumbnail for full size Woody!)
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
You may be wondering why I did not address this topic on February 2, America's official Groundhog's Day. I am not overly fond of that day, nor, I would suspect, are the groundhogs.
Bear in mind that groundhogs are true hibernators. After a hot shower and a cup of coffee, we non-hibernators wake up fairly easily. For hibernators waking up is a big deal. Seven month slumber sessions involve a vastly slowed down heart rate (100 beats a minute to 4), breathing (one breath every 6 minutes) and temperature (97°F to less than 40°).
It's positively unkind to bother these guys in the middle of their winter naps especially when we already know that six more weeks of winter is a certainty, shadow or no shadow.
We celebrated Groundhog's Day two weeks ago. That's when we spotted our newly
awakened groundhog sitting in the middle of the birds' seed table, stuffing his face with oiled sunflower seeds, the perfect lunch for a herbivore.A few days later we watched him ambling down the path the animals have made along the edge of our bluff. He would stand up and look around, sentry duty, every foot or two. We've noticed that Woody is a cautious guy.
This morning we put out a few stale cookies on the birds' feeding table. Shortly after, we saw our favorite guy in a state of groundhog bliss shoving cookies into his face... Groundhog's Day for him. (Click thumbnail for full size Woody!)
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Woodchuck
Woodchucks, a.k.a. groundhogs, are the largest members of the squirrel family. Their name comes from the Cree Indian word, wuchak, so don't expect any wood chucking behaviors from your local groundhog.
You may be wondering why I did not address this topic on February 2, America's official Groundhog's Day. I am not overly fond of that day, nor, I would suspect, are the groundhogs.
Bear in mind that groundhogs are true hibernators. After a hot shower and a cup of coffee, we non-hibernators wake up fairly easily. For hibernators waking up is a big deal. Seven month slumber sessions involve a vastly slowed down heart rate (100 beats a minute to 4), breathing (one breath every 6 minutes) and temperature (97°F to less than 40°).
It's positively unkind to bother these guys in the middle of their winter naps especially when we already know that six more weeks of winter is a certainty, shadow or no shadow.
We celebrated Groundhog's Day two weeks ago. That's when we spotted our newlyawakened groundhog sitting in the middle of the birds' seed table, stuffing his face with oiled sunflower seeds, the perfect lunch for a herbivore.
A few days later we watched him ambling down the path the animals have made along the edge of our bluff. He would stand up and look around, sentry duty, every foot or two. We've noticed that Woody is a cautious guy.
This morning we put out a few stale cookies on the birds' feeding table. Shortly after, we saw our favorite guy in a state of groundhog bliss shoving cookies into his face... Groundhog's Day for him. (Click thumbnail for full size Woody!)
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
You may be wondering why I did not address this topic on February 2, America's official Groundhog's Day. I am not overly fond of that day, nor, I would suspect, are the groundhogs.
Bear in mind that groundhogs are true hibernators. After a hot shower and a cup of coffee, we non-hibernators wake up fairly easily. For hibernators waking up is a big deal. Seven month slumber sessions involve a vastly slowed down heart rate (100 beats a minute to 4), breathing (one breath every 6 minutes) and temperature (97°F to less than 40°).
It's positively unkind to bother these guys in the middle of their winter naps especially when we already know that six more weeks of winter is a certainty, shadow or no shadow.
We celebrated Groundhog's Day two weeks ago. That's when we spotted our newly
awakened groundhog sitting in the middle of the birds' seed table, stuffing his face with oiled sunflower seeds, the perfect lunch for a herbivore.A few days later we watched him ambling down the path the animals have made along the edge of our bluff. He would stand up and look around, sentry duty, every foot or two. We've noticed that Woody is a cautious guy.
This morning we put out a few stale cookies on the birds' feeding table. Shortly after, we saw our favorite guy in a state of groundhog bliss shoving cookies into his face... Groundhog's Day for him. (Click thumbnail for full size Woody!)
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Literate
Most of us are blissfully oblivious to the number of words we read each day. This simple fact hit me like an unabridged dictionary when I was in Japan a few years ago.
Not only can I not read Japanese, I can't even sound out the words in my head. In Europe I can wander around reading all sorts of great words. Of course, I don't have a clue what most mean.
An oxymoronic sense of calm and frustration descended on me in Japan. I could sit on the train, focus on the scenery and not have to read the plethora of billboards and signs that flew by my window. In this situation, I was illiterate.
On the other hand, it would have been nice if I could have read the signs at the hot springs, "Beware, poisonous fumes are omitted by the volcanic vapors". Luckily, a Japanese friend took pity on me and supplied that translation.
After Japan, I am cognizant that being a reader doesn't just provide hours of pleasure with the books, magazines, newspapers and movie subtitles I choose to read. Since I read automatically, loads of non-elective reading happens daily. Much of this reading is inane, superfluous, redundant or all three. Here are a few examples from recent months...
Not only can I not read Japanese, I can't even sound out the words in my head. In Europe I can wander around reading all sorts of great words. Of course, I don't have a clue what most mean.
An oxymoronic sense of calm and frustration descended on me in Japan. I could sit on the train, focus on the scenery and not have to read the plethora of billboards and signs that flew by my window. In this situation, I was illiterate.
On the other hand, it would have been nice if I could have read the signs at the hot springs, "Beware, poisonous fumes are omitted by the volcanic vapors". Luckily, a Japanese friend took pity on me and supplied that translation.
After Japan, I am cognizant that being a reader doesn't just provide hours of pleasure with the books, magazines, newspapers and movie subtitles I choose to read. Since I read automatically, loads of non-elective reading happens daily. Much of this reading is inane, superfluous, redundant or all three. Here are a few examples from recent months...
- Raspberry creme walleye dinner
- Please remove your ski mask before entering the bank.
- Normal is a setting on my washing machine.
- Receive collect calls from jail or prison to your cellular.
- Dogfish Head Craft Brewery Chicory Stout
- Do not feed the coyotes.
- Express your inner beauty with cosmetic surgery.
- Please request doggie paper dinnerware.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)