Same Time Next Year

Christmas, a wonderful time for the company of friends and kin. Holiday revelry, grand suppers, even a special breakfast - all organized for the purpose of celebrating with those we love. We clean the house, prepare special food, stock the bar and open our doors to those most special to us because it is "The Season." It is Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, the "holidays" or just a much needed couple of days off of work. What ever it is, it is a time to draw those near and dear to you into your homes and into your heart.

"Taste this, try that, you'll love this, sit here, look there, you've grown, how was your trip, how were the roads, did you sleep well, need another blanket, I made this just for you, have another drink, remember the time, she looks just like her grandmother, I love you too."

"What time's your flight, just a snack for the road, don't forget, tell them we send our love, drive carefully, did you look under the bed, print your boarding pass, don't forget your phone charger, we'll try to make it out before summer, safe travels, sure you can't stay one more day, you have a precious load, thank you, I love you too."

And then, it's over. Everyone goes back to their life, their job, their home - fortified by love and family and friendship. Perhaps a few pounds heavier and with some new "stuff" they don't really need, but fortified with love to see them through until next year.

I love you too.

Bah, Humbug!

Ahh, Christmas. I've been having a hard time this year - a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit. There are lots of reasons, some I won't go into, some I will - mainly, Daughter # 1 and Wonderful Son-in-Law aren't coming home for the Holidays, but the reasons are myriad. This is the first evening I've been able to prepare for Christmas. Believe it or not - I haven't done any shopping for the holiday, a first for me and probably a big contributor to the reason I'm not in the Holiday spirit, but it hasn't been without its surprises. One of the perks of not shopping has been the lack of frustration at holiday everything - traffic, fellow-shoppers, high prices, lack of merchandise, surly salespeople, (I could go on and on, but I won't).

Tonight as I am making a last-ditch-effort to put some punch and perk into Christmas. I had an epiphany (well, not exactly an epiphany - just a really good insight) into the real spirit of Christmas. Will it surprise anyone to learn that the real spirit of Christmas is love?

I am cooking. Trying to get about fifteen dishes prepared for our annual Christmas Fiesta. While I am cooking my dear husband is cleaning the house for me. The house that has been sorely ignored in the cleaning department for months. I feel really guilty, but he says, "You cook, I'll clean." And he says this in a really nice, loving way - like he doesn't even hate me for being such a horrible housekeeper. His great attitude about cleaning up my household mess leads me to thoughts about love - I know he is cleaning the house because it is his way of expressing his love toward me.

Then I begin thinking about daughter #1, the same daughter who is missing her very first Christmas at home (read: with me!). I may sound like I am complaining about it, but I'm really not. Right this very minute my daughter and son-in-law are on a plane to Ireland where they will spend a glorious holiday together. A much deserved holiday after a gruelling semester in law school for my daughter and a job hit hard by the economy for my son-in-law, who happens to be footing the bill for law school (thank you, thank you, thank you). I imagine them on the airplane, holding hands - looking forward to the fantastic adventure they are about to embark upon. How I envy them. How I celebrate for them. How proud and happy I am for them. And, should they read this - I promise I am not pouting because you are not home for Christmas!

Then I think about daughter #2, embarking on a new relationship and making Christmas memories with THE BOYFRIEND. How exciting to begin traditions that may last a lifetime. How exciting for me that they are in the same town and I only have to share them with the other parents, not an entire foreign country.

Christmas is about love, and about being with the ones you love, and remembering the ones you love and celebrating their adventures and new directions. Christmas is about sharing - sharing the excitement of new horizons and new love and old love. Christmas has finally entered my heart this year and I thank my far-flung daughters and my near-by husband for showing me the way to it.

Garlic Soup

It is happening. I'm trying to pretend it isn't happening. I think, fear, I am getting a cold. I am fighting it for all I'm worth - zinc, vitamin C, garlic - lots and lots of garlic. I made garlic soup for dinner. This is my secret, super-duper recipe for nipping a cold in the bud. For knocking that sucker right out of the ball-park, for kicking its ass. Hopefully it will work. Five or six garlic cloves sauteed in olive oil, top it off with some chicken or vegetable broth, throw in some egg noodles and boil until the noodles are tender. Eat with lots and lots of black pepper and hopefully by tomorrow morning the threat of a cold will be history. We'll see.

Bobwhite

My father was a very interesting man, but sadly I didn't realize this until after he died. He has been gone over fifteen years and I still discover or remember remarkable things about him.

My father was pretty good at imitating bird calls, a talent I never appreciated as a child. It was just something he did on occasion, but not often. It was something I might have once thought to be corny or embarrassing. I don't think I ever asked him about it. Never once showed any interest in it.

Now I would like to know how he learned to whistle just like the birds from his east Texas home. Did someone teach him, his father, perhaps? Or his mother? That would certainly shed new light on the grandparents I barely took the time to know. What were the names of the birds he could mimic? What did they look like? I only recall one call, that of the bobwhite - only because a bobwhite says its name. I wouldn't know a bobwhite if it flew into my room, lit on my nose and trilled its name repeatedly.

I'm beginning to develop an interest in birds. I enjoy watching them at the feeders and I even have quite a library of bird i.d. books and a pair of binoculars. I'm not very good at identification - they all have wings, a beak and feathers - which means they look pretty much the same to me.

If Daddy were here he could help me. I could close my eyes and listen to their calls. First from the birds and then from my father as he would patiently try to teach me to whistle. I'd like to think I wouldn't be too busy. Too busy to sit and listen and learn from a good man whom I never fully appreciated until it was too late.

So, I vow to take time to listen to the bird calls. I'll take time to listen for the bobwhite's call and to think of my father. I might even learn to whistle.

An Old Fashion Christmas? (Martha, where art thou?)

My immediate family has opted to make our Christmas gifts for each other this year. Our decision was based on several factors.

1. the economy
2. not one of us needs anything
3. to avoid the commercialism
4. a "made" gift is more meaningful
5. (daughter # 2 insists that another reason is because my son-in-law is an extremely talented artist and this is a ploy on my part to snag expensive art - I swear the thought never occurred to me!)

I will admit I am enjoying not being caught up in the craziness of Christmas shopping. I can smugly peruse the sale ads, knowing that this year I am immune to them. The crowded stores, the traffic and the overworked (and inapt) sales clerks won't be my problem this year. How nice to feel so sanctimonious!

Until...until the realization of just what this means sets in. I have to envision and create gifts for my loved ones and I don't have a Martha Stewart bone in my body. What was I thinking when I made this crazy suggestion? (No, I swear I was not thinking of my son-in-law's art.) I was thinking it would be FUN! I had a quaint, old-fashioned feeling of hand-hewn/hand-sewn/hand-made Christmas gifts. Mind you, I said "feeling," not "vision." I never actually visualized any of these gifts. Hand-hewn (don't even know what that means - to hew?), hand-sewn - I don't sew, hand-made - I don't "make" things, either. I'm stuck, I'm stymied, I'm panicked. It is December 9th and I've no idea what I'll be "making" for gifts.

Mid-summer, when this idea was suggested it seemed like a good one. With six months stretching out before me I was sure inspiration would hit, now with the Christmas clock ticking down the final days I'm beginning to wonder if Martha makes house calls!?!

Let the Eating Begin

"Let the eating begin!" I overheard before our Thanksgiving dinner and I suppose that is the mantra for the holiday season. From the Thanksgiving appetizers through the New Year's black-eyed peas I am bombarded with food. In spite of my efforts to not gain weight in December I always put on a few (or more) pounds. It's not as if I'm trying to diet - I'm just trying to hang on to my current weight - but my efforts are thwarted daily. Christmas parties, specialty baking, celebration lunches, meeting friends for a drink - it is all too much -- too much food!

I love food and I love celebrations and I even love that all of our celebrations revolve around food - I just wish we could take a closer look at the foods we are using for our festivities. Without exception, everything I have been served at special holiday gatherings this year has been over-processed, highly salted, sugary and sometimes unidentifiable food. Why can't we make our food as special as the occasion? If we invite friends to break bread during the holidays as a way of telling them, "I love you," shouldn't we also serve them food which shows the love? Food that is pure and wholesome and healthy? Food that won't just pack on the pounds.

I am as guilty as my friends. My favorite holiday recipes are full of fat, white flour and sugar. One of the reasons is because it is more expensive to buy "good" food and the "good" food options seem limited - especially in the dead of winter. But I'll give it a try; like Gandhi said, "Be the change you want to see in the world." I'm not just talking about a tray of broccoli and baby carrots with Ranch dressing on my buffet table! How about locally raised, grass fed beef, organic produce, whole grains, less sugar, less fat. If I serve my friends whole foods and the best ingredients I can find - isn't that showing them how much I value and love them?

It is okay to love your friends and family with food provided you don't love them to death with it!

Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater

The transition from Thanksgiving decor to Christmas decor involves removing cornucopias, pumpkins, gourds, Indian corn and sheaves of wheat from every surface (and front porch) of my house. Normally I take it all to the compost bin and reap the benefits in the spring, but this year I took another look at what I traditionally compost. My day job is overseeing a farm so I have access to wonderful, chemical free produce - including pumpkins. The majority of my fall decor consisted of pie pumpkins and winter squash; the prospect of composting perfectly good FOOD goes against my support of local food systems and farmers everywhere. Guess how I spent my evening? I "put-up" pumpkin.

This is how I did it - I had two methods going at the same time in order to expedite the process.
Baking Method: Cut the pumpkin in half and discard the stem section and stringy pulp. Save the seeds to dry and roast. In a shallow baking dish, place the two halves face down and cover with foil. Bake in a preheated 375 degrees F oven for about 1 1/2 hours for a medium-sized sugar pumpkin, or until tender. Once the baked pumpkin has cooled, scoop out the flesh and puree or mash it. For silky smooth custards or soups, press the pumpkin puree through a sieve.
Microwave Method: Cut the pumpkin in half, discarding the stringy insides. Microwave on high power for seven minutes per pound, turning pieces every few minutes to promote even cooking. process as above.
You can refrigerate your fresh pumpkin puree for up to three days, or store it in the freezer up to six months, enabling you to enjoy fall pumpkins for months to come.

I now have enough pumpkin to keep me going until next fall and the shell and stringy insides have gone to the compost bin. The super-wonderful-added-bonus is - I also have candied pumpkin seeds to enjoy while I put up my Christmas decorations. Yum!

Oh Tannenbaum

I don't think there is such a thing as an "easy" Christmas tree. For over 30 years my husband and I had a real Christmas tree in our home for the holiday season and in the home of my childhood there was always a real Christmas tree. I even recall both sets of grandparents and all my aunts and uncles having real Christmas trees on the years we visited them. My paternal grandfather set the bar for Christmas tree perfection. He would find the best tree to be had in east Texas and then take it home and make it better by drilling holes in the trunk in areas he deemed too sparse and inserting additional branches - a "Franken-tree" of sorts.

Upon becoming an empty-nester the thrill of finding the perfect tree was replaced by the drudge of having to decorate it by myself. There was no one to drink hot cocoa with, no one to listen to Christmas music with, and no one to assist with the work of stringing hundreds (thousands?) of lights on the tree or to help place all of the ornaments, or reminisce about where each ornament had come from. So last year I did the unthinkable, I bought an artificial tree. My children were horrified, but since these were the same children who no longer helped put up the tree or take down the tree their vote didn't count.

Last year I unpacked the new, pre-lit tree, hung a limited number of ornaments on it, and told myself it would grow on me. This year I unpacked the not quite so new, pre-lit tree and wondered why all of the lights no longer worked and why the branches looked so smushed. After hours spent this evening trying to un-smush the branches and figure out the tree's electronic system I decided this artificial tree is just as much work as a real one.

Why do I do it? Why do I continue, year after year, to put up a tree, drag out all of the ornaments and decorations and exhaust myself with holiday decorating only to have to take it all down in thirty days? I ask myself this every year, and more so recently when the children are rarely in the house during the month of December.

But I do know the answer. I do it because once it is done, once the tree is up and the house is decorated and the presents are wrapped - I remember my Christmases past, the joy and love and care my mother, my grandmothers and my aunts put into the holiday. I feel the love reach across the generations and I want my children to feel the same thing one day when they are wrestling with their Christmas tree and with the question of why bother. I want them to have special holiday memories and special holiday traditions to share with their families. So it is all about the love, the love I have for my family and the love I hope we all feel toward mankind at this special time of year.

So bring on the tree, I'll figure out the lights, I'll un-smush the branches, and I'll get it decorated all while trying not to grumble about it too much. If my east Texas grandfather could "create" the perfect tree, the least I can do is take mine out of the box, put it together correctly, and be thankful that he'll never know I gave up on the real tree and bought a fake!

Leftovers

Thanksgiving Leftovers: turkey, dressing, gravy, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, asparagus with Hollandaise sauce, green beans, creamed spinach, fruit salad, rolls, pumpkin pie, apple pie, cherry pie, pecan pie, whipped cream. After four days I am thankful that Thanksgiving only comes once a year!

Black Friday

(After writing today's blog I found this photo which one of my friends took while standing in line at Old Navy)


Ahh, the day after Thanksgiving - a day of sleeping late and eating leftovers. A day of vegging out and lolling around the house. One of the few holidays I have from work that, by the nature of being a holiday, doesn't involve cooking and cleaning for company. Today is an official "do nothing" holiday, which is why I cannot understand why anyone would opt to get up in the middle of the night to go Christmas shop on Black Friday. The traffic, the hordes of shoppers, the lack of customer help and all in the name of getting a bargain, of saving a few bucks.

Yesterday my hometown newspaper was enormous; four times the normal size. Bringing it in from its landing place on my driveway I was excited, not just because I didn't have to crawl under a car or in the bushes to retrieve it, I was eager to have a leisure morning to read the news before beginning cooking for Thanksgiving dinner. I was sorely disappointed to discover the paper to have even less news content than normal, over three-fourths was sales advertisements.

I know people (am actually related to people) who probably plotted out their Black Friday shopping excursions. Had I been so incline, my day could have gone something like this:
2:30 a.m. - Awake and dress, make sure to wear soccer elbow and knee pads, borrowed from my niece, under clothes. Lace up running shoes.
3:15 a.m. - drive to mall, search for parking spot, get in line outside of Sears. As soon as the doors open at 4:00 a.m. make a dash to the Electronics Department for the $79 Kodak digital camera. There are only 5 at each store and no rainchecks. I pity anyone who stands in my way! After scoring the camera I make a bee-line to the Tool Department for a $39 drill (24 per store) and then on the the Clothing Department for $9.99 store-brand jeans for the entire family. (I know no one who will wear this brand, but hey - they're $9.99!)
4:38 a.m. - Clock my personal best quarter mile speed while running to J.C. Penney at the opposite end of the Mall. At Penney's I can get a $12.88 coffee maker (programmable), $29.99 women's boots (do we think they are leather?) and for $17.88 a 4-shooter rotating liquor dispenser (doesn't that just scream Christmas present?) plus, a FREE Disney snow globe and a $10 store coupon good only tomorrow. Sweet!
4:59 a.m. - Race across town to Kohl's Department Store which also opened at 4:00 a.m. I can get $10 Kohl's Cash for every $50 I spend. "It's like getting paid to shop," states their ad. Honestly, there isn't much from this store I want/need, but they boast "over 300 Early Bird Specials," so I'm sure I can find something. After all - they are paying me to shop!

After Kohl's, it is on to the slacker stores that waited until 5:00 a.m. to open:
Best Buy has $9.00 DVDs
Academy sports has licensed team hoodies for $12.99. A must for all the sports fans on my X-mas list.
Burlington Coat Factory has "Bubble Jackets" for the entire family for $9.99. So what if they make you look like the Michelin Man!
At Target I'm going for the $59.99 eight bottle wine fridge with a free electric wine bottle opener, a $19 value! I think I'll need it after today's shopping excursion.
At Walmart I can get a $78 Blu-ray Disc Player (and mugged in the parking lot).
At Toys-R-Us I'm after the $99 (Regularly $299 - Save $200) Furreal Friends life-size pony, only to discover Toys-R-Us opened at midnight and they've already sold out. In my excitement I failed to read the ad closely enough - alas, my inexperience is showing.

It is now 7:15 and I still have the stores which opened at 6:00 a.m. to hit and I'm already over an hour off schedule. I guess I'll just park outside of the Verizon Store and hope I snag one of the $29 laptop computers. Hmmm, small print. I search out my reading glasses at the bottom of my purse under all of the morning sales receipts, and read, "$100 mail in rebate debit card. Requires new 2-year activation on a Mobile Broadband Plan. See page 2 for details." Twenty-nine dollars, indeed!

In actuality I slept until 9:00 a.m. and enjoyed Thanksgiving leftovers for breakfast. The only sale I'm going to today is the buy one, get one free book sale at my favorite used book store, Awesome Books.

Talkin' Turkey

I am working on a project with a college student from China who will experience her first American Thanksgiving today. She has apologized profusely for phoning or emailing me this week, disturbing me before my "big American holiday." Her reverence of the day has caused me to see Thanksgiving with new eyes and to appreciate the uniqueness of the day.

I prefer not to think of the origins; the vision of sweet Pilgrims and Indians sharing a meal has been replaced by stolen land, buffalo massacres and cholera-infected blankets. I much prefer to think of the many Thanksgivings I have spent with my family over the years.

Americans are fiercely proud of their Thanksgiving traditions, even the date - the fourth Thursday in November, can't be tampered with. Franklin Delano Roosevelt tried to change it during his presidency to the third Thursday to increase the number of shopping days between Thanksgiving and Christmas, but Americans refused to let go of tradition. Sadly, as addicted to shopping as our society is today, we might buy into the idea, but it is too late, following the three year debacle of third Thursday Thanksgivings, FDR made Thanksgiving a National Holiday to be celebrated on the fourth Thursday of November. Prior to this Thanksgiving wasn't a National Holiday - who knew?

Hopefully, we've learned a lesson from FDR about messing with tradition and every family has their own. My paternal, east Texas side of the family has a smoked turkey, while my maternal west Texas family thinks smoked turkey is an abomination and insists upon oven roasted. Some families must have marshmallows on sweet potatoes, others sans. Of course there is the jellied vs. whole cranberry debate and the light bread vs. cornbread dressing battle. And does your family call it dressing or stuffing and is it in the bird or out?

Traditions run deep. It took years of plotting and conniving on my part to replace the soupy gelatinous mess called green bean casserole with fresh cooked al dente haricots vertes, but the Cool Whip coated fruit, called ambrosia, still makes an annual appearance. Blending families for the holiday meal adds new food traditions. My niece wants her mother's pumpkin roll for dessert, Aunt Dee puts oysters in her dressing, my daughters insist I make the mashed potatoes, and if my sister and I were sharing the holiday we would have to make pink salad (a concoction made with cherry pie filling, canned pineapple and marshmallows), not because we especially like it, but because our mother always made it. I pine for the homemade egg noodles my east Texas Maw Maw served at holiday meals alongside the mashed potatoes and dressing and giblet gravy - it was a starch-fest.

Today, as I sit down to Thanksgiving with my family I will remember the traditions passed from generation to generation and family to family. The traditions that make my Thanksgiving and the Thanksgivings at tables across America special and unique. I will think of my new Chinese friend and wonder what she thinks of this American holiday of excess and abundance. If she is wowed by today, just wait until tomorrow when she gets to experience Black Friday.

What was FDR thinking when he tried to add another week of Christmas shopping? We're Americans, we can do it all in one day!

Instant Karma

For four years I have wanted headboards on the beds at our lake cabin. We bought the place furnished, but the beds are on metal frames only, no headboards. Off and on I've searched garage sales, estate sales, used and new furniture stores, to no avail. I either could find nothing I liked or the price was too steep to rationalize for a piece of furniture at a rustic lake house. The past few weeks I began taking my quest a little more seriously because my writing group will be using the cabin for quarterly retreats. I hit all the same furniture haunts and at a garage sale I thought I hit the jackpot. The woman selling her wares assured me her daughter would bring a Queen-size sleigh bed to the sale the next day. The price was not too high, but the color was wrong. It was dark wood and I really wanted light wood or white, but I've long lived by the adage, "Beggars, can't be choosers." I left my name and phone number and promised to return the following day with cash in hand. The timing was great, as my husband and I were going to the cabin and could install the new bed before the writing retreat.

I returned for "my" new bed, only to discover the proprietor of the garage sale had not honored her promise and sold the bed to the first person waving cash at her. I was disappointed and mad, I had negative thoughts about the woman that involved wishing bad karma upon her! My Zen-like husband made his usual, "It wasn't meant to be" comment.

The next day, en route to the lake sans a headboard my husband spied another garage sale and asked if I'd like to stop. "Sure," I replied unenthusiastically, knowing it would be an exercise in futility, as most garage sales are. But what did I see as we approached the sale? A white queen-size headboard. I jumped out of the car with more than a little excitement, and inquired the price. "Two dollars," was the reply. Two dollars!?! On what planet can you buy a queen-size headboard for two dollars? Even if it was old, cheaply made, and peeling paint, I would have paid much, much more. the headboard just fit in the back of my SUV and we continued on our way to the Lake, believing a little more in Karma.

The 50,000 Word Quest

I am on a wild and crazy mission, one that will keep me up late and drive me nuts. I am participating in Nanowrimo. I must write 50,000 words by the end of the month. I must write a very rough draft of a novel or some other such and nonsense. So, this means I have another excuse for not cleaning house or keeping up with my blog. What will I think of next?

Questions for the Mayor

Dear Mayor,

In June my daughter's car was vandalized in her driveway, in July her boyfriend's truck was broken into in the parking lot of a restaurant, and on Sunday night (October 25, 2009) her home was burglarized. I have questions: Why are there mean people? Why do some people think they can take other's property? How could someone kick in my daughter's back door, enter her home, go into her rooms, and take her things?

Knowing I will never get the answers to these questions I have other questions to ask. What are you doing to make our city safe? What are you doing to increase the size of the police force? What are you doing to increase the pay scale for police officers so that more qualified and capable people apply? What are you doing to enable the young police officer, who answered my daughter's 911 call, to catch the criminals? Are there funds to actually do anything with the fingerprint evidence he collected or with the serial numbers from my daughter's electronic equipment? And, if by chance, the horrible person/people who broke into my daughter's home are caught, what are you doing to ensure they will be locked up and punished for their crime? Is there room in the jail for them? Is there a true deterrent or will they just get a slap on the hand before going out to do it again?

My daughter is twenty-three years old, trying to finish school and suddenly looking at a $1,100 insurance deductible to replace a door and door frame, a computer, Internet equipment, power cords, chargers and miscellaneous personal (and sentimental) items. How will she overcome this financial loss? She has lost sleep and lost faith and lost her sense of security. How will she get these things back?

I may never know why there are mean people, but I want to know what you are going to do about crime in our town.

Sincerely,

A devastated young woman's mother

You Took the Long Way Home

Thirty years ago today, October 26, 1979, a Harris County deputy sheriff found my mother at her office and informed her that her son was dead. My younger brother, Wade, always took the long way, the hard way, the way less traveled, the way of his own distant drummer.

I was three years and three months old when he was born. He was the little brother tagging along, the little brother always getting into trouble - banging his head on his crib, playing with matches, and "loaning" someone a bicycle (which we never saw again). He was the kid always in the wrong place at the wrong time for the right reason. Always hearing his own music, always taking the long way.

He found his passion and his talent early; he was a gifted drummer who spent hours practicing in his upstairs bedroom oblivious to anything and everyone. Surrounding himself with like-minded friends and doing things my parents didn't always approve of, and of course, always getting caught. Smoking pot, wrecking the car, threatening his girlfriend's stepfather - always well-intentioned, always with a right-set heart, but always making an error in judgement. Things most could do and eke by, my brother did and ran smack into our father while trying to sneak back into the house.

He followed his distant drummer the long way home one night. Riding his motorcycle, he missed the turn and sailed across the bayou, hitting the embankment and breaking his neck. He died instantly, is what the sheriff told my mother. It was the first night she didn't wait up for him is what she told the sheriff.

He took the long way home.

Deadlines

I am leaving town in one hour and ten minutes, which is the deadline (self-imposed) for the "equally shared sleeping quarters" (aka - master bedroom) project. I can assure you, nothing more will get accomplished in the next hour and ten minutes. However, great progress was made. Sadly, I can't claim responsibility for all of it. I enlisted help from my husband, but I was a great delegator and project manager.
What was done:

• both clothes closets were cleaned out, purged, and painted.
• my dresser drawers were cleaned out, purged, and lined with lavender scented paper (it's a girl thing).
• vintage Hartmann luggage (previously used as storage) cleaned out and purged.
• ceiling fan dusted, lights washed.
• top of my desk cleaned off (this is a way bigger deal than it sounds!).
• all photo frames cleaned (huge deal - as there are over 50).
• husband's bed-side table (with four drawers containing an assortment of "stuff" accumulated over 25 years) cleaned and purged.
• all surfaces (top of dresser, armoire, bookshelf, etc.) cleaned and purged.
• TV cabinet with four drawers containing old VHS movies cleaned and purged and painted to match bookshelf. (Thanks to husband for braving garage, finding old paint can, matching paint, and painting cabinet which I've been promising to paint for ten+ years.)
• windows cleaned (inside only).
• curtains cleaned.

Things which didn't make the deadline:

• books in bookshelf purged, dusted, organized.
• all furniture (including bed) vacuumed under.
• my desk drawers cleaned out and purged.
• trunk cleaned out and purged.
• bedroom storage closet cleaned out and purged.
• curtains ironed.

I'll give myself a few extra days when I return from my trip to completed the room. It was my deadline, I can move it!

My Day Off

I have proven once again that I have "Adult Attention Deficit Disorder" - or whatever the hell it is they are calling it these days. I think having this syndrome is awesome. I wouldn't want to be without it! I had a wonderful day, thanks to AADD! This was my day:

• Awoke, realized I didn't have to go to work today, went back to sleep. Awoke again, when the dog-alarm-clock insisted I should be awake. Great husband brought me coffee while I wrote.
• Read newspaper, did crossword, drank more coffee.
• Checked email, facebook, blogs. Answered email. Sent co-workers my schedule for this week.
• Started laundry.
• Revised chapter in novel I am currently revising.
• Checked faceboook, drank more coffee, folded a load of laundry, cleaned off desk in bedroom, listened to Roy Orbison on ipod, started another load of laundry, took dogs outside for potty break.
• Tried on clothes I might pack and wear on upcoming vacation. Found suitcases, folded another load of laundry, called my aunt to discuss get-together. Began roasting tomatoes. Sorted and soaked beans for dinner tomorrow night.
• Thought about cleaning out refrigerator. Abandoned idea of cleaning out refrigerator. Revised another chapter. Packed reference books for upcoming trip. Updated facebook status. Checked email. Called daughter to make sure she got up in time to go to class.
• Worked on time lines and outlines for novel project. Checked roasting tomatoes. Took dogs outside for another potty break.
• Made hotel reservations for 35-year High School Reunion scheduled for April. This took over thirty minutes, as the computers were down at the hotel. Checked email and updated facebook status while on hold. Also checked the blogs I follow for updates. Finally finished reservations and sent out email challenging classmates to do the same.
• Folded and began another load of laundry. Tried on more clothes for upcoming vacation.
• Made grocery list for this evening's appetizer dinner and tomorrow's dinner. Called daughter to find out how her classes went. Called grandmother to tell her I was coming over. Changed clothes.
• Watched Oprah (one of the guilty pleasures of a day off). Folded the final load of laundry.
• Made a list of all of the things I need to take on vacation. Tried to upload photos from camera to photo-finishing site. Didn't work. This is the second time I have spend 30+ minutes trying to order photos online. Tomorrow I am going directly to store with card and uploading photos on site.
• Checked email and updated facebook status again. Finally finished roasting tomatoes.
• Went to grocery store for ingredients to finish out tonight's appetizer dinner and tomorrow's New Orleans Red Beans and Rice. Took roasted tomatoes, Mozzarella, and basil to grandmother's house to share with aunts and uncles. Drank wine.
• Came home, chopped onion, garlic, bell pepper for tomorrow's dinner. Drank wine. Watched my favorite Monday night sit-coms. Tried to purge a virus from my desk-top computer. Folded another load of clothes. Moved suitcases for next week's trip off of bed.
• Checked email and updated facebook status. Felt guilty about not having a new blog. Began new blog. Washed dishes. Got out crock-pot for tomorrow's red beans and rice.
• Took dogs out for potty break. Washed out wine glasses. Told husband I'd be to bed soon. Finished blog.

All-in-all, a great day off. I love having AADD!

Soup

Remember the "Soup Nazi" from Seinfeld? If I were the "Soup Nazi" I could/might/would have the power to deny you the most awesome soup ever. Remember my blog from yesterday when I mentioned making soup from the other half of THE Squash? Well, I made the soup and it must go down in the annals (make sure it has two "n"s says my husband when I asked him how to spell it) of history! I just made the best soup in the world!

Maybe it has something to do with using fresh, locally grown ingredients? Maybe it has something to do with drinking an entire bottle of wine while preparing it? Who cares - the soup was awesome! You must make it. Either right now, or tomorrow (after you have had time to gather the ingredients). Even if you cannot get local ingredients, make this soup as soon as possible. You will thank me!

Recipe Recap:
Mexican Bean and Squash Soup
Ingredients:
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 cups butternut squash, peeled, seeded, and cut into 3/4-inch chunks (my squash was from a local farmer. Try to buy local, or grow your own. Check out farmers' markets for butternut squash - if all else fails buy an organic butternut squash at the grocery store.)
1 small yellow onion, finely chopped (mine was from the farm where I work)
1/4 cup finely chopped celery (I'm not a huge fan of celery, so I doubled the carrots)
1/2 cup finely chopped carrots (I used 2 large carrots from my farm and sliced them on the diagonal)
3 cloves garlic minced (I used 5-6 cloves, and they were from my farm, also)
2 canned chipolte peppers in adobo sauce, seeded and minced (I always freeze these when I open a can, because you only use one or two at a time. I only had one, so I used it, seeds and all.)
1 tablespoon chopped fresh basil leaves (probably the last basil from my backyard)
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley (I used fresh cilantro instead)
1 teaspoon cumin
1 (15-ounce) can diced tomatoes (I used about 9 fresh Roma tomatoes, probably the last of the farm harvest, peeled and diced)
2 quarts chicken or vegetable broth (I used organic vegetable broth, optimistically thinking there might be leftovers to share with my vegetarian daughter. I doubt there will be any leftovers.)
1 (15-ounce) can cannellini beans, drained
1 cup corn kernels (I cut the kernels off corn from the farm I froze a few months ago)
2 limes, cut into wedges (after squeezing the lime, put the rind in your bowl)
Tortilla chips for topping
1 cup sour cream, for topping (I used about a teaspoon of light sour cream in each bowl)
1 (8 -ounce) package shredded Mexican blend cheese, for topping (I used Colby-jack)
I also added diced avocado to each bowl
Directions:
Heat the olive oil in a deep pot over medium-high heat. Stir in the squash, and cook until it begins to soften, 5-7 minutes. Add onion, celery, and carrots. Cook until the onion is transparent, about 5 minutes. Stir in the garlic, chipolte peppers, basil, parsley, and cumin; cook 2 minutes more. Mix in the tomatoes and chicken or vegetable broth. Reduce heat to medium, and simmer until the vegetables are tender, about 30 minutes. Stir in the cannellini beans and the corn; cook until just heated through. To serve, ladle the soup into bowls. Squeeze lime juice over each bowl (A MUST), and top with tortilla chips, a dollop of sour cream, and a sprinkling of Mexican cheese.

Regardless of the wine consumed while making this, I am going on record as saying this is the best soup I have ever made or eaten! Getcha some!

THE Squash

In February a friend and fellow farmer gave me a humongous, gi-normous butternut squash. That was eight months ago. For eight months the gargantuan squash sat on my kitchen butcher block. It was very pretty! But, now I have pumpkins sitting on the butcher block and I really need the room, so the butternut squash had to go. My husband cut it in half for me. I was scared I might lose a finger (or a hand) if I tried to cut it. It was, surprisingly, still good. Winter squash are like that - they last a very long time. I guess it is that super-hard shell that protects the innards.


Tonight I made the first of two recipes out of the gi-normous squash. It was a delicious butternut mac-n-cheese recipe. It made enough to feed an army and only used half of the squash. Tomorrow I am making a soup out of the other half. I am sure it will make enough to feed the opposing army. I will feed any and all armed forces, should they show up craving butternut squash.



The recipes:



Butternut Cheddar Shells

12 ounces large pasta shells (not jumbo)

1 1/2 pound butternut squash, peeled, seeded and cubed

2 teaspoons butter

2 teaspoons olive oil

1/3 cup minced onion

2 tablespoons flour

salt, to taste

white pepper, to taste

nutmeg, to taste

2 cups buttermilk

5 ounces mild cheddar cheese, grated

cooking spray or oil

Set a large pot of water to boil, and preheat oven to 350 F. Lightly spray or brush a 9x13-inch baking dish or similar size casserole with oil. When water boils, add pasta and cook to nearly al dente. Using a slotted spoon, remove shells to a large bowl. In same boiling water, cook squash cubes until tender, about 5 minutes. Drain and transfer to bowl with cooked pasta. Set aside while you make the sauce. In a large skillet, over medium heat, melt butter, add oil and onions, and saute 2 to 3 minutes, until tender. Stir in flour, salt, pepper, and nutmeg, and cook another 2 to 3 minutes. All at once, add the buttermilk and all but 2 tablespoons of the cheese. Cook, whisking constantly, until sauce thickens and cheese melts, about 8 minutes. Pour sauce over pasta and squash, and toss to distribute evenly. Transfer mixture to prepared dish, sprinkle with reserved cheese, and bake about 15 minutes, until bubbly and heated through.



Mexican Bean and Squash Soup

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 cups butternut squash - peeled, seeded and cut into 3/4-inch chunks

1 small onion, finely chopped

1/4 cup finely chopped celery

1/2 cup finely chopped carrot

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 canned chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, seeded and minced

1 tablespoon chopped fresh bay leaves

1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley

1 teaspoon cumin

1 (15 ounce) can diced tomatoes

2 quarts chicken or vegetable stock

1 (15.5 ounce) can cannellini beans, drained

1 cup corn kernels, fresh, canned or frozen

2 limes, cut into wedges

1 (10 ounce) bag tortilla chips, for topping

1 cup sour cream, for topping

1 (8 ounce) package shredded Mexican blend cheese, for topping



I guess I can count removing the behemoth squash from my kitchen a house cleaning chore of sorts - can't I?

Apres Ski - Really?

The photo above defines my world of crap and clutter, my world of "stuff." This picture is of a pair of Apres Ski Boots given to me for Christmas one year by my parents. I don't remember the exact year (my sister will - she received a pair, too), but I think I was still in college. I graduated from college thirty-one years ago.

Keeping the boots for more than a quarter of a century is not even the real issue here. They are apres ski boots. I don't ski. I tried it once and hated it. It was too cold and my ankles hurt. Sitting in the bar was more to my liking and, I promise, there was not a pair of apres ski boots in sight! Maybe, somewhere in a quaint ski lodge in the Swiss Alps, there are people sitting around drinking hot buttered rum while wearing after ski boots, but I doubt it. However, I am sure that was the scene my mother envisioned when she purchased these boots for her daughters.

As you can see from the photo, the boots are ugly. Also, they do not fit me. My feet have grown a full size since college. The boots aren't even waterproof - so wearing them outside during the occasional winter snow is out of the question. They are fleece-lined, designed to warm the feet after a long day of skiing. My feet have never been so cold as to need to be warmed by fleece-lined boots. And, let me mention once more - they are ugly!

So why have the boots been permanent residents of my closet for all of these years? A few reasons/excuses:

• They became invisible; I never really saw them. I don't mean they were hidden by the other closet "stuff," I mean they have been there so long they just belonged there on the bottom shelf of my closet, next to my work boots. It never occurred to me how idiotic it was to keep them.
• There was probably some sentimental attachment. Subconsciously, I probably thought of my parents when I saw them and remembered Christmases past, when they were still living, and all of the gifts they lovingly gave.
• I also have the "great depression-mentality" inherited from my grandmother. They are still perfectly good boots - why get rid of them?
• Maybe one of my daughters will want them? NO!
• Or perhaps, the real reason I've held on to these boots for so long - maybe I'm not ready to give up on the idea of sitting around an Alpine lodge, drinking warm drinks with my feet, cold from a long day of swooshing down the Alps, swathed in fleece.

But I am banishing all the reasons and excuses. Today the vintage apres ski boots have been relegated to the garage sale box! Let's hope a chalet-owning, Swiss skier attends the sale.

I'm Back!

Cleaning House, a memoir - is the title, and allegedly, the theme of my blog. I've lost sight of the cleaning house part! No more, at least for today! I am focused and determined to get one room cleaned, purged, organized, in shape, etc. Much like a 12-step program employing the "one day at a time" mantra, I'm going with one room at a time. The room first in line for my new, determined focus is the master bedroom. What an odd name! This many years after the women's lib movement, why do we still call it the master bedroom? How about the "equally shared sleeping quarters" or the "main bedroom" or the "room of snoring and menopausal night sweats" or the "only bedroom in the house with a lock on the door?" I digress.

Let it be known that progress has been made. This weekend I took everything (please note bold letters) out of my closet. I piled all of it in the newly transformed room of daughter #1. (See blog dated 8/4/09) I still have to purge the 25+ years of the accumulated contents, but the closet (drum roll, please) is freshly painted! Once everything came out, I realized the interior of this closet, and probably every other one in my house, hasn't been painted since the house was built. We didn't paint the closet interiors when we moved in and judging by the appearance, once I could actually see the walls of the closet, it probably hasn't seen a fresh coat of paint since (another drum roll) 1953!

It is now painted the brightest white imaginable. My painter, who happens to be the other inhabitant of the "equally shared sleeping quarters," mentioned that my small closet, measuring 3.5 x 5' (in the 1950s large closets were not yet in vogue) took as much paint as daughter #1's large bedroom! The closet required several coats - after 55 years its thirst for paint was insatiable.

As I wait for the paint to dry, my job is to purge the closet "stuff." In addition to clothing and shoes (this might be a good time to confess I have two other closets in my house used for my clothes and shoes), this closet held a multitude of miscellaneous crap. I have already thrown away or designated for the garage sale pile - two Seiko watch boxes, circa 1980, 2 Cannon Sure-shot cameras, and lots and lots of costume jewelry. So, I have made a small start, but I do have my work cut out for me. The upside to this, aside from a gleaming white, empty closet - imagine the fodder for future blogs! Hello - Cleaning House, a memoir - I'm back!

I Was Right About the Peppers

They are so much prettier than the tomatoes!

Strawberry Pie

My husband and I went to our lake cabin this weekend. Actually, not even for the whole weekend, just for twenty-seven hours. Just enough to re-charge. We arrived at 5:00 on Saturday evening and left at 8:00 on Sunday night. A quick trip, but enough to prepare us to face another work week.

Because it was a short trip I opted not to cook. We took a take-and-bake pizza and Marie Callender's chicken pot pies. Normally I enjoy cooking when we go to the lake. I find it relaxing and enjoyable to prepare good meals when we are there. It is at home, in the real world, where I don't usually have the time, or the energy, or the desire to spend much time in the kitchen. But in consideration of the time and my apathy toward food this weekend, we took the easy way out.

Our arrival was timed to enjoy our favorite time of day at the lake. We like nothing more than to sit on the deck overlooking the lake, watching the setting sun turn the water a multitude of colors. The transformation is astounding. From muddy blue, to milky green, to emerald, to aquamarine, to midnight blue, to slate, to onyx, and if the moon is full - to mica. A kaleidoscope show of color, seemingly just for our benefit.

Without city lights the night sky is more vivid. The moon admiring its reflection on the water, the stars, somehow nearer to earth than they are in town. Nature is not timid about showing her beauty after dark. Deer, a raccoon, and an armadillo all come out from their hiding places.

After a night of sleep uninterrupted by sirens or honking car horns we wake to the sound of birds outside of our window. The first light on the lake is, perhaps, more dazzling than the last. Watching the sun turn the gray water to mercury is magical. Then the diamonds are cast on the surface and I am a rich woman.

The eight tom turkeys, who reside somewhere near our property, stagger across the tableau like drunks returning from a bachelor party. Quail single file run behind them as if admonishing them for their bad behavior. One lone bird of prey glides gracefully over the lake, flaps his wings once in approval before disappearing into the bright, white, morning sky.

Early rising neighbors nod or wave or salute each other with coffee mugs as the sky turns to blue and the whine of a boat motor breaks the magical silence. I feel as if I have just been to church on this Sunday morning.

The rest of the day is spent doing what we enjoy. My husband does the maintenance chores he wants to do versus has to do. I read and write without interruption, without guilt, without the worry of cleaning the house or doing the wash or running the errands. One more magical evening and it is time to return to reality and to our work week.

While waiting for our Marie Callender chicken pot pies to cool we snap the leashes on the dogs and go for one last walk. We inspect the handy-work my husband has done around the dock, and let the dogs sniff deer tracks and rabbit holes to their content. We return to the cabin and to our dinner to find a strawberry pie in our refrigerator. In this utopia where we don't lock our doors, some kind neighbor left us a strawberry pie. We sit on the deck, watch the lake go through its chameleon performance, eat strawberry pie, and smile.

What Do You Want?

I want to go to a doctor when I am sick. I want to pay the doctor a fair price for care, with the help of health insurance, for which I pay a fair price. I want my husband, my children, and any future grandchildren to have affordable health insurance so they may see a doctor if they become ill. I do not want them denied health insurance because they are unemployed, in school, or have a pre-existing condition. I want to have money left over from my paycheck, after the deduction for my health insurance, with which to pay other monthly expenses. I want to pay a fair price for my prescription medication. I don't want to choose between taking a prescribed medication or paying a utility bill. If I should ever have to go to the hospital, I want good care at a fair, affordable price. I do not want to be forced to file bankruptcy because of an illness which required hospitalization.

I want to live in a world that is free of war. If that is not possible, I want to live in a country which is respected as a fair and just peace-maker. I want to live in a country where more money is spent on education than military. I want to live in a country where our young people are valued and well educated. I want to live in a country where our teachers are well educated, valued, and well paid. I want to live in a country where college is not cost-prohibitive.

I want to live in a country where everyone has access to good food. I do not want to be fed pesticides and hormones and genetically modified food. I want healthy, clean, pure food. I don't want my food grown in questionable conditions in another part of the world or country and shipped to me at a great cost, when the farmer down the road could grow it. I want the farmers and laborers paid fairly for the food they grow. I want animals raised for my food to be treated humanely. I want to pay a fair, affordable price for my food. I do not want to choose between adequate, clean food and medical care.

I want to live in a country where my fellow citizens are responsible for themselves. I want to live in a country with compassion for those who cannot be responsible for themselves. I want to live in a country which seeks to solve the core problems of irresponsibility - lack of education and skills, mental illness, drug abuse, hunger, poor parenting, aging, homelessness, to name a few. I want to live in a country which values its elders. I want to live in a country where senior citizens are respected and cared for.

I want to live in a country not divided by political or religious affiliation. I want to be free to hold my own opinions and religious views without fear of persecution or ridicule. I want to live in a country which is tolerant and open-minded. If you do not like or agree with my politics or with my God, at least concede that I may vote and worship however I choose.

I want to live in a country which is respected and respectful. In world politics and in our communities and in our homes I want to remember that respect is earned. I want to lead by example and I want our leaders and my neighbors to do the same.

I want to live in a country which values the earth and seeks to sustain our planet and our universe. I want future generations to have clean water, fresh air, trees, and mountains, and oceans. I want the beauty and sanctity of our world preserved.

I want to be happy. I want others to be happy.

I want to assume we all want the same things.

Two Funerals

I attended two funerals in two days. One for a man who lived well; a long, satisfied life, a life of giving and caring. The other, for a woman who lived a life cut short, but also one of satisfaction, of giving and caring. The funerals coming so close together, like the deaths, twenty-four hours apart, I can't help but compare - not the lives, but the way they were each grieved and remembered.

Both funeral services were a celebration of the life they lived. The older man's character, family and successes were lauded. Tears were shed over the remembrances offered by his grandchildren, but the tears were tempered with laughter. He left a tribe of family members, all better because of him. He left friends and family reluctant, but ready to let him go.

The younger woman's funeral was a tribute to her life, as well. Her years cauterized by a courageous battle with cancer. She left behind a husband, barely grown sons, a grandchild, a father, a sister, and hundreds of family and friends trying bravely to convince themselves she lived a full life, a complete life, in the years she was allotted.

One life lived to its fullest, one life cut short. Both lives lived well. Two funerals in two days will make you think. I wonder how much time I have? I realize how much time I have squandered. Will I leave a tribe of family misty-eyed, but satisfied with what I gave them or will I leave them mourning because I wasn't finished living? I've known the pain of losing my mother too soon, the pain of raising my children without their grandmother, the pain of carrying on without my mother. The pain of losing my father followed too quickly. But I have also known the joy of a life lived long and well. My grandmother continues to touch her family tribe with her love and wisdom of one-hundred and two years.

I know the admonition, we all do. Live everyday as if it were your last. Keep your lamps trimmed. We don't know the day or the hour. Two funerals in two days - I'm thinking of this now, but how long before I forget?

(Dis)illusions of Canning

I debated long and hard about canning. I almost talked myself out of it. These were the cons:

• I had too much other stuff to do. Including, but not limited to - work, housework, grocery shopping, laundry, visiting my grandmother, and cleaning out the hall closet (ha-ha, not really).


• I wasn't really sure how to can.


• I didn't own all of the necessary canning supplies.


• The necessary canning supplies are expensive.


• I'm sort of lazy.

But the pros won. The pros were:

• The thought of the beautiful jars of tomatoes in my pantry in mid-winter.


• There is a "woman who cans" inside of me dying to get out. (See blog dated 2/19/09 Earth Mother)


• I could go shopping for the canning supplies.


• If I canned it would get me out of cleaning something to blog about.

I did go shopping for canning supplies. These are the things I purchased:

• A water-bath canner with rack - $23


• A set of canning "tools" - a jar lifter, a magnetic lid-lifter, a funnel, a spatula - $7


• Labels - $3


• One dozen quart jars with lids and rings - $8


• One dozen pint jars with lids and rings - $8


• One dozen half pint jars with lids and rings - $8 (Does this make sense to anyone? Why do the little jars cost the same as the large?) (I know, I know - I already had jars, but I wanted to start off with new ones.)


• A set of three sieves - $12

I didn't have to purchase the tomatoes - they all came out of the garden, the final harvest of the season. Beautiful red and yellow (Lemon Boys) tomatoes. I coerced my husband into assisting me. "This will be fun," I said. We began our simple canning project at 7:00 p.m. on Friday. We had every burner on the stove boiling a pot or a kettle. We began by washing all of the tomatoes, then dipping them in boiling water for one minute and then cold. My husband took over that job. I had the task of peeling and coring the tomatoes, and putting them in the prepared canning jars with two tablespoons of lemon juice and one teaspoon of salt. We filled the first seven quart jars quickly and set them in their one hour and thirty-five minute hot water-bath.

On to the next seven jars. Who knew this would take so long? Two bottles of wine, one pizza and five hours later - we finished, and the kitchen was a disaster. With tomato juice splattered on every surface it resembled a murder scene. We ignored it all and went to bed with fourteen jars of tomatoes resting on a towel on the kitchen counter.

At 5:50 the next morning I bounded out of bed, eager to check the lids on every jar to make sure they sealed properly and to admire my beautiful jars of tomatoes. The sight was not quite what I had expected. Oh, the jars did seal, but they weren't as pretty as I had imagined. Each of the jars held about two inches of clear liquid below a floating glob of tomatoes. A quick Internet search assured me that this was normal with tomatoes. I probably didn't fill the jars full enough.

I guess the point is to have food "put by" for the winter months. I will certainly have a nice supply of tomatoes, but they look nothing like the beautiful color photo which accompanied the recipe.

Peppers. Peppers might be more attractive? Pepper harvest is in full swing. Only one problem - I don't think I'll be able to convince my husband of the "fun" - especially if he's the one nominated to handle the jalapenos.

"I'm going to can." vs. "I'm going to Cannes."

I mentioned tonight, at our weekly dinner, that I was going to can on Friday. My Aunt was ecstatic upon hearing this news. I was dumbfounded. Why would she care that I had decided to put up tomatoes? After about 3 minutes of her excitement over my news of canning it was discovered that she thought I meant - "I'm going to Cannes." Funny, isn't it, that we all have a unique frame of reference?

Julie and Julia and Me?

Yesterday my husband and I saw the movie, Julie and Julia. It was a good movie, a girl movie. A girl movie I was owed after seeing District 9 with my husband on his birthday. The movie, Julie and Julia was essentially the life stories of two women - Julie Powell and Julia Child. We all know Julia Child, but I was more interested in Julie Powell. We have a few similarities. She's from Texas - I'm from Texas, in the movie she had written half a novel - I've written half a novel, she felt unfulfilled as a writer - I feel unfulfilled as a writer, she rarely finished anything - I rarely finish anything, she has a blog - I have a blog. All similarities end there.

The movie begins with Julie deciding to write a blog about cooking as a means of satisfying her inner writer. But not just any cooking - she decides to blog about cooking her way through Julia Child's cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol. I. And, she decides to do it in one year - 524 recipes in 365 days. And, these recipes are extremely complicated, requiring boiling a calf foot and killing lobsters. (Warning: If you don't want the ending to the movie ruined - Stop reading now.) She meets her deadline, becomes famous, and has a movie made about her.

Wow! Who knew blogging could be so exciting? And profitable?

What does this mean for little-ole-blogger-me? Is there a famous book out there on cleaning which I could work my way through in one year in order to draw the attention of publishing houses and movie producers? I did just read that E.L. Doctorow's new book is about the Collyer brothers. They are legendary hoarders who were found buried under tons of "stuff" in their Manhattan mansion in the 1940s. But, even my house can't compare with that!

I guess what the movie did for me was make me realize I haven't been very serious about my blog-project. I haven't been a very diligent cleaner and purger of my house and of my "stuff." Should I follow Julie Powell's example and install a countdown meter on my blog site? We could all watch the days of the year tick by and wonder if I will complete my cleaning house project before the year is over. Should I follow Julie's example and get up extra early and stay up extra late in order to make sure I get everything done? How awesome would it be to know that in exactly one year from today my house would be spotless and free of all the extraneous "stuff." Could I do it, should I do it?

Nah, but it was fun, for just a minute, to think I might.

Aunt Margie

If left to my own devices I would probably be a lot like my Aunt Margie in her later years. My Daddy's sister lived her whole life in east Texas, with the possible exception of her earliest years, of which I have no knowledge. Not being the family genealogist, I'm not exactly sure if she was born in Texas or in Oklahoma, where my grandparents lived before coming to Texas.

Margie married an oil man, had four beautiful children, built a magnificent home (hand-selecting the bricks she wanted exposed on the fireplace wall, to the detriment of the tendon in her arm), took care of her aging parents who lived across town in their own home and her mother-in-law who lived in a specially built m-i-l suite in her newly built home, and lived what appeared to be an enviable life. Her mother-in-law died, her husband left her (for his secretary, no less), her children grew up, her parents died, and she drank. Living alone in that big, empty house I can see how it happened. I recall once while visiting, she announced she'd quit drinking. I was shocked to see her unpack a case of white wine and open a bottle. She really had no idea that replacing Jim Beam with Chardonnay wasn't quitting.

I loved visiting my Aunt Margie. Memories of my childhood at Aunt Margie's always include time spent in her kitchen. Her kitchen pantry always held "exotic" foods we didn't have in our home. She always had Oreo cookies on hand, and Frito's and Cheetos, hot chocolate mix and a bag of miniature marshmallows. She even kept jars of maraschino cherries in her bar, and didn't mind that we put several in our Cokes or Seven-ups. I learned to add a slice of American cheese and milk to Campbell's tomato soup in her kitchen.

Even when I was a teen she treated me differently from the other aunts and uncles. She gave me a freedom I hadn't known before. Putting on a bathing suit and walking through the copse of trees, or the forest as we thought of it when we were kids, that separated her home from the gated swimming pool which served her small, exclusive neighborhood, at any time of the day or night was liberating.

Looking back on her life I realize she must have always possessed a creative soul. In her later years Margie began to write poetry. Long poems about her life, her family, her friends, her loves. Typed copies backed with blue paper, like a legal document, were often mailed to those she loved or featured in her writings.

I believe it was about this time when she changed her schedule. She began staying up all night, reading and writing, and sleeping during the day. This schedule drove my father crazy. He couldn't imagine how his sister could live this way. (His irritation probably stemmed from the late night, long distance phone calls Margie made to my mother.) I'm sure her schedule inconvenienced her children as well. Now they had to do her shopping and errands during the merchant's daytime hours and had to visit their mother on her schedule. To say Margie was idiosyncratic would be an understatement.

The past few days, for me, home alone, with no schedule to adhere to, no supper, no television, no bedtime, I found it surprising to look at the clock and see it was past midnight. Reading and writing and just doing "stuff" filled huge amounts of time and before I realized it, I was on my way to staying up all night. If it weren't for the minor inconvenience of a 6:00 a.m. alarm set to wake me for work, I would have kept right on reading, writing and doing "stuff" all night.

I think Aunt Margie was on to something.

Dr. Pepper vs. Coke

Wow, so many disappointments lately. I really feel like I am falling into some sort of crazy depression. Not being prone to depression, and not actually being allowed to be depressed (depression is one of the illnesses my mother would not allow me to have, along with asthma and allergies), I am not sure if depression is the right diagnosis. I tried to Google a diagnosis I read about in my freshman college psychology class to reference here, but I couldn't find it. The symptoms include being overly affected by negative happenings in the world. Wow - I have that disease, even if I couldn't find it on the Internet. So much negativity lately. I was so happy when Obama was elected, but - sadly, my right-wing-republican brothers and sisters would not let that happiness last for long. So much strife, so much derision, so much finger-pointing and name calling - so much, so much, so much - hatred. So many twisted truths, so many blatant lies, so many hidden agendas, so much bullshit. I am to the point where I want to either move to another country or find a fall-out shelter from the cold war era and hide out there for a while.

For weeks, or months, (or years) I have been thinking about the difference between the left and the right, Democrats and Republicans, (the sane and the insane - just kidding!). For weeks I have had a snippet of a poem I once wrote rolling around in the far, far corners of my brain. A poem I wrote when I was young, very young - probably all of thirteen, when I had my first heartbreak. A poem that referenced the basic differences in people which cause them to not get along. I found the poem amongst the flotsam and jetsam of my early years and the gist of it was: we ultimately didn't get along because - (drum roll, please) - "I liked Dr. Pepper and you liked Coke." Ah, if only life were that simple.

Now, some forty years later, I find myself looking at the differences between myself and my friends and family - the differences between myself and those whom I truly do love dearly. Could it be so simple, can it be so simple. Can't we just accept our differences and go forward without rancor? Can't we accept our differences and go forward to create a nation, a country, a world, a home where we can all be happy, and healthy, and well fed, and prosperous? A world where everyone has a right to a decent life, a life which includes basic inalienable rights?

I like Dr. Pepper, you like Coke. I am a Democrat, you are a Republican. Aren't we all human beings? Don't we all want the same things?

It's a Dog's Life

I feel much better this morning, much more like myself. I don't know why I let the weather affect me so. Well, I do know why, I just don't know why I can't let it go. Things are much better now. The lady and the man have been very good to me. I've all but forgotten my old life. Almost stopped thinking about the boy. Almost - except when I see a bicycle or when it storms.

On our walks I try to follow the other one. The one who was here before me. She's turned into a good friend. She didn't like me much at first. I think she thought I was trying to take her place. Once we got that out of the way, once I let her prove she was in charge, things were good between us. Now I don't know what I'd do without her. She's older and knows more than I. She's good on our walks. I try to be, but there's just so much to see and smell. And, I'm sorry, but if someone goes by on a bicycle, I do go a little berserk. I always think it's the boy. At first I was sure it was the boy coming back for me. I was sure this had all been a mistake and he hadn't really intended to leave me. What did I do to make him give me away? That thought still troubles me.

Now when I see a bicycle I still go nuts, but it's for a different reason. Now I'm afraid he's come back for me. I no longer want to leave. I really like the lady and the man. And the girl, the girl who comes some days, is my favorite. I know she likes me too. They all like me. I just wish I could get over my fear of storms. I tell myself I am safe. The lady and the man speak softly to me and pat me. They've even made me a special place to hide when I know a storm is coming.

I hear the rumble of thunder and it all comes back to me. The cold rain soaking my skin, the hail coming at me from all directions, bruising my body. The flashes of bright light and the roaring noise. Why won't the boy let me in? I'm afraid. I scratch and scratch on the door and bark for a long time. When he finally comes I am numb from the cold and exhausted from my frenzied efforts to get back into our house where it is warm and dry and quiet. But something is not right. The boy is angry. I try to go in, but he won't let me pass. Another flash of light and more booming noise. I've got to get away from it, but the boy won't let me in. He's yelling now. I can barely hear him over my barking and the pouring rain and the pounding hail and the booming sounds. And then, he did the unimaginable. He kicked me, he kicked me hard - hard enough to send me scooting away from the door. I was stunned. He had never done that before. He closed the door and left me. He'd never done that before either. Not knowing what else to do, I found a place to hide. I tried to hide from the cold and the wet and the noise and the hurt I was feeling in my side and the hurt I was feeling in my heart; but I couldn't. I dug a hole in the mud between the bush and the fence and hid there all night.

I must have done something really bad that day to have brought all of this on myself. That was long ago, but I can't help but recall it when I hear the rumbling of loud noise begin in the distance. I know the lady and the man won't make me go outside when the weather is bad. They've been very kind to me. What frightens me now is thinking I might have done something wrong again. Something that will cause them to leave me like the boy did. When I hear a storm coming I'm afraid I'll lose the lady and the man and the girl I love so much. What would become of me then? All I can imagine is living a life in the cold, wet, loud world if they should send me away. I can't help but tremble and retreat to my special hiding place until the feeling passes, along with the storm. I'm sure glad they understand. When the storm has passed and I have regained my composure I find the nice lady and the nice man to make sure they aren't mad. I lick them and wag my tail and hope they know I'm sorry and that I love them. I think they know.

Desk Set

My parents were frugal. We always lived in a nice, well furnished, middle class home. We always had food on the table and a car or two in the driveway. But we didn't have the extras. Apparently my parents considered a desk for a student an extra. Why couldn't I do my homework at the dining room table or the kitchen table with my siblings? No one seemed to understand how badly I wanted my own desk in my own room (well, the room I shared with my sister). One day I discovered a solution. I took the Samsonite card table from the garage, dusted it off, and set it up in my room for my very own work space. I borrowed a chair from the dining room and I had my first "office." Slowly I began making it my own. To say I put my mark on the Samsonite card table is an understatement. I covered it with cut out pictures and words from magazines and plastered it with the neon plastic adhesive flowers so popular in the 1960s. Mother made me promise I wouldn't do the same to the dining room chair, because we still had to haul it back into the dining room for holiday dinners.

Eventually I got a real desk, but by that time homework and studies had been replaced by activities that didn't require office furniture. Somehow the draw of the desk remained with me throughout my life. My husband brought his grandfather's antique office desk into the marriage. We had it professionally refinished and thirty years later it is still in use as a computer desk in my living room. Across the room from it stands another desk, my husband's desk, an antique roll top desk we purchased from an antiques dealer. Years later I inherited my Great Aunt Opal's antique roll top desk from a cousin who had no space for it. This desk has history and personality. My Great Aunt Opal's desk came out of the old-fashioned drug store she and her husband owned in a small Texas town. My aunt was rather fond of frills and the color pink, so it was no surprise that the desk had been painted pink at some point over the years. It has received a new paint job and is in the corner of my bedroom where it serves as a repository for all things necessary - magazines, lip balm, newspaper, books, framed photographs, a tissue box, and hundreds of other essential items.

Based on my childhood trauma of not having my own desk I made sure my daughters had a desk of their own. When they were small I brought home a wooden school desk from a garage sale and put it in the kitchen where they could sit and read or color or talk while I was cooking or doing other kitchen duty. My youngest daughter will inherit this desk some day, because in my heart it belongs to her. Every day of her childhood she ate her breakfast sitting at that desk. I would wake her up, scoop her into my arms, and carry her into the kitchen for breakfast. Family lore insists that I did this until her feet suffered carpet burns as I carried her down the hall.

When my oldest daughter wanted her very own desk in her very own room we searched every antiques store in town until we found the right one for her. It is still in her childhood room, supporting a massive three volume set of The Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, copyright 1971, complete with leather case and magnifying glass to enable the reader to see the small print. My youngest daughter's desk came with her bedroom furniture and I am typing this blog at her desk, her room having become my home office when she left home.

What is it about a desk I find so appealing? Is it the scholarly image of a desk? Perhaps it is a paraphrasing of Virginia Woolf's famous remark, "A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction." Perhaps a desk of my own was the beginning.

Aroma Therapy II

When I stay in hotels I habitually bring home the complimentary shampoo, conditioner, body wash, lotion, soap, sewing kit, shower cap, and anything else the establishment might offer. Usually I donate these to the food bank to make sure the items go to someone who will need, use, and appreciate them vs. filling up my bathroom cabinets with product which would go unused/untouched until the next bathroom cabinet purge (probably sometime within the next 10 years). But, (there's that famous "but" again) sometimes I take the hotel samples to the lake house for guests to use if they have forgotten toiletry items. Or for me to use if I especially like the brand, or scent, or if I just want to relive the vacation experience.

I am still hoarding a supply of shampoo and soap from the Hotel del Coronado. Every time I use it, the scent reminds me of the wonderful week spent there. I can close my eyes in the shower and almost hear the California surf when I use the little green bottles of hair care products in the fragrance - "the sea."

This morning I used little blue bottles of product from a stay at the Hilton Hotel in Virginia Beach, VA. I don't recall using them there, but I'm sure I brought them home and kept them for me because they were Crabtree & Evelyn brand. Today as I began washing my hair with the LaSource shampoo I was transported to my mother's bathroom of the 1950's. The scent was the same as the bubble bath she used; a scent I haven't smelled or thought of until today. Closing my eyes I could almost visualize the bubble bath bottle perched on the rim of the bathtub and I could almost remember the color of the shower curtain and the towels in that bathroom.

The hair conditioner in the same product line evoked another memory. This scent transported me to my early teen years. It was reminiscent of the Breck cream rinse which was diluted in a plastic tumbler, kept in the bathroom for just this use. Closing my eyes today and smelling the LaSource conditioner made me feel thirteen again and reminded me of how worldly and sophisticated I felt then to be using a product advertised in Seventeen Magazine when I wanted so badly to be a real, grown-up, teen.

I am always amazed at the power a fragrance can have over the memory. My sister and I have been know to phone each other just to ask if a certain scent summons any memory. The orange aroma of Goo Gone reminds me of something - I just haven't remembered exactly what. I am still trying to pin that memory down. The smell of canned asparagus conjures long ago holiday dinners at my Aunt Opal's. Fresh cucumbers, my Aunt Dee's house. New-mown grass will bring forth memories of my dad in his sweat-stained, faded red golf shirt with the little penguin over the left breast. Nina Ricci L'air Du Temps perfume brings forth memories of my mother so vivid I tear up missing her so. Once I even followed a woman through a cosmetics department because she smelled like my mother.

The little bottles of shampoo and conditioner took me on a pleasant trip down memory lane this morning and it was a trip that didn't even require a hotel stay.

Too Much Nature, Dear (Deer)

Sometimes getting back to nature is a little more than I bargained for. My husband and I are away for Labor Day Weekend at our little slice of heaven lake cabin. We got up early this morning to drive to a small town 15 miles away to have breakfast at a cafe named one of the 40 best cafes in our state.

When I went out to the car with visions of biscuits and gravy in my head I was distracted by a noise from across the road. Curiosity got the best of me, so I ventured over to the pick up truck bed that had been transformed into a trailer which our neighbor filled with hundreds of pounds of Milo to feed birds, deer, and to throw into the lake to lure catfish to the fishing area he frequents. As I crossed the sandy dirt road I heard the noise once more - a thudding and shuffling sound I couldn't place. Then I saw animal legs on the far side of the Milo trailer. Thinking it might be the cougar rumored to be in these parts, I approached slowly and with caution. To my horror, the noise was not a cougar rolling on its back and thumping the sides of the trailer with its paws. It was a deer, a large deer was somehow caught in the trailer by one leg. A deer was thrashing on the ground while one leg - one hoof was stuck in an opening on the top of the trailer. No contortionist could have achieved this position. Calmly, I called my husband, not wanting to disturb, or further alarm the injured deer. He quickly appeared by my side and determined the deer's leg must be broken. We had to somehow deal with this. The deer was obviously suffering - the deer should be relieved of its pain.

Perhaps we have both seen too many old western movies, but both of us had the idea that the humane thing would be for the deer to be shot, to be put out of its misery. We wouldn't own a gun. We don't hunt or shoot animals. But this poor deer had probably been suffering most of the night, trying to free itself. We roused a neighbor with a request for help. While waiting for him to dress, I had a moment of good sense and called the local Sheriff, asking him to shoot the injured deer; to put it out of its misery. Our neighbor arrived on the scene, assessed the situation, went to his pick up truck, got a crow-bar and pried the deer's hoof loose from the hole in the trailer where it was stuck. The deer, stunned and exhausted, ran about four feet from the trailer and collapsed. We surmised that the Sheriff would still need to shoot the deer to humanely put the animal out of its misery. As we discussed the fate of the deer and awaited the arrival of the Sheriff the deer suddenly bolted and ran for the cover of the brush. The three of us all agreed the deer would survive, perhaps with only a leg injury. We notified the Sheriff that he was no longer needed and went on with our plans - thankful our neighbor showed up with a crow-bar rather than a shotgun.

At the cafe, for breakfast, my husband asked me if I had an aspirin, he didn't feel much like eating. The prospect of killing the beautiful wounded creature had sickened him, as it had me. Neither of us enjoyed our breakfast, though no fault of the cafe.

On our fifteen mile return trip we couldn't help but notice the deer blinds in place for this year's hunting season. I'm sure we were both considering the fate of the poor deer we saw rescued this morning.

Would it get another chance?

Venus Envy

My sister has always been beautiful. Even as a baby with her white feather hair and her enormous blue eyes and her nickname, Tweetybird, she was beautiful. Her white feather hair grew into straight, thick, long, blond tresses and her big blue eyes, though no longer the sapphire blue of her infancy, remained sparkling. Five years my junior, she caught up with me in height in our teenage years. Our facial features were similar enough for her boyfriend to comment, "creepy" when he first met me when I was home from college one weekend. But, all physical similarities end there.

My sister is fair, I am dark. She is blond, I am brunette, her eyes blue, mine brown. Her hair is straight and thick, mine wavy and thin. She is tall and thin (willowy, even), I am tall and, well - let's just say I could stand to lose a few pounds.

I like to think my sister looked up to me when we were growing up. As the oldest I had to "blaze the trail." She learned by observing as I survived junior high, convinced our parents it was okay to date, cruised through high school, and left for college. She raided my closet for clothes and borrowed makeup and record albums. She attended my college and joined my sorority; maybe I did have some influence. However, she surpassed me in everything - prettier, thinner, smarter, more popular. In college she had her own car and her own apartment. In college I bummed rides and lived in campus housing.

Was I jealous of my sister? No. I didn't begrudge her any of her accomplishments and successes, rather, I was proud of her. Even if I wished I were thinner or had possessed a car or my very own apartment while away at college, I cheered her every victory.

As adults we are on more even ground, both happily married, with beautiful children and full, satisfying lives. Yet there is one thing I do envy about my sister. (No, it's not her lithe figure.) I envy my sister's hair! What began as white feathers and grew into long, thick, straight, flaxen hair is now a beautiful, extremely sophisticated gray. Surprised? Surprised that I envy her gray hair? It's not just the beauty of the color of her still thick hair that I envy. I envy the freedom her hair gives her. She isn't tied to a monthly appointment with a colorist, lest her roots begin to show. She doesn't fret over just the right cut to make her thin hair look fuller. She doesn't waste money or time on thickening shampoos and blow-drying the "frizz" out. Most importantly, her hair gives her the freedom to be herself, a beautiful woman approaching her fifties, not someone trying to look like the picture on the Miss Clairol bottle.

So, why don't I just ditch the hair color and go gray with her? I've tried. My hair is not the pretty, vibrant gray of my sister's. Mine is a dull, mousy gray that leaves me looking and feeling old, tired, and washed out. That is why I continue to color, why I give up my desire to be a "natural woman," why I make my colorist a rich man.

How long will I continue this un-feminist ritual? I'm not sure. All I can tell you is - my grandmother, the famous Big Red, only this year quit dying her hair. If I follow in her footsteps, I will "go gray" when I am 102 years old. That is only 588 more appointments with a colorist and, if prices don't go up, only $44,000. Yes, I envy my sister.

Someone to Watch Over Me

From framed photographs throughout my house - the kitchen, my bedroom wall, my desk - five familiar faces watch me as I go about my day. One of the framed faces is mine, the others belong to friends, some of whom I've known for over thirty years; well over half of my life.

Other photos show images only of children. Children at t-ball games, at dance recitals, at school competitions, in junior high band, on vacations, in college. The five familiar faces aren't in any of these photos, but I know they were there - somewhere in the background - while the children filled our camera lenses.

When it was finally our turn to be photographed, t-ball games and ballet classes were long behind us. The children were gone and, one would think, so was the reason we were friends. The five familiar faces couldn't be more different - in interests, in political opinions, spiritually. What brought us together was our children. What keeps us together is our history and our love.

The framed photos show us smiling at weddings, at showers (bridal and baby), at Christmas dinners and birthday parties - celebrating the hallmarks of our lives and of our children's.

What the photos don't show, can't show, are the other times - the illnesses, the deaths, the divorce, the crises of our lives when we have come together. We've been there to hold a hand, to bring casseroles and hams, to change the sheets on a sickbed, to offer advice and a shoulder to cry on. We've confessed our worst secrets and our worst fears - knowing we won't be judged or betrayed. In spite of our differences, because of our love, we've become each other's mainstays, each other's constants.

From framed photographs five familiar faces watch me as I go about my life.

Garage Cleaning Recommendations

When cleaning out the garage there are some supplies that are necessary. I recommend a good supply of back injury medication. Other recommended items would be:

• A large sign for the front yard stating, "WE ARE NOT HAVING A GARAGE SALE!"
• A trash dumpster delivered right to your driveway.
• A sentry posted to keep away those nosey neighbors who have just been dying to see what you've kept in your garage all of these years.
• A sense of humor.
• A cleaning partner who insists you throw away 5 items for every one you keep.
• A mid-size army to assist.

And if all of that fails - perhaps a gallon of gasoline and a match.*

*Disclaimer: I am in no way promoting arson as a garage cleaning method.

Changing Technology

Sometime in the mid 1990s we purchased our first real computer. I say real computer because we actually bought a Texas Instruments TI-99 computer prior to this, but I never considered that a real computer - all it was ever used for was to play games. The first real computer we bought was a Macintosh computer. We purchased it primarily so my oldest daughter, who was then entering junior high school, could keep up with the junior high Joneses. My husband and I had no idea how to use the thing, nor did we really care to learn. At that time I was a stay-at-home mom and he was self-employed, neither of us thought we needed a computer.

Shopping for the first computer was an experience. I remember likening it to purchasing a car if you had never even ridden in one and having the salesperson ask if you wanted power windows. Who cares about power windows if you don't even know what a steering wheel is for! We basically relied on our salesman at the computer store to tell us what we needed. To this day I am not sure if he ripped us off or made us a good deal. He did seem to enjoy talking over our heads and making us feel extremely ignorant. Not much has changed with computer salespeople over the years.

Our daughters were quick to figure the computer out once we got it home and slow to bring their parents into the new world of computer technology. Gradually we caught on; I learned how to email, and my husband (who still doesn't much like the things) learned to trouble-shoot whenever there was a computer glitch - which seemed more often than not in the early days. Before we had our new computer paid for we learned it was obsolete and a new new computer was in order. And so the computer upgrade game began. Just when I would finally figure one out (or pay for it) it was time to buy a new one. Then they each had to have their own. Then it was time for college and a laptop. The only good thing about all of this computer upgrading was I got the hand-me-down. I always had the third best computer in the house!

Of course there were other electronic items associated with each computer purchase. There were printers, and scanners, and once even a fax machine (my husband decided this was one electronic purchase he could use). I lost track of the number of desk-top computers, lap-top computers, and printers we have purchased over the years - until this week.

This week we uncovered a computer graveyard in the garage. Even the TI-99 was in there. Why did we save these? Did we think they were going to come back into style? Did we think the computer fairies would find them and wave a magic wand over them making them no longer outmoded? Did we think they would gain antique status and suddenly be worth more than we paid for them? I have no idea why we kept them. That is what we do. We keep things. That is why I am writing this blog.

They are gone now and my garage is that much closer to being clean. However, I still have the third best computer in the family - maybe it is time for me to upgrade? I promise I won't stash the old one in the garage.

Look What We Found in the Garage

The garage cleaning project is coming along nicely! You never know what you might discover when you clean out the garage.