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.