Cause the times they are a-changing

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slowest now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is rapidly fading
And the first one now will later be last
Cause the times they are a-changing

Lyrics by Bob Dylan

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(antique color plate of a wild turkey / Julie Cook)

Normally at this late inning in the game, I would be up to my elbows in flour, giblets,
and sweet potatoes…franticly watching the clock tick off the precious seconds of time…
time until it was…
Go Time…

But not this year.

Not this year, at all.
No flour.
No giblets.
No sweet potatoes.
No festive deserts.
No dressing (as in what we southerners call stuffing that’s not stuffed)
All simply…
no….

I’ve been cooking Thanksgiving, or at least the bulk and better part of it, ever since I was
a junior in high school…

Because that was the year my great aunt died in the wee hours of Thanksgiving morning
and my mom, as her only living nearby relative, had to drop apron and
mixing bowls in mid mix…with Turkey quickly slammed in the oven,
as she practically threw me the basting bulb,
while shouting over her shoulder as she dashed out the door…
BASTE EVERY 20 MINUTES TILL DONE…”

Huh?

I think I was still mumbling questions when, like a bat out of hell, my mother with the car
slammed in reverse, barreled out of the driveway,
racing off to a distant nursing home leaving me in a puff of confused exhaust fumes….
still holding a forlorn basting bulb.

Did I mention that on this now discombobulated Thanksgiving it was also the Thanksgiving
that our pet parrot, the one we had rescued a couple of years earlier,
after a brief cold, had decided to also give up the ghost on this Thanksgiving morning?

So needless to say that this was not to be like any Thanksgiving that I would be able to,
in my youthful naive memory, recall.

Yet might I add that the turkey, by shear pluck, turned out really quite lovely.

And so I’ve been cooking ever since…

Oh I started out somewhat slowly, with but a few components of the feast left to my expertise,
eventually becoming the full Master of Ceremonies…
as those were the heady days and weeks of plotting, researching, planning,
buying and preparing…
The aromas leaving all in their wake salivating….
It was to be the stuff of legends….

Until this year.

Yet had I not seen it coming?
Slowly and methodically coming my way…
Despite my not wanting to acknowledge it…
it was hell-bent on coming.

My husband, over the past couple of years would gently, if not a bit too tactlessly,
remind me that the time was coming…
that the day and time would eventually come….
Our numbers were now diminishing at a far greater rate than they were multiplying…

As those we have loved and have known…have come and now have sadly faded…
in other words, the family has shrunk.
My husband’s side and now mine…
lost to the annuals of time.

The time when Dad would be too old to come to us…
The time when our son would be too old to stay…as he would now have to divide his time…
and the time I would be too old to manage it all…on my own….

Don’t you hate it when husbands seem to actually know it all…
or perhaps more accurately can suddenly, after 34 years, find the gift of verbalization…
As in verbalizing what we try so desperately to deny…
Whenever did they become ones to verbalize…?
When you least want it, that’s when….

And so it is…

No linens have been pressed.
No grandmother’s silver polished.
No burgeoning refrigerator bursting at the seams.
No massive turkeys sitting in brine as basting bulbs have long since been discarded.

For we will become one of “those people…”
The people I use to turn my nose up to who would go out to eat on Thanksgiving.
The people who make other people have to work and miss time with their families
because they were having to cook and service “those people”……

We will eat out and then take plates to dad, my stepmother and the caregiver.
As our son travels to in-laws as my in-laws are now longer…
Aunts, uncles, nieces, grandparents, parents, brothers have all since departed…
leaving but us…left to find solace in our memories of times now past…

So Bob Dylan was right all along…
for the times, they are a-changing…

PS….
you should know that going out to eat was not my idea.
It was my husband’s…
The same husband who, after 34 years of marriage,
has suddenly gained the gift of verbalization.
He has also gained the gift of thoughtfulness….
as in he has felt sorry for me these past several most trying months
and he has decided it is time for me to become one of “those people”
and I am actually both grateful as well as thankful….

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous.
Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged,
for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.

Joshua 1:9

Unique

Everyone has his own specific vocation or mission in life; everyone must carry out a concrete assignment that demands fulfillment. Therein he cannot be replaced, nor can his life be repeated, thus, everyone’s task is unique as his specific opportunity to implement it.
Viktor E. Frankl

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(spotted at the grocery store this morning / Julie Cook / 2015)

Growing up in Atlanta in the early 1960’s, the most exotic and unique fruit I can recall is maybe the occasional container of raspberries. And of course purple grapes may just have pushed the envelope as we were more accustomed to the green variety. Purple grapes had seeds and mother knew better than to buy grapes with seeds.

For whatever reason when I was little, I always enjoyed playing tag-a-long with my mom when she’d do our weekly grocery shopping. Dad kept poor ol mom on an overtly tight budget so there was never any extra money for fun, festive or exotic items. Just our regular canned tuna, chicken, hamburger meat, bananas, milk, eggs, bacon and cereal. . .Lucky Charms if I was lucky, Captain Crunch if my brother was lucky. On the rare occasion, Mother would afford for our living on the edge by allowing us to choose a box of Raisin Bran.

Those were the days before the whole current “eat bran it’s good for you” movement– Mother didn’t want us eating lots of Raisin Bran because, well you know, that whole bran thing leading to excessive trips to the bathroom—- in my mom’s mind, getting “regular” spelled trouble. Regular was all fine and good, it was the getting to regular that she didn’t enjoy.

There were apples, Tang orange drink mix, Orange juice—the kind that came frozen in a can, Coca Cola, and when the season permitted, popsicles.
Typical 1960’s Americana vittles.

It wasn’t until I was a bit older, a young teen, that I actually started paying attention to the items available to the average shopper. There was actually a world out there of things from faraway lands. Picture the aisle offering “Chinese food”. . .Chop suey in a can. . .whoa. . .

As a family we weren’t known for our travels or adventures.
The grocery store was going to have to provide all of my little adventures.
And sadly it was obvious that I was wired from the get go to be adventurous–
my parents on the other hand. . .not so much.
I blame it on being adopted and on being Sophia Loren’s love child—
Remember, that’s just between you and me. . .Ms Loren has no idea. . .

These far away places and lands called out to my young imagination through the offerings found in a grocery store.
Yet sadly the closest I had ever come to exotic lands and foods was from a roll of tropical fruit lifesavers!

I keenly remember the day Mom let me pick one of each of the most exotic fruits the grocery store had to offer—a papaya, a coconut, a whole pineapple, a kiwi and a mango.
I eagerly brought each fruit home as we, she and I, proceeded to have a true taste adventure.

I’ve never bought a whole coconut or papaya since as the coconut required a screwdriver and a hammer and I simply was not a papaya fan—not much for mangos either but I’ll eat them.

Let’s fast forward 50 years.

A grocery store today is truly a plethora of global sights, scents and tastes.

Pretty much anything you could think of is available. . .
Yucca leaves, rice noodles, Taro root, plantains, wasabi sauce, Israeli pearl couscous,
Mole sauce. . . you name it, if you want it, you can find it–
For all of us my friend, are living in the world of rapid import!

So there I was this morning ambling about the produce section, picking up a few Meyer Lemons, when I noticed a rather unusual fruit.
Now I’ve seen my share of star fruit, ugli fruit, passion fruit and even dragon fruit, but the Uniq fruit was a new one.

Looking like a cross between a giant overly ripe grapefruit and a lime, the outward appearance left a lot to be desired.
I stopped, moving in for closer inspection.
I was surprised to find it to be rather light, no heft of a juice ladened fruit–more wrinkly skin than firm fruit. It gave the impression that once peeled there may be but a thimble full of fruit hiding within the wrinkly citrusy skin.
Not feeling overtly adventurous today, I placed the Uniq back in the bin along with it’s kith n kin, and moved on to the more exotic cut up pineapples and containers of raspberries that I had actually come to purchase.

Yet my unique encounter with the Uniq fruit naturally took my mind to places besides the quest of fruit. . .

Let us consider each human.
Every human being has his or her own unique DNA, yet we are all of the people clan.
We are all pretty similar in our needs, functions, physiological makeup, physical appearance, albeit for skin coloring, hair coloring and texture as for a few subtle facial differences—but all in all, more alike than different.

And yet God, the Master Creator, knows each one of us individually.
All 7 billion and counting of us. .of you, of me. . .

7 billion plus humans and this God, this Creator knows, as in knows individually and intimately, each and every one of the 7 billion and counting folks?!”
Impossible?
Unreal?

It is unreal. . .unreal to wrap our minds around such a mind blowing concept.
That there is a God who is deep within each and every one of us.
For some of us, we already know this and cling to such a knowledge. .
For others, He is a non entity and yet. . .He remains. . .
No one is deemed unworthy, less than, too much trouble to bother with, too poor, too mean
too ugly, too hopeless, too old, too young, too smart, too ignorant,
too selfish, too self absorbed. . .

I ponder over our very being. . .
Our bodies
Our intricacies
Our ears, our eyes, our nose, our mouthes. . .
Our ability to taste, to speak, to touch,
To feel, to cry, to chew, to digest, to eliminate, to reproduce,
To feel empathy, to hate, to kill, to feel joy, to feel despair, to smile, to love. . .

The intricacies of the eye–the retina, the cornea, the rods, the cones, the ability to see color. .
The tongue, its ability to taste, to discern sweet, salty, bitter, savory
The heart which beats incessantly from womb, to birth, to death and yet it has the ability to love
powerfully as well as to break in half. . .

The finger with its own unique set of prints—no two prints are alike in all of the 7 billion plus people–and yet each finger has the ability to feel warmth, to be burned quickly, to sense that which is soft or rough, hot or cold. . .it is used to hush, to accuse, to lure, to soothe. . .

Has all of this merely evolved for survival
Or
Was it created individually, similar and yet unique. . .
Beautiful
Precious
Loved. . .

That all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me.
John 17:21

Pardonne-moi

God’s mercy is a holy mercy, which knows how to pardon sin, not to protect it; it is a sanctuary for the penitent, not for the presumptuous.
Reported in Josiah Hotchkiss Gilbert,
Dictionary of Burning Words of Brilliant Writers 1895

Where there is injury let me sow pardon.
Francis of Assisi

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(a great blue heron that found roosting atop a pine tree rather awkward / Julie Cook / 2015)

Je suis désole
Mi dispiace
I’m sorry. . .

No matter the language, traveling or at home,
I have learned first hand that a sincere apology can often
build a strong bridge to one’s fellow man.

It should be noted however that this is not the empty sort of quibbling little apology offered so flippantly by the arrogant. . .those ego pride wrapped individuals who have felt stepped upon, insulted or who have incorrectly felt a perceived insult where none was intended. This is not for those feeling inadvertently and off handedly offended. . .those who initially offend, while grievously failing to recognize the affront which they had actually caused. This is not a gushing or fawning sort of apology or the empty sorry of the rushed and self absorbed.
This is not the coerced apology contrived in order to save one’s hide.

This is a short, to the point, sincere gift from the heart–offered from one human being to another.

And yet, I admit, there are times and places where perhaps no apology is necessary at all.
Such are those times when something usually big, grand, and important goes a rye—a time in the spotlight or public eye when it is better to merely shrug off the moment with grace and style, never missing a step as if nothing ever happened. . .no apology, no admission of unplanned disaster or hapless guilt, just a “keep going while never looking back” sort of moment.

Julia Child, who we all know is one of my personal heroes, once offered a bit of advice along the same vein with regard to apologies.
Who among us, when cooking for family, friends or some seemingly important guest hasn’t experienced a disaster or two in the kitchen?

Something didn’t set, something burnt, something undercooked, something was seasoned entirely wrong, something was far too spicy or salty, something was cold when it was to be hot, something literally fell woefully flat. . .Shades of the young bride’s first Thanksgiving dinner. . .

Julia instructed, ”Never apologize. “She considered it unseemly for a cook to twist herself into knots of excuses and explanations. Such admissions “only make a bad situation worse, “she said, by drawing attention to one’s shortcomings (or self-perceived shortcomings) and prompting your guest to think: Yes, you’re right, this really is an awful meal. “The cook must simply grin and bear it,” Julia said firmly.
excerpt taken from an article in the NY Times written by Alex Prud’homme–Julia’s great nephew

We have seen that in recent months that there have been perilous moments in this delicate world of ours where Christians are finding themselves facing an accusatory finger pointed by an ever increasingly intolerant global public–
Dark words are cast forth like daggers. . .
“Backdown Christian. . .”
Don’t believe that. . .
“You can’t say that. . .”
“You fairytale worshiper you. . .”
“Your kind of Christianity is wrong. . .”
“Don’t say that in public. . .”
“You can’t pray here. . .”
“Don’t say that word. . .that Jesus word. . .”
“You and that faith of yours are not welcome here. . .”
“Renounce or be killed”

The initial reaction would be to politely apologize. . .
Oh, I’m so sorry if I’ve offended you. . .
Yet the Christian must, as Julia so eloquently states, “grin and bear it”–not backing down
from the conscious choice to believe in, to follow and to practice the words of Jesus Christ.

Ours is not a faith of apologies.
Jesus never apologized. . .
rather. . .
He spoke strong words. . .
He was clear and succinct–
“Take up your cross, follow me. . .it will not be easy.”
“There is no turning back.”
“You’re in with both feet or not at all.”
“You will lose riches, friends, family, jobs, possibly even your life,
for my name sake, but you will be with Me for all of eternity. . .”

No apologies. . .
No “I’m sorry”
No “My bad”

There will be times in life in which we all need to apologize,
offering a sincere and heartfelt “I am sorry”
Yet we must never feel obliged to apologize for being a follower of
The Nazarene,
Yeshua ben Yosef,
The Christos,
Jesus Christ,
The only begotten Son of God. . .

“Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I came to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and a man’s enemies will be the members of his household.

“He who loves father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me; and he who loves son or daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me. And he who does not take his cross and follow after Me is not worthy of Me. He who has found his life will lose it, and he who has lost his life for My sake will find it.
Matthew 10: 30-38

The simple path

“After all,” Anne had said to Marilla once, “I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.”
― L.M. Montgomery

“The Simple Path
Silence is Prayer
Prayer is Faith
Faith is Love
Love is Service
The Fruit of Service is Peace”

― Mother Teresa

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(a simple lovely breakfast / Julie Cook/ 2015)

5 readily available ingredients. . .
eggs, simmered 6 minutes–preferably as fresh and organic as they come, hence an orange yolk
1 slice of bread, lightly toasted–preferably a nice little rustic slice
butter, a light unctuous spread of the real deal
sea salt
fresh ground pepper
and there, my friend is a meal fit for both king or pauper.

Simple, unadulterated, humble fare.

And please excuse that sound of retching in the background because when my aunt sees this picture,
she will begin to throw up as she does not like eggs–not the sight, sound, smell or taste
but we shan’t allow that to stop this particular thread of thought this morning, she’ll quickly scroll past the picture.

Now, back to where we were. . .

Simple fare.
Nothing frufru,
nothing fancy smancy
A soul satisfying plate of bare bones simple.
As in less is more.

As human beings we have grown greatly accustomed to making more from less
We think more, bigger, extravagant equates to better, perhaps even best.
We want to top this with that.
We vie to go beyond.
Often not knowing when to leave things be.
We perfect and perfect some more.
We build upon what was there striving to make it all so much more special, more grand.
Stopping is not an option let alone failing. . .
We examine, expand, explore. . .always being ready to fix and to add
We pile on while always going beyond.

Satisfaction is fleeting
Settling unheard of
Resting on laurels passe

Yet it is when we scale back
Strip things bare
Pare down
Slow down
Detox
Declutter
Downsize
Clean out
Throw out
Simplify

Life becomes sweet, savory, pleasant, peaceful, complete.

So on this new morning to this new week, as life prepares to offer you a myriad of paths throughout a busy and most likely chaotic week, don’t be afraid or deterred when choosing your path– make the conscious decision to choose the simpler path. . .you just may be surprised that the choice of the simple and the less, in the end, is delightfully more satisfying.

Warm and spicy…let’s add a pear—Or— once again, Cooking with Cookie

“There are only ten minutes in the life of a pear when it is perfect to eat.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

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(a beautiful Bosc pear / Julie Cook / 2015)

AAAAGGGGHHHHHH
Bam, bam bam. . .
Did you hear that?
That is the sound of my head clunking against the wall.
Looking outside, for as far as the eye can behold, which by the way they’re telling us is less than half a mile, is nothing but grey, fog, mist, damp, drizzle, cold, wet, blah, yuck, monotone of what has become our Winters. . .
Day after day of grey onto more and more grey. . .

HELP!!
A diversion!
That’s it, a diversion. . .
We need a diversion!!!!
Actually we really need to hop on a plane, flying “down under” to our friends in the Southern Hemisphere for a quick visit as I hear they’re in the midst of a heat wave.
Really.
But since we must follow practicalities, we need a more readily available diversion.

Consider the pear.
What?
Yes, the pear.

When I was a little girl, I can remember my grandparents, always this time of year, receiving a box of crisp fresh pears. . .from some exotic far away land like, say, Florida or California. Why they couldn’t go the grocery store like my mother would, in order to purchase the mealy overly ripe heavily bruised variety, was beyond my young comprehension. And if the truth be told, the pears my mom bought actually came in cans.
What??
You’ve never seen the canned pear tree!!??
Libby, DelMonte. . .it didn’t matter.
Pear halves packed in heavy syrup.
Those being the heady days before “health”. . .

Mother would serve them, as most folks during those dark days of canned, store bought, prepackaged, processed, readily available foods, drained and perched on a bed of iceberg lettuce (the only lettuce my dad believes in) accented with a dollop of the real deal, nothing low-fat about it, mayonnaise topped with a smattering of grated cheddar cheese.
Voila the ubiquitous Pear Salad of the 1960’s.

Of course there was that exotic French Liqueur, found when I tagged along with my Dad, as a little girl, to the local liquor store for his weekly run for beer, Poire Williams— the one with a real full sized pear floating in a bottle of clear liquid —the mystery I never could figure out. . .as in how they got the actual pear inside the bottle. . .and not understanding why dad wouldn’t buy me the bottle so I could investigate further.

Yep.
That pretty much sums up what was my full knowledge of pears. . .until I finally grew up.

There’s nothing better than a perfectly cool, crisp, juicy pear.
You know, the one whose juices dribble down your chin as you take each tenderly sweet bite after bite. . .but as Mr Emerson so blatantly reminds us at the start of the post, that time of perfection is but a very narrow window.

In my quest and need of and for diversion from the constant grey outside my window, I opted to poke around for a new recipe—something fun to cook in order to take my mind off of the cold grey outside and the fact that I threw all gluten out the window over a week ago. . .just to see if it could help an ailing GI tract and shed this weight that seems to have hunkered down for the duration (more on that later).

Not looking for anything to do with pears, or fruit for that matter, a recipe jumped out at me concerning the poaching of pears in a delicious sounding concoction of sugar, spices and water.
Hummm.
Never being one to poach my fruit nor believing in any sort of dessert other than that of chocolate and cream, I was a bit intrigued. I figured I could poach a couple of pears and have them as part of a salad.

Heading to the store, I purchased 4 organic (of course) Bosc pears. You know, the pretty pears which are beautifully shaped, well, like a pear.

The recipe called for 8 pears but in a household of two, I opted on 4 pears, yet I still used the full recipe of poaching liquid which worked out perfectly.

Interested yet?
I thought you’d never ask. . .

You’ll need 4 to 8 Bosc pears (they hold their shape the best)
2 cups sugar ( I know it sounds excessive but it’s just a part of the “bath”)
8 cups water—however I used 2 cups of leftover champagne I had sitting in the fridge since New Year’s Eve along with 6 cups of water. You could use some white wine if you’d like. . .
1 Vanilla bean split
1/2 a lemon –I used a Meyer lemon
a small handful of whole cloves about 8 or so
1 cinnamon stick or 2 if you’re feeling adventuresome
1 star anise— since I didn’t have that, I used about 1/4 teaspoon of anise seed– oh so judiciously as I’m not into licorice.
And wishing I had thought to throw in a cardamon pod or three

Put all ingredients in a large pot and bring to a boil, immediately dropping down to a low simmer—
mmmmmmm can’t you smell that warm spicy aroma now just filling your kitchen??

In the meanwhile, peel your pears.

Slice them in half and using a teaspoon, gently scoop out the seeds.
Once the sugar has dissolved, put the pears gently in the “bath”–cover and simmer for about 20 minutes or until the pears are soft (test by gently poking with the tip of a knife)

Once the pears are soft and your house smells heavenly, remove the pot from the heat and allow the pears to cool in their bath.
At this point you can put the whole pot in the fridge, allowing the pears to rest in the “broth” chilling nicely. Sampling with a small spoon of the “bath water” I decided I could drink the whole pot.

What I did with my pears was to make a salad.
I tore up some romaine lettuce (the kind Dad does not consider real lettuce), placing it on a salad plate.
I next sprinkled some blue cheese crumbles (you can use Gorgonzola) over the lettuce and drizzled blue cheese dressing over the salad in training. I then placed a single pear half on the bed of lettuce. You can certainly slice it in half if you prefer.
I put a small dollop of mascarpone cheese in the center of the pear (you could use cream cheese or blue cheese), sprinkled a few sugared walnuts around, finally drizzling the remainder of the apple cider sugar glaze I used for the walnuts, over the pear and lettuce.
Voila—the new 21st century pear salad

Oh here’s what I did to the walnuts. . .
In a small sauce pan I put in about a 1/2 cup of sugar. I turned the heat up to med-high, watching it like a hawk so it wouldn’t burn, get away from me and set the house on fire.
As the sugar began to melt, turning to a liquid, I used a small wooden spoon to stir it.
Just as soon as the sugar melted, I slowly poured about a 1/4 cup of apple cider in the pan, continually stirring as the sugar now wanted to clump and harden back up. I continued stirring allowing my mixture to boil, adding about a TBL or two of Maple syrup. I allowed this to boil down, reducing into a thick syrup, at which point I dropped in a handful of walnuts ( 3/4 to 1 cup)—allowing them to get a good coating of the syrup.
Next I poured the syrupy nuts onto a dry plate allowing them to cool.
I then placed them willy nilly on the salad, drizzling the pear and salad with the remaining syrup. . .
Absolutely divine–light, refreshing and oh so tasty

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Oh–and by the way—does anyone know how they got those pears in those liqueur bottles???

Thankfully thankful

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, “thank you,” that would suffice.
Meister Eckhart

“Anything I cannot thank God for the sake of Christ, I may not thank God for at all; to do so would be sin. … We cannot rightly acknowledge the gifts of God unless we acknowledge the Mediator for whose sake alone they are given to us.”
Dietrich Bonhoeffer

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(a brown English transfer ware Spode platter / Julie Cook / 2014)

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(a turkey ready for brining / Julie Cook / 2014)

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!!
“Is that…”
A turkey in a cat litter box lined igloo cooler?
Why yes, yes it is.

Why do I have a turkey sitting in a cat litter box lined igloo cooler you ask?

Well, since I thought we could all use a good dose of humor today,
I’m providing a link to the post I offered up this time last year.
You know…it’s the story about my attempts at brining a turkey. . .
You remember the one…

The time I put a giant bird in a brining bag, filled with the 5 gallons of solution
only to have the bag split open in mid-step as I began to transfer the very heavy and
oh so wobbly bag of bird and brine to the refrigerator—
only to have the entire contents of the bag, all 5 gallons worth of liquid, slosh out of
said split bag, cascading out onto my new kitchen rugs and all over the hardwood flooring?

You didn’t forget that little escapade did you?

Well, incase you did, perhaps reliving that little holiday mishap is in order.
I think by now, with all the food, all the family, all the weather,
all the news we don’t want to think about, a little humor just might do us all some good!

It was the true stuff of nightmares and of legends all rolled into one.
Plus it was a very cold rainy day—it’s all coming back to me. . .

https://cookiecrumbstoliveby.wordpress.com/2013/11/29/the-brine-the-rugs-getting-lost-and-a-grateful-heart/

And whereas Dad won’t be making the trip over this year for Thanksgiving,
as they don’t feel as if they can make the drive which means they won’t get lost again,
we, on the other hand, will be going over to our son and daughter-n-law’s house to share,
along with all of her family, their first Thanksgiving as a married couple.
I’m certain there’ll be a story to share after this event of new togetherness!!

Despite not hosting this years annual shindig, I will still be cooking.
I will be taking the featured fowl’s show on the road.
Two cooked birds driving in the back of my car…hummmmm.
Should prove to be very interesting later today…

So when it came to this year’s attempt at brining a bird, I was ready—
I procured the strongest bag I could find in the house—which just happened to be a cat box litter liner.
Forget those wimpy brining bags, I needed hardcore.

And as for some sort of reinforcement for the liquid and bird-filled bag versus sitting a bag and a
bird on some flimsy little tray, a cooler was the biggest thing I could find to put the turkey in.
Is brining necessary?
Heavens no.
I’ve cooked many a turkey without it, but when one is offering up Thanksgiving Turkeys
(yes this year there are two) to one’s new in-laws…
brining sounds impressive and will hopefully prove beneficial.

Yet before I let this day pass, basking in what I hope will be a thankfully successful meal
with family, new family, and friends, I wanted to take a moment to thank you.

Yes, you.

All of my friends in this blogosphere of ours who stop in for visits on this little blog site
world of mine.
I want to thank you for becoming a part of my circle of friends.
For your insights, for your prayers, your wisdom, your interests, your comments,
your kindness and for sharing your life with me as you allow me to share mine with you.
I am blessed and my life has been made richer for each of you!
So on this day of thanks, may I say to you, Thank You!
Now fingers crossed the new in-laws like the turkeys!!
Happy Cooking!!

Yummy in the tummy with both Julia and Julie!

“People who love to eat are always the best people.”
Julia Child

“With enough butter, anything is good.”
Julia Child

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Who doesn’t love a woman wearing a grin from ear to ear, while raising a mallet high over head, ready to smash some unsuspecting something to bits?
“How ’bout dinner in half a minute?”
What a marvelous concept!
Only Julia could give us a complete satisfying meal in under a minute or an elaborate labor intensive 3 day arduous Beef Bourguignon.

Pity being this is not the day to extoll the virtues of Julia, although we probably should, yet fear not for I have done so on numerous occasions in numerous posts prior. . . and most likely will do so again. . .
Today however is a day to hail the often maligned omelet. An amalgamation of egg, a touch of water, a sprinkling of salt and pepper, a dab of butter, a bit of heat and you suddenly have a mix of warm, soft, light, airy, nourishing, wonderment. . .the epitome of the blank canvas.

There are those days when you just want, gotta have, something warm and soothing. . .something that envelopes you from tastebud to tummy. Be it a comforting, yet quick, breakfast or a light little brunch, an elegant lunch, a quick supper on the fly or even a lucious late night snack– an egg transformed can provide all of that and then some.

On a trip to my mecca, aka William Sonoma, a couple of years ago, I saw the most intriguing little pan.
A rolled omelet pan.
Ooooooo. . .
A sucker for any little boost in the kitchen, I made the purchase.

Which brings us today. . .
I’d like to share with you how this fun little pan, coupled with a few simple ingredients, can create a satisfying delight which can be happily turned out in less then a minute. And remember that an omelet is a “vessel” for all sorts of goodies, be it chopped ham, chopped bacon, chopped peppers, onions, spinach, tiny shrimp, crab—the sky’s the limit

For all practical teaching purposes, we’ll keep things simple and make a humble soul satisfying cheese omelet. . .

I highly recommend this particular pan but you may certainly use a round small sauté pan, however you just won’t have the fun little rolled variety of omelet but rather the folded variety which for some odd reason is just not nearly as fun or easy to make, nor will it be as tasty. . .

You’ll need:
2 eggs
a touch of butter or PAM
a sprinkle of salt and pepper
a few slices of a nice cheddar cheese
a touch of water.

Place the pan on the eye of your stove over medium heat. Despite being a rectangle pan on a round eye, trust me, magic will happen. Put in a dollop of butter ( 1/2 tablespoon) and heat until sizzling.

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Meanwhile in a bowl (a fun little bowl I made years ago when I was in the classroom) crack two eggs, add a splash of water ( 1 Tbl) and whip up until light and frothy–notice the honey wand I’m using to mix the eggs. . .made by our own little Michael over on http://michaelswoodcraft.wordpress.com

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Next pour the egg into one of the wells of the pan.

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Continue heating, slightly tilting the pan, allowing some of the egg mixture to pour into the other well. . .

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Continue tilting back and forth as the egg begins to “set up”
At this point lay your slices of cheese on top of the egg, on either side of the well.
I’m using a lovely double decker cheese, a two tone of Red Leicester and creamy Double Gloucester.

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(image taken from the Londoner Dairy cheese site–I found the cheese at my local Publix)

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Now take the nice little spatula that was included with the pan, gently pulling and pushing one end of the omelet, rolling it toward the other end.

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and Voila—the whole process takes maybe 4 minutes, from prep to plate

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I’ve included a YouTube link to the omelet episode for the TV series of The French Chef

Bon Appétit

In need of a little comfort?

As the years pass, I am coming more and more to understand that it is the common, everyday blessings of our common everyday lives for which we should be particularly grateful. They are the things that fill our lives with comfort and our hearts with gladness — just the pure air to breathe and the strength to breath it; just warmth and shelter and home folks; just plain food that gives us strength; the bright sunshine on a cold day; and a cool breeze when the day is warm.”
― Laura Ingalls Wilder

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(Freshly baked Breton Biscuits / Julie Cook / 2014)

Where do you go when you find yourself out of sorts, stressed, tired?
Where does your heart wander when it is wounded, sad, heavy?
Where do your spirits travel when your world is rocked, your day is shot, your feelings weary?

To the kitchen, that’s where!!

I confess that I’ve been feeling a bit blue and out of sorts as of late. . .blasé
—the trees didn’t help. . .
. . .but I don’t want to talk about that.
I was flipping though my most recent edition of Saveur Magazine when I found myself stopping on one particular page.
One word stopped me. . .
Butter

If there is one little thing that screams “let me comfort you my dear” it’s the real deal unctuous amalgamation of cream and salt.
Butter.
YUMMMMMMMM

The article was entitled Butter Queen showcasing a Brittany (region in France) specialty, Gâteau Breton or Gallettes bretonnes–better known as a light, delicate, sandy textured butter cookie.
That’s what I’m talking—-a light hearted version of a shortbread!!
Comfort is now a recipe away!!

So let’s make a little comfort shall we. . .

This particular recipe is originally from Le Cordon Bleu’s cookies edition as taken from the Joy of Baking
A recipe for Sables—the French Butter cookie (how many names can a little butter cookie have?!)
It’s a simple no fuss cookie. It can serve as a canvas for the adventuresome and creative, or simply as pure pleasure for the purist.

Here’s what you’ll need:
–10 tablespoons (140) grams unsalted butter, room temperature (Plugra, Presidents or other European brands)
–1/2 cup (100 grams) granulated white sugar
–1 large egg (organic)
–1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract (my homemade brew)
–2 cups(260 grams) all purpose flour (unbleached King Author
–1/2 teaspoon baking powder
–1/4 teaspoon salt (Real Salt Kosher)
Egg Wash–1 large egg
1 tablespoon water

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Is it just me or is red a dominant color on the pallet of my products of choice?
When you make something as simple as a butter cookie, it is key to have the very best ingredients in your repertoire available as there are so few ingredients involved. With butter being the primary , the best butter you can get your hands on is crucial. Plugra is a great US butter which is out of Texas and handcrafted in the tradition of European butter–meaning it has a higher butter fat content–making for a richer, more savory creamy product—
(see the previous post:
https://cookiecrumbstoliveby.wordpress.com/2013/03/02/butter-and-lent/ )

I’ve chosen President, a French butter for a French cookie, mais non?

I’ve copied the original recipe here:

Sables: In the bowl of your electric mixer (or with a hand mixer), beat butter and sugar until light and fluffy (2-3 minutes). Add the egg and vanilla extract and beat until blended.

In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder and salt. Add the flour mixture to the butter mixture and beat just until incorporated. Do not over mix the dough.

Transfer the dough to a lightly floured work surface, knead the dough a few times to bring it together, and then divide the dough in half. Wrap each half in plastic wrap and refrigerate until firm (at least an hour).

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (177 degrees C) and place rack in the center of the oven. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper and set aside.

Remove one portion of the dough from the refrigerator and place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll out the dough until it is 1/4 inch (1 cm) thick. Using a lightly floured 2 inch (5 cm) round fluted cookie cutter, cut out the cookies, placing them on the prepared sheet. Place the baking sheet of cut out cookies in the refrigerator for about 15 -20 minutes to chill the dough. Meanwhile, in a small bowl, whisk the egg with the water for the egg wash. Remove the cookies from the refrigerator and brush the tops with the egg wash. Then, with the tines of a fork (or I like to use the end of a toothpick), make a crisscross pattern on the top of each cookie. Bake cookies in the preheated oven for about 12 – 14 minutes (depending on size of cookie) or until golden brown around the edges.

Cool cookies on wire rack. Store in an airtight container for up to a week.

Makes about 3 dozen cookies.
(using a 3 inch cutter gave me a larger cookie which numbered 18 total)

My organic eggs, since I’ve yet to procure “my girls” for the very real deal :

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The recipe calls for the use of a 2 inch cookie / biscuit cutter however I used a 3 inch cutter, making for a tad larger cookie. Instead of 3 dozen cookies I had 18. If you wanted to be festive, I don’t know why you couldn’t use fun cookie cutters, say pumpkins, or leaves, or turkeys, or snowmen. . .as these are not sugar cookies but a rolled and cut cookie all the same.

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I’m not a big fan of egg wash as I think it “yellows” the top of the cookie and “seals” the tops often allowing the cookies to get mushy after a day or so rather than staying nice and crisp–when I make these again, I won’t use egg. . .

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When you use a fork to crisscross the top of the cookies, use the back of the fork–the front of the fork will cause the soft raw cookies to pull–the back keeps the lines smooth.

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Not too sweet with a slight saltiness offering a clean buttery finish.
These could be fun little ice-cream sandwich base cookies or another type of filling sandwiched lovingly between theses thin little butter wafers of wonderment or even dipped in melted chocolate for a chocolate dipped sandy. . .skies the limit, but I prefer the simple buttery goodness.

Pure Comfort to be sure
Bon Appétit

If You’re Afraid of Butter, Use Cream
Julia Child

So Mrs. Landemare can cook eh?

“My idea of a good dinner is, first to have a good dinner, then discuss good food, and after this good food has been elaborately discussed, to discuss a good topic – with me as chief conversationalist.”
Sir Winston Churchill

During a visit to America, Winston Churchill was invited to a buffet luncheon at which cold fried chicken was served. Returning for a second helping, he asked politely, ” May I have some breast?” “Mr. Churchill,” replied the hostess, “in this country we ask for white meat or dark meat.” Churchill apologized profusely. The following morning, the lady received a magnficent orchid from her guest of honor. The accompanying card read: I would be most obliged if you would pin this on your white meat.”
One of the many Churchill stories

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I’ve just finished reading a most insightful, as well as, delightful book: Dinner with Churchill / Policy-Making at the Dinner Table by Cita Stelzer
As I truly adore Winston, I adore dinner as well–cooking it and eating it—what could be bad about a book which combines both?! The answer to that little notion would be absolutely nothing— as it was /is a great little read.

I have always been one to tout the virtues of feasting and fellowshipping, as I’ve often written about such, extolling the virtues of “breaking bread” with family, friends and strangers–because after the breaking of said bread, the latter will no longer be a stranger. It seems as if the Prime Minister and I were and are on the same page. Lest I remind you that great minds think alike—

As I was reading through this tasty little morsel for the mind, I came upon a description regarding the cook whom the Churchills had hired when Winston was Prime Minister. As the Churchills entertained a great deal, at either N0. 10 Downing as well as at their permanent residence at Chartwell, they were in great need of a great cook.

Enter Mrs. Georgina Landemare.

Mrs. Landemare was married to one of France’s more renowned chefs yet she, herself, was no stranger to the kitchen. Upon her husband’s early death, Mrs. Landemare decided she would take on some temporary work and job assignments cooking for some of England’s more prestigious events. The Churchills first procured her services for the occasional weekend gala or banquet at Chartwell. It wasn’t until the war broke out in 1939 that she actually offered her services full-time to the Churchills, as her part for the war effort—what a brave woman! Following the war, Mrs Landemare remained cooking for the Churchills for the next 15 years up until her retirement in 1954.

Imagine my excitement when I read in Ms Stelzer’s book that Mrs. Landemare had actually written a cookbook in 1958 on behest of Mrs. Churchill! Oooooo, I just had to find a copy! Imagine—me cooking dishes, the same dishes, Winston would oooo and coo over—I felt the excitement rising.

First I had to find the book.
And just as I pretty much figured—the book was long out of print.
But leave it to my trusty Amazon— there just happened to be a copy or two that could be found, for a wee fee no doubt, from a used book source. And in this case, one located in the UK.
Well, I’m a sucker for my quests and goosechases so I picked the copy I thought was in the better shape, pushed the order button and proceeded to wait with grand anticipation.

I had thought that once the book arrived, I’d pick a fun little recipe and give it a go here—you know, for you and me. I’d highlight a particularly Churchillian looking dish, preparing it step by step, taking photos all along the way, all for our fun—your’s and mine. That whole Julie and Julia thing but this would be Winston, Georgina, and Julie.

The book made it’s way from there to here, safely arriving at the end of last week. I was so excited. I practically ran back from the mailbox. I gently unwrapped it, taking in that musty old book smell, gently opening the marvelous little tome as I began to sift through the recipes.

Suddenly it dawned on me. . .
There will be hurdles.
Big hurdles.

There will be the wading through the “translation” as it were. I know, you’re thinking how in the world can you mess up translating from English to English—well, since we are talking about US English verses UK English, there are some very distinct and subtle differences. Also I fear we will run into a bit of trouble with the measurements. . . but thankfully this book does enlist, on the whole, the imperialistic measurement system, none of that metric nonsense I never could figure out in grade school (there’s a post there somewhere).

Plus certain items that may be called for, say in the UK, may not be called for here in the US or exist here in the US. Then of course there’s our love of the step by step, spell it out in plain simple terms, which is not exactly the mantra of this little book– or– maybe it is and that’s actually part of the problem. Then there’s the hunting and the procuring the right ingredients here in the US, which may not be as easy as anticipated—enter the world wide web. . .

And of course there was that whole rationing of food items as that was such a very keen part of the UK throughout the duration of the war and beyond. Cooking and substituting became a way of life to the intuitive cook—as is the mark of truly any great cook. And then there’s that whole modern take on things verses the not so modern. . .and with the book being written in 1958, we’re talking not so modern.

Just let me share a few examples with you. . .

The first stumbling block I ran across was Mrs. Landemare’s constant call for a “gill”
“A gill of cream”
“a gill of oil”
“a gill of water”
What in the heck does a fish have to do with any of this I wondered.

Then there was the call for “oiled butter” How does one oil butter—isn’t butter greasy enough?

Everything is to put into a basin. Would that be the kitchen sink or somewhere in the bathroom?

“Add a knob of butter”—now you’re talking. . . I wonder how many tablespoons the average doorknob measures.

Mrs Landemare will have us bake in “a slow oven”, “a medium oven”, “a cool oven,” yet “the oven should not be too hot”—no clue there.

When adding the butter to the flour, one is to “rub it together”—between my hands, my fingers. . .hummm

When mixing, one should beat things for 20 minutes or longer, be it eggs, sugar, cream—I’m thinking that is by hand so surely a mixer could cut that by at least half.

Measurements come in a wide variety: 1 teacup, 1/4 teacup, 1 coffecup full, 1 salt spoon, 2 breakfast cups or a dessertspoon full. . .hummmmm. . .but I do like the call for one wineglass of rum—my wine glasses are those rather large balloon types–could make for a little fun or a little disaster in the kitchen. . .

There is the “bare 1/2 oz of yeast” —bare? does that mean naked or minimal?

the 2 tablespoons of Kümmel —what is Kümmel?

dark foot sugar, caster sugar or Demerara—-still trying to figure out the dark foot business

a call for French sago or the 1/2 pound of nouille paste—again, what???

the need for the crushed ratafia biscuits–what??

the whole Vanilla essence verses Vanilla flavoring–whatever happened to good ol extract?

one should mask the top of the pudding with the jam—really?

pour contents into castle pudding cups–mine don’t look like castles

grated suet–I thought we fed that to birds

I need to increase my variety of flour as she calls for rice flour, potato flour, self-rising flour and good ol plain flour.

one example of say, I’m guessing, chocolate sauce is to:
“Melt 6 bars (yet she often calls for a slab–is a slab bigger than a bar?) of chocolate (would that be a hershey bar, milk, dark, unsweetened, bittersweet, 70% , 60%, 3.5 oz??) in a gill of water (again how much water can a fish gill hold?) add 1 oz of sugar and a knob of butter (again my happy place of excessive butter but I fear it might make things a tad greasy) Cook 5 minutes (cook on what, low, med, simmer? Should it be in a bowl over simmering water, over direct heat ???)

And just for fun I’ll offer her recipe for a wedding cake. No need here anymore for that but I was quite taken by, first the list of ingredients and then secondly by the “simple” preparation—

3 lbs. butter
4 1/2 lbs sugar
36 eggs
4 lbs of currants (tiny raisins for you and I)
4 lbs sultans (raisins for your and I)
2 lbs peel (I’m thinking maybe lemon?)
1 lb chopped almonds
4 1/2 lbs plain flour
1 lb glacè cherries (I think those candied types)
1 teaspoon spice and cinnamon mixed (I suppose it’s your call on the spice)
1 gill of brandy (I was hoping for the wine glass)
Grated rind of 1 orange and 1 lemon (which takes me back to that whole 2 lbs of peel business)

Cream together the butter and sugar, preferably with the hand (hummmm—don’t wear your rings) until very light.
Beat in the eggs and sifted flour alternately (all freaking 36 of them and 4 1/2 hefty pounds)
Beat all together for 10 minutes (I’m thinking that is again, by hand)
Add gradually all the fruit (does that include the peel?), spice (remember, your call) and grated rinds.
Finally stir in the brandy (just a gill no wineglass?)

Cover a baking sheet with salt or sand ( whoa, sand??!!) Line the tin (would that be the cake pan?)
or tins ( layers or one giant thing) with greaseproof paper (hummm) and place three thicknesses of brown paper on the outside of the tin. (What?!)

Place cake mixture in tin, or tins, stand (how’s that work?) on the prepared baking sheet (with the sand) and bake in a moderate oven (not slow or cool, but moderate) for the first two hours, lowering the heat slightly for the further five hour. ( 7 hours to bake a cake??!!)

Once I settle on a recipe, I’ll let you know—it won’t be the wedding cake, but I’ll find us something tasty. . .
Until then I’ve got to find some dark foot sugar.

***PS–Please, all my UK friends, forgive my ignorance—I’m learning–it is obvious that Mrs. Landemare had the gift of the intuitive—she cooked and created by an innate sense and ability. A gift that can take others a lifetime to barely develop—hence why the Churchills loved her.
Thanks to a little internet research I am uncovering the secret identity to gils, ratafia, and oiled butter—but the dark foot sugar—still a mystery. . . .

The Twilight Zone or the life of a woman over 50

“This highway leads to the shadowy tip of reality: you’re on a through route to the land of the different, the bizarre, the unexplainable…Go as far as you like on this road. Its limits are only those of mind itself. Ladies and Gentlemen, you’re entering the wondrous dimension of imagination. . .Next stop The Twilight Zone.”
― Rod Serling

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Que the music. . .
As I was patiently sitting, on a hot and humid late August Sunday afternoon, in our local ER, I found my mind wandering in and out of what constitutes this so called life of mine. Isn’t that title already being used. . . “my so called life?”
I think I rather like the sound of that.

And not to fret, I’m fine.
My husband however. . .well, lets just say that his pants have seen better days. . .but I’ll get to that in a minute.

So now back to the ER and the theme music from the Twilight Zone which is now playing in our heads. . .

Back when I was preparing to retire, about two years ago, from what seemed to be a perpetual life of being stuck in High School mode, I thought there were two things I’d like to do with my life and time. Not so much bucket list material mind you, just a new hobby or two.

One thing that I thought I’d like to do was to raise bees. I love honey, and as I fancy myself as bit of a honey aficionado, it seemed to make perfect sense that I should have a hive or two—you know, to call my own, as in I could gather my own honey.

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(image of just some of my kitchen’s honey collection)

Local honey as local as it can get, as in my back yard local. We’ve got plenty of clover, I’ve got a garden, I’ve got some random flowers placed around the yard. . .everything seemed to be in place except for the bees.

Yet the more I read about it, it all sounded rather complicated.
And there are so many bees.
Really lots and lots of bees.
Plus ever since I first heard about those africanized bees. . .you know, those hyper aggressive honey bee cousins that don’t exactly like people or anything else for that matter that isn’t another african evil bee?
I, in turn, developed a bit of a fear that those crazy bees could somehow invade the hives of my sweet honey bees, running them off, or sinisterly killing them off, then they’d all simply lie in wait for me to happen happily along, all ready to gather my honey, when BAM, they’d swarm me dead in one fell swoop.

Yeah, I’m rethinking that whole bee hobby. . .

My second thought was and remains chickens.
Layers mind you, as in for fresh eggs only.
I can handle, say, 3 to 5 chickens can’t I?
For Christmas, my sweet husband (remember his feelings are really hurt as to how I painted him in such a bad light the other day when on our anniversary last week he allowed me to be attacked by a swarm of yellow jackets—reason 2 as to why I’m not too keen of my own hives. . .digressing) had a coop built. The coop building man just finished everything Saturday.

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Now all that remains is for me to find “my girls”. . .

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These girls are my Dad’s neighbors in the city—if city folks can raise some girls, so can I, can’t I?

I’m thinking that my chicken adventures shall all be for another post another day.
Today we’re all about the Twilight Zone of being a woman over 50.

It is sadly true—when a woman reaches the magic number of 50 she enters the Twilight Zone—que the music again.
I have proof.. .

The other evening I prepared the best steak tacos ever. I grilled delightfully seasoned New York strip steaks, slicing thinly. I nestled the slices snugly into a warm small soft flour tortilla which was given a nice spread of Jalapeño Ranch and salsa, some wonderful Mexican cheese topped with my oh so tasty Jalapeño cole slaw. . .yummy!

My husband had actually gotten some of the deliciousness on his nice dress shirt so right after we finished eating I told him to go change, bring me the shirt, so I could quickly pre-treat the stain hoping the stain wouldn’t have time to set into the fabric.

As I was clearing the table he brought me the shirt. I left what I was doing to go pre-treat the stain, only to let the shirt sit a bit while I returned to do the dishes. Just as I was finishing up the dishes, I remembered the shirt. Knowing I didn’t want clorox to sit too long on a white shirt, as not to damage the fabric, I quickly headed to the laundry with the covered bowl of slaw in hand. As soon as I popped the shirt in the wash, I’d head to put the slaw in the fridge.

Fast forward to the following day.
As I made my way to do a load of laundry that next morning, what did I see sitting on top of the washing machine?
My bowl of slaw.
Exactly where I had left it the evening before as I had put it down to throw the shirt in the washing machine. And since it was now well past the acceptable 2 hours of sitting at room temp for mayonnaise, I had no choice but to throw out a seemingly perfect and delicious bowl of slaw.

The Twilight Zone. . .

Oh, you’re not convinced?
Ok, here’s more proof.

This has happened on more than one occasion.
As I’m in the process of getting dressed, fixing my hair, putting on make-up, donning earrings and watch, for some reason there is always an interruption—the phone rings, the cat throws up, I suddenly remember to go immediately to take my hormone pill, when in mid dressing I’m called away.
I do remember to go back to put my clothes on, but that seems to be where my memory ends.

How many times have I been some place when a person such as a sales person, student or friend notices that I seem to have lost an earring.
OH DEAR GOD THAT WAS MY GRANDMOTHER’S EARRING!!!!
I can be heard wailing throughout the store, classroom or wherever I may be at the time.
I go into panic mode.
I fret as to how I can tell my jeweler husband that I’ve lost a nice earring.
I fret that my Grandmother is shaking her head from the great beyond.

There is an all out search.
People are alerted.
Others are now on hands and knees.
I’m promised to be called if it is found.
I tear the car apart.
Dejected and sad I eventually end my day by heading to the shower, when low and behold, guess what’s sitting on the bathroom counter, just where I had left it earlier that morning. . .
BINGO, an earring.

Twilight Zone!

For you see, when a woman hits 50 all those hormones, which make bodies run smoothly, fall out of said woman. Hormones all gone equal hot flashes, no sleep, dry skin, thinning hair, ill temperament, a brain now operating in constant fog mode. . .

Have you ever thought you were asleep, say around 2 AM, when suddenly you’re wide awake and your brain is wired, like wide awake wired and ready to go? If only you felt this alert at say 2PM when it would actually help to be alert–but since you were wired and alert at 2AM until, say, your alarm is ready to go off, you feel like crap the rest of the day–all because the hormones that help you sleep with some semblance of normalcy have long fallen out of your body.

Which reminds me suddenly of where I am and of what I’m doing as it is now the magic time of 2PM on a Sunday afternoon and I am feeling rather sluggish. . .that is until I remember seeing all that blood which leaves me woozy again.
Seems my husband and his chainsaw did not see eye to eye on clearing out brush and small trees on said deer property. Would someone remind me why we spend more time on deer property, working like dogs and almost always getting killed by first a swarm of angry yellow jackets and now a chainsaw gone mad rather then say, our house and yard???!!!
The answer will be for another day. . .

Two harrowing hours, a nice set of stitches and a tetanus shot later we walk out of the ER when it suddenly dawns on me, where did I leave the car. . .