There’s no place like home and Roasted Cauliflower

I’m dizzy from looking at homes on the Internet.  I’m finding there’s a sizable gap between what the advertised assets of the property are, and what, in truth, they actually are.  If the ad says “airy, spacious family room with a rustic hearth, perfect for animal lovers”, this could actually mean the back wall was whisked to the next county in a recent tornado and what remains of the chimney is now inhabited by a family of barn owls.  At this point, the two words “fixer upper” put the fear of God in me.  After what I’ve seen of the leads they seem to think are not in need of fixin’, I can only imagine what the ones are like where they actually admit they need “a little TLC”.  Probably one termite short of demolition.

Having moved thirty-seven times, house hunting is not a new vocation for me.  At one point I moved four times in one year.  Finally, after packing up all my household goods for the fourth time, I put them in storage in Florence, Alabama and, as it turned out, didn’t see them again for ten years.  As my other half regularly points out, I could have bought a new house with the money spent on storage payments.

One nice thing about not letting a lot of grass grow under your feet is that, if you’re lucky, you add new names to your address book as you move along. I have gathered many forever friends and some who I enjoyed for the time I shared with them. I valued them all.

For three years I lived in Massachusetts.  I worked in Boston during my time there as an Area Director for a well-known non-profit organization.  My job divided my time sixty percent on road work and forty percent behind a desk. Often, as the states are smaller in the area, the road work took me to adjoining states such as Connecticut, New Hampshire, Vermont, and even on occasion as far afield as New York and Maine. This afforded me the luxury of associating with people in field offices along the way as well as those in the main office in Boston.

I established an acquaintance, and later a friendship during my visits to the New Hampshire office with the young woman hired to put a “new face” on the interior of the building.  Chris, a woman in her twenties such as myself, a talented decorator, married to a talented decorator, was living at the time in a heavily forested countrified area of the state with her husband’s parents, two toddlers and a behemoth animal appropriately named Polar, who was a Newfoundland by breed.  As the family expanded the shared quarters were getting, to say the least, a bit claustrophobic.  Finding that she was expecting her third child, Chris’s mother-in-law retired from the child care business and suggested they find new digs.

It is interesting as you travel across the country how the architecture of the houses shifts and changes with the region.  Coming from California, Southern California in particular, homes were often built out of stucco or adobe and at the time leaned towards sprawling single level ranch style structures many with cactus gardens on palm lined trees. The east coast, to me, presented a far different feel. Neighborhoods were made up of older, well-lived in homes, with seasoned gardens and neighbors with a shared history.

Faced with the prospect of moving, Chris solicited my help.  Originally planning to build a new home, after much discussion they settled on finding and restoring an old Victorian. For them this was a dream project incorporating both their enviable design skills.  I joined her on one scouting trip.  The ad read “lovely old Victorian home in shaded downtown area, convenient to shopping and public transportation.  Needs a little work”.  It had probably been in the downtown area when the last nail had been hammered in, but downtown had since moved about twenty miles north and left the old neighborhood to fend for itself. As for public transportation, there was the rusting carcass of an old truck sitting in the side yard.  After years of abuse, the garden had run wild, nearly covering the steps leading up to front porch. The steps themselves had partial boards missing leaving gaping holes and the vines around the front porch were so thick they gave the appearance of trying to strangle the front of the building.

Guarding us to watch our step, the overly chirpy real estate agent, went on to stress the potential beauty of the old home, while cheerfully avoiding the obvious pitfalls.  The stained glass window in the front door had been smashed and repaired with a hasty duct tape patch.  Support beams were akimbo in the bony structure of the porch and a hole to the right of the door showed exposed wiring where there had formerly been a porch light.

Opening the large door dust shimmered in the beams of sunlight we brought with us.  Inside was worse than outside.  Once lovely hardwood floors were dulled with lack of care and large black stains appearing to be ground into the wood covered several spots in the living room.  A staircase with an ornate wooden railing led upstairs.

It was light, despite the discolored windows, with high ceilings and glimpses of crown molding could be seen above the peeling wallpaper despite layers of dust.  Considering when it was built, the rooms were generous.  Off to the right of the living room was a formal dining room and behind that a huge kitchen.  In the corner of the kitchen was a vintage stove in a faded turquoise color with a rusty sink perched precariously on top.

You had to have imagination to picture this as home, and Chris did.  They returned the following weekend and made an offer on the fixer upper which was gleefully accepted.  After nearly of full year of sorting through wallpaper swatches, flooring samples, appliance choices, installing new windows, repairing woodwork and replacing flooring, with the new baby in tow she took me to see the finished product.  To say the transformation was miraculous would be a gross understatement.  It was as if the old house was smiling by way of thanks and shortly afterward they all moved in and are there to this day.

So today I’ll resume my search.  Our home is out there somewhere.

This is an interesting way to cook cauliflower.  My other half is from Egypt originally and his English grandmother made cauliflower for him as a child similar to this recipe.  Not only is it delicious but it looks pretty on the plate.  Enjoy!

Roasted Cauliflower

1 large head of cauliflower
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 tsp. lemon infused olive oil
2 Tbsp. butter, softened
1 clove garlic, pureed
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Trim stem of cauliflower until nearly flush with base of vegetable, removing all leaves.  Rub all over with olive oils and garlic.  Place in ovenproof skillet or foil lined baking sheet.  Bake for 45 mins.

Remove from oven and slather with butter.  Return to oven and cook an additional 45 mins. basting with the browned butter three times until tender.  Serve with mustard sauce.

Mustard Sauce

1 Tbsp. salted butter
1 Tbsp. all-purpose flour
1-1/2 tsp. dry mustard
1 cup vegetable broth
2 Tbsp. stone ground Dijon mustard
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Dash of paprika
Pinch of dill

Melt the butter in a medium saucepan. Whisk in flour. Cook over med.heat for 1 min., stirring constantly. Mix in the dry mustard. Gradually whisk in the vegetable broth. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to med-low and simmer until sauce thickens slightly, about 5 minutes. Stir in the mustard, and seasonings.

Sing, sing a song and Shepherd’s Pie

This  past weekend was a blur, Sunday in particular.  Friends were invited for dinner. The menu was to be delicious crock pot roast with a savory tomato sauce. Though it was a nice grade chuck roast it still needed to cook 9-10 hours. Usually I prep the veggies and sauce the night before, but I was tired so decided to get up early and do it. Uncharacteristically, I overslept and woke up in a dead run leaving a trail of goose feathers behind me as I sprinted toward the kitchen. I need a keeper these days. Seriously. Where would one look for someone like that?  I think I’ll try Craig’s list.

Women, so they say (one of these days I’m going to identify this pod of “they” people who seem to know everything about everybody), multi-task better than their male counterparts. If yesterday morning was any example, if multi-tasking was a sport I could medal in it.  I poured a cup of coffee to oil the old joints and while unloading the dishwasher with one hand, washed, dried, seasoned and seared the roast in the frying pan meanwhile peeling the vegetables with my right foot and petting the cat with my left knee.  Retrieving the crock pot from its alloted spot in the garage, I stopped to use the leaf blower to clear the leaves from last night’s storm and give a quick spray to the leather seats in the SUV before checking on the progress of my roast.

This, of course, wasn’t quite how my day went, but it was exactly it felt.  I had decided to make my fluffy, light, mashed potatoes (my other half’s favorites), along with roasted vegetables and a side of cole slaw leftover from the night before.  Outside the kitchen window rain came down steadily, and the dark skies and pervasive gloom made me hum as I worked in my warm, cozy kitchen and watched “A Few Good Men” for the three gillionth time.  I can do all the parts now, and if I do say so myself, I give Nicholson a run for his money with his “You can’t handle the truth”, line.

My other half crept out from under his rock, grunted several times in my direction and poured a large cup of coffee.  It seems he and our granddaughter stayed up quite late watching reality shows and it appeared had assumed some of that well-known reality show “tude” via osmosis.

After a good dose of caffeine he was his old sunny self again and before I knew it the large flat screen in the living room was alive with helmets and shoulder pads.  Sigh.  Yesterday was the big game for those of you who have no access to newspapers, have given up all electronic devices for New Year’s, or have moved to a cave in Tibet to ponder the reason most foods that are good for you are green.  The other half, a 49er’s fan, had been gearing up since Saturday. His chair had been perfectly aligned with the tv screen for optimum viewing and minimum glare, snacks carefully selected from the four basic food groups, sodium, sugar, fat and chocolate, and appropriate beverages had been chilled.  His “Official NFL Armchair Quarterback” tee-shirt and most comfortable sweats had been laundered and were in place.  Life, as they say, was as it should be.  A phone had been strategically placed on the table next to him so friends and family members could call at regular intervals during the game to dissect it play by play and commiserate about what idiot play the coach had just called or what idiot player had botched it.  They ought to sell Valium laced potato chips just for the games leading up to the Super Bowl.

Commencement of play also signalled the commencement of nonsensical screaming and gesturing at the screen as though someone on the field could actually hear him through their headphones. I mentioned once that yelling at a television screen could be construed as a sign of mental illness and he looked at me as though I’d just announced I’d found a polar bear under the bed when I was vacuuming.

This game was actually one I wanted to catch.  I’m a casual fan. I prefer sitting in the stadium and watching college games, which I truly enjoy.   It never ceases to amaze me the enormous salaries these professional players command.  From what I can see they spend half of it on jewelry and extensions.

Being somewhat of an emphatic human, I found myself totally feeling sorry for two people on the field. The 49er player credited with possibly standing between his team and the win, and Steven Tyler, who I absolutely adore, for agreeing to sing the national anthem when so many ears were tuned in.  I’m tone-deaf, so admire anyone able to carry a tune or play an instrument with any alacrity, but Steven, Steven, Steven.  When he opened his mouth, and that’s a considerable opening, and commenced singing, the basset hound in the house below us began this god awful howling.  Coincidence, I think not. At least, I’m pretty sure it was the dog. I found myself wanting to yell, “stop, save yourself”.  OMG.

Shortly after the song was thankfully over, a phone call came in which I assumed was football central with a pre-game report. Actually, it turned out to be our guests informing us they had food poisoning and chosen instead to study the intricacies of their toilet bowl for the afternoon. Looking at all the food I’d prepared, I considered seriously asking the team over for a bite to eat after the game. In the end, I changed into my sweats, grabbed a pillow, broke out the yummy appetizers and watched the rest of the game with my other half.  Today he is still in mourning the loss, but we think he’s going to pull through. I’m making comfort food tonight with all my leftover mashed.  I was weaned on shepherd’s pie.  My grandmother often made it to use up the ends of a roast or leg of lamb.  This is a nice quick recipe for a rainy night.

Shepherd’s Pie

2 cups mashed potatoes
1 lb. ground beef
1/3 lb. bulk Italian sausage (hot)
1 onion, chopped
1/3 cup green pepper, chopped
1/2 cup mushrooms, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1/2 tsp. Italian seasoning
2 Tbsp. Sun Dried tomato spread
1/2 cup water
Paprika

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Spray loaf pan with cooking spray. In large skillet cook ground beef, sausage, onion, green peppers, garlic and mushrooms until meat is fully cooked and vegetables are tender. Drain on paper towels and return to pan. Add Worcestershire sauce, salt, pepper, Italian seasoning, sun-dried tomato spread, and water. Bring to boil. Reduce heat to simmer, and cook, stirring often, for an additional 5 mins. until water is absorbed.

Place in prepared loaf pan and level with spatula. Allow to cool slightly. Place mashed potatoes on top and ice. Dot with butter and sprinkle with paprika.

Bake 30-35 mins. until crust is lightly browned and filling is bubbly.

It’s a wrap and Hot Pastrami Wraps with Tangy Cole Slaw

Several posts ago, I mentioned that our fourteen-year old granddaughter has come to stay with us for a month or so.  Dealing with teenagers at the best of times is fraught with uncertainty and similar to swimming with sharks, you may swim around quietly for hours but any sign of blood and an attack is imminent.  A basically sweet-natured human, and very creative, I’ve devised lots of projects to keep her active mind occupied including making aprons, tie dying shirts, and today we made a cooking video together.

For those of you who read regularly it is common knowledge that I’ve been married as many times as Mississippi has “i’s”.  You do the math. It got so bad that if a question I asked was answered by “I do” I instinctively hailed a cab.  I took the plunge the second time, which was actually more like a free fall with a defective chute, when I was thirty-one.  Both of us came as package deals, myself a young widow with two children seven and eight, and him a young divorced man about town with a three-year old daughter of whom he shared custody.  Due to our excess baggage, we circled the wagons for quite a while before deciding to pitch camp together.

Shortly after we were married in the L.A. area, my new husband was offered a job in San Francisco.  This presented a myriad of problems ranging from quitting my job, wrenching my children out of their schools, and leaving his young daughter behind.  Blended families, for the most part, are like trying to put a size 7 foot in a size 6 shoe.  It can be done, but you might end up with calluses.

In the end, the job offer was accepted, an “our house” was chosen and purchased in the Bay Area, and arrangements were made for my stepdaughter to commute twice monthly on the plane from LAX to the Oakland airport.  The new house included a room for her where we kept clothes for her visits, she had her own bed, and a familiar environment to return to each time she came, which aside from her biweekly visits included school holidays and two-thirds of her summer vacation.

Initially, we had the understanding that this new job required a fair amount of travel. In the end it added up to about three weeks out of the month.  My stepdaughter arrived at the terminal in Oakland every other Friday whether her father was in Cincinnati or Miami, so it became my habit to pick my children up after work on those nights and point the car in that direction. Now, I will interject here that you’re hearing a lot of “my” and “his” peppered in this writing, but I always viewed them as “ours”.  It would just get confusing to follow if I wrote it that way.  Don’t want any pesky emails.

Being married to someone that’s on the road much of the time, often feels as if you’re a single parent who just happens to have a wedding set on the ring finger of her left hand and isn’t allowed to date.  Discipline, shopping, bill paying, and general day-to-day responsibilities naturally fall on the shoulders of the person at home.  I imagine it to be similar in some ways to being married to military personnel.

My job with the school district afforded me the luxury of taking two months off over the summer.  This allowed me to be home when all three children were out of school.  A privilege and a nightmare all wrapped up with a big red bow.  Aside from our children, our house was populated with two dogs, three cats, a black lop-eared rabbit who made Rasputin seem as if he had a loving personality, and a morbidly obese hamster answering to the name Henrietta, who regularly needed rescuing when becoming wedged in her Habitrail tubes. Alone time was non-existent, and quiet time as rare as a hair on Telly Savalas’s head.

Quickly I learned that the key to survival in the trenches was keeping the troops occupied.  During the summer we spent a good deal of time outdoors, but also did cooking projects.  Once we made a huge bowl incorporating every kind of sweet junk food and ate it communally with large ladles.  Disgusting, you bet, delicious, not bad.  Not only did I have my crew, but it seemed every other child in the neighborhood gravitated to our front door. Thus, the head count varied from day-to-day and the pantry regularly appeared as though a swarm of locust had passed through the area while we slept.  I’m a big proponent of the “garbage in, garbage out” mindset when it comes to junk food, so even though I kept a ready supply of fresh fruit and juices to discourage marauders, the locust consumed without prejudice and the local market regularly sent me a thank you note for helping to keep their books in the black.

One summer I checked out six identical books of plays from the library.  I wasn’t sure if my motley crew would find this interesting but it became so popular that I purchased sets of our own.  Each kid took a part.  The closet in the spare room became a makeshift wardrobe department with old Halloween costumes, yard sale finds, and discarded clothes. Cardboard boxes were painted with poster paints and became our sets. Our small but dedicated troupe performed “The Wizard of Oz” and “Charlotte’s Web” one year over the summer, and that winter we did “Dial M for Murder” starring several of the neighborhoods little known, but wildly gifted young actors. Funny, they just took to it.  A lot of memories were made and some great videos from those little books.  So, as tight as the shoe is, I guess it can always be stretched to make it fit.  Somehow we muddled through.

Following is a great recipe for wraps and our video on how to prepare the coleslaw. I must warn you in the video department I am a total novice so hope this plays well.

Hot Pastrami Wraps with Tangy Cole Slaw

1 lb. thinly sliced pastrami
4 slices Meunster cheese
Coarse brown mustard
8-12 thin slices of Kosher pickle
Cole slaw (recipe below)
4 large burrito size flour tortillas
Butter for frying

Cole Slaw

2 pkg. angel hair cole slaw mix
1/2 cup red onion, chopped
2/3 cup sugar
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. pepper
1/2 cup 2% milk
1/2 cup buttermilk
3 Tbsp. white vinegar
5 Tbsp. freshly squeezed lemon juice

Lizzie versus the slaw

►

Whisk together all dressing ingredients. Refrigerate in covered bowl until 1 hour before serving. Toss with cabbage mix. Adjust salt and pepper if needed.

Sandwich:

In the following order place ingredients down center of tortilla leaving room on both ends to fold: pickles, 1/4 cup of cole slaw, 1/4 lb. pastrami dotted with yellow mustard as desired, cheese. Fold tortilla envelope style like you would a burrito.

Melt 1 Tbsp. butter in large skillet brown on pickle side first over med. heat, turn to cheese side adding more butter if needed, lower heat to med-low and cook until cheese is melted. Yum. Serves 4.

My idea of exercise is a good brisk sit – Phyllis Diller – Blueberry Streusel Muffins

As further evidence that my brain cells are dwindling at a startling pace, I joined a gym after Christmas. After signing up, I was assigned a trainer and told to call and make an appointment prior to my first visit. I spent the next several weeks avoiding that visit. I amazed myself with the creativity of my avoidance.  Since the contract is signed, whether I choose to use the facilities to actually work out or sit in a booth at Denny’s and consume three helpings of waffles and fried chicken, is up to me.  I’m sure one more out of shape body more or less wouldn’t phase the gym’s staff in the least.

After cancelling so many times I’d run the gambit of every possible excuse with the exception of leprosy, I put on my workout clothes and drove to the gym.  Finding a parking spot I continued to avoid the inevitable by tying and retying my shoe laces so many times one actually broke.  Fortunately there was a shoe store in the same mall so I killed another half an hour looking for the perfect replacement for those hard to find white laces.  Finally, other than starting my Christmas list, I couldn’t think of one other reason not enter the door to the gym.

In spite of the healthy (no pun intended) load in the parking lot, the gym was not packed. This should reduce the amount of snickering lest I really go out of my way to humiliate myself, which was probably guaranteed. My trainer, Greg, a tall, military looking type in his late twenties was with another client, but paused to come out to speak to me.  A poster boy for healthy living, his tee-shirt emblazoned with the gym’s logo was literally bulging at the seams where his well-developed muscles were struggling to be free.  I guess in truth there wouldn’t be much profit in hiring a middle-aged man with a paunch wearing a “Beer builds better bodies” tee shirt to promote better living through exercise, unless, of course, he wore the “Before” and Greg wore the “After” shirt.

I last worked out in a gym probably twenty years ago.  Some things remained the same such as the familiar aroma of sweat and oil mingling together, but the machines weren’t familiar in the least to me.  These new machines, at least new to me, are huge apparatuses looking like Star Wars extras with massive arms and foot pads, equipped with blinking computer screens.  Excuses to leave were now flowing through my brain.  Towards the back was a free weight area populated only by men straining and grunting at each other with popping veins and red faces.  Testosterone territory.

Apologizing for keeping me waiting, and indicating it would be about another ten minutes, my trainer pointed at a bank of treadmills in the corner and suggested I wait for him there.  There were five machines, two unoccupied.  There was a TV screen attached to each machine, but I had no headphones so it was like watching a mime convention. On both sides of me there were women already actively shedding those pesky extra pounds.  I stood on the treadmill and patiently awaited further instructions.  At one point the woman to my left, probably ten years older than I am, removed her headphones and asked if I needed help.  I thanked her but explained I was waiting for my trainer.

After about ten minutes Trainer Greg arrived and asked me how that felt.  What felt?  Waiting ten minutes?  It felt a little annoying to be honest, but I enjoyed watching the people’s lips move on the screen and seeing if I could guess what they were saying.  What felt?  It seemed I was supposed to be warming up while waiting for him.  Oh.  Let the snickering begin.

Realizing that I had no clue how to proceed with that, he programmed the device and my feet got a life of their own.  I was instructed to increase the level of difficulty as I walked.  Really?  I would prefer to decrease it and call it good.  I won’t tell if he doesn’t.

After warming up suitably, we moved on to the ellipticals.  OMG, what sadist created this device?  I placed my feet on huge foot pedals, grabbed the handles and as explained worked the top and the bottom of my body concurrently.  As I warmed up, Greg stood by my side and slowly increased the grade. It was at that point I noticed he had nose hairs. A sensor in the handles of the machine registers pulse and heart rate.  I’m surprised “call 911″ didn’t flash across the screen.

Eight minutes on that machine seemed like two hours.  Greg explained that he did 60 minutes daily on the machine, this after eighty push ups to get his blood moving.  I found myself wondering if I rented a walker and an oxygen tank they’d let me out of my contract? We moved on.  I worked my lower arms, my upper arms, my abdomen, my glutes, my patutes, my legs, and my neck.  It was like The Inquisition.  I would have given up my mother to make him stop.

At this juncture, I started to feel a bit light-headed.  Trainer Greg inquired as to if I’d eaten before I came.   In my mind you ate after you exercised and when I answered I had not, he looked a bit unpinned.  Oh-oh, law suit on the horizon.  It seems if one is to exercise, food should be consumed prior to a workout. Something about depleted electrolytes, etc.  Who knew?  Maybe there should be a pre-training before the training.  Next thing I knew I found myself eating chocolate covered blueberries and trail mix in his office washed down by a refreshing glass of Gator Ade.  Ah, much better.

I suppose I will convince myself that this is quite good for me and go back in a day or two.  Right now I’m looking for a place to score some more of those blueberries because they were outstanding.  Smile.

Blueberry Streusel Muffins

3 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
1 tsp. salt
4 tsp. baking soda
2/3 cup vegetable oil
2 eggs
2/3 cups whole milk
2 cups fresh blueberries

Spray large or regular size muffin pan with cooking spray.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

combine 3 cups flour, 1 1/2 cups sugar, salt and baking powder in large mixing bowl. In separate bowl whisk together oil, eggs and milk. Pour into flour mixture and blend well. Carefully fold in blueberries. Fill muffin cups to the brim. Sprinkle with streusel topping mix. Bake 25-30 mins. until done.  Makes 8 large muffins.

Streusel Topping

1 cup granulated sugar
2/3 cups all-purpose flour
8 oz. chopped walnuts
1/2 cup butter
3 tsp. ground cinnamon

In medium mixing bowl mix together sugar, nuts, flour, butter, and cinnamon.  Sprinkle on top of batter.

If everything is coming your way, you’re probably in the wrong lane and Fettuccine Alfredo

GPS loaded, we hit the road to check out areas of interest and look at houses again over the weekend.  Personally, this process is taking too long for impatient me, so I am considering heading down to Any Mountain and purchasing a large tent with several rooms and calling it good. Couldn’t we just hitch up our wagons and when the gun is fired race to a spot and set up camp under an old oak tree?  Seems like a more reasonable way to do things.  I assume there’s some silly law against homesteading these days, not reasonable laws like the Florida law that prohibits keeping a hippo on the roof of a building, or the one on the books in Alaska that makes it illegal to push a moose out of a helicopter. Those are keepers.  Then one wonders what to do with those unwanted moose (meese, mooses) now that they’ve eliminated the helicopter option.

There were three of us in the car on this trip.  For the next month, we have an additional place setting at our dinner table.  Our fourteen year old granddaughter has joined us for a bit.  Experiencing all the unpleasant side effects of transitioning from childhood to young adulthood, it seems she needs a break from her family and visa versa.  As we live nearby and have a close relationship with her,  we were the obvious solution to facilitate this.

When I heard of our shift in numbers, I immediately went to the store and picked up project oriented things for her age group to occupy her time.  Young people with too much time on their hands often think of interesting ways to fill it.  It has been a long time since I was a teenager, and some time since I raised one, but I do remember all the longings and confusion associated with being a girl who age and there isn’t enough money in the national treasury, well that’s a statement that could stand alone, anyhow, to convince me to relive those high school years.  Once was enough, thank you.  It was like trying to swim through a sea of molasses with a swarm of bees on your tail.

After she washed her laundry yesterday, I suggested that she might like to press her clothes.  After staring at me for a minute or two I could see this suggestion was causing some confusion.  Press them, it seems has more than one connotation these days, and often does not include retrieving the iron from the cupboard, setting up the ironing board and removing wrinkles from clothing.  The natural question on her end was why her Facebook friends would be interested in pictures of her shirts.  Point taken.

After probing the surface a little further I determined that she had never used an iron.  Really? Are irons obsolete as well?  Is there an ap for this now?

At any rate, I conducted an ironing lesson including visual effects and hands on working experience and an hour later she emerged with ironed clothes and an amazed look on her face.  My job here is done.

I digress.  At any rate, freshly pressed (argh), map and GPS at the ready, and the big chief at the wheel we headed southeast.  In the first city of interest there were only two houses that fit our criteria, which, if boiled down to a gnat’s eyebrow, would be cheap and available.  The first house was right next door to one we saw on our last trip, and neither house looked any more promising than the first time we saw them.  On our second at bat, the house was described in the ad as “slightly off the beaten bath, nestled in a lovely forest setting, three bedrooms, two baths and a large deck”.

Following directions, we passed a state park sign and then wound through a sparsely populated wooded area.  As we proceeded, the condition of the roads went from poorly tended asphalt with potholes to just plain clay and dirt with deep pits.  Fortunately we took the SUV so other than bouncing off the roof occasionally and severe whiplash, we were able to navigate.  Two vehicles passing one another on that road would have involved either one hanging off the side or some form of levitation, but fortunately no one else seemed interested in going to or coming from where we were headed, so the problem never arose .  Finally after winding around for about 20 mins. and just a hairline fracture away from emergency back surgery we arrived at a fork in the road. The GPS indicated we were less than a mile short of our programmed destination.  To our left a driveway led up to a house so disheveled that most likely a short sneeze would have leveled it to the ground.  A large tree stood to the right of the driveway.  At the base of the trunk the carcass of an unidentified animal was posed as to appear as if it was hugging the roots. A small straw hat was perched on the remaining portion of what might have been his head. The other driveway to the right just wound around a corner and disappeared into the dark overgrowth. Okay, cue the theme from Deliverance.  Without words, a unanimous decision was made and we turned the car around and made our way back to civilization.  Sigh.  That tent is just looking better and better, I’m telling you.  A little paper on the walls, some fresh sawdust on the floor, it could work.  I’m just two houses short of searching for the old Coleman lantern in the garage.

The good news was we had a great lunch at our favorite restaurant, Awful Annie’s in Auburn.  They have the most outstanding comfort food and are kind enough not to post the calories so you can shorten your lifespan in blissful ignorance.

Fettuccine Alfredo

16 oz. fettuccine
(reserve 1/8 cup pasta water)
2 Tbsp. butter
1 shallot, chopped fine
1/4 lb. button mushrooms, sliced very thin
2 1/2 cups heavy cream
1/2 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
3/4 cup unsalted butter
1 1/2 cups grated Parmesan cheese
1/2 cup grated Romano cheese
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest
Pinch freshly grated nutmeg
Salt and freshly ground white pepper
Chopped fresh parsley for garnish

Cook fettuccine according to pkg. directions. Drain well.

Meanwhile, in large heavy skillet melt 2 Tbsp. of butter. Add shallot and mushrooms and saute about 5 mins. Remove from skillet and set aside.

Whisk 2 cups of the cream and lemon juice in same skillet to blend. Add 3/4 cups butter to skillet and cook over med. heat until just melted, about 3 mins. stirring often. Remove from heat.

Add the pasta and 1/8 cup reserved pasta water to the pan and toss well. Add the remaining 1/2 cup of cream, Parmesan and Romano cheeses to sauce. Add lemon zest, nutmeg, salt, and white pepper, and reserved shallot and mushrooms. Toss the pasta mixture over low heat until the sauce thickens slightly, about 1 minute. Plate and garnish with parsley. Serve with extra Parmesan cheese.

Marriage 101 and Cheesy Creamed Spinach

Yesterday I took two steps forward and then found them three steps behind me.  Just do not have the patience for this week.  This morning my hair was looking a bit Rod Stewart and I was dressed in my favorite long skivvies and Eagles tee-shirt, when the church ladies knocked on the door.  They’d already seen me through the window, so it was too late to hide in the pantry, as I’ve been known to do. I answered the door, and not wanting to hurt their feelings, instead explained I’d been diagnosed with an unidentified virus, something loosely involving intestinal worms and we had been quarantined until further notice. Is that bad?  They truly are the nicest ladies, but speaking for myself, religion is a personal area of my life that I choose to muddle through the mysteries of for myself.

I married into a large Irish Catholic family the first time.  Fun, boisterous, and fiercely committed to their religion.  All five children had been brought to task by the nuns at the local Catholic school and church, for them, was not an option but a responsibility not taken lightly.  I, on the other hand, had been raised to attend church as a child. Devoutly, my grandmother never missed a service unless ill, and made sure that my spiritual education did not go untended.  On Sundays I went to Sunday School in an adjacent building while she attended services in the beautiful old church with the adults.

The church, St. Paul’s, holds the distinction of being the oldest protestant church in Canada, and was the very first church erected in Halifax.  Adding to the history of the old building, during the enormous explosion in Halifax harbor in 1917 which destroyed most of the city, St. Paul’s continued to stand but a window was shattered on the upper level leaving the silhouette of a human head in the glass.

After my father passed away unexpectedly at twenty-five, my mother, for reasons of her own, stopped going.  Instead, she chose to stay home and prepare supper, the only large meal we ate midday during the week, with the early dining hour reserved only for Sunday’s.  Sunday evenings we had a light meal of soup or sandwiches served on trays in the family room while my grandfather chuckled at I Love Lucy on the small screen of our only TV.  Yup, prime time. Old, yes, I know, dirt is younger.

Once we left my grandmother’s house and moved to California, my religious training, left in the hands of my mother, went fallow.  At one point in high school looking for answers to questions I had on the subject, I was recruited by a kind of splinter religious group. In the end, it was my mother who saved me from being integrated into their cult and swallowed up into their strange world.  My step-brother, older by two years, but more vulnerable, was not so lucky.  Hanging on the precipice of his eighteenth birthday, and high on the draft list for Viet Nam, he was an easy mark. Before we knew it, he had disappeared from home.  About a month later, members of the cult climbed through his bedroom window stripping the room of everything but the light sockets, leaving only some painted remarks on the wall to let us know who to thank for the extra room. Never saw his face again, and the only communication I ever had with him was a post card several years later with a New Zealand postmark simply reading “I’m okay”.

I met my first husband soon after high school, and soon found myself engaged. Being Catholic, it was important for him to be married in his church. To this end, it seemed that I, a non-Catholic, was required to take classes with him before this was sanctioned.  There were three class sessions. The first, presided over by a parish priest, the second a counselor, and the last a married couple.  The classes, as explained to me, were to provide me with an understanding of the workings of the church, what was expected of me with regards to raising the children, and to prepare us for marriage.

I remember the priest vividly.  A tall, wiry Irishman in his twenties with a plethora of nervous tics, who smoked one cigarette after another as though the world’s supply of tobacco was rapidly dwindling and his next cigarette might be his last.  He spoke to us of marriage at length, and what it entailed.  I must admit I found myself wondering where this wealth of knowledge imparted on us was amassed from, but I listened politely.

At the second session, the counselor, a young woman perhaps early thirties, instructed the women in the group on the importance of having a hot meal on the table every night, multiplying often (I do not mean 4 x 7), listening intently to our men as they spoke, and most of all be obedient.  Really?  I was still chewing on the hot meal.  I found myself wondering if it was only that it was hot that counted, or did it have to taste good as well?  If it had to taste good, I may already be in default on the program because I had no clue how to make a meal.

On the third session the floor was held by a couple in their mid-forties, I would say.  During that lesson we were told what marriage was about in the Biblical sense, as well as how to create healthy communication and keep the marriage fresh and moving forward.  They had been married for twenty years and informed us that when they wanted to get frisky, if you will, she swatted him with a dish towel.  I made a mental note to be sure to keep a ready supply of such towels on hand.

After our training, we were married in a high mass on the hottest Saturday of the year by my husband’s uncle, who was a monsignor.  It was an interesting time in my life.  I learned a lot and took with me what I felt I would need down the road.

Have a great day!  This is a unique and interesting take on creamed spinach that I really like.  I would post the pictures but it seems my granddaughter deleted them. Two steps forward, three back.  Give it a try.

Cheesy Creamed Spinach

6 Tbsp. butter
1/2 cup red onion, chopped
1/2 cup thinly sliced mushrooms
3 cloves minced garlic
2 tsp. red pepper flakes
2 2/3 cups heavy cream
1 1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, shredded
1 tsp. group nutmeg
3/4 cup sour cream
3 10 oz. frozen chopped spinach, thawed and squeezed dry
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Spray a 2 quart baking dish with cooking spray. Melt butter in large skillet over med-high heat. Add onion, mushrooms and a pinch of salt. Saute for 3 mins. Add garlic and red pepper flakes and saute 2 mins. more.

Add heavy cream, Parmesan cheese and nutmeg. Heat until the cream is thick and bubbly, stirring often. Remove pan from heat. Add sour cream, spinach, and salt and pepper to taste. Pour into prepared dish. Bake until golden and bubbly, about 20-25 mins.

Please pass the salt and Berry Cherry Crisp

In my previous blog, I talked about visiting my daughter last weekend. It’s not a long drive, but rather a desolate one. A two lane highway, mainly frequented by long distance truck drivers and farmers ambling along the side of the road on heavy equipment. As I’m usually up with the paper carriers, I like to leave early and drive when there’s little traffic, hopefully no farm equipment, and the sun is just making itself known for the day. Last weekend was no exception. After about an hour along the road, I stopped for a shot of caffeine and to stretch my legs. Being rather a lanky human, there hasn’t been a car seat made, other than when assisted by an inflatable donut that makes by backside sigh and say ”thank you” on a long trip.

Shortly after purchasing my latte, I noticed that the “tire pressure is low” indicator had come on. Super. My history for flat tires is a long but not a merry one, and as there was one dead skunk, an old man selling oranges by the side of the road, and a cement mixer sharing the highway with me, this did not bode well for the outcome of the rest of the trip.

This, brought me to thinking about flat tires. Moving across country from Longview, Washington to Ashdown, Arkansas (indeed, like moving from Nome to Rio) in the early 1990′s, my ex and I each drove a vehicle, as we had two to move, and the dog and the cat had let their licenses lapse.

My car was the best of the two vehicles, and that in itself, did not say much for our transportation situation. A Texan, by birth, my husband believed that if you did not drive a truck, in his case a Ford truck, it seemed you could no longer proudly display your “Beautify Texas, put a Yankee on a bus” sticker on the window behind your gun rack. By the state of his old truck, it apparently did not matter the condition of the vehicle itself only that it on the registration it said “truck” .

Of the two vehicles, only mine was equipped with A/C so the dog and cat took a vote and decided to share space with me. Unfortunately, the cat brought along her litter box for convenience sake and even the little green pine tree hanging from the rear view couldn’t make that all better.

The first flat on the fully loaded truck occurred as we reached the top of the Continental Divide. Dark had begun to claim the land, and with only the shadowed trees behind us and the glimmering view of the valley below, we pulled to the side of the road. A rusty and well used jack was pulled from his well-stocked toolcase and while I manned the flashlight, he took the old tire off, and replaced it with the spare. Personally, I couldn’t tell the difference. The tread looked pretty much equally as bad from one to the other. Good news for us, since the grades down the other side of the hill averaged a 6.7 and this truck was pulling a load even Pa Kettle would have been proud of. God takes care of drunks and fools. That thought has always warmed me on cold nights.

Miraculously, we made it down the grade in spite of my bad brakes and his bald tires.  At one point the dog and the cat were actually sitting next to each other.  This was a phenomenon that never happened before nor after that car trip.  Animals sense these things, or so they say. 

Reaching the bottom we found lodgings.  It was a lunar eclipse that night so people were out with all manner of viewing apparatuses, while we were inside trying to restart our hearts. 

After breakfast the following morning, we headed through Colorado and entered Utah.  Utah, for me, distinguishes itself by its gorgeous colorful rock formations and, of course, The Great Salt Flats.  I mention the Great Salt Flats, not because of their beauty, although in a mind frying, cattle skeleton bleaching, awesome black against white, snake infested kind of way, they were, but more because we had our second flat in the middle of the day in their back yard.  Talk about bad luck.  Well, I almost always do.

Naturally it was on the truck because it was carrying the load.  Before we headed up through the flats we stopped and made sure the vehicles, humans, animals had water and that all systems were go.  In the small cafe/gas station they estimated the heat on the desert floor to be about 130 degrees.  Hear me sizzle. Now I’m from Nova Scotia, 87 is a heat wave.  130 is the surface of Mars.

I had the foresight to purchase three large bags of ice which I loaded in our Texas-sized cooler.  Dead center in the salt flats I saw the old truck swerve.  We pulled over with another shoe blown.  Again with the rusty jack, only this time we worked up a sweat just removing it from the tool chest.  Truly, I have never been that hot, before, or since.  Sitting on the top rack of the broiler couldn’t have been much worse. I broke out the ice for the animals and placed the bags under towels for them to lie on.  At one point, I put a handful under my ball cap and let it melt down my back.  My poor husband had to change the tire.  Worse, far worse.  Asphalt, it seems somewhat liquefies at a certain heat point.  Having to lie on his back,  his shirt actually melted into the asphalt. After a seemingly endless amount of time, the repaired spare was on. His shirt, now permanently attached, was left by the side of the road to mark our passing. 

It made me ponder what crossing the desert or salt flats must have been like for early pioneers.  Fortunately, I made it the rest of the way home without incident. 

This is a great recipe.  So simple and kids and adults just lap it up.

Berry Cherry Crisp

2 cans cherry pie filling mix
1/2 cup fresh blueberries
3 tsp. lemon juice
1 pkg. Duncan Hines deluxe yellow cake mix
1 cube butter
1 10 oz. pkg. chopped pecans
1 Container whipped topping

Spread cherry pie mix in bottom of 13 x 9″ pan. Sprinkle lemon juice on top of cherries.

Mix melted butter with dry cake mix until mix is crumbly. Add nuts and mix well.

Spray 13 x 9″ pan with cooking spray. Mix together cherry pie filling and blueberries. Spread on bottom of pan. Sprinkle lemon juice over top.

evenly distribute crumbled cake mix over all.

Bake uncovered in 375 degree oven for 25-30 mins. or until crumb mixture is nicely browned. Serve with whipped topping.

Serve topped with whipped topping.

Empty Nest Syndrome, and Hearty Potato Soup with Prosciutto

I’ve spent the last several days with my daughter and her family. It’s funny, their house is only a couple of hours away and between both our schedules finding the time to get together always seems to present a challenge.

It’s dark outside and I’m up and have startled my heart into action with a cup of extremely strong coffee. Packed once again, I’m headed for home. As usual, they will expect me to be far down the road by the time they get up.  It is their weekend, so I would presume that would be just in time for lunch.

Leaving always brings out a bit of the melancholy in me. I guess it’s because for eighteen plus years I was the center of my children’s universe, and now they have created universes of their own, and new universes have branched off from theirs. It is the circle of life, and sometimes I feel like I’m standing outside of the circle. 

On pondering when my children first fled the nest, my daughter, the oldest, was the first to to spread her wings.  I can see myself the day she moved sitting cross-legged on the carpet of her empty room holding her murky fish bowl. All her furniture was now being set up in her new bedroom, and everything not permanently attached to the house from her old room was packed and loaded in the rented trailer.  After years of runny noses, scraped knees, dried tears and more recently, hugs to help mend a broken heart or two, it seemed all I had left of her were two nearly dead goldfish and a monthly bill for tuition.  Seeing a lone bubble rise inside the gray water added to my desolate feeling and helped jump-start a good two-hour crying jag.

For many parents when their offspring move out on their own it is a difficult transition period. This, of course, is a broad generalization, as some parents have the exact hour and minute their charges turn eighteen programmed in their cell phones, and await that time with unbridled enthusiasm.  These parents view it as a time to reclaim the remote, walk from the shower to the bedroom without a towel, and redecorate the newly vacated room as a sewing room or man cave.  As we parents wave goodbye, box of Kleenex at the ready, our semi-adult children, on the other hand, are revved up like high powered motorcycles, chomping at the bit at the starting line of a race. They just can’t wait to hit the gas and propel themselves down the road, barely casting a glance in the rear view mirror. At least, I know I felt that way.

For me it meant making my own decisions, no matter how poorly thought out, coming and going as I pleased, eliminating the words “restriction”, which I was regularly on, and “convent”, where I was regularly threatened with going to, from my vocabulary, and generally involving myself in any mayhem within the boundaries of the law this little blonde head was capable of conjuring up, and that presented itself as a formidable list.  Free at last!

Of course, I didn’t take into consideration that this glorious umbrella raining freedom on me came with a large hole in the bucket.  Allowance was also eliminated from my vocabulary, and bills came in with my name printed on them. Once a month my unreasonable landlord demanded the rent, and it seemed if he didn’t get it I would find myself living under the bridge with the trolls.  My dad no longer filled my tank with gas, and I had to learn how to check the oil and put air in my tires.  Generally, the cost of freedom in my mind came with a mighty heavy price.

My freedom was short-lived really, because within the first year of experiencing the wind beneath my wings, I got married and welcomed two little ones in the following two years.  Truly, I never really experienced being out on my own in the truest way again until they moved out one after the other in my fortieth year.

After finding myself on my own, I spent several months serving up a large ladle from the self pity pot into my bowl every day.  The house echoed with only the dog, cat and I roaming through it. Coming home after work and finding just their furry faces for company was good, but not quite as good. Not a moper by nature, one day I slapped myself soundly across the face, grabbed myself up by my suspenders and shook myself hard and went about the business of getting out and rejoining the world around me.  In the ten years following I got remarried, traveled the roads with construction crews, moved more times than I have digits, and saw a great deal of this United States that I missed the first time I had the pleasure of exploring it.  I discovered the south, which enriched me with its friendly people, fabulous food and damnable heat, West Virginia, with its beautiful mountain ranges and deep sense of history, and Washington state was revisited, and once again didn’t fail to make me sad to have to leave.

As always, I seem to find myself back in California.  Family draws me here, and you can’t fault the weather.   

Now, my daughter is facing a nest that is missing its first egg. As best I could, I explained that it’s not the end of her relationship with her child, it’s just the beginning of new and different relationship. Whether we like it or not, they’re going to grow up and move out, at least, most of the time. It is how it’s meant to be. As I told her, I think it’s also the beginning of establishing a new relationship with herself and redefining who she is beyond the word “mother”. If she’s lucky, her proginy will produce some grandchildren down the road, as mine did, and enrich her life once again.

Oh, she replaced the empty spot with her new kitten. Seems he understands exactly what’s expected of him. Smile.

Hearty Potato Soup with Proscuitto

2 oz. proscuitto, thinly sliced
1/4 cup butter
2 carrots, diced
1 onion, finely diced
1 garlic clove, minced
2 Tbsp. all-purpose flour
8 russet potatoes, peeled and cubed
4 cups whole milk
2 chicken bouillon cubes dissolved in 1/2 cup milk
1 cup half and half
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper
1/8 tsp. white pepper
Parsley, sour cream, and cheddar cheese for garnish

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Place prosciutto slices on pre-sprayed cookie sheet in a single layer. Place in oven for 8-10 mins. until crisp. Watch to keep from burning. Place on paper towel and allow to cool. Crumble.

In large saucepan, melt butter. Saute onion and carrots until slightly tender, about 5 mins. Add garlic, cook additional 1 min. Whisk in flour and cook for 1 min. Add potatoes, milk, and dissolved bouillon cubes to pan. Cook about 30-35 mins. or until potatoes are very soft and starting to dissolve, stirring often. Lightly mash large pieces against side of pan, leaving some chunks of potato. Add half and half, salt, and peppers. Mix well.

Remove from heat. Ladle in soup bowls and top with crumbled prosciutto and garnishes. Serve hot with crusty bread.

Nun for me please, and Bacon and Red Potato Poppers

I met my first husband just after high school.  It was love at first sight. Eleven days after we met he proposed. I enthusiastically accepted.  My parents, when told, did not share this enthusiasm. It was not that they did not like my future husband particularly, more that they barely knew his last name. In addition, they viewed me as a maturity challenged eighteen year old who’d just quit playing with Barbie dolls three years prior.  As I rarely turned on a burner, never laundered my own clothes, and considered housework a form of corporal punishment, they did not consider me the ideal candidate for marriage. Looking back I feel they gave me too much credit.

Caught in the web of my first “real” love, I was not easily dissuaded.  Eight months later we walked down the aisle in a beautiful high mass at the local Catholic church and that, as they say, was that.

Our plan, discussed at length, was to get our degrees under our belts then start a family.  Three months into the plan I realized I was late.  Not late as in late bloomer, or late for work, but late as in a line on the little stick.  Ugh.  Eight months later our little girl arrived, five years early, but on time according to her calendar.  On to Plan B.

Plan B showed up on the ultrasound three months following.  The neatly folded maternity clothes just stored in the garage, were resurrected and hung back in the closet.  At this point we tossed the plan book out the window shifted into full panic mode.  Two children in two years for two parents barely capable of tying their own shoelaces.  What were the powers that be thinking? 

Somehow we managed to muddle through my second gestation period without permanently damaging our first baby, and had logged enough baby miles to feel a little more comfortable when the new addition was born.  The year following his birth was a blur. Between sleepless nights, juggling child care arrangements, maintaining a full-time job, plus school, Nurse Ratchett with her Dixie cupful of happy pills was a breakdown away.

Finally, my son nearing his first birthday, and my daughter moving toward her second, they both began sleeping through the night and an uneasy truce settled over the household.  School had been put on hold temporarily, at least for me, so that eased my time constraints considerably.

Working as an inside salesperson, our company had monthly incentive contests to keep us motivated.   In the early spring I chocked up an impressive number of orders and won my first $300.00 bonus.  Whoopee!

Since we’d signed on to the baby brigade, little time was alloted for vacations, nor much extra cash for such luxuries. I had come to consider my dentist appointments as mini-vacations since I got to put my feet up for thirty minutes.  Although my parents had not put their full support behind the marriage, they made up for it when the children came along.  They approached babysitting in a sort of man-on-man defense, each taking full responsibility for the care of one baby. They considered it a gift to be allowed to keep them overnight, as did we, as it was the only uninterrupted sleep we got.

After dozing off at the table during dinner one night, my mother suggested we take the bonus money and get away just the two of us.  Opening one eye, I nodded in agreement. Reviewing a number of brochures, we chose a Hansel and Gretel style bed and breakfast in wine country recommended by my husband’s uncle, the monsignor.  Not that he frequented bed and breakfasts often in his line of work, but he had occasion to visit a beautiful old convent and monastery in the area and this inn had been recommended by a friend.

According to the literature, part of the “romantic weekend package” included a picnic lunch and a bottle of local wine. As I’d nearly forgotten at that point how it was we’d acquired the children in the first place, and had begun telling people at parties that the stork actually had brought them, it sounded like an ideal place to rekindle the fire. 

Late Friday afternoon we dropped our charges off at my parents and drove north. Halfway, we stopped at a roadside inn and lingered through a wonderful leisurely dinner. It seemed strange to carry on an adult conversation without the usual ear drum splitting din of our daughter playing high chair boogie woogie on her tray with her silverware, or our son providing back-up vocals.  Peace and heavenly quiet.  Amen.

Arriving at the inn it was, if possible, lovelier than pictured.  Grape arbors, vines heavy with fruit, dominated the side yard. As you walked through the front door the air was filled with the sweet perfume of gardenias growing along the walls.  Our room was decorated in early country inn motif. By the window a brass bed overflowed with large overstuffed pillows covered in dainty patterns, strewn haphazardly across a puffy down comforter. In one corner, an old style rocker with a crocheted afghan tossed over the back.

Saying our good nights, the owners left us with a breakfast menu, suggesting they prepare us a picnic basket for the following morning.  After a delicious ranch breakfast, they handed us our basket along with a map of the area highlighting all the hiking trails and several swimming holes found along the river.

A warm early spring day was provided with the basket at no extra charge.  Butterflies flitted among the abundant varieties of wildflowers blooming in the fields.  After hiking several hours we rounded a sharp bend in the path. Glimpses of water somewhere below could be seen through the trees. Sliding down the long hill we found that the base opened up on a large swimming area surrounded on three sides by tall cliffs. A small waterfall, most likely from the spring runoff, drooled lazily over the top of the highest rock. Hot and dusty, we stripped down to our suits and dove into the inviting water. Cool and nice.  Following the quick swim, we lolled on the bank to eat our lunch, washing it down with the excellent Pinot Noir provided to us by the inn keepers. 

It was very secluded, or at least no one had passed since our arrival. The only sounds were the birds and insects hovering in the foliage.  Feeling a bit puckish after the wine, we decided to take a quick dip as nature intended us to. Laughing we shucked our suits and dove back in the water.

Shortly after surfacing, I heard muffled female voices coming from the woods.  From behind the trees seven or so nuns emerged. Not in full habits, instead they wore lightweight, short skirted uniforms with bandanas covering their hair. Speaking in hushed tones, several carried baskets, and one towards the back had blankets over one arm.  “The hills are alive”, Oh-oh.

Our blanket was on the side of the hill to our backs.  Hopefully, they couldn’t see it, or us, but we certainly couldn’t reach it without being seen, really seen, including all the original parts.  The only place where we wouldn’t be visible was behind large rocks to our right.  Hiding in a small shaded pool, it suddenly occurred to us they might be planning on taking a dip themselves. If that was the case, we would hear a lot more “oh my Lording, and Amening” going on than originally anticipated.

Peeking out several times, it appeared as if they were getting more comfortable.  We, on the other hand, were not. Starting to get cold, our bodies had begun to shiver and our skin was puckering like a couple of raisins in the sun.  Speaking in our “inside voices”,we discussed a way out. After they’d eaten, all but two of them reclined in the shade, eyes closed or reading.

Like two capricious forest nymphs we rose up from the pond, stealthily slinking and weaving along the rough terrain. We held leaves and brush behind us less we give the ladies more of a view then they’d bargained for, and moved together in the all together crouching low to the ground. At last at our blanket, we pulled it over our heads and wriggled into our clothing.  Gathering our belongings we crept quietly back up to the path undiscovered.

Back at the inn the rest of the weekend passed restfully, and uneventfully.  When next we saw him, Father Bob asked if we’d seen any nuns from the convent during our stay.  We said yes but they hadn’ t seen us. 

After the break we couldn’t wait to see our little ones. My parents were happy to see us as well., Hair disheveled, clothing splashed with formula and vomit, they stood in their once immaculate house littered now with toys and debris and held the children out at arm’s length, saying nothing clearly legible. 

This is such an easy recipe and sooooo good you can’t stop popping them. Great for an appetizer or as a side for a roast or grilled meat.  Just yummy.

Bacon and Red Potato Poppers

28 baby red potatoes
14 slices bacon, halved lengthwise
1/4 cup olive oil
Lawry’s garlic salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Salt
Toothpicks
Sour cream and green onions

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. (This temperature is important to the outcome of this dish.)

Wash potatoes. Place in large bowl and toss well with olive oil until well coated.

Cut each piece of bacon in half lengthwise. Wrap each 1/2 piece around each potato. Secure with a tooth pick. Place in dish with toothpick sticking out of top but not on the bottom. Sprinkle liberally with garlic salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Place in oven and cook for 30 mins. Bacon should be crisp and crunchy. Watch carefully so not to burn. Drain on paper towels.

Serve with sour cream and chopped green onions. Smashing.

Lily’s in the field and Salisbury Steak With Wild Mushroom Gravy

I like blogging.  Sometimes it can prove a little ego bending, making you feel like the only tall girl at a dance populated with short boys, but for the most part I find it a nice platform to express myself.  This, so the blog monitors are advising me is my 387th post, so thank you for checking in and taking the time to read or comment. It’s been nice sharing my dysfunctional existence on this planet with you.

On New Year’s Day I was feeling a bit punk.  Not because I had a hangover, I did not.  Just punk, for punk’s sake.  Don’t do that often.  I’m usually the annoying upbeat one in the group who always sees the positive in every situation.  You know, the one you want to whip across the head with a wire hanger when you’re having a bad day.

About noon on New Year’s Day I spoke to my dear friend Doc, who was nursing a fat head. By this, I do not mean to imply he’s overly self involved, but rather he was suffering from the after effects of removing the cork from the bottle one too many times. He assured me he was under doctor’s orders, namely his, and was attempting a cure by mimosa.

Doc and I are forever friends, roommates for three years and bff’s for a lifetime.  At a time in my life when my chin was lower than my big toe, Doc and his roommate Jerry gathered me up and invited me to rent their third bedroom until my chin reached at least chest level.  In the interim, we found we cohabited so well that I nested in my little room and shared space with them for nearly three years until I met my other half.  We were like “three’s company” for the over forty set.

Doc is living in the L.A. area now, but we spent a little time reminiscing and this story popped into both our minds, so I thought I’d share it.

Doc is the proud father of six boys and one girl.  Divorced for ten years when I met him, in his prime he was a successful dentist and in his post-divorce years well known for having an easy hand with the ladies.  When I moved in with he and Jerry they were living in a beautiful gated community situated on a 19-hole golf course, with three heated pools, work out rooms in each “community section”, and a huge clubhouse and tennis courts.  Truly, it was a city unto itself, even including a post office on the grounds. 

The condo was roomy, three bedrooms and two baths, with an atrium in the center and a large living area, dining room and kitchen.  However, two older bachelors had inhabited the premises for six years, and during that time had not overburdened themselves with cleaning.  Golf clubs sat in one corner, golf shoes were piled on the chairs, cobwebs drooped from the sunlights and there was enough dust to fill a king size mattress.  For me, the first line of defense was a good offense so I armed the two men with bottles of window spray and toilet brushes and after applying some serious elbow grease we reclaimed the kitchen floor and discovered that the inside of the microwave was actually white not the color of burned spaghetti sauce.

The shower curtain, well, there just aren’t words.  I gave it a proper burial, and purchased a new one. I did a demonstration of how bleach actually can clean porcelain and they were duly amazed as the grey sinks returned to white.  At any rate, we found a middle ground and cohabited very well together.  I cleaned them up and they calmed me down.  A good match all around.

Doc maintained his standing in the community dating this lady and that.  Women his age far outnumbered the men so there was no shortage of invitations with his name on them.

At one point a lady from his past, Lily, purchased a home in the community just up the hill from ours. They had a relationship of several years duration back in the day and maintained spotty contact with one another since the relationship had run its course. According to Doc, ties had been severed because of her fondness for the taste of gin.  Although not totally happy at the prospect of having an old flame in such close proximity, one weekend she moved in, and, sharing a history, he extended an invitation to her and her married daughter to stop by for cocktails and dinner.

I had been out that Sunday, arriving home just in time to grab a plate and excuse myself. Work was coming early the next day so I declined the offer of a glass of wine and went off to catch up on some work I’d brought home before turning off the lights. 

Some time later I heard raised voices, followed shortly by a slamming door. I went out to investigate.  Doc informed me that Lily had overindulged and become sloppy and belligerent.  Her daughter had taken her home.  All good.  Upset, he took a sleeping pill and we said goodnight.

Sitting on my bed in my boxers and tank top, I heard a loud knock at the front door followed by the doorbell ringing repeatedly.  Seeming to be the only one up, I answered.  Lily, disheveled and makeup looking like a Barnum and Bailey Clown School reject was standing on the porch demanding to see Doc.  After knocking on his door repeatedly and getting no response, I explained he was out like a light and she unraveled like a ball of yarn in a cat’s paws.  Oh-oh.

It seemed her daughter had confiscated her keys so she had driven over in her golf cart.  Appearing as though her lips were no longer able to form words, and knowing she was new to the area, I suggested she leave the golf cart in our parking spot overnight and I drive her home. Unfortunately, when I inquired where home was the location alluded her for the moment. In her boosy way she said her street was named after wine.  Pinot Nowhere or Pingeon Gigelo. Perfect.  Totally perfect.  Could one hope that it was on the corner of Rehab Way?  Probably not.

After driving around for a half an hour in my pajamas, she pointed an unsteady finger at a house.  Not able to navigate without help I retrieved her house key from her purse and left her in the car while I went to open the front door.  Inserting the key nothing happened.  Returning to the car, she said “bath door”, which I took to mean the key must belong to the back door. Okay. Going around to the back of the house I found a fence surrounding the patio but no access gate.  Now tired, and the hour getting late, I climbed up on the power box. Peeking over the fence I could see the back door. I pulled myself up and straddled the fence.  Seated uncomfortably a dog began to bark loudly inside. Then, the patio light came on.  A large bearded man in a bathrobe two sizes too small opened the sliding glass door wielding a hammer.  Hmmmm.  Before being balpeened to death in my underwear, I quickly explained the situation hoping I had located a family member.

As it turned out he was not a member of the family, but was, in fact, a neighbor.  Thankfully, he was aware that Lily had moved in and pointed me in the direction of a similar looking house two doors down.  OMG.  Helping me down off the fence, I exited through his front door, but not before he stopped me to inquire if we could get together for dinner sometime.  Really? Must have been the boxers.

Out front I found Lily lying face down in the sprinkler with her behind sticking up in the air definitely not showing her best side.  I’m not lying here.  Frantic, I pried her muddy face up, checked her breath (which had enough octane to ignite a bag of charcoal), and determining she would survive, weaved her home, hosed her off and tucked her into bed. The golf cart was gone when I came home from work. I saw her later and nothing was every mentioned. The things you do for friends.

Salisbury Steak with Wild Mushroom Gravy

1 1/2 lb. ground beef, lean
1 1/2 cans (10 oz.) cream of mushroom soup
3/4 cup Italian bread crumbs
1 egg slightly beaten
1/8 tsp. dry mustard
1 onion, chopped
1 1/2 tsp. Montreal steak seasoning
1/8 tsp. garlic powder
1-1/2 Tbsp. oil
3 Tbsp. butter, divided
1/3 cup cooking sherry
8-10 oz. of wild mushrooms, porcini, morel, portabello or a mix
3 cups rich beef broth
1 1/2 pkg. Knorr brown gravy mix
Chopped fresh parsley for garnish

Combine ground beef, 1/2 can of soup, bread crumbs, dry mustard, garlic powder egg, onion, and Montreal steak seasoning in a large bowl. Mix well using the tips of your fingers. Form into 6 oval patties.

Heat oil and 1 Tbsp. butter in large skillet over med-high heat. Brown patties in oil on both sides and remove to plate. Set aside.

Add remaining 2 Tbsp. butter to same skillet. When melted remove from heat and add sherry. Saute mushrooms for 8 mins. Add beef stock and whisk in gravy mix. Whisk in remaining mushroom soup.

Place patties back in skillet and spoon gravy over top. Cover pan and cook for 25-30 mins. Remove from heat and add a dash of black pepper.

Serve over bed of white rice or fluffy mashed potatoes. Garnish with parsley sprig.