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Archive for the ‘Reflections’ Category

2

What an odd day. I woke up to a fine mist decorating the windshield of the car, the skies overcast, and the air heavy. Atypical of Northern California weather this time of year, it’s a bit unnerving. Old timers used to refer to weather patterns of this sort as “earthquake weather”. To add to the odd mix the weather’s serving up, our immediate neighbors are moving out. We are friendly with them casually, not what I’d call friends. However, I am used to waving good morning or catching up on their lives while collecting the mail. Every afternoon like clockwork their cat comes down the hill to drink out of our bird fountain and in the heat of the day he catches a siesta underneath our car. It feels odd, if you will, not to see a light on in their window.

Not to be a nosy neighbor, but our living room window faces out on their driveway, we have watched the proceedings as they unfolded. Early yesterday morning five vehicles pulled up and people poured out. Since then a U-Haul has made numerous trips and all the pickups filled and emptied many times. Reminiscent of those videos of people exiting a car that just keep filing out one after another, loads keep exiting the house. Where on earth all this stuff was stored in a house smaller than ours boggles my mind. Watching the proceedings has served to cement my resolution not to move again any time soon. Another strange occurrence is the new occupants are moving in before the old have moved out. Never tried that before.

To add to the confusion, our new cell phones arrived. Droids, ach. Compared to the technology floating around at the moment they’re like comparing a caveman’s club to a scud missile, but for us they’re a step up. The moment we deactivated the old cellular service if became quickly apparent we had no idea how to either make or receive a phone call on the new units. To be honest, I couldn’t even figure out the voice mail message. When a call did come in the caller was informed I was too stupid to know how to set up a voice mail account so they’d have to call back when I located an active brain cell. Nice, a phone with attitude. First I had to figure out how to get into the phone as it was locked. Having accomplished that, another call came in. Three phones appeared on the screen, one white, one green, and one red. If you went with the logic used at a stoplight one would think pushing on the green phone would achieve the desired effect. Apparently this would be too easy. Repeatedly pushing all three phones, the call finally went to the voice mail guardian who once again reported I was too ignorant to own the device. Trial and error proved you have to move the green phone inside a circle in order to engage a caller. A glimmer of hope.

Next, I went to the contacts. Figuring out how to access adding a new contact I began the laborious task of entering all the numbers from my old phone. Usually the contacts could be moved along in a simple transfer on a sims card. Our old phones, so old the technology probably only exists in a dusty garage somewhere, aren’t compatible with the new not allowing this to occur. Fortunately there’s an X to erase an incorrectly entered letter because you need to have fingertips the size of a pencil eraser to do this with any accuracy. I am here to report it is most amazing these little phones aren’t floating in the toilet at the moment, but I am not one to give up on a good fight.

As of this writing I still have no voice mail message in place, and have no idea what an app is or how to own one, but I will in short order. It puts me in mind of learning the computer. How confusing at first were the floppy discs, yes I said floppy discs, and files floating on a computer screen which stored your information? Just learning to maneuver the mouse was incredibly awkward. Now it seems as familiar as tying my shoes (They still do that don’t they?). In the beginning the instructor might as well have been teaching me Mandarin Chinese. To stop for a moment on tying shoes, I was interested to note while working in my daughter’s day care children aren’t taught this skill anymore. Along with telling time, done digitally these days, velcro has replaced laces eliminating the necessity of tying anything when putting on one’s shoes. I certainly hope they’re never faced with a pair of laced tennis shoes as adults. No matter how many times you try to get laces to stick to one another, as yet I’ve never owned a pair that did. Also, if confronted with a clock on the wall with hands and numerals will they have to ask someone when to go to lunch?

Another constantly fluxing media would be music. There were 8-tracks, which were huge. It was like inserting a loaf of bread in the 8-track player which took up half the dashboard. If you carried more than five in the car you had to travel alone, as there was no place for a passenger to sit. Cassettes followed, much smaller and easier to manage. With each innovation new devices were necessary to use them ensuring just as you crested the learning curve, another upgrade would swoop in to recreate the bog in your brain. CD’s came along once we’d gotten a grip on the cassettes. Naturally, a CD player, CD case, and of course the CD’s themselves were necessary to get into the swing of things. Many times over the years my garage sales have been kept afloat with leftover pieces of each bit of technology as it became outdated.

So I continue to strive to keep up with each technological jump. I fear I am trailing far behind, but like Hansel and Gretel I am leaving a trail of used devices to mark my way.

These are some of my favorite green beans. My bins are stocked with fresh vegetables and this is a great way to put them to work.

BLT (Bacon, Lemon and Tomato) Green Beans

l lb. green beans, trimmed
Garlic salt
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 garlic clove, minced
12 cherry tomatoes, halved
8 button mushrooms, sliced thin
4 slices crisp bacon, crumbled

Lemon Sauce

1/4 cup butter
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 tsp. lemon juice
1/4 tsp. lemon zest
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1/8 tsp. red pepper flakes

Place all sauce ingredients in small saucepan over med. heat. Whisk and cook until butter is melted.

Place beans in top of steamer over 2″ water. Sprinkle with garlic salt. Steam green beans until fork tender, about 10 mins. Drain.

Heat 1 Tbsp. olive oil in skillet over med.-low heat. Add garlic, cherry tomatoes, and mushrooms. Saute about 6-8 mins. until tomatoes are wilted and mushrooms cooked.

Add tomato/mushroom mixture to green beans and toss with sauce. Top with crumbled bacon.

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2

This week has gone by so quickly I feel like my inner clock was set on hyperspeed. Last Sunday I drove to my daughters to help her with her day care as she recently had rotator cuff surgery. Certainly I have spent days with the mini-people there before, but mostly as an art consultant (I’m excellent at coloring inside the lines) or perhaps a short order cook (sorry, my puns again). Being somewhat in charge was for me a first.

Monday was populated solely with little boys. For those of you who have such beings running about your house, you will understand when I say having six boys four and under to keep an eye on for 8-10 hours definitely provides you with a work out. What an amazing amount of energy these small beings have. If I could tap into 10% of it I could clean the house top to bottom and solve the world’s problems before my first cup of coffee. The back yard at my daughter’s home is tailored to the business at hand. Eight or so bikes are lined up in one corner and an oval track circles the play area in the center set up with all manner of slides and climbing equipment. Another corner, obviously for the young ladies or future chefs, contains a line up of plastic kid-sized kitchen appliances and a large container holding dolls, water toys, fake food items, and pots and pans.

Once breakfast is out of the way, the kids are released to the wild to work off some energy to allow them to nap later in the day. Nap time is something I quickly found was both for the benefit of the children as well as those keeping an eye on them.

They refer to me as “Nana”. Not because I bear a striking resemblance to the Darling family’s faithful companion, but because this is the name I answer to when my grandchildren are speaking to me. After hearing this name repeated 3,465,922 times, I am considering changing it to something more difficult to pronounce like Xochitl.

I found them engaging, and so willing to be entertained. On my left hand my little finger won’t straighten out, being permanently bent towards my palm. This began when I turned forty, along with so many other things. Doctor’s refer to this as Dupuytren contracture. Not uncommon, it is an ailment limited mainly to fair-skinned, blue-eyed people of English descent. More prevalent in men, I once again have chosen to break the mold. It is not so noticeable that people cross themselves when passing me, but it is annoying. Not painful in the least but rather unattractive. Let’s say I’d prefer it not to be there than to be. However, at this juncture I’m surgeried out so this will wait for another time. In the pre-school set, particularly the boys, this was a source of constant entertainment. Each day when they came in my finger was put on display for various parents or newcomers. I was waiting for a call from Barnum once I arrived home.

Boys versus girls is as much of a mystery at their age as it will be as they become older. What engages each sex and how they approach a given situation is as defined before school age as it is once we’ve graduated and become adults. The boys, in this group at least, play roughly. No hitting is allowed in the pre-school. This does not mean there is no hitting, just it is not allowed. Encouraged to use their words to deal with a situation, occasionally once the words have been stated they are reinforced by a nudge or a punch for good measure. In this event a chair in the corner or a step allow them 5 minutes to consider their behavior and issue an expected “I’m sorry” to ensure their release. The girls, younger as a group, seem to settle their disputes with less physical interaction. When it came to disputes over dolls or particularly treasured stuffed animals, hair pulling sometimes came into play. As with the boys, the steps again were used as a cooling off place.

All in all, I found them polite most of the time, energetic, and willing to embrace any information you threw their way. Young minds easily accept the existence of twelve-foot aliens with green toes and bulbous noses protruding from their knees or intellectual alligators with spectacles living underneath their bunk beds existing on dust bunnies. As we get older more and more of our inner child erodes away. Truly, this is a shame. Perhaps our most endearing trait at that age is seeing the world around us with new eyes able to see fully all the wonders our world holds. It is not practical to retain all our childhood traits. Many, such as nose picking and sticking out our tongues would be deemed socially undesirable in adult society, though some adults still practice these behaviors. However, the sense of awe on watching a butterfly lit on opening bloom, or experiencing your first electrical storm, would be nice to hold on to.

During my time there, my favorite experience was sharing time with a six-year-old answering to Noah. I was told on the first day Noah was a highly functioning autistic. This seems far more prevalent in youngsters of this generation than mine, but perhaps it is just more reported. Noah is somewhat of a savant for six, able to spell even complex words in spit spot time. School is difficult for him. Discipline problems abound, and the bit of genius with spelling doesn’t follow for all subjects. Last year he spent a good deal of time cooling his heels outside the principals office for one infraction or another. Another symptom is not wanting physical contact. Immediately we formed a friendship. Older than the other children, he stayed up during nap time. We shared several hours of conversation, books, and puzzle assembling. He sat next to me and read sitting with his elbow touching mine. Each day he told me stories and asked intelligent questions. On my last day he took his shoes lined up with the other children’s and placed them instead neatly next to mine sitting the corner. This gesture touched me greatly.

It’s funny how easily you slip back into the role of “Mom”. Would I want to do this every day? NO WAY. I’ve done my poopy diapers and snotty noses, but it was fun to have them on loan and gave me a great appreciation for the gratification teachers must get from their classrooms.

This pasta was just the ticket for my crop of mint growing on the porch. Light and satisfying without a lot of trouble.

Spinach and Leek Pasta

Pasta

8 oz. penne pasta, cooked
1 lb. asparagus, trimmed
2 tsp. olive oil, separated
1/4 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. garlic salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1/4 cup prosciutto, diced
1 cup leeks, sliced thin
6 button mushrooms, sliced thin
1/4 cup green onions, sliced thin
1 Tbsp. garlic, minced
1 9 oz. bag baby spinach, cleaned and stemmed

Sauce

3 oz. olive oil
3 oz. freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/3 cup fresh mint leaves, chopped
1/4 cup fresh basil, chopped
1/2 tsp. kosher salt
Black pepper to taste
2 oz. ricotta salata (you can use feta)
1/3 cup Parmesan cheese, shredded
Parmesan cheese for serving

Mix all ingredients for sauce together. Add pepper to taste.

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Trim asparagus and toss with 1 tsp. olive oil, salt and garlic salt. Add pepper. Spread in single layer on cookie sheet and bake for 10 mins. until fork tender.

In skillet cook prosciutto until crisp over med. heat. Drain on paper towels.

Cook pasta according to package directions. Drain reserving 1/2 ladle of pasta water.

In same skillet used for prosciutto sweat leaks, mushrooms, green onions and garlic in 1 tsp. olive oil over low heat until leeks begin to soften. Add spinach, cooked asparagus, and prosciutto and continue cooking until spinach is wilted.

Add to cooked penne and toss well with sauce and reserved pasta water.

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1

Several people in my life are about to deal with recent graduates heading off to college in the fall. Entrance forms completed, acceptance letters received, the summer is preparing them for a shift in their universe. A bed, familiarly occupied in their homes, will soon be empty. No clothes piled on the floor, wet towels in the bathroom, or unmade beds left by the usual resident in view. A strange calm will hang over the house with noise levels significantly reduced by the loss of one teenager and his or her entourage. It is all part of the of the dichotomy of raising kids. On the one hand they can drive you to the liquor cabinet by keeping you feeling like you are teetering on the edge. Then without notice of a shift in the wind, the same dust disturber will pick you a bunch of scruffy wildflowers or offer an unexpected “I Love You” hug filling you with parental love and the overwhelming urge to protect them from all things cold and unpalatable life is likely to serve on their plate.

My two hit high school a year apart. It was the first time I’d courted the idea one day they would leave the nest. Still, four years seemed a lifetime hovering somewhere far off in the distance. With a frenetic life filled with work, children, friends, sports, and whatever else, the thought of them not sharing my house faded into the background not resurrected until the first graduation ceremony loomed on the horizon. Where had the time gone? It seemed as though I’d just tied the first wiggly tooth to a string on the doorknob the day before. Soccer camp couldn’t have been seven years ago? The school plays, long nights struggling over homework, family vacations, milestone birthdays, scraped knees, had flown past like someone had hit fast forward on the remote.

I sat that hot day in the hard bleachers feeling a knot in my throat and tears forming in the corners of my eyes as my first born stepped up when her name was called to accept her diploma for time served. A limo was rented jointly by five groups of parents following the ceremony. The adults stood as a cohesive unit on the corner watching the excited teens pile into the car swallowed up as if into the belly of the whale, wanting to hold on but knowing we must let them go. You cannot hold on to your children. In essence, they are only yours on loan. Our task is to guide them in the right direction, hopefully teach them survival skills, offer love and support, discipline them when appropriate, and eventually be strong enough to gently nudge them out the door towards their own destinies. It’s a tough assignment.

Junior college was next on my daughter’s list. One had been selected close to where my mother made her home. Her spare room was made available and a truck rented to relocate my daughter’s bedroom furniture and other belongings. Only a two-hour drive it seemed like a continent away. A recently acquired boyfriend, who would eventually sign on as husband added to her already packed calendar so I kept up by phone and frequent visits but it was not to be quite the same ever again. This is as it should be.

For weeks I sat in her room staring at the murky fish bowl left behind for the one who’d kept the fish alive up until that point. Not sure who I was if not a chauffeur, chaperone and guidance counselor I concentrated on the chick still in the hen house until he enlisted in the army directly out of high and I found myself on my own. For a while I struggled with my identity, but one day I woke up, stretched my arms, opened the blinds and found I had a whole day to myself. I spent the day digging into a new book on the nightstand, with only the cat and dog to entertain. After nearly twenty years of to-do’s, there was something rather freeing about having nothing to-do on a Saturday. I was not yet forty so time, if the universe was willing, was stretched out well before me.

Change is often unsettling, but stirring the pot occasionally tends to make the flavors more interesting. Stepping out of our comfort zones to embrace new experiences takes a bit of getting used to. For me, my life changes direction often. Over the years I’ve found myself in new situations, faced with new surroundings, new people, new jobs, and new challenges and joys. Always these changes have brought with them new perspectives and new learning experiences.

This week, for example, I’m headed down to help my daughter man her day care for a few days. Here I thought my dirty diaper changing and face wiping days were behind me. I have visited before many times, but this will be my first hands on experience with the little pirates. Hopefully, I shall return unscathed with some fresh blog notes to relate. See you when I get back.

This recipe was surprisingly delicious. As my mouth remains a little tender from the surgery, I am preparing meals easy on the teeth. My other half wasn’t sure he was going to like this but said he’d like to have it again soon, always a good sign.

Pork Burgers with Red Cabbage Slaw

Pork Burgers

1 1/2 lbs. boneless center cut pork chops, trimmed and cubed
1 Tbsp. soy sauce
1/2 Tbsp. chives, chopped fine
1 tsp. ginger
1/2 tsp. curry powder
1 tsp. minced garlic
1/4 tsp. black pepper
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 cup plain bread crumbs
1/2 cup Panko break crumbs
3 Tbsp. olive oil

4 sesame seed hamburger buns

Place meat in food processor and pulse until meat is a fine texture. Remove to bowl and add remaining ingredients except egg and bread crumbs, mixing well with fingertips. Form into four patties.

Mix together Panko and plain bread crumbs in shallow dish. In another shallow dish beat eggs. Dip each patty first in egg and then in bread crumbs to coat.

Heat olive oil over med-high heat in large skillet. Brown patties on both side, about 5-6 mins. per side.

Red Cabbage Slaw

2 cups shredded red cabbage
1/2 red onion, chopped fine
1/2 cup apple cider vinegar
1 tsp. lemon juice
1/4 cup olive oil
1 tsp. sugar
1/4 tsp. celery salt
1/2 tsp. dried basil
2 tsp. honey
Salt and pepper to taste

Place cabbage and onion in medium bowl. Whisk together remaining ingredients. Pour over cabbage and toss well. Salt and pepper to taste. Allow to rest in refrigerator for 2 hours. prior to serving.

Sriracha Mayonnaise

1/2 cup mayonnaise
3-4 Tbsp. Sriracha sauce

Whisk together all ingredients.

Spread mayonnaise on toasted buns. Place pork patties on lower bun and top with red cabbage slaw.

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2
I was reading recently about a 91-year-old widow who recently purchased her first home. The American dream. In an odd twist of fate, an incident involving a scam artist led her to discover her husband’s participation in the Korean War entitled her to a VA loan. Due to her advanced age, her daughter had to agree to move in with her to qualify her for the loan, but what an amazing achievement at this time in her life.

Over the span of my life I’ve owned four homes, including the one I’m living in now. My first house came shortly after my first marriage. Pregnant not long after the I Do’s were exchanged, we needed more than a one bedroom apartment for our unexpected addition. After some searching we put a bid on a house in our price range, about $1.50 and change, and when accepted by the seller signed our lives away. It was a great house in a not so great neighborhood, but it was ours and we were glad to have it.

No furniture to speak of, my husband took two twin beds and actually created a living room set which served us well for a year until it could be replaced by the actual thing. A dining room set was purchased at a garage sale. My bed, dresser, and night stands were purloined from my mother when I moved out, and the baby furniture donated by the excited grandparents to-be. It wasn’t exactly “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous”, but we were young and considered ourselves stylin’ in the suburbs.

As with many older houses, the house had problems. The plumbing, though working, tended towards sluggish. Equipped with central air, after fifteen years of service the unit labored on particularly hot days to keep the rooms comfortably cool. I availed myself of the two ring blow up pool in the back yard once the babies came along if the house got too warm. Two windows in the house were painted shut. Those that did open took the strength of Andre the Giant to shove them up. Former tenants, embracing the free-love movement capturing the country at the time, had hung love beads in each and every doorway. At first we found these charming, then annoying, and after having them wrapped around our necks and tangled in our hair, it came down to them or us. In the end, they had to go.

Our daughter was born in July of that first year. Three baby showers and doting grandparents contributed substantially to filling the drawers in the olive baby dresser my stepfather emblazoned with colorful flowers. A diaper service, a gift from a friend, provided us three months of service. Used diapers were placed on the porch in a pail on pick up days and returned folded and fragrant several days later. Once gone, I realized quickly what a huge blessing it had been. A washer and dryer were not included in our budget. After my husband’s entire supply of underwear, shirts and socks disappeared at the laundromat we managed to save up enough to get a used washing machine. The clothesline strung across the yard remained the only option for drying. Cloth diapers, smelling fresh when dried in the breeze, tend to get brittle enough to substitute as weapons of mass destruction despite how much fabric softener you loaded in the machine. Parents today lean towards disposables. What a godsend. Peel off the tape, fold the soiled diaper in a roll and toss it in the trash.

My sons impending arrival was disclosed by my obstetrician two months after my daughter arrived. Definitely I needed to look into what was causing this population explosion. By the end of the following summer I had two in diapers and still no dryer in place. At that same point my little girl became fully mobile. You can’t wait for your kids to walk, cheer them on as they take their first tentative steps, and then wonder as they poke through every nook and cranny of the house why on earth you were so excited.

This particular day I had changed a soiled diaper on my son, depositing it in the toilet for rinsing. During this procedure my toddler was scurrying about trying to carry on a conversation with me in whatever language babies speak. Not fluent in her language I held up my end of the conversation in mine as I placed a new diaper on the baby on the changing table. Note to God. Truly you need at least eight arms and eyes on both side of your head to manage small children. Please rethink this.

While finishing up I heard the toilet flush. Huh? Oh-oh. Grabbing the baby I rounded the corner to find my daughter beaming up at me and pointing to the toilet. “Yes, I heard”. A noise began overhead. A groaning of such proportions as I’d never heard up to that point and probably since. If someone had told me the Goodyear Blimp had just landed on my roof, I wouldn’t have been surprised. It began in one area over the commode and progressed across the ceiling. Placing the baby in the crib and grabbing my little girl’s hand I stared at the ceiling as the noise, if possible, intensified.

As if a dam had burst, water the color found on a tube of burnt sienna burst forth from every available orifice in the bathroom. The sink, the bathtub, and the toilet. Racing for the phone I called my husband. Given instructions I first turned off the water, then called Roto-Rooter, and finally surveyed the unpleasant and fragrant mess in left in the waters path. Looking up at me my daughter grinned. It is amazing they progress beyond their second year.

Roto-Rooter showed up an hour later. Removing his hat and scratching his head, the technician said “Please tell me it isn’t a cloth diaper”. “Sorry”, I said, “not your lucky day”. It was a relief to know I wasn’t the only idiot having done such a thing. After much groaning and speaking under his breath the clog was finally dislodged and life, as they say, returned to normal. This, naturally, as normal as mine ever chooses to be.

These burgers are such an unexpected and delicious burst of flavors. Yum.

Pita Burgers with Sweet and Sour Cucumbers and Yogurt Sauce

Pita Burgers

2 lbs. ground sirloin
4 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup finely chopped onion
1/2 tsp. ground cumin
1 tsp. ground cardamom
1 1/2 tsp. kosher salt
1 tsp. fine black pepper
1/2 tsp. red pepper flakes
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1/4 cup fresh mint
1/4 cup cilantro
4 pita halves
Feta cheese with sun-dried tomatoes (or plain feta)
Sliced tomatoes
Lettuce

Mince onion and garlic in food processor. Saute onion, garlic, cumin, cardamom, salt, pepper, and pepper flakes in oil over med-high heat about 5 mins. Cool.

Pulse ground sirloin in food processor until fine. Mix with garlic/onion/spice mixture. Add mint and cilantro. Form into 6 oblong patties.

Heat in griddle over med. heat until browned on both sides, about 4 mins. per side. Sprinkle with feta cheese, cover and cook on low for 3 mins. or until slightly melted. Drain on paper towels.

Sweet and Sour Cucumbers

1 English cucumber sliced thin
1/2 large red onion, sliced thin
1 cup white vinegar
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper
1 Tbsp. Splenda or sugar
1/4 tsp. red pepper flakes

Place vinegar, salt, pepper, sugar and pepper flakes in small saucepan. Bring to boil. Remove from heat and allow to cool. Pour over cucumbers and onions and allow to marinate 3 hours.

Yogurt Sauce

1 cup plain yogurt (I used low-fat)
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tbsp. dill
2 tsp. freshly squeezed lemon juice
Salt and pepper to taste

Mix together all ingredients. Allow to sit in refrigerator for 1 hr. before serving.

For burgers

Slather yogurt sauce on inside of pita halves. Insert burgers. Add tomatoes and lettuce if desired and top with sweet and sour cucumbers. Serves 6.

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final

It’s a busy time at the animal shelter, kittens are in full bloom. Wee furry faces of the cutest variety peek out of nearly every cage in the kitten viewing room. New mother’s with their broods are sequestered in an area to the front of the building. Kittens when weaned will be put up for adoption, and the mother’s fixed to prevent further over population. Having additional inmates in the cages also requires extra hands on deck. This makes moving around in the labyrinth of rooms a bit dicey. One of the attendants voiced “it’s like my mother’s kitchen in here, with eight children all under foot”.

As volunteers we do our best to clean our charges cages with the least amount of discomfort to each animal. After a while you learn to read the individual cats before sticking your hand in, avoiding a confrontation if the cat is not too excited about receiving unexpected company. There is such a thing as cage rage, sort of like road rage in humans. These animals you approach with extreme caution or you’ll end up in the emergency room getting stiches.

There are also the escape artists. Kitties who, though not aggressive, would prefer to have a little more leg room. With these cats you have to be quick. They certainly are. Taking your attention off them for a minute while the cage door is open will result in an escapee before you can spell c.a.t. Today a young cat whose name tag read “Connie” decided to bolt when the opportunity arose making a run for it. A sort of cat lock down occurs when this happens so the cat doesn’t get out into the dog quarters and create a major “swat team”, if you will, situation.

Once we had her confined to one room another volunteer and I laid towels along the floor and began the process of crawling around on our hands and knees trying to locate the truant behind all the crates and supplies stacked about the room. A seemingly easy process if you had an animal wanting to be caught, but when they don’t they have the upper hand, or paw in this situation. Calling her name, coaxing her with treats, and putting a fresh dish of wet food out, the progress we’d made after a half an hour included two tail sitings, and a face peering out from behind a palette of cat food which I swear looked as if it was smiling.

The door opened and an employee walked in asking what we were doing. Explaining we had a runaway, she asked us to describe the cat. “Black and white with a black dot on her nose”, says I, wondering what difference it made to the woman. “A tuxedo cat I think”, I added, trying to be polite. She replied, “like this one”? Turning around still on my knees I saw Connie the cat reclining on the chair in the corner watching the whole procedure with one eye open and what I felt was a hint of amusement. Really? Makes you wonder which one of the two species is actually higher on the food chain.

I could eat this salad every night, and if I did it would be a healthy choice. I use my leftover corn bread to create the croutons and I’m good to go. Also, I’m assuming most people don’t have fig infused balsamic. A good balsamic will do fine, the fig simply adds an extra dimension.

Spinach Fruit Salad with Pomegranate Vinaigrette and Corn Bread Croutons

1 bag baby spinach, washed and torn into large pieces
2 large oranges, peeled and sliced 1/4″
1/2 cup green grapes, halved
1 cup watermelon, chunked
1/4 small red onion, sliced thin
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Corn Bread Croutons

1 pkg. corn bread baked and cooled
2 Tbsp. butter, melted
Lawry’s garlic salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Take half the corn bread and cut into 1″ cubes, reserving rest for other use. Cover cookie sheet with tin foil and spray with cooking spray. Place cubes in bowl and toss with melted butter. Spread in single layer on prepared cookie sheet and sprinkle with garlic salt. Bake for 20 mins. or until golden brown, turning once. Sprinkle over salad as desired. Store remaining in plastic bag for 1 week.

Pomegranate Vinaigrette

1 cup pomegranate juice
1/2 Tbsp. finely chopped shallots
1/4 cup EV olive oil
1 tsp. fig balsamic vinegar
2 Tbsp. white wine vinegar
1 tsp. lemon juice
1/2 tsp. salt

Bring pomegranate juice to a boil over high heat in small saucepan. Reduce heat to low boil and reduce to 1/3 cup, about 10 mins.

Whisk together with remaining ingredients and chill.

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2

I had dental implants put in a week ago. The dentist told me to expect some discomfort following the surgery. Now to my mind discomfort is getting a hangnail or a sunburn. On the pain scale I’d nominate this for a ten. I’d rather have a baby (as long as I don’t have to take it home, naturally). The three hundred shots they administered to numb my lower jaw were torture enough. Once they wore off, however, the game was on. OMG. I have a high metabolism making it more difficult for anesthetic to take effect. I knew this, of course, from prior visits to the dentist but this is the first time they nearly exhausted their supply of Novocaine before starting the procedure. My lower lip, although appearing of normal size if viewed in the mirror, felt like an floatation device. I am sure if lost in the mid-Atlantic I would have remained on the surface of the water all the way to the coast of the British Isles.

Usually I eschew pain medicine prescribed after surgery if possible. My body doesn’t take well to medication for whatever reason. In this case I was swallowing those babies like a bucket of double buttered popcorn after a fast. Before the four hours was up I was cajoling for the next pill like a seasoned addict willing to sell the cat for a fix. To describe the feeling imagine taking a vice, tightening it on your lower gums, use a power drill to make four holes in the bone, then screw four screws tightly into the holes and wait for the wave of discomfort (as they refer to it) to arrive. The plus side, if there is one, is this rivals Jenny Craig when it comes to speedy weight loss. The pounds have drifted off to such an extent the only thing that fits is my uniform from grade school folded in tissue in my hope chest.

After the initial pain wave died down to a somewhat more tolerable level the next phase rolled on in. My lower jaw began to swell giving me the appearance of a lucky chipmunk having stumbled upon a huge bag of nuts. Swell.

Rick stepped up to the plate, I have to say. He poured water, filled ice bags, gathered my prescriptions, applied wet wash clothes and generally made me feel better about feeling bad. The refrigerator was packed with yogurt, cottage cheese, Jello, mashed potatoes, and butternut squash soup. The freezer held dinner for him, each box requiring only the push of a button on the microwave and a fork to make it happen. So desperate were my taste buds for a new flavor to sample this morning I cooked some corned beef hash and boiled two eggs. Together they went in the food processor with some butter. Actually, it wasn’t bad. You won’t see it posted on my next blog and my cholesterol probably spiked, but it beat the heck out of strawberry Jello, I have to say.

Over the years I have suffered at the hands of dentists. Our family, as I mentioned several blogs back, was not blessed with good teeth. Despite all the care and attention we give them, like spoiled children they show little appreciation. I have had several knocked out. No, no, not by ex-husbands, though I’m sure it may have occasionally crossed their minds. Once a collie by the name of Rollo tossed up his snout to give me an enthusiastic hello and knocked a crescent-shaped wedge out of my front tooth. I looked like an extra on the Honey Boo Boo. It wasn’t pretty. For several weeks I wouldn’t have smiled if I’d just picked the winning numbers on the lottery. In the end they filled in the gap, and life went on but I was careful around the exuberant Rollo after that.

Another time I got hit full swing with a baseball bat breaking my nose and knocking out two lower teeth. That was an attractive look for me. Two black eyes, a nose brace, a swollen lip and a hole in my smile. I was fourteen at the time, making it even more of a tragedy. I had a bridge made to replace my missing teeth, and my nose, still slightly crooked to this day, finally healed. However, my picture from the Valentine Ball two weeks later shows me in a beautiful sparkly red dress, with matching heels, looking like I’d just stepped out of the ring after losing a round with Sonny Liston.

I thought I was pretty much on an upward spiral after the implants so Rick drove me to a dermatologist appointment yesterday. It was one I had made some time prior, and thought I’d better show up for. In addition to the teeth, delicate white English skin was an inherited gift. Thanks, Mom. On most days I’m thankful for this, but unfortunately like many gifts there is an up and a down side to the acquisition. In this case, English skin and the California sun are not a happy combination. As a kid I lathered on the baby oil and accumulated as many rays as I could on the gorgeous beaches provided along our coastline to do so. Tanning was a way of life back in the day, and I excelled at it. Now an occasional spot shows up as the sun reminds me of my visits and needs to be treated. Yesterday was to be such a day. If you’ve ever suffered through the shots in your mouth you simply haven’t had any fun at all until they stick a needle in the fleshy part of your cheek, or anywhere on your face for that matter. A band-aid was applied and what was left of me was returned to Rick. I told him as we exited the office, “Jump ship, save yourself. It’s the only sane thing to do”.

So, it has been a full week. The Fourth of July has sparkled on by. People seem to have used their heads while handling fireworks this year, devices whose main attraction would be fire and sparks need to be handled carefully in a parched state. Ah well, it was a day to celebrate.

I actually ate real food last night. I could be found sitting in the corner closely guarding a juicy half chicken and a huge slice of watermelon saying “step away from the bird”.

Served these lovely heirloom tomatoes with my chicken and with the horseradish sauce they were  big hit. Will get back to cooking again this week as we are tiring of food we can eat with a spoon and I am behind on my blog.

Hope your holiday weekend was safe and fun.

Heirloom Tomatoes with Creamy Horseradish Sauce

8 small or 6 large tomatoes, sliced thin
1/4 cup green olives
Peppers and chives for garnish

Horseradish Sauce

2 Tbsp. sour cream
1 Tbsp. prepared horseradish
1 Tbsp. mayonnaise
4 Tbsp. half and half
1 tsp. Dijon Mustard
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
1 Tbsp. chopped chives
Salt and pepper to taste

Whisk all ingredients together and serve over chilled tomatoes.

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Photos by Susie Nelson

Photos by Susie Nelson

I have mentioned before it seems to me to be an odd year. Perhaps it’s just in my life. Aside from the weather, which continues to break records, the news itself is disturbing. The world seems a little uneasy on its axis, and I must admit I’m sensing the vibe.

My phone rings more often, and I am pulling out my shrink hat, dusting it off, and offering my invisible chaise for quick sessions at an alarming rate. Why, as I’ve said before, people seem to think I have any kind of handle on how to face the world escapes me. Maybe it’s the universe sending me a message? Possibly I should have leaned towards psychology as a major rather than computer science, I don’t know.

To add to the untidy mix, Friday is blocked out for dental surgery. Ugh. Even though I was a dental assistant, I view dentistry as barbaric. Why after all these years they can’t just knock you out and do it all at once escapes me. Part of the reason I was an abysmal dental assistant stemmed from accepting my first job in a orthodontic office. Most of our patients still had occasional bed wetting incidents. Like the guards in the background at an execution, I was the one delivering the needle.

Over the years I have suffered many an hour sitting in a dental chair. Although blessed with good genes in general, teeth were definitely not on the plus side while listing the pluses and minuses handed down by my ancestors. Teeth were not well thought out, to my mind, when the original plans for human beings were drafted. “Hmmmmmmm, let’s see. Teeth should grind food for the average life span. About thirty years should get er done.” Originally I don’t think it was expected we humans would be the clever industrious little beings we turned out to be. Living to be 100, once a noteworthy phenomenon, is certainly far less unusual of late.

Not being my first rodeo with dental procedures I have stocked the larder with soft foods and the freezer with ice cream. Once I had to live on soft foods for three months. So desperate was I for the taste of meat, my apologize to the vegans out there, I actually ground some cooked meat up in the food processor just to savor the flavor on my tongue. Euwwww. I know. Talk about addiction, but that’s another blog.

In my early twenties I’ve written about my year on the road. Traveling with my husband and two toddlers we meandered across the country making an untidy run at seeing as many states as we could until our money ran out. Our vehicle of choice was an ungainly yellow station wagon, which served often as “home”, and managed to get us from Southern California to as far east as Lynn, Massachusetts breaking down only twice. The first mechanical issue arose early in the trip. The morning found us waking up in Casper, Wyoming. What a gorgeous piece of American real estate Wyoming is. Each round in the bend looks like a landscape painting suitable for mounting over a cabin hearth. I have heard people go there to lose themselves, and after touring the area I can see how easy that would be to do in that part of the world. For me it’s a bit to cold in the winter, and although I enjoy peace and quiet along with the next guy, I need a little more civilization around me than some parts of the state would provide.

Aside from the fact the car was showing some signs of a problem, I had a tooth ache. On the road this is not a good thing. We hadn’t thought ahead and invited an oral surgeon to share the back seat, so finding one on short notice where we were wouldn’t be a snap of the fingers.

Small towns were strung out along the highway between Casper and Cheyenne like clothes on a line. Many you passed through before realizing you’d entered. Sputtering, the wagon indicated going on without an examination wasn’t going to possible, so we pulled over at the first populated area with a gas station in place. In the 70′s gas stations were full service. Most of them, not all, had repair bays in the back. Fortunately for us this was one of them, as it was the only game in town. The patient was to remain overnight. Asking the location of the nearest motel, and learning there were two, we chose the closest one several miles away. Offered a ride to the lobby, we checked in.

Inquiring at the motel as to dentists in town, the cheerful clerk said there was one, but he was a ways out of town. Not able to stand the throbbing much longer, we called the number given us and thankfully someone answered on the other end. Because I was becoming an emergency, the gruff voice identifying himself as Dr. Wilkins suggested coming right out and gave directions on how to do so. How, with the wagon up in the stirrups, was to be the problem.

Inquiring again with the clerk in the lobby about transportation, she once again came to our rescue. She was off shift shortly, she told us, and lived near the dental office. If we’d like a ride out we could go with her and she would send her son to bring us back. The chances of that happening now are nearly as likely as picking the winning numbers on Power Ball, but I digress. As promised an hour later we were dropped off at the end of a long dirt road at a lone building standing nearly in the middle of nowhere.

We were greeted at the door by a man clearly long past retirement age. The office was limited to one examining room and the lobby, but it was clean and the equipment relatively new. As it turned out my tooth was beyond saving and had to be extracted. Of all the extractions I’ve suffered in my life, this one caused me the least pain. Dr. Will, as he called himself, far nicer than his voice belied, was only willing to accept $10 for his trouble. Shortly we were picked up in an old Ford truck up concealed by a swirl of dust by the clerk’s son. A dinner invitation was offered but I was in no condition to accept. The following day, swollen but better, the wagon was retrieved and thanking them all we made our way down the road.

I assure you for this procedure on Friday, $10 wouldn’t allow you to sit in the lobby and read the out-of-date People magazine waiting for you. Ah well.

This was the best vegetable pasta ever. Love, loved it. I had a lot of veggies on hand, and it was the perfect way to put them to work.

Spring Garden Pasta

1 bunch broccoli
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
1/4 cup olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
5 slices Coppa ham, sliced thin
3 large mushrooms sliced
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 zucchini, halved lengthwise and sliced thin
4 yellow tomatoes (small) sliced 1/4″
2 Roma tomatoes, coarsely diced
1 lb. thin spaghetti
1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
5 large basil leaves, sliced in strips
1/4 tsp. red pepper flakes
Salt and pepper to taste
Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

Cut broccoli into florets. Place in top of double broiler or steamer. Sprinkle with 1 Tbsp. lemon juice. Cook until fork tender. Season with salt and pepper as desired. Keep warm.

Saute garlic in 1/4 cup olive oil until slightly browned. Add Coppa ham to pan and saute until crisp.

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Add mushrooms an zucchini to pan. Cover and allow to cook over med. heat, checking occasionally and stirring, for 5 mins.

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Bring water to boil for pasta and cook as directed. Reserve 1 ladle of pasta water.

Remove saute pan from heat and add wine. Continue to cook over med. heat until wine is reduced by half. Stir in tomatoes, lemon juice, basil, pepper flakes and cooked broccoli. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

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Drain pasta reserving 1 ladle full of pasta water. Add pasta and water pan and toss.

Serve topped with lots of shredded cheese.

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Final 2
While visiting my mom we took the opportunity to get familiar with Monterey again (once the Sardine Capital of the World). Despite the steady stream of tourists present on weekends, I never tire of going there. The bustling sardine factories of the 30′s have long since closed their doors. Today Cannery Row is mainly stores, one much like the next, hawking touristy goods such as  tee shirts reading “I got crabs in Monterey”. Still, ghostly reminders stand fast in the weathered old buildings. An eerie presence of the history of the place lingers on like an understudy lurking behind the scenery, knowing his lines but unable to go on.

Restaurants line the pier as this is where tourists gather. An obvious choice in such surroundings, most posted menus feature a large variety of fresh seafood. Walking a bit, we finally surrendered ourselves to the delicious mix of fish and garlic wafting out the open doors, and stopped to eat. Lunch was to be a steaming plate of spicy shrimp at the Fish Hopper washed down with a dewy glass of sweet tea. We sat at a window which offered us a full view of the cove beyond the glass. Just beyond the rocks a group of otters were performing in the water. One busily working a shell with his agile paws, while others floated lazily on their backs grabbing some California sun. Gulls circled overhead or hopped along the deck craning their heads constantly as if searching for handout. Commenting on the weather, our waitress said the dense fog often swallowing up the coastline during the summer months had moved out mid-morning and stayed at bay. Needing to see the ocean as it is much a part of me, I can’t help but think the god’s were with us.

“Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitant are, as the man once said, “whores, pimps, gambler and sons of bitches,” by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, “Saints and angels and martyrs and holymen” and he would have meant the same thing.”
John Steinbeck, Cannery Row

Back in the day

Back in the day

canneries-1

Photos by Susie Nelson

Photos by Susie Nelson – Cannery Row Today

Monterey 1We stopped to get our feet with others sharing the same idea. The sand was warm, the water cold, and the wildflowers in bloom everywhere you looked. Fishing trawlers cast their nets just beyond the surf line and an occasional sea lion could be seen bobbing up and down in the swells.

Monterey 2

Unable to resist, we stopped at the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory and loaded up on truffles and brick for the ride home.

Monterey 3Spring was evident in all the beautiful garden lined streets, each offering a more lovely and colorful display than the last. Even the scruffiest of lots seemed to overflow with color as if to make up for the disarray lying beyond the bushes.

Monterey 7

Monterey 8Monterey lends itself to black and white with all the historical property located within the city limits. I liked these two sans color for change. The building had such character without enhancement.

Monterey B&W

Monterey B&W 1

These chicken thighs are truly finger licking good, and easy to put together.

Crockpot Asian Sesame Chicken Thighs

6 bone-in skinless chicken thighs, trimmed
1 onion, sliced thin
1/3 cup scallions, sliced thin
Cooked rice

Sauce

3/4 cup soy sauce
2/3 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup honey
1/4 cup seasoned rice vinegar
1/8 cup sesame oil
1 cup chicken broth
4 cloves garlic, minced
1/4 tsp. ground fennel
1/4 tsp. white pepper
1/8 tsp. cinnamon
1/8 tsp. ground cloves
1 Tbsp. toasted sesame seeds
1 tsp. paprika

Whisk all sauce ingredients together in medium bowl.

Spray 6 quart slow cooker with cooking spray. Place sliced onion on bottom. Top with single layer of chicken. Pour sauce over top.

Cook on low for 8 hours, opening once and turning chicken and stirring.

Serve over rice.

Serves 6

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Photo by Susie Nelson

Photo by Susie Nelson

I received a wedding invitation yesterday in the mail. I love weddings. There’s something so lovely about dewy new love celebrated in a glorious setting surrounded by flowers and people drinking champagne in lovely clothes. This enthusiasm is not shared by my other half who only shows up for the cake. Being a practical being, for him it would make more sense to put that money to good use either as a down payment on a home or tucked safely away in a savings account for future use. It’s not that he’s not romantic, he is, but he feels grooms are really only arm accessories at such functions and it’s a lot of money for an escort service. A lot of men have voiced similar thoughts to me over the years. It is no secret weddings are all about the bride. The groom is only there really to add equanimity to the top of the cake.

Scanning my closet for something appropriate to wear, I discovered my wardrobe has seriously gone downhill since owning the restaurant. When you own a restaurant you are on hand any day the sign is turned to OPEN, and most days it is not. On operating days, it is necessary to show up looking like you’re somebody as a good part of your day is spent schmoozing with the customers and making a public presence at one place or another. Towards that end I put to good use all the dresses, skirts, and corporate wear I brought with me from my previous job as an executive assistant. As the work responsibilities grew for me after my other half had a heart attack, my body mass dwindled, and the corporate clothes began to hang on my frame. I found myself instead wearing size 2 clothes at middle age. At that size you’re forced to shop in the misses department desperately searching for clothes that wouldn’t cause tongues to wag about Susie trying to recapture her lost youth. Once the restaurant was sold, the cigarettes which helped me get through those stressful days were put aside, my body went back to its usual size 6 and the tee tiny clothes were donated to the Salvation Army for someone else nearly invisible to slip into to. Once the 2′s were culled out of the herd there wasn’t much left to leave the house in besides the boxer shorts I like to sleep in and an unwieldy group of tee-shirts chronicling my travels over the years.

Slowly I have rebuilt my wardrobe, admittedly mostly with shorts, jeans, and tops, but certainly if the Queen calls to invite me to dinner I am ill prepared to accept unless she’s going for thrift store chic. I like being comfortable. Most of my life I’ve rolled out of bed, put on my face (as my mother refers to doing your makeup), and panty hose in place stepped into my work persona and uncomfortable shoes. My feet of late run free in sandals and flip flops dancing into the moonlight with no calouses or blisters to slow them down. If I was still limber enough to make it happen they’d slap me a kiss.

The other half and I have long since crested that hump where we still need to dress up perfectly every day to convince one another we want to stay together. We’ve seen each other after a night of sleep, a bad bout of stomach flu, in a hospital bed, and in about every scenario involved in day to day living. Secrets have been spilled, myths debunked, and the truth is on the table. I can remember when married the first time setting the alarm in the morning so I could get out of bed and have my makeup and hair done before my husband woke up. Those days are far behind me.

It is not that I don’t put on my makeup each day, and pull on pressed, clean clothes and brush my hair. I assure you I do. Just because you’ve hauled the fish in doesn’t mean you stop trying to keep him in the boat. Conversely my crisply pressed other half has slipped his standards a bit, going from corporate clean to down home casual. He has a leg up on me in that his head wakes up already in place as the hair has long ago gone to a better place to end its days.

Men are more fortunate in the grooming department. Most men, naturally. There are those peacocks who spend hours maneuvering each hair into place and spraying it into submission. The guys who dress in a tuxedo to attend a picnic, have regular manicures and facials, and leave a party if their pleats aren’t ironed straight. The average guy, at least from my experience, mostly follows the three esses. You know what they are, so I won’t elucidate. Let’s just say it’s basically shaving (and stubble or a full beard have become the “in faces” making this less frequent), showering, and availing themselves of the facilities. As an aside here, I have begun to wonder what men do with all the toilet paper at their disposal. Over the years I have regularly supplied my bathrooms with ample rolls for passing patrons, and am astonished at the rapid diminishing of the supply. I wonder if I put up a potty-cam I would find them consuming it or tucking it in their pockets for an emergency?  If I’d saved a nickel for every roll of TP I’d seen fall by the wayside, I’d be sitting in a villa in Caan as of this writing.

There is a delightful freeing when in a good relationship that has seen some miles. I am not suggesting getting comfortable to the point of throwing banana peels on the floor and sitting around eating Cheetos in your wife beaters, but a little loosening up is a good thing and I believe a sign of trust in the person you have chosen to spend your life with. I certainly notice when my other half is dressed up and looking sharp, but I like him just as well when he’s in his shorts and tank top watering the plants. To me he looks like him, familiar and dear which is a good thing.

Anyhow, I will go out this weekend and attempt to find a dress. It’s been so long I hope I don’t have to fight my body to get one over my head. After looking in the ads at the major stores I’m not sure I like what’s trending at the moment, but surely in the sea of dresses and fabrics there’s one with a tag saying, “made just for Susie”. It will be nice, actually, to slip into a bit of femininity. No matter what I’m wearing I retain a bit of my tomboy, so a little sway and flow in my outfit might feel nice for a change.

Soup weather is moving away from us, but I reserve this one for early summer. Light and refreshing, it is great served with a tuna sandwich and a cold glass of lemonade.

Lemon Chicken and Rice Soup

8 cups rich chicken broth
1 rotisserie chicken (garlic) skinned, and cubed (about 3 cups)
1 onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
6 mushrooms, thinly sliced
3 carrots, coarsely chopped
1 zucchini, quartered lengthwise and sliced thin
1/4 orange bell pepper, sliced thin and halved
2 bay leaves
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. ground cumin
3 cups spinach, coarsely shredded
2 cups cooked rice
1 Tbsp. parsley, chopped
3 egg yolks, beaten
4 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice (or more depending on your lemon prevalence)
1/2 lemon, seeded, halved and sliced thin
2 tsp. lemon zest

Spray 6 quart crock pot. Add broth, chicken, onion, garlic, mushrooms, carrots, zucchini, orange bell pepper,
bay leaves, black pepper, salt, and cumin. Mix well. Cook on low for 5 hrs. Add spinach. Cook on low for 1 hr.

Cook rice according to pkg. directions. Add to pot with parsley.

In small bowl whisk egg yolks. Add 4 Tbsp. of lemon juice and whisk until thin.

Take a ladle of hot but not simmering soup. Add slowly to egg mixture whisking constantly. Add a second ladle and continue to whisk. Pour egg mixture back into soup slowly whisking constantly. Adjust seasonings if necessary. Add zest and slices of lemon.

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Photo by Susie Nelson

Photo by Susie Nelson

Dress codes for school are in the news this morning. Specifically when are short shorts too short, tops too low, etc.? Hmmmm. I’ve been passing young girls on my way out in the morning. I presume they’re headed for school, some wearing shorts that would make lil ol’ Daily Mae blush. When there’s far more cheek outside of the material than what’s captured inside, perhaps the shorts are, in fact, too short?

Always I take into consideration the generations lying in between my thinking and those girls and try to adjust accordingly. I can remember wearing head bands, hot pants, mini skirts, and fringed jackets, my bra dusted off only for special occasions back in the day. Young people are going to express themselves differently as each generation mounts the hill but when is it too little considered too much for school?

Let’s face it young boys are highly motivated by young girls. This concept is not news recently uncovered by a motivated cub reporter. The original inhabitants of this planet caught on to the program pretty quickly even with no visuals or reference material to guide them. Unless someone else has noticed it going in a different direction, I believe the original man/woman thing has held our attention until now. However, when given soooooo much feminine landscape to look at I can’t imagine anything the teacher might be saying besides, “see you tomorrow” sinks into youthful male’s intellect during any given class period.

Things have changed a lot over the years. I was explaining to one of my granddaughter’s we used to have to wear dresses to school. Pants were not allowed – on girls, naturally. Dresses and skirts had to be a certain length and if they were not, you were sent to the home economics classroom to get the hem lowered. Once I explained the term “home economics”, then “hem”, she found the whole concept positively barbaric questioning whether I was playing with her or actually telling her something based on fact.

For six months several years ago we had one of our grandchildren living with us while going through some transitions with her immediate family. It was an eye-opening and interesting experience. Raising a teenager at any time in your life is like traversing a mine field without a map. Something’s going to blow up at some point, it’s just a matter of when and how much collateral damage will occur once it does.

“What’s the big deal?”, was our granddaughter’s mantra. I considered having a tee-shirt made with the words emblazoned across the front to eliminate her having to repeat it after every sentence out of my mouth involving work or school. She arrived at our house with a 33 gallon trash bag packed to the maximum expansion point with a wad of clothing looking much like a mating tangle of cottonmouths. I discovered early on folding and ironing were neither terms she was familiar with, nor wished to become familiar with at any time in the near future. The drawers I’d cleaned out in the spare room dresser were quickly crammed to capacity with clothes, makeup, jewelry and toiletries. Wash and wear, they were pulled out of a pile, wrinkles blown out with the blow dryer, and placed on the body in this order every day.

As the warmer weather moved in the jeans were tossed aside in favor of briefer apparel. The higher the thermometer pushed, the briefer the apparel got. Hmmmm. One morning I called to her to take her to school and she arrived looking more like she was headed for a shift at Hooters than a trip to ninth grade. Nope. This is, what’s the big deal for me. Insisting she put one something that at least covered the spots taped out on explicit pictures on TV, she came back up after much grousing looking much better and we got in the car. As the backpack was thrown into the backseat a light went on in my mind. This was not my first rodeo. I raised two teenagers, was one myself, and if it could be done I had already figured out how to do it. Asking for the backpack I was not surprised to find the errant shorts tucked in among the papers and her lunch. One of us is going to have to get up earlier in the morning.

My daughter and I have discussions about the newer generation often. Many things she feels are okay, I’m not so sure of. I want to remain open to new ways of thinking and behaving while remaining free to still have a voice about what I’m seeing. Several days ago I got in a discussion with my son about cell phones and tablets in the classroom. He said it’s great. No need for books, etc. and a valuable resource for facts and information. I can’t argue with that, but how do you learn to use your mind with a device who makes answers so easily ready at your fingertips?

Also, I have concerns about language. I have been told several times recently language is not important anymore, nor writing as we know it. Some day we may even communicate by text-ese, or whatever they call it. Really? Will we go back to throwing excrement at one another as well? I don’t vote for it. It is apparent this is true if you listen to young people speaking. When did “tooken” become a word? How about “I seen it”, or “I haven’t went yet”? Another one I find interesting and hear often is “conversating”. Hmmmm. Yesterday I heard someone say “I boughten it”. Well I guess that’s better than you tooken it, which often comes with extended jail time.

Keeping my mind open is a constant uphill battle I’m trying to win. I have a kind of love affair with language difficult for me to leave behind. So many glorious works of literature have been written using the beautiful language we have developed. What is to come? Wuthrng Hgts :)

Be with me always – take any form – drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I can not live without my life! I can not live without my soul!” Sigh.

So I write, and continue to use complete words until my audience no longer understands what I have to say.

This cake recipe I originally got from Taste of Home. Then I added the cheesecake filling  and fresh strawberries which made it truly rich and decadent.

Mocha Cake with Strawberry Cheesecake Filling

2Mocha Cake

2/3 cup butter, softened
2 cups packed brown sugar
3 eggs
2 tsp. vanilla extract
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup baking cocoa
2 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt
1 cup brewed coffee, cooled
3/4 cups sour cream

 

Frosting

12 oz. cream cheese, softened
6 Tbsp. butter, softened
2 tsp. vanilla extract
4 1/2 – 5 1/2 cups confectioners sugar

Preheat oven to 350°. In a large bowl, cream butter and brown sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in vanilla. Combine flour, cocoa, baking soda and salt. Add to creamed mixture alternately with coffee and sour cream, beating well after each addition.

Pour into two greased and floured 9″ square baking pans. Bake 30-35 mins. or until a toothpick inserted near the center comes out clean. Cool 10 mins. before removing from pans. Place on wire racks to cool completely.

In a large bowl, beat cream cheese, vanilla and butter until fluffy. Gradually beat in confectioners sugar. Refrigerate until ready to use.

Cheesecake Filling

2 pkg. (8 oz.) cream cheese, softened
3/4 cup sugar
2 tsp. vanilla
2 large eggs
1 1/2 cups sliced strawberries

Preheat oven to 325.

Spray bottom and sides of 9″ non-stick baking pan well with cooking spray or line with parchment paper.

Beat cream cheese in mixing bowl until smooth and creamy. Add sugar and vanilla. Mix on high for 3 mins.

Add eggs one at a time mixing well after each addition. Pour into prepared pan. Bake for 40 mins. until fully set. Run knife around edges. Allow to completely cool in oven.

Assembly:

Place 1 layer of mocha cake on serving plate. Frost top. Place cooled cheescake on top and top with 2/3 cups strawberries. Frost bottom of 2nd layer of mocha cake. Place on top of strawberries. Frost entire cake. Top with remaining strawberries.

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