The proof is in the pudding….

Well, we’ve put Halloween to bed, and next Thanksgiving will be up and wanting our full attention. Oh boy. I am eating three turkey dinners the week of Thanksgiving. First, Richard and I are driving to the Bay Area to enjoy a “pre-Thanksgiving” feast with my son and his boisterous brood. Driving down the Sunday serves both to avoid the glut of traffic on the road typical over the holidays, and still allow me to get to work on Friday. Sometimes, I think I about quitting work. Whenever I get in that frame of mind, I remind myself I how much I enjoy having a little extra jing in my pocket every month, and that I love, love the residents in the retirement home where I work. I look forward to seeing the people I work with each week, and I like to believe they, in turn, also look forward to seeing me. When I first signed up for those two particular days it didn’t seem like it would a big deal. Now, it feels like everything I need or want to do falls on either Friday or Saturday. If this is the worst problem I have to deal with in my life, I have no need to complain, and yet here I am doing exactly that lol.

Our second feast of Thanksgiving week will be on the big day itself, and is to be hosted by Richard’s wife’s son and his wife. Do you need a game card? When you have a lot of living behind you, things get complicated. Richard’s wife passed away six years ago. He remains close to her family, which I think is lovely, so we are sharing their table with ten others this holiday season. They have welcomed me into the fold, as my clan has with Richard, which makes life move along just a little bit more smoothly. I am tasked with bringing the guacamole, and Richard will be throwing flour, butter, and eggs in a bowl and creating his amazing pie crust. The crusts will be used to produce three mouth watering pies, which will be his contribution. Having been brought up, like myself, by his mother and maternal grandparents, he was taught to cook as a child. Love it. I have spent a good deal of my life in the kitchen cooking, so am not in the least bit reluctant to hand over the wooden spoon to someone else once in a while and put my feet up and do a crossword puzzle. My grandmother used to make the most delicate, flaky, buttery, heaven sent pie crust. I did not inherit this gift. The first, and coincidentally the last, pie crust I ever made remains permanently glued to the bread board I tried to roll it out on buried in a landfill somewhere in Southern California. As much as I enjoy cooking, baking is most definitely not my forte. Once, I attempted yeast rolls. “Proof the yeast”, the recipe said. Isn’t there some sort of identification on the package? It’s yeast, for heavens sake, says so right on the label. When I figured out what proof meant, I added the warm water, at exactly the temperature called for, and waded through twelve packages of yeast to finally produce one “proofed” batch. Really? The recipe was supposed to produce two dozen light as air yeast rolls. Mine, produced twelve. Rick said, after tasting one, before I threw them out to make sure not to drop one on the floor because we’d just replaced the tile. Funny man, Rick. Fine. It’s a good thing I wasn’t born in the 1800’s. I can see myself trying to make bread in a cabin in the wilderness and it’s not a pretty picture. The sandwich would never have been invented had I been manning the stove.

Lastly, dinner is at Richard’s house the Sunday following turkey day for his son and his family. At that one, I will be cooking alongside Richard. Sounds like a busy week as well as a fat producing one. I’d better get on Amazon and order some pants with a stretchy waist. Oh boy. Cooking with Richard is no walk in the park. I thought myself to be an “A” personality, but Richard weighs in as a “AAA”. As with all budding relationships, you have to look at personality quirks you can live with, and those you cannot. In particular should cohabiting be something you’re considering in the future. I believe this is something I can manage as long as our A’s don’t collide.

My mother was an AAA personality as well. Although, where she was a slow but steady performer in the kitchen, wishing everything to be just so, Richard is like the Tasmanian Devil when preparing a meal. Don’t get in his way, or the ER might be in your headlights. If I am cooking with him, I will set, say a whisk, down on the counter while not using it. When I need it, it will magically have disappeared either already washed and put away, or to be found in the dishwasher. Zoom, zoom. I have said many times, it is best in the beginning of a relationship to say how you feel, otherwise the behavior continues unchecked and sometimes ends up with resentment building. Sooooo, I said patiently and quietly the last time he reached for a utensil I was using, “touch that and you are a dead man”. Hmmmm, that may not have been straight out of the Relationship 101 handbook, but I have to say it worked most effectively. You’re welcome.

COVID is still toying with me, like a cat with a lizard, but I am rising above the water line. I will get the new vaccination as soon as they give me the green light. Don’t want this bug again. I’ve done my part for the statistical data and want to move on. All I’m left with is this annoying little tickle in my throat. Annoying to me, and I’m sure anyone in earshot from me. I am popping lozenges like candy and hope this too, passes soon.

Happy Thursday!!! Stay healthy and enjoy the beautiful fall colors. Until next time.

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Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all. – Harriet Van Horne and Two-Step Hungarian Stuffed Peppers

An old friend, when she calls, always asks, “what’s for dinner”? After twenty-five years of association, she pretty well knows there’s something cooking in my kitchen. I’ve been asked if I’ve always liked to cook. The honest answer here would be “no”. The stove and I have had a rocky romance. With working parents and no formal training as a kid, I was less than an accomplished chef when newly married. As a matter of fact, for the first year we survived on scrambled eggs, dry cereal, In-N- Out burgers, and Arby’s roast beef sandwiches. Without several chickens, General Mills and the two fast food joints we might well have faded away to nothing.

My mother, both grandmothers, and my two aunts all excelled at cooking. Aunt Barbara, my mother’s youngest sister, made legendary shortbread cookies every Christmas. Even after we relocated from Halifax to California the colorful holiday tins would arrive each year from Ontario with her familiar handwriting on the front. Inside would be the delicate, buttery cookies, each most probably containing enough calories to satisfy an average daily requirement for sumo wrestlers. I can still taste them if I think about it. When you put one in your mouth it simply dissolved on your tongue. Yum.

I do not profess to be a baker, although coming from such stock I should be. Rick still reminds me of the infamous yeast rolls of 2002. The recipe called out a yield of three dozen rolls. I produced ten. Had I accidentally dropped one on the kitchen floor it most likely would have sunk right on through to the floor below and continued on to Tibet. To describe them as hard would be nothing short of kind. Nearly impenetrable by human teeth, I believe even a crocodile with its massive incisors would have been forced to swallow one whole. Had the creature done so most likely it would have been its last act as I can see these doughy clay balls being the perfect instrument to permanently block a reptilian intestinal track. It wasn’t pretty. To achieve the ten rolls took two trips to the grocery store for yeast. I went through 8 packs before I got one batch to rise. Expensive and inedible. Can’t ask for much more than that in a recipe. All in all not one of my more memorable days at the stove. You will not find a blog titled “Delicate Yeast Rolls” among my repertoire.

As with all things, if at first you don’t succeed….. In my twenties I had many meals end up lining the trash can. Once we had invited several friends over for dinner. One guest in particular, a gifted cook, made me a nervous wreck. We had been to her house on several occasions. She could take shoe leather and weave it into something delicious. For a wedding present we had been gifted a deep fryer. Up until that point, it had remained boxed without a splatter of grease tainting its shiny stainless steel. One thing I might suggest before continuing, the night you are having guests as it is not the time to introduce a new recipe, neither it is it the time to experiment with a tool you haven’t used before. I’m just sayin’. Scanning my recipe book I decided on beer battered chicken. It seemed simple enough. Make the batter. Dip the chicken in the batter. Put the chicken in the fryer. Easy peasey.

The batter appeared thick. I had no cooking chops back then so wouldn’t have known to add a little milk. (Chops as in talent here, not the cut of meat.) Even at that larval stage of cooking acumen, the batter appeared to my inexperienced eye a bit glutinous. Having no choice but to press on I took my chicken pieces and dipped them. Into the fryer they went all at once. The rolling oil rose up accepting the sacrifice and after the allotted time the chicken took on a lovely golden brown exterior. Success was mine. My husband took the tongs and removed the chicken from the fryer. It only took one attempt because somewhere during the frying process the pieces had melded into one unit giving the poultry the appearance of what might have been Picasso’s interpretation of fried chicken. Hmmmmm. There it sat draining on the paper towels a wing poking out here, a drumstick there. Not good, not good at all.

Our company due to arrive within the half our my husband, a creative being, grabbed the car keys and headed for the KFC around the corner. Back in flash we put the purloined chicken in the oven on warm, tossed the evidence (the box and lid) and waited for our guests. Dinner was a rousing success. Each woman at the table asked for my chicken recipe. I said it was a family recipe. Well, it was, just the Sander’s family. Ahhhhhh, what a tangled web we weave. One friend told me years later when I confessed my sin, she had tried to recreate that recipe so many times never fully succeeding. Mia culpa.

There were many other disasters of the pallet to follow. The microwave oregano green chicken debacle in the 80’s, the frittata missing the two cups of cheese necessary to make it edible. There was also the turkey cooked with the giblet bag still in the cavity, and the frozen pie shell put in the oven without the protection of the tin plate provided to keep it from oozing through the grids. I could go on here but it might put me off my feed.

We love stuffed peppers at our house and I often experiment with new recipes. This one was a keeper.

Two-Step Hungarian Stuffed Peppers

4 large bell peppers, various colors if desired
1 lb. ground chuck
1/2 lb. ground pork
1 onion, chopped fine
1/2 cup uncooked rice, rinsed
1 egg, beaten
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp. hot paprika
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
12 oz. tomato sauce
1 tsp. sugar

Sauce

1 6 oz. can tomato sauce
1 15 1/2 oz. can diced tomatoes with juice
1 tsp. sugar

Slice the tops off the peppers and seed. Chop the tops finely. Into a large mixing bowl add chopped tops, onion, meat, rice, egg, minced garlic, paprika, salt, black pepper, garlic powder, and Worcestershire sauce. Mix well with fingers to incorporate ingredients. If you have extra filling form into meatballs and put in slow cooker around peppers.

Sprinkle the insides of the peppers with salt and pepper.

Spray the bottom of a 6 quart slow cooker with cooking spray. Pack each pepper lightly with meat and rice mixture. Mix together 12 oz. tomato sauce and 1 tsp. sugar. Put peppers in slow cooker and top with sauce. Cook for 8 hrs. on low.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Remove peppers with slotted spoon. Set aside. Mix together sauce ingredients and add any meat/rice mixture left in the slow cooker. pour into bottom of large casserole dish. Place peppers on top and bake for 35 mins.

Serves 4

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“…no one is born a great cook, one learns by doing.” ― Julia Child, My Life in France and Kentucky Bourbon Barbecue Sauce

I’m up again in the middle of the night. Must have been the garlic. Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against the fragrant bulb. As a matter of fact, I use garlic in most savory dishes I prepare. Sometimes, however, garlic will cause me to reach for the pink bottle under the sink if I overindulge.

Sunday night we had company. As often happens once the dinner dishes are cleared, we settled into a post dinner conversation. Cooking came up. Being somewhat of a foodie it often does. I told the story of the first time I used garlic in a recipe. I was nineteen. I remember this because that was the year I got married, also for the first time. Prior to the wedding, gifts began arriving at a steady pace. With no internet available, perspective brides and grooms registered at a store for items they liked or friends and relatives sent traditional gifts like sterling silver serving dishes or linens. Sometimes you got unpleasant surprises such as velvet paintings of bullfighters or gaudy sculptures usually ending up in future garage sales or in the donation bin. More practical gifts were thrown in as well. As memory recalls, I received three ironing boards and two irons. I must have looked like an unmade bed, for someone was definitely sending me a message. Fortunately there was a store in town, a bridal exchange of sorts, where brides with an over abundance of one thing or another could swap an unwanted gift out for something else they’d rather have. I spent a good deal of time there after the ceremony.

Once the dust had settled on our marriage license and the honeymoon was behind us, I surveyed the spoils. Pots and pans, dishes, silverware, and cooking utensils were admired and stored in the kitchen. At some point it occurred to me that someone was supposed to be utilizing these items. For the life of me I couldn’t imagine who. My repertoire at that point, as far as kitchen skills, was limited to cold cereal and toast. For the first few months we survived on love, then we got hungry. Tired of grabbing a burger or opening a box of pizza, it became obvious one of us was going to have to learn our way around the kitchen. Not long after I made the decision this was to be me, I learned I was expecting my daughter. Whoa. A mother and a cook? Looking back at nineteen I was simply too naive to be scared. Thus, armed with a wedding gift from my father-in-law, The Joy of Cooking, and an open mind I began my journey into the world of culinary delights. That cookbook still sits downstairs with the inscription clearly readable. It’s splattered and road worn but I defer to it often.

In spite of the fact for the first three months of my pregnancy the very thought of food had me sprinting for the bathroom, my cooking skills showed some improvement. Eggs were added to my menu selections, both scrambled and fried, and hamburgers and hot dogs also made the list. With the help of Chef Boyardee’s sauce, I managed to put spaghetti on the table one night, and my mother came over several weekends and introduced me to cooking with potatoes and how to manage rice. After a fire scare with unwatched boiling potatoes, life was good.

Friends, around the same tender age, invited us to dinner. Also newlyweds (everyone got married young back in the day), she had learned to cook at her mother’s side and had a decided edge on me when it came to putting something on the table. Being well brought up, I knew our invitation would have to be reciprocal so I scanned recipes deciding what to make when it was my turn at bat. I decided on chili. How hard could it be? According to the recipe it involved beans, sauce, and meat. Easy peasey.

Standing in the market, I surveyed my list. I did all right in the aisles, but when it came to the vegetable section I was a complete novice. Had I been the last person on earth left with only an eggplant, artichoke or a fennel bulb I would have starved to death. A clove of garlic was listed among the ingredients for chili. Not sure what a clove of garlic looked like, I was forced to ask for direction. A gentleman wearing a store apron pointed to a pile of what appeared to me to be small white pumpkins. Told this was garlic, I picked one up and tossed it in the cart.

According to the recipe, the meat was browned along with the garlic and onion. Simple enough. Circling the bulb of garlic, I found no instructions on how to proceed. Fast forward to now I would have searched for a video no problem, but back then one sort of flew by the seat of their pants. Peeling the garlic I was surprised to find sections inside. Hmmmmmm. Interesting. So, I peeled all the sections, like an orange basically. Chopping was mentioned, so I chopped them all up and tossed them in. Yes, the entire bulb of garlic. Later my husband was to tell me he could smell garlic when half way down the block. Who knew? I’m amazed it didn’t blaze a hole through the bottom of the pan. Simmering for the hour called for the aroma literally permeated the entire apartment. Months later I could still detect the lingering smell of garlic in my throw pillows.

Seated at the dinner table I dished up the deadly brew to my guests and my husband. My husband should have been awarded a purple heart for culinary bravery. Gingerly he forked up a biteful and inserted it his mouth. Looking at his face, it became quickly obvious something was amiss. For twenty minutes he drank water and when able to speak asked me what I’d put in the chili. Explaining I’d followed the recipe, it took my guest to straighten out the mystery. Ah well, without trial and error how would we learn? Pizza was ordered and we made the best of it. I did note, however, the next time I mentioned getting together for a meal it was suggested we go out. Fine.

During my time in the south I came to understand that for many living there grilling is an art form rather than a pastime. My husband at the time had been born  in Texas and could produce dishes on the grill that drew people from all around with the enticing aroma alone. He used to tell me if was good already it could only be improved with bourbon. This sauce is wonderful on about everything.

Kentucky Bourbon Barbecue Sauce

2 cups catsup
1/2 cup apple cider vinegar
1 cup Kentucky bourbon
6 drops Liquid Smoke
5 Tbsp. granulated sugar
5 Tbsp. brown sugar
1/2 Tbsp. onion powder
1/2 Tbsp. garlic powder
1/2 Tbsp. ground mustard
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce

Whisk all ingredients together in medium saucepan. Bring to boil. Reduce heat to simmer and cook uncovered for 1 hour, stirring frequently.

For the babyback ribs, massage your favorite rub into the meat. Wrap tightly with foil. Bake at 250 degrees for two hours. Remove from oven, open foil, and slather fatty side of ribs with sauce. Increase heat to 350 degrees. Continue cooking with foil open for 1 hr., basting with sauce every 15 mins. Serve with a side of sauce.

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We are inclined to think that if we watch a football game or a baseball game, we have taken part in it. – John Fitzgerald Kennedy and Lazy Day Coconut Cake

Photos by Susie Nelson

Even if the 49er’s will not be represented in the lineup, I’m ready for the Super Bowl. My summer sausage molded in the shape of a football is in the deli drawer waiting for cheese and crackers to accompany it to the table and my 7 layer dip recipe is dusted off and ready to go. Life is good. I am here to tell you I never thought hear myself saying these words, but of late I look forward to watching the teams perform each week.  Who knew?  Maybe it’s the body molding uniforms, or testosterone fueled grunting going on before hiking the ball, but when game time rolls around I’m in my seat and remain there until the last play goes down. Up until recently, half time, stats and bowl games I left to die-hard sports enthusiasts. Game days used to be good days to catch up on my reading, finish the laundry or do a little shopping. Seeing myself in the role of one of those dedicated fans with blue and green painted faces sitting undaunted in the rain or freezing snow in the stands, guzzling beer, and waving big foam hands with pointy fingers was never in the master plan for me. Up until now, that is. Perhaps it’s a virus? Maybe I’ve suffered a yet undiagnosed brain anomaly or all those times my grandmother thwacked me on the head with her wooden spoon for misbehaving finally caught up with me? Whatever the reason, I am hooked on football. I was seriously looking forward to the 49er’s soundly laying those loud Seattle fans and their annoying twelfth man to rest. They did not. Insert boo-boo lip here. They did muzzle them nicely for the first half of the game, which was the best part for me.

Fascinating the emotions elicited by football. Fights break out among players and players, players and coaches, coaches and coaches, coaches and officials, officials and officials, and fans and fans. Observers all over the country don their team’s colors and when provoked are ready to put up their fists and defend their teams honor. The originators should have saved some letters and simply called it war. It is soooo easy to sit in a recliner remote in one hand, bag of fiery Cheeto’s in the other, switching from one game to the next imparting pearls of wisdom to those actually involved. However, being dressed in uniform down on the field with the noise, pressure to perform, and possibility of injury dominating your thoughts,must put the stress in stressful. Guaranteed if I saw a three hundred pound man snarling insults and running in my direction, I’d hand that ball off to someone else highly paid enough to be willing to carry it. No pain, no gain, has never been my mantra. I simply stop chanting after no pain.

Let me begin by saying, I am by no means athletic, so would never presume to cast aspersions on anyone showing even a pinch of athletic talent. Somewhat gifted at tennis in my twenties, and an excellent swimmer for most of my years, when they were handing out athletic prowess mine was doled out in a thimble. As a child in Nova Scotia one was expected to be good at winter sports. Canadians historically consider the birth canal a slalom run, shooting out of the womb on snow skis. From infancy many are passionate skaters and ice hockey players, and children born under their flag generally are born snow ready. I was not. Ice skating was a favorite pass time for many youngsters in Halifax. I got my first beautifully crafted white leather skates as requested from Santa when I was six. They came packed in a pink skating case decorated with a diminutive skater twirling on one foot. Lessons were arranged at the local rink and a skating outfit was purchased for the occasion. Chubby at that age, stuffed into the pink fuzzy leotard with matching silk skirt, and white tights I must have arrived at the rink looking like a cherry sno-cone.

Even at that tender age, the list of things I possessed absolutely no talent for was growing rapidly. Young ladies from good Halifax families were expected to excel at the arts. Ballet, tap, modern dance, and highland fling, had already been tried and eliminated from the dance category by the time I was five. Appearing as lead candy cane in the school play after bending over and putting a huge tear in my costume, followed by a brief guest shot on a local children’s show wearing melted chocolate ice cream down the front of my new dress pretty much hammered the last nail in any hopes for a bright acting career somewhere in my future. After a short but memorable autumn being taught basic equestrian skills under the tutelage of the fine instructors at the Bengal Lancers they too scratched me off their list of hopefuls without so much as a parting glance over one epaulet decorated shoulder. Skating needed to be something I excelled at lest I be known mainly for having virtually no athletic talent whatsoever.

Stepping onto the ice was my first mistake. Chubby little sno-cones are not meant to glide effortlessly across slippery surfaces. With a loud thwack I hit the ice, splaying myself like an ungainly deer on a frosty pond. As the day progressed this became a familiar sight to those skating around me to avoid tripping over me. Soon the rink guards placed a cone by me to avoid unnecessary collisions. Lessons began on time. Our instructor was a large woman, with an under developed funny bone, who found no humor in my less than graceful approach to her beloved sport. Rolling her eyes every time she glanced in my direction certainly wasn’t helping to build my self-esteem. Looking back as I write, perhaps a little less glaring and a little more caring might have served me well here, but after many weeks of training I did learn to remain erect more often than prone, which for my mother was a win-win considering my previous track record.

As the years passed I discovered roller skates and to this day can spin and twirl on the eight wheels with some expertise and to the amazement of my grandchildren who assume if you’ve passed fifty your twirling days are far behind you. So, I remain in awe of those who can. Admiring an arm capable of throwing a ball past the end of their toes. Gifts come in many different packages, mine will never have a ball inside the box I’m afraid, but we all can’t be quarterbacks.

There’s always next year, and Super Bowl to look forward to. Yea.

Rain is actually predicted today. You can’t see me but I’m dancing over here, not very well naturally, but I’m dancing. Dry, dry, dry winter. My sinuses, if they could clap, would be doing so. A great day to be lazy and do a little baking. This recipe was handed down to me from my mom who got it, I believe, from Taste of Home. Quick and easy to put together, it is always a crowd pleaser.

Lazy Day Coconut Cake

1/4 cup butter, softened
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1 egg
1 tsp. vanilla
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
3/4 cup 2% milk

Topping

1 1/2 cups flaked coconut
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
5 Tbsp. heavy whipping cream
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla
1/4 cup finely chopped walnuts

Cream butter and sugar in large mixing bowl until light and fluffy. Beat in egg and vanilla.

Whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt. Add to butter/sugar mixture alternately with milk, beating well after each addition.

Pour into 8″ square pan sprayed with cooking spray. Bake for 30 mins. or until toothpick inserted in middle comes out clean.

Combine topping ingredients. Spread over warm cake. Place under broiler for 5 mins. until bubbly and golden brown.

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A ship is safe in the harbor, but that’s not what ships are for. – William Shedd and Turkey Flautas with Tomato, Avocado and Corn Salsa

Photos by Susie Nelson

My mother has an upper respiratory infection. As is usual treatment for such an event, her doctor prescribed a regimen of antibiotics and codeine cough syrup.  After reading the included literature on the drugs she was to take, I got a phone call. Back in the day, younger and infinitely more naive, I routinely read the enclosed literature before taking medication of any kind. It wouldn’t take long after absorbing the listed side effects before I could almost feel my throat closing or sense a rash developing on my hind quarters. For my well being when ill, I have since learned to close my eyes, pop the pill in my mouth, and swallow. To this day, however, I still question if I can manage without it, before being prescribed a medication and blindly stepping into the great drug abyss.

If you’ve seen commercials for drugs for treating say, hemorrhoids, they often include alarming disclaimers. While up front claiming you will achieve relief after taking their product, the rear of such ads might include (sorry pun alert) such side effects as stroke, incontinence, impotency, paralysis or even death. It turns out you may not need that inflatable donut any more for a myriad of reasons.  In the end, (sorry again) the cure might prove more serious than the condition. Is it only me, or do you find this disconcerting?

Weight loss products were in the news this morning, another questionable group. One product manufacturer claims you simply sprinkle their product on your twice baked potato camouflaged beneath gobs of sour cream, butter, and cheddar cheese and miraculously pounds melt off while lifting fork to mouth. Right. If I felt this had any basis in truth I’d always keep a case on hand for middle of the night emergencies such as leftover pecan pie or cold pizza. This company has made millions of dollars off people believing these claims to be backed up by studies substantiating such a statement. People who bought this must be the same people who hold tight to the belief chocolate might one day be declared a fruit, requiring at least three helpings a day to keep you healthy. I’m holding out for this one myself. After government intervention, the company will be forced to return a portion of the monies earned to their customers pending further studies to back their ads. I would have thought all the money should be returned until such time, as if they made say $240 million, and were ordered to return a third of it, this is still a fairly tidy profit margin. I’m just sayin.

Warning labels or literature about what you are buying or consuming are important in most cases certainly. Children’s clothing should be fireproof, infant seats tested and proved safe for their precious cargo, but some of them seem, at least to this consumer, well, stupid. For instance I noticed on my new blow dryer the manufacturer included a huge tag reading, “Do not immerse in water while in use.”  Really? Do people actually sit in a tub full of water and decide this to be the perfect time to plug a small appliance into a hot wall socket and blow dry their hair?  Apparently someone did it along the line to result in such labeling being deemed necessary.

Commercials showing stunt people driving cars off the side of multi-level parking structures necessitate a disclaimer saying, “don’t try this at home”. Is there some doobie fueled kid in Ft. Lauderdale fixated on his big screen tv thinking, “Dude, let’s do this”?

This prompted me to do some research on stupid disclaimers. Most amazing.

A warning on a package of peanuts, “Warning, contains nuts.”  Hmmm, I had a feeling they were trying to sneak something past me.

A frozen food package with a warning included, “Cook before eating.” Obviously dentists are losing out on some serious business if people take this seriously.

There was the can of pepper spray cautioning “May irritate eyes”. Ummmm,  correct me if I’m off base here, but isn’t that the point?

I like this one. “Do not let children play in dishwasher”. This is disappointing. I found I could wash my dinner dishes and cover bath time with the push of one button. Particularly handy on heavy dirt days.

My iron warns me not to use on clothing I am wearing. OMG, you mean I have to take them off when I’m already dressed? This seems like an unnecessary extra step.

One children’s cold medicine manufacturer took the time to warn parents not to allow their little ones to operate heavy machinery while taking their product. This is handy in case you regularly have them out on the riding lawn mower or operating a back hoe when they’re under the weather. Eliminates those pesky under age driver law suits.

Another one, “Do not hold the wrong end of the chainsaw”.  If you’re really contemplating doing such a thing, perhaps you shouldn’t be cutting wood.

I also like “Do not drive with sunshield in place”. Is this for people who didn’t notice the elephant in the room?

So, this is my dose of dumbness for the day. Either we are becoming more clueless, lawsuits for defective product use becoming more prevalent, or manufacturers consider us to be far dumber than we actually are. I would hope it is the latter.

I’m going to cook breakfast remembering my garbage disposal manufacturer’s cautionary instructions on not sticking my hand below the sink line before turning it on.

Sometimes I think products should have warning labels reading, for example, “do not allow stupid people to handle this product without supervision”.

At six my son put in a request for a BB gun. Other children’s parents in the area had allowed their kids to have them (the criteria on which all childhood bargaining is based), and significant whining time was allotted to attain his prize. Not being one of those mothers to fold under such conditions, his wheedling was directed more towards his father who I believe secretly believed a boy and his gun was how the world was originally meant to be. On his seventh birthday the BB gun arrived. The mother in The Christmas Story had nothing on me. Losing an eye, an appendage, a beloved pet were all pointed out as possible conclusions of misusing his new possession. Assuring me he had the situation under control, father and son bonded over the adult’s childhood memories on the farm and my son’s yet born in a suburban neighborhood in San Gabriel Valley. Surprisingly it took three days for the first incident report to come in.

Our neighbor, a huge man in his early forties, usually only recognizable by the soles of his feet as he spent most of his time underneath the chassis of the classic Mustang he was restoring, stood in our doorway. Red faced and pointing toward his beloved car, it became quickly obvious the passenger window was shattered. Oh-oh. When called, my son stood inspecting his feet as though they were aflame shaking his head. With Jack the Giant Killer glaring down at him he finally folded like a pup tent admitting he’d taken his new gun out unsupervised and shot the man’s window by accident. It was his first lesson on consequences having to pay to have it replaced.

So, I warn you right now. These flautas were moist and delicious. The corn salsa makes the dish and stands well on its own.

Turkey Flautas with Tomato, Avocado and Corn Salsa

2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 1/2 lbs. ground turkey
1/2 large onion, chopped
1 tsp. ground cumin
1 Tbsp. chili powder
1/2 tsp. ground coriander
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/4 tsp. Cajun seasoning
1/2 tsp. salt
1/3 cup tomato sauce
4 Tbsp. chunky salsa, drained (I used hot)
1 cup chicken broth
8 taco sized flour tortillas
Canola oil for frying
Tomato, Avocado and Corn Salsa (Recipe follows)
Chunky salsa
Sour cream

Heat olive oil in large skillet over medium high heat. Crumble turkey into pan, add onion and cook until no longer pink. remaining ingredients to pan and continue cooking, about 10 mins., until sauce thickens.

Place 1/8 of meat mixture down center of each tortilla.

Roll like a cigar and secure at seam with toothpick.

Heat 2″ of oil in skillet over high heat. In batches of two brown flautas on each side and drain on paper towels.

Serve with salsa and dollops of sour cream.

Tomato, Avocado and Corn Salsa

1/4 cup freshly squeezed lime juice
2 Tbsp. olive oil
2 tsp. sugar
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
/3 cup red onion, diced
1 jalapeno, finely chopped
1 15 oz. can whole kernel corn, drained
2 avocados, peeled and cubed
4 Roma tomatoes, diced
1/2 cup canned pinto beans, drained and rinsed

Whisk together lime juice, olive oil, sugar, and salt. Add remaining ingredients and mix well. Refrigerate at least 1 hr. before serving.

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You’ve reached middle-age when all you exercise is caution. – Anonymous and Tomato Zucchini Gratin

We’re bouncing around in California throwing chlorine in the pool and lighting coals on the barbie, in the midst of a faux spring of sorts. What an odd and unsettling year or so this has been in many ways. People on the eastern half of the nation are shivering under a blanket of frigid temperatures and blizzard conditions while out here on the west coast we’re dry as dust. I heard on the news this morning Chicago temperatures actually dipped below the comfort zone for the polar bears in their zoo necessitating housing the animals inside. Good Lord. Fire season out here could potentially be a nightmare, so do not envy us our warm weather. Bottom line, I’m doing a dance in the moonlight in hopes a few drops of rain might fall. Scary and weird times these.

I walked with a group of ladies today I’d never met before. Needing to walk and having no one to accompany me, even I tire of my own company from time to time, I felt the need to expand the playing field to include new players. It was cold enough starting out to require an insulated vest, but by the time we got our cardio up I could have easily have switched to shorts and a tee-shirt. It was nice to hear some new stories, and find out a little about the people I was walking with. When you don’t have children as a common denominator insinuating yourself in a new area with no job in place to expand yourself socially requires a little more effort. On-line I found a huge cache of local walkers welcoming newcomers to join the fold. Ten years ago I was in good enough shape to do an eight mile walk on an uphill trail without breaking a pant. These days vertical assents require a little added intestinal fortitude. Fortunately, it was two miles and relatively grade free.

A friend in the area has also suggested a jazzersize group downtown. Ach. Organized exercise is always a stretch for me. Sorry, puns seem to be my sickness. In my twenties I won a three-year membership to Jack Laine’s Health Club. Three days a week I met a friend after work and got myself in the best shape of my life. On the floor we squeezed and pumped our bodies into A+ condition. Following the floor exercises was a workout on the machines for an hour, then a quick swim and dip in the hot tub before calling it a day. I could balance a quarter on my abs. Ah yes, I remember it well.

People mistake being thin for being toned. I am here to report there is a vast difference. Working out, or regimented exercise other than walking daily, is on my larger New Year’s resolution list. As I mentioned in my last blog, the long list includes becoming an aerialist for Barnum and Bailey or possibly riding a bike to the moon. Exercising was on last year’s list as well. In January, typically the time one does such craziness, I signed up at a local gym. The first morning I arrived Spandex in place, fresh and brimming with resolve. As instructed, I turned on the video on the treadmill and walked the required thirty minutes to warm up. Easy peasy. My instructor, an ex-marine who I would place in his late twenties, guided me to my next group of machines, the ellipticals. These stair stepper type machines were obviously invented by someone of a deeply sadistic nature relishing watching others in pain. Ellipticals are meant to get your cardio up. True to their word, in minutes my heart rate soared to the notch reading “call the paramedics”, with “alert the coroner” lingering a racing heartbeat behind. While I labored drowning in my own body fluids, Biff, or whatever his name was, easily maneuvered the machine next to me. Toned harder than a granite counter top, he made the task look as effortless as lifting a powder puff from a plastic bag. Damn the man.

After two hours of extreme torture, I would have given up a kitten to a dobermain to make it stop. I thanked Biff for his instruction, grabbed my lovely new orange water bottle purchased especially to mark the occasion, and went home. I haven’t seen the man since. I know, I know, very poor behavior on my part. I paid thirty-five dollars a month for one year so Biff could enjoy a lovely vacation in Maui. Rick is kind enough to remind me of this should I suggest joining another establishment of this kind from time to time.

Back in the 80’s a friend from work and I signed up to take advantage of a work subsidized membership at a new health club in the area. In particular, jazzersize sounded interesting. Definitely I needed some toning up, and Sally was looking to take off a little after baby weight. Neither of us having participated in such a class before, we had no idea of the haute couture in place as far as dressing for the occasion. It seemed there were outfits required to fit in properly. Coordinated layers of Spandex one over another, sweat bands, slouchy socks and high-end brands of workout shoes were necessary not to stand out in the crowd. We didn’t get the memo. Sal showed up in gray sweats easily two sizes too large and I wore shorts and a beer tee-shirt with my gardening tennies on feet. Standing amongst the well-toned, impeccably clad ladies making up the rest of the group we stood out like two onions in a petunia patch. Always best to make a dramatic entrance if you can’t make a good one.

The instructor arrived shortly. Cut out of the same cloth as the other ladies, we gravitated toward the back of the room to garner less attention. Music flowing from a boom box, bodies began to move. Quickly it became obvious there was choreography involved here and between Sal and I we shared four left feet. We went right. They went left. We stood up. They hunched down. Humiliating doesn’t adequately cover that half hour. Without warning in unison all the women turned to face us and we found ourselves at the front of the line. At that point, I started laughing. Sometimes that’s the only thing to do. Finally, our instructor, not having broken a sweat, turned off the music. Thank God. We picked up our towels and headed toward the door when she loudly said in our direction, “Ladies”. I pointed at my chest and mouthed, “us”? “Ladies, where are you going? This was only the warm up.” That news sinking in we kept right on going and headed up to the juice bar for a stiff glass of carrot juice, toasting a great effort. Ah well.

I had a number of tomatoes and zucchini on hand and a chub of gruyere cheese. This was a delicious way to pair them up.

Tomato Zucchini Gratin

3 large tomatoes, sliced in 1/2″ slices
2 zucchini, sliced in 1/2 ” slices
1 tsp. Kosher salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1 cup low fat ricotta cheese
1/4 cup dried basil
1/2 tsp. onion salt
2 egg yolks
1 Tbsp. flour
1 cup Gruyere cheese, grated, divided
1 Tbsp. EV olive oil
2 green onions, sliced
1/4 cup Italian bread crumbs

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Spread tomato and zucchini slices on paper towel lined cookie sheet. Sprinkle both sides with salt. Let stand for 20 mins.

Spray 2 quart casserole dish with cooking spay. Sprinkle 1/4 cup bread crumbs on bottom of dish.

Mix together rictota cheese, basil, egg yolks, flour, ad onion salt in medium mixing bowl.

Add 1/2 cup Gruyere cheese.

Place one layer of tomatoes on top of bread crumbs. Top with a layer of zucchini.

Spread ricotta/Gruyere mix over top of vegetables.

Top with remaining tomatoes and top them with remaining zucchini. Brush with olive oil. Sprinkle green onions over top.

Bake for 30 mins. Remove from oven and sprinkle remaining bread crumbs and cheese on top. Bake for 20-25 mins. longer until bubbly and golden brown.

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Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account. – Oscar Wilde and Creamy Grass and Hay Fettucine

I’m working on writing my list of New Year’s Resolutions. I have a short list including those I might actually attempt to keep, and a long list of those I would love to fulfill but my chances of doing so are right up there with becoming an aerialist for Barnum and Bailey. I write them anyhow. Having something to attain to is important when embarking on a clean calendar year. Attacking the calendar before the pages are scribbled with activities enjoyed or appointments made or missed, holidays come and gone, and birthdays celebrated. Another year, squeezed through the tube.

I’ve decided to move publishing a book right up there to the short list. It’s been on the long list for years but I feel this year I am ready to take it out, dust it off, and really throw some energy in that direction. Also, I want to travel more. Not necessarily on a plane, as I’m not fully convinced about air travel lately. A train trip might be enjoyable, or perhaps a cruise. Oh, not so fast on a cruise. People seem to go missing on cruises, the ships stop functioning, catch on fire, or become stranded in foreign ports with no toilets. Possibly I’ll rent a horse. I’ve always considered them reliable. Well, there was that one who took me on a mad dash across the desert in Las Vegas or Blackie an Arab steed with an aversion to water who laid down in midstream giving me an unexpected pre-Saturday bath. Maybe I’ll just stay home. Home is good. However, if you allow your pool to grow stagnant for too long, algae will begin to grow and you’ll attract frogs. As I have attracted more than my fair share of frogs over my lifetime, I intend to keep the water fresh in my pool and allow room for new growth. Don’t have any idea what I’m talking about? Can’t say as I blame you. I’m not sure I’m perfectly clear where I’m going myself. I’m sure by the end of this writing I’ll ease you in the direction of what the point is I’m trying to make. If not, I’ll add it to my list. Be concise, resolution number 121.

My drawing pad is sitting on the table. It’s been a while since I faced a blank page head on armed with my No. 2 pencil. Two pages are nearly filled with sketches and I’m working on a third. Logically one would finish one completely before starting a fresh page, but no one has ever accused me of being such a being so I do it my way and in the end it all comes out in the wash. In my drawers I have three “almost stories”. They have been in transition to a complete body of work since my children were in elementary school. This could be either the worst form of procrastination or avoiding the possibility of actually having to submit my manuscripts and join the legion of other writers papering their bathroom walls with rejection letters. The jury is still out on this.

After spending the holidays with my mother in the Bay Area, I am convinced there is a whole book waiting to emerge centered around my family. Probably we would be the only ones slapping down the $6.95 for the paperback, but I’m sure it might provide a laugh, even a tear or two in the reading. Strange attracts strange it would seem as I research my family history. Interesting to uncover who wed who and whom these unions begat. Most interesting to do your own genealogy. It is amazing what crawls out from beneath the family rock pile. It turns out we’re related to Joseph Smith who founded the Latter Day Saints. Who knew? We rise from German, English, Scottish, Welch and Flemish ancestors poking out of the branches. The women in our group tend to be long-lived. More recently, two great-grandmothers and one grandmother nearly achieved the century mark. Even in the earlier generations, for their time, the women seemed to have enjoyed longevity. Perhaps we have some Ecuadorian blood running through our veins, like the people in Vilcabamba who seem to have uncovered the fountain of youth, some living to be one hundred and forty according to their birth records. One hundred and forty. Can you imagine? I’m hardly wet behind the years in their world.

At any rate, I am looking forward to exploring the next 356 days of 2014. There will probably be an increase in work coming my way, or I would like to think this to be true. The money pit keeps exacting its pound of flesh and I don’t have a lot to spare. I have been honing my graphics skills in anticipation of having to flex those muscles again. As with any business in the technology sector, use it or lose it would hold true of logo building or graphics software as well. My other half said computer manufacturers are leaning towards phasing out laptops in favor of tablets and hand-held devices. Fortunately they’re keeping the more cumbersome laptops around for graphic designers because I cannot picturing myself creating an ad campaign or media on a smart phone. These are not new eyes. I’m just sayin.

Ideally my plan for 2014 is to live fully and in the moment. As long as there are new things to learn, new people to meet, and new places to explore life certainly is never dull. I do believe I’ll scratch taking an expedition to Antarctica on a Russian ship right off my short list, however. Although making a helipad in below zero weather might prove interesting, in the end it just didn’t look like that much fun.

I wasn’t sure if peas in pasta was going to work for me, but I had some leftover and so I tossed them in. Yum.

Creamy Grass and Hay Fettucine

12 oz. spinach fettucine
12 oz. regular fettucine
3 Tbsp. EV olive oil
8 oz. sliced button mushrooms
1/2 Tbsp. minced garlic
4 oz. Coppa ham, sliced in thin strips
1 cup grape tomatoes, halved
2 cups cream
3/4 cup peas (frozen or canned)
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese
Shredded Parmesan cheese

Cook pasta according to package directions.

Heat oil in large skillet over med-high heat. Add mushrooms and garlic and saute for 10 mins. stirring frequently.

Add ham and sliced tomatoes to skillet. Continue cooking about 5-7 mins. until tomatoes are slightly wilted.

Whisk in cream, peas, salt, pepper, and nutmeg. Bring to low boil. Whisk in grated Parmesan and continue cooking until smooth and bubbly.

Toss pastas together in large serving bowl with 1 Tbsp. olive oil. Add sauce and mix well. Serve with shredded cheese.

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I’ve a grand memory for forgetting. – Robert Louis Stevenson and Tilapia Baja Tacos with Tangy Slaw

This morning I woke up motivated. I prep my food for dinner early in the day as quite often I run out of time later or energy. Always I have been a morning person. My favorite time being just before the sun crests the hill. An unfolded day in front of me, no phones ringing, no chores to be accomplished, nothing but blessed peace and quiet and a steaming cup of fresh coffee. Mmmmm.

I digress. Remembering something I needed in the garage refrigerator, I slipped on a coat and well, slippers, and unlocked the outside door. Opening the refrigerator I stared into the gaping maw realizing quickly whatever it was I felt I couldn’t live without five minutes prior had been eliminated by my receptors on the way out to the garage. Straining to see if I could revive the thought, I gave up, closed the door and went back inside. The minute I’d removed my arm from the second sleeve, eggplant popped into my head as clear as “an azure sky of deepest summer” to quote Alex De Large. Sigh. When brains have been around for a few years they seem to develop quirks like refusing to remember that blond guy who was in Rich Man Poor Man or whatever that city was you lived in when you were nine. Most annoying. Rick has taken to using “whatchamacallit or whatshisname” as standard phrases for everything or everyone he’s searching for in his memory but cannot find.

While visiting my mother I noticed she was doing this fairly often. Not enough to be alarming, but enough. What amused me was she commented on a friend saying he repeated himself regularly. This was the third time since I’d arrived she’d told me the same thing.

On the second day of our visit there was a scheduled weekly hair appointment. As I’ve mentioned before my mother has her hair done once and week, has for years, and she will make this appointment if she has to be transported by ambulance. I offered to go with her. It is an old salon reminiscent of the 1970’s. Most of the ladies seated in the chairs are older and the “do’s” pretty much of the assembly line variety, curlers, dryer, and tease, followed by a good coat of shellac.

Deciding to have our nails done while there. Mother said her manicure was set for 10:30 so we should get there a few minutes early because of the holiday. Okay. Getting my mother out the door is a process but somehow we got ourselves there and parked within minutes of the scheduled time.

Approaching the reception desk we were told her stylist, Henry, had gone missing. Apparently there had been a company Christmas party the night before and Henry had disappeared with one of the elves. To add to the mix, it turned out my mother’s appointment wasn’t until 1:00 for her nails with mine following at 2:00. It would seem we had a little time to kill until her hair appointment at 11:30, provided Henry rallied and arrived on the scene. Mother suggested we walk next door and get some lunch. This killed a half an hour.

Henry showed up looking a bit peeked around 11:45. His earlier appointments were backed up at that point so Mother was placed in the queue. The manicurist arriving early and unbooked asked if I’d like to fill the gap. For an hour the manicurist, a lovely Vietnamese woman who at forty-six looked like she was barely old enough to drive, regaled me with stories of her twenty year old son who refuses to go to work and doesn’t respect his parents. Hmmmm. Doesn’t matter where you come from, the story seems to follow the same theme.

I opted for a festive red with a bit of sparkle for my nail color. I have little patience for sitting so squirming usually commences about a half an hour in. Several times she looked up over her glasses as if to say, “really?”. Sorry. Once all coats had been applied, beauty is a process, a small heater was placed in front of me and I was instructed to place my hands inside. I did, both at the same time hitting one hand against the other. Now the glasses were perched at the end of her nose and the look was much intensified. Whoops. “One at a time, Susie”, she said. The “duh” was omitted in case a tip was imminent. Damage repaired, my nails were dried and I was done. I must write that down for next time, “one at a time, one at a time”. Duh.

Mother had progressed to sitting under the dryer, People magazine in hand, and a cup of Henry’s “special coffee” sitting next to her. Asked if I’d like the same, I nodded yes and was shortly handed a latte and offered a hair style magazine to peruse. Since I wasn’t getting my hair done I wondered if this was a hint, but chose another gossip rag instead and settled in the particularly uncomfortable dryer chair to pass the time.

Ladies around me were in all stages of being done. One, whose head was completely covered with tin foil squares looked as if she might be preparing to make a moon landing at any moment. Another had purple dye on red hair, eight earrings crawling up the side of one ear, and 10″ orange nails. She could have explored Cyrano de Bergerac’s nose with ease. Less colorful floats have appeared in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Gossip was flowing like champagne on New Year’s Eve. Bits of it floated my direction allowing me to gather that Janice’s husband was painting outside the lines with a lady at work, and Rene’s son was in rehab again and his mother was supporting his pregnant girlfriend. Some things never change.

Finally at 2:30 with my behind having completely lost feeling and unsure I could stand without assistance, we made our way out the back door and into the Bay Area holiday traffic. Half way home my mother announced she’d forgotten her reading glasses. Back to the salon we went. At home, my other half had unleashed the dogs and alerted the media, but in the end we had a great dinner and a rousing game of trivia which with four people who can’t remember what they ate for breakfast, was memorable. Another day in the life of.

These were just plain finger licking good. I could have eaten four.

Tilapia Baja Tacos with Tangy Slaw

Tilapia Baja Tacos

1 1/2 lbs. tilapia filets, cut in half
1/3 cup prepared yellow mustard
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. cumin
1/2 tsp chili powder
1/4 tsp. dried coriander
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1/2 tsp. salt
2 Tbsp. Freshly squeezed lime juice
Canola or Grapeseed Oil
Tangy Slaw (recipe below)
8 corn tortillas
Chunky salsa

Slather filets with yellow mustard. In shallow dish whisk together flour, cumin, chili powder, coriander, cayenne pepper, black pepper, and salt. Dredge filets in flour mixture covering all sides. Drizzle lime juice over all. Cover and place in refrigerator for 2 hours.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Wrap tortillas in tin foil, four to a package. Place in oven for 20 mins.

Heat 3″ of oil on high heat in deep heavy skillet. Cook fish in batches until golden brown and floating on top of oil draining each batch on paper towels. Keep batches warm in oven.

Place two pieces of fish on top of warm tortilla. Top with tangy slaw. Serve with salsa.

Tangy Slaw

1 14 oz. bag angel hair coleslaw mix
1/3 cup red onion, chopped
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1 Tbsp. freshly squeezed lime juice
2 Tbsp. apple cider vinegar
1 tsp. onion powder
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/4 tsp. black pepper

Place coleslaw mix and red onion in medium mixing bowl. Whisk together remaining ingredients. Add to coleslaw mix. Mix well and place in refrigerator for at least 1 hr. Serve on top of fish.

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If men liked shopping, they’d call it research. – Cynthia Nelms and Greek Pastitsio

Such a strange month. It is Christmas, as evidenced by every commercial, blinking lights along the street, my own tree sitting in the dining room (well, it wouldn’t fit in the living room) and the lingering snow on the ground. Still…..it insists on not feeling like Christmas. Don’t know what it is. Such an odd year in so many ways. Moving to a new house. Meeting new people. Endings and beginnings. A lot of changes after ten years in one place. Also, the weather is so peculiar. Last week we were snowed in and yesterday I was working in my yard without a jacket. Hello?

Yesterday was another of those crazy days. December seems to be racking up more than its share of nuttiness. I left the house early to beat the last-minute shoppers to the stores. We had company on Friday and will again tomorrow so in between getting the house organized I busied myself popping cookies in the oven at 12 minute intervals to take to people where I volunteer by way of Christmas cheer. It is Christmas right? I just found the leftover mashed potatoes from Thanksgiving hidden behind the eggs in my outside fridge. Ach. Interestingly during the cooooold weather of the last few weeks my milk froze solid out there. Had I known ahead of time I could have stuck a tongue depressor in the top and had a perfect lactate popsicle.

Before leaving the house I wrote a long list. Rick says he feels the grocery stores should give me a kickback at the end of the year, because they’d probably have to close their doors if anything happened to me. On most days I have a new list half way written before I’ve stored my recent purchases in the cupboard. Sigh. I digress. First stop was the hardware store for a bulb for the track lighting in the kitchen. The worse lighting, by the way, I have ever had. Shadows dog me everywhere I go and I have included this on a growing list of things needing to be addressed around the house in 2014. The halogen bulbs burn hot so while cooking you vacillate between wanting to confess or take a shower. They are expensive to replace as well, and at least in the case of our fixture have a lifetime equaling about half of that promised on the cover of the package. At any rate, I got a newly employed gentlemen in the lighting department. It took a lifetime to locate the correct bulb and then it seemed there was a possibility it would fit but no guarantee. Really? Does a tank of gas get included in the refund because the hardware store in nearly in the next county. Small towns are lovely to live in but not the easiest places to find what you are looking for.

Next stop was the pharmacy. Rick had two prescriptions to be picked up and I needed some cosmetics. Takes a little more paint to make a Michelangelo these days, if you get my meaning. Smile. I tossed my purchases in the back seat and headed to the grocery store. A gentlemen was waiting to park my car and hand me my cart (just kidding, but it would be justified). I passed through the doors with the already growing number of people doing the same thing. Ticking off my list with precision speed a nagging thought entered my mind. “Did I remember to put Rick’s filled prescriptions in the car with my cosmetics?” Oh-oh. The really bad thing about this would be most likely the pharmacy now wouldn’t refill them again without a doctor’s orders and the insurance company wouldn’t pay for them. Darn. Parking my cart to the right of an aisle out of the way I flew out of the store, got back in my car and turned towards the pharmacy. Now, I’m still getting used to the roads in these parts so with traffic busy I somehow ended up in the left hand turn lane rather than the lane needed to access the pharmacy parking lot. No choice but to turn left I then found myself unable to get out of the lane merging onto the freeway. Help. As it happens this on-ramp is the last one until you get to the next town so up the hill I went and on to Nevada City. It’s a nice drive, but my bread wasn’t getting any fresher in my waiting grocery cart.

I got off in Nevada City along with many others going to the Victorian Christmas Celebration being held there. Circling around I finally got back on the freeway going the right direction and off again at the street where the pharmacy was located. Rushing into the store I asked the clerk behind the counter if anyone had turned in a bag of prescriptions. Asking the other two cashiers, it was a no. Rick was going to be shaking his head again. Desperately I pushed open all the carts out front to see if I could see the bag in the top basket. No luck. Back inside the pharmacy I headed to the rear of the store where the pharmacy itself was located. You might be thinking at this juncture, “Susie, maybe you should have taken your silly ass there in the first place”. I see you nodding your heads. The pharmacist, seeing my little blonde head bobbing up and down and the sweat pouring off my brow, held up a bag asking “you looking for this”. There is a god.

Back in the car I once again headed back to the grocery store. Parking had become an issue since last I had arrived. Finally locating a spot, I believe after crossing the county line, I schlepped back to the store and headed towards the aisle where I’d abandoned my cart. In a perfect world it would have been waiting for me with all my purchases exactly where I left them. If you’ve read any of my blogs, you would know this was not to be the case. I retrieved another cart out front and searched my purse for my list. Another nagging thought popped into my mind. “Did I throw the list on the passenger’s seat of the car when panicked about the lost prescriptions”? Why yes I did. Another five-mile walk to the car and back into the store I once again commenced to shop. This is Christmas right?

Guess I shouldn’t complain about the crowds here in small town USA. It could look like this. Argh. Remind me again what Christmas is all about. It is gifts and crowded stores filled with grumpy consumers right? A thought keeps nagging at me originally it stood for something else. Good news! The lights were the wrong ones. Glad I bought the family pack. So, back to the hardware store I go. With any luck I’ll end up in Reno.

Loosen your belts. This is too good not to finish your plate.

Greek Pastitsio

1 lb. ziti or rigatoni, cooked
2 Tbsp. butter, melted
1 cup Parmesan cheese, shredded, divided
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 onion, chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 bay leaves
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. nutmeg
1/2 tsp. black pepper
2 lbs. ground chuck
2 15 oz. can tomato sauce
1 15 oz. diced petite tomatoes with juice
1 cup Parmesan cheese, grated

Bechamel Sauce

1/2 cup butter, cubed
2/3 cup all-purpose
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
3 3/4 cups non-fat milk
1/4 cup heavy cream
2 large eggs, beaten

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Cook pasta according to package directions. Drain well. Place pasta in 13 x 9″ casserole or lasagna pan sprayed with cooking oil. Mix in melted butter. Add 1/2 cup of grated Parmesan cheese. Mix well.

Heat olive oil in medium skillet over med-low heat. Add onion, garlic, bay leaves, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg and pepper. Saute until onion is translucent. About 5 mins. In large deep skillet brown ground beef until fully cooked. Drain on paper towels and return to skillet. Add onion/garlic mixture to pan. Pour in tomato sauce and diced tomatoes. Reduce heat and simmer for 30 mins. Pour over pasta. Sprinkle with 1/2 cup shredded Parmesan cheese.

While sauce is simmering make bechamel as follows:

Mix together flour, salt and pepper. Combine milk and cream. Melt cubed butter in large saucepan over medium heat.

Whisk in flour until smooth.

Whisking constantly add milk/cream mixture slowly. Bring to boil, stirring constantly. Cook and stir until thickened, about 2 mins.

In small bowl beat eggs. Add 1/4 cup of hot mixture to eggs, whisking constantly. Pour all slowly back into saucepan whisking as you do. Bring to low boil and continue cooking 2 mins.

Pour over meat sauce. Sprinkle with 1 cup shredded Parmesan cheese.

Bake covered at 350 degrees for 20 mins. Uncover and continue cooking for 50 mins. Increase heat to 425 degrees and continue cooking 10 mins. or until golden brown.

Allow to sit 8 mins. before serving.

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Promise me you’ll never forget me because if I thought you would I’d never leave. – Winnie the Pooh and Cauliflower Gratin

Went to a party last night where I recognized perhaps four faces out of the sixty or so in attendance. Not my favorite scenario. Most of these people have known each other for years and have shared experiences to discuss, but we waded into the throng and “mingled”. Rick will take up a conversation with anyone, where I have to ease into a large group of people preferring to take a look before diving in the pool. People watching is something I totally enjoy. Most of the shyness was forced out of me early, attending ten schools between fourth and twelfth grade. Being constantly referred to as “the new kid” shoves you out of your shell and into the fray fairly quickly, or you get left behind. Still, a huge group of strangers tends to quiet me down, at least initially.

I find couples interesting.  In particular, unlikely couples.  Two people who if you observed in a room with a hundred others you would never imagine finding each other in the crowd. The incessant talker married to someone who hasn’t shared more than a paragraph of an evening since graduating high school. A man likely to be courted (no pun intended) by a basketball coach married to a woman who couldn’t meet the height requirements to step onto the Matterhorn at Disneyland.

Watching strangers interact, personalities quickly rise to the surface. The social butterfly, flitting from flower to flower gathering a little pollen to take along with her to the next bloom. The gentlemen with the red nose and broken corpuscles making his third trip, trip being the operative word here, to the bar. The flirt, perhaps hiding beneath a little too much makeup, wearing a blouse one size too small cut low enough to attract a nursing baby. People come in all sizes and shapes, all personalities and dispositions. This, I would suppose, is what makes us so interesting and diverse.

In middle school I had a friend, Cathy, whose parents fell under that category. Her father was what we might have called “a string bean”, tall and spare as a human. On the other hand her mother, probably never achieved five feet in 3″ heels, measuring equally in width as she did in stature. They married out of high school, produced four children, two tall and two short, and each time I was invited to their home I was impressed by how happy her parents always seemed to be in the same room with one another.

Perfect is, after all, not always perfection. If it were true such noted beauties from Debbie Reynolds to Christie Brinkley wouldn’t have had to suffer cheating husbands. If perfection satisfied all your needs, why look elsewhere? We are bombarded with perfect faces, on the screen and in magazines. Even, balanced features are revered. No expense is too much to remove unwanted brown spots, or an eruption or two.  Noses are straightened, chests enlarged, chins sculpted in the image of our favorite celebrities and as we age things are tightened and reworked like a Rodin in progress. Women and men spend countless hours and untold dollars at spas, plastic surgeons offices, and gyms trying to achieve the perfection we are sold we should strive to achieve every day.

My perception of perfect might be the look on your little one’s face when he first sits in Santa’s lap at the mall. Perhaps the circle of love surrounding a bride and groom as they repeat their vows. The ocean early in the morning when the wet sand is pristine and the sun has barely begun to shimmer above the horizon. I am surrounded with “near perfect moments”. Turning a corner in the woods to find an entire glen of fall hued trees so vividly colored as to hold your breath captive for a  minute.  A perfectly cooked steak smothered with mushrooms sitting next to a huge baked potato dripping with melting butter and sour cream. Holding my honey’s hand while watching You’ve Got Mail for the hundredth time. Perfection, to me.

Partners, I would suppose, are chosen for a number of reasons. Perhaps he only prefers blondes, while she only like redheads. One person might like the outdoorsy type while another prefer to spend time with someone who enjoys cruising museums or traveling. Often I look at my circle of friends and wonder what drew them to each other as I’m sure they’ve done with Rick and I. One couple, “The Bickerson’s” we call them, have based a long and successful relationship on disagreeing on everything from their political affiliations to what type of eggs to have for breakfast. If he wants scrambled, she surely will ask for poached. Personally, I think if you separated them, placing each with a partner with whom they were perfectly matched, they’d be bored before lunch. Part of whatever works for them is hidden in what outwardly might not work for someone else.

When I look at relationships which have withstood the test of time, my aunt and uncles for example, I cannot say they are perfect for each other.  If I ask what their secret is they seem confused, as if they don’t question their relationship, they just do it. I’m sure there have been numerous bumps and potholes over the years, times when they were have traded the other one for a nickel and a cup of coffee, but they stuck it out celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary not too long ago.

My granddaughter asked me if I thought men and women were meant to be monogamous. I had no definitive answer for that. At times it seems as if we humans fight the idea with infidelity, not a random occurrence, and unquestionably the divorce rate is high, but it seems as if finding that one “perfect person” is often the goal.  Whether or not we achieve that goal, perhaps the enigma.

Yet another rich and truly sumptuous cauliflower recipe fit for a holiday table. I had two helpings, which is unusual for me.

Cauliflower Gratin

1 large head of cauliflower
1 Tbsp. butter
1 onion, chopped
1/2 cup sour cream
4 oz. softened cream cheese
3 slices bacon, cooked crisp and crumbled (pepperoni or Italian sausage good too)
1/3 cup Parmesan cheese, shredded
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper
1/4 tsp. salt
1 cup Cheddar cheese, shredded

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Melt butter in skillet over med. heat Add onion and cook 5 mins. until onion is translucent.

Wash cauliflower and separate into florets. Cover with lightly salted water in large saucepan. Bring to a boil, lower heat to low boil and cook until fork tender. Drain well.

Mash with a potato masher until coarsely mashed.

Add 1/2 the bacon and all the remaining ingredients except Cheddar cheese to cauliflower in mixing bowl and mix well. Turn into a casserole dish sprayed with cooking spray. Sprinkle Cheddar cheese on top and other 1/2 of crumbled bacon. Bake for 30 mins. until cheese is melted and bubbly.

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