Another news item to file away. First it was free-range chickens, now it is free-range kids. Yup, I said it, you heard it. According to the news anchor this morning, free-range children are those kids whose parents allow them to walk home from school unaccompanied or go to the park with their siblings or friends with no adult supervision. Some states have laws governing whether you can or cannot allow this, but in many states the laws are unclear when it comes to when and at what age this is permissible.
For those of us raised in a time where our parents regularly ushered us outside on our own to play, this seems a sad situation. Play dates were non-existent entities when I was growing up. Youngsters were released on the world early in the day to create their own adventures, returning only when they got hungry or the sun went down. From one to nine I lived with my mother in my maternal grandparents home. Their home sat on a rise on a rambling piece of property reaching out to the Atlantic ocean. As a youngster these hills were my playground. On warm summer days the grassy knolls could be transformed into a pirate’s treasure island or become the perfect backdrop for a teddy bear picnic served on my grandfather’s favorite lap robe. I rode my bike to the park to get ice cream with my allowance, played jacks under the elm tree on the corner with my friends, and scooped tadpoles into a Mason jar at the frog pond without any supervision. Not that I was neglected, quite the opposite I was a bit spoiled, but children roamed free back in the day. Young minds found fascinating things to explore using our vivid imaginations extending far beyond the scope of a device in our laps. So glad am I to have been born when I was. To be able to be raised with such freedom of movement, racing through the door with burrs in my socks and grass stains on my knees. Flowers flourish in the warm sunlight and gentle breezes as do small humans. Wiggling bare feet in an icy stream or throwing snow balls at the enemy were rights of passage for kids when I was losing my grip on my childhood. Times change, life goes on, but somehow it feels like something precious has been left behind.
Leaving my misspent youth for a while, I poured my second cup of coffee, returning my focus to the news. A story was airing about adding a cancer warning to coffee. Really? When it turns out in the end the only safe foods left to ingest are tofu and raw seaweed I’m throwing in the towel and getting ready to beam up. Hear me loud and clear. I have given up cigarettes (which sadly I rather enjoyed), liquor rarely crosses my lips, and I don’t do drugs of any kind other than an occasional antibiotic, but coffee will remain firmly entrenched in my morning routine period, end of conversation. I will simply have to deal with the consequences of my actions. Without my morning cup of Joe I am a far less amiable and energetic person. Admitting my bubbly personality may largely be attributed to a small brown bean is not an easy admission, but there you have it.
News is on my mind these days with so much available at my fingertips. You can’t escape it. Even while in the hairdressers yesterday, a place where I usually get my monthly dose of celebrity gossip from the current People magazine, I was caught up in a discussion about current events. My hairdresser says she no longer tunes in newscasts as they spread negative ideas and leave her depressed. I get that. However, part of me needs to know what is going on in the world. Particularly lately when the political climate fluctuates so dramatically from one day to the next. That being said, I must admit I am growing weary of the endless political discussions after dinner with friends, and tiresome social media infighting. I don’t remember it being like this before the current administration took the reins, but I won’t go there lest I start some political maelstrom on my humble blog.
Once we’d put the discussion about world events to bed at the beauty parlor our thoughts again turned to my hair. This was my first appointment in this shop so I brought a picture to illustrate what color I was aiming for. The model smiling back in the photo sported lush hair with brownish undertones warmly highlighted with blonde. Nodding and smiling the stylist indicated she understood the concept. Two hours later I exited the shop looking as though I’d been dipped head first in a hot fudge machine. Back to the drawing board. Sigh. Thankfully, hair color is a temporary situation. If this is the worst hurdle I have to scale in my life I believe I will survive. Was I twenty years younger there would be a crisis but these days like a twig in a stream Susie sort of rolls with the ebb and flow of things. Don’t sweat the small stuff is my mantra and I have a tee shirt to prove it.
For women finding a new stylist who suits her can be very stressful. I don’t know if this pertains to our male counterparts, but I would imagine it might. Certainly I have had my share of bad hair cuts and sloppy color jobs through the years. Many times I have threatened to let my hair grow naturally to my ankles and allow starlings to nest in it before trusting anyone else to get their hands on it. This resolve usually lasts about six weeks until a line of growth becomes visible and once again I find myself draped and ready for the latest manifestation of myself hoping for the best.
Another beef, while I’m in full voice here, is even when they manage the color and cut to your satisfaction they often fall down on the style. I have left salons looking like everyone from Annie Lennox to Richard Simmons. To me when you walk in with your hair styled a certain way and indicate you like it that way it should be obvious you might like to walk out in a similar manner, yes? I keep a spare hat in my back seat in case I need to stop at the store or run an errand on the way home so as not to frighten the townspeople.
So I come to the end of my rant for the day. The rain has finally ceased outside my window and I’m preparing to head out. I made this soup yesterday out of a leftover chub of pork loin and it was amazingly delicious.
Leftover Pork and Black Bean Soup
1 large onion chopped
1 Tbsp. olive oil
2 cups cubed pork loin (cooked)
1 15 oz. can black beans rinsed and drained
1 15 oz. can kernel corn, drained
1 15 1/2 oz. can diced tomatoes with green chiles
3 oz. (1/2 can tomato paste)
7 cups water
1/2 small potato peeled and diced
1 Tbsp. ground cumin
1 Tbsp. chili powder
1 tsp. garlic powder
1 tsp. onion powder
1/2 tsp. paprika
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. black pepper
Mexican blend cheese
Tortilla chips
Heat oil in stock pot over med-low heat. Add onion and cook over low heat for 6-8 mins. until translucent. Add remaining ingredients. Bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer uncovered for 50 minutes.
Serve with sprinkled cheese and tortilla tips.
Serves 4
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