Things that go kaboom in the night

Here we are perched on the lip of another election year waiting to be swallowed whole. The usual onslaught of mean spirited ads already populating prime time slots only promise to increase in ugliness as voting time draws near. Male against female, democrat versus republican, conservative swatting at liberal, and none of them playing well with others. Throw all this in the pot with the impeachment trial looming on the horizon and you have a really unappetizing stew.

It is idealistic at best to think we’re all going to get along. History tells us we do not get along with each other as a general rule. This began in prehistoric times with one tribe member bashing another over the head over a hunk of raw meat, and has expanded to entire nations going to the mat over land, resources, or religious division. Each faction believes theirs is the best way to do things, their needs the most critical, their skin color the most desirable, their method of operation the most efficient, etc. etc. Wars do not erupt because people are seeing eye to eye. It would be nice, however, to occasionally strike a harmonious note. Just for a change of pace.

Interestingly people seem to come together at their highest level when the situation is dire. In an emergency the issues of race, religion, political bent, or social status seems to disappear in the mist and in many cases people work together toward a united goal. Too bad we have to wait for disaster to find this common ground.

Last weekend I watched the movie Thirteen Weeks for the first time. The central plot revolves around the Cuban missile crisis. Too young at the time to realize how close we came to going to war with Russia, I do recall teachers putting us through bomb drills.  We would practice crouching under our desks with our hands over our heads. This apparently was to be our defense in the event a nuclear weapon was hurling towards us through space programed for our exact coordinates. Really? This would do what exactly? We wouldn’t see it coming? Several families in my town had bomb shelters built as an added precaution. These cement structures were fully stocked and ready to roll should an invasion become imminent. From what I understand fallout remains in the air at a toxic level for about two weeks so that seemed like a viable way to go or at least it did back in the day. Perhaps not having wars or setting off bombs might be a better solution, but those are just my thoughts on the subject. Sounds simplistic but in actual fact that would be the cure for the disease.

During a conversation with one of my Canadian cousins last week she mentioned she had been terrified the first time she ventured into the states. To their minds we are gun toting outlaws something like those who existed in the Wild West. According to her she thought everyone is the U.S. was “packing heat”, so to speak, with concealed weapons more common then sneezes in a flu ward. It is true, if indeed my facts are correct, U.S. citizens are the most armed of any nation in the world. Whether or not you are more likely to be “packing” might depend on any number of factors. Where you live perhaps, what you do, or even how comfortable your family unit is having weaponry on the premises.

For example, David, my ex-husband is from Texas. People hailing from those parts are not a group known for voting against the NRA. For many of them weapons are a way of life. Early on David was taught by the older members of his household to respect the guns in the house and how to safely use them. The man was Texan from the top of his Stetson hat down to the heels of his scuffed cowboy boots. That being said, his choice of transportation was naturally an old Ford pick-up. The failing work horse was his baby. They shared many a weekend with David lying on his back on the driveway or bending over under the hood trying to keep the car on the road. Forgive me, truck, not car. I was called to task frequently for referring to his vehicle as such. Apparently in Texas this could be a shooting offense. Physically it had also seen better days. The paint job had long faded from a bright factory yellow to a faded buttermilk with spots of rust peeking through here and there.  The window on the driver’s side door was missing replaced during rainy months with a 33 gallon trash bag to keep the driver dry. A gun rack hung in the back window next to a picture of the American flag and his rear bumper sported a sticker reading “Honk again I’m reloading”. Believe that says it all.

When he went on the night shift leaving me to fend for myself after dark, he suggested getting a pistol for my protection. I voted no. I did not grow up around weapons. Nova Scotia is well known for its hunting areas. Often during hunting season I would hear the distant sound of gunshots. Certainly I wasn’t harboring the assumption hunters chased down their prey then asked the animal politely to sacrifice themselves so they’d have something to hang over the mantel. However, no one in my circle had a gun or hunted so I had never seen a gun of any kind. Truth be known guns scare the bikini underwear off me and I never had any interest on being on either end of one of them.

My lack of enthusiasm having been registered and vetoed, he purchased a gun anyhow. Don’t ask me what type it was but semi-automatic handgun would be a safe description. You had to pull the “thing” back to “chamber” a bullet. Don’t ask me to name the thing, I didn’t want too much information in case an interrogation lurked in my future. The gun was too stiff for me to chamber the bullet so he concentrated on teaching me to aim and shoot it. After nearly taking out the wall in the garage and an unsuspecting neighbor’s cat the decision came about that he would load the gun, leave the safety on and show me how to remove same should an intruder be in the house. Great. I left it under the night table fully aware if I ever had use it most likely by the time I remembered how to remove the safety and aim it I would either be overrun by the intruder or most probably have shot myself in the foot.

One night about a month into my gun ownership I woke to hear a loud banging in the back yard. My dog was barking and madly scratching at the sliding glass door in the kitchen. Slowly I crept out of bed retrieving my weapon from under the night stand and made my way to the kitchen. Heart pounding at an amazing rate I took off the safety and flung the drapes back on the window. Flicking the light on I yelled, “I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it”. The light flooded the patio illuminating the culprit now clearly visible standing by the barbecue. A large possum had it’s head caught in the drip can (a tin can used for catching grease) and was frantically trying to smack it off by beating against the foot of the grill. Poor little guy. They’re already nearly blind as it is and having a No. 10 can of creamed corn covering his head surely wasn’t improving the situation. Gently placing the gun back in it’s hiding place I went out to see if I could help. Possums are not known for their sunny dispositions when it comes to interacting with humans. Before coming outside I pulled on David’s heavy industrial gloves which covered my arms to my elbows.  A lot of writhing and growling ensued before I was able to free him or her with the help of a long handled fork (my weapon of choice). After that I insisted the gun find another home and never saw it again. Not any worse off for it I assure you and the possum too. That possum was lucky that the inside of that corn can wasn’t the last thing he saw before I blew him and the precious barbecue into the atmospheric continuum undoubtedly shooting myself in the foot in the process.

I’m sure gun laws will be bounced around in this election year. I’m on the fence about this. I believe this can be a dangerous world and if someone with malignant intentions was threatening me or mine I like to think I could react in kind. However, I see absolutely no reason for hunters to be armed with automatic weapons to shoot a poor deer. The need for these high powered guns escapes me. Probably if I had to shoot anything I’d become a vegan. Easy to hide behind a plastic wrapper in Raley’s meat department. While living in Arkansas I saw David field dress a deer. No he was not picking out a nice billowy cotton sheath for the poor animal to wear, he was removing its entrails to keep the meat from spoiling. Warning this is not a procedure I suggest you observe if you are planning on eating meat or anything else really for the next couple of weeks. One of the younger men lost his lunch on his blue tick hound while watching and I thought seriously about joining him. As David would say, “Texas is hard on women and dogs”. He had great respect for the animal and though I am not fond of venison he made a lasagna using the meat that was actually delicious.

Perhaps my thought for today is to think before you react. We’re all in this together. It doesn’t make it any easier when we can’t work as a team. Reminds me of being in a row boat with eight people each trying to row in a different direction, highly frustrating and doesn’t get you closer to shore. Have a great one!

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Unsportsmanlike Behavior

Monday night, along with many other diehard 49er’s fans, I could be found seated in front of the TV, dinner before me, waiting to see my team make mulch out of the Seattle Seahawks. What a roller coaster of a game. After a valiant effort by our guys making for many heart accelerating moments, it culminated in an overtime win for the Seahawks. Our last chance at success went down in flames with an unfortunate kick by a rookie for whom, if his face was any indication, it came as far more of a disappointment than for any of the fans tuning in. I can only imagine the pressure he was under. Not speaking from experience I would guess you have to develop a hard shell as a major team player. What is the expression floating around, “from a hero to a zero in seconds”. Hopefully, he can dust this off and move forward without too much self flagellation. There are always going to bad days tossed in with the good. Happens to me every week. One day everything I touch is golden and the next morning, same person, same life, I start my day with my coffee pot having overflowed all over my kitchen counter. It’s a crap shoot, and sometimes you just get crap.

Sports are not really my bailiwick. Football and figure skating are the only two competitive events that can actually hold my interest. When going down the assembly line I was endowed with certain artistic gifts during my creation, but I seemed to have taken a jog off to the right after that totally missing the athletic ability department. Aside from being an avid swimmer and a passable tennis player I have never won a medal in my life except for one for winning a cake walk in fourth grade. For a chubby little girl this was not a stretch. Abysmal at most team sports, I was embued with the coordination of a newborn giraffe. In high school I took off half the skin on my face on the burlap mat in tumbling attempting to do a handspring, had my big toe smashed by an exceptionally large forward in basketball, and suffered both a broken nose and a concussion while participating in softball. Not one to ignore omens, I believe these were messages I needed to pay attention to. Wisely I was placed with a family who put more emphasis on academics than physical prowess allowing me the opportunity to flourish at something.

Because of this, I tended to steer clear of men who were overtly involved in sports. However, an exception or two was made over the years. In my late twenties I was engaged to a man who was an amazing water skier. He took me under his wing and after many, and I can’t emphasize the word many strongly enough, attempts at teaching me I actually got fairly good at it by the time we went our separate ways. The first time I ever skied with him and several members of his family he neglected to mention they had all come down the birth canal on a slalum ski, his cousin being the current national barefoot skiing champion at the time. So, I sat in the boat paralyzed watching each of them in turn glide and maneuver expertly over the glistening water, one without benefit of skis. When it was my turn to slip my feet into the rubber footholds I could only imagine the spectacle I was about to make of myself and I did not disappoint. Though I was a lightweight, getting me up out of the water was like trying to pull a hiker out of a bed of quicksand. It didn’t help that the first two times the boat lurched forward I forgot to stand up. Knees bent, the momentum of the boat dragged me along just beneath the surface. Afraid to release the rope, I remained submerged until the boat finally stopped after I’d consumed enough water to reduce the lake level by two feet. Nice.

My second husband was competitive to the bone. Any sport, any time was his motto. If two people were fighting on a street corner he’d stop to watch to see who win. His TV viewing pleasures ranged from sumo wrestling to curling. Though I’m Canadian, curling to my mind should be considered more of a household chore than an actual sporting event. Basically it’s competitive floor sweeping on ice. Some sports like curling I just can’t watch on TV along with baseball and tennis unless I need a nap. With a tennis match, aside from the endless annoying grunting as racquet meets ball, my neck gets a crick moving side to side after watching about ten minutes of competition.

My son, oddly enough, is very athletic. As a little boy he was an ace soccer player which carried through until he hit middle school when baseball caught his eye. He didn’t get his growth spurt until his junior year in high school, so even though he longed to be the star of the football field his lack of stature didn’t make him well suited for the game. Not one to take no for an answer he went out for the team in his sophomore year. By means of support my daughter and I were seated in the stands at his first game ready to cheer him on to victory. The team merged on the field and I can remember turning to my daughter and commenting on the player towards the back who appeared to be half the size of the others. After consulting the program for a moment she pointed out that player was my son. As a mother you want to go down on the field and whisk your child away before he is pulverized but the humiliation of such an act in high school would literally have been social suicide. Thankfully, he only played the fifth quarter and never got hurt.

I’m not particularly fond of the new rules in children’s athletics. Everybody gets a trophy no matter what the effort or skill level. I do believe all children should participate fully but don’t know if it’s a good life lesson to be rewarded for something you didn’t achieve. As an adult there is always going to be someone smarter, taller, prettier, more skilled or more successful than yourself. If you grow up feeling you are entitled to be promoted say, whether you’ve earned it or not, this could lead to some really difficult lessons later in life.

As a kid I lived in Nova Scotia. Winters were cold there, sometimes brutal. When the first snow blanketed the land I waited impatiently for the all clear from my adults to pull on my snowsuit, mittens and hat and get outside sled or toboggan in hand. The frog pond, as we called it, in Point Pleasant Park would begin the process of freezing over, and once solid I was allowed to retrieve my ice skates hanging on the hook in the basement and spend the afternoon sailing across the ice with other kids from the neighborhood. Back then we did so many things without adult participation. In the summer, at the same pond, I would gather polywogs and float my sailboat. Makes me sad for kids today who will never know that kind of giddy freedom we were fortunate enough to have had as children.

Now that I am getting older sports aren’t an integral part of my life, other than walking which I do 45 minutes of religiously every day. Again, I am promising myself I will sign up at the local gym and begin asking more of my body. Somehow life, and my own lack of enthusiasm for organized exercise, keep getting in the way of me actually following through with this. Before the end of the year I need to make it happen or it will be sitting with the rest of my unresolved issues on my New Year’s resolutions list.

 

 

 

 

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Most children threaten at times to run away from home. This is the only thing that keeps some parents going. – Phyllis Diller and Three Cheese Spinach Mushroom Quiche

The market was a total zoo this morning. Chips, salsa, huge packages of wings and liquor were flying off the shelves at a mind-boggling rate. Rick says soon the aisle the store is naming after me thanks to my continued patronage will be having a ribbon cutting. It is true. I spend a lot of time at the market. Not a high maintenance female in most areas, I have a meltdown if my staples in the pantry are looking poorly or I’m out of toilet paper. I will go to the store in a snow storm if I’m getting low on paper towels or there’s only one egg left in the carton, but wouldn’t bother warming up the car if there was a sale on pink diamonds at the local jeweler. It’s a matter of preferences and good eating is high on my list.

I have an old friend whose husband does all the cooking. Fran’s idea of bringing dinner to the table is actually transporting the dish from the kitchen to the dining room. In her eyes I’m a curiosity, something she studies from afar but has no understanding of how it works. When we met she was a young widow like myself. Alone with three small children on a limited income she was forced to face her fear of the stove. I was invited over often. Looking back I would like to think it was for my charm and sparkling wit, but deep down I know it was in the hopes I’d put on an apron and produce a meal. This I deduced from being handed an apron before setting down my purse, and pointed in the direction of the cooking utensils. I did this without prejudice lest I look forward to something inedible paired with something unrecognizable on the plate. Once she made a chicken dish At least claimed it was chicken…I’m still not convinced. The law suit pressed by the chicken industry for abuse of their product is still pending in civil court. The glutenous sauce was so thick it actually married with the non-stick pan and refused to be removed even with coaxing from an S.O.S. pad. Awful. In the end the pan had to be sacrificed. I’m not lyin here.

Beyond having no talent in this area, Frannie had no interest. If you aren’t humming in the kitchen most likely no one else is going to be, but her children survived with a little help from Kraft and Ronald McDonald.

As good friends do, we grabbed each others collars and took turns keeping each other afloat over those first few years. Learning to be happy again after losing a loved one is an individual quest. The amount of grieving time needed as varied as a fingerprint from one human to another. To my mind, you never really get over losing someone you love, you simply move on as the world is designed for the person left behind to do. After a while we tentatively began to dip our toes back into dating pool, discussing our exploits as we went. Being the first time for both us dating with children in the picture, it was an interesting time indeed.

Dating is an entirely different program when you have children. To begin with, not all men or women are equipped to or have a desire to raise children from a love interest’s prior relationship. It is a subject I did not wait until the third date to discuss trying to pass them off as short housekeepers or my sister’s kids. No point in baking a cake if you’re on a diet. To add to the mix the children aren’t always receptive to mom having a new man in her life. Introductions, in my case, were only initiated after a long period of dating. Perhaps beginning by catching a movie or enjoying an afternoon at the zoo to see how things ran up the flagpole. If fur didn’t fly, and I’m not speaking of the monkey cage, then things progressed slowly from there.

Sometimes there are children on both sides, as was the case in my second marriage. This really muddies the waters. At this point you pour a tall glass of chardonnay (don’t skimp, open the good stuff) and batten down the hatches. Not only does your man need to mesh with your children, and them with him, you have to adapt to a new child in your life and he or she to you. Once you have somehow accomplished this miraculous feat then the children from both sides need to be introduced, smell one another, and decide whether or not they’re going to make your life miserable or take at easy on the old people. To add to this murky bowl the stepchild child has a natural mother or your children a natural father who somehow has to be handed a puzzle piece and fit in somewhere on the board. It can, if you don’t have a natural bent for children and a good sense of humor, quickly become a nightmare.

My stepdaughter, Sara, was not yet four when she came into my life. Her father, a USC graduate and faithful fan, decided a day in the bleachers watching his favorite team was the perfect way to get our little band acquainted. Uh-huh. A glorious Southern California fall day, we loaded up the VW van with my children and headed south to pick up Sara at her mother’s house. I was nervous. This was my first encounter with the opposite team, and I’d heard through the grapevine the players weren’t all that enthusiastic about the upcoming match. Oh-oh.

Although shirt sleeve weather outside, once in the opposition’s house I found myself wishing I’d checked my anti-freeze before arriving. Sara, hiding behind her mother’s legs was not nearly as excited about the game or me as I’d hoped she might be.

Sitting in the red and gold dominated bleachers Sara’s crying for Mom commenced about half way through the first quarter. One fan actually threw a bag popcorn at us when it continued. There is nothing worse than having a screaming child who will not be quieted when you’re in a public arena, or in this case an actual arena. Not only did Sara cry for one full hour while we walked and cajoled before pulling up stakes, she cried the hour and half drive home. Her mother wasn’t happy, my children had taken a thumbs down vote in the back seat on the drive home, and I had decided total celibacy was the only answer by the time we reached our doorstep.

Somehow we stuck it out, ironing out the wrinkles as we went. Slowly, with lots of love, Sara became a part of our family and we hers blurring the dividing lines. Was it ever perfect? Never, would be the honest answer, but it was filled with lots of happy shared times mixed with some elbow grease. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. Nothing worth having ever comes without some work. Blended families are rarely a piece of cake, but with the right mix of ingredients can bring you so much joy.

This quiche was delicious, a little work, but also worth the effort.

Three Cheese Spinach Mushroom Quiche

1 9″ deep dish pie shell
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
1 cup mushrooms, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 pkg. frozen chopped spinach, thawed and squeezed dry
4 slices bacon, cooked crisp and crumbled
5 eggs, lightly beaten
1 1/4 cups half and half
1 Tbsp. cooking sherry
1/4 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. white pepper
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper
Pinch of nutmeg
3/4 cups Swiss or Gruyere cheese, shredded
1/4 cup Parmesan cheese, shredded
1/4 cup cheddar cheese, shredded

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Bake pie shell for 12 mins. until lightly browned. Cool.

Lower oven to 375 degrees.

In large skillet heat oil over med. heat. Saute mushrooms and onions for 5-7 mins. until soft. Add garlic. Cook 1 min. longer.

Add spinach to pan and mix well. Remove from heat. Cool.

Crumble bacon in bottom of pie shell.

In large mixing bowl beat eggs. Add remaining ingredients and mix well. Pour over bacon in pie shell.

Bake for 50-60 mins. or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Allow to cool 10 mins. before serving.

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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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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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Spicy Crockpot Mock Chile Verde with Fajita Rice

When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow, we hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago, and etched on vacant places are half-forgotten faces of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know. – Ella Wheeler Wilcox – love this quote.

I watched the new version of The Sound of Music the other night and realized once again what an “old dog” I am.  Carrie Underwood is incredibly talented and certainly beautiful, but nothing can top Julie Andrews, arms flung wide, swirling on an Austrian hillside (or Hollywood sound stage) belting out “the hills are alive”……sorry.  The remake of Miracle on 34th Street was well done, but Natalie Wood and Maureen O’Hara simply broke the mold the first time out.  It’s like coming out with a new Twinkie. How can you recreate a golden fluffy cakey outside, with a gooey middle, providing all the non-essential worthless calories and yummy goodness and do it justice, now really? BTW, where are all the Christmas movies this year?  I don’t mean the Hallmark or Lifetime movies, not that they aren’t entertaining, but I mean the Christmas movie marathon group like The Christmas Story, Miracle on 34th Street, It’s a Wonderful Life, or the Bishop’s Wife?  The movies that go perfectly with a steaming cup of hot chocolate on a cold December Sunday when you have twenty presents to wrap.  Where’d they go?

Snow is coming, tra la. I’m singing now, but I have a feeling when I have a need for something at the store over the next few days, I’ll be singing a different song. It’s frrrrreezing outside, quite literally. All our plants are covered, as are our pipes and we loaded up on bottled water, candles, flashlight batteries, and essentials along with half the town early this afternoon. The sky has discarded its usual blue attire for a dark and somber gray, and winter is about to make its footprint known on Northern California. From what they’re saying on the weather it could at least provide a dusting as low as 500 feet. Wow.  What a weather year. I really think the Mayans knew something was going to go on about this time in history. Just plain odd.

Californians, for the most part, have no idea what to do when the white stuff piles up on the ground. Generally they just roll about on the highways playing bumper cars with the other drivers. Back east or in the Midwest snow is no stranger, and what to do when a whole lot of it shows up overnight far less of a puzzle. As I’ve said many times, I lived in Massachusetts. During the winter having no garage, our early a.m hours were devoted to locating the largest bump in the front yard, unearthing the car, and praying the engine would turn over so we could get to work.

Boston could get bone chilling cold during a snow storm. Five days a week I was scheduled to show up for work at the American Cancer Society on Newberry Street whether the sun was shining or ice covered the roads. Before leaving the house I layered on coats, sweaters, hats, gloves, scarves and boots over my work clothes. On particularly frigid days longies were pulled on beneath them. It was amazing I was able to ambulate. In spite of the padding, the icy fingers of the wintry wind managed to insinuate themselves between the tight weave of my wool jacket enticing goosebumps to ripple along my skin. The first winter there I don’t think my toes thoroughly defrosted until the spring thaw.

It’s not as though I’m unfamiliar with cold weather. Growing up in Nova Scotia our winter sessions in school were often interrupted by snow days. Sitting on the tall wooden stool in my grandmother’s kitchen ear to the radio, I’d wait with anticipation to hear the announcement of school closures. In the event it was a thumbs up, my sled would be in the ready propped against the house and my snow mittens and hat piled on the table. If the snow was not blizzard conditions, I was allowed out close to home to make snow angels or erect a family of snow people (notice politically correct) to be finished off with carrots and coal purloined from the bins in the basement. As the first fluffy flakes began to drift down to the ground a while ago, I found myself nose to the glass with that same feeling of excitement I felt when I was five.

Driving in the snow, however, is an entirely different proposition. Less excitement, more fear. Slipping and sliding, often colliding with someone else doing the same. I’m not a fan of winter driving. In West Virginia I ended up sideways in a ditch. In Massachusetts I glided across an intersection close to home in Wakefield, and down an embankment barely stopping at the edge of the lake.The lake was frozen solid but somehow I wasn’t reassured the ice was strong enough to sustain a large yellow station wagon. I needed to breathe in a bag afterwards, while my two little ones in their seats behind me carried on as though I’d taken them on a ride at Disneyland. Several hours later, one tow truck, and a very late dinner, soon sucked some of the wind out of their sails.

In the early 1980’s we owned a cabin in Bass Lake, California a small town in the Sierra Nevada mountains above Yosemite. It was beautiful there at the time, relatively undiscovered. Our cabin bordered the lake, with two decks and a boat dock leading down to the water’s edge. In the summer, the children swam and water skied and during the winter we got away for weekends in the snow when possible. Occasionally we had our holiday meals up among the tall trees. One winter we packed up all the Christmas presents, strapped my mother and the tree to the luggage rack (just kidding, although my husband threatened it a time or two), gathered up the kids, two dogs, and one disgruntled cat and headed for Bass Lake for Christmas. Roads were treacherous. Towards the end of our trip it became necessary to pull on chains if we were to travel further. Standing at the side of the road , I remember being awed by the beauty of the redwoods carrying their burden of snow and the incredible beauty all around us. One of my “near perfect moments” as I call them. After four days in the woods, we packed up our opened gifts and after many attempts to get the car to move, found ourselves completely snowed in. In the end, we didn’t get back to ground level for another three days after the snow plow dug us out. We used up much of the seasoned oak under the tarp at the side of the house, played numerous games and put together jigsaw puzzles, most missing pieces. My mother and I made meals constructed of turkey this and turkey that. In the morning, we used what eggs were left to make huge stacks of pancakes dripping with syrup and melting butter. It was one of the nicer holidays I can recall with my children with no phone, TV, or friends to distract them, and totally unexpected.

I woke up this morning to find snow falling and a winter wonderland beyond my windows. Here are some pictures to share.

In the spirit of “mock” things, this was sooooo good and totally the best use of leftover pork loin I’ve found to-date. As there are only two of us I save half a loin and freeze it for later. This was really good so you could cook a whole loin and use it in this recipe or follow my lead.

Crockpot Mock Chile Verde with Fajita Rice

2 cups leftover cooked pork loin (I used chile verde)
1 large onion, chopped
3 cups chicken stock
1 jar Guy Fieri’s Green & Mean Salsa Verde (or your choice)
1 tsp. garlic powder
1 tsp. cumin
1 tsp. dried marjoram
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1/4 cup cilantro, chopped
1 pkg. Rice Roni Chicken Fajita Rice, prepared
1/2 cup chunky salsa (red)
1/4 cup red onion, chopped
2 Avocados, sliced
Juice of 1 lime
Sour cream

Place onion, pork, chicken stock, salsa verde, garlic powder, cumin, marjoram,  and black pepper in crockpot.  Cook on low for 9 hours, stirring once or twice.

Just before serving slice avocados and sprinkle with lime juice.

Cook rice according to package directions.  Place 1/4 of the rice in the bottom of four bowls.  Ladle pork and sauce over the top. Top with chunky salsa, rreen onions and generous dollop of sour cream. Sprinkle with chopped cilantro. Serves 4.

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The gratification of desire is not happiness.- Daisaku Ikeda and Spicy Southwestern Turkey Soup

Photo by Susie Nelson

I have my first cold of the season. Most probably directly related to my crawling around in the recesses of the chilly garage trying to locate my Christmas decorations.

Prophetically, I made turkey soup yesterday so dinner is ready for tonight as well as a natural cure for the common cold. With a fifteen pound bird to dispose of between the two of us, we’re looking forward to turkey soup, turkey shepherd’s pie, turkey Benedict and a host of other clever ways to disguise leftover yard bird. My eyelids are getting heavy already. Whether turkey makes you sleepy, from what I understand, is based in both myth and fact. There is tryptophan in turkey which can cause drowsiness when taken directly, but most likely the drowsiness following a huge holiday meal is your body trying to process appetizers, alcohol, turkey with all the trimmings, and three pieces of pie with whipped cream. Burp.

Facebook was buzzing with turkey pics, family pics, and updates on family gatherings all day. Facebook is probably a fun outlet, but personally it scares me to death. Bullying is so accessible on this type of site, and particularly attractive to young petty little minds with the destruction of another teens self-esteem at the touch of a well-painted fingertip. Yesterday I read an article about how often Facebook is showing up in the courtrooms. The site itself is not being sued, or not that I know of, but litigants on either side of cases are accusing the other side of maligning or misrepresenting them on the well-populated social media giant. I find it truly fascinating what people casually write on these updates. Often they are things I wouldn’t be comfortable saying on the phone to a person I trusted with my innermost thoughts, much less write openly to an audience of millions. It reminds me of people who adjust their body parts while standing on a street corner, whisper something offensive loud enough for Hellen Keller to hone in on, or explore their nasal cavities at a stop sign. WE CAN SEE AND HEAR YOU!

It is suggested you do not post “Leaving for a week on Maui tomorrow”, for example. Not only might your friends be celebrating your impending departure, but someone casing your house hoping to find it empty might be popping the cork on a champagne bottle as well.

Posting your personal status as “single” when you’ve tucked your wedding band in your pocket for an evening on line might not be the best strategy either. If you are tracking hundreds of people it stands to reason someone most likely is tracking your cheating behind as well.

Employers are looking potential candidates for jobs over on line. That hysterically funny selfie posted of you and your gal pals half-naked showing your latest tattoos in front of a strip club in Vegas, bottle of JD in one hand and joint drooping off one pierced lip, gets a thumbs up from your friends. Possibly, if you’re applying for a teaching position at a local parochial school, not so much.

Email can also be a dangerous tool, and voice mail. Knee jerk reactions to a situation left in either queue can come back to haunt you later. Particularly in the case of email where with no intonation on the words, the words often are left to stand alone and can be misinterpreted.

In a world where we all seem to have so much to say, possibly we need to be more discerning about what we say and where we say it.

Humblebrags, a word it seems actually included in some dictionaries, is another interesting social media offspring. It is a way of saying something seemingly self-effacing when actually patting yourself on the back or apprising people of your successes or recent high-dollar purchases. Hmmmm. Sort of like, “I never knew when I bought this enormous house with twenty-nine bathrooms we’d use so much toilet paper”.

Are we becoming a country hooked on instant gratification? The most results for the least amount of effort expended? Can’t help but wonder. Sometimes the thrill of something comes in the waiting. If you go out on a first date and before desert your date puts a ring on your finger and the waiters start singing “Today I Met the Boy I’m Going to Marry”, wouldn’t that diminish the excitement of your first kiss, your first fight, and all the things filling in the middle? Falling in love is part of the journey, not just the actual act of getting married.

Working hard to achieve a goal is extremely rewarding, at least for me. If you’ve set your sights on something in the distance and climb the hills in between and tough out the rainstorms and the hot dry days to get where you want to go, there is an exhilaration accompanying such an accomplishment that can’t be equaled by having it simply handed to you.

For me it’s “all things in moderation”. I love the Internet and use it regularly. It’s a magical wonderful tool as are all the gadgets and Space Odessy like technology coming our way, but we’re an addictive society as a whole so perhaps using these tools wisely is the key. As usual, I’m full of questions, or full of something.

This soup was a great way to gobble up the leftover turkey. Yum.

Spicy Southwestern Turkey Soup

5 cups rich turkey broth
2 cups cooked turkey, shredded
1 Tbsp. freshly squeezed lime juice
1 onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
1/3 cup green pepper, chopped
1 4 oz. can chopped green chiles
1 28 oz. can whole peeled tomatoes
3/4 cup cooked corn kernels
1 can red kidney beans, drained and rinsed
1 pkg. Lawry’s taco seasoning mix, hot
1/2 tsp. black pepper
Salt (as needed)
1 1/2 cups cooked rice
1/2 bunch cilantro, chopped
3 avocados, chunked
1 1/2 cups Monterey Jack cheese, shredded
Sour Cream
Lime slices

Place first 12 (through black pepper) ingredients in large stockpot. Bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer uncovered for 45 mins. on low.

Place 1/4 cup of cooked rice in the bottom of six large soup bowls. Ladle soup over top. Top each bowl with 1/4 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese, chopped avocado, and sprinkle with cilantro. Serve with a dollop of sour cream and lime slices.

Turkey Broth

1 turkey carcass, meat left on if possible
5 quarts water
1 onion, peeled and quartered
2 celery ribs, quartered with leaves
2 carrots, peeled and chunked
3 garlic cloves, peeled and smashed
2 cups white wine (I used pinot grigio)
2 bay leaves
1/2 tsp. thyme
1/3 cup parsley flakes
1/2 tsp. black pepper

Place turkey pieces in bottom of large stockpot. Add water, vegetables, garlic, wine, and bay leaves. Bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer over med-low heat for 2 hrs., skimming fat during cooking.

Add thyme, parsley flakes, and black pepper. Continue cooking over med-low heat for 2 hours. Strain large pieces and discard, reserving meat for future use. Cool and refrigerate or freeze.

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