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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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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Two wrongs are only the beginning. – Murphy’s Law and Meaty Pasta Sauce with Thin Spaghetti

Yesterday was a very Susie kind of day. At one point Rick threatened to lock me in the closet until the clock struck midnight and the madness had passed.

It began quietly enough. I slept in. After hitting the on button the coffee maker I piled on enough clothes to keep me from freezing to death while fetching the paper and trudged up the hill. This snow, it appears, is not planning on going anywhere any time soon.  This presents several problems for us. First, we didn’t realize we should have taken the car to the top of the driveway and parked it on the street prior to the storm. What can I say? Obviously we’re novices when it comes to having a steep driveway in a hard freeze, which occurred last night, and will again for tonight and tomorrow night. Oh-oh. Now, we bought water and flashlights, thought of candles and batteries. We did not, however, think to purchase a snow shovel or any salt to throw on the driveway. Doomed are we. Quite possibly by the time the spring thaw arrives I’ll weigh 88 pounds and be living with Rip Van Winkle.

Not bad enough we are confined to barracks, but Murphy began to toy with me. My plan for dinner was to make this delicious pasta sauce, which I put together earlier in the day without a hitch. I went downstairs to vacuum. We have two in the house, one up and one down. The ironing board was up because I am sewing for Christmas. Plugging in the vacuum I must have overloaded the circuit (Really? Two plugs in one outlet and it overloads, that can’t be good. The money pit deepens.) At any rate this meant retracing my steps, putting on my warm outer garments and back into the garage, which I did. Locating the tripped switch I flipped it back on and went back downstairs. Deciding against plugging it in in the same room, I went into the bedroom and plugged it in an empty plug in that wall. Sneaky. Unfortunately, the space heater was running for the cat. I know, I know. Once again the lights went out. Boo looked up as if to say, “I hope you’re planning on taking care of that”. Insert expletive here. Ach.

Rick settled in to watch the 49er’s, a Sunday tradition. Twenty minutes before the game was to start the cable went out. Perfect. It came back on thankfully minutes before the first play or Rick would have been inconsolable.

Saturday we had no mail delivery because several tree limbs above the mailboxes drooped down making it impossible to access the door to the mailbox. I decided to spend a few minutes removing the offending limbs while Rick watched his beloved football. I mentioned I was going out in passing, but he was busy giving the coaches a lesson on how to properly move the ball up field, so I closed the door, grabbed the clippers and back up the hill I went. The limbs, when giggled, loosened every bit of snow on the higher branches. By the time I’d cut down two large limbs I looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy after an unfortunate flour incident. Sigh. Someone went by and honked and laughed. It’s always nice to have an audience when you’re making an ass of yourself.

Freezing, I headed to the house only to find the door locked. I’ve been talking about hiding a key somewhere on the property, but naturally procrastinated until it now became an issue. I knocked. Nothing. I knocked again, loudly. It wasn’t getting any warmer since I was wet from head to toe. Hello? The TV announcers were yelling above the screaming crowds and looking in the window Rick was not in his seat. Swell. Finally, Rick came back from the loo and let me in asking me what I was doing outside. Never mind.

Inside, and beginning to feel my joints thaw, I put the pasta water on to boil. It takes longer at this elevation it seems. From the pantry I retrieved a large box of thin spaghetti I was planning to use with my yummy sauce. Walking towards the kitchen with nothing in my way to impede my progress, I somehow managed to squeeze the box in such a way it sprung open strewing spaghetti all over the floor. What didn’t land on the floor cascaded over the banister littering my freshly vacuumed stairs. I’m sorry, I am not vacuuming again! Rick looked over his shoulder and shook his head. That again.

Loading the nearly full dishwasher with my dinner prep items, Rick announced over the TV, “Oh, I ran the dishwasher so the dishes are clean”. Really?  Were clean would be more accurate. Never mind.

Afraid to touch anything, but getting hungry, I prepared my garlic bread and turned on the broiler. Popping my bread in the oven, my mother called and quickly I became involved searching the Internet for a nightgown for my aunt. Interrupting my searching and the cat’s nap (another of her nine lives was sacrificed in the making of this garlic bread), both smoke alarms simultaneously began screeching. By the time I opened the oven door the bodies were ready for the urns. Good news though, I found a petite medium nightie for my aunt in pink. Somehow we managed to forage together enough food for this meal. I loved this pasta sauce, thick and meaty. Yum.

Meaty Pasta Sauce with Thin Spaghetti

1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 lb. Italian sausage links, hot
1 1/4 lbs. ground beef
1 large onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 16 oz. cans petite diced tomatoes
1 15 oz. can tomato sauce
2 6 oz. cans tomato paste
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
1/2 cup water
2 tsp. sugar
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
2 tsp. Italian seasoning
1 bay leaf
1/2 tsp. basil
1/2 tsp. fennel seed
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. ground pepper
1/2 cup reserved pasta water
1 pkg. thin spaghetti
1 Tbsp. olive oil
Grated Parmesan cheese

Remove the sausage casings and slice into 1/2″ slices. Heat olive oil in large, deep skillet over med. heat. Add sausage and brown on all sides (10 mins.). Drain on paper towels.

Add ground beef, onion, and minced garlic to same skillet. Cook until meat is browned. Add next thirteen ingredients. Bring to boil. Cover and reduce heat to simmer. Cook for two hours.

Bring large pot of salted water to boil. Cook pasta according to package directions. Drain, reserving 1/2 cup water. Add reserved water to pasta sauce and mix well. Toss pasta with olive oil. Place in pasta bowls and ladle sauce over top. Serve with Parmesan cheese.

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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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Why would anyone steal a shopping cart? It’s like stealing a two-year-old – Erma Bombeck and Corn with Sriracha Butter

Photos by Susie Nelson

Once again I am faced with a list of people I need to buy for at Christmas, and not one single idea what to buy. It’s not an absence of originality or generosity, I really don’t have any clue what they need.  If you asked me what I’d like from Santa, I’d answer, “a new vegetable peeler, and ramekins”. I’m quite sure if you polled my nearest and dearest neither answer would slip easily off their tongues. When asking for suggestions for gifts, people are often hesitant to suggest something lest it be too expensive, so they either respond with “I don’t need thing”, or suggest something off the top their head simply to satisfy the question. Worse yet, they might come up with something expensive you can’t provide, making it uncomfortable. Perhaps this time of year we should print out a reasonable wish list (omitting the red Lamborghini Aventador with custom leather interior or that 3 carat pink diamond you’ve been eying in the jewelry store window) and email it to those asking for ideas. Along the same lines as registering at Pottery Barn before tying the knot. Another thought, gift giving could be reserved for those still firm in the knowledge St. Nick will be arriving with a full bag on the 25th, thus recapturing the true essence of Christmas. This would keep me in the loop with regard to presents. Last year I was totally convinced I heard reindeer huffing and pawing on the roof Christmas Eve, and when I woke up in the morning the chocolate chip cookies and eggnog I left out for the old gentlemen had disappeared. Rick and the Miss Boo weren’t talking.

For several years we drew names in our family, each person only responsible for the name he or she drew. This worked for a while. Slowly, however, people began to cheat. Before long those who didn’t purchase gifts felt badly so they rushed to the store, and so it goes.

I’m sewing dog/cat beds for my friends with furry friends. For the cooking enthusiasts on my list I’m sewing small gift bags packed with interesting items for the kitchen like infused olive oils, unique little gadgets, Christmas cookie cutters, fun bottle stops, and unusual spices. Kids used to be the easiest group to cross off, but these days they’ve upped the ante on what they’d like Santa to produce in his toy shop, and some of the things suggested not only are difficult to find around this time of year but come with a hefty price tag.  We have nine of the little buggers so rather than find ourselves sitting by the side of the road with Miss Boo waving a handwritten sign once my bank account is depleted, we’re giving them all gift cards to their favorite stores and letting do as much damage as the card entitles them to in our names.  Ho, ho, ho.

I try to buy early, not being a shopper by nature. Last minute desperation buying off deserted shelves with other hollow eyed latesters doesn’t make the holidays festive for me.  What a wonderful tool the Internet is!  List fulfillment at your fingertips. I will sit down on Friday in my fuzzy boots and leggings with a steaming cup of coffee and with the wave of my Master Card complete my list leaving me time to rummage through the boxes marked “Christmas” presently stacked in my dining room. Yea.

Ideally I would do all my shopping immediately following the holidays. This is when the bargains really show themselves. Unfortunately, you’d better know your target audience when doing this, because this leaves a full year before the next Christmas tree is purchased for your recipients to buy the same thing for themselves.

I’m reminded of a Christmas when my children were small. Their dad and I both worked, as is often the case with young families. Adding the purchase of a new house to our monetary outlay that year left little wriggle room for extra indulgences. In September we received an unexpected financial windfall. Weighing our options we decided to put it towards a special Christmas. With two inquisitive youngsters around it can be difficult to hide a growing stash of toys, so we opted on the attic as the perfect place to create a Santa’s treasure trove.

As the holidays approached, the tree went up in the living room and lights flickered outside our living room window.  Little ones asleep, I would bring down a doll or a game and wrap presents in the living room, returning them to their hiding place before going to bed. Enough left over in our savings account to finance a trip to our favorite mountain resort we penciled in a week’s vacation. Neither of us avid snow skiers, we dusted off our toboggans, inner tubes and sleds and headed for the snow-capped hills.

Back in the day most people barely locked their doors much less had sophisticated alarm systems or house sitters.  If gone, a neighbor picked up your papers and your mail, or perhaps a family member drove by from time to time to turn on the lights or water your plants. Such was the case in this instance, although we did lock our doors.

Returning home from vacation the weekend before Christmas we unloaded the car. Taking the luggage into the bedroom I noticed the small jewelry box usually sitting on my dresser was missing. Mentioning this to my husband it didn’t take long to realize our microwave was not in it’s usual spot in the kitchen, our stereo was gone, and where the TV sat on the table in the spare bedroom was now only a rectangular spot marked by a ring of dust.  Oh-oh. Pulling down the cord to the attic stairs, I slowly climbed up and peeked through the opening. Other than some open boxes and strewn newspaper, nothing but a few strands of ribbons and a whole lot of empty remained. The Grinch had stolen our Christmas.

Our insurance agent was contacted, and, yes, we were covered. Unfortunately, nothing could be done before Christmas.  In the end, we bought little gifts for each other and creative gifts for the kids.  Our family showed up en masse for breakfast with games and eggnog, and it turned out to be a very special day.  Nobody noticed there was less under the tree than usual.

It does make me wonder how people like the thief I heard about on the news yesterday who stole turkeys from a church donated for parishioners in need, sleep at night, but then I guess forgiveness is as big a word this time of year as noel.

This butter is my favorite on corn.  You can increase or decrease the heat at will.

Corn with Sriracha Butter

6 ears of corn, husked and grilled, steamed, or boiled
6 Tbsp. butter, softened
6-10 tsp. Sriracha hot sauce
1 Tbsp. chives
1 1/2 tsp. garlic powder

Mix well and refrigerate until ready to use. Serve with steaming ears of corn.

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I came from a family where gravy was considered a beverage. ~ Erma Bombeck and Steak de Burgo with Mushrooms

Photos by Susie Nelson

Stick a fork in me, I’m done. One who prides herself on seamlessly multi-tasking, even I couldn’t make this week wrinkle-free. I traveled from one activity to another like a frog hopping along a path of lily pads trying to reach the safety of the bank. “Rivet.” Where are the weeks going? Santa is out there shaking his naughty or nice finger at me and I haven’t added so much as a notch on my credit card balance to acknowledge his arrival. Ach.

I’m using my creative side for the holidays in 2013, like I have in Christmas’s long past. My sewing machine is sitting at the ready on the work table with piles of fabric in a bag next to it on the floor. There is no possible way my face will show up on any in-store security camera on Black Friday this year or any other year. One time I was coerced by a friend to go with her while living in Boston. Filene’s basement at the best of times was a zoo, but on the day after Thanksgiving you’re lucky to make it out of the store with all body parts in tact. Insanity prevails, with pushing, shoving, swearing and shoplifting all occurring concurrently in the same confined space. Activities all geared to make you want to sing, “Tra, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la”. Trying to make the best of it, I held up a scarf I was admiring to get a better look at it. A lady with bright crimson hair and what appeared to be an entire of tube of red lipstick slathered across her lips walked up to me. Without a word, she whisked the scarf from my hands. Raising one well-defined raised eyebrow she shot me a look I took to mean if I had any issues with this behavior I could take it up with my undertaker. Turning, she flounced off amidst a noxious cloud of Charlie perfume undoubtedly also lifted another part of the store. One last look to ensure a clean escape, she tucked my scarf in her massive bag I’m sure with other items already purchased at a five finger discount. Who am I to argue with success? Besides she looked like she could take me.

I have to admit it creates an atmosphere not unlike a feeding frenzy with people grabbing items they don’t need, or really want, then arguing about who saw it first. From what I understand Filene’s has since closed their doors. Looking back I’m glad I got to add it to my many memorable Boston experiences. The store also hosted an annual “running of the brides”. The bulls at Pamploma pale in comparison to a thousand plus bride to be’s stampeding through the store in search of the perfect designer dress at a drastically reduced price. Sales clerks took their lives in their hands working a shift that day.

The carrot my friend used to get me to accompany her was ice skating at the Frog Pond at the Boston Commons after Filene’s, followed by lunch at the English Tea Room on Newberry Street. Yum. I would even have put up with the rampaging brides if she’d thrown in a dish of spicy Indian Pudding from Durgin Park. If I close my eyes I can still smell the delicious aroma of that pudding.

Truth be known, I’m less than a gifted ice skater. Canadians are supposed to take to skates like ducks to water, but somehow my ankles never got that memo. Most of my time on ice was spent actually on ice. Amazingly I sacrificed no bones in the making of those memories, and other than frostbite came out of the whole experience no worse for wear.

My daughter and her family are heading out to Phoenix on Wednesday night for Thanksgiving with my oldest granddaughter, also their oldest. It worries me to think of them flying. Stories are floating about of pilots inadvertently landing at the wrong airports, passengers losing their sanity mid-flight and announcing a bomb on board, escape chutes inflating inside the cabin, and even on one flight a pilot not realizing the P.A. could be heard in the cabin alarmingly announced “we’re going down”. Passengers began leaving last messages for their loved ones and praying when he realized the switch was in the on position and apologized saying he simply meant they were dropping to a lower level to avoid turbulence. Good Lord. I bet the bathroom line was lengthy after that.

It was also alarming to hear about two pilots on the chubby side who actually went to sleep at the wheel, so to speak, and nearly missed the landing. It seems due to their weight they suffer from sleep apnea and hadn’t been sleeping well. In flight is possibly not the ideal time to catch up, but that’s my opinion. Also airlines are toying with the idea of allowing passengers to use their cell phones during flights. That’s the nail in the coffin for me. In restaurants people talk on the phone, in movies people text…..big sigh.

Over the years I’ve prepared turkey dinner for thirty plus, and this year for two plus one cat. One year I decided to cook dinner on the lower level of our last house which we’d converted to a pool room, both for shooting pool as well as use after swimming in the above ground pool on that level. It was originally tagged for a mother-in-law I think, but as the owners prior to us divorced, it remained unfinished at the time we purchased the house. Built on the side of a steep hill there were two accesses to the lower level, a steep cement ramp to one side or out the sliding glass door on the second floor patio and down a spiral exterior staircase. Neither were optimum for serving guests. There was a smaller kitchen on that level and lots of open room. I set up tables, chairs, a TV for those so inspired, and decorated for the occasion. Not having enough matching plates for thirty, and not a fan of paper plates for special occasions, I purchased six sets of inexpensive dinnerware which would work perfectly.

Unloading the dishes at the house I realized I had to get them to the third floor. Still boxed I decided to stack the boxes on the dolly and take them down the ramp. No flies on me. I’m not blond for nothing, you know. Three boxes loaded, I weighed whether to let them go down before me or pull them down after. I decided after was the ticket. I know. This really confirms all rumors about being dropped on my head before my first birthday.

Slowly I inched down the first third of the steep hill the dolly behind me. Getting heavier it began to push on my arms and pretty soon it pulled over to the left and passed me completely. Oh-oh. Once in front of me I was turned around digging in my heels and the dolly picked up speed. At about the two-thirds point I lost control of it completely and unpiloted it flew down to the end of the ramp, over the ledge and on down the hill onto the empty lot below. By the time I reached the boxes I was sure there were nothing but pieces left to unpack. Not one broke.

In the end it was the most exhausting Thanksgiving I ever lived through. Every time I sat down somebody needed something on the first floor. Only Thanksgiving I actually lost weight after the meal.

This is the best sauce ever! I use it as a base for my peppercorn sauce as well.  I guarantee you won’t be disappointed

Steak de Burgo with Mushrooms

1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 Tbsp. butter
Salt and pepper
Garlic salt
2 4 oz. filet mignons, trimmed

Mushroom Sauce

1 pkg. sliced mushrooms (1 cup)
2 large cloves garlic, minced
14 tsp. dried basil
1/4 tsp. dried oregano
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1/4 cup vermouth
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 Tbsp. parsley, chopped

Heat oil and butter in saute pan over med.-high heat until butter is melted and beginning to froth. Season steaks well with salt, pepper, and garlic pan. Add to pan and sear on both sides (about 2 mins. per side for rare). Remove from pan and tent.

Add mushrooms to pan. Saute 3-5 mins. until nicely browned. Add garlic, basil, oregano, 1/2 tsp. salt, and 1/4 tsp. black pepper to pan. Cook 1 minute.

Whisk together vermouth and cream. Whisk into pan. Reduce by one half.

Add filets with juices on plate. Heat through. Serve with sauce and garnish with parsley.

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Drawing on my fine command of the English language, I said nothing. – Robert Benchley and Decadent Cheesy Bread

Are we becoming too politically correct?  Is there a point where it goes beyond reason, leaving us perpetually walking on eggshells and confused as to the what is the correct term to use for what from one week to the next?

Words, a subject of which I am fond, besides being glorious and beneficial, can also be used as arrows with poisonous tips when used with the specific intent of doing harm to another person.  Please understand I am holding my picket sign high in the midst of the group totally against that, but perhaps the pendulum has swung too far?

For example, it is frowned upon to refer to the teenager who holds you at gunpoint while relieving you of your wallet as a juvenile delinquent. To stay within the lines of proper decorum you need to refer to such criminals as “children at risk”. Really? Ironically it strikes me I’d be more at risk in such a situation, and is a teenager carrying a loaded gun with the intent to do harm considered a child?

Alcohol intolerant is the polite phrase covering those of us who choose to take advantage of every last drop in that Johnny Walker bottle before placing it in the recycling bin and a person toting around extra poundage is called weight impaired rather than overweight. I do not consider my friends struggling with weight issue impaired, but rather dealing with a food addiction, overeating issues or possibly a medical condition.

Remember when you got laid off?  Wasn’t that long ago really.  Now you get downsized.  Are you then employment challenged? If I am downsized do I need to shop for clothes on a different rack?

David Frost told a gentlemen about to light up while skiing in Aspen, “I am sorry sir, this is a non-smoking mountain.”  A non-smoking mountain?  Sheesh. I am an ex-smoker and I realize there are few more vigilant human beings walking the earth than those who have quit a habit doggedly on the trail of those who have not, but come on.  In response to the article about the Frost quote a commenter said perhaps it’s due to fire danger. On a ski slope in the middle of a winter snow, I can’t help but feel fire danger is probably fairly moderate. Oh, and I’m not a non-smoker, I’m tobacco free. Had I continued smoking and succumbed to a disease caused by the addiction I would, in fact, be biologically challenged, or dead.

If you scan groceries for a living you are a customer assistant, as cashier or clerk is no longer the accepted term for such a profession. For the life of me I can’t imagine why cashier was considered a derivative term, but then I don’t understand why policemen are now law enforcement officers, and the criminals they lock up morally challenged individuals or criminally negligent rather than plain old criminals.

Why can’t we just state, without being rude, what something is without dressing it up and giving it a Sunday hat?  Children often are taught names which distinguish their body parts regulating whether they have blue or pink blankets such as twinkies or toots. Really?  What’s worse is if you do use the correct word for such distinguishable parts around grown adults they giggle. I don’t refer to my knee as my bendy or my arm as a noodle. Amazes me.

Some phrases confuse me as well, while on the subject of words. Two heads are better than one. Wouldn’t that depend on the two heads involved? In some cases two heads, if neither brain has entertained an original thought since the 70’s, when combined might not equal half a head. In Einstein’s case for example, he’d have achieved better than one before adding a second to the equation.

It’s a piece of cake is another expression I don’t wholly comprehend. To me this statement is only appropriate if looking at a confection made of flour, sugar, eggs and flavorings usually topped with icing. If faced with such a confection the need for further explanation would seem superfluous. I’m just sayin’.

First things first.…….If I did the second thing first, wouldn’t it then be the first thing and the first thing then become second? Isn’t the first thing always first? I’m confused.

At any rate, words are fun and language fascinating.  I was pleased to hear that five states are working on reinstating the teaching of cursive in schools.  I would like to think the next generation will be able to write their names.

This bread is ridiculously yummy.  Again, a recipe from my daughter. It just never fails to please.

Decadent Cheesy Bread

8 oz. mozzarella cheese, shredded
1 lb. cheddar cheese, shredded
1/2 cup green onion, chopped
1/2 cup mayonnaise
2 Tbsp. sour cream
3-4 cloves garlic, minced
1 stick butter, softened
1 loaf French bread, halved

Preheat oven to broil.

Mix cheeses with green onion in medium mixing bowl. Stir in mayonnaise and sour cream. Mix butter and garlic. Add to mayonnaise and cheese mixture.

Spread on both cut halves of bread. Place under broiler (6″). Cook until bubbly and cheese is browned. Cut and serve immediately.

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Reading is a means of thinking with another person’s mind; it forces you to stretch your own. – Charles Scribner, Jr. and Cheesy Baked Spaghetti

A friend of mine and I were discussing future goals, etc. during a phone call last week. Basically what we wanted to do when we grow up, a subject I’ve been pondering most of my adult life. She posed the question, “if you could began at A again, what direction would you follow as far as a career”?  Hmmm.  Certainly my original plan was not to find myself seated at a typewriter or keyboard all day banging out executive missives or punching telex keys. Early on, I wanted to be a nurse.  I was nine at the time I’d decided on that lofty goal. By the time I was nine and a quarter, it was a veterinarian and in my teens an Egyptologist.

Looking at it in the rear view mirror I believe I would like to have pursued a writing career in one form or another. Words hold a real fascination for me, and books truly my passion. Among my possessions, my well-loved volumes of “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil”, my original Winnie the Pooh series, and “If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, Why am I Always in the Pits”, by the eternally funny Erma Bombeck would be considered among my most treasured. Books transport me into other worlds created and unleashed by the minds of their writers. Within the typed pages I can abandon my easy chair and cooling cup of coffee to fly among the clouds with Peter Pan or experience life in pre-revolution Paris in Dicken’s “A Tale of Two Cities”. For a few dollars or a library card a reader can leave behind the bills stacked on the counter, the dinner dishes yet unwashed, and the failing brakes in the old car  to stroll with Jay Gatsby in the lush gardens of his home in the exclusive community of West Egg, New York or explore the Missouri caves with Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher.

According to my research there are debatably only seven plot lines available for aspiring novelists:

1. [wo]man vs. nature
2. [wo]man vs. man
3. [wo]man vs. the environment
4. [wo]man vs. machines/technology
5. [wo]man vs. the supernatural
6. [wo]man vs. self
7. [wo]man vs. god/religion

That being said, it’s hard to believe new twists on these seven themes keep appearing on best seller lists year after year.  I know with my romance novelists of choice, Danielle Steele and Nora Roberts, though different in style, write to plot lines running pretty much in the same vein.  Beautiful rich girl, meets extraordinarily buff and virile rich man.  Coy rebuffs ensue, with beautiful rich girl finally falling into bed with virile man who also as it happens loves her child from a former marriage, dogs, cats, cooking, cleaning the house, and fluffy bunnies.  In the end, the couple weds under an arbor of handpicked orchids from a little known island off Fiji and happily row into the sunset.  In spite of the repetitious nature of these novels, I find myself sitting on a Sunday afternoon, rain drizzling down the window, engrossed in the familiar story lines unable to put my book down long enough to fold the load of waiting laundry.

Often I will literally saturate myself with a novelist, in the end having absorbed every word available in print. In high school I shared the angst of Steinbeck’s rich but world weary characters. “Tell me about the rabbits, George”. I was ravenous for Erle Stanley Gardner while pregnant a few years later (along with triple grilled cheese sandwiches and In ‘n Out burgers). Stephen King caught my fancy soon after Erle, along with John Grisham, Ernest Hemingway, Michener, Irving Wallace and a who’s who list of other authors riding the wave of my journey for more reading material.  What an amazing contribution to the world as an author, to see people spending their hard-earned money and valuable time to immerse themselves in words you have penned.  Words that will continue to remain in the minds of people existing long after you have returned to the dust from whence you came.  It must be a heady feeling.

How many little princesses have been lulled to sleep by the Velveteen Rabbit?  Pooh and his gang of furry neer do wells have tirelessly taken guests on adventures in the 100 Aker Wood since A.A. Milne first brought the chubby bear and friends to life back in 1926. Robinson Crusoe still befriends Friday after all these years and Dracula is unalive and well and coming to a living room near you time and time again for a quick blood donation. Frankenstein’s monster has been resurrected continuously on the big screen from the original with Boris Karloff to the comedic Young Frankenstein which still makes me laugh out loud. From H. G. Wells’ Time Machine to Avatar our stories are only as limited by our imagination.

Jane Austen invited us into the lives of the English landed gentry of the period, as well as defining women’s place in society and the limitations of being born female during that time in history. Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre and sister Emily’s Wuthering Heights allowed us almost to almost feel the damp cold filtering through our rough woolen jackets and sense the eerie sadness of the heavy fog draping across the shadowy English moors. Such gifted story tellers were they, their books can be read with the same eagerness today as by readers in their time.

Without words Rapunzel’s long hair would never have guided the prince, Cinderella would never have caught her fella, and Captain Ahab never obsessively pursued his whale. It is our written word which differentiates us from our animal cousins, and leaves a legacy for those to follow as clearly as Hansel and Gretel left breadcrumbs in their wake in the woods.

This is my version of the popular dish.  It’s a nice break from the norm and always a hit.

Cheesy Baked Spaghetti

16 oz. spaghetti, halved
5 Tbsp. butter, melted
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
1/3 cup green bell pepper, chopped
8 mushrooms, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 lb. ground chuck
1/2 lb. hot Italian sausage, bulk
2 24 oz. jars tomato and basil spaghetti sauce
2 tsp. garlic powder
2 tsp. onion powder
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. black pepper
16 oz. cottage cheese
2 eggs, beaten
1/4 cup Parmesan cheese, shredded
1 1/2 Tbsp. parsley flakes
4 cups mozzarella cheese
1/4 cup Parmesan cheese

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Cook spaghetti in large pot of boiling salted water according to package directions. Melt butter and pour in bottom of large bowl. Add cooked spaghetti and toss to coat. Set aside.

Heat oil over medium heat. Add onions, green pepper, and mushrooms. Cook for 10 mins. Add garlic and cook for 1 min.

Add beef and sausage to onion mixture. Cook until meat is no longer pink. Drain on paper towels.

Return to pan and add sauce to meat. Add garlic salt, onion powder, salt and pepper to pan. Stir to mix.

In small bowl mix together cottage cheese, eggs, 1/4 cup Parmesan cheese, and parsley flakes.

Spray lasagna pan or 9 x 13″ casserole with cooking spray. Layer as follows:

1/2 cooked spaghetti
1/2 cottage cheese mixture
1/2 meat mixture
1/2 mozzarella cheese

Repeat layers ending with mozzarella cheese. Sprinkle 1/4 cup Parmesan over top. Cover tightly with aluminum foil. Cook for 50 mins. covered.

Remove tin foil and continue cooking 15 mins. or until cheese is bubbly and golden brown. Cool for 5 mins. before serving.

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