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Posts Tagged ‘shopping’

This is such an odd time for me. I’m finding it difficult to concentrate in the little things because of the heavier issues dominating my life at the moment. This morning I put a spoonful of coconut sugar in the bottom of my coffee mug as I always do, then reached in the refrigerator for the creamer and filled my cup to the brim. Taking that first sip of the day, my tastebuds quickly sent out an alert “911 no caffeine detected”. Duh.

Had to make a Costco run early on. I try to get there before the rest of the crush of humanity with the same idea in mind shows up. I believe one would have to arrive when the store is closed in order to find the parking lot uncrowded. People were already waiting outside at ten minutes before the store was due to open. I found myself squeezed in the middle of a small crowd, poised expectantly, with my hands curled over the bar of my shopping cart. I resisted the urge to shuffle my feet and whinny. When they opened the doors everyone surged forward. Suddenly, it felt like I was running with the bulls at Pamplona. I flashed my membership card as I was propelled by the employee checking them at the door. What a zoo. It’s usually bad, but usually not that bad. I assume it was because this weekend is a holiday. I love shopping at Costco. It’s sort of like a massive toy store for adults. They don’t really have toy stores anymore, or I haven’t seen one since Toys R Us bit the dust. As a kid, toy stores were a big deal for me. Rows of dolls, skates, bikes, and games. Loved it. My mom would give me my allowance every week. What I didn’t spend on candy and junk, went into my piggy bank. When I’d amassed enough cold hard cash to put toward something I coveted, my mom would pitch in the rest and we would head to the toy store to pick out a treat. For me, it was dolls all the way. I played with dolls until the summer between seventh and eighth grade. I probably would have continued to this day, except my best friend and I were playing with Barbies on the back porch when two neighbor boys heard us interacting and called us babies in front of a group of kids. Secretly, I still took the old girl out of her case from time to time until I got into high school when Ken was replaced by an actual live replica.

Today wasn’t a big shopping day. I don’t buy a lot at Costco anymore, because you have to buy in such huge amounts. With just two of us eating here on a normal day, twelve pounds of cheddar cheese really isn’t a practical purchase. I’ve been using the same olive oil I bought at Costco since 2001, and I’m finally down to the last bottle. I was delighted to find the familiar free food stands were back in business inside. I used to make lunch out of it while cruising up and down the aisles. Food has really gone up since the pandemic. There was a package of short ribs I picked up that had a label reading $47.52. Wow. Maybe beef will end up being a true luxury down the road. Cows seem to be trouble in a lot of venues lately. I understand their burping and manure are largely contributing to the global warming situation by creating an over abundance of methane gas. Hard to believe our planet could be poised in a downhill spiral due to cattle flatulence. I didn’t see that one coming, and don’t remember finding any reference to it in Revelations.

Surveying the rest of the meat counter, hamburger prices looked more like roast prices used to. I came across a package of impossible burgers. Reminded me of my oldest granddaughter, a fervent vegan. Nothing that has a parent crosses her lips. She has been trying to get me to embrace these impossible burgers . The few times I’ve tried these burger wantabes, I can’t say they’ve satisfied my need for beef. However, over the weekend Dale and I and several friends drove up to Truckee for lunch. Truckee is a touristy town outside of Lake Tahoe. While there, we had lunch at an old restaurant up on the hill offering up a gorgeous view of the town and the valley below from their deck. Their menu, though including meat items, really leans toward vegetarian. I had eggs Benedict, for instance, and the Hollandaise was made with truffles and served over arugula on an English muffin. It was delicious, but not the standard presentation for that menu item in my experience. Dale ordered the impossible burger. When it arrived, it looked a bit like it had been baked in a crematorium. Totally charred on the outside, we all kind of watched as he took his first bite, assuming it would send it back. Surprise, surprise he loved it. Apparently, they had added black beans and garlic to amp up the taste. Before long only a few ashy remains were left on his plate.

Already I do a lot of meatless meals, such as pasta, salads, and eggs. Eggs are another red flag for me when it comes to a vegan lifestyle, eggs are not included. Can’t do it. I have yet to meet an egg I didn’t like. Again, I don’t buy my eggs at Costco because a) you have to chance hypothermia in the refrigeration room to get eggs, and b) you have to buy a flat. If I brought all those eggs home, they would be the only thing other than the condiments in the door that would fit in there.

By the time I got back to the car and opened my trunk there were five cars lined up waiting to grab my spot. I got Dale situated, then began to load the groceries. One lady kept putting her hands up in the air. What? They didn’t put things in bags and they were out of boxes, so I had to load them in groups of as many as I could carry. I wanted to say, “Lady, If you want to use those hands in a more constructive way, step out of your vehicle and help me”. I’m just sayin. Dale isn’t able to do as much these days, so a lot of the loading/unloading falls to me. I’m not complaining at all, it’s certainly not his fault. I’m just stating a fact.

Dale is on oxygen 24/7. This is not a new experience for me, Rick was also on oxygen, but it is for him. He doesn’t like it. I don’t like it either. Didn’t like it back then, and it hasn’t grown on me any more since that time. They brought the tanks in after our ER visit on Memorial Day. The tech showed up with all this equipment after we arrived home. It was after seven in the evening, we hadn’t eaten, and were both brain dead. Dale, because he’s been prodded and probed, all day, and me because I just spent nine hours trying to find a comfortable spot in the chairs they provide for visitors in hospitals. The tech, who completely understands the workings of the tanks and compressor, gave us a quick run through on how we’re going to operate all this intricate equipment after he leaves. Hello? The following morning, of course, neither of could remember one word he said. Dumb and Dumber, the Sequel. Soooooo, I had to call them and have them resend a tech to give us a refresher course. They said this is totally common, particularly if their clients have just left a hospital environment. K. Even after a month we still screw up. Yesterday, we took two tanks with us as backups only to find out neither were filled. Sigh. You’d think I’d remember all this from before, but I think I’d effectively erased that part of my memory bank.

Huh?

At any rate, we returned home unbeaten and unscathed. Yay. Each day is a gift. You have to find joy where you can and refer to happy times often to refill your tanks.

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I really think we women are the queens of multi-tasking. Sometimes I stop and look at all the pies I have my fingers in and am amazed when I hit the pillow at night I don’t slip into a coma, rather than spending most of my time trying to convince my mind to go back to sleep. Part of night restlessness, of course, includes the eternal march back and forth to the bathroom that has become part of my repertoire in the last couple of years. John Phillip Sousa should have devoted some time to penning a piece about that. I have followed all the suggestions, “don’t drink anything after six”. Check. “Use the bathroom right before going to bed.” Check. I don’t drink alcohol, nor do I use any artificial sweeteners or consume processed sugar unless in small amounts. Then we get to reducing caffeine. Now, there I draw the line. Susie has got to have her coffee. Logically, it would seem if I drank coffee at 8:00 in the morning, it shouldn’t be processing through my system at 3 a.m., but apparently it can have an effect even after all that time has passed. Disappointing. Coffee is my only vice these days, and they will have to pry my favorite owl cup out of my cold dead hands before I’m giving it up. To be interesting, I believe you need to have at least one vice. This should be limited to something obviously that doesn’t cause you bodily harm, like collecting bottlecaps or being secretly addicted to Pringles. Whoops, it appears I have two vices going at the moment.

Yesterday was a grueling day at my house. The phone was relentless, as there is a lot going on in my world at the moment. Don’t get me wrong, I am more than thankful I have such a wonderful and caring group of friends who keep up with me, but still sometimes my lips get worn out with making words and I have run the white flag up the pole. My list of errands was starting to get past the manageable stage, so I decided to cross some of those trips off before I had to run an add for an assistant. Also, I am having my first small dinner party since the Pandemic on Saturday night which requires I actually purchase some food to put on people’s plates. When Rick and I owned our restaurant, we entertained a lot. Looking back I wonder I had time to pull together a large dinner party with the restaurant consuming most of our time, but somehow it all got done and I enjoyed doing it. The house we lived in at the time was set up for entertaining. This little house, as sweet as it is, is more an intimate dinner party than a large gathering. More than six people under this roof would feel like a crowd. As I’ve said before I refer to my kitchen as a “two butt kitchen” because if you get more than two people in the room at once you cannot avoid some intimate contact. I tend to deflect any offers of help cleaning up, because if someone else is in there with me we spend the whole time saying, “I’m sorry”, “excuse me” and it becomes annoying rather than helpful.

Surveying my to-do list I decided to go into Home Goods first. Home Goods is my happy place. You could just lock me up in there for days, and I would never call for assistance. Specifically, I was looking for a kibble container for Boo, the Queen of Cats. I’ve had the same jar for years, with kitty paws decorating the outside, and the lid finally gave up the ghost. Rummaging about in the pet aisle, a lady joined me on the other end with a small wiener dog in tow. The dog, I’m sure much to it’s humiliation, was wearing a pink tutu and had a matching pink and white bow attached to one floppy ear. Dachshunds really are such funny little creatures, with their long tubular bodies, and short little legs. This little one immediately went to the dog toy section. Without hesitation it began politely sorting through the shelf, sniffing this toy and sniffing that one, until finding one that apparently suited its needs. Retrieving the oversized stuffed toy with it’s mouth, the animal sat politely while the owner continued looking at something on the shelf in front of her. Made me smile. The toy was nearly the size of the dog who chose it and was, appropriately, in the shape of a hot dog in a bun. Sometimes life achieves perfect harmony. When the dog’s owner saw me smiling at “Sadie”, she told me Sadie comes into the store quite often and always selects her own treat. Animals really are amazing. When I look at what’s going on in our world these days, makes me wonder if they aren’t the ones who really have things figured out not we humans.

Sometimes, in a weak moment, I think about having another dog. Boo, of course, is not ever going to raise a paw in support of this idea. My sweet old cat believes my world revolves around her furry puss, and in some ways she’s not far off. What I would have done without her over the last few years, I really don’t have an answer for. Was I to get another dog, it would have to be an adult dog, a rescue probably, and already trained. I don’t have the bandwidth at the moment to train a puppy. I have a friend who recently got a Yorkshire puppy, and this little guy has become a full time job. As much as I love animals, I simply don’t have room in my day for long walks in the park, and cleaning up deposits on my rug. Nor do I want my currently disorganized world further disorganized with pee pads, and leash training. The dog, I’m afraid, will have to come later on down the road.

In an effort to reduce my load a bit, the other day I handed the new man in my life a grocery list and sent him off to the store. Yay. Oh, not so fast. The first phone call came in about twenty minutes later. By the time he was done there were six calls in total with questions about this item or that. I could have been in and out and made a pie and had it cooling in the window by the time the trip was complete. My granddaughter went shopping with me a few years ago. Loading the bags in my trunk she said, “Nana, you are the fastest shopper I ever saw”. There’s some truth to that. I am an in and out girl, no side trips. My mother, on the other hand, when she shops, is soooooo slow. Each zucchini has to be examined. Only those passing the Mary Mack comprehensive vetting program will eventually be placed in the bag. Back when she was still living independently, I often visited her in the bay area. While there, a visit to the grocery store was often part of a day out. Mother liked to shop at several higher end stores. The kind of stores where pears are sold with little hammocks swaddling each piece of fruit. One store in particular, had a very attractive produce manager. Mother took me right up to him and while introducing the two of us went on and on about how good looking he was and that he was single. It happened I was as well at the time, so the innuendo was not lost on either of us. This hunky vegetable man kindly selected only the very best produce for my mother to take home with her. Really? Once we’d cleared the vegetable department with no matches made, we moved on to the meat department where every butcher seemed to know her name. After collecting the white packages of meat, we went on to the bakery where small pink boxes wrapped with twine marked “hold for Mary M.” would be waiting for her to pick up. It was like having a concierge grocery store at her disposal.

Grocery store, was fourth on my list yesterday. My plan was to run in and run out with only three items I needed. You know how that goes? You go in for a jar of pickle relish and come out with enough food in your cart to feed an army. While waiting in line, a lady walked through the doors not wearing a face covering. The store had an employee seated by the entrance to provide cart wipes and ostensibly welcome shoppers to the store. Secretly, I suspect they also are tasked with making sure masks are in place before people proceed any further. This lady was not happy when asked to put on a mask. For me, I’m so used to it that I don’t quite get the problem. Just put it on, do what you need to, and get over it. I could see this wasn’t going to go well. The CDC says fully vaccinated people can ditch the masks but unvaccinated people need to continue wearing him. How do you enforce that I wonder? It’s not like we get a stamp on our hands or something once our regimen of shots have been completed. People who weren’t inclined to wear masks in the first place are also likely to fall under the people who don’t want to get the vaccination in the first place umbrella. Why would you think they’d suddenly volunteer to wear one if it wasn’t mandated? Is is just me?

At any rate, this irate lady got her irritation out LOUDLY, and then stormed out of the store. K. Susie just needed her chicken, and now apparently twenty or thirty other items. Shopping seems to have become my favorite pastime lately. I like to attribute this to not being able to get out of the house for the last year and a half, but truthfully I think it’s hereditary. My mother is a consummate shopper. I have known her to arrive at a mall when it opened and remain there until nearly supper time. As a teen, I can remember helping to unload bags and packages from her trunk. These were stored in my closet out of the way of my stepfather’s watchful eyes. One by one the clothes, shoes, handbags, jewelry were introduced into the household. My stepdad would say, “Is that new”? My mother would reply, “This old thing”?

So today I am off to finish my list. Think I’ll get some fresh flowers for my table. Feels festive to have guests again. Have a great weekend.

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When Rick was alive he took care of all what I call the “guy things” in our relationship. Such things as car maintenance, insurance, even negotiating which cable channel was offering the best deal. He taught me to watch for offers on my credit cards so I could move any balances carrying interest rates over to my accounts offering 0 interest deals. Don’t misunderstand me, I’ve been on my own before, but no one had ever taken the time to actually teach me the little nuances of money management before Rick arrived on the scene.

Mother was always a hard worker and very responsible when it came to holding down a job. However, her penchant for shopping made it so sometimes more money went out the door than rolled back in. I would say going to the mall was Mother’s Achille’s heel. Many times I can remember her arriving home after a day of shopping and storing her ill gotten gains in my closet until my stepfather was safely out of the house. The new clothes, if noticed, would be sloughed off as “this old thing” or “don’t you remember I wore that to Patty’s barbecue last week”? My stepfather was a pretty good drinker, so for him to even notice a new blouse or an unfamiliar pair of pants it would have been through a pretty hazy lens.

The experts say traits can be passed down from one generation to the next, so it’s no surprise I also enjoy a good day in the stores. A successful day of shopping is something I sorely miss at the moment. With long lines, customer limits inside stores, and Covid bouncing about, it’s sort of taken the thrill of the chase out of it. The big difference between mother and I, is she enjoyed shopping at high end stores where I prefer a good bargain. Home Goods, for those of you familiar with the chain, is a home decor discount store with high end goods at discount prices. I could pitch a tent in their kitchen department and live out my days happily there.

Mother had personal shoppers at tony stores such as Nordstrom’s. These shoppers spent their days selecting clothing for their well-to-do clientele then alerting them of the goodies awaiting their review. Whew. I prefer the concept of getting four pairs of jeans for $125 rather than one pair of designer yoga pants for the same cash layout. Just the way I am.

Once I was in a dressing room at one of the more expensive stores. I asked, Sherri (with an “i”), the salesperson who had shown me to a dressing room, where the drinking fountain was. She peered over her glasses at me as if I’d asked if she minded if I relieved myself on the dressing room floor. In the snap of a pair of well manicured fingers, a glass of ice water with a lovely slice of lemon floating on top arrived on a tray at my dressing room. Thank you. There was another customer shopping in an adjacent dressing room. The woman was of large proportions, and having difficultly finding a flattering dress for an upcoming wedding. Not that I knew her in the least, we had met briefly at the large full-length mirror at the end of the bank of rooms, but she had shared her dilemma. Sherri with an I, however, was on the move. Several armloads of prospective outfits had come and gone as the woman continued her search. At one point, I emerged in something I was trying on to find both ladies standing in front of the mirror. The customer was wearing a large floral print dress so tight it looked like a sausage casing. The pink cabbage rose print was draped over a light pink lining and the whole thing was a visual disaster which did absolutely nothing for the woman beneath it. Sherri was flitting around this lady like a butterfly around milkweed. “Oh, this is soooooo you”!! Couldn’t believe it. She was actually encouraging this poor woman to be seen in public in this thing. The pattern reminded of something I’d seen on a couch in my piano teachers parlor. After Sherri left to gather accessories, the lady looked at me and raised one eyebrow. I shook my head quietly from left to right. Giving me a thumbs up she headed back to her fitting room and exited with nothing her hands the same time I did. Sorry, Sherri, I just couldn’t do it.

Used to be when you walked into Nordstroms, after adjusting your nasal passages to welcome the onslaught of designer fragrances and top drawer makeup, a pianist was seated at the baby grand for your listening pleasure. I read somewhere they put men’s clothes and shoes at the doors, because men are generally not the avid shoppers we women are so they want to catch them before they lose patience and walk out of the doors. Often I have seen the poor husbands seated on the padded benches outside of the dressing rooms holding their wives handbags in their laps. Waiting obediently for the next unveiling of whatever their other halves were trying on. Always felt a bit sorry for these men. From their shared expression of misery I would guess they had just about any other activity they’d rather have been engaged in than that.

When living in Boston a friend invited me to go shopping at a sale at Filene’s Basement. It was the lesser priced sister store of Filene’s, sort of an early relative of Nordtrom’s Loft. Having no idea what I had signed up for, I met her on a chilly morning outside the store’s doors at what seemed like the middle of the night. Apparently one had to get there early to get the bargains. OK. By the time the sun had fully assumed it’s position in the sky women, and some men were piling up behind us. When the store clerk finally opened the doors at the allotted time, it was a free for all. At first, I thought the headlines would simply read, “Small Blonde Woman Crushed to Death at Filene’s Holiday Sale”. Somehow, instead I was moved forward like a Tsunami pushing debris to the middle of the room, where the real mayhem ensued. People were grabbing clothes piled on tables, one lady literally tearing out an item I was holding in my hand. No dressing rooms were open for the event. With no place to change, shoppers were actually undressing the aisles to try on clothing, some perhap having less esprit libre, simply pulled a garment over the clothes they were wearing to check for sizing. It was insane. While attempting to find something I couldn’t live without to make the trip worthwhile, I noticed one woman eyeing the blouse I had on. “Forget about it lady. I just bought it and I’ll go to the mat for it”. Have to say it was an experience I have never forgotten.

My mom loved all clothing, but she carried on a particularly passionate love affair with her footware. Sorry, Mama, I’m letting this one out of the closet. Nothing of poor quality ever covered those lovely toes. Once I counted sixty-five boxes of shoes lined up across her closet shelf. When I accompanied her to her favorite shoe establishments she was always greeted by name, and the sales staff seemed to magically know what would be her pleasure in the selection they had available. Good going Mom.

When I was little, I believed my mother to be a fairy princess. I cannot remember her ever looking poorly pulled together or unkempt. Even when she had surgery she managed to look like she was receiving the Queen when I visited her in the recovery room.

Mother was a widow at twenty-seven. After about three years without companionship, she slowly slipped back into the dating pool. Being a lovely young woman from a prominent family, her dance card was nearly always full. When dressing for a date or a function her room would be a hub of activity. Discarded dresses would be strewn across the bed, and mother would be flitting about smelling seductively of dusting powder and Narcisse N’oir, her scent of choice. A small stool was made available to me at such times. Mother would be seated at her vanity getting ready to go out, or “putting her face on”, as she liked to say. Fascinated, I would sit and watch as she pulled the sterling silver brush through her long brown hair catching it up with a clip or letting it cascade down her back. I would mimic the way she pursed her lips in just her way to apply color to her lips. Often, when I could get away with it, after she went out I would sneak in her closet and stand on the footstool leaning against the side wall. Slipping a pair of heels out of one of the boxes, I would waddle awkwardly around her bedroom stopping at her dresser to dab a little perfume behind one ear as I’d so often seen my mother do. A shawl thrown across one shoulder, I would pretend to be off to the ball at the castle to dance the night away with the prince.

Funny how I can remember those times as clearly now as if I was pulling my chubby legs up to perch on top of my little stool right this moment. I’ve never thought of it before, but though she didn’t always provide guidance when it came to the practical side of life (truth was women weren’t supposed to bother their pretty heads with all that back in her day), in a way she was teaching me to be a woman. I have to say that’s something she’s always excelled at.

Black Friday and other major holiday shopping days are on the calendar for the on-line shopper to pounce on some great mark down items to fill their holiday lists. I’m looking forward to that myself although I make it a habit not to go into debt for Christmas anymore. Instead I do what I can afford and try to make memories with my family and enjoy a delicious meal. Don’t know how this year is going to look when it comes to family gatherings. Like everything else in 2020 I’m sure it will be one for the record books.

We women are powerful beings, often discounted because of our size or physical prowess. Every day I am thankful to have had pink blankets on my layette and wouldn’t trade my gender for an instant. In this upcoming election I believe women will be the ones carrying the baton over the finish line. Makes me proud to be counted among them. Thankful too, if I might pause for a moment, that my mama is still here with me every day that I have her. Even with the dementia creeping across her thoughts she still notices if I have a spot on my pants or a button missing on my blouse, or God forbid I’m wearing bad shoes. Some things never change. I hope she lives to be 115 and never misses a step with those lovely feet.

Vote ladies, vote everyone. I believe this election will be pivotal in our history and it is important we are all a part of it.

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6

Heading toward the downhill slope I have my gifts mostly purchased, partially wrapped, and feel the weight of holiday shopping slowly oozing off my shoulders. As our family has grown, choosing gifts for everyone has become a process. I try to be creative, tucking little hints passed on from loved ones over the year in the storage center in my brain. My mother always proves the most difficult. A woman who is self-described as devoid of patience, if she suggests any items she might want quite often it will already have been purchased before you can retrieve a credit card from your wallet.

Mother and her roommate will be our guests for the holidays this year. I have decorated accordingly, bringing out the extra boxes I often leave untouched when just Rick and I are in attendance.  Turkey is on the menu, as I imagine is the case in a large percentage of American households. We had prime rib for Thanksgiving to satisfy Rick’s need for steed, and now it is on to moist stuffing, fluffy mashed potatoes topped with yummy gravy, and creamed onions. My taste buds are throwing a party as I write this. I will be baking my oft requested apple and cheddar pie, as well as a pumpkin pie for my mother. The apple pie is for Rick, not a fan of pumpkin going so far as to tell me my pumpkin pie candle when burning gives him indigestion. Really?

At last our parched hillsides are being treated to a welcome dose of water. Storms have been passing over with enthusiastically received regularity. Our yard looks like a leaf depository, with not a square inch left uncovered. I’ve given it the good fight but have finally conceded defeat running out of places to tuck the darn things once the “yard refuse” bin has reached it’s capacity. Neighbors have their own healthy supply so there’s no relief there so I accept the leaves as a part of living in the tall trees and move on to more pressing problems to concern myself with.

I have allowed the house to go to ruin until this week busy with a thousand other things. As I’ve aged my need for perfection 24/7 has blurred into the need for a clean house but not always a pristine one. My reasoning with this is that if I spent all last weekend cleaning the house to a sparkling shine, this upcoming weekend would be spent in the same pursuit as dust waits for no man. That being said, I will haul my pile of cleaning products out from under the sink on Thursday and begin the task of making the house suitable for guests (in particular my white-gloved mother). After a thorough cleaning Rick always says he finds himself left with a craving for salad. This probably attributed to the large bottle marked “Vinegar and Water” I carry around with me. Vinegar really is the most amazing substance. It works on windows, grease, certainly helps out oil on lettuce, excellent for cleaning blinds, and a myriad of other handy cleanup uses. I even use it to clean my floors. When you compare the cost of a jug of vinegar to the cost of window cleaner there is no way I’m not going to go for a more natural cleaner achieving the same desired result. Insert end of vinegar infomercial here.

I still have presents sitting downstairs in need of wrapping. Back in the day I was a proficient wrapper. Seriously, I could have been hired at a local department store on their holiday wrapping team. Always I made perfect corners, chose just the right paper and accessorized my gifts with little extras or extravagant bows. These days if the paper is on, secured with tape, and you can’t read what’s written on the box I’m good to go. There just isn’t enough time in the day for all the extras. Whatever did I do when I worked full-time? I’m surprised I found time to sleep. Maybe it is that I don’t move as quickly these days, or perhaps the folds in my brain require a little more effort to release information, I’m not sure. Whatever the case I don’t seem to find the hours for the minute details the way I used to. There was a woman on the news who shared a picture of her tree obscured by three hundred wrapped gifts sitting around it. OMG. My hat is off to her. Number one no way did my children open three hundred gifts but never would I have had the patience to wrap them if they had.

Women, so studies reveal, are the multi taskers of the two sexes. Men, it seems, are more likely to focus on one thing and do that well, while we ladies are able to watch the soup on the stove, do a load of dishes, talk on the phone, and let the cat out while balancing the checking account. Makes me celebrate my femaleness. In a world where I’m assigned numerous tasks, was a left to study them one at a time undoubtedly a meal would only show up once a week.

Sometimes I find myself standing at the stove wondering what I want to create there. So many meals have I prepared over the years it can prove daunting some days to keep it fresh (if you will) and interesting. To this end I read a lot, watch cooking shows, and experiment on an unsuspecting Rick to keep us well nourished and not yawning over our plates. I would like to suggest that while creating puppies in a petri dish perhaps they could come up with something new in the area of edibles. I am running out of surprises with the present assortment of foods and would find it interesting to have a new vegetable or meat source to work with. Where is the suggestion box for that lab? I need to drop them a quick note.

So, I carry on with my quest and offer up my version of an old favorite comfort food. When I was young i often had tomatoey little nuggets show up on my plate. My grandmother served them with a steaming pile of mashed potatoes and a vegetable. I always thought that odd, two starches but in truth can you have too many starches on your plate?

Oven Baked Porcupine Meatballs

1 1/4 lbs. ground chuck
1/2 cup uncooked long grain rice
1 onion, chopped fine
1/2 cup water
1 egg, beaten
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/2 tsp. celery salt
1 tsp. salt
1 15 oz. can tomato sauce
1 tsp. sugar
1 cup water
1 Tbsp. chopped parsley

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mix together ground chuck, rice, onion, 1/2 cup water, egg, pepper, garlic powder, celery salt, and salt. Form into 1 1/2″ meatballs. Brown meatballs in large skillet over med.-high heat. Drain on paper towels.

Put in casserole dish sprayed with cooking spray. Mix together tomato sauce, sugar, water, and parsley. Pour even over meatballs turning them to coat well. Cover with tin foil. Bake for 45 minutes covered. Remove foil and continue cooking for 15 mins.

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