Piddling by Candlelight and Other Delights

Domesticity comes to me in spurts. I get by on a minimum, get by, get by, get by, until the howl goes up "There's nothing to eat here!" usually on an unannounced visit from The Bean. Warn me and I will provide, drop in and you'll eat as the Romans do. Us Romans eat well. We eat our veggies and drink our wine and are generally happy as clams with the service. Twenty-somethings we're not, but I like The Boy to visit and don't want him to starve while here......So.

Early in the week the fridge looked a little bare. I could feel a spurt coming on. We'd worked our way through all the leftovers and hadn't seen The Bean for a week. First I made Carrot and Beet Salad, a recent discovery from Scaling Back, my current, favourite food blog. It's a simple recipe but Oh! So delicious! If you can get yourself into a zen-like trance, the julienning and slicing of the carrots and beets won't seem too tedious. Zen-like trance achieved, I chopped away.



As my hands chopped and sliced, my mind wandered back to the weekend. Sunday afternoon we re-connected with an old friend and set off "on an explore." It was a grayish day, a delight in Florida, and raining sporadically. But neither wind nor rain nor gloom were about to deter us from our explorations, so, in the middle of a drenching downpour, we were confident that, in five minutes or less, the sun would peek through again. And so it came to pass.

We wandered down side roads to little towns off the beaten track. It was like stepping back in time to an older Florida, one in which amusement parks and frenetic fun were not the main draw (can you tell I'm not a Disney fan?)

One where time passed more slowly, while you lingered under giant spreading oaks and sipped your iced tea and watched the world go by. We found a little grove by the water and sat under some of those shady trees to eat our sandwiches.

My friend has a of wide range of interests so we chatted and sat and caught up on a few lost years.

Then off to explore some more. To a little fishing village, way out on the gulf, surrounded by water. We had an idyllic afternoon, just wandering around and, towards evening, stopped at a little, rustic, seafood restaurant for supper.

It was raining hard when we parked and dashed for the entrance. Inside was decidedly dim. Ambiance, I thought. But no, a power failure. They seemed unconcerned and ushered us to a table by the window. It was casual and cozy but we could still read the menu. Leaving the OC to peruse it, Becky and I went in search of the ladies' room. Oops. Total darkness!  As in inky blackness. Death by falling into a porcelain commode did not sound inviting.....What to do? Cell phones? Hardly enough of a glimmer. Then, through the gloom, a woman approached bearing candles. Aha! We would not have to cross our legs and sit tight for the duration! So we got our ambiance --- piddling by candlelight!

By now I had all my beets and carrots chopped. It had seemed effortless.

Next I made some hummus. Yum, yum.

And then a cake. Yes, the OC is trying to lose a few pounds, and I'm not trying to have what he loses come to roost in my britches but it is nice, like Winnie the Pooh, to have a little smackerel of something sweet with your tea and your books in the evening. Hence Strawberry Almond Cake. If you're not drooling you should be. It's delicious....

Spurt of domesticity over, I exchanged my Kitchen Goddess tiara for my gardening hat  and headed outdoors to my pet garden project, but that's a story for another day.

Who Has Problems Cooking Water?

because photos of tea kettles are boring...

Have I ever told you about my adventures boiling water?

A few weeks ago our kettle started leaking, but no matter, I could still make a cup of tea. I reported the problem to the OC who probably wondered what I expected him to do about it but wisely made no comment other than a non committal grunt. 

Last week I went to turn it on and nothing happened.

"The kettle has finally kicked the bucket," I reported.The OC, who sees no point in complaining if you're not going to fix the problem, fixed the problem. He went on line and ordered a new kettle.Meanwhile I boiled water for tea in a cooking pot. Later on, unaware that he had ordered a new one, I tried the kettle again. It worked. 

Seems it had been unplugged. Ahem..

Years ago my cousin and her husband were visiting us in our new house in Minnesota.

They'd been out seeing the sights all day and were gasping for a cup of tea, so I put on the kettle and we waited for it to boil. The burners on the stove in that house were those flat, easy to clean ones but they took forever to heat up and forever, again, to cool down. So we waited. And waited. And Mairead nearly passed out from the thirst.

“Molly,” said she in her rich Irish brogue, “would ye ever think about buying an electhric kettle?”

“Why?” says I, “what’s wrong with this one?” (I wasn’t quite as thirsty as Mairead.)

“A body could die around here waiting for a cuppa tay!”

So off we went to the store and bought a fancy new kettle. Mairead enjoyed many speedily made, restorative cups of tea on that visit and I wondered what was wrong with me that I’d never thought of buying an electric kettle before. I’m a creature of habit is my only excuse. I like to do things the way I know how to do them. 

When the OC came home, decades ago, with a microwave oven, I thought he was mad. I was sure those things were dangerous and it took me a while to accept that it might come in handy sometimes, like when you’ve forgotten your tea and you don’t want to drink it stone cold. Another time, out of the blue, he brought home a food processor. I told him I didn’t need it and hid it in the cupboard for months. I was afraid it would be so complicated I wouldn’t have a clue how to use it….or some such rationale. Finally one day, with mounds of vegetables to chop, I surreptitiously snuck it out of the cupboard to have a go and have been using it ever since.

I buy a box of Barry's tea about every six weeks. A few months back we decided that, in order to make more cupboard space, we should buy no more tea until everything we had was used up. We had run out of Barry's at that stage so we've been drinking herbal, green, and all the accumulated teas that we ignore when there's Barry's around (or if we're really lucky, Yorkshire!) They're all pale and insipid excuses for a decent cup of tea. 

One of the purposes of a cup of tea is to restore your balance when you're feeling discombobulated. There aren't many problems that won't seem better if you can think about them over a nice, hot cup of tea. These teas were doing absolutely nothing for discombobulation. Yesterday I could stand it no longer. I stopped at the Irish Shop and bought some Barry's and caught up with Ellen, the owner, who thought I must have died.

Mairead eventually went back to Ireland and I went from strength to strength in my ability to boil water in the new electric kettle. Then one morning, about a month after she’d left, I came downstairs,only half awake, and groped my way into the still dark kitchen. Of all the places we've lived, my favorite kitchen was the one in that house in Minnesota. It had two windows that met at right angles over the kitchen sink so that, as I washed dishes, I could gaze out into the trees and daydream. That morning, on auto pilot, I filled the new kettle and put it on to boil, and, looking forward to that nice cup of tea that would wake me up, I turned to the sink to wash some dishes from the previous evening. My mind was a thousand miles away as I scrubbed and dreamed until, suddenly, I noticed a really obnoxious smell ……what on earth…..?

 I turned towards the stove, from whence it came, and saw the kettle floating in a sea of black melted plastic on top of the smooth burners. What a mess! Old habits die hard. I guess it had not been quite long enough for the newfangled way of boiling water to gel in my brain. In my half awake state I had turned on the stove and plonked the kettle on top, as I’d been doing for decades, forgetting all about the little plugged-in black plastic stand it was supposed to sit on.

The new kettle arrived this morning. I bought those Barry's tea bags in the nick of time. I'm much better than I used to be, even a week ago, at cooking water. I've had several cups of good strong tea today and there's no discombobulation anywhere in sight. 

A Post From a Ghost of Bloggers Past

The best thing about okra...

You may have noticed the dearth of blogging in this little corner. It was not intentional. When I'm out in the garden, pursuing my personal vendetta against stink vine for instance, drunk on sunshine and great ideas, I'll promise myself that as soon as I go inside and wash the grime off, I'll sit down and wow you with my brilliance. Maybe exhaustion has a withering effect on great ideas because there's been nothing for weeks months now.

April...Getting started

With the OC retired and back in residence, all the little things that I let slide in his absence are being taken care of. Stuff grows in Florida. And how! Especially weeds. Stink vine is a pretty little creeping weed that crawls across the ground, knitting itself in every couple of feet, until it covers a huge area with it's ingratiating web. When you pull it up it lets off an odor that would choke a horse. Sneaky, because the leaves are very pretty,but in no time flat it can take over and choke out the good stuff unless you let it know who's boss. We usually dump garden debris at the back, on or near the compost pile. But stink vine goes straight into a bag for the garden waste collection. Let it take over the world at the landfill, not here!

And in the usual way of one thing leading to another, gardening has led to more experiments in the kitchen. For one thing, there's a man in the house who needs regular feeding so meals once again are a daily occurrence. They were spotty, at best, when it was just me. Now, with an appreciative eater in the house (who also does dishes) meals are fun again.  In addition to fools, there's another thing the OC does not suffer gladly: dull tools. Ergo, my kitchen, since his return, is full of lethal weapons. I've been thinking I should buy stock in the company that manufactures bandaids. The occasional sprinkle of blood here, small piece of finger there notwithstanding, we've been having some delicious fare. Slicing the cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers and eggplant that the garden has produced is also a lot easier with a sharp knife.with regular healthy eating the OC has lost some weight. Unfortunately, it didn't go far. It settled on me.

The biggest hit from the garden has been kale. My favorite salad of the summer is made with kale, garlic, pecorino Romano, raisins and walnuts. When beets were in season I found a beet and carrot salad recipe that was out of this world. I'll put them on Molly and Lily in the Kitchen, where, even though there's been scant evidence of me in recent times, there's been even less of Lily.

At the other end of the scale we had okra, which is not even on my cooking radar, but beggars can't be choosers and The Bean, who did all the donkey work in getting the garden started for us, thought we should have okra. It grew beautifully but when I added it to a salad (it oozes a mucous-y sticky substance that does nothing to whet your appetite,) the OC bluntly told me that if he wanted snot in his food he had his own supply, thank you very much. In the interests of waste not, want not, I had to choke down the rest of that salad myself! Okra does have one redeeming quality --- the most beautiful flower!

And here's another beautiful flower who, sadly, isn't growing in our garden.......but we're grateful for regular updates!

Now that I've broken the long silence, maybe I'll get back to more regular blogging. Meanwhile, "Happy (recent) Birthday" to Isabelle and greetings to the other die-hards who have doggedly hung in there during the drought!

So Many Books, So Little Time....

 

When we were young and foolish and anxious to impress ourselves and others with how learned and well-read we were, we bought, one at a time, the hundred best books in English literature. They are beautiful, leather-bound books and have followed us back and forth across the country and the globe, adding that learned and well-read  ambiance to all the places we’ve lived. Needless to say, in over forty years we've still read fewer than fifty percent of them between us. New plan: now that the OC is retired  we plan to read more of them.

The OC recommended  I start with The Odyssey. Really? I wasn’t thrilled with that suggestion as there was already a teetering pile, threatening to collapse from my night table onto the floor, of library books and books from friends, waiting for their turn to dazzle me. But, I made a start, fully expecting to be bored out of my mind. And truthfully, remembering the torture of translating Latin passages in school, expecting to be reminded that I am not intellectual enough to get a thrill from, or even to understand, the scribblings of long-dead Romans. But, surprise! It wasn’t at all boring. Very readable in fact. I could actually follow the thread of the story. Maybe those old geezers’ writings have survived because the things they wrote about are things that are still relevant today? That said, I’m not exactly steaming through it. As with rich chocolate, I’m pacing myself. One delicious morsel per day as opposed to gobbling the entire box in one sitting. And in between morsels I’ve been chipping away at the teetering pile.

I recently re-read Sebastian Barry’s “A Long, Long Way.” I loved it as much the second time around as I did the first. We all have access to the same vocabulary but the way Barry puts words together is to my ears what chocolate is to my tongue. Another of his, “On Canaan’s Side” is waiting on the night table. And I’m even thinking I might like to reread “The Secret Scripture.” And then there’s “The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty,” and I could even reread “Annie Dunne” just for the pleasure of feeding more chocolate to my soul.

 I have Alice Munroe’s “Dear Life,” a book of her short stories, out from the library. I’m half way through and it’s due back tomorrow. My heart won’t break. I can’t get enthused, which is probably why the Pulitzer Prize committee has not contacted me to sit on their selection board.

A friend lent me Robert Graves “Goodbye To all That” and I’ve dipped in and out and will finish it, in time. Another friend lent me “Life Stories” by Susan Vreeland, and I’ll get to that too. But somewhere in the midst of all these I happened onto “The Rosie Project” by Graeme Simsion, an Australian I'd never even heard of and had to drop everything while I giggled my way through it. Absolutely hilarious, especially if you have a friend or acquaintance with Asperger’s. It reminded me of "The Humans" by Matt Haig and how much fun that was to read. Note to Birdy: drop everything and go get it. The Scot can fend for himself for a day or two.

Waiting at the library for me today is Anna Quindlan’s new book, “Still Life With Breadcrumbs.” Will report back when I finish it. Meanwhile, time for another few chapters from Mr. Homer.

And just in case I blaze through the teetering pile with unaccustomed speed, I’d love to hear what you all have been reading while I’ve been gone.*



* Absence unintentional.. Life gets in the way sometimes. I kept thinking “this week for sure,” and the weeks kept slipping away.  Thanks for your concern and sorry to worry you. All is well. Come see me, I've missed you all.

Critters and Procrastination

I haven't been sewing or quilting much since England and summer. In fact, I've been so bad I'd need a map at this stage to find my way to my sewing room. Which is not good. There's a lot I should be doing in there. I should be working on little grand daughter's quilt, if nothing else. Last thing I sewed was a doll's dress. Here's the doll wearing it....

Her other grandparents live on a farm with chickens and pigs, guinea fowl and sheep, geese and goslings, so it seemed logical that her quilt should tie in with that since she and her big brother are there a lot and love all the critters..

 And so The Little Red Hen quilt was born. Or maybe I should say conceived. Since the actual birth is turning into quite a long labor. One of love, it goes without saying, but protracted nonetheless. The contractions seem to have stopped. Pass the ptocin. Move that part of my anatomy upon which I sit.

So, you may ask, what is the problem? The problem, though I don't think of it as a problem really because I love it, is the writing. The scribbling, the editing, the follow up to Julia Cameron's first book which our library group has now embarked on, as well as the smaller group meetings, all these things can be grouped under The Writing. And as far as sewing is concerned The Writing seems to be the villain.

A start had been made, pre-England. Hope ran high that I would take it along, but alas! The part upon which I sit does not move with that kind of speed. In case you suspect me of prevarication, observe...

These here critters will scratch and dig, snort and quack their way around the outer edges of the quilt while the inner part will (eventually) fill up with pinwheels.

At least that's the plan. Anybody got a stick of dynamite?

Miss Muffet Falls in Love

Bygone days, a photo by Nick.Coombs on Flickr.


Looks like my cheering section's down to a few die hards, those who can deal with the randomness, and the frequent total absence of a blogger on these pages! One of these stalwarts is Isabelle. I was catching up on her blog last night....(I've been very baaad....had to go back quite a ways)...and came upon a post about the Yorkshire Tea Song, complete with video. It was brilliant! I became a Yorkshire tea addict this past August when I visited the OC in England, toppling my former favorite, Barry's, right off its pedestal. I even cautioned the OC when he made reservations to come home in October, that if he didn't bring a very large box of Yorkshire tea with him, he might want to make other plans. It's important to get the priorities straight.




The Yorkshire Tea Song reminded me of the Hovis bread advert from back in the last century (I love saying that! It makes the Bean roll his eyes. Silly old lady, thinks she's funny!) Anyone else that ancient remember it?

"Little Miss Muffett sat on her tuffett as busy as busy could be,
When along came a seaman, a stout hearted seaman, who asked her to join him for tea.
But Miss Muffet said "No!" to this bold mattillot, until he produced some Hovis.
So naturally nice, such a wonderful slice! At last she's found out what true love is.
Now Little Miss Muffett's no longer Miss Muffett as she's driven away in a carrriage,
As wedding bells sound, in Hovis they found the perfect beginning to marriage!"


 "Hovis - for Grandma too!" - advert issued 1923, illustrated by Rowles, a photo by mikeyashworth on Flickr.

It must have been a radio commercial back in my teens. It just came flowing out of me like a river, no google , no pen chewing, no wrinkled brow or straining brain. It came like a torrent. Now, why can't I store important things in the part of my brain that so lucidly and cleverly stores rubbish --- with apologies to the brilliant Hovis advert creators.

The memory is an amazing organ, even mine, which those who know me acknowledge is tottering towards oblivion. When the OC calls each evening and asks what I did today the memory routinely fails.

"What did I do today?" I cast about for morsels of memory....

Surely I did something, other than drink tea and pull wool out of my navel? Meanwhile, he's waiting, and breathing. He's not a patient man so I've told him it helps to b_r_e_a_t_h_e  while he's waiting for my memory to kick in. Often, after an especially lame attempt, I'll hang up the phone and then, too late, as Christy Brown said, the full list of my day's accomplishments comes into focus. International calls to cell phones are too expensive so I don't call him back but make a mental note to wow him belatedly with my industry, on the morrow. Unfortunately, on the morrow it'll all have gone south --- again! And so, round and round the rugged rock the ragged rascal runs.

I cannot remember what I did a few hours ago.

But inconsequential ditties from long ago?

No problem! I'll even sing them for you!

One of my recent reads was The Humans by Matt Haig. I loved it! He has so many hilarious observations about humans, English humans in particular.

And yes, I wrote them down. It would be folly to depend on my memory. Here's one:

"I was drinking a cup of tea. The tea seemed to be making things better. It was a hot drink made of leaves, used in times of crisis as a means of restoring normality." (This from an alien who's been sent to earth to inhabit the body of a professor at Cambridge University. Read it yourself. You'll love it!)

 Everyone knows that about tea, right? A nice cup of tea has restorative powers pharmaceutical companies can only dream of. But I hadn't heard it articulated quite like this before and it made me laugh.  I would have posted this several hours ago but I ran into a snag.

I  remembered I'd written the quote down, in one of my notebooks.

 What I couldn't remember was which notebook? They are legion. I can rarely go to Target or Staples without buying another one 'cause you never know when you're going to run out of notebooks. And what, in that unlikely event, would I do then? Thwarted, I went to the library. The Humans was on the shelf and I found my quote.


When the OC called tonight and asked the predictable question, I debated. Should I tell him I spent a large part of the day hunting for something I wrote somewhere then lost? And then more time searching for it at the library? Yeah. You're right. Better to tell him about the bills I paid, the laundry I washed, the vacuuming I did, the weeds I pulled, the grocery shopping. And leave
 him in the dark about the writing, the reading, the blogging, the left-over snickers bars, the nattering and the tea drinking. (Yes, he did bring a big box.).

 I was in luck. He was too excited about Glasgow (though he doesn't understand the language, which is certainly not English, he claims) and the Hebrides and Whiskey distilleries, to have more than a cursory interest in "what I did today."

Next time I go to England I'll be on a mission to rediscover Hovis, that "wonderful slice!" I might even "find out what true love is, and be driven away in a carriage" to a sweet little cottage where I'll live 'til I die, eating Hovis every day, washing  it down with Yorkshire tea and finishing all my quilts. But, based on weather reports from Isabelle, I'd more likely freeze to death in the first few hours.

One sugar or two? 

The Fairies Didn't Steal Me, Isabelle

Wheeling the bin out to the curb one recent dark night I gazed up at the peaceful, almost full, moon and thought about how small and insignificant our little lives and occupations must seem to the wise old man up there. And the very next thought was ---

 "I wonder if the Blister looked up at this very same moon earlier tonight?"

The Little Blister and I, in August, by the Thames

She might well have tried, but the chances are good to excellent that the weather meter in Ireland was stuck on "piddling rain," as usual, which would mean clouds, which would mean no moon, and since it's getting into Autumn over there, there could, along with piddling rain, be chill-inducing temperatures, unlikely to encourage mooning about in the driveway, gazing up at the sky.

 So, I wondered.

Did she stay inside today, wrapped in blankets against the Celtic chill? Did she beat the Retired One to the cozy chair? And sip hot tea while knocking off a scintillating post about the state of the world, on her laptop? Am I in for a treat when I nip over there later to check?

We had a long natter on the phone last weekend and made a pact to each write something on our blogs by Sunday. We didn't, however, sign it in blood. If she's feeling as distracted and discombobulated as I am, I'll forgive her if she's late. Big of me, I know.

I want to write, I have the time, but nothing comes that doesn't sound like drivel. What gives? Travelling, they say, broadens the mind;  "fills up the well." Can you hear the sloshing? All those new sights and sounds. Maybe they just went very deep and will take a while to swim up to the surface? Fingers crossed!

Meanwhile, since I have nothing inspirational to say, I'll try for some inspirational pictures.

So much for Trixie, of the six inch stilettos, in history, telling us about the evil Sassenachs. Cromwell and his ilk may have been evil, but the English I met were normal and charming. I may be just a teeny bit biased. You'll see why.....Here's exhibit A...What's not to love?

Little grand daughter

And exhibit B ......likewise.

Her big brother --- not-so-little-anymore grandson

The OC was besotted...

Oh Grandpa, what comfy shoulders you've got!

I'm putting the above, which has been languishing in draft form for weeks, out here so you'll know I tried. But it fizzled. My heart wasn't in blogging it seemed for now. All my writing energy, such as it is, is being absorbed by writing and editing for the writing group. And continues to be. Whether anything will come of it is anybody's guess, but I'm getting a lot of editing practice.

Meanwhile, the OC came home for an unprecedented two weeks! It was a shock to the system. I'm not used to company 24/7!  It was all "go" around here for the duration. The TV didn't know what happened to it. It actually got turned on at least once a day! The OC was in high velocity, organizational mode. Lots of hopping to it, clicking of heels and manning the shredder. Yard equipment humming and buzzing. And then, in a blink, he was gone. Tonight he's in Dublin. Verily I say unto you, there is no justice in the world. The man doesn't even like Guinness.

Another reason for quiet on the Mollybawn front is that I've been reading voraciously. The Blister kick-started me when she came to visit us in England and brought me Olive Kitteridge, and I found myself making notes of whole passages. Back home I devoured Light Between Oceans, Sweeping Up Glass, The Art Of Hearing Heartbeats and The Sense of an Ending. This list is for Birdy's benefit! They were all excellent but that last one was riveting. (Thank you Blister---It took me long enough to get around to it sez you!) I usually take more than a week to read a book. Now I'm scarfing them down like a starving woman. I've just started on Alice Munro. If you want to see me you'll have to make an appointment. My secretary is usually chasing lizards around the pool, so be patient. He'll fit you in between his kibble and his catnaps, while the house slowly caves in around us.

The clock is ticking and there are still an awful lot of books to read.

Tomorrow a quilt show! Stand by for pictures. We can breathe life into this old blog yet

There Isabelle.

 Look what you made me do......

The Fairies Brought Her

Castle Oliver, Co. Limerick

Note: Unrelated photos are a peace offering since I promised long ago to show you pictures of "piles of rocks" from Ireland, 2012. Here they are, at last. More to come.



Apologies to anyone who has stopped here recently in hopes of finding something new. Anything at all, but this dead silence! The Little Blister and I made a pact a few weeks ago. I will if you will, it went, loosely. We aimed for a Sunday, a week away. Anything to jolt her into getting her blog going again. I started something, but it fizzled. I sneaked a peek at hers on the appointed day. Nothing, so I didn't feel quite so bad, but wondered what was the problem with the two of us?

Monastery Ruins, Killmallock, Co. Limerick

I can't speak for The Blister, but for myself I've been overwhelmed with this writing group I've joined. There are regularly four of us, and each one emails their work to the others on a weekly basis to be edited and critiqued. I'm definitely the rookie in the bunch, so always scrambling to keep up. I love it but it leaves very little time for blogging, unless I want the house to fall down, which I don't.

So last week I'm casting about for a piece for the writers' group. I have a few options. This or that, I wonder? Making a random decision I email it off. Arrive at the meeting. Get great feedback, some solid suggestions on how to improve it. Go home happy.

Something impels me towards the computer though it's late enough I should just go to bed. I haven't looked at the Blister's blog in a week. I haven't spoken to her in two weeks.The last time she posted was three months ago. I go for a look, and amazingly, she has posted that very day.

 Eerie enough. But the eerie factor goes through the roof when I read what she's written. A post about The Brother. Would you like to know what the piece I sent to the writing group for that exact same night was about? The Brother! What are the chances?  Big time goosebumps.

The Blister and friend M, acting the maggot. On holy ground too!

They used to say when we were young that the fairies brought her. Others used to shake their heads and say "She was here before!"

 Doesn't she look like the fairies brought her? Me? I just look frozen, though it was the middle of June. That's Ireland for you,.

I think they were right.

At Large Among The Dreaming Spires

What's this you say? Mollybawn? Who is she, who's been absent so long from these pages? She's having a completely lazy few days and thought she'd drop in here to report that she is alive and very well, and to see what you're all up to.

She has been wandering in the UK, sleeping in a variety of beds, enjoying the company of a vast variety of hospitable people more or less related to her, or to those she loves.  She's woken many mornings to the sound of the rooster calling lie-a-beds, such as herself, to order, and  kept up with the high jinks of a four year old steam engine enthusiast, who could run rings around her with the detailed knowledge he has of said engines. She has shared with his baby sister a fascination with the guinea fowl who roam around his (other) grandparents' farm, and eaten vegetables and eggs grown there that couldn't be fresher if she got down on hands and knees and ate them off the vines, or staked out the broody hens in the chicken coop. Once in a while she's even caught a fleeting glimpse of the OC and Britboy. But best of all, she's had lots of cuddle time with that beautiful baby girl.

There's also an unconfirmed report circulating that she huffed and puffed her way to the top of a mountain in Wales. It may just be a wild rumor, but you know what they say ---"No smoke without a fire." And she is, after all, the acknowledged conqueror of Croagh Patrick.

The same Mollybawn has been spotted roaming around downtown Oxford; gasping in awe at the beautiful architecture and the plantings and flowers in the various college gardens; marveling at the multitude of spires soaring up around her; nipping in occasionally to the quiet oasis of a chapel to silently give thanks for her many blessings; soaking up the history and stories of the place like one who's been lost in the desert; she's been seen strolling in the town's beautiful Botanic Gardens and been swallowed up in marvelous bookstores where she's had to remind herself that the very same books causing temptation are also available at home, without the weight and bother of carrying them there.

She has taken hundreds, nay, thousands, of photos which she promises to organize as soon as she gets home, even though she has yet to organize the collection from last summer, but optimism is key. It will get done.

As for "morning pages," mention them and her brow knits in puzzlement. Her memory is extremely short, like the tail of a Manx cat, and just as there is no hope that such a cat will ever grow a longer tail, there is little or no hope of her memory improving. But perhaps, when she returns to her natural habitat, the familiarity of the surroundings might jog her memory and she'll start up with Julia once again.

What England is this she wonders? Where the skies are blue and the sun shines all day? Her mind is awash with roosters and chickens, guinea fowl with their beautiful feathers and hare-brained ways, groaning baskets of home grown vegetables, Pippa the pig, all grown up from babyhood last summer, a quartet of black pigs obligingly lined up for a photo shoot; a small herd of woolly sheep, led by Riley the ram of impressive hornage, and two very territorial geese.....

Like those geese, she needs someone to gabble with.....And, as luck would have it, the Little Blister will be showing up in a couple of days. Ah Bliss! That Mollybawn, whoever she is, is one lucky lady.

More Moustaches, Among Other Things

WBK dali, a photo by WBK-WorkByKnight on Flickr.

***This has been languishing in my drafts for the last week. Here it is, as is, before it is completely irrelevant and ancient. Boo at will. It's the best I have to offer right now!



You see one of something and suddenly you're surrounded....... After my last post it seemed everywhere I turned there were moustaches! All better looking, you'll be happy to hear, than the last one.

I had an appointment last week in St.Petersburg, home to a museum of a very famous moustache. I gave myself two hours to get there, just to be on the safe side. Several distractions conspired to make me miss my exit: enjoying the sun glinting on the expanses of glassy water on either side as I crossed a long bridge;  dreamily noticing how blue the sky was with its scattering of white, fluffy clouds; admiring the noticeably more tropical vegetation,(than further north where we live) and doing a double take at a billboard of his tell-tale mustache, advertising the Salvador Dali museum. Graphic designers are so clever.... I would have loved to stop for a photo but that might not have been a good idea in the middle of a multiple lane highway! I couldn't even find a good photo of it on Flickr... I'm not much of a Dali fan myself. I'd have to be on some pretty potent drugs for his art to appeal to me --- but, obviously, I am in the minority. Fan or no, the new Dali museum is itself a work of architectural art. Alas, no photos. I was not going to the museum. After driving in panic-stricken circles for ten minutes, with the clock ticking, I finally got back on the right road and skated in to my appointment with seconds to spare.

The first person I saw had no beer belly; no shoulder droop either. He was slim and fit, with brown hair slicked back from a high, tanned forehead. His long sideburns and mustache-goatee combination looked like it must take at least an hour of man-scaping every morning. Judging by the photos on the wall, this was something he did to finance his real love, fishing. He was a neural diagnostic technician, which, after a few beers, he said, becomes a "nerve dude!"  He and I were in the same room because he was going to administer some tests, and I was the testee.  He taped wires to various places on my hands and arms and gave each place a series of shocks, starting with barely perceptible ones and gradually increasing in intensity to "ouch" level. It was uncomfortable, but not unbearable.
I asked if he had always wanted to be a nerve dude, or if he'd started out wanting to be a fireman.

Without missing a beat he deadpanned that he'd always enjoyed torturing things when he was growing up! That left me speechless, a rare occurrence. I think he was joking.I hope he was joking. I can just imagine the career counselling brochures: If you like to torture small animals (or big ones) you might enjoy a career as a neural diagnostic technician.   Hmmm.

I felt like a puppet. Zap! and my finger would jump; zap! again and my arm would twitch. But, he informed me, the tests he was doing on me were tame compared to other tests, that (he said) were really fun. I was glad I wasn't providing him with that much fun!

The next Mustache was the doctor who came in to read the results of Nerve Dude's tests, and then administer some of his own. No beer belly, no shoulder droop. He was nattily dressed in khakis and a dazzlingly white shirt with a beautiful blue tie......No, I didn't rip the tie from his neck to make a little silk bag. I'm quite good at behaving myself when I'm out. His beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, though it didn't look as though he spent quite as much time pruning as Nerve Dude!

For someone who hates needles, with the exception of sewing and knitting needles, this was getting down to some real torture. I tried not to be a sissy as the doctor poked needles into various muscles in my hands and arms. He didn't just poke them in, he probed around with them while they were deep in the muscle, all the while encouraging me to relax! Right! But I breathed deep (thank you yoga!) gritted my teeth---and still my face was wet when he finally finished with the last needle.

The good news is--- no slicing or dicing in the immediate future. I admit that I was apprehensive. The trick to keeping carpal tunnel from getting worse is, apparently, to hang your arms limply by your sides as much as possible; bend your fingers, whenever you can, in the direction opposite that needed to perform most daily tasks/movements, and most importantly, not to sleep with your elbows bent and your hands near your face. Ideally, you should give up writing, sewing, personal hygiene, computers, telephones, lifting things, opening things, cutting things, chopping things etc. But, if I did that I'd have to cut my wrists anyway! So, moderation in all of the above and I might last for another few rounds!

Note: Interestingly enough, none of these incidental mustaches were wearing shorts..... Not, that is, until later in the day, when I was home from my travels, and The Bean breezed in, complete with goatee, mustache....and shorts!

"Of Shoes--" and Shorts --"and Sealing Wax"

Walrus, a photo by kattenspul on Flickr

I stopped at a local charity shop yesterday to check out their selection of men's ties, preferably silk. Not because I'm going to start wearing them but because they have amazing possibilities.....

I was standing at the tie rack, looking through the offerings, none of which were appealing enough to make me part with $3.50, twice the price as other charity shops. Though there was one very cute navy one with colourful fishes, 100% silk....but no, not what I was looking for. You can tell by the feel, if it's silk or not. Just to be sure, I check the label .... Not interested in polyester!

So there I was, wrapped up in tie inspection, when a voice pierced my consciousness. It was asking a question. I looked up, and sure enough, the voice was directed at me. I glanced around. Yup. He was talking to me. Or else looking straight at me while talking to himself. I decided to assume, for the time being, that he wasn't a crazy loon.

"Do these shorts look good on me?" He asked, giving me a hangdog look from his watery, colourless eyes.

He was standing just outside the changing rooms, sideways to me, so I could have a good look. The curve of his drooping shoulders was compensated for by the opposite curve of his overhanging belly, both of them echoed by the downward droop of his mustache. If I'm going to be accosted by strange men, could they at least be good-looking?

Is he serious, I thought? This man, whom I'd never seen before, wants me to look at his nether regions and tell him if he looks good in these shorts! I was getting definitely creepy vibes here, but I'm not an unfriendly person. I try to be helpful where I can, so, stifling a shudder....

"Yes," I answered." They look fine."

He seemed to need more.

"They're in very good shape," I offered lamely, adding silently....'Unlike yourself...They'd look a lot better if you lost the gut and stood up straight!'

Done with the conversation, I busied myself once again with the ties.

But he was on a roll now.

"I appreciate your opinion," he said, "You know, as an older person."

(Wow! He must have read "How to Win Friends and Influence People!")

"Not that you're old," he hastened to add!

"No problem," I said, "I've made peace with it!" (Now go away, please!)

"....But you're older than me. I don't value the opinions of people younger than me...Look what they've done to our gov'ment. We need to get that Obama outta there, get back to real American gov'ment."

Please! Just because I oblige with an opinion on the shorts, and force myself to look where I certainly never wanted to, doesn't imply permission to inflict your dumbass political opinions on me!

What could I do but give a non-committal grunt?

He muttered something unintelligible and I developed a single minded fascination with a floral silk tie, fingers mentally in ears, humming a silent "la-la-la-la-la!"

He shuffled back into the changing room.

And I beat a hasty retreat.

Conclusion: The world is full of an endless assortment of interesting, if sometimes creepy, people!

Running way

I have been uninspired lately --- have you noticed? Nothing new here in over two weeks! A bad case of the blahs.

And then along comes Isabelle, and in an instant, effortlessly lays inspiration at my feet.  In her recent post "Walking Away," she mentioned Anne Tyler's book   "Ladder of Years"  in which Delia, the main character, while on holiday with her family, goes for a walk on the beach---and doesn't come back----simply keeps walking!

Isabelle's remark, at lunch with friends, that any woman who is married and has children has probably had the urge, at one time or another, to simply go for a walk---and never come back met with raised eyebrows and demurring. Really? Unless they have already been canonized and have a firm grip on their halos, I'd dare to say they are lying to themselves. I probably lie to myself as much as anyone but I'd be the first to admit I entertained fantasies of running away when I was in the throes of raising children.

It all came to a head one snowy day in Montana. It was freezing and frosty outside. The children had just spilled in the door from school; the dogs, seeing the door open for a moment, had darted in too. Bedlam ensued, dogs dancing on icy toes, barking and jumping excitedly, kids divesting themselves of snow-encrusted boots, backpacks, and heavy jackets all over the kitchen floor. And the baby howling. Where was the Mommy, delighted to welcome her children home and offer them hot cocoa and freshly baked cookies? Missing in action. And in her place an overwhelmed monster who suddenly roared.....

"Out! All of you! Out of my kitchen!"

I wasn't much of a roarer, so that got their attention and they left quietly, dogs in tow, leaving me alone in the middle of the kitchen, distraught. Writing it down has always been my therapy. I grabbed a notebook and pen and sat down, not on a chair, but in the middle of the floor and scribbled feverishly...

Wanted immediately:

Young, energetic woman to care for five children, their father and their dogs.

 Must be a person of refinement and even temper; kind, understanding and infinitely patient.

 Must be content to work for love, not money. 

Must agree, in writing, never to get the flu, cramps, a headache, an "off" day or anything that might hinder the proper discharge of her duties. Said duties to include cooking, cleaning, dusting, scrubbing, shopping and laundry.

 In addition the applicant will be on call twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty two weeks a year. This cannot be over-emphasized as unforeseen emergencies frequently occur. 

A dim view would be taken of an applicant liable to come unglued at the sight of broken bones, split chins, gaping wounds and gushing blood. An iron constitution is imperative; a working knowledge of  First Aid a definite asset.

The successful applicant should be a person of humble, self-effacing disposition as the pursuit of personal interests and hobbies might lead to discord in the household.

Of course this requirement would be waived in the desirable, but unlikely, event the applicant gets fulfillment and personal satisfaction from polishing silver and removing splinters from childish thumbs.

The person selected will spend her days caring for the children, ensuring they are, at all times, clean, warm, well fed, rested and healthy. The  Baby is non-ambulatory as yet; the next in line has a penchant for running naked in the snow; the boys show little interest in season-appropriate clothing and have a particular aversion to baths and tidy bedrooms. It would be expected of the successful candidate that she could overcome these minor difficulties in a cheerful and positive manner. She should strive to maintain a calm, harmonious atmosphere, and never resort to such extremes as locking the little darlings in their rooms and "losing" the keys, or God forbid, forcing them to go to bed without ice cream. 

Gentle persuasion is preferred at all times to ranting and raving, especially in family room combat situations

She must be mindful always of their fragile psyches. Hers however should be of tempered steel.

The applicant will find it is easier to achieve peak performance in her duties if she can arrange to have at least six hours more in each day than the usual twenty four.

For the few hours that the children are in school she will have complete charge of the family dogs.

Their intake of playdoh, which the little darlings generously share with their beloved pets, must be carefully monitored to ensure that it does not exceed the USRDA for dogs under one year.

The applicant's chances of securing this job will be greatly enhanced by the ability to wield a poopy scooper with skill and panache.

The father will be the easiest part of this job, departing, as he does, before dawn, and returning well after dusk.

He requires minimal care --- sporadic feeding, clean underwear and shirts occasionally, and peace and quiet on his rare sojourns at home.

This once-in-a-lifetime opportunity is available only because the person presently holding the position is losing her grip on reality and is leaving tomorrow to take up beach combing in the Bahamas.

I never did get to the Bahamas. I regained my sanity and my sense of humour almost as soon as my pen fell limply into my lap, exhausted from its labours. So I never sent it, as I'd intended, to the classified ads in the local newspaper. And someone out there was deprived of the job of her dreams.


This is a little bit of cheating since it was originally written more than a quarter century ago! But hey, a post is a post, and it was prompted by that post of Isabelle's. At the time I never expected to get out of child rearing alive, but here I am, older, wiser, but still kicking.

I bet there are more running away stories out there. Come on, 'fess up!

Shuffle Loudly and Carry a Big Stick

Vinca. Colourful but losing the run of themselves among the bushes.

Came home mid-afternoon one day last week. With one leg out of the car, I gathered up all the debris, water bottle, purse, books from the library, the mail, and milk from the grocery store --- what my father would call "the lazy man's load!"  All set to stagger into the house when something in the driveway behind the car caught my eye --- a snake! Winding lazily across the sun-warmed concrete towards the shrubs. I stared. How had I not run over him? Then movement returned to my feet and I galloped, fully laden, into the garage, burst through the door to the house, dumped everything on the kitchen table, grabbed my camera and dashed back outside, hoping he would still be there. The driveway was empty but I was just in time to spot his tail slithering in among the bushes where he paused in a sunny patch of dead leaves. He seemed in no hurry as I zoomed in on him for a couple of shots from the safety of the concrete. He very obligingly stayed still, watching me with his beady black eye as I snapped away.

Maybe the reason he acted so docile and moved so lazily was that he'd recently had a satisfying feed. Look at the width of that belly!

I emailed the photos to the Bean, very chuffed with myself at having identified him (I thought!) I was pretty sure he was a hog nose snake, reputed, by Wikipedia, to be harmless and un-aggressive. The Bean telephoned me....

"I hope you're not thinking of picking that snake up Mom."

Pick him up? Has he lost his mind? Does he think I've lost mine? Does he know his mother?  Granted, I no longer sprint in the opposite direction every time I see a snake, as I would have done years ago, but I could live a hundred lifetimes and never, ever, even once, be tempted to pick one up! No matter how harmless.... I've only calmed down enough about them to where I can get close enough to take pictures, from years of Bean talk about how there's nothing to freak out about, a snake is just another creature doing his job, keeping the vermin in check, keeping balance in nature.

"That's no hog-nose Mom. It's a juvenile diamond back rattler!"

Egads! And I was how close to him??

So what to do now about thinning out those vinca (top photo) that are taking over in that shrubbery bed where Mother Nature's rodent control workers are possibly lying low, staying warm among the dead leaves? Hip boots and the thick leather gloves I guess.

 Enough to freak a person out.

The Earth Moved...Did You Feel It?

There's been some seismic activity across the water. Unusual, I know, for Ireland, but then the weather is changing everywhere...

The Little Blister wrote a blog post!

This is proof that there is a God.

I've been badgering her to write, all to no avail. It's been more than a year. I knew the impetus would have to come from her, but I was growing old waiting! And now the great event has happened and I think you should all go over and visit, and gush and coo and cajole, praise and critique --- whatever you think will encourage her to do it again.....before next May.

I've been in a bit of a slump myself. Not a year-long one, mind you, but a bit of a slump nevertheless. Too many voices arguing in my head. Resulting in immobility, indecision --- and no blog posts. But if the Beloved Blister can move herself to action so must I!


The above has been languishing in my drafts for a few days. I planned to come back and doll it up some, make it make sense.....and in the meantime, while I was deliberating,  she posted again! 

I am delighted, and guardedly optimistic that two posts in a couple of days indicates a trend. The only slight worry I have is that all these temblors might cause panic among my countrymen who can handle rain, sure. But earthquakes?

In other tidbits, Friko finally got around to doing a post on "Where I'm From." It is well worth the wait. Pay her a visit. You'll be glad you did.

And the largest tidbit ---- California Girl is coming to visit. Leaving her four legged ones in the care of friends for a week and winging her way to see her aged mother! And not only that, the OC will arrive home for a visit while she's here.....

Talk about seismic activity!

Newest Grandchild.....Mostly Legs

Here's Maggie with a nice round belly. Daughter was thrilled --- a new baby in the family, the sire no less a personage (horseonage? studsonage?) than her beloved Rooster! But then Maggie, even after the vet said "any minute now!" took her time, so much so that California Girl, having slept several nights at the barn in anticipation of the Great Event, decided that it must all be a hoax and went home to sleep in her bed for a change......And so wasn't on hand when the little filly made her entrance...... 

But drove down to the barn like a mad woman when she heard!

Here's Rooster, begetter of beautiful colts and fillies...

And here's their brand new baby girl....

taking her first, wobbly steps!

Here she is with Maggie, her proud mama...

Having a snack...

...then a cuddle...

...and then a lie down...

...because being born is exhausting work!