Some time ago,I read about an easy cake recipe on someone's blog. All you had to do, she said, was mix a chocolate cake mix with a sixteen ounce can of pumpkin. Pumpkin is an acquired taste, in my opinion. One that I never acquired. Give me pecan or give me death! Nevertheless, I made a mental note to try it....sometime....then promptly forgot about it.
Since the GOCSD [Great OC Slim Down] began earlier this week, I'm not trying to make cake or brownies or anything that will make him veer off course. But tonight I had to make an exception.
Tonight the Bean's GF was coming over. She turned twenty one today. He had planned a fancy dinner for her, but cake had not entered his head. To me, cake and birthdays go hand in hand, so, with the sand in the hourglass relentlessly falling, grain by grain, I cast about for a cake to make that would be both fast and wonderful. And then I remembered the magic pumpkin cake. No eggs, no oil, no butter; nothing but a chocolate cake mix and a can of pumpkin. The blogger who wrote about it claimed it was so good she could have eaten the whole thing.....Hmmmmm....we would see!
It felt pretty chalky mixing it together, but eventually all the dry mix was moistened by the pumpkin. It didn't seem right to put no eggs in, but no eggs were called for so I put no eggs in. Into the pan it went and then to the oven.
Half an hour later we had a cake for the birthday girl, which was the object of the exercise. It looked like a cake. It tasted chocolatey. It was edible. Mercifully, you could not taste the pumpkin. Served with a large helping of vanilla ice cream, and blackberry sauce, it filled the bill..... But I wouldn't be tempted to eat the whole thing. There'll be no encores. It was an interesting experiment.......but, next time I'll stick to the tried and trues!
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Great Book For A Lazy Day
There are a few days in the year when I do not cook. The day after Thanksgiving is one of them, so it's a good thing there were leftovers today, or people might have starved.
Lily gave me a book to bring home, "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo," by Stieg Larsson. As soon as the coffee was made this morning, I betook myself to the couch and settled in for the day. It's the kind of book you can lose yourself in. The weather co-operated, cold and colder, with a need for sweaters and scarves, slippers and blankets, and a good supply of hot tea piped to the couch at regular, hourly intervals. We don't get too much of that kind of prime curling-up-on-the-couch-with-a-great-book kind of weather, so we have to make the best of it when we do! There was the minor annoyance of trips to the loo, but other than that, I spent the day luxuriously immersed in my book. The menfolk even had the good grace to take themselves off to the golf course!
I can't tell you what happens since I'm only two thirds through, but I can tell you it's a riveting read. I'm between a rock and a hard place: I want to know how it ends, but I don't want it to end! But at least, when I do come to the end, I have the comfort of knowing there are two more books by Larsson out there. If you have room on your To Be Read List, add this! But first, make sure there are lots of leftovers at hand, so you won't have to be wrenched away for something so mundane as cooking, and feeding the natives, just when it's getting really good!
Lily gave me a book to bring home, "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo," by Stieg Larsson. As soon as the coffee was made this morning, I betook myself to the couch and settled in for the day. It's the kind of book you can lose yourself in. The weather co-operated, cold and colder, with a need for sweaters and scarves, slippers and blankets, and a good supply of hot tea piped to the couch at regular, hourly intervals. We don't get too much of that kind of prime curling-up-on-the-couch-with-a-great-book kind of weather, so we have to make the best of it when we do! There was the minor annoyance of trips to the loo, but other than that, I spent the day luxuriously immersed in my book. The menfolk even had the good grace to take themselves off to the golf course!
I can't tell you what happens since I'm only two thirds through, but I can tell you it's a riveting read. I'm between a rock and a hard place: I want to know how it ends, but I don't want it to end! But at least, when I do come to the end, I have the comfort of knowing there are two more books by Larsson out there. If you have room on your To Be Read List, add this! But first, make sure there are lots of leftovers at hand, so you won't have to be wrenched away for something so mundane as cooking, and feeding the natives, just when it's getting really good!
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Pumpkin Pie With a Dollop of Doggerel
Rise wrote some clever verse tonight, so, not to be outdone [though if you keep reading you will see that I was outdone!] I had to give it a try. Nothing more scintillating was rattling around in my turkey dulled brain..............
My hair is wild,
My eyes are bleary,
Don't know when I've been so weary
Thirty days of endless toil,
Digging deep in desert soil
Connecting to my inner child.
No sterling insights here you'll find;
The child's rebelling,
Tantrums swelling,
Brain is rusty,
Temper's crusty
Fed up with the daily grind.
Longing for the way things were:
A blog a week
With time to tweak,
No pressure put on
To push the button
'Til the goods were there.
You get the idea. No need to torture you further! J.Cosmo Newbery and Riseoutofme have nothing to fear. But after reading Rise's post tonight I had to try. Apologies. I had no idea it would be so dire!
Merriam-Webster's word of the day today was " Scrumptious!" Very appropriate, as everything was indeed "delightful, excellent, and especially delicious!" Hope it was likewise for all of you here in the U.S.
My hair is wild,
My eyes are bleary,
Don't know when I've been so weary
Thirty days of endless toil,
Digging deep in desert soil
Connecting to my inner child.
No sterling insights here you'll find;
The child's rebelling,
Tantrums swelling,
Brain is rusty,
Temper's crusty
Fed up with the daily grind.
Longing for the way things were:
A blog a week
With time to tweak,
No pressure put on
To push the button
'Til the goods were there.
You get the idea. No need to torture you further! J.Cosmo Newbery and Riseoutofme have nothing to fear. But after reading Rise's post tonight I had to try. Apologies. I had no idea it would be so dire!
Merriam-Webster's word of the day today was " Scrumptious!" Very appropriate, as everything was indeed "delightful, excellent, and especially delicious!" Hope it was likewise for all of you here in the U.S.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Happy Thanksgiving!
Here's the finished mystery knitting from earlier in the week! Are you kicking yourself? It wasn't so difficult to see, now was it? And that piece of furniture? You keep it by the chair where you knit and keep your yarn in the bowl part, which being rounded and smooth, allows the yarn to unwind easily as needed. So there !
All across this vast country tonight people are preparing turkeys for their Thanksgiving feast. Ours is in a bucket of apple brine in the garage. An OC discovery that roasts outside on the barbeque grill, it is the most delicious way ever to cook a turkey! An added plus, since it cooks outside, is that it frees the oven for sweet potatoes, green bean casseroles, corn bread, pies and stuffing.
Pumpkin and pecan pies are cooling on the counter; cole slaw is all shredded and mixed and chilling in the fridge; the Bean is planning to make homemade cranberry sauce in the morning. Chicken liver stuffing, a la mother-in-law [whom we'll be missing], remains to be made, along with gravy and rolls.
But what about my pilgrims? Scattered to the four corners. Thanksgiving always stirs mixed feelings in me. It's a lovely idea and television always rubs it in, showing multi generational families gathering 'round a groaning table. But the airlines are working to make sure that this is a pipe dream for many. Thanksgiving is the most expensive time of year to fly. We will make phone calls tomorrow and content ourselves with hearing their voices......Then we will sit at our not so crowded table and be grateful for our many blessings; for health and home and employment; for education and transportation; for music and books and fabric and yarn and friends; for freedom to say and think and feel without fear; and most of all for the blessings of each other, those present and those not. And I will say my own silent, fervent prayer that those who cannot be here will be safe and loved and among friends, and know that I miss them sorely and will always love them.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Under Suspicion.....
When my green card expired at the end of the summer I muddled around for a bit. Got taken to the cleaners by one official-sounding site, after which, greatly chastened, I found the official site of the U.S.Citizenship and Immigration Services and duly submitted my application, along with the hefty fee.
Several weeks passed. Then, one day in the mail, instructions arrived for the next step in the process. I was to proceed, on a certain day, to the Immigration offices, one and a half hours south of where I live. On the appointed day, I drove there, mapquest printout clutched in my sweaty palm, making sure to arrive in plenty of time for my appointment, so as to avoid the dire consequences of "failing to appear."
I was docile and obedient and filled out their silly forms with information I had given them a hundred times before; sat, without causing a disturbance, until my name was called; allowed the fingerprinting technician to repeatedly roll my fingers back and forth on his state-of-the-art equipment; looked straight ahead, as instructed, while my picture was taken. I was very well behaved. Nobody observing me would have attributed to me any criminal tendencies.
Less than a week later, the Immigration Service informed me by mail that the FBI was unable to process my fingerprints. Oh joy.
"It will be necessary," they said, "to have your fingerprints retaken."
They assured me that this would be accomplished at no additional expense to me. Except of course my time, and the considerable distance to be traveled, since fingerprints taken at the local police station would not be acceptable. [Though why the hell not is beyond my feeble ability to understand!] Still, considering the consequences that would ensue should I fail to appear--"Your application will be considered abandoned and denied," I thought it best to show up.
One month after the first appointment, I motored again to the Immigration offices and had my fingerprints retaken. Chatting to the technician and joking about how we might be having a date every month, since I didn't anticipate that my fingerprints would look any different this month than they had last, he told me that it is not uncommon for the fingerprints to be unreadable. Criminals sometimes sandpaper their fingers to render the prints unidentifiable!
I have lived here for thirty nine years and have always watched my Ps and Qs. And now, in the twilight of my unremarkable existence, I am under suspicion, because my fingerprints are not acceptable to the US Government?
And the retaken prints? Also unreadable. No rocket scientist had to put in overtime to predict that!
Yesterday's mail brought more communication from the US Citizenship and Immigration Services [working hand in hand with Homeland Security, the same people who require us to remove our shoes before being allowed to board a plane to anywhere!]
I am now instructed to submit, in lieu of my unclassifiable fingerprints, "law enforcement clearance letters from every place you have lived during the last ten years........for the purpose of conducting a criminal background check."
Wait! There's more! I must accomplish this within 87 days. ??!!%&#! Or they will
1)send me back to Ireland in disgrace for having such criminal-looking fingerprints?
2)Arrest me and lock me up with the rest of society's misbehavers?
I know these are tough economic times. I know the government wants to provide employment. But they surely don't have to get idiotic about it. I am insulted! It's enough to make me turn to a life of crime.
Several weeks passed. Then, one day in the mail, instructions arrived for the next step in the process. I was to proceed, on a certain day, to the Immigration offices, one and a half hours south of where I live. On the appointed day, I drove there, mapquest printout clutched in my sweaty palm, making sure to arrive in plenty of time for my appointment, so as to avoid the dire consequences of "failing to appear."
I was docile and obedient and filled out their silly forms with information I had given them a hundred times before; sat, without causing a disturbance, until my name was called; allowed the fingerprinting technician to repeatedly roll my fingers back and forth on his state-of-the-art equipment; looked straight ahead, as instructed, while my picture was taken. I was very well behaved. Nobody observing me would have attributed to me any criminal tendencies.
Less than a week later, the Immigration Service informed me by mail that the FBI was unable to process my fingerprints. Oh joy.
"It will be necessary," they said, "to have your fingerprints retaken."
They assured me that this would be accomplished at no additional expense to me. Except of course my time, and the considerable distance to be traveled, since fingerprints taken at the local police station would not be acceptable. [Though why the hell not is beyond my feeble ability to understand!] Still, considering the consequences that would ensue should I fail to appear--"Your application will be considered abandoned and denied," I thought it best to show up.
One month after the first appointment, I motored again to the Immigration offices and had my fingerprints retaken. Chatting to the technician and joking about how we might be having a date every month, since I didn't anticipate that my fingerprints would look any different this month than they had last, he told me that it is not uncommon for the fingerprints to be unreadable. Criminals sometimes sandpaper their fingers to render the prints unidentifiable!
I have lived here for thirty nine years and have always watched my Ps and Qs. And now, in the twilight of my unremarkable existence, I am under suspicion, because my fingerprints are not acceptable to the US Government?
And the retaken prints? Also unreadable. No rocket scientist had to put in overtime to predict that!
Yesterday's mail brought more communication from the US Citizenship and Immigration Services [working hand in hand with Homeland Security, the same people who require us to remove our shoes before being allowed to board a plane to anywhere!]
I am now instructed to submit, in lieu of my unclassifiable fingerprints, "law enforcement clearance letters from every place you have lived during the last ten years........for the purpose of conducting a criminal background check."
Wait! There's more! I must accomplish this within 87 days. ??!!%&#! Or they will
1)send me back to Ireland in disgrace for having such criminal-looking fingerprints?
2)Arrest me and lock me up with the rest of society's misbehavers?
I know these are tough economic times. I know the government wants to provide employment. But they surely don't have to get idiotic about it. I am insulted! It's enough to make me turn to a life of crime.
Monday, November 23, 2009
The Great OC Slimdown Begins
Long ago, when we were barely twenty, the OC and I had summer jobs at Kennedy Airport. I had become friendly with his sister, and, irony of ironies, was introduced to the OC by their father, who, when we wanted to get married a few years later, raised the loudest howls of protest. The OC had just returned from a stint at ROTC summer camp in Alabama. On our first date we went to the beach. He was lean and muscular from all the physical training he'd been through at camp, tanned by the Alabama sun, and very handsome because he was born that way. That was thirty nine years ago.
Now he is no longer lean. His waistline has thickened considerably in the last five years. He used to run marathons; he still rides a bike, once in a while, but not often enough; he lifts weights occasionally; he plays golf most weekends. But none of this budges the thickness from his middle.
So, whisper, whisper, Rise and I plotted how we could intervene to halt the spread of the spread. Rise is the family fitness guru. Lean as a racehorse, she teaches fitness and swimming to persons of all ages, genders and girths. She herself runs regularly, hikes and bikes, and trots daily, back and forth to the palace. She declared that, for the OC to be restored to the physical splendor of his youth, he should walk. Fast. Every day.
The OC was not impressed. Walking was for sissies; for old ladies; for children and wives; too tame an activity for a manly man. Besides, wouldn't it be much more fun if a new machine were required, something expensive, and intimidating, some kind of treadmill perhaps?
But why, the voice of reason asked, spend a lot of money on something that would take up lots of space, require regular cleaning and maintenance, [not to mention causing brain cells to die from the boredom of trudging along in the same place, never getting anywhere,] when you could operate your own machinery, shank's mare, and achieve the same, or better, results, for free?
We were dismissively pooh-poohed.
And then we went to visit Lily. Lily, who remembers forced family fun outings from her youth. When Pater Familias would drag us all, the willing and the unwilling, to the track, or the soccer fields, or on a long bike ride. Every weekend it was something. She added her voice to the clamor for walking. He tried to pooh-pooh her, but she wasn't having any of it. She took him on a forced march one evening, just the two of them. And, despite our superior wisdom and years of experience, who do you think prevailed upon him to do what he needs to do? Not Rise, his sage and learned sister-in-law; not me, his loyal wife of thirty nine years, but the young, determined whippersnapper, his daughter! Not that he succumbed right away or did anything to give her the least idea she had succeeded. Face, at all costs, must be saved. It was only this morning, that he suggested we go to the track at the end of the work day and walk two laps.
Breakthrough!
And so it came to pass. We went to the track. We walked two laps. Fast. Then we walked another. We didn't die. But we did huff and puff. Proving that walking, fast, is not for sissies, but a good way to lose unwanted, unnecessary and unhealthy poundage. This miracle could not be achieved by mere mortals. It required daughter intervention. Daughters have magical powers over old curmudgeons. Powers to move them to do what they should, even when everyone else fails. Thank God for daughters, I say!
Now he is no longer lean. His waistline has thickened considerably in the last five years. He used to run marathons; he still rides a bike, once in a while, but not often enough; he lifts weights occasionally; he plays golf most weekends. But none of this budges the thickness from his middle.
So, whisper, whisper, Rise and I plotted how we could intervene to halt the spread of the spread. Rise is the family fitness guru. Lean as a racehorse, she teaches fitness and swimming to persons of all ages, genders and girths. She herself runs regularly, hikes and bikes, and trots daily, back and forth to the palace. She declared that, for the OC to be restored to the physical splendor of his youth, he should walk. Fast. Every day.
The OC was not impressed. Walking was for sissies; for old ladies; for children and wives; too tame an activity for a manly man. Besides, wouldn't it be much more fun if a new machine were required, something expensive, and intimidating, some kind of treadmill perhaps?
But why, the voice of reason asked, spend a lot of money on something that would take up lots of space, require regular cleaning and maintenance, [not to mention causing brain cells to die from the boredom of trudging along in the same place, never getting anywhere,] when you could operate your own machinery, shank's mare, and achieve the same, or better, results, for free?
We were dismissively pooh-poohed.
And then we went to visit Lily. Lily, who remembers forced family fun outings from her youth. When Pater Familias would drag us all, the willing and the unwilling, to the track, or the soccer fields, or on a long bike ride. Every weekend it was something. She added her voice to the clamor for walking. He tried to pooh-pooh her, but she wasn't having any of it. She took him on a forced march one evening, just the two of them. And, despite our superior wisdom and years of experience, who do you think prevailed upon him to do what he needs to do? Not Rise, his sage and learned sister-in-law; not me, his loyal wife of thirty nine years, but the young, determined whippersnapper, his daughter! Not that he succumbed right away or did anything to give her the least idea she had succeeded. Face, at all costs, must be saved. It was only this morning, that he suggested we go to the track at the end of the work day and walk two laps.
Breakthrough!
And so it came to pass. We went to the track. We walked two laps. Fast. Then we walked another. We didn't die. But we did huff and puff. Proving that walking, fast, is not for sissies, but a good way to lose unwanted, unnecessary and unhealthy poundage. This miracle could not be achieved by mere mortals. It required daughter intervention. Daughters have magical powers over old curmudgeons. Powers to move them to do what they should, even when everyone else fails. Thank God for daughters, I say!
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Riddle Me Ree
The week with Lily & Company flew by and now we are home. So, tired and hoarse [but on the mend!] and with the clue bag on empty, all I have for you tonight is a guessing game.
This is something Lily inherited from her husband's grandmother. I had never seen such a thing before, but having seen it, I think it's an ingenious invention. I don't know whether it was intended for the use the granny, and now Lily, put it to, but it is perfect for the purpose! Can you guess what it is? If you can see over the edge of the bowl, you might get a hint...
Since I knew that Lily has a great variety of leftover yarn from her knitting projects, I brought a pattern I've had since the seventies along when I went to visit! I didn't get it finished, but this is what it looks like so far.......
Care to hazard a guess? I'll post a picture of the finished article later in the week. Meanwhile, it's off to bed with me. And as lovely as it was to see Lily and Crew, I won't need forty blankets, nor a hot water bottle! There's no place like home, especially when the temperature is in the seventies!
This is something Lily inherited from her husband's grandmother. I had never seen such a thing before, but having seen it, I think it's an ingenious invention. I don't know whether it was intended for the use the granny, and now Lily, put it to, but it is perfect for the purpose! Can you guess what it is? If you can see over the edge of the bowl, you might get a hint...
Since I knew that Lily has a great variety of leftover yarn from her knitting projects, I brought a pattern I've had since the seventies along when I went to visit! I didn't get it finished, but this is what it looks like so far.......
Care to hazard a guess? I'll post a picture of the finished article later in the week. Meanwhile, it's off to bed with me. And as lovely as it was to see Lily and Crew, I won't need forty blankets, nor a hot water bottle! There's no place like home, especially when the temperature is in the seventies!
Saturday, November 21, 2009
No Axe Murderers Turned Up....
.....and the only casualties were some leaves.
When Lily told M where we were going on Thursday night, he was incredulous.
"Your mom has a date with someone she met on the internet?"
Lots of ribbing, but, nothing daunted, off we went to meet Jen. who'd been warned about but was not deterred by "The Bug." We'd told her we were both tall, one with dark curly hair, the other with white. She'd told us she was short with straight blond hair.
No searching was necessary as, when we walked into the restaurant, the first person who caught my eye was a short blond, looking straight at us with a big smile. It's uncanny, but I almost felt I recognized her. Is it possible to form an accurate mental picture of someone from reading their blog?
Over a delicious dinner we talked non stop for close to two hours! Jen was so friendly and easy to talk to. We talked about families, blogging, her teaching, and how her husband was worried and warned her, as she left the house, to keep her phone at the ready, in case we turned out not to be a blogger and her daughter! Jen's blog is accurately named; she is very upbeat and positive, someone you'd be delighted to have as your child's teacher.
Especially for Thimbleanna, to carry on her tradition of "Wilson" photos at blog meets, we took a picture. Not very flattering to either of us, but we'll offer it up for our sins!
This is the kind of caper that convinces the OC his wife has bats in her belfry. But it was so much fun! I'd do it again in a heartbeat. The chances of meeting an axe murderer are fairly slim. You're much more likely to make a new friend, since you already, sort-of, know each other from blogging. If you like the way the blogger writes, chances are good you'll also like the blogger. We were glad Jen's husband let her take the risk!
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
From The Mouths Of Babes.....
While Lily and I went to meet Jen tonight, M took care of feeding and watering the munchkins. The littlest enjoyed the dinner his mom had made so much that he remarked to M
"That was a yumster dinner Dad! Maybe if I pray to God she'll make it again?"
Getting them to eat and pray? That recipe needs to be bookmarked with five stars!
"That was a yumster dinner Dad! Maybe if I pray to God she'll make it again?"
Getting them to eat and pray? That recipe needs to be bookmarked with five stars!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Tea With Lemon, Bread With Memories
Somehow I seem to have adopted an Ohio bug. Or it has adopted me....Probably sees me as a cheap trip to Florida! Scratchy throat, cough, general blahs. Lily has acquired another hat, to add to her varied collection: a nurse's hat. Not by choice, but because of my exuisite timing. Who wouldn't think that the best time to be playing host to unwelcome germs is when you are around young children...? Tea and lemon, humidifier in my room, cough drops, more tea, more lemon, and, not necessarily part of the nursing treatment, but so comforting when you're feeling under the weather---Irish Soda Bread!
I followed my nose into the kitchen to investigate the divine aroma emanating therefrom, and there it was, on the counter, a delicious, round loaf of soda bread! Transporting me back to my mother's kitchen. My mother though, would not let us have any until it was thoroughly cooled---some nonsense about it turning to stone in our stomachs!
Lily and I slathered it with butter and jam and dug right in. Yum! Even the little boys liked it. When I make it at home, my boys are less than enthusiastic, citing increased flatulence as their main objection. The devil can be fastidious when it suits him! The one son, who likes soda bread as much as his mother and sister, no longer lives at home. He it was who renamed one recipe for Oaten Farls [a variation on Irish soda bread,] Farten Oals.....Oh, the hilarity we had over that one. But I am not one to give up easily. I will try Liz's recipe on the fastidious ones when I get home.
In case you'd like to try it, here's the recipe. You can make it with all white flour, or half white, half whole wheat, as Lily does. The raisins are optional, but in my books, they only serve to increase the "Yum" factor!
I hope you enjoy it as much as we did!
Yield: Makes 1 loaf
Ingredients:
Nonstick vegetable oil spray
2 cups all purpose flour
5 tablespoons sugar, divided
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
3 tablespoons butter, chilled, cut into cubes
1 cup buttermilk
2/3 cup raisins
Preparation:
Preheat oven to 375°F. Spray 8-inch-diameter cake pan with nonstick spray. Whisk flour, 4 tablespoons sugar, baking powder, salt, and baking soda in large bowl to blend. Add butter. Using fingertips, rub in until coarse meal forms. Make well in center of flour mixture. Add buttermilk. Gradually stir dry ingredients into milk to blend. Mix in raisins.
Using floured hands, shape dough into ball. Transfer to prepared pan and flatten slightly (dough will not come to edges of pan). Sprinkle dough with remaining 1 tablespoon sugar.
Bake bread until brown and tester inserted into center comes out clean, about 40 minutes. Cool bread in pan 10 minutes. Transfer to rack. Serve warm or at room temperature.
Originally from the magazine "Bon Appetit." So, Bon appetit!
I followed my nose into the kitchen to investigate the divine aroma emanating therefrom, and there it was, on the counter, a delicious, round loaf of soda bread! Transporting me back to my mother's kitchen. My mother though, would not let us have any until it was thoroughly cooled---some nonsense about it turning to stone in our stomachs!
Lily and I slathered it with butter and jam and dug right in. Yum! Even the little boys liked it. When I make it at home, my boys are less than enthusiastic, citing increased flatulence as their main objection. The devil can be fastidious when it suits him! The one son, who likes soda bread as much as his mother and sister, no longer lives at home. He it was who renamed one recipe for Oaten Farls [a variation on Irish soda bread,] Farten Oals.....Oh, the hilarity we had over that one. But I am not one to give up easily. I will try Liz's recipe on the fastidious ones when I get home.
In case you'd like to try it, here's the recipe. You can make it with all white flour, or half white, half whole wheat, as Lily does. The raisins are optional, but in my books, they only serve to increase the "Yum" factor!
I hope you enjoy it as much as we did!
Yield: Makes 1 loaf
Ingredients:
Nonstick vegetable oil spray
2 cups all purpose flour
5 tablespoons sugar, divided
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
3 tablespoons butter, chilled, cut into cubes
1 cup buttermilk
2/3 cup raisins
Preparation:
Preheat oven to 375°F. Spray 8-inch-diameter cake pan with nonstick spray. Whisk flour, 4 tablespoons sugar, baking powder, salt, and baking soda in large bowl to blend. Add butter. Using fingertips, rub in until coarse meal forms. Make well in center of flour mixture. Add buttermilk. Gradually stir dry ingredients into milk to blend. Mix in raisins.
Using floured hands, shape dough into ball. Transfer to prepared pan and flatten slightly (dough will not come to edges of pan). Sprinkle dough with remaining 1 tablespoon sugar.
Bake bread until brown and tester inserted into center comes out clean, about 40 minutes. Cool bread in pan 10 minutes. Transfer to rack. Serve warm or at room temperature.
Originally from the magazine "Bon Appetit." So, Bon appetit!
Monday, November 16, 2009
Remind Me To Have My Hearing Checked
Lily needed to do some grocery shopping yesterday. She waited until after both munchkins were home from school. Is she nuts? I wondered. Why would you go shopping with two young children, when you could easily do the shopping while they were in school?
"They love to go grocery shopping with me," she said with an enigmatic smile!
Once in the grocery store we didn't head down the aisles right away. We went to the Eagles' Nest. Aha! Now I understood! The Eagles' Nest is an enclosed supervised play area, where children can play safely while their mothers shop in peace. They didn't give us so much as a backward glance! When we were finished and came to get them, they were in no hurry to rejoin us, enthralled as they were, sitting side by side playing a game.
As we walked to the car, Lily tried to curb their exuberance enough to keep them from getting run over. After they had both come to heel, one holding on to each side of the grocery cart, she asked
"What do we need to do boys?"
"Listen!" lisped the five year old.
"Exactly!" said their mom, "and what else do we need to do?"
"Kick ass!" I thought the 6 1/2 year old said.
My eyes widened as I looked at Lily for confirmation.
"Did he say what I think he said?"
"What do you think he said?"
"Kick ass?"
She nearly fell over laughing.
"Mom! He said 'Get Gas!'
"Oh," I said, relieved.
So we drove to the gas station and "got gas."
"They love to go grocery shopping with me," she said with an enigmatic smile!
Once in the grocery store we didn't head down the aisles right away. We went to the Eagles' Nest. Aha! Now I understood! The Eagles' Nest is an enclosed supervised play area, where children can play safely while their mothers shop in peace. They didn't give us so much as a backward glance! When we were finished and came to get them, they were in no hurry to rejoin us, enthralled as they were, sitting side by side playing a game.
As we walked to the car, Lily tried to curb their exuberance enough to keep them from getting run over. After they had both come to heel, one holding on to each side of the grocery cart, she asked
"What do we need to do boys?"
"Listen!" lisped the five year old.
"Exactly!" said their mom, "and what else do we need to do?"
"Kick ass!" I thought the 6 1/2 year old said.
My eyes widened as I looked at Lily for confirmation.
"Did he say what I think he said?"
"What do you think he said?"
"Kick ass?"
She nearly fell over laughing.
"Mom! He said 'Get Gas!'
"Oh," I said, relieved.
So we drove to the gas station and "got gas."
What Molly doesn't want you to know
Guest Blogger, Lily, Molly's eldest and an unrepentant delinquent blogger...
Molly is a perfectionist blogger... a bad fit, in other words, for this nah-mo-blo-poo. She likes to take time over her words, saving a draft, revisiting it days later, tweaking it just right with a well-placed picture. I blame myself really, I introduced her to blogging, then abandoned her to it as life got nuts and kids stopped napping and the house demanded ripping apart and putting back together.
But Molly loves to write, to communicate, to connect. So she loves blogging, but blogging everyday drives Molly to what she considers drivel. She feels compelled to tell you a story, convinced that you do not wish to hear the mundane details of her ordinary life. Could you possibly care what she ate for breakfast, what errands she ran, how many cups of tea consumed, how many times she missed the kitty and shuddered at the screeching of young boys?
But maybe these are just the things you're wondering about Molly, just the details you need to complete the picture.
Today Molly ate Oat Bran cereal for breakfast -- she may or may not have added dried fruit... I was jogging the 1st grader down the road when she ate it. After breakfast she checked email and I dragged her cross town to Home Depot -- we bought blinds for my kitchen -- then to the fabric store where we bought fabric for a curtain I've commissioned. Didn't really eat lunch, but had a cup of tea and some Honey Pecan Tart (yum). The rest of the day was a blur of child pick ups and trips to the grocery and ended in a dinner of chicken taco soup which she claimed to enjoy.
Also, she uses sensodyne toothpaste. And now you know. Good night.
Molly is a perfectionist blogger... a bad fit, in other words, for this nah-mo-blo-poo. She likes to take time over her words, saving a draft, revisiting it days later, tweaking it just right with a well-placed picture. I blame myself really, I introduced her to blogging, then abandoned her to it as life got nuts and kids stopped napping and the house demanded ripping apart and putting back together.
But Molly loves to write, to communicate, to connect. So she loves blogging, but blogging everyday drives Molly to what she considers drivel. She feels compelled to tell you a story, convinced that you do not wish to hear the mundane details of her ordinary life. Could you possibly care what she ate for breakfast, what errands she ran, how many cups of tea consumed, how many times she missed the kitty and shuddered at the screeching of young boys?
But maybe these are just the things you're wondering about Molly, just the details you need to complete the picture.
Today Molly ate Oat Bran cereal for breakfast -- she may or may not have added dried fruit... I was jogging the 1st grader down the road when she ate it. After breakfast she checked email and I dragged her cross town to Home Depot -- we bought blinds for my kitchen -- then to the fabric store where we bought fabric for a curtain I've commissioned. Didn't really eat lunch, but had a cup of tea and some Honey Pecan Tart (yum). The rest of the day was a blur of child pick ups and trips to the grocery and ended in a dinner of chicken taco soup which she claimed to enjoy.
Also, she uses sensodyne toothpaste. And now you know. Good night.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Wherein I do Not Quit, Thanks To Pauline.
Rise and I have been floundering....a post a day for thirty days? Were we out of our minds? And then I read a comment from Pauline, who has loyally encouraged us along the way, regardless of what we wrote [and whether or not it was worth reading!] Yesterday Rise hit a low point and Pauline had this to say:
" A post is a post is a post - inspiration is often highly overrated. Just write your day, or your thoughts about your day, or what you wish your day might have been. Or do as you have done, post your weariness. Life is life, Rise, and you have risen to the occasion!"
She is so right. Thanks Pauline! You said it to Rise, but I was paying attention too!
It was an early start to the airport yesterday, but The Bean, having come back from school the night before, gamely dragged himself from the scratcher [Rise's word], and off we went to the airport, cat-less.
The OC, spending as much time in the sky as he does, travels light, with only his carry-on. But people, we're headed to Ohio, in November, brrrrr! So he was a man about it and said nothing at my definitely-not-carry-on-size suitcase. Even checked his own, since, what the heck, we were going to have to wait at baggage claim anyway. It's taken me years, but I think I'm taming him.....
I trotted along meekly, not having to think, since The Thinker had it all in hand. Trot to baggage claim, trot to car rental....and then we were there! Pulling into Lily's drive way! And here she comes, a vision of loveliness, in her jeans and her pretty green sweater, and I have to pinch myself, as I always do, at the fact that we gave birth to this wonder. Proof indeed that "They come through you but not from you." There were munchkins too, skittering just out of reach, to avoid the danger of being hugged! And football throwing and Grandad wrestling and oh, I love the new paint job in your kitchen! and what are you knitting and what are you reading, and Oh! Joy! The Buckeyes won!
And dinner at Giusseppe's and ice cream at Graeter's and heads bumping and howls resulting, and hugs, but only from Mommy, and peace restored and all finally, exhausted, to bed!
" A post is a post is a post - inspiration is often highly overrated. Just write your day, or your thoughts about your day, or what you wish your day might have been. Or do as you have done, post your weariness. Life is life, Rise, and you have risen to the occasion!"
She is so right. Thanks Pauline! You said it to Rise, but I was paying attention too!
It was an early start to the airport yesterday, but The Bean, having come back from school the night before, gamely dragged himself from the scratcher [Rise's word], and off we went to the airport, cat-less.
The OC, spending as much time in the sky as he does, travels light, with only his carry-on. But people, we're headed to Ohio, in November, brrrrr! So he was a man about it and said nothing at my definitely-not-carry-on-size suitcase. Even checked his own, since, what the heck, we were going to have to wait at baggage claim anyway. It's taken me years, but I think I'm taming him.....
I trotted along meekly, not having to think, since The Thinker had it all in hand. Trot to baggage claim, trot to car rental....and then we were there! Pulling into Lily's drive way! And here she comes, a vision of loveliness, in her jeans and her pretty green sweater, and I have to pinch myself, as I always do, at the fact that we gave birth to this wonder. Proof indeed that "They come through you but not from you." There were munchkins too, skittering just out of reach, to avoid the danger of being hugged! And football throwing and Grandad wrestling and oh, I love the new paint job in your kitchen! and what are you knitting and what are you reading, and Oh! Joy! The Buckeyes won!
And dinner at Giusseppe's and ice cream at Graeter's and heads bumping and howls resulting, and hugs, but only from Mommy, and peace restored and all finally, exhausted, to bed!
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Cat Dreams....
I had been suspicious for the last few days. I can always tell when people are plotting to leave me. The vibrations change. My worst fears were confirmed last night when the suitcases were hoisted onto the bed....Oh-oh! I knew it. They were about to abandon me!
There's only one way to deal with this kind of situation......climb into the suitcase. How cruel and heartless could they be? All they have to do is stuff their clothing, and other bits and bobs in on top of me, zip it up, and away with us to the airport. It's a well known fact that I'm happiest in small, dark, confined places. No problem there.
Of course, there might be complications at security, especially if I were to let out an accidental "meow!". Or express my pleasure at being taken along by purring extra loudly. Has bribery gone completely out of style? Because I'm sure a nice crisp twenty, passed to the guy inspecting the carry-ons, would enable him to forget he ever saw a cat shaped object on the screen......
Oh well. A cat can dream. They unceremoniously shooed me out of the bag, blew me a kiss, and without the slightest bit of shame, got into the car and off to the airport. Without me. Unconscionable, I call it.
But I do have My Boy all to myself for the weekend. Well, almost. I'll probably have to share him with the girl friend. Sigh. And he is going to come back and forth from school next week, between classes, instead of staying down there, so I suppose, sniff, it could be worse.
But, some day, my dreams will come true. Before I die, I intend to find out what it's like to fly through the air, to Columbus, in a suitcase. Pray it will happen before I'm too old to enjoy the trip!
There's only one way to deal with this kind of situation......climb into the suitcase. How cruel and heartless could they be? All they have to do is stuff their clothing, and other bits and bobs in on top of me, zip it up, and away with us to the airport. It's a well known fact that I'm happiest in small, dark, confined places. No problem there.
Of course, there might be complications at security, especially if I were to let out an accidental "meow!". Or express my pleasure at being taken along by purring extra loudly. Has bribery gone completely out of style? Because I'm sure a nice crisp twenty, passed to the guy inspecting the carry-ons, would enable him to forget he ever saw a cat shaped object on the screen......
Oh well. A cat can dream. They unceremoniously shooed me out of the bag, blew me a kiss, and without the slightest bit of shame, got into the car and off to the airport. Without me. Unconscionable, I call it.
But I do have My Boy all to myself for the weekend. Well, almost. I'll probably have to share him with the girl friend. Sigh. And he is going to come back and forth from school next week, between classes, instead of staying down there, so I suppose, sniff, it could be worse.
But, some day, my dreams will come true. Before I die, I intend to find out what it's like to fly through the air, to Columbus, in a suitcase. Pray it will happen before I'm too old to enjoy the trip!
Friday, November 13, 2009
Foto Friday
Wouldn't you rather be a ladybug?
No bad hair days;
Sunday best, every day;
Aphids for supper....always;
Washed down with a drop of dew;
A green curl of leaf for a bed;
A petal for a blanket;
The warmth of the sunshine;
And raindrops to cool you;
Don't like the company?
Fly away home!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Looking For Meaning In All The Write Places
"Good writing is always about things that are important to you, things that are scary to you, things that eat you up. But the writing is a way of not allowing those things to destroy you." John Edgar Wideman
Family; relationships; friendships;
the meaning of life; the ancestors from whom we came;
the grandchildren who will come after us, for whom we need to protect the environment;
the uniqueness, individuality and diversity that make the world such an intoxicating, maddening, crazy, scary, exciting place.
Nothing comes properly into focus until I write it down. It's a way of decoding the world, of making sense of the nonsense, of bringing order to the chaos, of not allowing life to eat me up.
One essential requirement for coherent writing is sleep; sleep that "knits up the raveled sleeve of care." Since NaBloPoMo began, I've been burning the midnight oil. There are bags under my eyes; yawns in my throat; ants in my pants and meaningless jangling in my brain. Early to bed tonight, perchance to dream of brilliant things to write, or creative excuses not to..... on the morrow. Goodnight!
Family; relationships; friendships;
the meaning of life; the ancestors from whom we came;
the grandchildren who will come after us, for whom we need to protect the environment;
the uniqueness, individuality and diversity that make the world such an intoxicating, maddening, crazy, scary, exciting place.
Nothing comes properly into focus until I write it down. It's a way of decoding the world, of making sense of the nonsense, of bringing order to the chaos, of not allowing life to eat me up.
One essential requirement for coherent writing is sleep; sleep that "knits up the raveled sleeve of care." Since NaBloPoMo began, I've been burning the midnight oil. There are bags under my eyes; yawns in my throat; ants in my pants and meaningless jangling in my brain. Early to bed tonight, perchance to dream of brilliant things to write, or creative excuses not to..... on the morrow. Goodnight!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Unclaimed Treasures
The first one I read was "A Long, Long Way." I loved it. It was a sad story, but the writing was amazing. When anyone asks me to recommend a good read I tell them
"Anything by Sebastian Barry."
He writes about a time in Ireland that was already gone, or slipping fast away, when I was born. I caught the last wisps of it and it left a lasting impression. I often think I would have been more at home in that time, that I should have been born fifty years earlier; when people got around in a horse and trap; when there was no TV and no need of it as people talked to each other, played cards and visited their neighbours. Of course, I'd be a hundred now, or gone myself.
Rise gave me "The Sacred Scripture" for my birthday. And once again I was off, preaching the gospel according to Sebastian B. She laughed when I told her the ending took me completely by surprise. She's a canny one that; had it all figured out before she got there.
Then a friend, to whom I had lent "The Sacred Scripture," lent me "The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty." And after I had devoured that I got "Annie Dunne" from the library.
From the first page, it swept me away to the hills of Wicklow, to the small farm where Annie Dunne and her cousin, Sarah, were living out their old maid lives in quiet desperation. It made me think of Auntie Bid, my very sensible mother's free spirited sister. Who was daft about a man who ditched her for another, broke her heart, and made her crazy.
[She's on the right in the picture and that's Dee on the left]
When I was born, Auntie Bid came to stay, and minded me while my mother went back to work as a nurse. Years later, when my uncle's wife started having babies out on the farm, and another one came every year, like clockwork, Auntie Bid had herself a full time job.
But we saw her regularly. Once a month she'd come in from the country, armed with her infamous List. She'd sit and have a cup of tea with my mother, then whisk me off to town to search out all the items on The List. She was exhilarating company. She was cheery and happy, always ready with a smile or a joke. Half way through the list we'd give up, and hie us to the Dainty Dairy for coffee and marzipan cakes. This, I thought, is living!
She was known like a bad ha'penny at the drivers' testing office in town. She took the test at least once a year, scared the daylights out of the examiner, failed miserably, but, nothing daunted, went home determined to practice and do better next time. She never did pass the test.
After I got married and moved so far away, she wrote to me regularly, and loved to be sent photos of her grandnieces and nephews.
Turns out the happy smiles and cheeriness were not enough to get her through. She fell into depression, and while living on the farm would refuse to take the medicine that kept her on an even keel. So now she lives in a nursing home. The cousins come and bring her home to the farm on Sunday afternoons. Last time I met her she didn't recognize me. She, who used to bounce me on her knee, and change me, and push me around in a pram. Bewildered beyond belief that she's still here when all of her generation are gone.
Annie Dunne says
"We will survive in the creak of a broken gate, the whistle of a bird, the perpetual folding and unfolding of the blossom of my crab apple tree, a thousand little scraps of crinoline fiercely crushed and fiercely released. Like the spider, although we will decay, something of us ever after will remain."
Auntie Bid may be fading away, but I have her smile and her carefree spirit locked up in my memory just as surely as Sebastian Barry has Annie captured between the pages of his book. Unclaimed treasures both, with so much love to give.
Want something good to read? Go read Annie Dunne. Or anything at all by Sebastian Barry.
"Anything by Sebastian Barry."
He writes about a time in Ireland that was already gone, or slipping fast away, when I was born. I caught the last wisps of it and it left a lasting impression. I often think I would have been more at home in that time, that I should have been born fifty years earlier; when people got around in a horse and trap; when there was no TV and no need of it as people talked to each other, played cards and visited their neighbours. Of course, I'd be a hundred now, or gone myself.
Rise gave me "The Sacred Scripture" for my birthday. And once again I was off, preaching the gospel according to Sebastian B. She laughed when I told her the ending took me completely by surprise. She's a canny one that; had it all figured out before she got there.
Then a friend, to whom I had lent "The Sacred Scripture," lent me "The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty." And after I had devoured that I got "Annie Dunne" from the library.
From the first page, it swept me away to the hills of Wicklow, to the small farm where Annie Dunne and her cousin, Sarah, were living out their old maid lives in quiet desperation. It made me think of Auntie Bid, my very sensible mother's free spirited sister. Who was daft about a man who ditched her for another, broke her heart, and made her crazy.
[She's on the right in the picture and that's Dee on the left]
When I was born, Auntie Bid came to stay, and minded me while my mother went back to work as a nurse. Years later, when my uncle's wife started having babies out on the farm, and another one came every year, like clockwork, Auntie Bid had herself a full time job.
But we saw her regularly. Once a month she'd come in from the country, armed with her infamous List. She'd sit and have a cup of tea with my mother, then whisk me off to town to search out all the items on The List. She was exhilarating company. She was cheery and happy, always ready with a smile or a joke. Half way through the list we'd give up, and hie us to the Dainty Dairy for coffee and marzipan cakes. This, I thought, is living!
She was known like a bad ha'penny at the drivers' testing office in town. She took the test at least once a year, scared the daylights out of the examiner, failed miserably, but, nothing daunted, went home determined to practice and do better next time. She never did pass the test.
After I got married and moved so far away, she wrote to me regularly, and loved to be sent photos of her grandnieces and nephews.
Turns out the happy smiles and cheeriness were not enough to get her through. She fell into depression, and while living on the farm would refuse to take the medicine that kept her on an even keel. So now she lives in a nursing home. The cousins come and bring her home to the farm on Sunday afternoons. Last time I met her she didn't recognize me. She, who used to bounce me on her knee, and change me, and push me around in a pram. Bewildered beyond belief that she's still here when all of her generation are gone.
Annie Dunne says
"We will survive in the creak of a broken gate, the whistle of a bird, the perpetual folding and unfolding of the blossom of my crab apple tree, a thousand little scraps of crinoline fiercely crushed and fiercely released. Like the spider, although we will decay, something of us ever after will remain."
Auntie Bid may be fading away, but I have her smile and her carefree spirit locked up in my memory just as surely as Sebastian Barry has Annie captured between the pages of his book. Unclaimed treasures both, with so much love to give.
Want something good to read? Go read Annie Dunne. Or anything at all by Sebastian Barry.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Quilts In The Gardens,2009
It started as an impulsive idea, hatched by one of our quilt guild members and some members of the local garden club.
"Let's have a quilt show in the gardens!"
And so we did. That was last year. It was a howling success. So, guess what we did again this year? Exactly! We had another.
The day was beautiful.
It started out misty, with a 20% chance of rain.
If it had rained there would have been chaos. Picture a gaggle of women, some of whom have not sprinted anywhere in a very long time, frantically grabbing more than a hundred quilts and sprinting for cover!
But the sun saved the day.
Hanging quilts in a garden setting is magical.
The curves and leaves of trees and bushes set off the lines and patterns and colours of the quilts to perfection.
This quilt was made by my friend N,of Pioneer Days fame, who also makes a mean cranberry coffee cake!
This year we had a boutique of hand crafted items, a Chinese auction, and a beautiful red work quilt to raffle, all of which raised about $1500.
But center stage were all the beautiful quilts, like this one, called "Nice Earrings!"
And this red work wall hanging of the twelve days of Christmas.
I love the folded edges that make the curves in this piece ---
And the eye popping colour in this one ---
There are three times as many more. But I have to go to bed! I guess you'll just have to come and see for yourself next year!
Monday, November 09, 2009
Not The One About The Man And The Horse
It's 10:15 p.m. I've been sitting on the couch, variously watching TV, falling asleep, and trying to work up enough enthusiasm to pull another rabbit out of the NaBloPoMo hat. I sat down after supper, intending to regale you with a funny story about a man and a horse that the OC told me at lunch today. I know I've said this is not that kind of blog.....but after yesterday, I'm kind of on a roll......
But first I checked my e-mail and found a message from Rise. Without a funny title. It just said "Dee." Oh-oh. I felt a tiny flutter of panic. Dee is our aunt; our father's younger sister. We were both close to her through the years, each in our own way. She didn't have children of her own, so always took a great interest in us.....
Rise's message said that Dee had broken her hip and was in the hospital and things were not looking good. She wrote about it today and wanted to warn me before I read it on her blog.
Suddenly I lost interest in writing about the man and the horse. Suddenly I didn't want to write about anything at all. Suddenly I missed all the people who have died: my parents; my uncles; my grandparents, some of whom had the bad judgement to die before I was even born; my mother-in-law; and a friend, my own age, who died earlier this year. And not a one of them has sent me a postcard! So what was all that lovely stuff the nuns filled our heads with about heaven? How we'd all have wings and halos and a big party to welcome each new loved one who bit the dust? And yet not a glimmer of communication from beyond to give us hope? How come I have this bleak feeling that that may be all there is.....Dust? No party, no big reunion? Just dust. "As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end."
Two aunts are all that's left from our parents' generation. Dee is one of them. The other is our Auntie Bid, our mother's younger sister,[thus dubbed when I couldn't get my childish tongue around Bridget] who is still alive, but seriously bewildered.
Depressing.
It's not the dying I object to; it's the inexorable fading away.
But first I checked my e-mail and found a message from Rise. Without a funny title. It just said "Dee." Oh-oh. I felt a tiny flutter of panic. Dee is our aunt; our father's younger sister. We were both close to her through the years, each in our own way. She didn't have children of her own, so always took a great interest in us.....
Rise's message said that Dee had broken her hip and was in the hospital and things were not looking good. She wrote about it today and wanted to warn me before I read it on her blog.
Suddenly I lost interest in writing about the man and the horse. Suddenly I didn't want to write about anything at all. Suddenly I missed all the people who have died: my parents; my uncles; my grandparents, some of whom had the bad judgement to die before I was even born; my mother-in-law; and a friend, my own age, who died earlier this year. And not a one of them has sent me a postcard! So what was all that lovely stuff the nuns filled our heads with about heaven? How we'd all have wings and halos and a big party to welcome each new loved one who bit the dust? And yet not a glimmer of communication from beyond to give us hope? How come I have this bleak feeling that that may be all there is.....Dust? No party, no big reunion? Just dust. "As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end."
Two aunts are all that's left from our parents' generation. Dee is one of them. The other is our Auntie Bid, our mother's younger sister,[thus dubbed when I couldn't get my childish tongue around Bridget] who is still alive, but seriously bewildered.
Depressing.
It's not the dying I object to; it's the inexorable fading away.
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