I didn’t make New Year’s Resolutions this year. The way I saw it, the universe kicked my ass last year. At least vicariously. My plan was to slip unobtrusively into 2008, no fanfare, no noise, just slink quietly along behind the boisterous throng and hope the gods, or whosoever is in charge of cosmic ass kickings, wouldn’t notice me. Surely they had toyed with me enough, tired of me even, and this year would be turning their attentions elsewhere?
Besides, this is the year I’ll turn sixty. Ye gods! How did I get here so quickly? Is my name Mrs. Van Winkle?
Early in the month the OC steered me to the optical shop for some new glasses. My prescription had only changed a little, but my glasses were quite scratched. Which, it turns out, was not altogether a bad thing. Through them things looked pleasantly soft-edged and blurry, and I liked their unobtrusive frames. With their co-operation I was able to maintain the fantasy that I didn’t look so bad for my years.
Choosing new frames for glasses is an exercise in futility. In order to do so you have to remove your old glasses, the only things standing between you and legal blindness. ……..So there I am, lens-less, peering in the mirror, seeing only vague, blurrier than usual shapes.
“I really like my present frames,” I told the assistant, hopefully
“Well,” she sniffed, in tones that implied i should move along and quit clinging to the past, “colour is really IN this year.” I refrained from telling her that I didn’t give a rat’s ass about what was “in.” If I was going to be paying a king’s ransom for the darn things, they’d have to appeal to ME.
Eventually a set of frames was selected, a small fortune was handed over, and we went on our way. A week later I went to pick up the new glasses.
“Wow!” Everything looked so sharp! So crystal clear! I hadn’t realized what a fog I’d been groping around in……
Then I made a fatal error. I looked in the mirror.
“Oh dear!” I sighed, as my fantasy breathed its last. Who WAS that elderly person wearing my clothes?
Every line and wrinkle was clearly delineated, even ones I hadn’t known I had……. It didn’t help that the mirror at the optical shop also magnified everything.
One night recently, eating a piece of cheese, I felt an ominous “crunch.” The outer shell of a filled tooth had broken off. No pain. Yet. Just an empty hole.
The dentist, hardly able to conceal his glee, said I would need a crown, and that would be another king’s ransom, thank you very much, and come in again next week so we can muck about in your mouth some more.
This afternoon I went to the grocery store, head in the clouds, and forgot to make a note of where I parked. When I came out, cart full of groceries, I had no idea where my car was. I wandered back and forth, trying to look nonchalant, trying to appear to know where I was going…….
I haven’t lost my mind. I really haven’t. But damned if I can remember where I put it.
Is this what turning sixty is going to be like? The eyesight goes, the teeth fall out, the memory goes missing. And it’s only January. What other indignities should I brace myself for before May? And me foolishly thinking I still had a few months of youth.
But, don’t mind me, gods, I’m not complaining. No sirs. Not me. Far better the universe mess with my body than my head…….
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Reading The Paper
I usually read the St Pete Times in the evening. A lot of the news is depressing, so I start with the fun stuff. After I’ve done sudoku and the crossword, I deal with the rest of it.
The sports section goes mostly unread, yawn, unless there is obvious tennis coverage on the front page.
The classifieds are dispatched after a quick look at the local photo of the day on the back page.
I scan the business section for anything of interest. The stock market reports are Double Dutch to me anyway…..
The main section is full of the posturings of the various candidates. Not too interested in reading BS, but in there one can also find news of the rest of the world, and sometimes interesting editorials.
Then there’s the local and state section, mildly interesting, but doesn’t usually stir up passionate reactions. Not until last night, that is, when I found myself looking at a mug shot of a surly heavyset man in his early forties.
His claim to fame?
He set his SUV on fire in his ex-girlfriend’s driveway.
With his two Labrador retrievers, Sweetie and Honey, locked inside.
Because he wanted to punish the woman, and he knew she loved his dogs, even if she no longer loved him.
There is so much horrific stuff going on these days that I’ve grown a thicker skin than I used to have. I don’t weep so easily any more. Man’s inhumanity to man is an old story. But to lash out at man’s best friend? Incomprehensible. And unforgiveable.
Police and Fire Rescue personnel dragged the man away from his blazing vehicle. Then one of them smashed a window and tried to rescue the dogs. By the time they got the fire under control Sweetie was dead and Honey barely alive.
The sadistic lunatic is in serious condition in the burn unit. I’m having a hard time feeling any pity for him. Sweetie’s suffering is over, but my heart goes out to Honey. As the vet said, labs are extremely good natured and forgiving dogs. I know. We had two. And by co-incidence, I had just seen an adorable black lab puppy walking with his owner earlier in the afternoon. How anyone could repay their unconditional love and devotion so cruelly, is beyond comprehension. Honey has a sixty percent chance of survival, according to the vet, but even if she lives she may have brain damage and might never see again.
Maybe tonight I’ll stick to the crossword and give the news a miss.
The sports section goes mostly unread, yawn, unless there is obvious tennis coverage on the front page.
The classifieds are dispatched after a quick look at the local photo of the day on the back page.
I scan the business section for anything of interest. The stock market reports are Double Dutch to me anyway…..
The main section is full of the posturings of the various candidates. Not too interested in reading BS, but in there one can also find news of the rest of the world, and sometimes interesting editorials.
Then there’s the local and state section, mildly interesting, but doesn’t usually stir up passionate reactions. Not until last night, that is, when I found myself looking at a mug shot of a surly heavyset man in his early forties.
His claim to fame?
He set his SUV on fire in his ex-girlfriend’s driveway.
With his two Labrador retrievers, Sweetie and Honey, locked inside.
Because he wanted to punish the woman, and he knew she loved his dogs, even if she no longer loved him.
There is so much horrific stuff going on these days that I’ve grown a thicker skin than I used to have. I don’t weep so easily any more. Man’s inhumanity to man is an old story. But to lash out at man’s best friend? Incomprehensible. And unforgiveable.
Police and Fire Rescue personnel dragged the man away from his blazing vehicle. Then one of them smashed a window and tried to rescue the dogs. By the time they got the fire under control Sweetie was dead and Honey barely alive.
The sadistic lunatic is in serious condition in the burn unit. I’m having a hard time feeling any pity for him. Sweetie’s suffering is over, but my heart goes out to Honey. As the vet said, labs are extremely good natured and forgiving dogs. I know. We had two. And by co-incidence, I had just seen an adorable black lab puppy walking with his owner earlier in the afternoon. How anyone could repay their unconditional love and devotion so cruelly, is beyond comprehension. Honey has a sixty percent chance of survival, according to the vet, but even if she lives she may have brain damage and might never see again.
Maybe tonight I’ll stick to the crossword and give the news a miss.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Born Without The Car-Buying Gene......
I’m all for fair play for women; equal pay for equal work; no doors closed due to gender; be all that you can be, and so on. If a woman wants to be a linebacker on a football team, and can hold her own with the gorillas, I’ll be the first to step out of her way. If she has a scientific bent and wants to find a cure for cancer, I’ll be her most enthusiastic supporter. If she wants to lead a group of like minded lunatics into the jungle to do research on the tse-tse fly, I’ll shake my head in awe, and wish her god-speed. As long as it is understood that I have no interest in being a football player; interest in, but no talent for, scientific research; and a marked dislike of sticky, jungley, creepy-crawly infested places.
Even though I sometimes felt trapped raising five children,I liked being at home with them, wiping their noses, soothing their fears, patching up their skinned knees, assuring them that everything would turn out right in the end. I admired women who did all this AND held down a job, but was glad not to have to join them.
You may have surmised, from recent morose comments on these pages, that our youngest, our six-foot-four-pride-and-joy, had an altercation with a slick road surface and a wet pond from which, by some miracle we are very grateful for, he emerged unscathed. Not so his car, which was traveling with him at the time. Totalled, I believe, is the word. Horrified, the feeling.
Since we live in the outer fringes of the Back of Beyond, where distances are long and public transportation non existent, a car is a necessity. So, since before Christmas, I’ve been sharing my car with the Boy, which gets problematical when you consider that we try not to share news of such altercations with the Ancient Ones. For a while there was no problem. The OC was home, and we had a rental.
But, “life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.” The OC returned to the frozen north. The Bean’s classes resumed. Suddenly I was car-less at the time I would normally be going for “the daily visit”. Subterfuge, skullduggery, incoherent mumbling---just some of the strategies shamelessly employed to keep them in the dark. They may be old, they may be hard of hearing, but stupid they are not. Before they smelled a rat, we needed to shop around for a car.
And by “we” I mean the Boy and I. A clear case of the blind leading the more blind.
A golfing friend,in the know about cars, was contacted. Last weekend we drove an hour north to meet him and see some vehicles he had selected as possible candidates.
The Bean circled them, rubbed his chin, looked dubious, while I stewed in a paroxysm of embarrassment because he wasn't looking happier after the golfing friend had gone to so much trouble. He test drove a few. Looked even less happy, and eventually we took our leave, empty handed. Just as well as it turned out.
The OC researched from afar and located two more likely vehicles. Contact was made, appointments set up and I couldn’t sleep a wink all night.
What did I know about buying a vehicle?
How would I know they weren’t selling us a tin can in fancy dress?
Where would I run to if they started talking about transmissions, or timing belts, rotors or worse?
And how would we accomplish the ”pre-purchase appraisal by a trusted mechanic” when both cars were located far from any mechanic we knew, trusted or otherwise?
How would we manage the money end of the operation? Would we carry wads of bills in a pillowcase tossed in the back seat of my car? Or a briefcase, gangster-style? Or get a cashier’s check from the bank? The logistics kept nagging at me, since both cars were at least an hour away in different directions…..
And where was the OC when his physical presence and expertise was desperately needed??
It didn’t help to pose these questions to the OC on the phone. Because, and herein lies one of the biggest differences 'tween he and me, he was born WITH the car-buying gene. Men born with the car-buying gene consider such questions trivial, nay, assinine, because this knowledge is supposed to be wired into one from birth. So their voices go up a notch and they have a tendency to yell. And when the yelling starts the Mollybrain, poor carbuyinggene-less organ that it is, shuts down and goes to vision only. Blurred vision at that. The mental channels get clogged, and clarity of thought, if it was ever there, goes right out the window.
Ask me about quilting. There’s a good chance I’ll know the answer off the top of my head, and if I don’t, I’ll know how to find out.
Ask me to organize a dinner party for twelve for tomorrow night…….
Ask me about baking bread……
Ask me about grammar…..in several languages....
Ask me about knitting…actually, ask Liz about knitting…….
Ask me about books…….
About geography…..
About politics in the outer Hebrides….
About my opinion of the Current Occupant…….
About the mating habits of Laplanders……
Just don’t ask me anything about cars….……
Turns out, to my relief, it didn’t matter, this genetic short-fall of mine, because the Bean, being his father’s son, may also have been born with the gene in question. It’s just never been put to the test before. He asked questions; he peered, with an air of knowing what he was about, under hoods and into innards; he test drove, and consulted with the OC by phone……
We met no sellers of fancy tin cans, but two decent fellows trying to sell their cars for a fair price. The Bean liked the first one a lot, but the second one better. Which worked out well, as the OC had surmised, from his research-from-afar, that the second was likely the better deal.
We even randomly picked a garage, and had them give it the once over. As the mechanic poked and prodded, I peered in at all those belts and batteries and pistons and spark plugs, and wished, for the thousandth time, the OC was with us.
“How much is he asking?” the mechanic whispered to me conspiratorially. The car’s owner was standing outside talking to the Bean, and I had wandered over.
“Buy it!” he said, when I told him.
And that is how it came to pass that
I got MY car back, and
The Bean once again has wheels of his own, [he keeps disappearing outside to pet them,] and a very empty savings account!
And all without me having the car-buying gene!
If you’d like my autograph, let me know. I’ll see what I can do.
You may also want the OC's autograph since he managed to convince me we could do this without him. No mean feat. And he really reined in his frustration with all the annoying questions. Maybe I've been more successful than I thought, and he's starting to think more like a woman....On second thoughts, as he would say himself "I wouldn't bet my hat, ass and overcoat on that!"
And now, if all you high achieving, mechanically accomplished women will excuse me, I have some cookies to bake.
Even though I sometimes felt trapped raising five children,I liked being at home with them, wiping their noses, soothing their fears, patching up their skinned knees, assuring them that everything would turn out right in the end. I admired women who did all this AND held down a job, but was glad not to have to join them.
You may have surmised, from recent morose comments on these pages, that our youngest, our six-foot-four-pride-and-joy, had an altercation with a slick road surface and a wet pond from which, by some miracle we are very grateful for, he emerged unscathed. Not so his car, which was traveling with him at the time. Totalled, I believe, is the word. Horrified, the feeling.
Since we live in the outer fringes of the Back of Beyond, where distances are long and public transportation non existent, a car is a necessity. So, since before Christmas, I’ve been sharing my car with the Boy, which gets problematical when you consider that we try not to share news of such altercations with the Ancient Ones. For a while there was no problem. The OC was home, and we had a rental.
But, “life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.” The OC returned to the frozen north. The Bean’s classes resumed. Suddenly I was car-less at the time I would normally be going for “the daily visit”. Subterfuge, skullduggery, incoherent mumbling---just some of the strategies shamelessly employed to keep them in the dark. They may be old, they may be hard of hearing, but stupid they are not. Before they smelled a rat, we needed to shop around for a car.
And by “we” I mean the Boy and I. A clear case of the blind leading the more blind.
A golfing friend,in the know about cars, was contacted. Last weekend we drove an hour north to meet him and see some vehicles he had selected as possible candidates.
The Bean circled them, rubbed his chin, looked dubious, while I stewed in a paroxysm of embarrassment because he wasn't looking happier after the golfing friend had gone to so much trouble. He test drove a few. Looked even less happy, and eventually we took our leave, empty handed. Just as well as it turned out.
The OC researched from afar and located two more likely vehicles. Contact was made, appointments set up and I couldn’t sleep a wink all night.
What did I know about buying a vehicle?
How would I know they weren’t selling us a tin can in fancy dress?
Where would I run to if they started talking about transmissions, or timing belts, rotors or worse?
And how would we accomplish the ”pre-purchase appraisal by a trusted mechanic” when both cars were located far from any mechanic we knew, trusted or otherwise?
How would we manage the money end of the operation? Would we carry wads of bills in a pillowcase tossed in the back seat of my car? Or a briefcase, gangster-style? Or get a cashier’s check from the bank? The logistics kept nagging at me, since both cars were at least an hour away in different directions…..
And where was the OC when his physical presence and expertise was desperately needed??
It didn’t help to pose these questions to the OC on the phone. Because, and herein lies one of the biggest differences 'tween he and me, he was born WITH the car-buying gene. Men born with the car-buying gene consider such questions trivial, nay, assinine, because this knowledge is supposed to be wired into one from birth. So their voices go up a notch and they have a tendency to yell. And when the yelling starts the Mollybrain, poor carbuyinggene-less organ that it is, shuts down and goes to vision only. Blurred vision at that. The mental channels get clogged, and clarity of thought, if it was ever there, goes right out the window.
Ask me about quilting. There’s a good chance I’ll know the answer off the top of my head, and if I don’t, I’ll know how to find out.
Ask me to organize a dinner party for twelve for tomorrow night…….
Ask me about baking bread……
Ask me about grammar…..in several languages....
Ask me about knitting…actually, ask Liz about knitting…….
Ask me about books…….
About geography…..
About politics in the outer Hebrides….
About my opinion of the Current Occupant…….
About the mating habits of Laplanders……
Just don’t ask me anything about cars….……
Turns out, to my relief, it didn’t matter, this genetic short-fall of mine, because the Bean, being his father’s son, may also have been born with the gene in question. It’s just never been put to the test before. He asked questions; he peered, with an air of knowing what he was about, under hoods and into innards; he test drove, and consulted with the OC by phone……
We met no sellers of fancy tin cans, but two decent fellows trying to sell their cars for a fair price. The Bean liked the first one a lot, but the second one better. Which worked out well, as the OC had surmised, from his research-from-afar, that the second was likely the better deal.
We even randomly picked a garage, and had them give it the once over. As the mechanic poked and prodded, I peered in at all those belts and batteries and pistons and spark plugs, and wished, for the thousandth time, the OC was with us.
“How much is he asking?” the mechanic whispered to me conspiratorially. The car’s owner was standing outside talking to the Bean, and I had wandered over.
“Buy it!” he said, when I told him.
And that is how it came to pass that
I got MY car back, and
The Bean once again has wheels of his own, [he keeps disappearing outside to pet them,] and a very empty savings account!
And all without me having the car-buying gene!
If you’d like my autograph, let me know. I’ll see what I can do.
You may also want the OC's autograph since he managed to convince me we could do this without him. No mean feat. And he really reined in his frustration with all the annoying questions. Maybe I've been more successful than I thought, and he's starting to think more like a woman....On second thoughts, as he would say himself "I wouldn't bet my hat, ass and overcoat on that!"
And now, if all you high achieving, mechanically accomplished women will excuse me, I have some cookies to bake.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Wherein I Dodge The Fashion Police and Stay Warm
It was cold this morning. OK, cold for here. I know better than to whine to folks up north about cold.
As he loaded the bikes on the back of the car the Boy glanced my way.
“You look like you’re going to the North Pole,” he said.
“Well, it is cold.”
I do not like to shiver and had armed myself against that possibility. On my feet, socks and sneakers; higher up some snuggly grey knee-length sweats; higher still a pink, long-sleeved t-shirt under a red fleece jacket; a beige, hand knitted woollen scarf wound around my neck, and the lovely pink caubeen my daughter made me for Christmas wrapped my head in a warm hug.
He was wearing thin grey sweats and a t-shirt. Yes, a T-shirt. Brrr. But he’s a big bird now, so I refrained from suggesting he might be glad of another layer.
Unloading the bikes at the trailhead, he remarked
“Brisk!”
“Yes,” said I pleasantly from inside my cocoon, “isn’t it though!”
I did have the grace to feel slightly ashamed that I had not spoken up about another layer, but we do have our manhood to defend, and we can’t have mothers treating us like children, now can we?
Biting breeze notwithstanding, the Boy soon disappeared down the trail, and I was left to piddle-peddle along at my own meditative speed.
It occurred to me that if Brad should spot me on the bike trail, Angelina’s days might be numbered. As it was, some professional looking bikers---you know, the ones in the spandex and the helmets, nearly fell off their machines when they saw me, so smitten were they. But I pedaled on regardless, heedless of their admiration.
It’s lovely out on that trail early in the morning. As I have said before. Nothing but trees and fields and crisp blue air. An environment conducive to working out the kinks in your head.
I watched a large majestic bird --- a hawk maybe, or an eagle, drifting on the air currents, dipping down towards the fields then lazily soaring upwards again. And I thought, if I have to come back again, I want to come back as such a bird.
And then I saw what he was circling for. A poor bunny or squirrel had met his waterloo across a field, and some buzzards were busy cleaning up. Nature’s sanitation crew, doing what has to be done, but creepy and ugly looking birds. I went back to contemplating my noble eagle’s lazy maneuvers. And soon my cell phone was ringing and it was time to turn homeward.
The Boy rode twenty miles out and back. And me? Maybe ten. And both of us were fine in our respective gear.
It was a great way to start the day despite the chill!
.
As he loaded the bikes on the back of the car the Boy glanced my way.
“You look like you’re going to the North Pole,” he said.
“Well, it is cold.”
I do not like to shiver and had armed myself against that possibility. On my feet, socks and sneakers; higher up some snuggly grey knee-length sweats; higher still a pink, long-sleeved t-shirt under a red fleece jacket; a beige, hand knitted woollen scarf wound around my neck, and the lovely pink caubeen my daughter made me for Christmas wrapped my head in a warm hug.
He was wearing thin grey sweats and a t-shirt. Yes, a T-shirt. Brrr. But he’s a big bird now, so I refrained from suggesting he might be glad of another layer.
Unloading the bikes at the trailhead, he remarked
“Brisk!”
“Yes,” said I pleasantly from inside my cocoon, “isn’t it though!”
I did have the grace to feel slightly ashamed that I had not spoken up about another layer, but we do have our manhood to defend, and we can’t have mothers treating us like children, now can we?
Biting breeze notwithstanding, the Boy soon disappeared down the trail, and I was left to piddle-peddle along at my own meditative speed.
It occurred to me that if Brad should spot me on the bike trail, Angelina’s days might be numbered. As it was, some professional looking bikers---you know, the ones in the spandex and the helmets, nearly fell off their machines when they saw me, so smitten were they. But I pedaled on regardless, heedless of their admiration.
It’s lovely out on that trail early in the morning. As I have said before. Nothing but trees and fields and crisp blue air. An environment conducive to working out the kinks in your head.
I watched a large majestic bird --- a hawk maybe, or an eagle, drifting on the air currents, dipping down towards the fields then lazily soaring upwards again. And I thought, if I have to come back again, I want to come back as such a bird.
And then I saw what he was circling for. A poor bunny or squirrel had met his waterloo across a field, and some buzzards were busy cleaning up. Nature’s sanitation crew, doing what has to be done, but creepy and ugly looking birds. I went back to contemplating my noble eagle’s lazy maneuvers. And soon my cell phone was ringing and it was time to turn homeward.
The Boy rode twenty miles out and back. And me? Maybe ten. And both of us were fine in our respective gear.
It was a great way to start the day despite the chill!
.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Would You Like To Swing On A Star?
Sunday. The feast of the Epiphany, and not a Wise Man in sight. Just one Wiseguy and an Ancient Crone.
They could have rolled up their sleeves, taken down the tree. After all, the Three Wise Men had doggedly followed that star and finally arrived in Bethlehem. Christmas is over. But....
“The sun is shining. It’s lovely outside. Weather blizzard-weary northerners would kill for!”
There was still time for a hike. They took the longer rather than the shorter trail.
The Wiseguy assured the aged one that he could navigate back by the stars…...
But first, this spectacular sunset…..
Then darkness.
The stars were out. She recognized Orion, though it still looks more like a Scottie dog than a hunter, just as it did, streeling home from school in four o’clock darkness, long ago.
“Watch out for potholes,” warned the Wiseguy.
“ Can’t see them, even if I look,” intoned the Crone, still gazing heavenwards.
Inky blackness all around, but higher up, lacey, long leaf pine silhouettes against the navy sky.
And higher still the stars.
So many.
So bright.
So mobile!
“UFOs,” he said.
But even she is not that gullible.
“Small planes....” she said. “But why so many?”
Do they all have dates to dance with the stars?
It’s good to get out and dance along a trail under stars in the darkness.
Especially on a velvety Florida evening.
It puts things in perspective.
And calms the soul.
**Excuse me for going bananas in this post with pictures. For some reason, in it's contrariness, the computer has decided to let me upload photos. It may change it's mind tomorrow....so I have to upload while the uploading is good. Bear with me....
They could have rolled up their sleeves, taken down the tree. After all, the Three Wise Men had doggedly followed that star and finally arrived in Bethlehem. Christmas is over. But....
“The sun is shining. It’s lovely outside. Weather blizzard-weary northerners would kill for!”
There was still time for a hike. They took the longer rather than the shorter trail.
The Wiseguy assured the aged one that he could navigate back by the stars…...
But first, this spectacular sunset…..
Then darkness.
The stars were out. She recognized Orion, though it still looks more like a Scottie dog than a hunter, just as it did, streeling home from school in four o’clock darkness, long ago.
“Watch out for potholes,” warned the Wiseguy.
“ Can’t see them, even if I look,” intoned the Crone, still gazing heavenwards.
Inky blackness all around, but higher up, lacey, long leaf pine silhouettes against the navy sky.
And higher still the stars.
So many.
So bright.
So mobile!
“UFOs,” he said.
But even she is not that gullible.
“Small planes....” she said. “But why so many?”
Do they all have dates to dance with the stars?
It’s good to get out and dance along a trail under stars in the darkness.
Especially on a velvety Florida evening.
It puts things in perspective.
And calms the soul.
**Excuse me for going bananas in this post with pictures. For some reason, in it's contrariness, the computer has decided to let me upload photos. It may change it's mind tomorrow....so I have to upload while the uploading is good. Bear with me....
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Home Is.......?
* ……Home: Middle English “hoom,” “hom,” from Old English “ham”---village, country, dwelling, home; akin to Old High German “heim” homeland, dwelling, house……………..
I’ve been thinking a lot about “home” and what a powerful influence a place, or memories of a place, can wield, even long after you no longer live there. I have such a place. My biggest regret is that my children don’t.
I took my sister-in-law to the airport one morning last week. She was going home to New York, where she has lived all but the first six years of her life. She lives in the house she moved into when she moved out of her parents’ house. Her twenty one year old daughter has never lived anywhere else. No question for them where “home” is.
In the afternoon I made another trip to the airport, this time with the OC, who was returning to the frozen north. Was he going “home,” or was he, once again, leaving “home?”
*…..the house and grounds with their appurtenances habitually occupied by a family……
The OC has a lifetime of experience of leaving home. Because of Stalin, and war, his parents left their Ukrainian homeland before he was born. When he and his sister were six months old their parents left Germany, their birthplace, for South America. Within a few days their father was at the American Embassy applying for papers to come to the States, because a few days were enough for him to realize he didn’t want to stay in Argentina. But it was going to be a long wait.
After six years they finally set sail for New York. Their new home. Where they didn’t speak the language. Where the woman who had been a respected schoolteacher in her own country had to scrub stairwells and shovel coal to make ends meet. Where her husband, who had attended law school for two years in Europe, worked as a waiter, and in construction, and at anything else that would keep food on the table. Proud and determined, they gradually scratched out a decent life, grateful for opportunities available in America to people who were willing to work hard. They love this country. They’re well off and want for nothing….except….. home. The older they get the more they hanker for the Ukraine of their youth. Which doesn’t exist anymore as they knew it, except in their memories. Their farmland and ancestral homes belong to the state now. Thanks Mr.Stalin.
The OC was a natural for AF life. Because, as sure as the sun rises in the east, the AF will send you to a new assignment every three years. Guaranteed. You become an expert at packing and moving. The children make forts with the boxes. But as they get older they start to realize that, as much fun as cardboard castles are, they don’t quite make up for what you lose in the moves. Friends, for instance. Teachers and classmates who know you and your brothers and sisters, and maybe even your parents. Familiar places. Favourite haunts. As soon as you find friends, familiar faces and favourite haunts in the new place, you’ll know it must be time to be moving on….
Before Liz went to college she filled out a newcomers’ questionnaire for the university’s freshman guide. We lived in Stuttgart at the time and she had just graduated from the American school there. So she wrote “Stuttgart” in the “hometown” slot. As anyone who’s been in a military family stationed overseas knows, APO, NY [Army Post Office, New York] is the bottom line for your address if you’re stationed in Europe. This is so that friends and family don’t have to pay overseas postage to stay in touch…….. The questionnaire was posted and promptly forgotten…..until the freshman guide arrived in the mail. Liz’s hometown was listed, by the geniuses who had put the guide together, as Apo, NY, a town nobody could find on the map!
Liz has hunkered down in a heartland town and issued fair warning that she is not moving until her boys are out of college. And probably not even then. For her, home is stabililty, continuity, familiarity. If I’d had a clue way back then, I’d have dug in my heels too.
*……………the family environment to which one is emotionally attached………..
But I didn’t have a clue. I’d lived in the same town and the same house until I was twenty two. I thought it was boring. I wanted to travel, to see the world, to have grand adventures. So? I traveled, I saw places I never expected to see when I was poring over my stamp album and dreaming of the places my stamps came from. Now I understand the saying “Be careful what you wish for!” I didn’t see ahead to all the times I’d be yanking my little saplings out of soil they were thriving in and transplanting them into strange dirt in faraway places. And then, just as they started to develop new roots, yanking them up again….. And again…... And again. Why is it that only hindsight is 20-20?
*………the refuge or usual haunt of an animal……………………….
We’ve called many places home in the past thirty plus years. Germany and Belgium were my favourites, maybe because they were most like home. There’s that word again. Home. For me, home is the place that holds your heart; the place that constantly pulls you back. The place I plotted to escape to whenever the marital bliss indicator was teetering at zero. Even though, if I had to spend a winter there, the rain and the cold would kick my butt and send me whimpering back to Florida!
After we’d been married a year I flew home for a visit, all the way from the arid Mojave. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed “home” until we came in sight of the west coast of Ireland. How my breath caught and my heart lurched when the first little islands off the coast hove into view, all glistening green and indescribably beautiful in the early morning sun! Suddenly, unexpectedly, I was sobbing. Life had gone blythely on without me, but, in that moment, I knew I would never have such a feeling of belonging, of being home, as I did here.
I wish I could have given my children that connection to a special place, to home. Home for one son is where his children are. Another feels more at home in England. For our younger daughter home is where her horses and dogs are. And the Bean is still, for now, hanging "at home" with me.
Since the OC is unlikely to suggest moving to Ireland any time soon, my next best ideal “home” would be a village, anywhere, like the one we lived in in Belgium. The market square would be within walking distance of our house, with a butcher and baker and chocolate maker! Friends I’ve made and left through the years would live in, or near, our village. What fun it would be to introduce them to each other. Imagine the picnics we’d have in our flower filled garden! Jan would be there. And Pauline and Silvana. And MaryBeth and Julia, and Joy, and Heide, and Becky………I’d have two special guest houses. One, roomy enough to sleep the children and the grandchildren, those already here and those who may yet be born. And one for Rise, for when she and GB could be coaxed away from their Bolthole-by-the-Sea.
Maybe it’s not home I’m thinking of but heaven!
Home for now is here, in Florida, and a very comfy home it is. With no snow to shovel or blizzards to shiver in. I’m not writing this in the spirit of bitching or bellyaching. More of a waking daydream. Without husband, children or grandchildren to fuss over, my mind tends to wander, and wonder……Is it still home if nobody’s there?
*.……..focus of domestic affections [~ is where the heart is]………………
At the end of the day, no matter where I hang my hat or lay my head, home is a place I carry with me in my heart.
*....from Webster's Dictionary.
I’ve been thinking a lot about “home” and what a powerful influence a place, or memories of a place, can wield, even long after you no longer live there. I have such a place. My biggest regret is that my children don’t.
I took my sister-in-law to the airport one morning last week. She was going home to New York, where she has lived all but the first six years of her life. She lives in the house she moved into when she moved out of her parents’ house. Her twenty one year old daughter has never lived anywhere else. No question for them where “home” is.
In the afternoon I made another trip to the airport, this time with the OC, who was returning to the frozen north. Was he going “home,” or was he, once again, leaving “home?”
*…..the house and grounds with their appurtenances habitually occupied by a family……
The OC has a lifetime of experience of leaving home. Because of Stalin, and war, his parents left their Ukrainian homeland before he was born. When he and his sister were six months old their parents left Germany, their birthplace, for South America. Within a few days their father was at the American Embassy applying for papers to come to the States, because a few days were enough for him to realize he didn’t want to stay in Argentina. But it was going to be a long wait.
After six years they finally set sail for New York. Their new home. Where they didn’t speak the language. Where the woman who had been a respected schoolteacher in her own country had to scrub stairwells and shovel coal to make ends meet. Where her husband, who had attended law school for two years in Europe, worked as a waiter, and in construction, and at anything else that would keep food on the table. Proud and determined, they gradually scratched out a decent life, grateful for opportunities available in America to people who were willing to work hard. They love this country. They’re well off and want for nothing….except….. home. The older they get the more they hanker for the Ukraine of their youth. Which doesn’t exist anymore as they knew it, except in their memories. Their farmland and ancestral homes belong to the state now. Thanks Mr.Stalin.
The OC was a natural for AF life. Because, as sure as the sun rises in the east, the AF will send you to a new assignment every three years. Guaranteed. You become an expert at packing and moving. The children make forts with the boxes. But as they get older they start to realize that, as much fun as cardboard castles are, they don’t quite make up for what you lose in the moves. Friends, for instance. Teachers and classmates who know you and your brothers and sisters, and maybe even your parents. Familiar places. Favourite haunts. As soon as you find friends, familiar faces and favourite haunts in the new place, you’ll know it must be time to be moving on….
Before Liz went to college she filled out a newcomers’ questionnaire for the university’s freshman guide. We lived in Stuttgart at the time and she had just graduated from the American school there. So she wrote “Stuttgart” in the “hometown” slot. As anyone who’s been in a military family stationed overseas knows, APO, NY [Army Post Office, New York] is the bottom line for your address if you’re stationed in Europe. This is so that friends and family don’t have to pay overseas postage to stay in touch…….. The questionnaire was posted and promptly forgotten…..until the freshman guide arrived in the mail. Liz’s hometown was listed, by the geniuses who had put the guide together, as Apo, NY, a town nobody could find on the map!
Liz has hunkered down in a heartland town and issued fair warning that she is not moving until her boys are out of college. And probably not even then. For her, home is stabililty, continuity, familiarity. If I’d had a clue way back then, I’d have dug in my heels too.
*……………the family environment to which one is emotionally attached………..
But I didn’t have a clue. I’d lived in the same town and the same house until I was twenty two. I thought it was boring. I wanted to travel, to see the world, to have grand adventures. So? I traveled, I saw places I never expected to see when I was poring over my stamp album and dreaming of the places my stamps came from. Now I understand the saying “Be careful what you wish for!” I didn’t see ahead to all the times I’d be yanking my little saplings out of soil they were thriving in and transplanting them into strange dirt in faraway places. And then, just as they started to develop new roots, yanking them up again….. And again…... And again. Why is it that only hindsight is 20-20?
*………the refuge or usual haunt of an animal……………………….
We’ve called many places home in the past thirty plus years. Germany and Belgium were my favourites, maybe because they were most like home. There’s that word again. Home. For me, home is the place that holds your heart; the place that constantly pulls you back. The place I plotted to escape to whenever the marital bliss indicator was teetering at zero. Even though, if I had to spend a winter there, the rain and the cold would kick my butt and send me whimpering back to Florida!
After we’d been married a year I flew home for a visit, all the way from the arid Mojave. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed “home” until we came in sight of the west coast of Ireland. How my breath caught and my heart lurched when the first little islands off the coast hove into view, all glistening green and indescribably beautiful in the early morning sun! Suddenly, unexpectedly, I was sobbing. Life had gone blythely on without me, but, in that moment, I knew I would never have such a feeling of belonging, of being home, as I did here.
I wish I could have given my children that connection to a special place, to home. Home for one son is where his children are. Another feels more at home in England. For our younger daughter home is where her horses and dogs are. And the Bean is still, for now, hanging "at home" with me.
Since the OC is unlikely to suggest moving to Ireland any time soon, my next best ideal “home” would be a village, anywhere, like the one we lived in in Belgium. The market square would be within walking distance of our house, with a butcher and baker and chocolate maker! Friends I’ve made and left through the years would live in, or near, our village. What fun it would be to introduce them to each other. Imagine the picnics we’d have in our flower filled garden! Jan would be there. And Pauline and Silvana. And MaryBeth and Julia, and Joy, and Heide, and Becky………I’d have two special guest houses. One, roomy enough to sleep the children and the grandchildren, those already here and those who may yet be born. And one for Rise, for when she and GB could be coaxed away from their Bolthole-by-the-Sea.
Maybe it’s not home I’m thinking of but heaven!
Home for now is here, in Florida, and a very comfy home it is. With no snow to shovel or blizzards to shiver in. I’m not writing this in the spirit of bitching or bellyaching. More of a waking daydream. Without husband, children or grandchildren to fuss over, my mind tends to wander, and wonder……Is it still home if nobody’s there?
*.……..focus of domestic affections [~ is where the heart is]………………
At the end of the day, no matter where I hang my hat or lay my head, home is a place I carry with me in my heart.
*....from Webster's Dictionary.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Happy Birthday Miss Sophie!
The Germans have many traditions which almost make me wish I was German. One of them is that around midnight on New Year's Eve they watch the movie "Dinner for One." Every year. The weird thing is, it's an English movie. It's only about ten minutes long. But it proves that laughter is an international language. And what better way to start the new year than with merriment. Check it out and see if you agree. And, even if you don't, I wish you a very happy new year!
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Yonder Peasant, Who Is He.....
“The wren, the wren, the king of all birds,
St. Stephen’s day was caught in the furze.
Up with the kettle and down with the pan,
Give us a penny to bury the wren!”
I listened and listened, when I woke up this morning, but couldn’t hear the raucous cries and tin-can clatter of the Wren Boys.
“That’s because, Dorothy,” a little voice in my head reasoned, “we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Boxing Day, the English called it. We thought that sounded awfully posh. To us it was simply St. Stephen’s day, of Good King Wencslas fame, and, more locally, the day the Wren Boys, bright and early, came prancing and rattling around our houses, begging for pennies to bury the wren. There was nothing posh about them. They came in loose, raggle-taggle, straggling bands, faces blackened, dressed in rags, making an awful din with tin cans and makeshift instruments, chanting their rhyme at the top of their lungs. All the children rushed out to see them. We didn’t know who they were or where they came from, or where they went when they got too hoarse to sing anymore. They were simply carrying on a centuries-old tradition, whose origins had been long ago forgotten. If you didn’t have keen ears you might miss them altogether. They never lingered for long. They were on a mission to raise enough pennies to give the wren a decent burial. Wink,wink.
Soon it was quiet again and we all wandered off. St. Stephen’s day was still part of the Christmas holiday. Everyone sighed contentedly. If I got a new book for Christmas you’d find me blissfully buried in it, curled up by the fire. Sometimes, joy of joys, a fire would be lit in the front sitting room, where there were comfy couches and you could pretend to be a grand lady. Usually the front room was off limits to hooligans like us, and warmed up and used only on state occasions, a few days around Christmas included. Sometimes you’d wonder if those raucous, wretched Wren boys had such a comfy place to go at the end of their adventures, and vaguely wonder why some people did and some people didn’t…..and feel a little guilty for being, undeservedly, among the lucky ones.
St. Stephen’s day was caught in the furze.
Up with the kettle and down with the pan,
Give us a penny to bury the wren!”
I listened and listened, when I woke up this morning, but couldn’t hear the raucous cries and tin-can clatter of the Wren Boys.
“That’s because, Dorothy,” a little voice in my head reasoned, “we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Boxing Day, the English called it. We thought that sounded awfully posh. To us it was simply St. Stephen’s day, of Good King Wencslas fame, and, more locally, the day the Wren Boys, bright and early, came prancing and rattling around our houses, begging for pennies to bury the wren. There was nothing posh about them. They came in loose, raggle-taggle, straggling bands, faces blackened, dressed in rags, making an awful din with tin cans and makeshift instruments, chanting their rhyme at the top of their lungs. All the children rushed out to see them. We didn’t know who they were or where they came from, or where they went when they got too hoarse to sing anymore. They were simply carrying on a centuries-old tradition, whose origins had been long ago forgotten. If you didn’t have keen ears you might miss them altogether. They never lingered for long. They were on a mission to raise enough pennies to give the wren a decent burial. Wink,wink.
Soon it was quiet again and we all wandered off. St. Stephen’s day was still part of the Christmas holiday. Everyone sighed contentedly. If I got a new book for Christmas you’d find me blissfully buried in it, curled up by the fire. Sometimes, joy of joys, a fire would be lit in the front sitting room, where there were comfy couches and you could pretend to be a grand lady. Usually the front room was off limits to hooligans like us, and warmed up and used only on state occasions, a few days around Christmas included. Sometimes you’d wonder if those raucous, wretched Wren boys had such a comfy place to go at the end of their adventures, and vaguely wonder why some people did and some people didn’t…..and feel a little guilty for being, undeservedly, among the lucky ones.
Ghosts of Christmases Past
How strange to sleep ‘til nine o’clock on Christmas morning. Time was when you couldn’t nap past sunrise at our house on Dec.25th. Shiny eyed, excited munchkins would insinuate themselves into the bed with us and whisper that, even though it was still dark, it must be time to get up since Santa’d been, as evidenced by the empty glass and the plate of nothing-but-crumbs. And most of all by the intriguing packages he’d left under the tree. They’d already investigated the contents of their stockings and could hardly wait for the big stuff. But they knew the rules. Those pesky rules. So everyone could share in the fun, you weren’t allowed to open your presents until all were awake, and at least semi-coherent. Their father said it would strengthen their character.
When said father had been provided with a cup of strong tea or coffee, and was ready to preside, the ritual began. They vied with one another to be the one to pass out the presents.Each one had a turn. We all waited while each present was opened and oohed over. Or surreptiouslyly booed. Clothing items were low on the popularity list, no matter how painstakingly selected by their grandmother. The Bean, being the youngest, despaired of ever getting “his turn to pass out!”
And now the morning is slipping away and he is still passed out. Not excited to get up and find that, contrary to his explicit wish, Santa did not gather his siblings from the four corners and assemble them under the tree, all tied up prettily with ribbons and bows.
Christmas is not so much about presents as about presence. The presence of people you love. Christmas makes me long to be around the people who know me best and love me still…………Just for Christmas, I want them all here, for my sake as much as for their “little” brother’s. I want the chatter, the arguing, the clash of opposing opinions, the hum in the air, the energy. I want to have to put the extensions on the dining room table. I want to have to round up extra chairs. I can handle the chaos in the kitchen, the mess of dishes. No problem.
But “to everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.” Not to mention thousands of miles. I guess my season for munchkins at daybreak is over. I put my time in, and in my saner moments I know I wouldn’t want to go back. Not unless I went, armed once again, with youth and energy and lots and lots of stamina!
We had a very pleasant day. The OC is home. He even devised a surprise for the Bean that kept him happily busy for most of the afternoon. Under the heading of “some assembly required!” We are grateful to Mr. Alexander Graham Bell on whose ingenious invention we spent a good portion of the day, yakking ---to Columbus, California and Ireland. We didn’t have to shovel any snow. The sky was blue, the air balmy.
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon virgin mother and child,
Holy Infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Slee-eep in hea-ven-ly peace.
When said father had been provided with a cup of strong tea or coffee, and was ready to preside, the ritual began. They vied with one another to be the one to pass out the presents.Each one had a turn. We all waited while each present was opened and oohed over. Or surreptiouslyly booed. Clothing items were low on the popularity list, no matter how painstakingly selected by their grandmother. The Bean, being the youngest, despaired of ever getting “his turn to pass out!”
And now the morning is slipping away and he is still passed out. Not excited to get up and find that, contrary to his explicit wish, Santa did not gather his siblings from the four corners and assemble them under the tree, all tied up prettily with ribbons and bows.
Christmas is not so much about presents as about presence. The presence of people you love. Christmas makes me long to be around the people who know me best and love me still…………Just for Christmas, I want them all here, for my sake as much as for their “little” brother’s. I want the chatter, the arguing, the clash of opposing opinions, the hum in the air, the energy. I want to have to put the extensions on the dining room table. I want to have to round up extra chairs. I can handle the chaos in the kitchen, the mess of dishes. No problem.
But “to everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.” Not to mention thousands of miles. I guess my season for munchkins at daybreak is over. I put my time in, and in my saner moments I know I wouldn’t want to go back. Not unless I went, armed once again, with youth and energy and lots and lots of stamina!
We had a very pleasant day. The OC is home. He even devised a surprise for the Bean that kept him happily busy for most of the afternoon. Under the heading of “some assembly required!” We are grateful to Mr. Alexander Graham Bell on whose ingenious invention we spent a good portion of the day, yakking ---to Columbus, California and Ireland. We didn’t have to shovel any snow. The sky was blue, the air balmy.
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon virgin mother and child,
Holy Infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Slee-eep in hea-ven-ly peace.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
A Christmas Meander Through My [Alleged] Mind
Where've I been, you ask? Well, that depends....I've been out in the field, so to speak. The Siberian tundra, to be exact. In search of reindeer droppings, for annual packages to, among others, California Girl. Who has had a discouraging year, where not much has gone right. The least I can do is to ensure the reindeer droppings are of premium quality and arrive on time. Great care goes into the selection of our reindeer droppings. Size is a consideration, as is shape and texture. But our most stringent standards concern taste. We collect only from the finest grain- and peanut butter-fed animals. We do not aim to disappoint.
Subsequent to my field work in the frozen tundra, I've spent considerable time tangled in packaging tape, after which I stood in interminable lines at the post office. But that's OK. Everyone was in friendly, chatty mood, so it didn't seem so long. I got the low- down on one of my fellow line stander's teenage boys, and all their doings, and an in-depth report on the woes of the local real estate market from another line stander, who regaled me with details of how many foreclosures he's been handling per week. Sad for those being foreclosed on......especially at this time of year.
Trips to the airport have been made to pluck the OC, and his sister, from the friendly skies......
Little grandsons came for a day, from their beach sojourn, and lent a hand in decorating the tree. We went to the beach to see them another day, wrapped against the wind and the chill in sweaters and long sleeves, while lunatic tourists disported themselves in bikinis and such....crazy northerners---don't they know they could catch their deaths?
After thirty years of unsuccessful sugar cookie attempts, I finally, this year, found the perfect recipe. Do I get points for perseverance? These are cookies to die for. Except that they're a pain to make----but------oh,yum!
And just to make things super-interesting, the Bean wrecked his car. Fortunately, he is unharmed. But we are now engaged in the subterfuge and skullduggery required to keep such information from the ears of the Ancient Ones.......oy, oy, oy.
Apologies for the dearth of.....anything.....on here for so long. A New Year is coming and that always fills me with the determination to mend my evil ways.....I wish you all peace, above all, in your families and in the world. For me, I don't need perfume. I don't need socks. I don't need gadgets. I don't even NEED chocolate [want is another story.] What I need is harmony. Kind thoughts. Gentle words. And Peace on Earth. Is that too much to ask?
Merry Christmas friends!
Subsequent to my field work in the frozen tundra, I've spent considerable time tangled in packaging tape, after which I stood in interminable lines at the post office. But that's OK. Everyone was in friendly, chatty mood, so it didn't seem so long. I got the low- down on one of my fellow line stander's teenage boys, and all their doings, and an in-depth report on the woes of the local real estate market from another line stander, who regaled me with details of how many foreclosures he's been handling per week. Sad for those being foreclosed on......especially at this time of year.
Trips to the airport have been made to pluck the OC, and his sister, from the friendly skies......
Little grandsons came for a day, from their beach sojourn, and lent a hand in decorating the tree. We went to the beach to see them another day, wrapped against the wind and the chill in sweaters and long sleeves, while lunatic tourists disported themselves in bikinis and such....crazy northerners---don't they know they could catch their deaths?
After thirty years of unsuccessful sugar cookie attempts, I finally, this year, found the perfect recipe. Do I get points for perseverance? These are cookies to die for. Except that they're a pain to make----but------oh,yum!
And just to make things super-interesting, the Bean wrecked his car. Fortunately, he is unharmed. But we are now engaged in the subterfuge and skullduggery required to keep such information from the ears of the Ancient Ones.......oy, oy, oy.
Apologies for the dearth of.....anything.....on here for so long. A New Year is coming and that always fills me with the determination to mend my evil ways.....I wish you all peace, above all, in your families and in the world. For me, I don't need perfume. I don't need socks. I don't need gadgets. I don't even NEED chocolate [want is another story.] What I need is harmony. Kind thoughts. Gentle words. And Peace on Earth. Is that too much to ask?
Merry Christmas friends!
Friday, December 14, 2007
The Christmas Kitchen, Part One
Last night a writers' group I recently joined had its Christmas meeting. The venue was the home of one of the long standing members. What to bring? I wracked what is left [after the assaults of this past year] of my brain. It seemed like the perfect incentive to kick-start some holiday baking, so I decided on some cranberry orange nut bread that has gone over well in previous years. No problem. I’d knock out a loaf in no time flat. Until I started to think….
“If I’m going to have all the ingredients out all over the counter, I might as well make it REALLY worth while!”
So out came my three largest bowls and the assembly line began.
First -----2 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1 ½ tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
¼ tsp baking soda………..measured into each bowl.
Into each bowl of dry ingredients I cut 1/3 cup of butter.
In each of three smaller bowls I beat
1 egg, with
2/3 cup of orange juice and
1 tsp finely grated orange peel.
Three more bowls each held
1 ½ cups of halved cranberries and
1 cup coarsely chopped nuts [I used walnuts.]
All that remained was to add the juice mixtures to the dry, then stir in the cranberries and nuts, gently, and only just ‘til moistened.
Three lightly greased 9x5x3 inch loaf pans stood waiting in the wings. The oven was already at 350 degrees. In they went for 65 minutes. If I didn’t have to clean up after myself I’d cook or bake all day! What I need is my own cooking show on TV. Then I could play all day and let the help handle the aftermath! If wishes were horses……how does it go?......fools would ride?
One loaf was wrapped prettily and duly delivered to the host last evening, one was stashed in the freezer for when Liz and company drop in next week, and I’m heading to the kitchen now to have a slice of the third with a cup of tea. Wish you could join me…..I might manage some Christmas spirit here after all!
“If I’m going to have all the ingredients out all over the counter, I might as well make it REALLY worth while!”
So out came my three largest bowls and the assembly line began.
First -----2 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1 ½ tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
¼ tsp baking soda………..measured into each bowl.
Into each bowl of dry ingredients I cut 1/3 cup of butter.
In each of three smaller bowls I beat
1 egg, with
2/3 cup of orange juice and
1 tsp finely grated orange peel.
Three more bowls each held
1 ½ cups of halved cranberries and
1 cup coarsely chopped nuts [I used walnuts.]
All that remained was to add the juice mixtures to the dry, then stir in the cranberries and nuts, gently, and only just ‘til moistened.
Three lightly greased 9x5x3 inch loaf pans stood waiting in the wings. The oven was already at 350 degrees. In they went for 65 minutes. If I didn’t have to clean up after myself I’d cook or bake all day! What I need is my own cooking show on TV. Then I could play all day and let the help handle the aftermath! If wishes were horses……how does it go?......fools would ride?
One loaf was wrapped prettily and duly delivered to the host last evening, one was stashed in the freezer for when Liz and company drop in next week, and I’m heading to the kitchen now to have a slice of the third with a cup of tea. Wish you could join me…..I might manage some Christmas spirit here after all!
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Deck The Halls
*The computer is being uncooperative. It wouldn't let me upload a picture. Probably thinks I should get Tony's permission! Let your imagination go wild---it won't be an exaggeration.
When I saw my neighbour, Tony, squatting on his roof with a faraway look in his eyes a few days after Thanksgiving, I knew what was about to happen.
Tony is the salt of the earth, a great neighbour. But he is Italian, with an Italian addiction to decorating, both his person and his living space. And while I would probably go into cardiac arrest if I ever saw the OC bedecking himself with jewels as Tony does, I do believe that the Tonys of the world add a little colour. You could say that he is in touch with his feminine side. If we're a couple of crows, Tony's a fine feathered macaw.
He decorates for every season. Bunnies at Easter. Leprecauns on St. Patrick’s Day. Red, White and Blue on the Fourth. At Halloween it’s witches and scarecrows. For Thanksgiving it’s turkeys. But at Christmas he pulls out all the stops. So when I saw him perched dreamily up there, I knew what was coming.
He toiled all day. By nightfall the results were dazzling.
His house glowed like an ad for the electric company. The eaves were trimmed with white icicle lights. Little red lights twinkled from the shrubbery. The posts by his door were wound around with giant ribbon. On each window hung a wreath of greenery, set off with a big red bow.
Quite a display you’re thinking? But wait. There’s more! On either side of his driveway stand Hans und Franz, two giant,inflatable nutcrackers. By the front door stands an ever-smiling,inflatable snowman, and from the other corner waves a gigantic, inflatable Santa. On the lawn inflatable blocks spell out “Merry Christmas.”
I sigh and shake my head.
It’s too early, I think.
It’s too much, I think.
I’m a grinch, I think.
Tony's inner child, is alive and well, I think,
While mine needs to be reinflated.
If I were five, I think, I’d be enchanted.
For the rest of the month, I think, I’ll pretend I’m five.
When I saw my neighbour, Tony, squatting on his roof with a faraway look in his eyes a few days after Thanksgiving, I knew what was about to happen.
Tony is the salt of the earth, a great neighbour. But he is Italian, with an Italian addiction to decorating, both his person and his living space. And while I would probably go into cardiac arrest if I ever saw the OC bedecking himself with jewels as Tony does, I do believe that the Tonys of the world add a little colour. You could say that he is in touch with his feminine side. If we're a couple of crows, Tony's a fine feathered macaw.
He decorates for every season. Bunnies at Easter. Leprecauns on St. Patrick’s Day. Red, White and Blue on the Fourth. At Halloween it’s witches and scarecrows. For Thanksgiving it’s turkeys. But at Christmas he pulls out all the stops. So when I saw him perched dreamily up there, I knew what was coming.
He toiled all day. By nightfall the results were dazzling.
His house glowed like an ad for the electric company. The eaves were trimmed with white icicle lights. Little red lights twinkled from the shrubbery. The posts by his door were wound around with giant ribbon. On each window hung a wreath of greenery, set off with a big red bow.
Quite a display you’re thinking? But wait. There’s more! On either side of his driveway stand Hans und Franz, two giant,inflatable nutcrackers. By the front door stands an ever-smiling,inflatable snowman, and from the other corner waves a gigantic, inflatable Santa. On the lawn inflatable blocks spell out “Merry Christmas.”
I sigh and shake my head.
It’s too early, I think.
It’s too much, I think.
I’m a grinch, I think.
Tony's inner child, is alive and well, I think,
While mine needs to be reinflated.
If I were five, I think, I’d be enchanted.
For the rest of the month, I think, I’ll pretend I’m five.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Where I'm From
I am from the big green bicycle, from wellington boots, and woolly vests in winter, and long legged bloomers.
From the big brown teddy bear and the stuffed pink dog.
I am from "Nadia" with the long garden, the coal shed and the reading tree;
From cross Mr.Gilburn on one side, and English, odd-as-two-left-shoes Norman on the other;
From Olly Walsh and longers, and boys playing hurling in the street;
From ivy on the wall up to my brother's room, and polished green tiles in the hall. Cosy in winter with books by the fire, watching the shadows leap on the wall.
I'm from lupines and lavender, bluebells and buttercups, fields full of cowslips;
From falling-down castles and tadpoles in jamjars;
From climbing trees in Barry's field, and rawking apples from Roches' orchard;
From exploring blue mountains behind Uncle Willie's, along the lane where the foxgloves still grow.
From tormentor boys chanting "Here comes Frank's dreamboat!" and gorgeous George ignoring my existence.
I am from farming, and horse doctoring, and silver tea trays and relics of ould dacency.
From silent, reserved men with smiling faces, and women with secrets and crosses to bear.
From Annie O'Rourke and Margaret Drake and Walshes and Shepherds.
I am from lonely people who loved and lost, but left us unquenchable optimism.
From "because I said so" and "call him now and apologise".
I am from confession on Saturday, Mass on Sunday, fish on Friday, love thy neighbour, and don't get too big for your britches.
From lonely walks by Shannon's banks.
I'm from Saints and Scholars, poets and musicians, Welshmen and Vikings, Druids and dancers, Cuculainn, Oisin and Tir Na nOg.
From Fryes' cocoa, and brown bread, and beans on toast, and shepherds' pie.
From banana and jam sandwiches at Auntie Ita's, and loving her tiny cottage with the memory-laden mantlepiece.
I'm from Sundays to Granny's in the morris minor, if it didn't break down along the way.
From jumping out first to open the gates along the passage to the farmhouse.
From clip-clopping to the village, warm woollen blankets over our knees, in the horse and trap with my grandmother, and neighbour men lifting their hats and murmuring greetings.
From stories of these people, sparse of words but strong of feeling, carrying their dead on their shoulders, to the top of Ardpatrick, to the highest cemetery in Ireland.
From memories of creeping out to listen to the grownups around the fire at night, talking about the old days and the old ways. And fleeing back to the big high bed if a chair scraped on the stone floor.
From Aunty Bid, and her shopping lists, and tea and marzipan cakes at the Dainty Dairy.
From Uncle Willie shining his shoes, and putting Brylcream in his hair to go courtin' Shelia W, singing The Yellow Rose Of Texas.
From my brother throwing Maria Goretti from his window to a million smashed pieces below.
From Miss McCarthy, in senior infants, telling me crossly to sit down in my place when I tried to tell her about my new baby sister.
I am from a box of old photos in a disused barn;
From piles of scribblings stashed in drawers;
From misty, half-remembered memories of a tall grandfather with a kindly face and a white mustache;
From a quiet, strong grandmother, finder of warm brown eggs under beady-eyed chickens, dispenser of half crowns, wearer of black flowered dresses, black coats and frothy little hats. Iron-fisted, velvet-gloved ruler of the welcoming farm kitchen.
I am from boxes of my own childrens' childhoods, adjusted expectations, new generations; trying to grow old with grace and steeling myself against life's storms.
*Found this at Jess' at Daysgoby. Go read her poetic version! And if you'd like to do it yourself, it's easier than it looks. Jess has a link to a template you can use as a guide.
From the big brown teddy bear and the stuffed pink dog.
I am from "Nadia" with the long garden, the coal shed and the reading tree;
From cross Mr.Gilburn on one side, and English, odd-as-two-left-shoes Norman on the other;
From Olly Walsh and longers, and boys playing hurling in the street;
From ivy on the wall up to my brother's room, and polished green tiles in the hall. Cosy in winter with books by the fire, watching the shadows leap on the wall.
I'm from lupines and lavender, bluebells and buttercups, fields full of cowslips;
From falling-down castles and tadpoles in jamjars;
From climbing trees in Barry's field, and rawking apples from Roches' orchard;
From exploring blue mountains behind Uncle Willie's, along the lane where the foxgloves still grow.
From tormentor boys chanting "Here comes Frank's dreamboat!" and gorgeous George ignoring my existence.
I am from farming, and horse doctoring, and silver tea trays and relics of ould dacency.
From silent, reserved men with smiling faces, and women with secrets and crosses to bear.
From Annie O'Rourke and Margaret Drake and Walshes and Shepherds.
I am from lonely people who loved and lost, but left us unquenchable optimism.
From "because I said so" and "call him now and apologise".
I am from confession on Saturday, Mass on Sunday, fish on Friday, love thy neighbour, and don't get too big for your britches.
From lonely walks by Shannon's banks.
I'm from Saints and Scholars, poets and musicians, Welshmen and Vikings, Druids and dancers, Cuculainn, Oisin and Tir Na nOg.
From Fryes' cocoa, and brown bread, and beans on toast, and shepherds' pie.
From banana and jam sandwiches at Auntie Ita's, and loving her tiny cottage with the memory-laden mantlepiece.
I'm from Sundays to Granny's in the morris minor, if it didn't break down along the way.
From jumping out first to open the gates along the passage to the farmhouse.
From clip-clopping to the village, warm woollen blankets over our knees, in the horse and trap with my grandmother, and neighbour men lifting their hats and murmuring greetings.
From stories of these people, sparse of words but strong of feeling, carrying their dead on their shoulders, to the top of Ardpatrick, to the highest cemetery in Ireland.
From memories of creeping out to listen to the grownups around the fire at night, talking about the old days and the old ways. And fleeing back to the big high bed if a chair scraped on the stone floor.
From Aunty Bid, and her shopping lists, and tea and marzipan cakes at the Dainty Dairy.
From Uncle Willie shining his shoes, and putting Brylcream in his hair to go courtin' Shelia W, singing The Yellow Rose Of Texas.
From my brother throwing Maria Goretti from his window to a million smashed pieces below.
From Miss McCarthy, in senior infants, telling me crossly to sit down in my place when I tried to tell her about my new baby sister.
I am from a box of old photos in a disused barn;
From piles of scribblings stashed in drawers;
From misty, half-remembered memories of a tall grandfather with a kindly face and a white mustache;
From a quiet, strong grandmother, finder of warm brown eggs under beady-eyed chickens, dispenser of half crowns, wearer of black flowered dresses, black coats and frothy little hats. Iron-fisted, velvet-gloved ruler of the welcoming farm kitchen.
I am from boxes of my own childrens' childhoods, adjusted expectations, new generations; trying to grow old with grace and steeling myself against life's storms.
*Found this at Jess' at Daysgoby. Go read her poetic version! And if you'd like to do it yourself, it's easier than it looks. Jess has a link to a template you can use as a guide.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
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Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Baa, Baa, Black Sheep
Gadding about and exploring is all very well in summer, but in this kind of late Fall weather, I’m content to sit home, reading, knitting and, of course, blogging. The leaves are all off the trees. Some are still a beautiful, bright yellow, but raked into heaps on the ground, defeated by the wind and the cold.
So, inspired by a certain mad hatter I brought yarn, needles and instructions to the chilly north. The plan was that I’d knit for a few hours, after which I’d have a lovely warm hat to keep the frost out of my ears. I’ve now joined the ranks of those mice and men of the ill-fated plans.
I am on my THIRD try.
The required circular needle size not being available in Florida, I searched for and found them here, in a tiny little yarn store whose name is a line from Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.
After three visits in as many days, the store is starting to feel like home.
Day one: Baa,Baa,Black Sheep, Have You Any Needles? They did, I paid and went home happy to the nest, curled up on the couch, and cast on.
My smile faded after a couple inches, as I started to realize that it would be just right IF I were making it for a wee elf, but since it is for me, and I’m no wee elf, back to the shop.
Day two: Baa,Baa,Black Sheep, Have You Any Wool? Maybe if I worked in thicker yarn the problem would right itself. Did they have wool?! They did indeed. I finally settled on a lovely blend of heathery blues, greens and purples, which, the lady assured me, would give me the correct gauge. So, back to the nest, curl up on the couch, start again.
Several inches in, it’s looking like this attempt will be just right for the aforementioned elf’s…….. baby sister…….Drat!
Day three: Baa, Baa Black Sheep, It’s Me Again, Have You Bigger Needles? So, she let’s me return the size seven in exchange for size nine and oh, by the way, I think you should cast on in a size ten! Lordy, this is turning into one helluvan expensive chapeau!
When we were growing up, if you didn’t learn to knit at home, you learned at school, from the nuns. We, lucky us, learned from both. My mother was a very good knitter. After I mastered the basics, she encouraged me to try my hand at Aran sweaters. I had often seen her rip out half a sleeve upon discovering she’d made a mistake back near the cuff. No such perfectionism for me. If I got to the armhole and saw that I had twisted a cable the wrong way, back at the beginning, I would not stoically go back and fix it. Life was too short. Besides, a mistake increased its value, proof that it had been hand-knit by a fallible human, not by a machine. Today I’d call it my Amish touch.
This hat would have been tossed aside long ago by the younger, more impatient me. I find as I get older I have more patience. I also enjoy the process as much, if not more, than the result.
This hat will get finished. I’m already through one skein, and it takes less than two. It’s soft, and warm and so relaxing to do, it would ALMOST make you wish you lived somewhere cold. Almost, but not quite!
Baa,baa, black sheep
Have you made a hat?
Yes sir, yes sir, in three days flat!
One to find the needles,
One to find the wool
And one to sit and stitch like mad...
Wait a minute.......
Are you from the knitting police?
Did the mad hatter send you?
So, inspired by a certain mad hatter I brought yarn, needles and instructions to the chilly north. The plan was that I’d knit for a few hours, after which I’d have a lovely warm hat to keep the frost out of my ears. I’ve now joined the ranks of those mice and men of the ill-fated plans.
I am on my THIRD try.
The required circular needle size not being available in Florida, I searched for and found them here, in a tiny little yarn store whose name is a line from Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.
After three visits in as many days, the store is starting to feel like home.
Day one: Baa,Baa,Black Sheep, Have You Any Needles? They did, I paid and went home happy to the nest, curled up on the couch, and cast on.
My smile faded after a couple inches, as I started to realize that it would be just right IF I were making it for a wee elf, but since it is for me, and I’m no wee elf, back to the shop.
Day two: Baa,Baa,Black Sheep, Have You Any Wool? Maybe if I worked in thicker yarn the problem would right itself. Did they have wool?! They did indeed. I finally settled on a lovely blend of heathery blues, greens and purples, which, the lady assured me, would give me the correct gauge. So, back to the nest, curl up on the couch, start again.
Several inches in, it’s looking like this attempt will be just right for the aforementioned elf’s…….. baby sister…….Drat!
Day three: Baa, Baa Black Sheep, It’s Me Again, Have You Bigger Needles? So, she let’s me return the size seven in exchange for size nine and oh, by the way, I think you should cast on in a size ten! Lordy, this is turning into one helluvan expensive chapeau!
When we were growing up, if you didn’t learn to knit at home, you learned at school, from the nuns. We, lucky us, learned from both. My mother was a very good knitter. After I mastered the basics, she encouraged me to try my hand at Aran sweaters. I had often seen her rip out half a sleeve upon discovering she’d made a mistake back near the cuff. No such perfectionism for me. If I got to the armhole and saw that I had twisted a cable the wrong way, back at the beginning, I would not stoically go back and fix it. Life was too short. Besides, a mistake increased its value, proof that it had been hand-knit by a fallible human, not by a machine. Today I’d call it my Amish touch.
This hat would have been tossed aside long ago by the younger, more impatient me. I find as I get older I have more patience. I also enjoy the process as much, if not more, than the result.
This hat will get finished. I’m already through one skein, and it takes less than two. It’s soft, and warm and so relaxing to do, it would ALMOST make you wish you lived somewhere cold. Almost, but not quite!
Baa,baa, black sheep
Have you made a hat?
Yes sir, yes sir, in three days flat!
One to find the needles,
One to find the wool
And one to sit and stitch like mad...
Wait a minute.......
Are you from the knitting police?
Did the mad hatter send you?
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Winging It, Coatless, Into Winter
Rise is still ferrying her offspring to and fro. Having a few years on her, I’ve moved on to being the one ferried. A few days ago I was ferried to the airport by youngest son, The Bean. Who overrode my protestations that I would do the driving. He had his motives. Probably had visions of me putt-putting along at thirty miles an hour, and him having to be in a class at nine a.m. I too had motives in wanting to be the one at the controls. He’s a good driver, but he’s male, and he’s twenty. Need I say more? Driving with him is not one of the things I do for relaxation.
The traffic was horrendous. What should have taken one hour took two. Most of the cars on the highway with us, crawling towards Tampa, had, almost without exception, only one occupant. This when our esteemed governor, Charlie Crist, is schmoozing with the green folks in Britain and elsewhere, and taking bows all around for his stated plan of making the greening of Florida a priority. Hey Charlie! How’s this for a plan? Tax low occupancy cars at rush hour. Lots of those hot shots in their Mercedes or Beamers or Corvettes could, with a little effort, team up, thereby helping themselves---they’d get to work faster, without a headache---and helping the environment at the same time. But I digress.
Finally we were there, and The Bean, who had required copious infusions of coffee to get him from sleep to alert enough to drive, given the early hour that was in it, needed to dash inside the departures building to a loo, while I looked unconcerned and tried not to attract the attention of the traffic movers who want you to stop, disgorge passengers and bags, and move on. But at last, here he came, looking beatifically relieved. Yanked the bags from the trunk, gave me a squeeze, hopped back in the car and was gone.
It was early, so check-in was easy. As I headed to the gate I started to feel uneasy. I was heading north, to OC territory. Chilly. Shouldn’t I be carrying something else? Yes-s-s….but what?
Then it hit me! My coat! My lovely warm, navy, woolly coat! Where was it, when it should have been over my arm, but wasn’t? On the back seat of a little red car that, even as I groaned, was humming along the highway, bound for a class. Poor coat. It had probably been a little bit excited to be getting an airing, getting out among shoppers, getting a sniff of brisk, northern, Fall air. It languishes in the closet all year long in Florida. And now it’s back in there, probably sulking. Fortunately, it’s still Fall here, but making winter noises [snow is lurking up there!] Three days in and I’m surviving, doing my onion imitation, with layers of sweaters and fleece. But maybe when the Bean comes to join us later in the week, for Thanksgiving, he could bring my coat. Brrr.
The traffic was horrendous. What should have taken one hour took two. Most of the cars on the highway with us, crawling towards Tampa, had, almost without exception, only one occupant. This when our esteemed governor, Charlie Crist, is schmoozing with the green folks in Britain and elsewhere, and taking bows all around for his stated plan of making the greening of Florida a priority. Hey Charlie! How’s this for a plan? Tax low occupancy cars at rush hour. Lots of those hot shots in their Mercedes or Beamers or Corvettes could, with a little effort, team up, thereby helping themselves---they’d get to work faster, without a headache---and helping the environment at the same time. But I digress.
Finally we were there, and The Bean, who had required copious infusions of coffee to get him from sleep to alert enough to drive, given the early hour that was in it, needed to dash inside the departures building to a loo, while I looked unconcerned and tried not to attract the attention of the traffic movers who want you to stop, disgorge passengers and bags, and move on. But at last, here he came, looking beatifically relieved. Yanked the bags from the trunk, gave me a squeeze, hopped back in the car and was gone.
It was early, so check-in was easy. As I headed to the gate I started to feel uneasy. I was heading north, to OC territory. Chilly. Shouldn’t I be carrying something else? Yes-s-s….but what?
Then it hit me! My coat! My lovely warm, navy, woolly coat! Where was it, when it should have been over my arm, but wasn’t? On the back seat of a little red car that, even as I groaned, was humming along the highway, bound for a class. Poor coat. It had probably been a little bit excited to be getting an airing, getting out among shoppers, getting a sniff of brisk, northern, Fall air. It languishes in the closet all year long in Florida. And now it’s back in there, probably sulking. Fortunately, it’s still Fall here, but making winter noises [snow is lurking up there!] Three days in and I’m surviving, doing my onion imitation, with layers of sweaters and fleece. But maybe when the Bean comes to join us later in the week, for Thanksgiving, he could bring my coat. Brrr.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Ode To A Tiger
She was supposed to arrive on the eighteenth. But, she doesn’t like to rush at the last minute, so she came early, and surprised us. Until the night of the twelfth, this pregnancy thing was like a game. Like playing house. You be the daddy and I’ll be the mommy.
The daddy had fallen asleep on the couch. We’d been to our neighbour’s for a dinner party. The food had all been delicious, so falling asleep was easy. The mommy got up to go to the kitchen, pausing to remove his glasses from the daddy. As she continued on her way she seemed to have an accident, without any warning. How embarrassing! Then she realized,
“That’s no accident. Oh-my-God! That’s a damn bursting! Oh! Oh! Oh! What to do? It’s too early….Get a towel….Oh! Get three! Wake up!”
On the ride to the hospital, reality set in. This is no game. This is the real thing. Vague snatches of childbirth classes swam through my head. Assurances that women had been doing this for thousands of years. The constant need to BREATHE!
Piece of cake.
Suddenly I was scared. What if I couldn’t do it? What if I was the biggest coward the world had ever seen and just couldn’t go through with it?
On the other hand, what choice did I have?
“You just have to remember to breathe,” intoned the daddy, knowledgeably. Hmmph! What did he know? Easy to be calm and rational when you’re not the one with Kern County’s prize-winning pumpkin under your bellybutton.
The nurses were business-like and friendly and matter of fact…...
Nothing was happening. Apparently, having a Niagara Falls simulation in your living room doesn’t mean, contrary to popular belief, that you are going to have a baby. At least not right away. They sent the daddy home, and poked and prodded the mommy, and subjected her to all manner of indignities.
Finally, in the middle of the following afternoon, she made her grand entrance, weighing in at nine pounds, three ounces. Ouch.
It was a Monday, and she was indeed fair of face.
And lusty of lung, prompting the daddy to shake his head with pride, and say
“What a Tiger!”
To me she looked more like an Elizabeth. In fact, exactly like an Elizabeth.
And that is her official name. But she’ll always be our Tiger. Today is her birthday.
Happy Birthday Tiger!
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Hungarian Rhapsody
Since several of you asked, here is the F-I-L birthday cake recipe. It’s on a photocopied page from Country Living magazine, month unknown. The recipe was sent in by a reader, Barbara Villareal of Sunrise Beach, MO. Her husband’s mother got the recipe from relatives in the Ukraine and it took Country Living’s grand prize in their “Mom’s Best Cake Contest” in May 2005. She calls it Ukrainian Festive Walnut Torte, but for reasons you will understand if you read this I have renamed it.
It makes 18 servings.
Total preparation time: 1 hour. And if you believe that there’s a bridge in Brooklyn you might be interested in buying……. Plan on being in the kitchen all day!
Hungarian Rhapsody
10 ounces ground walnuts, plus some extra, chopped, for decoration.
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons cornstarch
1 teaspoon baking powder
12 large eggs [better raid the chicken coop!]
¼ teaspoon salt
1 ¼ cups granulated sugar
3 ½ teaspoons vanilla extract
¾ cup butter, softened
6 ozs unsweetened chocolate, melted
6 ¼ cups sifted confectioners’ sugar
¾ cup strongly brewed coffee
1 ½ tablespoons coffee liqueur [optional]
2 cups heavy cream
2 teaspoons instant-coffee granules
The Torte: Heat oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly grease two 10” round cake pans with butter. Line the bottoms with buttered parchment paper and set aside.
Combine the ground walnuts, flour, cornstarch and the baking powder in a medium bowl. Beat the egg whites and salt to stiff peaks with a mixer on med-high speed, and set aside.
Beat the egg yolks in a LARGE bowl on med-high speed. Stream in the granulated sugar while beating until thick and fluffy---about 5 muns.
Stir in 2 teaspoons vanilla.
Sprinkle the walnut mixture over the yolks and fold in the egg whites.
Divide the batter between the prepared pans and bake until the cake centers spring back when lightly touched---25-30 minutes.
NOTE: I didn’t have 10” pans so instead I used three 9”pans and reduced the baking time by about five minutes.
Run a knife around the pan sides and turn the cakes out onto wire racks to cool completely.
Coffee Cream filling: Beat the heavy cream, instant coffee, and ¼ cup confectioners’ sugar to soft peaks.
Mocha Frosting: Beat the butter, melted chocolate, remaining 1 ½ teaspoons vanilla, and1 ½ cups confectioners’ sugar together until creamy. Alternately add the coffee, liqueur, if desired, and 4 ½ more cups of confectioners’ sugar and continue beating until fluffy.
Assembly: Split the tortes with a serrated knife. Place one split layer on a cake plate and spread ¾ cup mocha frosting on top. Follow with a third of the coffee cream.
Place second layer on top and repeat with frosting and cream. Repeat with third layer.
Place the final layer on the cake and spread the remaining mocha frosting on top and sides of cake. Decorate with the chopped walnuts. Refrigerate until ready to serve.
Take a bow, then exit kitchen left. Someone else needs to do the clean up. You’ve done your bit.
It makes 18 servings.
Total preparation time: 1 hour. And if you believe that there’s a bridge in Brooklyn you might be interested in buying……. Plan on being in the kitchen all day!
Hungarian Rhapsody
10 ounces ground walnuts, plus some extra, chopped, for decoration.
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons cornstarch
1 teaspoon baking powder
12 large eggs [better raid the chicken coop!]
¼ teaspoon salt
1 ¼ cups granulated sugar
3 ½ teaspoons vanilla extract
¾ cup butter, softened
6 ozs unsweetened chocolate, melted
6 ¼ cups sifted confectioners’ sugar
¾ cup strongly brewed coffee
1 ½ tablespoons coffee liqueur [optional]
2 cups heavy cream
2 teaspoons instant-coffee granules
The Torte: Heat oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly grease two 10” round cake pans with butter. Line the bottoms with buttered parchment paper and set aside.
Combine the ground walnuts, flour, cornstarch and the baking powder in a medium bowl. Beat the egg whites and salt to stiff peaks with a mixer on med-high speed, and set aside.
Beat the egg yolks in a LARGE bowl on med-high speed. Stream in the granulated sugar while beating until thick and fluffy---about 5 muns.
Stir in 2 teaspoons vanilla.
Sprinkle the walnut mixture over the yolks and fold in the egg whites.
Divide the batter between the prepared pans and bake until the cake centers spring back when lightly touched---25-30 minutes.
NOTE: I didn’t have 10” pans so instead I used three 9”pans and reduced the baking time by about five minutes.
Run a knife around the pan sides and turn the cakes out onto wire racks to cool completely.
Coffee Cream filling: Beat the heavy cream, instant coffee, and ¼ cup confectioners’ sugar to soft peaks.
Mocha Frosting: Beat the butter, melted chocolate, remaining 1 ½ teaspoons vanilla, and1 ½ cups confectioners’ sugar together until creamy. Alternately add the coffee, liqueur, if desired, and 4 ½ more cups of confectioners’ sugar and continue beating until fluffy.
Assembly: Split the tortes with a serrated knife. Place one split layer on a cake plate and spread ¾ cup mocha frosting on top. Follow with a third of the coffee cream.
Place second layer on top and repeat with frosting and cream. Repeat with third layer.
Place the final layer on the cake and spread the remaining mocha frosting on top and sides of cake. Decorate with the chopped walnuts. Refrigerate until ready to serve.
Take a bow, then exit kitchen left. Someone else needs to do the clean up. You’ve done your bit.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Move Over Garbo! A Cigarette Saga In Two Parts
Part One
As I was waiting at a red light the other day, there was an SUV in front of me. A delicate arm dangled from the open window. Pale, creamy skin, long, narrow, manicured fingers with a cigarette poised between two of them. The arm disappeared into the vehicle a few times while we sat there, presumably so this delicate creature could take a few satisfying puffs.
A little jingle came dancing into my head---
“ Tobacco is a filthy weed
That from the devil doth proceed….”
But, it’s a free country still, in spite of our fearless leader’s efforts, and if a person wants to kill himself with tobacco, well, that’s his business.
The light turned green and as we began to move, the delicate creature, satisfied for now, nonchalantly tossed the remaining few inches of the filthy weed, glowing tip and all, onto the side of the road! Now, she’s making it my business! Doesn’t she read the papers? Listen to the news? Didn’t she ever learn not to leave a mess for others to pick up? Doesn’t her fancy SUV have an ASHTRAY for pity's sake? Doesn’t she have a BRAIN?? As I drew alongside her [to check if she had horns and demon eyes,] I was surprised to see a nice looking young woman. With an unconcerned flick of her ponytail she sped away.
Part Two
It’s the mid-fifties. I’m about eight. Oldest of three, I live by the rules, say my prayers every night, and try not to attract any negative attention from the grownups.
Mary Grant lives a few doors down with her Australian dad, Maureen O’Hara-esque mum and at least five siblings. To me their lives seem exuberantly chaotic. By comparison, my house is quiet and dull. I like to hang around at the Grants, in hopes that some of their zing will rub off on me. Life there vibrates with noise and energy.
Mr. Grant is handsome and debonair. He thinks nothing of sweeping his wife into a passionate embrace, right there in the kitchen, in front of the children, who seem to think this is normal.
Mrs. Grant is beautiful, and temperamental. She wears dresses with low necklines. When she leans forward to wipe a nose or mop a floor, her endowments practically spill over. I’m fascinated. Cleavage is not something one sees a lot of at my house.
There’s an older brother too, something I think should be standard issue for all little girls, but apparently the gods forgot to issue one to me.
My mother smokes. She started as a nurse on night duty, long before I was born. Mrs. Grant abhors smoking, which is, perhaps, why Mary considers it so glamorous.
One summer afternoon, when we had climbed every tree down the field, and were itchy for something new to do, Mary had an idea!
“Let’s get some cigarettes!”
I wasn’t sure I liked this idea as it involved me stealing them off our kitchen windowsill.And stealing, as the nuns repeatedly told us, was a mortal sin. Did I really want to burn in hell for all eternity just so Mary Grant would continue to be my friend? She pleaded. She threatened. She cajoled. Her eyes danced and every strand of her shiny, dark hair bounced and quivered as she explained to me how easy it would be. I was a dead duck. For one thing she was a full one and a half years older than me which gave her a lot of leverage. For another, there was the ever-present danger she would decide that I was just too dull to waste her time on.
We lurked around outside the kitchen until we were sure Mum had gone upstairs. With quaking heart, I gingerly removed two cigarettes from the pack, terrified that at any moment, my mother’s hand would fall on my shoulder. We fled down the field to the plantation, a row of evergreen trees that divided the field from the football pitch. Settled in the green shade we were safe. My heart was pounding. I was beginning to think this was a little bit too much excitement.
Mary lit up and proceeded to puff like Greta Garbo. I lit up, inhaled and nearly died. After Mary had finished a leisurely smoke, and demonstrated for me, while I spluttered and coughed, the finer points of the exercise, we straightened ourselves up and sauntered home.
Mary’s mother took one look at her when we walked in their back door and declared “You look like you’ve been through a bush backwards. Sit down here ‘til I comb your hair!”
She brushed vigorously, yanking out knots, while Mary yelped. One yelp must have carried vestiges of cigarette smoke to her mother’s sensitive nostrils because, suddenly, they flared. Mrs. G stopped, brush in mid-air. She looked menacingly at her daughter. The silence was deafening. Slowly and deliberately she asked
“Mary Grant, have you been smoking?” Her voice had a dangerous edge to it and took an incredulous upward swing on the last word.
“A nod is as good as a wink…” they say. I didn’t wait for more but took to my heels, down the field to the beloved trees, and climbed, without stopping to breathe, to the top of the highest one and sat among the calming leaves for at least an hour. When my heart rate returned to normal, I crept home in the gathering gloom, taking the long way so as not to have to pass in front of Grants'house.
I decided I didn’t have a taste for crime. Living on the edge was one thing,but I didn’t want to die there. Maybe I had a weak heart......or maybe I was just chicken. Eventually the Griffins moved to Dublin, and life in our neighbourhood returned to comfortable monotony. In spite of Mary’s expert tutelage, I never did become a smoker. If someone wants to smoke that’s their business, but could they at least use an ashtray?
As I was waiting at a red light the other day, there was an SUV in front of me. A delicate arm dangled from the open window. Pale, creamy skin, long, narrow, manicured fingers with a cigarette poised between two of them. The arm disappeared into the vehicle a few times while we sat there, presumably so this delicate creature could take a few satisfying puffs.
A little jingle came dancing into my head---
“ Tobacco is a filthy weed
That from the devil doth proceed….”
But, it’s a free country still, in spite of our fearless leader’s efforts, and if a person wants to kill himself with tobacco, well, that’s his business.
The light turned green and as we began to move, the delicate creature, satisfied for now, nonchalantly tossed the remaining few inches of the filthy weed, glowing tip and all, onto the side of the road! Now, she’s making it my business! Doesn’t she read the papers? Listen to the news? Didn’t she ever learn not to leave a mess for others to pick up? Doesn’t her fancy SUV have an ASHTRAY for pity's sake? Doesn’t she have a BRAIN?? As I drew alongside her [to check if she had horns and demon eyes,] I was surprised to see a nice looking young woman. With an unconcerned flick of her ponytail she sped away.
Part Two
It’s the mid-fifties. I’m about eight. Oldest of three, I live by the rules, say my prayers every night, and try not to attract any negative attention from the grownups.
Mary Grant lives a few doors down with her Australian dad, Maureen O’Hara-esque mum and at least five siblings. To me their lives seem exuberantly chaotic. By comparison, my house is quiet and dull. I like to hang around at the Grants, in hopes that some of their zing will rub off on me. Life there vibrates with noise and energy.
Mr. Grant is handsome and debonair. He thinks nothing of sweeping his wife into a passionate embrace, right there in the kitchen, in front of the children, who seem to think this is normal.
Mrs. Grant is beautiful, and temperamental. She wears dresses with low necklines. When she leans forward to wipe a nose or mop a floor, her endowments practically spill over. I’m fascinated. Cleavage is not something one sees a lot of at my house.
There’s an older brother too, something I think should be standard issue for all little girls, but apparently the gods forgot to issue one to me.
My mother smokes. She started as a nurse on night duty, long before I was born. Mrs. Grant abhors smoking, which is, perhaps, why Mary considers it so glamorous.
One summer afternoon, when we had climbed every tree down the field, and were itchy for something new to do, Mary had an idea!
“Let’s get some cigarettes!”
I wasn’t sure I liked this idea as it involved me stealing them off our kitchen windowsill.And stealing, as the nuns repeatedly told us, was a mortal sin. Did I really want to burn in hell for all eternity just so Mary Grant would continue to be my friend? She pleaded. She threatened. She cajoled. Her eyes danced and every strand of her shiny, dark hair bounced and quivered as she explained to me how easy it would be. I was a dead duck. For one thing she was a full one and a half years older than me which gave her a lot of leverage. For another, there was the ever-present danger she would decide that I was just too dull to waste her time on.
We lurked around outside the kitchen until we were sure Mum had gone upstairs. With quaking heart, I gingerly removed two cigarettes from the pack, terrified that at any moment, my mother’s hand would fall on my shoulder. We fled down the field to the plantation, a row of evergreen trees that divided the field from the football pitch. Settled in the green shade we were safe. My heart was pounding. I was beginning to think this was a little bit too much excitement.
Mary lit up and proceeded to puff like Greta Garbo. I lit up, inhaled and nearly died. After Mary had finished a leisurely smoke, and demonstrated for me, while I spluttered and coughed, the finer points of the exercise, we straightened ourselves up and sauntered home.
Mary’s mother took one look at her when we walked in their back door and declared “You look like you’ve been through a bush backwards. Sit down here ‘til I comb your hair!”
She brushed vigorously, yanking out knots, while Mary yelped. One yelp must have carried vestiges of cigarette smoke to her mother’s sensitive nostrils because, suddenly, they flared. Mrs. G stopped, brush in mid-air. She looked menacingly at her daughter. The silence was deafening. Slowly and deliberately she asked
“Mary Grant, have you been smoking?” Her voice had a dangerous edge to it and took an incredulous upward swing on the last word.
“A nod is as good as a wink…” they say. I didn’t wait for more but took to my heels, down the field to the beloved trees, and climbed, without stopping to breathe, to the top of the highest one and sat among the calming leaves for at least an hour. When my heart rate returned to normal, I crept home in the gathering gloom, taking the long way so as not to have to pass in front of Grants'house.
I decided I didn’t have a taste for crime. Living on the edge was one thing,but I didn’t want to die there. Maybe I had a weak heart......or maybe I was just chicken. Eventually the Griffins moved to Dublin, and life in our neighbourhood returned to comfortable monotony. In spite of Mary’s expert tutelage, I never did become a smoker. If someone wants to smoke that’s their business, but could they at least use an ashtray?
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