Roasting Pigs

Boniface was contemplating our next book club.  Soon after she read The Guernsey Literary and Sweet Potato Peel Pie Society, she came across a book in the trunk of a friend's car that was written by Charles Lamb, an author who is a major player in the Guernsey book. It happened to be the very book where Charles Lamb discusses how to roast a pig--in his handwriting, on a fold-out insert

attached to the book! She concluded this was the book we should read, and we all agreed.

When we met for our book club at Boniface's house on a cold November night, we were warmed by friendship and had many favorite quotes to share. About Charles Lamb: "He could make any homely and familiar thing into something fresh and beautiful." Another:  " ... it is families in sitting rooms or kitchens that thrill me. I can imagine their entire lives from a glimpse of bookshelves, or desks, or lit candles, or bright, soft cushions."

The book is a series of letters between a writer in England, and members of a book club (or "literary society") formed on the island of Guernsey during the German occupation in World War II. It all began through a common love of the author Charles Lamb. The Guernsey folks disobeyed the Germans' rules and roasted a pig, thinking of this very book by Charles Lamb. When they were discovered, they instantly formed a book club to cover their tracks, and had to scurry around collecting a semblance of books. "I wonder how the books got to Guernsey? Perhaps there is some sort of 

homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. How delightful if that were true." The makeshift book club transformed into a thing of beauty: people with little in common besides hard times, who grew to love and care for each other like family.

We in our little book club took time to pray together that night--for a wee baby we all know about who was going to his heavenly Father soon, and for Boniface, our dear friend and leader, on the cusp of orthopedic surgery. Another evening to remember.

Note: our long-distance member, or she seems like one, is also reading or waiting to read our "Potato Peel" book!

the beginning

This holiday season is catching up to us quickly. Suddenly Christmas is five weeks away and Thanksgiving is around the corner. I went to our local WM this morning stupidly thinking an early start would beat the crowds. Ha! First of all I felt a little of the grace of God in every day life as I actually got a shopping cart that had all four wheels working, and weren't squeaking  so loudly that everyone knew I was coming around a corner, and didn't lean to one side or the other. So far so good.

But oh my the food aisles!  Everyone seemed to have a very long list in their hand, and to hear some discussions, no one in the house had cooked for a long time. One family arrived about the time I did--a father, mother, and two not-so-big kids, but able to see over a shopping cart. Each family member took a cart, and I seemed to continually be on the same aisle as they were, so that was four shopping carts to move around since they would plant in front of the canned fruit, or the marshmallows, or something else interesting.

The canned vegetable aisle (and I never did find my jars of tiny, sweet onions) was loaded with a large group, each person with a shopping cart and identical 8 x 11 list. Men, women, children--obviously a group effort.  I wondered if they were cooking for a homeless shelter or something like that.

Turkey, celery, and stuffing in hand, it was very good to be home, though finding room for all the extra stuff in my cupboards took more time than I'd like. Earlier this morning, the Gardener kindly helped me bring out the Christmas tree (yes, gone are the days of searching for just the right one each year), and I'm thankful that 104.7 is already 24/7 Christmas music. The--what I call-- definitive cold outside (18 last night) is welcome for this northerner, and helps to bring in the "holiday" spirit. It's nice to get some things done at home after a busy week.  Next I'm going to try to clean some carpets for the first time on my own, with a do-it-yourself loaned from Susanna. Later I will write about the latest book club.

the ringing of the plate

"I'll be listening for the sound of the ringing of the plate," the old man would tell me in his husky voice, as I discussed dinner plans with him before going down to the kitchen to prepare the meal.

We lived with "Mr. A" in his mansion on the shore of Lake Michigan, north of Chicago, for three years during graduate study. The very  popular British series, Upstairs Downstairs, was still being shown on television at the time, and we felt we were living the part as we stayed in the servants' quarters off the large kitchen. I was chief nurse, cook, and Housekeeper in the historical sense (that is, I had someone clean for me and care for Mr. A--I just organized it all and cooked his main meal.) 

Mr. A lived in his upstairs room, bedridden with Parkinson's in his later days. He was set in his ways--just a bit--and there were certain menus he required me to cook. One of these became my favorite: Veal a la Marsala, (mentioned as cooked with chicken in the post below). Baked Tongue, brains, kidneys, or stomach never become favorites!

My predecessor taught me how to prepare the veal for this dish. I used lots of flour and had to pound the veal with the edge of the beautiful old Sp*de plate (proof of age being the old stamp on the back), until it was paper thin. You definitely could hear the "ringing of the plate" throughout the house. This was quite a process, and somewhat exhausting, leaving me a floured mess. But the rewards of the mouthwatering veal, seared in wine (brought up from the real wine cellar in the basement), broth, and red pepper with mushrooms was "to die for."

No longer living in the "Big House," I now use a more economical meat to make this dish, also Eldest Son's favorite meal. And although I've tried manufactured meat pounders, none does the paper-thin job quite like the wavy edge of this little sp*de saucer (photo above). The Gardener usually comes by and says, "Ah, the ringing of the plate ... like music to my ears."

I ended up with two of these saucers after Mr. A died and his house was sold. What a thrill when his daughter-in-law, who had inherited his full set of Sp*de,  sent me two cups to go with the saucers. Can you imagine the memories that flow when I sip tea out of this very old  cup? 

just yesterday

Today my mother is 87. You wouldn't know it to see her. She is avidly interested in life, and especially now that many of her friends have left this earth, she finds her greatest joy in keeping up with her grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.

For most of my life, I did not think my mother could survive without my father. They had a classic marriage. She was his queen, and my mother loved to care for my dad. How could they ever make it apart? God gently prepared them, when Daddy had to move into a care center  just down the hall and around the corner from my mother's little apartment. Gradually she became more independent and learned to do the money stuff. It was one of those long good-byes.

And l I learned just how strong my mother is when my father did go to heaven three years ago. My mother has done what she has to do, and God has given her much grace.  She misses dad terribly, but has peace written on her countenance.

Since family members are scarce in our fair city these days, we'll just take Mom out to her favorite restaurant tonight (not a fancy one, mind you, she was a preacher's wife and I never knew my parents to spend much money on themselves.)

Happy Birthday, mom! I love you!

Photo: not mine of course: Mom at 20, with dad at the Jersey shore the summer before they married. I'm sure she thinks of this time as "just yesterday."

a coincidence of generosity

The day started out warm and humid with rain and threatening clouds. By the time we were on the train headed uptown the clouds had changed to bright sun. But then, as if a gift withdrawn, the wind and dark clouds furled again across the skies ... only to be replaced once more by sunshine, this time bringing cooler temperatures. Friends were taking us out to dine on a gift card they had received. So generous of them--they could have used the card three times themselves rather than sharing it with friends.

The meal was lovely, and my entree--a favorite Chicken Marsala--was perfect. I boxed up the remains, thinking about the mouth-watering second meal it would make. And now my story splits.

Story One: Walking on the train platform, we were approached by our second panhandler of the day. A quarter for some fast food? That wouldn't buy anything.  My box of food suddenly felt very heavy in my hands. Maybe I should give it to him. But I didn't, sitting it down on the bench next to me as we waited for our train. Once we hopped off the train back at our car, I suddenly realized the box wasn't with me. I had left it on the bench. Serves me right, I thought to myself. Quick lesson here ... and I breathed a silent prayer that panhandler friend would circle back and find the delicious meal and enjoy it for me, as he should have--if I'd been giving.

Story Two: Generous gift card friends headed home, stopping on the way to try and find a pecan pie for a church Thanksgiving dinner the next day. No pies to be found. Then they passed a fruit stand with a "Pecan Pie Sale" sign. Alas, it had just closed. Cash register sales tallied, all in process of being locked up for the day. 

They made an attempt anyway, but the answer was "no," even if cash was offered.  Walking back to the car, our friend noticed that the pie seller was walking after her beckoning her to come back.  "Here," she said,"Take a pie. No charge. Enjoy. They are to die for. You will love it."

Bringer of Possibilities

I loved it when our postman had squeaky brakes. I am usually in tune with the regular sounds in our house and around the neighborhood, but when those brakes squeaked loudly as he stopped at each mail box approaching our house, there was no doubt it was time to get the mail.

The summer I turned 16 we moved from the town I'd always lived in. That's when I began to love getting mail as I'd look for letters from the friends I'd grown up with.  Since then I've moved many times, and keep up with a good number of friends I've "collected" over the years. Now, of course, many more "letters" come via email, but I still love the wonder of anticipation as I walk down to the mailbox.

"On days when I don't drive to the P.O. I'm glad to hear the tires of Mr. Dill's gray station wagon slow down as he approaches our box, then the crunch of gravel, the sound of the box opening and closing. Bruce is the bringer of possibilities--he bringeth and he taketh. He's quite calm about it, but we stop mid-sentence whenever he arrives. We might be working or catnapping, talking on the phone or having lunch, but one of us bolts to the box." (from Jan Kenyon's A Hundred White Daffodils)

I have a friend in town I correspond with on occasion. Usually notes of encouragement. She always sends me wonderful quotes (such as above) on a creative card, with an envelope usually made out of some page of a magazine she knows I would love to see. We share an appreciation for the written word sent through the post. A simple, rather innovative (these days) way of keeping in touch.

Yesterday The Gardener and I got some real mail: a letter telling about a mission trip, newsletters, bills, and three notes of encouragement. One from my boss, one from a woman in our church thanking The Gardener for his work as an elder, and one from my correspondence friend (see her creativity above). In thinking about all this, I'm challenging myself to hand-write one note of encouragement each week.  It's a simple thing, yet powerful. It's amazing what a little missive like that can do in someone's life.

Breathing Through Pain

It is good to have breaks from the intensity of sorrow. I don't think we can breathe unless we do. The grief can become suffocating so that we gasp for a deep cleansing breath, but its as if the pain of a broken rib holds us from inhaling deeply. We need mental breaks to survive.

They come. Minor distractions. Changing the subject, so to speak. Going for a walk, shopping, involving oneself in anything to forget for a few minutes. That's all that's needed. Then when we dig back into the grief again, it's ever so a tiny bit better. A little more bearable.

And so it goes--the pain goes, that is--very little by very little. It dulls one small bite at a time. Those little breaks of rest from our grief--that must be part of the grand scheme of coping and healing. I wonder Who designed that.

photo by lulu

Last Fruits

Here in the south you often get a second crop of tomatoes. By topping leggy plants and sticking the topped tops in the dirt, the roots grow and in time, a fall crop of tomatoes arrives. Since a frost is rumored, I went and harvested what was looking red on the vines, with even more showing a promise of ripening if the weather behaves.  Thank you, Gentle Gardener, for your labors!

good will for all

I saw a huge billboard yesterday "GOOD WILL ... Do not forget to give."  Or something like that. I've read that giving to Good Will has dropped dramatically during these tough economic times, while at the same time, people are shopping there like never before. The other day I went to our local Good Will and had to wait to find a parking spot.

All that is happening right now in our country ... and around the world ... might be causing a hunkering down, staying around the house ... did I hear, "Mending socks?" It would be a welcome change, maybe helping us focus on the really important things in life, not the externals, or "keeping up with the Joneses (whoever they are.)

When I was young I made everything I could ... our bread, granola, cookies ... cooked from scratch, gave home made gifts and cards ... it took a lot of energy, which I surely had back then. One of my favorite reads was The Tightwad Gazette.  I was surprised to notice a new book about the subject of thrift the other day, which I gather discusses pros and cons (for if we are too thrifty, bottom line, people lose jobs), but not necessarily ideas for how to be thrifty. You can see a nod to this book in World Magazine's current issue.

It's good to always keep on our toes about how we live ... I don't want any complacency or living  a particular way just because it's how it's always been. I desire to be constantly evaluating and discerning about how best to live in this ever-changing world (a good topic to discuss with your children if  you have them). 

And for me, having been recently gifted with some new, gently used clothes, I'm taking another look in my closet and around the house to see what I can drop by Good Will later today.  A small way to make a difference in the lives of others.

G.E. photo: a very young friend showing off my home-made gift.

seeing further

"God is too wise not to know all about us, and what is really best for us to be, and to have. And He is too good, not to desire our highest good; and too powerful, desiring, not to effect it. If then, what He has appointed for us does not seem to us the best, or even to be good, our true course is to remember that He sees further than we do, and that we shall understand Him in time, when His plans have unfolded themselves, meanwhile casting all our care upon Him since He cares for us."            ~~H.P. Liddon

It's been ...

A new mom I know recently got a humorous "congratulations new baby" card with her baby gift that said why women over 50 don't have babies. Number one reason: they may forget where they left their babies. Or, forget to feed them, etc., etc.

So therefore it was totally intriguing to see this new gizmo for moms (in the "what will they think of next?" department).  At first I thought it was a cell phone, or mini walkie talkie.  No, it is an "Itzbeen." It tells you (look for yourself) when the baby was last changed, last fed, when the last nap was taken, and an extra slot for whatever else you may want to remember. (Since hormones do affect new moms' memories, maybe the inventor has something here.) It also tells the time, is a flashlight, lights up the screen for nighttime viewing, and tells you which side you need to start breastfeeding on next time. 

OK, I guess that takes care of most things. Now if it could tell you where you left your baby, I think we over 50 moms could start all over again!

Addiction

It has come to my attention that I am addicted to my camera. I've always loved taking photos and looking at pictures (you know, a "picture is worth a thousand words," etc.), but now with a digital camera, there is a whole new world of freedom and the ability to work on my photography skills, amateur-ish as they are.

The Gardener and I have been on a study retreat at the chilly beach the past few days, and I forgot to bring my camera. In a sense, it is a relief, as I tend to take too many photos (why not, I can always toss them I say) and sometimes I think I miss some of life by trying to "capture" it. 

But I realize here, more than ever, that I do look at life as art, in a sense. I view things with a frame around them, and think of what a good picture that would make, and all could be done to alter or improve what is inside the frame in my photo-shop computer program.  Also, as a blogger, I confess that I sometimes look at things happening as "bloggable." The Gardener loves to say, "Oh no! I feel a blog coming!"

I guess there could be worse addictions. At least this costs nothing, helps to record history, and brings me and a few others some enjoyment. 

I thought it would be better if I left this post without a photo, but that has become hard to do. Since I have no image of here at the beach, I decided to post what we will be coming home to later today. Color!

Distribution Central

Clothes and more clothes! Shoes, toys, an occasional book ... can it be Christmas? It seems so. When seasons change, my dining room becomes a distribution center for a few days.

I have a dear friend who generously gives her kids' clothes (and some of  her own) away as the prepares for a new season. She gives them to me to organize and distribute. Some go to my nieces, and some go to other kids I know. I wear some of the clothes, and others go to other friends, to a mission resale shop, or a local charity shop. I love that she gives me the privilege of sorting through and figuring out just who to bless with these garments ... most of them only gently worn and of wonderful quality. It gives me the thrill (yes, thrill) of giving, even though it's her things.

Cristiana and I worked together for many years at the hospital. Even though she is more than a decade younger than me, we have always hit it off well and share a lot of the same ideas and beliefs. She is beautiful inside and out, and not only are her looks striking with her long, dark, curly hair, but her generosity is striking as well. She has the gift of giving.

mum's the word

Do you think these were fed with steroids? I did a double take the other night arriving home from work when I saw this magnificent mum plant simply glimmering in my back yard! Someone came by while I was gone and placed it in our yard. (How did it fit into your car, friend?) You know who you are, and a big thank you!

Bath Time: Then and Now

Grandmother and grandson, 1980; Grandmother and granddaughter, 2008. Wow, look at the arms: same sagging sun damaged skin! Some baby resemblance too!

in use

Here you go, momvdh! (can you guess from this photo what song I sang to her?)

Direct Re-ply

God doesn't always answer our prayers right away, or even the way we'd like. Sometimes He has a far better idea for us. But the other day ....  

 

I learned Little One is coming for the weekend. I usually borrow a friend's "pac n play" (what we used to call "portacribs") when a little one needing a crib visits our house. But now Little One with capital letters is visiting. I began to think about how nice it would be to have our own crib available for her visits. I checked  on Craig's list and a few other places. Our finances would not allow a new one, and nothing else either looked good or was affordable.

So on this particular morning, I decided to ask God if He'd help me find one we could afford. I put it out of my mind as, an hour later, I met a friend taking me out for lunch.  As we walked towards the eating place, I noticed a child's consignment shop right next door. "How long has this store been here?" I queried. 

"Oh at least five years," was the answer. I hadn't noticed it before, even though I'd been in neighboring stores many times! (Oh dear, that's a little embarrassing--guess I didn't have the eye for it before Little One arrived).  

My friend suggested we go have a look. Well, right inside the door ... can you guess?  A gently used pac n play in wonderful condition––at an affordable price!  Right inside the door, I repeat.  

And was this cake iced? Yes!  The color is ... pink! What an answer, a provision, a love poured forth.

It's been disinfected, scrubbed, aired, and now awaits its little occupant! Sweet dreams, Little One!

now (left) and then (right)

Just about 27 years, new contraptions,  and several thousand miles apart. Son with daughter; and mother with son.  Three generations.

Photo on left by ebc

(Wow ... this is my 400th post. Where did I come with all that to say?)

The weather outside is changing

What a refreshingly cool morning! Summer is finished, we hope. There are some color changes finally starting on our leaves, and its time to go get the cold weather clothes out of hiding. Not my favorite chore, but I will try to address it with some sort of thankfulness. Just the fact that I have clothes to switch out is something to be grateful for. 

It's amazing how a little chill to the air can put a "spring in your step!"

Happy Birthday Kayla!

Kayla is five today.  I was at her party last year, but would have loved to have been at her tea party this year...all girly and pink.  Seeing it on her blog will have to do. But this Tuesday I'll go to a different tea party--to celebrate the coming arrival of a baby girl...and I think I'll wear pink!

My Old Friend

Quite a few years ago, a family of boys moved away from the house nearly next door to us, and a new family of boys moved in. From then on our kids and the new kids were close--doing those things boys love to do as they grow up--bikes, hikes, playing with trucks, building forts, etc. Since the new neighbors were from Asia, our family was enriched by their friendship and opportunities to learn about and participate in some of their cultural events---especially weddings! When Youngest was able to spend time in India at the age of 16, he was just a bit familiar with the culture.  

Eventually our boys grew up and each of us moved to different neighborhoods, but B and I continued to keep in touch.  B was called back to India for various reasons and for an extended time in the past couple of years, so we lost touch. Whenever I passed her neighborhood, I would think of her and wonder what was up. 

Thankfully we connected again and got together last week. When I walked into her wonderful house, I breathed deeply of her culture, the aroma from her stove, and the richness of her hospitality. There is nothing quite like sitting at B's table and eating her food. What a wonderful time we had catching up on our children and our own lives.  We parted, but not for long. She will return to her country soon, but hopefully be back again before too much time has passed.

Soup Serenade

It's always good to find a special reason to get together with friends. This time it was Robin's birthday (a.k.a. "Jean") and also the "debut" of her new (and first) grandson. What a cuddly, adorable little package this young man is. We 

decided to gift Robin with things to help her with grandmothering--from tiny washcloths for tiny fingers, to books begging to be read, Peter Rabbit china, and teething or squeaky toys--as well as tea for "decompressing" after the "grands" go home or go to bed. (smile).

Our menu included a soup serenade. Three different soups, three different bowls, one after the other. Delicious flavors and aromas to entice the palate. Followed by a spectacular salad, breads, and for dessert, finger-licking cupcakes. 

Some of us go back years in our friendships. We may not see each other frequently but make keeping in touch a priority, even if only by email (or, if you can believe it, 

"Facebook.")  But keep in touch we do, it's important to all of us. And we all love a festive occasion now and then, to ice the cake, so to speak.

Everybody Shines

Sometimes it pays to do this blogging stuff.  Not long ago I wrote about my quest for yeast in bulk. Lydia Grace, a local and frequent reader of this blog, found some at a large warehouse the other day. I happened to be at another very large store related to the warehouse.  My door-bell chime cell phone rang and rang as I furiously dug into the recesses of my purse to find it. It was Lydia Grace asking if I wanted her to buy yeast for me. 

Our connection was bad and we both moved about our separate stores for a good patch. I noticed a man looking twice at me. I'm sure it wasn't my looks he was eyeballing, but rather my rather loud voice as LG and I tried to communicate. Oh my! I was doing just what I complain about other people doing. Did I think I was in my own kitchen or something? How embarrassing. I took my cart and headed down an aisle of stuffy winter jackets, hoping my conversation would be muffled.

And now I have a good stock of yeast in the freezer. Let the baking begin, and thank you, Lydia Grace! I love that you read my blog and act!

true confessions

The Gardener and I are "political junkies" I guess you could say. It's sort of embarrassing to say a good political debate is like a "super bowl" for us. The Gardener has always been this way, and over time, I have come alongside his interests, making them my own as well. It now is something we enjoy together, if you could use that particular word at this particular time in this particular political season.

Our big splurge is cable in order to have some fair and balanced news sources. It's also an important asset for the Gardener's life-long calling to think, analyze, write, and advise. 

There was a time that I did not understand or care much about politics. That began to change when the pro-life movement came to life. A point in time I remember well was  when the boys and I helped a judge get re-elected. The great controversy in his courtroom was the fact that he opened his court sessions in prayer, and found the court ran much better because of that.  What a stew pot that all was, and a good time of learning for our kids. Then when Bush Sr. was running for a second term, both vice-presidential candidates came to our fair city. As part of our home school studies, I took our boys to see both men. (Youngest even shook the hand of then Vice-President Quayle.)  Then we studied the media reports, clipping news articles from local papers, and watching reports on television. We made a notebook, and even noticed the difference in photos of each man. There was a decided bias, even back then.

I appreciated something I heard a commentator say the other day. No matter what the results of this election, life will go on. We will still get out of bed each day to work, to love our families, and to serve and love others, helping this country continue to be the great country that it is.

The End

Historic places were high on the list of my childhood "adventures." Our family vacations consisted of driving across four states to spend one week at one grandparents' house, and a second week at the other. My father always made sure there were visits to places of history, and through that we learned about our past, and developed our love of and appreciation for history. 

So it was enjoyable to visit another place this past weekend, though it made us miss my father and all the insight he would have shared.  We were at Appomattox, where Lee surrendered to Grant just 143 years ago. Looking across the magnificent rolling hills, I could imagine tired troops hunkered down as the their leaders deliberated the surrender and the end of a grueling war.

And it was one of those beautiful fall days. Family was with us. What more could one ask for? Nourishing for the soul.

Rocky Mountain High

We were definitely high in the Rocky Mountains last month when we visited friends there prior to The Gardener's business in that area. I don't remember altitude sickness every bothering me quite so much.  We live not all that much above sea level here, so we were really up there at 10,000 feet above sea level. The cool air was really refreshing just at a time when we were reaching our limit with the humidity and heat here in our place of living. 

We started out staying with our friends in Denver where they treated us to an unusual breakfast casserole of rice and sausage and something else--I must get the recipe--and throughout our time there, Jeannie played records for us. 

Her collection is amazing and it was just so much fun to see her put them on the turntable and set the needle on ... and the music would start!  Whenever she hears of someone getting rid of their old records, she takes them off their hands

The Pink House

Have you seen all the pink stuff around this month? It's national breast cancer awareness month, of course. By now we all have more than one friend who has received this diagnosis. 1.2 million people (not just women) are diagnosed each year with breast cancer (per W.H.O.) To help with awareness of this month, our first lady lit up her house with pink spotlights. She has been an advocate for breast cancer research for a long time in both private and public sectors. I'd say this was a pretty cool way to close out her days in that big  house. After making a speech as dusk settled over her city, she gave the signal, and the house lit up pink.

I am dedicating this post to the memory of Verdell, my friend who died of breast cancer at age 45  (I have many more who are survivors and doing well). We've come a long way since then, both in treatment and cure. We know  much more now, and there are many new treatments ... it makes me thankful for all the research that is being done. Be sure to get a mammogram, by the way!

--Not my photo of course, though I would have loved being there. 

small world

While visiting friends in Colorado recently, we talked with Youngest Son on the phone. Turns out that on that day (back in the southeast) he had taken care of a patient who had slept in the very same bed, two weeks prior, that we were going to sleep in that night! It all got connected through conversation that started with––well, I actually don't know how the conversation started, but eventually a question came during a break in the dental work, "What does your father do?" which led to connecting the dots of us having the same friends––with whom  he, the dental patient,  two weeks before, and now we, stayed overnight.

A recent Wo*ld magazine article talked about the "Six D*grees of Separation Theory."  Apparently M*crosoft has done a study of instant messaging conversations among 180 million folks ... and found just 6.6 degrees of separation between any two users of its instant message program. So, in essence, any two random people in the survey were separated by a string of just 6.6 acquaintances, on average. The researcher suggests a "social connectivity constant for humanity." (Eric Horv*tz in the W*ashington Post.)

How many times, when a conversation occurs, we find someone who knows someone we know. Some amazing connections (especially, I suppose, the longer one lives.) It makes life interesting, doesn't it, and we say, "It's a small world."

Photo: Estes P*rk and my illustration of six degrees ...

Mom's Oatmeal Bread

I had forgotten how good kneading bread is for the mind and for the soul.  You can work out a lot while you knead. I love working with my hands.

Photos: Rising, and ready to be punched down.

 

Oatmeal Bread

1 cup uncooked oats

2 Cups scalded milk

1 pkg. yeast in 1/2 Cup water with a pinch of sugar

1/2 Cup molasses

2 tsp salt

1 Tb. shortening

4 1/2 or so cups flour 

Pour hot milk over oats and let sit until  cool. Meanwhile begin activating yeast in warm (not too warm) water

with the sugar. When milk/oat mixture has cooled add the yeast/water, molasses, salt, oil, with a cup of flour (I chose to use one cup of whole wheat flour and the rest white, though it makes a heavier bread) and beat well. Continue adding rest of flour and turn out onto floured surface and knead until smooth. Return to floured mixing bowl, cover with tea towel and let rise until doubled (or almost). Punch down and place on floured surface, let it rest a few minutes, cut in three and roll out each section. Roll each piece into loaf shape, pinching under the ends and placed in greased and floured bread pan. Cover with tea towel and let rise another hour. Bake in preheated 425 degrees for 15 minutes; reduce heat to 350 degrees and bake another 25-30 minutes. Let loaf pans cool and turn out onto cooling rack.  If you desire softer crust, dab butter, margarine or oil on top of resting loaf. Wait til cool before slicing.  Especially good toasted.

 WARNING: May be consumed faster than you intended.

A Baby's Smile

What is it, this smile of a small child

That we reach for?

We lean in close, fingers out to tickle

Making dorkie faces we'd never live down

With gurgles and coos belying our stature.

A smile comes, Aha!

(Especially good when the whole body smiles along.)

Mission accomplished.

We can sit back and rest,

Joy floods our hearts ...

Until we reach out and begin again.

Just one more smile please.

baby fix

.

I had a couple of wonderful hours with our granddaughter today and we made the most of our time together. We napped, ate, changed diapers, read a slightly boring magazine, played the piano, played toys, and went for a walk. Max was also visiting us today and joined us on our walk. So, you could say, I took both my grand-dog and my grand-daughter for a walk in our gorgeous, cool, fall weather. This little one minute video is posted for friends and family who want to see it, and for others who care to, or just need a baby fix. Warning: smiles and coos ahead!

Gas Lines and Bread Lines

Early yesterday morning, on our way to Tuesday, we found gas. All day I felt like I had opened a big, exciting present. Gas is difficult to find right now, and that along with the news about a big bank in town puts a feeling of  "something not quite right" here in our fair city. And then there's the national news.  The concerns about what may happen remind me of the Cuban Missile Crisis days when we felt some fear. I still remember the grave look on my dad's face as he listened to President Kennedy speak on the radio (note: my parents were behind the times by choice, and had no TV in our house until we had left for college).

Maybe we are feeling it more in our city with the gas lines and the bank news, but for whatever reason, I thought maybe I should stock up on flour and start making our own bread again. That's what you always think of when you hear of an economy heading south.  Bread lines of the 30s. Don't think I'm panicking, it's just that homemade bread sounds good anyway. I used to make all our bread, especially in the days living in Africa (where we sometimes had two-day gas lines--taking turns sleeping in the truck).

To lighten this up, I'll tell you about the "phantom" gas lines at W*lmart. I parked the car near the gas station Monday on my way to food shopping, and watched one false line form after another. Cars sped around the station like bees around a flower--looking to see if there was gas. One or two cars would stop by a pump to check and immediately about ten cars formed a line. They would realize their error and disappear and within two minutes another line falsely formed. It was both funny and fascinating to watch, and I sat mesmerized for a few minutes before I headed inside for the long walk to milk and eggs in the far corner of the store.