Food, Glorious Food

Thursday was a wonderful day, and the food was exceptionally good.

I ate a lot. A little too much. (shut up)

Yesterday was leftovers heaven. Made for a good dinner.

Today...we cooked at dinner, with no leftovers from the day before.

But supper has been a different story.

Daughter is saving one piece of dressing and her aunt's special corn for her supper when she gets out of the tub.

There's enough turkey for one more sammich.

A few green peas, a spoonful of cranberry sauce, that's about it.

There was a little bit of giblet gravy left, which I put on top of the little bit of mashed potatoes left and that was my supper. It's the best giblet gravy I've ever had, and I have told my sister-in-law that. She  made it, she gets the credit.

In the morning there will be little or no signs of the Thanksgiving feast we had, which is probably true for most homes. Surely on day four it's history for almost everyone.

Most of us are ready to move on to roast beef, hot dogs or a nice juicy steak by Sunday.

Let's just hope all the pastors out there recognize who's who in the congregation as they waddle in tomorrow.

A few pounds can change a person's looks, you know.

Art Made Perfect

We have a framed print hanging on the first landing in our foyer. It's one I have always liked from the moment I saw it. When I saw it; I knew I had to have it.

It is slim and long, just right for the space.

The name of the painting is "Posting a Letter" and was painted by Albert Ludovici, 1850-1932.

Beautiful, isn't it?

Imagine how impressed I was day before yesterday when the painting was suddenly improved.

Husband came in the kitchen with a more than usual perplexed look on his face. "Have you ever noticed - " he started. "Never mind. It's a visual. Come with me."

He took me to stand at the stairs and look up at the painting. Imagine my surprise when I saw a foggy, white, harvest moon shimmering up in the middle of the painting's sky.

It was beautiful.

Husband said, "I thought to myself 'how could I have never noticed that beautiful moon in the painting before?' ." (We've had it over 25 years). "It's so perfect."

Then he had gone to stand in front of the painting to get a better look, and the moon disappeared.

It was light from the sun, somehow casting a perfect moon through one of our windows.

We don't think it had ever done that before.

And let me tell you, the harvest moon had all the darks and  lights you can see on the moon when it is large and bright.

We stood there and watched it move slowly across the painted sky.

Just like a real moon.

And now, of course, when I look at "Posting a Letter", something seems to be missing from it. That dreamy, hazy, milky harvest moon made the painting perfect.

Life imitating art.

Or was it the other way 'round?

Thank Ye Lord

O Lord, bless the blood and the flesh
Of this the creature you gave me.
Created by Your Hand as You created man,
Life given for life.
That me and mine may eat with thanks for the gift.
That me and mine may give thanks for
Your own sacrifice of blood and flesh,
Life given for life.





Old Scottish Prayer

A First

Warning: Some dialogue may appear to be whining.

There has never been a Thanksgiving that I haven't been able to hoist the old big girl step-ins and go to work helping prepare the feast to come.

Except this one.

I am better - say even 60% better. But I know if I go to help Mother and Daughter, I will plummet quickly and begin the old writhing and grunting and moaning I have enjoyed so these past four days.

Do I feel guilty? Oh, yes. Yes, I do.

Mother is eighty-five years old. Daughter is used to being told what to do, certainly by me. But she is prone to wander, Lord, I feel it.
Texting, facebooking, sneaking a youtube in on occasion. And the television will be on, because Mother doesn't know how to run a household without it chattering in the corner.

I know Daughter is grown. Uh-huh. And I know Mother tends to move you out of the way and take over when it comes to the kitchen stuff. Boy howdy, does she.

But I also know Mother ain't able to shoulder it, no matter how bossy she can become. And I'm not sure Daughter can stand up to her Nanny.

I could not have stood up to either of my grandmothers. I would  have been left in the dust, dazed and amazed, trampled by walkers in the race to get her done.

But maybe Daughter is made of stronger stuff.

Lord, let's hope so.
 

Short Story

The short story:

I am stove up, bad.

Yesterday, for the first time in my life, even just before emergency back surgery to keep from being paralyzed (cause who would want that?), I couldn't climb the stairs.

It still hurts today, but not as bad - I stayed zonked on muscle relaxants yesterday, and a little today.

I am about to climb the stairs - carefully! - get ready for bed, and take a muscle relaxant.

We all better hope I am fit as a fiddle by Wednesday, because that is make a wash tub full of dressing under the eagle eye of my mother day, as well as a bunch of other doings to prepare for the big Thursday.

Later, dude.

Habits

During this past summer, I got into a habit.

Our raised gardens are to the side of the garage, and I got in the habit of meandering over to them every day on my way to the studio, which is the back part of the garage.

I'd look to see what was growing, what was budding, blooming or producing fruit. And if that fruit (or vegetable) was getting big enough that we could soon pick and eat.

It was a pleasant stop, to stand in the breeze and contemplate what we might have for supper in the not too distant future.

There is something very satisfying about a garden - knowing where something comes from, eating what you grew with your own hands. Well, Husband's own hands, anyway.

Usually, even if I'd only been out in the studio a few minutes, I'd find myself in front of the garden again before traveling back across to the house.

It's November. I still find myself veering over toward the garden, although it's all brown earth now.

But in my mind's eye, I can see the green stalks shooting up, the red tomatoes peeking forth, the big yellow blossoms of squash quivering in a summer breeze.

It won't be long - a blink of an eye, a snow flake or two - and some of us will be looking summer square in the eye again.

And, well, some of us won't.

Busy, Busy

Besides taking two of the cats to the vet today, I have been reading the manuscript copy in book form (on the computer) to make sure it's okay.

It's not okay.

There were a few mistakes a friend caught, at the last minute.

I realized, in looking at the name of chapters, I had goofed, and spent last night working (already in bed) as to how I was going to fix it without a huge do over.

I figured it out.

But my brain is tired.

My body is tired.

I think I'll go to bed early. (If I go to bed much earlier than usual, I might as well not get up.)

I still ain't called my mother today, so I better do that first.

Later, gater.

The Rest of the Story

Now, what was I saying?

Oh, yes.  Food cravings. We all have them, it is not exclusively for pregnant women.

So, what do you do about them? I read where if you ignore the craving, it goes away.

Eat a celery stick if you are craving a Snickers bar. I'm sure it works. I like celery better than Snickers, anyway.

Don't you?

I think willpower plays a lot into this. You either ignore cravings or you give in to them.

Yes sir, all it takes is willpower.

And somebody has apparently taken mine.

Cravings

Do you ever crave certain foods?

Daughter was craving an egg and cheese biscuit for days, but was a: too lazy to make it herself and b: never able to get to town to actually purchase the biscuit at a fast food place before they stopped serving breakfast.

I have been craving a blackberry cobbler for days now. Yes, I have the makings. Yes, I know how. Yes, they are good. Yes, they are - uh -

This blog  has been interrupted for an emergency exit from the page.

More information at a later date will be revealed.

Thank you for your patience.

Quirky

If you want to know the meaning of the word quirky, watch a cat.

We have four, as you know. They are each very different from one another, but each very, very strange.

Lilly, our elder, is almost fourteen and has some chronic health issues. We call her "Darth Vadar" because of the way she sounds. She does some typical Maine Coon things, like scooping up food and water into her paw and using it like a spoon. She also gets carried away sometimes and begins splashing in the water until the floor and her face and chest are drenched.

She also loves potatoes to the point if I am serving mashed potatoes or potato salad in particular, she will circle the table, bellowing at the top of her considerable lungs until she is fed.

Maine Coons are also famous for their chirps and trills instead of meows, and we also call her a Wookie because of the sounds she makes.

And she snores like a bumble bee buzzes.

Next is Frost. Frost is exactly twice the weight he should be. When we rescued him from the shelter he was svelte. He'd also not been fed enough for a while, so when we brought him home he clearly had an eating disorder (I ain't kidding). He would be in a deep sleep, suddenly jump up and run to his food dish in a panic, just to make sure there was food available.  And he took advantage of it, so like he's a pig like cat. The vet says she has one of those, too, and there isn't much you can do when you have multiple cats - especially if  you still have growing cats, as we do.

Frost also worships Husband. If Husband goes out the door at night (when he walked Molly before bedtime), Frost would hop up on the sewing machine, part the blinds with his paw, and cry pitifully until Husband came back in. He follows him around a lot, interested in anything Husband might be doing.

He likes to play "slaps" with Daughter - he lies on his side, she puts her hand out, and tries to withdraw it before he can slap at it with his paws. If they play too long he wins regardless because he bites her.

He nurses and kneads fuzzy blankets, but is embarassed if he gets caught.

At the vet, he is a holy terror. They tell me when Frost has a vet appointment, the office goes on "high alert". He growls, he spits, he backs up, he threatens, he bites, he fights. When he had a kidney infection they wanted a urine sample. So they put him in the kennel for the day. They were about to close, so they called and said he refused to urinate, we might as well come get him.

When we arrived, the vet tech got him out of the kennel to put him back in his carrier, and he promptly peed all over her. Let's just say there ain't no love lost between the staff and our cat.

Then we have Mimi. Or rather, Daughter has Mimi. She is a torti colored mix, the kind of cat who looks long haired but doesn't have tangles and such. She is dumb as a box of rocks.

She is also clumsy, which doesn't become a cat - but she starts to jump up on stuff and misses, she lies on the edge of the bed, rolling around and thump, there she goes off into the floor. She  never learns. She has a high pitched squeak that turns into a croak every fall when her allergies act up.

She's also very skittish. At the least little noise or movement, she jumps a mile.

Lastly, is my boy, Eli. When we brought Eli home he was a two month old, two pound kitten. The first night he crawled into bed with me, snuggled up against my neck and went to sleep. He still does that, four years later, except the only thing that fits up against my neck is his head. He wakes me up purring sometimes. I will wake up on my side, and he'll be lying the whole length of my torso, and then some. I don't know how long he is because he's afraid of the tape measure (go figure). But he is weighing in at almost twenty pounds, and still growing for a  year or so. Lord, help us.

He is the alpha cat (and has been since he walked in). At two pounds, he sauntered up to the food dish, made a teeny tiny noise, and the adult cats ran away. I kid  you not.

He still has a teeny tiny voice, which is comical, but the other cats don't see anything funny about it. They growl, hiss and run when he "talks" to them. It sounds sweet, but apparently is anything but.

I call him my "white shadow" because he thinks he has to be wherever I am. He's even gotten in the shower with me a few times. He sits toward the back of the tub and blinks while he gets misted.

 He comes when I whistle, he loves to play catch and chase. Maybe he thinks he's a small dog.

So, there you have it. This is the circus we live in.

Pray for us.

Poet's Corner

Have you noticed how every male over age twelve is suddenly growing a beard? I feel like Duck Dynasty has taken over the dang world. 

Unfortunately, I ain't one for beards. Never have been. So I go around thinking, "He would be so much better looking if he'd just shave."

This turned into a discussion with family a few minutes ago, and I saw fit to write a poem.

So, hang on and bear with me: it's short.

Guys can be weird
When it comes to a beard.
Sometimes it's a waste
To hide a handsome face.
But, on the other hand,
Depending on where you stand,
Some men - like Santa Claus,
When shaven, would give one pause.
But I still say for most fellas,
Whether it's black, brown, red or yella,
If you'd shave it off you'd look much sweeter.
So the gal of your dreams, when you meet her,
Won't have to wonder and ponder and guess,
If your face is handsome or one ugly mess!

That is all. Resume your lives.

Baby It's Cold Outside

You may have noticed a change in temperature. It's c-c-c-cold outside. The wind is blowing like it's mad about something and it was sleeting earlier at my house.

Unless you have been under a rock, I'm sure you've heard all the dire predictions for this coming winter.

For instance: colder temperatures and wetter weather (snow, ice) than we've seen in decades. No balmy interludes as we are accustomed to.

I read in two different articles we could expect temperatures as low as thirty degrees less than what we usually have.

So, if our average temperature is 45 degrees, we should expect 15 degrees?

Do you have your long johns, boots, flannel, wool, gloves, scarves, hats and corduroys ready?

And that's just a trip to the porch to fetch wood for the fire.

BRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!

Saying Thanks

Thank you - to all of you who have served our country.

Southern Writers and Their Pretend Counterparts

I have just finished a book by an allegedly southern author.

She is not.

She may say she lives in the south, and maybe she does. But I bet she hasn't lived here more than a few years, and that as a middle age adult.

She 'thinks' she's got us down pat, and truly believes she can write a southern story.

She has people who will publish her, praise her, and even hang out with her. Those who hang out with her perhaps have hopes that the people who publish her and praise her will publish and praise them. Heck if I know.

What I do know is something she doesn't: Southern can't be faked.

I don't imagine I could move to Boston and live for a few years, then write a book and sound like I was born and bred there.

I was insulted, amused, embarrassed and ashamed while reading this book, depending on what page I was on.

Since when do Southern people end sentences by saying 'yous'. Huh?

And how do we can fresh-picked-out of the garden-out back-tomatoes in December? (This book is supposed to take place somewhere in the mountains of north Georgia.)

And how are we supposed to be out working in the garden in January? Sitting on the front porch? In the heat, I might add.

If southerners have any education at all, they surely don't write and spell like they sound...

Unless, of course, you are a character in a person's book who thinks they do.

Lord help us all.

What if folks who do not know any better buy books written by people like her and take it home and believe that is who we are?

The belief of who we are, how we act, how we think, how smart we are, etc. is already skewed enough.

As she proves.

Imposter!

May I Take Your Order, Please?

There is a certain fast food restaurant in town that has a little quirk.

You almost never get what you order when you order through the drive-thru.

Apparently, they got enough complaints to put up a sign that says, "PLEASE CHECK YOUR ORDER BEFORE DRIVING AWAY!"

Okay, well, fine. But sometimes there are people waiting behind you and you just count and make sure there are the same number of things in there that you ordered. Because  once I got home with no food for me-but they got everyone else's correct.

For instance, say you order a cheeseburger, a chili dog, two orders of fries and an ice cream.

You get home and you have a chicken sandwich, a cheese sandwich, onion rings and the ice cream if you happened to have notice they didn't give it to you before you drove off.

The other day I ordered food and a chocolate milkshake and a vanilla milkshake.  The woman gave me the bag of food, which Daughter checked while we waited on the shakes. The bagged stuff was correct. Then the lady hung out the window, "Here ya go! One chocolate and one strawberry milkshake!"

"Uh, I ordered vanilla, not strawberry."

I swan, she looked me right in the eye, then rolled her eyes and snatched the strawberry shake back. I finally got my vanilla.

One time we got an extra order of fries.

The other morning Mother and I had to have blood work done early, and of course by the time it was over we were starving. We pulled into the drive-thru and I ordered two egg and cheese biscuits.

When we got to her house we had two egg and ham biscuits.

So, next time I'm at the drive-thru, when they say 'May I take your order, please?' I'm gonna say, "Nah. Surprise me. You always do anyway."

It's called going with the flow.

Spoons

If you gave me lots of money and turned me loose in a department store, I wouldn't go to the shoe department, the clothing department, or the sports department.

I would head straight to the home decor.

I am a sucker for quilts, china, towels, pillows, rugs, etc.

When I was a very young adult, I found a flatware pattern that I fell in love with. I saved up my money and when Service Merchandise Mart (remember them?) had a special sell, I purchased a serving for four.

I wanted more, because I wanted to have enough matching stuff to have company over.

My grandparents got wind of this and purchased me a serving of six for Christmas.

They look the same, but the set they purchased is much heavier. You can lift a fork from each piece, one in your left hand and one in your right hand, and tell a good bit of difference.

But if you look in my spoon drawer, it doesn't look like I care if it matches or not.

Because there you will find a dozen different patterns of spoons, and I love each and every one of them.

When Husband's father was still alive, he got a kick out of going to restaurants that were closing to pilfer through their close out sale. He loved junk stores, too. And he always bought the spoons.

He gave us a bunch of them once, and we have enjoyed them ever since.

Every time I use one, wash one, or dry one, I think fondly of him.

I miss him still.

Remember Well

Do you remember the first time you voted?

I remember it well.

I turned eighteen in 1972, which was the first year a person could vote unless they were twenty-one.

I remember being taught about that privilege in American Government class, then loaded up in a school bus and taken to the court house to register to vote.

I felt a great deal of awe and pride that I was given this responsibility so young. I read the newspaper and talked to my daddy about who was running, what they stood for, what I should consider.

Then, I voted.

I have voted consistently since that year.

I remember the last time I voted, too.

I sure hope you remember it; I hope it's in your short term memory bank.

Confessions of a Slob

I admit it; I'm a slob.

Before I retired, no one knew I was a slob. Husband barely knew it. He thought I just dressed that way on house cleaning Saturdays or really bad sick baby days.

But in my heart, I was always dressed like that.

After I retired, I stopped wearing make-up to the grocery store (gasp).

Then I fell, and my whole appearance went to pot.

At first it was because I was in so much agony.

Then it was because I had surgery.

Then it was because I was recuperating from surgery.

Then, I like, you know, never recuperated from pajamas.

Today I am dressed thusly: granny drawers (I know, I know, T.M.I.), sweat pants that are too short (they were a good brand, but drew up length wise. If they'd drawn up like any self-respecting sweat pants in a sideways fashion, I could have given them to Daughter), a man's undershirt, a t-shirt and a sweat shirt. No mention of a certain undergarmet to go under the shirts, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Plus socks and house shoes that I've taken to wearing everywhere, unless it rains.

I will say in my defense that the shoes look like  soft leather moccasins. Sort of.

When I do go to town, or church on Wednesday nights, I wear appropriate clothing, except for the shoes, of course.

I wear make-up and dress clothes on Sunday morning.

I'll wear them if anyone wants to give me an award, have a dinner in my honor, or any other such wonderful thing.

But you really have to mean it.

Snow Day

Well, the only thing on anybody's mind today (here) is the snow. In the South, it was a peculiar sight, as the leaves are in their full glory.

At my house, they got rained on, frozen, and snowed on. It was quite pretty this morning, All dazzling color topped in pristine white. The wind has blown off the snow and they are making a big noise with their frozen selves, whipping around furiously.

It's very cold, the wind chill is supposed to make it feel like it is in the low teens.

So, we have the first fire of the season, and of course, I am loving it.

I admit, two of the things that make me feel like a child are snow and fire in a fireplace.

The other is seeing Santa.

I'm making vegetable soup and cornbread for dinner this afternoon. And of course, sweet iced tea.

This could turn out to be a perfect day.

After all, I get to sleep an extra hour tonight before getting up for church, too.