What Shall I Cook?

The older Husband gets, the weirder he gets.

Now, he claims it is all in an effort to eat healthier.

The only problem with this is Husband depends on the Internet to guide him as to what is good or bad to eat.

For instance: there was a time when Husband was eating brown rice like it was going out of style. He bought a bunch of it.

Then, and unfortunately before he ate all of it, he read that "they" were putting arsenic in it, so he quit eating it. I posed the question as to how all those billions of people who basically live off rice were still alive. He didn't have an answer for that, but he has quit eating rice.

He won't eat seafood. Unless it's fish sticks, and those are his words, not mine.

He's quit eating cheese for the most part, when not very long ago he ate a lot of it because "it is good for you".

He doesn't drink as much milk as he used to.

Well, unless he has cornbread to go with it.

He almost stopped eating anything out of a can because they are now lining them with a white liner and somebody on the Internet said that was bad for you.

He won't eat red meat anymore because - you guessed it. Now, I know too much red meat is bad for you, and I applaud that he is cutting that - and pork - out of his diet.

I guess. Leaves me very little to cook.

He used to wouldn't touch coconut oil with a ten foot pole because it was so bad for you. Now, he is PUTTING IT IN HIS OATMEAL.

Drank apple juice. Wouldn't drink apple juice. Is now drinking apple juice.

Ate eggs. Wouldn't eat anything but the whites. Now back to eating eggs.

Wouldn't eat any kind of bread but wheat. Stopped wheat. Wouldn't eat any kind of bread but sourdough. Back to wheat.

Are you getting the picture?

So, what do I do?

I've decided to get a calendar and just try to figure out the de jour and hope for the best.

You pray someone doesn't say on the Internet (where Husband can read it, anyway) that tofu suddenly beomes the only food fit for man.

It could be my undoing.

The Things People Say

I read about an interior designer who helped redecorate a home. She said of the couple's four year old twin boys, "They are like drunken, crazed raccoons."

Aptly put, if I do say so myself. I well remember when my twin brothers went through the drunken, crazed raccoon stage. They are barely out of it now, as they approach their fiftieth birthday.

Moving right along to other things people say:

We were dining out Sunday after church and Daughter was laughing about an animated video she saw where wild animals were chasing other wild animals for food, except all the animals looked like giant balloons, with very short legs.

Husband was looking shifty eyed like he wanted to say something, so I asked him if he did. He shifted his eyes again and leaned toward my ear. "Don't say the "f" word." He told  me.

Well, now, that was as surprising to me as it may be to you, if you know me. I don't imagine any of  you reading have ever heard me say the "f" word, especially in a public restaurant right after church services.

I must have looked startled, because Daughter immediately wanted to know what he said. So, I put my hand to my face and mouthed what Husband had just whispered to me.

She barked with laughter, startling the waiter who magically appeared at that very instant. (They do that, you know. I think it's a  job requirement.)

Well, turns out, the "f" word Husband was referring to was "fat", not you-know-what. Apparently Daughter had used the word fat in her description of the cartoon animals and there happened to be a morbidly obese person sitting to the left of us.

Now, I understand Husband did not want to hurt this person's feelings. Neither would I. I try to never hurt anyones feelings under any circumstances unless it is to wake them from a dangerous slumber of activity. Sometimes when you love someone  you'll even try hurting their feelings if you think it might help.

But, no, not a random stranger.

However; I suspect this person hears the word "fat" every day, used in many contexts. I know I do. I would think he surely does not apply this as an insult to himself every time he hears it.

Daughter said if she couldn't say "fat" without having to think about it, then nobody better say "thin", "skinny", "tiny", etc. in front of her. Daughter is, well, skinny.

Don't get me started on blonde jokes. Yes, I'm blonde, why do you ask?

You say you didn't have to ask?

Ha! That right there was a blonde joke.

Anyway, Husband's heart was in the right place.

I just don't think we can live that way. Too much like the thought police.

But please be sure and not be thoughtless, though.

There's enough of that mess going around without you adding to it!

Saying Goodbye

Saying goodbye has been on my mind a lot lately.

I think it's because our dog, Molly, seems to rapidly be approaching those words. I don't want her to die, just like I haven't wanted Buster, Sam, Belle, or Samson to go.

I've never been very good at saying goodbye. I don't like it. I don't like people to move away, get too busy, change jobs, churches, or houses. I surely don't like it when they die.

But saying goodbye comes to all of us in many forms throughout our lives. I remember as a child never wanting to change teachers.

It's been a catastrophe with every grandparent who has passed on. My daddy left at age fifty-nine.

I've lost some really good friends, some slowly in illness some so suddenly it was hard to grasp they were actually gone.

Most of us have lost other things, too. Jobs, homes, rings, wallets, self-esteem, or trust.

But it pales when it comes to losing someone you love, be it two or four legged.

Maybe some of you have found a way to make it easier. If so, please tell me.

And do it quick.

I don't think I have much time left to learn before another goodbye arrives.

STRESSSSSSED

Last Saturday, as you all know, we visited the wildlife center and saw gorillas. This was a wonderful day, but it still stressed my pitiful body, which I knew it would.

However; some things are worth it.

I knew I had to get up on Sunday and go to church, NO MATTER WHAT. It was Easter! So this old crippled arose and went. And was blessed.

Monday, Daughter's doctor appointment didn't go as happily as we hoped, and she had to have another biopsy.

Tuesday, my doctor's appointment was okay except that the P.A. cheerfully told me I had some diverticulitis. Well, yay, me.

Wednesday, I took Mother to the dentist and she was told she had to have $3,000.00 worth of dental work done in order to be cleared for hip replacement surgery.

Oh, did I mention my mother has decided, at age 84, nearing 85, that she is going to have hip replacement surgery next month?

Hear that? It's my heart rate speeding up.

Needless to say, she was not a happy camper about the dentist news.

I had not felt well since eating Tuesday afternoon. Instead of getting better, it got worse, until yesterday afternoon I thought I might have to get some fluid. As in a needle stuck in my arm. As in a hospital.

But I'm better today.

Oh, and we had a very big deal go on at our church, which caused me some anxiety. I was worried how some people would behave. But it went well.

My washing machine started sounding like a 747 was taking off in the closet. Part is ordered. Laundry is almost touching the ceiling.

And Best Friend's pseudo grandson (really great-nephew, but not in her heart) became critically ill with a folded colon (the doctors kept saying that's not what it was because children didn't get folded colons and kept not doing anything for twelve hours), and had to have a trip to Scottish Rite and terrify everyone.

Did I tell you Brother of Many Surgeries went back to Emory for a few days as he began leaking in his gut? No? Well, he got himself a new drain tube and is on his way home.

Molly had a seizure night before last at 10:30. Then again at 12:30. Then again yesterday  morning at 5:30. then at 3:30. Today she is panting and looks peaked. My poor, poor puppy.

Truck's gotta have new tires. NOW.

So, that has been my week.

How has yours been?

A Great and Mighty Beast

Saturday was one of the most fascinating days of my life, to date.

We took a quick trip to Morganton, Ga. and joined a tour at Dewar Wildlife.

But before I tell you that tale, let me go back about 52 years and tell you another one.

My grandparents moved to Atlanta for a little while and rented out part of an old Victorian house across from Grant Park.

Of course, I got to go to the zoo every day. And there I met Willie B.

He was in a glass cage and had a tire swing and a black and white TV screwed into the wall.

The first day I saw him I was  mesmerized. I visited him every day, and he began to recognize me. He would see me, and get up from whatever he was doing and come to the glass. I would wave and he would put his hand up.

I could have stayed there forever.

At Dewar Wildlife they have Willie B.'s only living son. He has a proper name, Kidogo, but everyone calls him Willie B. Jr. He looks very much like his father.

As we pulled up in our cars, he was already at the window, his head propped up in his hand, looking bored.

The other gorilla, Jasiri, was at some distance, looking wary.

Willie B. Jr. never left the window as long as we were there with him.

One of the owners, JoBeth Dewar, fed him fruit, which he took and greatly enjoyed.  Then she turned to me with a twinkle in her eye and asked, "You wouldn't want to feed him, would you?"

I don't know what I said, but it was along the lines of, "Boy,would I!"

I washed my hands with GermX, let them dry a second and then she gave me a piece of apple. I held it out to him. He looked me square in the eye, then gently took the apple from me and ate it.

I'm not star struck often. In fact, I can't name you one person I would want an autograph from.

But Willie B. Jr. is quite a different story.

We toured the operating theatre, where they can even perform open heart surgery. We toured the kitchen. The man, Charles, who is in charge of this, took care of Willie B. at Atlanta Zoo for twenty-five years.

We then went to the observation deck. Both gorillas met us there, but at a good distance from one another. We were told Willie B. Jr. was the alpha gorilla, and also a ham. Both proved to be true.

JoBeth had an Easter Egg (rice?) paper filled with popcorn for them. She fed Willie B. Jr. one while Stuart Dewar,  the other owner, fed Jasiri at the same time.

Willie B. Jr. quickly gobbled up his popcorn, then decided Jasiri probably had a better deal.

They fought for a few seconds, swinging at each other, but I wasn't quick enough to get there for a picture.

Luckily, Jasiri had eaten two-thirds of his popcorn. However; he didn't get the rest, nor did he get to eat the package it came in. Willie B. Jr. got both of those.

Three times I heard a deep rumbling noise come from  Willie B. Jr. They said it is the  noise he makes when food is especially satisfying or he is content. It sounds like a purr/growl and came from deep within his chest. Chilling.

 

But all beasts have their weaknesses, and gorillas don't like to get wet. It started sprinkling rain a little bit, so under sheds they went.

They are beautiful animals and kindness seems to radiate from them. One little boy on the tour, around age nine or so, would not come close. He hid behind his mama. But I never felt any fear, only deep affection from the minute I saw Willie B. Jr.

 

It is obvious why they are called Silverbacks.

I loved every minute I had there. I have many pictures, of course, and so many of them show their personalities. All these shown here are Willie B. Jr.

 

I''ll say one thing more:

 

I could have stayed forever.

 

 

Are Ya Achin' for Some Bacon?

Yesterday was attack of the killer bacon day.

At lunch, I ordered a chicken sandwich that comes with bacon. I've had it that way, and you can't really taste the bacon, so why bother. Plus bacon is very bad for you, I'm told. And it adds lots of extra calories I don't need.

In fact, I need to drop about a dozen pounds of calories.

Anyway: I ordered the sandwich sans bacon. It was a difficult thing to do. Because although you can't really taste the bacon, the actual thought of how good that bacon would taste makes that little voice in my head exclaim, "Oh, boy! Bacon! My favorite!  Yay!"

I say, "No bacon."

Waiter: "Do you want it on the side?"

Me, in a tiny little voice, "No. No bacon."

When we are served the waiter lets me know that they tried to sneak that bacon in anyway, but he caught it at the last minute.

Gee, thanks. I'm pretty sure if it had been snuck in, it wouldn't have counted.

Then Daughter drags out the two pieces of bacon off her hamburger and offers them to me.

I look at her like she's sprouted another head. "Why would I take your bacon if I told him no bacon. And why didn't you say no bacon, too?"

Daughter says, "Well, I'd already said no tomato and mayonaise and didn't want to be too difficult."

So she puts two pieces of bacon on the little bread plate right under my nose.

This is a real dilemma. I don't like food to go to waste. That's why I need to lose twelve pounds.

But you will be glad to know I was stoic. Yes, sir. I didn't eat the stinkin' bacon.

Late yesterday afternoon Daughter and I visited Mother.

She offered me for supper left over breakfast. Biscuit, gravy and....bacon!

I ate the stupid bacon.

It's All In The Prespective

During the Victorian era, any house smaller than 2000 feet was called a "cottage."

My house would be a cottage.

It squeaks in at just barely over 2000 feet, but I don't think the three or four extra would have meant very much.

When I was designing our house, I used a lot of visual tricks to  make it look bigger on the outside. It is a very tall house, with a steeper roof than usual. I have a pseudo-wrap around porch on the front, which is deep and seats easily from both sides.

We also have a small back porch. It sits up on the second level (with a porch we don't use much right now underneath it).

All this makes the house look bigger than it really is.

On the inside, the foyer is two stories high. All the ceilings downstairs are nine feet high. The rooms (all four of them, if you don't count the half bath) are pretty big and flow into one another while remaining different rooms.

Some of Daughter's friends in the past thought we lived in a mansion. Some probably thought we were in a little house.

Daughter never chose friends because of their social or financial standing, even when she was old enough to understand what that meant. She's never cared, and good for her. One little friend who lived in a cramped house with her grandmother, asked as we pulled into the driveway how many families lived in our house.

I had a builder tell me about going with a friend to a house the friend was working on. They were taken to a huge room and left there for a few minutes. This guy saw what he thought was another room, and casually strolled into it. He said he couldn't figure out why they'd built it the way they had, as it was all rock, walls and floor, too.

Grinning, his friend told him to look up. He did, and he could see the sky.

He had walked into a fireplace. It was big enough to roast a whole cow in, and be able to walk around the spit.

You hear of wealthy people building these giant houses with more square feet than your local grocery store. My question is why?

They usually don't have family to fill it up.

It must be a hollow sounding house.

It seems houses are being built smaller as a rule, lately. I guess the economy dictates the size of the average guy's house.

I once built a house that was close to 4000 square feet. That house kept me instead of me keeping it. I always said I wanted the next house to be the right size, where every room was used.

That's what I have now.

And I wonder as I get older, is this house going to seem too big to manage someday?

Maybe. One never knows.