We’ve all heard the story about Winston Churchill’s famous speech to the boys of Harrow School, which happened also to be one of his alma maters. Never, never, never give up, he is purported to have said, upon which he sat down, his speech concluded. Guess what? Didn’t happen. At least not that way.

What he DID say at one point in his 20-minutes-or-so speech, was ….this is the lesson: never give in, never give in, never, never, never never — in nothing, great or small, large or petty — never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense.

That puts a different slant on what we always thought he said. I think I like my version better.

I have never been a person with a lot of tenacity. I’m very quick to both give up and/or give in. I guess I just never had enough self-confidence to stick to my guns about much. But Churchill would be proud that I continue to tenaciously pursue one goal: making hamburger buns.

Of course, Churchill probably didn’t eat a lot of hamburgers in his life, what with his mouth being full of the ubiquitous cigar. So, in reality, he wouldn’t be particularly proud of my goal, but he would applaud me for never giving up. Or in. Whatever.

I believe I have conquered bread. I believe I make a really good loaf of white bread, thanks to Browneyed Baker. My soft-crusted french bread is very good, if I must say so myself, thanks to The Baker Upstairs. But I have tried maybe a dozen times to make soft and tasty hamburger buns, to no avail. Rather than soft, they are hard as rocks. Rather than tasty, they are flavorless. Frankly, a rock would taste better.

I set out yesterday with a new recipe. This recipe came from Pinterest. Despite an inordinate time they spend on giving me survival tips, they also have figured out two things: I like to bake bread and I like to cook meals designed for two people. Hence, they offered me a recipe for small-batch hamburger buns. Four hamburger buns. Easy-peasy. Soft and delicious.

Chanting nevah, nevah, nevah give up (because I hadn’t yet learned that Churchill didn’t actual say that), I set out to make four hamburger buns. I followed the recipe. I did everything the recipe told me to do. I knew immediately that the dough wasn’t going to rise. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t sticky at all. But I optimistically put it in a bowl and covered the bowl. An hour later, I uncovered the bowl and it looked exactly like it looked an hour previously.

Dang.

But I soldiered on, because I wanted to go against my nature and not give up. I found another small-batch hamburger bun recipe. This recipe used regular yeast instead of rapid-rise yeast. I have decided instant yeast is not my friend, and I can’t really tell you why. All I know is that when I mix warm water with regular yeast and a little sugar, and begin to see the yeast coming to life, I’m happy as the squirrel on my bird feeder.

From the get-go, this recipe worked better. The dough was soft and silky. It dutifully doubled in bulk as it is supposed to do. My buns, at long last, were a success….

Next step is to learn to make the tops smooth and shiny. I will never give up. Or in.

Bill and I watched an old Clint Eastwood movie the other day. It was raining outside, and Bill was unable to work in the yard. He is unaccustomed to having time on his hands, and was like the so-called cat on a hot tin roof. I quickly got on Amazon Prime and a movie — which I had never heard of — showed up on my suggestions. It was called Tightrope, and was not overly long and did not involve espionage — two things that would have been a game-stopper. My general attention span for movies these days is two hours. As for espionage films, I simply didn’t feel like working that hard to follow the plot.

I was struck by the title, which reminded me of one of Alfred Hitchcock’s one-word film titles. You know, like Vertigo, Sabotage, Psycho, Rebecca. The film originally was released in 1984. I like films made in the 70s and 80s. The cars were as big as a small apartment. Women’s hair styles were huge and covered in so much hairspray that a small tsunami wouldn’t move a single hair. Jeans fit tight at the waist and were acid-washed. Men wore corduroy jackets and sported sideburns. Telephones were attached to the wall and political correctness was a dim hope for the future.

While I am no film aficionado, I believe I could tell you that a movie was made in the 70s even if I had never seen it before. And not just from the cars and the hairstyles, but from the way they are directed. Lots of head-on shots. Lots of background music that sounds like wannabe jazz and might have also been used in a porn movie. Lots of shots from the knees-on-down to build suspense.

Bill and I didn’t think that Tightrope was very good, to be perfectly honest. At one point, I told Bill that if I hadn’t paid Amazon to rent the movie, I would have abandoned it and moved on to one of my British mysteries. But money doesn’t grow on trees, my friends. After all, $3.99 is $3.99. That, and about four more dollars, would buy a cup of coffee.

I was surprised, however, to read that the late film critic Roger Ebert gave the movie a really good review when it came out in 1984. He credited Clint Eastwood for his portrayal of a tortured cop whose wife had left him with his two children. Perhaps she left him because he kept having sex, albeit consensual, with women he met while chasing bad guys. Oh, and he liked using handcuffs, and not just for police work. But he was a really good dad!

At the end of the movie, which featured a very bad villain, Eastwood’s character makes the right choice, and falls for a feminist who teaches self-defense to women. And he hangs up the handcuffs for good.

I never figured out why the movie was called Tightrope, as there wasn’t a rope in sight. But while I thought the movie was crap, I have to agree with Ebert that no one plays a tortured man like Clint Eastwood. He clenches his teeth so much that his mouth must be sore at the end of filming.

Still, he’s one of my favorite actors. And I will admit that I use lines from his movies more than any other actor’s lines. Think Do you feel lucky, Punk? Well, do you?

There’s a crow flying
Black & ragged
Tree to tree
He’s black as the highway that’s leading me
Now he’s diving down
To pick up on something shiny
I feel like that black crow
Flying
In a blue sky.

Joni Mitchell

If you follow this blog, you know I love the sound of the birds singing. No matter which home I’m living, I open up the doors and windows early in the morning when I arise so that I can listen to the lovely sound of birds chirping. This past spring, I was able to watch quails as they sat on their eggs in the nest they had built in my geranium pot. I like birds.

I thought I liked all kinds of birds, but I have learned in the past week that there is a species of birds that I not only don’t like, but I actively and heartily DISLIKE.

Crows.

For the first time that I can remember in the 28 years we have lived in this Denver abode, we have a murder of crows living either in one of our trees or in one of a nearby neighbor’s tree. I have seen seven or eight of them at a time dining luxuriously on the worms they are pulling out of our lawn, particularly after it rains.

I don’t mind if they are using my yard as a cafeteria. It’s the food chain. It’s the circle of life. Eat away, Mr. and Mrs. Crow. However, lately they have taken to starting their cawing sound early in the morning, just as the sun is beginning to rise. You’ve heard crows cawing, right? It’s an extremely unpleasant sound. It’s loud and shrill and incessant. Our crows start early and never seem to know when to stop.

I assume there is a reason for their cawing. I don’t think they have set out to purposely become Southmoor Park’s alarm clock. In fact, I’m probably the only person who hears their terrible racket because other people are smart enough to close their windows and run their air conditioners. I, however, love the night sounds and leave ours open. Or I did, anyway, until the night sounds became the dawn sounds of never-ending cawing. As for Bill, if a car crashed through our garage door, Bill might snuffle and turn over, but it wouldn’t awaken him. He sleeps soundly.

I have googled the entire issue, of course. Lo, and behold, Lennon and McCartney were right. Blackbirds sing in the dead of night. Why? To get a drop on the other birds who are still sleeping. Their song may well be a mating sound. They might simply want to be heard.

Of course, I also learned that there is a difference between ravens, crows, and blackbirds. Blackbirds are smaller, and it seems they have a much pleasanter sound than the irritating sound made by crows. And if Edgar Allan Poe is right and the raven quoths nevermore, I should only be so lucky that the crow would also quoth nevermore.

It could, however, that the crows are letting their murder mates know that a fox is near. I hate nature.

Every year of a wedding anniversary is connected with some sort of item. For example, your first anniversary is paper. So the idea is that you would give your beloved spouse something made out of paper. I guess they don’t want you wasting money until you know the marriage is going to “take.” And I don’t know who “they” is. Probably Hallmark, because Hallmark is the king of All Things Gifted.

Anyway, it seems like 29 years should warrant something special. I went online to see the gift category for 29 years. Tools. Yep. After 29 years of marriage, Bill is supposed to give me a nail gun and I’m supposed to give him a power ratchet.

And, by the way, while I have no idea what a power ratchet is, I can almost guarantee that there is already one in our garage somewhere. Bill has a lot of tools that he has collected over the years. We did have to rent a jackhammer recently, but, oh well, we’re on to our 30th anniversary. The gift for 30 years, I’m pleased to say, is pearls. Bill bought me a pearl necklace early in our marriage. I could wear two strands and look like Barbara Bush. I can’t wait.

Anyway, since we passed on the tools, we made up for it by going out for a wonderful dinner with my sister Jen and her son B.J. We went to a wonderful Fort Collins restaurant named RARE. It is Italian, and I don’t think I’ve ever eaten better food. We knew we couldn’t go wrong.

And I have to add that eating with B.J. is one of the most pleasurable experiences you can imagine. The man likes food. He knows about food. He cooks fabulous food. And he knows what he likes. I love to eat with someone who loves to eat. What can I say?

Anyhoo, as we drank our before dinner drinks (martinis for B.J. and me, and glasses of prosecco for Jen and Bill) we perused the menu. As we did so, the server announced the restaurants specials. I can’t remember the rest, because as soon as the words were out of her mouth, I knew Bill might as well put his menu away. What was the word? Tomahawk steak.

If you have never seen (or eaten) a tomahawk steak, I will tell you it is one of the most pleasurable eating experiences you can have. A tomahawk steak is a bone-in ribeye steak. But what a bone! Wait, let me show you…..

Never mind that the cost was $175. Bill was all in. After all, a jackhammer would have been considerably more expensive. And besides, he was paying.

The steak, coupled with a few different risottos and some tagliatelle made for some wonderful eating. We started out with antipasti, as would any good Italian couple celebrating their 29th anniversary.

You know what else SCREAMED 29th anniversary? Our reservations were for 3:45 p.m. That was the only time left for reservations. I thought we would be surrounded by nothing but old people. The truth was, there were quite a few people there, finishing up their late lunch. When we were seated, Jen asked the server if we were going to be rushed. She said no, we could take our time. And that was before she knew we were going to order a steak the size of a side of beef.

Remember what I said about B.J. enjoying food? When we were finished eating, he asked if he could have the bone. I said yes, assuming he was going to take it home. But no:

I have to tell you what Bill lacked in manliness for ordering prosecco as a before-dinner drink, he more than made up for with the steak.

Having recently attended a wedding has gotten me to think about marriage in general and weddings in particular. I’ve been the blissful bride at two of them myself. This is, of course, one more than many people. I have found it takes me more than one try on many things in life. I’m happy to say I got it right the second time.

I had just turned 24 when I gave marriage my first go. We got married at a small Catholic church in Dillon, CO, called Our Lady of Peace. It was my parents’ church. By that time I was living in Denver, and was a mostly faithful churchgoer. While I went to church more often than I didn’t, I certainly didn’t have a church that I would have called my parish. Given that, we decided to get married at my parents’ church.

Our wedding was on December 29. Thinking that the church would still be decorated for Christmas, I didn’t worry about flowers. (Frankly, I didn’t worry about a lot of things regarding my wedding. I bought my dress at a regular store rather than a bridal store, and it didn’t cost very much.) Much to my surprise, when we walked into the church the night before our wedding for the rehearsal, there wasn’t a decoration in sight. To this day, I don’t know why the pastor took down everything four days after Christmas. His name was Fr. Ed, but he might as well have been Fr. Grinch.

My second wedding was entirely different. It was still small, with maybe 50-75 guests. But it wasn’t small in my heart. We were married in the church I had attended for 10 years. It was a half-block from the house in which Court and I lived. The parish had a school that Court attended from kindergarten through eighth grade.

Every member of my family was involved in some way in our wedding. My two sisters were bridesmaids. My nieces Kate and Maggie, and Bill’s daughter Heather were my junior bridesmaids. My nephew Christopher was ringbearer. And my two little nieces Kacy and Jessie were flower girls. Bill’s sons were groomsmen. My brother Dave held the honorary position of “host” which, thankfully, didn’t really involve much hosting. My nephew B.J. was the altar server. Court walked me down the aisle.

The wedding was really a celebration of love and I was joyful every hour of that day. I have many memories of that day, but one in particular always stands out. It was about 11 o’clock in the morning, and our wedding was at 2. The women/girls had just returned from getting our hair and makeup done. I walked in the back door of our little house (which was full of happy people). Court — 12 years old at the time — came running up to me and said, “Mom, B.J. and I are hungry. What is there to eat?”

I had carefully planned every minute of that day, but I had completely forgotten that people needed to eat lunch. Those kids were hungry. We ordered Dominic’s Pizza.

Yesterday Bill and I celebrated the 29th anniversary of this wonderful day. We’ve had ups and downs, but our life together together has been rich and full of surprises and lots of love.

Happy anniversary to my amazing husband who has made every day of our life together joyful. Well, except for the day that I threw the burrito at him.

Our granddaughter Maggie Faith spent this past week in children’s drama camp. The week culminated in a performance of Matilda, a play based on a book by author Roald Dahl. It was a shortened version of the play, but well done for only a week’s worth of practice. As for Maggie, she is a born entertainer……

Maggie’s performance made me smile. Have a great weekend.