Author Archives: kzmclain

Thursday Thoughts

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Birthdays
Tuesday was Kaiya’s real birthday, though she will celebrate with her school friends on Saturday. I Face Timed her in the afternoon, once she was home from school. How does it feel to be 9? I asked her. Nana, she said in THAT voice. It doesn’t feel any different than being 8. As my sister Bec often says, she suspects our grands look at us and think, And they’re running the world. They came for dinner last night and I made her favorite kind of cupcakes – chocolate with mint frosting, with sprinkles, of course…..

Casper
My weekly (it seems) update on cute things I’m making and selling in my Nana’s Whimsies Shop (link above): Since the days are ticking by and Halloween is nearing, look at my adorable little ghost coasters. Or scrubbies. Or tie them to a string and call them a banner. Whatevah. I just think they’re very cute, and they take no time at all to make. Boo…..

Good News and Bad News
I stopped over to the McLains the other day on my way home from the grocery store because I wanted to see how their first couple of days of school had gone. Magnolia moved from third to fourth grade in the same school and Alastair moved from sixth to seventh grade in the same school, so I wasn’t really concerned about them. But both Dagny and Addie had moved to entirely new digs and I had been keeping my fingers crossed and saying prayers that the new schools would work out. As Alastair flew by, I asked him how school was going. Fine, he with a mouth full of after-school snack and kept on going. Addie was at volleyball practice, so I didn’t get to see her. But the fact that she made the volleyball team and had a practice to GO to was a good thing. Lots of new volleyball friends. I knew Magnolia was fine because I watched the eclipse with her. So that left Dagny. Well, she told me, there’s good news and bad news. Ooo boy. What’s the good news, I asked her. I made a new friend today. Her name is Amelia. Also, I figured out how to open up my locker. (This really was a very good thing, because on Sunday, she confided in me that she was very fearful she wasn’t going to be able to open her locker as she had struggled during locker-opening practice the week before.) I asked her for the bad news and held my breath. My locker partner doesn’t speak English. Hmmm. You mean, she doesn’t speak good English? I asked hopefully. No, she doesn’t speak any English at all. I have to use my hands to try to tell her things and it doesn’t really work very well. But Dagny doesn’t get the nickname Delightful Dee for nothing. She added, But the girl in the locker next to us speaks Spanish and English, and she translates for us. Also, even though my locker partner doesn’t speak English, she’s very cheerful and smiles all the time. At least there’s that.

House Beautiful
Speaking of smiling all the time, I’m certainly not. I’m trying to keep a positive attitude about the remodel. The results thus far are amazing. I can’t believe Bill does such beautiful work. I will post pictures soon, but this is what much of our house looks like right now…..

Yesterday Bill went to Home Depot to get the rest of the red oak steps that will replace our awful carpeted steps – awful because the carpet was so dirty it simply wouldn’t come clean any longer. Twenty-five years of climbing on them will do that. He was working away while I was baking cupcakes. I heard a loud and unfamiliar noise. Are you okay? I asked him, just as I ask him about 25 times each day when I hear a loud noise similar to the sound of a construction worker falling. Yes, he told me. I bought a new drill today, and it’s a bit, well, aggressive. That’s what he said. I can’t make this stuff up. Who’s the patron saint of home remodel?

Ciao.

I’ve Seen Both Sides Now

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I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It’s cloud’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all. – Joni Mitchell

When I was in my early 20s and living with my parents in Leadville, Colorado (VERY early 20s and not for very long, so don’t start snickering), I recall one morning I was watching early morning television, probably the Today Show. That was back in the day when the Today Show actually was only a couple of hours long and they really did feature some news. Barbara Walters hosted, as I recall.

Anyway, I didn’t normally sit around idly watching morning television as I did have that thing called a J-O-B. But I turned it on that morning because one of my favorite musicians/singers of the time was going to perform – Judy Collins. She had recently come out with her Judith album, and I loved her voice and the music on that particular album. I liked a lot of that kind of music in those days – James Taylor, Carole King, Jessie Colin Young, Carly Simon, Cat Stevens. Oddly, not Joni Mitchell, though Both Sides Now is one of the songs I frequently attempt to sing (particularly when I’m with my grandkids looking at clouds) and always fail. Lots of highs and lows, I’m afraid. Much like Joni Mitchell’s life. But I digress.

Anyway, on this particular morning, my grandmother was watching television with me. Grammie mostly kept her opinions to herself, but when she felt strongly about something, she didn’t hesitate to comment. Judy Collins was performing Send in the Clowns, a song I particularly liked from the album Judith. Grammie listened for a little bit. Finally, I heard her sigh heavily, and she said to me in her strongly accented Swiss dialect, “Ehhhhhh, Krisily, is dat moosik?”

At that moment, I believe Grammie felt she was getting too old for the world. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time she felt that way. Nor was it likely the last, as she lived for quite a few years past the horrific Judy Collins moment that was probably etched in her mind forever. But she was born in 1896 and lived to be in her mid-80s, so she saw a lot of things change, come, and go, and come back again. Mostly she rolled with the punches, but in her mind, Judy Collins’ singing did not constitute music.

Now, as the years go by, I can relate. Oh, I still like Judy Collins okay, though admittedly when I listened to the song again as I wrote this blog post, I did find it somewhat annoying and a bit screechy. Perhaps in 10 years I would also question whether or not it was moosik. Nowadays, I’m much more liable to listen to Zac Brown Band or Luke Bryan, and bluegrass interests me more than folk music. Or whatever you would call the music I liked back in the mid-70s.

Interestingly, both of my sisters and I have become country music fans. There was a time in my life when I wouldn’t have imagined listening to songs about drinking whiskey and beer and dancing in the back of a pick-up truck. But I like the songs of most of the contemporary country singers. In fact, I watched the recent CMA Music Festival on ABC, and was pleased to realize that I recognized every song and knew the words to most of them.

My brother, however, still takes a firm stand against country music. He’s only a baby of 57. It doesn’t hit until 60, so he has a few more years to listen to Top 40 hits (or whatever it is he listens to). Our children think it’s just another sign that we are steps away from assisted living.

But, while I cringe when I listen to the Top 40 hits that Maggie Faith plays while she cooks, I have – to date, anyway – refrained from asking her if this is moosik.

And, for your judgement…..

 

Mr. Moon: Just Passing By

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For the past few months, as people have been talking more and more about the total eclipse which much of our nation watched yesterday, I have ignored the excitement. Eclipse-schmeeclipse, I thought to myself. Because if I haven’t grasped anything else about getting old, I EXCEL at being crabby.

When friends of ours told us they were driving to Podunk, Nebraska, (not a real town, so stop googling it) and paying as much for a motel room as one would pay to stay at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City at Christmastime, I nodded and said wow, that’s awesome, but thought to myself wow, that’s stupid.

The media started getting more and more excited as the event neared. For the past three weeks, our local NBC station has been hawking their own branded eclipse glasses. Go to your nearest Grease Monkey and get your glasses, they would shout. Otherwise you will miss out; otherwise be stupid and look in the sky without these glasses and go blind.

Whatevah, I would think.

Until about three or four days ago, when it occurred to me that I might not see another total eclipse of the sun because who knows how crabby I’ll be by 2024  when the next total eclipse will occur. I may even be too crabby to go outside. All of the Grease Monkey glasses had been swooped up by then, of course. As the hours, then days, ticked by, the likelihood of obtaining the necessary blindness-preventing glasses diminished, until the possibility was as little as that pinprick-in- the-cardboard option they were offering us losers. One night, my telephone dinked, indicating a notification from our neighborhood internet group. I immediately – IMMEDIATELY – looked at the notification and saw it was from one of our neighbors saying he had four spare pairs of glasses. I immediately – IMMEDIATELY – clicked on his email link to request the glasses. He responded, telling me the glasses had been claimed practically before he hit the send button.

On Sunday night, our local NBC station was nearly in histrionics over the event. Remember the old game when we were in college where you would watch an episode of The Bob Newhart Show, and drink a shot everytime someone said Bob? Well, I was wishing I had a bottle of Fireball whiskey and a shot glass and could drink a shot every time one of them used the phrase zone of totality. It didn’t matter whether it was the local news, the weather news, or the sports news. Everything was linked to the zone of totality. Of which we were in the 92 percentile.

Dang. I wasn’t going to be able to see the historic event. I was going to have to resort to looking through that damned pinprick. So I sadly mentioned that fact to Maggie Faith Sunday when I dropped by to deliver my guac and chips. Come to our school with Mom, she said. They have tons of those glasses. Which is what I ended up doing because 9-year-olds are way smarter than 63-year-olds.

Jll and her mom Lynne and Bill and I checked in at the front office of Magnolia’s elementary school around 11:30. Do you happen to have any spare glasses, we asked tentatively. And Maggie was right; they had tons of them. Enough that we each got a pair, and there were very many to spare…..

We, along with all of the grade schoolers who were so very careful and grown-up about using their glasses when looking at the sky, enjoyed an amazing event……

Maggie, along with all of her fifth grade pals, watched the solar eclipse.

Bill, Lynne, and I watched as the moon passed in front of the sun…..

As did Jll and Maggie Faith…..

But my favorite photo of all: I’ve fallen and I can’t get up…..

As it turns out, I couldn’t be happier to have witnessed this scientific phenomenon. It was fascinating. The air actually cooled down as the moon passed the sun, blocking its heat for a brief time. The temperature dropped from 85 to 77. Mostly I was happy to watch the kids of Maggie’s school seeing the amazing work of God.

Cole got to witness the hand of God as well at his school, though he looks like he’s not sure what to think…..

And, I leave you with this, Baby Boomers. Don’t Bill and Lynne and I look like we are straight out of the 1950s at one of those early 3D movies?

It’s Under Here Somewhere

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I stopped over to the McLain’s house yesterday afternoon to drop off some guacamole and chips. Though I would like to say that I was just being nice and had made the quac especially for them, that, unfortunately, is not true. The reality is that I had made the guacamole the night before when Court and his kids came for dinner, but completely forgot about it until we had finished eating and were settling outside on the patio to watch the kids play a bit longer and the sun go down. I’ll send it home with you, I said, and then forgot to do that as well.

Oh well, I thought when I discovered the guacamole sitting in my refrigerator yesterday. Addie always says her favorite food is guacamole, so yay for her. The other upside is that I got a chance to see the paint job on Dagny’s and Maggie Faith’s bedroom. Teal and white stripes on the wall; a gray ceiling. God bless Dave and Jll. I will tell you, however, that the room actually looks nice. Who knew a gray ceiling could look so good?

As Jll walked me to the door, she talked about how one of the benefits of painting (or any remodeling effort) is that it forces us to move things around and throw things away or into a Goodwill pile. She went on to mention a house in her neighborhood that is occupied by full-out hoarders. Gulp, I thought. Hoarders. Just one flower vase more than me.

As I have mentioned, we are in the middle of a remodel job this summer. And when I say we, I of course mean Bill. I am just quality control. You-Missed-A-Spot is my middle name. Bill loves my help. Anyway, in our family room, we (there’s that we again) removed cabinets from above the bar area. The cabinets were getting on my very last nerve because I am the poster child for If-There-Is-A-Space-I-Will-Fill-It.  And they were filled with glasses and knick-knacks and liquor and dishes that hadn’t been used since the Reagan administration. So we removed all of them from the cabinets (a tedious job which actually DID include me) and put them on the dining room table to contend with at a later date.

And there they sit, getting dustier and dustier as Bill continues the installation of hardwood floors. If there is even half as much sawdust in his lungs as there are on my tables, well, I just hope there isn’t….

At some point, I will have to get serious and begin putting most of those things in a box to take to Goodwill. But here’s how I already KNOW it’s going to go: Gosh, I’ve literally NEVER used these wine glasses. But they were a wedding present from a good friend who it’s true I haven’t seen in 25 years but she got them in Germany. Sure, they are way too small for wine and way too big for port. But they were a WEDDING PRESENT. 

Bill will try to hold my feet to the fire, but quite frankly, he’s every bit as guilty as I, just for different types of things. His mother hated throwing things away, which is why every time we went to visit her, she sent me home with plastic kitchen utensils and old Christmas decorations and every single thing we ever gave her as a present over the past 25 years of our marriage. And now that’s Bill. He is reluctant to throw certain things away.

There are a pile of dress shirts that he used to wear every day when he worked as a professional lobbyist/lawyer. Just as he told me at the beginning of our marriage that he doesn’t cook, I told him I don’t launder and iron shirts. So he would wear a shirt, and when it was dirty, he tossed it in a laundry bag. When the bag was full, he would take it to the dry cleaners. A few days later, the shirts would come back clean, starched, and carefully folded just as he liked. Nowadays, if he practices law, it’s in his home office wearing his sweats and moccasins. But about 20 shirts are still in that laundry bag, needing to be cleaned. Or given to Goodwill, I say. But here how that conversation goes: The shirts are in perfectly good shape. I might give them to one of my sons. You never know, I might need them some day.

Watch for our show on TLC. Denver Housewives and Hoarders. Take that, Atlanta.

This post linked to Grand Social.

Saturday Smile: I Heart Vermont

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Bill and I have nine grandchildren. Seven of them live near us in Denver, so we see one or more of them nearly every day. Two, however, live far away in Vermont. Though FaceTime brings us closer than we would be without technology, we still feel far away, especially on birthdays.

Our two Vermont boys couldn’t be more different in many ways, but you don’t have to be around them long to recognize they are brothers. It’s the love and the loyalty they feel for one another.

Joseph is 8, but is as smart as a kid twice his age. He told me the other night that he is now interested in Greek mythology. Good, I told him. You can teach me about it. But he went on to explain that he is actually interested in two things – Greek gods and Pokémon. Whew, I thought. Underneath all of that incredible intelligence, he is just a kid. He’s the kid who would get tears in his eyes if I told him I didn’t feel good.

Now Micah, well, he’s a spark plug. Plain and simple. He has a smile on his face all of the time, and is always on the go. He loves music – all kinds of music. He doesn’t hold still until he finds something that grabs his attention, and then he will be attentive. He’s always ready for a bike ride or a run with their dog Merlin.

And Micah had a birthday this week. He turned 5….

Happy birthday Micah!

Our Vermont boys make me smile.

 

Friday Book Whimsy: The Spider and the Fly

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Before I review this book, I have to tell you a deep, dark secret. I sort of, kind of, like to read about real-life murder and real-life murderers. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t intend to embark upon a killing spree ala Natural Born Killer, a movie I’ve never even seen. And what’s more, though I may be unique in that I admit it, many people are interested in murder. (I wish I could say it like the British do: muuuurdah.)

Anyway, I know I’m not the only one because podcasts about murders and murderers are wildly popular these days. My Favorite Murder is one of the more popular podcasts out there nowadays. (I don’t recommend it for everyone. Language, people.)

Anyway, The Spider and the Fly, by journalist Claudia Rowe, showed up on Book Bub, recommended for those who like nonfiction books that read like novels. As I am not a huge fan of nonfiction, this caught my eye, and I looked at the list of books. This one appealed to me because in the publisher’s description, it highlights this letter from real-life serial murderer Kendall Francois to the author:

Well, well, Claudia. Can I call you Claudia? I’ll have to give it to you, when confronted at least you’re honest, as honest as any reporter….You want to go into the depths of my mind and into my past. I want a peek into yours. It is only fair, isn’t it?

Oh my heavens. Doesn’t that sound like Hannibal Lector of Silence of the Lambs fame? I was hooked, and got my hands on the book as soon as possible.

Kendall Francois was convicted of killing eight women in Poughkeepsie, New York, between 1996 and 1998. What’s more, he kept these eight women in the attic of the home he shared with his mother, father, and a sister, who took no offense at the putrid smell coming from the attic and the appearance of maggots on their ceiling. Seems odd, doesn’t it?

Francois eventually confessed to the inept police (who had also visited the home, and it hadn’t raised any concerns), pleaded guilty, and was sent to live out most of the rest of his life at Attica prison. He eventually died of cancer at another prison in his 40s.

It was shortly after his confession that Ms. Rowe became interested in the murder and Francois himself. What, she wondered, could make a person become a serial murderer.

The book, however, is as much about the author and her messed-up life as it is about Kendall Francois. So if you embark on this reading journey thinking you will gain an understanding of why a person murders, you will be disappointed. Rowe becomes obsessed with the murderer because she thinks it might give her some insight into her own weird life.

By the way, despite the fact that Francois was a real-life murderer, he wasn’t as scary as Hannibal Lector because who could be?

This book is certainly not for everyone. The details are disturbing, and the fact that it is real stuff makes you want to not go out at night. Still, I admit that I enjoyed reading this book, though I might stick to murder mysteries from here on.

Here is a link to the book.

 

Thursday Thoughts

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Not Quite School Daze
I mentioned in a recent blog that all of my Denver grandkids are back in school, but I was wrong. I got a call Tuesday from Maggie Faith. “Can I come over for a little bit?” she asked. I told her of course, but I thought she was in school. Not until this upcoming Monday, she informed me. I was relieved she wasn’t playing hooky. When she arrived, she immediately asked me, “What do you want to do?” as she always does. “Let’s cook something,” she went on to say, and started rooting through my pantry. Maggie likes to take random ingredients she finds in the pantry and “create” a masterpiece. The so-called masterpiece might include pieces of beef jerky cut up into some peanut butter, add a few pepper flakes and a handful of marshmallows, bake for 10 minutes, and then consume. I wasn’t quite up for that, so I suggested instead that we check out Pinterest and find something to make using existing ingredients. We landed on some simple Danish rolls using canned crescent rolls. I actually didn’t have the rolls, so I made a quick run to the grocery store. When I returned, Maggie had persuaded Google Home to play top 40 hits. She was dancing around the kitchen, and had used instant lemonade, instant ice tea, and instant fruit punch (which I didn’t even know I had, so it must have been older than she) to make a punch. “Want some?” she asked. I declined. We set to work on our Danish, and just about the time we got the dough laid out and the cream cheese mixed with the sugar, she got a better offer. Her friend Molly wanted her to come out and play. “Bye Nana,” she said as she hopped on her bike and left me with a dozen-and-a-half almost-put-together Danish rolls. No worries. Papa Bill ate them……

It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye
As I was out on my morning walk the other day, I observed two women standing in front of a car with the back opened. The car was packed to the gills with suitcases and other travel paraphernalia. They were tearfully hugging one another, and I teared up myself. I remember the days when my sister Bec and her family would travel from the East Coast, or my brother Dave and his family would travel to Denver from AZ. We would always have such fun while they were here, and it was so sad to say goodbye. We would all cry.  Say what you will about technology, but with all its flaws, it certainly has made the world smaller and communication easier. What with email and Facetime, I never feel very far away from my family and friends. I hope the woman has a safe trip to wherever she is going.

More Beesness
I telephoned Dagny yesterday to try and ascertain the status of the beehive. You might recall that my last update told you that the queen bee had died and the two apiarists had purchased a new queen. That queen was in a little box that they set inside the hive, the idea being that the drones and workers would get used to her before letting her loose in the hive. According to Dagny, that queen escaped her little box on her own. Apparently it was a bad decision, because she was quickly killed by the worker bees. But alas, all is not yet lost. There is a glimmer of hope. Dagny said that when she and her father checked the other day, it looked like there might have been some eggs that had been laid recently, indicating the existence of another queen. It would be one that the other bees chose, I guess. Or, said Dagny sadly, it might just be the glare of the sun and not eggs at all. Time will tell. I believe Camilla Parker-Bowles Windsor is watching carefully to see how one becomes queen when one is tired of waiting.

Twinkly Citrus
I crocheted these adorable citrus scrubbies this week, and posted them on my Etsy page. They worked up really quickly, and I think they are cute and cheerful-looking. Kaiya was surprised when she checked them out. “I like the way these feel,” she said. Check them out on my Etsy page (link above).

Rapunzel
When Mylee was over at my house the other day, for the first time in a very long time, she didn’t have her hair in pony tails or in a bun. In fact, it was completely loose. I was taken aback at just how long her hair is….

Ciao.

What Comes First, the Chicken or the Soup?

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If my mother would have ever plopped down a bowl of soup in front of my dad for dinner, well, she just wouldn’t have done it. Pork chops, yes; fried chicken, definitely. Cream of broccoli soup? Rethink it, Marg. Rethink it.

I, on the other hand, occasionally plunk down a bowl of soup in front of Bill for dinner, and he doesn’t complain. I’m sure he doesn’t think to himself Wow, in all of my hopes and dreams, I didn’t allow myself to imagine that we would have cream of broccoli soup tonight for dinner. But he doesn’t complain. He simply eats his mandatory one bowl, and then looks longingly at the freezer, hoping there is ice cream. There almost always is, by the way.

I, on the other hand, love soup. I love it for lunch or dinner. I especially love soup if it includes noodles or potatoes. Best yet, both. If my options for a starter at a restaurant are either soup or salad, and if the soup is homemade, I will almost always choose soup. My favorite lunch among all lunch choices is pho – Vietnamese noodle soup. Someday I’m going to get up my nerve and try preparing pho. Someday.

But back to Bill for a minute. There is a restaurant in our Denver neighborhood that is a Jewish deli. In fact, it’s cleverly called New York Deli News. Though their menu is chock full of good, homemade and hearty options such as beef brisket and stuffed cabbage (and a corned beef and tongue sandwich if you are so inclined), we rarely go there except on Fridays. On Fridays they serve a delicious and affordable prime rib, along with boiled potatoes and steamed mixed fresh vegetables. It really is very good. I want it right now.

Their starter options are — predictably — salad or soup, and their soups are homemade. On their busy Fridays, they offer mushroom beef barley and chicken noodle. I always get the beef barley and Bill gets the chicken noodle. And he always raves, nearly weeps with joy, over the chicken noodle soup. He has gone so far as to proclaim it the best he’s ever eaten, and I’m pretty sure he has said these words: IT’S TO DIE FOR.

Well. As a person who prides herself on her soup-making skills, and who is pretty darn sure has never heard IT’S TO DIE FOR as it relates to any of the meals I have prepared for him, I bristled the first time. Really, I said to him, settle down; it’s only chicken noodle soup. Lots of people make chicken noodle soup. I, for example, make chicken noodle soup.

And so I recently decided I would prove to him that I could make chicken noodle soup that is as good as that served at New York Deli News. I immediately chose to use a recipe I’ve had for a long time from Paula Deen.

Why did I choose Paula Deen? Two reasons, really. The first reason is that she is (to put it bluntly if quite inconsiderately) plump. Fat, really. Or at least, she used to be. I can’t say for sure anymore because she was sent packing after she admitted that she had once used the N word. Which brings me to my second reason. I relate to Paula Deen because there have been a number of occasions in which I’ve said something that I wish I could take back almost immediately. I’m pretty sure she wishes she had kept her past mistake to herself. And as for her being overweight being a reason to use her recipe, I go with the philosophy that you should never trust a skinny cook. I’m looking at you, Giada.

Anyway, I made my soup, and I thought it tasted delicious. Bill ate his mandatory bowl, sheepishly asking for some salt, and looked longingly at the freezer. But I’m pretty sure he will show a bit more restraint when praising the chicken noodle soup at New York Deli News.

Look for yourself…..

And here’s my recipe for chicken noodle soup. While I used Paula Deen’s recipe as my guide, I made quite a few changes. She adds cream, which is perhaps why she’s plump. I find cream unnecessary. Deceased Jewish grandmothers world-wide rolled over in their graves at the thought of cream in their chicken noodle soup…..

Chicken Noodle Soup

Ingredients
2-3 bay leaves
3 chicken bouillon cubes
1 onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 2-3 lb. whole chicken, cut up
1-1/2 t. Italian seasoning
3-1/2 quarts water
2 c. carrots, chopped
2 c. celery, chopped
1 c. sliced mushrooms
3 T. chopped fresh parsley
2-3 c. uncooked egg noodles
2 T. dry marsala wine or sherry
Salt and pepper, to taste

Process
To make the chicken stock: Add bay leaves, bouillon, onion, garlic, chicken pieces, Italian seasoning, water, and salt and pepper to a large Dutch oven or soup pot. Cook for about an hour, until the chicken is tender. Remove chicken and bay leaves. You should have about 3 quarts of stock. Allow chicken to cool, and then remove the meat from the chicken, tossing away the bones and the skin, and set aside.

To make the soup: Bring the stock back to a boil. Add carrots and celery to the stock. When they are soft (15 to 20 minutes), add the noodles and cook according to package directions. When noodles are done, add the chicken back to the stock, along with the mushrooms and the parsley. Drizzle in the marsala or sherry. Cook for another 5 minutes or so, until the mushrooms are soft. Adjust seasoning if necessary.

This post linked to Grammy’s Grid.

Black-Eyed Peas: It’s What’s for Dinner and Better Than a Funeral

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Sunday afternoon, I was watching an episode of Father Brown on Netflix, once again wondering why anyone would hang out with the good Catholic priest when his friends and parishioners are constantly getting knocked off by one murderer or another despite the fact that there are only 250 people in the quiet English village. The way I figure it, anytime Father Brown calls and asks if you want to hang out, you should say you would love to but you are busy washing your hair that afternoon. And, by the way, I’m leaving your church and becoming Anglican like everyone else in England. Oy vey.  Between Father Brown’s Kembleford, England and Jessica Fletcher’s Cabot Cove, Maine, no wonder young people are fleeing from small towns throughout the world!

Suddenly I heard poppity pop pop, the cheerful sound my cell phone makes when I get a text message. I glanced over and saw that it was from my nephew Erik who lives with his family in AZ. Erik rarely texts me, and I immediately began thinking about what I have in my closet that would be appropriate to wear to a funeral in AZ where the temperature remains in the range of 104 to 106 degrees in the shade. My mother would be proud that I went there so quickly.

Anyway, I read the text and it turns out my sister wasn’t dead, nor was anyone else in our family. Instead, Erik was asking me how I made the black-eyed peas I offer every New Year’s Day so that we can all have great luck in the year ahead. Given several cancer scares, a sister-in-law’s broken back, a couple of surgeries, and several hip failures so far in 2017, I am going to go out on a limb and say that relying on legumes for luck isn’t working. I can’t go out on MY limb, however, as my hip is one of them that is failing.

I responded by telling him how I make my black-eyed peas, wondering all the while how he can be planning on making black-eyed peas when 1) It’s 108 degrees outside where he lives; and 2) His wife and his kids can barely be in the same room with a legume, so he would be on his own eating the massive amount of beans the recipe makes. Perhaps he was planning on feeding an entire flatulent village. Who was I to judge?

I called my sister Bec the next day to let her know that Erik had contacted me looking for the recipe. I called her for two reasons (and I must be in a listing mood today): 1) I wanted her to tell me why Erik was seeking to cook something as, well, hearty as beans in unbearably hot weather; and 2) I wanted to tell her that 10 minutes after I communicated with Erik, I lackadaisically logged onto my Pinterest site only to find recipes for black-eyed peas on my feed.  This is the truth, hand to God. Pinterest is reading my text messages.

The answer to (1) is that no matter where you live, sometime in mid-August, your thoughts turn to autumn. And if you like to cook (as does Erik), you begin thinking about cooking things on top of the stove for a very long time. Autumn/winter cooking is all about braising. It turns out that when Erik was in college, his roommate would go home for the weekend, and the boy’s father would always send him back with a big pot of beans. The young men would eat delicious beans for a week. Erik was feeling nostalgic. Our taste buds have more muscle memory than anything else.

The answer to (2), by the way, is that we are fooling ourselves if we think we have even the littlest bit of privacy left in our lives. So really, when people start getting bent out of shape because they fear a loss of privacy, they might as well realize that the horse has already left the barn. No privacy. None.

Anyway,what this all tells me is that since Erik is jonesing  for a pot of beans and the majority of my grandkids are back in school (the Vermonters don’t start until after Labor Day), the deluge of All Things Pumpkin is about to begin. Lord, make me strong.

Here, by the way, are the instructions I gave Erik (and Pinterest) regarding my black-eyed peas…..

Soak the black-eyed peas overnight (or do a quick-soak ). Place beans, some carrots and celery diced small, a teaspoon or so of red pepper flakes, some diced garlic, a bay leaf, a couple of ham hocks or a ham bone, and enough water to cover into a slow cooker and cook all night long. Don’t add salt until the end.

Enjoy, but don’t expect good luck. And that’s all I’ll say about that.

No Magic Tricks

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I honestly don’t know what happens to my time. I’m retired. I don’t volunteer (except with my grandkids). I belong to virtually no clubs or organizations that take up my time. And yet, the days go by and I find I haven’t done a single one of the things that I have committed to myself that I would do. For example, two weeks ago, I ran into a friend whom I haven’t seen for a while, and promised her with great confidence that I would call her in a few days to arrange for us to have lunch or coffee. Haven’t done it. Nope.  Sure haven’t.

Unfortunately, the same is true of my prayer life. Or perhaps I should say my so-called prayer life, as it is one of the things that gets pushed aside way more than it should. I know you’re all thinking right now, for heaven’s sake, the woman is constantly talking about her prayer life and how it should be better. Poop, or get off the pot. (That is what my dad would have said, although he wouldn’t have used the word poop in the sentence. In fact, he probably never used the word poop in his life.)

Praying kind of confuses me, I will admit that freely. I will ask God for something, and then I am unsure if I should ask again. I remind myself about the gospel reading in which Jesus says that we should nag God (my words, not his) like the woman who nagged the judge for the favor. I wonder why God should listen to me when others might be praying for the exact opposite. I used to wonder about this when I was in high school and we would pray for a victory in the football game. Was God a Scotus Shamrock fan?

The fact is I’m probably overthinking the whole thing. While miracles do happen, most of the time when we ask for something specific – winning the lottery or curing an illness – there isn’t a flash of light and subsequent wealth or health. I guess that’s because prayer isn’t a magic trick. It’s a conversation with God. And good conversations take time and develop slowly. They also require both talking and listening.

Yesterday, our Mass celebrant told us something that resonated with me. So much so, in fact, that I dug around to find a pencil and write what he said in the margin of my prayer book. He said when you find yourself distracted from listening to, say, his sermon, perhaps that distraction is God talking to you. Pay attention to your distractions, he told us.

I gave that a lot of thought after he said that, during which time I was distracted from his homily, I’m afraid. Maybe that was God’s wish, however. Maybe thinking about a conversation with God was more important that listening to the sermon.

I tend to obsess about things, especially when they are things that relate to my family. While I don’t think God wants me to obsess about things over which I have no control, maybe my distractions and worries are just God’s way of reminding me that he is not only listening, but actually is handling things, thank you very much.

Just like when Peter was comfortably walking on the water, following Jesus’ example in St. Matthew’s gospel, but started overthinking it all (like I tend to do) and began to sink. Save me Lord, he said, and Jesus reached out his hand.

Perhaps that should be the prayer I say, not once, but over and over every day: Save me Lord. Maybe that’s the way to start my conversation with God.

And this week, I PROMISE I’m going to give my friend a call.

This post linked to the GRAND Social