Author Archives: kzmclain

I Think I Can

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It started on Saturday, when I met my sister Jen in Boulder for lunch and some shopping. She brought me the most beautiful bouquet (because, yes, that’s exactly what it was) of dill from her garden. While my dill this year kind of petered out, her’s blossomed into more than she could possibly use for her salmon filet that she has maybe once a month…..

Sunday, I decided to go to Nick’s Farm Store – a garden center and farm store a few miles from my house. They always have a good selection of fruits and vegetables each summer. And about this time every year they have pickling cucumbers, along with Colorado peaches and homegrown tomatoes.

But it was the pickling cucumbers I was after. Jen’s dill just called to be put into a few jars of sour pickles in vinegar brine.

I don’t know how I learned to can. I guess I taught myself. But I learned to love pickles from both sides of my family. Every year when the pickling cucumbers were available, Mom would prepare a batch of her three-day dill pickles. These pickles were not designed to be processed and saved. They were meant to be prepared, kept in the brine for three days, and then eaten. Unfortunately, the pickles never lasted three days. By that first night, you could see one of us (usually Dad was the first) reaching under the plate that held the cucumbers down into the brine, weighted down by a large can of tomatoes or pork n’ beans. The pickles were long gone by Day Three.

But as soon as I had a place of my own, I taught myself to can. I bought a big canning pot and all of the accoutrement necessary for canning fruits and pickles. I make pickles and dilly beans. I prepare and process Colorado’s delicious Palisade peaches for eating all year long. If I can get ahold of a lot of tomatoes, I can tomatoes to use in soups and stews throughout the winter.

Sometime during Sunday night, it occurred to me that I needed to begin passing along my canning knowledge to my grandkids. So yesterday morning, I sent a text message to Jll asking if any of the kids would be interested in watching/helping me make pickles. Yep, she responded.

Bill brought up my canning equipment from the basement, and I washed the pickling cukes. About that time, Alastair, Dagny, and Maggie Faith arrived. How in the world do you make pickles? Maggie asked. She didn’t even realize that pickles came from cucumbers. I put them to work cutting up the cucumbers, which they did without slicing nary a finger. I then had them drop into each of six pint jars: a garlic clove, a finger full of dill seed, a sprig of fresh dill, a pinch of red pepper flakes, and a good pinch of black peppercorns. In the meantime, I prepared the brine, which consisted of apple cider vinegar, salt, and a touch of sugar. Dagny tasted it and proclaimed it to be perfect. In fact, I finally had to stop her from just drinking the brine as I was fearful it would make her sick.

When the spices were in the jar, I put them to work stuffing the jars with the cut-up cukes…..

The brine went in….

….and the jars were closed and placed in the boiling water of the large canning pot. Fifteen minutes later, voila……

When they left for home, I sent a jar of the pickles with them. They were on their bicycles, and I presumed they had some sort of basket. When I saw there was no basket, I suggested they let me bring them a jar later.

“Nana,” said Dagny. “I can carry a jar of pickles, because I ride my bike without using my hands.”

Well of course you do.

With great trepidation, I wished her a fond farewell with her jar of pickles…..

I’m sorry to tell you that a mere 15 seconds after I took this photo, disaster struck. She didn’t make it to the end of our sidewalk before she dropped the jar and there were pickles and pickle juice everywhere. She had the saddest look on her face.

I promised to deliver a jar of pickles today, something I will do this morning.

Maybe next I will make dilly beans.

This post linked to Blogging Grandmother’s Link Party.

Please Mr. Postman

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Mister Postman, look and see
Is there a letter in your bag for me?
I been waiting a long long time
Since I heard from that girl of mine
There must be some word today
From my girlfriend so far away
Please Mister Postman look and see
If there’s a letter, a letter for me.

Saturday evening, a friend of mine – in fact, my oldest friend (in number of years and not age) spent the night at our house. She drove in from Omaha and stopped on her way to visit another mutual friend who is also in Colorado. Of course, because we are different in nearly every way – which belies our friendship – she didn’t arrive until waaaaaay after I had been asleep for hours. She, you see, is a night owl while I am up with the birds.

We had a nice – if quite short — visit yesterday, but will see each other in a few days when she is heading home again……

We talked about many things, as we always do. Our children. Or aches and pains. Our memories of grade school and high school and beyond. In the course of our conversation (from which Bill quickly escaped, heading to the family room, apparently finding installing wood floors better than listening to the jammering of two women), she mentioned that a friend had come across letters I had apparently sent her while in college at the University of Nebraska, way back in 1972-1973. In the letters, I talk about my life, my loves, and who knows what else.

What struck me when I learned about the existence of these letters is, well, letters. It makes me laugh to think that I sent letters to my friend, who was attending college in Omaha, a mere 45 or 50 miles from Lincoln. It got me to thinking about letter writing.

Recently I was talking about letters to one of my grandkids, probably Addie. I was telling her about that feeling you would get when you opened your mailbox and saw a first-class envelope with a handwritten address – and it was addressed to YOU. Even in this day and age of nearly instantaneous communication technology, it isn’t the same as getting a letter that you know someone sat down and wrote with a pen, carefully placed in an envelope, addressed the envelope, licked the 8 cent stamp and placed it in the corner, and put it in the outgoing mail for me to receive two or three days later. Emails can’t compete, I’m afraid.

Oh, I’m not knocking email. Modern technology has made the world a smaller place. When my sister Bec lived in Germany, it felt a cajillion miles away from Colorado. Nowadays, with email and blogging and Facebook, we would be in daily contact with her. We would see pictures of my niece and nephew on a daily basis.

But I’m telling you, mail.

When I was a little girl, we kids received a magazine from Modern Woodmen of America, I guess because it must have been one of Dad’s insurance carriers. The magazine came monthly, but I remember exactly zero about the magazine except for one thing: in the back of the magazine there were classified ads, including kids asking for pen pals.

Remember pen pals, Baby Boomers?

About once or twice a year, I would send a letter to a potential pen pal. Sometimes I would get a response; sometimes I would check the mailbox every day for months and not hear a word. Usually the pen pal relationship only lasted a short while. Still, for those few months, I WOULD GET A LETTER IN THE MAILBOX ADDRESSED TO ME. The letter would be something like this:

Dear Kris,

I would like to be your pen pal. I live in Bottom Feeder, Florida. I am 7 years old. I like to play with dolls. I have a sister and a brother. He smells like boogers. Please write back.

Your friend,

Luella Trumpetfinger

So, perhaps it wasn’t great literature, but man-oh-man, I got a letter!

Anyway, I’m looking forward to reading the letters I wrote to my friend in college. I wonder what my deep concerns were when I was 19 years old.

This post linked to Grand Social.

Saturday Smile: Going Green (and Yellow and Blue and Pink)

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While little brother Cole was in the hospital getting tubes put in his ear so that everything he hears doesn’t sound like it’s coming from Charlie Brown’s teacher, his two older sisters spent the day at our house. We had a busy time, starting our day with a visit to Target to procure the mandatory Play Doh…..

When all was said and done, however, Play Doh was unnecessary because the two persuasive girls talked me into letting them make slime. Water, Elmer’s glue, food coloring, and a teaspoon of Borax. It takes about 10 minutes and provides hours of fun. I’m not sure exactly why, but they squeezed their slime for hours…..

We went to see Despicable Me 3, where we were joined by Dagny and Maggie Faith. Upon returning home, those two had to make their own slime as well. Dagny is a master, having even convinced her teacher to allow her to teach a class after school last session called Slime Time, during which she showed the attendees how to make all manner of slime. She can even make bubbles…..

When they all went home, slime carefully placed in little baggies, I spent the rest of the evening cleaning up insidious green food coloring which had somehow escaped from Kaiya’s slime. No matter. For pennies, they had hours of fun.

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: Flight Pattern

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Karen White is one of the more prolific authors whose books I read. I have found some to be really good and some to be not so good. Flight Patterns was not only really good, I think it might have been the best that I have read to date.

First of all, it incorporates beekeeping into the storyline. And since members of our family have taken up beekeeping (read this post), it is a topic of utmost interest to me. White begins each chapter with a fact about bees, and I found that in and of itself very interesting and fun. Though bees are part of the story, the story itself is not about beekeeping. So if bees aren’t your thing, don’t let that discourage you from reading this very good novel.

Georgia Chambers has been estranged from her family for 10 years. She resides in New Orleans, where she works with china, mostly antique Limoges china. She knows everything there is to know about china patterns, which is what brings her new client James Graf to her. He has found amidst his things a couple of pieces of very unusual china that bears a bumblebee pattern, and he wants to find out the history.

This leads to that, and Georgia finds the need to go back to her home of origin in Apalachicola, Florida – a real town located in the panhandle of the state, on the Gulf of Mexico. She has not seen her sister Maisy, her mother Birdie, or her grandfather (who is an apiarist) since something devastating happened 10 years earlier. Just what that event was is kept a secret throughout the book, with just bits and pieces of clues provided the reader. All we know is that Birdie hasn’t spoken  a word since then, and Maisy won’t have anything to do with Georgia.

The character of Georgia was one of the most interesting characters of any Karen White novel I’ve read. She was private, cold, and yet likable. The pain she feels by being separated from the family she loves so much is spelled out so clearly, I could feel her pain myself. Maisy’s anguish and Birdie’s – well – craziness, are handled in such a way as to not make them disagreeable characters, only troubled.

As all of the pieces fall into place, the reader begins to understand what created such a divided family. The ending was satisfying and not schmaltzy.

Flight Patterns might be one of my favorite reads of 2017.

Here is a link to the book.

 

Thursday Thoughts

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Quit Being So Poke
When Bill and I were in Hawaii many years ago, we became acquainted with poke (pronounced po-kay). We had it as an appetizer, but it’s so common in Hawaii that you can buy it at Circle K (or Hawaii’s equivalent). It is basically sushi in a bowl. We both liked it, though I liked it considerably more than Bill, which will be true of anything from the lake or sea, and anything uncooked. But I recently learned that there is a restaurant just down the street from our house that sells nothing but poke bowls. It’s called – shockingly – Poke City. So I tried it the other day, and it has become my new favorite food to eat when Bill is enjoying Steak N Shake with his friend John.  By the way, I googled it and learned from a cranky Hawaiian chef that they would never call it poke BOWL in Hawaii as poke is ALWAYS in a bowl……

Why Are the Birds Avoiding Us?
I recently waxed eloquently about how great these sticky wasp traps were…..

The other day, Dagny — animal lover extraordinaire — looked at my wasp trap covered with wasps and said, “Nana, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Knowing full well of what she was speaking, I immediately informed her that I was, in fact, not one bit ashamed because I heartily dislike wasps. The only good wasp is a dead wasp in my world. “Yeah,” she said, “but you also have some ladybugs on there.” I admitted that the dead ladybugs made me a little bit sad, but haven’t you heard of collateral damage? However, the other day when Addie was finished mowing, she informed me that there was a dead bird on the wasp trap. I checked it out, and there was, indeed, a dead chickadee on the trap. Now THAT made me sad. I made Bill throw it out as soon as possible, and swore Addie to silence. That is something I will NOT tell Dagny. And I won’t show you a picture.

Sprinkles Anyone?
The other day I was tired of listening to all of the noise coming from the family room as Bill began installing the wood flooring, and decided to take Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole for an afternoon ice cream cone. It is the grandmother’s duty, after all, to ruin the kids’ appetites. As we drove over to Dairy Queen, I asked the kids what they wanted. Vanilla cones dipped in chocolate for Mylee and Cole, and a vanilla cone with sprinkles for Kaiya. Before I ordered, I confirmed with Cole that he wanted a chocolate dipped cone, and he was firm about it. The reason I asked was because the last time I had taken them, that’s what I’d ordered him at his request. He was happy with it until he spotted Kaiya’s sprinkles and wanted them instead. Kaiya, who can’t tell her brother no, gave it to him happily. So this time, I wanted to make sure he wanted a chocolate dipped cone. This time he ate the chocolate off the cone, but once that was gone, he began pouring Kaiya’s unused sprinkles onto his then-vanilla cone…..

Once again, Kaiya didn’t complain, and maybe I learned my lesson this time.

Happy Anniversary 
Yesterday was Dave and Jll’s 20th wedding anniversary. I got a call from Maggie Faith early yesterday morning. The kids were planning a little surprise party for their mom, and would Papa and I like to join them? I said yes for me and no for Papa (who didn’t want to take a break from installing flooring). The girls had put together a nice little mid-morning breakfast of muffins and tea sandwiches, and I brought a fruit salad. Upon Maggie’s order, we sang Happy 20th anniversary to you as we marched into Jll’s office. She was indeed surprised……

To celebrate their parents’ anniversary, the kids each made little signs that they posted all over the house. This one from Dagny was my personal favorite…..

Ciao.

Loveliest of All

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A long time ago, when the Earth was green
There was more kinds of animals than you’ve ever seen
They’d run around free while the Earth was being born
And the loveliest of all was the unicorn. — Shel Silverstein

I learned recently that Kaiya is interested in sharks. In fact, she’s interested in – and quite knowledgeable about – many kinds of animals. She discounts a lot of the things she tells me about herself by adding an I’m not very good at science disclaimer, which troubles me some. I tell her endlessly that I think she’s very good at science (or math, or making friends, or whatever else she discounts), and that we all have different strengths and likes and dislikes.

But I was struck by her telling me how much she likes and knows about sharks because it’s something in which my niece Jessie also claims interest. Every year during Shark Week on the National Geographic Channel, Jessie posts something on Facebook about being glued to the television because, well, Shark Week, which is apparently a Thing.

Anyhoo, Monday night I was watching the kids at their house while their Mommy and Daddy went on a date. Kaiya turned the television to the National Geographic Channel so that we could watch Shark Week programs just likes she watches with her dad. Except that I’m not particularly interested in or knowledgeable about sharks and he apparently is.

The program that was running when she turned it on was about hammerhead sharks…..

I think hammerhead sharks look a bit like cartoon characters though they are quite real, thank you very much. As we watched, I commented to Kaiya that I found it funny that their eyes were on the side of their, what? Nose? You know, the hammer part. Without missing a beat, Kaiya said, “I know, but that’s the same as unicorns. Their eyes are on the side of their heads too.”

(SPOILER ALERT) Now, I know unicorns are not real. But I just learned a week ago that neither Kaiya nor Mylee believe in the tooth fairy. I learned this the night that they were staying overnight. Court had telephoned me earlier to tell me that Mylee had lost a tooth and asked if I would mind playing Tooth Fairy. I didn’t mind at all, of course, but was amused to learn later that they are apparently pulling a fast one on their dad, who doesn’t know that they don’t believe there is a little fairy that comes into your bedroom, reaches under your covers, swipes your tooth and leaves cashola. What’s next in the Destroying-Childhood-Dreams arena? No little bunny that hops around the world and leaves colored hard boiled eggs and Jelly Bellies?

But back to Kaiya and unicorns. I responded to her comment about unicorns having eyes on the side of their heads by saying, “Yes, I guess that’s true.” To which she responded, “Nana, (in the way only our grandkids can say our name so that they might as well be saying You Dumb Yahoo) there is no such thing as unicorns.”

Well, I knew that, I informed her, but she eyed me suspiciously nevertheless. I reminded her that she had recently manufactured unicorn poop out of Play Doh……

And I also told her about a news article from Fast Company I saw recently from which I learned that the millennial demographic (of which her parents are part) apparently likes All Things Unicorn these days. It’s become one of the best marketing ploys.

There is unicorn hair color…..

….and unicorn Frappuccinos from Starbucks…..

…..and unicorn makeup…..

And, what’s more, there have been five unicorns spotted in real life!…..

I think maybe unicorns are real and hammerhead sharks are not. I’m firm on that.

Whole Foods Ramblings

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Sometime around 3 o’clock Sunday evening, I realized I had not a thing to make for dinner, and no great ideas on what to make, even if I had grocery items. Since I recalled some Italian sausage in the freezer, I pulled it out to thaw and did what any outstanding homemaker would do – I went to Pinterest and looked for Italian Sausage Recipes.

I found one, which, as it turns out – and which appears to be true of nearly every Pinterest recipe I have tried – wasn’t really very good. Some day I’ll learn.

But at that point, I had great hope. So I hopped on my scooter (have I told you how much I love my scooter?) and scooted over to Whole Foods to purchase a few items.

Two separate thoughts occurred to me during this trip to Whole Foods. Well, actually, I hope that more than two thoughts popped in my head during that time as we’re talking a good 45 minutes since Whole Foods is one of those places that calls me to walk around and look at all of the beautiful things – in this case, food.

The first, well, let’s say significant thought was when the young cashier fellow was checking me out. Not in CHECKING ME OUT of course, because even in my prime he probably wouldn’t have done that, but in checking me out as in groceries. He said, as seems to be the current trend, “How is your weekend going?” Seriously, haven’t you heard that sort of question more recently than you used to? You see, he simply can’t really care how my weekend is going, can he?

Anyway, being humble and kind (more on that when I give you my second profound thought), I answered that my weekend was going just swell, thank you very much. But then I added that since I’m retired, however, my weekends aren’t quite as meaningful as they are for working stiffs. He gave me sort of a blank look, which I’m used to because I have a tendency to say more than I should to total strangers. He expected me to say, “Fine, thanks. And yours?” So as he handed me my bag, he said, “Have a good rest-of-the-weekend, even though it doesn’t matter because you’re retired.”

And suddenly, the profound thought popped in my head. I am retired. I am 63 years old and I am retired, and have been for 10 years. Many people my age are not retired. They are instead, working 8 or 10 hour days, maybe at jobs with which they are so bored by this time that they can barely make themselves get up in the morning. So the thought? Kris, do you have any idea how blessed you are? Never EVER forget that Girlfriend.

As I was pondering my good luck and walking back to my scooter, I passed what appeared to my non-schooled eyes to be a very fancy car parked in the Whole Foods lot. It was black and shiny and big……

And this is what I was driving….

I probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought, except that the license plate on this big, black, fancy car said OILMONY. Which is license-plate-speak for Oil Money.

I’m pretty sure I threw up a little bit in my mouth. Because SERIOUSLY?

I consider myself a fairly conservative Republican and trust me when I tell you that I hold no animosity towards this person for owning a car that cost him or her $96,600. He or she has clearly made a bucketful of bucks, and can spend it however (s)he wants. And furthermore, I am perfectly content because see above. I’m happily retired.

But remember these words from a song written by Lori McKenna and sung by Tim McGraw, and about which I wrote a blog post ?….

When those dreams you’re dreamin’ come to you
When the work you put in is realized
Let yourself feel the pride but
Always stay humble and kind.

So my second profound thought was always stay humble and kind. It’s how I was brought up. What can I tell you? And that car will be keyed at some point, mark my words. I might have done it if my scooter wouldn’t have provided a sad getaway vehicle.

Not really. Keying a car is bad, kids.

Pulling Weeds

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Yesterday morning as we were waiting for the start of Mass, I overheard a woman behind us stage whisper to her husband, “The parable in today’s gospel is the one about the bad seed and the good seed and Jesus saying to let them grow together until harvest.” Her husband responded that he liked that parable. One of their two sons – a boy of about 6 or 7 – said, “Does that mean we don’t have to mow our grass anymore?”

If only. But God doesn’t tell us what to take from the gospels, so that’s as good an idea as any, I guess. I’m certainly using that philosophy in my vegetable garden this year…..

My green beans and my Swiss chard struggle to survive amidst the weeds.

Unlike the woman sitting behind me, I find myself squirming a bit when I listen to Matthew’s gospel, and not just because of the weeds in my vegetable bed that make me feel like a bad gardener. But the whole notion that the good plants and the bad plants grow right next to each other is not something I like to think about, mostly because I’m not sure which one I am. In the parable, the farmer tells his workers to let them grow together and then at harvest time they will separate the two plants – the good plants will go into the barn, and the weeds will be bundled up and sent to be burned. Yikes. Could you get more vivid than that, Lord?

Our Mass celebrant was a visiting priest – a man who had emigrated Nigeria with his family to live in the United States when he just a small boy. He earned a bachelor’s degree in physics but was kind of lost and uncertain about what he wanted to do with his life after college. His father told him to get into the IT field because that’s where the money was. His uncle told him to get his MBA because then he could earn the big bucks. His buddies told him to play soccer because it was fun and he could see the world. But he still couldn’t make up his mind. So, he resorted to Plan B, which was to ask God what he was supposed to do with his life. God’s answer was to become a priest.

“Well, that certainly wasn’t the answer I was looking for,” the priest told us. “How about another suggestion, God?” But apparently God was firm on that particular idea. And so he became a priest.

The point of his story was that turning your life over to God can be risky.  Sometimes the things God wants you to do aren’t necessarily easy or what you were hoping for. Often it is easier to listen to all of the other voices that are crowding out God’s voice, sort of like the noise you used to hear when you were trying to find a good radio station by actually moving a dial. Remember those days? Lots of crackling with an occasional clear song. But the song might be a polka when you are hoping for Carrie Underwood.

But amidst the noise of everyday life, we have to be careful to make sure we are listening to the voice of God. Because unfortunately, the other voices might be a lot easier to understand and considerably more fun. Just like the weeds seem to grow easier than the tomatoes and the green beans that they are trying to overtake.

I struggle every Sunday to figure out how the readings relate to one another. Mostly, I’m unsuccessful. And trying to understand St. Paul’s letters is – at least for me – nearly impossible. Still, his letter to the Romans that was read yesterday surprisingly gave me some comfort as I considered how difficult it can be to hear God’s voice.  The Spirit comes to the aide of our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes with inexpressionable groanings.

Now I don’t know what St. Paul meant by inexpressionable groanings. I don’t know if inexpressionable  is even a real word. You know Paul. He would say anything to get the attention of his listeners and readers. But it sounds like sort of the noise I was making when I gave birth to Court, when I gave birth to a new life. And it gives me hope and confidence if the Holy Spirit is interceding with strength and vigor in an effort to help me hear the word of God, and so, be given a new life. It’s nice to think I have the Spirit on my side.

However, I wish the Holy Spirit pulled weeds with or without inexpressionable groanings.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Friday Book Whimsy: Cooking for Picasso

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After recently reading a disappointing book that was based on cooking, I was somewhat reluctant to pick up Cooking for Picasso, a novel by Camille Aubray. Still, it came highly recommended by a reliable source, so I gave it a try.

I will admit that for whatever reason, it was a slow start for me. But once I became connected to one of the main characters – Odine – it was a novel I couldn’t put down.

I say “one” of the main characters, because Cooking for Picasso has that now oh-so-familiar novel style of having a main character who lives in contemporary time and a second main character who is connected to the first, but of an earlier era. In this case, the contemporary character is Celine, a Hollywood makeup artist who is somewhat discontent with her life. She learns from her mother that her grandmother Odine had once cooked for Pablo Picasso in the Cote d’ Azur village in France in which she lived. Her mother encourages Celine to travel to the little village and learn more about her grandmother.

It is 1936 and Odine was a 17-year-old village girl who worked with her parents in their restaurant. She is given the assignment of preparing and delivering lunch to the great artist Picasso, who is secretly living in the village to paint and rest. Though she is charged with discretion and privacy, Odine comes to know Picasso initially because he is so impressed with her simple, yet delicious, rustic cuisine. Eventually they develop a relationship, and Odine learns about art and food and life itself.

Years later, as Celine begins to learn the truth about her grandmother, she learns about art and food and life as well.

I must admit that this reader learned a lot as well, mostly because every time the author would talk about a painting, I would quickly look it up to see it for myself. And her descriptions of the delicious meals Odine would prepare literally made my mouth water.

I understand Cooking for Picasso is a novel, but it also painted a picture (did you see how I did that?) of life in France during largely difficult times, and how some survived.

It was a wonderful novel. And now I want to eat French food.

Here is a link to the book.