Another Day in the Life

This post ran on September 25, 2014. I enjoyed writing about this particular day because it reminds me of what my life is like with any of my nine grandkids. 

searchJen came down to Denver last Saturday so that we could belatedly celebrate her birthday. Saturday was an unusually busy day for me. At the end of the day, she told me, “You need to write a blog about a day in the life of Nana’s Whimsies.

I do?

For the most part, my life is the predictable life of a retired woman with a husband and children and grandchildren. If my life was hooked to a heart rate monitor, there would be a series of blips – all the same size.

It’s true, however, that Saturday would have caused the nurses and doctors to come running with the paddles.

Saturday was bound to be a busy day. Kaiya and Mylee were spending the day with me and Jen was coming mid-morning to spend the day and night so we could celebrate her birthday. I planned to prepare a yummy dinner and bake a special birthday cake. You know how you have these dreams of having a life like you see on Barefoot Contessa? Minus the big Hamptons house and the multitude of gay friends to bring spectacular bouquets of flowers and expensive wines.

Sometime in the middle of Friday night, I had a sit-up-suddenly-in-bed moment when I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to make the fancy, delicious, but complicated Braised Beef Shortribs in a Marsala Cream Sauce. Ina Garten would have been able to because she has staff. I had no staff coming that day, only a 6-year-old and a 4-year-old who I knew would want to help me cook – a practice I love, but I simply couldn’t imagine them working on a Marsala cream sauce.

So in the middle of the night, I came up with Plan B, a simple meal that could be prepared in its entirety after the girls went home.

To this end, I was at Whole Foods bright and early to purchase mussels and rib-eye steaks. A simple but delicious substitute for my elaborate Plan A.

It was at Whole Foods that my phone rang. Eleven-year-old Addie was looking for a way to get out of going to her brother’s flag football game. “Can I come over and hang out with you, Nana?”

Sure. Why not? The more, the merrier.

But my day was about to get a bit more complicated. When I went to pick up the two little girls, they opened the door, and the first words out of Kaiya’s mouth, quite literally, were, “Mom says you will help us make ice cream today. I want to make strawberry and Mylee wants to make chocolate.”

Now, I could, of course, say ice cream was a no-go due to scheduling conflicts, but honestly? After all, I’m the nana.

So we went to the grocery store to get strawberries, a chocolate bar, whole milk, and cream. They insisted on pushing the cart, and I, sadly, allowed it to happen. Sorry to the person with the little tiny dink in their side door. It was really, really little. Barely noticeable.

Addie was there when we got home and Jen arrived shortly after. Lunch was looming, and I hadn’t a thing to eat. Again, see above. No staff.

What do you want for lunch, I asked the girls. The predictable answer: Panda Express. I don’t know why I ask because they will always choose “Panda.”

So Mylee and I picked up five orders of Orange Chicken and we five girls sat at my kitchen table and ate our food as Addie told us the ins and outs of being a new middle schooler.

“You should all come to the carnival we’re having at school this afternoon,” Addie said. “I’m the face painter and I could paint Kaiya and Mylee’s faces.”

Kaiya and Mylee looked at me, and we were sooooo going to the Carnival. Jen – bless her heart — just went with the flow.

But before we went to any carnival, we were going to make the ice cream. I wasn’t going to have dinked that person’s car for nothing.

Enjoying ice cream clean-up.

Enjoying ice cream clean-up.

By time we got to the carnival, it was almost 3:30. The face painting line was long. And slow. And disorganized because, you see, it wasn’t run by the Disney Corporation. It was run by 11-year-old girls who didn’t know how to do crowd control. But Kaiya could not be dissuaded from getting her face painted. Addie was the painter, you see.

Finally, after standing in line for 45 minutes or more, Addie spotted us and came out and pulled us ahead of everyone else in line. In front of mothers who had been waiting with their darlings for longer than we. I made a half-hearted attempt to defer to others, but by this time our son was sending me texts saying “have you kidnapped our daughters and taken them to another country?”

In the meantime, Jen was walking around with Mylee, who had no interest whatsoever in getting her face painted. She chose the Cake Walk, but unfortunately never quite grasped the concept and emerged cakeless, but happily unpainted. Kaiya chose the Indian princess design….

Addie paintingkaiya indian princess

We finally got home around 5 (after finally handing the girls off to their parents), and I had yet to make Jen’s birthday cake. She had chosen – randomly, I thought – a peach upside down cake. It involved making a caramel sauce, slicing fresh peaches, and grinding up pecans, but I did it quite happily because I love my sister and the cake looked delicious.

peach upside down cake

I had time for a glass of wine on our patio before beginning preparations for my easily-prepared dinner. Mussels, I have learned, are simple, simple, simple to make – especially once they are cleaned. So dinner took less than a half-hour to prepare. Plus, we are grown-ups, and we could eat sometime past 6 o’clock. We in fact didn’t sit down to eat until 7:30 or so. Grown-ups, remember?

We enjoyed our dinner, and the dessert was divine. Being grown-ups (see above), I put a little Grand Marnier into the whipped cream.

When I finally crawled into bed somewhere around 10, I told my husband it was the most tired I’ve ever been. Hyperbole, but good for dramatic effect.

This is the longest post I’ve ever written, and I probably lost you all somewhere between Panda Express and the Cake Walk. Still, it gives you a sense of what my life can be like on the days when I’m not sitting on my behind reading or watching Masterpiece Mysteries. I wouldn’t change a thing. Well, except for the dink in the door.

Random Acts of Senseless Kindness Redux

This blog post ran on January 11, 2016, shortly after the original surgery took place. As of this date, Mary is still doing well, although a high hormone level that existed before the trasplant, and that the doctors hoped the transplant would correct, still exists, so they’re looking further into that. All prayers have been — and will continue to be — greatly appreciated!

It appears I’m somewhat obsessed with the notion of gift-giving these days. Take my recent blog post about Epiphany when it seemed all I could think about was that gold, frankincense and myrrh were odd gifts. Then there was the blog post in which I talked about the horrors of shopping at the mall right before Christmas and the glories of internet shopping. I offered my readers pictures of my grandkids opening their gifts. About the only thing I haven’t done is show you a copy of my credit card bill.

Oh, or donate a kidney.

Because, friends, while I have been focusing on material gifts, I recently met someone who truly knows the meaning of giving a gift of love.

Her name is Jo Lynn, and she’s mostly like you and me. She is a busy wife and mother with a full-time job. She has a life filled with housework and bosses and grocery shopping and school events. In addition to these normal activities, she also is an amateur athlete who does CrossFit and runs ultramarathons. Okay, maybe that’s not like you and me. But you get my point.

But one day Jo Lynn was looking at Facebook and came across a surprising post from one of her Facebook (and real-life) friends. Could you save my life? I need a kidney, the post said, or my kidneys will soon fail completely.

Jo Lynn was aware that her friend Mary was in kidney failure and had been for some time. Mary’s father and grandmother had died of kidney failure. Mary herself was at a point where she spent every single solitary night hooked to a dialysis machine that was keeping her alive. Imagine that. She hadn’t had a dream for three years because the dialysis machine prevented her from any REM sleep.

Mary was reluctant to take the step of reaching out to her Facebook community, but her husband insisted on it. Family members were unable to donate because their blood types were wrong. Mary’s blood type was O, and the list for kidney donors with that particular blood type was in the neighborhood of six years long. Mary was unsure if she had that much time. Facebook was one way of reaching a large number of people, her husband told her.

What grabbed Jo Lynn’s attention was that Mary had type O blood. That meant that Mary could only receive a kidney from someone with type O blood. Guess who has type O blood? Yep. Jo Lynn.

Right then and there, Jo Lynn began to form a plan. After talking to her husband (who not only didn’t think she was insane, but actually was sad that his own blood type prevented him consideration), she began taking the steps necessary to donate one of her kidneys to her friend.

And let me tell you, there were very, very, very many steps. You can only imagine. Test after test after test after test. Physical tests. Counseling with a social worker. Blood draws. CT scans. Jo Lynn didn’t even tell her friend that she was undergoing these tests for some time because she didn’t want to get her hopes up only to have them shot down because of some medical anomaly that would prevent her from being able to donate her kidney.

The tests went on for literally months. Jo Lynn saw the Facebook posting in March of 2015. The surgery took place on December 23, (coincidentally 61 years to the day of the first successful kidney transplant in Boston), at a hospital in Scottsdale, AZ. It just happened to be the hospital in which Jo Lynn was born.

Did you ever hesitate, I asked her. Was there ever a time when you thought maybe you had bitten off more than you could (or wished to) chew? Did you have second thoughts?

Not once, Jo Lynn told me. None of the family members could donate. She had the right blood type. “How could I sit back and do nothing?” she said.

How, indeed.

Jo Lynn and Kris

Kris and Jo Lynn. The person on the left DIDN’T donate a kidney.

Because I simply can’t leave well enough alone, I asked her if she was spiritual. She admitted to not being a church-goer. But she would also not reject the notion that God played – and continues to play – a part in this whole affair. After all, about the time that Mary learned she had bum kidneys, Jo Lynn – far, far away in Colorado – decided to begin eating a healthy diet and exercising. Almost like she was preparing her body for what was to come.

The next four to six months are critical in Mary’s life. If her body is going to reject Jo Lynn’s kidney, the next few months will tell. She will be on anti-rejection medication for the rest of her life. That is a small price to pay for getting her life back. She has even begun to have dreams again. Probably both awake and asleep.

As for Jo Lynn, her life will have to change very little, surprisingly enough. We can live perfectly well with one healthy kidney. The doctor’s only order? No contact sports.

Rats. So Jo Lynn will have to give up her dreams of being the first woman NFL player or a professional boxer.

And I’m going to have to reassess my ideas of giving gifts. I likely will never have the opportunity of donating a kidney, and am not sure I would even have the chops to do it if the opportunity presented itself. But Jo Lynn’s experience makes me very aware of what it means to love one another.

Nana’s Notes: The blog title comes from a song with the same title written by Gary Baker, Frank Myers, and Jerry Allan Williams; performed by South Sixty Five. Jo Lynn is a friend of my sister Jen, who I thank for arranging this meeting. It was a wonderful experience.

Looking Back

I began my blogging journey on August 14, 2013. I placed the word journey in italics to emphasize the fact that prior to blogging, I never used the word journey in any way that didn’t include actual travel. In fact, when I hear people say (or read that someone’s written) that they are on a (fill-in-the-blank) journey, I throw up a little bit in my mouth. And yet, here I am, referring to my blogging journey. Something apparently takes over one’s mind when one is responsible for a blog. I’m sorry.

Anyway, I posted my first Nana’s Whimsies blog on August 14, 2013 – over three years ago. Imagine that. For three years I have come up with something to say each day, except for Sundays. It has evolved over the years, as things do. My regular Saturday Smile, for example, didn’t show up until February 1, 2014. Since then, each Saturday I tell my readers about something that amused me or made me happy that past week.

As I look back, I realize that early on, my blogs often included recipes. That’s because initially I considered doing a cooking blog. I ditched that idea when I realized how many cajillion cooking blogs there already are, and when I remembered that I’m not really all that good a cook.

My Friday book reviews began almost immediately. That means I have reviewed somewhere in the neighborhood of 160 books. From Nana’s Whimsies’ very beginning, my brother (one of my most faithful readers) has nagged me about my book reviews. “I already don’t get to read your blog on Sundays, and now I don’t get to read it on Fridays either,” says he. He has consistently urged me to substitute pizza reviews on Friday for my book reviews. I don’t intend to do that, however. It is true that my lowest readership is consistently on Fridays, but I get the most likes from strangers on that day as well. Besides, despite the low numbers, I have faithful book review readers. I know this to be true because a number of people have told me they read a book based on my review. Besides, my blog is designed to be, well, whimsical, and one of my whimsies is reading.

My sister Jen, who originally encouraged me to write a blog and is my informal (and unpaid) blog manager, consistently warns me that she’s afraid I am going to eventually run out of ideas. I wonder if that is true. There are only so many stories I can tell about my grandmother. Most of my readers don’t find my grandkids as adorable as do I. How many anti-pumpkin-spice posts can I get away with? But the reality is that if you pay attention (and that’s the key), life is pretty darn interesting. A blogger whom I follow, Melanie Shankle — who writes a very funny blog called The Big Mama Blog – gave this advice to those of us who want to write a blog: “My best advice is to write more, read more, listen more. Observe the world around you and figure out what it is you want to say and what you really care about. For me, that’s trying to find the funny or the absurd or the offbeat, but it’s different for every single one of us.”

And so that’s what I try to do.

Originally I had hoped that through advertising, I would be able to make a little bit of money by writing this blog. That has not proven to be true. My readership simply isn’t high enough to warrant any advertising. At first I was disappointed by this reality. But my readership has consistently increased, bit by bit, and I seem to be reaching the people I want to reach. I have connected up with friends and cousins I haven’t seen or heard from for years. I have made new friends who comment consistently. And, quite frankly, I am so annoyed when I have to deal with ads on other blogs that I am kind of happy my readers don’t have to deal with it.

As of this day, I have shared 950 blog posts with you all. In the years since I began, I have gotten over 46,000 views. I currently have 104 people who have signed up to get my blog each day – mostly other bloggers with topics ranging from movie and book reviews to recipes. My viewers come from all over the world, literally. I have consistent hits from Brazil, Cyprus, and the United Kingdom. I, of course, have no way of knowing if those hits are from the same individuals each day, but in my world, they are. I envision, for example, a reader sitting in her Cotswold cottage in central England eagerly awaiting the bink! that tells her I have posted my daily blog! When a friend was living for a time in Qatar, it pleased me that I got consistent hits from that Middle East country. Likewise, as of late, I have noticed consistent hits from Australia which I attribute to my brother-in-law who has been visiting there for the past few weeks.

I tend to get somewhere between 60 and 100 hits a day – sometimes more. The most hits I ever got in one day was on January 11, 2016, when I posted a blog about a woman who donated her kidney to an acquaintance. That particular blog post received 371 hits. I’m thinking of asking her to donate another kidney so that I can again experience the exhilaration of hundreds of hits.

For the next few days, I am going to repost some of my favorite blogs, beginning with the aforementioned post about the generous organ donator. On Friday, I’m going to post my regular book review just to annoy my brother.

For those of you who are faithful readers, I am tickled to share my life with you.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: At the Car Wash

You might not ever get rich
But let me tell ya it’s better than diggin’ a ditch
There ain’t no tellin’ who you might meet
A movie star or maybe even an Indian chief

(Workin’)
At the car wash
Workin’ at the car wash, yeah
Come on and sing it with me
(Car wash)
Sing it with the feelin’ y’all
(Car wash, yeah) – NORMAN JESSE WHITFIELD

My nephew-in-law posted a picture of his two kids the other day. His caption said, “Little nervous in the car wash.”

That was clearly an understatement, as the too-adorable-for-words photo shows 6-year-old Austin gripping the hand of his sister, 2-year-old Lilly. The ensuing Facebook comments mostly congratulate Austin for being such a sweet big brother, but I don’t know. My take on the photo is that he is pretty darn nervous himself and mighty glad to have a hand to hold.

No matter what, the photo made me laugh then, and I laugh every time I see it.

austin-lilly-at-car-wash

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: America’s First Daughter

imgresWhen I was a young girl, we had a set of World Book encyclopedias. One section of the encyclopedias included information about all of the presidents up to, and including, John F. Kennedy. Subsequent presidents were included in the annual updates we also received as part of our encyclopedia subscription. That section was one of two that I read so often that the book would fall open to the spots; the other was the section on AKC dogs.

I practically memorized everything of at least a personal nature about each president, and more importantly to this review, each first lady. So I was well aware that the wife of our third – and arguably most interesting – president had died long before Thomas Jefferson was elected to office. The role of first lady, therefore, went to his eldest daughter, Martha, known by those who loved her as Patsy.

America’s First Daughter, by Stephanie Dray and Laura Kamoie, is a novel based on the life of Thomas Jefferson and, primarily, his daughter Patsy.

The story begins during the Revolutionary War when, according to the novel, the Jeffersons were forced to leave their home in Virginia and hide for months in a cabin in the deep woods  Jefferson owned. The stress caused by the war did nothing to help the health of Jefferson’s beloved wife Martha, who died shortly after childbirth. However, prior to dying, she made her eldest daughter Patsy promise to always take care of her father, and made her husband promise to never remarry.

Well, he didn’t, though the story of his long-term relationship with his slave Sally Hemings is well documented, and a major part of this book.

The story is told through the eyes of Patsy, and seems to be well-researched and true to the facts. It is well-known that Jefferson – along with many of our early forefathers – was a slave owner, and that fact – and its inconsistency with the whole all men are created equal belief as laid forth in our Bill of Rights – drives much of the story.

It is a fairly lengthy book, and much of it moved very slowly. I can’t highly recommend it except to those thoroughly interested in U.S. history in general, and the history of our third president in particular. Still, I love period literature, and it was interesting to read about the customs and the relationships during the days following the Revolutionary War.

The book, however, reminded me just what an amazing job our forefathers did in planning our government. Thank goodness.

Here is link to the book.

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Thursday Thoughts

Orange Crush
I’ve seen the commercials, but frankly haven’t paid a bit of attention to them. I’m talking about the Bud Light commercials in which they proudly say they are putting your beer into cans dedicated to your favorite football team. So the other day, I was busily looking at the menu at our favorite Greek restaurant (why, I don’t know, since I always get the same thing) and wasn’t paying attention when Bill ordered his beverage of choice – a Bud Light. So when the server brought over his drink, I was visibly startled to see what I thought was a can of Fanta Orange soda. I think I actually sucked in my breath. It’s not that Bill doesn’t drink soda, but when he does, it’s always a Diet Coke. On rare occasions when he’s feeling his oats, he might have a Diet A&W Root Beer. But never, never ever, a Fanta Orange. So it was with great relief that I realized that he wasn’t in fact drinking an orange beverage, but the beverage can was simply honoring the Denver Broncos. Whew….

bill-orange-beer-can

Twinkly Eyes
The other day my daughter-in-law Lauren posted school photos of Joseph. She took a picture of his last three photos, including the most recent. Seeing his happy face made my face happy. I showed Bill, and he immediately said, “Oh my heavens, he is getting so big.” This, from the man who saw Joseph and his family a mere few weeks ago. Still, the most recent photo (farthest to the right) does make him look alarmingly grown up. He looks devastatingly handsome in this year’s photo, but I have to admit that I am partial to the middle photo. I love the twinkle in his eye. And the twinkle? That’s Joseph, my friends…..

joseph-school-photo-through-the-years

Can You See Me Now?
I may have mentioned that Bill has spent nearly the entire summer working on his pretty red sports car. While I – shockingly – complain a bit about his devotion to the car, I am happy to see it coming to life as it has been a paper weight in our garage for the past 10 years or so. Much of the work has involved Bill lying underneath the car doing heaven only knows what. Recently, I picked 2-year-old Cole up to bring him home to spend the day. It was a rare morning when Bill was inside the house doing some legal work. We got out of the car, and I said to him, “Cole, let’s find Papa.” He smiled, and crouched down and looked under the car!

Television Time
It’s my favorite time of the year (and I don’t mean Pumpkin Spice time!). The new season of television programs has begun. Bill and I have selected a few new ones that we are going to give the ol’ college try, and a couple of them are winners, at least in my eyes. I absolutely LOVE This is Us. It is the story of three grown siblings (triplets) – a man who is an actor, his sister who is obsessed about her weight (she is very obese), and their brother, an African American man who was born the same day as the other two, but left at a fire station, and who their parents adopted. I have only seen two programs thus far, but the twists and turns keep right on coming. Bill and I also like Designated Survivor with Keifer Sutherland, the story of the head of HUD who becomes president after a terrorist attack kills the president, all of Congress, and the other cabinet members, because he was the cabinet member selected as the designated survivor.  I also love The Good Place, which (though I’ve only seen one thus far) made me laugh out loud. And our guilty secret is Lethal Weapon. We’ll see. They may all disappoint us eventually.

The Great Pumpkin Marathon

I’m afraid it’s that time of year again, Ladies and Gentlemen. It’s September, and it’s time for my grouchy All-Things-Pumpkin post.

It’s certainly not that I don’t care for pumpkin. In fact, pumpkin pie is one of my favorite pies. My sister Jen used to make a pumpkin roll that was absolutely splendid. She hasn’t made it for me for a while. I suspect it might have something to do with the fact that I write a yearly Grouchy-Pumpkin-Post. Starbucks offers pumpkin bread which might rival my all-time favorite lemon bread as my sweet bread of choice on the rare occasions that I enter a Starbucks.

I might actually have bypassed the Grouchy-Pumpkin-Post this year because I haven’t been to Bath and Body Works for quite a while, and that is the place that most astounds me when it comes to offering pumpkin-related choices. Still, I was reminded of the All-Things-Pumpkin mindset when my sister Bec – likely in an effort to get me worked into a tizzy – began sending me photos of items she saw recently at her grocery store in Chandler, AZ. They trickled in, sent as she wandered through the store. First there was this one…..

pumpkin-1

Followed by this…..

pumpkin-2

Seriously? Pumpkin-flavored Cheerios?

Then this….

pumpkin-3

Pumpkin flavored fruit snacks? Doesn’t the All-Things-Pumpkin Nation know that pumpkin is not a fruit?

Then my old friends at Kellogg’s refused to be left out of the pumpkin mix….

pumpkin-4

And then, the final blow….

pumpkin-5

My Oreo-worshiping husband called for a moment of silence when he saw the denigration of his favorite chocolate cream cookie by a pumpkin spice infiltration.

All I can say is, if I were the Apple Nation or the Pear Nation, I would be asking for a Congressional hearing. Pumpkin spice monopoly.

Speaking of apples and pears, I was wholly unsuccessful this year in gathering my apple and pear crop. Last year I had enough apples that I was able to make apple sauce, apple crisp, and a number of apple cakes and pies. This year my trees didn’t bear much fruit. It happens on occasion. Quite frankly, Bill is thrilled when we recognize that this will be a year of few or no apples since he has to rake up the many, many apples that end up on the grass below the trees.

My pear tree actually did bear fruit. I spent an afternoon picking pears. I then dutifully placed them in a box in the basement for them to ripen, as I had successfully done in the past. And then promptly forgot about them. By time I remembered they were there (since I didn’t have any pear-related grocery items to remind me; just sayin’), they were way beyond ripened and had moved to scary and smelly.

By the way, I recognize that my anti-pumpkin tirade is likely a result of me getting old and grouchy. That’s why this meme, posted on Facebook by a friend of mine, made me laugh out loud. This is me, my friends, this is me….

13669762_1498675733570688_367924468926977404_n

Chinese Cheesiness

When did fortune cookies become politically correct?

fortune-cookies_2094Have you noticed this? Back in the days of yore, the papers tucked inside the almost-tasteless cookies offered actual fortunes. Something along the lines of You are about to come into a large amount of money or maybe something like A tall, dark, and good-looking stranger is about to enter your life, or my favorite, Whatever the hell you do, don’t open that secret locked door in your Great Aunt Stella’s basement and if you do – and survive – don’t  come back crying to me in Chinese.

Now the fortunes are not fortunes at all but are completely innocuous. Here are the fortunes contained within the two cookies Bill and I had after our sushi yesterday: Bill’s – Hope is the best stimulant of life; mine – Fearless courage is the foundation of victory.

See? Not fortunes. More like stuff your mother told you the next day when you came home past curfew the night before and you blamed it on your best friend’s car. Not fortunes; nags.

I’m blaming it on the trial lawyers. Maybe someone sued a Chinese restaurant because they spent their entire savings on lottery tickets when they got a fortune that read A small investment will result in great riches for you. Let’s face it; if Taylor Swift can be sued for plagiarism for the words Haters gonna hate in her song Shake it Off, Chinese fortune cookies can’t profess to see into your future without threat of lawsuit if their prediction, in fact, doesn’t transpire.

And why did the sushi restaurant from which we got these fortune cookies serve fortune cookies anyway? Aren’t fortune cookies usually served in Chinese restaurants? And really only Chinese restaurants in the United States because I’m pretty darn sure you wouldn’t go into a restaurant in, say, Beijing, and end your meal with a fortune cookie containing the fortune Our nuclear weapons are superior to your nuclear weapons or You’re wasting your time learning Spanish when if you really had foresight you would be learning Mandarin.

However, despite the fact that it was at a Japanese restaurant where we got the cookies containing these watered-down fortunes, I remain firm in my belief that there is not a prettier food than sushi. See what I mean?……

sushi

The first time I tasted sushi was many, many years ago when I visited a college chum who had left Colorado and moved with his wife to the island of Maui, Hawaii. On that trip, I also learned to use chopsticks for the first time. Surprisingly enough for a young woman who spent (at that time) most of her life eating beef on the Nebraska plains, I loved sushi from the first bite. I’m pretty sure that I recognized immediately that it was a great vehicle for what I really loved – the wasabi. My tastes have matured since then and I actually now enjoy the flavor of the fresh fish and wouldn’t even need the wasabi. Well, except for the fact that I can’t get enough of that feeling that your head is about to explode and your sinuses become completely open.

But back to fortune cookies. I promised Kaiya that she and I would make fortune cookies sometime soon. Since I will see them this weekend, I see a fortune cookie making experience in my future. I assure you that she and I will put our heads together and come up with more meaningful fortunes than A smile is your passport into the hearts of others.

Blah.

Burnt Sugar and Volleyball

When I was in middle school and high school, I was a tremendous athlete. I was the captain of our volleyball team. I was the starting pitcher for the girls’ softball team. I still hold the Nebraska girls’ record for pole vaulting.

I’m lying.

I didn’t play a single sport. Not a one. It wasn’t entirely my fault. At my high school in the 60s and 70s, there were no athletic options for girls. None. Zero. Zip. There are now, but in those days, if you weren’t a cheerleader, you got no school-sponsored exercise beyond gym class. And then most of the exercise in gym class came from attempting to outrun the gym teacher so that you didn’t have to take a shower which would require taking off your clothes in front of others.

In my case, it didn’t make a lick of difference because I likely wouldn’t have played any sports even if I’d had the option. I’m just not very athletic. Though my siblings and I all love many sports, and eagerly watched our kids and now watch our grandkids in all sorts of athletic activities, it’s safe to say that Mom and Dad weren’t troubled by too many letters of intent to any colleges for any of us.

Late last week, Addie texted me and asked if she could come over and do a test run on making crème brulee, something she wants to serve at her upcoming dinner party. Yes, you are recalling right. Addie is 13. But she has a yearly dinner party for which she prepares all of her food.

Anyway, I agreed to help her with the crème brulee test run on Saturday.

addie-putting-up-netAnd then she texted me a bit later and asked if it would be okay to set up the volleyball net in our back yard and invite two or three of her girlfriends over to play volleyball, as volleyball tryouts are being held Tuesday and Thursday.

Yep, I assured her. That would be just fine. And then, of course, Bill got to work making our backyard look like an Olympic volleyball court. He mowed an area the appropriate size. He laid down a rope to indicate boundaries. He trimmed the nearby tree. I was waiting for the truck to pull up and dump a load of sand. I love my husband.

Just before the girls were scheduled to arrive, I left for a quick trip to the grocery store. When I returned, my vision of some girls tossing a volleyball around and giggling was put to rest. Addie had set up a full-out volleyball clinic, including a coach. Now, to be fair, the coach is the mother of one of the girls, but she had played volleyball in school, and was very good and very knowledgeable. It was serious business, my friends. If those girls don’t make the team, it will be through no fault of either Addie, Bill, or me.

volleyball-clinic-2

Back to my area of expertise, which is certainly not volleyball. Crème Brulee.

Addie and I spent the morning making the crème brulee. And they turned out perfectly….

creme-brulee-2

 

Once the girls took a break from volleyball, they came inside and took a turn at using my rarely-used kitchen propane torch and burning the sugar on their individual desserts….

torching-creme-brulee

I will leave you with the recipe for crème brulee, but not the recipe for successful volleyball skills. You’ll have to ask Addie.

Crème Brulee
Makes six servings

Ingredients
1 qt. heavy cream
1 vanilla bean, split and scraped
1 c. white sugar, divided
6 egg yolks
Hot water

Process
Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Place the cream, vanilla bean and its pulp into a saucepan over medium-high heat. Bring it to a boil, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Once it reaches temperature, remove it immediately from the heat. Cover and let it sit 15 min. to cool. Remove the vanilla bean.

In a medium bowl, whisk together ½ c. sugar and the egg yolks until the mixture just starts to lighten in color. Then add the cream A LITTLE AT A TIME, stirring continually. If you add the hot mixture too quickly, the egg mixture will scramble. Once combined, pour the custard into 6 (7-8 oz.) ramekins. Place the ramekins onto a large sheet pan or roasting pan. Pour enough hot water into the pan to come halfway up the sides of the ramekins. Bake just until the custard is set but still shaky in the center, about 40-45 minutes. Remove the ramekins from the pan and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, or up to 3 days.

When ready to serve, remove the ramekins from the refrigerator and allow 30 minutes to come to room temperature. Using the remaining sugar, spread evenly over the custard. Then, using a kitchen torch, melt the sugar and form a crispy crust.

Allow to rest for at least 5 minutes before serving.

Nana’s Notes: I assure you, the crème brulee did not rest 5 minutes before the girls dug in. From the sounds of delight, they must have been good.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: Let the Battle Begin

5195med3vzlA couple of weeks ago, Jll sent me the schedule for the kids’ extracurricular activities for the fall. As you might imagine with four kids, it would have been easier to read War and Peace. Soccer. Softball. Cross Country. Church activities. School trips. I would need hired help just to keep it all straight.

But one activity in particular caught my eye. Alastair was participating in an Iron Chef competition for Boy Scouts.

It was held outdoors, so the cooking apparatus was a camp stove. I would like to see the real Iron Chefs prepare a meal on a camp stove. The boys worked in teams. They were given a $20 budget, and two secret ingredients. They had to prepare a main course, a side dish and a dessert. When the leaders said go! two boys from each team ran to the grocery store. And when I say ran, I literally mean they ran on their two legs to the Safeway about a quarter mile away. I would like to see Bobby Flay running to the grocery store.

The secret ingredients? Cantaloupe and waffle cones. Alastair confided in us that their menu was chicken quesadillas, salad with melon, and s’mores inside a waffle cone.

Bill and I were observers, and I would have bet a hundred bucks that Alastair would win. After all, he is known throughout the west and midwest for being the butter carving champion of Iowa.

I started getting nervous when, upon the return of the two running boys, I saw them place four or five whole chicken thighs into a skillet over a measley campstove flame. Hmmmm, I kept thinking. They should have cut up the chicken so that it would cook more quickly.

The boys took turns turning the chicken. And turning the chicken. Though it was getting dark, I could see that the chicken wasn’t cooking quickly. It was all I could do to keep from walking over to them and suggesting they slice the chicken into small pieces. But then Alastair would have gotten a demerit or whatever Boy Scouts get as punishment. Flogged by an Eagle Scout?

As it neared 8 o’clock and it was so dark that they could no longer see their food, Bill and I left, praying that whoever had volunteered to be judge wouldn’t die of salmonella. The next day I texted Jll to find out if Alastair’s team won.

Here is her text back to me: Inedible. Dave says the chicken was raw and they were not allowed to eat it. Third place out of 3. But they liked the dessert.

Don’t give up your plastic butter carving knife, Alastair.

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Have a great weekend.