Author Archives: kzmclain

Friday Book Whimsy: Temple Secrets

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searchIn the way that I become aware of books to read (Amazon recommendations, daily deals offered by Book Bubs and Goodreads, regular emails from a variety of publishers), Temple Secrets by Susan Gabriel was somehow brought to my attention. My interest was captured because of my love affair with Savannah, GA, a city I have only once visited but that is the location of many books I choose to read. Think Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

Only don’t think Midnight when it comes to this book. I wanted to like it a lot more than I did. The premise gave me great hope.

In this novel, the Temple family has been an influential part of Savannah’s history for generations. One of the reasons they keep their stature and influence is because going back as far as the Civil War, they have been keeping a written history of the indiscretions of the most well-known people of the city. Knowledge is power, as they say.

The book has been safely kept in a safe deposit box until suddenly, one-by-one, the secrets are being printed in the daily newspaper. No one knows who is responsible, because it certainly isn’t matriarch Iris Temple, the keeper of the book. Nor is it her half-sister Queenie, the daughter of one of Iris’ mother’s black housekeepers who has the same father as Iris. Queenie currently lives with Iris and cares for her. Nevertheless, Queenie, along with many others, becomes a suspect because it seems Miss Iris is an irascible, nasty woman with many enemies.

When Iris suddenly dies from a stroke, likely related to her concern over the release of the secrets, her estranged daughter Rose comes home from her ranch in Wyoming to bury her mother. She didn’t expect, however, to begin to see the family unravel as more and more secrets are revealed, some of which deeply affect those she loves.

Gabriel’s characters are interesting, and I rather enjoyed the descriptions of voodoo and Gullah magic. It just seemed that some of the situations were unbelievable and the characters, though interesting, didn’t seem realistic.

I would read another book by Gabriel as she writes primarily about the south which is my interest range. Still, it wasn’t the best book I’ve read about either Gullah magic or racial inequities.

Here is link to the book.

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Thursday Thoughts

Posted in Whimsies by
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Jessie, second from the left with her Capstone Project group, is still and always, little.

Would You Like Ketchup With That?
When my niece Jessie was a little girl (well, arguably, she’s still a little girl, though in her 20s. A good wind could blow her away.) Anyhoo, when asked what she wanted for lunch, she might say a plain hotdog. In fact, the first time she asked me for a plain hotdog, I — quite reasonably, I think — placed a weiner into a bun and handed it to her. No ketchup or mustard. No onions or pickle relish or chili. A weiner and a bun. No, I want a plain hotdog, she said firmly. I eventually came to understand that for her, a plain hotdog meant a hotdog bun. Period. No weiner. No ketchup. No mustard. A bun. This is the same girl who, along with her sister Kacy, would go through the salad bar and place croutons on the plate, douse the croutons with ranch dressing and call it a salad. Like bread much? I thought about this recently as I served Cole a hot dog in his preferred style…..

cole-hot-dog

Autumn Leaves
September is perhaps my favorite month of the year. I like that the days are still warm, but nights start to cool off. I like that I can without guilt give up on my flowers and let them play out until they give up the goat. I like the changing leaves. I was recently at a nearby park and saw this beautiful maple tree that is just starting to turn…..

fall-leaves

And yet, I find that the fall has a bit of a melancholy feel to it. Perhaps it’s the flip side of all of those things that I just listed that I like. Click on this link and tell me if Nat King Cole doesn’t make you tear up.

Slob
My sister Jen and I recently had a conversation about a woman she knows who, she said, is perhaps the worst dishwasher loader ever. This is in contrast to my daughter-in-law Alyx, who can load a dishwasher so efficiently that I think she could make it hold every dish I own. Unfortunately, here is a picture I took of the dishwasher after I loaded it recently. I’m not proud of it, my friends…..

sloppy-dishwasher

Phresh Phish
I had lunch the other day, and as usual, paid for it with my credit card with no problems. However, as I walked to my car, I got a text message that indicated my credit card (they named the bank that issued it) had a problem, and requested that I call the toll-free number provided. Since I had just used the card, I felt that it was reasonable that there really could be a problem. I was just about to press the number they provided, when I heard (in my head) my husband’s voice saying, “Never assume the number they give in a text or email is safe. Instead, always call the number on the card. And so I did. And I learned that there wasn’t a thing wrong with my card. The customer service representative complimented me on being a wise consumer, and told me the text was undoubtedly phishing. Not only am I proud of myself for not falling for their dirty tricks, I’m also proud that I know the correct way to spell p-h-i-s-h. Don’t mess with me, tricksters. I wasn’t born yesterday. And now, if you’ll excuse me, there is a Nigerian prince who has asked for my help.

Ciao.

Got Milk?

Posted in Cocktails, Recipes, Whimsies by

I think I’ve mentioned six or seven hundred times that when I was a kid in the 1950s, I loved the television show Captain Kangaroo. The Treasure House. The Banana Man and Grandfather Clock. Other characters with clever names like Bunny Rabbit (a bunny rabbit), Mr. Moose (a moose), Dancing Bear (a dancing bear), and Mr. Green Jeans (I’ll leave that to your imagination).

The Captain and all of his friends had a positive impact on my formative years. To this day I will hear a piece of classical music and I will realize I recognize it from hearing it on Captain Kangaroo. I can’t go to the zoo without singing “Look there Daddy, do you see? There’s a horse in striped pajamas.” I know, Baby Boomers, now that song is stuck in your heads. My grands look at me like I’m nuts. They’re only partially wrong.

searchI’m telling you this because I’ve been thinking about cereal lately. Cereal is something I can eat on my low fiber diet, but not any that are actually healthy. Nope, only the ones that have no fiber. Cereal like Frosted Flakes. Which, of course, makes me think about my childhood, during which I ate cereals like Frosted Flakes, Sugar Smacks, Apple Jacks, and my mother’s one nod to healthy low-sugar cereals, Rice Krispies (which we liberally doused with sugar, thereby rendering them unhealthy). We used to get the snack packs, and we would bicker about who would get which cereal, none of us wanting the lone Corn Flakes, which always got tossed.

As I pondered my childhood cereals, I realized they were all made by Kellogg’s. I know there were other brands of cereals available. I’m certain at any rate that Post cereals were available, but they certainly weren’t on our family’s pantry shelf. Why?

My conclusion? Kellogg’s must have sponsored Captain Kangaroo, and we listened to the captain.

As an aside, while at the grocery store the other day, I noticed that an entire aisle of the supermarket is devoted to all-things-cereal. Not only are there very many more kinds of cereals, but many cereals have a variety of versions. Cheerios, for example. According to Cheerios’ own website (and yes, this cereal has its own website), there are Original, Honey Nut, Multi Grain, Ancient Grains, Honey Nut Medley Crunch, Frosted, Apple Cinnamon, Fruity, Banana Nut, Multi Grain Peanut Butter, Chocolate, Multi Grain Dark Chocolate Crunch, Dulce de Leche, Cinnamon Burst, and Protein Cinnamon Almond. Imagine. Here are a couple of photos I took at our market….

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As I further pondered cereal (remember that I’m retired and have lots of time on my hands), I began thinking about the milk we pour over our cereal. And how the milk, in my opinion, is the best part. All sugary and delicious.

Both Bill and I still drink the milk from our cereal. In fact, just like when we were kids, we unapologetically drink it straight from the bowl. Because sugary milk does not require a glass or a spoon. And we are proud of our milk mustaches.

I did a quick survey of the grands and their cereal milk-drinking habits. Here’s what I learned…

Alastair – always
Addie – about half
Dagny – never
Maggie Faith – no milk ever; eats her cereal dry
Joseph and Micah – yes, it’s a house rule that they must drink their milk
Kaiya – never
Mylee – never, or eats it dry
Cole – it hasn’t occurred to him and he spills half of it anyway

Cinnamon Toast Crunch seems to be a favorite amongst many of the grands. It’s a General Mills product, so it wasn’t advertised on Captain Kangaroo. Therefore, it was a no-go for me. However, I recently saw this recipe for a brunch cocktail, and while I’m not a fan of fancy-dancy drinks, I must admit this appealed to me. It’s the fact that you use the cereal milk. I haven’t tried it, so I can’t vouch….

Cinnamon Toast Crunch Cocktail

Makes 2 cocktails, with more for virgin drinks

Ingredients
3 c. whole milk
2 c. Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal
2 shots Fireball whiskey, or other cinnamon whiskey
2 shots rum cream liqueur

Process
Combine milk and Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal in a large bowl or pitcher, and let steep for one hour in the refrigerator. Strain, saving the milk and tossing the cereal.

Fill a cocktail shaker halfway with ice and add the cinnamon whiskey, rum liqueur and 6 oz. of the milk. Shake and divide between two glasses filled with ice. Use the remaining milk for additional drinks or for non-alcoholic beverages for people who like sweetened milk.

Like me.

Mammon

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dollarIt’s a blessing that I can say these words: I have never been destitute. It’s true when my first husband and I were newly married, we were pretty darn broke. Food stamps broke. We lived in married student housing, and both of us worked while we went to school. When we graduated, we moved to Denver and I got a job as a newspaper reporter earning a whopping $600 a month. This isn’t some number that translated into today’s dollars would equal $5,000 a month. It was a pittance then as well as now. My husband worked too, but he made less money than I. Like I said, broke.

But we always knew we had a parachute. If things got too bad, we had options. Family who would help us out. No kids, so we could get second jobs. College degrees that would allow us to eventually make more money.

It’s true that for most of my adult life, however, I haven’t been poor. I’ve never been a millionaire, but I have never really had to count pennies. There have been times when my income has been healthier than other times, but always comfortable.

I just got done reading a book with a plot that centered around people who are wealthy. Donald Trump wealthy. Owned a private jet and houses all over the world wealthy. The point of the book I think was that you don’t have to be billionaires to be happy. Though I don’t think this particular book did a very good job of illustrating this fact since the supporting characters, while not billionaires, were quite wealthy themselves. Still, the point is well taken. Money doesn’t buy happiness.

And yet many of us think about money all of the time, deeply envious of our friends and neighbors who have more than we. I get up every morning and instead of being thankful for the mortgage-free roof over my head, I instead look down and think about how hideous my carpet is. I’m not alone; we all do it from time to time I’m afraid.

In the Gospel of St. Luke this past weekend, Jesus tells his apostles, “No servant can serve two masters. He will either hate one and love the other, or be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and mammon.”

The use of the word mammon is interesting. I admit that I had to look it up. I’ve probably heard this gospel a hundred times over my life, but I never thought about what the word means. I guess I just thought this was another way of saying that it’s easier for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to get into heaven. But mammon isn’t just wealth, according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary. It is wealth that has an evil influence. Wealth that leads us astray, I guess.

Back to the book I just finished. In that book, the man who had nearly limitless money thought that he always needed the next thing to be truly happy. The next mistress. The next shady deal that would bring in more money. The next house on the Riviera. But it never worked because at the end of the day, mammon didn’t make him happy; instead, it was the people he loved who made him happy and not the things he bought.

And our homilist took this away from the gospel: if only we would work as hard at prayer or helping others as we do at making money, we could be truly happy.

All this isn’t to say, however, that I’m not going to replace my ugly carpet!

“Pinning” for You

Posted in Recipes, Side Dishes by

I own a ridiculous number of cookbooks – ridiculous because I actually use a total of exactly two. Well, perhaps technically more than two. I tend to lump all of my Lidia Bastianich cookbooks into one. If I cook one of her recipes, I use the actual cookbook. Of her cookbooks, the one I use far and away the most is Lidia’s Italian American Kitchen. It has the tomato sauce stains to prove it.

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The other cookbook I open occasionally is my beloved Joy of Cooking cookbook that belonged to my mother-in-law who gifted it to me a number of years ago. It’s beloved simply because it’s from her. I can’t say I use it often. Joy of Cooking is a classic cookbook from which you can get recipes for practically anything. For heaven’s sake, it even tells me how to dress a deer (and I don’t mean in camouflage shirt and pants, ar ar ar). Needless to say, I haven’t actually had the need to hang a dead deer from my back porch because Bill doesn’t hunt, thank goodness. I’m not anti-hunting, mind you. Just anti-dressing-a-deer and anti-plucking-a-goose-or-wild-turkey. At any rate, Wilma’s Joy of Cooking was well-used by her, and looks much like my Lidia’s Italian American Kitchen.

dressing-a-deer

I was thinking about this the other day as I was searching all of my various spots for a particular recipe. It’s a pasta salad that I make often but have never memorized. I have it somewhere, but I can never remember where. Since the pasta salad originated with my sister Bec, I generally email her and ask her to send me the recipe.

However, when I made the salad recently, I googled the recipe. It isn’t an easy one to find, as it comes from the Crème de Colorado Cookbook (one of Colorado Junior League’s cookbooks) which isn’t online. But I put in “tortellini salad havarti salami” and eventually found it on the Better Homes and Gardens website. I don’t know if BHG stole it from the Junior League or if Junior League stole it from BHG. I envision both groups comprised of women wearing pillbox hats and white gloves and not stealing, so your guess is as good as mine.

All this is to say – perhaps randomly – that I love Pinterest. I wish I had invented Pinterest. First, and foremost, because I would likely be a millionaire. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about looking for recipes because I would have a professional chef on my staff. But second, because I would be so proud of myself for having had such a good idea.

I rarely use cookbooks anymore (see above), but that isn’t to say that I don’t use recipes. Oh my, yes I do. I couldn’t cook without a recipe. I’m not one of those. My siblings all cook without recipes. Me, I need to have someone telling me what ingredients are necessary and how much of each. Having two homes makes keeping track of my recipes somewhat difficult. As it is, I haul many of them back and forth – mostly those that were my mom’s recipe cards. But more and more, I’m able to find the recipes online and “pin” them to my Pinterest page. That way I have access to my recipes wherever I am as long as I have internet access, and I know where to find them.

I used to religiously peruse Pinterest and pin recipes, decorating ideas, crocheting patterns, and other things that are important in my life. I still occasionally will log onto Pinterest and pin one thing or another. But mostly I use it as a giant high tech recipe box. That alone makes it worth what I pay for Pinterest (which, of course, is nothing).

By the way, here is the recipe for the Havarti Tortellini Salad. It is so good that even Addie’s 13-year-old friends ask for the recipe…..

Havarti Tortellini Pasta Salad

Ingredients
10 oz fresh cheese tortellini, cooked al dente and drained
¼ c. fresh parsley, minced
¼ lb. salami, cubed
¼ lb. Havarti cheese, cubed
1 red or green bell pepper, chopped
½ c. black olives, sliced
2 green onions including tops, sliced

Dressing:
3 T. red wine vinegar
1 t. dried basil
1 t. Dijon mustard
¼ t. salt
¼ t.coarsely ground black pepper
1 clove garlic, minced
½ c. extra virgin olive oil

Process
In large bowl, combine tortellini, parsley, salami cheese, bell pepper, olives and green onion.  In blender or food processor, combine all dressing ingredients and blend well.  Pour dressing over salad and toss thoroughly.  Cover and refrigerate at least 1 hour.

If making more than 3 hours ahead, reserve half the dressing and toss with salad just before serving.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: If I’m Elected….

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So, the grandkids are all abuzz about election season. Not Hillary v. Trump. No, it’s much more local. It is elementary school Student Council election time. And friends, we have some winners and some losers amongst the grands.

Maggie Faith quietly told Papa Thursday night that she had been elected to represent her third grade class in Student Council. I called Jll yesterday afternoon to see if I could talk to Maggie to congratulate her. Well, yes, Jll said hesitantly. But be a bit careful. Why? Because Dagny ran for President of Student Council…..and lost. Apparently in fifth grade (and maybe older!) boys vote for boys and girls vote for girls and there was only one boy running and girls split their vote. The result: the boy won. Dagny is none too happy.

In the meantime, in the Willow Creek Elementary races (where Kaiya and Mylee attend school), the boy who won the Student Council presidential race promised if he won he would give everyone a free trip to the Bahamas. Well, he won. Kaiya and Mylee are awaiting their tickets. Good to know that election lying starts at an early age.

Nevertheless, here is the Southmoor Elementary Third Grade Representative (with her BFF Molly, wearing the red glasses)…

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Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: In a Dark, Dark Wood

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searchYou’ve got your cabin in the woods, a gathering of friends, loss of cell service, thunder storms, and the inevitable murder, creating quite an unnerving tale of jealousy and insecurity.

What I found particularly disturbing in Ruth Ware’s creepy In a Dark, Dark Wood was the cabin itself, which for me provided the utmost in scariness. Smack dab in the middle of a deserted wooded area sits a house made entirely of glass. The trees provide the only cover, but also the spookiness. There is no privacy and no protection.

Nora is a 26-year-old writer who is invited to a friend’s bachelorette party that is being held in the glass house in the dark, dark woods. Though she has literally not spoken to her friend in over a decade, she agrees to attend. I admit I found that premise to be suspect. Why is she invited, and why on earth would she accept?

Upon arriving at the glass house, Nora learns that the man to whom her friend is engaged is none other than her old boyfriend, someone who broke her heart years before and for whom she has pined ever since.

The gathering includes a decidedly unsettling group of friends, particularly the woman who has put the weekend together. She seemed to come straight from a Stephen King novel.

Somewhere in the middle of the book (yes, it takes that long), the groom-to-be is murdered right there in the house. Why was he there and guess who all clues point to? Yes, the murderer can only be Nora herself.

Except we know it’s not her. But the reader really doesn’t know who the murderer is until the very end because the book has a multitude of red herrings.

I’m sounding cynical, but I actually liked the book a lot. It was spooky enough, but not enough to keep a reader awake at night. The setting and the author’s descriptions provide a sinister element that is suitably spooky.

My main complaint is the lack of a realistic premise. I can’t see any reason why Nora agreed to attend, nor does Nora’s fixation with the groom, with whom she had a brief high school relationship, seem convincing.

Still, I recommend the book. I am looking forward to reading Ware’s newest book The Woman in Cabin 10. It is reported to be the next The Girl on the Train. That’s a shock, isn’t it?

Here is link to the book.

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Thursday Thoughts

Posted in Whimsies by

And Next I Will Cure Cancer
In case you live on a planet light years away from even Mars, I will tell you that there is an election coming up. I have never missed voting in an election since I turned 18, and I don’t plan on starting now, no matter how difficult a decision it’s going to be. But one thing I know about election seasons, the worst thing about them are the political ads. Man, I hate them. And since advertising is expensive, the same ads are run over and over. There is one ad that particularly gets my goat, so to speak. It’s for a person running for Congress here in Colorado. In the ad, she talks about all of the wonderful things she will do if she’s elected. One of the things she promises is that she is going to make student loans more affordable. Really? And I wonder just how she is going to do that. But she doesn’t have to tell us that, you see. I yell at the television every time I see that commercial. And it’s only the beginning.

Funny Bones
I kept 2-year-old Cole for the day Tuesday. It’s always fun to have my grandkids on an individual basis. You really get a sense of their personality. And I learned this about Cole: he is very funny. I know, I know, 2-year-olds are funny just because they’re 2. But he is funny because he tries to be funny. I can tell he has that comical gene that runs in my family, and that makes me happy. I am waiting for the day that he says, “Thank you, thank you….I’ll be here all this week. Don’t forget to tip your waiter.” Cole isn’t the first of my grandkids to be a comedian. Micah showed his comedic chops when he was about 2, and now at age 4, he makes everyone laugh.

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Oh Say Can You See
I don’t know about you all, but I am sick to death of hearing about who stood for the National Anthem, who kneeled, who locked arms, who pointed to the sky. I don’t care. I really don’t. I believe that what they’re doing is disrespectful, but I also believe that because we are the United States of America, they have a right to their own freedom of speech, as much as I have the right to disagree with them. But people, let’s stop talking about it. Having said that, I’m going to talk about it. I have been saying since Kaepernick first shocked us with his stance. (Or lack thereof) that it’s a waste of time and merely a way to bring attention to yourself. Instead, why don’t the protesters do something actively to address the issue? Shockingly, a former football player who I have always heartily disliked because of the whole murder thing – former Baltimore Raven Ray Lewis – says exactly what I am thinking. He and I are two peas in a pod. See the link…

http://ijr.com/2016/09/692074-ray-lewis-challenges-kaepernick-with-what-he-should-be-doing-instead-of-using-the-nfl-as-his-stage/

Door Stops
In yesterday’s blog post, I talked about doughnuts. I got a comment from a cousin who has been diagnosed with celiac disease. As such, she is unable to eat wheat not because it’s become the fasionable thing to do but because she doubles up in pain if she consumes a piece of bread or two. Anyway, in her comment, she lamented that she loves doughnuts as much as I, but she is unable to eat them. And, according to her, the gluten-free kind are awful. Could Dave invent a really yummy GF for me? she asked. And so, I have issued my brother Dave the challenge. I’m on it he replied to my text/challenge. I’ll keep you posted.

Ciao.

Fried Goodness

Posted in Whimsies by

voo-doo-donut-boxI started working at my dad’s bakery when I was 14 years old. I reckon that’s about the same age as my siblings, all of whom worked for Dad for varying number of years. My brother will argue that he worked for Dad (unpaid) from the time he was 2. That in fact may be true. He was the only boy, after all, and so destined to be a baker, at least in my Dad’s eyes. Which, I might add, became true.

All this is to say that when I was 14 years old (hmmmm, somewhere in the neighborhood of 1967 or 1968), bread was 29 cents a loaf. But more to the point of this blog post, doughnuts (or D-O-N-U-T-S as they are now commonly spelled) were 65 cents a dozen. A DOZEN. The very best glazed doughnuts that you can imagine. Doughnuts that were so light they practically floated in the air according to one of my cousins who was well acquainted with the bakery.

I am quite familiar with inflation. Store-bought bread now costs somewhere between 3 and 4 dollars a loaf, and it isn’t even half as good as that my father made. But I also probably earned something like a buck fifty an hour. It’s called inflation, and it’s inevitable.

Still, it didn’t stop me from being shocked recently when I purchased doughnuts to treat a friend of mine. I had offered to bring breakfast or lunch to her house. She is going through chemotherapy, and so when she told me the one thing that sounded good was doughnuts, well, I was more than happy to comply. First (and I assure you, foremost) because I want to be a good friend, but second, because I LOVE DOUGHNUTS.

I always have; I always will. They are flat-out delicious.

Breakfast treats are cyclical. I remember when the whole bagel thing became, well, a thing. Bagel shops were popping up all over the place. Bagels are okay. In fact, I like a bagel about as much as I like any breakfast food. (Except now with my low-fiber diet, I can’t eat my favorite which is an Everything bagel. But I substitute Asiago, and it’s nearly as good.)

Then we went through a doughnut phase. Krispie Kremes were built all over Denver. There were lines like at an Adele concert to purchase these sweet treats at all hours of the day and night. After a couple of years, you could hear the sound of crickets chirping at the doughnut shops, and they began to close down. My dad would have said (and my brother would concur), “Good riddance to bad doughnuts.” He didn’t think much of Krispie Kreme doughnuts, and I admit that, while there’s nothing quite as good as a warm Krispie Kreme glazed doughnut, after they have cooled off five minutes later, they’re just ordinary. Haters, don’t hate.

But back to my most recent doughnut purchase. There is a doughnut shop that opened up maybe a year or so ago called Voodoo Doughnuts. The original store is in Portland, OR, and they have only opened a couple more following their rip-roaring success there – one in Denver, and most recently in Austin, TX. We were in AZ when the Denver store opened, but there were apparently lines blocks long to purchase these doughnuts. The bakery is far from my house, so I have never bothered to go.

However, I knew that my friend likes these particular doughnuts and it is located very near her house. That’s where I decided to go.

It was midmorning when I got there, so the lines had died down. I only had a short wait. Which was just enough time to get over my shock when I saw the price of a dozen doughnuts. My friends, a dozen of mixed doughnuts was $15. For 12 pieces of dough covered with frosting.

Oh, and all sorts of oddball toppings such as Rice Krispies and Fruit Loops and Cocoa Puffs. My dad’s head was undoubtedly spinning……

voo-doo-donut-fruit-loops

I bit the bullet and made my purchase. When I got to my friend’s house, she poured me a cup of very good coffee and we had our doughnuts in her back yard. I will admit that the yeast doughnuts were quite tasty. The cake doughnuts, well, maybe a bit of a disappointment. Perhaps it was the grape Kool Aid coating. And you think I’m kidding.

box-voo-doo-donuts

Our favorite doughnuts these days come from Basha’s markets in Arizona, where, shockingly, my brother works. But I know doughnuts, and I know they are exceptionally good. And they cost – wait for it – 75 cents apiece. But no Fruit Loops.

By the way, since parking was hard to find at Voodoo Doughnuts given that it is located just this side of the state capitol building, I took a chance and parked illegally where a sign warned me not to park. As I walked back to my car, I saw that a patrolman was writing me a ticket. I thought about offering him a Kool Aid doughnut as a bribe, but he pulled away just as I walked up. So add another $50 to my dozen doughnuts!

The Feet of the Matter

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My entire life, people have told me I look like my mother. Some even say that I have her personality, but I don’t think that’s so. I admit –proudly, I might add – to resembling my mother, but I have never been quite as outspoken as she, nor as funny. My brother tells me he is always so proud when people tell him he looks like Dad, and I know what he means. I am delighted to be compared to my amazing mother.

Still, Mom…..did I have to get your feet?

I have always been kind of proud of my feet. I realize that’s a funny thing for which to be proud, but anyone who has gotten a professional pedicure or two will admit that they have seen some nasty feet on other patrons. And as I would observe the nasty nails and the crooked toes, I proudly looked at my own perfectly formed toes and my smooth heels and said, I might need a wardrobe update, but man – look at those feet.

Until the past few years.  At which time I began noticing that I was getting problematic, unsightly, and unexplained calluses on my big toes. Why do I get these calluses I asked nail technician after nail technician. From your shoes was always the reply. Except I knew that wasn’t the answer because frankly, now that I’m retired and spend my winters in Arizona, I live almost nonstop in flip flops. Non-callus-forming foot attire. Of course, I didn’t go out last night and get my podiatry degree, but still…..

But this past winter I was at a nail salon getting a pedicure, and my sister Bec was sitting in the chair next to me. As usual, the nail technician was working very hard on my feet and seemed unusually troubled. In desperation, I asked her the same question I have asked many a nail technician: Why do I get these calluses?

But instead of blaming my shoes, she answered immediately, “You get calluses because of your bunions.”

My say what?

And without skipping a beat, Bec said, “Oh, mom had bunions too. You must have inherited her feet.”

Sigh. Why couldn’t I have inherited her pretty hair or her dry wit?

imagesI, of course, immediately googled bunions. I learned that they are almost always caused by wearing bad shoes, high heels in particular. Something I never ever did, even when I was in the workforce. I simply never wore anything but comfortable shoes. Well, I did wear high heels to my wedding, but people, that was 25 years ago for four or five hours. But the other thing that causes bunions, my friends, is genetics. Thanks Mom.

I have a habit of not looking at myself in the mirror. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t actively avoid mirrors. In fact, I look in a mirror several times a day as I brush my teeth or put on my mascara. But I don’t actually LOOK at myself. No need. I know what I look like so I don’t pay attention. I think it’s possible that I could grow a second head and not notice.

And apparently it’s the same way with my feet. Until those words came out of the nail technician’s mouth, I had never noticed that my feet were disfigured from bunions. And, see above. I live nearly non-stop in flip flops.

Still, I had myself fooled that no one else noticed the bulge right beneath the big toe of both feet. Who looks at feet anyway? Well, maybe podiatrists and nail technicians. But who else?

However, I was at my neighborhood nail salon recently and seated next to me was a man about my age getting a manicure. I was minding my own business, reading my book, when he said to me, “So, you have bunions, huh?”

Lord have mercy on my soul. That’s why men shouldn’t be allowed in nail salons. They should have their own salons where they can smoke cigars, pass gas, scratch their private parts, and comment on each other’s feet.

It turns out he has them as well, but his came from some sort of accident that he tried to explain to me except I wasn’t listening because I was frantically thinking about what sort of shoes I was going to start wearing that hid my feet from the public.

Since then, I have reminded myself about what is important in this world. Compared to poverty, hunger, bad health, and worrying about whether or not my favorite football players should stand for the National Anthem, bunions are simply a nuisance. My bunions, I’m pleased to say, don’t hurt a bit.

And if my feet offend, don’t look at them.