Author Archives: kzmclain

Saturday Smile: Pop!

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You know what Pop Rocks candy is, don’t you? Pop Rocks are little pieces of carbonated candy that, when you put them in your mouth, pop and fizz. Personally, I never liked them much, but I’m kind of a Twizzlers or Hot Tamales kind of gal when it comes to non-chocolate type of candy.

Anyway, recently 2-year-old Lilly had her first experience with Pop Rock Candy. She is game to do anything her brother either does himself or tells her to do. He is her big brother after all.

What he recently told her to do was try Pop Rocks…..

Honestly, her transformation from total shock to surprise at the sweet treat makes me laugh every time I watch this video.

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: Dimestore

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searchThe best thing about this book was the title.

I love southern writers in general. I like reading books that take place in the south. I’m particularly drawn to the Appalachian area of southwestern Virginia and West Virginia. So I should love author Lee Smith.

It’s not fair of me to say I don’t, as I have only tried to read one of her novels. I say tried because I was unsuccessful. Fair and Tender Ladies – a novel told in the form of letters – simply didn’t grab my attention, and so I abandoned book.

But I was drawn to her memoir – told in a series of essays – one hundred percent because of its title. I grew up in a town that had not one, but two, dimestores, and I loved them both.

I didn’t love Smith’s memoir Dimestore quite as much as I loved dimestores themselves.

As I mentioned, what I am calling a memoir is actually a series of essays in which Smith tells us about her life as she grew up in the small Appalachian community of Grundy, Virginia, and beyond. Her father owned the local dimestore. For non-baby-boomers, dimestores were small versions of Walmart. You could find a little bit of a lot of things for a low price.

It’s true that I enjoyed the earlier essays more than the later essays because I loved hearing about her life growing up in southwestern Virginia in the late 40s and early 50s. I could relate, though my small town experience was in the Midwest. Let’s face it; small town America in the 50s was small town America in the 50s, no matter where you were. You could watch Dobie Gillis and the Mickey Mouse Club anywhere that had television reception. You could go out and play all day long without your parents arranging play dates.

I enjoyed the later essays a bit less because they were more about her experiences after college.  Smith actually spent the last couple of years of high school at a boarding school in Richmond, VA, and then attended college in Roanoke. But you can tell that her upbringing in the Appalachians impacted her life forever.

I also loved that she began writing at as a small girl, taking the Nancy Drew stories and rewriting them to include herself as one of the characters or producing a different ending. I was enormously impressed to read this fact, as it is something I would have LOVED to do, but wouldn’t have had the nerve.

I can’t heartily recommend the book unless you are a true lover of memoirs. I borrowed the book from the library, so I didn’t mind that I skimmed some of the later essays. I might have felt a bit cheated if I had spent cold, hard cash on the book.

With that caveat, I give it a wobbly thumbs up.

Here is a link to the book.

unnamed

Thursday thoughts

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And Then There Were None
Earlier this week we went to check on our mockingbird friends and discovered they were gone. They had flown the coop! Or the nest, really. All that was left was a few twigs that gave a nod to a nest having ever been there. I don’t know the status of the Mockingbird family, but I saw no birds carcasses. So, in my world, they are enjoying their new lives. Born free, as free as the wind blows…..

Hashtag I’m Worn Out
I babysat for Austin and Lilly last night, and those two DID ME IN. It was like they smelled weakness. I wasn’t there a half hour before they had pulled all of the cushions off of the sofa and we’re doing something that was a combination of trampolines and hide ‘n seek. At one point Austin said (and I quote), “Hashtag, I know I can do this,” as he prepared to place Lilly under one of the cushions and jump on it from the sofa. And I’m not kidding about the “hashtag.” I managed to head that one off at the pass. I thought it would be simple to put the cushions back, but since it is a sectional, it was like a crossword puzzle. And here is the point at which I knew I had lost all control…..
austin lilly shirts
Staging
Yesterday Bill and I made a trip to Goodwill to get rid of stuff we had been piling up in our little den. That made room for us to begin piling other stuff that we will be taking back to Denver with us at the end of next week. We really try to be at the point where we don’t have to transfer a lot of stuff back and forth, but we never fail to have a car full when we pull out of our driveway, either direction.

Some like it Hot
My granddaughter Kaiya has been studying the desert in her social studies class (or whatever they call it when you’re in second grade). The grand finale was a diorama featuring some aspects of desert life about which they have been studying. She and I have been discussing her studies for the past month or so, so she was proud to show me her project….
kaiya diarama

I was a little surprised at the Bactrian camel, but I had to remind myself that there are more deserts than simply the Sonoran Desert in which I have lived for the past four months. I think she did a great job.

Ciao!

Cooking for Dummies

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I feel like I’m not a great cook any more. I’m not horrible, but I feel like I’ve lost the patience necessary to be a tremendous cook. Almost daily I thank my lucky stars that I elected not to do a blog exclusively about cooking. Because some of my most recent failures would not offer a compelling read, unless my blog was entitled Cooking Blunders.

Take Monday night’s dinner, for example. No, seriously. Take it, because it was practically inedible. And God bless Bill because he doesn’t EVER complain about my cooking. So he bit into the pieces of completely charred Italian sausage and said something like, “Food Network would call this carmelized.”

It was such a nice try on his part, but the truth is Food Network would call it a cooking fail.

The recipe was simple. Tiny new potatoes, fresh green beans, sliced pieces of Italian sausage, seasoning, all doused in olive oil and put into a piece of aluminum foil. The foil was closed up to make a package, and cooked for 30 minutes on the grill. Easy, right?

Except that I should have double wrapped it in the foil because it cooked fine on the closed side. However, I turned it so that the part that I had allegedly pinched closed was on the bottom, and unfortunately, it really wasn’t closed. At least not tightly enough.  As a result, the olive oil dripped onto the grill and a rather large fire ensued. A fire of which I was entirely unaware because I was engrossed in a book. I was reminded of a simply hilarious episode of the Bob Newhart Show in which Bob was grilling steaks on his Chicago condo’s patio and unbeknownst to him, the steaks caught fire. Bob was in his living room doing all of the funny conversational things of which Bob Newhart is the master, and in the background the audience watched as the grill was consumed by flames.

That was me on Monday night.

Here’s an interesting fact about moi. I am easily influenced by reading what someone in a book is eating. So if I read a book that takes place in India, I crave Indian food. If Mexican food is mentioned, that’s what I want for dinner. It happens the book that I’m reading (in which I was so engrossed and totally missed out on a grill fire which rivaled the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, minus Mrs. O’Leary’s cow) takes place in Scotland, and the characters routinely eat scones.

Normally I can take or leave scones, but after reading about the characters eating scones with their tea, I simply HAD to have a scone. If I was in Denver, I would simply have walked over to Whole Foods and purchased a peach scone. Despite giving it plenty of thought, I couldn’t think where I could get a scone around our AZ house. (Bec has since reminded me that Starbucks sells scones and there are probably two or three hundred Starbucks in a five mile radius of our house. Oh well.)

So I made my own peach scones. Had I shot video of my endeavor, it would not have made the cut on Next Food Network Star. Perhaps on America’s Worst Cooks. Ina Garten makes the process of making scones look easy (using peaches imported from a small organic and sustainable peach grove in the south of France). She ends up with a beautiful disk of dough that she easily cuts into triangles and bakes until they are a golden brown with sugar crystals glistening on top. I, on the other hand, ended up with a crumbly mess that I pressed into roughly a round disk, all the while frantically patting the crumbs back into the dough.

But it didn’t turn out too bad…..

peach scone disc

And when it was all said and done, the scones were quite delicious, as evidenced by Bill eating two in a row.

Just as an aside, when I’m cooking, Ina Garten often comes to mind. Mostly how she would be horrified to observe me in the kitchen. For example, I thought of her recently when I was making chicken. I had seasoned the chicken, and needed to throw something away. Because I had not yet washed my hands (which were full of whatever it was that I wanted to toss) and didn’t want to touch anything with raw chicken still lurking there, I opened the cabinet door with my feet. While doing so, a couple of thoughts came into my mind: 1) I have never seen Ina Garten open a cabinet with her feet; and 2) I wonder if it is any more sanitary to put your feet on the kitchen cabinet handle than using chicken-laced hands.

Don’t worry, I used an antibacterial cloth to wipe the handle.

Here is the recipe for the peach scones. Despite the crumbly dough, the scones were delicious.

peach scone cut

Peach Scones, courtesy honestcooking.com

Ingredients
2 c. plus 2 T. all-purpose flour
1/3 c. brown sugar
1 T baking powder
½ t. salt
½ c. unsalted butter, cubed and cold
1 egg
¼ c. heavy whipping cream, plus more for brushing
¼ c. sour cream
2 t. vanilla extract
½ c. fresh peaches, diced

Process
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
In a bowl, mix together flour, brown sugar, baking powder, and salt. Once combined, cut in the butter with a fork or pastry cutter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs.

Whisk together heavy cream, sour cream, egg, and vanilla extract. Slowly add the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and mix until just combined.

Stir in the peaches, and mix until just combined.

On a well-floured surface, turn out the scone dough and pat into a small disk that’s about a half inch thick. Cut into 6-8 slices, and transfer to the baking sheet. Brush each scone with just a bit of heavy cream.

Bake for 16-18 minutes, or just until golden brown. Allow to cool.

Nana’s Notes: Her recipe had a glaze; I chose to sprinkle mine liberally with sugar after brushing on the cream. Also, since I was facing the above-mentioned crumbly mess, I formed my disk right on the baking sheet, and that seemed to work fine. Finally, I didn’t use fresh peaches; instead, I used canned. That made the dough a bit wetter and the resulting scones a bit more moist. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

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I recently came across a book – in fact, I am reviewing the book on Friday – entitled Dimestore. The book is a nonfiction memoir about a writer whose father owned a dimestore in the small Virginia town in which she grew up.

Oh man, I thought. Why couldn’t my dad have owned a dimestore instead of a bakery when I was growing up? Of course, I don’t really mean that because having parents who owned a business that produced scrumptious goodies every day was pretty darn good. But still…..

As I was basking in this good feeling about dimestores, I began to wonder at what age one must be to actually know what I’m talking about when I say dimestore. So I did some quite unscientific research. I sent two identical text messages – one to my 35-year-old son Court and one to my 13-year-old granddaughter Adelaide. Here is what the text said:

Research question: If I talk about a dime store, do you know what I’m talking about w/o looking it up?

I heard back fairly quickly from both of them.

Court: No idea. I assume it’s like a dollar store?

Addie’s response was shorter, but more repentent….

No. Sorry.

I will be honest, however. I was pretty sure Addie wouldn’t know what a dimestore was, but I thought Court would know. And, based on his answer, he could figure it out. Dimestore v. Dollar Tree? Inflation?

But I guess rather than comparing it to a dollar store, I would describe it more like a much smaller version of Walmart. And much more fun simply BECAUSE it was smaller.

In Columbus, where I grew up, we had not one, but TWO, dimestores in our downtown. One was called Scott’s Dime Store. I think that one was locally owned. A block further down our main street was Woolworth’s, another dimestore.

CC_My-Childhood-Woolworths-Circa-1960s

Of course, during my formative years in Columbus, our main street was the only game in town. There was JC Penneys, Montgomery Ward, and a whole bunch of smaller locally-owned stores and cafes. Columbus also had two bakeries on our main street, one of which was the Gloor Bakery, and the other of which was the other bakery, which name we never spoke. Of course, Woolworth’s was a national chain, but we didn’t know that at the time. It was just another beloved dimestore, but one that included a lunch counter with much-sought-after booths by the window for your cherry coke.

Since my research suggests that non-baby-boomers are unfamiliar with dimestores, I will explain. Dimestores were (are there still dimestores in existence?) stores that carried a little bit of a lot of things at a reasonable price. Our dimestores carried things ranging from tennis balls to gold fish; from penny candy to sewing notions; from school supplies to kids’ shoes. Oh what fun it was to just wander into the dimestore and browse the aisles.

Scott’s Dime Store is where I bought my grandmother afghan kits that included everything necessary to make a ripple afghan. It is also the location of an incident about which my grandmother spoke the rest of her life. When I was 4 or 5 years old, she and I walked the two blocks between her apartment above our bakery and Scott’s Dime Store for reasons I have long ago forgotten. (It wouldn’t surprise me if the only reason we went was to kill time by browsing and perhaps (probably) to buy some candy. All I know is we were half the way back to her apartment when she glanced down and noticed that I was barefoot.

“Oy yoy yoy Krisily,” she probably said because oy yoy yoy was her universal term of surprise or frustration and –ily was added to every one of her grandkids’ names as a show of affection. “Where are your shoes?”

Oh boy, I thought. No clue.

So we walked back to Scott’s Dime Store and went up and down each aisle until we finally located my shoes. She put them back on my feet and I received, of course, not a single scold from her. In fact, she possibly bought more candy.

By the way, as another arm of research, I asked Bill if he knew what I meant by dimestore. He, of course, knew exactly what a dimestore was. He pointed out, however, that they called them 5 and Dimes instead of dimestores.

Big City shoppers!

A Tale of Two Cities

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You might recall that the visit from my friend Megan got cut short because she learned ON FRIDAY that her plane ON SATURDAY was cancelled due to a snow storm which, at the point of cancellation, hadn’t produced a single flake of snow.

I know I sound bitter, but I’m really not; just confused. Because anybody who has spent even one winter in Colorado knows that the weather forecast is unreliable. Furthermore, even if you know snow is likely, where it is going to fall in the metro area is anyone’s guess. The foothills can get a foot of snow while central Denver gets a sprinkling.

But I don’t work for United Airlines nor am I a meteorologist. So, well, I’ll get a grip.

Saturday morning I Face Timed with 7-year-old Kaiya.

“How’s the weather?” I asked her.

“It’s snowing,” she proclaimed. She took her iPad over to the window, flipped the camera, and showed me that there was a good six or seven inches of snow on their patio furniture.

So, as evidence that I’m, in fact, NOT getting a grip, I will tell you that since the weather the previous days in Colorado had been quite warm, while snow was sticking to the patio table, it likely wasn’t sticking to the grass or pavement. Okay, so now I’m going to get a grip.

“You look really snuggly in your pajamas,” I said to her. “Are you nice and warm?”

“Yes,” she said. “But I have on three pairs of pajamas.”

Alrighty then.

I took my iPad over to our Mesa house’s back window and flipped my own camera to show her the blue sky and the blooming flowers.

Her two words indicated what I know is EVERY COLORADO RESIDENT’S sentiment right about now.

“Oh man,” she said.

I haven’t worn anything but flip flops since late in February. I have a farmer’s tan on my feet. We’re running the air conditioner. More cacti and desert plants burst into bloom every day. See…….

walking from mailbox prickly pear flowers more prickly pear flowers

Saturday afternoon, I got a text message from my sister Jen who had just returned from the grocery store. Anyone who has lived in a place in which a lot of snow can fall knows that just as soon as the news media begins talking about (fill in the blank) inches of snow, mayhem ensues. People go absolutely crazy. For some reason, they all rush to the store and buy the same things – toilet tissue, canned tomatoes, milk, and eggs. This is true even for people who don’t like milk and eggs. And seriously? Do people really let themselves get down to only the toilet tissue that is currently on the roll in their bathroom? Because the snow will be gone in a few days, people.

Anyhoo, Jen sent me these two photos….

no onions

no tomatoes

Here is the text Jen included with the photo of the empty shelf where canned tomatoes should be: Eek! Canned tomato shortage. I knocked an elderly woman and a small child out of the way to get mine.

I’m pretty sure she was kidding.

As for those of us lucky enough to be in the Valley of the Sun, we still obsess about a terrible wind storm we got this past winter….

url

By the way, at Megan’s house, they only got an inch of snow. Now I’m getting a grip.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: The Trouble with Tucson

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Megan takes a much better selfie than I!

Megan takes a much better selfie than I!

Since we bought our house in Arizona, I have been wanting to visit Tucson. People rave about this southern Arizona city — the home of the University of Arizona.

Bill and I went one time to see what Tucson was like. We were, frankly, disappointed. But to be fair, we drove down on I-10 for lunch and had no idea where we should go or what we should do. So we ate lunch and headed home, again on I-10, kind of wondering what all the fuss was about.

The past few days, my friend Megan has been visiting us from Denver. She has relatives in Tucson and has spent a considerable amount of time visiting that community. So in addition to the fun we had here and getting the chance to see our Arizona house, she was excited to take me for a day trip to Tucson so she could show me the town.

We took a scenic route between Phoenix and Tuscon which we both enjoyed very much.

She had recollection of a Mexican restaurant from which her uncle would bring home delicious Mexican food. It was called St. Mary’s Restaurant. We found the restaurant (what did we in the days before Google Maps?), ordered, and ate our yummy meals, excited to begin our Tucson sightseeing.

St. Mary's Restaurant, Tucson, Arizona

St. Mary’s Restaurant, Tucson, Arizona

But, alas, it was not to be. Following lunch, Megan casually checked her email and learned that United Airlines had CANCELED HER FLIGHT. Her flight that wasn’t scheduled until the NEXT DAY. Yes friends, they canceled the flight in ANTICIPATION of the snow in Colorado, something I don’t recall ever happening before. They suggested catching a flight out yesterday afternoon or evening.

Which she did. She quickly made a flight reservation, and instead of our lovely tour of Tucson, we got onto I-1o and hightailed it home just in time for her to briskly stuff her clothes back into the suitcase, give quick hugs goodbye, and head for the airport.

I’m beginning to doubt that there is any more to Tucson than a couple of restaurants.

But spending the past few days with my good friend made me smile.

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: The All-Girl Filling Station’s Last Reunion

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imgresFannie Flagg knows how to tell a great story. I have felt this way ever since I read Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe, which will always be one of my favorite books.

Reading anything written by Flagg is like sitting in a comfortable chair next to a fireplace listening to your grandmother or a favorite aunt tell you a story. The characters may be too quirky to be believable. The plot may wobble in parts. But you can count on a good story.

Sookie Poole is entering a new phase of her life. Her last daughter has gotten married and Sookie is looking forward to spending more time with her husband enjoying their life together. That is, until one day she opens a certified letter addressed to her mother – an erratic social climber who lives in an assisted living community and for whom Sookie has power-of-attorney. What she finds in the letter completely changes what she knows about her past, present, and future.

Sookie begins a quest to learn more about her past, and Flagg’s story begins.

Meet Fritzi and her family who run a gas station in the 30s in the Midwest. When TB puts her father in the hospital and World War II requires her brother’s services, the three girls take over the filling station. They also find their own ways to contribute to the war effort.

The more Sookie learns, the more confidence she gains in her own abilities. Trust Flagg to make you laugh out loud at some of the adventures Sookie faces. She reminded me of a great deal of Evelyn Couch of Fried Green Tomatoes fame. Tewanda! (Only pertinent to anyone who has read Fried Green Tomatoes.)

The All-Girl Filling Station’s Last Reunion was so much fun to read that I was sad to put it down.

Here is a link to the book.

unnamed

Thursday Thoughts

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It’s a Boy! Or a Girl! Or Both!
Tuesday morning when I headed out by foot to Basha’s, I noticed something different about Mama Mockingbird in our tree out front. When I looked harder, I saw her, but I also saw another set of eyes. A baby mockingbird! If you look really carefully, there might be another set of eyes as well.

mother baby bird (2)

And this is when the drama begins. Mama M will feed the birds for a bit, but at some point she is going to force them to leave the nest. The cats/snakes/coyotes are eagerly awaiting that day. In the words of my son Court when asked if he wanted to go on a nature hike when he was about 7 years old, “I hate nature.”

And Here’s Why I Don’t Really Hate Nature
Bill and I went for a walk at nearby Red Mountain Park Monday morning. Red Mountain Park is lovely. There is a good-sized pond stocked with fish, and it is widely used. There is a nice playground for children. And there is a sidewalk that goes completely around the park that is 8/10ths of a mile around. Three laps nearly equal two-and-a-half miles in case you can’t do math. We saw the cutest thing ever. We saw a real Mother Goose, her beloved mate-for-life, and their goslings, somewhere in the neighborhood of eight or so. I am not Ansel Adams (though, in my defense, I’m using a crappy phone camera and not a cool and groovy camera with a fancy dancy lens), but you can kind of see the little goslings being led and followed by Mother and Father. You can see them all a bit better in the second photo. I wonder which was the female and which was the male.

geese and goslings

more geese 4.16

Now I Call This Huevos
I have mentioned before that there is a difference between the Mexican food they serve here and that which they serve in Colorado. Green chili is not a thing here. Chile verde, yes. Green chili with pork, not so much. When we were in Denver recently, we had breakfast at my favorite place for green chili in Denver – Santiago’s. They are renowned for their hot green chili. Normally, when I order a smothered burrito, I ask for half & half – half hot and half medium. Because I had been missing green chili so much, I ordered all of it hot. Oh. My. Heavens. It was H.O.T. indeed. But delicious. I ate every bite. My stomach spoke to me later and said, “Why oh why did you think this was a good idea?”

Huevos Rancheros Santiago 4.16

Sailing
I have a friend visiting from Denver. To show off our beautiful area, we drove to Saguaro Lake yesterday afternoon. That is really one of my favorite drives ever. Our plan was to eat sandwiches at one of the picnic areas, and then return home. At the last minute, we decided to take the lake cruise on the Desert Belle. We were so glad we did. It was pretty and we all enjoyed it very much.

Four Peaks Saguaro Lake 4.16

I Have Croissant on My Back
As you know, I accompanied Bill Saturday when he enjoyed his NASCAR experience. As he awaited his ride, I sat amongst the other people who were watching their loved one or perhaps awaiting their own turn. There was a young man sitting with his girlfriend/wife waiting to drive one of the NASCARs. As I glanced at him, I saw the word Bagel tattooed onto his neck. I looked at it several times, all the time wondering why anyone would get the word Bagel tattooed onto their neck. Was he a baker? Did he run a Jewish deli? Did he simply like bagels so much that he wanted the word permanently placed on the neck where he could publicly declare his love of this chewy breakfast treat? Finally, I realized that the word was not Bagel; instead it was Angel.

bagel or angel PIR 4.16 (2)You won’t believe me at first, but look at the this photo and you will see that I am right.

bagel or angel PIR 4.16 (3)Now, arguably, it makes no sense to have the word Angel – or any other word, for that matter – tattooed permanently onto one’s neck, but I must admit it gave me some relief when I realized my mistake. Angel, next time you consider a tattoo, ask them not to make the curlicue on the A. And enjoy your bagel.

Ciao!

Slash

Posted in Whimsies by

250px-JasonfIt was 23 years ago this past February that Bill and I bought our house in Denver. We had been married only eight months, and up until then, we had lived a few months in the little house Court and I owned near Washington Park. We sold that house in December, and spent the rest of the time in Bill’s big house near downtown Denver.

We were pretty open-minded when it came to choosing the house in which we knew we would live together for years and years. We claimed that we would live in any part of the metro area. And though we looked at houses throughout the metro area, when it came down to it, we only really felt comfortable when we were looking at houses in southeast Denver where both of us had lived all of our respective times in Denver.

We, of course, discussed what each of us was looking for in a house. I wanted an eat-in kitchen, a separate formal dining room, nearness to decent schools, and four bedrooms.

Bill’s list was much shorter, but quite a bit more difficult. Having lived in a beautiful large historic home that generated a lot of attention, here was his one and only request in a home: It had to have something special. When I would push him to try and find out what that meant, he would always answer the same: I don’t know what I mean, but I will know it when I see it.

It took some time to find our house, and quite frankly by the time we did, I had given up looking. “You go with the realtor,” I told him in my crabbiest manner. “You’re the one who wants something special, so you find it and let me know.

Well, he did, and the rest is history. By the way, the something special in our house was our huge and beautiful back yard and the steam room and sauna in the basement.

This is a long way of telling you that I loved the house immediately when I saw it, except for one thing.

“I will NOT be able to live with the paint color on the walls,” I said. It was this sort of dirty beige color that was wholly unattractive, and they had painted the ENTIRE HOUSE that color.

Well, ladies and gentleman, I am embarrassed to tell you that for the most part, our house remains that very same color 23 years later. We painted our living room, our kitchen, and our bedroom, but the rest of the house is this sort of dirty beige color that is still wholly unattractive.

Now let me tell you about my wonderful sister-in-law. Sami has exquisite taste. In addition, she has something I don’t – the wherewithal and creative spirit to actually do what it takes to make her house beautiful. And often at a whim. In fact, my brother claims that there have been several times when he has gone to bed at night and the kitchen was one color, and gotten up the next morning and the kitchen is an entirely different color.  (In addition to being a decorator, Sami is a night owl.)

I often think when they come to visit, Sami must sort of cringe when she comes in the door only to see the same walls, the same furniture, the same decorative theme. However, in addition to being a decorator and a night owl, she has good manners, and so doesn’t even so much as sigh.

Sami is the kind of person who, if something goes awry in their house, will get on the internet and figure out what’s going on. If possible, she will repair it herself, even if it requires power equipment. I am tentative when I have to move Bill’s unplugged weed wacker, and she is wielding chain saws. I love that woman.

The other night, my brother sent me a text message which included a photo……

sami with chainsaw

That day, Sami had gotten the chain saw she had ordered, and according to Dave, was extremely excited about it – sort of the way I felt when I got my Kitchenaid. There is no universe where a chain saw would excite me.

What I love most about the photo is that she is wielding the chain saw while wearing the frilly nightgown that Bec and I had gotten her recently for her birthday, and standing in front of a sign that says WELCOME.

She looks like Jason of Friday the 13th fame, only pretty.