Saturday Smile: Got It?

Posted in Desserts, Recipes by kzmclain

Cheese Danish as Mylee envisions it.

You might remember that a few weeks ago, Mylee was Student of the Week, an honor which eventually goes to each kindergarten child throughout the year. It is basically a Show-and-Tell on steroids. While in the spotlight, she was asked by her teacher what she wanted to be when she grew up. Much to my (and I think her parents’) surprise, she said she wanted to be a chef. Well, then.

The other day I was driving her home from school. It was just Mylee, as Kaiya had her first-ever Brownie meeting. As we drove home, I mentioned to her that I had taken Cole to get a cheese Danish roll at Starbucks, and that he ate it just as she did — cheese filling first.

“Of course, Nana,” she responded. “That’s because it’s the best part.” (Duh! she’s thinking.)

I went on to tell her that I thought I might try and see if I could make cheese Danish myself.

Without a second thought, Mylee said to me, “Here’s what you do, Nana. You take a slice of bread. You cut off the crusts and make it square. You put cream cheese in the middle of the bread and you bake it. Got it?”

I swear she said, “Got it?” I nodded, because she’s the boss. I was pretty sure my recipe would be a bit different than that. And, in fact, it was…..

Cheese Danish, adapted from Ina Garten and Food Network

Ingredients
8 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature
1/3 cup sugar
2 extra-large egg yolks, at room temperature
2 tablespoons ricotta cheese
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon grated lemon zest (2 lemons)
2 sheets (1 box) frozen puff pastry, defrosted
1 egg beaten with 1 tablespoon water, for egg wash

Process
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Line a sheet pan with parchment paper.

Place the cream cheese and sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment and cream them together on low speed until smooth. With the mixer still on low, add the egg yolks, ricotta, vanilla, salt, and lemon zest and mix until just combined. Don’t whip!

Unfold 1 sheet of puff pastry onto a lightly floured board and roll it slightly with a floured rolling pin until it’s a 10 by 10-inch square. Cut the sheet into quarters with a sharp knife. Place a heaping tablespoon of cheese filling into the middle of each of the 4 squares. Brush the border of each pastry with egg wash and fold 2 opposite corners to the center, brushing and overlapping the corners of each pastry so they firmly stick together. Brush the top of the pastries with egg wash. Place the pastries on the prepared sheet pan. Repeat with the second sheet of puff pastry and refrigerate the filled Danish for 15 minutes.

Bake the pastries for about 20 minutes, rotating the pan once during baking, until puffed and brown. Serve warm. Makes 8 Danish rolls.

Nana’s Notes: DO NOT USE WHITE BREAD FOR YOUR DANISH ROLL DESPITE WHAT MYLEE SAYS! Got it? I cut the recipe in half and made only four Danish rolls.

16Oct2015

Friday Book Whimsy: The Color of Light

Posted in Book Reviews, Whimsies by kzmclain

Jillian Parrish is divorced, pregnant, and understandably unhappy with her situation. She decides to move, along with her 7-year-old daughter Grace, back to her grandmother’s house on Pawley’s Island, South Carolina. The house was Jillian’s only escape from a terribly unhappy childhood in Charleston where she lived with her mother and father.

And so begins author Karen White’s novel The Color of Light, a novel I’m afraid I found to be mostly forgettable. And since White has become one of my favorite authors, I was hugely disappointed by my lack of interest in Jillian’s life.

During Jillian’s formative years, her very best friend on Pawley’s Island – Lauren – disappears and is never found. Lauren’s boyfriend Linc is initially suspected, but there is never evidence to support his involvement, and eventually the case fades away. Jillian moves away, marries a man she doesn’t love, has a daughter – Grace — and gets pregnant again, about the same time that Grace begins having conversations with an invisible friend named (you guessed it) Lauren. This brings Jillian back to Pawley’s Island.

Perhaps White tried to stuff too many gimmicks into one novel. The Color of Light is a romance novel, a ghost story, a coming-of-age story, and a tale of an unhappy childhood. Though all of White’s novels (or at least all that I have read) involved a romance, none that I have read thus far has the romance as front-and-center as it is in this book. I am not opposed to romance in a novel – in fact, I rather enjoy a love story – I personally don’t want it to drive the story. I felt as though this novel might as well have had heaving bosoms on the cover. And let’s face it, no one is as beautiful as Linc found Jillian, both when she was pregnant and when he would blissfully watch her while nursing the new baby. Because seriously, in real life, nursing involves leaky breasts and exhausted mothers.

The Color of Light was predictable and uninteresting. Except, of course, for the setting, which was spectacular. White does such a good job of painting a picture with words when describing life on the islands in the Low Country of South Carolina.

I found myself wondering throughout the book just why a particular story line was necessary. For example, I never really understood the point of making Jillian be pregnant, unless it was simply so that Linc could help her walk, well, anywhere really since she apparently couldn’t walk by herself because of her physical state. Really? In Pearl S. Buck’s novel The Good Earth, O-Lan is working in the fields and goes inside the house, gives birth, wraps the baby up in a blanket, and goes back to work!

I will continue to enjoy Karen White’s books, because even in this one book of hers that I haven’t liked, I continued to read it because I find White’s writing to be exceptional. I just felt this wasn’t her best effort.

Here is a link to the book.

15Oct2015

Thursday Thoughts

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

Cutting Up
Bill spent Tuesday morning cutting up an old recliner so that it would fit in the garbage can for pickup Tuesday afternoon. We are preparing for the arrival of some of his mom’s furniture since she is moving from her apartment into assisted living. Bill specializes in taking large pieces of furniture and cutting them into pieces small enough to fit in a garbage can. It’s quite remarkable, really. After we bought our lovely sofa in Arizona, he cut up the entire beat-up sofa we had been using. I noticed about two-thirds of the way through his project that he was using my bread knife. He doesn’t do that anymore.

Here Kitty Kitty
The other night Dave, Jll, and the cousins came for dinner. With Alastair in mind, I made a pumpkin poke cake. The recipe involves a yellow cake mix mixed with a can of pumpkin, baked and cooled. Once completely cooled, holes are poked into the cake with the end of a wooden spoon, and sweetened condensed milk is poured over the whole cake. Finally, it is finished off with whipped cream and toffee chips. I had Alastair in mind because I know he likes ALL THINGS PUMPKIN. If he drank lattes, he would undoubtedly be drinking Pumpkin Spice Lattes at Starbucks with almost everyone else that I know. While the others ate the cake, no one enjoyed it quite as much as Alastair. I say this because here is Maggie Faith’s take on the pumpkin poke cake: She ate the whipped cream and toffee chips off of the top. She poked around a bit on the cake, and then said in an objective, absolutely non-judgmental way (and I quote), “This looks like Sophie’s cat food.” Boom. I told her she should consider a career as a restaurant critic. However, not to be put off, Alastair immediately said, “I’ll eat it!” and did.

Not cat food.

Grease Pumpkin
Speaking of all things pumpkin, I elected to forgo my annual crabby why-is-everything-pumpkin-flavored-or-fragranced blog post. I don’t know why seeing pumpkin flavoring in everything annoys me, but it simply gets on my last nerve. I like pumpkin. Pumpkin pie is one of my favorites. I enjoy a piece of pumpkin bread or pumpkin muffins. For my part, I rather enjoyed the pumpkin poke cake. But really, can’t we have a few items in the fall that taste like apples? Or pears? Having said this, you will understand why something my sister Jen told me the other day made me laugh out loud. A friend of hers took her car in to get the oil changed. The company had a sign hanging above their front desk that read We now have pumpkin spice motor oil. Like me, someone else is sick of pumpkin spice everything.

Would it Kill You to Be Kind?
Yesterday I made a trip to Park Meadows Mall, about a 15 minute drive south of our house. Normally a 15-minute drive, that is. It turns out that there was road construction that involved the closure of one lane at the intersection of One Busy Street and Another Busy Street. Lane closures bring out the worst in people. You have those (like me) who get in the appropriate lane early. Then you have those who fly past so that they can get into the correct lane closer to the front of the line, thereby making those of us who follow the rules wait longer. Like they are more entitled. I am retired and had nowhere to be, so I tried to be patient, but it really began to get on my nerves. I wished I was driving a semi so that I could block their lane. It amused me that one of the people who flew past me had a vanity license plate that said Be Kind. Hmmm. Anyway, I finally got to the light, so all I lost was a bit of my time.

A Needling Question
While at the mall, I came upon a sight that sent me back in time. There was a man sitting in one of the chairs at the mall that are designed for partners of shoppers to relax and read or look at text messages. That is not an unusual sight, of course. But what was unusual was that the man was working on a big quilt. He was stitching away quite happily, and judging from the size of the quilt (which was pooled at his feet), he was nearly done. The sight made me smile, and it also made me think about something I did when I was in college. I was married to my first husband at the time, and we were both students. I took a lot of Women’s Studies classes (People, it was the 70s) though my major was Journalism. For one of my Women’s Studies classes, I had to do some sort of project that involved gender differences. So David and I went down to the Pearl Street Mall, a popular pedestrian shopping area in Boulder. David sat on the lawn in front of the courthouse and pretended to work on some sort of needlepoint project. My job was to sit back and observe people’s reaction to a man working on a needlepoint project. My recollection was that for the most part there was no reaction at all. After all, it was Boulder, Colorado. I wonder what I said in the paper that I wrote. And I wonder if my friend yesterday was helping his wife on a school project or just likes quilting.

Ciao!

14Oct2015

My Way or the Highway

Posted in Desserts, Recipes, Whimsies by kzmclain

I’m going to hear a collective gasp from many of my readers – not the least of which will come from both of my sisters – but I don’t particularly buy into the notion that birth order largely affects one’s personality.

I’m sure birth order – like many things – impacts the way one sees life. However, I think that there are so many variables involved that you just can’t say unequivocally that he or she is that way because of placement within the family. For one thing, any time I read anything about birth order, it talks about first-born, middle child, and youngest. That implies all families consist of three children. So since I am the second of four, I guess that makes me a middle child, and so is my younger sister. And yet I assure you that she and I are not alike in very many ways. Mom always did like her best.

In my family, my brother is the youngest. Supposedly that makes him a free spirit, a risk taker, and charming. Now once everyone who knows my brother stops laughing at the notion of Dave being a free spirit, stop to think that he is the only boy in what was a traditional family. So, despite being the youngest, he had a lot of responsibilities that his sisters didn’t have, particularly when it came to helping Dad in the bakery. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure Mom made his bed every day (and if not, I will soon hear about it from him).

Having said all of the above (implying that I, too, am an amateur psychologist), I will tell you that where the birth order supporters get it right is when it comes to the first-born. Nearly every first-born that I know has many of the same characteristics – they religiously follow rules; they are born leaders; they feel responsible for, well, everything in the world; and they see things as black or white, right or wrong, real or imagined. I love first-borns and am delighted to let them take over my world.

Because I have three sets of grandkids, I obviously have three grandkids who are first-borns. I am not able to observe Joseph on a day-to-day basis, but when I’m around him I can easily see that he has a strong sense of the way things are supposed to go. When they don’t, he feels responsible. (His younger brother Micah agrees – Joseph is responsible!) He is a sensitive kid, often bearing the woes of the world on his shoulders (when he isn’t sharing his sweet grin).

If you look up first-born in the dictionary, you will see Addie’s picture. She is responsible for everyone and everything. She is self-confident, ambitious, and successful. She knows what is right, and tries to make sure everyone toes the line. In fact, sometimes when she is visiting with her siblings and her brother is not behaving as she would like, she will begin disciplinary procedures. I gently remind her, “Addie, I’ve got this.” She looks at me as though she is thinking, “Well, you may think you’ve got this, but you don’t got this very well!

Kaiya is a bit of a different story. She is actually not a first-born, having a brother who is 14 years older. Still, she has a lot of the characteristics of a first born since she for all intents and purposes plays that role in the family. Kaiya notices everything, and has a strong sense of the way things are supposed to be. She is the one who notices if I’ve changed something in the house. She doesn’t hesitate to let me know that I really should have left well enough alone.

I recently got a new cookie jar. I bought it primarily for the color, which goes well with my new kitchen colors. Etched on the cookie jar are the words Fresh Homemade Cookies. For the most part, the cookie jar contains Oreos, because that is the cookie of choice for ALL of my grandchildren as well as their grandfather. But ever since I bought that cookie jar, Kaiya has told me I shouldn’t have the Oreos in that cookie jar because they aren’t homemade. “Nana, you need to make some homemade cookies to put in that cookie jar,” she recently instructed me.

WRONG!

RIGHT!

Well, birth order or not, I did as she instructed and made some homemade peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. That should keep all the first-borns in my life at bay for a bit.

Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies, adapted from korenainthekitchen.com

Ingredients
2-1/4 c. all-purpose flour
1 t. baking soda
½ t. salt
¾ c. butter, room temperature
¾ c. granulated sugar
¾ c. packed brown sugar
¾ c. peanut butter
1 egg
1 t. vanilla extract
2 c. chocolate chips

Process
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, baking soda, and salt. Set aside.

In a large bowl, cream together butter, granulated sugar and brown sugar. Mix in peanut butter, egg, and vanilla until combined and creamy. Add flour mixture to sugar mixture, and mix until the dough comes together. Add chocolate chips and mix until combined.

Drop by rounded tablespoons or form into 1-inch balls onto a greased baking sheet, leaving about 2 inches between each cookie. Press each cookie with the back of a fork to give it the classic peanut butter cookie look.

Bake for 11-12 minutes, or until the edges are just beginning to turn brown. Cool on the pan for a couple of minutes before placing them on a rack to cool.

13Oct2015

Automatic Response

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

Recently when my sister was out here visiting, we were at a restaurant having lunch. We had been doing some shopping and quite a bit of walking, and a trip to the rest room was needed. After we ordered our food, I excused myself and headed to the ladies’ room.

When I opened the door, there was a clearly disgruntled woman – probably a bit older than I – who was frustrated because she couldn’t get paper to come out of the dispenser. She was moving her hand below and in front, but no paper emerged. She expressed her frustration to me, and I concurred, telling her that I frequently am unable to get the automatic sinks to work or the automated paper towel dispenser to do its job. We exchanged crabby looks and made cynical remarks about how automation doesn’t always make our lives easier. She left, drying her hands on her pants as she walked out.

I went into the stall and the entire time I was in there, I worried about whether or not the automated paper towel dispenser would work for me or if I was going to have to wipe my hands on my pants as well. After I was finished, I washed my hands and gritted my teeth and went over to the dispenser. I moved my hand below it. Nothing. I moved my hand in front of it. Nothing. Sigh.

It was about that time that I noticed a handle on the dispenser. Oddly enough, when you manually pressed this handle, paper emerged. Weird, huh?

Yes, my friends, we are so used to having automation in our public restrooms that it didn’t occur to this woman, and almost didn’t occur to me, that we actually had to manually express the paper towels. It’s true, I’m afraid, that there have been many occasions when I have placed my hands under a water faucet only to realize that I actually needed to turn a handle. I’m blaming this mental hiccup on drinking sloe gin fizzes as a college student.

However, I feel compelled to tell you that for some reason, I really do have a problem getting automatic water faucets to deliver water to me (even when they actually ARE automatic). I approach them confidently, place my hands where I think they should be, and nothing happens. I move my hands up and down, and nothing happens. I move to the next sink and it doesn’t work. Just then, a young woman will step up to the first sink that failed me and water will come pouring out like Niagara Falls. Young whippersnapper, I will think to myself, as I move down the line of sinks hoping for a dribble or two.

Sometimes automated bathrooms can go too far. One day I took then-3-year-old Mylee to Lil’ Monkey Business — an indoor playground for small kids. Before we left, I took her to the bathroom to wash her hands. She did so, and headed to where the paper towels should be located. No paper towels, only one of those automated things where you stick both of your hands inside, and air blows like Hurricane Katrina as you slowly pull your hands out of the dryer. Unless you’re 3 years old and the entire thing — the way it looks, the sound it makes, the gale force wind it emits– scares the bejeezus out of you. Now, who thought that was a good idea, I thought as we walked out of the bathroom, Mylee wiping her hands on her pants.

For the most part, I embrace technology and automation. In fact, if I could figure out a way to automate cleaning my house, I would do so in a heartbeat. That way the house would be, well, clean. The closest thing I’ve discovered is the Roomba, and I’m thiiiiiis close to buying one.

I will leave you with a funny story about the Roomba. My daughter-in-law Jll received a Roomba as a birthday gift. Their entire house has hardwood floors, and she will run it at night downstairs and run it upstairs during the day. The Roomba apparently knows not to go down the staircase. Don’t ask me.

They were out of town one weekend shortly after receiving the Roomba. Prior to leaving town, she had given me some zucchini that had been given to her and I volunteered to make zucchini bread while they were gone. I did so, and stopped by their house to drop it off so that they would come home to a lovely loaf of freshly baked bread for the next day’s breakfast. I walked in, set the bread on the counter, and turned to go. Just then, the Roomba came shooting out of their coat/cubby room and zipped in front of me on its merry way to the family room. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Automation can be dangerous to your health. Just ask Mylee.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

12Oct2015

The Eye of the Needle

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

Every time I publish one of these blog posts in which I talk about my spiritual life, I’m uncomfortable. After all, who am I to feel like I have anything to tell anyone about being a good and faithful servant of God? Attending a Catholic school from Kindergarten through 12^th grade certainly doesn’t give me the necessary credibility. Especially since I was sent to the principal’s office on more than one occasion because my uniform skirt didn’t meet the necessary guidelines, i.e., touching the floor when kneeling at daily Mass. People – it was 1969! Oh, it did once I got to the principal’s office because the reason my skirt was short was that I had folded over the waist three or four times. It probably doesn’t surprise you that I didn’t really fool the principal when I entered her office with a skirt down to my knees. (It didn’t fool my mother either, but as good a Catholic as she was, she never really thought highly of some of the school rules. I remember when I was in grade school, a rule was issued that girls couldn’t wear sleeveless dresses to school. “Oh, yes,” I remember her saying, “because there’s nothing sexier than a 6-year-old’s underarms.”)

But I digress, something I do very well.

Despite my lack of credibility, the gospel readings keep slamming me in the face, and I need you all to assure me of my salvation. For example, in yesterday’s gospel from my old friend St. Mark, Jesus tells the rich man that in order for him to make it to heaven, he had to give away all of his worldly goods. Dang, thought the rich man. Gulp, thought I. St. Mark tells us the rich man’s “face fell” and I’m certain mine did. It does every time I hear that gospel. Heck, I don’t want to give away my big screen television. How am I supposed to watch the Broncos or Dancing With the Stars?

As I sat back to listen to Father Larry’s homily, I was prepared to hear him assure me that I didn’t have to give up my iPad after all. As I recalled, every time that particular gospel is read, the priests assure us that we don’t have to give up everything and eat only locusts and honey. To my relief, Father Larry did, in fact, assure me giving away everything was unnecessary. However, he put it in a way that actually made some sense. He pointed out that Jesus told the rich man that he should follow the commandments: You shall not kill; you shall not commit adultery; you shall not steal and so on. The rich man assured him that he did indeed follow all of God’s commandments and had since a mere youth. For the most part, so do I, or at least I try.

But, said our homilist, Jesus went on to tell the rich man – and therefore me – that it isn’t simply what we don’t do, but just as important, or perhaps even more important, what we do.

Gulp, I thought again. Because the fact of the matter is that while I think about doing a lot, I mostly don’t getting around to doing anything. I can be more generous with my time and talents. When I get mail from nonprofits asking for money, I can actually give money instead of tossing them out without even opening the envelope. I always tell myself I should carry a stack of one dollar bills and when I’m at a stoplight where someone is holding up a cardboard sign, I could actually hand him/her a couple of dollars without thinking about whether or not he or she deserves my money. After all, it isn’t up to me to judge.

“Then who can be saved,” the disciples asked Jesus, who responded, “For human beings it is impossible, but not for God. All things are possible for God.”

Even saving my pitiful butt. I’m going right now to put some dollar bills in my car.

10Oct2015

Saturday Smile: Flyin’ High

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

One day this week, I went to watch Cole for a short bit while his mommy volunteered up at school. Here is what he was wearing……

I texted his daddy to tell him how much I liked Cole’s shirt. Here is the text I got back: Judging from the look on Cole’s face, I think you’re happier about it than he is. WHATEVER! His mommy had just left 30 seconds earlier so he was just working on his attitude adjustment.

Yesterday morning, he and Papa were playing the game where Papa would toss him up in the air. The sheer joy on his face made me smile….

And finally, my last smile has nothing to do with grandkids, except for being one. My cousin Bobbie generously sent me one of our own grandmother’s aprons, with the only caveat being that she wanted to see a photo of me wearing it. When I took it out of the package, the first thing I did was put it up to my nose to smell it. I’m sure I imagined it, but I thought the fragrance was that of Grammie, and I immediately teared up. It’s a bit big, but what do you think?…..

Have a great weekend.

9Oct2015

Friday Book Whimsy: Dear Daughter

Posted in Book Reviews by kzmclain

It seems like every day I come across a new mystery/suspense/thriller novel that purports to be “the next Gone Girl.” Clearly, Gone Girl is the book that authors want to write (and readers want to read). Having found Gone Girl to be one of the most satisfying thrillers (in an oddly unsatisfying way) I have ever read, I must admit that I, too, am looking for the next Gone Girl.

I’m not going to go so far as to say that Dear Daughter by Elizabeth Little is on equal footing with Gillian Flynn’s amazing novel-with-the-twisted-ending, but man, the book did hold my attention, and the only thing that prevented me from throwing the book against the wall (as I did when I finished Gone Girl) was the fact that I was reading on my iPad. It wouldn’t survive the toss.

Jane Jenkins is a Kim Kardashian-type Hollywood celebrity, famous only for being the daughter of a well-known actress. Well, famous for only that up until the time that she is tried and convicted of murdering her mother, a crime she’s pretty sure she didn’t commit. I say pretty sure because there were a lot of drugs and alcohol in her life. Ten years after being imprisoned, she is released on a technicality, and sets out to find out who did, in fact, kill her mother (if it wasn’t her).

Through a bit of sleuthing (and some unbelievable coincidences), she is able to find out where her mother grew up and learns things she wouldn’t have dreamed about her mother’s life as a young woman. In the meantime, she is trying to hide from the paparazzi who are endlessly trying to find out where she went following her release. The public, you see, still think she’s guilty.

Little’s writing is sharp, perhaps a bit too sharp. Jane goes through life mouthing nothing but quips. Much of the writing is clever, but it went a bit too far. I think Little’s character development was good, and I got a great feel for who Jane is and the frustrations she felt both currently and while growing up the child of a celebrity who is famous ONLY for being the child of a celebrity.

There are a few too many coincidences to lead me to unequivocally recommend the book. Still, the story was compelling and I couldn’t stop reading, wanting to find out who actually murdered her mother. And the ending – boy oh boy. That’s all I’ll say.

Despite its flaws, I highly recommend the book (gosh, I can’t believe I’m saying this) for anyone who liked the book Gone Girl.

Here is a link to the book .

8Oct2015

Thursday Thoughts

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

Quick Seasons
In lieu of going to the gym, Bill and I elected instead to enjoy the pretty autumn morning we were having yesterday and go for a walk. I really do like the fall weather, and the trees in our neighborhood are absolutely lovely as the leaves change colors and begin to fall. It is one of the things I would miss if we lived in Arizona year-round. My sister Bec has a deciduous tree in her backyard in Chandler, AZ, and she told me one day she noticed the leaves were falling off the tree. Well, she thought, this must be fall in Arizona. But when she looked at the tree later that day, she saw buds for new flowers. Spring and fall all in one day. Welcome to Arizona.

Bill’s second apron……

More Apron Strings
I got a lot of hits on my blog post about aprons. I’m not entirely sure why. A lot of people remember my grandmother and commented on how loved she was. Many people just loved the notion of wearing aprons. But frankly, a lot of people were just surprised/impressed that Bill was the one sewing the aprons. Go Bill! But here’s the thing. While I now own two – both sewed by Bill – I never remember to put them on. It isn’t in fact until I find myself once again wiping my hands on my pants that I remember to grab an apron and put it on. I assure you that my grandmother NEVER forgot to put on her apron.

Roughage
I was making a pot of chili the other night using my mom’s recipe. I dropped in a couple of bay leaves as my mother always did, and immediately I had a flashback to something that happened back in the days of dinosaurs when I was in junior high. My BFF was over for dinner and my mother served her chili. Now, whenever Lidia cooks with bay leaves, she always says, “Make sure you know how many you put in because you need to pull out that many so no one chokes on a bay leaf.” Pshaw. My mother figured every man for himself. So we were quietly enjoying our chili, when suddenly my friend said, “Mrs. Gloor, um, there’s a leaf in my soup.” That became a story that my friend and I have laughed about many times over the years. Now she is a very good cook and likely often puts leaves in her soup.

Training Program
I made a recent decision that I’m going to train myself to like beer. After all, I’m sure I didn’t take my first drink of gin and say, “Why, that is a simply delicious flavor. Martinis are my drink of choice.” I developed a taste for gin, and now it is quite true that I love me a good gin martini. I have never developed a taste, however, for beer, and I think an ice cold beer is just a good beverage of choice under certain conditions. With Mexican food. At a baseball game. While sitting on my Arizona patio when it is 95 degrees. So last night I got out the beer mug that Bill keeps in the freezer and poured myself a Pabst Blue Ribbon Light. Hmmm. It didn’t taste too bad, and I think with patience, I can learn to drink beer. But Jen asked a good question: “Why, when there is so much good wine to drink?”

Shopping in Gay Paree
Jen recently told me that she went to a French market that was held in Old Town Fort Collins, and had a wonderful time looking around. She bought a few things here and there. Overall, it was a grand experience. When she told me that story, I recalled that there used to be a French market in Denver that I went to one time with a friend. I checked, and lo, and behold, the market still ran once a month during the summer. In fact, last Saturday was the last one for the season, so I went. Called A Paris Street Market, it featured vendors carrying homemade items, vintage furniture and décor, clothing, jewelry and the like. Bill wanted to go, but I discouraged him enough that he decided to stay home. I was glad, because I wandered slowly through each booth, determining just what I couldn’t live without. I, in fact, came home with only one thing. I have been looking for just the right art to decorate my little coffee counter in the kitchen, and found the perfect thing. No?

Ciao.

7Oct2015

Road to Perdition

Posted in Whimsies by kzmclain

Back in the early 2000s, Bill and I went to see the film Road to Perdition at the movie theater. Very uncharacteristically, neither one of us knew the plot of the movie, knowing only that it starred one of our favorite film actors, Tom Hanks. We had seen him in many movies of course. In fact, we had seen him a couple of years before in Castaway. Though Bill probably wouldn’t admit it, we both liked him in Sleepless in Seattle and You’ve Got Mail. (Bill was a big fan of Meg Ryan before she got so much plastic surgery that she looks more like Bozo the Clown than Meg Ryan. He always used to say she reminded him of me. I cling to that very thought. And at least most of my face isn’t tucked behind my ears.) Hanks had been the voice for Woody in Toy Story, for heavens’ sake. We seriously anticipated a lighthearted film, in fact had not a single notion that it would be anything but a sweet movie.

The film, of course, is the story of a mob enforcer and his young son who are out to avenge the murder of the rest of their family. It is horrifically violent, concluding with Tom Hanks dying in the arms of his son after successfully shooting their enemy in the face. About three-quarteres of the way through the movie, Bill leaned over to me and deadpanned, “Well, this is about the worst comedy I have ever seen in my life.” I began giggling so hard I thought they would kick me out of the theater.

So, just as Road House has become synonymous in our eyes with bad movies, Road to Perdition has become the term we use when a comedy isn’t funny.

Yesterday afternoon, Bill took a rare afternoon off from yard work. It was kind of chilly and overcast, and he mentioned he was feeling caught up with outdoor chores. I suggested he sit down with me and we could watch a Netflix movie. Much to my surprise, he agreed. After perusing all of our choices, we selected Million Dollar Baby, a 2004 boxing movie starring Clint Eastwood, Morgan Freeman, and Hilary Swank. It’s not easy to find a movie we can both agree on, but Bill likes the sport of boxing and I like Clint Eastwood.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Neither one of us was anticipating a comedy. The story line was about a grouchy boxing manager who was estranged from his daughter, and who agrees to train Swank’s character for the title fight. It was fairly graphic, and got me wondering why on earth anyone would ever CHOOSE to be a boxer.

But about halfway through the movie, I began getting a bad feeling. Things were just moving along too positively for an academy-award-winning movie. Hollywood doesn’t do cheerful.

I have mentioned before that I hate books where a character to whom you have gotten attached dies of cancer or anything else. It simply irks the living daylight out of me. It is for that reason alone that I refuse to watch Steel Magnolias or Terms of Endearment. I hated Love Story. As many times as I’ve read Little Women, after my first reading, I skip the chapter where Beth dies.

As my bad feeling continued to grow, I picked up my iPad and googled the movie. Here’s what I learned….

SPOILER ALERT SPOILER ALERT

In the title fight, Swank’s character trips over the stool that had been placed in the wrong position in the ring and BREAKS HER NECK. She becomes a quadriplegic. After months in the hospital, she develops such severe bed sores that she has to have one of her legs amputated. Her family comes to visit her ONLY after visiting Disneyland first, and ONLY to have her sign a paper signing all of her money to them. She apparently spends the last part of the movie begging Clint Eastwood to kill her, which he eventually does. The end.

I say “apparently” because it was about that time that I told Bill I was going upstairs to work on my computer.

“Why?” he asked me.

“Do you really want me to tell you?” I responded. He assured me he did.

“Well, let me put it this way,” I said. “It makes Road to Perdition look like a comedy.

And that, my friends, was the end of that. Life’s too short to go through that kind of movie-watching misery, even if it’s an excellent and award-winning movie. Bill put on his jacket and went outside and found some yard work to do, and I wrote this crabby blog post.

I’ll take Doris Day and Rock Hudson any day of the week.

Nana's Whimsies

Musings of a Baby Boomer….

Author Archives: kzmclain

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Thursday Thoughts

Road to Perdition