Author Archives: kzmclain

The Best Part of Waking Up

Posted in Desserts, Whimsies by

2015-02-18 18.36.59I am almost always up before my husband. Frankly, I am up before most species of birds. I am, and always have been, an early riser. If I sleep past 6:15, someone should put a mirror under my nose.

By the way, being an early riser doesn’t mean I wake up whistling. Far from it. Bill, who nearly always sleeps longer than I, wakes up annoyingly jolly. He bounces out of bed and immediately begins talking and/or asking me questions.

How’d you sleep? What’s your blog about this morning? What are your plans for the day?

Fine. Read it for yourself. I’m retired so I have no plans. Please stop being so cheerful.

Because of this difference in our morning personalities, I love my little bit of quiet time in the morning before he gets up. My routine is always the same. (Now that’s redundant!) I turn on my computer, I walk around and open the blinds to let in morning light or at least watch the sun come up. I make the coffee. While it brews, I post my blog.

By time I’m finished posting my blog, the coffee is ready. I pour a cup, and put the rest in a thermos pot that I have heated up with hot water. Then I sit down with my book and take that first sip.

There is nothing better than that first sip of hot coffee in the morning. Nothing. Better. Period. Not the second cup. Not even the second sip. That first sip of coffee, so hot it can burn your tongue if you’re not careful, is divine.

If you looked up coffee connoisseur in the dictionary and then checked for its antonym, you would see my picture. I am simply not a coffee snob.

A few years ago when I started reading food magazines and watching Food Network, I began to focus on what needed to happen so that my coffee was extraordinary. Freshly roasted whole beans that you grind every morning. The beans must come from certain parts of the world. The water had to be a certain temperature when it brewed. The coffee had to be poured at a certain temperature. It had to have a chocolate taste followed by tobacco and saddle leather flavors at the back of your tongue.

One day it occurred to me that I was just as happy with a cup of coffee from Circle K as I was from beans grown by a lonely farmer at the foot of Mount Kenya.

Yes friends. I have no coffee palate.

By the way, right now both of my sisters are absolutely cringing and checking our family tree to make sure I am actually from the same bloodline. On the other hand, my brother is thinking, yeah, I’ll meet you at Circle K for a cup of joe. My sisters really are coffee connoisseurs. Unlike us, they don’t have holes in their stomachs from cup after cup of crappy coffee.

But even I draw a line.

A while ago, I decided that I was going to try to make homemade tortillas.  I read that you could use a big coffee can to flatten your tortillas.

So off I went to Walmart to find coffee in a big can. To my surprise, coffee is no longer sold in metal cans. They all come in bags or in plastic containers.

After looking and looking, I finally found one lone brand of coffee in a big 3-lb. can. Three pounds of coffee for something like $5.75. At that price, it must really be swill, I thought to myself. Still, I needed that can.

About that time, a woman somewhere around my age reached for that same coffee. “It’s my husband and my favorite,” she told me. “It isn’t too strong and we like the flavor.”

So I bought the coffee.

The next day I brewed up a pot of the coffee. I sat down with my cup and took that much-anticipated first sip.

It was, to put it bluntly, undrinkable. Simply awful. I did the unheard of thing and poured an entire pot of coffee down the drain and, what’s more, poured the remaining unused coffee grounds into the garbage can.

Even I have standards.

banana breadSince we’re talking about coffee, let me share with you my mother’s recipe for banana bread. It is simple and delicious with a hot cup of coffee. When I made it recently, we put the much-talked-about icing on the cake by smearing it with peanut butter frosting and squeezing chocolate sauce over. Delicious.

For what it’s worth, I never use nuts. Also, it never seems to take an hour to bake, so begin looking at it around 45 minutes.

Nanas Banana Bread

 

Ashes to Ashes

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By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return. – Genesis 3:19

imagesIt’s always sort of amused me that the Catholic Masses on Ash Wednesday have more participants than on most Sundays and all Holy Days. I’m not sure exactly what it is that draws Catholics to Mass on Ash Wednesday. I know I always go, though I’m under no obligation to do so. It simply feels like an appropriate beginning to Lent. But I also go on Sundays. So there.

My theory is that whether or not one is a practicing Catholic, we like the sign of the cross on our forehead in ashes to proclaim to the world, well, I don’t know, something. Probably not what we are supposed to be proclaiming to the world.

Bill and I differ on what we do after Mass. Do we wash off the ashes or leave them on? He is a washer-offer, and does so even before leaving the church. His theory (and it’s a good one) is that Christ told his followers not to be hypocrites.

And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you. – Matthew 6:5-6

Nevertheless, having attended Catholic school for 13 years during which time the nuns told us we should wear our ashes proudly for as long as they stay on our foreheads, I am inclined to do so, hoping all the while that I’m not a hypocrite.

Since childhood, I have undertaken some sort of penance during Lent. This penance is generally in the form of “giving up” something, and offering the sacrifice to God, who “gave up” his only Son.  I haven’t always “given up” the same thing, but I’ll bet if I was able to look back, the thing I gave up more often than anything else is sweets.

That’s always been surprisingly difficult for me. I say surprising, since I don’t think of myself as a big sweet eater. But I must be, because I have always looked forward to Easter Sunday when I could finally have a great big piece of something sweet.

So, as I pondered what to do for Lent this year, I considered giving up sweets once again. But that seemed insufficient somehow, at least for where I am in my spiritual life.

After careful consideration, here is what I have decided to do for Lent.

Live a simpler life. Pray more.

I know what I mean by that, but if I tell you, then I’m being like the hypocrites.

Baby Boomer Heaven

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Austin and Lilly joined me for a picnic and enjoyed the beautiful weather.

Austin and Lilly joined me for a picnic and enjoyed the beautiful weather.

I spend more time than I should complaining about getting behind a snow bird going 30 miles per hour when the speed limit is 45 or how snow birds double park their grocery carts in the middle of the aisle or that snow birds ram their carts into the back of your ankle at Costco.

All of the above are true.

However, yesterday I had a full appreciation for those of us who make up a large part of the population of the Valley of the Sun from December through May. For these past few days, the weather in the Phoenix area has been nothing short of spectacular, and you can feel the appreciation from everyone. But I must say I am noticing that Mesa area Baby Boomers – who largely come from Minnesota or Iowa or Illinois or North Dakota or Alberta or, ahem, Colorado – all currently facing snowfalls of anywhere from inches to feet – are the happiest of all.

Bill, who was making one of his many trips to Home Depot yesterday morning, dropped me off at nearby Red Mountain Park so that I could walk a couple of miles instead of following him around Home Depot and twiddling my thumbs while he decides which screws he needs from the 75,860 screw choices.

The walking path goes around the perimeter of the park, a total of nearly a mile each time around. During my three loops around the park, I passed Baby Boomers walking their mostly fat dogs, I saw husbands and wives holding hands as they strolled along. I saw men sitting in canvas folding chairs down by the lake, fishing for crappies that they toss back into the water after reeling them in.

But down to the very last one, they all smiled and greeted me as I passed them. And greeted me once again as I passed them again. Always commenting on the lovely weather. Stopping to talk to total strangers. “Where you from?” “Do you have family around here?” “Do you have a house here?”

And always, “Isn’t the weather simply glorious?”

I saw a group of six or seven men, all around the age of 70, happily riding their bicycles, and it occurred to me that these folks have worked hard for 50 years or so to reach this goal of enjoying sunshine instead of scraping ice off of their car windows or shoveling snow until there is nowhere else to shovel it. And now they simply enjoy it.

I went to the grocery store yesterday afternoon, and the man who bagged my groceries was older, likely retired but still looking for an income of sorts which he gets by bagging groceries.

With a big grin, he asked me if I ever fill out the Kroger surveys.

I admitted that I didn’t. “Oh my, he said, “you need to start doing that. You get 50 fuel points each time you fill out a survey, and you can fill out a survey every 7 days. That adds up to something like $250 a year in gas savings.”

I loved that he had my back.

“And if you mention me, I can get a sticker that I put on my name tag,” he added. “The name’s Dave, and I’m from the south side of Chicago.”

After we determined that he grew up not far from my husband, I went on my way, pledging to fill out the survey.

As I neared my car, pushing one of those coveted small carts, an older couple spotted the cart. “You can get it from her,” I heard the woman whisper to her husband.

In the thickest Scottish brogue, the man walked over to me and said (and I’m not making this up), “Ah, Lassie, if I load the groceries into your car, can I take the cart?”

I told him that would be fine, and said, “You’re from Scotland, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” he said. “How did ye know?”

Well, it doesn’t really take a rocket scientist, I thought. But I said, “My last name’s McLain.” But, as their faces lit up, I felt compelled to provide truth in advertising. “But I’m afraid I married the name. I’m Swiss and Polish.”

They forgave me because I gave them my cart.

By the way, while others are picnicking or bicycle riding or taking romantic strolls in the park, Bill is working on yet another home project, this one involving cutting stone….

bill in mask 2015To each his own.

It’s been good to be a resident of the Valley of the Sun these past few days. Now I have to go fill out a survey. I promised Dave.

Last First Tooth

Posted in Desserts, Whimsies by
Maggie tooth

Magnolia Faith shows off her missing tooth.

Our son Dave posted a photo on Facebook this past weekend of our 6-year-old granddaughter Magnolia proudly displaying a smile with a missing tooth – her first. Our son’s post stated it was the last first tooth lost in their household, as Magnolia is the youngest. While we love to watch our kids grow, it’s always poignant.

For her part, Maggie Faith was eager to see what the tooth fairy would bring her in exchange for that tooth. I remember those days, both personally awaiting the tooth fairy and making sure my son Court got a reward when he began losing his baby teeth.

As I meditated upon her missing tooth, I recalled that recently when I was cleaning out one of my bedroom drawers, I came across a little carrying case in the shape of a tooth. When I opened it, I found all of Court’s baby teeth. I don’t remember saving them, and I’m not sure how I feel about that, but oddly, I can’t seem to throw them away. In fact, they moved – along with me – to several different houses. Maybe I should make a necklace? Maybe not.

But upon further pondering about Maggie Faith’s lost tooth, another story came to mind.

Several years ago, our son and daughter-in-law – Maggie’s parents – traveled out of the country for a week or so. The McLain clan operates on the wise philosophy that it takes a village. As such, all hands that were available had a role to play in the care of the four McLain kids during their parents’ absence. My role involved picking them up from school, making sure homework got done and children got fed. Our son Allen spent each night with the kids. So, at the end of dinner, we would tag team. One of us would clean up from dinner and the other would start the bath and bedtime regime. Once the kids were in bed, I would leave the kids in the good care of their Uncle Allen.

Let me just add at this point that the whole prospect was so daunting that I requested that Bec fly in to add moral (and physical) support. She did so, for which I will be eternally grateful.

But one night as I was tucking then-7-year-old Alastair into bed, just before I turned out the lights, he said to me quietly, “Nana, I lost a tooth yesterday, and I put it under my pillow last night, but the tooth fairy didn’t take it.”

Oooo boy.

So I thought quickly on my feet and told him that I was certain that a LOT of kids had lost teeth yesterday, and the tooth fairy was extraordinarily busy, but that I was sure she would come that very night. We carefully placed it once again under his pillow.

I quickly ran downstairs and called in the Big Guns. That would be his then-9-year-old sister Adelaide, who hadn’t believed in Santa or the Easter Bunny or the tooth fairy for a couple of years. As an aside, it was actually the tooth fairy that raised Addie’s suspicions. Wise beyond her years since birth, it made no sense to her that a fairy could (or would) carry all of those teeth around. And once you realize your parents are lying to you about that, the rest of your fairy tale beliefs crumble as well. Ah, the sad realities of childhood.

Anyway, I ran downstairs and in a panicked voice, asked her, “Addie, what’s the going rate for the tooth fairy these days?” I’m pretty sure I used to get a nickel, Court probably got a quarter, but inflation had undoubtedly impacted the tooth fairy world.

Used to her nana’s panic, I don’t think she even looked up from her computer as she said, “I don’t really know, but I think it’s probably fifty cents.”

So I rummaged through the bottom of my purse until I came up with two quarters covered in lint. I handed them to Allen, explained the situation, and made him promise on his grandfather’s grave that he wouldn’t forget to place those quarters under Alastair’s pillow once he had fallen asleep.

“And don’t forget to take the tooth,” I added.

Well, Allen didn’t forget and Alastair happily told me the next day that the tooth fairy had come and taken his tooth and he got FIFTY CENTS! A veritable fortune.

Anyway, between my many grandkids, there are certainly a lot of teeth yet to fall out, but thankfully I’m not responsible for any of them. I’ll leave that up to a more efficient tooth fairy.

I want to leave you with this recipe for heart-shaped chocolate chip cookies – my Valentine’s Day gift to Bill. They are a cross between a traditional chocolate chip cookie and a shortbread cookie, and are extremely yummy.

This particular recipe came to me through a circuitous internet route, but originated from Sugarbaker’s Cookie Cutter Cookbook.

chocolate chip valentine cookies

chocolate chip cutouts

Saturday Smile: When You Have a Blank Canvas…

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Sometimes paper alone just doesn’t meet your needs. And when you’re 2, and Mom turns her back for a minute, well, who can blame him?

And Micah simply can’t be naughty. After all, look at the halo hovering over his head…..

micah markers 2015

And while I’m smiling, look what my wonderful husband got me for Valentine’s Day….

roses valentines 2015

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: The Girl on the Train

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Nana’s Note: Nanas Whimsies is currently undergoing some site construction changes. As these changes are taking place, I have noticed that some “comments” are vanishing. I assume the Case of the Missing Comments will be solved once my construction is complete. In the meantime, rest assure that I am actually seeing the comments, though they sometimes disappear. More about my web site changes at a later date.

searchI was drawn to the premise of Paula Hawkins’ novel The Girl on the Train even before it became apparent to me that it was going to be one of the Big Reads of 2015. Being a story teller at heart, it is not uncommon for me to observe someone in, say, the grocery checkout line, and create a story about him or her. The story becomes quite real to me, though I generally don’t see the person again and never find out whether or not my story is even remotely true.

The girl on the train is Rachel Watson, an unhappily divorced young woman who commutes daily on the same train to London. During her daily commute, the train passes a row of houses and Rachel observes two people living in one of the houses, an attractive couple she calls Jess and Jason. Rachel begins to invent a story about the two people she observes daily and their supposedly happy life.

Unfortunately, one day as she is passing by the house, she observes “Jess” kissing a strange man. The next day Rachel learns that “Jess” (whose real name, it turns out, is Megan) has gone missing. Thus, Rachel is drawn into the real-life story, as she feels compelled to make sure the police know about the stranger.

The Girl on the Train has a definite Gone Girl vibe to it. The story is narrated from three perspectives, giving the reader the opportunity to see what has happened from different viewpoints. We learn the depths of Rachel’s unhappiness, which lead her to severe alcoholism. (Or does her alcoholism lead her to unhappiness?) Her alcoholism becomes almost a character in the novel, often driving the story.

Megan and her husband (whose name isn’t Jason, but Scott) don’t have the wonderfully carefree life imagined by Rachel, and as the book progresses, we learn Megan’s disturbing story.

The final narrator is Anna, the wife of Rachel’s ex-husband, who seemingly wants nothing more than to have her husband Tom’s alcoholic ex-wife leave them alone with their baby and their life.

When Megan’s body is finally discovered, the story — as told from the different perspectives — unfolds. Creepy as it all was, I couldn’t put the book down.

Hawkins’ debut novel has the readability of that coming from a master storyteller, and I dare you to figure out the murderer very much in advance.

Comparisons to Gone Girl are inevitable, but the ending was more satisfying. I look forward to future books.

Buy The Girl on the Train from Amazon here.

Buy The Girl on the Train from Barnes and Noble here.

Buy The Girl on the Train from Tattered Cover here.

Buy The Girl on the Train from Changing Hands here.

 

Loosy Goosy

Posted in Main Course, Whimsies by

imagesWhen Bill and I travel, we like to taste the food that is native to the state or region where we are traveling. For this reason, a few years ago as we made our way across Iowa to Chicago via the seemingly endless I-80 corridor, we elected to stop for lunch at a Maid-Rite to try the so-called Loose Meat Sandwich. In Iowa, Loose Meat Sandwich = Maid-Rite.

I was eager to try it, having heard stories about its deliciousness from friends who had grown up in Iowa, where loose meat is king. And, of course, in the sitcom Roseanne, which takes place in Iowa, Roseanne opens up a café featuring loose meat sandwiches. If there is a sitcom featuring loose meat sandwiches, and several trustworthy Iowa natives recommend it so highly, it must be good, right?

Wrong.

Now, I recognize that tastes vary, but I found my sandwich to be not even remotely good. In fact, it was darn right bland. Steamed and unseasoned ground beef on a bun. Adding ketchup, mustard, and pickles didn’t even seem to help. It made me nostalgic for s sloppy joe, with its spicy tomato sauce.

The next time we drove to Chicago, I asked Bill to stop again. We must have done something wrong, or just stopped on a bad day. So we again ordered the loose meat sandwich, this time adding cheese. Nope. Still didn’t taste good to me.

Don’t hate me, Iowa.

But eating Maid-Rite made me begin to think about runzas – Nebraska’s version of a loose meat sandwich. I grew up eating runzas – Mom didn’t make them, but Nebraskans love runzas so much that there is actually a fast food chain – Runza Hut – that offers the Nebraska ground beef sandwich. I ate there often, especially during my two years of college at the University of Nebraska.

Similar to a Maid-Rite, runzas add cabbage and onion, and brown the beef instead of steam it. And instead of serving it on a bun, it is completely wrapped in bread dough, which you bite into, releasing the steam from the hot sandwich.

So on another trip to Chicago, again zooming down I-80, we stopped in North Platte at the Runza Hut. I was excited to have Bill try a runza, proud to be able to introduce him to the Nebraska treat.

It shames me to tell you that I was so disappointed at what I recalled being a flavorful sandwich actually being lukewarm and bland – only slightly more flavorful than Maid-Rite – sandwich.

Don’t hate me, Nebraska. Perhaps it’s just me.

All this is to say that, for reasons I will not try to understand, I woke up yesterday morning suddenly hungry for a runza. A homemade runza, which would undoubtedly be better than the version from a fast food restaurant, no matter the name.

But in order to give me the greatest chance of success at making a flavorful sandwich, I called in the Big Guns.

My sister Jen.

There is no one like Jen more able to taste something and come up with an idea on how to replicate it, or, more often, make it better.

I called her at work.

“Hi Jen. I know you’re busy trying to earn a living as a single person who owns two homes and is a sole provider,” I said, “but I need you to focus on me, me, me.”

To her credit, she put her boss on hold to tend to my needs – that being a way to make a runza more flavorful.

“Add some ranch seasoning to the ground beef,” she said. “And let me get back to work so I can make my mortgage payments.”

Whaaaaaaaat? Brilliant!

When she retires, she will write a real cooking blog, not a fake one like mine, which rarely includes recipes since I’m only an average cook.

I adapted my recipe from the basic Runza recipe on the Rhodes Bread Dough website since I wasn’t willing to take the time to make homemade bread. Perhaps next time I will bring my pink Kitchen Aid mixer inside and make fresh homemade bread. And of course I added half a packet of ranch dressing seasoning and garlic, because garlic makes everything better.

It was delicious. There is no place like Nebraska.

cooking runza

 

runza

 

 

runza2

 

And just to play fair, here is a link to a purported Maid-Rite copycat recipe….

Greetings

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I’m a big fan of lists. Not necessarily keeping my own lists, though I do make grocery lists and lists of things I must get done on the rare occasions when this retired Baby Boomer actually is busy. But I love reading top 10 (or 20, or 30) whatevers, or lists of really anything.

Recently I came across a list of things that one should purchase at the dollar store. (What do they cost? One dollah!)

I am a big fan of Dollar Tree as you may know if you’re a Nana’s Whimsies reader. I have learned over the period of time since I discovered dollar stores that they make their money because some of the things they offer aren’t worth even a dollar, while other things might be good purchases. It evens out, apparently.

Here is the list of things that should be purchased at dollar stores, according to, well, some list maker somewhere:

Greeting cards

Party supplies

Gift bags

Seasonal décor

Reading glasses

Hair accessories

Pregnancy tests

Vases and bowls

Mugs and glassware

Dishware

I heartily concur with this list. In fact, I believe I have bought every one of these items in some form or other from Dollar Tree. Well, except for the pregnancy test. That ship has sailed, thank you God.

I often think if my name wasn’t Kris McLain, I wish it was Kris Hallmark, as in Hallmark cards. This isn’t a dis on Hallmark. Their cards are lovely. In fact, in the old days before I got crabby and cheap, I would look at the Hallmark cards and when I found the one that caused me to tear up, that was my purchase. For $4.95.

Now that I’m crabby and cheap (I like to think of it as being happiness-challenged and practical), I have consistently noticed that my grandkids (well really EVERYONE to whom I give a present) looks at the card to see who the gift giver is, and then quickly tosses the card aside with the wrapping paper (which, by the way, I have concluded isn’t a good thing to buy at Dollar Tree). They might read the verse just to be kind, but the card is quickly forgotten.

Frankly, I do the same thing. Bill will get me the loveliest card for our anniversary. I read it, tear up (he has a way of finding the perfect verse), display the card on my dresser, and never look at it again until I throw it away a week or so later.

That, my friends, is not money well spent in my humble opinion. So I have taken to purchasing my cards at Dollar Tree. For one dollar, I can express my birthday greetings and not give one small whit when they toss it aside.

So, I purchased all of my Valentine’s Day cards for my grandchildren at Dollar Tree. I actually spent a bit of time finding the right card for the right grandchild. Then I took my nine cards to the checkout and forked over my $4.50 TOTAL. They were two for a dollar! A bargain, even for Dollar Tree.

valentines

It’s embarrassing how happy this makes me.

Pretty in Pink

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kitchenaidIf you placed my feet on the fire and forced me to tell you what kitchen appliances I couldn’t live without, top of the list would be my Kitchen Aid stand mixer.

That’s somewhat of an exaggeration, as I have lived without it here in Arizona for four years, but that has been four years too many. When we arrived earlier this winter, I vowed that I was going to purchase a Kitchen Aid mixer immediately.

Well, immediately turned into a month-and-a-half later, and only one thing could bring it to a head. Not bread making, though heaven knows it is so much easier to make bread using the Kitchen Aid. Still, even with my arthritic wrists, I can knead bread.

No, my friends, what sent me to my Ipad to see what was available on Craig’s List was the desire to make shortbread cookies – something daunting ONLY if you don’t have a Kitchen Aid mixer.

Valentine’s Day, you see, and cookies to pack up to send the grandkids and all…..

I must tell you that this is the first time I have actually purchased something off of Craig’s List. And this journey into the World of Craig’s List comes shortly after the news reports about the elderly Georgia husband and wife who were brutally murdered following what they presumed would be an innocent Craig’s List transaction. They expected a 1966 Mustang and got the Pearly Gates instead.

But I got such a DEAL! Only $150 for a 5-qt. Artisan Kitchen Aid. Sells at Kohl’s for $349! My only hesitation was its color.

Pink, you see.

Pink. But 150 bucks! It will live in a cupboard in our garage most of the time, so what do I care, really? And pink is in my color wheel, after all. And it’s certainly in my granddaughters’ color wheels.

I approached the transaction cautiously, though the seller didn’t seem quite as nervous as I. She willingly gave me her home address and told me to come over whenever was convenient. Had I been a murderer, I could have packed up my hatchet and/or firearm and headed over to their house. I’m not, however. I’m just a nana who wants to make Valentine cookies for her grandkids.

The seller was a tired-looking woman who told me she is selling the mixer so that she can get an even BIGGER one since she just had her fifth child. And they just got a new puppy. “I need to make two loaves of bread for my growing family, you see,” she said, “and this isn’t quite big enough.”

Ladies and Gentlemen, with five kids – the youngest being 3 months old – I would be purchasing my bread from Walmart. My best guess is she and her husband and five kids are of the Morman faith. Mormans are prominent around these parts, and, well, five kids, and the possibility for even more suggested by her statement that she has a “growing family.” Yoiks.

I wonder if she bought the pink mixer when she only had two kids, and it made her feel pretty. After five, it would take a visit from Coco Chanel to make her feel pretty. She only feels tired. In fact, that might be why she wasn’t too worried about a murderer. “Kill me, PLEASE.”

I must admit the pink color doesn’t particularly make me feel mixer 2pretty. When I first brought it out into the sunlight, Bill – who was afraid to go into the house of someone who CHOSE a pink Kitchen Aid and sent me in alone to face the prospect of mayhem – it didn’t seem all that pink. In fact, Bill pointed out that the color wasn’t as bad as he had envisioned, which apparently was Pepto Bismol pink.

But when we got it into our house, well, the pink sort of shone forth – not Pepto Bismol, but not Pink Champagne either. More along the lines of my granddaughters’ leotards and ballet shoes. I can live with it.

Having said all this, I am happy to have a Kitchen Aid mixer here as well as in Denver. However, my mixer in Denver is old, and so much superior to this new pink mixer despite the fact that this is a higher-grade model. The utensils on my mixer in Denver are heavy, possibly enamel-coated cast iron. These are light-weight, definitely not cast iron. And it just doesn’t seem to have as much oomph. But I put it on a higher speed and it does the job.

I sound 90 years old, but they just don’t make them the way they used to. But they make them in pink.

 

 

When the Saints Come Marchin’ In

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St. Dominic Savio. Look at thos eyes. Sainthood destiny. Of course the halo helped.

St. Dominic Savio. Look at those eyes. Sainthood destiny. Of course the halo helped.

The prayer book that I take with me to Mass every Sunday has stories of saints throughout each volume. There is generally some sort of theme to the saints that are presented each month. For example, this month features saints that have some sort of connection to the medical field.

Each month I eagerly read the stories of the saints. You see, I am a saintophile. I must confess that I made up that word, but it seems important to illustrate just how much I love to read about saints. It seems that adding  a –phile to the word accurately presents the necessary psycho edge to my predilection.

I, for example, own the entire 4-set Butler’s Lives of the Saints in hardback, featuring every saint that ever lived, at least up to the copyright of the books. Since I bought them at an auction when a Denver Catholic elementary school was closing, the copyright is likely something like 1950. Several new saints since then, no doubt.

I owe my love of saint stories to my third grade teacher, Sister Palladia. Sister Palladia was somewhere around 90 years old when she taught me, and I learned at one of my high school class reunions (1987?) that she was still living. Perhaps my perception of her age was somewhat skewed by my own youth. Or perhaps she actually lived to be 110.

I don’t recall whether or not Sister Palladia was a good teacher. I recall exactly three things about her: 1) she was about 4’5” tall, and round as a fire extinguisher; 2) she wasn’t mean like Sr. Callista who used to punish wrong-doers by using a hairbrush on their butts; and 3) she told amazing and often macabre stories to her 8-year-old students.

But for every story about a young girl who disobeyed her mother and stayed out past curfew and subsequently was hacked to pieces by a crazed miscreant, she had an equally fascinating and far less disturbing story about a saint.

St. Dominic Savio was perhaps my favorite. At age 5, Dominic would arise at the crack of dawn and walk to the church to serve at Mass. If the doors were not yet unlocked, he would kneel on the bare ground until the priest opened the doors. He was studying for the priesthood when, at age 14, he died of pleurisy. Probably from all of that kneeling outdoors in the cold, but hey, who am I to judge?

Then there was St. Maria Goretto, who at age 15 was stabbed 14 times after refusing to allow a man to have his way with her. It seems many of the best saints were Italian now that I think about it. A few good holy representatives from France too. Young St. Joan of Arc, and of course St. Therese of Lisieux, the little Rose.

I loved hearing about them all.

But the saint I read about yesterday before Mass started was St. Giuseppe Moscati, a relatively contemporary saint who died in 1927. Giuseppe earned his degree in Medicine from the University of Naples, and then was awarded a post at the Hospital of the Incurables.

Yes, you read that correctly. I said the Hospital of the Incurables.

Can you just imagine going to the doctor for a sore throat. The doctor — perhaps even Dr. Giuseppe Moscati — tells you to say ahhhh, looks at your tonsils, says “tsk, tsk, tsk,” and tells you he’s going to send you to the Hospital of the Incurables.

“Whaaaaaat? you say. “Please, can’t I just go to Our Lady of Perpetual Help Medical Center?”

I think the Hospital of the Incurables needed a different marketing director.

And just to clear up a common misunderstanding about Catholics, let me make it perfectly clear. We DO NOT WORSHIP SAINTS. We merely ask them to pray for us. Just like I ask my siblings and/or friends to pray for me or my family in times of need. I can’t tell you how often I ask my mother to pray for me, though last I heard, she wasn’t being considered for sainthood yet.

And just say no to a stint at the Hospital of the Incurables.