Category Archives: Whimsies

Thursday Thoughts

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Perhaps I’m Missing the Point
As you are aware, there have been protests all around the country regarding gun control. Here in Phoenix, like many other metropolitan areas, young and old alike have been out carrying signs and banners in support or opposition of guns. There was a photo on one of the newspaper’s web site that showed some adults protesting in downtown Phoenix. One man held a sign that read More Love Less Guns. As I indicated in my recent post about feeling the need to be the world’s editor, I sighed and said out loud, “More love FEWER guns.” Can’t they get it right? But it’s possible I’m missing the point. Still, the fewer/less mistake – one of the most common – is one that gets on my VERY LAST NERVE. People, listen up: If you can count it, choose fewer.

I Just Cross My Legs
I stopped at the dollar store the other day to get my grandkids’ Easter cards. (Yes, grandkids, if you’re reading this blog, you know your cards are on their way.) As I was waiting in line, I overheard a man tell the cashier that he’d had a hard time finding the men’s room. “We don’t have a men’s room,” the cashier said. The man was surprised. “Yes you do,” he said. “I just used it.” The cashier was surprised, and told the man she had never been to the back room of the store. “Really?” he said. “How long have you worked here?” She responded, “Since January.” All I could think was that she must have the bladder of a hippopotamus if she has never had to use the bathroom on any shift since January. Plus, she must not be big on the whole idea of stocking shelves. I wonder where she keeps her purse….

What Time is It?
For the past three or four years, we have hosted Easter at our house. I have generally had something resembling an open house. I cook up my kielbasa (see yesterday’s post), and Bec brings a delicious coffee cake. Later, I put out a ham and some rolls and we snack on ham sandwiches. Because my food offerings start in the morning, we need to go to the early morning Mass. The church we attend here in Mesa has a 7 o’clock, 9 o’clock, and 11 o’clock Mass. So year before last, we trotted into church at 6:40 for what we expected to be the 7 o’clock Mass, only to find it half over. I realized that the Mass time was different than usual, probably to accommodate a sunrise service. So last year, I told Bill that the Mass started at 6:30. We sauntered in around 6:10, and once again, found the Mass already in progress. This year I decided to do something radical and read the bulletin to find out the actual Mass time, not the Mass time according to Kris. Voila! Mass begins at 6 a.m. This year we might actually make it to the sunrise Mass service from the beginning. What a concept!

Long Distance Disaster Aversion
I, like many others, subscribe to Next Door, a web site that keeps us abreast of what’s happening in our respective neighborhoods. I haven’t figured out how to be on two Next Door sites – one for Denver and one for here. So, given the choice, I have elected to keep abreast of neighborhood happenings at our Denver abode. Ninety percent of the time, the postings consist of for sale items, found or lost cats, people looking for nannies, and folks whining about something being built that will destroy – DESTROY, I tell you – our neighborhood. But 10 percent of the time, I get some useful information. Like Tuesday afternoon, when I read that there was a water main break in our neighborhood, and a photo accompanied the post. I clicked on the photo, and to my chagrin, saw water pouring into the street right in front of our house. Yoiks. I was hoping to heck that the same water wasn’t running into our basement. I telephoned our Denver next door neighbor and asked her about the water main break. “What water main break?” she asked. “The one that is right in front of our respective houses,” I responded. She went out the door, cell phone in hand, and said, “Oh my goodness, you’re right. There is water running down our street.” Thankfully, we are near the top of the hill, and my daughter-in-law later confirmed that our house was nice and dry. I was even able to answer the door when the City Water Department fellow rang the bell, using our very cool Ring doorbell system. I managed a crisis from 900 miles away. How come I can’t figure out how to automatically post my blog on Facebook?

Cool Drinking
I recently spoke about tasting my first limoncello at a restaurant on the Piazza Navona in Rome, and how it was love at first taste. I also said that I was embarking on a process to make my own. My homemade limoncello is ready to drink, and so Bill and I did just that last night after dinner…..

Ciao.

 

Easter Sausage

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My mother was 100 percent Polish. Oh, I seem to recall some hints whispered by relatives who have looked into our ancestry that there might have been a bit of hanky panky involving someone of another Slavic nationality years and years ago, but who can trust rumors that are 150 years old? Fake news.

Mom occasionally made cabbage meatballs which we called cabbage meatballs and not golabki as would any REAL Pole. She also got ticked off at so-called Polack jokes. But other than that, she didn’t share many Polish ancestral memories. After all, Mom basically learned to cook from her Swiss mother-in-law, or so she always said.

It’s true we ate a lot of Polish sausage during our formative years, but the fact is, we ate a lot of any kind of sausage. German sausage, Italian sausage, Polish sausage. I think it is safe to say that none of us have ever met a sausage we didn’t like. Well, that’s not entirely true as there was the Andouillette sausage that Bill and I ate in France, which you can read about if you click on this link that takes you to the blog I wrote while traveling in Europe way back in 2008. Nasty stuff. But I digress.

There is only one memory I have that is related to my Polish ancestry. Every Easter morning, Mom cooked fresh kielbasa and soft-boiled eggs before we went to Easter Mass. So while I can’t swear I’ve done it every single Easter of my adult life, I can safely say I’ve eaten kielbasa on Easter morning more times than I haven’t. Bill likes to eat kielbasa as well, though he turns his nose up at a soft-boiled egg.

Most of the time, I simply bought smoked kielbasa at the grocery store. However, last year I discovered that there is a Polish restaurant and deli called All Pierogi Kitchen and Euro Market that is located in west Mesa. Despite its name, it isn’t only pierogis. They also make and sell both fresh and smoked kielbasa. The market contains all sorts of Polish and Russian goodies…..

…..sweet as well as savory…..

We bought a couple of pounds of fresh kielbasa. Buying smoked kielbasa wasn’t even considered. Bill has very fond memories of watching his former father-in-law – who was born in Poland – make fresh kielbasa. Chunks of pork, lots of garlic, plenty of spices, wrapped in a casing. Bill says to this day it was the best sausage he’s ever eaten. He liked the fact that his father-in-law didn’t grind up the meat; rather, he cut it into small chunks. I’ve never eaten Polish sausage prepared in that way.

Since we had driven a good 25 minutes to reach the restaurant/market, we decided to eat lunch. We each had a kielbasa sandwich, but ordered some pierogis on the side. Potato and onion. Yum and yum…..

I think my next cooking adventure will involve pierogis. Now, if I can just keep my hands off the kielbasa until Easter morning!

Rich in Iron

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My niece Maggie pointedly reminded me recently, “Aunt, you didn’t make fried chicken for us last winter when you were here.” The rest remained unstated, thereby allowing me to reach my own conclusion as to expectations.

There is nothing magical about my fried chicken, I assure you. I simply put flour, salt and pepper, and a hearty pinch of cayenne pepper into a bag, toss the chicken into the bag, shake it all about, and fry it to a golden brown in a mixture of vegetable oil and butter. I then place the chicken into the oven to finish cooking for about an hour. The result – hopefully – is very tender, fall-off-the-bone chicken that truly sticks to your fingers.

The thing is, no one else wants to make it. Why? It’s a frigging messy job, and there’s no two ways around it. As the chicken fries, the grease pops and snaps, getting all over the stove, the floor, the microwave, and if I’m particularly unlucky, my arms. Flour ends up all over the place. An apron is a requirement unless I’m wearing clothes I care nothing about.

Furthermore, I find that as I get older and more forgetful, it is not unusual for me to forget to put the chicken into the flour. The last couple of times that I fried chicken, Bec was my overseer: Kris, I don’t think you put that chicken into the flour, did you? Probably not. So I dig it out of the grease and put it into the flour. Ina Garten doesn’t have these kinds of problems. (As if Ina Garten would fry a chicken for Jeffrey.) But remember, she has staff. Bec is my staff.

When we started spending entire winters in AZ, I had to decide what things I needed here – the operative word being needed, and not wanted. I have a storage room full of things I wanted in Denver that have been used once or twice and now gather dust. This home is too small for those kinds of shenanigans. The Kitchen Aid standing mixer was one; cast iron pans were another.

At first, I got by with my small 10-inch Lodge pan (always Lodge; I’m a fan). But the first time I invited our AZ family for fried chicken, it became abundantly clear that I needed a larger pan. I have a 12-inch Lodge cast iron frying pan in Denver and it didn’t take long before I had one here as well…..

I don’t use it much, and it takes up precious space. Still, in my humble opinion, certain things need to be cooked in cast iron, and chicken is one of them. And when you fry two chickens plus extra dark meat, you need a big pan. Or you will spend hours frying chicken, and that’s not fun.

Country western singer and Food Network chef Trisha Yearwood gives newlyweds a cast iron pan as a wedding gift. That might work in the south, but I’m pretty sure some of my friends would have looked puzzled at such a gift, preferring 600 thread count sheets instead. But I did make sure Court had a Lodge cast iron pan, and I noticed in our recent visit that it was sitting out on his stove, so I think he uses it.

If the cast iron pan is properly seasoned, food doesn’t really stick to it, and clean-up is pretty easy. To season a cast iron pan – both when you first get it and then on an ongoing basis as it is needed – you rub the inside with vegetable oil and place the pan in a 325 degree oven for an hour or so. Shut off the oven, and allow the pan to cool inside the oven before removing it and wiping it with a paper towel or cloth.

I was always told not to use soap to clean a cast iron skillet. In fact, many people insist that you should only use paper towels, salt, and elbow grease. Personally, here’s how I clean my cast iron pan: wait until it is cool; remove as much food and grease as you can with a paper towel; add some hot water and let it sit for a few minutes. Not too long, mind you. Use a scrub pad without soap to clean the bottom and sides of the pan; dry it completely with a paper towel or cloth. Sit it out on your stove overnight, or until such time as you can convince someone else to put it away for you as it is HEAVY AS CAN BE!

Because cast iron maintains an even heat for so long, I read recently that it is one of the best ways to make a homemade pizza. Preheat the pan for a very long time. Make your pizza crust. Carefully (and I’m not entirely sure how this could be managed, perhaps with a pizza peel) place your crust in the pan. Add your ingredients and bake in a hot oven. Voila. I’m going to try it sometime.

By the way, this blog post is NOT sponsored by Lodge!

Hosanna

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Yesterday was Palm Sunday, the beginning of the holiest week in all Christian churches. Though I did once have the privilege of eating a Seder meal with a Jewish family (something I loved and will never forget), I have never attended a Palm Sunday service anywhere except in a Catholic Church.

I always hear talk about Catholics who only show their faces inside a church on Christmas and Easter, but I will tell you that Ash Wednesday and Palm Sunday have to be right up there in attendance. Our Mass was packed and I saw a whole lot of unfamiliar faces. That’s okay, because if I was only going to go to two masses a year, they would be Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday. They’re my favorite Masses, and the ones I find most meaningful.

At our Mass, people who chose to do so processed into the church with their blessed palms in their hands, accompanied by the choir singing Hosanna to the Son of David; hosanna in the highest! Our celebrant, strikingly adorned in a red vestment (as was every Catholic priest in the world), was led in by the Knights of Columbus in full Knights regalia carrying massive palm leaves donated by parishioners from their own backyard palm trees.

I admit that singing hosanna to the Son of David along with the choir unfailingly brings tears to my eyes as I recall that Jesus was met with similar adulation as he was led into Jerusalem a short time before his passion and death. Those people could have been me.

In the Catholic Church (and perhaps other churches; see above: I’ve never been to any other church on Palm Sunday) one of the gospel writer’s passion of Christ is read. This year we read the Passion according to St. Mark. St. Mark’s gospel is one of my favorites. According to a bible study teacher I once had, St. Mark wrote his gospel in a hurry because the followers of Jesus were being chased down by the Romans. He believed that someone – and so it might as well be HIM – needed to write things down before it got too out of hand. That’s why his gospel is short and sweet.

I love that St. Mark begins his passion with the story of the woman who washed Jesus’ feet and rubbed him with fragrant oil. People griped that it was such a waste of money – money that could have been given to the poor. It always reminds me of people who complain that too much money is wasted on making churches beautiful. Jesus responded, “The poor you will always have with you, and whenever you wish you can do good to them, but you will not always have me. Amen, I say to you, wherever the gospel is proclaimed to the whole world, what she has done will be told in memory of her.” The house of God should be beautiful.

I’m always struck at how little the apostles understood about what was about to happen to their friend. They couldn’t keep their eyes open while sitting with Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. Jesus was so afraid, and his friends couldn’t quite see it. I am reminded of how often I don’t see the fear in my own friends and family or mistake it for something else. Peter’s boast that he would never betray Jesus just hours before he betrayed him not once, but three times reminds me of how often I am fickle to God.

Mark’s description of the actual crucifixion lacks the panache of St. Luke’s, but as we kneel to ponder his death, I cry every time.  Even the centurion, seeing the sanctuary curtain being destroyed, said, “Truly this man was the Son of God.”

After Mass, the question before many is what to do with the blessed palms that we carried into church. Tossing them in the garbage seems disrespectful. Thankfully, my husband spends the first 15 minutes of every Palm Sunday Mass turning our palms into a cross which will hang somewhere in my house for the next year…..

Saturday Smile: I Wish I Owned Stock

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When we were home, all of the Denver grandkids were at our house on Saturday — in and out at various times. By the end of the day, there were only crumbs left in the cookie jar where I keep Oreos and only salt left in the jar where I keep pretzels. They’re there for the kids to eat! I have tried making homemade cookies, and at the end of the day, the kids prefer Oreos every time.

I keep Oreos in our cookie jar here in AZ as well, mostly because Bill likes them as much as the grands. But he gave up sweets for Lent, so the Oreos have been languishing in the metal cookie jar.

Until yesterday. Maggie and Lilly came over for lunch, where I served up my mom’s broccoli soup. Maggie brought a Greek salad to accompany the soup. After lunch, we sat outside and Lilly watered our plants. When they got ready to leave, Lilly asked me if she could have an Oreo. I told her yes, as long as it was okay with her mom. Next thing I knew, this happened……

The Oreo-loving gene runs strong in our family. It isn’t surprising that Bill was the one who helped her get her cookies. I wish I owned stock in Nabisco.

Have a great weekend.

Thursday Thoughts: Friday Edition

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Can’t Blame it On Morphine Brain
I’m sorry to any of you who tuned in looking for a book review. I’m changing it up today. It’s not that I’m feeling stuck in a book rut. It’s not that I don’t have many, many books that I could review. The fact is, I realized yesterday afternoon that I was a day behind. That is why I didn’t post my Thursday Thoughts yesterday; you see, I thought it was Wednesday. It wasn’t until late yesterday afternoon that I realized it was Thursday, and had been all day. That realization didn’t occur until I had already spent 45 minutes writing my Thursday Thoughts with the intention of posting it today. I simply didn’t have it in me to start over, so Thursday Thoughts have become Friday Thoughts. Since I haven’t had a drop of morphine since I left the hospital, I guess I just have to attribute it all to senility!

Pay Up
It’s bad enough that you have to go in the hospital, but then the bills start coming in. Time to pay the piper. I spent much of yesterday afternoon trying to figure out which bills were from my most recent hospital visit here in AZ and which bills were from my stop in the Emergency Room in Denver this past December. The claim forms are confusing and oftentimes (though not always), the folks in the insurance claims department are not a lot of help. For example, I received a notice of authorization from my insurance company for my recent hospital inpatient visit. The authorization form noted that I was the patient (check), Banner Baywood was the hospital (check), and a Cynthia White, M.D. was the provider (huh?). Though I was under the influence of pain meds while in the hospital, I was certain that I had never seen a Dr. Cynthia White. The reason for my certainty was that I never saw a woman physician from the time I walked in the ER until I left the hospital two days later. It wouldn’t have been so bad except for the fact that she is not a participating physician in my insurance plan, and the notice warned me that I might have to pay more for her services. So I called my insurance agency and told the customer service representative my situation. “Not only did I not select Dr. White,” I said, “but I don’t even know who she is.” The representative thought for a moment, and finally responded — dead seriously, “I’m really sorry; I don’t know who she is either.” It might take a few phone calls….

Clean Up
To escape having to think about hospital bills, I decided to do a bit of clean-up on my computer. Specifically, I went into my photo file and began throwing away photos of things I didn’t recognize or didn’t have any reason to keep. One of the photos that I came across was of an afghan that has lived in my cedar chest at home since 1972…..

It was crocheted with loving hands by my grandmother for my high school graduation. I clearly remember her saying that she made it for me because she always thought of yellow as “my” color. That afghan was immediately special to me, so special that I put it in my cedar chest to keep it clean. Every once in a while I take it out and tell myself that I should use it or display it in some way because it’s so pretty. Yet, it continues to live in my cedar chest. Maybe I should get a wooden quilt holder and display it in one of our bedrooms. Any other ideas?

Sweet Tart
We fell in love with the sweet/tart lemon liquor the first time we visited Italy. Bill and I sat out on the patio of a restaurant on the Piazza Navona in Rome. We finished our dinner, and to our surprise, the server brought out tiny frosted glasses containing a bright yellow liquor. It was hot outside, and perhaps that was why the limoncello (with which we were wholly unfamiliar) tasted so amazing. Or maybe it was because we were sitting on a piazza in Rome. Anyway, it is one of my favorite summer liquors. I am currently reading a novel that takes place on an island near Sicily in Italy. The island residents are constantly drinking limoncello, arangcello (orange), and limettacello (lime), making me want to sip along with them each time it’s mentioned. So day before yesterday, I stopped at one of the many stores in east Mesa that sell freshly-picked citrus fruit, and bought several lemons. Yesterday morning I carefully peeled the skin from the lemons, put them in a jar, and covered the peels with vodka. In a week or so, I will add a simple syrup to the mixture and let it sit for another day. Then I will filter the resulting beverage from the peels, give it a chance to chill overnight, and drink homemade limoncello on my own patio. Yum…..

Ciao.

Close, But No Cigar

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We owned our AZ house a good five or six years before I ever learned that a herd (or maybe herds?) of wild horses romped and grazed and procreated a mere 15 miles from our back yard. And since learning about the existence of these wild horses, I have wanted to see them for myself.

With this in mind, yesterday morning I asked Bill if he had any interest in driving the 15 miles or so to the area near Saguaro Lake where the wild horses reside. It will require a bit of a hike, I warned him. He found that fact not the least bit daunting, and we set off on our adventure. I didn’t have a doubt in my mind that we would spot the wild animals because everyone who had talked to me about them had seen them. We knew exactly where to go.

The area where the horses live is a straight shot north of us, where the Salt River meets the Verde River. When we drive between Denver and our AZ home, we get on back highways that not only are quicker, but are amazingly beautiful. When heading to Mesa from Denver, just outside Payson, AZ, we take Hwy 87 – the Beeline Highway – until we exit on to the Bush Highway which takes us through the gorgeous Tonto National Forest, home to Saguaro Lake and the wild horses.

We parked at the base of the trail and set off in search of the horses…..

The Salt River is where the herds come to refresh themselves, and the tourists come to enjoy the beautiful scenery.

The scenery was stunning, and we saw amazing birdlife almost immediately. An egret was not the least bit disturbed by our company…..

After 25 years of marriage, you think it wouldn’t surprise me that hiking with Bill McLain and hunting for wild horses was like setting off with Lewis and Clark. He led the way, and would stop occasionally to study the footprints.

“You can see they were here because this is clearly a hoof print,” he said. And it was. I missed it for the simple reason that I was looking for horseshoe-clad prints.  Wild horses = no horseshoes. I am neither Lewis nor Clark. Hey! Mom wouldn’t let me join Girl Scouts, so haters, don’t hate.

He stopped again to point out the existence of fresh horse dung…..

It was true that we walked through more horse dung than is collected during the entire National Western Stock Show, but much of it was old and dried. Fresh dung = horses nearby.

Except they weren’t. We saw a lot of birds, many different kinds of cacti, a hole in the wall that looked to be a cave (though I wouldn’t let Bill get any nearer than this)…..

…..egrets, enormous bumblebees, and picnic tables buried under sand from a long-ago haboob…..

….. but unfortunately, no wild horses.

As far as I was concerned, the day wasn’t a waste of time because we spent the morning enjoying the desert scenery in an area we hadn’t explored.

As far as Bill was concerned, the day wasn’t a waste of time because, while we didn’t see a single horse, we did see a naked sunbather.

In case you’re wondering, here is what the horses look like, from a photo taken by someone named Brian Curtice, who apparently DID actually see the horses……

We will try again, with better luck we hope.

Fake News

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While I’m really bad at a lot of things – understanding most technology and being able to help my grandkids with math being only two of them – I’m pretty darn good at spelling and grammar. It seems like you either have it or you don’t. Our grandson Alastair, for example, is an excellent speller. One day when they were a bit younger and I was babysitting, his sister was having trouble with her spelling list. The words, I thought, were quite difficult. Alastair – in that way that only big brothers can torture their sisters – was pointing out just how EASY those words were to spell.

“Really, Mr. Smarty-Pants?” I said to him. “Spell burglar.”

“B-U-R-G-L-A-R,” he said without hesitation.

Rats. I was just certain her would get the A-R part wrong.

Anyway, life can be a bit trying when you are a good speller, because frankly, many signs in restaurants and other businesses offer a variety of misspellings. Notable examples are tomatoe instead of tomato, zucinni instead of zucchini, and avacado instead of avocado.

“Do I have to be the world’s editor?” I often ask my husband.

I recently came up with an idea that could be a win-win situation for certain criminally-minded people and me. I think I should — for a price — offer to correct spelling and grammar in those fake emails we all get from fake banks offering fake help if you will click on their fake link. As you are probably aware, clicking on those links leads to something bad. I’m not sure what because I’m pretty good at recognizing a fraudulent solicitation when I see it. Hence, my services would be invaluable.

Read, for example, this email that appeared recently in my inbox. I have replicated it exactly…..

subway@ttpki

Hi %%First Name %%,

[INSERT NAME] Has Been Selected to Participate in a *FHA* Refi Survey! Take the quiz and see if your’re eligible to save $1000 on your mortgage!

StartThe Quiz!

To opt-out of receiving emails from Low Rates Shop, please send your name and email address to Low Rates Shop 909 N. Sepulveda Blvd, Segundo, CA 90245 or click here!

Now, for a fee, I would tell them that rather than saying HI [INSERT NAME], I would recommend they actually, well, insert the name. I might lose the percentage signs while I’m at it. And perhaps most important of all, leave off an exclamation point or two.

Here’s another one I recently received from a bank called Sun Trust…..

During our usual security enhancement protocol, we observed multiple login attempt error which login in to your online banking account. We have believed that someone other than you is trying to access your account for security reasons, we have temporarily suspend your account and your access to online banking and will be restricted if you fail to update.

Please click here to continue using your account. Thank you for banking with Sun Trust.

What? I would suggest to Fake Sun Trust (for a fee) that perhaps they incorporate a couple more periods in their email so that I could at least make sense of what it is they are trying to fake.

I don’t actually want to be hired by the crooks who prey on innocent people. The examples above are so obvious that it’s hard for me to believe that anyone would fall for them. However, I get emails that are far more convincing. I get fake emails from Wells Fargo – a bank with which I actually have a business relationship – that are quite convincing except for one grammatical error. They, like most of the emails, tell me that there have been multiple attempts at logging onto my account, and then they tell me that I should click on the link and they will come to my rescue. However, the concluding sentence is the giveaway:

THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION TO THAT.

Neither Alastair nor his Nana would fall for a sentence that ended in “that.”

Keep your head in the game when looking at those emails you and I probably get four or five times a week. Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Pack a Lot into a Little

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Every year, sometime during the winter that we spend in AZ, we make a quick trip back to Denver. It gives us a chance to check on the house, pick up anything we forgot that we need for spring in AZ, and most of all, to get hugs from our Denver family.

And every year when we come home, it seems to snow at some point.  It’s so regular, in fact, that I think we should hire ourselves out. If it’s been a dry winter and the trees and flowers need a boost, the farmers should pay for us to visit! This year was no exception, as it began snowing Sunday evening and continued into the night. We woke up to this winter wonderland…..

And honestly, I can’t complain much because it doesn’t even compare to the snowstorm that hit Denver 15 years ago yesterday, that being the same day that our eldest granddaughter Addie was born…..

Bill and I are big fat babies about snow these days, and we live in the desert during the winter for this very reason: to avoid the snow.  While Coloradans in general are better about snow than, say, Alabamans when they get a few flakes, we still can be heard grumbling, and our driving is admittedly not the best. On the other hand, Vermonters are not a bit put out by snow, even more than a few flakes. Heather sent us a photo of our grandson Micah at a school outing in Montpelier, VT. One of the classes his kindergarten glass takes is called Educating Children Outdoors (ECO), and they don’t let a little thing like the recent Nor’easter stop them from learning. Heather said Micah is the one drinking tea in the photo. I have to take her word for it because they are all so bundled up that I wouldn’t be able to pick him out without help. But God bless the hearty New Englanders…..

Here are a few more photos of our trip. We packed a lot into a little time…..

Court and Alyx and the kids came for dinner Friday night…..

Saturday, all of the Colorado grands wandered in and out of our house at different points in time. Alastair and Cole played outside…..

Dagny got her first personal cell phone that morning, and she spent much of the day learning about the phone, including taking a selfie of her and her Nana…..

That night, Addie’s family gathered at the restaurant at which she works as a hostess. We ate a delicious dinner and celebrated the fact that she was getting ready to turn 15. Whaaaaat????…..

Sunday, after church, Maggie Faith stopped by. When I asked her what she wanted to do, she didn’t hesitate. Go geocaching! We had a fun day……

Sunday night, Bill and I went to dinner with friends who were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. What a great achievement, and what a lot of fun we had with John and Carol and a few of their friends and family. We went to an old school steak house and I had an old school dessert drink – a Grasshopper…..

On Monday, I had lunch with my very good friend Megan. I had every intention of having our server take a photo, but forgot all about it as we caught up with life.

Last night, we concluded our trip with dinner at the Zierks and grabbed a few more hugs from the McLains on our way back to our house.…..

Addie’s birthday was yesterday, and she turned 15. What does that mean? It means we must all steer clear if you see a 1997 white Subaru station wagon with a pretty girl in the driver’s seat, because this happened…..

She got her learner’s permit.

This morning, we caught an early plane out of Denver to spend a few more weeks in AZ before we come back for the summer. Our quick trip was tons of fun.

Born to Be Wild

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Many years ago when I worked hard for a living, I traveled to Washington, D.C., a couple of times a year for conferences and to visit with our Congressional delegation to seek their support on affordable housing legislation. As part of my job duties, I was assigned the task of finding places to eat for the other staff members who attended, and – more important – for the board members who accompanied staff. We ate some really good food, as you can imagine. Finding topnotch eating spots is something at which I excel, and the Washington, D.C., area offered a huge selection of spots from which to choose.

One of the more interesting venues I selected was a restaurant – I don’t even remember its name – which offered what I considered to be a great perk. There was one big table that sat right in the kitchen where diners could watch the wonderful chefs prepare the food. I managed to secure reservations at that table, and we all enjoyed the adventure.

As one who likes to cook, I also enjoy watching others prepare meals.  And it’s not just fancy chefs that are fun to observe. I used to sit at the counter at my mom and dad’s house in Dillon, CO, and watch Mom cook our dinner as we talked about life. I loved watching her mix the ingredients with her loving small hands.

The other night, Bill and I wanted to go out to dinner. Our bags were packed to leave for Denver the next day. I didn’t want any leftovers and eating out seemed logical. Our neighbors had told us about a burger joint they had visited that isn’t far from our house. I love a good burger, and our neighbors are clever cooks themselves, so we took them at their word and drove to Apache Junction for dinner at the Handlebar Pub and Grill.

Let me start out by saying that Apache Junction is not considered to be the food mecca of the East Valley. If Arizona is the Wild Wild West, Apache Junction is the Wild wild WILD West. You half expect to come across a gun fight at any turn.

We drove up to the Handlebar with some trepidation. It looked to be a motorcycle bar, nothing less. I’m not particularly nervous about a biker bar, but I don’t think I would expect great food or drink someplace that could get wrecked in a bar fight on any given night…..

However, we were greeted pleasantly at the ourdoor host stand, and there were plenty of folks waiting for a table, usually a pretty good sign. We were preparing for the 30-minute wait when the host asked us if we wanted to wait at the counter overlooking the cooking area. We were told we could even eat there if we were so inclined. We, in fact, were not only inclined, but eager to watch the goings-on.

The counter was outdoors in a covered area overlooking a large grill, a large flat griddle, and a cookstove. At the stove, there was a woman who looked like she had hopped off her Harley five minutes ago stirring some seasonings into a huge pan of cut-up mushrooms. We realized quickly this wasn’t your typical biker bar…..

One look at the menu confirmed our suspicion. Not a French fry in sight on the menu…..

We had such a fun evening eating our amazing hamburgers – Bill’s a bleu cheese peppercorn burger with a side of pecan maple acorn squash…..

and mine a green chili burger with jack cheese and a side of balsamic Brussel sprouts that were parboiled and then cooked on the grill…..

We chatted with the cook and his sous chef (who looked like a motorcycle gangster and his biker babe). We watched him grill everything from chicken breasts to asparagus topped with feta cheese, while she prepared the Brussel sprouts, the mushrooms, and the onions cooked in Guiness beer…..

It seems as though I’m not pleasantly surprised very often any more. Most restaurant menus look disappointingly similar. Once in a while you might come across some truffle salt tossed on French fries or a bit of gorgonzola cheese on a burger. But finding a hidden gem like this in the middle of Apache Junction made our day for sure.

Next time I might have the bleu cheese potato salad, but I will for sure be eating at the counter watching the cooks prepare the meals.