Category Archives: Whimsies

Not My Mom’s Cooking: Bring on the Limes

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We are a family of grillers. All of my siblings cook frequently on the grill. In fact, during the summer, I’ll bet we mostly cook on a grill. What’s more, most of our children do the same. Whenever Court and his family are over for dinner, he takes over the grill and cooks the food. Yay!

It makes me happy that we are all grillers because we take after my dad. He manned the grill in the summer in Columbus when grilling wasn’t even a thing. And not a gas grill mind you. He lit coals and waited for them to begin turning to ash. He stood by the grill and watched his meat carefully so that it wouldn’t burn until it was ready to eat. He wasn’t empty-handed, of course. He had a beer or a martini in his hand as he cooked. Why not?

I have a gas grill, as does most everyone these days. They are quick and easy to use. I can light it up even in the cold weather, and frequently do. But I have to tell you that one of my favorite things to do is haul out my charcoal grill from the side of the house, light the coals, and wait for them to be ready with an ice cold martini in my hand. The perfect ending is a juicy ribeye steak.

My siblings might be able to correct me on this, but I don’t think Dad always cooked chicken on the grill. Steaks, yes. Burgers and hot dogs, definitely. Pork chops, undoubtedly.

But the reason I say this about chicken is because I remember when Dad started grilling chicken, and it was because of my cousin John, who came to visit from the small town of Valley, Nebraska, just outside Omaha. While John is my maternal cousin, he and Dad were good buddies. My mom was the youngest of 13 kids and John’s mom was the eldest, so the age difference between John and Dad wasn’t great.

John prepared chicken in the simplest way possible – salt, pepper, butter, maybe a bit of lemon juice, and a beer to douse the flames. Oh, and perhaps a bit would spill onto the meat. Oops. To this day, my brother will say that his favorite olfactory memory of Dad is the smell of beer on hot coals. It’s the only thing I ever use to keep a grill under control.

I’m telling this story because though Mom and Dad eventually began to cook chicken on the grill, I don’t think they ever did anything besides the lemon chicken and maybe chicken with barbecue sauce. I don’t think they went beyond those boundaries.

I, on the other hand, cook chicken on the grill many different ways. Chicken is still fairly inexpensive. It’s versatile. And it tastes good. Most people use chicken breasts, but for me, it’s chicken thighs every single time.

This is a recipe I came across recently because I discovered a multitude of limes in my refrigerator and wanted to use them up. I have a habit of buying limes just about any time I go to the grocery store because I can’t remember whether or not I have any in the refrigerator. So they add up because a person can only drink so many gin and tonics. I think my fear of running out of limes is left over from a couple of years ago when there was a lime crisis in Mexico (probably not the most serious crisis they face each day) that resulted in a shortage of limes, at least in Arizona. It is surprising how this impacted my life. I’m not sure what that says about me, but it probably isn’t good.

Anyhoo…..

Chili Lime Chicken
Adapted from rasamalaysia.com

Ingredients
2-2.5 lbs. skin-on bone-in chicken thighs
½ c. fresh lime juice
3 t. fresh lime zest
¼ c. olive oil
4 T. fresh cilantro, finely chopped
2 jalapenos, finely chopped
4 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 T. honey
2 t. salt
1 large pinch of red pepper flakes, or to taste.

Process
Rinse the chicken thighs and pat dry with paper towels. Set aside.

Mix the remaining ingredients together in a big bowl, making the marinade. Add chicken to the marinade, making sure to stir and coat the chicken evenly. Marinate for 2 hours.

uncooked chicken

Prepare your grill, brushing a little bit of oil on the surface. Add a bit of the garlic, cilantro, and jalapeno from the marinade on top of the chicken and grill until they are golden brown and charred on both sides. Watch carefully, as the honey will burn easily.

Chili Lime Chicken

Nanas Notes: I think chicken is kind of difficult to cook on the grill because the fat in the skin causes flames. I cooked the thighs for 10 minutes on one side with the lid open, keeping a close eye on them. I then cooked the thighs for 10 minutes on the other side. I turned off one of the burners and cooked the chicken on indirect heat with the lid closed for 30 -35 minutes, until finished. With this particular recipe, it really is necessary to oil the grill grate prior to cooking. The honey in the marinade results in sticky chicken. If you don’t oil the grill, your crispy skin will stick to the grill and you will lose out on some good eats.

What Smells?

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As I creep onward towards old age (which is always 10 years older than you currently are), I am cognizant of looking and acting my age. In other words, avoiding the embarrassment of either dressing and/or acting younger than I am (by wearing tight Pink brand t-shirts) or older than I am (by wearing baby blue polyester slacks). Just like with Goldilocks, it has to be just right.

It’s a never-ending struggle. I recently read an article about supposedly inappropriate attire for anyone over the age of 30 (which I guess to some marketers is ANCIENT). I agreed with some (skin-tight sparkly pants, crop tops), though I think someone, say 32, could get away with these things. However, I vehemently disagreed with others (You can’t wear hoop earrings after the age of 30? Seriously? I am hanging on to my hoop earrings until they pry them out of my cold, dead hands.) Who decides what’s appropriate for what age?

Having said all of the above, I do have a fear of not recognizing that, while I might think something is cute, it might not be appropriate for someone my age. I have instructed my daughters-in-law to gently tell me when I’m embarrassing my grandkids. Not that it would bother my grandkids one single bit to tell me I look silly. Grandkids keep us honest.

Bill and I have had several conversations about the way we see older people dressed, particularly in Arizona. Is there an age at which one suddenly starts thinking maroon polyester with white shoes looks good? Or do you just finally reach the age where you don’t care what looks good, but what you do care about is not having to iron or send clothes to the dry cleaner? Hence, polyester.

Beautiful fragrance setI confess what started me thinking about this all was perfume. I used to wear fragrance regularly. My favorite was Beautiful by Estee Lauder. In fact, a number of years ago, Bill bought me an entire fragrance ensemble that included scented body lotion, powder, and spray cologne. I would shower, put on the body lotion, and spray on the cologne. I’m pretty sure I didn’t smell like a French prostitute.

However, at some point, as part of the aging process, I started finding colognes problematic. To be more specific, they made me sneeze and caused my head to begin to ache. So I stopped wearing any fragrance stronger than Bath & Body Works body wash and matching lotion.

Until yesterday.

While cleaning my bedrooms in preparation for company, I came across a nearly full bottle of Beautiful spray cologne and body lotion. What the heck, I thought. I will wear it to church. So I put some lotion on my arms and legs. Hmmm. A bit strong, perhaps, but not too bad. I then applied the cologne. I even did it the way you’re supposed to in order to prevent too heavy an application – I sprayed it in the air and let it settle on me.

Bill and I got into the car to drive to church, and my head began to ache and my nose started tickling. Oh no, I thought. I smell like one of those old ladies that you sit next to at church and can barely refrain from sneezing. Or moving away. Only I couldn’t move away from myself. I fretted about it all throughout Mass, but no one seemed to mind. Perhaps it dissipated. Or people were being kind to the old lady. Me.

However, after Mass, as we were walking to our car, I noticed a woman about my age or older wearing bright pink six-inch stiletto high heels with a platform toe and ruffles up to her ankles. She honestly could barely walk. She couldn’t lift her feet. She had to sort of shuffle. It made me feel better about the way I smelled. I wish I could have sat next to her.

She apparently doesn’t have grandchildren.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: Hold the Everything

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photo (6)Any time I ask Kaiya or Mylee what they want for lunch or dinner, they will tell me noodles. Take it to the bank. They prefer short noodles like rigatoni or ziti, particularly the vegetable-flavored kind, with butter and Parmesan cheese.  Every single time.

The other day I asked Kaiya if she likes spaghetti and meatballs.

“Weeellll,” she said, “yes. But I don’t like the meatballs and I don’t like the sauce.”

Well, there you have it. Spaghetti and meatballs — hold the meatballs and hold the spaghetti sauce. Boom. Noodles with butter and Parmesan cheese.

The other thing that is making me smile these days is my garden. You will recall that I had a heck of a time getting it planted because of all the rain. And, in fact, only four bean plants sprouted out of the many more than four that I planted. The news people tell me that many people experienced the same problem because of all the rain. The seeds simply rotted in the ground.

But since then, all of the rain has been good for the garden, and my carrots and radishes and herbs have been producing and providing me with food for my table. My bean plants – all four of them – are flowering. The jalapeno pepper plant is also bearing flowers. And my tomatoes – oh my goodness, they are simply lovely. I tried something new this year that I read on – what else – Pinterest. I dug my hole and put a raw egg at the bottom. I set the tomato plant over the egg. I don’t know if this is what I can attribute the beautiful plants to, but they, too, are flowering, and the grape tomato plant actually already has little tomatoes. Yay!

radishes

garden july

Have a great weekend.

Thursday Thoughts

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Christmas in July
The Colorado weather is being finicky once again. Several rainy days in a row, with temperatures struggling to get into the high 60s. Seriously, Tuesday and Wednesday were so chilly I was toying with the idea of turning on the heat. I dug my heels in, however. I WILL NOT RUN HEAT THE WEEK OF JULY 4TH!

diving dagny

How on earth does that tiny body stay warm?

Too Cold to Swim
I watched the four McLain kids Monday and Tuesday while their mom was out of town and their dad was at work. Dagny and Alastair had a dive meet onTuesday. A woman came to the door, and I cheerfully handed them off to her, hoping like hell it was the person with whom I had been instructed to send them. She seemed friendly, and the kids didn’t look panicked. I’m happy to say they were returned safely, if cold as a Russian winter. Seriously, Dagny – who has not a single extra ounce of fat on her little skinny body – was shivering like a wet dog after his bath. But she was proud of her 5th place ribbon!

Seared Skin
Monday night, when Dave came to pick up the kids, I invited them all to stay for dinner. I was making a delicious dinner called Chicken au Champagne. Sounds like the perfect dinner for kids, right? Anyway, it involves searing the chicken in an oven-proof skillet, and then putting said skillet in the oven to finish cooking the chicken. I did all of that, and when the chicken was done, I took it out of the oven and set it on the rangetop so that I could find a pretty dish on which to serve the chicken. I set the serving dish down by the skillet and proceeded to grab the skillet by the handle with my bare hands. Seriously? Is there anything stupider that a supposedly experienced cook could do? I absolutely KNOW that when a skillet comes out of the oven, you are supposed tie a towel around the handle to protect you from your own forgetfulness. I quickly put my hand under cold running water and I’m happy to say that there was very little damage done. My hand hurt a bit that night, but it was all better by the next day. In the words of our friend Forrest Gump, “Stupid is as stupid does.”

Good Eats
I always thought Addie would be the grandchild who would be a chef. It’s true that she likes to cook, and is quite adept at the art. Still, I Alastair and shrimpfind that it really is 10-year-old Alastair who likes to eat and is knowledgeable about which spices would taste good on what. He has quite a sophisticated palate. One morning when I was babysitting and getting the kids ready for school, I watched as they all packed their lunches. Peanut butter and jelly for a couple, and plain turkey meat for one. But Alastair went to the freezer, pulled out a ciabatta roll, carefully cut it, toasted it, laid his turkey meat and swiss cheese on the bread, and put a lovely piece of

These are the spices he chose from his mom's pantry.

These are the spices he chose from his mom’s pantry.

green leaf lettuce on the sandwich. I half expected him to pull out a little half-bottle of a young pinot noir to tuck in beside the sandwich. The other night they invited us over for burgers and brats. Alastair had prepared shrimp for an appetizer. He had marinated the shrimp in wonderful spices and grilled them himself. They were simply delicious, as you can see from the photo. I will tell you that he doesn’t necessarily wear a helmet while grilling. I caught him just as he was about to take off on his Razor scooter.

Animators-in-the-Making

Shortly after seeing the movie Inside Out, Maggie Faith, Kaiya, and Mylee set out to recreate the characters using the medium of Play Doh. Let’s see Pixar do that! I invite you to notice details such as Sadness’ glasses and Disgust’s eyelashes.

in and out characters

L-R: Anger, Joy, Sadness, Fear, and Disgust

pixar

The actual characters: l-r, Anger, Fear, Joy, Disgust, and Sadness

 

Ciao.

 

 

Reluctant Traveler: Wildlife Adventures

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Enjoy the second in the series by my sister in which she tells us tales of her trip to Africa. Photography is courtesy of her daughter, who accompanied her. And spectacular photography it is!

By Rebecca Borman
bec-closeup-twoIt’s safe to say that most people who visit eastern Africa do so primarily to view wildlife.  Africans know this, of course, so they have perfected the art of showing visitors the best their continent has to offer in this regard.  But, in the end, there are no guarantees.  The rainy season, and thus the great migration, don’t always happen as predicted.  But one always travels there with the hope and perhaps expectation of seeing “the big 5”—lions, elephants, rhinos, Cape buffalos, and leopards.  Not to keep you in suspense…we saw all five!

It’s impossible to describe what it’s like to see these truly wild animals in their natural habitat.  We are all getting spoiled by our great zoos, and some of us are lucky enough to have visited the San Diego Zoo Safari Park.  So, is it really all that much better to see the animals in Africa?

Yes. It. Is.

And here’s why.  Because seeing them in their natural habitat means seeing them act like the wild animals that they are.

elephant and babyFor instance, on one of our first drives we found ourselves in the middle of a herd of elephants.  The group included a number of young, one of which was quite small (by elephant standards).  Mother elephant was staying very close by her baby and she was keeping a sharp eye on our truck.  We never felt in danger, but eventually our driver suggested we move on, as mama might be a little over our presence.  This was very cool.

Also early in our trip we saw a cheetah.  Cheetahs are elusive and solitary, so they are not easily found.  We were driving off-road in the Serengeti (I can’t believe I just wrote that!) in an area where it is allowed to drive off the dirt tracks for a few months each year.  Anyway, our driver slowed down, then stopped.  We saw a cheetah, quite close to our truck, with its just killed prey.  It had eaten a bit and was resting…and making sure no scavengers got to his prize until he was finished with it.  Truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

And lions…we saw lots and lots of lions, doing what lions do.  Lions in treeOne day we came across trees filled with female lions and a couple of cubs.  One tree had more than a dozen lions draped across its limbs.  Another time we saw a male and female, who had distanced themselves from the pride for mating season.  We watched them walk from place to place, always the female in yawning lion and babyfront and the male watching her back.  Best of all, we saw a lion with her two very small cubs.  They nuzzled mom, wrestled a bit, and scrambled after her as she climbed down from the rock they were sitting on.  They walked right in front of our truck to cross the road into the high grasses on the other side.  And, there was the time we watched a group of hyenas circling lions and their prey, trying to get up the nerve to challenge the lions.  We finally had to leave, so we didn’t find out who won that stand-off.

I won’t catalogue every animal we saw, but suffice it to say that wildebeests, Cape buffalos, and zebras are clearly not on the endangered species list.  We saw huge herds of all three.  And, that’s another thing you can’t see in even the best zoo.  There is something special about looking out over a plain with animals as far as the eye can see.  We missed the great migration, but this seemed pretty great to me!

Finally, I must talk a little about the giraffes.  In general, the animals didn’t pay much attention to us humans.  The zebras in giraffeparticular would stroll right in front of our truck, which would of course slow down.  Then they (the zebras) would notice us and, with great drama, bolt one way or the other.  But, the giraffes were different.  The truck would stop and we would stand up with our binoculars and cameras, staring at the animals.  And they, with those big beautiful eyes, would stare right back at us.  Occasionally they would walk along-side the truck.  They seemed to find us as interesting as we found them.

If you love animals as I do, Tanzania is the place to be.  There’s no better place in the world to experience the beauty and power of these beasts.

 

Waiter, My Soup’s Cold

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Maybe it’s because I grew up in Nebraska, where, while they might not be able to lay claim to its origin, red beer is king. You know, tomato juice or V-8 (or, in the case of my brother, Clamato) mixed with lager beer. Red beer. Go Big Red. Cornhuskers. As my granddaughter Mylee would say, “Got it?”

Anyway, I love tomato juice. And V-8. And I might like Clamato if I ever tried it. However, not being a beer drinker, I can’t say I like red beer. But I like tomato juice with most everything else. Put a spicy Bloody Mary into my hands, and I’m very happy. I don’t even need all the fancy accoutrements, like okra or bacon or dilly beans. Just tomato juice and vodka jazzed up with hot sauce and spices. Yum. A great excuse for alcohol at 8 o’clock in the morning.

I was thinking about tomato juice the other day as I prepared a batch of gazpacho. Gazpacho, as you might know, is a tomato-based vegetable soup served icy cold in the summer when vegetables are at their freshest. An alcohol-free bloody mary in a bowl. Since I have been trying to cut back on carbs, I have been looking for sandwich-free meals for lunch. I thought about gazpacho, especially now that vegetables are plentiful at the market.

I started looking for a good recipe, and then realized a written recipe is probably unnecessary. Use what’s in your refrigerator and pantry. But I will share my mother’s recipe nonetheless, and then tell you how I modified it.

But first I must tell you a couple of things. The first thing is that I fully admit that I had never heard of gazpacho prior to living in Leadville, when my mother inserted it into her soup repertoire. I loved it from the first bite. That’s surprising, because the second thing I’ll tell you is that I heartily dislike cold soup of almost any kind. And I’m a big fan of soup in general. But don’t give me cold borscht or vichyssoise. Cold melon or strawberry soup? No thanks, though I love both melons and strawberries.

I’m pretty sure gazpacho was new to my mom too. I think she got the recipe from a friend. The recipe card is handwritten, and I don’t recognize the handwriting.

Mom’s Gazpacho

4 c. diced tomatoes
¾ c. chopped green peppers
1-1/2 c. chopped onions
1 garlic clove, minced
2 c. beef bouillon
½ c. lemon juice
¼ c. olive oil
½ c. diced cucumber
1 T paprika
Salt and pepper to taste.

Combine all ingredients except cucumber. Let stand at room temperature for one hour, stirring frequently. Chill. Add cucumber just before serving.

gazpacho

Nana’s Notes: Here’s what I did, using things from my pantry and my refrigerator. I chopped up a cucumber, a jalapeno, two cloves of garlic, a half of a red onion, and a couple of stalks of celery. I would have included a green pepper if I’d had one. I put half of each of the chopped vegetables in the blender with 3 small cans of tomato juice that I had on hand, a tablespoon or so of sugar, a half cup of olive oil, and about a cup of beef broth. I blended it, but didn’t totally pulverize it. I then put that in a bowl, added a tablespoon of sugar and the remaining chopped vegetables. I added a can of fire-roasted diced tomatoes in lieu of a fresh tomato since they aren’t yet in season. I happened to have a half of a container of pico de gallo, so I thought, “why not?” and added that as well. I chilled the whole bowl for several hours and enjoyed a delicious, nutritious, and low carb lunch (several, actually).

Sunrise, Sunset

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It is the most unlikely of friendships.

I didn’t meet her until I was 7 years old – second grade, when she began attending my school. Up until then, I knew everyone in my class because they all lived in my neighborhood and had gone to school with me since kindergarten. But I didn’t know her.

She had bright red hair braided tightly into two plaits that stuck out from the side of her head, freckles, and a crooked grin. I, on the other hand, had mousy brown hair, cut into a pixie style, and crooked bangs. She was funny and laughed readily. I was quiet and shy, uncomfortable with anyone I didn’t know. For reasons I’ll never be able to explain, we hit it off from the get-go.

In third grade we sat behind the fitzer bushes in front of my house and read Nancy Drew. We took our shots at writing The Great American Mystery Story, and proudly turned them into our teacher. Miss Gasper managed to accept them without laughing.

In fifth grade we decided to memorize the Gettysburg Address and volunteered to recite it in front of the class for extra credit. I knew every word, but didn’t even open my mouth the entire time. We hadn’t exactly planned our presentation, and so she started out and it went from there. I remember our teacher telling me quietly, “Kristine, you didn’t really participate much.” Rats.

In sixth grade we made prank phone calls for laughs. Poor Fred Hamburger (his real name). We would take turns. Ring ring ring. “Hello?” “Hello Mr. Hamburger,” one of us would say. “I’m in a real pickle.” Or, “I don’t think you’re cutting the mustard.” Or something equally hilarious. Not surprisingly, Mr. Hamburger eventually got an unlisted number.

Saturday afternoons we spent window shopping or drinking cherry cokes at Tooley’s Drug Store or making prank phone calls from the pay phone at Tooley’s to the pay phone across the street in the town park.  Or, once the one department store in Columbus got an elevator, we would spend an afternoon riding the elevator. That’s all. Just riding the elevator.

High school and college took us different directions, but we remained friends. As adults, I was a part of her wedding and she was a part of mine. I attempted to calm her angst as she and her husband went through their fertility issues, and she saved my life as I went through my divorce. I could call her any time, day or night, and she would listen. Sometimes all I would do is cry. And she let me.

She still lives in Nebraska, and I’m far away in Colorado and/or Arizona. We probably only talk a few times a year. But when we do, it’s like we talked last week.

Caitlin paid a visit to us yesterday.

Caitlin paid a visit to us yesterday.

All of this is to say that yesterday afternoon, her daughter, now an adult with a master’s degree and a grown-up job, came to visit and spend the night. I hadn’t seen her for a very long time, but, just as with my friend, it was like we talked last week. She’s a funny combination of her mother and her father, both who are vastly different from one another (but somehow it works). It makes me happy to see that my friend has produced a lovely grown-up human being, intelligent, likeable, and oh-so-funny, just like her mother.

Sunrise, sunset.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Friday Book Whimsy: The Midwife of Hope River

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searchThink PBS’s wonderful series Call the Midwife meets the classic epic The Grapes of Wrath, and you will have a sense of the flavor and heft of Patricia Harman’s wonderful debut novel The Midwife of Hope River. Harman is, herself, a trained midwife, so her tale has a realistic and readable feel. Prior to this novel, Harman wrote a couple of autobiographical books about the science of midwifery.

In an effort to escape her past, our protagonist changes her name to Patience Murphy and moves somewhere where no one will find her – the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia. She has some training as a midwife, and she uses her skills in her new home to provide services for the women of her town. The time period: just after the stock market crash of 1929.

Times are tough, and money is scarce. But Patience lives a good life far away from her past and delivers babies for blacks and whites, those with money and those without, without questions. After all, she has her own history. She is often paid in flour or corn meal or a freshly-killed chicken rather than money. It’s the Great Depression.

The story is slow moving, but told in a beautiful manner. We eventually learn about Patience’s past, but the author takes her time letting us know the truth. In the meantime, we get to know Patience’s heart, and can’t help but love her.

The Midwife of Hope River is a history lesson as well as a novel. It provides information about race relations, medical care in the early 20th century, midwifery, the dangers of coal mining, the Depression, and the fight for safe working conditions. But we are also told about the satisfaction of friendship and love.

Like Call the Midwife, there are vivid descriptions of childbirth. I was somewhat concerned that reading about birth after birth after birth would get old, but it didn’t. The details weren’t graphic, and the care and love shown by Patience and her apprentice, African-American Bitsy, makes for fine reading. You can certainly tell the author is a midwife.

I loved this book. I had never heard of it until I came across its sequel, The Reluctant Midwife, via Book Bub. I am looking forward to reading on about the characters of Hope River. Definitely a woman’s book, but one worth reading.

Buy The Midwife of Hope River from Amazon here.

Buy The Midwife of Hope River from Barnes and Noble here.

Buy The Midwife of Hope River from Tattered Cover here.

Buy The Midwife of Hope River from Changing Hands here.

Thursday Thoughts

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What Does the Fox Say?
The first three weeks or so after we got back to Denver, we saw regular appearances of our backyard friend Mr. Fox. I make it sound as if every year it’s the same fox, and that isn’t so. In fact, the fox we saw in May and early June had a lot of black fur on its red back, something the others didn’t. Suddenly, however, the fox has been nowhere to be seen. Generally that means something bigger is probably making nighttime visits – like Wile E. Coyote. Last weekend we had friends over for dinner. Seven-year-old Anthony asked Bill if he thought he would get a chance to see the fox that visits our back yard. Bill admitted that he probably wouldn’t since the fox hasn’t been around. Around 8:30 that evening, they were getting ready to leave. Suddenly Anthony shouts, “Is that a fox?” We look out, and sure enough, Mr. Fox made a special visit so that Anthony could say hello. Since then, nary a glimpse of him again.

A Man for All Seasons
I have mentioned that we are in the process of remodeling our kitchen. Nothing substantial (besides a new dishwasher). Mostly paint and other bill sewing valancecosmetic upgrades. But the paint job hasn’t been particularly easy. Prior to the remodel, my kitchen was all yellow. Now there is some gray, some blueish green, and some white. Quite a bit of detail work. It has kept Bill incredibly busy. Since we began, he has installed a new dishwasher, put up bead board, replaced grate covers, and painted, painted, painted. But that isn’t all. The other day I brought home material to make window treatments that I saw on Pinterest – no-sew faux Roman shades. Emphasis on the no-sew, because I can’t sew a single stitch. I had no sooner walked in the door, however, when Bill stopped what he was doing to sew my no-sew faux Roman shades. “It will just look nicer if it’s neatly hemmed rather than glued,” he said. And of course, he was right. The man does it all.

Watermelon
There are a few fruits that aren’t good until they’re good. Tomatoes are one example. watermelonUntil fresh tomatoes become available mid- to late-summer, they’re mostly mealy and flavorless. Another example is watermelon. I bought a watermelon a few weeks ago, and it had no taste. But the past couple of days I have been eating wonderfully sweet watermelon. I eat it the same way my mom did, lots of salt. It makes for a wonderful solution to a sweet tooth after dinner.

Speaking of Sweet Tooth
When last I visited my doctor for my annual physical, the results of my blood test came back indicating my blood sugar was a bit high. Nothing I’m particularly worried about at this point, my doctor told me. Still, she said it would behoove me to lose a few pounds and cut back on carbs. Whaaaaaaaaaat? Cut back on what? Because, you see, I’m addicted to carbs. Though I’m not proud of that fact, I’m afraid it’s true. Not all carbs. Bread? I could take it or leave it. Potatoes? I’ll nibble on French fries but they don’t necessarily call to me. But pasta? Oh yeah Baby. And my glass of wine at night? I drink it for the health benefits, donchaknow. So a couple of weeks ago, I went a week of eating carb-free. I lived off of meat and a salad until I thought I would kill myself. By Thursday I was so tired and crabby that I just wanted to go to bed and Bill wanted me to so that I would quit nagging him. But I was successful, and I lost a couple of pounds. I have started cheesecakeadding some carbs back into my diet, but thus far I’m trying to limit them to so-called good carbs. Mostly fruit and some bread. I have had one or two glasses of wine but no dessert. Well, except for the piece of homemade cheesecake I had the night we entertained. Does that count?

sloppy joe potato chipsAnd I Thought Sour Cream and Onion was Crazy
I was at the grocery store yesterday and as I rushed towards the check-outs (I was in a hurry as usual), I went past a display of potato chips. I did a double take, and turned around to look again. Yep. Sloppy Joe flavored potato chips. Seriously? Along with Sloppy Joe, there was also Sweet Corn Potato Chips and Baby Back Rib Potato Chips. You could actually have an entire barbecued dinner with only potato chips. I’ll take plain Lays, thank you very much.

Corny Cole
Finally, Cole Jonathon was over for dinner the other night and enjoyed an ear of sweet corn (real sweet corn, not potato chips). And when I say enjoyed, I mean ENJOYED.

corny cole

Ciao.