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…..
And while I’m smiling, look what my wonderful husband got me for Valentine’s Day….
Have a great weekend.
When 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.
And just to play fair, here is a link to a purported Maid-Rite copycat recipe….
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.
It’s embarrassing how happy this makes me.
If 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 
pretty. 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.
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.
Bill and I finally got our hike along Saguaro Lake on Thursday after plans were thwarted earlier in the week, and Bec joined us. As you might know from reading last week’s blog post on her trip to see the sandhill cranes, she has gotten interested in bird watching, and knows a fair amount already.
As we walked along the hiking path, we stopped to look at some ducks that were swimming in the lake below. While we were stopped, a group of hikers — all older people somewhere seemingly in their early 70s — went by us. We exchanged cheerful greetings. They were just a few steps past us when Bec said, “Those are American Coots.”
Thinking about my dad, who always referred to senior citizens as coots, I said, “Bec, shhhhh. They’ve hardly passed us!”
She, of course, was referring to the ducks, which were, I learned, American Coots.
I was just kidding her, of course, but we had a good laugh about it.
American coots……
Old coots…..
Have a great weekend.
By Beckie Borman
I’ve been living in Arizona full time for a little over two years, and it’s time I start getting to know my state a little better. I’ve been to the Grand Canyon, and I visited Sedona years ago. I’ve blown through Flagstaff, Winslow, and Payson on my way to or from Chandler. But, this is a big and beautiful state, and I want to get to know it better.
So, I spent last weekend in Willcox, Arizona. I had never heard of Willcox and had no idea even whether it was south or north of Phoenix. When I mapped it, I discovered that it is a bit east of Tucson, and quite close to the Mexican border. I also learned that one of things that takes folks to Willcox is the thousands of sandhill cranes that migrate there every winter. Hence, the trip.
When I first got to Phoenix several years ago, I became a member of the Desert Botanical Garden because of an offer on Groupon. It was a wise and fortuitous decision, because the DBG is beautiful and offers lots to see and do. Last winter, it hosted an exhibit of some of the Chihuly glass…stunning! But, I digress.
Recently, the Garden advertised a trip to Willcox, primarily to see the cranes and to take part in other birding experiences. Cranes, Wine, and Archaeology sounded interesting to me, especially since I had wanted to see the cranes for a long time. So, I signed up for the trip and wondered how I would like it.
It was a fabulous weekend! The high point for all of us, and the focal point of the trip, was seeing the cranes, of course. We saw a few (maybe a hundred) on a brief birding trip not far from our hotel one afternoon. We saw other birds, as well, and that little adventure whetted our appetites for the next day’s activities.
There’s no reason people can’t see the cranes on their own. Any local hotel will tell travelers to go to Whitewater Draw to view them. What they probably wouldn’t know to tell visitors is that the cranes sleep at the Draw, but they leave there very early in the morning and go elsewhere to feed. So, if you’re there around 7:30 a.m, you might see them all take flight, which would be amazing. But, it would also mean leaving your hotel around 6 a.m. to make sure you’re there on time. Once the cranes finish feeding on leftover grain in nearby fields, they return to Whitewater Draw, around 10:45-11 a.m. This is when we went to view them.
And view them we did. Neither words nor pictures can describe what it’s like to see swarm after swarm of these large (and noisy) birds landing in marshes or fields a hundred yards away. We watched them for three hours. Several times there was a “scare off,” meaning something startled them into taking off and then circling to land again. It was spectacular; our leader estimated we saw more than 10,000 birds. And I didn’t have to get up at 5 to see them.
In addition to seeing the cranes, we also visited one of the local wineries, for which the area is well known. We went to Coronado Vineyards where we ate tapas and sampled their wines. They were tasty and reasonably priced…we all walked out with a few (or more than a few) bottles. I particularly liked their Malbec and dry Riesling.
On Sunday morning we had one more adventure, a trip to the Amerind Museum and Art Gallery. It’s a small but excellent museum dedicated to Native American archaeology, art, history, and culture. Our docent was outstanding, and I, for one, am fired up to learn a great deal more about the cultures of the peoples who inhabited this area long before I came along.
I enjoyed the weekend very much, and I learned more than I could have imagined. I got advice on how to choose a good camera for wildlife photography. I discovered some good Arizona-produced wine. I saw a natural wonder of the world. And, I know that I will take many more trips to that area, because there’s a lot more there to discover.
The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry – translated from a poem by Robert Burns
Sometime about midmorning yesterday, Bill and I began hatching a plan. The day lay glorious before us. We usually don’t go to the gym on Tuesdays. The weather was perfect – blue skies and a temperature expected to reach about 72 or so. Not an obligation between us.
“Let’s take lunch up to Saguaro Lake, and then do an easy hike along the lake,” I suggested.
There you go. The best laid plans.
We stopped at one of the ubiquitous Subways near our house to pick up sandwiches and headed out. As we were leaving the parking lot, Bill commented on the poor man in the parking lot who couldn’t get his car started. “Sucks to be him,” he said.
“Should we offer a jump?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t help him,” Bill replied. “His engine is turning over, it just won’t start. Might be his fuel pump.”
We had, of course, forgotten all about the man within five minutes as we made our way to Tonto National Park.
Saguaro Lake as seen from our picnic spot.
We drove up to Saguaro Lake, parked our car, and walked up some stairs to a lovely picnic spot overlooking the lake. As we enjoyed our sandwiches and the view, I was thinking about my mom and dad and how much they would have loved that spot. In fact, I told Bill that if Mom and Dad were alive and lived where we do, they would almost certainly have driven the 12 or 15 miles to the lake at least once a week to eat a picnic lunch.
When Mom and Dad lived in Summit County, Colorado, when the weather was warm enough they would often pack a lunch or pick up sandwiches from Mad Munchies and go to Lake Dillon to enjoy the view and the beautiful weather. Mom was a great picnicker. In fact, as Bill and I walked to our picnic table yesterday, I commented on the fact that if I were my mother, I would have remembered to bring a tablecloth to set on the cement picnic table. She loved picnics and had them nailed – down to the summer sausage and cheese.
Anyway, after we ate, we used the simply LOVELY toilet (with its lock that was apparently just for decoration and the nonexistent washing facility), and then headed back to our car to drive to the Butcher Jones trailhead, a short ways further down the road.
Bill pressed the ignition, and as you have likely figured out by now, nothing happened. The engine didn’t even turn over. See? We weren’t even as lucky as the man in the Subway parking lot. So here we were, miles from home, with a car that wouldn’t start.
I quickly begged Mom and St. Frances of Rome (the patron saint of cars, whose guardian angel allegedly lit her path with a lantern when she would travel) to pray that our car would start. Lo, and behold, start it did, though barely.
Obviously our hike was a no-go. We made it home safely, and instead of
Bill overseeing the installation of his battery. No doubt the installers appreciated his help…..
spending a lovely afternoon walking alongside Saguaro Lake, we plodded around Walmart dodging electric scooters while getting a new battery installed.
Maybe Thursday will be the day we actually hike, although I’m making no plans because as the old Yiddish proverb tells us, Man plans, God laughs.
The people here in the Valley of the Sun do love them some weather. I think it’s probably because they really have so little of it. Variation, that is.
Threat of what desert-dwellers excitedly refer to as a “weather event” (which can mean anything from a drizzle of rain, just enough breeze to make the topmost fronds of your palm tree barely sway, or a haboob strong enough to blow away a small javalina) will bring the most sensible people down to the edge of their driveway to take a gander at just what is comin’ in. “A-yup,” these otherwise normal-speaking folks will say to their neighbors who are all also at the edge of their driveway, “we’ve got some weather comin’ in.”
It’s like watching the townfolk in the movie The Music Man waiting to see what the Wells Fargo wagon was bringing to them.
As for the weather people, er, meteorologists, they practically quiver with excitement when they can report something besides temperatures. They are simply breathless at the prospect of a so-called incoming weather event. I must say that it drives me crazy that the women weather….er, meteorologists here wear cocktail dresses to report the weather; I think they just want to do something to spice up the forecast.
My brother has always claimed that they just insert the occasional cloud in the 7-day forecast picture to get people’s hopes up. My theory is that’s why someone inserted the ridiculously high temperatures on the Fox News weather forecast that I linked to in last Saturday’s blog. Let’s shake it up a bit, folks!
All this is to say that in the days immediately preceding the Super Bowl, the Phoenix metro area experienced a rare few days of gray skies and actual rain.
Now, when I say rain, I don’t mean downpours. Even what they call the Monsoon Season is what our friends in say, Seattle would call heavy rain showers. You know, something they might want to shove Seahawks Coach Pete Carroll out into about now.
But during the days just before the Super Bowl, Phoenix hosted a big golf tournament featuring Tiger Woods (who played the worst round of golf since he was wearing diapers). What a disappointment that the weather all three days was cloudy, and on the second day of the tournament it was, quite literally, rainy. It’s rarely rainy in Phoenix. As I said above, it might drizzle. The skies might be cloudy. But it rarely rains. Dang the luck.
But it’s rubbing off on Bill and I, because Sunday morning, there we were in our back yard in our pajamas taking pictures of the area behind our house that was draped in fog. It was mysterious and lovely.
The perfect weather event.
Mom, Dad, and Court on the day he celebrated his First Communion.
When my son Court was little, once in a while his cousin (and decidedly BEST friend) BJ, who is almost exactly the same age as Court, would come for a sleepover and spend a day with him at his elementary school – St. Vincent de Paul Catholic School in Denver.
As BJ tells the story, he was allowed to sit next to Court during the school day, and whenever the teacher would ask a question, Court would whisper the answer to BJ but would never raise his hand to be called upon. He was too shy. Quite unlike the Court of today who is a Very Important Program Manager – whatever that is, but it likely calls for telling people the answer out loud.
Anyway, BJ always goes on to say that during religion class, if Court was called upon to answer a question – no matter what the question was — his answer was always something along the line of “to be good and always obey God’s will.” According to Court and BJ, it was the all-purpose answer to any religion-based question and therefore you didn’t really have to work too hard on your Religion homework.
As in: Q) Who is God? A) God is the Supreme Being who expects you to be good and always obey his will; Q) What are the Ten Commandments? A) They are the rules by which we are good and always obey God’s will. And so forth….
I’m not sure that it is true that this phrase can be used to answer any religion class question, nor am I sure that they aren’t pulling my leg, but I thought of that yesterday while I was listening to St. Mark’s gospel and our All Saints Catholic Church pastor’s ensuing homily. Because every week as I try to take a message from the Mass readings, it seems like the message I hear is always the same: listen to God and always do his will.
I try to take one message from the Mass each week to remember throughout the next seven days. Sometimes it’s from the readings. Sometimes it’s from the homily. Sometimes it’s from the words of the Mass itself. Yesterday my takeaway was something that Father said in response to the gospel story about Jesus chasing out the unclean spirit from the man at the synagogue in Capernaum. “Even the unclean spirits listen and obey him,” the Jews said in surprise.
What our pastor said was , “If we listen to the Lord and do his will, he will fill our hearts with joy. Let that happen.”
In other words, be good and always obey God’s will! Court knew the answer all along.
Nana's Whimsies 