I have constantly been a little on the plump side of a size 10, but I could always carry it off. A woman just knows when she's cute, even at an older stage of life, but the past three years have been a little rough on my ego as well as my body. The only thing that keeps my lungs a-pumping is a heavy and constant dose of prednisone. Life saver it may be, but it has caused me to have cataracts in both my eyes, erosion of my teeth, skin that bleeds if I just touch it and sleep deprivation. The all time worst of these side effects, as far as I am concerned, is a thirty pound weight gain and a face that always reminds me of a big moon pie.
I just received news from my doctor that the diagnosis I thought would be the end of my lung problems and, ultimately, my weight problems was not to be. I have a condition that can only be helped by heavy and constant doses of prednisone. Okay, I won't look like Susan Sarandon when I'm 65, but do I have to look like Orson Wells? I still feel like Susan Sarandon.
I know people will believe that because I love to cook, I eat everything I make. I certainly look like a two fisted eater. I am not. My joy in cooking is to make food other people love to eat, and then keep asking them if they would like a second helping. The more they want - the happier I am. My wonderful son-in-law never says much about my cooking. He doesn't have to. He takes serving after serving. No wonder I love this boy so much.
As I've searched my soul recently, I think what I really love is people. Cooking is the excuse to have them near. When we lived in Maine, we set aside one Sunday a month not to have people over in our home for lunch or dinner. We needed some time to our selves. But, since we have moved to the south, it is harder to get together with folks than you would ever believe. Most everyone down here has family or life-long buddies, and, if they do eat with outsiders, it's usually at an Appleby's or someplace like that. Apparently, a man's home really is his castle here, and he surrounds it with a mote and hungry alligators. I am sure it's just because everyone is so busy today, but I am a pretty good cook.
A few days ago a girl friend of mine offered to come to my house. I was so surprised I said, "What? Do you mean it? She did. We shared nothing to eat or drink. She didn't want it. She wanted to spend time with me. We laughed and talked and acted silly - just the way I like it. If I could have, I would have offered her my larder, my purse, my home to show her how much I appreciated her time. I hated to let her leave without at least a cup of tea, but she said no.
I may grow bigger and bigger no matter how little I eat or how much I walk. There may be no list or line of folks waiting to taste my cooking, but it seems strange to me that God would give us gifts that no one wants. Maybe there's more to me than my Dutch oven. Maybe I have gifts that people do want and I just need to stop looking at the scale long enough to find them.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Driving Miss Crazy
My New England parents never owned a car until I was nineteen-years old. We walked or rode a city bus anywhere we had to go, and my dream, from the time I was a preteen until I passed my third attempt at a driving test, was to drive. From that day on, I learned to be an assertive (okay, aggressive) driver, and I learned from the best. Boston drivers (all time worst), Washington D.C drivers (contenders but chumps compared to Bostonians,) New England Turnpike drivers (ah! Route 95 - the dead zone) and New York City drivers (not much to add there) all did their worst to train rookies like me to "straighten up and fly right."
Most Northerners learned how to drive similarly, with attitudes varying from determined, to forceful, to hostile - ranging there from coercive, to a state of down right serious road-rage. But all of us learned one main rule that helped us survive the chaos. We knew every driver in front of us, in back of us, or to the left or right of us would do everything in his power to get ahead of the next guy. There was a stabilizing order to this disorder. Nothing tricky to figure out - just basic racing instinct, and it always worked. It was a high-speed dance on wheels that the majority of us learn to handle, and some of us even enjoy.
But, since I moved to the south almost twenty years ago, I have learned that the only thing you can expect down here is the unexplained unexpected, and I list, from the least annoying traffic practice, to the most mind-bending habits of the average Southern driver below:
1. No one knows how to drive in the snow, or back out of his driveway in bad weather, or so they say. A quarter of an inch of flurries will shut down an entire city work force and county school system, but somehow most everyone can make it to the mall.
2. A driver waiting at a stop sign will not pull out in front of an oncoming vehicle obviously planning on taking a right turn. You may have clearly turned on your right-hand signal only twenty-five feet ahead of the turn, and visibly slowed up to make that right-hand turn, but don't even offer the courtesy. The waiting vehicle will not trust a blinking turn signal. You are there to trick him, and purposely crash your nice new car into his 1989 pick-up truck, and don't think he doesn't know it.
3. No driver pulling up to a four-way stop sign, at the same time another vehicle pulls up, will make any first move to pull out. "The driver on the right always has the right of way" statute apparently is an unheard of rule here. Please refer to the assumption above that they know you are there to hit and harm their vehicle.
4. The first driver, at a green light waiting for oncoming traffic to clear in order to take a left turn, will not move up for any reason under the light - either to allow the next vehicle in back to get close enough to also take a left turn, or perhaps, to maneuver around the first car to continue straight ahead. Instead he will remain at the prescribed line he was originally compelled to stop at before the light turned green. You can plan on sitting through as many green lights as it takes, to allow the first car in line to feel completely safe that no car could possibly be visible from the oncoming direction.
5. Those drivers coming down the interstate highways in the slow lane, will not move over to the second, third or fourth lanes to allow you to move in from the entrance ramp. You are on your own to find a happy spot in the break-down lane, or stop dead in your tracks, while other drivers in back of you, who may not have noticed that you are stopped, are also trying to get onto the highway. Dicey, to put it mildly, but don't bother to get upset. They really don't know you exist.
6. Possibly the most annoying habit the Southern driver displays is to put his brakes on while approaching a green light. Is the driver hoping for a red light? Is he afraid of a yellow light likelihood? Down here, green means slow down. Okay, but then what the heck does yellow mean?
I've tried to adapt. I've really tried, but none of this makes any sense to me. How do I cope? I don't do drugs, and I can't drink and drive. So, what's left to sooth my "assertive" driving psyche - carb addiction. Carbs! - gotta have carbs, or maybe a southern chauffeur.
Recipe
Potato-Bacon Hash
Ingredients:
6 slices bacon
1 1/2 pounds Yukon gold potatoes, washed and cut into small chunks
1 bunch scallions, white and green parts
2 garlic cloves, minced
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Directions:
In a heavy skillet, cook the bacon until crisp. Remove to paper towel-lined plate.
Remove all but 1 tablespoon of the fat and return the pan to high heat.
Add the potatoes, white scallions, garlic, salt, pepper, and 1/4 cup water. Bring to a boil.
Cover, reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer until the potatoes are just tender, 8 to 10 minutes.
Add the bacon, broken into pieces. Cook, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes more.
Remove from heat, garnish with the green scallions, and serve.
Thought
The pace here is slower and nicer, but for those of us Type-A Northerners, born in the fast lane, it is a lesson in patience and humility. You might never change your driving methods in this strange and wonderful land, but neither will they.
Most Northerners learned how to drive similarly, with attitudes varying from determined, to forceful, to hostile - ranging there from coercive, to a state of down right serious road-rage. But all of us learned one main rule that helped us survive the chaos. We knew every driver in front of us, in back of us, or to the left or right of us would do everything in his power to get ahead of the next guy. There was a stabilizing order to this disorder. Nothing tricky to figure out - just basic racing instinct, and it always worked. It was a high-speed dance on wheels that the majority of us learn to handle, and some of us even enjoy.
But, since I moved to the south almost twenty years ago, I have learned that the only thing you can expect down here is the unexplained unexpected, and I list, from the least annoying traffic practice, to the most mind-bending habits of the average Southern driver below:
1. No one knows how to drive in the snow, or back out of his driveway in bad weather, or so they say. A quarter of an inch of flurries will shut down an entire city work force and county school system, but somehow most everyone can make it to the mall.
2. A driver waiting at a stop sign will not pull out in front of an oncoming vehicle obviously planning on taking a right turn. You may have clearly turned on your right-hand signal only twenty-five feet ahead of the turn, and visibly slowed up to make that right-hand turn, but don't even offer the courtesy. The waiting vehicle will not trust a blinking turn signal. You are there to trick him, and purposely crash your nice new car into his 1989 pick-up truck, and don't think he doesn't know it.
3. No driver pulling up to a four-way stop sign, at the same time another vehicle pulls up, will make any first move to pull out. "The driver on the right always has the right of way" statute apparently is an unheard of rule here. Please refer to the assumption above that they know you are there to hit and harm their vehicle.
4. The first driver, at a green light waiting for oncoming traffic to clear in order to take a left turn, will not move up for any reason under the light - either to allow the next vehicle in back to get close enough to also take a left turn, or perhaps, to maneuver around the first car to continue straight ahead. Instead he will remain at the prescribed line he was originally compelled to stop at before the light turned green. You can plan on sitting through as many green lights as it takes, to allow the first car in line to feel completely safe that no car could possibly be visible from the oncoming direction.
5. Those drivers coming down the interstate highways in the slow lane, will not move over to the second, third or fourth lanes to allow you to move in from the entrance ramp. You are on your own to find a happy spot in the break-down lane, or stop dead in your tracks, while other drivers in back of you, who may not have noticed that you are stopped, are also trying to get onto the highway. Dicey, to put it mildly, but don't bother to get upset. They really don't know you exist.
6. Possibly the most annoying habit the Southern driver displays is to put his brakes on while approaching a green light. Is the driver hoping for a red light? Is he afraid of a yellow light likelihood? Down here, green means slow down. Okay, but then what the heck does yellow mean?
I've tried to adapt. I've really tried, but none of this makes any sense to me. How do I cope? I don't do drugs, and I can't drink and drive. So, what's left to sooth my "assertive" driving psyche - carb addiction. Carbs! - gotta have carbs, or maybe a southern chauffeur.
Recipe
Potato-Bacon Hash
Ingredients:
6 slices bacon
1 1/2 pounds Yukon gold potatoes, washed and cut into small chunks
1 bunch scallions, white and green parts
2 garlic cloves, minced
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Directions:
In a heavy skillet, cook the bacon until crisp. Remove to paper towel-lined plate.
Remove all but 1 tablespoon of the fat and return the pan to high heat.
Add the potatoes, white scallions, garlic, salt, pepper, and 1/4 cup water. Bring to a boil.
Cover, reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer until the potatoes are just tender, 8 to 10 minutes.
Add the bacon, broken into pieces. Cook, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes more.
Remove from heat, garnish with the green scallions, and serve.
Thought
The pace here is slower and nicer, but for those of us Type-A Northerners, born in the fast lane, it is a lesson in patience and humility. You might never change your driving methods in this strange and wonderful land, but neither will they.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Trust His Heart
"God is too wise to be mistaken; God is too good to be unkind.
So when you don't understand, When you don't see His plan,
When you can't trace His hand, Trust His heart."
I heard this song for the first time in 1985.
Michael and I were in the process of adopting a baby boy we named Daniel, when he was only three weeks old. His mother, a young woman, who already had a baby ten-months older than Daniel, gladly allowed us to proceed with a private adoption. Daniel was a difficult, suffering cocaine addict from the day he was born, but this beautiful caramel colored little boy, with cocoa brown eyes, owned us, including my mother and our Shannan, completely.
Michael worked night shifts so he and my mom could take care of Daniel days, and I worked days teaching so Shannan and I could be there nights. It truly did take a village to look after our Daniel. This baby endured withdrawal agonies for weeks, and we endured it with him. After a few months, all of his symptoms dissipated, and we began to see the wonderful child under all that pain.
One afternoon, I returned home from my job, and came through the kitchen door to see Michael and my mom ashen faced and hopeless . I asked what had happened, and only Michael could speak. He took me in his arms, and told me Daniel's birth mother had come with a social worker that morning to take her unwanted son back. It turned out that she realized she could be making double the welfare money with two babies.
"Why didn't you call me?" I screamed at him. He just said there was no point. Nothing could be changed. She had all the right papers, and we had nothing. He saw no point in destroying me any sooner than he had to. I went into the deepest depression of my life. I moved through each day like a dead woman. Church was a joke. No God I wanted to know would have allowed our baby to be taken, and He sure wouldn't have allow that woman to take back a child we knew would be neglected.
I hated Daniel's birth mother, and I hated God. No one at church even asked me how I was doing. I assumed they cared, but I guess I've never been able to hide my feelings. I am sure I didn't appear very approachable. Months again went by. I lost weight, and pictured walking off into one of our Maine "glacier like" snow banks, until one night, some of our friends from church and some of my teacher buddies came to our house all dressed as clowns and filled our home with balloons, cookies and laughter. How do you keep from laughing at grown men and women you see every Sunday in their best, now dressed as Bozos wearing make-up on their faces and wig hats on their heads? The healing started whether I liked it or not.
The following Sunday night service, a group of college students from Boston came to our neck of the Maine woods, and sang songs I had heard over and over again for years. I listened halfheartedly until they sang, "Trust His Heart." It all became pretty clear. I wasn't supposed to understand or even agree. I was supposed to trust.
Thought
I have had losses nearly as bad in the years that have passed since losing our Daniel, but never to the point of not trusting the one who made Daniel.
So when you don't understand, When you don't see His plan,
When you can't trace His hand, Trust His heart."
I heard this song for the first time in 1985.
Michael and I were in the process of adopting a baby boy we named Daniel, when he was only three weeks old. His mother, a young woman, who already had a baby ten-months older than Daniel, gladly allowed us to proceed with a private adoption. Daniel was a difficult, suffering cocaine addict from the day he was born, but this beautiful caramel colored little boy, with cocoa brown eyes, owned us, including my mother and our Shannan, completely.
Michael worked night shifts so he and my mom could take care of Daniel days, and I worked days teaching so Shannan and I could be there nights. It truly did take a village to look after our Daniel. This baby endured withdrawal agonies for weeks, and we endured it with him. After a few months, all of his symptoms dissipated, and we began to see the wonderful child under all that pain.
One afternoon, I returned home from my job, and came through the kitchen door to see Michael and my mom ashen faced and hopeless . I asked what had happened, and only Michael could speak. He took me in his arms, and told me Daniel's birth mother had come with a social worker that morning to take her unwanted son back. It turned out that she realized she could be making double the welfare money with two babies.
"Why didn't you call me?" I screamed at him. He just said there was no point. Nothing could be changed. She had all the right papers, and we had nothing. He saw no point in destroying me any sooner than he had to. I went into the deepest depression of my life. I moved through each day like a dead woman. Church was a joke. No God I wanted to know would have allowed our baby to be taken, and He sure wouldn't have allow that woman to take back a child we knew would be neglected.
I hated Daniel's birth mother, and I hated God. No one at church even asked me how I was doing. I assumed they cared, but I guess I've never been able to hide my feelings. I am sure I didn't appear very approachable. Months again went by. I lost weight, and pictured walking off into one of our Maine "glacier like" snow banks, until one night, some of our friends from church and some of my teacher buddies came to our house all dressed as clowns and filled our home with balloons, cookies and laughter. How do you keep from laughing at grown men and women you see every Sunday in their best, now dressed as Bozos wearing make-up on their faces and wig hats on their heads? The healing started whether I liked it or not.
The following Sunday night service, a group of college students from Boston came to our neck of the Maine woods, and sang songs I had heard over and over again for years. I listened halfheartedly until they sang, "Trust His Heart." It all became pretty clear. I wasn't supposed to understand or even agree. I was supposed to trust.
Thought
I have had losses nearly as bad in the years that have passed since losing our Daniel, but never to the point of not trusting the one who made Daniel.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
A Purposful Life
History, the study and drama of it, has always been my love. American history is my passion. I always picture my heroes standing on a cliff hearing from on high what they would do with their lives. I can see the Father of our Country hearing, "George Washington, your purpose in life is to be a living example for a country yet to be born." The Great Emancipator" would hear, "Abraham Lincoln, your purpose in life is to set free those held by tyranny and bondage." I have always wanted my life to be great - not important or famous, but purposeful. I am still waiting for that voice of destiny to say, "Noreen Birney, your purpose in live is..."
There always seemed to be so much time to do something heroic, but time slips by now in decades, not years. I am not looking for a reason to live. Heck, just getting up in the morning works well as reason enough, but I have always felt a destiny or purpose inside me waiting to happen. Does that destiny go away after menopause? Is it killing time until I hit 70 or 80? Is it staring me in the face, and I am too myopic to see it? I don't know, but here I am, on call like I am for my bosses - 24/7.
I love being a wife, a mother, grandmother, a daughter, a sister, an aunt and a friend, and I know the value of these positions - wouldn't trade them for anything. But don't all of us want to be more than the sum of who we are related to? Perhaps just living through the everyday trip from home, to work, to church, to home again is heroic enough. It's certainly not an easy tour of duty, but I feel like a combat pilot confined to desk duty in Nebraska, when I want to be in the air. Give me my "wings" Lord, give me my "wings." In the meantime, I will make a chocolate butter cream cake.
Chocolate Cake
Ingredients:
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups good cocoa powder
2 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup light brown sugar, packed
3 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
3 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups buttermilk, at room temperature
3/4 cup sour cream, at room temperature
3 tablespoons brewed coffee
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter and flour a 12 by 18 by 1 1/2-inch sheet pan.
In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt.
In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugars on high speed until light, approximately 5 minutes. Add the eggs and vanilla and mix well. Combine the buttermilk, sour cream, and coffee. On low speed, add the flour mixture and the buttermilk mixture alternately in thirds, beginning with the buttermilk mixture and ending with the flour mixture. Mix the batter only until blended.
Pour the batter into the prepared sheet pan, smooth the top with a spatula, and bake in the center of the oven for 25 to 30 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool to room temperature before frosting.
Butter Cream Frosting
Ingredients:
2 cups sugar
2/3 cup water
6 extra-large egg whites, at room temperature
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 1/4 pounds (5 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
Combine the sugar with 2/3 cup water in a medium heavy-bottomed saucepan and, without stirring, bring to a boil. Cover the saucepan and allow the mixture to boil until the sugar dissolves. Uncover and continue boiling until the mixture reaches 240 degrees F on a candy thermometer. Pour the syrup into a heat-proof measuring cup.
Place the egg whites and cream of tartar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment and beat on high speed until the eggs form stiff peaks. With the mixer on high speed, slowly pour the syrup into the egg whites. Continue beating on high speed until the mixture is absolutely at room temperature, about 10 to 15 minutes.
With the mixer on medium speed, add the butter, 1 tablespoon at a time, and then add the vanilla and liqueur. (If the mixture becomes runny, the meringue was too warm and the butter melted. Chill slightly and beat again.) Add the food coloring and combine.
Thought
Private Birney, reporting for duty. Sir
There always seemed to be so much time to do something heroic, but time slips by now in decades, not years. I am not looking for a reason to live. Heck, just getting up in the morning works well as reason enough, but I have always felt a destiny or purpose inside me waiting to happen. Does that destiny go away after menopause? Is it killing time until I hit 70 or 80? Is it staring me in the face, and I am too myopic to see it? I don't know, but here I am, on call like I am for my bosses - 24/7.
I love being a wife, a mother, grandmother, a daughter, a sister, an aunt and a friend, and I know the value of these positions - wouldn't trade them for anything. But don't all of us want to be more than the sum of who we are related to? Perhaps just living through the everyday trip from home, to work, to church, to home again is heroic enough. It's certainly not an easy tour of duty, but I feel like a combat pilot confined to desk duty in Nebraska, when I want to be in the air. Give me my "wings" Lord, give me my "wings." In the meantime, I will make a chocolate butter cream cake.
Chocolate Cake
Ingredients:
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups good cocoa powder
2 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup light brown sugar, packed
3 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
3 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups buttermilk, at room temperature
3/4 cup sour cream, at room temperature
3 tablespoons brewed coffee
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter and flour a 12 by 18 by 1 1/2-inch sheet pan.
In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt.
In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugars on high speed until light, approximately 5 minutes. Add the eggs and vanilla and mix well. Combine the buttermilk, sour cream, and coffee. On low speed, add the flour mixture and the buttermilk mixture alternately in thirds, beginning with the buttermilk mixture and ending with the flour mixture. Mix the batter only until blended.
Pour the batter into the prepared sheet pan, smooth the top with a spatula, and bake in the center of the oven for 25 to 30 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool to room temperature before frosting.
Butter Cream Frosting
Ingredients:
2 cups sugar
2/3 cup water
6 extra-large egg whites, at room temperature
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 1/4 pounds (5 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
Combine the sugar with 2/3 cup water in a medium heavy-bottomed saucepan and, without stirring, bring to a boil. Cover the saucepan and allow the mixture to boil until the sugar dissolves. Uncover and continue boiling until the mixture reaches 240 degrees F on a candy thermometer. Pour the syrup into a heat-proof measuring cup.
Place the egg whites and cream of tartar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment and beat on high speed until the eggs form stiff peaks. With the mixer on high speed, slowly pour the syrup into the egg whites. Continue beating on high speed until the mixture is absolutely at room temperature, about 10 to 15 minutes.
With the mixer on medium speed, add the butter, 1 tablespoon at a time, and then add the vanilla and liqueur. (If the mixture becomes runny, the meringue was too warm and the butter melted. Chill slightly and beat again.) Add the food coloring and combine.
Thought
Private Birney, reporting for duty. Sir
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Jake the Snake
Jacob Daniel, my youngest grandson has been called "Jake the Snake" since the day he was born mainly because I've always liked the name. The Snake, and I are buds. He, at age 11, is the last of my daughter's progeny, and I take every advantage I can to spend time with this boy, until he too, goes the way of the other two grandchildren - young adulthood. Jake is a tall, lean, athletic machine who can also sing, act and schmooze his way into anyone's heart with his quirky grin and purposely messed up hair. He loves his extended family as much as his Papa and I do. He would travel with us anywhere to visit relatives he has never met before, and add them to his list of loved ones. He is sensitive and comical and typically preteen. In other words - perfect.
He and I are movie buffs. I take him to any silly, crazy movie he wants to see, waste money on over priced popcorn and Pepsi, and enjoy every minute of it. As he has matured, we choose films both of us love - still silly and crazy, but, as it turns out, we both like the same SyFi stuff, don't like really scary things and we both laugh at people running into walls and landing on their butts.
One incredible thing about Snake that stands out in my mind is his uncanny way of picking up tunes and singing melodies that he's only just heard. I have an annoying habit of making up ridiculous song for my kids. Jake can sing along to any song I create while I'm making it up. The first time I noticed this was when he was only six or seven months old. I know I sound like a typically bragging grandmother, but I heard this baby hum and repeat the tune I was singing for him. Granted it was "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round," but HE HUMMED THE TUNE!!!! All three of my g'kids are musical and sing beautifully, but Jake has this mysterious ability to read new songs in his head as they are being sung. Pretty cool, huh?
He has a hardy appetite that would make any teenage boy cry "uncle," and I love cooking for him, but his favorite food is soft Italian bread slathered with butter or toast slathered with butter. I don't usually make bread, except Irish Soda Bread, and that recipe was used for my granddaughter, Emily's memory.
My Jacob is a recipe unto himself.
He is:
one part love
one part generosity
one part humor
one part flirt
and all boy
He and I are movie buffs. I take him to any silly, crazy movie he wants to see, waste money on over priced popcorn and Pepsi, and enjoy every minute of it. As he has matured, we choose films both of us love - still silly and crazy, but, as it turns out, we both like the same SyFi stuff, don't like really scary things and we both laugh at people running into walls and landing on their butts.
One incredible thing about Snake that stands out in my mind is his uncanny way of picking up tunes and singing melodies that he's only just heard. I have an annoying habit of making up ridiculous song for my kids. Jake can sing along to any song I create while I'm making it up. The first time I noticed this was when he was only six or seven months old. I know I sound like a typically bragging grandmother, but I heard this baby hum and repeat the tune I was singing for him. Granted it was "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round," but HE HUMMED THE TUNE!!!! All three of my g'kids are musical and sing beautifully, but Jake has this mysterious ability to read new songs in his head as they are being sung. Pretty cool, huh?
He has a hardy appetite that would make any teenage boy cry "uncle," and I love cooking for him, but his favorite food is soft Italian bread slathered with butter or toast slathered with butter. I don't usually make bread, except Irish Soda Bread, and that recipe was used for my granddaughter, Emily's memory.
My Jacob is a recipe unto himself.
He is:
one part love
one part generosity
one part humor
one part flirt
and all boy
Sir Royal Phantom Menace
My real husband, Michael, is one of nine children. He is the quintessential middle child; four before and four after. His mom had no time or interest in having an animal to care for on top of the brood she already was overwhelmed by, so none of the Birney Bunch ever became pet lovers - pet likers, yes, but not lovers. When Michael married into my tiny family, he was confronted with a fanatical clan of animal "worshipers." He tried to adapt, but hating dirt or fur as he did, it was an ordeal for him and for us too. He put up with our "animal shelter" of a home for years and didn't exactly suffer in silence. Our dogs had to be outdoor dogs or nothing. By the new millennium, I began to wonder why we had dogs at all, if we could never pet them or see them without making a pilgrimage to the garage or dog lot. I started to pray for an in-door dog that Michael would love too.
On Christmas Day 2001, Michael and I were invited to a holiday dinner with our daughter's family at a family friends' home. The family were poodle people. There were three of the toy yappers. One in particular was particularly yappy and feisty. He was a pedigree Phantom Toy Poodle, with markings that made him look like he had just been to a stylist to have his fur highlighted. His AKC name was Sir Royal Phantom Menace, but they called him Phantom. I could tell they didn't appreciate his high spirits and brain piercing barks, and I knew this was God at work right in front of my eyes. I mentioned to the wife how much I had been praying for an inside dog that wouldn't shed and how much I would love to have one just like her little puppy. Her eyes lit up like I had just answered the "24 Million Dollar Question." "Would you like to have him," she asked. She was offering me a $400 neutered dog with his papers, crate, leash and even his chewy. I said yes, wondering what the heck could be the matter with this dog. Was he the incarnation of Kudjo? "Oh no," she said. They just had too many male dogs in the house.
I began my plan to convince Michael that it was his idea to bring this bundle of fluff home. God is great! Somehow I did it, and Phantom (oh, how I hated that name) came home with us that day. He was one year old and full of fire. Michael maneuvered around him, but it was my job to walk him, feed him, manage his hyper activities and control his mind numbing barking, while still soothing the savage beast in my husband, who kept telling me he now knew why the family was so eager to be generous.
Finally, as months went by, Michael grew to adore this dog, now called Phannie. Phannie had turned out to be a heart-taker and a man-maker. I have never seen a person's attitude transition from hostile to apathetic to pure abject love in my life. Our poodle became our constant companion. If Phannie couldn't go somewhere; we couldn't go there. There was no distance he did not accompany us: Maine, New York, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, South Carolina, the North Carolina coast and beyond.
As Michael's love for Phannie increased, so did his love for every animal. We became genuine dog rescuers, and over the past nine years have rescued, found homes for or kept twenty dogs. Some of our furry family have passed on until today we have five dogs that are our forever friends: Phannie, now ten-years old; Remington Steel aka Remi, a silver toy poodle, six or seven-years old; McSweeney aka Mickie, a black lab, four-years old; Brody, a basset hound mix, seven or eight-years old; and the most recent addition to the pack, Rex,a ten-year old or older pedigree German Shepherd we found dieing on the side of our road from heart worms, invertebra hip disease, heat exhaustion and abuse. Rex has been with us over a year now. He doesn't hear very well, as ear mite ate threw his ear drums and his walking is minimal, but for as long as he lives, he will be loved and well treated. Only Phannie and Remi are actually allowed in our living area, and both are traveling dogs. The other three have our basement garage with a doggy door that allows them access to a fenced in yard and our deck. There are beds and dog houses every where in case one of them would prefer an evening al fresco. I love them all, but since I developed asthma thirteen years ago, I don't get to be around the three very often. Michael is their main man. He spends time with them brushing them, playing fetch with them and feeding them only the best food money can buy.
I love this new man, but sometimes I wonder if I should have prayed quite so hard. We have had opportunities to go places and do things that he will not consider, because he will not leave the other three with people who would not understand their needs or be comfortable around them. That includes everyone but him. Oh well, he's my dog-whisperer, but this has really taught me to "be careful what you pray for."
Recipe:
Fresh Strawberry Bellini
Ingredients
1 bottle sparkling cider
2 cups pureed and strained fresh strawberries
Special equipment: Blender, strainer, iced glasses, pitcher
Directions
Place glasses in the freezer for 20 minutes. Open the prosecco and let it stand in an ice bucket for 5 minutes.
Into a pitcher, pour the 2 cups pureed strawberries, 1/4 cup sugar, 1 Tbs orange rind. Gently pour in the bottle of prosecco, and stir gently to combine.
Thought:
Living with a a man like Michael and a dog like Phannie will encourage one to make this recipe.
On Christmas Day 2001, Michael and I were invited to a holiday dinner with our daughter's family at a family friends' home. The family were poodle people. There were three of the toy yappers. One in particular was particularly yappy and feisty. He was a pedigree Phantom Toy Poodle, with markings that made him look like he had just been to a stylist to have his fur highlighted. His AKC name was Sir Royal Phantom Menace, but they called him Phantom. I could tell they didn't appreciate his high spirits and brain piercing barks, and I knew this was God at work right in front of my eyes. I mentioned to the wife how much I had been praying for an inside dog that wouldn't shed and how much I would love to have one just like her little puppy. Her eyes lit up like I had just answered the "24 Million Dollar Question." "Would you like to have him," she asked. She was offering me a $400 neutered dog with his papers, crate, leash and even his chewy. I said yes, wondering what the heck could be the matter with this dog. Was he the incarnation of Kudjo? "Oh no," she said. They just had too many male dogs in the house.
I began my plan to convince Michael that it was his idea to bring this bundle of fluff home. God is great! Somehow I did it, and Phantom (oh, how I hated that name) came home with us that day. He was one year old and full of fire. Michael maneuvered around him, but it was my job to walk him, feed him, manage his hyper activities and control his mind numbing barking, while still soothing the savage beast in my husband, who kept telling me he now knew why the family was so eager to be generous.
Finally, as months went by, Michael grew to adore this dog, now called Phannie. Phannie had turned out to be a heart-taker and a man-maker. I have never seen a person's attitude transition from hostile to apathetic to pure abject love in my life. Our poodle became our constant companion. If Phannie couldn't go somewhere; we couldn't go there. There was no distance he did not accompany us: Maine, New York, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, South Carolina, the North Carolina coast and beyond.
As Michael's love for Phannie increased, so did his love for every animal. We became genuine dog rescuers, and over the past nine years have rescued, found homes for or kept twenty dogs. Some of our furry family have passed on until today we have five dogs that are our forever friends: Phannie, now ten-years old; Remington Steel aka Remi, a silver toy poodle, six or seven-years old; McSweeney aka Mickie, a black lab, four-years old; Brody, a basset hound mix, seven or eight-years old; and the most recent addition to the pack, Rex,a ten-year old or older pedigree German Shepherd we found dieing on the side of our road from heart worms, invertebra hip disease, heat exhaustion and abuse. Rex has been with us over a year now. He doesn't hear very well, as ear mite ate threw his ear drums and his walking is minimal, but for as long as he lives, he will be loved and well treated. Only Phannie and Remi are actually allowed in our living area, and both are traveling dogs. The other three have our basement garage with a doggy door that allows them access to a fenced in yard and our deck. There are beds and dog houses every where in case one of them would prefer an evening al fresco. I love them all, but since I developed asthma thirteen years ago, I don't get to be around the three very often. Michael is their main man. He spends time with them brushing them, playing fetch with them and feeding them only the best food money can buy.
I love this new man, but sometimes I wonder if I should have prayed quite so hard. We have had opportunities to go places and do things that he will not consider, because he will not leave the other three with people who would not understand their needs or be comfortable around them. That includes everyone but him. Oh well, he's my dog-whisperer, but this has really taught me to "be careful what you pray for."
Recipe:
Fresh Strawberry Bellini
Ingredients
1 bottle sparkling cider
2 cups pureed and strained fresh strawberries
Special equipment: Blender, strainer, iced glasses, pitcher
Directions
Place glasses in the freezer for 20 minutes. Open the prosecco and let it stand in an ice bucket for 5 minutes.
Into a pitcher, pour the 2 cups pureed strawberries, 1/4 cup sugar, 1 Tbs orange rind. Gently pour in the bottle of prosecco, and stir gently to combine.
Thought:
Living with a a man like Michael and a dog like Phannie will encourage one to make this recipe.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
High Heels on Old Ladies
I have been out of it for a couple of years due to COPD and a few other annoying life beaters, but today, as I was ambling down my walk-way dragging my oxygen tank behind me, I remembered that I was wearing my favorite high heeled shoes. It may seem a little incongruous to try and picture a sixty-three year old woman, rather on her last legs, finishing off those legs with a pair of Jessica Simpson three inch heels, but I am that happy paradox. I only have one pair of flat shoes. Why would I need more? I have one pair of walking shoes that I quickly remove as soon as my husband and I complete our nightly exercise routine. But I have twenty-two three-inch high heel shoes. How bad can anything get or how low can I feel if I can still wear and carry off high heels?
Nothing makes me feel more like "me" than to walk tall and stride long in my heels. I don't care how much my toes hurt or how scary it is to bobble down a steep descending sidewalk in my spikes. I would rather throw myself in front of an oncoming bus before I show pain or fear or choose comfort over my long, tall shoes.
When I am in my high heel glory, I feel taller. Not just the tall that a few inches add to my 5'3" frame, but really tall and alive and going somewhere, even if it's just to bop into A.C. Moore's to buy yarn for my granddaughter's afghan. I am a woman with purpose and a plan, when I wear my heels. Do I wear them in my house? No, I go barefoot as much as possible, but would I wear them to the grocery store? Every time.
One day I won't be able to wear these wonderful self-esteem builders. I mourn the coming of that time. On that day, I pray I will not have a single sweat shirt to my name, or pair of elastic-waist pants in my dresser. Let my concession to comfortable shoes be the only chink in my feminine armor. Until that "giving-up mornin'," I pray I can continue my journey in my high heel shoes, firm in the hope that my surrender to practicality will not alter the fact that, for as long as God gave strength, one woman gave her all to hold back that point in what seems to be every woman's destiny to say, "But my sneakers are so comfortable."
Nothing makes me feel more like "me" than to walk tall and stride long in my heels. I don't care how much my toes hurt or how scary it is to bobble down a steep descending sidewalk in my spikes. I would rather throw myself in front of an oncoming bus before I show pain or fear or choose comfort over my long, tall shoes.
When I am in my high heel glory, I feel taller. Not just the tall that a few inches add to my 5'3" frame, but really tall and alive and going somewhere, even if it's just to bop into A.C. Moore's to buy yarn for my granddaughter's afghan. I am a woman with purpose and a plan, when I wear my heels. Do I wear them in my house? No, I go barefoot as much as possible, but would I wear them to the grocery store? Every time.
One day I won't be able to wear these wonderful self-esteem builders. I mourn the coming of that time. On that day, I pray I will not have a single sweat shirt to my name, or pair of elastic-waist pants in my dresser. Let my concession to comfortable shoes be the only chink in my feminine armor. Until that "giving-up mornin'," I pray I can continue my journey in my high heel shoes, firm in the hope that my surrender to practicality will not alter the fact that, for as long as God gave strength, one woman gave her all to hold back that point in what seems to be every woman's destiny to say, "But my sneakers are so comfortable."
I offer this comfort food recipe, Cream Biscuits, in distinct contrast to my "form over function" persona.
Recipe
Dry
2 cups all purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
Wet
1 ½ cups heavy cream
Adjust the oven rack to upper-middle position and heat oven to 425 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in a medium bowl. Add cream and stir with wooden spoon until dough forms, about 30 seconds. Transfer dough from bowl to countertop, and knead by hand just until smooth, but don’t be afraid to knead this puppy. Eight or nine times should do it, but it stand up pretty well to abuse. Roll out the dough to about ½ inch thick. Cut biscuits into rounds (I use a 3” biscuit cutter) and I usually get 10 to 13 biscuits. Place biscuits on the parchment-lined baking sheet and then give each biscuit a light punch with your thumb. This helps it to rise. I don’t know why, but it does. Bake until golden brown, about 15 minutes, but time for 7 ½ minutes; turn baking sheet so that the ones in the front are now in the back. Time for another 7 ½ minutes and remove. After you put biscuits on a cooling rack, slather the tops with butter. Serve hot or put in a plastic bag in the pantry and they will stay pretty fresh for a couple of days.
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