The Deglamorization of the Sunday Special

If I were to turn on the news right now, I'm pretty sure I'd hear about violence in the middle east, one or more of the many politicians considering a run for the presidency in 2016, or speculation about who's to blame for the Patriots' underinflated footballs. By not turning on the news, I'm free to let my mind wander until it stops to ponder the decline in status of fried chicken.

All through my childhood, fried chicken was the star of Sunday dinner. Every single week after church, my grandmother would fry up a store-bought hen and serve it with mashed potatoes, thick white gravy, whole-kernel corn and Brown 'N Serve rolls. In the summertime the corn would still be on the cob (we called it "roastin' ears"), fresh from my grandfather's garden, and thick slices of home-grown tomatoes were added to the menu.

Frying chicken was messy work. It dusted the kitchen with flour and sealed it with a coat of grease, but Mammaw put on her apron and did it anyway, because she knew how much we all liked that meal. When I grew up and had a family of my own, I followed her example.

Once a week, every week, I fried chicken. I cooked it for an evening meal, though, not at midday, and it might have been a Sunday or it might not have been. The chicken was a favorite whenever we had it, but it wasn't as special as it used to be when it marked a specific day and time.

Somewhere along in my daughter's school years, Colonel Sanders came onto the scene. Once in a blue moon, usually if we were traveling, we'd stop at a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant for a meal. Fried chicken eaten out, no matter how tasty it was, didn't seem special at all. I still cooked it regularly at home.

By the time we moved to Louisiana, KFC had locations all over the place. Soon afterward, Popeye's franchises came to town. When I considered the time and the mess involved in frying a chicken, the idea of stopping at a drive-thru and bringing home a bucket or bag of it fried elsewhere seemed too good to pass up. I traveled that greasy, slippery slope time after time, and it's been years since I've fried a chicken. I don't imagine I ever will again.

As delicious as fried chicken is, it's become fast food, no more special than burgers or tacos or pizza--something to eat because it's convenient, something to avoid if you care about your arteries. I like it still and eat it once every couple of months, whether I should or not. The delicious flavor is still there, but the magic that used to come with it never makes it into the box.

Potato Soup Weather

Last night wasn't the first night I've turned the heater on this year, but it was the first time the heater has had to work so hard to keep the house warm. Tomorrow it's supposed to be ten degrees colder, possibly breaking a record according to the local TV weatherman.

The sky is gray and dreary this morning, but the oak tree next to our driveway is more colorful than I've ever seen it. Vivid foliage is a rare treat this far south.

Today I'm especially aware of the blessings of retirement. There's no place I need to go, nothing I need to do that would take me out into the cold. The dogs have been outside twice this morning and don't seem eager to go again anytime soon. Last time they went out it was raining lightly, which I didn't realize until they all came back wet. It tickles me how firmly their routines are established in their canine minds, how patient the four of them are as they line up and wait to be dried off with a towel.

Tonight we'll have potato soup and cornbread for supper, a favorite cold-weather meal that I haven't had in way too long. I haven't started cooking yet, but I'm almost salivating just thinking about the smell of potatoes and onions simmering on the stove.

And...half a minute ago the dogs asked to go out again. The sun came out right as I opened the door, giving the appearance of warmer weather, but the wind has kicked up and an icy blast nearly blew the door out of my hand. It's definitely colder than it was a few hours ago. Time to pull out the sweatpants.

I hope it's cozy and colorful where you are today.

Teen Town, 'Tween Town

A couple of years ago my cousin Karen sent me a manila envelope full of letters I'd written to her between 1955 and 1957. Deep down I'd always known I was a geeky, awkward adolescent, not one of the cool kids, and any shred of doubt I might have had about that was erased when I read those letters nearly sixty years after I wrote them. This one, dated Jan. 15, 1957, is a good example:

At my current age I don't have the patience to turn that letter upside down and all around to read what I wrote back then, although the straightforward, left-to-right section in the bottom left-hand corner jumps out at me: "You bet I saw Elvis on T.V. the other night. I wouldn't have missed it for anything."

I was not alone in the geeky department. Karen wrote back to me in invisible ink, as evidenced by my next letter to her, dated January 24, 1957:

See how I oh-so-cleverly replaced all the punctuation marks with the spelled-out names of the punctuation marks? Gah!

Anyway, here's a translation of the second paragraph of the second letter: "I guess I haven't told you about Springfield's new Teen Town, have I? I really like it! We have dancing, ping pong, and bowling. There is also a television set. It is open on Friday and Saturday nights from seven to eleven o'clock. Most of the time we use the juke box for music, but once a month we will have a dance band. There is a snack bar where we can get hamburgers, hot dogs, potato chips, candy bars, ice cream, et cetera. We can also get almost any flavor of pop for a nickel. The first night of Teen Town they had free cokes and potato chips. Tommy [my ninth-grade boyfriend] drank nine cokes that night. It opened January fifth and I have gone one night each weekend since then. I sure do hope it succeeds."

The letters may be those of a silly little girl, but it was the budding young woman inside her who showed up regularly at Teen Town. What I've remembered all these years isn't the junk food or the ping pong or the bowling. On the rare occasions when Teen Town has crossed my mind since the last time I was there, what I've remembered is slow-dancing with Tommy to this song:

The song is "Gone," by Ferlin Husky.
Thanks to Michael Daigle for posting the video and lyrics on YouTube.

Simple Pleasures

What a lovely day this is! It's bright and sunny, with the temperature hovering somewhere in  the mid-80-degree range, just enough of a drop to take the abject misery out of summer.

After fasting overnight, I hit the road early this morning to go for more blood tests. The woman in line behind me at the lab was holding a three-week old baby girl, whom I volunteered to hold while the mother filled out paperwork. At first the mom declined, but minutes later, when she had to go to her car to retrieve insurance forms, she approached and asked if I'd still be willing to hold the baby. Of course, I would.

The baby slept the whole time she was in my arms. That's good, because I'd have hated to have panicked in front of strangers. I loved having a close-up view of her tiny, delicate features. Her brown skin and straight black hair were so different from the pale pinkness and blonde fuzz of my own children and grandchildren, but were every bit as precious and beautiful. In fact, I can't really think of anything more beautiful than a newborn baby. Although Last Comic Standing's Rod Man makes a good point to the contrary.

The television in the waiting room was showing a clip about a lost dog's reunion with its owners. From where I was sitting I could see all the other patients in the room. Everyone was turned toward the TV, and every face wore the sweetest, gentlest expression when the dog saw its people for the first time. Happy dogs do that to people.

When the lab technician called my first name, I jumped up and followed her back through a curtained door, where she handed me a gown and asked me to change. What?!? I have to strip for blood tests? Turns out a different woman named Linda was there for x-rays. I knew lots of Lindas in elementary school, but these days it's rare to run into another one.

Later, when it was my real turn, I felt sorry for the lab tech who tried to draw blood. She blew the veins on her first two tries, which made her so nervous she almost gave up, saying she didn't want to stick me again and suggesting that we wait for another, more experienced tech to return to the office. I talked her down off the ledge and assured her the third time would be the charm, which turned out to be true. I hope her bad experience with my stingy old veins didn't destroy the confidence she needed for the rest of her patients today.

On the way home I stopped at McDonald's two minutes before they stopped serving breakfast and scored a Diet Coke, hash browns, and a bacon-egg-and-cheese biscuit, probably my last one. I've been cheating on the low-carb diet for months now (hell, not cheating--over-indulging--occasionally binging), as evidenced by tight-fitting clothes and higher cholesterol levels. I know I need to stop that. The only thing that's holding me back from healthy eating today is the blackberry-cobbler ice cream in the freezer. Oh, and the Cheezits in the pantry. As soon as I finish all that, I'll get back on track.

Anyway, with breakfast bag in hand, I sat down at the computer to watch the Tiger Cam, but it seems to be turned off this morning. Instead, I'm getting my wildlife fix by watching a tiny lizard,  no longer than three inches from nose to tail, that has crawled through a small hole in the window screen and can't seem to find its way out again. Tigers...lizards...I'll happily watch any of God's creatures that has four or fewer legs.

Hm. A minute ago I discovered that the Tiger Cam trouble is on my end, not the zoo's. It's not too difficult a problem to solve, just time consuming, what with resetting Safari, rebooting the computer, and remembering infrequently used passwords, so wait a couple of minutes...There, it's fixed now.

The tiger cubs are sleeping. So are all four dogs here at my house.

Yep, it's a good day. Not without its minor complications, perhaps, but still peaceful and lovely--and a little bit cooler, thank goodness.

Safe, Dry, Lucky to Be So

Heavy rains and localized flooding put our area in the national news yesterday. We were under a tornado warning (warning, not watch) until early afternoon and under a watch for the rest of the day, but it was high water that did the most damage. One employee of a local business apparently slipped or was swept off his feet by swiftly moving high water in the company's parking lot as he attempted to get into his truck. His drowned body was discovered later in the day, wedged under his truck.

Kim and I stayed home, not even venturing out to the nearest grocery store, though we were overdue to go food shopping. Instead, we dined on popcorn, peanut butter and crackers, microwavable Rice-a-Roni and spaghetti and eggs. Not healthy, but it didn't kill us.

We live on a little hill, so I never worry about the house flooding, but I do have some concern about becoming stuck here when so many nearby roads become impassable. That's a real possibility.

It stormed for hours and hours:

The water standing at lower left is the end

of my driveway--at the bottom of the hill.

This is Gimpy looking out the front door

at water pouring into the carport.

Here's another picture of water standing in the carport.

Believe it or not, this is the driest side of the backyard.

(The dark spot near bottom center is a recently dug dog hole.)

This shows the road-facing side of our garden shed

and a portion of the neighbor's backyard. The part 

of the yard that holds the most water is on the opposite

side of the garden shed. Back there it often looks like a

fishable lake after even a brief rainstorm. I wanted

to take a picture of it yesterday, but frequent lightning

bolts warned me to keep my behind in the house. So I did.

If this much water stands at the top of a hill, can you imagine what that amount of rain does to low-lying areas? This morning's dry weather won't last. The water in our yard has receded, but the ground is still soggy and another heavy storm is due any minute.

On a side note, I think Oliver may have set a new record yesterday for how long one little dog can "hold it" when he's determined not to get wet. I'd give almost anything to have such an amazing bladder capacity.

Good Friday, Indeed!

I'm not speaking of the religious holiday that falls today, although I know that this day is particularly special for devout Christians and for many not-so-reverent folks who will praise Jesus if only for a day off from work or school. No, I'm just talking about the essential goodness of an ordinary day like today, which happens to be a Friday.

It's warm today, with a gentle breeze, bright blue skies, and puffy white clouds that show no hint of last night's rolling thunder. It's a fine day--a fine spring day--and the weatherman says it'll stay like this through Easter Sunday. It's the kind of day that makes me feel more spiritual than church ever did.

All four dogs are sleeping as I write this, Levi and Gimpy sacked out tail to tail on the futon here in the den, Ollie on the sofa in the living room, and Lucy on the floor about three feet away from me, tucked into a narrow space between a wooden file cabinet and a stack of two plastic storage boxes. The house is quiet except for Lucy's rhythmic snores; even those I find peaceful.

I'm in the middle of a good book, and I did the grocery shopping yesterday, so there's plenty of food in the house (including a Cadbury chocolate egg that keeps whispering my name).

On a scale of 1-10, my sense of well-being is pushing toward 11. I hope your Friday is just as good.

Chocolate Choices

While washing the dogs' dishes at the kitchen sink yesterday, I noticed a box of candy canes I'd stashed on a window shelf while Kim and I were making Christmas candies last week. I looked at them longingly, then tossed them in the trash. They aren't even close to being my favorite candy, but I knew I might break down and eat some if I didn't get rid of them.

It occurred to me this morning that giving up sugar and other carbs may not be a resolution, but it's clearly a re-solution--something that has solved a problem once and now must solve it all over again. I totally blew it over the past couple of months. I cheated big time at a Halloween party, overindulged at Thanksgiving, and didn't pay close attention to staying on program in between. Then came the Christmas holidays. We made cookies and candy, and Kim made a cannoli-filling dip (OH-EM-GEE!), and if you'd seen me stuffing all those sweets into my mouth, you'd have thought I was in training for some nationally recognized eatathon.

Anyway, candy is what I wanted to write about today, but the two paragraphs above are not what I intended to write about candy; you may disregard them if it's not too late.

 

What I wanted to discuss is store-bought candy, specifically, the kind of assorted chocolates that come in a box with a neatly labeled flavor diagram in the lid. A neighbor brought us a box of those this year, and they started me thinking.

When I was a kid and my mother worked at the stock exchange, the wealthy old men who visited her office daily to watch their investments were a rich source of boxed chocolates every Christmas. We're talking big boxes, most of them with more than one layer. Candy boxes didn't come with diagrams in those days, which is why Forrest Gump's mother was able to say, truthfully, "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get."

That uncertainty was a problem at our house. I gagged at the thought of accidentally biting into a jelly-filled chocolate, and I don't know if the jelly or something else was my little sister's least favorite, but she and I both had our dislikes and preferences. We learned early on that we could pick a chocolate out of the box, plunge a small thumb far enough into the bottom of it to expose the filling, and, if we'd been careful, nobody could tell from the top that it had been disturbed. There would come a time in the life of each box when the only chocolates left in it were the broken-open rejects that even the adults didn't like.

I'm pretty sure I continued the chocolate-poking practice into adulthood, probably passing the technique along to my children, but it's been years and years since I've done that disgusting thing. Probably, I'd say, about as many years as it's been since candy companies started putting diagrams in the lids.

So, here's what I want to know from those of you old enough to remember when assorted chocolates didn't come with labels: Did you gratefully accept whatever flavor life imposed on you, or did you find a way to work around that?

**********

In keeping with tradition, I wanted the first Saturday Song Selection of the new year to reflect the theme of the post, so I started looking for songs about sugar or candy. The best one I found, musically speaking, is good enough that it just this minute became the first song I've downloaded in the new year. If you like your music (and maybe your chocolate) on the dark side, you can click here to listen to The Grateful Dead sing "Candyman." That one doesn't fit the mood of the post, though, so I'll go with one that's super energetic, the way a good sugar high ought to be: 

The song is "Sugar Sugar" by the Archies.

Thanks to Todd S for posting the video and lyrics on YouTube.

I'm Always Excited About Christmas Once It Gets Here

It's been twelve days since my last post -- twelve days of mental (and some physical) preoccupation with Christmas shopping. Every year I swear I will never again wait so late to get it all done, and every year I end up right here at the last minute with the shopping unfinished and no idea what to buy or where to find it.

There's no excuse for this. There are reasons, but reasons and excuses are two different things.

The number-one problem is that I lack confidence in my gift ideas and can shoot them down faster than I can come up with them. My gift list isn't a long one, but the people on it are important in my life. Selecting presents for people I hold in such high esteem involves too many days of head scratching and cyber browsing on the front end of the process, narrowing the time allotted for boots on the ground (or rubber-soled shoes, to be more precise) at the mall, reducing the number of shipping days available for online purchases.

Equally troublesome is deciding what goodies to take to the Christmas festivities. I don't have a specialty. Anything I make will be just one more option on a menu that has all the taste bases covered already, so I've been scouring websites and cookbooks for that one recipe that will be unique and will appeal to the most people. Never mind the great-grandchild with the nut allergy; he can eat something else if he has to. Never mind the half dozen folks who don't normally eat carbs; they'll (we'll) gladly suspend that abstinence on an important holiday. I'm looking for a recipe that is delicious and also fairly easy--just in case it turns out to be so good that it gets elevated to specialty status.

Anyway, here I sit, four days before Christmas, ready for it in spirit but not completely ready in any tangible way. This is the point where--every year--I become a little bit frantic and have to fight the urge to crawl into bed, cover my head, and wait till the whole thing passes.

**********

About those carbs I mentioned earlier: I cut them out of my diet a little over three years ago and saw almost immediate health benefits. I hadn't felt so good in years. Somehow, this past summer, I started getting careless, eating a couple of cookies here, a few crackers there, and cake on special occasions. It seemed harmless, but it led to a recent spate of "oh-what-the-hell" indulgences that I'm paying for physically--especially in the stiffness of my joints. I'm experiencing leg pains reminiscent of those that put me on a walker for a while a few years ago, and still I'm eating malted milk balls, spicy pumpkin pecan ice cream, and sweet-potato chips, promising myself I'll be "good" again after the first of the year.

When I get up after sitting for a while, my knees are too stiff to stand up straight, so I can't walk until I've stretched them out for a minute. I used to not know that sugar was responsible for all that inflammation in my body. Now I do know, but I'm planning to poison myself for a week or so longer before I begin to correct the situation.

How stupid is that?

**********

In my last post I wrote about getting a new dryer. It was delivered and set up sixteen days ago, and is doing a fine job so far. If I could change anything about it, I'd like for the signal at the end of the drying cycle to be louder, and I'd like for the store's computer system to be upgraded.

Almost every day, sometimes twice a day, I get an automated call from Sears, apologizing for the fact that my dryer delivery has been delayed and requesting that I call a certain phone number to reschedule. I've called that number. Three times. Each time I had to hold for several minutes to make contact with a (barely English-speaking) human, who asked an endless list of scripted questions and then requested that I hold again "for about four minutes" so they could "update the system." I can't imagine why they can't update the system without me, so I've chosen to hang up instead of holding for the second time. Maybe that's why my calls haven't done any good yet.

I've also tried to notify them online that the dryer is here. The choices on the customer service menu lead me to a place where I can reschedule delivery, but not to a place where I can report that I already have it.

Shaking my head.

**********

Also shaking my head about the weather. As I write this, It's 77° F. outside with high humidity and brisk winds, and it's supposed to get quite stormy before the day is over. I think I'll stop writing, change into shorts and a T-shirt, and treat my dog boys to a short game of fetch before the rain sets in.

Then I'll get back to thinking about Christmas some more.

It's an ordinary day, except...

...it's an especially gorgeous one! This is the view that greeted me when I let the dogs out just before seven this morning:

The early morning sunlight made everything in its path sparkle and was accompanied by the coolest outdoor temperature I've felt in months. After days of unrelenting heat, broken for mere hours at a time by drenching rainstorms, a day like today is a welcome reminder that fall will come, eventually, to Southeast Louisiana. 

The good weather convinced me to eat lunch outside again today, the first time in several weeks I've enjoyed what was an important part of my daily routine until a few weeks ago. I'd almost forgotten what a pleasure it is to sit out there with my finger-food lunch on the table at my left, a book in my lap, and two happy dogs dropping their tennis ball near my right hand at least twice a page.

Indoors today I'm doing laundry, experimenting as always to determine which order of washing the various loads is the best one to keep lint off my dark clothes. Since I'm not always successful at that--and maybe you aren't, either--here's a tip: a T-shirt-size length of contact paper stuck firmly against one side of a garment and then the other does the best and quickest job of lint removal I've ever seen.

Also, I'm still emptying drawers for Kim's upcoming move, and today it was time to buckle down and figure out new places to keep the gift-wrapping materials I've been storing in the room that will soon be her bedroom. I have a tall plastic container that holds rolls of gift-wrap paper, and I think that the whole container will fit into a long, built-in bin in the den. Rolls that are too long for that can go on the top shelf of my washer-dryer closet, along with plastic boxes of ribbons and bows. Gift bags and a rainbow assortment of tissue papers have been placed in zippered plastic bags and will now live in the living room in an end-table basket that's been empty until now. (Now, if I can just remember where everything is when I need it. I may have to do a keyword search for this post from time to time.)

Writing this mundane post in the scraps of time between chores and other activities has taken nearly all afternoon. The only good thing about that is that the laundry's all done now, so I can report that the order of today's loads was an effective one: hairy dog towels first, followed by human towels, sheets, light clothes, then dark ones. My good black pants came relatively lint free from the dryer.

The season premiere of Grey's Anatomy is on tonight. If I hadn't forgotten to put chicken in the crock pot earlier today, supper would be almost ready and the last hours of the day would be as nearly perfect as the rest of them have been. Maybe I'll take a short drive and see if anybody showed up for work at the burger place. It doesn't take a lot to make me happy. 

Not Only That, but the Shake Machine's Broken

A couple of weeks ago, after finding nothing in the refrigerator or pantry that appealed to  me, I decided to indulge in a hamburger at the nearest drive-thru restaurant. Knowing that the service at that particular "fast-food" place is normally quite slow, I packed my Kindle in my purse so the wait wouldn't be boring, then set out to pick up supper.

Mine was the fourth car in line at the drive-thru. The first car in line had been parked next to the ordering speaker ever since I drove up, and I'd already read about half a chapter by the time I noticed that nobody had moved. Right then I saw a young male employee come around the corner of the building, headed in our direction. His steps--and his smile, too--seemed tentative. As he drew near, making eye contact with first one driver then the next, I rolled my window down so I could hear what he had to say.

"I'm so, so sorry, y'all, but I just thought I should come out here and tell y'all that I'm th' only one that showed up at work this evenin'. I don't know why they didn't come, and I'm doin' the best I can by muhself, but I cain't do ever'thing fast enough. I didn't want y'all to have to wait so long that you go all nine-eleven on me."

Bless his heart. That was a brave thing to do, and I appreciated it. As for his co-workers who didn't show up? Well, that's the sloppy work ethic we've all come to expect, isn't it?

A former in-law visited that same restaurant a few years ago, walked inside to place his order, and discovered--after shouting "hello" a few times--that he was the only person in the building. I suppose nobody had bothered to show up to work that shift, either, and the last person to leave from the previous shift hadn't even taken the trouble to lock the door.

There's a fried chicken place a little farther down the road that's just been reopened after having been closed for quite some time. I don't plan to visit there anytime soon. The last time I went there before the place shut down, I ordered a two-piece meal. The voice-in-the-box at the drive-thru replied, "I'm sorry, ma'am, we're all out of two-piece meals. Would you like a three-piece?" Huh? Does that make sense on any level?

These are the kinds of incidents that come to mind when I read about fast-food workers striking to double their wages. I'm usually pro-union, but not in this case. The best thing about fast-food jobs is that entry-level workers can handle them, so they're good places for teens to gain a little work experience. Good workers move on to bigger and better jobs. As for the ones who stick around because they aren't capable of moving on to something more lucrative, for goodness' sake, let's not give them the idea that they're doing such a bang-up job that they deserve more money for it.

That's my opinion. Would you like fries with that?

Chemicals

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twenty-Nine:  In Your Fridge

There isn't one single thing in my fridge today that's interesting. Unless you think this is:

CARBONATED WATER, CITRIC ACID, SODIUM CITRATE, SODIUM BENZOATE (PRESERVATIVE), ASPARTAME, MALIC ACID, MODIFIED FOOD STARCH, NATURAL FLAVORS, CAFFEINE, ESTER GUM, ACESULFAME POTASSIUM, YELLOW 6, RED 40. PHENYLKETONURICS: CONTAINS PHENYLALANINE

That's the ingredient list on a can of my favorite diet orange soda. I don't find that list interesting; I find it scary! Every time I drink one, I savor that last sip, then take a look at the can in my hand and say silently to it what Jack said to Ennis in Brokeback Mountain: "I wish I knew how to quit you!"

Chew, Swallow, Rinse, Repeat

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twenty-Seven:  Lunch

When I used this one-a-day list of prompts as a photo challenge in January, I posted a picture of my typical lunch. It hasn't changed since then. In fact, it hasn't changed much in nearly three years. I have a lifelong pattern of eating the same thing for lunch every day. It isn't an obsession--I don't get upset about eating something different (sometimes I'm delighted to)--but more of a comfortable routine. As much as I enjoy food, I don't like having to think about it too much.

Fortunately, I don't get bored easily, but the day will come when I decide I'm done with the cheese-and-crackers menu, and I'll switch to something else. Then I'll eat whatever that is for months on end.

I think this all goes back to my childhood, when I was an extremely picky eater. At the beginning of first grade I was sent to school with lunch money and tried the hot meal prepared by the cafeteria ladies. I gagged on it the first day, refused to try it the second day, and from then on carried a brown-bag lunch packed by my grandmother. She did try to introduce some variety into my diet, but gave up eventually and settled for packing only things she knew I'd eat.

One year it was baloney sandwiches (on white bread with mustard and dill pickle slices), Fritos, and a thermos of Kool-Aid (because I hated milk). Another year it was potted ham sandwiches (on white bread with mayonnaise), Fritos, and Kool-Aid. There were usually a few cookies in those brown bags, too. I never knew for sure what kind of cookies I'd get, so there was a little menu variety after all. Mammaw knew I'd never met a cookie I didn't like (except for the Fig Newtons that were my grandfather's favorite).

In junior high I thought it was uncool to show up with a brown bag from home, so I started buying lunch at school again. I skipped the hot-food line in the cafeteria and spent my lunch money on a vanilla ice cream cup and a bag of salted peanuts, which I stirred into the ice cream. Every day I ate that peanutty ice cream, and every night I washed my face and wondered why it was breaking out.

Most of my high school lunches were eaten off-campus. A few of us would pool our resources to come up with 25 cents to buy a gallon of gas for whoever had a car, then that person would drive us to the Dairy Queen, where I always had a chili dog and a root beer.

In the first paragraph of this post, I stated that I don't like thinking about food too much. Now, after several paragraphs of writing about it, I'm so hungry I can hardly stand it. That's exactly why I don't like to think about it too much. It's getting close to lunchtime,  so I'll stop writing and eat now. I know exactly what I'm having.

What I've Been Reading: Romance

Love is in the air ... or at least in the cloud where my e-books are stored. There's nothing I like better than a book with an intricate plot and characters so richly drawn I feel like I know them, but sometimes, especially when there's a lot on my mind, I want to read something lighter--something that doesn't make me think too hard. That desire often leads to short romance novels. Reading them is like eating M&M's: they come in many different colors, but the flavor is basically the same; they're delicious if not nutritious; and even after you've had a whole handful, you still crave more.

When I find an author who's a good storyteller, I do go back for more, downloading several at a time so I'll always know there's a good story waiting for me to read it. I know in advance what's going to happen: the troubled heroine will meet the equally troubled hero, they'll be deeply attracted but disinclined to pursue a relationship until they're thrown together in a situation where passion overcomes them. At this point there'll be a sex scene, which is my cue to skip ahead several pages. It's important to the plot to know that they "did it," but I'm too old to care about the details. Not too many chapters later they'll come to their senses and realize that they were meant to be together, and that's pretty much the end of the story. We don't usually get to know how it all worked out for them.

These stories are similar enough that if I read several in a row, it's hard to remember which title goes with which book. It's helpful if the title contains the name of a person or a place. But don't misunderstand me: every one of these stories was a good one--one that kept me hooked. The similarities didn't bother me, because these skilled authors use a basic plot the way a good cook prepares chicken: it's a chicken recipe on Wednesday and another chicken dish on Saturday, but there's so much variety in the other ingredients that the two meals seem entirely different--and quite appetizing. 

Dunaway's Crossing

by Nancy Brandon:

Wait for Me

by Elisabeth Naughton

Don't Say a Word

by Barbara Freethy

On a Night Like This

by Barbara Freethy

So This Is Love

by Barbara Freethy

Breaking the Rules

by Barbara Samuel

Dancing Moon

by Barbara Samuel

Jezebel's Blues

by Barbara Samuel

Light of Day

by Barbara Samuel

Summer's Freedom
by Barbara Samuel

The Black Angel
by Barbara Samuel

The Last Chance Ranch

by Barbara Samuel

To read a description and reviews of any of these books,

click on its image above.

Mothers and Others

Last Sunday was Mother's Day, a holiday that brings out my cynical side because it's always been so heavily promoted by card companies and florists. I'm embarrassed by the idea of Mother's Day. It feels as though the second Sunday in May has been set aside as the day when all the mothers of America line up, united like organized union members, and present our bills for services rendered. No matter how many pretty flowers you stick in it, it feels like extortion.

And yet . . . and yet I love those cards, obviously chosen so carefully, and even more than that I love the words my daughters have written in the cards, cherished messages I keep and reread again and again, reminding me that our bond is as important to them as it is to me. I don't need the cards to know that, but I love the reminders nevertheless.

We spent Sunday afternoon the same way we've traditionally spent Mother's Day in the past few years, with a crawfish boil at my younger daughter's house. I loved being with my two warm, beautiful daughters, my delightful grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and those of their significant others who weren't somewhere else working or spending the day with their own moms. We sat at long tables spread with newspapers, chatting and laughing as we feasted on crawfish, spicy boiled potatoes and corn on the cob, followed later by shamefully full bowls of chilled banana pudding. My son-in-law's music played in the background, music that always surprises me because most of his songs are my songs, too, and I like the fact that we share a cross-generational, mutual fondness for soulful sounds.

We all became lazier after we ate, leaning back in our chairs under the shade, hiding our laughter as 21-month-old Olivia pitched a fit when the limits of her dexterity frustrated her independent spirit. She tried and failed a few times to put a bubble wand into its narrow-mouthed plastic jar of soapy fluid, then threw the wand as far as she could throw it (not very far). She didn't cry, but her anger was apparent in the scowl on her face. She cast a quick, spiteful glare at those who sat near her, then, in case no one had noticed she was angry, marched over to the sudsy wand, picked it up, and threw it again for good measure. All of us thought it was funny, but we were careful not to let her see us laugh. She's a baby and she acted like a baby. In that moment every adult there loved Olivia enough to let her express her feelings. Most of us, I believe, silently cheered her on. Yes, she'll need to learn a better way to handle her disappointments someday, but there's plenty of time for that later on.

The little ones, Olivia and three-year-old Owen, wanted to get in the swimming pool. Though the day was warm, the water was chilly, but there were still a few adults willing to get in to let the floaty-armed babies have some fun. My younger daughter, Kelli, their grandmother, stayed longest in the water, frequently having both babies in tow at once. I watched her holding on to them, keeping them safe, playing with them, instructing them, calm, unruffled, smiling. Owen will remember her that way long after he forgets that the pool got colder as the sun moved and cast it into shadow, that he cried and protested vigorously, repeatedly saying, "I'm not cold!" through blue lips and chattering teeth as his mother and grandmother pulled him flailing out of the pool. He and Olivia will remember the happy times with their grandmother when they're grown, and they'll always think of her as a safe port in a storm, the way I, as old as I am, still think of my mother's mother. Kelli is showing them in every way possible that she loves them unconditionally, and they'll feel that--they'll know that--for the rest of their lives.

The strength of my passion for genealogy and family history sometimes makes me wonder if I'm living too much in the past. On Mother's Day I felt that I was on the opposite end of the spectrum, as if I were living in the future, seeing the three generations after mine coming into their own, glimpsing the kind of good people who will carry on after I'm gone, also watching them fulfill their present roles as if they were born to them, and understanding that, yes, they were. This is exactly who they are and where they're supposed to be at this time in their lives. There really is no past, present or future when it comes to families, only a continuous cycle of life that ties all of us together with those who came before us and those who have yet to arrive. All of us--mothers and others--are eternally linked to the rest of us.

Mother's Day is a good day to remember that. Any day is a good day to remember that. There doesn't need to be a special card for it.

999 and Counting

Time flies. This week, in particular, has flown by. I thought time would drag once I retired and started staying home all the time, and it seems odd to me that the days pass so quickly now. Especially since one day is pretty much like the next. At the end of most of them it's hard to see what I've done to fritter away the hours. Anyway, here are a few of the ways I've spent my time this week.

Zoo Things
I've already told you about our trip to the zoo on Monday. Mentally, I was still at the zoo on Tuesday, which I spent sorting and editing zoo photos, blogging about our day there, and resting up (reading) after all that walking. I was a little stiff and sore on Tuesday, a clear reminder that I need to resume walking for daily exercise.

Art Stuff
On Wednesday I finished the fourth assignment for the Acrylic Exploration class, which was to paint a copy a Manet painting. Here's the end result:

I'm happier with this one than with the first three, but it seemed to me that the painted tablecloth under these painted roses grew darker and darker (and greener) every time I worked at it. Maybe one day I'll go back and lighten it up. Then again, maybe I won't; it's a pretty good color to go with my bedroom walls right now.

At this week's class we started a new painting, the first one that isn't a copy of someone else's work. We were each given a brightly-colored cloth, a stemmed silver cup, and two pieces of plastic fruit to arrange any way we chose. My stepsister (an interior decorator and watercolor artist) won't be shocked to know that after multiple attempts at placing the objects on the cloth in a pleasing way, mine ended up more or less in a row. I wish I'd done a better job of it, but now, having drawn the whole arrangement in preparation for painting it, it doesn't much matter. I don't like my apple (it's honking BIG), I'm not crazy about the colors I'm working with, and I'm struggling with proportions and perspective, so my expectations for this painting aren't very high. That being said, I love this class and the people in it, so the process is more important to me than the finished product. Plus, I do understand that I'll learn more by working outside my comfort zone.

People at Walmart
I've been doing my weekly grocery shopping right after art class, which is working out well for me. For one thing I'm already dressed and wearing makeup, which eliminates the need to go to that trouble just for shopping. For another, shopping after class means I finish up just about the same time the afternoon batch of rotisserie chickens are ready, so the timing is good. This little change in routine has me going to a store that's close to the art class instead of the one where I usually shop, which is closer (but on the other side of) home. None of that is important except to explain where I was in relation to where I normally would have been yesterday. It turns out that right when I was shopping at art-class-Walmart, some guy was arrested at closer-to-home-Walmart while walking the aisles and simultaneously (um, how shall I word this?) "displaying his merchandise."

I'm never around when anything exciting happens. That's probably a good thing.

Today--and Then Tomorrow
Today started out like most days: reading blogs, answering email, working the crossword puzzle at Dictionary.com. I enjoyed both breakfast and lunch outside, using my left hand to carry food from the table to my mouth, my right hand to throw a slobbery tennis ball, and my lap to hold the mystery novel I was attempting to  read on my Kindle. While I was out there, I took four pictures of a mockingbird and one of a hawk, all of which I've uploaded and since deleted (too blurry to take up hard-drive space).  Also today, I've scheduled a week's worth of photos for A One-Pic Pony and posted another of my grandmother's stories at Audrey's Ambition. After that I went over my iTunes list, played a few bars of quite a few different songs before settling on one, then scouted out a YouTube video of it to post tomorrow. Tomorrow's Saturday Song Selection piece will be my one-thousandth post here at Velvet Sacks.

As I said at the beginning of this one, time flies.

Short Shorts

Today looks like it's going to be a busy one, so I'll scratch blogging off my to-do list as soon as I post these short items:

Senior Moment
The other day I thought all afternoon about what I could have for supper that wouldn't involve grocery shopping. By the time suppertime rolled around I had remembered a plastic container of chili in the freezer. I put it in the microwave to thaw, then fed the dogs and took them outside afterwards. Do you want to know where and when I remembered the chili? I was at Burger King, and the young man at the window had just handed me the white bag with a burger inside.

Sparrow Spa
We had storms again earlier this week, lots of wind and enough rain that there's still water standing in the back corner of my yard. I can't see the puddles from the patio, but I know they exist because I saw three birds bathing together in the grass there yesterday.

Self Recognition?
Levi was lying flat on his side while I cut his hair. When I needed him to turn over, I let him get up to stretch for a minute. Immediately upon standing he walked across the room and checked himself out in the door mirror, first facing it, then turning around and looking at it again over his shoulder. I swear. To avoid being accused of anthropomorphizing, I'll admit that his actions could have been entirely coincidental. But you know what I really think.

All Thumbs
I've told you here before that I text my daughters every morning just to check in. I don't remember whether or not I've told you that I never talk to them (or text them) without telling them that I love them. (My sister and I have always done that with our kids, maybe because it was so hard for our own mother to say those words and we both wanted so badly to hear them.) As I was clicking on the names of people to receive this morning's message, the phone slipped in my hand, and I accidentally checked more names than I meant to. I thought I'd made the necessary corrections, but apparently I wasn't thorough enough. I wonder what the people at the emergency veterinarian's office thought when they read these words: "I love you a thousand times more than you know."

Let It Rain

The sky was overcast all day yesterday, and we knew our late-afternoon Easter celebration might turn into a wet one. We gathered at my daughter Kelli's house anyway. As the women talked and laughed on the covered patio at the back of the house and the men tended to the barbecue under the shop roof at the other end of the pool, the storm clouds grew increasingly ominous:

(Don't forget: you can click on the photos to enlarge them.)

In a matter of minutes the rain began falling, the wind blowing it hard enough to make us all move inside:

Easter egg hunts, one for the kids and one for the young adults, were supposed to be the main events of the day. We waited and waited and waited for the rain to end. It didn't. The little kids didn't care. One of them napped through the storm, the other one played happily with toys that the bunny had brought him. 

The grown kids, on the other hand, could hardly stand the delay. "We could start now," one of them said. "It's only sprinkling."

"Yeah," said another one. "Sprinkling sideways."

They waited at least until the wind died down, then decided to begin their hunt in spite of the rain. Most of the girls had umbrellas.

The boys didn't.

These kids are competitive, and there was cash hidden in those eggs. 

They hunted and gathered until they were pretty sure all the eggs had been found. 

By the time winners and losers had been determined, the food was ready and so were we. Everything was delicious. There were enough choices that I could easily have stuck to my regular low-carb diet, but the side dishes and desserts--not to mention Easter candy--made it a carb-lover's heaven. I feel guilty today about all the things I ate that I should have skipped, but I enjoyed every last bite. And I'm good at dealing with guilt.

I suppose it's fairly common these days that even in the most festive social situations the techies in the family will find a comfortable corner and entertain themselves with an iPad. Our two did just that:

"Put your finger right here," the three-year-old "big kid" instructed. She touched the screen where he'd indicated, and he looked up at the adults nearby, his face beaming. "She's doing it!" he squealed with pride. "She's doing it!"

Another Easter comes and goes. The children grow up but stay young at heart. Life goes on. And it's good, so good.

Cheese and Crackers, Crackers and Cheese

One-a-Day Photo Challenge

Day Twenty-Seven:  Lunch

Here at Casa Linda, lunch, like breakfast, is pretty much the same every day. I'm not a picky eater, and I like to keep things simple. 

This is my typical lunch: some kind of cheese, some kind of whole-wheat crackers, some kind of fruit. What isn't typical is the plate in the photo. The plate is there to make it pretty for you.

Normally, I wrap up the cheese and crackers in a paper-towel bundle, grab an apple or banana or cup o' fruit, a diet soft drink, and a book, then head outside. If the weather isn't nice enough for that, I eat at the table in the den, where sunshine can stream through the glass of the storm door and give at least a hint of a picnic.

Plain food seems to taste extra good when it's eaten in the fresh air. Birds sing, breezes blow, Levi and Gimpy romp nearby, and all's right with the world. Then again, lunching indoors has its good points, too. In here, at least, I'm not expected to throw a tennis ball between bites.

Better Late Than Never

In her comment on my last post, Alison, who writes at "Inspired Work of Self-Indulgence," invited me to participate with her in a one-a-day photo challenge for this month. Since I already post a different photo every day at "A One-Pic Pony," I wasn't sure if I wanted to accept another commitment. Then I asked myself, "What's the worst that could happen?"

It's not as if I've never broken a commitment. I've been married and divorced twice without being plagued by guilt, so I expect I can live through missing a photo deadline if I have to. Not that I intend for that to happen. Besides, this challenge is different, and it could be fun.

On my photo blog, I choose whatever image (old or new) appeals to me at a given moment--as long as it's my own photo and I've never published it before on that blog. For this challenge I'll be taking a new picture each day and tying it to a theme that's already been designated for that day. That concept appeals to me.

So, Alison, thank you for the invitation, and I'll be happy to join you. As I'm already two days late getting started, I'll catch up right now:

Day One: You

That's you as in me, not you as in you. Since time's a-wastin', I took my camera to the bathroom mirror a little while ago and shot this self-portrait, sans makeup:

That's my skeptical, I-don't-know-if-this-is-gonna-work expression. It's not glamorous, but hey, at least I was out of my bathrobe. (Note: For the record, the only touchup that was done to this image was the digital erasure of two spots of toothpaste from the mirror. I wasn't about to polish the whole thing just for this.)

**********

Day Two: Breakfast

What do you mean, "Yuck!"? It's water and a protein bar, and the best thing about it is I get hydrated and nourished without having to give it a lot of thought. Besides, that protein bar has chocolate and peanut butter in it -- and no sugar!

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Day Three (Today): Something You Adore

I adore Levi's eyes. He's been with me for two years now, and I still get a little rush every time I see how beautiful they are. Unfortunately, he wasn't particularly interested in showing them just when I wanted to take his picture, so you can see a piece of my hand at the bottom of the photo, lifting his face into the light.

P.S.  I'll bet he could hypnotize people if he could learn to maintain eye contact.
P.P.S.  I envy his natural eyeliner.

In the Afterglow

It was Two Thousand Twelve, twenty-fifth of December,
A day that it fills me with joy to remember.

Our families came to spend Christmas together

In spite of some terrible, threatening weather.

The skies, they were black, and the rains were torrential,

Yet Christmas lost none of its magic potential.

The weather forecasts for Christmas Day were dire at best, with violent storms, possibly including hail and tornados, predicted for precisely the time of our own Christmas gathering at my daughter Kelli's home. I don't like to leave my dogs at home alone in bad weather, and I don't like to drive in it, but there was no way I was going to miss a chance to be with that particular group of people on that special day. 

I decided to leave early and see if I could get there ahead of the storm. I just made it. The skies opened up and dumped rivers of rain, then, oddly but quite nicely, fizzled to a drizzle as each new carload of family members arrived.

The young and the older, arriving in shifts,

Brought smiles and good wishes and armloads of gifts,
And inside the house, with its lights all aglow,
The merriment rose with each paper and bow
Tossed aside by a toddler, a sweet girl or boy,
Whose eyes shone more brightly with each unwrapped toy.

The youngest of the grandchildren is twenty now, so the excitement torch has been passed to the great-grandchildren, Owen and Olivia. Olivia was more interested in the bows than in the presents, but Owen, at two and three-quarters now, enjoyed the whole shebang. He played Santa's helper, happily delivering gifts as directed by his Popeé, Troy. Among Owen's own gifts was a kid-sized tool bench. He, having a small amount of nasal congestion, promptly dubbed it "the tool bitch," and you can imagine how often we tried to work that phrase into the conversation over the course of the afternoon.

On Dasher, on Dancer, on Donder and Blitzen--

Just smell the aromas that come from the kitchen!

There's shrimp fettuccine and crisp crawfish pies,

And pot roast and meatballs and audible sighs

At the display of cookies and candies galore.

Taste one, then another, then sample some more.

There was so much good food that I didn't even get around to tasting all of it. God knows I tried. Last night, for the first time in over two years, I had to unzip my pants after I got home, just to find enough comfort and breathing room to last until bedtime.

The kids were the focus till late in the day
When we knew it was time for the grown-ups to play.
A Christmas Day game is traditional now,
So we pondered the options that time would allow,
And decided charades would be given a go--
There's an app for that now, in case you didn't know.

According to an earlier post, the Christmas games tradition began about 2004, with the men and women on opposite teams playing Battle of the Sexes. Charades, though an old game by almost every standard, was new for us.

This year we chose teams by size instead of by sex, playing tall against small, and the teams turned out to be fairly evenly matched. The best-acting Oscars would have gone to Jeremy on the tall team and Kandis on the smalls. Both of them seemed to have remarkable abilities to zero in on the most important aspects of their allotted words or phrases and act out clues that conveyed them almost instantly. The words weren't easy, either: claustrophobia and turbulence, for example.

It's often a leap of faith for people to step outside their vulnerable skins and throw themselves into the spirit of a silly game. It's an exercise in trust and, in the best cases, a heartwarming demonstration of love and acceptance--all played out amidst riotous laughter.

The echos of laughter, the joy that still lingers
From down by my toes to the tips of my fingers,
Remind me that love is where everything starts--
The thoughts in our minds, the peace in our hearts--
And if we let love guide the actions we take,
The words that we say, the decisions we make,
Though storms may rain on us and strong winds may blow,
Love will see us through safely, wherever we go.