Get in that Kitchen, WOMAN, and Fix me a Baloney Sammich!

I knew there would be days when I did not feel like writing an entry. When I knew I was going to be without a computer and had to rely on the kindness of libraries in a strange city I thought ahead and uploaded some pictures to help keep the juices flowing. Now that I am at home again and have full access to ...well everything, I'm just blank!

So, I'm going to do WHAT'S FOR DINNER MOMMIE or better known as I'M HUNGRY WOMAN!This is my husbands favorite. Granted, he picks out the chicken and usually leaves the veggies behind so that when I go to warm it up the next day looking forward to some great left over action....it's all veggies! Ha!

This recipe was passed down to me from my good friend Barry in Florida, He was visiting one time and came over and cooked dinner. This was his dish and over the 20 years since, I have perfected it. Perfected it!!

First off, take about one pound (or two if you have a Joe type person lurking about) of chicken breasts and cut them up into big bite size pieces and place them in a bowl or plastic bag and marinate in soy sauce and some minced garlic. You can also toss in some flavored olive oil, Worchesire sauce etc. You can go as wild as you want. I usually marinate for a couple of hours.

Chop up a ton of veggies. I usually chop up...

one onion
two medium size zucchinis,
two yellow squash,
one green pepper,
a package of sliced mushrooms (whole if you want to slice them yourself)
a second clove of garlic minced up.
Sometimes I'll throw in broccoli if I have it.

Also have on hand -

one sliced tomato
Swiss cheese, sliced or shredded does not matter. About four slices or 1/2 cup

Salt and pepper to season to taste.

And the magic ingredient Kentucky Kernel Seasoned Flour...any seasoned flour will do.


Ain't Vegetable's Grand.

Take the marinated chicken and coat it with the Seasoned flour by throwing it all in a bag and shake shake shake.

Take a wok and heat about 1/3 cup of oil until it sizzles. I usually will test it by tossing in a piece of the chicken. When it's hot enough toss in the rest and wok it!! Wok it good!!

It will look like this at first.


Then they will turn a beautiful golden brown as you toss them around to cook evenly.


Add all the veggies except the tomatoes. It will look like a lot, but it cooks down and then it will.......


Cook about five minutes or until the veggies are crunchy not limp....


........look like this! Season to taste with salt and pepper or whatever you like. Maybe hot maybe not.

Add the tomatoes. Isn't that color beautiful!


Then the cheese


Cover and allow cheese to melt. It will look like this when finished!


I serve it over rice. Every so often I will put it over angel hair pasta.

I call it.....I don't have a name for it!! Any suggestions?

First Memories

When my parents married they lived somewhere up from New York City where the picture from yesterday was taken. The little house was in a cul-de-sac that was perched up on a hill that sloped down to the main highway. Across the Highway was the Lake.

I have many memories of the first house I lived in. I believe I was four years old when we moved to Kentucky. The house backed up to a forest, I think. I have a vivid memory of a deer hung over our sand box in the back yard during hunting season. It was not my fathers hobby. My father never handled a gun again after WWII. It was maybe the landlords or someone else who lived in the small grouping of homes.

Several years ago, while driving in the wild back country of Ohio/Indiana I saw the the same image that is seared in my mind from Jefferson Valley. A deer hanging from a tree.

I wonder what they were thinking to expose children to such a horror. I suppose they did not even think about it.

I fell down the stairs, those long concrete stairs that led to the front door. I remember rolling and rolling. I still have a scar at the corner of my right eye from the experience.

My brothers were always fighting, being Irish twins and all. The youngest one, T., was somewhat of a drama-kid even back then. He would run into the house crying and complaining of this or that and my Dad would say, "Let me see the blood. No blood? Hmmmm, you can't be that hurt!"

My mother was busy in the kitchen when T. approached her, hiding his head behind two small hands, sneaked up behind her and yelled, "Look Mom!!BLOOD!!" and exposed the side of his head that had been whacked by a brick thrown by N.!!He was so proud of the blood that no tears were shed.

Other memories are stories that at times I wonder if they are just the tales handed down and told over and over, or if they are memories. I do remember being falsely accused of knocking over a horse jockey, the kind that holds your house number. My other brother N. was the favorite golden child to the family that lived in the house and even though he knocked the jockey over (man that kid must have been stong!)I was the one banished from their house, never to be able to go in the yard again.

A memory or just the story retold and retold?

The Lake would freeze and we would go ice skating on its surface. I do not remember this, but there are pictures of me in a snow suit with mittens and matching hat standing in the drive way balanced on skates. I do remember those skates, they were two blades instead of the regular grown up one blade. I do not remember the actual skating part, but I'm certain we did because my Dad liked to skate.

It snowed a lot up there.

When we left my two brothers and my Mom took the train to Kentucky. I made the trip with my Dad in the car. I was wearing a hat, like all good little girls did back in the day, and I stuck my head out the window and the hat blew off.

Lost forever. Like most of my very early childhood memories.

But not all.

You say Facebook, I say Craigslist

(My families first Home in Jefferson Valley - circa 1957. My brother T. running out of control down the steep hill that crosses a main highway and then the Lake. Funny the things the mind holds like a snap shot).

I am searching all over the Clarksville area for a house/home to rent. Today I looked at a house very close to Ft. Campbell (which I did not realize was also in Tennessee. Have you ever heard of Ft. Campbell Tennessee?? No, it's Ft. Campbell Kentucky!). I had a difficult time finding the house, as my Garmin was totally off the mark. Thank God I had ripped out the area map with street assignments from the phone book...don't tell anyone. I pulled into the driveway and I immediately knew this house had an unloved look. Not that it was run down or dirty, just it had not a single shrub, tree or flower in the front yard. It looked unadorned and plain. I knew I would not rent it immediately. Walking into the house I knew for certain I would not rent it.

I told the guy that it had very steep stairs to the basement and my husband was a sleep walker and would kill himself.

It was the truth.

I am back at the public library checking out Craigslist...again. The houses I found yesterday are either rented and/or they did not respond to my inquires.

The housing market is tight here with the Army base and all. I need to find the church and go light a candle.

Endless Summer - Second Job

When I turned 16 I was eligible to apply for one of the coveted life guard positions at the Woodemere Pool, the local "watering hole" of the Baby Boomer set. I got the job!! I was thrilled beyond description. It was the best job ever! Not only did I get to tan all day, I also got to blow the whistle at anyone I wanted and yell at them. When it was the top of the hour, the two guards on duty stood and blew their whistles at the same time and everyone cleared the pool. As the last kid shimmied out of the pool and everyone was safely sitting on the side waiting for the ten minute break to end, we (the two lifeguards) would jump or do a magnificent swan dive, into the now empty crystal clear pool.

The more I think about the three years I spent life guarding at Woodemere and the Country Club, I think it warrants more than one post/entry.

After all, this is the place that I suffered through my first crush, Kit, who taught me how to dive. I was terrible. No talent, but because I was 12 and in love, I did what ever dangerous dive he demanded. A back flip and a half gainer where as exotic a dive as I was able to execute. And for the most part I landed on my back, on my face, or some contorted position smacking the water with excruciating force, all in the name of love.

The worst was the back dive off the high dive. But, I loved trying the back dive because he would hold me at the waist as I bent over backwards and then he would ....let go. Down I would plunge, holding my breath as my legs ever so uncooperative would, in slow motion, break the line and sail over my head causing me to do a monumental belly flop. I'm certain it looked as comical as it sounds. And I am double certain it hurt as much as it sounds. And I did it over and over again until I finally did it right.

All for love.

Kit, at 17, also was the manager of the pool and the Coach of the swimming team. I was his star back stroker, because he learned that I was not cut out for diving. I believe to this day that the reason I excelled in swimming for the next five years was I secretly thought winning the Olympic Gold Medal would also win Kit's heart.

By the time I was a lifeguard, he was long gone. Gone to college somewhere, probably married. I had lost interest and moved on. But, he was my first major crush. A living and breathing, blond haired babe with a hot tanned body and the mysterious missing finger to the second knuckle. That imperfection was enough to drive my 12 year old heart to burst with the flush of love and desire.

Forty (40) years later, at my fathers funeral, a gray haired, slightly short, slightly stout, wearing spec's a man in a tan jacket took my hand looked deep into my eyes and said, "I'm Kit H.".

I almost fainted. My heart began to beat wildly and my face flushed to the shade of my red, as red as my back after the high dive disaster incident.

At my age. My my.

Girl For Hire

Advertures in Baby Sitting

My first form of employment was babysitting, which was the way for most of us Baby Boomers. I worked for fifty cents an hour! I suppose this was fair. A pack of cigarettes cost 25 cents at the machine in Wilson Drugs. It was positioned discretely by the front door so us kids could slip our quarters in the slot, pull the knob and be out the door unapprehended and unseen. So, fifty cents and hour = two packs of ciggies at today's (Kentucky rates) = $10.00/hour, so it was all good back then.

The important things for a 12 year old making fifty cents an hour were modest and worth saving for. Coupled with my allowance, which was also fifty cents a week, I was able to save and purchase record albums (The Beatles, Motown, Paul Revere and the Raiders, the Monkees)which were about $3.50 back then. A 45 single was 99 cents. A 16 magazine was 25 cents, Tiger Beat about the same!

So, if I worked two nights on the week-ends, I was rolling in the dough on Monday.

Less the dime I would put in the offering envelopes for the collection at church on Sundays. And more than likely, less the money I could spend at the local store at the end of the street next to ours, Giles Grocery. The Pepsi machine at the front of the store sold soda's for one thin dime.

I baby sat a lot of the local kids, besides my own brothers and sisters (which I was not paid for, included in my allowance) and remain very friendly with their families all these years later. I did not realize how young these couples actually were! Newly graduated from college and beginning a family in "Mayberry". I recently went to a funeral for one of them and confided to one of the sons that I babysat for them and he replied, "And you came back?? I hear we were the holy terror of the town!" and I blurted out, "No body was as bad as WH!!" I realized where I was and very likely he could be standing behind me!! Time has a way of changing a four year old into a late 40 year old! But after a stunned silence (for my part) we laughed.

I think WH was a hand full at school also. I think he may have been expelled. If I also remember correctly, I was their only baby sitter! I was requested by this little demon! Maybe I was the only one who could tolerate, I mean handle him.

He was a handsome cuss, even then.

My babysitting ended when I began to go out with my friends who had cars and we began "Riding around". I had no time for baby sitting then. And fifty cents an hour was not cutting it any longer.

I graduated to other things.

Update

Or..Why I am moving (again)

As you may or may not know, my husband works for the Rail Road industry. Before, he worked for one of the major carries. His job was eliminated and he was forced to leave his cushy desk job and try something else with the company he had been with for over 30 years. And it happened, but we had to relocate to Ft. Wayne while he trained for the position as an Assistant. We were there for two years. At first I hated FW, mainly because it was not home and I missed my family. It grew on me after awhile and I have very fond memories of our brief time there. There was a job opening in Louisville and Joe applied. Holy Moly!! He got the job! We were going home!

Unfortunately, he hated the job. He was working 60 - 72 hours a week. He was being forced to preform his job and also cover for the Yardmaster and he absolutely hated that!! He hated his supervisor and he just hated everything.

Not one to sit around and wait for something to happen, Joe jumped companies! He left the class A carrier and joined a regional Rail Road and immediately (I mean immediately) began to run the line in Memphis.

It was so fast that my head could not take it in. Sell our house? Move? Again?? In less than one year. So we decided to take six months and see what happens.

Six months came and went and I stalled around not really wanting to move to Memphis. Memphis is .... really far away. Six hours. Joe was flying home, I was driving down, we made it work for the past year, but things were being to fall apart. I could not find a job up here, so it made sense to just rent out our house and for me to move down there.

Well, great plans sometime go astray. Life has a way of not cooperating.

Joe was asked to take over the yard in an area much closer to Kentucky. As a matter of fact, a lot of the line is in Kentucky.

So, tomorrow I go with him to Clarksville Tennessee and scope things out, find a house/apartment and move...all in 21 days.

Not only move from here, not I have to move from Memphis too. Since we have two residences (God Help Me!!)

So, that's where it is. It is what it is.

Missing you Already

Before I say farewell to the Louisville area I thought I would go around and visit the places I am going to have a hard time leaving behind. As you well know by now, I am a book reader, lover, collector, being my mother’s daughter (as all kids in my family are, we all read, we all have books coming out the wazoo). My very favorite place to find books is the Goodwill Store located on Brownsboro Rd. Why does this store stand head and shoulders above the others? It is the Hoity Toity area of town, that's why.

The books are placed in these huge plastic bins and sit outside the store for lots of good elbow room to sort and dig. I love to get to the bottom of the container, as I am certain there lies the one precious gem I have been looking for.

All the Goodwill’s in the area, on the South side of the River, sell their books for 50 cents! That is fifty cents! I love it. I once pulled out a 1st Edition Steinbeck. The dust jacket is missing (making it almost worthless), but still. I was looking every where for the April 1969 National Geographic magazine. Guess where I found it? Unbelievable. Magical. My last journey found me pawing through the offering when one of the attendants ambled over with a large box of recently donated bounty and let me have first peek.

OMG!! Cookbooks! You almost never get to find a good cook book of any caliber in the bins. They are in high demand and coveted by us thrifters. I scored two much needed local recipe books! (not....I must have 25 books by now!)

I also grabbed up three National Audubon Society Field Guides; Birds, North American Wildflowers, and North American Reptiles & Amphibians! They are bound in various shades of green leather and in mint condition. All First Printing, 1979. $1.50.

I am really going to miss the book bins at Brownsboro Rd.

What's For Dinner?

Or - Look Out Pioneer Woman!!


Check out Thematic Photographic #44 - Edible

Because I fancy myself somewhat of a cook I decided to tell you what I had for dinner last night.

First of all, it's only me. If Joe were home, I'm certain he would indulge me and eat this dish, complaining that it's too rich, too many calories, not diet food etc. etc. etc. In the morning I would find the remains of the dish almost empty in the refrigerator, with the Rubbermaid top not sealed properly a casualty of "sleep eating" (which accompanies sleep walking).

We wonder why we can not loose weight.

I love watching The Food Channel and I love Paula Dean. She was cooking up an Etouffee with her BIL and I thought to myself, "That looks damn good!" I have been tweaking the recipe a little and I must say, last night I licked the bowl.

First off, I made my own fish stock. Yuck you say, and I say yuck too, but man oh man, did it make a difference. I bought a lb. bag of raw shrimp (de-headed and de-veined) at ALDI for under $4, boiled it with some Shrimp Seasoning from Kroger,drained and retained the water (and seasoning mix) and then pulled the tails and shells off and tossed them back into the brine with 1/2 cup onion, 1/2 cup celery, a squirt of lemon juice, a bay leaf and simmered it for about 45 minutes. When I finished that, I strained the fish stock and had about 2 1/2 cups (I did add water to the stock after cooking the Shrimp to make sure I had enough stock).


MARY'S ETOUFFEE

Take 1/2 stick of butter (Paula uses 1 whole stick y'all) and melt in a heavy pot and add 1/2 cup to 3/4 cup Kentucky Kernal season flour to make a roux (since I only used 1/2 stick of butter I only used about 1/2 cup of flour and later on found I had to make more roux with stock from the pot because I thought the Etouffee was not thick enough, but it was actually just right after I added the extra thickening roux). Stir constantly over a low heat until it turns a butterscotch color - maybe 30 minutes.



Chop up the following:
1/2 cup red pepper
1/2 cup green pepper
1 cup celery
1/2 cup chopped bacon
1 cup yellow onion
3/4 cup fresh tomatoes
1/2 cup fresh parsley
1 clove garlic minced

Roux should look like this at the beginning -

And like this at the end of 30 to 45 minutes -

When it looks beautiful like the above, stir in the veggies and bacon.

Then add the following:
1 cup beer
1 cup Half and Half
2 - 2 1/2 cups fish stock
1 bay leaf
a little salt
1 tablespoon Cajun seasoning
1 good splash of Red Hot sauce
1 got shot of Worcestershire


Let simmer for 20 - 30 minutes


It will will look like this!!



Almost ready to eat! Now make rice your favorite way - instant, brown, or traditional maybe you should not wait until the end, because you know how long it takes you to make rice, about 30 minutes if not instant.

I cooked the shrimp before so I do not throw it in the pot. I do not like my shrimp to shrivel up. So when it is all finished and done, smells Divine and a taste test tells me it's time, I put the rice on the bottom of the bowl, add the shrimp from my refrigerator and pour the hot Etouffee over all - the shrimp heats up fast!

And TA-DA Plate Licking Good



(disclaimer - Pioneer Woman I am not, my pots are OLD and look like it!)
(You can sub. bottles of Calm Juice, I think Paula used 4 bottles, and Cajun seasoning is red pepper, onion salt, garlic salt, black pepper etc..)

Portholes of Evil

I awoke with a violent jerk, my heart was pounding, I gasped and opened my eyes not knowing where I was. The evil lay heavy on my chest as I adjusted my eyes to the grainy dark room. My breathing calmed slightly as I recalled the struggle for the note book, the gun going off and the body laying in a crumpled heap against the wall. I searched frantically under him for the notebook, the map to where the money was hidden, an accomplice who was actually just another me, two of us…..the body was not dead and began to come to life, we ran to the convent across the street pounded on the door…it opened and …..there he was!!!!!!

My heart began to pound again, my eye lids heavy luring me back to sleep, quickly back to the evil. I forced myself to start praying…”Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee….”, then the Our Father, how did it go about any two people praying together. The cat was laying against my legs (in the center of the bed as always) and I inducted him as the number two, “Our Father who art in Heaven….”

What seemed like an eternity, maybe five minutes, the panic and dread began to abate. The evilness that followed me out of the dream faded until I could turn on the light and check the time.

Midnight.

My mind began to race as I searched for an answer, some soothing ointment to smear over my frantic electrified fears. Why did I feel the presence of evil breathing down my neck?

Last year, after my Dad passed away, I read many books about the afterlife seeking answers and assurances that he was in the arms of God. It lead me to read many books concentrating on paranormal theory and communicating with the decreased. What to do, what not to do. If goodness exists, an after life that hovers just beyond our consciousness, just beyond our touch, so does evil.

My mind quickly recalled the warnings concerning the Ouija board and the dangers of communicating with demons because they are likely to be the ones “passing by” looking for a door. I remembered the day the old Jesuit priest had to leave after noon mass to conduct an exorcism. The examples he gave us of previous exorcisms he had been involved with.

Evil was on my mind as I was reading Thomas H. Cook’s latest book, Master of the Delta. The main character is teaching a class to High School students about the inherent evils that have threaded its way through out our history. Tiberius, the Spanish Horse, the prison ship Minsk, Jack the Ripper, the Jukes lineage which has been blamed for populating the world with the scourge of poisonous, demented, dangerous, criminal personalities, the Salem Witch trials, the Spanish Inquisition. My mind was ablaze with examples of evil people who committed unspeakable crimes against mankind.

No wonder I was having night mares and visions releasing Evil into my bedroom!

Once I was calmed down enough to read, I picked up the book and studied the cover wondering if it should be returned unfinished to the library?

Heavens no! I cracked it open to where I had left off, the demons and evil spirits now faded away, and resumed reading.

Minding My Own Business

After approximately 30 years I found myself back in the Printers Alley area of Nashville. Me, the Hubs and Step Daughter were taking in the sights which include shopping for them and for me…looking for a bar so I could watch the Michigan State UConn basketball game.

We walked by a bar that looked promising, small with a smattering of customers seated at the bar watching the game. It beckoned me to belly up to the bar. I ordered a Blue Moon. The bartender warned me he did not have orange slices, but he had poured a touch of OJ in … and he nodded towards the gentleman sitting to my left….his, he could do the same for me.

Well okay. I’m actually not picky about fruit in my beer.

I moved over next to the fellow Blue Moon drinker to get a better view of the game on the TV behind the bar…....Just Minding My Own Business….

“Who are you pulling for?” Mr. Blue Moon asked.

“UofL…unfortunately” (I must be one of the few people, outside of Louisville, who refers to the University of Louisville as UofL)…

He frowned and shook his head, “Louisiana?” (LSU!!!!!!!!!!!!!Hell NO!!!) “Oh, Louisville!”

For the next hour or so I learned everything there is to know about Mr. Blue Moon. The most important thing is that his wife was sitting right next to him! Along with his SIL and maybe his wife’s brother. They drive a Chinook, class B vehicle, they travel every week end, they are from Michigan, he searches for wild flowers, and rocks, they go everywhere, they are going to Memphis next, they married in 1975, he was a social worker first got into education after 10 years, wish he’d done it sooner, wife retired two years ago, he could have too if he’d done it sooner….

Joe comes in with Step Daughter, drinks the end of my Blue Moon introduce him to “Jerry” and they leave to shop some more.

……going to the Grand Canyon, have grand kids, love micro breweries, going to write a coffee table book when retire, Coach Calipari will be good for Kentucky, did his post-graduate studying at Michigan State, go to Canada not Mexico though he heard you can live like a king for $1000 a month, the stock market is killing him, they love karaoke, his BIL is a musician and plays the up right bass, they got right on the Ryman Auditorium and sang, stood right where Johnnie Cash stood, got others to come up on stage and sing with them …….

Michigan State wins!!! They stood up and shouted out the Michigan State Fight Song, then a hardy cheer followed by more shouts. It was great!

“Was that too much? He asked me.

“ Hell no, I’m a Kentucky fan.” I had a brief flash back of running wild in the streets of Lexington one night after a monumental win. I recalled waiting at the Blue Grass Airport late at night to welcome the team home AFTER THEY LOST in 1992 (the famous Duke buzzer beater, damn that Christian Laettner). So the four of them shouting singing and prancing around in a Nashville bar in Printers Alley after their team earned a spot in the Last Dance was not a breach of etiquette but fully expected. In Tennessee, we all understood.

They left, to go to a Karaoke bar.

Joe and Step Daughter arrive to collect me.

“He was a trip”, I commented to Joe, “You know, if we lived closer to each other we could be best friends! Too bad.”

“Life is a bitch.”

(Jerry, sorry that UNC squashed you last night, like y'all squashed Louisville. I know how much it sucks).

If it Walks like a Duck Quacks like a Duck...

I have not had a lot to say lately. I feel like I could be depressed. I have been living with one foot in Memphis and one foot here, I see my husband only on weekends, I have to move for the second time in two years, the third time in four years, I have rented the house and need to be out by the 1st, I have no job anymore, I have my daughter living with me with and I hate her boyfriend and love her old one, and two of my rose bushes have kicked the bucket. The cat may be sick. Louisville lost to Michigan State. My Mom said it did not look like my diet was working.

It's official, I'm depressed, listless, lethargic,uninterested in the things that normally I'm all over, apathetic. And on top of all that, they are talking and making overtures to transfer Joe again!! So, I am in limbo.

Today I tackled the cupboards in the kitchen. Wow! The stuff you unearth that you had no idea you bought...or why?? I imagine I could eat for the rest of the month and not make a single trip to the grocery store!

What can you do with Artichoke & Hearts of Palm Bruschetta? Artichoke Antipasto? Mango Chutney? I found a jar of Grande Reserve Kentucky Extremely Hot Smoking Grill Spiced honey mustard! Yum. Also a lost jug of Caribbean Jerk marinade!I found the box of Irish bar-b-q turf! That stuff rocks. You put it in the grill close to the fire but not on the fire!! Several times I have reached into the cupboard searching around for the box of Kentucky Kernel Seasoned Flour (since 1810) and cursed because I did not have any! Ta-Da! I did, it was hidden in the pantry along with a long list of other things I forgot about.


I've been cleaning like a woman possessed. For my tenets for the love of God!! I even cleaned out the refrigerator shelf by shelf. Then the oven. It was hopeless. I even took a wire brush and could not remove all the gunk. The self cleaning feature is useless. I committed to buying a new stove.... for the tenets, Jesus Mary and Joseph!

I have about a million books and it makes me want to cry thinking I am going to haul them across country....again!

My yard sale is going to be awesome. Write for details.....

Tardy Thursday

I hit the Mother Lode yesterday while shifting everything around in the garage under the guise of cleaning and organizing for a Yard Sale. There it was, hidden on a top shelf tucked in a nondescript box! A large plastic bag with a zipper around the top that at one time held brand new bedding but was enlisted and recycled as a storage bag. I had been hunting for six months for the treasure it held, several photo albums, a large manila envelope filled with old report cards and Bible School graduation diplomas/pictures, a broken and torn binder holding studio photos, and a small photo box of more recent (1970's and early 1980's) color snaps!

I laid them all out and went through the photographs them one by one, taking my priceless riches to the scanner and making a large folder of the most precious.

Not only is it a wonderful cache for me, it is perfectly timed and quite the miracle! One of my step daughters is turning 30 this coming week end and quite some time ago she asked if I knew where the "family photographs" could possibly be. Then it came back to me when I laid my hand on the bag yesterday, her mother, my husbands ex, had handed over the family stash to Joe years and years ago. For D., as she grows older, it means everything.

So, at the party Saturday I'll have this kick ass gift! At least I think so, Joe thinks I need to go out and find a designer purse knock off at the local Flea Market (God I hope D. is not reading this!!It will ruin the week-end!).....

Anyway, thanks to Wistful Wednesday at Far Side of Fifty, here is a jewel of my husband, on his way to church, getting ready to pack his gun...no doubt to tuck it in the back part of his pants, just like the gangster, a little Tony Soprano he resembles, as he escorts his sister (not packing)(unless hers is a discretely hidden derringer under her hat) and older brother (also with gun)to the Presbyterian Church.






Circa 1957 or 58.....

Bring back the Pinto!

Back in the day, everything I owned fit inside a Pinto. Every little item I needed to make it in the world could be transported to where ever I needed to be in an afternoon, depending on how long the trip. My plants, my record player, my records, my suitcase with several pairs of bell bottom jeans, books I could not live without, shoes, boots, coats….all in the back of a Pinto.

The time arrived when dormitory rooms were a distant memory, and I had graduated from renting a room with a bed. The time had arrived to start collecting and acquiring things. I bought an antique bed (well, maybe it was just an old bed) for $100 and along with my boyfriend, spent a considerable amount of time refinishing it and transforming it into a thing of beauty. Other things followed; a stereo system with some gigantic speakers, a rocking chair, a couch, a dresser, a comfy restaurant booth that fit perfectly into the farm house kitchen. A pot belly stove called a Warm Morning, another $100. The name was horribly misleading for not once did I wake up to a warm morning but only to a filthy black monster demanding to be shaken down and the smoldering banked coals nursed back to life as the dog, another acquired thing, sat and watched in fascination.

Despite many (hundreds) moves, many yard sales, numerous trips to scattered Goodwill's and local churches and straddling two places that I can realistically call home….I once again find myself dumbfounded and overwhelmed by the impending move to Mississippi and the massive amount of stuff I have once again accumulated.

I think, would’t it be nice to just walk away and take only what would fit in the back of a Pinto?

It's Diet Time Again

On a recent trip to Goodwill, to scratch that shopping itch, I found a Low Carb Cook Book for fifty cents! Oh I love Goodwill! I remembered how, in 2004, I climbed on the South Beach Diet Wagon and lost about 15 pounds. When I look at my Elopement Pictures, I realize how good I look without all those extra pounds. Naturally I packed those pounds back on with a few more and the time has come, the time is imminent, to lose some weight.

As always, with each diet I commit to, I head off to Dairy Queen to celebrate. One last time.

Since I am in Memphis, or rather in Mississippi, I am unfamiliar with the fast food locations. I hit the Main Drag, which traverses east to west, something akin to a State Line Road. My thinking is that there is bound to be a Dairy Queen and a Blizzard with my name on it (God! How I love those Cotton Candy Blizzards, I hope they are back).

It has been my appalling experience, that Dairy Queens are few and far between in some areas. Why is it while I am traveling and feel the need for a food stop the first thing that pops in my head is the Chicken Fingers with Texas toast and white gravy? And why is it that when I switch on the Garmen, I find the closest one is 20 miles back, and the voice that must be obeyed ("Recalculating. Recalculating. ....Turn LEFT!". Bitch! That is a one way ramp! You trying to kill me!)is telling me to give it up.

Alas, the Garmen is at home and unavailable.

I swear, I drove to the Mississippi River and found five McDonald's, a slew of Wendy's, a couple of Arby's, one lonely Zaxby's and countless other Fast Food joints, but not one single DQ.

I turn around and head back running up and down some feeder roads, drive all around the small city we have an apartment in, but no DQ.

I stand disgruntled at Baskin Robbins, blindly pointing towards some concoction (because I left my glasses at home)and end up with one scoop of Love Potion on a sugar cone.

I guess the diet really and truly began despite wasting an hour of my time and several gallons of gas!

The Day The Cat Almost Left Home

This past weekend I learned the hard way that being a May-May (which is my Grandmother name!!) is tough. Joe went and picked up the Grandbaby and the Step Daughter (I better state that the SD is not the GB's mother!!!)and brought them up here for a week end of non-ending fun that centered around the St Paddy Day Parade!

We attended a fish fry on Friday night and when we made it home, GB was tired and cranky. This means she screamed about everything. SD touches her, she screams. Which naturally becomes a lot of fun for SD! So there is touching and screaming and "I didn't do anything!" and a sniffly, "She hit me" and then "I did not!!" and then more screams as SD touches GB's stuff and another sniffly, "She hit me".

In the meantime, the Cat is traumatized and is hiding under a chair. When ever he ventures into the family room, he goes around the perimeter hoping to avoid the Little Person. The Little Person lays eyes on the Cat and immediately shrieks and chases Cat around the house. But Three Legged Cat is faster and can hide under the bed and GB can only place head on floor and beg, "Pweese come out, Cat". To which the Cat only pokes out a paw, to show his discontent, to take a swipe at anyone who happens to walk by.

The Cat will lay down and survey his invaded kingdom and allow GB to pet him under his chin (he can not do justice to the chin scratch with only three legs) and GB is assured that Cat does not bite.

After hours of peeing and pooping nose wiping jewelry playing and cat chasing, GB passes out in exhaustion only to awake at 630am and need attention from May-May.

"No I do not like toast"

"No I do not like Twix"

"No I do not like cinnamon wolls" (is this kid related?????)

"No I do like eggs"

"No woegurt"

"No pancakes"

Together we peer inside the refrigerator and she spots the baloney and pulls it out, "This" she proudly hold up, "I like!!"

So does the Cat! This is the Cat's treat baloney! But, the Cat shares and before the day is ended, the entire pound of baloney is devoured by both Cat and GB. Two slices are found packed in GB's suitcase. AS SD holds up the evidence, GB says, "For later."

Off to the Parade. It is perfectly evident that GB is not going to make it. Jo-Jo (GB name for Grandpa) decides that GB can not be carried the entire Parade Route. And he fears that if we put her on the Float she will insist of getting on and off to walk beside SD and Bridget. So he takes her home. On the way she once again passes out, he carries her in the house and she does not come to until he loads her back in the car to pick us up.

We arrive at home, pack up her belongings, eat more baloney, chase the Cat under the bed one last time, try to pack the large box of jewelry in the small Dora suitcase, try to pack the Shark book she loved, tried to pack the "The Little Mermaid", and at one time tried to pack the Cat! Who ran and hid under the bed. Again.

We took her home to Mama and kissed her and hugged her and cried to be leaving her and returned to the car.

"That was interesting" said Step Daughter, "And I did not hit her! She hit me first!"

Whatever! I'll do what I want! Whatever!

The other night I was watching the Comedy Channel and reading (multitasking) when I was assaulted by the irritating voices of South Park. As I lifted the remote to change the channel to something more palatable I began to watch fascinated by the absurdity of the show. Before I knew it, I was laughing. Out loud! At the mid-night hour, I was chuckling and saying to myself, “Oh my God!” and “I can’t believe this!!” Before this, the defining moment, I thought I did not like South Park. I had never once sat down to watch a single episode (this is the beginning of the 13th season) and based my opinion on reports from others . “Disgusting! Kids with dirty mouths! Children who curse on tv!”

“Whatever! I'll do what I want! I cuss!”

This particular show was a parody on the Maury Povich show. Parody? I think not. By an act of God, I happened to catch the beginning of his program yesterday and the South Park gang was right on!

The fact I’m getting around to is that I laughed my ass off at the unrelenting , irreverent, unforgiving slice of Americana. I loved it.

As I was reciting dialogue from the show to Joe the next day, I commented that it was a first for me, watching the show was a first. I had just celebrated a birthday and feeling old and decrepit, unemployable and over the hill, washed up and un-cool, old as dirt and missing the dinosaurs, tripping on a new experience was invigorating.

Formally entering the summer of my life finding a new experience is worth blogging about, since I am either spouting essays like a volcano or arid as a desert. Nothing in between.

There have been some other firsts this season. I have begun HRT after resisting them for years in fear of the possible side effects. The possible side effects seem minuscule next to the real effects. I must report that was I swayed by that ditsy blond from Three’s Company and have rejected the oral method and embraced the topical hoping to avoid damage to my liver and all the scary stuff that has held me back. So far so good. I think the change is subtle enough that I am only aware of it when I am pleasantly surprised.

For instance, for a long time I have experienced irritable responses to certain habits that my husband possesses. The last time he demonstrated one of his classics (not listening to me)(therefore getting us lost)(yes, it is part of the driving war) and jerking into a parking space at the last moment, instead of having that momentary flash of anger, …..I marveled that I did not have that momentary flash of anger!

Cool!

Some other firsts this week have included the baking of bread. My brother in law announced that he was going to try his hand at bread making and asked my advice! I was flattered but I know (and anyone who has read my blog knows) I am a failure at bread making. Instead of painting myself in an unflattering light, I advised him of a trick I had just read in one of my super duper Cook Book finds, to place a pan of very hot water in the bottom of your oven, close the door and allow the bread to rise in there. If the recipe gives you a time frame for allowing the bread to rise, ignore it and just let it double according to the dough’s inner clock. Put plastic over the bowl under the towel.

I went home and immediately made Wheat Bread the next day following my own advice (based on book knowledge, not experience, and throwing it around like I knew what I was talking about!!!!) and Sweet Jesus! It finally happened! The dough finally rose and doubled in size and the bread is dense and sweet and wonderful.

I’m even giving a loaf to my sister. She may have to cut off the burnt top (only slightly too dark!) but it is delicious.

This is a rambling entry, but hey, Whatever, I'll do what I want!

Breaking Cardnial Rule #1

When I first began to write an on-line journal my husband asked one thing of me, if I ever wrote about him to please not make him look like an A** Hole. And I believe I broke that promise and I apologize to him.

I won't do it again.

But, now I will tell you a story that makes me look like an A** Hole.

When we moved into the house the kids next door came running through my back yard and it pissed me off. If only they had come and asked if they could play back there, that they were use to the house being unoccupied and having the run of the unfenced area. It made me angry to see them opening my jar of dead Japanese beetles and touching my stuff without permission!

I opened the door and asked those kids something to the effect of, "Do you always cut through this yard"...some old woman on the rag stuff minus the broom. (Long ago the witch on our street when we were growing up would always be outside sweeping the rocks off her drive way, my sister use to go over and kick rocks back on it!!)

I immediately felt bad and there developed tension between us.

I even felt relief when they had a huge fight out in front of their house and several days later it was evident they were breaking up and the house went on the market late summer.

I can be a world class bitch and a big A** Hole.

(I hope the medication works and soon).

March Comes In Like a Lion

I’ve been reading journals about love. Newly wed bliss that makes me chuckle. A little glimpse of pillow talk, a tiny slice of verbal volley ball coated in sticky honey sauce…makes me roll my eyes and think, just you wait, THIS is what is in store for you.

On a recent trip to a tourist attraction about an hour and a half away I offered to drive the last leg back home after gassing up. He gratefully accepted settling down in the passenger seat, and putting his hand on the lever to allow the seat to fall back in full nap mode. My cell phone rang as I put it in reverse and began to back up answering the phone and begin talking to my daughter.

“WATCH OUT FOR THAT TRUCK” he barked at me as a huge semi truck began to slide into the gassing area beside us obviously getting ready to stop. Yet, his abrupt instructions caught me off guard so I had to quickly end my call with a “I’ll call you later” and just snapped the phone shut.

I avoided sudden imminent death by putting the car into drive to go around the back of the store, totally avoiding the semi (which did stop under the awning) and as I began to drive I heard this,

“Where are you going?”

I just gave him a side glance as I glided towards the entrance/exit and accidently hit the brakes too hard because it is a brand new car and I am not use to brakes that tight as mine are slightly soft, so we both jerked against the dash board. He jerked a little too dramatically and began to complain again, “What are you doing?? Have you ever driven before??”

I tried to ignore this remark by giving him yet another stink eye, I looked both ways before making a left out of the parking lot to merge into traffic. There was a car heading in our direction from the West so I waited for it to pass so I could cross traffic and head West.

“Are you ever going to pull out?”

I could control it no longer! I even began to laugh about how ridiculous and bizarre this was becoming. In 45 seconds he had completely unnerved me, unintentionally. As soon as I allowed the car to pass I pulled out , right in front of another car (I knew I could make it!) and laid some rubber.

I think he thought I was a maniac and began to yell (actually yell) “PULL OVER PULL OVER PULL OVER” and I knew better to fight it or to continue on, so I pulled over and we exchanged seats.

The universe was back in alignment, the planets resumed their orbit.

“You are the worst driver!” he sneered as he pulled out into traffic.

That is what those star crossed lovers have to look forward to.

(This is one of those crazy games we continue to play and replay and then laugh about it later)

Still Got It!

Ah, the bitter sweet advantages of being middle aged.

One of these is the revelation that it is acceptable to go out of the house without make-up, dressed in a non matched outfit, hair a mess because the hotel you were staying in did not have a hair dryer. In other words like you recently escaped from a mental institution and are trying to look inconspicuous. The trick is to hide behind big sunglasses and know exactly what you are going to pick up so you do not have to whip out your eyeglasses (which incidentally you just stepped on, ala Christmas Story, and give new meaning to cock-eyed) and get in and out fast.

This is the persona I presented to the world as I plunged into Walmart after a two hour drive. Looking like a high class derelict will cause people to avert their eyes and give you a wide berth. This is the way I like it when I visit the Walmart closest to my home. This is the busiest Walmart on the face of the earth. It is the most convenient in a 50 mile radius sitting directly off the Interstate. The parking is a nightmare, expect a hike from the lower 40, and exiting is an exercise that would make even the most talented NASCAR driver pale.

I was making great time and was headed towards the check out area when I suddenly was struck with the memory of a pulled pork recipe I had viewed only that morning. Right then and there I decided to make a detour and head to the Meat Department and find a pork butt.

As I was looking over my pork selection and marveling at the diversity of pork butt, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a Meat Department associate loading fresh meat into the display case. In Walmart, where associates will actually run away or mysteriously disappear on break if they suspect you may ask for assistance, this guy asks if I need help. I was caught off guard!

Three recipes ,the abbreviated version of his life story, and five minutes later, he wrapped up with a remedy to cure sleeplessness; one part Mogan David wine, one part ice and one part sprite. Sip, do not gulp. (do I look like a gulper??) Somewhere around minute two I just gave in and went with the moment. The invisible string that was trying to yank me away from this lunatic slackened and I just went with the flow. I was even amused when asked to repeat back the complicated steps of the first recipe. Even as I began to maneuver away, with my pork butt tucked in my cart, and head towards the fresh vegetable section he tried to continue the conversation. It was difficult to breakaway, as he clearly did not recognize the subtleties of retreat.

But if truth be told, even though he was a Looney Toon, it was nice that he saw beyond my Middle Age disguise and recognized the real me.

One hot babe.

Dear Trip Advisor

And so on the spur of the moment we decided to go to Bowling Green Kentucky to watch the State Cheer leading competition in which we had a family member competing (they won!!) The task of finding an affordable hotel was assigned to me. But first, Joe had already found the cheapest on line and emailed the info.

I attacked the task by going to the usual web sites I have used in the past, but was so disappointed with the results on Hotel.com, Priceline.com, Hotwire etc. I went to Comfort Inn’s web site because I had seen an advertisement that if you stayed two nights, you received a third free. Naturally, the restrictions seemed overwhelming at the time and I was not in the mood to call and converse on the 800 number. I thought that if I booked something as cheap (as the hotel Joe found)and it turned out awful then I would never hear the end of it, but if I booked his place and it was PU then it would go without comment.

I went with the latter choice.

I pushed the” I agree” button and as soon as it was a done deal I realized I should have checked the reviews on Trip Advisor. With a growing feeling of trepidation I signed on and took a look. Oh No! It was bad. It was worse than bad, it read like the Bates Hotel. They received a 1 out of 5! Could It could be worse? Out of the eight reviews, only two gave “recommended” without any info. The info under the “not recommended” made my skin crawl. Dirty bathrooms, paper thin walls, broken air conditioners, no alarm clocks, unresponsive staff blah, blah, blah. I was advised to bring my own pillows and blankets. “You get what you pay for” was the reoccurring theme.

I remembered a long time ago booking a Travel Lodge in Miami through Price Line. We took a taxi cab to the address and I was stunned when we were dropped off. It looked nothing like the pictures on the web site! It was scary looking. We entered the building and the staff did not speak English, only Spanish. It was a challenge to even check in. We were directed to a creepy old elevator (I have one of those irrational fears of elevators) that had an operator, a cage that was closed before the doors and no panel on the wall, but a lever that he used to speed us to the top floor! It was unbelievable! Our room, into which he carried our bags was indescribable, but I will try. You stepped onto a landing and the old style bathroom, (tub only)circa 1930’s, was right in front of you. To the right, down two steps and a hard left was the bed-room with one big bed taking up the entire room, and a tv. To the left, down two steps and a hard right was a second room with a saggy old couch and a second tv. We peeked out the window and the view was the back of the building about five feet away.

We sat on the bed and looked at each other in disbelief.

It was the best Hotel ever! When we returned, after taking a three day cruise, they treated us like long lost relatives. They guarded our luggage for a whole day, drew maps to restaurants, and haggled with taxi drivers on our behalf. They graciously took us up and down the elevator as many times as needed (you have to know us) because the five flights were just too much, and the elevator was just …well, phobia aside, very cool.

So, I was not going to pass judgment just yet. I was going to give it a chance.
It was not Miami, but for the price, it was AOK. I was glad I brought the extra pillows, and I wish I knew to bring a hair dryer, but all in all, the breakfast was wanting, but not as bad as the granola bar we once got as a “Continental breakfast” my first night in Ft. Wayne.

I’m going to write a good commendation on Trip Advisor. Sometimes, you do get what you pay for!

Frugal - A Four Letter Word?

My daughter was whining about how she wanted to go do something but everything was so expensive .If this was some hint that I lend (give) her money, she was barking up the wrong tree!

I sat there looking at her a moment and then asked, “Do you remember the stuff we did when you were a kid? I had little to no money, yet we always had some where to go, something to do. That’s what you do, cope.”

As a single parent attending night school and working at a pink collar seemingly dead-end job, money was tight. Yet, we never wanted for things to do. I was always able to come up with something that did not cost much, if anything at all.

There was the duck pond at the Cave Hill Cemetery. At the time, you could pick up a bag of bread for pennies (recently I visited a Day Old place and the bread was higher that at ALDI…what the hell is going on?!!) . Off we would go and have a great and inexpensive time. And we were not alone. Those were some of the best fed ducks in the city..if not in the world.

There was a dollar movie theater within a few miles of us. There were four screens and every week featured a family friendly movie. Because times were rough, we would sneak in our snacks and avoid the concession stand. I have this image in my minds eye of Bridget and one of her friends standing in front of the Snack Police clutching to their tiny brests small brown bags of penny candy looking guilty and caught red handed. “NOT ALLOWED!!” she bellowed, I pushed them in past her looming glare and just glared back.

Other times we would just go to one of the many city parks. The city is just filled with them! Wonderful parks packed with children area’s that offered many hours of muscle building, sweet child sweat producing exercise. Swing sets, monkey bars, teeter toter's, slides….and the chance for Bridget to meet other children.

The libraries were always a welcome haven with their children area’s, Children’s Hour and lots and lots of books. Bridget would spend lots of time shifting through books looking for her favorites and making me read them right then and there to her! I know Hop On Pop by heart, even to this day.

At various times through out the year the area Malls had some type of happening going on. Everything from the finalist of the science projects, to the mind blowing displays of train sets at Christmas. Now that I think about it, there was always something being highlighted! The kiosk’s had yet to take over all that open space!

We would take trips to the Pet Shops and she would look at all the puppies and kittens, the fish and the spiders in the glass tanks…yuck….she loved it.

We may have had little money to spend on entertainment, but entertainment was only an imagination away.

Up's and Down's of a Day

A day of several highlights begins with the trip to Kroger for batteries (because I was close to Kroger on my errands) and I pick up some Duracell’s that were advertised on the bin as 2/$9.00 and I had a $1.00 coupon! At the cash register they rang up much higher. I brought it to the attention of the cashier who brought it to the attention of Price Police and I received my pack of AAA free!

I go to the Sanitation Dept close to the Kroger, which was why I ended up in these parts, to purchase my new required garbage bin. Last week, I rushed to the front door and peeked out when I heard the garbage truck making its way down my street. I had a mountain of garbage that had been put at the curb the night before, missed the previous week due to the ice storm, so two weeks worth were piled precariously at the end of my driveway. They had missed it (the reason I was checking is on another occasion they had missed it) and so I called to them from the ice encased harbor of my front porch.”Oh Mister, Oh Mister” finally he was able to hear me when the truck had finished its smashing mashing action, “Oh Sirs O, Sirs!! You missed my garbage. “We can’t pick it up because it’s not in the proper container!” He shouted back. “Oh please pick it up, it’s two weeks worth!!” “No can do, not allowed to pickup anything not in the proper container” (this is when you wish you were 25 years old and wearing that low cut cute pink sweater)

“Where can I get one of these containers…” “At the City Dept!!” and off they went on to collect other more law abiding citizen’s garbage. I couldn't be angry with them, because I knew they were only doing their jobs and I had caught wind of this new injunction against unruly garbage receptacles when I had voted in late October. The cost of these new bins was mentioned and it made my eyes blink.

Twice.

My plan was to steal the neighbor’s bin, the guy who has his house on the market for the past six months, since they had the shouting match in front of their house last summer. Well, that was the break up, except for the several times she would come back and continue with the shouting match. It was hard to believe he continued to live in the house, the curtains pulled shut, the shades down tight. He must have rolled the car into his garage under the shadow of night, and left before the first rays of sun lightened our street and I am certain he mowed his lawn with an electric mower under the full moon. He was a quiet dude, in sharp contrast to his wife who was loud and had a yappy little dog who poo pooed on my lawn. But, when I scoped it out, under the wing of a new realtor, the yard has been meticulously groomed and the bin removed from the side of the house (along with the little red wagon I also coveted and was hoping they had a yard sale. Hell, I never saw them move out!)

So, I go into the City Sanitation Dept and plunk down my blood money and ask the lady if there is anyway I can receive my container before the Wednesday pick up because if not, then I will have four weeks of garbage accumulated and it’s smelly. “Not as smelly as it would be in the summer!” she laughed.

It would not fit in my car, so we did not even try. They would deliver it and she waved at a stack of orders (obviously I was not the only garbage container offender in the city) at least two inches tall!

Imagine my surprise when I arrived home around 7pm after having a nice dinner with my pal C. on the river because it felt like spring today and there was my new beautiful bin.

Yay! Who would have thought a garbage bin could bring joy.

A letter from my Sister

"Dear Friends and Family,

February 4th is the one year anniversary of my Father's death. I'm embarrassed that I have taken so long to write each of you. 2008 from start to finish was filled so much illness, sadness, and death that it paralyzed my family from completing many necessary and everyday tasks. Please forgive the tardiness of this note and know that we were only able to get through this year with the love, support, and most definitely all the prayers that each and everyone of you surrounded and provided for my family.

my Dad, T.F.F., was very ill for many many many years, My Mom would often say he was living on borrowed time for the last several years of his life. When I remember my dad I always think of the adage, "They don't make them like that anymore." He was a quiet soft spoken man who always did the right thing, never said a bad word about anyone, and took excellent care of those in need. He was a great father and probably the best person I have ever known. His last years were filled with many trips to the hospital, much pain from the cancer, and a lot of frustration with his memory loss from the dementia.

There were multiple incidents during his final years when we thought dad just couldn't go on anymore. On those occasions I would spend a lot of time in V. and many of you would pick my children up from school, feed them, and help in any way possible. Thank you for your years and years of support , help and prayers.

My Mother is adjusting to living alone. She now haa spare time which she devotes to the St. Leo's grade school stamp club, her study and investment clubs, her prayer groups, and her beloved libraries of WC. She is an amazing woman, The sole reason my Dad survived for as long as he did was the loving care and commitment provided by Mom. She was a shinning example: living up to her wedding vow of "in sickness and in health". There were several occasions when Dad had bad days and was confused as to who all the people around him were. Then Mom would step int he room, Dad would calm down, smile and say, "There's my beautiful bride".

When Dad was in his early 30s, doctors told him he had a very weak heart and would only live a few years. The doctors were wrong. Over the next 58 years his heart was giving and loving and never let anyone who knew him down.

On his anniversary this week, I know he is in heaven and I am sure he's sending all of you have helped over his rough years grace, peace, and well wishes."

It's Friday Night and I'm Feeling Alright! (And a little bit blown away!)

My daughter asked if I wanted to go out and have a drink with her last night! It does not often happen, so I jumped at the opportunity. We drove to downtown and did not find anything that fit our purpose and mood so we headed back down the Pike and found a hole in the wall joint situated at the end of a shopping strip.

Into the Pub we go, and we are greeted by the thumping pumping Rat-A-Tat-Tat guitar sounds as if expelled from a machine gun sound of Motor Head. There are three people playing pool at a table situated right in front of the Juke Box. They are young, but still, in these parts you expect it to be Country flowing around you rather than this heart thumping ear drum busting wall shaking sound.

The waitress approached us, she was also the bartender and if I were to take a wild guess, also the owner. “What can I get you all?” “Beers, do you have Blue Moon?” “We have Bud Light and tonight is a bucket of six for $11.” Good Lord, give me a bucket!

Bridget and I took a table in the eerily lit room, the light emitting from the bars name splashed across the East wall. She laid the bucket in front of us and asked if we would like menu’s. The she put her hand to her temple and said, “That music’s something, ain’t it? I’m too old anymore.” “Me too,” I agreed and Bridget nodded in a youthful “I’m too respectful to disagree” agreement. The ladies skin had the light brown color from a life time of too much sun or a liver that was beginning to fail. Her face was marked with the lines of a cigarette smoking since the age of 12. She could fall anywhere in between 40 and 60 years in age.

But Lord was she an excellent server! She kept the bar going, the tables waited on and everybody feeling appreciated if not a little blown away by the music. Finally someone from the bar, an open face area separated from the restaurant , walked to the juke box and took matters into his own hands.

After a moment, Tracy Chapman’s 'Give me one reason’ began to stream from the speakers and the atmosphere began to relax and a collective sigh of relief rippled through the sparse crowd not at the pool table. Right about then our pizza was delivered. It was surprisingly good! Then the cook came out to make certain we were enjoying it, “It’s the best ever!” Bridget assured him. He sat down in front of a large screen TV with no sound and watched Extreme Makeover with us for awhile.

I recalled some of Dorothy’s magical words at the end of the Wizard of Oz, “………if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire, I won’t look any further than my own back yard.”

Same goes for a Pub, but please, no more Motor Head, I’m too old.

The Ecomonic Crisis Hits Home

You have to be living under a basket to not know some parts of of the US got hit hard by a severe winter storm. First there was the sleet, then the ice, then the snow, then the sleet again. It was pretty bad for us here. I think half of Kentucky was without power at one time. And some are still waiting for the lights and heat to be turned back on.

My friend C. lives in an area that was hard hit, having huge trees in a mature neighborhood with no underground wires. Her power was out for five days. She was lucky that she had family to stay with while waiting it out. The pull to go home and check things out overwhelmed her, so she and her Dad went for a visit to check up on the house. And naturally, her Dad got stuck in the mountain of ice and snow scraped from the streets and deposited in front of all driveways. They tried and tried to get the car dislodged when finally someone came upon them and asked if they needed help.

He attached the car up to a wench and in a matter of moments had the vehicles back on the safe side of the drive way and clear of the ice barricade. Her Dad tried to give the guy money and he waved it off saying, "I'm paying it forward.", jumped in his truck and vanished.

Her father was not familiar with the term so C. explained that there was a movie that had this beautifully simple idea about people doing something meaningful for each other, strangers, family members, doesn't matter. The hitch is it is to be something hard and not easy....then the person receiving the "gift" is to "pass it on" meaning to do something for five other people, who in turn do something for five people, and in time, the world will be a much nicer place for everyone.

Later that day, after hearing her story I was in our local ALDI, the incredibly inexpensive (but very limited brand names, few but their own) grocery store replenishing the bread (.79cents) and a gallon of milk($2.29, was $1.99 until Jan. 1). I was standing in the back of the line, because there is always only one line and one cashier in my ALDI store, minding my own business when I sensed there was something going on at the front of the line.

A woman, with her two grand kids, was trying to check out. She had her daughters debit card and was trying to input the secret code. It was not working,. "I'm sure these are the numbers" the lady said in frustration. The two kids had become very quiet and concentrated on Granny's predicament. "If you try the third time and still don't get it right, the system will freeze you out.'

"Oh Lordie" she sighed and tried for the third time. I think we all held our breaths. It did not take.

The basket of groceries was pushed aside as the small family exited the store.

Something in my gut was telling me to step in and pay it forward, to pay for those groceries. And my heart was aching because I could not. I barely had enough bills in my hand to pay for the meager things I had.

I would have done it in a heart beat a year ago.

If I ever get back on my feet again, I will never ever take anything for granted again.

More Secret's from a Catholic School Girl

(This is St. L.)

When you attended a Catholic school, regardless of religious affiliation, you went to Mass at least twice a week. Mass was held at noon everyday. Since the church was right across the street, two classes each day were marched over and attended with the local worshipers, which consisted of the elder generation, (such as my Nana, who followed us to KY in the mid-60’s. She sat in the back rows with her little toy terrier Pogo, hidden in the folds of her coat) (Pogo was given special dispensation by the Priest to attend Mass with Nana) (he vowed not to yap), retirees and the younger stay at home Mom’s with small children who whined and cried during the service. We waited patiently for the highlight and apex when one of them would escape and crawl under the seats and cause a ruckus.

We were marched into the front rows and were required to mumbled the Latin responses and sing at all the appropriate moments. Two of the older kids would be alter boys, usually pulled from the seventh and eighth grades. It was a great privilege to serve as an alter boy, not to mention getting out of class for the 20-25 minutes of a low
Mass. High Mass was different, because you sang a whole lot more, thereby making it much longer. These were only held on First Fridays, which somehow I think is a second class Holy Day of Obligation for us Catholic’s. I am certain there must be other differences for High and Low masses, but they escape me now. I was not a good Catholic girl, as I was too busy trying to trade holy cards and jockeying to see who got to kneel next to BKA .

On Friday’s all eight grades would march across the street and attend Mass. There must have been some bedlam involved trying to corral so many children. This was a long time ago, and there was no such thing as class helpers/monitors, only the usual two to three nuns and a couple of lay-teachers and some sharp eyes Mom’s attending mass that day. First graders needed to go to the bathroom, some kids got sick (because Mass was held before lunch), and rumbling stomachs made us all laugh, be it a swallowed laugh or snort, hidden behind a clenched fist, as you did not dare bust out laughing, as the Nun had full authority to box your ears. Nothing on this earth can raise a bile of panic as the sound of beads clacking and clicking against each other as a Nun rushes towards you! Somehow, with a lot of luck, you could sneak up into the balcony and “attend Mass”. High up, above everyone, maybe because one of the Nun’s was playing the organ (such a beautiful old instrument that was moved to the new church many years later) you might be able to sit, kneel and stand and sing and then receive communion and walk back up the crooked stair case to the holy ground of the balcony.

My best favorite memory of the balcony was when PGG got up there and got his head stuck in between the wooden slats of railing overlooking the church. How and why his head became lodged in the railing? I personally believe it was on a dare, once his head went through his ears prevented the return.

The older boys had to lay hold of a saw and cut him out.

It remains the highlight of all those years of mid-day Mass for me.

Alphawoman - The Early Years

First grade at St. L’s was the beginning of a journey with a handful of kids whom I would spend the next eight years. Some would join us by being left back, others by transferring in and we lost a few from the usual, moving or transferring to public schools. The beginning was with four girls and one boy that took their places in the front row of seats in class room that next day, when school really began. Three out of the four girls (one left early on) formed a bond that stays with me today.

Not exactly a healthy bond, mind you. It seemed that the three of us could never get along as a gang. It was a cruel game we played during the day. We would splinter off when one would say, “You are my best friend and we are going to shun Mary/Missy this week”.

I call myself Alphawoman, but that girl, that B.K.A., she was the Alphagirl. What does not kill or crush you only makes you stronger!

She was teachers pet. She was the smartest , (until Mike showed up in 4th grade, but he was an early version of a nerd, so she continued to triumph), she had the perfect handwriting, her papers were always neat, the sandwiches she brought for lunch had the crusts cut off, and she had lovely dresses, and curly hair, she developed breasts and curves before the rest of us, the boys were all in love with her, she ended up being the teachers pet, she had the most wonderful school supplies including mechanical pencils, had the first “Nifty”, she had long eye lashes and blue eyes and Dag Gum It, when we had a school re-union (to celebrate 75 years of St. L’s) if she didn’t show up looking absolutely stunning!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.


(Here she is with her arms raised up showing off her budding chest!! We were around 10)


For seven years, until she left after our 7th grade, I struggled with Missy to be BKA’s best friend. Other girls came and went, and Shelly and Frieda were always hovering the in back ground to take in the ostracized “third” girl (be it me or Missy). I did have one certain advantage over Missy. She lived on a farm way out in the country and had to ride the bus home every day. I, on the other hand, was able to stay after school. I was able to keep BKA company while she waited for her Mom (who worked at the factory and would pick BKA after her shift ended) and then I would walk home. We would help the nun’s and swing on the play ground equipment if the nuns would allow us to take the swing seats out of the shed and reattach them to the steel links bars. Or we would walk downtown and visit the 5&dime. Or we would play in the tunnel. Sometimes we played in the church (but don’t tell anyone) and on the church grounds.

I think BKA was my first crush as I coveted her friendship above all else and was granted it only every so often. She and Missy had much more in common, both farm kids, both with older siblings, and both of them being many , many generations deep Kentuckians. Their parents did not talk with funny Northern accents.

Nor did their parents did not try and change things (as my Mom had been known to do). They were inseparable and I tried to squeeze myself into their world. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it was horrible.

We all went to different High Schools and found new circles to run with. It was my first and very elongated introduction to cliques.

I have never liked them since, and have found myself on the outside looking in most my life. Beginning as a little kid, in the early 1960’s in Mayberry USA.

Crushed to pieces

Recently while going through boxes of old photo's I "borrowed" from my Mom I realized there is not a single picture to document the auspicious occasion of my first day at school!


I did find a photo dated August of that year, so this is about as close to how I looked that day so many years ago. My memory is being to default to the legends. The details are blurring around the edges, beginning to fade if remembered at all. But that day remains intact mainly because I was traumatized.

My Mom sent me off on the first day of school with great fanfare, it not documented with still photo's, but saved for all mankind on 8mm film. I was the first of her children to leave the nest. I'm certain my three brothers cried (the baby held in one arm, the camera in the other) as I ventured off into the world to find my fortune! I'm certain they would miss me,just like the next year when the Irish Twins were busted up and the youngest T. was asked how he was going to deal with N. going off to school, "I'm going to be crushed to pieces" he replied.

I climbed on the school bus and headed for parochial school in the small town of Mayberry. It is highly unusual that Catholic kids are allowed to ride the school bus and have that bus actually deliver and pick us up, but it was argued that parents of the Catholic kids paid school taxes like everyone else so their kids were entitled to ride the buses along with the heathens. (I am going to have to get my hands on that film because Joe lived at the other end of the street and rode the same school bus, driven by the beloved Shorty Nichols, who also lived on our street. I would love to see if Joe was part of that motley crew that ascended the bus and rode towards our destinies. Joe was a cry baby and I picture him clinging to his mothers skirt and resisting entry into the world! Maybe he put on a brave face and climbed those enormous steps up into seething withering screaming all grades smashed together, three to a seat, Bus #33, under his brothers wing...)

I was dropped off in front of St. L. school, which was a Victorian two story house that was both a school and a convent for the nuns. Back in those days, there were only two school rooms. Grades 1 - 5 in one room (grade five had only three students) and the rest in a smaller one room building that was detached from the main house.

I'm certain I must have had a clue when I was the only kid stepping off the bus. The next clue must have been the lack of any other children on the school grounds!

Was I early? Was I late?

I was very early, by one day. The nun(s)(?) took me to the room that would be my home away from home (the same room I was sitting in when the Principal threw open the door on Nov. 22, 1963 with news). I helped to wash down blackboards and given the task to take the erasers outside and bang them together as the chalk dust whirled around me and got up my nose.

I distinctly remember thinking (a little schemer even way back then!) that I should be teachers pet due to the circumstances. The bonding that occurred before any of my other baby boomer classmates arrived. I was the star! I was the one who knew how to slam those erasers together with great enthusiasm.

No doubt they called my Mother and Hipped Her to the fact that so anxious to get one child out the door (and educated surrounded by holy Catholic nuns, no doubt) that she had sent me too early.

And my mother, surrounded by her brood of young pre-schooler's and a baby, told them to have me walk home.

So down Broadway and up Highland Ave and down Ashmore, up Cleveland and cut through the back yard of our neighbors the Fredericks, and avoiding their dog, who was tethered up next to the drain ditch behind our house in her dog house, and through the back yard up to the back door and TA DA ! I was home from my first day at school!

"No One Hipped Me To It, Dude."

Part III

Several months ago Joe was asked to pick up a cook book that represented the local flavor of the Memphis food scene. We went to a thrift shop thinking that would be a good place to start, but stuck out. Then, while driving down a main artery close to State Line Road we ran across a Goodwill Book Store! The Cookbook section was over flowing with possibilities. I pulled up a foot stool and began to run through all the titles to find the hidden jewels.

Tucked in between the SouthBeach books, the LowFat Cooking books, the ubiquitous Joy of Cooking and Betty Crocker's are the regional Women Club offerings,locally published paperbacks with spines of gripping plastic teeth sporting names like, "The First Baptist Church of Lucky Hollow Women's Recipes", "Women's Exchange Cook Book Volume I", "St Jude's Special BBQ Edition" and "Best of the Best from Tennessee"....how does one choose just one?

Well, one doesn't. On every return visit since, I have made a side trip to pick up another cook book. And at $2.99 - $3.99, it's difficult to limit myself to just one. The temptation is overwhelming with recipes sporting names like "Oysters Broussard", "Gregnon-Bonne Femme", "Potato Cressonniere", "Scallops St. Jacques", and "Creole Chicken" which gets your mouth watering and stomach clamoring and your hands itching.

My Cook book assemblage began years ago when presented with my first "Women's
Collection". My boyfriends Mother gave it me when she realized I was clueless and soaking up her cooking expertise like a sponge. (Who knew you could put half a pear on a lettuce leaf and flavor with shredded cheddar cheese?! Who knew?)


My Mom added The Shaker Cookbook in honor of the summer I spent there and subsequently the five pounds I picked up when I discovered Cornbread! and Eggplant casserole! And Yellow squash souffle! Oh that summer was marvelous and educational in so many ways!


But the Bible and linchpin of my cooking education is The Prudence Penny cookbook (dated 1938) that I found in an old abandoned barn. This single book has guided me to many an excellent endeavor by pointing out the basics that most cook books just take for granted. Such as which veggies to salt the water and which to not. Did you know that you only boil fresh corn for four minutes? I didn't until Prudence hipped me to it, Dude.

Cabin Fever

Or Why I've been obsessing about food!





Part II

As I said, Dad would walk in the door around 530 and within a short time the family would be seated at the dinner table to share the meal together.

This is how we arrived at the dinner table. For as long as I can remember, the Gang of Three (me and my two “Irish Twin” brothers) had chores that were appointed due to sex! I had to peel the potatoes and set the table. My bro T. cleared the table, I washed dishes, T & N dried said dishes and put away, N. took out garbage. I argued until I was “blue in the face” (one of my Mothers favorite sayings) that this was unfair! (I was a feminist from the get-go!) Just because I was a girl, I had the hardest task (dishes) and the most tasks compared to the boys. I was ignored and suffered in sneering and muttering mountains of dirty dishes and sudsy water as our family grew.

Sitting at the table my Dad would say grace, “Bless us O Lord for these thy gifts as we are about to receive from thy bounty thru Christ our Lord Amen” “Amen!” And he would begin to pass the food to his left, to my Mom. We may as well have had assigned seats, as they never varied. I sat next to N., T. was across from him next to Mom and the baby sat in the high chair. T. was generally strapped into his seat with a belt as his tendency was to slide out of his chair and hide under the table, especially when it came to eating mash potatoes. He hated them and made retching sounds, as if he were gagging and going to throw up accompanied by the most incredible faces while being forced to take a few mouthfuls.

As captivating as that sounds, it was not the main source of entertainment. Dad would ask each of us how our day went (“Fine”) what did we do at school (“Nothing”) and then begin his nightly routine with us kids…

“What is the capital of New York?”

“How do you spell prestidigitator?” (This is how my brother N. began my Fathers eulogy last February.)

And so on and so forth. Until T. finished his mashed potatoes because you always asked to be excused from the table and if T. had not choked down his tablespoon of potatoes, we all suffered.

Then it was the clearing of the table, the agreement on the one solitary tv show we were allowed to watch, Dad would kick back in his lazy boy and watch “Maverick” or “Wagon Train” or “The Rifleman”…oh how he loved Cowboy shows! I’d wait until physically threatened and then drag myself into the kitchen to begin the dreaded clean up.

And it would all begin anew the next evening. Family Time.