Sometimes Monday just seems to slap my face.
Not meanly or with violence. Just a firm tap that says, "Start the work again."
Ugh, I say. It isn't that the work isn't good, or fun, or worthwhile. It is.
It's more that sometimes, it would be good to do nothing on a Monday. How dichotomous that sounds......no work Monday. Yikes! It goes against the grain of a work ethic we've been taught since kindergarten.
Mondays are for beginning again, we've been told. Mondays are the start of a whole new week, we've told ourselves. Mondays are the top of the week, my Grandmother used to say.
Well, surprise. Today, my Monday will be a piddling around day. Time for some piano and harp playing, another stab at the intricate work of my embroidery project, an afternoon reading the new book about the real life of Scientology, and, of course, some dinner preparations.
And maybe, just maybe, a short nap.
Life is Monday good.
What's cooking today
In the fridge as we speak: A couple of stuffed peppers in a casserole with fresh tomato sauce and cheese, about two good portions of homemade potato salad left from Friday, and a couple of helpings of Basmati rice all cooked and chilled from a few days ago. It's time for "clean out the fridge night."
So the dessert will be the only thing to make on this Piddling Around Monday. I usually make a great dessert on fridge night. As my Aunt used to say, "It makes the food seem fresher."
Oatmeal Cookies Your Way
Mix up your favorite recipe for oatmeal cookies (Betty Crocker has a great boxed premix, which I use). Add all or some of these optional treats: chocolate chips, extra raisins, chopped walnuts, and dried berries which you've soaked in hot water for 10 minutes or so. You may want to try fresh blueberries (don't overwork them or they'll bleed into the mix. Just gently fold them in at the last minute). Bake and serve with fresh fruit on hand. We still have some cold watermelon in the fridge. Nice.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
The Earlier the Better
It used to be the dog days of summer arrived in August.
Now we see them in June and July in so many parts of the country, including sunny Nashville. It's sweltering every single day by 10 a.m., so the doggies and I hit the lake walk earlier each morning.
This morning the 5:30 breeze was cool and refreshing as we made our way around the small lake in the center of our community. Passing through the gate, we stood and took three long breaths. Well, I took three long breaths. The dogs stood and stared at me.
I smile thinking of this 50-minute walk as their chance to read the morning newspaper. They scour the trees and bushes to sniff out what went on last night in their neck of the woods. Who came to call? Sniff, sniff. Where did the ducks sleep? Sniff, sniff. Who's left a calling card? Sniff, sniff.
Meanwhile I am busy in a walking meditation around the little lake, lifting up friends and neighbors for the myriad needs and wants we all have, i.e., good health, recovery from illness, strength to face a crisis, energy to stay clean of habits we know we need to discard. Most of all, I give thanks for this life, and the joy of living and walking around the lake with my two great pals.
Life is cool.
What's cooking today
Corn on the cob is fresh and ready, and I have a half dozen in the fridge.
Creamed Corn
Husk 6 ears of corn and remove any silk. Place the ears in boiling water for 8 to 10 minutes to cook. Depending on the size of your corn, it may take a few minutes longer.
Meanwhile put 1/2 cup of heavy cream in a saucepan and simmer it down to 1/3 cup or so (usually about a 1/2 inch down). Add a tblsp. of good honey (I don't use sugar anymore, but you can use sugar if you prefer) and turn it off.
When the corn has cooled, cut it off the ear with a sharp knife and then add it to the cream sauce with salt and pepper to taste (purists use white pepper, I don't mind black or white). Heat it through, add two or three tablespoons of butter, and serve immediately.
We're having a vegetable plate tonight with rich slices of our garden's vine ripened tomatoes interlaced with fresh mozarella cheese and fresh basil, salt and pepper. I'll make a fresh cucumber salad with low fat sour cream, Videlia onion, vinegar, salt and pepper, and then put the warm creamed corn in ramekins on the plate so it doesn't run into everything. Buttermilk biscuits with assorted jams will finish this hot weather meal. Oh! And New York style Pumpkin Cheesecake Ice Cream. Cold and luscious.
Now we see them in June and July in so many parts of the country, including sunny Nashville. It's sweltering every single day by 10 a.m., so the doggies and I hit the lake walk earlier each morning.
This morning the 5:30 breeze was cool and refreshing as we made our way around the small lake in the center of our community. Passing through the gate, we stood and took three long breaths. Well, I took three long breaths. The dogs stood and stared at me.
I smile thinking of this 50-minute walk as their chance to read the morning newspaper. They scour the trees and bushes to sniff out what went on last night in their neck of the woods. Who came to call? Sniff, sniff. Where did the ducks sleep? Sniff, sniff. Who's left a calling card? Sniff, sniff.
Meanwhile I am busy in a walking meditation around the little lake, lifting up friends and neighbors for the myriad needs and wants we all have, i.e., good health, recovery from illness, strength to face a crisis, energy to stay clean of habits we know we need to discard. Most of all, I give thanks for this life, and the joy of living and walking around the lake with my two great pals.
Life is cool.
What's cooking today
Corn on the cob is fresh and ready, and I have a half dozen in the fridge.
Creamed Corn
Husk 6 ears of corn and remove any silk. Place the ears in boiling water for 8 to 10 minutes to cook. Depending on the size of your corn, it may take a few minutes longer.
Meanwhile put 1/2 cup of heavy cream in a saucepan and simmer it down to 1/3 cup or so (usually about a 1/2 inch down). Add a tblsp. of good honey (I don't use sugar anymore, but you can use sugar if you prefer) and turn it off.
When the corn has cooled, cut it off the ear with a sharp knife and then add it to the cream sauce with salt and pepper to taste (purists use white pepper, I don't mind black or white). Heat it through, add two or three tablespoons of butter, and serve immediately.
We're having a vegetable plate tonight with rich slices of our garden's vine ripened tomatoes interlaced with fresh mozarella cheese and fresh basil, salt and pepper. I'll make a fresh cucumber salad with low fat sour cream, Videlia onion, vinegar, salt and pepper, and then put the warm creamed corn in ramekins on the plate so it doesn't run into everything. Buttermilk biscuits with assorted jams will finish this hot weather meal. Oh! And New York style Pumpkin Cheesecake Ice Cream. Cold and luscious.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Life in a new chapter
I've had a dream since I was a skinny kid skipping stones on Lake Ontario.
I dreamed that one day I would write wonderful stories about people and the lives they live. Novels about how they got in the messes they got into, where they were headed, what made them tick, and what they thought about life.
I tried to do it twice before: once when I was 40, and a second time when I was 55. But my timing was off. I realized I couldn't write honestly while anyone in my parents' generation was still alive. Not that I would be writing an autobiography. But every single thing we experience becomes part of us, like the air we breathe, and I didn't want any of my quirky, interesting, funny, wise, foolish, idiosyncratic relatives to see themselves and say, "She thinks that about me?" When in fact, it probably wasn't about them at all.
Then last September the last of the line closed her eyes and went on to the next dimension in peace. And I began to write, finally.
Last Thursday my first novel, Black Chokeberry, whispered through the air to a book publisher in Texas where it will be read by two professionals. One is a reader on staff and the other is a published author and writer of some renown. I have no contract for publication, but this entree into the world of a fine publisher in Texas is a miracle in itself. (I won't bore you with the horrible statistics about the number of unsolicited manuscripts submitted each year and the frighteningly low number that wind up in a reader's hands. It's too dramatic to discuss).
What I do know is that the odds against success have never scared me. I am only frightened by not trying. And so, without hesitation I'm going forward with positive energy and intentional purpose.
I envision my first book being published while I write the sequel, and a companion cookbook of the progatonists' favorite recipes, so that in a year or so, when the first book hits the marketplace, my husband and I will load up a great big beautiful RV with our dogs and laptops, and Kindle, and go all around the country meeting and greeting people as we tell them about the book. We'll share stories on radio and TV, in bookstores (if we have any left!), in libraries, in book clubs, and anywhere else people want to know about Black Chokeberry. What a time we'll have.
In the meanwhile while I write the sequel (starting Monday) this blog will remain my touchstone to the joy of life today. It's the place where living, loving, food, family, the rain and snow, the sun, worn carpets and fresh linens come alive as we embrace the now.
I'm so glad to be back.
What's cooking today
This morning our neighbor brought over a wonderful box of organic produce from a local farm here in Tennessee. Right away, Ratatouille came to mind as I unpacked the yellow and green squash. I'll add that to our simple Friday night hot, hot summer night supper of grilled bratwurst. Start by grilling the bratwurst while you prepare the Ratatouille.
Ratatouille
Wash zucchini squash (3 medium-sized or 4 small) and yellow squash (3 or 4, depending on size) and pat dry with paper towel. Slice them in 1/4-inch slices and lay them in a large dish. Sprinkle on sea salt and toss them in it. Let them sit in the salt to draw out their water while you prepare the other ingredients.
Slice an onion in 1/4-inch slices, cut them in half and separate the slices. Hopefully you'll have some sweet luscious Videlia onions left, but if not, a nice white onion will do, or even a red one, if that's what you have on hand. Chop two or three or four cloves of garlic, depending on your love of garlic. Wash 2 garden tomatoes, then core and seed them. Chop them in bite-sized chunks.
In a large saute pan, heat olive oil and 2 tblsp. butter to bubbling. Add onions and saute gently for a couple of minutes. Add the squash and saute until tender, but not squishy soft. Al dente. Add the garlic and the tomatoes, sea salt and freshly ground pepper. Cook until nicely done, being careful not to overcook. Season to taste.
Grab the bratwurst from the grill and plate by gently piling one or two brats on a bed of Ratatouille. Add a dollop of good coarse grain mustard on the side and serve with your favorite cold beer and a nice wedge of good bread and butter. Watermelon for dessert? Perfect.
I dreamed that one day I would write wonderful stories about people and the lives they live. Novels about how they got in the messes they got into, where they were headed, what made them tick, and what they thought about life.
I tried to do it twice before: once when I was 40, and a second time when I was 55. But my timing was off. I realized I couldn't write honestly while anyone in my parents' generation was still alive. Not that I would be writing an autobiography. But every single thing we experience becomes part of us, like the air we breathe, and I didn't want any of my quirky, interesting, funny, wise, foolish, idiosyncratic relatives to see themselves and say, "She thinks that about me?" When in fact, it probably wasn't about them at all.
Then last September the last of the line closed her eyes and went on to the next dimension in peace. And I began to write, finally.
Last Thursday my first novel, Black Chokeberry, whispered through the air to a book publisher in Texas where it will be read by two professionals. One is a reader on staff and the other is a published author and writer of some renown. I have no contract for publication, but this entree into the world of a fine publisher in Texas is a miracle in itself. (I won't bore you with the horrible statistics about the number of unsolicited manuscripts submitted each year and the frighteningly low number that wind up in a reader's hands. It's too dramatic to discuss).
What I do know is that the odds against success have never scared me. I am only frightened by not trying. And so, without hesitation I'm going forward with positive energy and intentional purpose.
I envision my first book being published while I write the sequel, and a companion cookbook of the progatonists' favorite recipes, so that in a year or so, when the first book hits the marketplace, my husband and I will load up a great big beautiful RV with our dogs and laptops, and Kindle, and go all around the country meeting and greeting people as we tell them about the book. We'll share stories on radio and TV, in bookstores (if we have any left!), in libraries, in book clubs, and anywhere else people want to know about Black Chokeberry. What a time we'll have.
In the meanwhile while I write the sequel (starting Monday) this blog will remain my touchstone to the joy of life today. It's the place where living, loving, food, family, the rain and snow, the sun, worn carpets and fresh linens come alive as we embrace the now.
I'm so glad to be back.
What's cooking today
This morning our neighbor brought over a wonderful box of organic produce from a local farm here in Tennessee. Right away, Ratatouille came to mind as I unpacked the yellow and green squash. I'll add that to our simple Friday night hot, hot summer night supper of grilled bratwurst. Start by grilling the bratwurst while you prepare the Ratatouille.
Ratatouille
Wash zucchini squash (3 medium-sized or 4 small) and yellow squash (3 or 4, depending on size) and pat dry with paper towel. Slice them in 1/4-inch slices and lay them in a large dish. Sprinkle on sea salt and toss them in it. Let them sit in the salt to draw out their water while you prepare the other ingredients.
Slice an onion in 1/4-inch slices, cut them in half and separate the slices. Hopefully you'll have some sweet luscious Videlia onions left, but if not, a nice white onion will do, or even a red one, if that's what you have on hand. Chop two or three or four cloves of garlic, depending on your love of garlic. Wash 2 garden tomatoes, then core and seed them. Chop them in bite-sized chunks.
In a large saute pan, heat olive oil and 2 tblsp. butter to bubbling. Add onions and saute gently for a couple of minutes. Add the squash and saute until tender, but not squishy soft. Al dente. Add the garlic and the tomatoes, sea salt and freshly ground pepper. Cook until nicely done, being careful not to overcook. Season to taste.
Grab the bratwurst from the grill and plate by gently piling one or two brats on a bed of Ratatouille. Add a dollop of good coarse grain mustard on the side and serve with your favorite cold beer and a nice wedge of good bread and butter. Watermelon for dessert? Perfect.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Paper hats and Thanksgiving friends
I listened intently to an NPR story yesterday about Norman Rockwell.
Not many people in my generation will forget his Saturday Evening Post covers with the visit to the doctor for a skinned knee, the homecoming of soldiers after World War II, and of course, the classic family gathering at the Thanksgiving table: Dad presenting a perfect turkey, the family smiling breathlessly in anticipation of the first bite. Everyone scrubbed clean, hair combed, shoelaces tied for once, and safe around the table together.
We all pretty much grew up wanting that Rockwell Thanksgiving. Somehow we thought we'd always have generations of our familiy all sitting down together, having come just down the street or over the bridge to Grandmother's house, the lace tablecloth adorned with simply lovely chrystal, silver and china, the bowls of dressing, squash, mashed potatoes and peas waiting for the splash of delicious gravy to hit them. Feeling safe and all together, the summer screens long ago taken off and put away, the storm windows pulled down, protecting us from the bitter winds, the harsh world of darkness at late afternoon, the freezing temperatures at night.
And if we were incredibly lucky, we had some Thanksgiving gatherings like that at least a few times along the way. But for the most part, our mobile generation lost the chance to live that life as we moved to pursue jobs, the ocean, the mountains, our independent lives, and the release of our children to their own lives. We managed to have some family at the holiday tables, but not all, all at once.
More than that, as children juggle the holidays with two or more sets of parents, it just happens that it may not be our year for Thanksgiving with the kids. And so we have some choices to make: grieve, complain, or get busy.
I tend to get busy.
This year we spent Thanksgiving with two couples (our neighbors across the street) since we all were sans children this year. And once again I am reminded of how we can create our happiness if we are intentional about how we want to live.
We decided to have a "travelling at-home" Thanksgiving: Champagne and hors de oeuvres at the LeBlancs, dinner at the Nelsons (everyone brought sides), and dessert and port wine at the Shillingtons. Everyone got to cook something and entertain in their own home, we kept moving so it was never dull, and we just plain had fun together.
We even did the unthinkable: We pulled the pins out of Christmas Crackers at the Shillingtons and donned those funny paper hats and took lots of pictures. And it wasn't even Christmas.
Imagine.
The NPR story said Rockwell was disappointed with his work, that he was sick to death of doing those "poster covers" every week. He apparently ranted and raged about it at some point. He wanted to be a "real" artist, a serious artist.
Apparently he didn't know that for millions of us, he was.
Maybe life is never ideal, never as clean and warm as a Rockwell cover.
But those Christmas Cracker paper hats at the Thanksgiving table sure did make us laugh out loud.
Today's daily dish: Tonight we'll have what I call "Thanksgiving in a bowl" for supper. I take the left over turkey meat and cut it into bite size pieces, and put it in four or five cups of chicken or turkey stock along with leftover veggies and particularly, the buttercup squash (mashed), and a cup or two of the dressing. Simmer it just for 30 minutes or so, gently, covered. Serve with left over yeast rolls, softened and heated in the microwave oven, and you've got all the taste and fragrance of the Thanksgiving plate in a bowl. We love that.
Last night, tired of turkey (who isn't?) we had a stuffed pork roast. Used about a cup of the left over cooked dressing, chopped pretty well. Try it: Take a pork roast (not the little loin roasts) and cut it side-to-side, not cut all the way through, then flatten it. Sea salt, pepper, garlic powder inside and out, then pat the stuffing down on the butterflied pork roast. Roll firmly and tie with butcher string every inch or so. Roast for 40 to 60 minutes, depending on size of roast. Slice and serve with scalloped potatoes, green beans with toasted almonds. So good.
Not many people in my generation will forget his Saturday Evening Post covers with the visit to the doctor for a skinned knee, the homecoming of soldiers after World War II, and of course, the classic family gathering at the Thanksgiving table: Dad presenting a perfect turkey, the family smiling breathlessly in anticipation of the first bite. Everyone scrubbed clean, hair combed, shoelaces tied for once, and safe around the table together.
We all pretty much grew up wanting that Rockwell Thanksgiving. Somehow we thought we'd always have generations of our familiy all sitting down together, having come just down the street or over the bridge to Grandmother's house, the lace tablecloth adorned with simply lovely chrystal, silver and china, the bowls of dressing, squash, mashed potatoes and peas waiting for the splash of delicious gravy to hit them. Feeling safe and all together, the summer screens long ago taken off and put away, the storm windows pulled down, protecting us from the bitter winds, the harsh world of darkness at late afternoon, the freezing temperatures at night.
And if we were incredibly lucky, we had some Thanksgiving gatherings like that at least a few times along the way. But for the most part, our mobile generation lost the chance to live that life as we moved to pursue jobs, the ocean, the mountains, our independent lives, and the release of our children to their own lives. We managed to have some family at the holiday tables, but not all, all at once.
More than that, as children juggle the holidays with two or more sets of parents, it just happens that it may not be our year for Thanksgiving with the kids. And so we have some choices to make: grieve, complain, or get busy.
I tend to get busy.
This year we spent Thanksgiving with two couples (our neighbors across the street) since we all were sans children this year. And once again I am reminded of how we can create our happiness if we are intentional about how we want to live.
We decided to have a "travelling at-home" Thanksgiving: Champagne and hors de oeuvres at the LeBlancs, dinner at the Nelsons (everyone brought sides), and dessert and port wine at the Shillingtons. Everyone got to cook something and entertain in their own home, we kept moving so it was never dull, and we just plain had fun together.
We even did the unthinkable: We pulled the pins out of Christmas Crackers at the Shillingtons and donned those funny paper hats and took lots of pictures. And it wasn't even Christmas.
Imagine.
The NPR story said Rockwell was disappointed with his work, that he was sick to death of doing those "poster covers" every week. He apparently ranted and raged about it at some point. He wanted to be a "real" artist, a serious artist.
Apparently he didn't know that for millions of us, he was.
Maybe life is never ideal, never as clean and warm as a Rockwell cover.
But those Christmas Cracker paper hats at the Thanksgiving table sure did make us laugh out loud.
Today's daily dish: Tonight we'll have what I call "Thanksgiving in a bowl" for supper. I take the left over turkey meat and cut it into bite size pieces, and put it in four or five cups of chicken or turkey stock along with leftover veggies and particularly, the buttercup squash (mashed), and a cup or two of the dressing. Simmer it just for 30 minutes or so, gently, covered. Serve with left over yeast rolls, softened and heated in the microwave oven, and you've got all the taste and fragrance of the Thanksgiving plate in a bowl. We love that.
Last night, tired of turkey (who isn't?) we had a stuffed pork roast. Used about a cup of the left over cooked dressing, chopped pretty well. Try it: Take a pork roast (not the little loin roasts) and cut it side-to-side, not cut all the way through, then flatten it. Sea salt, pepper, garlic powder inside and out, then pat the stuffing down on the butterflied pork roast. Roll firmly and tie with butcher string every inch or so. Roast for 40 to 60 minutes, depending on size of roast. Slice and serve with scalloped potatoes, green beans with toasted almonds. So good.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Letting go
Back when it was considered wild, I read and re-read the writings of Kahlil Gibran.
I remember being stunned, at 20, to read his knowing, for that's what his writing seemed to be to me --- not just an idea or suggestion, but a deep knowing about life. At any rate, he writes that our children are not our children. Rather, he tells us, our children are spirits that come into our lives for a time. Then we let them go to do their work in the world.
They do not belong to us.
Thinking about him now, I had to get up and go to my home library to bring the slim volume of his writings to my finger tips. These are his words from The Prophet relative to children:
"Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you, but not from you. And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
"You may give them your love, but not your thoughts for they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
"You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
"You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth."
Well, I wound up quoting more than I intended. It's nearly impossible to stop once the thread of these thoughts begins to unravel.
This philosophy created enormous dissonance in my heart and mind when I first read it. It was different from everything I had been taught to value: loving and supporting children from beginning to end, from the first breath to the last, and everything in between. They are the work of your life, they are the most important gift you give to the world, I was told. A good mother held on to her children. To think that they were not mine was anathema to me.
Now, after raising two incredibly strong, sensitive and independent children and seeing their lives unfold, the truth of the prophet is sure and strong.
I look at my sons and know that they are like me, and not like me. They possess my thoughts, but do not claim them since they have their own thoughts spun from their experiences of the world. They are with me, but surely not with me.
Most of all, they have a future that I cannot visit with them. And I know that is the way life propels itself forward. Eventually.
Today's Daily Dish: Light Sunday Supper tonight. Finishing up the roasted chicken by sauteeing it quickly in onions, garlic, green peppers and a packet of taco seasoning. Will fold it into large tortillas and put out sour cream and shredded smoked Gouda cheese, grated, to top it off. We love the Gouda on our burritos. It adds a dimension of smokey, roasted flavor that's hard to beat. I've got some fresh salsa made with the last of the summer tomatoes, green pepper, garlic, onions, salt, pepper, a little lemon juice fresh squeezed in there.
Apple cinnamon bundt cake for dessert, a gift from friends who came last night for dinner and a game of Cribbage. She is a wonderful baker my friend, Shirl. The cake is a Paula Dean recipe so you can imagine how good it tastes, loaded with buttery crisp crust and sugary apples and raisins inside. A good cup of coffee will make it all work. Sunday is the best day. To bed with a good book (Richard Russo's Nobody's Fool) early tonight, dogs in their winter fleece beds, Mark sound asleep. I love life.
I remember being stunned, at 20, to read his knowing, for that's what his writing seemed to be to me --- not just an idea or suggestion, but a deep knowing about life. At any rate, he writes that our children are not our children. Rather, he tells us, our children are spirits that come into our lives for a time. Then we let them go to do their work in the world.
They do not belong to us.
Thinking about him now, I had to get up and go to my home library to bring the slim volume of his writings to my finger tips. These are his words from The Prophet relative to children:
"Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you, but not from you. And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
"You may give them your love, but not your thoughts for they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
"You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
"You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth."
Well, I wound up quoting more than I intended. It's nearly impossible to stop once the thread of these thoughts begins to unravel.
This philosophy created enormous dissonance in my heart and mind when I first read it. It was different from everything I had been taught to value: loving and supporting children from beginning to end, from the first breath to the last, and everything in between. They are the work of your life, they are the most important gift you give to the world, I was told. A good mother held on to her children. To think that they were not mine was anathema to me.
Now, after raising two incredibly strong, sensitive and independent children and seeing their lives unfold, the truth of the prophet is sure and strong.
I look at my sons and know that they are like me, and not like me. They possess my thoughts, but do not claim them since they have their own thoughts spun from their experiences of the world. They are with me, but surely not with me.
Most of all, they have a future that I cannot visit with them. And I know that is the way life propels itself forward. Eventually.
Today's Daily Dish: Light Sunday Supper tonight. Finishing up the roasted chicken by sauteeing it quickly in onions, garlic, green peppers and a packet of taco seasoning. Will fold it into large tortillas and put out sour cream and shredded smoked Gouda cheese, grated, to top it off. We love the Gouda on our burritos. It adds a dimension of smokey, roasted flavor that's hard to beat. I've got some fresh salsa made with the last of the summer tomatoes, green pepper, garlic, onions, salt, pepper, a little lemon juice fresh squeezed in there.
Apple cinnamon bundt cake for dessert, a gift from friends who came last night for dinner and a game of Cribbage. She is a wonderful baker my friend, Shirl. The cake is a Paula Dean recipe so you can imagine how good it tastes, loaded with buttery crisp crust and sugary apples and raisins inside. A good cup of coffee will make it all work. Sunday is the best day. To bed with a good book (Richard Russo's Nobody's Fool) early tonight, dogs in their winter fleece beds, Mark sound asleep. I love life.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Unloading the Dishwasher and other Delights
Maybe it's my age and stage. Maybe it's always been me. Maybe it's just the way my mind works when I stop to think about it, but all told, I am crazy about the details of my life.
It goes beyond the rich coffee and soft-boiled eggs spoooned on Marmite-laced crisp toast. It surpasses the joy of happy feet in ankle socks soaking up night-repair foot creme. It towers above the peace of looking into the living room from the music room in our cottage home in the cool fall evenings, soft lights on. It even surpasses the strange sleeping sounds from our amazing dogs stretched out after their final night run, paws busy, groundhogs under the Oriental rugs.
I've just finally come to know that living one day at a time means appreciating tons and tons of details. Unloading the dishwasher to discover really clean glassware. Opening the bedroom blinds to the sunset sky, all salmon and pink and pale yellow, my breath barely faint with the beauty of it all. Folding into my husband's arms when he says, "C'mon over here, you!"
Seeing a text message from my NYC son who still likes to talk everyday, even though he's getting close to 40. Munching into firmly soft, ripened cantaloupe with a little salt to bring out the flavor, feeling its stickiness when it oozes out the side of my mouth. Singing Christmas carols in October on a Sunday afternoon, just because I felt like it. Pushing the "organ" mode on my electronic piano, flying with the surge of power produced by those magnificent sounds.
I grasp my truth at last.
It's all in the details, this living every day.
Today's Daily Dish: I put 6 chicken legs with second joints, skins on, to bake this morning at 250-degrees (NOT the traditional 350-degrees) for 2 hours. Peeled the skin off, deboned the wonderful moist meat, then dumped all the detritus back into a pot for chicken stock (onion, garlic, celery stalks, fresh sage and oregano from garden, sea salt, pepper) and simmered it for 2 hours, covered. The gorgeous resulting stock will be the base for tonight's chicken noodle soup (add noodles, carrots and celery and simmer for 30 minutes, covered). French Garlic Loaf, and for dessert, Baked Apples with butter, cinnamon and brown sugar (and a dribble of molasses for Mark) with Land 'O Lakes no fat 1/2 and 1/2 swirled all around. Delicious details.
It goes beyond the rich coffee and soft-boiled eggs spoooned on Marmite-laced crisp toast. It surpasses the joy of happy feet in ankle socks soaking up night-repair foot creme. It towers above the peace of looking into the living room from the music room in our cottage home in the cool fall evenings, soft lights on. It even surpasses the strange sleeping sounds from our amazing dogs stretched out after their final night run, paws busy, groundhogs under the Oriental rugs.
I've just finally come to know that living one day at a time means appreciating tons and tons of details. Unloading the dishwasher to discover really clean glassware. Opening the bedroom blinds to the sunset sky, all salmon and pink and pale yellow, my breath barely faint with the beauty of it all. Folding into my husband's arms when he says, "C'mon over here, you!"
Seeing a text message from my NYC son who still likes to talk everyday, even though he's getting close to 40. Munching into firmly soft, ripened cantaloupe with a little salt to bring out the flavor, feeling its stickiness when it oozes out the side of my mouth. Singing Christmas carols in October on a Sunday afternoon, just because I felt like it. Pushing the "organ" mode on my electronic piano, flying with the surge of power produced by those magnificent sounds.
I grasp my truth at last.
It's all in the details, this living every day.
Today's Daily Dish: I put 6 chicken legs with second joints, skins on, to bake this morning at 250-degrees (NOT the traditional 350-degrees) for 2 hours. Peeled the skin off, deboned the wonderful moist meat, then dumped all the detritus back into a pot for chicken stock (onion, garlic, celery stalks, fresh sage and oregano from garden, sea salt, pepper) and simmered it for 2 hours, covered. The gorgeous resulting stock will be the base for tonight's chicken noodle soup (add noodles, carrots and celery and simmer for 30 minutes, covered). French Garlic Loaf, and for dessert, Baked Apples with butter, cinnamon and brown sugar (and a dribble of molasses for Mark) with Land 'O Lakes no fat 1/2 and 1/2 swirled all around. Delicious details.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Speeding Over the Bridge
Nashville's Metro Boulevard is (happily, very happily) now Rosa Parks Boulevard. The name change came about a year or so ago and it was so good to see Rosa's name on the big interstate signs. Almost like a big neon smile to her.
Except yesterday.
I was on my way to Metro Center which has not changed its name to Rosa Parks Center and I flew right past the exit ramp. I looked up and saw Rosa Parks on the sign, thought once again how glad I was about the name change, and went right on looking for the Metro Boulevard exit.
Almost instantaneously I realized my mistake. But by then I was driving over the Cumberland River and had to backtrack by taking Jefferson Street to 8th Avenue, now Rosa Parks Boulevard, on over to Metro Center. I had been running just on time to get to a training session when my mistaken non-exit happened, so now I was sweating, nervously trying to get where I needed to be and not be late. I hate being late.
And of course, like molasses in the coldest part of Maine in February, I inched along Jefferson growing more anxious with every red light. But then the Jefferson Street Bridge came at me and I picked up speed when the light changed from a hot pepper red to a cooling, satisfying cucumber green. I took off. . . . . .
Only to see ice blue lights swirling in my rear view mirror as I sped (52 m.p.m in a ---now I know it, but I didn't then! --- 35 m.p.h. zone).
He was a nice guy, the police officer. Kinda my age, give a decade or so. He almost apologized for stopping me when he explained, "Sorry, but Metro puts us here twice a week to check for speeding and seatbelts, M'am. Mondays and Thursdays. Try to remember that?" I said I would.
So one speeding ticket later (I always wear my seatbelt so I wasn't cited for that) I wound my way around to the training session, 10 minutes late, and they hadn't even started yet. I hate it when that happens. Felt like the time I made a great chocolate souffle for a "come by for dessert and coffee" moment only to have the guests arrive 20 minutes late. Literally, a deflating moment.
Today's Daily Dish: It's cooling down now as we close out September. Time for warm dinners and fruits with cinammon. Decided to create a good, solid big Baked Potato for supper tonight. With Smart Balance buttery spread and its companion (low fat) sour cream, salt, pepper and that's it. Often Mark enjoys cheese or chili on his and I like sauteed onions on mine, but tonight? Just the good old fashioned Baked Potato with a little sour cream mixed in and a hearty sprinkle of freshly cut chives.
Finishing off the plate was a salad of Sliced Pears with a scoop of big curd cottage cheese, salt, pepper on that, and a handful of chopped walnuts and a spoonful of that pumpkin pie pudding from the day before. That finished off that pudding now and it tasted really great with the pears.
As we sat down to eat I popped a sheetpan into the oven loaded with big chunks of slice-and-bake chocolate chip cookies with a Hershey's Kiss pushed lightly down on top, in the middle of each one. Sorta like that gal on the Foodnetwork --- Semi-Homemade?
They were warm and wonderful with a small scoop of no fat Vanilla Bean Frozen Yoghurt.
I admit openly my world is not always from scratch.
Enjoy the cool.
Except yesterday.
I was on my way to Metro Center which has not changed its name to Rosa Parks Center and I flew right past the exit ramp. I looked up and saw Rosa Parks on the sign, thought once again how glad I was about the name change, and went right on looking for the Metro Boulevard exit.
Almost instantaneously I realized my mistake. But by then I was driving over the Cumberland River and had to backtrack by taking Jefferson Street to 8th Avenue, now Rosa Parks Boulevard, on over to Metro Center. I had been running just on time to get to a training session when my mistaken non-exit happened, so now I was sweating, nervously trying to get where I needed to be and not be late. I hate being late.
And of course, like molasses in the coldest part of Maine in February, I inched along Jefferson growing more anxious with every red light. But then the Jefferson Street Bridge came at me and I picked up speed when the light changed from a hot pepper red to a cooling, satisfying cucumber green. I took off. . . . . .
Only to see ice blue lights swirling in my rear view mirror as I sped (52 m.p.m in a ---now I know it, but I didn't then! --- 35 m.p.h. zone).
He was a nice guy, the police officer. Kinda my age, give a decade or so. He almost apologized for stopping me when he explained, "Sorry, but Metro puts us here twice a week to check for speeding and seatbelts, M'am. Mondays and Thursdays. Try to remember that?" I said I would.
So one speeding ticket later (I always wear my seatbelt so I wasn't cited for that) I wound my way around to the training session, 10 minutes late, and they hadn't even started yet. I hate it when that happens. Felt like the time I made a great chocolate souffle for a "come by for dessert and coffee" moment only to have the guests arrive 20 minutes late. Literally, a deflating moment.
Today's Daily Dish: It's cooling down now as we close out September. Time for warm dinners and fruits with cinammon. Decided to create a good, solid big Baked Potato for supper tonight. With Smart Balance buttery spread and its companion (low fat) sour cream, salt, pepper and that's it. Often Mark enjoys cheese or chili on his and I like sauteed onions on mine, but tonight? Just the good old fashioned Baked Potato with a little sour cream mixed in and a hearty sprinkle of freshly cut chives.
Finishing off the plate was a salad of Sliced Pears with a scoop of big curd cottage cheese, salt, pepper on that, and a handful of chopped walnuts and a spoonful of that pumpkin pie pudding from the day before. That finished off that pudding now and it tasted really great with the pears.
As we sat down to eat I popped a sheetpan into the oven loaded with big chunks of slice-and-bake chocolate chip cookies with a Hershey's Kiss pushed lightly down on top, in the middle of each one. Sorta like that gal on the Foodnetwork --- Semi-Homemade?
They were warm and wonderful with a small scoop of no fat Vanilla Bean Frozen Yoghurt.
I admit openly my world is not always from scratch.
Enjoy the cool.
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