I have discovered that trying to get dressed to be presentable in public has become a real challenge. Like a lot of people I am discovering that I have a little zipper problem. It seems that my zippers don't want to close properly. They keep getting caught on my tummy or sometimes they don't even meet! I have lots of excuses but you've heard most of them. The long and the short of it is that I've been eating more than I need and not making very good choices.
Hubby has joined me in the search for bigger slacks, so we are trying to both be a little more careful in what we eat. I think maybe we need to be a lot more careful. I looked at the kitchen counter and discovered part of a batch of chocolate chip cookies (made for the grandkids), the last of a birthday cake (made for my son's birthday dinner) and part of a jam cake (from Christmas, for heaven's sake!). Naturally we have been munching contently on these "left-overs". What is it that makes it impossible for my generation to just throw it out? My refrigerator is full of little bowls, cups and cartons containing a serving of this, and a serving of that--why can't we throw it out!!!
I am a product of a generation that was raised by a generation that actually knew what it was like to not have enough. They knew hard times and food shortages. They didn't waste anything. I still marvel at how my mother-in-law would even save the water from rinsing vegetables to put on her flowers. They also didn't waste food. They cooked enough but not so much that they had tons of left-overs. No one ever starved in my mother's kitchen but she didn't have to clean out the refrigerator every week or so to get rid of all the left overs either.
I read the other day where the "average" serving size has increased by 200% in the last 40 years. The old "basic four" food model was set up on 1/2 cup servings. Put three 1/2 servings on a plate for a meal and most of us would think we were at a "fat farm". We have grown accustomed to eating way more than our bodies require. According to this article, today's small hamburgers are the same size as the regular of just a few years ago. Everything is larger, so why are we surprised that we are too?
Even the clothing stores work to make us eat more. Take for example I wear the same size jeans now that I did in my twenties. Do you think I am the same size--not hardly. The clothing manufacturers have gradually increased the sizes of the clothing so we won't feel upset that we have to keep buying bigger ones. I guess they think we won't realize that we are becoming bigger if the clothes do too.
The sad part is that when it all catches up with you then you have to give up eating the things that you love. When if we had only been eating smaller amounts and made some more sensible choices along the way, we could still be eating what we want. It's all about moderation and compromises. You can eat your cake but not three times a day!
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Look
I don't do a lot of work on the farm anymore, but back when the kids were little everyone had a job. Over the years I have helped fence, bale hay, spray thistles, work cattle, tag calves. You name it and I got a chance to try it. However, one of my favorite memories came when we were showing cattle.
Show cattle are the pampered pets of the farm. The kids would get up early and let them into the barn and feed them their breakfast. Then they would tie the heifers up for an hour or two to get them used to being tied. This was essential since when we took them to shows they would be tied in the barns during the day. My job was to go to the barn after they had left for school and untie them and put them back out in the lot. Not a difficult chore if everything went according to plan.
However, we have limited barn space and hubby being one to never pass up a good opportunity, he kept adding to the morning routine. Before long I had a cow and calf to let into the barn when I let the show heifers out, so mom could have a little extra feed. This was working out pretty well, since everyone knew what they were doing and all were glad to switch places. Then he added two weaning bulls to the mix.
Now things started to get a little tricky. The cow and calf had to come in, the heifers had to go out. Then the process was repeated with the bulls coming in for a bite after the cow was penned up. Cattle are pretty easily trained with a feed bucket so most of the time the process went smoothly with everyone meekly going to their stall. Then came the morning when nothing was going right. The kids were late to school, we were rushed, I had a cold and felt rotten and had an early appointment in town. That meant that everything had to work just right or I would miss my appointment.
I went down to let the show heifers out and one of them decided that it was fun to swing her head away just as I was grabbing for her halter to slip it off. Finally, I got them hustled out and the door open for the cow and calf to come in. This morning the calf decided she wanted to go into a different stall. Then mama wanted to come with her. A little bribing and yelling finally had them contentedly munching feed in their spot. However, the clock was ticking and time was running out. Now to hurry and get the bulls in for their turn. I opened the door and the bulls run to opposite ends of the lot. Great! Trudging and fussing over the time lost and contrary males of all species, I started to gather them up and herd them to the door.
Suddenly one of the bulls dropped his head, stomped his foot and did a little "mini-charge" in my direction. Just as suddenly my control snapped. I had had it with late children, husband designated chores, feeling rotten, and especially ornery males! Without giving it a thought I stared him straight in the eye, propped my hands on my hips and gave him the "look". Yes, the "look". The same look perfected over years by mothers to quell sibling fights on the back pew in church from the choir loft. The same one that would turn a teen aged girl around and back upstairs to change clothes with no words exchanged. The look that has been used by teachers for eons to stop the class cut-up in mid-antic. Every mother has used it-- the"look" that says "You have pushed me as far as I'm going, so you'd better shape up right now!"
It seems that even bulls know the "look" because with that his head came up, he turned peacefully and walked straight into his stall. It's good to know some mothering skills are always effective.
Show cattle are the pampered pets of the farm. The kids would get up early and let them into the barn and feed them their breakfast. Then they would tie the heifers up for an hour or two to get them used to being tied. This was essential since when we took them to shows they would be tied in the barns during the day. My job was to go to the barn after they had left for school and untie them and put them back out in the lot. Not a difficult chore if everything went according to plan.
However, we have limited barn space and hubby being one to never pass up a good opportunity, he kept adding to the morning routine. Before long I had a cow and calf to let into the barn when I let the show heifers out, so mom could have a little extra feed. This was working out pretty well, since everyone knew what they were doing and all were glad to switch places. Then he added two weaning bulls to the mix.
Now things started to get a little tricky. The cow and calf had to come in, the heifers had to go out. Then the process was repeated with the bulls coming in for a bite after the cow was penned up. Cattle are pretty easily trained with a feed bucket so most of the time the process went smoothly with everyone meekly going to their stall. Then came the morning when nothing was going right. The kids were late to school, we were rushed, I had a cold and felt rotten and had an early appointment in town. That meant that everything had to work just right or I would miss my appointment.
I went down to let the show heifers out and one of them decided that it was fun to swing her head away just as I was grabbing for her halter to slip it off. Finally, I got them hustled out and the door open for the cow and calf to come in. This morning the calf decided she wanted to go into a different stall. Then mama wanted to come with her. A little bribing and yelling finally had them contentedly munching feed in their spot. However, the clock was ticking and time was running out. Now to hurry and get the bulls in for their turn. I opened the door and the bulls run to opposite ends of the lot. Great! Trudging and fussing over the time lost and contrary males of all species, I started to gather them up and herd them to the door.
Suddenly one of the bulls dropped his head, stomped his foot and did a little "mini-charge" in my direction. Just as suddenly my control snapped. I had had it with late children, husband designated chores, feeling rotten, and especially ornery males! Without giving it a thought I stared him straight in the eye, propped my hands on my hips and gave him the "look". Yes, the "look". The same look perfected over years by mothers to quell sibling fights on the back pew in church from the choir loft. The same one that would turn a teen aged girl around and back upstairs to change clothes with no words exchanged. The look that has been used by teachers for eons to stop the class cut-up in mid-antic. Every mother has used it-- the"look" that says "You have pushed me as far as I'm going, so you'd better shape up right now!"
It seems that even bulls know the "look" because with that his head came up, he turned peacefully and walked straight into his stall. It's good to know some mothering skills are always effective.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Congo Squares
Growing up, my mother worked full time. It was a time when most mother's didn't work outside of the home and society wasn't as structured for the care of all these children. Some of the time mother would hire a local teen to be my sitter during school breaks and after school. However, summers created another problem. When sitters couldn't be found, I got shipped off to stay with my grandparents in Bardstown. Sometimes this meant I would be living with them for some while. I thought it was a great plan.
My grandparents lived in a tiny little house on a quiet street. Next door lived a family with four daughters, one just my age. Two doors up the street lived a little girl just a little younger. Then across he street lived a family with five boys and one teen girl. (She grew up to become a nun, but that is another story.) I was in kid heaven. We three girls and the three youngest boys spent hours playing, fighting, teasing and generally getting into trouble. It was a kinder, gentler time and while we were complete hooligans, the neighbors were tolerant of most of our antics.
My grandmother wasn't your typical cuddly grandmother. She was more likely to soothe a skinned knee by telling you to quit squalling, no one ever died from a little lost skin. She was a fiery redhead covered, much to my fascination, with freckles from head to toe. At just a little over five feet she was a human dynamo that could do anything. Everything she did she did exceptionally well. She tailored coats for her friends, made up her own patterns, covered furniture, painted rooms, made drapes, and cooked. My, oh my, how she could cook. She cooked for fun, for giving away, for the challenge, and for eating. She loved to eat almost as much as she loved to cook. The constant battle was to keep the pounds off her diminutive frame while indulging her culinary experiments.
As kids we knew that messing around in her kitchen wasn't a great idea. Not only did she have a short, red head temper, but an ingenious method of dolling out odious chores as punishments. However, we also knew that her cooking experiments often resulted in great "left-overs" for us. The compromise was the utility room. If there was a snack for us it would be placed on a plate on a counter just in the back door. You know we checked that counter a dozen times a day.
The best days were the ones she made congo squares. She was famous for these chewy, blond brownies chocked full of nuts and chocolate chips. Think a soft, gooey chocolate chip cookie about 1 inch thick. Eaten warm they are the best in the world. I think this recipe is the one that won my husbands heart. I've made them for years for my kids (big and small). I never make them I don't think of my grandmother. Beneath her growly disposition was a heart that remembered to make cookies for all the neighborhood kids.
Thanks Wawee.
Congo Squares
3/4 c. margarine, melted
2 1/4 c. brown sugar, packed
3 eggs
2 3/4 c. flour
2 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1 c. chopped nuts
1 (6 oz.) pkg. chocolate chips
Melt margarine, add brown sugar and mix well. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add flour, baking powder, and salt. Mix well. Add nuts and chocolate chips. Bake in a 9x13 inch baking pan in a 350 degree oven for 40-45 minutes. Do not over bake. They should be very moist and chewy.
Enjoy.
My grandparents lived in a tiny little house on a quiet street. Next door lived a family with four daughters, one just my age. Two doors up the street lived a little girl just a little younger. Then across he street lived a family with five boys and one teen girl. (She grew up to become a nun, but that is another story.) I was in kid heaven. We three girls and the three youngest boys spent hours playing, fighting, teasing and generally getting into trouble. It was a kinder, gentler time and while we were complete hooligans, the neighbors were tolerant of most of our antics.
My grandmother wasn't your typical cuddly grandmother. She was more likely to soothe a skinned knee by telling you to quit squalling, no one ever died from a little lost skin. She was a fiery redhead covered, much to my fascination, with freckles from head to toe. At just a little over five feet she was a human dynamo that could do anything. Everything she did she did exceptionally well. She tailored coats for her friends, made up her own patterns, covered furniture, painted rooms, made drapes, and cooked. My, oh my, how she could cook. She cooked for fun, for giving away, for the challenge, and for eating. She loved to eat almost as much as she loved to cook. The constant battle was to keep the pounds off her diminutive frame while indulging her culinary experiments.
As kids we knew that messing around in her kitchen wasn't a great idea. Not only did she have a short, red head temper, but an ingenious method of dolling out odious chores as punishments. However, we also knew that her cooking experiments often resulted in great "left-overs" for us. The compromise was the utility room. If there was a snack for us it would be placed on a plate on a counter just in the back door. You know we checked that counter a dozen times a day.
The best days were the ones she made congo squares. She was famous for these chewy, blond brownies chocked full of nuts and chocolate chips. Think a soft, gooey chocolate chip cookie about 1 inch thick. Eaten warm they are the best in the world. I think this recipe is the one that won my husbands heart. I've made them for years for my kids (big and small). I never make them I don't think of my grandmother. Beneath her growly disposition was a heart that remembered to make cookies for all the neighborhood kids.
Thanks Wawee.
Congo Squares
3/4 c. margarine, melted
2 1/4 c. brown sugar, packed
3 eggs
2 3/4 c. flour
2 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1 c. chopped nuts
1 (6 oz.) pkg. chocolate chips
Melt margarine, add brown sugar and mix well. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add flour, baking powder, and salt. Mix well. Add nuts and chocolate chips. Bake in a 9x13 inch baking pan in a 350 degree oven for 40-45 minutes. Do not over bake. They should be very moist and chewy.
Enjoy.
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Weaker Sex
I sure am glad that God has a sense of humor. When God created Adam's help-mate he made her smaller, more delicate, softer, and gentler. Then to balance things out he made her tougher than old shoe leather. If he hadn't who would take care of the males of this world?
It seems that I have been taking care of sick males since before Christmas. The middle grandson came down with a mysterious fever and eye infection just before Christmas. The sitter can't have a sick one with all the other kids, so guess who showed up at my house. "Uh, mom, I know this is short notice" mumbled my son with his drooping little one on his shoulder. Short, as in 8 am the day before Christmas Eve and 17 people coming. OK, put him on the couch, we'll just clean around him. He was still sick Christmas morning, but enough better to enjoy the goodies under the tree. I haven't had the nerve to poll the families attending Christmas Eve to see if anyone else turned up sick.
Within a day or two my son is wandering through the house wondering what he can do for an awful sore throat. Try the doctor, I advise. He droops around for a day then consults the doc and gets a prescription. Of course, he doesn't stay home, he keeps wandering in and our of my house, looking for sympathy and comfort.
Then on the first day back at school son shows up again. This time it's the oldest grandson and a stomach virus. Yea. That one manages to run a fever for two more days while slurping up chicken noodle soup and looking pitiful. We actually spent a couple of neat days watching rented movies. I can recommend "The Last Airbender" and the "Sorcerer's Apprentice".
About this time I had a routine dental appointment. At the end of the check-up the dentist asks "Does your throat feel funny?' "Well, now that you mention it, it has been scratchy feeling". "Well, get ready because it's blistered and you'll probably be feeling a lot worse shortly". That figures, if you nurse enough sick men, you eventually will catch something.
I told the assembled crew that night that I was probably coming down with something and not to expect much out of me for a few days. It didn't make much impression. "Listen", I said, "I really am getting sick, so don't bring me anyone else to nurse".
The next morning, hubby rolls over and croaks, "I'm sick. My throat is killing me. I couldn't sleep all night. I'm running a fever. My throat hurts!" "NO!!" I whined, "You can't out-sick me! It's my turn. I get to lay on the couch and have someone bring me meals." Unfortunately, the truth of the matter is that I was already feeling better. I guess God knew I didn't have time to be really sick. So, out comes the chicken soup and the remote. One more to wait on.
Like I said. It's a good thing God created women to take care of men.
It seems that I have been taking care of sick males since before Christmas. The middle grandson came down with a mysterious fever and eye infection just before Christmas. The sitter can't have a sick one with all the other kids, so guess who showed up at my house. "Uh, mom, I know this is short notice" mumbled my son with his drooping little one on his shoulder. Short, as in 8 am the day before Christmas Eve and 17 people coming. OK, put him on the couch, we'll just clean around him. He was still sick Christmas morning, but enough better to enjoy the goodies under the tree. I haven't had the nerve to poll the families attending Christmas Eve to see if anyone else turned up sick.
Within a day or two my son is wandering through the house wondering what he can do for an awful sore throat. Try the doctor, I advise. He droops around for a day then consults the doc and gets a prescription. Of course, he doesn't stay home, he keeps wandering in and our of my house, looking for sympathy and comfort.
Then on the first day back at school son shows up again. This time it's the oldest grandson and a stomach virus. Yea. That one manages to run a fever for two more days while slurping up chicken noodle soup and looking pitiful. We actually spent a couple of neat days watching rented movies. I can recommend "The Last Airbender" and the "Sorcerer's Apprentice".
About this time I had a routine dental appointment. At the end of the check-up the dentist asks "Does your throat feel funny?' "Well, now that you mention it, it has been scratchy feeling". "Well, get ready because it's blistered and you'll probably be feeling a lot worse shortly". That figures, if you nurse enough sick men, you eventually will catch something.
I told the assembled crew that night that I was probably coming down with something and not to expect much out of me for a few days. It didn't make much impression. "Listen", I said, "I really am getting sick, so don't bring me anyone else to nurse".
The next morning, hubby rolls over and croaks, "I'm sick. My throat is killing me. I couldn't sleep all night. I'm running a fever. My throat hurts!" "NO!!" I whined, "You can't out-sick me! It's my turn. I get to lay on the couch and have someone bring me meals." Unfortunately, the truth of the matter is that I was already feeling better. I guess God knew I didn't have time to be really sick. So, out comes the chicken soup and the remote. One more to wait on.
Like I said. It's a good thing God created women to take care of men.
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