It's spring! I can tell not by the singing of the birds or the greening of the fields but the sound of basketballs and squeaking sneakers. It's March in Kentucky which means that the world comes to a halt while seemingly hundreds of basketball games are played leading up to the Final Four. If you don't know what I am referring to with the words "Final Four" you might as well quit reading now. You also are probably reading from another country.
Kentucky is basketball crazy. With the advent of cable tv we can now follow each and every game leading up to the big one. That means that on certain days at certain times you could deliver a baby with everyone going, "don't push until the time out!" Don't even think about scheduling anything until you check the game schedule. I once attended a revival at our church when the choir refused to march in to start the service until UK had finished their game! The visiting minister then had the score announced before he started the service. That's religion in Kentucky.
From now until the end of the NCAA tournament, weddings, parties, meals, committee meetings, and anything else will depend on who is playing and when. I remember a bride who was foolish enough to plan a wedding that happened to coincide with UK playing. (Smart brides wouldn't dream of planning a wedding in March) After serious discussion the wedding was held but everyone's attention was divided between the ceremony and the whispered commentary going on the the pews from those with radios and earphones. The bride was savvy enough to provide tv's during the reception so everyone could keep up with the games between dances.
Thanks to modern technology daytime games will be viewed continuously from 5:00 pm on. We will eat, sleep and dream in front of the tv while the games go on and on and on. Brackets will be filled out and teams cheered on. Hopes will be raised and hopes will crash. Excitement and desolation will both be felt. It's March Madness in Kentucky.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Don't Throw That Away
Last night I watched a news report about a fire in Louisville. The report stated that the firemen were unable to enter the house to fight the fire because of a massive amount of "content". The owner was described as a hoarder. Evidently the owner had collected so much "stuff" that the firemen literally could not get in the doors. Unable to enter they just poured water on from the outside and tried to keep it from spreading to other homes.
I looked over at hubby and he met my eyes with a look of understanding. You see, we are a "keeper" married to a "keeper" and we are fast disappearing under a load of stuff we are keeping. We find it difficult, if not impossible, to throw away things that are perfectly good. We also can't refuse usable items, especially if they are free.
It all started soon after we married. My grandmother passed away leaving my sister and I to empty her home. We spent an afternoon sorting and dividing sixty years of living. Then we loaded it all up and took it home. It, frankly, never occurred to us to give any of it away. We were newly married and hadn't accumulated much so we just kept it. The oak drop leaf table, walnut chest made by my grandfather, Aladdin lamps, and lovingly monogrammed napkins are treasured keepsakes that I would never part with. However, we also still have the worn twin bed sheets (I don't own a twin bed), dented kitchenware, mismatched glasses, and odd decorative pieces. Since that time we have cleaned out three more houses with the same results.
It's not just furniture we save. During a recent remodeling, after the carpenters left for the day, we would carefully collect up all the "usable" scraps that had been left to be disposed of. Hubby would grab pieces of moldings, cuts of lumber, even nails and stash them in one of our outbuildings. The guys would laugh about all the trash we had saved but we just kept on stashing goodies away. Then came the day we discovered that the space left for the mantle in the sunroom was too small for a standard mantle. That meant we would have construct our own. Out came all the pieces of moldings, trim, and lumber that had been saved. Using nothing but what we had on hand we were able to build a lovely mantle that blends perfectly with the rest of the house.
Guess we had the last laugh! Now, I wonder where we can put another building to hold all the other "stuff" we're still collecting.
I looked over at hubby and he met my eyes with a look of understanding. You see, we are a "keeper" married to a "keeper" and we are fast disappearing under a load of stuff we are keeping. We find it difficult, if not impossible, to throw away things that are perfectly good. We also can't refuse usable items, especially if they are free.
It all started soon after we married. My grandmother passed away leaving my sister and I to empty her home. We spent an afternoon sorting and dividing sixty years of living. Then we loaded it all up and took it home. It, frankly, never occurred to us to give any of it away. We were newly married and hadn't accumulated much so we just kept it. The oak drop leaf table, walnut chest made by my grandfather, Aladdin lamps, and lovingly monogrammed napkins are treasured keepsakes that I would never part with. However, we also still have the worn twin bed sheets (I don't own a twin bed), dented kitchenware, mismatched glasses, and odd decorative pieces. Since that time we have cleaned out three more houses with the same results.
It's not just furniture we save. During a recent remodeling, after the carpenters left for the day, we would carefully collect up all the "usable" scraps that had been left to be disposed of. Hubby would grab pieces of moldings, cuts of lumber, even nails and stash them in one of our outbuildings. The guys would laugh about all the trash we had saved but we just kept on stashing goodies away. Then came the day we discovered that the space left for the mantle in the sunroom was too small for a standard mantle. That meant we would have construct our own. Out came all the pieces of moldings, trim, and lumber that had been saved. Using nothing but what we had on hand we were able to build a lovely mantle that blends perfectly with the rest of the house.
Guess we had the last laugh! Now, I wonder where we can put another building to hold all the other "stuff" we're still collecting.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Flying Woes
I hate to fly. Actually up until about a year ago I loved to fly. In fact I have often yearned to learn to fly. However, lately I haven't found too much to enjoy about flying. Somehow, airlines have managed to make flying from one place to another a test of endurance, attitude, patience, and fortitude. At the same time airports try to make you feel like either a villain or a load of sheep being loaded on cars for slaughter. Where did the "service with a smile" go? Why can't they still make an effort to create a pleasant experience instead of a nightmare journey? I realize that there is a very real risk of terrorists, but for every terrorist there are thousands of travelers who just want to get to their destination as quickly and easily as possible. Do we count for nothing?
Last spring we flew to Bermuda with another couple. We arrived at the airport the required two hours early to be sure we had time to get through the security line. We had tried to follow all the rules. All carry-on liquids in a quart bag, shoes off, coats off, laptops out, phones out, change out, and Bob's c-pap machine unloaded. Of course, the breathing machine caused a line hold up. Bob had to remain with it while they checked it over and over. Then he was allowed to repack it and continue on. Everything went fairly smoothly but I was reminded of a previous experience.
On that occasion the line was stopped for a thorough search of a wheelchair. The suspected terrorist was an extremely frail, white haired lady who may have weighed all of 95 pounds and her equally frail husband. The TSA employee was demanding in a loud, hectoring voice that she leave the wheelchair immediately so he could thoroughly check it. She was struggling to rise with the help of her husband while this employee kept urging her loudly, "Get out of the wheelchair. Step to the side. Don't take anything with you. Get OUT of the wheelchair!" The whole time the little couple was trying to explain that she was getting out but it took a little while since it was very hard for her to move or stand. The employee just kept yelling. By now the entire line was watching the process. With obvious embarrassment the couple stood in dismay while her wheelchair was emptied and thoroughly examined for explosives, I guess. I understand that terrorist come in all sizes, ages and nationalities, but on the off-chance that they really were just paying customers, could they not be treated with dignity and politeness? Is there no way to be thorough without treating everyone as if they were dangerous criminals?
Somehow what used to be an exciting adventure has become a trial. Not only are we treated as a nuisance, at best, or a positive danger at worst, but it seems that the reliability of the airlines has gone down with the increase in security. Everyone who has flown has had the occasional delay but they used to be fairly rare. I flew for years with few problems. Once my luggage went to Atlanta while I went to Louisville but they found it and returned it in a surprisingly short time. Once Bob had a connecting flight cancelled but they got him on another flight with just enough wait for him to catch part of a ballgame in the bar.
Now, rather than the exception, delays and canceled flights are the norm. Out of the three flights I have scheduled I can bet that I will deal with at least one delay and probably one missed flight. Gone too, is the policy of keeping the customer happy. On the Bermuda trip we were held up in Louisville (on the plane) for an hour because of a storm that was going through Philadelphia. We arrived with not enough time to run from one end of the airport to the other to reach our departure gate on our connecting flight. In times past, a call would have been made to the departing plane that four passengers were on their way and to give them a few extra minutes. Now we were just told to run! We arrived, out of breath, only to discover that the door had been closed. The plane was still there and the ramp still connected but we were too late. We watched as the plane sat there for another 10 minutes before it began to detach from the ramp and pull away. The rule is "once the door is closed it cannot be reopened". OK, I've got that, but if they had called ahead they could have held the door for another two minutes for us to get to the gate (unless they had already given our seats to "stand-by's" which is my guess).
We were directed to a customer service booth where we were informed that we were just out of luck. There was another flight tomorrow and if there were seats we could get on it. The lady at the desk was rude, abrupt and totally unhelpful. I did rather wonder what the "customer service" part was. We were told that there were lots of hotels in Philly and we could get one if we wanted or sleep in the terminal. OK that sounds like fun. Finally in desperation I asked if she at least had a list of close by hotels, at which point she presented us with a printed list of hotels at the airport and discounted room rates. Why not offer this first instead after we had reached maximum frustration? (Did no one tell this lady that her job would be to handle people who weren't really happy to be spending the night in Philadelphia instead of Bermuda?)
The bright point of the experience was the passing employee who heard our distress and told us that there was a good chance that our luggage had been pulled from the plane. He then directed us to the office to see if we could retrieve it. The gentleman there was helpful, polite and friendly--there is hope for travel yet!! I wish I had gotten his name so I could write the company and tell them that they have one great employee!
The good news. We got our luggage and had all day to enjoy a mini-vacation in Philly. It's a great place to visit. Put it on your list of places to see, but you might want to consider driving or taking a train!
Last spring we flew to Bermuda with another couple. We arrived at the airport the required two hours early to be sure we had time to get through the security line. We had tried to follow all the rules. All carry-on liquids in a quart bag, shoes off, coats off, laptops out, phones out, change out, and Bob's c-pap machine unloaded. Of course, the breathing machine caused a line hold up. Bob had to remain with it while they checked it over and over. Then he was allowed to repack it and continue on. Everything went fairly smoothly but I was reminded of a previous experience.
On that occasion the line was stopped for a thorough search of a wheelchair. The suspected terrorist was an extremely frail, white haired lady who may have weighed all of 95 pounds and her equally frail husband. The TSA employee was demanding in a loud, hectoring voice that she leave the wheelchair immediately so he could thoroughly check it. She was struggling to rise with the help of her husband while this employee kept urging her loudly, "Get out of the wheelchair. Step to the side. Don't take anything with you. Get OUT of the wheelchair!" The whole time the little couple was trying to explain that she was getting out but it took a little while since it was very hard for her to move or stand. The employee just kept yelling. By now the entire line was watching the process. With obvious embarrassment the couple stood in dismay while her wheelchair was emptied and thoroughly examined for explosives, I guess. I understand that terrorist come in all sizes, ages and nationalities, but on the off-chance that they really were just paying customers, could they not be treated with dignity and politeness? Is there no way to be thorough without treating everyone as if they were dangerous criminals?
Somehow what used to be an exciting adventure has become a trial. Not only are we treated as a nuisance, at best, or a positive danger at worst, but it seems that the reliability of the airlines has gone down with the increase in security. Everyone who has flown has had the occasional delay but they used to be fairly rare. I flew for years with few problems. Once my luggage went to Atlanta while I went to Louisville but they found it and returned it in a surprisingly short time. Once Bob had a connecting flight cancelled but they got him on another flight with just enough wait for him to catch part of a ballgame in the bar.
Now, rather than the exception, delays and canceled flights are the norm. Out of the three flights I have scheduled I can bet that I will deal with at least one delay and probably one missed flight. Gone too, is the policy of keeping the customer happy. On the Bermuda trip we were held up in Louisville (on the plane) for an hour because of a storm that was going through Philadelphia. We arrived with not enough time to run from one end of the airport to the other to reach our departure gate on our connecting flight. In times past, a call would have been made to the departing plane that four passengers were on their way and to give them a few extra minutes. Now we were just told to run! We arrived, out of breath, only to discover that the door had been closed. The plane was still there and the ramp still connected but we were too late. We watched as the plane sat there for another 10 minutes before it began to detach from the ramp and pull away. The rule is "once the door is closed it cannot be reopened". OK, I've got that, but if they had called ahead they could have held the door for another two minutes for us to get to the gate (unless they had already given our seats to "stand-by's" which is my guess).
We were directed to a customer service booth where we were informed that we were just out of luck. There was another flight tomorrow and if there were seats we could get on it. The lady at the desk was rude, abrupt and totally unhelpful. I did rather wonder what the "customer service" part was. We were told that there were lots of hotels in Philly and we could get one if we wanted or sleep in the terminal. OK that sounds like fun. Finally in desperation I asked if she at least had a list of close by hotels, at which point she presented us with a printed list of hotels at the airport and discounted room rates. Why not offer this first instead after we had reached maximum frustration? (Did no one tell this lady that her job would be to handle people who weren't really happy to be spending the night in Philadelphia instead of Bermuda?)
The bright point of the experience was the passing employee who heard our distress and told us that there was a good chance that our luggage had been pulled from the plane. He then directed us to the office to see if we could retrieve it. The gentleman there was helpful, polite and friendly--there is hope for travel yet!! I wish I had gotten his name so I could write the company and tell them that they have one great employee!
The good news. We got our luggage and had all day to enjoy a mini-vacation in Philly. It's a great place to visit. Put it on your list of places to see, but you might want to consider driving or taking a train!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Beaten Biscuits
Recently we entertained some insurance company executives from Syracuse, New York. Rather than taking them out to eat, hubby wanted to have them come to the house for a more relaxed, social event. We decided to include the office, some local agents, and make it a real party. I love to get out the little used "good" dishes and silver so I agreed to "cater" the dinner.
Knowing, from past visits, that the execs were food lovers, I decided to give them a true "southern" meal. Over the years I have discovered that each section of the country has its own distinctive cuisine. In the south you will find dishes that are unique to the area. Paula Dean has probably done more to spread the lure of southern cooking than anyone. She has labeled herself the Queen of Butter, but it is a fact that southern cooking is a little heavy on the fats and sugars, but oh, so good. I wanted to present a typical southern meal but also keep it easy to eat.
Meat was the biggest problem. I wanted to have country ham but knew that it is an acquired taste and they might not acquire it quick enough. So, to be sure, I decided to have city ham too. Now for the uninitiated, country ham is salt cured and hangs to age for 6-12 months. The salt pulls the moisture out of the ham and seals the ham against spoilage. The result is a rich, dark ham with an intense flavor. Southerners can't get enough of it. City ham on the other hand, is sugar cured and is the pink, delicate ham you find on most Easter tables. To make eating easier, I decided to serve it on biscuits that could be eaten out of hand.
Now the fun begins. In the south there are biscuits and then there are beaten biscuits. Regular biscuits are just what you think they are. Light, fluffy, quick breads, cut into little rounds and baked to golden deliciousness. However, die-hard southerners think that country ham just has to be eaten on a beaten biscuit. These are not your typical biscuit. The recipe for beaten biscuits goes back to colonial times. I don't know why they were developed except maybe to come up with a biscuit when leavening agents were in short supply. Most recipes use very little, if any, baking powder. Maybe it was because of their keeping qualities, since they remain about the same for days on end. Whatever the reason they are a uniquely southern item.
To make them you need a dough made from flour, lard, (yes, lard) and milk and water. Originally, they were then beaten 100 times with the flat of a hatchet, folding and turning as you beat. Let me tell you, women back then weren't weak sisters! The beating builds the gluten in the flour until the dough becomes very smooth and elastic. They are then rolled out, pricked with a fork and baked to a delicate golden brown. The resulting biscuit is like a thick cracker but slightly softer. Split it becomes the perfect receptacle for a tender piece of ham.
Sometime around 100 years ago, someone developed a machine to help in the beating process. It is called a biscuit brake and looks a lot like the ringers from an old ringer washer attached to a table. Except the ringers are metal clad and turned by a large crank handle. With this, instead of beating the dough you put in through the ringers, folding it each time. You still have to do it 100 times, but it's a lot easier. At the end of the process the dough has become slick and will pop from the trapped air in the turned fold. Then you know you are done.
I had made beaten biscuits as a child for a neighbor lady. A friend and I were the crank turners for her biscuits. We would spend a whole afternoon cranking for all the hot biscuits we could eat. I spent the first 20 years of our marriage, looking for a biscuit brake of my own. Finally, I found one, which is what we used to crank out these unique southern delicacies.
The good news. There is hope for the north yet, The folks from New York were intrigued with the little hard bisucits and decided they were delicious. In fact they ate more than the locals did. Success!
Knowing, from past visits, that the execs were food lovers, I decided to give them a true "southern" meal. Over the years I have discovered that each section of the country has its own distinctive cuisine. In the south you will find dishes that are unique to the area. Paula Dean has probably done more to spread the lure of southern cooking than anyone. She has labeled herself the Queen of Butter, but it is a fact that southern cooking is a little heavy on the fats and sugars, but oh, so good. I wanted to present a typical southern meal but also keep it easy to eat.
Meat was the biggest problem. I wanted to have country ham but knew that it is an acquired taste and they might not acquire it quick enough. So, to be sure, I decided to have city ham too. Now for the uninitiated, country ham is salt cured and hangs to age for 6-12 months. The salt pulls the moisture out of the ham and seals the ham against spoilage. The result is a rich, dark ham with an intense flavor. Southerners can't get enough of it. City ham on the other hand, is sugar cured and is the pink, delicate ham you find on most Easter tables. To make eating easier, I decided to serve it on biscuits that could be eaten out of hand.
Now the fun begins. In the south there are biscuits and then there are beaten biscuits. Regular biscuits are just what you think they are. Light, fluffy, quick breads, cut into little rounds and baked to golden deliciousness. However, die-hard southerners think that country ham just has to be eaten on a beaten biscuit. These are not your typical biscuit. The recipe for beaten biscuits goes back to colonial times. I don't know why they were developed except maybe to come up with a biscuit when leavening agents were in short supply. Most recipes use very little, if any, baking powder. Maybe it was because of their keeping qualities, since they remain about the same for days on end. Whatever the reason they are a uniquely southern item.
To make them you need a dough made from flour, lard, (yes, lard) and milk and water. Originally, they were then beaten 100 times with the flat of a hatchet, folding and turning as you beat. Let me tell you, women back then weren't weak sisters! The beating builds the gluten in the flour until the dough becomes very smooth and elastic. They are then rolled out, pricked with a fork and baked to a delicate golden brown. The resulting biscuit is like a thick cracker but slightly softer. Split it becomes the perfect receptacle for a tender piece of ham.
Sometime around 100 years ago, someone developed a machine to help in the beating process. It is called a biscuit brake and looks a lot like the ringers from an old ringer washer attached to a table. Except the ringers are metal clad and turned by a large crank handle. With this, instead of beating the dough you put in through the ringers, folding it each time. You still have to do it 100 times, but it's a lot easier. At the end of the process the dough has become slick and will pop from the trapped air in the turned fold. Then you know you are done.
I had made beaten biscuits as a child for a neighbor lady. A friend and I were the crank turners for her biscuits. We would spend a whole afternoon cranking for all the hot biscuits we could eat. I spent the first 20 years of our marriage, looking for a biscuit brake of my own. Finally, I found one, which is what we used to crank out these unique southern delicacies.
The good news. There is hope for the north yet, The folks from New York were intrigued with the little hard bisucits and decided they were delicious. In fact they ate more than the locals did. Success!
Monday, March 7, 2011
I'm Back
My hubby and I recentely attended a banquet and annual meeting of the Angus Association. Since the kids had grown up and we were no longer showing cattle, we had not attended in several years. It was wonderful to see so many old friends, some grown older, some just grown up. As we made our way to our table we were greeted by a friend who had been one of the first to welcome us to showing cattle and help us learn the ropes. At the time, he had been a young man and now he was at the banquet with his own grown sons. Lately, our only contact has been through greetings on Facebook.
To my surprise, his greeting was, "You've quit posting on your blog!" I muttered something to the effect that we'd been busy, etc. "Well, don't give up," he returned, "I've enjoyed reading your history stories. However, if you want to include some more recent ones you can tell about getting a ticket in Perryville." (Sorry, Sammy. Maybe at a future date!)
I think I must have looked stunned. In fact I was busy processing the idea that someone is reading my blogs and actually enjoying them. All along I had thought of them as an exercise only for my benefit. I knew that I wanted the stories of our families to be passed on and remembered. I guess if I thought of it at all, it was that maybe my kids would someday read them. I enjoy writing and sharing my thoughts but I just hadn't given my readership much thought.
I am humbled. I will continue and hopefully provide some entertainment to someone. Maybe a story will trigger a memory that will mean retelling an old family story to your children. Maybe it will touch your heart. Who knows, maybe you will even laugh. If you do, please let me know.
To my surprise, his greeting was, "You've quit posting on your blog!" I muttered something to the effect that we'd been busy, etc. "Well, don't give up," he returned, "I've enjoyed reading your history stories. However, if you want to include some more recent ones you can tell about getting a ticket in Perryville." (Sorry, Sammy. Maybe at a future date!)
I think I must have looked stunned. In fact I was busy processing the idea that someone is reading my blogs and actually enjoying them. All along I had thought of them as an exercise only for my benefit. I knew that I wanted the stories of our families to be passed on and remembered. I guess if I thought of it at all, it was that maybe my kids would someday read them. I enjoy writing and sharing my thoughts but I just hadn't given my readership much thought.
I am humbled. I will continue and hopefully provide some entertainment to someone. Maybe a story will trigger a memory that will mean retelling an old family story to your children. Maybe it will touch your heart. Who knows, maybe you will even laugh. If you do, please let me know.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
New Car
Just before Christmas, actually on the day my daughter arrived with her family, I wrecked my car. Fortunately, no one was seriously injured, but my car was totaled. I made it through Christmas by borrowing cars and keeping moving. (Not injured does not mean not sore!) My daughter kept nagging us to get out and get a new car. However, with a house full of company it just didn't happen. The truth of the matter is that we just weren't ready to buy a car and our hearts just weren't in it.
Car shopping is vastly different now. It used to be that you would go to the local dealer and see what he had. Then you made a choice based on his inventory and your finances. Deal done. It's not nearly so simple now. First off, the local dealers have been closed down. That means you have to shop further away from home. Also, now the Internet has opened up the possibilities of price checking, car shopping, and comparisons. No longer are you bound by the dealers you have locally but can reasonably seek out any make and model. That means researching and comparing hundreds of cars to even decide which type you want.
Once you narrow down your search to the make and model that you want, all you have to do is find that car at the price you want. This involves checking dealers, Internet sites, auto auctions, and private sales. Poor hubby spent night after night glued to the computer checking for cars. He had decided on the make and model but was having trouble finding the color he wanted. The one we liked came in 8 shades of gray (80% ), black and white (15%) and red (5%). Guess which one we wanted? Yep, the red one. You would think it wouldn't be that hard to find but we spent weeks trying to find the perfect one. Several times we gave in and decided to go for the black one (I really didn't want another gray car!) but the price would be wrong or it wouldn't have the features we wanted. Then back to the computer.
Finally, one night he found two really great cars. The price was right and they were red!! One was in Jacksonville, FL and the other in Milwaukee, WI. I was holding out for the one in Florida, seeing as how we were cold and snowy here. However, the one in Milwaukee was the better deal. Through all of this, a friend who is a car dealer had been helping us find the perfect car. He was wonderful and placed the call the the dealer in Milwaukee and made the deal. Now all we had to do was get it home.
Two days later we flew into Milwaukee to pick up the car and drive it home. We left on a sunny morning looking forward to a nice little "get-away" time. The pilot announced that the weather was about 25 degrees and cloudy in Milwaukee. Moments later the stewardess came on and announced, "Your pilot has not been entirely honest with you. It is 25 degrees and it is cloudy. However, it is also snowing and they are under white-out conditions. However, they are plowing a runway for us to use. Have a good trip." That sounded a little different.
We landed on the newly plowed runway with no problems and dodged the snowplows to our gate. We were met by a driver from the dealership who assured us that this was just a little snow and would quit soon. I was reassured, after all we were in the north where everyone knew how to deal with a little snow. Unfortunately, the four wrecks we passed on the interstate didn't reassure me of this much. The driver was right in that the snow quickly ended.
Two hours later when we left with our shiny, spotlessly clean car the roads were wet, but cleared of snow. They really do know how to handle snowy roads. Now we were on our way--only 8 more hours to go. Everything was fine until we got to Chicago. Nothing would do but for hubby to go straight through downtown (it's shorter). About halfway through the snow started up again. By the time we had gotten through Chicago the roads were covered and traffic slowing down. After one rather slick snow covered ramp, hubby looked at me and suggested we stop for the night. Fine with me---there is nothing more nerve wracking than driving on slick roads in a new car!!
The next morning we continued our trip on clear dry roads (they really do know how to deal with snow). The fun part was watching the landscape change. We left Milwaukee in a snow covered world of deep drifts and pure white scenes. The further south we came the more ground we saw. By the time we arrived home the snow was gone and we could see grass again.
The first thing we did was go through a car wash!! My pretty red car was mostly gray. Then on to show off the new purchase to hubby's office. They are delighted that he has finally gotten a car so they can get something done besides listen to his car hunt. I think everyone had been helping search for the "perfect car".
Thanks guys! It is perfect.
Car shopping is vastly different now. It used to be that you would go to the local dealer and see what he had. Then you made a choice based on his inventory and your finances. Deal done. It's not nearly so simple now. First off, the local dealers have been closed down. That means you have to shop further away from home. Also, now the Internet has opened up the possibilities of price checking, car shopping, and comparisons. No longer are you bound by the dealers you have locally but can reasonably seek out any make and model. That means researching and comparing hundreds of cars to even decide which type you want.
Once you narrow down your search to the make and model that you want, all you have to do is find that car at the price you want. This involves checking dealers, Internet sites, auto auctions, and private sales. Poor hubby spent night after night glued to the computer checking for cars. He had decided on the make and model but was having trouble finding the color he wanted. The one we liked came in 8 shades of gray (80% ), black and white (15%) and red (5%). Guess which one we wanted? Yep, the red one. You would think it wouldn't be that hard to find but we spent weeks trying to find the perfect one. Several times we gave in and decided to go for the black one (I really didn't want another gray car!) but the price would be wrong or it wouldn't have the features we wanted. Then back to the computer.
Finally, one night he found two really great cars. The price was right and they were red!! One was in Jacksonville, FL and the other in Milwaukee, WI. I was holding out for the one in Florida, seeing as how we were cold and snowy here. However, the one in Milwaukee was the better deal. Through all of this, a friend who is a car dealer had been helping us find the perfect car. He was wonderful and placed the call the the dealer in Milwaukee and made the deal. Now all we had to do was get it home.
Two days later we flew into Milwaukee to pick up the car and drive it home. We left on a sunny morning looking forward to a nice little "get-away" time. The pilot announced that the weather was about 25 degrees and cloudy in Milwaukee. Moments later the stewardess came on and announced, "Your pilot has not been entirely honest with you. It is 25 degrees and it is cloudy. However, it is also snowing and they are under white-out conditions. However, they are plowing a runway for us to use. Have a good trip." That sounded a little different.
We landed on the newly plowed runway with no problems and dodged the snowplows to our gate. We were met by a driver from the dealership who assured us that this was just a little snow and would quit soon. I was reassured, after all we were in the north where everyone knew how to deal with a little snow. Unfortunately, the four wrecks we passed on the interstate didn't reassure me of this much. The driver was right in that the snow quickly ended.
Two hours later when we left with our shiny, spotlessly clean car the roads were wet, but cleared of snow. They really do know how to handle snowy roads. Now we were on our way--only 8 more hours to go. Everything was fine until we got to Chicago. Nothing would do but for hubby to go straight through downtown (it's shorter). About halfway through the snow started up again. By the time we had gotten through Chicago the roads were covered and traffic slowing down. After one rather slick snow covered ramp, hubby looked at me and suggested we stop for the night. Fine with me---there is nothing more nerve wracking than driving on slick roads in a new car!!
The next morning we continued our trip on clear dry roads (they really do know how to deal with snow). The fun part was watching the landscape change. We left Milwaukee in a snow covered world of deep drifts and pure white scenes. The further south we came the more ground we saw. By the time we arrived home the snow was gone and we could see grass again.
The first thing we did was go through a car wash!! My pretty red car was mostly gray. Then on to show off the new purchase to hubby's office. They are delighted that he has finally gotten a car so they can get something done besides listen to his car hunt. I think everyone had been helping search for the "perfect car".
Thanks guys! It is perfect.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Zipper Problems
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!
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!
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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