It's St. Patrick's day and everywhere you look people are wearing green and proclaiming to be Irish. My grandmother was a McWhorter and I married a Campbell, so I guess I will have to stick with being mostly Scotch. Although, being Presbyterian we probably are Scotch-Irish descendents. However, today everyone is Irish.
For my family the fun of St. Patrick's day has always been the food. We celebrate with an Itish feast. I always cook a big corned beef brisket. For hours the spicy smell of cooking corned beef waffs through tantilizing everyone who enters. For dinner we will serve it hot with cooked cabbage, boiled potatoes and homemade soda bread. I don't have to call everyone twice to come to the table.
Now as much as they love that meal, the real delight is in the leftovers. We love Reuben sandwiches. I can't imagine who thought to put together the various flavors in the sandwich, but my hat's off to you;. For anyone who doesn't know how to make a Reuben, you take two slices of dark rye bread. Top one slice with a layer of sliced corned beef, drained sauerkraut, and a slice of Swiss cheese. Slather the other slice with Thousand island dressing and put it on top. Then grill the sandwich until the outside is crisp and toasty and the inside hot and the cheese has melted. Like I said, wild ingredients, great taste!
However you celebrate the day, I hope you have a great one.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
The Hatching
One of the first things I did when we moved to our farm was order baby ducks from Southern States. I have always loved ducks and since there was a small pond behind the barn next to the house, I just thought we had to have ducks. Fortunately they came "sexed" so we ordered two pairs. (Evidently, determining the sex of baby chickens and ducks is somewhat of an art.) With that, we became the proud owners of a pair of Pekings (white) and a pair of mallards (brown female and green headed male). We didn't realize that the mallards could fly but the Pekings couldn't. This led to some hilarious moments with the white ducks running across the field trying to keep up with the mallards. That is until one day the male mallard didn't come home.
That left us with one proud male white duck with his "flock", one white and one brown. For some reason the little female mallard was quite content to be part of his harem and didn't fly away. Spring came and the two females started to make nests and lay eggs. They knew enough to stay away from the too exposed pond banks and attached themselves to the flower beds in the yard. I guess they realized the dogs would keep the raccoons and weasels away and they would be safer. Ducks are a lot smarter than chickens. What this also did was give us a ringside seat for duck watching. The little mothers became quite accustomed to having kids squatting beside them watching every move.
The morning came when one of the kids noticed that the mallard's eggs were hatching. We all sat intently watching as the mother duck nestled on the nest, checking occasionally to see how her newly hatching babies were doing. It wasn't long before she decided that all had hatched that were going to (several eggs were left in the nest. ). She waddled off the nest and proceeded to march to the pond. Strung out behind her came her ten little baby ducks, eight yellow babies and two brown babies.
When she reached the pond she plopped into the water and swam serenely off. As each baby reached the shore they plopped in and started swimming. Only minutes old and they were as graceful as could be. We all clapped and cheered with tears in our eyes at this amazing sight. It was a Norman Rockwell moment when I knew that farm life was the greatest thing on earth.
As we watched the mother duck turned and proceeded to swim down the line of ducklings checking the eight little yellow ducklings and two little brown ducklings, which were last. As she reached the last two little brown babies, she reached over and used her head to push them under the water. She then turned and swam back to the head of her line. The little brown babies popped to the surface like little corks and cheeping frantically hurried to catch up with their siblings. She repeated this maneuver two more times before it sunk in on us that she really was trying to drown them! In her duck sized brain these two little ducks didn't look like the others and she was trying to remove them! All of a sudden the moment was more Steven King than Norman Rockwell.
Soon the kids and I were running frantically around the pond trying to rescue the two babies. Fortunately it wasn't a very large pond so we were finally able to separate them from the others and herd them to the bank. It was heartbreaking to watch these little babies try so hard to keep up with the other ducklings, cheeping pitifully the entire time. At no time did the mother duck show any interest in the fate of these babies as we grabbed them. She herded the other eight as far from us as she could and looked smug. I never did like that duck after that.
We raised those two little ducks in a pen in the yard until they were big enough that the mother duck was no longer a threat to them. As they grew up they decided that my daughter was their mother. They would follow her around the yard, running to her and trying to get under her if they felt threatened. They went to the garden with her when she picked beans and ate bugs and worms to our delight. They grew up to look very much like their mallard mother and eventually joined the flock on the pond. They seemed to be content with their life, but we were traumatized for months by the events on the pond bank that sunny spring day. A lesson learned...life isn't always Normal Rockwell.
That left us with one proud male white duck with his "flock", one white and one brown. For some reason the little female mallard was quite content to be part of his harem and didn't fly away. Spring came and the two females started to make nests and lay eggs. They knew enough to stay away from the too exposed pond banks and attached themselves to the flower beds in the yard. I guess they realized the dogs would keep the raccoons and weasels away and they would be safer. Ducks are a lot smarter than chickens. What this also did was give us a ringside seat for duck watching. The little mothers became quite accustomed to having kids squatting beside them watching every move.
The morning came when one of the kids noticed that the mallard's eggs were hatching. We all sat intently watching as the mother duck nestled on the nest, checking occasionally to see how her newly hatching babies were doing. It wasn't long before she decided that all had hatched that were going to (several eggs were left in the nest. ). She waddled off the nest and proceeded to march to the pond. Strung out behind her came her ten little baby ducks, eight yellow babies and two brown babies.
When she reached the pond she plopped into the water and swam serenely off. As each baby reached the shore they plopped in and started swimming. Only minutes old and they were as graceful as could be. We all clapped and cheered with tears in our eyes at this amazing sight. It was a Norman Rockwell moment when I knew that farm life was the greatest thing on earth.
As we watched the mother duck turned and proceeded to swim down the line of ducklings checking the eight little yellow ducklings and two little brown ducklings, which were last. As she reached the last two little brown babies, she reached over and used her head to push them under the water. She then turned and swam back to the head of her line. The little brown babies popped to the surface like little corks and cheeping frantically hurried to catch up with their siblings. She repeated this maneuver two more times before it sunk in on us that she really was trying to drown them! In her duck sized brain these two little ducks didn't look like the others and she was trying to remove them! All of a sudden the moment was more Steven King than Norman Rockwell.
Soon the kids and I were running frantically around the pond trying to rescue the two babies. Fortunately it wasn't a very large pond so we were finally able to separate them from the others and herd them to the bank. It was heartbreaking to watch these little babies try so hard to keep up with the other ducklings, cheeping pitifully the entire time. At no time did the mother duck show any interest in the fate of these babies as we grabbed them. She herded the other eight as far from us as she could and looked smug. I never did like that duck after that.
We raised those two little ducks in a pen in the yard until they were big enough that the mother duck was no longer a threat to them. As they grew up they decided that my daughter was their mother. They would follow her around the yard, running to her and trying to get under her if they felt threatened. They went to the garden with her when she picked beans and ate bugs and worms to our delight. They grew up to look very much like their mallard mother and eventually joined the flock on the pond. They seemed to be content with their life, but we were traumatized for months by the events on the pond bank that sunny spring day. A lesson learned...life isn't always Normal Rockwell.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Daffodils
I took a ride yesterday on a beautiful, sunny day. You know spring is coming when you can ride through the countryside and see little clumps of yellow flowers nodding in the breeze. When we first moved here I pointed out these beautiful little daffodils and commented on them. My friend turned to me and said "You mean the March Lilies?" "No the daffodils ", I replied. She nodded, "Yes, the March Lilies". That's when I realized that the flowers I had known for years as daffodils have several names.
In this county they are March Lilies. Makes, sense. They bloom in March (sometimes April or February on good years) and they are kind of lily like. So, OK, March Lilies it is. However, if you go the area along the Ohio river where we once lived, they go by the name of Easter flowers. That's stretching it a little but they do bloom around Easter time. In other areas they are known as buttercups.
Whatever you call them they are a living tribute to the hands that planted them to beautify a homestead or farm. They are not wild flowers, nor native to the area. Those bright clumps of flowers that grace roadsides, fields, fence rows or old house sites were once the pride of some homemaker. She traded for the bulbs or carried them with her and planted them in her new home to brighten her day. The years pass and the home may disappear but the flowers remain. They multiply and drift with the movement of the soil through winter freezes and thaws or spring rains. They flow down hillsides with sunny abandon. They mark old foundations of long forgotten homes. They glow in roadside ditches and dance in fence rows. They forever stand as a monument to a place that was once loved.
Our old house stands on the foundation of an even older house. The first year we lived there I was overjoyed in the spring to discover these beautiful harbingers of spring growing in the front field. Mine are treasures, in that they are the delicate double daffodils that look like miniature, yellow peonies. They are downhill from the house and I am sure they were originally planted around the first home's doorway. Over the years they have migrated through the downward movement of the soil to now bloom in the field. I never look at them that I don't think of the woman who lovingly planted those treasured bulbs all those years ago.
I hope that someday, something that I do will brighten the world for those who follows me.
In this county they are March Lilies. Makes, sense. They bloom in March (sometimes April or February on good years) and they are kind of lily like. So, OK, March Lilies it is. However, if you go the area along the Ohio river where we once lived, they go by the name of Easter flowers. That's stretching it a little but they do bloom around Easter time. In other areas they are known as buttercups.
Whatever you call them they are a living tribute to the hands that planted them to beautify a homestead or farm. They are not wild flowers, nor native to the area. Those bright clumps of flowers that grace roadsides, fields, fence rows or old house sites were once the pride of some homemaker. She traded for the bulbs or carried them with her and planted them in her new home to brighten her day. The years pass and the home may disappear but the flowers remain. They multiply and drift with the movement of the soil through winter freezes and thaws or spring rains. They flow down hillsides with sunny abandon. They mark old foundations of long forgotten homes. They glow in roadside ditches and dance in fence rows. They forever stand as a monument to a place that was once loved.
Our old house stands on the foundation of an even older house. The first year we lived there I was overjoyed in the spring to discover these beautiful harbingers of spring growing in the front field. Mine are treasures, in that they are the delicate double daffodils that look like miniature, yellow peonies. They are downhill from the house and I am sure they were originally planted around the first home's doorway. Over the years they have migrated through the downward movement of the soil to now bloom in the field. I never look at them that I don't think of the woman who lovingly planted those treasured bulbs all those years ago.
I hope that someday, something that I do will brighten the world for those who follows me.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Duncan
There have been very few times in my life that I haven't had a dog and/or a cat. When the kids were home my pets were usually "found" pets. These were animals that were either literally found or someone gave them to us--usually with no intention on our part to acquire another pet. Over the years we have had some wonderful and loving companions.
When the last kid left home they left us with three dogs, a beagle, German Shepherd and a collie. Thank goodness we live on a farm. The years passed and the old beagle, the last of the pack died. For the first time in a long time we were pet-less (unless you count barn cats). I decided that for once in my life I would pick a dog that I wanted.
I did careful research, talked to several breeders, the president of the Ky. Kennel Club, and even went to a dog show. (That's really an experience. ) I knew I wanted a dog that would be good with the little grandkids, easy to train, tough enough to be a farm dog in all kinds of weather, and a companion for me. With this in mind I settled on one of the herding dogs, since they are bred to take care of and protect their herd (grandkids). We had had a collie before and I loved the breed but sure didn't like the constant grooming required to deal with their massive amounts of hair. One of the breeders suggested I try a Smooth Coat Collie. If you are like me you've never heard of them. However, they are simply a short haired collie.
In no time I had found the perfect dog. Not a puppy (I didn't want to deal with that!) but young enough to bond with a new family. He looks like Lassie with short hair. A little odd at first but beautiful. His name is Halcyon Day's Duncan of Aver Brae or Duncan, for short. He's perfect, other than a few small problems.
First of all, I didn't really expect to pick up a dog at a kennel and discover that he had been raised in a house. However, since I did want to be able to bring him in during really bad weather, that was a plus, since he was housebroken. What I didn't expect is that he would never want to go out unless I went with him. In fact I can't make a step he doesn't go with me. He bonded to me like glue! He has great manners, never "counter surfs" for food, he doesn't eat up things (unless you count my slippers or the occasional toy), he's not rambunctious, in fact he mostly sleeps. Of course he usually sleeps in the space you want to walk, but he's quiet! So I have an 80 lb. house dog.
He's really good with the little ones. I would totally trust him to never hurt one of them. However, he may drive them crazy. He tends to want to herd them up in the yard. He follows them around and nips at their heels and tries to get them all in one place. Nice trick if he can do it! They in turn drive him nuts trying to get him to "fetch". They throw balls and he just looks at them. You can't herd balls. Fetch just isn't in his gene pool.
However goofy he is, he is still a collie. The old Lassie shows were based on the very protective, caring nature of these dogs. About a year ago, the then 3 yr. old grandson, decided to go the field where he could see his dad on the tractor. He slipped through the gate and started trudging through the tall grass. Duncan, who never leaves the yard if I'm in the house, went with him. My son said his heart nearly stopped when he looked up and saw what the dog was trying to "herd" through the field. Duncan couldn't get the little one to go back to the house but he never left his side, either. I have no doubt that if he had felt that the little one was threatened he would have protected him with every ounce of his being. As it was, he did all he could do in staying with him until an adult was found.
You're a good dog Duncan.
When the last kid left home they left us with three dogs, a beagle, German Shepherd and a collie. Thank goodness we live on a farm. The years passed and the old beagle, the last of the pack died. For the first time in a long time we were pet-less (unless you count barn cats). I decided that for once in my life I would pick a dog that I wanted.
I did careful research, talked to several breeders, the president of the Ky. Kennel Club, and even went to a dog show. (That's really an experience. ) I knew I wanted a dog that would be good with the little grandkids, easy to train, tough enough to be a farm dog in all kinds of weather, and a companion for me. With this in mind I settled on one of the herding dogs, since they are bred to take care of and protect their herd (grandkids). We had had a collie before and I loved the breed but sure didn't like the constant grooming required to deal with their massive amounts of hair. One of the breeders suggested I try a Smooth Coat Collie. If you are like me you've never heard of them. However, they are simply a short haired collie.
In no time I had found the perfect dog. Not a puppy (I didn't want to deal with that!) but young enough to bond with a new family. He looks like Lassie with short hair. A little odd at first but beautiful. His name is Halcyon Day's Duncan of Aver Brae or Duncan, for short. He's perfect, other than a few small problems.
First of all, I didn't really expect to pick up a dog at a kennel and discover that he had been raised in a house. However, since I did want to be able to bring him in during really bad weather, that was a plus, since he was housebroken. What I didn't expect is that he would never want to go out unless I went with him. In fact I can't make a step he doesn't go with me. He bonded to me like glue! He has great manners, never "counter surfs" for food, he doesn't eat up things (unless you count my slippers or the occasional toy), he's not rambunctious, in fact he mostly sleeps. Of course he usually sleeps in the space you want to walk, but he's quiet! So I have an 80 lb. house dog.
He's really good with the little ones. I would totally trust him to never hurt one of them. However, he may drive them crazy. He tends to want to herd them up in the yard. He follows them around and nips at their heels and tries to get them all in one place. Nice trick if he can do it! They in turn drive him nuts trying to get him to "fetch". They throw balls and he just looks at them. You can't herd balls. Fetch just isn't in his gene pool.
However goofy he is, he is still a collie. The old Lassie shows were based on the very protective, caring nature of these dogs. About a year ago, the then 3 yr. old grandson, decided to go the field where he could see his dad on the tractor. He slipped through the gate and started trudging through the tall grass. Duncan, who never leaves the yard if I'm in the house, went with him. My son said his heart nearly stopped when he looked up and saw what the dog was trying to "herd" through the field. Duncan couldn't get the little one to go back to the house but he never left his side, either. I have no doubt that if he had felt that the little one was threatened he would have protected him with every ounce of his being. As it was, he did all he could do in staying with him until an adult was found.
You're a good dog Duncan.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Spring in Kentucky
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.
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.
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.
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