She Spoke It Softly. Mandela.

I lit a candle for Nelson Mandela. Many candles were burning this morning. We believe that we are all God's Saints, and there, during the prayers of the people for the dead, there it was. She spoke it softly. Mandela.

From my knees, it seemed, at first, a small tribute. One word. Mandela.

But as the sound wafted up, I got a sense of what was happening on this Advent Sunday. All over the world, following the sunrise, the word Mandela was being offered to God, in thanks for his earthly works and in his honor.

In Tallahassee alone, I can imagine that some churches were singing and lifting their arms, in tribute, palms open. I know that others must have been dancing and chanting fist closed, thrust heavenward. Some were probably led by the spirit to speak in tongues. Others sang the old spirituals of their (also his) ancestors. Church leaders in some instances were most certainly sermonizing about him and others were undoubtedly honoring him in various eulogy-type programs.

In my church it came with a word, softly and simply spoken. Mandela. The word merged with other voices from other places. As the world turns, this Sunday, God is hearing the loving chant constantly. "Mandela. Mandela. Mandela."

Belle Update

It seems unnatural to me for a cat to have "blood work" done. But that's exactly what happened to Belle. Yesterday. A few hours after another bout of throwing up everything in her breakfast.

The ten-year-old ragdoll passed with flying colors!  Has not lost any weight in spite of keeping only a portion of her food down. Is not, at the moment, dying of any dreadful disease or condition.

The final diagnosis? Nervous stomach (Remember that when Belle came to live here, she was anxiety-ridden and neurotic.) in the form of malfunctioning muscle tone. There is a scientific name for that, but the fact alone is enough for me. The important thing is that she has medicine, she's taken her first dose, and she has enjoyed a nice breakfast of wet cat food.

Dr. T was amazed to walk into the exam room and find Belle curled up on the bench beside me, purring and listening to a yippy dog having hysterics out in the waiting room. She has not seen the cat interact with me since our first visit, years ago. I usually drop Miss Priss off for her "spa" day and pick her up once she has (against her will) been beautified.

Yes. Belle has changed remarkably. "That used to be you having a panic attack," Doc said to the cat as she scratched behind her ear. "Boy, times have changed!"

I'm not sure if the meds are ongoing or a short-term treatment. I'm to report in if she continues to be sick after eating. Otherwise, next Tuesday - Spa Day for Cats - we will reassess and go from there. Nice to have a preening cat basking in the sunshine this morning!

Smelling the Roses

It was a surreal and unhappy weekend at Lake Petty Gulf. I coughed until I cracked my ribs.

Tallahassee allergies can be deadly. Driving to Petsmart, I coughed so hard that I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness. "Don't let me faint and wreck this car," I pled to whatever guardian angels I might muster. They didn't seem to be available. They tend to hover over Tom and Jack and, of course, I am grateful. The feeling passed. I shopped quickly and headed home. I use a couple of homeopathic remedies. Nothing works any better. Actually, nothing works.

Squirrel has not eaten for several days. She's been holed up in the nest, invisible. Once in a while she has stuck her head out and given me a mournful glance. I know that she's old for a squirrel. Her fur is rapidly turning from grey to silver and she's lost weight. I put fresh sunflower seeds in her bowl this morning. Her corn, mushroom, spinach, and carrots from yesterday were still there.

This afternoon, I subjected her to the irresistible smell of peanut butter and, after a whole lot of coaxing, she came out onto the porch and nibbled from the slice of bread on which I had spread it. In the picture below, she's eating the dirt off of a rock that was in a potted plant. She also had some aloe. I trust her. She knows what she needs.

Then there's Belle. The poor cat has thrown up every meal for what seems like weeks. I've revised her food regime once, already. After spending a couple of sleepless, feverish nights doing a lot of research, I decided to change her diet again. She ate the same brand of dry cat kibbles for eight years. The manufacturer has re-worked the formula twice, now. I will try anything, at this point.

She has kept five meals down at this writing. She threw up the cat treats (I know, but she begged.) and I tossed them in the garbage. Personally, I cannot believe that she's accepting the wet food. She, like the squirrel, knows what she needs.

I sneezed so many times, yesterday, that I threw my back out. I'm doubled over, right now, but oh-so-thankful for the last couple of hours we three have spent sitting on the porch in the sunshine.

I know from personal experience that one brief moment can change life forever. What I call happiness can be snuffed out like a candle with one simple sentence. "I have to be ready for anything," I tell myself, every morning. "Thank You for my day," I repeat nightly before sleep.

(The thirty-year-old staghorn fern that came with me from Jacksonville is sprouting Scuppernong vines from my arbor there. I didn't think either of us would make it through that second winter.)

This afternoon belonged to us! If Squirrel dies asleep in her nest, if Belle has something more serious than a food allergy, if I go to meet my Maker (hopefully after having filled the pets' food bowls and changing their water) or if a sinkhole swallows us while we sleep, we have today enjoyed one of our amazing normal afternoons of sunshine, snacks, photo ops, and more.

I've had Squirrel on my lap, she's been kissed by the cat, and has eaten a little food.

Belle soaked up her allotment of sunshine and basked in her daydreams - including, I think, what to do with a yard full of butterflies, one lone bird, and a soft breeze.

Me? Yes, me too! I spent the afternoon sunning my face, loving my pets, enjoying the weather, and smelling the roses! I am continually grateful for the life that I have made after the life I loved was lost to me. Thankful to have had it to enjoy for yet another day.

Think Of It As A Wake-up Call

Florida, in effect, doesn't have a Senate vote. Each seat cancels out the other on every issue. (Look up those voting records.) One Florida Senator is a Tea Party Republican; the other is a Democrat, left of center. My own congressman in the House of Representatives is Tea Party as well. Two extremes and no one in the middle. The candidates that I vote for never win.

As for me, I don't want to negotiate with blackmailers or back away from terrorists. Groups, no matter how patriotic they claim to be, who would consider shutting down the government in order to hold their President hostage are just that. Blackmailers and terrorists. Cowards who cannot fight against a principle-become-law fairly and squarely but must go postal - holding the nation at gunpoint. Assault rifles. 

It will be a long time before I call myself a Republican again or give the GOP candidates any campaign money. I'm ashamed that the Tea Party has made me feel guilty of right-wing closed mindedness by association.

I am not for big government. I cringe at the idea of a national health care system. I understand how and why (and that) the Affordable Care Act is going to become a hotbed of corruption, worse than Medicaid and Social Security Disability ever dreamed.  It isn't going to be cheaper, fairer, all-inclusive, or the answer to the insurance corporation/drug company/hospital profit-driven travesty that we have now. Don't shout. Just wait. You will see. 

I spent the day researching some of the key players in this week's political games. We voted them into office and it is they whom we trust with running our government. I wrote emails - much calmer pieces than what you are reading now. I tried to stay logical and professional. These people work for us. For me. For the country. 

I've ducked out of facebook for a few days. Frankly, all the signs, slogans, and hot-headed words were getting to me.  Don't tell me. Or the rest of your friends. Tell someone who can do something about it. Don't point fingers and call names. Make yourself useful. Email your elected officials; get involved; vote better next time.

The country is divided. I cannot guess where the silent majority is hiding. That group may be extinct from what I understand. What I do know is that talented, educated, charismatic leaders have acted like thugs and should be voted out of office - not for the principles in which they believe but for how they have behaved in a crunch - the ways in which they misused the power that is not theirs. They have shamed their constituents as well as their opponents in front of the whole world. 

Think of the actions of the last few weeks as a wake-up call, Tea Party. Because that is what it is. Form your own gang of nay-sayers. Honest, patriotic, and centrist Republicans don't want anything to do with you.  

Dreaming, Revisited

In answer to those of you (way more than a few) who messaged me after I posted Dreaming and asked me why I downplayed the importance of dreams in my life, I appreciate the fact that you are reading carefully.

What I call my seeking dreams don't seem, to me, to fall into the everyday dreaming category. Because of that, mentioning them didn't feel apropos the story that I was just now telling you. I never even considered them in the have you seen this man? context.

I generally categorize those other, telling, experiences as some sort of mild phenomena instead of dreams. I clip them together into  imaginary folders of their own, labeled something like "heightened intuition," and shove them into the "extrasensory cabinet" of my mind. What else can I do? If various factors in our lives run amok of our usual definitions, we need to name and think of them as something else.

I could be wrong and you could be correct, however, in warning me that by not speaking of those other dreams of mine, I missed a chance to comprehend that my have you seen this man? dream was somehow one of them. The whole event actually seems more logical when understood in that context.

So, here I am at the computer, in the middle of a beautiful fall night, analyzing my own analyzations. I hope you are each sleeping well - cozy and dreamless. It makes me happy to know that you are not only following but are also thinking about my posts! It's like the tree falling in the forest. If the blog were never noticed, would it actually be there?

Dreaming

I almost never swear, but I give you my oath. I knew nothing about any of this until yesterday.

I'm getting ahead of myself. I must digress. I only remember two dreams from my childhood and one was not a dream at all, for I was awake. In the second, I dreamed that I was a little girl about my own age and that I was a sister to one of the disciples. I was tattered and torn, following along, dirty clothes and worn-out sandals. The whole dream was a poem and I have never forgotten it. I was not the only child there. I was neither hungry nor thirsty. I was spellbound.

In my dream, I realized that I was taking part in the greatest series of events in all of history. Also, even dreaming, I promised to remember everything I saw and heard in that dusty place for the rest of my life - as I have done. 

When I was a young woman in my twenties, I boasted that I never dreamed. In fact, it seemed as if I died rather than slept. I never turned over in the night, nor got up for water, nor gasped, groaned, nor muttered. I woke up just as I had gone down; two hands under my chin, on my side, all curled up, probably smiling.

I only remember one dream from the time period of around thirty years old, but it recurred for at least a year. I spoke softly in Spanish; I don't know what I said. I came down a dark stairwell, terrified, as I was all alone and surrounded by a crowd carrying torches. I awoke, each time, just after thinking of the inquisition. I suspected, in my dream, that I must have said something about my childhood experience with Jesus and his disciples to someone without thinking. In spite of the fact that my experience, itself, had been only a dream, I was going to be burned at the stake for talking about it.  

During all the time that I was growing (mostly) dreamlessly older, science was making great strides. The general public soon realized that sleep has patterns and that everyone dreams every night. That didn't worry me. I thought that I must be one of those who don't remember dreams instead of (as I had formerly believed) a rarely participating dreamer. All the better for me, I thought. Psychologists and others began to try to interpret the sleeping activities of their patients/clients. Dreaming was de rigueur.  I, myself, seemed to be exempt.

When I was forty years old, or so, I began to have those simple little dreams that everyone experiences. I chalked it up to a new marriage, business responsibilities, and mild performance anxiety. You know. I was falling. I hadn't studied for the test. I couldn't find Mother, I was in a burning house trying to get out. Those dreams.  I didn't often have one. When I did, I realized what stresses were causing them.

In the past few years, I have more and more remembered that I have dreamed. Lately, I have also remembered what I have dreamed. I know, for example, that I live in a whole other world while asleep. I dream of friends, strangers, and those who have passed on.

In my recurring dream-world, I live alone in a huge, Italian-style apartment building with balconies, gargoyles, and an ancient elevator. I ride a bicycle; sometimes, a motorcycle. I have friends who own a restaurant on a beach near the sea. In reality, I've never even seen them. The ocean is on my left side when I face north instead of my right. It is as if I lead a double life. 

I remember what I dreamed last Monday night. I was in my sunny apartment opening the windows to the balcony. Corey was there but, as I was talking to him, he became his Dad. Nothing to worry about. I'm used to that happening in my dreams. At second glance, I realized that it was neither of them but was Danny, my facebook friend who committed suicide this year. Characters often become blurred in my dreams.

We (whoever the other party really was and I) were going to an optical trade show. I'm used to that. I see a lot of old friends in my dreams. There wasn't much of a storyline in this particular nocturnal scenario. I attended a meeting, was late arriving, and was elected treasurer of something. Danny got some food for each of us. We were betting whether or not our bikes would be stolen before we got back to them. Ordinary. In my dreams, my bike seems to have a starring role. Sometimes, I do stunts. I never get winded. While dreaming, I am young and strong.

Suddenly, without warning, and to my right side, I saw a drawing hanging in my field of vision. I turned my head so that it was hovering in front of me. I saw the image of  a woman whom I've never seen. She wouldn't get out of the dream so that I could continue it. She just hung there, a sketch on a white sheet of paper.

I startled myself awake. Something about that face. Red pigtails hugging both sides of her head. I thought of Three and a Half Men. What's her name? Berta. No. This woman had such a blank expression. She frightened me for some reason. Nothing like Berta. Dangerous to know, somehow. Seeking something of me.

I could/should/would have forgotten the dream, but that face (like a police drawing, really) kept popping into my mind - etching itself there. Like a caricature or a cartoon gone bad. Something just not right about her. 

Yesterday, on my facebook page, a friend posted an article about collective dreaming and about a hoax thought to be perpetrated by a website http://www.thisman.org/.

I read the blurb and popped the page up innocently enough. Obviously thousands of dreamers world-wide have supposedly dreamed of this one man - causing his features to spread by happenstance (or not) throughout our collective consciousness.

I could have screamed. The man appears as a line drawing. Yes I have seen him in my dream. Only in my dream, he is a woman. Same face, same expression, same eyes, nose, and chin - but a woman due to a pair of red braids casually added on.

I'm sure it can be done. Somehow, someone may have subliminally superimposed an image among the things we routinely see on the internet.  Yet, for some reason not clear to me right now, I never want to dream of that face again. Even as I posted the website for you to see what I saw, I never re-opened it and I won't. Hoax or innocent prank, mysticism striving to be heard or a new reality emerging,  I don't want to dream what others dream. Or even what they believe they dream. But yes, I have seen this man. 

   

Cookbook Review: Olives and Oranges

Olives and Oranges: Recipes and Flavor Secrets from Italy, Spain, Cyprus, and Beyond by Sara Jenkins

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I always say if you glean one or two recipes from a cookbook that it was worth the price you paid for it.

If you saw my copy of Olives and Oranges, you would recognize the handwritten notes in the margins and realize that this book belongs mostly to me, now, and has very little to do with Jenkins and Fox.

I don't usually claim to have read books on Goodreads that I bought before I joined. Since I cannot remember how long that has been, I thought that I would add this cookbook and recommend it to you.

The insights and the photos alone are worth the purchase. Also, some of us simply like to read cookbooks. For fun. Never mind the actual feeding of the family.

Note: Never download a cookbook. You miss too much that way. My copy of Olives and Oranges, sometimes covered in a light dusting of flour and permanently olive oil smudged, wouldn't be nearly as valuable if I couldn't prop it up on my kitchen counter or grasp it in my arms while I check the pantry for ingredients.



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When the Pope Phoned Petrini | Slow Food International - Good, Clean and Fair food.

When the Pope Phoned Petrini | Slow Food International - Good, Clean and Fair food.

Arrosto Morto

I looked online for images of the dead roast, arrosto morto, that famous Tuscan herb-encrusted and garlic-infused, slow-roasted pork shoulder. I really need to get into the habit of photographing the results of the cooking revisions that I'm making due to the Michael Pollan "natural history of (food) transformation" book Cooked. The photos I found look nothing like my end result which screamed "Taste me, I am perfect!"

I've used a lot of recipes, over the years, for the arrosto. Currently, Olives and Oranges by Sara Jenkins and Mindy Fox is in the batting box - although I have annotated the page until I could probably call the recipe my own.

This method of roast pork shoulder does not produce the pulled-pork which is all the rage today. The oven temperature (250F) is low enough, but the time is wrong. Or vice versa. The time is long enough (five hours) but on a higher heat.

I roast in an Emile Henry (clay over who knows what) casserole that can also be used effectively on the electric cooktop. Up there and with the lid on, pulled pork would have been the result. I'll bet it would have also been delicious. Making a note for the future.

I made several changes to my cooking method for this delicious pork dish and, yes, the difference in the results was remarkable. Adhering to the methods that I learned in Cooked, I salted the pork the night before. Really salted. Copious amounts. And no. The finished product was not too salty. Many thanks to Pollan's own cooking instructor, Samin Nosrat.

Also, a la Pollan's premise that all cooking with liquid (braising) begins with some sort of dice, according to the nationality of the dish, of pertinent vegetables and/or herbs, I sat the roast on a slightly sauteed (olive oil) mixture of onion, garlic, sage, thyme, and rosemary. This was in addition to infusing the meat itself with a fresh supply of the herbs listed. The recipe calls for slitting the meat, but I simply inserted the various herbs and the garlic into the fatty portions of the pork.

Then, working against the suggestions of the cookbook: after I bound and tied my roast, I removed my completed mirepoix. I browned the whole piece lightly, stovetop, in the cooking pot. This step, according to Nosrat, imparts yet another layer of flavor to the dish.  I added a splash of the white wine allotment to gently loosen anything stuck to the bottom of the casserole dish - way ahead of the suggestion in the recipe to add the wine altogether after two hours. I then re-added the sauteed bed of succulent goodies and placed the roast on top.

The recipe calls for a (to me) mystery ingredient called wild fennel pollen which should be added to the fresh herbs, noted below, and used to impart the true flavor of Tuscany into the dish. I've never had this herb. Remind me to look online later and see who may be shipping it. That little touch might just become the piece de resistance of the dish as I am now making it. Who knows? (Note: Later. California organic fennel pollen on the way via Amazon. And yes, the shipper called the herb "that secret ingredient" and a superb "dish finisher.")

To continue, and without said herb,  the cookbook directions call only for simply cutting slits in the meat, adding one's herbs and garlic, salting and peppering, and laying the roast (after tying) flat onto the uncovered cooking vessel.

Two hours in, I added the remainder of the dry wine, brushed the arrosto with more olive oil, and closed the oven door. At this point I started basting every half hour, as per Jenkins and Fox, for three more hours. (Red wine would have resulted in a wilder, gamier flavor. I haven't tried the red on the palate of the six-year-olds.)

It was the best arrosto morto ever. I added, uninvited by any cookbook, red potatoes and carrots to the mixture at about three hours in. The vegetables were not cooked to death (morto). The carrots retained a touch of crispness while the potatoes were perfectly done but not mushy.

The family said "mmm, good pork roast" and were not much impressed with the incredible flavor changes. Or the meat that sliced without any hint of the overdone mushiness of the pulled variety. Or the slices, fork tender on the plates. Then again, it is my own experiment, not theirs. They are interested in having dinner, after all. Note here that both Jack and Tom asked for seconds on a roast infused with "strange" flavors and cooked with wine! That is victory enough for me!



 

Rambling Thursday

By the time I got my camera out, I was back home again in my own neighborhood. Maybe that's why I've been so slack about having adventures. With the passage of time my own streets are becoming canopy roads. My views are beautiful.

Thursday has been designated  Rambling Days by the reclusive Yours Truly. I set out to go left on Mahan. I was looking for a spot that I never found. What I did find was the Automobile Museum and made a mental note. I kept on driving! 

It was a beautiful day for an exploration. I began to turn off onto County, then country, roads. I had sunglasses, spiced tea, and some caramel creams. The bag said "quality since 1895." In the '40's and '50's these treats were 9 cents a pound. This 12 ounce bag was over $3.00 and worth every bit of that. Caramel creams are still delicious. I have not had them in ages. 

My camera was in my purse but it didn't matter. This was to be an image without a photo shoot anyway because my narrowing route had no places to pull over. 

I began to have very little idea where, exactly, I was. The deeper in I got, the more relaxed my neck and shoulders became. I learned a long time ago. It's hard to get lost. After all, I am in Florida where all roads lead to home and most of them, to a super highway.

At one point, there was a cow pasture on my right and a huge field of flowering goldenrod to my left. The air smelled of sun-drenched grass and, I could swear, honey. I drove on. Honestly, if I had seen one spot on which to park, I would still be there.

I turned off the air conditioning and opened the car windows. Yes. Let Il Barbiere di Siviglia serenade the livestock while they munch on that green grass. Yum. Free range. Music can only help. A bee flew into the car (maybe I did smell honey) and danced around Rosina's (sung by Maria Callas) head.

I spent all afternoon alone, with my music and my snacks, in the Florida countryside. I could have grabbed the phone and taken some photos for you through the car window but, honestly, I was simply living the experience in lieu of wanting to record it.

When I arrived home, as I always do, I took a good look at the tree-lined streets. These familiar neighborhood byways are equally intriguing to me. There are also plenty of turn-arounds and pull-off spots. I stopped a minute and grabbed the camera. 

I wanted someone at the art show last night to ask me where I took the photos for one of my pieces, Seasons. "All in my yard or on the cul de sac," I would have answered. I don't have to travel far for nature's beauty.

Rambling Thursday, however, is going to be a wonderful addition to my life.     

  

Book Review of Killing Jesus by Bill O'Reilly

Killing Jesus: A History by Bill O'Reilly

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I don't watch Bill O'Reilly on Fox anymore. You know how he is. Yet, when I listened to him talking about writing his three books Killing Jesus, Killing Kennedy, and Killing Lincoln on 60 Minutes, I was intrigued. After all, I read and enjoyed Zealot by Reza Aslan this summer. I gave it four stars.

This is not a comparison between the two books. The bibliographies are, by necessity, the same. Just so much information on the subject of Jesus and the times in which he lived is available. No more. Unless someone discovers new material, the outcome will always rest on the interpretation, by the author, as to what information is, in fact, truth.

That is where comparison comes in. Aslan tended in his book, Zealot, to regard everything written by the historians of the time of Jesus as accurate. On the other hand, he doubted almost every biblical account in the New Testament, making excuses for why the gospels were inaccurately written.

Yet, the reader should take note. What we all know is that Jesus was crucified. Neither of the two authors are speaking of religion. Aslan was not writing for the "folks" as O'Reilly sometimes calls us. Aslan was talking to scholars, seeking to prove his hypothesis that Jesus might have been a zealot.

Bill O'Reilly knows that it took a zealot and that Jesus most certainly was one. Yet he never uses that word. Instead, he pulls you deep down into those dangerous times and final days of the Nazarene.

O'Reilly is dramatic and plain-spoken. He weaves the history of the day, the writings of the historians of the time, and the accounts found in the Bible (both Old and New Testaments) into a cohesive, believable, and heart-felt account of why and how Jesus met his death.

O'Reilly's notes also made good reading and he supplied us with a list of pertinent reading material in case we want to do further research of our own. His own research assistant, Martin Dugard, is extremely thorough and is the co-author of all three of O'Reilly's books.

Three stars for organization of facts and perspective. One star for that factor that is recognisably Bill O'Reilly.



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Yesterday

I was quiet about it yesterday. I read, cooked, and enjoyed my garden. September 30th would have been Wayne and my thirtieth anniversary. Yes. 30.

This morning I dug out the old polaroid picture that the magistrate had taken of us after the marriage. We eloped to St. Augustine. Both of us were on our second chance.

The picture she took with Corey has lightened with age and didn't transfer well to the computer. He was five years old, a cutie who took a clean shirt and (before we got back to our little reception at Jacksonville Beach) needed it. He signed his name in pencil as a witness. He had a coke and some chips.

Us Three.  September 30, 1983

If Wayne had lived to see his retirement, we would have chosen a home south of here, maybe in Sopchoppy - hunting and fishing, growing veggies and smoking game - with a little acreage and some chickens. Perhaps, a goat. I could never tell if the goat was a real promise or a joke.

Things don't always work out the way you plan them. My disappointment lingers although it has been seven summers for me here in Tallahassee. Yet, I know that my life is as good as it is because of him, the things he taught me, the things he did for me, and the encouragement that he gave me to be me.




 

Renaissance Day

I awoke to a Renaissance Day.

I've been blessed with several; my last one was in 1995. I was in my office, reading a newspaper article about living the rewarding life. "Sit down and ask yourself," the editorial writer challenged me, "how do you want it (life) to look?" I sat down that morning and resolved to enrich myself in several categories.

I was in what I had dubbed the Third Quarter of life and was living without health insurance. We had paid through the nose, never been sick, and cancelled it.  I pulled an article out of that very newspaper, telephoned the Women's Health Initiative, and joined their new (nationally acclaimed) research group on the spot in the estrogen/progesterone trial, the calcium/vitamin D trial, and the diet/lifestyle trial. The Initiative became what I would now call my "primary physician." I stayed in the research trials until they ended (ten years). Part one of what I called a Renaissance Day.

That same morning, I decided that I needed to do something about exercise. The Taoist Tai Chi Society of Tallahassee was holding its very first Jacksonville class the next week at, what was then, Florida Junior College. I joined that class. Later we met in the Unitarian Universalist Church. I practiced there once, and later twice, a week until 2007. I've been a much less faithful participant now that I actually live in Tallahassee, less than five miles away from headquarters.

While I was busy changing my life that morning, I realized that I also wanted to learn something. I had heard of French in Action, an amazing language series (it is now in revival online and elsewhere and has a huge cult following). I ordered the whole lesson plan, the textbooks, the complete series of tapes, and the workbooks. I used this immersion method of teaching oneself a language until my last tape player died and tapes themselves were long out of style, about a dozen years. I never really learned to converse like a pro, but I can read French and would be able to survive in Paris.

When the postman came into the store, I gave him the envelope in which I had enclosed my French in Action order form and a big check that would ensure me the excitement of learning something new.  He handed me the mail. On top of the pile (yes, it was that very same day) was a letter from Governor Chiles. He had appointed me to the Florida Board of Opticianry where I served until 2005. I didn't consider the timing a fluke. After all it was Renaissance Day.

In the afternoon, I began to search the newspaper ads for a cello. I never found one at a good price. I called Dr. Poppenbrach, a retired high school orchestra director, and the only class he had open was at 5:30 in the afternoon. I kept the store open until 5:00 on weekdays. In rush hour traffic, Orange Park was an hour away on a good day. Sadly, I shelved my cello plans but kept my eyes out for a used cello for many months. That little music education adventure never happened.

As soon as I realized that I couldn't get across town in time for a lesson with or without a musical instrument, I shifted my gears. I decided to concentrate on music in another way. I've been an opera buff ever since. You can cook the most marvelous Italian food while enjoying opera!

Yesterday, I was confirmed into the Episcopal church. Not a small step for a Southern Baptist girl of nineteen years, turned Methodist for twenty-three years, turned chronic visitor of many churches (member of none) for over twenty-nine years more. Thankfully, I did not need to re-affirm my faith or search for my spirituality. Those things have never wavered since my very first, childhood, Renaissance Day.

I've found a lot to love about that denomination and about the church that I now call home. After all, I have been labeling myself "Episcopal" for thirty years. I'm happy with the decision. My heart is singing this morning. I also love working in the food pantry, being a member of the Spirit and Creativity Guild, and (although I don't always attend) finally belonging to a book club filled with readers whose opinions I admire and respect.

I know that today is a Fourth-and-Final-Quarter Renaissance Day. There aren't a great number of changes to make, however, at this stage of the game. I'm still being "followed" and "charted" by the Women's Health Initiative.  I now have wonderful health insurance unless the Affordable Healthcare Act screws it up somehow.

For obvious reasons, I should order a course in Spanish this afternoon. This is Florida, after all, and Spanish-speakers abound. Tom and Jack will be fluent speakers just like their dad. I'm going to want to know what they are talking about when they break out of English and enjoy their second language.

I also want to get some Metropolitan Opera tickets. The theater here in Tallahassee shows the complete Met season locally on the big screen.

I've (just now) decided to set a weekday (Thursday, I think) for rambling around, taking photographs, getting to know the history of this, my relatively new, home in the Red Hills of Florida. I've put off having that kind of fun for six years. In truth, I'm getting a little reclusive. I can't really see to drive, and especially park the car, at night. I need to shift my perspective and take advantage of the adventures I can have during the daylight hours.

This morning I woke up from a troubling dream. The Taoist Tai Chi Society was in shambles for some reason and I was on the sidewalk looking at the destruction. A woman near me asked why I was so upset. "I just wanted to do a little Tai Chi," I answered. Tai Chi? Yes. But not there at the center on Thomasville Road. I have my reasons and they are good ones. The dream was right. That ship has sailed.

I began practicing the Tai Chi set in the garage several months ago. Moving meditation. I vow to be more faithful to the discipline. I need to practice religiously. I've studied the philosophy of Taoism for years. It's tenants see one through change in a way that western thought-patterns sometimes lack. The study of Taoism makes for a great introduction to a knowledge of Chinese history,  an appreciation for Chinese art, and a love of Chinese poetry and calligraphy.

Renaissance Day is truly upon me this morning. Plans are set. Adventure is afoot. I might even call the Board of Opticianry office later and "retire" my license. There won't be another #1926 in Florida Opticianry. I feel that it's time to hang that little adventure out to dry. I'm not going down Optical Road again, although it was perfect for me when the time was right.      

Aging: A Pain Somewhere

I almost never consider age. Yes, I walk slower and less far, tolerate not nearly as much sunshine and heat, sleep longer, eat fewer raw tomatoes, climb no ladders, and depend on a small army of helpers to do some of the heavy chores that I once enjoyed doing myself. I rarely consider this a sign of aging, but of course it is. It must be.

Only under stress do I begin to feel as if I might be too old for this or that. It doesn't have to be real stress either because imaginary stress will work just fine.

Take today. I woke up and could barely walk. It felt as if I had a crack in my pelvic bone. Pain means little or nothing on most days and I usually bank on the fact that it will disappear overnight.  Today, however, I took the pain to heart worrying about all the things I wouldn't be able to do if I didn't soon feel better. In the words of Woody Allen, "I am not (being) a hypochondriac. I am (being) an alarmist." Parenthesis, my words.

My to-do list was a giant. I had to be able walk. I wondered about pain. Logical Caroline told me that I was on the right side of the ground; that I probably pulled something on Wednesday by crawling around on the floor, looking under the furniture for my lost car keys; and that, since I had not lost weight or appetite, this pain was not cancer.

Loony Caroline disagreed but decided to make an effort not to worry.

Forcing myself to disregard the pain as well as the stress of disregarding it - chalk the whole thing up to aging - caused me to behave as if I were eons older. I took pictures of the HP printer and the shop vac cover so that I could be sure of getting the right printer ink and vacuum bags. Then I left home (guess what?) without my cell-phone.

I got to the grocery store and decided that I was walking better. Good thing, as I needed to park much farther away from the door than usual. I chose my items, I stood in line. $54.29. Suddenly it struck me that my purse felt extra light. My big, heavy, silver wallet was in the car.

So I race-walked out and back to Publix again. I found the bankcard on the passenger seat, the wallet (which I never use without replacing it into the purse) was casually open and in the center bucket. "Yes," Logical Caroline reminded me. "Same story with the lost car keys! Ditto, forgotten cell phone."

So much for "She's getting older but her mind's still good." I'm not even going to tell you about Sunday, how I was late for confirmation make-up class, or about the book of church history that I read in 24 hours to try to assuage my guilt.  Nor will I mention that I needed the class because I missed the very first one - wrong date marked on the calendar.

I'm going to wrap up this tale of woe because I just got a call from my cousin, Bebe. She forgot to send Fred a birthday card. His birthday was on September 17th. This is the 27th. Oh, my. It must have been because so much is going on up her way. So much stress! Her mind is gone.

She felt much better knowing that I remembered to buy his card (and one for Margaret) and forgot to send both of them!

In addition, after I clued her in about my own day, we had a giant, good natured laugh together. If we are aging, and we must be, we might as well find fun in it. "Get a good night's sleep," she advised. "Don't try to do so much," I suggested. She didn't tell me, specifically, that she woke up this morning with a pain somewhere, but I'll bet she did.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/wonkblog/wp/2013/08/13/this-amazing-animated-chart-shows-the-aging-of-america/

Yardbirds, for a Start.

Photo by Gloria Dawson/The Daily Green

http://www.thedailygreen.com

After I reviewed Michael Pollan's book, Cooked  http://michaelpollan.com I vowed to take a year, go through the chapters, and do a slow-but-steady turnaround in the kitchen and in the way I do things there.

Well, I've been good (A+) at the doing but have done not very well at reporting back to you. My first priority was to always have two good chicken stocks in the freezer. At all times. Without fail.

I bought the smallest local free-range chicken that I could find. Plump for its size and with no water added. I wanted it to render about three quarts of good, rich broth and that's exactly what it did. I intended it to be my Thai jungle soup broth but switched in the middle of my plan and made a savory, tangy stock instead. The smell permeated the house. Succulent, for lack of a more expressive word.

The local yardbirds are expensive but they are dense and tasty - like you remember from years gone by. Chicken pieces were smaller on Mother's platter. Yet, a chicken still gave the same feeling of satisfaction that these huge, watery, salty, and mushy legs, thighs, breasts, and wings do today. Probably more.

I made a Panzanella with chicken and capers while the broth was cooling down a little. That was my dinner yesterday. I had enough chicken left to make chicken salad for tonight - chunky, with the celery and apple cut the same size as the breast meat.

When I'm hungry for chicken again, I'll hunt down another one of these birds. Next time, I'll make the Thai seasoned broth for the freezer. I predict that I'll have enough chicken from that session for a Thai chicken salad and maybe a Chinese dish that requires cooked poultry.

I really need to sharpen my knives. These little birds will make several braised poultry dishes that I've been anxious to try. Now that I see how far the small, tender birds stretch, I know that one chicken will be enough for a family meal.

As an aside, the livers, gizzard, and heart that I found inside the chicken were fresh, healthy, and just the right size (versus grey, flabby, huge) I pulled out one of the restaurant-quality freezer containers that I bought from Brown's Kitchen Center http://www.brownskitchen.com/ when I began this project and began freezing them.

I'm using a small size jar so that when it's full it will hold enough for one single serving. No. Not fried like we used to make them. Sauteed in the finest olive oil/Irish butter mixture.    

And so it is that my Cooked experiment is beginning to buzz along. I'll give you a recipe for a stock for oriental cooking as soon as I talk to you again about yardbirds.

It's What's for Dinner

I have a small, free-range chicken in the fridge. I'm getting ready to make a little chicken stock for Thai soup. I also have day-old sourdough bread and cherry tomatoes.

This recipe was in the New York Times this morning. It's what's for dinner.

Here is the photo, by Evan Sung for the Times.

http://www.nytimes.com/recipes/1015153/panzanella-with-chicken-crisp-chicken-skin-and-capers.html

We Fight Chaos. Every Way We Can.

The mischief and mayhem of the weekend followed our little group into Monday.

I lost my car keys in the house somewhere and didn't find them until four o'clock. Corey's car was in the shop and my spare key was with it. Beth works until 5:30 now. Storm clouds were hovering. No grocery store, no tasty menu. Or at least not a great tasty menu.

We fight chaos, every way we can. Hone our coping skills continually. We know that family dinner can be anything we want it to be.

When I found the keys (in a small bag in the garbage) I headed out. It was just in the nick of time. Corey gathered up, he took over driving and we headed for Tom and Jack! Then, it was off to Advent School! We had decided to let the boys play on their old familiar playground while we waited for Beth to finish work.

It was the best thing we could have done. Tom and Jack have missed their old school. They got to see some friends, hug old teachers, play a while! I enjoyed being there, watching Beth interact with her group of little ones and her fellow teachers. I was getting calmed down from a topsy-turvy day. Corey began to relax, too, from his jet lag!

Finally, we were ready for Beef o'Brady's http://www.beefobradys.com/ and a fun, family supper out. We left, full and happy, in our separate cars slap in the middle of a gigantic afternoon storm. Rain was pelting us and we just didn't care. Who would have thought to take the umbrellas inside? Not us. We were still in the throes of chaos.

The boys, oblivious to unorganized adults, had been delighted on their visit to Advent School when a past teacher gave them a hearty bear-hug and exclaimed, "We've really missed you! Nobody else feeds the rabbits without being told!" 

If this story has a moral, here it is: A terrible day might just turn out to be a really good time when the family sticks together, and keeps smiling, through Plans A, B, and C.

Also, rabbits seem to remember exactly who their friends are!

Verse

I've disappointed?

You expected more, perhaps a rhyming poem?

Yes, I could write one for you. Yes, I do see.

You'd prefer that to this rambling, free association style.

This form is so unstructured…a priori.


Just as I was born reading, as soon as Grandmother Fullwood taught me the alphabet song and put a pencil into my hand, I wrote verse. I began with blessings for the table, couplets about the grass and flowers, or nonsensical riddle/rhymes. In grammar school, I presented the fifth grade play, that I had been chosen to write, in verse! Mrs. Work gave me an extra week to “prose it up; fix it.”

A child before after-school-care and day-camps, I spent a part of every summer with my cousin Dixie. We passed the time following our afternoon baths reading parts in Shakespeare’s plays aloud. I fiddled away one whole month of summer, once, writing sonnets because I grew so tired of acting. (“How, now, Gertrude?”)

Since all pre-teen-aged kids tend to get despondent, I practiced elegies, dirges, odes, and all that in Junior High School. Later, at New Hanover High, I won scholarships and contests with my free verse and my “beat generation” style.

To this day, poetry still falls out of my head unbidden and I almost never write it down.

I’m not much of a fan of most religious poetry, although I miss the words of the old Baptist hymns sometimes. Otherwise, the spiritual poet seems to be trying too hard with verse after verse of pretty, rhyming, supplicating, thanking, self-doubting, or glorifying words. One cannot beat the Psalms. What more (along with the lovely old acappella spirituals) do I need?

I won't rule out one day writing libretto for newly created church music, however, which is a different genre. But lately…

Lately, in the past half-dozen years or so, I've been practicing haiku. I believe that I have found my perfect medium of expression.

The shortest and most compact poetic form, the haiku has numerous styles, each with its own rules. I practice dozens of these and sometimes write prose in sentence form but haiku style. The reader seldom notices.

My own form of haiku is to write about a snapshot that I have just taken or a scene that I'm about to photograph. When viewed together, I call this style Images With and Without a Camera. I've been collecting these for awhile. Perhaps they can be gathered into a Haiku book one day. Or not.

When the images go stale, there is no use to keep them except for the occasional art display or because one of them tugs at my heart a little. I used to publish them on the old blog and also on Twitter and facebook.

To me, the photographic image and its haiku should be enjoyed as quickly in the moment as possible. This means right now, this season, this year, less than an hour ago, not more than a week ago. Then the form becomes an Image with a capital I.

You'll be seeing more of my Images…as we go along here. I might explain where and when I took the picture and what type of haiku I am using. That would be fun and the work would be more pertinent set in the proper time-frame – for a blog is a chronological record, if nothing else. A techno-diary/journal.

Occasionally, I group/frame/display some the haiku together to make a larger statement. One of these, framed in real life, is also pictured on the Holy Comforter Spirit and Creativity Guild web page. I call it simply Seasons. If I group others in that way, down the road, I’ll publish them there (web address to be announced) as well.

So, no. No verse today. If anything really stirs my imagination enough to sit down and write it out, I'll print the poem here. Promise. Otherwise, haiku it is!

Aidan and Ángel Prototype

Image on a Sunday Morning

The Autumnal Equinox, 2013, on Meridian Road (a canopy road) in Tallahassee, Florida. "To everything (turn, turn, turn) there is a season."

Churches

This is Holy Comforter Episcopal Church here in Tallahassee. This is my church, a house that welcomed me when I was in emotional need, friended me when I was a stranger, fed me when I forgot to bring a dish or make a snack to share, and took me in as if I had been a member for sixty years.

I pass fourteen other churches on the way to mine every Sunday morning. Plus one building in progress. Each structure fascinates me in a different way and they mystify me as a group - prayers going up from each, in near unison, every Sunday, connotes a powerful vision of  the oneness that souls share.

Every church building tells a story - a study in bricks, wood, walkways, windows, and steeples - through its facade alone. One does not even need to go inside, although I have visited a lot of them since I moved to Tallahassee. Both the architecture and  its placement on the land speak to me in a language of silent beckoning.

Therefore, I did what any other camera-buff would do if church buildings were talking to her, amazing her, and thrilling her. I began taking pictures of the churches, forming intuitive judgements while giving each building a "psychic reading" so to speak.

I once thought I would write a book that would include the pictures and the histories of each church I came across. The thought just didn't catch and hold in my mind. The oral histories of the older churches are well known throughout the city. That train of thought simply wasn't what I was after.

It was totally sensory. Feeling. How did the buildings make me feel? Did the vibes that I was getting from the many churches dotting the Tallahassee landscape affect my spirituality? What could I surmise from looking at the pictures of  buildings that house the Holy Spirit? Would such a strange creative hobby change me in any way? How?

I've decided that I'll be picturing the churches here on the blog from time to time. I want to be able to tell you in a simple paragraph (not a church history) how the structure makes me feel - what it's message privately imparts. Some of the photos will also be on the Holy Comforter Spirit and Creativity Guild web page when that is up and running.

It will be amazing to share my odd hobby with others! Maybe you will see what I see. Or perhaps you will see something entirely different!

Twitter with a Twist

This was the view from the computer table early this morning. I woke up with the realization that I had been tweeting all wrong!

I'm getting ready (after lunch) to re-open my twitter account but use it in a more productive way. Yes, I'll follow my friends - but no one else at first.


Let's see how the wind really blows.

And I won't tweet only to the few but to everyone. I once remarked that I wasn't important enough to facebook, blog AND tweet. That's because I was doing it all wrong. It's essentially about a change in the way one communicates. If I am going to tread through muddy and dangerous waters, I may as well not cross the bridge in order to keep my boots dry.

September on the Lake

I posted on facebook this morning that I was going to concentrate on my to-do list (the ten million things) today, as I have enjoyed the week so far without doing much real work. First, I took a walk around the lake, then I played with pets, and now, after lunch, I am posting this.

I wanted to show you Lake Petty Gulf in the last throes of summer. In October the pictures will gradually begin to "tinge" yellow and gold. We are interested in seeing the seasonal progress around the lake, are we not? This is Florida and, even here in the Red Hills of the Big Bend, we must strain our sensibilities and become extremely fine-tuned in order to enjoy the beauty of the changing seasons.

Happy Birthday, Julia Child

Today is not going to be about cooking. Today is going to be about planning to cook. Happy Birthday, Julia Child. You started it all, for most of us, so many years ago. I wish that I, like you, could hire someone to wash the pots and tidy up the kitchen, but no teenager wants a job like that anymore!

Considering the Food Industry: What I Said on Facebook

I spent the storm considering the hurricane cabinet. A necessity in Florida, alongside the pantry supplies and with one gas burner, I can make simple meals for myself and my neighbors. These emergencies are times are when we are lucky, as a nation, to have the food industry pumping out cans and boxes for our consumption. We are blessed beyond reason.

Caroline Walton Mathews Where would we be during a storm without the food industry? We can lobby to make changes, but we can't ignore those inner grocery aisles completely. We can cook fresh and locally grown foods until we're blue in the face but, twenty days out from a devastating storm, you won't see me making mayonnaise, pasta, and sauces from scratch. I'll be opening cans of tuna, chicken, sardines and salmon, veggies, and fruit whether they are too salty and full of food additives or not.

Fourth Quarter Cooking: Taking Stock

It's a beautiful morning, sunny with impending thunderstorms making the air heavy with moisture and the scent of the herb garden. A yard full of butterflies. I was planning to go out early and find a local chicken for afternoon stock-making. I decided to "take stock" instead. Forget the chicken right now. Plan a trip to the Growers' Market at Lake Ella this afternoon and ask about the local poultry there. 

Instead, I ordered Cooked and The Art of Fermentation each written by Michael Pollan. I also ordered Tartine Bread by Chad Robertson, even though I already own half a dozen bread cookbooks. As much as I adore my Kindle, hardcover will be best for what I am calling Fourth Quarter Cooking: A Year of Taking (and Making) Stock.

I have numerous stock recipes. I went through them all just now, narrowing them down to two. Although I rejected my (once) old - favorite Louisiana Brown Chicken Stock recipe from Terry Thompson's Cajun-Creole Cooking, I hung (the book is falling apart and all of the pages are unattached to the spine) her tips for preparing stock and making roux on the fridge.

I'll use my own recipe (it's just like all the others) for regular stock. For the Oriental cuisine dishes, I've chosen a recipe from the Thai cookbook, The Elements of Life, by Su-Mei Yu. I will cook the stocks ala Michael Pollan, however. Slowly. Perfectly. 

In my spare time, tonight, I need to inventory my freezing containers, gather up any packaged stocks and broths - there must be some - for the food pantry, and shuffle the freezer around to make room for two different stocks. I also want to keep two sauces on hand, frozen:  a supply of ragu and a simple tomato sauce.

And so it is that the Fourth Quarter Cooking experiment/experience is officially underway until August 14, 2014 and hopefully beyond.

More About the Food Industry

Salt Sugar Fat: How the Food Giants Hooked Us by Michael Moss
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

As shocking as the antics of the food industry are, there is no use whining about it. I am proceeding to distance myself from that whole business of food-like products. I'm doing a pretty good job at it, too.

This is a must-read for those who mindlessly shop the grocery inner aisles, nuke their dinners, eat at restaurants that throw salad out of a bag and use frozen beef, and for those who graze on fast food 24-7.

Two stars for all that research and one more for preaching to the choir. Who besides the choir, after all, is going to read this book?

View all my reviews

Summer Non-Fiction Book Review

Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation by Michael Pollan
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I've finished reading Cooked by Michael Pollan and I am busy re-examining the section on bread. I know I said that I wasn't going to review this summer's non-fiction. There was such a formidable stack of large tomes on the shelf and I knew that each one was going to be a four-star experience.

I do want to tell you this, however. I had a dread of Michael Pollan. He is an activist, after all, whom I had already become acquainted with in the Times and around and about. Yet, this very reading experience has led me to join an internet breadmaking group and to follow a few names on Facebook. And it has also made me think.

What if a person simplified her cooking/shopping/dining routines and experiences to fit within the confines of the topics in this book? Wouldn't that be a wonderful full-year project in living alone yet eating only the most thoughtfully prepared dishes made from the freshest ingredients grown in the very best places which are somewhere near home?

Couldn't Cooked become the foundation for a wonderful creative experience/hobby? Wouldn't my inside tract, where most of the circus that is the immune system resides, thank me? Mightn't the food taste better; the preparation become more fun to do?

I'll bet the new regime would continue after the passage of twelve months time. At that point, changes would be happily ingrained.

I think I'll spend this year hounding local experts, gathering any equipment I need, making decisions about my repertoire - how to become, in the last quarter, a singularly unique cook. Different from most others. Espousing my own, definite, point of view. POV they call it on Next Food Network Star.

Less will become more.

Pollan's fire, water, air and earth remind me of Thai cooking. In Thailand my birthdate identifies me as earth. According to the weather, the season, and the time of day, I should be cooking and eating this or that much spiciness, sweetness, acidity, or sourness.

The technique is similar to a form of Chinese medicine/food combining that I've been adapting to and adopting in the past few months. I won't lose that experiment - I'll simply merge the two.

So, here I go again. I'll check back with you concerning my progress on the blog. I'll be writing about how my experiment is going - whether or not I feel eccentric, zany, or just plain better than ever!





View all my reviews

Caroline's Book Reviews

Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth by Reza Aslan
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

In the end, I was delighted that I read this book, Zealot. I'll admit it. I hesitated to begin, jealous of my personal interpretation of Jesus, the man of Nazareth. I didn't exactly want to waste any time on a volume of descent.

As I read, I began to realize that Reza Aslan was not "messing with" my own distinct and life-long picture of the adult Jesus. Nor was this self-proclaimed historian denying that "my" Jesus the Nazarene actually walked the walked and talked the talk - even more so when presented in context - and he may have done it with a zeal that the gospels do not portray.

The history of the Jews under Rome during the life of Jesus and, later, of the twelve (James taking the place of Judas) and of Paul, was told once more; this time, in an absolutely amazing and lifelike scenario. Aslan hauled me down into a land that was not of my own making.

The adulthood of Jesus became clearer in some ways. I realize now that most of the "historical facts" that I knew were dry statistics; lists of names of kings, rabbis, and Roman statesmen paired with recounted dates of wars and rebellions. I could suddenly, while reading, see Jesus and his followers as a group alive in the active, dangerous, remarkable world of their time.

I was particularly interested in the relationship of James, the brother of Jesus, to Paul, who never met the man Jesus. How was it that Paul's doctrine was accepted as the foundation of the church while James's was disregarded? Now I understand that historical events stepped in and solved the question forever.

Don't read this book if you have a totally closed mind or if you are ultra-sensitive as to whether or not the New Testament, written so long after Jesus lived, is 100% accurate.

I remember remarking that I was not going to review any of this summer's non-fiction but would simply give stars. Yet, I had to let you know that, all in all, my personal image of Jesus the Man remains intact, has not suffered any affront, and has even grown to some extent. Four Stars for Reza Aslan and Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth.







View all my reviews

Thinking about Yogurt (a Facebook Note)

I've been thinking, this morning, about yogurt. I made my own (off and on) for many years. 

My Jacksonville kitchen was a room in constant motion; yogurt making, juicing, wine brewing, bread baking. Everywhere, something was in progress; bowls of Florida oranges and fresh-harvested grapes waiting, herbs and peppers drying, Vidalia onions hanging, scallions growing outside the door. 

The butcher was local, a friend who could be trusted. Seafood was right off the boat. It was nothing to see a wild boar hanging, freshly hunted, from my grape arbor. The freezer was full of turtle, alligator, rattlesnake, and venison. Smokers or grills were perpetually as hot as fire. I never grill in Tallahassee. Birds make a nest in my hibachi. My charcoal grill acts as a tool case in the garage. I've given the gas grills away. 

But back to the yogurt! You do not need a machine to make a delicious, tangy batch. Yet, I don't think I want to get into that again simply because I was disappointed to read about the additives in several commercial (even organic) yogurt brands and, last night, discovered the sugar content (in my own refrigerator) of a flavored helping.

This is a good chance to try some of the new Greek Yogurt brands. I'll buy the unflavored variety that I once made and mix it with my berries! I'm not running out shopping for Goats' Milk until I exhaust my other options! And, I certainly am not buying a new yogurt maker. I've gone through three in thirty years. I think that's plenty. 

Granny Camp - Food and Fiber Optics

Granny Camp is always a hoot. It was no different today. Tom and Jack eat an early breakfast but I always give them a little something more when they come to camp. It keeps the sweet mid-morning snacks way down.

Today I served breakfast at the tea table in my bedroom/study. We discussed iPads and Kindle, the differences, the preferences, the speakers, what we liked and what we didn't.

We tried, as we always do, to lure Belle into camp mode by offering treats. She has always shied away from Jack and Tom. Today, we were in for a huge surprise. The cat marched into the kitchen, took her place at her bowl, and accepted the pieces of food that the boys offered her!

Bell spent breakfast curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed watching the boys eat bacon and biscuits. Later, she took up a position in the dining room. When Jack tried to play with her, she chased the mouse on the string! "I think she likes us now," said Tom. She should! She's known them since they were born!

Mid-morning, we went on a field trip to Books-a-Million. I was surprised that the boys had never been. We chose some primary readers and a couple of educational toys. Then we discovered a fiber optic lamp! Oh, yes, we had to have that, too!

Back in the car, we voted (3-0) to go home for mac and cheese, lemonade, and fruit instead of eating out. Tom dashed to the linen cabinet and set the tea table with a square of Belgian table cloth and the small napkins that go with it. Jack set the fiber optic lamp in the middle of the table and turned it on. They closed the blinds and made the room as dark as they could.

From the kitchen, I heard someone say, "Granny, we are having a romantic lunch." Not my words. His. I had to chuckle!

After lunch, we usually rest for awhile with iPads or a movie. Not today! Today, we sat in the very back of my clothes closet - on the floor - with the door shut, amazed by the fiber optic lamp. We touched the fibers and also the base of the lamp, put it on different settings, and enjoyed the beautiful quiet. Tom got the Kindle and played the music from one of his games. We stayed totally in the moment until someone thought of the cookies we had thawing.

So, we took our chocolate chip cookies out to the porch and watched Squirrel play until Beth came. One of the books was chosen for tonight's reading lesson/story time. Beth got a fiber optics demo and maybe she remembered to grab a cookie! Lots of waving goodbye, until tomorrow.

Return of the Gentleman Caller

No. Not Tennessee Williams.

I've documented my gentleman callers for years on these pages and in my facebook notes. They come from everywhere. Retired professionals working part-time at odd jobs, a friend's father, a casual grocery store encounter, someone I met having lunch with someone else. They never pan out. If you remember, the last one turned out to be senile. I haven't made much eye contact with men my age since then.

It doesn't help that I've been in the position to have many male friends over the years and today. I think nothing of it. Sometimes men get confused, however, and believe that I'm doing a little spooning of my own. A lot of the gentlemen my age have never had female friends. They think I'm out to get a husband, a dinner date, a ride.

I know the difference! I also recognize a gentleman caller when I see one. I usually back up, lower my head, and tense up my shoulders. They almost always want a wife, a dinner date, or a ride. Most of us in this group can no longer see to drive at night.

So I went into Publix to get some supplies for Granny Camp and a couple of umbrellas. The storm began as soon as I entered the safety of the store. I was still dry. (I've lost and broken all my rain gear this summer. It's been like monsoon season around here.)

My latest gentleman caller met me at the store entrance. "Find me when you get to check-out and I will take you out to your car." I shook my head. "I'm going to buy an umbrella." Sometimes I can't help smiling. "No, we'll let you wear a Publix poncho." He points to the stack of plastic rain gear near the door.

I wandered the aisles picking up child-friendly food. I snatched up the last huge, ugly golf umbrella. I selected a small purse umbrella. I've been soaked three times this week. I've ripped my coat and demolished my two purse umbrellas. I headed to the front of the store.

Of course, I ignored the idea of finding anyone special to help me outside. I never get help. It gives me a little exercise to wrestle with cat liter, cases of cold drinks, and big jugs of detergent. I paid for my items and looked towards the door. The gentleman caller was standing, hand on poncho. I gestured outside. The sun was shining brightly!

The moral of the story is this. If you want the sun to come out, buy rain gear!!!