Ready for King to be "On Fire!"

Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


Written in the same strong but simple vein of Joyland, I (again) wonder at what reading audience Stephen King is aiming for in Mr. Mercedes. Perhaps the answer is the younger adult - a good plot, enjoyable characters, emotional intensity and instability, just enough blood and gore, a smattering of sexual tension and love-making.

As for me. I want the hair to rise on my arms. I want a true psychological thriller. I want the beautiful language of Duma Key.

I call these recent additions to King's repertoire "Stephen King Toned Down." People who never read him and stick to "Summer Beach Mysteries" will enjoy Mr. Mercedes, to be sure. I, myself, thought it was first rate!

Scaffold theme by Mike Harding

                    But I am itching for the other King. I am ready for "Stephen King on Fire!"

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Praised in the New York Times

Lost for Words by Edward St. Aubyn

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


I have sent Lost for Words back into the "cloud" even after having read some of the rave reviews. I'll read St. Aubyn's Melrose series, soon.. After that, maybe I'll drag this one out and finish it. Meanwhile, I, myself am wordless.

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Edgar Award Winner for 2014.

Ordinary Grace by William Kent Krueger

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


Beautifully thought out and well written. But the Edgar Award?

Ordinary Grace, although mysterious, is not (by my standards) a mystery. Nor is it a thriller. Nor is there much compelling action. The reader sees through the plot immediately and there is no guesswork to it.

What the book is, is a semi-spiritual coming of age saga. Death is the tool that forces the growth changes, both in the youthful and the war-torn, the delusioned and the disappointed. It's a perfect Churches-Book-Club offering, a prying into cause and effect with murder as the catalyst but without too much violence. I loved some of the Methodist realism and the Kennedy Era meal plans.

I suppose I could characterize Krueger's novel as a sad but thoughtful tragedy of its time; heartbreaking and provocative, but without enough vitality or punch to keep the reader up all night, reading.

You will enjoy Ordinary Grace in the way it portrays the two children and their relationships with the adults and recounts "modern" life in 1961 small-town America. Then you will shake your head at the Edgar Award Committee and try reading the second-place winner.

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One, Two, Three Strikes; You're Out

I've been to theT-Ball game and I have to say, I love it. Probably more than soccer. I'm not speaking for Jack and Tom. T-Ball is more difficult, slower to grasp; you are alone there in the outfield. Time drags at some of the positions. Catching and throwing are a challenge. There are so many rules and positions to learn. Gloves, and bats, and balls to keep up with.

This was a perfectly beautiful morning. Cool, bright, and sunny. The Mets were behind (their second loss of the season), but played a wonderful, smart game of ball. The best ever! It was those three consecutive outs they suffered in the first inning that sealed the loss. There just wasn't any catching up. 

I was sitting on the bleacher watching Corey coach and Beth call the batting line-up. Tom was on first and Jack was in the batter's box. Wham. Line drive. I love it when one boy hits and his brother advances! The crowd of parents and grands were shouting encouragement. "Good job!" "Nice hit!" "Way to Hustle!"

"Remember this," A voice in my head whispered, "Take note."

 I took a mental snapshot of that point in time and stuck that in the computer file in my brain marked "Priceless Moments." 

A song kept running through my head. I stuck that in the memory bank as well. "Let me root, root, root for the home team. If they don't win, it's a shame..."

Winning, of course, is important. Me? I never keep score. Let some of the T-Ball moms do that. I have this strange idea that every one of the kids on both teams is a winner, but that the biggest winner is me. 

The Grey Hairs

I use the term "The Grey Hairs" a lot. Hairs is plural because each head of grey hair sports multiple numbers of them. In that way, if I am talking about one friend, two friends, a group of friends, or any other number of friends, I can use my chosen nickname for him, her, or them and none of you others are able to tell if I'm talking about one or many, a man or men, a woman or a group of girl-friends.

Cagey, yes? In that way, a bald, bald head - if it is around my age and meets certain other criteria - can be believed to belong among the Grey Hairs if even two hairs, grey or otherwise, exist on the head. Of any length. Real or imagined.

What the Grey Hairs are is a specific type of person. Sporting actual grey hair is not de rigueur. I, myself, am not a Grey Hairs although I have more than enough grey hairs to qualify.

To be designated Grey Hairs is to be branded (by me) old-school, computer challenged, tending not to answer the cell phone ("It's only for emergencies.") and not to know what a selfie is - let alone be anxious to snap one.

This little group of mine shuns social media of any kind and especially Facebook; doesn't really comprehend a tweet; would never check in on Foursquare; and doesn't even realize that thousands more than these apps that I've just named even exist.

"What is an app?" "Oh, I could never deal with e-mail." "Scan and upload?" "My computer is six years old." "iPad?" "Playlist?" "eBook?" "FaceTime?" "YouTube?" "Online banking?" Well, you get my drift!

I have a great time with the Grey Hairs. I never risk our friendship(s) by snapping pictures or trying to teach anyone anything about the modern, technical world. I write about him/her/them online, but am careful to protect privacy, keep identity(ies)safe, not let the name(s) get onto the internet. "Cloud?" "GoodReads?" "Google Earth?" "Can't be safe!"

Grey Hairs, alone or in groups, always want to "eat out." Cost, however, is a factor. Today, the three Grey Hairs opted to go to a "cheaper" eatery so that they could get "salad." They don't decide by cell phone. They decide in person. "Fine," I said. "No salad for me. I can rustle up a delicious salad anytime, day or night." So off they went. Consequently, I have missed out on the latest news. Who went to what movie. Today's featured plant at Esposito's. Who finished what book.

I never got to plow through Stein Mart, today, or go to the HobbyLobby, or do any of the things that the Grey Hairs regularly enjoy but that I enjoy only with him/her/them.

I, myself, ate chicken Bahmi (not Bahn Mi, the sandwich) with Panang curry and a nice big glass of Thai Tea. I ordered another dish to bring home for my dinner. It's Friday. Why order pizza? Two dishes chosen from the Reangthai Lunch Menu, plus a generous tip, was less than the cost of a Papa John's.

After my nice, leisurely, lunch I back-tracked a little and drove home on the canopy road instead of via the Capital Circle thoroughfare. I stopped at Pisgah Methodist Church and took some pictures. Farther up the road,  I stopped and walked around the Coptic Church - as I often do - looking for a good photo-op. They leave that truck parked in front and the garbage cans out. It's a small building. One day I am going to take the perfect snapshot of it, but not today. At least the caretaker didn't catch me like he usually does.

I wonder what the Grey Hairs are doing this afternoon. Maybe they've gone to someone's house for tea and cards. Maybe not. One thing I know. Not a single one of them is sitting at a desk writing a blog post about anything. "Blog? Oh, no. Couldn't do that."

Master Moy Style Tai Chi - I Can't Be the Only Cult Follower

It's a rainy morning and I had to practice my Tai Chi in the living room instead of on the patio. As I went through the set, my mind (which usually stays in the moment throughout the moves) was, instead, mulling over my week so far; the putting together of the Highland bagpipe chanter and finding the low G, setting up a review of French in Action on the computer, reading the articles and the blog written by the French in Action cult followers.

Cult followers? It was a natural progression from the subject of cult followings to think of Master Moy.

I was a charter member of the Taoist Tai Chi Society in Jacksonville. M Moy was still alive and all movements were done as he instructed from Canada. Instructors traveled to Toronto every year to practice under his guidance.The method of learning was see and do. Almost no words were spoken. The instructor demonstrated the move three times while the students watched. The students then practiced what they had seen three times while the teacher looked on.  Repetition was the rule. Over and over. In near silence.

There is a book (in French and English) in my collection explaining the whole set. I have video tapes showing M Moy demonstrating Taoist Tai Chi from two perspectives. I also have a CD of M Moy practicing the Tai Chi. The cameras, the angles, and the way the film is cut prevent anyone from using that one as a learning tool.

I had signed on to become a Taoist Tai Chi instructor when M Moy's death was announced. Unfortunately, I had also taken a new job which almost immediately precluded me from attending the instructors' classes and also the Tuesday/Thursday night practices. The only class that I could get to, during those six years, was one taught at the senior center at Neptune Beach. My instructor from town taught it on Wednesday afternoons but only offered the first twelve moves.

When I moved to Tallahassee, I was excited to be in the same city with the national headquarters. I joined right away. There were many instructors - all teaching the set with words, some teaching different stretching and foot placement, none using M Moy's technique. I quickly found that the physicians and leaders involved in the administration of the organization in Canada, where Taoist Tai Chi began, were editing the moves little by little, increasing the stretching for health reasons, and subtly changing Master Moy's Tai Chi inch by inch.

They were extremely cliquish. I had many years of membership and leadership under my belt and expected to be accepted as an old-timer. There was no way to get inside. I was a "beginner" for as long as I went to classes. It ires me to remember the conversation that I overheard about beginners paying dues and ultimately dropping out. "Plenty more where they come from."

Gone, also, was the premise that one might have physical limitations leading to the realization that there is no "perfect" way to perform the moves. One instructor immediately grabbed my arthritic hip and attempted to "set me straight." My friend swears to this day that her Tai Chi classroom instructor "ruined" her knee. The only intensive weekend that I attended led to several comments about trying to align my (same arthritic) hip properly. If I could, I would.

 I joined in on all the lovely activities during the time I attended classes but was never included in anything but the most casual of conversations. Once, at a Chinese New Year Celebration, I tried to help clean up after the remarkable meal. I was told that I had "paid for dinner" and that the "circle" would clean. I suppose she meant the inner circle. I never asked.

I was a member of the Tallahassee Branch of Taoist Tai Chi for several years. Finally, I got an "inner circle" instructor who was so inept that he could not demonstrate the moves or keep them in order in his head. That was the day I really paid attention and noticed how the whole process had changed since M Moy's death. Several students began to correct the instructor (which is never done) therefore taking away the respect that a leader is due. Then it was that I saw students who had learned a "different" Tai Chi from the one I practiced prodding and reminding an instructor about footwork and sequence. I had paid dues for a year, but I never attended another class.

This morning, I read everything there was to read on the internet about the International Taoist Tai Chi Society - some good, some bad, some absurd, some accusatory. Many writers were quick to criticize the movements as not really Tai Chi, the instructors, the non-profit designation, everything. Most called the organization a cult.

I remember the nuns who came for lessons in Tallahassee until their priest made them quit because of the temple atmosphere of the practice room. Taoism is a philosophy, but it is also a religion. The priest called it a cult.  It seems to me, as I think back, that many of the "inner circle" were converted Taoists. Others certainly acted as if they belonged to a cult.

A non-profit organization, Taoist Tai Chi is not a poor man's activity. Everything from dues, to shirts, to booklets, to dinners, to intensive learning opportunities, to meditation classes, to snacks costs money or expects a donation.

I've been practicing what I like to call Master Moy's Tai Chi for several years now - either in my living room or on the patio. Much mystery surrounds the man, Moy Lin Shin, himself. I don't care. On video, his movements are fluid and supple. He neither exaggerates his stretches nor pauses between movements for sustained extra stretching in order to "enhance" the health of the practitioner. Although the beginning of one demonstration CD shows him in a low, low "snake," the subsequent recording is one of moderation - moves for the average practitioner.  The theory is that, with practice, Creeping Low Like a Snake will actually be done low, lower, lowest.

I believe that I am a Master Moy Tai Chi cult follower. There must be others. I can't be the only person who still practices Tai Chi the way he taught it. If you watch the following YouTube demonstration, turn off the commentary so you can see the meditative beauty of the movements.

http://youtu.be/f9BFWJsrmSY

Once, when M Moy was planning a trip to Florida, someone asked me if I would go to the weekend intensive class that he was planning to lead.

I said, simply, "No."

"Why on earth not?" "

"Because I believe Master Moy to be clairvoyant. I know him and he knows me. If he sees me in the class, he will recognize me. 'Ah,' he will think. 'There is the one who does not give me her very best.'"

Well. I may not have tried as hard as I should have years ago; I was not as diligent or as attentive, then, as I could have been. But here at my house, at this more calm and meditative time in my life, Master Moy style Tai Chi is still alive and practiced each and every day.

Give Cookbooks for Gifts! Get Great Meals in Return!

Pickles, Pigs & Whiskey: Recipes from My Three Favorite Food Groups and Then Some by John Currence

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I bought Pickles, Pigs & Whiskey for a gift, but of course I read it before I wrapped it. AND I made a mint julep for the Derby from a new recipe that I found inside.

As a cookbook goes, it is perfect. Good back story, wonderful photography, solid cooking philosophy, interesting recipes, music parings. I found several ideas to add to my own repertoire. That's the sign of a successful cookbook. Anything usable in there?

Unfortunately, this isn't my style of cooking. I no longer fry, use lard, eat hearty. It isn't so much about health as changing tastes and a reluctant digestive system; however, the gift recipient will not only love but also use John Currence's new cookbook. That's what counts!



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The Secret Garden; Making a Comeback

I've been surveying the Secret Garden this morning. I thought that winter had done it in. Not so. Except for the raised herb bed, which I had to replace completely, everything is beginning to peep out at me. Making a comeback.

Because of the hill and my house being by the lake which sits at the bottom of it, as well as the close proximity of the neighboring houses, I will never have what (originally) I planned - total seclusion. I have renamed the area "Secret" instead of "Secluded".

I honestly enjoy it. I didn't realize, coming from flat, sandy, sea level that when you live at the bottom of the hill - no matter how cozy the spot is - there is no fence high enough that the people at the top cannot see over.

Last summer, the garden was stunning. Not right now. The constant rain and cold along with my pesky back have precluded a quick replacement of the lost-through-freezing patio potted plants. In fact, I'm going to keep the numbers to a minimum from here on out. If I do that, I already have everything I need.

Flowers? It's strange how an annual lover from the coast is becoming a Red Hills native-perennial advocate. I plan on adding one or two plants a month to the beds. Surely the whacked back can take that kind of bending in moderation. Here in Tallahassee, everyone plants all summer. You should have seen my face when I discovered that.

I'm pleased with my morning walkabout. The roses and jasmine are in full bloom; the rosemary is green, the irises, making an effort; lemongrass is sending up shoots while fern, ivy, spider plants and coleus have begun spreading. All I need to do is wait. It's only the first week of May.

Now, after the land survey,  I'm ready for a leftover roast beef sandwich on a water roll with spinach and tomato. Then, I think I'll Google a list of "rain garden" plants that I'm interested in setting out in the area that becomes a little lake during the monsoon season.

It's always more beautiful in the garden than I remember it after a harsh winter or a soggy spring - or in this case both. Some Sundays, it is my church. On weekday afternoons, it has become my alfresco neighborhood bar and grill.

As soon as I get the easel set up, the garden will begin to serve as my outdoor atelier. It already doubles as a summer reading room, as twilight settles late and slow here. Then there is my constant skywatching, star gazing, and comet hunting!

Meanwhile, the patio and porch become a writing room, a research library, and a lunch bar. Factor in Squirrel and The Belle, and the place seems like a zoo, as well - with me the keeper. I'm glad the garden is on the mend. It's the most used and enjoyed part of the house in every season but winter and all but the longest, windiest, chilliest of rains.

Mint Julep Redux: A New Look at an Old Favorite by Chef John Currence

From the Beard Award winning cookbook Pickles, Pigs, and Whisky, the recipe:

Photo by David Krieger

2/12 tsp sugar
6 fresh mint leaves
orange peel
orange flower water (optional)
splash of soda
crushed ice
3 oz brandy
more mint
blueberries
one large old-fashioned glass or julep cup


I harvested my mint this morning before the rains returned. Dried them. Wrapped them in paper towels. They're chilling in the fridge as I write. I grow a variety of mint especially suited to the mint julep. Eight summers in, I can no longer remember the name. Any fresh mint will do.

I've made juleps with bourbon and with gin. Chef Currence advises a shift to brandy. Redux. Mint Julep Revisited.

In the glass goes the sugar, the mint, the orange peel and orange flower water (if using) and the soda. Mull that mixture. Pulverize the ingredients. Pour in the brandy. Stir and garnish with more mint and blueberries.

I think I'll pulverize a few blueberries with the sugar! Never saw a blue mint julep. Have a great afternoon. I'm hoping to enjoy a rainless Kentucky Derby on the patio (fingers crossed) streaming in live via computer.

Inside or out the celebratory drink will taste so good! Thank you Chef! Now if I just had my silver julep cups and Gullah-woven straw julep tray that I parted with in haste those many years ago....

A Missed Opportunity

Heart of the Order: Baseball Poems by Gabriel Fried

My rating: 1 of 5 stars


Heart of the Order might have been a really fine book. It could have been coffee table quality. It should have been hard cover; sporting glossy, pertinent baseball pictures, and with intriguing commentary both explaining some of baseball history and tying in the poets' links with the game.

Thank You, Google Images!

A missed opportunity. I'm putting it on the shelf (paperback) to use as a reference book. The poetry itself is priceless!



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Hair Did Not Rise on My Neck

Joyland by Stephen King

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


I grew up in Coastal North Carolina at Wilmington. My stepfather was eternally delighted with the circus, the state fair, the coastal amusement parks, and the boardwalks. I never missed a circus and there were plenty of them in the late 40's/early 50's. There were loads of mysteries and lots to gossip associated with them, too, if and when one became chummy with any of the traveling or the stationery workers. They were like a band of gypsies - or bull riders. They traveled the seaboard and their stories went with them.

I enjoyed Joyland for many reasons. Nice little story, plenty of amusement park lingo, clean cut college kids, dying little boys, murdered girls, ghosts, and carnie folks.

Not up to par for Stephen King, however. Not once did the hair rise on my neck. There is no joy in spirits that every character believes in. Where is the fear? "The Gift" becomes a regular personality trait when everyone knows who has it and who doesn't. Where is the doubt? The surprise?

Thank You, Time Magazine. We need more like Carrie.

It turned out just as it was outlined. I guessed the killer early on. There wasn't any true Kingesque evil. The villain wasn't nearly psychopathic enough. The hero was simply a nice kid. The tension just wasn't there. I'm giving it three stars because it is Stephen King and he may have written this for the younger reader. Like Carl Hiaasen does sometimes.





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When it comes to personality types, I once formally identified the most irritating as the I/Me and the But/Then/I - a sad duo - who believe that the world most certainly REVOLVES around them. Not worth a whole blog post. You can tell the subtle difference between the two by listening to the words they use in their everyday conversations - or better yet by following them on Twitter and reading their updates on other social media.

A Little Expressionism, Surrealistically Speaking.

Lucian Freud: Eyes Wide Open by Phoebe Hoban
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Wow.

I never respected the artist Lucian Freud nor his unsettling work.

Now, at least, I understand how the man was driven by his deep-seated, personal need to dominate - to command obedience even from the very colors going down onto the canvas. He mixed specific paint for every individual brush stroke. He persevered in his life's work until the very light, itself, at last seemed subservient to him as he worked his will on the surfaces of the paintings.

Of course, we knew that the works of Lucian Freud, themselves, were nothing like any before or since. They stand alone as one man's expressionistic/surrealistic vision of the world as only he saw it;  his own lusts, fears, doubts, inability to accept less than absolute control, were all reflected in the eyes of his subjects who sat for hours, weeks, months for him to complete one portrait.

Working document retrieved from Bacon's studio showing Lucian Freud photographed by Daniel Earson.

That he could compel everyone he knew, both men and women - beautiful and not - to throw off their clothing and assume unfavorable positions (to the viewer) for him is, itself, a sign of how Freud surreptitiously  commanded complete obedience from his family and friends.

I won't go into all of that now. The grandson of Sigmund Freud - compulsive gambler, risk taker, filling London from corner to corner with his illegitimate children and cast-off lovers, painting all night and most of the day, using his own unclothed adult children in his paintings is simply not my favorite personality in the art world, but I think I've come to grips with the work itself. That is an accomplishment for me, personally, albeit the paintings of Lucian Freud have commanded some of the highest prices in modern art history.

The book is heavily annotated but somehow doesn't read like a research paper. Many of the insights are actually author Phoebe Hoban's and she gives other thinkers and analysts credits when credits are due. When I went back to look at the paintings again, I noticed many of her personal explanations and descriptions and could finally see something amazing, if not "beautiful," in the startling and disconcerting paintings.


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Cecilia Dominic; Holding Her Own In the Midst of Good Company

Long Shadows by Cecilia Dominic
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I went back and gave The Mountain's Shadow, the first novel by Cecilia Dominic,  a four star rating after comparing it to several works of much the the same ilk written by two (highly lauded and many times awarded) American literary giants.

Now, I'm giving Long Shadows four stars as well. I enjoyed it even more than the first one!

Look at this young woman! She will soon be the darling of the genre authors. More than one genre, if you ask me! Cecilia Dominic!

 Cecilia Dominic

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"...Thomas, because you have seen Me, you have believed. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed." John 20:29

Curry? The Answer is Reangthai.

I'll publish a pictorial next week of the modernized dining room.

The rains came down, but we three friends would not give up our planned lunch at Reangthai. In truth, curry is good for everyone, especially during the "monsoon" season. Even when no one joins me there, I try not to miss my usual Friday treat.

We took our time, enjoying our Thai tea from long-stemmed glasses, sipping our soup, spooning out our dishes carefully over the fluffy rice. I almost never order anything other than curry. The taste is sublime.

You can tell three things about the restaurant from the food itself: the produce is fresh, the knives are sharp and the kitchen is clean.

Chef Donna has been cooking authentic family recipes in the same location for twenty years. We were lucky, yesterday, that she had the time to come out of the kitchen for a few minutes and greet the patrons personally. I usually simply send "compliments" back via waitstaff.

I discovered Reangthai and Chef Donna years ago, when I attended numerous meetings in Tallahassee. The food never wavers - it is remarkable and beautifully plated.

My favorite dish is available seasonally and only at the dinner service. The snapper. To die for. The older we friends get, the less we drive at night. As the days get longer, and the twilight begins to linger into late evening, my number one priority becomes whole Florida snapper a la Reangthai.

Meanwhile, I'll keep my Friday lunches going. The waitstaff is enthusiastic and diner-oriented. One young gentleman met me at the door yesterday to remind me of a dish that I said I was going to try this week. You see, I'm hatching a plan to eat my way through the lunch menu, even if I have to sandwich in a curry dish every other week!

(I apologize for using internet images of Reangthai in this review. Stay tuned for new pictures, as the decor has just changed.)

Good Friday Breakfast

Slice enough sourdough bread to make an egg sandwich and slip it into the toaster oven for a light, crisp texture.

Heat a small pan, lightly coated with your favorite olive oil, enough to cook the egg.

While waiting, chop an assortment of fresh kitchen or garden herbs, anything you like - just enough to cover the area in the pan where the egg will land.

When the pan is sizzling, drop half the herbs in. Crack the egg on top of the herbs; salt, pepper, and season the top, and sprinkle the remainder of the herbs over all that.

Start the toast, pour your coffee, sip a little orange juice.

When the egg is ready to turn, herbs and seasonings will be cohering to the bottom. Turn herbed egg top-down, reduce heat, season bottom side with salt and pepper, and finish to your preference for an egg over easy.

Toast will be ready. Spread with mayo or butter or nothing. Add the savory egg. Voila! Better than any McMuffin and remarkably good for your insides.

Good Friday is the most contemplative day of my year. The Herbal Egg helps a somber morning get off to a tranquil and healthy start.

Now, if it would just stop raining.

"Then he came to his disciples and found them sleeping, and he said to Peter, 'What? Could you not watch with me one hour?' " Matthew 26: 40

A Honey of a Shopping Trip

Picture from www.honeypax.com. Hive FL18

I dropped a fortune at Fresh Market yesterday, simply picking up some sushi for lunch.  I've been eating their sushi for so long that I recognize each Itamae by face and certainly by sushi style. Sometimes, I can tell if a sushi chef is having a bad personal morning by the way he is stacking and preparing his delicacies.

Yesterday, chef was not there; his cooler, disheveled and unorganized. The packages were almost bought out. He had been away from his board for a while, the equipment neatly stowed. Even so, I found what I was after. Spicy crawfish. Yum. My mistake was that I didn't pick it up right away, pay the bill, and leave the store.

No. I walked around first. Looking.

There were Fresh from Florida shrimp in the Seafood Department. I don't usually get the shrimp already prepared - except when I (rarely) put in for Publix to steam half a pound for me, double Old Bay, while I shop. These Fresh Market offerings are prepared as "cocktail" shrimp. When I can get "Florida" on the label, I usually opt for some to make a light, tasty, spring or summer shrimp salad. They are too bland otherwise. They have been cleaned and sanitized to death.  In need of sauces or dressings.

No. I still was not buying, as I always pick up the cold things last.

Then, there it was. The honey that I love best in the world! Tupelo, packaged by Honey Pax. Tupelo honey is quite rare and the hives are only found in the Apalachicola River Basin of Florida. I also buy Tupelo honey shipped in and packaged locally, but Honey Pax is the best. Tupelo, you see, never crystalizes in the container. Each bottle of Honey Pax is marked with a hive number, even the single-serve-take-on-your-picnic pouches.

To my mind, the only honey that I tasted this year to come close to trumping Tupelo was a small jar I was given this fall by a member of my Supper Club. Local, mixed honey - hives less than ten miles from my house - great for allergies.

Excited, I finally raced about the store gathering my planned purchases and bumped into a fresh shipment of EVO just then being unpacked. The olive oil was actually on my grocery list!

And so it was, that I spent a good bit of money on four grocery items. Came away happy. It felt vaguely like winning the lottery, somehow. I stopped in the tiny lunch area near the door and mixed my ginger/soy sauce/ wasabi concoction. I've told you that sushi is my fast food, haven't I? I eat it on the run. Better tasting than a Big Mac and so good for the insides!

This morning, as I'm sipping my Oolong and honey, I went to the hive codes page to look up my beehive. FYI my honey purchase came from Hive Location - FL18, the first hive listed at www.honeypax.com.

Speaking of Loving Life

The morning has dawned bright and sunny. Cold, but it will warm up later. I awoke loving life. Not just my life, although I do, but life in general. The resilience of it. The wonder that a person could wake feeling so good and refreshed after a night like that.

I didn't cook a fresh dinner, but relied on Sonny's left-over ribs, slaw, and mac 'n' cheese. That was my first mistake. My second was that I was multitasking and didn't eat mindfully. Seniors need to chew.

I was working in my exercise notebook, organizing the sets, and adding a few new exercises from physical therapy. Almost none of you realize when I go there (I don't announce it on Foursquare) but it seems like a constant outing. Needed. It really helps.

I felt a bit pushed for time, the rain was coming down, and I decided against the cantata. I admit it. I have been spoiled by Fred's chancel choir and, if I lived in Wilmington, I would attend his church. A lot. I finished the dishes and my project, watched some television, crawled into my covers.

From midnight until 2AM, I stayed awake within the fresh white bedclothes. If I kept very still,  I felt as if I was riding on a billowing wave in an ocean at the ends of the earth. As long as I did not move, I seemed fine - so I begin to plan my Easter weekend menu, then recite a few Psalms, then count breaths, then relax my limbs through concentration, finally empty my mind and allow myself to feel the physical turmoil inside. Any motion at all brought a seasick feeling of not only falling off the edge of the earth but also of throwing up while I fell.

The sneezing attack pushed me over the edge. I must have sneezed fifty times. Every one of them wracked my injured neck, pulled my weak adductor muscle, and sent a pain through my back itself.

Get up! You are going to be sick! And sick I was!

If I had known at eight o' clock that I would regurgitate from two am until four, I would have fortified myself with a half-dozen gin and tonics! Doubles. Given myself something to be sick about.

Between bouts, I sipped a little ginger ale and ate a few saltines which were, mercifully , already stale. I moaned. I whined to the cat whom I had wakened. I mentally tore up all the Easter weekend menus that I had planned. I disinfected. And finally, the cuckoo chirping four am,  I slept.

Isn't life itself resilient? I woke with Belle's face in mine. "Not dead, are you?" " Can fix breakfast, can't you?' "You see me looking, don't you?" Outside, on the perch, Squirrel sat wringing her hands and peeping through the blinds into the house.

Why is everyone so worried? So? I am only running an hour late. Give me a smile, because I feel wonderful! No worse for wear.

As I write,  pets are resting apres breakfast! I'm having coffee and getting ready to clean out the refrigerator! Plan a new menu for today through Sunday. Go to the grocer. The nursery. The cleaners. Did I make myself perfectly clear?  I love my life, this morning,  and I love life in general!

The Rainy Day

The rains came down in buckets. I went from shorts to jeans and from short-sleeves to long. Nothing to do but wait it out.

So. I spent some time doing something that I almost never do. I fretted. 

I wondered why it had to be me that the dog knocked over at the ballpark. Can't walk, can't bend my neck, can't sit comfortably - I'm a mess again - and after spending weeks on my physical therapy exercises, money on better vitamins, great care to prepare arthritis-friendly foods. 

I wondered who (of course I knew who) would bring a half-trained dog into a crowd of people and then not watch him - just let him jump! 

I wondered why a dear one would sweep the fact that I could very well be hurt under the rug and forget it, act defensive when I mentioned it later, and give me that you-are-a-pain-in-the-ass look. 

I wondered at the one person who later asked if I was OK and I wondered at the two who didn't. I wondered a whole lot of other things before I stopped. 

No use to fret. 

It doesn't change anything, I told myself, to realize that people don't think. Or that almost everyone is so self-absorbed they may not be paying attention. Or that they simply do not notice the things and people around them.

So you see the place I was in earlier. 

They say that nobody can hurt you unless you let them (mentally, not physically), so about mid-morning I gave up feeling sorry for myself, forgave the guilty parties for moving on with their lives without another thought, and I put the affair behind me. Why should I let the behavior of others cause me grief? I have enough to do to get back in shape, physically, one more time

A Week of Sundays

Holy Week. More religious activities than time, in a chruch full of cooks all stirring the pot. I suppose with Chef's blessing.

Here at home, there is the rain which prevented me from viewing the blood moon. The rain and the pollen. Even while the yellow stuff is being washed mercifully into the ground, more tree pollen is falling. I vacuum the porch every morning. What I need is a stiff wind to blow everything out, but more would settle.  I could do that of course. Wear my dust mask. The thing about a nice hearty breeze is that I wouldn't have to be out there with it. Have you seen my swollen eyes and lips? Heard my wheeze? Allergies. 

My personal Holy Week is a mixture of activities. There is a cantata tonight (unless it rains or I get too comfortable with myself), but I'm skipping the Seder meal this year in favor of going to the church late to pray for an hour "with" my Father - whose apostles fell asleep on him. Every year as I ache and stretch on the hard wooden pew, I wonder if I, also, would have succumbed. But of course the answer is yes. They were predestined to slumber away. Those clueless men would never be the same again - after that night's sleep. 

One fun part of this week will be t-ball. Games Thursday and Saturday. More important to me to watch little boys play and grow than any number of Seder meals and Food Pantry duties. There will be plenty of time for that, if I stay healthy. God smiles on me.

Tom and Jack trump everything else. The world changes. I live in the present moment, day, and week. When change comes, I won't look back, wistfully. The only benefits of the past are the good memories. Everything else, I ditch. Much too late to worry about should-have, would-have, could-have. 

Yesterday was our Family Night. We had a "tax day" picnic catered by Sonny's. I have enough "planned overs" for several meals and we each found something to love about the menu. There isn't anything exactly like Sonny's BBQ. Then we played our new version of Uno. What a hoot! Lots of laughing and hatching plots. Most of us hitting the "Easter" assortment of goodies in our excitement. Kitty watching quietly from the scratching post. Corey winning both games! Just wait until next week...muttering. 

And so, the week will go nicely. Taxes done, Wayne remembered fondly on the 13th (as he is every day). Family night enjoyed, church and baseball yet to come. Do I need to say I love my life, or can you tell?

More Tragic Than You Think

The Secret History by Donna Tartt
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I knew that The Secret History by Donna Tartt became a cult classic, yet, I had not read it. Afterwards, I did something that I never do and referred to around a dozen reviews of the book - anxious to see if anyone had picked up on a few whispered phrases, clues if you will.

No. Not really. No mention of them.

Read the book for yourself. There is a secret drawer enclosed in the already remarkable framework of the plot that makes it even more of a Greco-type tragedy than you knew. It has left me pondering and has made a cult-member out of me.


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Download and Read, SAP. Dominic's Long Shadows is Out Today.

The Mountain's Shadow by Cecilia Dominic
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Cecilia Dominic is just getting warmed up! Congratulations to her on a remarkable first effort. Well done!  I don't want to review The Mountain's Shadow, this morning. Cecelia is a friend of mine and writes in a genre that I don't usually read.  There are plenty of great reviews on Amazon. Take a look at them for a few seconds before you download this book. Finally, let me tell you that you must read it and quickly. Dominic's second installment of The Lycanthropy Files, Long Shadows, is out today!

Because I found myself way too sensitive to the author's hopes and dreams, talents and foibles, I had to put The Mountain's Shadow down midway. I needed to look at the work without bias. And I needed to familiarize myself with urban fantasy as well as learn to accept talking werewolves and such in the same way that I had taken to Beowulf and other fables when I was a younger girl - and not so set in my ways.

In the end, I found The Mountain's Shadow to be at what I believe is the very top of the genre. Not your usual urban fantasy, hard to label because of the superior knowledge and ability of the author; better than a good mystery, characters with room to grow and develop, a plot able to rivet this weathered and seasoned reader to her chair in a new way.

I downloaded Long Shadows this morning. This time, I will be able to suspend the disbelief that a dear girl who has grown up in front of me, striving to be an author, working at her writing in between her lucrative medical career and her family life, and using her wine blog as an excuse (tongue in cheek) to try everything the "spirits world" has to offer, is also a superb storyteller, a soon to be household name.


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Review of The Barkeep by William Lashner

The Barkeep by William Lashner

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


Barkeep is so refreshing that I ought to give it a fourth star - but you know that I save that designation for the more literary work. The outstanding stuff.

I like Lashner's character development strategy. Lately, I've been reading authors who go on and on; too much information about what the protagonists ate, what they thought, how they looked, who their friends were, things they did last year. Yet in the end the characters were not likable, obviously contrived to be the heroes in mystery stories or historic novels or adventures or crime dramas.

Yes, Lashner does name his chapters after famous cocktails and other alcoholic beverages. It isn't all that unappealing. Isn't done in a silly way as in some of the comic enterprises written to incorporate recipes, the letters of the alphabet, or other lists into one's life works. I enjoyed the way he also wove information about the drinks and mixing instructions into the fabric of the chapters. Maybe bar-tending simply appeals to me?

Aside from the Barkeep cocktail theme, the book goes along nicely. I finished it in the wee hours of this morning. You know I don't stay up reading unless the plot holds my interest. Put this on your Beach Book list for summer. Not deep, not frightening, not unrealistic, just enjoyable.



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Saturday; In the Record Books

After such a lackluster morning - saved only by the fact that my down quilt and pillows were bathed in sunlight, fluffy and clean - of hunkering back down, sad and feeling chilled/feverish at once, I recovered nicely by basking in the beautiful spring day and almost floating on the breath of gentle breezes. 

We stayed out all afternoon, Belle chasing anything that moved, baffling Mr. and Mrs. Wren who were searching (in vain) for Ms. Piggy the Hibachi, and aggrivating every creature living on the other side of the fence, and me sunning, bringing what's left of the plants outside, and listening in good humored gratitude to the teenager who was drumming in her upstairs bedroom next door. She has improved. So very much. 

We never saw Squirrel. Obviously, no one told her that there was a lovely, mild, spring day to be had. 

In the evening, I put together a small veal parm. Tender, sauted veggies,a zesty marinara, shaved parm, thinly pounded veal cutlets. I opened a bottle of red. Mondavi Vine Hill Ranch Cabernet Sauvignon - a perfect paring. 

We're settling in for a cozy Saturday night as I write. Belle is already asleep. I'm thinking about a movie. Or maybe I'll read awhile. Anyway, I feel a lot better than I did yesterday at this time. 

Fire The Flamin' Facts by Philip M Glover

A Must-Read, Should-Own For Every Home and Business, February 18, 2014 By Caroline Mathews (Lake Petty Gulf, Tallahassee, Florida) This review is from: Fire The Flamin' Facts (Kindle Edition) Phil M. Glover bit off a lot when he conceived this charming and fact-filled endeavor. Fire The Flamin' Facts is much more than a safety manual, although it's the best one of it's kind that I've ever read. The book is, also, not simply a conventional text book. Yet, textbook it is - one that should be required reading in businesses, labs, fire stations, and manufacturing sites of every kind, everywhere. Reading it, one realizes how little is known and understood by the average person of "fire" the phenomena. I learned an amazing amount about a subject on which I thought I was somewhat well-versed. The "charming" part of the book is that, although rather long, reading isn't tedious - thanks to Fire's almost biographical nature. What you learn, here, is the personal story of Phil M. Glover as it is recounted throughout the book in pictures, real-life accounts, editorial content, and much more. From that standpoint alone, this is fascinating reading. A one-of-a-kind offering from a one-of-a-kind author.

Winter's Lessons

I started paying attention to what winter was telling me a long time ago. It was one of those years in Jacksonville when the weather was particularly harsh, the plants stayed holed up in the garage for months, and we might as well have been in there with them for all we enjoyed ourselves. That winter, my lesson was a simple one. I kept wishing for spring, longing for sunshine, hoping for a shower or a hairwash that didn't produce chilly goosebumps. Don't ever think that we Floridians don't suffer from the little bits of cold weather that we get. Everything is relative. We thrive in heat.

One evening, hanging a damp raincoat to dry out and rummaging around for warmer socks - grumbling to myself - I realized something. I was wishing my life away. What was I missing by failing to embrace the rainy, dank day and by dreaming of shorts, sandals, and beach walks? I changed my tune. In winters to come, I made sure that we had great seats for the symphony, first row balcony. Ditto, opera. Ditto, The Artists Series. A pleasant reward for not wishing the season away.

And Jacksonville got the Jaguars. Our seats were in nosebleed. Our spirits, however, stayed high all that winter (and the ones to follow) no matter what the weather. I bought warm walking shoes in team colors, heavy lap blankets, furry jackets, and more. In reality, most of the games in a season were sweltering. Lots of bottled water, lightweight clothes, little fans that run on batteries. But during the cold season, replete with pour-downs and beating winds, I still embraced Jaguars football and, with it, winter.

Football takes one happily to Christmas. Nobody minds the rough, irregular weather of the Christmas season. Fires and dank evenings become cheery, even longed for, family treats. Snow is on everyone's wish list. We pull out the cashmere and furs, the hats and gloves, the boots and scarves. In all honesty, we in North Florida usually buy way more clothes before Christmas than we need. Preparation for cold Christmas and for hot Christmas events. (The same is for Easter. The tail end of winter - beginning of spring - begs for nice cool clothing accompanied by lightweight coats and sweaters.)

As time went by, I began to plant seeds after Christmas. Flowers for the spring garden were nurtured and sunned in a warm cheerful room that we called the study. Filled to the brim with computers and books, the small room soon sported a table under the window and became, also, a greenhouse. Winter was becoming tolerable. I almost enjoyed it. No. I did enjoy it.

When I came to Tallahassee, I changed. It was inevitable. No football tickets for one thing. My first winter, I learned to embrace the sport at home, alone. I lay out my football suppers. I make a cocktail or open beer. I give the game 100% of my attention. I follow with friends on Facebook or experts via Twitter. I've learned to enjoy the sport another way. The football clothing budget has plummeted. I have a lucky hat and shirt for in front of the television set. My Jaguars walking shoes are worn out and disposed of.

I have to add, however, that with Tom and Jack playing soccer during the winter season, I wished, this year, for my poncho, my stadium seat, a new pair of gloves, and something besides Christmas socks. Shopping is in my future. Soccer and shopping? Other ways to enjoy winter! Maybe a trip to the mall?

Tallahassee, because of it's westward location is darker than Jacksonville in winter. Those few minutes make a big difference; my house is not that far from Central Standard Time. Also, part of the problem is because of the way the house, itself, is situated behind the northeastern and southwestern green spaces. I've always faced due east and west. Sometimes, vice-versa. On the inland waterway the sun rose over the marsh and set in the lake in my backyard. Here, a cold winter morning simply erupts out of nowhere. Then, suddenly, in the afternoon, darkness seems to descend blacker and more quickly. As the years go by, I drive at night less and less well.

Not wanting to fight parking or to be constantly traveling to strange neighborhoods with diminished vision, I began to curtail my winter evening adventures. Instead, I've learned to take advantage of the matinee, enjoy lunch out instead of dinner, and explore the town during the daylight hours so that, when I must drive here or there at night, I will know where I am. This prevents getting lost, backing up into ditches, having panic attacks. (Tongue is only halfway in cheek.)  I always know that, soon, this problem will reverse itself, for the Tallahassee evenings linger in spring and summer. It is still twilight here after the movie is over.

Older now, I am also arthritic. I realized last winter that I could no longer push and pull on big flowerpots,  getting the plants inside during the cold snaps and taking them back out for sunshine. My new garage doesn't open to the front, back, and kitchen. It hacks me. The only thing about the layout that I haven't come to grips with. For seven winters, I threw my back out. I continued to try to save old favorites. I kept on dividing and repotting as one will do with a container garden. This winter, unusually cold and brutal, I wised up. I gave away some favorites. The others, the cuttings, died in the cold. The lesson was, enjoy the things that you can do. Dismiss your need to do everything. There are pots of plants in the foyer that never need moving.

This spring and summer, I am going to concentrate on this latest lesson of winter. Shift my thinking. Decorate patio, porch, and front entrance in another way. Incorporate only a few plants at each location for that splash of color. Purchase some plant holders with wheels. Buy a really good wagon to replace the silly plastic one I've been using. Figure out a theme for the rest of it that utilizes something besides a potted plant. Something that small birds and animals can enjoy and will not break. Something permanent with minimum lifting Something beautiful. Pictures to follow.

By the time I do all of that, it will be time for next year's winter lesson.

  

The Elephant Never Forgets.

I've been reading the Bill O'Reilly books Killing Jesus, Killing Kennedy, and Killing Lincoln this winter. Throughout each of them, O'Reilly makes statements like "the man with only three years to live" or "the man who only had a month to live," or "the man who had seven hours to live" did so-and-so or thought this-and-that.

When I retrieved the card from it's cellophane this morning (as I do every Valentine's Day), those words popped into my head and I could not get them out again.

For several weeks preceding February 14th, in 2007, we had sat through the nights at the breakfast room table. He would fall asleep there - the best place in the house to be, he insisted, to enjoy the benefit of the posture he needed for the pain to abate a little.

I had brought my pillow in, finally, and on more nights than he knew, slept with my head where my plate was supposed to be, holding onto his arm. One night, he asked me to buy us a Valentine card. One we could share. One apropos the dilemma. And so I did.

On the evening of the 14th, we toasted with the rum and coke that we never finished drinking. I was in charge of cooking, by then. I had found the usual Valentine ingredients, so I served the steak (just one to share), the lobster, the mushrooms, the potato (again, only one). I remember that I skipped the salad. I did not grill the steak. Rather, I stir fried it with peppers, onion, and the mushrooms. And tears. I remember the tears falling into the pan. "They won't hurt him," I told myself. "Not much of this will be eaten."

"You've been my Valentine for 23 years." Smiles. "You'll always be my Valentine." Grins. "You never know!" Silly faces. "Fat chance." A quick hug. "Where is our card?" I produced it.

The inside message was pertinent to our new lifestyle of sitting at the breakfast table asleep or awake. It says, "Technically, any place we sit is a love seat. Happy Valentine's Day." Yes I had found the best of all possible cards for us to share on this surreal occasion. A wink. Laughter. Clinking of glasses. Perfect.

The man who had only two months almost to the day to live smiled at me. He sipped his cocktail. He rummaged around with his fork, pretending to eat his dinner. He held my hand. He drifted off to sleep - sitting up - before I could clear the dishes.