Christmas Gentleman Caller: The Last Chapter

The annual holiday experience turned out well, as many things do. Fun and funny. A once in a lifetime practical joke that gained momentum and would not stop.

It turns out that the Christmas Gentleman Caller is from my own neighborhood. As we suspected. He is an octogenarian with a keen mind and a subtle sense of humor - one who couldn't quite carry it off last year when I suddenly invited him in for wine and candy.

This year, there was no gift of Godiva Chocolates. Rather, GC came with an invitation to Sunday breakfast and church afterwards. This is his last Sunday in Tallahassee for he is moving to Georgia to live closer to his grandchildren.

I couldn't refuse. Coffee, eggs, grits, and sausage at the Village Inn and worship at Bradfordville First Baptist.  I'm home now and wondering. How many of us are ever the recipients of such a mind-boggling and relentless Christmas mystery?

I'm a lucky lady to have been the one. You know that churches are teeming with silver haired, well dressed, self-reliant, and fun-loving widows. I wonder what GC will do for Christmas fun in Atlanta? I've heard that those ladies swarm over visiting elderly gentleman with pans of banana pudding and calls for help with leaky faucets. An anonymous prankster hardly stands a chance in that environment.

Here I am, finally, home from church. Serene after a southern breakfast and a rather hilarious conversation. Chuckling out loud to myself that I have been one lucky Christmas victim. So many Godiva truffles; very little wine; one really cool conversation. Then, Bradfordville Baptist, which has changed considerably since my last visit. Under new management, so to speak. I loved my morning.

Two Weeks With A "Dusty Old Document."

Magna Carta: The Birth of Liberty by Dan Jones

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


I preordered Magna Carta by Dan Jones. Having brushed up on English Medieval History last summer, I thought I had a lot left to learn.

You know my feelings about history books. I would so much rather go to the sources myself than to read a research paper. Not so much here to aggravate me. Jones tells the story of the Magna Carta without seeming to quote and re-quote the same old sources. It's an illusion, of course. Good writing skills.

Although Magna Carta held few surprises for me, I enjoyed having the history of the document laid out at my fingertips, intact.

If you are a student of history, read this book as an auxiliary to and not as one of your original research documents. Don't imply in your papers that Jones is your source unless you use the material in such a way as to highlight his own creative thoughts and ideas and his original opinions. Otherwise, quote third hand, through him.

I know. Honesty and Integrity in research is such a bitch. Use this book as a tool illustrating knowledge well documented.



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Heartaches

I often visit churches. Take photographs of the places where the Holy Spirit resides. 

I'm interested in how people worship. I also take stock in what mixtures of music, scripture, fundamental beliefs, and tradition are meaningful to me.

Every Tallahassee church I love to attend also has a public Facebook outreach page that publishes times of services and emphasizes events. 

Not mine. We have a Group Membership page instead; and it's mostly full of cartoons.

Photo by Caroline Mathews

I'm No Pollyanna

Yes. I know what's going on in the world. I'm no Pollyanna. But you won't hear/see very much of it from me. I often write letters, join causes, give money to candidates and donate time to the community, unbeknownst to anyone but myself.

I also won't give the rabble-rousers of the world the benefit of my free publicity. And, too, I won't become a rabble-rouser myself, for whatever reason. News is the job of CBS and NBC or Fox or whoever. Not mine. Rumor and gossip and innuendo are nobody's job.

When I refuse to editorialize and publicize horrific/political/petty crap, I have more time to change the things I do have control over, to understand the truth of so many baffling issues, and to pray for the victims and families of terror and also recipients of all sorts of evil everywhere I look.

 I've used the delete button well in these last few weeks, so I may not even see the Facebook posts that tout only the worst things in the world. The things I cannot fix. The mean posts. The uninformed posts. In the last few weeks, I must have told Facebook that I no longer want to see a hundred of them.

Rest assured, however, no one at Petty Gulf is playing the Glad Game.

Happy Birthday America

In the end, the evening was soggy....a good thing when bottle rockets, Roman candles, and comet fireworks are in play.

I sat on the screened porch with the kittens asleep and Belle purring and preening. I've taught most of my pets, through the years, not to fear the loud noises outside - far away from  their immediate world. We simply keep on with what we're doing come hell or high water: ambulances, fireworks, thunder, trees falling, lawn equipment, or the rumble of garbage trucks.

I was surprised to find myself with a pretty good view, back there, of the neighborhood fireworks both through the trees and across the lake. No wonder Squirrel used to sit on a branch all evening, looking. She didn't mind 99% of the noise, but she would bark at the cherry bombs popping in the cul-de-sac....bothered her ears something fierce.

We all dread the sound of the yippy dog, though, especially Belle. He yelped for two hours last night, without stopping, somewhere through the woods. Everything sets him off including, but not exclusive to, his neighbor (we've never seen these dogs in person) the deep-voiced, kindly, woofy dog. He also worries about the deer traveling, children laughing, gates closing, and streetlights coming on.

All in all, it was a beautiful evening that included a light show, plenty of noise-making, a glass of Calvados complete with a plate of apple slices, cheeses, and celery sticks, and the occasional sprinkle of gentle mist trying to become a bonafide rain shower.

Happy Birthday, America. God shed His Grace on thee. And crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea.

No Hate and Discontent Lakeside

Family scattered, but a nice day on the lake with chair, book, and camera; baked beans, burgers, and slaw waiting in the wings. No news and strictly limited social media is such a relief after the week's events.

Who knew that an all-incompassing, deep-seated, and burning anger lurked inside of so many? I was overwhelmed and unsettled by it. Organized religion against individual spirituality, conservative against liberal, bloggers gone mad, church leaders divided, close-mindedness and ignorance of the issues, uneducated opinions everywhere.

I cringed as I listened to one local church hierarchy on youtube. To both sides of gun control. To insane murder and the burning of black churches. To blaming the modern-day southerner for sins against humanity. To the degradation of Ramadan and the whole of Islam. To the lack of understanding of the meaning of "all men are created equal." To almost everything.

I cried as friends and strangers alike professed to be open and loving but turned on each other, hiding behind hateful articles and dreadful accusations written on posted signs. For God's sake, if one must be hurtful and belligerent, one should at least do so in his/her own words.

Science is science and brings to mind, "Be still and know that I am God."

Government is government. "Give unto Caesar...."

The organized church is a manmade institution with a bloody, despicable history.

I, myself, choose to live by the words of the New Testament written in the red ink. "...Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto Me,"

The Morning After

What I usually love is that there is always the morning after.

A Nation in turmoil is not what I have in mind. As of 5 o'clock yesterday, five black southern churches have been burned.

Many of the right wing conservatives that I know personally are beside themselves, falling back on arguments of fire and brimstone.

Gun control is on everyone's mind. The NRA bristles.

Republicans can't find it in their hearts to admire their President, even for an afternoon, for yesterday's heartfelt words (and song) for the grief-stricken at Mother Emanuel A.M.E..

The young mentally ill continue to be ignored, this morning, by parents who aren't too stable themselves or they would know the score.

The Episcopal Church is meeting, this weekend, in Salt Lake City (which makes me smile for several reasons) and marriage discussion is on the agenda.

I think of Jesus walking along the water with his faithful. Not all of them understood exactly what was happening. The insightful ones had a feeling that the world would change because of Him.

There was no church. There were no rules, except Roman Law and those of the Temple. And suddenly He stopped them dead in their tracks. "Love one another, as I have loved you."

Delete me from your Facebook or turn me off at the switch. But don't pretend that you think I'm saying love evil, tolerate hatred, accept atrocity. This is only a plea for social tolerance that I'm making. In the United States of America. Land of the outcast, the seeker, the persecuted, the poor, the unbelievably wealthy, all the rest.

If there is no religion in your life, expand your mind. Read the philosophers. Do a little historical research. Ponder global warming. Let your conscious be your guide. 

Let's band together. Yes, I know that it is almost unheard-of.. Happens during wars. Events like 9/11. Natural disasters.  This is one of our Big Chances to move forward, into the future, all men being created equally.

Just to Follow Up.

Re: my blogpost entitled I've Told This Story Before. A Facebook friend remarked that in today's world we don't demonstrate with signs and rallys but use only words to try to institute change in the relationships between black and white.

In my case, at  the Jacksonville lunch counter those many years ago, one could see color blur and humanity step forward.

Here is my answer to my friend's post.

" But we don't only protest with our words. In spite of the fact that we use media almost constantly. Blogging. Reporting. Article writing. Radio. TV. Internet. 
Trying. Trying.
We no longer march and demonstrate peacefully as MLK had us do. It's rarely possible or even desirable to accomplish a peaceful rally. In fact, the rally is going obsolete. Instead, riots break out in our huge cities, where police - not with axes as in 1960 Jacksonville - are equipped like military. 
That's what the Mayor of Charleston meant to avoid as he figuratively gathered that remarkable and, for the most part, peace-loving city into his arms with his words. For he understands that the day is coming when, if we don't stand united, we will fall divided. 
One crazy person caused this one mayhem. What could 100 well-placed intelligently-guided terrorists do to race relationships? We would destroy ourselves in the chaos - all the while arguing about it on Fox News and debating it in the State Houses and in Congress."

I've Told This Story Before

I've told this story before.

It was 1968. Years after Ax-Handle Saturday - that was in 1960. The business was never settled in Jacksonville until the early 1970's. I'm not sure, now, if it was ever settled.

Hubert Humphrey was campaigning for President in Hemming Park. The crowds pressed in, waiting. I was in the group holding the protest signs. Nobody knew. I would lose my job and maybe my husband.

Something he said - I didn't hear it - set the crowd yelling back and forth. People started shuffling, pacing, muttering. You know. When crowds become mobs. Somehow my toes got broken. I never should have worn those heels to a political rally.

I handed my sign to a man who didn't have one. Took off my shoes. Headed to Woolworth's. Back in those days, you could order a fountain Coke with a dose of ammonia and an Aspirin over the counter. I don't remember how much the price went up. I don't know if it did.

Woolworth's was nearly deserted. Even the employees were out in the park. I limped to the soda fountain - I also don't remember how many semi-circles made up the lunch counters with swivel seats. They were all full. Black faces.

Sit-in.

An older lady got up and gave me her seat. Not because I was white. She saw me in my bare feet with all the toes on my left foot sticking up at odd angles. A soda jerk (white boy, of course) was standing by the wall, under the mirrors.

"May I get a Coke with ammonia and an aspirin, please." Pitiful and whining.
"Sorry, Lady, the lunch counter is closed." He folded his arms.
"I work way down Duval Street across the street from the YWCA. I'll get fired if I can't walk back in time."
"Fired? For coming to a political rally?"
"No. For holding a sign."

Dead silence.

"The manager is in the Park. The cash registers are closed. "

An old man stood up. Spoke in that soft but forceful way, like a southern Negro preacher. He could have been arrested. Or beaten.

"In the name of God, Boy! Give the girl an aspirin and something to wash it down with."
And the soda jerk did.

That was forty seven years ago. What the hell went wrong? Why are we still seeing black and white when the world is full of enough technicolor for everyone? Praying for Mother Emanuel A.M.E. and for Charleston. June 18, 2015.

There's Something About A Perfect Ending, Too.

A perfect man by Cecilia Dominic
My rating: 4 of 5 stars


Do you read Romance? I didn't until this week. Not counting the Shades of Grey, as I'm not talking about poorly written Romantic Porn here. We all read those three.

I'm giving Cecilia Dominic Four Stars for her first straight Romance novel (no werewolves), A Perfect Man. She flung herself against a genre-wall that is firmly mortared by a magnitude of authors, plots, love scenes, hard bodies, and more, and came out a winner. A good plot with believable characters (albeit so much emphasis on redheads). A sensitive understanding that great Romance writing is an art not a profession.

Feisty, fresh, and frankly funny in places - at least to this weathered reader who sees humor in many dusty corners that youth takes for granted - I'm sure that you will love A Perfect Man. Even if you don't really care for Romance, as a whole, read this author because she is going on to other places in her career and you aren't going to want to miss it.

Forgive me, Cecilia, for I have lifted this from Goodreads!

The Fourth Star, Cecilia, is not for "the perfect man" but for the perfectly executed ending. Even the seasoned and notorious "best-selling" authors of today usually disappoint me at the end of the novel and leave me thinking of dozens of rewrites. Thanks and good job!

Note: Sometimes this, other times that.  It isn't clear on the internet if your title is in caps, so old habits ruled me.


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Heat Wave; In More Ways Than One

I just read a nasty blurb over on Facebook about all Republicans being stupid. An article I saw yesterday was damning Episcopalians for "going through the motions" at church services without any conviction.

Someone is laughing at Donald Trump this morning. Another is sneering at Obama. One person keeps pointing fingers at Muslims, once, twice, three times. A joke about greed is circulating, belittling the wealthy as if they are monsters. 

I know hundreds of brilliant Republicans. Many very pious and spiritual Episcopalians. Dozens of peace-seeking American Muslims, men and women. Thousands of our nation's wealthiest give money continuously to help overcome poverty, ignorance, and hunger.

Donald Trump might be a joke to some, but he makes jobs everywhere he goes. With benefits.

Obama is the President of the United States. As such, I believe he deserves my respect.

What's going on here? Is it the heat wave? I'm going to turn the computer off and do a little housekeeping before my own temperature rises any further.

The only thing left to do when I was on Facebook this morning was to look at the countless pictures of abused and desperate animals posted by people who will typecast and redicule whole groups of their countrymen with hateful words and ignorant posters even while they ask each other to adopt a homeless dog or cat.

Sometimes, I Review Books

Sometimes, I review books. Usually, I simply critique them in one way or another - short and simple - as I recommend them to you.

I hate the kind of review that tells the reader what he already knows; or what to think and how to feel about an author; and/or outlines the plot; and tries to imagine that the author is writing on x number of levels and is unknowingly meaning this, that, or the other - doing a psychological number on himself and others. I try to pass on to you only the insights that I, as one reader, glean from the book and why.

Then there is the formidable threat of the designation of stars to the author. Most non-professional critics judge books only by how much they enjoyed them. Hence, there are tens of millions of four star books on Goodreads and at Amazon. To be sure, awarding stars is a personal thing - and without rules. But stars don't designate pass or fail. They are only signs of how remarkable each individual book was to that one reader.

It pays to have star-awarding criteria and a checklist if one is going to criticize other authors' works consistently. Something to make the system uniform even if only unique to the one reviewer's ratings.

I rarely give a book five stars. I should say almost never. I gave Pope John Paul II five for his Letter to Artists. Most versions of the Bible. The Apocrypha. The books from French in Action and Master Moy's Tai Chi in English and French. You see where I'm going. My personal list of masterworks.

Otherwise, I'm saving that one for the work of the century so that there will be a distinct designation left for it when it comes. And it will come (as it's long overdue) perhaps in the form of an undiscovered past masterpiece or archeological find with new information that changes the world. Perhaps a first work by a new author. I'm waiting for it.

My own four star designations are usually works of literature, poetry, science, math, or history that are truly outstanding and that I think will withstand time. Or books that are exceptional in some other way. Unique. Thought provoking. Well researched.

Three stars means I loved the book, would recommend it to others, and would read the author again.

Twos are lacking something, as far as I'm concerned. Someone might love them; they're published, aren't they?

One stars designates a waste of time. I usually explain why I believe my low opinion to be true.  Sloppy editing, typos, bad research, dullness, even a certain lack of joie de vivre in story telling. (Hey, wake up! You're writing.)

I usually bless the Goodreads page with my short critiques and, in the past, have shared them with Facebook and also here at Petty Gulf Life. As of now, I'm only going to rate books with stars for Facebook and talk about the books a little on FridayReads. I'll share the review here, because Petty Gulf Life is a public forum that matches my Goodreads designation.

I hope you enjoy a summer of good reading. I also hope that my simple accounts of the books I share with you help you to make selections that are interesting, intelligent, fun, and worth your while. Friend me, if you are a member of Goodreads, and I'll also use your reading list to choose books I may have missed otherwise.

Let's Cook Like Scarpetta!

Food To Die For: Secrets From Kay Scarpetta's Kitchen by Patricia Cornwell

My rating: 4 of 5 stars



I was searching for a recipe the other day and decided to review Patricia Cornwell's Food to Die For and, as I thought, there the sauce was, timeless and beautifully photographed.

I bought and read the book around 2003 and read it without duplicating any of the recipes in my own kitchen.

I reread Food to Die For a few years ago and recorded it on Goodreads. I had some Key limes at that time and made the pie recipe. I remember thinking how wonderful the book was to read, how beautiful the illustrations, how lovely to see the recipes for the foods Kay Scarpetta cooks in the stories. Then I re-shelved it.

Paninoteca by Scarpetta (Image from Facebook)

Yesterday, I remembered a sauce I want to mix and pulled the book out again. Bev's Kicked by a Horse Cocktail Sauce for summer steamed shrimp is exactly what the the occasion calls for. And with that, I began to read Cornwell's recipes once more.

I've bought at least a hundred cookbooks since i bought this one. Recipes not nearly as classical or as classy. I think I'll make a summer of it. Like I did two years ago with Cooked by Michael Pollan. I hope that, by the time school starts in the fall, I will have tried out each of these beautiful, luscious recipes on either my family or myself alone.

Oh, and after my latest rereading and comparing these dishes to those in recent cookbooks, I'm upgrading To Die For to four stars. **** Sorry to have taken so long. I own the whole Scarpetta thriller series but, for the life of me, can't remember if Kay still cooks in the novels. I hope she does. I guess I'll have to dig them out and see.



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Hello, Again. It Feels Like Home.

Granted. I've been rather argumentative on Facebook lately. Ever since a family member extrapolated meaning from my words that simply wasn't there and I felt the need to defend myself.

So I've come home.

An article I read almost a year ago suggested that Facebook users stop "liking" so many posts, reposts, articles, and videos and start "commenting" on them instead. That doesn't work either - not when you're trying to make a point and NOBODY gets it.

Admittedly, my sarcasm is usually taken seriously the same way that my humor is misunderstood. Go figure. Trying to say "stop whining" got translated not long ago into "my great retirement is a better life than you have."

Hinting that "I did it by myself" didn't send the message that I intended of "where were you when I NEEDED YOU?" to any of my friends taking part in that particular conversation.

And so I sit. Don't hit "like" except on pictures and short comments actually written by family and friends. Don't open links. Don't watch silly videos. Rather, I talk a lot. And that has got to end.

I tried posting interesting articles and music instead of talking.

My share of a housekeeping article was taken by many to be a "hey-look-at-me-my-sink-is-always-clean" announcement instead of what it was for me. A self-help I saved in order to stay ahead of all of these new adopted/fostered kittens.

Yes. As Corey said, my Facebook has become a diary and one that can't be picked up in the middle without making assumptions that don't apply. Not good. So I am moving back home. To a place with no comments coming from left field.

Home where when I write what I do, did, said, ate, cooked, enjoyed, photographed, hated, or puzzled over in my mind, friends don't post googled self-help articles or give me well-meaning advice. I write "I should, I need to, I must," NEVER, EVER "you should, you need to, you must." That cabbage truck is long past and I try not to preach or give my seemingly untranslatable advice to anyone.

See. Right there. That last paragraph was filled with humor. Did you catch it? No? Just thought I was serious? Point made! Should I write "(grinning)" or "LOL" or simply stop trying and let the chips fall where they may?

Reminds me of a song my Granddaughter used to post. "You don't know me....at all." But that's Okay. This feels like home anyway. Facebook? Not sure. One friend only posts his blog there. There's that.

The Card Club Blues

The Card Club from my old Bible Study Group met here to discuss the summer card schedule. I am only a fill-in, and declined to join. I excused myself from part-time play also. (Do you remember the funny story of why I never lasted in that Bible class?)

Honestly, it isn't the game, but rather, it is this particular group. They cringe in unison at the sight of a camera; downplay Facebook, almost continually, as a waste of time - all the while shuffling cards and dealing them out - as if THAT is constructive; and threaten my life and our friendship if I blog about them or quote them (some are very witty) on this page or any other way. They also insist on non-dairy creamer. LOL

The only thing I have left to say is "WHY CAN'T THEY EVER USE THE COASTERS PROVIDED AND NOT LEAVE RINGS ON THE FURNITURE?" Note that I am not angry, but laughing hysterically, as I rub and shine one last time.

In the spirit of doing fewer things better, all joking aside, it is reasonable to leave an activity or group one doesn't enjoy and fill the time with people and projects that are meaningful and rich in experience.

Just like food. Get the most nutrition possible out of each calorie.

Truthiness: The Easy Way Out

Truthiness, a term coined by Stephen Colbert, is defined by Wiikipedia as "a quality characterizing a 'truth' that a person making an argument or assertion claims to know intuitively 'from the gut' or because it 'feels right' without regard to evidence, logic, intellectual examination, or facts."

Read the original editorial at (http://www.episcopalcafe.com/handling-the-truth/) The Episcopal Cafe.

A church in my neighborhood is trying, with some difficulty, to get to the truth of this same topic of who is welcome, how we define them, how we can accept everything the modern world throws at us, simply through discussions and the reading of the scriptures, Old and New Testament.

Others have banded together to form new churches based on truthiness alone. "We don't feel as if any of this is right for 'us' and we will fight by flight - refusing to debate except on the podium of truthiness first and foremost."

It's simple to me. "A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another."

Wherein You Learn of the Five Baby Orphaned Kittens

Birds singing love songs from tree to tree. Boys out walking their Woofer dogs through the woods. Every one of US on the porch, napping.

Kitties don't know huge dog threat from anything, but Belle does. So do the 50 Canadian geese having a lazy day on the lake. Belle and I woke up at the sound of the barking and goose-type danger screeches and she headed inside but had to pass all five sleeping kittens to get through the door. 

"The best thing to do," she thought, "is to wake them with a loud warning hiss." It worked for sure. Five startled kittens jumped up from a dead sleep to red-flag-alert mode. "Hiss'" they replied right back to Belle as they bowed their backs in Halloween mode. Then, in one body, they curled back up and returned to dreamland. Belle finally stepped over them on her way to safety.

Quiet again. One little yippie dog out there somewhere. Oh, no. Woofer dogs have attacked yippie dog. Bedlam and mayhem. Maybe Belle was right. Whole neighborhood is barking now. Kittens sleeping.

A Few Things Done Extremely Well

The Healthy Churches' Handbook: A Process for Revitalizing Your Church by Robert Warren
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I borrowed this paperback from a Methodist Church. I visit churches besides my own a lot. I guess you could say that I'm still looking for my perfect fit. The group that can compete with my solitary Sunday morning garden and with the Papal and other Masses I watch on television.

There is a lot to like about so many of the churches I have attended in Tallahassee. Or not. Lately, I've been feeling edgy.

When I got a chance to borrow this book, I took it. I know what my own problem is. I like a very traditional worship service (leaning towards Catholic) with a liberal philosophy (definitely Episcopal ) with Baptist and Methodist hymns (from my childhood)- simple churches which don't have so much on their agendas that you can't possibly partake and still have a life with your family and yourself.

The Handbook, of course, was written for the use of the church and not for my use unless I was heavily into the administration of a specific group which I am not. It's an Episcopal missive by Canon Robert Warren, used by the churches of Scotland and England to assess the health of their churches. And to mend them.

I found a quote from The Healthy Churches' Handbook in my own Episcopal church bulletin this month. It was the list of the "7 Marks of a Healthy Parish," including the number 7 - the very thing that has produced this edginess in me personally. I like it so much that I'm thinking about making it my personal motto as well.

Number 7 says that the healthy church "does a few things and does them well." Approaching an older age, I need to make this my missive. I want to do fewer things now and do them better. Same with a healthy church. The energy should be used on what works. Then to make those things work very well indeed.

Pisgah Methodist Church, Tallahassee Florida. A few things done very well. 

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Lesson Learned.

I can say it, now that it's over; I've learned my lesson.

No matter how beautiful the spring berries, no matter how good-for-my-heart the Cheerios, no matter how refreshing the lactose free milk - I cannot eat cereal for breakfast. I've proven this to myself time and time again. I've proven this to myself since at least 1960.

I need protein in the morning. Eggs, at least; bacon, sometimes. I do not need whatever kind of sugar attack I have (hypoglycemic? hyperglycemic?) two hours after a refreshing and delicious Shredded Wheat and strawberry/raspberry/blueberry breakfast.

I also don't need any extra vitamin B. I especially don't need to dose myself with ULTRA/MEGA strength, 24-hour timed-release, vitamin B complex. AND I do not need to do this a few minutes before a nice bowl of cereal and raspberries topped with the perfect amount of 1% fat, fresh, and cold Lactaide. AND if I DO, I really need to drink, drink. drink - water, water, water.

It was a lethal combination. I thought it was a heart attack, but the pains in my jaw must have been from gritting my teeth throughout the sweating, leg-weakening, heart palpitating, blood pressure rising event that lasted all day.

I slept with the door closed. I didn't want Kitty to be the one to find me. She has just got over discovering Squirrel dead by her bowl. I didn't want to call 911. Every time I've ever thought I was having a heart-stopping event, it has turned out to be an...

ANXIETY ATTACK. But no. Not that either. Because this feeling did not get worse or better. It lingered. No heart attack although precious heart was skipping beats, or adding them for all I know. No anxiety attack although a good solid breath was hard to come by.

So naturally, I began to think like Dr. Neighbor. What had I done differently lately? Hmm. Changed my diet and, when THAT made me weak, added vitamin D for energy? Yep. And the D was being released continually for 24 hours into my system. I was not drinking enough water to adequately flush it. AND as soon as I woke up, I was doing it again.

People used to laugh at me for self-diagnosing. One physician accused me of trying to self-medicate when I was telling him about the (then Rx) Flonase. I drank a glass of water every hour yesterday as I had taken the vitamin before figuring out the problem. I boiled a half dozen eggs. Spinach. Chicken breast. Legs still weak, cold sweat, dizzy, I closed the bedroom door on Kitty one last time. A good night's sleep.

The flush from (I forget which one) the B vitamins is gone this morning. Breath is easy; heartbeat, regular;  blood pressure, normal. If I told Dr. W what I just told you, he would shake his head, give me some trite answer, and not believe a word of it. That's just how he is. Had he known on Sunday, he would have never got to the bottom of it without blood tests, consultations, and maybe a visit to the emergency room.

So, lesson learned. I am too old to change my diet, AND I will never supplement myself with a vitamin just because it sounds good on paper. If by chance, Corey goes on my Facebook page some time soon and announces that  I have passed on, please know that it was not from a lethal combination of Cheerios and B12.

So, This is Progress

Gentleman Caller squirrel and his two unnamed friends spent most of the morning playing on the limbs and branches from Squirrel's cage. They had a breakfast of her sunflower seeds. They buried some of her pecans in the yard.  So, this is progress.

If she had not lost over half of her tail when she was a baby, Squirrel could have enjoyed the wild life, too. But she wouldn't have lived to be nine years old (just one or two) even if she could have jumped from limb to limb. Disabled, she would not have made it in the woodlands.

Belle spent some of her afternoon on the glider footstool looking into an empty cage. She knows what it means - as relating to food - when I tell her "Gone, all gone," and "Sorry, no more," holding out my hands to her, empty and wide open.

"Gone," I said. "Squirrel is gone. Sorry. No more."

The last picture of Squirrel. 

Finally, her attention was taken by the Cardinal Couple who were having some kind of a spat (!) in the bush on the corner of the porch. Then Belle saw the yard squirrels coming out for their supper. She looked at me with surprise. I believe she thinks Squirrel has gone outside to live. She curled up on the stool and was soon snoring. So, this is progress.

I don't know why I keep thinking of Squirrel in a panic, as if I am neglecting her, have forgotten to feed her, didn't give her water. It's hard to give her up. She was the last gift Wayne gave me. Except for Corey, Tom, and Jack, she is/was my final tie to him.

When I know Wayne wouldn't want me to cry, I can usually "Buck up Old Girl." But not today. I'm living that older loss over and over. "Don't be afraid." "Take care of Corey." "Smile for me." "I love you." You call this progress?

TOMORROW. ANOTHER DAY

On the first mild and sunny day in two weeks, I got out on the porch and began to think about it.

I own a squirrel cage made of cedar with a corrugated metal A-line roof (6' long, 7' tall,  24" deep) and two doors (on the sides) that you can walk right into. Chicken wire floor and walls, shelves that Squirrel never used and that we took out in lieu of tree branches (six or seven of them). I began moving it around this morning. Cleaning. Removing limbs and branches.

The animal rescues that I offered Squirrel's house to don't want it if they have to take it apart and roll it out, load it themselves, drive it off, then reassemble it.

So, I've been cooking up a plan. They don't know what they've missed. 

My porch has been a zoo and little else since we first moved here. One of the three problems I have had with living in this house was that the screened area was so tiny that I had room for the squirrel, her house, and not much else. LORD I LOVED HAVING HER. 

Then, second problem, there is the cat. She will go to any length to eat a plant. It helps her throw up hairballs if she eats the right ones. Therefore, the porch had a new flower or two every summer - nothing pretty or permanent. If Belle didn't eat it, squirrel dug it up to hide a nut inside the pot or to eat a dirt or root ball. Yep. We were a zoo. Zoos are not beautiful except for the animals they keep. ZOOS ALSO SMELL FUNNY.

So. First, a zoo-like porch, second, bare of plant life, and third, a garage that doesn't go all the way to the back patio. Who builds these houses? For seven years, I've carted shop vacs through the living room and gardening tools around the house. Once, I looked into building a tool shed out back to match the house, BUT THERE ARE NEIGHBORHOOD RULES.

I've thought it out. Moved the animal house to the sunny side (Sq. hated it there - too hot- couldn't see into the kitchen) of the porch. Next, I'll put in a little flooring of turf-like inside-outside carpeting. Put the shelves back up. Maybe plant-hangers. PROTECT THE CAT FROM HERSELF AND STILL HAVE PLANTS ON THE PORCH.

I'll be able to store some tools and the little wagon. It could look cute. Even beautiful. And so useful. I've seen repurposed objects that turn out gorgeous, pleasant, quaint. I told Kitty. We're going to do it!!! I'll begin with measuring for a strip of flooring first thing in the morning. A million ideas are running through my head. TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY.

AFTERTHOUGHT: Every plant in these pictures was either dug up by Squirrel or eaten by Belle and moved outside where it was too hot. That was the year I decided not to have ferns in my zoo. 

Textbook Material for the Fledgeling Chef

Bar Tartine: Techniques and Flavors by Nicolaus Balla
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

In the end, I gave Bar Tartine: Techniques and Flavors, by Nicolaus Balla and Courtney Burns, a rating of three stars. You might say that I'm not a fan of California cuisine and neither do I embrace fusion.

It wasn't that. I simply didn't find the first half of the book - the techniques - very useful. I've been growing/grinding/drying/powdering/preserving/mixing, and experimenting with herbs, flowers, seeds, alliums, veggies, peppers, spices, fruits, and meats forever...making yogurt, sprouting beans, flavoring vinegars, pickling and preserving, simmering stocks, and prepping grapes for wine and other uses.

I'll admit to being only a beginning baker - my husband made the bread - but I've grown mushrooms, made cheese, done almost everything the book suggests at one time or another. So three stars for Part One: Techniques. Well written with solid ideas for those who need them. Not enough new in these methods to change this old foodie, set in my ways.

The second half of the cookbook is mostly about small plates and other dishes, as they are served at the Tartine Bar, using the new knowledge and growing collection that the home or restaurant cook has amassed in the pantry by working through the Techniques. All in all, Part Two: Flavors was interesting and useful though heavy on the fusion aspect, I thought. I WILL try many of these recipes.

I love to get a cocktail, or a glass of wine, or a bottle of beer, or a pastis and a glass of ice on a warm summer night and serve myself small plates - tapas from the coffee table. I gave the section four stars but knocked one off when I realized that I might prepare lots of these ideas but would probably not love the tastes nor experiment with any of them more than once. The beauty of a great cookbook is that the recipes insinuate themselves into your life through editing, trial and error, and the desire to make certain dishes again and again.

As Tartine owner Chad Robertson (who is teaching me how to bake with sourdough starter, albeit from his first cookbook Tartine Bread) wrote the Forward to this book and was also the photographer, I'm so glad that I ordered it. His layouts and pictures are beautiful...the story of the life of the restaurant in full view of the reader.  If Robertson gets tired of baking bread he can always find a position as a food stylist. I also loved meeting the authors of this book, Balla and Burns. It's uplifting to find chefs who really love preparing food and make it such a part of their lives. All in all, a great teaching tool. I can see Bar Tartine becoming a textbook at culinary schools.

Bar Tartine Exterior, San Francisco.

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Waving Goodbye to Scarpetta

Flesh and Blood by Patricia Cornwell
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Well, I wanted a Scarpetta who lived more in the present and less in the past. I got it for a few chapters. Then there she was. Carrie, again. I guessed right away because the whole mystery had to do with Lucy's behavior. AND, turns out, Lucy knew all the answers all along, so why write the mystery at all?  Especially almost totally in real time. The traffic jam had me worn out before I got the gist of the story. Too much thought process and not enough action. So much more, but why say it?

Angelina Jolie as Kay Scarpetta

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Contemplating Lent

My Egyptian friend kept his prayer rug in his locker. His Dad sent me a proper bean pot from Cairo so that I could slowly cook my fava beans for the infamous breakfast dish Ful Medamis. When his Mother came to visit, she greeted me in Arabic and I understood her perfectly from her gestures alone.

M. used the crockpot diligently so that his teenaged brother would have food even if he himself was at work. On the night before he left to take his opticianry exam (already credentialed in Egypt) our customer, a Rector, prayed with us. Two Episcopalians and one Moslem joined together, hands and hearts, in a conversation with Our Father for a successful weekend.

As time went by, M. guided me through the spirit of Ramadan, but not including the "full" fasting which he said my body had not been prepared for from childhood. I focused on rising early for a nourishing breakfast (suhoor) and dining late, sipping broth during the day. The early morning gave me time for a small Christian devotion before work; the late night suppers, a realization that dates, and chicken, and small plates of salad are frugal yet ample sustenance.

My Ramadan experience changed my perspective of Lent. I stopped "giving up" and began "adding to." Instead of giving up wine, I simmered simple dishes in it with lots of nourishing vegetables. One year, I bought fewer groceries and donated savings to a worthy cause. Many times, I have used my sugar for cookies instead of my coffee, delivering them to that single mom down the street who has all those little children. I cleared my mind during meals rather than watch television. Mindfulness.

Yes. I know. I added Taoist Meditation and the spirit of Ramadan to my own Lenten experiences. Such a culturally diametric mash-up, you say! Yet, I continue every Lent to find more personal ways to actively help others and myself - not through self-denial and penance alone, but by asking myself, "What would Jesus have me do/refrain from doing?"

When I contemplate the question, I always find the biblical answer PRINTED IN THE RED INK.

Let Them Wear Armor and Fly Banners and Siege Castles

Edward III: The Perfect King by Ian Mortimer

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


Edward lll is a book of which a full 25% is bibliography and notes. Beautifully researched and thought out. When Mortimer postulates, he backs up his ideas with a solid and surprising ability to search every corner and dust off all the cobwebs. I decided to myself, more than once, that the author's fervor was because he must also actually be a descendant of that other Mortimer, Roger, just as 99% of English born since 1995 and living in England have the DNA of Edward lll.

I have written that my pet peeve, while reading history, is either an excess of dates or a lack of enough of them to keep myself (or any reader) grounded. I also want to be reminded from time to time of the full name of the person being discussed, or some landmark regarding the surrounding events, since so many of the names in history are the same and the dates or events are important and relevant. This book was perfectly understandable. No searching through previous chapters or googling dates to keep up with the story.

As I neared the end of Richard lll, I found myself wishing for more - to be taken onward through history to the end of the Plantagenet reigns. Also, went back afterwards and took another look at the illustrations, several of the notes, and the maps.

Finally, I now realize that I have made a mistake in my genealogy research. Although it won't change my direct lineage, I have an excess character sitting out-of-place who needs to either be removed or shuffled about. I would have never noticed but for reading this book. I pay homage to the respected and remarkable Ian Mortimer for that tidbit of information and for so much more.

Note to self: There is no mistake on the paternal branch I double-checked. It may be on the maternal side - so I have to be extra careful when I start work over there. I've done some work but haven't rechecked or researched anything maternally.



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God Love Her

The squirrels in the woods have always trusted me. They saw that I kept one of their own in superior fashion. I never encouraged them (or any birds but hummers) to eat in the yard because I knew they would be drawn to the food on the porch if they got too close.  I already have four patched places in the screens due to the constant attention of the Gentleman Caller squirrel.

Gentleman Caller built two nests (as squirrels will do) this year - both in the tree closest to the porch. His main home is perched almost exactly over the spot at which we buried Squirrel. That place will now be forever called the Pet Cemetery after Jack deduced that there was room in that walled flower bed to also bury the cat.

Today, I went about changing everything. I laid the big round candy-cooling marble over the newly dug area and covered it with leaves. I sat Squirrel's garden statute on top of it and filled the tray with nuts from the freezer. Squirrel loved to climb on the statue, sit in the tray, have a Vanilla Wafer.

Bird feeders have been retrieved from the garage, filled and hung. Wind chimes (the sound of which Squirrel clearly disliked intensely) have been untied once again and are singing in the wind. On this late afternoon, the sun has shown for almost an hour and the birds are at the feeders. A small squirrel whom I've never seen has already learned to snatch the Cardinals' sunflower seeds. The wren couple has moved to the back yard - I usually gave them food at the front door.

Gentleman Caller has mewed and searched through the glass in the screened door. He's investigated the little grave and discovered the pecans which are a foreign food for him. He's made several trips "upstairs" with nut in tow.

On a grim looking day (thundering now) the yard is full of vigorous life. So many times I opened the door for Squirrel to check if she had had enough of porch life and felt confident to go out. She never would. Gone now. God Love Her.