tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26870899337322959962024-02-19T14:35:45.375-05:00Simple Sunday SupperSharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.comBlogger109125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-71928097651917423322020-01-02T12:19:00.001-05:002020-01-13T20:27:48.524-05:00Decades<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Decades</b>.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I have found a way to review my life in a way that doesn’t all run together and overwhelm me. The whole thing is a blur of bittersweet memories until I break it down into decades. I can’t find the exact quote that the present seems to stay the same, but when you look back, everything has changed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My earliest memories are of first grade in Russellville, Arkansas around 1954. When I focus on that time, I can remember quite clearly my house, my school, my pets, my special friends. I remember a fire escape on the two-story school building. You held onto a bar and slid down a metal tube and the big boys were there to catch you at the bottom. One day a girl wore her sister’s blue tulle prom dress as a costume and we were all dazzled. I wonder if I knew about Cinderella? I remember singing in Brownies, “Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I started second grade in Edmond, Oklahoma in another chapter of my life.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The sixties brought middle school, a beloved church group, my father’s death and another new chapter. By the end of that decade, I had graduated high school and suffered my first heartbreak.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">As I sit here this morning by a sunny window with a hot cup of coffee and my little dog in my lap, I thumb through the decades of my life and see the threads that weren’t always visible at the time. I am avoiding the nightmare news today. A new decade is beginning and the promises of change are everywhere. I am happy and grateful for the past. I look forward to the future ... dinner with friends, seeing the new version of “Little Women”, the changing lives of my children and grandchildren. (The next election, pray God.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I am old now and at peace with my passing even though I do fear the actual event of my death. My only real regret is not to be able to know the future. The future of mankind, space travel, the lives of my grandchildren and my unborn great-grandchildren. I regret I didn’t go to Europe when I had the chance. Oh, and I deeply regret the times I was cruel and thoughtless. In the middle of the night I remember those times and say I am sorry but it is too late.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I like to imagine a vacation - a time vacation. I would go back almost 100 years to my mother’s childhood in the mountains of North Carolina and my father’s on a farm in Oklahoma. I would visit my favorite moments growing up and go to the Sonic for lunch in high school in my ratty 57 chevy with my friends and the car radio playing “Tracks of My Tears” for some reason. I would relive each precious kiss and the wonderful feeling of being in love even when it didn’t last. I would hold and rock my babies and grand babies. I would relive most of my Christmas Eve’s and cook Thanksgiving dinner with my mom. I would drive around with my grandkids in the car listening to our favorite CD’s. I would hug my husband again. Then I would like to look ahead 100 years and see how we all turned out. Would we still be alive? Would we have found peace at last? I like to think so. And that, as Forrest Gump once said, “is all I have to say about that.” 🙂 Peace out.</span>Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-91913268439640012402019-06-14T12:11:00.000-04:002019-06-14T12:11:52.768-04:00Dream #999I am back to document an awesome dream before it is gone from my memory. Whether it is from old age, medication, or advancing dementia, I sink into bizarre and vivid dreams every night. They are so real and detailed that my ordinary waking life comes as a shock most mornings, tinged with both relief and regret. Things have changed since 2012 when I last posted. My husband has died; my grandchildren are growing up (the oldest just graduated high school); I sold my house, and moved to a beautiful apartment with a view of a lake. I spend a lot of time in my recliner with my dog on my lap and a cup of coffee in my hand. It is peaceful here. My son says it is not haunted like my old house- haunted with memories. Instead, in this new and neutral atmosphere, my imagination goes wild.<br />
<br />
The dream is already fading but I remember finding a door in the garage that led to another whole house. The “back” house was different though. It had dirt floors and bare wooden studs and rafters. There was a kind of shabby chic dining room to the left with strangely detailed teal sea glass accessories. I found a rustic kitchen, two kitchens in fact. Meanwhile, I was roasting meat for a dinner party with, I think, my Aunt Nellie’s advice. She was in the background but I am pretty sure she was there.<br />
<br />
My husband got home first. He was not amused when I rushed to tell him what I had found. In fact, he was annoyed that I presented him with these problems when he just got home (typical of my ex-husband.) When my daughter got there, we explored some more.We found a two story area which connected to someone else’s nice screened porch. Best of all, we found an arched stained-glass door which opened unto an unused side street. I began to think we could open a pub there.<br />
<br />
Company began to arrive for dinner and I was showing off my discoveries. We wondered how we had never seen that door before and if the property sale included the hidden part of the building. There was much more, but imagine as I tried to finish serving dinner, I suddenly woke to a little dog jumping on the bed in my quiet, peaceful apartment. Part of me wanted to go back.Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-49867079355612676572012-11-23T18:34:00.000-05:002012-11-23T18:38:51.255-05:00Brown and Serve Brown and Serve rolls remind me of Thanksgiving and of my mother. She prided herself on her roast turkey and homemade stuffing and she always served Brown and Serve rolls. She would take the whole pan of brown little rolls out of the oven, so hot they burned your finger tips, and she would split them and insert a slab of real butter in each roll before she brought them to the table.<br />
<br />
Once my cousin's girlfriend came to Thanksgiving dinner. She picked up a roll and said, with much surprise, "It's buttered!" She picked up another and said, "It's buttered!" She started laughing so hard as she inspected each roll that she peed herself right there in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
I wasn't there for that occasion, but I heard about it. It became a family story since my cousin married the girl. I haven't seen them in many years, but I have to believe that this story still comes up every year. I know it crosses my mind every time I eat Brown and Serve rolls.<br />
<br />
Many years after my father died, my mother got remarried to a long time bachelor who had been in the Navy. It didn't last, though. I should have known when she made a magnificent turkey dinner for him on their first Thanksgiving and he came in the kitchen 1/2 hour before the dinner was ready and made himself a ham sandwich.<br />
<br />
<b>Happy Thanksgiving!</b>Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-12767767679556739092012-08-14T09:28:00.003-04:002012-08-14T09:33:04.266-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4tzy8VxIAmAHqT0Owa6qKVDWmIc8enaWWW2FP6ydsR5xqAmdfkdyhAATblMhfh5iczkcWgliBqV6eT_piJb3EuXOnkn6Pysx4zhsf3KcsP3SUUIk5uw9hZzguXH-lTvZyngeGGb6Vdx4/s1600/Coffee+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4tzy8VxIAmAHqT0Owa6qKVDWmIc8enaWWW2FP6ydsR5xqAmdfkdyhAATblMhfh5iczkcWgliBqV6eT_piJb3EuXOnkn6Pysx4zhsf3KcsP3SUUIk5uw9hZzguXH-lTvZyngeGGb6Vdx4/s400/Coffee+mug.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
New fall mug from the Dollar Store. I sure hope we get a fall this year.</div>
Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-41999686385616332332012-06-05T19:09:00.000-04:002012-06-06T07:18:59.666-04:00Fascinating Ghost Story from old England<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCvmu4P-5Fe7NxO9wZsmmNnrNXzmRIg54wAse47rkKgsQtwoFT4rCtL3E6mIqF1S2_FzM_cciVO0C22WU2Z8OauGp9uNaGg-z6d5DlD41jBbq3h4jwC1g9XCzJq8rzCMJMfz2yQkr7qI8/s1600/treasures-house-york.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCvmu4P-5Fe7NxO9wZsmmNnrNXzmRIg54wAse47rkKgsQtwoFT4rCtL3E6mIqF1S2_FzM_cciVO0C22WU2Z8OauGp9uNaGg-z6d5DlD41jBbq3h4jwC1g9XCzJq8rzCMJMfz2yQkr7qI8/s400/treasures-house-york.JPG" width="400" /> </a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> The Treasurer's House, York - from Mike Perry's website</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqGiAQ8mS2ZLP6UBo3NxnUXm9pI_Ui4hr1Q3eU6mxXMwhSTKZr4oa1Qh0XGhRDvfUkpB2ppGQCzz7gUZ76m_7_AfuGb50nastPPs_6W61GZo_jS3kxR_S9c7d036UVVkUOgg10-lO_Rjo/s1600/roman-soldier.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqGiAQ8mS2ZLP6UBo3NxnUXm9pI_Ui4hr1Q3eU6mxXMwhSTKZr4oa1Qh0XGhRDvfUkpB2ppGQCzz7gUZ76m_7_AfuGb50nastPPs_6W61GZo_jS3kxR_S9c7d036UVVkUOgg10-lO_Rjo/s400/roman-soldier.JPG" width="241" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Roman soldier - from Mike Perry's website</span></div>
<br />
It must have been 8 or 10 years ago when my friend Alan told me a story. Several friends, including Alan and his wife, were sitting around my living room drinking wine and listening to a CD of bawdy English drinking songs when Alan started talking. It seems that his father was a master plumber. He was working in the basement of an old building - Alan thinks he said it was a pub. He was digging a trench for a drain pipe when his shovel hit stone. His assistant, Harry, was up on a ladder near by. Alan's father claimed he heard a trumpet and turned around to see a troop of Roman soldiers marching through the basement. He stood in wonder as they marched right through him as well. The strange thing was that he could only see the soldiers from the knees up. It turned out that an old Roman road ran through the basement a couple of feet below the dirt floor. The soldiers were apparently marching on the old Roman road. Alan's father told the story his whole life and Alan told the story to all of us in the living room that night.<br />
<br />
Skip forward to today for the rest of the story. Alan was doing some research on the internet when he stumbled across the exact same story as told by Harry, the assistant. Here is a link to a website <b><a href="http://www.67notout.com/2012/06/ghosts-of-roman-soldiers-walking-on.html">67 Not Out </a>- coincidence, synchronicity and other mysteries of life ..... by Mike Perry</b> and a picture of the building which is now an historic site. Apparently, Alan's father and his assistant were not the only ones to see the Roman soldiers over the years. Alan has found some other information including a video on You Tube.<br />
<br />
Here is what Alan wrote when he sent me the link:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">“<i>Harry” is the plumbers apprentice working with my dad at
the time.</i></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">I remember my dad telling me that “the kid” (the apprentice
Harry) “fell off his ladder and took of up the stairs like a bat out of
hell” .</span></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Although he doesn’t mention more Roman soldiers carrying
one of those Roman flag-pole things - he probably didn’t see that
part as he was too busy falling off the ladder </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">.</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</div>
<br />
Strangely enough, the date on Mike Perry's post is June 4, 2012. Just yesterday. Check out Mike's posting for today in which he mentions the Transit of Venus which occurred today.Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-60224537614448732972012-05-20T12:36:00.000-04:002012-05-22T08:26:42.720-04:00The Joy of Sandwiches<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsDKIN74qYvy5BcyZcJRTTYpcvisDM15ECRMJVBYFxU95dhlqzeRXiYuA97YTTPydXUllJQZlHj7mtUwmj0_YQgffuxsL7A3vyr_8WyMqF31Shq8LlkmHXrfXAvljJEKDLyWXDDbAzR6c/s1600/IMG_0905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsDKIN74qYvy5BcyZcJRTTYpcvisDM15ECRMJVBYFxU95dhlqzeRXiYuA97YTTPydXUllJQZlHj7mtUwmj0_YQgffuxsL7A3vyr_8WyMqF31Shq8LlkmHXrfXAvljJEKDLyWXDDbAzR6c/s400/IMG_0905.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Sandwiches were not a special treat when I was growing up. I remember bologna, white bread, and yellow mustard, but only for lunch. Sometimes we had hamburgers. There must have been an occasional grilled cheese but even that was a quick fix instead of a REAL supper. So, I felt somewhat dismayed when my husband started requesting sandwiches for supper. <br />
<br />
He came from a sandwich family. I learned from him to make a trip to the deli for baked ham, turkey, rare roast beef, corned beef, and provolone cheese. We had to have onion rolls, rye bread, coleslaw, grainy mustard, and horseradish sauce.<br />
<br />
For a quick trip to the beach, don't make a fuss. Just stack some sliced lunch meat on plain bread with a little mustard. And when you stop for beer, sodas, and ice, grab some Pringles potato chips. It is amazing how appetizing those plain old sandwiches taste after a day on the water.<br />
<br />
For a family celebration, such as Easter, spread all the deli meat, bread, and cheeses on a picnic table with condiments, lettuce, tomato, deviled eggs, pickles, homemade potato salad, some sliced watermelon and a beautiful cake.<br />
<br />
For a late night snack or for breakfast the next day, try an onion bagel with spicy mustard, deli meat, and cheese, heated up in a toaster oven. .<br />
<br />
Sometimes I crave sandwiches -- from plain old bologna or tuna salad on white bread to a homemade Reuben on toasted rye with sauerkraut, hot mustard, corned beef, and melted cheese. I had that craving this weekend and my husband and I have had a series of sandwiches all weekend long. It's ham for him with provolone, spicy mustard, and tomato on rye. For me, it is rare roast beef on an onion roll with tomato, cheese and horseradish sauce. I have some sliced watermelon in the fridge.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
I am thinking of all the sandwiches I love. Meat loaf with ketchup on white bread, French dip roast beef with au jus, Shrimp salad on croissants, hot dogs over a camp fire in a soft hot dog bun, Philly Cheese Steak with onions and peppers, home grilled hamburgers piled high with lettuce, pickles, and tomato. Oh, don't forget BLT's or just a tomato sandwich with toasted bread and lots of mayonnaise. (No Miracle Whip for me!) Just wanted to share my sandwich craving with whoever is reading this. Happy Summer!Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-89387483882451022182012-03-10T10:16:00.002-05:002012-03-10T10:19:45.901-05:00Mom's Cooking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBxkIu7smG97E3RW1b244f3GgbsfWhyphenhyphenjmiTCUOm4FE2d-qRP4dk9_fpYH9GCl0IcwqPpXxWXWsNxI01pg81i_9A4QkBZ82GSxEqZTjiscJtRoJ2z8o_ZR2WUqnXru56hJrAa8BlCyPn8w/s1600/momscooking_803_cobbler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBxkIu7smG97E3RW1b244f3GgbsfWhyphenhyphenjmiTCUOm4FE2d-qRP4dk9_fpYH9GCl0IcwqPpXxWXWsNxI01pg81i_9A4QkBZ82GSxEqZTjiscJtRoJ2z8o_ZR2WUqnXru56hJrAa8BlCyPn8w/s400/momscooking_803_cobbler.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></div><br />
photo from mylifetime.com<br />
<br />
I love the show <a href="http://www.mylifetime.com/shows/moms-cooking">Mom's Cooking</a> on Lifetime TV. It is so quirky. It is interesting to see the traditions that different families come up with and the family relationships. The host, Joe Corsano, is funny and respectful to the moms. Sometimes I see a recipe that I want to remember and make again and again. Sometimes I want to say, "No! That is not the right way to do it!" <br />
<br />
Here is a recipe I am anxious to try. I have always seen these Oregon Blackberries in the store and wanted to do something with them. My grandmother used to put up blackberries back in Oklahoma. This is an easy and delicious sounding recipe and the perfect way to use the new cast iron skillet that I got for myself at Christmas.<br />
<br />
<div class="image-caption" jquery1331391956041="2" sizcache="31" sizset="140"></div><h6 class="image-caption" jquery1331391956041="2" sizcache="31" sizset="140"><span style="font-size: large;">Blackberry Cobbler</span></h6><div class="image-caption" jquery1331391956041="2" sizcache="31" sizset="140"><ul><li>1 stick butter</li>
<li>1 cup sugar</li>
<li>1 cup whole milk</li>
<li>1 cup self-rising flour</li>
<li>1 1/2 cans blackberries</li>
<li>2 cans blackberry juice</li>
<li><em>Note: I need to watch the video again, but I think she just used 2 cans of blackberries and the juice from the berries. That is what I plan to use.</em></li>
</ul></div><ol><li>Mix flour and sugar until well-blended. Pour in 1 cup cold milk and mix to make batter.</li>
<li>Heat skillet on medium high, then melt butter.</li>
<li>Pour batter into cast-iron skillet.</li>
<li>Pour blackberries and juice into middle of pan; do not stir.</li>
<li>Bake for 40 minutes at 425 degrees.</li>
</ol>I'll let you know how it comes out!Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-68082477155525111002012-02-26T08:44:00.002-05:002012-02-26T09:03:25.632-05:00Crockpot Bean SoupI walked into my daughter's house to see my grandson's new aquarium and smelled something delicious. The house was neat and clean. My daughter and her fiance were attending an afternoon wine tasting and concert at a nearby winery. My grandson had stayed home to play video games. In a crock pot on the counter, bean soup with ham was bubbling away.<br />
<br />
I believe it was the first time my daughter ever made bean soup. She had seen me cooking it a few weeks earlier and asked me how to do it. I had sent home a big bowl of pinto bean soup but I wondered if her picky family would actually eat it. Apparently, they liked it and now she was making her own soup with great northern beans. It is so nice to come home from an outing to a hot meal cooking in the crock pot.<br />
<br />
My mother always made bean soup with navy, great northern, or pinto beans. I loved it. She lived in Washington D.C. for a while and told me about the famous Senate Bean Soup. When I married, my mother-in-law also made bean soup. She had a big family and it fed a lot of people. My mother served her soup with corn bread muffins. My mother-in-law always had homemade yeast biscuits. She also served her bean soup with fried potatoes and onions. I thought that seemed too starchy, but the flavors go together beautifully. Fried potatoes are another way to feed a lot of people inexpensively. When I was raising my children, I often made bean soup, rice and cornbread. It was a healthy, filling meal. My husband loved it and I guess the children ate it, though I don't remember it being their favorite.<br />
<br />
I always made bean soup in a big pot on the top of the stove like my mother did. I have accidentally burned the soup many times when too much water cooked away. Anyone who has smelled burned beans will remember that smell. I learned to transfer the soup to a different pot without scraping the bottom and could usually save the soup.<br />
<br />
One New Year's day, I visited my brother and sister-in-law for traditional black-eyed peas. (Good Luck!) She was cooking her soup in the crock pot! For some reason, I had never thought of that. Water doesn't cook away in a crock pot. I learned that lesson the hard way in the beginning by adding too much water to other dishes and ending up with watery, tasteless roasts and stews. That property of the crock pot works great for beans, though. No more burnt beans!<br />
<br />
Anyway, my picky daughter, who describes herself as a carnivore, has added bean soup to her repertoire. That makes me happy.Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-43360893259803231602012-01-20T09:31:00.003-05:002012-01-22T08:07:47.958-05:00One-of-a-Kind FlavorThe route home from my new job takes me right by a Dairy Queen. I confess that a combination of nostalgia and relief sometimes causes me to turn into the drivethru. The relief comes from getting through another day at a new job. After being out of work for a few years and working for a friend and taking over a job from my daughter, which she did very well, I am finding this new job a little nerve wracking. Fun and exciting, but also a little difficult. There are lots of new things to learn and a new relationship to forge with an old friend, now my boss. I want so much for her business to do well both for her sake and my own. It is getting easier and orders are coming in. I only work for a few hours, two days a week. So I stop at the Dairy Queen. I usually order a chili dog. A messy choice, but I manage to polish it off at stop lights before I get home. The other day, though, I ordered the chicken strip basket. I had the idea I would share it with my husband when I got home but that didn't happen. I didn't even tell him what I did. I was too embarrassed.<br />
<br />
The Dairy Queen nostalgia comes from my teenage years. My father died when I was fifteen. My mother had come home from work every day for many years and immediately started making supper. After my father died, she went on strike for about a year. On the days when she got her hair done after work, she would bring home burgers and fries from the Wide Awake Cafe. Since my father was the only driver in the family and I was a few months short of getting my driver's license, my mother would send a taxi to the nearby Dairy Queen for supper sometimes. Back before KFC and Pizza Hut, we got the chicken strip baskets for the whole family. I am sure the cab fare cost more than the food. It was blazingly hot when it arrived. Four big strips of crispy chicken fingers, thick Texas toast, and fries with a cup of white gravy. Ymmm!<br />
<br />
After all these years and in a different part of the country, the flavor was still the same except for the toast which was just regular sliced bread. That got me thinking about how a dish can have a unique taste and texture when a certain restaurant (or person) makes it. A combination of specific ingredients and cooking techniques sometimes creates a one-of-a-kind flavor. That is what makes a special dish special I guess. Good cooks are often accused of holding out a secret ingredient in their special dishes, but I think it is more subconscious than that. Little habits and techniques that are so natural they are not spoken are what make the difference.<br />
<br />
Take my mother's country style steak, for instance. I watched her pound flour and salt and pepper into a round steak with the edge of a saucer and then brown it and simmer it with water and onions until it fell apart and produced a rich brown gravy. I have never gotten the same results. My aunt Nellie's pineapple upside down cake was baked in a cast iron skillet and had crispy, sweet, caramelized edges. Mine is always a little soggy. My ex-mother-in-law's yeast biscuits, which I watched her whip together so many times, were baked on a blackened baking sheet coated with bacon grease. She would drag each biscuit briefly through the bacon grease and then flip it over to produce a crispy topped, chewy, but tender biscuit. I have never come close to creating those biscuits. The southern fast food chain of Bo Jangles had biscuits that resembled hers, but they closed the only one near me.<br />
<br />
I ate the whole chicken strip basket on the way home. It tasted so good. I even tasted the hopeful excitement of a 15-year-old girl with all of life's possibilities ahead of her and a hot, tasty supper arriving in a paper bag delivered by a taxi driver. My mother eventually started cooking again when my brother and I begged her to. Mom, I miss you.Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-59473681055118861572012-01-02T09:14:00.001-05:002012-01-02T09:14:49.254-05:00New Year's Eve<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9AAnWuFlNIs/TwG7Ts89f4I/AAAAAAAAFcE/L4to5mq1r3w/s1600/IMG_0656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9AAnWuFlNIs/TwG7Ts89f4I/AAAAAAAAFcE/L4to5mq1r3w/s400/IMG_0656.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R-rt_wkwv1k/TwG7Yua3p8I/AAAAAAAAFcM/zgzwQMTtEXw/s1600/IMG_0657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R-rt_wkwv1k/TwG7Yua3p8I/AAAAAAAAFcM/zgzwQMTtEXw/s400/IMG_0657.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Happy New Year with a little steak and a big baked potato. Merlot with dinner. Sparkling wine at midnight.Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-20649038090349590242011-12-14T09:43:00.001-05:002011-12-14T09:44:27.404-05:00Christmas Magic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4sxmm02EvNPC_83UoUFxv4_HMPEq1gQ8zvVspINg1Li58oORp4KAm7pD8MN-gFDfmkLa4ZYvuYk7K59n3aExpQeJ9vLjQoa1ORt7z-BT04kuro6jWPvjtd3peOzDd6dNsv9TuhwlS4Do/s1600/coca+cola+santa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4sxmm02EvNPC_83UoUFxv4_HMPEq1gQ8zvVspINg1Li58oORp4KAm7pD8MN-gFDfmkLa4ZYvuYk7K59n3aExpQeJ9vLjQoa1ORt7z-BT04kuro6jWPvjtd3peOzDd6dNsv9TuhwlS4Do/s400/coca+cola+santa.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Coca Cola Santa copied from Google Images<br />
<br />
I like the Santa of my imagination the best. I think Santa suffers from over exposure sometimes. Just give me a "Ho Ho Ho" and the sound of jingle bells in the air. A glimpse of Santa on his throne in the mall is fun, but the closer you get, the more jarring imperfections are apparent. Even the most realistic Santa is not the same as the magical elf who appears when you are sleeping, and fills the tree with magical, sparkly packages. Norman Rockwell and Coca Cola images will always define Santa for me.<br />
<br />
As a child, the most magical time was the middle of the night when I got up for a drink of water and found the dark room transformed. Once I found a beautiful little dressing table with a frilly skirt. Another time, I swear I heard jingle bells in the air and the sounds of hoofs on the roof, but when I looked into the dark night, I saw nothing. I don't want weather forecasters telling where Santa is, or phone calls or letters from Santa.<br />
<br />
A neighbor decorates his whole house with amazing lights every year. We walk across the dark golf course for a yearly visit with Santa. But wise little Mia told me that is not really him. She thought his voice sounded a little like her Dad. She said, "I don't know why he pretends to be HIM."<br />
<br />
My son, Cory, was 9 when we moved for a year to Pennsylvania. He didn't believe in Santa Claus that year until he looked under the tree and there was a toy truck just like his stepfather's big rig. It had little mirrors and all the parts and pieces. He tells me he thought that Santa must be real to leave such a perfect little truck that looked as if it had been shrunk. Unfortunately, he also tells me that he later found the box in the trash. I am so sorry for that. I know my mother would never have made that mistake!<br />
<br />
My mother and her sister were raised in a children's home in North Carolina. She says they always had a big tree and lots of presents. I don't really know about her Christmas, but I know she made Christmas truly magical for me and my brother and her grandchildren. Jaime once asked me, as Jill has recently, if I would tell her the truth if she asked me a question. I feared a question about the source of babies, but Jaime said, "Grandma is really Santa Claus, right?"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>For me, anticipation is everything. That is why I have always loved Christmas Eve more than Christmas morning. After that, Christmas becomes all about the people, the old traditions, the music, the food, and finding a way to make Christmas magical for someone else. Merry Christmas to all!Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-74217015968729421692011-12-01T09:05:00.000-05:002011-12-01T09:05:01.555-05:00I Hate the Crazy Target Lady<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--EebVJeTJfU/Ts-PcSC6KeI/AAAAAAAAFPs/6Qh92RgMOJM/s1600/target+lady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--EebVJeTJfU/Ts-PcSC6KeI/AAAAAAAAFPs/6Qh92RgMOJM/s400/target+lady.jpg" width="333" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Copied from Google images</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The crazy Target lady on TV makes my nerves jangle. She represents everything I hate about a grab-it-first, get-something-cheap attitude. A bargain is a low price for something you really want or need, but I also believe it should include convenience and a pleasant shopping experience. I don't mind if the stores open early. Shopping at unconventional times used to be a way to avoid the crowds.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I went once to an annual sale at a posh little boutique my friend and I loved. Unlike our usual delightful experience of browsing and finding unique and beautiful things, eveyone waited behind a ribbon and ran when it was cut. My friend advised me to grab everything I saw and decide later what to keep. That kind of "shopping" tends to encourage people to buy things they don't even want. I hated it.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have heard that people need to spend in order to boost the economy, but I like the idea of buying only what we really need and can afford, maybe even using layaway as I used to do when my kids were small. My wish is that we can all get what we really want and need this year - at a great price.</span></div>Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-32890239364085111662011-10-12T10:30:00.000-04:002011-10-22T05:30:58.208-04:00Willow Manor Ball - Watching from Afar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuslXxL5Qn2Ti7zO3sAx72To7R1XLfTaGOXRTrcrUDOykYBLeFEAzN-fMypetCq0O4368E9Ky3ZKkZb8ejLHC-bWV_bG84TN837pWHRt0u-Bj01rsp0M2UIdRsgoayfUgIjL0DpdK2kh4/s1600/sabrina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuslXxL5Qn2Ti7zO3sAx72To7R1XLfTaGOXRTrcrUDOykYBLeFEAzN-fMypetCq0O4368E9Ky3ZKkZb8ejLHC-bWV_bG84TN837pWHRt0u-Bj01rsp0M2UIdRsgoayfUgIjL0DpdK2kh4/s400/sabrina.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Sabrina - Google Images</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/7p3hu7jrO-8?fs=1" width="459"></iframe><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">I just couldn't get myself together this year for the <a href="http://willowmanor.blogspot.com/2011/10/willow-manor-ball-2011.html">Willow Manor Ball</a>. But I didn't want to MISS it. Just think of me as Sabrina, lurking in the tree in the garden with the full moon behind me and watching all the excitement from afar. Enjoy everyone! I will be loving every detail.</div>Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-21975028370919541842011-10-08T09:59:00.002-04:002011-10-08T10:07:28.835-04:00Dresses for the Ball<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXAvd1zOHIcMd4fVxfpBSsOm9bqjwTULl53VH49GLx8dIQglcbz2wOAYg8JXX6brL56RvaKbUq8NxUFatwiTV2CTIundK260wV8P0RZXt0DR62fPoj6-Q44uCaXP6l6TqEIgsKA0Iu5w/s1600/dress+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXAvd1zOHIcMd4fVxfpBSsOm9bqjwTULl53VH49GLx8dIQglcbz2wOAYg8JXX6brL56RvaKbUq8NxUFatwiTV2CTIundK260wV8P0RZXt0DR62fPoj6-Q44uCaXP6l6TqEIgsKA0Iu5w/s400/dress+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlNJdAVjcKzO-z3xQC7ffCsQvlJku1K62V6hQjayoqO1l_yiezRNxcXVZVG7g-z1uf3L2XGgSvc8EOb6v38b3NFJ0hFJPe6qqrbeUtaoQwTehVDAcoStHru15Aslw01XskCP1qhUdXYzg/s1600/dress+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlNJdAVjcKzO-z3xQC7ffCsQvlJku1K62V6hQjayoqO1l_yiezRNxcXVZVG7g-z1uf3L2XGgSvc8EOb6v38b3NFJ0hFJPe6qqrbeUtaoQwTehVDAcoStHru15Aslw01XskCP1qhUdXYzg/s400/dress+1.jpg" width="343" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8clOsOZAByf-_XP5jKtwm331Al_7IfQggLq5blkR-N6Qqec4NYWerB1ZzZl7WrBZNLYtlB4tKVN60k4khA2aXEjAwybb77rWJx7GGe3Td20gN_fx3TUTsHiXxXeUmkGjCpRc54WGE0Dg/s1600/dress+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8clOsOZAByf-_XP5jKtwm331Al_7IfQggLq5blkR-N6Qqec4NYWerB1ZzZl7WrBZNLYtlB4tKVN60k4khA2aXEjAwybb77rWJx7GGe3Td20gN_fx3TUTsHiXxXeUmkGjCpRc54WGE0Dg/s400/dress+5.jpg" width="367" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I am thinking about dresses this morning for the <a href="http://willowmanor.blogspot.com/2011/09/cyber-event-of-year.html">Willow Manor Ball</a>. I don't have enough information to properly credit these images. I just typed "<a href="http://www.google.com/search?q=1940's+ball+gowns&hl=en&rls=com.microsoft:en-US&rlz=1I7ADSA_en&prmd=imvns&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=M0mQTuf2CMe2tgeGhImPDA&ved=0CG4QsAQ&biw=1024&bih=623">1940's ball gowns</a>" into Google and these images appeared. Fantasy fairy dresses and sleek 40's silouettes fire my imagination. Click on the link and take a look.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I am also thinking about dresses from my real life. They exist only in my memory now.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I never saw the first dress. My mother only mentioned this dress one time. She was raised with her sister in Grandfather Children's Home in North Carolina and she had very few possessions of her own. One day before the school prom, she found a beautiful dress laying on her bed. It was a deep pink rhododendren color and someone had donated it to her. She said it was beautiful and fit her perfectly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The next dress also belonged to my mother. It was a beautiful golden brown matte sateen, ballerina length, with a wide off-shoulder collar, and trimmed with brown velvet ribbon on the collar and at the tiny waist. I asked my mother to give it to me and she did, though my father objected.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I had only one prom dress but I loved it. My friend found it at a local dress shop but was not able to get it. I told my mother about it and we went to buy it. It was an ivory chiffon column dress with floating ivory panels off the empire waist. It had spaghetti straps and beautiful pale aqua sequins on the top. I wore the dress twice but I don't have even one picture. My friend later borrowed the dress to wear to an event. I wonder if she has a picture.</span>Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-17551507425621698642011-09-30T09:13:00.003-04:002011-10-08T10:03:59.901-04:00Willow Manor Ball 2011 - Can't Wait!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQNTEJC-9sQhn5Dh8fNNgxj5DYoDLA_bR6OMn2_-NbPmdpdqJoS_LJBXBD-yYZN6AtjKuvlSdg3nm69L8uKHAiacQhWT4LReWWn8AKwZ4OVdOBCBNm7c2f0pjhaN5_zixXusbPzRfog8/s1600/Willoiw+Ball+2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQNTEJC-9sQhn5Dh8fNNgxj5DYoDLA_bR6OMn2_-NbPmdpdqJoS_LJBXBD-yYZN6AtjKuvlSdg3nm69L8uKHAiacQhWT4LReWWn8AKwZ4OVdOBCBNm7c2f0pjhaN5_zixXusbPzRfog8/s400/Willoiw+Ball+2011.jpg" width="350" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I am looking forward to the <a href="http://willowmanor.blogspot.com/2011/09/cyber-event-of-year.html">Willow Manor Ball</a>. This will be the 3rd ball I have observed, but only the second one I will be attending. I had so much fun <a href="http://simplesundaysupper.blogspot.com/2010/09/willow-ball.html">last year</a>. Now what will I wear? And who will be my date? Check out the link to <a href="http://willowmanor.blogspot.com/search/label/Willow%20Manor%20Ball">Willow Manor</a> and scroll down to see the balls of years gone by. Maybe you would like to attend. Everyone is invited.</span>Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-6062905159820144952011-09-24T08:58:00.000-04:002011-09-24T08:58:15.914-04:001st Anniversary Wedding Cake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhuP7zNrz-8TJ3wlzn_brqR6l-Z14TtvHeyLgMh-PnSGfwzHFBFcGPQ0QEn85ihGjbgn0g9s1E9lry5KFtktGVr53wN6fQHHiTz4SpRtom-ggpCc8UMF900HD687lgKFnaU5bTxptayZg/s1600/Year+Old+Wedding+Cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hca="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhuP7zNrz-8TJ3wlzn_brqR6l-Z14TtvHeyLgMh-PnSGfwzHFBFcGPQ0QEn85ihGjbgn0g9s1E9lry5KFtktGVr53wN6fQHHiTz4SpRtom-ggpCc8UMF900HD687lgKFnaU5bTxptayZg/s400/Year+Old+Wedding+Cake.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Whoever thought of keeping the top layer of the wedding cake? I need to look that up. What did they do before they had freezers? Anyway, after the trip back from Virginia in the car and a year in my freezer, Steph and Cory finally cut into the top layer of their wedding cake at the beach. Jill is very interested in tasting the piece they are saving for her. Here is what Stephanie had to say on facebook: "<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Cutting our wedding cake! It survived the first year with very few bumps and bruises- just like us!"</em></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9kKQHrl2maOJJXR9kKufCeshBoeMhmnJNkg-YWCPhMZ3x8NwLDHWtoNZQe1oQmMWhXejAYsYxM1zOp0hHq5gz0otEblEBums5BIN7uvKgxPHS3a6VJgR5ZvbZ2AOYyyQ-b06-m183g3Q/s1600/cutting+cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hca="true" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9kKQHrl2maOJJXR9kKufCeshBoeMhmnJNkg-YWCPhMZ3x8NwLDHWtoNZQe1oQmMWhXejAYsYxM1zOp0hHq5gz0otEblEBums5BIN7uvKgxPHS3a6VJgR5ZvbZ2AOYyyQ-b06-m183g3Q/s400/cutting+cake.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><br />
Here is the original. It had a big "C" on top.<br />
<div class="fbPhotoTagList" id="fbPhotoSnowboxTagList"><span class="fcg"></span></div>Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-43582021540305410852011-09-20T08:50:00.007-04:002011-09-22T09:09:43.062-04:004:00 a.m.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-PZc71mjNaMi26Cgpdnt-c_F3T9PQxBVLfLRbTZoCnLe9jR0Uwi0T6CqsX58XCrF62paimV2owUdMkEJQZ7-xInQGutyWVufTQCKoNsmE_SXGrMklOJtsIhEd5eiCC3pxzSGQbA6yIRA/s1600/Clock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-PZc71mjNaMi26Cgpdnt-c_F3T9PQxBVLfLRbTZoCnLe9jR0Uwi0T6CqsX58XCrF62paimV2owUdMkEJQZ7-xInQGutyWVufTQCKoNsmE_SXGrMklOJtsIhEd5eiCC3pxzSGQbA6yIRA/s400/Clock.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I couldn't get comfortable. A nagging pain at the base of my skull. I went out into the dark kitchen to find a pain pill. I was surprised to see water gushing from the sink faucet. I crossed the kitchen and shut it off and looked down the wide, dark hallway leading to the bathroom. Suddenly, I was afraid to go down the hall. I went another way to the bath by the children's rooms. As I got to the bathroom, I could hear them calling out in their sleep. I needed to check on them.</span></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">My eyes snapped open and I looked at the clock. 4:00 a.m. I crawled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to pee and take a Tylenol.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em>Updated to add:</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I thought my dream was so interesting that I even put it on Facebook, but it got very little reaction. Maybe it was because I said "pee". I find it fascinating that my body had a little headache and needed to go to the bathroom rather urgently, but my mind put me in a big, scary house with weird clues (running faucet) and crying children.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">My dreams always involve interesting houses (or once, an office building) with lots of rooms. I would enjoy that part, but there is always a sense of foreboding and an unfinished and urgent job that I need to do. I know these dreams mean something. I thought maybe I had banished them by deciding they were about wishing I could change the past.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I just hope the day never comes when I can't wake up from these ideas like the people I met at my mother's assisted living home. Only one person I ever met had happy delusions of music and well being. All the others, including my mother on occasion, had disturbing fantasies.</span></div>Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-6474042015033647902011-09-14T07:46:00.003-04:002011-09-14T07:56:48.024-04:00Cross Creek Crab Newburg<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDYLllNLKG-_DqlTndxgzDG2L_rPBzorCKPrRU2qokJqXg4Gzkb0mJcnGBIhxtykpac7BcU9XQPlicTltbRSdt_UYwYYZvog54rkF-Ek5G2VqC9AipRnh4CbT6h_a-2jL1nA9dCUUxSQ/s1600/Cross+Creek+dining+room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDYLllNLKG-_DqlTndxgzDG2L_rPBzorCKPrRU2qokJqXg4Gzkb0mJcnGBIhxtykpac7BcU9XQPlicTltbRSdt_UYwYYZvog54rkF-Ek5G2VqC9AipRnh4CbT6h_a-2jL1nA9dCUUxSQ/s640/Cross+Creek+dining+room.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRrswR4BgdwWu7UvDQ9XVFzAqNhLg3IECv_YMiG6DH_F3OOa6M6AcNJTo9yhj74u4VIkrrQfp0L4e1KSjwIfZJUMGMnOWQQg15OA3lHLKVmCR_O1pjrZQURHBqMErH9JmWJLZeFiF0s1I/s1600/Cross+Creek+cabin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRrswR4BgdwWu7UvDQ9XVFzAqNhLg3IECv_YMiG6DH_F3OOa6M6AcNJTo9yhj74u4VIkrrQfp0L4e1KSjwIfZJUMGMnOWQQg15OA3lHLKVmCR_O1pjrZQURHBqMErH9JmWJLZeFiF0s1I/s400/Cross+Creek+cabin.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><em>Pictures from Cross Creek State Park website </em><br />
<br />
I am thinking today of a favorite passage of mine from "Cross Creek" by Marjory Kinnan Rawlings. When I read this I can't help but think of the freshness of the ingredients. Fresh butter and cream from her jersey cow (Dora), fresh caught crabs, homemade bread for the toast points. She describes in detail the process of catching the crabs in a boat on a dark night.<br />
<br />
My friend has her mother's recipe for a crab newburg-like dish. She uses imitation crab and cream cheese. She says the sherry is the indespensible ingredient. It is very good but can anyone ever capture the flavor Marjory describes in this rustic dish made in the Florida back woods? Oh, I would love to sit at her table and dive into this crab newburg.<br />
<br />
Here is a link to <a href="http://www.floridastateparks.org/marjoriekinnanrawlings/photogallery.cfm">Cross Creek State Park</a>. I have always wanted to visit. I love the pictures.<br />
<br />
This passage also brings to mind a camping trip we took with friends on a small island in the St. Johns River when my daughter was small. We spent one day tubing down an icy cold creek and visiting an old plantation-style house.<br />
<br />
Here is the passage:<br />
<br />
"<em>In an iron skillet over a low fire I place a certain amount of Dora's butter. As it melts, I stir in the flaked crab meat, lightly, tenderly. The flakes must not become disintegrated; they must not brown. I add lemon juice, possibly a tablespoonful for each cup of crab meat. I add salt and pepper frugally, paprika more generously, and a dash of powdered clove so temporal that the flavor in the finished Newburg is only as though the mixture had been whisked through a spice grove. I add Dora's golden cream. I do not know the exact quantity. It must be generous, but the delicate crab meat must never become deluged with any other element. The mixture bubbles for a few moments. I stir in dry sherry, the quantity again inestimable. Something must be left to genius. I stir in well beaten eggs, perhaps an egg, perhaps two, for every cup of flakes. The mixture must now no more than be turned over on itself and removed in a great sweep from the fire. I stir in as tablespoonful, or two, of the finest brandy, and turn the Newburg into a piping hot covered serving dish. I serve it on toast points and garnish superfluously with parsley, and a Chablis or white Rhine wine is recommended as an accompaniment. Angels sing softly in the distance.</em><br />
<br />
<em>We do not desecrate the dish by serving any other, neither salad nor dessert. We just eat crab Newburg. My friends rise from the table, wring my hand with deep feeling, and slip quietly and reverently away. I sit alone and weep for the misery of a world that does not have blue crabs and a Jersey cow."</em>Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-16410553808758592672011-09-02T08:31:00.006-04:002011-09-02T15:09:47.170-04:00Signs of Fall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6VZo6oMaNKwg4BPWplIwqeELnEYaR_y4Y1fyl-bHd9NsX1ACLAmz1vuRGmqWKAOZpedwCKn6kr4A8CMz7YZLtyoBh8r13NkJAywcX0f-Ozn2yzbbdBSjZVNorCvvJ-VUlyi7eE3WwOU/s1600/fall+wreath+and+candle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6VZo6oMaNKwg4BPWplIwqeELnEYaR_y4Y1fyl-bHd9NsX1ACLAmz1vuRGmqWKAOZpedwCKn6kr4A8CMz7YZLtyoBh8r13NkJAywcX0f-Ozn2yzbbdBSjZVNorCvvJ-VUlyi7eE3WwOU/s320/fall+wreath+and+candle.jpg" width="320" xaa="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Fall is slow to come to Florida and even then it is very subtle. Beautiful bright, cool days generally arrive in October. I can't wait. Fall is my favorite season. I love the colors, textures and tastes. I want to bake carrot and apple cakes full of walnuts and pecans and rich, warm stews and soups. I want to buy a new leather purse and a plaid skirt and a wool blazer. I want to go for a drive in the mountains and breathe the cool air and see the leaves. But, alas, we have no mountains, the cool air is a month away and the golden leaves are few.<br />
<br />
So far I have catered to my fall longings by cooking a Mrs. Smith's Pumpkin pie and a pork roast with sauerkraut and mashed potatoes. And I got out a few fall decorations. When I started this blog I thought I would fill it with recipes. But it turns out I'm not a very imaginative cook. I leave that to my wonderful blogger friends like Beverly and Kary and Tess.<br />
<br />
What I really like to do is eat and feed my friends and family. A few tried and true recipes seem to fill the bill for me. Have you seen the show on the Cooking Channel called "<em>Mom's Cooking</em>"? The daughter and a camera crew surprise the mom and she teaches the daughter to make a favorite meal.<br />
<br />
If they came to my door what would I do? Hopefully my kitchen would be clean and I would be dressed for company. What would I make? Pork chops and fried potatoes or pot roast are all that come to mind. I make several very good versions of bundt cake which I usually start with a cake mix, but I haven't enjoyed baking as much since we have Mia on a low carb diet.<br />
<br />
If my mom were here and I could ask her to make a special meal, I think I would ask for her country style steak. She pounded round steak, floured it, browned it and simmered it with water and onions until it made it's own rich, brown gavy and was fork tender. I have never been able to duplicate it though I keep trying. She did teach me how to roast a turkey and make dressing and it was her pot roast that has always been my favorite. Oh, and she taught me to make a good meat loaf. I remember my Aunt Nellie's wonderful pineapple upside down cake, baked ham, stuffed green peppers and crispy fried fish with grits and hush puppies.<br />
<br />
There is one reason that Jaime will never surprise me with a camera crew and ask me to teach her to cook. Onions. I love them. She hates them. She is a very good cook herself. She makes all my recipes with her own version minus onions. She does break down and add minced onions to her pot roast. Cory, on the other hand, eats up anything I have when he comes to the house. He and Jill seem to like my cooking even though he once told me his favorite meal from his childhood was Taco Bell.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, my husband loves my cooking, especially homemade oatmeal cookies with raisins and walnuts. We always enjoy a nice supper together at night with an occasional glass of wine. Our favorite special meal is little bacon wrapped fillets from Omaha Steak with baked potatoes and a salad.<br />
<br />
As you can see I am a little melancholy and longing for the fall.Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-40242843631886722912011-08-24T18:02:00.010-04:002011-09-22T09:21:36.782-04:00Magpie Tales - Kids in a Car<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk7OpEkGzT5ncqdkVTFb5v356NMVYh9A6kl1P4i1jvuQwa55UeXSfpYMgxitQZ6WsCLkf0rIXBicPTExRULXWjVkZlvYXu6Z66b51SOMVqu7zwcnaskMan8-ZoAojoGfIr1pDnn2QKHNM/s1600/kids+in+a+car.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644546402827235522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk7OpEkGzT5ncqdkVTFb5v356NMVYh9A6kl1P4i1jvuQwa55UeXSfpYMgxitQZ6WsCLkf0rIXBicPTExRULXWjVkZlvYXu6Z66b51SOMVqu7zwcnaskMan8-ZoAojoGfIr1pDnn2QKHNM/s400/kids+in+a+car.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.com/"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Magpie Tales </span></em></a><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">is a creative writing blog by Willow at </span></em><a href="http://willowmanor.blogspot.com/"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Life at Willow Manor</span></em></a><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">. Click on the link to see the other entries.</span></em><br />
<em><br />
</em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Love this picture. It reminds me of piling into an old car with laughing friends to drive across the causeway to Clearwater Beach. The radio was playing and there was a cooler with some beer in the trunk. I pretended to like the taste. The trip and the anticipation were part of the fun. We were on our own with no adults around and a long summer day ahead of us. The trip back seemed a lot longer - tired and hot, hungry and sunburned with sand in every crack and crevice. We would rush home to shower and get ready to go to the drive-in movies that night.</span>Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-88105153920969749002011-08-13T07:43:00.014-04:002011-08-14T07:31:36.281-04:00Archy and Mehitabel<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYNezS2xSpohXekdry1FPtFXwOOqtUUQJsucabaAihjGwaHCYQToFp5IdVVwWMcgIRwuZRZTHC3If1hcvxucbIIed07zixlKWFUIYEKiUrZAr3rOQToXoJzwZR-T2Yp8fKk7gV9FfVPKk/s1600/Archy+and+Mehitabel.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 308px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640305308925922386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYNezS2xSpohXekdry1FPtFXwOOqtUUQJsucabaAihjGwaHCYQToFp5IdVVwWMcgIRwuZRZTHC3If1hcvxucbIIed07zixlKWFUIYEKiUrZAr3rOQToXoJzwZR-T2Yp8fKk7gV9FfVPKk/s400/Archy+and+Mehitabel.jpg" /></a>
<br />
<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw_nJtfYvwzo5QbwcsAd-U0wrupN7J2OkUOeKYB9szUMEEIZR5ZF9uiCSFr61Xkxx3pkuMuxsJ5awt2x0HRcktcd787bTyk7uEk-USXByxdIiaRBGEyRwJvG87ywc3BsXA6DJBh3TvQrU/s1600/Archy+back+book+cover.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 286px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640305302575202290" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw_nJtfYvwzo5QbwcsAd-U0wrupN7J2OkUOeKYB9szUMEEIZR5ZF9uiCSFr61Xkxx3pkuMuxsJ5awt2x0HRcktcd787bTyk7uEk-USXByxdIiaRBGEyRwJvG87ywc3BsXA6DJBh3TvQrU/s400/Archy+back+book+cover.jpg" /></a> Does anyone remember <em><a href="http://www.donmarquis.com/archy/">archy and mehitabel</a></em>? As you can see from the back cover of my book, "Don Marquis first introduced archy the cockroach and mehitabel, a cat in her ninth life, in his newspaper column, <em>The Sun Dial</em>, in 1916." Archy is a poetic cockroach who hops around on his boss's typewriter at the newspaper office at night. He can't do the shift key so everything is in lower case. Mehitabel is an alley cat whose soul "once belonged to Cleopatra" in another life.</div>
<br />How do I know about archy and mehitabel? Well, it is kind of a long story. Back in the 70's I was living at my mom's apartment and was the single mother of a little boy. I had a series of jobs as a typesetter. Back then, before desktop publishing, being a typesetter meant typing on a keyboard with no screen and producing a computer tape. Point size, font, line length, etc were all inserted with key combinations such as "p24" for 24 point type. Line length was measured in picas. The computer tape was run through a reader on a photo typesetting machine. The photo paper was developed and then the pieces of type went to the "paste up" department to be included with art and photos in the finished ad or book. (I can't imagine how I did it now.)
<br />
<br />My typesetting jobs were definately "blue collar" back then, not the glamourous graphic artist jobs of today. Often we labored in little rooms near the big, dirty, noisy presses, huge paper cutters and other printing equipment. We punched a time clock, sometimes even to go to the bathroom. You can imagine what a step up it was when I got the job at <em>Florida Trend </em>magazine working on the beautiful top floor of an old remodeled cigar factory with brick walls, expensive art, hardwood floors, outside glass elevator, boutique shops, and wonderful restaurants, but that is another story.
<br />
<br />So I got a job at night in a very rundown building in an old part of downtown Tampa. It was near the <a href="http://fcit.usf.edu/florida/photos/business/news/0573.htm">Tampa Tribune building</a>, the <a href="http://www.ut.edu/utgalleries/">University of Tampa </a>and the old Valencia Gardens restaurant, but it was a slum. In fact a homeless man was found dead under our building one time and someone jokingly suggested we should advertise a "room for rent". I worked in a long, windowless room with cement walls and floor. At night. It was scary and depressing, but I needed a job. And that job eventually led to the <em>Florida Trend</em> job so I guess it was worth it.
<br />
<br />One of the night managers had a brilliant idea. He read to us while we worked. It was kind of fitting since the "lectors" used to read to the cigar makers in the old cigar factories in Tampa. The book he read was "archy and mehitabel". I loved it.
<br />
<br />Archy, the poetic cockroach wrote free verse about his life in the newspaper office and his friends. He would beg for an apple core or scrap of bread now and then. I'm going to offer some excepts of one of my favorite columns about <em>mehitable and her kittens</em>. Mehitabel is a free spirit of a cat and not a very good mother, I'm afraid.
<br />
<br /><em>well boss
<br />mehitabel the cat
<br />has reappeared in her old
<br />haunts with a
<br />flock of kittens
<br />three of them this time
<br />
<br />archy she said to me
<br />yesterday
<br />the life of a female
<br />artist is continually
<br />hampered what in hell
<br />have i done to deserve
<br />all these kittens
<br />...
<br />archy i am full of mother love
<br />my kindness has always
<br />been my curse
<br />a tender heart is the cross i bear
<br />self sacrifice always and forever
<br />is my motto damn them
<br />i will make a home
<br />for the sweet innocent
<br />little things
<br />unless of course providence
<br />in his wisdom should remove
<br />them they are living
<br />just now in an abandoned
<br />garbage can in greenwich
<br />village and if it rained
<br />into the can before i could
<br />get back and rescue them
<br />i am afraid the little
<br />dears might drown
<br />it makes me shudder just
<br />to think of it
<br />of course if i were a family cat
<br />they would probably
<br />be drowned anyway
<br />sometimes i think
<br />the kinder thing would be
<br />for me to carry the
<br />sweet little things
<br />over to the river
<br />and drop them in myself
<br />...
<br />
<br /></em>Don Marquis
<br />Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-61891494875280658962011-08-08T08:59:00.007-04:002011-08-08T09:19:23.212-04:00Front Porch - Magpie Tales<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJnS5dZfWQu9wQTj8LSgjnjo8XR9Bvlrk2eu3PADIHoD_Crv_R5f6IxL_ixy96NhW4Pt5WXMZPnOA0kcFL_gDqKLqF9aWkb1pRnbdEtNug0BT9GRaRKMQIT_HweQK9i7yZa4SWLxHMGac/s1600/Porch.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 283px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638469179805465026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJnS5dZfWQu9wQTj8LSgjnjo8XR9Bvlrk2eu3PADIHoD_Crv_R5f6IxL_ixy96NhW4Pt5WXMZPnOA0kcFL_gDqKLqF9aWkb1pRnbdEtNug0BT9GRaRKMQIT_HweQK9i7yZa4SWLxHMGac/s400/Porch.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.com/">Magpie Tales </a>is a creative writing blog by Willow at <a href="http://willowmanor.blogspot.com/">Life at Willow Manor</a>. Click on the link to see the other entries.
<br />
<br />Breathless anticipation on a hot summer night. Wondering if he will come by. Coy conversation, teasing and taunting, acting as if she doesn't care. If only mama would turn off that damn porch light.
<br />Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-16505924360757107882011-08-07T10:17:00.007-04:002011-08-07T11:39:33.947-04:00Doilies - Who Knew?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpeAhyt_wKaPmFRF6-_EG56LQbjz_mx6ofp6dT3Lx42fg5oNtt0dYCWlj-shrqnJVAdPC8IYCZJnC-c-Xcq4g9hg8o8yLiIDYpakKczIgHHACPLngYFB37S38__KVmYfFTj9DXJG_fSEY/s1600/doily.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 225px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 225px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638118353966767234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpeAhyt_wKaPmFRF6-_EG56LQbjz_mx6ofp6dT3Lx42fg5oNtt0dYCWlj-shrqnJVAdPC8IYCZJnC-c-Xcq4g9hg8o8yLiIDYpakKczIgHHACPLngYFB37S38__KVmYfFTj9DXJG_fSEY/s400/doily.jpg" /></a> Found this picture at <a href="http://todaystreasureshoptalk.blogspot.com/2011/08/ruffled-doilies-vintage-american-thread.html">Today's Treasures </a>from Ruffled Doilies American Thread, Star Book 59<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXx69vISRk7ej8y5gFsiK7D1g8UOqbq8PEdDclKd27hGG2DWFfShVUm9zvrLd0zUQuo47PufyVCKQlUtF-E1x7vL56Is29VOzrgfVdCBhyphenhyphenQZsqldpued1MGhwK6fF-oqS3Lplb6MlXpQ/s1600/grape+doily.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 141px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 94px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638118348285008434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXx69vISRk7ej8y5gFsiK7D1g8UOqbq8PEdDclKd27hGG2DWFfShVUm9zvrLd0zUQuo47PufyVCKQlUtF-E1x7vL56Is29VOzrgfVdCBhyphenhyphenQZsqldpued1MGhwK6fF-oqS3Lplb6MlXpQ/s400/grape+doily.jpg" /></a>Picture from Google Images - source: unknown</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>A post by <a href="http://greygreydesigns.blogspot.com/">GreyGreyDesigns</a> sent me on a quest this morning. She did a post on doilies (of all things) and they were awesome. Check out the wonderful things this event and party planner does with the lowly doily. That got me thinking about a ruffled crochet doily that my mother used to have. The top picture is the closest I could find. My mother had a lamp in the middle of her doily and it sat on a little round table with a lion's mouth pull on the single drawer. I don't know what happened to it. It certainly did not match the decor of our new house full of Danish Modern furniture in the 60's. As I was looking I also came across this grape doily which brought back a very vivid memory. I don't know who made it or where I saw it, but we definately had a doily that looks much like the one above. The grapes were three dimensional. As a child, I loved it. The quest I went searching for today is a hand crochet piece that says <strong>McGee</strong>. It used to be in a picture frame which I dismantled. Now I regret it. I need to find that piece and return it to Jonah's dad. It belongs in their family. </div>Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-10511181873887973632011-08-02T11:35:00.006-04:002011-08-02T12:13:52.373-04:00The Perfect Summer Drink<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE1QYiqKWZKneDemHF3Agc6hqz_adSrBAAAxZxj33lpTmx2ic9OY2_rXh210H2mgEsyg23hB_kv1nuwGnTPZa5SAMxQn_DycrzDstXtL6TSZQni_JsjDQuGd6F_kmvagQiE5Jo-t54kG4/s1600/Fruit+Tea.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636291098893672418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE1QYiqKWZKneDemHF3Agc6hqz_adSrBAAAxZxj33lpTmx2ic9OY2_rXh210H2mgEsyg23hB_kv1nuwGnTPZa5SAMxQn_DycrzDstXtL6TSZQni_JsjDQuGd6F_kmvagQiE5Jo-t54kG4/s400/Fruit+Tea.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhygyKT0x9VWRTjix7MLGbz49vwpTyGwkwSXxHk7zoJPPyVmuwX9ly91cSmjRaLagh6heGdMvwMGBV4ZNWrO8fXLnr1qtexdsisD4DjHSTW4GVMM5nJNh1aV4ALbIOtSwH4yU2Yqcnzhhg/s1600/Jaime%252C+sunglasses%252C+swim+suit.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636291096898178850" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhygyKT0x9VWRTjix7MLGbz49vwpTyGwkwSXxHk7zoJPPyVmuwX9ly91cSmjRaLagh6heGdMvwMGBV4ZNWrO8fXLnr1qtexdsisD4DjHSTW4GVMM5nJNh1aV4ALbIOtSwH4yU2Yqcnzhhg/s400/Jaime%252C+sunglasses%252C+swim+suit.jpg" /></a> <br /><div>I think I have found the perfect drink for summer and all year round. I am from the south and I love my sweet tea, but I have been looking for a while for a natural drink that doesn't have SO much sugar as sweet tea. Fruit tea. A Mexican restaurant I used to love in Oklahoma served a mixture of tea and apple juice that was so soothing with the hot spicy food, but I could never get tea and apple juice to be quite sweet enough. I have been making unsweetened tea with Truvia but I did not like drinking so much of it and giving it to the kids. So, yesterday at Big Lots I found some V8 Splash on sale. The one I bought was Mango Pineapple mixed with green tea. It was good, but expensive and still very strong. So I thought, mix the V8 with brewed tea! It is great! I mix it about 1/3 V8 and 2/3 tea. I think if I had V8 without the green tea mixed in, I could use even less. Maybe Mia could even drink it on her new diet. She loves sweet tea, too. Wonder if anyone else has some ideas. P.S. I threw in a recent picture of Jaime on her way to the beach. Click on the picture to see the cool feather necklace she is wearing.</div></div>Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687089933732295996.post-33000558296847834422011-07-30T09:01:00.005-04:002011-07-30T09:19:41.832-04:00Sylvia's Palomilla SteakMy neighbor, Sylvia, knocked on the door yesterday with four hot, crunchy but tender Pallomilla steaks wrapped in foil. They smelled and tasted delicious. I had the last one this morning as a sandwich on toasted bread with sliced tomato. I suspect the steaks were by way of payment for a ride to the grocery store earlier in the day. I will accept food from Sylvia any time.<br /><br />Palomilla steaks are thinly sliced sirloin that can only be found at certain Cuban butcher shops. In Tampa, there are several of those. I don't have Sylvia's recipe, but I know it involves lime juice and garlic marinade, and a dredge in spicy bread crumbs. Breaded steak in any form is at the top of my favorite list.<br /><br />I wish I would have taken pictures of my steaks which were beautiful but you will just have to use your imagination. Thanks, Sylvia! Here is a link to <a href="http://www.pipos.com/">Pipos</a> Cuban restaurant here in Tampa. They serve lots of authentic Cuban food including Palimillo steaks, breaded or unbreaded.Sharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842711799199331211noreply@blogger.com0