The recent presidential election has left me feeling depressed. It seems to have had that effect on quite a few die-hard lefties.
There are bound to be at least one or two people who'll point out that had Hillary Clinton, there'd still be approximately half the country depressed over the election results. It was a close election. And while Hillary won more physical votes, she lost by way of the electoral college. It's happened before. Trust me: as a voter who lived in Florida during the 2000 election between George W. Bush and Al Gore, I'm well aware that there are contentious elections. Any time you have bumper stickers showing up saying that the state you live in has Electile Dysfunction, you know that there are unhappy voters.
And yet, the 2000 election can't possibly as contentious as this year's election. While many Republicans hated Hillary, mentioning her emails during her time as Secretary of State, along with any and all complaints, it was nothing compared to how Democrats felt about Donald Trump. Heck, even members of his own party tried distancing themselves from him.
Anne Lamott is one of my favorite writers. She's written several books of essays about becoming a Christian (Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith), and her ongoing struggles of meshing her faith with her left-wing politics (Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith and Grace Eventually: Thoughts on Faith). In the first essay in Plan B ("Ham of God"), Lamott wrote, "Everyone I know has been devastated by Bush's presidency...So much has been stolen by Bush, from the very beginning of his reign...I have had it with Bush. Hadn't the men in the White House ever heard of the word karma?"
The first time I read these words, I practically cheered. I haven't voted for any of the Bush family: Not George H.W. Bush, not W., and not younger brother Jeb for Florida governor. Did I mention being a die-hard lefty Democrat - and a feminist, too?
And yet, while I've never voted for the Bushes, the thought of Trump in the White House, and seeing the people he's picking to surround himself with - rich white men who seem to be positively allergic to anyone who isn't a rich WASP-ish male - is making me positively nostalgic for the Bush years - all 12 in the White House, along with Jeb's in Tallahassee. For me to even think that way, much less write about it, should tell you something about my deep mistrust of he-who-shall-not-be-named.
That last bit - the "he-who-shall-not-be-named" - should look familiar to anyone who follows Stephen King's Twitter page. I've got to respect someone who calls the president-elect that.
When I went to bed the night of November 8, the end results weren't in. Around 2:30, I got up to use the bathroom and passed my youngest son, J., in the hallway. I didn't dare ask at that hour who won. I figured if it was a clear-cut Hillary win, he would have told me. The fact that he didn't say anything, other than to announce he was heading for bed, meant that either he-who-shall-not-be-named had won, or it was still up in the air. I hoped that it was the latter and went back to bed.
But no. When I got up in the morning, the obscene headline told it all.
The chatter on Facebook and Twitter has been crazy: it's not hard to tell who voted for whom by the posts.
But after a week-and-half, the die-hard lefties seem to be deciding, "Okay, so now what do we do?", while posting ways to get rid of the electoral college, and try blocking some of he-who-shall-not-be-named's picks from actually ending up in DC.
It's going to be a long haul. Let's just hope and pray he-who doesn't screw up as bad as we're afraid of.
Saturday, November 19, 2016
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
Just Horsing Around
Note: Please check bottom of today's post for a request - and it includes a chance for a gift. End of Note
I love horses. I probably always have. Even owned two of them when I was younger, but more on that in a minute or two.
There are several stables near where I live, and I pass by them on a regular basis. Doing so always brings back fond memories.
I went for a bike ride this morning. Usually, when out walking or bike riding, I'll start off by heading south, which would take me past the closest stable, but today I headed north. After maybe twenty minutes of riding, I ended up on a road just south of my neighborhood; the stable closest to my house is on this road. It would have made sense to go straight home. But instead, I crossed the street and headed south a little further, passing five people on horses - four in one group, the fifth coming from the dirt road I was about to head down.
"Beautiful day!" enthused one of the riders and I agreed. The group was crossing at the same crosswalk I was, with traffic actually waiting for us. There's usually one car that will fly through the crosswalk, ignoring the flashing lights. Did they all wait because of the line of horses, or because of the waiting police cruiser? Hmmmm...
Down the dirt road, there's a house on the left, moved in about twelve years earlier. On the right side as I headed south, there's a drainage ditch, then part of a group of townhouses, then another stable.
Usually, there are several horses out in the pasture closest to the ditch. But this morning, there were only two. They were both laying in the shade in a dirt patch that horses frequently roll in. Want to see something amusing, watch a full-grown horse rolling on its back in the dirt, kicking all four legs, as it gets all those pesky itchy spots on its back. After a minute, it'll get back off and shake off the dirt, dust rising, before moving on, frequently at a gallop.
But these two horses were just laying there. I watched for a few minutes, wondering whether to be concerned. Were they okay? Sick? They were the only two horses there; were they being quarantined from the horses peering out from the stable? One of the horses looked over with intelligent brown eyes.
I wandered a little farther south, pushing my bike, as the dirt here was too soft to peddle through. But a minute later, I was back, watching the horses.
A man on horseback came along the dirt path. "It always seems strange seeing those two just lying there," he stated. "They're like that every morning." I nodded as he headed off.
Just they, one of the horses stood, as the other rolled over, kicked its legs once, then righted itself.
Heading north, I soon crossed the street, smelling the stable near me before I got to it. Even the smell triggers memories.
As a kid in New York state, I'd taken riding lessons, first at one stable, then another where several of my friends were also taking lessons. One of my favorite horses at the second stable was an older mare named Bionda. We all had our favorite horses to ride while getting our riding lessons.
One evening, as we waited for our parents to pick us up, we talked about what we'd all do that evening; it mostly entailed finishing our homework, eating dinner (we sympathized with a girl who said her mom was fixing liver and onions), then watching The Flintstones. Did it really get any better than that?
Later, when we moved to a little town in Connecticut (Thompson, up in the northeast corner), I bought the first of my two horses. Miss Troy Girl - Missy - was a Standardbred and had raced in her younger days as a pacer. She usually was easy to ride, except when she'd get it into her head that she wanted to pace instead of trot. (Pacing is about the same speed as a trot - slower than a canter, much slower than a gallop - but instead of the right front leg and left rear one going forward at once, followed by the left front and right rear legs, the legs on both side move back and forth at the same time. Not a comfortable ride.)
Then there was Copper Penny, a younger horse who loved to run, a high-spirited one.
At this stable, there'd once been an old horse named Smokey. Frequently, when I'd be out for a run, I'd stop and feed her carrots. It got to the point where she's see me and immediately head over to the fence to see if I had a treat.
Smokey's gone now; she was old for a horse. But there are other horses there, and I enjoy watching them.
I'm sure I'll move from here eventually. And when that time comes, I hope it's near horses.
Note: How would you like to see your name on screen? Another Day in Paradise is a documentary that is in its early stages. Backers are greatly needed, and backing starts at only $10! With that level, you get a "thanks" as a backer in the end credits, as well as a shout-out on both Facebook and Twitter, along with a DVD of the final documentary. Backer levels - along with gifts - go up from there. If you can afford more, there are other levels from $25 - one $5,000 slot (check to see what you'd be able to get at each level). To check it out (come on, I know you're curious!), go to https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/161941492/another-day-in-paradise. Thanks!
I love horses. I probably always have. Even owned two of them when I was younger, but more on that in a minute or two.
There are several stables near where I live, and I pass by them on a regular basis. Doing so always brings back fond memories.
I went for a bike ride this morning. Usually, when out walking or bike riding, I'll start off by heading south, which would take me past the closest stable, but today I headed north. After maybe twenty minutes of riding, I ended up on a road just south of my neighborhood; the stable closest to my house is on this road. It would have made sense to go straight home. But instead, I crossed the street and headed south a little further, passing five people on horses - four in one group, the fifth coming from the dirt road I was about to head down.
"Beautiful day!" enthused one of the riders and I agreed. The group was crossing at the same crosswalk I was, with traffic actually waiting for us. There's usually one car that will fly through the crosswalk, ignoring the flashing lights. Did they all wait because of the line of horses, or because of the waiting police cruiser? Hmmmm...
Down the dirt road, there's a house on the left, moved in about twelve years earlier. On the right side as I headed south, there's a drainage ditch, then part of a group of townhouses, then another stable.
Usually, there are several horses out in the pasture closest to the ditch. But this morning, there were only two. They were both laying in the shade in a dirt patch that horses frequently roll in. Want to see something amusing, watch a full-grown horse rolling on its back in the dirt, kicking all four legs, as it gets all those pesky itchy spots on its back. After a minute, it'll get back off and shake off the dirt, dust rising, before moving on, frequently at a gallop.
But these two horses were just laying there. I watched for a few minutes, wondering whether to be concerned. Were they okay? Sick? They were the only two horses there; were they being quarantined from the horses peering out from the stable? One of the horses looked over with intelligent brown eyes.
I wandered a little farther south, pushing my bike, as the dirt here was too soft to peddle through. But a minute later, I was back, watching the horses.
A man on horseback came along the dirt path. "It always seems strange seeing those two just lying there," he stated. "They're like that every morning." I nodded as he headed off.
Just they, one of the horses stood, as the other rolled over, kicked its legs once, then righted itself.
Heading north, I soon crossed the street, smelling the stable near me before I got to it. Even the smell triggers memories.
As a kid in New York state, I'd taken riding lessons, first at one stable, then another where several of my friends were also taking lessons. One of my favorite horses at the second stable was an older mare named Bionda. We all had our favorite horses to ride while getting our riding lessons.
One evening, as we waited for our parents to pick us up, we talked about what we'd all do that evening; it mostly entailed finishing our homework, eating dinner (we sympathized with a girl who said her mom was fixing liver and onions), then watching The Flintstones. Did it really get any better than that?
Later, when we moved to a little town in Connecticut (Thompson, up in the northeast corner), I bought the first of my two horses. Miss Troy Girl - Missy - was a Standardbred and had raced in her younger days as a pacer. She usually was easy to ride, except when she'd get it into her head that she wanted to pace instead of trot. (Pacing is about the same speed as a trot - slower than a canter, much slower than a gallop - but instead of the right front leg and left rear one going forward at once, followed by the left front and right rear legs, the legs on both side move back and forth at the same time. Not a comfortable ride.)
Then there was Copper Penny, a younger horse who loved to run, a high-spirited one.
At this stable, there'd once been an old horse named Smokey. Frequently, when I'd be out for a run, I'd stop and feed her carrots. It got to the point where she's see me and immediately head over to the fence to see if I had a treat.
Smokey's gone now; she was old for a horse. But there are other horses there, and I enjoy watching them.
I'm sure I'll move from here eventually. And when that time comes, I hope it's near horses.
Note: How would you like to see your name on screen? Another Day in Paradise is a documentary that is in its early stages. Backers are greatly needed, and backing starts at only $10! With that level, you get a "thanks" as a backer in the end credits, as well as a shout-out on both Facebook and Twitter, along with a DVD of the final documentary. Backer levels - along with gifts - go up from there. If you can afford more, there are other levels from $25 - one $5,000 slot (check to see what you'd be able to get at each level). To check it out (come on, I know you're curious!), go to https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/161941492/another-day-in-paradise. Thanks!
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
Comfort Food
I just finished off a bowl of butterscotch pudding. Actually, it was a double-serving of the stuff, but since two helpings were in one bowl, it only counts as one - at least, in my mind.
It was the kind of pudding that you cook, poured out in powder form into the milk, then stirred while it heats. I hate the instant stuff. My younger two love the instant chocolate pudding, and while I love chocolate, I can't handle the instant stuff. It never seems to set up exactly right. Plus, there's no film on top like the cooked pudding gets.
The butterscotch pudding was still warm, even though I'd let it cool for maybe ten minutes in the 'fridge, but it had gotten that film across the top. I know some people don't like the film (namely, the aforementioned younger two), but I do. It's part of what I liked about the stuff when I was growing up.
Why a post about butterscotch pudding? Why not? Especially when one is writing about comfort food.
Dad passed away nine years ago, in July, 2007. He'd known he was dying, and so did we. It was his fourth bout of cancer - first breast cancer (yes, men can and do get breast cancer), then prostate, then colon cancer, and finally, another round of prostate cancer. It was the second bout that took Dad. He'd beat it the first time - as well as the other two battles with cancer.
He and my step-mom Phyllis came to visit in April 2005. They'd planned to come in March, but ended up spending the month cleaning up a cellar after the water pipes had burst.
When they arrived, they spent close to a week, taking us out for dinner. We knew it would probably be the last time we saw Dad: the first night here, he told us that he'd gotten the prognosis that he had two years, at most. He lasted two years and change.
One afternoon while Dad and Phyl were here, they brought me to the nearby Publix for some shopping. Dad's never liked shopping; he'll decide what he wants or needs, hit the store, sprint around grabbing what stuff he'd planned to get, then head out. Left to my own devices, I'm the same way. In, sprint, get what I need, occasionally slow down to say hi to a friend or chat with one of the people fixing free food samples for shoppers ("Would you like some...today? The makings are on sale this week..."), dance around those taking their darn....sweet....time in front of whatever I'm trying to buy ("Excuse me...Excuse me...Excuse me..." Oh, heck, use the boarding house reach), then head on out.
But this time, Dad and Phyllis found their way to the pudding and gelatin aisle. I passed by as they were looking through the different flavors. I had a hunch Dad was looking for either butterscotch pudding (both of our favorite) or pistachio, his second favorite. I'll occasionally (read: once a year or so) eat pistachio pudding, mainly because it reminds me of Dad. I like it, too, but nowhere near as much as butterscotch. And yes, the pistachio has to be the cooked stuff, not instant.
I went past the other end of the pudding aisle a few minutes later, and saw that Dad and Phyl were still there. I found that a little odd (sprint, grab stuff, head for check-out), but let it slide. They were in a new store for them. Maybe they discovered some new flavor? Who knows, I thought.
But ten minutes later, when I was ready to leave and had been hunting for Dad and Phyllis, I found them still in the pudding aisle, checking out all the boxes.
"What's up?" I asked, coming up to them.
"Your dad's looking for butterscotch pudding," Phyllis informed me. "It has to be the cooked stuff."
"All they have is the instant kind," Dad added. "They have instant and cooked pudding in every other flavor, but none of the cooked butterscotch!"
A glance through the packages of both brands that Publix carried confirmed this. There was chocolate (instant and cooked), pistachio (instant and cooked), vanilla, tapioca, lemon - all instant and cooked. And butterscotch - which only came in instant.
"We haven't been able to find the cooked variety up in New York, either," Dad informed me.
Phyllis nodded. "It's true. We've tried getting it everywhere. No one seems to sell it anymore."
Butterscotch pudding - the cooked kind - was our favorite! It held memories for us. Like the time Mom flew to Florida for a week and Dad picked up enough butterscotch pudding to sink a battleship. There might have been a package or two left when Mom got back, but not much more.
I went in search of someone who worked at the store, and asked him about it. "Let me get the manager," he said.
A minute later, a manager arrived, only to inform us that they hadn't been able to get the stuff, but that he would personally try to find some somewhere for us. "But it might take a few weeks," he said.
This became a challenge for me. Dad was dying, darn it, and if he wanted the cooked version of butterscotch pudding, by God, I was going to find some!
Maybe two months after Dad and Phyl got back to New York, I found six lonely boxes of the cooked version on the shelves and bought all six, then shipped them up to Dad. A week later, I was in another store (not Publix, but another chain) and discovered that they had boxes and boxes of butterscotch pudding - the kinds you cook! I loaded up, then shipped these out the next day.
After that, once a month or so, I'd pick up a few more boxes at the store I'd located them at...until one day, more than a year after Dad and Phyllis had been here, less than a year before he died, Publix started carrying the stuff.
There are other foods that I've considered comfort food for years most of which have stories that go with them. (These stories I'll try to keep short.)
My grandmother - Mom's Mom - made a fantastic Oven Pot Roast, which I have posted in my original cooking blog, Confessions of a Foodie; the post was from January 19, 2013. Everyone in our family loved it.
One Sunday when my older three kids were young, I used Grandma's recipe to bake up her Oven Pot Roast. It smelled fantastic; by dinner time, everyone was definitely ready to eat.
I had figured, since I'd used a 4-pound chuck roast, that we'd have half of it that night, and the rest the next day for sandwiches and, finally, hash for dinner. Great idea - except that my oldest, who had two hollow legs, finished it off during the night.
Years later, when my ex- and I had split up, I was helping him find an apartment. At one complex (one that had an efficiency for rent), we stopped by the office manager's apartment so we could go to the nearby efficiency. Darned if his wife wasn't cooking a pot roast, the scent of which reminded my ex- and me of Grandma's pot roast. That clinched the deal on the efficiency! (Yes, he rented it.)
Grandma also specialized in her homemade oatmeal and peanut butter cookies, which she always seemed to have on hand, and which, when I was growing up, she'd always bring to our house when she visited, regaling my brother, sister and me of her childhood.
My other grandma had a recipe for her quick Mac and Cheese that she used to fix for my dad and his brother Don when they were kids. It is incredibly simple (macaroni and Cheese Whiz), and kid-friendly.
Then there's the Chocolate Cream Pie.
I had a boyfriend, Tom, who loved Chocolate Cream Pie; it was his all time favorite. Shortly after my family moved from Connecticut back to New York, Tom came for a weekend visit. He was planning to fly back Sunday night. But before he left, Mom insisted on fixing a large Sunday dinner in the early afternoon. Of course, I had to fix the chocolate cream pie, right? I mean, it was my boyfriend's favorite! And how difficult could it be? Pie crust (I'd use my great grandmother's recipe), chocolate pudding, and whipped cream. Easy enough, right?
Wrong! Somehow, I managed to get the pie crust to taste like undercooked pizza crust (while burning the outer edges of it!), I burned the chocolate pudding, and the whipped cream got whipped half-way to butter!!! Yeah, it was memorable!
When it came time to serve dessert, the pie was cut into six slices, and everyone got one. But one bite...I couldn't finish my piece. Neither could Tom, nor my sister, Mom, Dad...the only one who could eat it was my kid brother. At 10, he would eat anything that didn't eat him first.
"If anyone doesn't want their pie, I'll eat it!" he announced. Immediately, five plates got pushed toward him.
About this time, the phone rang; it was one of my sister's friends. Dad - who'd answered the phone - was laughing so hard about the pie - yes, it was that bad! - that he couldn't talk, and handed the phone to me. I was laughing hard, and handed the phone to my sister. The phone made the rounds, until it was finally handed to my brother.
"Yeah, I'll tell her to call you," he told our sister's friend. "But I don't know what they're all laughing about. Robin made a pie for her boyfriend - and it's great! And you know the best part? I get to eat the whole thing!"
For years afterward, whenever Dad would come to visit, he'd inform me, "I don't care what you cook, just don't make that Chocolate Cream Pie!"
I guess we all have comfort foods, and stories about food. Yes, I've got more food stories, but they can wait for another time.
In the meantime, anyone up for a good Chocolate Cream Pie?
Note: Check out my e-cookbook, Off the Wall Cooking.
It was the kind of pudding that you cook, poured out in powder form into the milk, then stirred while it heats. I hate the instant stuff. My younger two love the instant chocolate pudding, and while I love chocolate, I can't handle the instant stuff. It never seems to set up exactly right. Plus, there's no film on top like the cooked pudding gets.
The butterscotch pudding was still warm, even though I'd let it cool for maybe ten minutes in the 'fridge, but it had gotten that film across the top. I know some people don't like the film (namely, the aforementioned younger two), but I do. It's part of what I liked about the stuff when I was growing up.
Why a post about butterscotch pudding? Why not? Especially when one is writing about comfort food.
Dad passed away nine years ago, in July, 2007. He'd known he was dying, and so did we. It was his fourth bout of cancer - first breast cancer (yes, men can and do get breast cancer), then prostate, then colon cancer, and finally, another round of prostate cancer. It was the second bout that took Dad. He'd beat it the first time - as well as the other two battles with cancer.
He and my step-mom Phyllis came to visit in April 2005. They'd planned to come in March, but ended up spending the month cleaning up a cellar after the water pipes had burst.
When they arrived, they spent close to a week, taking us out for dinner. We knew it would probably be the last time we saw Dad: the first night here, he told us that he'd gotten the prognosis that he had two years, at most. He lasted two years and change.
One afternoon while Dad and Phyl were here, they brought me to the nearby Publix for some shopping. Dad's never liked shopping; he'll decide what he wants or needs, hit the store, sprint around grabbing what stuff he'd planned to get, then head out. Left to my own devices, I'm the same way. In, sprint, get what I need, occasionally slow down to say hi to a friend or chat with one of the people fixing free food samples for shoppers ("Would you like some...today? The makings are on sale this week..."), dance around those taking their darn....sweet....time in front of whatever I'm trying to buy ("Excuse me...Excuse me...Excuse me..." Oh, heck, use the boarding house reach), then head on out.
But this time, Dad and Phyllis found their way to the pudding and gelatin aisle. I passed by as they were looking through the different flavors. I had a hunch Dad was looking for either butterscotch pudding (both of our favorite) or pistachio, his second favorite. I'll occasionally (read: once a year or so) eat pistachio pudding, mainly because it reminds me of Dad. I like it, too, but nowhere near as much as butterscotch. And yes, the pistachio has to be the cooked stuff, not instant.
I went past the other end of the pudding aisle a few minutes later, and saw that Dad and Phyl were still there. I found that a little odd (sprint, grab stuff, head for check-out), but let it slide. They were in a new store for them. Maybe they discovered some new flavor? Who knows, I thought.
But ten minutes later, when I was ready to leave and had been hunting for Dad and Phyllis, I found them still in the pudding aisle, checking out all the boxes.
"What's up?" I asked, coming up to them.
"Your dad's looking for butterscotch pudding," Phyllis informed me. "It has to be the cooked stuff."
"All they have is the instant kind," Dad added. "They have instant and cooked pudding in every other flavor, but none of the cooked butterscotch!"
A glance through the packages of both brands that Publix carried confirmed this. There was chocolate (instant and cooked), pistachio (instant and cooked), vanilla, tapioca, lemon - all instant and cooked. And butterscotch - which only came in instant.
"We haven't been able to find the cooked variety up in New York, either," Dad informed me.
Phyllis nodded. "It's true. We've tried getting it everywhere. No one seems to sell it anymore."
Butterscotch pudding - the cooked kind - was our favorite! It held memories for us. Like the time Mom flew to Florida for a week and Dad picked up enough butterscotch pudding to sink a battleship. There might have been a package or two left when Mom got back, but not much more.
I went in search of someone who worked at the store, and asked him about it. "Let me get the manager," he said.
A minute later, a manager arrived, only to inform us that they hadn't been able to get the stuff, but that he would personally try to find some somewhere for us. "But it might take a few weeks," he said.
This became a challenge for me. Dad was dying, darn it, and if he wanted the cooked version of butterscotch pudding, by God, I was going to find some!
Maybe two months after Dad and Phyl got back to New York, I found six lonely boxes of the cooked version on the shelves and bought all six, then shipped them up to Dad. A week later, I was in another store (not Publix, but another chain) and discovered that they had boxes and boxes of butterscotch pudding - the kinds you cook! I loaded up, then shipped these out the next day.
After that, once a month or so, I'd pick up a few more boxes at the store I'd located them at...until one day, more than a year after Dad and Phyllis had been here, less than a year before he died, Publix started carrying the stuff.
There are other foods that I've considered comfort food for years most of which have stories that go with them. (These stories I'll try to keep short.)
My grandmother - Mom's Mom - made a fantastic Oven Pot Roast, which I have posted in my original cooking blog, Confessions of a Foodie; the post was from January 19, 2013. Everyone in our family loved it.
One Sunday when my older three kids were young, I used Grandma's recipe to bake up her Oven Pot Roast. It smelled fantastic; by dinner time, everyone was definitely ready to eat.
I had figured, since I'd used a 4-pound chuck roast, that we'd have half of it that night, and the rest the next day for sandwiches and, finally, hash for dinner. Great idea - except that my oldest, who had two hollow legs, finished it off during the night.
Years later, when my ex- and I had split up, I was helping him find an apartment. At one complex (one that had an efficiency for rent), we stopped by the office manager's apartment so we could go to the nearby efficiency. Darned if his wife wasn't cooking a pot roast, the scent of which reminded my ex- and me of Grandma's pot roast. That clinched the deal on the efficiency! (Yes, he rented it.)
Grandma also specialized in her homemade oatmeal and peanut butter cookies, which she always seemed to have on hand, and which, when I was growing up, she'd always bring to our house when she visited, regaling my brother, sister and me of her childhood.
My other grandma had a recipe for her quick Mac and Cheese that she used to fix for my dad and his brother Don when they were kids. It is incredibly simple (macaroni and Cheese Whiz), and kid-friendly.
Then there's the Chocolate Cream Pie.
I had a boyfriend, Tom, who loved Chocolate Cream Pie; it was his all time favorite. Shortly after my family moved from Connecticut back to New York, Tom came for a weekend visit. He was planning to fly back Sunday night. But before he left, Mom insisted on fixing a large Sunday dinner in the early afternoon. Of course, I had to fix the chocolate cream pie, right? I mean, it was my boyfriend's favorite! And how difficult could it be? Pie crust (I'd use my great grandmother's recipe), chocolate pudding, and whipped cream. Easy enough, right?
Wrong! Somehow, I managed to get the pie crust to taste like undercooked pizza crust (while burning the outer edges of it!), I burned the chocolate pudding, and the whipped cream got whipped half-way to butter!!! Yeah, it was memorable!
When it came time to serve dessert, the pie was cut into six slices, and everyone got one. But one bite...I couldn't finish my piece. Neither could Tom, nor my sister, Mom, Dad...the only one who could eat it was my kid brother. At 10, he would eat anything that didn't eat him first.
"If anyone doesn't want their pie, I'll eat it!" he announced. Immediately, five plates got pushed toward him.
About this time, the phone rang; it was one of my sister's friends. Dad - who'd answered the phone - was laughing so hard about the pie - yes, it was that bad! - that he couldn't talk, and handed the phone to me. I was laughing hard, and handed the phone to my sister. The phone made the rounds, until it was finally handed to my brother.
"Yeah, I'll tell her to call you," he told our sister's friend. "But I don't know what they're all laughing about. Robin made a pie for her boyfriend - and it's great! And you know the best part? I get to eat the whole thing!"
For years afterward, whenever Dad would come to visit, he'd inform me, "I don't care what you cook, just don't make that Chocolate Cream Pie!"
I guess we all have comfort foods, and stories about food. Yes, I've got more food stories, but they can wait for another time.
In the meantime, anyone up for a good Chocolate Cream Pie?
Note: Check out my e-cookbook, Off the Wall Cooking.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Politics Make Me Sick
I never voted for any of the Bush family: Not George H.W. Bush, not George W. Bush, and not Jeb (although I almost thought that Jeb might be the smarter brother). If any of them were to run for office again, I still wouldn't vote for them. To paraphrase Dr. Seuss, I would not vote for them in a boat, with a goat, with green eggs and ham, I wouldn't vote for them, Sam-I-Am.
In the first essay in her book Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, Anne Lamott bemoans the "scolding at the hands of the Bush administration."
"A friend called to wish me Happy Birthday, and I remembered something she's said many years ago, while reading a Vanity Fair article about Hitler's affair with his niece. 'I have had it with Hitler,' Peggy said vehemently...And I've had it with Bush." ("Ham of God," Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith.)
Throughout "Ham of God", Lamott states why she wasn't wild about George W. Bush. And I am as much a fan of the Bush politics as Lamott. Nothing personal; I'm sure that if one could pull politics away from the Bush men, if one could have a talk over, say, their favorite barbecue, places to vacation, and such, we might almost have a decent conversation. Almost.
That said, the current political scene is making me positively nostalgic for Bush family politics. Between Rick Scott, former chief executive of Columbia/HCA, now in his final two years as Florida governor and Donald Trump the GOP nominee for president, is there any doubt as to why I'm nostalgic?
When George W. ran for reelection, my dad called to apologize for voting for W. the first time around, later becoming an Independent (after being a life-long Republican) because of W. That said, I'm sure Dad is not rolling over in his grave, but, rather, spinning faster than a windmill during a hurricane.
First, Rick Scott. A 2012 Huffington Post article mentions his plunging popularity. Things have only gotten worse ("Rick Scott, America' eighth least popular Governor") for his popularity, and with good reason. He got into office on his "Let's get to work" campaign - promising more jobs for Florida - then promptly starting cutting jobs left and right in Tallahassee. He ran Columbia/HCA while the company was embroiled in controversy over, in large part, the company's Medicare billing practices. Although Scott wasn't implicated, the company ended up forking more than $600 million to the federal government for the largest fraud settlement in US history (taken from the Wikipedia page on Rick Scott). Then there's the fact that he passed on billions of federal dollars to help expand Medicaid that would have covered 650,000 Floridians. There's more, but you get the idea.
Then, there's Donald Trump.
It seems that every time the man opens his mouth, garbage seems to spew out. I would say it was mostly manure, but at least manure can be useful if one is planting roses or mushrooms. I have yet to hear anything that useful coming from Trump. It seems that Trump says something that takes maybe 30 seconds to say, then spends the next week back-tracking. He's managed to insult everyone and anyone who is not a rich white Christian man in great health.
Besides Hilary Clinton, Bernie Sanders, and the mainstream media, Trump has managed to insult a growing list of people, places and things. Try people in his own party: Sen. John McCain ("not a war hero"), Former President George W. Bush, Sen. Lindsey Graham, and in a really low moment, a reporter with a disability.
That's just a start. Watching news reports on Trump, it's not hard for me to imagine him being responsible for starting a major war simply by acting like a spoiled brat bully.
Is it any wonder why, while I never voted for a Bush, I'm almost nostalgic?
In the first essay in her book Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, Anne Lamott bemoans the "scolding at the hands of the Bush administration."
"A friend called to wish me Happy Birthday, and I remembered something she's said many years ago, while reading a Vanity Fair article about Hitler's affair with his niece. 'I have had it with Hitler,' Peggy said vehemently...And I've had it with Bush." ("Ham of God," Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith.)
Throughout "Ham of God", Lamott states why she wasn't wild about George W. Bush. And I am as much a fan of the Bush politics as Lamott. Nothing personal; I'm sure that if one could pull politics away from the Bush men, if one could have a talk over, say, their favorite barbecue, places to vacation, and such, we might almost have a decent conversation. Almost.
That said, the current political scene is making me positively nostalgic for Bush family politics. Between Rick Scott, former chief executive of Columbia/HCA, now in his final two years as Florida governor and Donald Trump the GOP nominee for president, is there any doubt as to why I'm nostalgic?
When George W. ran for reelection, my dad called to apologize for voting for W. the first time around, later becoming an Independent (after being a life-long Republican) because of W. That said, I'm sure Dad is not rolling over in his grave, but, rather, spinning faster than a windmill during a hurricane.
First, Rick Scott. A 2012 Huffington Post article mentions his plunging popularity. Things have only gotten worse ("Rick Scott, America' eighth least popular Governor") for his popularity, and with good reason. He got into office on his "Let's get to work" campaign - promising more jobs for Florida - then promptly starting cutting jobs left and right in Tallahassee. He ran Columbia/HCA while the company was embroiled in controversy over, in large part, the company's Medicare billing practices. Although Scott wasn't implicated, the company ended up forking more than $600 million to the federal government for the largest fraud settlement in US history (taken from the Wikipedia page on Rick Scott). Then there's the fact that he passed on billions of federal dollars to help expand Medicaid that would have covered 650,000 Floridians. There's more, but you get the idea.
Then, there's Donald Trump.
It seems that every time the man opens his mouth, garbage seems to spew out. I would say it was mostly manure, but at least manure can be useful if one is planting roses or mushrooms. I have yet to hear anything that useful coming from Trump. It seems that Trump says something that takes maybe 30 seconds to say, then spends the next week back-tracking. He's managed to insult everyone and anyone who is not a rich white Christian man in great health.
Besides Hilary Clinton, Bernie Sanders, and the mainstream media, Trump has managed to insult a growing list of people, places and things. Try people in his own party: Sen. John McCain ("not a war hero"), Former President George W. Bush, Sen. Lindsey Graham, and in a really low moment, a reporter with a disability.
That's just a start. Watching news reports on Trump, it's not hard for me to imagine him being responsible for starting a major war simply by acting like a spoiled brat bully.
Is it any wonder why, while I never voted for a Bush, I'm almost nostalgic?
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Yard Sales
I hate yard sales.
Let me clarify that a little. I love going to yard sales, especially ones that are non-specific; by that I mean yard sales that are not simply selling all of one thing - children's clothes and old toys; all car parts; personal-care stuff in bulk, picked up at store clearance end-caps and sold en masse in a yard sale. What I hate is having yard sales.
Okay, maybe hate is a strong word when associated with yard sales, but anyone who's ever had a yard sale can probably understand.
First of all, you have to pick a day (or, if you're going to do it for the whole weekend, or, at least, several days, a weekend), and make sure ahead of time that the weather is good. Then, the morning of the yard sale (or the first morning, if it's a multiple-day event), you've got to get up very early and start dragging out stuff (yes, that's the technical term): tables (even if this includes closet doors propped up on chairs), boxes of sales-stuff, stuff that won't fit into boxes (that old lawn mower that you've meant to get rid of), place everything onto tables (well, except for that lawn mower), and make sure that it's spread out in some kind of order - books with books, DVDs together, etc. Then, you've got to make sure your yard sale signs are where people can see them and be directed to your yard sale. This can be dicey, especially if you're silly enough to try doing this by yourself; put the signs out at main streets before putting stuff on the tables, and you're liable to have people driving by while you're opening that first box of stuff to put out. But put the stuff out after you've set up, and there's a good chance people will come by while no one is watching the sale. Yup, best to have at least one other person helping out. Either way, though, figure it's going to take a good hour (or two) to completely set up. I can almost guarantee that half-way through the morning, you'll remember that one or two items that you really wanted to set out in the sale; this happens almost every time I've had a yard sale.
Of course, the weather isn't necessarily a problem if you've got a garage with a secure-able garage door. You can set up in the garage a little at a time during the week before the sale, knowing that if it rains, you can still have the sale. And if the weather is nice, you can drag one or two tables out on the day of the sale so that people driving down the street can spot the sale easier.
Then there's the wait. If you're lucky and lots of people wander by, you won't have much of a wait. And, of course, at the end of the sale, there's the clean-up, where you put everything away...
My last yard sale was held on a weekend where there was a thirty percent chance of rain. Yes, 30%! That might sound crazy, but hear me out. This is Florida and summer is the rainy season. Thirty percent was the lowest chance of rain we'd had for a few weeks, and what looked like the lowest percent in the near future. Besides, the rain was predicted to show up mid-afternoon, giving me (and my daughter, M.H., who'd wanted to have the yard sale) all morning and a couple of afternoon hours to sell stuff. Besides, the previous Saturday, when M.H. had really wanted to have the yard sale, we'd had a fifty percent chance of rain, which, of course, meant putting the sale off by a week. And then, on the 50%-chance-of-rain-day, it didn't rain until after 5:00 that afternoon. Dang, I thought. We could have had the yard sale and had it over and done with! Thirty percent chance of afternoon rain sounded good.
Saturday morning, I put out the tables, then hung out the signs before rushing back to finish setting up. As some point, I texted M.H. to let her know what was up; she texted back that she'd be over in a little while to help out.
Over the next hour or so, there was a steady stream of people coming by. Quite a few stopped, some bought stuff, while others slowed down, glanced over, then kept going. M.H. came by with her daughter, G.H., and the two of us kept fairly busy.
At some point, the clouds started rolling in, slowly, at first, then rapidly.
"I hope it doesn't rain," M.H. said. I agreed, then mentioned that it wasn't supposed to rain until mid-afternoon.
But within a few minutes it started sprinkling. We started grabbing some of the stuff that would be ruined by the rain - books, the closet doors being used as tables, that sort-of thing.
But suddenly, the rain poured down in earnest. It was like standing in the shower, fully dressed, while we scrambled around dragging stuff in, shouting "Grab that box over there!" and "Help me drag this box in now; it's falling apart!"
Once we got everything in, I lent M.H. clothes so she could put her soaking wet clothes into the last load of laundry she was doing at our place that week.
Neither of us was happy. The week before, when there was a 50% chance of rain, causing us to delay our yard sale plans, it hadn't rained until after 5:00. Now, when the rain chance hovered at 30% of afternoon showers, making it look good for a sale (or, at least, a better day for a sale), it had rained before noon. Yes, we groused. We were definitely not happy.
But finally, we got our acts together and started going through the yard sale boxes that we'd dragged inside, picking stuff to save for a future sale, stuff for Ebay, stuff for M.H. to donate to Goodwill on her way home, stuff to throw out. It took an hour or two.
"At least we made some money," M.H. said.
Finally, stuff set into groups - future yard sale/Ebay stuff, donate bag, other stuff thrown out - M.H. and G.H. got ready to leave. "I'm so over yard sales," M.H. said as they headed out. I had to agree. It had been a fiasco.
Yes, it rained the rest of the day. So much for 30 %. And yes, when it looks like I'll be having another yard sale sometime in the sort-of near future.
Not that I'm in any hurry.
Let me clarify that a little. I love going to yard sales, especially ones that are non-specific; by that I mean yard sales that are not simply selling all of one thing - children's clothes and old toys; all car parts; personal-care stuff in bulk, picked up at store clearance end-caps and sold en masse in a yard sale. What I hate is having yard sales.
Okay, maybe hate is a strong word when associated with yard sales, but anyone who's ever had a yard sale can probably understand.
First of all, you have to pick a day (or, if you're going to do it for the whole weekend, or, at least, several days, a weekend), and make sure ahead of time that the weather is good. Then, the morning of the yard sale (or the first morning, if it's a multiple-day event), you've got to get up very early and start dragging out stuff (yes, that's the technical term): tables (even if this includes closet doors propped up on chairs), boxes of sales-stuff, stuff that won't fit into boxes (that old lawn mower that you've meant to get rid of), place everything onto tables (well, except for that lawn mower), and make sure that it's spread out in some kind of order - books with books, DVDs together, etc. Then, you've got to make sure your yard sale signs are where people can see them and be directed to your yard sale. This can be dicey, especially if you're silly enough to try doing this by yourself; put the signs out at main streets before putting stuff on the tables, and you're liable to have people driving by while you're opening that first box of stuff to put out. But put the stuff out after you've set up, and there's a good chance people will come by while no one is watching the sale. Yup, best to have at least one other person helping out. Either way, though, figure it's going to take a good hour (or two) to completely set up. I can almost guarantee that half-way through the morning, you'll remember that one or two items that you really wanted to set out in the sale; this happens almost every time I've had a yard sale.
Of course, the weather isn't necessarily a problem if you've got a garage with a secure-able garage door. You can set up in the garage a little at a time during the week before the sale, knowing that if it rains, you can still have the sale. And if the weather is nice, you can drag one or two tables out on the day of the sale so that people driving down the street can spot the sale easier.
Then there's the wait. If you're lucky and lots of people wander by, you won't have much of a wait. And, of course, at the end of the sale, there's the clean-up, where you put everything away...
My last yard sale was held on a weekend where there was a thirty percent chance of rain. Yes, 30%! That might sound crazy, but hear me out. This is Florida and summer is the rainy season. Thirty percent was the lowest chance of rain we'd had for a few weeks, and what looked like the lowest percent in the near future. Besides, the rain was predicted to show up mid-afternoon, giving me (and my daughter, M.H., who'd wanted to have the yard sale) all morning and a couple of afternoon hours to sell stuff. Besides, the previous Saturday, when M.H. had really wanted to have the yard sale, we'd had a fifty percent chance of rain, which, of course, meant putting the sale off by a week. And then, on the 50%-chance-of-rain-day, it didn't rain until after 5:00 that afternoon. Dang, I thought. We could have had the yard sale and had it over and done with! Thirty percent chance of afternoon rain sounded good.
Saturday morning, I put out the tables, then hung out the signs before rushing back to finish setting up. As some point, I texted M.H. to let her know what was up; she texted back that she'd be over in a little while to help out.
Over the next hour or so, there was a steady stream of people coming by. Quite a few stopped, some bought stuff, while others slowed down, glanced over, then kept going. M.H. came by with her daughter, G.H., and the two of us kept fairly busy.
At some point, the clouds started rolling in, slowly, at first, then rapidly.
"I hope it doesn't rain," M.H. said. I agreed, then mentioned that it wasn't supposed to rain until mid-afternoon.
But within a few minutes it started sprinkling. We started grabbing some of the stuff that would be ruined by the rain - books, the closet doors being used as tables, that sort-of thing.
But suddenly, the rain poured down in earnest. It was like standing in the shower, fully dressed, while we scrambled around dragging stuff in, shouting "Grab that box over there!" and "Help me drag this box in now; it's falling apart!"
Once we got everything in, I lent M.H. clothes so she could put her soaking wet clothes into the last load of laundry she was doing at our place that week.
Neither of us was happy. The week before, when there was a 50% chance of rain, causing us to delay our yard sale plans, it hadn't rained until after 5:00. Now, when the rain chance hovered at 30% of afternoon showers, making it look good for a sale (or, at least, a better day for a sale), it had rained before noon. Yes, we groused. We were definitely not happy.
But finally, we got our acts together and started going through the yard sale boxes that we'd dragged inside, picking stuff to save for a future sale, stuff for Ebay, stuff for M.H. to donate to Goodwill on her way home, stuff to throw out. It took an hour or two.
"At least we made some money," M.H. said.
Finally, stuff set into groups - future yard sale/Ebay stuff, donate bag, other stuff thrown out - M.H. and G.H. got ready to leave. "I'm so over yard sales," M.H. said as they headed out. I had to agree. It had been a fiasco.
Yes, it rained the rest of the day. So much for 30 %. And yes, when it looks like I'll be having another yard sale sometime in the sort-of near future.
Not that I'm in any hurry.
Friday, June 3, 2016
There's a Snake on the Loose!
I recently reread Alas, Babylon, Pat Frank's classic novel. Published in 1960 during the Cold War, and written after a conversation in which Frank was asked about his thoughts of what would happen should World War III occur, it tells the story of a small Florida town immediately prior to WWIII, through the first year following the war.
A day or two before the war begins, Missouri, who works as a housekeeper for several people, informs Randy, one of the main characters whose house she cleans, "I think the McGoverns will move. Mrs. McGovern can't handle snake or bugs, and what's Florida without snake and bugs?" (This is paraphrased.)
Between that quote, and several videos posted recently on Facebook about snakes, reminded me of what I've come to think of as our snake in the attic story.
We had a snake slither out through the attic hatch in our hall about nine years ago. At first, I thought my so J. had put a rubber snake there to freak me out...and then it MOVED!!! It slowly dropped to the floor and ended up slithering through the house. Both of our cats (who were basically still kittens) figured I'd gotten them a new playmate. Cats were locked into a bedroom, and I called 911 to see if they could send a couple of officers out, or get animal control for me - SOMETHING. Then I called the landlord, who sent out their pest control guy to see if there were any more creepy-crawlies in the attic.
Now, before you start screaming about misuse of 911, let me say that I'd just watched the news where several cops were called to help an alligator vacate someone's house...so calling 911 wasn't THAT much of a stretch (though the snake was...).
Sooo...two officers came out. One officer - a big, strapping guy with a Southern accent - got there maybe 5 minutes before the other and asked what the problem was. I told him, and he informed me, "Ma'am, unless you want a 6'5" 250 pound man passed out in your living room, we're gonna wait for my backup." Backup showed, up - guy was maybe 5'10" - and HE came inside, grabbed the snake, and took it to a nearby field.
Meanwhile, pest control guy came out and started climbing a ladder to look into the attic's access panel in the hall. Just as he started pushing the panel, J., who was in the kitchen at the refrigerator (out of sight of the hall) opened a new bottle of soda, which let out a satisfying HIIISSSSSSSHHHHH. The guy couldn't get off the ladder fast enough, while I jumped out of the way. J. then came into view with the bottle of soda and, giving us weird looks, asked what the problem was.
Did you know that if you throw moth balls into your attic, it'll keep snakes out? Found this out from the pest control guy (after his breathing got back to normal; also, there were no more snakes in the attic). And yes, they do work.
And in case you're wondering, the snake was a black racer, a non-venomous critter common in "these here parts". Doesn't mean I've gotta like 'em in my house, dropping from the attic access panel in the hall-way ceiling.
Did I mention the moth balls?
A day or two before the war begins, Missouri, who works as a housekeeper for several people, informs Randy, one of the main characters whose house she cleans, "I think the McGoverns will move. Mrs. McGovern can't handle snake or bugs, and what's Florida without snake and bugs?" (This is paraphrased.)
Between that quote, and several videos posted recently on Facebook about snakes, reminded me of what I've come to think of as our snake in the attic story.
We had a snake slither out through the attic hatch in our hall about nine years ago. At first, I thought my so J. had put a rubber snake there to freak me out...and then it MOVED!!! It slowly dropped to the floor and ended up slithering through the house. Both of our cats (who were basically still kittens) figured I'd gotten them a new playmate. Cats were locked into a bedroom, and I called 911 to see if they could send a couple of officers out, or get animal control for me - SOMETHING. Then I called the landlord, who sent out their pest control guy to see if there were any more creepy-crawlies in the attic.
Now, before you start screaming about misuse of 911, let me say that I'd just watched the news where several cops were called to help an alligator vacate someone's house...so calling 911 wasn't THAT much of a stretch (though the snake was...).
Sooo...two officers came out. One officer - a big, strapping guy with a Southern accent - got there maybe 5 minutes before the other and asked what the problem was. I told him, and he informed me, "Ma'am, unless you want a 6'5" 250 pound man passed out in your living room, we're gonna wait for my backup." Backup showed, up - guy was maybe 5'10" - and HE came inside, grabbed the snake, and took it to a nearby field.
Meanwhile, pest control guy came out and started climbing a ladder to look into the attic's access panel in the hall. Just as he started pushing the panel, J., who was in the kitchen at the refrigerator (out of sight of the hall) opened a new bottle of soda, which let out a satisfying HIIISSSSSSSHHHHH. The guy couldn't get off the ladder fast enough, while I jumped out of the way. J. then came into view with the bottle of soda and, giving us weird looks, asked what the problem was.
Did you know that if you throw moth balls into your attic, it'll keep snakes out? Found this out from the pest control guy (after his breathing got back to normal; also, there were no more snakes in the attic). And yes, they do work.
And in case you're wondering, the snake was a black racer, a non-venomous critter common in "these here parts". Doesn't mean I've gotta like 'em in my house, dropping from the attic access panel in the hall-way ceiling.
Did I mention the moth balls?
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Teachers Can Make an Impact
Recently, I overheard several people talking about their favorite teachers. Mind you, these were no kids in school, nor were they of traditional fresh-out-of-high-school college-aged people. These were people who appeared to be in their 40s and beyond. Add to that the occasional TV commercial featuring famous people mentioning people who made a difference in their lives - including teachers - and the fact that the school-year is winding down all got me thinking about teachers who really made a difference in my life.
My mom was a teacher for a number of years, first in Connecticut and New York (state, not city), then in Florida. It's because of Mom (as well as a B.A. journalism) that makes me such a stickler about grammar. But Mom was there decades before I ended up working towards my journalism degree. Blame my mom if you see me trying not to strangle someone who's talking about "John and me went to the store."
But my first non-parental teacher who made a really big impression on me was my sixth grade teacher at Crompond Elementary School in Yorktown, New York. When I was there, the school went from kindergarten through sixth grade. Robert Schattales was the sixth grade teacher most kids wanted to have. His wife taught fourth grade in another school. (I've probably spelled his last name wrong; I graduated there in 1965, which is definitely showing my age.) I doubt that either are still alive. But here's what he did for his students: He cared. He listened. And every couple of weeks, he and his wife would have three or four students a piece from their classes over for dinner, which turned out to be almost a party. Both teachers, and six to eight kids. And it wasn't just the popular kids; every student got a turn to go for dinner at their house.
Then, there was high school. I went to four different high schools, due to several moves. But the teachers at Putnam Catholic Academy (PCA) in Putnam, Connecticut - most of whom were nuns - were great. One of the non-nun teachers, John Huckle, taught math my sophomore year there; he made math fun!
Years later, after a move to Florida, I attended St. Petersburg College (SPC) (though when I started, it was St. Petersburg Junior College). My favorite teacher there taught Composition I and II. Martha Denny loved my writing; she was one of the first people outside of my family (and outside of PCA) who encouraged it. Thank you, Mrs. Denny!
There were other outstanding professors during my time at SPC: William Nixon, Star Weihe, and Thomas King (all in the natural science department), William Rice in the math department, and Bonnie Jefferis and Dean Kohrs, who taught the intro classes to mass communication.
Finally, at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg (USFSP), there are several professors who really influenced me in a positive way. Without getting into all the whys, they are: Ken Minor (who taught writing), Deni Elliot, Tony Silvia, Beth Reynolds, and Bob Dardenne (all in the Mass Comm department), Thomas Hallock (Arts & Sciences), and Gary Mormino (Uncle/Father Gary) and Ray Arsenault; the latter two built USFSP's Florida Studies program.
Teachers can make or break his or her students' academics. Here's to all the good ones out there! You surely don't get paid enough!
My mom was a teacher for a number of years, first in Connecticut and New York (state, not city), then in Florida. It's because of Mom (as well as a B.A. journalism) that makes me such a stickler about grammar. But Mom was there decades before I ended up working towards my journalism degree. Blame my mom if you see me trying not to strangle someone who's talking about "John and me went to the store."
But my first non-parental teacher who made a really big impression on me was my sixth grade teacher at Crompond Elementary School in Yorktown, New York. When I was there, the school went from kindergarten through sixth grade. Robert Schattales was the sixth grade teacher most kids wanted to have. His wife taught fourth grade in another school. (I've probably spelled his last name wrong; I graduated there in 1965, which is definitely showing my age.) I doubt that either are still alive. But here's what he did for his students: He cared. He listened. And every couple of weeks, he and his wife would have three or four students a piece from their classes over for dinner, which turned out to be almost a party. Both teachers, and six to eight kids. And it wasn't just the popular kids; every student got a turn to go for dinner at their house.
Then, there was high school. I went to four different high schools, due to several moves. But the teachers at Putnam Catholic Academy (PCA) in Putnam, Connecticut - most of whom were nuns - were great. One of the non-nun teachers, John Huckle, taught math my sophomore year there; he made math fun!
Years later, after a move to Florida, I attended St. Petersburg College (SPC) (though when I started, it was St. Petersburg Junior College). My favorite teacher there taught Composition I and II. Martha Denny loved my writing; she was one of the first people outside of my family (and outside of PCA) who encouraged it. Thank you, Mrs. Denny!
There were other outstanding professors during my time at SPC: William Nixon, Star Weihe, and Thomas King (all in the natural science department), William Rice in the math department, and Bonnie Jefferis and Dean Kohrs, who taught the intro classes to mass communication.
Finally, at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg (USFSP), there are several professors who really influenced me in a positive way. Without getting into all the whys, they are: Ken Minor (who taught writing), Deni Elliot, Tony Silvia, Beth Reynolds, and Bob Dardenne (all in the Mass Comm department), Thomas Hallock (Arts & Sciences), and Gary Mormino (Uncle/Father Gary) and Ray Arsenault; the latter two built USFSP's Florida Studies program.
Teachers can make or break his or her students' academics. Here's to all the good ones out there! You surely don't get paid enough!
Saturday, March 19, 2016
Family, Fun, Cats, Rain...It Must Be Saturday
It's Saturday - a dreary, rainy Saturday. Does anything else scream lazy-sleep-in-day as much as a rainy Saturday? I doubt it.
But of all the Saturdays to have it rain, today might not have been the best. The city of Pinellas Park is having their annual Country In The Park, a celebration of all things in a smallish city. It's billed as "the City of Pinellas Park's annual festival and trade show," and features an arts & crafts show (so local artists and crafts people can display - and hopefully sell - their wares), a tree & plant sale, carnival rides, food - pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers, curly chips, funnel cakes, and soda and bottled water - the whole shebang. The city even displays some of their vehicles (wow! look at that antique fire truck!) and literature from the different departments.
Vendors Tents from 2015 Country in the Park
Antique La France Fire Truck
Curly Fries and Fried Corn
Making Curly Fries
See? Almost Done!
Fried Corn
But what really seems to bring in a lot of people (as if those aforementioned goodies don't do it) are the display of cars by the Suncoast Mustang Car Club and the live music. Usually, the music - yes, live concert! - consists of mostly up-and-coming local acts, then highlighted at the end by a national act. Usually, the national act is someone out of the major limelight for a year or two, but a national act, none-the-less. This year's national act is Crystal Gayle ("Don't it Make Your Brown Eyes Blue?"). (Sorry, folks, I don't have any photos of Crystal Gayle; all photos here are mine - yes, copyright, and all - and as Crystal hasn't played here yet...)
Suncoast Mustang Club Show, Country in the Park, 2015
Barbershop Quarter, 2015
Suite Caroline, 2012
I usually don't stay for the national act; that usually comes on around 8:00 P.M. (which is when Crystal Gayle will be taking the stage - in case you're in the area and want to see her perform for free!), as I'm usually not up to making an entire day of it. There's only so many times that you can pass the same vendors or look at the city vehicles before you're ready to head home. Besides, in the past, the city has had free buses to and from the event, with the pick-up area only a couple of blocks from home. The city quit doing that, though, several years ago. Since we now have to take a cab to and from the event - $8 to $10 each way - there are only so many trips there and back we're able to do for a free event. (I know, I'm getting picky, right? But considering that parking is limited near the event, if not costly (if you can't get a space at the library or city hall, other parking ends up costing $5 or more), it would make sense to continue the bus shuttle to and from the out-lying park. And yes, it would be convenient for those who live nearby and don't drive.)
Anyway, I had asked a cab driver we know if he'd be available to drive us there around 1:00; he said he'd probably be able to do that. So, at least that was taken care of.
And then, the wait: All week, the local meteorologists had been predicting a 50% chance of rain today. TODAY! Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Today! Country In The Park happens once a year (with their annual Chili Blaze the night before). It hasn't really rained in a while, so why today? But of course, you can't order the weather.
This morning, when I got up, the sky was a pale blue, without a cloud in the sky. Wonderful! I thought. Maybe that 50% chance would happen elsewhere in the Tampa Bay area. Right? Ha!
About 9:45, a cousin of mine, new to the area, mentioned meeting him in a nearby park (where the bus shuttle usually was) to hand him his mail. (Long story, best saved for another time.) Great. I hadn't even taken my shower yet.
So, into the shower, throw some clothes on, and head for the park, getting there about the same time R. did. Why do I mention walking there? Because as I headed through the back entrance to the park - more like a huge field that's part of the park - I noticed the rain clouds coming in, and smelled the coming rain. (Does anyone else smell rain?) As I handed R. his mail, the first big plops of rain hit us and the ground around us.
"I guess I'd better head out," R. said. He rides a motorcycle and isn't too wild about riding it in the rain, any more than I'm wild about walking home in the rain - especially when I heard one or two cracks of thunder.
When I got home, I fixed breakfast and discovered that one of my two cats - Drexie, a gray tabby - would so love to help me eat my breakfast! She's so helpful like that!
We're about to have another visit from family...but that's okay.
Will we end up at this year's Country In The Park? Probably. Will we stay long? Probably not. Will we be back to see and hear Crystal Gayle? Even though I'm not heavily into country music - I tolerate most of it, and do like several country acts - I wouldn't mind being there this evening. But I don't think I'll make it. But maybe you could?
If you do go and hear her, drop me a comment - let me know how you liked her act!
But of all the Saturdays to have it rain, today might not have been the best. The city of Pinellas Park is having their annual Country In The Park, a celebration of all things in a smallish city. It's billed as "the City of Pinellas Park's annual festival and trade show," and features an arts & crafts show (so local artists and crafts people can display - and hopefully sell - their wares), a tree & plant sale, carnival rides, food - pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers, curly chips, funnel cakes, and soda and bottled water - the whole shebang. The city even displays some of their vehicles (wow! look at that antique fire truck!) and literature from the different departments.
Vendors Tents from 2015 Country in the Park
Antique La France Fire Truck
Curly Fries and Fried Corn
Making Curly Fries
See? Almost Done!
Fried Corn
But what really seems to bring in a lot of people (as if those aforementioned goodies don't do it) are the display of cars by the Suncoast Mustang Car Club and the live music. Usually, the music - yes, live concert! - consists of mostly up-and-coming local acts, then highlighted at the end by a national act. Usually, the national act is someone out of the major limelight for a year or two, but a national act, none-the-less. This year's national act is Crystal Gayle ("Don't it Make Your Brown Eyes Blue?"). (Sorry, folks, I don't have any photos of Crystal Gayle; all photos here are mine - yes, copyright, and all - and as Crystal hasn't played here yet...)
Suncoast Mustang Club Show, Country in the Park, 2015
Barbershop Quarter, 2015
Suite Caroline, 2012I usually don't stay for the national act; that usually comes on around 8:00 P.M. (which is when Crystal Gayle will be taking the stage - in case you're in the area and want to see her perform for free!), as I'm usually not up to making an entire day of it. There's only so many times that you can pass the same vendors or look at the city vehicles before you're ready to head home. Besides, in the past, the city has had free buses to and from the event, with the pick-up area only a couple of blocks from home. The city quit doing that, though, several years ago. Since we now have to take a cab to and from the event - $8 to $10 each way - there are only so many trips there and back we're able to do for a free event. (I know, I'm getting picky, right? But considering that parking is limited near the event, if not costly (if you can't get a space at the library or city hall, other parking ends up costing $5 or more), it would make sense to continue the bus shuttle to and from the out-lying park. And yes, it would be convenient for those who live nearby and don't drive.)
Anyway, I had asked a cab driver we know if he'd be available to drive us there around 1:00; he said he'd probably be able to do that. So, at least that was taken care of.
And then, the wait: All week, the local meteorologists had been predicting a 50% chance of rain today. TODAY! Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Today! Country In The Park happens once a year (with their annual Chili Blaze the night before). It hasn't really rained in a while, so why today? But of course, you can't order the weather.
This morning, when I got up, the sky was a pale blue, without a cloud in the sky. Wonderful! I thought. Maybe that 50% chance would happen elsewhere in the Tampa Bay area. Right? Ha!
About 9:45, a cousin of mine, new to the area, mentioned meeting him in a nearby park (where the bus shuttle usually was) to hand him his mail. (Long story, best saved for another time.) Great. I hadn't even taken my shower yet.
So, into the shower, throw some clothes on, and head for the park, getting there about the same time R. did. Why do I mention walking there? Because as I headed through the back entrance to the park - more like a huge field that's part of the park - I noticed the rain clouds coming in, and smelled the coming rain. (Does anyone else smell rain?) As I handed R. his mail, the first big plops of rain hit us and the ground around us.
"I guess I'd better head out," R. said. He rides a motorcycle and isn't too wild about riding it in the rain, any more than I'm wild about walking home in the rain - especially when I heard one or two cracks of thunder.
When I got home, I fixed breakfast and discovered that one of my two cats - Drexie, a gray tabby - would so love to help me eat my breakfast! She's so helpful like that!
We're about to have another visit from family...but that's okay.
Will we end up at this year's Country In The Park? Probably. Will we stay long? Probably not. Will we be back to see and hear Crystal Gayle? Even though I'm not heavily into country music - I tolerate most of it, and do like several country acts - I wouldn't mind being there this evening. But I don't think I'll make it. But maybe you could?
If you do go and hear her, drop me a comment - let me know how you liked her act!
Sunday, January 10, 2016
Cooking
I was in a baking mood this afternoon, so I whipped up a couple of pies, two pumpkin, the third, a cranberry raisin concoction.
This last one was from a recipe my dad had sent me years ago. If I remember correctly, it was somewhere in the middle of a long letter he'd written while stranded on a train out of New York City back home to White Plains during a huge blizzard in February, 1977. He was getting his Master's at Union Theological Seminary, part of Columbia University, and had gone in that morning, only to discover that the blizzard had caused classes to be canceled. The letter was ten or twelve pages long, describing the train ride home, the other passengers, and more. If I remember, it was also in this letter that he described his classes, and one professor who made an impression on him as being especially intelligent and thought-provoking - a man Dad predicted would most likely go far. (The professor was Cornel West; Dad was right in his assessment.)
Getting back to the pies: Dad was a good cook. I take after him when it comes to cooking. He loved cooking, as do I. Dad got his love of cooking from his dad, my grandfather. When my dad's parents came to visit for the weekend, Mom knew better than to get in the kitchen to do more than the occasional meal, as well as washing dishes. Dad and Grandpa would each try to out-do the other when it came to cooking.
Mom's side of the family was also known for their exploits in the kitchen - but not the way Dad and Grandpa were. Mom's mom was a really good cook. Grandma could whip up a really good full dinner without a second thought. It was the rest of the family whose cooking skills were a little sketchy.
Now, don't get me wrong. Mom could cook up a good spaghetti sauce, a really good marshmallow-fruit salad, and other basic meals. But in her book of essays, titled The Color Chartreuse Etc., Mom mentions that her side of the family had questionable cooking skills. In the essay "Cooking Runs in The Family - But Not Far Enough!", she describes her dad's attempts at making oatmeal for Mom and my uncle when Grandma was sick. (Hint: It deals with breadcrumbs being stored in an oatmeal box.) In Grandpa's defense, his vision was a little less than stellar.
Whenever I cook certain recipes, I'm reminded of family members no longer around. The cranberry pie, hot chili, and French onion soup remind me of Dad; scrambled eggs with sour cream in it, Dad's Dad; Dad's Mom's mac and cheese; chocolate cream pie (the first time I made it, my brother was the only one who could stomach it; G. was brave!). Then there's my ex's chili, Mom's marshmallow - fruit salad - which also brings memories of the time Mom had gone out after fixing a ham and marshmallow - fruit salad, leaving my sister and me as the only ones eating (if I remember right, there was almost no salad left when Mom and G. got back to the house; A. and I did enjoy it, though!), and more: a veggie dish my daughter made for her family's first Thanksgiving here in Florida, lasagna (my oldest son comes to mind, as well as when I fix his BBQ Gluten recipe), my second husband, P., loving my spinach quiche (as a Marine, he showed that real men can love quiche!), and many other foods.
Originally, I'd planned to make several homemade soup recipes so I could photograph them for my food blog.
(Another memory - Mom made homemade soup maybe twice a month, serving it out of a huge white soup tureen, a large white soup ladle resting in a notch on the side. Dang, I loved those soups, and dearly miss Mom whenever I make homemade soup.)
But having made the pies is fine, too. The soups can wait until tomorrow.
I love cooking, and the memories it brings.
This last one was from a recipe my dad had sent me years ago. If I remember correctly, it was somewhere in the middle of a long letter he'd written while stranded on a train out of New York City back home to White Plains during a huge blizzard in February, 1977. He was getting his Master's at Union Theological Seminary, part of Columbia University, and had gone in that morning, only to discover that the blizzard had caused classes to be canceled. The letter was ten or twelve pages long, describing the train ride home, the other passengers, and more. If I remember, it was also in this letter that he described his classes, and one professor who made an impression on him as being especially intelligent and thought-provoking - a man Dad predicted would most likely go far. (The professor was Cornel West; Dad was right in his assessment.)
Getting back to the pies: Dad was a good cook. I take after him when it comes to cooking. He loved cooking, as do I. Dad got his love of cooking from his dad, my grandfather. When my dad's parents came to visit for the weekend, Mom knew better than to get in the kitchen to do more than the occasional meal, as well as washing dishes. Dad and Grandpa would each try to out-do the other when it came to cooking.
Mom's side of the family was also known for their exploits in the kitchen - but not the way Dad and Grandpa were. Mom's mom was a really good cook. Grandma could whip up a really good full dinner without a second thought. It was the rest of the family whose cooking skills were a little sketchy.
Now, don't get me wrong. Mom could cook up a good spaghetti sauce, a really good marshmallow-fruit salad, and other basic meals. But in her book of essays, titled The Color Chartreuse Etc., Mom mentions that her side of the family had questionable cooking skills. In the essay "Cooking Runs in The Family - But Not Far Enough!", she describes her dad's attempts at making oatmeal for Mom and my uncle when Grandma was sick. (Hint: It deals with breadcrumbs being stored in an oatmeal box.) In Grandpa's defense, his vision was a little less than stellar.
Whenever I cook certain recipes, I'm reminded of family members no longer around. The cranberry pie, hot chili, and French onion soup remind me of Dad; scrambled eggs with sour cream in it, Dad's Dad; Dad's Mom's mac and cheese; chocolate cream pie (the first time I made it, my brother was the only one who could stomach it; G. was brave!). Then there's my ex's chili, Mom's marshmallow - fruit salad - which also brings memories of the time Mom had gone out after fixing a ham and marshmallow - fruit salad, leaving my sister and me as the only ones eating (if I remember right, there was almost no salad left when Mom and G. got back to the house; A. and I did enjoy it, though!), and more: a veggie dish my daughter made for her family's first Thanksgiving here in Florida, lasagna (my oldest son comes to mind, as well as when I fix his BBQ Gluten recipe), my second husband, P., loving my spinach quiche (as a Marine, he showed that real men can love quiche!), and many other foods.
Originally, I'd planned to make several homemade soup recipes so I could photograph them for my food blog.
(Another memory - Mom made homemade soup maybe twice a month, serving it out of a huge white soup tureen, a large white soup ladle resting in a notch on the side. Dang, I loved those soups, and dearly miss Mom whenever I make homemade soup.)
But having made the pies is fine, too. The soups can wait until tomorrow.
I love cooking, and the memories it brings.
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