food for the soul

Food. The prompt for today from NaBloPoMo on day number 29. Fitting that today the focus is food. I wondered if I had any photos of food worth posting. I've taken some doozies, and some $%*&ed up shots too. Minions and Marmite (#20) figured high on my list of considerations. Then I saw the photo, and the food became secondary. It was not the focus of the photo for me.

ragu with rotini, served on my Grammy's dishes

It was the dish it was served on. Food keeps the body going.  But love and memories feed the soul. I ate many meals on the Franciscan apple dishes shown in the photo. Years ago, I acquired my mom's and Grammy's dishes. So old that many of them say "made in California" on them. Later dishes say "made in the USA" on them. I have both. I don't own any that say "made in England" which is where they are manufactured now. Mine came from my childhood, and I am of an age that the dishes are close to being antique. A fact that does not faze me one bit. I can close my eyes and remember so many meals, so many conversations. The strep throat I unknowingly had as I struggled to eat chili, each bite setting my throat on fire. Learning to eat squash and like it. Talking to Grammy as she washed dishes, watching her rub each plate dry with embroidered dish towels.

concoction

Many memories.  Memories that will last longer than the food that is served on those plates now. Food served to my family. Plates that are hand washed by me now. Plates and memories that are a common thread of love that runs through my family, from generation to generation.


...life is delicious...   -cath
i am @jonesbabie on twitter

lessons i have (recently) learned

The grandkids and granddog are here this weekend, and as usual, they are teaching me some important life lessons:

1. No matter how fast I work, two hands and a container of Clorox Clean-Ups cannot keep up with the drips and messes that three 8 year olds, a 3 year old, a 66 year old, and one 6 month old Golden Retriever can make.  The math simply doesn't compute.  I was outnumbered before I picked up the container.

2. Lucy the Golden Retriever holds a grudge.  No matter how lovely her bath experience is, complete with mood lighting and incense, said dog will still get up in the middle of the night and urinate in the carpet to show who has the last word (or pee).  Then she will smile about it.

3. Gramps will cook breakfast for the kids, but he won't clean up the dog's urine.  But he will be considerate enough to wake me up at 6 AM on my day off to tell me the the dog peed the carpet. AFTER I clean up the pee spot, Gramps will tell me it probably happened because he closed the bedroom door during the night.  Too many night lights (read every lamp in the house on) disturbed his sleep, and he forgot that the dog would need to be able to get to ME to let me know she had to go out.  So peeing on the carpet was all my fault.

4. Telling the grands they stink is not an effective way to shame them into taking a bath.  They take pride in stinking.  The only effective tool is withholding cookies until they do get up and hit the shower.

5. Kids riding 4 wheelers in the yard is an effective way to exercise Lucy the dog.  It also keeps Lucy's attention and prevents wandering.  Until you want her to come in.  Then she turns into a greased pig and you can't lay a finger on her.

6. Guilt over forgetting your granddaughter's antibiotic will cause a return trip a day later to pick up the medicine for the cure.  Seventy miles of guilty road trip.  Although I still have to bear the burden of missing a couple doses.  (The bonus: all 4 kids get to stay with son and drive him crazy for a few hours.)  

7. Grandchildren will never spare your feelings if it means lying.  Maddie yesterday: "Grammy I hate to tell you this but this gravy doesn't taste good and I can't eat it."  I made that gravy from scratch, rather than the packaged crap Gramps fixes.  Maddie prefers the packaged crap powdered gravy.

8. It never pays to clean up my house before the grands arrive.  Five minutes after they get here, it looks like it did five minutes after they arrived for their LAST visit.  Which actually adds some symmetry to my life.

9.  I am the only one who can hear in this family.  The grands, Steve, Jim, and the granddog are all deaf to the sound of my voice.  But their noses all work fine.  They can smell a meal cooking from a mile away.

10. Maddie makes awesome meatballs.  Especially when I remember to tell her to go wash the dog hair off her hands before she gets too far into rolling them.  (We only had a few fuzzy meatballs in the pot, not even enough to cause a hairball in the throat.)

11. If you take a nap at my house when Sunday
dinner is ready, be prepared to eat tuna fish out of the package and gingerbread cookies.  Gramps might cook enough to feed us all, but when the spoon starts dipping servings, it is every woman for herself.  Even if the only reason you had to have the nap was because the dog kept licking your arm all night because she was lonely. 

12. Lucy can outrun us all.  So Steve doesn't even try.  He lets her in, waits until she's run mud all over the house, then wipes her paws off.

I give up.  I'm outnumbered.   I have medication somewhere to help me get through this. :)


...life is good. ~cath
 @jonesbabie on Twitter

clash of the tight-ans

Thanksgiving was different this year.  In our family it is always a bit different but we manage to hang on to several traditions so it seems a little less bizarre.

There is the traditional turkey and dressing.  You can read about how that usually goes for me here.  This year was no different.  Turkey, dressing, and we divided up the sides with everyone making what they usually specialize in.  Macaroni and cheese and deviled eggs for Wretch.  Jen did the beans and potato salad, and threw in a couple of pies.  I did the  turkey and dressing, and pies.  (I cheated and bought the pies.  I reasoned that wasn't really cheating when you work, that was being organized and thinking ahead, something I lack most of the time.)

Wretch called me the night before Thanksgiving.  She was sick, I mean really sick.  I could hear her slinging snot on the phone.  I cringed, hoping I wouldn't catch it just by talking to her.

Wretch: Mom, do you think I should be making deviled eggs?
Me: Why not?
Wretch: Because I am sick and I thought someone might catch it if I handled eggs they put in their mouth.
Me: Not unless you get snot on them.
Wretch: Really?
Me: Yes, if your nose is running, put some toilet paper up both nostrils, then wash your hands really good with soap and water, and don't touch your face while you are making the eggs.  It should be ok then.
Wretch: Ok. (She was laughing about the toilet paper, but it is an old trick I learned years ago.  Moms don't get time off for sickness when they have little kids.)

Then Jen texted me asking for a recipe for Lemon Ice Box pie.  WTF?! I was thinking, I haven't made one in years, and I was at work.  Did she expect me to pull the recipe out of my ass?

I did the next best thing.  I Googled a recipe and texted her back the link.

So far, things were going smoothly.  Too smoothly.  The hair on the back of my neck told me it wasn't a good thing.  My karma was going too well.

My karma did a 360 on Thanksgiving morning when I was running late (as usual) and trying to get ready.  It had taken me three hours to get headed to the shower after puttering all over the house.  I picked out some cute cable patterned tights, a black skirt, and a black top to wear.  (Everyone knows if you wear black on Thanksgiving you can eat twice and much and your bloated stomach won't show.)

I got out of the shower, lotioned up all over per my usual routine, then started to put my tights on.

That was when the war began.  I put my foot in one foot of the tights, and pulled it up.  All the way up my thigh.  Then I lifted my other foot and tried to put it in the other foot of the tights.  That was when I realized that I couldn't get my foot up high enough to get in the top of the tights that were located around my hips, because to do that would have required the agility of a gymnast.  I tried jacknifing my foot as high as I could get it, got the tip of my foot stuck in the waist of the tights, and fell back against the glass door of the shower, sliding all the way down to the floor.

I stood back up, pulled the tights back down around my ankles, then stuck both feet in at the same time.  That worked.  By now I was sweating.  Not a good feeling when you just got out of the shower and are standing in a tiny room with steam still hanging in the air around your head.

I pulled the tights up.  Then realized my feet were located about midway in the calf of the tights, with the feet trailing off in the floor, empty of human flesh.  So I grabbed the tights at the feet and started working them up my legs.  That was when I discovered the split nail I didn't know I had and snagged the tights.

I cussed a bit at that point.  Then realized it didn't matter, those tights were going ON my butt no matter what.  So I kept pulling, and snagging, pulling and snagging.  They were finally up, all the way up, I thought.

Then I realized the crotch was down around mid thigh.  I could wear them like that, but I would walk like a duck all day.  So I snagged and pulled some more, and finally the crotch was on my crotch, the feet were on my feet, and the rest was somewhere on my legs.  I looked down proudly.

The cable pattern on the tights was doing a grotesque twisted thing around my thighs and calves.  I did a few more snag and pulls, and then realized I had managed to twist the right leg of the tights and put it on backward, because it was digging into my crotch like a rubber band thong from hell at that point.

I took the right leg part of the way down, and snag/twisted it back around all the way to the foot, then pulled it back up and stood for a minute as I caught my breath.

They felt pretty good.  I could breathe and move I realized.  I looked down at my legs in trepidation.  That was when I noticed that I had pulled some spots so thin my skin was showing through the opaqueness of the opaque tights.  I pondered about redoing them again for about a half second, then said f*#@ it and finished blow drying my sweaty body and hair, got my skirt and top on, added warpaint to my flushed face, and hair gel to my limp hair, and headed out the door.

Valuable lessons learned about tights:
1. Never apply lotion right before you put on tights.  They stick like glue to your skin.
2. There is no exhaust fan big enough to suck the humidity out of a bathroom.
3. Tights should be put on in a public, dry air place.
4. Don't buy tights with a cable pattern that has to line up.
5. Put both feet in at the same time unless you enjoy popping your hips out of joint.
6. Remember that during a clash, the tights usually win.

Next Thanksgiving, I am wearing velour.

...life is very good. ~cath
find me @jonesbabie on Twitter

relaxed housewife: rice and beans

I went out to lunch the other day.  One of my favorite Mexican restaurants.  The food is fantastic and the service is always great.  I had a bit of a glitch ordering that day though.  It felt like an Abbott and Costello skit by the time the server and I understood each other.  The confusion had nothing to do with a language barrier either.  I think it was just that I was trying to talk with a friend and place my order at the same time.  It went something like this:

Me: I'd like two enchiladas please.  With ground beef.  (I felt it was important to make sure he understood the  ground beef part.  I soon found out that was the easy part.)
Server: You want two enchiladas with ground beef.
Me: Yes.
Server: Would you like rice and beans with that?
Me: No rice and beans.
Server: You don't want rice and beans.
Me: Yes.
Server: You do want rice and beans?
Me: No, I don't want rice and beans.
Server: You don't want rice and beans?
Me: Yes.
Server: Yes you do want rice and beans?
Me: No, I do not want rice and beans.
Server: You do not want rice and beans.
Me: (By now I realized if I answered yes we'd be off on another round of rice and beans.) Yes, I do not want any rice and beans.  No rice and beans.  None.  Just the enchiladas.  Two.  Ground beef.  On a plate.
Server: Ok, I got it.  (But at this point when he read back our order, he had gotten so confused he had to retake the other orders because he wasn't sure he had gotten any of it right.)

I made sure to tip him well.  He earned it.  And I got my enchiladas without rice and beans.

~cath xo
Twitter @jonesbabie

the grown up day

I was born in the Chinese year of the dragon.  Additionally, this year the element sign is water, which is also my element.  Because this is my year, special things have been happening to me, and around me.  This is for my grands.   It's a fractured tale, but it's my tale and I'm sticking to it.

Once upon a time there was a Gramps and a Grammy.  They loved their grandkids and loved to have them visit, but once in a while Grammy and Gramps liked to have a grown up day by themselves.  This was so they could spend some special time together and have some grown up fun.

the beautiful day

One weekend the day was so beautiful that they decided to get out and have some fun.  They talked about lots they could do, and finally decided to go to the state line and buy some lottery tickets.  Because this was Grammy's year, the year of the dragon, and she was going to win the lottery and build everyone in the family their own castle.

So Gramps spent the day before the trip washing his new truck, and polishing it, and cleaning all the mats so not even a blade of grass or speck of dirt could be found in it.  It was so shiny it looked like a new red apple sitting in the front yard.  

On Saturday morning Gramps put the bum's rush on Grammy to get her ready and out the door, even though she only took thirty minutes to get ready, and even though it had taken that shiny red truck eight hours to get ready.

They left the house and drove to the big city, stopping to get Grammy some of her special Starbucks tea.  Gramps got himself a big cup of coffee too.  They drove on down the road to buy the [lottery] ticket that would give them a pie-in-the-sky life.

Gramps' pants

A little way down the road, Gramps tried to set his coffee in the cup holder, and missed, even though it was a big cup holder.  The coffee bounced on his lap, then rolled down his leg, leaving a trail of hot coffee all the way down his left pants leg.  Grammy tried not to laugh, she really did, but she just couldn't behave like a Grammy should, and she laughed loudly as Gramps said some really ugly words.  (Gramps got coffee on his left sock too.)

They rode a little farther, and got to the place where they sell those special prize winning tickets that have Grammy's name on them.  Just as they exited the highway and turned into the parking lot, Grammy's tea fell off the top of the center console where she had accidently left it, and it rolled down Gramps' right leg, leaving a trail of tea stains.  Grammy made sure not to laugh this time, because she was afraid Gramps might get really mad at her for not having her tea in the cup holder.  By the time the truck stopped, there was a big puddle of tea in Gramps' freshly cleaned floor mat.

the real food place

Gramps got the special ticket that was going to make Grammy a rich woman, and found out that the store didn't have any paper towels in it.  Not one single roll.  So Gramps had to use his special window cleaning cloths to mop up the tea.

After he got finished, they rode to a nearby store to buy Gramps some new pants.  Then they drove back to the big city, and went to a nice restaurant and had some really good food.  They enjoyed the real food because they had been eating cardboard dieting for weeks.  After they finished their real food, Gramps took Grammy to the movie.  It was a very exciting movie (the kind men always like with lots of action).

Grammy and Gramps had so much fun being grown ups that day.  And Gramps learned an important lesson.

Never put the bum's rush on Grammy when she is getting ready to go out, or hot tea and coffee will always fall on your side of the seat.  Every time.  Because this is the year of the dragon, and Grammy's turn to laugh.

She didn't laugh too much though, because Gramps got her a second cup of her special hot tea on the way home.  Starbucks Tazo Chai latte.  And it never left her hand.

The End

~cath xo
Twitter @jonesbabie

spaghetti wars

Today was not an auspicious start for the new year.  Steve accused me of being grouchy all day and sniping at him (I think he needs a hearing aid with a sweet mama tone of voice built into his ear).  The kids had more energy than the law allows, and they were getting tired of each other after spending a whole week together playing.  Play time had become 'let's see who gets to be the walking wounded first' game and we were all ready to glue their butts to their chairs permanently, and sew their lips shut except for meals.

Then I got a great idea for dinner.  I was going to take a shortcut, and put the uncooked pasta in with the spaghetti sauce.  I figured if I added a good bit of water to the sauce (yes it was Ragu, put your eyeballs back in your head...after a week of meals I was doing good to make it a hot one), then I could break the pasta up and throw it in, simmer it slow, and it would save me a couple steps and pots to clean.

Wrong.  If you've been reading this blog then you know the butter bean story and the ham hocks story too.  I may idolize Julia Child, but I sure don't cook like she did.  Well, maybe her fiascoes are what endeared her to me, but I really thought the spaghetti idea would work.  It did in my mind. 

My mind was the only place it worked.  I looked at the spaghetti after I dropped it in.  And decided that when it started softening up I was going to have one big piece of pasta, because that shit was going to stick together.  So I started stirring it with my favorite wooden fork, to help separate the pieces.  Then I left it for just a minute to go back to what I had been doing.

Which was tackling the wreck room.  It is really the computer room and my (pseudo) painting studio rolled into one.  It is also the medical clinic (Steve checks his blood sugar there), and exercise room (the treadmill is shoved over against the wall), office (read: fax machine/printer/file cabinets), and also bullet making supply room (you don't want to know anymore about that, trust me).  And it is a wreck.  So with my typical first day of the year by golly I am turning over a new leaf and get organized resolve, I was cleaning out a bunch of stuff.  I figured I could have it done in just a few minutes.

About 45 minutes later I smell something and rush into the kitchen.  The spaghetti I left 5 minutes ago is stuck to the bottom of my nice stainless steel Dutch oven bigger than shit.  I grab my trusty wooden spoon and scrape across the bottom carefully....it seems the pasta is stuck to the bottom, but I figure I can just run the fork across the bottom of the pot and the spaghetti will come loose.

Wrong.  By the time I have scraped and scraped I start seeing some black looking pasta coming up off the bottom.  My mother in law taught me how to handle burned food.  If you don't scrape the bottom, you can pour what's left on top into another pan and finish cooking it.  That rule had saved my butt more than one time in the past, so I poured.  Never mind I had already scraped, I had 3 hungry kids and two adults that expected spaghetti to be done pretty soon.  I looked at the bottom of the pot I just emptied.  It was a charred wasteland of black.  I ran water in it and threw it to the side.  Then I put the new pot of spaghetti on the stove to finish cooking slowly.  Except it was full to the top.  I had misjudged how much I had and if it started flubbing (family word for anything thing that is thick and shoots like a geyser when it boils) it was going to mess up the stove.  Before I could get it off the stove, it flubbed.  I grabbed it and ran to the sink where I had my biggest pot sitting and poured it in. 

I missed the pot with the first 3 or 4 cups of spaghetti.  Never mind.  I just slammed the pot back on my red-freckled stove and scooped the spaghetti out of the sink with my hand and slung it in the garbage.  (I don't have a dishwasher, so it makes sense I wouldn't have a garbage disposal either, kinda.)  I tried three lids before I found one that fit the goliath pot.  I turned the heat way down and that was when I noticed my favorite wooden fork.  I guess I scraped the first pot too hard, because the end of each tine of the fork looked like a badly used toothbrush, all flared out and poofy on the end.  I didn't even want to think about how much wood I left in the spaghetti.  I figured it would just add some fiber, and we could all use more fiber in our diets.

While the spaghetti simmered at crock pot slowness, I got the garlic breadsticks ready for the oven.  Steve had bought some off brand breadsticks and they had used some kind of yellow colored garlic flavored grease on them.  I got the first bag open, and put the bread on the cookie sheet, but had to tear the second bag open with my teeth because the bag kept shooting out of my hand like a greased pig.  After I got the second bag of bread on the cookie sheet, I threw them in the oven and set the kitchen timer (I'm no dummy) and went back to my wreck room project.

About 3 minutes later Jen and Steve start hollering 'something is burning!' but I faked them off by telling them it was just the garlic they smelled from the breadsticks.  The timer finally dinged, I fixed the kids' plates, told Steve to go fix his own, and I ate some of it just to make sure it was ok.  The spaghetti that is.  I survived. Steve and the kids survived.  Jen passed on the spaghetti since she was still digesting whatever she ate yesterday (no it wasn't anything I cooked).  Might also be because she witnessed most of what went on in the kitchen from the doorway (she wouldn't come any closer).

We all finished and I looked in the kitchen.  Three huge Dutch ovens, three lids, one cookie sheet, a ruined wooden fork, a wooden spoon, and red freckles on every surface.  And I just turned around and walked out.  That wasn't on my list of things to do today.  I'll take care of it sometime next week.

We all survived the fiber except Jim, who ate a plate later that day and made a dive for the bathroom, telling us later 'that spaghetti tore my stomach up!'

I just acted like I didn't hear him and checked to make sure the fork was all the way in the bottom of the garbage.