Joys & Disasters

Perky Produce People

2011-09-16T19:59:00.000-07:00

If I were alone in the world and needed a friend, the first place I'd go is the produce department of my local grocery store. I mean, have you ever noticed how the people who work in the produce department always—and I mean always—say hi and ask if they can help you?

Of all the places in the grocery store where I need help, it usually isn't produce. I can tell a Fuji from a Granny Smith. I can divine whether a watermelon is ripe (mostly). I can even choose a darn fine head of iceberg lettuce.

And yet the one place in the entire store where you can't avoid human contact is produce. Not dairy, where I would like to know why the price of butter has skyrocketed to roughly the value of gold. Not canned goods, where I can never locate those light red beans I need for chili. And certainly not the jam and jelly aisle, where I can't find a three-berry jam to save my life.

If you try to avoid eye contact because you just want some alone time with your radishes and corn, they'll persist. You can't escape them. "Are you finding everything?" "Oh yes, although I did have a bit of trouble with the snap peas. They seemed to be hiding behind the butter beans, but I scoped them out! Thanks, though."

One of these days I'm going to ask the produce guy (or, rarely, the produce gal) exactly what they teach you in produce school. It has to be something like, "Every person who enters the produce department is either a complete idiot who has never seen anything green, red, or purple, or they're desperately lonely and in need of a friendly smile. Now get out there and make the world a happier, more produce-filled place!"

When I do, I'll let you know what he/she says.

Coach’s Oats No-bake Cookies

2011-09-14T17:41:00.000-07:00

This isn't a cooking blog. Really, it's not. I just seem to keep cooking things and baking things that beg to be blogged. Hence a post about a no-bake cookie using Coach's Oats.

Never heard of Coach's? Me neither, till I found them at Costco a few months ago. I like old-fashioned oatmeal (I used to eat it uncooked when I was little because back then, I could pretend I was a horse). I like steel cut oats. But I never knew how good oatmeal could be till I tried Coach's Oats. A special process makes it better, somehow.

Anyway, back to the story. I friended Coach's Oats on Facebook because I wanted to know more, and I was charmed by the down-home, warm approach they took to their Facebook presence. And their blog had some pretty interesting stuff too—information about their products, sure, but also great recipes.

Then I noticed a comment that surprised me: they were still searching for a great no-bake cookie recipe using Coach's Oats. Well, they came to the right place (me). I have a great no-bake cookie recipe, so I took up the challenge of remaking it with Coach's Oats.

I had already asked the blogger/Facebook person about substituting Coach's Oats for regular old-fashioned oats in recipes. She recommended a ratio of 1/1, so that's what I used in the no-bake cookies: half old-fashioned, half Coach's.

I also cut the recipe in half, because who wants to use up all those ingredients when it may turn out yucky? Not me.

The result, shown above, was chewier than regular no-bake cookies, with a nutty texture. But that's what Coach's Oats is famous for, and I like these cookies that way. A lot. They remind me of granola bars. I also cut back on the sugar a bit and switched from shortening to a more healthful extra-virgin organic coconut oil. I definitely will use Coach's Oats in this recipe every time I make it. Yum!

Coach's Oats No-bake Cookies
Adapted from a recipe by Debbi DeSisto
Can be doubled.
INGREDIENTS
3/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup coconut oil (or shortening)
1/4 cup milk
3/4 cup Coach's Oats
3/4 cup old-fashioned oats
1/3 cup cocoa powder
1/2 cup sweetened flaked coconut
1/4 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. vanilla

DIRECTIONS
Put milk, sugar, and coconut oil in a saucepan and bring to a rolling boil, whisking vigorously to blend. Remove from heat. Add remaining ingredients (I blend the dry ingredients by hand while waiting for the boiling to begin) and mix well. Don't forget the vanilla! Drop by spoonfuls onto a greased cookie sheet. I use a cookie scoop. Let cool until they can be picked up without falling apart. Makes about 14.

The Modern Woman vs. the 179-year-old Cup Cake Recipe

2011-09-06T20:50:00.000-07:00

Modern conveniences and I are fast friends. I could not have lived in 1832; I would have figured out a way to have myself preserved until the twenty-first century, perhaps in a pickle jar—like the ones touted in The American Frugal Housewife.

I discovered this 1830s-era version of Hints from Heloise via Amazon. It was free for Kindle, and what modern woman doesn't love free? Besides, I adore Heloise and her hints & tips (or anyone else's).

About the time I started devouring Frugal Housewife, I noticed the America's Test Kitchen “Dish It Your Way” Blogger Challenge, which in its final week featured cupcakes. What had I just read in that 1832 book for housewives? Author Lydia Maria Francis Child's quaint and simple, but impossibly outdated, recipe for "Cup Cake"!

"Cup," I discovered, didn't mean those cute little paper wrappers in 1832. It meant "a cup of this, two cups of that, three cups of something else." The result promised to be "about as good as pound cake, and...cheaper."

The entire recipe read like this:

"One cup of butter, two cups of sugar, three cups of flour, and four eggs, well beat together, and baked in pans or cups. Bake twenty minutes, and no more."

Missing: pan size & (gasp!) oven temp. Back then those frugal gals baked in wood stoves with no temperature controls or gauges. So I was stuck with giving it my best guess. Also missing: any type of leavening agent, like baking soda or baking powder, and any liquid, like milk. Staying true to the time period, I could experiment a bit and toss in a couple teaspoons of baking powder (invented in the early 1800s) and half a cup of milk (around much longer than 179 years).

Not staying true, but saving myself some time and trouble, I mixed it all up in my modern miracle (AKA the stand mixer). I used unbleached regular flour, not cake flour. The batter was thick and delicious, even without the addition of vanilla, an ingredient I couldn't find referenced anywhere in Frugal Housewife. Oh, so yum. (Yes, I eat batter and dough containing raw eggs once in a while.)

Using an ice-cream scoop, I divvied up about half the batter into cupcake wrappers. The other half I reserved for another experiment: chocolate. I added 1/4 cup of cocoa powder, turning the batter a rich, milk-chocolate color. That would have been the norm, 179 years ago, before our current fascination with dark chocolate.

Guessing at a moderate oven temperature, I put the regular, non-chocolate cupcakes in at 350°. As directed, I checked them at 20 minutes. They hadn't risen much, just cresting at the tops of the muffin cups, but they were a light golden brown. Time to come out. I couldn't resist tasting: Wow! Light, delicate, not airy or spongy, but delicious.

And crumbly: only six of the 12 came out of the pan clean. I reserved the prettiest six for frosting.

Next up: the chocolate cupcakes. I like chocolate as much as the next woman (in other words, heaps and loads), so these would be a rich treat. I'd been limiting myself for weight-loss purposes, but "challenge" recipes don't count. They must be tested, tasted, consumed, and devoured.

Oh, the loveliness of chocolate cupcakes coming out of the oven. The aroma, the anticipation... Oh, the bitter disappointment of what happened shortly thereafter.

I set the pan aside, cleaned up the kitchen, and returned to them after about ten minutes. Cooling time. And sinking time, too—not a single chocolate cupcake had risen to the occasion.

The little 8"x8" chocolate cake I had baked at the same time, with the extra batter, came out just fine. The six chocolate cupcakes were a sunken, dreary mess. Nothing to salvage there. Believe me, I tried, but the batter just wasn't cooked through. Bummer. I guess I didn't leave them in long enough. If I tried this recipe again, I'd bake the chocolate cupcakes for 25 minutes.

Here is the final result, the crowning achievement of the "Cup Cake" experiment: one perfect cupcake, crowned with vanilla whipped-cream frosting. I like the boxed kind sold by Wilton (so easy—you only add ice water). OK, I cheated on the frosting. I was in a hurry.

At the end of my evening of experimentation, I came away with a couple of thoughts: first, I'm more inclined now to bake a cake from scratch. Before, every cake in my kitchen came from a box. But with a few simple, wholesome (please don't argue with me) ingredients, I discovered I could have a delicious treat.

Second, the proportions of ingredients may make a difference, and a little more baking powder or a touch of salt may have helped the cupcakes to rise more, but the fun of this recipe was in the imagining: seeing myself in 1832, slaving away in a hot kitchen in Arizona's summertime without air conditioning, and then realizing that I live in 2011 with the benefits of a cool kitchen, a lovely stand mixer, and an oven with an accurate temperature gauge. I am more privileged than the wealthiest woman of Frugal Housewife's time. And I'm very, very glad.

Coconut Overload

2011-08-28T17:47:00.001-07:00

This isn’t a cooking blog, which you already know if you’ve read a few of my posts. I don’t fancy myself much of a cook, although I love to bake. Occasionally I'll make something fun that I feel like sharing, and today is one of those times.

Fair warning: If you don't like coconut, close this tab and come back next week, or read one of my older posts (please), because you aren’t going to like this recipe.

I like coconut a lot. Fresh & natural, flaked, sweetened, dried: you put it in front of me, I'll eat it. I also like candy, but a coconut lover like me doesn’t have many choices when it comes to candy bars. There’s Almond Joy and there’s Mounds. And that about does it, unless you like those old-fashioned neopolitan coconut squares—you know, the ones that have a stripe of pink, white, and brown. I used to when I was a kid, before I discovered chocolate. You can include on that coconut-candy list the Idaho Spud, if you live anywhere near Idaho—it’s a chocolate and marshmallow bar rolled in coconut. Those are an acquired taste, though.

Since I like Mounds better than just about any other candy bar (Idaho Spud is a close second), I’ve often pondered the possibility of making my own. Why would I bother, when three stores with Mounds on their shelves are less than three minutes from my house? Good question. I suppose it’s because I feel slightly less “that’s bad for you, don’t eat it” guilt when I make something at home. I wouldn't dream of buying commercially made fudge, cookies, or brownies, but if I make them at home, I feel like the work of making them cancels out the calories. Right?

Actually I have fun experimenting when I’m pretty sure the result will be yummy. I started looking through the Internet for a Mounds-type candy recipe, and wow—there were dozens. I had the ingredients for the most basic recipe on hand, so I cut the amounts in half (no need to waste good ingredients on something that might fail), left out the pecans (pecans in a Mounds?), and went to work.

Roughly twenty minutes later, my small batch of Almost-like-Mounds-only-better-and-homemade bars were going into the freezer to set up. I had tasted one and found it good, very good. Today, fresh out of the freezer, they are even better! Now I want to share...not the candy, just the recipe. (Scotty, bless his heart, had one bite and said he would resist the temptation to eat any more.) I also want to give credit to the originator of this recipe; you'll find a link to her recipe at the bottom. If you make it, let me know how it turns out for you.

Almost-like-Mounds-only-better-and-homemade Bars

Ingredients:

1/2 package (7 oz) sweetened, flaked coconut
1/2 pound (1/2 of a one-pound package) powdered sugar
1/2 can sweetened condensed milk
1 tsp coconut flavoring, if you have it (simply adds more coconut flavor)

Coating:

One bag chocolate chips or 10-12 oz chopped chocolate, light or dark depending on your preference
One Tbsp coconut oil or vegetable oil, or one ounce paraffin (optional—it will thin the chocolate a bit and make it more glossy and easier to dip)

How to:
Mix coconut, sugar, condensed milk, and coconut flavoring well. You may need to get your hands messy to mash it up.

Forming the filling: Roll it out into a log that you will freeze and cut into slices, or roll into small balls, or flatten to 1/2'” thick on waxed paper in a square pan. Freeze; unless you’ve formed it into individual balls, slice before dipping. Your slices can be whatever size you prefer.

Melt 12 oz chocolate chips (and the oil or paraffin, if preferred) in a bowl or glass measuring cup in the microwave for 2 minutes. Stir and nuke again for one minute if necessary. Don’t overcook, or it will burn! You’ll have to throw it out and start over.

Let the melted chocolate cool a bit before dipping the slices or balls of frozen mixture. They’ll hold up better. Dip and cool on waxed paper. These keep well in the freezer and taste great frozen; the chocolate will be hard, but the inside will be soft. Best refrigerated, because at room temp, the chocolate will be messy. Keep napkins handy!

Note: This recipe is half the normal amount you’ll find on the Internet. Double everything, and you’ll have enough for a large plate for your holiday party, or to snack on from your freezer.

Suggestion: Use the rest of the sweetened condensed milk to make half a batch of fudge. Who needs a whole batch? Just mix in 12 oz. of chocolate chips, a tsp. of vanilla, and a pinch of salt; microwave a minute or two; pour in a pan and let harden.

Adapted from http://www.instructables.com/id/Easy-Homemade-Mounds-Candies/?ALLSTEPS

"Poise" vs "Posie"—or, why spelling matters

2011-08-25T12:31:00.000-07:00

My husband has a favorite misspelling story from his business life that has to do with the word "public." Leave out the "l," and you're left with what is perhaps the most feared of all misspellings. I fell victim to that same horror once too, but fortunately for my career, I caught it before it went, um, public. This was before the days of spell check, but spell check wouldn't have caught the misspelling anyway.

One little letter in the wrong place (or a missing letter) can make a big difference. That's why people who do what I do (copyediting and proofreading) are still employed, despite the wonders of technology.

What does misspelling have to do with the image above? Oh, I can't wait to tell you. It concerns the most famous cake decorating company in the U.S., or perhaps the world: Wilton. Not too long ago, they advertised a cute new decoration on their Facebook page, with a link to their website. The lavender, flower-shaped decorations were supposed to be labeled "Purple Posies," but apparently Wilton's proofreader was on vacation that day, because somebody transposed a couple of letters. All the Purple Posies became Purple Poises.

In case you haven't been listening to TV ads, "Poise" is a brand of adult incontinence product. As soon as I saw Wilton's unfortunate misspelling, I posted a slightly sarcastic response on Facebook pointing it out (something like, "That's the last thing I'd want on my cake"). Then I waited a couple of days, thinking surely such an awkward error would quickly be corrected.

Nope.

I sent Wilton an email. And waited. Then I sent another. Then I posted again, this time directly on Wilton's website. Finally, whether simply because I was persistent or perhaps because others were laughing as hard as I was, Wilton cleaned up its act and disposed of the Poises. You can see for yourself at http://www.wilton.com/store/site/product.cfm?id=6AB427D4-1E0B-C910-EA686AC181DA22F9&killnav=1.

By sheer coincidence, I saw an ad today for a new product, the one shown above—a purple Poise. Oh dear, it's too funny.

Please don't depend on spell check for important documents. Depend on a pair of trained human eyes with a brain behind them. Like me.

Five things I hate about my cell phone

2011-08-20T10:40:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago, my new Blackberry Storm was one of the best smartphones on the market. (Obviously this was pre-iPhone.) Its cool features and Verizon's buy-one-get-one-free deal hooked my husband and me into buying a pair. I've rued the day many times since then.

His BB Storm has served him well; mine has beaten me into the ground with its quirks. Try to take a photo: the flash goes off, but the shutter doesn't click (sometimes). Try to open a website in the browser: you could wait for hours, and if it does eventually come up, you can't read it on the tiny screen (most every time). Try to use the phone: the screen goes black, and all you can see is a tiny square with a revolving arrow (at the most annoying times). Try to play the highly addictive Word Mole game while your husband is sleeping beside you: the tap-tap-tap noise of the keyboard wakes him up, and he says, "Are you playing Word Mole again?" (sigh)

I'm actually on my fifth Blackberry Storm. No lie. I've had to send four phones back to Verizon for free replacements because one by one they have gone suddenly, irretrievably black. I've complained out loud so often that my husband has found himself saying the same thing over and over: "So, when are you going to [stop complaining and] get a different phone?"

My commitment to the Blackberry and to Verizon expired last April. I continued to complain; I had no excuse for not upgrading except that the pain of switching would be worse than the pain of keeping what I had. Kind of like living with a broken leg because you don't want the doc to set it.

This week I found my courage and set my broken leg with a new Droid Incredible 2. It was smart, it was free with a 2-year commitment, and it had great reviews. I knew it wouldn't have Word Mole but figured I could keep the Blackberry charged up for the game.

Now I'm wondering, What the heck was I thinking? This amazing new phone has become Jenny's Enemy No. 1. Here's why I hate it:

Turning it on is a 2-step process, and that's one step too many. Why do I have to push a button AND swipe the screen?
The Facebook interface stinks. I can't see at a glance whether I have new notifications in Facebook. That's a separate, five-step process. Swipe, swipe, touch, swipe, touch.
I can't get email set up. After four days, I'm still trying to get the IMAP settings from our domain admin. Paul, call me!
Making anything larger takes two fingers and a special pulling-apart motion instead of one finger pressing the screen.
I lost my ring tone: the theme song from Firefly, one of my favorite movies.

Bonus item:
It doesn't have Word Mole. That means I'm stuck carrying around two phones until I can download an equally addictive, challenging, fun time waster on the Droid.

Yeah, I know—new technology can be hard to adopt when you're so in tune with the old (the enemy you know intimately can be a more comfortable companion than a new friend). Give me another week or two, and I'll eventually find a few things I like about my Droid.

The positives so far:

It's thin.
It doesn't constantly reboot itself.
It can automatically switch to speaker mode when you flip it over.
The clock display is so big I'm sure the astronauts can read it from the space station.
Its touch screen doesn't make any noise, so when I do eventually find another game, I can play it in stealth mode all night long.

Do you think I could bribe the Droid programmers to make an Incredible version of Word Mole?

How city living stacks up to country life

2011-08-17T21:42:00.000-07:00

I miss my stacks. Nicely, neatly organized stacks of canned goods, chocolate chips, cake mixes, napkins and paper towels, cereal, gravy mixes, Crisco—if it kept well on a shelf, I had six or seven.

For 26 years (most of my adult life), I lived in a beautiful rural setting that was at least seven miles from the nearest... anything. Store, gas station, restaurant, coffee shop. The only thing within hollerin' distance was our white-steepled country church, but when you need a cup of sugar or a couple pounds of potatoes, church isn't going to do you a whole lot of good.

One Thanksgiving I was cooking the turkey for my young family when I discovered I was low on potatoes. Like, down to two. An early blizzard had made driving treacherous, and I knew the stores would be closed even if I could get out of our driveway. Then I saw my neighbors, who were supposed to be driving to another town for the holidays, pull back into their ranch down the road. I called Judy and found out they had turned around because of the icy roads, and no, they didn't have anything prepared for Thanksgiving, and sure, they'd love to come over. So the seven of us had a wonderful time dining on turkey, pies, veggies, rice, and one spoonful apiece of mashed potatoes. It was one of the best Thanksgivings ever, but I never wanted to run out of anything again.

My failsafe was to stock several of everything. I worked full time in town and had my hands full with two little boys, so I would rush to do my grocery shopping on the way home and fill the pantry with whatever was on sale and would last. The fewer trips to the store, the better. I loved the sight of my overflowing but neatly stacked shelves in the kitchen and, eventually, in a good-sized area of our large basement. You would have thought I was prepping for Armageddon.

When I moved out of that house last year, I found the fruits of my overzealous labors tucked into the nooks and crannies of my basement shelves. I can tell you from experience that (a) when you move 1400 miles you do not want to burden your movers with canned goods, even if that tub of Crisco did cost $5; and (b) most of the stuff that's been sitting on your shelves for ten years isn't going to taste very good. Did you know sweetened condensed milk turns a lovely golden brown when it's past its prime? Or that frosting in those little cardboard tubs goes rancid, even though it still may sport a beautiful shade of pink?

Starting over in a new city—in the suburbs, where almost nothing is more than five minutes out of reach—has given me a new outlook on what might have been called "hoarding light." I no longer have a plethora of shelves to fill or a basement or a full-sized, stand-alone freezer (there was stuff in there from the 1990s, no kidding). I have exactly one small pantry with a few shelves and a garage that is, at present, around 120 degrees Farenheit because that's how garages are in Phoenix in the summer. It's perfect for paper goods or chips and crackers (boy do they stay crispy!).

Something about stacking items on shelves still appeals to me, though. I fight the urge to stock up whenever there's a great sale on, say, canned tomatoes. I know I'll need them for all the chili I'm going to make this fall and winter. I have to keep reminding myself that it takes exactly two minutes to drive to Fry's. Two and a half to Safeway. Five to Target.

Right now I have way too many chocolate chips, something I always grab when they're on sale. So I'm going to make chocolate hard-shell topping, like the expensive and chemical-filled Magic Shell by Smuckers. Mine is better. Here's how:

Hard Shell Chocolate Topping

Melt 7 oz. of chopped chocolate (or chocolate chips, if you aren't picky—any type works fine) with two tablespoons of coconut oil. You can do this on the stovetop or in the microwave. If you're nuking it, go slow, 30 seconds at a time. Stir after each 30-second interval. Two or three times should do it. Spoon it or pour it over your ice cream. The extra will keep in your cupboard just fine. I put mine in a covered Tupperware container and nuke it again, briefly, if it's set up instead of liquid-y.

I suppose when we move from this small rental into a larger home next year, I'll have more pantry space. I may even buy a freezer. But somehow I'm going to resist the urge to stack stuff to the ceiling—I promise. And if I have too much, I can always have my toddler grandson unstack it all for me. It's one of his favorite things to do, and hey, then I can have the satisfaction of re-stacking it all over again.

Top five things to do before taking your child to a movie

2011-08-06T09:22:00.001-07:00

1. Go to a stranger's house.
2. Seat the child in a chair next to you and seat the strangers around you.
3. Turn off the lights and turn on a movie with the same rating as the one you're planning to attend.
4. Tell the child to (a) sit still and (b) be quiet.
5. If the child can't do either (a) OR (b) throughout the entire movie, DO NOT GO TO A PUBLIC THEATER. Please. I beg you.

A Baker's Dilemma

2011-02-08T19:26:00.000-08:00

I want to make a tall, snow-white coconut cake, with a light, fluffy frosting that's covered in big, fat coconut flakes. I saw it on the cover of Family Circle, and it looked irresistible. I also want to bake a batch of chocolate chip cookies using the new, improved recipe I just saw on the America's Test Kitchen show. You melt the butter first – in fact, you brown the butter. Then there's this amazing-looking chocolate bundt cake dusted in confectioner's sugar. I could go on, but that brings me to my dilemma.

You see, there are two of us at home now, and neither of us needs any added fat or sugar. We have to work out almost every day just to take OFF some of the fat we've added to ourselves. So when I'm craving the enjoyment of baking something sweet, the question always comes up: Who's going to eat it?

I can allow myself a piece (so can he), then work like crazy to get rid of the calories. But that's not the point – there are 6, 8, or 10 (maybe a dozen) MORE pieces that shouldn't be consumed in this household. I can't bear the thought of creating something dazzling and yummy only to throw the rest away. So I can let it sit until it grows mold (that happened recently with a covered-up apple pie), which makes it much easier to toss, or I can eat it all and regret it.

Maybe there's a better way. My dream is to run my own bakery, but that is highly improbable and impractical (and bakers get up WAY too early in the morning). If I can't sell it, I could give the excess away. So I'm proposing a baking exchange, sort of like a Christmas cookie swap, but different. Here's how it would work:

I can't resist making that lovely coconut cake, so I get the word out to my friends and/or neighbors (the nice, safe ones) that cake is imminent. Or cookies, or pie. Maybe even a nice loaf of cheese bread. You get the idea. I give them a window of time to come over, and at the appointed time, I answer the door with one or two pieces on a paper plate, nicely wrapped, and the caller takes it home to enjoy it. No muss, no fuss, no obligation to come in and chat and have coffee, although I would very much like that, from time to time. Then, when my friend gets the urge to bake but doesn't want to overindulge, I'll go to her house and she'll hand me something yummy. Unless it's lemon, because I don't do lemon.

What do you think? Would it work? I am living in a new neighborhood and have yet to make friends of the neighbors, although Pat and Judy seem nice. There are the church ladies, some of whom live close to me, and then there's Lisa, a woman I met through Freecycle. She's a baker too, so maybe she has the same dilemma.

I'll let you know what happens.

Chicken Pot Pie the New-fashioned Way

2011-02-01T13:58:00.000-08:00

When four of us were all living in the same house, I made chicken pot pie from scratch. Everything about it was homemade, including the gravy and the pie crust. The only thing that would've been more authentic would be a freshly killed chicken, but I didn't have one of those, so I bought a cheap frying chicken, dunked it in a pot of boiling water, and then spent too much time picking the meat off the bones.

Now, as the mother of grown children and the wife of a man who doesn't eat pot pies, stews, or most anything else involving veggies, I have no one to bake that old-fashioned pot pie for, except myself. I'm not about to go to all that trouble just for me; if I'm going to do that much work, it must somehow involve chocolate. (Sorry, chicken and chocolate don't mix.)

Yet I still crave it—the flaky crust, savory gravy, fresh-tasting vegetables, and chunks of genuine chicken. After trying various store-bought versions, I'm convinced there is no substitute for homemade.

The need: a pot pie for one. The problem: I can't find a recipe. The solution: Create my own recipe, and make it do-able in 20 minutes instead of two hours.

I gathered a few staples from my pantry & fridge: chicken bouillon, chicken gravy powder, Heinz chicken gravy, frozen peas, fresh carrots, one small potato, Kirkland chicken, refrigerated croissants (the kind that come in a roll), and milk. Then, guessing but not measuring, I did this:

Preheated the oven to 350 or so (this old oven is off by about 25 degrees)
Heated some milk on the stove
Mixed some chicken gravy powder with a little water and poured it into the heated milk, stirring a lot till it thickened
Dumped the rest of the leftover Heinz chicken gravy into the heated mixture; stirred
Chopped up some baby carrots, nuked them till tender, and dumped them in the mixture
Nuked the potato for a couple of minutes until slightly tender
Put a handful of frozen peas in the mixture
Peeled the cooked potato, diced it, and put it in the mixture
Put an entire can of Kirkland chicken breast in the mixture (I'm stirring all of this together, right?)
Tasted the mixture and decided it needed more chicken flavor; put some bouillon in
Heated the mixture thoroughly for a few minutes, then poured it in a small (Marie Callender-sized) pie tin
Quickly poured it into a larger pie tin before it spilled over the edges (this was shaping up to be a family-sized pie after all)
Unrolled the refrigerator croissants and laid most of them over the top of the mixture, cutting and shaping as necessary so they fit with edges mostly touching
Put the whole thing in the oven and set the timer for 11 minutes (about the time recommended to brown the croissants)
Guessed at the 11 minutes after my husband accidentally shut off the timer
Pulled out a perfectly browned, delicious pot pie

From start to finish, it took a little more than 20 minutes; it'll be faster next time, now that I have a "recipe."

After I realized how much I had made, I did my best to talk Scotty into sharing it with me, but he firmly maintained his "I don't do pot pies" stance. I texted my son who lives 10 minutes away to see if his family had already had dinner; they had. So I dug in with a fork, not even bothering to scoop a serving onto a plate.

I'll be eating it for a week, but... Yum.

Dollar theaters: Mecca for old folks

2011-01-12T12:57:00.000-08:00

I've been pestering my husband to take me to Secretariat. Since it's gone from the major theaters, I had little hope of seeing it on the big screen. Then I saw an ad for a second-run theater here in the Phoenix area, and yes, they were playing Secretariat. AND the ticket price was $1 on Tuesdays (normal price is a paltry $2).

With a price like that - especially when "regular" theaters charge $7.50 for the matinee - we planned for dinner and a movie yesterday. Actually movie and a dinner, since the best time for us was the 3:15 showing.

Neither of us had been to this "encore" theater, but Scott knew it was in a major shopping mall. In other words, it wasn't a dive in a bad neighborhood. What we didn't know, however, is what it turned out to be: a big, giant magnet for every white-haired person with a cane or walker within 100 miles.

The place was packed. If we'd been any later, we would have had to sit in the front row or on some old geezer's lap. For the first time since we moved to Phoenix last summer, we almost didn't find a seat. Not at a first-run, opening weekend, blockbuster movie, but at a feel-good flick about a famous racehorse. A movie that's so old it's almost out on DVD.

Now I enjoy a bargain as much (or way more) than the next person, and I'm not young; I'm well into middle age. Part of me enjoyed feeling like a dark-haired, wrinkle-free whippersnapper amongst all that pure white fluff. Sadly, it wasn't the aroma of popcorn that greeted us in the theater, but the odor of liniment. You see, elderly people who get their kicks out of paying $1 for a movie apparently don't buy popcorn or drinks. Out of 200 people in the theater, we could see only a couple besides us who had any refreshments. If this were your average group of elderly in any other town, I might understand that this was out of economic necessity, but come on - this is PHOENIX, and most of these folks are driving a Mercedes and have a second home in Connecticut. Apparently they don't understand that a) theaters survive on popcorn, candy, and drink sales, and if they don't buy, the theater will close; and b) popcorn is GOOD.

Oh, and the movie? Yes, it was amazing. I liked it better than Sea Biscuit, although for all I know, the writers may have messed around with the facts in the Secretariat story just as much. (They do that to make what they think is a better movie.) Those of us of a certain age remember when Secretariat won the Triple Crown; my memories of watching those races are vivid. That doesn't make the movie any less compelling. It's really the story of a woman's courage and determination: Penny Tweedy, the owner, fought a tough fight to hang on to Secretariat and race him. She won, he won, they all lived happily ever after. Go see it.

Who Drinks Coffee in the Desert?

2010-06-22T16:31:00.000-07:00

Independent coffee stands can be found on nearly every corner in Spokane, Washington. In one six-mile stretch of highway I counted ten independent espresso shacks and one Starbucks. As that was my route to work, I sampled most of them in search of the perfect vanilla latté and found my favorite brew at a shop called Dagny’s: two drive-through windows and no inside seating.

Now, as a transplant to Phoenix, Arizona, I’m jonesing for my Dagny’s latté and the friendly baristas who knew me by name and didn’t need to ask what I wanted but had it ready when they saw me coming. I’ve roamed the streets of Phoenix, from Ahwatukee to Chandler to Scottsdale and pretty much everywhere in between (this is a BIG city), and here’s what I’ve found: Starbucks. And wouldn’t you know it, in a place where 90 degree temps are considered low in the summertime, there aren’t many Starbucks with drive-through windows. They actually make you get OUT and go IN for your coffee. That’s practically unheard of in the Pacific Northwest’s coffee culture, where virtually every coffee shop has a drive-through window, even if they have inside seating.

Those outhouse-sized espresso stands are unknown in the Southwest. It’s Starbucks or it’s nothing. Well, okay, there are a few options in Phoenix for coffee drinkers who want some variety or simply don’t like Starbucks. You can find a latté at Einstein’s Bagels, at Barnes & Noble’s book stores, or at the rare Seattle’s Best coffee shop. There’s the very occasional independent, like Mama Java's Coffeehouse. McDonald’s started selling what they claim is a latté a couple of years ago, but it isn’t (I guess they didn’t learn the ropes in the Pacific Northwest; we KNOW espresso drinks).

You’re probably thinking it makes sense that Phoenix doesn’t have much of a coffee culture, because who drinks hot coffee in the desert? I was surprised to find that, according to Fox News, “A recent study shows that residents of the Phoenix metro area rank high among cities that spend money on ‘designer’ coffee.” Tucson residents rank even higher! So why no independents?
I can only guess that the price in Phoenix of a 12’x12’ patch of concrete on which to place an independent espresso stand is so outrageous that it just isn’t worth it. Certainly it isn’t because they wouldn’t succeed: put one in my neighborhood and I’d keep it in business singlehanded. In the meantime, I bought myself an espresso machine, which at my previous rate of latté purchases should pay for itself in, oh, about ten days. And I’ve put in a call to Mike, who owns that Dagny’s back in Spokane: there’s a great spot of real estate here in Phoenix, just waiting for you to land on. It’s my driveway.

The War Against the Squirrels

2009-07-03T18:50:00.000-07:00

I took a walk in our field the other day and had a hard time not falling into a hole. Or rather, 285 holes. Our 15 verdant, productive acres of alfalfa have been invaded by ground squirrels who have dug in like an army of determined dough boys in the trenches of WWI. Stealthy but not silent, their strident, incessant "peep peep peep, cheep cheep cheep" disturbs the peace and calm we took for granted when my late husband and I moved to this farming area near Mt. Spokane. We used to sit outside and enjoy the calls of birds and the breeze whispering through the maple leaves. Who can hear anything now above all this squirrel chatter?

Don't go feeling sorry for them, any more than you'd pity rats in your basement. Ground squirrels are dirty little varmints that tunnel underground like prairie dogs, living and breeding in huge colonies. Their most active season is late spring through mid-summer, when at any given time I can look out and see dozens of heads popping up from their holes. They feed on plants and plant roots, and since their favorite habitat is open grasslands, this makes them a prime consumer and destroyer of hay fields. They’re as determined and nearly as indestructible as the aforementioned army; they’ve pitted my alfalfa field with moon-like craters so abundant you can’t take ten steps without breaking an ankle in one.

It’s legal to “control” ground squirrels when they’re destroying crops, but “ground squirrel control measures” are a joke. Back when I was young and optimistic, I found what I thought was the ultimate weapon: extra-large, heavy-duty squirrel bombs that looked like smallish sticks of dynamite. I had to travel 30 miles to Deer Park to buy them at a feed store because they weren’t legal in Spokane County.

I bought what I thought was a large enough supply to take down every ground squirrel within five miles, and then some. Back home, I filled my son's red wagon with squirrel bombs, newspapers, and matches. With a shovel over my shoulder, I pulled the wagon into the field and began my campaign against the enemy. The process went something like this: Dig, dig, dig up a squirrel hole. Crumple up newspapers. Shove a bomb down the hole as far as possible and light it. Quickly stuff newspapers over the bomb, then backfill with dirt. See drifts of white smoke coming from other holes. See squirrels popping up and laughing.

I must've spent hundreds of dollars on those bombs. I never saw one squirrel keel over. So Farmer K., who rents our field and cuts the alfalfa, brought in the definitive answer: a mega-gasser that he ran from his tractor. Soon the furry little devils would be heading for prairie dog heaven (or hell), and the field would be saved from destruction. Or not. Farmer K. did his best, but a week later, there were as many heads as ever; perhaps more, as if there were a Baby Boom generation reproducing at a rate fast enough to completely overwhelm squirrel Social Security.

If you don’t like hunting and have a fundamental disagreement with shooting anything that’s alive, please don’t read on. Because the sure-fire way of reducing the squirrel population turned out to be .22 rifles, those low-powered little can-poppers used for target shooting. Our lawn-care specialist, a local teenager we trust, offered to bring over a couple of buddies and do some shooting. Soon there were three teenagers wearing cowboy hats and carrying guns, ready to address our problem John Wayne-style.

The boys spent a couple of hours picking off their targets, keeping score of the ones they could see falling on the field of battle. Others, they were sure, descended to the depths of the earth to expire. This hunting party was followed by another made up of neighbors who had a vested interest in stopping the problem before it spread to their fields, and again, they kept count of the fallen. Over the next three weeks, the total was closing in on 50, then 100, then 125 – outrageous, unbelievable numbers that were backed up by the cessation of the head-popping and the incessant “peep peep peep, cheep cheep cheep” of previous weeks.

Soon after the last hunting party left, the weather took a turn into the dog days of summer. Extreme heat drove the remaining squirrels underground for estivation, which is kind of the hot-weather form of hibernation. It’s fall now, and we haven’t heard a peep or seen a head since July. Have we won the battle or simply a skirmish? Next spring, as the weather warms, we’ll once more sit on our deck and listen for the telltale sounds of WWI returning. Then we’ll either muster the troops or sigh in relief at a war well fought.

P.S. I wrote this last September, and the squirrels are taunting us again, but we've had relatives, neighbors, friends, and teenagers out shooting. Even my husband, the same man who captured a fly alive, took it to the door, and released it, saying, "There you go, little buddy." When Scott gets mad enough to shoot at living things, you know they're in big trouble.

Maverick Madness

2009-06-26T12:36:00.000-07:00

We used to have a dog who was outdoors all the time, feared nothing, played hard, and slept happily in the garage. We now have a dog - the same dog - who scratches and whines to be indoors, who is afraid of most everything, who is sacked out much of the time, and who insists on sleeping in the house at night.

What changed Maverick into Marley? Age, mostly, but also thunderstorms. When he was still young, Maverick was playing in the neighbor's yard when a thunderstorm hit. He took off running and turned up, the next day, 8 miles from our house. In his panic he had run over the top of the nearby hills and down the other side.

In the intervening years, every thunderstorm sent him into a frantic episode of chewing (gates, fences, door frames, screen doors, or whatever kept him away from us at the time), pacing, whining, and shaking. That is, if he wasn't running for his life. We "lost" him several times and had to go retrieve him from wherever he'd run to. One night Scott and I held him, or tried to, while his tranquilizers took effect, but he was so panicked that he ran right over the top of us and butted his head against the bedroom door, trying to escape - who knows why or where.

Maverick is nearly 13 years old now, and he turned deaf about a year ago. He seemed to ignore last season's thunderstorms, so we thought those episodes were over. Whew! No more chewing, running, or freaking out.

Then a few weeks ago, while my grown sons were here to witness it, Maverick went ballistic on our side porch. He chewed chunks of wood off the newly fixed door frame (we had it repaired because we thought he was over that manic phase) and banged his body repeatedly against the door. We let him inside, gave him tranqs, and waited while he calmed down. A couple of nights ago it happened again - we got our first indication there was a t-storm in the distance when we heard Maverick banging the door. More chunks of the door frame were lying on the porch. Later he nearly chewed his way out of a dog-proof crate. It's amazing the dog has any teeth left.

I get so mad at Maverick when he's destructive that I forget what he really is inside: a frightened little boy who wants his mommy because he doesn't know what's going on, and he doesn't understand that the loud noises and flashes of light won't hurt him, as long as we're with him. He can't help doing what he does, and no amount of scolding will stop him from doing it again.

So we're at the point of asking how much trouble we're willing to put up with while Maverick lives out his last years. We could say he's had a good, long life, have him put down, and be done with it, but that's the coward's way out. The door frame is fixable (again); nights of lost sleep are redeemable; and the aggravation of dealing with panic attacks is manageable. We have an obligation to the old boy, just as we would to any other family member who loses his mind under circumstances he doesn't understand and can't control.

That reminds me - Honey, if someday I'm reduced to chewing, whining, and freaking out uncontrollably, please keep me.

10 Things I Like About Mom

2009-05-09T19:21:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day doesn't seem like a holiday for me. It's all about MY mother (as if, after 25 years of motherhood, I don't quite have the "mother" identity yet). She is the most special woman in my life, the one I adore the most, the one I'd choose to spend time with over all others.

I don't say it often enough: I just love her to pieces, and here are a mere ten reasons why (I don't have space here for the other 3 million):

1. Her kind and caring heart. I don't know anyone else who cares so very deeply about people. Her prayer list must be endless, because she doesn't just promise to pray when you ask her, she really does. She takes on the cares and worries of others in a way that makes you feel truly loved. She has the gift of crying with those who mourn and rejoicing with those who are glad.

2. Her deep spirituality. I've known about God since shortly after my birth, because Mom made sure we kids were in Sunday School and church several times a week. But more than that, she has always modeled a relationship with Jesus and a trust and faith in God that I made sure I had for myself. Her example has helped me to worry less and believe more.

3. Her wit. Mom is fun to be around. She sees the irony in situations that would pass most people by, and her sense of humor ranges from an appreciation of the absurd to an enjoyment of silly stories. When she emails me something funny, I know it'll be worth checking out.

4. Her intelligence. Scott and I joke that Mom provides tech support for the entire community of Lyle, but we aren't far off the truth. She continues to learn and master technology, contraptions, and inventions. Some of my earliest and favorite memories are playing word games with her, and I give her a lot of credit for my love of learning.

5. Her love for growing things. There is hardly a houseplant or garden flower, shrub, or bulb she can't coax into full beauty. Her green thumb is evident in her shelves of blooming African violets and front and back yards full of dozens of varieties of flowers. She transformed a barren hillside into an oasis. I always try to take a tour of the gardens when I visit, to see what's new and what's in bloom.

6. Her patience. When one 3-year-old boy tells another, "She doesn't yell at you when you spill things," you know you're in the presence of someone special. Things like spilled milk or a broken vase simply don't upset her because, as she says, "What will it matter in five years?" People young and old feel comfortable in her home because she doesn't stress over perfection. People come first, not things.

7. Her optimism. Mom's philosophy has long been that it's better to be an optimist because worrying doesn't change anything anyway (she has a better way of saying it). My often-fearful heart is comforted by knowing that Mom has set a grand example of trusting the Lord to take care of things. And it's not just lip service; she truly lives her belief.

8. Her generosity and selflessness. If you needed it, Mom would literally give you the shirt off her back. She is always on the lookout for things other people might want, things she can share, and things she can give away. More than that, she responds in a practical way when she hears about a need. If it's possible for her to meet it or to help in any way, she will do it.

9. Her perseverance. Mom is like a pit bull when it comes to getting things done. She is the best I've seen at following up on everything from technical issues to people issues. Problems others would drop as too complex are a challenge she embraces, and it's rare for her to not be successful. I love hearing her stories about working through difficulties!

10. Her ability to enjoy and understand children. Mom must have been one of the best kindergarten teachers ever, because her former students, now in their 30s, 40s and beyond, are still coming up to her to visit and reminisce. She's definitely one of the best-ever grandmothers, beloved by my children and her other grandchildren, along with great nieces, great nephews, and basically any child that comes into her presence. She is a loving grandma who sings, plays, reads books, cuddles, laughs, and can relate to the children in her life.

Thanks, Mom, for giving me the gift of YOU and for teaching me how to be a godly woman, kind and generous, spiritual, optimistic (still working on that one), a lover of flowers and children, giving, and determined. You are the best mother God could have given me, and I'm so very grateful.

Love,
Jenny

50 Ways to Freeze Your Lover

2009-04-14T18:24:00.000-07:00

Did you ever talk someone into doing something and then feel really stupid when it backfired on you?

Yesterday I decided Scott and I needed to walk half a mile to our mailbox and back. We've done this a few times lately, and it's felt good to get out in the fresh air. Plus I've turned into Jabbette the Hut over the winter months, so I NEED to walk.

I pulled my husband off the oh-so-comfortable couch, purring and persuading and cajoling. "Pleeeeeease? Take a walk with me, it'll be fun."

Being a gentleman who can't refuse his lady anything she really wants, but complaining under his breath that it was too darn cold, he arose and reached into the closet for a coat. This action was significant, because Scott doesn't wear coats, even during winter. "Too warm," he says. But he took a look outside, told me I was nuts, and put on his heaviest jacket.

I, being uncharacteristically optimistic, told him it was a beautiful April afternoon and no, the rain wouldn't catch us, and those clouds didn't look at all threatening, and did he want a hat? He declined.

We walked the quarter mile toward our mailbox, feeling the wind at our backs, and Scott (who is an optimist's optimist) declared that it was freezing, I was crazy, and wasn't that rain hitting his head?

I, in my stocking cap and heavy winter coat, declared that I was quite comfortable, haha, and why didn't he wear a hat?

When we reached the mailbox and turned around, it was as if we had been magically, cruelly transported to the Arctic. This wasn't a warm, spring rain stinging our faces; it was driving snow! And the wind that had gently pressed against our backs was now biting our cheeks and reddening our ears. Mother Nature had pulled the ultimate April Fool's joke and pinned us down in a springtime blizzard.

Through chattering teeth, my kind and loving husband stated that there was no longer any doubt: I was, indeed, crazy, and he would be happy to hold this walk against me for quite a long time. I asked him if he'd like to jog to warm up, and he reminded me that the titanium in his knee joint had already frozen and, if jarred, would explode into shards like in that Terminator movie. Once we got home and slammed the door on the snowstorm, it took an hour before we were truly warm again.

Today when I asked him if he wanted to take a walk, I half expected him to turn me over his knee and spank me. But he simply said, "Sure, Honey, just give me a few minutes." And now I can't find him anywhere. Was that a car I heard driving down the road?

So there was this guy singing, see...

2009-03-21T14:28:00.000-07:00

I used to have to go to student recitals when I took music appreciation in college. If they didn't make us go, nobody would show up, because recitals were B-O-R-I-N-G. I was also taking art classes, so I'd relieve my boredom by sketching whoever was singing or playing or strumming or tooting.

So get this – 30+ years later, I'm going through college memorabilia (junk I saved) and I come across a program from some guy's recital. I saved it because of the brilliant artwork (!), not because I remember Jeff H. But I'm thinking, hey, maybe he's still out there singing somewhere. He sang pretty good in Italian or whatever.

Being a Google junkie, I Google Jeff H and I find this music minister – a PhD no less – at a church back East. He doesn't list EWU in his bio, but what alum of EWU does? I look at his online photo and I look at my sketch (I was a brilliant sketcher) and I'm thinking, yup, could be!

So I email him a cautious note, because I don't want him thinking I'm a stalker. I explain that I ran across this printed program, and he looks kind of familiar, and is it maybe him?

A few hours later I get this email:

Now I realize I have to 'fess up, tell him the story, and send him the sketch and a short note saying I knew some of his accompanists from church. Later I get this email back:

Ah the wonders of the Internet indeed - reconnecting with somebody I didn't remember who didn't remember me!

Dignity and Desperation

2009-03-03T09:58:00.001-08:00

When you sell stuff on craigslist, you meet a lot of nice people. This isn't anonymous eBay, where you mail things to New York. This is real life, in your face, actual people coming to your house.

The other day a sweet college girl picked up a small desk, thrilled to find something she could afford. A young couple driving a brand-new pickup bought our unused twin bed for their little girl, proclaiming it "perfect!" Another young couple in a very old truck took away a free pile of plastic gardening pots for their garden to feed hungry families. A kid gratefully hauled off our scraps of Trex lumber to build shelves in his workshop.

Then there was the family who pulled up in a van to buy a pair of doors for $20. The doors had languished quite a while unsold, so I was happy to have a buyer. A man came to the door, well-dressed in a shabby kind of way. He probably looked older than he really was because his shoulders were stooped, as if he were carrying a great weight.

A young man got out of the van to help get the doors. I heard a baby crying, and a girl in the back seat, who looked no older than 18, asked for warm water to fill the baby's bottle. While we were loading the doors, the older man said something about the baby's health problems - a cleft lip, hospitalization. He paid me, and the older woman in the front seat rolled down her window and called out, "Thank you SO much for selling us these!"

I was struck by this little family's quiet air of dignity and desperation. I took the man's money but regretted it as soon as they left. As I explained to Scotty, they seemed to really need it, but I didn't think fast enough to give it back. Scotty had the same thought I did: email them and offer to return their money.

The mom, who had emailed me about the doors, thanked me for offering their $20 back but said not to feel obligated. I insisted - I explained that God had laid it on my heart, it wasn't my idea. She gave in, and that's when I heard the rest of the story.

The family of four was actually a family of at least 10 - the older man and woman were husband and wife, and they had one child of their own and seven that were adopted. The seven had been removed from their birth home because of abuse and starvation, and now this couple were struggling to feed and care for them all. Medical problems and a lack of insurance had stretched them to the limit.

Sandy had indeed reached the point of desperation, but, she said, "I just think you ought to know how you have blessed me in my feeling that my prayers were not being heard, and realising now that they must be."

I've gathered some stuff for them - extras from our pantry, a box of food from the Union Gospel Mission, our old baby crib, high chair, and playpen. It will help, temporarily. I worry about what they'll do when this food is gone. But God calls us to help where and when He needs us to. For now, this is the help we can offer, and we'll continue to pray for Sandy and her family. Would you pray too?

Got Wench?

2009-03-02T14:20:00.000-08:00

This is an actual ad - not a joke - that appeared in my church's March 2009 newsletter:

-----------
Need a Freezer?
Large chest freezer, free to a good home for just coming to pick it up. If interested, call F*******s Community Church at ***-**** or Dave C. at ***-****. Will most likely require a wench to get it out of the church basement.
-----------

Now I don't know about you, but I have a lot of stuff that needs to be moved out of my basement, and the funny thing is, I never thought of using a wench. If you have one I could hire, please call me at ***-****.

I Can't Think of a Clever Way to Say I Hate Snow

2008-12-18T20:38:00.000-08:00

We got dumped on here in Spokane, Wash., with almost two feet of new snow in a little more than a day. I want out. Right now, I want out. I want to live somewhere greener and warmer. Not too warm, like Phoenix or LA, just warmer than zero degrees with a wind chill of minus 20. You know, like Portland or Seattle – okay, they got snow and cold today too, but it's still about 20 degrees warmer there than here.

Warmer would definitely be better for our critters. You can see from this pic that our dog, Maverick, didn't know what he was getting into when he rushed past me out the door this morning. We could trace his journey out to the field for his pit stop by the trail he plowed. Poor old guy, he's past 12 and arthritic, so it's a wonder he even made it home.

As for Snickers, that barn cat has decided being inside isn't so bad. When the temps went lower than 15 and we brought him in the house, he haunted the doorway, waiting for a chance to dash outside, back to what was familiar to him: his heating pad in the garage. Three days later he's sleeping on our bed and following us around the house like a puppy. When the door opens, he yawns and turns away. Smart cat.

Maverick and Snickers are lucky. They don't have the drudgery of back-breaking shoveling or the worry that the power will go out and we'll be stranded with no water, no heat, no lights, and busted pipes. They don't have to get the sprinkler system blown out or scrape car windows or agonize over Christmas presents that will be mailed too late because we couldn't get to the post office.

They don't have to stand in a three-foot drift and extend a golf-ball-getter to its full length to scrape snow off a satellite dish that's 12 feet off the ground. Neither do they have the joy of bribing the neighbor who owns a tractor to plow our driveway (as always, the promise of an apple pie worked its magic – we love our neighbors). The critters just sleep and eat and do that other thing you have to clean up after.

I used to like that song from The Sound of Music, the one that goes, "Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes, silver-white winters that melt into springs..." Now I realize these are a few of my un-favorite things. These are things I won't miss about living in Spokane when, someday, I do not.

Snow drifts and cold temps and power that flickers
Shov'ling and scooping up after my Snickers
Scraping the icicles off of my nose
I am so sick of this climate I chose...

Or, to quote a character on tonight's episode of The Office, "One day we're going to move to Disney's Celebration Village in Florida and leave all of this behind." Want to come along?

Toys for Tats

2008-12-17T19:14:00.000-08:00

I bought a lot of toys when my two boys were little. To their great disappointment, many of those toys went into the toy closet, unopened, and have stayed there for years. These were not-to-be-played with toys. These were, in fact, investment toys, meant to be sold later when they had increased in both rarity and value.

I've put a few on eBay over the years. Like all investments, some turned out to be a bust, like the Willow action figures that wouldn't even bring a dollar each. Others were absolute steals that paid off very well – a Star Wars Micro Playset bought for $5.99 brought $59.99. I don't do math well enough to know exactly what kind of payoff that was, but I liked it.

This fall I heard eBay was running a half-off-listing-fees sale, and I jumped on it. After I listed fifty-some toys, I sat back to watch the bidding action. I figured the Disney "Dinosaurs" talking Baby would be a sure thing because they'd been selling for big bucks. But no, the auction ended without one bid, and I still have my Baby. But every New Kids on the Block doll went fast. Those Jonathans and Jordans I bought in honor of my boys' names are still popular with ex-teenyboppers, I guess.

The last sale I made was a 1990s Batcopter. The buyer said he lived in Spokane, and could he come pick it up? Knowing how lost people get when they try to find our home in the country, I said I'd drop it off at his workplace in Spokane Valley. Turns out he works at a tattoo parlor, and so yesterday I made my very first visit to such an establishment. The young receptionist was very much like Abby on NCIS: black hair, cheerful, tattooed. She said my buyer wasn't in, but she'd give him the toy.

Later the buyer emailed me and asked if I had anything else to sell, because he and his brother collect 1980s and 1990s toys. Oh Joy! I can give him a list and maybe, just maybe, he'll take those Willow action figures off my hands. And maybe I can finally get that little butterfly on my...

Although if he's thinking of trading tattoos for toys, I guess he'll have to think again, and my butterfly will have to wait. It just wouldn't be appropriate. As my Scotty said, "No Toys for Tats, Dearest." ;)

Last of the Fab Fifties

2008-12-15T08:51:00.000-08:00

Four friends and I turned fifty this year. We're all part of the close-knit staff of Spokane's Union Gospel Mission homeless shelter, and our birthday bashes stretched from January through December. But that's not everyone – my husband, Scotty, and our friends John and Ann also hit the mid-century mark in 2008. We're the tail end of the Great Baby Boom, and my December birthday made me the tail end of the 2008 Fifties Club.

I'd heard from my husband that turning fifty wouldn't be easy, and he was right. It was a shock when I filled out a form online yesterday and had to type in 50 instead of 49. More than any other birthday, this one portends the downhill slide toward old age. I'm noticing more of the gray I've been struggling to cover (see "Why I Decided to Go Gray"). I can feel a little stiffness in my knees, and my clothes seem to have shrunk.

On the other hand, I have countless blessings, including amazing kids & grandkids and a wonderful husband of two years. May the next fifty far surpass the first.

Bidding Goodbye - to Stuff

2008-12-10T16:44:00.000-08:00

Stuff. Too much, far too much, the accumulation of 25 years of living in the same place. A place that has far, far too much space in which to store the stuff. I have a house with large closets, a full basement, a big and very accessible attic, a garage that fits two cars with plenty of room left over, and an enormous barn with three levels of empty just begging to be filled. And, regrettably, it almost is.

And it isn't just my stuff. There's also the stuff I've kept that belonged to my late husband - tools, mostly, and some glassware he liked to collect. Then there's the kids' toys, only the kids are now 23 and 25. The attic is half full of empty Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles boxes waiting to be reunited with the proper vintage of Donatello, Rafaelo, or Michaelangelo.

There's also a bit of Scotty's stuff, although he is the antithesis of a pack rat. He packed pretty light coming into our marriage.

Mostly, though, it's mine, and that "mostly" consists of books I've never read and never will, though they look interesting; books from my children's childhood days that they may remember and want for their own kids someday; toys, either from my own childhood or from the childhood I thought I wanted, where every toy-related wish is fulfilled; clothes of various sizes fitting the skinny me, the average me, and the upsized me; a pantry full of things like brownie mixes that are going on four years old; and around 450 video tapes full of old tv shows, movies, and home videos.

That's not to mention the antique stove sitting in the basement that looks pretty, doesn't work, and isn't attracting any bids on eBay. What do you do with a "Monarch Malleable Range" that's too valuable to give away but nobody wants? (Want to look me up on eBay? I'm "gibbsj.")

Then there are all those antique vases that are probably worth something, but I don't know what. So I might list them for $20 on eBay only to find they're actually worth $400. Oops. I could sell the whole kit'n caboodle to an antiques dealer, but she'd know exactly what it was worth and I still wouldn't. That stuff doesn't always come labeled with a convenient tag, like, "This is a very rare, very desirable, very expensive lemonware glass shaped like a tulip with a solid sterling base and made in Holland around 1900, and you shouldn't take any less than your firstborn child for it."

Lamps. I got lamps. We closed down the lake house and brought a whole houseful of stuff back, and most of it is still stored in the barn, including all the lamps, which joined ranks with the overflow of lamps from the house. I must have 30 lamps. Extras, that is. My aunt offered me $75 for one of them, but it was so Art Deco ugly that I gave it to her just to get it out of my sight.

It's funny what people want. I advertised a faded red fire hydrant labeled "1949 San Francisco" on craigslist.com. Within an hour I had an offer, and later I had two more. I got a bit of welcome cash for it with only ten minutes' work to take a photo and list it.

But nobody wants the Arnold S. "Terminator" doll with glowing eyes. Come on, he even talks! But there's a few dozen of his clones on eBay, and none of them are selling either. So my "investment" just sits in the toy closet and gets dustier.

Not so with my talking Steve Urkel doll (remember Family Matters?). Someone snapped him up within a couple hours' of his appearance on eBay, and they paid a pretty penny for a doll I got for a few bucks on a clearance table.

There are other, non-eBay ways of clearing the clutter, and I don't mean the illegal burn barrel next to the barn. We have at least ten charity-related thrift stores in Spokane that will take most anything, as long as it isn't stained, ripped, or missing pieces. (They wouldn't have taken my vintage Star Wars C-3PO model kit, but some guy in Ireland did.) I have four big bags and a box full of stuff in the trunk, ready to go to my favorite, the Union Gospel Mission's Classy Rack in Spokane Valley. Great people work there, including some who are recovering addicts or formerly homeless. People who are working hard to restore their lives with God's help.

My goal is to dejunk, declutter, and clean out the freezer in the next two months. I sold 19 toys on eBay in the past week and a half, so there's hope the next 26 items will sell too. And after that, I only have 4,368 items to go. Pray for me.

Why I've Decided to Go Gray

2008-12-03T17:03:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had a rash from poison oak or poison ivy? Red, raised, fiery, welted patches of pure agonizing itch that spread... if you've had it, you remember it well. It's called contact dermatitis, and it happens when sensitive skin is exposed to an allergen.

Common hair coloring dyes can have the same effect in some people. Unfortunately "some people" includes me. When I was young and didn't have any gray hair to cover, any old dye would do. I had some fun experimenting with exotic sounding colors like "Warm Golden Sable Brown," which looked a lot like brown, and "Honey Champagne Rosewood Sable," which also looked a lot like brown.

Now that I'm approaching 50 and really need the helpful coverage that little box of Clairol can render to my aging brunette locks, I can't use it. The slightest touch of any dye with p-Phenylenediamine (PPD) will send the nearest patch of skin into an itchy hell. And I don't use that word lightly. I had a reaction so bad once that I had to go to the emergency room and get a steroid shot to get me back to normal. It took a week.

I looked online for a hypoallergenic alternative and found Herbatint. Yes, it still has PPD, says the hype, but so little that "most allergic people don't react." I bought a box of "Honey Warm Sable Ash," or something like that, at the local health food store. Following the directions for once, I did what's called a patch test. I mixed some of the chemicals, smeared the mixture inside my left elbow, and didn't wash it off. "Leave for 48 hours," said the directions, "and if no reaction is seen, proceed with coloring hair."

Oh my, it didn't take 48 hours. It didn't take 24 hours. It took six hours for the inside of said elbow to become inflamed, well beyond the two-inch spot where I dabbed the dye. Because I have friends who read this blog who have an averse reaction to any mention of "swelling," I'll leave it at that.

Three days later, I am in a daily regimen of swathing my poor arm in burn gel - it's the only thing that helps - covered by sterile gauze and wrapped in that stretchy athletic wrap stuff. This was my last try at covering up my encroaching age. I give up. And so I will go gentle into that dark, er, gray night, and I'll go proudly.

Disaster Averted, Pumpkin Pie Triumphs

2008-12-01T13:51:00.000-08:00

I failed the holiday acid test. Thanksgiving Day was PP-Day: it was high time for me make my first pumpkin pie, especially since it was on my husband's "it isn't Thanksgiving without it" list.

I already had an apple pie and a chocolate cream pie sitting on the counter - sure things I'd made many times. I pulled out the recipe for pumpkin pie and found it required two eggs. Oh no. I had just used my second-to-last egg in the pie crust recipe, so I was down to one egg in the carton.

There was no way I was going to drive 22 miles round-trip to the nearest little neighborhood market on the chance they'd 1) be open and 2) have eggs. No worries, I reassured myself. I'd just flip open my laptop and Google a one-egg pumpkin pie recipe.

Good idea, but no luck - every recipe started at two eggs and worked up to six, depending on the fat & calories one desired in their pie. So out the window went the pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving. I was appalled by my lack of planning, but my gracious and understanding husband said it was fine, two pies of the non-pumpkin variety were plenty.

So Sunday (yesterday) rolled around, and I removed my homemade, waiting-for-pumpkin pie shell from the freezer. I had a full carton of eggs, my son and his special girl were coming over, and pie would be had. Pumpkin pie.

As the guests were arriving, I emptied out the can of pumpkin into a bowl and snipped off the recipe on the back. I couldn't read the micro-sized type, so after a failed attempt to blow it up on the copier (which just made it fuzzy), or decipher it with reading glasses (which weren't powerful enough), I peered through a magnifying glass and found, to my horror, that the Libby's recipe required a 12-oz can of evaporated milk.

I usually read through recipes first, but not this time. I had every ingredient mixed and waiting except the canned evaporated milk. I went to the basement, where I have a pantry that would feed the whole neighborhood during a six-month siege - but no evaporated milk.

I did have just over one cup of heavy cream. My son's special girl, who is in her second year of studying culinary arts, agreed that maybe I could substitute it for the evaporated milk. My thought process went like this: evaporated milk is like double-strength milk, and heavy cream is, well, rich and creamy. There was no way I was going to drive 22 miles round-trip to the nearest little neighborhood market for a can of evaporated milk. So why not try? All I had to lose was a homemade pie crust, some inexpensive ingredients, and my reputation as a pie-maker.

I baked the pie per instructions, which seemed kind of odd: a few minutes at 450, and quite a while at 350, then test the middle with a sharp knife. The pie took longer to set than it should have, and both my boy and his girl refused to try it (neither one is a pumpkin pie fan, so I can't blame them; I would've declined too).

My husband galantly stepped up and tasted a still-warm piece slathered in enough Cool Whip to drown out the flavor. The pie was lighter colored than the pies I remembered from family Thanksgivings, but Scotty pronounced it "very good!" And he wasn't just humoring me. He asked for another piece. I then tried my second piece of pumpkin pie ever (my first was a commercially baked "sugar free" pie), again with the Cool Whip. Dang tasty. I don't want another piece, and it'll never be something I make because I enjoy it, but I would've been proud to serve it.

Next year at Thanksgiving, I'll keep the heavy cream handy. Because everybody needs a secret ingredient.

Two Years of Laughing

2008-11-12T12:49:00.000-08:00

I had never laughed as much or as hard as I have in the past two years. Actually two years, four months, seven days – since the day Scotty came into my life. November 11 marked our second wedding anniversary, and although there are many things I adore about this man, I think the laughter he's brought into my life is one of the most precious.

We have fun, and that's something that was in short supply during the previous 25 years. Life was pretty serious then. Now I have a life companion who knows how to be both silly and serious, goofy and gracious, knowledgeable and knee-slapping. I'm a lot of those things too, but they were hidden, and he's brought them out in me in a new way. I can really be me and he can really be him, and together we're just plain weird. We have to tone it down around normal people.

Now that's pretty sappy, isn't it. But it's the truth - we have fun in our mutual goofiness. Happy anniversary to us.

What Is the Value of Pie?

2008-11-09T09:47:00.000-08:00

I'm not afraid to bake a pie. I've heard rumors there are women who are afraid to try because they're intimidated by the intricate process of crust making, or they've failed to make a perfect crust in the past. Being afraid is far different from being satisfied with the fake, store-bought pies from the bakery. Fear I can understand; I'm scared of souffles and any kind of dough that has to be kneaded (doesn't everyone want to be kneaded?). But take heart if you're among the piecrust-fearful; it's worth it to keep trying.

I wouldn't eat pie when I was a kid. The mixture of flavors and textures wasn't appealing, so I just ate the plain apples or the cherries on their own. Chocolate pie was the exception, because I can't resist chocolate in most any form and because Mom made it from scratch, producing a dessert with a perfectly flaky crust, richly flavorful chocolate pudding filling, and real vanilla-flavored whipped cream on top. Nobody could resist Mom's chocolate pie.

I don't remember the first time I actually made an apple pie, but I think it was the day my mother-in-law asked me to bring a pumpkin pie to a family gathering - Thanksgiving, probably. I disliked pumpkin pie even more than apple pie, and I couldn't stand the thought of contributing something I so detested.

After I convinced her that apple pie was a better choice, I decided to bake instead of buy, for two reasons: thrift and tradition. In my family, one never, simply never, bought a pie of any kind. The closest bakery was at least 12 miles away, and besides, pie making was an art practiced and perfected among my maternal ancestors. If I couldn't make my own pie, I wasn't my mother's daughter or my Grammie's granddaughter. No pressure from them of course; this was all my own delusion. Back then I was still adventuresome in the kitchen and didn't realize so many things can go wrong with a pie: dough that tore apart when rolled, a tough crust, tasteless filling, burnt edges, chewy fruit instead of tender.

I called my mother for her recipe. She lived too far away to come and help me, although kind as she is, she probably would have made the 300-mile drive. She let me in on a secret: her renowned piecrust had two special ingredients - vinegar and egg. This combo made the dough practically fool-proof, which was perfect for a young and foolish wannabe baker like me. I rolled up my sleeves, put on one of those fru-fru aprons, and baked my first apple pie.

If you're expecting a disaster story, forget it; although I hated the floury, sticky mess that was left to clean up, my pie was good enough to please not only my former m-i-l but also her whole family. They were easy to please, not having a lot of experience with homemade pie. Their bakery was only three blocks away, and they weren't much into baking. And so I became the family's designated pie baker, which was fine with me because my only other choice was "designated potato salad maker," and I detested potato salad. I've still never made one and I'm pushing 50.

But I did eventually taste my own pie, because I figured "just once" wouldn't kill me, and I fell in like. When you spend at least an hour creating a dessert, it's practically sinful to let other people eat all of it. Apple pie still isn't my favorite dessert (that title is permanently reserved for something with chocolate in it), but I always enjoy at least one piece, warm from the oven with vanilla ice cream melting down the sides. What I value even more is the look on Scott's face and his "Ahhh..." after the first bite. You'll never get that satiated look or that satisfied sound by serving a store-bought pie.

Over the almost 30 years since unveiling my first pie, I've worked to perfect my own recipe. Experimenting with a combo of apple varieties, a dash of other spices along with cinnamon, chilled dough, and a few other tricks are making it a little better each time. It's one of my favorite things to do on a fall afternoon, especially when I've picked too many apples to fit in the fridge. They have to go somewhere, and there's no better place than in a homemade piecrust. The bounty of this year's crop of Jonathans, Romes, and Golden Delicious is sitting on our side porch in plastic bags, waiting to be peeled, wedged, cored, and sliced.

A fresh, homemade apple pie is such a treasure to certain friends that they'll take them in exchange for doing things like looking after our cat and gathering our mail while we're out of town. They'd do these things anyway, but the pies are a sight more welcome than a thank-you note. We have a friend who shoveled our long, steep driveway after a heavy snow; we offered to pay him for his three hours of bone-chilling work that left him looking like Jack Frost. All he wanted was an apple pie.

I do have a pie-related goal, or perhaps it's a pie-fear to overcome: making a pumpkin pie once in my life that will make Scott go "Ahh..." I won't eat it - that's too big a goal. Well, maybe I'll try it. Just once won't kill me.

Love the Apples, Hate the Hassle

2008-09-30T19:17:00.000-07:00

The apples on one of our trees needed to be thinned. Overburdened limbs were bending in sweeping arcs, a sure sign we'd be hearing the "crack" of breaking branches if nothing was done about it. Being a good soldier, albeit a late one, since optimum thinning time was two months ago, I hauled out the 12-foot orchard ladder and thinned. The good news is, I didn't fall off the ladder. Being a worrier, I'm always pretty sure I'll fall off eventually, but it didn't happen today.

If you don't know about apple trees, you may think it would be pretty nice to have one. That's kind of like saying it would be pretty nice to have another fulltime job on top of what you already do. The only benefits of this job are, well, the apples, and you get part of the winter off.

The hobby orchardist – a title I'm qualified to claim, since I own no less than seven apple trees, a real three-legged orchard ladder, and two genuine antique canvas picking bags – starts working in the late winter. Before the tree buds out, it has to have a haircut. All those long, sprangly, straight-up growths from the previous year have to be whacked off. One semi-dwarf tree can produce half a truckload of water sprouts, as they're called. Imagine what's left lying on the lawn under seven trees. And you can't leave 'em lying there, so if you don't have a wood chipper, you either take them to the Waste-to-Energy Recycling Center (the dump), or you pile them up in your field and burn them.

Ever tried to burn green branches in damp weather? Last time I tried it, there were three of us pouring gasoline on the pile, poking lit newspapers under the pile, and generally doing everything to the pile but lighting it with dynamite. A year later the pile was still there. That was the year I got smart and hired a service to prune the trees and haul off the trimmings, including last year's, which by that time were nicely dried and would have made a great bonfire.

Springtime, when young hearts should be celebrating love and bunnies and all that, is the season of spraying. If you don't want nasty greenish worms in your lovely fruit, you must spray. Not once, not twice, but every few weeks for four months. For years, I tried to do it myself. I didn't have commercial equipment, just a thingamajig on the end of a hose, filled with chemicals I measured and mixed myself. I looked pretty goofy wearing coveralls, goggles, and a face mask. I could never get the spray high enough to treat all the limbs, and I was so worn out after spraying a couple of times I quit. Let the worms do their worst; I could eat around them.

I finally got even smarter and paid the chem-lawn service to spray the trees. It's expensive, and it only kind of works; they come out to spray three or four times, which really isn't enough. They spray all the trees, whether or not they have any fruit this year. So maybe it's not so smart, but it gets done, and I don't have to do it.

The thinning I mentioned earlier? That should be done after the little apples start to form, oh, about May or early June. Theoretically you pick off all but a few fruits on each branch or you risk two things: a tree that loses limbs and no crop at all the next year. Both have happened to my trees. Did I learn? Guess not. I was out there thinning apples the size of baseballs tonight. I worked for an hour on one side of one tree and left hundreds of apples on the ground. It hurt me to waste those beautiful, promising little green apples. I left far more on the tree than I should have, and I may pay for it when the apples grow heavier.

At least I don't have to worry about picking up the fallen apples. By tomorrow morning every single one will be gone, along with all the leaves I accidentally tore off. I have an army at hand, and they muster quickly when the apple trees are bearing. Feathered, quilled, and antlered, they are out there right now in the twilight, starting their feast. No, the apples won't go to waste. All my labor this evening will plump up some hungry animals who are facing a cold winter. And that's a very good thing.

Jedi vs. Airline

2008-09-29T17:34:00.000-07:00

I drove my husband to the airport at 6 a.m. I drove back to pick him up at 7:30. We drove out to the airport again this afternoon. All those trips to the airport, and he still didn't make it from Spokane to Montreal. But he did triumph over the airline system.

We knew something was wrong when he didn't get an email confirmation of his e-ticket so he could check in online. I tried to look him up with his United Mileage Plus information; as usual, I couldn't get in. And his confirmation number plus last name didn't get me anywhere. Weird. That had always worked before.

I had called United last week to bump his seats up to Economy Plus, and they found him, so we thought he would be able to check in at the airport. We rolled in a little late - about 45 minutes before his flight instead of the "required" two hours - but pretty confident that he'd be fine, as he had no luggage to check. Well, he was confident; I'm always petrified something will go wrong. And today, it did. Hah! I was right.

I dropped him off and heard this story later. He checked in at the ticket counter and found that his reservation was under "Martes" not Mertes. He might have tried to skate through on a normal, U.S.-only flight, but not on an international one. He didn't want to get stuck at Customs going in or out, with a ticket that didn't match his passport. So he asked the ticket agent to change his name, and she just stamped his ticket and told him to go on through. "It'll be fine," she said. My husband was skeptical, but he tried. Of course the TSA agent stopped him and sent him back to ticketing.

Again, the ticket agent insisted he'd be fine. Again, TSA wouldn't let him through until the ticket agent promised he could get reticketed at the gate. Again, my husband didn't believe her, but what could he do? He followed the accommodating and sympathetic TSA agent (who told him "She's done this four times this morning and we're really upset with her") back to the gate, where the gate agent looked at him like he was nuts. "We don't do ticketing at the gate." Right. And back my husband went to the ticket agent.

Long story short – the flight left without him. The ticket agent refused to issue him a receipt showing his name spelled correctly. She said she couldn't issue anything with his correct name until he bought another ticket. So he came home, frustrated and angry with the airline system, but mostly with the agent herself. He couldn't reticket at the airport because he didn't know when his boss would want him to reschedule.

Once he called the office and got a new date for his trip, I got on the phone with United. I expected to just change up his ticket, and gosh, was I wrong. Half an hour on the phone with United, and I was as upset as my husband. The news was bad: the problem with Scott's name being misspelled was being tied to his Mileage Plus account, which they said had shown his name as "Martes" not "Mertes" since the 1990s. Neither of us believed that, since he's flown on United many times without running into this issue. What I do remember is talking very slowly and clearly to the foreign-sounding agent when I first made Scott's reservations for Montreal: "M-MARY. E-EDWARD. R-RAYMOND..." You get the picture. Apparently she thought that was "A-ADWARD."

The call to United this afternoon left us reeling, because there was simply nothing they could do for us until we got the Mileage Plus mess straightened out. Until then, that $977 ticket was useless. And the price for a new ticket had gone up to $1,800, which we'd have to pay for immediately, since we had no credit coming anytime soon from the old ticket. Oh, and don't forget the $150 change fee, and the $98 for Economy Plus seats that we'd have to buy again. No refunds there.

The agent on the phone gave us a slim hope that we could get a better outcome by going back to the airport. Great, another 44-mile roundtrip on the off chance the same agent would be there (apparently that was a requirement). But we decided to try.

When we arrived at the United counter, we found one female and one male agent and no customers. We had their total attention. While I stood by for moral support, my knees shaking because I hate, absolutely hate, confrontations, Scott stepped up and told the woman his story. He told it with feeling and emotion; I could almost see her mascara run. This woman wasn't the agent from earlier in the day, which turned out to be a good thing. She had a kind heart and some authority, or perhaps she got the power to help us from the guy next to her. They worked our case together.

Twenty minutes later, we walked out with new tickets for the exact day Scott needed to go back and ZERO fees. In other words, instead of an extra $1100 (if our current ticket had had any value), we traded his tickets straight across. This just does not happen. It simply doesn't. I knew if anyone could make a miracle happen at that airline counter, Scott could; he's a likeable, nice, friendly guy, and he got through to a couple of people by appealing to them kind of like Princess Leia did in Star Wars: "Help me Obi Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope."

So Scott has his tickets to fly out next Sunday, and my Jedi and I have a few extra days at home together. Montreal will keep. All is well.

What I Want to Know

2008-09-01T16:36:00.000-07:00

A local TV news program has a promotion that goes something like this: "We want to know what you want to know." I don't quite get their point, but I'm guessing they want their viewers to pitch questions about what's going on in the community.

Okay, I'll bite.

Could you send your TV news crew to the house down the road and find out why it's vacant only two years after it was built. What happened to the teen-aged boys who ripped around their acreage on dirt bikes, happily keeping this entire farming area abuzz with noise and dust? Why did the homeowners leave the entire place in weeds instead of doing some landscaping? I want to know.

And by the way, can you ask the retired farmer across the field why he allows his elderly donkey to run loose? We nearly hit "Eeyore" one day as he dozed, standing up, in the middle of the road. We've dubbed him Eeyore because we kind of like the old guy (the donkey, not the neighbor) and hope he doesn't end up on someone's bumper. People drive altogether too fast past the farmer's house, despite his "Please slow down" signs. Is Eeyore really clever and agile enough to escape his fence, or is the farmer letting him out on purpose to act as a mobile speed bump? I want to know.

This same farmer and his family seem to drive only white sedans that are usually parked in his yard with the trunks open. Could you please find out what's up with that? I mean, was there a body in there and they're airing it out? You never know, he could be the local hit man. I want to know.

I'd also appreciate it if you could get some information from that neighbor who's a member of the volunteer fire brigade but keeps lighting fires in his backyard. "It's just a fire pit," he claims, but I'd swear it's an illegal burn barrel. If I can't have one, neither can he, okay? I suppose it's safer for him to have one than for the average guy, but still... I want to know.

I'm dying to know why another neighboring farmer cuts the hay in his rented fields, gussies it up into those enormous wheels that look like cinnamon rolls on their sides, and then leaves the rolls to rot. They look like something the ancient Romans would light on fire and roll down the hill to get rid of nosy neighbors. Okay, so don't do too much investigating on this one.

Finally, investigate this: Where is the badge of honor that should have been bestowed upon my husband when he ran over a cat the other day? Not for hitting the poor little thing, certainly, but for stopping, tenderly picking it up, and rushing it to the vet for help. This same man will swerve for deer, dogs, squirrels, quail, and just about anything that's in his path.

So when somebody like my husband goes out of his way to get medical treatment for, and find the owner of, what turned out to be a stray cat, why isn't there some kind of recognition? Can you find out who is supposed to appreciate, comfort, and praise him for his compassion? Oh, that would be me. Never mind.

Watching All the Deer Go By...

2008-08-28T19:43:00.000-07:00

♪♫ Standing on the back deck, watching all the deer, watching all the deer, watching all the deer...go by. ♪♫

A summer evening in August, sitting in a deck chair, sipping a Diet Pepsi, eating a burger off the grill, talking with my husband and enjoying the smell of newly cut alfalfa - hey, what's that sound? Crunching. Munching. The deer invasion has begun again.

My husband was remarking tonight as the first doe stepped into our back yard that people in New York wouldn't know what to make of the abundant wildlife. I imagine he meant New York City (get a rope), because I'm sure upstate New York has its share of nuisance deer.

And I do mean nuisance. They're lovely to look at; in fact, I never truly get tired of the site of their graceful, red-brown, long-legged forms, sometimes with spots, sometimes with budding antlers. Visitors who live in the city (yes, I mean Spokane) usually get excited when we tell them there are deer right outside.

I remember when I was a little girl in small-town Lyle, Washington, going for a drive with my parents and sisters to "look for deer." It was one of my favorite things to do on a warm summer night. I doubt we went driving around looking for deer more than a handful of times, yet the memory is both clear and dear.

These days all I have to do to look for deer is glance outside the house most any time of day. Yesterday a doe and her fawn were under one of the apple trees. She was eating the fallen gravenstein apples while he napped. It was a lovely sight.

When I went to pick apples today, I couldn't walk underneath that tree without stepping into a pile of deer droppings. They look kind of like rabbit pellets, and they aren't very smelly, but I definitely don't want them tracked into my house. The lawn turns a nice shade of dark green wherever they've been dropped, but I don't dare go barefoot, and that's a hard thing to have to give up. Judging by the dark green spots all over our near-acre of lawn, we have had 5,000 deer visits this summer. That's approximate, of course.

The other day I looked out the front window and there, all alone among the flower beds, was a fawn. He was old enough to be up and running around, but I doubt his mamma would have approved his galavanting by himself. Fawns are normally told to stay hidden while their mothers are grazing. This little rebel wandered around the yard for a while, followed and tormented by two magpies. They used his butt as a trampoline, landing and bouncing off repeatedly. Wherever he went, they followed. Finally he got tired of the game and trotted back into the alfalfa field. He undoubtedly got a scolding when his mother found him. I was pleased to have this photo published in the Spokesman-Review's Valley Voice on Aug. 23.

Everyone who lives in deer territory knows how destructive they are to gardens, fruit trees, and ornamentals. I've suffered my share of devastation. I gave up trying to grow a garden without the seven-foot fence you'd need to keep them out. Sometimes we allow hunting on our property, although I think far more deer are killed on the nearby road than by hunters.

I do get frustrated when plants and crops are messed up by uninvited guests. But if I had to choose between a perfect, poop-free lawn and nibble-free yard or the privilege of seeing a constant parade of gorgeous wildlife, I'd take the deer. Fewer deer, for sure, but this is why we live in the country. I get to stay home and "look for deer" all I want.

How Fifty Talks to Thirteen

2008-08-27T19:37:00.000-07:00

I took a dear friend, V, to the movies today. I've known her for five years, and we always have a good time. At least, I do. I sometimes wonder what she's thinking while we're carrying on a conversation. V is going-on-fourteen. I am going-on-fifty.

The fact she cares to spend time with me at all is a wonder. I am quite old compared to her other friends. The first time we went somewhere together, V was eight, and her dad - my co-worker - and I were at a conference in Washington, D.C. I'd seen all the attractions on the Mall, and now I was dying to visit the National Zoo. My young friend-to-be had made the trip with her father, and she had nothing to do while Dad was in meetings. So I volunteered to take her along while I skipped out of the conference for a day at the zoo.

I had the privilege of sharing V's first zoo experience. I saw her take her first up-close look at living, breathing giraffes. Neither of us wanted to leave the giraffe house. Then we pressed our noses against the glass and could almost smell the gorilla sleeping on the other side, just inches away. In the small-animal house, V spied an animal she had never heard of and couldn't wait to ask her dad if they could keep it as a pet. Although it rained on us and we got cold and wet, she fell in love with zoos, and I fell in love with her.

After D.C., we developed a go-to-the-movies type of friendship. It gave us something to do and a way to connect, since we both also love movies. Neither of us is particularly talkative, so keeping a conversation going became a challenge for me. Having a movie to talk about helped.

Okay, so talking to an eight-year-old wasn't a major challenge. Back then, I could bring up silly topics or discuss just about anything and not worry that she would think less of me. I knew she had a dog and a couple of cats, and those were always subjects that got her going. According to her dad, she was a bit in awe of me at first, though I don't know why. Probably just because I was so much older and taking an interest in her. When I told her dad how comfortably we talked together, he was surprised. It wasn't typical for her to say much to adults.

Last spring when we saw a movie together, I looked over at her and realized how she had changed. I asked her if anyone ever told her she was becoming beautiful. She said only her parents. That's what I figured. She probably had no concept of the gift God had given her, and yes, I realize it isn't healthy to emphasize physical beauty over a good and godly personality. Still, I told her what I thought: the little girl I used to know has grown into a lovely young woman.

She also had grown into a teenager. They have a reputation for being notoriously difficult to communicate with, so I didn't know quite what we would talk about today, or if it would be awkward. I had planned more time for talk before and after the movie, because I felt strongly that if I wanted to stay in her life, we needed to develop a deeper friendship. It wouldn't work anymore to just chat for a few minutes on the way there and the way home.

Besides, our habit of going to kids' movies had developed a flaw: at thirteen, she was more interested in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants II than in Kung Fu Panda, but the "Sisterhood" type of movie wasn't G-rated enough to be acceptable fare. She was caught between not wanting to be seen at children's movies and not wanting to see the references to sex, drugs, and alcohol that creep into PG-13 flicks.

So I planned for us to hang out at Pig Out in the Park. We would listen to bands, eat, and talk. That plan fell through with the rain and winds that blew in this morning. Neither of us wanted to be out in that weather. We ended up going to Wall-E downtown. Yes, it was a kids' movie, but that didn't seem to matter to her this time.

Before and after the movie, we talked about anything and everything. The key, I found, was in asking V about herself and her experiences and sharing just a little about my experiences, when she seemed interested. Everybody loves to talk about themselves; this quiet girl was eager to answer my questions. From the basic questions about the upcoming school year and how her pets were doing, we went on to discuss the bravest thing she has done: rappelling off a 72-foot platform. That led to a discussion of how she is overcoming her fears. She is as afraid of roller coasters as I am, but she still rides them. She has my admiration!

I asked her about her plans for the future. Her older brother is already looking toward college; she can't see quite that far yet. I remembered how enthralled she was with the animals at the National Zoo and, later, at Spokane's own Cat Tales. Her dad has always said she's fearless with animals. I asked her if she had ever considered a career with animals. Not as a vet, she said; so I asked, how about as a zoo keeper? I told her about the amazing zoo keeper training program at Cat Tales. Who knows, maybe I've planted a seed for a future career.

I came away from our afternoon together liking this teenager even more and very hopeful our friendship can last through the teen years. After talking to her, hanging out with her, and having fun just digging a little deeper into who she is, somehow I don't feel almost-fifty. I feel a little more like a teenager myself. Thank you, V.

Luxury Cars and a Low Stress Life

2008-08-25T15:10:00.000-07:00

I once thought it would be cool to drive a "nice" car. When I say "nice," I mean luxury, like a Mercedes or something. I don't mean so "nice" it's impossible for someone like me to afford (Lamborghinis are in that stratosphere), just "nice" compared to a Ford.

The closest I ever got to "nice" cars in my youth was riding in my friend's Mercedes when I was a kid. This friend was the son of the one and only local businessman who was doing well enough to buy a Merc, because he owned the one and only store in our very small town.

I remember feeling quite luxurious while riding in that car, because compared to my family's Rambler, it had style and class, plus a distinctive Mercedes smell I can still recall. I used to hide in the back seat when my friend's mom would come to get him, hoping I could be invisible enough to go home with him to their big house on the hill. Didn't work.

My family had upgraded to the Rambler wagon from a Studebaker sedan, circa 1955. To my dad, the car was just transportation; he liked to know his mileage, so he used to write it on the Rambler's dash with a grease pencil. I didn't aspire to anything high class when it was time for my first car, and the 1965 Ford Falcon my parents brought home seemed just fine. It was cute, quick, and fun, all attributes I didn't have as a high school nerd.

After I wrecked the Falcon in a ditch near Wallowa, Oregon, I went carless for a while. I was in college, and the small Eastern Washington University campus was easy to navigate by foot or bike. But when the opportunity came up to get a big ol' 1971 Chevy Impala for a paltry $700, I borrowed the money from Mom and suddenly became quite popular with the other students in my college youth group. I had wheels, and that beast could haul six or seven other kids.

Later, married to a man who equated "old car" with "great car," I traded downward (he thought upward) to a 1966 Barracuda. It was purple (mauve actually), it stood out, and 25 years later, people I used to work with still ask about that car. Yes, I still have it, but something died in it so I won't get in it anymore. Eldest son can't bear to part with it and tries to get me to ride in it with him. "After a while you don't even notice the smell, Mom. Honest."

During my first marriage I drove that old Barracuda; an old but classic Dodge pickup belonging to my husband; an old, and very ugly, dark green AMC Ambassador; an old Dodge Dart with the vinyl peeling off the top; and then, for many years, a Toyota Tercel wagon and a GMC Jimmy SUV, both of which became old well before I stopped driving them.

I remember how much our two boys hated the old Tercel wagon and how they screamed for joy when it pooped out on our way home from Priest Lake. It had pooped out before, but this time it seemed permanent. A whole new engine was the only thing that would get it going again. Their father, determined to get every last mile out of that (and every) car, slapped a Japanese engine in it and, by doing so, made his poor children cry.

Funny thing is, I never worried much about dings and dents in those old cars. I was careful, more to keep from getting in hot water with my late husband than because I really cared. Those cars were, after all, old. After he passed away and I remarried, my new husband offered up a novel thought: "You deserve a really nice car."

Who, ME? A "nice" car? Like, maybe, a newer-but-used Chrysler or Buick? Or a classic, restored car like the ones my eldest son favored?

No, he said, "nice" like a new Mercedes or Lexus. New as in not pre-owned or rental-returned or anything else except test-driven. I could barely grasp the concept of owning a car that no one else had ever owned, driven, or dripped ketchup in. Or one in which nothing had died.

The opinions of my sons differed vastly. Eldest thought my current car was just fine because, like his dad, he favored old-AKA-classic. Youngest was all for the idea and eagerly went for a test drive with us.

A few days later, my shiny new gold Lexus sedan was ready to pick up at the dealership, and for the first time in my life, I had a premium ride. For which, of course, I was paying a premium price; not just monetarily, but also in terms of stress.

Every parking decision had to be carefully weighed: was I far enough from the store that no one would park next to me? Was I far enough from the car next to me that I wouldn't get door-dinged? Would I remember not to door-ding the car next to me? Could I parallel park without scraping an expensive wheel on the curb or dinging my bumpers?

When the first disaster finally happened, my overwrought reaction was completely out of proportion to reality. My husband had perhaps, maybe, possibly put a couple of tiny, itsy bitsy, wee little scratches in the front bumper. Scratches one could almost not see with the naked eye. And I foolishly got hopping mad in front of my family, which embarrassed him and should have embarrassed me. That's when I began to hear the words, "It's just a car," ringing in my head. My husband was the most important person in my life, and the car was an object. A nice, expensive object, yes, but nothing more.

The perpetrator of the next disaster remains unknown. I was showing the car off to a friend while it was still quite new, and she said, "Oh look, there are dents in the hood. How did that happen?" It looked like someone had dropped something small and heavy, like the claw end of a hammer, on the edge of the hood. Who, how, when? I had no one to be furious at. But it was, after all, just a couple of dents in something that was just a car.

Since then, I have popped a very pricey Michelin tire on a curb, damaging the shiny and expensive wheel. I paid the price for a new tire gladly. Glad there was a matching tire still on the market and I didn't have to replace all five. Oh, and my wondrous, darling, amazing husband backed into a post and put some scratches in the back bumper. He was on an errand of mercy for me at the time, distracted and in a hurry. I wasn't furious. He is more important to me than any object.

I don't know what will happen next to my nice car, but my stress is less now that I know the mantra by heart: "It's just a car."

So when you see me driving around town in my sort-of-shiny gold Lexus with a scraped front passenger-side wheel and a scrape on the back right bumper, be sure to wave. Yes, it's a "nice" car. But it is, after all, just a car.

Kitchen Disasters Happen Only When I Have Guests

2008-08-15T12:46:00.000-07:00

I make great babyback spare ribs, so good you'd think we picked them up from Outback. At least that's what I told our good friends when I invited them for dinner. Ah, the perils of boasting.

I rarely invite anyone for dinner because a) that means the house must be cleaned and b) I've always thought of myself as a lousy cook. These friends were coming for the first time, and although I didn't need to, I wanted to impress them.

I cleaned like mad to get the house ready. I hate cleaning, but for them it was time well spent. I love them that much. I shopped for ribs, spuds, and whatever else. I like shopping.

I didn't bother to get out my recipe for ribs, 'cause I thought I remembered it was 2 hours covered in foil at 400 degrees, then baste with sauce and broil a few minutes. And I thought last time I made them, the ribs turned out better with some extra time in the oven.

So I checked them after three hours - about 45 minutes before our guests would arrive. What I pulled out of the oven was a crispy, crunchy, dried out disaster. I was horrified to find there was no resurrecting these ribs, regardless of the gallon of Longhorn barbecue sauce I slathered on top. Nothing was going to make them edible.

I checked my recipe and no, it wasn't 400; it was 300. That knowledge didn't do me any good because the dinner, like a Broadway show, must go on.

Another thing I hate is disappointing people. If I promise my friends ribs, then anything less simply won't do. Yes, I had a grill and hotdogs on hand, but I knew my friends, and Outback babyback ribs are one of their favorites.

I was almost too embarrassed to confess this kitchen calamity to my husband, a grand soul who would never laugh at me and has always told me, "You're a great cook." Well, in comparison to what he had before me, maybe. But the only thing left to do was ask for his help.

He was sympathetic and hugged me. He only laughed a little, bless his heart. And he was willing to drop what he was doing and save the day, knight-in-shining-armor style. We agreed he would drive to Outback while I called in two orders of ribs, and maybe he'd be back with them before our guests arrived. It would be tight. Our home is in the country, seven miles from the nearest gas/grocery and a good ten miles from the closest Outback.

Off he went, and I called Outback, getting a promise of "20 minutes"; perfect! I didn't ask what it would cost, because I didn't want to know. Thirty minutes later, with ten minutes to spare, back he came bearing two big, white Outback bags. I hurried the ribs onto a plate and set aside the bread and fries they came with. I was annoyed to find later that we'd paid for them because at Outback you can't get "just ribs," even to-go.

The doorbell would ring any minute. Now came the question of whether to hide the bags and my secret, or come clean with who really made the ribs. Since I have a fundamental aversion to lying, even to save myself embarrassment, and God does say liars hath no part in heaven, and I am counting on being there one day, I chose the latter.

Ding-dong; they were here, and we welcomed into our home two of the most enjoyable people I know. I prepared myself to confess quickly, because those Outback bags were still on the kitchen counter, and soon I'd be outed anyway. Knowing everyone loves a good story, especially one wherein you make fun of yourself, I started off with, "You'll never believe what I did." When my sad-but-funny tale was told and they knew the ribs they were to eat were not mine, my friend Jo said something gracious and kind like, "Oh, you shouldn't have gone to the trouble or expense. You know we'd eat hot dogs." Well, yes, I knew that, but when you're ready for ribs, who wants dogs?

We gathered around the table, prayed for a wonderful evening of fellowship, and proceeded to have it. And to get quite messy eating those ribs. And you know what? They weren't quite as good as mine.

I'm Learning to Be a Homemaker

2008-08-14T17:27:00.000-07:00

"Housewife" is a word I used to hate or, at the very least, misunderstand. For 27 years I had a career outside the home, and my identity wasn't "Dean's wife" or even "Jon and Jordan's mom." I was a publications specialist working in my chosen field, communications. I planned to work as a writer, editor, or web-updater until retirement because that's what Jenny did.

I couldn't understand what those women who stayed home all day did, exactly, while their kids were in school. I had only taken 6-8 weeks off when my own boys were born. Other than a three-month gap between jobs, I had never not worked since I was 22 and newly graduated from college.

My first husband, Dean, who passed away when he was 56 and I was 43, expected me to work. Yet I never felt my job was a burden; it was who I was, and we saved a lot of money with my added income.

Then came Scott. We were married not quite three years after Dean's death. Scott encouraged me to do what I wanted to do: work; quit; stay home; create a freelance career of editing or writing; finish all the novels rattling around in my head. Or simply be a wife and homemaker.

During our first year together, I felt strongly that my time of ministry as writer and graphic designer at a Spokane homeless shelter should end. The Lord apparently was encouraging me to open the door for people who needed to be on staff there, so, after five years of full-time employment at the shelter, I went part-time. Then I gave notice. In November 2007, one year after marrying Scott, I became a full-time homemaker.

I have not for a minute been bored and rarely have I felt lonely. With the accumulation of 25 years of stuff packed into this house, garage, and barn, I could spend eight hours a day simply sorting and still be hard at work this time next year. I've discovered a knack for organizing and categorizing; more surprising, I have shed my pack rat cloak and taken on the mantle of major donor to our local thrift stores.

The Jenny who claims to be a lousy cook (never had time to learn) has evolved into an experimenter extraordinaire. I made the best pumpkin-chocolate-chip bread last night after merging two recipes. Scott and I like coconut shrimp at Outback, so I'm going to experiment with a few recipes and come up with my own. I can now make babyback ribs you can hardly tell from Outback's. Oh wait, that's another story, an embarrassing one. More on that tomorrow.

I still hate to clean. Vacuuming? Dusting? Let the dust bunnies rule. I can always blame the clumps of lint and doggy fur on my inability to see clearly due to early development of cataracts. In fact, I might just ask my eye doctor to write up such a disclaimer; I will then post it prominently in my home. No one needs to know that my eyesight is actually pretty darn good. Or maybe I just think it is, and post-surgery the world will look as different as when Dorothy opens the door of her house to bright, colorful Munchkinland.

"Homemaker" describes exactly who I am now and what I do. There's nothing better for me, during this year of turning fifty, than to be Scott's wife, making a home that is comfortable and welcoming for the two of us and our grown children, grandchildren, and friends.

As for work, I claim to be retired, but I still work freelance from home - anybody got a book or two I can edit?

Take pity on me...or not

2008-08-13T10:33:00.000-07:00

Pity me today. I'm alone with only my dog and the Olympics for company. My husband has been on the road since early Sunday, and it's another 36 hours before he comes home. Pity me because I'm facing a house that must be cleaned of dog hair (why? it'll only come back) and tidied up before a friend visits tomorrow.

Pity me because those I consider friends and who live close enough to visit have perfectly clean homes, so I hesitate to invite them because mine is never clean enough. Pity me because I've been too lazy to do more exercise that walking 1/4 mile every day to get the paper or mail, and I've added pounds I don't want, which contributes to being a hermit because I don't want to fix myself up to go out of the house knowing everyone will surely notice my big butt.

Pity me because I have two huge bowls of quickly rotting apricots on the kitchen counter that won't last another six hours, and I must bestir myself to halve, pit, and freeze them right now. Or throw them out for the deer and magpies crowding my back yard. Pity me because I have an attic full, basement full, garage full, and barn full of 25 years of accumulated treasures (?) that need to be sorted and discarded.

Okay, enough pity. Envy me because I have an amazing, wonderful, caring, funny, loving, sensitive, kind, generous, wise husband who has changed my life in the past two years, one month I've known him. What else does a woman need when she has someone like Scott?