Making Memories

I'm a big fan of making memories. In fact, for a birthday present I'd much rather make a memory doing or visiting something unique or cool than receiving a gift wrapped present.

One of my many memories is my attempt to climb Mt. Whitney. I was working at the newspaper and 26 coworkers and significant others (Jerry didn't want to climb so he stayed home with the boys) decided we wanted to climb Mt. Whitney. Towering at 14,505 feet, this beast of a mountain is scary to look as it is to climb.



We started climbing in the pitch dark at 4:30 in the morning. We were advised no matter where we were at 2:30 in the afternoon to turn around and start back to base camp. This was in June--warm weather abounded except for the top of Mt. Whitney. There, snow covered the rocks and it was icy cold. You carried your only drinking water and food. We weren't staying the night. Climb up as far as you could and climb down in one day.

What memories I have of that day. I learned even though I lived for many years in Reno at 4,500 feet and could handle hiking--I couldn't handle the high altitude sickness that hit me. I found a hiking buddy in Robert. He had a bad knee, but a wonderful attitude. Me, I could only walk six feet of the infamous switchbacks without stopping to catch my breath. It wasn't an in-shape/out-of-shape situation--I just couldn't breathe normally. I've never gone through something like that before and haven't since that day.

Practically everyone passed us up that day. We wound up being the second to last pair of hikers. Even though we knew we probably weren't going to reach the summit in the time allowed, we kept on trying. We kept up a running commentary of nothing and everything. At the height we were at the weather was still beautiful. Clear blue skies and cool without being cold. We stopped and took photos, ate crackers, drank our water whether we needed it or not. (We were told to do that because if you drank only when you were thirsty, it was already too late for you).

We reached a little over the 5,000 foot level when 2:30 pm arrived and we turned around and started back down the hill. It was tons easier momentum wise going downhill, but man, the impact on the legs and hips was worse. Somehow we laughed, moaned and thrilled in the journey. It didn't matter that we didn't reach the top. We had a great day, made new friends and did something we never knew we could--climb Mt. Whitney.

Back at base camp we learned that only a handful of our group actually made it to the summit. It was windy, cold and they didn't linger for long. Robert and I missed the snow covered field at the upper base camp. It might have been nice to get there (we weren't that far away from it when we turned around). But we were told again and again that you didn't want to be caught up on that mountain when night fell--the weather could change quickly and hypothermia could set in.

By dinner, my body was reacting to the exercise. My muscles began locking up. By the time I crashed in bed I had bummed some medicine from my roommate so I could try to find sleep through my pain. The next morning, as we loaded up to head home, found a very sore group of people packing up. All of the pain was worth it. I can close my eyes and still see the view from the mountain, feel the warm sun on my arms and hear the sounds of the birds chattering away.



I love making memories.

My Little Nook of the World

My name is Robin, and I'm a bookaholic. I've had a "problem," with books since the 5th grade. I blame it on Mrs. White. My teacher decided to have a reading contest and the winner would win a hard bound copy of "The Prince and the Pauper," by Mark Twain. I never realized how competitive I was until that contest. I wanted to win. I had to win. I dreamed of winning. I went to the school library and really began reading. In a short amount of time, and 26 books later, I won that contest and that book. I also developed a love of reading that is still with me to this day.

So, I can blame Mrs. White. She opened up a world to me that changed my life forever. Even though I lived in a small valley outside of Reno, Nevada (Sun Valley), I could travel through time and around the world. I would take my book outside and in-between the dust of the desert and the heat of the sun, I was transported. My life was never dull or boring again. I went places and I did things my siblings couldn't even begin to understand.

I ran from the Morlocks and sat next to Nancy Drew as she drove her sweet, little blue convertible. Hercule Poirot never had a better audience than me as he waxed his moustache and utilized his little grey cells. My tastes were diversified, but I tended to drift towards mysteries. I loved the challenge of trying to figure out "who did it." Agatha always kept me guessing. I was usually disappointed by an author when I had it figured out by Chapter 4 who did it. I still finished reading their book, but rarely checked out their next offering.

In high school I was reading seven books and two plays a week. As my reading pace picked up, so did my need to visit the local library. I was an aide in the library from sixth grade through my senior year of high school. It was the best way to get my "fix."

I often thought of becoming a librarian, but I couldn't afford to pay my way through Berkeley or UCLA, the nearest colleges that offered a degree in the field. But my love of reading has remained. I have thousands of books at home. I've given away a thousand. You think I joke? Trust me, I'm not. I counted them. Many libraries, children centers and domestic violence centers have benefitted from me weeding through my books.

Now, I have a Barnes & Noble nook. I have found a little piece of heaven right here on earth. My nook has 2 gig of memory in it and I was able to purchase a memory card for another 2 gig. What does this mean? I can hold 1,500 books on this nook at one time. That's enough books to keep me quite happy.

I read all the time. When some face down time waiting in line at the grocery store, car wash or a lunch hour, they just twiddle their fingers doing their best not to stress out. Me? I'm reading. I'm relaxed and happy chilling out with my latest read. I swear it's lowered my blood pressure. I don't care about how long I have to wait at a restaurant. I have a book.

More people should try it out. Maybe they wouldn't be so damned cranky. When nook owners see others reading theirs they just quietly share a smile. They know the secret of a happy life. Reading.

Are you wondering what Christmas present to buy a loved one who enjoys reading? Get them a nook. It will be the best present in the world. Make sure to buy one for a child. It can open up a world as big as their imagination and take them places completely unforgettable.

My grandson is merely two years old, so a nook isn't for him quite yet. But wait until his 5th birthday.

Tie It Up

I make blankets. Not your everyday blankets, but fleece tied blankets. A former co-worker shared her knowledge and taught me the ways of blanketology. Ever since then I've been a lost cause. I make them every Christmas, sometimes for birthday presents and always for a baby shower gift. They are easy, affordable and one way I can be amazingly creative without stressing out.

I find myself not only making tied blankets for family, friends and co-workers, but also teaching others how to make them. It's not quite a mission, but pretty darn close. I am proud that practically none of my blanket's waste material goes to waste. I recycle all parts of my blanket so that very little is tossed.

I trim the sides of the fleece material for the reinforced edging to make a smoother tie trim. I reuse those clipped sides and braid them, tying knots at each end, into cat toys.


The four or five inch material four corners that I cut out, I save and use to make a crazy quilt. It shows a touch of the fabric for every blanket I've ever made. It's a fabric trip down memory lane. I love it.

Making the blankets is incredibly easy. I use 1/2 yard in length for wheelchair blankets and car seat blankets, 1 yard for baby blankets or short humans and 2 yards and up for adults. That measurement is doubled. For example, for a 1 yard blanket, you need two separately cut 1 yard pieces of fabric. One yard is for the top and one yard is for the bottom.

You can use patterns on one side and a complimentary solid color on the other side. Or you can use the same pattern on both sides, or a different pattern on each side. There are no limits to your creativity.

You lay down one piece of material on the floor. (It's easier to pin it up with lots of room. If you have cats, remove them from the area, they always want to sit in the middle of your material because they LOVE fleece and bugging the heck out of you.) Lay the second piece of material over the top of the first. Match them up on all angles. If you have overage, trim the material edges to match. You basically want two pieces of materials that mirror each other in width and length.

Get out your straight pins and ruler. Measure in four or five inches (whatever measurement you want, just be consistent) and start pinning the pins to be your guide. Edge the whole blanket, four or five inches in with pins. Your corners should be either four by four or five by five, again whatever you decide. You will cut out the each of the corners first, set aside to sew together later for your crazy quilt blanket.

At this point, your blanket is evenly trimmed, completely pinned and corners cut. You then can take the blanket and set it across your lap. Get your scissors and begin cutting the fringe that you will double knot (this makes the tied part of the blanket). You cut about one inch apart, to the four or five inch pinned mark. Then you tie the top and bottom cut material into a double knot, going along the all sides of the blanket. Before you know it, viola, you are done and have a finished blanket.

There are a multitude of step-by-step videos out there for those who don't quite understand my instructions. It won't hurt my feelings for you to check them out. But remember, there are many ways to do this blanket, but the underlying theme---no sewing involved.

I think once you make one, you, too, will be hooked on it. If you make one, send me a photo. I'd love to see them.

Knowing My Place

I've never been a person who knows their "place." It's always gone against my grain to have someone tell me where I belong--held to someone else's standards. I set the standards in my life. I control what I do and to what level I do it.

Tell me I can't do something and I will do it just to prove you wrong. Maybe this comes from being the youngest of five kids and always being told I couldn't do something because I was too small or too young. Man, I got so tired of hearing that from my siblings.

I was working at the newspaper and when an opportunity to write opened up and I took it. I dealt with a surprising amount of negativity from the newsroom reporters. I was a mere news clerk. Didn't I know my "place" was to answer their phones and not have the audacity to think I could do something their college educated behinds did every day?

But I did it. I had my little niche in special sections and I wrote my fingers off. I always took pride in whatever I did and gave it 100 percent. I never aimed for the newsroom. It takes a certain type of personality to work in a newsroom and I just didn't have the shark mentality. I covered the automotive field. I was told women don't cover cars--what do they know about them? Well, I knew a few things. And I wrote about them for 13 years. For goodness' sake, I'm a writer, not a flipping mechanic. I had fun doing it--driving cars and oh, yeah, winning county, state, national and international writing awards while doing it. I’m not perfect, but I apply heart and soul to everything I do.

When it comes to my personal life, I wasn't going to let anyone tell me what I should or shouldn't do. Instead of waiting for my husband to ask me to marry him, I asked him to marry me. Before he knew it, I had him to Las Vegas and officially made him mine. Why did I have to know my "place" and let him ask me? I knew what I wanted and I went after it.

Places, places, places---I don't give a fig about titles. You want me to respect you? Don't go flaunting a title at me. Show me how hard you work, and then I will respect you. Show me how committed you are to doing the best job possible no matter what it is you do, and I will respect you. But don't expect me to know my "place" and respect you just because you have a flipping title. It doesn't mean diddly squat in my world.

I can and will do whatever I set my mind to--no matter what it is. I know my "place" is wherever I put it.

Fear

It was my junior year of high school when I decided I wasn't going to let fear stop me from having fun. So many times I wanted to do things--everything from dating to joining a club--but I didn't because I was afraid. I was so shy and I was so worried about looking stupid and not fitting in. So I did nothing. What a waste it was.

In my junior year I was tired of being alone. I had acquaintances, but no real close friends in high school. It wasn't until the summer before my junior year that I felt enough was enough. When school started I joined every club I could--Ghost Towners, Skating, and Wrestlerettes. I socialized even though it was literally painful for me to do it. I'm hearing impaired so social situations have always been hard for me. Having to wear hearing aids made my life easier in some ways, but way harder in other ways. I've always felt I was an outsider, never fitting in because I was different.

I went to meetings, I talked to people and, yes, I became a cheerleader for the wrestling team. lol For an extremely shy person like myself that was the hardest thing I have ever done. We had to perform in front of people. In front of teenagers. Ughhh. I would get physically ill beforehand. But I made myself do it. I was also around guys more and I really tried to get over my fears of interacting with them, but it was hard. I could talk to them, but I did more daydreaming about relationships than actually having any.

In my junior year, I had a major crush on one particular boy--John. He was so handsome, so intelligent; he was on the wrestling and football team. He was always sweet to me if we interacted. But I let my shyness stop me from trying to get to know him better. He was out of my league. Man, if I only knew then what I know now. :)

In my senior year, I would go to soccer games to watch a guy who I thought was really cute. I kept to myself, until one game I met another girl doing the same thing I was--watching the guys play. We starting talking and once we realized we weren't panting over the same guy we became friends. Ellen was one year behind me in high school, but light-years ahead of me with her confidence.

I was still on my kick to face my fears, sometimes succeeding (I went on a date with a classmate) and sometimes failing (never went to any school dances, not even the prom). I drug poor Ellen to the movies with me--I was afraid of horror movies so I was determined to make myself watch them. (She walked out of a movie that had something to do with the devil). I joined her in the lobby soon after. Yes, I chickened out.

Ellen was and is good for me. Yes, after all these years we are still best friends and even live in the same town. She double-dog dared me so many times and made me do things. Of course, I double-dog dared her, too. She NEVER backed down from a dare. What did I expect from a natural redhead of an Episcopalian minister? We did some wild things that only we know about.

We haven't even told our husbands about most of the escapades we experienced. I know a few had to have been slightly illegal. lol Our Virginia City saloon gal photos was one of our trips. I alway had and have fun with Ellen. And I won't mention anything about Lake Tahoe, her parent's condo and some vodka. To this day, I still can't drink Screwdrivers.

I wish I would have met her sooner in high school. My high school years would have been more memorable than they were.

Face those fears, people. Even if they scare the hell out of you, it's worth facing them. Too bad we don't get do-overs.

Believe or Not to Believe

While walking into a restaurant recently one of my companions made a comment about setting purses down on the floor. I've always hung my purse either off my knee under the table or on the back of my chair. My reasoning has always been dirty floors, but she told me of the superstition of setting purses on the floor and how you would always be broke. In fact, she said at one local Mexican restaurant they would bring a little stool to set your purse on--just to keep it off the floor.

I took a class in high school entitled "Ancient Beliefs Modern Man." Yes, I still remember it. We talked about myriad superstitions and myths and the logic and often illogic of them. Why do we knock on wood after we say something we don't want jinxed? Why do we say "God Bless You," after sneezing? Why should you not step on a crack? Or break a mirror?

I hadn't heard about the purse superstition until I came to Texas. I had two separate females talk about it. I tried to wrap my head around it and the only thing I can think of is if you set it on the ground, maybe it makes it easier for someone distract you while a companion steals your money?

Some people take this superstition so seriously they have made a product-a portable hook--that allows a woman to hang her purse practically wherever she goes.



I give them credit for seeing a need and selling a product. lol

Texas has many of its own superstitions--I'm learning as I go what many of them are and I have say they are a bit entertaining. One involved holding your breath while passing a cemetery. Apparently this was so you wouldn't breathe in the spirit of someone recently buried.

Most of the superstitions I don't believe in--some I do. I still say "God Bless You," to someone who sneezes and, yes, I still throw spilt salt over my left shoulder. You see, evil always lurks over your left shoulder so throwing spilled salt into its eyes distracts it from hurting me.

Hey, that's my belief and I'm sticking to it.

Scottish to the Bone

(http://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/Scotch-Broth-Soup)


I'm a bit of this and a bit of that and quite proudly to say I'm part Scottish. During my ancestral research phase I learned about my European roots. I'm Scottish/Irish/German/English and a few percents of supposedly Native American (haven't proven it yet). Since I'm a foodie, part of my research has been the recipes of my foremothers.

I have a handful of cookbooks featuring the recipes old and new from the aforementioned countries. I have a recipe I'm going to try soon that looks so good I can't wait to taste it. It's a version of Scotch Broth for the crockpot. The crockpot will allow me to do the long-time cooking the recipe needs in my hectic, everyday life. I adore soups and this one should be delicious and a bit healthy.

I plan on tweaking the ingredients a bit. Instead of lamb, I'm going to use beef shanks. I will add some beef broth, water, pearl barley, carrots, onion, potatoes (instead of traditional turnip), celery and various seasonings.

I will throw it in the crockpot to cook all day and serve it with some buttered French bread. I might try the recipe with some lamb, if I can find some in the local store and it doesn't cost an arm and leg. lol

I've made many of the traditional Scottish recipes true to form--Cock-a-Leekie, Shortbread and Stovies. In fact, many of the recipes from my southern ancestors reflect the traces of their European roots. Stovies, for example, are merely fried taters with onions and meat.

Cock-a-Leekie is a chicken soup that is tummy filling. It's worth a try at least once in a lifetime. Give it a whirl. Good soup doesn't have to come from a can.


Cock-a-Leekie Soup

This traditional soup, with prunes included in the ingredients, is mentioned as early as the 16th century. It is often served at Burns Suppers or St Andrew's Night Dinner (30 November) as well as an every-day soup in winter. Some people omit the prunes though!


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ingredients:
1 boiling fowl, about 4lb, including legs and wings
1lb leeks (about 12) cleaned and cut into 1-inch pieces
4 pints stock or water
1oz long grained rice
4oz cooked, stoned prunes
One teaspoon brown sugar
Salt and pepper
Garni of bay leaf, parsley, thyme
Some recipes also have 3 chopped rashers of streaky bacon

Method:
Put the fowl and bacon in a large saucepan and cover with water. Bring to the boil and remove any scum. Add three-quarters of the leeks, (green as well as white sections), herbs (tied together in a bundle), salt and pepper and return to the boil. Simmer gently for 2-3 hours, adding more water if necessary.

Remove the bird. Some thrifty chefs use the bird as another course, others cut the meat into small pieces and add them back to the soup (certainly it should have some pieces of chicken in it when served). Add the rice and drained prunes and the remaining leeks and simmer for another 30 minutes. Check for flavor and serve with a little chopped parsley.


Serves 6/8 people.
(http://www.rampantscotland.com/recipes/blrecipe_leekie.htm)




Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.
Robert Burns
This Scottish dinner toast known as The Selkirk Grace is attributed to Burns. But the words were said to be in use long before his time.

A Walk on the Wild Side

I have come to accept over the 3 1/2 years that we've lived in Texas that everything is bigger here. Last weekend, I came practically face-to-face with an example of that belief--a Megaphasma dentricus was hanging out by our garden hose reel.

Silly me was reaching over to unwind the hose when I noticed something not quite right on the wall in front of me. A six-inch bug was hanging out, just enjoying the shade in the summer heat. After a squeal or two, I hollered for Jerry to come over to take a photo of the unbelievably big bug with his IPhone. I have seen walking stick bugs before, but nothing like this baby.

It was HUGE. Okay, not Godzilla-type huge, but big enough to freak me out. I am not afraid of bugs; I just don't appreciate them the way they probably want to be appreciated. I know they don't bite. They aren't poisonous and probably don’t want to deal with me as much as I don't want to deal with him. Or her. I wasn't quite sure how to tell the sex of a Megaphasma dentricus or otherwise known as a Walking Stick.

This particular bug is a Texas version that gets up to seven inches long. Ours was pretty darn close. I wasn't going to get a tape measure to find out for sure. I respectfully left it alone to continue on its journey.

I've mentioned before about the bugs here--the freaky big centipedes here are disgusting. Sorry, but those really freak me out. The ones we saw were Texas Redheaded Centipedes. I kid you not.

Texas redheaded centipedes, or Scolopendra heros castaneiceps, are a subspecies of Scolopendra heros. They are one of the world's largest centipede species and can grow to be as long as 12 inches. Their heads are red, with segmented dark blue, purple or black bodies. Each segment bears a pair of yellow legs.

The Texas redheaded centipede can be found throughout much of the Southwestern United States, as well as in Northern Mexico. Texas redheaded centipedes prefer dark, moist environments and will take cover during the day. Rock crevices, leaf litter and rocks provide shelter, although the Texas redheaded centipede can also burrow into the ground. After dark, Texas redheaded centipedes hunt for prey; insects are their chief food source.

The tails of these centipedes resemble their heads. This characteristic serves to confuse predators. In addition, they are equipped with a painful, venomous bite, which can incapacitate and kill small prey and predators.

While the Texas redheaded centipede's bite will not kill humans, it may be extremely painful for up to two days. Individuals with known insect allergies may experience more severe reactions and should contact a medical professional.
http://www.orkin.com/other/centipedes/texas-redheaded-centipede



My son Jared said he saw a huge centipede when he was working at a Home Depot here in San Antonio. He said he heard it before he saw it. If it made him nervous, I can't imagine what I'd do.

I have a healthy respect. And a weekend doesn't go by when I see a critter I've never seen before. Creeping, crawling, slithering and scuttling around my yard--it's rarely dull.

I always wear shoes when outside. I learned my lesson the past Halloween when I stepped on a scorpion out on the driveway. Not an episode I'd like to repeat anytime soon.

Texas is only for the brave--bug wussies need not apply.

Real Stew

Over the years, I have spent hours and hours calmly sitting by myself reading cookbooks. For those of us who are foodies, this is not uncommon. A cookbook to me is like a fashion catalog to a girlie-girl. As you can tell, I'm not a girlie-girl. Not that there's anything wrong with that--but it's not me.

I'm a nurturer. I love to feed people (especially on the weekends when I have more time to cook from scratch). I also love history and when the two loves come together I am ecstatic. It comes together in a cookbook entitled, "Real Stew," by Clifford A. Wright. I am big into soups and stews. I could easily eat soup every day of my life and be happy about it.

I bought this book a handful of years ago at first for the stew/soup recipes. But as I sat down to read it, I fell in love with the history Wright throws in with the recipes. It's a combination of travelogue, history and really good food. I loved it.

Ever wonder how to make Waterzooi? It's a snap. This Flemish stew is a delicious chicken stew filled with vegetables, eggs and a rich broth.

Instead of making Hamburger Helper for your family, how about whipping up a pot of Córdoban Farmer's Wife's Stew? This mélange is a cabbage and chickpea stew that has the taste and smell of cumin. Wright shares that this "is from the hilly farmlands around Cordoba, in Andalusia. It is called an olla cortijera de Cordoba, meaning 'the way the farmer's wife makes it.' and is an example of the simplest of preparations from cocina pobre, the 'cuisine of the poor.' " You can make it on the weekend when you have more time, freeze it and thaw it later in the week and it's still delicious. Toss in some buttered French bread and you are set.

The Córdoban Farmer's Wife's Stew

5 quarts water
2 cups dried chickpeas (about 1 pound), picked over and rinsed, soaked overnight in cold water to cover, and drained
1 large onion, chopped
3 large garlic cloves, peeled
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Salt to taste
1 teaspoon freshly ground cumin seeds
1/2 pound Irish or Canadian bacon, diced
1 small head green cabbage (about 1 1/4 pounds), cored and chopped

Bring the water to a boil in a stew pot. Add the drained chickpeas, onion, garlic, olive oil, salt, and cumin. Reduce the heat to medium and cook for 2 hours.

Add the bacon. Cook until the chickpeas are soft, about 1 hour more.

Add the cabbage and cook for 1 hour. Taste and correct the seasonings, and serve.

Makes 8 servings.

(Recipe from Real Stew, by Clifford A. Wright)

If you are really daring you can try making Cacciucco. This recipe is on page 235. It's a fish stew from the Tuscan port of Leghorn. According to Wright, "traditional cooks add a stone taken from the sea to the stew so it can reach its true height of earthly perfection." The stew is full of bits and pieces of fish and shellfish. The ingredient list is a bit intimidating. For those who are brave, check it out. Me, I'm not that brave.

You could also try the Octopus Stew from the Island of Djerba. This recipe is from the Island of Djerba, off of the Sahel, the desert region of southern Tunisia, which was thought to be the land of the lotus eaters made famous by Homer.

I can't quite see myself walking into my local supermarket and asking the butcher for one pound of octopus and by the way, can you please clean it for me, too. Ummm....nope.

Don't let me scare you; there are plenty of normal sounding/ingredient recipes. You can make some wonderful Beef Burgundy, Irish Stew, Hungarian Goulash and Old Fashioned American Stew.

The world of stews and soups are at your fingertips with this cookbook.

Check it out. It's well worth the journey.

Real Stew: 300 Recipes for Authentic Home-Cooked Cassoulet, Gumbo, Chili, Curry, Minestrone, Bouillabaisse, Stroganoff, Goulash, Chowder and Much More

by Clifford A. Wright

Publisher: Harvard Common Press, 388 pgs.

ISBN: 978-1-55832-199-1

Top Chef

I'm not a top chef in real life, but I play one on TV. Not really. Okay, I dream about being a top chef on television. I've watched every episode, every season of Top Chef. I cheered when quiet Harold won season one. I shook my head when Ilan won in season two. I booed when Hung won season three. I danced around the room when Stephanie won season four. I didn't want Hosea to win season five--he just rubbed me the wrong way. And winner of season six, Michael Voltaggio, ranked right next to Hung for a chef I didn't want to win. (I wanted red-headed Kevin to win. He rocked)

I don't like or appreciate arrogance in the kitchen. And many of the top chefs competing in this competition are arrogant. Maybe they use it as a defensive mechanism in coping with the challenges and critiques they face on a daily basis? I just don't like it. Confidence with compassion is more of my mantra. Confidence with arrogance is just out and out rude.

I am nowhere near the level of the chefs competing. I am so far from their level that I can barely see the bottom of their shoes. Seriously. But in my heart, I cook with the best of them.

I grew up watching PBS cooking shows--Julia, Embassy Chefs (I loved the announcer's sexy smooth voice), Martin Yan Can Cook, Jeff Smith, and the "I Guaranteeeeee" Cajun chef Justin Wilson. He used to crack me up. I swear he got drunk making his recipes.

Top Chef now gives me my culinary fix. I don't know how they do it. No cookbooks, no cheat sheets, all from your brains create gourmet food in 30 minutes or you are out of there. Ughh. I'd crack faster than eggs sliding loose in the back of my SUV.

I love to see the faces of the chefs when they are asked to do a dessert challenge. Most of those chefs can't cook desserts. There is a difference between making meals without recipes and winging it and making desserts. You really can't wing a dessert.

When you cook a dessert from scratch you need to be precise in your measurements. You can't guess how much baking powder to use, or how much butter is in your mix. It gets really bad, really fast.

I hear the heads at Bravo are coming up with a Top Chef Just Desserts competition. I can't wait. That will be quite interesting to see how these chefs do what they do best and still win.

Yes, I'm a foodie. Deal with it or get out of the kitchen.

IPhone Has A Place

I became a member kicking and squirming all the way. I didn't want an IPhone. I didn't need an IPhone. I had a perfectly good phone. I could talk to anyone I needed. I didn't need all the bells and whistles. But from all directions I had immediate family members harping on me to get one. I finally broke down at Christmas time and let an IPhone be bought as my present.

I'm still not as into the phone as my husband is, but I am finding it does fit a niche in my life. Yes, I use it to telephone those who I want and need to stay in contact with--family and friends alike.

What I do finding myself using it for besides calling is checking the weather outlook, being kept up to date on breaking news and improving my vocabulary by playing Scrabble on my lunch hours.

I also read books on my IPhone, but it isn't my favorite way to read. I might find myself getting an IPad. That is something I would maximize considering how much I do read. An IPhone comes in handy when I am stuck somewhere waiting (doctor's appointment and the such). I have to read on a daily basis or I'd go crazy. So an IPhone does come in handy when a book isn't nearby.

I like being able to keep in touch with family and friends via Facebook. On my IPhone I can check in and see how they are all doing. I love communicating with people. Facebook is almost like the old fashioned way of writing letters by letting people know what's going on in your life--only its real time.

I have lots of applications or "Apps" as they are often called on my IPhone. They are personalized to me and my husband. We have some similar apps as we will share ones we find. But I have some he doesn't have and he has some I don't have. I have cookbooks on mine, which is great when I go shopping. A couple of taps and I not only have an idea for dinner, but I have the ingredients all ready to read and no writing by me. I love it.

I also have a program that helps me keep track of my blood pressure. I log it in when I take it and when I visited my heart doctor I just pulled out my IPhone and show her the app. It displayed all the times I took my blood pressure, what it was, when I took it, and graphed it all out. My heart doctor was quite impressed.

My husband has sports apps. I'm not into those, but he likes them.

We are planning a trip to Boston in September so we've downloaded apps about Boston. They have wonderful walking podcasts about Boston so we've already had a taste of what Boston has to offer.

We have a GPS on our phone which we usually use once a week. We also use the restaurant app that gives us new ideas of local places to eat at--some we never even knew existed.

So I've become a believer. I believe in being moderate in whatever it is I do. I use my phone as I need it, without overdoing it. It does have a place in a person's life. I admit it.

Nothing to Sneeze About

I was checking out our local newspaper's web site recently when I caught something that made me stop and go "huh?" On the weather page, there is a spot that lists the pollen count. Everyone knows everything is bigger in Texas and that also includes allergies. Poor Jerry thought he escaped the cotton back in California only to meet nose first with cedar, pollen, mold and pigweed. Yes, you read correctly. Pigweed.

That's what made me stop and go "huh?" I had never before heard of Pigweed. Mountain Cedar was the first thing I heard about when we moved to San Antonio. People suffer immensely when it's in season. Eyes running, nose dripping and their bodies aching all day--its complete misery.

With Pigweed, it's more of a breathing challenge. Wheezing, red eyes, itching, sneezing, itchy throat and asthma-like symptoms make it a miracle to get through the day without collapsing under your desk. Luckily for me, I'm normally pretty good when it comes to allergies. It has to be really, really bad for me to have sneezing fits and a running nose. What I have to watch is my ears plugging up. Once that happens, watch out. Vertigo attacks happen and that's not fun in any way imaginable. (Especially behind the wheel of a car on the freeway at 65 miles per hour).

I've heard of every pill/treatment under the sun to approach these allergies--over the counter and homeopathic. I think every person is different, and people should find what works for them. What works for you?

Be forewarned if visiting Texas, we do have stuff that will make you sneeze. I'll hand you some Kleenex if you need some.

Friend of A Friend

It didn't matter if you looked left or right, you couldn't escape it. From the floor to the ceiling it was in your face. It was unapologetic, direct, sizzling hot and it made me smile.

I knew the first moment I walked into the Cooks N' More I was a goner. My pulse raced and I think I finally understood how Imelda Marcos felt about shoes--but for me it was Le Creuset cookware and bundt pans shaped like castles. There was no saving me now. I had never been in a store before, heck; I had never been shopping for anything before that made me as happy I was when I walked into the renovated store that was a church in its former life.

Faded Texas limestone walls still retained their holy elegance. It wasn't until you walked into the store that the sexy hotness smacked you in the face and took your breath away.

"Ah, another victim." The man who spoke those words smiled from behind the register. He closed the cookbook he had been reading, carefully marking his spot with a wooden spoon. "Welcome to Cooks 'N More. It's not much, but I call it home."

"I really love your home." I slowly replied, not taking my eyes off the multitude of kitchen goodies that filled every shelf, display case and even dangled from light fixtures. Gleaming pans hung over my head--a display that would even make Julia Child stop and stare.

"Tell me I haven't died and gone to gourmet heaven." My unfettered laughter was that of a child. I found myself mentally processing all the recipes I could make if I only had the Ebelskiver Filled-Pancake Pan or the Miyabi 7000 pro knife that I knew would fit my hand perfectly.

"You haven't died, but this is my take on heaven," the man said. "The name is Warren and this place is my baby. It's always great to convert another soul to the goodness that is cooking."

"Hello, Warren. My name is Dicey and I am very happy I decided to stop and check out your place."

I couldn't help myself; I walked over to a display and started browsing the copper cookie cutters hanging from a wooden peg display. All shapes and sizes glimmered in the diffused sunlight. Bells, stars, gingerbread men and the traditional candy cane shapes were mixed with off-the-wall designs--from dinosaurs to presidents of the United States and even one in the shape of the great state of Texas.

"These are so cool."

"If you don't see anything you want, let me know. I can order practically anything you want and I know a lady who can custom make any cookie cutter you'd need." He brushed his hand through his straight brown hair and contently looked around his store.

The inside of the store was mainly one big room with the register near the front. Looking toward the back of the store on the right, bookshelves lined the walls.

"Cookbooks?" I whispered reverently.

"Cookbooks," he replied with pride. "New or used. I also have a sharing library where you can bring in books to swap. Sometimes people buy books they later don't use. So they bring them here, and find another one they like and leave the one they don't. I also have a reference cookbook library people can access if they need."



Oversized chairs were scattered near the area and a few were filled with customers reading while others sat a large wooden table, copying recipes onto notepads.

"I have cooking demonstrations every Wednesday night in the demo area. I also offer cooking classes." He pointed to the back of the store to the left. A small kitchen opened into the room with a large island that could easily sit 10 people.

"This place is amazing."

"Thanks. It's nice to know I'm not the only person who thinks so," Warren said, with a chuckle.

They walked toward the back of the store. A display table held an assortment of books stacked in-between kitchen accessories. "Catering to Nobody," sat next to potholders, while "Fatally Flaky" tipped out of a KitchenAid food processor.

"Diane Mott Davidson is one of my favorites." My hand reached out to pick up a copy of "Cereal Murders." "I love her recipes. I've actually made a few of them. Mysteries and cooking--you can't go wrong there."

"Have you read Joanne Fluke's series? Her cookie recipes are to die for." He said with a wicked grin.

"I've read them all. I'm a readaholic." I shrugged my shoulders as if I should apologize for my love of reading.

"Nothing wrong with that. It could be worse; at least you aren't an alcoholic."

"True. Sometimes it's just as addicting. But it is one vice that does increase my vocabulary."

"If you like reading cozy mysteries about cooking, you should check out our book club. We meet once a month and discuss the latest culinary mystery and we make recipes from the books. It's called, "Dying to Cook."

.... To be continued

Daydreaming

It's funny how as I plug away at work, daydreams tend to happen. I don't plan them, they just pop into my mind. The latest one haunting my thoughts is of a bookstore. It's not any bookstore I've ever been in before, but one I think I want to own.

I would love for it to strictly be a mystery bookstore. Something with a cool sounding name--like Dial M for Mystery or Murder Inc.

You have to remember, this is a dream bookstore where I don't worry about inventory and bills and employees calling in sick. This is a place where there are nothing but oversized chairs and ottomans to put your feet on. Soft music in the background would lull readers into a calm mood. The smell of coffee and cocoa would tweak the nose and homemade goodies tease and torment those on a diet.

Large side windows would overlook a view of a lush, green meadow. It would be a home away from home. No stress, no hassles or cell phones to interrupt. It would even sport a fireplace so in the winter, a crackling fire would greet visitors.

Hey, I said it was a dream. Maybe it should be a used book store. They are always more relaxing than the new stores. I like being around readers. People are just content to put their feet up, read a good book and relax.

Oh well, dreams are meant to be enjoyed. I know if someone came up with a really comfortable bookstore, with more than enough soft chairs, and an atmosphere of calm tranquility, I'd be there. Barnes and Noble are nice, but you are always fighting to get a comfy chair. Come on, they sport wooden chairs at B&N. Who wants to sit on a hard school-like chair to read? It's just not right for me. I buy and get out. I don't want to linger.

It's a good thing I have my own library at home. I have the comfy chairs and ottoman. I have the books that I love right at my finger tips. Soft music tickles my ears. The only thing I'm missing is the fireplace. Maybe one day.

Hey, a girl can dream.

That One Teacher You Most Remember

If you could point a finger to that one teacher in your life that made a difference, could you come up with a name? Did you have a person who opened your eyes to a subject that you never even knew you loved? That person for me was my high school history teacher, Mr. Fred Horlacher.

Even 30 years later, I can still close my eyes and remember what it was like to be in his classroom. I loved it. And I wasn't alone. I had him for Nevada History in 11th grade and it was my favorite class ever. He truly brought history to life for his students. He made us love history. He breathed it. He lived it. He was what history should be about.

Going to the gym to register for classes was always a challenge. But it was especially a challenge for Mr. Horlacher's classes. The line in front of his table was the longest by far. No other teacher compared. We fought to get into his room. Every chair was taken and students never cut or dropped out of his class. Ever. Students even scheduled doctor's appointments around his lectures. We just didn't want to miss them. They were that good.

For one thing, Mr. Horlacher never used a school book. All of his classes were lecture only. We had to take notes. He tested off his notes. He was the coolest teacher ever. You couldn't help but learn in his classes. He would walk into the room as the character he would lecture about. One day it might be a Civil War soldier. Another week, it would be a Native American. He would be fully decked out with an Indian headdress and clothing. He was that person from history. He gave us facts, dates, lives, loves, the good and the bad. History wasn't dusty, distant stories, but living, breathing people and the challenges they faced.

I hated when the bell rang and his class was over. His classes were never long enough. What was even cooler about Mr. Horlacher is he had a history club that he was the faculty advisor--Ghost Towners Nevada History Club. It was the most popular club to be a part of--it was only open to juniors and seniors.

I'm not sure, but I have a feeling that my school's history club was unique. I don't know of too many high schools that boasted a history club that had so many members. We not only had fun together as a group, but we learned so much about Nevada history.



Our initiation into the group was on Halloween night. We went up to Virginia City, Nevada to its cemetery. We walked through the cemetery at midnight. Mr. Horlacher had it booby trapped with tape recorders, senior students dressed up (glowing red eyes and all) and made sure we screamed a few times. After we walked through the cemetery, we sat among the graves in the dark and he told us about the spooky true history of Virginia City. It was absolutely one of the coolest things I've ever done.

And we had many wonderful adventures with Mr. Horlacher. We walked the actual trail that the Donner Party walked, at night, with only moonlight to show the way. We munched on beef jerky as he told the story of the Donner Party, painting the picture of the hardships they faced on their journey.

Not only were you learning about history, but we were on the same path, stood by the same trees that they camped under. It wasn't until he got to the part about the possible cannibalism, that the beef jerky sort of lost its flavor. That was Mr. Horlacher's warped sense of humor, which we high school students absolutely loved.

We went on so many field trips. One of them included camping by the reservoir and going "snipe" hunting. Some of us knew better, but we kept our mouths shut as other students took potato sacks and sticks and went to capture the snipes.

We went into gold mines, restored pioneer grave headstones, and visited ghost towns. He made it all come to life for us. He taught for so many years at my high school, finally retiring. He is an outstanding historian who still educates young and old alike in the Reno/Sparks area with living history demonstrations.

Mr. Horlacher is one of the reasons one that one of my majors in college was history. He taught me that history is a living, breathing subject that is never meant to be forgotten.

He is and was an amazing teacher. He embodies what teachers should be about--honorable, memorable and kind. Kudos to you, Mr. Horlacher. You are the best!


If one could make alive again for other people some cobwebbed skein of old dead intrigues and breathe breath and character into dead names and stiff portraits. That is history to me! ~George Macaulay Trevelyan

Plateletpheresis

Donating blood is not for everyone. Personally, it doesn't bother me. In fact, one of the goals I wanted to achieve once I turned 18 was to donate blood. The other was to vote. Yeah, I know, I am a geek. I have been donating blood (and voting) off and on since I was 18--being turned down every now and then because I was underweight (How many times you can say that in your life? roflmao), because my iron was too low or I wasn't drinking enough water.

Drinking enough water is important in the donation process. Water helps the tech find your veins easier and it also makes the blood flow faster. Trust me; as much as I don't mind donating blood, I want the tech to find that vein as fast as they can. Needles don't bother me, but I do want a smooth and fast insertion. I'm not into pain, especially my own pain.

When I got the phone call asking if I'd donate platelets, I was a bit nervous. I had not done it before--I tried once before but, again, I wasn't drinking enough water so it would have been too hard to find a decent vein.

Platelet donations are important. Platelets help the body coagulate the blood. That way you won't bleed to death. Some people have a hard time creating platelets, especially those who are going through chemotherapy. Donations help build up their systems to fight the cancer.

I've seen the machines they use to remove platelets when I donated blood. They are intimidating machines with lots of doodads hanging off them. I will admit they scared me because of my ignorance about them.

I was taking the day off from work anyway for a doctor's appointment, so I agreed to donate. The process was going to take about two hours all together. That's way longer than just donating blood, but I learned there is a bit more involved with platelet donation than just donating blood.

With platelet donation, they take blood out of you, and separate it to collect the platelets, and then return the blood back into your body with an anticoagulant called sodium citrate. One of the side effects of the anticoagulant entering into my body was the "metallic ting" taste in my mouth. It was no big deal, they just gave me some Tums antacids and I chewed on them. The tingly taste when away quickly and didn't bother me anymore. I wasn't nauseated or dizzy.

You get to choose a movie to watch during the procedure (I watched Night at the Museum again). I was in the chair for about 90 minutes straight. You have to make sure you go to the bathroom first because once you are hooked up, you can't move. For me, that was the biggest psychological challenge. If you tell me I can't go to the bathroom, then all I want to do is go to the bathroom. But I surprised myself and did fine.




I had a single vein procedure. This means they use one needle/catheter in one arm to extract and return my blood. So it would draw for a certain time, then stop and return for a certain time. I did feel the pressure on my vein when the blood was being pumped back into my body. But after experiencing it a couple of times, I got used to it.

I wasn't the only person in there donating platelets. They had put the call out and many donors were kicking back in the chairs, watching movies and donating. The platelets don't have a long shelf life, so the donations are used within the week. We were helping people right away--our donation wasn't being stored away for a rainy day. It's needed right away. It's an awesome experience to know that what you are doing might save someone's life that same day or week.

I didn't know until they were done that I was a bonus donor. I had enough platelets in my body that my one donation would be able to help three patients or three treatments for one patient.

You can donate faster for platelets than just donating blood. Instead of waiting 56 days to donate blood again, you can donate platelets as quickly as three days later, if so needed. It's better for a person getting the donation to get platelets from the same donor to decrease problems. Some people who went through organ transplants or fighting leukemia might need multiple treatments to help them.

Personally, I might not donate again this week, but I will donate at least once a month. They offer appointments at the South Texas Blood Bank on Saturdays, so I don't have to take time off from work. The recovery time for me was nothing. I just had to make sure I drank liquids afterwards and take it easy for the rest of the day. No exercising (no complaints on that one, lol) and no heavy lifting. I felt fine afterwards.

Call your local blood bank if you are interested in donating platelets. It's a short break from your day that could help save someone's life. Go on, give a call and donate.

In south Texas, check out the South Texas Blood and Tissue Center. You can visit their headquarters in their donor pavilion, located at 6211 IH 10 W., First Park Ten Boulevard in San Antonio. Contact them at (210)731-5555.

From Scratch

As a kid, my first real cooking creation was homemade pudding. Mom never really bought snacks and after school I'd get the major munchies. I couldn't eat just anything from the cabinets as what she bought was for dinners and off limits. I had to be creative if I wanted to eat.

What Mom did have was staples in her pantry. Flour, sugar, salt, cocoa and other basics were lined up nice and neat. The only problem was Mom didn't have any cookbooks. She made everything from memory. And as this was pre-Internet, I couldn't just pop on the World Wide Web and check out a recipe to make a snack from scratch.

So I became creative. I love chocolate, so I pulled out the cocoa. I tried to visualize what was in pudding. I thought of milk, vanilla and sugar. I had no clue about measurements when it came to the ingredients. It took a lot of experimentation to creative anything that was edible. I truly believe that my early pudding recipes was where my love for dark chocolate began--using Hershey's cocoa made for some deep, dark pudding.

I'd make small batches and would spoon the dark, gelatinous goodness while hiding from my siblings in my room. I wasn't going to share. They wouldn't have shared with me. Lol

I know for a fact this is where my love of cooking began--especially cooking from scratch. I truly respect how hard it is to make something from nothing. I take great pride in the fact that I can bake and cook from scratch. Cakes, cinnamon rolls, ice cream, candy and cookies. I do not need a stinking box mix. Give me the staples and I will create you some goodies.

It could be why I also collect cookbooks. Mama never had them, but now I have hundreds of them. You think I jest? I have bookcases full of them. My cookbooks cover a wide range of subjects, tastes, countries and are old to more recent. My oldest is from the 1800s, the strangest might be the road kill collection. Among my favorite cookbooks are my Taste of Home cookbooks because it's real recipes by real cooks. I love my Paula Deen books (her banana pudding recipe is a holiday staple for us). I also have a signed cookbook by Emeril Lagasse.

I have a collection of recipe cards that belonged to my husband's late Granny and Mother. Granny made amazing candy from scratch. I loved the homemade rolls his mother and grandmother made. Amazing tasting and they made it look so easy when I know it's not. I miss them. Women like Granny, Gwen (Jerry's mother) and my mother made their gravy from scratch. It's an art that I find hard to master. I know it's a matter of letting the roux cook the flour, you can't be too quick or it won't taste right.

Cooking means love to me. I love my family, so I cook for them. It's probably the reason Jerry and I have gained the weight we have over the years. I love to cook and we also love to eat. Lol

Here are some of my favorite recipes.

This isn't my recipe from years ago, but it's pretty darn close.


Thick Chocolate Pudding Recipe

4 Servings
Prep: 15 min. + cooling

Ingredients
1/3 cup sugar
1/4 cup baking cocoa
3 tablespoons cornstarch
1/8 teaspoon salt
2 cups milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Whipped topping, optional

Directions
In a 1-qt. microwave-safe bowl, combine the first four ingredients. Stir in milk until smooth. Microwave, uncovered, on high for 2 minutes; stir. Microwave 3-5 minutes longer or until thickened, stirring after each minute. Stir in vanilla. Pour into individual serving dishes; cool. Refrigerate. Garnish with whipped topping if desired. Yield: 4 servings.


http://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes

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Not Yo' Mama's Banana Pudding

INGREDIENTS
2 bags Pepperidge Farm Chessmen cookies
6 to 8 bananas, sliced
2 cups milk
1 (5-ounce) box instant French vanilla pudding
1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese, softened
1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
1 (12-ounce) container frozen whipped topping thawed or equal amount sweetened whipped cream

DIRECTIONS
Line the bottom of a 13-by-9-by-2-inch dish with one bag of cookies and layer bananas on top.

In a bowl, combine the milk and pudding mix and blend well using a handheld electric mixer. Using another bowl, combine the cream cheese and condensed milk together and mix until smooth. Fold the whipped topping into the cream cheese mixture. Add the cream cheese mixture to the pudding mixture and stir until well blended. Pour the mixture over the cookies and bananas and cover with the remaining cookies. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

Recipe from Paula Deen, as seen in The Lady & Sons Just Desserts: More Than 120 Sweet Temptations from Savannah's Favorite Restaurant, (Simon & Shuster).

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Bailey's No Bake Cookies

This was passed down to me right after I married Jerry from his mother Gwen. My family loves these delicious cookies. Be careful, if you eat too many of them in a short time you will get a sugar-rush headache!

Ingredients:
2 cups sugar
1 cube butter
3 tablespoons cocoa
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup peanut butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
3 cups Minute Oatmeal

Directions:

Mix the first four ingredients in a pan and let it reach boiling. Stir often. After it has reached the boiling point, let it boil a hard boil for about five minutes.

Add the peanut butter, and vanilla. Let it boil again for one minute.

Remove from stove and add the 3 cups of oatmeal. Stir well to coat everything together.

Drop by teaspoons onto wax paper. Let it set until hardened.

Enjoy with a cold glass of milk!

So so Siamese

A person doesn't own a Siamese. The Siamese owns the person. It's a fact I'm not quite proud of--but I accept it. I don't pamper Karma, a Siamese cat that came into our lives via my daughter-in-law and son, but she acts like it.

No long back-story, but circumstances happened where it was best for her to stay with us. I have to say, I am a cat person. I love dogs. But I connect with cats a tad more. I have never had a Siamese in my household before--they aren't your average cat.

I walk two ways in my life--my normal everyday style of walking and the walking I have to do at home around Karma. You always have to be aware of the cat. Karma has many ways of directing attention to herself and one way she enjoys most is dive bombing you. Going down the stairs you have to watch where she is--if you don't your butt could be meeting carpet at any time. She loves to dive bomb people's calves as they are either half-way down the stairs or right at the bottom. One minute you are alone and moving confidently and the next you are grabbing for the stair rails praying not to fall on your face and break something.

I think she laughs as she does it. If there are such things as past lives, I firmly believe that Karma was a military soldier. She plots with such precision how to take down the enemy. Taking that last step onto the downstairs one has to always look at their feet. Karma likes to sit right at the bottom of the last step right in the middle. If you aren't paying attention, you have one screeching cat and one twisted ankle.

I can't count how many times I've started to walk around the room and out of the blue, a streak of tawny has thrown her body against me. I could understand if it was a Lassie keeping me from falling into the well, but I'm just walking into the kitchen.

Siamese are also different on how they want to cuddle. You can't just pick up Karma and hug her. Oh, no. She has to approach you, when she's wants, and not a second before. I will be sitting on my chair in the library with my leg leaning off the ottoman. I will feel a furry head bumping into my foot. She rubbing her head on the bottom of my foot. Five or six times she will do this and I can move my foot as if petting her, but gosh forbid I put my hands down there to pet her. A flash of fangs and my hands go back where they belong. She never breaks the skin, but she does let you know, it's all on her terms.

But that's okay. I can deal with it. She's a great companion. She's mostly quiet, clean and likes to just be around me although she does hog the foot of my bed at night.

Now, if I can only train her to sit, I think I might not break any bones.

Planes and more planes

San Antonio is a big military town--from Lackland and Randolph Air Force Bases to Ft. Sam Houston. One thing that you don't get tired of here is watching all the cool planes fly around. From the fast, cool looking fighter jets who tend to fly in pairs as if playing tag--to some of the largest planes I've ever seen in my life.

I am always astounded how the big ones somehow stay up in the sky. They move so slowly they appear to be just floating in the sky like a lost child's balloon. I hold my breath, afraid they might just fall to the ground, but they finish their mission and land safely.

The sound gets you, too. My work is right near Lackland AFB, so on my lunch or breaks I see and hear the wide variety of what the military is using--not counting what the public is flying around in. Base sounding vrooms make my skin tingle with their power. The higher pitch sounds of the fighter jets as they scream across the horizon make me smile. Yeah, Top Gun is the first image in my mind when I see them.

I'm not sure what the official names of the planes I see, as I'm not experienced in that field of study. But there has to be some F-16 Fighting Falcons, and I think I've seen them. Also the C-5 Galaxy has to be the honking big planes I see flying around.

I wish I was a flying nut, then I'd know for sure. Having all these planes around does make for an interesting break. Sitting on the picnic table underneath the oak tree allows me a unique opportunity to scope out what the military is using. At least, what they let us see in the daytime. I learned from being around Edwards AFB in California, that the really cool stuff flies at night. lol

Museum Wish List

One of the things I was so excited about moving to San Antonio was the opportunity to check out the myriad of museums. From rare art, animal horns in all shapes and sizes to one of the largest collections in the southern United States of ancient Egyptian, Near Eastern, Greek and Roman art--San Antonio has it all.

I've been to the McNay Art Museum, which I loved, and I am adding the San Antonio Museum of Art to the top of my list. I am so jazzed about seeing so many wonderful exhibits. Dale Chihuly, is a well-known glass artist, and he did a permanent installation of one of his pieces at the San Antonio Art Museum or SAM. It is called "Persian Ceiling," and I am blown away just by the photo and can't wait to see it in person. The colors are so rich and vibrant it makes the blood tingle in my veins.

I was perusing the museum's site the other day and I was floored when I saw the teaser to its Western Antiquities collection. Seeing the photo of seated statue of the goddess Sekhmet made me stop cold. Wow. I want to see this in person and I will.



"The Egyptian collection represents nearly 4000 years of civilization, from the Predynastic through the late Roman and Byzantine periods. A colossal statue of the goddess Sekhmet greets visitors to the Egyptian galleries. Other highlights of the collection are a remarkable Predynastic female figurine carved of ivory and a group of 28 relief sculptures from Amarna, the capital city of the 18th Dynasty king Akhenaten. Among important works representing later phases of Egyptian history are a group of plaster mummy masks and two mummy portraits from the 2nd to 3rd century A.D."


Man, I love history. I can't wait to visit this place.

San Antonio Museum of Art
200 West Jones Avenue
San Antonio, Texas 78215
(210) 978-8100
info@samuseum.org

Wildflowers

I used to think I knew what wildflowers looked like--their breathtaking beauty. All around Bakersfield, if the rain fell just enough and the winds weren't too strong you could see fields of yellows and red and whites. But California has nothing on Texas wildflowers. They take their wildflowers here quite seriously.

Now, in the afternoons as I drive home, I get to enjoy the Texas Bluebonnets in full bloom in the highway divider. As I sit bumper-to-bumper on 281, all I have to do is turn to my left and a mere four feet away are bunches and bunches of blue flowers vigorously growing. We've had the perfect mix of rain and sunshine to nudge the wildflowers into blooms that are picture perfect.

The two dominate species of Bluebonnets are only found naturally growing in Texas and no where else in the world.

As historian Jack Maguire so aptly wrote, "It's not only the state flower but also a kind of floral trademark almost as well known to outsiders as cowboy boots and the Stetson hat." He goes on to affirm that "The bluebonnet is to Texas what the shamrock is to Ireland, the cherry blossom to Japan, the lily to France, the rose to England and the tulip to Holland."
http://aggie-horticulture.tamu.edu/plantanswers/flowers/bluebonnet/bluebonnetstory.html

I learned when we visited LBJ's ranch about Lady Bird Johnson and her passion for wildflowers. Lady Bird talked the government of the State of Texas into planting wildflower seeds along the state's highways. Every year, we are treated to splashes of color and beauty. Many a driver thanks Mrs. Johnson for her foresight into the beautification of Texas.

Jerry and I have visited Wildseed Farms outside of Fredericksburg, Texas. It is the largest working wildflower farm in the country. Acres and acres of flowers so pretty it makes you think it's not real. Something so perfect can't be real, but they are. It's an amazing sight. Trust me; it's something you have to see to believe.

Earliest Memories

What is your earliest memory? I had another one of my random thoughts and it flashed through my brain--A&W root beer. The earliest memory I have is when I was about five years old and my mother had stopped at the A&W Drive In by our house and bought me lunch. She had picked me up from kindergarten and it was a special treat to eat out. I had a hamburger and a root beer. It was just me and my mother. That was a rare treat for the youngest of five children. I still smile when I see an A&W restaurant, although you can't find a drive in anymore.

My next flash of memory was surgeries I had on my ears. Again, I was about five years old. My ear drums had burst and I was in the hospital. I still remember my head being wrapped like a gauzy white mummy head creature. The nurse had set me on a chair while she changed my sheets. (An unfortunate accident. I couldn't get to the bathroom in time.) My face still burns red at the embarrassment I felt so many years ago. It's funny what stays with you. The nurse was kind, and I kept saying I was sorry.

I don't have a continuous memory of my childhood. It's a hit or miss--second grade and seeing the spanking paddle the principal had hanging in his office. Never used on me, but my brother got spanked. Boy, my mother was furious. She threatened to use the board on the principal if he ever used it on my brother again. We kids laughed at that image. Mama could do it, too.

I remember chasing horny toads in the desert and worrying about stepping on scorpions. I remember a cookout on a California beach and family members teasing me that the crabs were going to grab me and drag me into the ocean. I still have a fear of deep water. lol I can close my eyes and still smell the smoke from the fire we built. We had so much fun.

I remember being at a park and to water the grass they would basically flood it. We'd lie down on the grass and soak in the water. It was the closest thing to being in a swimming pool.

I remember a guy who lived near us who didn't like kids crossing his lot, so he put nails upside down in a piece of wood so we kids would step on it with our bare feet. No pain like stepping on a nail. I think he got in trouble for that, but I can't be sure. I can still see the vivid red drops of blood dripping from my foot and crying so hard my eyes swelled up.

I remember a trip my family took to Tijuana, Mexico. The businesses were run down and there was a lot of dirt. I was afraid and excited at the same time. We had our pictures taken on a donkey painted to look like zebra. Even I knew at that young age that it wasn't right. I just enjoyed being on an adventure with my family.



What are some of your earliest memories?

Sounds of Silence

It's a bit ironic, that I struggle to hear every day and yet I find my most peaceful times when I turn off my hearing aids and block out the world. It's not that I don't want to hear what's going on around me. I do. I really do. But I find myself turning off my much needed hearing aids during the day just to calm my soul.

There are times that listening can be highly overrated. It's exhausting to hear. My concentration has to be so focused so I can understand what the heck you normal hearing people are saying that I feel as if I've run a marathon. No wonder I'm so flipping tired when I get home.

It's not that I can't hear what people are saying. It just sounds like you all are mumbling. Trying to clarify the sounds can be frustrating, embarrassing and quite awkward.

"Read my lips."

A former coworker said those words to be thinking he was funny. He wasn't. I wanted to slap the smile off his face into next week. I know I don't hear well. I sure as hell don't need anyone to point it out to me. I've been living with this since I was five years old. I think by now I have a clue.

Fish. Dish. Wish. Words sound alike if you can't hear well. I have responded to questions with wrong answers. I've been laughed at, teased, ignored and even made people mad.

"You hear what you want to hear. You have selective hearing."

I heard those comments many times over the years. Umm, nope. I hear what I can when I can. It can be a hit or miss situation. Not by choice. Trust me. If I had a say in this I'd have perfect fricking hearing. But, guess what? I had NO say in the matter. Crap happens and you deal with it. And I've been dealing with this a long time.

I hate and love the sounds of silence.

Want to know what my world is like? Take cotton balls, shove tightly in both ears. Take a set of ear muffs and put over your ears. Now go into the world and try to communicate to people. Try to work. Try to order food from a fast food drive thru. Try to carry a conversation over the phone. Try to be a good mom and be able to hear when your children cry out for you.

Welcome to my world.

When my sons were babies, I would go to their cribs and put my hands on their chests to know they were breathing. I couldn't hear them. I was petrified I wouldn't be able to know if something was wrong. When the kids and I were home alone, if Jerry was gone for the night for some work trip, I'd barely sleep. How could I protect my sons if I couldn't hear if someone was breaking in the house?

But I survived, and my kids turned out okay. I thank God everyday for letting me be who I am. Yeah, I'm hearing impaired, but the good Lord doesn't give you anything you can't handle. I have and will continue to handle this challenge.

A friend wondered how I could calmly study for a test at a noisy restaurant. Well, with my hearing aids turned off, the sounds are muted and it's peaceful. I can be in a roomful of people and read and not be distracted.

I hate and love the sounds of silence.

Woman's World

"I don't take orders from a woman, I quit." Those words were uttered last week by a young male worker and I am still in shock. In today's work world, women are everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere--from taxi drivers to doctors and every field in between. In all aspects of business life, females are successful. We show up in all levels of the professional world. Not only are we employees and supervisors, we are CEOs and owners of companies, too. Yet, the old ignorant bias still exists.

I try to wrap my head around how someone could say those words and I find that I can't. If either of my two sons even uttered those words I would have disciplined them in a nuclear way. How scum sucking ignorant do you have to be to say that to a woman's face?

Yes, there are still glass ceilings that women have to shatter. It's better now than it's ever been, in my opinion. I'm not blind to the fact that a lot of women do deal with discrimination in the workplace, some successfully, some not so successfully. But having a woman boss is commonplace in many fields of business. It's not that unusual anymore.

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, "In 2008, 59.5 percent of women were in the labor force, and this share has been relatively stable over the past several years."

"In 2008, women accounted for 51 percent of all persons employed in management, professional, and related occupations, somewhat more than their share of total employment (47 percent). http://www.bls.gov/cps/wlf-intro-2009.pdf

So how can this young man say such a stupid comment? I don't know. Maybe it boils down to how they were raised. If they were raised in a household where the wife was subservient to the husband, stayed at home, told that being a "housewife" was the proper way for a woman to act, then I could see the problem.

Being a "good" wife/mother does not mean you have to stay at home, clean the house, raise the kids and not work. Yes, home life is incredibly important, but in this day and age, there has to be a balance. The economy has made it so that both husband and wife must work to maintain a decent life.

You have to respect what women bring to the workforce. We don't weaken it, we strengthen it. We bring empathy, understanding, intelligence, and multi-tasking skills that only benefit businesses and employees.

We've come a long way baby, but apparently we have a long way to go.

Random Origin Thoughts

My brain is always chugging away thinking, thinking, and thinking some more. Random things flitter here and there. At times, it can be quite entertaining what I think of--and today's thought were manila envelopes. Why are they called "Manila?" I said to myself, "Self, learn today why they are called this." And that's what I did when I got home.

The handy dandy Interwebs (which doesn't always tell the truth) educated me on the origins of manila envelopes. I bet you didn't know it's origins. I know I didn't know it until tonight.

The manila component of the name comes from manila hemp or abacá, from which manila folders were originally made. "Manila" refers to the capital of the Philippines, one of the main producers of abacá.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manila_folder


Or so they say. lol.

I don't know. I guess the explanation sort of makes sense to me. Why do we call things the thing we do? What's the point where someone said, "I shall call this steak. Or "from this moment on, I shall call this 'bowel movements. "

I crack myself up.

If you've ever found yourself wondering where words "come from," you might want to check out this site: http://www.etymonline.com/

With it, I learned the following:

Manila
1690s, capital of the Philippines, gave its name (with altered spelling) to manilla hemp (1814), original source of manilla paper (1873).

The dates beside a word indicate the earliest year for which there is a surviving written record of that word (in English, unless otherwise indicated). This should be taken as approximate, especially before about 1700, since a word may have been used in conversation for hundreds of years before it turns up in a manuscript that has had the good fortune to survive the centuries.

According to this site, the word steak comes from:

steak
1440, "thick slice of meat cut for roasting," probably from O.N. steik "roast meat," cognate with steikja "to roast on a spit," and ultimately "something stuck" (on a spit); related to stick (v.).

Maybe I should pronounce it with an accent--something from Monty Python or Shrek. "I'll take my 'steik' well dunnnne please. And make sure it dunnit stick in the barbie when you cook it."

By the way, constipation is an older word than bowel movement. Go figure?


Sometimes, it's a bit scary in my brain.

Smells like an Onion, Feels Like a Fair

I always have an instant sensual memory when I happen to smell onion rings. Tonight, I was picking up dinner at a local hamburger place and Jerry wanted onion rings. From the moment I put the bag in my car and I smelled the rings, the image of the Kern County Fair crossed my mind.

I can close my eyes and visualize walking along the paths with the booths selling corn on the cob, gargantuan hand dipped corn dogs, and mouth watering cinnamon rolls. But it's the smell of fried onion rings that brings those images to mind. Not the smell of corn on the cob or the other items.

Warm, summer nights, the bells and whistles from the midway and trying not to sneeze from the hay bales all these cross my mind. Cowboys, wanna-be cowboys and gang bangers alike walk around the kid goats, bunny rabbits and beautiful horses.

I remember grabbing the boys when they were younger and making goofy faces for the photo booth. We eagerly awaited the strip of photos and made fun of each other. It was geeky fun and I wouldn't trade those memories for any amount of money.

I have to say I do miss the Kern County Fair. We haven't yet gone to a fair here in San Antonio. They hold theirs in February and I just can't gear myself up to go to it. I need my fair at the end of September, beginning of October for it to be a "true" fair.

I think I will just close my eyes and sniff the onion rings and remember times past.

A High Note

I can still remember the talent show in high school. They had a special assembly where those who wanted to perform could sing, dance and play instruments. I had a fantasy of getting on stage and singing my heart out. Only one problem--I can't sing worth squat. In fact, I've been offered money not to sing.

A girl can't catch a break. Even with my lack of talent, I still had dreams of singing. Barbra Streisand, Helen Reddy (lol), and Carole King I was them all at one time or another. Heck, for a couple of months in 1976, I WAS Elton John. I would play my cassette of Crocodile Rock over and over again to learn the lyrics. This was before the Internet. I didn't have the ability to quickly look up the words of a song I loved. I have to focus my time and energy on memorization the hard way. Stop and rewind. Stop and rewind.

Benny and The Jets, Honky Cat, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and Daniel rocked my bedroom. I'd wrap my hand around my hairbrush and screech out the songs--out of tune, and slightly painful to the ears. But I loved it.

I can still watch a musical and dream that I am the lead singer. I'm the one mesmerizing the crowd and the roar of the crowd is for me and what I'm doing.

Hey, a girl can dream.

I remember when rock was young
Me and Suzie had so much fun
holding hands and skimming stones
Had an old gold Chevy and a place of my own
But the biggest kick I ever got
was doing a thing called the Crocodile Rock
While the other kids were Rocking Round the Clock
we were hopping and bopping to the Crocodile Rock

Well Crocodile Rocking is something shocking
when your feet just can't keep still
I never knew me a better time and I guess I never will
Oh Lawdy mama those Friday nights
when Suzie wore her dresses tight
and the Crocodile Rocking was out of sight

But the years went by and the rock just died
Suzie went and left us for some foreign guy
Long nights crying by the record machine
dreaming of my Chevy and my old blue jeans
But they'll never kill the thrills we've got
burning up to the Crocodile Rock
Learning fast as the weeks went past
we really thought the Crocodile Rock would last

A Different Sound

On cold, clear nights as I drove along Highway 99 in Central California I would occasionally catch strains of dialogue and music from a different world than my own. Pumping out 50,000 watts of unique sounds, KTNN-AM haunted me when I was lucky enough to hear it. The station is located in Window Rock, Arizona.

It was a song that first caught my ear--sung in another language. What I first thought was Russian (It was completely foreign to me) was actually Navajo. Drums, chants and a rhythmic movement made me smile. I had no idea what they were singing about--I just knew I liked it. The deep, male voices touched an inner spot in me and I felt an instant karmic kinship. It's goofy, but true.

They played a mixture of modern county music mixed with Native American songs. The night I first caught its signal the radio announcer spoke in Navajo. I didn't have a clue what was being said. It made me envious. I wanted to know what it meant.

It motivated me enough to go out and buy a couple of cds of Native American Chants and music. I still have the cds. I like listening to them when I can. I especially enjoy the flute music.

One called "Beyond Words - Native American Flute - by Wolf," is haunting and is completely relaxing. I could easily see myself getting a full body massage and listening to this cd.



It brings to mind another time, another world where buffalos roamed free across the plains and Native Americans controlled their lives and didn't answer to white men.

I can close my eyes and feel transported.

Phobos Dreams_Chapter Two

I had made arrangements with Cap to meet at my place at 2 a.m. That gave me plenty of time to finish my errands.

My step was lighter as I went from shop to shop. I mentioned to no one else about my plans. I had no other friends. To know that Cap would be going with me made me happier than I had been since the Rebirth had happened.

I had one last stop before returning to my apartment. Long ago, I had turned away from the Rebirth's idea of "Church." The government had altered everything when they took over and "Rebirthed" the Earth.

Any resemblance the Rebirth Church had to churches of the past was lost years ago. The church I walked toward was not in the new, gleaming, sterile building they called "Church." My church was a boarded up building two streets over from my apartment.

I looked both ways before entering the decayed building. Rats larger than small cats scampered across the dirty floor. The building was silent, and oddly peaceful. Filtered sunlight drifted into the room I entered. Against the wall leaned a tall, wooden cross. It displayed remnants of a time past, but not quite yet forgotten.

The rest of the building had graffiti scrawled everywhere. Windows were broken and doors take off their hinges, yet this room was unmarked.

The cross gleamed in the dim sunlight. As my eyes became adjusted tot eh dimness I noticed others in the room.

"Peace be with you," I said softly.

"Please be with you," they replied. Two women and one man were sitting in front of the cross, their hands raised together in prayer.

I sat down on the gleaming floor. This room was spotless. The walls were scrubbed to a point that the wood sparkled. No rats entered this room. The caretaker of the church walked over to me.

"Peace be with you, my sister. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Peace be with you, caretaker. I am here to refresh my soul with goodness and to ask for a favor if I may," I replied, lowering my head in the caretaker’s presence.

"And what favor might that be, my child?"

The caretaker was a woman of an undetermined age. Her long, black hair was braided around her head. Streaks of gray intermingled with the black.

Once, many years ago, I thought the caretaker was a pastor in a church before the Rebirth. I didn't know for sure and I wasn't sure how to graciously ask without offending the caretaker.

"I am going away to another city. I was wondering if I might purchase a copy of the "Book" to take with me. Is that possible?" I asked my eyes not leaving her gentle face.

The caretaker looked at me carefully. It was a federal crime to purchase the "Book." And it was even worse for the person who dared to sell the contraband.

"You know the consequences if you are caught holding the 'Book.' Are you willing to face these consequences? Possessing the 'Book' is also a very important honor. You must protect it with your life," she said reverently.

"Where I am going there are no 'Books.' I must have a copy to take with me. I will guard it with my life."

The caretaker looked around the room, the others seems oblivious to our quiet conversation.

"Come with me."

The woman led me to a side room I had never been in before. It must have been where she slept for there was a small, bare bed against a far wall. No other furniture or decorations were in the room except for a painting on the wall. I hadn't seen a painting like that since I was a child. It was of Jesus Christ nailed to the cross.

I fell to my knees in front of the painting. The caretaker smiled, and gently put her hand to my head.

"It's all right, child. God knows you are a faithful believer. There is still hope out there. Even though the government tells us there is none. Those who believe, those who still trust God, know there is hope no matter what the odds are," her soft voice reassured me.

Raising my head, I looked up at the painting and at the caretaker.

"I am going far away caretaker. I need to take some of that hope with me. May I please have a copy of the 'Book?' "

The caretaker nodded her head and reached under the bare bed. She pulled out a small box and removed a book. She carefully handed it to me.

"You don't have to pay me, child. Just promise not to tell anyone where you got it and guard it with your life. Follow those words and you will live a more wonderful life than many can imagine."

I accepted the book and slipped it into my life pack.

"I am honored by your trust. But, please let me pay you."

"No child, I have all I need. I have the Lord and I have the few faithful who still come to worship. I am already very rich," she said, a beautiful smile filling her face.

"Take care my child, and may peace always be with you."

Tears fell down my face. The peace and love the caretaker exuded filled me with warmth.

"Maybe peace always be with you, caretaker," I replied before quietly leaving the room.

Standing once again inside the room with the cross, I walked over to it and knelt. Saying the one prayer I remembered from childhood, I leaned over and kissed the bottom of the cross. I prayed for a safe journey for Cap and myself.

I was careful leaving the building, knowing the contraband "Book" was in my life pack made me far more aware of the surroundings.

I was finally ready to start a new life. I had all I needed in my life pack. Now, all I needed was Cap.