Cooking the Old Fashioned, Newfangled Way

I subscribe to the feed for a cooking blog called How to Cook Like Your Grandmother. The trend in kitchens has been swinging in this direction for a while, away from mixes and pre-made frozen foods, back into cooking from scratch. Once in a while, when I’m just not capable of cooking (for whatever reason) we’ll go back to the old frozen pizza. Most of the time, though, we make the effort to put something good on the table and into our bodies.

Chuck was exhausted from a weekend of travel. Amigo was happy and tired from a weekend of travel. I was a little better off, but not much, just ten days out from a very scary and exhausting hospital experience. I’m still scrubbing off the bandage marks.

To put supper on the table, Chuck went out to do a whirlwind grocery shopping trip. Bunny food, a few other necessities, and a fully cooked rotisserie chicken were on his list. Meanwhile, back at the O.K. Chorale, I grabbed some frozen corn (frozen last summer when it was fresh), a small container of frozen red and green peppers, and tossed all of this into the steamer to cook. Somehow, even as wrecked as we felt, we put a decent meal on for supper.

Afterwards, I took a few minutes to be inspired by How to Cook Like Your Grandmother, a post still sitting in my inbox. . Tired, but not willing to quit quite yet, I took the bones from the chicken, the veggie water from the steamer, and a couple pieces of onion and I made a chicken broth. I had to be in the kitchen making lunch for tomorrow, so I rationalized I might as well get a broth simmering while I worked.

It was worth it. The broth looked thick and tasty, I got my lunch packed and a couple of options onto Amigo’s shelf in the refrigerator, and then diced up a little lettuce and tomato for the next night’s tacos.

When I’m tired and running almost on empty, sometimes I make the best use of my time. When everything is said and done, I can relax and go to bed knowing I’ve put in a good effort to feed the family and we didn’t even need to resort to frozen pizza – yet.

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Gardening in Three Minutes a Day

I’m still following the “Three Minutes a Day” philosophy in getting the garden ready to go – er, ready to grow. Three minutes are often all I can spare these days. Three minutes of time or three minutes of energy or three minutes of sunshine – until the weekend, that is. So I wonder. Does worry count? Thought? Decision making? Dilemma solving?

Dilemma Number One: weak, wimpy seedlings. I decided to try Miracle Grow potting soil this year, and the seedling came up faster. I’m not so sure that’s a good thing, though. Those tomatoes and peppers of any height (relatively speaking, of course) have weak, white, spindly stems. These plants need a lot of sun and a lot of fresh air. They’re too weak to stand up right now. What to do, what to do?

Dilemma Number Two: straw bale prep. I need to review the research, buy the necessary fertilizer, and set up my calendar for prepping the straw bales. Where is the best place to buy fertilizer?

Dilemma Number Three: I plan to move the mini-greenhouse shelves to the deck later this week. What shall I do with the grow light that’s hanging on the shelves now?

Dilemma Number Four: The mini greenhouse shelves are not big enough to hold all the seedlings. Which should go outside first: the weaker or the stronger?

Today’s three minutes happened twice. One: I put the seedlings outside to soak in some real sun and to toughen up in the light breeze. Two: I water the seedlings.

And on we go. So much to do, so little strength – I’m as weak as some of the seedlings. When they’re falling over instead of waving in the wind, I’m getting a little bit done and then sitting down to rest.

Somehow, no matter what the dilemma, the plots seem to take shape.

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Believing in a Future

Planting a garden means believing in a future.

Didn’t I post a quote like that in the recent past? I’ll search the archives. When I ran a quick search for “garden future quotes” I found everything but this one, so I’m unable to source it quite yet.

Meanwhile, back at the O.K. Chorale, I am sitting still and resting, stretching my legs as much as I can tolerate, and keeping calm. Mostly.

The big bunny still takes her responsibilities seriously in the role of service animal. I took a half day at work, stayed home for the morning, and even though I’d gotten up to feed her at the normal time, she came in a little later and made sure I was up. First she thumped, loudly, and then she scrabbled and scratched the blankets hanging down from the bed. I gave in and got up, and then she sat watching closely while I checked my blood pressure — so closely that I almost expected her to stick a paw in the cuff and check her own.

I’m discouraged from anything resembling physical effort. Bending, lifting, twisting, and straining are all on the “no-no” lists. That means digging in the dirt, spreading topsoil, carrying pots of seedlings out to the deck, or wrestling with a rain barrel are all outlawed. For now, that makes sense. I am stiff and sore, and I tire easily. I don’t know how long the remnants of last week’s hematoma (look it up, and trust me, it hurt) will get in my way.

On the bright side (there’s a little resilient thinking) Mother Nature has delivered rain for most of this week. The weather hasn’t encouraged garden work, so I miss it a little less. But as soon as the sun peeks out from behind the clouds, I’m going to want to garden.

Gardening has always been an ingredient in my healing, a strong part of any recovery. Taking the time to start seeds indoors kept me looking forward after my hysterectomy. Now it’s May, and by the end of this month I hope to have my plants in the dirt.

That’s where the faith in the future really comes in. When it’s time to plant, and I’m looking around and envisioning the harvest, my belief in the future is at its strongest.

 

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Resilience

The term resilience came up in one of Erica Diamond’s posts on her blog, Women on the Fence. A guest blogger talked about her cancers – two bouts with two different cancers – and the strengths she discovered while fighting for her life.

The CEO of the company that oversees my teaching job is showing her resilience against cancer – also for the second time.

The first time I heard about resilience was in a training for teachers. We were learning about families with drug and alcohol problems, how to recognize the problems, and how to help the children get the help they needed. Our training showed that resilience comes in many forms and it can be developed and strengthened.

Resilience is a strength, the strength to hold on and survive. It’s more than recovering from influenza, although influenza can knock even the strongest person off her feet for a while. It’s more than getting through that last class for the advanced degree, although that certainly takes strength and endurance.

People who are resilient are not the ones who win all the time. Those folks on the top have strengths, too, but they haven’t been tested. Those who show resilience get tested and come up and out of the test stronger than before. And somehow, resilient people keep a sense of humor.

What doesn’t kill me may make me stronger, but even more than that, every time I find humor in a difficult situation, I win a small battle.

Readers, how do you show resilience? Where do you find strength when the going gets tough?

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Comfort Food away from home

When I came home from the hospital in January, Amigo asked me, “How was the hospital food?” I told him I’d been pleasantly surprised at the decent food choices and quality.

This time, I wasn’t expecting to be in the hospital. I certainly hadn’t expected to be laid out, on flat bed rest (no more than 30% raised at the head), and my right leg immobilized straight ahead. I needed comfort – and the hospital menu had some standard comfort foods.

Oatmeal. I had oatmeal for breakfast with a fresh fruit cup of diced cantaloupe and grapes. I managed to eat the fruit cup, but I needed to be fed (spoon fed!) the oatmeal and the cranberry juice given with a straw. All in all, it was still comfort food.

I was sitting up by lunch, so I had soup and salad. Chicken noodle soup, in fact, satisfied my comfort food craving perfectly. The salad was spinach with hard boiled eggs, bacon bits and a citrus dressing. This salad was tasty enough that I thought about making it myself when the spinach is ripe in June.

I’ll take that as a collection of very good signs. I was hungry, I fed myself. I enjoyed the meal. I thought ahead, ahead to going home, and ahead to the future.

Gardening, I’m told, means believing in a future, and I was looking to the future, That’s a comfort in more ways than one.

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Thanksgiving in April

Signs that I am a literary type —

Every time the nurses asked me the standard question, “What month is it?” I was tempted to say, “April is the cruelest month” instead of simply “April”. I did find myself saying, “Still April for a few more days!”

My dear darling husband “Chuck” suggested that pre-surgery, maybe I was like the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. I had a brain, but it wasn’t running on all cylinders. Now that the carotid artery is unblocked, who knows what ideas might surface!

I spent one morning chatting with the nurse about our favorite authors.  It all started when she noticed I’d brought my Kindle with me. I recommended a book for her, and she recommended one for me.

The day nurse showed the tender spot on my abdomen to the night nurse and warned her that I was very, very sensitive there, but the pressure had gone down significantly since I moved onto the ward. I pointed toward the ceiling and told her, “See the footprints? Those are mine.” The pain was bad, folks. No way around it. Relief, however, was on the way.

Chuck and I shared a funny with the night nurse when she asked me to close my eyes and touch my nose. M*A*S*H fans to the end, we giggled a little about a recent episode when Blake was treating Radar and asked him to close his eyes and “…touch the old nose.” Radar, literal as always, closed his eyes and reached out to touch not his own nose, but the Lieutenant Colonel’s.

On a more serious note, people, I’m very thankful for many things. Most of all, I’m thankful that I didn’t know the extent of the blockage in my carotid artery until after the scan and surgery were completed. I freaked out a little (okay, I admit it, a lot) when I got the news. Now that it’s over, I can just feel relieved. Very, very relieved.

 

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The Consequences of Disaster

It was almost a year ago that madness and mayhem struck the O.K. Chorale. A skillful (not) subcontractor digging to make a new sidewalk hit the curbstop that takes water from the main pipe in the street to our home. He looked around to see if he’d been seen, plugged the marking stick back in the dirt, smoothed out his tracks, and went on working.

The short story is this: his action led to water saturating the ground, pouring into the basement, and the attempt at repair led to a broken gas pipe and evacuation from our home with my purse, phone, our prescription meds, and the clothes on our backs.

The latest reminder of The Disaster came in the form of a dozen roses. I know we own vases, I know they’re in the basement, but I couldn’t find them. Due to The Flood, everything got moved and rearranged in the basement. I said rearranged, not reorganized. We’re still working on that.

The result? Hey, we’re nothing if not resourceful.

roses in vase

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Pinterest Fail at the O.K. Chorale

I tried. In fact, I tried twice. The first time, I didn’t document the attempt. Instead, I invited my dear creative cook husband “Chuck” to try it.

Bunny Buns on Pinterest

Bunny Buns on Pinterest

After all, how hard could they be? This time, I documented the action.

They have ears.

They have ears.

They have tails (sort of).

They have tails (sort of).

After baking, they looked like this. Warning: Put down any beverages you might be drinking. Swallow. Okay, now you may look.

Baked "bunnies"

Baked “bunnies”

Chuck thought they looked more like Pikachu. Amigo thought they were fine.

I have a little more frozen dough left. There may be a Next Time. I’ll share — but only if they look good.

 

 

 

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And More Awareness

Today’s political climate is scary in that so many seem to have forgotten the fights that have already been fought. Seeing so many attempts to return women to a marginalized group (I can’t bring myself to say “minority”) reminds me of a story from not-really-so-long ago. The original title was “Being a Woman”. Here it is, courtesy of Grandma Daisy. 

I almost posted a quiz – a list of feminist slogans and quotes along with a list of years, with an opportunity for readers to match the two. Instead, I offer you an chance to reminisce about creativity in the feminist movement. Remember the Barbie Liberation League? In the 1990s….Grandma Daisy does this sort of storytelling best, so here she is.

Oh, children, your world is different, thank goodness. I lived through a fascinating and yet difficult time we called the Women’s Movement, or Women’s Liberation, Women’s Lib for short. We reminded lawmakers and voters that we are people, endowed with basic human rights along with our, ahem, voluptuous figures. To put it bluntly, we didn’t need balls to make good decisions about …. oh, your mother is listening. I can’t say that in front of you young ones., so back to the history behind the story. We had rallies, we held demonstrations. We ran for office ourselves instead of waiting for men to take care of our needs. We worked to pass laws that protected our right to make health care decisions.We built awareness of the importance of birth control and how much that birth control meant for our freedom, our liberation. We fought for equal pay for equal work. Laws passed, medications improved, but attitudes were harder to change. 

Sometimes women got creative to make a point. The Barbie Liberation League was one such example. We females were determined to be good students and make it “cool” to be smart. Math and science were supposedly men’s territory, so girls had some catching up to do. Adult role models like teachers and nurses pushed us young ones to go farther, higher, faster into the world of advanced math and sciences. 

Barbie dolls. You know the doll, right? Of course. They’re at the bottom of your sister’s closet with the rubber ducky and the worn out blankie she won’t throw away. Barbie, the doll with the unrealistic figure (39-21-33 at 6 feet tall were the proportional measurements, if you’re into trivia) was a favorite of many young girls. Girls knew she wasn’t realistic, but some tried too hard to look like her and became anorexic. A doll for a role model? Well, it happens.

When the Talking Teen Barbie came out, she had a limited vocabulary. Unfortunately, the people who programmed and recorded Barbie’s phrases had been in a fog throughout the entire women’s movement. Take a look at these examples.

Will we ever have enough clothes?

I love shopping!

Math class is tough.

Wanna have a pizza party?

In the old toy store aisles, G.I. Joe was a parallel type of doll, er, action figure, on the little boy side. His vocabulary was macho and tough – what they called “all male” back then. 

This is going to be rough. Can you handle it?

I’ve got a tough assignment for you!

Mission accomplished. Good work, men!

The Barbie Liberation League took action. They bought Talking Barbie and Talking G.I. Joe from toy stores, swapped out the voice boxes, and then repackaged the dolls and returned them to the stores. Little boys and little girls got Barbies that said, “Vengeance is mine!” and G.I. Joes that suggested, “Let’s plan our dream wedding.” When Joe proclaimed “Math class is tough”, it sounded ludicrous.

Well, darlings, that was the point. If a man couldn’t say it without sounding idiotic, why should a woman repeat that phrase and internalize that philosophy? Talking Barbie wasn’t pulled off the market, but the feminists and the Barbie Liberation League had made their point. Being female didn’t mean being less intelligent. It still doesn’t. 

Anyway , my grand-precious ones, some day I’ll tell you what we did when the guys at our college claimed that women couldn’t play jazz. Hah! We showed them, all right. Now go practice your trombone, and I’ll tell you that story later. 

 

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The Second in the series: Awareness Encores

This post originally aired about one year ago. Since then, the magic number of prevalence has become 1 in 67, up from 1 in 88.

It’s April, again. Autism Awareness Month. Now that autism numbers are estimated at 1 in 88, shouldn’t we already be aware? Shouldn’t we as a society be moving on?

Moving on beyond awareness means learning about each other, neurotypical or on the autism spectrum. Even under the old numbers of 1 in 166, the estimates indicated so many children and adults with autism that “normal” needed redefinition.

Awareness, people, is not enough. Awareness is a low form of knowledge, and knowledge itself sits down low at the base of the learning pyramid. Awareness means knowing that the student sitting next to your child in class might have autism. Knowledge and understanding come around when that child responds to gestures of friendship, perhaps awkwardly, yet making a step toward joining the social peer group in some way.

Awareness? Awareness means slapping a multi-colored puzzle-design ribbon magnet on the back of the family minivan. Understanding means that when the minivan next to yours at the red light is moving back and forth propelled by the rocking of the teenager in the front seat, you notice but don’t judge. You might offer an understanding smile to the driver if the opportunity comes up. By refraining from negative comments, a parent provides a role model for the rest of the minivan passengers.

The “R” word is also still active, unfortunately. The word Retarded hasn’t been in active use for educational professionals in decades, but it still turns up in verbal put-downs. Awareness means knowing the label Retarded is unacceptable. Knowledge and comprehension would show that anyone with limitations in learning faces enough challenges without getting their diagnosis tossed around as a playground insult.

I wore my “R” Word t-shirt on the appropriate day. That’s my awareness activity. To bring it to a higher level, I vow to stop and comment when I hear the word used: stop and educate those who would otherwise redefine a person in narrow boxes.

Now it’s time to take Autism Awareness to a higher level, too.

 

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