Hello!

Hello and welcome. I stopped blogging after a decade and four months because I believed I’d had my say. Closing down and moving on was the thing to do. I did. I chilled, I did new things, read a small stack of new books, drew a lot, read a slew of blogs, cooked up a storm and worked on being the best me possible. Here I am again in a knitting frame of mind, hoping we can hang out, share our stories, create together and learn from each other. And while we’re at it . . . bring on the yarn if you are so inclined.

A Stem Ginger State of Mind

I’ve had an annoying time of it lately and should not even try to whine about any of it except my mojo is still missing some of its mo and jo. I am better but still tire easily. As a result, I spend an abnormal amount of time sitting and staring out of the window in front of my desk. There’s nothing worth watching on television/ROKU but the birds, clouds, neighbors, roofers and grass put on a decent enough show. A growing pile of books is crowding me in bed—unread, unthumbed, and uninteresting. So I turned to baking and cooking more detailed menus.

Old Smokey still keeps be from venturing outside to soak up sun on the patio, so peering though the kitchen windows is as close as I get to enjoying a day without being poisoned by his cigarette smoke. The dude smokes all day and coughs like he’s midway to coughing up at least one testicle.

He must work nights because he and his smoking female companions (There have been several.) smoke all day and into the evening and night. The rose bush is just inches away from where he sits up against the fence we share. So I cannot cut a bouquet worth for indoors. Alas, poor me.

There’s smoke to the left of us and chickens to the right. Both invade our realm and there’s nothing done in our defense. Texas law says people have the right to smoke outdoors, second hand smoke protesters be damned and die. In the suburbs a homeowner is allowed to have thirty chickens. The chickens next door have babies and yes, they finally breached the new fence, and act like the own our yard, too. Where’s that chicken hawk when I need it? Why it’s drinking from the birds’ water dish or resting on a willow branch when it should be eating fresh poultry naturally. I won’t even mention the cats beyond this little blurb.

So, now you know why cooking and baking are such blessings. Used to be when I needed a break, I’d hop in the Honda and hit the FM heading east for a drive in “the country” with a camera, a lunch and a klean kanteen of water, except all the open space is now a sea of ecru houses with gray roofs. My world grows smaller even as I write this.

Now. I fell hard for Walker’s stem ginger biscuits years ago. Bought them from the World Market one day on a whim. Bam! Instant addiction! I order them online now. They worked a miracle on my stomach during the recent bug bout. Seems almost everyone in my close circle was affected but it did not occur to me to share the remedy. I didn’t make the connection right away. Duh-duh-dum-me. Did not recommend ginger tea either. I do wish I could bake a dozen ginger cookies for them all though. As an apology. But in my defense, my brain was concentrating on my stomach.

Now. Things get interesting right about here. I’ve been reading the Irish Times after following a story that was related to St. Patrick’s Day. Don’t ask me why, seeing as how they misreated and enslaved my ancestors. My having Irish DNA does not excuse them one bit. The red headed dude who bought a female ancestor and then married her gets a break though but he is said to have migrated to Ireland from Scotland, so who knows which came first. The Scotsman or the Irishman? Ouch! There was a Scotsman AND and Irishman. Why didn’t that sink in before now? I’m the genealogist in the family. How could I have not made that simple connection before now? Well, heck and how-do-you-do!

But, no matter. Reading the Irish Times, I discovered a recipe for stem ginger cookies. They look so much like the ones I’ve been paying a small fortune for that I decided to try the recipe. That was three and a half days ago. Of course I need stem ginger. And powdered sugar aka icing sugar and getting all of the ingredients has been like pulling a hen’s eye teeth. Just when I order ginger online JC finds it at Sprout’s without telling me. Having two bottles on hand won’t put us in the poor house but still . . .

Now that all of the ingredients are on hand it is time to cook dinner. A complex affair seeing as how it’s Sunday and all. Which reminds me of a conversation JC and I had via text yesterday. It went like this:

Me: I need that stem ginger, powdered sugar, and eggs tomorrow. I will start cooking after Sunday school and church. Hope your suit is clean.
He: I’m wearing a robe. That’s what Jesus did.
Me: You’re not Jesus.
He: I’m just trying to be like him
Me: Why? Pretending won’t get you into heaven. A preacher told Steve Harvey heaven is for imperfect people because no one is perfect or can be perfect. Harvey gave him an amen.
Back then men wore tunics and women wore rubes. Then Jesus donned a robe. Do you know why?
He: Uh-oh. Wait for it . . .
Me: Hahahaha! Why uh-oh? You heard this before? LOL
He: No. There’s got to be a good reason for Jesus to start wearing a robe.
Me: You make me laugh! Oops! My show is back on. Bye.
He: C’mon. Why’d Jesus start wearing a robe? I didn’t make it to Sunday school every Sunday. I must have missed this.
Me: LOL. Too late for you then.

What a long conversation for two people who do not go to Sunday school or church, although I have caught JC watching Joel Osteen on occasion.

It’s a good thing there was leftover ramen from yesterday. I’m not even halfway through cooking dinner. Have not started gathering ingredients for the ginger cookies either. It’s gonna be a long day.

Wait! I forgot why I began this post. I meant to tell you all about how I subscribed to the Irish Times on a whim. Go figure. I am so sick of Taylor Swift. Guess what. She’s in the news there as well. As is Elon Musk, Percival Everett (I want to read his book but . . .), a story about an emotional support animal that happens to be a cat, thirteen letter words I cannot pronounce . . . But basically? The Irish are just like Americans. Same problems, same people, same issues, same racism . . . We really are more alike than we are different.

What does this mean?: Radharc eile ar aimsir na hathbheochana. Me: I know! I know! I think I know! If my daughter can learn to read and speak Mandarin, I can use an interpreter app to decipher stuff instead. As we used to say when we were kids, “Erin go braless!”

A Friday Flashback

On a whim I googled “British newspapers” after doing the same for Ireland and Scotland. Back when I was all about penfriends and penpals (More on the phenom later.), I tried to learn a bit about what was going on where my “friends” lived in order not to be ignorant. I discovered not much has changed, just like here, but it seems their newspapers have become more truthful and open about daily life. And you know what? Learning those bits of truth was nevertheless surprisingly painful and disappointing, if that makes sense.

We are all the same no matter where we live. Our languages, rituals, weather, and some of our problems are different but people are people around the globe. Friends who have visited foreign places have reported how disappointing it was to discover the sameness and similarities that define humanity. People get drunk, are happy in the face of adversity, will risk their lives to help someone in need, will rob, beat, steal, kill others . . . But mostly their good outweighs the bad.

The foreign newspapers proved not to be so foreign after all. They contained good news, bad news, crossword puzzles, opinion sections, food sections, but very few comics. I forgot to search for obituaries! While I do not expect anyone to speak ill of the dead, I am curious enough to wonder how much is revealed about the deceased beyond date of birth and death. It’s been a while since I read a birth announcement in our local paper, too.

I especially enjoy reading food sections. Recipes are curious offerings. They reveal more than I realized before today. Menus often put me off trying many of the dishes included in a single meal–even lunch. I cannot imagine eating baked beans for breakfast. Lunch and dinner are okay but breakfast? No offense intended.

Back to the good old days of PBS when there was less to offer us here in the US of A. I enjoyed the shows more because I was curious and they offered insight into things I’d only read about before the Internet. I learned what a rasher of bacon was, having only just learned that a rasher of ham will be on the same plate, alongside an egg and toast, whereas here, there might be grits and or gravy. There is no accounting for taste, huh?

I keep going back to food. I must be hungry despite having finished yesterday’s take-out leftovers from the Saltgrass. So, moving on yet again . . .

An American fell in love with a British citizen and moved to a place I’d only read about before. Manchester. We met as penpals and were friends for over ten years until she did the unthinkable. But she taught me a lot about her adopted country and some of their “village people.” She sent boxes of edible treats and lovelies such as everything one might need for a proper British tea, including tea, a tea pot, cups . . .

I’m in the process of getting rid of all the things I no longer use. My studio needs a through down-sizing. My shredder is getting quite a workout but my heart will not allow me to toss or shred a single piece of mail from the penpal era. We’re talking boxes and boxes of mail so I have to work around them. But a single discovery brought the great clean-out to a grinding halt.

Aha! I cannot help but wonder if Eastenders still aired, seeing as how it’s been more than a minute since I last watched. Addicted is the only word that describes my relationship with that show back in the day, despite the poor writing and improbable situations presented as reality. And, no, I wasn’t into American soap operas such as Dynasty. I always referred to it as “die nasty” for obvious reasons. But Eastenders had a grip that nothing could loosen.

The awful postcard is postmarked 15 August 2007. See? I told you it’s been more than a minute since the show and I parted ways, too. One day I practically loved it and suddenly I didn’t. In the meantime Dot and Jim married, divorced or had babies (jk) then there was news that June Brown died. That was really the end. She was 95. Her deplorable son planned to steal Dot’s bingo winnings . . . This still makes me laugh so hard I can no longer weep over June’s/Dot’s passing. She will forever live on in Wolford alongside the wimp Ian Beale. LOL. Sorry.

I googled Eastenders and discovered the show is alive and well after all these years. Here’s hoping there’s a new Dot, a new Cath, Ian, Jim . . . Peggy, too! Eastenders forever!

Down for the Count

I picked up a hitchhiker somewhere along the way. This is day two and a half of ugh to the nth power.

Back to bed.

Be well.

Tank Town, USA

Forget about ROKU City if you haven’t already. Check out ROKU’s fish
tank instead. It is more beneficial and entertains for hours on end. 

I never knew there was an actual ROKU City until ten minutes ago when curiosity got the better of me and I finally investigated. I simply googled “What is ROKU City” and there it was, in all it’s flatness and vibrancy. Then it was “meh” and I returned to the fish tank screensaver. Perhaps I should have googled it too because all I recall reading about it was the fact that it is a scrolling scene. But I already knew that. The one constant seems to be the fish that hangs out in a hidey hole in the center of the tank. I call it The Lurker.

My sole complaint about the screen saver is there aren’t enough actual air bubbles. Wait. I googled “Do fish make air bubbles in a tank.” Here’s wishing I hadn’t. Now I’m wondering why none of the fish interact with each other. And why don’t some of them change their pace? They all swim about like zombies. We’ve had a tank or three in our lifetime and there was always action worth viewing. We even had fish that leaped up and even out of the water. At least two died on the carpet while we were away.

The best upside to having a tank screensaver is never having to clean the thing. Cleaning it and the cute little shells, castle and pirate treasure chest, etc. took up half a day. Waiting for the water to do its thing was another pain. There was the thermometer to watch and fret over while the water reached the proper temp because no one wanted overheated fish or chilled fishes. Dang. Writing about it makes me grateful for an artificial tank aka screensaver. ROKU is saving me headaches, anxiety, money, time, and the lives of fish. It’s lowering my blood pressure when I’m not telling you about it.

I often find myself staring at the tv screen, remote in hand as I stare all zombie-like at the fake fish. I prefer it to watching most of the shows and streaming so-called entertainment. It is often preferable to surfing too, and there’s a lot to surf. How sad is that? Better yet, I am lulled to sleep like a breast-fed infant once in awhile, the one drawback being I wake hours later having wasted electricity while the tv watched me. Guilt be danged though. Those fish are pretty awesome. And they pretty much pay for the imagined waste.  

Chicken Chit

A chit is a short official note. This began as one such post but has been fleshed out just a tad in self-defense. 

The sixteen year-old next door kicked in fence slats, yanked slats out, and in general made ways for his poultry to gain access to our yard after theirs was denuded and they have nothing to peck, scratch and eat. But I wasn’t having it and asked that he repair the damages. He is destructive. His pets die mysteriously, including a beautiful iguana, guinea pigs, a beautiful parrot . . .

I’ll share the cat story for another day. Maybe not. But the son, he who assured me he will kill the red tail hawk that circles overhead because it sees chicken on the menu, swears his cats do not chase and kill birds or squirrels because squirrels are too large. This cat makes a liar of him.

Nothing was done for weeks. I became irate and desperate enough to call Animal Control after two dogs joined the mix. One has a severe case of mange. A few years ago a different dog had it so bad it bled. I caved and had an adjacent neighbor drive Fatima to our vet, with the dog in her lap—no way would I transport an animal with mange. I paid for the treatment which was less than two hundred dollars. A week later the older daughter and mother paid me back. This time around the neighbor on the opposite side called Animal Control. The came, picked up the dog, treated and returned it. 

Our HOA never does anything. I learned the hard way when they had eight dogs that barked all day and howled all night. Abandoned pit bulls terrorized school children until I threatened to call a local news channel. 

Good fences make good neighbors. Until the next crisis that arises from ignorance. HOA says they cannot do anything about what goes on in a homeowner’s or renter’s back yard. Our neighbor is the only one around us who has no grass but too many cats, dogs, and chickens. The house reflects the owner and residents. How their back door still stands upright defies explanation. We still have not figured out how they manage to close it. The Venetian blinds . . . How can people destroy a home and not care? How can they justify six or eight vehicles in a driveway meant for two? Why can’t they park against the curb instead of parking halfway in the street? 

The father came home the day I shooed five chickens from our back yard and out through the gate. I’d thought of doing it once before but the thought of the birds being hurt or killed kept me from actually doing it. I was fed up though. Then Juan saw the state of the fence. I bought all the materials as he asked. He said they would do the work and reimburse me for half. I have to deal with them because JC is at work. I always look like the bad guy but our home is our haven and someone has to do the dirty work.

The father is simply the best. He’s affable, hard-working, and takes good care of his family. He comes home on Sundays and deserves to relax after a full day of Sunday school and church in a town that’s half-way to Galveston. Their pastor must be a miracle worker to justify a trip that takes over an hour each way.

So. He came home, saw the son had not hammered in the slats and he took command. He patiently showed him what to do, how to do it and before I could have baked a cake, it was done. In the middle of getting it done the little mangey dog came into our yard, immediately peed on my prize lily, sat and commenced to scratching as if its life depended on it. I went out, asked Juan to keep the dog out. He had son take the dogs inside. He smiled before, when, and after I asked. 

Oh! And the phone rang. Expecting another problem from next door, I answered reluctantly but cheerfully. The boy said his father had something for me. Eggs! And they were, as he said, “Still warm.”

I will bake gingerbread just for him as a thank-you. I know he is partial to it because I treated him to a still-warm bake over a year ago and his son went out of his way to tell me just how much he enjoyed it. Son initially suggested cookies. So cookies for him and gingerbread for his father, Don Juan.

Tabloid Edition

Just when I think I’ve seen the worst, most shocking and demeaning acts of human behavior, something pops up to prove me wrong. Then we are bombarded with attempts to guilt us into accepting social deviancies. And we wonder why our children are acting out in dangerous and destructive ways.

Every morning I read three newspapers. It used to be four but I cut back for obvious reasons. There are interesting things going on in foreign countries that are worth exploring. And there is no pride in ignorance, so hey. To be ignorant is to ignore. Or maybe I am just nosy?

I am not into tabloids although I do read an occasional bit of gossip and scandal. But only out of wonder. As in, “I wonder why in the world . . .” A natural part of human nature is curiosity. Right?

So. Try to imagine how curiosity won when I saw this. Read about it here. Chestfeeding is what it’s called. The story is from The Feminist Current.

Seeing Is Bee-lieving

I went out to ask JC why he was stacking the old fence slats into particular piles. His choices were deliberate but why? And it is my belief that if you don’t know why a thing is done, you simply ask. And so I did.

An hour later I still don’t quite understand but am reluctant to piece together an answer. He just left to buy duct tape. He aims to cut the slats in half and tape them in small bundles before he puts them on the curb for collection. There’s a reason for that too. But I heard the low hum overhead and remembered it is bee season. End of slat questions

Every year since the willow first bloomed, bees visit and have a field day. They are so loud and the sound is such a lull, you stop what you’re doing just to let it wash over you. It’s soothing and beneficial. It slows you down, colors become more intense, and even the wind against your skin feels different. There is no threat—real or imagined—or a possible swarm. There is no sense of possible danger. It’s all just so beautiful.

There are fewer bees this year. It really is true. Bees are in a decline. I am so grateful to have been allowed to photograph several. They didn’t seem to mind posing either. The willow is thinner because we’ve pruned it a bit for safety’s sake and because the roofer recommended that we do. There is still enough of both the bees and tree to capture a handful of memorable moments. Seeing is really is bee-lieving

Comic Relief

I grew up reading comic books. I was one of the kids who collected and sold aluminum cans and milk bottles for money to buy candy and comic books, then found a cozy place to curl up, eat and read. Away from our mother’s parental gaze.

There were always amazing swaps, discoveries, and shares. A neighbor, an army lieutenant, the only adult we knew who loved comic books as much as I did, who turned out to be more serious about the funnies than any young person I knew. He had an amazing collection that’s probably worth a fortune today. Unless his wife got rid of them. She called his interest childish and actually tossed several newly purchased copies. He retrieved them and wisely refused to argue with her. I still admire him more than her and we knew her long before she met him. Such is life.

Most of today’s comics are not worth their paper and ink, so I read only a select few each morning. For Better or Worse is like family although they are more like snippets of daily life in an American family. Sadly they sometimes go over my head and are not amusing. This one resonated and made me laugh out loud for real.

Fettuccine & Shrimp Without Alfred

I was only teasing with the title and then the little voice told me to google fettuccine alfredo. Lo! and behold! There really was an Afredo known as the king of noodles. Here is an excellent article about Alfred the pasta king and fettuccine. Fettuccine facts. It’s long but worth every word and image. And it proves me right all along. Even an African American knows how to make great fettuccine. Simply follow your palate and it’ll take you there! I promise.

Going from red sauces to white is a sudden leap but hey, when you have shrimp and cream, stick with the Italians and go for broke. Besides, fettuccine is a dish we like with several different proteins, including tuna. And salmon! 

The seasoned shrimp adds a bang to humdrum-ish white pasta in a white sauce, and is so pretty laying atop a sea of sameness. The red, green, and purple in the salad gave everything a festive air and made me forget there were no Italian loaf slices for sopping. Blame the shopping list maker, moi. Heavy cream worked just fine seeing as how there was no half-and-half in the fridge or on the list either. Sometimes making do has its own unique power.

So. Cleaned and seasoned shrimp, grated parm, cream, and pasta all cooked just so, and served hot makes for a superb meal. Rich but superb. The only thing left to do is to enjoy! And so we did. I took a break to smell the tulips first.

Today needs a menu. I got nothing. 

Money!

Or, to quote the O’Jays,

“Money, money, money, mon—-ey!
Some people got to have it, yeah
Some people really need it,
Listen to me y’all
Some people do things, do things, do things, bad things with it.
Talkin’  about cash money, dollar bills, y’all!
For the love of money people will steal from their mother
For the love of money people will rob their own brother
For the love of money people can’t even walk the street
Because they never know who in the world they’re gonna meet
For that mean green, almighty dollar
People will lie, rob, they will cheat
Don’t care who they hurt or beat
For the love of money a woman will sell her precious body
For a small piece of paper it carries a lot of weight
For that mean, mean, mean green almighty dollar
I know that money (It’s actually the love of money!) is the root of all evil
Do funny things to some people
Give me a nickel, 
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Money can drive some people out of their mind!
For the love of money, don’t sell your soul . . .“

It’s been a long while since we’ve had actual cash. It’s been so long I’d forgotten how it smells all perfumed like its fresh from a pole dancer’s g-string. The scent won’t ever wash off. Being allergic to artificial manmade scents makes it hard on a body, so I am grateful for plastic. But our neighbor paid with cash for his half of the fence materials. JC then made a deposit several days later. I took pictures first. My how money has changed just to try and thwart counterfeiters. I wonder if it’s working.