She loves to eat. Her moans confirm it. Chicken salad with chopped celery, pecans, apples, cumin and mayo elicit oohs and aahs. When I'd bake Texas sheet cake, she just knew and popped in. Roasted veggies get her attention: purple cauliflower; white and green asparagus; snow peas; red, yellow and white potatoes, stop light and green peppers; white, yellow and purple onions; carrots; turnips and green beans with EVOO, sea salt and fresh rosemary. We love to eat the rainbow!
Her intuition guides her. She knows just when to call and just what to do or not do. She is knowledgeable about herbs and aromatherapy. Healing flows through her soft, warm hands blessing her massage clientele.
Over the last few years, I donated hundreds of Krysia's books and magazines to our local library. One afternoon last summer, she came over all excited, "I just found this magazine about England at the library and thought of you." It was the one I just donated. Ok, it's meant to be mine.
My love of France is obvious throughout my home. This past June she gave me "Lunch in Paris, A love story with recipes" by Elizabeth Bard. She didn't say where she found it, just that it jumped off the shelf at her to give to me. I enjoyed the story and recipes and have made Pasta A La Gwendal and her Aunt Joyce's Coconut Macaroons. Tonight I'm making eggplant stuffed with couscous rather than Quinoa.
When I started the book, it seemed familiar. Two chapters in I remembered I had owned one but couldn't get into it and donated it to the library. Kim, you did it again. I'm glad to have it back. Thank you, dear magical friend.
©2011 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, July 29, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Foot bath settlers sequel
At JB's suggestion I hung a green and white kitchen towel on the west end of the shelves for shade, and set a tiny, glass bowl of fresh water in the tub for Mama Wren. I wanted a picture, but they moved ever so slightly and it blurred. I'll paint a picture for your imagination.
The nest was four feet off the ground on a grey metal shelf. Our cats, Schatzie and Madchen, watched, or rather stalked, Mama flying in with food and out with trash. Keeping the cats in the house was challenging; they are slippery when dry, too. I moved everything they could use for a step or spring. When I heard Mama chirping loudly I came outside to see if she was talking to her babies or cussing the cats. Schatzie and Madchen pretended to be unconcerned, but I knew their brains were twisting for when-can-we-have-a-go-at-them? In nature's food chain, birds are free cat food. St. Frances of Assisi, the Patron Saint of animals to the rescue. Protect the birds from the house cats and all other predators. Please and thank you.
The cats were stressing Mama Wren. I couldn't decide if I should move the nest to a higher shelf or not? If she abandoned them, they would starve to death. I put my concern in God's hands and peeked in. Settled on her silent clutch she turned and looked at me but made no effort to leave. In my softest mothering voice I said, "I want to help you to a higher shelf." She kept her eyes on me and didn't fly away. Okay, here goes. Ever so gently I slid the tub off and set it on the top shelf. She stayed on the nest. Thank you One and all.
Not tall enough to see in from the ground, I stood on side-by-side gallon paint cans. The nest was disheveled. Oh no. She must be furious with me. Was I over-mothering? And the chicks aren't moving. Fervent prayers and pleas for them and my forgiveness did not ease my heart or mind.
July 20th three chicks were out of the nest scattered around the tub, as if they'd been tossed. Pitiful. A feather here and there they looked moth eaten. One was stuck under a long-handled spoon. The second was upside down in the corner. The third looked half-dead lying on its side. The question wasn't could they fly, could they live? Mothering. Decisions. Without touching them or the nest, I removed the spoon and water bowl that wasn't an immediate threat, but if they lived, they might stumble in and drown.
We didn't see the mother for two days. I was sick. When I could no longer stand not knowing, I mustered the courage to look in and found the nest even more of a mess. What is she doing? Through my tears I prayed, God, pleeeeaaassssse let them live.
Friday, the 22nd, Mama perched on the rim chirping loudly and with great urgency. Saturday afternoon, I saw a chick on the rim. It lifted off and glided to the back yard crash landing and chirping I did it! First flight. No manual. Wing flapping next lesson. The second chick hopped to the rim, saw me and jumped off crashing nearby and chirping, What did I do wrong? The third panicked and did a suicide jump to the concrete. It skittered away on wobbly feet chirping.
We kept the cats in the house two more days. None of the wrens returned. The nest that had been larger than an ostrich egg with a bay window to the inside of the tub was permanently evacuated. Mama had ripped it apart when her chicks were two weeks old. They had no choice but to go forward.
Today I took the tub down and dumped out the tattered, mess of a nest. The tub is scrubbed and back on the top shelf empty. Thank you God and St. Frances.
2011 Red Convertible Travel Series
The nest was four feet off the ground on a grey metal shelf. Our cats, Schatzie and Madchen, watched, or rather stalked, Mama flying in with food and out with trash. Keeping the cats in the house was challenging; they are slippery when dry, too. I moved everything they could use for a step or spring. When I heard Mama chirping loudly I came outside to see if she was talking to her babies or cussing the cats. Schatzie and Madchen pretended to be unconcerned, but I knew their brains were twisting for when-can-we-have-a-go-at-them? In nature's food chain, birds are free cat food. St. Frances of Assisi, the Patron Saint of animals to the rescue. Protect the birds from the house cats and all other predators. Please and thank you.
The cats were stressing Mama Wren. I couldn't decide if I should move the nest to a higher shelf or not? If she abandoned them, they would starve to death. I put my concern in God's hands and peeked in. Settled on her silent clutch she turned and looked at me but made no effort to leave. In my softest mothering voice I said, "I want to help you to a higher shelf." She kept her eyes on me and didn't fly away. Okay, here goes. Ever so gently I slid the tub off and set it on the top shelf. She stayed on the nest. Thank you One and all.
Not tall enough to see in from the ground, I stood on side-by-side gallon paint cans. The nest was disheveled. Oh no. She must be furious with me. Was I over-mothering? And the chicks aren't moving. Fervent prayers and pleas for them and my forgiveness did not ease my heart or mind.
July 20th three chicks were out of the nest scattered around the tub, as if they'd been tossed. Pitiful. A feather here and there they looked moth eaten. One was stuck under a long-handled spoon. The second was upside down in the corner. The third looked half-dead lying on its side. The question wasn't could they fly, could they live? Mothering. Decisions. Without touching them or the nest, I removed the spoon and water bowl that wasn't an immediate threat, but if they lived, they might stumble in and drown.
We didn't see the mother for two days. I was sick. When I could no longer stand not knowing, I mustered the courage to look in and found the nest even more of a mess. What is she doing? Through my tears I prayed, God, pleeeeaaassssse let them live.
Friday, the 22nd, Mama perched on the rim chirping loudly and with great urgency. Saturday afternoon, I saw a chick on the rim. It lifted off and glided to the back yard crash landing and chirping I did it! First flight. No manual. Wing flapping next lesson. The second chick hopped to the rim, saw me and jumped off crashing nearby and chirping, What did I do wrong? The third panicked and did a suicide jump to the concrete. It skittered away on wobbly feet chirping.
We kept the cats in the house two more days. None of the wrens returned. The nest that had been larger than an ostrich egg with a bay window to the inside of the tub was permanently evacuated. Mama had ripped it apart when her chicks were two weeks old. They had no choice but to go forward.
Today I took the tub down and dumped out the tattered, mess of a nest. The tub is scrubbed and back on the top shelf empty. Thank you God and St. Frances.
2011 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Foot bath settlers
I live in the land of pretty feet. When I went outside to get my foot bath tub, it wasn't empty as I had expected. I removed a box of kitchen tools from a garage sale. The leaves I suspected had blown in, until I looked closer. Four tiny, yellow beaks pointed skyward with 1/4" mouths open: new life on the block!
At six this morning I peaked at our new family. Mama was home. She isn't very big, and she moved so fast I didn't get a good look at her. She needn't worry, we will not disturb her nest; I'll find something else to soak my feet in.
2011 Red Convertible Travel Series
At six this morning I peaked at our new family. Mama was home. She isn't very big, and she moved so fast I didn't get a good look at her. She needn't worry, we will not disturb her nest; I'll find something else to soak my feet in.
2011 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, July 11, 2011
Lexi, crawfish lover
We went to the country Friday night for a double birthday party. Friends gathered round to help Kari and Sarah celebrate with a crawfish feed and a three-tied birthday cake.
Crawfish are currently plentiful. Some people are catching them with fishing poles and fat meat for bait. The crawfish table was long as a door and about 4' wide with two large holes cut in it. A garbage can sat beneath each hole for discarded shells and corncobs.
Over the 4th I prepped veggies for a Louisiana Coon Ass preparing Crawfish Etouffe. A great learning experience and awesome result. I'm a crawfish convert, but my appetite can't compare to Lexi's. She bellies up to the table, puts her paws on top, and digs in eating shells and all. She can because she's the family watch dog, a Rottweiler.
2011 Red Convertible Travel Series
Crawfish are currently plentiful. Some people are catching them with fishing poles and fat meat for bait. The crawfish table was long as a door and about 4' wide with two large holes cut in it. A garbage can sat beneath each hole for discarded shells and corncobs.
Over the 4th I prepped veggies for a Louisiana Coon Ass preparing Crawfish Etouffe. A great learning experience and awesome result. I'm a crawfish convert, but my appetite can't compare to Lexi's. She bellies up to the table, puts her paws on top, and digs in eating shells and all. She can because she's the family watch dog, a Rottweiler.
2011 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, July 01, 2011
I'd rather be in France 7/7/17
Day break: 20 lb Madchen purrs atop my closed computer. Give her the "fish-eye." Computer still won't forward, reply or compose. Cuss cat and computer.
Let Schatzie in. Refuses dry food. "Eat it. It cleans your teeth, so they don't fall out." Rebuttal meows. Give him tuna.
JB on the couch with a cigarette. Morning news: large company refuses to hire anyone who smokes. Yeah! That doesn't work here. Make him coffee.
Commercial: Lula says donuts and a bucket of Church's Chicken are one remedy for stress. I need a donut. Maybe several. Chicken later.
Clean up body and attitude. Smear face with Origins Active Charcoal Mask to clear pores. Lie down. Compose self. Go deep. Find my center. Ahhh
A comfortable 73 degrees. Dewy in and out: typical semi-tropical Southern morning. No mosquitoes . . . yet. No need to move fast. Swerve to miss street lump: lost pillow. Muster gratitude we aren't flooded and it isn't snowing.
Donut Shop on #61: Raspberry filled for JB, chocolate filled for me, and a short Cappuccino.
Retrace route. Donut fragrance tickles nose and taste buds. Tempted to pull over and eat both. Spot tall, shaded tomatoes in a garden. Market hopefuls. Temperature rose three degrees, headed to high nineties with Ozone warning.
Give Johnny his donut. Nibble and sip at my French table by the kitchen window. Open plantation blinds a sliver. Filtered sunlight decorates and dances on my table. Parisian sidewalk cafe, sans swooping-in purse snatchers. Ah, accordion music, and a Citron horn, "Get out of my way!" A French girl giving the waiter "Merci!" for a bottle of water. This is the life.
Stroll along the Seine. Sidestep doggy-do. Artists out early for the light. Appreciate their work. Tell them so. Love French Berets. Ride the subway to the Louvre. Underground wall art, is art, not graffiti. Spending the day at the Louvre.
Along The Champs-Elysee: Catch a hint of rose in an exotic combination. Stick my wrist out for a sample. Clerk replies, "Chanel No. 9, of course." To die for.
8 am CST. Begin work sans jet lag. Try to write complete sentences. Take a short stroll through Monet's Garden at Giverny first: "It's my "happiest place on earth." Feeling inspired.
Write a few.
Mid-morning break. Read a little of Janet Evanovich's "Smokin' Seventeen." Stephanie Plum, I can't make up my mind whether it should be you and Morelli, or you and Ranger.
Get serious. Write!
©2017 Red Convertible Travel Series
Let Schatzie in. Refuses dry food. "Eat it. It cleans your teeth, so they don't fall out." Rebuttal meows. Give him tuna.
JB on the couch with a cigarette. Morning news: large company refuses to hire anyone who smokes. Yeah! That doesn't work here. Make him coffee.
Commercial: Lula says donuts and a bucket of Church's Chicken are one remedy for stress. I need a donut. Maybe several. Chicken later.
Clean up body and attitude. Smear face with Origins Active Charcoal Mask to clear pores. Lie down. Compose self. Go deep. Find my center. Ahhh
A comfortable 73 degrees. Dewy in and out: typical semi-tropical Southern morning. No mosquitoes . . . yet. No need to move fast. Swerve to miss street lump: lost pillow. Muster gratitude we aren't flooded and it isn't snowing.
Donut Shop on #61: Raspberry filled for JB, chocolate filled for me, and a short Cappuccino.
Retrace route. Donut fragrance tickles nose and taste buds. Tempted to pull over and eat both. Spot tall, shaded tomatoes in a garden. Market hopefuls. Temperature rose three degrees, headed to high nineties with Ozone warning.
Give Johnny his donut. Nibble and sip at my French table by the kitchen window. Open plantation blinds a sliver. Filtered sunlight decorates and dances on my table. Parisian sidewalk cafe, sans swooping-in purse snatchers. Ah, accordion music, and a Citron horn, "Get out of my way!" A French girl giving the waiter "Merci!" for a bottle of water. This is the life.
Stroll along the Seine. Sidestep doggy-do. Artists out early for the light. Appreciate their work. Tell them so. Love French Berets. Ride the subway to the Louvre. Underground wall art, is art, not graffiti. Spending the day at the Louvre.
Along The Champs-Elysee: Catch a hint of rose in an exotic combination. Stick my wrist out for a sample. Clerk replies, "Chanel No. 9, of course." To die for.
8 am CST. Begin work sans jet lag. Try to write complete sentences. Take a short stroll through Monet's Garden at Giverny first: "It's my "happiest place on earth." Feeling inspired.
Write a few.
Mid-morning break. Read a little of Janet Evanovich's "Smokin' Seventeen." Stephanie Plum, I can't make up my mind whether it should be you and Morelli, or you and Ranger.
Get serious. Write!
©2017 Red Convertible Travel Series
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