We've been in the single digits with occasional ice, but our pipes didn't freeze. Our hearts go out to those in the extremes. Does a cold winter set the stage for a hot summer, or is that an old wive's tale?
After the F2 twisted over our house raking up the shingles and laying them down 12/21/13, we noticed our backyard pecan tree was leaning toward the middle of our house, back to front. We are grateful gravity, a sneeze, a feather-weight bird, or a feather, did not fell it, the trimmer did.
After three Deep Southern summers, I understand the need for an outside kitchen or a least a grill. The upside to cold weather is soup. It's twice blessing: when cooked and when eaten. Our Kroeger's is revamping their produce section with more variety, bright lights and mirrors. It reminds me of Whole Foods on a smaller scale. Eat the Rainbow!
The price of a roast was over the moon. I bought neck bones I browned on all sides before putting in the crockpot. The rest of my recipe was by the seat of my pants.
Saute one or more sliced onions
chopped garlic
sliced fresh mushrooms
Pour over the roast
Add 1 cup of red wine
2 cups of beef broth
I didn't add veggies until the meat was near tender.
Add more broth if you like.
I cut up fresh green and yellow peppers, zucchini and yellow squash circles, sliced carrots and parsnips, chopped turnips and rutabaga, unpeeled potatoes, and frozen sweet corn. It smelled so good cooking and tasted wonderful!
Happy Soup Saturday to you!
Love,
Maeann
2014 Red Convertible Travel Series
Showing posts with label gratitude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gratitude. Show all posts
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Thanksgiving 2011
I am grateful for the blessings I have and the one's I don't. Chocolate is high on my list.
God Bless you all.
Love,
MJ
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
Friday, November 04, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 7 1/2 - My Mission
4,000 feet above us, Rim dawn woke me at the bottom of “the ditch.” Curled in a ball and cold, stretching made the bare bed springs squeak. Donna didn’t move. I thought about staying put until she awoke, but I had a job to do. How could I get up without making a lot of squeaking noise? … roll off, make the noise all at one. I did. Donna didn’t move.
My stretched out body awoke for inventory: no headache, socks on my teeth, sore back, hands, arms, and fingers worked, feet moved, toes wiggled, blisters said, “hi,” and my knees shouted. Screamed is more like it.
Easing to a sitting position, I picked up my hiking boots and shook them. No scorpions had taken up residence. Boots on and laced, I eased to my knees to stand up, and made it, glad I didn’t have far to go. Gathering the walking stick, matches, and the prayer mail I’d collected over nine months, I opened the flap and went outside.
The cool, dry air was silent. From a distant camp the smell of coffee brewing confirmed other human life. Our pack was still high in the scrub brush where Donna had placed it - no overnight shoppers. Deer and ring-tail cats didn’t announce their presence, but I suspect they knew about us. Small creatures scurried for their breakfast.
On the floor of God’s magnificent creation, I raised my eyes skyward giving praise and thanks. One by one I lifted each unopened prayer letter up to God, with the hope that the effort made to get here added oomph.
Easing to the floor, I tore all the prayer letters into little pieces and struck a match. They had to be burned, and their ashes left here on earth’s great altar. I might never know if they were answered. It didn't matter. My job was to deliver them. The last shred of paper burned itself out. Before I could get up, peace flooded my soul; mission accomplished.
(more life at the bottom later)
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
My stretched out body awoke for inventory: no headache, socks on my teeth, sore back, hands, arms, and fingers worked, feet moved, toes wiggled, blisters said, “hi,” and my knees shouted. Screamed is more like it.
Easing to a sitting position, I picked up my hiking boots and shook them. No scorpions had taken up residence. Boots on and laced, I eased to my knees to stand up, and made it, glad I didn’t have far to go. Gathering the walking stick, matches, and the prayer mail I’d collected over nine months, I opened the flap and went outside.
The cool, dry air was silent. From a distant camp the smell of coffee brewing confirmed other human life. Our pack was still high in the scrub brush where Donna had placed it - no overnight shoppers. Deer and ring-tail cats didn’t announce their presence, but I suspect they knew about us. Small creatures scurried for their breakfast.
On the floor of God’s magnificent creation, I raised my eyes skyward giving praise and thanks. One by one I lifted each unopened prayer letter up to God, with the hope that the effort made to get here added oomph.
Easing to the floor, I tore all the prayer letters into little pieces and struck a match. They had to be burned, and their ashes left here on earth’s great altar. I might never know if they were answered. It didn't matter. My job was to deliver them. The last shred of paper burned itself out. Before I could get up, peace flooded my soul; mission accomplished.
(more life at the bottom later)
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
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