HAPPY SAINT PATRICK'S DAY!
Our Galway, Ireland, B&B host was a carpenter. He had traveled to Russia with a group to teach them how to use certain power tools and equipment. First they had to show them how to put the wheel on the wheelbarrow. They were using the 'barrow' without the wheel.
Breakfast options included porridge, eggs, thick bacon, black or white pudding, toasted or fried bread and tea. We bid our farewell and headed for a drive through the Connemara, one of Ireland's thousands of years old peat bogs. At other Irish bogs we watched locals cut brick-sized pieces to heat their homes and cook stoves. No one was cutting here. In fact, we didn't see a soul or a native Connemara pony.
The road is a wavy ribbon. Left, drive left. It feels spongy, as if it has shock absorbers. The terrain is rough, rocky, mountainous, desolate, spooky, timeless, and was saturated in gloomy, damp weather: a blank canvas for life. Only the names change, but it was a field day for our imaginations. Who would come over the rise: medieval warriors, star wars characters, giants or "the little people"? An oasis. We needed and oasis of 'still' mineral water, rhubarb & ginger preserves , teacakes, Galtee cheese, and Cadbury's chocolate. In our imaginations we had it all.
Here at home I'd like to have a brick of peat to make a little fire to roast marshmallows, but if I have to wait for my landscaping to turn to peat, the marshmallows will be too hard. Peat is like sauerkraut, it isn't made overnight.
WE LOVE IRELAND!!!
copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
Working Rocks
JB is a good provider. He came with a variety of meats: venison hot tamales made in Arkansas by our friend, Hov, a former head Chef at the Silver dome in Detroit, Michigan; assorted wild hog parts the butcher will process; wild hog neck stew with lots of vegetables; venison tenderloin; a two-foot long venison sausage; and two chicken breasts from the motorhome freezer. Our seven-year dormant deep freeze rose to the call of electricity and is working just fine.
He brought his laundry, imagine that, an iron skillet for cornbread - it doesn't taste the same in anything else, and a bag of rocks. They are not gemstones prized for their brilliance, they are working rocks, the suspenders of the earth. In February JB's friend drilled a well at Bobo Brake, Mississippi - not far from Alligator, when the Midwest was colder than a well-digger's destination.
The digger unearthed palm-sized and smaller rocks from one hundred feet. Intrigued, JB asked for some. One is dark orange, another black, one off-white, and the rest are shades of gray. Some have worn marks: water makes. Who knows how old they are.
Everything has a vibration. They bare the sound of rapidly moving water, lots of it. The Mississippi River is thousands of years old. In its unrestrained wanderings across the Delta it left deposits of soil, rocks and God knows what before the Levees were built to contain it. I wonder where these rocks began? My friend, Frances, sums it up best, "They're part of the great mystery of life."
2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
He brought his laundry, imagine that, an iron skillet for cornbread - it doesn't taste the same in anything else, and a bag of rocks. They are not gemstones prized for their brilliance, they are working rocks, the suspenders of the earth. In February JB's friend drilled a well at Bobo Brake, Mississippi - not far from Alligator, when the Midwest was colder than a well-digger's destination.
The digger unearthed palm-sized and smaller rocks from one hundred feet. Intrigued, JB asked for some. One is dark orange, another black, one off-white, and the rest are shades of gray. Some have worn marks: water makes. Who knows how old they are.
Everything has a vibration. They bare the sound of rapidly moving water, lots of it. The Mississippi River is thousands of years old. In its unrestrained wanderings across the Delta it left deposits of soil, rocks and God knows what before the Levees were built to contain it. I wonder where these rocks began? My friend, Frances, sums it up best, "They're part of the great mystery of life."
2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, March 02, 2007
Taking our spaghetti for a ride
We had a whiteout blizzard yesterday that dropped a foot of snow. High winds continue rearranging it. Footage of nature's gift to Watertown, NY, puts us to shame. They wouldn't be impressed with our piddly nuisance amount even though it closed the interstates in Eastern Nebraska and 100 miles into Western Iowa. Omaha's Westside High's girl's basketball team HAD to get to Lincoln for the state tournament. Forget hell an high water, they maneuvered snow closed roads and whiteouts to make it, play and win. It will be talked about for years.
When Minnie and I traveled through southern Canada we noticed few garages. A local said it was no use. When snow piled up they couldn't open the doors. Radiator heaters stood ready. Ropes connected houses and barns. Some houses had built-ons connecting to the barn. Rachael Ray says another month of winter means four more feet of snow and three more power outages. We thought it was rough when Minnie lived in St. Paul, Minnesota with its two seasons: shovel and swat. Further north is worse.
Fall foliage of the Northeast was our destination in '98. We had all kinds of plans to see, do and taste, but that's another story. I will say Cracker Barrel in Watertown was the first Cracker Barrel we've stopped at that had a Reuben sandwich. It was good. So was Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream at their plant. We'd reserved a condo at Smuggler's Notch, Vermont, and another at Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire. Kitchens mean we take food. Since it was fall we packed fresh tomatoes unaware they could be confiscated, not leaving the US, but getting back in.
Northwest of Watertown, NY we crossed over the St. Lawrence River's high arched bridge onto an island for customs processing. There was no getting off unless approved. I was driving. The official looking official asked where we were from. Before I could answer Minnie hollered, "Wahoo!"
I gasped.
He asked, "Where we were going?"
She burst out, "Smuggler's Notch, Vermont!"
I cringed
"Are you related?" .
"Sisters!"
He bust out laughing. "I'll bet you two have a lot of fun. Get out of here."
We say Minnie confettied customs.
As for our spaghetti and tomatoes, we never took them out of the box, they were just along for the ride.
copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
When Minnie and I traveled through southern Canada we noticed few garages. A local said it was no use. When snow piled up they couldn't open the doors. Radiator heaters stood ready. Ropes connected houses and barns. Some houses had built-ons connecting to the barn. Rachael Ray says another month of winter means four more feet of snow and three more power outages. We thought it was rough when Minnie lived in St. Paul, Minnesota with its two seasons: shovel and swat. Further north is worse.
Fall foliage of the Northeast was our destination in '98. We had all kinds of plans to see, do and taste, but that's another story. I will say Cracker Barrel in Watertown was the first Cracker Barrel we've stopped at that had a Reuben sandwich. It was good. So was Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream at their plant. We'd reserved a condo at Smuggler's Notch, Vermont, and another at Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire. Kitchens mean we take food. Since it was fall we packed fresh tomatoes unaware they could be confiscated, not leaving the US, but getting back in.
Northwest of Watertown, NY we crossed over the St. Lawrence River's high arched bridge onto an island for customs processing. There was no getting off unless approved. I was driving. The official looking official asked where we were from. Before I could answer Minnie hollered, "Wahoo!"
I gasped.
He asked, "Where we were going?"
She burst out, "Smuggler's Notch, Vermont!"
I cringed
"Are you related?" .
"Sisters!"
He bust out laughing. "I'll bet you two have a lot of fun. Get out of here."
We say Minnie confettied customs.
As for our spaghetti and tomatoes, we never took them out of the box, they were just along for the ride.
copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Friday, February 02, 2007
Hog Hanging Weather
Our weather is brutal -below zero with snow on the ground. The sun is bright, but the snow isn't going anywhere. It's "stay inside and make soup" weather. When we were kids on the farm the bitter cold cured the meat hanging from the rafters of the granary where nothing could reach it, and no flies were stirring.
Our hogs were in the 200 to 250 pound range. I can't image how many buckets of lard were on the long-bodied, short-legged, 1,000 pound hog we saw at the Iowa state fair. The wild hogs we see behind the Mississippi Levee have longer legs, tusks and a lot less lard.
Grandpa and Grandma came out to help and share in the bounty. He made sure the handsaws were sharp to work through the bones. We'd come home from school to the smell of lard rendering on the cook stove, the sound of white butcher paper crackling to wrap around fresh meat for the freezer, the squeaky crayon labeling and dating the packages, and the anticipation of wonderful meals Mom would be fixing. We felt prosperous with meat "put up" and our pantry full of canned and frozen vegetables.
Besides the usual cuts of meat, Mom cooked the head down, chopped all fine and molded it in a bread pan: head cheese. Thinly sliced with a dribble of vinegar it was a delicacy. I prefer the chops, hams and ribs, and pork shanks cooked with beans. At an early age our nephew liked liver and onions and rhubarb pie. I thought they were tastes that took fifty years to acquire.
Another neighbor family canned meat so they'd have a jar for each day of the year. Mom and Dad canned until a jar blew up in the canner. Bits of meat and glass were found on the outside of the kitchen window, behind the cook stove, on the ceiling, and everywhere in between. Fortunately no one was hurt.
Papa liked cracklings, lard with a little meat cooked down tiny bits of crisp meat. Give him a piece of fresh rye bread and some cracklings, and he was happy. During the Great Depression our neighbor friend, Hazel, took lard sandwiches to school. It didn't kill her. She and Hank just celebrated their 60th anniversary.
Mom taught us to make pie crust with lard, fry our fresh roosters in it, pork chops, donuts, and mix it in breads, rolls, and whatever didn't call for butter. Lard still makes the best pie crust, kolaches and seasoning for peas and greens anytime of year.
copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
Our hogs were in the 200 to 250 pound range. I can't image how many buckets of lard were on the long-bodied, short-legged, 1,000 pound hog we saw at the Iowa state fair. The wild hogs we see behind the Mississippi Levee have longer legs, tusks and a lot less lard.
Grandpa and Grandma came out to help and share in the bounty. He made sure the handsaws were sharp to work through the bones. We'd come home from school to the smell of lard rendering on the cook stove, the sound of white butcher paper crackling to wrap around fresh meat for the freezer, the squeaky crayon labeling and dating the packages, and the anticipation of wonderful meals Mom would be fixing. We felt prosperous with meat "put up" and our pantry full of canned and frozen vegetables.
Besides the usual cuts of meat, Mom cooked the head down, chopped all fine and molded it in a bread pan: head cheese. Thinly sliced with a dribble of vinegar it was a delicacy. I prefer the chops, hams and ribs, and pork shanks cooked with beans. At an early age our nephew liked liver and onions and rhubarb pie. I thought they were tastes that took fifty years to acquire.
Another neighbor family canned meat so they'd have a jar for each day of the year. Mom and Dad canned until a jar blew up in the canner. Bits of meat and glass were found on the outside of the kitchen window, behind the cook stove, on the ceiling, and everywhere in between. Fortunately no one was hurt.
Papa liked cracklings, lard with a little meat cooked down tiny bits of crisp meat. Give him a piece of fresh rye bread and some cracklings, and he was happy. During the Great Depression our neighbor friend, Hazel, took lard sandwiches to school. It didn't kill her. She and Hank just celebrated their 60th anniversary.
Mom taught us to make pie crust with lard, fry our fresh roosters in it, pork chops, donuts, and mix it in breads, rolls, and whatever didn't call for butter. Lard still makes the best pie crust, kolaches and seasoning for peas and greens anytime of year.
copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Jefferson in a bottle
When Minnie and her family lived in Charlottesville, Virginia, they were ten minutes from Monticello (little mountain), the home of Thomas Jefferson, third President of the United States of America. We visited it in the summer and at Christmas.
Born April 13, 1743 Jefferson died July 4, 1826. A remarkable man, at 33 he drafted the Declaration of Independence. I can hear his quill pen scratch the parchment, and see his brow furrowed choosing the right words to declare freedom for the colonies. My Virginia quill pen sits in buckshot in a sterling silver container. We speak of Jefferson every Christmas season when we drink eggnog from our sterling silver Jefferson cups (no handles).
If I could talk to him, I'd thank him for the Louisiana Purchase in 1803 - Nebraska was carved from it. A man of vision, he encouraged Lewis and Clark's expedition. Go for it, he'd say. I'd thank him for recycling. He created the Great Clock by his front door: a seven-day mechanism of leftover Revolutionary Cannonballs and a ladder to reset it once a week. Passionate about education he established the University of Virginia. Wherever he saw a need he saw a solution.
Jefferson was a gracious host. Whoever stopped by was invited to dine with him. From Marie Kimball's editing of his recipes menu options included pigeon soup, stewed rabbit, fish cooked with potatoes, imported squash and broccoli from Italy, varieties of homegrown beans, or his favorite, English peas accompanied by wine from the grapes in his vineyard. He imported Italian oils and French mustard, used vanilla and macaroni, and had the first ice cream freezer. Vegetables were his preference, meat an accompaniment. With such variety, how many meals were shorted by servants transporting food from the kitchen to the mechanical dumbwaiter before a bell was attached to each transporter? Tinkling meant no sampling. I would have loved to partake and oh, the conversation.
He had a sense of humor. James Monroe decided to build his home on another mountain top. They would communicate with lanterns; no frustration with, "Can you hear me now?" Jefferson designed Ash Lawn for Monroe and had it built while he was away. The design included an optical illusion. Imagine Monroe's surprise when he had to duck leaving his new home. Jefferson said that was so he had to bow to Monticello.
A "can do" man, Jefferson built his bed between two walls, and had it made up with a pole. Depending on his mood he could get out of bed in his library, or in his bedroom. Clever. He is credited with a long list of inventions: a portable copying press, automated double doors, book stand, lap desk, coffee urn, and wooden plow board to name a few. I'd ask him to invent a "silent", light-weight vacuum that sucks.
It would depend which side of the bed he got out on whether he'd talk about his differences with Alexander Hamilton. I'd tread lightly. If he screwed up his face, I'd change the subject. How are your cherry trees doing?
In the heat of summer, amidst hundreds of tourists, we toured the grounds and lost our daughters. Parent panic! Thirty minutes later we found them studying the cemetery. They weren't lost, they said, we were too slow.
Boredom doesn't exist for me. There is so much to learn and do. When I leave this world, I'm going to sit on a cloud, eat seedless grapes, and study the man I'd like to call friend, Thomas Jefferson.
copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
Born April 13, 1743 Jefferson died July 4, 1826. A remarkable man, at 33 he drafted the Declaration of Independence. I can hear his quill pen scratch the parchment, and see his brow furrowed choosing the right words to declare freedom for the colonies. My Virginia quill pen sits in buckshot in a sterling silver container. We speak of Jefferson every Christmas season when we drink eggnog from our sterling silver Jefferson cups (no handles).
If I could talk to him, I'd thank him for the Louisiana Purchase in 1803 - Nebraska was carved from it. A man of vision, he encouraged Lewis and Clark's expedition. Go for it, he'd say. I'd thank him for recycling. He created the Great Clock by his front door: a seven-day mechanism of leftover Revolutionary Cannonballs and a ladder to reset it once a week. Passionate about education he established the University of Virginia. Wherever he saw a need he saw a solution.
Jefferson was a gracious host. Whoever stopped by was invited to dine with him. From Marie Kimball's editing of his recipes menu options included pigeon soup, stewed rabbit, fish cooked with potatoes, imported squash and broccoli from Italy, varieties of homegrown beans, or his favorite, English peas accompanied by wine from the grapes in his vineyard. He imported Italian oils and French mustard, used vanilla and macaroni, and had the first ice cream freezer. Vegetables were his preference, meat an accompaniment. With such variety, how many meals were shorted by servants transporting food from the kitchen to the mechanical dumbwaiter before a bell was attached to each transporter? Tinkling meant no sampling. I would have loved to partake and oh, the conversation.
He had a sense of humor. James Monroe decided to build his home on another mountain top. They would communicate with lanterns; no frustration with, "Can you hear me now?" Jefferson designed Ash Lawn for Monroe and had it built while he was away. The design included an optical illusion. Imagine Monroe's surprise when he had to duck leaving his new home. Jefferson said that was so he had to bow to Monticello.
A "can do" man, Jefferson built his bed between two walls, and had it made up with a pole. Depending on his mood he could get out of bed in his library, or in his bedroom. Clever. He is credited with a long list of inventions: a portable copying press, automated double doors, book stand, lap desk, coffee urn, and wooden plow board to name a few. I'd ask him to invent a "silent", light-weight vacuum that sucks.
It would depend which side of the bed he got out on whether he'd talk about his differences with Alexander Hamilton. I'd tread lightly. If he screwed up his face, I'd change the subject. How are your cherry trees doing?
In the heat of summer, amidst hundreds of tourists, we toured the grounds and lost our daughters. Parent panic! Thirty minutes later we found them studying the cemetery. They weren't lost, they said, we were too slow.
Boredom doesn't exist for me. There is so much to learn and do. When I leave this world, I'm going to sit on a cloud, eat seedless grapes, and study the man I'd like to call friend, Thomas Jefferson.
copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, January 04, 2007
It was a Happy New Year's!
We ended 2006 with salmon and marinated artichoke hearts over spinach and plain fettuccini noodles drizzled with olive oil; grated parmesan atop.
Rumaging through Mom's old recipes, I found hers for Grasshopper Pie. The 3x5 card is stained from buttery hands. The handwriting is childish, and there's a yellow cookoo clock on the right side with a bluebird on the perch wearing a chef's hat. She let us girls cook as soon as we could pull a chair up to the table. My first baking experience was gingerbread. I mixed it up and poured it in the pan along with the spoon, which she didn't discover until she couldn't cut it.
The Grasshopper Pie recipe calls for 14 finely crushed oreos. I put out extras - for me. Mix the crushed oreos with 2 tablespoons of melted butter. Set aside a small amount for topping. Pat the rest into a 9" pie plate to establish the crust. In the top of a double boiler melt 24 large marshmallows with 1/2 cup milk. Cool. The recipe calls for 1 ounce of white creme de cocoa and 2 ounces green creme de menthe. I half each. When the marshallow/milk mixture is partially set, add 1 cup whipped cream. I whip 1/2 cup of cream and fold in gently. Pour over the crust. Sprinkle top with reserved crumbs. Refrigerate until ready to serve. Thanks Mom for the love of cooking.
I bought the Galway crystal champagne glasses with engraved cladagh when Minnie and I visited Ireland in March of 2000. We really did hear Willie Nelson songs on St. Pat's Day. Kris and I toasted "Good Cheer, Health, Wealth andHappiness", and brought in the New Year sipping Martini and Rossi. Watching the ball drop in Time's Square, and celebrations around the world was a mini-vacation, and we got to sleep in our own beds.
Happy New Year to you, and may it be a year to celebrate.
copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
Sunday, December 31, 2006
No Reading & Rocking On The Porch Tonight
Here in the Midwest Mother Nature blessed us with rain yesterday and snow today just right to make snow angels and snowballs. Hmmm. I'd better not throw them at Dan. He does a good job cleaning off our drive and walks. Maybe I could give the cat a snow bath. Won't faze her, she's part maine coon with snowshoe feet. Ice cream like Mom used to make? Snow isn't as clean as it used to be. Hot tub to snow bath would invigorate. Think I'll just stay inside and drink hot chocolate.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, December 22, 2006
Bring it on - Christmas!
Mexican, hand carved, ironwood reindeer stand guard over my accomplishment. It might look like a turkey with warts, but it is Houska, braided sweet bread with almond slivers, golden raisins and candied fruit. I wouldn't have attempted it, but Jim asked me to. My kitchen has not seen this recipe in nine years, and there's no buildup of yeast in the air. I wouldn't tell Jim unless it turned out right.
I read the recipe five times and measured twice. The first loaf was double this size and perfect. Then disaster hit. My oven was too hot. The loaf was too dark and dry. I was sick. It wasn't edible. The next morning I started the five-hour process at 6 o'clock. Everything went just right. I left Jim's loaf in his truck and waited for the phone to ring. It did. "MJ, this is delicious. I need one a week." Nothings better than a gift someone likes.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, November 20, 2006
Food & Faith
Our lives rearranged. I've moved home to help restore my grown daughter's health. Bears come to mind. My cub went down. We, mother bear and I, will protect and defend our young to death, if necessary. I hold and guard the image of my child healed on every level, and I will not waiver.
With my ears tuned to her as if she were a newborn, I move throughout the house cooking, encouraging, and comforting. From scratch and organic foods are my mainstay. Family recipes with a history of "comfort and healing" are back in action. Rice pudding made with a cinnamon stick, golden raisins and cream is one. Raisin bread pudding served warm drizzled with cream is another. Organic chickens under the "Smart" label convert to chicken cacciatore, roasting, stews, chicken salad and stock. We eat multi-grain breads, use unbleached flour, and cook with butter and cream.
Peas for pain. Sounds like a commercial, but they are doctor recommended. Frozen and bagged they move around the injury independently cooling the hot spot.
Our Pistoulet dishes are bright and cheerful. Food first feeds the eye. Red stem chard cooked in a little butter with fresh ground nutmeg looks good and tastes great. Fennel bulbs cooked in butter with Parmesan cheese lend a mild licorice taste. The root of the celery stock is awesome. It takes effort to get the outside off and the inside chopped, but we'd rather have it cooked and mashed than potatoes. Fresh broccoli, cauliflower and asparagus go into creamy, cheese soups.
A small dish of cranberry relish accompanies every meal: a bag of fresh cranberries, one whole apple cored and one whole orange are chopped in the food processor. Add a small can of crushed pineapple and a little sugar, Somer-sweet, or splenda. I make a batch about every five days: lots of Vitamin C and enzymes for digestion.
Dessert finishes off her meal with tea. To chocolate brownies I add Brewer's Yeast, a smidge of cayenne, walnuts, pecans or macadamias and a scoop of ice cream. As we head into winter gingerbread tastes good served warm with cream. (We should have a cow on standby.) Years ago we spent a Christmas in Virginia at Minnie's. While there we bought a chunk of Hershey chocolate run off, and a lavender sheepskin. Back home I made cream puffs with fresh country cream and melted chocolate. They were wonderful. The food memory is fresh. The sheepskin is long gone.
I just answered my phone. Wrong number, but humorous. The lady asked if we are the family with the dairy? No, but we sure use a lot of it.
Today I made Mrs. Fields chocolate chip, oatmeal, raisin, walnut cookies with Brewer's Yeast added. Great! Kris likes crushed graham crackers, coconut, Eagle Brand condensed milk and chocolate chips made into bars. Can you tell I'm trying to put weight on her?
Kris's appetite is great as is her attitude. We are taking a positive approach claiming her healing: Thank you God for healing Kris. And so it is. It is done. Her health does improve daily.
In this trial, the blessings are huge. We are deeply grateful for the prayers, everything and everyone. It is critical we live an attitude of gratitude. God is good all the time. All the time God is good. The bad news was good news resolving her long standing health issue. And people showed up exactly as needed. We don't believe it was accidental. It was the working hand of God.
If I could give others one gift, it would be trust. Trust that God cares, knows your every need, wants the best for you, wants to help, and He keeps His word. See for yourself. Invite Him into every corner of your life. Put Him to work. Keep still and trust.
Take care and God Bless.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
With my ears tuned to her as if she were a newborn, I move throughout the house cooking, encouraging, and comforting. From scratch and organic foods are my mainstay. Family recipes with a history of "comfort and healing" are back in action. Rice pudding made with a cinnamon stick, golden raisins and cream is one. Raisin bread pudding served warm drizzled with cream is another. Organic chickens under the "Smart" label convert to chicken cacciatore, roasting, stews, chicken salad and stock. We eat multi-grain breads, use unbleached flour, and cook with butter and cream.
Peas for pain. Sounds like a commercial, but they are doctor recommended. Frozen and bagged they move around the injury independently cooling the hot spot.
Our Pistoulet dishes are bright and cheerful. Food first feeds the eye. Red stem chard cooked in a little butter with fresh ground nutmeg looks good and tastes great. Fennel bulbs cooked in butter with Parmesan cheese lend a mild licorice taste. The root of the celery stock is awesome. It takes effort to get the outside off and the inside chopped, but we'd rather have it cooked and mashed than potatoes. Fresh broccoli, cauliflower and asparagus go into creamy, cheese soups.
A small dish of cranberry relish accompanies every meal: a bag of fresh cranberries, one whole apple cored and one whole orange are chopped in the food processor. Add a small can of crushed pineapple and a little sugar, Somer-sweet, or splenda. I make a batch about every five days: lots of Vitamin C and enzymes for digestion.
Dessert finishes off her meal with tea. To chocolate brownies I add Brewer's Yeast, a smidge of cayenne, walnuts, pecans or macadamias and a scoop of ice cream. As we head into winter gingerbread tastes good served warm with cream. (We should have a cow on standby.) Years ago we spent a Christmas in Virginia at Minnie's. While there we bought a chunk of Hershey chocolate run off, and a lavender sheepskin. Back home I made cream puffs with fresh country cream and melted chocolate. They were wonderful. The food memory is fresh. The sheepskin is long gone.
I just answered my phone. Wrong number, but humorous. The lady asked if we are the family with the dairy? No, but we sure use a lot of it.
Today I made Mrs. Fields chocolate chip, oatmeal, raisin, walnut cookies with Brewer's Yeast added. Great! Kris likes crushed graham crackers, coconut, Eagle Brand condensed milk and chocolate chips made into bars. Can you tell I'm trying to put weight on her?
Kris's appetite is great as is her attitude. We are taking a positive approach claiming her healing: Thank you God for healing Kris. And so it is. It is done. Her health does improve daily.
In this trial, the blessings are huge. We are deeply grateful for the prayers, everything and everyone. It is critical we live an attitude of gratitude. God is good all the time. All the time God is good. The bad news was good news resolving her long standing health issue. And people showed up exactly as needed. We don't believe it was accidental. It was the working hand of God.
If I could give others one gift, it would be trust. Trust that God cares, knows your every need, wants the best for you, wants to help, and He keeps His word. See for yourself. Invite Him into every corner of your life. Put Him to work. Keep still and trust.
Take care and God Bless.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, November 17, 2006
Hunting Season - Rite of Passage
This weekend is the opening of deer season in Mississippi. Today hunters arrived at their camps with provisions. Rifles were zeroed in at the firing range. Tonight campfires will blaze, grills will cook pork roasts, hamburgers, hotdogs, polish sausage, and just maybe some wild hog. Talk will be about where they're going to hunt tomorrow . Deer stands are popular and the game quota strictly enforced.
In the Midwest we mostly work. Second homes/camps are unusual. In the South, most any weekend will find the guys at their second home Fri. thru Sunday. During hunting season no one gets married, and you better not die. One hunter said he's been hunting since he was a little boy. It meant everything to him. He was so excited he couldn't sleep the night before. By the size of the membership, and it isn't cheap, it still means everything to a lot of them.
Bagging the first deer is a milestone for hunters. Traditionally five fingers are dipped in its blood and spread on the hunter's face. All who see him know what he or she has accomplished. Other hunters look up to him/her. We saw a forty-four year old man so proud he glowed.
At age nine, John L. made his first kill. When he was twelve he bagged a nine point with fourteen and a half inch spread, a buck of about two and a half years. "I used a 30-30 Winchester zeroed in at 150 yards. It was a long shot at 170 yards, but I made it." He grinned. "Not only did the local paper do a feature story, it was mounted for free as the largest in its class. It is something that will always go with me, and people will talk about it for a long time. "
John's family splits the tenderloin down the center, puts in chopped bell peppers, onions, and cajun spice. Hickory smoked dry rub is spread on the outside with salt, pepper, and seasoned salt. Sealed in foil, it's placed on the grill to roast or in the oven.
We like our venison run through the tenderizer and soaked in either milk or coca cola to remove any gamey taste. We season it with worcesteshire sauce, salt and pepper, and bread each piece with milk, beaten eggs and flour and fry. Purple-hulled peas, greens and cornbread round out the meal.
They'll go out before daylight to get in their stands, wait patiently for hours, then come back cold and hungry for biscuits and gravy. There will be lots of talk about where they heard a shot come from and did they get anything. The story is the same every year. It's what they live for.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
In the Midwest we mostly work. Second homes/camps are unusual. In the South, most any weekend will find the guys at their second home Fri. thru Sunday. During hunting season no one gets married, and you better not die. One hunter said he's been hunting since he was a little boy. It meant everything to him. He was so excited he couldn't sleep the night before. By the size of the membership, and it isn't cheap, it still means everything to a lot of them.
Bagging the first deer is a milestone for hunters. Traditionally five fingers are dipped in its blood and spread on the hunter's face. All who see him know what he or she has accomplished. Other hunters look up to him/her. We saw a forty-four year old man so proud he glowed.
At age nine, John L. made his first kill. When he was twelve he bagged a nine point with fourteen and a half inch spread, a buck of about two and a half years. "I used a 30-30 Winchester zeroed in at 150 yards. It was a long shot at 170 yards, but I made it." He grinned. "Not only did the local paper do a feature story, it was mounted for free as the largest in its class. It is something that will always go with me, and people will talk about it for a long time. "
John's family splits the tenderloin down the center, puts in chopped bell peppers, onions, and cajun spice. Hickory smoked dry rub is spread on the outside with salt, pepper, and seasoned salt. Sealed in foil, it's placed on the grill to roast or in the oven.
We like our venison run through the tenderizer and soaked in either milk or coca cola to remove any gamey taste. We season it with worcesteshire sauce, salt and pepper, and bread each piece with milk, beaten eggs and flour and fry. Purple-hulled peas, greens and cornbread round out the meal.
They'll go out before daylight to get in their stands, wait patiently for hours, then come back cold and hungry for biscuits and gravy. There will be lots of talk about where they heard a shot come from and did they get anything. The story is the same every year. It's what they live for.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, September 11, 2006
Labor Day
We are One Nation Under God, Indivisible.
photocopyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Ole Man River' s many brides
He came from humble beginnings: Lake Itasca, Minnesota, born tumbling over rocks I've walked across. His mission: to travel toward the equator collecting brides. They come from the melting snows of the Rockies across Nebraska joining their sister the Missouri traveling to St. Louis to meet up with him. Like a harem master he selects and collects. From up north, Canadan brides of cold, cold water come to his call.
The St. Croix bride joins him south of St. Paul, MN. The Ohio and Illinois further south. The more brides he takes, the more powerful he becomes through their mingling, joined forces. And he's used. Twenty-seven locks corral him at a level for passage. Barges bringing supplies ride his back to and fro. Local news announce his "level" daily.
Before levee's castrated him, he roamed where he pleased across Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana, and more. But when he gets riled up, he spills his guts on the countryside. All are reminded he's still a force to be reckoned with.
Not all about work, he moves the sand leaving huge sandbars. Visitors camp for the day and night. Pontoons pull up between the sandbars and the bank out of his swift current. People put out lawn chairs to sit in the water to cool their booty and feet. Some stand in him to their necks to visit and sip cool drinks. Sand buckets and little kids dot him. Barbecues are set out to cook hotdogs and sausages, vegetables optional.
His fish are legendary. Storytells love him: Mark Twain. The mussels are brought to the surface, their shells cut into tiny pieces, shipped to Japan, and seeded into oysters to produce pearls.
The Lord put twists and turns in his life to slow his pace. It keeps him from a straight shot to the end. He's already fast moving. Some places he twists and a piece of him goes backwards higher than the rest. It looks strange. He's busy all the way to the bottom.
Why do the brides rush to him? What's his pull? Binets? No. They'd be soggy. Freedom. He carries them to freedom, giving them to the Gulf, pleased a piece of him goes with.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
The St. Croix bride joins him south of St. Paul, MN. The Ohio and Illinois further south. The more brides he takes, the more powerful he becomes through their mingling, joined forces. And he's used. Twenty-seven locks corral him at a level for passage. Barges bringing supplies ride his back to and fro. Local news announce his "level" daily.
Before levee's castrated him, he roamed where he pleased across Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana, and more. But when he gets riled up, he spills his guts on the countryside. All are reminded he's still a force to be reckoned with.
Not all about work, he moves the sand leaving huge sandbars. Visitors camp for the day and night. Pontoons pull up between the sandbars and the bank out of his swift current. People put out lawn chairs to sit in the water to cool their booty and feet. Some stand in him to their necks to visit and sip cool drinks. Sand buckets and little kids dot him. Barbecues are set out to cook hotdogs and sausages, vegetables optional.
His fish are legendary. Storytells love him: Mark Twain. The mussels are brought to the surface, their shells cut into tiny pieces, shipped to Japan, and seeded into oysters to produce pearls.
The Lord put twists and turns in his life to slow his pace. It keeps him from a straight shot to the end. He's already fast moving. Some places he twists and a piece of him goes backwards higher than the rest. It looks strange. He's busy all the way to the bottom.
Why do the brides rush to him? What's his pull? Binets? No. They'd be soggy. Freedom. He carries them to freedom, giving them to the Gulf, pleased a piece of him goes with.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, September 04, 2006
Bridge Tails
2006: a reunion was in order. Work had kept us apart.
We met at West Point Lake on the border of Alabama and Georgia. Miles of water invited us to play. JB inquired about renting a house boat. A 200 gallon gas tank and gas at $3.45 made the decision for us. He opted for a pontoon boat with a canopy. We sat on it after sunset watching the full moon play with the water.
Early the next morning we put on our bathing suits and hats, took our lunch, hiked down the steep bank to our dock and eased off. The lake is long, the banks heavily wooded. We took note of specific irregularities to find our way back: a crooked sign, a telephone tower.
JB maneuvered with skill. A cool breeze slipped through my hat cooling the all of me. I dozed. The slow-down, unwind, relax, let-go-of-stress speed worked.
An overhead railroad trestle marked a return landmark. We eased under and noticed it had tails. We'd never seen ropes hanging from anything, and had no idea why they were there.
On down the lake we noticed ropes hanging from an overhead highway bridge. JB spotted a bass boat tied to a tail. He grabbed one and tied up our pontoon to the tune of cars whizzing overhead. The breeze and water twisted us around, but we stayed under the road grateful for whoever thought of hanging tails. In this delicious state of limbo we picnicked on fried chicken, coleslaw and honey biscuits in two times the shade: canopy and bridge.
2013 Red Convertible Travel Series
We met at West Point Lake on the border of Alabama and Georgia. Miles of water invited us to play. JB inquired about renting a house boat. A 200 gallon gas tank and gas at $3.45 made the decision for us. He opted for a pontoon boat with a canopy. We sat on it after sunset watching the full moon play with the water.
Early the next morning we put on our bathing suits and hats, took our lunch, hiked down the steep bank to our dock and eased off. The lake is long, the banks heavily wooded. We took note of specific irregularities to find our way back: a crooked sign, a telephone tower.
JB maneuvered with skill. A cool breeze slipped through my hat cooling the all of me. I dozed. The slow-down, unwind, relax, let-go-of-stress speed worked.
An overhead railroad trestle marked a return landmark. We eased under and noticed it had tails. We'd never seen ropes hanging from anything, and had no idea why they were there.
On down the lake we noticed ropes hanging from an overhead highway bridge. JB spotted a bass boat tied to a tail. He grabbed one and tied up our pontoon to the tune of cars whizzing overhead. The breeze and water twisted us around, but we stayed under the road grateful for whoever thought of hanging tails. In this delicious state of limbo we picnicked on fried chicken, coleslaw and honey biscuits in two times the shade: canopy and bridge.
2013 Red Convertible Travel Series
Sunday, August 20, 2006
My Chocolate Mousse and Her Big Plunge!
Sitting in the living room of our Bavarian friend's home with after dinner coffee and chocolate mousse, I looked above the drapes at the names of their children carved in the wood valances. Our host came back into the room with home videos. Family vacations? No. He owns and operates a commercial crane that he also uses for bungee jumpers.
A pretty woman came on the screen. Somewhat amazed he explained, " She came down off the mountain dressed this way." Her hair was braided and fastened tight to her scalp. She wore a fitted white, laced top with short sleeves and a full skirt of plaid. I could imagine her milking Swiss cows and making cottage cheese pastries, but not bungee jumping. By all appearances she was a settled down, family woman. It was her enthusiasm that startled. Our host exclaimed, "She came to jump!" You go girl!
The video showed the crane lifting the Swiss Mrs. to its full height like a mighty dinosaur. I was scared for her and dipped deep into my chocolate mousse. With but a slight hesitation she stepped off. She must have thought about this a long time. I gasped halting my spoonful in mid-air. Over she tumbled with her skirt in her face and her pantaloons holding tight. The bungee cord stretched to its max bouncing her up and down and up and down. I wonder if that feels good? Gently the crane lowered her to the ground. Standing up she huffed and puffed and beamed. Her cheeks were red red, but she was proud. She did it!
Her dream isn't mine, but I will forever associate chocolate mousse with bungee jumping, and one woman's determination to fulfill her dream regardless of her age.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
A pretty woman came on the screen. Somewhat amazed he explained, " She came down off the mountain dressed this way." Her hair was braided and fastened tight to her scalp. She wore a fitted white, laced top with short sleeves and a full skirt of plaid. I could imagine her milking Swiss cows and making cottage cheese pastries, but not bungee jumping. By all appearances she was a settled down, family woman. It was her enthusiasm that startled. Our host exclaimed, "She came to jump!" You go girl!
The video showed the crane lifting the Swiss Mrs. to its full height like a mighty dinosaur. I was scared for her and dipped deep into my chocolate mousse. With but a slight hesitation she stepped off. She must have thought about this a long time. I gasped halting my spoonful in mid-air. Over she tumbled with her skirt in her face and her pantaloons holding tight. The bungee cord stretched to its max bouncing her up and down and up and down. I wonder if that feels good? Gently the crane lowered her to the ground. Standing up she huffed and puffed and beamed. Her cheeks were red red, but she was proud. She did it!
Her dream isn't mine, but I will forever associate chocolate mousse with bungee jumping, and one woman's determination to fulfill her dream regardless of her age.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, July 31, 2006
Two Times the Parade
When in Germany, do as the Germans do: walk! "It's just over there." The local man gestured northwest. "...just walk." We could do that.
Fueled for the day on a marvelous breakfast of dense bread, cheese, lunch meats, fruit, juice, coffee and a sweet roll - a far cry from our usual bowl of cereal - we headed out. At home "just over there" means a block or a few, not miles, and here we would have to walk back. Balanced on the edge of the road and in the ditch, we tromped. Cars passed. No one stopped. After an hour we spotted a crowd of people and tents.
Just in time for the start of the parade we looked for a place to sit. Park benches? Heavens no. Stand. In the sun. Smile. Perspire. Water? What's water? The huge beer stein (one size fits all) required both hands. "You hold the beer, I'll hold the pretzel," I instructed. It was dinner plate-sized. We weren't hungry, but alcohol and I don't get along. I have to be extremely thirsty to take a small sip, and there wasn't anything smaller to nibble on.
At this Bavarian horse parade two kinds of horses stood out. A pair of huge draft horses, with their heads down, pulled a wagon. A local couple dressed in traditional costume graced the wagon seat. The lady looked pretty in her fitted white bodice and full skirt. The horses knew they were created to work pulling heavy loads. Built for it, they accepted their lot.
A black stallion with English saddle and rider took our breath away. He walked with his head high radiating pride and superior intelligence. Long-distance Aquarius vision shown on his face. He could see the "larger" picture of life. Not meant to work pulling wagons, we half expected him to take off running and fly. No, a few sips didn't influence us. The rest of the horses were so-so, but this one was magnificent. We stood in awe.
A variety of nondescript horses paraded by, more draft horses looking down pulling their wagon and people, and another magnificent black stallion. "He's just as beautiful as the last one," Minnie stopped in mid-nibble. The parade had gone around twice.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Fueled for the day on a marvelous breakfast of dense bread, cheese, lunch meats, fruit, juice, coffee and a sweet roll - a far cry from our usual bowl of cereal - we headed out. At home "just over there" means a block or a few, not miles, and here we would have to walk back. Balanced on the edge of the road and in the ditch, we tromped. Cars passed. No one stopped. After an hour we spotted a crowd of people and tents.
Just in time for the start of the parade we looked for a place to sit. Park benches? Heavens no. Stand. In the sun. Smile. Perspire. Water? What's water? The huge beer stein (one size fits all) required both hands. "You hold the beer, I'll hold the pretzel," I instructed. It was dinner plate-sized. We weren't hungry, but alcohol and I don't get along. I have to be extremely thirsty to take a small sip, and there wasn't anything smaller to nibble on.
At this Bavarian horse parade two kinds of horses stood out. A pair of huge draft horses, with their heads down, pulled a wagon. A local couple dressed in traditional costume graced the wagon seat. The lady looked pretty in her fitted white bodice and full skirt. The horses knew they were created to work pulling heavy loads. Built for it, they accepted their lot.
A black stallion with English saddle and rider took our breath away. He walked with his head high radiating pride and superior intelligence. Long-distance Aquarius vision shown on his face. He could see the "larger" picture of life. Not meant to work pulling wagons, we half expected him to take off running and fly. No, a few sips didn't influence us. The rest of the horses were so-so, but this one was magnificent. We stood in awe.
A variety of nondescript horses paraded by, more draft horses looking down pulling their wagon and people, and another magnificent black stallion. "He's just as beautiful as the last one," Minnie stopped in mid-nibble. The parade had gone around twice.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, July 21, 2006
The water snake that wouldn't...
Dot tapped on my bedroom window, "You've got to come see this." Her wide grin suggested I'd learn something.
The backyard above ground swimming pool has a small window above the waterline for the water filtering system. Inside the pool, on the top of the mini-window frame, lay a folded over baby snake, it's head's about the size of my index fingernail. Clearly it did not want to get in the water, but it's store-string sized tail kept falling in. I suspect it hasn't yet learned control of it's "back end." JB says the spots indicate it's a water mocassin--anti-water is more like it.
Maybe it was just on an adventure and wanted to cool off, not jump in - yet. Water 101. It's so hot in the midwest, my friend, Nancy finds garter snakes draped over bushes to cool off.
Dot decided to remove it from the pool with her long-handled grill tongs. She lifted the frame from the outside of the window, reached in, and grabbed its middle. "Now what do we do?"
Beyond her fenced in yard the woods are dense. "Throw it over the fence. Send it home. It's mother is probably looking for it. Boy, is it going to get a cussing. She'd be embarrassed it wouldn't get in the water. Bet he'll be grounded." Wasted humor. She had but one thing on her mind and that was to get it out of the yard and over the fence. Mind you, this is "hog fence" with open spaces between the wires at least 6" square. The snake is about a foot long and half an inch wide. It's the principle.
"Shall I rinse off the tongs?"
"Nooooooo, put them in the dishwasher!"
Only one of us was amused to meet a waterless moccasin.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
The backyard above ground swimming pool has a small window above the waterline for the water filtering system. Inside the pool, on the top of the mini-window frame, lay a folded over baby snake, it's head's about the size of my index fingernail. Clearly it did not want to get in the water, but it's store-string sized tail kept falling in. I suspect it hasn't yet learned control of it's "back end." JB says the spots indicate it's a water mocassin--anti-water is more like it.
Maybe it was just on an adventure and wanted to cool off, not jump in - yet. Water 101. It's so hot in the midwest, my friend, Nancy finds garter snakes draped over bushes to cool off.
Dot decided to remove it from the pool with her long-handled grill tongs. She lifted the frame from the outside of the window, reached in, and grabbed its middle. "Now what do we do?"
Beyond her fenced in yard the woods are dense. "Throw it over the fence. Send it home. It's mother is probably looking for it. Boy, is it going to get a cussing. She'd be embarrassed it wouldn't get in the water. Bet he'll be grounded." Wasted humor. She had but one thing on her mind and that was to get it out of the yard and over the fence. Mind you, this is "hog fence" with open spaces between the wires at least 6" square. The snake is about a foot long and half an inch wide. It's the principle.
"Shall I rinse off the tongs?"
"Nooooooo, put them in the dishwasher!"
Only one of us was amused to meet a waterless moccasin.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Where my suitcase dropped:
Alabama. Seagulls land in the parking lots, storms come up quick and violent, and the countryside is steep Iowa-type wooded hills. I used to hit every shoe sale until I ran out of closet space. Now I can't pass a fresh fruit and vegetable stand.
We cook fresh string beans with new baby red potatoes, onion and bacon. Delicious. Non-slimy okra cooked in a little v-8 juice, with fresh chopped tomatoes, summer squsash, zucchini, shallots, onions, and chopped fresh basil is wonderful with a slice of toasted garlic bread. I'm going to try it cold with a chopped cucumber and some sour cream - gazpacho of sorts. Breakfast is a ripe peach sliced with blueberries, strawberries, a mini-banana and plain yogurt: clock food. It keeps my sytem on time.
I've learned Crawfish are edible if they're curled. If they're straight it means they were dead when cooked, and they're poisonous. My first experience with crawfish wasn't good. They tasted muddy. Since I learned how to shuck them and remove the vein, I like them.
My gracious friend Dot's motto is: if it's NOT broke, I can fix it! And she'll paint it and move it. Shop tools are her passion, and she can sense a yard sale for miles. She seems to have a hotline to the Universal storehouse. Her needs aren't always voiced aloud, but whatever it is, it shows up: ie, a tall lamp for the living room. A couple of days later she came home with one somebody threw out, and the bulb still works.
To beautify her yard, Dot wanted a saga palm. Without her saying so, a friend brought her one that was "left behind." Pathetic. The shape of a pineapple and dead. She planted it by her back deck, talked to it, and watered it daily. Weeks went by before a sign of life appeared. "It's a miracle," she exclaimed. Send birth announcements. When it displayed a dozen leaves each a foot long, her riding mower got away from her crashing into it with blades a whirling. She exploded in tears apologizing to saga.
Her son came running. "What's wrong?"
"I killed my saga." Big tears.
"It'll be okay," and under his breath, it's just a plant.
"It's my baby." More Dot tears.
Daniel tilted the mower and dislodged the pulled-from-the-ground saga. Sad story. It's no longer round. The east side is flat. They planted it back in the ground, added water, and the last time we looked, six leaves survived, three more are scarred - paint won't help, and three are missing.
We celebrated the 4th early picniking on the deck with seafood gumbo, dirty rice, seafood salad, (We can't get enough fresh seafood when we're near the sea.) watermelon, brownies, and loving concern for the saga palm. On the 4th we're going to a Mississippi goat roast. That's another story. May your 4th be equally as pleasant.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
We cook fresh string beans with new baby red potatoes, onion and bacon. Delicious. Non-slimy okra cooked in a little v-8 juice, with fresh chopped tomatoes, summer squsash, zucchini, shallots, onions, and chopped fresh basil is wonderful with a slice of toasted garlic bread. I'm going to try it cold with a chopped cucumber and some sour cream - gazpacho of sorts. Breakfast is a ripe peach sliced with blueberries, strawberries, a mini-banana and plain yogurt: clock food. It keeps my sytem on time.
I've learned Crawfish are edible if they're curled. If they're straight it means they were dead when cooked, and they're poisonous. My first experience with crawfish wasn't good. They tasted muddy. Since I learned how to shuck them and remove the vein, I like them.
My gracious friend Dot's motto is: if it's NOT broke, I can fix it! And she'll paint it and move it. Shop tools are her passion, and she can sense a yard sale for miles. She seems to have a hotline to the Universal storehouse. Her needs aren't always voiced aloud, but whatever it is, it shows up: ie, a tall lamp for the living room. A couple of days later she came home with one somebody threw out, and the bulb still works.
To beautify her yard, Dot wanted a saga palm. Without her saying so, a friend brought her one that was "left behind." Pathetic. The shape of a pineapple and dead. She planted it by her back deck, talked to it, and watered it daily. Weeks went by before a sign of life appeared. "It's a miracle," she exclaimed. Send birth announcements. When it displayed a dozen leaves each a foot long, her riding mower got away from her crashing into it with blades a whirling. She exploded in tears apologizing to saga.
Her son came running. "What's wrong?"
"I killed my saga." Big tears.
"It'll be okay," and under his breath, it's just a plant.
"It's my baby." More Dot tears.
Daniel tilted the mower and dislodged the pulled-from-the-ground saga. Sad story. It's no longer round. The east side is flat. They planted it back in the ground, added water, and the last time we looked, six leaves survived, three more are scarred - paint won't help, and three are missing.
We celebrated the 4th early picniking on the deck with seafood gumbo, dirty rice, seafood salad, (We can't get enough fresh seafood when we're near the sea.) watermelon, brownies, and loving concern for the saga palm. On the 4th we're going to a Mississippi goat roast. That's another story. May your 4th be equally as pleasant.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Monday, June 12, 2006
The Master Flower Maker
Girls of any age can have a tea party. I watched as Jani "organized the kettle," as the Irish say, and placed it on the stove. "You know, there is a trick to boiling water. Don't boil it too long or the air will boil out and the water will taste flat. And warm the teapot with hot water while you're waiting." Tea 101. With great care she filled her imported Belleek, traditional design with hand-painted signature shamrocks, china teapot.
When the water grew "mad" Jani emptied the warm teapot, put in three bags of Earl Grey, one for each of us and the pot, one cup of hot white grape juice, and the mad water. Patience, Prudence, let it brew.
She placed a silver teaspoon in each matching Belleek china teacup to take the heat off the cup. At precisely three minutes, we don't like it too strong, she poured the hot tea. Can you tell tea is as much ceremony as refreshment? On her imported Belleek lunch plates she served fresh-baked King Arthur traditional scones.
A dollop of imported English clotted cream spread on top a scone makes for a working marriage between the Northern Irish and the English with strawberry preserves the cap. "Oh, Jani, this is wonderful!" Our wee drop of Scotch/Irish heritage thrilled at sipping tea and talking nice with our pinkies up - Hyacinth Bucket (Boo-kay) style.
"Minnie, do you remember when we were in the "green bowl"? The mere mention of traveling in the North tightened our stomachs and made our mouths go dry?"
"Yes, but we wanted to see the world-famous Belleek Pottery factory on the River Erne. We shut our minds to violence and kept going. President and Mrs. Kennedy were gifted with one of their tea sets, and we wanted to see them up close."
Holding our cups reminded us of our visit to the village of Fermanagh on the River Erne. We spotted empty tour buses, and knew we were at the right place, forgot about the local problems, and concentrated on shopping - a great remedy. The Belleek gift shop had us ordering in no time. They would ship our Christmas ornaments, Irish blessings and Jani 's tea set. Delicate yet serviceable pieces. In America we search for four-leaf clovers for luck. The Irish depict the three-leaf clover in their work as representation of the Holy Trinity.
Our guide took us past the large, 100-year old bell used in the past to call staff to work. The Belleek business began in 1857 with "sanitary" pieces: sinks and pots. They've come a long way. Now they make delicate woven china baskets that won't hold water, but they're exquisite works of art, no two alike. "Jani, can you feel the hands-on effort that went into the making of your pieces?"
"I can. They have an energy of their own I don't feel in mass produced pieces. Have you noticed how happy King Arthur flour feels?"
I nodded, "... flour with an attitude. I love to have it around. It bounces with happy energy."
"Minnie, do you remember the man at the workbench?"
"Oh, do I! ... those hands. Have you ever seen bigger hands? He could have passed for a lumberjack or a wrestler with his huge shoulders."
"I remember he cut a quarter-inch piece of spaghetti-sized twisted clay off a large spool, used a long-handled miniature spoon tool to press it in his palm, and made a flower petal. Some flowers have over 100 petals. The process alone is amazing."
"You told him you thought only God could make a flower. He never looked up, but he did smile just a wee bit recognized for a job well done."
"It was neat. We witnessed a master at work."
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
When the water grew "mad" Jani emptied the warm teapot, put in three bags of Earl Grey, one for each of us and the pot, one cup of hot white grape juice, and the mad water. Patience, Prudence, let it brew.
She placed a silver teaspoon in each matching Belleek china teacup to take the heat off the cup. At precisely three minutes, we don't like it too strong, she poured the hot tea. Can you tell tea is as much ceremony as refreshment? On her imported Belleek lunch plates she served fresh-baked King Arthur traditional scones.
A dollop of imported English clotted cream spread on top a scone makes for a working marriage between the Northern Irish and the English with strawberry preserves the cap. "Oh, Jani, this is wonderful!" Our wee drop of Scotch/Irish heritage thrilled at sipping tea and talking nice with our pinkies up - Hyacinth Bucket (Boo-kay) style.
"Minnie, do you remember when we were in the "green bowl"? The mere mention of traveling in the North tightened our stomachs and made our mouths go dry?"
"Yes, but we wanted to see the world-famous Belleek Pottery factory on the River Erne. We shut our minds to violence and kept going. President and Mrs. Kennedy were gifted with one of their tea sets, and we wanted to see them up close."
Holding our cups reminded us of our visit to the village of Fermanagh on the River Erne. We spotted empty tour buses, and knew we were at the right place, forgot about the local problems, and concentrated on shopping - a great remedy. The Belleek gift shop had us ordering in no time. They would ship our Christmas ornaments, Irish blessings and Jani 's tea set. Delicate yet serviceable pieces. In America we search for four-leaf clovers for luck. The Irish depict the three-leaf clover in their work as representation of the Holy Trinity.
Our guide took us past the large, 100-year old bell used in the past to call staff to work. The Belleek business began in 1857 with "sanitary" pieces: sinks and pots. They've come a long way. Now they make delicate woven china baskets that won't hold water, but they're exquisite works of art, no two alike. "Jani, can you feel the hands-on effort that went into the making of your pieces?"
"I can. They have an energy of their own I don't feel in mass produced pieces. Have you noticed how happy King Arthur flour feels?"
I nodded, "... flour with an attitude. I love to have it around. It bounces with happy energy."
"Minnie, do you remember the man at the workbench?"
"Oh, do I! ... those hands. Have you ever seen bigger hands? He could have passed for a lumberjack or a wrestler with his huge shoulders."
"I remember he cut a quarter-inch piece of spaghetti-sized twisted clay off a large spool, used a long-handled miniature spoon tool to press it in his palm, and made a flower petal. Some flowers have over 100 petals. The process alone is amazing."
"You told him you thought only God could make a flower. He never looked up, but he did smile just a wee bit recognized for a job well done."
"It was neat. We witnessed a master at work."
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
When my mind travels without the rest of me
Toadstools: small thoughts rest
Picnic table: medium thoughts rest with green tea and chocolate pastry
High Plains of the Midwest: large thoughts move about in the continual breeze
Mountain tops: up reaching thoughts stand on end
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Picnic table: medium thoughts rest with green tea and chocolate pastry
High Plains of the Midwest: large thoughts move about in the continual breeze
Mountain tops: up reaching thoughts stand on end
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Remembering: Memorial Day 2006
... the day we officially remember family and friends who've passed. The cemetery at home is marked with a white cross for each deceased veteran. Our family's slim urns are filled with seasonal artificial flowers - they last, just as our thoughts of them do. As I stand at their graves I wonder who will tend them after we're gone. We are a small family.
In France Jani and I visited a cemetery with porcelain flowers that were purchased at the local feed store. Some graves were old, untended, and the ground around them had caved in. The horror movies had us worried about walking too close for fear a bony hand would reach up and grab our ankles.
In Germany and Switzerland the graves were decorated with growing flowers. It was a competetion between the mature women as to who had the best looking graves.
We've visited the Coptic Church and Cemetery in Cairo, Egypt. The grounds are locked. Small houses are built over the graves for the family of the deceased to accept visitors, share food and drink. The body is placed in a casket under the house where it will reside until another needs the box. Bones are left under the house and the casket recycled. With low humidity the only odors we noticed were exhaust fumes. Public cemeteries have a few benches, some covered. Beggars can be found living there.
We spend time building relationships. When someone passes, we spend time adjusting to the gap. The best thing I can do for someone who passes is to continue to love them. This is not goodbye, I'll see you later. They've changed form, but their life hasn't skipped a beat. I hope my family and friends will do the same for me. Formally I remember them today, but they are never more than a thought away ,and they live in my heart forever.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
In France Jani and I visited a cemetery with porcelain flowers that were purchased at the local feed store. Some graves were old, untended, and the ground around them had caved in. The horror movies had us worried about walking too close for fear a bony hand would reach up and grab our ankles.
In Germany and Switzerland the graves were decorated with growing flowers. It was a competetion between the mature women as to who had the best looking graves.
We've visited the Coptic Church and Cemetery in Cairo, Egypt. The grounds are locked. Small houses are built over the graves for the family of the deceased to accept visitors, share food and drink. The body is placed in a casket under the house where it will reside until another needs the box. Bones are left under the house and the casket recycled. With low humidity the only odors we noticed were exhaust fumes. Public cemeteries have a few benches, some covered. Beggars can be found living there.
We spend time building relationships. When someone passes, we spend time adjusting to the gap. The best thing I can do for someone who passes is to continue to love them. This is not goodbye, I'll see you later. They've changed form, but their life hasn't skipped a beat. I hope my family and friends will do the same for me. Formally I remember them today, but they are never more than a thought away ,and they live in my heart forever.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Sunday, May 14, 2006
MOTHER'S DAY - 2006
Happy Mother's Day to mothers, grandmothers, Mr. Moms, and all the rest who fill the role in our lives. Thank you. Whether near or far, in or out of skin, love binds hearts forever.
I remember my mom's graciousness to all, her cooking, good humor, pure, kind heart, and love of adventure. We irritated each other, but she's who I wanted when I was sick. I admired her most when she faced her death head-on.
Mom was a natural teacher. As soon as I could pull a chair up to the counter my cooking lessons began. Gingerbread was first. She measured, I mixed, and added a secret ingredient. The finished product wouldn't cut. My stirring spoon was baked in.
When traveling, two of my cooking favorites are deviled eggs and corn salad. Our first weekend in Waverly, Iowa, we had an everybody-brings-something fishfry with locals we just met. Walking downtown, a few days later, someone yelled, "Have you got anymore deviled eggs?"
My recipe ... Split hard-boiled eggs. Mash the yolks. Add white pepper, mustard, celery salt and mayonnaise to taste. Sweet or dill pickle relish is optional. I like it stiff enough to spoon, or pipe, back into the white. Place on an egg plate or arrange on lettuce leaves, sprinkle with paprika, and get out of the way.
I learned to make Corn Salad in the South. My basic recipe is two cans of Shoepeg corn to one can of Ro-tel seasoned tomatoes poured together in a strainer to drain off the liquid. Add black olives, and whatever fresh veggies are available: green onions, radishes, carrots, celery, and one tablespoon of mayonnaise - it goes a long way. Let all drain. Refrigerate in a covered bowl to chill and let the flavors marry, if you can wait that long.
God Bless mother's everywhere.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
I remember my mom's graciousness to all, her cooking, good humor, pure, kind heart, and love of adventure. We irritated each other, but she's who I wanted when I was sick. I admired her most when she faced her death head-on.
Mom was a natural teacher. As soon as I could pull a chair up to the counter my cooking lessons began. Gingerbread was first. She measured, I mixed, and added a secret ingredient. The finished product wouldn't cut. My stirring spoon was baked in.
When traveling, two of my cooking favorites are deviled eggs and corn salad. Our first weekend in Waverly, Iowa, we had an everybody-brings-something fishfry with locals we just met. Walking downtown, a few days later, someone yelled, "Have you got anymore deviled eggs?"
My recipe ... Split hard-boiled eggs. Mash the yolks. Add white pepper, mustard, celery salt and mayonnaise to taste. Sweet or dill pickle relish is optional. I like it stiff enough to spoon, or pipe, back into the white. Place on an egg plate or arrange on lettuce leaves, sprinkle with paprika, and get out of the way.
I learned to make Corn Salad in the South. My basic recipe is two cans of Shoepeg corn to one can of Ro-tel seasoned tomatoes poured together in a strainer to drain off the liquid. Add black olives, and whatever fresh veggies are available: green onions, radishes, carrots, celery, and one tablespoon of mayonnaise - it goes a long way. Let all drain. Refrigerate in a covered bowl to chill and let the flavors marry, if you can wait that long.
God Bless mother's everywhere.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, May 01, 2006
My Giuseppe Zanotti's...
two-strap dancing sandals with painted porcelain heels:
Red
happy, happy
hyacinth for the soul
in case of fire
grab the shoes
shoes
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Red
happy, happy
hyacinth for the soul
in case of fire
grab the shoes
shoes
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
NASCAR & the woman from MARS
"Baby, we're only 140 miles from Atlanta Motor Speedway, want to go to the race?"
"You bet!"
Within minutes we had tickets and a parking place for the motorhome St. Patrick's weekend. Pack, plan and invite friends; it's more fun when shared.
There's the race and then there's all the other stuff that happens. On St. Patrick's day we parked in Legends Campground behind a rented RV from Canada. Visiting with the lady of the group we learned that she was from MARS - a slim, trim, blue-eyed blonde that sounded Mid-western. We know NASCAR is the fastest growing sport among women, but Mars? How many rocks from the sun is that?
To our delight, two of our house guests were adolescent boys who found it more interesting to exit the motorhome's two steps sliding on their bellies. JB flipped a coin for them to claim which set of earplugs. We gathered coolers and coats and headed for the "Rebuilt Real Fast" stands. It was a mountain climb to our seats in the 69th row of the Champion's.
The boys watched the Craftsman Truck Race until the need for food, or a diversion, took over. Just once Mr. G. showed them the way down. Thereafter, they navigated on their own returning with a funnel cake one time, and space ice cream others. I liked the mint chocolate best. Todd Bodine won.
Back at camp we set our little grill on the grass to similate a campfire. It didn't take the boys long to discover they could make flames by adding dry grass. JB cut a metal coat hanger in half for roasting marshmallows. We put the slightly dark ones between mint patties. The blackened ones dropped on the hot coals and swelled up - a science experiment.
Before Saturday's Nicorette 300 Busch race we put our small charcoal grill on our plastic table to cook hotdogs and polish sausage. We didn't notice it was melting through. The indentation resembles a large butterfly hurled hard and fast, or are those Martian footprints? Mr. G autographed our "less table, more conversation piece." Jeff Burton won.
Sunday just JB and I treked the half-mile to the track in our rain-gear with coolers and sandwiches, took our seats in the Champion stands, and waited. Spits of rain. National Anthem. Drivers in their cars. Drivers out. Trucks busy drying the track. Drizzle. Real rain. Race delayed until Monday at eleven. Close together and fast drops parted the sea of spectators into stayers and leavers. We stayed. It was our seventh race, and the first that was a rain delay.
Ms. MARS came by happily saying, "It was an eighteen hour drive from north of Toronto. We;re staying. It's my first race." Her husband had been to Talladega, and came home with a smile. No doubt. We've been to that Red Neck Mardi Gras: beads, boobs and painted on bikinis.
Mon. we heard, "Gentlemen....start your engines!" I soooo want to say that. The race was on. We were up and down, intrigued by each caution, and thankful no one was seriously hurt. Kasey Kahne won.
The crowd was thin. Our Canadian friend came to say bye. I overheard her admit she had worked at the MARS candy factory, but I never saw a trace of chocolate on her face or any samples.
It didn't seem like such a big deal to leave after the race with fewer spectators, but it took us five hours to go 140 miles. Stop and go to Atlanta. It was so slow, guys who needed relief dashed out to the ditch, and lined up like a busload of French school kids.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
"You bet!"
Within minutes we had tickets and a parking place for the motorhome St. Patrick's weekend. Pack, plan and invite friends; it's more fun when shared.
There's the race and then there's all the other stuff that happens. On St. Patrick's day we parked in Legends Campground behind a rented RV from Canada. Visiting with the lady of the group we learned that she was from MARS - a slim, trim, blue-eyed blonde that sounded Mid-western. We know NASCAR is the fastest growing sport among women, but Mars? How many rocks from the sun is that?
To our delight, two of our house guests were adolescent boys who found it more interesting to exit the motorhome's two steps sliding on their bellies. JB flipped a coin for them to claim which set of earplugs. We gathered coolers and coats and headed for the "Rebuilt Real Fast" stands. It was a mountain climb to our seats in the 69th row of the Champion's.
The boys watched the Craftsman Truck Race until the need for food, or a diversion, took over. Just once Mr. G. showed them the way down. Thereafter, they navigated on their own returning with a funnel cake one time, and space ice cream others. I liked the mint chocolate best. Todd Bodine won.
Back at camp we set our little grill on the grass to similate a campfire. It didn't take the boys long to discover they could make flames by adding dry grass. JB cut a metal coat hanger in half for roasting marshmallows. We put the slightly dark ones between mint patties. The blackened ones dropped on the hot coals and swelled up - a science experiment.
Before Saturday's Nicorette 300 Busch race we put our small charcoal grill on our plastic table to cook hotdogs and polish sausage. We didn't notice it was melting through. The indentation resembles a large butterfly hurled hard and fast, or are those Martian footprints? Mr. G autographed our "less table, more conversation piece." Jeff Burton won.
Sunday just JB and I treked the half-mile to the track in our rain-gear with coolers and sandwiches, took our seats in the Champion stands, and waited. Spits of rain. National Anthem. Drivers in their cars. Drivers out. Trucks busy drying the track. Drizzle. Real rain. Race delayed until Monday at eleven. Close together and fast drops parted the sea of spectators into stayers and leavers. We stayed. It was our seventh race, and the first that was a rain delay.
Ms. MARS came by happily saying, "It was an eighteen hour drive from north of Toronto. We;re staying. It's my first race." Her husband had been to Talladega, and came home with a smile. No doubt. We've been to that Red Neck Mardi Gras: beads, boobs and painted on bikinis.
Mon. we heard, "Gentlemen....start your engines!" I soooo want to say that. The race was on. We were up and down, intrigued by each caution, and thankful no one was seriously hurt. Kasey Kahne won.
The crowd was thin. Our Canadian friend came to say bye. I overheard her admit she had worked at the MARS candy factory, but I never saw a trace of chocolate on her face or any samples.
It didn't seem like such a big deal to leave after the race with fewer spectators, but it took us five hours to go 140 miles. Stop and go to Atlanta. It was so slow, guys who needed relief dashed out to the ditch, and lined up like a busload of French school kids.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, April 15, 2006
MSN Photo.
Happy Spring! Happy Easter!
I love sheep and the smell of wet wool. The lanolin in the wool is healing to the hands. I bought a dyed purple sheepskin in Virginia that laid on the bed for years. We raised deserted lambs on the farm. It stunned us the mother would reject her own. Lambs have the prettiest face.
Friday, April 14, 2006
About Easter
This Easter we will walk across the street to the Methodist Church established in Friar's Point, MS, in 1834. Our Easter dinner will be a surprise later in the day on our way home. That's okay, we have lots of miles to cross.
Back home, Papa had to have a Lilly plant. Some families placed theirs in front of the church altar in memory of someone dear. Sneezes interjected the services.
Easter was sunrise youth services first, and then breakfast. The eleven o'clock service was a celebration in choir music. Lent was over. My Presbyterian background doesn't require giving anything up, but it keeps me in touch with the Passion. I didn't accomplish much giving up food, I did better working on giving up a bad habit. (Sometimes it took more than one Lent.)
The year I attended Easter services at the Assembly of God in Warner Robbins, GA, they put on a live performance of the Passion with a cast of dozens. The motion and commotion made further inroads in my belief bank, as does hearing the recorded voice of a deceased famous person.
Seeing the Passion Play at Spearfish, SD, made the whole business real and overwhelming; I forgot my childhood responsibility of keeping track of our family's dirty clothes. Several hundred miles later I confessed. Dad discovered his Masonic affiliation's worth when he went to buy us jackets. I don't remember he ever thanked me. Minnie liked my white imitation leather jacket better than hers. It had more colorful embroidery on it. She nagged me to look down knowing full well it would scare and sicken me. I liked mine too, and did not look down.
In Nashville, TN, the Easter service I attended was without piano or organ accompaniment. I was thankful they weren't relying on me to lead. Afterwards I learned it's their custom. Whatever works, there's no limiting God.
My daughters fondly remember new dresses, hats, white gloves, white straw purses, and paten-leather shoes for church, finding the marshmallow chicks under the front seat of the car and eating them, and hunting for the eggs they'd decorated.
Easter dinners involved the best dishes, linens, crystal, elaborate Ukrainian hand-decorated eggs displayed, and the ceramic rabbit pulling a cart filled with artificial grass and plastic eggs full of M&Ms - a lot of fuss.
We served Papa's homemade wine, ham, scalloped potatoes, asparagus or green beans, five-cup, Watergate or pretzel salad, deviled eggs, horn rolls, kolaches, and hot-cross buns. Dessert was angelfood cake with strawberries and whipped cream. One year a guest brought a cake in the shape of a lamb frosted white and covered with coconut. Yummy. And one more thing: all our guests, even those over eighty, hunted eggs. And a good time was had by all.
The times we did Easter brunch we used our clear purple dishes. They're springy. We bought service for eight at a fleamarket in Minnesota. Having left our boat motor at the lodge for fall fishing gave us just enough trunk space.
Our eyes were fed by the rich colors of the dishes, plump blueberries; cool green kiwi slices; juicy melon slivers; warm, buttery croissants, and Mexican eggs topped with hot Salsa. Dessert was a slice of Napoleon, the Lithuania tort made with custard and apricot between thin pastry layers.
We attend church and gather with family and friends to celebrate our Christian heritage. God's love and forgiveness for us, and Jesus Christ's cooperation with His plan for our benefit, is a knee bender. Thank you.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Back home, Papa had to have a Lilly plant. Some families placed theirs in front of the church altar in memory of someone dear. Sneezes interjected the services.
Easter was sunrise youth services first, and then breakfast. The eleven o'clock service was a celebration in choir music. Lent was over. My Presbyterian background doesn't require giving anything up, but it keeps me in touch with the Passion. I didn't accomplish much giving up food, I did better working on giving up a bad habit. (Sometimes it took more than one Lent.)
The year I attended Easter services at the Assembly of God in Warner Robbins, GA, they put on a live performance of the Passion with a cast of dozens. The motion and commotion made further inroads in my belief bank, as does hearing the recorded voice of a deceased famous person.
Seeing the Passion Play at Spearfish, SD, made the whole business real and overwhelming; I forgot my childhood responsibility of keeping track of our family's dirty clothes. Several hundred miles later I confessed. Dad discovered his Masonic affiliation's worth when he went to buy us jackets. I don't remember he ever thanked me. Minnie liked my white imitation leather jacket better than hers. It had more colorful embroidery on it. She nagged me to look down knowing full well it would scare and sicken me. I liked mine too, and did not look down.
In Nashville, TN, the Easter service I attended was without piano or organ accompaniment. I was thankful they weren't relying on me to lead. Afterwards I learned it's their custom. Whatever works, there's no limiting God.
My daughters fondly remember new dresses, hats, white gloves, white straw purses, and paten-leather shoes for church, finding the marshmallow chicks under the front seat of the car and eating them, and hunting for the eggs they'd decorated.
Easter dinners involved the best dishes, linens, crystal, elaborate Ukrainian hand-decorated eggs displayed, and the ceramic rabbit pulling a cart filled with artificial grass and plastic eggs full of M&Ms - a lot of fuss.
We served Papa's homemade wine, ham, scalloped potatoes, asparagus or green beans, five-cup, Watergate or pretzel salad, deviled eggs, horn rolls, kolaches, and hot-cross buns. Dessert was angelfood cake with strawberries and whipped cream. One year a guest brought a cake in the shape of a lamb frosted white and covered with coconut. Yummy. And one more thing: all our guests, even those over eighty, hunted eggs. And a good time was had by all.
The times we did Easter brunch we used our clear purple dishes. They're springy. We bought service for eight at a fleamarket in Minnesota. Having left our boat motor at the lodge for fall fishing gave us just enough trunk space.
Our eyes were fed by the rich colors of the dishes, plump blueberries; cool green kiwi slices; juicy melon slivers; warm, buttery croissants, and Mexican eggs topped with hot Salsa. Dessert was a slice of Napoleon, the Lithuania tort made with custard and apricot between thin pastry layers.
We attend church and gather with family and friends to celebrate our Christian heritage. God's love and forgiveness for us, and Jesus Christ's cooperation with His plan for our benefit, is a knee bender. Thank you.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Jax New Orleans Bistro
The scent of wisteria followed us to the center of Anderson, South Carolina. Thank God it's Friday! No more fast food or planned overs, it's "dine out" time. During the week I'd noticed outside tables at a place called Jax.
Perhaps it was a smidge too cool, the outside tables were empty. We opted for the lounge side where people could smoke and we could visit with other guests who felt chatty. Feathered masks decorate the wall behind the bar. Soft music. Low light.
Seated, JB took his glasses off and held them up, "Look at the scratches." Even in dim light they looked like he cleans them with sandpaper.
"Can you see anything without them?"
"I can see the "X" on the far wall."
"X"! It's crossed swords!"
Glasses on, he ordered New Orleans Style "Barbecue" Shrimp served over Maque Choux. Superb! The creamy corn tasted smokey, a perfect match with the shrimp. He didn't need glasses to know it was wonderful.
I ordered Crawfish Etoufee. I like mine shucked. Served on a square white plate with a molded mound of rice, four Haricot Vert, and wisps of green onion, the presentation was perfect. A bite of spice on the tip of my tongue, the rest on the back, convinced me it was New Orleans style. Wonderful!
For dessert I couldn't decide between a chocolate & pistachio tartlet or praline creme brulee, so I ordered a grasshopper. They made it with whipping cream and ice cream. Delicious. Our server, Lydia, tempted us with a sample of Beignet bread pudding with bourbon sauce. Super!
We'll be back. There's more to try: Duck Confit Salad, Blistered Corn and Crawfish Chowder, Chickory Coffee Seared Salmon, and Sunday Brunch for a few. The city of New Orleans may never be the same, but the food survives. Jax is doing it right, and it's no April Fool joke.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Perhaps it was a smidge too cool, the outside tables were empty. We opted for the lounge side where people could smoke and we could visit with other guests who felt chatty. Feathered masks decorate the wall behind the bar. Soft music. Low light.
Seated, JB took his glasses off and held them up, "Look at the scratches." Even in dim light they looked like he cleans them with sandpaper.
"Can you see anything without them?"
"I can see the "X" on the far wall."
"X"! It's crossed swords!"
Glasses on, he ordered New Orleans Style "Barbecue" Shrimp served over Maque Choux. Superb! The creamy corn tasted smokey, a perfect match with the shrimp. He didn't need glasses to know it was wonderful.
I ordered Crawfish Etoufee. I like mine shucked. Served on a square white plate with a molded mound of rice, four Haricot Vert, and wisps of green onion, the presentation was perfect. A bite of spice on the tip of my tongue, the rest on the back, convinced me it was New Orleans style. Wonderful!
For dessert I couldn't decide between a chocolate & pistachio tartlet or praline creme brulee, so I ordered a grasshopper. They made it with whipping cream and ice cream. Delicious. Our server, Lydia, tempted us with a sample of Beignet bread pudding with bourbon sauce. Super!
We'll be back. There's more to try: Duck Confit Salad, Blistered Corn and Crawfish Chowder, Chickory Coffee Seared Salmon, and Sunday Brunch for a few. The city of New Orleans may never be the same, but the food survives. Jax is doing it right, and it's no April Fool joke.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, March 17, 2006
Happy Saint Patrick's Day!
MSN photo
Ireland. Trees are rare as sunshine. Roads are twisted. Rocks a plenty. Hospitality warm. Willie Nelson music on St. Patrick's Day.
2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Ireland. Trees are rare as sunshine. Roads are twisted. Rocks a plenty. Hospitality warm. Willie Nelson music on St. Patrick's Day.
2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
For the love of green
My friend, Frances, is 91 going on 20. Small, she walks straight and tall. Her white hair waves up adding the illusion of height. There's an air of European royalty about her, and a twinkle in her eye. She's quick to laugh - fun to be with. People fight for her company. She's Irish, and as perpetually positive as Ireland is perpetually green. To quote her, "Oh, how I love the mystery of life."
Would that we could, I'd take her to Ireland. We'd drive on the left in a small car, manage the roundabouts, shake our heads at those paying no attention to the "Do Not Overtake" (don't pass signs), and puzzle over "Traffic Calming" (slow down).
This time of year the dewy air is scented with daffodils, pink and white blooms of flowering trees, yellow forsythia, and brightly colored primrose near the deep green ground cover, the deep green that is Ireland. On cloudy days the green is even darker.
Stacked white stones mark fence lines and gardens. Extracting stones from the ground is akin to dentistry, earth heaves them slowly. A miniature house of stone with a thatched room sits among the organized rocks testifying to a slow, labor intensive time. To some, the good old days.
Over shepherd's pie or Irish stew, lamb either way you look at it, and a pint at a local pub, we'd celebrate Saint Patrick's Day thankful he drove the snakes out. We'd see if they play Country Western to celebrate - Willie Nelson, or have gone strictly native this year. Either way, we'd have a bloody good time!
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Would that we could, I'd take her to Ireland. We'd drive on the left in a small car, manage the roundabouts, shake our heads at those paying no attention to the "Do Not Overtake" (don't pass signs), and puzzle over "Traffic Calming" (slow down).
This time of year the dewy air is scented with daffodils, pink and white blooms of flowering trees, yellow forsythia, and brightly colored primrose near the deep green ground cover, the deep green that is Ireland. On cloudy days the green is even darker.
Stacked white stones mark fence lines and gardens. Extracting stones from the ground is akin to dentistry, earth heaves them slowly. A miniature house of stone with a thatched room sits among the organized rocks testifying to a slow, labor intensive time. To some, the good old days.
Over shepherd's pie or Irish stew, lamb either way you look at it, and a pint at a local pub, we'd celebrate Saint Patrick's Day thankful he drove the snakes out. We'd see if they play Country Western to celebrate - Willie Nelson, or have gone strictly native this year. Either way, we'd have a bloody good time!
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, March 04, 2006
A Quiet Hero:
unpretentious; more "heart" than most; pushes forward in spite of limitations - health or financial; goes beyond the extra mile - my friend, Lil.
The cat in the window watched its keeper open the door. Stepping inside my eyes popped. The homeowner noticed and laughed. “I have twenty-nine of them.” We have two. Twenty-nine I couldn’t imagine. They were everywhere, high and low. I chuckled at the longhaired white cat stretched out on her back on the kitchen table.
The moment Lil sat down one hopped on her lap for a pet. Another hopped on mine she tried to shoo off, but animals know I like them. Petting him soothed my longing for our pets back home. I smiled. He purred.
“How did you get so many?”
"People just drop them off. Each one has a story. This one (black and in her lap) was shot in Houston. He still has a bullet in his spine. Doc said he can't operate; it's too close to a nerve.” He jumped down satisfied. She smiled ready to welcome another. I imagined an invisible neon sign with a flashing arrow pointing down: homeless cats - stop here for food, shelter, and love.
Lil is a former Humane Society board member. But for her, they'd all be deceased. Her doctor said caring for them keeps her going. "Some of them sleep with me. I live alone."
"No you don't," I exclaimed. We both laughed.
"Do you have help with their maintenance?”
“Not really. I use coupons when I can. Basically, it comes out of my pocket. I have them neutered and spayed too."
Patron saint of the animals, Saint Frances of Assisi is remembered for his love and service to animals. I see the likes of him in Lil. God bless her.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
The cat in the window watched its keeper open the door. Stepping inside my eyes popped. The homeowner noticed and laughed. “I have twenty-nine of them.” We have two. Twenty-nine I couldn’t imagine. They were everywhere, high and low. I chuckled at the longhaired white cat stretched out on her back on the kitchen table.
The moment Lil sat down one hopped on her lap for a pet. Another hopped on mine she tried to shoo off, but animals know I like them. Petting him soothed my longing for our pets back home. I smiled. He purred.
“How did you get so many?”
"People just drop them off. Each one has a story. This one (black and in her lap) was shot in Houston. He still has a bullet in his spine. Doc said he can't operate; it's too close to a nerve.” He jumped down satisfied. She smiled ready to welcome another. I imagined an invisible neon sign with a flashing arrow pointing down: homeless cats - stop here for food, shelter, and love.
Lil is a former Humane Society board member. But for her, they'd all be deceased. Her doctor said caring for them keeps her going. "Some of them sleep with me. I live alone."
"No you don't," I exclaimed. We both laughed.
"Do you have help with their maintenance?”
“Not really. I use coupons when I can. Basically, it comes out of my pocket. I have them neutered and spayed too."
Patron saint of the animals, Saint Frances of Assisi is remembered for his love and service to animals. I see the likes of him in Lil. God bless her.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Honeymoon & the Queen
South Carolina feels "English" today: gloomy, drizzly, not too cold. I'm sipping hot ginger tea and nibbling a yummy, chocolate-filled pastry at Panera's, grateful for their Wi-Fi, and wishing for a trip to some warm, exotic place. Thumbing through the archives of my soul, memories of Mexico City surface. Aaaahhhhh, the honeymoon.
Mexico City, Mexico - the final destination of our 1975 honeymoon. Amidst the ten million inhabitants and twenty-four hour construction, with scaffolding I wouldn't trust, we ventured here and there with our feet barely touching the ground; we were in love. The tour guide pointed out the "Zona Rosa," pink zone, for nighttime activity. We weren't interested, we had our own. I imagine we ate but don't remember what. Seafood? Probably. And chocolate. My sister would remember, but she wasn't along for obvious reasons.
Lunching at our hotel a motorcade passed. We did a double-take. A dark-haired woman wearing a small hat stood and waved - slightly. A tall man stood behind her. My eyes popped. "Is that Queen Elizabeth II?" I stammered. " Here?" Riding in her magic carriage wearing gown and crown, she paraded through my childhood living room on her 1953 Coronation Day. I was awed. A real Queen. She was so beautiful and looked kind. My mind wrapped around "Royalty," and decided she was "The Good Queen." I still think so.
Our server snapped us to the present, "The Crown Jewels are on display at the Museum." We couldn't get there fast enough.
Glass limited accessibility to the Crown Jewels, but their brilliance reached out to all in an explosion of color and light showing off nature and man's best work: gold, pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, deep purple velvet, and more. The best of the best. A study in exquisite beauty and tradition. Thinking aloud I murmured, "The Crown is gorgeous. Huge. Heavy. My neck would hurt. What kind of shoes would I have to wear? I'd stumble. It'd tumble. What if jewels fell out?"
My honeymoon-husband put his arm around my shoulder, leaned close, and whispered, "Don't worry, you're not in line to wear it!"
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Mexico City, Mexico - the final destination of our 1975 honeymoon. Amidst the ten million inhabitants and twenty-four hour construction, with scaffolding I wouldn't trust, we ventured here and there with our feet barely touching the ground; we were in love. The tour guide pointed out the "Zona Rosa," pink zone, for nighttime activity. We weren't interested, we had our own. I imagine we ate but don't remember what. Seafood? Probably. And chocolate. My sister would remember, but she wasn't along for obvious reasons.
Lunching at our hotel a motorcade passed. We did a double-take. A dark-haired woman wearing a small hat stood and waved - slightly. A tall man stood behind her. My eyes popped. "Is that Queen Elizabeth II?" I stammered. " Here?" Riding in her magic carriage wearing gown and crown, she paraded through my childhood living room on her 1953 Coronation Day. I was awed. A real Queen. She was so beautiful and looked kind. My mind wrapped around "Royalty," and decided she was "The Good Queen." I still think so.
Our server snapped us to the present, "The Crown Jewels are on display at the Museum." We couldn't get there fast enough.
Glass limited accessibility to the Crown Jewels, but their brilliance reached out to all in an explosion of color and light showing off nature and man's best work: gold, pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, deep purple velvet, and more. The best of the best. A study in exquisite beauty and tradition. Thinking aloud I murmured, "The Crown is gorgeous. Huge. Heavy. My neck would hurt. What kind of shoes would I have to wear? I'd stumble. It'd tumble. What if jewels fell out?"
My honeymoon-husband put his arm around my shoulder, leaned close, and whispered, "Don't worry, you're not in line to wear it!"
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Friday, February 03, 2006
Minnesota to Mexico Extremes
"The tour leaves at one from the dock. Wear shoes you can slip off." Minnie and I looked at the Mexican hotel clerk surprised. Visiting Mazatlan, Mexico in March we walked the city shops, dined by the sea, and I para-sailed. Today we planned to explore outside the city limits. A dozen of us gathered at the dock for the tour. Wearing black pants legs rolled up to the knee, our guide waded around the small fishing boats to steady them for us to board. Life jackets? None. Mini-motors sputtered. We headed up stream at a Mexican pace - slow.
Moving through the narrow tree-lined river we looked about for creatures in the water and didn't see any. Our guide headed for a cleared bank, cut the engine, jumped out, held the boat, and motioned for us to get out. Minnie said, "Ah, this is where our shoes come off and our pants legs roll up."
Children came from a stick hut to greet us. "The vertical sticks are spaced so pigs and chickens can come and go," our guide explained. The young toothless mother came forward with an infant in her arms.
We were astounded at how they lived. We expect much more for ourselves. Was it a setup for money? Our guide gave them a little from our group, but the kids just wanted candy. Kids are kids. Their lifestyle hadn't changed in hundreds of years, or more. What is the mortality rate? Mouths agape, we stared at the footed sleeper with "Minnesota" embroidered on it, a gift from a church group in Minnesota. Extremes.
Silence ruled our return trip to the city. We didn't know what to make of their situation, or if we were obligated to do something - the American dilemma. Perhaps the purpose was to remind us we have so much to appreciate and not take for granted.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Moving through the narrow tree-lined river we looked about for creatures in the water and didn't see any. Our guide headed for a cleared bank, cut the engine, jumped out, held the boat, and motioned for us to get out. Minnie said, "Ah, this is where our shoes come off and our pants legs roll up."
Children came from a stick hut to greet us. "The vertical sticks are spaced so pigs and chickens can come and go," our guide explained. The young toothless mother came forward with an infant in her arms.
We were astounded at how they lived. We expect much more for ourselves. Was it a setup for money? Our guide gave them a little from our group, but the kids just wanted candy. Kids are kids. Their lifestyle hadn't changed in hundreds of years, or more. What is the mortality rate? Mouths agape, we stared at the footed sleeper with "Minnesota" embroidered on it, a gift from a church group in Minnesota. Extremes.
Silence ruled our return trip to the city. We didn't know what to make of their situation, or if we were obligated to do something - the American dilemma. Perhaps the purpose was to remind us we have so much to appreciate and not take for granted.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, January 20, 2006
Less than a dollar
On a bus tour of Mexico City, Mexico, our driver stopped at a curbside flower stand. Papa got up and got off. He returned handing me a single long-stemmed red rose. I felt loved, cherished. Its scent floated through the bus stimulating women’s desires. What followed was a study in relationships. Men who understood they could have the world by the tail for the small price of a rose got right up and bought one. Their women were delighted. Some men were elbowed to buy one, and did. A few women bought their own when their man wouldn't budge. Across the aisle a woman elbowed, begged, and offered her own money, but he still refused. They didn’t speak to each other the rest of the bus tour. Cost of the rose, less than a dollar. Feeling cherished, priceless.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Tummy Treasure
MSN photo
Papaya: tummy treasure. Imported we've seen them the size of a pear, and didn't buy any. Once in a while we find one that weighs a couple of pounds. The flavor is passable. In Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, Mom, Dad, LBJ and I bought one that weighed 17 pounds. With ceremony we sliced into the two-inch flesh revealing a handful of black seeds in the womb-like space. We feasted on its smooth, soothing-to-the-tummy goodness for several days. Foods taste better close to their source.
Verse copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Shades of Blue
We've seen Minnesota lakes turned into cities with ice houses, snowmobiles, pickup trucks, and plowed roads with street signs. We didn't fish there, but we walked out on a small frozen lake to ice fish inside an ice house. Heavy clothes were in order, but we were out of the cold wind with the freedom to move around, drink coffee, eat sandwiches, play cards, and at the same time catch crappie, walleye and northern. Sweet.
At daylight, the day after Christmas, we piled into our friend's pickup truck to ice fish on Minnesota's Saint Croix River. Just the thought was spooky. Moving water. A river. My heart pounded. I held my breath. He didn't seem afraid, he'd grown up on it. I gripped my coat collar and shut my eyes when he drove onto the ice without hesitation. Clunk, clunk, clunk made me open them. Was he driving over planks? "No, it's the ice," he said.
Several blocks from shore he stopped and cut the engine. All alone, what ifs raced through my head. "Come on, get out," he urged stepping onto the ice. "It's okay." Not convinced, I stepped softly holding my breath, as if that would make me lighter. Ice scrunched under my boots. Nose-nipping cold greeted my face. The ice supported the truck and us without effort.
Exhaling, I looked around and discovered one of the most beautiful mornings I've ever seen: a still, silent, sacred secret of heavy cloud cover that created a world of everything awash in shades of pale blue to slate. Stunning. I wanted to walk away, look back, and see what shade of blue the truck and our friend were, but I didn't. Stay close I thought and speculate.
While I gaped, our friend drilled a hole a foot and a half deep in the ice. Thirty-eight feet of water moved beneath. The occasional crack of the ice, like a shot, made my tummy flip, but nothing disturbed the blues. Fishing brought up a few small ones we returned to the river. It didn't matter, there'd be more fishing trips, but I might not ever again see the blues.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
At daylight, the day after Christmas, we piled into our friend's pickup truck to ice fish on Minnesota's Saint Croix River. Just the thought was spooky. Moving water. A river. My heart pounded. I held my breath. He didn't seem afraid, he'd grown up on it. I gripped my coat collar and shut my eyes when he drove onto the ice without hesitation. Clunk, clunk, clunk made me open them. Was he driving over planks? "No, it's the ice," he said.
Several blocks from shore he stopped and cut the engine. All alone, what ifs raced through my head. "Come on, get out," he urged stepping onto the ice. "It's okay." Not convinced, I stepped softly holding my breath, as if that would make me lighter. Ice scrunched under my boots. Nose-nipping cold greeted my face. The ice supported the truck and us without effort.
Exhaling, I looked around and discovered one of the most beautiful mornings I've ever seen: a still, silent, sacred secret of heavy cloud cover that created a world of everything awash in shades of pale blue to slate. Stunning. I wanted to walk away, look back, and see what shade of blue the truck and our friend were, but I didn't. Stay close I thought and speculate.
While I gaped, our friend drilled a hole a foot and a half deep in the ice. Thirty-eight feet of water moved beneath. The occasional crack of the ice, like a shot, made my tummy flip, but nothing disturbed the blues. Fishing brought up a few small ones we returned to the river. It didn't matter, there'd be more fishing trips, but I might not ever again see the blues.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, December 31, 2005
MSN photoNew Years resolutions: playground for optimists.
I might be superstitious, but on the first maybe I should cook some blackeyed peas with ham for luck and fix Ro-tel cabbage salad for money.
The best to you and yours in 2006 and always.
Love,
MJ
Verse copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Tracks, Cracks and Facts
It’s a fact gravity causes things to fall down not up. Rocks and a bolt fell and bounced into our windshield. We have the nicks and cracks to prove it. Last night the windshield was playground for something with four muddy feet. No, there wasn’t anything to eat in the car. The raccoon walked up the windshield and slid down, what fun!
It’s a fact Hoov’s a darn good cook. He cut a deer back strap into thin slices, dipped each in a wash of egg and water, dredged each in a mix of flour, seasoned salt, black pepper, leaf thyme, granulated garlic, and fried them in hot oil. Delicious. A smidge of Dietz & Watson’s Wasabi Mustard added a flash of fire reminding me of homegrown horseradish Mom caught me eating by the tablespoon full when I was a kid. My sister wouldn’t eat it at all. She said, “It smells like dirty jeans.”
Inside we microwaved mashed potatoes, their favorite green bean casserole, cornbread and oyster stuffing. Skipper brought his famous bean and ham hock soup. The radio station played Christmas music. Coyotes howled in the distance. We stood around the enclosed barrel stove in heavy cloths enjoying our feast. Wildlife watched and waited to dine on our leftovers after we went to bed.
Life in the deep woods: one afternoon a bobcat strolled through camp; a hunter videoed a brown bear not far from us, possibly on its way over the levee to visit the beehives; a pair of eagles return each year to nest; and every time we see a cardinal we make a secret wish.
Deer, turkey and wild hog are hunted. The trapper’s lament: nothing walked the road. The rack on the back of my Bravada once held a 250-pound tusked boar handcuffed cross-legged and bungee corded to the rack. That wasn’t the best part. I thought it was dead, and leaned close to have my picture taken. It wasn’t! Woofed! And I leaped away! That’s a fact!!!
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
It’s a fact Hoov’s a darn good cook. He cut a deer back strap into thin slices, dipped each in a wash of egg and water, dredged each in a mix of flour, seasoned salt, black pepper, leaf thyme, granulated garlic, and fried them in hot oil. Delicious. A smidge of Dietz & Watson’s Wasabi Mustard added a flash of fire reminding me of homegrown horseradish Mom caught me eating by the tablespoon full when I was a kid. My sister wouldn’t eat it at all. She said, “It smells like dirty jeans.”
Inside we microwaved mashed potatoes, their favorite green bean casserole, cornbread and oyster stuffing. Skipper brought his famous bean and ham hock soup. The radio station played Christmas music. Coyotes howled in the distance. We stood around the enclosed barrel stove in heavy cloths enjoying our feast. Wildlife watched and waited to dine on our leftovers after we went to bed.
Life in the deep woods: one afternoon a bobcat strolled through camp; a hunter videoed a brown bear not far from us, possibly on its way over the levee to visit the beehives; a pair of eagles return each year to nest; and every time we see a cardinal we make a secret wish.
Deer, turkey and wild hog are hunted. The trapper’s lament: nothing walked the road. The rack on the back of my Bravada once held a 250-pound tusked boar handcuffed cross-legged and bungee corded to the rack. That wasn’t the best part. I thought it was dead, and leaned close to have my picture taken. It wasn’t! Woofed! And I leaped away! That’s a fact!!!
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Holiday Feasts
From Thanksgiving to Christmas there’s a feeling of goodwill toward all. I want to do more than I have time. Who doesn’t? I’m sipping a cup of hot tea savoring a piece of dark chocolate biscotti with Ghiradelli buttons (chips), cinnamon, and Frangelico. I’ll add a smidge of cayenne to the next batch.
Memories: highlights of the past. Mom made enough divinity candy to cover the dining room table. I swiped samples all around the edge, the mint green ones were best. My girls swiped the refrigerator cookies of coconut, butter, and powdered sugar wrapped around a candied cherry … a confession of late.
Baking for family, friends and all who served blessed us twice: when the aroma filled our home, and when we shared our sweet dough tea rings, breads, cookies, candies and more.
Lillian, our dear Bohemian neighbor, taught me how to make houska: braided sweet dough with white raisins, almond slivers and bits of citron. Lithuanian friends shared a huge, scrumptious Napolean of apricot and custard between layers of wafers. I’ve always wondered about figgy pudding.
Papa laid pieces of fresh pine boughs on the basement space heater. They released their scent mingling with the baking aromas. Happy times. We sipped eggnog with fresh grated nutmeg from our silver Jefferson cups.
The nut cake was a family affair shelling mixed nuts to fill an angel food cake pan. A thin batter bound them and a few pieces of candied cherries and citron. Out of this world delicious, heavy, rich, and dense.
Our Swedish relatives liked rye bread, pickled herring, hard tack, Swedish brown beans, meatballs, cream sausage with cranberry sauce, apples cooked with cinnamon redhots, creamed onions, rice pudding with lingonberries, and plum pudding. The lutefisk cooked in cheesecloth smelled terrible. I thought it was tasteless, and needed the mustard sauce to make it edible. I must have missed the point.
Czech relatives prepared duck or turkey with liver dumplings. I loved pretzel salad with strawberries in jell-o and cream cheese mixed with whipped cream for topping. A hazelnut jellyroll with rum flavored whipped cream filling is one of my favorite desserts. Christmas Eve was oyster stew or chili. Cousin George loved oyster stew, but fed the oysters to the dog.
Pork chops and onions in red wine with heavy cream, mashed celeriac root, and chocolate mousse prepared the Suzanne Somers way made a satisfying, attractive meal on our Pistoulet dishes.
No matter what the menu, it was plentiful and a production. Grandma declared it might be the last Christmas we’d be together. True. That generation is gone. What do they eat in the hereafter?
We expanded our table with the leaves stored under the davenport. The white linen cloth was ironed, and the table set with the ivied Christmas dishes, the good silver, and goblets for Papa’s homemade wine. Henry, the three-legged cat, was reminded he was not the centerpiece.
Just when we thought we couldn’t be surprised, someone gave us a gift we hadn’t thought of but could use. Goodwill plus surprises equals Christmas.
We ate with gusto, laughed, reminisced, commented on the year past holding on to the best moments. What was to come no one knew. My silent prayer: that we’d all be together next year, same time, same place.
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Memories: highlights of the past. Mom made enough divinity candy to cover the dining room table. I swiped samples all around the edge, the mint green ones were best. My girls swiped the refrigerator cookies of coconut, butter, and powdered sugar wrapped around a candied cherry … a confession of late.
Baking for family, friends and all who served blessed us twice: when the aroma filled our home, and when we shared our sweet dough tea rings, breads, cookies, candies and more.
Lillian, our dear Bohemian neighbor, taught me how to make houska: braided sweet dough with white raisins, almond slivers and bits of citron. Lithuanian friends shared a huge, scrumptious Napolean of apricot and custard between layers of wafers. I’ve always wondered about figgy pudding.
Papa laid pieces of fresh pine boughs on the basement space heater. They released their scent mingling with the baking aromas. Happy times. We sipped eggnog with fresh grated nutmeg from our silver Jefferson cups.
The nut cake was a family affair shelling mixed nuts to fill an angel food cake pan. A thin batter bound them and a few pieces of candied cherries and citron. Out of this world delicious, heavy, rich, and dense.
Our Swedish relatives liked rye bread, pickled herring, hard tack, Swedish brown beans, meatballs, cream sausage with cranberry sauce, apples cooked with cinnamon redhots, creamed onions, rice pudding with lingonberries, and plum pudding. The lutefisk cooked in cheesecloth smelled terrible. I thought it was tasteless, and needed the mustard sauce to make it edible. I must have missed the point.
Czech relatives prepared duck or turkey with liver dumplings. I loved pretzel salad with strawberries in jell-o and cream cheese mixed with whipped cream for topping. A hazelnut jellyroll with rum flavored whipped cream filling is one of my favorite desserts. Christmas Eve was oyster stew or chili. Cousin George loved oyster stew, but fed the oysters to the dog.
Pork chops and onions in red wine with heavy cream, mashed celeriac root, and chocolate mousse prepared the Suzanne Somers way made a satisfying, attractive meal on our Pistoulet dishes.
No matter what the menu, it was plentiful and a production. Grandma declared it might be the last Christmas we’d be together. True. That generation is gone. What do they eat in the hereafter?
We expanded our table with the leaves stored under the davenport. The white linen cloth was ironed, and the table set with the ivied Christmas dishes, the good silver, and goblets for Papa’s homemade wine. Henry, the three-legged cat, was reminded he was not the centerpiece.
Just when we thought we couldn’t be surprised, someone gave us a gift we hadn’t thought of but could use. Goodwill plus surprises equals Christmas.
We ate with gusto, laughed, reminisced, commented on the year past holding on to the best moments. What was to come no one knew. My silent prayer: that we’d all be together next year, same time, same place.
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, December 24, 2005
The Magic of Oberndorf
Imagine preparing for Christmas Eve church services and discovering that morning that the pipe organ didn't work. What a dilemma for Pastor Joseph Mohr in 1818 at the Church of Saint Nicholas in Oberndorf, Austria.
According to Historian Bill Egan he walked to Choirmaster Franz Gruber’s home. Pastor Mohr had written a poem some years earlier, and asked Gruber to set it to music for the evening service. He did, and the rest is history. Their combined efforts blessed the world with Stille Nacht (Silent Night).
My sister and I visited the small octagonal Memorial Chapel on its mound. Climbing red roses grew up the sides of the Chapel. The inside might seat twenty-five people. Eight German Frauleins on a bike break, each holding a green apple, sang Stille Nacht acapella. We smiled thinking of the joy of Christ’s birth.
The Frauleins left. We heard music again we recognized. Two others from a different country did also. We four went out. Each in our own language, we sang together Amazing Grace. There’s still magic in Oberndorf.
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
According to Historian Bill Egan he walked to Choirmaster Franz Gruber’s home. Pastor Mohr had written a poem some years earlier, and asked Gruber to set it to music for the evening service. He did, and the rest is history. Their combined efforts blessed the world with Stille Nacht (Silent Night).
My sister and I visited the small octagonal Memorial Chapel on its mound. Climbing red roses grew up the sides of the Chapel. The inside might seat twenty-five people. Eight German Frauleins on a bike break, each holding a green apple, sang Stille Nacht acapella. We smiled thinking of the joy of Christ’s birth.
The Frauleins left. We heard music again we recognized. Two others from a different country did also. We four went out. Each in our own language, we sang together Amazing Grace. There’s still magic in Oberndorf.
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Marienplatz
The first Friday after the first Sunday of Advent the Lord Mayor of Munich, Germany, opens the outdoor Christmas Market at 5 pm in the Marienplatz, which means town center. In the cold darkness the near 100 foot tree is lit with 2,500 candles. Hot spiced wine, Gluehwein, scents the air. The Glockenspeil chimes and the magic of Christmas takes off in 140 stalls of candles, ceramics, ornaments, toys, clothes, foods, and much more, a tradition since the 14th century.
We arrived the first week of December. Right after a hearty German breakfast buffet, we set off for the market dressed in warm clothes and comfortable shoes- there were no chairs or benches. Clutching our large mesh shopping bags we joined the throng of shoppers. After we had been walking for a while, like so many of the other shoppers, we each bought a paper cone full of carmelized nuts to nibble on while we shopped and bags full of nuts to take home. We felt like we belonged.
When we got cold, we stopped at a hot milk stall flavored with honey, almond or other spices. All day we walked. In one stall we saw dried fruit figures. These were little people made of dried prunes, raisins, apricots, apples, and any other fruit that would dry - a whole fruit salad rolled into one so cute we didn't want to eat it.
For Christmas postmarks, there's a stall for mail from Christkindl, Austria. The Crib Market is the largest display in Germany of everything needed for a Nativity scene. One woman said, "I've come every year for ten to buy a piece for my collection." We watched shoppers reverently handle the pieces that felt reverently carved. If seeing is believing, and believing is seeing, holding the Holy Family anchors the meaning of Christmas.
We sampled Christmas cookies and gingerbread. The hot milk had worn off and we were cold again. It was dark. All day we could smell the Gluehwein, which translates as 'glow wine'. It made us warm and silly. I could just see the dancing cinnamon stick wrapped with a skirt of clove-studded orange peel, chunk ginger at the feet and star anise on the crown. My sister said I'd had enough.
The market closes on Christmas Eve. Angel hair will drift through the city for days hinting at the magic put away until next year.
We will light the pine incense in my Santa smoker, sip hot chocolate and dream of a return trip.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
We arrived the first week of December. Right after a hearty German breakfast buffet, we set off for the market dressed in warm clothes and comfortable shoes- there were no chairs or benches. Clutching our large mesh shopping bags we joined the throng of shoppers. After we had been walking for a while, like so many of the other shoppers, we each bought a paper cone full of carmelized nuts to nibble on while we shopped and bags full of nuts to take home. We felt like we belonged.
When we got cold, we stopped at a hot milk stall flavored with honey, almond or other spices. All day we walked. In one stall we saw dried fruit figures. These were little people made of dried prunes, raisins, apricots, apples, and any other fruit that would dry - a whole fruit salad rolled into one so cute we didn't want to eat it.
For Christmas postmarks, there's a stall for mail from Christkindl, Austria. The Crib Market is the largest display in Germany of everything needed for a Nativity scene. One woman said, "I've come every year for ten to buy a piece for my collection." We watched shoppers reverently handle the pieces that felt reverently carved. If seeing is believing, and believing is seeing, holding the Holy Family anchors the meaning of Christmas.
We sampled Christmas cookies and gingerbread. The hot milk had worn off and we were cold again. It was dark. All day we could smell the Gluehwein, which translates as 'glow wine'. It made us warm and silly. I could just see the dancing cinnamon stick wrapped with a skirt of clove-studded orange peel, chunk ginger at the feet and star anise on the crown. My sister said I'd had enough.
The market closes on Christmas Eve. Angel hair will drift through the city for days hinting at the magic put away until next year.
We will light the pine incense in my Santa smoker, sip hot chocolate and dream of a return trip.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
My love coat
This jacket caught my eye in a boutique window in Innsbruck Austria. Of red, boiled wool, the hearts are stitched with a continuous thread. If I could see love, this is what I think it would look like. After buying it, I traced the thread with my fingertip cementing the truth that whether my loved ones are beside me or away, even out of skin, we are still connected; love is not lost. With us through good and bad, love is all that lasts - forever. Love is all there is.Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, December 09, 2005
Neuchwanstein - New Swan Rock
MSN photo
What would the shy, reclusive, dreamy, fairy-tale, Mad King Ludwig II of Bavaria think if he knew that over 50 million people have visited his hide away since he passed away? He was so far ahead of his time, he's an inspiration to think outside the box. His castle is the inspiration for the Disney logo.Neuschwanstein is a romantic banquet for the senses: the Alps, lake, carved woodwork ceilings and furniture. Richard Wagner's operas are depicted on the walls and on linen in brilliant colors nourishing the soul and fueling imagination.
Fairy-tale King Ludwig II of Bavaria lived here in the mid 1880's. Not only did he bring fantasy to life in his surroundings, the castle was technologically advanced with hot and cold running water in the kitchen and a swan head faucet (I can just imagine the delicious fragrances of roasting game.), hot air central heating, flush toilets, lifts, and electricity. And plenty of help to keep track of his socks.
Nestled in the Alps, the castle approach is steep. Bundled in our winter coats and fur hats, Audrey and Sophia, we opted to ride the carriage up. The slow pace would give us time to fantasize our own Prince Charming whisking us away to the land of "no problems." But the horse drawing our carriage had a problem that sorely strained our dreaming. It passed more stinky gas than a whole campfire of bean-eating cowboys.
Holding our noses we vowed to not let reality steal our dreams.
verse copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, December 05, 2005
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas
December 6th is Saint Nicholas Day. Put your shoes out the night before with treats in them for him. If you've been good, he'll leave you fruit and nuts. If not, it's sticks or coal.
This is the beginning of the outdoor Christmas Markets in Europe. Lighting the incense in my snowman smoker, I’m reminded of the magic of slow falling snow in Munich, and mingling with people bundled in heavy coats, fur hats, and boots to experience tradition and test the universality of a smile.
Amidst scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice we looked over hand-crafted Nativity scenes and ornaments, tasted gingerbread, roasted chestnuts, carmelized almonds in paper cones, marzipan hearts dipped in chocolate, cutout cookies, Pfeffernusse and stollen. Carolers sang from balconies. The Glockenspiel chimed. Hot chocolate and hot Gluewhein were drunk standing up, and we kept the commemorative mug.
The Munich Philharmonic Mozart Concert was wonderful. Not at all tired, we stopped at a corner Bistro. A gentleman offered to order for us,"They need something to calm them up." We were served Chamomile tea with hot milk.
Alles gut.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
This is the beginning of the outdoor Christmas Markets in Europe. Lighting the incense in my snowman smoker, I’m reminded of the magic of slow falling snow in Munich, and mingling with people bundled in heavy coats, fur hats, and boots to experience tradition and test the universality of a smile.
Amidst scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice we looked over hand-crafted Nativity scenes and ornaments, tasted gingerbread, roasted chestnuts, carmelized almonds in paper cones, marzipan hearts dipped in chocolate, cutout cookies, Pfeffernusse and stollen. Carolers sang from balconies. The Glockenspiel chimed. Hot chocolate and hot Gluewhein were drunk standing up, and we kept the commemorative mug.
The Munich Philharmonic Mozart Concert was wonderful. Not at all tired, we stopped at a corner Bistro. A gentleman offered to order for us,"They need something to calm them up." We were served Chamomile tea with hot milk.
Alles gut.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Sunday, December 04, 2005
ARKANSAS: Bullets & Bay Leaves
We were invited to Arkansas for opening week of deer season. It was a warm, carefree, Huck Finn weekend fishing for trout in the clear, cold White River, and hiking the bank looking for deer tracks, trails, and scrapes. We found an old, abandoned still with clear glass bottles strewn around, observed wild hen turkeys, sneaked a peak at two gobblers secure in the brush, and witnessed a blitz cross our vision that was a roadrunner. Where was the coyote?
"Come on, you've got to see this," Hoov urged stepping out of the boat into the water. I followed filling my boots with goo. In the cove he brushed aside the leaves with his foot and said, "Listen." We heard bubbling, the earth giving up fresh water.
Hoov's camp is a testimony to taxidermy: large-mouth and striped bass; a ring-tail cat; pheasants, and a Razorback hog head in the bathroom ringed with a pink flower lei. He cooked nonstop, and I took notes. We loved his seafood gumbo, New England clam chowder, and potato salad with chopped dill pickle. I'd brought fresh rosemary, but not bay leaves. I should have listened to my instinct, Hoov needed some and it was sixteen curvy miles to town.
The deer were nowhere to be seen, except on the road at night. But the camp was lively. Two new dogs: Pointers, and sisters had to be named. After much hilarity they were dubbed Bonnie and Clyde. A magic marker was used to write their name on their collar and on each of their owner's faces. We all left before a storm put his deck on top of the house.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
"Come on, you've got to see this," Hoov urged stepping out of the boat into the water. I followed filling my boots with goo. In the cove he brushed aside the leaves with his foot and said, "Listen." We heard bubbling, the earth giving up fresh water.
Hoov's camp is a testimony to taxidermy: large-mouth and striped bass; a ring-tail cat; pheasants, and a Razorback hog head in the bathroom ringed with a pink flower lei. He cooked nonstop, and I took notes. We loved his seafood gumbo, New England clam chowder, and potato salad with chopped dill pickle. I'd brought fresh rosemary, but not bay leaves. I should have listened to my instinct, Hoov needed some and it was sixteen curvy miles to town.
The deer were nowhere to be seen, except on the road at night. But the camp was lively. Two new dogs: Pointers, and sisters had to be named. After much hilarity they were dubbed Bonnie and Clyde. A magic marker was used to write their name on their collar and on each of their owner's faces. We all left before a storm put his deck on top of the house.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Uh-oh
The road less traveled. Wait a minute, that's not the road, it's the retaining wall. That left rear wheel is up like a dog at a hydrant.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Thankfulness
I am thankful for the good in my life. That’s easy. I don’t always feel gratitude for the bad and indifferent–until later. Life is tests and lessons–in that order. The ancients used to greet one another with, “…and may you pass the test today.”
My tests lead me to rely more on God and less on myself. The coordination of people, places, and events is unfathomable from my human perspective. I have to let go and let God. Letting go allows me to flow with life. It gets me out of my own way. What I want might be replaced with something better, or not for my good at all. So be it.
I’ve searched the world over
There’s so much to see
My most incredible journey
Getting to know Thee
Today I was reminded to not take myself too seriously when a pre-schooler asked me about my picture ID badge, “Did ja get that in jail?”
coyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
My tests lead me to rely more on God and less on myself. The coordination of people, places, and events is unfathomable from my human perspective. I have to let go and let God. Letting go allows me to flow with life. It gets me out of my own way. What I want might be replaced with something better, or not for my good at all. So be it.
I’ve searched the world over
There’s so much to see
My most incredible journey
Getting to know Thee
Today I was reminded to not take myself too seriously when a pre-schooler asked me about my picture ID badge, “Did ja get that in jail?”
coyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Ode to Celery
Cleaning out my refrigerator, I found a deceased stalk of celery. And I had such good intentions for its use: coarsely chopped and sauteed with green pepper and white onion in Louisiana gumbo; with green pepper and onion in chowder; in Hoover's potato salad with chopped dill pickles; with apples and walnuts in a Waldorf salad; eaten plain or stuffed with almond butter. Hoover says refrigerator drawers should be called "rotters." He's right!
In honor of all the celery I've sacrificed to the refrigerator, here's my
Ode to Celery
The refer knows
you're the one
that stays
until the end
others couldn't
pass the test
fickle
short-term
friends
copoyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
In honor of all the celery I've sacrificed to the refrigerator, here's my
Ode to Celery
The refer knows
you're the one
that stays
until the end
others couldn't
pass the test
fickle
short-term
friends
copoyright 2005 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
Sunday, October 30, 2005
NANTUCKET: Ghosts and Gams
Wind rustling the leaves, mist, salt air, light fog, and set-stillers spell Halloween on Nantucket. I dressed for the occasion in my black tights with little white ghosts, black boots, skirt, four-ply cashmere sweater, and painted a tiny ghost on my face.
At the Whaling Museum's Ghost Gam we sat amidst whaling artifacts and under the skeleton of an eighty-foot whale with jaws that could have absorbed a car – Moby Dick material.
We brought a bag of chocolate-covered cranberries to nibble while a reader read Cornish ghost tales accompanied by a harpist. The spookier the story, the faster we nibbled, and the more Minnie and I didn't want to walk alone back to our room at the Jared Coffin House. It has its own ghost. Shivers.
Locals told of walking by the cemetery and being chased by the ghosts that sit on the fence posts. Proper etiquette for approaching the 'setstillers' was discussed. If they were kindly acknowledged, would they still chase people? You check it out.
I got up and told of a house at home a ghost kept from selling. Her presence cooled it even on the hottest days of summer: supernatural air-conditioning. The house would sell, but the buyers would call within a day and back out. Through prayer and intuitive expertise, the ghost was encouraged to leave and take her baby with her. She did. Within a few days the house sold and stayed sold.
When the whalers were out to sea, a passing ship from home meant a Gam: exchanged mail, gossip, and booze: a party! I'll bet they wished they could have exchanged underwear.
Whalers were gone for months whaling the Atlantic. When it was fished out, they were gone years at a time whaling the Pacific. There was a story on display about a couple married fifteen years who had spent a total of fifteen months together. The women were left behind to run the farms and businesses. I could feel "woman power" in the air.
Fortified with lobster eggs Benedict and wrapped in warm coats, Minnie and I braced ourselves for the after-dark ghost walk. Our group stuck close together; no one wanted to be "left behind."
According to our guide, ghosts have been seen, and continue to be seen, going into the basement of a business to work on looms. Another climbs the stairs to sit by a window and rock. We looked with our eyes open and closed, felt the air for quivery cold, and were disappointed, sort of; we weren't sure we wanted to see them.
The ghosts are seen in period costumes. Maybe they don't know they're dead. At one location the energy felt dangerous raising the hair on the back of our necks. We shivered and moved quickly away. Our guide said ghosts are seen many more places, but the home owners don't want to be included in the tour. We concluded there are ghosts everywhere but on the census.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN wherever you are. Don't let the ghosts get you.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
At the Whaling Museum's Ghost Gam we sat amidst whaling artifacts and under the skeleton of an eighty-foot whale with jaws that could have absorbed a car – Moby Dick material.
We brought a bag of chocolate-covered cranberries to nibble while a reader read Cornish ghost tales accompanied by a harpist. The spookier the story, the faster we nibbled, and the more Minnie and I didn't want to walk alone back to our room at the Jared Coffin House. It has its own ghost. Shivers.
Locals told of walking by the cemetery and being chased by the ghosts that sit on the fence posts. Proper etiquette for approaching the 'setstillers' was discussed. If they were kindly acknowledged, would they still chase people? You check it out.
I got up and told of a house at home a ghost kept from selling. Her presence cooled it even on the hottest days of summer: supernatural air-conditioning. The house would sell, but the buyers would call within a day and back out. Through prayer and intuitive expertise, the ghost was encouraged to leave and take her baby with her. She did. Within a few days the house sold and stayed sold.
When the whalers were out to sea, a passing ship from home meant a Gam: exchanged mail, gossip, and booze: a party! I'll bet they wished they could have exchanged underwear.
Whalers were gone for months whaling the Atlantic. When it was fished out, they were gone years at a time whaling the Pacific. There was a story on display about a couple married fifteen years who had spent a total of fifteen months together. The women were left behind to run the farms and businesses. I could feel "woman power" in the air.
Fortified with lobster eggs Benedict and wrapped in warm coats, Minnie and I braced ourselves for the after-dark ghost walk. Our group stuck close together; no one wanted to be "left behind."
According to our guide, ghosts have been seen, and continue to be seen, going into the basement of a business to work on looms. Another climbs the stairs to sit by a window and rock. We looked with our eyes open and closed, felt the air for quivery cold, and were disappointed, sort of; we weren't sure we wanted to see them.
The ghosts are seen in period costumes. Maybe they don't know they're dead. At one location the energy felt dangerous raising the hair on the back of our necks. We shivered and moved quickly away. Our guide said ghosts are seen many more places, but the home owners don't want to be included in the tour. We concluded there are ghosts everywhere but on the census.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN wherever you are. Don't let the ghosts get you.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
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