Four Cherry Cordials, a Welcome Treat

I've had these all my life.

At least as long as I can remember.

These are the G Rated version of a treat that I discovered probably before I could walk well.  Always having a sweet tooth, I would gravitate toward them and anything else that tasted well. 

I'd pop one in my mouth, and if I was patient, allow the chocolate shell to melt until the cherry sugar syrup would run out onto my tongue.  Then I'd have a third treat as the cherry waited behind for my molar to pop it open like a sweet balloon.

My sister discovered that I liked those things and when we realized that tradition said we should be giving gifts on holidays and birthdays, a box of these would show up.

A welcome treat.

Once, and only once, I found the Real Version of these.   They'd have an alcoholic brandy in them, most likely Kirschwasser, a German Cherry Cordial.  I remember those being "amazing" but decidedly hard to come by.  New Jersey, where my sister and I grew up, most likely had regulated them to being frightfully scarce and in "all my years" I've only ever seen them twice. 

It has been a while since the Mastodons roamed free in the North Eastern United States, and I suspect that they ate most of the Alcoholic Cherry Cordials to keep them out of my own hands.  I guess they like Kirschwasser as well.

It's an open secret between my sister and I that I will receive these in a "Care Package From Home". 

I see them here at the supermarket and it Isn't Quite The Same.  Of course we could just toss one in the cart, but it just hasn't felt right to do so.  While I truly enjoy these overly sugary treats, it wouldn't have quite the same feeling since my dear sister didn't toss them in a box, cart them to the Cherry Hill, New Jersey Post Office, stand in line, and post them to me here in South Florida.

Luckily those events are in the cooler parts of the year.  Shipping chocolate to Florida via the US Postal Service guarantees that they will arrive partially melted and most likely "deformed".

But, Hey!  They Eat Well, Right?

I had gotten a welcome Care Package back around the holidays and set a few of these aside in a very cool part of the refrigerator.  Not so much to hide them from anyone else in the house, I did it to hide them from myself.  I wanted a small treat to remember a well thought and welcome present from someone dear to me, far away.

Plus they taste damn good.

POP! All gone!

Oh and frozen?  They're amazing too!

A Woman Goes For A Facelift

When I was a wee brat, my sister had quite a few dolls.  Dolls everywhere, on shelves, in the corners, on the beds, in the closets in her bedroom.

Right, Pat?

And this was something of a golden era of dolls.  They all had their gimmicks.  Some were super tall, others had the ability to walk, there was even one you could give a hair cut by turning a knob in the back of her head. 

To this day, I refer to "Turning the Knob on the Back of Your Head" as getting a hair cut.

Seeing that I have been giving myself haircuts since 2003, I know that knob well.

My British audience would most likely be having a quiet giggle about how I turn my own knob.

My American audience will have to understand that means just what rudeness it sounds like.


At any rate, the joke today... it is on the same vein.   I present "A Woman Goes For A Facelift".

A woman in her 40's went to a plastic surgeon for a face-lift. The surgeon told her about a new procedure called "The Knob," where a small knob is placed on the back of a woman's head and can be turned to tighten up her skin to produce the effect of a brand new face lift.

Of course, the woman wanted "The Knob." Over the course of the years, the woman tightened the knob and the effects were wonderful. The woman remained young looking and vibrant.

After fifteen years, the woman returned to the surgeon with two problems. "All of these years, everything has been working just fine. I've had to turn the knob many times and I've always loved the results. But now I've developed two annoying problems: "First, I have these terrible bags under my eyes and the knob won't get rid of them."

The doctor looked at her closely and said, "Those aren't bags, those are your breasts."

She sighed and said, "Well, I guess there's no point in asking about the goatee...."

My Old Florida Heater

According to the almanac, which ever one it was that I saw it in, we do get a "winter".

It is all of two weeks long.

Or as a good friend of mine is fond of saying:  We do get all of the seasons here, just not the ones that stink.

Change that last word to something maybe a little more harsh for accuracy.  Four letters, still starts with an S.

Yeah, that one.

But it is two weeks long.

My own Cherry Hill, NJ would descend into Fall somewhere around mid October, Freezing temperatures in December, but sometimes not until New Years.

Give or take a bit.

It would warm up to spring in late April, and by June we were in the mid to upper 80s.

If Memory Serves Me Right.

With Global Warming, that may be shorter, you'll have to ask someone who stayed behind.

Yes, there is Global Warming, No, being a Republican does not excuse you from that.

The weather up there gave me a lot of time to be indoors.  After all, you didn't really want to be out in all that cold slop did you?

We had a house with a gas heater.  It was about as tall as a full grown man, so to my childhood size, it was big.  There were six large burners in it that ran front to back, and were about three feet long.  Just shy of a meter.

When it kicked off, it would FWOOMPF! and light up solid from the back to front.  There was a port hole that fascinated me as a kid because Bright! and Hot!, Daddy! 

To me a heater should be that big.  Especially something meant to heat up a split level home.  Those houses weren't all that efficient to heat or cool.

But down here I hear rumors of some hearty souls that brave our long two week long Winters and month long Spring and Autumn, yes, you guessed it, Without A Heater!

Hey, it gets all the way down to 34 here!

When they replaced our heating and cooling the other day, I took the chance to take some pictures.  The pictures came only when I looked in and was surprised just how little things were.

That picture is actually my entire heater. 

Entire.

It's about six inches square.  Look at the palm of your hand and spread your fingers as wide as you can get them.  About that big.

That's all.  Two layers of "resistance heating". 

I think I have had floor heaters that were larger.  You know, those things that women would stash under their desks in office buildings because they have already put on three sweaters and it's cold in there will youturnupTHAT DAMN HEAT!

Those women.  Five minutes later and they're complaining it's too hot.

But here, that dinky little six inch square of wires?  That's it.  That heats my house.  1200 square feet, a whole 110 square meters.  Two bedrooms, 1 bath. 

I was fascinated by it like a Great Dane would be with a Kitten.

A KITTEN!????  Awwwww!

Yes, a heater, er a kitten.

My First Boil Water Order

I'm pretty stoic about some things.  I tend to overprepare, but that is what you'd expect from someone with my career history and path.   Plan things out as far in advance as you can see and you will be fine.

So this particular morning when I woke up, I was surprised to hear everyone panic.  I mean You Do Prepare Don't You?

In reality, a Boil Water Order can be a pretty important thing to worry about, if you haven't planned.

My Freezer had a full tray of ice, and I know that would last me a solid week.  I slid the switch on the Ice Machine to Off.

I heard about it very early in the morning so Coffee and Tea were safe.  I simply poured off all the extra water in the kettle to a pitcher and refrigerated it.  There's extra Mint Tea made, since I had to boil the water anyway.

Mind you, the dog waters the Mint too so I never have that "right out of the garden" without really washing it well.  If you think your produce hadn't been watered by wildlife, a dog, or even a person, you are most certainly fooling yourself.

The Dog?  I'm not worried.  I see how he says hello to other dogs, and he cleans himself doesn't he?  He'll be fine.

Then I got to thinking.  Has this ever happened before?

Probably.  In the day of Social Media, we hear everything seconds after it happens.  Think back to things that you saw just last week online that you might never have heard about.  Anniversaries of a fire that happened back in the 1970s in Cherry Hill NJ when the Garden State Park burned to a twisted wreckage.  That was the first time I heard about it in years, but it came instantaneously.

The reality is that if you go back to pre-social media days, a Boil Water order would come out and you would hear about it hours or even days later if you happened to miss the "Six O'Clock News".

That just meant you were drinking tainted water for an extra couple days.

In this case my Boil Water Order was caused by e coli coming into the pumping station.

E Coli?  I can remember swimming in the Delaware River south of Stroudsburg PA at the Water Gap more than once.  Maurice River in the Pine Barrens in NJ.  Atsion Lake in the Pines too.  I'm sure there was some e coli in that.

Drank Well Water?  Directly from the source?  Yeah, me too.  I doubt people on well water boil that every day.

The Pioneers certainly didn't and they used to poo right into the creeks.

My own irrigation well?  I wouldn't drink from that, but I have gotten blasted full strength in the eye and in the mouth more than once. 

That gator is definitely not smiling.  It's thinking "You Look Tasty"!



Mind you, I wouldn't swim in a river or a lake here in South Florida.  The gators would have you for lunch.  Definitely not safe whether there is e coli or not.

So it boiled down to "In Me or On Me".

In Me gets boiled.
On Me I take my chances.   After all the water is still getting treated.

My coffee and tea are safe, as are the drinks I make from them.
Iced tea from a mix?  I'll use that extra pre-boiled water.

When I got finished with the morning routine, I made some rather nice Rye Bread Rolls from the Wonder Bread Clone Recipe I found a while back.  Just substituted Rye flour for Semolina and it turned out fine.   The water was from a case of bottled water we had bought for Hurricane Season.

We made some bow tie noodles later on.  Water was from the tap, but it got boiled for a good 10 minutes anyway. 

The rule is bring the water to a full boil and hold it there for 1 minutes and you are safe.

After all, burgers are considered safe if cooked to an internal temperature of 165 and allowed to rest for 3 minutes.  "Muscle" meat is typically 140F or warmer for at least 3 minutes, internally.

Then I got a little paranoid and rethought things.  If I rinse and reuse a plate what happens?  That's technically "In Me", I set it in the still hot oven.  That should make sure it's sterilized.

That brought me to thinking about the dishes in general.   Baking fills the dishwasher.  Run it or not?  We decided that since the water is heated close to boiling, and the soap is basically Lye, then the air-dry cycle afterwords fills the house with steam.  I'm good.

We just don't hand wash anymore anyway.

Showers?  "On Me".  Lather Rinse and Repeat.  Just don't drink the water.

Toothbrushes.  Use bottled water, or rinse it out with a little Hydrogen Peroxide or Vodka afterwords.

Vodka?  In times of trouble, field hospitals use Vodka to sterilize instruments.  The Russians, where autoclaves are not available,  used Vodka to sterilize their instruments.  They also used it to sterilize wounds.

I just hope we don't come to that. 

Don't use rubbing alcohol on anything that goes "In Me" because it is poisonous.  Vodka is safer.

So basically it's a week of annoyance here.  It will take a while for the pipes to get flushed, and Fort Lauderdale was planning on flushing their system with Chlorine to make things cleaner this week, anyway.

Now if they could do something about their speeders coming through town.

USB Turntable With Built In Speakers - AKA What You're Given When You Are Handy

I had been watching this item and laughing.

Vibe Sound USB Turntable With Built-In Speakers!

Ok, I have a stash of old school Vinyl Records in the house.  I'll admit it, I actually bought some of these when they were Current.

I won't pretend to be a Hipster.  I do have a goatee right now, but that's because I was bored.  Maybe it saves time, yeah that's the excuse, it saves time! 

Anyway...

I've got a reputation around here for a number of things.  I've become "That Guy".  It's a reputation of That Guy Who Can Actually Fix Things.

As a result I am given things that people can't figure out or just don't want to mess with.

You know the type.  You've got some old gadget that has been taking up space in storage.  It annoys you or your partner and you decide to toss it out.  Put a tag on it on the night before Trash Day saying "Free To A Good Home" and hope someone who needs it finds it.

Or you do what this guy did.

A neighbor who I know in passing lived around the corner.  I'd pass by from time to time and wave hello, or perhaps we'd bend each other's ears on a dog walk.

Lets call him A Dog Walk Friend instead of an Acquaintance because Dog Walk Friends are Friends Who You Get To Know Better Later.

Or so I've been told.

We're walking past the other night and he's getting stuff out for trash day when I hear "I'm Beat!".

He's standing by a 1970s vintage Console Radio complete with 8 Track and a box under his arm.  The Free To A Good Home tags are flapping in the breezes.

"I can see why"...
"Here!  Take This.  You fix things, see what you can do with it!".

A box that had seen at least one move and some strapping tape was thrust at me.   I pass the dog leash off to Kevin who is shaking his head "NO!" just out of direct view.

I tell him to stop shaking his head and take the box for examination.  The pack rat is about to get a new toy.

While laughing, I tell my friend that I had been watching this and I still have a foot locker full of records.  Mine and some from Dad.  Dad's old Swing Era records, still in the Time/Life boxes, ready to be listened to and loved.

I should do something with those records.  I've had them in the foot of my closet since before I moved to Florida because I couldn't bare to pass them on.  They're complete but not particularly worth much on the "resale market".  Collectable to me, but ... well I can't get rid of them, Dad would hate it.

Even if he is gone to the great beyond.

It isn't the kind of thing I'd buy for myself.  USB Turntables aren't exactly all that expensive, but I have a better turntable from back in the day when a good turntable was a requirement instead of like now when it is a confusing relic from the last century.

We got the box home, and I took it out to the backyard where I inspected it.   For good measure, I slid the equipment out, sprayed the box with bug killer, then slid the turntable back into the box.  That should kill anything that might be lurking.

Waiting until the next morning, I unboxed it.  It was complete.  I dug out my last milk crate of old records, finding someone else's taste in music I realized "Not Mine" and moved them aside.  I found my crate.  I guess I'm down to just one crate of my own records.

Choosing a classic disco record, I put it on the turntable.  Powered it up.  There in Mid-Fi I got to listen to a song that I had heard dozens of times before.

Sigh with me everyone:

"Memories!" 

It even has the software if I am bold enough to try it.  Apparently I can plug it into my laptop and capture the vinyl onto an MP3 so I can listen to the same stuff that I have been listening to since my childhood another time.

Mmmm pops and crackles on MP3 complete with loss and low top end.

Ok, it's a nice toy and it didn't cost me anything.  

So since you're reading over my shoulder, how about flipping the LP over.  They only put one track on the A Side, and I want to hear Cerrone's Paradise again.

Thanks!

Classic White Bread or a Clone Of Wonder Bread? You Decide

I finished up the "pressing tasks" of the morning rather early.  Happens when you're up almost two hours before sunrise as a normal habit.

I was debating what I wanted for breakfast and realized that everything I wanted needed to be baked.

I'd have something else, but I would make everything later.

I ended up baking some Cream Biscuits for Biscuits and Sausage Gravy for the next day, and a Pizza In a Skillet for lunch. 

But I realized that I finally had enough room in the freezer to make up a batch of rolls. 

Since I was sitting at the computer doing some decidedly random surfing, my mind turned to Reddit because it had been in the news lately, and I started hitting some random subreddits within the site.  Each "subreddit" is an old school list of topics that people can write about.

Ending up on a subreddit devoted to recipes that are clones of commercial foods that we all enjoy, I started reading Mimic Recipes.

There are a host of things there that I will be trying, but I did find something to help with my need for rolls.  I was intrigued by a Wonder Bread clone recipe. 

Yes, Wonder Bread.  That "stuff" that you feed your kids.  When it goes stale, if it ever goes stale, it makes good to excellent French Toast.  A whole generation was raised on Peanut Butter and Grape Jelly, on Wonder Bread.

The last time I had the stuff it tasted ... like air.  I had grown used to thick crusted rolls with actual flavor.  "Ethnic foods" changed my preferences.

I wondered how close to the old Wonder Bread I could come with this recipe.  Even Wonder Bread isn't the same as I remember it.  The crusts were rather strongly flavored when I was a kid, in my own memory.  The Bread itself would be great to roll up into a dough ball and chew but there wasn't a particularly strong taste.

I have to say, this recipe pretty much nails the crust taste, but the inside had a light flavor that wasn't bad. 

I didn't have the semolina flour that was called for so my own recipe used the commercial All Purpose bread flour that I keep on hand. 

In 25 pound bags.  Cheaper that way.  It also reduced the price of these rolls to about 7 cents a piece.  Maybe a buck a batch give or take.

I guess the idea is that sometimes you want a crusty roll to make a hoagie, other times you want a thin and soft crust roll for a PB&J or other sandwich. 

Will I make it again?  Sure, not bad.  After all, the company did get bought up after it went bankrupt and their bread is being sold everywhere just like the good old days.  Someone out there must like the stuff!

Call it a "Classic White Bread" recipe and skip all the double talk, it was pretty darn good last night with dinner.

Ingredients:

• 1 1/4 cups Water
• 4 1/2 teaspoons Dry Yeast
• 2 Tablespoons Sugar
• 2 teaspoons Salt
• 1/4 cup unsalted Butter, Melted
• 4 cups unbleached all-purpose Flour
• 1/4 cup Semolina Flour - Or just substitute 1/4 more all purpose Flour
• Melted Butter for Glazing

Process:

• Process Ingredients on Dough Cycle In Machine or alternately use mixer with dough hook.
• Gently Deflate dough
• Form into an oblong loaf and place in lightly greased 9" by 5" loaf pan.
• Place the entire loaf pan in a large plastic bag to allow it to rise - or other enclosed space like a cool microwave oven.
• Allow to rise until the dough is about 1 inch above the pan rim.
• Brush with Melted Butter.
• Preheat Oven to 350F.
• Bake 30 to 35 minutes until evenly browned.

Wilton Manors, Where Nobody Thinks Twice if You Are Running In The Sprinklers at 6:45AM

I've lived in a few places, but all of them were what I'd call Suburban.

I grew up in a Wonder Years house, in the Wonder Years suburb of Cherry Hill, NJ, in a split level that backed up to a wooded area and some small wetlands, baseball diamonds, and places to explore.




I moved off after college to an apartment building in a similar suburb, or rather a set of suburbs, and finally settled in Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia.  Oh, yet another suburb.



All of those places were stable.  There was a certain quiet way of life.  Sure, the kids were out and about on bikes, skateboards, and rollerskates having fun and generally tearing up the place.  This was the era that kids did that sort of thing, now it's called Free Range Parenting and it is the exception and not the rule.

That's a shame.  Kids are expected to sit in front of a screen making icons move and play first person shooters.  Turn the games off, it's a more interesting world offline than it is online.

But there was a certain way about these places.  Nothing too out of the ordinary, everyone seemed to have a role in life.  I guess there also was a bit of a small town air about it where you knew your neighbors and they'd look out for you if you needed help.

Then I moved to Wilton Manors.  Think of it as a resort town where the resort is for adults who want to sit indoors and play with their cell phones, just like anywhere else these days.  Some of that is good, the rest of that is a bit odd.

Again, Odd can be good.

Down the block there's a neighbor, Scott.  He has a wife, Cindy, and their kids.  When I moved in here I came to the realization that it isn't quite what it seemed living two blocks off of Wilton Drive.  I think I moved into Mayberry.

The kids were small back then.  They would come walking past the house in a pack.  Probably the only kids left on the block at that time, the families having raised their kids before and moved on out.  Homes get bought in waves when they are built in waves, these homes were built in the 1950s and 1960s so those children raised in these homes are at least in their 40s and have their own kids.

But the reason why they were in a pack was because it was difficult to walk with a big green aluminium rowboat on your back.  They'd go down to the nearest open water access with their fishing poles and buckets and go on the water for a proper day of fishing.

When their dad needed to find them for some reason, he'd come flying past the house.  No, he didn't run.  He was on a skateboard and frankly he's better at it than I am.  His wife was good at it too.

I figured if they could use their skateboards, I could get back on my inline skates and be at home.  I was.  Nobody thought twice about it.  In fact, I suggested that they use some of my old racing wheels on the boards for a smoother ride.

After a while they gave up the skateboards for an ATV.  Quad bikes.  They'd go up and down the block learning how to ride the things that gradually got bigger as they did.   The kids were better at driving than most people on the roads here in South Florida, and Dad had just as much fun as they did on them.

I remember telling them that they had better toys than I did and I was jealous.

I stepped out onto the porch thinking about this.  They were going off to the river today, early and on a rare week day.  I didn't see them as they were approaching, but that wasn't why I was out. 

It was irrigation day.  Sprinklers were running and I needed to check the things.

On the porch, I looked through the gardens.  There are a few plants there to make the property look less sterile, and they're indifferently cared for.  Some took, others withered away.  I didn't know why until I looked at the sprinkler heads there.  One was turned off, the other was down to about 1/2 power.

In most suburban neighborhoods, someone would notice a sprinkler problem and Have A Guy Come By.  That way you don't have to get your hands dirty and surprise the neighbors.  Always be wary of that, you don't want to surprise the neighbors.

People my great-grandparents age would say "Stop that, you'll scare the horses!".

Nonsense.  The sprinkler was turned off, and it needed to be turned on.  Now.  While there was still another half hour left on that zone.  That was Zone 1 and it only runs 50 minutes twice a week.

I watched the timing and realized I could trot out past the golf sprinklers that watered the yard from two directions and get there relatively dry.  I was right.  I got to the distant one and turned it up full, then repeated the process on the nearer sprinkler head.

Looking down I realized that my foot was in standing water.   Comes with the territory.  Wet clothes and wet shoes.

I watched the timing and trotted back to the porch.

At that moment I heard the kids say "Hey, you made it!".

I had a small audience.  Instead of being concerned that I was being odd or Un-Suburban, I smiled and thanked them and went back to playing Sprinkler Guy.

"Good luck fishing!"  I called back to the big green aluminium boat on the little cart that I grew to accept as part of the background here.

I heard "Thanks!" as I reached for the door knob.

Yep.  I live in a town where nobody thinks its too strange if you're running through the sprinklers talking to a rowboat on a cart just after sunrise.  After all, the crotons in the garden like it too!

Rosebuds Against The Sky

I spend a lot of time out in the backyard.  That's normal here, especially in Winter when the highs may be as cool as the mid 70s.

Yes, I know, Bracing Weather, innit?

I take Rack, my dog, out back and watch him.  If he wants to play, he makes it quite obvious.  If I am being particularly dense, he even assumes the down on the haunches dog "PLAY!" form.

This wasn't one of those days.  I had to putter.  It was also just a little bit after sunrise so the skies hadn't turned their brilliant blue yet.

Wandering around the semi-private areas, I inspected the pool.  It hadn't rained in weeks but the water level was fine.

The hedges had been trimmed a few weeks back, so I didn't need to putter there, although the one hedge is somewhat of a mess.  You may like Mother in Law Tongues in a pot, but growing under a Night Blooming Jasmine Hedge, they can be an invasive nuisance.

I'd send some to my sister but she'd probably clobber me.  Never tick off a Jersey girl.

Never.

Thankfully I learned that some time in my early 30s.  Missed opportunities before that I guess.

I have a Darwinian approach to gardening.  Things grow, I cultivate.  Things die back, I clear and plant fresh.  I'm not terribly effective at that, other than Screw Palms and Dracena.  They're all over my yard, and terribly easy to grow even up North in a pot in a sunny room.

But then there are the roses.  People write sonnets, poems, and songs about the wonders of a rose. 

Floribunda or wild roses, it doesn't matter.

I'm not exactly a fan.  They're less annoying than my bougainvillea because they don't spread.

But I can't pull them out either.  I may cut them back, but I won't kill them.

I have one leggy plant in the yard.  A Pink Rose.  I won't call it a bush, it's more like a stick with some prickles on it and some limbs.  Lately I will let them get a flower on the end, then I will cut that off and bring it inside and have it indoors.

That is where they belong.  Cut in a glass in my kitchen.

When they finally wilt or drop petals, I collect them and put them in a coffee mug.  Pour boiling water over them, I get a mild scent of rose petals in the kitchen to do battle with the curry or garlic or other spices I was cooking with.

I'll get the plant cut down to a useable size eventually.  They won't grow through the fence like my neighbor in Philadelphia, Ruth.  Ruth is gone now, well, really, so am I since I am down here.  She was a powerful woman.  Small of stature, she had a presence that demanded attention.

She also had what we called Little Wellfleet next door.

That's Wellfleet, Massachusetts.

Ruth had taken trips up there to Cape Cod and brought back plants for her garden.  One of them was right up against our fence.  Her "Wood Roses".  At least that was what I'd call them when I was being polite.  These were the kind of roses that grew wild up there.  They also would have made a formidable fence for livestock because every square inch of that plant had dozens of thorns on them.  It looked like a hedge crossed with a medieval torture device.  It also insisted on growing through the fence.   Since it was planted next to where my Jeeps were parked, it also managed to get me on a regular basis.

So while I respected and liked Ruth, I also got to trim her rose bushes on a regular basis.

While she wasn't looking.  I wasn't crazy.  I wanted the job done, not to have to answer why.

Now Wood Roses would grow wild.  That was what they did.  You could try to train them, but if you were in their climate, they would not stay trained long.  They'd grow thick and form large mounds of prickles and thorns and flowers.

Every time I manage to cut a flower to take inside the house, and stick my thumb with one of those prickles, I think of Ruth and her wall of Wood Roses.

Blasted prickly plants, beautiful though they are.  Just like Ruth.

Merry Chrismoose

If you look around at what you have, you may find yourself amused by what you keep with you.  What gives the most pleasure may be something simple because of the memories attached to the item.  An item of that sort of sentimentality may be worthless otherwise, but you have a life enriched by having them.

Of all of the things we collected in our life, I found myself looking at this scrap of cloth, deeply worn by use, and smiling.  The improbability that what is now a rag would have made it this far over the decades is something quite surprising.  More surprising is that I had given it this much thought.

We had boxed everything we wanted to save.  The basement of our almost 2000 square foot house on top of the hill in the Greene Countrye Towne of William Penn was full.  It became our Box Farm.  First we emptied the basement.  Then we cleaned it for the first time in years, properly.  Raising so much debris that we had had to put an exhaust fan on full blast to draw the air out of it, we swept, vacuumed, and dusted.

The North side of the basement filled.  Boxes collected there and under the stairs, as well as finally on the South side.  More than 200 boxes to be moved to Florida.

Somehow this scrap of cloth made it.

It is half of a towel that we kept for the holidays.  A dish towel in reality, it was never really notable, but it gave me a smile.  A gift from my sister, she knew that I'd be amused by it.  My attraction to Moose was always a source of amusement to me and my friends, despite never having actually met one.  I'm given figurines, statues, plush animals, and this towel.

It got a tear in it along the way and at some point it ended up getting sliced in two.  I may actually have that other piece somewhere, wadded up in a ball most likely. 

Who knows?  But there it was that laundry day.  Sorted out from the socks and towels and sheets on the Hot Wash Load, I separated it out and left it on the big green chair.  Taking the rest of the load up in my hands, I looked back at it and smoothed it out on the chair.

Stopping and staring at it, I thought of my sister, her family - husband and son, still in their home in New Jersey, living their own suburban life.  The green prairies of South Jersey are carved up into small plots with their Wonder Years homes, neat and tidy, in the land of Nice White People, 2.3 kids, and two cars.  Warm and comforting life in one of the ten best cities of the country to live in, and it always has been for as long as anyone can remember, Cherry Hill, New Jersey.  When the survey said you could pick it or any of the neighboring towns as number one, I understood why.

It made it all the way here, improbably, to my chair in the little house, on the quirky little island, in the Florida sun, to remind me of the journey and that all that wander are not lost.

We all have our own collections.  Things that make us happy.  Things that make others scratch their heads and wonder why.  Usually they are quite worthless, perhaps worn down or worn out.  They'll be tossed away by someone with the detritus of life when the time comes.  They are the definition of ephemera, something that is designed to fade away with time.

But for now, enjoy what they mean to you, and enjoy the secret smile that comes from having a life worth remembering.

57 Miles For A Watermelon?

I wasn't thinking of produce that day. 

It actually was something new.  We were going to a "hamfest and flea market" down in Coral Gables.  That of course set off a chain of events because of what I call "Suburban Inertia".

Inertia is the physics maxim that those bodies at rest tend to stay at rest, those bodies in motion tend to stay in motion, unless acted upon by external forces.

Yes, Science Content.  You expected anything less from me?

Suburban Inertia is the theory that once you move your body into the car and get going, you may as well keep going until you get all your errands done, or run out of interest.

Cash, Time, Interest, Need for a Rest Stop... all that qualifies.

We got out of the house at 7ish.  About a quarter after 7 if I misremember right.  Got into the big blue beast because my Jeep eats gas and I hardly ever drive it.

No, really.  I was asked by a neighbor if it worked since I use it so infrequently.  Yes, I do, and Yes, I still enjoy driving it.

We were heading to the University of Miami main campus in Coral Gables to hit a quarterly Hamfest and Flea Market.  I figured it would be fun, if nothing else, to go there and look for electronic fiddly bits.

Fiddly Bits is a serious technical term for small items that are necessary for life.  The little things that go together to make life itself possible.  You know, that one screw that fell out of the bottom of the case you were fixing and now the door hangs crooked?  It ticks you off to no end because you can't find the little thing because it rolled under the refrigerator after you kneeled on it when you got on the floor to find it in the first place?  It stuck to your jeans and bounced off and rolled under there and you can't be bothered to go after it because you'll have to move the pantry and clean the damn thing?

Yeah that kind of fiddly bit.

I was actually hoping to find some "bell" wire to make an antenna and figured something calling itself a hamfest would be chock full of "cool stuff" as well as fiddly bits.

I was thinking of maybe the 1990s.  That sort of flea market was massive back then where you could go and buy one part and walk through hundreds of tables entertaining yourself with the question "What the heck is that thing" and getting back an idea that convinced you that you needed it to repair that old tool sitting in the shed so you really can get that chore off the honey-do list that's been there since the turn of the millennium.

Come on, we all have one or two of those chores!

The hamfest was modest.  Fun but modest.  Only about 20 tables.  It did have a vendor with Vacuum Tubes, so I'll go again.  After all, Dad's Radio could use a tune up!

We were through in under 15 minutes.  Walked through again a third time and decided to go.  I didn't exactly want to go back so I suggested that we go down to "That scruffy farmer's market down near Homestead" and poke around.

Redland's Farmer's Market.  Homestead, Florida.

After getting the "Are You Nuts" look, we started heading back to the main road.  By the time we got there, I heard from the Driver's Seat "Yeah that would be fun, lets go look around for that place".

Mind you, we had stumbled across it once on the way to the upper keys.  It was an insane crush of people then and we thought it would be fun to wander around it just because.

When we got there it was just as much of a crush of people on a Saturday morning.  It also felt like home.

I used to entertain myself going to this exact sort of place all over South Jersey and later in Pennsylvania.  They're all a little rough around the edges, but you can find things you can't find anywhere else.

Apparently "real" seeded watermelons are one of those things.  I mean, really?  All season I could only find those vile tasteless un-seeded watermelons.  For years I couldn't find a "Real Watermelon".  The deep pink to red flesh that tasted sweet and eventually would drip down your chin or your arm with a sticky watery juice.  

The un-seeded varieties didn't taste like that.   May as well eat the rinds.  Blah.  Can't have seeds?  Too damn bad because you never ate the real thing.

It's a Jersey Tradition around the Fourth of July to stand in the backyard eating a wedge of watermelon and ending up with the seeds trying to take root in the garden because one of the kids spit them there.

Kids being anyone, even adults.

Everyone enjoyed them because they were good.  Not that over priced basketball sized thing that they sell now.  These would take up the entire bottom shelf of the refrigerator and promise goodness.

That was the first thing I saw - a monster watermelon.  So I mentally made a mark in my mental checklist to stop back and grab one when we went exploring.

Never really found anything else I needed.  Wanted, yes, but needed?  Nope.

Heading back to the fruit stand I grabbed the largest watermelon and immediately was warned "They have seeds!".

Yes, that's the point! That's how you want them!

I also grabbed a couple oranges, apples, a large sweet potato, and a few lemons and really REALLY looked forward to that watermelon.

Getting home I checked calorie count and figured a "candy bar" ration of calories would be 24 ounces of the thing. 

Yes, A Bowl Full turned into a "Salad Bowl" full of a pound and a half of Watermelon.

Frankly, for an ex-Jersey Boy like me, that's par for the course.

And BOY did I enjoy that.  The wall of sweet, the juice stuck in my Movember Beard, the seeds to discretely spit out into the bowl.  It all put a big smile on my face.

Then I realized.  Movember, er, November.  We're way out of season.  Where would I get another?  How far was that again?

Checking the map... 57 miles.

Yes, we drove 57 miles for a Watermelon and some other assorted fruit and veg because I just couldn't find it in any of the "normal" places.

Would I do it again?  Sure.  Just not every damn week.  After all, there has to be somewhere closer I can get them.

I know of this little fruit stand on Dixie Highway up in Oakland Park...

I'm already plotting a trip out for next weekend when the Suburban Inertia strikes!

My Canadian Earwig Problem, Eh?

Have you ever had something stuck in your head?

I mean truly stuck there for hours or even days?

Welcome to the club.  I'm there.  It's My Canadian Earwig.

No, I really don't have a problem with anything Canadian.  I used to listen to a lot of Canadian Radio when I was a wee brat in my childhood and into my teens.  I'm told that people in the bordering areas of the US have a habit of doing that.  When I visited Ann Arbor, Michigan once, I saw a couple TV shows on TVO out of Windsor, Ontario that I rather liked and wished I could see here.

I listened to a few stations there that made it to my own home in the Philadelphia area as a matter of course.  CKLW in Windsor was one, a pop station that was legend in the 60s through the time that Clear Channel conquered and then killed US radio.  I used to get news from the Northern Quebec Service of the CBC as well as their regular English Language external service that morphed into CBC Radio One.  The French Language service on alternate half hours was a challenge but it helped with my own studies in High School French, sadly mostly forgotten.  The CBC Domestic Service on 740AM and 1540AM made it to the house clear as a bell at night.

No, it all started when someone said they were going to go for a trip.  "Take Off".

You see, we all became Canadian for the summer of 1982.  There was a wacky one-off song called "Take Off" done by the SCTV crew back then.  Everyone was calling each other Hoser and saying Eh - which simply wasn't done in Philadelphia before then or since.

Maybe Pittsburgh.  I heard that the border to the midwest was somewhere around where they start watching the Steelers and stop following our Eagles.

Iggles, Yo!

Of course I had to put my oar in that water.  I found a video on Youtube with the song on it.  Played it.  Then while laughing, I played it again.  Yes, musical OCD.  I'm waiting for Oscar to start saying "Coo Loo coo coo, coo coo coo coo" any second now.

Now, being a comedy bit, I know that it's a parody.  I know it's openly stereotypical.  I know their accent is thicker than some of that good Quebec Maple Syrup folks would bring down from Montreal in big tin cans for the French Toast after it was left in the freezer.

Having visited Canada, I will say they're more like us than you might understand, and they'll apologize for that.

Sorry, eh?

I mean, having listened to CBC for news I've got an ear for that accent.  Midwestern US is very similar but not exactly the same just like the Chicago accent is not the same as the accent you'll hear even across the line in Michigan City, Indiana.  But Bob and Doug McKenzie's was over the top.

Being one of those oddballs who picks up other people's accent I didn't realize I was programming myself.

I wanted something different for dinner.  I had some old Gingery Bread in the freezer that was great but it was getting freezer burned.  So I get up from the chair, hit the replay button on that Youtube window, Took Off to the Kitchen to make a beauty meal, eh?  Yep.  French Toast.  Quebec Maple Syrup.  Touch of cinnamon.

"Coo Loo coo coo, coo coo coo coo"

Rack joined me and crunched away on his food as I'm puttering with the plastic spatula on the teflon pan.

Man that was good, eh?  Beauty.

We finished the food and ran into someone.  I was whistling the riff from that song and started talking to them.

"What's up?"

We were chatting and I realized just what was up.  Yes, fully programmed I had lost what was left of my fragile mind.  Telling him what was going on he got a laugh out of it and said that I really had it down.

Great, I've lost my mind and people find it amusing.

Day two.  525AM.  I'm walking South on Wilton Drive.  Sunrise isn't for another 2 hours or so.

You guessed it, the revenge of the earwig.  "Coo Loo coo coo, coo coo coo coo"  I'm whistling that riff again.

Just give in and enjoy it.  When you have an earwig, the best way I can think to deal with it is just feed it.  Play it out.  Let it go.



You guessed it.  I'm letting my freak flag fly, direct from The Great White North.  I'm looping this track.  You really don't want to play that song, you'll be thrown back into the 80's, and stuck with this in your head.  Don't do it, you know you don't!  No, don't play that song.... Aww you went and done it, eh?

Beauty.

So, crack a Brador if you can find one, or a Molson's Canadian, cause they're great beers,eh?  Don't forget to recycle so the True North Strong and Free can remain clean.

Beauty, eh?

Happy Fourth of July and Fireworks can be Scary

Having borrowed this picture from Facebook, I wanted to credit the organization I borrowed it from.

The N.O.A.H Animal Adoption Spay and Neuter Center - or Northwest Organization for Animal Help (NOAH) "is dedicated to stopping the euthanasia of healthy, adoptable and treatable homeless dogs and cats in  Washington State. We are committed to high quality spay and neuter programs available for low income residents, family friendly pet adoptions,  humane education, and volunteer programs through our state-of-the-art facilities and Spay/Neuter Center."

They are based in Stanwood, Washington so if you are thinking about a pet you can check out their furry friends that are available or check out their photo tour.

The picture got me thinking.  We have had a very wet week here in South Florida.  It has thunderstormed every day for the last week.  When it thunders here, it's epic.  There was a lightning strike within a block that made all the lights in the house surge brilliant for a bit.   That happens each time there's a storm.

The problem with that is while I like watching the pyrotechnics, it has made my own dog, Rack, very

gun-shy.  He's not the bravest of creatures, in fact I'd say that he's probably the most fearful dog I have ever known.  Each time the storms would approach, he would hide.  By approach, I mean within 10 miles. Since the storms have had a habit of hovering off shore and approaching from any direction, it has been a terrifying time for my young friend.

Last night was a worst case scenerio.  Since it is getting close to the July 4th holiday, there are neighbors that are celebrating.  Fireworks are readily available in South Florida, whether legal or not.  I saw them in Publix last night when we went for some last minute supplies.  There are displays at the gas station, and there just is no way to avoid them.

We went out for a walk a little early to avoid an approaching storm.  The tropical wave that became Hurricane Arthur just gathered enough strength to send a feeder band of Thunderstorms our way.  I spotted it early and we were outside.  While the atmospherics were going on, someone decided they'd add to the fun and send off some rockets.

It was a very unproductive walk.

My right arm was being wrenched from my dog trying to get back home, and had I dropped the leash for any reason I have no doubt he would have run home like a shot.

Weather makes it tough to manage your dog.  Fireworks can make it even more difficult.  Add the two together and we're in trouble.

Many people allow their dogs free run of their yards.  This kind of noise would make a Jumper out of just about any dog, and in that case you have a terrified animal running for cover in an unfamiliar place.

With a dog like that, the best thing to do is what I used to call "Make Storm Time Play Time".  Lettie loved tennis balls, so I would play fetch with her during the storms.  She liked it so much that any time the weather started up, I came out with the ball and she stopped being fearful.  Positive reinforcement.

With Rack, it is much more difficult.  He loves other dogs, but there isn't one handy.  With a dog who loves other dogs, putting him in that social setting would be perfect since the dog he would be with would be a more mellow dog with better confidence.  That isn't available, so we're going to have to just let him in his own space.

His own Secure Space.

You don't want to let a fearful dog, or even one that seems to be comfortable with the experience.  With "amateur displays" a piece of fireworks could go awry and end up closer than anyone would want.  In some "distressed areas" someone thinks it would be a great idea to fire guns up into the air.  Why they don't remember that that bullet will come down again is beyond me.

You're both safer indoors.  Once you hear the booms, whether fireworks, guns, or weather, your best bet is to go inside.

Or ... Duck and Cover.

Navigating by Remote Control

Ok, rule number one.  When a bunch of people are going for a ride in the car, driver sits behind the wheel.  The rest of the people line up by height.  The tallest gets the seat in front next to the driver.  The shorter people go in the back.

How do I know this?  Simple, I'm 6'4".  Tall people don't fit in the back of the car, it just doesn't work.  Unless you're driving a limousine or one of those boats that they used to sell back before the 1973 oil embargoes, there just isn't enough room back there for anyone over 6 feet tall no matter how you try to spin it.

That might explain how I constantly got drafted to be the know-it-all who is next to the driver up front all the time.  Yes, the navigator would be a nicer way to phrase it.

I don't care if she's your wife or your elderly grandma, putting someone in the back who is over 6 foot tall means that you're just not thinking.

But it does mean that you get good directions.  You should at any rate, or that tall person should be locked in the trunk, which might even be worse than sitting behind the driver in a compact car.

I got excellent at giving directions, but there were always limitations.  Back in the stone age, when your grandparents and dinosaurs roamed the Earth, there were somethings called Maps.  These things were typically either in a book or were a giant piece of paper best used on a wall to cover a nasty stain that got there when you tried to cover up a food fight you had when you were 12.  You would open this and now the entire surface of the car was covered with a sheet of paper covered with brightly colored lines representing roads of various shapes, and rivers.

Don't drive on the Blue Roads.  They are rivers.  Your car won't survive long nor will it get where you are planning on going unless you are trying to collect on the insurance.  In that case, you're a bad person and you made me a Sad Panda.

Later, you would find things that would fight that massive sheet of paper by simply printing out the road in a strip.  Don't stray from your route or else you will fall off the edge of the map to where There Be Dragons, and who knows what other evil creatures of the night might find you as you hurtle through the unknown in your little compact car of doom.

I still haven't managed the attraction of a GPS.  Sure, I have the software on my phones, whether Android or iPhone.  They work well enough, but then you get this rather assertive voice barking at you while you're stuck in traffic.  The one I used last had a fight with the one the driver had turned on for the same route and as a result there are little computer chips and shards of LCD screens laying on the floor of the car.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

This time though, I will be a Navigator by remote control.   Kevin is coming back from up North where he spent a week with Mom.  Holidays with Mom, then Mom and Sister's Family.  He's currently stuck on the Auto Train where a switching problem in Banjo Player County Georgia has him limping along to the promised land of North Florida and Sanford Beyond.

How these trips go are that I start getting calls when the train is past Daytona on its way South.  Then he's sitting in the station playing with the iPhone getting fidgety waiting for the giant train to disgorge his car so he can drive back.

Stop by a Wawa in Central Florida if one is nearby and get an Italian Hoagie.  I swear the bread is made by license by them from Amoroso...

As things progress I get more calls saying I just passed a cow in the middle of a field, do you know where I am?

Well, no, I can watch your progress on Google Earth, but I don't have access to those Spy Satellites that I've heard about.  If I did, this world would be an interesting place, but that's a different flight of fancy.

It's bad enough that I load up Google Earth and start looking at things like borders on the map and scratching my head as to why I can trace the border for miles when the neighbors have been peaceful for 200 years.

You know, Pennsylvania and Maryland?

We seem to have jumped over the standalone GPS era and went right to the Smartphone based GPS.  But it's still easier to ask me, 100 miles away, where that particular cow is.

Ok, just get yourself home.  I'm sure you must be back in Florida by now.

You're not?  Oh well, I'll go make some espresso.

The Sink Is Full, The Grill is in the Yard, and the Lawn is Cut

When we were kids, we knew that we had a good weekend when Monday hit and we were tired.  

We'd have skinned knees, or new scratches, or some fresh mud on our sneakers, and we were happy.

Especially the mud.  There was this wetland near the house with a high spot that was dry.  We'd go out in the tall grasses, through the mud, and get to the high spot.   It was "Our Island Home" with a roof of brambles that in season would give sweet blackberries and shelter from the sun.

Later, we went to college and weekends were spent studying, or at a party.  I think they scheduled those 8AM lectures just to make sure that the Freshmen would fail out early and move on to a different school leaving behind piles of cash - on purpose.  You could tell who would make it by how "hearty" they would party.

Life moved on, people did finally graduate, things would settle out.   You have your responsibilities no matter who you are and where you are.  Some of that is chosen, the rest is due to the path that you have been given.  Nature vs nurture, but all mixed up in the soup called life.

Part of that settling would get rid of some cherished traditions that felt stale.  Traditions that no longer added to your life other than holding you back.  

You eventually hit a rhythm.   You're in a groove.  That's the basis of that old '60s word that some people cling to, others are trying to bring back, and I chuckle at.

Groovy.

Things are falling into place.

Then one Monday Morning, you get up late.   You're out doing your normal schedule but you run into some people who you don't normally see.  It's a time to get caught up with these friends.  That is when the question hits.

"So, how was your weekend?"

I had a pat response.  "Must have been a good one.  The sink is full, the grill is in the yard, and the lawn's cut!".

"Oh...Kay then."

Yep, that's life in suburbia.   It's easy to judge when it has been a good weekend.  The 20s college buzz has turned into the settled "I've gotten my chores done and the food's been made.".

Sure, it's a grumble when you've forgotten to "tidy up" after visiting with the neighbors, or grilling just the perfect Jerked Chicken with Rice, but it's a good grumble because you chose it.  

So lend a hand.  If you're going to hover, you had better learn how to load a dishwasher.   After all, it takes a full dishwasher to make for a good Suburban Weekend.

Little Jon's Fire Truck

When my nephew Jon was small, I was able to get him a toy that lasted him most of his childhood until he discovered video games and grew out of such things.

I was lucky enough to be able to find things that a kid liked, simply because I would look at the things I thought I'd like and get them.   Add to that there were a lot of places to pick that sort of thing up near where I lived.  

It gave me an excuse to look at things I had grown out of but hadn't lost an appreciation for, and a chance to see that same joy in the eyes of another.

So that season, I picked up a large fire truck.  Big and red and beefy, I thought it might last a week.  Made of plastic so it wouldn't cut him if he got his fingers in the wrong place, thick plastic so it just might survive a fall down the steps from the second floor, and just enough fiddly bits and pieces so that it might be interesting.

The other thing it did, that I didn't realize until he got his little hands on it, was if you pushed it, it made a siren sound.

Wrapped up in bright paper, glued on the seams, it was "shelled" like a peanut as soon as he got it.  

Little blue eyes went huge when he saw this truck as he tried to get it out of the caddy.  Of course I helped him out there.  

When I removed it from the packaging, we heard it for the first time.   A grunt.   The wheels had turned and it made a small siren sound.

That was it.  Luckily all his gifts were opened and set aside by then. 

For a two year old kid who could barely walk, this truck became a crutch to help him learn how to walk and then to run.  

For his mother and grandmother, it was going to become something that had to be rationed.

This toy became the proverbial drum set you give to the neighbor's kid.  For that year it was his favorite.   Every time it got set aside because there was something new, it wasn't for long.   He'd go back to the fire truck when the newness of some other plastic gadget waned. 

He'd haul himself upright then place his toddler's hands on the truck, point it in the direction he wanted to go and push.   We knew that when Jon was in the middle of the Fire Truck Play Time, the TV was turned off, and it became one thing that parents never seem to do enough of - pay attention to the kid. 

My mother, his grandmother, would try to hide the thing on him when she had enough of the siren and the rumble of him rolling it out into the foyer, but it simply didn't work.   He'd tear apart the house until either she relented or he found it.

Path of least resistance was to let him have his fun.

Eventually, of course, he'd lose interest in the toy, but that would take years.   I think he was in school when it finally went to where ever childhood toys went when they were outgrown.   The last time I saw it was in the garage of the big house on the hill, gathering dust, well into his teen years.

Sometimes, you just get the right gift, and it annoys the hell out of everyone around you.  Never mind them, it made a kid really happy for years.  Besides, I never did get him a drum set.  I think he would have liked a drum set.  After all, his mom got a guitar once...

Jeep Seats and Dog Beds

We got Lettie Thanksgiving week, 2002 if my math is right.

She was our little Black Friday Purchase. 

We were living in a three floor "farmhouse" in Chestnut Hill section of Philadelphia that I truly enjoyed for those years.

With three floors there were plenty of rooms for a dog to find a comfortable spot, plenty of furniture for her to rest on.

We stopped that with one notable exception that I had no control over.

You see we had to.  Since it was November, the weather was cool.  When the weather got warmer, Our Lettie got fleas that first spring.  That stopped her from sleeping on the bed, and any other furniture.

But she was smart.   She knew that when we were out, she had free run of the house. 

Three floors of rooms.  

Sure, we'd close certain rooms off like the bedrooms, but there was one room that was just too small to bother with.   It was also the one room without a door.

The third floor rear as we called it.   It was a small room with a sloping roof so that I couldn't even walk on the back half of it without ducking down or walking bent over.  

It was a pleasant place to watch the back yard grass grow, and since it wasn't large enough to do much more with, it also collected things.

We would get things brought in the Jeep Wranglers we both drove at that time, as much as we could fit in them so that shopping was called "Filling A Jeep". 

When I took long trips, I would remove the back seat in the Jeep and put it out of sight and out of mind.  Eventually that ended up in the third floor rear room next to one of those small half windows in the back of the house.

Lettie discovered that and made the Jeep Seat her own.

It was coincidentally placed so that half of the day it was in the sun.

Yes, the dog had discovered a perch above the trees where she could watch the squirrels in the back yard, sun her bones, and do it all on a dog sized couch that really belonged in the Jeep.

I didn't realize what was going on until one day I got in the house and she didn't notice it. 

Loading up all the groceries into the kitchen I went looking for her.   Softly I climbed the stairs to the third floor without squeaking that one tread half the way up the flight.   Looking right to the front of the house, nothing was there, but she was watching me from the rear on the seat.

Caught.  When I looked at her, her ears went down and she wagged her tail walking over to me.

What else could I do.   She found her place and I had created it for her by shopping for the house.

The seat was rarely used as a seat, so it stayed out of the car most of the time.  Perfectly sized, and luckily treated with fabric treatment, it was fairly clean.  In fact, that seat is in my car to this day, the third Jeep I've had.  I stopped wear and tear by putting a blanket on top of the seat as a slip cover, and more mats strategically placed through the house.

Those mats lasted her life, and when she left us in April this year, Rack began to use the same mats, still strategically placed through the house here in Florida.

I have the same blankets to this day.  Every so often I look up and see her sitting on the blanket on the beige seat in the sun, one of the benefits of having dogs that looks so much alike that they're never completely "gone". 

They're just resting in a quiet and sunny corner of the mind.

A Taste of the Holidays in July

Saturday Mornings have always been time to stretch out and do things a little differently.

In College, after practice, I'd head home and start cooking the carbo-load I needed after time on the river.  It would be a large plate of French Toast on order before moving onto more pressing matters.

This day, I stood in front of the kitchen window wanting something just a little different but wasn't sure what.  Plus the French Toast was a little too much different.  Surveying the Honey Drink, Iced Tea, and Coffee for later, I was looking around the kitchen and spotted the little bottles sitting by the range.  They were left over from a Holiday Care Package my sister had put together this year in December, and they gave me the idea I was looking for.   We ship each other boxes of offbeat gifts, mine are mostly baked, my sister using her creativity for finding some fascinating things that I enjoy deeply, later.

A collection of seasonings and syrups, flavored sugars and cocoas, they sat around waiting for me to realize what to do with them.   Cinnamon Sugar got used making Hotteoks.  The Cocoa was used in baking a cake.  I had moved away from a daily flavored coffee when I began roasting my own beans, the bitterness banished to the Starbucks from whence they came.  Flavoring coffee became a whim, simply not required, so it was a small luxury.

My sister specialized in finding gifts that I would not get for myself, but always found some profound thought in them when I put them to use.  I still have the shirts she got me when I lived in Pennsylvania on Top of the Hill.  Where she managed to find just the right size of "long" tailed flannel shirts for my tall frame always had me wondering - even I could not find them.

These syrups were left over.  I decided that the peppermint coffee syrup was going to be used next, but the vanilla would add a little smooth sweetness to this morning.  Stirring in the syrup, cooling down the brew with four ice cubes, we walked outside to survey the morning by the pool.  Mr Dog and I walked once around the yard, him sniffing lemon trees, and my sniffing vanilla and coffee and remembering my sister well.

Thanks, Pat.  You made Saturday Morning a little bit sweeter.

Echoes of Betty's Dish

The story of Betty's Dish is one of those that every family has.  There's always some Family Nuttiness that happens that recurs every so often.  Random events like someone made a recipe differently and now it HAS to be done that way every holiday season because one specific aunt or uncle likes it that way.

Betty's dish went back and forth over the years and eventually passed into the haze of history.  It was a cornflower blue Corningware casserole that my Aunt Betty started bringing with her from her home in Queens, NYC, to our place in suburban Cherry Hill, NJ.  Eventually it either stayed with Mom in Jersey, or went back to NY with Betty. 

We never were completely sure, but when Betty decided the one that Mom had wasn't the one she was missing, we all considered the issue closed.  After Mom died, I even tried to give Betty that one lone casserole dish saying "it's the only one left, she'd want you to have it, please take it!".  Needless to say that dish is still with my sister, or at least was the last time I saw my sister back in 2006.

Within our broader family, any time something goes back and forth inexplicably, it becomes Betty's Dish.  In this case, we just had another Betty's Dish begin this week.

When Kevin returned from visiting his Mom in Philadelphia last week, he came back with a bag full of things his Mom insisted he needed.  A mostly full bag of all purpose flour, one bottle of ready made iced tea, a box of cookies (MINE!), and other odds and ends.   We called it "Shopping At Mom's" because if you are an adult and visit your mother's home, you undoubtedly will return with more than you left.

In this case, mixed in with the other flotsam inside of that now out of place bag from Acme Markets sitting on my kitchen island was one small plastic food container.   Proudly stamped with the brand Ziploc, it sat there begging the question:

Kevin, why do you have a Ziploc food container?
Mom insisted that it was mine.
But... It isn't.  You don't have any of those containers.
I know, but it's Mom.
So now... what... we have a new Betty's Dish?
Yes.
Who's dish is it?
Probably my sisters.  Never mind, we'll put it to use.
Yes, but knowing your Mom, she will remember and ask for it back.
I know, I know.
So you'll be carrying it back and forth from Florida to Philly every six months just to keep her happy?
Yes.
Oh for crying out loud, I'll make cookies for her then.

So there you have it.  We now have a new tradition.  It's not Betty's Dish, it's Mom's Ziploc, but it's just as nutty.

I will try to pass that little plastic container off at parties.   If I have to bring some condiments, it's a perfect size and we just bought a big box of plastic containers so I could have an excuse to recycle all those yogurt containers that I used to put things in.

Yogurt containers are a story for another day, but if you see me coming with a smallish ziploc container that I magically forget, just consider yourself the latest recipient of the Hot Potato in the game.   Pass it on to someone who can use it.  I'd just rather not see it go back to Philadelphia and confuse Kevin's Mom.

A Morning Dog Walk Fogged Over by Nostalgia

We got out well before 6AM which is getting to be our normal walk these days.

Not really feeling like dealing with a dog with the morning traffic on The Drive, we stuck to the back streets in the neighborhood.  While it was much quieter, my faithful sidekick, Rack, seemed unsettled.

Normal, really, when you have a shy shelter refugee of a dog.

Getting out about 1/2 mile from the house, he started slowing down and sniffing the air.  The ears were twitching and trying to find something.  One pointing toward the front, one toward the back, Rack just wasn't interested in being out any more.

Ok, Boy, Lets head back!

We met up with one of the other dog walkers I see at the Dog Walk Hours, and realized it was getting later.  His dog also seemed a bit agitated and confused.   There was something going on on our Quirky Little Island.

Parting company, I headed Rack toward the house and the little park on the corner.

Coming closer, there was a sound.  It wasn't quite 6AM, so there shouldn't have been any construction going on.  Mechanized yard work couldn't start, legally, until 7AM.  This was the time of the morning where people got up and walked their dogs, not use leaf blowers to clear the driveway.

It sounded like a leaf blower on steroids, actually. 

Still too dark to see much other than deep blue cotton candy out over the ocean that began to catch the light from the sun rising over the Bahamas East of us, we both were looking for some sort of idea as to what was going on.

Checking the watch, 5:57AM was a bit early for drama, there had to be an explanation.

When I rounded that corner, I saw flashing lights and the sounds were getting louder.

"Lets go home, boy!" as Rack was digging his heels into the pavement and looking around from left to right trying to make sense of the sounds.

Then we both saw it.  I thought it was a large power company truck, but it turned out that it was a Mosquito Fogger.  He spotted us and cut the fogger as he passed by.  I immediately changed course to a street that the fogger hadn't been.  I didn't want to dance in the fog like we used to back when I was a child.

Silly kids.  Back In The Day, we would see a county truck back in Cherry Hill, NJ a couple times during the summer.   Whatever fog they used was so thick that the air was left a creamy white fog bank that you couldn't see from one side of the little residential street to the other.  Now that I'm older, I realize how foolish that was.

Rack and I started walking down the street behind my house.  It turned into a trot, then a jog.  Rack loved the exercise, I thought that "this isn't my sport" as we got as far down the block as we could. 

Luckily the fogger went his way and didn't come back.  We got to the front porch of my house with the weird high pitched leaf blower sound trailing off into the distance.

Happily, I walked into the safety of the house and the clear air of the Florida Morning with my dog and coffee on my mind.

Again With The Hoagies? - Picture

Yeah, again.   I guess if everyone has their own particular "Ethnic Food", a proper Italian Hoagie or any other for that matter, is mine.

Since I can't get the right rolls here, this hoagie was better than some but not quite right.   I may be baking some bread today as a result.  I can get the right crisp on my pizza dough recipe.

Over the weekend we were in a feedback loop between me, my cousin in NY, and my sister back in New Jersey.   Discussions went back and forth about the foods we had when we were growing up.   All that stuff you took for granted and thought would be around forever, aren't.

When Mom and Dad are gone, most of their recipes are as well.  No matter how good a record keeper your 'rents are, there are always a nuance here and there that get lost.

In my case, it's the amazing water that we got from the Cohansey Aquifer and the Delaware River Watershed.

If I ever manage to get back to Philly, I am going to get a 5 gallon Carboy and fill it with that amazing tap water my sister has in Cherry Hill, New Jersey.   If you know someone coming down from Jersey, have them pack a gallon of water for me, Ok?  I just may be able to get a good loaf of bread then!

We're not talking Artisanal bread shops here, I have had some excellent Artisanal breads here in South Florida.  The problem is that I was able to produce those same results with the same recipes up North - it really is the water down here that isn't quite right for baking.

But the hoagie was fine.  I went to Doris' and got some excellent Soppressatta, Hot Capicola, and Hot Proscuitto, Sharp Provolone, and the veg and made that up.  Nice dinner for one.  

If I could have found some Extra Sharp Provolone it would have been better...  Hmmmm.

Oh that brown stuff on the roll?  Balsamic Vinegar.  My choice there, Mom would have used Wine Vinegar from that bottle of Chianti from the holidays six months back that "turned".   Best stuff around!

I think this weekend we're going to make up some Marinara.   I have some sausages I intend to toss in the sauce and make up a sandwich just like when we were kids...