Mishaps

Can you tell by looking at someone that they like to lick the beaters? Chocolate beaters were my faves. As a kid I could get my tongue up under and in between the beater bars until there wasn’t a drop of cake batter or whipped cream left. Gosh, Mom didn’t even have to wash those beaters, they were so clean. As I got older this childish habit became more sophisticated. I advanced to serving spoon and fork licker, too. I know. Shameful. But for the most part I kept – and keep – it from the eyes of others.

When our kids were little we  lived in New Jersey for almost five years before we returned to New York. They were pretty happy years and the genesis of many of my cooking and baking triumphs and disasters. One of the triumphs was wild rice casserole. We’d made an adventurous journey to the land of my birth one summer and returned home from Minnesota brimming with legend and lore about this native grain. At one of the huge picnics my relatives held I first tasted the wild rice casserole.

If you have never had real, Indian gathered, wild rice from the soggy plains of Northern Minnesota, you’ve really missed something. The dark grain (a grass seed really) needs to be soaked and then cooked for an hour or more before the hard outer shell bursts and its rich nutty flavor is exposed. Grandma Blaine told me when she was a girl there was usually a pot of it on the back of the stove and she and her brother, Ralph, used to eat it with sugar and cream for breakfast.

I brought it home with me from that vacation. I’d learned how to put just the right amount of sausage and spices into the dish. And YES there was cream of mushroom soup in there,too. The hallmark of many a Lutheran ladies casserole made famous by the likes of Garrison Keillor. Too bad. The soup and everything else that went into that dish made for excellent eating.

And my family thought so, too. But after dinner they scurried off to various parts of the house and yard. Our dog, Boots, zipped out the door to play with the kids and I got to clean up the kitchen. Okay by me. I picked up plates, cups, dirty napkins  - the whole big mess. Then I spotted the casserole encrusted fork. Nobody was looking.

Wow, a special treat for Sue. I snapped it up and put it into my mouth ready to savor the crusty bits of sausage and dark rice clinging to the tines. But something wasn’t right. As I rolled my tongue I thought how different the stuff on the fork tasted from the casserole we’d had for supper. I pulled the fork out of my mouth and turned to the sink where I saw . . .

The empty Alpo can sitting on the edge of the counter. 

My mind refused to contemplate what I must have just done and my whole self stood frozen in time for about ten seconds. I gave thoughtful pause to what was in my mouth and sure enough – it wasn’t the yummy wild rice casserole. No siree, Bob. I’d just dragged a forkful of dog food through my teeth.

P-toohey!! Get it out, get it out! Paper towel, glass of water, fingernail scraping – I couldn’t rid my mouth of it fast enough. I’d suddenly developed an enormous empathy for the dogs of the world, too. NO wonder Boots loved table scraps!

When at last I’d cleaned my mouth, I resumed cleaning the kitchen, shivering every once in a while and wondering if this was enough to make me give up the beater/spoon/fork licker  habit.

Probably not. My mac and cheese is just too good to leave on the spoon and my lemon cake batter - well, just forget about it. I only hope you can’t tell by looking at me that I can’t hold my licker.

Image: bigjom                                          Free Digital Photos

Let Me Introduce You . . .

To Minnie Markwood, the mystery shopping and consumer survey marvel who sets out, along with her sidekicks, Rashawna and Joel, to take down the Red Shoelace Killer. By some wacko twist of fate they form the most unlikely crime fighting team you can imagine, but you might wind up rooting for them just the same. I hope.

Here’s the deal. Minnie is not real young (like Rashawna), not real old (like her Toyota) and not a bandana wearing hot head (like Joel). No, no, Minnie knows what she’s all about. She’s a childless widow of ten years running, once worked as an assistant librarian, is a tad – ahem – overweight, and the proud owner of 300 hundred pairs of earrings. Now if that doesn’t qualify her to be a crime fighter without peer I don’t know what does. Oh – and she’s also addicted to Taffy Tails.

When she worked in the library Minnie gobbled up all things Agatha Christie and considers herself the equal of Miss Marple. Maybe even better – maybe. She also took a criminology course after her husband died and there she met Dan Horowitz, who becomes her mentor. He and Minnie have the same general feeling about the perpetrators of foul deeds. Quit fooling around and go get the bad guys! Dan is real handy to have around.

Minnie’s first crack at a bad guy comes when she hears a confession one lovely autunm day at work. In the hidey hole in the Roaring Gate Mall in Albany, New York, where she and Rashawna are doing deodorant soap surveys for Chapel Marketing, he walks in. It’s late afternoon and Minnie is caught mid-snooze (things are a bit slow in the mall after 4), but that doesn’t keep her snoop radar from skyrocketing when, behind the partition, she hears the words Red Shoelace Killer. Unfortunately, the ‘confessor’ bolts for the exit when Rashawna click-clacks (man, those shoes) into the hole and scares him off. Dang! 

Time out.

Taffy Tails? They just happen to be Minnie’s favorite candy. I loosely – okay, totally – based it on the very real candy, Cow Tails. And if you can’t get them where you are I feel sooo sorry for you. Long caramel whip with a creamy white center running through; sticks to your teeth for hours. Yum. And Minnie’s Taffy Tail addiction compels her to visit the Friendly Dollar Store (Tails on sale six for a buck) shortly after the confessor escapes the hidey hole. And there – can you believe it – she sees red shoelaces, on cardboard clown shoes in amongst other party junk, right there in front of God and everybody at the checkout! And this is where Minnie feels the Nudge of Fate poking her left buttock and prodding her to seize this cold case as her own. If the Albany Police Department hasn’t been able to solve this mystery in over two years, why shouldn’t Miss Marp – uh – Minnie give it a go?  

So now, you’re so intrigued you can hardly stand it. Right? Minnie's whole adventure will be available come November and I'll do my part by reminding you often.

Next: the lowdown on Rashawna who is A Piece of Work.

Image: Ambro                                          Free Digital Photos

Summer visits

A few years ago two of my sisters and our brother, Tim, visited. It was autumn, the favorite time for my family to visit, and we took them to Tarrytown. We toured Washington Irving's home, Sunnyside, and had a delightful time. It may be a place you'd like to visit, too. Here's what we found.

Sunnyside

The first thought that crossed my mind when I stepped into the small entry hall was, how on earth did the women get around in their big skirts in this place? Granted, the nieces of 19^th Century American writer, Washington Irving, were smaller than me and my out of state guests, but still, it gave me pause. When the five daughters of his brother Ebenezer, all living with Irving, attended their uncle, navigating the hallways and narrow stairways, they did so swathed in yard upon yard of gingham, silk or muslin over swinging hoop skirts. It boggled my mind.

Sunnyside sits grandly enough along the banks of the Hudson in Tarrytown, New York and from the outside exudes grace and charm. This is no less true of the inside and as we were guided through the house and grounds, we enjoyed a real sense of the early history of the area and of our country. We learned from our costumed and witty guide that Irving could count such notables as Charles Dickens, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Mary Shelly among his friends and acquaintances. He frequently held dances in the sitting room. His accomplishments in several arenas, writing not being the least of them, had us gaping in wonder.

The house is an 1835 Romantic/Dutch Colonial Revival style estate, featuring a fully furnished and restored house, icehouse, gardens and wooded footpaths. Irving remodeled the house and added to it to accommodate his extended family. The upstairs bedrooms are of particular interest as they give a lovely flavor of the times.

The whole air of the place lends credence to one of my favorite passages in Irving’s, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, a place which he describes thus:

     A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,

     Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,

     And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

     Forever flushing round a summer sky.

A visit to Sunnyside will not disappoint. Even the inevitable gift shop is a delight, rife with memorabilia from Irving’s most popular tales and rich in atmosphere. Tarrytown itself boasts many other attractions including fine dining and accommodations, among them the famous Castle on the Hudson and the Horsefeathers pub.

Now, don't you just want to go there?

Image: Michal Marcol                           Free Digital Photos

    

Blessed America

Last night I stood while the Star Spangled Banner played at the travel league baseball game we attended to watch our grandson, Sam, play. Everyone stood. Men took their hats off and held them over their hearts. A few people kept their hands at their side. That’s okay – they were free to do so.

And as I stood there, with the words of our national antherm going through my head, another flag scene flashed through my head. From a movie.

I looked around the ball field. Someone had done a good job getting it ready for the game. Baseball stadium aromas came from the concession stand – hot dogs, fries, mozarella sticks. Maybe that tickled the noses of the nine and ten year old boys standing on the field, hats off, while they listened. Maybe they didn’t know all of the history behind the flag they were honoring. That’s okay – they were free to think what they wanted.

The movie was one I hadn’t seen in years. It popped into my head as I surfed Netflix. Oh, yeah, I thought, why don’t I watch that again? Sally Field played her part so well in it.

The music stopped, everybody put their hats back on and it was time to  - Play Ball! Moms jabbered to each other on the bleachers. Younger siblings tapped Dad’s pant leg to ask for money for a freeze pop. If someone fetched a ball that had made it over the fence – guess what? – that fetcher got a Free freeze pop. Fun.

It was very hot out and I was glad I could sit and watch the game in shorts and skimpy sandals. Many of the other women were similarly dressed. Sunglasses, sunscreen and shorts. The summer baseball watching uniform of women all over our land. We’re free to dress that way.

The movie was Not Without My Daughter.

The game looked close in the beginning. The kids were pumped in spite of the heat. Coaches roared instructions to each batter and fielder. Parents yelled encouragment. “Okay, Eddie, this one’s yours!”  “You can do it, Sam.” “It’s okay buddy – you’ll get it next time.”

You just don’t get more American than this. Our national pastime in diminutive form. Shaping kids for the competitiveness of the world. Maybe some of the parents were even re-living their own glory days in Little League. That's a part of it, right?

Betty’s husband lied to her to get her and their daughter to leave America and go back to Iran with him. The Shah had fallen and he wanted to be in his homeland. He had no intention of ever returning to America. Moody had every intention of keeping Betty there against her will. Custom dictated she must cover up from head to foot unless she was at home. Not a hair on her head could show. She was his wife and under his rule. She would become like other Iranian women, some of them Americans like Betty. He beat her and threatened to kill her if she tried to leave. She loved him. But she loved freedom more.

The game rolled on, the sun went down and we were clobbering the other team. We began feeling sorry for the other kids. We cheered or clapped when one of them made a good play. They’re all our kids, really. Both teams played their hearts out.

Betty eventually found people willing to help – people, I believe – who were a direct answer to her nightly prayers – the ones she said with her daughter. They were people who loved freedom, too, and were willing to risk life and limb to help others achieve it.

About half way through the game a cop car drove by the field. They slowed down. I turned and smiled. They wanted to see part of the game. They weren’t there to make sure the women’s heads were covered or that no one was dissing the government. And no machine guns. They were just guys who liked a kids baseball game. Sam’s team won by A Lot. We cheered. We got up stiff from sitting for so long. We got into our cars and went home, tired and happy. Free.

It took over a year for Betty to make her harrowing escape. In the most intense part of the movie we see her scurry away in the dead of night clutching her daugher, hopping from car, to horse, to bus through the hot and dangerous mountains of Iran. Our hearts are in our throats at every check point where men with machine guns wait hoping to catch those trying to get out. We’re sure her husband is sending vile men to kill her.

And this is where that other flag I was thinking about at the ball field last night comes in.

In the last scene we see Betty being dropped off on a street corner in a small town. She looks around, a little confused. The streets are empty in the wee hours of this morning. We don’t know where she is until we see her turn her head towards a sound – the sound of an American flag snapping in the breeze, bold and beautiful.  She can  hardly believe her eyes, then tears well up as she hugs her daughter, and begins running towards the red, white and blue fervently whispering,“We’re home, baby.”

And so am I.

Image: Chuck Felix                                Free Digital Photos

Fun

This morning while eating my cereal-yogurt-fruit combo breakfast in front of the television, I clicked on our old movie station. There, for an instant while I waited for the commercials to go away on Channel 6,  I watched a man who delighted me when I was a child. Spike Jones. Even when I was a kid his movies were old, but watching him this morning for just a few minutes made me realize what the word FUN really means. This guy had it down cold.

For the un-initiated Spike was a man who could make music and mayhem out of almost anything; cow bells, pot covers, horns, goats. Yeah, in the movie I glimpsed this morning he pulled on a goat’s beard to hear the ‘baaaaa.’ He did it in perfect accord with the other intruments and was backed up beautifully by his zany fellow musicians. What a delight to watch! He ring-a-ding dinged and bing-bam-boomed all over the place.

His real name was Lindley Armstrong (1911 - 1965), but I’ll bet the fun in the man wouldn’t let that stand. Gosh, Spike Jones sounds so much more lively, don’t you think? Maybe it set the tone for what the rest of his life was going to be – making people laugh at the movies. He often used gunshots, whistles and weird vocals, too. And loving every minute of it no doubt.

Anyway, I’m determined today to have fun at least once. Maybe with my grand kids, maybe sharing a memory with an old friend . . . maybe . . . well, I don’t know right now, but I’m looking forward to it!

How about you?

PS: Thanks, Spike!

Image: Salvatore Vuono                                                Free Digital Photos

Guest Post

My friend, Marion, pointed out to me the other day that June is the month of weddings. She offered to share the following story about that happy - and mis-hapy - time in her life. Enjoy!

The Wedding Ring Mistake

by Marion Tickner

It is June, the month of weddings. My mind goes back 40 years to my own wedding. I let Norman pick out the diamond engagement ring, but we picked out the wedding bands together. Norman asked to have our initials and the date engraved on the inside. I don’t see how anyone could do that in such a small space, but they do.

Since I worked downtown at the time, I picked up the rings on my lunch hour. I had invited Norman for supper and we opened that little brown envelope to examine the rings.

“That’s not right,” I said. The date was correct, his initials were correct, but not mine.

We were getting married in two days, no time to change anything.

“You’re going to have to get a new woman,” I told him, jokingly, “or we get married with the wrong rings.”

The next day I made a special trip downtown. The sales lady admitted it was her fault and she apologized. “You’ll have to get married with the rings and bring them back to correct the initials.”

I can’t get my ring off now to see what had been done, but even though they attempted to work over the initials I was never completely happy with them.

Years went by. Norman became ill and began to lose weight. One Sunday morning as we sat in church I noticed he wasn’t wearing his ring. I looked around the area he had been and notified the church secretary, and of course looked around home, but the ring was never found.

When his birthday rolled around, I took him to a different jewelry store and bought a new ring. The saleslady agreed to have the initials and our wedding date engraved inside. “If you can wait half an hour, you can take it home today.”

While we waited, I told her the story of our rings and how the wrong initials were put inside. When the ring was ready, she came from the back room laughing. “You’re not going to believe this. He put in the wrong initials. Can you come back tomorrow?”

Image: Salvatore Vuono                                  Free Digital Photos

Well - What a Weekend!

Started in the strawberry fields in Kinderhook. The women and kids were out with the buckets, bowls and kettles – picking, sneaking a taste, picking, holding up the really big ones in wonder – the whole enchilada. It was glorious. Eventually we had enough to take back to Grandma’s little jam factory which was ready and waiting when we got back to the ranch  - so to speak.

The men showed up to eat the pizza we ordered - from Mark's, Yum! - and helped keep the kids occupied. Okay – I took a break and went to pick peas in the garden with the kids. Sierra loves them so much you can’t shell them fast enough - she eats them raw standing right there in the row. Kate and Heather kept plugging along in the kitchen. The result? Twenty one glistening jars of strawberry jam – seven per family. How cool is that? 



Kate and Heather



Saturday morning I took myself off (along with BFF, Karen) to the Orchard Tavern in Albany for my first Mavens of Mayhem meeting. What a great bunch of gals! I think I’m going to like being a part of this group and learn a lot more about mystery writing in the process. The meeting and the lunch were fab. Karen and I did a bit of shopping and when I got home I changed and went to my babysitting job. I took the three little angels in my charge for ice cream at O’Kenny’s and we all made it back and forth across Route 9 without incident. I felt like a Mama duck. "Walk fast - don't run! Okay - walk, walk, walk."

Sunday was the ultimate Father’s Day. Baseball! Sam began his tournament play and the team came in second. Dad and Grandpa were loving it. Great, sunny day, coolers full of food, parents and grandparent cheering the kids along then second place with a trophy and everything. More games coming up with the possibility of eventually going to Puerto Rico for some really Big Deal competition. Go Clippers!

Fixed hubby a steak dinner when we got home and then Carl and the girls came over for chocolate malted milk – Grandpa makes the best. Up in the garden again for more pea picking – Sierra had three in her right hand and holding out her left for more – that kid!

Just before nine we got a call from #3 son in Washington State. We Skyped with him and our granddaughter, Lillian who’s eight By the time 9:30 rolled around Grandma and Grandpa were pooped – but in the best possible way.

Great weekend? You betcha!