Cold and Rainy Served Up With a Smile

Rain drops

like skipping-stones 

dimple the lake's green face

skimming across its reflection

of clouds

Bebe smiles rain or shine.

Frost Bites The Garden

Just one heirloom tomato survived the past week of record breaking low temperatures in Tampa. One. Of twenty tomato plants, assorted herbs, onions, peppers, green beans, broccoli, turnip greens and rhubarb, the winner is a precious heirloom tomato which grew from seed from a tomato brought back from Granny's garden in Michigan. Figures a Michigan tomato would survive a hard frost in Florida. I'll savor every bite of this tomato, minus the seeds, which I'll dry and plant next week. Sure, some of the herbs will bounce back, the onions were planted deep enough to possibly survive, and the rhubarb is showing some promise, but, by and large, the garden is kaput. For now, I'll be pulling frost-bitten remainders from a garden which has fed me, my neighbors and friends since before Halloween.

I look forward to new beginnings: the smell of fresh rich soil, the anticipation of watching seedlings peek out to greet and tease the sun, the early starting of my days by picking beans under moonlit mornings and the careful watch of cardinals, the satisfying ache in my lower-back and calves from working hard, and the potential of delicious, home grown food on my plate.

The frost is gone and life goes on.

Patching My Soul

Main Entry:

soul patch

Function: noun

Date:1991

 a small growth of beard under a man's lower lip

Today, I am reminded of the power of "beauty parlors" and the time when I used to go to an upscale hair boutique in a ritzy neighborhood. Upon entering the salon, I was always greeted by a human Barbie Doll concierge who seated me in a foliage-lush waiting area and offered me exotic blends of coffee in Limoges tea-cups served with bakery-rich cookies.  While I waited for my stylist's escort to prep me, bottled water and the most current gossip and style magazines were laid at my fingertips.  The escort would find me and lay a silky cover-up on my lap and lead me to the bathroom to change out of my shirt. There was something almost unsettling about getting my hair cut with the feel of faux silk laying against my bra-clad breasts. The "changing room" was a model-home bathroom, equip with satin-soft hangers to hold my Target-bought t-shirt.  Once I emerged from the garden-shed sized powder-room, she would quickly wash my hair three times, ending in a frigid water-rinse and would tightly wrap my head in a plush terry towel smelling Downy fresh.  I clearly stood out from the rest of the ladies at the salon, but I liked my stylist who migrated there from another less posh shop.

I had the same stylist for 10 years until she retired. Hannah was an Amazon woman with a thick German accent whose fingers were yellowed from a half-century of smoking non-filtered cigarettes. Once she quit cold-turkey, she was never quite the same. Her routine that was once ruled by cigarette breaks, was no more, and she became blind to the hands of time. I would often wait longer than it would take my hair to be done. Most times, I would schedule a wax session  before my cut to make the time pass more quickly, if not more painfully. For $35, the French-trained estheticologist would slather-on uncomfortably hot wax upon my upper and lower lip as well as my eyebrows, then she'd cut and place strips of cloth on each area, all the while, the wax was hardening. Then zip, rip and tear in a nano-second. Why I paid for this torture, I have no idea. But I do know that I love the feeling of having a smooth face where bristles once took over.

The last time Hanna cut my hair, she used the wrong number on the clippers. In order to compensate for her mistake, she just kept going with the same number, leaving me with a crew-cut in the back and an Alpaca-looking poof up top. I drove around for hours before going home to show off my new doo, which was met with sobbing laughter. When Hanna retired, my head was handed over to the owner of the shop on a silver platter for inspection, where she declared she'd take me on after careful evaluation of my scalp, follicles, color and texture. I lasted about two years with the owner. I don't really know why I stayed. It was just a habit and I was used to shelling out $50-$75 bi-monthly for a trip to the salon.

When I moved to the other side of town, the salon became an inconvenience, and I guess I finally realized that I really wasn't the salon type. The more I went there, the more I loathed the element it represented.  My new neighborhood has nothing upscale. Strip malls are cluttered with Super Cuts and Pizza Huts. There are Latin coffee shops and bodegas on every corner. Family owned jewelry stores are speckled here and there and mom & pop eateries are peppered all around. Then, there's the sign advertising $8 haircuts, and I took the bait.

No concierge needed. Instead, I walked into a seating area with black folding chairs lined up in three small rows and took a number from a deli-style red ticket dispenser.  A Vietnamese woman in a loud, high-pitched, nasal sing-song voice yelled to me.."Hello friend, welcome to Kimmy Hair! You want coffee, missy? Free! Pot is ovah there by door. Help self and take ticket." There were five stations, and a good portion of the clients were men getting fades. The waiting area was full with families and kids sitting on the floor playing with trucks and race cars. I took my number, stood by the door since it was standing room only, and got an eye-full. The greeter, was Kimmy herself, the owner. She smiled and chortled in Vietnamese non-stop to her employees, and welcomed everyone by saying things like "Hello my friend! I glad  you come back see me! How your wife? Where your dog today? Or, "How come you no see me in long time? Your hair too long now, you look like hippie." It seemed like everyone knew the routine. Come in, get a ticket, watch and wait. Even if the seats were all full, they had a system. Kimmy had the main chair, her two daughters had their own stations along the wall and there were two others who alternated between cutting, washing and sweeping the floors with a 2-foot homemade broom and a make-shift dust-pan. Hair was not just cut here. Heads were slowly massaged with conditioners and gels, eyebrows were neatly trimmed, cowlicks were laughed at and cut out, questions were asked and answers were carefully listened to, so much so, that I realized that it wasn't the $8 haircuts that brought people back cut after cut after cut, it was the culture of Kimmy's.  This was my new "salon".

I've been going to Kimmy's for about 6 years now and every time I go, I come home with more than just shorter hair; I come home with a story.  One time, I went in and Kimmy said.."You need color, missy! I can make you look 20 year younger. Too bad I can't make you look 20 pound thinner!" And then she laughed and laughed her long song-like "hehe he heeeeeee" and smiled kindly at me.  I didn't take offense and laughed along with her because I knew she wasn't being intentionally rude. That would never have happened in my old salon!! And, I really didn't care. Kimmy was honest.  Kimmy never fails to ask how you're doing..."How teaching? You still go there every night? You busy, my friend, you vedy busy. Sit down, relax and have coffee."

Yesterday, I looked in the mirror and knew it was time to visit Kimmy.  Suddenly, my hair was growing width-wise, and I don't know who I resembled more, Elvis for my thick side-burns or Omar Sharif for the thin shadow of a mustache I had growing.  I also had a dire case of mono-brow and a small blonde soul patch neatly positioned under my bottom lip. I've always had this little tuft of fuzz there. It's like my personal worry stone. I stroke it unconsciously when I'm thinking, reading, or playing at the computer. I'd never get it waxed because it's always been a part of my Jewish-Italian uniqueness. My plan at Kimmy's was just to get a cut, since it was 6pm and closing time.

Kimmy greeted me..."My old friend here again! You need color to get rid of ugly gray hair! You want me for to color you today, missy?" I told her not today, that I was beginning to like my gray hair. I took a ticket and sat down. She was finishing up a man's cut by rubbing cream into his scalp. If he were a cat, he would have purred. Since it was closing time, there was only one other man in the store who came in just after I arrived.  Kimmy asked.."You sure, my friend? I stay late just for you -  make your face look younger!" I thanked her and said maybe next week. Kimmy finished up her client and then disappeared into the back. One of the other stylists came out and called the man instead of me. I figured Kimmy would be out in a minute to do my hair, when I heard a sudden outburst of what sounded like angry Vietnamese coming from the back. Kimmy apparently told the stylist to take me instead of the man. I felt stung and realized I should not have protested the color and that I probably hurt Kimmy's feelings. She didn't come out of the back until my hair was almost finished. It turns out she was finishing up a color for a very old Vietnamese woman, and wasn't mad at me at all. Momentarily, I felt better.

She approached me with another one of her employees, Tammy, who usually waxes my eyebrows.  The two were chirping away in Vietnamese. Kimmy said to me..."Missy, you need wax today! I can't see wrinkle on forehead because you have one brow! You have long blonde hair coming from eyebrows, and you have one long black hair here on cheek! Tammi get rid of that for you today. And mustache, too. You have dark mustache one side, blond mustache the other side. You get wax one time a year not good enough!" Then she reached out to my face and grabbed my soul patch between her thumb and index finger and tugged on it while wagging it back and forth saying....."And what this growing here? I can grab it, it so long! Tammy wax off!" My tongue slipped out of my mouth and the tip of it caressed the soft little bushiness under my lip. I reached up to see if I too, could grab it between my thumb and index finger, and I could, but just barely.

The next thing I know, I was whisked off into the back room with a hand in the small of my back steering me in the right direction. Before I knew it, Tammy had warm, lightly scented wax painted over my eyebrows and around my lips. She expertly positioned my head like a chiropractor and  ripped off the strips of cotton in four carefully choreographed moves.  She slathered wax under my chin from jaw-to-jaw, pressed a cotton sheet against my throat and tore from left to right. She tapped me and said, "See, see?!?"  It looked like she had just waxed the back of Wolfman Jack. Then she tilted back my head to the light, dabbed the soft warm wax on my soul patch and removed my worry stone with one swift rip.  "Done."  Tammy said..."Oh miss, you look beautiful! So clean. You must take care of yourself more than once a year! You're a college professor - people stare at you all day!"  She smoothed the sweetest smelling cucumber-coconut cream on my naked soul patch and then massaged my face until I almost fell asleep. At that point, I had no worries and no stone to rub.

When I left Kimmy's everyone said how beautiful I looked. Kimmy came out from behind her chair and hugged me, then said..."You come back next week, my friend. I color for you and you look even more younger and more pretty." Then she laughed her shrill happy song which stuck in my head all the way home until I looked in the mirror. There,  I laughed at myself for no longer having a worry wart on my chin.

Face-to-Face with Winter and Alpacas

December treated Florida to a roller-coaster of temperatures this winter. The last week of December, Florida was drenched with sunshine and 80 degree temperatures. The days seemed bi-polar; mornings were crisp and sweatshirts covered the goose-bumps on my arms. By mid-day, though, I could wear shorts and t-shirts, only to be replaced in a few hours by that morning's same sweatshirt.

But the last few days of December, I wore quadruple layers of sweatshirts, covered by a fleece-lined jacket. On my head, I wore a headband that covered my forehead and ears and a hat. A wool scarf covered my chest and doubled as a face-mask, and on my hands, I wore fleece-lined gloves. I also wore two pair of socks and insulated, waterproof boots up to my ankles.

Not in Florida, silly! I spent the last few days of December in Michigan.

The first day there, even though there was still some snow left on the ground, the temperature was comfortably in the 50's. I felt cocky and didn't even zipper my jacket. The mercury went down hill from there. Day 2 was windy and bitter cold; 25 degrees at the most. It's been decades since I've felt this kind of cold. My ears stung through and through until I discovered the joy of a fleecy headband underneath my hat. Day 3 was even more bitter. Bitter enough that we went to JoAnn's Fabrics and bought flannel and fleece material to make pajama bottoms. Then, that night it snowed. Now, I was giddy as a child and stood outside in the unforgiving wind catching snowflakes on my tongue. My knee caps were frozen by the time I came inside. Oddly enough, the next day, after a few inches of snow, the wind abated and it was tolerable enough to walk in for a while, providing I was completely bundled up. Everyone laughed at me, stiffly walking in layers of clothing like a robot. Michigan folk are used to this. My Florida blood is way too thin for this kind of cold. The last two days there were unnervingly bitter. It was 9 degrees on New Year's Day when we awoke and it only reached 18 by the time we were driving to the airport.

One of the highlights of the trip, besides getting to see Jayne, was going to Rochester to see the town ablaze in Christmas lights. The entire town had lights strung rooftop to sidewalk with dazzling strands of Christmas lights. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen.

The other fun adventure was going to buy Alpaca socks.

Don't you just love the faces on these Alpacas? They're strangely human looking! We visited an Alpaca farm in Attica, Michigan called Funny Face Alpacas. The owner, Darrell, gave us a tour of his farm and opened the gates to let his Alpacas and two Llamas come face-to-face with us. Jilli kept saying, "ooooou, ooooou," and wasn't afraid of them nuzzling her nose. One Alpaca tried to eat my camera! We spent about 40 minutes in freezing temperatures totally fascinated by these gentle, friendly creatures. We each bought a pair of Alpaca socks, which I desperately needed since my little-piggies were popsicle-toes.

Each Alpaca had a name and story, none of which I remember because by then, I was just too numb. Talk about a brain-freeze. I really want to name the couple above something like Aunt Ida and Uncle Ike.

White Michigan

angels
are always near
when new soft snow covers
churches' earth to welcome winter's
new year

Lemony Christmas

Lemons -

  orbed ornaments

 glisten winter's sunshine

 under peppermint-striped cactus -

   Christmas

Is That a BaNANa bread in Your Pocket?

I have three first names. My birth name is Nancy Jane Barbara.  I was named after my mother's best friend Nancy Jane.  My last name, Barbara,  is really pronounced Bar-bear-a, but over the years, much to my father's dismay, its rich Italian pronunciation evolved to Bar-bra as in Barbra Streisand. I don't know when it happened or how, it just did. And it's a nuisance especially when people ask me my last name and I say "Bar-bra." They react by stating, "No, your last name." So, I say "Bar-bra" again, and they get exasperated and say something condescending like, "No, honey, I mean your LAST name." I'm now so accustomed to saying Bar-bra that when I try saying Bar-bear-a, that extra syllable makes me feel like another person. I tried it for an entire day once and it was truly an odd feeling; but no one ever asked me to repeat my last name.

When I was a child, I knew I was in trouble if my mother called me 'Nancy Jane!" And, strangely enough, my cousins always called me Nancy Jane whether I was in trouble or not.  Everyone had a middle name on the Bar-bear-a side of the family and used it; they also used the correct pronunciation of Bar-bear-a.  I think my mother "Americanized" our last name, but the story, as with all of my family's stories, is convoluted. 

Before I was enrolled in kindergarten, if I ever did get in trouble, which was rare, my punishment led to a nick name I still carry from time to time, and that's Nancy-Pantsie.  You see, my mother would make me sit out on the back stoop in just my underpants. The punishment was not only humiliating, but it stopped me in my tracks. I was an active kid, always running, biking and playing shink-ball all over the neighborhood. Often times, I'd go past the two-block limit that was set for me, so sitting me down in my underwear thwarted me from going anywhere far from home.

All through grammar school and high school, I was just plain Nancy (guess I never got in trouble).  When I went to college on a tennis scholarship, my nick-name was Ace due to my clever ability to ace my opponents on the first serve. I wasn't ever really sure if anyone knew my real name because by the time I was a sophomore everyone referred to me simply as Ace.   When I went to graduate school,  I ended up being called Nance by most people, which I didn't mind. It's always been interesting to me how people juggle my name. 

My moniker at my day job, for at least the last twelve years or so, is Nan.  A former manager at Barnes & Noble just started calling me Nan and it stuck.  There have been several variations on Nan, such as Nanners, Nanager (blending Nan and Manager), and Banana Nan. Outside of work, my friends still call me Nancy, although some have jumped on the  Nan band-wagon, and now and then, a Nance escapes the lips of others. 

In case you're wondering where Banana Nan comes from, well, 'tis the season for Nan's annual baNANa bread bake-a-thon. I started this tradition about ten years ago by making 45 or so mini-loaves of banana bread to give to the staff at B&N during the holidays. Sometime before  Christmas, I pick a time when, from sunrise to well past midnight, I can spend flouring up the kitchen and spattering the walls with  thick, rich banana bread dough. It's quite an ordeal orchestrating what's now come to baking about 100 little loaves of banana bliss. I pull out the 20-pound cobalt-blue mixer, line up all the ingredients in the order that my recipe calls for them and I start the assembly line from spraying each tin with cooking spray, to filling them just the right depth with smooth banana goodness to wrapping them in festive plastic wrap. The mixer spins non-stop for hours and the house smells like vanilla-baked bananas with buttery cinnamon drizzled on top.

These days, there must be some kind of banana bread button that gets subliminally pushed right around Halloween, because lately, starting in early November, people begin asking me when the baNANa breads are coming .  Those initial 45 loaves have now doubled, at least. No longer do I bake just for the staff at B&N. Friends and neighbors who hear of my 16 hour banana marathon ask when their mini-loaves are coming. And, now, it's not just one loaf per person! Lamenting friends and colleagues drop hints such as, "Oh my husband ate all of mine! Can I have two next year?" or "I'm going to eat this one for breakfast, too bad I won't have another to eat later on at home!" Despite the constant pleas, I still make the loaves mid-December and deliver them slightly warm from the oven around breakfast time at the store.

For the holidays, we hang bright red stockings trimmed in white in our break room; each tagged with a bookseller's name.  I stuff each little pocket with one or two loaves, depending on the order. The break room quickly attracts hungry booksellers sniffing and smiling at the wafting banana breath exhaling from the room. 

It looks like the time has come to get shopping for this year's baNANa bread boNANza..  Let's see, one-hundred mini-loaves? Here's what I'll need:

12 pounds of butter 

10 pounds of sugar

24 pounds of unbleached flour

72 eggs

24 tablespoons of baking soda

24 tablespoons of salt

24 tablespoons of cinnamon

150 bananas

9 quarts of sour cream

24 oz of pure vanilla extract

100 mini pans

1 can of Pam with Flour for Baking

2 rolls of festive plastic wrap

comfortable shoes

Christmas music

Imagine what that shopping cart looks like, not to mention the looks I get while standing in line with my very own banana boat. 

In case you want to make just one banana bread like a normal person, here's a pared down recipe:

1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
1 1/2 cups unbleached flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup mashed very ripe bananas
1/2 cup sour cream
1 teaspoon vanilla

1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350,  spray or butter your loaf pan (9x5x3), cream the butter and sugar with an electric mixer. Add eggs and beat well. Sift (important) dry ingredients together and combine with the butter mixture. Blend well and add bananas (very ripes ones), sour cream and vanilla (use the real stuff, not the imitation kind).  If you want, you can add nuts. My breads, however, are all female.  Stir well. Fill pan almost to the top and bake 1 hour.

And, that's why it's called BaNANa Bread. If you want one in your pocket, place your order now!

Bebe Rolls Over

Ten weeks of puppy school and one year later, Bebe rolls over, at last!

Thanksgiving and other Endings

Wednesday, Thanksgiving "eve", the pies and muffins were baked and the pilgrim-themed table had been set all by the time I'd finished my third cup of coffee. Between the sweet drippings of the apple pie and the spice of the pumpkin, the kitchen smelled like a gingerbread house with a fireplace ablaze. Before noon, the chill of the morning turned into an almost tropical warmth. The sun was turning the lime green lemons corn yellow and the six heads of broccoli were proudly awaiting their inevitable decapitation for the upcoming feast. Then Tony died.

Tony was a war veteran, a good neighbor, and an animal lover. He hung a tattered American flag from a tree outside his bedroom window. He once cried over an ill and orphaned baby squirrel whom he adopted and then had to take to the Humane Society. A gruff New Yorker with a tough exterior and a soft heart, Tony was a character. He ambled side-to-side due to multiple hip operations; walking caused him great pain. He had no family; his neighbors were his only friends, especially Mary Ann, who lives next-door. From our backyard, you could hear Tony's cigarette-aged voice laughing, animated and playful when he visited Mary Ann for their morning smoke and coffee chat. His dog Reggie, a gentle Pit Bull mix, was always by his side. He had a black and white tuxedo cat he called Felix who would sit on a ledge lording over Reggie as if to pounce on anyone who would dare disturb the stocky white would-be beast with a splash of caramel across his rump.

For two days, Reggie sat vigil at Tony's feet until a friend discovered Tony had quietly slipped from here to there. When the sheriff arrived, Reggie gave up his watch and paced outside with his tail set south. By the time the medical examiner drove up in her hearse-black car followed by a sheet-white van, our neighbor George invited Reggie into his home where he could mourn the loss of the man who rescued him two years ago. He'd have the company of another dog and and a few other cats for the rest of his days. And of course, George took in Felix as well.

When Tony was wheeled from his front door down the path to the van, he was clad in a blanket of black vinyl. Our neighbors stood side-by-side saying their silent goodbyes; this would be his only funeral. I took down his flag and waved him well, thanking him for his service to our country and strew petals from his Bougainvillea in his path. As they drove off, we could hear Reggie howling his version of Taps.

That night I went to Red Lobster for dinner with Kim and Kim. We discovered the best time to go there is the night before Thanksgiving as it was practically empty. We spent our entire dinner conversation going around the table stating what we're thankful for. It started with our friendship, the roofs over our heads, food in our cupboards, our significant others, to our parents, each others' parents, good neighbors, the election results, our jobs, our bosses and even the little boy whose dying last wish was to feed the homeless. Dinner was satisfying.

Thanksgiving morning, I made the stuffing, stuffed the bird and started roasting well before noon. Two more guests were added to the list, thus, two more place-settings. I decided I still had time to make bread. I mixed the dough and yeast and added water. As I was transferring the canister of rising dough from the counter to the bread machine, it slipped from my hands, sunk straight down to the Terrazzo floor hitting it with a sickening crack. The mixture sucked in a deep breath, looking like a belly button. Then, it catapulted thick rising dough straight up like a rocket directly onto my mouth-agape,  aghast face with a resounding "whoosh".  I was covered with fast-acting, yeast-activated dough. Quarter-sized droplets doubled in size by the seconds as flour puddles spread on the tablecloth, on the rims of water goblets, silverware, plates, Saran-wrapped pies. The little pilgrim people had blobs of dough obliterating their smiling faces and I had yeast dripping from my chin, earlobes, eyelashes, hair.  I could see a dinner roll starting to rise on my nose. The chairs looked like black cows with white spots and the floor looked like one big cookie sheet. All I could do was laugh. From the tips of my hair to my slippers, I was the Pillsbury Dough Boy's twin. I had two hours to get rolling (no pun intended). I stripped, ran for the mop and some rags and started cleaning from the counter tops on down. The dough started to harden on the floor, mopping only spread the mess. I found an industrial scraper in the closet and started scraping the newly waxed floor. I cleared the table, washed every dish, glass, knife, fork, spoon and pilgrim while the table cloth was in the washer. The dough was hanging like icicles from my ears and when I had chance to glance in the hall mirror, I should have taken a picture, but I'll let your imagination do the talking. In an hour, all was clean. I took the once-starched tablecloth out of the dryer and draped it over the table. It was one huge wrinkle, so I ironed it right on the table!

By mid-afternoon, my guests arrived and everything was Martha Stewart perfect (in my dreams). Uncle and Mike, Nile, Kaye and Evan and I enjoyed string beans and broccoli picked fresh from the garden, turkey, stuffing, muffins, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, pies and Mike's homemade candy. Before dessert, we even stopped to take a plate to a homeless man up the road. By the time everyone left, and the dishes were done, I was full and satisfied. As I was turning out the light, I noticed a big blob of hardened dough defiantly hanging from the shade in the kitchen.

This morning while picking green beans, I noticed the absence of Tony's New York bravado echoing between the yards, and two other miracles of nature. First, the squirrels had had their own Thanksgiving feast. All the ears of corn were neatly chomped down to the stems, leaving not a trace of silk behind. And, it seems the time has come to prepare for the next holiday; the Christmas Cactus is getting ready to bloom. One thing for sure, though, there will be no dinner rolls on the menu (just memories of them rising from the flour, uh, I mean...floor).

My Ode to Thanksgiving (written when I was 14 years old)

Preparing for Thanksgiving, I remembered a poem I wrote when I was in grade school. Luckily, I had a copy of the original; it was in an old blank book I'd filled with childhood ditties which I had given my parents as a gift. I remember reciting this at the dinner table one Thanksgiving.

"A Thanksgiving Prayer"

And now I sit me down to eat.

To consume what's in front of me,

I call a big feat.

I pray from my soul that I will not gain weight,

and promise myself

not to refill my plate.

I tried not to think how that bird must have felt,

to be baked at a temperature

even God couldn't help,

The turkey all shiny and dripping and stuffed.

It's all so delicious, on to seconds,

the first is not enough!

The cranberry sauce, the potatoes, so good!

The pumpkin pie! 

Oh, I ate all I could!

Remember that turkey, how luscious and fat?

Well, the next time you see me,

I'll look just like that!

As for today, I made pumpkin pie with a little less sugar than what Betty Crocker called for in the old red-plaid cookbook, and the apples in the apple pie are organic. The veggies and herbs will come mostly from the garden this year, and the turkey is all natural. It will be stuffed with Jayne's sage dressing recipe, and garnished with rosemary, both herbs snipped fresh from the garden as well.  It will still be luscious and fat. Hopefully, the next time you see me though, I won't look just like that! 

Grateful

picking green beans -

broccoli dew drops glisten

I snip herbs to rosemary's scent -

Thank you

Look What Just Rolled In

Sometimes, the smallest of things are the most irksome; such as the small pee-puddles of pinkish fluid my car leaves behind to mark every place I've parked like an alpha-cat. As if my car were named Hansel or Gretel, it now leaves a trail of breadcrumbs.  I can trace back a day's worth of errands by the slowly spreading spots left between the yellow lines of a parking slot or worse, on our driveway or in the garage. 

This morning, I decided to lay my woes on the mechanic at Tire Kingdom. I loaded Bebe in the backseat and arrived at the storefront at 8:35, a mere 25 minutes before they opened. I was the first car in line. The next vehicle, whose front tire was gasping for air, parked lopsided next to mine. The manager was inside sipping coffee and when I glanced inside, he raised his Styrofoam cup to me in a gesture of cheer. He recognized me, which is the beauty of being a frequent-flyer in a neighborhood establishment; it gives you the feeling that everything will be alright, no matter how irksome the problem. 

At 8:45 he came out and quasi-diagnosed my problem with the smell of cheap coffee on his breath.  I presented him with the saturated newspaper which acted as an overnight puppy-pad, capturing the errant fluid escaping the underside of my car and he mumbled "tranny fluid, not good."  He moved on to the deflated tire and said when he opened at 9:00, he'd get us both in right away. He led us inside and started the paperwork. In the waiting room, a tele-preacher was reminding us to thank God for little things, and by thanking people, who are messengers from God, we're actually thanking God himself. I half-listened, but got distracted.

While he was typing our information into the computer, Bebe, still in the car, started doing her begging routine while barking her shrill, ear-piercing protests at being left alone. As I went to get her, a pencil-green, cheaply re-painted KIA-looking car screeched into the lot and parked directly in front of the door, not in a slot. Out stepped a flannel pajama-clad woman in a bath robe, with pink plastic curlers piled Carmen Miranda-style high atop her head. She was wearing gold flip-flops and had freshly painted cherry-red toe nails. I know this because there was still cotton stuffed between each toe.  She was screaming Spanish into a cell phone while waving frantically to someone in a car which was apparently her ride home.  She slammed the car door and oblivious to Bebe's tip-toe pleading dance, she stepped over the leash and barreled into Tire Kingdom. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat animals; this person was either entirely self-absorbed or hated animals. More than likely both.

With no greeting or introduction, she stepped to the front of the counter and said "You said there was only one other person in line! I'm in a hurry and have to be in Orlando by noon.  I don't have anything done yet. I still need to get showered, put on my make-up and get dressed."

The manager smiled and asked what she needed. "I need my old rims replaced with the custom rims! How long will it take?" He explained that the shop didn't open until 9:00 and he'd get to it by 9:15 or so. It would take a little under two hours to complete. She blew a fit. Bebe laid flat to the floor and if she could, would have covered her ears with her paws. Curlers danced as she ranted half in English and half in Spanish. Her head bobbled so, that one of the rollers started to disentangle from her over-dyed hair and dangled like an earring. Then, the printer wouldn't print. Try as he might, the manager, who, by the way,  did not understand Spanish, could not encourage the printer to spit out a sheet of paper before 9:00.  He tried to calm her down to no avail. She said she'd fix the printer herself and tried to get behind the counter. Bebe barked right on cue. The woman turned her head so fast that the curler hanging by a thread,  flew off her head and Bebe went for it! The woman screamed, "DON'T TOUCH THAT!" At this point, I had a giggle-fit. I had already envisioned Bebe with the pink curler in her mouth, but I snapped on her leash and she stopped barely an inch from the run-away roller.  

By 9:00, the printer still was not cooperating. Curler-head was verbally abusing the manager. When her cell phone rang, she snapped at the caller and  said "I do NOT have an attitude!" I snorted back a laugh too late and she looked at me and said "What are YOU laughing at, bitch?"

I said, "Watch it, lady..don't upset my Pit Bull." The manager cracked up and the woman took a double-take,  gave me that "whatever" look and continued complaining to the caller about how she'd been here an hour already and the loser behind the counter can't even work a printer.  She hung up and said she was going to leave her keys here and come back in an hour and her car better be done when she gets back.  The manager said to just leave her keys on the counter and he'd get to it. She said "I ain't leaving keys to a Jaguar sitting on a counter! One of these people might steal it!" Did she say Jaguar?? I glanced outside, and sure enough, that miserable looking car was indeed a Jaguar! Ugly, dented, filthy inside and out. She left in a flash of pink and we all took a breath. The manager said, "What a piece of work! And, that Jaguar is nothing but a Ford with a cat on the hood."  

Turns out my fluid leak was the result of a loose oil pan plug. I said "thank you" just like the tele-preacher advised and said a little prayer for the miserable witch with a faux entitlement complex just because she drives a fake foreign car. As I walked out the door, the manager said, "Nice Pit Bull, by the way!" 

P.S. I later found out from the manager, that the rims "roller-babe" wanted put on her car were the wrong size. Guess what goes around, comes around and bites you in the butt.  Gotta love karma.

Flash-Freezing Green Beans a la Granny

The beans just couldn't wait until Thanksgiving to shimmy out of their white blossoms and dangle like earrings from their stems. Each bean is long, slender and shapely like a woman's leg in silk stockings with a seam up its back. I pick them by fistfuls; sometimes twice a day I'll go out and see if there are any I've missed, and sure enough, there are.  Last night, I called Granny and asked her how she freezes her beans which she explained in three simple steps. 

Here's what I did this daylight savings morning a la Granny's instructions:

Wash the beans thoroughly, place them in a pot on the burner with warm water and let them simmer just until the bubbles come up through the beans. Remove from the burner, rinse them in cold water and place in a freezer bag. Squeeze out all the air (apparently, this is important). In order to get all the air out, use a straw and suck out all the air from the bag. (Somehow, I can't imagine Granny with straw in her mouth, attached to a bag, sucking the living daylights out of it; the thought of  it made me giggle).

I followed her instructions step-by-step. What she didn't tell me was to make sure once I took the pot off the stove, to be careful not to place the gallon freezer bag on the hot burner, which shriveled up like the Wicked Witch of the West in nano-second in a gust of putrid steam, then, ignited the fire alarm, which in-turn sent Bebe into a frantic barking fit and Felix into the bathroom tub (that's where he hides when he's a scaredy-cat). 

Once the histrionics were over, I placed the freshly flash-frozen fruits of my labor into our new deep-freeze and closed the lid with an odd sense of satisfaction.

 

The Cats' Hallowed Eve

Cats chat -

Sit statuesque.

Some fat, one with a hat;

mews heard only by a toothless

pumpkin

October Fest

Roses are white....

String beans are green... 

                                                                                       Corn's growing silk!

Bebe's  ready for Halloween!

Good Morning, Moon.

  morning moon reflects

   sunshine on the cardinal's breast -

    resting between nests

(click on photo to enlarge)

Fall Garden Update

Luckily, there aren't any rabbits in the neighborhood, otherwise this lettuce would be history.

Some people compare apples to oranges. I think comparing this lemon to a cherry tomato plucked straight off the vine is more dramatic!

The broccoli is getting off to a slow start, but as soon as the temperatures start to drop more at night, we'll be having broccoli every night with dinner.

                   By Thanksgiving, there will be enough green beans for a giant string bean casserole!

                                                                                          

Morning Snapshot

buzzing bumble bee

slides inside petunia's lips

sipping sweet nectar

 

Is That a Lemon in Your Pocket?

No...just in our backyard! Seems our dwarf-like Ponderosa lemon tree is celebrating Fall. The huge grapefruit-sized lemons are slowly going from lime-green to lemon-yellow. I can't wait for Granny to come in January to make her lemon pie. In the mean time, I'll pluck the first one so I can start making lemon ice cubes. They're great for floating in a tall glass of water or melting into a cup of hot tea. I also toss them into a chicken soup base, or in the frying pan with a piece of chicken or fish! Yummy. Thank you, Mother Nature!