Slice of Lime-Two Ladies Leaping

As you know, Wednesday was Leap Year Day (And may I wish a very happy anniversary to Suldog and his lovely wife,  Yep, they got married on Leap Day.  How cool is that?)  It was a VERY slow day at work due to some weather conditions.  We were bored out of our minds.  You may remember how I shared that a coworker and I are in touch with our inner 12 year old boys (Mine is Jeff, hers is Barry.)  It can be a dangerous thing when Jeff and Barry get bored.  They create mayhem.  They had to take pictures of how bored they were.



Early in the day Jeff suggested we celebrate Leap Day by leaping around the office.  Barry wasn't so sure about the idea until Jeff did it first but he got into the spirit soon enough.  Then we texted another coworker with some tasteless jokes.  Understand that this other lady is hilariously innocent but ALWAYS laughs at Jeff and Barry.  She responded with some appropriately gross retorts so we decided she needed to finally admit she had an inner 12 year old boy too.  We named him Jimmy.  We are working on initiation rites now.




Finally, Jeff decided that just skipping around the room was not sufficiently interesting or celebratory.  We needed to start jumping off of things.  Ready for take-off...  Don't worry.  No Limes were injured in the production of this post but this is what happens when I am not allowed to follow through on my own suggestions for productive work and I am not given anything meaningful to do.  Gotta keep me busy to keep me out of trouble...kind of like how it is with a 12 year old boy.

Stepping Back in Time

The other weekend when I went to visit Calypso I stayed in a Victorian mansion redone into an inn.  I broke out Boom-boom one afternoon to capture some of the details.  Here is one of the main sitting rooms with a view into the dining room and up to the guest rooms.

Care for a spot of tea while you sit?  Ok, you just sip it and I'll tell you a funny story about a lace table cloth like the one the teacup is resting on.

I own a lace tablecloth that my great grandmother crocheted.  I acquired it from a great aunt when she and her husband were preparing to move from Pennsylvania to Ohio to be close to their son so he could care for them in their declining health (about 17 years ago).  Mr. Lime and I helped to sort through and pack up their THREE housefuls worth of furnishings and accoutrements, as did my mother and grandmother.  At the end of it Auntie beckoned me to her bedside to say how much she appreciated my help.  She insisted I pick something to take. (I hasten to add I had not asked for any items nor did I intend to do so.) After my aunt's continued urging I remarked that I thought the one lace tablecloth was very lovely and would not mind having that if she were inclined to part with it.  She beamed, told me my great grandmother had made it, exclaimed how nice it would be for me to have the tablecloth to remember Grammy by, and expressed relief that it would remain in the family.  I was happy that Auntie was happy.  My aunt turned suddenly serious and said I could have the table cloth for $40.  I looked around the room to silently search faces to make sure I had heard correctly since I more or less felt pushed into choosing an item after declining to do so earlier.  Everyone else seemed as perplexed as I did.  I tentatively repeated, "Forty dollars?"  Auntie assured me it was worth far more and that was her non-negotiable price if I wanted it.  It was all I could do to stifle laughter over the absurdity of it all.  I looked at Mr. Lime as I wondered what to do because I was a bit shocked.  He shrugged and handed me the money.  I handed it to my aunt who expressed annoyance that I was not taking anything else.  I thought my grandmother was going to clobber her sister-in-law in her very bed.  All these years later, lace tablecloths still make me laugh and want to say, "Forty dollars, priceless family heirloom.  Good bargain!"

In the main entry hall there was this adorned mirror in the corner by a window.  One can only imagine what Auntie would have wanted for an old mirror!

Though I don't care to decorate my own house in a  Victorian style I just love the attention to detail and the craftsmanship in even the most ordinary items such as this keyhole.  And is that not some gorgeous woodgrain too?

The Queen's Meme #110 ~ The Oh Baby! Meme

The Queen's Meme #110 ~ The Oh Baby! Meme

Welcome to The Queen's Meme

7 Royal Questions on Tuesday

It's the Oh Baby Meme!

Answer these questions about babies. Don't whine. I'm all out of pacifiers.

1. When your kids were babies, did you ever use cloth diapers?
Typical Lime-style meme snark: Use them for what?
Truth: Yes, in fact, I boiled water on the stove to be able to have enough hot water to wash Calypso's when we lived in Trinidad...no water heater.


2. Are you guilty of spoiling your children or grandchildren?
I find if I keep them in the fridge they remain fresh much longer.


3. If you could give one piece of advice to your own children about how to raise their children, what would you say?
Plant then 6 inches deep, 8 inches apart, water when dry, and fertilize seasonally.  Pinch off dead heads.


4. Do you believe in spanking?
If I say yes, does it mean I get to give this a spank?

5. Babies need pacifiers! They cry and carry on sometimes. Can you think of one adult person in your life who could also use a pacifier?
Every politician


6. Have you ever been present for the birth of a child other than your own pregnancy and delivery?
I believe I was present when I myself was born.


7. Why are boy things blue and girl things pink?
I'm not sure but maybe circulation was cut off in the boy things.

Da Count-Da Sous Chef

Yesterday I told you how I made Fry bake for everyone.  Well, the next day, as planned and at Calypso's request, I cooked the community meal for all the interns and staff (15 people).  The menu request was curried venison stew and roti, with sides of rice and peas & carrots.  I could have managed everything myself except the roti.  To get that much done requires two people just to keep the rhythm of rolling and frying.  My assistant was this fine young man.  He joined me early and asked how he could begin helping so as I was forming dough balls for the roti I asked him to cut up the venison.  He began immediately.  

Shortly thereafter someone came in and expressed shock that he was handling raw meat due to his veganism.  I felt kind of bad but he said he really didn't mind at all.  I decided I needed to add some sort of vegan dish to the meal so he wasn't eating just rice, roti, and peas & carrots.  It wouldn't be right for him to help me all afternoon and then not get a decent meal.  I thought I'd make curried potatoes and chickpeas so he went of in search of spuds and beans.  No luck on spuds anywhere on camp property and given that they are over 30 miles from a decent store it wasn't going to happen.  We scoured cupboards for other ingredients and I wound up improvising a curried bean and tomato dish with what was on hand.  It turned out decently.  

We had some really excellent conversation as we got the meal together.  I found him to be a very humble, intelligent, thinking young man with a great sense of humor and service.  All that was a delight but as we talked he shared some of the details of his life as a foster child and how he found family after he had given up at the age of 20 (Out of respect for his privacy it's not my place to share but really, it's a story that would make the hardest heart tear up first in sadness then in happiness at the new beginning.  I thanked him for his openness and trust.).  He shared about the joys of finally finding the family he never had and the struggles of learning how to be a part of it and his perspectives on his peers who seem in such a hurry to leave the security of family.  I was deeply impressed by him. 

When it was time to fry up the roti is when he became truly invaluable.  I rolled furiously and he fried quickly and happily through so much roti I thought we'd never be done.  We talked about the finer points of the various varieties of roti and he asked questions about technique.  Seems the kid also loves to cook and wants to be able to make it again himself.  We laughed when it was over because I was covered in flour and he said as sous chef he should have wound up dirtier than I did.  I've always enjoyed cooking WITH another person who enjoys cooking because it's just such a nice way to get to know each other.  It was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon made all the more so by having such a remarkable helper.  I wish him only the best blessings that family has to offer.

Slice of Lime-You Say Fry Bread...I Say Fry Bake

Over the weekend I was not only working hard to finish a quilt, I was also visiting Calypso at the camp where she is interning with a group of other kids her age.  Back in January twelve of them spent the night at out house before flying to Costa Rica early the next morning.  At that time I made some Trini treats for them to snack on, fry bake and tomato chokha.  In the group there are a few Navajo students.  They especially seemed to love the fry bake and said it tasted like Indian Fry Bread.  When I showed up at camp this weekend one of the Navajo boys saw me and cried, "Hi, Mom!  You're here!  Are you going to make fry bread again?"  He called me Mom, he is at least a couple thousand miles away from home, I know what it is to be far from home and craving just a taste of it.  How could I say no?

Calypso grabbed my camera to document portions of the process.  In case you're interested, here's the recipe.

4 cups flour
Baking powder (I dunno a couple giant spoonfuls)
half a fist sized blog of shortening or so
1 1/2 cups water

Like my consistent standards of measurement there?  Ok, hush, and just go with it.  Use your hands to rub the shortening into the flour and baking powder.  Pour in the water and knead until the dough is smooth and elastic.   Then let the dough "relax" for about a half hour.  It's hard work being kneaded.  After it relaxes pull a hunk off and hand knead it into a ball.  (That's what I am doing in the picture)  Roll it out, slice it up and fry it on both sides in hot oil.  Pictures to follow.

Calypso took this one and said it would be the Nanzo picture.  Nanzo was my Trini mom.  She hated having her picture taken.  The only time you could get away with it was if she was busy rolling dough because that was serious business.  Just take it and run before she could start swinging the rolling pin!  Truth be told she'd only threaten with it. 

Here's the dough all slice up ready to be fried.  One young ma came in and asked if i was making pot pie noodles.  I very nearly kissed him.  Any self-respecting Pennsylvania German knows potpie doesn't come in a crust.  It has gravy and noodles.  So I was making Trini food at the request of a Navajo but it was mistaken for PA German.  How many more cultures could I hit in the kitchen? (The next day I'd make a Kenyan stew for everyone if you must know.)

And the frying commences.  The hardest part is waiting to eat.

My Navajo "son" needed to do quality control before everyone else was served.

Judging by how many he ate I'm thinking he approved.  He was a happy boy.  Fortunately he shares well and there were enough for the other 12-15 people who wanted some too.  We didn't worry whether it's fry bread or fry bake.  We just savored it together.

Better Late Than Never

You may recall how I sewed a quilt for Diana before she went off to college. Well, although Calypso is not in college this year she is away from home.  Christmas 2011 I gave her the fabric for her own quilt.  Given all the insanity of 2011 It didn't get done in time for her graduation....or for her departure to the internship program she is in....or...uh...even for Christmas 2011.  It did get done for this past weekend though in a great final push of sewing, clipping, washing, and drying.  Here is the evidence.

It was the same pattern as her sister's, just a different color scheme.  This is only the second quilt I have ever made in my life so I decided to stick with what worked in terms of the pattern.

A close-up of the texture.  Unlike really traditional quilts this is a rag quilt made of flannel and with exposed edges intended to fray.

Calypso approved of the finished product even if she was kind of annoyed by the photo shoot.

Isaac has begun asking when he will get a new quilt. He's a sophomore. Maybe I should start now to have it done in time for graduation...

In Memory

 I saw the snow today, I heard the song.  Message received, my friend.  How has it been seven years already?  Yeah I know I'm posting it a day late.  I know you're probably more annoyed that I'm posting it at all.  I'd say, "You'll live," but you didn't.  Yeah, that one got ya, I hear you laughing. 

(11/14/61-2/16/05)

God Save the Squirrel

I've never dreamt of a purple squirrel
but now indeed I've seen one.
But I can truly say for sure
I'd rather see than be one.

You can see it for yourself here.  I'm not making this up.

I know they spoke to some biologist trying to get an explanation.  They should have just asked me.  It's obvious the squirrel has gone punk (even though emo is far more current these days but I suppose the squirrels avoid that look for fear the heavy eyeliner will mistake them for raccoons).  I'm quite sure if you look closely you'll find piercings in strange places on that squirrel.  I'd be willing to bet the squirrel does his tail in a row of threatening looking spikes.  The only reason we aren't seeing the studded collar on the squirrel is that he lost it trying to get out of the trap.  And I just know that back among his stash of acorns he's got all the recordings of the Sex Pistols and the Dead Kennedys.

It's rodential rebellion, man! (Which, by the way, would be a cool name for a punk band.)

Happy Valentine's Day....

...to the cynics...

What evah...

I've always wanted to make a candy heart with my signature phrase

For the true romantics...

And this one has made me laugh for a long time.  Not specifically Valentine's Day related but truth in advertising.

Act of a Desperate Mother

I believe I have mentioned that since Calypso and Diana are no longer at home I am swimming alone in a sea of testosterone.  This is frequently manifested in the TV being tuned to football or zombie shows.  Isaac attempts to reassure me  of his enduring affection by telling me he'd totally blast a zombie in the head with a shot-gun to save me or that I'd be welcome in his compound when the zombie plague hits.  Recognizing that different people express love in different ways I understand that in 16 year old boy-speak this is evidence that I am held in high esteem.  I have attempted to repay the kindness by joining him as he watches his new favorite show The Walking Dead.  As much as I adore my son I do NOT enjoy the show even a little.  I have tried.  It's grotesque and horrifying in its excessive depictions of the savagery of both the dead and undead. However, Isaac and Mr. Lime have been anticipating the season premier for months.  That would be tonight...at the same time as the Grammy Awards.

The fellows were out so I put on the Grammys.  When they returned Isaac curled up next to me and enjoyed some of the show but announced at 9pm he'd be watching the zombies.  About the time Rhianna came on stage to perform, he asked if I wanted to change the channel or should he go to the den. Wanting very much to continue to enjoy the presence of my son but NOT endure images of the lumbering, partially-dismembered undead I had to think fast.  As Rhianna pranced around in her slinky outfit I directed his attention to her taut abs revealed by the tight outfit, the curve of her firm backside, and the succulence of her bosom before suggesting he might find that a far more pleasing sight than the aforementioned zombies.

I suggested some of the tasty morsels on the Food Network since it's a channel he regularly enjoys.  I appealed to his seemingly unending hunger and said the gourmet delights (heck, even some of the awful things Andrew Zimmern ingests on Bizarre Foods) would be more enjoyable than rotting brains and innards.  My son was unswayed.

That's right, I sought to arouse lust in the glands of a teenage boy through the visual stimulation of a hot chick writhing on stage in tight clothes.  I hoped to stimulate a desire for food in a young man who sucks down a gallon of milk a day, who makes a batch of pancakes from scratch and eats the entire batch in one sitting...and I FAILED.

Kids today....lust and gluttony just aren't what they used to be.

Taste of Winter

Winter finally showed up in a dusting of snow for our neck of the woods.  I took Boom-boom for a walk to see what I could find.

It truly was a dusting that merely iced the rock wall in the back yard.

Just a tiny cup of snow here.

Holly leaves serving a spoonful of snow.

This looked like a flamenco dancer celebrating a bit of winter brightness.

A grape vine as a sled run for the fairies?

This one didn't really get the pine and the snow the way I hoped but I got some mildly groovy bokeh.  I'm learning.

Snowy fireworks perhaps.

A fragile, dried out hydrangea bearing the last few flakes before the sun melted them away.

For those curious about my Duluth-style hats, I just mean a knitted one with bits that cover the ears.  This is the one I got at Christmas and finally had cause to wear.

Memories of a House

I drove slowly
past my grandparents' old home
going up the street,
down the back alley,
studying,
remembering.

I missed it on my first pass,
the new closed-in front porch
masked its face.

I wondered how the current residents
would get to know their neighbors
without a front porch
on which to rock
in a summer breeze,
greeting the others
enjoying the evening.

There was no way
to run my fingers over
the now hidden English ha-penny
pressed into the concrete step.
It was a working class man's dated cornerstone
meant to mark a new post-war life
along the row of squat brick houses
built to shelter the families
the men fought to protect.

And how will the cat play with the mailman,
batting through the slot in the door
at the teasing letters
now that there's a box instead?

Since they made
so many other changes
maybe they finished the basement.
It was always dry.
It would make a good rec-room
where kids can play.
That would help erase
the one great sadness
the house witnessed.

If nothing else,
I hope
there is some ice cream
in the freezer
for a late night treat.

I drove home
allowing memories
and thoughts
roll along with the scenery.
I laughed
when I wondered
what color to paint my hallway...
the one a stranger's Uncle Sonny signed
under the wallpaper I stripped.

My Choice

If a woman over 40 doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it.  She does something she wants to do and it's usually something more interesting. ~Frank Kaiser In Praise of Older Women

As I said yesterday, I found alternate activities for game day.  I was visiting my parents for the weekend and took Sunday afternoon for myself.  I've posted in the past about how I find cemeteries calming places (here and here).  Since I was close enough I decided to go visit my grandparents' graves.  Though I like to see old headstones that actually stick up from the ground my grandparents are buried in a more modern cemetery where all the markers are flush to the ground.  It's a pretty large place but fortunately both sets of grands are in the same section.  The funny thing is my paternal grandparents are "neighbors" to the folks who were their next door neighbors for nearly 50 years.  I had a little trouble finding one set of grandparents but in the process I stumbled over my great-great grands.  I said hello since I was there.  The weather was so mild and sunny.  It was a nice, peaceful stroll in a quiet place.

Back of the mansion with 2 additions

After a little visit there I went to a local historical site.  It's the Colonial mansion of the town founder whose family was deeply intertwined with my dad's forefathers (who founded the first iron works in our state).  For a very minimal donation I was given a private tour of the place since it was not at all busy.  I was a little disappointed that even non-flash photography was not permitted inside the building (so you'll have to live with outdoor shots that don't correspond to what I'm talking about) but the tour was quite informative and interesting.

Front of the mansion

For years, I've been involved in a 19th century living historical farm where I currently live.  That setting is far more rural, involves the Pennsylvania German subculture, and was peopled by common folk.  The Colonial mansion was inhabited by the Donald Trump of the day, who was an English colonist.  Even though the mansion was a century older than the farm where I help I was surprised by how much more advanced some of the technology seemed to be.  The differences privilege makes even with the great time lapse were notable.  The most interesting bit of technology, which I had never seen before, was a clock jack.  This gadget employed a weight and system of pulleys to turn a large spit in order to roast cuts of meat large enough to feed a couple dozen people without having to remain hearth side for the duration of cooking.  The complexity of the the mechanism and the cost associated with producing or repairing it kept it out of the economic reach of most folks.  Then again the common folk weren't necessarily cooking to feed 20-30 people at a time either.

The part of the tour that made me laugh hardest was when the guide pointed out how a table in the parlor was set for a colonial drinking game that makes beer pong look completely wimpy.  A large bowl was filled with spirits into which raisins and almonds were added.  The alcohol was lit and party-goers had to reach in and grab as many raisins and nuts as they could....you know...without setting themselves on fire.  Those crazy colonials!

Another interesting item I learned about was pudding caps.  No, it wasn't some weird drinking game or even an eccentric beauty treatment whereby colonial women conditioned their hair with glops of pudding.  Pudding caps were padded hats worn by toddlers to protect them from knocking their noggin too hard, thus turning them into pudding headed dolts. You can see a picture of one here.

All in all it was a peaceful day with beautiful weather.  I had time for some reflection and education and I was content to do my exploring alone. That beats football by a country mile any day of the week.

Whoopdee Do! It's the Sooper Dooper Bowl

Once upon a time, in a land around the corner, Lime co-authored another blog called Insane Asylime.  It was a short-lived humor blog focusing on the trials and tribulations of a couple of mothers.  Here then is a brief re-posting (with some edits) from there regarding my feelings about the annual nonsense known as the Super Bowl from lo, those many years ago.



FOOTBALL as defined by Lime
Unnaturally large men in pads and spandex crashing into each other and chasing an improperly shaped ball while artificially buxom women with unnaturally small waists in impossibly small outfits jump up and down in excitement over the aforementioned men and their balls.


SUPERBOWL as defined by Lime
A media event during which large corporations pay scam artist marketers obscene amounts of money to cook up lies about their products and services and then spend more than the GDP of some third world nations for 60 seconds of airtime to perpetrate such fraud on the viewing public. In my opinion a true Super Bowl would be a fully elf-cleaning toilet.


LIME'S RESPONSE TO THE HYPE
If I have to endure this absurd event there better be some really fine chocolate involved and all the testosterone flowing better result in some  mind-alteringly excellent marital conjugation later on.


A HISTORY
Once we were invited to three different Superbowl parties. After much discussion we chose one of them. Even so, about an hour before kickoff, Calypso was going to need to be dropped off elsewhere as she was attending elsewhere. We went to the mutually agreed upon party. Mr. Lime then took the child to her party a couple hours later AND FAILED TO RETURN to the mutually agreed upon party. I was stranded in a smoke filled environment and had to track him down whereupon he was discovered to be in attendance at one of the OTHER parties to which we had declined an invitation. He had the audacity to be annoyed when I asked him to come pick me up and take me home (I was having an asthma attack due to the thick cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke and my inhaler was in the car). I suggested atonement for abandonment might involve sending me here and helping me achieve multiple orgasms every night for a month. I said was willing to accept a proxy of my choosing in his stead should he have preferred not to fulfill conjugal obligations.

In years after that particular debacle I played the good sport and continued to attend Super Bowl parties where I entertained myself with such exciting pursuits as herding small children, cleaning the host's kitchen, lobster claw puppetry, and championship Doritos stacking. I tried taking a book to read but this was considered seriously deviant and anti-social behavior.  Finally, I came to my senses and decided it was idiotic to torment myself with attending these affairs when I was the only one in attendance who didn't care even a tiny bit about the game. (Actually, apathy might have been considered an improvement in my opinion of football.)  If I stayed home while the football fans attended I didn't have to feign interest or behave in socially appropriate ways for a group setting.  I have enjoyed myself on SuperBowl Sunday ever since.  Tomorrow: How I Entertained Myself or I Prefer the Company of Dead People to Football Fans.

Friday 55-Shattered

An invisible weakness

gives birth to a barely perceptible flaw.

Pressure applied

spreads a single crack

into a brittle web

ready to send shards

raining to the floor

with

just

a

breath.

Mirrored splinters

threaten innocent feet,

and helping hands.

I kneel

wondering 

if the damage can be cleared
                                                                and repaired

                                                                without wounds being multiplied.