Category Blog Posts

I have done some research into what really happened on that first Thanksgiving. We have no idea.

• Originally, Thanksgiving was a day of fasting. This was probably because the Pilgrims were ignorant about how to survive in the “New World.” The Native Americans had to help them, and maybe that first time they didn’t feel like showing the Pilgrims how to do anything.
• When they got around to feasting, after the first fasting day, the Native Americans did show the ignorant Pilgrims how to cook stuff. There was no turkey. Instead, there were swans and lobsters. Pumpkin pie was unheard of at that time. I wish it were still unheard of.
• There were only FOUR women at the first Thanksgiving. This explains the swans and the lobsters.
• Squanto was the interpreter for the Native Americans to the Pilgrims. I bet Squanto isn’t popular among Native Americans today.
• Jingle Bells was originally a Thanksgiving song. Really. Google it.
• We don’t stuff turkey any more because it isn’t safe, despite the fact that the entire generation of Baby Boomers grew up eating stuffed turkey, and nobody died from that.
• The first Thanksgiving feast was actually in 1621 in San Elizario, Texas. It consisted mostly of fish. (I am thankful that this didn’t become an American tradition, as I gag whenever I smell salmon).
• They didn’t have forks at the first Thanksgiving. I guess they ate those swans with spoons and their fingers. I suppose the Pilgrims were pretty hungry, so eating swans with their fingers was due to starvation. It was the Wampanoag Indian tribe who assisted with the swans. They also had eels. Really, those Pilgrims must have been totally starving.
• TV dinners were invented because there were so many leftovers that the Swanson Company was made aware of this, and they saw a niche opportunity to invent those frozen dinners on the aluminum trays. Wow. I wonder who called them and told them they just couldn’t deal with all of that cold turkey on Friday?
• The average number of calories consumed on Thanksgiving is 4,500. It is a wonder that any of us survive the coma that follows the meal. And yet, Americans feel the need for dessert afterwards. This may be why it is usually pumpkin pie, which the majority of Americans polled reported that they hate.
• Turkeys can have heart attacks. The article I read said “Nobody knows why.” Duh. It’s because they are stressed about their impending slaughter.
• A lot of folks make macaroni and cheese for a Thanksgiving side. Frankly, I can’t imagine eating mac and cheese on the same plate as gravy. It must just be me.
• The original Thanksgiving lasted 3 days. There were probably no leftovers, which is why there aren’t swan TV dinners.
• “Good china” is used at Thanksgiving. Along with the “good silver,” which all of us Baby Boomers keep around, taking up space, just for the two times a year we use it. This is because our adult children (Which gen are they? Z? Millenials? I get very confused about the gens) insist on tradition, and yet when asked if they WANT the good china or good silver, the response is always a resounding no.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Disclaimer: if you are a Republican, read at your own risk

If I don’t want to mince the goddamn garlic, to hell with it. I will cut it up  as I see fit.

Any recipe that calls for “finely chopping” should be outlawed. Rough chopping is good enough for anybody in America at the moment. We deserve things to be roughly chopped, by God. There are a LOT of things I would like to chop roughly right now. Oh, yeah. The broccoli will be in great  big chunks. Big enough to choke say, Laura Loomer.

Grate the f*ing cheese? Grate? What’s wrong with the stuff already grated? It’s good enough for just over half of the electorate. Let them grate their own cheese, if it’s so important! Hit the block of cheese with a hammer. That ought to do it.

It’s a good thing this recipe doesn’t call for eggs, because a whole lot of people think the price of eggs is a tipping point, for crying out loud.

My God! Now I have to grate Parmesan! Parmesan comes from Italy. Is Italy in NATO? Well, they better be paying their fair share, or else, says the man who as far as I know, has never paid his fair share of anything.

Stir until bubbly. You know, the way rage comes to a boil and then simmers for four years. Stir in all that goddamn grated cheese, and let it melt, sort of like your optimism.

Not serving dessert. It would taste bitter.

What sounds like fun?

When I was unencumbered by marriage and family, fun was

• Dancing until totally sweaty, never getting exhausted
• Making out
• Driving around looking for fun
• And you know what the above fun refers to
• Eating carbs with no concern at all for ramifications
• Doing scary things, but not quite THAT scary, above ^
• Putting on elaborate eye makeup
• Staying up late, laughing with friends
• Sleeping in
• Knowing the words to all of the Bob Dylan songs
• Hiking
• That’s a lie; I have never thought hiking was fun
• Being in college
• Dating lots of men (in my case, “lots” is less than a dozen)
• Not needing Spanx
• Talking on the phone for hours
• Macaroni and cheese in a box

Now that I am way into my golden years, fun is a whole other thing:

• Wearing sweatpants
• Eating toast
• Texting instead of long winded phone conversations
• Door Dash
• Napping
• Laughing with friends, but they go home at nine
• Staying at home and not wearing makeup
• A new pair of Birkenstocks
• A new knee brace
• Binge-ing tv shows all by myself
• Napping
• Pedicures
• Comparing surgeries with friends
• No longer having to buy tampons
• Napping
• Being alive
• Having grandchildren
• Popcorn for lunch
• Napping

These days, if it is time for dinner and I make it, you don’t want to eat it. I have written about this before. My husband is the chef now.

The other night, I had found a recipe for “Cream Cheese Chicken,” which sounded delicious. It featured the cream cheese, along with white wine, dill, and chicken broth added to the chicken with some other stuff. I thought it looked relatively easy. To serve under it, I got some Rice A Roni, (The San Francisco Treat). It was nostalgic for me, as I used to make it all the time when I was the cook. Back in the day, when the dinners I made were totally nutritious and almost delicious.

The cream cheese chicken was much more laborious than it looked like on paper. It took Charlie over an hour to make, and in the process, he used at least three pots and every spatula we have, not to mention the measuring cups, mixing bowls, and utensils.

It was a triumph, really. Charlie’s cooking skills are now way up there. The sauce with the dill enhanced the delicate flavor of the chicken. There was also broccolini and salad.

When dinner was over, Charlie, as he snuffed out the candles, remarked “You know, Rice A Roni is complicated to make.”

RICE A RONI.

https://www.thekitchn.com/cream-cheese-chicken-recipe-23281115

What do people with insomnia do?

They get up, wander around the house, and sit alone in the dark, hoping that somehow, sleepiness will overcome them.

When that doesn’t happen, they scroll through their phone, look at all the Instagram photos, move over to places like Twitter, read stuff about the coming election, and fall into despair.

Then, if you are me, you turn your photo app on, and you take a shot like the one above.

Then you go back to bed and try to imagine what sleep is like.

This person most likely has a very important job. He’s a “stock” photo, but there are lots of people like this out there. Men and women who are decision makers, carriers of stress, makers of policy, and savers of lives.

I watch them on TV all the time. They wear Apple Watches, get into buildings using their fingerprints, and they eat standing up. They have drivers so they can do business on the way to work, because they live in huge cities with lots of traffic, so they use their time commuting wisely–getting ready to transplant organs, save a species, or control the markets of foreign countries. Some of them cause wars. Others stop them, or try to.

Here’s the thing about these people that I wonder. They probably don’t go home for long stretches, but when they are home, what do they do? Do they put on their pajamas the minute they walk in the door? Or do they have a brown drink poured into a crystal glass splashed from a cut glass decanter? Do they eat Cheetos ever? I know Taylor Swift makes pop tarts, but do any of the others  make their own snacks?

Do important people stay on alert all the time? Can they relax? How do they do this? I can’t imagine an important person taking a nap, for instance. They would keep getting interrupted by their phones binging. Do they ever do crafts? They must have the ability to immerse themselves in something that will take them out of themselves so completely that they can just focus on that thing and let the rest of the world go. So. I wonder if Bill Gates has ever used a pot holder loom.

Wouldn’t it be sort of great to be so important that you could see a problem and just pick up the phone and call another important person and get it solved, right on the spot? This must happen all the time, but we are just not aware of it, because we are not very important.

I would just once like to be so important that I could decide, for instance, that there should be more equality at the doctor’s office, and if they weigh you, you ought to be able to weigh the doctor. Who could I call to make that happen?

But actually, I am glad I am not important. I just don’t have the wardrobe for it.

When you go to a restaurant, they serve you food that not only tastes good, but it is aesthetically arranged on the plate. This food styling is important. The above photo is of a gorgeous dinner. As I am writing this, the photo looks a little blurry, but that may be because my cataract surgery isn’t for another month.

The meal above was made and plated by my husband, who follows the directions on the meal subscription box faithfully, right down to making the food on the plates look exactly like the photo on the recipe. Exactly.

We subscribe to three meal boxes per week. This means that three meals are delicious, look just like what Ina Garten would make, and I don’t have to make anything. Unfortunately, the other four meals are my responsibility. I have been making dinners for 54 years. For 48 of those years, the. meals were mostly good. They were always totally edible. But here’s the thing: I have never liked cooking. I took my responsibility for producing meals seriously, as I had two children to keep healthy and growing. We had salad at every dinner.

Once the kids left, what little enthusiasm I had for making supper dwindled to near zero. I began to rely on a few “no brainers.” Spaghetti with Rao’s sauce. Sandwiches. Turkey pot pies. Pizza delivery. After a few years of this, my husband became weary of the same old meals. I became angry at him for this, and so I announced my retirement from the daily grind. We subscribed to the meal boxes and he took over cooking on those nights. Those nights are heavenly, because we get dinners like “Turkish Goulash with Lime Rice,” “Tostadas with Guacamole and Lime Crema,”  “Roasted Garbanzo Beans with Artisanal Salad,” and the like. Many of the recipes include various sorts of beans, but we don’t mind. The fiber helps the meals “move along,” if you catch my drift.

My nights are a totally different kettle of fish. I use that phrase advisedly, since I am not a fish fan, so I don’t make fish. Except tuna salad sandwiches, which are always good. I have no culinary imagination, I resent being in the kitchen, and thus when putting the food on the plates, I just schlep it on there, with no thought to the presentation. Presentation be damned; let’s just eat the food and be done with it.

Night before last, I watched as my husband held a sprig of parsley over his head and dropped it gracefully onto the side of a portion of Poached Chicken Breasts with Lemon Sauce. It was beautiful. He took such care and pride.

The next night, it was my turn.

The change of seasons gives us a jolt that we need. Summer is over, although it is still so damn hot out, but we have to blame climate change for that. Fall is fall, no matter what the temps are. So everybody in the burbs buys mums and pumpkins. We look forward to wearing sweaters (I don’t–since menopause, I wonder how any woman can wear one; they are so HOT). The other things people do in fall:

• Make all sorts of recipes utilizing squash
• Wear socks with their Birkenstocks
• Think about roasting a chicken
• Get one last pedicure
• Consider growing a beard
• Take the kids to get lost in a corn maze
• Ride around looking for “the foliage”
• Try mulled cider one more time, but it’s still awful
• Order an inflatable figure
• Break a tooth on a candy apple
• Sit around a fire pit, even if it’s 70 degrees out there
• Put nuts in a bowl with a nutcracker, yet nobody eats them
• Trip on a root while hiking
• Make chili
• Stock up on lip balm
• Stop shaving their legs
• Visit a “haunted house”

Next up, winter. The season we love until the holidays, and then it just gets depressing…

Old houses. They are full of character, they hold stories in their walls. They have drafts. Bats can get in. But they are built from a time when craftsmen took pride in their work. Walls were thick, floors were beautiful wood. Big, Santa friendly fireplaces. Large rooms.

We lived in an old house for thirty years. The center hall, wide and welcoming, was big enough for actual furniture. The kitchen had a kitchen table, not an island. It had a butler’s pantry. It was such a superb home for raising a family. We loved that house.

It had drawbacks. The laundry was in the gloomy basement. Two flights of stairs down, and then back up again, lugging the heavy basket of clothes. The closets were small, and nobody in 1912 thought that folks needed to “walk in” to a closet. Some of the windows were painted shut. House cleaning was a day long affair; it was a big, old place. Dust. So much dust. But it was homey, lovely, and our family dropped roots there.

Now we, the elder empty nesters, live on the top floor of a brand new apartment building. We had no idea how much easier it would be to live in a modern place. There are no drafts. The laundry room is off my closet–no lugging! For the first time in my life, I have a huge kitchen island, so much counter space. I can walk in to my closet, and dance in there if I want to. The windows in every room are gigantic. The sunsets we see from our living room are spectacular– high above the city–pink, orange, and purple. We never saw a sunset at the old place; there were too many trees.

There is a skyline! I always wanted to look out and see a skyline! We have a big balcony, so I have flowers, but there is no lawn maintenance. We can walk to restaurants. We can watch the Dayton Dragons baseball games from the balcony. Fourth of July fireworks are incredible.

We know lots of people who still live in their family homes. As they age, the prospect of moving to a smaller place seems overwhelming. Too much stuff to get rid of. All of that packing up. Selling a house. So they sigh and hope that their children will be fine doing all of that “when the time comes.” They stay put until perhaps the moving won’t be an adventure, but instead a miserable relocation to a “facility.”

We are so glad we decided to have an “adventure” by moving from the burbs into the city. It was a life refresher. We have new friends, a diverse group of neighbors, and did I mention the sunsets?

Get out of that house, empty nesters! Before it’s too late.

Harriet Busby spent her entire life doing the right thing. As a child, she spit her cherry pits demurely into her napkin, and then placed them at the side of her plate. When her brother let the cherry pits accumulate in his hand, Harriet tattled on him. Harriet was not afraid of reprisal.

When Harriet grew up, she found the habits of her neighbors shocking. Harold Batts left his garbage cans out in the open, and this resulted in a raccoon infestation. Harriet called Critter Control so many times they recognized her voice.  Her backdoor neighbor, Winnie Smales, left the bathroom curtains open. Harriet was forced to inform Winnie that her *ahem* privates were not so private.

Harriet never married. She came close with Robert Dodd, but he had the unfortunate habit of sucking on a toothpick after dinner, and that was a dealbreaker for Harriet. When they dissolved their relationship, Harriet got rid of the jade green ceramic toothpick holder that adorned her kitchen window sill. She never really liked it, and it was not at all valuable. She chucked it, along with the toothpicks, into the trash without a second thought. However, she did miss Robert’s company in the evenings. After dinner especially, when Robert would sing “Are You Lonesome Tonight” in a soothing baritone.

Harriet could never understand why her nieces never sent thank you notes for the ten dollar checks she sent them on their birthdays, so she stopped sending them. Their father, Thomas, who was six years Harriet’s junior (guilty of the cherry pit etiquette breach), left Harriet a huffy message on her land line, declaring thank you notes extinct. He told his sister that “text” thanks are what is done these days, but since Harriet didn’t believe in cell phones, she was the one in the wrong.

Harriet remained steadfast. The world was full of ill mannered, selfish people. Harriet stuck to her guns, judging those in her neighborhood, at church, and especially those churls at Kroger who banged Harriet’s heels with their shopping carts.

Then, one Saturday, after a solitary Friday night in her recliner, Harriet had a Eureka moment. Life was getting shorter and shorter, Harriet was getting older and older, and the lonely days and nights stretching in front of her turned her blood to ice.

Harriet looked at herself in the mirror. Pale, undistinguished. Hair that barely held a curl. The beginnings of under eye bags. Were those jowls? She stifled a sigh, pulled open the hall closet door, and took out her maroon cardigan.

The speed limit was 35 mph, but Harriet floored it on the way to the Goodwill store, where she bought a brass toothpick holder.

The rest is history.