Wha’d’ya Know?

           “So! Wha’d’ya know?” you ask.

Another week has just flown by me! That’s what I know!

You wanna know something else? I generally cook something every day. It boggles the mind that as experienced as I am, I still make mistakes — some of them stupid!

Like this one.

I made cornbread. As soon as I pulled it out of the oven, I knew I’d done something wrong. It was flat, only half the height it should’ve been.

Trying to figure out what went wrong, I was reviewing it in my head, like playing a movie. The leavening agent is baking powder and I watched myself measure out and put a teaspoon in, wondering once again why it calls for three teaspoons instead of a tablespoon. So you don’t have to get out another spoon out for the salt, I answer myself. I capped the baking powder, put it in the cabinet, got the salt, and put a teaspoon in — and that’s when I had my A-HA! moment. The recipe calls for three teaspoons of baking powder, but I’d only put one in! It was still eatable — edible, but I ended up throwing a couple of three pieces out for the critters.

Something else I made this week was a snack that has two of my favorite ingredients in it. Cheese and cheese. It’s an easy recipe, one cup parmesan, one cup mozzarella, one egg, one teaspoon onion powder. Mix. Spread on parchment paper. Bake at three-fifty for fifteen.

“Can I share it with you?” I asked Miss Rosie.

“Peg, I can’t have cheese,” she replied.

“How about that husband of yours? Ya think he’d like some?”

“Probably. How is it?”

“It looks better than it tastes,” I answered honestly.

 Lamar tried part of a piece when I gave it to him.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“It looks better than it tastes,” he confirmed my opinion. “Cheddar might’ve been better.”

The bag I’d given him had three slices. “You don’t have to take it,” I said.

“Peg!” you exclaim.

All right! Okay! That’s a lie, but just a small one. I stumbled over the words three times before I got out something to that effect. It happens to me when I write too, only you wouldn’t notice that. I suspect it’s as my father used to say, “I let my alligator mouth overload my canary brain.” There are many ways to say something and my mouth starts before my mind has settled on which way I want to say it.

Lamar waited patiently until I got my tongue untied. “You wanna leave ‘em here?”

“No. I better take ‘em,” Lamar said. “I don’t know when I’ll get hungry again.”

This time my brain didn’t have any trouble formulating the right response. “Something’s better than nothing?”

He laughed, mostly out of politeness. “That’s right.”

And these were a disappointment, only a little better than nothing, but easy to eat on the go.

My last kitchen disappointment isn’t even my fault.

I love my yogurt maker and homemade yogurt. I portion it out into half-cup servings and we have some almost every day.

A couple of batches ago, I noticed the light on my yogurt maker wasn’t on. “Uh-oh,” I told Mike. “I think my yogurt maker quit on me.”

It’d already been plugged in for a few hours before I noticed it. Mike came to check. “It’s warm, Peg,” he said. “Maybe it’s just the light that’s out.”

I let it cook and it still makes yogurt without an ‘on’ light.

Condensation builds up under the dome, drips down the sides, and leaves a puddle on the counter. Most times I’ll just push the base aside and dry the counter. It’s usually the next day until the bowl I made the yogurt in is washed and air dried in the dish drainer. Then I’ll put the bowl back on the base, but the dome lid on, and carry it back to the shelf where it lives.

This last time I did something different. I picked up the base to move it and when I went to set it out of the way on the stove, I tipped it sideways — and water came pouring out of the unit making a mess all over the floor! “Mike!” I called. “I think I know why the light quit!”

I don’t know what this means for my yogurt maker. Maybe it’ll drown itself out, maybe it’ll keep right on working for a long time. But one thing is for sure. If it dies, I’ll have to get another one. Homemade yogurt is so good for you and contains no additives or preservatives.

>>>*<<<

My phone rang one afternoon this week. I looked at my caller ID and it was my Miss Rosie.

“You like puzzles,” she started, “would you come down and help us figure out this beach shelter Jenn bought? Lamar’s been trying to figure it out for an hour and he’s getting frustrated.”

“Sure!” I said.

We get down to the Kipps’ house and see a tent, or shelter, spread out on the ground.

“Here’s the directions,” Lamar said.

The ‘directions’ are little more than pictures, but between Mike and me, we can usually figure stuff like this out. I see some things, he sees other things, we blend ‘em together and have our answer.

This guy was a beast to figure out because we weren’t understanding the pictures but once we got our up-side up and down-side down, it went together just fine and seems so obvious in retrospect.

          “Are you going to be able to figure this out when you get to the beach?” I asked Lamar.

          “I hope so,” he said. “Otherwise, it’ll be in the trash.”

          “We could color code the connections,” I suggested and I was thinking about nail polish or something.

          “Duck tape?” Lamar suggested.

          “Sure. Do you have enough different kinds?”

          “Yeah.”

          Lamar went in and came out with a tubful of fancy-schmancy Duck Tapes.

          “Why do you have so many?” I wondered.

“Because the girls would ask what they could buy me and I’d say, ‘Duck Tape.’ Now when they ask, I say, ‘Food.’”

Every place the rods and the canvas met, we used a different pattern tape. I hope it helps instead of adding to the confusion.

“It’ll never go back in the bag again,” Miss Rosie said.

“It’ll go back in if I have to stomp it in,” Lamar said to me in an aside.

We folded, we rolled, and it went back in the bag with hardly any complaint at all. If only everything went back into its original packaging so easily.

“I’ll take a picture for proof,” I said.

Raini has been and continues to be a source of consternation for me. We were so lucky not to have had these problems with our Yorkies because from what I understand, they’re perfectly normal dog behaviors and attitudes.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

My morning peeps already know the story and my frustration so they get to hear it again. Basically, what’s going on is the two girls are trying to establish who’s going to be top dog. The older and bigger Raini gets, the more she challenges Bondi’s authority over her — and I’ve not been helping. In my defense, I’m trying but the girls aren’t cooperating.

“It should always be Bondi first,” Dr. K. advised. “Greet Bondi first, give her a treat first, let her come in or go out before Raini, feed her first.”

I’ve tried but I can’t make Bondi eat a treat first. I offer it to her and she turns away. What am I to do? I give it to Raini. I offer the next one to her and the next. Raini might eat four or five treats before Bondi’ll take one. I’ll put a dish of food down for Bondi, holding Raini back, Bondi’ll sniff it and walk away. I let Raini have it and if she eats it all, there’s nothing for Bondi — except dry kibble. I always have a dish of that sitting out.

Going in and out? I’ve made Raini go back out and wait for Bondi to come in, but there are times Bondi’ll just stand there. Well! This old woman ain’t got no time for that bull shit!

During play time, Bondi’s on top as much as she’s on the bottom.

One night, in the middle of the night, like one in the morning, I wake up to Bondi creeping up my side closest to the edge of the bed. I know what she wants. She wants under the covers, but she wants to be on the inside so I don’t accidently kick her off the bed. Likely what would’ve happened was she’d’ve crossed over my pillow, down the other side, and scratched at me to lift the blankets so she could get under. On this night, though, Raini was right behind her. I was lying on my back when Bondi went over top of my head and was coming down the other side when Raini got on my chest, head low, eyes focused on Bondi, a rumble in her chest.

“Peg! If it was one in the morning, how did you see?” you wanna know.

There was enough moonlight coming in the window that I could see and what I couldn’t see, I could sense.

They were nose to nose and the tension between them was palpable. There was going to be a dog fight right there on my face! I pushed Raini away. It’s like she was glued to my hand and came right back with it. She was all stiff and growly. I pushed her away again. She came right back again. The next time I pushed her, I sat up and pushed her right to the bottom of the bed. That gave me enough time to lift the covers and let Bondi get down under. They both settled down but it was a long time until I could go back to sleep.

“I can’t keep doing this!” I told my morning peeps. “We might have to get rid of Raini.”

We had a vet appointment to finish up Raini’s puppy shots and I was going to ask for advice. Raini’s sixteen weeks old and weighs seventeen pounds.

“She’s petite,” Dr. Lori said.

She gave me some handouts on dog behavior and some advice. Don’t let the dogs sleep in bed with you and if you do, never let them be higher on the bed than you.

Neither dog sleeps higher on the bed. Raini sleeps at the foot and Bondi sleeps either at my knees or feet.

Dr. Lori also said to monitor playtime. If Raini gets too rambunctious, give her a ten-minute timeout in her crate.

And that’s what we’ve been doing.

Along with exercise.

Every day I’ve been taking the girls for a mid-morning walk around the property that culminates at the pond. Bondi doesn’t get in the water but Raini dives right in, chasing frogs first one way then the other.

While waiting for her I take pictures.

This one is called Boneset. It’s easy to identify because the leaves grow together around the stem. That’s why they thought it was a good healing agent for broken bones.

Another name for it is Feverwort, or Sweating-plant. It was introduced to the colonists by Native Americans who used the plant for breaking fevers by means of heavy sweating.

This is Virgin’s Bower. 

And this is Goldenrod.

Goldenrod is a very versatile plant. It’s been studied by the scientific community and some of its properties have been recognized for its effectiveness when used in the treatment of illnesses of the urinary tract. Its restorative, anti-inflammatory, tonic and cleansing properties make it one of the top herbs to aid in any kidney and bladder condition, including kidney stones, nephritis, and cystitis.

In folk medicine, it’s been used for centuries to help in the treatment of a wide range of conditions such as seasonal allergies, asthma, colds and flu, tuberculosis, capillary fragility (varicose veins, hemorrhoids, hemorrhage), and even diabetes.

Externally it can disinfect and help heal wounds and various skin problems. It can also be “soaked” in oil to be used in ointments or salves to relieve pain — both muscular and rheumatic pain.

On top of all these healing properties, Goldenrod also has high amounts of antioxidants — more than green tea! And you can eat the leaves and flowers.

I actually like the beautiful flowers and lovely scent of Goldenrod, I just don’t like it taking over and crowding out all the other wildflowers.

I can’t take Raini home while she’s sopping wet, so I go to my Bergamot patch to pull some of the aforementioned Goldenrod.

I’m watching for butterflies and humbees as I approach, but only see this guy. I don’t know what kind of dragonfly he is but I know one thing about dragonflies. When you find them on a perch, such as this one is, if he flies away, all you need to do is be patient. He’ll come back to it. He let me creep quite close.

Standing there waiting for him to come back, I feel a little bump at my feet and look down to see Raini in my shadow.

“Will she chase deer?” you ask.

I expect she’ll chase anything that runs and no amount of yelling on my part can get her to quit and come back. What I’ve taken to doing is going inside.

I once left her at the pond and went to the Bergamot patch. She didn’t see me go and after a few minutes I could hear her crying. I started walking and calling her name and she came running at full speed — from the house. She’d gone home when she couldn’t find me.

I started pulling Goldenrod and tossing them where Mike would mow them and Raini helped. She’d do what Bondi used to do and grab at the weeds as I threw them.

It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt — and that someone would be me! She got to where she was anticipating and jumping higher and higher. I wasn’t paying too much attention to her, being more intent on pulling weeds, when a sharp little baby tooth sank deep into the back of my wrist. She gashed it good! Despite washing it, it’s pretty angry red today. But it’ll heal and I’ve learned my lesson when pulling weeds with Raini!

I had a bit of a scare. I was sitting on the patio, painting, with Raini nearby. We both heard the weeds rustling and she went to investigate. I assumed it was one of the cats so I wasn’t surprised when she started barking. But the barking went on and on and on. I’d finally had enough and got up to go look.

There, on the other side of the fence, lay Spitfire, motionless.

Oh, Lord. He got hit by a car and managed to drag himself to the yard, I thought. I didn’t see any blood but with that kind of trauma, you won’t. Trust me. We’ve had several hit by cars and there’s not always any outward signs of injury.

I stood there, arms folded across the top rail of the fence, and watched for any sign of movement, any signs of breath, and didn’t see any.

Raini kept up a steady stream of dialog the whole time but I tuned her out, thinking instead. Mike’s gonna be so sad! I imagine myself walking into the house and announcing, “SPITFIRE’S DEAD!” Losing one of the cats is always harder on him than it is on me and I hated to give him the bad news. Then I thought about just walking away, delaying it for as long as possible.

You might just as well get it over with, I decide, lift the gate latch, and went to his side.

Spitfire lifted his head and looked at me. “Meow,” he said.

“You faker! You scared me!” I told him and walked away in a huff.

Now speaking of dead, we’ve had great fun with the way I inadvertently spelled dead that one time. Every time the ‘d’ word is mentioned, it’s always followed by the spelling. D-E-D, dead.

“Okay,” I told Mike one day. “If bed is spelled B-E-D, why isn’t dead spelled D-E-D?”

No wonder the English language is one of the hardest to learn!

>>>*<<<

I spent several afternoons on the patio painting and finished the unicorn box.

On the inside I put three little butterflies. Since this picture was taken, I’ve added the felt to the bottom.

We keep the patio chairs tipped up against the table to keep my little climbers off the table. I wasn’t worried about leaving my brushes on the table when I should’ve been. Raini modified one of my brushes for me. She thought it should have a shorter handle. She left the bristles alone so it’s still usable.

I don’t know how she got my brush off the table.

I started work on the boy box that goes to the same home as the unicorn box.

This time I’m trying something different. I’m painting the elements before I put them on the box. I don’t foresee any problems in doing it this way and it makes it faster and easier to paint them since I don’t have to be as careful.

“What’s on the back?” you ask.

The back is gonna be sports. I have a mold for small baseballs, footballs, soccer, and basketballs. I freehanded the baseball glove, football helmet, a big football, and a basketball. I don’t know how I’m going to arrange them yet or if I’m even going to use them all. I made six motorcycles and only used four.

>>>*<<<

On the way out of our road, we’ve seen these twins several times. I’m wondering if they didn’t use to be the triplets we saw.

I’ll tell you what. For having cataracts, I do pretty well. A lot of times my brain guesses at what I’m seeing — or maybe I should say what I’m not seeing! Case in point — these logs.

As we’re approaching, I can see long dark things with orange lined down the sides. My mind thinks they’re flower boxes with marigolds or some other flower blooming. I’m thinking, how pretty, then we pass and I can see they’re not flower boxes, they’re logs!

So, what’s the orange stuff? I wonder and my mind automatically goes to the pretty orange fungus that grows on logs.

“Can we turn around?” I asked Mike.

He’s a good husband, took his foot off the gas and applied the brake as a side road came into view.

“Why?” he asked.

“I think there’s a bunch of orange fungus growing on those logs back there and I wanna get a picture.” I guess Mike hadn’t noticed them or he’d’ve dispelled my illusion right then and there.

We pass them, Mike finds a driveway and turns around again.

“It looks like spray paint to me,” he said as we pass them for the third time.

“Peg!” you exclaim. “When are you going to get your eyes fixed?”

As a matter of fact, this week I’ll go for the consultation. The gal said after that they get you in for the surgery pretty quick.

Here’s a few more road pictures for you.

Friday morning the Kipps stopped for a visit.

“Ten-thirty last night we hear a semi coming down the road,” Lamar said.

“And it was coming way too fast, too,” my Miss Rosie chipped in.

“He hit the guide rail. We went to the door and watched him try to back up and after about the third try, he got backed up far enough he could get across the bridge.

“It wasn’t until Lamar went to put mail in the box this morning that we realized he’d hit the mailbox too!” Miss Rosie said. “Can we have our mail delivered to your box until we can get a new post and box?”

“Of course!” Mike said.

“And of course, he didn’t leave a number, did he?” I asked.

Lamar laughed. “No. I could’ve gone down with the camera and taken a picture of his license number, but I might’ve gotten shot. It’s not worth it.”

After the Kipps left, Mike and I went to see the damages.

“Lamar should move his mailbox up to the other end,” Mike said. “Then it wouldn’t get hit.”

And this isn’t even the first time it was hit since it was put behind the guide rail. The front of the box extended over the rail so the mail carrier could put the mail in. Not long after the bridge guys put Lamar’s box up, someone skimmed the guide rail and hit the box, but it wasn’t so bad that Lamar had to replace it.

“And I’d just made him new numbers for his box, too!” I lamented.

Do you think I jinxed it?

Let’s call this one done!