An Easter Bonnet?

Jeanine called on Wednesday before Easter to remind me of the meeting on Thursday. “Don’t forget the contest. The hat contest. Easter bonnet.”

My creative side is limited. Quite limited, especially as regards crafts, sewing things, and such as that. I do write frequently, and am a rather serious amateur photographer. That’s about it as far as creativity is concerned, so when I had heard previously about the hat issue, I paid it little mind.

When I hung up the phone after talking to Jeanine, my vision was caught by a wide, filmy band of ribbon that was fluttered across the back of our living room couch. I had moved the ribbon there from another place with the thought of either disposing of it, or of taking it upstairs and tucking it away with gift-wrapping items that are in a cupboard in our game-room. I cannot say what possessed me at that moment to recall a wide-brimmed straw hat that resided on a high shelf in my bedroom closet–but something did, and with a certain gleam in my eye (I suspect, although I certainly couldn’t see such a gleam) I grabbed up a plastic climbing stool, placed in before my opened closet, reached high and grasped the said straw hat.

I created. A mad-hatter now, I wrapped the ribboned gleam of color about the crown of the headpiece, and with my off-white cord threaded through a wide-eyed needle, I attempted to adjoin the two pieces. The effort was less than stellar as the spaces between the straw formation of the hat were so large that the majority of my stitches snagged nothing but air. Pins. Safety pins. I pulled several of them from the plastic container I found in my seldom-used sewing kit, and voila! Success!

An hour or so before we left for the meeting, as I donned my hat for one last perfection check (by and large to assure that no safety pins were visible), I inquired of my hubby. “Want me to make you a hat, Jerry?”

He eyed me. “I don’t think so, Shirley.”

I think I glimpsed a smirk across his otherwise sweet face.

Out of the fifty persons or so who attended the meeting, when they called for the Easter Bonnet contestants to go forward, the elect group consisted of eight people, I believe. I joined that bevy of the brave and talented who walked to the front and straggled into a semi-circle of hatted people. Three prizes were awarded. First name called–not mine. Second name called–not mine. Third name called: Shirley! The emcee handed me an envelope on which was written: Most Creative. Inside was a ten-dollar bill.

So there you go. My first attempt as a milliner, and I won cash money. What say you? Should I proceed with this occupation? Have I, in the millinery field, at these late years become a sort of Grandma Moses?

Cinnamon Roll Saga

How is it that sugary goo tangled arm-in-arm with sunshiny-yellow butter morphs into a creation that snaps our tastebuds into smiling salute, but at the same moment prompts our doctors to caution, “Watch it now, Easy does it.”? Ah, life. Incredibly wonderful, yet patently unfair as regards the consumption of such things that at their origin told of golden-grain fields, herds of glossy girl cows, cackling hens, and not to forget the standing forest of trees whose bark yields the aromatic twirled spice that is basic to a notable cinnamon roll.

For some time now I have observed the practice of foregoing the creation of these and similarly cautionary delectables until Jerry and I have company . . .or some analogous festive occasion that might beg for such formation. Through the years I have tweaked recipes until I have settled on a basic yeast roll, and in so doing, have wondered if said dough could serve as foundation for a master cinnamon roll. The problem lay in the fact that while reserving such for guests, I also have an aversion to test-driving on company. (What’s a girl to do?) So, a couple of days before Independence Day I announced to a few persons of interest that on that day–this special holiday–I would conduct a cinnamon roll test-run. Perfect!

About mid-morning Rebecca called saying her earlier plans had dissolved, and she’d be up for a visit. I smiled, told her of the cinnamon roll experiment, and what time we would be eating.

“I’ll be up to help you judge, Mom.”

I had told Jerry we would have one for breakfast, but although I was up at 5:30 to get them started, things happened, and we wound up eating a regular breakfast, holding the thought that the rolls would be great for a coffee break. Or dessert for our big meal if worse came to worse.

We would eat at 3:00. Jerry grilled brats. I fried potatoes, made a salad, and Rebecca put together a green bean casserole, using Mozzarella I had in the fridge instead of the Swiss she needed. Saved a market run.

We dined on the back deck, and well before we had cleared the table after eating the tasty food, I announced there would be no interval between dinner and dessert. Too eager. We made coffee, I plated the huge rolls, and carried them out. They were soft and gooey. . . And! perfect.

Rebecca decided against taking any home with her. I wrapped two, placed them in the freezer, and placed one on a dish, covered it with a glass dome and placed it inside the oven.  Should stay fresh like that and Jerry would have it the next day for a snack, I was sure.

I believe it was around  8:00  in the evening when I detected movement in the kitchen, and as I watched a gentleman moved from said area, a well-filled plate in his hand. Jerry grinned.

“Where did you get that cinnamon roll?” I asked.

“In the freezer.”

Well, here we are on July 5th, and this nice cinnamon roll  I saved for Jerry is still available. I suspect in a couple of hours, though, that it will not remain in such fine form; rather it will have become a sweet, gooey memory, and its origin of flora and fauna will be a forgotten speck of the ages.

The Surprise Anniversary Dinner

“Don’t plan anything tomorrow,” Jerry had said to me the day before our anniversary. And yesterday, the big day, he told me his plans for us to go to a very fine restaurant in Lake Arrowhead. Our daughter Rebecca would be coming up around 2:30 and would join us for an early dinner.

So, a rather routine day found us eating bacon and eggs for breakfast, no lunch, just snacks here and there, and around noon I tackled a yard job of raking up pesky leaves from our multiple oak trees. I filled a large, heavy duty black bag, swept the stepping stones, hosed everything down, and watered all the plants in the back yard.

A bit after 2:00 Jerry and I were relaxing in the living room when Rebecca drove up and came in with her charming dog, Paisley, and a beautiful basket of strawberries, chocolate candy, and green beans she had picked up at a farmers market. We kissed and hugged and I read aloud the sweet card she had brought.

“Well, I suppose I’d better get dressed, ” I said some time later. I paused, then added, “I feel like ordering in McDonald’s.”  I grinned.

“Or pizza,” Jerry said.

We  looked at each other, snickered a bit, then I said, “Why don’t we do that! Nothing says we have to go out anywhere.” We had nothing to prove, no one to impress, and besides I could stay in my less than spectacular clothes, and my dusty feet would be just fine for a few more hours.

Rebecca looked up the number to the local pizza joint, Jerry pulled out a credit card, and over the phone we ordered our 62nd anniversary dinner. Rebecca and I made a salad, we grabbed drinks from the fridge, and carried our dishes and pizza carton to the back deck. We dined!

And kissed.

Rebecca smiled.

We watched as our finches joined in the celebration by chowing down on the seeds  they pull from the sock that swings from the deck rails. Nearby, hummingbirds swigged their sweet nectar. A beautiful, balmy summer day in the San Bernardino Mountains. Perfect setting for a significant meal.

The air grew chilly, a bit of wind picked up, so we moved inside. I took a carton of fine vanilla ice cream from the downstairs freezer. Rebecca poked about in the cabinets, found three decent cookies, cleaned the strawberries, then piled them on the ice cream I had plunked into three glass dishes. The Keurig gurgled, and whiffs of fresh, strong coffee swirled among the items of celebration.

“I’d better go,” Rebecca said. “Want to get down the mountain before dark.”

Thanks, hugs, kisses, good-byes to people and to dogs concluded the Buxton family celebration. How sweet it is.

 

Of Peppadews and Goat Cheese

A couple of Sundays ago after morning worship, our longtime friends, the Garretts, and our new friends, the Stegals, joined us for lunch at Macaroni Grill in Redlands. Holly and I each ordered a nice salad, and split a chicken dish. Someone ordered appetizers and when one of those dishes came to me, and I bit into a portion, I knew I was tasting an extraordinarily delicious food.

“What is this I’m eating?” I asked one of the waitresses, probably with my mouth full and with delectable droolings cascading down my chin.

“Peppers,” she said. “Peppadew peppers stuffed with goat cheese.”

She smiled as I raved at the incredible taste of those little morsels. “Some of our customers come in and order only appetizers.”

“I fully understand,” I replied.

Into my computer at home I typed the words Peppadew peppers served at Macaroni Grill, and voila, up came a recipe that looked to be exactly as the incredible dish had been prepared. Peppadew. Never heard of them, but I was hooked. Problem was, I could not find the peppers. Checked at Stater Brothers, Trader Joes, Von’s Pavillion, Jensen’s Fine Foods, and Goodwin’s Market. Holly checked at Gerards. Nothing. I did find them to be available on the internet,  so a few days ago, I ordered 12 jars of Peppadews! Today they arrived.

A few minutes ago, I assembled half a dozen of these delicacies. Heavenly, I tell you.

I’m taking a little issue with the recipe. One half teaspoon of goat cheese is nowhere near enough. I stuffed in more, probably a rousing good tablespoon.

We’re having a little backyard  end of summer BBQ next Saturday, and I’ll be passing around these glorious sweet peppers. Stop by and I’ll hand you one . . .maybe even give you one of the eleven jars I now have in my pantry.

 

A Party for Winston

Yesterday was my birthday, and I am now two years old. Mistress is conflicted between wondering if I have edged into my terrible twos, or if I’ve entered my teen years and am now a fourteen-year-old.

Before they came home from church yesterday, my people stopped at a 99 cent store to buy things for my party. No suitable hats, so Mistress decided a birthday cup would work, and so it did. From the gift ribbon and paper area upstairs, she brought down this beautiful blue ribbon, punched holes in the cup, and tied a bow under my chin.

Purple pom-poms was the background for my party and my plate was beautiful as you can see.

.Refreshments consisted of a small scoop of ice cream, and a cookie nibble. I wasn’t allowed much of the cookie for it had chocolate in it, and they tell me I should not eat chocolate. I did try to snatch up the glittery purple stuff, but Mistress pulled the slim strands from my mouth, laughing, saying they would not be good for me.

As I dipped into my refreshment plate, my hat slipped. Mistress removed it, so I could lap up my birthday treat without unnecessary hindrances.

I thought you’d like to know about my birthday . . .and in case you didn’t know and didn’t send me good wishes yesterday, you may do so now. And, uhm . .presents. Well, I’m told it is not nice to ask for any. . .so just listen to your heart, I guess.

Good-bye from Winston–Sir Winston of Crestline, that is.

Winston and the Book Shelves

“Where’s Winston?”

“I don’t know. Around here somewhere. I hear him.”

I heard him also and decided to investigate. Found him in the dining room eating . . . a book. From the time he was small he has been fascinated by books, paper, and pens. Chews and eats them all.

He had climbed onto a hassock, cleared half a shelf of books, knocked them to the floor,  and with his sharp white teeth had destroyed an expensive, old book. I scolded him, cleaned up the mess, rearranged all the books, and got out the vacuum cleaner to finish the job. He lay silently and watched my activities, offering up the distinct look of a chastened soul, which look, I have come to believe, may be contaminated with a hefty portion of hypocrisy.

Later in the day, again I could not find him. Neither could Jerry. We looked everywhere, including the floor-level shelf in the dining room that he had claimed as a tiny pup for a sleeping place, and from which long ago I had cleared all books. He was not there. I called him loudly. Nothing. We began the search again, looking under things and again outside.  I lingered in the dining room when I went there another time. Something out of place caught my eye.

A dark object had wedged himself behind the books on the shelf. The same shelf. The one he had cleared out earlier in the day.

“Winston, why didn’t you answer me? What are you doing in that book shelf?”

He opened his sleepy eyes a bit wider, but said not a word.

The rascal. As I rearranged the books before I lifted him off the shelf, he drifted off to sleep again.

I suppose I should be impressed with owning such an intellectual pup, but to tell the truth, I sometimes wish he preferred one of his balls or a chew toy over books, pens and papers.

 

Winston’s Visit to the Vet

Winston went to the vet yesterday and just a few minutes ago posted about the trip on his page here.

Labor Day Escapades

I suspect few people actually consider the significance of the holiday we celebrated last Monday; I’m among the sorry group, although I did labor a bit, but mostly I meandered through the day with the subject of labor being quite removed from my mind.

Here in this area of the San Bernardinos, it is customary on Memorial Day weekend–and to a lesser extent on Labor Day weekend–for us inhabitants to engage in mountain-wide garage sales. Well, I invest in the customer side of the garage sales, for although we’re into our 13th year here in Crestline, the Buxton household has not once indulged in dragging our excess belongings to the driveway, arranging them on tables, and erecting a SALE sign. Nope, I gather up dollars, rev up our Jeep engine and tear down the streets following the poster board neon orange signs and the dream of finding a bargain or two, or perhaps even a treasure that calls to be ensconced somewhere in our domicile.

“I’ll be up around 8:30,” Rebecca had told me. While I waited for her to arrive, I baked a chocolate pie–her favorite–boiled potatoes in their skinny jackets, then chopped, and mustarded and mayonnaised until I had thrown together a great potato salad. Rebecca brought fresh corn and Jerry and Nathaniel whipped up to Stater’s for the ribs, which he labored over for several hours, utilizing a little smoker column Patrick had given him sometime back.

Rebecca is good for me; she’s of a slower, more deliberate nature–compliments of her Buxton genes–while I tend to tear around, flapping my wings and rushing about to get on to the next stop or the next project or the next event. We probably spent 30 minutes at the first sale site and had it not been for her I would have already been scouting out the next place. . . and would have missed the sweet, slow visit with the fine people who have a tiny shop featuring rocks, gems, and antiques on Alder Road in Crestline. They had popped up an outdoor tent featuring many items from their store, along with tables of clothes and miscellaneous items, including beautiful old bottles, some with rusted caps, and antique glass turned amethyst from the interaction of chemicals and sunlight.

“My name’s Pam,” said the female segment of the couple who owns the place, and before we left Rebecca had arranged to take a young boy she teaches up to a little class with Pam. Sweetest lady.

“May I take your picture?” I asked as I watched him wiring crystal droplets.

We moved on, did Rebecca and I on Labor Day, and I bought a couple of things, as did she, then on our way back to the house, she wanted to stop and look at a lawnmower she had seen when we first started out, and it seemed like a good deal, but she wasn’t sure, so she told the man, “I’ll send down my son and my dad to check it out,” and Jerry and Nathaniel drove to the place and for $60.00 bought a fine Craftsman power lawn mower, loaded it into our Jeep, then transferred it to their car when it was time for them to leave.

Oh yes! the meal. Turned out great, except after we had arranged the table on the back deck and were setting out the meat, here came the meat-eating bees, and because we didn’t want to fight with them, we gathered up and sat ourselves down in the dining room where we tore into the ribs. Delicious, smoky, succulent. “I’ll bring you one,” Rebecca had called over the front deck railing to Nancy across the street, and because they hadn’t yet cooked the chicken they had planned and we had extra ribs and everything else, we packed up the food and shared with our neighbors.

See this beautiful jacket. ALL CLOTHES $1.00 said the sign at Pam’s garage sale. “These jackets are probably not included in that, are they,” I asked her. “Yes,” she replied. “All a dollar.”

I’ve been wanting a brown leather jacket, this one fits me perfectly, is adorable, and cost one dollar! The bargain of the day. It is missing the front button, but I will buy a beautiful button somewhere . . . that will not match the sleeve buttons . . . but will be beautiful anyway. When you see me wear it, don’t mention the mismatch! Well, since I have already revealed the slight fault, I guess you might as well go ahead and finger the front button on the buttery leather jacket and then lift the sleeves and note the mismatch. Promise to smile.

My Farm Report

I live on a farm, you know, and during these summer days I try exceptionally hard to insure that I stay on the cutting edge of modern day farming techniques. I read widely (well, what I can find on the internet without too much trouble) with the intent of sharpening my farmer skills so that my crops will be abundant, beautiful, tasty, and without tooth marks from the many critters with whom I share my space in these beautiful San Bernardino Mountains.

(A little aside here. Did you know the Defense Department has just granted more than 3 million dollars to buy land to protect pocket gophers? while at the same time thousands of employees have been laid off because there’s not enough money to go around. What? Say again?)

Anyway, while we’re on the subject of gophers you need to know we have plenty of the little fellas around here and if someone wants to protect them, just come over and I’ll give you free run of my land to catch as many as you can, and you may take them as pets. They eat things; prowl about under the dirt, chomping on vegetable and flower roots, drilling holes in the earth, then popping up for an open air feast.  One evening last week they dined on my beautiful okra plants which are planted in pots, and which I had  carefully nurtured, and which are now encased in fine screen against the onslaught of hungry gophers and ravenous ground squirrels.

Tomatoes are my stars this year. I have three plants; cherry, Better Boy, and Early Girl. They have grown so fast and so tall that the cages and stakes I had provided became woefully inadequate, so a couple of mornings have seen Jerry and me out in the wide tomato field with string, clothespins, and finally with a pvc contraption with which to support these glorious specimens that are taller than I am.

Some farmers speak of their land in terms of acres. I’m a little different, so I just go about speaking of mine in terms of pots. In case you’re at all interested, I have: three tomato plants, one yellow squash, one zucchini squash, one jalapeno (which I bought at the 99 cent store and which now is showing a great blossom) and four okra plants. The okra was an afterthought–saw four little shoots in a square container at Lowes, so brought them home and put two each in a couple of pots. One pot is the wooden barrel of an ice cream freezer which Ken and Nancy were getting rid of it. Cute as can be. One day I’ll show you a picture.

Before breakfast, by hand, I had watered my entire farm, crooned to the injured okra plants, which are so brave and strong, that they have already shot up new leaves, wondered why I see no little squashes, only beautiful yellow blossoms, and eyed a couple of red beauties which I will pick just before dinner, which I will slice, salt and pepper and serve along with the grilled pork chops I have in mind.

I quite like this farming part of my life . . . and earlier today had this thought concerning expansion: A goat or two! Wonder how Jerry would like it if I ordered in one little billy goat…hmm……or should it be a nanny?. . . milk and all, you know. Goat cheese.

 

Jerry’s Unbelievably Tough Verizon Samsung

I sprayed laundry spotter on the trousers, threw them into the washer, and ran it full of cold water. The next morning, I spun that water off, and at the end of that cycle removed Jerry’s trousers. There in the bottom of the washer was his phone, Verizon Samsung old school flip top. It had soaked all night in water, and now I had just spun it dry.

From what I hear, Jerry is unusual in that he does not leave anything in the pockets of his clothes that need to be laundered. I never check his pockets. Mine? Those I always check, for I’m bad about leaving things in them. But he failed this one time, and now I had no doubt ruined his phone.

“Well, we’ll take the battery out,” Jerry said when I showed him the dripping phone, “and place the battery and the phone over the furnace vent.” We did that, then I recalled reading of placing water-besotted items in a bag of rice, so I dragged out a sack of rice and immersed the phone into its depths.

The next day, Jerry reassembled the phone, switched it on, and voila! the word VERIZON spread its beautiful self across the little screen. For a few days, water drops appeared under the glass, but finally they disappeared, and from the time that little Verizon baby has been turned back on, until this very moment, it works perfectly! Kudos to Verizon, to Samsung, and to all things old and tough.

Somewhere in a drawer in this house is a smart phone–a Blackberry. Jerry had quite an experience with it which I post about here. The original post of Jerry and the Blackberry has received more than 80,000 hits. You’ll probably want to take a look. 🙂  I also have written about changes in telephone services since I was a child here and in this one titled Number Please. You might get a kick out of them.