Not a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving Feast

Thank you Liz Russell Fugate for sharing your Tabletop Tuesday photos. 

Stories come in all shapes sizes and locations. The other day a friend shared a family funny story that put me in stitches. I thought we were the only family who had aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, in-laws and more who arrived on their own time clock. Otherwise, known as the family who arrives late, sometimes after the meal when they were the ones responsible for the appetizers. Yes, we learned that bacon wrapped jalapeno Poppers" tasted as good after dinner as before. 

Kari's story holds the "Really" trophy. It seems as though many of us have family members who are not cooks, in any way shape or form. In her case, the niece, who was happily married with three children who looked well fed and a husband who, too, enjoyed his meals. With the Thanksgiving meal out of the oven, the turnkey cut, and the food being spread on the table, the niece arrived who was to bring the sweet potato casserole. 

Thank you Liz Russell Fugate for sharing your lovely Tabletop Tuesday photos. 

A knock on the door, Kari saw the niece and family behind her  bursting through the front door and hallway, saying over and over, "I'm here. I'm here." All the while swinging a plastic bag of four large sweet potatoes fresh from the potato bin at the grocery store--not cooked, not peeled, not ready to eat in anyway, shape, or form. 

Needless, to say Kari's family did not eat sweet potato casserole that Thanksgiving. 

Ben's story. He laughed before he could even tell it, leaving those of us listening to laugh with him without knowing why. "I was ten years old the year I saw my ninety-eight pound mother take down my one- hundred and twenty-three pound black lab. 

She had baked two turkeys for her large family. One shoved to the back of the kitchen counter and the other near the ledge, too near the ledge. Mother turned her back and in that instant my lab grabbed the turkey and ran. Mother at the top of her voice screaming, "Drop! I said, Drop." The lab wasn't listening. She ran after him, tackled him in the living room in front of her family and wrestled him to the floor putting his head in a choke hold. I heard her growl, "I'm not eating this turkey but you are not either. Now drop."

The dog knew he'd been beat and to this day every living member of our family loves to retell that story. 

These stories came about as I told a friend last week that the parts for oven had not arrived, thus, the repair man could not fix our broken oven. It's not broken completely but it has a mind of its own when it comes to heating up. It might say that the temperature is at 350, when in reality it is sitting at 200. Most recently, it heated itself to 490 and as the food began to turn black and crisp I pulled it out of the oven. 

We are planning to smoke out meats on Wednesday, weather provided, and avoid the panic breakdown of one uncooked turnkey on Thanksgiving. 

Which reminds me of another story.

Bob invited us over for a Sunday meal after Thanksgiving to relax and reflect. We always enjoyed Bob's meals as they were quite tasty. Our job was simple...bring the wine. 

Thank you Liz Russell Fugate for sharing your Tabletop Tuesday photos. 

We arrived thirty minutes early for a drink or two, like our parents before us did. However, as we approached the kitchen there was a riot of words spewing from Bob's mouth. We stopped short of the kitchen and looked at his wife who was ready to break into hysterical laughter. 

"Can we fix someone a drink," I asked innocently. 

"Please do," smiled his wife. Stepping around Bob as he danced a devils jig, we filled four wine glasses and hoped he would settle down. 

The food was all arranged and nothing looked amiss. After a few quiet sips of wine Bob announced that we were having a vegetarian meal. We nodded our approval, looked to the table and his wife for directions when she burst out with the story. 

"Bobby forgot to turn the smoker on this morning. When he checked it before you arrived the pork lay there raw and bloody on the grill." 

Silence surrounded the table until one by one our eyes drifted to Bob, and suddenly we all gushed with laughter and snorts. 

The marinated pork tenderloin probably would have been delicious, IF ONLY. Throughout the meal, we could hear Bob muttering to himself. "I can't believe I did that." "Glad it wasn't Thanksgiving." "I can't believe I did that." 

If only he could understand how good his disaster made that rest of humanity feel about hysterical kitchen disasters. 

Confessions are good they say, and Ann's disaster proved that she had more patience for life than I had thought. 

Her large kitchen, dining, and den area could easily seat thirty people for Thanksgiving. With her husband in cooperate business, they often entertained large groups of salesmen and other representatives. Ann loved to cook.

Thank you Liz Russell Fugate for sharing your Tabletop Tuesday photos. 

About an hour before the guests and family were to arrive Ann turned on the garbage disposal to clean up, when suddenly it erupted like a pea green volcano gurgling potato skins and more.  My one word name for women like Ann would be "pluperfect." By my definition that means someone who walks with perfect posture, speaks with grammatically  correct English, sets the table perfectly, and knows exactly when to speak. 

At that moment, she recalls, yelling at her husband to get into the kitchen NOW. When Ed saw the sink, distress rose in his voice, "I can't fix that, not with company coming."

"Do something. Now." The perfect face and demure melted into tears. 

He went to the bathroom for the plunger, but first used the toilet and discovered that he needed the plunger in the bathroom and worse yet, how could he tell his wife that the plumbing was erupting all over the house. He wisely stepped in the bedroom, found the telephone book and called a local plumber. It took several calls before one could be located and willing to come out immediately on Thanksgiving day. 

As only a "pluperfect" woman could do, Ann greeted the plumber with all smiles as he walked in the front door with the guests. 

That Thanksgiving Ed prepared a special drink for the guests as they waited for the meal to be served. Ann and her daughters worked in the kitchen arranging the foods and last-minute items. The plumber went straight to work.

The Thanksgiving meal began a an hour late with warm turkey and dressing but no one gave notice. Desserts were served and the guests retired to various spaces in the house. 

Before evening the plumber finished and Ann, in her gracious manner, asked the plumber to stay and have a Thanksgiving meal at her table. 

It's Only Funny Now

One day in late January I lost my car key (FOB; REMOTE KEY; KEYLESS ENTRY; the thing that opens the door).  My mind raced back and forth to everything I had done and everywhere I had been the last two days.  “The thing has to be here in the house. How else could I have driven home?” I begged Jack for an answer. He stood bewildered with his head shaking side to side.

Meet Helen Reddy

Over the next few days we turned the furniture upside down, checked every pair of jeans we ever wore, searched every coat pocket even if we didn’t use the coat, vexation does that to me. I become frantic, thinking I’m losing my mind.

On a warm sunny day I searched the backyard grumbling and kicking sticks. I continued to use Jack’s key, and kept my eyes peeled for wherever I might have dropped the fob.

FOB is the correct usage. 

One day, out of nowhere, Jack met me in the hallway with matching keys, one in one hand and the other in the other hand. “Look what I found in my coat pocket. I must have picked up your key and then later picked up my key.”

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Now I won’t worry about my brain,” I smiled with relief.

Not a month, not a week, but two days later Jack could not find his car key fob to my car, Helen Reddy. “No,” I sputtered not angrily but bewildered, “You stood in that hallway not two days ago with two keys in your hands. How could one have disappeared?”

I grabbed my purse. There in the side pocket I felt my fob. "At least we have one," I spouted.  

Immediately, we retraced every step we could imagine. No (expletive) fob.

Days began to pass and we continually, like we had the previous weeks, looked, searched, and dug through drawers in vain.

The next day we were all three awake before sunrise, but two of us sat and thought about nothing much, while Murphy having been inside during two rainy days was ready to run. The sun began to warm the east side of our house and rainbow prisms appeared on one wall. Spring was returning.

“Let’s go to Press and Plow for breakfast,” Jack suggested.

“Yes, and let’s take Murphy with us so we can go to Ruby Grant Park and let him run in the mud.”

“Are you sure you want a dirty dog?” Jack inquired.

I could only laugh. “If we don’t bundle up and take him to the park after breakfast then we will get nothing done today except play with Murphy.” Jack laughed and we headed to the car without a key! No FOB key! How can that be?

I realized at last that Jack and I were suffering from ‘the gray sickness.’ I had heard women at the Miami Country club refer to ‘the gray sickness’ when they lost something, which seemed fairly common in my young mind. I would certainly never suffer from that disease.

We stood in sad silence. Frantically, we began to reach into pockets, scatter the items on the counter top, and I dug through my purse. “Ha. Found it in a different pocket. Let’s go before we misplace this one again.”

I ate my entire croissant stuffed with crispy thick bacon and scrambled eggs, with a side of avocado and tomatoes, while Jack only ate his eggs and half of a pancake. We sipped on hot tea and coffee letting the sun warm the air. Relaxed, how sweet.

Our romp at the park refreshed us. Thirty-seven degrees in the morning sun and light wind from the southwest worked magic on our souls.

Home by 10:00 and ready for the day. First, clean mud foot Murphy before entering the house, which I did, but Jack began to look through his tool chest. I understood. He was looking for the key fob.

With Murphy cleaner we once again searched the car and everything cubby and bag in it. We were on a mission, either locate the black fob or drive to the dealership and purchase two more keys if not three.

By 12:30 no cotton-pickin’ ear-scratching fob had appeared. We were truly distraught.

Later, I took a bag of 50+ pencils and pens (found during the cleaning of drawers) to be donated to Bridges and placed them in the front car seat. I memorized the code to get in, just in case I do something stupid! I stood beside Helen Reddy and said out loud, “Please tell me where the key is?”

Nothing.

Jack’s heavy coat, thick enough to walk a dog in an Arctic blast, lay on the car hood. As I picked up the coat to go in the house, Helen Reddy whispered, “Unlock me.”

I threw the coat on the workbench, walked back and locked the car. Picking up the heavy black coat I walked back over to the car, placed my hand on the car door and like magic it unlocked.

Rushing through the house I nearly fell on Jack as I threw the coat at him and said, “Find hidden key in there.” Buried deep in small side pocket a black fob appeared. No words were exchanged about how many times we had searched our coat pockets.

By 12:40, we held two car keys. Mine now is on a key chain. We laughed and sighed in relief. It looks like we will have to learn how to live with “the gray sickness.”

 

*The ‘gray sickness’ is a memory I have from my summers working at the Miami Country Club. Several of the women suffered from the ‘gray sickness’ when they would misplace  billfolds, house keys, cash, a blouse they should be wearing in the clubhouse over their bra tops, and more. I vowed at age fifteen I would certainly never suffer from that disease. In the midst of our angst over the lost fob I remembered that Rose Pratt named it the ‘gray sickness’ that comes when a person’s hair coloring matches it. Others who experienced the same disease were Lois Garwood, Gladys Wetzel, Lib Lillard, and Helen Stapp, who was a blonde.

**Doggone FOB. After I wrote the first draft it occurred to me that I could not use the word KEY and have the story make sense. Any reader would say, “Go to the nearest box store and have several copies made of the master car key.” I wish I could. I realized that I had a problem as did the story. Will it change my word usage from car key to FOB, I don’t know.

***Writing the story using the incorrect vocabulary can prove embarrassingly humorous.  In an earlier story used a word incorrectly: When we ran down the streets our thongs would sometimes fall of us or cause us to fall on the asphalt. Depending on the age of the reader this may or may not make sense. (Thank you for laughing and correcting my language, Dede Tebeck Sparkman, RIP)

 

 

 

 

 

Follow in my Footsteps by Murphy Doodle

 i do not understand women or mothers who walk on two legs, there I said it!

today, while jack was reading the paper on the back porch he left his room open for me, which was nice, he normally doesn't let me in unless he is there, but best of all i found a new chew that he left out for me, so, i took it to letty's studio where she was on the computer listening to people talk, i must have done something wrong because she grabbed the toy from my mouth and said I needed to go see jack, luckily, jack and I are friends so i ran ahead of her to see jack, then

 i was still in trouble from last night, which wasn't my fault, last night they left me alone outside for hours, like half of my life went by yesterday and I was alone, no one to play with and I wanted to run and chase the ball and jump in someone's lap and be loved on the swing, but no, they went to a ball game and left me alone. they know i love games with balls that i can chase.

so, I sniffed out a bottle that was left on the outside table, it smelled like fish and just the day before I smelled sardines at a table, julie was eating them and i  really liked that smell, so I decided to bite the bottle and see if I could taste the fish. it took me all evening to roll the bottle, bite the bottle and finally bite and chewed enough to unscrew the lid.  it was awful awful tasting fish oil, one taste was enough but why did my mother leave it outside for me to drink if she didn't want me to have it?

see why i don't understand women

now she keeps giving me baths and washes my face, she says i smell like an alley cat

this is what got me in trouble first, and before that there was the book I chewed up, jack's soxs and a matching pair of shoes. why not chew on both so they look the same, i thought. the rugs weren't very good and they gagged me which made letty and jack grab me and pull a long string out of my mouth.

always before when i did something wrong letty rubbed my nose in it or shook a rattle that scared me, but this time with the little glasses she drug me across the room and made me see the error of my ways

"Go ahead a confess," she just told me, "tell them what else you've chewed up." 

a pillow

the garden hose piece that sprays water

pretty green plants with pink flowers

maybe a glove i found in the garden

locust and toads

newspapers

magazines

something off the kitchen table that made you mad

my harness that was too loose

a blanket corner that was in my way

"Thank you Murphy. You are still a good dog and you make us laugh and play everyday."

now i am grounded and i like this because i don't get to be outside without jack or letty to watch me until the smell of dead fish is gone. i like being grounded with people.  

this is me Messy Murphy, my name gets changed everyday, 
sometimes they call me goof ball, or howler when i
howl at the sirens on saturday, doodle bug, or curly
 because i like commas and have curly hair and more i 
can't think of right now, i am hungry
the end

We are the proud parents of
a puppy who can behave
in public with good
manners, 
sometimes. 

  

The Great Christmas Cookie Disaster

Sometimes pictures tell the story better than words, and sometimes things get in the way of a well planned blog.  I couldn't quite get organized in my head to send out a Christmas story with our Christmas cards, so I thought I'd write a blog about our year. This morning when I awoke, I must have hit the panic button when I realized that I had only two full days to write the blog, bake the cookies, fix the bean soups and the pasta salads, and whatever else popped up.

After the grocery list had been made I decided to first bake the GF Pumpkin cookies that I dearly love, then spend a few hours compiling our year in pictures for the blog. Three hours later I created a mess that even my friend, Terri Street, couldn't help me out of. 

The recipe called for:
1 cup softened butter
1/2 sugar
1/2 brown sugar
No problem. I put these ingredients in the big red bowl and set them aside.

Next, I blended one egg with a can of pumpkin.  

Then I got in a hurry because my mind strayed to my blog, and I wanted to share an especially funny story from our trip to Scotland, where we learned that "there is no bad weather, just inappropriate clothing." That was our first lesson in the cool wet climate filled with pasture land, rugged hills, and breezes off the great northern waters. How many layers of clothing can you wear and still walk, climb castle stairs, and play golf?   






I turned to pick up the Pamela's Baking Mix that is gluten free, forgot about cooking, and smiled remembering our Weaver cousin family reunion that we hosted in October.

We are all shining examples of Baby Boomers. I was born in 1947, Tom in 1948, Fred 1949, Dana 1950, Jonya 1951, Patty 1952, and Gary 1954. Sadly, our youngest cousin Gary died in 2007 and I inherited his lost and lonely little dog, who has become our vibrant  Lucy dog companion. Most of our children were able to attend and these cookies that I was about mix were a big hit with a family of 2-3 who eat gluten free foods.   

The buzzer on the oven reminded me that I needed to bake the cookies. So, I plopped the pumpkin and egg mixture into the 'uncreamed' sticks of butter and piles of sugar and brown sugar. Still not thinking about cookies and steps in the cooking process, I used my trusty hand held mixer to mix the cookie dough.  ACK!  

The mixture turned out with tiny yellow butter bits the size of couscous mixed with the pumpkin.  I stirred and stirred to no avail. In desperation I called Terri Street, my friend who knows how to cook like a chef and will laugh with me not at me.  She suggested I put small portions of the lumpy dough into my blender and see if it could save the dough.  If had remembered her exact words "small" I might have been successful. Instead, in frustration I dumped it all in the blender and hit MIX.  At that point I realized it was mixing only the bottom inch or

two of the blender. I start screaming in my head, where is the off button.  I dished out the top 3/4 of the mixture, took out the well blended part, and hit mix again. At last, I took my wooden spoon and tried stirring the mixture down into the blender, only to hear the blades go thunk thunk thunk when they hit the spoon. With the thunking and the lid off, I felt the pumpkin mix hit my cheek and saw the spots on the my glasses.  I punched the off button and sighed. 

By now I felt like a wild young scientists trying to save an impending chemical reaction. What more could go wrong. Do I dare go take the clothes out of the dryer and take moment to relax? Why not?  Leaving the kitchen with pumpkin from the floor to the cupboards I walked to the laundry room and promptly removed the jeans and sweatshirts all of which were covered with static cling Kleenex that flew through the air and stuck on me.  Finally, I giggled and picked up scattered Kleenex and shook out the sweatshirts in the garage. Now the garage looks like it snowed.  

At last I finished blending the mix and even feeling a hint of success with the mixture blended and not lumpy. I took a moment to clean up the area, foot mopped the floor all sticky with pumpkin, and to wash dishes. Imagine my surprise when I picked up the wooden spoon and noticed, for the first time, that the end of the spoon had been cut to shreds by the blender. My eyes scanned the horizon for pieces of wooden spoon, and then the realization hit me.

The slivers of wood were in my cookie mixture. Defeat!

I truly did run out of the house with spoon in hand yelling for Jack.  

Such love and admiration I have for my kind and gentle husband, who reassured me that I was not crazy. At his suggestion we threw out the orange blob I suggested that we go to buy two dozens assorted cookies from Fancy Cakes and then relax over lunch at 
la Baguette. 

Fancy Cakes is closed on Monday.  Amy Cakes is closed on Monday. No panic here. Their signs say open Tuesday.  Lunch as La Baguette soothes me and cheered me up with Christmas delight as I saw several friends. Just in case of closures Jack is shopping for more sweet ingredients to make either "Dawn's Ranger Cookies" or the memorable "Pumpkin Cookies."

I Am Woman, hear me roar.  Maybe Helen Reddy was not that good at cooking either. 

Merry Christmas, and Most Joyous Wishes to all.
Letty, Jack and Lucy 

Fitbit Farts and Other Funny Follies

During the week of making funeral arrangements and preparing for family visits, I couldn't sleep much. One night, however, the noises of the house stole the hours of sleep from me.  

Tossing from one side to the next, my body tired and wrinkled from near exhaustion and heartache, I could hear a nearly pulsating sound, like a fart! I questioned my mind and body. Was I so tired that my own body was giving out on me?? One more worry to add to the ever present aging process. 

Now, if my father had 'tooted' he would have blamed the dog, immediately pointing to Ticky or Tootles. As a child I laughed at Dad's tricks, and then watched the poor dog hang his head in humiliation. Of course, my father, being a trickster, owned a hand held rubber tube that fit in his pocket. On ladies day or for golf tournaments, Dad would put the fart ball, as we called it, in his pocket and casually walk by golfers and squeeze his toy in the middle of some one's back swing. No matter what type of fart he made, the long slow "toot toot buzzz......" or the pronounced "Toot" without odor, the victim tucked his or her body in embarrassment, then followed that move by outrage or laughter when the group figured out what had happened.

Shifting in sleep mode I once again heard the squeezing

sound of a fart. With one eye opened I rolled to the side of the bed and sniffed. The air was clean. The dog could not be blamed.

Now I rolled closer to Jack, so as to rub his shoulder the next time he farted! Not Jack! 

The early morning hours arrived and I heard the fuzzy vibration. In sledge hammer mode I arose and walked around the bedroom searching for some unknown fart machine or dying animal.  At last when sunlight flooded the house, and my awareness returned I heard and saw the noise. There on my dresser lay my Fitbit with notifications ON!  With each notification or reminder

to get up and move the Fitbit quietly buzzed, but the fart noise came when it actually vibrated on the dresser top. My emotions ranged from laughter to anger at my loss of sleep, but the mystery was solved, and my dad would have laughed. 

FOOTNOTE:

For those who wear Fitbits to help motivate or count steps, I must say I've learned a new trick.  After complaining week after week that I must surely walk more than it counts, I discovered that it truly counts steps when I attach it to my tennis shoe laces and walk.  Then my steps each count, when walking through stores with a basket being pushed or on the treadmill when I'm resting my arms at the sides instead of swinging them.  

Glorious Secret and other Burts

Johnie Stapp, the man who coined the word burts. 

Genetics certainly colors our lives from the inside out. We accept what can’t be changed, but strive to correct our ills. However, my sister, Jonya, and I have both inherited a flaw in our tongue that causes us to tangle words and sometimes tinkle! There’s a connection, just keep reading.

When we were quite young my father, a golf pro, was already suffering pain in his shoulders and elbows from years of swinging a golf club, hammering, building, and repairing cars.  One evening after dinner he stood up to reach for another glass of water, and dropped the glass as he reached toward the sink.  Three sets of eyes turned to see the calamity and then heard, “Dammit, my shoulder burts!”

His two daughters and wife sat in silence, afraid to laugh or giggle, but what we heard and what we saw eventually caused a total eruption of hysterics. As much as my dad wanted to scream at us for our rude behavior, he could only join us in the laughter. When the broken glass was cleaned up, a sigh of relief waffled across our shoulders and at last dad explained, “What I meant to say was that my shoulder hurts really bad.”  Burts may not be in the dictionary, but it certainly has held a place in our vocabulary for over fifty years.

One day while shopping and beginning to feel tired on our feet, my sister attempted to explain our feeling, “There’s always a side down to any saturation.” Being tired only added to our uncontrollable laughter, and then one of us felt a warm trickle down a leg. Oh, my. 

Not long ago, a friend asked me about my houseplants that were so strangely shaped. I tried to explain that my grandmother called them “Never Dies”, but the proper term is cacculent.” She looked at me strangely, and my eyes searched my brain back in forth questioning the words I uttered. I continued, “Cacculent, yes, that’s either a cactus or a succulent. You decide.” I appeared as innocent as possible with the newly coined word.

Driving somewhere one day with my comical sister she began to chatter about shopping and what she needed. “I need some new underwear that gives me some support."  Since we were in Tulsa I suggested Zach’s Fifth Avenue. She thought about it a moment and replied, “No I’d rather go to Gloria’s place?” She sat in thoughtful silence, “No, it's not Gloria's," still sighing and thinking, "It's Glorious Secret, for women like us."

"Yes," I laughed, "We'll keep it a secret."

She often makes driving difficult for me, especially in new cities when I’m not sure where places are. Needless to say, our GPS had never heard of A Glorious Secret nor Gloria’s Secret, but we did manage to find Victoria’s Secret, and Victoria's Tea room.

Now the weather spins its own vocabulary and on winter days when the temperatures reach the 70's it is merely "twing" time, in between winter and spring.  

My fit bit just buzzed which means it's time to gualk, or go for a quick walk with the dog on a twing day. 

Please share your own funny word combinations in the comment box below.