#20 Rachel and Nancy and the Civil War (see #19)
If Rachel and Nancy met at a quilting circle or a hymn sing after the Civil War, would they have sensed a bond? Perhaps. Rachel’s great grandson Howard, born 8 years after she died, married in 1934 Nancy’s grand daughter Olive, born 10 years after she died. Nothing else ties them together, not ethnic heritage or language, not geography or politics, not education or social status.
Nancy, born in 1833 and 12 years older than Rachel, was a 7th generation American, a descendant of Swiss Mennonites and German Lutherans living near Dayton, Ohio. Rachel, probably born in 1845, was perhaps 3rd or 4th generation and living near Dandridge, Tennessee. The census of 1870 shows that her father was born in Virginia, about 1795. The Scots-Irish ancestors of the families in her area of east Tennessee had come to America before the Revolutionary War.
We could stretch credulity a bit and say they had religion in common. Both were members of the protestant group Church of the Brethren, known as the "Dunkers" or German Baptist Brethren in the 19th century. Nancy’s father and grandfather had been River Brethren, a group related to the Mennonites. As a youngster, Rachel was perhaps under the care of whatever preacher came through the mountains of east Tennessee in the 1840s baptizing and marrying. It is possible her son William married into the Brethren and brought her into the church with him.
Rachel had only one child, a son, born in 1862. Nancy had nine children, five girls and four boys born between 1853 and 1876. Rachel had at least two brothers, and Nancy had eleven siblings. In 2003, Ada, grand daughter of Rachel, and Muriel, grand daughter of Nancy, are living in the same town and attending the same church.
So if I had Nancy and Rachel in the same room and could ask them anything, I think I’d ask about the war that divided them, north and south, blue and gray, brother and brother, cousin and neighbor. Just 20 years old when the war was over, Rachel lived not far from Knoxville, an important supply route for the Confederacy. East Tennessee was strongly Unionist, although Tennessee was part of the Confederacy. The Army of Ohio actually occupied little Dandridge where Rachel lived. So I’m guessing that even in her little community there were divisions of loyalty and young men lost for both causes.
Living on a farm near Dayton, Nancy a young mother of 5 at the end of the war, would have been fairly insulated from the battles. First, her family was probably pacifist, and second, battles recorded within Ohio were in the southern counties near the Ohio river border with Kentucky and Indiana. However, Ohio did send many regiments of cavalry, artillery and infantry, and these young men may have been friends and neighbors.
And so I would want to know how did they get their news--was it from returning soldiers passing through, asking for food for the trip home? From refugees fleeing other areas of their states? Was it from a newspaper or magazine which the expanding rail routes were bringing to the farmers? Was it from letters sent to neighbors from sons on the front lines? Did they even know how to read? Did they search the lists of wounded and dead? Were commodities scarce? Were there enough men around to plant and harvest the crops? Did they think it was someone else’s fight as neither family had ever owned slaves? Did they wish they could vote and boot President Lincoln out of office? Was there resentment toward the free blacks in the area? Who were they holding in their prayers? And when the war was finally over, were their lives forever changed?
Nancy and Rachel, two women bound together by their futures.
Friday, October 10, 2003
#19 The writing assignment
Julian Anderson has written a novel (Empire under glass. Boston: Faber and Faber, 1996) about an octogenarian who escapes from a retirement home. While Julian is shopping her second novel and raising her family, she leads a class in writing family memoirs and personal recollections at our public library for a group, middle aged and older, who are escaping into their past.
This week she asked us to write our names at the bottom of a page with all the places we had lived. Then above that, our parents and all the towns where they had lived; above that where our grandparents had lived; and finally, if we knew, where our great grandparents had lived.
Although I’ve lived in the same community since I was 28, I was able to list eight, possibly nine if our summer home counts. Three for each of my parents, and two or three for the grandparents, and one or two for the great grandparents. There is actually an old post card on the internet of the rural area where my father and grandparents lived.
“What or where do you call home?” she asked. We learned that once parents are gone, most of us stopped referring to that community as “home.” One woman was multi-lingual and said her sense of “home” was tied into her first language, German, although she had never lived there and didn’t visit Germany until her adulthood. A number in the group remembered that their parents or grandparents refused to speak their native language in front of the children.
Our assignment: select one of the names on our list and write down eight or ten questions we’d like to know about her or him. So I’ve selected Nancy from Ohio and Rachel from Tennessee, a great grandmother and a great great grandmother, and that will be my next blog.
Julian Anderson has written a novel (Empire under glass. Boston: Faber and Faber, 1996) about an octogenarian who escapes from a retirement home. While Julian is shopping her second novel and raising her family, she leads a class in writing family memoirs and personal recollections at our public library for a group, middle aged and older, who are escaping into their past.
This week she asked us to write our names at the bottom of a page with all the places we had lived. Then above that, our parents and all the towns where they had lived; above that where our grandparents had lived; and finally, if we knew, where our great grandparents had lived.
Although I’ve lived in the same community since I was 28, I was able to list eight, possibly nine if our summer home counts. Three for each of my parents, and two or three for the grandparents, and one or two for the great grandparents. There is actually an old post card on the internet of the rural area where my father and grandparents lived.
“What or where do you call home?” she asked. We learned that once parents are gone, most of us stopped referring to that community as “home.” One woman was multi-lingual and said her sense of “home” was tied into her first language, German, although she had never lived there and didn’t visit Germany until her adulthood. A number in the group remembered that their parents or grandparents refused to speak their native language in front of the children.
Our assignment: select one of the names on our list and write down eight or ten questions we’d like to know about her or him. So I’ve selected Nancy from Ohio and Rachel from Tennessee, a great grandmother and a great great grandmother, and that will be my next blog.
#17 Don’t you believe it--two totally unrelated thoughts
Someone, actually millions, thought it was a good movie; not me. I was not fooled. Waste of money, and I saw it on the 50 cent night at the second run theater. Renee Zellweger has put on 56 lbs to reprise her Bridget Jones’ Diary role. I gave the first one an F and no stars. Worst movie I ever saw. Boring, pointless. Insipid, snooze alert. She wasn’t even fat.
It’s going to take more than this to throw my spiritual identity into crisis mode. “The discovery of just a single bacterium somewhere beyond Earth would force us to rethink how we fit into the cosmic scheme of things, throwing us into a spiritual identity crisis as dramatic as the one brought about by Copernicus.” Atlantic Monthly, Sept. 2003 p. 112.
Someone, actually millions, thought it was a good movie; not me. I was not fooled. Waste of money, and I saw it on the 50 cent night at the second run theater. Renee Zellweger has put on 56 lbs to reprise her Bridget Jones’ Diary role. I gave the first one an F and no stars. Worst movie I ever saw. Boring, pointless. Insipid, snooze alert. She wasn’t even fat.
It’s going to take more than this to throw my spiritual identity into crisis mode. “The discovery of just a single bacterium somewhere beyond Earth would force us to rethink how we fit into the cosmic scheme of things, throwing us into a spiritual identity crisis as dramatic as the one brought about by Copernicus.” Atlantic Monthly, Sept. 2003 p. 112.
#16 Seventies flash back
Several weeks ago I subscribed to ChemWeb.com. Today I was reading its newsletter The Alchemist about nano-technology in an article about smart and intelligent textiles (I guess the two don‘t necessarily go together.) The word “nano” had a familiar ring to it, and into my mind popped Mork and Mindy, the old Robin Williams/Pam Dauber show. Didn’t Mork say, “Nano nano?” Is that the source of the word I wondered. It took a few minutes to find exactly what I wanted in Google, but here is the explanation on ABC Classic FM Word of the day about Mork and nano.
“The word is recorded 20 years earlier, in 1947. “Nano” comes from nanos – the Greek word for “dwarf” (as in the old the pop song “We Don’t Want No Nanos People Round Here”). Nano is now prefixed to the names of units to form the names of units that 109 smaller – that is, a one thousand-millionth part of them. Thus a nanometre is a one thousand-millionth part of a metre.”
Several weeks ago I subscribed to ChemWeb.com. Today I was reading its newsletter The Alchemist about nano-technology in an article about smart and intelligent textiles (I guess the two don‘t necessarily go together.) The word “nano” had a familiar ring to it, and into my mind popped Mork and Mindy, the old Robin Williams/Pam Dauber show. Didn’t Mork say, “Nano nano?” Is that the source of the word I wondered. It took a few minutes to find exactly what I wanted in Google, but here is the explanation on ABC Classic FM Word of the day about Mork and nano.
“The word is recorded 20 years earlier, in 1947. “Nano” comes from nanos – the Greek word for “dwarf” (as in the old the pop song “We Don’t Want No Nanos People Round Here”). Nano is now prefixed to the names of units to form the names of units that 109 smaller – that is, a one thousand-millionth part of them. Thus a nanometre is a one thousand-millionth part of a metre.”
#15 I brake for dummies
While driving home from the coffee shop this morning at 7:30, I saw a man (?) on the corner by the pedestrian walk waving at the passing cars.
“What is he doing?” I wondered.
“Is it one of the downtown homeless people who got on the wrong bus?”
“Does he need help?”
“Is he a hitch hiker?”
“I’d better slow down and gawk.”
Although in the far lane where five roads and all sorts of turn lanes come together, I slowed down through the green light to look. I figure I backed up traffic all the way down to Lane Avenue (about 1.5 miles). But then, I had a lot of help.
It was the “crash dummy” pretending to be a human.
While driving home from the coffee shop this morning at 7:30, I saw a man (?) on the corner by the pedestrian walk waving at the passing cars.
“What is he doing?” I wondered.
“Is it one of the downtown homeless people who got on the wrong bus?”
“Does he need help?”
“Is he a hitch hiker?”
“I’d better slow down and gawk.”
Although in the far lane where five roads and all sorts of turn lanes come together, I slowed down through the green light to look. I figure I backed up traffic all the way down to Lane Avenue (about 1.5 miles). But then, I had a lot of help.
It was the “crash dummy” pretending to be a human.
Thursday, October 09, 2003
#14 On a theme from Habbakuk*
I like to write poetry, and it comes and goes in spurts. Spring and Summer 2003 was a good time for poetry, but haven't written any since September 17. In my database most of them are illustrated, either with my own art or clip art. For this one, you'll have to use your imagination--a watercolor of my sister sitting in a field petting a calf. Also, I usually arrange the lines to please my eye, and I can't do that here--at least in the edit form it looks fine, but when posted and published the formatting is lost.
Though the fig tree does not bud
and the 401K does not bloom
And there are no grapes on the vine
and I store food in a basement room,
Though the olive crop fails
and the internet goes blank
And the fields produce no food
and there’s no money in the bank,
Though there are no sheep in the pen
except the ones I count to sleep
And no cattle in the stalls
and war news makes me weep,
Yet I will rejoice in the Lord
I will be joyful in God my Savior.
* Habakkuk 3:17-18
I like to write poetry, and it comes and goes in spurts. Spring and Summer 2003 was a good time for poetry, but haven't written any since September 17. In my database most of them are illustrated, either with my own art or clip art. For this one, you'll have to use your imagination--a watercolor of my sister sitting in a field petting a calf. Also, I usually arrange the lines to please my eye, and I can't do that here--at least in the edit form it looks fine, but when posted and published the formatting is lost.
Though the fig tree does not bud
and the 401K does not bloom
And there are no grapes on the vine
and I store food in a basement room,
Though the olive crop fails
and the internet goes blank
And the fields produce no food
and there’s no money in the bank,
Though there are no sheep in the pen
except the ones I count to sleep
And no cattle in the stalls
and war news makes me weep,
Yet I will rejoice in the Lord
I will be joyful in God my Savior.
* Habakkuk 3:17-18
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
#12 Who’s lying?
Yesterday’s Columbus Dispatch ran an article “The truth about lying,” which stated adults may lie from 13 times a week to 25 times a day. The side bar chart listed the “Pants on Fire” signs like throat clearing, increased stammering, qualifiers, vague content, losing train of thought, and the following declaratives, “did not” “could not” and “however.”
That’s dumb (clearing my throat) I couldn’t, um, possibly, er, say, er, speak, er, point out, anything, ever, without um doing, um thinking, supposing, all or most of that.
The biggest lie I’ve seen recently is the one on the sealed package of sliced, cooked, roast beef: “To open, tear along dotted line.” After you get the strip off, you need to call the emergency squad to bring the Jaws of Life so you can make your sandwich. And that’s no lie.
Yesterday’s Columbus Dispatch ran an article “The truth about lying,” which stated adults may lie from 13 times a week to 25 times a day. The side bar chart listed the “Pants on Fire” signs like throat clearing, increased stammering, qualifiers, vague content, losing train of thought, and the following declaratives, “did not” “could not” and “however.”
That’s dumb (clearing my throat) I couldn’t, um, possibly, er, say, er, speak, er, point out, anything, ever, without um doing, um thinking, supposing, all or most of that.
The biggest lie I’ve seen recently is the one on the sealed package of sliced, cooked, roast beef: “To open, tear along dotted line.” After you get the strip off, you need to call the emergency squad to bring the Jaws of Life so you can make your sandwich. And that’s no lie.
#11 Key lime bars
Yesterday I received a call to supply two dozen cookies for a reception after a funeral at our church. No problem, I‘d be happy to do it, I told the woman. And I promised to have them there by 10 a.m. today.
But I had a lunch date yesterday, then attended a lecture. So by the time I started the project it was about 7 p.m. As I browsed the cupboards to make sure I had all the ingredients, I noticed it: the boxed mix of key lime bars.
When we were in Florida in February, I ate a piece of key lime pie every single day. Some were good, some wonderful and some so-so. They came in a wide variety of colors from blah to yellow to pale green. By the end of the week, I was an expert. None had as good a pie crust as I make, but that is to be expected. Certain sacrifices must be made in the pursuit of research.
When we got home I must have been in key lime withdrawal and bought this mix and forgot it was between the cornmeal and popcorn. I followed the directions, at least most of them, but it has not turned out well. Even letting it “set” and then refrigerating it overnight has not made those sticky sweet things release their hold on the pan. A few minutes at room temperature in the church fellowship hall and they’ll be a mess.
So it is off to Meijer’s to buy some bakery cookies of uniform taste and size. Sorry, Jerry, I didn’t know you, but you deserved better. And what will I do with an entire pan of key lime bars?
Yesterday I received a call to supply two dozen cookies for a reception after a funeral at our church. No problem, I‘d be happy to do it, I told the woman. And I promised to have them there by 10 a.m. today.
But I had a lunch date yesterday, then attended a lecture. So by the time I started the project it was about 7 p.m. As I browsed the cupboards to make sure I had all the ingredients, I noticed it: the boxed mix of key lime bars.
When we were in Florida in February, I ate a piece of key lime pie every single day. Some were good, some wonderful and some so-so. They came in a wide variety of colors from blah to yellow to pale green. By the end of the week, I was an expert. None had as good a pie crust as I make, but that is to be expected. Certain sacrifices must be made in the pursuit of research.
When we got home I must have been in key lime withdrawal and bought this mix and forgot it was between the cornmeal and popcorn. I followed the directions, at least most of them, but it has not turned out well. Even letting it “set” and then refrigerating it overnight has not made those sticky sweet things release their hold on the pan. A few minutes at room temperature in the church fellowship hall and they’ll be a mess.
So it is off to Meijer’s to buy some bakery cookies of uniform taste and size. Sorry, Jerry, I didn’t know you, but you deserved better. And what will I do with an entire pan of key lime bars?
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
#10 The lunch date
I’m planning to have lunch with a friend today. We worked together, I want to say, about 25 years ago. A quarter of a century. That used to sound like a really long time. Probably go to Cap City Diner, not too far from her office on the OSU campus.
Back in those days when phones weren’t something you strapped to your waist or which distracted you from your driving, she and I went to lunch one spring day. We returned to a disaster--there was broken glass all over the sidewalk and our telephone was in the side yard. Our boss had thrown it through the large window in her office. Then she dragged it back into the office and threw it through a second window.
If there is a second chapter to this story, I’ve forgotten it. Quarter of a century, you know. But I don’t think her contract was renewed. We’ll talk about old times. Maybe even about lunches we have known.
I’m planning to have lunch with a friend today. We worked together, I want to say, about 25 years ago. A quarter of a century. That used to sound like a really long time. Probably go to Cap City Diner, not too far from her office on the OSU campus.
Back in those days when phones weren’t something you strapped to your waist or which distracted you from your driving, she and I went to lunch one spring day. We returned to a disaster--there was broken glass all over the sidewalk and our telephone was in the side yard. Our boss had thrown it through the large window in her office. Then she dragged it back into the office and threw it through a second window.
If there is a second chapter to this story, I’ve forgotten it. Quarter of a century, you know. But I don’t think her contract was renewed. We’ll talk about old times. Maybe even about lunches we have known.
Monday, October 06, 2003
#7 Chicken Little
Household income figures at OMB Watch provide a snapshot break down of American households by fifths.
Bottom Quintile: Income Range: $0 - 17,970; Share of Total Income: 3.5%
Second Quintile: Income Range: $17,970 - $33,314; Share of Total Income: 8.7%
Middle Quintile: Income Range: $33,314 - $53,000; Share of Total Income: 14.6%
Fourth Quintile: Income Range: $53,000 - $83,500; Share of Total Income: 23.0%
Top Quintile: Income Range: $83,500 and up; Share of Total Income: 50.2%
This particular household has been in all of them. Many people hit at least four over a lifetime. As more Boomers retire, they'll be hop-scotching quintiles downward, and there will be much hand wringing in the media causing alarm among the senior citizen Boomers as that middle and second quintile begin to swell.
Boomers have done very well, many better than their parents. As they inherit their Depression era parents' hard earned estates, their actual income may be going down. But remember, income isn't wealth. You can have a very low income but own a mortgage-free house, two or three cars, a nice portfolio, beautiful art work, lovely clothes, jewelry, etc.--and draw social security. (Not me; I’m not eligible because of my teacher’s pension.)
We'll be hearing lots of squawks as these numbers change, but it will from the chicken littles who think the sky is falling.
Household income figures at OMB Watch provide a snapshot break down of American households by fifths.
Bottom Quintile: Income Range: $0 - 17,970; Share of Total Income: 3.5%
Second Quintile: Income Range: $17,970 - $33,314; Share of Total Income: 8.7%
Middle Quintile: Income Range: $33,314 - $53,000; Share of Total Income: 14.6%
Fourth Quintile: Income Range: $53,000 - $83,500; Share of Total Income: 23.0%
Top Quintile: Income Range: $83,500 and up; Share of Total Income: 50.2%
This particular household has been in all of them. Many people hit at least four over a lifetime. As more Boomers retire, they'll be hop-scotching quintiles downward, and there will be much hand wringing in the media causing alarm among the senior citizen Boomers as that middle and second quintile begin to swell.
Boomers have done very well, many better than their parents. As they inherit their Depression era parents' hard earned estates, their actual income may be going down. But remember, income isn't wealth. You can have a very low income but own a mortgage-free house, two or three cars, a nice portfolio, beautiful art work, lovely clothes, jewelry, etc.--and draw social security. (Not me; I’m not eligible because of my teacher’s pension.)
We'll be hearing lots of squawks as these numbers change, but it will from the chicken littles who think the sky is falling.
Sunday, October 05, 2003
#6 A perfect October day.
The sky is an October color--a blue you see in Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio this time of year, bordered in my side and lower vision with brilliant hues and just enough green left over from the wet summer to make a lump in my throat. But the lump is already there. Today is his birthday and I'm probably the only person who remembers.
As we drive past small towns and corn fields on a familiar route, I say to my husband, "Stanley would be 42 today." It takes a few seconds for him to pull up a memory of that plump, blonde toddler and reconstruct him as an adult old enough to be a grandfather.
"I wonder what he would look like," he says. I can't see his eyes behind his sun glasses.
"Probably just like you. Your baby pictures look so similar, except your hair was more red."
"Maybe he'd be bald by now--mine really started going after 45," he recalled.
I have little memory of what he actually looked like. I've browsed the photo album so many times that all I see when I try to recall his face are black and white and fading color snapshots and a color portrait taken at the department store in Champaign, Illinois. I do remember the way he looked when they placed him on my abdomen in the delivery room with that "what's happening" expression and the way he looked in that little casket in a new blue suit. No photos at the beginning and the end to blur history.
"We wouldn't have the kids now," he says, mentioning they'd be stopping by later to see the DVD of our trip west.
We are quiet. The harvest ready fields roll by and I think again of my favorite Old Testament verse, "Then I will make up to you for the years that the swarming locust has eaten. . ." Joel 2:25
The sky is an October color--a blue you see in Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio this time of year, bordered in my side and lower vision with brilliant hues and just enough green left over from the wet summer to make a lump in my throat. But the lump is already there. Today is his birthday and I'm probably the only person who remembers.
As we drive past small towns and corn fields on a familiar route, I say to my husband, "Stanley would be 42 today." It takes a few seconds for him to pull up a memory of that plump, blonde toddler and reconstruct him as an adult old enough to be a grandfather.
"I wonder what he would look like," he says. I can't see his eyes behind his sun glasses.
"Probably just like you. Your baby pictures look so similar, except your hair was more red."
"Maybe he'd be bald by now--mine really started going after 45," he recalled.
I have little memory of what he actually looked like. I've browsed the photo album so many times that all I see when I try to recall his face are black and white and fading color snapshots and a color portrait taken at the department store in Champaign, Illinois. I do remember the way he looked when they placed him on my abdomen in the delivery room with that "what's happening" expression and the way he looked in that little casket in a new blue suit. No photos at the beginning and the end to blur history.
"We wouldn't have the kids now," he says, mentioning they'd be stopping by later to see the DVD of our trip west.
We are quiet. The harvest ready fields roll by and I think again of my favorite Old Testament verse, "Then I will make up to you for the years that the swarming locust has eaten. . ." Joel 2:25
Saturday, October 04, 2003
#3 How to make a tasty, flaky pie crust
I saw an article in the food section of the paper for “Crustless Pumpkin Pie." It uses Splenda and egg whites instead of eggs and sugar, so it should be low carb. But who would do that to a pie? The crust is the best part. At least of my pies.
I know, you're just like my friend Nancy. She thinks she can’t make a good pie crust. Have faith. I switched to oil for my crusts a few years back, then later changed to peanut oil for some reason, I think it was cholesterol. Anyway, here’s what you do:
Put 2/3 cup of oil and 1/3 cup of water in your favorite bowl
Add 2 cups of flour (I like unbleached)
Sprinkle over the top about 1 teaspoon of salt
Mix it with a fork, but not too much. Gently shape until you have a soft, greasy ball . What we are striving for here is delicate, light, flaky. If you are upset or feeling angry, don’t mix pie dough. Make bread instead. It “needs” you. ; }
Then take half of your greasy ball and plop it on top of a piece of plastic wrap spread out on the counter top, a few inches larger than your pie plate or tin. Lay another piece of plastic wrap on top of the dough. Press the dough down a little and roll it into a circle with a rolling pin, or if you don’t have one because you hate to make pies, just smush and shape it with your hand until you have a circle larger than the pie tin. Now, peel off the top piece of plastic wrap, slip your hand under the other one, and flip the dough onto the pie plate. It will stick to the wrap. If some of it falls off around the edges, no problem (unless it‘s on the floor). Paste it back together. No one ever sees the bottom crust, right? Then fill the crust with whatever you're making, and repeat the smushing and rolling with the second ball, but flip carefully when placing it on top of the filling. Flute or press the edges with a fork to seal the two crusts. Poke some holes in the top to let the steam out. I usually make a nice fat “B” but your initial will work too.
Most fruit pie filling is 5 or 6 peeled ripe whatevers, plus 3/4 cup of sugar or Splenda, and 1/4 cup of flour mixed into the fruit. Maybe a dab of butter and cinnamon on top of the fruit. Then smear a little milk over the top crust (makes it brown nicely). Bake in a preheated oven at 425 for 15 minutes and reduce to 375 for 30 minutes. If you’re doing pumpkin or something with eggs in it, please read some directions from a cook-book for heaven’s sake, and don’t rely on someone writing blogs on the internet.
I saw an article in the food section of the paper for “Crustless Pumpkin Pie." It uses Splenda and egg whites instead of eggs and sugar, so it should be low carb. But who would do that to a pie? The crust is the best part. At least of my pies.
I know, you're just like my friend Nancy. She thinks she can’t make a good pie crust. Have faith. I switched to oil for my crusts a few years back, then later changed to peanut oil for some reason, I think it was cholesterol. Anyway, here’s what you do:
Put 2/3 cup of oil and 1/3 cup of water in your favorite bowl
Add 2 cups of flour (I like unbleached)
Sprinkle over the top about 1 teaspoon of salt
Mix it with a fork, but not too much. Gently shape until you have a soft, greasy ball . What we are striving for here is delicate, light, flaky. If you are upset or feeling angry, don’t mix pie dough. Make bread instead. It “needs” you. ; }
Then take half of your greasy ball and plop it on top of a piece of plastic wrap spread out on the counter top, a few inches larger than your pie plate or tin. Lay another piece of plastic wrap on top of the dough. Press the dough down a little and roll it into a circle with a rolling pin, or if you don’t have one because you hate to make pies, just smush and shape it with your hand until you have a circle larger than the pie tin. Now, peel off the top piece of plastic wrap, slip your hand under the other one, and flip the dough onto the pie plate. It will stick to the wrap. If some of it falls off around the edges, no problem (unless it‘s on the floor). Paste it back together. No one ever sees the bottom crust, right? Then fill the crust with whatever you're making, and repeat the smushing and rolling with the second ball, but flip carefully when placing it on top of the filling. Flute or press the edges with a fork to seal the two crusts. Poke some holes in the top to let the steam out. I usually make a nice fat “B” but your initial will work too.
Most fruit pie filling is 5 or 6 peeled ripe whatevers, plus 3/4 cup of sugar or Splenda, and 1/4 cup of flour mixed into the fruit. Maybe a dab of butter and cinnamon on top of the fruit. Then smear a little milk over the top crust (makes it brown nicely). Bake in a preheated oven at 425 for 15 minutes and reduce to 375 for 30 minutes. If you’re doing pumpkin or something with eggs in it, please read some directions from a cook-book for heaven’s sake, and don’t rely on someone writing blogs on the internet.
#5 Time is money
At the next table in the coffee shop was a woman who was visiting from out of town. She needed to vent about her 88 year old mother a very high maintenance woman a retired teacher who raised five children healthy enough to live alone but rather needy because she was so spoiled by her husband who died in 1995 a pastor who was just the neatest guy in the world and she missed him so. You get the idea. My old $19.95 Timex, having witnessed way too many discussions and debates about just how much you should tell complete strangers, just threw up its hands and quit.
So Tuesday I went out to buy a new battery. The K-Mart was out of the one I needed. So I just stopped to browse, and there was a nice looking one in silver and gold (colors), dainty and feminine, for only $14.95 Mentally I subtracted the $3.29 for a new battery, which really brought the price down!
Of course, I know you would never do this, but I made a quick judgment about the clerk who was helping me--a large, tired-looking, middle-aged woman wearing an oversize t-shirt and snug slacks. Wrong of course, as first judgments usually are. She made excellent suggestions about the purchase and readily admitted if she didn’t know the answer to my questions.
Turns out she was from South Carolina and had lived here about a year. Her husband was transferred and is required to stay with his company because he has some patents. She misses swimming in her pool and scuba diving (we‘ve had a horribly rainy summer).
Plans to retire in Florida, she told me. Why not South Carolina, I innocently asked. She told me she's bought two condos, one in Bradenton and one in something Beach just south of there. “Any for rent this winter,” I asked hopefully, since I really like Bradenton. “Nope. Same renters for the past 15 years,” she told me. "They've been nice enough to buy them for me," she added.
This lady knew a lot about time, money and customer service.
At the next table in the coffee shop was a woman who was visiting from out of town. She needed to vent about her 88 year old mother a very high maintenance woman a retired teacher who raised five children healthy enough to live alone but rather needy because she was so spoiled by her husband who died in 1995 a pastor who was just the neatest guy in the world and she missed him so. You get the idea. My old $19.95 Timex, having witnessed way too many discussions and debates about just how much you should tell complete strangers, just threw up its hands and quit.
So Tuesday I went out to buy a new battery. The K-Mart was out of the one I needed. So I just stopped to browse, and there was a nice looking one in silver and gold (colors), dainty and feminine, for only $14.95 Mentally I subtracted the $3.29 for a new battery, which really brought the price down!
Of course, I know you would never do this, but I made a quick judgment about the clerk who was helping me--a large, tired-looking, middle-aged woman wearing an oversize t-shirt and snug slacks. Wrong of course, as first judgments usually are. She made excellent suggestions about the purchase and readily admitted if she didn’t know the answer to my questions.
Turns out she was from South Carolina and had lived here about a year. Her husband was transferred and is required to stay with his company because he has some patents. She misses swimming in her pool and scuba diving (we‘ve had a horribly rainy summer).
Plans to retire in Florida, she told me. Why not South Carolina, I innocently asked. She told me she's bought two condos, one in Bradenton and one in something Beach just south of there. “Any for rent this winter,” I asked hopefully, since I really like Bradenton. “Nope. Same renters for the past 15 years,” she told me. "They've been nice enough to buy them for me," she added.
This lady knew a lot about time, money and customer service.
#4 Grandma and her Cubs
Grandma loved her Cubs. Originally the Chicago White Stockings (1876-1889) then the Chicago Colts (1890-1897), then the Chicago Orphans, they became the modern day Chicago Cubs in 1902. As the playoffs progress there is hope in Mudville tonight. I understand there is a popular t-shirt stating: “Every team has a bad century. “ And my Grandma was loyal through most of that century.
With all the talk about the Cubs, I couldn‘t help but think of her. I don’t know when she began listening to the games on radio. My grandparents lived on a farm and were poor, but were “early adapters” of technology and owned both a radio and an automobile even in the early 1920s. (A young man from nearby Dixon, Illinois named Ronald Reagan, was a baseball sportscaster.)
Grandma never missed an opportunity to put her arm around and listen to one of her little ones and there were many of us. I don’t remember a time when there weren’t other people visiting--children, grandchildren, cousins, siblings, nieces or nephews. But I knew that if I walked into her house in the 1950s and she was sitting by the tall console radio with her head bent a certain way, I’d better not say much because there was a Cubs game on.
The ticket director says he’ll have fewer than 4,000 seats left per game, because the MLB snaps up tickets for sponsors leaving the ordinary fan scrambling for seats. So I’m glad Grandma finally might be able to see her Cubs win the championship. She was blind her entire adult life on earth, but now has perfect vision and the best seat in the house in heaven.
Grandma loved her Cubs. Originally the Chicago White Stockings (1876-1889) then the Chicago Colts (1890-1897), then the Chicago Orphans, they became the modern day Chicago Cubs in 1902. As the playoffs progress there is hope in Mudville tonight. I understand there is a popular t-shirt stating: “Every team has a bad century. “ And my Grandma was loyal through most of that century.
With all the talk about the Cubs, I couldn‘t help but think of her. I don’t know when she began listening to the games on radio. My grandparents lived on a farm and were poor, but were “early adapters” of technology and owned both a radio and an automobile even in the early 1920s. (A young man from nearby Dixon, Illinois named Ronald Reagan, was a baseball sportscaster.)
Grandma never missed an opportunity to put her arm around and listen to one of her little ones and there were many of us. I don’t remember a time when there weren’t other people visiting--children, grandchildren, cousins, siblings, nieces or nephews. But I knew that if I walked into her house in the 1950s and she was sitting by the tall console radio with her head bent a certain way, I’d better not say much because there was a Cubs game on.
The ticket director says he’ll have fewer than 4,000 seats left per game, because the MLB snaps up tickets for sponsors leaving the ordinary fan scrambling for seats. So I’m glad Grandma finally might be able to see her Cubs win the championship. She was blind her entire adult life on earth, but now has perfect vision and the best seat in the house in heaven.
Friday, October 03, 2003
#2
For a long time I’ve had a love affair with journals, maybe since my grandmother gave me my very own subscription to Jack and Jill when I was 6 or 7 years old. I am always surprised at the variety and vitality of serials. I collect premier issue and vol.1 no.1 of journals. So from time to time, I’ll share magazine musings and serials serendipity on this blog.
The cover on the August 2003 “Biocycle, Journal of Composting and Organics Recycling” took my breath away. You probably can’t see the detail unless you enlarge the photo, but up close, it looks like a banquet table or a produce section of a grocery store was dumped in a field and a bulldozer is about to cover it up.
Identifiable in the foreground, all in whole form, are watermelons, potatoes, carrots, a coconut, lettuce, cabbage, cucumbers, pineapple, apples, peppers, celery, turnips, bagels and endive. All I could think of when I saw it was the photos I’ve seen of urban third world children scavenging the city dumps. It represents 2.25 tons of food a day from the dining halls and on-campus hotels at Penn State University. One day. One university. Five hundred tons in 2001-2002.
I read through the article and learned that “preconsumer food residuals” and “post consumer napkins” are moved to a composting site along with agricultural residues, manure, and yard waste and trimmings. A student group on campus got this going in 1997 out of concern for food products going to landfills, a pilot program was established in 1998, and as of June 2003 it is a model for other large institutions. The compost is used for the 900 acre landscaping needs, but other benefits include less water and electricity needed to dispose of the food, and reduced noise (from disposals) for food service employees. I’m glad the food is not going to landfills, or being flushed through the sewers, or being burned in incinerators. I’m glad some of it is reusable compost and I hope other universities have similar plans. But I keep remembering those hungry kids.
For a long time I’ve had a love affair with journals, maybe since my grandmother gave me my very own subscription to Jack and Jill when I was 6 or 7 years old. I am always surprised at the variety and vitality of serials. I collect premier issue and vol.1 no.1 of journals. So from time to time, I’ll share magazine musings and serials serendipity on this blog.
The cover on the August 2003 “Biocycle, Journal of Composting and Organics Recycling” took my breath away. You probably can’t see the detail unless you enlarge the photo, but up close, it looks like a banquet table or a produce section of a grocery store was dumped in a field and a bulldozer is about to cover it up.
Identifiable in the foreground, all in whole form, are watermelons, potatoes, carrots, a coconut, lettuce, cabbage, cucumbers, pineapple, apples, peppers, celery, turnips, bagels and endive. All I could think of when I saw it was the photos I’ve seen of urban third world children scavenging the city dumps. It represents 2.25 tons of food a day from the dining halls and on-campus hotels at Penn State University. One day. One university. Five hundred tons in 2001-2002.
I read through the article and learned that “preconsumer food residuals” and “post consumer napkins” are moved to a composting site along with agricultural residues, manure, and yard waste and trimmings. A student group on campus got this going in 1997 out of concern for food products going to landfills, a pilot program was established in 1998, and as of June 2003 it is a model for other large institutions. The compost is used for the 900 acre landscaping needs, but other benefits include less water and electricity needed to dispose of the food, and reduced noise (from disposals) for food service employees. I’m glad the food is not going to landfills, or being flushed through the sewers, or being burned in incinerators. I’m glad some of it is reusable compost and I hope other universities have similar plans. But I keep remembering those hungry kids.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
#1
Most of my writing has been sent via e-mail to friends and family in attachments, which increasingly no one is eager to open. I don't blame them. Last week I was receiving about 50 worm infested e-mails a day, about half with attachments.
So I'm thinking, if I had a blog home, I could just ask the good folks from Montana, Florida, Virginia, Illinois, Nebraska, Georgia, California, Washington and Michigan to check out my blog for the latest details on what I'm thinking or writing. I've put out a compilation of my poetry and essays, "Let me collect my thoughts," and this will be an extension of that. Web Logs are perfect for people like me who like to write but don't want to publish.
This past summer I created "Poetry Post" and tacked my poems on a utility pole in front of our Lake Erie summer home. People looking for yard sale information stopped to look and clearly were disappointed. One person did ask for a copy of the one about enduring February next to the lake. It convinced her even more that she needs to go to Arizona this winter. The power of poetry. Some of my verse appears inside notes cards of my original paintings which are sold at a sweet little gift shop in Lakeside, OH.
When the web was young and the rules more relaxed, I had a personal web page at Ohio State with several essays about life, and a complete recipe book as well as information about the literature of veterinary medicine. (Obviously, this would no longer be allowed.) It was a great learning experience--html codes and FTP and all that--all of which is now outdated, wasting precious space in my memory.
While employed, my rambling e-mails went around the world in various professional list-servs--I was a hit in South Africa and Thailand. When I announced my retirement in 2000, the biggest surprise was not the well-wishers, but the people I'd never heard from or knew who said they'd miss my e-mails.
So, I'm back in business.
Most of my writing has been sent via e-mail to friends and family in attachments, which increasingly no one is eager to open. I don't blame them. Last week I was receiving about 50 worm infested e-mails a day, about half with attachments.
So I'm thinking, if I had a blog home, I could just ask the good folks from Montana, Florida, Virginia, Illinois, Nebraska, Georgia, California, Washington and Michigan to check out my blog for the latest details on what I'm thinking or writing. I've put out a compilation of my poetry and essays, "Let me collect my thoughts," and this will be an extension of that. Web Logs are perfect for people like me who like to write but don't want to publish.
This past summer I created "Poetry Post" and tacked my poems on a utility pole in front of our Lake Erie summer home. People looking for yard sale information stopped to look and clearly were disappointed. One person did ask for a copy of the one about enduring February next to the lake. It convinced her even more that she needs to go to Arizona this winter. The power of poetry. Some of my verse appears inside notes cards of my original paintings which are sold at a sweet little gift shop in Lakeside, OH.
When the web was young and the rules more relaxed, I had a personal web page at Ohio State with several essays about life, and a complete recipe book as well as information about the literature of veterinary medicine. (Obviously, this would no longer be allowed.) It was a great learning experience--html codes and FTP and all that--all of which is now outdated, wasting precious space in my memory.
While employed, my rambling e-mails went around the world in various professional list-servs--I was a hit in South Africa and Thailand. When I announced my retirement in 2000, the biggest surprise was not the well-wishers, but the people I'd never heard from or knew who said they'd miss my e-mails.
So, I'm back in business.
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