every girl needs a greek chorus

August 9, 2015
by maggiex4 3 Comments

Empty Nester

Empty Nest

My babies are gone.

On Thursday morning, I checked the nest, and only one little hummingbird looked back at me. I looked around on the deck and in the shrubs to make certain that one of them wasn’t shuddering helplessly on the ground. I climbed the ladder, and the remaining one flew away, landing on my patio. The BFF approached it cautiously, and, when I realized that it wasn’t going to fly away, I carefully picked it up, as the Veterinarian taught me, and placed it back in the nest.

Holding the tiny bird in my hand and feeling its incredible heart rate (at 1,200 beats per minute, it’s more like a vibration than a pulse), it didn’t seem like it was ready to leave. But when I came home from work, 12 hours later, it was gone.

I can live with it. Through small miracles, a lot that wasn’t ok a month ago seems easier all of a sudden.

Tiny miracle

I touched the little nest. It’s soft and spongy, like a thin wall of Nerf foam. If you can enlarge the top photo, you’ll see the filaments of spider web used to attach the nest to the branch. How amazing is that? And it’s not even 1-1/2″ high. How do they do that? Fairy tales can come true.

I wonder if the mother will lay one last clutch of eggs before autumn. There’s time. It only took a month for these to hatch and leave. I’ll watch all spring, too, and maybe, just maybe, they’ll return.

In one month, my vision of life has changed by reflecting on these birds. I wonder what else I’m not seeing. Of all the people on Earth, who am I to complain? Life is more than good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

August 7, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Dizzy for Daiquiris

It seems I actually may get to Cuba before I die, since the U.S. has resumed diplomatic relations with the largest nation in the Caribbean. I’ve always wanted to see the pristine beaches and the incredible rain forest, the Spanish colonial architecture and the old American cars. Oh! And I can’t wait to bring home the rum.

When most people think of Cuba, they think of angry guys with beards, cigars, Cuban sandwiches, and rum. I buy Havana Club rum when I’m in Grand Cayman to mix with Coca-Cola and a squeeze of lime. It’s dark and rich with a hint of molasses, and the seven-year old sipping blend is about as smooth as some single-malts I’ve had.

One of those pristine beaches, near Santiago, provided the name for my favorite summer heat-quencher, the Daiquiri. I’m talking about real Daiquiris made with limes, not that sickly sweet stuff that comes out of a mega-blender like a Slurpee. In the early 20^th century, legend says, some American engineers with a lot of time on their hands came up with the perfect antidote to the oppressive tropical heat. It became popular in Havana’s bars and nightclubs, attracting the attention of Ernest Hemingway, no less, who inspired a variation, with grapefruit juice and maraschino liquid, that bears his name.

How a simply elegant drink became synonymous with strawberries or bananas and an avalanche of crushed ice, I’ll never know. Over the years, whenever I’ve asked for a “lime” Daiquiri at a beachfront bar, the bartender has looked at me like I was nuts, until one day on Key Biscayne.

We were on vacation in south Florida in July. That may sound like torture to you, but our Maryland beaches are darn hot and humid in the summer and more expensive than a luxury hotel in Miami, where it’s the off-season. As we were sitting at the deserted pool, I begged the Veterinarian to surprise me with something icy-cold from the bar. He returned with a plastic cup full of the most heavenly Daiquiri I’d ever had.

“Look, I got you a real Daiquiri!” he said, proudly. “Hey, don’t drink it so fast. You’re not getting another one. I never would have ordered it had I known that it cost $15.”

“What?!”

“The rooms may be cheap here in the summer, but the bar drinks are pretty stiff in more ways than one.”

They were so irresistible that I think we splurged on one more during our week’s stay, but when we returned home, we experimented until we came up with the perfect replica. You have my permission to adjust this to suit your own taste, but you can’t use anything other than fresh lime juice or white rum. Frozen limeade is too sweet. Bottled lime juice is too bitter. Dark rum is just ugly in the glass. Corn syrup is too thick. I’ve tried to use artificial sweetener, which mixes well in the icy rum and lime, but the sugar syrup makes a smoother drink. You can add more syrup, if you’d like a sweeter drink, but it cuts the all-important thirst-quenching properties.

¡Salud!

Still life with lime

Daiquiri – makes one drink

2 ounces white rum

1 ounce simple sugar syrup (see recipe below)

Juice of one freshly-squeezed lime

Ice cubes (not crushed)

Measure rum and sugar syrup into shaker full of ice. Squeeze in the juice of one lime. Shake and serve over ice in tall glasses. Garnish with lime wedge, if desired.

Simple Sugar Syrup

1 cup granulated sugar

1 cup hot water

Don’t you feel cooler already?

Place sugar in small, heavy saucepan over medium heat. Stir in hot water until sugar is dissolved, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer mixture for 15 minutes. Cover tightly with a lid and remove from heat. Let sit until room temperature. Pour into clean glass jar and store in refrigerator until ready to use.

[Note: Because the mixture is boiling when you cover it, it will stay sterile while it cools. Do not lift the lid while it is cooling, and refrigerate promptly within 60 minutes.]

August 4, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Love Birds

In memory of Mr. Phil

Ready to go

Love affairs are bittersweet. There’s the shock and initial giddy rush of attraction that takes you someplace wonderful that you’ve never been or felt before. You overlook your beloved’s peccadilloes, their appearance, their annoying parents. Their beauty grows in your eyes. You rush to their defense, to maintain the miracle of their presence at your own peril.

And then, it’s over. They need their freedom. They fly the nest. Your sojourn together is too brief. One day, they’re gazing upon you with their soulful eyes, tucked in a nest of love, and the next, stretching their wings and borne on the wind, they’re off to find the next fragrant blossom.

Yes, the hummingbirds are getting ready to go, and I am prematurely desolate. Seduced and abandoned. I knew their departure was imminent this morning when I climbed the stepladder in my nightgown to photograph them (blessedly, the Shrew was still asleep). They just looked at me with their unblinking eyes, stuffed into their mother’s love nest with their beaks and tails hanging over the edges. Their heads have grown significantly in the past few days, so that their eyes are no longer dominant. The larger of the two is the size of its mother, so I know it’s time, and I’m just not ready. She is just starting to let me watch her feed them, a miracle all by itself. Too soon, it’s too soon, for me, if not for them.

“Oh, please, please, please don’t go yet!” I begged. “You’re my miracle in the crappiness of my life. You’re my heart. You’re my hope.”

They were silent. Not a peep out of them.

“I love you so!” The nest swayed in the breeze, but they remained steadfast on their branch.

“Oh, for God’s sake! What are you doing out here in our nightgown?” The Shrew had roused herself. “Are you conscious enough to be on that ladder?”

Stay, just a little bit longer

“They’re leaving.”

“Not yet, they aren’t.”

“But probably today or tomorrow.”

“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” she yawned. “It’s August, you know. They have to prepare to migrate before the weather gets cold.”

“Is summer over already?”

“Not quite. We have another two months or so of decent weather.” The Shrew was surprisingly gentle. “You know better than most people how life works.”

Over the weekend, a dear friend lost one of the longest battles with cancer of anyone that I know. Mr. Phil and I were the long-tolerant spouses of avian veterinarians, but he partnered his with much more grace and patience than I partnered mine. My heart was broken from the loss of his smile and laughter and his cool ties and sharp hats. It was also broken for his wife, whose plaintive tribute to him brought back memories of my own loss, brightened by her request that his friends have a Champagne toast in his memory.

Still here in the evening

“Let’s go in the house,” the Shrew whispered. “The breeze is going up this nightgown, and we’re shivering.”

I fed the BFF and made my morning cup of strong black tea, sweetened and doused with milk (fat free, of course), put her meds in her marshmallow, and settled down to the morning news and my email, which held a delightful surprise for a woman who really doesn’t do mornings.

In the evening, after a frustrating day, I climbed the ladder to see if they were still there. They were, and my breathing slowed for the first time in hours. “All will be well and all will be well…”

Suddenly, I’ve been thinking about faith, hope, and love in a new light. God tirelessly redeems and redeems and redeems so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

July 31, 2015
by maggiex4 2 Comments

Chicken Salad Suite

Chicken Tarragon Salad on Croissant

Thank you all for posting your copycat recipes on the internet! Now that I live alone, it’s sometimes hard to find someone to join me for dinner or when I crave a particular menu item from a distant restaurant, so I’ve turned to these recipes. It’s also a great way to cut out salt and fat by adapting the originals, because nothing packs on the pounds like dining out.

Before the internet, I either bought the chef’s cookbook (Thomas Keller, Danny Meyer, Daniel Boulud, Roy Yamaguchi, Paul Prudhomme, even California Pizza Kitchen) or experimented. Now, all you need is a Google-search.

One of the first dishes I ever duplicated was a chicken salad on croissant from a long-defunct café at Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. It was simple with a twist, flavored with tarragon, one of my favorite herbs. I don’t even know if my current incarnation is anything similar to the original recipe, but it’s always a hit and has been reproduced in church and school cookbooks and passed around by friends.

From 1986, on our sailboat

If you recall from my post on The Mayonnaise Wars, tarragon effectively masks the taste of the mayonnaise, which I find — well — distasteful. The traditional celery adds crunch, along with my addition of sliced almonds, and a little lemon juice brightens anything. Served on a buttery croissant, with or without a little red-leaf or butter lettuce, it’s just about my favorite lunch.

Besides church socials, it’s been a standby for boat trips, picnics, and always accompanies us on the first leg of any trip, either in the car or on an airplane, known in my family as the “Going Home Sandwiches,” not to be confused with the “Travelling Chocolate Chip Cookies.”

When The Daughter attended Salisbury University, in Salisbury, Maryland, I found a chicken salad that I like almost as much, and I’ve been craving it since she graduated and moved back home. The Acorn Market (three long hours away) serves the second best chicken salad I’ve ever eaten, which seems to be just chicken breast chunks, mayonnaise, and honey. No crunchy stuff. No fruit. But not bland. They even give you a nice piece of shortbread to go with it for dessert.

Since I can’t find a recipe for it or convince The Daughter to go back to graduate school, I’m going to experiment with it. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

If I’m trying to stretch it into a formal luncheon, I serve a little cucumber-dill salad on the side and chilled white wine. If I’m on a boat or at a picnic, I serve something easy and chocolate for dessert, but, now that I think of it, I should serve my scrumptious shortbread.

with shredded chicken

Chicken Tarragon Salad

4 boneless chicken breast halves, cooked and chopped or shredded (do you like chunky or soft?)

½ teaspoon salt, or to taste

⅓ cup finely chopped celery

2 Tablespoons dried tarragon

½ cup mayonnaise

1 teaspoon fresh-squeezed lemon juice

¼ teaspoon white pepper

¼ teaspoon onion powder

2 teaspoons dried parsley or 1 Tablespoon minced fresh parsley

¼ cup sliced almonds

8 large croissants, split just to the tips, leaving them intact

Red leaf or butter lettuce (optional)

Combine mayonnaise, lemon juice, pepper, salt, and onion powder in a medium mixing bowl. Toss with the chicken. Toss again with tarragon, parsley, and almonds. Cover and refrigerate 4 hours or overnight. Serve on croissants or alone. [Holds up well when spread on croissants, wrapped individually in plastic wrap, and transported in a zippered plastic bag.]

Makes 8 sandwich-sized servings.

July 30, 2015
by maggiex4 3 Comments

Brave Little Hummingbird

Day 11, post-hatching, the largest of the hummers has opened its eyes, and its beak has turned black. It did not exhibit a feeding response but also didn’t seem too concerned that I was taking photos. The smaller sibling remained curled up but is breathing. I’m hoping to see the color of its beak and whether or not its eye has opened. Both babies peep.

Mom only buzzed by once to find out what was happening. She now lets me observe her after dark, when she is sitting on the nest, but I don’t want to frighten her with a flash.

I read that hummingbirds use spider webs to hold their nests together and to anchor them to branches. The fuzzy understructure of this nest looks suspiciously like the BFF’s golden fur.

By the way, the photo is slightly tilted, not the nest.

July 29, 2015
by maggiex4 3 Comments

A Life’s Work

1979

Thirty-six years ago today, the Veterinarian and I took a big leap of faith and bought the Fallston Veterinary Clinic. We owned a car and a motorcycle, a sofa, a bed, wedding china and crystal, and a lot of books. We didn’t know anything about Baltimore and even less about Harford County, where the practice was located. The purchase price of $110,000, for the practice alone, was surreal.

At the time, it was an established practice in a ranch-style house that had been converted to a veterinary hospital. We moved into the former house’s finished basement. (That’s right. We lived in a basement for two years. Some of you can vouch for that.) People knocked on the front door at all hours of the day and night, but we were committed to making it a success.

I realized that we were not living in the neighborhood of my dreams within a few days. The nearest mall was anchored by Montgomery Wards at one end and E.J. Korvette’s at the other. Strong young woman that I was, I cried to him, “How long do we have to live here?”

“At least 20 years,” he replied, “or we’re going to be out a lot of money.”

Quickly, we realized that we were going to be a success. He brought new skills, charm, and compassion to a practice that had been struggling. I re-organized the business plan and the facility, because, in those days, the spouses of veterinarians, out of economic necessity, took an active role in making their spouse’s practices successful. We all had our own interests, but it was something that you did together for your family. In those days, veterinary medicine was no 9-5 job. It was considered an all-day, every day responsibility for conscientious owners.

1985

Within months, it was apparent that the building wasn’t suitable. When we couldn’t negotiate a deal to buy and extensively remodel it, we leased a smaller building down the road. With the help of my parents and friends, we gutted the interior, down to the cinder block walls, which was the easy part. During the day, the Veterinarian continued to work in the old building, where we were still paying rent. At night and on weekends, we worked on the interior of the new building, where we were also paying rent. We reframed the interior, hung and finished drywall, painted and wallpapered, hung a suspended ceiling upstairs and downstairs, and built two cinder block runs in the kennel. It took over six months of non-stop work. Only the wiring, plumbing, flooring, and phones were installed by professionals.

As the county grew, our caseload expanded, and we hired a second doctor and installed computerized records. As the Veterinarian established himself as an Avian specialist, it grew even more, and the little building couldn’t handle the third doctor that we hired.

Sure enough, in 1999, on the twentieth anniversary of our big leap, I asked him again, “Can we go now?” Instead, in 2000, we really went for broke and built a 6,000 square foot hospital on the same property. When the little building was torn down, we saved a piece of lumber from its framing that had been signed and dated by us and by my parents. It was re-dated and incorporated into the current structure. The new building was the fulfillment of our life’s dream and work.

2001

In 2011, with the Veterinarian’s unexpected death and a series of unfortunate events, the dream died for me. I have new dreams and new projects. As always, I am moving forward and take great memories and stories with me. In about two months, it will no longer be “ours” (the Daughter’s and mine). The practice will be in the good hands of people who share some of those memories, so I am content.

Many wonderful people and a lot of delightful pets have passed through the doors of all three buildings, and some of our current clients were on the books when we arrived in 1979. We’ve had employees who went on to veterinary school or to start their own practices. We’ve had employees who’ve worked for us for 30 years. I am grateful to everyone who put their trust in us and helped to fulfill our family’s dream of caring for your family members and for animals in need, so who am I to complain? Life is still good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

July 28, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Deceit Detector™

Actual profile photo from dating site.

Dating scammers, be gone! Dr. Phil and I have railed against it for months, but a feature on a recent CBS This Morning about the “heartbreak of online dating,” subtitled “Older Singles Lose Millions in Online Dating Scams,” finally motivated me to action. An “older” woman lost her entire life savings when a man, posing as a contractor from Virginia, hit her up for $300,000, because he, allegedly, was stranded in Africa by an emergency kidney transplant. Oh! And she had never met him face-to-face.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME???!!!! Why would anyone of any age send any money to someone in a foreign country that she’s never met? It’s obvious to me and should be to anyone else, regardless of her age. The Shrew who lives in my head doesn’t think she’s even as old as I am. However, we agree that the poor lady needed my Deceit Detector™.

“As you age, your ability to decipher deceit declines, so you have to be even more vigilant,” said the “expert” providing commentary. My Deceit Detector™ works like a charm, so I should market it, don’t you think?

The expert also gave tips to recognize potential scammers, such as frequent spelling errors, fake photos, people working overseas, and requests for money. I also smugly report that she said that men are more susceptible to online dating scams, while women report them more often. Ha! Same reason that men don’t ask for directions, I’ll wager.

Haven’t I been telling you about dating scammers for months? I’m not talking about the exaggerations and the liars. I’m talking about stolen photos attached to the profiles of real people. I report several each week. I’m just one woman on a crusade, but some of these other women need to pick up the slack.

Yesterday, a guy “favorited” me. His profile said he was from southern Maryland (a good 50 miles from me) and likes to kayak in Indiana (500 miles from me) on the weekends. The Deceit Detector™ wailed like a banshee. Susceptible Susie would have thought,

“Wow! He lives near the Patuxent Naval Air Station, so he could be a Navy pilot who flies his own private plane. I would love to date a guy with a plane, especially a Naval officer. It’s my lucky day! He’s only 60. He’s cute and young-looking and — uh-oh…”

The Deceit Detector™ did a Google image search of his one-and-only photo, which matched a photo on a dating site in San Francisco. Not only is he not an eligible Naval Officer in southern Maryland, he’s a gay man looking for men in California. See how easy that was, folks? It took less than a minute.

Another guy, from Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada, wrote to me two months ago and continues to visit my profile regularly. He doesn’t write anything else to me, so it really creeps me out wondering what he’s doing, but I won’t let my vivid imagination go there. This guy registers as a Perv on the Deceit Detector™.

I wrote to another repeated voyeur and said, “Are you just going to keep looking, or are you going to say something?” He’s still looking. I think I need to block him, don’t you?

I replaced the tasteful photo of me on the beach with one where I’m holding a slice of pepperoni pizza, thinking that I needed a more approachable look. I mean, who doesn’t like pepperoni pizza, besides vegans? It must have worked, because, overnight, I had 40 views!

Yikes! The Deceit Detector™ is screaming. As I write this, a guy with no photo and just letters and numbers for a profile name “winked” at me. Clearly, he didn’t read my profile, because it says that I only answer emails. “Hey, MBE67 from city-I’ve-never-heard-of, MI —-“ [Screaming intensifies.] He’s from Michigan!

Susceptible Susie would rationalize that he’s attracted to the Michigan State Spartans shirt I’m wearing in one of my photos, although, since it’s dinner time, maybe he’s winking at the pizza in my hand. Oh! He, too, is a pilot. He says he likes to “fly up to Lake Tahoe”. If Susie is geographically challenged, she doesn’t realize that Lake Tahoe is in California. His profile continues, “I really enjoy biking with my friends along the Monterey peninsula, as I used to live down there and have a lot of friends in the biking community. Most lunch times you will either catch me at Crossfit or on my bike. Also look forward to playing golf with my friends and completing another Ironman.”

He competes in Ironman? Susceptible Susie is really impressed and overlooks that the guy bikes on the Monterey peninsula, which is also in California. Excuse me while I reset the Deceit Detector™ and take a minute to report him for fraud.

I’m back. Today is a big day for “winkers.” Yep, it’s got to be the new pizza photo. After all, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, isn’t it? I heard you could boil cinnamon sticks and vanilla beans in a small pan of water on the stove to entice men, but I think pizza may be better. And all you need is a photo of a slice or an empty pizza box.

A new winker said he’s from New England, so, while I don’t usually respond to winkers, the Deceit Detector™ was humming. I wrote, “Since you’re from New England, if you don’t mind, may I ask, who’s your favorite NFL quarterback?” If he’s legit, he might try to curry favor and say “Joe Flacco” of the Baltimore Ravens, but if he says pretty-boy-turned-ball-deflater Tom Brady of the NE Patriots, he definitely won’t pass the Deceit Detector™.

Then, there was the guy who wanted to chat who said he was from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, just up the road. I was very carefully answering his questions, while I checked his profile and discovered that he was in “construction,” yet all his photos showed him in business attire (ie, dress shirts, ties,and jackets). Ok, so maybe, he owns a construction company but only makes $25,000 a year. After the Deceit Detector™ turned up a nice guy who lives in Florida on Google image search, and after I was able to find the guy’s photo on Facebook with a different name and completely different family, I took over the questioning.

“Have you lived in Lancaster all your life?” I asked, “Which is your favorite Amish restaurant?”

“Just the last 15 years since I moved to the states.”

“Oh. Where were you born?”

“Riga, Latvia, but my mother was born in Alabama.” The Shrew started laughing crazily.

“The Amish is a great restaurant,” he said. By then, the Shrew and I were both cackling.

“Really? The Amish are a religious group, not a restaurant,” I retorted. “Take it elsewhere, scammer.”

And, yes, we reported him to match.com, for all the good it does.

Finally, a 53-year old man in Los Angeles (allegedly) wished to chat. “Jeez,” I asked, “could all these guys from California be the same guy? I must ferret out this mystery in the same way that sexy Australian private detective Phryne Fisher does, using my wits and my devastatingly seductive haircut, if not Phryne’s pearl-handled pistol.”

His first mistake: he opened our conversation with “Hello, dear. How are you today?” No American male calls a woman “dear.”

Mistake #2: Here’s his well-written and inadvertently ironic profile, probably copied and pasted from a real profile:

Mistake #3: In the IM chats, his writing is considerably less polished, to put it kindly. I’ve observed that journalistic standards have plummeted in recent years, but, when I asked him, “As a journalist, for whom do you write?” he responded with:

I replied, “I’m looking for someone honest. Are you honest?” Of course, he ignored my question and started telling me about his “ideal soulmate”:

“…man in the military on here…” stopped me dead cold. Are you a journalist or a “man in the military?” I’ve heard that posing as one of our troops is one of the big scams to gain sympathy, followed by money. This was more disgusting than the guy from Niagara Falls who looks but doesn’t write. It’s way more disgusting than cheating naïve widows by claiming to be sick or incarcerated in Africa and all the others put together. The Shrew was even speechless, so we blocked him. I’m not sure it’s even worth reporting, because I’m convinced that match.com does not care. CBS This Morning’s report said much the same.

Oddly, the news show’s next feature unwittingly provided a possible alternative to online dating. “Robots are replacing humans at a surprising rate,” followed up Charlie Rose, introducing the segment. Of course, this got me thinking…just get rid of the human interaction altogether. Give me a cute robot with a gentle, erudite wit and soft voice, maybe with a southern accent. Hey! Instead of The Jetsons’ Rosie the Robot Maid, give me a robot clone of Charlie Rose the Talk Show Host. He could interview me and write down what I say for this blog. If he gets too annoying, I can always disconnect him, so, who would I be to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

July 24, 2015
by maggiex4 1 Comment

Function, Form — and Flames!

It must be July. Heat waves are coming in, well, waves. Yawn. I’m not sure why the weather broadcasters are so frantic. It’s called summer, people! Remember when we had all that snow in February and March? I know that farmers in our area hope to save their crops from the deluge of rain we’ve gotten, but I just enjoy the warmth.

Every July, during what turns out to be the hottest weekend of the summer, the arts community in Baltimore throws a three-day festival they call “Artscape,” celebrating art of all kinds, visual, graphic, pottery, jewelry, glass, music, dance, and even culinary. After all, what kind of festival doesn’t need food? Last weekend, there were the usual hot dogs, grilled sausage, pizza, crab cakes, Boardwalk fries (doused with vinegar), funnel cakes, and even Thai and vegetarian specialties.

Tiny house from TrueNorthGuideLab.com

But I wasn’t there to eat. I went to see my friend, Byron, who was exhibiting and promoting his social enterprise model, featuring a micro-dwelling, or “tiny house” that he developed. His mission is to teach students the skills to build affordable housing for residences, businesses, studios, etc. As Louis Sullivan, the great turn-of-the-century architect said, “form ever following function.”

During Artscape, Byron stayed in his tiny house, even when the temp hit 97, attracting all kinds of people, including a little boy from Honolulu who told me, “I’m going to build myself a tiny house and live in it.”

Tiny House becomes part of “Artscape.”

If you’ve ever purchased anything at Ikea, you get the idea. There’s simple beauty, innovative design, and economical construction. Byron applies this idea to changing the way people consume resources, occupy space, and provide basic shelter. Taking it one step further, he proposes to teach design and construction skills to young people who need it the most. He explains it all on his company’s website, truenorthguidelab.com.

The Veterinarian would have loved a tiny house, which is the size of the first sailboat that we owned but with more headroom. The walls are reinforced canvas over plywood. There’s the usual, large single berth for sleeping, a U-shaped settee and table that convert to another berth, and a three-burner cooktop. Retractable solar panels provide energy for the LED lighting, stereo, and 12-volt fan. As in marine design, there’s a place to stow everything, clothes, tools, food, supplies, cooking utensils. Essentially, it’s smaller than my kitchen, which causes me brief guilt pangs about my carbon footprint.

Maybe he isn’t just educating youth; maybe he’s educating us about the excess of our lives, the flotsam and jetsam to which we’ve become addicted. Friends were astounded when I wrote about my skillet collection in Pot Head. Do I really need specialized cooking equipment that only gets used once or twice a year? Do I really need eight whisks or 50 cookbooks? Seven sets of china? Dozens of glasses with specialized uses?

Could I prepare gourmet meals in a tiny house? Well, yeah. I’ve done it on boats, cooking on two-burner propane stoves with gimballed ovens. I once met a French woman who sold crêpes (savory or dessert) from her 30’ sailboat anchored in the harbor of the Caribbean island of Bequia (one of the few places where the International Whaling Union sanctions traditional whaling with hand-thrown harpoons from small, open sailing dinghys, by the way). In the afternoon, her husband would come by in a dinghy to take orders and return in the evening to deliver them. Crêpe batter requires one mixing bowl, a fork or whisk, a small sauté pan, and one burner. So simple.

On another sailing trip, halfway around the world on the beach of a tiny Thai island, I had the best shrimp tempura of my life, made by a woman cranking them out in one small sauté pan over a single propane burner. Like the crêpemaker in Bequia, she used one mixing bowl for the batter and something to whisk it together. There were a dozen of us gathered for dinner at an open-air grill, and she served us all in an efficient and timely manner, putting so-called “Iron” chefs to shame without a Ninja, Cuisinart, or electric deep-fryer (mine has gathered dust on the floor of my pantry closet for almost 20 years).

What kind of meals could I make in a tiny house with the one skillet? Anything stir-fried (sayonara, wok). Grilled sandwiches (arrivederci, panini grill). Fajitas (adios, fajita griddle). Thinking completely off the top of my head, I probably could make an apple tart, if I topped it with something pre-baked, like shortbread (adieu, tarte tatin pan). I’ve seen recipes in which fresh pasta is simmered in simple sauces, and my shrimp étouffée only takes one pan. Even those old college standbys, hamburger stroganoff and tuna jambalaya (made with Rice-a-Roni — don’t judge it until you’ve tried it — I just can’t cook treats like Tournedos à La Vallière for myself every day, although it, too, could be done, laboriously, with just one pan).

No boat trip or visit to the tropics was ever complete without the Veterinarian’s version of the New Orleans classic, Bananas Foster. In the Caribbean, there were bananas, butter, sugar, and rum in every port. The ice cream was more problematic; it doesn’t always survive the dinghy trip from shore to boat successfully. The same small boy in the Veterinarian’s heart, who would have loved living in a tiny house, also loved setting things on fire, but, for safety, he probably would have stepped outside it to flambé his dessert. In Mexico, he learned the showman’s trick of tossing the nutmeg into the flames to create “stars.” It was pretty spectacular on the back of a boat after sunset.

Flambéing terrifies me, so I light the rum with a long lighter or match, instead of using the stove’s flame to ignite it. As I used to say to the Veterinarian in my best “schoolmarm” voice, “Be careful!” Not only are the flames hazardous, but the hot syrup can produce a nasty burn.

Bananas Don

Bananas Don – Serves 6

4 ripe bananas, peeled and sliced lengthwise and then in half, crosswise

¼ cup butter

½ cup dark brown sugar

½ teaspoon cinnamon

¼ cup orange-flavored liqueur, such as Grand Marnier or Triple-sec

½ cup dark rum

¼ teaspoon nutmeg

Vanilla ice cream

Have all ingredients mise en place (ie, measured and ready) before starting.

In a large skillet over medium heat, melt the butter. Stir in brown sugar and cinnamon until melted, smooth, and bubbly. Gently stir in the orange liqueur. Add the bananas and gently cook on both sides until they start to soften, about two minutes. Turn off the heat and remove from the burner.

Be careful!

Pour rum onto the top of the banana mixture and ignite with a lighter or long match. Toss the nutmeg into the flames. Carefully return the pan to the burner; gently swirl pan until flames die out. If mixture is too thin, remove the bananas and cook the sauce down to the consistency of syrup. Serve over ice cream.

[Note: You can prepare the syrup through the addition of the orange liqueur, and carefully pour into a glass, heat-proof measuring cup or storage jar and keep in the refrigerator. Reheat small amounts in a sauté pan, finishing with the bananas and rum.]

July 22, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Hummingbird Feeder

Today’s installment of the hatchlings shows both little beaks perked up and waiting for Mom. I noticed yesterday that she has enlarged the nest since they were hatched and still diligently sits on them. While I sat on the deck, she kept buzzing around but wouldn’t feed them, and they, hearing her buzzing wings, would bounce in the little nest (which is actually no bigger than a golf ball). After 30 minutes, I took their photo and went indoors. The larger one, on the right, almost has an opened eye, which seems early to me. I’m used to seeing all those helpless baby African Greys, Cockatoos, and Macaws that are just pathetic for weeks and weeks. These little hummingbirds are progressing quickly, having just been born 4-5 days ago. Life is good (mostly)! Soli Deo Gloria!

July 21, 2015
by maggiex4 10 Comments

The Condensed Version of Me

Me – c. 1956

[This is my first-ever blog post, published July 22, 2014. I like to think of it as a measuring stick of the past year. My surgery sites were still raw; my abs were a flabby mess; I hadn’t started exploring online dating; and I had no idea why I was telling my story. People tell me that I’m brave for being honest and that they share many of my frustrations with modern life, which has lost so much graciousness, despite technology and political correctness. If nothing else, I make most of you laugh, so, who am I to complain? Thanks for joining me on my spiritual journey!]

Last night, I did something with my daughter that I never would have done with my mother. We stood in front of my bathroom mirror comparing our naked breasts. Stay with me.

Did you ever do that with your mother? Neither did I. I’m 62, raised in the 1950’s & ’60’s by a mom of the 1930’s and ’40’s. Her most damning phrase was “That’s tacky.” Until I was nearly 40, I worried about being dirty, wrinkled, mismatched, frizzy, and tacky. My two earliest childhood memories are learning to tie the laces of my white high-topped, leather shoes into tidy bows and being fitted for white cotton gloves. I couldn’t have been older than four, but I was mesmerized by the little drawers of gloves in the girls’ department at the J.L. Hudson, Company in downtown Detroit. Plain or bows? Are you kidding me? I wanted the ones with the shiny pearl buttons!

Maybe your parents were “progressive.” Mine came from that pragmatic, Depression-Era generation of hardworking blue collar-to-middle-class families with what are currently called “traditional values.” My father, a first-generation Italian-American and proud Marine Corps veteran, leaned toward the conservative. My mother’s family was from the fearless stock of English-Scots-Irish who settled Kentucky in the 18^th century. No whining allowed. Have a problem? Figure out how to solve it or climb over it and move on. My sister and I were expected to go to college and graduate. I learned to sew, cook, manage money, mow the lawn, change a tire, check the oil, mix concrete, and lay bricks. Before feminism took hold in the 1960’s, we were learning to survive.

Mom was a minor progressive on matters of feminine independence. When I begged for one of the newly-marketed “training” bras that my girlfriends proudly wore, my mother scoffed, “What are they training? You don’t want to wear a bra. They’re uncomfortable, and besides, you don’t have anything to put in one.” [Be careful what you wish for.]

In the 5^th grade, the girls in my class, accompanied by their mothers or a female guardian, were treated to the Disney-produced and Kotex-sponsored The Story of Menstruation. (Sex education in the mid-20th century.) On the walk home after the screening, armed with pamphlets, Mom’s only comment was, “When your ‘time’ comes, they’re in the linen closet.” Well, yes, I saw a small box of Kotex pads, but what were those mysterious paper-wrapped sticks in the Tampax box that was replaced much more frequently than the Kotex box?

Two years later, my ‘time’ arrived. Mom showed me how to loop the gauzy ends of the bulky Kotex pad through the metal teeth in the “Sanitary Belt” yet encouraged me to use tampons. At the age of 12, I was squeamish, more by the idea of having such a conversation with my mother than the actual process. Well, I lie. Probably more by the process.

She rolled her eyes and said, “You don’t know what you’re missing.” Huh? I’m going to put that hulking dry, cardboard thing where? [Listen to your mother.]

By the time I was 17 and desperate to wear a bathing suit for my waterskiing boyfriend, she had the last laugh. “I can’t help you with this. You have to go into the bathroom and do it yourself. Here’s the hand mirror.”

She was right, of course. They were waaay better than the monthly bulkiness, the shifting, and the inevitable leakage. She-who-claims-to-know-everything suddenly turned into a font of wisdom.

Seven years later, at age 24, I was recovering from a complete hysterectomy. (No, it wasn’t due to the tampons.) I had a raging case of endometriosis. Cysts as large as volleyballs and baseballs, according to my doctors, pulsated in my ovaries, and others were exploding like tiny time-bombs, gumming up my insides. In her droll and always honest way, my mother asked, “What are you going to do with all the money you save on tampons?”

Now, my own daughter is 22 and has little knowledge of and no use for white cotton gloves, but, I am proud to say, she recognizes “tacky” when she sees it. I’m not going to embarrass her by discussing her introduction to tampons, but let’s just say that it involved a mirror, a wet suit, and sharks. Well, no, there were no actual sharks in the bathroom with us, just a discussion about their olfactory sensitivity. There was also no dry, hulking cardboard in sight, just marvelous, smooth, modern plastic.

The Daughter and I, pre-op, May, 2012.

Two-and-a-half months ago, I had reduction mammoplasty (google it—I’m still my mother’s somewhat-squeamish daughter). You see, my five foot-tall frame appeared to be on the verge of toppling over at any moment, as I could no longer straighten my shoulders. I stuffed myself into minimizer bras and swathed myself in baggy sweaters. What seems like a glamorous blessing really is a pain in the neck—and the spine and the shoulders and the self-esteem. Turns out, I was carrying over two pounds of extra weight on my chest, like strapping a Yellow Pages directory between my armpits.

My daughter, the critical care nurse, was a great caregiver. You know. What we hope our children will be for us in our old age? During the three-and-a-half hour outpatient (!) surgery, she returned to her nearby apartment to play with her cats and to catch something on Xfinity On Demand (which, to me, means it can be watched at any time other than when your dearly beloved is in surgery).

In fairness, I easily survived the surgery; she drove me home, stayed overnight, changed my massive ice packs, expertly stripped, emptied, and measured my bloody drain tubes every four hours, and force fed me oxycodone. OK, OK. She didn’t shove it down my throat, but she gave me the Nurse Ratched routine and insisted I swallow it. [Note to self: Revisit that mirror/wet suit incident and a caregiver who is my sole heir.]

Last night, there we were, looking at our naked breasts, noticing how different they are. My rehabbed pair appear to have been transplanted from a stranger and are oddly and happily perky for a 62-year old woman. They are also subtly scarred, bruised, and lumpy and will be for at least another year. Just like my hysterectomy scar, traces of this recent surgery will always remain. But, I figure, the boy for whom I was willing to experiment with tampons has been gone for three years, and I don’t expect anyone other than a medical professional will ever get close enough to notice.

Oh, come on! Put your tiny violins away! Insurance paid for most of the surgery. I feel fabulous and can see my feet for the first time in years. My girlfriends say I look 20 years younger. My new, youthful bustline (as Jane Russell would say in the old Playtex commercials) has inspired me to work on my abs, now that I can see how flabby they are.

My mother, at 86, still knows everything and feels free to dole out advice. These days, she rarely tells me

Playing with a selfie stick, July, 2015.

that I look tacky, but I still wouldn’t dream of sharing my breasts with her in a mirror. My daughter isn’t embarrassed to discuss anything with me, although I have learned to text “TMI” to her when she makes me squeamish. I am easily old enough to be her grandmother, so the generational chasm between us is often profound. And, yes, both she and my mother approved this post, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo gloria!