Author: Susie (Page 46 of 48)

Some people eat to live; I, however, live to eat. I enjoy food – always have!  There are very few foods that I don’t enjoy and that’s probably contributed to my life-long battle with baby fat. (I’m sure there are nicer names for those extra pounds, but I’ve battled them since I was a baby, so…). At any rate, I really like food.  I was a mother’s dream in that regard, because I would not only eat, but would ask for, foods such as asparagus, spinach, broccoli, cauliflower, beans, kale, and liver and onions!

               There are only two foods that I don’t typically enjoy. The first is celery. I realize that most people don’t munch on celery for the sheer pleasure of it. Usually I see folks using celery as a vehicle for some better food, such as peanut butter or chive dip. I can get that down, if I have to, but honestly, the celery doesn’t really add much.

               Some people will tell me that celery adds “crunch” to other foods. I’m not sure why we need a textural change in things like chicken salad. And honestly, cooked celery does not provide a crunch in soups.  If I want crunchy chicken, I’d prefer to fry it. And if I really want crunch, then I’m reaching for potato chips. At least that way, I get taste with the crunch.

               This is why I get a little annoyed when restaurants serve food that is mislabeled. When I order, for example, chicken pecan salad, I expect to find a lot of chicken and a reasonable amount of pecans in my dish. If (and when) that chicken salad has a lot of chicken, but someone waved a pecan over it while they were dicing up about 50 pieces of celery to add, then I feel that I’ve been misled. What they are really serving is chicken celery salad and honestly, they should say so!  I’d order the fried bologna instead!

               The other food I’ve never gained a taste for (in fact, I loathe and detest it) is carrots. As a child, we had cooked carrots every Wednesday night, and I had to sit at the table until all the cooked carrots on my plate were gone. Preferably into my stomach. These were long and awful evenings. Often I didn’t get the task done til way after my bedtime. So there I sat, staring at a congealed, nasty carrot pile while I would have gladly tucked away a couple of servings of vinegar spinach or lima beans or sauerkraut.

               This aversion was made worse because my mother would bemoan to all her friends that “Susie will any vegetable at all, except for cooked carrots.” So that meant every time we went to someone’s house for dinner, the hostess would smile tenderly at me and state, “Your mom says you don’t like cooked carrots, but I know you’ll just love mine. I use (fill in the blank here with some noxious food).”

               So, being a child of earlier days, this meant I had to smile in return, choke down the carrots, and then respectfully inform the hostess that I loved her carrots. This insured that (a) my mom would get the recipe and begin cooking carrots with persimmons, or in clam juice, or in one horrible instance, with sardines on top and (b) the hostess would serve them each and every time we dined at her home.

               Now folks have tried to convince me that carrots are one of those wonderful foods that “take on” the flavor of whatever they’re cooked with.  Ha!  They do not. They are vile.

               Plus, they are another food that is considered good filler for things like salads and soups. This gives restaurants and groceries license to, yet again, misrepresent what they are serving. The other day I got some beef barley soup. I love beef. I love gravy. I love barley. It seemed like a good choice.

               There were many pieces of beef in succulent gravy in this soup. There were about ten little kernels of barley. There were also about 45 (okay, there were exactly 45, I counted) chunks of carrots. I know, because I pulled each one out to the side. In my HALF CUP of actual soup, after the carrots were eliminated, I became painfully aware of why they are called “filler.”

               But honestly, why didn’t they name it beef carrot soup?  Then I could have had something else – like fried bologna!

               And let me finish today’s rant by saying that there are other, much more worthy vegetables, to put on veggie trays. Pea pods, peppers, broccoli, cauliflower, mushrooms, jicama…there’s a long list. Enough with the orange and green sticks!

Today is my birthday. It makes me think back to all the birthdays, (so many, many birthdays) I’ve had in the past. I’ve always loved birthdays, because no matter the number of times I have one, or which number it is, the day usually involves being around people I love and who love me and getting a lot of very cool presents.  What’s not to like?

               My birthday is in the summer, too, so it stretches a long time. In my school days, I would start getting presents in late May and end up having birthday “events” all summer long. Not a bad deal, in my opinion.

               There was only one birthday that was memorable for bad reasons. Every summer until I was 12, we spent summers either in our cabin in Pennsylvania or in Texas. My dad and grandfather built the cabin the year I was born. (Let me digress to say that this cabin was a two-story, 4-bedroom brick and block structure that had indoor plumbing, a fireplace, and a furnace). It was situated on a big lake and 4+ acres of woodland. I loved that place. The year I turned 11, we had moved in April from Pennsylvania to Ohio and hadn’t been to the cabin that year. We planned a couple of weeks’ stay and arrived late on the night of my birthday. Vandals had been inside the cabin, knifing couches and chairs, throwing eggs and ketchup at the walls, and breaking dishes and pictures. I spent my birthday helping clean up and wondering if the cabin would ever be the same for me again.

               It wasn’t. But mostly my birthdays – at the cabin and everywhere else I’ve been – have been wonderful.

               Today is my birthday. Amidst the background of a worldwide pandemic that is turning America on its ear and the peaceful, but impactful protests of Black Lives Matter, I am celebrating another year of age. It won’t be without fanfare, but it won’t be typical by any means. I won’t have a big party or have the whole family gather to swim and eat and laugh. I won’t go to restaurants with friends and eat too many chips and salsa. I won’t see a movie at a theatre, or go to a play, or go to the Fraze as I have in years gone by. I will be praying for many near and dear who are ill, or recovering, or who have lost loved ones recently. I’ll be working to help others in smaller and less visible ways, and hoping that we all help people get through these turbulent times. I’ll be celebrating with my husband and my son and eating fried chicken – a treat I’ve not had in six months (but this dieting thing is working!).  And I’ll be so grateful for family and friends who are well, for the people who love me, and for my health.

               Today is my birthday, and I’m looking forward to many more in my future. My goal is to reach a healthy and mentally intact three-figure age, so hopefully these future days will include people I love, activities of fun and laughter, and less stress about health and politics. Whatever these birthdays bring, good or bad, I am hoping they come a bit more slowly.

In any event, I’ve been blessed to share my journey with so many kind, smart, thoughtful, and selfless people. They make every day a birthday of joy and love.

               I hope today is your birthday, too.

When I first moved to the country, well over 34 years ago now, I was a stereotypical city gal (though not as bad as Lisa in Green Acres). For the first part of my life, I could easily sleep through busses, trolley cars, and loud honking on the streets outside my window. My first weeks in the country, found me leaping out of bed from a sound sleep to grab my baseball bat and run frantically through the house due to the “noise.” Turns out, the noise was just a squirrel jumping onto the roof.

               My next hurdle was spiders. I’ve never been fond of them, but in the country they are terrifying. I found one in the laundry basket that was the size of a softball! My usual response to this was to scream (which never really brought my husband at a very fast pace) and let him deal with it. Because, after all, (a) I wasn’t going near it and (b) he’s the one who kept saying “spiders are our friends.”  I did think for many years that he had strange friends. If he wasn’t home, I just dropped a large Webster’s dictionary on the critter and left a note – “large bug here.”

               Years passed, and I got over the spider thing. I mean, I still don’t like them, but the screaming has stopped. Possibly bats are the reason for this. They are bigger than spiders, fly, and occasionally come in for an uninvited visit.

               I really, really hate bats. The first time one got in our house was about six years after we moved here. Matt told me it was “a bird.” He was trying to prevent the screaming, I’m sure. We didn’t see one for a long time after that, until 2017. Then, they appeared to be having some kind of bat-conference. In our house.

               We noticed the first one when we were watching television and there was a swirling shadow in the hallway. I immediately said to Matt, “there’s a bat in here.” A calm response, I thought, as I made a bound into the bathroom and slammed the door.

From there, I supervised the process of removing the bat. This included my usual helpful behavior from behind the closed door, such as yelling “get it out.” Fortunately, the bat got so tired of flying around, seemingly unable to find the wide-open door, that he fell to the floor. Matt quickly covered him in a large towel, took him outside, and showed him the woods. After that, a bat was swooping around our house several nights in a row.

               Finally, one evening Matt pointed out an incredibly large bat hanging in the corner of the stairwell. We took our usual paths to this disaster. He stood, quietly assessing how to best approach the creature. I scurried to the upstairs bathroom, again anxiously saying, “get it out. Get it out, get it out, get it out!”

               For many long moments, I heard nothing. Then, Matt said that he was going to need my help.

               My help? Was he kidding?

               As it turns out, Matt had the bat in a box with a file folder on top.  He needed both hands to keep the file folder on top of the open box. My help was needed to open the back door.  This meant that for several long seconds I was downstairs with the possibility of a winged beast escaping and finding me. I was brave. I stood by the door, ready and willing to leap outside into the pouring rain if need be.

               Without incident, Matt escorted our unwelcome guest to the woods. Then he called a wildlife removal service and we got our house bat-proofed.  Matt’s my hero.

               Until one night we came home and found a little bat, sleeping on the hinge to our back door. On the inside. Again, I employed my usual tactics when a flying, furry creature is inside our home. I bolted for the bathroom. Matt prevailed and took the bat outside to release him.

               A few weeks later, another bat was swooping around our kitchen. This one was much bigger than the sleeping one, or so it appeared to me. I started to run into the bathroom off the family room, but as I opened the door, I realized I could go open the back door and help Matt get the thing outside.

               Matt stood, bravely attempting to herd the bat toward the open door, but it flew into the bathroom instead. Matt shut the door, blocking it in, so that the next day our removal team could come do their work. 

They team came to confiscate the winged creature and assured us that now that it was warmer, it likely wouldn’t come back.  It’s been over two years, and in fact, we have been batless.

So you can imagine my delight when we found a herd of raccoons swarming our bird feeders last week. At last count, there were ten. Raccoons.  Twenty feet from my back door.

Oy, vey!

My husband usually has great ideas. He is a man of exceptional vision and a talent for creating and building things, like springhouse roofs and fences. Sometimes, I don’t get the picture as easily.

For example, years ago we remodeled our kitchen. He wanted to recess the refrigerator into what – at the time – was a wall between the kitchen and a hallway. I didn’t understand what he was describing and insisted that this would not look good at all. He showed me diagrams and I still shook my head and was pretty adamant that this would not work. But since typically Matt has good ideas, I told him I would trust his judgment.

               When the project was done, the recessed refrigerator created more floor area for our kitchen table and made the kitchen a lot more user-friendly. It really was a good idea and I always credit him for yet another inspiration.

               Every once in a while, though, he has an idea that’s not so great.  One year, Matt wanted me to accompany him to California on a business trip. I have been to California and I knew two things: first, I hate to fly and secondly, I didn’t much care for California. There were a variety of reasons for this that I will not go into at this time, but it didn’t leave me with a lot of good memories.

               He listed all the wonderful things we would do, and eventually I succumbed and flew to San Francisco with him and he was absolutely right. I loved almost every minute of our stay there, even when he had to attend work functions. I was thrilled with the food, the shopping, the coffee, the wharf, the trolley cars, and our mini-trips to Sausalito and Alcatraz. And the wine!  That was amazing, too.

               Once again, he was right in dragging me into his idea. What he didn’t mention until the last minute was that the trip included a 5K charity event for which he had signed both of us up. Both of us. Meaning, me, too. Okay, maybe that doesn’t sound like a bad idea to you, but if you know me, you know that for me, running a 5K ranks right up there with things like root canals and gall bladder attacks.  In other words, I hate and avoid them.  While I have supported many 5K events, I have never actually participated in one.

               Including this one in beautiful San Fransicso. I went to the event, dressed in my best running gear (or at least, the best I could find in a whirlwind shopping trip) and got my number pinned to my clothing. We started off and I was walking, naturally. I tried to walk at a quick pace, but I was soon losing many of the group as they jogged away. Matt gamely walked with me and we got about a half K (whatever that is, it felt like ten miles) when he said he had to use a bathroom.

               In San Francisco, there are lots of public toilets, but they are all pay-toilets.  It was a Sunday morning, so very little was open, but there was (of course) a Starbucks. I had wisely tucked a twenty into the pocket of the new running shorts, so I went in to ask for change. Naturally, you had to purchase something, so I bought a latte, gave him two quarters from the change and found a bench to wait.

               While I sat, sipping coffee and contemplating the beautiful city scape, runners and walkers were passing me by – going both ways. Apparently some of them had finished the first half and were on their way back. I was rather conspicuous, sitting with the large number on my chest and back, sipping from a Starbucks cup. A few (who still had breath to speak) yelled encouraging words, like “way to go!”

               Matt emerged from the public toilet and we decided it was too late to walk the entire 5K (just how long is that, anyway?), so we turned and walked back to the start/finish line.

               When we approached, me clutching my now-empty coffee cup, a small group began applauding and I heard “there’s the coffee lady” several times.  My one and only 5K run was actually a half-K coffee walk. And, believe it or not, I actually got a blister on my heel from the morning’s stroll.

               Matt admitted that signing me up for the run had been a not-so-good idea. But he’s quick to point out that without that event, I wouldn’t have gained notoriety as a coffee-swilling non-runner.