GETTING MY PAN SMARTS

When I got married 42 years ago I had no idea that you were supposed to actually take care of pots and pans. Heck, my mom’s pans were indestructible. Maybe a few missing handles, but they worked just fine.

When I started learning to cook, I got my kicks by putting red hot pans into the dishwater just to hear them sizzle. Stress relief, I guess. One day someone told me that pans warp when you do that. How should I know? My mother’s pans had always rocked on the burner. Weren’t they made that way?

In those early years, I found many ways to destroy pans. There’s a time span in which rice will bond to a pot permanently. Also, there’s a limit to how many times you can burn rolls on a non-stick surface.

I finally got smarter, and I rarely burn anything anymore. So why did my husband tell our guests last week that I “always burn the bread.” You know, he’d better watch out because there’s one more way to destroy a frying pan!

Shells

Those clam shells on the beach are so pretty. But what in the world would I do with them? I’ll just take two or three for my hearth.

Oh no. I must have twenty of these gigantic shells cradled in my arms here. I’ll go get a bag. No, wait. That will free my arms for even more of these beautiful I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-them shells.

I’ll put them in a basket in my closet – with the other two baskets. I have Nags Head shells, Topsail shells, and miscellaneous shells that I absolutely had to have at some time, somewhere.

I’m trying to think of things to do with shells:

Stuff pillows.
Wallpaper the bathroom.
Pave the garden.
Throw them at salespeople.

OK. I’m getting desperate here.

.

A COMPLIMENT

When George and I were dating, he was visiting overnight at my Mom’s house and he actually saw me in the morning before I had put on my makeup. A few days later he gave me this compliment: “You really know how to use makeup well.”

Hey, I married him anyway, didn’t I?

SHAMPOOING THE CARPET

Mojo might as well get over it, because he’s the reason we had it shampooed. In spite of what the Purina company told me, that cat food must have some food coloring in it somewhere.

The carpet cleaning guy walked in with a noisy vacuum and a big hose that snaked through the front door into the far reaches of the house. The horrified Mojo had nowhere to hide. He fled under the bed, and here came the big bad man. Panic-stricken, he tore through the house and upstairs. Here came the big bad man again. Mojo whipped through the house to the bedroom closet. And, yes, the big bad man again. He hissed at the man, who laughed at him. This disturbed Mojo even more.

The landing on our stairway overlooks the living room. Sometimes Mojo peeps through the banister rails at us, but he never jumps off. On the day of the carpet shampoo, he soared between the rails like Supercat, barely touching the couch below, and hit the floor in a sonic speed run.

I’m sorry, Mojo, but humans have to clean carpets. You should know this, since you are king of humankind in your mind.

Spread the Word

I have started posting regularly again!  I had a spell of writer's block, but it's over now.  Yay! 

CUTTING UP A CHICKEN

My mother taught me how to cut up a chicken about a week before I got married. I did not pay attention to the knife.

I chose to use a steak knife for my one-size-fits-all kitchen knife because it had a serrated blade. Never having used a sharp knife in my life, I thought serrated blades were God’s gift to the world. They cut through almost anything – except chicken.

To avoid stabbing myself during a wrestling match with a chicken, I held it down by putting the parson’s nose end into the sink drain. After splitting it in two, I put it on a cutting board and proceeded to prove that it is not impossible to saw through slimy chicken skin with a steak knife.

A few years ago I asked my father-in-law to teach me how to sharpen a knife with a sharpening steel. He tried his best, but I never got it. That Christmas my mother-in-law gave me a rolling wheel knife sharpener. I highly recommend them.

POTATO CHIPS AND ONION DIP

Oh give me nothing more in life
Than one small heavenly delight -
To scoop a salty, ruffled chip
Into a pint of onion dip.

Three times a day I would indulge
But I must battle with the bulge;
I really love potato chips
With yummy, creamy onion dip.

In public places I resist
Potato chips and onion dip;
The world would see a different me -
I do not nibble daintily.

But back at home my kitchen holds
The chips, and many tales untold
Of gobbling up potato chips
And lots and lots of onion dip.

I try to stop – I really do;
But just one chip will lead to two;
A body needs a lot of chips
To take care of a pint of dip!

I eat the chips and scrape the dip
Off of the carton’s sides and lick
My greasy, salty fingers then
I reach into the bag again.
When finally the stomach churns
(Though craving in my heart still burns)
I have to force myself to quit
Devouring chips and onion dip.

My husband knows – but he’s no help –
Sometimes he wants some chips himself;
I tell myself I will not slip,
I will not taste one single chip,

I watch him eat them all alone,
And pretty soon my will is gone;
I must have some potato chips
And very fattening onion dip.

Tomorrow will be certain death
With salt parched mouth and onion breath;
That’s when I’ll swear I’ll never sin
And gorge myself like that again.

Yet what in life could ever beat
That yummy, tasty, salty treat?
That wondrous snack that makes me flip -
Potato chips and onion dip.

SALAMANDER HEATER

High of 31 degrees? Jason was supposed to install vinyl on a vehicle Monday. The last time we had a cold spell he almost resigned. I had to do something to get him some heat. My husband George said a Salamander heater would do the trick.

Salamander?

Yes. They use them to keep crops from freezing.

Outside?

Yes, that’s where crops live. It blows hot air. Loggers use them, too.

My husband is full of information.

I spent some time Googling Salamanders to no avail, but I did find a commercial heater for rent. Monday morning George and I got into our new van and I turned south instead of north and he asked why. “To rent the heater,” I said.

“In this van? No way!” He grumbled all the way to Garner. How many ways can a person say that something’s a bad idea? Turns out he was right. We drove to the shop empty handed.

Not admitting how mad I was at myself for wasting time, I put on a happy face, got into the dirty, nasty work van and drove back to pick up the dirty, nasty heater alone – in peace and quiet. I think it would have been World War III if George and I had gotten into that van together just then.

The guy at the rental store said I would need to put some kerosene in the heater. “Where can I buy a can of that?” He looked at me kind of funny and said there’s a kerosene pump at the gas station across the street. Heck, I didn’t know kerosene came in pumps.

I parked the van beside the pump and got out, planning to fill the heater while it sat in the van. Oh no! What kind of a crazy pump would have a three foot hose? I wrestled the heater to the ground and over to the pump. While filling it I scanned my poor brain for an idea for getting it back into the van. A nice truck driver had been watching this debacle. Seeing me at a dead end (and wit’s end, too), he walked over, picked up the heater and put it into the van.

Mad at Jason for being cold, mad at George for being right, and mad at myself for being so stubborn, I drove back to the shop. I imagine that truck driver was wondering what kind of person would send a woman out in the cold to do this. He didn’t know I got into this predicament all by myself.

SUMMER PLAN

(I wrote this when our children were in second and fifth grades.)

My Summer Plan is to make Susan and Fred (my complaining, fighting, whining children) work one hour a day and read one hour a day this summer. I think they need a reason to complain, fight, and whine. When they were at school, they had no pressures except to do homework. All was fun and games. Until now.

While Susan has been spending the first two carefree weeks of her summer vacation with her grandparents, I have worked out the Summer Plan, much to Fred’s dismay. Fred would never admit this, but I’m sure he’s happy with it. He has read a book, built a crate, and painted a table. He and I have developed a mutual respect and desire to help each other. Well, maybe I’m stretching it a little, but the seeds are planted anyway.

Tonight Susan will enter this environment. She doesn’t know about the Summer Plan yet. Fred said telling her would ruin her vacation. (I think he’s happy with this Plan.) I can just hear her arguments now. She’ll reason that summer is a time when kids shouldn’t have to work or think because they labor so hard all year in school. My answer to that is that they are required to use their brains at school from 8:15 until 3:30, so they are getting a deal at two hours a day. I expect her defense to continue for a while. It had taken Fred a good solid two weeks to cave.

The Summer Plan hurts me worse than it hurts them. I have to teach them to paint, build things with them, discuss what they read, make them clean up after their jobs are done, carry out the penalties, and (hardest of all for me) be specific. I can’t just say, “Your job for today is to be where I need you when I need you.”

I’m glad I don’t home school them. I used to respect parents who did that. Now I just think they’re out of their cotton pickin’ minds!

READ THE BIBLE

As a young mouslet, I was religious, even earning a perfect attendance Sunday School pen with a long tail of bars representing eight years. One day I was reading my Bible and ran across the verse about earth-life lasting only a few years but spirit-life being for eternity. Always! Infinity! I interpreted it as “Be good or you’ll burn in hell forever.” Oh dear!

I resolved to read the Bible for half an hour every day. Picture this. I was the second slowest reader in the eighth grade – the one slower than me being sixteen years old. With timed readings, my classmaters applauded when I finished. But I did have the willpower of a mule in those days of yore. If I said I was going to read for thirty minutes, I was going to read for thirty minutes, come hell (pun intended) or high water.

With the Bible being so intriguing to a teenager (!) my mind wandered a lot. When it wandered for three minutes, I made a note of it and read an extra three minutes. Those minutes accumulated. Many days I spent two hours trying to read for thirty minutes. If I missed a day, I doubled up the next day. (I told you I was stubborn, didn’t I?)

Naturally, I did a 180 when I got to college. I probably preferred cleaning the toilet over reading the Bible.

Now I’m older and wiser. I actually like to read the Bible, and I know I can’t get to heaven on a work truck. I don’t read any faster, though.

BOB ROSS

Bob Ross is one of the artists on public TV. When I was a practicing artist, I felt it apropos to look down my nose at Bob Ross’s art. My artsy peers called it “shorthand art.” They boasted, “real artists” don’t use formulas.

Now I have retired and I don’t give a hoot what “real artists” do. (Come to think of it, I don’t give a hoot about a lot of things.) I enjoy watching Bob Ross paint his “happy little squirrels.” I like his soft voice and encouraging attitude when he tells you to just do whatever you want. This is your painting, so put your happy little trees or little mountains and streams where you want them. You can add a little cloud up here or a little flower over there if it suits you.

These days I do just that - I do what I want, go where I want, and watch what I want on TV, and if the Rembrandts in this world can’t understand that, well, they’ll figure it out when they retire.

SWITCHED CHAIRS

We have confused the poor kitty. George and I sat in the wrong chairs. He had my recliner and I had his. Mojo seemed baffled. He jumped up onto the arm of my chair, walked across my lap to the other chair arm, jumped down to the floor, walked to George’s chair, jumped on the arm and across and down. He looked at us, wide-eyed, and walked off.

I guess humans are as unfathomable as cats.