Delicously simple

This recipe is too good not to share. I've made it many times over the years and it's always turned out perfectly. We had it for lunch and Dad even commented on how good it was. Dillon licked the broiling pan clean. You won't find higher praise!



Zesty Pork Loin With Apricot-Pan Sauce

Double-Duty Marinade

Cut the marinade recipe in half for the pork loin. It was originally meant to be used in 2 different meals, so it makes twice as much as you need for the pork loin.

Makes about 2 1/2 cups
Ingredients

* 1 cup lite soy sauce
* 6 tablespoons fresh lime juice (about 4 limes)
* 1/2 cup olive oil
* 1/4 cup water
* 1/4 cup honey
* 2 garlic cloves, pressed
* 4 teaspoons minced fresh ginger (you can substitute ground ginger, just remember to adjust your amount down by 1/3 when using the ground spice as opposed to the fresh ginger)
* 1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper

Preparation

1. Whisk together all ingredients.

Pork Loin

Prep: 10 min., Chill: 6 hrs., Bake: 1 hr., Stand: 10 min.
Yield

Makes 6 servings
Ingredients

* 2 (2-lb.) boneless pork loin roasts (When using the smaller pork tenderloins, decrease the cooking time to 25-30 minutes.)

* 1 1/4 cups Double-Duty Marinade
* 1/2 teaspoon pepper
* 1/3 cup apricot preserves (I use the Smucker's sugar free since Dad's diabetic)

Preparation

1. Place pork roasts in a large zip-top plastic freezer bag, and add Double-Duty Marinade, turning to coat. Seal and chill 6 hours or up to 24 hours.

2. Remove pork from marinade, discarding marinade. Sprinkle pork evenly with pepper. Place on a lightly greased rack in an aluminum foil-lined roasting pan.

3. Bake at 400° for 50 minutes to 1 hour or until meat thermometer inserted into thickest portion registers 155°. Remove pan from oven, and cover with foil; let stand 10 minutes or until thermometer registers 160°. Remove roasts from pan, reserving drippings in pan; cut one roast into slices. Cover sliced roast, and keep warm. Cover and chill remaining whole roast.

4. Combine 1/4 cup pan drippings with 1/3 cup apricot preserves in a small microwave-safe bowl. Microwave at HIGH 1 minute or until melted, stirring once. Serve with sliced pork.

Southern Living, MAY 2006

Summer at the Seashore

Seems like the whole world's currently on vacation. I remember the good old days of building castles in the sand.

Be right back, Mom!

Amazing Grace

I’ve been watching the coverage of the ceremonies marking Edward Kennedy’s death. The grace his family has shown is amazing. It’s hard to picture the family of any other deceased politician, who obviously won’t be running for office again, spending hours shaking the hands of the public who came to pay tribute. I can’t imagine the strength and patience that must take. I wouldn’t want to shake the hands of 20,000 people under any circumstance, much less when I’d just lost a beloved family member. Yet there they all were, from his widow to his grandchildren, great-nieces, and nephews.

One of my earliest memories is of President Kennedy’s assassination. I was 5 years old. I don’t remember the actual assassination, but I remember seeing Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald. We had a small black and white portable tv in the kitchen. I remember the shock and the fear and sitting in my mother’s lap not understanding how anything like that could be happening.

The rich, glamorous, powerful Kennedy family fascinated me for years. They were far from perfect, and their personal behavior not always deserving of admiration, but you can’t discount their accomplishments and commitment to public service. There aren’t many politicians that I sense genuinely care about their constituents and the average, everyday people they’re elected to serve. Ted Kennedy did.

I’m a Democrat and proud of it. Granny would definitely approve! I asked Dad yesterday if he remembered the first candidate he ever voted for in any election. He couldn’t even remember the first time he voted. I asked whom the first President was that he ever voted for. He couldn’t remember that either. His response was that for a long time, he didn’t think voting mattered. I was shocked. I remember being so excited when I could finally vote. My first election was when Jimmy Carter ran for President the first time. Since moving to Roanoke Rapids in 1980, I’ve never missed voting in any election. When I was living in an apartment, there was one election where only one person in my precinct voted, and that was me. Do I think my vote makes a difference every time? I’m not that naïve or idealistic. But I don’t understand not participating in the process.

It's going to take more than cupcakes

I’d like to go on record as being in favor of death panels. It’s not what you’re thinking, I’m not looking to send Dad to appear before one. Nope, I’d like someone to painlessly put me out of my misery. I had hoped winning the lottery would do. I’d planned to give Dad 1/3 of the $250 million, that should be enough for him to pay someone to do everything I’m currently responsible for, and Dillon and I were going to move and leave no forwarding address. I was thinking a nice island somewhere. No one to answer to except myself. No luck there, someone else won all that money.

I had the school think down, until we got a new department head. She’s also teaching 3 of my 4 classes. I don’t know why she couldn’t put her teaching theories to the test for practical evaluation on someone’s else’s watch. Let’s just say, it’s going to be a very long, frustrating semester, and I think I can kiss my 4.0 goodbye. Then I got a questionnaire in yesterday’s mail to be put in the jury pool for District Court. In Greenville. With my luck, I’ll get selected. I don’t have time for jury duty. I’ll wind up so far behind in schoolwork that I’ll never catch up.

The final straw was when Charter changed the channel line-up yesterday. They have yet to print the new improved version on their website or send a copy through the mail. I sent them an
e-mail asking when I could expect the correct line-up to be posted, and received the helpful response that they weren’t responsible for programming. I want to work Charter. They pay you to be a rude, unhelpful, idiot. I warned Dad he’d have to go looking for his favorite channels.

This morning, he presented himself in the kitchen and informed me that he couldn’t find ESPN last night. “I told you the channel line-up changed. You’ll just have to run up and down the dial to find it.” “I did that. It’s not there. I checked the TV guide channel and it didn’t show ESPN either.” “Are you sure, because I saw it yesterday when I was scanning the channels.” “It’s not there.” I gave him back his standard answer when I make similar complaints “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” He looked as if he couldn’t believe I wasn’t going to volunteer to solve his problem. Because I’m expected to make all phone calls, find all contractors, find all doctors, schedule all doctor’s appointments, and generally take care of any scheduling issues or matters that require answers, complaints, clarification, etc.

“Well, can’t you find out where it went? Do they just eliminate channels?” “No, I can’t find out where it went and yes, they do eliminate channels. Or they move them to different, more costly packages. They’re Charter. They suck!” “Can’t you find out where ESPN is? Don't they send out new channel line-ups?”
“I e-mailed yesterday and got a non-answer. They'll send out a new channel line-up when they're good and ready. I’m not going to waste my time calling their toll-free number. If you want to ask them any questions, you can go to their office, stand in line, and ask whatever you want.” “Where’s their office?” “On Jackson St., where it’s been for years.”

He left the kitchen, plainly unhappy. I went to my study, turned on both the computer and the tv. I found a correct channel line-up on my Embarq homepage, still no correct version on Charter.com. ESPN is channel 34. I turned the tv to channel 34. There was ESPN. I went and told Dad. Then I wasted 15 minutes compiling a new printable channel line-up so he can have his very own copy.

There aren’t enough cupcakes in the world to manage my stress level at the moment. Just shoot me now.

A dog at his feet

Dad spent quite a while reading in his chair in the den this morning. He realized at one point that he could no longer feel one of his feet, so he decided he should shift positions. Not only could he not feel his foot, he couldn’t get it to move either. He was becoming a bit concerned until he looked down and saw Dillon, asleep, with his head resting on the foot in question. I told Dad it was about time he and Dillon spent some quality time bonding.

The joys of nature

When Dillon and I went out the backdoor this afternoon something slithered from the step, where it had apparently been basking in the sun, down into the crack where the 2 boards of the step meet. I think it was a small lizard, but it might have been a small snake. Since the bottom of the screen door doesn’t shut all the way (it’s a cheap wooden door and it’s warped), leaving a nice size gap this creature could easily slither through and into the house, I informed Dad at supper that we will no longer be leaving the back door open with only the screen door blocking entrance into the house.

“You think whatever it was could get into the house?”

“I’m sure it could.”

“Was it a snake?”

“I’m pretty sure it was a small lizard. But if it got into the house it would be a much bigger lizard.”

Any creepy critter in the house, and in close proximity to me, automatically becomes large enough to be dangerous and potentially life threatening. Dad made no further comment. Shortly after he finished his sandwich, I heard the back screen door slam loudly. When I took Dillon out again later, the screen door was firmly and completely shut for the first time in a year. He needn’t think that will satisfy me. He won’t close it again that well anytime in the near future.

Eat your vegetables

We had stuffed peppers and field peas for lunch. When I put the plates on the floor after lunch, Dillon gave them a quick swipe with his tongue, but he literally danced around the kitchen when I discovered there were still some field peas left in the pot and started to spoon them out. He loves field peas. I have to put the plate on the counter when I’m dipping him leftover field peas because otherwise he tries to start eating them right out of the serving spoon and they go all over the kitchen floor.

I have grape tomatoes coming out of my ears. Those are the only tomato plants that have really produced, but I could open up a stand at the road and sell them by the pint, I have so many. Dillon loves grape tomatoes too. He’s such a good boy though, he doesn’t pick his own and eat them right off the vine like Katie always did. He patiently waits for me to pick them, then he watches, and sort of bounces hopefully. I’m not sure if it’s the tomatoes themselves that he loves so much, or the act of catching them out of midair when I toss them to him. He loves to catch anything round that happens to be flying in his direction.

Walking on sunshine

These pictures were taken about 3 weeks ago. The sunflowers are past their prime now, but they were a beautiful sight.


I get tickled every time I look at this picture. The towering sunflower in the rear reminds me of a busybody, straining to see above the crowd, or a sunflower periscope.

Scrumptious!

For some reason, I'm suddenly on a Red Velvet cake kick. Food Lion had the individually packaged slices on special last week and I couldn't resist. Unfortunately, 2 pieces just weren't enough. Luckily for me, this week's special is an entire single layer Red Velvet cake. Not quite as good as the double layer, but I can always cut 2 pieces and stack them on top of each other. Knowing the cake is waiting for me in the refrigerator gave me extra incentive to do my Boot camp workout this evening.

There's a lot of furniture in this room

I wish I could vote for Barney Frank.

Rep. Barney Frank lashed out at protester who held a poster depicting President Barack Obama with a Hitler-style mustache during a heated town hall meeting on federal health care reform.

"On what planet do you spend most of your time?" Frank asked the woman, who had stepped up to the podium at a southeastern Massachusetts senior center to ask why Frank supports what she called a Nazi policy.

"Ma'am, trying to have a conversation with you would be like trying to argue with a dining room table. I have no interest in doing it," Frank replied.

Then there's this senior idiot, "Audrey Steele, 82, from New Bedford, said she does not want the government to get involved with health care because they just make a mess of everything," Why is it that old people don't seem to realize that Medicare, which they all rely on and couldn't do without, is run by the government?

If there was any justice in this world, every senior citizen opposed to the health care reform needed to make health care affordable and available to every US citizen would be forced to immediately give up their Medicare benefits and forced to attempt to buy health insurance on the open market. Every non-senior against health care for all would be forced to sign a paper permanently renouncing their right to Medicare benefits. Every politician and government official would immediately lose their government sponsored health care permanently. Every pundit spouting dishonest nonsense would immediately lose their company funded health insurance. Then they'd see how well the open market system, based on personal responsibility, really works. If we were all playing on the same field under the same rules, this discussion would be a lot more honest and something might actually get done. Frankly, I'm sorry that death panels were just a figment of the imagination of the right wing lunatics. We're wasting plenty of resources on a number of prime candidates.

I'm an Old Testament kind of gal

Earlier this spring, Dad put iron stakes in the ground by 2 of his smallest azaleas to prevent me from accidentally mowing over them. When I mowed the grass last night, I ripped both stakes out of the ground and threw them into the shrubbery. I know where those azaleas are and if I mow them down, I guarantee you there will be nothing accidental about it.

Actually, I took a swipe at 1, but the thing is so low to the ground that it just sprang back up. I guess that was God’s way of giving me time to reconsider. It’s too bad God didn’t offer my tree the same protection. Or more likely, Dad just ignored the message.

I may have declared an end to verbal hostilities, but I'm a long way from forgiving or forgetting. Particularly since the words "I'm sorry" or "I made a mistake" have yet to cross his lips.

Out of the frying pan

There’s a story in today’s Daily Herald about an 85 year old man who is in the hospital after complaining about the breakfast his 71 year old wife cooked. When he complained about the first breakfast, she cooked him a second. Apparently, he complained again and waved his cane at her in a threatening manner. She responded by beating him in the head several times with an iron frying pan. He’s in the hospital with 51 stitches. She’s in jail, with no bond, charged with assault with a deadly weapon and inflicting serious injury. Rosie’s picture is beside the story. She looks like a reasonable woman to me.

I made sure to bring the story to Dad’s attention, telling him that if I were an attorney, I’d represent Rosie for free and look into suing the husband for intentional infliction of emotional distress or some such thing. She makes me look positively calm and even-tempered.

Sorry, I'm becoming Lou Dobbs

Dillon and I passed a group of high school cross-country runners on the Canal Trail this morning. I stepped to the side of the trail since they were moving faster than we were, and sometimes 2 or 3 abreast. Two of the girls were whooping gleefully as they did a quick sprint past us. They were heading in the opposite direction from us, towards the Museum and in the direction of the highway. We were heading back towards home. As I continued down the trail, I wondered if this incident was a metaphor for my life. I’d love to run, shrieking, towards the highway instead of plodding back home. Particularly since I read my first chapter for Bankruptcy class yesterday. It's going to be a long semester.

When we arrived back at the house, I noticed that Dad is wearing a long sleeve white shirt, one he wears when he plans to work in the yard. I hope the come to Jesus meeting we had yesterday about pruning made an impression on him. Picture a recent town hall meeting with me in the role of raving protester and Dad as deer in the headlights Congressman. Otherwise, I may need some crime scene tape. No, I don’t plan to kill him, but maybe if I wrapped it around everything in the yard that he’s not to touch, it might make my point. Otherwise, I guess I had better buy some running shoes. Unfortunately, if a middle-aged woman ran shrieking down the trail, someone would probably call the police. Which might be a good thing, because after the first few yards, I'd probably need medical assistance.

Workout buddy

Most of the time when I’m exercising, Dillon takes a nap. This afternoon when I lay down on the floor for the abdominal part of the workout, he sprang up, tail wagging, grabbed his ball and came over to see if I wanted to play with him instead of by myself. It’s interesting trying to do crunches when your dog is walking around beneath the legs you’re supposed to be raising and lowering or trying to snuggle up by your side and lick the sweat off the arm lifting the weights. When I stood up for the stretching/cool down section, he lay down at my feet and rolled over for a belly rub. I guess he figured that if I was bending over anyway, I might as well do something more productive than touch my toes.

Would you trust this man?

I went to Rocky Mount yesterday to mess around and try to distract myself from how angry I still am about the way Dad butchered the tree and destroyed my favorite view in the backyard. Every time I look out there or think about it, my stomach knots and I want to cry. Yep, I’m still mad as hell and he’s still pretty much oblivious. I’m strongly considering collecting every pruning tool he owns and putting them somewhere that he can never get his hands on them again without permission and warning all workmen that he’s senile (he’s not, he’s just an idiot!) and his orders are not to be followed until I’ve been consulted first.

Dillon also apparently realizes that Dad is not to be trusted. When I got home, Dad was on the back porch shelling butterbeans. Dillon was in the house by himself. Apparently, Dillon refused all of Dad’s attempts to get him to go outside while I was gone. Whenever Dad tried to coax him outside, Dillon just laid down on the floor and looked at him. Dillon has the passive resistance thing down to an art.

About those butterbeans. Dad went to the farmer’s market Saturday morning. He was going to buy 2 bags of butterbeans, which would have cost $18. The vendor told him he could have almost an entire bushel basket full for $22. Never one to turn down a bargain, Dad snapped up the bushel of beans. He’d obviously been shelling for hours when I got home. I asked him if his fingers thought it was such a good deal. He just looked at me. I have no idea how he thinks they're going to fit in the freezer. I doubt he plans to give up his ice cream.

Looking Over the Sea

I bought this print last winter. It didn't fit in any stock size frame, so it sat on the floor in my study, still wrapped in plastic, until this afternoon. I trimmed each side by an inch, no great loss to anyone except the artist, and fit it into a frame I already had on hand. Now it's hanging in my study above my printer where I can easily see it when I'm at the computer. I was drawn to it because it has some of my favorite things; an ocean, a porch, and a lab, even if the lab is the wrong color. It reminds me of my Uncle Bud's Long Beach cottage, The Sea Barn, where I spent some of my favorite vacations. The cottage is gone now, destroyed by 1 too many hurricanes, but it's still the site of some of my best memories.

He's lucky to be alive

Dad and I have differing opinions as to what constitutes good landscaping. Yet the same man who refuses to make decisions on household decorating because “You’re going to be living with it a lot longer than I am,” thinks nothing of whacking off tree limbs with no discussion at all. Given that trees take years to grow and home improvements can be undone or changed in hours, I think his logic needs work.

There’s a dead branch in one of the trees in the backyard. So when Dad asked Donald if he could take down a tree limb, I thought that’s what he had in mind. I was shocked to come back from having a new battery put in my car to discover a huge pile of limbs stacked at the curb. I was even more surprised to note that the dead branch was still in the damn tree! Apparently, it was too high to reach. I liked the tree the way it was, with all the limbs attached. In fact, I’m furious at what Dad did and, unfortunately for him, every time I look out in the backyard and see the tree, I get mad all over again.

I kept my mouth shut the first day, waiting to calm down. Last night, I told him that I’d thought he was only planning to cut down the dead limb and that if I’d known he planned to cut that much out of the tree, I’d have been out there yelling. Dad just laughed at that saying, “Some people are hard to please.” I don’t think he realized how angry I was. Today I decided that it might be wise to find a way to convey how truly unhappy I am with his pruning efforts before he decides to cut something else down. The last time I was this mad at him was when he cut down the redbud tree in the backyard years ago, a sin for which I have never completely forgiven him.

At lunch, he gave me the opening I was looking for. First, he commented, “Growing old is not for sissies.” I have no sympathy for whining, a point I’ve made repeatedly. I informed him that unfortunately for him, they’ve eliminated death panels from health reform plans. Then he noticed that I had corn basil tart on my plate and he didn’t. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I just wasn’t that hungry when you fixed it the other day.” I told him that I’d put it on my plate because while he just tolerates it, I love it, and I wasn’t going to waste any more of it on him when there were plenty of other things on the table for him to eat. Then I saw my opening. “But if you keep chopping down things that I like, I’m going to fix corn basil tart, and nothing else, every day for a year!”

He looked over at me, but I wasn’t finished yet. I pointed out that he consults me on inside projects that can easily be changed, but when it comes to trees, which take years to grow, he doesn’t discuss anything, he just starts chopping things down! “The tree will grow back. Some of the branches were going to soon be touching the ground.” “Not all of them, and it will take years to grow back and it won’t be like it was.” “Some of the branches were growing into the magnolia. If they hadn’t come down it was going to look like a fright in a few years.” “I liked it the way it was and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t chop anything else down without discussing it.” There was no more conversation after that. He’d better stay away from sharp objects or start cultivating a taste for corn basil tart because I was dead serious.

He's shaping up

I took Dillon to the vet yesterday. He kept me awake for a long time Sunday night shaking his head and flapping his ears. Obviously something was bothering him. Naturally after I made the appointment, the shaking ceased, but since he also had a slight discharge coming from his right eye, I decided we'd go get things checked out anyway. When I made the appointment, Chris commented that they hadn't seen us recently. "He's been doing good" I replied happily.

Dillon likes going to the vet. He wagged his tail the whole time we were in the waiting room. That was kind of funny when he was standing between my legs, facing away from me, because his tail kept going whap, whap, whap as it hit first my left, then my right leg. It didn't slow him down a bit. There was a little girl of about 3 or 4 who was sitting on the bench beside us. She reached over and petted him occasionally which just made his tail go faster. He wasn't as thrilled when she shrieked in reply to something her mother said. He tried to hide behind the life-sized resin statue of a German Shepherd that was positioned beside us.

The first thing they did when we got called into an exam room was to weigh him. I'm proud to announce that Dillon's lost 8 pounds. When I got him, he weighed 78 pounds and resembled a blimp. Although he loved to play, when he'd lumber after the ball I'd wait with bated breath afraid that he was going to collapse from overexertion. Now he's got a waist and a figure to be proud of. Michelle, one of the vet techs, stuck her head in the door and commented on how good he looks. "He looks like a completely different dog" she marveled. She also informed Dillon that he'd definitely gone to the right home. I was very proud.

When the vet came in, it was the sole male vet who oddly enough can be a bit of a wimp, he wanted to know, while reaching for Dillon's ear, if Dillon was going to object to being examined. At that point, Dillon was laying on the floor, trying to hide his head. "The only thing Dillon's going to do is collapse to the floor and go belly up if something scares him" I replied. The vet didn't see any serious problems, but I have ointment to put in Dillon's eye 3 times a day and drops to put in his ears once a day, both for the next 10 days. Unlike Katie, I don't have to chase Dillon down to dose him, but I do have to pry his eye open and getting a drop into the ear that's pressed to the floor when he's trying to present his belly is a challenge. He gets a carrot as a reward when we finish. Wouldn't want to ruin all our hard work with too many fattening treats.

When we got home, I told Dad that now he was going to have to admit that Dillon has lost weight. He assured Dillon, while giving him a good pat, that he does look good these days. I definitely don't have to worry about Dad overindulging him with treats. Although he does take pains to leave at least a little bite of something on his plate for Dillon.

Food and shelter

Dad and Dillon are jockeying for first dibs on Dad’s snacks. Dillon knows that when Dad gets finished with his bowl of ice cream, he’ll get to lick the dregs from the bowl. Yesterday, Dad made the mistake of filling his bowl, and then lowering his spoon to his side to walk back into the den. Dillon immediately swiped his tongue across the spoon. Unfortunately for Dillon, Dad doesn’t dip and eat with the same spoon, so there was absolutely nothing on the spoon for him to get. Unfortunately for me, Dad got another clean spoon, which he held aloft, so I had extra silverware to wash. Dad wasn’t terribly inconvenienced although he did attempt to explain to Dillon the pecking order of who gets first crack at the snacks, and according to Dad, it isn’t Dillon. This afternoon, Dillon laid drooling at Dad‘s feet while Dad ate his ice cream. He got to his feet at one point to see if the bowl was within reach of his tongue. Dad reminded him again that the bowl wasn’t his until Dad was finished. I told Dad if he didn’t finish soon, his chair was going to be wet. There were already drool spots appearing on the front corner as Dillon hovered, waiting for his turn.

We had thunderstorms yesterday evening. Dillon apparently decided my closet didn’t offer enough protection. I heard a strange rustling sound coming from the bathroom. Dillon was tunneling under the shower curtain and climbing into the bathtub. Well, the experts do recommend retreating to the bathroom during hurricanes and really severe weather. My dog's no dummy. After he got into the tub, he started trying to dig through the rubber tub mat. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t like the feel of the rubber or was trying to tunnel to an even safer location. I got a throw rug and put that in the tub on top of the rubber mat. He settled down and after the thunder stopped, I went in to check on him. He was stretched out in the tub, fast asleep. So now when thunderstorms are forecast, I have to remember to leave my closet door open, the shower curtain pulled back, and a throw rug in the tub. I’m going to need a checklist soon.

Today at lunchtime, I wanted Dillon to go outside to potty because it looked like it might storm any time. I had finished eating and Dillon had already licked my plate. He refused to go outside because Dad hadn’t finished eating yet and he was waiting for Dad’s plate. In desperation, I stuck my hand into the serving bowl holding the few remaining field peas and bribed him outside. Messy, but effective. I wonder how many other dogs can be bribed with a handful of cooked field peas?

It is an improvement

We have a really nice new storm door and 3 sets of shelves. Donald would have gotten more done except Lowes sent the wrong door. Dad wanted a nickel colored handle and they sent brushed gold. Luckily Dad caught the mistake before the installation process began, but Donald had to go back across town to get the right door. Then it apparently took some fine tuning to get it to fit. Watching projects like that make me nervous, so I stayed well clear, but I kept hearing the power screw driver, etc., and it took a couple of hours, so I’m thinking everything didn’t just immediately fall into place.

It is a nice door. It has a disappearing screen in the top section so you can change from screen to glass just by pulling the screen down, which causes the top glass to self-store behind the bottom section of glass. Really nifty. Our old door had a full piece of glass and a full screen and you had to completely change out one to install the other. The glass has been in the attic for at least 15 years. It was way too much trouble to change out. It'll also be nice to have a door that doesn't slam. The closer on the old storm door was worn out and when Dad came and went, the door whammed shut behind him.

For some reason, he has no interest in replacing the screen door on the back door. If he wore pants with back pockets that buttoned shut, and carried a clothes basket out the door, he'd be replacing that door too. When I'm carrying something out the door, I use my butt to hold the door open. My pocket buttons get caught in the protective grid covering the screen, and I find myself attached to the door and unable to move until I bend my knees, dip down, and work the buttons free. It's annoying!

Dillon took to Donald immediately. He walked right up to be petted and then went into his circus dog, sit up straight with front paws in the air, routine. He wasn’t as crazy about the noise from the power tools, particularly when they started installing the shelves in the basement. He wasn’t sure what the noise coming through the floor was, but he wanted to get away from it. Dad of course had to keep muttering to me about how he would have done the job. And he always managed to be standing right where I needed to pass by to open a door or grab a broom, etc. He also managed to scrape his arm on the cinder blocks in the basement and gauge out a nice section of skin. I do so enjoy playing Florence Nightingale, NOT!

So, 1 day down, another to go. Hopefully everything will get done tomorrow. Keeping up with Dad and Dillon when workmen are on site is stressful.

Another locked door

We’re getting ready to have a few home repairs done this week. Dad wants a new front storm door; we have shelves to go up in the garage, storage shed, and basement; the oldest shed needs a new doorframe and doors; and the gutters need cleaning. Donald said he’d be here this morning at 8:30 to check on what we wanted so he could get the materials ready to start tomorrow. I took Dillon for a walk early and jumped in the shower so I’d be dressed and ready when he arrived. I had just stepped out of the shower and had 1 contact lens in when I heard the doorbell ring. It was only 8 a.m. Donald was early. I knew Dad wouldn’t hear the doorbell, so I threw on a robe, left the bathroom yelling for Dad, naturally he was nowhere in sight, and opened the door. Donald said good morning. “You’re early” I accused, as I held my robe together. “Come on in while I find Dad.” “I can wait out here,” Donald said quickly. It’s depressing when you reach the age where you greet a man at the door half naked and he starts backing up. “Okay, I’ll hunt Dad down and have him meet you at the side gate.” Naturally, after I closed the door, Dad came ambling into the den. I sent him out to meet Donald and I returned to the bathroom to put in my other contact lens and get dressed.

By the time I was finished with make-up, dressing, etc., Donald and Dad had finished discussing the scope of work. Dad headed to his room for his checkbook because he and Donald were going to Lowes to pick out the storm door. I put Dillon on a leash and headed out front to speak to Donald, who was waiting in his truck. Dad came out the side door, jumped in the station wagon without saying a word to me, and they both pulled out of the driveway. I went back up the front steps and discovered that Dad had locked me out of the house again. I raced down the steps and across the yard, wildly waving my arms to get Dad’s attention. I have a spare key hidden, but it’s not out front. I can climb over the fence, but Dillon can’t and I’d just as soon he not be tempted to learn how. Dad saw me and stopped the car in the middle of the road. The passenger door was locked and the windows were up. I banged on the glass and he finally rolled the window down. “You locked me out of the house again! Is the gate unlocked?” “I think so, unless Donald locked it.” I turned around and headed back for the house. I was halfway across the yard when I heard “Nancy!” I looked back and he threw his spare set of keys out of the car window. They landed in the road. He drove off. He can’t stand for someone to get somewhere before he does, so the fact that Donald had a head start was obviously too much for him. I went inside praying that he wouldn’t have a wreck trying to catch up.

I need to have a spare key made into an earring, or a necklace, or have my belly button pierced and wear it as a body ornament so that I'll have one on my person at all times. Or we need to get new number coded touch pad locks that don’t use keys. I have no idea what time Donald is arriving tomorrow morning. I’m sure it will be another interesting day.

The perfect day?

I love Sundays. It’s the one day of the week when I feel absolutely no guilt if I don’t accomplish anything productive all day long. Sundays are for relaxing, not for chores. Dad and I go to Oscar’s for breakfast, which leaves him so full that I don’t have to cook lunch. I don’t know what he does eat for lunch, but I’m pretty sure it’s always Nabs because there are never any kitchen utensils involved. Dillon and I go for a walk. I watch Sunday Morning on CBS, I still miss Charles Kuralt, while checking out the sale circulars. GPS with Fareed Zakaria, intelligent conversation with no shouting, comes on at 1. There’s plenty of time to curl up with a book, play on the internet, or watch a mindless movie or marathon of my favorite tv shows. If Sundays weren’t immediately followed by Mondays, they’d be perfect.

Speaking of perfect, here’s a picture of the crepe myrtle blooming in my backyard. Dad planted the red one. The pink one is actually in the neighbor’s yard.



And because Dillon's feelings get hurt if the camera comes out and he's not the subject.

Form follows function

Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to go? So why are clothes designed for anorexic teens instead of real women, shoes are designed for admiring not for walking, and eyeglass frames are designed for people who don’t really need corrective lenses?!! Shopping has become an exercise in frustration instead of fun. If Talbot’s ever goes out of business, I’ll be naked. They’re the only retailer who pretty consistently carries clothes that fit my taste and lifestyle. I’ve lost count of how many pairs of shoes I’ve tried on searching for a pair that’s actually comfortable enough to wear for an entire day doing normal activities that require standing and walking. I’m rapidly approaching the point where I’m going to buy the Clark’s 3 strap sandals in every color and wear them year round.

My current greatest frustration is finding a new pair of eyeglass frames. I desperately need new glasses. I can’t simply replace the lenses in the current glasses because a) I can’t do without them for the length of time it would take to have the lenses replaced and b) if they broke my current frames in the process, I’d have to start looking for a service dog because I’d be blind as a bat. I actually need glasses to see beyond the end of my nose, so my prescription is fairly thick, even with the new advances in technology. Unfortunately, eyeglass frames are designed for people who must have pretty good eyesight because the frames are thin, thin, thin. Completely unsuitable for someone who actually needs glasses to see. Even if I didn’t object to looking like a total freak wearing a pair of coke bottles on my face, the current style is also narrow and rectangular. The style is fashionable and flattering, but it’s not good for those of us who have reached the age where we need bifocals if we want to be able to read both a book and a street sign.

I’ve been looking for new frames on and off for the past year with no success. My present frame has been discontinued, naturally, so the local Eye Care is going to order a pair of frames that look similar in the catalogue for me to try. Crossing my fingers and toes. The tech said that particular manufacturer’s frames are usually fairly inexpensive. I didn’t tell her that at this point, cost is the least of my concerns. I just want frames that fit my face and my prescription. Is that really so much to ask?

Why don't designers create products for real people with real needs instead of their ideal model who can wear anything?

Food for thought

Dad went for country ham biscuits this morning. I guess he figured that since strange dishes were starting to appear on the table, he needed sustenance before the next meal is served. Now he’s off to the farmer’s market. Where he’s going to buy some tomatoes if anyone has them. He looked at the tomatoes we have on hand and admitted he thought we had more. What he doesn’t seem to realize is that we go through a couple a day. I could use more if I wasn’t trying to make sure we don’t run out. If he’s not careful, I’ll start putting canned tomatoes in his bowl of beans and save the real ones for important dishes where freshness really matters.

It’s tax free shopping this weekend in NC. You pay no sales tax on school supplies and clothing. I wish I needed notebooks because there are some cute ones out there. I found a spiral notebook with a black lab puppy on the cover. They now make the classic black and white marble composition book, used by first and second graders for years, in lime green! If I could have figured out a use for one, I’d have snapped it up. Instead, I settled for printer cartridges and paper, pens, white-out, and plastic sheet protectors. The sheet protectors are actually for all my new recipes. I rip the pages out of magazines and then if the recipe is a keeper, it goes into my big spiral recipe notebook protected inside a plastic sheet protector. Unfortunately for Dad, who likes dishes he recognizes and has eaten for years, I keep searching for new recipes to add to my collection.

Summer tomatoes are food for the gods

Dad dropped by Uncle Bud's to return a book this morning. Uncle Bud offered him some fresh tomatoes. Dad declined. I've told him never to turn down fresh tomatoes. I don't care how many we have on hand, I'll find a use for them. I made myself bruschetta for supper. I know it's supposed to be an appetizer, but I eat it as an entree with beer. WONDERFUL! I made Dad a pastrami sandwich. He looked over at my bruschetta and asked "Have you ever made that before?" "Yes. It's bruschetta. I'm not wasting any of it on you because you turned down the tomatoes this morning." "I don't think I'd like it anyway" he laughed.

Yesterday I made eggplant and tomato gratin. It was wonderful, rich and savory. Dad looked at it and informed me that he’d successfully managed to steer clear of eggplant for 80+ years. He took a small serving and ate a few bites, but left some on his plate. Dillon loved it. Dad assured him there would be plenty more leftover if it was served again. He has fairly pedestrian tastes.

The only thing that would have improved my supper was a nice rich, gooey dessert. Since I didn’t have one on hand, I unearthed a leftover chocolate Santa from Christmas. It was still surprisingly good.

My New Mantra

I've been playing around on etsy.com, checking out the art. I found some really yummy pictures of cupcakes and my new mantra, Keep calm and have a cupcake. My former mantra was calm blue ocean. Less calories there, but not as much fun.

And while I'm on a cake theme, here's a cute blog to check out cake wrecks "when professional cakes go horribly, hilariously wrong." It's a fun site.

Memories

My mother saved many of her clothes for years. Including a formal dress, she made back when I was in the 5th or 6th grade. I had never forgotten that dress, white pique with turquoise and green flowers embroidered on it. The white had turned brown with age after years in the attic, but I brought it home to see if it could be cleaned or would have to be thrown away. Count me as an Oxyclean convert. I soaked the dress in a bucket with Oxyclean overnight and voila, it’s sparkling white again. Even though the dress is once more in style, hello Michelle Obama, I don’t want to wear it. I think the fabric has a second life ahead as a beautiful pillow, someday, when I find the right bedspread to go with it. It would have made a gorgeous bed skirt too, but unfortunately, there just isn’t enough fabric for much beyond a pillow or two. Still, it makes me happy just looking at it.

What's on your ideal bookshelf?

I checked out www.20x200.com today and found a print that really got me thinking. The artist, Jane Mount, paints pictures of bookshelves as a form of portraiture. She's right when she says you can learn a lot about a person by what they have on their bookshelves. Unless of course they're the type that purchased their books by the foot to match their decor.

Today's print features 25 of the most important books from her childhood. Obviously she's a generation younger than me, but some of her choices are pretty universal. If she'd had more of my favorites pictured, I'd have bought a copy of the print. If I had a child's room to decorate, I'd snap it up in a heartbeat. The greatest gift my parents ever gave me was a love of reading and that's what this print reminds me of, Mom taking Linda and me to the library and Dad reading aloud to us in his big green chair.

What would be on your ideal bookshelf of the books from your childhood?

Mine would include Curious George, A Bear Called Paddington, The Little Engine That Could, Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel, Beezus and Ramona, Pippi Longstocking, A Wrinkle in Time, Heidi, Little Women, Peter Pan, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Charlotte's Web, The Littlest Angel, Stuart Little, Nancy Drew series, Anne of Green Gables, Little House series, Madeline, The Poky Little Puppy, Mr. Popper's Penguins, Betsy series, Borrower's series, Treasure Island, Hans Brinker, and Black Beauty.

It's raining fish?

I’ve been out in the backyard several times today. Everything looked normal; the grass is freshly mowed, the crepe myrtle is blooming, the dogwood Dad planted this summer is dying. On my most recent trip to get the laundry off the line and convince Dillon to pee, a flash of something in the grass caught my eye. Dillon was already circling the area, nose to the ground, so I thought I’d better check it out too. There was a dead fish lying in my yard. A big dead fish, at least 10 inches long and very wide. He’d have filled a frying pan nicely if he hadn’t already been attracting flies.

I called Dillon and went to get Dad, who’d never have believed me if I hadn’t shown it to him. “There’s a dead fish in our yard.” “What do you want me to do about it?” “Well, it has to get out of our yard or Dillon will roll in it.” Dad looked pained, but got up and went out to find a shovel. He threw it about 3 ft. over the back fence. That’ll smell nice by tomorrow.

There are some fish scales glittering on the ground a little beyond the spot where the fish was lying. They must have fallen off when he hit the ground and bounced. I’m assuming one of the bigger birds, an eagle or hawk or owl, must have dropped the fish as they were flying overhead. It looks like they would have flown down to retrieve it instead of just abandoning the dead thing in my yard.

I guess I should just be glad it didn’t drop on my head. That thought makes the pith helmet type hat Dad wears in the yard a lot more appealing. Previously I thought he looked like Curious George’s sidekick. He’s obviously smarter than I thought. His hat offers protection from the sun and objects falling from the sky. I wear a 75th Fighter Squadron Flying Shark baseball cap. The shark embroidered on the front of my cap is the only sea creature I want on my head, so I hope the next bird flying over my yard has a better grip on his dinner.

He didn't come with an instruction manual

I cook the main meal in the middle of the day. Dad likes that schedule. For supper, it’s sandwiches. I make the sandwiches and put them on the table, put ice in the glasses, and then go call Dad to the table. I don’t pour his beverage. I figure he’s capable of twisting the cap off his own Diet Pepsi and filling his glass. Recently I’ve noticed that before he begins to pour his drink, he sticks his head around the kitchen door to see what’s on his plate. This began to bug me. What was he doing, checking to see if supper met with his approval? He’s welcome to start making his own sandwich any time. Or trying to determine the correct beverage to go with his sandwich? He only drinks Diet Pepsi and water; it’s not like pairing the perfect wine with the entrée.

I finally asked him why he had to check out what was on his plate before he started to fill his glass. “If it’s not something that you drink Pepsi with, I wouldn’t have put the Pepsi bottle on the island” I said in annoyance. “Well, I need to know what kind of sandwich it is so I know how much Pepsi to put in my glass.” “What?” “Well, if it’s a tomato sandwich, I don’t need as much liquid as if it’s a meat sandwich.” “What if it’s a turkey and tomato sandwich?” “Well, I still don’t need as much to drink with that as I would if it was all meat.”

I’m still confused. I put the same amount of whatever beverage I’m drinking in my glass no matter what kind of sandwich or salad I’m eating. I wasn’t aware that I was supposed to take the water content of the entrée into account when pouring my beverage. I’m not sure I’ll ever master all these rules.

Party Poopers

The medical establishment recommends certain tests and inoculations be given at 10-year intervals. Probably because they hope that over a 10-year period, you’ll forget how unpleasant they are? Fat chance. I’ve had 2 of those recommended procedures, a colonoscopy and a tetanus shot, this summer. In both cases, I felt just fine before the doctor got ahold of me. Afterwards, while I got a clean bill of health and the assurance of protection, I was left sick, sore, and seriously annoyed. For the sake of convenience it has been suggested that 10 year procedures be scheduled during your big birthday years, you know the ones, when you hit 50, 60, etc. Given that those particular birthday milestones are stressful for many people, I have to ask, what are they thinking? Is the Marquis de Sade their event planner? Because personally, I prefer Hallmark cards to reminder cards, and my celebrations include cake, balloons, and gaily-wrapped packages, not white gowns and sterile instruments.

Movits!

The only radio I listen to is NPR, so I'm completely out of the loop when it comes to current music. I saw Movits! on The Colbert Report this week. They're a Swedish hip hop swing band. Very cool!

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Movits! - Fel Del Av Garden
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Tasers