Crock Pot BBQ Ribs

This is the easiest way I've found to cook pork ribs. They come out tender and flavorful and fill the house with a wonderful aroma while cooking.

3 lb. boneless country cut ribs
1 onion, sliced
1-1/2 C BBQ sauce (bottled) (I use George's hot BBQ sauce.)
Pepper to taste

Put meat on bottom of crock pot; add onions and pepper. Top with BBQ sauce. Cover and cook on low 8-10 hours or at high for 4-5 hours. 3-1/2 quart crock pot.

Sweet Dreams

Dad met me in the kitchen this morning. “I take it since I didn’t hear screams, we didn’t win,” he said. “I went to bed after the hockey game. I don’t know if we’re rich yet,” I replied.

“You know, I was thinking after I woke up this morning what I’d do if we won. You could do a lot of good with that money,” he said earnestly. “ I’d set up scholarships at Carolina and Wake Forest. I could make a donation big enough to get the church out of debt."

"We could look for a house, nothing fancy; I wouldn’t want it too big," he explained. "Just big enough for you and me and Dillon, and that would fit our furniture, and I’d still want my room. Maybe we couldn’t find anything we’d like better than we already have, with your access to the walking trail.”

Then he went on to say that he could use some of the money to make sure a sick relative had access to the best medical care and mentioned the possibility of being a silent partner in business with another. Dad had obviously given the matter considerable thought, which surprised me.

“Don’t get too excited,” I warned him. “We haven’t won yet and I wasn’t thinking about moving. I just figured we could buy a vacation home.” “We could do that,” he nodded. “I wouldn’t really want my life to change,” he added.

“It’s worth the price of a ticket just to have those few hours to dream,” I told him. “You’re right,” he agreed. I checked the lottery website and discovered that in fact we were not among the winners. But it was worth the money to hear Dad’s dreams.

I’d have added a sizeable donation to Lab Rescue of NC. I was a bit concerned that he didn’t list an unlimited clothing allowance for me. I’ll just assume that was a given.

Do you feel lucky?

We don’t normally buy lottery tickets, but when the Mega Million jackpot reached $500 million, it caught my attention. I told Dad I was going to buy a ticket for me and a ticket for Dillon. Dad couldn’t stand the thought of us having tickets without him having one too, so he told me to buy him one while I was at it. I picked them up this morning.

When I got back home and handed Dad his ticket, he held out a $5 bill. “I was going to tell you to pick up 5 tickets for us.” “That's okay, I can stop again on my way to work.” Then he tried to hand me a dollar for the ticket I’d already purchased. “You don’t owe me for that, I used the grocery money,” I explained. “Well then just buy us 6 more tickets.” No problem.

When I told Carol at work that I was buying Dillon a ticket, she laughed. “Is he going to leave the money to you in his will?” she asked. “I’ll manage it for his benefit,” I explained. “He wants you to go shopping at Talbots?” she asked skeptically, knowing that’s my favorite store. “He wants me to look good when I’m walking him,” I assured her.

Dad told me I didn’t have to wake him tonight when they announced that we’d won. Morning would be soon enough to share the news. “It’s a good thing you’re deaf. That way my screaming and shouting won’t wake you,” I laughed.

I told Dad if Dillon won, we were going to soundproof a special room he could retreat to when it stormed. Dad didn’t think soundproofing alone would be enough. “Then we’ll line the walls with lead too,” I said. "We’ll also have a set of steps custom made for him to get on and off of my bed more easily."

It’s worth the cost of the ticket just to have a few hours to dream of how I’d spend all that money.

Dude, that is so totally gross

Have you seen the commercial where the man who wants to lose weight hires 3 of the cool girls from the local middle school to follow him around? Every time he picks up something to eat, one of the girls says, “Oh dude, that is so totally gross” in a very bored monotone. If she’d been following me around this morning, she’d have said the same thing, but I guarantee you she’d have sounded a little more animated.

Yesterday, Dillon ventured off the trail and came back munching on a popsicle stick. After prying his jaws open and retrieving the popsicle stick from the roof of his mouth, I was forced to wipe my slobbery hand on my jeans. I considered adding Handiwipes, or at the very least a handkerchief, to my walking gear. This morning, I really, really regretted not following through with the idea.

Dillon once again moseyed off the trail diligently sniffing everything in his path. It’s impossible to know whether he’s in search of discarded food, tracking a fascinating smell, just needs to check out where the last dog peed, or wants to munch on some particularly tasty grass. Since it’s the one time a day when he gets out of the yard, I try to let him enjoy the varied smells and just be a dog. I do draw the line at dead animals however. That’s over my limit.

This morning, he went searching in the overgrown grass along the side of the trail as usual. He came back with a long object protruding from both sides of his mouth. Whatever it was crunched when he bit down. Crunching isn’t good. Crunching indicates potential bones that could fragment and pierce his intestines if swallowed. I could see small pieces of white. Dillon was going to have to give up his prize.

I told him, “No.” He clenched down harder. Crunch. I told him “No” again. He lay down on the grass, teeth tightly clenched, bone crunching. I told him, “Leave it.” He looked at me imploringly and after I repeated the command in a stern tone of voice for the third time, he loosened his jaws slightly. I grabbed the thing in his mouth and pulled. We played a brief game of tug-of-war before he grudgingly gave it up.

I took a closer look and realized I was holding an 8-12 inch long piece of dead snake. The bones were exposed in places, but the skin still covered the majority of it. It was probably a good size snake before someone chopped it up. I don’t know where the rest of the body was. Hopefully, not waiting for Dillon to find it tomorrow.

It didn’t smell yet, at least not from the distance at which I was holding it, but it was sticky and slobbery and utterly disgusting. I pitched it into a ditch, grabbed my stick, and we resumed our walk. I tried not to think about what was making my hand feel sticky because if I thought about it too closely, I was going to be completely freaked out. So we kept walking and I kept mentally kicking myself for not bringing along that pack of Handiwipes. And all the way home, I heard that teenage girl in my head saying, “Dude, that is so totally gross.”

A frog strangler

I found this whimsical frog rain gauge at Plow and Hearth. He was half-price and I thought he’d add character to the backyard. Dad looked at me like I was nuts when I described it, but when it arrived, he thought the frog was pretty cute too. Except that he thought it was too short.

“You need to put it on a pole so you can see it,” he told me. “I can see it just fine without putting it on a pole,” I assured him. “No, you can’t,” he insisted. “It needs to be higher for you to read the numbers.”

The glass tube can easily be lifted out of the frog’s hand. It’s designed to be removable. You have to be able to empty it as well as read it. Dad apparently thought I was going to get down on my hands and knees to read the numbers on the rain gauge.

He wouldn’t give in. He kept insisting the frog needed to be elevated. “I can cut off a piece of fence post and drill a hole in the top. Then we can put it anywhere you want it.” “I want it on the ground,” I kept trying to tell him. “It’s going to look dumb on a post.”

“No it won’t. If you put it in the ground, you’ll run into it with the lawnmower. Just pick where you want me to put it,” he said. “I won’t run into it with the lawnmower,” I sputtered. I swear, I mowed down one azalea, okay, I did it repeatedly, and he assumes I’ll run into anything.

I pointed out that if he attached the frog to a sawed off fence post, he’d have to dig a hole for the post. My way was much easier. All I had to do was push the frog’s pencil-sized stake into the ground. Dad refused to concede. “I can dig a hole if it takes me all week,” he informed me indignantly.

I finally gave in and told him where I wanted the frog, but I reserved the option to change my mind. When I came home that afternoon, there was a sawed off fence post stuck into a hole in the ground right where I’d said I wanted it. The frog was standing on top. Only he wasn’t flush with the top of the pole. His feet were floating above the surface by a good 4 inches. Just as I’d feared, it looked stupid.

“What do you think?” Dad asked eagerly, obviously proud of his accomplishment. “Why aren’t his feet flush with the top of the post?” I asked. “I didn’t have a drill bit that long. But I can saw off the frog’s mounting pole so it’ll sit flush,” he explained. “No, don’t do that,” I said hurriedly. If he kept going, he was going to make it so I didn’t have any choice but to leave the frog on top of that stupid post.

“I didn’t fill in the hole because I wanted to be sure you liked it there,” he continued. “I’m not sure I like it anywhere on that pole,” I told him. “Just think about. If you don’t like it, we can take it off and I can fill in the hole.” He always says we can undo something thinking that I’ll just give in after a couple of days and he’ll get his way.

If it had been me, I’d have drilled the hole first and mounted the frog before I started sawing off poles and digging holes. I’d have immediately realized that it looked stupid and wouldn’t have wasted anymore energy on the project. Dad was in such a hurry to prove his point that he wanted to get it all done before I got home from work. He probably assumed that presenting me with a fait accompli would end the matter.

I looked at that frog levitating above the fence post all evening. It wasn’t growing on me. It looked stupid and unnatural. It was supposed to storm that night and they were predicting heavy winds. I unscrewed the frog from the post and stuck him in the flowerpot on the porch for safekeeping. I didn’t put him back.

After a couple of days, I came home from work one afternoon, the pole was gone, and the hole filled in. Apparently, Dad realized I wasn’t going to change my mind. That’s a first.

I stuck the frog in the ground at the base of the porch steps. He looks right at home there. Just as I thought he would when I ordered him. And I didn't have any trouble reading that we got slightly more than 1-1/4 inches of rain yesterday.

One ringy dingy, Two ringy dingy

Dad had supper with his old Commercial Credit buddy, Joe, and Joe’s wife, whose name escapes me, on Monday. Joe wanted to eat at Ralph’s, a local barbeque joint. He said they’d call when they got to town to set a time. He wanted to know when I’d be home. I told him there was a 15-minute window of opportunity between the time I got home from work and the time I’d be leaving for handbell practice.

“Does he still drive?” Joe asked. I guess he was wondering if he’d have to pick Dad up since I wasn’t coming. “He still does everything except talk on the telephone,” I laughed. “But if Dad knows you’re going to call, he’ll answer the phone,” I assured him. Actually, there was no guarantee of that, but I figured if there was no other alternative available, Dad might consider answering the phone.

Before I left for work, I handed him the cordless telephone and reminded him of how it worked. He uses it so infrequently that I can’t take for granted he knows how to turn it on and off. He grimaced, but took the phone. When I got home that evening, Joe hadn’t called yet.

“But I answered the phone twice today. The library called to tell me I had a book waiting and some salesman called trying to sell me something.” “See, you can talk on the phone,” I told him. “It’s frustrating. When I tell them I’m hard of hearing, they talk louder. That just makes it more distorted,” he complained.

I fed Dillon and sat down to eat a pack of Nabs. The telephone rang right after I’d stuffed a cracker in my mouth. Dad still had the phone in his lap. He quickly picked it up and stuck his arm out in my direction. Now that I was home, he was not about to answer the phone himself.

I grabbed the phone and tried to talk around a mouthful of peanut butter and cracker. It was Joe, calling to schedule dinner. I’ll bet you money he made a point of waiting until he knew I’d be there to call.

Dad didn’t get home until almost 9 p.m. He walked into my study, started massaging his throat, and informed me that he was practically hoarse from talking so much. “Well if you tried talking a bit more often, you’d probably get your vocal chords in shape and you wouldn’t have that problem,” I pointed out.

“Joe sure does like to talk,” he said. “The waitress kept trying to clean off the table. I think they were ready for us to leave.” That was the extent of what I heard about the evening, but he must have enjoyed himself or he’d have found an excuse to leave earlier.

Shave and a haircut

Or in Dad's case, lunch and a haircut.

Dad came into my study yesterday morning, pointed at his head, and instructed me to “Call Renee for a haircut.” Renee said she could fit him in this morning. “I have 10 or 11, which would suit him better?” she asked. “11 would suit me better,” I replied. “Then he can pick up lunch while he’s out so I don’t have to cook.”

When I went to the den to tell Dad his appointment time, I told him he could pick up lunch for us while he was out. “Is this a conspiracy?” he asked. I had arranged his last haircut appointment the same way. “Well, Renee asked which time would suit you better and I told her which time would suit me better,” I informed him. “That’s the price you pay for using someone else to schedule your appointments.” He just laughed and shook his head.

Shortly after he moved in, I tried to convince him that it wasn't unreasonable for him to be responsible for lunch one day a week. I didn't expect him to cook it, but I didn't think going out to pick something up would be a hardship. He disagreed. However if I know he's going to be out around lunchtime, I can occasionally convince him to make the effort. It's within my power to ensure that happens once a month or so.

This morning before Dillon and I left for our walk, I asked Dad if he was going to Second Street or Chick-Fil-A for lunch. Those are pretty much the only two places he's willing to go by himself. “I thought I’d go to Second Street,” he answered. “Does it matter?”

“No,” I assured him. “I just want to give you my order so I won’t go hungry this time.” “You want a full dressed hamburger,” he said. I held up two fingers while saying emphatically, “I want TWO full dressed hamburgers. You only brought me one last time. I want TWO.”

I didn’t add that we’d split an order of fries. He got that right last time. But maybe I should have told him. He may think since I didn’t say it this morning, that we don’t need any fries. You never can tell with Dad. It’s too late now. It was 9 a.m. when I placed my order. I probably should have written it down.

Carolina Blue

Dad’s old Commercial Credit buddy, Joe, is obviously not a basketball fan. Or at the very least, not a Carolina fan. I tend to believe he doesn’t follow college basketball at all. Surely, if he did, he’d know better than to call during the last 10 minutes of the ACC Championship game, which he did last Sunday. Or during Carolina’s second NCAA game, which he did this Sunday.

A true basketball fan knows that you don’t telephone someone during such times unless it’s to talk about the game itself. Even then, you wait until a time out or a commercial break. Last Sunday, I simply ignored the telephone. He could just call back. This Sunday, we had a relatively comfortable lead, so I answered.

Joe and his wife still live in Baltimore. Once a year, they travel to Florida. They stop off in RR to spend the night and generally try to have dinner with Dad while they’re in town. They were originally scheduled to stop in RR last Friday. When the NCAA tournament schedule came out, and Carolina had a tip-off time of 4:10 p.m. on Friday, I foresaw a problem.

Nothing gets between Dad and his Carolina basketball. He can be quite rude about it. I’ve seen him deliberately ignore guests while staring pointedly at the basketball game on tv. I reminded Dad that we do have a VCR and Joe only comes to town once a year. We could tape the game. “You have to be polite,” I lectured. He looked pained, but didn’t disagree.

Joe called back on Thursday night. His wife had a cold and they were delaying their trip for a few days. I gave Dad the news that his Friday night was now free. A big smile spread across his face. “I’m sorry she’s sick, but it’s good timing for us, isn’t it?!” he said happily.

Joe had said he’d call back when they knew their plans. Of course, that time fell during the second half of Carolina’s game this Sunday. I couldn’t believe it. Someone needs to educate Joe on basketball etiquette.

I wasn’t happy about it, but I did answer the phone this time. They’ll be here tonight. That works out really well. Dad’s available. There are no NCAA basketball games on tonight’s schedule. I have handbell practice, so I’m excused.

Basketball schedules will soon be a moot point anyway. I told Dad we’d probably better start cheering really hard for NC State. Without Kendall Marshall, Carolina’s run is about to come to a screeching halt. Dad’s already in mourning.

They passed the test

These are my new kitchen shoes. They're the Teva Tirra. Most people probably buy them for hiking or river rafting. I bought them for cooking. I've learned that it's dangerous to go barefoot in my kitchen. I'm generally in a hurry and rushing from the stove to the sink to the refrigerator. I don't tend to look down. Which is a problem when you're in the habit of placing plates on the floor for the dog to lick. Especially when you have heavy stoneware.

I've broken two toes by running into plates left on the kitchen floor. In fact, the last time I went to the ortho doctor for x-rays, and he asked how I'd injured the toe, he replied in an incredulous tone of voice, "That's what you said happened last time too." Something obviously had to change. Dillon wasn't going to react well to being denied his duty to lick the plates clean before washing, so protective footwear was definitely in order.

Steel-toed boots were the obvious solution, but seemed a bit of overkill. Tennis shoes are fine in cooler weather, but get hot in the summer. Plus, you have to tie them. Regular sandals wouldn't work, but I think these will. The sole is thick and upturned at the toe.

I've been wearing them around the house to assess the comfort level while keeping the soles unblemished in case I decided to return them. Yesterday, I gave them the plate test, walking up to a plate to see where the plate would hit the shoe. Just as I hoped, the upturned sole struck the plate first. I was pretty sure I was going to keep them, but still being careful so that I could preserve my ability to return as long as possible.

Then I looked out the kitchen window. Dillon was behaving strangely. He was in the back corner of the yard, prime snake territory. He jumped up, turned around and started frantically nuzzling his rear end. Then he turned around, nose to the ground, searching. Then he repeated the process. I saw something dangling from behind. Then it fell to the ground and he went back to cautiously nosing it on the ground.

"Oh, no!" I said as I flew out the back door, running for my dog. I was afraid that a snake had bitten him. I was already mentally preparing for a trip to the emergency vet. In fact I was in such a hurry to get to him that I neglected to grab the garden hoe I keep on the back porch for the express purpose of dispatching snakes.

When I reached Dillon, I discovered that the problem was not a snake, but some of the long grass he likes to eat. The grass doesn't get digested, so when he poops it sometimes takes a few tries before the stool falls free. That's what he'd been frantically trying to dislodge.

Relieved, I went back inside. Dad was still sitting in his easy chair in the den. "Is he alright?" he asked anxiously. I explained the difficulty. Dad looked pained, wishing I hadn't explained so thoroughly. "I guess I'm definitely keeping my shoes now," I commented. I hadn't given them a thought when I sailed out the door. "They passed the plate test and I proved I can run in them." Dad just shook his head.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

May the road rise up to meet you,
may the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and the rain fall soft upon your fields,
and until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

It’s been a good St. Patrick’s Day. I awoke to the lovely aroma of corned beef brisket cooking away in the crockpot. I started it before I went to bed last night. We had corned beef, cabbage, potatoes and carrots, and baked corn bread for lunch. I’m looking forward to corned beef sandwiches for most of next week. Yum!

It was a gorgeous spring morning. Just perfect for a walk along the Canal Trail. Dillon apparently agreed because he wanted to go further than normal. There’s no better way to start the day than with a walk on a scenic trail, wearing a really comfortable pair of walking shoes, accompanied by a good dog. We ran into trail buddies, Johnny and his pit bull, Buddy, along the way.

Last Saturday, Dillon and I skipped our morning walk because there was a half-marathon being run on the Trail. When we saw Johnny and Buddy on Sunday morning, Johnny asked if we’d walked the previous day. I told him no, I was afraid that Dillon and I would be in the way of the runners and I didn’t want to screw up anyone’s time. Johnny said he and Buddy went down to the Trail to show their support for the runners.

I had to wonder if the runners appreciated their attendance. I’m thinking that the presence of a large black man with well-kept chin-length dreadlocks accompanied by a white and liver-colored pit bull may have spurred some of the runners on to a faster speed as they tried to vacate the vicinity. Johnny and Buddy are among the nicest people and dogs that we run into on the Trail. But I must confess that the first time we encountered them, I started scoping out escape routes, just in case.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m scared of most pit bulls, but Buddy is a sweetheart. If anything, she’s submissive. Last week when she saw us coming, she broke into a trot to come greet me and Dillon. That’s a first. When she got to me, she jumped up to be petted, another first. Johnny told her to get down. Dillon wasn’t sure he approved. I was just thrilled to see that Buddy had finally decided I was a friend instead of another human to be wary of.

After lunch today, I mowed the yard. The grass didn’t need mowing, but the weeds were rapidly approaching knee-high. A couple of weeks ago, Dad mentioned during a conversation about something I didn’t want him to put in the yard, that eventually I was going to get tired of mowing the grass and I'd have a lawn service. I wasn’t aware that was an option. He’s never given any indication that he’s willing to pay for a lawn service.

Mowing the grass has never been a chore that I enjoy. It’s just something that has to be done. I’m not sure what sign Dad’s waiting for to signal that I’m tired of mowing the grass. Perhaps when I collapse from heat exhaustion or am physically incapable of pushing the mower? If he’ll just give me a clue, I’ll be glad to give him the signal.

Aged to Perfection

I went to Dollar Tree yesterday in search of party decorations. I wanted to make Dad’s 86th birthday festive. I planned to get balloons and I was hoping to find a banner and some number candles for his cake. If I tried to put 86 candles on the cake, we’d be left with nothing but a crumbled mass and we’d probably need the fire department.

I found the perfect banner and table centerpiece that read Aged to Perfection. There was a Happy Birthday bag that went with the black and bright color scheme I was going for. They didn’t have any Happy Birthday balloons that went with my theme, but I decided a bright yellow smiley face balloon combined with two black star balloons would be just right.

There was a black lady with two young girls trying to pick out balloons for a birthday bouquet as well. She told one of the little girls to get exactly what I was getting. “I’m going for an older than dirt theme,” I told her. “So am I,” she replied, “he’s going to be 51.” “Mine’s going to be 86,” I announced. Then I showed her my banner and centerpiece. She sent the little girls to pick those up too.

I left everything in the trunk of the car when I got back home. After Dad went to bed last night, I strung the banner across the pass-through between the den and kitchen. The centerpiece and gift bag went on the table. I tied the balloons to the magazine basket so Dad could enjoy them from either of his easy chairs. It wasn’t fancy, but it did look festive.

Dad was already up and reading the newspaper when I made it out to the den this morning. “Good morning,” I said. “I’m aged to perfection,” he said with a smile. Obviously, he’d deciphered the banner, probably with help from the centerpiece. “I was going for an older than dirt theme, but they didn’t sell anything like that,” I told him.

He thanked me for the giant jar of cashews I’d put in his gift bag. “I thought if you had your own, you wouldn’t be eating mine.” “That’s what I figured when I saw the jar. You want me to keep my hand out of your jar,” he laughed. “You’re right,” I assured him. His main present is always a subscription to the Daily Herald, but everybody needs a present to open on their birthday.

Dollar Tree’s numbered cake decorations only went from one to four, so I had to give up on that idea since I wasn’t willing to make another stop. That really didn’t matter since I made his cake yesterday and of course, neither of us was willing to wait a day to see what it tasted like. Since he wasn’t overly complimentary of his sugar-free Valentine’s cake, I found a recipe that doctored up a store-bought cake mix by adding pudding mix and sour cream and used that to improve the sugar-free devil’s food cake mix.

I added a fabulous chocolate ganache frosting that’s made out of nothing but heavy cream and semi-sweet chocolate chips. It may be high fat, but it’s only 9 grams of sugar. You have to pick your poison. I thought the finished product was very good. Dad didn’t make any comment, but I notice he’s had 3 pieces already and he hasn’t made any disparaging remarks, so I’ll count that as a win.

Here's the birthday boy in his younger years. His brother, Thomas, is holding their dog, Spooky, while Dad looks on.

Home is where the dog is

That’s the name of a photographer’s blog that I discovered this week. Wish I’d thought of it because that’s certainly my philosophy. Dillon had his annual check-up yesterday. While we were waiting to check out, he made friends with a lady waiting to check in. During our conversation, she told me that her dog, her horses, and her children were her life. “But don’t tell my husband,” she whispered. I told her that my father lives with me and Dillon and loves to tell people that there’s no doubt who comes first at our house, and it’s definitely not him, while looking pointedly at the dog.

Dad went to the annual Lion’s Club farm/antique auction on Wednesday. For once, the weather was good. You usually need hip waders and a yellow slicker, sort of like the Gorton’s fisherman ads, to attend their sales. They have the worst luck when it comes to weather. I figured he’d have lots to talk about that night at supper. I should have known better. Getting anything out of him was like conducting an interrogation.

Yes, there was a good crowd. Yes, he bought something. He never did tell me what although he told me about an old farm bell that someone else bought. “They got a good deal. Those things last forever. This one had the mounting bracket too. I’d still be there trying to carry it out if I’d bought it.” The lucky buyer got it for $100 which Dad thought was a bargain.

He claimed he was more tired from attending the sale than he’d ever been from doing a full day’s work. I realize that some, if not most, of that is due to age. He’ll be celebrating his 86th birthday on Monday. But I can’t seem to get him to understand that the fact that he spends most of his time sitting in a chair and occasionally shuffling down the hall or to the garage contributes to his loss of strength and energy. He thinks he can sit all day for months on end, and then when spring arrives he’s surprised that he can’t still chop down trees and dig holes like he used to. For such a smart man, he can be willfully ignorant when he chooses.

He headed off to a garage sale this morning. He didn’t leave until 8 a.m. “Aren’t you getting a late start?” I asked. “I thought you were supposed to get to garage sales no later than 6 a.m.” “I’m only going to one. I don’t have the energy to start as early in my old age.” I think he still manages to do pretty well for someone his age, but he certainly enjoys ruminating that getting old isn’t for sissies.

Food for thought

“The pleasure of doing a thing in the same way at the same time every day, and savoring it, should be noted.” - Arnold Bennett

Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. I eat chocolate chip pumpkin bread, which is like eating cake, and drink buttery caramel coffee while sitting at the computer and reading all of my favorite blogs. It’s the only meal that Dad is responsible for fixing himself. So I don’t have to try and figure out what to feed him and prepare it. I only have to worry about myself. Which is a treat that I do savor.

Yesterday I served my favorite beef stew for lunch. It’s not fancy, just really good comfort food. The recipe calls for it to be cooked in a Dutch oven. I bought a cast iron one a year or so ago and use it every time I fix the beef stew. Apparently, Dad hasn’t paid attention.

When I put it on the table yesterday, he wanted to know how long I’d had “that heavy pot.” “About a year,” I replied. “What do you fix in it?” was the next question. “What we’re eating today,” I said. I wasn’t in the mood to rack my brain trying to think of what else I might have prepared in it and frankly, that's the kind of answer he'd give me. “What do you call what we’re eating today?” He was just full of questions.

“It’s really complicated,” I said very seriously. “It’s called beef stew.” We’ve had it before and he’s never said a word about it one way or the other. “There are all kinds of names for beef stew. It could be Emily’s beef stew or vegetable beef stew....” he looked at me expectantly. We don't know anyone named Emily, so I have no idea why he thought I'd be making Emily's beef stew.

Since I know he’s not planning to go looking for the recipe, I didn’t understand his sudden interest. “Well this is just called beef stew,” I said. “It’s hearty,” he commented. Then he went back for seconds.

If you’re in the mood for Just Beef Stew, as I've now christened it, here’s the recipe. It makes 2 generous servings.

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
¾ teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon pepper
¾ pound boneless beef chuck roast – cut into 1 inch cubes
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 (10.75 ounce) can condensed tomato soup, undiluted
1-1/4 cups water
¾ cup chopped onion
¼ teaspoon dried basil
2 medium potatoes, peeled and diced (I’ve used red new potatoes, left the skins on, and diced them)
2 medium carrots, cut into 1 inch pieces
frozen peas

In a resealable plastic bag, combine the flour, salt and pepper. Add beef cubes, a few at a time, and shake to coat. In a Dutch oven, brown meat in oil. Add the soup, water, onion and basil; mix well. Cover and bake at 350 degrees F for 1 hour. Add potatoes and carrots.* Bake 1 hour longer or until meat and vegetable are tender. I throw in a generous handful of frozen peas during the last 30 minutes of cooking.

*If you want your carrots good and soft, you might want to add them earlier, like after the first 30 minutes of cooking, instead of waiting until the last hour.

Family secrets

I wrote my own version of a eulogy for Aunt Kitty’s funeral. Eulogies are defined as speeches of praise. Mine was a letter of remembrance. Her daughter-in-law read it at the memorial service.

I was surprised at how much Aunt Kitty’s death bothered me. We saw each other a handful of times over the years. We didn’t even communicate that often. She was the relative more likely to get you into trouble than help you out of it. But we enjoyed each other and she never forgot my birthday. As I told one of my cousins, all those faces that used to be around the table are going away. I find that sad and lonely.

Dad read my letter and agreed that I’d captured Aunt Kitty. I wrote something for Aunt Hazel’s funeral and one of my cousins and I both wrote something for my mother’s funeral. Those personal tributes were more meaningful than the scripture read by a well-meaning clergyman. I pointed out to Dad that while I could probably come up with something personal to write for every member of my mother’s family, I doubt I could do it for a single member of his.

My mother came from a family of storytellers. When they got together it was going to be loud and boisterous and there was going to be plenty of laughter. They told on each other and on themselves. The intent was to entertain, not to educate or convert. But those conversations taught us about each other and about our shared family history, not just the moments of high achievement, but more often the gotcha moments that became much-loved and frequently repeated family stories.

My father comes from a family that could teach the CIA a thing or two about being close-mouthed. They seem to believe that sharing personal information will give the other party an advantage and should be avoided at all costs. They don’t volunteer it and if asked, they usually find a way to deflect the question. They’ll talk religion or politics or sports, in an attempt to convert you to their way of thinking, but they don’t share family stories simply for the purpose of entertainment. There are a few welcome exceptions, but on the whole, my two families have very different ways of communicating.

My sister definitely took after Dad’s side of the family. I consider it high praise to be compared to any one of my mother’s relatives. Dad will occasionally share a family story. I hoard them like gold. I don’t believe we all need to become stars in our own reality shows. But what’s the point in treating your life as if it’s all a secret to be taken to the grave?