Contemplating Happiness

Snapshot

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 00:28:00 +0000

It appears that Chloe has settled in.
Or else my puppysitter is doing a very poor job.

A Negative Review

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 00:21:00 +0000

I knew it would happen. Anyone who does anything subjective is going to have to face it, sooner or later. The Negative Review.

The kind lady who did not like my book didn't lambaste me. She isn't a hater. She just didn't like my story. I was bracing for this day. Ever since I hit "publish" on my first blog post four years ago, I've been expecting someone to tell me that it's all drivel. Then I put a complete work of fiction out there. A novel that came out of my own head, through my fingertips and onto your ereader. It's been out for over a year now, so I've been waiting with bated breath for that first "don't quit your day job" comment.

I want my readers to devour the story. I want them to laugh and cry, and smile through their tears, just like Dolly Parton's favorite emotion. (Name that movie). I want them to nod their head in recognition at the characters and let their coffee get cold because they're too wrapped up to sip.

It was not to be for one kind reader. She was very nice about it. Apparently, she didn't hate it so much that she wanted to burn me in effigy and then chuck her Kindle into the fire for good measure. She didn't say that I need to get my sorry ass back to kindergarten and start over. That would have been especially hurtful, since (you may recall) I was rejected for kindergarten. It would awful to discover, at this late date, that sharing and napping are not the only things I missed. Maybe that's one reason why this didn't hurt the way I expected it to. I thought I would really struggle with my first negative review (which I knew would show up someday). It didn't work out that way.

Maybe it was how mildly bad the review was. It was a very classy bash with no expletives whatever. Maybe it was the realization that unless I get feedback on BOTH what really evoked something in a reader and what left you yawning, I won't know what you're thinking. It could also be I realize that if a shopper only sees good reviews, it starts looking like the only reviews are coming from friends and family. (As much as I loved the reviews my friends wrote, the ones from strangers sure made me swoon.) A dose of reality is good. Maybe it's because there are a lot of kinds of books I don't like, too.

Or maybe..... I'm growing up.

Horse Feathers

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 03:09:00 +0000

Benjamin Franklin is attributed with saying, "Only believe half of what you see and none of what you hear." I don't know that that means he is the first person to say it, but he's getting the credit.

Here are a few things I don't believe:

Those diet ads. Some young, gorgeous hardbody with muscle tone and a tan, telling me that only 6 weeks ago she looked like a pasty-faced buffalo heifer with cottage-cheese-thighs. They're telling me that if I drink their concoction every morning, noon and night, I won't look like a middle-aged, mother of two, desk jockey with little-to-no natural suntan? Bull puckey.
The picture that goes along with "How to get a swimsuit body by summer". Some smiling person, no sweat shining on their brow, in a perfectly clean home and wearing SOOO fashionable workout gear....exercising on some device that looks like medieval contraption to turn a breach baby around.. C'mon, now. Really? Who smiles when they're working out?
Politicians. Any of 'em.
About 90% of the recipes. Mix one can of cream of mushroom soup with one can of Underwoods Deviled Chicken and you'll get Chicken Tetrazzini. What ARE you smoking?
Celebrities + Judges + Juries = The Muppet Show. Who do they thing they're kidding, here? If Lindsay Lohan lived in Phoenix, Sheriff Joe would have her living in a tent by now, for sure. I don't even want to think about what would have happened to Charlie Sheen by now. He'd be the belle of the ball. Ewww.
Jeans that promise to slim, trim, lift, sculpt, shape and not be like my daughter's. If you can lift, sculpt and trim me, you can't be made of mere denim.
Shampoos that promise to give me thick, shiny tresses with no split ends. Well f*ck me running. Nothing is going to make that happen. Mother Nature gave me extremely fine, puny, flyaway hair. I've learned to live with it. Really, John Frieda, maybe you could apply your chemistry to fighting off pollen, instead.
Name your price insurance. This one really just ticks me off. You can name your price with almost any insurance company. That is NOT the same thing as getting a policy that fits your needs. Name your price, my hind foot. Name your price, and get succinct directions to the door.
Find your friends. Find your classmates. Find the police records of your ex-boyfriend. Find the love of your life, your new house, your lucky numbers and the answer to your dreams. Only cost you $9.99 a minute, too.
The estimated MPG on a car. 30 in the city, 45 on the highway. Yeah, maybe if it's a straight highway running down hill the whole way.
"Less fat" on almost anything. All that means is "less fat than we could have squeezed in here, but the same amount as it's always had."
Filtered dog water. We bought a drinker for our new Chloe. Couldn't find one that didn't have a built-in filter to make the water "taste better". The first chance she got, she drank out of a mud puddle. She really cares about better tasting water.
And the biggest bunch of hooey of all? "What are you doing in there, son?" ........"Nuthin'."

Comments always welcome!

Puppy Breath

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 17:20:00 +0000

We have a new member of the family. Her name is Chloe, and even though she joined us less than 24 hours ago, I'm already in love. How not? Look at that face!

I have written about having a puppy urge for a while now, but the time was finally right. I started scouring the humane society websites, and rescue organizations and classified ads, too. Then I started to get worried.

You see, we decided (after many long discussions) that the right dog for us would be another Australian Cattle Dog. That's what our wonderful, OCD, willful, barfy blue shedding machine is, and she is a terrific dog. Don't be fooled by all the bitching I do about her; she's a great dog and I love her. I started lurking around the Cattle Dog rescue sites. It was pretty scary.

After reading the "About Us" pages on most of those rescue organization's sites, and reading their applications for adoption, I started to get a bad feeling. They asked some of the most intrusive questions. OK, I get it. These folks put a lot of love and effort and heartache into helping animals that have been badly mistreated, neglected, abused or discarded. They don't want all that effort to go for naught and wind up placing the dog with a fate as bad as the one they saved it from. I get that. I understand why they want to know if I've ever surrendered an animal before and why. I understand why they want to know what behaviors I would find so unacceptable that I would give up on the dog. I get it.

Why do you need to know what I do for a living, my household's gross annual income, or if I live in a site-built home or a mobile home? Asking if I live in an apartment: I can almost see that, depending on the dog. But if I lived in a mobile home, how would that make me unsuitable? How is that your business, anyway? If you're trying to find out if I can afford to care for a dog, then ask me. You don't need to fish about for a financial statement.

The bad feeling increased when I read an article by Emily Yoffe about how she was rejected by an animal rescue place, and then I went on to read the comments. Oh my stars! Something is way off track here, folks. It looks a lot like a tax-sheltered, legal way of hoarding dogs and rejecting people. The article points out that some rescue organizations don't adopt animals out. They are more on a hopefully-permanent foster plan, and the organization will inspect at will, reclaiming the dog if they so choose.

I was thinking very seriously about giving up on adopting a rescue dog and looking instead for a puppy from a breeder or just a family whose pet had a litter. I looked at a lot of breeder sites. We still felt like it would be better to get a rescue dog if we could. Since I'm not one to give up too easily, I kept watching and reading, looking for the right place for us.

I saw a very promising dog on one listing and emailed the organization. After several days with no reply, I called the foster person. She told me that the dog had been adopted out right after Christmas, and they just never did seem to get her taken off the site. Now I was wondering if I was looking over lists of dogs who weren't available, anyway.

And then. Then I found Noah's Ark Rescue. I read their adoption application. Every question was about reasonable fact-finding, not intrusive anima-naziism. I looked at the pictures of the adoptable dogs. I kept checking. I noticed that dogs were added and removed from the listing regularly enough that someone was actually attending to their web pages. Then four days ago, I saw Chloe. She was listed as a four-month-old Australian Cattle Dog (aka ACD, Queensland Heeler, Blue Heeler, Cattle Dog). I think she has some Australian Shepherd, too, since you don't see the blue eye or a blue merle coat in a Heeler. She was the right age, has a great look of intelligent interest in her striking eyes and she is the breed we were looking for. Deep breath: I emailed the person on the listing.

She replied right away. We exchanged a few emails over the next two days and the Sweet Hubs and I were approved as adoptive parents to a young bundle of furry joy. We met her yesterday, fell in love immediately and took her home. The kind woman with Noah's Ark Rescue was very helpful and friendly. It is clear to me that they haven't lost sight of their mission. They are more interested in finding suitable, loving, forever homes for the rescued pets than in over-zealously staying in control of every aspect of the animal's lives ad infinitum.

Chloe is a darling girl. Ruthie approves of her, too. I feel so incredibly lucky that we are the ones who got to bring her home. She is out helping the Sweet Hubs get the garden ready for spring right now. True to her breed(s), she is every bit the Velcro dog. She sticks like glue to either one of us. She got to see and smell her first javelina, and knew right away that he was not someone to fool with. She bristled and barked and stuck close to her people. She is also nonplussed by Chihuahuas. Smart dog.

She has a lot to learn in life. That's what being a puppy means. She comes when you call her, though, and is learning to sit. She takes a treat oh-so-nicely. She is already learning the family whistle that means, "Look at that!". And she learned that she does not get a good result when she tries to take the ball from the old OCD ACD. Ruthie isn't about to put up with that. She also has a good start on "Give", dropping her chew-toy into my hand when I ask for it. I start that one quickly with a puppy because I like my shoes. :D

Please do visit a humane society or a rescue if you are looking for a new member of your family. Don't be scared by the horror stories; just do your homework. If you live in Arizona, I HIGHLY recommend Noah's Ark Rescue.

(With my apologies for being so INactive on last week's linkup. I've been sick. :-( Waaa waaa waaa.)

A Fearful Child

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 15:38:00 +0000

When I was a baby, I was afraid of stuffed animals. My Mom tells me that she never had to put me in a playpen. If she was mopping the kitchen floor and didn’t want me crawling on it, all she had to do was put a teddy bear in the doorway.
She could put a stuffed animal in front of anything she didn’t want me to touch or go near. It’s a strange kind of baby-proofing, but it worked. Mom says I would sit perfectly still, with what she calls “the big eyes” and I wouldn’t move an inch. I’d be ashamed to admit how old I was before I didn’t feel uncomfortable around stuffed animals, although I did outgrow it eventually. Even my kids noticed that in all the pictures of childhood Christmases, you never saw me unwrapping a stuffed animal.

I can remember a nightmare I had before I was 5 years old. I dreamed my Dad was killed in a war. In my dream, the soldiers were the nutcracker kind of tin soldiers, and they were lined up in ranks. One fell over and I knew that was my daddy and he was dead. I had that dream over 40 years ago and I recall it still. I had lots and lots of the garden-variety monster in the closet nightmares. My sister was wonderful: she would let me climb into the upper bunk with her when I had one of those nightmares.

My uncle had a puppy: a Husky named Slingshot. I was absolutely friggin’ terrified of the little thing. I had never been bitten by a dog. No idea why that little ball of fluff scared the jellybeans out of me like he did, but I would climb onto the back of the couch and scream. The picture above shows me at about 8 years old with Slingshot’s puppy, Tumbleweed. I had just finished crying when Uncle snapped the photo.

Sometimes I think that my early fears might have been because I understood consequences rather early. I saw possible outcomes of a given action and recognized that negative results were a genuine risk. That doesn’t explain being terrified by an 8-week old puppy. Or a teddy bear, either. It does, however, explain why I was never a child to do particularly stupid things. I got into trouble, but it was usually because I knew what was right and chose wrong because it sounded like more fun.

It doesn’t seem like a complete answer. Why are some children such worry-warts? What baby is afraid of toys? And what pre-schooler has any real notion of death? Well, both my grandfathers were gone by then, so maybe I had an inkling. Something in me has been wired for caution and worry right from the day I was born.

Fear is a battle I’ve been fighting all my life. Most of the time, I can convince myself…reason with myself and assuage my fears enough to continue with my day. And, oddly enough, there are things that other people are afraid of that don’t bother me at all. I’m not afraid of new situations, tests, horses, snakes, spiders and lots of other things.

The passage of time has allowed me to trim some of my fears down to just caution. I wish I could lessen all of them. I’m never reckless, and certainly no kind of adrenaline-junky. I fought down my inclination to be overprotective with my children. I guess I knew they’d have to get a few bruises to grow up whole. Also, I force my mind away from my husband’s adventures: I just see too many worrisome possibilities there.
If I were to dwell on them and cave in, I think my fears could unhinge me. It takes a conscious effort of my own will to not let fears run my life.

My dad’s mom was a terribly fearful woman and it RAN her life. I don’t ever want to live that way. Is this something that could be inherited? Who knows? I hope that my husband’s total lack of fear would balance out the DNA department and let our children be appropriately cautious, without worrying themselves into inertia. For me, it's a daily struggle.

*****

M-m-m-m-My Conundrum

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 17:31:00 +0000

Dictionary.com defines it as:

1. a riddle, the answer to which involves a pun or play on words, as What is black and white and read all over? A newspaper.
2. anything that puzzles.

I have dreamed of being a successful author ever since I was a child. I learned to read and write early, thanks to my big sister, and have been having a love affair with words ever since.

Look at that messy, windblown, tomboy of a girl. Do you see the dreams spinning around in her head? (If you could really see my face, you'd see that I was terrified of that puppy...but that is for a different post.)

And yet...I'm shy. My daydream never included fame. I didn't dream of appearing on television to discuss my latest novel. I didn't dream of press conferences, book signings or magazine articles about me. I hate having my picture taken so much that I actually get a knot in my stomach when I know I have to stand in front of a camera. I can't even imagine being on TV. I'm sure I would be tossing my cookies. Blechhh. I always thought I would write under a pen name.

What I wanted, what I still want, is for my BOOKS to become famous. I want them to be widely read, wildly popular and talked about. I would love, Love, LOVE to have my book made into a fabulous feature film. In my fantasy, of course, the film would be a blockbuster. Who would play Sarah? Or Hixson? Oh, it's lovely to think about.

The trouble is, I want all of that, without having my face attached to any of it. I want to be a literary hermit, cranking out wonderful books from my gorgeous little office in the pines. I want the royalty checks and rave reviews to stream in like the sunlight streaming in through my oversized windows.

Is this a place to WRITE, or what?

I love my small life. I have no desire to change it: it's quiet, simple and comfortable. Sweet Hubs and I enjoy our time together living with the greatest measure of simplicity we can manage. I don't hunger after notoriety of any sort. Fame doesn't interest me and I don't want to be wealthy, though I would love to be comfortable enough to not worry about money ever again. I don't want a big, fancy house or a limo. My car suits me fine and that sweet little house in the trees (way up north) is exactly what I want.

When I write it out that way, I realize it sounds like I'm wishing for a half a dream. But I'm a big girl now. Childish fantasies have long since floated away. Instead of looking for a publisher who wants to give me a big, fat advance, I'll plug away at writing and I'll continue to publish via e-books. For at the core of that dream is the physical, constant, unassuaged urge to write.

(Here's a sneak peek at one idea for the cover of my any-day-now book. What do you think?)

Recently, SOME dear person pointed out that I needed to add some images to my blog. Don't hold your breath, waiting for current pictures of me...but maybe she's right. :D Thanks for the tip! And thanks very large...for picking me as last round's editor's choice. (Blushing modestly).

P.S. Yes, that IS a bottle of wine on the table in my heavenly little home up north. I have my priorities straight.

My Resolution

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 20:25:00 +0000

OK, it's not really a resolution. You may recall that I don't believe in New Year's resolutions.

I am **THIS** close to finishing my second book in the "Light Gatherers" series. So for the remaining two days of this New Year holiday weekend, I will by typing my little fingers down to the nub.

Shame on me: I have been revising as I go along, which would cause me to be tarred and feathered in some writing circles. I try to control myself, but sometimes... the temptation overpowers me and I revise.

I have also decided to change the name of one of my characters, so I'll be hunting for just the right name. Browsing through my book of baby names always makes the Sweet Hubs look at me with a hilarious mixture of alarm and puzzlement in his handsome blues. You can almost see the fight or flight instinct kick into overdrive. I love that man.

2011 went out on a happy note for me. I've been getting extremely positive feedback on the first novel. And not only from friends, thank you very much. Complete strangers are giving the story 5 stars. It's a lot like seeing your child make the honor roll. You send your baby out into the world and they MAKE IT!

Bless you all, dear ones. I hope that 2012 is a prosperous, healthy and happy year for you.

1,000 Words

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 00:10:00 +0000

Is it true? Is a picture worth a thousand words?

Here is a picture I cherish. This was taken nearly 20 years ago: my sister and my youngest son.

Here's what I love about it:

Isn't my baby beautiful? Even at a few days old, he scrunched up his face like that when he was kissed. It was so damn cute. Look at that miniscule hand and the feathery eyebrows.

Isn't my sister beautiful? I love the tenderness in her gesture. She only just met this sweet, tiny little person and loved him instantly. The light shining on her fair hair is gorgeous and the blush of her cheek is so fetching. She always has been a beauty, and not just because she looks the way she does.

It's only a fleeting moment in the whirlwind of a child. He was new and fresh and smelled so wonderful, wrapped safely in the arms of one of the few people on earth who would love him always, no matter what: his Auntie.

Sisters are treasures. Have you hugged your sister today?

Tips for Feeding a Crowd of People With Strange Diets, Food Allergies, Lactose Intolerance and Weird Ideas About Food

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 18:29:00 +0000

Yeah, I know that title sounds a little snarky and judgmental. But seriously. I eat what I eat and what you eat might seem strange to me. More likely, what you can't eat might really trouble me. How do I cook for you?

People will be showing up for holiday dinners with newly-trim bodies, health problems, food sensitivities related to their religion, opinions on the morality of certain foods or just plain quirky preferences. Heaven help you if they all show up to the same dinner and you're the host.

The food allergy that does NOT fit these tips is a serious, anaphylaxis-inducing allergy. Some people who are allergic to, say, peanuts, are not just being fussy. Take that seriously.

I am speaking to you from the point of view of both the one with dietary problems AND the hostess. I am lactose-intolerant and I have IBS. (TMI, sorry.) It can be extremely awkward to be a dinner guest of someone who knows these two things because A. They tend to trot that information out for everyone to hear, and B. They fuss over me and my plate. Please don't and Please DON'T!

So here are my tips for feeding someone like me.

Find out before you even plan your menu if anyone has a life-threatening allergy. If you're lucky, you'll get a lot of answers like, "Well, James doesn't care for olives. Is that what you mean?" If someone has an allergy to nuts, peanuts, shellfish, be extra-vigilant to not accidentally kill them. You'll ruin your dinner party, your reputation as a host, and it won't do them any good, either.
Serve the dinner buffet-style. If you prepare a plate for the guest, you are basically telling them what they will eat. Just let them choose what to eat and how much for themselves.
Try to serve both a raw vegetable, such a salad, and a cooked one. There are a lot of vegans who prefer their veggies raw, and some of us with digestive issues who can't eat the raw stuff.
Don't slather everything in cheese and/or cream sauce. I was once invited to a dinner where I was served a wonderful lasagna, garlic bread with cheese broiled on top, a salad with loads of fresh parmesan curls and then a cheesecake for dessert. Ouch. It was delicious, but ouch.
If the main entree is meat (prime rib, turkey, ham) let that be the star of the show and don't throw ham into the potatoes, and bacon in the green beans and broil pancetta on the garlic bread. Give the vegans a chance. HOWEVER, it's not a bad idea to serve two kinds of meat if you have a big crowd to feed. A small ham beside the turkey, or a roasted capon next to the prime rib can be much appreciated by the people skipping red meat or who have abnormal fears about poultry.
Similarly, don't make everything rich, or sweet. If everything on your table is swimming in butter, glistening with glaze and loaded with fat, the people who are dealing with a blood sugar or cholesterol problems are going to be a mess.
Let your dessert table offer both traditional, scrumptious, sweet desserts, and also a nice little plate of cheese and fruit.
You're the host, but that doesn't mean it's all about you. Let your guests choose from the dishes that appeal to them and fit their needs. This is true for the beverage you serve, too. If a guest refuses the wine, accept it gracefully! They could be a recovering alcoholic or allergic to sulfites or maybe they just don't like wine. Remember that your guest's food choices are not a reflection on you. And honestly, it really isn't your business why they make the choices they do. Don't bully them into trying "just one" or having a little bit more. And while we're at it, when they're full, they're full! It is not an insult to you if there is food left on their plate. As long as your guest is not so rude as to throw a biscuit at your head, screaming that it isn't like momma used to make, what they eat and what they leave should not be considered a comment on your cooking.
Please don't call attention to the dietary restrictions or preferences of your guests. It embarrasses us to have you say in a loud voice, "Oh that's right, you can't eat salad." The exception to that is again with the life-threatening allergies. If you include ground nuts in your innocent-looking fruit dressing, quietly point that out to the one with the allergy. Best plan is to make sure your menu doesn't have anything on it that will kill them.
Serving a wide variety of dishes and having the good grace to let your guests choose without any input from you is the simple key. If you are a vegan hosting a dinner party where omnivores like me are likely to show up, you don't have to break your ethics in order to feed me. Just have a nice menu that includes a hearty, savory dish, too. I promise. I won't draw attention to the absence of meat at your table, and I trust that if you eat at my house, you will not try to embroil me in a conversation about "shooting Bambi" if I serve elk meat. I will have made sure that there were options on my menu for you.

Of course, all this changes for small, intimate dinner parties. If you only have six guests, you need to have a good idea of what to serve that everyone can eat. Even then, my gracious friend, serve the food and be quiet about why you're serving what you're serving. Bob and June don't need to know that you made a fabulous vegetable Minestrone and served it with rustic 7-grain artisan bread, because Trish is lactose-intolerant and Betty is a vegan.

A Grinchy Year

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 17:19:00 +0000

I admit it. I'm feeling a strange mixture of Grinchiness and Christmas spirit.

I want to love Christmas. I loved it once. Now that I'm older and ~~more cynical~~ wiser, I'm learning how to tell the difference between the real Christmas I love and the Christmas that is being crammed down my throat.

The parts I love:

I love the closeness of my small family on Christmas morning. It's one of the few days a year that we are all together in the same room, in our jammies, in the morning.
I love the feeling of hope and wonder that comes from The Birth of The Savior. Even these 2000 years later, to stop to think that a Savior was born is awe-inspiring and beautiful.
I love to cook a feast for my dear ones and have them enjoy it.
I love the warmth that permeates the town, the result of everyone's combined Christmas spirit.
I love to find a perfect gift for someone: something small or large that will be meaningful to them and make them happy.

The parts I don't:

The competitive decorators. Oh. My. Gawd. There's a street a few blocks over that is absolutely friggin obnoxious. Drape your house in lights, folks, I don't care. It doesn't matter to me if your electric meter is turning so fast it smokes. But the music? That is too much. I know it sounds Grinchy, but seriously. Your Christmas music blasting in the front yard, tormenting people three blocks away, is obnoxious. The part that kills me is that these are the same people who will bitch about some kid driving by with his woofers blasting, and THAT only lasts a couple of seconds! When I want to hear Christmas music, I will choose my own, thank you very much.
Judgement. People who actually feel entitled to judge if I am giving to the "right" charity. Which, of course, means the charity THEY like. I am sorry, to all you good causes out there: I do not have the funds to donate to everything. Being a person of limited means, I try to choose wisely where my charity dollars go. Friends, family...leave me alone, OK? You'll just have to trust that I'm not donating to a fund dedicated to freeing Zombies Wrongly Imprisoned.
You do this. You know you do. I do it. Everybody does. You say it every year. "Here, have another cookie." Please stop, now. Thank you for the plate of cookies. I appreciate it very, VERY much. I do. It's just that I can't eat them all (with you watching me). Please don't try to make me eat more than I want to. And I promise, I will stop trying to make you eat everything, too. Deal?
The Grinch said it. "Maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more." Dr. Seuss nailed that one. I don't need the next, newest, fancier, shinier thing. Really, neither do you. I think Christmas gifts should be meaningful and personal. That isn't to say that a cool new tablet can't be meaningful. That's what my youngest son is getting. (Sorry, son. But I doubt you'll read this anyway.) For him, it is a gift that is a vote of confidence in his recent decisions. Christmas gifts are a lovely way to express your affection and thoughtfulness. They aren't meant to be an expression of your bank account and your shopping stamina.

Merry Christmas, everyone. I really do love this time of year....warts and all. :D

*********

A Gift For You!

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 22:20:00 +0000

My holiday gift to you!

Until December 31st, get my e-novel "A Gathering of Light" at smashwords for FREE!

Click here to get your free copy.

You can get it in a format to work with your Kindle, Nook or other e-reader. You can also get it in a format to read on your computer.

Merry Christmas, everyone!!

Timelessness

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 21:29:00 +0000

Timelessness. Beauty. Class. Grace. Some people have it.

One of my cherished clients has it. That warm, interested and engaging light in her eyes, a spark of humor in them always.

I have a friend who makes me feel valued and treasured every day. She adds grace and beauty to my life.

There is a quality in some people that surpasses time, place, education and finances. It gives them an air of timelessness. Like they would be a beloved person anywhere, at any point in history.

My own Grandmother had that, too. She had a compassionate, witty, good-bearted wisdom. She was welcome everywhere, loved by everyone and her opinion was always sought...and valued.

When I think of beautiful people, I don't think of pageant queens and lingerie models. I think of real people. People with kindness, people with a sense of humor and good grace. People with a generous heart and tactful filter on their speech. Insightful, cheerful people. I think of people with the qualities that give them timelessness and grace.

I Am Easily Amused

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 16:25:00 +0000

You know I love to watch people. It's better than any nature show on PBS, IMHO, because people are so surprising. I'm always so interested in the things that people do! That interest reached a new level of amusement and amazement the other day. I stumbled across fiverr.com. Be warned. You can lose an entire morning, your coffee will get cold and you'll still be sitting there in your pajamas, laughing. It is a website where people post the things they are willing to do for five dollars. Seriously.

Break up with your girlfriend for you. BE your girlfriend on facebook for a couple of weeks. Write your message on their body and send you a picture of it. (No, I don't mean they'll write it on their forearm, either.) They will photoshop a picture for you or do other feats of technological wonder.

I'm intrigued! "Dude. I'll pay you five bucks to call my girlfriend and tell her I'm through with her." I am so curious how much money the breakers are making doing that. And I'm curious what the girlfriend thinks when she gets a call from some guy in another part of the country (or world), telling her, "Hey, your boyfriend is done with you, but he's such a chickensh!t he paid me five bucks to tell you so."

Lots of girls will send pictures of their attributes to you five bucks. Other people will be your reference on a job application. I'd have to wonder, if I interviewed you. Your last jobs were all here in town, but the reference is from a guy in Bangladesh? Huh.

There are interesting listings that are less scuzzy, too. One lady will send you a video of your message, in sign. Cool. They will turn your message into a little rap song. Or write your message in calligraphy or Chinese or Cyrillic? Although, cynic that I am, how would I know? I think about that with tattoos. If I had a Chinese character inked into my skin that I thought said "Balance", and really said "Dumbass"? I mean, really. If I could write Chinese and people wanted messages, it might be awfully fun to mess with them. Wouldn't you be tempted? I would.

The ones who will be your facebook GF for a few weeks? That was interesting, too. They all looked pretty darn hot in the thumbnail next to their listing. Is facebook the new way to play headgames with your GF? Are those pictures even the actual girl? You probably pay her five bucks, thinking she looks like Carrie Underwood, but when she posts the picture as your GF, she really looks like Fiona in her ogre phase.

I have to admire the creativity and courage of the people who are doing these things. I don't know if they actually make any money at it, but I wouldn't be surprised if they do. That isn't to say I am convinced of their wisdom or their honor.

While we're at it, did you ever stumble across the listings on ebay where women are selling their worn socks, pantyhose or high heels? I had no idea there was such a ... such a.... such a.... demand for those kinds of things. I must really be ignorant.

Or at least, I was.

Playing along at LoveLinks!

Writing is Therapeutic

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 00:02:00 +0000

I completed the NaNoWriMo challenge! I did it!

My story is a loooonnnggggg way from finished, but I ended the month with over 58,000 words written. Of course I am pleased with myself for having achieved that much...now I need to finish the book. I love to meet a challenge, complete my goal and all that good stuff, but that isn't what is so therapeutic about writing fiction.

I wrote an earlier post that compared writing (for me) to playing Barbies when I was a child. I had my characters and just played at what their storyline was. Fiction writing truly is a lot like that. The fun part comes in when you get to create conflict and then resolve it. In fiction writing, you can create a character you don't like, and then deal with them however you want to. If you want to have your antagonist eaten by a grizzly bear, you can do that. If you always wanted to live on an island in the South Pacific, you can write yourself there. You can be a race car driver or a turtle farmer, and anything in between. If you are lonely, you can write a love life. If you are happy, you can recreate that again for a reader. It doesn't matter if the conflict is between people, or within a person chasing their own dreams, or maybe with nature. You are the one in charge of everyone's destiny and you can solve their problems or leave them dangling.

You can write the life you want, you can write a story that is the realization of your own dreams. You can relive the happiest moments in your life, or a create a kind of script for making new happy moments.

Writing can be very therapeutic.

Shopping

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 00:28:00 +0000

What a CHALLENGE!

I'm shopping for new cookware. My current cookware was given to me as an engagement gift. I've been married for almost 27 years. It might be time to add something non-stick to my toolbox? Yeah, baby!

Considering my recent commitment to only buy American made goods this holiday season, the cookware is turning into a bit of a pickle. (Har har har....I crack me up.)

I love love LOVE Kitchenaid, but I read that Kitchenaid COOKWARE is not made in the USA, like their appliances are. I was looking at a set from Costco: 14 pieces of nice, hard-anodized aluminum non-stick cookware in configurations that are perfect for someone who really does cook. Where is it made? Taiwan.

So I found a couple of companies that do make their cookware in the good old USA. One set I really liked was $800 !!! Eight HUNDRED dollars. Oh. My. Goodness.

What to do?

NaNoWriMo Halfway

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 20:17:00 +0000

We are just over the halfway point in the insanity that is the NaNoWriMo challenge. I feel like I'm doing pretty well, being at just over 33,000 words at this point. The writing is going well. My Sweet Hubs is wonderfully supportive, assuaging my guilt about not paying attention to anyone except my imagination and my qwerty keyboard.

I have a confession to make. I am a pantser. I know this is not the way a professional writes a novel, but I can't help it. It works for me. I figure out who my main characters are, the time and place for the storyline to evolve, and I put my hands on the home row. There may or may not be a general idea of where a story is going. For my NaNo project, I had a myriad of ideas, but settled on nothing. I just sat down and started writing.

For me, writing this is a lot like playing Barbies when I was a child. I didn't have a whole life figured out for them. I just put Barbie and Ken together and imagined what they would do. And what they would do next, and so on. Except, here I am not limited to how many dolls my parents could afford. I can put my dolls anywhere in the world and make them anything I want them to be. (What was that one episode of the Twilight Zone where the people find out that they are really just the playthings of some enormous child?)

Don't think that this means I just dash off whatever comes to me and that's all there is to it. My first draft is pretty much pure writing-by-the-seat-of-my-pants. Then comes the work of revision, revision, revision.

With that in mind, I'm going to share a small excerpt from "A Light In The Mountains", my NaNo project.
If you'd like to see the first chapter, click here.

June, 1861

     It was three more weeks before Genesis Nash pulled up his courage and spoke to his father about going off to war. Exodus waited to see what would happen before he considered it further.
    Abram was pitching hay to the milk cow when Genesis came to him. “Pop,” he began. “Um. Uh. Did you know that George Yeager and Amos McNeeley both went off to join the war?
    Abram put the pitchfork aside, leaned against the stall and took a deep breath. “And.?”
    “And... They’re both my age. Well, Amos is younger.”
    “And?”
    “And they’re going off to fight the Rebels.”
    “And…?"
    “And I’m thinking about going, too.” Genesis hurried to continue before Abram could say anything. “I know you both think I’m too young. But I’m almost old enough and they won’t ask anyway. I’ve heard they don’t ask.”
    “Why do you want to fight the Rebels?” Abram asked.
    “Well. They shouldn’t be trying to break up the union this way. And they shouldn’t have fired on Fort Sumter.” Genesis’ answer lacked fire and he knew it. “Pop. If I don’t go off and see this, I might never get another chance. It will be the adventure I’ll remember all of my life. I’m a man now. I’ve got to go and join.”
    “What can I tell you, then, son? It won’t be an adventure. Oh, it will seem like one at first, and then when you get in your first fight and have to look a man in the face and kill him, the adventure will be gone and you’ll know that it’s hell on earth to war.”
    “But they’re Rebs! They’re the enemy! What’s so bad about killing an enemy?”
    “That’s what a young man thinks: that it’s easy to kill an enemy. But when you look right at him, and you see a face not unlike your own, and he speaks your language and maybe his father went to school with yours… and when you kill him and see the life evaporate from his eyes and you know you did it. Then you will know." Abram said, then continued.
   “I know you don’t believe me now. That’s alright. It’s just important for you to hear me so that you will remember my words on that future day when you will need them. Call him ‘enemy’ now, son, but remember always that he is a man. He is someone’s son, brother, husband… and to him you are the ‘enemy’. Never forget that whatever you are fighting over, he is still a man, just like you.”
    Now Genesis sat down and took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Did you kill anyone in the Mexican War, Pop?”
    “I did, and I will never forget it. I doubt I’ll ever get over it, either. He couldn’t have been more than 16. The way his eyes changed when he died…the light went out behind them, and he was gone. And it was me that killed him.” Abram’s voice trailed away.

Always....feel free to comment!

Playing along at lovelinks today....

An American Holiday

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 20:10:00 +0000

At least, a holiday NOT made in China.

My Sweet Hubs and I made a pact: we are not buying even one thing that was made in China this holiday season. The same for products made in Taiwan, Pakistan, Korea....or any of the other countries who are glutting the American market with their cheaply-made goods and undercutting American companies.

I don't have anything against folks making a living. Of course not. But I AM a big believer in making wise financial decisions. We need to protect our own economy, and one place to start doing that is to buy American-made goods.

So, I don't guess we'll be buying any Christmas lights. What we have will have to do. (Unless you know of a place to buy lights made in America?) We'll be reading the labels on every product we buy.

We also have a pact with our sweet boomerangs: Christmas is paring down. It is a holiday for family, for remembering the birth of the Savior. We're all grown ups. We will spend the day together, and have a feast, and be grateful that we are all together. Gifts are superfluous.

Only a minor rant here. I hear you groaning. All the way over here, I hear you saying to yourself, "But my kids are still young enough to get toys for Christmas, and those are mostly made in China."

It's a crying shame if all the cool toys are made in China. It will be an even bigger shame if more breadwinners lose their jobs to the China trade.

Choose American-made goods and buy them locally whenever possible. Buy gift certificates for LOCAL services instead of a gift card for more online buying. Choose gift certificates for locally-owned restaurants instead of another one to the Olive Garden, which they didn't use last year, anyway.

Just a thought.

_________

Chapter 1: A Light In The Mountains

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 03:08:00 +0000

For my NaNoWriMo challenge, I am working on the sequel to "A Gathering of Light". This is the rough draft of chapter 1. Comments absolutely welcome!! (Just bear in mind it IS a first draft!)

Outside of Hellgate Trading Post,

Idaho Territory, May 1861

Abram Nash was rousted from his sleep by the dog tugging on his hand. She had his hand firmly, but gently, in her mouth and was trying to pull him out of bed.

“Peaches, what is it?” Abram said in a sleepy whisper. The dog pulled until Abram’s feet were on the floor. She waited in the hall until he slipped his boots on and followed her. Peaches trotted to kitchen door and looked back.

“Can’t you wait ‘til sunup like the rest of us?” He grumbled, thinking the collie-mix dog just needed to do her business. Abram opened the door and turned to go back to bed, but Peaches darted back and grabbed his hand again.

“What? Girl, are you smelling things again, or what?” But Abram followed Peaches, anyway, in spite of his grumbling. The whinny from the barn startled the sleep from his brain and Abram Nash figured out what his dog was trying to tell him.

The buckskin mare was having her foal. She was confined to her stall in the barn and the Nash family was keeping a close eye on her. This was her first foal and she was Geneva Nash’s favorite mare. Abram was anxious to see this foal, with a buckskin dam and palomino sire, it was sure to be handsome. It wouldn’t matter. Geneva would love it no matter what it looked like.

Abram whispered in his sleeping wife’s ear, “Geneva. It’s foaling time. Gen. Genny. Wake up Gen. We have work to do.”

He brushed the caramel strands from her face and waited for her green eyes to open. Geneva was a ranch wife and woke early every day with never a complaint; she worked cheerfully until the day’s chores were done. But when she slept, she slept like a dead thing. Hard, quiet and damn near impossible to rouse.

At last, she rolled to her back and opened her eyes.

“Wake up Mrs. Nash. There’s going to be a new mouth to feed this day.” Abram said.

“Is Cupcake having her foal?” Geneva was awake and on her feet in the same breath.

Abram smiled at his impulsive wife, running out to the barn in her bare feet and nightgown. Thirty-six years old and she still had the exuberance of a girl. The moonlight shining through her nightgown showed still had the slim, supple build of a girl, too, except for the softness of her belly, so newly after childbirth.

The early May morning was chilly, and within just a few minutes, Geneva was back inside to start the coffee and get dressed. First foals, like first babies, generally took a while.

When the bacon was fried and biscuits ready to bake, Geneva Nash rang the bell, waking her brood and starting the day. One by one, their sleepy faces appeared around the kitchen table. Daughter Patience helped Geneva get breakfast on the table and the oldest sons, Genesis and Exodus milked the two dairy cows before it was time to eat.

It was Leviticus’ job to fill the wood bins, and Deuteronomy had to bring in enough water to fill the reservoir on the wood stove, plus two buckets besides. On wash day, he had to fill the laundry tub, too.

Judge Nash was ten years old, and he helped Abram feed the stock. Temperance made the beds and Faith, Hope and Charity, ages 7, 6 and 5 respectively, fed the poultry and gathered the morning eggs. Joshua and Samuel, only 3 and 1, sat in their high chairs attended by Patience, while Geneva put the newborn twins Isaiah and Ezra to breast.

Morning in the Nash family was a whirlwind.

“I heard that George Yeager joined up to fight the Rebs.” Genesis Nash told his brother Exodus. Their milking chores gave them a little time for confidential talk.

“But George ain’t old enough to join. He’s only seventeen.” Exodus said.

“He told them he was eighteen, and nobody checked to make sure.”

“So? What are you saying?” Exodus knew it wasn’t just conversation.

“If he can get away with it, I can, too. I look older’n seventeen, don’t I? I know I look older than George. What you think Pop would do if I lied about my age and joined up?” Genesis asked.

Exodus thought a while. What would Pop do? “I don’t know what he’d do, brother. He might be mad, but then, he might understand, too. If I was you, I’d be more worried about what Momma would do.”

Genesis sat up on his milking stool and pictured what his Momma might do. She was only about five feet tall and maybe a hundred pounds, but the thought of crossing her gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his gut. The streaks of red in her caramel hair were a comment on her personality. Most of the time she was cool headed and warm hearted. But get crossways of her, and the red showed itself.

Thinking back over his seventeen years of life, Genesis couldn’t remember her ever actually doing anything in particular when that crimson fury showed up behind her green eyes. It was just that the feeling of having Momma displeased with you was so uncomfortable. She didn’t say anything, or whup up on you like some Mommas did. She wasn’t mean when she was mad. That just made it all the worse. She was always so patient and cheerful, that when she ever did get mad, you took notice. To have been the one who made her mad made you feel like a real snake. Momma didn’t have to do anything about it. You beat yourself up, feeling terrible that you could be so bad that you made Momma unhappy.

Now, Pop: he was different. Genesis could picture the way Pop’s black eyebrows came together in a frown, and how his almost-black eyes snapped with anger. He might use the bible to teach you the lesson he wanted you to learn. He might show you the verse that told you what was wrong with what you did. He might make you copy down that verse many times, depending on your transgression. You might earn yourself a long lecture that sounded and felt a lot like a sermon. Or he might just make you go out to the creek bottom and cut a switch from the willow tree. You could never tell with Pop.

“What about you? You’re sixteen. Ain’t you tempted to go join up and fight them Rebs?” Genesis asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve thought about. But it such a hard decision. I’d have to lie, and I hate to lie. Pop needs us both here. With all the little ones, he needs us bigger ones to work. Anyway, I bet that fight will be over by the time we can get all the way from the territory here to South Carolina. But then, we might never have the chance to have such an adventure again. We’d see places we might not ever see otherwise, and meet people from all over. Plus, those Rebels, firing on Fort Sumter: it makes me mad. It’d be like slapping Pop. You just don’t do that. They need to be punished, that’s sure. But I don’t know about us being the ones to do it. We’re just ranchers. What do we know about fighting wars?”

Temperance bounced her little blond pigtails into the barn and told the boys that breakfast was almost ready. At nine years old, she was already growing into a beauty and was so sweet that even her big brothers never picked on her. She didn’t flounce or priss around, but was such an angel child that no one could ever be cross with her.

“Mommy says the biscuits are brown and coffee is hot. Are you done with the milking, yet?” Temperance asked.

“This old cow is just about played out.” Genesis said. “We’ll need to get her freshened before long. Here, walk on this side of me, little cookie. Sometimes that cow kicks and her big foot would kick a little nubbin like you into next week.”

Temperance took his hand and bobbed along beside him like a kite on a string. Walking with her big brother was one of her favorite things in life.

The rest of the family was already at the table when the oldest two and Temperance walked in. She slid into her chair, Genesis and Exodus plunked the milk buckets down and sat, too.

“We’ll bow our heads”, Started Abram. “Heavenly Father, King of the Universe, we thank Thee for the food on our table, the health in our bodies and the strength of our family. Forgive us our sins and make us worthy of Thy bounty. Amen.” The morning prayer was usually short and to the point with Abram Nash. He was homesteading a big spread and had a lot to do every day. God would understand.

“I think we’ll have a new foal around her by nightfall, youngsters.” Abram told his brood, while he slid four eggs from the platter onto his plate. Ten of his fourteen children were old enough to understand what that meant. The girls all squealed with joy, provoking a quick hush from their father.

“Piglets squeal, not girls.” He said.

They ducked their heads, but were still smiling, because Pop was smiling, too. The clinking of forks on plates and blowing on hot coffee replaced the chatter and giggling, until newborn Isaiah howled. He wasn’t quite full when the biscuits were done, but had to be put in his crib for a moment, anyway. He was not a tolerant baby. By the time Geneva could put him to breast, he was purple mad and hiccupping in his howls.

“Oh, are we all going to have trouble with this one, family.” Geneva smiled. “He is going to be the one to punch sweet Patience here in the nose, when he gets bigger.”

“And he’ll spit in Faith’s eye.” Patience said. She looked at Faith like she was passing the ball to her in a game.

“And he’ll pinch Deuteronomy on the arm!” Faith said, and looked at him to give him his turn.

“He’ll twist Judge’s ear!” Deuteronomy said.

“He’ll slap Genesis upside the head” Judge took his turn at the game.

“He’ll bite Hope’s finger!” Genesis said.

“He’ll pull Charity’s pigtail!” Hope said.

“And he’ll give Temperance a horse-bite!” Hope said, but she lisped it ‘Tempwance’.

“He’ll trip Exodus and make him fall down!” Temperance said.

“He’ll poke Leviticus in the eye!” Exodus said.

“And then what will he do?” Leviticus asked. “He’ll take little Joshua here and squeeze him until he sneezes all over Samuel, and Samuel will only have Ezra left to pick on.” Leviticus took Ezra out of his crib and cradled his baby brother in his arm. “And nobody could ever pick on Ezra because he is so handsome”

Geneva and Abram looked across the table at each other and smiled.

“I never heard such a bunch of silly children in my life.” Abram scolded, though he wasn’t really mad. “Now eat your breakfast and get to your chores. And I don’t want to see you all hanging around Cupcake’s stall and making her nervous, either. She has a big day ahead of her and it will just be harder on her if you make her nervous. You hear?

“Yes, sir.” Even 3-year-old Joshua said it in unison with the rest. Game time was over, and Pop was serious.

(submitted to Lovelinks at FreeFringes....just for fun.)

NaNoWriMo

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 03:05:00 +0000

I took the plunge. I'm trying it. Close my eyes, hold my breath and jump into the deep end. Which is an especially appropriate metaphor because I don't know how to swim. Honest. I don't.

Do you know about NaNoWriMo? It's a competition with yourself. The National Novel Writing Month, to write almost 1700 words every day for the month of November. At the end, if I do it, I will have my sequel.

So until December 1st, my dear ones, don't expect to see a lot of new posts. I have a deadline!

Would you like to read my first chapter? I'll post it next.

Hutspot - My Modern American Version

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 18:24:00 +0000

Here is a recipe for something I threw together on Saturday night. It's a little American twist on a Dutch comfort food from my childhood, which I think Mom called "Hutspot", or something like that. It sounds more like her word if you clear your throat while you're saying it. This will feed four, or makes terrific leftovers.

Preheat oven to 375
(cube everything bite-sized)

3 white or red potatoes, scrubbed and cubed
2 cups of cubed other potatoes: I had some lovely red-fleshed fingerling pototoes, but a couple of larger Yukon golds would work. Whatever you think looks good.
1 sweet potato, peeled and cubed
1 sweet onion, sliced
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 good-sized bunch of kale, washed super-well and chopped. Cabbage would also work, but kale is better.
1/4 cup grated cheese. I had extra-sharp cheddar on hand, but smoked Gouda would be DEEE-vine.
1/4 cup of crumbled feta. I think blue cheese might also be tasty, but I haven't tried it.
butter and olive oil
salt and pepper
a smidgeon of Montreal Steak Seasoning, if you have it.
Optional: meat. I used 4 chicken sausages with red pepper and garlic, sliced. It's what I had on hand. Cooked bacon or diced ham would be more traditional, but this dish doesn't really need any meat if you're shooting for vegan.

This could be a one-pan meal with a little tweaking, but I love the roasted flavor I get by preparing it this way.

Put the potatoes in a large roasting pan and drizzle with olive oil. Sprinkle them with salt, pepper and the steak seasoning. Stir to coat all the cubes, and roast for 15 minutes. Then add the sweet potatoes and stir again. Meanwhile:

In a large skillet, melt a tablespoon or so of butter, and saute the onions until they are just getting brown on the edges. Add the garlic and saute a few minutes more. If you're adding sausage or ham, add it now and get some brown yummy goodness going on that too. If you're using bacon, wait. You'll add it later.

When the onions and meat are brown and good, add the chopped kale. Cook it down until it's wilted, but still bright. Stir this mess into the mess in your roasting pan. Add the bacon now, and add the shredded cheese. Stir it all together, sprinkle the feta on top and roast for 15 more minutes.

This is bright and colorful comfort food. I think it would be wonderful alongside a cup of creamy soup, with a lovely salad, or just with a chunk of hearty bread. And of course, as always....serve with wine!

OK, I lied. I had this with a nice stout beer: Slow Elk from Big Sky Brewing Company.

Pumpkin-Corn Chowder

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 20:34:00 +0000

I made this pumpkin soup for dinner last night. Even Sweet Hubs and Boomerang #1 liked it. Neither of them are very soupy people, either. I read the recipe for Pumpkin Soup with Mint-Pumpkin Seed Pesto (in cute little pumpkin bowls, no less!) in this month's issue of Sunset magazine. And true to form, I altered it. Kind of a lot. Mine is just like theirs but entirely different. So here's my recipe. I hope you like it!

1 Pie Pumpkin. Don't get a carving pumpkin for this recipe. You won't like the texture of the soup.
1 quart of good, commercially-prepared chicken stock, or a quart of your own good homemade chicken stock (here's a recipe). Not broth. Stock. Entiendo?
2 Leeks, chopped fairly fine. Or 1 medium onion, chopped.
1 tablespoon chopped garlic
4 tablespoons of butter or bacon grease. (Quit whining! It's just 4 tablespoons!)
1/2 teaspoon cumin
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 cup grated sharp cheddar cheese
2 cups frozen or fresh kernel corn.
1/4 cup of half and half. Or milk.
1/8 teaspoon cayenne, ground red papper, red pepper flakes.... something hot.
salt and pepper to taste
1/4 cup of quick grits, masa, polenta, or even some shredded corn tortillas. OPTIONAL.

Cut the pumpkin in half, scrape out the seeds to roast and eat later, cover the halves with foil and bake at 350 until tender. (I also make little foil nests to both hold the squash steady and keep the bottom from burning.)

While the cooked pumpkin cools enough for you to handle:

Melt the butter or bacon grease in a large sauce pan and saute the leeks until completely translucent with some browning flecks of yumminess. Add the garlic and saute a few minutes more. Add the cumin and ginger, and when this mess is fragrant and tempting, remove from heat.

Scrape the pumpkin flesh out of the shells and drop it in your blender with the leek-garlic mixture. Add enough chicken stock to puree this very smoothly. Add this to the rest of the chicken stock in your sauce pan. When it come to a simmer, add the cheese. When the cheese is melted, toss in the rest of the ingredients. I added quick grits to give the soup a very satisfying and substantial body. If you like soupier soup, leave it out. It's your call.

We all agreed we liked this very much. The men thought that some crumbled bacon on top would be oh-so-good. I agreed. I also think some green chilis in there might be pretty dang wonderful. Next time, I think I'll use roasted corn, too.

I served it with some homemade bread and a glass of wine.

Well, OK. I was the only one who had wine.

I earned it.

***

Never Say Never

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 20:11:00 +0000

My FIL, who has been married three times and divorced three times, tells me that "never" is not a word to be tossed around lightly. I agree. Even so, I've done some things in my life that I would really like to include in a list of "never again".

Being pregnant. Don't get me wrong: I loved being pregnant and I cherished my babies. Now I'm almost 50 years old, though. Even though I get a powerful baby urge from time to time, I never want to be pregnant again. It would be a miracle on the order of Elizabeth, mother of John the Baptist, but still. No thank you, Lord, on that particular miracle.
Roller coasters. Been on two. Done with with two. Done with that. Thank you very much.
Hunting Coues' Whitetail Deer. Done that, too. Honestly, America. I'm not tough enough. The little grey ghosts only live in rough, rocky, cactus-ridden, straight up-and-down, rugged country. I admit it. I. Am. Not. Tough. Enough.
Speaking in front of a group.
Martinis. Yeah. No more of those for me. I had never tasted a martini. Sweet Hubs and I went away for a few days. It was something on my bucket list, so (with the helpful advice of my dear friend Karen, who knew I was making plans) I ordered a Gray Goose dirty martini. Blechhhhh. I'd rather drink the olive juice or plain NyQuil. Things that make you go "Bleeechhhh". I am a sweet-wine girl. Case closed.
Raising turkeys. We had a good experience raising turkeys. We did. But have you ever plucked a turkey? It might be unfair of me to mention this so soon before Thanksgiving, but picking turkeys is just plain gross. Turkeys smell much worse than chickens this way. The pinfeathers are G-R-O-S-S. Like squeezing giant, stinky blackheads. Next time I raise a turkey, it will be raising it OUT of the freezer at Safeway, and into my grocery cart.
The size I used to wear. It's gone forever.
Going bra-less (in public).
I know that I can never eat a whole, raw, unpeeled apple again. IBS. 'Nuf said.
Bikinis in public. Gone forever. No need to thank me, America. I am opposed to pollution of all sorts, including visual pollution.

I wonder what I'll giving up ten years from now?

************

My Next Book

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 02:29:00 +0000

I've been thinking about it, and decided maybe I should shelve the sequel I've been writing and focus on a new project.

You know those "For Dummies" books? Astronomy For Dummies, Windows For Dummies, Investing For Dummies, etc? I think I want to write one called "Life For Dummies". It will be all about daily living inside a home, applicable to apartments, single-family dwellings, condos and even a single-wide in Tornado Alley. Also applies to any kitchen, bathroom or work space shared with others.

I want to cover the important tips for living that somehow were neglected when people were growing up. I am, I admit, part of the problem. My own two grown sons did not learn all of these lessons. I don't know where I went wrong. Some of the chapters might include:

Toilet paper holders. How to identify an empty one. How they work. How to replace a roll of TP, once you've determined the holder is empty.
Garbage. What is it and where does it go? How do you know when to take out the garbage? Does it magically disappear, or do you have to do something? This chapter will help the reader to decide if that empty carton of ice cream or box of cereal should be thrown away, or returned to its point of origin. How much cereal can you ethically throw away? Four Froot Loops does not qualify as tomorrow's breakfast.
Dishes, Part I. If you know where to find a clean dish when you want one, then you DO ACTUALLY know where to put the clean ones in the dishwasher. And dishwashers do not empty themselves.
Dishes, Part II. Which items need to be rinsed and why. Water glasses? No rinsing necessary. Milk glasses, oatmeal bowls, plate of eggs: please rinse. Well.
Leftovers as a science project. What happens to an Egg McMuffin if you leave it in the fridge in its paper wrapper for more than 2.5 minutes. Also: this has black spots and green fuzz. What should I do with it? Also: Saran Wrap. More than just a Halloween Costume.

Part B might include an Outdoor Section:

The dog is whining pitifully and looking at her feeder, the door, her water dish..... What does this mean?
More dogs: how to identify the dog poop in the yard, and what to do about it.
Anyone can pick up trash. It's true! Did you know this? A Wendy's burger wrapper blows onto your front step. The original owner might not actually know that it is here. How will it find its way to the dumpster. This is a logic problem.
Just for fun, and to grind my own personal axe, I want to include a chapter about Your Barking Dog. My family worked very diligently to teach our blue, OCD, Australian Cattle Dog that she was expected to bark at some things and not permitted to bark at other things. It IS possible to teach a dog to hush. It is! Honestly. If our OCD dog and her 3 predecessors can learn, your dog can, too. Neighbors walking on the sidewalk? No bark. Guy in a black ski mask trying to get in your back door? Bark!!! OK. We were a little vague about when to bark or not bark at elk, since our OCD dog let the elk in without a peep, while they consumed my entire garden. But we can't blame the dog. She is officially retired, anyway. In any case, dogs barking at..... air? NO FRIGGING BARK!!!

Who knows. Maybe it will be in stores soon. !

I have to be fair, here. My own men, Sweet Hubs and my two Boomerangs, are not guilty of all the offenses. I gathered the ideas from many places.

I Have to Know

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 17:14:00 +0000

Please explain it to me? Please? PLEASE!!!

My dear friend is going to have back surgery tomorrow. People. ranging from our letter carrier to the checker at the grocery store, are telling her their horror stories about back surgery. "Oh, it was awful. He had to be caged for 2 months..."

Strangers will tell expectant mothers that they were in labor for 100 hours. When people find out that someone has cancer, they tell the most frightening tales about what someone else went through.

Why do we do this? Shouldn't we all know better?

Fleeting Moments

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Iles) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 00:37:00 +0000

I like to watch people. If you've been reading me for any little while, you'll have noticed that I write about my people-watching obsession from time to time. Last week, I enjoyed four days of some very exceptional people-watching. It was exceptional because it was a great cross-section of people. Young and old, many cultures, many different economic levels. Today, I'm going to tell you about one person in particular.

She was a young-ish mother, with one child about 3 years old. Mom was probably about 25 - 30. I saw her every day for four days.

The first day I saw them, they were among several people (me included) who were waiting for a class to get out. She sat, with her toddler, at a small table. Mom was texting, and Toddler was bored. Mom scolded. Sit still. Be quiet. Just wait. Hush up. Stop whining.

Toddler was bored. Apparantly, Mom hadn't packed a single toy or a couple of crayons with a sheet of paper or anything for Toddler to do. She sure as hell didn't forget her cell phone, but Toddler was empty-handed. She seemed to be expecting Toddler to sit like a gentleman for half an hour with nothing to do and just wait quietly. Let me tell you, folks, it wasn't working.

The next day, I saw them in a store. An lingerie store, no less. Not even the kind with hoochy, shiny mannequins in colorful lingerie. It was a plain bra store with racks and racks of nude, white and black bras. What a thrill. Believe it or not, Toddler was bored. Mom was trying to look at bras, but Toddler just would NOT stand still and play statue.

The third day, they were in the food court. Toddler sat on the pub-height stool, swinging his feet and slurping loudly on his empty soda cup. Mom was texting. He asked Mom for more soda, but she waved him away like a troublesome mosquito. Toddler was bored. He stood up on the chair and reached over to take a drink from her cup, and she swatted his little rump lightly and made him sit down again.

I understand that children are demanding. I understand that sometimes we have to use creative discipline. My youngest son was a talented interrupter, so he often found himself on the other side of whatever door was handy. Like out on the back porch or in the coat closet. A few seconds without the attention he was clamoring for realigned his attitude. But four days of being bored is a lot to ask of a small child. I don't know many adults who could handle being ignored for four straight days.

I wanted so very badly to go talk to Mom. To tell her that her child's young years would be gone in a flash, never to be recaptured. I wanted to tell her that she was expecting more than is reasonable of a toddler child, to think that he could hang out in a casino, a mall, a hallway and little hotel room for four days with NOTHING TO DO and not get cranky.

I wanted to tell her to read Galit Breen's blog and get some frickin' inspiration about what a joy motherhood can really be.

I wanted to tell her to put her cell phone down, look into the big brown eyes of her little boy and give him a few precious crumbs of her attention.

Honestly, I don't know why I didn't.