Flour Sack Dresses

Moon Bread aka Breakfast Roll-Ups

2017-11-22T22:48:00.000-05:00

Recently, these little roll-ups have been featured on commercials and in magazines as something all the cool kids are doing with crescent rolls, but we've been doing these for years. I guess that makes us some of the original cool kids, eh? LOL

Anyway, this is a super easy recipe for busy mornings- especially when you're trying to occupy the littles while you're cooking. I hope your family enjoys them as much as we do.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I hope you all have a safe and blessed holiday.

Original post from November 2014.
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For breakfast at our house on Thanksgiving morning, I always make Moon Bread. At least, that’s what the kiddos call them. Presumably, because they’re made with Crescent Rolls and they turn out in a crescent moon shape.

It all started one Thanksgiving morning when the boys were little and I was looking for a quick breakfast that they could eat without me worrying about them making too much of a mess while they were watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade when we had the whole family coming for Thanksgiving dinner. But I also wanted it to be kinda special.

My Mama used to do that when I was a kid. She’d make Monkey Bread every Christmas morning. She never made it any other day of the year except Christmas morning so that made it special. I usually do the same thing for my kiddos on Christmas morning. I make their favorite breakfasts on their birthdays and French Bread Casserole for New Year’s morning, etc, etc. But I didn’t have a special breakfast in mind for Thanksgiving morning.

I was up long before the kids that day and had everything prepared for the dishes I was going to make. I had some bacon fried for another recipe and saw a tube of crescent rolls in the crisper drawer when inspiration struck. I know my kids like crescent rolls and they like bacon so why not put them together? Then I thought, “Hey, I’ll scramble some eggs and throw some cheese in too…” and voila! A new breakfast favorite was born.

Now my kids regularly ask me to make these. This Thanksgiving, the first one without my mom, Daddy came over early and spent the whole day with us. He was here for breakfast and declared “Moon Bread” to be his new favorite. I hope your family likes it too.
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What you’ll need:

1 package of your favorite bacon
6-8 eggs
1 package of pre-sliced cheese, cut into thirds (see notes)
2 tubes of “Big and Buttery” crescent rolls (see notes)

Fry the bacon and break each fried slice in half- do not crumble. Slice each square of cheese into thirds and set aside. Scramble the eggs and set aside.
Unroll the crescent roll dough and separate according to the pre-scored lines on each roll. You should end up with 8* triangles.
On the big side of the triangle, place one rectangle of cheese, one teaspoon of scrambled egg, and one or two bacon halves. Fold the end up over top of the ingredients and then tuck each side underneath, towards you. Continue to turn the roll over until it comes to the point. Continue each triangle of dough until you use up all of the ingredients. If you run out of one, simply omit it from that roll and move on. Place each roll onto a cookie sheet and bake according to the crescent roll package directions.

Notes-
• These are best served hot, fresh out of the oven but you can make them a day ahead of time and warm them up.
• *Regular crescent rolls come with the dough pre-scored into 10 rolls. “Big and Buttery” crescent rolls come with the dough pre-scored into 8 rolls. I usually buy the Big and Buttery ones because that’s what my family prefers; however, this recipe turns out just as good using regular crescent rolls. Just use slightly less than a teaspoon of scrambled egg for each roll or they’ll burst open when you bake them.
• I prepare all of the ingredients the night before I plan to make these- including scrambling the eggs. Just put them into a Ziploc baggy and they’ll heat up nicely.
• Don’t crumble the bacon. Tear each cooked slice in half so that you end up with a piece about the length of your little finger. Use one or two per roll.
• I use Muenster cheese. It comes pre-sliced in a package of 10-12 slices. You can also use American or cheddar. And you can also slice thin pieces from a block of cheese.
• This recipe is very forgiving and is easily adaptable to your family’s individual preferences. Try making them using just bacon and cheese or just cheese; they’re delicious either way.

Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon

2017-02-22T00:14:00.000-05:00

This was originally posted on 02/14/09

Let me preface this with a little explanation. My sister is mean. Yes, it’s that simple. As a child, she was constantly torturing my brother and me; throwing spiders on us, putting crickets in our beds, catching frogs and chasing us with them. I can even recall an incident with a dead snake and a box. Eventually, my brother grew up and learned to ignore her, but to this day, I am still frightened by small creeping critters.

Now to preface the next part of the story-

As you all know, my great-grandmother hasn’t been doing very well lately. As such, my sister has been staying with her at night. Mostly to make sure she’s eating regularly and to see that she doesn’t fall. Since my grandmother has been ill, there has been a flurry of activity going through her house.

It’s an ordinary house, really; 2-bedrooms, hardwood floors, plaster walls and a kitchen booth with corner windows behind it that overlook the lawn. You know the kind of house I mean; something straight out of the 1950’s. The kitchen table is the same one that countless people have eaten from for the last 60 years- both complete strangers and family alike. In fact, it’s the same table that they purchased when they moved into the house. The house has seen so much activity over the years, that if the walls could talk, they’d have some incredible tales to tell.

But up till just a few months ago, the house had no toys strewn over the living room floor, no pop-guns on top of the refrigerator, no errant shoes hiding under the bed… it was very orderly because the kids weren’t there regularly enough to make those messes and because my grandmother lived there alone.

Well… a few days ago, I was sitting in the booth chatting and I noticed a large, very realistic, toy lizard on the table made of some sort of soft squishy silicone-like plastic. It’s brown about 8-10 inches in length. Even though I’m not sure who purchased it for them, it obviously belongs to one of my children.

I have no idea what got into me, really I don’t; but as I eyed the lizard, inspiration suddenly struck. With a devilish grin, I picked it up, took him into the spare bedroom where my sister has been sleeping and put him under the covers. The bed sits on the left wall of the room and I assumed she’d been getting into bed from the side closest to the door. It’s the side I’d get in if I were staying there. So I pulled the sheets back and put the lizard just under where the pillows would be. That way, the lump it would make wouldn’t be so conspicuous.

As I did it, I pictured in my head the scene: she’d be in her pajamas with a book tucked under one arm, pull back the blankets, and WHOA! She’d be startled, let out a little yelp as she jumped sky-high and then she’d quickly realize it was my kid’s toy lizard. She’d laugh to herself thinking the children had put it there. At any rate, it would make her smile. I came home that night proud of myself that I’d finally gotten her back for the years of critter-torture I’d suffered at her hands.

I called later that night after I was sure she’d already gotten into bed and innocently asked how she was doing. She laughed and asked me which child had “done it”? I laughed a little and asked her what she meant and she began to explain what had actually happened.

It was eerily similar to the scene I’d pictured, but I never could have predicted one little detail- she didn’t get into bed on the side I’d put the lizard. She gets into bed on the opposite side. So by the time she noticed the lizard in bed with her, she was snuggled down reading her book. /snickers

She said she glanced over and all she could see was about 6 inches of brown tail near her arm. She threw the covers back, jumped out of bed, and was down the hall nearly to the bathroom before she realized that she’d have to deal with the lizard herself. /giggles

She actually hit her toe on the dresser in her haste to get out of the bedroom, but she didn’t notice it until she got back into bed much later. Talk about your delayed reaction! /snorts

The only thing that would have been more perfect is if the lizard had fallen down behind the bed so that when she went back into the bedroom, she couldn’t find it. /smirks

As she was relating the story to me, I was laughing so hard I had tears streaming down my face. My stomach muscles were on fire from the laughter. I couldn’t stop laughing. I nearly hurt myself laughing so hard. When I finally did catch my breath and was able to speak coherently, I claimed credit for the deed. She said she couldn’t believe it was me! She said she’d had the fleeting thought that it was me, but quickly dismissed it because it didn’t seem like something I’d do.

As I told the kids about it later, they cackled with glee. Then they started coming up with more ideas to scare Aunt Marcee. Through guffaws of laughter, Daniel remembered that we have a large remote-controlled tarantula and thought it would be hilarious if we put it at the foot of her bed so that she’d feel it with her toes before she actually saw it. Personally, I think the idea has merit. /wicked grin

While I was telling Daniel, I noticed that Christopher had a very contemplative look on his little face. Then his eyes twinkled and he innocently asked, “Mommy, can you help me catch a snake?” /breaks into uncontrollable laughter

Lordy, where DO they get these ideas? /looks around innocently

Smiles and Sea Glass Beaches

2015-11-09T01:05:00.000-05:00

Tonight the world is a little dimmer but the sky is a lot brighter. Today I learned of the loss of my very dear friend, Lisa Meeks.

I have always believed that we don’t meet people by accident; some people are meant to cross our paths for a reason. Sometimes it’s to teach us a lesson; good or bad. And sometimes there are people we meet who are truly a blessing in our lives. People who spread sunshine and happiness wherever they go. People whose inner light shines so very bright that it’s contagious and you cannot help but smile.

That was Lisa to me.

I met Lisa at Amelia Community Theater a few years ago. She was in the show, “Seven Year Itch” with my son, Christopher. Sometimes someone comes into your life that you instantly know you will be friends with and that’s how it was when I met Lisa. She smiled that million megawatt smile that lit up her whole face and introduced herself to me. She had the thickest Georgia accent I have ever heard in my life! It reminded me of a huskier version of Dixie Carter’s voice.

The next season, Lisa and I were in A Streetcar Named Desire together at the theater. She wore a vintage beaded cap and long black gown and looked absolutely stunning.

I remember it being the first time I noticed that she was struggling. Her hands were shaking and I could tell she was in pain. I sat with her until I was sure we didn’t need to call an ambulance. That was before I knew that it was something she dealt with quite a bit of the time, she just rarely showed it.

Later on, she was diagnosed with Huntington’s and suffered from Dystonia as well as Dyskinesia, and Chorea. Sometimes she would say, “Diane is visiting again! Damn that Dystonia Diane!” Like everything else, Lisa took the disease in stride and never let it get her down.

If you’re not familiar with Huntington’s, please look it up. In Lisa’s words, “it’s a terrible, debilitating disease that robs you of the ability to walk, talk, eat, and think. It truly eats you alive.”

Through the pain and even in the midst of a Dystonic storm when she could barely speak, she would still smile. She stayed positive and was encouraged that one day there would be a cure for Huntington’s.

She often spoke about a special place here on Amelia Island that she loved to visit to get sea glass to make jewelry with. She said it was a secret place and said one day we needed to go to the beach so she could show me. I detest the beach because of the sand but I wish now that I had said to hell with the sand and gone with her.

Even so, I’m positive there is a beach full of sea glass somewhere in heaven, with a secret little spot reserved just for Lisa.

When her disease progressed, Lisa moved back home to Georgia to be near family so I didn’t get to see her nearly often enough but our messages were almost always the same- “I miss your smile! Love you!”

Lisa loved with all her heart and made sure her friends knew she loved us. She was a breast cancer survivor and sent monthly reminders to all the ladies in her circle of friends, reminding us not to let cancer “steal second base.”

Lisa told me once, “Courage is fear that has said its prayers.” She was indeed a truly courageous woman. She said her prayers, she fought the good fight, and kept her faith.

One of her last posts on Facebook was this:

“Good morning, world! Make it count… Peace.”

Lisa always found a reason to smile.

She didn’t let Huntington’s or anything else get her down. Lisa was truly an inspiration to those of us who were blessed to know her, always reminding us to make every day count.

Just yesterday I found out she’d been admitted to the hospital again so I sent her a message to let her know that I was thinking of her and sending my love. She responded that she would see me next time she was well enough to make the trip down to Florida. I guess we’ll have to wait until we meet on that great sea glass beach in heaven instead.

I sure will miss this smile.

Rest in peace my sweet friend.

Pumpkin Spice Syrup - Take 2

2015-09-15T11:42:00.000-04:00

Anyone who knows me at all knows that I love Pumpkin Spice anything. When asked what their favorite flavor is, most folks respond with, "vanilla", "chocolate", "mint", or the like. Not me! My response is always pumpkin spice. As a result, I'm always trying the latest pumpkin spice flavored something to come out.

Randomperson: "Would you like to try this cardboard?"
Me: "Beg your pardon??"
Randomperson: "It's pumpkin spice flavored."
Me: "Oh! Well why didn't you say that to begin with? Of course I'll try it!"

Yeah, I know. Sad, isn't it? LOL

I posted a recipe a while back for Pumpkin Spice syrup and it was my go-to recipe until recently when I decided to experiment a bit.

I needed a recipe for a larger quantity. The previous recipe only made enough for a couple of days and I rarely (see: never) shared.

Also, I wanted to try to make a syrup that was a little more "everybody friendly." Just because I like my PSL (that's Pumpkin Spice Latte for those who don't know) with cinnamon and bits of pumpkin floating in the bottom, not everyone does. As such, that recipe doesn't lend itself to many uses other than coffee.

This new one could be drizzled over pumpkin loaf or ice cream or the top of a cheesecake... oh, I could go on and on!

Suffice to say that while the old recipe is still delicious and is one I will make again some day, the following is so much better for so many reasons and is now my new favorite.

Thanks to my son, Christopher, and my dear friend, Rachel H., for being my guinea pigs!

Pumpkin Spice Syrup

6 cups white sugar
½ cup brown sugar
5 cups water
2 cinnamon sticks (see notes)
5 whole cloves (see notes)
½ tsp ground nutmeg
¼ tsp ground ginger
¼ tsp ground allspice
1 tsp vanilla
4 heaping tablespoons of canned pumpkin
cheesecloth (see notes)

Cut a small square of cheesecloth and place the ground spices and cloves in the center. Tie the cheesecloth to make a sachet.

In a heavy-bottomed pot, combine both sugars and water. Stir until dissolved. Add cinnamon sticks and spice sachet. Bring mixture to a full rolling boil and cook for five minutes, stirring occasionally.

Turn off the heat and allow to steep for at least thirty minutes. (longer, if desired)

In the meantime, prepare four pint-sized jars (see notes) with lids in a hot water bath to sterilize the jars. Once steeped, bring mixture back to a full boil and cook for another few minutes. Turn off heat and remove the cinnamon sticks and sachet. Whisk in pumpkin* and vanilla until smooth. (Please see note regarding adding pumpkin!)

Remove jars, one at a time, from the hot water bath. Fill jar, leaving ¼ in. head space in the top. Wipe the rim clean with a damp cloth and place lid and ring on top. Turn ring just tight enough to secure it. Allow to sit undisturbed until the lid seals (lightly press the middle of the lid- if it pops back up, it isn’t sealed yet) and then tighten lid the rest of the way. Enjoy!

Makes 4 pints with approximately ½ cup left over.

NOTES-

*DO NOT be tempted to add the pumpkin while the mix is still boiling. If you do, the pumpkin will coagulate and you’ll end up with goopy, slimy “syrup” with a consistency somewhat like thick egg whites. (Just trust me- you’ll be glad you did.)

I like to use cinnamon sticks and whole cloves because I keep them on hand for other recipes. You can use 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon and ¼ tsp ground cloves instead; just add them to the spice sachet before you tie it off.

Don’t let making the spice sachet scare you! It’s actually very easy to do. You can also use a fine-mesh tea ball instead of cheesecloth. The end result will be darker golden brown syrup but the taste will be the same.

Don’t skip the step where you allow the mixture to steep.

Some jams/preserves/jelly/etc recipes require further processing by putting the jars into a pot of boiling water for additional cook time- this recipe is not one of them. Once the jars are sealed, you're done.

Congo Squares

2015-09-07T22:57:00.001-04:00

Congo Squares... my goodness, where do I even begin to describe Congo Squares? They're kinda like a blondie, but not. They're kinda like a brownie but not quite because you don't use cocoa powder. Let's see, the best way I can describe them is to say they're like the best chocolate chip cookie you've ever had except they're bars instead of cookies.

They are somewhat temperamental to make, though, so please read all of the notes before you start. If they turn out cakey or hard instead of chewy and gooey, you've done something wrong.

Brimming with buttery, chocolatey, gooey, brown sugary goodness, Congo Squares are scattered all over the pages of my childhood. I can't recall a family gathering where someone didn't make a pan of them. They're definitely a family favorite.

I honestly have no idea where the name came from. Actually, I'm not even sure where the recipe came from either but I do know that my great-grandmother used to make them frequently. No one in my family can recall a time when there was no such thing as Congo Squares.

Grandma Helen took them to church social events often. My Mama also made them. Oddly enough, I didn't make my first pan of Congo Squares until I became an adult and had been married for 10 years. I have no idea why, really, I just never tried before.

You know how sometimes someone will give you the recipe for something they've made but when you try to make it, no matter what you do, you can't duplicate their results? Well, that's how Congo Squares are. Try as you might, if you don't follow a couple of seemingly insignificant little details that mustn't be overlooked, your Congo Squares are never going to turn out right. So please try to follow the directions to the letter or they absolutely will not turn out.

I can't tell you how long they last because they've never made it past a day at our house. In fact, I made a pan this afternoon but didn't have time to take a picture to include in this post because the minute they cooled, they disappeared.

Yes, they're *that* good. Trust me on this one. :)

Congo Squares

2-3/4 cup all-purpose flour
2-1/2 t. baking powder
½ t. salt
2 sticks Parkay margarine (see notes)
1 pkg. (16 ozs) brown sugar
1 cup pecans, chopped
3 eggs
1 pkg. (12 ozs) semi-sweet chocolate chips (see notes)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour two 7x11 cake pans or one 10x13 pan. (see notes)

Sift together dry ingredients, set aside. In a saucepan, melt margarine and brown sugar together. Add nuts and allow mixture to cool to room temperature.
After the butter mixture has cooled completely, add eggs, one at a time, mixing thoroughly between each egg. Pour mixture over dry ingredients and stir only enough to incorporate ingredients. Stir in chocolate chips and immediately pour into prepared pan. Bake for approximately 35 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out clean. Allow to cool for a few minutes and cut into squares while they’re still hot.
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*Please note- The recipe posted above is the original recipe. However, I have found that the following changes make mine turn out like they’re supposed to more consistently:

Use 2 eggs instead of 3
Reduce the flour to 2-1/4 cups instead of 2-3/4

NOTES-

As I said before, this recipe is somewhat temperamental to make. When done correctly, they turn out with a chewy brownie/blondie consistency with a crackled, glossy crust on top. When done incorrectly, they turn out cakey or hard and brittle. They're still tasty, they're just not as good as they'd be if they turn out correctly.

You *want* them to fall in the oven as they tend to be too cakey when they rise to the top of the pan. If they don’t fall on their own, shake the pan to help them fall.

Only use Parkay margarine (specifically); do not use real butter. The squares will stay soft and chewy once they cool if you use margarine due to the amount of vegetable oil/shortening used to make margarine. They’ll turn hard and somewhat brittle if you use real butter. My great-grandmother said to *only* use the Parkay brand of margarine.

I have found the following helps if you must use real butter in a pinch: add one tablespoon of shortening to the saucepan when you’re melting the butter and brown sugar mixture.

If you add the eggs to the butter and brown sugar mixture too soon, they’ll cook and cause the recipe to taste eggy. Try to let the mixture cool close to room temperature before you add the eggs.

The above ingredients are the original recipe. I usually omit the nuts and use 1/2 semi-sweet chocolate chips and 1/2 milk-chocolate chips.

This is optional but freezing the chocolate chips for at least 20 minutes before adding them to the recipe will keep them from completely melting in the oven. They'll still be melty and gooey, but freezing will help them keep their shape and prevent them from running into the batter.

Be sure to use all-purpose and not self-rising flour. Adding too much baking powder to self-rising flour will make the recipe turn out cakey and it will have a weird metallic/baking soda taste. If you must use self-rising flour, reduce the amount of baking powder to 1-1/4 teaspoons.

Using two 7x11 pans will make the squares turn out somewhat thinner.

Using one 10x13 pan will make the squares turn out thicker and a bit more dense than using two smaller pans. But if done correctly they will taste equally good.

You can use a 9x13 pan in a pinch but I have not yet been able to get mine to turn out using that size pan. They all end up too thick and/or running over the edge of the pan.

As with any recipe, using dark or coated pans will result in a medium brown crust; using an aluminum or enamel-coated pan will result in a light brown crust. However, the taste should be the same.

Funeral Sandwiches

2015-09-07T21:10:00.003-04:00

I found this recipe on Pinterest* a few years ago and began making them for Super Bowl parties. They were such a hit with my family and friends that I'm frequently asked to make them when we have parties or are invited to a party.
My brother told me once that they're "painful." I was surprised he chose that particular word and asked what he meant. He said, "They're like freakin' crack! I can't stop eating them and end up hurting myself because I ate so many."

LOL He has a point.. they're YUMMY!!

Enjoy!

Funeral Sandwiches
(Party quantity)

4 packages of King's Hawaiian Rolls (I use the small square rolls)
1 1lb pack regular ham (see notes)
1 1lb pack regular turkey
1 package (12 slices) Muenster cheese
1 package (12 slices) American cheese
1 stick of butter, melted
3 T. Worcestershire sauce
2 T. yellow mustard
2-3 T. brown sugar
dash of onion powder
dash of garlic powder

Cut the rolls in half and line the bottom of a cookie sheet with the bottoms of the rolls. Put one layer of ham over rolls, followed by a layer of turkey. Then layer cheese over top of meat, alternating between Muenster and American so that the cheese looks somewhat like a checker board when you’re finished. You don’t need to overlap the cheese because it will melt together and sorta spread out once you put the sandwiches in the oven. Put the top layer of rolls back on top.

Using a spatula or large knife, carefully cut the sandwiches along the pre-scored lines, making sure to cut all the way through to the bottom layer. Do not separate the sandwiches- leave them close together.

Mix together the melted butter, Worcestershire, mustard, brown sugar, onion powder, and garlic powder. Drizzle the sauce over top of the sandwiches, making sure to drench each one and get down in between each sandwich.

OPTIONAL- Cover and marinate in the refrigerator anywhere from 4-24 hours. (This is why they’re called funeral sandwiches- they can be made up to a day in advance and then put into the oven just before you’re ready to eat.)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Bake for 25 minutes uncovered or until cheese is melted and bun tops are a bit golden.

NOTES-
Since I am usually making these for a party, I use 4 packages of Hawaiian rolls. This recipe is easily halved or doubled based on how many servings you need.
Line your cookie sheet with tin foil and then spray with non-stick spray for easy clean-up.
Use regular/plain ham and turkey. Honey-baked, hickory smoked, or other flavored varieties will make the sandwiches taste bizarre.
I use Muenster and American cheeses because I like the way they melt and it’s what my family prefers; you can use whatever variety you’d like.
You can adjust the amount of mustard, Worcestershire, and brown sugar based on your personal preference.

*I'm usually a stickler for citing my source when I post a recipe, however, I found this one on Pinterest. Since there are several pins that list this recipe, I'm not sure which one was the original source. For reference- several different versions of this recipe can be found on Pinterest. Thanks!

Because I Am His Umbrella

2015-04-01T00:48:00.000-04:00

This blog post was sparked by the following post, originally posted by George Takei:

Severe Anxiety Explained

One of my sons deals with severe anxiety EVERY.SINGLE.DAY. of his life. He deals with social phobia the severity of which renders him homebound frequently. Meds help, but they don't completely "fix" the problem.

Anxiety is real, folks. It's not something you can just "get over" or turn off like a light switch. It isn't something that you can control.

Its debilitating and crippling. Its frustrating and aggravating. It infiltrates a family and changes its dynamic.

It isn't a way to get attention. If anything, he wishes he could just disappear and not draw attention to himself.

Sometimes my son looks "fine" or "normal" (whatever that is), and he seems okay when he most definitely is not.

Other times, he's a fun-loving, carefree kid enjoying spending time with his friends like he's supposed to at this age.

The catch is: he never knows which it's going to be. There are triggers and we certainly try to avoid them as best we can, but he can't control the anxiety any more than he can control the weather.

The most frustrating thing for me as his mother is there isn't a lot I can do to help. God what I wouldn’t give if I could just take it from him and let it be me rather than him!

Instead, I am his umbrella.

I crawl inside his sofa cushion fort and ride out the anxiety with him.

I snuggle next to him and let him hide his face in my shirt while pretending I'm the one who needs a hug to keep him from being embarrassed.

I splash his face with cold water when he's in a full blown panic attack and can't catch his breath.

I clean up my car and help him change clothes when the very thought of having to be in an unknown situation causes him to vomit uncontrollably.

I patiently listen when he obsesses over perceived wrongs and continually repeats things that are bothering him; things that most people would simply shake off and then move on.

I get him the very best mental healthcare available; driving over a hundred miles round-trip to see the best child psychiatrist in the area.

I fight for him and jump through any hoop I need to in order to make his struggle a little easier.

I react immediately when he tells me he doesn’t feel right. I consider myself extremely fortunate that he’s self-aware and trusts me enough to come to me and tell me something is wrong. Some parents don’t have the chance to help their kids who are struggling before it’s too late.

If you're friend or family to someone who also suffers from severe anxiety, be their umbrella. Your kindness, understanding, caring, and love may be the thing that helps make their life a little easier today.

The Peace of the Bathroom

2015-03-28T17:02:00.000-04:00

Some people bake, some people knit, some people run... I write. It's what I do instead of stabbing people.

I was working on a story several months ago that I got stuck on. I had the basic outline, I just couldn't figure out which direction I wanted to go so I put it down for a bit and moved on to something else.

I woke up this morning thinking about that one story and suddenly knew exactly where it should go. So I decided to bounce it off of Dan. I explained the whys, wheres, hows, and let him give me feedback. He was stoked. He said he really liked it and couldn't wait for me to finish it.

He gets really excited when I mention a story that I may have an ending to because I am notorious for starting one and never finishing it. I have what I jokingly call "OCED" or Obsessive Compulsive Editing Disorder. I can't seem to write a chapter and leave it be- I must go back and edit the bajeebus out of it.

Anyhow, I made a pot of coffee, grabbed my laptop, and settled down in the living room.

Dan turned on baseball and I thought, "Oh good, it's baseball; I can write with baseball on in the background." Then he flipped to recorded episodes of Jeopardy. I kinda half-heartedly watched some of it while I was re-reading what I'd already written. Five episodes of Jeopardy later, he asked if I would mind rehearsing his show with him.

I replied, "No I don't mind, but can I do it later?"
He said, "But I really need to get this memorized."
I said, perhaps a bit more abruptly than I intended, "I thought you wanted me to write! Do you or do you not want me to get this done? I thought you were excited about me possibly finishing something?"

He apologized and turned off the TV. Every few minutes, he would laugh and show me something he found on Facebook or ask if I'd heard of something that happened recently.

This is what happens when I go on a field trip with my kids and he doesn't see me for an entire day. It's good to know he misses me.

Finally, I got up and said I was headed to the bathroom. I'm currently sitting here with my laptop, typing this. No, I didn't need to actually use the facilities, I'm just sitting here. I'm fairly sure it's the only room of the house in which I can sit quietly and not be disturbed.

Meanwhile, I have exactly three new sentences written on the story that I saw so clearly in my head this morning. Three.

/sigh I haven't even killed off the main character yet.

Am I the only one who's ever wondered if a recliner would fit in their bathroom?

Vida Paraiso

2015-03-22T01:41:00.000-04:00

The following is a dream I had a few weeks ago. I wrote most of it the moment I woke up, even before coffee. Then I went back later and filled in small details. I usually keep my dreams to myself because they're typically pretty silly, but this one was so very real to me that I woke up with tears streaming down my face and it took me a few seconds to realize where I was- in my own bed. For a brief moment, I could still feel the cool breeze and smell the salty air.
I've only shared this with a few others because it is about my Mama and it is personal. Not a day goes by that I don't think of her and miss her terribly. But I also believe that wherever she is right now, she's having more fun than she's had in years and I cannot begrudge her that, no matter how much my heart aches for her.

(I'm not much for dream interpretation; I usually just take them as they come. So when Ricky Ricardo appears out of nowhere, chalk it up to my brain being silly and please don't judge. :) )
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“Come with me!” Mama said, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards the bow.
The ship’s ready to leave port and I know she wants to watch the people shouting “bon voyage” and throwing colored paper streamers like something from an old-time movie.
Her excitement is contagious and I giggle as I allow her to push me up to the railing. Next to us are Elizabeth and Aunt Kat, already waving as the ship begins moving away from the dock.
“Who are you waving at?” I asked Elizabeth.
Elizabeth smiled and replied, “Does it matter? They all wave back. Try it and see!”
I look at the crowd of nameless faces and begin waving and blowing kisses at the air like a haughty celebrity bidding adoring fans adieu. Several people I’d likely never see again blew kisses back at me.
The wind picks up as the enormous ship moves down the channel, blowing our skirts and nearly stealing our matching sun hats. Glancing over at Mama and Aunt Kat, I think, probably for the millionth time, how much they look alike and yet so different.
One has long red hair, tied up in a bun on top of her head; the other, shoulder-length brown hair. Both have a hint of well-earned grays at the temple. They both strongly resemble their mother.
As I catch Elizabeth’s eye, I see that she, too, has been watching them. Without her saying, I know she is thinking the same as I.
A male voice interrupts my thoughts. “Ladies, would you care for a Bon Voyage cocktail?” I glance over at the handsome young man in a crisp sailor’s uniform with a tray in his hands and it occurs to me that he could be a young Ricky Ricardo. His thick accent is melodic and I half-way expect him to break out into a rendition of “Babaloo.”
“Our special tonight is ‘Vida Paraíso’,” he informs us. “It’s a lovely tropical fruit concoction with rum and coconut. You will love it.”
“’Vida Paraíso’?” I ask.
“It means ‘Paradise Life’,” He replies with a twinkle in his eye.
We burst into laughter at the translation, remembering a time when several of us drove vehicles with one of the many “Life” stickers on the back.
“Yes, uh…” I glance at the young man’s name tag, “Balthazar, we’ll each have a ‘Vida Paraíso’, please.”
“’Balthazar’?” Mama interrupts. “Like one of the three Wise Men?”
He nods and gives Mama a slight, regal bow. “The same, Senora.”
Though I know it’s incredibly rude of me, I cannot help myself. “I thought you were Persian!”
“Sometimes I am,” Balthazar smiles enigmatically and then winks at me, “Today, I am Ricky Ricardo.”
As he disappears to get our drinks, Elizabeth links arms with mine and begins walking towards a miraculously empty table with four chairs.
Mama and Aunt Kat follow and before long, we’re simply enjoying each other’s company, chattering away about everything and nothing.
Brilliant rays of gold, pink, purple, and orange paint the cloudless sky as we watch the sun dipping slowly into the sea to the west. Behind us, delicately shimmering blue begins creeping across the sky.
“What’s it like…” I begin but have to pause to clear the sudden lump in my throat. “What’s it like at the port where the ship stops?”
“It’s indescribably beautiful,” Mama tells me. “Think of the most beautiful place you’ve ever been- times a billion- and it’s even better than that.”
I’m speechless for a moment, trying to comprehend what she’s telling me.
“What do you do there?” I ask when I find my voice again.
Mama grins and shrugs, “Anything we want! Yesterday, we played on a tire swing and picked buttercups. Then Kat made a pot of Seven Minute frosting and we ate the whole thing.”
Caught up in her happy mood, I laugh as I find myself remembering a time when we made ourselves sick by eating an entire pot of Seven Minute frosting.
My heart smiles as I imagine Mama and Aunt Kat playing on a tire swing and picking buttercups like the little girls they once were.
“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…” Elizabeth sings softly. “I wish I may, I wish I might,” Mama and I join in. “Have the wish I wish tonight,” we all finish the rhyme together.
“What did you wish?” Aunt Kat asks.
“Oh no!” Elizabeth says in a mock-serious tone, wagging her forefinger back and forth. “If I tell, it won’t come true.”
Balthazar returns with four brown coconut cups with bright pink paper umbrellas skewered through pineapple sticking out of the top. “Compliments of the Captain,” he says with a dramatic flourish as he places them on our table.
We each lift the little coconut cups and toast. “To before,” I say, though not sure why I chose that word.
My companions seem to understand. “To before,” they repeat in unison and we sip our fruity rum cocktails.
Mama puts her cup down, reaches over and grasps my hand, tenderly squeezing. “It will be again, love; one day. It’s just not time yet.”
“It’s peaceful here, don’t you think?” Aunt Kat asks quietly.
A comfortable silence descends as we watch the very last sliver of fiery sunshine slip below the waves. Slowly, the gold, pink, and orange give way to crimson, purple, and finally, a deep jewel-toned blue.
Millions of stars begin to glitter above us, peeking out from their daytime hiding places.
The deck is nearly empty now; only a few whispering couples linger on, taking advantage of the ample shadows and the rhythmic sway of the ship.
Reaching over, Mama pulls off my hat, freeing my long auburn hair to blow in the breeze. “It’s time, my girl.” Her tone is wistful and I know she wishes I didn’t have to go.
“I know, Mama. Just a few minutes more? Please?”
Standing, Mama pulls me to my feet and into her arms for a long hug. She’s strong; much more so than I remember. The last time I hugged her when she could hug me back, she felt so frail and weak, and I hugged carefully so I wouldn’t hurt her. She’s so strong now that I hold on tightly.
“You don’t have your oxygen tank!” I suddenly realize, shocked that I haven’t noticed before now.
“Nope!” I can feel the rise and fall of her shoulders as she sucks in a deep easy breath and then lets it out. “I don’t need it here.”
I stand there inhaling her precious scent, knowing there is none other like it in the world.
Looking over, I see Elizabeth and Aunt Kat are in a similar embrace. “There’s no need for tears here,” Aunt Kat says, “you can come back again tomorrow and the day after if you’d like.”
“And the day after that too,” Mama adds and then she pulls back, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “I am so proud of you! Never doubt that,” she says with a slight squeeze of my hands, “Make sure you kiss those boys and your Daddy for me. I miss them all so much!”
When I promise I that will, she lets go reluctantly, steps back, and I know that it’s time for me to go.
“We’ll be right here,” Aunt Kat says in a slightly echoing voice.
Elizabeth reaches for my hand, gripping it tightly, and the two of us begin to slowly ascend, as though a breeze has scooped us up.
As we drift away, Mama and Aunt Kat hold hands and wave at us. The thought comes to me that they’ve never looked more beautiful, happier, or more at peace than they do at that moment. There's no pain, no regret, no hurt, and no anger between them; only two sisters reunited once again.
We watch them fading into the distance, becoming smaller as we rise higher, until they’re nearly out of sight.
“I love you, Mama!” I call.
“I love you, too,” her voice little more than a whisper, “I’ll always love you.”

Happy 13th Birthday, Daniel! :)

2015-02-26T02:25:00.000-05:00

My “baby” is now a teenager; I am the mom of a teenager!! Holy moly, when did that happen? Seems like just a year or so ago I had a tiny newborn in my arms, blinked, and next thing I knew, my tiny newborn was taller than me.

On a chilly Saturday afternoon, in a quiet, darkened room (because my nurse had a migraine), my sweet Daniel came screaming into the world. I literally do mean screaming, too. When the doctor told me to stop pushing for a moment so he could ease his shoulders out one at a time, Daniel started screaming before the rest of his body was in the doctor’s hands… and hasn’t stopped talking yet.

Daniel is the most laid-back, carefree soul you’ll ever meet. He’s got an innate “not a care in the world” quality about him that you can’t help but wish you had a little of. That’s not to say that he doesn’t care about life, of course, I just mean that he doesn’t worry about what’s going to happen tomorrow; Daniel takes life as it is, head-on, today.

Around 5’10 or so, Daniel stands head and shoulders above most of his friends. His best friend’s mom told me about something that happened a few days ago at school that had me giggling:

Daniel was sitting with his best friend, Will, and another kid came up and put his behind in their faces. Will told the kid to knock it off and the kid came back with a smart “whatcha gonna do about it??” sorta remark. Daniel simply stood up and towered over the kid, whose eyes got wide as he took in Daniel’s size. He said, “I’m not scared of you!” and then quickly ran away. Will and Daniel had a good laugh about it. As did I when I imagined Daniel slowly standing up like Andre the Giant and simply staring at this snotty kid without saying a word.

The irony of it is that Daniel is one of the sweetest kids you’ll ever meet. Truly a gentle soul, there isn’t a mean bone in his body. He won’t allow someone to run over him, but he’d never be a bully either.

He’s a hugger. I’m probably telling on him a bit here but he loves to come snuggle up with me on the sofa. He’s also quick to reach over and grab me (or his Daddy, brother, aunt, uncle, grandparents, etc.) for a big bear hug.

He’s smart. Oh my god is he smart! I’ll admit it- he’s smarter than me. He’s smarter than I’ll ever be. He thinks of ideas and comes up with theories that have never occurred to me on my best day. I expect that he’ll come up with something one day that changes the world.

He’s extraordinarily kind. He always tries to include everyone. He’ll even make up a reason why the smallest kid should win the prize or why the only girl in the group was the best, just to make sure no one is excluded.

He’s simply an amazing kid. I often wonder how I ended up with such a great kid and I thank God several times each and every day that He gave him to me.

Today, on his 13th birthday, I want him to know that no matter what he decides to do, no matter where he goes, no matter who he chooses to spend his life with… he’ll always have a very proud mother who loves him more than she can describe.

Happy Birthday, Doodlebug! I love you, kid.

July 26, 2014

2014-09-26T19:17:00.000-04:00

The following is the eulogy that I delivered at Mama's funeral in July. I've been working on a blog of my memories of her as well as my thoughts on the weeks leading up to her passing. I have a feeling it'll be a while before I post it because I can't work on it every day. Not because I don't have time; rather because it's a bit like stabbing myself in the chest with a steak knife every time I open the file.

Everyone keeps asking if I'm okay. I don't know why really but my first inclination is to lie through my teeth and say, "I'm doing great!" Instead, I tell the truth. I nod and say, "I'm hanging in there; one day at a time," because it really is day-to-day for me.

When I speak to my Dad, sister, and brother, I know I am not the only one.

There are days I miss Mama so much that it hurts to breathe. My cousin likened losing a parent to losing a tooth; the wound eventually stops bleeding, but the hole remains forever. A friend told me that it never does get better, it just becomes manageable. I'm patiently awaiting the day I can see her picture and smile rather than cry.

Thank you, God, for giving me family and friends who understand that there isn't a time limit on grief. Friends who know exactly how I feel and seem to know just when to call or text. I have some of the best friends on the planet and I'm so very thankful they're mine.

-CC

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July 26, 2014

I cannot guarantee that I won’t cry, but I will do my best not to. I wish we had time today for me to tell you all about just how amazing my Mama was, but if I did, we’d be sitting here all day long.

As I sat writing this in the early hours this morning, I debated what I’d say. I wondered how’d I’d be able to convey to you all just how special Mama was in just a few minutes. As I thought about it, I realized that so many of you already know the kind of person she was.

I cannot tell you just how many calls, texts, emails, messages, and the like that I have received this week of people telling me how sweet and wonderful she was. I heard dozens of stories that began with, “Oh, I remember this one time…” And they all ended with, “Your Mama was so sweet. She will be missed.” And they are so right. Mama will be missed more than I can begin to describe. But I take comfort in the fact that I will see her again one day. Because I know today that my Mama is in heaven. I know that because she knew that was where she was going when she took her last breath.

Last week at the hospital, the doctors had her in an induced coma and on a ventilator because her lungs were failing her. On Thursday, they were able to bring her out of the coma for a little while. I guess she could tell by our faces that we were worried because while she was still on the ventilator and couldn’t speak, she started motioning with her hand like she wanted to write something. So we got her some paper and a pen. Her hands were still shaky from the medicine but she managed to write, “God will save me.”

Even while she was struggling to breathe, she was steadfast and secure in the knowledge that God had her back and she didn’t want us to worry about her.

She even called the chaplain’s office and asked to see a priest that she’d gotten to know and really liked. He came down and talked to her. He also delivered Last Rites to her when the time came. I’m still not sure if he even realized that we’re not Catholic. I guess when you find someone who loves to talk about the Lord as much as you do, it doesn’t much matter which church you attend.

Just a few days later, when the time came to turn off the ventilator for the last time, Mama didn’t struggle nor fight. We were told to expect that she would but Mama simply slipped quietly away. It was the most peaceful thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life. I believe she was seeing her Savior at that moment.

Mama had the faith of Daniel in the lion’s den and she was stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. She used to say, “A woman is like a teabag; you never know how strong she is until you put her in hot water.” It took strength and courage to go through what she did and do it with grace and with dignity.

As you all know, Mama had Pulmonary Fibrosis for which she received a double-lung transplant. I know it seems like it might not be the time nor the place, but I would truly be remiss if I didn’t mention the donor who gave us three and a half more precious years with Mama. For us, that time has been a gift and a blessing.

The day Mama got her new lungs I began praying daily for the donor’s family. Perhaps she was someone’s sister, wife, or mother- we may never know, but God knows.

If I could speak to them today, I’d want them to know that to us, their daughter wasn’t some faceless stranger who happened to be an organ donor. She was a very real part of our lives.

I’d want them to know that their daughter’s lungs went to a woman who was a beloved wife, mother, sister, aunt, and adored grandmother. She was courageous. She was feisty and didn’t back down when she knew she was right. She was loving and kind. She had an inner well of determination the likes of which I’ve never seen in another person. And she loved her family with the ferocity of a mama bear.

Time is a very precious thing; especially when you know you have so little of it.

In the last three and a half years, Mama was able to see her son marry the love of his life and become a step-father to two amazing kids that Mama loved just like her own.

She had more time for her other two grandchildren to get to know her better.

Mama got to spend three and a half more years with the love of her life. She often said he might be aggravating, but he’s MINE and I love him and that’s all there is to it.

Two years ago, Mama gave me a Mother’s Day card that I will never forget. It was one she’d made, which made it all the more special, and it said, “You’ve become the wonderful mother I always knew you would be. I am so proud of you.” I cannot describe just how much that meant to me. It made me realize that she is my yardstick. She’s the measure by which I judge motherhood.

Now was she perfect? Nope. Was she always patient? Nope.

But she made me realize that it’s ok to not be a perfect mother.

Just love your children with all your heart and the rest will come together. I know that Mama loved all of us more than anything.

Except maybe Barney, her little dog. He was a source of pure joy for her.

You know, I believe that in heaven, life goes on; you’re just in a perfect, more peaceful, more beautiful place than you’ve ever been before. You’re happier and healthier. The skies are always the perfect shade of blue; you know the shade I mean- so blue it almost hurts your eyes. There isn’t a schedule to abide and dishes wash themselves.

I can well imagine Mama walking on the beach with her sisters and her mother and they’re laughing and carrying on.

She’s happy and breathing easy. I think she’d say, “Don’t miss me too much. The view is nice and I’m doing just fine.”

God speed, Mama.

Pumpkin Spice Syrup

2014-09-26T16:56:00.000-04:00

I love pumpkin spice anything. No, really, I do. I'd eat a piece of cardboard if it had pumpkin spice smeared on it.

My very favorite local coffee shop, Montego Bay Coffee, closed its doors about a year ago and I still miss them.
(see: Where Everybody Knows Your Name)

I used to look forward to the September day when Pumpkin Spice Lattes were put back on the menu and would often be their "taste tester" in the days before the annual release. I was a regular customer and usually dropped by several times a week. However, during PSL season it wasn't uncommon for me to drink one there in the shop while I chatted & read the newspaper, and then get another one for the road too.

The following recipe is similar to Montego Bay's recipe for Pumpkin Spice syrup. While it's not exactly the same, it's better than Starbucks has ever even thought about being. And it contains actual pumpkin, which is not the case at Starbucks. I'm not sure exactly how much to use, though. I suppose that is up to you and your individual love for pumpkin spice. I personally use several tablespoons (roughly two shots) in a 24 ounce latte made with several shots of espresso and steamed milk with plenty of foam.

1 ½ cups white sugar
1 heaping tablespoon brown sugar
1 cup water
3 heaping tablespoons canned pumpkin (not pumpkin pie mix)
2 tablespoons pumpkin pie spice
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
Splash of vanilla

In small saucepan, stir together sugars and water. Cook until sugar is dissolved (do not boil). Beat in pumpkin, pumpkin pie spice, and vanilla with whisk. Cook 5 minutes longer. Mix should be bubbly but do not allow to come to a full boil. Remove from heat. Allow to cool completely and pour syrup into bottle, jar or storage container. Store in refrigerator.

NOTES-

I prefer my latte with bits of spice and pumpkin in it so I don’t strain my syrup. If you prefer yours smooth, make sure you strain the syrup well before you put it into a storage container. Use cheesecloth or a mesh strainer while the syrup is still hot.

Mixture will be bubbly but do not allow it to boil. I recommend constantly stirring after you add the pumpkin so it does not stick to the pan.

It's Not Defeat if you let Them Win

2014-08-01T15:08:00.000-04:00

I wore a black dress to Mama's funeral and decided I needed black pantyhose to go with it. Considering it's July in Florida, which means it's hotter than Hell's hinges outside, I really don't know what I was thinking besides the fact that I've always been told ladies are supposed to wear them with dresses.

For the record, I hate pantyhose. Doesn't matter if I'm skinny or fat, I always struggle putting them on. Always have.

Anyway, that morning, I grabbed a pair and as I sat down to put them on, I muttered, "I'm about to do battle, boys."

Daniel asked, "Battle? With who?"

Me: "With these pantyhose."

Daniel: "With...(blinks in disbelief) pantyhose??"

Me: "I know they're an inanimate object but you'd never know it considering the fight they put up when I attempt to put them on. You've got to get them on straight, without bunching or twisting, and you've gotta get them up without tearing a hole in them, which is really difficult to do."

Daniel: "Oh. I see."

Me: "You know, it's not really a battle so much as it is a war. I'm waging war on these pantyhose."

Daniel (bemused): "War, eh? Okay..." (he sits down to watch the spectacle)

Christopher: (hasn't said a word, just watching in amusement)

Me: (struggling... a few choice words are uttered... curse inventor of pantyhose... :screech: ... 15 sweaty minutes later I throw them across the room)

Daniel (smirking): "So... who won?"

Me: "Smarty pants. You should try putting on a pair some time!"

Daniel (snickering): "Yeah, after watching that, I'll pass. You got your butt kicked, Mom. I'm pretty sure you lost the battle and the war."

The Truth in Shades of Brown and Green

2014-07-21T00:20:00.000-04:00

On the 4th floor of the Mayo Clinic, there is a waiting room for the families of people who are in the ICU. Everything in that room, from the fabric on the chairs to the paintings on the walls, is done in various shades of brown and green.

Olive, burnt sienna, chestnut, avocado… it’s a palette worthy of Crayola.

My dad and I were sitting there a few nights ago and he commented that Mayo probably paid someone a whole lot of money to come up with a color scheme designed to soothe and comfort those who have a friend or family sick enough to be on the ICU floor. I agreed with him and we moved on to the next topic, but that conversation stuck in my mind.

How many times over the last few years have I sat in that very room and never noticed those colors? Why haven't I noticed them? How many times have I unconsciously allowed Brown and Green to comfort and soothe me? As I tried to count, I lost track.

We were there in that room the night the helicopter carrying my Mama’s new lungs landed on the helipad. We were there when she was in a coma for almost two weeks. We were there when one of the Mayo specialists- one of the most brilliant doctors on the planet- came into the room and told us they had no idea what was wrong with her. We were in that room when the same doctor came in and told us they’d figured it out and she was going to make it.

We have visited with family and friends in that room. We’ve cried together, laughed together, prayed together, eaten meals together, watched movies together, held hands and worried together… all right there in that same room.

We were there when Mama’s sister, my Aunt Kathy, was brought in with the same disease that my Mama has. We were there when the doctors told us there was nothing they could do for Aunt Kathy. We were there when Aunt Kathy passed away.

And I suppose we’ll be there when my Mama passes away too.

I am beginning to loathe that room.

I wonder how many families have sat right there in that same green and brown room while their loved one lay dying down the hall.

My mother is one of those loved ones. One day soon, she is going to die.

God that looks so stark. So bleak. I thought that once I typed it, it would somehow look less frightening. Less intimidating. Less painful.

But it’s actually worse; much, much worse than I thought it would look.

A demon with razor sharp bloody fangs gnashing at my throat would look friendlier.

I thought I was prepared for this. I thought I was in the “acceptance” stage of grief and would be able to handle this with my usual aplomb.

I’m a fairly pulled-together person, right? Some have called me the rock throughout this whole thing.

The truth is I’m just better than most at hiding how I’m really feeling. I might look like I’m okay, but I’m most definitely not okay.

The truth is I am terrified. What in the world am I going to do without my Mama?

The truth is my mother, the woman who gave me life, is going to die. The woman who has never done drugs, drank to excess, smoked, or abused her body in any way, is going to be betrayed by her body. It’s going to give up on her, even though her mind is still strong.

The truth is I am angry. No, not angry; I’m pissed. I want to scream at the injustice of it all. If screaming would help, that’s exactly what I’d do. I’d scream until someone paid attention. I’d shout and tell them they’re wrong. W-R-O-N-G, WRONG, dammit, and they need to fix this right now. She doesn’t want to die. It’s not fair that she has no choice in the matter.

I'd force them to assign this disease to someone else. Isn’t there a degenerate low-life oxygen thief somewhere who could take this one instead of my Mama? How about this: Let’s give her “old age” as her official cause of death and let’s make it happen one night 40 years from now when she’s warm and asleep in her bed, okay?

The truth is I am frustrated. I have faith. I believe in God. But telling me this is “God’s will” isn’t comforting to me. It doesn’t magically make this better. It might work for some, but not me. Not even a little bit.
My Mama won’t get to watch her grandchildren grow up. She won’t get to see them graduate from high school or college. She won’t get to be there when they get married and she won’t be there when they have children of their own. And there’s nothing even remotely fair about that.

The truth is I am not ready to say goodbye. I guess I should just be grateful that we had this extra time with her; time that we wouldn’t have otherwise had if she hadn’t gotten a transplant. While I am grateful, the truth is I’m also selfish; terribly so. I want more time.

The truth is I am heartbroken. It feels like a car door is slowly closing on my soul and there is nothing I or anyone else can do about it.

The truth is green and brown are liars. They make you think everything is going to be okay but it really isn’t. Green and brown are no longer comforting to me; they’re the colors of heartbreak, and of grief, and of sorrow.

Can't You Just Pick Another One?

2014-03-14T15:25:00.000-04:00

I wish I knew how to tell a long story short but I don't, so here goes...

I've learned that much like the phrase, "beauty is in the eye of the beholder", so is individual taste in furniture. Personally, I'm usually fairly traditional when it comes to furniture. I like classic, timeless, comfortable, functional pieces with gentle curves and clean lines. I do not like furniture that is overly ornate, super modern, dated, or anything with the word "contemporary" attached to it.

Dan, however, does like the contemporary style. Having said that, we managed to find a bed that we both like. (More like I absolutely LOVED it and he could live with it, but that is beside the point.) That bed is turning out to be quite the ordeal it seems.

Reader's Digest condensed version:

Went furniture shopping last year to get an idea of what we wanted.
Dozens of stores and many hours scouring the internet later, I found the bed I wanted.
Bed purchased in Feb.
Found out they're discontinuing the style, so had to take delivery immediately or not get it at all.
Bed delivered, but support beam is broken and has to go back.
Called the store. they can get me another one but it'll be March 17 before it's available.
Me: "The bed is being discontinued, are you absolutely, positively CERTAIN you can get me THAT bed?? Because if you can't, I want the broken one and I will have it fixed at my own expense."
Them: "Yes, Ma'am. We are *certain* we can get you one that isn't broken, it will just take several weeks."

...I wait...

Builders give us a closing date.
I called the store.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but that bed has been discontinued."
Me: "I realize it was discontinued but you told me that MINE would be available."
Them: "I'm not sure who told you that, but that bed was discontinued in February."
Me: "I *KNOW* it was discontinued... (explain when I purchased it, explain it was broken, explain I offered to take the broken one, explain that they promised me a new one... explain, explain, explain...)
Them: "They probably threw the broken one out or sold it 'As-Is' in the clearance outlet."
Me: "What about the floor model? It was the right size, just bring me that one."
Them: "Sorry, the floor model was sold last week."
Me: "So basically what you're telling me is that not only do you not have my bed there in your store, you can't get my bed, and the only two options I had of actually obtaining that bed have been sold out from under me, all the while you have in your possession well over a thousand dollars of MY money and I *still* don't have my damned bed?? Is that what you're saying to me right now?"
Them: "I'm not the manager who promised you this bed. Let me see if I can get you an update, I'll call you back."

Me: ...fuming...blood pressure rising...temper flaring...

Customer service lady called me back. Clearly, the managers didn't want to deal with me. "I'm sorry ma'am, the bed isn't available but we can give you a store credit. Can't you just pick a different one?"

Can't I just pick a different one?? CAN'T I JUST PICK A DIFFERENT ONE?? Did you really just ask me that?

It was an innocent question, really, and I know she didn't realize she was dealing with someone whose stress level is already exceeding the limits of their medication, but it was the proverbial last straw.
I told her no. NO, I *can't* just pick another one, I don't want ANOTHER one, I want THAT one. Doesn't she realize that I've picked out side tables, fixtures, and other furniture based on the colors of THAT bed? Does she really think "I'm sorry" is good enough? They have been jerking me around for the last two months and I've had enough. Second, if they can't produce THAT bed, I damned sure don't want a "store credit" because they will be giving me my money back in the form of cold hard cash.

I had a few other choice comments about their business practices and ethics. I also may have mentioned the BBB, the consequences of fraud, rip-offs, and how I'd personally lead the charge to make certain none of my friends, relatives, friends of friends, cousins of friends, cousins of friends of friends, strangers or anyone else I come in contact with ever purchased so much as a potted plant from their place of business again. I also may have questioned their parentage and the collective amount of brain cells they have between them and a few other rather colorful metaphors, but I can't recall exactly.

I'm usually a very flexible person... I can compromise... I can be reasonable... until I can't be. Once I've had enough, you might as well be hitting a brick wall because there is nothing that can be said or done to make me change my mind.

I am reminded of that scene from "Top Gun" where the Air Boss is in Viper's office screaming about the fly-by. "Two of your snot-nose jockeys did a fly-by on my tower at over 400 KNOTS! I want somebody's butt, I want it now, I've HAD IT!" That was me yesterday, minus the spilled coffee.

Anyway, once I was done with my rant, and believe me, *I* would not have wanted to be on the other end of that, she calmly told me that she'd get in touch with the manager who was working on it and have her call me this morning.

No one called. I really didn't expect them to since their customer service up to this point has been less than stellar, to say the least. So I called them instead. The manager who promised me the bed couldn't be bothered to come to the phone.

Instead, Carolyn, the poor woman who is probably paid minimum wage to answer the phone and deal with irate people like me, informed me, "They will have your bed for you on April 1st. I have no idea how they intend to get it because my computer says it's unavailable, but my manager says they'll have it."

I asked, "Is it THAT bed? The style I purchased? In the right color and size?"

Carolyn: "Yes ma'am, as far as I know, it's the one you ordered..."

Me: "Because I will still take the broken one if it isn't sold and have it fixed at my own expense. I will come get it RIGHT NOW as a matter of fact. I can be there in an hour."

Carolyn: "No, ma'am, that won't be necessary. Your bed will be delivered on April 1st."

I'm not holding my breath.

Toasted Coconut Cake

2014-01-10T01:42:00.000-05:00

Many of my recipes are passed down through generations of my family of fabulous cooks or adapted from another recipe. While the basis for this recipe- yellow cake, seven minute frosting, and coconut sprinkled on top- came from my mother's coconut cake recipe, the rest was all me. I don't often hit a home run when I attempt to create something new out of something tried and true. More often than not, my attempt ends up summoning a demon or some such. (I kid, of course! LOL) But in this case, I hit it out of the ballpark with this one. There is never so much as a crumb left when I take this cake anywhere. They whisper, "Oh my gosh! Cari brought her toasted coconut cake! Go get a piece before it disappears!"

Toasted Coconut Cake

1 box white (or yellow) cake mix (plus ingredients on box)
1 can cream of coconut
1 can coconut milk
1 recipe of 7 Minute Frosting (recipe follows)
1 bag coconut- reserve 1/3 for cake mix

Prepare cake mix in a 9x13 pan according to directions on box but instead of the water, use coconut milk- it should equal about one cup. Add a third of the coconut to the mix. (The rest will be toasted and used as a topping.) Bake cake according to directions on box. While cake is still hot, poke holes all over entire cake using a fork or a skewer. Pour cream of coconut evenly over top and allow it to sit for several minutes (or overnight) to soak into cake. While you’re waiting, prepare the frosting (recipe follows) and toast the coconut. Spread frosting over top of cake and then sprinkle with toasted coconut.

Notes-
Be sure you use coconut milk in place of the water before you bake the cake, and cream of coconut after the cake is baked. If you reverse the two, the cake will be a milky, soupy mess.

To toast coconut-
Spread coconut evenly over cookie sheet and bake for about 10 minutes in a 350* oven, shaking the pan every few minutes to make sure it doesn’t stick or burn. Watch very carefully as it will burn very easily!

7 Minute Frosting

2 egg whites
1 ½ cups white sugar
1/3 c. water
1/4 t. cream of tartar (or 2 t. light corn syrup)
1 T. vanilla
Dash of salt

In the bottom pot of a double boiler, heat water to a simmering boil. Put ingredients into top pot and place over boiling water. With an electric mixer, beat ingredients on low until mixture begins to foam then increase speed to medium. Set timer for seven minutes as you cook the frosting. Mixture will begin to turn white and form stiff peaks. After seven minutes, remove the pot from the heat and add vanilla. Turn mixer down to low speed and blend in vanilla. Use frosting immediately after cooking.

Notes-
Do not allow top pot to touch boiling water in bottom pot as it will cause the mixture to crystallize on the bottom of the pot.
You can use either cream of tartar or light corn syrup. It acts as a stabilizer for the egg whites.
Use frosting immediately- do not allow it to sit in pot after you’ve prepared it as it will set and become brittle.

Dearest and Best

2013-11-01T19:08:00.000-04:00

“The more things change, the more they stay the same”, isn’t that the old saying?

It’s hard to believe today marks a year since Grandma Helen went Home, but it does. It's been a long year of many, many changes- some wonderful, some not so much.

This past year, she’s seen a few of our family join her there. Even though there are supposed to be no tears in Heaven, knowing her as I do, she cried anyway. She’d have said, “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here yet!” and then welcomed them with open arms and offered them a cup of coffee- as was her way.

I believe life goes on after death; you’re just in a perfect, more peaceful, more beautiful place. You’re happier and healthier. There isn’t a schedule to abide and dishes wash themselves.

I can well imagine Grandma sitting at a table in a cozy, vanilla and lemon Pledge-scented kitchen with lace-trimmed white curtains. There’s a slight, cool breeze fluttering the curtains through the open windows. Past the panes you can see the cloudless sky is the most brilliant shade of cerulean blue. You know the shade I mean- so blue your eyes can barely adjust.

In my mind’s eye, she’s with Grandpa Thomas, still asking questions… after all; she had twenty-four years of catching up to do!

I imagine she’s probably already been visiting with Jesus and her Mama & Daddy and all the rest of the family who’ve also passed on. There are far too many to name without certainly missing a few, but I am grateful I was blessed to have known quite a few of them too. Many were like her: the last of their kind- the “greatest generation.”

Over this past year, I've found myself thinking of her at the funniest times. As a child, I remember watching her do dishes countless times. When she walked away from the kitchen sink, she’d sorta lightly smack her hand on the edge to fling off the water so she didn’t trail it on the floor. A few months ago, I caught myself unconsciously doing the very same thing. It was a sweet reminder that while she may not be with me in person, she’s certainly still here in spirit.

As many of you know, the week prior to her death, our family was erroneously informed that she’d died. What a surreal experience!

“I’m sorry to inform you- she’s passed on.”

…(a few hours later)…

“Wait a sec, she’s right here. My bad.”

Blessed with a funny “roll-with-it” sense of humor, I believe Grandma would have laughed at the terrible mistake.

I think that is perhaps what I miss the most- her laughter; her easy, gentle way of taking life as it came and finding a reason to smile. If she couldn’t make you smile too, she would give you a slice of something magically delicious that would make you forget your troubles for a bit.

Whoever she’s catching up with today, whatever she’s doing… I am certain there’s something amazing cooking on the stove, a pan of Congo Squares on the table, and a blueberry cream pie in the fridge.

I find it altogether fitting and proper that she went Home on All Saints Day. A quick Google search defines a Saint as, “someone who is holy, virtuous, and typically regarded as being in Heaven after death.” I think that pretty much says it all.

Today, on this All Saints Day, I thank God for sharing one of His dearest and best with us for a time.

I miss you, Grandma. You’re never too far from my thoughts.

Mrs. Wells' Pumpkin Cake

2013-10-07T23:16:00.001-04:00

Those who know me best know I adore anything pumpkin. I'd probably eat cardboard if it were smeared with pumpkin. That being said, I love Starbucks pumpkin loaf, but I detest going to Starbucks to get it. (I also don't care for paying nearly $4.00 for it either, but that's another story!) I needed a close replica of their recipe since I'm about one drive-thru away from having to take out a loan in order to support my pumpkin loaf habit.
The original recipe (which was the precursor to the following one) came from a lady named Mrs. Wells, who was the Home Ec teacher at West Nassau High School for many years. I believe it may have actually come from her mother. Anyway, I took her recipe, added cream cheese, played around with some of the spices, added frosting, removed the nuts, etc... long story short- this is my personal variation of Mrs. Wells' pumpkin cake. In my opinion, this cake is actually better than Starbucks. It's richer, denser, more moist... aww heck, it's just plain scrumptious! However, props still go to Mrs. Wells. I never knew her, but her cake will forever be a family favorite of ours.

Pumpkin Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting

1 cup (two sticks) unsalted butter, softened
3 cups granulated sugar
4 oz. cream cheese (softened)
3 eggs
1 lb* can solid-pack pumpkin (NOT pie filling mix!)
1 t. vanilla
3 cups sifted flour
3 t. pumpkin pie spice
1 c chopped nuts (optional)
1 c raisins (optional)
½ c roasted pumpkin seeds (optional- see notes)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour a Bundt or tube pan. Set aside.

In a mixing bowl, sift together flour with cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, (and nuts/raisins, if desired), set aside.

In a large bowl, mix butter, sugar, and cream cheese until fluffy. Stir in pumpkin, eggs, and vanilla until blended. Add flour, a cup at a time, to the pumpkin mixture. Using the lowest setting on your mixer, mix ingredients until just blended. Do not over-stir!

If you’re adding nuts or raisins, fold in carefully using a wooden spoon. Pour mixture into the prepared pan and bake in a 350 degree oven for 1 hour. After one hour, check doneness using a toothpick or butter knife. If it’s not done, bake 10-15 additional minutes or until tester comes out clean.

Allow to cool completely and frost with cream cheese frosting. (Recipe follows) Store loosely covered in the refrigerator.

NOTES:

-*Be sure you’re using the large can of solid-pack pumpkin and NOT pie filling mix. The recipe will not turn out if you use pie filling mix instead of pumpkin.
-I use the Libby’s brand name of pumpkin, but I’m sure any brand will do. The can actually says that its 29 ounces, which is 1 lb + 13 ozs- that’s the can you want to use.
-Blend the ingredients just until they’re incorporated. Over-stirring will cause the end result to have a weird spongy texture.
-I rarely use nuts or raisins in this cake because my family doesn’t like them. It turns out amazing without using either.
-For fun variety, you can omit the frosting and gently press chopped pumpkin seeds into the top of the cake after you’ve turned it out onto a plate. Or you can frost the cake as usual and then sprinkle pumpkin seeds on top. Either way is delicious.
-Or if you don't care for cream cheese frosting, sprinkle the top generously with powdered sugar. This is how my Mama prefers to make hers.

Cream Cheese Frosting

1/2 stick (1/4 cup) unsalted butter (softened)
4 oz cream cheese (softened)
2 cups powdered sugar
1/2 t. vanilla (see notes)

Using a mixer, blend the butter and cream cheese until combined. Add the powdered sugar and vanilla and beat until the mixture is light and fluffy- approximately 10 minutes. The frosting will become a thicker and fluffier the longer you beat it.

NOTES:

-I use a stand mixer for this recipe.
-I use additional powdered sugar if I need it to be stiffer.
-Do not be tempted to use additional vanilla, milk, or water because the frosting will be thin and drizzly.
-Store frosted food in the refrigerator as this frosting is perishable.

Junk drawers, Ebay, & Trash Bags- OH MY!

2013-08-29T11:43:00.002-04:00

Those who know me best know that I am NOT the queen of organization. Not even a little bit. I always have fabulous intentions about organizing, really I do; but I either 1- don't keep up with it, or 2- get the stuff (plastic box, drawer compartmentalizer, shelf, shoebox, etc) to organize but never actually implement it.
This leaves me in somewhat of a dilemma when it comes to packing for the move.
I've long since given up the "you need to hang on to those cute jeans because some day your butt will fit into them again" pipe dream. So I'm already in the process of doing a clothes purge. Some will be going to folks who can use them, some to consignment stores/Goodwill. Got that part covered.
Books- We're keeping them. It's what we do. We're book people.
It's the rest of the stuff that is posing a problem. I can't figure out what to do with it all.
The hoarder in me who has a slight Pinterest addiction says, "You will repurpose that cracked picture frame, thereby saving it from the landfill to which it's most certainly otherwise bound."
Yeah... I have a box FULL of stuff that somehow made it to the "Repurposeable" category instead of the curb. When I put it there, I had really good intentions of actually doing whatever it was I thought I could do with it, but that box has been filling up for oh, I don't know, 9 years or so. Pretty sure said picture frame is in the bottom of it. SMH
The you-might-need-that-one-day side of me is screaming that I absolutely cannot throw away the power cord from the cell phone I owed 14 years ago. The fact that I still own the cell phone is beside the point. Not really sure what to do with it either.
The frugal, don't-want-to-be-wasteful side says, "Somewhere out there is a person who needs all these plastic containers that got warped in the dishwasher, sippy cups that are missing lids, and various doo-dads in the junk drawer; I can't just toss them! Post on Freecycle that it's at the curb. *Someone* will come get it all, right?"
Then there's the I'm-far-too-busy-for-this-nonsense part of me that is yelling, "Toss all of that crap in the trash and pray the garbage man picks it all up!"
Then there's the other stuff. You know what stuff I mean... the milk frother/smoothie maker/frappe mixer contraption thingamajig that I was given 7 years ago at some Christmas party, used it once, decided it was a pain in the butt to clean, and stuck it on a shelf in the garage. Pretty sure it has all the parts. There's nothing wrong with it. I simply don't want it anymore. And what about that As Seen On TV Slap Chop that seemed like such a great idea? I may have used it twice. Once to chop nuts because Vince said "You're gonna love chopping his [sic] nuts", and the other time to chop celery for egg salad. Yardsale? Donation to a local charity that supports cats?
What about the 19 bottles of red nail polish that I bought on sale because they were only a dime a bottle? But there's really no way I can possibly use 19 bottles of red nail polish before the polish gets thick and gross. So what do you do with them? I refuse to fill up my new house with that junk. And I do not have a burning desire to pack it all up and schlepp it over to the new house either.
This is my inner struggle, ya'll. And I know it's totally a First World kinda problem. There are poor people the world over who'd love for this to be their only problem. I get it, really I do, but that is a subject for another blog entirely.
Do you round up the 7 discs for that computer program you used twice in 2001 and try to Ebay it?
Do you put the bed frame that's been in the garage for 2 years on Craig's List or think twice abt Craig's List because it's a teeny bit creepy?
And what abt those purses that are dusty because they've been in storage that were super nice and pretty darn expensive at the time, but are now old and out of date? Do I take the time to clean them and stick 'em on Ebay, Virtual Yardsale, (actual) yardsale, or in a consignment shop? Because I know the guilt I would feel over simply tossing them in the trash would be far worse than the guilt I felt for paying THAT much for a purse to begin with.
This is where the argument for a swap meet comes to mind. "Hey, I can simply avoid a yardsale, Ebay, Craig's List, Virtual Yardsale, or consignment shop disaster, and have a swap meet at my house. I mean, really, who doesn't love a swap meet? It's fun and free! I'll put all my stuff in the living room, invite some friends to bring their stuff over, pop open a bottle or wine or three, and we'll all swap our stuff. Sounds like a fabulous plan!!"
Then reality smacks me in the face with that annoying little fact about swap meets: True, you get rid of your crap. But you end up stuck with someone else's crap in the process.
Do you sort out the junk drawer; tossing the old batteries & empty Tic Tac containers, but keeping the random coins & the nifty little tape dispenser that fits over your hand because you'll need it at Christmas? Then putting the refillable air freshener thingy & the sunglasses with the tiny scratch on the lens into a yardsale box but separating the washers & screws and the attachments for the gadget you no longer own into a Freecycle box because "someone might be missing *that* one particular piece" and you'll be "doing them a favor" by giving it away? Because right now, I'm considering dumping the whole drawer into the trash and calling it a day.
Any suggestions would be helpful and appreciated because right now, I feel like I'm drowning in my house.

Manic Monday

2013-08-26T16:05:00.000-04:00

Things that are annoying me today:

It’s Monday. Again.

*Someone* cleaned out my car and removed all of the pens, hair clips, Scrunchies, my nametag, a coupon for a free smoothie, and a receipt I was saving to return something. They left a card table and folding chairs in the trunk that rattle like a freight train. But I can’t complain about it because they were doing something nice for me by cleaning out my car.

I broke two fingernails down into the quick.

People who out-tragedy every single thing you say. No matter how bad yours is, theirs is always worse.

I have a really annoying song stuck in my head.

Miley “Ratchet” Cyrus is the headline on every single media outlet today.

Took off my wedding band yesterday to clean it and forgot to retrieve it from the container of jewelry cleaner this morning. Feeling strangely naked without it.

People who type in all caps EVEN WHEN THEY’RE NOT SHOUTING.

People who think they know more than you do no matter the subject.

Things that I’m thankful for today:

My kiddos. Always.

Dan slept in.

Copious amounts of espresso.

I woke up on the right side of the grass.

USB plugs in my car.

Spotify.

My MIL is getting the kids from school today.

One of my co-workers is buying us lunch from Callahan BBQ. I have some pretty darn awesome co-workers.

One of them snuck up and scared me which made me laugh. He didn’t catch me singing to myself.

My friends who appreciate my bizarre sense of humor.

The day is almost over.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

2013-05-24T14:26:00.000-04:00

Well, I finally set foot in a Starbucks again after having largely avoided the chain for the last few years. As many of you know, my beloved local coffee shop, Montego Bay, closed their doors after being in my community for over five years.

It wasn’t just the coffee Montego Bay sold; it was the atmosphere they provided. It was a unique experience as far as coffee shops go.

It was a feel-good sorta place. At any given time, you might walk in and hear Ozzy Osbourne blasting over the speakers. Or Jimmy Buffett. Or George Strait. You just never knew what you’d hear, but there was always some sort of music playing.

It had a very relaxing, beachy feel to it. There was an overhang above the counter that made you feel as though you were walking up to a cabana bar on the beach. They had a swirling painting hanging over the Simonelli Espresso machine reminiscent of the many cerulean shades of the Caribbean. Heck, even the walls were painted a soothing Bahama blue.

The first time I walked in, I was greeted by a Val Kilmer lookalike named Blair. He was wearing a do-rag to hold back his long hair and I immediately liked him. He asked what I wanted and I said I wasn’t sure. He told me to describe what I wanted and he’d make it for me. I told him I usually order a caramel macchiato at Starbucks. So that’s what he made me. Only, this was far better than anything Starbucks has ever even thought about making.

I liked Montego Bay so much that I have a window decal on my car advertising for them. I liked the fact that on mornings when I was makeup-less, had not yet brushed my teeth, and was wearing pajamas when I dropped off the kids, I could still swing by MBC and they didn’t judge. When I’d be out & about shopping or whatever, Dan knew that I’d very likely stop by MBC and spend at least an hour.

Montego Bay Coffee was one of my happy places and I miss it terribly. I didn’t realize just how much I miss it though, until I walked into Starbucks yesterday.

(Don’t judge. I was running late and didn’t have time to make a latte at home.)

The first thing I noticed is that no one greeted me when I came through the door. No one seemed genuinely glad to see me, nor did they call me by name. There was no barstool to sit on and have a chat with the person behind the counter.

There was no music, only the din of chatter.

The next thing I noticed is I had to tell them what I wanted.

Yeah, I know, I know… the folks at Montego Bay had me spoiled a tad because I was a regular. But that’s not the point. I liked the fact that the moment they saw my car pull up, they started my caramel macchiato with half the syrup and extra froth. By the time I walked in, they were putting my coffee into my hand and asking what else they could get me.

The ordering experience at Starbucks was nothing of the sort. It made me a feel a little like cattle being rounded up to wait my turn at being put through the chute.

When my turn came, I said, “I want a Venti Caramel Macchiato with half the syrup, please.”

The teenage girl at the cash register just stared at me like I had lobsters coming out of my ears. She said, “Could you please repeat that?”

So I did. Slowly.

She asked, “You mean you want light syrup?”

I replied, “No. I want *half* the syrup you normally put in a latte.”

She said, “Are you sure you don’t want sugar-free syrup?”

I found myself wondering for the umpteenth time: Why, oh, why is it always me who gets the most clueless/rude/smartass/obnoxious/dumb/boneheaded employee a company has to offer?

It was my turn to give her a blank stare. I replied, “No, I don’t want sugar-free syrup…”

“Are you sure?” She interrupted. “Because that’s what people usually mean when they order ‘light’ syrup.”

As the increasing line of caffeine-deprived customers behind me let out a collective huff of aggravation, I mustered my remaining patience and replied, “Yes, I’m quite sure I don’t mean sugar-free. I want a caramel macchiato with two pumps of regular syrup. Just two, just regular, not sugar-free syrup. Please.”

I could almost see the light bulb come on over her head as clarity hit her.

“Oh!! Why didn’t you just say that?” She asked this as if I’d been speaking Greek the whole time.

“See, when you order coffee,” she explained as if I was a latte virgin, “There are codes and terms you have to use. ‘Light’ refers to sugar-free, not two pumps of flavoring.”

“Ah, I see.” I replied. I didn’t bother to point out to her that I never said the word “light” to begin with.

Then she asked my name so she could put it on the side of the cup. I said, “It’s Cari; C-A-R-I.”

With a confused look, she glanced down at my debit card in her hands and said, “But that’s not how it’s spelled on your card.”

She was right, of course. C-A-R-I isn’t the legal spelling of my name; however, it IS the spelling I’ve gone by since I was a kid.

Instead of attempting to explain this to the girl who had by now wasted many more minutes of my time than I wanted to give her, I replied, “You’re right, I misspelled my name. Just put it the same way it appears on the card.”

The sarcasm was completely lost on her.

After I finally got my Venti caramel macchiato (with the legal spelling of my name on the side of the cup and half the syrup, tyvm), I got in my car and took a sip. It was woefully inadequate.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Great coffee is a lot like great sex. If all you’ve ever had is average sex, then you accept it. But the moment you have amazing sex, your mind is blown. Suddenly, everything else seems pedestrian in comparison. Coffee is a lot like that for people who love coffee.

Montego Bay served velvety smooth, roasted-to-perfection coffee, prepared ANY way you could dream up. Starbucks serves coffee-flavored water with steamed milk and syrup. Yeah, it’ll do in a pinch when I’m desperate for caffeine and there isn’t a McDonald’s in sight. But it doesn’t, and never will, be able to hold a candle to Montego Bay Coffee.

I guess all of this just boils down to the fact that I miss my Montego Bay. I miss amazing coffee. I miss the breakfast burritos and the cinnamon rolls with homemade icing. I miss looking forward to the September day when Pumpkin Spice Lattes (made with real pumpkin and a secret blend of spices) would come back. I miss Holly Jolly Mochas. I miss the sight of Rooster the Red Roaster spinning around. I miss the smell of freshly roasted coffee. I miss hearing The White Stripes blasting from the speakers to help me kick-start my morning. I miss Blair, Hannah, Michaela, Morgan, Kerri, Talia, Bonnie, and the multitude of other regulars like me who’d come in on any given morning. I miss the friendship and camaraderie that comes along with being a regular at an establishment.

I miss going where everybody knew my name.

"Well, I Suwannee!"

2013-05-06T08:49:00.002-04:00

The following is the obituary as well as the eulogy I wrote for Aunt Jeannie's memorial service.

Rest in peace, Aunt Jeannie. Godspeed.

Memorial services for Imagene Hurst (69) of Bryceville, Florida, formerly of Live Oak, Florida and Willacoochee, Georgia, will be held Thursday, May 2, 2013 in the chapel of Prestwood Funeral Home. Imagene was born on November 11, 1943 in Willacoochee, Georgia, daughter of the late Jerry Jack Cribb and the former Mary Elizabeth Floyd. She passed away April 29, 2013 following a lengthy illness. She is survived by her children, Robby Cribb (Tracy), Kelly Douglas (Jimmy), Karen DeWitt (Michael), Kim Terranova (Glen) and Jeremy Taylor; grandchildren, Lisa Cribb, Jennifer Cribb, Tiffany Miller, Ashley Miller, Hannah Miller, Adam Taylor, Abby Bolstein, Lindsey DeWitt, Chad Taylor, Cody Terranova, Zachary Terranova, Kierstin Taylor and Tristyn Taylor; 17 great grandchildren and numerous extended family members and friends.

Don’t cry for me for now I have died
For I am still here, I am by your side
My body is gone but my soul is here
Please don’t shed another tear

I am still here all around

I am the snowflake that kisses your nose
I am the frost that nips your toes
I am the sun bringing light
I am a star shining so bright
I am the rain refreshing the earth
I am the laughter, I am the mirth
I am the bird up in the sky
I am the cloud that’s drifting by
I am the stillness before the dawn
While I’m still here, I can’t be gone.

This evening, we celebrate the life of Imagene Cribb Hurst. Or Ima, as some called her. Or Aunt Jeannie, as I called her.

I say it’s a celebration of her life because that is what tonight is. Even though we’re sad and there will be some tears; we are also celebrating her life.

As I was writing this eulogy, I debated what to say. How do you make someone who might not have known her as well as I did, understand just how wonderful a person she really was?

Let me start by telling you that Aunt Jeannie was a woman who loved her family dearly. She was so proud of each and every one of you and she loved you more than you’ll ever know.

They say you memorize the things that are most important to you. I think it’s very telling that she could tell you at the drop of a hat the ages and birthdates of each of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

She was a funny woman. She had a great sense of humor and knew how to take a joke with the best of them. She and my brother, Thomas, used to prank each other back & forth. Ya’ll know those little sprayers in the sink in the kitchen? Well, one day when she was at Mama’s house, Thomas put a rubber band around the sprayer to hold the button down and turned it to just about her height so that when she turned the sink on, the water sprayed right in her face. So she got him back by hiding behind the door and scaring him just as he got out of the shower.

I remember as a little girl, seeing that yellow Beetle coming down the driveway and being so excited that Aunt Jeannie was coming and bringing kids for me to play with. I remember her bringing Jeremy to Mama’s when he was a baby. And that summer when Karen, Kim, and Kelly came to stay with us will always be one of my favorite memories.

Aunt Jeannie used to say, “Well, I Suwannee!” all the time. When I’d tease her, she’d said, “Carianne Priscilla, I Suwannee! You’re not too big for me to beat you!” Judging by the looks on some of your faces, I’m not the only one she said that to.

Now, I don’t know if she meant the river or the county… I’m still not sure. But it was one of those things she said that was uniquely her that always made me smile.

Aunt Jeannie was retired from the phone company. She worked for them back when they had to manually transfer a call. When she told me that, I remember getting a visual image of her sitting there in front of a switchboard like Sarah from "The Andy Griffith Show." I asked Aunt Jeannie if she was ever tempted to listen in on the calls like Sarah sometimes did. She said, “Of course! We weren’t supposed to but sometimes we did. Especially if we knew it was gonna be a juicy call!”

Aunt Jeannie loved to read. Now when I say she loved it, I don’t mean she kinda read a book here or there, I mean she could sit down on the couch with her morning coffee, open a new book, and by supper that book was finished.

She and I enjoyed reading the same kind of novels and one Sunday I brought her a bag full of books- about a dozen or so- and the following weekend when I was at Mama’s, she gave me the books back. I asked, “What’s the matter? Didn’t you like the books?” She replied, “Oh, I loved them! I could hardly put them down.” I said, “Well, then why are you giving them back?” She replied, “I’m finished with them.” She’d read all twelve that week.

Now, while she might have been a fast reader, she was certainly not a fast driver. Thomas and I were talking as I was writing this and he reminded of a time she got mad at him for driving so fast he made it from Live Oak to Bryceville in 45 minutes. Now, that was a trip that normally took her several hours. I can just hear her now: “Thomas Randall, I Suwannee!”

I remember Jeremy, Thomas, and I were teasing her one day about her driving and Jeremy said, “She drives so slow that bugs don’t mind hitting the windshield; they just roll off & get up and fly away.”

Aunt Jeannie enjoyed going on trips with her sisters. They’d go to the mountains, go shopping, and just enjoy spending time together. They never let her drive, though; otherwise, they’d never get there!

Aunt Jeannie was a great photographer and loved being outside so she could take pictures of everything. She had an amazing eye for details and saw beauty in ordinary things like mailboxes.

That attention to detail came through in another of her hobbies- painting. She loved to paint and painted just about everything. I am proud to say that I have several original “Ima’s” at my house. I’m sure many of you do as well.

Another thing I am especially proud of is the beautiful afghan she made me when I got married. It’s one of the gifts that I’ll always treasure because I know there was love put into every stitch.

Aunt Jeannie was stubborn as the day is long and once she had her mind made up, there was no changing it. I say that with all due love and respect because there was nothing the world she wouldn’t do for someone if she could.

I’ve heard it said that how you face life is only half as important as how you face death. If that is so, then she was courageous woman, indeed. She faced the last few months of her life with bravery, dignity, and grace beyond anything I could ever muster.

Aunt Jeannie was many things to many people. She was a Mama, and a Nana. She was Ima-gene, Ima, Sister, and "Aint" Jeannie; but most of all, she was a dear, dear friend and we are all blessed to have had her in our lives.

Her daughter, Kimberly, would like to share a poem she wrote for her Mama.

Once upon a time, an angel held my hand
She wiped away my tears and helped me understand
Our time on earth is brief
There’s lessons to be learned
Each precious day, God gives us another page to turn
Every chapter full of memories, times of joy and tears
Triumphs and defeats, through every passing year
Angels come in many forms, for me it is my mother
With love I cannot say in words there'll never be another
Thank you God for giving me the most priceless of all treasures
I hope she’s smiling down from heaven knowing she did good
As we gather here today there's no ending to her story
Another chapter has begun full of grace and glory
Gods called her to his heavenly home, part of His great plan
Although it may be hard, we all must understand
Faith is what is hoped for, things we cannot see
Heaven is promised to all of us if only we believe.

You know, I can just imagine her now walking on the streets of gold, beside the crystal sea. She's with her Mama & Daddy, cousins, sisters, and grandchildren; they’re all laughing and carrying on. I think she’d probably say, “Don’t miss me too much. The view is nice and I’m doing just fine.”

Opening Pandora's... Closet?

2013-04-11T01:51:00.001-04:00

"You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life.” -Winston Churchill

I saw something on Facebook earlier that prompted this blog post. It was a video of a reporter from MSNBC doing an interview with her daughter about marriage. During the interview, she asked what the child thought of gay marriage and I couldn’t help but smile at her daughter’s answer. It made me think, "Good job, Mama! You've done something right along the way."

See, it’s not very different at all from the conversation I had with my own boys about the very same subject. I tend to believe that civil rights are called civil rights for a reason. There is a clear separation of church and state written into the Bill of Rights, why should one person’s religious beliefs determine someone else’s civil rights?

Frankly, who the hell am I to tell you, or you, or you, who you can and cannot love? I may be straight, but I’m not narrow.

I’m pro gay marriage and I’m extremely thankful no one ever told me I couldn’t marry my husband when I fell in love with him. I’m thankful for a partner who accepts me for me and doesn’t try to change me, even when he doesn’t agree with me. He stands up for me and would charge Hell with nothing but a water pistol to defend me.

I am of the firm belief that no one is born hating another person. Hatred is a learned trait. So are bigotry, prejudice, sexism, elitism, racism, and homophobia. I believe that if a child can be taught all of those ugly things, they can also be taught love, respect, acceptance, kindness, tolerance, and compassion.

Have you ever observed preschoolers playing? They don’t see “colors”; they see other kids to play with. They don’t care if that child is Asian, Hispanic, or “brown” or “pink” or rich or poor. They simply see someone to play with. As much as adults like to think they have it all figured out, I’m pretty sure it’s the children who are far wiser than many adults I know.

I am a wife and a damned good one. My husband is lucky to have me and he knows it. But I’m just as lucky to have him and believe me when I say that I certainly know it.

I’m a wannabe writer. Will I ever be as good as Hemingway or sell as many books as Stephenie Meyer? Probably not. In fact, let’s just go ahead and say it’s a pretty safe bet that neither of those things will ever happen. But I still like to write. It’s my outlet.

I like to blog. I don’t do it nearly enough, but I still enjoy chronicling our lives this way.

I’m a coffee connoisseur. Actually, "snob" might be a more appropriate term here. Great coffee is like great sex- if all you’ve ever had is average sex, you’re accustomed to it so you accept it; but your mind is blown when you have amazing sex and suddenly everything else seems pedestrian in comparison. Same is true for coffee.

I’m an avid reader. I even read graffiti on the walls in the bathroom. I usually have at least three books going at once.

I’m a Rock Band rock star and sound just like Joan Jett when I sing “I Love Rock & Roll.” No, really, I do.

I’m a movie aficionado. I love a good sappy love story, especially if it involves a black & white film or anything with Doris Day, Rock Hudson, and Tony Randall. I won't turn down a little eye-candy of the George Clooney variety either.

I am a certified Girl Raised In The South. Being Southern isn’t about where you’re born; it’s a way of life. Here in the south we don’t hide our crazy; we parade it around on the front porch and give it sweet tea.

I’m an unapologetic Mama Bear when it comes to my boys. I'm fairly mild-mannered until someone messes with my children; then I'm twelve kinds of bat-shit crazy coming unglued. It's the kind of crazy that you don't see coming. It knows no reason and has no excuse; it simply is, and that's that.

I’m a believer in co-sleeping and attachment parenting, and I believe breast milk is best for a baby. But I’m not gonna judge you if you don’t believe those things. What worked for me might not work for you, and you know what? That’s okay.

I’m pro-life and will gladly tell you the reason I believe what I do. But it isn’t up to me to judge anyone for the personal decisions they make. While I won’t help anyone obtain an abortion, neither will I stand in your way should you choose to have one.

I try very hard not to judge. I don’t always succeed, but I try.

I believe in the Bill of Rights and will fight tooth and nail to defend those rights.

I'm a strong supporter of our military. Those who won't stand behind our troops are certainly welcome to go stand in front of them. I'll even help you get there, if need be.

I’ll readily admit that I have very few close friends, but those I do have know that they couldn’t ask for a more steadfast and loyal friend than me. They know I love them and will do anything for them; and I truly would.

I am a Christian who attends a Methodist church that I adore. However, I believe and teach my children to “coexist” with everyone. I respect everyone’s beliefs, whether they’re spiritual or religious.

Little-known fact about me: I once dated a man who is Muslim. He was extraordinarily polite, treated me with respect, and never once mentioned blowing up anything. He was and still is a good friend. I also have Jewish friends, Wiccan friends (and relatives), friends who are Pagans, Catholics, atheists, and Baptists. I have friends and family who are missionaries. And you know what? I don’t have to agree with them to love them; and I do love them dearly.

I am of the firm belief that it would only take a few generations of Mamas like me teaching our children to celebrate each other’s differences rather than using them as a reason to divide us; to change the whole world.

In my house we do second chances.
We do grace.
We do real.
We do mistakes.
We do I’m sorry.
We do loud really well.
We do forgiveness.
We do mercy.
We do compassion.
We do kindness.
We do hugs.
We do family.
We do love.

I am who I am, folks. Love me, like me, or hate me; but I am who I am. I am not perfect. I might bend a little, I might even change my mind about the way I feel about something, but I refuse to change who I am for anyone.

Finding Peace in the Middle of Winter

2013-03-08T00:04:00.000-05:00

I grew up in a little map dot of a place called Bryceville. It’s a tiny place, really, and if you blink while driving through, you just might miss it.

It’s the kind of place where life revolves around church, the small country store, or somebody’s kitchen table. Its where, as a kid, you knew better than to misbehave when your parents weren’t around because your Mama would know about it before you could get home. That or an adult you’d known your entire life would correct you the same as your own parents would.

It’s a place where "yes ma’am" and "no sir" are not only a way to show respect, but a way to tell if you're a local or “you ain’t from ‘round here.” Hearing the phrase, “How’s yer Mama ‘n them?” is quite common and if you don’t ask, folks might wonder where you left your manners.

If you’re lucky enough to be from Bryceville, then you’re lucky enough. And you may grow up and move somewhere else, but you never actually leave. As they say, you can take the girl out of Bryceville but you can’t take the Bryceville out of the girl. To me, Bryceville is home and it always will be. I’ve known many of the families literally my entire life and am probably distantly related to half of them by marriage or some such. More to the point, our families have known each other for generations past.

Bryceville is the kind of place that everyone knows everyone else. It’s a place that thrives on a sense of family and a sense of community. So when we lose one of our own, we all feel the loss as acutely as if they were family because, in a sense, they were family. Today I learned of the loss of a dear, sweet man, James Fouraker. He was truly one of the kindest, most gentle people I’ve ever known. My heart aches for his family. My heart is saddened that the community-family that is Bryceville has lost another of our own entirely too soon.

My sister, Marcee, posted this earlier and I think it says it all:

“I guess in a way we are selfish because we don't want people we love to go, when in truth, we should be happy for them. I mean what could be better? I have an aunt in the end stage of cancer right now and it's hard. But in a way, I will be so glad for her fight to be over and for her to get home. Cause that is surely no way to live. The Fourakers have had blow after blow the last couple of years. I know they are surely some strong stock to weather all this winter.”

James was a young man in his prime; enjoying life with his lovely wife and watching his grandchildren grow up. Maybe the Lord just needed James there more than He needed him to be here. Sending love and light to the Fouraker family. I hope they find some peace in the middle of their winter.

Hungry Kids, Wasted Food- Thank you, Mama Obama

2013-03-04T23:39:00.000-05:00

Insert all due sarcasm in that title, please.

Frankly, I've had enough.

My children come home from school every day ravenous. I don’t simply mean “they want an after-school snack”, I mean they’re so hungry, their blood sugar levels have dropped to the point that they're mean and irritable. This has been going on since the beginning of school. Last school year (and in previous school years) they loved school lunch. Not this year. It’s “awful”, “nasty”, “gross”, and “disgusting” to list just a few of the infelicitous terms they’ve used to describe the food.

My boys couldn’t be more opposite if I’d tried to make them that way. One will eat anything, the other doesn’t like but a handful of foods. So when my oldest (the picky kid) came home complaining about the school food, I admit I didn’t really take him very seriously. He’ll complain if the mac & cheese isn’t creamy enough or the chicken nuggets aren’t white meat; but when my kid who will eat just about anything came home complaining that the food at school was yucky, I paid closer attention. He’d come home on a daily basis pleading with me to send him lunch from home because he didn’t want to face another day of cafeteria food.

After questioning them a bit, I also discovered that they’re being “forced” to purchase food they won’t eat. Apparently, they are required to purchase an entrée as well as a side.

To be clear, they’re NOT forced to eat it, just to purchase it.

For example, if there is a side they want but the entrée isn’t something they’ll eat, they have no choice but to purchase both. So you know what they do with those entrees and sides they’re required to purchase? They throw them in the trash untouched.

No, really. How wasteful is that?

The theory “if they’re hungry enough, they’ll eat it” is a bunch of crap. Whoever came up with that doesn’t have kids or doesn’t live in America. My kids will NOT eat something they don’t like; they’ll simply refuse to eat.

(For the record- I am referring to my children only. I’m not talking abt kids in third-world countries where food is scarce. That is another topic altogether and one for a different blog. Maybe one day when I am feeling more humanitarian and less compelled by politicians trying to parent my children, I will write a blog about food shortages in foreign countries. However, that day is not today.)

Let me give you an example:
My youngest son is one of those kids who loves a good salad. I don’t mean a Ranch-drenched mess, either. He loves fresh tomatoes, raw carrots, and broccoli. One day, the “entrée” was a salad with ham on it. One of the sides available that day was a side salad. He wanted a salad but doesn’t like ham so he asked if he could purchase two side salads instead of having to purchase the entrée salad. He was told no, so he didn’t eat lunch that day. That makes absolutely NO sense to me. Seems to me that if he’s willing to eat two salads, why not let him?

Additionally, what if we were Jewish and he couldn't eat ham? We're not, but that isn't the point. Would they basically punish him based on his religion? Isn't that tantamount to discrimination? In this area, we have very few Jewish families so I admit I may be stretching this one a tad. However, to those few Jewish families there are here, it isn't a stretch at all; it's blatant discrimination.

Upon further research, requiring children to purchase food they’re not going to eat isn’t something that is limited to my local school district; this is nationwide, folks. It’s required at the primary and elementary levels, not so much at the middle and high school levels. Although, the older kids still have foods they’re required to purchase, even if they have no intention of eating it.

I have a secret… I’m not a perfect mom. THERE, I said it- my dirty little secret is out. While my children are always fed, I don’t always plan out our meals. I’m guilty of picking up the phone and ordering pizza here and there. We pull through Chick-Fil-A too. And I am guilty of counting ketchup as a veggie on occasion. And you know what? There are days I let them have just chocolate milk for breakfast, but dammit, that is MY decision to make. It isn’t for the government to decide. I am their mother.

To take it a step further- they might be children but they have rights too. They have a right to say, “I do not like this food and I will not eat it.” As their mother, I am behind them a hundred bazillion percent. But you know what? As their mother, I am out in front of them as well, shielding them as much as I can.

Strictly from a monetary standpoint- it’s my money that they’re using to purchase their lunches. To be required to purchase food that they’re not going to eat is ludicrous in my opinion. Not only is it a waste of money, it’s a waste of food, and resources.

Yeah, I could brown-bag their lunches, and I often do. The point I am trying to make is that I should not have to.

Recently, I spoke to a local school board member who told me that according to the new guidelines that have been mandated by the federal government, they have no choice but to use vendors who use wheat flour instead of white flour. I frequently hear folks say, “Well, wheat flour is healthier for you than white flour.” But if kids won’t eat it, what is the point of purchasing it? Not only do you end up with a huge amount of wasted food, you allow children to be hungry all day long.

That can’t be good for education. Can it?

They’ve completely removed foods like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from schools because there are very few vendors who supply a wheat bread version. That was my children’s fall-back. When there was absolutely NOTHING else they wanted on the menu, they’d resort to the ol' PB&J standby. Now that option is gone.

I also found out from this school board member is that this program was introduced by Michelle Obama and that it's been extremely unpopular nationwide. All you have to do is Google “Obama school food” or any incarnation thereof, to find a multitude of websites in which kids and adults alike are pushing back against this plan. According to many school districts, food waste has gone up over 20%. That's TWENTY percent OVER what it used to be and that’s huge, folks.

Instead of giving our kids more and better choices, they’ve limited them even further. They’ve made our children little automatons going through the line getting their daily dose of Soylent Green.

In my research, I found the following from another parent:

"To quote our beloved President, this school lunch to-do is indeed a 'teachable moment.' America should pay heed to what happens when a benevolent government worms its way into private choice and uses the excuse that it's for the good of the citizenry. The truth is that what is currently taking place in school cafeterias across America is an omen of a future where the government that is currently regulating Tater Tots will one day be rationing health care."

Indeed.

*Excerpt courtesy of: http://www.americanthinker.com/blog/2012/09/michelle_obamas_share-the-starvation_school_lunch_program.html#ixzz2MdRuHsCl

References:
http://pjmedia.com/blog/wasted-food-hungry-kids-michelle-obamas-bill-in-action/
http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/250732.php
http://dailycaller.com/2012/09/22/nations-children-push-back-against-michelle-obama-backed-school-lunch-regs/
http://www.americanthinker.com/blog/2012/09/michelle_obamas_share-the-starvation_school_lunch_program.html