Salad Boat

 

This boat . . . not fit for a moat,
better a salad bar for a goat.
Broccoli, chard, peas & kale . . .
it’ll be awhile ‘for it sees a whale.
But in the yard so pretty and neat
it’s filled with yummy things to eat.

 

This garden resides in my neighbor’s yard.

Yummy and lush, isn’t it?

My neighbors are very creative people. Here is the view from a bit farther away.

The lady of the house is from the coast of Alaska. I think this is their tribute to her hometown . . .  or they were looking for an excuse to avoid having to refurbish this cute little water craft.

Either way it is lovely.

And fun.

And we have a yard with a really cool view thanks to these creative people.

Happy Gardening,
D

P.S. Grannie Pie, I think we’ve found the solution to your gopher problem. You don’t need giant plastic drums. You need a boat.

Advertisements

Faces of Five

Those of you who know the date on which I pushed this child from my womb will know that the timing is off. It is a journal entry I wrote the week he turned five but didn’t post. Probably because I had no place to post it at the time . . .

Dear G,

You turned five this week.

It’s a milestone for both of us.

You’re handling it better than I am.

We don’t have toddlers at our house any more.

(Sniff)

But we have a lot of interesting faces.

I love your face and your entire squishy cuddly self. 

You’ve assured me that you will still cuddle with me when you are 30.

(Sniff)

I hope any other woman in your life at the time doesn’t mind.

My Happy Squish.

I love you to your bones.

Mama

The wedding is off!

This is G.
 
G
 
Isn’t he cute?
 
This G does not belong to me, he belongs to my friend J And her husband.
 
When my girl child went off to kindergarten she and G became friends rather quickly. Within a matter of weeks they decided to get married.
 
Initially it was a topic they discussed at length. Soon enough however it simply became a fact of their little lives and they treated it accordingly. They even went so far as to name a few of their children. I think there is a Lucy in the bunch but I could be mistaken.
 
Over the course of the 18 months following this life altering decision the topic of R and G’s future came up at our house frequently and randomly enough for it to be clear that it is a subject about which the girl invested some serious time pondering.
 
For example, she and I were engrossed in laundry or some other exciting household task one day when out of the blue she asked, “When G and I get married will our kids have his last name or my last name?”
 
On one occasion she approached me concerned about whether they would live with us (her dad and me) or with G’s parents. I explained to her that married people generally don’t live with their parents if they can help it. At least not in this country. That left her thinking maybe marriage wasn’t all that great.
 
Nearly  a year later the conversations were still occurring . . .
 
Upon leaving a petting zoo one day R announced that she wanted to live on a farm and have goats of her own. (Never mind that three days earlier she was planning on being a dolphin trainer.) We affirmed her career plans and discussed living in the country for a minute or two and continued to mosey on our way.
 
Not 30 seconds later she nodded to herself, looked up at me and said, “We could live in the country and that would be fine because G could be a fireman.”
 
Until that sentence popped out of her mouth G’s name had not come up in conversation all day.
 
Clearly the girl is a planner.
 
Sadly R’s father and I had to put a stop to the wedding plans this spring.
 
One evening a couple of months ago R’s future in-laws came over for dinner. During the course of consuming large quantities of pizza G’s father asked G to tell me about his updated career plans. G confidently announced, “I’m going to have kids and be a stay at home dad.”
 
“Oh, so sweet!” I thought. To G I said, “G If you want to stay home with your kids that is just great.”
 
At this point R’s future father-in-law asked G to clarify for me the timeline for his plans.
 
Bright eyed and nodding for emphasis G looked up at me with his intense and earnest little face and said, “I’m going to have kids right when I’m done with high school.”
 
Up shot my eyebrows.
 
“Really?”
 
“Well, I’m sorry, honey. R won’t be available until at least ten years after that. I’m afraid the wedding is off. You’ll have to find someone else.”
 
 
R and G seem to be handling the change to their plans well. I like to think it is because they respect my adult / parental authority. Unfortunately I think it has more to do with the approaching “the opposite sex has cooties” phase.
 
We may have to revisit this in six or seven years when hormones start wreaking havoc on our lives. At that point I will probably have to break the news to R that getting married involves a tad more than holding hands and dancing in a circle.
 
If I’m lucky, however, she may still believe that when a boy and a girl kiss they have to get married. That might not be so bad.
 
We’ll just hope she is really picky about whom she kisses.

Ironing Money

Like the picture? It has nothing to do with the post but a post without a picture is terribly dull. It also would probably be better if I would learn to use editing software. It's on the list.

My mother used to iron her money. 

It’s true. I’m serious. 

I learned this interesting fact about my compulsively organized bookkeeper mother a few months ago. This is the same woman whose greatest joy in life is polishing the copper bottoms of her Revere® Ware pans. 

When my mother first mentioned this fact in passing during casual conversation – in what context I cannot even recall – I roared – tears rolled down my eyes. Who irons their money?!? 

Visions of  my brother and me playing contentedly at my mother’s feet while she toiled away at the ironing board tidying up the day’s take ran through my head . . . babysitter leaves . . . Mom whips out the ironing board. 

Now, lest I make my very generous mother sound like either a close relative of dear old Ebenezer or a candidate for pharmaceutical intervention her explanation goes something like this: 

Crumpled money is very difficult to stack. 

We lived in the middle (smack dab in the middle) of nowhere . . . a long way from somewhere and even further from anywhere. 

My parents owned and operated a variety of businesses in this minute town in the middle of nowhere. Evidently, once paper and coin money found its way to this exotic locale it never got to leave. The bills were simply passed around and around and around and got really, really used going from hand to hand to hand to hand before finding their way to a bank.  

It was wadded up in pockets . . .   

stuffed in mukluks . . .   

used for insulation at 45 below during the cold and dark of winter . . .  

occasionally used to buy groceries and pay utility bills . . .  

My mother swears she spent hours taping together torn pieces of bills trying to make serial numbers match so she could mail (yes that would be USPS) giant wads of cash to town for deposit once she declared them unfit for circulation. (This was prior to the glorious invention of the debit card – arch-enemy of Dave Ramsey.) 

According to my mother 25 crumpled up ones can make a stack eighteen inches high. Not very tidy for sending to First National. Doesn’t work for my compulsively organized mother at all. 

So she ironed them. 

Apparently there is just enough cotton rag in Uncle Sam’s paper blend to make them iron up quite nicely. 

Who knew? 

Giggling, 

Epilogue:
Evidently Snoop Dog knows all about this. Posters of him ironing money are available on-line. Do you supposed he is compulsively tidy, too? I’m thinking his motive may lie elsewhere.

“Y”

Today we went to the lake. R. had running club and G. played on the playground with friends.

At one point G. wandered over in search of food. It had been at least an entire 20 minutes since he had last eaten.

“Hold my stick while I eat, Mom.”

He handed me this:

For the record, this stick is not quite three inches long.

Being that kind of mother I asked him, “What letter does this make?”

“V,” was his response.

“Sure,” said I. “What does it make with the tail?”

And with no hesitation my sweet, darling boy said, “A slingshot.”

That’s my baby.

Fancy Beans

There is no recipe included in this entry.

Just want to clear that up for those of you who may be under the false impression that I cook anything more than that which is essential to prevent major malnutrition.

Or at least starvation.

Anyway, this is about the origin of beans according to my (at the time) rapidly approaching seven-year old daughter. The conversation went like this:

Roo (in her best authoritative lecturer in training voice):  “Mama, did you know that beans naturally come from Mexico?”

Mama:  “They do? What kind of beans? Coffee beans? Cocoa beans?”

Roo (in the same a.l.i.t. voice):  “No. Just beans with fancy names like . . . . . . . . . . . like refried.”

Something tells me there are some gaps in this child’s education. With what shall we begin . . . cultural sensitivity or cooking classes?