Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

My husband and I are relatively quiet folks who keep to ourselves.  We don't have wild parties, rarely scream and yell unless the dog is about to chew on something precious or meant for our dinner, and we have never called the police nor had the cops called on us.  We are the best neighbors you never knew you had.  Unless of course, you are one of the many people who have lived near us over the years.  

At our first apartment, I can't say we ever annoyed anyone, although we were annoyed plenty with our neighbors that parked their one piece of crap car across the only two parking spaces and stole our Sunday newspaper every weekend. At our second apartment, we lived on the second floor, above a woman that I nicknamed "The Troll Who Lives Under the Stairs" or just "Troll" for short.

Like most trolls, she was too thickheaded to realize that the staircase led to three additional apartments, not just ours.  She was certain that all the foot traffic on the stairs was for our apartment only and therefore, despite the fact that I left every day at 7:00 AM and did not return until 9:00 PM (from my job at the prosecuting attorney's office and visiting my recently widowed father), in her feeble mind, we must be drug dealers and she reported this to the apartment managers who informed us of the accusation. She repeatedly made noise complaints against us, which was odd, because in those days, we were rarely home and never had guests over. 

The capper t'was the night before Christmas, 1994. At 4:00 AM the troll arrived with such a clatter (at our door), that I arose to see what was the matter.  There she was pounding at our door.  I opened it against my better judgment to find her red faced and angry.  She screamed for me to "Turn off your f***ing washing machine!"  I informed politely that it was not on, to which she screamed, "LIAR!!!!" I invited the angry beast inside, to my clean, nicely decorated apartment with Christmas tree aglow.  She stormed past me to the laundry closet, and then bellowed, "Where is that NOISE coming from?" I calmly replied, "Upstairs.  You know there are two other apartments up there, right? Not every noise you claim to be from us comes from our apartment." She pushed past me and raced up the stairs. 

I thought for sure after this encounter, the troll might be slightly apologetic or at least give me a head nod of acknowledgement when our paths invariably crossed.  That never happened.  She would only snarl in my general direction. We moved to our first house in the next few months. 

Our first neighborhood was probably once filled with young families, but now it had gone to seed and was filled with elderly couples.  They did not like us one bit.  I thought it was odd when I would drive by and wave to our new neighbors only to be scowled at in return.  I could not figure out how we could have offended them.  It turns out though, it was not us.  It was the former owner, and because we purchased the property before the signage went up, I suppose they thought we were kin.  

The former owner decided he wanted to paint the house barn red, and while he was at it, he wanted to paint the fence too, and not just the part he could see.  He wanted all sides painted barn red, including those that faced the neighbors' yards.  So he took it upon himself to enter their backyards unannounced with a sprayer of red paint.  As you can imagine, this did not go over well with the neighbors at all.  We were guilty by association. 

We never saw nor heard our neighbors at our second house, so really I can't say that we or they had any complaints.  At our third home, we had nice enough neighbors, although I didn't much care for having a homeowner's association. It just seemed like it was a bunch of busybodies who reveled in telling people how to live under the threat of a lien against their property if they did not comply. (I was friendly with some of the board members, and this was my impression of their HOA activities.)

In our current neighborhood, we have had a bit anonymity. As a family, we do not enjoy large gatherings of people we don't know, so we have never been to any of the neighborhood community pool parties, or Easter egg hunts. Although I would love to have a friendly neighbor next door like we always had growing up, I'm okay with just the friendly wave or head nod. We have had a pretty peaceful existence here until last week. 

Despite only being 6 years old, our wood fence is starting to show some wear and tear. My husband decided it was time to call a guy to get the necessary repairs done. He had a question about the required width of slats for the fences, and you know that this minutiae is just the sort of thing homeowner associations are very particular about. Since my husband is a man, he was not about to waste time searching the covenants and restrictions for the answer. He is a man. He has a question. He wants it answered tout de suite. 

He posed his query to our neighborhood Facebook page where neighbors frequently post important questions like, where can I find the best cupcakes, and who knows a good plumber. The homeowner association president himself promptly responded to the thread with the specific section of the covenants and restrictions (CCR) that would have that information.  Husband found the CCR online and read the pertinent section which did not address his question. It referred readers to a power point presentation that only revealed fence slats should be of a "standard" size. This was frustrating to him.  He invested all this time trying to find an answer to a simple question. Obviously the president knew the answer as he cited the specific section number of the CCR. Couldn't he have just as easily responded that there was no specified width for fence slats? Husband then added to his thread saying, why couldn't you just directly answer a simple question.  Mr. President took umbrage with that and made some sarcastic statement about teaching a man to fish. 

Four days later, a neighbor we have never met nor heard of, responded to the thread.  He ranted about how Mr. President does so much for our community and how people want him to spoon feed them answers because they are too lazy to look for their own answers. Husband responded with look, people ask all sorts of questions on here, we don't tell people to check Yelp for the best mechanic, urologist, or holiday light installer. He then asked the neighbor why he felt the need to pile on a four day old thread. This must have enraged the neighbor, as he then gave out his street address and challenged the husband "get off your lazy ass" and come down there, for what I presume would be a fight or duel. We later found out that this man is a medical doctor, not some redneck looking to raise hell on a Saturday night. Husband then decided it was best to just delete the thread and I have since started to refer to this neighbor as Dr. Hothead.

Meanwhile, prior to Dr. Hothead's response, another neighbor asked why there was construction going on near the neighborhood pool. Mr. President quickly answered that if the neighbor or anyone else wanted to know, they would need to attend the HOA board meeting on Monday. 

Really? To quote a very wise woman, "Ain't nobody got time for that!" What is the deal with this guy's air of mystery about things?  Why can't he directly answer a simple question?  To me it seems a perfect example of a tiny bit of power going to one's head. 

So instead of saying all of that in a comment, I responded in a way that I thought was kidding, in an albeit snarky way.  I wrote that Mr. President's response was in keeping with his teach a man to fish philosophy. I ended it with a winking smiley face to show this was just a friendly jab. Mr. President did not take my comment lightly. His next response in the thread was to go off on me and accuse me of bashing him in my comment and then insinuated that I was lazy, a complainer, a non-voter, and non-participator in our community. I have never met the man before.  I have never complained to him or any neighbor other than my own husband. I wrote another comment to the thread explaining that it was a friendly ribbing at most, and that I am sure he does work hard for our neighborhood, but some people, like myself, do not have the availability to attend board meetings nor the time to read board minutes.  

I did not receive a response, and I am okay with that. Quite honestly, I have no use for homeowner associations. If I had my wish, I would live in a sprawling ranch style house on a plot of land, with a large vegetable garden, a chicken coop and a small herd of goats. I would have a small farm stand and sell eggs and artisan cheeses. I would have an above ground pool in the yard for the kids.  All things which are against HOA rules, regulations, and restrictions. In my opinion, good fences really do make the best neighbors and hopefully we will get ours fixed soon.

140 Characters or Less

     Earlier today I made a tweet lamenting the lost art of storytelling.  I'm not sure if anyone knew what I was talking about and of course I have way more to say on the subject than the 140 character limit of Twitter allows. For people who lack the time, inclination, or attention span to read my blog, my tweet summed up the point of this particular post. 

     It is a topic I have been thinking about quite a bit lately.  It started with a just an inkling of an idea while I watched old black and white episodes of The Andy Griffith show a few weeks ago.  (Yes, I know, my television preferences are a bit unconventional for this decade or any of the three preceding it. Even though it aired before I was born, I've always enjoyed it.)  In one episode, Andy took Opie and his friends on a camp out. Around the campfire that evening, he told the boys a ghost story and unless they were all amazing actors at such a young age, they seemed genuinely mesmerized by the tale. There were no cutaways to illustrate the story like you would see in a show today; it was just an example of old fashioned story telling.

      In another episode, Aunt Bea, Andy, and Opie were sitting on the porch after dinner.  Opie was playing with his building blocks, Aunt Bea's hands were busy with needlework, while Andy strummed the guitar. All three would occasionally stop what they were doing to talk to one another.  When was the last time you just sat and talked to someone without glancing at phones, TV, or other technology?  Do you remember being a kid and going over to a relative's house and having to sit there quietly while the grown-ups talked until they thankfully had a heart and sent you off to play? They literally sat around for hours just talking, talking, talking. I can't even imagine that today.

     My daughter and I recently had a conversation about texting versus talking on the phone.  I was asking her how you get to know someone without actually speaking to them.  She said texting was better and easier than talking. My point was that you can't adequately have a conversation in a text. It does not convey tone. In text, you forgo telling details because it takes effort and time to type on a touch screen. You limit yourself to the bare bones. You also are not able to see the recipient's reaction and facial expressions, so you can't react in the way you would if you were communicating face to face. While I am speaking to someone, my eyes are always on them and I am constantly thinking of how to choose my words based on the non-verbal feedback I am receiving.  You can't do that in text.

       I miss having actual conversations with people where no one is distracted by the diversions at their fingertips.  We have so much information available to us at the mere swipe of our fingertips.  We can scan news stories for just the pertinent bits or parts that are interesting to us.  We can watch video clips and fast forward past the duller scenes. Unfortunately it seems like people want to do that now in conversations as well, or perhaps they have forgotten that it is rude and bad manners to divert your attention and focus away mid-conversation.

     It has gotten to the point that with some people, I try to limit what I need to say to 30 seconds or less.  My max conversation might be three minutes. If the person seems interested, I will speak longer and add additional comments and details, but I am on the lookout for the tell tale signs that they are no longer engaged.  There just is no point and it is quite honestly a little hurtful trying to talk to someone who can't be courteous enough to at least give you their full attention for more than a few moments.

     I suppose I sound horribly old fashioned and the mention of The Andy Griffith Show probably drives that home most of all, but I miss talking to people. I miss hearing stories. My dad always had funny stories to tell about his life and experiences. No one seems to tell their life stories anymore. I miss that.  I have to say that the longest conversations I have had with anyone lately, have been with my son, and I do not think it is any coincidence that he does not yet have a phone.

 

       

What's In A Name?

I hate my name.  I have never felt that it suited me or should belong to me. I blame my parents of course. They are the ones that did this to me. You see, they could not agree on a name for me when I was born.  My dad wanted Julia, my mom wanted Julieanne. As a compromise, they named me one, and called me the other. Until I was 5, I thought my name was Julieanne. I liked that name. I liked the way my Southern grandmother pronounced it as two separate words, Julie Anne, so that both the first and third syllable in the name was stressed. 

When I went to kindergarten, I was called and became known as Julia, which was news to me at first. The teacher, Mrs. Nelson, would pronounce it with two syllables  "Jool-ya". The other kids stretched it into three calling me "Jool-ee-ya". Oh how I hated the way it sounded!  It sounded ugly and boring and just wrong. I did not like it. It did not sound right at all. 

The nuns in grade school certainly did not abide by family nicknames, but by high school, I managed to be known mostly as Julie to my close friends.  Now professionally, my name has reverted back to Julia, much to my dismay. When I invite people to call me Julie instead, they say how they have seen my name as Julia and question which is correct. Some have even gone so far as to tell me that they like Julia better, and continue to call me that. My own husband, who knows how I feel about my name, for some reason, when speaking of me, calls me "Jool-ya".  I suppose he prefers that as well. 

To me, the name Julieanne is who I am. It is the name I was first called by my family.  It reminds me of home and being loved.  Being called "Mom", makes me feel the same way. That is reserved for two very special people in my life. Maybe it's okay that no one calls me Julieanne anymore. Maybe that exclusivity makes it special and private, and something reserved for the people who know me and love me in spite of it. 

From You Guys to Y'all

I've lived in three very different regions of the United States, each with their own accents, word pronunciations, and distinct lingo. I have an embarrassing tendency to pick up the accents of wherever I am visiting or living, so that my own manner of speaking is an amalgamation of where I have been. Perhaps this is why Siri cannot understand a word I say, or why one of my aunts looked me up and down the last time I saw her and proclaimed that I have some sort of accent that she didn't understand, before walking away perturbed. 

While I lived in Michigan, I had no idea whatsoever that there was in fact a Michigan accent.  I did notice that when I would call the admissions offices of the colleges I was considering in the Seattle area, the people there seemed to have this airy lilting way of speaking that was very different from what I was used to.  Declarative sentences had a way of ending on a high note as though they were actually questions. I found it charming, and I am sure I adopted it unconsciously. 

Vernor's is an example of a pahhp found in MI.

It took awhile for me to drop my Michigan lingo, but before long I was referring to carbonated drinks as soda instead of pop. If by some chance I say "pop", I pronounce it with one non-nasally short "o" instead of "pahhp", as a Michigander might.  After referring to my collective co-workers in Seattle as "you guys" and being severely admonished that they were definitely not "guys" and did not at all appreciate being referred to as such, I dropped that colloquialism. I began using words like "spendy" to mean expensive and my accent adapted to the change in my environment. 

In 2007, I moved to Texas.  I found it surprising that the native Texans that I met do not have a discernible Southern accent unless they are speaking to other Texans. As the conversation flows, the accents get thicker and thicker.  And yes, everyone, accent or not, really does use "y'all".  I was in a store the other day and was asked, "How're y'all doing today?"  I was there without the kids, so I was confused by whether or not the friendly clerk was referring to just lonely ol' me or not.  I turned and looked behind me to see if there was a group there, but no, just me.  "Y'all" is most often used in the plural sense, but apparently it can be used in the singular sense as well.  

2007 also marked my 20th high school reunion, which I attended after a long absence from Michigan.  It was then that I realized that Michiganders their very own distinct accent. I had kept in contact with some of my friends via email and Christmas cards over the years, but had not heard the sound of their voices since I left in 1991. My first thought was, what is up with their accents?  Do I, or did I used to sound like that? 

People from Michigan have a unique way of speaking. We inexplicably mash together multiple words to make one sound or lengthen some short words to have more than the usual syllables. (You can read more about that here: http://hubpages.com/hub/Michigan-Accent.)  I am still prone to the word shortening when I speak, which I am afraid may make me seem uneducated to non-Michiganders.  If I am not concentrating on my manner of speaking, I will say things like "kinuh" instead of "kind of" and "tuh" instead of "to".  I will say "couldah, shouldah, wouldah" instead of "could've, would've, should've". It can be embarrassing at times, especially when a 10 year old student picks up on one of my bastardized pronunciations of a word and asks me earnestly what the word I just said means. The word in question was roof, which I do not pronounce with the "ew" sound in the middle, and to tell the truth, that way just sounds really wrong to my ears. I make more of short "u" sound.  I don't know why; I had never thought I pronounced it weird until that child brought it up.  When I questioned co-workers, the consensus was that my pronunciation was off.  Then again, not one of them is fortunate enough to hail from the Mid-west, so really, what do they know? 

There are a few Texas-isms that I have acquired in my time here.  I now use the word "ugly" to not only refer to unsightly, or unpleasant to the eye offenses, as in "Vera Bradley bags are just gawd-awful ugly!" (They truly look like something my grandma would have made out of one of her old pantsuits from the 1970's, but I digress.)  In the Southern sense, ugly more refers to behavior. As in if someone speaks to you harshly without just cause, you would say, "She got really ugly with me."  If you want to relay your displeasure with someone without it seeming like you are all out purposely bad mouthing them, you might preface the insult with, "I don't mean to be ugly, but....."  It is a more genteel way of stating your actual low opinion of a person or situation without it reflecting back upon you negatively. 

"Bless your heart" is another Southern colloquialism used to soften the blow of a biting remark. You can pretty much get away with saying anything after "bless your heart" and it sounds like you really do wish the person well despite whatever you find appalling about them.  As in, "Bless your heart, you have been working so hard that you're all flushed and sweaty". The person who said this is not proud of all your toil and labor.  What they really mean is, "You look/smell like hell. You should go take a shower. You are not fit to be seen by decent folks in your current state." I try not to employ "bless your heart" unless I am speaking of or to a child.  It seems very disingenuous to use it with an adult, but the way I see it, a child cannot often help whatever the offense is, or just has not been taught better by his or her mama. When I say "bless your/her/his heart" to or about a child, I do mean it in a loving and nurturing way.  A child is not deserving of snarky remarks, plain and simple. 

Lately, I have been listening rather heavily to audio books from a Southern author. I have heard myself say things in a twang that does not ordinarily come from my lips. I am no longer sure what kind of accent I possess.  I suppose it is a bit of Mid-west, Pacific Northwest, and Central Texas with a dash of Southern thrown in.  If I watch enough British TV and movies, a pinch of that seeps in as well.  It's no wonder Siri tells me that she does not understand me.  

The King and I

Earlier this summer, the man had a pool tournament in Tunica, Mississippi. If the growing number of trophies that have taken over the top of our book shelf in the bonus room (aka Dan-o-mite's Billiards Practice Facility) are any indication, he likes to compete and he is quite good at it. Since pool tournaments are generally not family friendly outings, the kids and I usually stay at home. He was able to entice me to come along this time when he mentioned that Tunica is a mere 30 miles away from Memphis, Tennessee. 

I am a barbecue fan, but that is not the reason I wanted to go to Memphis. Not a lot of people know this about me, but I am an absolutely raging (albeit closeted) Elvis fan. If you were to ride in my truck, you might notice the radio presets are all the usual rock, pop, and alternative stations, but if you click on cd, The King will burst forth and my secret would be revealed.  At home, the XM is usually tuned to channel 19, Elvis Radio, coming direct to you from the Graceland Mansion in Memphis, Tennessee. 

I have wanted to visit the home of The King for a very long time. I have seen pictures before of the stained glass peacock windows leading to the music room, and of course the well known jungle room, but I wanted to experience it myself and walk in his footsteps. So without hesitation, I agreed to go on the nine hour road trip, and believe me, I hate the monotony of road trips. 

First, a word about Tunica. If you have never been or never heard of it, allow me to educate you. It is near the Mississippi River, yet out in the middle of nowhere. There are several large casinos in the area, and pretty much nothing else. Seriously. As in I heard a woman ask the concierge where the nearest Target or Walmart was, and she was told about 25 miles away. Although we saw plenty of kids in the hotel, there really is not much for families to do in and around Tunica. (However, at least one of the casinos, Harrahs, has an onsite daycare with an arcade and indoor jungle gym should you want to ditch the kids and gamble away their college funds.)

If you do go, you must, must, must, forgo the casino restaurants for breakfast and head about 20 minutes down the road to Tunica proper. There you will find the historic Blue and White Restaurant. Ignore the deep fried lunch buffet and get yourself a menu. Now you might have a bit of a wait for your food, but a good Southern scratch made breakfast is worth it. You have never, nor will you ever in your whole entire life have grits as light and fluffy and buttery as theirs. Why not start the day with a breakfast fit for The King?

We planned to visit Graceland on Saturday morning. Dan really wanted to come, but he had a match later that day, so he was not able to join us. I drove to Elvis Presley Boulevard, which was renamed that during his lifetime. When Elvis bought the mansion in 1957, it was out in the country. Over the years, businesses have cropped up, and now unsavory looking strip malls and fast food joints line the highway. Graceland is set back from the street, and still looks majestic and serene, despite the seedy surroundings.  

Directly across the highway from the mansion, are an assortment of Elvis themed gift shops, restaurants, a museum dedicated to his cars, his two jet planes, and the parking lot, which is $10 to enter. Do not come to Graceland with a light wallet.  I am not saying in any way, shape, or form that it is not worth it. It is. It really is, but the experience is going to cost you. 

Upon buying your tickets, you are given a vague timeline as to when your shuttle will leave.  In the meantime, you are free to visit the lovely gift shops, tour the planes, and any of the exhibits on that side of the street. We had about an hour wait to board our shuttle, plenty of time to drop some cash in the gift shops and see the planes. The Lisa Marie jet was incredible with its living room, board room with conference table, and private bedroom with attached bathroom featuring a golden sink. 

Once on the shuttle, we crossed the street and drove through the famous guitar gates and up the long circular driveway. Before boarding, we were given headsets, and instructed to turn them on to hear a narration of what we were seeing from that point on. I must say that while in the house, I didn't feel like I really got to experience it the way I would like. The narration, although very well done and interspersed with Elvis music and actual audio clips, removed me from the experience. I felt like I was watching a TV show as opposed to actually being there. I was on the narrator's time line, not my own. 

This a pic I snapped from the foyer looking into the living room and music room.

I was surprised at how homey the house felt, despite it being a museum. At the front of the house, it looked very formal, but the rear and basement looked like a very comfortable and inviting home, that just happened to be stuck in a 1970's time capsule. This is most apparent in the dark paneled kitchen with carpeting, the dark green shag of the jungle room, the mirrored walls and ceiling along the staircase to the basement, and the fabric lined walls and ceiling of the billiard room.  

The kitchen at Graceland

The time in the mansion felt rushed, as if the docents were pushing us through. They really weren't, but as other tour groups filed into the narrow passage ways, it felt as though I didn't have a choice but continue to plow on. Once outside in the backyard and outbuildings, it was more relaxed. I took my headset off in the racquet ball court, which is where Elvis spent his last night before retiring to his bedroom for the last time. I really should have done that much sooner. Although I enjoyed the narration, I felt like I was finally experiencing Graceland with it off. If I were to go again, and I hope I do, I will do so with headset in hand. 

Visiting the home of Elvis Presley, The King of Rock, was a dream come true for me and a dream I hope to re-live someday. It was fascinating and made the legend seem more human. I highly recommend it. 

People of Walmart and Me, I Mean, Who Hasn't Left Their Pants at Home?

You have seen the People of Walmart site, right?  Or at least stumbled across a share of it in your Facebook feed?  I'm sure you have, even if you won't admit it. On the one hand I am appalled at the voyeuristic and exploitative nature of the page, but then I laugh, and click the arrow for the next page to see yet another fashion victim in all their trashy glory. 

I've never seen anything even remotely like those crimes of fashion at any Walmart where I have shopped.  I've seen people in flannel pajamas, or skinny dudes in wife beaters with low rider pants that show their underwear, but you can see any of that at any grocery store.  It is certainly not more prevalent at Walmart than anywhere else.  That was of course until today. 

The boy and I were shopping at Walmart today for a new swim noodle.  As we walked down one of the main thoroughfares, I noticed a 30 ish woman in front of us wearing a black tunic top that fell just below her hips, and no pants. It took me a second to register what I was seeing.  What I was seeing was cellulite ridden ass cheeks that maybe had swallowed a thong, but no fabric whatsoever was visible below the shirt hem. 

"Avert your eyes, my boy!" I squeaked grabbing the poor child by the head and bum rushing him down a shoe aisle in order to protect him from the unholy sight. He of course had no idea what the big deal was as he hadn't noticed a thing.  He just assumed I was being silly, which is not at all uncommon. 

Who goes out like that?  She looked a little too young to have forgotten pants and a little too old to decide it was going to be a no pants day. I say this, and criticize and poke fun, and then I think back to one of my own fashion faux pas which led to me taking advantage of Nordstrom's free delivery of purchases within downtown Seattle. 

I was thirty years old at the time.  Young enough to still be cute and able to wear just about anything. I was also 6 months pregnant with my first child.  Some months earlier, I eagerly went shopping for maternity clothes.  I found the cutest little black mini-dress with white piping around the neckline.  It was adorable. I couldn't wait to start showing in order to wear it. (Some of you by now can see where this is going.)  A morning finally came where I could no longer zip up my pre-pregnancy skirts, so I finally donned the darling mini-dress.  I paired it with black maternity tights and shoes with a sensible two inch heel.  

We didn't have a full length mirror at home, but no worries, I knew from the waist up I looked fine that day.  I drove to the park and ride, waited for the bus outside, rode the bus into the city, and walked up two very steep hills to my office.  I saw clients in the morning, I left for a coffee break at 10:00, and when I came back I went to the ladies room.  After washing my hands, I turned to leave the bathroom and caught sight of myself in the full length mirror.  

Why was my pretty dress so short?  It barely went mid-thigh.  It was nearly indecent for the workplace and there I was pregnant to top off the look.  Then the realization hit me. This was not a cute mini-dress; it was in fact a shirt. I rushed back to my office and shut the door, scrambling for the phone to dial my friend Marci.  I told her my dilemma, upon which she rightly responded with rolling laughter and, "They don't make mini-dresses for pregnant women, you dork!"  Then she kindly clued me in to Nordstrom's free delivery policy.  Less than an hour later, after a frantic call to a sales clerk in the women's department, a courier dropped off a pair of black stretch pants for me.  Unfortunately, I had to do my walk of shame all the way up to the reception desk to retrieve them. 

People in glass houses, ye without sin, and all that. It turns out I'm not much better than the woman today, but at least I had on underwear and tights. I take the smallest amount of pride in that. 

That's a Crock!

Some women regularly indulge in retail therapy, manis, pedis, and other spa treatments as a treat to themselves. I am a self-proclaimed girly-girl, but I don't exactly enjoy those activities.  I shop when I have to, and indulge in the occasional eye brow wax or manicure, but these are not things that necessarily make me happy.  There is one place I frequent though, and have since I was a young child, that succeeds in bringing me great joy every time I go. It spurs my enthusiasm and creativity.  I can walk out with an armload of items and it is totally free!  It is the public library. 

When I was a child, my mother would take me to the library on Saturdays.  I would borrow as many books as I could carry, and by Sunday I would have read half of them. If she left us at the library for awhile while she shopped, I would happily park myself at the microfiche machine for hours scanning through old copies of the local newspaper. I loved the library then and I still do. 

My favorite part of our local library is the cookbook aisle. There are plenty of books on cupcakes, healthy eating, international fare, meals in minutes, and two whole shelves devoted to crock pot cooking.  I find that last one disappointing.  I know lots of people, especially working moms, love, love, love their crock pots. I suppose I am the exception.  I don't want to smell something cooking ALL DAY LONG.  I have no appetite for it come dinner because I feel like I've already consumed it through osmosis. 

Most slow cooker recipes require the dumping in of various canned, bottled, and packaged ingredients.  I am not a fan of that.  All those canned goods just cause whatever you make to be overly salty, and do you feel good after eating it?  You know you don't. Crock pot cooking is easy, and it is great if you don't have the time or energy to cook a hot meal at the end of the day.  It just isn't always that healthy and sometimes does not even taste that great. 

My own crock pot and my rarely used crock pot cookbook. 

That being said, there are a few recipes that I do make with my crock pot, mostly for my husband's benefit. I made up a recipe for sort of a Tex-Mex pot roast that he really enjoys. The last time I made it, I used a beef round rump roast, but I have used a chuck roast in the past with delicious results.  I season the roast with a fajita seasoning blend. Toss it in the crock pot with a can of Ro-Tel tomatoes, or any other brand of chopped tomatoes and chilies. I add to that a chopped onion, a diced jalepeno, a good handful or more of chopped red and green bell peppers, and two cloves of garlic minced.  I season with Mexican oregano, cumin, coriander, and chili powder.  How much you ask?  I don't know. A good pinch of all but the chili powder which you can add something like 2 teaspoons to a tablespoon of that without it being overpowering. Next, to make sure it stays nice and moist, I add about a cup of low sodium beef broth, or some beef base dissolved in water. Set it and forget it on low for several hours. Before serving, shred the beef with two forks and remove any fatty bits. Nobody wants to eat that.  Taste it and adjust the seasonings if necessary. You can serve the roast with soft tortillas, or wedges of corn bread, slices of avocado, and a salad.  

Weird Dishes Served with Love

One day, long ago, my friend Marci and I were talking about food our moms would make that we loved, but other people might think were weird or even gross.  My first was cottage cheese and noodles, and yes, it is exactly what it sounds like.  Hot egg noodles mixed with a pat of butter and a scoop of cottage cheese.  Sometimes a spoon full of sour cream might be added if there was a carton in the fridge. 

In Marci's house, the comfort noodle dish was macaroni and ketchup.  Again, it is exactly what it sounds like.  It sounded disgusting to me, but to Marci, it was love on a plate. When she was sick, her mom would make a homemade porridge starting with a flour and butter roux. She would add milk until it was the right consistency and then sweeten to taste.  When I was sick, my mom would make jello using the speed set method with ice cubes. She would spoon out the ice cubes before they melted and serve them to me in a glass. I loved it at the time, but somehow it pales in comparison to hot porridge. 

Not all of our unique family dishes were hits with me. There was what my dad affectionately referred to as kretchloff (this is a phonetic spelling of what I believe to be a nonsense word created by him).  Kretchloff was canned pink salmon formed into patties and pan fried.  It was served with (gag as I think of it) pea gravy; a basic bechamel sauce with a can of green peas tossed in.  That was a meal difficult for me get past my nose let alone swallow.  My dad loved it though! I didn't much care for chipped beef on toast either, although I didn't mind the white gravy over the toast.  I could have done without the tough and chewy freeze dried beef though.  It never seemed to break down or get any smaller in my mouth. 

As Marci and I reminisced about these meals, a realization hit us.  These dishes were very low in cost.  Our mothers likely made them because of that very reason. We were kids of the 70's and 80's during times of inflation and soaring gas costs.  Could it be that our weird family dishes were just products of desperation to feed a family when money was tight? It could very well be.  Do you have any weird dishes in your family? 

One of my favorites, and one that my kids love too is macaroni and egg.  It is basically a poor man's carbonara.  Cook 1 pound of macaroni until tender. Drain it and add it back to pot with a tablespoon or so of butter. Put it back on the burner at a medium low heat.  Add in 3-4 large eggs.  Gently scramble and toss into the hot noodles just until the eggs solidify. This takes mere seconds. Remove it from the heat immediately.  You want the eggs to be softly scrambled into the noodles, not hard. Generously salt and pepper to taste.  This is a great side dish for grilled meats, or a nice lunch.  

For The Love of a Decent Tomato

One of the things I have the hardest time accepting here in Texas is the lack of varied and fresh produce.  I would have thought that moving to a warmer climate would mean abundant farm stands, and produce departments overflowing with local crops.  I am sure that there are people who would argue with me, and to them I have to say that you have obviously not been to Seattle, driven through the Puyallup Valley, or traveled through rural Michigan. The selection here is pitiful by comparison. You can't buy a bunch of basil at the grocery store to make pesto.  You have to buy four tiny plastic cartons, each the size of an envelope that contains maybe two to three stems, and costs $1.99 each.  Often the herbs inside the packets have seen better days, probably a week or two earlier. I usually just give up and buy the stuff in the jar.

Earlier this summer I was on a mission to find real tasting tomatoes for Caprese salad. I went so far as to even buy my own patio variety tomato plant, which did not survive the dog's repeated attempts at transplant to the grass.  (He just had it in for that poor plant.)  The local grocery chains only seem to have the greenhouse variety of tomatoes or imported tomatoes with a waxy coating on them.  You know those hard waxy ones are picked green and then gassed to cause a chemical reaction that turns them red, right?  Yes, that is why they are tasteless, flavorless, hard, and have more of a pink to orangish hue as opposed to a true vine ripened, sweet, red tomato. I bought one of those abominations yesterday and made my Caprese salad which was disappointingly mealy and mushy and devoid of flavor.  Over gassed at the factory I suppose.  (Notice I did not say farm.) 

I have tried farmer's markets with limited success.  I apparently am not alone in my quest of a tomato that actually tastes of tomato as by the time I usually make it to the market, any tomatoes that the vendors had, have already been sold.  I tried an afternoon market in the neighboring town of Pflugerville in the hopes of scoring some of the prized fruit.  I got there shortly after the market opened.  I have been to several markets in the area, but this was the first where no prices were listed at any booth.  I stopped at the bread booth and heard the vendor tell a customer that a small loaf of white was $7, a larger loaf $9 and it was $13 for any of the sweet batter breads.  Seriously?  I make bread.  Bread is cheap to make; it just takes time.  

I found one booth with tomatoes.  Just a few slightly bruised heirloom variety tomatoes.  I chose the largest one and handed it to the cashier who told me "$3".  For one tomato.  $3 for one bruised tomato.  I know it was an heirloom, but did it belong to your granny?  Does it have sentimental value to you?  

The only grocery store tomatoes that I have found that actually possess some level of flavor and the correct texture are the grape or cherry tomatoes.  They are a bit fiddly to slice for a sandwich, but they do nicely in a salad.  I like them sliced in half or quartered for larger ones, and mixed in with a can of tuna,  leftover plain cold pasta, mayo, Old Bay seasoning, pepper, and maybe a chopped avocado if I have one handy. 

If you would like to make your own Caprese, it is easy peasy.  Just thinly slice one medium to large tomato.  Place the slices in a single layer on a platter.  Sprinkle with a good pinch sea salt, and a grinding of black pepper.  Lay a slice of fresh mozzarella on each slice.  Sprinkle fresh basil leaves over the top.  You can use one leaf per slice, or chop a few leaves and sprinkle those. Drizzle extra virgin olive oil over the top and enjoy!  You can also pimp the recipe with a drizzle of balsamic vinegar, or by adding capers or olives.  I like it just plain and simple though so that the tomato flavor is the star. 

Lost in Texas on Cave Day

One of my favorite sites for finding things to do in our area is www.freefuninaustin.com. She has a weekly list of ten or more free

family oriented fun activities every weekend.  This weekend I decided to try Cave Day sponsored by the Texas Cave Conservancy. Prior to today, I was unaware that there are several caves in the area, and one just a few neighborhoods over from where I live. 

We started out first at Dies Ranch Treasure Cave which was located in a beautifully landscaped neighborhood park.  Upon reaching the entrance, we saw 40 or more people in line behind what appeared to be a hole in the ground with a propped open metal grid covering.  Rumor had it from the back of the line that the wait was up to 2 1/2 hours to enter.  We decided that since there were other caves on the tour, we would ditch the first one and move on. 

At the trail head there were maps to other caves in the vicinity.  We made our way to the second cave, with the long name of Twin Creeks Historical Area- Dies Ranch Shelter. Strangely enough, the directions told us to again enter a neighborhood, drive into a cul-de-sac and then find a small, steep path down the slope to a footpath.  We found the trail, but it seemed very odd.  Here we were in a very nice, new, upper middle class neighborhood, and in the center of it, in a cul-de-sac, there was a very narrow, steep, unmarked footpath that allegedly led down to a creek, historic log cabin, and a cave. There was no indication whatsoever that this was a legitimate path.  It was right next to a house. It wasn't paved, just eroded a bit to expose some rocks and dirt in the weeds and grass. This is a park owned and operated by the Cedar Park Parks Department?  It didn't seem likely and a bit dangerous.

Curiosity and an adventuresome spirit took over and we decided to just go for it.  We carefully skidded down the steep embankment. About a third of the way down, the boy very calmly, said, "There's a snake.  I'm going back up."  I, on the other hand, didn't bother to verify that there was indeed a snake. I don't recall the treacherous journey back up, but I'm pretty sure that before the words, "I'm going back up.", ever left his lips, I was already up the hill and on the street. Back in the car, the boy quoted Indiana Jones, "Snakes.  Why does it always have to be snakes!"

I knew that if the parks department owned the park, and there was a historical log cabin onsite, there had to be a proper marked entrance.  I decided to drive around the neighborhood to see if I could find it.  It was one of those big subdivisions that go on forever with sprawling, winding streets that have no outlets.  I gave up after circling around a few cul-de-sacs. Later when I got home, I found that not only is there a proper marked entrance, but a parking lot, and a paved concrete path all the way to the log cabin and cave.  I have absolutely no idea why the Texas Cave Conservancy wrote out directions to go the dangerous secret squirrel route when a safer, more direct route exists.    

The last cave was the Avery Ranch Cave.  Again, this was right in the middle of a neighborhood, across the street from tennis courts.  This cave is only open two days a year.  There was another long line, this time about 30 people long, but seeing that in the few minutes we watched, no one crawled down, nor did anyone come out of another hole in the ground with a propped open metal cover, we decided to just make our way home.  Cave day was a bust for us.  

The Dies Ranch Shelter Cave is open all year round, so we may try that one again using the regular park entrance, instead of traipsing between houses down a snake filled gully.  The Texas Cave Conservancy also had directions to visit the Discovery Well Cave Preserve which apparently from the directions, is in a new gated community.  The directions actually state, "watch out for OPEN HOUSE signs". The preserve contains five locked cave entrances none of which are accessible to the public.  I didn't see the point of going there just to see locked gate covered holes in the ground, so I nixed that one from our list. We have previously visited Inner Space Caverns in Georgetown, and just today while researching the caves online, I found another nearby guided tour cave in Burnet.  Sam Bass allegedly hid some gold there, so that one might make the trip more interesting for my junior spelunker.  Today's fiasco is just another example of me being lost in Texas.