Snap, Crackle, and Pop

I love a fire.  I couldn’t sit through the movie my daughter and her boyfriend were watching last night.  I was up and gone within 20 minutes bored by the thing and anxious to do something,  not just sit in front of the TV.   But I can sit in front a fire for hours, just watching the colors and shapes of the flames, listening to it crackle and pop.  And tonight’s fire is putting on quite a show, going full force, trying it’s best to keep the house almost warm.  We didn’t see 32 degrees today and it’s down to 28 now so the fire has got its work cut out for it.  And so do I, bringing in more and more wood.

Of course, I could forget the fire and turn on the central heat.  I may love fires but I am very thankful for central heating.  Tonight, after the fire’s burned down and I’m snugged up tight in my bed, the house will cool down and at 64 degrees the central heat will kick in. And it will be a good thing and I will be most appreciative.

But for now, I can pretend I’m almost a pioneer, battling the elements trying to stay warm by my fire.  (We won’t mention the indoor plumbing and electric lights and radio and microwave.)

Where Did I Put My Neatness?

When I was in 7th or 8th grade I sat next to a fellow who had the messiest desk ever.  This was back in olden times when 7th and 8th grade were part of grade school, we spent the entire day in one room, and the desk tops lifted to reveal a space for our books, pencils, and paper.  This particular classmate’s desk was packed with piles of papers amidst assorted books and writing utensils.  When told to pull out our history, or math, or science book, this young man would lift the lid of his desk, lean forward so the lid rested on his head thus holding the lid up, and begin rifling through reams of crumpled, torn, mismatched assignments.

I found this all to be extremely fascinating. I loved the sound of the papers being moved hither and yon,  lifted, scanned, then set aside.  The utter disaster inside that desk intrigued me.  My desk, on the other hand,  was the poster-child for neatness. The biggest book was on the bottom of the stack, the smallest book on top.  These were pressed against the side of the desk.  The other side of the desk held papers, again, neatly organized by size and subject.  Pencils and pens had their own special place as well.  All quite boring I thought, compared to the excitement beside me.  I could always find my books and assignments but I was missing out on the thrill of the hunt and that wonderful sound of crinkling paper.

So I decided to replicate my classmate’s mess.  I would purposefully not organize my next assignments, I would rumple a few papers, and mismatch my books.  I would have my own crinkly-paper-sound-making session.

I tried.  I really did.  But I couldn’t do it.  I just couldn’t create that kind of mess. I would find myself reaching inside my desk, when I wasn’t looking, and organizing would take place.  I couldn’t help myself, I couldn’t make the mess.

Until decades later.  Now I have messes in several locations– piles of bills to pay, recipes to try and file,  letters to read, notes to myself that I need to tend to. And I get to rifle through all of this  making wonderful crinkly paper sounds.

But it’s too late.  Now I want my neatness back.

Facebook With a Pinch of Cilantro

I hit some nerves when I wrote my Open Letter to My Facebook Friends blog.  Apparently, Facebook is like cilantro.  You either love it or you hate it.

But I am not alone in my despair about Facebook.  The New York Times recently wrote about others like myself who have found Facebook to be lacking in real connection or true friendship.   And just now I opened my latest edition of Real Simple Magazine, for January 2012, and what to my wandering eye should appear but an eight page section about Facebook and social media!  On page 95 the question,  “What’s the most irritating status update you’ve seen in the past 24 hours?” is asked.  And guess what one of the answers is?   “So tired. Going to bed now.” I am vindicated!  I am not alone!

I still haven’t responded to my latest “friend” requesters.  In rare moments I think I may click  ‘yes’ and actually go on Facebook and see what’s there.  But I never get around to it.  Which is a pretty good sign that it ain’t gonna happen.

I think it’s time for chips and salsa. With plenty of cilantro.

If You Kiss A Snowman Will He Turn Into a King?

If you kiss a frog and he turns into a prince, what happens when you kiss a snowman?  Other than frostbite to your lips, of course.

We haven’t had any snow yet this year but a couple of years ago we had enough  to build us such a good looking snowman our daughters couldn’t resist giving him a peck on the cheek.  And South-Going daughter is now married to her prince.

In  just a few days we will be joining South-Going daughter for Christmas.

Feliz Navidad!

A Pinch of Cayenne in the Hot Chocolate

Soon we’ll be on our way to visit South-Going Daughter for the holidays.  I’ve been quizzing her endlessly about what I will see, hear, wear, eat, and drink when I arrive down south of the border.  Will I see cacti and poinsettias and pinatas and eat tacos and burritos and enchiladas?  Will I see stucco homes and grand cathedrals and cobblestone streets?

She tells me that much of it is just like home.  There’s a Costco and a WalMart and Starbucks and Home Depot and McDonald’s,  just like here.  The streets are paved like ours and people dress just like us.  But then again, much of it is not like home. The sun shines most every day (totally not like home), the geraniums are huge and bloom non-stop, cheddar cheese is nigh on non-existent, and the hot chocolate is spicy.

Today I happened upon a blog, Munchin with Munchkin that features the recipe for Mexican hot chocolate. This author says the secret ingredients are cinnamon and cayenne.  The cinnamon I can understand.  The cayenne, well, I’m not so sure I’m going to dig that.  But I think I’ll give it try. I’m going to cheat, because I’m basically lazy, and just add cinnamon and cayenne to store bought hot chocolate.

Stay tuned.

Cheers for the Christmas Cookie Exchange!

When my daughters were little, and my dearest and oldest friend and her daughters lived within driving distance, we’d get together every Christmas for a cookie baking marathon.  The bounty was then divided up between the two of us and taken home.  My daughters and I would carefully arrange our cookies on festive Christmas plates that we shared with our neighbors.

Several years ago my friend moved too far away for our cookie baking event so it was just me and my daughters.  Now my girls are grown up and my oldest daughter has married and this year she lives far, far away.

Which pretty much leaves me to do the baking alone. And I pretty much don’t want to do it.  But giving cookies to our neighbors is a tradition as deep as singing Christmas carols, wrapping presents, and decorating the tree while listening to John Denver and the Muppets.

And that’s where the Christmas Cookie Exchange arrives to save the day.  I still have to bake cookies but I can limit my efforts to one or two varieties and then, ta da!  I get to take home 5 or 6 different kinds of cookies that I can carefully arrange on festive Christmas plates to share with my neighbors.

And if I’m lucky I won’t have to admit I didn’t make them!

Left-Handed Mudloaf

Sit on the ground with a bowl in front of you full of thick mud.  With your left hand, reach out and add a fistful of whatever you find there.  Stir and pack into a loaf pan.  Mold with left hand.

This quick, easy, and not too delicious recipe is from a delightful book, Mud Pies and Other Recipes.  I got my copy about 50 years ago and I still have it.  I was pleased to see that it is still in print because it’s full of ideas for tea parties,  buffet dinners,  and more all of which are perfect for young girls and their dolls. Each recipe is  made with ingredients probably found in your backyard.  But if you live in an apartment or a house with no yard you are welcome to come to my road and help yourself.  This time of year my pathetic, pot holed dirt road is full of ingredients.

And that’s one more reason that I get just a bit excited when I see the thermometer dip below 32 degrees,  particularly when I’m heading out for my morning or evening walk.  Because when it’s below freezing, my pathetic pot holed road is frozen and solid and not squishy and muddy. And lookee there!  It’s 30 degrees!  Just right for a walk on frozen mud.

An Open Letter to My Facebook Friends

Dear  (fill in your name),

I went to my e-mail today and there I found a message saying you want to be my friend on Facebook.  I was surprised to see your name.  It’s been some years since we’ve had any contact.  But seeing your name brought back many happy memories.  Remember the time we …..Well, this is an open letter so I won’t go into details.

I will probably “approve” your request to be my friend on Facebook, but it may take weeks or months. Then again, I may not get around to it at all.  And if, and when, I do I still won’t see your posts about what you had for breakfast or what time you’re going to bed because, frankly, I don’t care.  I may be heading into my 7th decade but I’m still very busy and active with a full life of my own and a short memory when it comes to breakfast.  I’m not sure what was on my menu today and I just don’t have the time or interest to read about yours. And what time you go to bed is really none of my business.

Let’s be honest.  If you were to actually call me would you tell me what you had for breakfast?  Of course not, because the very thought of doing so bores you, too.  No, if you were to actually call me we’d talk about what’s been going on in our lives over the past years, how the family is, where you live now, what your current passion is, and when can we actually get together and see each other’s aging faces.

Back BF (before Facebook) I decided to look for a long lost friend and so I Googled her and after some time and effort I was able to track her down.  I picked up a pen, a piece of paper, and a stamp (so very last century, I know) and wrote a letter to this friend.  I never received any response to my letter.  It’s possible my letter never reached my friend but I assume it did because it never came back to me.

Sometime after mailing that letter I set up (rather my daughter set up for me) a Facebook page.  Almost a year after writing my letter,  on my birthday, I received the most personal and heartfelt of messages.  The friend who never responded, nor referred to, my handwritten letter had managed to expend the energy and take the time to actually type “happy birthday” and hit the send button on a Facebook happy birthday message.

You may be  saying, ” Maybe your friend had suffered a stroke  and just typing those few keys was an act of  extraordinary effort and love.”  But it wasn’t.  On a couple of my rare forays into Facebook I’ve seen posts by this friend which contain such important information as, “I’m having a quiet evening at home with my husband.”

And I want to scream, “No, you’re not! You’re on Facebook!”  At a recent family birthday gathering 3 of the relations were on their i-phones much of the time and at least one of them was posting about being at the birthday gathering.  For crying out loud!  Forget Facebook and forget telling the world that you’re on Facebook.  Just be at the event or be with your husband.

Please forgive my ranting. Let’s get back to you.  I do remember you.  And there is no question that you are my friend.   You don’t have to go to Facebook and “ask” to be my friend!  You are my friend.  “Approving” you on Facebook doesn’t make you so.  What makes a friend is someone who thinks of you, prays for you, laughs and cries with you, and at least on occasion, has actual, direct contact with you.

So dear friend, be my friend and let’s do lunch, or exchange e-mail or even, just for old time’s sake, write a letter.  Make it real and make it personal.

With love,

Your friend