A Winter Garden

The wealthy Victorians and Edwardians had their winter gardens ( the one above is at the Biltmore House) -- steam-heated, glass roofed conservatories filled with palms and ferns and blooming flowers. One could relax in the moist heat, enjoy the comfortable wicker furniture, and wait for the butler to bring tea. Fragrant China tea in fragile porcelain, thin little sandwiches of cucumber or cress, crustless, and delicious, and a lovely cake or two -- perhaps a Victoria sponge and a lemon cake.  A little something to get one through the long winter afternoon.

My winter garden is on a more modest scale but still it provides refreshment. There are orchids and primroses on our dining table and it's a lovely place to sit on a cold morning -- especially if the sun is shining.

Alas, the butler seems to be on permanent vacation but I fix myself a big mug of coffee and enjoy the flowers.

Orchids are such show-offs. But they aren't particularly demanding -- these were birthday presents purchased at the local grocery store and suited to the meanest gardening intelligence. Their accompanying label tells you to water them by putting three ice cubes on them once a week. That's it. And they last and last -- six months sometimes. If you want to get all green thumb and actually fertilize them, they'll often bloom again.

Primroses are another grocery store treasure. So cheerful and when spring comes they can be planted outside. Unlike the orchids they require frequent watering but when that's all the garden you have, it's not so difficult.

Even a  modest winter garden can be a delight!

BREAKING CAMP: A 100-WORD STORY

Bailey finally decided to call it quits. His lengthy hitch qualified him for a full pension, and he was sick to death of Camp Swampy. Sarge had been bad enough, but the officious Lieutenant Fuzz had put him dangerously close to the edge. Enough was enough.

Shit, he thought. All those years in the Army and still a lousy PFC.

Screw that. He had come into a small inheritance, and with it he planned to open a bar. But what to call it?

When he came up with “The Foo Bar,” he knew his old buddy Smokey would be proud.

THEY TRIED...

The Book of Esther, today’s Required Reading.
[Click to embiggen.]

...to kill us. They failed. Let’s eat drink ourselves silly.

Yes, today is Purim, the holiday that celebrates the deliverance of the Jews from a planned genocide. Last night, we observed the holiday in the traditional manner, by (1) listening to the public reading of the Book of Esther; (2) making donations to the poor (matanot l’evyonim), (3) exchanging gifts of food with friends (mishloakh manot); dressing up in silly costumes, (4) participating in a Purimshpiel, a comedic acting-out of the Purim saga; and (5) consuming adult beverages.

Houston Steve graciously provided a flask of Maker’s Mark, a perfect tipple with which to toast my reading of Perek Daled (Chapter Four), in which the Queen is warned by her Uncle Mordechai of the plot against the Jews and told that she must intercede with the King on behalf of her people. Exciting stuff.

And now, a Purim joke:

Q: Back in ancient Persia, why did all the ladies love Haman?

A: Because he was well-hung.

A Smaller World

As I've mentioned before, this blogging thing really does make the world seem smaller.  I commiserate with blog friends in the UK, France, and Austria about the dreary weather and am cheered by the sight of spring blooms in Turkey. But now, news of an earthquake in Chile has me concerned about two blog acquaintances. 

Maria Cecilia  of the beautiful blog  Casa Dulce Hogar (the roses below are hers) lives near Santiago and tends what must be one of the most romantic gardens ever. I slip over there for refreshment on these bleak wintry days.  She hasn't posted recently -- on vacation for all of February, she said.  Santiago was well beyond the epicenter of the quake but even so, sustained considerable damage.

I'll be glad when Maria Cecilia posts again.

UPDATE!! Maria Cecilia has just posted to say that she and her family are fine. She asks for prayers for her countrymen who have lost loved ones and homes.

A more recent blog acquaintance is Pamela of Vanellus Chilensis and  Recorriendo la Patagonia.  She, too, is in Chile -- and, if I read the Spanish correctly, she's okay. 

But my point is this: a year ago, I would have heard about an earthquake in Chile and thought oh, how dreadful and moved on.  Natural disaster is everywhere. But now, I'm worried about people I've actually communicated with.

Do you suppose, in time, as the blogosphere expands, we really will begin to feel like everyone is our neighbor?  That no man is an island?  That we're all in this together and what affects one will eventually affect all?

It would be nice to think that blogging could put an end to war -- but man's ability to make war on his neighbors is well documented.  Still ... it's a thought.

And Patagonia seems closer than ever.

Sepia Saturday -Two Pictures

For my first excursion into Sepia Saturday, I'm recycling a post I did back in August of '08 about my maternal grandparents -- Victor Huborn and Ruby. Click on the link to see other great old pictures and the stories behind them.

1914 ~ Troy, Alabama

Riding in a rented buggy along a country road,
She smiles out at her unknown future,
Crisp in a dress of pale blue linen,
A dark-haired girl with flowers at her waist.

Stiff and correct in Sunday suit,
Her sweetheart wears a somber face
But
His new straw hat
Tilts at a jaunty courting angle.

Governor, the cynical livery hack,
Has seen it all; he poses for posterity;
As an unseen chaperon
Records the fleeting moment.kip to main | skip to sidebar

1973 ~ Tampa, Florida

Still side by side  they sit--  their life buttressed by
One daughter, two grandchildren,
Three great-grandchildren --
A stealthy progression of years and generations
Has somehow come to pass.

Stone-deaf in the now,
The old lady hears the voice
Somewhere deep inside,
The dark-haired girl is whispering:
Still here.
'She had the prettiest little ankles,'
The old man says.

Update - Drip, Drip, Drop!

Drip

Drip

Drop!

(Biggify this last picture to see the impact crater of the drop!)

CAMPIN’ KITTY

Hakuna has discovered the joys of my Kelty Light Year Down 20 sleeping bag.

I had left it on the bed to air out after last weekend’s mountain retreat... and it was only a matter of time before Hakuna checked it out. Smooth nylon and soft, comfy down. What’s not to love?

Now if I can just train her to schlep a backpack...

Update: Friday Ark #284 is afloat at the Modulator. And for yet more cat-related hijinks, head on over to Friends Furever Sunday evening for Carnival of the Cats #311. It’s a perfect way to close out this frigid February!

Update 2: CotC #311 is up.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Another week has flown by. Yes, it’s Friday again!

Not only is Friday the Gateway to the Weekend, it’s also time for the weekly installment of the Friday Random Ten, that compilation of Random Tuneage straight from the electronical storage of the iPod d’Elisson.

What’s tickling the Eardrum d’Elisson today? Let’s see:

1. Monks Chant / He Is Not Dead Yet - Monty Python, Spamalot (Original Cast)
   
   
2. Woman In The Garden - The Judybats
   
   
3. Busted Bicycle - Leo Kottke
   
   
4. Cowboy’s Dream No. 19 - Dan Hicks & His Hot Licks
   
   
5. Lurgee - Radiohead
   
   
6. Free Bird Jam (live) - Ben Folds Five
   
   
7. Yellow Submarine - The Beatles
   
   
8. Al Baba’s Camel - The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band
   
   You’ve heard of Ali Baba, forty thieves had he
   Out for what we all want, lots of LSD
   He also had a camel, stole it from a zoo
   How he loved the camel, and the camel loved him too
   (Oh, how the how the camel loved Ali Bar Bar!)
   
   Ali Baba’s camel loved Ali Baba so
   No matter where he went to, the camel had to go
   Some say that he’s in Heaven, but this I know is true
   Wherever you think Ali has gone, his camel’s gone there too
   
   Crossing the Equator, ooooh, how hot it was
   Poor old Ali Baba cursed and swore, because
   He was so very thirsty, and everybody knows
   It’s horrible to walk for miles with sand between your toes
   (Oh, how the camel loved Ali Baba... brrrrr!)
   
   Ali Baba’s camel turned round and licked his hand
   He said, “Oh, Ali Baba, I surely understand
   We must find an oasis and get a drink somehow
   But, hark! I hear the temple bells, they’ll all be open now”
   (Bleah bleah. Glorious beer, fills you right up with it... aaahh)
   
   They entered for the races at the desert sports
   There goes Ali’s camel in his filthy cotton shorts
   The starter cracked his pistol, off the camels hared
   Ali Baba’s camel wins by half a camel’s hair
   (Hey Ali Baba! Hey Ali Baba!)
   (Your camel loves you! Your camel loves you!)
   
   Ali Baba’s camel had run for miles and miles
   His tail was pointing backwards - that’s how a camel smiles
   But Ali and his camel, they both were out of breath
   They’d run so far, they laughed so much
   They laughed themselves to death
   [Sounds of crying and wailing)
   
   Oh! Gather round the campfire! Sing a roundelay!
   But don’t sing out of tune, though
   (’Cause eggs are cheap today!)
   Sing of Ali Baba, sing about his men
   Sing about his camel, and then sing it all again
   (Oh, how the camel loved Ali Baba)
   
   Ali Baba’s camel loved Ali Baba so
   No matter where he went to, that camel had to go
   Some say that he’s in Heaven, but this I know as well
   Wherever you think Ali has gone, his camel’s gone to...
   
   
9. When She Dances (Bonus Track) - J Ralph
   
   
10. It’s the Same Old Song - The Four Tops
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

Oops! It Did It Again!

Snow on the porch . . .

Snow on the trees . . .

Turkeys in the snow . . .

Up to their turkey knees.

Ah, If Only . . .

I got this great card from my friend Josie -- whose daughter Gretchen just happens to be the talent behind  Roger That -- a source for delightfully silly, occasionally rude, often irreverent, and hopelessly weird greeting cards.

Maybe I'll send it to my editor as a suggested marketing plan . . . 

And now for something less silly. Over at HERE, WHERE I AM - a  blog by NC's past poet laureate -- Kay has been kind enough to post one of my efforts. Slip on over, have a look around, and enjoy one of the top thirty poetry blogs.

TWEE-VEE

According to Skippy, the insanely popular Twitter feed shitmydadsays is being converted into a family television comedy. [Just what kind of family, deponent sayeth not.]

Yeah, I did a spit take, too, when I read that. But the beauty part? William Shatner has been cast as the eponymous Dad.

I’m guessing that if an actual network picks the series up, they’re gonna have to change the name. Even HBO, which may have set the land speed record for utterances of the word “cocksucker” during the series “Deadwood,” probably would back off from using the word “shit” in a show’s title.

Now I’m waiting for a teevee producer to come along and decide to make a series out of, say, a blog that features a lot of recipes, cat pictures, and poems about topics like painful rectal itch, tapered stools, and taint warheads. But maybe I shouldn’t hold my breath.

TEXTURES AND PATTERNS

Every so often, my eye is drawn to an interesting texture or pattern. It could be something as mundane as paving stones. Or pasta.

I spotted these a few weeks ago while visiting Elder Daughter. Can you figure out what they are without mousing over the images to look at their file names?

Thai Green Curry and Panna Cotta

Justin and Claui cooked an amazing meal for my birthday dinner. They had made this Thai Green Curry for us back in January and I had immediately requested it for my birthday. 

There's not a recipe, as such but the essentials for this very large amount (it fed five of us with leftovers for probably five more) are 6 oz. (1 and 1/2 cans) of Maesri brand green curry paste and a 19 oz. can of Mae Ploy coconut milk -- both available at most Asian markets.

The various ingredients - red and yellow peppers, garlic and onions, chopped eggplant, boneless chicken breasts -- were sauteed in  separate batches and each seasoned to taste with the curry paste, some coconut milk, and a little chicken broth.

The sauteed elements were combined and the tiny corn on the cobs added along with more of the curry, coconut milk and broth. The snow peas went in last just to barely heat. They should remain crisp.
 

The whole glorious mess was served over basmati rice. There were condiments -- toasted almond slivers, lime slices, hot peppers in vinegar, chopped cilantro, and crispy fried chopped garlic.  On the side there was also a simple carrot/red cabbage slaw, seasoned with lime juice and hot sauce.

Yes, we like our food hot and spicy -- and after all there was plenty of champagne to cool us off.

For dessert Claui made a delectable panna cotta (From Ina Garten -- and there's a real recipe --just click the link.)  Cool and smooth and vanilla-y with a drift of lemon zest and a surround of strawberries blessed by a touch of sugar and basalmic vinegar. The perfect complement to the flavors of the curry.


How good was it? So good that we gobbled it up before I thought to take a picture -- this was taken from the recipe site. 

My Love of Captain Ork

When I was younger, we read a book at school about a man who paints houses for a living but dreams of far away places.  When he sees a movie about Antarctica, he is so fascinated that he writes to Admiral Drake, an explorer there. Instead of answering the letter, the Admiral sends a large wooden box with holes punched in the sides. When Mr. Popper removes the outer boards, out jumps a full grown penguin. From then on, his days are filled with one adventure after another.

This book began my love affair with penguins.

I had a stuffed penguin that I slept with for years, and I named him Captain Ork.  (Ork being the sound a penguin makes)

Tonight, watching the Olympics women's ice dancing short programs, I was reminded of one of my favorite animals once again.

And by a little known fact I recently discovered about them.

The King Penguins have an organ above their eyes that convert salt water to fresh water.

So, they can drink salt water.

How amazing is that?!

All the answers we're looking for in science...are in the animal kingdom.

Seriously. 

FEBRUARY GUILD EVENT

This month’s Guild event will be held this evening at Pura Vida, an upscale tapas joint in the Poncey Highlands section of Atlanta. As you might expect from the choice of restaurant, we’ll be drinking a variety of Spanish wines.

I’m hoping Denny will be able to make it. Houston Steve, alas, will not be there, having been called away for business on the Left Coast.

Here da menu:

Speaker’s Wine:
Segura Viudas Brut Reserva “Heredad” Cava NV

First Flight:
Burgans Albariño 2008**
Valdelainos Verdejo 2008*** [surprising grapefruit flavor notes]
Vina Godeval Godello 2008

Bacalao Pavias: Salt cod fritters with saffron, lemon aioli

Second Flight:
Bodegas Faustino “Faustino I” Gran Reserva 1996
Mas Garrian “Mas del Camperol” 2000***
Bodegas Muga “Muga Reserva” 2005

Slow roasted local Berkshire pork belly, aluvias negras (black beans) and slow cooked egg

Third Flight:
Telmo Rodriguez “Dehesa Gago” Tempranillo 2007
Bodegas Nekeas “El Chaparral De Vega Sindoa” Garnacha 2008
Juan Gil Monastrell 2006

Asado de Tira: Flash grilled boneless beef rib, wild mushrooms & papitas (Columbian gold potatoes), beef jus

Dessert:
Jorge Ordonez & Co. Special Selection Muscat 2006***

Helado de Turrón: Honey almond ice cream terrine, Marcona almond butter and Marcona almonds, candied blood orange zest & segments

[Quite possibly the best ice cream I have ever tasted, a perfect match for the Muscat dessert wine.]

Since I missed the January Guild event, I’m really looking forward to this one. Viva España!

Update: My favorites noted with asterisks, comments in brackets.

A Lucky Son of a Bitch

 Here's a short piece inspired by the photo below -- another writing prompt from Magpie Tales -- which you can visit to see how others responded. If you're so inclined, think about signing on for the next one!
 

"Oh, come on with me, Travis, honey. It'll be fun and maybe we'll get to be on TV."


Loreen  reached over and trailed a suggestive hand down his chest. "Travis, honey, pleease . . . . I'll say thank you real good when we get home . . . You know . . ."

Travis considered, watching the throng of people pouring into the Civic Center. The big sign on the marquee said "Antiques Road Show ~ Last Day!" 

He sighed deeply. If he just stayed in the pickup in the parking lot, she wouldn't say nothing but like as not she'd cut him off for a week or more.

"Okay, I'll do 'er but it's a waste of time. I'll tell you now, Sugar, that stupid doll ain't gone be worth more than a couple of bucks. Fact."

That got Loreen riled.  He had to hold back from laughing as she swole up all huffy and snapped out, "You think you know so much. You wanna make a bet?"

She didn't even wait for him to answer but plowed right ahead, the words just sputtering. 

"How about this? If my doll's not worth more than fifty dollars, then I'll buy you that big screen TV you been carrying on about -- right out of my own savings. And I'll go you one better, Mr. Smart Ass; if she's worth more than fifty, I'll still buy you that TV. . . But,  for every dollar over fifty that they say she's worth, that's one whole day that I get to pick what we watch."

"Deal," Travis said, grinning to himself. He'd been dreading the fight it was going to take to get that TV he wanted so bad. And here it was, falling into his lap.  Looked like this was his lucky day after all.



They climbed out of the pickup, Loreen carrying the big bag with her special treasure -- the Barbie Doll in its original box.


As they made their way to the entrance of the Civic Center, Travis  stopped. "You go on ahead, babe; I gotta have a smoke first" and he headed over to the side where there was a convenient wall to lean on. 


Pulling out a Marlboro -- Loreen was after him to switch to those cheap generic cigarettes but she could kiss his ass -- he put it to his lips and clicked his Bic.

Piece of crap. Probably been through the wash one too many times. Travis slapped his pockets but it wasn't no good --no matches. 


Then he saw it. Proof that he was still a lucky son of a bitch. Right there on the wall beside him was a box of matches. Hotel Something or other -- weird looking black-tipped matches but the first one fired right up and he sucked in the smoke greedily. 


Five minutes later he was in the crowded hallway trying to figure out where Loreen might have gone. The place was like an anthill a kid had kicked --  people swarming every whichaway, each one carrying some kind of treasure.

"Through that door and to the right." It was a geeky-looking guy standing next to him with a couple of big scrapbook-looking things in his arms.

Travis frowned.


"That's where the philumeny experts are," the geek explained. "I couldn't help noticing your matchbox . . ." 

He nodded toward Travis's hand which still held his lucky find. "I collect covers myself, but sometimes those foreign matchboxes bring amazing prices. Good luck with it!"

Luck . . . well, what the hell, thought Travis and went through the door and to the right.


It was another geeky guy he finally talked to and he was sorry that Loreen wasn't around because while he was in line, the TV cameras had started rolling.


Just like he'd seen watching the show at home, there was lots of fancy talk -- how long had he had the matchbox (he said a friend had given it to him,) any idea of its worth (he could be honest here and say none at all.)


"Well," said Geek number 2,  setting the matchbox on a black cloth and looking at it like it was some kind of big ass diamond, "it's a very special matchbox, even though it's not an antique. But the Trans-Canada Swapfest is coming up in May and there are several collectors who would be very interested in a Hotel Forum ~ Bratislava."


The Geek, who was wearing white gloves, for crissakes, very gently pulled open the box of matches and delicately spilled them onto the cloth. His finger quivered above the matches and his lips moved.

" . . .  twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine . . ."


His brow furrowed and he counted again.


The Geek sighed. "Unfortunately, collectors demand a complete box.  If all thirty matches had been here, I believe that, at auction, the box could have fetched two to three thousand dollars. As it is, however . . ." he shrugged. " Worthless  . . . just not your lucky day, I'm afraid."

 Above the sound of many voices, Travis could hear Loreen's shriek of delight all the way across the vast hall. 

"Five thousand dollars! For my Barbie? Really?"

Five thousand. Minus fifty and that made four thousand, nine hundred and fifty days when she held the remote -- four thousand, nine hundred and fifty days of movies about women talking about their problems and handsome vampires talking about theirs. It meant hot and cold running Oprah and Martha . . . shows about fixing up a house and shows about kids and more shows about women, talking about their problems . . .

"Sir? Sir? . . . are you all right? "

The floor rose to meet him and the babble of voices grew farther and farther away. All the light in the room seemed to gather into a ball of fire which flared up briefly then diminished to a single pinprick which pulsed . . . and fluttered . . . and went out . . .

"Somebody call 911! . . . Sir? Sir? . . ." 

Exploring Yellow

Click on picture for full screen view -- a vast improvement.

Remy the Viking

This kid is so cool.

He has every NERF gun possible.

He's smart and sweet.

He's super athletic, but also loves video games.

He's a little tightly wound at times, but he's my sweet Remy.

Next up: Donny got his braces off! Woohoo!!

A Birthday

"....and of my threescore years and ten,

Sixty-six will not come again . . ."  

The stunned looking two year old at the head of the table is me, celebrating, if that's the word, my second birthday back in 1945.

My, how time flies when you're having fun!

Back in high school, a friend of mine (Sheila King Sanford -where are you?) wrote the following verse:

Three score years and ten,

The allotted span for men.

Early go or lately stay,

On my tombstone will it say

2012 or 2010?

At the time, 2010 didn't even seem like a real date -- more the stuff of science fiction. But here it is.