  As is usual for out in the country, the internet has been down for a few days and my I-phone has served for emergency web surfing. Yes, there is such a thing as emergency web surfing. One must bare one’s soul on Facebook and email or life comes to a screeching halt! And yes, I do know the definition of addiction. But the I-Phone is no substitute for a laptop when it comes to blog work. And speaking of baring souls, I guess I’ll have to come clean and admit that I can really make a mess of things. Yep. I have done some really dumb things in my life, but I’ll have to say that last week proved that I can top even the dumbest things I’ve done. On Friday, my daughter and her husband asked us to babysit for our little 4 1/2 month old granddaughter so that they could go to a banquet. At 3 in the afternoon, I gathered supplies at their house, placed diaper bag and gear into my car and snapped the carseat, little granddaughter snugly harnessed, into the base which is in the back seat. I tossed my keys into the front driver’s seat to have both hands free and arranged everything to my satisfaction. Aiming to run around to the driver’s side, I slammed the back door shut, only to hear a sickening “click” as my car locked all of the doors with a, “See? Who’s in control NOW, sucker!!” I freaked. It was cool outside, but the sun was shining directly onto the back of my hatchback and so I knew that it was going to get warm really fast in the car. I ran up the steps of my daughter’s front porch and started pounding on the door to catch her before she got into the shower. Now, there is one thing that I have come to realize about grandmotherhood. Your grandchild isn’t your child and so there’s this feeling of extra, extra, extra responsibility that goes with the title of ‘grandparent’. I didn’t even think about the fact that my daughter might tell me that I’m an imbecile or that I shouldn’t even HAVE keys to a car in the first place. My only thought was focused on my poor little grandbaby locked in my child-eating car. It was at the moment my daughter opened the door and was quizically assessing my panicked face that I had the humbling feeling that I would definitely be dropping in my daughter’s admiration of my intelligence. I explained what had happened. Without a word, she was quickly on the phone with a locksmith. Well, did you know that locksmiths don’t unlock cars with babies in them? Something about liability. If they don’t get there on time, then they are liable. The locksmith told my daughter to call 911. Next, I heard her tell the situation to the 911 operator and as she hung up the phone, I could hear the wail of sirens in the distance. Pretty fast! A minute later, the biggest, shiniest, reddest fire truck roared into place in front of my daughter’s house (which is in a neighborhood of many, many nosy neighbors) and I would say that the entire fire department unloaded from the vehicle. I am thinking that they all wanted to see what the dumb, old broad looked like who would lock a precious baby in a car. Using a wedge and this thing that looked like a blood pressure checker, they pried the door of my nearly new car about 1/2″ apart and pushed a rod down to the locking mechanism to push on the unlock symbol. Click. Simple as that. My dear granddaughter, hair starting to mat against her head from sweat, was staring at her stuffed cow, blowing bubbles through her tiny lips and carrying on a conversation that only she could understand. When one of the firemen opened the back door, she grinned at him, face all lit up, as if to say, “You having fun too?!” He commented on what a happy baby she is and that she is awfully cute. We think so. I tried to pay him (he didn’t want a hug) but he said that this was just part of the job. Our heroes rode off in their bright red chariot as we waved them on. I am sure that the neighbors still wonder what that was all about. I have learned a new truth. The only people who can retrieve babies from locked cars are firemen. And firemen do it all the time because there are more idiots around than just me! Other people have automatic door locks too and their cars like to show them who’s boss too! I feel so much better. But I will never let my keys off of my person ever again!! Of course, cooking always strokes my wounded self-esteem and so I decided to do a little inventing to really make myself feel intelligent again. Mr. Fix-It had read about a rosemary-ginger seasoned salmon filet, grilled to perfection at some restaurant and as I could see his mouth watering as he tried to tell me about it, I decided that I might as well take a stab at my own version. I had a number of wild Alaskan salmon filets and so I thawed them and set to work throwing together a savory seasoning to rub onto the surfaces of the fish steaks. About a half an hour later, I had sampled a tiny taste of my mixture and decided it was perfect. It worked great as a rub and the charcoaled filets were perfection if I do say so myself! And Mr. Fix-It said they were too. He was a happy camper. This rub would work great on chicken as well. So if you would like to try something with a fresh and different flavor, here is the rub that I threw together. 3 Tbsp garlic powder 3 Tbsp any bottled garlic and herb mix (I used Frontier’s Garlic and Herb) 3 Tbsp paprika 3 Tbsp dried onion flakes 3 Tbsp dried rosemary 2 Tbsp ground ginger 3 Tbsp sugar 2 Tbsp salt Process first 6 ingredients in the blender until a powder. Add salt and sugar and mix thoroughly. Place in airtight container. Use as rub on fish or chicken, coating both sides, and charcoal.  Ginger and Rosemary make this rub taste so unique  Grinding all of the ingredients, except for the salt and sugar which are added after grinding, makes a uniform rub that can be easily sprinkled and rubbed into the meat.  |
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Archive for the ‘Humorous’ Category
Original Fish or Chicken Rub
Tuesday, April 24th, 2012
The Mundane Things in Life
Tuesday, February 21st, 2012
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My car died. It didn’t just stop. It bled to death, a pool of oil tracing its way across the driveway and into the grass. I had just driven in from shipping orders and Mr. Fix-It asked me if I had checked the oil lately. Are you kidding? Am I my auto’s keeper? Ok, so I had to admit that I had not. The car needed to cool down after its trip and so it was forgotten for a couple of hours. It was then that Mr. Fix-It came in, rather stern-looking, and informed me that there was no oil in my car. Oh no!! How could that be?!! Like most women, I feigned horror, not really sure that having no oil in the car was all that big a deal. I followed Mr. Fix-It to my vehicle and watched as he poured 5 quarts of 10W-40, through a funnel, into the oil reservoir, while schooling me of its importance. He checked the dipstick and still there was no oil. What? But under the car, there was a bucketful!!  Mr. Fix-It declared my lovely, champagne-colored Toyota Camry a dead duck. Of course, most cars become dead ducks after they have been driven for 210,000 miles, but I had been sure that this one would live to another 100,000!! As it was, I no longer had wheels. That’s bad. Trust me. Mr. Fix-It drives a big, honkin’ Ford and I have always had the small cars in which to tootle around and save gas. But now, I was seriously short on tootlin’ machinery and didn’t need gas! I think that I have written about the Afghanistan truck before. It is a small Toyota pickup exactly like the ones used by the Taliban to bomb buildings. Ours looked like one of those trucks AFTER the bombing. We got it for $100 and Mr. Fix-It made it work like new. However, the body looked like someone had hit a tree with the front hood and then had backed into another one with the rear bumper. Two opposing ‘V’s’ would be an apt description. And somewhere in there, a bomb may have crunched the tailgate. I had driven that truck on occasion as have most of the children when they were in-between vehicles, but the Afghanistan truck was finally given to our son-in-law for him to use with his projects.  In its place, we received a little 1988 Nissan truck, with a camper on the back and only 73,000 miles on it, from my mom and dad when they moved from Tennessee to their retirement community. It has a 5-speed manual transmission and is the very basic package that includes no radio, no cup-holders and no place to hang your cell-phone. Oh wait. Did they even HAVE cell phones in 1988?? But it has the most comfortable seats and shifting is pretty smooth….that is….unless you are in downtown Oklahoma City or Edmond and you are me. Oh my. Talk about stress and a headache. Today, I was the little ol’ lady with the gray hair, holding up traffic as I attempted to pull forward at a green light, and killed the engine twice until I finally figured out I was in third gear. Traffic does that to me. My mind turns to mush. And other drivers’ hands turn to shaking fists. And so, Mr. Fix-It and I have embarked on the fun and enlightening pastime of car shopping. Yes, that is an activity that is sure to leave you with the immediate need to hit the shower and remove the slime that has been sent your way by car salesmen. We even had the made-for-tv experience of the salesman seating us in his office, disappearing and then hauling in the “manager” to see if he could “get us into the car of our dreams.” I mean, how cliché is that? One dealer asked me what I do and I tried very hard to explain my business. He is still convinced that the Oklahoma Pastry Cloth™ helps you slice onions and cucumbers. Don’t ask me why. I gave up after his fiftieth interruption to correct me about its use. Yep, cars are a necessity but car dealerships are not. It is with that realization that I have hit Craigslist. I will keep you posted on the outcome. |
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Laughter IS The Best Medicine
Monday, December 12th, 2011
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Well, it’s Monday and I can sure tell you that I’m glad it is today and not last Monday. A whole lot can happen in just 7 days!! As you know, the spectre of Toxic Shock Syndrome in our daughter overshadowed the bliss of having a first grandchild. All of a sudden, marveling over perfect, tiny toes and fingers of the baby turned into a fearful dread over a sunburn-like rash, high fever and excruciating joint pain in Momma. 
I don’t know about you, but Toxic Shock Syndrome is something I had only read about in boxes of feminine products. I’d never heard of anyone having it and I wasn’t really sure that it wasn’t made up by some pharmaceutical company to promote a drug and give us something else to worry about besides restless legs or dry eyes. But it is real and it is bad. It is deadly. It can be caused by staph or strep bacteria (in this case it was staph caught at the hospital) and within a matter of a couple of days, can be fatal to its victim. General flu-like symptoms with fever are the initial signs, but the tell-tale bright, bright red rash over the entire body (that looks like the victim has been blow-torched) is the warning that a hospital admission had better be in the very, very immediate future. We feel very fortunate that dear daughter’s case was caught early and that the worst thing she had to experience was lots of drawn blood and IV megadoses of antibiotics that nipped it in the budding staph rampage. The pseudo-HAZMAT suited personnel were a little disconcerting, but heh, it was staph! I have to say, though, as for me, a battle with a recliner and the ensuing laugher healed my angst and stress I was feeling, better than any medicine could do. The nurses were very generous in trying to find a comfortable way for me to stay with my daughter each night so that Daddy could take Baby home away from all germs. When they mentioned a recliner would be more comfortable than a cot, I envisioned overstuffed and soft and readily agreed. I was not prepared for the ’70’s era, straightbacked, minimalist black monster that appeared while I was in the cafeteria.  That evening, after making sure that daughter was as comfortable as one can be with tubes attached from arm to a stand of hanging bags with the inability to move freely, I fluffed pillows and a blanket into the recliner and positioned it to leave a pathway for the nurses whom I knew would be appearing every hour on the hour. I sat down, leaned slightly for the foot rest to pop up and then used every ounce of my upper body strength to force the back of the chair into a reclining position. It was then that I realized that it was the kind of recliner that makes an “ab buster” passe. The only way that this piece of furniture would stay reclined was for me to remain rigid, using stomach and thigh muscles as springs. I figured I could do it.  I turned my head on the pillow, closed my eyes and was hit with a beam of light that flashed through my closed eyelids and made it impossible to sleep. A square light was positioned on the opposite wall and I think it was illuminated with a 200 watt bulb. I sat up and removed blankets, slipped on shoes since we were told not to touch the floor or put anything onto the floor, found the light switch, turned it off, squirted sanitizer on my hands and trotted back to the chair. I sighed with pleasure as I reclined again and fell asleep with tight stomach muscles holding the recliner in place. As soon as I fell asleep, I relaxed, and as soon as I relaxed the chair shot back into position and I was rudely awaken to sitting straight up in the chair that was about two feet back from where I had started. It was on rollers and my abrupt upright snap sent it backwards a few feet. I slipped shoes back on and instead of getting out and postitioning the recliner, I placed both feet to either side of the foot rest and walked the chair, ala Fred Flinstone, into place. I reclined again and settled myself to sleep and did fall asleep, only to be awakened again in an upright position and further back toward the door. The nurse walked in and I greeted her as if the chair and I were best buds. She said nothing about my blocking the doorway or about my tennis shoes sticking out from under the sheet. She did her blood-letting and disappeared. I made an effort at getting some sleep and again woke up, sitting up and had to walk the chair back into place. It was then that I started to giggle. I didn’t want to wake my daughter but my situation was feeling pretty hillarious. I finally figured out that sleep was not an option, trundled back to the light switch for the wall light, switched it on, slapped some sanitizer on my hands and read a book until the sun peeked through the blinds at the window.  The next day, I requested a cot which was comfortable as all get out for each hour that I was allowed to sleep between nurses’ visits. As it turned out, my daughter had the most positive outlook of us all and pointed out to me on her final night there, that we were at a 5 star hotel in a room with a view. She had me open the shades and I was astounded at what I saw. It was just breathtaking. Lights glittered over the city of Oklahoma City and the Devon Tower rose above everything with glistening lights like a nighttime ride at an amusement park. The view made me so thankful to be an Oklahoman with praying friends and family. Life is good!!  So thank you again for your prayers, thoughts and notes. God has blessed my family with His healing hand and we are all very grateful. |
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If God Meant Man To Fly….
Friday, November 11th, 2011
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Apple Time Giveaway What is it about men and airplanes? I remember little boys in my elementary school classes bragging that they were going to be pilots someday while we poor little girls swooned at the thought of just being “stewardesses” who wore short skirts, high heels and met rich pilots. Flying has been a part of my family as long as I can remember. My uncle is a retired Eastern Airline pilot, my cousin flies for Northwest, my cousin-in-law is retired from Delta and another cousin has a bush pilot company in Alaska. I think part of us have Wilbur or Orville’s DNA in there somewhere. Not I, though. Oh no. My feet are planted squarely on Terra Firma (when it isn’t shaking of course) and I just really don’t get all that excited about getting any higher than our four foot ladder to pick apples. In my world, a flight on a commercial airline only occurs when all other options, including hitching a ride on a McDonald’s semi, run out and I have to get 900 miles from point A to point B in a matter of hours. I do grit my teeth, board a plane and take stock of all exits and oxygen masks within range. But a small plane? Puh-leeeeee-zzzz. I grew up with Sky King and Penny and I saw how those little planes would nearly crash in pursuit of villains and spies. And then, in college, some tall, relatively handsome upperclassman who thought he was God’s gift to us freshman females decided to impress me with the fact that he had his very own airplane. No Camaro for this dude. Nope. He gave new meaning to, “slept late and flew to class”. So, like the dumb kid that I was, I bounced into the front passenger seat of his tin-can-of-death and cheerfully watched as the grounds of Middle Tennessee State University disappeared from view. All was going great until Mr. Macho put a piece of paper in my lap and told me to watch it. I stared at the scrap as this nerd dropped the plane so fast that the paper lifted off of my lap – with my stomach. Taught that guy never to take a freshman girl up in his plane again. It is with this personal background that you might understand my trepidation when my son, Sir Flying Ace, informed me that he had bought an airplane – an older Cessna 172. No, he’s too old to take freshman girls up into the wild-blue-yonder – short of a prison sentence – but as far as I’m concerned, he’s still too young to drive a car, let alone fly a hunk of metal with an engine that by all rights shouldn’t be able to get 10 feet off the ground. I mean, think about it. Does it seem logical to you that a 150 lb human being can jump off a balcony, flapping his arms and end up in the emergency room with broken limbs, but a 2000 lb airplane can travel for hundreds of miles way up in the clouds? Just doesn’t make sense. Well, this weekend Mr. Fix-It and I made a trip to northwest Oklahoma to see Sir Flying Ace and his airplane. Of course, I had already told him that the Kardashians would reunite before I would get into a small plane, but I have been known to eat my words.  Sir Flying Ace was rather sneaky. As he pulled his plane out of the hangar, he coaxed us to hop in just to taxi down the strip to the gas tank to fill up his winged buggy.  As he fueled the tanks, his friend and fellow pilot, Master Charlie Bravo, decided to help check things over and join in the fun. At this point, Mr. Fix-It and I realized that we were trapped with no way to get back to the hangar unless we wanted to look like idiots walking down an airstrip. We reluctantly climbed into the two back seats of the plane and it was then that I realized that Mr. Fix-It does not have those Orville and Wilber genes and is more afraid of flying than I am! I can’t quite describe the look that he gave me, but it was kind of a combination of, “If I live through this, you are making me blueberry pancakes every morning for a month!” and “Would I look stupid if I fall down on the tarmac and play dead?”  As it was, we both managed to stay seat-belted and calm as our two pilots deftly lifted us into a beautiful, clear sky and over the town.   A grid of wheat and cotton pastures stretched as far as we could see, bordered by miles of white crystals on the Great Salt Plains.  Terrace farming is used in Western Oklahoma to avoid the catastrophe of the dust storms like in the 1930’s Dust Bowl.  We landed without a hitch, taxied back to the hangar and Mr. Fix-It and I were able to unload from our ride without dropping to our knees and kissing the ground like airsick fools. We toured the area with Sir Flying Ace and marveled at the planes that he was working on and putting back together as part of his position at Vantage Plane Plastics. I am very proud of the careful and meticulous job he does replacing interiors, working on engines and doing required FAA inspections. Aviation has been in his blood since he was two years old and running out into the yard everytime a helicopter or plane flew overhead.  And so, after our lovely visit, amazing flight and good company, Mr. Fix-It and I headed home smiling because we had made a memory and lived to tell about it! And Sir Flying Ace had performed a miracle. He had gotten us into his plane and into the air! I guess he’s feeling pretty smart. We are feeing mighty blessed!  |
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Shake, Rattle And Roll…And Freak
Monday, November 7th, 2011
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Apple Time Giveaway Now I KNOW my Oklahoma history. I read that Steinbeck book and saw the movie with Henry Fonda about the 1930’s when a boatload of Okies travelled in old, rickety trucks to California to pick angry grapes because the grapes here were too dusty. I know that half the people in Oklahoma have relatives in California (also known as Californee) who decided that the beautiful land of plenty there beat our dust and home canned vittles – never mind those grapes of wrath. My sister is one of them, however she just went there because she liked it in the 80’s. And so, in spite of a few really weird states separating us (just kidding!), California and Oklahoma have a special bond. But we don’t like California THAT much. It’s a great thing for that long, skinny state to send us strawberries, avacados and Tom Selleck, but we draw the line at the earthquakes. Oklahoma doesn’t have earthquakes. Oklahoma doesn’t WANT earthquakes. Oklahoma has tornadoes and Oklahomans know how to hide from tornadoes in a shelter. But trust me…there is NO place to hide in an earthquake. Short of having a helicopter in your front yard, revved and ready at a moment’s notice to whisk you off of terra-not-so-firma, you are relegated to scrambling under a desk that you remember has the two million ton computer sitting on top of it – and therefore on top of you. So I guess you’ve seen the headlines. Saturday night, Armageddon struck the Sparks/Oklahoma City/Shawnee/Prague/Chandler area with a 5.6 tremor that sent newscasters across the country into fits of pretend frenzy. It was almost as bad as when the University of Oklahoma Sooners gave up their undefeated title to Texas Tech. Now, there HAS been damage. And to every individual or family who lost crystal, china, bricks, mortar and a sense of stability, just know that Californians are rolling their eyes right now and comparing this disaster to their size 8 rockers with disdain. However, a loss is a loss and there are a bunch of Oklahomans feeling that great loss today. A beautiful building in Shawnee, 100 years old, had major damage to it’s spires and it is a sad thing to behold. Homes have huge cracks, downed chimneys and scattered piles of bricks. Most people don’t have earthquake insurance. Who thought it was needed?! Mr. Fix-It and I are very fortunate. We have experienced no damage and are only left with a very strong sense of vulnerability from this experience. We have never been through anything like that before and really don’t want to do that again. I was slammed into Mr. Fix-It and he was slammed into the television armoir and I will not lie – I screamed like a little girl!! Yes I did. Somehow we made it under a table to experience the rolling and shaking on our knees like the total cowards we are!! And then of course, afterward, I had to call or text every individual I know in the state to say, “Did you feel THAT?!!” And they responded, “YES!! Did you?” And after determining that we had both felt “it”, then we compared notes about where we were, what we did, how we felt, what we thought, what we should have done and what we will do if there is ever a next time which we all agreed we hope there isn’t. I also called my “Californee” sister to find out what one is supposed to do in an earthquake situation besides run around screaming like a scared rabbit. Human action after a perceived crisis is a curious thing indeed and something I would suggest some Freudian expert study sometime. It might mean a government grant. So thank goodness for our awesome God, our protector, and a sturdy house. It is now possible for us to help someone else pick up their pieces. But just a word to you Californians…please keep your earthquakes and we’ll keep our tornadoes!! And to my sister (and all Californians), this is all in fun and I hope you will speak to me at the next wedding!!  Photo from KWTV News 9 Benedictine Hall at St. Gregory’s University lost a turret and had another (on the left) damaged and leaning  Photo from KWTV News 9 This home had major damage. The chimney also fell in and took the roof with it. Fortunately, these blessed souls had earthquake insurance.  Photo from KWTV News 9 Bricks shaken from a home are scattered in the yard.  Photo from KOCO Channel 5 Hwy 62 buckled and split |
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Life Can Certainly Get in the Way!
Saturday, October 15th, 2011
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OK. I know. I’ve been a bad blogger…bad blogger. I try to write two to three posts a week and they are usually plenty long with lots of pictures. No off-the-wall posts of “Hey! Meet Harry, my garbage man” or “Three ways to hide peas in Junior’s chocolate chip cookies”, although I guess I have to admit that I did show how to hide black beans in chocolate cupcakes…ok, so scratch that one. But I do try to make my posts interesting, useful and … full of as many words as I think I can get away with before my readers throw up their hands and just start looking at the pictures. I don’t think that I am arrogant enough to suppose that anyone is hanging onto a single one of those many words to the point of having to go into rehab if I haven’t posted something new within a two day time period. However, I do have a schedule I like to keep – a promise to myself you might say – so that if I do miss a few posts, I am the one who seriously considers rehab.  So, I’d just like to say that I’ve had a reasonably good excuse – at least in my book – for my absence since Monday. Would you like to hear my reason? I’m gonna be a grandmother for the first time and I had to get ready for the very first baby shower. All week long I have been doing a drawing plus matting and framing it and putting together a basket of goodies that Martha Stewart would consider “a good thing.” I even included M & M’s for the dear daddy-to-be to eat for a snack, in the labor room, in front of his laboring wife while she munches on ice chips. I’m that kind of thoughtful individual.  So I attended the shower, today, and it was absolutely beautiful. I managed not to cry a single tear. And all of us mothers eagerly encouraged the expectant mother with our own horror stories of pain and trauma in childbirth so that she happily ended the day convinced that it would be much better just having her leg cut off with a chainsaw. The best story was from one of the older guests who told of going into labor back in the 80’s, having only heard of Lamaze and watching it practiced on sitcoms. In the midst of the worst of labor, she decided to mimic what she had seen on television, promptly hyperventilating. The nurse, in a panic, asked what in the world she was doing with her quick breathing and this woman matter-of-factly told the nurse that she was simply doing what she’d seen them do for Lamaze on television. The nurse yelled at her, “Stop it, now!!!” So much for Hollywood led birthing classes. So just to let you know that this is my story and that I am sticking to it, I am providing a few pictures so you can identify. I think we are back to normal now for a few weeks. Another bread recipe is in the works already. I promise.  Drawing flowers to match each letter and then matting with pink ribbons and framing in a bright white frame took up most of the week. There are Coneflowers, Lillies, an Anemone, Indian Paintbrush, Rosepink and Euryops. Bright colors for a nursery!  This is the bassinet that I found as a surprise from Mr. Fix-It and me. I have been looking all over the place for one like this. I found it online and it is Badger brand. It is wood, rocks and makes a toybox when no longer needed as a bassinet!  The hostess created a beautiful table, don’t you agree? It was just a lovely day. But back to work! |
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Overheard
Thursday, September 22nd, 2011
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I just had to comment on something I overheard this afternoon at Walmart. You know when people are behind you and they are talking loud enough for you to hear and you really don’t want to listen, but you can’t help it because they are talking loud enough for you to hear? Well, that’s what happened to me. I was heading across the parking lot and was just walking along, minding my own business, when these two people mosied up behind me, carrying on a conversation. It was obviously a lady and a man, by their voices. “Yeah. She’s really gonna marry him.” “Really? How OLD is he anyway?” “He’s like 56 or 57!!” “Oh my gosh. Are you kidding? He’s THAT old? That’s like a 20 year difference!!” “Yep. I know. I can’t believe she’s with somebody THAT old.” Now then….aside from the fact that they were justifiably taken aback by the difference in age between these two people whom they obviously knew, if YOU were behind a woman with platinum white hair, who is wearing stretchy old-lady pants and tenny pumps, would YOU be referring to 57 as old? Do you think you’d be swooning that your friend is marrying someone with one foot in the grave? I’m thinking you’d wait until you were far enough away from that decrepit 57 year old to comment on that less than acceptable age! All I can say, is what my grandmother used to say, “The nerve of some people’s grandchildren!!” I’ll go take out my teeth now and gum some oatmeal. |
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Oklahoma Rain Gauge
Saturday, July 30th, 2011
 A friend of mine posted this photograph and I got a giggle out of it. It’s a photo of a Texas and Oklahoma rain gauge. We all have one! Of course, we have to laugh out here in the midwest. Otherwise, we’d just cry. Crying doesn’t even work because as one Texas friend pointed out, our tears just evaporate before they roll down our cheek. It is so hot and dry. I know I sound like a broken record, but my goodness. We’ve never seen anything like this. I wasn’t around during the Dust Bowl so this is a whole new experience!! If you will notice, there’s no water in the rain gauge either!! |
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Dealing With Vandals
Wednesday, June 29th, 2011
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I can just imagine…….Four burly young men crowded into the shiny, extended cab pickup – a gift from Mom and Dad to the driver. Across the lap of the young man closest to the open window stretches a three foot long metal bar. It is round and solid and heavy. All four men wrap fingers around tall, cold cans of beer nursing the drinks during conversation. Each has already put away a couple of cans prior to entering their joy wagon. A little tipsy, their idea of fun becomes more reckless by the minute. The engine roars and the driver puts the big truck into gear, backs onto the main road and heads to a thoroughfare picked at random. Laughing and joking, these scoundrels size up the row of mailboxes dotting the long road and rev the engine. Mr. Window Seater pokes the metal pole out of the window and yells, “Charge!!!” The driver spins the tires of his truck and peels out in a burst of gasoline energy. “Clang!” goes the first mailbox as the side caves in from the force of the metal iron. “Ka-thud” goes the second as it is totally torn off its post, hitting the ground and rolling into the ditch. “Ka-Whap” goes the third mailbox as it is mashed flat and the door is torn off its hinges.  And then they see the Oklahoma Pastry Cloth™ Company mail recepticle. It’s a little bit larger than the ones previously creamed – a perfectly shaped, white, metal object that appears to have never been touched by previous marauders and will surely ring with a glorious sound when smashed with a three foot metal rod. The mailbox’s pristine color and smooth shape is just begging to be attacked. Mr. Driver stops to drink in the picture and savor the moment. Foot on the gas pedal, he presses it all the way to the floor. Mr. Window Seater extends his body out of the window and aims for the mailbox. The metal pole makes contact at 60 mph. But something is wrong. A shudder reverberates up the pole, into the hands and arms of the bearer and all the way down to his feet. His teeth rattle. His brain shakes. And he lets out a howl of pain. The metal instrument of destruction flies out of his hands and bounces across the landscape. All of the inhabitants of the truck look back in astonishment as their weapon disappears and the mailbox still stands, unscathed. Suddenly, their alcohol befuddled minds take on a slight sense of reality and they speed off into the distance, headed for home and an ice pack/aspirin for Mr. Window Seater.  And the large, white mailbox stands resolute and firm, a tiny, imperceptible dent beside previous imperceptible dents, near the door, and a small chip and crack in the solid CONCRETE within. Mr. Window Seater is no match for Mr. Fix-It.  You see, Mr. Fix-It took a larger metal mail box and put a smaller rubber mailbox inside, floating the smaller box on small blocks of wood to leave an equal amount of space around the rubber mailbox. He then mixed concrete and poured that around the perimeter of the rubber box, leaving almost a 1″ ring of concrete between the two boxes. When dried, he bolted his new concoction onto a braced wooden post that he had sunk into concrete as well. It’s heavy, but it’s tough!! |
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Homestead Revival
Paratus Familia
Rural Revolution
Wings of Champions
Friday, February 17th, 2012Here in Okie Land, there is only one thing that we Okies would rather do than eat…and that’s watch sports. Sports is the one way that we can bring our large neighbors to the south – Texas – down a notch. There is a reason that the OU Sooners vs the UT Longhorns is called the Red River Rivalry. Sports is the way that we little southwest nobodies can whoop up on some northerners like the Boston Celtics or some west coast smarty-pants like the Lakers. It looks like we have the number one pro basketball team both in the Western Conference and the nation, you know! And even here in Prairie Country where winter lasts all of a month, we have a professional hockey team with its own ice arena. Shoot, on the Oklahoma River in downtown Oklahoma City, we have boat houses where teams from all over the country suit up to compete with rowing teams on those long, skinny boats that look like something out of the Middle Ages powered by chained prisoners!
I have to say that I get pretty engaged in a good game if I have an interest in one of the teams. The Thunder’s games have become a regular show at our home and during the Fall with football weather, OU, OSU and Baylor (my niece attends Baylor) grab my attention. I am known to jump up and down and scream on occasion and Mr. Fix-It seems not to mind. He’ll let go with a shout every so often, but he is such a patient man.
One of my favorite pastimes concerning sports, however, is to write down the really stupid things that sports casters say. It’s like they have to be yammering throughout an entire game and don’t even realize that they sound really ridiculous. Here are some that I have heard in the past and also caught just recently at the Super Bowl and a few basketball games:
• “He’s not a normal human being!! Normal human beings don’t make a living of trying to get killed.” (I’ll second that)
• “He’s gonna fall off and drop back.” (Sounds like a recipe for injury to me!)
• “I wanna know what’s going on in that locker room!” (And then proceeds to tell us exactly what the coach is saying as if the sports announcer is really there!)
• “We can move the football.” (Doesn’t look like it so far, buddy!)
• “We have to move the football.” (That’s the object of the game!)
• “Look!! Look! He passed with his left hand!! He’s amphibious, you know!!” (Somebody hand him a dictionary!!)
• We’re going to get a double crack (That sounds painful)
• “It’s all about getting the ball down the court.” (Well, duh)
• “It’s about making points. If they don’t make those points, they don’t win.” (Another, “well, duh”)
Get out your pencil and pad and keep track of your own “Stupid Sports Comments” and you’ll get double the entertainment watching any particular contest! But as I said, second to sports in Oklahoma is eating, and so I thought I’d show you how I fix hot wings for Mr. Fix-It to munch on while he quietly holds in the normal male urge to jump up and scream as his OU quarterback races down the field for a touchdown. Someday, he’s just gonna let go and be just like me!!
Brine
3 cups water
1 tbsp salt
Coating
1 1/2 cups all-purpose or whole wheat flour
1 tsp paprika
1 tsp thyme
1 tsp black pepper
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp garlic powder
1/2 tsp onion powder
Milk
2 to 3 dozen chicken wing portions
In a large container, mix salt into water to make a brine. Place the chicken wing portions into the brine and soak in the refrigerator for several hours.
Meanwhile mix flour with spices and stir until thoroughly mixed.
Drain the chicken (but do not dry) and place into flour mixture.
Toss to coat all chicken wing pieces
Fry pieces in oil that is about 1/4″ deep. You can use canola oil, olive oil or coconut oil for healthier oils.
Turn pieces and brown on the other side. Don’t worry if the chicken is not totally cooked when browned.
Place wing pieces on a rack (I am using old cookie racks) over a cookie sheet. Place in a 350º oven and bake for 35 minutes. This is a very important step. It helps to take out a lot of the grease from frying, cooks the chicken all the way through so that it just falls off the bone and seals the crust.
Remove wings from oven and allow to cool 10 minutes. Place into a large bowl.
Pour your favorite hot wing sauce over the wing pieces. Put just enough that when you toss the chicken, it will be covered but not saturated. I am using “Wing Time” brand Buffalo Wing Sauce (medium heat).
Toss the wing sections in the sauce, gently, with a large spoon or spatula
Place the coated wing sections back onto the rack and place back into the 350º oven for 15 more minutes.
Serve the chicken with blue cheese dressing and celery as a game snack. Or serve for dinner with mashed potatoes and the works!
Tags: basketball, commentators, football, hot wings, sports, tasty snack, Wing Time Sauce
Posted in A Day In the Life Of An Okie, Humorous, Meats and Main Dishes | No Comments »