I like all the seasons. When I take those mind numbing quizzes on here, I have the hardest time determining which is my favorite, because they all have something to offer. I usually decide spring is my favorite because it’s still a little cool, with warm days interspersed to keep you hopeful. I like watching everything turn green, the smell of mud, and lack of mosquitoes. I appreciate the rain to help crops grow.
I like summer, because it’s nice to spend time outside near water to stay cool. The clothes are more fun, and I like eating alfresco on patios with a margarita in hand at trendy restaurants. It’s nice to walk to the backyard & pick supper. (Vine ripe tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, etc.) Those late afternoon thunderstorms are welcome to help cool everything down & keep from being so parched. Plus, that’s the season that includes my birthday & anniversary, two important holidays.
Fall is probably my second favorite, because of Thanksgiving and wearing cute scarves. I’m ready for a break in the heat & throwing open the windows to let out all the stale air. I like football & hockey games & decorating at the store. I like tromping through the orange leaves & spotting turkey in the fields. It’s perfect weather for horseback riding, too.
I don’t even mind winter so much. I’m fine with snow, so long as I don’t have to drive in it. I like wearing layers to hide my fat legs. All the snakes & creepy crawlies are hibernating. It feels cozy to have a fire, candles lit, something cooking in the crock pot, curled up under a blanket with a highly anticipated book.
But to each season, their own weather. This bizness with snow on November 1st & 18th is ludicrous. When I’ve got snow on my fall decorations, Mother Nature is pushing it.
I’ve been waiting for the perfect day for this one. I am thankful for J. He is so wonderful 🙂 I don’t know how I made it so long without him. He is extremely funny, sometimes so much so that he catches me unaware. He is strong, he performs all the chores that I beg off with the excuse: “I’m a girl…” (i.e. cleaning out gutters, mowing the yard, grilling, landscaping…I’m gonna stop before y’all get some hare-brained idea that I’m lazy 😉 ). He is intelligent, he can carry on a conversation with just about anybody about anything. I don’t have to worry about bringing him to a co-op function-or a political fundraiser, or dinner with people he’s never met, or high school reunion- and having to entertain him, he’s got it. And he looks good doin’ it 😉 He loves animals, I’m sure all of you know about the groundhogs at the Johnson Plantation. He gets along great with my family–better than me, most of the time! Its disgusting!!! 😉 He’s a hard worker, I’ve never known him to miss a day of work. He may complain about the perils of being an electrician, but I know he’s a company man after seeing him work from six in the morning till ten at night (for two weeks!) to get The Island ready for Grand opening. J’s a great cook, too. He’s been holding out on me. He is the newly appointed breakfast maker here. Last but not least, he puts up with me with flying colors. And tells me all the time how beautiful I am, and how sweet, and how lucky he is to have me, and all I can think is how thankful I am to have HIM. Hopefully I didn’t make too many of you gag. But I always thought marriage was going to be dull and I would feel trapped…but its just the opposite. The key must be marrying the right one 🙂 I highly promote it!
I have never set foot inside a Starbucks.
I don’t order sweet tea at restaurants because it isn’t sweet enough.
I cry during the National Anthem. Every time.
I pray during football games about as hard as I pray any other time.
I also cry when we lose.
I cry when we win, too. Go Vols!
Musings for today, November 14th:
1) Do you ever wish for clothes you owned ten years ago? Or, more importantly, that they still fit? I once owned these two great sweaters from B. Moss. They were a loose necked turtleneck type, with this great cable knit weave. Unfortunately, they had wool in them, which, over time, shrunk until they became crop-top sweaters. Hmm.
2) Can you imagine being the guy who discovered the hammerhead shark? Wouldn’t that be freaky?
3) If I was as big as a castle, my digestive system could handle it, and money was no option, I would have the following for lunch from Holston’s: fried pickles, fried green tomatoes, whiskey glazed BBQ burger, Philly cheese steak, smoked turkey club, ribs, cedar planked salmon, deep fried Mississippi catfish, garden salad, and finish with the Mudd cake.
4) sometimes it takes every ounce of my energy not to tell people pets aren’t free. If you can’t afford for your horse to see a veterinarian for a serious eye issue or whatever, then why do you own one (or, in this case, four)? Same for flea control for your dog. It’s cheaper to control fleas than to get rid of them. I mean, crapfire. You owe it to your animals to provide them with a standard of care. You don’t have to give them the very best food & toys, but you do need to give them the basics. And if you smell like you smoke two packs a day & then tell me you can’t afford this, that, & the other, I will judge you pretty harshly. Sorry, not sorry.
What number am I on? Whatever, I had a cappuccino this morning & I’m all jacked up.
As we get older, we require more maintenance. Especially as a woman. In addition to regular dental visits & doctor checkups, you have to get your hair dyed (or at least cut), better skin care products, makeup with better coverage (read:astronomically expensive), nails & pedicures every few weeks, and, what I’m discovering is most important, massages or chiropractic work. After my most unfortunate incident a month ago, I haven’t been able to move my left leg as easily as I would like. Yesterday, that all changed. Jessi is a HEALER! A HEALER, I SAY. Go to Belleza. Tell her what ails you. Prepare to be amazed.
Walked in the door, the house smells like pork roast & woodsmoke, a delicious combination that instantly brought to mind my mamaw’s house. Lightning Bug came charging up the stairs to greet me before I could even set my purse down. Open my package, & it’s my new bracelet!
Life is so much better at home.
Yesterday, I had a hard time all day long. I contribute it to being a Monday, but it was more than that. It started out innocently enough, with my swiss cheese bag that wouldn’t close. You know sometimes how you have trouble? How there’s a little air pocket in the side and it causes it not to be lined up right and screws the whole track up? It was like that. Or so I thought. I started really looking at it after about four tries, and realized the whole blamed zipper side was gone, it was all connected on one side and open. Dang. I didn’t have time to fool with it, so I threw it back in the drawer and away I flew. I made some waffles, and went to pour me a tall glass of milk…and there was none. I knew we were low….evidence of Johnny fixing himself a bowl of cereal in the sink. He NEVER eats cereal before he goes to work. Oh well. A minor inconvenience, right? I drank water. He texts me on his way home that he’s gonna stop for a gallon. Great. I’d already forgotten about it at this point. I get home and awhile later, I hear him in the kitchen grumbling. “What’s wrong?”
He’s pouring milk in the sink, spitting, & looking thoroughly disgusted. “This milk has already gone bad!! I just got it!”
Mayfield 2%, dated November 8th. Yesterday was the 3rd. You remember awhile back when this happened to me, but with Weigel’s brand. But it had been opened a few days.
“Did you drink it?”
“No, look, I noticed it when I was pouring it in my mug.” He proceeds to pour a little more out in the sink. I see a multitude of chunks. GROSS. It didn’t smell that strongly, though. Weird.
“You got your receipt?”
“No, I’m sure I threw it out as soon as I came out the door. I always do, because there’s usually a trash can right there.” It was the gas station on Boyds Creek right there at Deerfield.
“Well, just take it back in the morning. They might remember you.”
“And do what with it all day? It can’t sit in my truck, the new one would go bad. And obviously, I can’t take it after, it would be hot & they’d be like, ‘yeahhh….’ It’s not worth it, it’s just five dollars. I’d spend more in gas. It’s out of the way. The only reason I went that way today is because I went by Floyd’s for that gun oil.”
“Well, I’ll run it by there in the morning. I’ll stick it in the fridge at work. I wish you could find your receipt, though.”
Lo and behold, he came up with it, crammed in between the seat. Miracle of miracles.
So I was fixing baked potatoes & opened the sour cream……
oh no……
Little red dots all over the top. Are you kidding me?!?!? Johnny was gonna have a meltdown.
At least the butter was good.
So this morning, I take off, veering from my traditional route to deal with this milk. After two drug addicts (looked like, anyway) had it out over chocolate doughnuts, and a shady looking character in a suit & beanie got waited on, it was my turn. The dothead (if you’re seeking politically correct posts, you are on the wrong page) couldn’t hardly understand me, but I got my point across & she tells me the milkman came yesterday, that it should be fine now, to open it & smell it before I left. I would have preferred drinking it, but she didn’t offer me a cup, and now I was running late. I saw there was still a few gallons dated 11-8, but I wisely picked one labeled 11-15. It had an odor, but I detected no chunks. She wouldn’t give me my receipt back, but if this was bad, I’d probably just burn her establishment to the ground & be done with it (I’m KIDDING….)I had pretty much decided they were trying to save energy & not keeping their coolers cold enough. I don’t know if Mayfield checks them, but I’m sure if I contacted them they would reinburse me. Anyway, I get to work, pour me a little out, & carefully sip.
It’s ok. Yay.
And that’s the story of the day the dairy went bad. It was a bad day for me.
I could be thankful for a whole host of things today: Sundays off, good books, leftover pot roast & grilled cheese dinner, my cozy monogrammed blanket…but I’m gonna be thankful I’m not Bear Grylls’ wife.
Have you ever watched his show? He is a MANIAC. He eats SCORPIONS. RAW. And rolls around in mud for wildfire protection. And kills rattlesnakes with a stick. And makes rafts from oil barrels & ancient Styrofoam. And sleeps suspended in discarded fishing nets high in the trees. And that’s not all. That’s barely the tip of the iceberg…or should I say glacier….
October 5th 2013
I tried to explain to a guy from New York the “orange thing” today. I had to work, & although I do possess a couple of official Co-op shirts in orange, I was wearing a jersey.
“What’s with the orange? Y’all got a game today?”
Although Georgia isn’t viewed with the same hatred that fuels us against Florida or Bama, they are still SEC & it’s still a “big game”.
I thought for a second & finally said, “I can’t imagine NOT wearing orange on game day. I can’t imagine not caring about the turnout of a Vols game. I’m working till four, or I would be down there, screaming my head off with a hundred thousand other die-hards, because that’s what we do. That’s what my momma’s doin’, & that’s what my grandmother used to do, & that’s just what you do if you if you’re born here in big orange country.” He looked at me a while, cocked his head like a cocker spaniel, & said, “You people are a rare breed. You’re loyal to the end. Syracuse fans will leave in the first quarter if they’re down by ten.” I just smiled, & didn’t say the rest, but I’ll tell y’all:
I don’t know how to explain it to you. I can’t make you understand how we pray to God while sneaking bourbon & simultaneously yelling obscenities & introducing ourselves to our neighbors & taking pictures of families who are there for their first game. I can’t describe the feeling of camaraderie that comes from singing Rocky Top with Knoxville’s population at least three hundred times in under four hours. There are Vol fans all over. I’ve seen them in Vegas, Portland Oregon, all over Texas, & even FLORIDA. I’ve seen us in all seasons, in all shapes & sizes, colors,& ages.I’ve seen us in varying stages of sobriety. We aren’t a rare breed, we are TENNESSEE. What can I say, but I am my mothers daughter. And I bleed BIG ORANGE. Good game guys. You did your best. Love ya already, Butch.
And one year later….
October 5th 2014
Growing up, I was taught there are two subjects taboo for polite company: religion & politics. Well. Facebook is anything BUT polite, and I reckon sports are fair game (pun intended) so here goes.
First of all GO BIG ORANGE!!! Now & forever. Emotions were running high yesterday, and I’m still brokenhearted. I tend to reach the end of my fuse rather quickly, and I elected not to get involved with any snarling debates. But today I said, that’s it.
If you live here, you root for the Vols. Period. I don’t give a red rat’s ass if you were born elsewhere, raised elsewhere, went to college elsewhere. Cheer for them when they play everyone else. When they play UT, you put on your orange & sing Rocky Top. Or you have the good taste to keep your dang mouth shut. This is the same principle as “Mexican Pride” {oh, yes, I did} Drop your loyalties at the border. You’re here now. You chose to be here for one reason or another. You don’t like it? Go back to your precious hometown, then. Or shut up. I think most of Florida’s fans are jealous of the loyalty we show our team, win or lose. I remember when playing Florida was just a blip on our radar, Alabama was the team to beat. But Spurrier made them surly, so here we are.
As far as Muschamp’s comments post game, he was out of line. Yes, I’m well aware of what was being hollered in the stadium, and while that is the very definition of poor sportsmanship, I believe it was primarily the student section. Coaches should be held to a higher standard & should exhibit better morals. Like Butch Jones. But I guess that’s part of the reason Florida’s head coach’s head is on the chopping block, since way before yesterday.
Spare me the lecture on how there are many more things to be worrying about, and if our biggest concern is football, then we are in high cotton, indeed. I know.
I don’t want to hear how it’s “just a game” or the whining about all the money wasted on the athletic program. UT football brings a lot of revenue into Knoxville & Sevier County. Furthermore, some kids dream of growing up & playing for the University of Tennessee. Or playing for the Pride of the Southland Band. Sure, it would make me proud to have a cousin who enlisted in the Army right out of school, but to each their own.
I am not interested in any comments to the contrary of my statement here. I am smack in the middle of my “sore loser” stage.
VFL.
There’s a lot I could say about today. Heck, there’s a lot I can say about any given day. But I know what it was like to be scared to drive home on this day 13 years ago. I know how utterly terrifying it was to put your life in someone else’s hands & fly for the next year or two. I know what it feels like to worry about being a target, due to being in such close proximity to Oak Ridge. Yes, I profile. Yes, I’m prejudiced against Islamic people. (Actually, I’m not prejudiced. I despise almost everybody equally.) And it makes me angry that people disagree with our presence overseas, argue that we didn’t need a war. “Fight fire with fire” isn’t just an expression. You actually do fight fire with fire sometimes, especially in the case of brush fires. See, fire is reckless. It’s dangerous. It has nothing to lose, it takes everything in its path with it. So you start another fire, and control it to make it collide with the uncontrolled burn. They meet, and there’s nothing left for it to take. So it burns itself out. My metaphor here is the kamikaze pilots. They know nothing but fighting, death, & destruction. So that’s how you make them understand. You can’t reason with evil.
Imagine getting up to go to work this morning & seeing your workplace demolished by terrorists & everyone running for their lives-some into the very face of evil, & some away, running to rejoin their families. Imagine hearing news that there is another plane crashed into the Pentagon. Imagine another has crashed into a field in Pennsylvania. You don’t know what’s coming next. You just want to go home & gather up all your family & pray. Businesses were closing, flights were cancelled for days. Now stop imagining. This is what we were dealing with a few years ago. A broken country.
So all international flights were cancelled today. That’s a bit of an inconvenience to some people, but better off inconvenienced than dead, I say. Thank our military that we’re here to complain about it. And while you’re at it, thank God, too. 9/11 is more than a fleeting memory of news for some people. It represents a life shattered by people who wanted to see America fall. God bless America, land that I love.
Last week, I decided that I needed to learn how to can before everybody I know crosses over & there’s nobody left to teach me. I mistakenly thought this would be fairly simple. I ask a coworker, who is known for her huge garden & her season-long canning of green beans.
She promptly informs me that she can’t can tomatoes, that her husband always does it, she’ll send him to talk to me next time he’s through. Inwardly, I’m dreading this, I don’t talk to him a lot, because outwardly he projects a kind of gruff demeanor, even though I know he’s really not. I’m not sure how he’s going to be on giving me direction for something so precise.
The very next day he’s in, & I bring it up.
“Oh, it’s easyyyy….it’ll take you twenty minutes, tops.” This sounds promising.
“Okay, is this something I need to come watch you do, or is it something you can tell me how to do right here, right now?” I asked.
“I can tell you right now. It’s simple.”
“Alrighty-roo. Hit me. Wait, do I need to make notes?”
“You got a good memory?”
“Nope. Hang on.” I rip out a sheet of notebook paper, making an additional mess because it’s the spiral type. “Ok. I’m ready.”
“You getcha a tub of tomatoes & core them,” he begins.
“Alright, when you say a tub, how many is that, exactly?” (I’m used to explicit Pinterest recipes)
“Awww, just a bunch. You know.”
No, I really don’t, but I nod like I do.
“You put them in a pot & boil ’em & the skin will come right off.”
“With salt?” I’m writing frantically.
“No, no salt. Then you pour the water off & boil them again for about ten minutes after you squash them. Then you pour them in a jar & put your lid on real tight, tight as you can. And just let them sit & they’ll seal themselves. They’ll pop, don’t panic.”
Will pop, don’t panic, I scribbled. I looked at my notes. I felt like I was missing vital information. “Okay, let’s go over this. I get a buncha tomatoes.”
“Yep.”
“I core them, but don’t peel them.”
“Yep.”
“I put ’em in a pot with water–but no salt–& heat to a boil until the skin starts coming off.”
“Yep.”
“This is where I get a little confused…I drain the water off?”
“Yeah, & get all yer peelin’s off, but run them under cold water first.”
“Okay….and put them in a different pot?”
He nods. “Then you mash ’em up real good with your hands & feel around for more cores. There’ll be little pieces that you missed when you cut them out. But you’ll be able to feel them, they’re real hard. Now, be careful, they’ll still be real hot.”
“Okay, can I use a potato masher?”
“Whassat?”
“You know, the thing that’s all swirly metal & has a wooden handle? My grandmother used it before she used her mixer to break the potato into clods.”
“I guess you could, I just use my hand.”
“Alright. But you’re tough. I’m just a wimpy girl.”
That got a grin.
“So I mash them & boil them again for about ten minutes.”
“Yeah, & if you see any little green pieces, pick them out. They’ll float to the top. And dash your water off.”
“Wait–what?”
“As it boils, dash your water off.” He demonstrates with a hand motion.
I could feel my wrinkles in my forehead deepen. “But I drained them before I mashed them, right? In a colander, then?”
“No, just pour your water off, but more water will come out of them, still. Don’t bother with a colander.”
“Ok. But I don’t want to make a sauce, I want them to be like that jar you brought in.”
“Right. Just keep dashing your water off as they boil.”
“Ok. Do I stir them?” Twenty minutes my foot. This was complicated.
“Yeah, stir them. Have your jars ready.”
“Oh, that’s another thing, do I need to boil the jars?”
“Nah. I mean, you can if you want to, but you don’t have to. I bake mine.” { oh, Lord, I thought} “Just pour them in & clean the top off good with a paper towel & put your lid on right then. Screw it on tight as you can so it’ll seal later. That’s all there is to it.”
I’m running out of room to go back & write the directions that he left out the first time. And I’m still confused about all the draining/ cold water/ switching pots step.
“Okay.” I blow air out that I hadn’t realized I had been holding. “Let’s go over this again.” I recite it to him, & I think I’ve got it this time. “And just fill one jar at a time, put the lid on right then.”
“Yes. Don’t ever, ever use a pressure cooker for tomatoes. Some people will, but don’t. You don’t need to.”
“All right….” I say uncertainly.
“Call us if you need to. I can help you.”
I thanked him profusely & he was on his way. I looked at Brion & Yankee, who had been witness to this narration. “I see a facebook status in my future.” They were cracking up already. “You got like, step one, then one step in the middle, then the last step!” Yankee giggled gleefully.
The wife came through & asked how it went. We all exchanged glances. “We-ll….” I hedged. “I sorta got step one, then step nine, then step two, then the last thing to do, then step two-B. But I think I got it now.”
We laughed heartily. I sat down to improve my notes. About this time, sweet Betty comes through. I stop her. “Betty, you ever can tomatoes?”
“Yeah, do you need some?”
She is so sweet. “No, I was just wondering about how to do them.”
“Oh, well, I use a pressure cooker.”
Of course you do, I thought. “Well, tell me how you do yours.”
“Okay, well, you just peel your tomatoes…wait, what are you wanting to do with them?”
“Just you know, for chili & soups & stuff.”
“Okay. Just peel your tomatoes & put them in the pressure cooker for a few minutes, not long.”
You can see where I’d have trouble. “Ok. So you peel yours. You don’t blanch them?”
“Naw, I just peel them.”
“Do you core them too?”
“Yeah, I do. Sorry, I forgot that part. I’m as bad as he was!” We giggle like schoolgirls. “And you just squish them up real good, or you could do whole ones if you wanted…but be sure & drain your water off.”
“Do you salt them?”
“Yeah, Amy, I forgot that too! Just salt them however much you think. Oh! And just put them on five pounds of pressure for about ten minutes. It don’t take long.” I thanked her & she starts walking away then doubles back. “Have your jars & lids there, too.”
Yankee & I just looked at each other & burst out laughing. Then here comes another coworker, who shall remain nameless, wanting to know what was so funny.
“Oh, we’re just discussing how to can tomatoes & it’s turned into a major ordeal.”
“Oh.”
“Do you can?”
“I do, but I water bath mine.”
“Oh, goody. Please tell me how to do it.”
“Well, first you crack open a longneck beer….” I quit listening because he was another one who talked about a rack you submerge, & the lids being tight, but boil your jars first, yada, yada, yada. I come in today, & pecking away at this, & yet another coworker asks what I’m doing. I explain that I’m writing about the methods of canning tomatoes. She starts explaining to me, more in depth, about each process. But of course, it’s a slightly different variation.
And this, ladies & gentlemen, is how you can tomatoes. Holler if you need to know anything. I’m sure I can give you step-by-step instruction.
**it should be noted that the wife of the man I started with set him down, got all the details out, and transcripted them in order, in legible hahdwriting, just for me.
I have yet to can the first jar.
