The Continuing Saga of the Twenty Minute Gourmet.

Six months of household culinary responsibilities may be winding down. My wife, during her recovery, has lost a considerable amount of weight. Jokingly, I’ve claimed responsibility for some of it. My macaroni and cheese wasn’t cheesy enough. Stewed potatoes were bland. Our kids used to call them “stupid potatoes.”

Sunday morning, I made scrambled eggs, with diced peppers, onions and tomatoes. This has become my Sunday morning mainstay, unless we’re going out for breakfast. On weekday mornings we have our usual basic fare. My instant oatmeal with sliced bananas, an apple, and orange juice. My wife’s tastes are more varied. Sometimes just a piece of buttered toast and a chocolate protein drink.

Tonight, for dinner, we had spaghetti, with garlic bread. It was a team effort. The spaghetti sauce was properly seasoned and simmered under my wife’s instructions. It turned out well in spite of my monumental screw-up with the spaghetti noodles. She spoke clear instructions. “Drain the cooked spaghetti noodles. Then run cold water over them, drain again. Run more cold water.”

I listened, but the spaghetti cooker pot lid came off somewhere in the hot water, cold water process. Spaghetti noodles went straight into the sink. Dang it! I said or something similar. “Look for another package of spaghetti noodles in the pantry.” She wasn’t too upset. I searched through the pantry, there were several packages of spaghetti. Saved me from a run to the grocery store. Dinner was only fifteen minutes late, but still quite tasty.

Milestones, Nostalgic Touches

How it happened was difficult to recall. A simple task went awry. My wife’s decorative ceramic wax melter and nightlight, dislodged from its outlet. Broken pieces scattered everywhere. Melted wax deposited on floor and walls mocked previous good intentions.

That she took this bumble-fisted screw-up in stride, was a testament to the strength of our, now forty-years, plus relationship. We agreed on important things–decisions made from two perspectives. Four decades passed quickly.

Off on another trip to nostalgia land. Why was writing about childhood events like walking on eggshells? There was no intention of harm to the living, or to those no longer with us. Maybe because, I hadn’t been writing to please myself?

It took exactly twenty-two buckets, eleven trips to and from the well, to supply water for the laundry. Then, down to the basement, where a two-burner stove heated the water. The remainder, went in rinse tubs, for the Maytag wringer-type washing machine.

The white, clapboard-sided house was square, with a single chimney in the center of the roof peak. A front porch the full width invited visitors to sit and relax for a spell. Our dogs liked it, too. Especially during hot, dry summers. The southwest rear corner had a screened in porch.

Climb to heaven trees were on both east and west sides of the house. There was a tire swing on the west side. The east side tree was taller, easier to climb. And climb we did. A crotch about two-thirds of the way up made a terrific crow’s nest.

No sidewalks led to and from the front door entrance. Instead, wooden planks laid on the ground lengthwise, protected walkers from mud during the freeze-thaw cycles of late winter. A large, ceramic, hollow chimney flue liner section, laying on its side, served as a front step. As, in everything, form followed function.

Return visits to this “sacred” childhood place via Google Earth, only served up heaping helpings of disappointment. Few familiar landmarks could be discerned. Where was the big, red barn with the huge hayloft? The smaller milking barn by the house?

There were, now, two additions, one in front, and one in back to the little square, white clapboard-sided house. My memories were from 1958 to 1963. Crowded by today’s standards. There were only two bedrooms, one shared by three brothers, the other taken by my parents. My sister slept on a small bed in a corner of the dining room.

Two oil burning stoves, one in the dining room, and one in the living room heated the upstairs. A wood-burning stove in the large basement, supplemented heat during cold winters.

No doubt new property owners disdained the lack of indoor plumbing. Not to mention the discomfort of trips to the outhouse in both summer and winter. Can’t fault them for that. 

How Could This Have Happened?

The butterflies in my stomach told me this wasn’t going to end well.

They were not at their usual resting place–secured on my ears, and the bridge of my nose.

Gusty winds toyed with my straw hat all morning long; slammed shut the doors on my barn.

Grass mowing, on an otherwise beautiful day, culminated with a mischievous gust of wind. My favorite “Farmer Brown” straw hat went airborne–right into muddy water.

I seethed with rage, for what good it did. How was I so unlucky?

Stagnant water and mud–just what I didn’t want, caked on my favorite chapeau.

With a deft move, I lunged for the hat. Shook off the water and mud. Almost lost my balance–which didn’t help to sooth my shattered nerves.

My glasses must have taken flight–sometime during the melee.  They were found, lying in the grass along the roadway, shattered beyond repair.

The only good thing, I was due for an eye exam. Which I will now do, a month early.

Other Tales To Tell

What if typos, misspellings

Grammatical errors

Interchanged vowels

Shifted tenses

Dangled participles

Slaughtered syntax

Fumbled-fingered, stumbles

Runaway sentences

Were theorized to be Freudian slips

Subconscious attempts to cause

Mayhem, hidden in troubled minds?

To plus too, certainly didn’t equal fore–or was it four?

Why did my fingers make t-h-e into t-e-h?

That that was when they they weren’t seeing double

We’re looking for underware to where–if anybody cares?

Their, they’re, there, threw, through

Were really cries for help

And their are other tails to tell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“HAMFISTEDNESS”

Stats are in the toilet.  I’m not worried.  Then why am I mentioning it?  Because it’s my own fault.  I’ve been at this blogging business for over three years now and know it will get better.

The latest thing this morning–the water’s been cut off.  It’s in the neighborhood, not just here.  A construction project up the street is the likely culprit.  “Hamfistedness” can happen anywhere, anytime.  A wrong move by an excavator operator, and shazam–the water main spewed everywhere.

I don’t like being out of water.  That’s when I want to do things that require water–even though they weren’t important before.

I know all about “hamfistedness” my personal list goes on and on.  An extra turn of a pipe wrench, an extra thump with the heel of my hand, and things go awry.

It happens when lest expected.  Excuse me, while I go order a replacement part for my refrigerator’s ice maker bin.  “Hamfistedness” struck once again.