Category: Commentary

Cooking for Studly: Lighten Up

For any of my readers who’ve wondered, I’m still cooking meals for Studly Doright. There were many years during our marriage when my culinary efforts were sporadic at best and non-existent, at worst. The truth is, I’m not very good in the kitchen. 

But Studly and I made a deal wherein I could retire from working in exchange for becoming his scullery maid, er, cook. For the most part, I’m enjoying my end of the bargain, and occasionally I even make a great meal.

Now a new issue has arisen in my cooking experiment–Studly and I are trying to be more health conscious. My first suggestion was a diet of all salads. That got vetoed pretty quickly, but you can’t blame a girl for trying. So I’m to figure out how to make things he likes in a healthier manner.

One of his favorite entrees is a dish I’ve made successfully since discovering it in a Beta Sigma Phi cookbook published in 1981. 

  
You can tell the book has seen its share of use, and I’d like to say I’ve tried every single recipe in it, but that would be a lie. 

Golden Beef Quiche is the only recipe I’ve succesfully produced from the cookbook, and I’d sincerely like to thank Ms. Judith Essenpreis of Centralia, Illinois, for submitting it to the cookbook committee back in the day. 
Studly loves this dish, even though he’s a real man and supposedly real men don’t eat quiche. It is one of the few dishes that he will eat as leftovers. I love it because it’s foolproof, and in the kitchen I am something of a fool.

Now that he’s decided to eat healthier I’ve been using extra lean ground beef, but I would also like to replace the cheddar cheese soup with something less processed. I simply do not know how to do that. If anyone reading this could give me a suggestion that would be lovely.

Apalachicola Art Walk

Saturday morning I had no idea I’d be sipping a beer at noon at a corner cafe in the small port town of Apalachicola. Having had the most luxurious night of sleep I’ve experienced in years, I lingered in bed feeling as if I’d been kissed by an angel. 

Of course, it was probably only Studly Doright who’d pecked me on the brow on his way to the golf course. I guess his grey hair was halo-like in the semidarkness, but you never know.

Before showering I looked on Facebook and read a post about an art walk in Apalachicola. Knowing that Studly would be tied up with his favorite hobby well into the afternoon I made haste with my shower and got on the road.

I’ve written about Apalachicola before. The quaint fishing village on Florida’s forgotten coast is known for oysters and sponges and apparently, art. 

I snapped a few photos as I walked about town:

  
    
    
    
    
   
I even purchased a photograph (below) by and directly from photojournalist Richard Bickel whose work has appeared in National Geographic Traveler, Conde Naste Traveler, Newsweek, and other publications of note. It makes me happy.

  
After a lunch of salmon and grapefruit salad (oddly wonderful) at Tamara’s Cafe, I drove across the bridge to Eastpoint and then crossed another bridge for my first taste of the beach this year on Saint George Island.

   
    
  
   
Studly Doright doesn’t understand my attraction to the ocean. I tell him I have a compulsion to be in the presence of sand and waves and water, but the only sand and water he acknowledges are on the golf courses he plays, and he does his best to avoid landing in either.

So I sent him this photo, and told him sand was a good thing. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t impressed.

  

I’m already planning my next beach day. 

Peace, people.

 
  
  
  

  
 

Just Another Nail in the Wall

I’ve been a busy little decorator these past few days. After two years of living in the home I’ve dubbed Doright Manor I’m finally hanging some artwork. 

Now, the term “art” is used loosely here. There are no Ansel Adams or Georgia O’Keefe pieces gracing our walls. Instead, I’m fond of framing pretty greeting cards and random pictures from glossy magazines, a holdover practice from our days of living below the poverty line, along with finds from estate and garage sales. 

I like to say my taste in art is eclectic. That sounds so much better than questionable or dubious. The few pieces I’ve purchased from art galleries don’t do anything for me once I try to find a spot for them. I really have fared much better with my more frugal purchases.

Regardless of cost or source all of my pieces have something in common: They hide multiple nail holes. Never mind the amount of time I spend measuring and calculating, marking and leveling, I never get it right the first time. Even if I’m hanging a single picture I end up with roughly 9,643 holes in the wall. Ok, that’s an exaggeration, but just barely.

My expertise comes in cleverly masking those holes. “Oh, look, you placed a butterfly on the corner of the frame! How cute!” people exclaim. Damned straight, Skippy–that butterfly is camouflaging at least three holes. 

I know at this point in the post I should provide a photo of a few of my displays, but no good could come of that. My readers will either pity me or laugh at me. And I’m not sure my fragile ego can handle that. 

Ok, just one. No laughing. Pity’s ok, though. Or vice versa. 

 

One of my garage sale finds. It makes me happy.
 
Peace, people!

Classic Car Dreaming

Studly Doright and I were out piddling Saturday afternoon. He’d played golf that morning, and I’d driven to Apalachicola to spend some of his money. All in all a win-win, I’d say. He made it back to Doright Manor ahead of me even after helping a friend move some items from one house to another.

When I pulled into the driveway, he was out working (playing) in his shop. I talked him into taking me out for dinner since I’d worked so hard at shopping and beach walking that morning, and couldn’t quite summon the energy to push the power button on the microwave. It’s a tough life, I know.

After dinner he subtly suggested we go grocery shopping, and I reluctantly agreed. If there’s food in the house I’ll eventually have to cook it or ignore it. Both require energy. I just am fresh out of energy lately–shall I blame it on the weather? Daylight Saving Time? Age? All of the above?

The Publix supermarket nearest our home is adjacent to a Sonic drive-in. As we pulled into the drive in we realized the first Saturday car show was in progress and the first car we saw belonged to one of Studly’s friends! Of course we pulled over to look, and for once I remembered to snap a few photos.

The car below was one of my personal favorites. I love the color scheme on this Bel Air. I want to say it’s a ’57 model, but I forgot to look.

 

 

Next is our friend, Pete’s car. It’s a ’55 Chevy Nomad station wagon, hardly stock. Pete’s been working on the build for three years, and it’s a beaut. He isn’t finished with the project–work on the interior is still in progress. This was the car’s first foray into the limelight.

 

Pete had to hide his soft drink from view lest it detract from the view of his car.

Other cool cars from our evening:

 

   

  

  

swoon!

Look at the Jaguar featured in these next photos. I’d never seen this model before in person. I love the way both the hood/bonnet and trunk/boot open. 

   

  

   
  

Here’s Studly urging me to take a peek inside “The Widowmaker.”
  
    
A lone bike made it out on Saturday. This is one Studly would enjoy having in his stable.
    
   
 
Studly had to give me a brief tutorial on the Holley headers on this GTO. He was in heaven.
 
We eventually made it to the grocery store, but Studly’s enthusiasm for food shopping had been replaced by visions of engines and headers and carburetors, so I got off easy. Hurrah for horsepower!

Phobia

I have no phobias as far as I can tell. At one time in my life I was fearful of escalators, but only those heading down. After years of traveling through airports and department stores I overcame that fear. The time it took to circumvent the escalators cut drastically into my travel and shopping time, so I cured myself.

I do understand irrational and deep seated fear, though, and I’m sympathetic to those who suffer from phobias. Having said that, some of these are a bit hard to swallow:

Pharmacophobia is the name given to the fear of medicines.

Quackery

 

Do not go into nursing or motherhood if you suffer from this.
  
Really?
  
A weird one, granted, but those black symbols can be daunting.
  
I forgot to be afraid of this one….
  
Studly Doright has an odd fear of lakes.
  
Totally understandable. Only the shadow knows what’s in the shadows.
  
That explains why people scream and run away when I enter a room.
  
I can understand this! Ventriloquists’ dummies are pretty creepy.
  
Could I claim this one after 39 years?
 
And then there’s

 

I might develop this.

Peace, people! 

Storm Brewing

I nestled into my covers on this cloudy afternoon, closed my eyes and drifted

Away to the lull of rolling thunder over the lake, the susurration of rain and wind 

Against the skylight. Into my dreams strode twelve Valkyrie, each with a fallen 

Warrior in her arms, bound for Valhalla at Odin’s behest. I craned my neck, stood on

Tipped toes, but could not see the faces of the dead. Worry not, rumbled a distant 

voice. None of these corpses belong to your time. They will stride the great halls with

All-Father and dine at his table. Chastened, I shrank from my curiosity and shadowed 

Mythic maidens, head bowed, hands extended in supplication. “Grant me entry,”

I implored. “A glimpse would suffice.” An answering reverberation threw me to my

Knees. Paltry human! You beg at great peril to your own welfare. Leave this path and 

Entreat us no more. Standing, I turned my back to the great guarding doors of Valhöl

Only to meet a spirit of such fierce beauty that I sank again in awe and obeisance.

A voice of compassionate strength filled my soul, as Freya lifted my head.

Child, you have shown great courage. Worthy are you to enter the great hall. Prepare yourself mentally to open the gates.

With all my heart I leaned into the task, only to awaken to a bright flash of

Lightning and the immediate clap of gut wrenching thunder. Valhalla must wait

For another day. Oh, but for a glimpse, a taste. “Odin eier dere alle!” 

  
Lately I’ve been re-obsessed with Norse mythology. As a child I read every bit of Greek and Roman mythology I could get my hands on, and that reading led me into the Norse myths. I especially enjoy the creation myths and the stories surrounding the afterlife. 

Studly Doright and I have been binge watching The History Channel series, Vikings, and apparently the episodes are bleeding over into my dreams. I’m not complaining.

Peace, People!

Out of Character

I have on a slightly above-the-knee skirt, feminine blouse, and strappy, heeled sandals this morning. I’m wearing mascara and lipstick. 

My inner tomboy is appalled, screaming, “Don’t you dare leave the house looking this way! Imposter!”

My inner girly-girl is saying, “Just once won’t kill you. Stand up straight. Own the look.”

I have an hour before my appointment. We shall see which inner me wins.

Note: Neither of these look anything remotely like me. But you get the idea.

   
 
Peace, people.

Pitching an Idea

If an average person had a brilliant idea for a movie based on a true story what course of action should that average person take?

One can hardly call up Mr. Scorsese or Mr. Spielberg and say, “Hey man, you don’t know me from a hole in the ground, but I know of this story from the early 1900’s that has the potential to be as big as Forrest Gump.

“It’s got everything audiences clamor for: action, adventure, inspiration, obstacles, and humor.”

So what does the average person do? I’m not a screenwriter, and have no desire to be, but I would love for someone to tell this story. Any advice?

  
Peace, people

Unintentional Dating 

Unintentional Dating 

My lonely life revolves around shopping, blogging, and Facebook, but at least I have a life of sorts. On Facebook I’m particularly vulnerable to clicking on tests–“How Smart are You?” “What Does Your Color Preference Indicate about You?” “Are  You a Sociopath? Find out in 10 Easy Steps.”

 

For the record, there’s a unicorn inside me, which explains the gastric distress.
 
Like most facebookers, I take the results of these tests with a grain of salt, meaning if I like the results it was a righteous test; if I don’t, it was a lame questionnaire with no legitimacy. I still maintain that I am not a sociopath. Stupid test.

Most of the time these little activities are straightforward and harmless: Click on the site, answer a few multiple choice questions, receive your results. But one day this week I took a quiz and was automatically transferred to the online dating site, FirstMet.

I didn’t answer a single question and left the page immediately. However, the site was linked to my Facebook profile so now I’ve been receiving dozens of emails from potential suitors. They include

Gary, a 55 year old male in Tallahassee who’d like to rock my world. His hobbies include listening to Rush Limbaugh and going to tractor pulls.

Mark, 58, is retired and enjoys television and Chinese take out.

Walt, 62, likes the Hunger Games and country music. Walt has a comb over (I saw his photo). 

I thought I could ignore these emails and they’d go away, but they keep coming. Either I’m much more desirable than I ever thought, or these men are slightly desperate. Let’s go with option #2.

Studly Doright really doesn’t want me to date. And honestly, unless Harrison Ford, Huey Lewis, or Adam Levine show up in an email I’m not all that interested. 

Finally a Facebook friend showed me how to stop receiving the emails from FirstMet, so maybe my suitors will fade away. Of course now I won’t have any way to know when Harrison tries to contact me. That’s the downside.

Ok, I’m going to go retake that sociopath assessment. Must be more careful this time around. Bwahaha.
Peace, people!