My daughter and her family will be here today! They live in Illinois and I haven’t seen them since Christmas.
We’ve got stuff planned–a beach trip tops the list, but mainly I’m going to spoil the three grandkids and enjoy my time with them.
Peace, people!
Leaving Nashville the day after Christmas, hugging grandchildren one more time
Before we climb into our respective rides for long journeys home. One heads west, another
North, while we point our car south and east, full of new memories and Christmas goodies,
Enough to last until our far-flung families are brought together once again. Safe travels.
Many years ago my mother’s mother, Nanny Grace, gave me a book filled with her favorite recipes as a Christmas gift. It was then, and remains to this day, my favorite gift of all time. And even though I’m no cook, I have actually considered using her recipes on many occasions. Fortunately I always come to my senses and let someone else do the cooking.
A couple of weeks ago one of my cousins asked if I still had my recipe book, and if so, could I share it with her. And of course I thought, why not share it with everyone? So here are a few of the recipes my Nanny wrote out for me. Enjoy.
Cheese Puffs:
No Cook Chocolate Candy:
Rye Bread Capers:
Rye bread capers continued below:
Mexican Cornbread:
Mexican Cornbread, continued.
Eagle Brand Fruit Cake:
White Fruit Cake:
White Fruit Cake, continued below:
Cinnamon Pound Cake:
Cinnamon Pound Cake continued below:
Millionaire Pie–I’ve actually made this as evidenced by the condition of the card, and it is so good.
Millionaire Pie, continued below:
Lemon Chess Bars
Lemon Chess Pie
Rice Dressing:
Rice Dressing, continued below:
Broccoli Dish:
Potato and Cheese Casserole:
Potato and Cheese Casserole, continued:
Jalapeño Corn Casserole:
Jalapeño Corn Casserole, continued:
Cheese and Egg Soufflé:
Cheese and Egg Soufflé, continued:
What I love most about these recipes is having examples of my Nanny’s handwriting and a glimpse into her life. She was a beautiful woman. And she could cook!
Let me know if you try any of the recipes, or if you need clarification. Nanny would be so proud.
Peace, people!
Yesterday morning I posted a piece about a recipe for a candy my mom used to make. I couldn’t find her recipe for Date Nut Loaf and had to turn to Google for one.
My youngest brother, “JB,” read my post on Facebook and subsequently found his copy of the recipe. I give you the famous Date Roll: The recipe that only turned out perfectly about 10% of the time.
Thank you to THE GREAT JB! Not only did he have Mom’s recipe, but it’s in her handwriting.
Why has that become such a big deal to me? I mean having a sample of my loved one’s handwriting? It’s so personal, I guess. What will our children have of us? A text? An email?
For goodness sake, sit down right now and write a note to someone you love. Write out a treasured recipe. On paper. With a pen. In cursive.
Peace, people.
Once upon a time I took hours decorating our Christmas tree. I agonized over which ornament looked best in which spot. I longed to achieve a tree that was worthy of gracing a design magazine.
My need for the perfect tree took all the fun out of decorating for my kids and Studly Doright, and soon the task of hanging all of the ornaments landed squarely on my shoulders. Like a big old vacuum I sucked all the fun out of what should have been an enjoyable family activity.
Nowadays, few people other than Studly and me even see our tree, and I’ve finally learned that Christmas trees don’t have to be perfectly decorated to be perfect. So I’m calling this one, “The Perfect Tree.”
Notice Scout in the foreground. She worships our Christmas tree. Seriously.
Those of you who are new to my blog might not realize that I have a life outside of bashing our president-elect, but I do! I live with my husband, Studly Doright, and our two feline supervisors, Scout and Patches, in our own little piece of paradise that I like to call Doright Manor.
We have two perfect children and five absolutely superior grandchildren (funny how that works, seeing as how Studly and I just barely peek over the average range), but they live far away from our home outside of Tallahassee, Florida.
Studly and I were high school sweethearts in Texas, and in forty years of marriage we’ve moved 14 times, lived in five different states, and I’ve lost count of the number of homes we’ve shared. We aren’t retired yet, but it’s number one on our bucket list.
Studly married me thinking I’d turn out to be a great cook like his mom (Saint Helen) or my mom, (Gingymama), but I had neither the aptitude nor the attitude to develop into much more than a mediocre heater upper. Poor, poor Studly.
Twice a year, though, I focus all of my energies into cooking a kick ass holiday meal. I plan and prepare and check ingredients off of lists and shop and preheat–all the necessary stuff. Sometimes, it all turns out perfectly. Other times we pretend. Wine helps.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day here in the US. So today I’m baking a pecan pie, hard boiling eggs, and making cornbread. Doright Manor smells amazing. I’ll arise early tomorrow to prep and roast a turkey, make cornbread dressing, a fruit salad, and deviled eggs, along with Studly’s favorite green bean casserole (ugh!) and cranberry sauce. With any luck neither of us will need to pretend that it tastes great. Again, wine helps.
It’s just going to be the two of us for dinner, well and the cats, but I’m thankful that we are healthy and have each other. I’m most thankful that at Christmas we’ll get to see our kids, grandkids, and Saint Helen, when we congregate in Nashville, Tennessee, for a family holiday extravaganza.
Now, the smoke alarm hasn’t sounded even once this morning, so all is well at Doright Manor. I’d best go, though, and open a bottle of wine. Just in case.
Peace, and Happy Thanksgiving, people.
In response to one of my Facebook posts about the increasing number of hate crimes committed since Trump’s electoral college win of the election:
I obscured the friend’s name to protect her privacy. I’ve known her since kindergarten and we’ve managed to remain friends even though we are on opposite ends of the political spectrum.
The thing is, I’ve gotten several comments like this, and my first thought is, how dare they?
I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone to get over something they’re feeling intensely. Maybe I’ve thought the words, but I would never presume to tell them that they don’t have the right to grieve or to feel something.
After my mother’s funeral, after everyone except my dad, my brothers and their wives, along with my husband and I had left the church Daddy pulled us all together in a massive hug and told us he loved us. As we all sobbed he reminded us to always tell our spouses that we loved them. We took a private moment to grieve as a family.
Later I received pointed criticism from someone outside my immediate family. Apparently it was inexcusable that we’d kept everyone waiting for a few extra minutes. You know what? Screw them.
That time was a part of our grieving and part of the way we found the strength to move on. My family doesn’t always speak about its deepest feelings, and to have denied my dad that moment with us would have been a terrible mistake.
No one gets to decide how I grieve. No one. Not a Facebook friend, not a family member, not a co-worker, not a smug acquaintance. I’ll be ok, but today, I’m still grieving. So back off. Seriously.
Peace? Yes, peace, people.
My sister-in-law, Lyn, and her husband, Mike, are staying the weekend at Baron’s Creekside near Fredricksburg, Texas. Their accommodation is a quaintly furnished cabin on a quiet lake.
This morning, Lyn posted,
And these photos:
My contribution follows:
“A Herd of Ducks”
Strutting for all the world to see, a herd of ducks came calling.
Ate our muffins, blueberry and bran, their manners so appalling.
Nary a thanks in quacked accent as these feathered friends departed
Don’t they ken we’re a flock? The drake did ask, waddling as he farted.
Random photos from our week in Hereford, Texas. 
Before every big road trip we take either Studly Doright initiates the phrase, “Off again, on again, gone again, Flanigan,” or I do. It’s part of our family culture.
His PaPa Noyes taught him to say the phrase as a small child, back before Studly was known as Studly. PaPa dealt in scrap metal and would often invite one or more of his grandsons to ride along to Fort Worth. They couldn’t leave the “yard” in Hereford, Texas, until the words were chanted.
Studly passed on the tradition to me, then to our children, and most recently to our grandchildren. Tomorrow as I head to Orlando to meet up with our niece CB and her family for a weekend at DisneyWorld I’ll say the words even though no one else will be in the car to hear them.
I’m too excited to sleep!
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 