Doing the best I can with what I have
I want to be happier than I was yesterday, but not quite as happy as I’ll be tomorrow
Like that old saying I heard somewhere when I was much younger and had better retention
Only, it had more to do with love than happiness, and while the two are closely related
They can be mutually exclusive. I’ve been happy without being in love and in love without being happy
Damn. Is that as deep as I think it is, or is that just the Cabernet Sauvignon talking?
Does anyone else believe that pecan pies are magic? The first time I baked one, many years ago, I mixed all the ingredients and wondered if I was supposed to arrange a layer of pecans on top. The recipe said to stir them in, but all the pecan pies I’d ever had featured a lovely layer of pecans sitting atop the ooey goodness of the pie filling.
In spite of my misgivings I followed the recipe and didn’t add the extra pecans. Lo and behold, those wonderful nuts rose to the occasion and my first pecan pie was as perfect looking as any I’d ever seen.
Over the years I’ve baked a few pecan pies that weren’t perfect–usually because Studly Doright was supervising and he believes in baking them until they surrender to the heat, shrinking the filling and rendering it almost leather-like in texture.
The trick is always to cook them when he’s otherwise occupied. Tonight I have him running hither and yon on meaningless errands. Oh, and to have a glass of wine or two during the baking process. Then, even if it doesn’t turn out picture perfect, I don’t really care.
Peace, and happy Thanksgiving, people! I’m so thankful for you all!
Update: This pie turned out beautifully; however, Studly found its hiding place and helped himself to a generous slice on Wednesday evening. Sigh.
Last night I imbibed
A Cabernet Sauvignon
Mellow vibes accrued
Sweet drifting on sips
This languid summer evening
Deep in these red cups
Oh, deepest vintage
Layered tastes on eager tongue
Rich flavors ensued
I came upon this graphic online and shared it on my Facebook page. So far, it’s generated a good many responses. My answer was easy: jeans, books, and wine.
However, I don’t drink much wine, or any alcohol, since my stomach decided to revolt back in May, so I’ve need to make a different choice for the third spot.
Since I’m losing something consumable let’s examine similar choices. I don’t drink coffee anymore, and I can live without chocolate. Tea is lovely, but not a must have. Tacos are the part of my Mexican meal that I leave for last in case I become too full to eat everything on my plate, so they can be dispensed with.
We don’t do Netflix at Doright Manor, so that’s something I can easily do without. The same goes for dry shampoo. As short as my hair is I can’t see any advantage to dry shampooing over wet shampooing. And along the same lines, there’s no way I can form a messy bun. I have a messy strand or two, but nothing “bunnable.”
By my reckoning that leaves jewelry, pajamas, lipstick, and leggings. I own a few pairs of leggings, but apparently they’re only in my closet for decorative and dust-catching purposes. They are super comfy on rainy, stay at home days, but then so are pajamas. Out with leggings, then.
Lipstick, they say, is critical for aging women. However, since I don’t know who “they” are, I’m going to ignore their advice. My lipstick never stays for more than an hour at a time, anyway, so buh-bye. I can always use crushed berries gathered from the forest if I need to color my lips.
Down to two choices now, jewelry and pajamas.
I love my pajamas. They’re soft and they keep my thighs from touching each other at night. I own three nearly identical pairs of pajamas, and they give me comfort.
As for the jewelry, I don’t own many expensive pieces. My wedding set isn’t worth much, but it has significant emotional and sentimental value. Studly Doright has bought me a couple of lovely items these past few years that in a pinch I suppose I could sell. Then there are the Celtic earrings I picked up in Scotland and the necklace I purchased from a craftsman at the Poulnabrone Dolmen in Ireland. I wear those pieces nearly every day.
Pajamas or jewelry? Oh man. I’m going with jewelry. No, pajamas. No. It’s jewelry. Final answer. My thighs are going to have to find a way to get along. I’ll just invest in anti-chafing cream and hope the stock market makes us rich.
Give it a go–which three items would you choose to keep and why? I’m curious.
Peace, people.
While I’ve been sick with what I’ve come to believe is diverticulitis, also known as “Hell’s Great Fury Unfurled” I’ve fallen way behind in reading the blogs of others. Studly Doright is having surgery today so I am going to use the time waiting for him to emerge from the procedure by reading your blogs. Now, if all of you could just hold off writing any new posts until I’ve caught up, that’d be great. I’m talking to you. And you.
Have I mentioned I can’t have caffeine for awhile? Yeah, so that’s a bummer. In addition to all the diverticulitis stuff I’ve also been dealing with caffeine withdrawal. My headaches have been monumental and debilitating. Only yesterday did they begin to ease off. If I live through this I will never have another cup of coffee. Maybe.
Oh, and no alcohol is allowed for the foreseeable future. That’s not been hard to deal with for me, but the cats are getting anxious.
I do believe I will survive now, but I could sure use a cup of coffee.
What does one call a group of corks? A clutter, of course. So, on day 23 of the March Minimalist Challenge I finally confiscated the last clutter of corks from the kitchen cabinet.
The corks weren’t all that cooperative as I crafted the collection into a semblance of the number 23. They clumped, collided, and clustered as I cussed and calculated the conundrum. Success coincided with my lack of continued concern. Let’s pop the cork on a new container. Cheers!
Peace, people!
On Saturday I began the drive home to Tallahassee after spending a little over a week with my daughter and her family in Port Byron, IL. What a week!
I arrived on Saturday afternoon, unpacked and took a deep breath, because every day to come had some planned adventure:
Sunday afternoon we attended 15-year-old grandson, Garrett’s performance in a play at Riverdale High School where he played two parts with gusto. I was so proud of him.
On Monday I had lunch with the youngest grandchild, Harper D, who is a sassy kindergarten student at Riverdale Elementary School, and I remembered why I never aspired to teach five year olds. They’re cute, but exhausting.
Tuesday was wine night with my daughter and some of her friends. Yay!
On Wednesday evening I got to watch our middle granddaughter, McKayla (13), at her gymnastics class. She is pretty fierce in her pursuit of perfection. What a dynamo!
Thursday evening involved a concert for pre-K and kindergarten students at the elementary school. I talked McKayla into accompanying Harper and me, and we had a rambunctious evening. Harper volunteered me to play the role of a hopping bunny during one of the songs. I’m 61. My hop was a bit on the floppy side.
On Friday I took Garrett and Harper to see Black Panther, after which Harper (5) summed the film up with “Basically, there were two kings who wanted different things, but only one could win. Right?”
I couldn’t argue with her logic.
Then on Saturday morning I got to watch McKayla perform in a music competition, first playing flute in the band and later singing in her school’s choir. She was so lovely and poised. That’s our raven-haired McKayla, below, in the white top and black skirt.
Saturday evening our daughter, her husband, his parents, and I participated in a trivia contest for a local charity. We didn’t win; although, we held our own for most of the evening. It was way too much fun, and I might’ve had too much Guinness. Oops!
Then early on Sunday I started home. As I write this I’m in a hotel room just south of Nashville, Tennessee. The weather channel is promising thunderstorms for my drive home. I’d appreciate good vibes sent my way for the remainder of my trip. Hopefully I’ll be safely home at Doright Manor early tomorrow evening. I need to rest!
Peace, people!
Before I tell you this story I need for you to know that I am not a stupid person; however, if after reading my tale of missteps you are led to the conclusion that I’m not the brightest bulb on the tree, I won’t argue with you.
On Wednesday night Studly had to be in Crestview, Florida, for a company Christmas party. Since I had an errand to take care of a bit further west we decided to rendezvous in Crestview for the night. I’d get up early Thursday and head to my destination while he’d go north to one of his locations.
We had a quiet, perhaps even a slightly romantic evening at the Holiday Inn Express in Crestview. I might have enjoyed a bit too much of a locally produced wine, but I remember distinctly reminding Studly to get his reading glasses before leaving for work the next morning.
I didn’t sleep much. Sometimes too much wine isn’t conducive to a peaceful rest, so I was up and down all night. Meanwhile, Studly snored. I must’ve dozed off at some point, because I awakened to him getting dressed for work. We exchanged kisses and off he went.
Figuring I was through sleeping I went to the bathroom and what did I see lying on the counter? Studly’s reading glasses. Hadn’t I just reminded him about leaving them a few short hours ago?
I quickly grabbed my phone to call him, but was surprised to hear his phone ringing on his bedside table. Crap. Not only had he left his glasses, he’d also forgotten his phone! What a doofus!
Quickly I pulled my blue jeans on and grabbed my coat, throwing it on over my pajamas. I slipped my boots on without socks, slipped the room key into my back pocket and hurried to the elevators with Studly’s glasses and cell phone in hand. I was hoping Studly had stopped to eat a bite of breakfast before leaving the hotel so I could catch him.
The elevator was slow as molasses, but soon I was in the breakfast room. I’d left my own glasses in the room, so I had to squint to see if he was in the area. No Studly. I went to the lobby and squinted. No Studly. Out the door I went. There parked beneath the hotel awning was his unoccupied car. At least he hadn’t left yet, so he must’ve realized he didn’t have his stuff and gone back to the room.
I hurried back to the elevator, knowing there was a possibility he’d be coming down as I went up, but hoped he’d be knocking on the bedroom door thinking I was in the shower.
Sure enough when I rounded the corner there he stood with his hand raised to knock on our door. He gave a startled look when I came trotting down the hall.
“You left your phone and your glasses in the room,” I panted, handing them to him..
“Yep, that’s my phone,” Studly said. “But these aren’t my glasses.”
Puzzled, I looked at the glasses as he handed them back. They were mine. I’d carried them around, squinting because I couldn’t see, and they were mine.
I’m blaming this all on the wine, you know.
Peace, people.
I stopped today at a small winery in Chautauqua, Florida. In a tasting room, I sampled the Chardonnay along with a Merlot and a holiday blend. I purchased three bottles, one of each, and tucked them into my suitcase before continuing my journey west on interstate 10.
My plan was to meet up with Studly Doright at a Holiday Inn Express in Crestview, Florida. I love assignations with my husband. The prospect of a pretend illicit meeting with my man is a bit heady, so as I drive I contemplate which bottle to open tonight. The Chardonnay? No, too much of a lightweight. The holiday blend with mulled spices? No, I’ll save that for Christmas Eve. Ah, that left the Merlot. Deep and rich and red.
I can’t divulge the details of our night, but let’s just say, I picked the right wine. Here’s a toast to old married people. We live. We laugh. We love.
Peace, people.
What wine pairs best with a white nightshirt? 
A red blend of course. Somewhere between the table and my mouth my wine took a detour, landing in a splatter pattern on my chest.
I know I should have immediately applied Shout or some other brand name stain treatment, but I elected to wear it as is, pretending it’s a work of high end non-representational art.
For some reason this spillage caused me to ponder the music of Neil Young. I’ve been listening to Neil on my Alexa device quite a bit lately, and I have to wonder: Where are the Neil Youngs of today? Where are the singers who are raw and real, who wouldn’t have gotten past the audition stage of The Voice or American Idol, but who speak to the soul of the resistance?
Nowadays someone would try to clean Neil’s vocals up. They’d treat the stains and strains and commercialize the lyrics. Screw that. My nightshirt and Neil are gonna resist that shit.
Peace, people.
Here’s Neil’s Old Man. Enjoy.
