Hot Stuff

I love hot, spicy food. I certainly didn't grow up with it, though. I've been wracking my brain trying to think of any highly-spiced dishes from childhood and the best I can come up with is my mother's pizza. Homemade, baked in a cookie sheet. Rectangular. It was only spicy compared to the usual meat and potatoes fare on our kitchen table. American cuisine in the 60's & 70's was pretty bland, at least in our neighborhood. Hot pickled okra did make regular appearances on Mom's nightly relish tray during supper, but that was still mild stuff.


After I moved away from home, I enjoyed dining out with friends, and it was unusual for me to cook at home. I believe the first time a hot pepper got the best of me was at a Chinese restaurant. I was in a training class for a new job where I worked, and the instructor spent 85% of our time in class discussing food, movies, food, books, and food. We learned a little about the upcoming job when there was a lull in the conversation. The instructor, Marci, was from New York City, and there were only two of us under her tutelage. So, there I was with two older black women who loved to eat, and we went to a nearby Chinese restaurant one day for lunch. I ordered Kung Pao Chicken, and decided on "hot" when given a choice. I wasn't a bit worried, because Marci asked for the same heat level plus a side dish of the shriveled, innocuous looking little peppers. After a couple of bites of my dish, I realized that I had stopped experiencing the taste of the food, and it felt like my mouth was full of red hot needles. Marci sat across from me, happily munching her side of peppers, and I gamely carried on.


Similar dining experiences increased my tolerance and enjoyment of red-hot spices, and I was always looking for the next incendiary dish. When a couple of friends warned me not to get the stuffed jalapeno appetizer at a new Mexican restaurant in the late 80's, I took their advice as a challenge. I should have known better, because Carol and Rae were adventerous eaters. I went with four women-friends and ordered the stuffed jalapenos right away. After all, I'd had these at other places, and they were never as hot as people pretended they were. These were whole peppers, stuffed with cheese, battered and deep-fried. Well, they said they were stuffed with cheese. They could have been stuffed with pocket lint or cat box droppings for all I could tell. My mouth had that hot pin-cushion sensation, and my scalp was sweating freely. The women with me wisely only took a bite each, but for some reason I had to prove myself as a man among lesbians, and I forged onward. The peppers were hot going in, but that was nothing compared to 2am when they wanted out. I sat on the toilet, and rocked and wept. Apparently, my digestive processes would have nothing to do with these jalapenos, and they came out very much the same as they went in. I know this isn't a pretty story, but it's a true one.


You'd think I would have learned something, but I can't say I did (although I never ordered those jalapenos at that restaurant again). The owner, Ram, at a favorite Indian restaurant told me that no other customer could tolerate hot spices like I could, and he served many patrons from India. Ram's wife was the cook, and she always made my selections extra-hot when she found out it was my order. The only other Indian restaurant I've found that served such hot food was in Nerja, Spain. Friends took me there, and warned me against ordering anything "phal," the restaurant's hottest spice level. I did, of course, and had to make several trips to the restroom, not to go, but to wipe my face and head with paper towels because of the heavy sweating the food induced.


One last restaurant story before you leave for more palatable fare. My friend Brenda and I were in New Orleans in the mid-90's, and we stopped for lunch at a restaurant near the Garden District. I ordered the Rabbit Etouffee, and our waitress (a willowy, attractive, Nordic-looking woman) warned me with a husky voice that the dish was extremely hot. "Oh, goody!" I thought, as I confirmed my selection. Sure enough, I ran back and forth to the men's room to towel off between bites. Our gracious waitress was right, and, as it turned out, a bit smoldering herself. When Brenda and I got our pictures developed from the trip, there was one we had taken with our waitress. It wasn't until then that we noticed her exceedingly large hands and prominent Adam's apple. I recalled the husky voice, and I added her to the list of reasons I loved my first trip to New Orleans. After all, who says drag queens should only come out at night?

Carolyn's Cast of Characters

Some of you have had fun perusing my mother's 1962 diary. It has been interesting for me to peer into a daily life I have few memories of (I was only two & a half). Reading through her diary has made me realize that some of my "memories" are faulty, and are the result of stories told and retold with subtle changes until they imprinted themselves as actual remembrances. In some ways, it is like trying to see things clearly while looking through a wavy glass brick.


Some of the things I've read make me appreciate the result rather than the journey. An example of this is my potty training. I'm glad someone took on the task, but I was getting weary of reading "Billy messed his pants today." I have been utilizing this training on a daily basis ever since, with very few mishaps. This morning a fellow at our breakfast table shared some wisdom about being a maturing male: Never pass up a bathroom, never take an erection for granted, and never trust a fart. That's all I'm going to say on that subject.


Ultimately, I am very grateful for my childhood, my parents, my neighbors, and the freedom that children could (mostly) safely enjoy in suburbia in the 1960's. I learned to wait for things, because most things took time. Popcorn made on the stovetop in a funny pan with a crank on the lid, photographs that had to be taken to the drug store and sent away to be developed, real chocolate pudding, shows like the Wizard of Oz and Cinderella which only came on television once a year. The only thing that came instantly was a spanking when I misbehaved.


This morning I'm going to share additional information about a few of the people my mother mentions frequently in her diary. Time factors will not allow me to talk about all of the important characters, but I may post a follow up on another day.


Ruby and Jim Humblett lived directly behind us. From the time that I was little until my parents moved in the mid-80's there was always an open space in the landscaping providing a pathway linking our homes. Ruby still lives in her house, and she bought my mom's car from me after Mom passed away. Ruby's husband Jim died in the mid-1960's, but I haven't read that far in Mom's diaries yet. Ruby & Jim had three children, and their youngest, Jimmy, was a favorite playmate of mine in 1962. They drove a Plymouth Fury station wagon. Ruby & Jim and my parents would play cards and Scrabble together some evenings, and Jimmy and I would play in my room.


Our next-door neighbors were Kitty & Elmo Newsome. They were older than my parents, and both grew up in Georgia (Jaw-juh). When my mother's relatives visited from Iowa, Mom would have to act as translator for the Southerners and the Yankees. Kitty & Elmo had lots of fruit trees and an enormous garden, and I loved to play in their yard. Elmo was a huge man, and he would pick me up and throw me WAY up in the air and catch me. I loved it when he did that. In the summer they would invite neighbors over for home-churned ice cream made from their peaches, and everyone took turns with the crank on the ice cream maker under their shade trees.


Gladys and George Baker were also neighbors, but they lived several blocks away in a brown-shingle rancher with a porch that had jalousie windows (remember those?). They had an older boy, Ronnie, who would grow up to become a chef and die with AIDS, and a daughter named Cindy who was a year younger than me. Their backyard had a large weeping willow, under which I talked Cindy into pulling down her panties to show me her private parts one day. George was a Navy diver on my dad's UDT team, and he gave me my first cat which I named after him.


Ray and Midge Warner lived one street over and a block down, they were both from West Virginia, and Ray was also in the Navy with my dad. They had a houseful of kids named Benny, Larry, Gary, Brenda, Barry, and Perry. They had a boisterous household, and I ate snowcream at their house for the first time when I was little. After Ray retired from the Navy, they bought a farm outside Dillwyn, Virginia, and Midge died with Scleroderma in the 1990's. Midge had my mother feel her face one time when my mom was visiting them, and my mom said her skin felt like porcelain.


Catherine and Fred Dowling were my unofficial in-town grandparents. Fred was my mother's former employer, and she lived with the Dowlings before she met my dad. My mother came to Norfolk from Iowa in the 1950's because of her second husband. He was in the Navy, and was an irresponsible husband-at-sea. My mother had no money, no food, and could not find employment because no one wanted to hire "Navy Wives" since they moved away with short notice. Fred hired my mom because she looked so pitiful, and because she told the truth when he asked her if she was a Navy Wife. He told her later that he could spot a military spouse as soon as they walked in his office, and she was the first one that didn't lie about it. She was the best secretary he ever employed. One day at work, my mom received flowers from her far-way husband; the next day she received divorce papers from him, which she signed immediately. My dad was friends with Fred, and eye-balled my mom when he came one day to visit Fred. That's how my parents met. After two losers, one abusive, one profligate, my mother found her handsome prince. Coincidence? You decide for yourself.


These ordinary, wonderful people helped weave the fabric of my life, and I am so thankful that I have been allowed to spend more time with them through my mother's diary. If you would like to spend a few moments with them, there is a link provided in the column to the right. My mom's daily diaries are an unintended gift, reminding me that my words and my actions impact others in ways I may never imagine, and, for that, I am responsible.

God in a Box

Yep, that's me...all dressed up and ready for church. No, this isn't a recent picture, even though I am dressed like an old man with my fedora and Hush Puppies. I am slightly taller now.


My mom and I went to church when I was a boy, but as I grew older the trips became infrequent. Perhaps we picked the wrong church, or maybe my mom was worn out from a week of waxing the household appliances. Perhaps doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs, and the mayor of Virginia Beach crowded us out of the pews. Our church had grown from a small congregation in an unassuming building to a bigger, better, more affluent house of worship. Nevertheless, I did have a foundation of Sunday school, church services, and vacation bible school when I was growing up.


One thing I recall was my amazement at how slowly time passed when I was trapped in a pew listening to the preacher drone on and on, when I really just wanted to be home riding my bicycle and playing with my dog. I wonder now if God didn't feel the same way some days depending on the sermon. The church I attended believed in predestination, and when that belief was explained to me I guess I missed the bigger picture. I thought "What's the point of anything if every thing's carved in stone and there's no way to change it? What's the point in being good or trying to do my best? God's not paying attention to it anyway."


As I grew older, I became aware of other denominations and religions. I learned that people believed in widely varying things. It was a bit confusing, but very interesting. Some churches had statues of Jesus's mom and his friends tucked away in nooks and crannies. One of my friends' family drove a car with a little plastic saint glued to the dashboard to keep them safe in traffic. Some people didn't even believe in Jesus! People across the ocean worshipped a guy with his big, fat belly hanging out. I had cousins who traveled halfway around the world to teach ignorant people the right thing to believe, and they were very proud of themselves for doing that.


When I was a teenager, my mother told me about an old lady who was deaf as a post. She couldn't drive any longer, but she would crank up the volume on her television to watch the religious programs on Sunday. Her son and his wife, new to their belief in Christ, would visit her after church. One day this man told his mother that she was going to Hell because she did not go to his church. The old woman was quite hurt, but when she tried to explain to him that if she went to his church she wouldn't be able to hear any of the sermon, her son said that didn't matter - she just needed to go and sit there. I didn't understand how anyone could tell their mother that she was going to Hell.


As a young man, I had my doubts about God and religion. Some of the adults I had admired growing up who I thought were good, honest people and went to church all the time seemed like hypocrites when I found out they had human faults like adultery, greed, dishonesty, and just plain meanness. I thought going to church meant religion, and, by extension, I thought religion equalled spirituality. I wanted to live a spiritual life, but most religions wanted to exclude me; those that didn't wanted to exclude everyone else.


It seemed like most organized religions existed in little boxes. Beliefs and customs were put in the box, along with people who fit in with those items. Somehow they managed to stuff God in the box, too. Everyone else was refused admittance because there was no room left inside the box. Some of the rejected found other boxes to climb into; others, like me, wandered around on our own.


Eventually, I learned that religion and spirituality are different, and that my doubts about faith were based on humans, not God. I've come to believe that God prefers being outside the box. He created an unimaginably big world, and I think he likes all of it. I believe He loves people whether they are inside a little box, or roaming around in the fields. I think his love is limitless, even though mine is not. I do try, though, because I think that is what God wants. I am stunned each time I see someone waving a sign saying that God hates someone. The God I have come to know loves inclusion, and I believe He'd be quite tickled if we unfolded all these separate religions just like cake boxes. I think God would clap his hands and laugh with us if we'd look around, wave to each other and hug.


I believe God loves to laugh. Otherwise, why would He have created the Platypus, the Giraffe, and the Human?

Treat the other man's faith gently; it is all he has to believe with. His mind was created for his own thoughts, not yours or mine. - Henry S. Haskins

Hey, Ewe! Look around!

Folks who live in Richmond, Virginia, will frequently tell visitors "If you don't like the weather, wait a few minutes." It is true that the weather can change dramatically here, but this seems to have been the experience of most of the country over the past year. Overall, our temperatures are fairly moderate if viewed over the span of a year. Summers are usually hot and humid, but the thermometer doesn't climb above 100 degrees for too many days in a row, and winter temperatures are normally above the teens. There are exceptions, of course, and that's what tends to stick in people's minds.


The weather can fluctuate wildly over a couple of days, however, and sometimes we have startling changes in temperature within the span of a few hours. My sinuses react accordingly. This is why, after cold weather last week, my buddy Sheldon and I decided to take advantage of a warm, sunny day yesterday for a walk in a nearby park. We went to a place near my home that is actually three parks that conjoin: Crump Park, RF&P Park, and the Meadow Farm.


Meadow Farm is a 19th century working farm with a handsome restored home from the early 1800's. Workers in period dress tend to the house, fields, and farm animals. The livestock are an assortment authentic to the period, and include work horses, cows, pigs, turkeys, chickens, and sheep. Sheldon and I strolled around in t-shirts and shorts, enjoying the sun, saying "hello" to the various farm critters.


Sheldon noticed a flock of sheep, and pointed out several lambs amongst the ewes. They were quite young; we guessed probably a couple of weeks old. All big ears and knobby knees, they were cute as they could be. I wished I had a camera (or a cleaver). Oh, shut up! I'm just kidding! Sheesh! Put down the phone and stop dialing PETA.


I'm guilty of traveling all over the place, but ignoring the many interesting places right here where I live. I'm going to change that. With gas prices escalating like mad, why spend the time and money going to far flung places when there's so much I haven't explored in my own backyard?


This afternoon, I took my friend John to visit Maymont. I've lived in this area for thirty years and never toured this gilded-age mansion. Built as a country estate, its one-hundred acres are now surrounded by a post-WWII neighborhood and Byrd Park, but once you are on the property it's easy to forget the encroaching city. The house and grounds perch on bluffs overlooking the James River, and offer an upstairs/downstairs view of life in the early 1900's.


A renovation a few years ago included the kitchen, laundry, service areas, and servants' rooms in the basement. Through research, the nearly-forgotten biographies of the African-Americans who worked for the mansion's owners are now included in the house tour. The owners had no children and left the property to the City of Richmond, so there were very few alterations made to the home since the time it was built. It's like a time capsule.


We immersed ourselves in the past inside the mansion, and then invigorated ourselves exploring the rose gardens, the Japanese gardens (big, hungry koi in the pond), and the collection of antique carriages. We were weary but happy when we got back to the car.


I'll bet there are similar things you can do near your home that you've never experienced as well. Have fun locally, and save a few trips to the gas pump. Let me know if you see anything interesting.

Cold Duck Memories & Coconut-Cranberry Cake

I made a visit to my friend Suzanne's blog, and enjoyed some pictures of her New Year's Eve festivities in Amsterdam. I was surprised that, although they live in an urban setting, they are allowed to purchase fireworks for home use. In my county in Virginia, if I lit anything more incendiary than a sparkler I'd have Homeland Security hammering on my door. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if even sparklers are illegal where I live. I played with a lot of sparklers when I was a kid. The last time I held one was when my friend Brenda rented a beach cottage on the Outer Banks, and her young daughter Emily, our friend Jean, and I ran around the pool with sparklers one night.


My New Year's Eve was spent in my usual style. I was curled up in the arms of Morpheus when 2008 arrived. I'd probably been asleep long enough to be in the REM phase of slumber, because I didn't hear a thing, and I'm sure someone around here set off some firecrackers. Staying up late just doesn't hold the appeal it did when I was little.


I remember being allowed to stay up late to welcome the New Year when I was a kid, and it seemed magical to be awake at midnight. Midnight was the hour never seen by children, the Mystery Hour when anything could happen! My parents weren't party-people, so we'd be at home with some neighbors, and as the moment grew close we'd all chant the countdown together. They probably had champagne on some of those nights, but what I remember is the grown-ups toasting the New Year with glasses of Cold Duck. It seemed so exotic, and no one could explain why it had such a weird name. Jimmy, the neighbors' boy, and I would be allowed a sip of the sweet, bubbly stuff, but I had to be promised that there were no real ducks in the concoction before I'd touch it.


As I've grown older, New Year's Eve doesn't excite me much, because I believe a new year starts every morning when I awaken. Sleeping through the Big Event has become a tradition in a way. One time about twenty years ago, my mom had traveled to my place for a post-Christmas visit. At the time I lived in a three-story apartment (just one bedroom, but three floors). It was a cozy New Year's Eve...just me, my mom, and my partner Michael who lived in town but came out to stay the night. We were in my den on the ground floor, and about nine o'clock I said I'd better grab a short nap if I wanted to be alert when the new year chimed in. Exit me.


Sometime after I went up to my bedroom on the third floor, Michael said a nap sounded like a good idea, so he stretched out on the sofa in the living room (second floor), and mom snoozed on the futon in the den. The next morning we all met up in the kitchen. We had slept through the new year's arrival, each on a separate floor. That's just the kind of exciting life I lead.


This morning marked the start of a new AA meeting that my morning group has started. We meet Monday through Friday at 6:45, and decided to start Saturday meetings as well. Because most folks don't have to go to work, we chose 8:45 for our weekend meetings. We had a wonderful time this morning, and last night I decided to bake a cake for the inaugural meeting. I'm going to share the recipe, which is one I made up using another recipe for inspiration; folks seemed to like it a lot. Then again, I had a captive audience since the only other thing available was coffee.


Coconut-Cranberry Cake

2 cups granulated sugar
3/4 cup butter
1/4 cup shortening
4 eggs
2 teaspoons coconut extract
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup buttermilk
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt (scant)
1-1/4 cups flaked coconut
3/4 cup whole fresh cranberries, chopped

Grease & flour a 10" bundt pan. Preheat oven to 350.
Cream butter, shortening, and sugar. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well. Add extracts.
Sift together flour, baking powder, and salt in a separate bowl.
Add dry ingredients to butter/sugar mixture alternately with buttermilk, beginning and ending with dry ingredients. Do not over-mix, or cake will be tough!
Fold in coconut and cranberries.
Bake 60 - 70 minutes or until cake tests done. Let cool on rack in pan 15 minutes before removing to serving platter or cake saver.

I pulsed the coconut and then the cranberries in a mini-processor before adding them to the batter. This worked well, allowed for cleaner cutting, and gave the cake nice tiny flecks of pink and red. Frankly, I had cranberries left over from holiday baking, and decided to throw them in at the last minute, and the tart berries balanced the sweet coconut nicely. Obviously, the baking time will depend on your oven and the pan you use. I'm still getting used to a heavy Nordic Ware bundt pan, so I always test the cake with thin appetizer skewers before I turn off the oven. You can, of course, play with the ingredients. Using all butter would be great, but I've been baking so much over the holidays that I started substituting a little shortening in some recipes because butter is so darned expensive these days.


Even though I put some cranberries out for the wildlife, I still had some left, so I just pulled an apple-cranberry-cocoa cake out of the oven. If it turns out, you may see that recipe soon.


There are beliefs interwoven in the concept of New Year's Day that I embrace whole-heartedly. One of these beliefs is that each one of us can make a new start. Others are the thoughts of freshness, growth, and new possibilities. Words like sunrise, horizon, discovery, exploration and frontier burst in my mind. The world outside my windows looks dormant, but I know that inside those trees and beneath the frozen ground new life is gathering strength and preparing to push forth, unnoticed at first, but before too many months have passed, in the glory of full bloom.


I hope everyone is off to a good start in 2008! If you make resolutions each year and have already slipped, don't be discouraged. You have a new year starting tomorrow morning.

Teaching an Old Dog New Tricks

Whew!

It's the day after Christmas, and it's a rainy, chilly, beautiful day in Virginia. I had a very nice Christmas Day, and the great thing about it is that I will remember it! I couldn't tell you what I did last Christmas, but I'm sure a gin bottle had a starring role. I started my day bright and early with a meeting, came home and fed my neighbor's cat, puttered around my house, and then enjoyed an afternoon nap. I went to dinner with Sheldon and his family, which gave me the chance to meet his very nice mom, and after dinner Sheldon and I went to an evening meeting.

I had planned to volunteer time at a food line at the Salvation Army or similar charity, but it turned out that they had plenty of volunteers on Christmas Day. However, folks need to be fed every day, so I will have the chance to help out on another day.

I've learned a lot, changed a lot, and been given many valuable gifts in 2007. Here's what I've been thinking about this morning:

• sobriety is not the same as not drinking


• willingness is the key to a better life


• if I can find spirituality, anyone can


• unsettling situations are not permanent


• patience isn't granted with a magic wand; it takes practice


• I don't have to like something to accept it


• the earth keeps spinning even when I don't try to control the revolution


• surrendering control frees me to enjoy life


• some friends cannot accept my sobriety, but new friends step into their place


• my mother wrote the book on good housekeeping


• I don't have to like someone to learn from them


• there's beauty in a rainy day


• when I do all the talking, I only learn what I already know


• I'm never really alone


• alcohol did not enhance my good qualities


• I have a lot more to learn


• serenity is as obtainable as I choose to make it


• when I give, I receive more than I could have imagined


• a new year starts every single day

Quiztmas!

So, I took a few quizzes, and here's what they said. You can take 'em, too, by clicking on the links.
Ho Ho Ho, y'all.

How much do you know about Christmas?

According to this survey, I know a lot about Christmas.

You Know a Lot About Christmas

You got 7/10 correct You know tons about the history and traditions surrounding Christmas. When you celebrate the holidays, you never forget their true meaning - or all the little fun details. Random Christmas fact: In early England, the traditional Christmas dinner was a pig's head prepared with mustard.

How Much Do You Know About Christmas?

Holiday experts say that this movie is most like my Christmas experience. This seems appropriate because I was a complete Peanuts freak when I was a kid.

My Christmas is most like:

A Charlie Brown Christmas

Your Christmas is Most Like: A Charlie Brown Christmas

Each year, you really get into the spirit of Christmas. Which is much more important to you than nifty presents.

What Movie Is Your Christmas Most Like?

Hmmm...I don't think this would have been my score before this year:

What's your Holiday Stress Level?

My Holiday Stress Level is Low!

Your Holiday Stress Level Is Low

You take it easy over the holidays, and you only take on what you can handle.You know the holidays are about celebrating and fun - not standing in line at the mall!

What's" Your Holiday Stress Level?

Okay, most of us pack on a few extra pounds during the holidays. Hey, we can always eat celery in January and February.

Feast or Famine?

My Gluttony Quotient is 39%

Your Gluttony Quotient: 40%

You have a pretty good relationship with food - you enjoy it, but you don't go overboard.You've struck the perfect balance between gluttony and self control.

How Much Gluttony Do You Have?

I'm not sure about my results on this one. I love a good pig-out session. My motto when it comes to food might be "everything in moderation...including moderation."

The self-appointed experts gave me a Christmas Spirit rating of 75%. Last year I might have scored 10%. I can't be sure, because I don't really remember last Christmas.

Your Christmas Sprit Level: 75%

Your Christmas spirit is almost as big as Christmas itself. Christmas is definitely your thing. You celebrate Christmas with enthusiasm. You love every minute of the holidays. Your Christmas spirit is inspiring to everyone who runs into you during the holidays. You make everyone's day just a little bit brighter. And that's what the holidays are all about!

Do You Have the Christmas Spirit?

This next one doesn't have anything to do with the holidays. It's here for Pam & Scott. I'd like to think they'd make me feel more welcome than a danged polecat. I've been to Texas several times, and always found the folks there very friendly.

How Texas are you?

I am 32% Texas.

You Are 32% Texas

You're as welcome in Texas as a skunk at a lawn party.

How Texas Are You?

I can choose how I feel about the holidays. If I find myself getting impatient and irritable, I can shake myself out of it. Spending some reflective time alone, thinking about some things I'm grateful for in life (past and present), and accepting that unexpected things are likely to happen no matter how much I plan ahead will help me enjoy the true meaning of Christmas.

Death in the Living Room (and instructions for Life)

My praying mantis adventure seems to have come to an end. The poor little critters have apparently died, although I'm not ruling out the possibility of a survivor or two I haven't encountered yet. When I realized my home had been invaded I did some research on the web, and found out that - yes - the eggs should not have hatched until spring, and Mother Nature had been fooled when I brought my ficus tree indoors for the winter. Hence, the hatchlings. I tried calling a local botanical center, hoping they would like to adopt any of the baby mantises I could collect and transport to their greenhouse, but they never returned my call. My home just does not harbor the food that would have sustained the fledglings, and they perished after a few days.


In hindsight, I'm rather surprised how I handled the situation compared to what would have happened before I got sober. Previously, I would have freaked out, whipped out the electrolux and searched for black-market DDT. Instead, I just relaxed and let things take their natural course without my intervention. Well, okay, I did try to coax a couple of the babies to drink a drop of water, but for the most part I avoided running around like Henny Penny trying to fix everything. It helps, of course, that I like praying mantises and know they don't pose a threat. If I'd had a pestilence of black widow spiders the tale would be different.


One of the qualities I've been praying for over the past couple of months is patience. A side lesson from this exercise is learning to be careful what you pray for. I have caught every red light in Richmond since I prayed for patience. I sat behind one car through three traffic light cycles one evening, and it was only when I started laughing at the situation that the light changed. So the signal wasn't broken, as I supposed initially; it almost seemed like God was waiting for me to relax and acknowledge the lesson.


The Old Bill at the traffic intersection would have been fuming, honking the horn, cussing the driver in front of me, and whipping around and through the intersection. This doesn't mean I'm absolved from taking action when needed, but I'm beginning to understand that there are situations I simply cannot control, and the healthiest course of action is to go with the flow.


Now it's time to do some holiday baking, and I am still my mother's child, which means I will scrub, disinfect, and sterilize the entire kitchen before I make anything in case there are praying mantis footprints anywhere. My mom came home from the grocery store one day, and when she put a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter, a cockroach dashed out and ran behind the oven. She pulled the oven out from the wall to find it. For her, this was probably progress; I'm surprised she didn't put the house up for sale. Anyone who knew my mother would agree.

I ran across some instructions for Life I'll share. Feel free to add more in the comments section.

• go someplace you've never been at least once a year



• give people more than they expect and do it cheerfully



• don't believe all you hear, spend all you have, or sleep all you want



• when you say "I'm sorry," look the person in the eye



• never laugh at anyone's dreams



• don't judge people by their relatives



• when someone asks you a question you don't want to answer, smile and ask "Why do you want to know?'



• call your mom



• remember that great love and great acheivements involve great risk



• when you lose, don't lose the lesson



• remember the three R's: respect for self, respect for others, and responsibility for all of your actions



• when you realize you've made a mistake, take immediate steps



• spend some time alone



• open your arms to change, but don't let go of your values



• remember that silence is sometimes the best answer



• read more books and watch less television



• trust in God but lock your car



• be gentle with the earth



• pray...there's immeasurable power in it



• mind your own business



• remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a stroke of luck



• judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it



• remember that your character is your destiny

Re-Gifted Seasonal Humor

The year is grinding to its close, and we suddenly find ourselves in the midst of The Most Wonderful Time of the Year (or so says that song). I've finished my Christmas shopping, but I'm going to have to whip myself to get the wrapping done. Where does the time go? We only have a couple more weekends before Christmas. Time to turn to an expert on getting things done. Martha has a jump on us, but perhaps we can catch up if we take a look at her Holiday Planning Calendar.

Martha Stewart's Holiday Calendar

12-1 Blanch carcass from Thanksgiving turkey. Spray paint gold. Turn upside down and use as a sleigh to hold Christmas cards.

12-2 Have Mormon Tabernacle Choir record outgoing Christmas message for answering machine.

12-4 Repaint Sistine Chapel ceiling in ecru with mocha trim.

12-5 Get new eyeglasses. Grind lenses myself.

12-6 Fax family Christmas newsletter to Pulitzer committee for consideration.

12-10 Align carpets to adjust for curviture of Earth.

12-11 Lay Faberge egg.

12-12 Take dog apart. Disinfect. Reassemble.

12-13 Collect dentures. They make excellent pastry cutters, particularly for decorative pie crusts.

12-14 Install plumbing in Gingerbread House.

12-15 Replace air in mini-van tires with Glade "holiday scents" in case tires are shot out at mall.

12-17 Child-proof the Christmas tree with garland of razor wire.

12-19 Adjust legs of chairs so each Christmas dinner guest will be same height when sitting at his or her assigned seat.

12-20 Dip sheep and cows in egg white and roll in sugar to add a festive sparkle to the pasture.

12-21 Drain city reservoir. Refill with mulled cider, orange slices, and cinnamon sticks.

12-22 Float votive candles in toilet tank.

12-23 Seed clouds for white Christmas.

12-25 Bear son. Swaddle. Lay in color-coordinated manger with homemade potpourri.


Does anyone really make fruitcake? Does anyone really like fruitcake? My neighbor Karen used to make fruitcake for her father and her brothers years ago. She would spend big money and lots of time carefully crafting these holiday classics, only to find out after several Christmases that not one of the recipients liked fruitcake. The following recipe has been around for a long, long time. I know, because one of my dad's UDT/SEAL buddies sent this recipe to him one year, and my dad retired from the Navy in 1969. It's still the best fruitcake recipe I've encountered:

Traditional Fruitcake
1 cup butter
1 cup sugar
1 cup brown sugar
4 eggs
2 cups dried chopped fruit
2-1/2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1-1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup chopped nuts
1/4 cup lemon juice
1 full bottle of your favorite whiskey
First, sample whiskey to check for freshness and quality.
Get a large mixing bowl.
Check the whiskey again to be sure it is of the highest quality.
Pour one level cup of whiskey and drink. Repeat.
Turn on the electric mixer; beat one cup of mixing butter in the fluffy bowl.
Add one teaspoon sugar and beat again.
Make sure the whiskey is okay. Cry another tup.
Turn off the mixer.
Break two legs and add to the bowl. Chuck up in the dried fruit.
Mix on the turner. If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaterers, pry it loose with a drewscriver.
Sample the whiskey for tonsisticity.
Next, sift two cups of salt. Or something...where was I?
Oh yes, check the whishkey an repeat.
Now sift the lemon juice and strain your nuts.
Add one table. Spoon. Of sugar or something...whatever you can find.
Grease the oven. Turn the cake pan 350 degrees.
Don't forget to beat off the turner!
Boon the spatter..no, uh...poon the ...throw the bowl out the window. Wisk the checky again. repea. Go to bed. Who likes fruitcak aynway. nitey-ni...

Yes, we've all seen this recipe before, but you need to make it to truly appreciate it.


After the holidays, consider treating yourself to a winter vacation. After all, you'll deserve it. Have you ever been snow skiing? I haven't, but I found a list of exercises in my file cabinet to help me prepare for my first trip to the slopes.

• soak your gloves and store them in the freezer after every use



• if you wear glasses, begin wearing them with glue smeared on the lenses



• fasten a small, wide rubber band around the top half of your head before you go to bed each night



• throw away a hundred dollar bill ... now



• place a small but angular pebble in your shoes, line them with crushed ice, and tighten a C-clamp around your toes



• buy a new pair of gloves and immediately throw one away



• go to McDonald's and insist on paying $8.50 for a plain hamburger (be sure you are in the longest line)



• clip a lift ticket to the zipper of your jacket and ride a motorcycle fast enough to make the ticket lacerate your face



• fill a blender with ice, hit the pulse button and let the spray blast your face. Leave the ice on until it melts. Let it drip into your clothes.



• dress up in as many clothes as you can and then proceed to take them off because you have to go to the bathroom



• slam your thumb in a car door; don't go see a doctor



• repeat all of the above every Saturday and Sunday until it's time for the real thing

Maybe I'll stay home and drink coffee, write in my journal, and count my blessings.

When Prayer Goes Awry

Perhaps it happened when I brought my ficus inside after it spent the warm months on the deck.

Wednesday, as I was hurriedly heading into my downstairs bathroom, I noticed something on the wall right outside the bathroom door. After a few moments in the loo, I was in a more patient frame of mind to inspect the object.

It was the tiniest praying mantis I've ever seen; his body no more than half an inch long. So cute!!! I coaxed him onto my finger, and placed him on the ficus tree nearby.

There I noticed another weensy praying mantis. Very sweet; they each have a buddy!

Yesterday afternoon, as I was puttering around in the kitchen, I noticed a little praying mantis on the splashplate behind the kitchen faucet. Hmmm.

This morning as I was pouring coffee near the refrigerator, a miniature praying mantis was there on the counter. No doubt the one I had spotted the previous day near the sink, I reckoned. I carried him over to the entertainment center in the den. When I returned to the kitchen, there was another little guy perched on the faucet. And then, behind him, another one behind the faucet.

Even allowing for duplicate sightings, I have encountered five new tenants in my home. I'm no expert on insects, but I suspect that a pregnant praying mantis lays hundreds of eggs.

This could turn into something big.

There's a whole lot of praying going on in my home.

Good heavens, I just checked the ficus tree, and counted fifteen.

If you don't hear from me in a few days, please contact Animal Control in Henrico County.