Leftovers

Do I throw out the Thanksgiving cranberries?

Leftovers are a little frig miracle. After a long tiring day, one can peer into the frig and, ka-ching, there lies dinner possibilities. The fact that I hate to waste anything has honed my skill of re-working meal variances over and over again.




Sometimes, however, the frig, microwave, and me just cannot pull off one more mealtime marvel. Food safety and sanitation are kind of my specialties, but fudging on the throw-out date has become more common as our household occupancy rate has declined.

My Thanksgiving cranberries are the only leftover remaining in my frig and tonight it may be bean burritos topped with cranberries. What does one do with the cranberries once the turkey is gone? Perhaps muffins (but then I'd have to do a whole recipe or at least six, which leaves leftover muffins). This could go on forever and frankly sometimes it does....

Anyway, I must begin on my Christmas menus for when family arrives. I'm thinking something with cranberries.

HonK's

I finished work early today and dashed off to complete two stops: Costco and Honk’s. A grin-from-ear-to-ear student had surprised her labmates with new aprons for Christmas. Upon questioning the giver about the whereabouts of the awesomeness-beyond-belief purchase, I was told, “Honk’s, for a dollar.”

Against all good judgement, with the observation of piled-high shopping carts spewing forth from the exit doors, I succeeded in my quest into Costco for a single-item purchase, a Misto.

Honk’s, on the other hand, did not deliver on the apron crusade – sold out. Honk’s is a dollar store and being so close to Christmas, I encountered those shopping and obviously weighing the implications of their purchases for gift giving.

Smack! Reality hit me hard as the glaring contrast between the "haves" and the "have-nots" stood clearly in my mind. I left Honk’s empty-handed, but with a clearer vision of the need to spread the dollars around to those who genuinely need it at this time of year.

Holiday Lights

If I could only choose one decoration, it would be outside lighting. The power grid seems to dim significantly when I throw the switch to illuminate my outside landscape. Perhaps it is because darkness descends upon us at 4 p.m. or that outside lights seem to warm our overcast, gray surroundings during the cold winter months.

Going to the window to see if LauraLee has turned on her lights is a nightly routine. Hers are clear white lights, draped from fence post to fence post with a green wreath between each. There is no order or planning to my technique of putting up the lights. They are thrown on bushes strong enough to hold their weight. My biggest dilemma is not overloading a circuit and blowing a fuse. I questioned my dear hubby this year as to whether one outlet could handle 2,000 lights. It could not. Some days I am tempted to turn the lights on at 2 p.m. just to make sure that they are on at the earliest possible dark moment.

Removing them from the ice-encrusted bushes is my husband's duty and he hates it. Thanks, dear, for humoring me for 30 years. ILY

Childhood Confessions of a Church-Going Gal

People in my church were tolerant of the Laird kids, maybe I just didn't pick up on any signs of disapproval, or perhaps I have just forgotten ever being caught doing any misdeed. My church-going hours were enriched by my ability to:

- Roll stuff down the chapel floor of the green church. It was slanted and marbles could go a good distance during Sacrament meeting.
- Hunt for the baptisry. It was in the basement somewhere under the stage and was often unlocked. - Hide the sacrament under my belt for a snack later.
- Listen to Sister Richins, Sister Huish, and Sister Christensen singing in barbershop harmony at the pulpit. I thought it would be neat if they'd just add bubbles. They sounded just like the gals on the Lawrence Welk Show.
- Count the chins on Sister Liston's neck, yes every fold, as she led singing in primary.
- Report to my family about the upper thighs of Sister Adair looking like plucked turkeys. She bent over way too many times for the eyes and minds of seven-year-olds.
- Have contests with the kids next to me to see who could peel off the biggest hunk of varnish from the back of the benches.
- Pull a split-end hair out of the head of the person in front of me and see how much farther it could be split. Yea, sometimes they jumped when you pulled it out.
- Plan a way to get to the top of the steeple. Rumors were that a few had done it and there was some pretty awesome stuff up there.
- Sail paper airplanes out of our second-story Sunday School classroom window.
- Pretend to like the birdseed snacks (yes, they were made of bird seed) that Sister Chittock handed out from her health food store. At Christmas she did give us a pure maple sugar Santa which was more palatable.
- Silent-giggle my guts out during meetings by adding "in the bathtub" after the names of hymns. I could make my sister snort outloud, which drew some glances. I Stand All Amazed In The Bathtub, Abide With Me In The Bathtub, Choose The Right In The Bathtub. Makes me giggle even now.
- Dare the kid next to me to bend their fingers back to touch their wrist like I did.
- Give the added nudge to any kid tipping on their chair that would sent them to the floor.
- Play tag in the gym.

- Roll my socks into doughnuts.

- Find ants on the floor of the chapel to play with. They would crawl over my hands and up my arms until I turned them loose on the bench in front of me, sometimes making their way up a person's neck.

All said, God's love and the saintly love of those who didn't throw me out, kept me coming back for more.

Snowbird 6:27-34

27. Yea verily, it became necessary for us to ascend unto the mountain and partake of the whiteness thereof.
28. And I spake unto the son of Dean. Gird up thy loins and be not weary for the way is hard and thou must come or surely be damned.
29. Wherefore, when we beheld the beauty of the mountain we were reminded of the teachings of our fathers whereby we shall surely witness that how beautiful upon the mountain are the feet of those that slide thereon.
30. And the mountain was vast, without brambles, nor sticks, nor briars, nor rocks of any kind that might impede our journey or bruise our heel or vex our soals.
31. And the son of Dean did exclaim. Woa is me because of the lack of faith that preceded our climb unto the heavens and now our descent from which. For I was an doubtful and held not within my heart that the sureness of our way would prove fruitful.
32. Thereby came few travelers and none to stand in multitudes to make the journey.
33. And the silence and peace within our hearts grew and we were exceedlingly glad and joyous forthwith.
34. Whereas our time was long upon the whiteness of the mountain and we carried away with us a new faith that when the clouds come and gather again within the heavens, we shall tarry forth and partake once again with renewal of faith and gladness and strength.

Farmers

Do you know a farmer? I don't think they exist anymore. My Grandpa Jensen was a farmer and I always thought it was great to tell my childhood friends that I had a grandpa that was a farmer. My cousin, Ron, and my Uncle Paul were farmers too.

I remember:
* Looking for kittens in the haystack. There was always a new litter.
* Dipping my hand in a bucket of milk and letting a new calf or lamb suck my fingers.
* Drinking raw milk.
* Exploring the sheds that were full of old farm equipment.
* Fearing being eaten by pigs. They were supposedly little girl munchers.
* Pondering the slop bucket.
* Seeing my Aunt Rae's egg cleaning set-up on "the back porch."
* Being fascinated by a working butter churn, its clear shiny glass with the paddle and handle.

* Walking out back to feed the cows. It seemed like miles to "out back."
* Loving the farm, but hating the smell of Mapleton.
* Not daring to swing from the rope in the barn.

* Imagining climbing into the grainery and climbing around. You die if you do.

* Jumping from bale to bale on the haystack.

....sigh....

Not Making This Up

Them: "Something's wrong with this sugar. It won't melt."
Me: "It will melt and coat the nuts."
Them: "The nuts are burning up." (billowing smoke)
Me: "Taste it."
Them: "Oh, we used salt."

Them: "These caramels look gross."
Me: "You've scorched the cream to the bottom of the pan."

Them: "The recipe said to boil it."
Me: "Did you stir constantly with the flat-bottomed candy paddle and watch the temperature."

Them: "Oh, you have to stir?? When were we supposed to put in the thermometer??"

(billowing smoke) Me: "You're burning the toffee."

Them: "It said to cook it for about 13 minutes."

Me: "It's black and smoking."

Them: "Do you think it's ruined??" (more billowing smoke)

Them: "This doesn't look like lolipop syrup."
Me: "You're right. What's in it?"
Them: "We followed the recipe exactly."
Me: "Okay. Who measured the corn syrup?"

Them: "He did."

Me: "Who measured the sugar."

Them: "She did."

Me: "Where did you get the sugar."

Them: "Sugar??? We used flour."

Me: "You just made play-dough."

Them: "We can't get this molten candy off the marble slab."

Me: "You mean the buttered marble slab?"

Them: "Buttered???"

Me: "Start chipping."

Them: "This taffy's too hard to pull."

Me: "Yes, I see. What temperature did you cook it to."

Them: "Temperature???? I don't know, around 400."

Me: "It will be sucky candy."

Them: "Our peanut brittle has black nuts." (billowing smoke)

Me: "You burned the nuts."

Them: "We didn't see them burn."

Me: "They sink to the bottom of the candy in the hot pan." (billowing smoke)
Them: "Do you think we should stop cooking them." (billowing smoke)

It's been a rough week thus far....