Daily Post Challenge – “Scale”
Merritt Parkway Overpass – Bayberry Lane, Westport, CT
Daily Post Photo Challenge “Serenity”
Zen
Weekly Photo Challenge – Sh
Looking out my back yard one afternoon, I stared in amazement, rubbed my eyes, then looked again.
A peacock! In full bloom, slowly strutting by. Grabbing my camera in a flurry I took this shot. Although blurry, you can get an idea of the brilliance of the plume.
I imagine the bird escaped from some neighboring estate as wild peacocks are not native to our region.
A moment to remember.
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The Crockpot
I should have gone with the pot roast. A traditional, home spun, simple recipe. A crowd pleaser. But rather, I chose what I imagined a more elegant entrée for the upcoming dinner I would be preparing for my husband’s brother and new girlfriend. “Slow cooked Halibut,” was the name the recipe book had dubbed it. I had illusions far more grandeur with perhaps a tweak or two.
It is an age-old struggle. That nagging but harmless question swirling in and out of my daily consciousness, “What should I make for dinner tonight?” My sister once told me she had read a magazine article advising that the ten top stresses in life included not only the death of a loved one and public speaking, but what to make for dinner.
So, when I saw the gleaming crock pot that day in Costco, it was not the actual appliance that beckoned, but, rather the shiny, four-color recipe book attached, wrought with possibility. Arriving home with this fabulous trophy I sat in bliss, pouring over the pages in awe and wonder. But first things first — what to make for the special upcoming dinner? I again turned to the halibut recipe, ignoring the nagging voice whispering, warning “never try a new recipe for a special occasion, never, never, never….”
Later that evening, I lounged with our guests on the sofa, sipping wine and chatting contentedly. The table was set, the ambiance was jovial and my divine creation simmering in the kitchen, ready to be served at a moment’s notice. The beauty of a crock pot I thought happily, was that the dish could simmer indefinitely allowing more time for cocktails and chat. Now where exactly did I read that? “More wine anyone?”
At last the hour was upon us. My guests sat in anticipation at the elegantly set dining room table, amid flickering candle light and the strains of Nat King Cole. Approaching the crock pot I lifted the lid then stared down in confusion. The four pieces of halibut, which hours earlier had appeared firm and beautiful, had vanished. I frantically ladled the mixture hoping to uncover the wayward fish. Gone. My dinner had turned to liquid. Could I possibly pass it off as bouillabaisse?
I realized it was the tweak. Earlier in the day in a flurry of over confidence and mania, I had tossed a cup and a half of heavy cream into the pot in the hopes of achieving a rich and velvety texture to the halibut. This tweak that was not found in any recipe book but rather, was spurred on by the excitement of owning the shiny new crock pot and the endless possibilities it lent in creative cooking. Yes, creative cooking at its finest.
I poured the entrée into four serving bowls and confidentially approached the table. As I placed the first dish before my brother in-law, I carefully refused to meet my husband’s eye. “Rolls for dipping” I sang, as I disappeared back into the kitchen. Thank god the guests were family, I thought.
“What exactly is this called?” ” My husband finally dared. “Halibut a la cream” I replied. And as our spoons clinked in silence, somewhere in the distance, I heard Julia Childs sobbing.
Cee’s Odd Ball Photo Challenge
RED HEAD
In his prime, over fifteen years ago, “Red Head” as we affectionately named him, was a full-bodied hand puppet I purchased in New York City’s Grand Central Station. His oddness beckoned me from the window of a toy store and I stopped in to take a closer look. He was clad in overalls and a gingham checkered shirt making his appearance all the more eccentric. It was the vibrancy of his red hair and sprinkle of freckles that won my heart.
Through the years, Red Head was played with tirelessly but due to his appearance often the object of extreme roughness. Children would often be frightened by his face which did bear a strange expression and would fling him in mock fright.
He lost most of his nose through numerous battles with our Toy Fox Terrier who too appeared to react to his appearance. The dog would grab the puppet in his teeth and shake violently which eventually led to the head being torn from the torso. I placed it on a shelf for safe keeping vowing I would sew it back.
Red Head was the source of many a prank. I often tucked him into my husband’s lunch bag and would hide him in different places about the house. Another time when my close friend had just broken up with a red-haired man, I placed the puppet in her mailbox with a little note saying “Please give me another chance?” She was horrified until I admitted I was the culprit.
Yes, I think the Red Headed puppet has brought more joy to me than to my children and I humbly submit his photo to the oddball photo challenge for today.
Anabel’s Favorite Spot
In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Warmth.”
Magic Drinks
ROCHESTER, September 26 — Eastman Kodak Company today announced its intent to stop making and selling slide projectors by June 2004.
“The Kodak slide projector has been a hallmark for quality and ubiquity, used for decades to produce the best in audio visual shows throughout the world,” the company said. “However, in recent years, slide projectors have declined in usage, replaced by alternative projection technologies.”
One of my happiest and most comforting memories of childhood was our family slide shows. These coveted movie nights which generally took place once a year, consisted of nothing more than three simple ingredients: a blank wall in our living room, a Kodak carousel slide projector with my father at the mast and myself and three sisters, huddled on the sofa, pressed together in anticipation like peas in a pod. My mother, who had seen the slide shows too many times to mention, usually busied herself with other things, occasionally stopping in to comment on a particularly beloved picture. Prior to turning off the lights, my father would announce in a deep theatrical voice “Who wants a magic drink?”
They were always different in taste and made from whatever struck his fancy that night; orange juice with a splash of pineapple juice and Grenadine or perhaps apple juice and ginger ale with a jigger of seltzer. The ingredients were unimportant. It was the anticipation of what was to be and the lovely ritual of our movie night routine that we cherished. Those magic drinks were just part of the show.
There was always one slide, without fail, that was turned upside down. This would halt the show momentarily, as my father with a slightly frustrated “tsk” would right the renegade slide. And we were ready to go once again.
I loved that Kodak carousel projector and the faded yellow boxes of slides stacked beside it. They were never labeled so each reel was a surprise in itself. Who might appear on the screen that night was anyone’s guess — my six or sixteen year old self? Our first family pet Bubbles the beagle, or our gentle giant of a Great Dane we called Jenny? My mother posing on the beach in her youth, or proudly cradling her first grandchild? The lack of chronology only added to the experience.
Some days, in the quiet of my mind, I can still hear the slow deliberate click of the projector, advancing slowly, telling without words the story of our life. Slide to slide, toddler to teenager, mother to grandmother, youth to twilight. An entire lifetime displayed on the wall of the darkened living room.
When my parents died, I cared about no other of their possessions albeit that time warped machine that could somehow transform me back to family vacations, birthday parties and people and places no more. With my sister’s blessings, I brought it to my own home with the promise to bring it to family gatherings, a carousal reunion of sort. Though it is yet to be. It sits up on a shelf in an unused room. I have taken it down one or two times in a half -hearted attempt to have my own family slide show but then, as it spits and jams due to age, return it in frustration to the lone closet. Surely there is somewhere that can restore the Kodak carousal to the beauty of its youth so we may once again enjoy those magical images.
And I will mix for my own sons, those magic drinks..
Death By Windex
If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, I am doomed. I love my husband and generally wish him no harm. But lately, I am getting tired of his accusations involving his lunch which I painstakingly make for him each morning to bring to work. He says it tastes like Windex. No, in case you might ask, he is not suffering from any mental disorder involving paranoia. He has all his faculties and then some, perhaps that is why his taste buds are so finely tuned. And in fairness, the accusations do not come daily but generally once a month or so, and typically hone in on his turkey sandwich. Though yesterday he called in a panic to claim his grapes had a toxic-like taste as well. Not Windex this time, but something equally “bad”. “Don’t eat the grapes!” he shrieked. He asks if I am slowly trying to kill him.
And from where would this delusion arise? He claims to have seen me, on more than one occasion, spraying the kitchen counter in abandon and has attested to seeing droplets of Windex lingering in the air, slowly making their way down to his coffee cup. “You don’t pay attention,” he chides. He claims I inherited this trait from my mother. In fairness, he is not entirely wrong. She was a wonderful woman but indeed careless at times. I recall childhood memories of a defunct and blackened microwave oven, hidden in the corner of our garage, meekly awaiting my father’s return from work. A severe reminder that aluminum foil and microwaves do not mix. I can envision still, her pink plush bathrobe seared up the back, a result of standing too close to the stove’s gas burner on particularly frigid mornings before the heat kicked in. He reminds me of the time she added a packet of lemon dish cleanser, which had arrived as a free sample in that day’s mail, to our family’s chicken dinner. Luckily, before the dish was consumed, my sister remarked that the sauce had “bubbles” alerting my mother to a potential disaster.
I don’t know how to put him at ease. Take a bite out of his sandwich prior to packing? Do away with all my kitchen cleansers entirely and use only white wine vinegar (though that could mimic an industrial type cleanser taste as well). Consult with a professional? Yesterday, as I topped off his brown bag lunch with an apple and Hershey kiss, I tucked in a yellow stick-um note as well, as I sometimes do in my son’s lunch. It simply said “Made with love not Windex.”
In the Company of Women
I was one of four daughters, attended all girl, catholic schools my entire life, have no idea how to change a tire and never experienced the bright stadium lights at a night-time football game. My father did put up a basketball hoop once in our driveway, short-lived when the ball sailed through the glass pane of the garage door. There it stood neglected for years a sad testament to the son my mother never had.
My Scottish reared father never once expressed regret at not having a son. Rather, he reveled in his four daughters and life among them. He loved his girls. Though there were times we tried his patience. A flashback of his screams from the shower after being cut by a worn down razor blade used on too many female teenage legs. Or his aversion to the smell of nail polish remover. He hated the smell of nail polish remover. He was equally content watching a rugby match as he was a cooking show.
During his daughter’s bridal showers, all four of them, rather than fleeing for the afternoon as most men might, my father would delight in being part of the celebration. There he would sit center stage, in his recliner, newspaper in hand (a ploy to feign disinterest) among the squeals and chaos of thirty females. Every now and again as a new gift was unveiled he would lift his head up casually and remark “Ah what’s this one? Hold it up a little closer Kath…”
My sister Sheila, too experienced this sometimes disadvantage of not having grown up with or been schooled among boys. When she and my mother visited Lord and Taylor to buy her first boyfriend a birthday gift, the saleswoman paused in puzzlement as she inquired as to where she might find the men’s “blouses.”
In addition to my father there was in fact one other male in our family. A big, beautiful Irish wolfhound, brought back from a holiday in Ireland. I recall listening in on a now famous conversation in our family between my mother and the vet. “I need to bring Connell in to be spayed,” The vet’s patient reply: “You mean neutered Mrs. Dickinson. Connell is a male dog.” My sister and I stared at each other, and then burst into laughter. We thought that something must have gotten lost in translation as my mother, Irish-born, often had her own interpretation of words. Looking back however, I think she simply believed Connell like the rest of us, was female, at least in theory.
I married and ironically, have two sons. My husband has taught them several things his own father taught him; how to throw a ball, fix a leaky kitchen faucet, use common tools for simple jobs, be kind and respectful. My sons are equally in touch with their feminine side and have as many female friends as male. They have five female cousins whom they see frequently further adding to their comfort level with girls, not to mention the added bonus of always have a date for the prom.
You might ask how it feels being on the reverse side at this point in my life, living among three men as opposed to my mother and three female sisters. I take a little solace in the fact that our new dog, a tiny toy fox terrier named Anabel, is female. My father would have loved her.
Shangri-La 
