WEASEL FIGHTS AND CREAKING DOORS, OH MY!

Last night I fixed Elizabeth a sandwich--late--probably ten o'clock. (That's because I'm such a nice Mom.) Phil was sitting at the table eating graham crackers and rice milk. I stuffed a piece of salami in my mouth, I figured it was worth whatever points it had. (Obviously I still haven't figured points out yet.)

"What are you eating?" Phil asked.

"Pepperoni."

"Did you eat it all?"

You should know something about skinny Phil. He eats whatever he wants, whenever he wants. He eats with everybody. If someone is eating he will find out what they are eating, and sit down to have some, too. So, naturally he ate the rest of the salami. Graham crackers and rice milk and salami. A great combination.

He went to bed.

I went to bed a couple of hours later. In the middle of the night I woke up because there was a weasel fight outside our bedroom window. We sleep with the window open and so we hear lots of things in the middle of the night, but I've never heard a weasel fight before. In fact I've never even seen a weasel. But I knew, for sure, that I was hearing a knock-down, winner-take-all, weasel fight.

Then I listened closer and the weasel fight had a rhythm. Squeal, wheeze, pause, pause. Squeal, wheeze, pause, pause. It was Phil. I jumped gently on the bed, he turned over and silence reigned.

Elizabeth always goes to bed several hours after I do--she has insomnia. I heard her open the bathroom door. Screech. And then she closed the bathroom door. Screech. And then she opened the bathroom door. Screech. And closed it. And then I remembered that the bathroom door doesn't screech. It was Phil. I jumped, gently, on the bed twice, he turned over and there was silence.

Twice more I was awakened to bizarre noises but because I'm somewhat of quick learner I realized it was just Phil. I jumped on the bed a few times. Silence.

So, if you too want to be awakened to interesting nighttime activities just let your husband eat a bunch of odd food before bed. You will be amused and even get some jumping-on-the-bed exercise. It's a twofer.

FUNERALS, SANDWICHES AND OLD AND MOLDY

Today we went to a funeral of a nice man in our ward. He raised nine children. All his children spoke. His last said something like, "I am glad my dad had faith during trying times, because here I am, number nine." Other people would have stopped at three or five or surely eight. She is a girl any father or mother would love to have. She was the treasure at the end. I think we all have treasures at the end, but some of us decide when the end is and not let God do it.

~~~~~

Because I was so tired from being on my feet for so long today I made grilled ham and cheese sandwiches for dinner. One I made with mayo--Phil's. One with Miracle Whip--mine. But I forgot which was which.

"You'll have to taste each of these," I told Phil. "And then tell me which one is mine."

He sniffed them.

"You can't tell that way, just have a bite of each."

"This is yours," he said, handing me the sandwich at his plate.

I looked at it. It didn't have a bite out of it. I furrowed my brow.

"Aum," he said, with a sheepish grin, "I licked your bread."

~~~~~

And now, because I actually feel Old and Moldy I am going to sit in the old-folks-recliner with the new afghan my friend Judy gave me and have a snooze so I can read blogs way into the night and avoid writing my book.

But, DeAnn, you better be WRITING YOURS! And I hear Her Excellency of Mousehole is doing some writing, too. Yes!

DRYING TOMATOES and MAKING PEAR JAM.

It's that time of year. Harvest time. This is a picture of the tomato plants in the garden.

The tomatoes are ripening and so it is time for me to start slicing the Roma's and put them in the dehydrator. This means I watch mindless TV in the kitchen. Today it was the Today show and Rachael Rey. When Phil had to go to BYU I tagged along and spent an hour in the bookstore.

There is nothing like a bookstore to restore your creativity. New ideas for books sprouted and festered and then I fled before they boiled over and made a mess that I wouldn't be able to explain.

The regular tomatoes are also FINALLY ripe and so I fixed a plate of tomato and basil sandwich fixin's, right on the breadboard where I cut the Roma's. Then back to the tomato-cutting grindstone. I watched MASH, and The Barefoot Contessa where I learned how to make truffles. It looked so easy. And delicious. Doesn't that look delicious? Here's the link in case you want to put it on your Christmas To-Do list. Oops, did I mention Christmas? Forgive me. It's only September, after all. I'm not mentioning Halloween yet, so that was really a slip.

You'd think I had kids at home. They always talked about holidays months and months ahead of time. I heard about what Halloween costume they were thinking about wearing right after Easter. That is enough to drive a mother crazy.There are mothers, all over the nation with glazed looks in their eyes from hearing, for the 78th time what their kids are going to wear for Halloween. Even mothers in countries that don't celebrate Halloween can understand.

Okay, back to the subject, sort of. After I filled the dehydrator I didn't have my quota of mindless TV today and so I watched some more TV while I made pear jam. A neighbor had given me a sack of pears and we have eaten pears until we are pear'd out. I couldn't throw them away--I should have sliced them and put them in the denydrator but it was full.

Phil reminded me later that we don't like pear jam. It's true. We don't. Actually we don't eat hardly any jam at all but I have jam-genes and it's hard not to answer the call of the fruit at Harvest time. It's a hypnotic call, you'd recognize it if you grew up in my house with my mother. It's sort of a haunting, do-not-waste-anything sort of a call.So, here is my pear jam, which we don't like. There was a bit left over. See the lovely chunks of pears in there. I also added some lime juice. I don't know why. It was the jam-gene, mutating.They all sealed--all the jars of jam we don't like. How lucky for us.

While I jammed I watched a movie so bad that even I was appalled. It was Final Days of Planet Earth. Daryl Hannah was the star. That should have been a clue. Finally it was coming to a close when...the sequel started. The SEQUEL! So, I made soup because I had to find out if Planet Earth really was having it's final days. I'll save you the pain. Planet Earth still has more days left.

I couldn't find the pinto beans in the basement and so the Kale and Bean Soup was made with kidney beans which, I'm sorry to say, was a mistake. If you try this soup DO NOT use kidney beans. You will loose faith in me as a cook, a pear-jam-maker with mutated genes, and a movie reviewer. But, I had made a double batch and so I froze four containers of the soup with the evil kidney beans. I'm sure I will be grateful by Halloween, when I don't have time to cook because I have to dash to the store for more candy for the greedy little goblins and ghouls, who have known what they were going to wear since Easter.

BASIL

My first batch of basil died, kaput, just like that. Dead.
The second batch looks like this. It's been in the ground forever. It has had plenty of water, plenty of fertilizer, plenty of sunshine and plenty of love. Phil provides that. I am a non-garden worker, mostly.
The rest of the garden looks good.

This is a volunteer lettuce, it's done so well it's starting to bolt.

But THIS is from the basil I planted in pots. It's from the same batch that the garden lettuce was planted from. Every body knows that plants in pots don't do well, or not as well as those planted in the ground. Don't they?

Anyway, this is how we've been eating the basil. Tomato sandwiches. Toast, mayo or ranch dressing, tomatoes, salt and pepper and basil. No lunch can top this one.

This is summer pasta. Again, a heavenly meal. The very first time we ate this we ate it eight times in a month.

Hope you planted some basil. If not, I'll share.

WHY OLD PEOPLE GET SICK AND DIE

Last night Phil--who was fixing leftovers for himself for dinner--said, "I know why old people get sick and die. They just eat soup and sandwiches." He paused. "And dog food."

Now, I don't cook as much as I used to, it's true. He does fix his own breakfast--I offer--sometimes--but he usually fixes a smoothie or sometimes will just eat fruit. He fixes his own lunch, that's true too. He often eats Ramen soup, the Oriental kind, which I like about twice a year. Maybe once. He loves the stuff. I offer to fix his lunch but no, he likes to fix his own.

Sometimes I'll cook dinner but when I ask him what he wants for dinner he'll often say, "I think I'll just eat apples." Honest, he does.

So...where does the dog food crack come from? Do you think it's a comment on the food I do fix? Do you think that's why he wants to eat apples for dinner?

Tonight I cooked. I didn't open a can of Alpo and simmer it on the stove.* He ate a lot. He liked it, I think. Maybe we will be long lived after all.

*I baked it in the oven. Hee hee. JK