Over the years, I've made all kinds of adaptations to recipes: adding or deleting ingredients, taking shortcuts, substituting one thing for another, blending recipes, adjusting cooking times. But I recently learned 2 new things about cooking:
1) You can NOT omit baking powder from a recipe for banana bread, even if you have compiled all the other ingredients before you realize you don't know where the baking powder is stored, if there is any. I think it possible that baking soda may work as a substitute, but I couldn't find that either. The banana bread looked and smelled delicious, but it ended up being heaved down into the woods as a means of destroying any evidence that it had ever existed.
2) When making a cake using a boxed mix, it is NOT necessary to obey the printed directions as to at what speeds and for how long to use the mixer. Any cupcakes made by just casually hand beating the batter for a brief time will be at least as light and fluffy as if the directions were followed. These cupcakes ended up on the table, and every one of them was eaten over a few days.
Live and learn.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Could've, but didn't
I imagine things sometimes, just to fill up the blank spaces which are called boredom.
When the conductor, who was carrying my suitcase, indicated that I should ask somebody to move their belongings or body parts so I could be seated, I was near the end of the car, where a man was sitting alone, kind of scrunched in by the window seat, so I sat with him, after dutifully checking to see if the seat were taken. He wasn't reading, or texting, or wearing headphones, and as time would reveal, was rather sick, quietly coughing and swallowing pills during the five-hour ride from Framingham into Rensselaer. It was pretty obvious that he preferred to be left alone, as indeed seemed to be true of all the other singly seated passengers.
So I wondered what would happen if I intruded into his personal space and started a chat, asking questions, sharing tales of my visit with grandchildren, and being a general annoyance. I had watched the show, Louis C.K., the night before, where C.K., slumped in the back of the car, was the victim of his driver's attempt at conversation and camaraderie. The driver, Mike, shared his feelings about other people he'd encountered in his line of work, and was merrily relating vignettes and anecdotes until C.K. finally drew himself up and announced that while others may enjoy such conversation, he himself did not. To the dismay of the driver, C.K. said his touring was work and at this point in his life like going to the bathroom, something he had to do, and that he wanted to be left alone. The driver's disappointment and sorrow were palpable, and disturbing, even to old C.K.
I tortured myself for a while, mentally putting myself in the driver's place and experiencing, vicariously, the embarrassment and humiliation which would surely be forthcoming. But in the end, I outlasted my seat mate. I worked diligently on the Sunday New York Times Crossword almost the entire trip, speaking not a single word, which is my custom during travel anyway. Nearing the end of the line for that train, which was the Rensselaer Station, my seatmate finally spoke, complaining about the coldness of the train. I simply agreed--the air conditioning was very chilly.
When the conductor, who was carrying my suitcase, indicated that I should ask somebody to move their belongings or body parts so I could be seated, I was near the end of the car, where a man was sitting alone, kind of scrunched in by the window seat, so I sat with him, after dutifully checking to see if the seat were taken. He wasn't reading, or texting, or wearing headphones, and as time would reveal, was rather sick, quietly coughing and swallowing pills during the five-hour ride from Framingham into Rensselaer. It was pretty obvious that he preferred to be left alone, as indeed seemed to be true of all the other singly seated passengers.
So I wondered what would happen if I intruded into his personal space and started a chat, asking questions, sharing tales of my visit with grandchildren, and being a general annoyance. I had watched the show, Louis C.K., the night before, where C.K., slumped in the back of the car, was the victim of his driver's attempt at conversation and camaraderie. The driver, Mike, shared his feelings about other people he'd encountered in his line of work, and was merrily relating vignettes and anecdotes until C.K. finally drew himself up and announced that while others may enjoy such conversation, he himself did not. To the dismay of the driver, C.K. said his touring was work and at this point in his life like going to the bathroom, something he had to do, and that he wanted to be left alone. The driver's disappointment and sorrow were palpable, and disturbing, even to old C.K.
I tortured myself for a while, mentally putting myself in the driver's place and experiencing, vicariously, the embarrassment and humiliation which would surely be forthcoming. But in the end, I outlasted my seat mate. I worked diligently on the Sunday New York Times Crossword almost the entire trip, speaking not a single word, which is my custom during travel anyway. Nearing the end of the line for that train, which was the Rensselaer Station, my seatmate finally spoke, complaining about the coldness of the train. I simply agreed--the air conditioning was very chilly.
What-spreading?
I read that man-spreading is illegal, in NYC anyway. What about spreading in general, as on Amtrak trains. The seats are double, but occupied by single individuals, who tend to spread not only their body parts, but their possessions, onto all available space. When you board the train, which is already enroute, try walking down the aisle, and seeing seat after seat loaded with purses, ipads, phones, clothing. The occupant is always looking down, at their devices, or else feigning sleep or infinite boredom. The conductor advises you that you'll have to ask someone to move their stuff. Unless maybe you're in New York City, where the word from the conductor is more like, "Move your stuff. You've only paid for one seat."
WAITING FOR GODot
It's a given that there are many with troubles far worse than any I've encountered-----yet.
But it's also true that nobody knows the troubles I've seen.
But it's also true that nobody knows the troubles I've seen.
Friday, May 29, 2015
Curses! No way out.
We must be their only sucker, I mean customer. Adam, from Phillips Home, called tonight, essentially pleading for a second chance to present the estimate, though with a thousand apologies for requiring both of us to be at the presentation. Tomorrow, at 2:00 p.m. please? In truth, I'd rather walk through flaming coals, for reasons too many to enumerate, but I agreed. And hate myself for it....Dear Blog, my only friend, help me, I implore.
"Salesmanship" Circa 1965
The call came unexpectedly, though not for the first time. Over a year ago, I'd attended a community fair or exhibit function and had been persuaded to enter my name in a drawing for one of their prizes, the entry coming with the assurance that there would be no sales calls. Maybe no sales calls, but that hasn't excluded follow-up calls to verify that I was still at the same address; in case I win they need to contact me. The drawing is always being held "next month." Normally, I say no thank you, or simply hang up. But this time I responded differently.
Last winter, our front side door froze solid. It took kicks from a powerful man to get it closed, and then no one could open it until the spring thaw. One theory was that the ground beneath the cellar-less foundation had frozen so deeply that it impinged upon the very structure and resulted in an upheaval that impacted the door. So we decided to get a new door, which would replace both the old outer storm door as well as the wooden entry door. We called a contractor, one referred by a local agency, and the man came to our house, said he could do it, and would send an estimate. Though he had seemed earnest, we have not heard from him in two months; he has not even responded to emails.
So when the call came, out of the blue, from Phillips Home Services, I relented from my usual stance, and told the guy to come and give us one of the free estimates they're advertising. So, at the appointed time, 10:00 a.m. on Friday, Jim showed up at our door. I must say I experienced those old-time misgivings when I saw that he was wearing a pink dress shirt, and was carrying a large, stuffed-to-the-hinges leather briefcase. Even more ominous, he wanted to sit at the kitchen table to talk, before he even saw the door project. Back in the 1960's and before, people were sold encyclopedias in that manner, and freezer plans, and baby furniture. When I thought things couldn't get any more retro than that, he asked the question, "Where is Mr. S.?" "Not here," I said, "He had an appointment." Poor Jim, looking rather miserable, told me he'd have to reschedule, that he was not allowed to speak to only one of two homeowners. I told him I wasn't buying anything, though we would if all was okay, that I only wanted him to leave an estimate. He was apologetic and called his boss.
He put me on the phone with his boss, who reiterated the company policy. It would be the same if only the husband were there, he said, I shouldn't feel offended. He also offered to re-schedule the visit. But I was too far into memories of the past, when I had to change all my credit cards to my husband's name, and other indignities. (Especially since I had the solid credit rating and he was an unencumbered free spirit.) So I told him thanks, that I was unable to do the "Jack and Jill buy a door" routine. If his sales rep wanted to leave an estimate, we'd gladly consider it, and both of us would, of course, sign the contract.
So next week, I'm visiting Lowe's. Hoping to avoid the display-filled briefcase at the kitchen table.
Last winter, our front side door froze solid. It took kicks from a powerful man to get it closed, and then no one could open it until the spring thaw. One theory was that the ground beneath the cellar-less foundation had frozen so deeply that it impinged upon the very structure and resulted in an upheaval that impacted the door. So we decided to get a new door, which would replace both the old outer storm door as well as the wooden entry door. We called a contractor, one referred by a local agency, and the man came to our house, said he could do it, and would send an estimate. Though he had seemed earnest, we have not heard from him in two months; he has not even responded to emails.
So when the call came, out of the blue, from Phillips Home Services, I relented from my usual stance, and told the guy to come and give us one of the free estimates they're advertising. So, at the appointed time, 10:00 a.m. on Friday, Jim showed up at our door. I must say I experienced those old-time misgivings when I saw that he was wearing a pink dress shirt, and was carrying a large, stuffed-to-the-hinges leather briefcase. Even more ominous, he wanted to sit at the kitchen table to talk, before he even saw the door project. Back in the 1960's and before, people were sold encyclopedias in that manner, and freezer plans, and baby furniture. When I thought things couldn't get any more retro than that, he asked the question, "Where is Mr. S.?" "Not here," I said, "He had an appointment." Poor Jim, looking rather miserable, told me he'd have to reschedule, that he was not allowed to speak to only one of two homeowners. I told him I wasn't buying anything, though we would if all was okay, that I only wanted him to leave an estimate. He was apologetic and called his boss.
He put me on the phone with his boss, who reiterated the company policy. It would be the same if only the husband were there, he said, I shouldn't feel offended. He also offered to re-schedule the visit. But I was too far into memories of the past, when I had to change all my credit cards to my husband's name, and other indignities. (Especially since I had the solid credit rating and he was an unencumbered free spirit.) So I told him thanks, that I was unable to do the "Jack and Jill buy a door" routine. If his sales rep wanted to leave an estimate, we'd gladly consider it, and both of us would, of course, sign the contract.
So next week, I'm visiting Lowe's. Hoping to avoid the display-filled briefcase at the kitchen table.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
St Catherine's
"Let me give you a piece of advice," she said. "Avoid places like this. You have no autonomy."
Monday, May 25, 2015
Cry in the Night
I have heard many small children call out many things at night when they want attention---they're thirsty, hungry, too cold, too warm, not sleepy, scared, need to go to the bathroom, want another hug, have lost their teddy bear, want a light on, or off. The list goes on. But not until a few days ago did I hear, "I broke the curse. I unfroze myself."
Friday, May 8, 2015
Prizeless
I' m just a dot on the horizon when networks are aiming for their target audience, but I can't figure out what audience of TV viewers enjoys seeing other people get prizes, gifts, cash. I don't necessarily mean individuals selected on the basis of their extreme need or tragic circumstances. I refer to entire audiences who are gifted with thousands and thousands of dollars worth of gifts just for being there. Good for them, I say; I'd like to be the recipient of a bunch of presents too. But I don't find it entertaining in the least, or even interesting, to watch an entire audience as their faces light up with greed as each gift is announced. Let them work for what they get like the rest of us, or at least like Jeopardy or The Price Is Right contestants.
Oversensitive?
The kindly (or so he is reputed) doctor advised me that since the surgery, I should take an antibiotic, of the prophylactic sort, before dental visits if I get my teeth cleaned. IF!!
I do still have teeth, even most of them, and do still get them cleaned now and then.
Oh, well, maybe he didn't mean it that way, and I shouldn't take offense. But we must be ever vigilant in our war against age-shaming.
I do still have teeth, even most of them, and do still get them cleaned now and then.
Oh, well, maybe he didn't mean it that way, and I shouldn't take offense. But we must be ever vigilant in our war against age-shaming.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Genius
If there is such a thing as genius in the vocal world, I think the word is defined by Sawyer Fredericks. He reminds me some of John Denver; he may even be better. They say that while The Voice is a popular show, they have yet to produce a star. That is sure to change when Sawyer wins the competition this year.
Disgusting, Nth Degree
I thought that by now I was inured to gross sights, but I find it revolting just thinking of how a Neti-pot is used. Watching the procedure makes me want to throw up. Dr. Oz, stop it now!
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Age Shaming---Self Inflicted
Come on, old people. Just because you are up in years, you don't have to act like the stereotypical old dolt. Don't walk into a car dealership for an oil change, and let them sell you a new car if you don't really want one.
So the salesman told you your old car may be in danger of rusting out and becoming unsafe, which it almost certainly will eventually. And the older the car, the more likely it is to happen. You're talking to a car salesman; you know that's what they do-try to sell cars. You should take some comfort in being treated like everyone else.
After the sale is done, you suffer buyer's remorse, a pretty universal affliction. You say you realized your car payments will probably extend past your lifespan. So what? You miss the comfort of your old car, your sentimentalized friend of metal and rubber with a little plastic in the mix. You want to change your mind and go back to the familiar, so what do you do? You play the age card. Because you're old, you warrant special consideration is your approach. But you can't do it alone. So the next step? Contact the media. After the outpouring of public sympathy for mistreated animals and abused children, there should be one spot for a doddering elderly person. Just don't make a habit of it, ye elderly. Puppies and babies are much cuter.
So the salesman told you your old car may be in danger of rusting out and becoming unsafe, which it almost certainly will eventually. And the older the car, the more likely it is to happen. You're talking to a car salesman; you know that's what they do-try to sell cars. You should take some comfort in being treated like everyone else.
After the sale is done, you suffer buyer's remorse, a pretty universal affliction. You say you realized your car payments will probably extend past your lifespan. So what? You miss the comfort of your old car, your sentimentalized friend of metal and rubber with a little plastic in the mix. You want to change your mind and go back to the familiar, so what do you do? You play the age card. Because you're old, you warrant special consideration is your approach. But you can't do it alone. So the next step? Contact the media. After the outpouring of public sympathy for mistreated animals and abused children, there should be one spot for a doddering elderly person. Just don't make a habit of it, ye elderly. Puppies and babies are much cuter.
Extremist Couponing
A small vindication arrived in the mail today-----$20 worth of coupons from Purina, most of which is for free products. I do not use coupons much any more, and typically only if they're for at least a dollar.
A week or so ago, I presented a coupon to the cashier at the local market, a dollar off 10 cans of cat food. The cashier studied the coupon and declared it invalid. I had bought the carton of 12 cans of the food; he said "they" wanted me to buy the loose cans. The coupon said 10 cans. I thought of opening the carton and removing 2 cans, but didn't. The man at the register appeared new, and evidently afflicted with some kind of psoriasis; I would not want to have been responsible for jeopardizing his job, which is probably on shaky ground anyway.
I contacted Purina's Customer Service; they are there to help us. I explained the situation, and their reply, well within the 48 hour response window, was that coupon redemption policy is at the discretion of each store, and recommended I take the coupon to another store.
Really? Drive to different stores until I find one that happens to agree with the wording I'm reading? That would be unwieldy and humiliating, I told them. And stupid, I didn't tell them. Instead, I said that my issue was not with the store, but with the wording in the coupon, and suggested editing so that the meaning would be clear, and universally understood. The cashier thought that he was following the dictates of the great god Purina.
So, after jumping the line of the first level of customer service reps, I was thanked for bringing up the issue, and told that they were going to work on it. (Which most likely won't happen) And send me some coupons as a token of their appreciation. (Which they did.)
A week or so ago, I presented a coupon to the cashier at the local market, a dollar off 10 cans of cat food. The cashier studied the coupon and declared it invalid. I had bought the carton of 12 cans of the food; he said "they" wanted me to buy the loose cans. The coupon said 10 cans. I thought of opening the carton and removing 2 cans, but didn't. The man at the register appeared new, and evidently afflicted with some kind of psoriasis; I would not want to have been responsible for jeopardizing his job, which is probably on shaky ground anyway.
I contacted Purina's Customer Service; they are there to help us. I explained the situation, and their reply, well within the 48 hour response window, was that coupon redemption policy is at the discretion of each store, and recommended I take the coupon to another store.
Really? Drive to different stores until I find one that happens to agree with the wording I'm reading? That would be unwieldy and humiliating, I told them. And stupid, I didn't tell them. Instead, I said that my issue was not with the store, but with the wording in the coupon, and suggested editing so that the meaning would be clear, and universally understood. The cashier thought that he was following the dictates of the great god Purina.
So, after jumping the line of the first level of customer service reps, I was thanked for bringing up the issue, and told that they were going to work on it. (Which most likely won't happen) And send me some coupons as a token of their appreciation. (Which they did.)
Monday, May 4, 2015
Stink
I've always hated the sound of that word. And I absolutely abhor the expression, "so stinkin' cute." The phrase gets plenty of use on the Facebook pages of some of my contacts, and it's meant as a compliment. By certain people, I gather. Yesterday, I heard a female news commentator, looking at a picture of the new British princess, say, "Oh, she so's stinkin' cute." It happened to be the same reporter I'd seen at a health fair last summer, where she sat in a booth representing her TV station, and spent the whole time I was there with her eyes downcast looking at her phone and /or I-Pad. She mustn't be interested in building her vocabulary. Long words are harder to text anyway.
Come on, knock on my door.
After the long cold isolation of winter, I have had three visitations to my door in recent weeks. Two women presented me with a religious tract and their best wishes, a man parked his truck and asked if he could take the articles of junk I had placed by the roadside, and today a man stopped and offered to buy the silver dollars he was sure I must have, even offering to wait in his car while I collected them. I responded (1)thank you, (2)sure, and (3)I have no silver to sell. Or gold either, though he insisted most people have at least one piece of old golden something.
Beyond My Ken
There are some things I just can't comprehend: I do not understand the Obesity Paradox, and neither can I figure out the statement that "Rape is the most under-reported crime in this country." How the heck can they determine how many rapes have occurred if they have not been reported?
Sunday, May 3, 2015
New Lens: Second Sight
Our new computer is in place, and I am still working through the changes it has wrought, not so comfortable a pursuit as I would have hoped. I couldn't find my blogs, and had the thought that they were eradicated. A curious feeling, as though part of my life had been obliterated: not exactly a part though, more like my identity. Writing in my blog is important to me, an expression of what has happened. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night to report to myself some thought or happening. I say report to myself because my blogs are public, but not publicized. I am the main reader; I even reread them to remember what I thought at the time. Often, when I read in the morning what I've written in the night, I delete the text. That's probably a good thing.
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