Cats---go figure.

  There has been for about 2 weeks a very large, billboard-sized sign on the corner by the bridge, seeking information on a missing orange tiger cat.  I feel a little sad passing the sign because I know most missing cats turn up dead or never, and it appears this cat was deeply loved.  This morning I drove by the sign and there was an addition to it saying the cat had been found and expressing thanks.   Inexplicably, there was a gray tiger cat crouched directly in front of the sign, even in the lightly falling but chilly rain.

Dahlia Dilemma

     Once upon a time, not too long ago, the dahlias I was gifted with bloomed in force.  They were red and the flowers covered their foliage so thickly that some people assumed they were rose bushes. I dutifully dug them up at the start of winter weather, brushed them off, wrapped them in newspaper, and stored them in the basement, to be replanted in the spring. Each year the reward was plentiful blooms, though they did begin their blooming process  fairly late in the year, mid-to-late August.
    Then, about 5 or 6 seasons ago, something changed.  Though the dahlia plants grew, as usual, strong and healthy-appearing, the flowers were few and far between; this year, and last, I counted only 3 blooms. Back in the day, when the grandchildren were still little, they entered them in the Schaghticoke Fair, their entry class requiring 3 blooms.  The kids used to pick and choose which were the best blooms. Until that fateful year when there were not even 3 blooms available, and the entry was cancelled. That was the beginning of the dahlia decline, yet to be reversed.   I sought the ultimate professionals, those on google of course, and discovered a slew of things that could have impeded their floral display.
   Over the last 4 or 5 years, I attempted to follow the advice:  Plant them deeper, or not so deep.  Give them plant food, prior to and/or  after planting.  Dig them up after the first hard frost.  Store them in cardboard, not plastic.  Plant them in the sun, full, or partially shaded.  Divide them with a sharp knife. Or gently pull the tubers apart.  Or leave them attached, for more, though possibly smaller, flowers, one site said.
   At one point or another, I followed all the suggestions, each year looking at the nicely growing plants and thinking, "This will be the year that they'll bloom like they used to, during  those glory years."  This past year, the hope remained.  Only to be dashed when the lovely greenery produced only a measly few offspring.
   It's easier to forgive the non-productive when they are independent and self sufficient; slacking off is their prerogative.  But when you are so heavily invested in their care, what with digging up, dealing with, storing, and then replanting, resentment begins to build.  Even threats---"I'll just leave you there all winter; just see if you can survive by yourself."  I know they can't.  I've left several in different areas, only to find their dried up remains in the spring.
   Then, this year, an end to the struggle.  Snow fell, and heavily, before the first hard frost, the dahlia bed deeply covered by the plow's accumulation.  No way am I going to shovel in order to dig them up.  Problem solved.
   Today, a thaw, which promises (or threatens) to reveal the stalks of the dahlias, crying out to be rescued for the chance of one more season in the sun.  I'd already decided to forego their appeal.  Whether I'll succumb to their appeal depends----on what the weather is like tomorrow.

Turkey in the Raw

The 49th Step

Thanksgiving Turkeys through the years.  When I first recorded the bird's vital statistics into the pages of my wedding gift BETTER HOMES AND GARDENS NEW COOKBOOK, I was still oblivious to the passing of time, such is the blindness of youth. I would never have entertained the thought that I would run out of space to record the trappings of this November holiday. I had no idea who would ever be interested in reading about holidays past, and certainly never could have imagined that I would be entering such into a blog.  So, my trusted and entrapped Blog, it's up to you to know that on 11/25/1999 the turkey was a 20.45 lb. Grand Union Fresh Tom Turkey, and at @.99 per lb., cost $20.25.
    The Turkey of 2016 is a Fresh Butterball, weighing 21.33 lbs. @$1.59 per lb. priced at $33.91.  It's not the largest, may not be the best, appears it may be the most costly, but what's money for unless to spend, and what else is there to buy anyway.  We've had, over the years, fresh, frozen, off the farm, and all different brands.  I have never detected any difference, and no one has ever commented except favorably. I hope this year will fall in that category.
     ****Just musing---All the cooking shows warn about over-cooking a turkey. I wonder if it's possible to do that.  I tend to go with the upper roasting time limits, don't think I've ever overdone a turkey, but think an undercooked turkey would be grossly horrible as well as a health hazard.  Happy Thanksgiving, Blog and Everybody.

Problematic Peeling

   This fall, after peeling apples for my annual apple pie, I lost my trusty peeler, an Ekco from the very early days, which sold for about $.39.  I must have discarded it along with the apple peels.   Though I've tried using many others, I could only use that old Ekco.  All others were fails.
    Last week, I bought a new one, but I hold slim hope it will be satisfactory.  Alas, Thanksgiving mashed potatoes, turnips, not to mention the parsnips.

.

The Elusive Mincemeat

 Once again, the search was on.  I'm pretty sure I'd seen it earlier in the year on the shelves of ShopN'Save, but there was none to be found the week before Thanksgiving.  So I traveled all the way to Price Chopper and finally found a small cache behind a display rack.  Evidently it's not a top-shelf, priority display item.  But the search reminded me of the old, and I must add unappreciated, narrative of "The Thanksgiving Story."  So one more time:
         My daughter, just out of college, was going shopping at Thanksgiving time and asked me if I needed anything. Yes, I told her, a package of mincemeat, since the local stores were out of it.  A while later, she called me from a store, some place in Clifton Park I think, and said she was unable to find mincemeat, even with the help of a store employee, so she asked me for the brand name of the product.
       "NONE SUCH,"  I told her.  Instantly she was angry;  "That's not funny, Mom.  I've spent all this time looking, and the guy here is even trying to help me. This is no time for a prank."
       Foolish children we all are.

Poetic License?

The rain is the
                  tears of the cloud.
Any time wind moves him
                  very harshly,
The cloud cries.
And on a hot day he takes
                 a steambath,
And starts all over.
          3-24-86

And what do you want to be when you grow up, Little Girl?

    Back in the day, as far as I was aware, there were only 3 possible professions for a girl:  Secretary, Nurse, or Teacher.  The girls who wanted to be secretaries didn't want to go to college.  They were  tired of school and wanted to get jobs and to get on with their lives.  I always aspired to go to college, so I ruled that choice out.  One of my first school friends had a sister who worked as a nurse, so she wanted to follow in her path.  As soon as it was explained to me  what a bedpan was, that career was completely out of consideration.  That left teaching, which was an easy choice anyway.  I'd always loved school, everything from the books to the desks to the order of the classroom. A little later, I read "Good Morning, Miss Dove,"  and that added to the attraction.
    I did in fact become a teacher, though obtaining that goal was far more difficult than just answering the question of selecting a career.  That job ended and the question of what I wanted to be was answered instead by what I had been.  Life goes on, though, until it runs its course, and while life's options inevitably subside, its duties still remain, where the choices of youth surrender to the reality of age.
  MORAL:  Fate doesn't mind kicking you in the head.

SuperMoon

November 13,

2016

De-Railed

Yesterday, I had a few hours to myself.  I painted the front railing---to mixed reviews.  But I happen to prefer it to the "natural wood." It doesn't stick out so much like a sore thumb (or knee) screaming "I need help to get up all those steps."

Let's get the terminology straight...

   When our house was last broken into and our stuff stolen, the State Police Investigator made it clear:   It was not a robbery.  It was a burglary.  You weren't there.     (They never caught the burglars either.  Robbers outrank burglars.

Options...

Annual Candy Inanity

Note to All Cooking or Recipe Shows:   If you can't eat or give away your leftover Halloween candy, just throw it out.  Do not, I repeat, do not, follow a recipe that adds butter or flour or anything else to leftover candy to make it into another dessert.  For God's sake, it's CANDY,  get rid of it if you don't want it anymore.

Forlorn Solo Rose, Oct.31, 2016