Friday Book Whimsy: Plainsong

I will say right up front that this was a reread. And I will read Plainsong again and again and again. This beautiful book is among my top three favorite books, no question about it.

Plainsong, by Kent Haruf, much like the television program Seinfeld, is a book about nothing. But I eagerly read every word, and while I read, I kept wistfully looking at how much of the book was left, simply not wanting it to end.

Plainsong is about five or six people who live in a small farming town in eastern Colorado. Though their lives intersect, (because how can they not in such a small community?) each has their own story to tell.

Bobby and Ike are brothers – young boys of 9 and 10 – who are forced to face much sadness during these few months in their young lives. Their mother suffers from deep depression and leaves them with their father to move to Denver. Guthrie is a high school teacher who faces his own moral dilemmas. Victoria is a 17-year-old girl whose mother and father have both deserted her, leaving her to face her pregnancy alone. She turns to Maggie Jones, a kind teacher, who realizes the importance of relationships. She takes her to live with the McPheron brothers.

The McPheron brothers are the stars of the show. Harold and Raymond McPheron are old bachelors who have lived together since birth, in the same house. They are hard-working ranchers who are set in their way, living their simple life. They are kind, however, the kindest, most endearing characters you will ever meet in a book. It is safe to say that the McPheron brothers are two of the most memorable characters I have ever come across in a book. I have never forgotten them, and I never will.

Haruf’s writing is beautiful. It’s why the book is worth reading, plain and simple. He writes in short, clear sentences. His descriptions are simple, not elegant in that phony way that some authors have. You can so clearly see and smell and taste what he describes.

You don’t have to be very far into the book to see what I mean. In the first few pages, Guthrie is waking his sons for school. They are having trouble waking up, but he finally succeeds and leaves them. A few minutes later, he walks again past their room.

Here’s what Haruf says:

When he returned to the hallway he could hear them talking in their room, their voices thin and clear, already discussing something, first one then the other, intermittent, the early morning matter-of-fact voices of little boys out of the presence of adults. He went downstairs.

When I read that paragraph, I immediately thought about the sounds of my little grandkids when they are downstairs playing together – just two of them. I can’t really hear what they’re saying, but I hear their little voices going back and forth, discussing their make-believe game, whatever it is, or discussing something important in their lives. Haruf captured that experience in just a few words.

One of my favorite things about his writing is that it is so subtle. He doesn’t preach and he doesn’t horrify you with gore and violence, though violence does take place in this book. But he gets his point across through the eyes of the characters. An example: Ike and Bobby witness a terrible act by some teenagers. Later, they return to the scene, bringing along a friend to whom they had related the story. The boys are disturbed by their friend’s prurient and unsympathetic interest in what transpired and his desire to take something from the scene. These two young boys’ simple empathy to the girl who was the victim tells the reader so much.

I mentioned in last week’s review that I was dissatisfied with the dialogue. Haruf’s dialogue is nothing short of magnificent. He uses a technique that I sometimes find distracting – he doesn’t use quotation marks to identify the dialogue. However, somehow it works in this book. The dialogue is so true, so realistic, that it doesn’t need to be set off in any way. In particular, the McPheron brothers' dialogue is absolutely dead on right. When I would read their words, it would immediately set me in mind with some of my uncles, or older people I have met in my life, particularly small-town farmers or ranchers. You have to read it to know exactly what I mean. Haruf’s dialogue writing is unbelievably good.

Plainsong is a wonderful, wonderful book. Treat yourself to a read.

Baby Talk

Lillyana Marie Eve Jensen is five days old. And I believe that, using Kaiya’s emphatic question as inspiration (see yesterday’s post), Lilly is saying, “What the……?

Imagine that she spent nine peaceful months in her mommy’s tummy, floating in warm liquid, floating….floating….floating. Suddenly, much to her surprise and consternation, and through no choice of her own, she is flung into the light, into a chilly operating room, hearing loud voices and other noises. She is being handled by these odd creatures wearing blue gowns (though of course she didn’t know they’re blue because she still sees in black and white and anyway she can’t see more than six inches in front of her face, but you get my point).

Now, suddenly, she feels hungry and cold and gassy, and plus she has this bow on her head. Why do I have a bow on my head? Mommy has waited a long time for a girl.....

Yeah, I’m sure of it. She is saying, “What the……?”

The Jensens are all getting used to each other. Three-year-old Austin seems to be quite taken with her, though he likely expects that she will go away soon and he will be happy to walk her to the door. He likes to spend a lot of time bumming around with his grandmother, away from the baby’s cries. Maggie and Mark just have that glazed-over look that is part terror and part sheer unadulterated exhaustion.

They will be just fine. She is the second newborn in our family in the past few months. Faith Naomi Gloor was born at the end of November. She, too, undoubtedly was shocked to be born, but she and her parents have fared nicely.

I have been remembering when I gave birth to my son 33 years ago. I recall when the doctor handed him to me I looked at him like he was a stranger instead of someone who had been a part of me for nine months. Suddenly I realized that his mouth looked exactly like his dad’s mouth, and I understood he really was part of us. It’s an amazing feeling.

But I also remember when we got home after the few days in the hospital. His dad left to go to the store, and I had this strong sense of terror. Don’t go! I don’t know what to do with this baby. I don’t know how to be a mom! There were no classes on motherhood. There might be now, but at that time they handed us the baby and the Dr. Spock book, and threw us in the deep end.

He survived and so did I.

Being a parent is a glorious job – the hardest and most important job any of us will ever have, and the most rewarding. The good thing is that our children are resilient, and for the most part, forgiving. And generally they just simply love their parents, no matter what.

The Jensens know all of this because they have a child already. But right now they just want four hours of straight sleep. That will come. Give it a few years.

Show Me the Cache

Four or five years ago, I got a telephone call from my sister Jen.

“I have a perfect hobby for us,” she stated, as though I had been looking to pursue a new interest. “It’s called geocaching.”

As my 5-year-old granddaughter Kaiya would say, “What the…..?” (I’m only hoping Kaiya never finishes the question. To date, she has not.)

It turns out geocaching, according to their own website geocaching.com, is a “real-world, outdoor treasure hunting game using GPS-enabled devices. Participants navigate to a specific set of GPS coordinates and then attempt to find the container hidden at that location.”

I didn’t really understand any of that, except for the TREASURE HUNT!!!!!!

Tell me more, I said to my sister. She proceeded to explain to me that she had learned about geocaching from a husband and wife who were clients of hers. “I can’t really explain it myself, but it sounds like fun and I think we should look into it,” she said.

So we did. And it is. Fun, I mean.

Apparently up until 2000, GPS systems were restricted to only really important people, like those who needed to know the location of nuclear devices. In 2000, President Clinton decided all of us should have access to GPS technology (probably because he correctly determined we wouldn’t be able to figure out how to find nuclear devices anyway, but we sure could find tiny little containers holding random gadgets and a log to sign with a SECRET CODE NAME. Thus, the beginning of the game called geocaching.

Seriously, geocaches are simply a variety of little containers that generally hold nothing more than a log that the finders sign using a geocaching code name. They are hidden by other geocachers who then register the cache with a website. There are geocaches all over the world. Thousands of hidden treasures. Once a geocacher finds the container using GPS coordinates, he or she signs the log. Did I mention you sign using a SECRET CODE NAME?

I have even got some of my grandchildren interested in the activity. Addie, Alastair, Dagny, Maggie, and I find a park that I know has a geocache (from checking the website), and we proceed to hunt for it. We are generally successful, but usually no thanks to me. I have very smart grandchildren, who are good at following a compass even if they are only 10, 8, 7, and 5!

Yesterday Jen and I spent a couple of hours geocaching in a couple of areas of Phoenix. For the most part, we are hit-and-miss geocachers. Yesterday we were AWESOME! Five finds out of five searches. Three in one park and two in another.

One geocache was big enough to fit a pair of shoes.

One geocache was so tiny it barely fit a signing log. It was magnetic, and we found it under a metal bench. It's the little metal case next to the cell phone.

One hung from a tree, hidden in plain sight.

One was in a pill bottle tucked into a fence post. Jen was the one who figured out the top of the fence post came off.

The one that took us the longest was also hidden inside a fence post. Jen had tried to remove the top when we first approached the area, but it appeared to not be removable. We looked and looked and were about to give up when Jen once again gave the fence post a twist. Voila, there was the geocache.

One of the things we like best about geocaching is that it gives us a chance to see parts of a community that we might not see otherwise. Beautiful parks; beautiful views, like the one at the beginning of this post. We have occasionally been asked what in the world we were doing, but for the most part, surprisingly, people leave us alone. You would think two grandmothers crawling around looking under bushes might cause some confusion, but apparently not enough confusion to ask what we’re up to. Only on one occasion was I stopped by a police officer and asked what I was doing looking around the base of a light post in a Walmart parking lot. I think having a one-year-old baby with me (my nephew Austin) made me look less sinister.

Of course, he didn’t even know I had a SECRET CODE NAME.

65 is the new 35

I have spoken ad nauseum about my grandparents, but you might as well give a big sigh and pull up a chair. I’m talking about them again.

I never met my maternal grandparents, so my Grammie and Grandpa were my only grandparents. My dad’s mother and father. They came from Switzerland in the mid-20s, from a small town near Zurich, in the German part of Switzerland. Germans are known to play their cards close to their chest when it comes to emotions. They work hard, they are honest, but there isn’t a lot of sentimentality. You buck up. No hugs. That description fit my grandfather to a T. My grandmother, on the other hand, didn’t get the memo.

My grandfather was a wonderful man, as gentle as they come. I never heard his voice raised in anger. In fact, I barely heard his voice at all. He was quiet. He worked hard and he was kind to us. But when we said goodbye, it was with a handshake.

My grandmother was a different story. She was full of life and laughter. She teased us. She hugged us. She shared her stories with us. She gave us quarters to go to the bar next door to get strawberry pop to have with lunch. Don’t tell your mother, she would warn us, knowing full well that my mom knew what she was up to.

She was short, probably not 5 feet tall, and, well, shall we say plump? Oh, what the heck. She was overweight in the days when people didn’t worry so much about it. “You wouldn’t want to have a skinny grandmother, would you?” she used to say to us. And we didn’t. No way, Jose. We loved her just the way she was.

And we thought she was probably 150 years old, if a day.

I started thinking about this the other day as I watched my sister Jen play with her 3-year-old grandson Austin in our backyard. They were playing soccer. He would kick the ball and she would run and try to get it before he did. It was hard to do, because he would barely tap it so that it was always Advantage Austin. It suddenly occurred to me that my grandmother was probably only about our age when we were in our formative years. She was born in 1897, so in 1960, when I was 7, she was only 63. Only three years older than I am now. Honestly, she seemed so old. Her hair was white.

The thing is, I can’t imagine my grandmother running around kicking a soccer ball with her grandkids. She wore a housedress with an apron every single day of her life. She wore sensible shoes with heavy nylon stockings. Times were so different.

I wonder if our grandkids see us as old. Well, I don’t really wonder at all. I KNOW that they do. While I have myself fooled that my increasing amount of gray hair looks like highlights, I was given a reality check by my grandson. He was pointing out everyone’s hair color, and mine was gray. There you have it. He wasn’t judging, just stating a fact.

I’m not really going anywhere with this random blog, but I’m just reminding myself again how weird it is to see the years pass by and not really pay attention. And I’m also hoping that no matter how old I seem to my grandkids, they love Bill and me as much as I loved my grandparents.

Chicago, Chicago, That Toddlin’ Town

Before I start, I just have to put this question out there….what on earth is a toddlin’ town?

All that aside, however, I felt as though I was in Chicago on Saturday. Bill and I spent the day at Arizona’s own Wrigleyville in Mesa.

The Cubs have been holding their spring training in Mesa for 50 years. For those 50 years, it has worked well, because half of the retired population of Illinois comes to Mesa during the winter. In fact, I think a full third of all of the people I complain about blocking the aisles in the grocery stores and holding up the lines in the restaurants are boasting Illinois license plates and Go Illini bumper stickers. And let’s just be really honest. Most of the people who live in Illinois are Cubs fans. A few die-hards that live on the south side of Chicago root for the White Sox, but during baseball season, everyone is a Cubs fan. They proudly wear their t-shirts that say 1908 World Champions.

However, a few years ago, in this day and age of big sports money, the Cubs organization gave the City of Mesa a real scare. Give us some big time tax dollars or we will move our spring training to Florida, who really, really wants us, they told the city fathers and mothers. Yikes.

So, with great foresight and even greater spending money, the city underwent a massive marketing campaign, asking the citizens of Mesa to approve a tax increase to fund a brand new facility that they refer to as Little Wrigleyville. The powers-that-be promised the city would benefit from more people coming to spend their hard-earned dollars in Mesa, and a great deal of urban beautification.

The citizens of Mesa, despite the trend towards turning down every single attempt at tax increases, passed this measure handily, and the new Wrigleyville is the result. Saturday was their grand opening – a free event to show the people of Mesa what their hard-earned tax dollars have built.

And it is beautiful.

Bill and I started off our day at Portillo’s – a well-known Chicago eatery that

features hot dogs and Italian beef sandwiches and crispy onion rings and hot French fries and, as an afterthought, a few salads. The first Arizona Portillo’s opened a couple of years ago in Scottsdale, just north of the Salt River Stadium where the D-Backs and the Rockies have their spring training. A few months ago, they opened a second location near the Cubs facility. Brilllllllliant!

I think anyone who had ever even cut across the corner of Illinois was present on Saturday to see the new facility, Bill and me included of course. Our tummies full of hot dogs and Italian

beef sandwiches, we walked around and saw the ball field, sat in the seats, tried out the restrooms, scoped out our seats for the games for which we have already gotten tickets – one in February, one in March. A full half of the people were dressed in Cubs shirts and/or hats. There were actual tailgaters, apparently getting into practice for the real spring training

season that will be here before you know it. Brats and Old Style beer abounded.

The weather was perfect and the crowd was in a great mood. We had a great deal of fun and it got us in the mood for the spring training season.

Go Rockies! (But don’t tell the Cubs I said so.)

In honor of long-time Chicago Cubs announcer Harry Caray, here is his recipe for a good ol’ Chicago favorite.

Harry Caray’s Chicken Vesuvio

Ingredients
1 cup frozen peas
2 whole cleaned (4 pound) roasting chickens
1 cup olive oil
4 large Idaho potatoes
10 cloves whole garlic
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon pepper
1 tablespoon dry oregano
1 tablespoon granulated garlic
1/3 cup chopped parsley
1 1/2 cups dry white wine
1 1/2 cups chicken broth

Process
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Blanch the peas by putting them in boiling water 1 minute. Joint each chicken into 8 pieces. Peel the potatoes and cut them into quarters lengthwise. In a large roasting pan, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the potatoes and garlic cloves and sauté the potatoes until golden brown, stirring so they cook evenly. Remove the garlic cloves from the roasting pan and discard them. Remove the potatoes and set aside.

Add the chicken to the pan and sauté lightly on both sides of each piece until it is golden brown. Deglaze the pan with the wine and reduce by half.

Return the potatoes to the pan. Season the potatoes and chicken with the salt, pepper, oregano, granulated garlic, and parsley. Add the chicken broth and transfer the pan to the oven for 45 minutes or until the chicken reaches an internal temperature of 155 degrees.
Place the chicken on a serving plate and arrange the potatoes around the chicken. Pour the sauce from the pan over the chicken and sprinkle the peas on top.

Nana’s Notes: I use chicken thighs, and cut the recipe by at least half. I leave out the peas Bill is not a big fan of the pea, and they really are mainly for color. Giada De Laurentis suggests artichoke hearts or lima beans, but I think either of those would just be showing off, so I leave out a vegetable. I prepare the dish in an oven-safe skillet to roast, or prepare the dish in the skillet and then move it to a roasting pan to finish.

If the Phone Doesn't Ring, That's Me

Since January 2, when Jen went back home to Fort Collins, I have been on call to be the designated babysitter for Maggie’s 3-year-old Austin when she went into labor and she and Mark had to go to the hospital. She wanted to free up all of the grandparents, aunts, and uncles to be able to be at the hospital for the birth. I am far enough down the food chain to not go to the hospital, yet high enough up the food chain to be trusted with their child.

I have been very responsible. I have taken my cell phone everywhere with me, except church. Cell phones ringing during Mass make the priests understandably cranky. Everywhere I went, my phone was tucked into my purse. About every six minutes or so I would pull it out and look at it to make sure I hadn’t missed a phone call. I placed it four inches from my head at night when I slept. The first thing I would do each morning was look to make sure I hadn’t missed a ringing telephone that was inches from my ear. I felt like the president of the United States with his black suitcase, aka “the football.” I had my own “football.” Maybe more like those little rubber ones you get in the 50 cent machines with the claws that the kids beg you to let them try but they never get anything good. Still….

As the days ticked by and we got closer and closer to her January 13 due date, my sense of responsibility grew stronger. Each night, I KNEW this was the one. I would get the call that very night. But I would wake up each morning, check my telephone only to see that there were no messages, no missed calls, and, yes, the phone was fully charged.

January 13 came and went. So did January 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22,23, and 24. No baby. Well, there was definitely a baby, but that baby simply didn’t want to be born. Finally

Maggie’s doctor conceded that perhaps Maggie had a point that being unable to get out of bed or even out of a chair was perhaps a sign that tougher measures were necessary, and scheduled her for a C-Section, happening right now as I post this blog. God is good.

And now I can’t find my phone…..

Have a great weekend. When next I write, Maggie will be able to see her feet.

Friday Book Whimsy: The Supreme Macaroni Company

I have always enjoyed the romantic novels written by Adriana Trigiani. She has a couple of series and some novels that stand alone. One of the series takes place in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia – Big Stone Gap. Many of her novels involve characters drawn from the author’s own Italian background. She even wrote a nonfiction book called Don’t Sing at the Table: Life Lessons from My Grandmothers. That book is part memoir/part cook book. I liked it very much.

The Supreme Macaroni Company is the third of a trilogy (or at least a trilogy to date; don’t know if she has plans on more in the series). Very Valentine; Brava, Valentine; and The Supreme Macaroni Company all take us through the adult life of Valentine Roncolli, daughter number three of a wild, unpredictable Italian family in New York/New Jersey, whose ancestors were shoemakers. Through the series, Valentine tries to continue shoemaking, following in the footsteps (no pun intended) of her beloved grandfather and grandmother. She runs into troubles along the way, and also runs through a series of boyfriends. I have enjoyed every book…..

….until this one. I won’t say I disliked The Supreme Macaroni Company. In fact, in many ways I enjoyed it very much. But I found it so inferior to Trigiani’s other novels that it almost seemed like her heart wasn’t in it.

I have read many good books lately, so perhaps I’m spoiled. What struck me most (and not in a particularly good way) was the unrealistic dialogue. Don’t get me wrong. The interactions between Valentine and her kooky but loveable (and loving) family were very funny. I frequently laughed at the exchanges. However, they were totally false. No one talks the way they talked, like one stand-up comedy act to another. Funny, but not realistic.I found it very distracting.

I also found myself annoyed with Valentine, whom I have LOVED throughout the series. Now married to her beloved Gianlucca, her self-centeredness was distracting and mean. I understand that Trigiani was trying to help us see the difficulties faced by independent women who find themselves in marriage and are afraid they will lose themselves instead. Perhaps it was just the contrast to the totally self-giving Gianlucca that was so annoying. Had this been my introduction to Valentine, I would have assumed I was supposed to dislike her.

I might think the family dynamics were phony except that I have been around Italian/American families and I believe Trigiani has this right. Lots of yelling, lots of food, lots of emotion.

The ending, which I won’t give away (though the author broadcasts so many clues along the way that you would have to be pretty stupid to miss them) was disappointing. I can’t help but think there must be another novel planned in the future so that the story can be completed.

And if so, I hope I like it better than The Supreme Macaroni Company.

Please give Trigiani's books a chance if you haven't already done so. Just don't start with this one.

Easin' into Hiking Season

Last year Bec and I did a bit of hiking during the Arizona spring, meaning basically March. Since the spring is short, we didn’t hike as much as we would have liked. We vowed this year we would start earlier – in January and February – and thus be able to do more hiking. We would wear a jacket if it was chilly, we determined. March is perfect hiking weather, but in April, though it’s still not blistering hot, the critters are awakening. Remember the rattlesnake episode?

As it turns out, our winter here this year has been very mild. No jackets necessary unless you’re going to hike sometime around 6 o’clock in the morning. Then it is still in the low 40s. But after 9 or 10, it is in the upper 60s or lower 70s. Perfect for hiking. And since the nights are still chilly, I don’t think the rattlers are awake yet. Hope not.

Anyhoo, we did our first hike yesterday morning. The area we hiked was very near the area of our rattlesnake encounter. Yesterday, instead of flip flops, we wore hiking shoes. Weird, huh? No rattlesnakes.

It was a beautiful, somewhat overcast morning. The clouds eventually burned off, leaving us

with much sunshine. There weren’t many people on the trail, though we did run into a couple who, from the sound of them, are Canadian, eh? Bec and I tend to be direction-challenged. We blame it on our mother who wouldn’t allow us to be Girl Scouts as she didn’t have time to take us to meetings. Or at least that was her excuse. Perhaps she actually held a grudge against them because they sell cookies, thereby competing against Gloor’s Bakery. The Canadian couple confirmed that we were on the right path, and we went on our way.

The weather was perfect, we saw some beautiful scenery, and we had deep and thorough discussions about many things as we walked. We always do. The area where we walked is filled with saguaro, and saguaros on the hillside are about my favorite scenic attraction of all things nature.

We came across this funny sight.

It’s my assumption that the cap is an add-on. When the saguaros get their blooms in May, they

sometimes look like they are wearing a hat, but that appears to be a real hat!

Saguaros don’t even begin getting their “arms” until they are 25 years old or older, so a cactus like this must be really old.

It was a perfect day, and a good start to our hiking adventures. Perhaps by next week I can manage something a bit less flat as my vertigo will be verti-gone! Didn’t feel it would be terribly wise to teeter at the edge of a Sonoran mountain yet.

Busy Being Dizzy

Getting old is not for wimps. That’s what they say, and they speak the truth. Our bodies, which have served us so well for all of our formative years, start thinking of ways to betray us as we age.

Easy on the complaining, however, because for the most part I’m as healthy as a horse. But even a horse gets aches and pains sometimes.

So a week ago, in the middle of the night, I rolled over in bed, and suddenly the world started spinning. It continued throughout the night, but only for a few seconds and only when I rolled over. When I awoke and got out of bed, I was fine, so I assumed I had been dreaming. However, as I leaned over to wet my hair in the sink, the spinning resumed, but again, just for a few seconds.

I immediately diagnosed myself with a horrible and incurable disease, though I had no clue what disease it would be. The always calm and sensible Bill suggested that I Google “vertigo when I lean over.” His practicality can be such a relief to me sometimes. And yet so annoying.

Because you can find anything on the Internet, I immediately learned that there is a condition that is fairly common to people as they age (!!!!!!!) called Benign Something Something Vertigo (BPPV for short because the condition actually doesn’t have “something” in its name). It has something to do with crystals in one’s inner ear breaking loose and rolling about, causing vertigo when you turn a certain way. Really?

I spent the past week waiting for the vertigo to cease. That didn’t seem to happen, so Monday morning I called a family physician whose office I had recently spotted, and saw him yesterday morning. He walked into the room looking at my chart, and said, “I understand you are having some vertigo.” I said yes, and explained my symptoms. I cheerfully told him, “But I got on the Internet and have diagnosed my condition.” You can watch their eyes roll.

“Well, what do you suppose you have?” he asked. (That’s a quote.)

“I have BPPV,” I said.

He begrudgingly acknowledged that he agreed with my diagnosis. He did a couple of tests to rule out anything worse and just to show me he actually is smarter than me, gave me a sheet with some exercises that I need to do for the next week, and sent me on my way. Really, what does he care? I’m insured.

But whoever heard of anything like this? Each and every day, our bodies find ways to pay us back for all of the abuse we gave it over the years.

It is my sincere hope that next time I see any of you, I won’t be walking sideways.

In celebration of my learning that I didn't have a deadly illness, I invited my niece Maggie and her family over for fried chicken. Maggie is a week-and-a-half overdue having her baby, and isn't particularly happy about it. I presumed, correctly I think, that cooking wasn't something about which she was terribly enthusiastic. She'd rather concentrate on getting into and out of a chair. And she loves my fried chicken.

When I fry a chicken, it is a given that I serve it with slow-cooked green beans and Swiss macaroni and cheese. I think I have talked about this macaroni and cheese before. My Swiss grandmother made them. My mom made them. Now I make them. They never had a name. We always just called them macaroni, as in "we're having macaroni for dinner tonight." We all knew what that meant as it was the only way we had macaroni. Since I occasionally make traditional mac and cheese, I have taken to calling it Swiss mac and cheese to differentiate.

A few years ago, to my surprise, Food Network Chef Melissa D'Arabian made something she called Macaronade as part of a French meal she was preparing. It was my grandmother's recipe, or at least a variation thereof. In all my years, I had never imagined that it was something with a name. Anyway, here's Melissa D'Arabian's recipe, with my changes below.

Macaronade

Ingredients
2 tablespoons butter, cut into small cubes, plus more for greasing
8 ounces macaroni
Kosher salt
1/2 cup shredded Swiss or gruyere cheese
1/2 cup beef broth
1/4 cup seasoned breadcrumbs
Freshly ground black pepper

Process
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease a gratin dish.
Cook the pasta in salted water according to the package's instructions for al dente. Drain and toss with the cheese and beef broth. Place the pasta in the gratin dish, and top with the breadcrumbs, sprinkle with salt and pepper and dot with the butter. Bake 15 minutes.

Nana's Notes: Here's how I do it: Cook the macaroni according to directions. Drain it, and begin layering it in a large bowl with the shredded Swiss cheese (a lot of cheese). I don't use any beef broth. Put a plate over it so the hot pasta can begin to melt the cheese. In the meantime, brown breadcrumbs in 3-4 T butter. Place the breadcrumbs on top of the macaroni/cheese mix. Put it in the microwave for a minute to help the cheese along. Serve. I never think about putting it in the oven, though I'm sure that's delicious. And of course, my grandmother didn't have a microwave. She may have placed them in an oven for a few minutes. They are really delicious if you like Swiss cheese.

Fiddle-dee-dee, Rhett Butler – Tamale is Another Day

I have already mentioned that I am obsessed with tamales. I'm going to have to stop writing about them, however, because I'm running out of clever titles. Let's face it, "tamale" really doesn't sound that much like "tomorrow" so I'm going to have to KNOCK IT OFF.

However, last week, I actually was able to get my hands into the masa and make them myself – with a little help from my friends. Well, quite a lot of help, actually, but then it wouldn’t have been a quote from a Beatles’ song.

Four women, none of whom has a lick of Hispanic blood in her, spent most of a day working on a large batch of tamales – some with meat, some with cheese and roasted corn. I think we did a fine job if I must say so myself. Bill, a beneficiary of the resulting tamales, agrees.

My friend Andrea has made tamales before, and she led the effort. In fact, when I arrived, she had a lot of the work done. She had already prepared the masa and the meat for half the tamales. Well, to be perfectly clear, she wisely left initial masa preparation to those who have a little more time and experience – a local market with a tortilleria. Just the right amount of lard must be added to the masa – and knowing just how much comes with experience. “You can feel when it’s ready.” But she added a bit of the chili flavoring from the meat into the masa that was to be used for the meat tamales to add color and some flavoring. To the masa that would be used for the roasted corn, chili and cheese tamales she added a bit of creamed corn. Yum.

Andrea used beef because that’s what the store recommended. Actually, when she asked the butcher what kind of meat he recommended, he told her, “tamale meat.” Hmmm. Not particularly helpful. After talking to someone who spoke and understood a bit more English, she was led to what actually was labeled tamale meat (so there!), and what turned out to be beef. It worked.

Andrea prepared the meat much as it dictates in the recipe below. She used avocado oil as a wink to the Mexican culture and some ground cloves since she knew they were used in mole and it sounded good to her. It worked. Andrea used pasilla chiles and guajillo chiles.

Andrea, Bec, Sandra, and I took turns spreading the masa on the softened corn husks, filling them with meat, wrapping them much the same way that a mama wraps a baby’s bottom, and tying them up with a piece of corn husk. One tie for the corn, chili, and cheese; two ties for the meat. It helped us keep them straight.

Frankly, some of the tamales’ appearance would have made a Mexican mother weep, but overall they were magnificent. Sandra was the very best at spreading the masa like a pro. Mine were a

bit lumpy. Bec was a tamale filler extraordinaire and Andrea had the tedious job of tying the knots.

Andrea had borrowed a tamale pot – an enormous pot that puts my canning pot to shame, like a bully on the playground. It has a rim near the bottom on which a rack sits. The bottom of the pot is filled with water, and the tamales are placed open side up on the rack above the water and steamed for about two hours until the masa is set.

While we waited for the tamales to steam, we ate lunch. Andrea had made a delicious Mexican soup filled with veggies, and a scrumptious avocado salad loaded with lots of fresh lime. Quesadillas completed our lunch. We talked kids, grandkids, books, cooking, and travel. The others besides myself were all teachers, so we talked a lot about educating our kids. Well, they talked; I listened and missed my grandkids, as usual.

The experience was one I won’t forget. Bill asked me if I would try it on my own. I will definitely try it, but not on my own. As Sandra put it, “I don’t think I know anyone who makes tamales alone. It is definitely a social thing.”

Isn’t it true that so much of cooking and childrearing and homemaking is done with a group of women friends? Really, women should run the world. Individually, we’re powerful; as a group, we are unbeatable.

As were these tamales.

The following recipe is verbatim from The Arizona Republic newspaper. The comments are not Nana’s.

Red Chile-Beef Tamales

Cook's tip: Making tamales is a slow, tedious process. Spread the making of the tamales, the center of Southwestern holiday celebrations since Aztec times, over two days. Make the red-chile beef one day and assemble tamales the next. If you prefer pork, substitute a shoulder roast for beef chuck.

For red-chile beef or pork:
2 pounds beef chuck or pork shoulder roast
Salt and pepper to taste
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
Water
2 onions, peeled and sliced
1 head garlic, cloves separated and peeled
4 ounces dried New Mexico chiles
2 ounces pasilla chiles
2 tablespoons cumin seed
1 tablespoon salt

Season meat with salt and pepper. Heat a large, heavy pot over medium heat. Add oil, then brown meat on all sides. Once browned, add water to cover the roast. Add one slice of onion and 6 cloves of garlic. Cook until meat is tender and falls apart easily, about 2 hours. Remove meat and shred by hand. Reserve the broth.

To prepare the sauce, place New Mexico and pasilla chiles in a large stockpot and cover with water. Add cumin seed and remaining onion slices and garlic cloves. Boil 20 minutes, until the chiles are very soft. Drain mixture (reserving cooking water) and allow to cool. Mash the chile mixture and place in a large mixing bowl. Slowly pour in about 1/4 cup of chile cooking water. Use a blender or food processor to puree the chiles until smooth. Pour pureed chiles through cheesecloth to strain out the seeds and skins. Pour the sauce into a large bowl and add salt. Add the shredded meat and mix thoroughly.

For tamales:
3 dozen corn husks
4 cups masa
1 tablespoon baking powder
2 teaspoons salt
2/3 cup lard
To make three dozen tamales, soften the corn husks by soaking 3 dozen in water. Next, combine masa, available at most grocery stores, with the baking powder, salt and lard. Mix, adding more lard if necessary to form a paste the consistency of peanut butter. Then add half a cup of juices from the cooked meat.

Drain the corn husks and select the largest ones. Place the husks, smooth side up, on a flat surface or in your hand. Use a tablespoon to spread the masa almost all the way to the sides of a husk, and near the top where it will be tied or folded. Leave a portion at the bottom half of the husk uncovered.

Spoon a tablespoon or two of meat in a narrow band across the masa. Leave at least a 1-1/2-inch border on the pointed end of the husk, and a 3/4-inch border along the other sides.
To fold, begin by tucking one edge of the husk, then roll. Then fold the empty bottom half of the husk up against the rest of the roll. Tie tamales with a string of corn husk, or use the masa to "glue" the tamale to prevent it from coming undone.

Place the tamale, flap side down, in a steamer basket or tamale cooker. Fill the bottom of the pan with water. The water level should be below the rack. Stack tamales on top of one another. Steam the tamales for 2 hours or until the masa seems fairly firm inside the husk. Replenish boiling water if necessary.

Tamales are done when the husk peels away easily. Serve immediately, or freeze and then reheat in a steamer pan or microwave.

Makes 36 servings.

Nana’s Notes: Andrea didn’t soak her corn husks; she boiled them until they were soft and pliable. We kept the husks in the hot water as we worked so they wouldn’t dry out and become unworkable. She also said she tried the whole squeezing the pureed chiles through cheesecloth and it was really, really messy. She elected to leave out that step, and the result was just fine.

Orange You Glad You're a Bronco Fan?

I had grand plans to blog about my experience making tamales last week, but that must wait because I’m still on Cloud 9 about the Bronco victory! I have a happy victory hangover and can only think about orange and blue today.

Maggie and Bec came over to watch the game with us and I served my orange and blue food. I made my nephew Christopher’s salsa (See my blog post “Hot Stuff” in October for recipe) and

served it with orange Dorito Nacho Chips and blue tortilla chips. Very festive. Slices of orange pepper and baby carrots offered a healthy choice. Our Blue Margaritas were delicious as well.

Just a quick word about my orange and blue dessert – Blue Velvet Cupcakes with Orange frosting. They were scrumptious, no doubt about it. They are basically the traditional red velvet cake, but you color it blue instead of red. It is difficult to find food coloring these days in the traditional primary colors. Grocery stores only offered pastel colors, and only in gels. I was able to find royal blue, violet, and orange at Hobby Lobby in the cake decorating section, also gels.

Well, anyone who has worked with royal blue food coloring gel knows – as I learned – the blue color is insidious. It was everywhere – on my hands, on my feet (??????) all over the countertops, in my sink, on my cabinets. It seriously looked like I had sprinkled blue food coloring gel like a priest sprinkles the congregation with holy water. I’m sure I will find it for days to come. Orange seemed less messy (or maybe it just blended).

I will have to come up with a dessert alternative for my big Super Bowl party (to which you are all invited).

Except, what if it was those cupcakes that made the Broncos win? Hmmmmmm. I might have to give one up for the team.

Here is the recipe for Blue Velvet Cupcakes, from bakefrostrepeat.com (she credits Sprinkle Bakes and One Particular Kitchen)

Blue Velvet Cupcakes

Ingredients
2 c. sugar
2 sticks butter, room temperature
2 eggs
1 T. cocoa powder
1 T. royal blue gel food coloring
1 small dab violet gel food coloring
2-1/2 c. cake flour
1 t. salt
1 c. buttermilk
1 t. vanilla
½ t. baking soda
1 T. vinegar

Frosting
4 oz. cream cheese, softened
¼ c. butter, softened
1 7-oz. jar marshmallow cream
2 c. powdered sugar
1 t. vanilla

Process
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Prepare cupcake pans with paper liners.

In a mixing bowl, cream the sugar and butter, mix until light and fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, and mix well after each addition. Mix cocoa and food colorings together to form a paste, and then add to sugar mixture; mix well. Sift together flour and salt. Add flour mixture to the creamed mixture alternately with buttermilk. Blend in vanilla. In a small bowl, combine baking soda and vinegar and add to mixture.

Pour batter into cupcake papers. Bake for 25 – 30 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Remove from oven and cool completely before frosting.

Frosting: Combine ingredients and spread on cupcakes.

Nana’s Notes: The cupcakes are dense, not fluffy, just as is a red velvet cake. Next time I will make my frosting a darker orange! By the way, the cupcakes turn your tongue blue. It goes away. Insidious. What can I say?

United in Orange

United in orange….that’s the apparent catch phrase encompassing all things Broncos in Colorado these days preceding the AFC Conference Championship game tomorrow.

And while I love being here in Arizona during this really nice winter weather, I am sad that I’m missing all of the Broncomania taking place over our state this week. Thank you Peyton, and all of your cohorts who clearly know what “Omaha Omaha” means. We all speculate. In fact, Peyton gave a very funny interview at which he was asked what Omaha Omaha means. With a completely straight face, he gave a roundabout answer that basically said, “Are you serious? Do you really think I’m going to tell you what it means?” Click the link to see the interview.

For my part, we both have Denver Bronco shirts that we will wear on Sunday, we have been happily displaying our little Bronco garden flag in our front yard, and, if possible, we will find a way to fly our great big Bronco flag on Sunday.

I’ve been trying to think about things I can serve to whomever shows up at our front door to watch the game with us. It must be orange and blue. That’s a given.

Here’s a couple of ideas:
Queso Dip with Blue Corn Tortilla Chips (from CHOW.com)

Ingredients
4 c. grated extra-sharp cheddar cheese
1-1/2 c. grated Monterey Jack cheese
1 T. cornstarch
¼ c. milk
1 c. minced onion
1 4-oz. can diced green chiles

Process
Place cheeses in a large bowl, sprinkle with cornstarch, and toss to coat.Transfer cheese mixture to a large saucepan and add milk. Set over low heat and cook, stirring occasionally, until mixture is smooth and melted, about 10-15 minutes.

Stir in onion and chilies with reserved juices until well combined. Serve with blue corn tortilla chips and various raw veggies.

Grilled Chicken Wings (from Allrecipes.com)

Ingredients
2-1/2 lbs. chicken wings
Salt and pepper
2/3 c. Frank’s Hot Pepper Sauce
1/3 c. melted butter
Pinch of cayenne pepper

Process
Season chicken wings. Grill the chicken wings over medium heat for about 10 minutes on each side. In the meantime, melt the butter and mix with hot sauce and cayenne pepper. Dip wings in the sauce and serve with celery and blue cheese dip.

Blue Margarita (from About.com)

Ingredients
1-1/2 oz. tequila
1 oz. blue curacao
1 oz. fresh lime juice
Orange slice for garnish
Salt for rimming

Process
Pour all ingredients in a shaker with ice. Shake and pour into a margarita glass rimmed with salt. Garnish with an orange slice.

In the meantime, Bill and I (and anyone else watching the game on Sunday with us) will be filled with hope. Go Broncos. Bill and I are United in Orange even though we're 900 miles away.

Friday Book Whimsy: Rin Tin Tin: The Life and Legend

When I was little, we used to spend Saturday mornings with my grandparents who lived in an apartment above the bakery. Those Saturday mornings are what taught me the importance of being a grandparent.

One of the things I liked most about those mornings was that we got to lay in front of their television set and watch a whole series of programs that I loved – Roy Rogers, Sky King, Lassie, The Rifleman, and of course, The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin. I thought back to those days as I read Susan Orlean’s wonderful book Rin Tin Tin: The Life and Legend. Such innocent times.

Because I loved Rin Tin Tin, along with Rusty and Lt. Rip Masters and Sgt. Biff O’Hara, it was fun for me to learn about the brave and intelligent German Shepherd’s history. I had no idea, prior to reading this book, that there was actually a Rin Tin Tin descended from other Rin Tin Tins. I always assumed he was just a dog – perhaps named Duke or Fido – playing a dog named Rin Tin Tin.

Orlean’s book is much more than a history of this particular German Shepherd dog, however. She gives us a lesson on dog breeding, and the history of television and movies, and the creation of the marketing industry. The book is a historical account of World War I from a slightly different angle. It is the story of a somewhat peculiar man who, for all intents and purposes, devotes his life to his dog. It is a sociological account of how people (and their tastes) changed over the course of almost a century and why.

Perhaps the thing that struck me the most about this entire story is the simplicity of tastes in the early days of movies and television, and how our tastes have changed. It’s hard to imagine that a program like the Adventures of Rin Tin Tin could have been so very popular, and so quickly.

For kicks, I went on You Tube and briefly watched an episode of the television program. I immediately became 7 again. But man oh man, it was simple storytelling and unsophisticated technology. Very different.

I’ve not read anything else by Orleans, but will definitely do so. I liked her writing style very much. She had a wonderful way of painting a picture with words. For example, she wrote about walking through an American military cemetery in Europe and described the way in which the graves were laid out:

The steady repetition was like a drumbeat, hypnotizing. I walked on and on, reading name after name, soothed by the rhythm of my steps, the soft spongy ground yielding under my feet, and by the flashing white of the crosses as I passed them, the whoosh of the wind tossing the linden trees’ leaves with exaggerated drama, the way little girls toss their hair.

I have walked through many national cemeteries, and her comparison of the white crosses, in such perfect order, to a drumbeat, was magnificent. Great writing for such a book for a book about a dog.

I’m sorry I won’t be there to hear my book club’s discussion about this book. I wonder if older people who can relate a bit better to the Rin Tin Tin era like the book better than younger readers. No matter, I think it will make interesting discussion.

I recommend this book for lovers of history and lovers of dogs.

When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like a Big Pizza Pie...

Yesterday morning, my college-age niece Jessie represented our family well when she made this simple declaration on Facebook: Name one thing that’s better than pizza. Frankly, there weren’t a lot of other ideas. Most everyone loves pizza.

Our family has a thing for pizza. Bill’s family is the same way; perhaps that’s why we’re soul mates. He and I even agree on the kind of pizza we like – thin crust, red sauce, cheese and sausage. That’s

it, Amigo. (Except when I am trying to eat healthy and have a veggie pizza. Then mine includes red onion and hot pepper rings. Don't they look good?)

Now, when we are in Italy, it’s a different story, but that’s because the pizzas are different there than here. In Italy Bill almost unfailingly ordered prosciutto and arugula. My Italian pizza of choice was diavola – spicy salami. We have tried Roman pizzas and Napolean pizzas. People from Roma and Napoli each believe their pizzas are the best. I think they both rock. Italian pizzas are individually-sized, stretched to odd shapes, and baked in a wood-burning pizza oven at 700 degrees or so. The dough bubbles and browns; there may or may not be a sauce; the crust is thin; the pizzas are served uncut, and eaten with a knife and fork. No neat slices.

When we traveled in Italy with my sister and her daughter a number of years ago, we were having lunch outdoors at a restaurant near the Victor Emmanuel Monument in Rome. We were novices about Italian pizza at the time. Such novices, in fact, that Bill and I ordered one to split and Jen and Maggie ordered one to split. Split? Seriously? We immediately recognized the error of our ways and never made that mistake again. One pizza is just enough for one person. We also ordered wine, and much to our surprise and chagrin, the waiter opened the wine and tossed the cork into the street! Litterbug. He didn’t seem concerned.

Maggie worked at a locally-owned Phoenix pizza restaurant called Oreganos for many years, including during the summer when she wasn’t teaching kindergarteners. Oregano’s pizza is delicious – thin crust (they serve a deep-dish, but in my lowly opinion, deep-dish pizza isn’t really pizza; it’s a casserole), with delicious ingredients. She loves Oregano’s Pizza so much that she suggested it as a first date for her now-husband. Perhaps it was the touch of Italian seasonings and the red sauce that made her so appealing to him.

My sister Bec prefers Grimaldi’s Pizza for many reasons, not the least of which is that, while there is one very near her AZ house, the original is under the Brooklyn Bridge in Brooklyn, NY. She has one very funny memory. She and her husband were at the Brooklyn Grimaldi’s where they enjoyed a pizza. The restaurant was very busy, and just prior to leaving, she used the restroom. When she was finished, she found her husband waiting outside. They proceeded on with the activities of the day. Later that evening, her husband asked her, “How much was our bill at Grimaldi’s?” With horror, she exclaimed that she thought he had paid the bill. Yes, folks. My sister-who-looks-innocent-but-is-really-a-thief walked out of Grimaldi’s without paying her pizza bill, and, thankfully, without being carted off to Rikers Island.

Years ago, my brother used to go to a pizza place that has since gone out of business. We were with him one night when he ordered his favorite – jalapenos, sauerkraut, and anchovies. I’m not making this up. The pizza makers actually came out of the back to see who had ordered this pizza. Not many pizza places offer sauerkraut, so he is limited now to jalapenos and anchovies. Oy vey.

I asked my nephew Erik about his favorite pizza joint, and he said it’s a place in Chicago recommended by a buddy. I asked him the name. “Hmmm,” he said. “I can’t remember. It was one word, a man’s name.” Thanks. That narrows it down to a few thousand. When asked if the pizza was thin crust or deep dish, he replied, “Thin crust. Deep dish is just lasagna.” Ah, a man after my own heart.

As for me, my favorite pizza (and I think Bill’s as well) is a local pizza joint located on the south side of Chicago called Fox’s. It’s got a thin crust (it’s a south side thing) and the homemade sausage and cheese and red sauce are scrumptious. When it’s served to us, there is a thin layer of grease on the top – a sure sign of a tasty pizza. We spend much of our life trying to find a pizza to compare since we don’t live in Chicago, and are largely unsuccessful. Oregano’s is close. Fox’s is the first place we stop when we visit his mother who still lives in the Chicago area. Sometimes before we see her. Shameful.

I wondered if there was a recipe to include in a post about pizza, but it occurred to me that really, pizza isn’t something I would make at home very often. If I want pizza, I go out. That is, until Bill chooses to build the wood-fired pizza oven in the back yard that he dreams about. It could happen.

Ciao.

Glorious Days

Since I haven’t been an AZ winter visitor for that long, it’s hard to know if there is “typical” January weather. I asked one of my nephews if the weather thus far is typical, and he said there really isn’t such a thing as typical January weather. It can be really chilly or it can be really nice.

What I will tell you is that thus far this Arizona winter has been magnificent. I don’t think the weather during the day has been lower than 65, and mostly it’s been in the high 60s to low 70s. It cools off at night, getting into the 40s. It has even hit 38 or 39 at night. I have, er, I mean I choose to turn on the heat first thing in the morning to just get the night chill out of the house.

Last January, we spent the first couple of weeks covering our more delicate (read: hibiscus) plants at night because it got below 32 a few times. We were not successful at saving them, and finally decided – since that brought our total hibiscus loss to 4 or 5 – to forgo purchasing more hibiscus even though we love them. They just don’t do well here. We thought we lost our bougainvillea last year, but take a look at this:

Native Arizonians say you can’t kill a bougainvillea. I think that might be true. It is in full bloom right now.

And just for kicks, here is the rosemary bush Jen and I planted when we first bought our house back in 2010.

We got it as a little 2-in plant at the grocery store. It clearly likes the Arizona weather and it’s sunny southeastern location in the yard.

I can’t wait until the mornings are a bit warmer so that we can take our coffee out onto our patio. And it does get nippy just as soon as the sun goes down. But boo hoo, right? In the meantime, I am glad that for the most part our friends and family in Colorado are having reasonably nice weather, at least now and again. I am sorry for our family in Vermont who pretty much never have nice winter weather, but I reckon they are used to it. And “nice winter weather” is a subjective phrase, no?

It is proported by our enthusiastic television weather folks that it will reach 75 or 76 the rest of the week. They stuck a cloud in tomorrow’s forecast, but I think that’s just to get us excited.

I miss the Bronco excitement that is undoubtedly taking place in Colorado, but we have our little celebration going here too.

Maybe I’ll dye my hair orange.







I was going to make a stir fry tonight, but decided the weather was too nice to not grill outside. So I will rub some olive oil on four chicken thighs, season with salt and pepper, squeeze some lemon over them, and grill them for 40 minutes or so. I will serve them with my stir fry vegetables and call it dinner.

I’d Rather Be Playing Pickleball

Monday is grocery shopping day for me. It’s not a particularly good day for this activity, because the stores are all out of product following the busy weekend of shopping by those who work for a living. So Monday it’s just the retired set. Me included. The store shelves are bare and I know they will be bare, but I continue to shop on Mondays. There you have it.

I’m a fairly loyal Kroger shopper. King Soopers in Denver; Frys here in AZ. No particular reason other than I’m used to their brands and their prices are within reason. Not Walmart prices, but need I say any more about Walmart shopping?

The nearest Frys to our house, a couple of miles from here, is located in an area that is surrounded by park model communities. Now, prior to moving to AZ, I don’t believe I had ever heard that term – park model. In fact, the first time I heard the term was at my neighborhood nail salon, when a pleasant retirement-aged woman asked me if I lived in a park model. My sister Jen happened to be visiting, and we looked at each other with deer-in-the-headlight eyes. “I’m not sure,” I told the woman. “I don’t think so. What is a park model?”

Well, she clearly lived in a park model, and was quite put out with me. I don’t know if she was frustrated at my ignorance or annoyed that I didn’t live in one. She never bothered to explain the term to us.

For your information, park models are what we might call manufactured housing back in Denver. They are RV-like, but more permanent. They generally sit on some kind of a foundation, and are connected to utilities. And they are uber-popular with the over-70 community here in the east valley, and for good reason. They are inexpensive, offer recreational activities, and because they generally are part of a large over-55 community, provide immediate friends. Personally, I like my neighborhood where I can hear children playing, but God made us all different and I’m not judging.

All this is to say that shoppers at this particular store on this particular day of the week are almost all retired folks. Again, me included. But I differ from the majority of these undoubtedly very nice people in one way. I am shopping alone. Almost without exception, shoppers here are a team – husband and wife. Bill rarely shops with me, and never when I’m doing my weekly grocery shopping. He might accompany me on a Walmart run, but he will check out the auto parts or the sporting goods while I get whatever I came to buy. And personally, I’m very happy to have him not included in this particular activity, if for no other reason than I can’t bear to see his disappointed expression when I place the vegetarian-fed, cage-free-raised chicken eggs into my cart instead of the ones that cost a buck sixty-nine.

But here’s the thing. Again, almost without exception, the husbands look so darn sad. The wives are showing them the two-pack of Magic Scrubbing Bubbles and, with furrowed brows and frowning faces, are saying, “Weren’t Magic Scrubbing Bubbles on sale at Safeway last week? I think they might be thirty cents cheaper at Safeway” and the husbands SIMPLY DON’T CARE. They want to be back at home playing cards or pickleball with their friends, or, even better, on the golf course. However, they know full well that must accompany their wives to the grocery store to provide transportation and to reach things on the high shelf.

I feel for ya, Guys. And, by the way, thanks for getting that jar of Newman’s Own spaghetti sauce from the top shelf for me today.

I’m continuing to try and eat healthier meals, and found a delicious-sounding recipe in a Weight Watchers magazine. Last night's dinner!

Beefy Skillet Penne

Ingredients
1 lb. ground sirloin
1 small onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
½ lb. penne pasta, whole grain
2 c. roasted garlic pasta sauce
½ t. dried Italian seasoning
1/8 t. salt
4 oz. shredded Italian-blend cheese, divided
½ c. part-skim ricotta cheese.
Chopped fresh parsley

Process
Heat a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add first three ingredients; cook 5 – 6 min. or until beef is browned, stirring to crumble. Drain well; return beef mixture to pan.

While beef mixture cooks, cook pasta according to package directions. Drain and add pasta to beef mixture in pan. Stir in pasta sauce, Italian seasoning, and salt. Reduce heat to medium.

Combine 2 oz. cheese Italian blend cheese and ricotta cheese in a bowl. Drop by heaping tablespoonfuls over meat mixture, and sprinkle with 2 oz. Italian blend cheese. Cover and cook 5 min or until cheese melts. Sprinkle with parsley.

Nana's Notes: 6 Weight Watcher Plus points for a serving of about 1-1/3 cups.Very quick to prepare. I almost left off the ricotta cheese, but I'm glad I didn't. It made the dish for me.

Hot Diggity, Dog Diggity, Boom What You Do To Me

When I was a small girl, we had a set of World Book Encyclopedias. (Those of you under the age of 30 probably don’t even know what I’m talking about. You probably think I just misspelled Wikipedia.) In one of these encyclopedias, there was a section about AKC-registered dogs. I simply POURED over this part of the book. I learned everything I could about the various breeds. It was fascinating to me. I’m not sure why. At that point I don’t think we even owned a dog. I just was so interested in the different dog breeds.

This interest carried forward to my adulthood. I still am fascinated by dog breeds and how they differ. Each year I watch the Eukanuba Dog Show and the Westminster Dog Show. I love to listen to the moderators talk about what a particular breed should look like and on what exactly they are judged. And I, of course, am always reminded about the hilarious movie, Best in Show, as I listen to the moderators.

This past week I read Rin Tin Tin: The Life and Legend, by Susan Orleans (look for the book review on Friday). For those of you who are too young to remember Rin Tin Tin, he was a German Shepherd that made movies and television programs long, long ago. In this book, Orleans talked a lot about the development of the breed and how the dogs bred to be show dogs look different than a regular family pet. As I read this, I again began thinking about the difference in dog breeds. I decided then and there that attending a dog show was on my bucket list.

Well, why wait for the Westminster Dog Show? I googled and learned that there was a dog show right here in the Phoenix area this past weekend. I had promised myself adventures this winter. Why not go?

Bill politely told me he would be happy to go with me, but his smile looked faked and there seemed to be what I could only construe to be terror in his eyes and he didn’t show a lot of enthusiasm. My sister Bec, however, is always game for an adventure, and she agreed to go with me to the Great Arizona Dog Show. We went on Saturday.

It was great fun, and here’s some of what I learned.

The people who show dogs (at least the ones at this dog show) were not peculiar or snobby at all, unlike the movie. In fact, they couldn’t have been friendlier to us, and were absolutely delighted to answer our questions and let us pet their dogs.

Each dog owner thinks his or her breed is the best. They’re gracious about other people’s dogs, but you can tell they simply can’t imagine why anyone would want to own anything besides a Cocker Spaniel (or a Newfoundland, or a Beagle, or an Afghan Hound, or a Border Collie).

If you are really in the know, you don’t call it the Westminster Dog Show, you call it “The Garden” as in "We're sure to take first place at the Garden next year."

Each breed has a hallmark. A hallmark is the one thing that MUST be present in a breed for it to be competitive. For example, the proud owner of a Newfoundland said the breed’s hallmark is its gentle temperament. If the dog looks perfect, but has a less than sweet disposition, it’s a no-go.

We saw dogs ranging from the tiniest Chihuahua to the grandest Bull Mastiff, and all sizes in between. We saw slobbering hounds, prissy Poodles, and the friendliest little Jack Russell puppies that you can imagine. See?

I can’t help but wonder how the judges, particularly those judging best in show, can compare the different breeds and

come up with a winner. By the way, the winner of this particular show was the Pomeranian. A fluffy bit of orange fur if you ask me. Which you didn’t. And why I’m not a judge…..

I’m a Miniature Schnauzer gal myself.

Arf.