Carpet, Coffee, and Kale: Fly on the Wall

  

Welcome to our monthly Fly on the Wall, a blog post written in snippets. Marcia, Diane, and I invite you to catch a glimpse of what you’d see if you were a fly on the wall in our homes, at our writing desks, and in our worlds. Come on in, buzz around, see what we've been up to. Bet you laugh! 

Hubs is a bit of a dinosaur. Among many other things, he's always worn a watch, and he still does. Not necessary since his cell phone . . . you know . . . will tell him the time, but whatever.

I've also mentioned that he tends to think very differently than I do, so a lot of what he says, opposite of how I'd think through whatever the circumstance may be, doesn't surprise me. Until yesterday:

Hubs: I need to buy a new watch for my battery.

Me: That's an interesting way of remedying the situation. Not exactly frugal, but if it makes you happy . . .

Two things I've mentioned before: first is that I often share here the (mostly) funny things I text due to either my cell phone's text correction (I need to figure out how to turn that off), or, well, operator error. My history dictates I should check texts before I send them, but I'm usually in a rush.

Second is that PurDude and I text every day, we have since he moved to Boulder. He checks in, I tell him a few things that are going on around here, he usually gives me a one-word answer, then ends with "love you ma." I either say "love and miss you," or "love you, honey."

Yesterday, the conversation ended a little differently.

PurDude: Love you, ma.

Me: Love you, horny.

Ah, yeah, I'm not too embarrassed.

One of the few things I dislike about my house is the carpet. The wood floors I love, but the carpet is not what I’d choose. Most of it is white, which doesn’t work well with young kids, as we’d had when we moved in. But the carpet in the den is the worst.

I had really thought I’d end up replacing it, but something else always seemed to come up. Like completely furnishing the place, since I sold my last house furnished at the request of the buyer, and you know, kids . . . college . . . life . . . 

I bought a beautiful, large, Persian hand-made rug, so some of the carpet is covered, but the rest is a constant frustration. It’s textured. And speckled. I’ll be walking to another room and think I see a bug, or a bit of food, or part of a leaf from outdoors. I stop, bend down to look and no, a dark carpet speckle.

I was pointing it out to a new neighbor, and it turns out she’d sold carpet in the past. she told me it was a fairly expensive carpet, and when she’d sold something like this, she’d always mention that people love it because the speckles of dark color are like camouflage, it hides dirt.

And I have to say, I could never sell carpet. Because I couldn’t explain as a selling point to some poor customer that you can’t tell when it’s dirty, because it always looks dirty. 

Not with a straight face, anyway.

FB is often suggesting people I should friend or groups I should join. They're often pretty arbitrary, leaving me wondering where they come up with these recommendations.

This morning, they took me by surprise. Their recommendation was for a group I should join called Wacky Widows.

And although I bet it's a fun and supportive group, I wonder whose job it will be to tell my husband . . .

We were watching a Celtics game when, at half time, they cut to the studio. One host was wishing another a happy birthday. The desk was covered with Kale, a birthday present.

Me: Don't ever get me Kale for my birthday.

Hubs: OK.

Me: Will you remember?

Hubs: Yes, since I don't know what it is.

Me: But you could bake me a loaf of Clementine Blueberry Bread.

Hubs: You've got a better chance of getting a bunch of Kale.

Clementine Blueberry Bread

Hubs had some errands to do and decided to take my car as I needed gas and he could stop on the way home. About an hour later, I hear screeching sounds coming from the garage. I go out the door and see my car sitting in the garage, alarm going off, all the lights flashing, and Hubs sitting in the driver's seat looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

Me (yelling over the noise): What are you doing?

Hubs: Trying to shut this off.

Me: How did you turn it on?
Hubs: I don't know.

He reaches for the Audi owner's manual, I head in to check out YouTube. After a few minutes, I hear it shut off.

Me: How did you do that?

Hubs: I don't know, it just stopped.

Hubs needs a new car, and I'm thinking maybe we should trade his in for a tricycle. 

 

Tuesday evening I noticed that the laundry chute was getting pretty full, so I guess laundry was on the agenda for the next morning. I decided to collect and do all of the towels too.

Me: I'm doing laundry tomorrow, I'll do a load of towels as well.

Hubs: Should I send my towels down in the morning after I shower?
Me: It doesn't matter, I can get them when I go up to shower.

Hubs: That will work. There's like a 50/50 chance I'll remember anyway.

Me (rolling my eyes): More like a 20% chance.

Hubs: Are you insulting me?
Me: No, but it doesn't matter.

Hubs: It doesn't matter if you insult me?
Me: No, after all, there's like a 20% chance you'll remember it tomorrow . . .

I still have a coffeemaker, don't use those single cup makers because that's just not how I drink my coffee. I set up the coffee maker the night before and put out mugs for Hubs and I.

I don't drink an entire mug of coffee at a time, I pour myself a cup and sit down on the couch to play my word games. As the coffee starts to cool down, or as I drink it most of the way down, I just go fill it the rest of the way up.

Hubs goes into the office, usually twice a week. On those days I put out a travel mug for him. But he will sometimes forget to fill and take it. So, I decided to remind him.

That morning, I reminded him and that night he came in, handed me the mail and his mug, and turned to go change his clothes. The mug, though, didn't feel empty. I go to the sink and pour out an entire mug of coffee. Hubs sees me at the sink with a perplexed look on my face.

Hubs: It's your fault.

Me: What is?

Hubs: The full mug of coffee.

Me: How is that my fault.

Hubs: You reminded me to take it in the car with me.

Me: Yeah, and . . .

Hubs: You didn't remind me to take it out of the car and into work with me.

And this, my friends, is proof positive that the brain does not function properly before coffee.

Who are you, really?

It's difficult having the name Karen lately, I'm guessing you can figure out why.

When people use the name as an insult, I mostly ignore it. But when a social media post is specifically from someone touting how kind and compassionate and pro this and that they are, that just ticks too many of my boxes. 

This recently happened on threads, a post about how humanitarian, caring, empathetic and the opposite of Karen's (yes, they used an apostrophe for a plural, so clearly a brain surgeon) this person claims to be. I responded that using a name that many good people share as an insult is not caring and empathetic, it's bullying.

And wow, did I get bashed. People responded telling me to stfu, that I should go cry somewhere else, that I'm the reason the name Karen is used that way . . .

So, if this is humanitarian, caring, empathetic, and compassionate, I wonder what cruel and hateful looks like to these people (all of whom I blocked, of course).

Maybe I should share this with them:

And who I am. Really.

Hubs had some work he needed to get done, and as well as a few things I'd put on his list that needed done around the house.

I had a load of laundry to do, dishwasher to run, dinner to prep, and grocery list to finish. 

We both got our lists completed and were finally settling down to watch TV, this night there was another Celtics game on and we were looking forward to watching.

But 2 minutes in, and there was a problem.

Me: I'm not going to be able to watch this game.

Hubs: What? We've been looking forward to this all day.

Me: I know.

Hubs: So what do you mean you can't watch.

Me: Did you see White?
Hubs: Yeah, I saw him, he's a starter.

Me: But did you see the back of his shirt?
Hubs: The back of his shirt? 

Me: Yes, his tag is sticking up out of the back of his shirt. And that's just going to drive me nuts.

Hubs (rolling his eyes): You're kidding, right?

Oh, how I wish I were.

 

Now click on the links below and see what my friends have to share:

Menopausal Mother 

On the Border

Clementine Blueberry Bread

                                                                       ©www.BakingInATornado.com

Printable Recipe

Ingredients:

1 TBSP sugar

1/2 tsp cinnamon

2 1/2 cups plus 1 TBSP flour, divided

1 cup sugar

1 tsp salt

1 TBSP baking powder

1 1/4 cups milk

1/2 cup oil

1/2 tsp vanilla

1/4 cup sour cream

2 eggs

1 cup blueberries

2 clementines

OPT: 5 TBSP powdered sugarn and 2 tsp orange juice

Directions:

*Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a loaf pan, mix 1 TBSP of the sugar with the cinnamon and dust a loaf pan with this mixture.

*Place 2 1/2 cups of the flour, the remaining sugar, salt, and baking pwder in a large bowl and whisk togethter. Add the milk, oil, vanilla, sour cream, and eggs. Mix until incorporated.

*Peel the clementines and separate into sections. Set aside 5 sections for the top, and chop the rest.

*Set aside 5 or 6 blueberries. Toss the remaining blueberries with the remaining 1 TBSP flour. Fold into the dough along with the chopped clementines.

*Spread the dough evenly into the loaf pan. Top with the reserved blueberries and clementine segments. Bake for 60 - 65 minutes, until the top springs back to the touch.

*Cool in the pan for 10 minutes. Run a knife around the edges, remove, and cool completely.

*OPT: whisk together the powdered sugar and orange juice. Drizzle over the cooled loaf.

Rena: Mourning to Missing

 

A month and a half. It has been 45 days.

Not that I've been counting. Not in the literal sense, anyway. But when I started this post, that number at the top had been 3. It had been 3 days.

I wasn't ready.

Day after day, I changed the number and moved this draft to a further date on my posting calendar.

Friends sent me messages, asked if I'd be writing something. I told them the truth. I wasn't ready. 

I was starting to think I might never be ready. Maybe I couldn't do her justice, or maybe I just couldn't face it head on, the finality. But it nagged at me, the feeling that I would regret never having acknowledged her loss, paid tribute to who she was, and just how much so many of us have been cheated of experiencing with her in the future. So I set a date. Today. Forty-five days to gather my thoughts and do my best.

I've moved through some of the stages of grief, others linger. I'm not mad at her any more, but I can't get past the regret. The wanting a do-over. For her, of course, but for me too. Because I should have pushed harder.

Rena and I had been friends in the blogging world for about 10 years. She joined in almost all of the challenges I ran, but our bond was about so much more. We bounced ideas off of each other, helped each other with projects, shared our lives and our thoughts and our secrets with each other.

Rena died on March 18th. 

The day after she died, I posted our last conversations in a private FB group full of mutual friends.

I said:

{{Through the tears, I've given this a lot of thought and decided to share here because I know that in this group, Rena was loved and supported. She was a sharer, I believe she would have approved.}}

Friday morning 3/17:

Me: How are you this morning? Did you sleep?
Rena: Not too good last night, I had to cancel hip doctor, wasn't up to it. Very shaky and weak today.

Me: Low blood pressure?

Rena: Yes 80/68

Me: Did you eat?

Rena: Yes.

Me: Take it slow and easy. Did your doctor assess whether any of your anxiety meds could lower your blood pressure?

Rena: I'm going to doctor at 3 and I'm going to pack a bag for the hospital.

Me: I hope it doesn't come to that. Let me know what happens when you can.

Friday afternoon:
Rena: I'm at home. They pushed my oxygen up. He wants me to go back in the hospital.

Me: If he wants you to go back in, maybe you should. It will take a while to work out the right mix of oxygen and meds, and that is best done in the hospital where you can be closely monitored. I know you don't want to go, but think it through, talk to your husband, make a medically sound decision.

Rena: Probably go in the morning. We will see. That's exactly what he said. We had already packed a bag.

Me: I'm surprised you didn't go, I assumed you packed the bag because you planned to go if the doctor recommended it. I want you to just get this over with. Get the conditions under control, the meds and oxygen at optimal levels, and be able to move on. I don't think, if there are issues, you are better off at home, scaring yourself and scaring and stressing your husband. I think you're better off in the hospital until you are stabilized. Did you just not want to go today because it's Pat's birthday? I kinda get that.

{{it's eating at me, how much I want to take that last part back.}}

Rena: Yes, and it's cold and rainy. I was freezing and just wanted to get under my blankets. It's been pouring all day. Mostly because it's his birthday, and I know he's been waiting on KY to play tonight.

Me: Please take it easy.

Saturday morning 3/18:
Me: How are you this morning? Any decision about the hospital?

{{Rena died way too soon. But she died in her own home, in her own bed, and with the man she adored for over 30 years. That's going to have to be enough. Not today, but some day, for all of us who have loved her, that's going to have to be enough.}}

Rena and I talked almost every day. And the day before, we also had a conversation. One I'd like to finish now.

Thursday, March 16:

Rena: I'm concerned, my BP is 90/64 today.

Me: Be careful getting up. Did you call the doctor? Is the nurse coming in today?
Rena: No, I go to the doctor tomorrow. My daughter told me to eat something. I want to take a shower.

Me: I'd eat something, then wait a bit, I'm not sure standing in the shower is a good idea at this point.

Rena: I have a seat. I'm out now, it's up to 97/62.

Me: Better. Maybe you should leave something beside your bed to eat in the morning before you get up.

Rena: That's a good idea. Some club crackers or something.

Me: One of those packets of peanut butter crackers might be a good idea.

Rena: I hate peanut butter. Don't like chocolate, coffee, or cheese.

Me: What? I was thinking peanut butter for a bit of protein. Maybe get a package of individually wrapped protein bars that don't have any pb or chocolate in them. My son has an oats and honey flavor, but there are many other flavors too, just be sure they are the protein ones.

Rene: Ha, ha, don't like oats either.

Me: Who ARE you? 

She didn't answer, of course. She wasn't meant to. But today I'm going to try to answer for her. 

Rena was a woman of passions, her family was first and foremost. 

Alzheimer's awareness was another. Rena and I both lost a parent to Alzheimer's, but she nurtured, protected, and took care of her mother for years as Alzheimer's progressed inch by inch. Awareness was so important to her that she started the blog The Diary of an Alzheimer's Caregiver. 

The third was her mission to empower women through helping them spotlight their voice. She started a business supporting people in maximizing and perfecting their vision for their blogs. But more than that, if you weren't a client and had a question, she answered. Period.

Rena often told me I was her closest friend on line, but (to myself) I laughed, betting she said that to many people. Because Rena's superpower was supporting, spreading warmth, sharing her love with everyone in her world.

She had a moral compass that was unwavering, was furious about the division in this country, the state of our politics. But most of all, she was offended by the bigotry, the hatred, the lies, the abuse of power, the moral degradation and manipulation. And she ranted against it. Loudly. Often.

Rena was a genuine person, she worked hard to overcome, but never to hide, a painful childhood and a life altering accident as an adult. Despite physical limitations and emotional trauma, she made the choice to be a person who spoke the truth, grew and changed, helped where she could, railed against injustice. She shared unabashedly, reached out when she knew she was in needed, and returned the favor without question.

I grappled with whether or not to include a recipe today. But Rena, who confessed to not being a cook (and having inherited that from her mom), had, over the past few years, started to embrace the kitchen. And the garden. She was growing her own fruits and vegetables, more every year, and had started to see the fun in playing with recipes.

So for today I did decide to develop a recipe. Lemon Blueberry Crinkles. They're bold and soft, sweet and tart, complex and simple. My tribute to a friend who was all that and so much more.

Lemon Blueberry Crinkles

 

The day Rena's daughter offered me her sympathies, I broke a little. But I also broke through. 

I now accept that I will always miss her, may never stop saying to myself "oh, I can't wait to hear what Rena has to say about this . . ." Like trump's indictment, oh, how she would have loved that! But in order for me to do justice to our time together, to the memories and to the friendship, I need to stop associating those thoughts with pain, and accept them as the results of the gift of her friendship.

So, who was Rena? 

She was an empath. She didn't feel FOR you, she felt WITH you. 

Rena was a woman who loved with all of her heart. 

And I would know, I can feel it still.

Lemon Blueberry Crinkles         

                                                                                      ©www.BakingInATornado.com

Printable Recipe

Ingredients:
6 TBSP butter

1 box lemon cake mix

1/2 tsp lemon zest

1/4 tsp lemon extract

2 eggs

1/4 cup blueberry jam

1/3 cup powdered sugar

Directions:
*Melt the butter. Set aside to cool slightly. Mix together the cake mix, lemon zest, lemon extract, and eggs, then mix in the butter.

*Whisk the jam to loosen it a bit. Pour over the batter and, using a knife, cut in, just until barely incorporated into the dough. Don't completely mix in.

*Enclose the dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for an hour.

*Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cover baking sheets with parchment paper. Pour the powdered sugar into a bowl.

*One by one, using wet hand as the dough will be sticky, form the dough into 30 balls about 3/4 inch in diameter. Roll around in the powdered sugar, and place onto the baking sheets. Leave room, the cookies will spread.

*Bake for 12 - 14 minutes, until the cookies have spread and are set. Allow to sit on the baking sheet for 2 minutes before removing to cool completely.

 

 

Woke Up

 

You're familiar, I'm sure, with the saying "you don't know what you don't know." Well, I'm proof. It's actually kind of embarrassing to admit it, but I didn't know. The simple truth of a family in which I was a member, one of the inner circle, nestled and nurtured in its cocoon.

But I didn't know. And in some ways, the truth set me free. Opened my eyes.

I was maybe 5 years old. Relatives were over for a cookout, and while the adults were in the house doing adult things, I playing outside our house with Susan. Susan lived across the street, she knew a lot of my extended family, as I did hers.

At some point, the front door opened and Susan looked over.

Susan: Hi, Mrs. P.

Me: Mrs. P? 

Susan: Yeah, your grandmother's at the front door.

Me: That's not my grandmother, that's Aunt Rose.

Susan: Are they twins?

Me (laughing): No, they're it twins, they don't look anything alike.

Later in the day:

Me: Mom, this is funny, guess what Susan said.

Mom: What?
Me: She thought Nana and Aunt Rose were twins.

Mom: Honey, they are.

My grandmother and one of her sisters were twins. Identical twins. Who knew?

Apparently, everyone but 5 year old me. 

In retrospect, I understand why no one actually thought to sit me down, make a point of providing that information. 

Although many people (I learned) couldn't tell them apart, they looked completely different to me, my perspective based on having grown up with them, both viewed and seen as individuals.

Within my tribe, we saw them as different. From the outside looking in, they looked exactly the same. 

Family is one thing of course, our very first subculture, but as we grow there are many others with which we choose to identify. And when enmeshed, insulated in those groups, we run the risk of forgetting that there are other perspectives than those in which we've found comfort. Ones, even if we reject, we are better for just knowing. A reminder that we need each other to see the whole picture.

Our country, at this pivotal point in our existence, is moving in the opposite direction.

Unfortunately, a lot of power is in the hands of those (like, most prominently, DeSantis in Florida) who do not want us to see the whole picture. Those who are actively working to force us all to be and think and feel the same. Their same. They use their power to dictate what the whole picture can be, are manipulating access to anything outside of the lines they've drawn.

Banning books, health care, even discussion of what makes us different, rewriting our history, our access to information, our health care. One of whom (yes, DeSantis), in his march toward authoritarianism, towards creating us all in his own image, has taken to punishing companies, shipping off human beings, taking over curriculums.

They, those who see diversity and thought as a detriment to their personal vision, have named the movement to maintain our freedoms as "woke." They mock woke, use the term as an insult to bully anyone not willing to give in to their vision. 

  

When, in reality, "woke", unfettered access to information, free thought, celebration of and growth through diversity, is pragmatic, constructive, propitious to our growth as a society. 

It's not an exaggeration to say that our very existence could in the balance. It is nurtured and nourished minds that solve problems, not just in society, but on earth. Our food sources, flour, fruits, it can all be in jeopardy. 

Braided Blueberry Bread

 

If we are to grow, have the tools to meet challenges, to adapt, to thrive, we, as individuals and as a society, need to woke up.

Braided Blueberry Bread         

                                                                                      ©www.BakingInATornado.com

Printable Recipe

Ingredients:
1 (1#) loaf frozen bread dough

3 oz cream cheese, softened

1 TBSP cookie butter (speculoos)

1 TBSP brown sugar

3 TBSP blueberry preserves

2 TBSP melted butter

Directions:

*Wrap the frozen dough in a piece of greased plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight (or for about 6 hours).

*Mix together the cream cheese, cookie butter, brown sugar, and blueberry preserves. Set aside.

*Cover a baking sheet with parchment paper.

*Roll the dough on a floured surface to about a 16 X 9 rectangle. Cut into 3 strips, 16 inches long by 3 inches wide, and spread the cream cheese mixture down the center of each strip to about an inch of the top and bottom, and to about 1/4 an inch of each side.

*Roll one long side of each strip over the filling, then do the same with the other side, forming 3 ropes. Gently pinch the edges. Move the strips to the prepared baking sheet, side by side.

*Squeeze the top 1 inch of the strips together and fold under. Loosely braid the strips then squeeze the bottoms together and fold under like you did at the top.

*Grease a large piece of plastic wrap and cover the braid loosely. Set aside for 4 hours to rise.

*Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Remove the plastic wrap, gently brush the melted butter over the top of the braid. Bake for 30 minutes.