Post-hurricanes, the needed rain didn't get up to central Arkansas, alas

 

 

                Already Saturday night. Looking out the window, gloom is palpable. The darkness, really dusk, is black beyond the maple tree. The foreground is a carpet of fallen, shriveled leaves hiding the grass beneath. It’s time for me to go out into this scene and retrieve the squirrel-proof-but-not-racoon-proof bird feeder. Racoons can sit on the crossbar of the rusted swing set form, reach out to the feeder, shake it, and soon the wire holding it to the iron latch comes loose the whole thing falls, opening all the feeder squares to the marauder(s). After two nights of this behavior, I bring in the feeder and return it when I arise.

                Now, it’s pitch dark outside, but light inside, what with four lamps in this sunroom-cum-office on the southeast side of this old house. 

                Milton, the ferocious hurricane that followed Helene through Florida had diminished to a Cat 3. When my Gulf Breeze daughter-in-law complained via social media, I answered her, “But you live in Paradise, right?” She answered quickly, “They paved over that a long time ago.”

                The grandsons from Sarasota drove two hours north before the storm, but were back home in two days. Haven’t yet heard about the granddaughter from Tampa who fled to friends in Savannah.

While an MFA online classmate who lives on the east coast of the assailed state prepared, she was not hit except with a little rain and a little wind. “Little” in the sense could be anything short of killer winds and rain. Relatives in Georgia and other southeast states hailed an “all-safe-but-the-yard” message.

While the extreme south’s getting more rain than it needs, we in central Arkansas are thirsting for the liquid stuff. Not that we don’t have access to water, but the plants and trees need some in a big way. I fill pitcher after pitcher to keep the new celosia and pansies watered, plus the mums and what few dianthus plants are still green. I figured out a clever way to keep the two pots of pink petunias blooming: When one pot looks puny, I sit it down in a galvanized bucket that holds the end of the hose, run a bit of water in the bucket and voila, it revives and blooms happily. Same with the other pot.

c 2024, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Summer's sameness and differences

 

 

The first cooler days of August last week—and the rain, plus a dose of nutrients––prompted a rejuvenation in part of the flora that surrounds this Saline County Couchwood. Showing WHITE were abelia blooms, an airplane plant blossom and a recent yucca torch.

Tiny RED cypress vine blooms run up the lattice on the shed porch. Also, tiny red blooms on the Crown of Thorns on the front porch. PINK turned up in the Encore azaleas, crape myrtle, oxalis, two pots of petunias, althea and three of Mom’s old begonia plants.

BLUE wandering jew, PURPLE monkey-grass blooms and beautyberries, FUCHIA dianthus, YELLOW lantana, orange cannas and bronze mums complete the rainbow of colors. The yarrow’s once-white blooms are now brown, and I’ve begun pulling them up.

Everything in this hilltop acre survived the days with no rain. It was easy to water the front and porch plants, but also the back where cannas are still green and have bloomed—not like last year when goldenrod took over the bed. This year, we got ahead of the invader so that the main plants thrived. Oxalis and monkey grass planted around the yellow-ash stump (the round bed) pretty well went dormant/brown or the foliage disappeared, leaving bulbs stacked like miniature minarets.

Grandmother’s rock garden/our pet cemetery under a three-tree sassafras grove, is no longer out of reach of a hose since Plumber Dyer added a faucet to the north side of the house. Two hoses mean that even the far live fence of roses and Russian olive, red bud and crape myrtle can be watered when needed.

The pear tree, which did not bear fruit last year, is loaded again. This tree does its thing without the benefit of pruning—except what nature does––or spraying. A couple in a red truck caught me out by the roadside, stopped and asked about the pears. “Take what you can use,” I said. “Don’t you like pears?” she asked. “Yes, but I still have two freezers full from earlier years.”

The south mum-lily-iris bed is the hardest to keep clean. Located under the breakfast room windows, and close to the only outside faucet, it is built up a foot high with rock-and-mortar—Dad’s doing, I suppose. Though I’ve moved most of the mums into the Inset bed, the ever-browning iris foliage means more attention.

              The late summer colors are always the same. The next two months will bring the oranges of pumpkins, more bronze ‘mums, the multi-colors of oak and maple and sassafras leaves.

                Earlier this month, on the second night of wind-and-rain storms, a huge maple limb fell in the north yard, as did a smaller pecan limb in another area. As of this writing, we’ve clipped the smaller branches and lopped the larger ones, then hand-sawed the even larger ones. It’ll take another week of such ministrations to get the entire mess out of sight and onto the burn pile.

                Happy Labor Day.!

c 2024 by PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

FAMILY GATHERING USHERS IN JUNE

 I like Eli Cranor’s ubiquitous opening lines: “I’m writing from . . .” Likewise, I like to open with when: I’m writing at noon on Saturday after an early-morning trip to the nearby Dollar General. We were the third vehicle there but by the time we left, cars were parked everywhere; one even outside of the parking area in the driveway!

                Everything on our shopping list was available except a one-pound box of Velveeta with which we make cheese dip. Additional hang-ups were aisles blocked by stockers. While I unloaded the buggy for the checker, AM put the filled bags into an different buggy making it quicker than if only one were doing it. But, she said, “you bought a lot of that stuff for me.” That I did. Thank goodness for Discover.

                During the long weekend past, the brush got burned, the trust got amended, the pizzas got eaten and everyone got back home safely, even if the Florida trip took longer than expected. Gordon got home at 12:20 a.m. Tuesday morning. The plane landed at 11 pm, but he had to drive from the Destin airport back to Gulf Breeze.

                Eric of Hot Springs took back a sack of purple-blooming irises from the front bed and this morning, he sent email photos of them in the ground—some at their house and more at what he calls “Amityland,” their property off Amity Road.

    A great weekend with all my children. Thankful. Blessed. Have a good rest-of-June.

c 2024 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Welcome to the 21st Century, he says . . .

   . . . this nearly-ready-for-Social-Security second son of mine, after I phone-describe the new, larger (handicapped, the plumber called it) toilet. No handle: just a circle on the lid split into “1” and “2” sections to push when flushing. Even my son hadn’t seen one that advanced!

        So, since the siblings were coming for lunch on Sunday, I scrubbed the tile floors before replacing the rugs, took off the lower shelf of the tall metal rack over the “throne,” and moved the towels up one shelf. On one side of the lid, I placed the plant-in-a-pear-motif-ed vase over a tiny circle of embroidery done by others. On the other side of the flusher circle, I placed the squat, square-glass dish full of Florida shells, on top of a multi-colored five-sided doily. Already for company, including four others who, as I did, grew up in this house. Can’t wait to hear their comments.

                The 500-piece jigsaw puzzle is finally finished. As of last Wednesday night, at 10:59, I put the last of 33 pieces left when I began at that sitting. Whew! Now, it’s elevated at an angle as supposed to be and ready to show my siblings when they come Sunday after church. I also took a flip-phone photo to the other son who gifted me with the items. He said it was blurry, but he could tell I’d finished it.

                For a week or so, the puzzle replaced my reading time, but now I’m back. Mitt Romney’s biography by McKay Coppins is my current book. After that, I’ll begin on Kai Bird’s “The Outlier:  The Unfinished Presidency of Jimmy Carter.” A grandson gifted me with this book at Christmas, bless ‘im.

                The siblings lunch went well. Guy brought a fruit and cheese-crackers appetizer served from the front room coffee table. After singing (our custom) the Wesley Grace, we ate pizza, hash-brown-potato casserole, a green salad, deviled eggs and peanut butter pie.             Afterwards, we gathered in the living room and visited until mid-afternoon. Two of the sisters, both of Little Rock, had dogs to get back to and naps to take. The rain had ended by then, thank goodness.

                Afterwards, AM and I cleaned up the kitchen, loaded and started the dishwasher, then retired to our napping places.

                An hour-and-a-half later, after a sleepless but restful spell, I arose, went into the kitchen for coffee, and noticed the dishwasher light was still blue, meaning it was still washing. No way! It should be showing a white light meaning finished. I opened the door to find the soap dispenser was not released, but there were suds in the bottom of the machine. Hmm. I started pushing the buttons as I usually do, and the light stuck on “sensor.” Nothing could happen until it gave me the strength and length of the cycle. Finally, finally, the sensor moved on to my selection; the washer began and worked perfectly. 

                All’s well that ends well, right?

Confluence of Handles, part 2

     After entering the kitchen, still in my robe and yawning for the umpteenth time, I switch on the overhead light, the warmer light, and the Keurig power button.

      Raising the lid of the pod holder and the lid of the water well, I hand-dig around in the basket until grasping a light-roast Breakfast Blend pod. I pull it out, insert it in the round hole and lower the handle, which pokes holes for the brewing to happen.

        Now for water to replenish the tank. I pull the pitcher through the confluence of handles and stop. I always smile at the unusual scene––brown, pink, and green, one facing in, one facing out, and the brown one facing me in the center. Once, I took a photo of the three handles—a still life, it you will.

                You wonder why I detail this image that’s important enough to use as the title? Perhaps it’s the artist part of my creativity; the flower-arranging skill I learned from being in the garden club, or the formality of a musical chord, a triad of sorts.

                I fill the pitcher from the tap at the sinks, pour the water into the narrow-ish aperture of the well-cum-tank, scoot the pitcher back to its nest and replace the lid of the well.

         Ready to brew! When the pod lid is down, three blue lights come on: Small, medium and large mugs show under those lights. I press the “large” button. The machine roars on, and while the coffee drips, I reach for the teaspoon and three packets of sweetener. After I thump the contents to the bottoms of the packets, I access the scissors, snip off the tops, pour them into the teapot.

                As the cycle finishes, I grasp the FRIENDS mug handle, turn it around, and with my left hand, pour the dark liquid into the pot. I replace the mug, stir the sweetener into the coffee, replacing the spoon and the teapot lid.   

                But this isn’t all. No, the coffee’s still too strong for my taste so I raise and lower the pod lid and the lights return. Again, I press “large.” This time while the cup is filling, I might water the windowsill plants, load, or unload the dishwasher. Or grab a parched peanut or two from the pan on the stove.

             When the Keurig becomes silent, return to the counter, lift the teapot lid, then the catch-mug, pour the second offering into the teapot, replace the lid and the mug. Repeat this step, but this time, press “medium.” While this last cycle brews, I check the cat food and water, refilling if necessary.

           With the third and final offering from the tiny pod of coffee, press the power button off, add the pale fluid to the pot, replace the lid.

          I select a mug to use all morning, perhaps one of Mom’s, perhaps one from Florida or a glass one, and pour the hot, sweet stuff into it. Ah! Perfect! I move to the table and continue my day with the morning paper.

                What could be more satisfying? Fresh brews and fresh news. And it added only one plastic pod to a landfill instead of three.

 c 2024, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

CONFLUENCE OF HANDLES - part 1

 

 

How to make enough coffee for your entire morning without adding much to the landfill:

Are there still some folks who have the old-fashioned Mr. Coffee that brews up to twelve cups of the black liquid pick-me-up each morning? Twelve cups? Perhaps in the even-older-fashioned days and styles of china cups, yes. But don’t all modern brides and bridegrooms and college students and young adults drink from pottery or glass mugs? Or even Yetis or insulated school-or-business-logoed flasks?

                After a daughter’s marriage, she found herself with an extra coffeemaker that she offered. “Thank you kindly,” I said, and studied up on its requirements.

                The next Christmas, my children presented me with a Keurig brewer, that of the plastic pods of pre-measured grounds. The previous Mr. Coffee was relegated to the farthest recesses of the corner kitchen cabinet, joining a bun warmer, a double boiler and a Bundt cake pan. May they all rest there until my heirs get them. 

                Ah, the Keurig machine! Now to find the perfect spot. It must accommodate my left-handedness. I surveyed the countertop to the left of the sink for a space about the size of an old-fashioned electric mixer with a bowl. A light switch paired with two electrical plug-ins was handy. In the corner where two walls converge was a cup (or mug) carousel. Voila! Just enough room in front of it for the new, modern, sleek Keurig.

                In the cupboard above, an Old-Fashioned glass (sometimes called a lowball or rocks glass) held single packets of instant lemonade, peach tea, and root beer. A box of one-hundred packets of saccharin-based sweetener was also in reach. On the side wall, a pottery pocket-piece held scissors.

                At the back of the counter convenient to the outlets, I placed a brown wicker basket to hold the coffee pods—light-roast Breakfast Blend, Hazelnut, and when available, Pumpkin Spice. On the right side of the basket, I snugged in a spoon holder with two indentions, one for a handful of sweetener packets, the other for a long teaspoon. Between the cup carousel and the basket was room for a medium-sized, ironstone pitcher that would hold enough water to fill the well of the machine. I could pull the pitcher by the handle slowly through the confluence of handles made by that of the tall mug on the Keurig base and the handle of the teapot sitting on a resurrected, electric cup warmer. Why a teapot, you ask? I’ll answer later.

                Speaking of the tall mug that catches the coffee, I use a favorite one: pink, with a fat, red heart added to the middle of the handle. When not in use, I turn it to see the message:

                “FRIENDS/ are like bras: supportive, never leave you hanging, make you look good, and are always close to your heart.”

                To make enough coffee for the morning, I’ll need a large vessel to hold multiple runs through the Keurig. Hmm. Oh! How about that pear-motif-ed teapot that grandson Billy spied at the local pharmacy? He brought it over and offered it since I collect pear-paraphernalia? The base set perfectly on the warmer and the green ceramic handle faced toward the machine for a hefty, lefty grasp.

                To make the “coffee center” more attractive, handy, and easy-to-clean, I folded a kitchen towel into fourths, the long side against the warmer to catch any drips from the pot to the mug.

                I’ve described the setting, now, here are the steps to making coffee that will last all morning, but not (eventually) add much to any landfill.

To be continued.

c 2024, Pat Laster dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

What to do with so much left-over mac-and-cheese . . .

 . . . when there are only two of you to eat it?

A box of Kraft hit my buggy at the store. It sat in the cupboard for a couple of weeks. Till one night, on her night to prepare the evening meal, my housemate decided to prepare it.

Good eating, perfect creaminess, delicious. With collard greens/pepper sauce and a bowl of fruits and cherry tomatoes, a great meal.

The next night was my turn; can't remember what I prepped, but the following night, we ate mac-'n-cheese and collard greens again. Even with four meals gone, there was still a gob of leftover m-'n-c. 

When it was my turn, I Googled, or Bing-ed, "how to dress up leftover mac and-cheese." Many recipes flew to the screen. The one I selected contained everything I had on hand: oleo (butter), paprika, breadcrumbs, an egg, and shredded cheese.

Since I learned that m-n-c doesn't mix well when cold, I'd set the dish out on the counter earlier. Gathering all ingredients except the egg and oleo, I waited till nearly time. 

Here's the recipe I used: "Leftover Mac and Cheese Cups from kitchenathoskins.com

3 cups m-a-c. (I didn't measure but decided it was close enough.); 1 egg (lightly beaten); 1/2 cup shredded cheese; add tablespoons (not succinct) breadcrumbs; 1/2 tablespoon melted butter; 1 pinch paprika.

Directions: Add m-a-c to a bowl. (I chose to use a bowl larger than the one it was in.) Separately, I mixed the cheese and egg before adding to the pasta. Pack into WELL GREASED muffin pan. (Apparently, pasta with cheese is very hard to remove from either paper cups or the metal tins.) Stir breadcrumbs, melted butter the paprika together, and sprinkle over tops of muffins I spooned rather than sprinkled--it was messy. It made 6 muffins, just as the recipe said, so I guessed correctly, didn't I?

But here's the conundrum: Bake at 425 degrees until tops are golden. Gee, the crumb mixture was golden, so I set the timer for 5 minutes, leaving the oven light on so I could judge. I couldn't tell a difference, so I set the timer for 5 more minutes. Still, not sure, so one more 5-minute stint. Surely the egg would be cooked with the prolonged heat. 

Getting the muffins out of the pan intact--or as intact as possible--and looking like muffins was good enough for me. AM ate two and I ate one, so we STILL HAVE LEFTOVERS!!!

c 2023 Pat Laster dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA