How to exercise when it’s too cold to work outside

South yard at Couchwood, this winter

             For a healthy eighty-year-old person used to working in the yard, extended and extensive below-freezing temperatures put quite the quietus on things. A selection of inside exercise follows:

            1.Walking through this drafty house hunting for my jacket, neck scarf and head band.

            2.Bending to the gas-log-fire remote is another, bending or squatting to turn up the space heater is another. Bending to check the cat’s food and water dishes is yet one more.

            So, I decided to make a list of ways to exercise while sitting in front of the fire. OOPS, there goes a full cup of coffee onto the floor! That flimsy little table! Drat! I run to the kitchen for a handful of towels. The floor finishers said not to let water stand on the hardwood. Then I bent, one knee on a throw rug, the other on the floor (ouch!), and wiped with large arcs (upper arm exercise) till the towels were wet, but the floor was dry—and cleaner.

            Fussing greatly at that too-small, spindly-legged table, I swapped it for an oak TV tray. There. Replaced coffee, with care. Now to the daily paper while sitting in a rocking chair, fireside.

            3. Stretch upper body while reaching for a sheet of the paper that slid out when turning pages.

            4. Do arm lifts when folding back pages, reaching high overhead. Laugh when you read an ingredient in a BBQ recipe is “a 3-pound boneless pork lion roast.” That was just plain (plane) funny!

            5. Side-arm-sling: After reading, flinging the papers on the floor by the door. Stretch high from the waist while flinging.

            6. Occasionally stand and walk to the coffee pot. No cardio-work here, but it’s too cold for such and too hard to do inside. Oh, with leg muscles, kick the footstool out of the way before rising. Keep path clear. No falling as part of today’s exercise. Sixty steps round-trip to and from the kitchen (where’s a Fitbit® when you need it?)

            7. Sit, then twist whichever foot is closer to the footstool to bring it back to center. Stretch and flex feet from their positions on the footstool.

            Repeat as needed until paper is read, puzzles are solved and it’s time for breakfast. Or brunch. Or lunch.

            Then, after a snuggly warm and restful nap, and if the temperature has risen any at all, take a hiking stick and, wearing sturdy shoes, with your phone in your pocket, and ears covered, take a trip—another 100 steps back and forth—to the mail box. If the wind’s not too fierce, on the way back, stop and take in the wonderful world in your purview. Smell the wood smoke, exult in the berried holly, watch robins forage and fly.

             Be thankful that this season’s cold will soon be gone, the common daffodils will burst out of the ground, and pink japonica blooms will pop open.

              

Son Eric's frozen birdbath with bluebirds - this winter

c 2018, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR

           

           

January clean-out, throw out or give away

                How-To articles abound during the early part of any new year. “Clean out your pantry; clean out your freezer; clean out and throw away what you haven’t worn in a year,” et al.

                I DID shuffle things around in one cupboard: stacked canned goods to use up head space. Why? To make room for grandson’s foodstuffs that have lain on the countertop since before Christmas. Took what was left out of his cereal box—it was clipped already—recycled the cardboard; moved the bowl with three lemons (for his water) still in the flimsy sack, plus the one piece of wheat bread that he will not refrigerate or freeze, plus two glasses he must have received as Christmas gifts.

                He was OK with it, and the counter was clean looking. I moved the fruit bowl to that area: grapefruit, Roma tomatoes, a baking potato, a red onion and two bananas that needed eating.

                During the rearranging of what was already there in the “pantry,” I pulled out a baggie of white beans that had lain inside that space for . . . I won’t hazard a guess. I ’d seen a recipe for cooking beans in a new monthly publication, Ouachita Life, and clipped it.

                One day last week. I studied the recipe—it had been YEARS since I’d cooked beans—and decided to use the HOT SOAK method that would cut down on “intestinal distress.”  Two cups of beans, 10 cups of hot water and let sit for four hours. I used the electric kettle I received for Christmas. It only held eight cups, so I had to refill and reheat it. The Dutch oven would be adequate, for I had planned to add the sizable ham bone left from Christmas.

                After the soak, I poured off the water, rinsed the beans, re-covered them with clear water, added the ham hock, and put it on to cook. Two more hours. Meantime, I reached for the box of cornbread muffin mix that had also been languishing since who-knows-when, pulled out a muffin tin, filled it with new papers, retrieved a mixing bowl and spoon and set all on the opposite countertop. That scene lasted the remainder of the evening and until the next morning. I didn’t require cornbread with my beans, but I’d bake some the next day and take a meal to a friend. Wouldn’t that red onion on the side add a dash of color as well as a tangy taste to set off the beans?

                Three days later, the muffin makings still occupied the countertop. (Obviously, I didn’t follow through on my intention to share.) After I typed the topic sentence in this paragraph, I left the computer and mixed those muffins! While they were cooking, I Swiffered the floor and moved the Christmas towels and hot pads to the linen closet. (Was it because I read a Facebook post that urged folks to “finish your projects”? Hmm.)

                So, for today’s supper, guess what? White beans, cornbread and a slice of red onion. And some tomato juice. 

c 2018, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR

NOW what do I do? Recovering from a kitchen disaster

                Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends were staging a play. Piglet, despite his feeble protests, had been elected sheriff, and Jack, macho leader of the horse thieves, was about to trounce the little pink porker. When the sheriff’s badge fell off, Jack feigned ferociousness. Thief’s honor disallowed trouncing a sheriff with no badge.

                “NOW, what am I supposed to do?” Jack asked Piglet. “If you’re not sheriff, I can’t trounce ya’,” he said in a slow western drawl.

                In real life, WHO could I trounce but myself?

                The Cheese-Bean recipe said, “Cover and bake at 350 degrees for 35-45 minutes. I didn’t notice the word COVER.

                After a birthday lunch, the 9x12-inch dish chock-full of cooked pintos, sautéed onions, chili powder, dry mustard, chunks of still-raw cooking apples, shredded mozzarella, chopped tomatoes, and white cooking wine, sat practically untouched.

                “Rotten grass,” the child said.

                “Potpourri,” the uncle said, because of the apple chunks. “Something you’d serve at a ladies’ luncheon. Don’t ever make it again.” Was that a loyal relative or what??

                Still, what to do? Dumping it flew in the face of thrift. Soup was a possibility, but transforming that much casserole into soup would require more broth and tomato juice than I had containers.

                I had an idea!! Hauling out a gadget that would swallow lumpy brown stuff in the black hole of its maw, I spoon-fed it, whirring each bit of casserole into dip-textured goo. Two storage containers of the stuff weighed six pounds!

                Several cookbooks turned up nothing, but Sanyo’s microwave booklet saved the day. A recipe for dip using mashed canned beans, cheese spread, hot sauce, catsup, and chili powder gave me another idea.

                Shaking several dashes of Tabasco into the smaller bowl of puree, I added cheddar cheese cubes and sour cream. It tasted good enough on white-corn chips.

                I feigned arrogance, and took it to a family potluck. Some sniffed, others tried it, and our vegetarian yuppies, who adored refried-bean tacos, took home the rest.

                Piglet offered horse-thief Jack the sheriff’s badge. After pinning it on himself, Jack became a John Wayne softie. “Now, look here, Pilgrim, I’m gonna clean up this town, ya’ hear?”

                The rust-colored sludge was finally cleaned up, but it might have been because of my threat. “By golly, family, if ya’ don’t at least try some of this, I’ll never bring anything to potluck again.”

                Hey, it worked for my bread pudding!

                NOTE: Though this happened several years ago when we lived in Arkadelphia, it wasn’t the last kitchen disaster I’ve experienced. Sometime, I’ll tell you about the cheese ball for this Christmas that wouldn’t keep its shape. Now, it’s all glommed together in a Pyrex dish in the fridge waiting till I’m hungry enough to retrieve it and figure out how to salvage it.

c 2018, PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Resolve NOT to do this next year

New Year's is a time for musing

                When Mom was alive, relatives from Kansas, Arizona, Colorado, Virginia, and Texas sent out Christmas Letters detailing the main activities and changes during that year.

                But later, it seemed Christmas letters got a bad rap--like fruitcake. For a long time, I couldn’t see all the fuss over family letters. But one year, I received three. And then, I knew.

                One such missive, tucked inside the first card of the season—a Caspari (NY, Zurich) detail from George Hallowell’s “Trees in Winter,” whose purchase benefited the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston—came December the first.

                It was from a person I’d never met except by telephone and video tape for half of a joint presentation at a regional meeting of writers. When the intro for our 30-minute time slot contained six pages, I shouldn’t have been surprised at the letter.

                It contained 102 lines, single spaced, back and front of a regular sheet. The first 21 lines touted a new book and asked for help in publicizing it.

                The next 33 lines were divided into five paragraphs beginning this way: “I have continued to be active in …,” “I continue my grateful payback to …,” “I continue to exercise six days a week.” “I have enjoyed collecting . . .,” and “I have accepted a position on the board of …,”

                On the back side, the “I” rut cut deeper. “I continue to be involved in the world of …,” and gives the titles of two papers presented during the year.

                The next 40 lines summarized activities—with a spouse of 20 years, their Christmas tree decorations, “all in Star Wars, Star Trek, and NASA ornaments, which would be featured in a major city newspaper.

                The ending asked us again to plug the new publication. A handwritten note ended the letter asking me to be happy in the new endeavor.

                TMI! TMI! Don't do such next year, please!

                The second letter I received that same year began a third of the way down the page topped with a Christmas scene, brought us up-to-date on her mother’s health, their three children/grandchildren and themselves—all in 20 lines. I was glad to hear from this family who’d moved south after all our kids grew up together.

                The third letter, nine lines long, was from a sister who lived and worked in Virginia. They had fostered many children before adopting three. The news involved each member of the family, plus Sis’s church job.

                If all Christmas letters read like hers, no one could fault the practice. Curmudgeons could then disparage the ubiquitous canned Christmas music beginning before Halloween—as well as fruitcake.

        

c 2018, PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR.        

               

Two more days of Christmas--for liturgical folks

                On Christmas Day, I sat quietly—except for scolding Greye about his constant short forays into the frigid attic and back, leaving the door ajar—and reveled in Sunday’s, Christmas Eve day, “Christmas at Couchwood.”

                My four adult children, spouses, and five grown grandchildren—if you can call age 16 “grown”—spent the earlier part of the day with their dad, and the later part with their mom—moi.

                I had already traveled to Tull to church, returning at 11a.m. to finish last-minute cleaning, and perhaps have a chance to sit with the newspaper. Didn’t happen. Oh, I got done what I intended to, with twenty minutes to spare.

                 That included making a batch of mac-and-cheese for a granddaughter who, last Christmas, betook herself to the kitchen, opened the cupboards, spied a box of said product, and—without consulting me—proceeded to do just that. This year, though she knew it was waiting, either she ate too much other stuff, or she forgot. Not to worry, her cousin Billy ate it later that night.

                Everyone came laden with gift bags and Walmart sacks of left-overs from their noon meal in Bryant--as well as additional food–in case we didn’t have enough. My black eye meant explaining (despite the advice from my Canberra blog friend to “don’t explain”) how it happened. I also didn’t do like several Facebook friends jokingly suggested and make up a doozy of a story.

                I tripped over a box of Billy’s stuff that he’d moved “out of the way instead of to his room as I’d asked. He’d do it when he returned from “hanging with friends,” he said, closing the front door behind him.

                I forgot it was there and on my way into the middle of the room, I fell over it, literally sliding face first into the 3-legged tree stand, the tree and the fishbowl-full-of-marbles holding the tree’s stem. The piano leg on the right stopped me as the heavy fishbowl landed above and to the side of my left eye. It felt like my head was in a vise and someone was squeezing.

                Someone asked me if I cried. No. Someone else asked me if I cussed. No. When I stopped sliding, I thanked God I didn’t pass out. I turtle-crawled around to turn off the tree lights because I’d spilled a bottle of water on the hardwood floors, and remembering what the floor folks said, I pulled myself up—I could walk OK--and towel-dried the wood. The table was toast, its three legs akimbo and disembodied from the circular top.

                I’d immediately emailed all children and siblings and BFF (but not Billy) of my accident and assured them I was OK. That happened Thursday night and by Sunday morning, well, it would be my first Christmas with a black eye.

                Once the family was satisfied with my story and my well-being, admired the re-doing of the tree set on an oak TV table, and after we’d decided to share gifts before another round of eating, we settled in. Fireplace was burning (I can’t say “roaring” because gas logs don’t roar), window, snow village and tree lights were glowing, as was this matriarch.

                Three-and-a-half hours later, the Conway bunch left, then the Hot Springs bunch. The local folks stayed a while longer, but not much. Several seemed to think it was bedtime. But it was only 6:30.

                Christmas came a day early at Couchwood, and all was well in my world. I hope it was good for you, too, and continues to hold sweet memories. Blessed Epiphany, and Happy New Year.

c 2018, PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR