Between college terms—getting home projects started

           Mid-week, I will begin the fourth Master of Fine Arts (MFA) class online from University of AR at Monticello. This one is “creative non-fiction” instructed by an out-of-stater, one advantage, the director said, of online classes. Do all these years and weeks of writing columns for The Amity Southern Standard—about 1,100-- count as “creative non-fiction”? I assume so, but with three textbooks, I no doubt will be required to widen my horizons, as I was encouraged to do in the latest poetry class.

        

      

        

                Son drove over from Hot Springs last Friday to help with sanding the original wooden screen door on the south side of the house. During its 86 years, this house had shifted and the door wouldn’t close properly. He bought and brought a spring to add to the turnbuckle already there. The diagonal piece is the turnbuckle. Turnbuckle was a new term for me. [A turnbuckle, stretching screw or bottlescrew is a device for adjusting the tension or length of ropes, cables, tie rods, and other tensioning systems. It normally consists of two threaded eye bolts, one screwed into each end of a small metal frame, one with a left-hand thread and the other with a right-hand thread.]

                After adding a short piece of scrap wood he found in the shed, he closed a gap on one side of the door. Still, there was light between the other side of the door and the frame. After much sanding of the threshold, the door closed better, even with that tiny gap that “no fly or mosquito can get through.”

Eric and I social-distancing. You can see the door that I have to sand & paint.

                Now, to paint the door white to match the other wood parts of this ole’ house. That’s MY job.  I won’t set a date to have it finished, however. Plus, I must buy a sander.

                Last weekend and the first of this week were busy. First off, I usually stop for the week’s supplies on the way home from church, but last Saturday, since I was expecting guests early in the week, and since I had a $5-off coupon for that day, I decided to shop. Guess what? I completely forgot the $5 coupon. It was clipped to my list, which I stuffed into my pants pocket. Duh!

                Today was final cleaning and prepping for tomorrow’s writers meeting here. Only four of us, so we can social distance with no trouble.

                Then, Wednesday, the fall term begins. I’m s-o-o-o-o thankful I don’t have to travel to an on-sight classroom.

                Stay safe, all!

c 2020, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Poaching unripe ground fall pears

Unripe, ground-fall pears

                I swore I wouldn’t do anything with this season’s pear crop and have offered the fruit to several folks. However, the day before son Eric came to mow the acre, I picked up the ground-fall pears—small, unripe—so he wouldn’t have to mow over them. They filled the bottom of a plastic dishpan which I brought up to the house. What could be done with them, I wondered, besides throwing them out for the rabbits and squirrels and chipmunks? My curiosity got the better of me and I went to Google: how about poaching them, eHow.com’s article suggested. The only food I’d ever heard of poaching were eggs, which I never actually did.

                So I bit. Washed the fruit, layered one deep in a Dutch oven, covered them with water, set the pot on the stove, then read the directions: “Steep the pears in a fragrant bath of fruit-forward white wine (no), water, sugar, scraped vanilla bean (dumped a bit of liquid vanilla instead), and cinnamon (one stick).” I tasted the “water.” Not sweet enough: added more sugar, then the last of the maple syrup, the rest of a bottle of cranberry juice, and an instant package of Tang. Mixed. Tasted better, sweeter.

                Turned on the burner and when the liquid boiled, I lowered the heat so it could “simmer for 45 minutes.” Nothing about covering the pot, so I didn’t. But I set two timers and stayed fairly close to the kitchen area during that time.

                When the timers sounded, I turned off the heat, pulled out from a lower cabinet a plastic-wrapped round silver-ish tray that I’d never used in the fourteen years I’ve lived here, covered it with a drying towel and placed each pear on it. The skins were shiny instead of dull like when they went into the brew. The liquid had cooked down to a small amount.

pears after poaching

                After they cooled, I pulled out a cutting board and a serrated knife and began cutting each in quarters, removing the stem/seeds/hard spots (rare). Of course, I had to taste the first one. It was semi sweet, both skin and pulp. When all were cut, I plopped them back into what liquid was left, pulled down the largest casserole dish I owned. Sure enough, it held both the fruit and the juice. But barely. If I’d trembled while putting the covered bowl into the fridge, it would likely have spilled. It didn’t.

                The recipe continues: “The poached pears can be served warm, cold or at room temperature, by themselves or accompanied with poaching syrup (?). Vanilla-bean ice cream and some additional wine for zing add an extra note of indulgence.” Probably not, but perhaps. When my Florida son comes for the weekend, we’ll see if my experiment was worth crowing about. And perhaps repeating.

The fruit is crisp and crunchy. And sweet. I call it a success. 

c2020, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA