More than you ever wanted to know about October

From Wikipedia:

 In common years, January starts on the same day of the week as October, but no other month starts on the same day of the week as October in leap years.

October ends on the same day of the week as February every year and January in common years only.

 In common years, October starts on the same day of the week as May of the previous year while in leap years, October starts on the same day of the week as August of the previous year.

 In common years, October ends on the same day of the week as May of the previous year while in leap years, October ends on the same day of the week as August and November of the previous year.

 In years immediately before common years, October starts on the same day as April and July of the following year while in years immediately before leap years, October starts on the same day of the week as September and December of the following year.

 In years immediately before common years, October ends on the same day of the week as July of the previous year while years immediately before leap years, October ends on the same day of the week as April and December of the following year.

Got that? Ready for more?

The last week in October is the only time of the year when all four major North American Sports leagues schedule games. The National Hockey League is about one month into its 6½ month regular season.

The National Football League is either exactly halfway through its season or within a week of being exactly halfway, the National Basketball Association (?) generally begins its regular season this week.

 Major League Baseball concludes its postseason with the World Series, which last from about a week up to nine days.

Can you stand more?

 The month of October is dedicated to the devotion of the rosary in the Roman Catholic church.

Eric Whitacre composed a piece based on this month, titled “October.” Neil Gaiman wrote a story personifying the month in his collection Fragile Things entitled “October in the Chair.” Ray Bradbury published a collection of short stories titled The October Country in 1955.

          October's birthstones are pink tourmaline and opal. Its birth flower is the calendula.  Zodiac signs for October are Libra (until October 22) or Scorpio (October 23 onwards).

           And finally, a poem: “It Was One of Those Fine October Days” -- It was one of those fine October days / free from summer’s heat and haze/ but not yet gripped by autumn chill. //
            It was one of those fine October days / when the sky’s so clear / you can see the moon /
through the atmosphere / at midday. //
             It was one of those fine October days / when the trees sport yellow and red / instead of everyday summer green. //
             It was one of those fine October days / when one draws a deep breath / and is grateful /
to be resident on Earth. --- Richard Greene (via poemhunter.com)

Mother Nature doesn’t always accede to our plans

Google image: Ozarks

            

                 BFF-Dot-from-Beebe and I have spent the past few days “on vacation.” Planned ‘way back in early August, Navarre Beach, Florida was to be our destination. An off-season, half-price rate made it ultra enticing.

 

               But as the time neared, Karen, the tropical storm, threatened. And came closer. Then closer. Predictions were dire.

 

                The condo owner called and cancelled us. With the rain they’d already had, he said, plus what would come with Karen, Navarre would flood and more than likely cause evacuations. Who wanted to spend an anticipated (Dot had never been to Florida) vacation holed up in some hotel with (possibly) the power off? Even if one’s son lived in the area?

 

              Dot was ready to go somewhere. We lobbed possibilities back and forth: Eureka Springs and Branson were two of them.

 

               “What about the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow?” I asked her. She was accepted earlier through an application process that included ten pages of writing samples, a list of publications and two references.  But, because at that time they required a 2-week minimum stay, she backed out, not needing to leave her place for that long.

 

                I’m an alumna of the writers’ colony, so I said, “Let’s call Linda and see if perchance she has two suites unoccupied/unscheduled. SHE DID!  And for the entire time we intended to be away! Serendipity! The rooms were in separate-but adjacent buildings, which was fine with us.

 

                I boarded Greye and Boots at the animal clinic, and we Taurus-trekked northward to the Ozarks (4 hours) instead of southward (10 hours) to the Florida panhandle.

 

              Even with the next-day’s rain, we both were happily warm and dry in our suites, complete with writing space, wireless hookup, coffeepot, snacks, good lighting—everything a writer needs for a productive getaway. Oh, and our laptops.

 

              Dot slept longer than usual the first night due to the extra walking, climbing and descending stairs, excitement, etc. Plus, she didn’t need to get up for work or to get Son off to work with a lunch. I usually sleep as long as I can anyway, having nothing but cats to cater to.

 

            We wrote and read and emailed and Face-booked. At mealtimes during the weekend, we ate from the residents’ refrigerator that held culinary leftovers—cauliflower, rice, soup, pasta, dilled potato slices, white cake with a lemon curd layer—plus sandwich makings, juices and milks. Or from food we’d both brought along.

 

           By Sunday night, the Corvette Club members had returned to where they were from—or were on the way home. The previous day’s rain had cooled temps down to jacket weather. I’d packed shorts for the beach, but did have two pairs of jeans amongst them. A windbreaker and one long-sleeved blouse were my only warmish duds, so Dot loaned me a denim shirt.

 

          Six other residents have moved in since we came, so this week at the common dinner hour, there were 8 writers around the dining table. Such sessions of good food, fellowship and sharing added to the serendipity of the alternative vacation—

 

                                                    ---the mountains instead of the beach.



BLTs redux

 

                 As promised, here is more of John Kass, Chicago Tribune, on BLTs.

                He calls it the “classically American” sandwich. “Salty, meaty, crispy with lettuce, rich with mayonnaise on thick toasted white bread—salad and meat in one bite.”

                A cursory online search reveals much more than anyone needs/wants to know unless said person is doing a term paper or a “how-to” essay. Or if one is merely interested in the origins of things.

                Kass’s wife Betty grows the tomatoes, and when they’re gone, so is John’s taste for the BLT. Who wants to bite into “pink slabs of tasteless cellulose and pectin?”

                Well, moi, for one. With a dash of salt, they’ll do for us plebian, non-gourmets.

But beware. At Cheddar’s in Little Rock, if you order a double-decker half-sandwich with a side, you’ll get a fourth of a sandwich—hardly worth the trouble of getting it to your mouth. When I asked the waitperson why it was a fourth rather than the advertised half, he said, “because it’s a double decker-- a half of a regular sandwich.

Duh! I won’t be eating there again.

                John Kass cites Paul Virant, chef and restaurant owner, who allows as how the key to the bacon is the way it’s cooked. “Medium crisp is good because it’s contained better in the sandwich. If it’s too crispy, then one bite and you lose the bacon.”

                I disagree. Crisp, pre-cooked bacon is my choice. Break the pieces to fit the bread. Voila! No spilled bacon.

                Tomatoes? Chef Virant says, “The juicer, the better. Big, big tomatoes. Growing your own or buying from a nearby farmers’ market is your best bet.”

                And if you have—as I do—a loving Uncle John who gardens and a sharing Aunt Frances who had to prepare all the produce of said garden, you might be lucky enough to be given a sack of home grown orbs once or twice during the season. Otherwise, Harvest Foods suits me just fine—any time.

                John Kass tells about a food truck that appears frequently around the Chicago Tribune Tower. Their BLTs include bacon, arugula, tomato, avocado and truffle aioli on buttered Texas toast.

                Oh, not for me, please. No avocado. And what in the world is truffle aioli? I went online. Similar to mayonnaise, the ingredients are garlic, kosher salt, lemon juice, egg yolks, olive oil and truffle oil. And the cook needs several appliances, utensils and a goodly amount of time.

                Variations of the BLT exist to please any taste, from the epicurean to the plebian. Or you could “invent” a one-of-a-kind BLT yourself. Some folks, however, believe that recipes aren’t invented, they “evolve.”

                My version would also include cheese and sweet onion.

                John Kass says whatever your pleasure, “don’t skimp on the bacon.”

                That’s good for me. Just so it’s pre-cooked and then heated.

Column/Blog responses and BLTs

 

             Fellow Amity (AR) STANDARD columnist Bill White asked the other day if I received any response from readers. “No,” I answered. “Not from the newspaper readers.”

             But on each week’s publication day (Thursday), I email the column to those not in the reading areas of Clark, Pike, and Montgomery counties, who’ve said they’d like to see it—family and friends. And I DO garner responses from them.

            After the email, I edit it, taking out all mention of the newspaper/editor May, etc. and post it on my prose blog, “pittypatter-pittypatter.blogspot.com. then share it to Facebook. I also receive short comments in that venue.

            So, I suppose I lied to Mr. White, though unwittingly.

            Here is one email response (edited) from poet-friend Dennis. The title: “Four and twenty blackbirds.”

             “ . . . I came home [from an errand] . . . to the aroma of what I hoped was dinner. As I walked into the living room, Frieda came around the corner of the kitchen and said I had scared her. She was munching on something and as she gave me a quick kiss asked what that kiss tasted like. I was near enough to the kitchen to give a quick glance for a hint of what I should say and saw it sitting in the far corner near the still-hot stove. A pear cake, make from windfall pears received as a gift the week before and ripened in a bowl on the fireplace hearth, still cooled in the corner of the counter. The fan over the still-hot stove couldn't suck the cinnamon spice odor out of the kitchen.

            “Instead of four and twenty blackbirds it was four pears in the bundt-pan shape that I sliced, slathered with butter, and ate while reading your pear cooking recipe and thought of how the king must have enjoyed his pie of four and twenty blackbirds, and hoped it was as good as this pear cake.”

 

           I DO have creative reader friends. Thanks, Dennis.

* * * *

 

BLTs

 

            One day recently, the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette published a piece by John Kass of the Chicago Tribune with the benign headline, “Perfect time of year.” I thought I remembered Kass wrote humor, so I read the lead. “Is there anything more classically American than the perfect bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich?”

            This was five minutes after I cupped a fridge-cold half of a “double-decker BLT” in my hand. Said sandwich was left over from a post-concert stop at I-HOP. I’d brought it home in a  Styrofoam box.

            I’m glad no one was around to see me eat the messy-but-still-luscious “breakfast.” Soggy white bread, runny mayo, cold bacon, wilted lettuce/tomatoes--but all the flavors were still there. (As Gayle Glass’s recent blog said, “Waste not; want not.”)

            With a cloth napkin at the ready, I corralled the sandwich in my right hand, leaving my left for plucking a left-over fried cheese stick and one onion ring that my friends “couldn’t possibly eat” from their last-night’s appetizer sampler.

            Suffice it to say, afterward, my right hand was gooey with mayo. I wiped it onto the napkin, which went into the washer, pronto.

            Back to John Kass. Oh, dear. It’ll have to wait till next week. Until then, while the tomatoes are still ripening, build yourself a BLT. Take it to the porch (or yard) swing and add a glass of iced tea.

            Enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

Have you ever washed 7 potholders in one wash load?

 

(Google image)

              

            Working up pears is a messy job—at least the way I do it. A messy, sticky job. But, oh, come winter, it’ll be worth every elbow-bend all the way from picking them off the ground … to cutting the rot/bruise/knots out …  to cutting them into bite-sized pieces/skin on …  to peeling those that are large enough to make slices/halves—all dropped into lemon-juice-laced water to cover …  to cooking … to cleaning up after cooking.

 To prepare for cooking: Drain water off the prepared pears. Lift enough fruit to fill a Pyrex casserole dish or a Pampered Chef glass measuring bowl. Shake two dashes of salt and 6-8 dashes of ground cinnamon on top. Then eye-measure and add some white sugar, then some brown sugar—however much suits your taste. Cover. Put in microwave for 5 minutes. (Mine is a Magic Chef and rotates.)

After 5 minutes, take out and –this was tricky—holding the lid with a potholder, lift it up just enough to slide a large slotted spoon in and stir four times. Cover and cook 5 more minutes. During this time, bring a small bowl over to your workstation.

After this second interval, take a potholder in both hands, move the lid so there’s  a tiny gap between lid and bowl. Pour most of the liquid that has cooked out into the bowl. (This is IMPORTANT unless you want to clean the microwave glass plate after it boils over on the next round.) Stir as before.

Return to the oven for a third 5-minute stint. Afterwards, stir again. By now, the aroma of cinnamon and sugar and pears wafts through the room.

Fourth and last cooking of 5 more minutes. When that’s over, uncover and pour the saved liquid back into the bowl. At this point, you can either cover for a little more internal cooking, or uncover for the cooling to begin. Set the bowl out of the way on a trivet or range burner cover. USE POT HOLDERS.

NOW, instead of doing the next batch immediately, let the microwave rest for 30 minutes. I didn’t do this the first time and cooked 4 batches, one after the other, which equaled 80 minutes. During the last stint of the last batch, the oven heaved a sigh and died. It cooled and came alive again.

When the bowl of your current cooked batch is cool, cover it, wash off any stickiness, especially on the bottom, and let it finish cooling in the fridge. If the intention—as mine is—is to freeze the fruit, the next day, pull the bowl out and spoon the pears into a freezer container. Wipe off the rim before affixing the lid. Slip the containers into your fridge freezer or your chest freezer. If not, leave them in the bowl and spoon on cereal, on ice cream, or eat as a side dish.

Before leaving the kitchen, take a dishrag and a bottle of surface cleaner (I found a Windex vinegar spray) and wipe down everything that is sticky or has stray sugar grains. Then dry off with kitchen towels. You don’t want bugs to ferret out the gooey stuff they enjoy so much.

Then drop all the potholders and cloths into the washer. Rinse off all utensils and either soak them in a dishpan or put them in the dishwasher.

If I were OCD, I’d count the elbow-bends between beginning and end. But counting potholders is easier.

c lovepat press, 2013

Are you a triskaidekaphobic?

 

             It’s been 19 years since I retired from public school music and gifted-education classrooms, and I still stand on the porch the first day of school and wave toward the yellow buses that pass. This year, one lumbered by empty at 7:15.

 Thursday, I was on the porch earlier. Here came a bus at 7 o’clock. It stopped in the valley south of Couchwood and honked. In all my years, I never remember a bus driver taking time to honk for and wait for his riders. But, I decided, if his usual time is 7:15, of course, the boys in the Terry Lynn addition would not be ready. Here they came, looking like Mom had thrown their backpacks at them while they were still tying their shoes. Forget combing their hair.

 Morning traffic had backed up to my hill, and I’ll bet if I could have heard some of those drivers, they would’ve been chewing somebody out.

But things smoothed, and I went back to my newspaper. Uh-oh. Here came the 7:15 bus at 7:07! It cruised up the hill without stopping. I guess the girls who usually ride had gotten a car.

Aww. Here’s the 7:15 bus—right on time. Guess I’d missed the first two on Monday.

All this to say --that one fall Friday before my spring retirement, we had finished our music lesson with time to spare. These were the days that creative and critical thinking exercises were encouraged as part of every discipline in middle school. I had the perfect poser.

After each student had a pencil and paper, I wrote on the board, “What is a “t-r-i-s-k-a-i-d-e-k-a-p-h-o-b-i-c.”?

Many answers dealt with the word itself: someone who eats Triskies, then decks a person and gets sick (Amanda); a person who has an illness requiring fluorescent pink and orange Band-Aids covering the upper body (Leah); a Candid Cameraman who dives to get trick shots (Krystal); one who tries to find a cure for AIDS (Brandy).

Many students knew the meaning of ‘phobic’ and picked up on it: a person who is afraid to eat cheese pizza on Fridays (Edward); one who is scared of a first-aid kit (Angela); … scared of frogs (Marlie); … the dark (Steven); … colors (Doris); … music (Brian); … insects (John Paul).

Others went for the highly-rated, off-the-wall answer: people who scream out for no apparent reason, talk to themselves and their dogs. They sweep the road, but never go out in the town (Vicki); tries to get in touch with three people who can skate backwards (Becky); … from Mars—red, no eyes, no head (Katie); has a toe on his head and a finger on his eye (Summar); translates the language PomTom from Mars (Jennifer).

Michelle thought it was a head doctor. Niesha called it a choir teacher who played many instruments while trying to sing. Jeanette said it was a garbage truck worker.

Bernard, in the Disney movie, “Rescuers,” is a triskaidekaphobic.

There are only two dates in 2013 where—if you ARE one of these people—you might want to watch your step, so to speak. One is tomorrow--Friday--and the other falls on a Friday in December.

Me? Nah, I’m not superstitious, but wait – black cats walk in front of me every day. Maybe I'd better be extra careful tomorrow. 

 

 

 

 

 

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Oh, dear, I need a new post—quick!

 

 

                Here it is Thursday and I have no “leading” for a post. Oh, I have plenty of resources, but everything’s sorta’ glommed together right now.

                There’s my “wall of men”--folks I like to look at and remember when I sit down at the computer—Ed Asner, Neil Diamond, Josh Shaw, Ray and Todd and James and Jonathan, Kid Billy. I'll include Bill W. when I print out his picture. Paul Newman and Michael Douglas and Lou Rawls and Ed Ames --  when I find photos.

                Then, I could write about my first experience at picking up trash that either was dropped on my hill or that blew out of an open garbage hauler. Of all the stuff—checks, badges, Christmas decorations, a trapper-keeper full of papers, a sweater, pencils and pens, a letter from the Health Department—from folks with Alexander addresses. I could write a mystery-- but I won’t.

                Also, I could tell about the writers’ conference at Harding University last weekend. I sold two books, bought one, won three places-- two with money--heard three good speakers, one from Chicago, and visited with many folks. Made some new friends and visited with old friends.

                Of course, my journal is packed with observations, questions, comments, tasks-I’ve-completed, poems, names, three-word sentences, places, church and cemetery names, plus items about WW 2 veterans, snippets from obituaries, new words learned by working the crossword every day—stuff like that. Nothing to make a complete post.

                I could list the books I’ve read and stacked close by to write reviews for Amazon—Marjorie Holmes,’ You and I and Yesterday, Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty, which I re-read to see if I wanted to include it as something to read to a sequel character’s toddler, Angelo. No way, I decided. Then there’s Book Lover’s Devotional,  Jeannette Walls’ The Glass Castle, Porter Shreve’s The Obituary Writer, R. Andrew Wilson’s  Write Like Hemingway, and a poetry book, Solidago: An Altar to Weeds by Charlotte Renk.

                Then, there’s always the subject of cats and my concern as to whether to feed the five black  cats that appeared—and now consider themselves part of the landscape—or to rock them out of my sight. I can’t catch them; there are plenty of places to hide on this hill. I couldn’t kill them, but I would pay to have the vet euthanize them. My three fixed inside/outside males are enough for one person. I’m ambivalent about the others: I don’t want to be hauled up and shamed as being inhumane.

                I mustn’t forget about the pear harvest coming on. I wasn’t sure there would be a very good crop, but there is. I’ve worked up several batches so far and have a large bowl full ready to be cut  in to edible “meat.” Maybe while I sit and peel and gouge and cut, I can think of something for a post. At least it’s worth a try.