Venison, tuna, and salmon, oh my!

                Not that I want to join a recipe site, but when I attempt something new, I like to share.  Please allow me to tell you how I used the other half of a frozen stick of HOT WITH PEPPER venison sausage, a gift from my hunter son in Hot Springs

                The first half stick I used in a vegetable soup that was so seasoned with the sausage that no salt or pepper was needed. The second half, after thawing of course, I sliced into patties and fried, ala regular sausage.

                Too hot! Too hot! Someone suggested chili. So here’s my “Venison Sausage Chili” (using what’s on hand in the pantry.)

                In a plugged-in crock pot ( wedding gift in 1960) set on “low,” pour in a 15-ounce can of tomato sauce (I don’t remember why I bought this unusual type of tomato). Add a 15-ounce can of beef chili with beans, and a 14.5-ounce can diced tomatoes.

                Sprinkle liberally dried onion flakes (in lieu of an onion) and add eight patties of the sausage, cut into bite-sized pieces. If chili is too thick, add tomato juice. Cover and let “cook” or heat till suppertime.

                By suppertime, with only a taste, the heat tingled my tongue too much. Something else had to be added. Aha! Research said potatoes and dairy would lessen the heat. Luckily, I had a can of potatoes and a can of corn in the pantry. I dumped veggies and liquid into the mix, plus an unused packet of au gratin sauce.

                Now, it’s more of a soup than chili and it’s still hot, but with a cold drink at hand and cheddar cheese chunks added, it is manageable. And it’s lasted quite a while. Alas, I have one more stick of the hot sausage, but I found that Becky likes hot venison sausage. She’s already come by for it.

                Keeping to the subject of meat, I’ve lately read and studied Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to a Large Tuna in a Market” as part of a poetry workshop. Neruda is Chile’s most famous poet. I own his Book of Questions and may order his book of odes. Odes are praises to something or someone and when he saw a lone fish among the vegetables, it struck him oddly enough to write a poem about it. I envisioned a roundish, squatty fish, but no, it was a bullet tuna, long, narrow and dark. And dead. Then appearing as a clue in a crossword puzzle, a 3-letter “bluefin.” The answer? “Ahi” pronounced “ah-hee.”

                My aging cat, Greye, suddenly last fall, refused to eat the dry food he’s eaten all his longish life. One day, he brought the bottom half of a rabbit to the door apparently wanting to bring it inside. NO WAY! I threw the poor animal’s remains as far as I could. From that day to this, Greye will not eat dry food. Whether his mouth and gums were sore from eating the front half of a rabbit, I’ll never know and he’ll never tell, but I decided to try canned food. After several different fish combination cans, he’s settled on Friskies Salmon Dinner. Nothing else.

                Shall I write an ode to canned salmon?

c 2020, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Cajun potato salad for a Louisiana-type meal

Sis Carolyn and Pat in Cajun country, but no photo of potato salad

                Recently I was part of a group invited to a potluck luncheon in which the host announced the main dishes would be gumbo and po’boys. When the hostess mentioned other possibilities for us to bring, the first thing she said was “potato salad.” I immediately volunteered. Not because I knew that potato salad along with rice, was sometimes dropped into the gumbo. No, I call myself a good potato salad maker, and I love to eat it.

                I’d eaten gumbo twice in my life—once in Louisiana and once when friends brought over a meal. On the appointed day, the group found—by scent–– the sausage and chicken in a roux with rice and the potato salad next to the gumbo.

                By the end of the meal, only a cup or so of potato salad remained. I asked the hostess, a Louisiana “girl,” if she would take it. She readily agreed. “I love it,” she said. Only one other woman commented that she liked it. Men don’t think to say such, do they?

                Here’s how I made it: Since it was a Cajun-type meal, I Googled (Bing-ed on my computer) “Cajun Potato Salad” and copied off the recipe that I thought I could manage. It is by HeatherFeather at www.food.com/recipe/cajun’style’potato-salad-202238. But, as usual, I adapted it to what I had on hand.

                “8 small potatoes, peeled and cut into fourths, boiled and still warm.” My adaptation: I prepared two packages of instant, Idahoan-brand mashed potatoes. I’ve discovered these are as good as Schwan’s, which, until I “divorced” them, were a freezer staple.

                “6 large hard-boiled eggs, still warm.” Why still warm, I wondered, since the event was the next day and not the next hour. My adaptation: I already had four boiled eggs; I boiled four more.

                “3 large dill pickles, chopped.” I’d bought a quart of kosher whole dills for a Thanksgiving relish tray, but I didn’t need them. Perfect! These were not large; I had no way of telling how many would equal three large ones, so I estimated.

                “3 tablespoons yellow mustard (or more).” I measured the amount called for, but with only a little bit left, I emptied the container.

                “1/4 cup canola oil.” I used what I had on hand.

                “1/4 to ½ cup mayonnaise (or more).” I didn’t measure; I rarely measure.

                “salt to taste; pepper to taste.” No need for this; potatoes are seasoned already.

                Here’s where the Cajun part came in: After peeling the eggs, cut in half, take out the yolks, chop the whites up and add with the pickles, to the potatoes. Done. “Mash the egg yolks, add oil, mustard and mayo and mix till smooth. Pour this mixture over the potato mixture and toss to coat. Chill well before serving.” Done. I refrigerated it in the mixing bowl covered with a plate until time to leave. Then I would transfer it to a large Fostoria crystal bowl.

                I’ll probably use this recipe-with-adaptations if and when I make potato salad again. 

Part of an earlier Jacksonville mission team at UMCOR in Cajun country checking school bags

c 2020, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

The book world is full of compendiums

                And yet a writers’ group to which I USED to belong refused to critique MINE. After that-- to prove a point to myself-- I searched for book collections of trivia, sayings, quizzes, quotations, etc. And I found many such volumes.

One year, in Eureka Springs at Echo, a thrift store, I found two assemblages, “The Most Brilliant Thoughts of All Time (in Two Lines or Less)” edited by John M. Shanahan, and “The 2548 Best Things Anybody Ever Said,” selected and compiled by Robert Byrne. Both are more than an inch thick.

Let’s see how far down the alphabet we get with a sampling of Shanahan’s collection of brilliant thoughts.

A – Adversity introduces a man to himself. –Anonymous.

B—Better make a weak man your enemy than your friend. –Josh Billings [Henry Wheeler Shaw}, 1818-1885.

C –Conscience is the inner voice that warns us somebody may be looking. –Henry Louis Mencken, 1880-1956.

D –Distrust all those who love you extremely upon a very slight acquaintance and without any visible reason. –Lord Philip Dormer Stanhope Chesterfield, 1694-1773.

E—Everybody wants to be somebody: Nobody wants to grow. –Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1749-1834.

F –Fortune does not change men; it unmasks them.—Suzanne Necker, 1739-1794.

G—Good families are generally worse than any others.—Anthony Hope [Anthony Hope Hawkins], 1863-1933.

H—He who is most creative conceals his sources the best.—Anonymous.

I – If you don’t bring Paris with you, you won’t find it there.—John M. Shanahan, 1939- ––.

J –Jesters do oft prove prophets. – William Shakespeare, 1564-1616.

K –Knowledge can be communicated but not wisdom. – Herman Hesse, 1877-1962.

L –Love of fame is the last thing even learned men can bear to be parted from. –Cornelius Tacitus, c.56-120.

M – Men are not hanged for stealing horses, but that horses may not be stolen. – George Savile, Marquess de Halifax, 1633-1695.

N—Nobody forgets where he buried the hatchet. –Frank McKinney “Kin” Hubbard, 1868-1930.

O – One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. –Oscar Wilde, 1854-1900.

P –People hate those who make them feel their own inferiority.—Lord Philip Dormer Stanhope Chesterfield, 1694-1773.

Q—Quarrels would not last long if the fault were only on one side.—Francois, Duc de La Rochefoucauld, 1613-1680.

R—Rudeness is the weak man’s imitation of strength. – Eric Hoffer, 1902-1983.

S—Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk.—Henry David Thoreau, 1817-1862.

T—That all men are equal is a proposition to which, at ordinary times, no sane individual has ever given his assent. –Aldous Leonard Huxley, 1894-1963.

U—Upper Classes are a nation’s past; the middle class is its future.—Ayn Rand, 1905-1982.

V—Vows begin when hope dies.—Leonardo da Vinci, 1452-1519.

W—Wit makes its own welcome and levels all distinctions. –Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-1882.

X—Experience is not what happens to a man. It is what a man does with what happens to him.—Aldous Huxley (see T above).

Y—You cannot have power for good without having power for evil too. Even mother’s milk nourishes murderers as well as heroes.—George Bernard Shaw, 1856-1950.

Z—Zest for living is an antidote to dying.—Pat Laster, after searching in vain for a Z word, 1936-––.

 By the way, my compendium was published in 2019 by Cahaba Press: A COMPENDIUM OF JOURNAL JOTTINGS: A Sourcebook for Writers. It's available in softback and e-book at Amazon.

c 2020, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Happy New Year! (the new liturgical church year: Advent)

In liturgical churches, the four weeks preceding Christmas—called Advent—is a time to celebrate –and prepare for --the coming of Jesus. The following devotional was written last year and published in a booklet of Advent readings collected, compiled and printed by my friend Dorothy Hatfield of Beebe, who does this each year as her gift to the church and community.
            It was titled, “Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus.”

 Advent after Advent after Advent, we sing this 267-year-old hymn by Charles Wesley.

And Christmas after Christmas after Christmas, we sing “We Would See Jesus,” written in 1913. During the church year, we sing “Turn Your eyes Upon Jesus,” from a poem written in 1922.

                Well, folks, I thought I saw Jesus! Of all places, Jesus was sitting in a booth in Benton’s La Hacienda. He was alone and facing us as we were led to our booth behind him. He was young, with kind eyes, straight brown hair falling to his shoulders--he could have stepped out of the picture of Jesus found in nearly every church and in many homes.

 His laptop was open. He looked up and smiled as we passed. I glanced back and saw what appeared to be a screen of emails.

                The waiter took our order, and I goofed by asking for one thing when I meant another.

In a minute or two, Jesus turned in his booth and genially commented about my mistaken order. We laughed.

                Once during our meal, I looked up and Jesus was gone. Had he vaporized or “vibrated to another level,” as a friend described a disappearance? The word we use is “ascended.”

                No, Jesus was visiting with people at a nearby table. He might have been preaching, but I doubt it. He returned to his booth and laptop. As we left, I caught his eye and waved. He said, “Have a nice day.”

                J. Edgar Park, nearly a century ago, took the first line from another person’s hymn, “We Would See Jesus, for the shadows lengthen,” and wrote his hymn to express “youth, promise and sunshine and an inner glimpse of the Young Man of Nazareth living and moving among us.”

                What if? Some believe angels live among us, why not Jesus, whom this young man resembled?

Why not? Crowds weren’t flocking around. I wish I’d passed my napkin to him for an autograph. I wish I’d asked him if other folks had mentioned his resemblance to Our Savior. Sigh . . .

This experience led me from pray-singing “Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus,” through “We Would [hope to] see Jesus,” to “I’ve Just Seen Jesus,”  to the mantra, “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus, and... find that the things of earth” are mere trifles.

During this Advent season, this run-up to Christmas, will we see Jesus in others? Will others see Jesus in us?

c PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Still appreciating the invention of Willis Carrier

                Musing near the end of summer, I see some gratifying changes within this 87-year-old house, that one person thinks may have been a Sears home. You know, from the Sears catalog, like the Jim Walter homes Dad helped build during part of his career. I’ve actually seen an old catalog, and yes, Sears DID sell homes. I’ll never know whether this house was indeed a Sears home, and I don’t care. What difference would it make if it were?

                With the brick and rock façade it would be difficult to install central heat and air. Six window ACs “live” on the main floor—three in the bedrooms, one in the small back room we originally called the breakfast room, but which now holds a table of African violets, a small round table with matching chairs, a vanity-turned-storage and a west-window AC. The former hallway across from the room itself houses the cat’s necessaries, the shredder and the hamper.

                Before new windows were installed, which meant removing the ACs from the spaces, then replacing them, the sunroom-cum-office AC was moved by the window crew from a south window to an east one, visible from the yard. No problem.

                The living room unit also faces east and protrudes onto the concrete porch about halfway down its length. It’ll soon be time to decorate the protrusion with a large basket of cones, colored corn, dried gourds and silk flowers. But that’ll be AFTER it cools down enough NOT to need the AC. Last night's thunderstorm and rain cooled things down enough that it was pleasant to sit in the swing this morning and continue reading Ciardi's "How Does a Poem Mean."

                With the installation of new windows all around and even upstairs, and with five window ACs running from noon till bedtime, I was surprised at the lower electric bills. Of course, that was one of the reasons for replacing the 87-year-old ones that rattled and rolled in the least bit of wind.

                A smattering of AC history reveals that during 1948, “crude air conditioning systems showed up with . . . hoopla in top-of-the-line Detroit cars.” (Paul Dickson, “From Elvis to E-Mail.”) Reader’s Digest’s “The Origins of Everyday Things” says, “The first true air conditioner, featuring humidity control, powered ventilation, as well as mechanical refrigeration, was patented in 1902 by the American inventor Willis Carrier.” And, “The addition of a dust filter in 1906 to improve the air in textile mills led to the term ‘air conditioning’.”

                Online, I discovered that while most in the U. S. have air conditioning, almost no one in Germany has. At least, not yet. “By letting people in overheated climates concentrate on their work and get a good night’s sleep, air conditioning has played a big part in driving global prosperity and happiness over the past few decades – and that revolution has still barely begun. About half of Chinese households have this modern tool, but of the 1.6 billion people living in India and Indonesia, only 88 million have access to air conditioning at home, Bloomberg New Energy Finance noted in a recent report.” (from Bloomberg News, June, ’19)

                Will climate change affect our need for comfort and our method for achieving it ? We shall see. In the meantime--or at the same time--let's enjoy the changing of the "guard" from summer to autumn.

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

               

               

Going back to college after 40 years--quite a challenge

                                                    Intro to Graduate Studies textbooks

          And that’s just getting approved for an online graduate course, which application called for three things: a 10-page, double-spaced selection of my poetry (which was the easiest thing to do); write an essay about why I thought I’d be a good MFA candidate; and the hardest part: a critical analysis of an aspect or element of a piece of literature. I WAS A MUSIC MAJOR! before turning to poetry and other types of writing! But I researched and cogitated several days before deciding how to frame the piece, which, luckily, was to be only three pages, double-spaced. I chose Robert Frost's "A Tuft of Flowers" as my subject. The effort paid off. I was accepted to the program.

                Then came the act of enrolling in the university, which meant sending transcripts. I’d kept a folder for transcripts, so I picked out one from Hendrix and the other from UAF and mailed them in.  When they hit the Admissions office, Stormy called or emailed saying, no, they had to be ordered from the institutions themselves. So I did, emailing after finding the sites, the particular department. Both places quickly and nicely told me how and where to get them. (Would they even HAVE transcripts back that far???) I ordered PDF copies and paid for them. Two days later, emails said they’d been sent and received. So now I was enrolled with an ID number, a UAM password and University email address.

                An email from the Cashier’s office saying I had till the ‘27^th of August at 3 p.m. to get my bill paid or to make arrangements. She told me where to go: Weevilnet. What to do: put in all my numbers and finish the process. Couldn’t get anything to work. The IT girls laughed at me, but one accessed the cashiers office and told me the amount of my bill. She shocked me by saying the $1200+ cost showed a “senior citizen waiver” and was . . . zero!!   The IT “boss” gave me directions and the email for the cashier’s office for a “finalization.” That figure was verified, though the MFA director told me earlier that graduate classes meant a payment. She emailed her dean, but to this day, I haven't received a notice of payment due.

                With the arrival of my second text for the beginning class, I emailed my professor (as it turned out, the director of the MFA program) telling her that after Labor Day, I'd be ready to "roll."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the term started last week," the professor emailed. EEK! No one told me! Admissions was "supposed to," she said. So already I was behind--a place I'd never been before.

 On Labor Day, I did host my high school class’s 65^th reunion at Couchwood, and the next day, I began catching up on my three assignments--already late. Thanks to Kathy Boone, I have one of them posted. The second one, a bibliography of  "20 Works Consulted" will go in Thursday, and I'll begin reading the second chapter in the Barry text for the third one.

          A church friend asked me "Why in the world are you doing this?" "Because I can," I answered, partly truthfully. We shall see. It's a 48 credit-hour course. My FB friends have been super encouraging, for which I am grateful.

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

               

A Week on the Gulf Coast

     Youngest and oldest child, Annamarie & Gordon

            The first eight days of June were spent either driving to/from or in Pensacola Beach for a family gathering that hadn’t happened since 2011. That was when the Florida granddaughter graduated from high school. This trip was the choice of another granddaughter who’d graduated earlier this May. Her family of three, my daughter’s family of four (including a boyfriend), and me, with the Florida family and a surprise visit from the celebrant’s brother, made a group of 12, which, in restaurants, usually meant two tables—one for the parents/grandparent, and one for the young adults.

       
          Our place was a Regency Cabana unit with two floors. Turns out my bedroom was on the main floor and the others’ were upstairs. I lucked out for sure. 

Main floor, deck behind us, kitchen in front

           The first place we ate was Flounders--us and a zillion others! A 30-minute wait was softened by a glass of Riesling, watching others come in, register, then find waiting spots—like we had done. Soon, we were ushered to a place on the beach/ Sound side where we could be entertained (as if we needed entertainment) by volleyball players, children throwing sand, loud music, and loud talking.      Three of us split a piled-high plate of nachos, and even then, we only ate half the food. My eldest grandson picked up the tab.

          All but two of our party spent Monday morning on the Gulf beach under a Tennessee-orange tent in lawn chairs.  Several of the young folks enjoyed the water, jumping the larger, pounding waves. The beach was littered with tents of various sizes and shapes, and families, also various sized and shaped.

          That evening, we re-dressed in our white-shirt-khaki-pants uniform for a family photo shoot. The venue changed, which meant a long slog through four-inch white sand to the next boardwalk. I’d worn white canvas “tennis shoes” (the old, old kind) and had bought my clothes at Walmart several weeks earlier. Other white shirts were lace, crop tops, button ups, polos—and pants were short shorts, long shorts, capris.

         The shoot included every possible configuration of family imaginable. Granddaughter had brought her cap and gown, and many poses of her were shot—in the sand, with the Gulf background, etc.

Granddaughter, the graduate. So proud.

               c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA