Really, I'm a Bad Boy

I've often written I read my Kindle in church. This isn't an endorsement of such behavior;  simply the facts of my short attention span during the service. To all you sinners out their - knock it off. Don't follow my poor example.

Anyhow, here's a picture I snapped last Sunday of my Kindle...what you can't see is Sweet Wife's tiny and gentle flicks to my side nor her elbow planted firmly in my ribcage - she's mean like that.

I was reading for the umpteenth time, Winter. (Or is it Deep Winter, by Thomas Sherry?) Google it if you're interested. Again, sit straight and give full attention to the minister. I'm sure he'd appreciate it.

Hey, beats my behavior as a teen when in church I'd smuggle copies of Henry Miller novels into church. My mother never had a clue.

Stephen 

Sunday

I promised I'd attend. If the candles flicker and dim when I enter I'll sneak back outside and wait on her. It's risky.

I'll let you know.

Later today.

Stephen

Bits & Pieces

One of my nice customers, an older gentleman, came into the shop yesterday and placed a half-pint of his home canned jelly on my counter. It was green. Said, "Its kinda hot."

Seems his new hobby is home gardening and he leans heavily towards peppers. He likes to jar the fruits of his labors.

I smiled and said thanks. He continued, "Its my third batch. First two were too mild." We Southern folk like our food with zip.

This morning, after I built my first pot of coffee, I removed the cover from my forty year old toaster and slipped an English muffin inside. When the muffins were nice and brown I spread butter and a wee bit of his jalapeno jelly on it. Took a tentative taste. Waited.

Zing...

Love it. I broke a rule and had another muffin but this time I slapped a big glob over both sides. He and I need to talk recipes.

*****

Sweet Wife is late. She left for church at 0800 and it's half past 1300, she should have been home over an hour ago. Seems I've been made a widower by the church.

I don't begrudge her the peace she receives from her worship nor the friendships she has made since she joined her church. Lord knows she deserves peace in her life. She loves her church and Bible study.

But, it seems of late her church affairs take far more of her time than even I get....which makes me a jealous husband. She's my best friend. We still hold hands when out in public...silly, I know, but there you have it. We've been married over thirty years.

I'm about to break a rule and post a picture of Sweet Wife. Here she is on a recent visit to an Atlanta hair salon. She's just had her hair ripped from her head. Isn't she a cute little thing. 

Now, back to the subject of church. She also, I think its called, tithes. She gives our money to the church on a weekly basis. Fine. Again, it makes her happy to give the minister a new Lincoln every year and a free home all while he retains his salary tax free.  Nice job if you can get it...

I work for my money. I'm not a church man. Yes, I do believe in our Lord. But, concept of church isn't on my radar. The building, that is...

On my maternal side of the family both my great-grandfathers were ministers. Baptist to boot. My paternal side were Catholics from Ireland. I took after my father. We say hello in the liquor store.

Back to the cash. This morning as I sat at my desk deep in a pile of statements, writing checks, I noticed a debit in our check book for double her weekly church payment. Double.

Is it possible the ministers needs have increased since last week. Has the church's toilet broken. Perhaps their bell tower is scheduled for a fresh white wash, I don't know, but this I can tell you requires a long sit down and chat.

The church widower isn't happy.

(If you don't hear from me soon call 911)


*****

I built a nice pot of bean soup last night. It simmers, waits, as it gently calls my name. I debate on whether I should or should not fire a rue as an addition to the pot. Rue gives flavor and richness to bean soup. Yet, the soup holds bell pepper, onion and garlic with half a small ham. I've yet to test for salt and pepper.

White or yellow rice...we'll see.

Corn bread for sure....

My demands are small.

*****

The song of the cicada has about played out.

This morning while out for my Sunday paper I stood and listened for several minutes, only to remember. The music of the cicada is the song of late summer and its fast fading away.

Take care out there.

Stephen
 
 

Two Good Days

She's in the kitchen, singing. I like that. She's happy and content after a nice meal. I made her favorite, my sauteed fish with an onion and wine sauce served with rice. Fresh asparagus steamed in olive oil, butter, red wine vinegar with just a tab of butter.

Business at the shop has been good for the last two days, too. Me, all smiles. The rain has given us a brief break. With luck our trench foot will heal.

Now for a quiet evening of soft music and a good book.

If the urge hits I might sneak over to Ebay, or some other site, and try to find a piece of old silver.

I face a ton of yard work tomorrow. After this weeks storms I need to climb back onto the roof and blow the pine straw and leaves and broken limbs back to ground - clean the gutters too. The grass needs to be cut and bailed. If you have need for hay, call me.

I feel so good I might accompany my wife to church in the morning. Really, it's possible. I'll call ahead and give warning. It's unsettling when the candles flicker and dim when I enter the sanctuary. I'd hate for some old lady to faint.

Then I wouldn't feel this good. 

Stephen
 

Bits & Pieces

Our wind chimes are in full song. Our weather has turned with pregnant gray skies filled with dark clouds and the wind has increased and it's slightly cooler.This new weather is a very welcome change.

I mentioned, just a few minutes ago, on Rev. Paul's blog that we have azaleas in bloom which signifies our weather is far too warm for the season. My truck is now painted a sickly green from pine pollen. Young women bandy about in bikinis.

Okay, it isn't all bad.

*****

As I've mentioned in past pieces I seldom attend church with my lovely wife. I've know for a very long time she's felt abandoned on the pew. A few days ago a young minister came into the shop and we had a cup of coffee and as is the way of some clergy he asked if I attended worship services. He didn't flinch at my response.

I refrained, as he was a customer, from asking him to mind his own business; besides he seemed like a nice man. Soon enough he asked the same question of my family. I excused myself and jerked another cup of coffee returned and took a seat alongside and explained my situation. Guess you could say I felt guilty. So be it.

Since he was young and eager I related to him as I have to you, dear reader, and we chatted for several minutes. Long story short I went to church this morning.

She'd left the house for 'Sunday School.' I hadn't yet resolved to a plan of action. I had a coffee, read my morning paper and soon, in my minds eye, pictured my lonely wife pewed in sorrow. I sighed, rose and hit the shower. I selected a wool tie (with a waterfowl pattern if you really need to know) grabbed one of my camelhair sport coats and sent her a text. It read, 'be there soon.'

I parked under an oak and stepped from my truck and slipped a small carry piece on my belt and walked toward the church. Up the steps and there she stood, all smiles. She'd waited. She took my hand and lead me towards the middle of the church. It's a big church. I glanced back at the rear row. I felt vulnerable.

The candles neither flickered nor dimmed.

When the congregation stood for hymns she sang like a angel. Her visage glowed. She was happy and we held hands.

Then, the power failed.

There was a momentary stunned silence before the group in unison continued the song. Afterwards, in the dim light of the stained windows, Sweet Wife turned to me with a look...

I said, "I warned you."

Stephen  

A Gray Day and Bacon

Earlier I mentioned a pork roast awaited my attention. I've since placed her to bed. She's a small roast, a lean pork loin, and will make us very happy later this evening.

As far as preparation we first begin with, of course, bacon. Just a few slices, cut into thirds, and allowed to render.

If you are afraid of bacon (leave now) olive oil is acceptable. As the bacon sizzles put a hitch into your britches and prep an onion and more than a few cloves of garlic. Remember, my roast is a baby so I only used one large onion, and as you chop, don't forget the bacon. If it burns you'll be required to move to some ungodly place, like New York City.

When bacon has given all its wonderful fat remove and sit aside.

Now, break out the flour and season the roast to your taste. I use the basics, salt, pepper and Cajun spices.

Now brown the roast. Take your time, be patient. You want all sides caramelized.

Don't forget the sides and ends of the roast.

Boring stuff, huh. I know, but I'm bored. Anyway, as the roast takes on its tan, grab some small potatoes, wash and quarter. Find a few carrots and place them on standby, and mushrooms if you have a few hidden away in the back of the fridge. Grab the stock and get ready.

After the roast has finished set it aside. At this point you should remove the excess fat - leave about three tablespoons and add your chopped onions, and after a bit, the garlic. Caramelize, or at least give them enough time to  clarify.

Note, seldom, if ever, do I use a high flame. The gas setting is normally kept below medium. If you use electric (sorry about that) I can't help you with your heat settings but keep the heat under control. Burnt bacon fat lends an awful taste to your meal.

When the onion mixture has finished its dance add a bit of flour. It's time to make a light roux. Increase the flame and stir like a madman. It will thicken. When your roux has the consistency of glue pour in about two cups of stock and again stir like crazy...please don't burn. As far as stock, use what's available but try and keep it on the light side. Chicken or vegetable will suffice. Beef stocks richness tends to overpower the light flavors of pork, so if you are stuck with beef stock cut it with water.

Now, add back the bacon (go ahead a eat one piece of meat candy if you wish) and the pork roast. Pour the potatoes and carrots around its edges and top with the mushrooms. If you have a rosemary plant, dash outside and cut a couple of sprigs, it works well with the roast. Boost the flame and bring the pot to a boil. Reduce to a simmer (I lower the flame and use a simmer plate) and wait a few hours.

There, she's all snug in her bed. 

Serve with your favorite side dishes. A sweet pork loin sure makes a gray day bright.

*****

When Sweet Wife arrived home from church this morning she walked into the kitchen and stood and watched me prep the meal. She even pinched a piece of my bacon. I asked if she'd enjoyed the service.

"Yes, we had the Last Supper."

Me, "Huh?"

We then went on to have a great debate. I asked why she thought she'd had, 'The Last Supper,' and being the smart ass I am mentioned perhaps she meant breakfast. I ducked.

I said, perhaps you meant Communion. She said no the church's handout indeed referred to the act as The Last Supper.

 

I then said (remember above self-description) maybe they'd served dinner. She then reached for a wooden spoon...I did not move quickly enough...it hurt.

Okay, all joking aside, did she win the argument? I believe the Lord's Supper and Communion are one and the same. I just think Communion is easy on the ears...I mean, come on, to serve supper an hour after breakfast.

You decide.

*****

Late last night (I don't sleep very well) I flipped through the offerings of NetFlix and came upon a show titled, 'Foyle's War.'  Before I knew what had happened it was well after zero dark thirty. This is a very well written show and I (as Sally Field said) like it. Period piece. Give it a try.

Stephen




  




 

A Day Of Rest

This morning after church I spent an hour or so building a large pot of chili. As I worked I glanced outside my kitchen window and watched a very wet squirrel run along our back fence on his way towards its hickory tree and nest. I chuckled and continued to work accompanied by the music of rain and wind.

It's this wind and rain that has me cooped inside and not able to work on my project...wet and paint are not compatible, which is fine. After all, its just a hobby - like this blog, which I'm sad to say seems to have lost its purpose.

Hence, the chili.

I've noticed chili has a subtle scent...and tends to build in intensity as it simmers. At first, after all the raw ingredients are composed and mingled together and you've thrown in a pinch of salt and a dash of your secret spices, the dishes tangy smell is light and holds close to itself and doesn't perfume the  whole of the kitchen.  But, after a few hours over low flame and while you're reading a novel or about the house at other chores you'll find yourself swimming with chili peppers and onions, like a walk down a wooded path bordered by jasmine, its inescapable.

*****

While I composed in the kitchen Sweet Wife went about a few chores of her own. She bundled together a few items for the wash, dusted a ceiling fan, and changed our bed sheets; she went towards flannel saying it was time as it's October and since we both like flannel sheets I didn't argue. Besides, she believes she's the boss.

When she finished she came into our family room and began to watch a movie. A chick flick titled, 'Message in a Bottle.' A standard tear jerker. An hour or so later I walked in to find her fast asleep. She's lovely when she naps. Due to her back she naps while upright and the tilt of her head makes me wince in pain. As she sleeps I tiptoe.

I've shut down the movie and now its quiet with only the sound of the wind and the air conditioner, and of course, me tapping away on this keyboard. I like quiet Sundays. It reminds me of my childhood when we'd all gather on my parent's front porch for seasonal activities. Spring and early summer would find us shelling fresh peas or beans or shucking ears of corn. Deep summer, in the heat, we'd have the old hand cranked ice cream churn whirling away with my mother's homemade peach ice cream inside. Autumn was likely to find us plucking the feathers from game birds, mostly quail and duck, for the oven. Winter was citrus.

 Our home was surrounded by orange groves interspersed with the odd grapefruit and tangerine tree. Since I was forced labor during the winter, hired to fire the wood and oil pots during those rare winter freezes, I was allowed to pick as much citrus as I wanted and could use as long as I didn't waste the bounty. Nothing, and I mean nothing, went to waste. My mother loved fresh squeezed orange juice and it was my job to gather at least a bushel every Saturday afternoon for a Sunday front porch squeezing session.

I remember sticky sweet pulp and its acid favor and the way my mother's dress bunched between her legs and my brother's laughter when I'd chunk a wet glob of fruit in his direction. The taste and smell of the rind which I loved to nibble and the way the yellow jackets gathered for their share of the sugar loaded juice and the white enameled pan used for the gathering of the precious liquid. I remember how my mother carefully funneled the juice into her old gallon canning jars and how the next morning I'd steal into the kitchen and take the now ice cold blue bottles and carefully sip the most perfect nectar on God's green earth.

I remember how we'd spread the rind on newspaper and place it to dry under the hot sun and then gather it into feed sacks for cattle feed. I still remember those cold gray mornings as I lugged those same sacks to feed lots, the rind since fortified with molasses and other herbs, and how when the feed was thrown into the stalls it gave off the now intensified odor not unlike mahogany, dense and sweet and smoky.

 
If you've spent anytime at all on a country farm I'm sure you too can remember those early mornings with the tangy scent of wood smoke, those faint traces of some old farm wife hard at work at her woodstove baking fresh biscuits as the country ham sizzles in cast iron and she readies her coffee for the redeye gravy. I remember it. The far off slam of a screen door that travels so well in the cold air, the faint train whistle, the forlorn cry of geese as they pass over the creek on their way to a nearby now brown cornfield.

Remember, just after a shot at a covey of quail, the whiff of gun powder and the way the Hoppe's Number Nine never seems to wash off your gloves. How the frost killed grass crunched under your boots as you moved towards the fence line after the dogs. Lunch under a pine tree that consisted of those little cans of mystery meat and crackers and a thermos of coffee. The wonderful weight of birds tucked away into your vest and how you'd always stop and gather spent shells of red and green and yellow, now faded but still markers to long lost hunts of the past.

Remember the weight and soft feel of the stock of your favorite shotgun and now how badly you wished you hadn't sold it. How it climbed so smoothly to your shoulder and how gently the front bead came naturally to your eye and the rise of the covey, and then the sweet swing and shot, smooth and graceful because and as a result of your long lost youth.

I do.

*****

There is little rhyme nor reason to my writing today. You must excuse me. I just write what pops into my mind. Guess I'm lost in melancholy.

I just remembered I have a pot on the stove and ran in to stir the mess. I believe I'll put a pot of coffee to boil. I haven't had a cup since before daylight. Each and every time I reach for my cup Sweet Wife bats it away. But, now she's deep into a nap. Please, don't tell on me.

I promise to make greater efforts in updating my blog. I can't believe I've gone so long without answering your nice comments. I truly don't understand what's wrong with me. I feel like a caged animal. The rains of today haven't helped, as a matter of fact it's set me back at least a week on my current restoration project. And, when I am able to paint and if I'm not pleased with the results, it might take me three more weeks....he hisses.

Please, take care out there.

Stephen







 

Quiet Time

Sunday by design is a day for rest, quiet time. It's dark and gloomy and I hear distant thunder and light rain like lead shot pelt the roof. Makes me want to build a fire and sip coffee and wish for cold weather as an excuse to wrap myself in an old wool blanket. To settle in with a novel and pretend to read when really I'd rather nap.

Soon, autumn leaves will begin the journey down, bits and pieces of amber and brown and red closely followed by northern winds, the official signal for the best time of the year. My favorite. I believe it's written upon Hemingway's grave marker, 'Best of all he loved the Fall.' I understand.

This morning, after church and fried chicken, we drove home under black threating skies. Sweet Wife asked what I'd like to do today. My first thought was to finish in the garage. I'd worked and sorted odd clutter for several hours well into the night and wanted to reorganize my ammunition and reloading supplies. I voiced this to her. She frowned. Not a good sign.

A mile or so down the road she took note of the weather and suggested perhaps my idea held merit. Now, she sits to my left deep into her bible study.  Over the last few months she's sought solace in her religion and it seems to have worked miracles; she's at peace and for this I am grateful and attend church with her even if I am found on the pew with my Kindle lost within its digital pages.

Yes, I listen to the sermon. It is possible and I have proved one can chew gum and walk with coordination. Once upon a time a friend found it quite shocking that I attended church. He asked if the candles flickered when I entered the sanctuary. I said, for the record, they indeed dimmed on occasion. He asked what had changed me. I said, "A little girl came into my life."

As I type I hear the rain as it hits my old metal wash tub I have hung on the back fence. It reminds me of my days of youth on the farm. Whenever I'd see the weather turn towards wet I'd head straight to the barn. Our barn had a metal roof and if you were able to find a clean spot of hay it made for the best bed in town. The hard southern thunderstorms made for a wonderful late afternoon sleep. 

I suppose I've made a liar of myself. I haven't ventured near the garage and my chores. It's too peaceful to work. Instead I think I'll head to the kitchen and build a pot of coffee return and pretend to read a book. But you and I both know it'll be cover for a nap. After all, the rain won't last forever.

Or will it.

Stephen