Stephanie says

The Antique Roadshow was a highly organized event. My 9:30 a.m. tickets were the second wave, with a new round of 700 tickets every 90 minutes. A fast moving queue, considering the crowd, gave me a chance to see other people’s treasures as I inched along. Each person was required to bring a minimum of one item and two maximum. Staffers worked a table outside the appraisal area issuing markers for each item category (mine was glass). An usher led me to the correct appraisal tables. I got out my candlesticks and the sugar bowl and ran through my spiel, “family history has this bowl coming around Cape Horn”. I mentioned I’d been told the candlesticks were signed at which point the appraiser said she wanted a more knowledgeable appraiser to look at these things. I’m thinking, “All right, I’ve got real treasures!” So next stop is a gap-toothed portly fellow with one wandering eye who I’ve seen on TV. I repeated the Cape Horn story. He replied that stories about family pieces are o...

...after work, I jumped on a city bus with no idea where it was headed. I just wanted to experience the freedom of seeing new sights while taking in the familiar sounds of the city. I ended up getting off in a very old, established part of town. It was dark by then and all the beautiful lights and Chinese Lanterns were aglow with vibrant colors. I meandered through narrow, stone streets lined with open air eateries, little flower shops, fruit stands, and vendors from every corner of China. Since I was already bundled in my winter garb I decided to have coffee and plate of local Chinese food at an outside table set up for pedestrians. It was so cold that I could see my breath, but very exhilarating.

Thanksgiving this year with my brother's family. Sometimes my contributions take a theme, like molded foods. This was a "Pink" year: Raspberry Chiffon Pie and Cranberry Grape Salad. My mom came across this recipe in the mid 1960s and it's been a holiday tradition ever since. The sweet grapes counterpoint the tart cranberries - and the whipped cream just pushes the combination into the realm of heavenly. Seedless grapes were not available in Oregon in those early days - so Mom would hand everyone within reach a paring knife and enforce the grapes were pitted. Escaping this onerous task became a game for all in the know, including my grandmother, cousins, sister-in-law and brothers. The salad is so good that somebody would relent (sometimes Mom). Helene’s Cranberry Grape Salad 12 oz package fresh cranberries 1-1/2 cup sugar 1-1/2 cup whipping cream plus 2 Tbl. Sugar 1-1/2 lb grapes ¾ cup chopped nuts (optional) Grind cranberries in food processor. ...

Christmas music should only be played after Thanksgiving but there is no wrong time for gingersnap cookies. I make a batch of the following recipe, freeze in balls, then bake whenever I feel the urge for a warm cookie and a glass of milk. I bought some at Heathrow a couple years ago, made by Prince Charles’ company (I admit to a silly fascination with him – being incredibly wealthy makes one remarkably better looking – and there aren’t any princes in Oregon…). Those cookies had little chunks of crystallized ginger baked in and were decidedly good. I searched the internet and the following recipe fills all my requirements for an excellent gingersnap. Gingersnaps with Crystallized Ginger (from a Real Simple recipe) 4 1/4 cups ap flour 1 tbsp baking soda 1/2 tsp salt 2 tsp ground ginger 1 tsp cinnamon 1/2 tsp ground cloves 1/2 tsp cardamom 1/2 tsp ground black pepper 1/2 cup butter, at room temperature 1 3/4 cups granulated sugar, plus more for coating 2 large eggs ...

Theme Thursday I heard the first Christmas carol on November 16. Turns out that radio station is playing round the clock Christmas music from that moment until the season is over. Since their season began November 16 - I figure it will end after New Years Day. Their underlying motive is to get consumers spending. Guess it will work on me as I will be buying lots of music for my car trips. It’s not late enough !!!!

My project is done. After making numerous trips to the hardware store (looking a fool each and every time due to my inability to name that part…), a blood blister on my left index finger, bruised knuckles and sore knees, warm air is radiating throughout my house. As enticing as a crackling fire in the fireplace looks, thermostat regulated air temperature is hard to beat… I undertake these projects, partly from absolute belief that I CAN do anything with the correct manual written in English and partly because I’m exceeding frugal – perhaps parsimonious. It surprises me however that I get this stuff to work. Because I don’t have that clear of an understanding of HOW it all works. I’m peeved at myself after all these decades that I never took Physics – I’m convinced that is THE class where the root of all practical understanding lies. I am nothing if not practical so the valuable lessons I missed learning is mind boggling. My daughter, rudely, says I can take Physics now. Of course...

I’ve spent many hours installing an oil heater (OH). I’ve had this unit for three winters and it has always behaved perfectly. But me and OH moved in March and OH has been hanging out on the back porch waiting to be installed in the big house. My neighbors came over and moved the 200 gal. oil tank into place on Sunday. So yesterday I made a trip to the local hardware store buying a 2-1/2 in. hole-saw drill bit and brass compressions fittings for copper pipe. I broke out my bad-boy electric drill, loaded the new bit and promptly drilled a huge hole in an outside wall. Between the interior wall and the exterior wall was nada. No insulation. Hmmm. I got the exhaust pipe fittings installed on the second attempt. I drilled another hole for the 3/8” copper pipe and discovered to my frustration that I’d drilled on the wrong side of the exhaust pipe. Hey, I had a job interview in the morning and blame it for addling my brain… At that point I called it a day. First thing this mornin...

I've been organizing my photos. I'm fond of these shots.

Ring. Ring. Ring. In the early days of telephone technology the family telephone was on a party line. Due to a finite number of phone lines installed and available, nearby households shared a land line. The phone rang at each home for every incoming call. Each household had an identifying ring, one long and two short was ours. The phone company provided the telephones, heavy black ones with no rotary dial. To make a call you picked up the hand unit, an operator answered and you asked to be connected to your three digit number. Mom and Dad had very strict eavesdropping rules. We were not allowed to listen in on other people’s calls. I was sneaky and nosey although the location of the phone made listening in prohibitive. I was persistent however so once in a while an unsupervised moment and an incoming call coincided. I’d pick up and listen in, a resulting a click on the line alerting the caller to the fact someone was listening. “Who’s there, who is this?” but I’d be very quiet and...

I used to pose my daughter's toys for photo opps. back in the old 35mm days.

Theme Thursday: Friend. This is a re-post from earlier this month. My friend Tim Sly died Friday. Of cancer. I was the building manager at a newspaper. A corporate visit, a big whoop-de-doo, scheduled a few months out generated a rush to gussy up our old building. I hired Tim to do the construction work. That’s how we met. He did a fine job on our project. When the assistant building manager position opened up he applied and I happily hired him, I think that was 1995. He’d just finished a huge building project for the V.A. in Vancouver and wanted to work in town for a change. He’d been self-employed forever – paid vacation, holidays, and sick leave were a delightful novelty. Tim joked this newspaper job was his retirement. He always had my back in the guerilla warfare environment of a big corporate newspaper. Tim was 6’8” tall. I always felt like a delicate flower walking next to him – not common at my 5’8’’. His wife, Angie, is maybe 5’. I’d see them walking downtown, h...

indolently snuggled in bed this dreary morning listening to rain drum on the roof

We ended up in Switzerland by chance. The gondola at Chamonix was closed on the Italian side of Mount Blanc, my dream foiled by an Italian holiday. So we caught a train that wound up and around the Alps. I kept expecting to see Heidi and her herd of goats. We figured out we were in Switzerland at the Matigny train station, “Swiss.com” signs were posted everywhere. In retrospect, passing by the Materhorn should have been a clue. My daughter lobbied to visit the HR Giger Museum. We were in Switzerland after all, and this trip is all about the spirit of spontaneity. I caved. We took the train to Bulle, smack dab in the center of the country, to Castle Gruyere, the unlikely location of the museum.

Escaping triple digit temperatures one bright, sunny and hot, hot, hot August day my cousin Jeanne and I went to a wonderfully air-conditioned movie. Heading home, Jeanne at the wheel, we drove directly into a mighty thunderstorm. Our destination, Powell Butte, rising 1,000 ft above us, was completely smothered in ominous black clouds. Lightning flashed and struck all around us, intense images that burnt on my retina. I’d just asked “Do we get flash floods here?” when a torrential downpour spewed from the sky gathering topsoil from newly plowed mint fields and spilling into ditches alongside the road, turning into gully washes at each field gate flooding across the road, a fast moving mass of mud pie. Jeanne plowed through this mess so we wouldn't stall, water rooster-tailing halfway up the car windows. We made it home intact but stayed in the fully grounded car waiting for a lull in lightning strikes. The smell of ozone hung heavy in the air. We pondered the chances of gettin...

Dinner near St. Mark's then a postprandial stroll. We meandered over bridges, through tight medieval alleys, until getting thoroughly lost in the maze that is Venice. One would think it difficult to get lost on a small island. One would be wrong. The street signs are in Italian (go figure) and afforded little help. I had my trusty compass but it’s more a lucky charm for me than a navigational instrument. Tyler wore new flip-flops that quickly rubbed her toes raw. Who among us has not painfully learned the lesson to never wear new flip-flops on a long walk? In her defense, we weren’t planning a long walk. Dutiful mother me, we switched shoes until the flip-flops chewed up my toes then switched back. I gave Tyler the support of my arm as we hobbled our way through the dark streets, past sidewalk diners who watched our progress. I, certain they were thinking, “Ah, look at that woman airing her poor afflicted child.”

Toadstools shooting up all over.