When I was out for a walk the other day I came across this broken patch of sidewalk. It made me cackle.











Please let me not be alone in seeing a chicken here.

Life Cycle of a Dish Towel

Upon joining our household the new towel is subjected to much admiration, petting, and occasional draping over-the-arm for inspection. It is introduced to the family, who must say only nice things about it (who knows how long this one will be a part of their lives?). The towel is then laundered and tucked gently into the towel drawer. When brought out during the first month or two, it is only used for drying dishes or clean hands, after which it is sent to the hamper for towel yoga before being treated to a hot bath, sauna or suntanning, and a nap back in the drawer before being pulled out again the next day.

As time goes by, the towel is integrated into normal towel life. When first removed from the drawer, it it used for drying dishes and clean hands, as it was during the honeymoon period. The towel, looking forward to its customary spa treatment after use, gets a shock when it is hung from the oven door instead of heading to the hamper. Another towel is pulled from the drawer, and the first must watch in dismay as the other is used in its presence.

The first towel has little time to recover from this turn of events before another surprise is thrust upon it. Are those hands that now fondle it most intimately slightly greasy? Did the person use soap or just rinse? Oh! Are these bits of flour adhering to its warp and weft? The indignity!

The towel may then be subjected to pushing bits of food off of counters and into the trash can, or even dropped onto the floor for foot-mopping water spills. The once proud cloth despairs briefly before resigning itself to a life of hard labor. Its only relief is found in the spa sessions to which it is still regularly treated, and to increasingly longer naps in the drawer with its fellow workers. It may try in vain to warn newer acquisitions about what to expect, but the young ones never listen.

An experienced towel may find itself supporting bowls in which things are being stirred, being soaked to cover dough in the refrigerator, getting snapped out to kill flies, or even being called in as a substitute for an oven mitt. These adventures fuel its dreams as time passes.

If it serves well, it may look forward to longer periods of rest in the rag bin, where it can spend its golden years trading well-earned stories with bits of t-shirts, pants, and bath towels before being sent for recycling.

Thank you, TSA!

Last month I took my car in for service. When I was next at the grocery store, I discovered that the dash button that pops open the trunk no longer worked. Despite my energetic and increasingly forceful efforts, it has continued to do nothing ever since.

We resorted to opening the trunk with the key or the button on the key fob.

I would occasionally consider calling the mechanic, but inertia is a fearsome foe, especially when it tag-teams with its twin sister, procrastination.

I went to pick up a friend from the airport today. As I sat parked in the cell phone lot, I was thinking about how I'd have to turn off the car to open the trunk. The key fob button doesn't work when the key is in the ignition - another thing we have discovered in the past month - so unless I popped the trunk in the parking lot and drove very carefully to the terminal, there wasn't much choice in the matter.

As I sat there imagining getting yelled at by the airport security force, a thought snuck up on me. It had evidently been lurking in the dark recesses of my mind, waiting for the perfect moment to appear.

I paused for a millisecond or two while the memory flashed past, then leaned right over to the glove box, flung it open, and peered inside. It didn't take long to find what I needed. I pushed a button, sat back up and punched the trunk release.

And it worked!


Five and a half years ago, a car salesman had pointed out the little button that shuts off trunk access, so that those snoopy valet parking folks can't see just how unorganized your life really is and judge you for the messy state of your trunk. Or, you know, steal anything you might have stored there. Ahem.

Having never used this feature, I had forgotten about it until the threat of airport security forced it to the surface.

I may never say this again, but today it comes from the heart: Thank you, TSA!

Thanks to a stranger

It's nice to have a happy ending, even if it's over something relatively unimportant.

Today we went to the California State Fair. Dude was there with his girlfriend when Squeeze and I arrived, and we met them for a snack before going our separate ways - they headed off to the rides and we strolled around for hours, looking at whatever caught our attention.

It was an absolutely beautiful day. It's rare to have such good weather for the last weekend of the fair - usually Labor Day weekend is uncomfortably hot, but today it was clear and sunny, with the temperature only reaching the mid 80's.

Back when I was growing up in the desert, the fair came in April, but the heat was already miserable. That didn't stop me from trying to ride everything there was to ride while my folks browsed all the exhibits and admired the farm equipment, which I thought was the most boring thing in the world to do. Why would anyone choose to do anything but ride the rides?

Now that I'm older, I'm the one looking at all the exhibits and my kids are out riding the rides, wondering how I could possibly be enjoying myself. Sigh.

We had just decided that we'd had enough and were going to head back home early, with a brief detour to the Kettle Korn seller, which I absolutely must visit before leaving the fair, when Squeeze pulled out his phone to answer a call. He looked extremely confused for a moment, then replied to the person on the other end, "You must have my son's phone. Where are you? We'll come pick it up."

He spent a few frustrated minutes trying to understand where to go, listening through the chaos surrounding us and the noise on the other end. He couldn't quite catch the name of the ride that the finder was describing, but thought that he understood enough to figure it out once we reached the Midway.

I temporarily gave up my search for sweet salty goodness and he quickly led the way through the exposition to the midway on the other side of the fair. We stopped where he thought we should be and he called the finder back. More bad communication ensued, and the information that got through led Squeeze to believe that the finder was near the kid's rides, which were back on the other side of the fairgrounds.

My feet were complaining pretty badly by this time, but we hot-footed it over there, hurrying because this kind stranger was waiting to return our son's phone to us, and we didn't want him to have to wait. Once we arrived, more footsore than ever, we tried calling again, but got no answer. I sent a text and we limped around, searching for a person matching the description we'd been given.

Nothing.

We wandered some more, wondering if we'd have to backtrack to the adult rides again, when we got another phone call. It was Dude. He had retrieved his phone from the mysterious stranger.

I suppose the guy had been calling all the recent contacts on the phone in the hope of finding someone who could retrieve it, and got through to Dude's girlfriend who, happily, was with Dude and, unlike Squeeze and I, actually understood what ride the finder was describing when told where to meet up.

Why hadn't we though to call her? Argh! We stared at each other for a moment as accusations failed to fly through the air. What would be the point? We had both been caught up in the moment.

We never did get to meet the person who found the phone, but I would like to state here that I am very thankful to the guy in the brown Foster Farms t-shirt. It was through his patient good-nature and honesty that my son was able to reunite with his missing phone. It was really nice to see, or at least hear, the better side of human nature.


Despite being very tired, I felt compelled to go back to where we got the first phone call so I could find the Kettle Korn booth and purchase a bag to take home. Once there, Squeeze was shattered to discover that the ride Mr. Brown-Foster-Farms-Shirt had been describing was not very far from said booth. He apologized for dragging me across the fair (twice), which was nice, but unnecessary since neither of us had known any better.

Still, perhaps he'll think twice next time before coming between a girl and her snack obsession of choice.

Fake Tower Cafe French Toast

A few weeks ago, Squeeze and I had breakfast at the Tower Cafe, each of us sampling their Famous French Toast.

It was incredibly delicious, but in these trying financial times, we can't afford to go out to eat all the time. Since we still had a craving for that yummy dish, I decided to try to create a french toast recipe that was similar to what we had experienced on our outing.

I was very pleased with this morning's experiment, and will probably stick with it. For those who may want to try it, here it is:

Fake Tower Cafe French Toast

Ingredients:
1 loaf french bread (regular, not sourdough)
4 eggs
1/2 cup heavy cream or whipping cream (NOT whipped cream)
1/2 cup milk
1/3 cup sugar
1 Tbsp vanilla
dash of salt
butter

Optional: powdered sugar, syrup, fruit compote

Prep:
Cut french bread at an angle to make six 1" thick slices approximately 3"x6".

Whisk eggs, cream, milk, vanilla, sugar and dash of salt together until uniform. Pour into a shallow pan (I used a jelly roll pan) and place the slices of bread in the batter. Let sit for 5 minutes, then turn over and let soak, covered, for 15-20 minutes or until all the batter has been absorbed, turning again if needed.

This will keep well in the refrigerator for several hours if you have late risers or want to prepare it ahead of time.


Heat a griddle or shallow frying pan over medium heat. Butter the cooking surface generously and grill the battered bread until crispy and golden on each side. Top with a pat of butter while still hot.

Alternatively, top with sprinkled powdered sugar, fruit, syrup, or your preferred mixture of any of these, though this is very sweet on its own.

Lemons Plus Baking = Cookies!

Although I don't like to cook, I LOVE baking. Yesterday I wanted to combine my love of baking with another food I love: lemons.

It's true. I love lemons. It's a life-long affair that started when I was a little girl. I don't remember who introduced me to them, but I am forever grateful. My preferred lemon-eating method is to cut it in half, salt it, then squeeze it and slurp up the juice. This is done as many times as are necessary until only pulp remains.

If it's a nice, really ripe lemon, I can then turn it inside out to get at the pulpy sections still adhering to the rind. Ahhh.

I have a friend at work who also likes lemons, but she puts sugar on hers. I'm a bit dubious about this, but may try it this weekend since another coworker gave me a bag of lemons from his tree. Wasn't that a lovely thing for him to do? I thought so too.

Another friend had given me several Meyer lemons from the tree in her back yard, so I had plenty to play with. Wonderful people, my friends.

Since I had an abundance of citrus-y goodness, I decided to delve into my recipe bookmarks for something I had never made. I considered attempting a lemon tart, but didn't feel the time was right for it since I had to work the next day and I wanted something that would be easy to share.

As I perused my list, I saw something that would work. Cookies!

The recipe was actually for Key Lime Meltaways over at Smitten Kitchen. I had seen lots of yummy sounding things over there, but this would be my first attempt at making one of them.

Because I can be reckless at times, I decided that I would ignore the fact that the recipe calls for an entirely different citrus fruit. I would simply have to make substitutions. It could have been a disaster, but it actually worked out very well. Your mileage may vary.

I did a one-to-one substitution of lemon juice for the lime juice, but had a harder time deciding just how much zest would result from four small key limes or two larger ones. Being too lazy to look it up on line, I guessed and used enough to fill up one tablespoon. Did I mention my tendencies toward recklessness?

I had a small frustration when I went to actually obtain the lemon zest. I mentioned that some of the lemons were Meyer lemons, which I absolutely adore. There was nothing about Meyers I didn't like - until yesterday. I was completely unable to zest them. The rinds were too smooth.

Fortunately, I had normal, pebbled-skinned lemons too thanks to my work friend. These provided an abundance of what was not to be found on the Meyers.

The recipe called for room temperature butter, but I had a time crunch, so I microwaved the butter for a few seconds. I didn't melt it, but it was very soft. It was probably this that led to a distinct lack of fluffiness in the batter once I added the vanilla and lemon juice. The liquids just did not incorporate well.

Did this stop me? No! I decided to forge on.

The resulting cookie dough was soft with a slight sheen to it. It was very easy to roll into tubes using parchment paper. When I took the cookie dough tubes out of the refrigerator an hour later, they were the perfect consistency for slicing. The cookies were ready to come out of the oven exactly 15 minutes after they went in, and they smelled wonderful, though the aroma didn't permeate the house the way chocolate chip cookies do.

It was very easy to follow this recipe and despite all my hurried adaptations the cookies were delicious. I would probably use more lemon zest next time, but then, I am a lemon fanatic. Everyone else was very happy with them as they were.

The Iceman Cometh No More

Summers were endless in the small desert town of my childhood. Probably because they began in April and ended in November.

The days were filled with roller skating, bike riding, tree climbing, dirt clod wars, and - my favorite - swimming at the community pool. You could judge how far the season had progressed by the shade of green my hair had turned. There were games of hide and seek that lingered long past twilight, ending only when our exhausted parents threatened dire consequences.

On special days, our house would be filled with people. There were aunts reaching around each other in the kitchen, chatting as they prepared enough food to feed a small army, and uncles watching television and discussing whatever it was the men talked about. I never stayed long enough to find out. A constant stream of kids were running in and out of the house, hoping for refrigerated Kool-Aid, or at least a moment in the air conditioning, but more often being herded right back out and told to get a drink from the hose and to stop letting in flies.

On exceptional days, we would make ice cream.

I would beg to ride in the back of the truck when dad would go in to town to buy ice. We never used cubes from our freezer or purchased bags from the store. Oh no. We went straight to the ice plant and bought a block of it from the source.

Dad had some red painted heavy-duty cast iron ice tongs that he would use to heft the block into the back of the truck. They were as heavy as the ice. I loved the simple elegance of their function. Once the tips were dug into the block, the weight of the ice as you carried it kept them in position. The real trick was getting them back out again.

At home, the ice went into the sink for chipping. This was my self-assigned job, and I took pride in stabbing the icepick into the block to create pieces of just the right size. These were nestled around the churning cylinder, and layered with rock salt. Once everything was in position, a folded towel was set on top so that the person sitting on the ice cream maker to turn the crank didn't get frostbite in any inconvenient places.

As the youngest, I had the first turn at cranking. When my arm got too tired, I would run in to make more ice chips. These were always needed to replace their brothers that had melted and were now gushing out of the overflow hole.

Anticipation ran high whenever dad finally took over crank duty. We pestered him mercilessly: "Is it done yet?" "Is it too hard to turn?" "What about now?"

Was there ever a better, more longed-for frozen treat than ice cream made by your own effort on a hot summer day? I can't think of any. A spoonful was a tiny miracle melting on the tongue.

Today the ice plant in my home town burned to the ground. A part of my childhood has just passed into the beyond. Thankfully, the memories linger like the taste of melting ice cream.