First time out

Sunday we put Hokie and Dirtman's conformation classes to practice at a match in Herndon.

Matches are fun, low-pressure versions of regular dog shows. It's great for getting a new puppy acclimated to the show ring and for learning how to show a dog. Though the judging doesn't have to be done by an actual AKC judge, clubs usually try to find judges among their membership to handle a group. It's a really great tool for getting fresh pointers and seeing what someone out of your usual advice loop thinks about your dog and your handling skills (or, in my case, lack thereof...).

The photos I took of the event really stink, but it's as good as they're going to get since I have to stand far away from the ring, hiding behind posts and other people, then try to catch a shot while Hokie isn't looking in that direction. Otherwise, he pitches a fit.

Hokie came in second. But, more importantly, the judge took the time to tell Dirtman how much he liked him over all. (Actually, when I saw Hokie and Dirtman get in the ring with a female junior, I kind of knew we weren't going to place first...not that that would ever make a difference...I'm just sayin'...).

I have my own theory -- and, if you look at Hokie he looks rather alarmed himself.

What is he alarmed about?



Dirtman's footwear of choice for the show ring.

Our changling child

Sometime in Heir 2's babyhood, we are convinced he was abducted by aliens who removed his serviceable-but-ordinary Linguini brain, added some extra connections to it, slapped on the Brain Supercharger 3000 booster pack, put his brain back in and returned him to his crib.

Either that or the Gnomes sprinkled him with magic dust.

Here's the proof:

Heir 2's girlfriend Caisee is a member of their high school forensics team and last night was the district finals in Madison, Va. Though we have encouraged Heir 2 to participate in one of the academic teams, even Caisee's participation would not induce him to join. He always said he needed to offset his academic record with sports, so that he doesn't get a reputation of being a total geek.

So yesterday afternoon we get a phone call from Heir 2 asking permission to go to the forensics district finals -- as a team member. It seems two of their members couldn't make it and they needed someone to at least fill out the roster. Later I found out that they'd asked him specifically because A.) he's smart; and B.) he's great at b.s.ing.

I wasn't surprised he agreed, because it meant a long bus ride with Caisee and an evening spent with her, even if it meant he was clueless about forensics.

So he comes home. . . with a silver medal. He placed second in the district in "impromptu speaking" and will advance to regionals in March.

Who is this child?

This, of course, reminds us all of this:

Everybody got the fever

The flu in February. Is this to be an annual thing?

I intended to do a Spot-on column about having the flu, only when I looked through my archives, I realized I'd done one already -- and posted it exactly one year ago. In it I mentioned that during the past 20 years, I'd only gotten the flu twice.

Now it seems to be an annual event.

Today is the first day since Sunday that I'm not running a fever, but now it's settled into being just a bad cold. This I can handle with Benadryl and Robitussin (I can't use any of those multi-symptom cold meds because it conflicts with my thyroid meds). And garlic soup (moaning from the ranks).

Zsa Zsa, my nurse, insists the only cure is to lick my knees. And put her head in my lap. And nudge my arm.

The rest of the canines around here are taking advantage of the fact that I'm not running the show. I woke briefly from a fever-induced nap to realize I was scrunched into a corner of the bed with dogs and cats curled all around me. Yesterday afternoon I caught a peek into the livingroom and there was Toppergetdown sprawled on my chair.

Well, Da Mama is back and I will be returning order to Linguiniland.

Well...as much order as there ever was in Linguiniland...

My funny Valentine

I know what everyone says about Valentine's Day: it's a Hallmark holiday -- which it is, sort of; unless you're in a relationship, it's just another day, only more painful -- which is really a matter of personal choice, really.

Honestly, I had my share of lousy Valentine's Days before I met Dirtman. I was the lady who babysat for couples or who worked the extra hours (on salary) so my co-workers could leave early to prepare for their "big night."

So I've put in my time, so to speak, and feel no guilt about sharing fond Valentine memories. If you are lonely and bitter over Valentines Day, I will offer this one insight before relating this year's experience: Mr. or Mrs. Right very rarely arrives driving a cool car, sporting perfect hair and flouting the perfect body. Usually they say stupid things when you first meet them. They might be a little scruffy. They will be flawed. Here's a news flash: so are you.

Give me a diamond in the rough anytime over a slick player.

As for us two diamonds in the rough (I'm quite sure we'll never be anything but), this is one of those holidays that over the years has become a sort of passing nod to what already exists. Past years have featured events requiring major planning and/or considerable cash. The story of our meeting and proposal is here, for those of you who haven't heard this ad nauseum already. What I didn't add to this post was that when we got home, after Dirtman's proposal ad ran, my paper did a feature on us that they sent out to the Associated Press. This resulted in our 15 minutes of fame -- that was quite enough for me, thankyouverymuch -- and our story appearing in some tabloid opposite a photo of a woman wearing a macaroni hat.

So, really, these day less is more. Dirtman found a good price on a couple sirloin steaks but, really, these days it's a treat if the meal features any meat whatsoever. The Heirs don't ask what's for dinner anymore; they ask if there will be any meat at dinner. They will cancel plans if there is meat for dinner. They find other things to do on bean and grain night.

With a little planning, this was actually a very frugal meal, but I couldn't have asked for more. Sirloin steak on the grill (just briefly, thank you) (Take that, PETA!), baked potato, salad with spring greens, grape tomatoes and feta cheese -- all cooked by Dirtman and not using every single pot in the kitchen. And he did the dishes.

Let me repeat that: He did the dishes.

While I knitted. And began sniffling. It had to happen. The hacking a snorting that has been going on around here all week had to hit me eventually and, as the evening wore on, I began to feel worse and worse.

NOTE: I have to mention here that at night, Dirtman usually watches television in the living room by himself. The reason is that he surfs around so much, you end up watching everything on a half screen all night. Plus I usually watch what I want, then turn it off and read, rather than continually searching for some inane broadcast to waste my time. (Ahem).

So we sat and watched The Hallmark Channel. Dirtman started watching the Hallmark Channel over the past Christmas season and every now and then, amidst the sound of football games, car screeches and bombs exploding, comes the noise of cheesy music over women weeping that is the trademark sound of the Hallmark Channel.

I might add that I strongly dislike the Hallmark Channel. But I had my knitting, so I wasn't focusing too much on the formula plotline and trite dialogue.

I know better than to commit to any program while watching with Dirtman. True to form, five minutes later we're watching Pushing Tin on a half screen. I've now hit the sneezing, hacking, wheezing and moaning portion of the flu. The King and I flashes briefly on the screen -- obviously an error since Dirtman hates all musicals except Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and 1776 -- and I'm fading fast. Back to Hallmark where women are weeping and violins are screeching.

It's 9:30 p.m.

I put down the knitting and get up. "I'm done."

"Goin' to bed?" He sounds relieved. I can't blame him. I was probably drowning out the TV.

And so it goes, my friends. We're a wild bunch here at Linguini on the Ceiling.

Ornithology Linguini style

It was just for a second.

I didn't even have time to aim my camera.

But I saw it at the feeder.

Finally. A Bluebird.

And...for those of us desperate for the arrival of spring -- a robin. Just one, and only for a moment.

But there they were.

I know, I know. Bird geek. A very, very happy bird geek.

Medieval Help Desk

Found this at the website of a great used bookstore Dirtman and I found in Winchester (Va.).

Is it bad I totally relate to the clueless monk?

Linguinis and the Blustery Day

Did I mention Dirtman loves weather extremes?

So he was in his glory yesterday when the winds around here reached hurricane force. Even when the shingles started coming off the roof*, he ran about gleefully collecting the debris and taking pictures, running in now and then to report updates.


I'll let him tell you the tale of mayhem and destruction on his blog.

Me? I cleaned the living room and then -- because this is precisely when we need it -- I used this to bake this:

Heir 2 had dragged himself to school Wednesday and Thursday because of a class he didn't want to miss, then came home yesterday with yet another raging temperature. I had to put my foot down and forbid him to go today. The fact that he didn't fight me speaks to how very miserable he is.

And now Heir 1 has it also, though his is more cold-like than flu-like.

I might add that all this illness has not affected their appetites one bit.

*There is something in the attic of this house that, when a really strong gust hits it, sounds like the house has flatulence. Naturally there were the inevitable jokes that only a houseful of men can deliver. But it does seem to make that noise right when someone is trying to make a point about a controversial issue. This has been no end of amusement around here, which probably says more about our life than anything else.


Now go count some birds!

Wednesday in the Park with Hokie

For a few weeks now I've been trying to get some photos of Hokie and Dirtman at their conformation classes. This is where dogs and handlers learn how to behave in the show ring.

Unfortunately, we've determined that, at least for the first several classes, it's best if I'm not there. No matter where I try to hide, Hokie yanks on the leash to follow me. So it's best for me to not even be in the building. I head to Borders across the road.

We try to get as much done in Winchester as possible when we head that way, so there are plenty of photo ops prior to the actual class. This week, for instance, we had to order the trophies for our kennel club's dog show in July. Since the place closes early and the class isn't until 7:30 p.m., we wound up with a huge gap of time on our hands.

So we took Hokie to a local park that has a lovely fishing lake, complete with ducks and geese -- which he decided were not where they should be.


We're not sure where he wanted to herd them to, since he was leashed and we pulled him off. But he was definitely not satisfied with where we left them and he followed Dirtman begrudgingly and in a huff.

Even with the jaunt around the park, we were still early for class. So we sat in the parking lot for awhile while Hokie behaved himself like a good boy, sitting quietly in the back seat and never attempting to come up front with us.



Do you see how hard it is to enforce discipline around here?

Ain't no mystery about it

Fountain of Mysterious Dust Found

space.com – Tue Feb 10, 5:16 pm ET

The universe is not empty. The space between stars and between galaxies is permeated by gas and dust.

In fact our solar system is currently experiencing a cosmic dust storm with at least three times as much dust passing through compared to just a few years ago, owing to a periodic weakening of the sun's magnetic field. And sometime in the next 10,000 years, we'll plow through the G-cloud, a region of dust more dense than the one we're in now.

Astronomers have struggled for a conclusive answer as to where all this dust comes from.

"We not only do not know what the stuff is, but we do not know where it is made or how it gets into space," said Donald York, a professor of astronomy and astrophysics at the University of Chicago.

York and his colleagues have now identified a fountain of dust that appears to be just the sort of culprit they have been looking for.

Cheese it, Topper! I think they're on to you!

Watchin' Westminster

Or, rather, watchin' Heir 2 watchin' Westminster. I'd made some caramel popcorn for the event, so it's more like watchin' Heir 2's bowl of popcorn while watchin' Westminster*.

Heir 2 came home from school running a fever and was resting on the couch (threatening Dirtman with bodily harm if he appeared in any photo). Otherwise, he is usually ambivalent about dog shows.

Ironically, this coincides with having to post my response to PETA on Spot-On. PETA is not an organization you want noticing you personally, as is the case, I suppose, with any sort of fanatic. But when a fanatical fringe starts insinuating itself into the Constitution, it's time we all start at least talking about it.

Humorously, their "call to arms" for Westminster fell flat. They put out a call to their membership that they were going to set up a fake registration table so that people would think they were registering to show and then would find out they couldn't. I hope lots of them flocked to the Garden only to find out that you don't register to show a dog at the venue; that it's done weeks in advance to be sure of the dog's status on the AKC registry.

So they had to be content with their lame Ku Klux Klan demonstration and their pitiful little pamphlets, giving them the status of, say, the Moonies pushing literature on you at an airport: give 'em a wiiiiiide berth.

*If you're looking for Abbey or Hokie (or, as we refer to them around here: the Katzenjammer Kids), they spent Westminster drying and flaking off, having found a wonderful mud plot to roll in.

Tasty interior decorating in a snap

I love the colors mint green and chocolate brown together.

And that's totally why I made these devil's food cupcakes with mocha icing. It was purely a matter of interior decoration.

Though, ya know, in these hard times it's a sin to waste food.

Oh, in case you're wondering how we can have the luxury of food out on the counter...

This is what our counter usually looks like*.

...For the benefit of Abbey and Hokie. When they set one off, they're not really scared, but they do try to act like nothing happened -- like it is so out of the realm of possibility that an Australian Shepherd would counter surf and certainly not an Australian Shepherd who lives in this house.

*Don't worry -- they never get snapped by the actual trap. The trap just makes a loud noise and jumps up in the air (usually landing in the very food we were trying to protect). Believe me, I'd never do anything to hurt my dogs. I've already got PETA on my tail for something I wrote on Spot-On. I don't need any more aggravation.

Linguini 54, where are you?

If you are wondering where I’ve gone, know that the answer is not very dramatic.

It seems we have internet problems. Whether this is a server problem or something on our end, we can’t be sure. Having dealt with this provider for over a decade, we know that a phone call asking if they are having problems will always – always – yield a negative.

The first time this happened we threw all kinds of money into the problem, since we were told the problem was at our end. Almost $500 later, it turned out to be the server problem which they only admitted to us (and their other thousands of customers) after they’d solved it.

Lesson learned.

The next time we had problems we again stupidly called the server, thinking that if we pointed out to them their previous infraction, they would come clean.

I know – fool me once, etc., etc. This time, though, we waited it out, though it took weeks and – lo and behold – suddenly our internet was working snappily again and yet another “apology” on the server’s web page.

Now we’re once again being kicked on and off the internet. We’ll be buzzing along for about three minutes at which point it claims our internet connection is not working, followed by a claim that our internet is working, we just have an invalid address, after which it will partially reload the page and then quit and then, finally, after about five to ten minutes of this, give us the page we want.

Yes, we’ve check all the connections. We have defragged and removed the spyware. We’ve called in the Heirs.

At any rate, posting has become a nightmare of staring at error screen after error screen. I’m supposed to be researching something and it’s taking what would be a 2-hour task and making it into a week-long ordeal.

Bringing back the bread

I can’t believe it’s been a year since I regularly baked bread. As a consequence, I’ve lost my rhythm and actually had to consult the recipe for my cinnamon raisin variation. I used to be able to bake this blindfolded.

I remember when I first moved here, I took one look at the tiny kitchen and decided my days of elaborate cooking and baking were over. That early May weekend I made a lot of decisions that amuse me now and this is among them.

Thank goodness Dirtman had the foresight to prevent me from doing anything so drastic as to get rid of plates and kitchenware. And he had the good grace to not say a word when, as my psyche began to heal, I began to look for all the kitchenware that I’d apparently instructed my brother to sell on E-bay (I don’t remember doing this – I don’t remember a lot from that weekend). I ask where something is and Dirtman pulls it out of wherever he stashed it until I was sane again. It’s kind of like getting presents.

I’ve come to adjust and even love my tiny kitchen. I have to order people out of it sometimes and the dogs have to be reminded to go lie down somewhere other than on my feet. But everything is within my reach and I don’t have to walk miles to get it.



And so bread. It was the best thing I could think of to usher in a spell of snowy weather that I know everyone else is dreading. Me? Bring it on! I’ve got milk in the freezer, tons of discounted, couponed CVS toilet paper and paper towels and now cinnamon raisin bread.


Hmm…I wonder where he stashed my pasta attachment…

And this is all I have to say about that

Dirtman followed through on his plan to have an All-Inaugural Day. I was in and out and have experienced enough of Keith Olbermann and his pomposity to last me the rest of my lifetime and then some. I told Dirtman I'd watch with him if he could make Olberman shut up.

So we watched on C-SPAN. Blessedly devoid of inane commentary.

I am pleased that Barack Obama is now our president -- really I am. My view of the presidency is, while I respect the office, it requires a politician to get there, making the individual's character suspect to begin with. Oh, I understand the historic significance of Obama's election -- but that speaks more to the will of the people than anything else.

And Obama seems to be a man of integrity, which I honestly don't think we've seen since Jimmy Carter (who never got anything done, so perhaps integrity is not a good thing to have if you're the president).

When Cal Ripkin broke Lou Gerhig's record and brought fans back to a sport decimated by the baseball strike, I remember commenting to Dirtman that he (Ripkin) had better not turn out to be a druggie or a womanizer because it would really devastate a lot of people. (I must say, Ripkin has turned out to be true blue, so to speak. Now if he could only spread a little of that integrity into Little League Baseball...).

Anyway, I feel the same way about Obama.

Though in the past the press has not been one to suffers fools gladly (and boy-o-boy, did they get the opportunity to prove it with the last administration...), they're so enamored of the new president every move is seen through a very different lens than the one they had been using.

Yesterday is was rather refreshing amidst Olbermann and Chris Matthews' effusing over the slightest arch of Obama's brow, to hear NBC's Chuck Todd (who took David Gregory's place as White House correspondent) point out that the inaugural speech contained basically the same points that every other president made for their inaugural speeches. Later on The Daily Show, Jon Stewart actually dug out speeches by George W. Bush as spliced they alongside Obama's speech. It took a lot of courage to do that when everyone else thinks that this morning they will wake up to no recession, a glut of employment opportunities and the international community forming a global circle around our country singing "Kum Ba Ya."

The media does know, doesn't it, that Obama hasn't done anything yet, right?

But I'm willing to be dazzled. I'm anxious to say I was wrong to doubt. If Obama's mere presence changes the mood and attitude of this country, all the better.

I'm not sure this will even post tonight (it didn't). We've been told our internet problems stems from our proximity to Washington, D.C., and the Inaugural festivities, so it's not so much to put up with temporarily.

It occurs to me that...

...perhaps Ungnome has way too much time on his hands.

...Or maybe it wasn't a good idea to exempt him from his final exams this week, giving him even more time on his hands -- Ungnome, I mean.

Cookin' the books

Everyone has their favorite cookbook for specific occasions.

My go-to method book has always been Fannie Farmer, even though I possess a Joy of Cooking – Fannie synthesizes things in a way that speaks to me.

My favorite Italian cookbook is Romeo Salta – very unpretentious and most of the recipes remind me of the way the old Italian ladies used to cook when I was very little. Inspiration-wise – Nigella Lawson, hands down.

For cake baking, though, I seem to gravitate toward this.

This was the second cookbook and last item my mother bought for my Hope Chest.

Those of you too young to know about Hope Chests, back in the day mothers began compiling housewares for their daughters from the time they were born to be used when they married. I have stress the word “married” because the Hope Chest was not to be used when the daughter moved out of the house upon adulthood. That’s because “nice” Italian girls didn’t move out of the house unless it was to get married.

I was comparatively old when my mother started my Hope Chest – she didn’t have the money when I was little. And her period of collection was rather brief because she again didn’t have the money once she got sick and everything went toward medical care. So we’re talking a window of, say, three years.

The first item of my Hope Chest was also half my gift for graduating junior high -- a Good Housekeeping Cookbook (Roget’s Thesaurus was the other half, thanks to Papa, and the gift I had asked for). Then I got this Pillsbury Bake-Off cookbook along with a casserole dish.

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, comprises the entire contents of my Hope Chest, which wasn’t really a chest so much as a cardboard liquor box.

I am well-versed in baking layer cakes and they do have their place for birthdays and so forth. But I find an interesting 13x9-inch cake with interesting texture, flavor and toppings is always more versatile than a meticulously decorated, filled and frosted layer cake.

So I am constantly turning to this book, where I can always find cakes to make from scratch that feature ingredients I always have around the house.

The sad thing is that they come out with this book for every Pillsbury Bake-off held, yet none of the other books has ever been quite so convenient as this one. It has a nice balance of no-fuss and incredible cakes – often it’s as easy or even easier to make one of the cakes in the book than it is to make a simple cake mix.

I might add, cake mixes have their place, especially in this family. I must, at all costs, have something dessert-like around or, budget or no, disgusting grocery store pies and Little Debbie crap will find its way into the house. At least if I bake, I can control to some extent portion size and content. So when I find a really good sale on mixes, I stock up and use it when I don’t have the brain power to devote to measuring out baking powder. (Here's a tip: When making chocolate mixes, toss in about a teaspoon of instant coffee. You can't taste it, but it makes the chocolate taste richer and almost -- almost -- homemade. I keep a tiny jar of Taster's Choice around for just this purpose. It works most excellently on those dirt-cheap brownie mixes you can get.)

But I normally bake from scratch, since I don’t like the artificial taste of mixes – I think it’s the vanilla they use. The rest of the people around here are not quite as picky, though I think they appreciate the fresh stuff the most.

(Incidently, do not bake a cake mix and then ask me to comment on how much it tastes like a scratch cake. I will be too polite to tell you the truth.)

I really like this for weekends, because it's as good for breakfast as it is for dessert or, better, a nighttime snack shared with a loved one straight from the pan while watching Inherit the Wind. Or something. Anyway, Martins had a sale on cream cheese, so I made this crumb cake that has the unfortunate name of “Crumbscious Cake.”




Though – ya know – let’s bring back the word “scrumptious.” Then maybe people will stop using all the forms of “yum” – which annoys me no end.

*I apologize for the lighting in the cake photos. By the time we cut the cake, it was dark out. I wanted to get the picture, though, and it doesn't look like there will be any left in the morning when the lighting is better.

We've got to call him something

I've decided to name the Red-Bellied Woodpecker.

His name is Danny Kaye.

Do not judge me.

Fetch...or not...

Back when the puppies were little, co-breeder Karen and I had the entire litter tested for temperament. The test, given by Virginia’s very own Dog Whisperer, Corally Burmaster, takes puppies through a series of activities designed to pinpoint specific character traits that are inbred. These are the strengths or flaws the puppy is born with and cannot be undone.

The purpose of this test is, first of all, to help in determining which dogs should or should not be bred (if the character flaw is particularly arresting), but also to help determine what sort of home they need to go to. Some “negative” traits that show up are merely breed personalities. Australian Shepherds are naturally stand-offish with strangers – Abbey, believe it or not, was very shy with strangers when she was a puppy and she still backs off until you call her by name. Then you can’t shut her up even though we keep telling her she’s supposed to be shy.

The reason I tell you all this is that, having experienced a heady dose of endorphins from frolicking in the woods with Zsa Zsa, I decided I needed to take the puppies out once a day for a good brisk rollick, more for my sake than theirs. They already chase each other around and play “Steal the Boney from Uncle Topper.”

So I dug out a Kong ball (which we keep hidden lest ‘Pode, the Parson Russell Terrier sees it and has a nervous breakdown trying to get at it) and went outside.

See – one of the temperament tests is to have the puppy attempt to retrieve a ball. Karen and Corally have a running disagreement whether this should or should not be a part of the temperament test for Aussies specifically, herding dogs in general. Because Australian Shepherds don’t fetch.

When we did the test, every one of the puppies refused to fetch the ball – except Hokie, but I think he was just trying to be polite.

Nonetheless, out I went with the ball and the Aussies, who were excited by the fact I was going outside with them for something other than to hang out laundry.

I showed them the ball. They look at it, then at me, than at each other, back to the ball. Obviously this was something Da Mama treasured, so perhaps it commanded a certain amount of attention. It triggered some ancient memory in Topper’s mind and he gave a little play pounce. So I threw it.

Topper ran after the ball, the puppies ran after him, Zsa Zsa brought up the rear telling them all to shut up and stop fooling around. Topper brought the ball back and placed it by the back door.

I went and got the ball and he pranced proudly by my side. Then I threw the ball again saying, “Go get the ball!” and the look on Topper’s face was one for the books. He looked like, “If you wanted it, why’d you throw it away again?”

The puppies, though, having witnessed Topper’s retrieval, went after the ball and fought over who was going to bring it back. Abbey the brat, of course, prevailed and trotted it back to me pretty as you please and let me take it from her mouth. I threw it again.

This time Topper and Hokie looked at me like I’m some kind of idiot. Abbey went after the ball, less enthusiastically this time, and brought it back.

Now they are behind me and they're growling to each other.

“She’s not going to throw that damn thing again, is she?”

“Well, I’m not going after it this time.”

I throw the ball. There is a pause and more growling in the ranks. Abbey plods on over, picks up the ball, plods back and drops it. Then she goes back to the others.

“I think she’s senile.”

I throw the ball again, “Go get the ball!”

No one goes. They’re all the way across the yard, tumbling around.

Except Zsa Zsa, who gently walks me over to the ball and observes as I pick it up. Then she slowly walks me to the back door –

I suppose to make sure I don’t wander off somewhere.

Mystery bird revealed

This guy has been driving me crazy for over a month. He wouldn't tell me who he is and I could never find a photo that matched.

He is not actually as pudgy as in this photo, which kind of made it even harder for true birders to help me with identification. But it's winter and cold and he's perched on metal, so he's puffed up for warmth. Whenever I explained him to anyone their first answer was "female cowbird," which I knew he's definitely was not.

He seems to be the only one around -- though I'm sure spring will bring more of his kind -- and he absolutely loves the birdbath. He gets along well with others, even with the Bubba, the Blue Jay, who is a bit of a bully and a whole lot of a hog when it comes to peanuts.

Finally I Stumbled on a birding site that made another suggestion to my ambiguous "gray bird, white wing bars." Then I googled that suggestion, just to make sure.

He is a Northern Mockingbird.

I know. This is a "so what?" moment for most of you. But it just tickles me.

Oh, and also at the feeder --

The Red-bellied Woodpecker finally found the suet that's been over his head for two months now.
(That's a Goldfinch looking on.)

Now that he's found it, though, he absolutely won't leave. Bubba has come and gone (in a huff, I might add), I've gone out to get something out of my car parked not six feet away and still Red clings to the feeder, stuffing his face.

And, NO, I do NOT imagine they talk to me.

Yet.

Ungnome caught in the act

Workin' for The Man

Always glad for work around here and, if it forces me out of the house and into the fresh air, all the better.Zsa Zsa and I headed out with Dirtman to do a soil study for our best and most dependable client. I have to add, that my entire contribution to the day was helping to carry stuff and holding one end of a tape measure.


Dirtman, meanwhile, listened to dirt.



And wrote down what he heard.

Zsas and I frolicked in the woods. (Yes, I said frolicked. It wasn't a run, exactly; but we weren't walking morosely. We were dignified, but it was an official frolick.)

Okay, for Zsa Zsa it was more a hunt for deer poop,

...but at least we've gotten her to stop eating it like she used to...

Gnorm's tormentor revealed

Ungnome -- Gnorm's evil twin.

And here I've been blaming Heir 2 all this time.

When other people cook

It's no secret that I love to cook and I love to eat. I enjoy taking something I've enjoyed somewhere and trying it out at home or something everyone assumes has to be bought ready-made and breaking down its components to make it from scratch.

That's all the fun part of cooking.

Then there's cooking's dark side: coming up with something to eat three times a day, seven days a week. Because sometimes I'm just not in the mood to cook or I'm tired or the pantry echoes when I talk into it or every food item available is not something I feel like making or eating. And, let's face it -- boiling up stone-ground oatmeal was novel at first, but when you do it every single Monday, well it's about as glamorous as throwing a load of towels in the washing machine.*

Then there's the challenge of keeping food costs low and trying to use up every scrap of food I possibly can. It's so easy to get stuck in a culinary rut, especially when working within a budget because you tend to buy the same ingredients without much variety.

Needless to say, fresh ideas are heartily welcome and anyone who actually cooks a meal gets major points in Mama's Book of Rewards and Retribution (now in its 21st printing).

So just imagine the point tally under Heir 1's name when we woke up this morning to a spread of banana chocolate chip pancakes (using the bananas that were going brown and would have to be thrown out -- what a guy!), scrambled eggs, bacon and fresh ground coffee.

And...

And...

(wait for it...)

He washed all the dishes.

(I will be taking applications for potential brides. Apply early to get your name on the list.)

Seems he woke up around 4 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep. (We're glad he waited a few hours before starting to cook.)

Dirtman gets points for coming up with a pork-saving idea. Tuesday's pork roast was not going to tolerate a reheating, but it was a large roast and there were a lot of leftovers that I refused to throw out. Normally I'd make some sort of casserole, though just about everyone around here is rather ambivalent about casseroles.

The pork was destined for something pretty ho-hum. Perhaps it was the threat of a casserole that inspired Dirtman to come up with the idea of shredding the leftovers, dumping a bottle of barbecue sauce on top, simmering the whole mess for awhile then serve it on a kaiser roll with some cole slaw.

Easy enough, so I went along with it -- mostly because it let me check off that night's menu plan. I didn't think it was going to come out very good. I was going to make my own barbecue sauce since I don't usually buy something I can make myself. But I found a bottle in my pantry from one of those CVS deals. It didn't even take the whole bottle and I needed to add a little water so it all could simmer.

I have to add that I'm not a barbecue fan. I don't hate it, but I don't go crazy over it like a lot of people.

But, boy, did that come out good! Dirtman told me to keep the recipe. Recipe?

He also told me to make sure everyone knew who thought of the idea. Barbecue's been around for ages, so I guess he wants credit for being the one who came up with something that substituted for the pork casserole.

*I am my mother's daughter. My family can tell what day it is by what they had for breakfast: Monday, oatmeal; Tuesday, French toast; Wednesday, poached eggs; Thursday, farina; Friday, pancakes; Saturday and Sunday, you're on your own and where's my coffee?

A puzzlement

Yea for snow days!

Though around here, it's more like ice days. I'd give anything for a lovely snowfall.

But any housebound day is a good day in my book. I did a slow-cooker pork roast for dinner so I wouldn't be stuck in the kitchen and broke out a jigsaw puzzle. This made Heir 2 happy and Heir 1 dizzy.

Heir 2 got a double-sided puzzle of the Beatles' White Album on one side and a picture of each vinyl record (all four sides) on the other. He completed the picture of the vinyl side, but was never able to complete the puzzle on the total white side. But that's not the puzzle we're working on now because it's supposed to be fun...not give you a nervous breakdown.

We do like a challenge, though. So we're doing a 2,000-piece puzzle of a famous painting, which you should be able to make out by just the colors...if not, Heir 2 swears we'll have this done by the end of the week. (Notice he said "the week," not "this week.")

A Rather Lame First Post of 2009

No. Sorry. No Christmas photographic extravaganza. No solemn New Year’s resolution. If that’s what you’re looking for, move along – there’s nothing to see here.

A very low-key holiday season, you see. A used video game for Heir 1; a poster for Heir 2; and a handknit scarf for each. Oh…and deodorant in their stockings – but that was more an item from the grocery list that did double duty as a stocking stuffer.

I told them this would be the Christmas they would bring up to their own kids when they think the holiday has gotten too materialistic: “Why, when I was your age, all I got for Christmas was some lame scarf my mother knit herself…and I was happy to get it.”


No, it wasn’t as dismal as it sounds. We ate and played board games and ate and cooked and ate and then ate some more.

And then we wrapped up the New Year with optimism, an emotion I never expected to feel again. But there it is.

Perhaps I mis-spoke. I will make a New Year’s resolution after all. I’m not going to apologize anymore when we spend money. It's a habit I've developed, feeling I have to justify every purchase I make. But it’s also something I’ve noticed everyone doing lately and it's extremely annoying because it make the assumption that the other person is rude enough to pass judgment on what should be a personal matter. It’s none of my business how you spend your money and what you consider a want or a need. Those are unique to every person or family. I will assume you will have the good manners to do likewise.

So please, stop apologizing to me about the cup of coffee you bought at Starbucks or that you went out to eat and had dessert. I promise I won’t apologize for ordering two pairs of tights and a set of double-pointed knitting needles.

But...no hard feelings, k? Here's some gratuitous doggie pictures of Toppergetdown and Zsa Zsa: