Crazy

It appears as if No Cobwebs Here has gone dark for a few days, doesn't it? I've been so faithful with posting three times weekly since becoming a blogger it drove me crazy that I had broken my own schedule.

Really crazy. But then it occurred to me it was likely crazier to agonize so over a volunteer schedule of my own creation. Especially as I'm supposed to be on Christmas holiday.

And to tell you the truth, although it seems as if being away would give me mountains of material, I've been too cold to be the least bit witty. I had nothing for you. Apparently light snow and near freezing temperatures fog this Florida girl's brain. 

No, I'm certain it wasn't the straight up Yukon Jack. That episode, BTW, was merely an attempt to fuel dying embers. Desperate times call for desperate measures. 

Anyway, this got me to thinking. What is crazy really? Is it a pink and green drawer (Post 12/11/09, Murky Filing)? The desire to scare a goat (Post 12/07/09, I'm Not a Mean Girl)? A fourth Yukon Jack? 

The craziness of others makes for riveting conversation. And upon stepping for a short time back into the life and dramas of extended family, one could spend hours being riveted (or possibly tormented). 

However, it's perhaps saner (and possibly kinder) to consider my own possible craziness which I am this morning doing. I'm going to give you only three examples and leave you to decide where I might fall on the spectrum. I know you'll keep in mind there's much between sane and crazy. Nonsensical, silly, quirky, zany, and simply hearing one's own drummer drumming too loudly immediately come to mind.

Here you go:

1. I often listen to only the same CD...over and over...for weeks at a time. (I've done this ever since Michael Jackson came out with I'll Be There when I was in middle school. Merely nonsense?) 

2. Regardless of how awful a book might be, I cannot make myself stop reading it once I start.(Although I confess to speed reading which I don't really know how to do. A tad quirky?) 

3. If I've been out with others or at a party - even if I'm having a blast - I must be alone for awhile afterward. Otherwise, I become the poster child for Crabby Cat. (I might have to concede to crazy - or close to it - on this point.)

 

The picture at the top of the page epitomizes crazy, don't you think? It's actually an element seen at St. Louis' City Museum, an incredible museum for both young and old that is so unique you can hardly explain it to others. 

The two you see above are my favorite young people on the planet - my Kenny and Torie Montana. It's a joy for me to see them together. What you can't hear of course, is Torie urging me to hurry with the picture taking because she was freezing. We've become Florida wussies!

If you'd like to check out the City Museum, click on this link:
http://www.citymuseum.org

Happiness

Happiness has been on my mind these last few days, likely because December finds some I know riding the roller coaster that is the dark magic of Christmas. I can't quite let go of wanting to do something for those friends who fall into a funk this time of year - even though both they and I realize their funk is fleeting.

We all know happiness doesn't wait for us to follow him but sometimes it does seem as if he's, quite unkindly, put on an invisible cloak. You feel he's nearby yet you can't quite lay your hands on him.

But if you're lucky, you might find yourself accidentally bumping into him on your way to a rum ball.

Is there a chance that a wildly silly poem can carry some even a short way to the other side? Keep in mind my poem is not a life boat. It's more like one of those colorful noodles you carry to the beach.

Also keep in mind I'll be there waiting...on the other side.

Let's sally forth with whimsy

And let laughter take the lead,

We'll sail away from worries

And cast spells of make believe.

Let's sashe on past yesterday

And toss coins at Father Time,

Tip the moon into a teacup

I'll share whatever's mine.

Let's pin pink posies to our shirts

And spin daydreams by the sea,

We'll learn a silly language

And converse with all the bees.

We'll dance beneath the midnight stars

We'll ride the waves til dawn,

My soul will sing a song of joy

That you have come along.

By the way, according to the book Happiness: A History, it wasn't until the late 17th century Enlightenment that happiness as we know it came to be. The Enlightenment's faith in the promise of happiness is how it's pursuit became one of our self-evident truths. And, all data seems to point to certain truths:

1. People are really no happier now than they've been since such studies were first conducted in the 1950's. Thank goodness! For a minute I thought they were going to say we all have to start doing the Mash Potato again!

2. While there's some correlation between happiness and material prosperity, it ceases to be a factor at a certain financial mark - an amazingly low mark actually. We should be extraordinarily happy about that lately!

3. Contentment in family, friendship, and social relations does seem to have a bearing. Ya think!?

4. You're likely to be happier if you live in a non-communist country and if you're satisfied with your work. It is rare to see a communist smile now that I think of it.

We've made a last minute decision to drive to St. Louis for Christmas and New Years. It's an eighteen hour drive and we're leaving at noon on Christmas Eve and driving straight through. Keep your fingers crossed, my friends, that we don't run into any weather. Wrap us in white light, too.

White light! Not snow!

Tending to Marriage

I've long held fast to the notion that every marriage needs a shrine.

Ideally, a marriage shrine should speak to your heart and to the best of your life with your spouse. It should be the first stop when the inevitable tough times roll in.

Gazing upon your shrine helps you remember the whys of your marriage - why you love each other, why you make each other laugh. And, why one of you isn't buried in the garden under the moon flowers.

My own marriage shrine consists of five photos, each capturing a moment I feel to be the essence of Kenny and I, our "us-ness" if you will. And, I have indeed found it helpful throughout the years to stand before these photos and remember the whys.

It's best not to approach your marriage shrine with a pink magic marker in hand - the temptation to draw a mustache and freckles has, on occasion, been almost more than one could bear. 

Although historically I've had to sometimes drag him to it, Kenny has mostly been on board with our shrine as a road to marital bliss.

But now he's come up with what he thinks to be a better plan. Naked sword fighting.

You just said it out loud, too, didn't you? Naked sword fighting. I did the same thing as Kenny unveiled his plan while opening the box of two wooden swords that arrived with Saturday's mail.

"How on earth could naked sword fighting ever fix anything?"

"Oh, I'm not sure it would fix anything. But it might. Maybe we should practice." Does she detect a wicked smile? "How about now?"

I walk to the kitchen and begin rummaging through my junk drawer.

Kenny follows me, swords in hand. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"I'm looking for my pink magic marker."

Going Red

In these rough and tumble economic times we must use all resources at our disposal. Even those that appear unlikely.

I've never considered myself a student of Feng Shui, but I've read some on the topic and discovered I naturally leaned towards its corner.

But I've now decided to cling rather than merely lean, especially as I've seen a flamboyant example of Feng Shui working its magic.

You may remember my mentioning our rental property, a place we suddenly found in dire need of remodeling (Friday, August 28, Changing Your Emotional Drift). Although I haven't mentioned it since, this effort has occupied a substantial portion of our late summer and fall. (I do hope you appreciate my lack of whining about this, by the way. Not all in my life have been so fortunate.)

Babs suggested I paint the front door of this property red as, according to the tenets of Feng Shui, red insures prosperity, abundance,and success.

So get this...on the Sunday before Thanksgiving I put the last coat of paint on the door and drove away. Not five minute later I received a call from a man who ended up moving in Thanksgiving weekend! And, we believe him to be a dream of a renter. And the angels sang on high!

So not only have any Feng Shui doubts been put to rest, I've painted my own front door red (as you can see above).

But I can't stop with just painting the door. I'm now on the search for three Chinese coins to hang from my red door. I must also install a pond and a waterfall and purchase a colorful gazing ball. Lastly, my mailbox must be transformed into something fun.

This is all in the name of prosperity, abundance, and success of course, but you do wonder who thought all this up. I know they say the Chinese, but...I think it might have been realtors.

It all sounds suspiciously like nothing more than improved curb appeal - plain and simple.

We'll see. Once I'm ready to sell this property, I'm going to bury a statue of the Virgin Mary upside down in the front yard. Just to be on the safe side.

That's not Feng Shui though, is it? What on earth is that about then? 

What a world, what a world!

Cherry Chocolate Surprise - Installment II

Above you see myself and my friend, Dorothy Rodwell, at the Mound House Holiday Tea this past Saturday. What a lovely day it was.

As I'm the publicity gal for the Friends of the Mound House as well as the editor of our newsletter, The Gumbo Limbo Gazette, I was busy taking pictures when I wasn't munching on shrimp with fresh lime, a sea grape jelly roll, fruit salad, and Dorothy's famous cornbread.

I sat with the Friends of Matanza's Pass Preserve and, as these folks take care of our island's 60-acre preserve, all our food was native to Florida.

Our table was also quite gorgeous with native foliage and berries but we, alas, didn't win the best table prize. Our theme was Caring for the Land Through Time so we were each dressed to represent a different era. I was 1910's while Dorothy was Civil War. We even had a Caloosa Indian at our table.

Anyway, below is the 2nd and last installment of Cherry Chocolate Surprise. Enjoy...

Aunt Ruby chuckled. "Did I tell you about the dream I had last night, my Little Moon Muffin?" 

India May shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, and turned to wipe away the splatter now slowly making its way down the wall. She licked her fingers and then dropped into a split.

Aunt Ruby clapped her hands. "That’s perfect! Anyway, I dreamed Gertie Callister came knocking on our door to tell me her butterscotch bonanza had burned in the oven. She begged me to give her my cherry chocolate surprise!" Aunt Ruby sighed. "It was a lovely dream." 

After several more messes and much more spoon waving, Aunt Ruby slid her Cherry Chocolate Surprise into the oven. She set the oven timer and, while the cake baked, she made a pot of India May's favorite lemon rose tea.

Aunt Ruby buttered a maple pecan scone and handed it to India May. "Hmmm...are you sure I shouldn't have added just the tiniest bit of maple syrup?” 

India May shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. 

"You’re right. You always are, you know. Here, eat this scone my Angel Creme and then show me one of those ballerina leaps, those grand jetes." 

India May ate three maple pecan scones and drank two cups of lemon rose tea before she began practicing ballerina leaps for Aunt Ruby. 

She leaped four times before the oven timer went off.

BZZZZZ!

Aunt Ruby took a deep breath and so India May took one too. Aunt Ruby gently opened the oven door and she and India May both peered inside.

"Do you think it's done?" Aunt Ruby asked. India May shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. 

"I think so, too." Aunt Ruby carefully took the cherry chocolate surprise from the oven and set it on the table. 

Stepping back, she whispered, "It looks light enough to float away." 

India May followed behind Aunt Ruby as she quietly walked around the table. She studied the cherry chocolate surprise from every angle. Finally she turned to India May and caught her in an enormous bear hug. 

"It's perfect! Why, it’s as perfect as...as your plies and those grand jetes! Grab my purse Spring Pea. We're going to the Teatime Bake Off." 

While India May looked for Aunt Ruby's purse, Aunt Ruby began searching the pockets of her apron. She pulled out one of India May's pink barrettes and a white feather India May had given her the day before.

"Now where on earth did I put those directions? Ah...here they are." She pulled a crumbled piece of paper from her apron pocket and flattened it onto the kitchen table. "What time is it, Honeycomb?" 

India May shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She didn't know how to tell time yet. 

Aunt Ruby glanced up at the clock above the stove. "Oh no! The bake off started fifteen minutes ago! We're late!" 

Aunt Ruby tossed the directions into the air, jumped from her chair, and headed for the door. Remembering that she needed to bring the cherry chocolate surprise with her, she spun around and raced back to the table. Scooping up the cake, she turned again for the door. At the exact same moment India May saw the egg shells still on the floor but there was no time to warn Aunt Ruby. 

As Aunt Ruby stepped on them, her feet slipped out from under her and she landed with a thud on the kitchen floor. For an instant, it looked as if the cherry chocolate surprise was really going to float away, but then it too landed with a thud and a splat on the floor next to Ruby. 

"Oh no," she moaned as she saw the cherry chocolate mess that lay around her. "Gertie Callister gets to keep my blue ribbon for another year."

Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, Aunt Ruby loudly blew her nose. She sighed as a glob of chocolate slid off her cheek. 

A slow smile, just the tiniest bit sad, spread over her face as she wiped away her tears. She sighed a huge sigh.


"I guess I'll need help cleaning this up."" 

India May grinned, shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She ran to the kitchen drawer, pulled out two spoons, and sat down on the floor next to Ruby. 

"Well my darlin Sugar Cookie, you may have the honor of the first bite." 

Aunt Ruby watched nervously as India May dug her spoon into a swirl of cherries and chocolate that lay by her knee. She watched India May nervously until India May swallowed. 

"Well?" she asked. 

India May pulled a folded envelope from the inside her tutu and handed it to Aunt Ruby. 

Aunt Ruby opened the envelope and pulled out a circle of blue paper with two blue ribbons stapled to the bottom. In pink glitter was written a very crooked number one. 

Tears again spilled from Aunt Ruby's eyes and India May was again caught in an enormous bear hug. 

It was most definitely a blue ribbon cherry chocolate surprise.  It was also a blue ribbon afternoon.


So what do you think? Is it a story worth pursuing? Do you think K through third grade would enjoy it? Talk to me!

I'm not sure how long they'll be up, but click below if you'd like to see more pictures of the Holiday Tea at the Mound House: 

http://cu.fortmyersbeachtalk.com/galleries/301590/

Cherry Chocolate Surprise

Ahhh...between tea-ing and visiting family, I've fallen tragically behind this weekend. So today I'm posting the first part of a children's story I've been working on that I'd love your feedback on. I'll post the entire story in segments this week - it's  short and sweet.

I beg you to imagine it wonderfully illustrated. Are there any artists in the house?

I've must run now as my Mama, Darcie and I are going to sit and watch an episode of the Midsummer Murders before heading to lunch and the airport.

Enjoy and tell me what you think? I think I see India May with glasses...

Little India May didn't see her Aunt Ruby come to a complete stop in the baking aisle of the grocery store. She bounced off Aunt Ruby’s back side and landed in a very un-ballerina like heap on the floor.

"There's Gertie Callister," Aunt Ruby whispered to India May, not seeming to notice India May now lay sprawled on the floor of the baking aisle. "Did you see that? That sly ol' Gertie just picked up a bottle of maple syrup."

Aunt Ruby looked down at India May as if India May always sat sprawled on the floor of the baking aisle. "Do you think maple syrup is the secret ingredient in her butterscotch bonanzas?"

India May shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She usually never knew the answers to Aunt Ruby's questions. She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders a lot.

India May started to get up and Aunt Ruby bent over to brush the dust off India May’s pink tutu.

"Well, my Little Banana Dumplin," Aunt Ruby went on, "You know how I feel about Gertie's butterscotch bonanzas. They're too crumbly for my taste."

Gertie Callister disappeared around the corner as Aunt Ruby started again pushing her cart down the baking aisle. India May straightened her glasses and followed Aunt Ruby, this time from a safer distance.

As Aunt Ruby and India May walked by the syrup, Aunt Ruby picked up a bottle of the maple and turned to India May. "Do you think maple syrup would be a nice touch?"

India May shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

"You're right." Aunt Ruby put the maple syrup back on the shelf. "Let's go home, Sweet Peach. It'll be teatime soon and there's still chocolate to be shaved."

India May giggled as she imagined a huge chunk of chocolate covered with shaving cream waiting patiently at home for Aunt Ruby.

Smiling, Aunt Ruby, asked, "What's so funny, Kitten Cake?"

India May shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She then spun in a perfect pirouette for Aunt Ruby right in the middle of the baking aisle.

Aunt Ruby clapped her hands. "Perfect! Absolutely perfect!"

Once at home, India May practiced her plies in the middle of the kitchen. Aunt Ruby bustled around India May, pulling bowls from the shelves, eggs from the refrigerator, and flour from the cupboard. Aunt Ruby didn't notice that the bag of flour left a snowy trail behind her as she carried it across the room.

She cracked three eggs into one of the bowls and didn't notice the shells that fell to the floor. She rushed over to the stove just in time to stop melting butter from bubbling out of the pot.

She then began furiously beating the eggs and melted butter together with a large wooden spoon. She didn't notice that most of the butter and eggs were flying out of the bowl and falling onto the table.

India May liked watching Aunt Ruby bake. She liked pretending Aunt Ruby was a mad scientist mixing up purple monsters wearing pink tutus. Sometimes she pretended Aunt Ruby was a good witch stirring up magic potions that changed fire-breathing dragons into flying puppies.

Aunt Ruby stopped stirring and declared, "By this afternoon, Puddin Cup, that blue ribbon will be right back where it belongs! Right where it should have gone after last year's Teatime Bake Off."

She waved her wooden spoon at an empty spot on the wall behind India May. India May ducked as a large glob of the egg and butter mixture whizzed by her head and landed with a splat on the wall.

To be continued...

Murky Filing

It's likely because I'm not one to leave stacks of papers lying about (at least for any length of time) that I've long thought my filing skills left nothing to be desired.

Kenny, on the other hand, would disagree. He's basing that solely on the fact that, back in the olden days when names, phone numbers and addresses were put into a small book kept near the phone, our family's book had names listed alphabetically - by first name. For those puppies among us reading this, we called that book an Address Book. 

This seemed completely normal to me but was a minor source of aggravation for Kenny. However, since he was more prone to saying, "Lar, can you get me so and so's phone number," as opposed to having the least intention of seeking out the address book himself, we did it my way.

But lately I seem to have trouble finding this or that piece of paper. Since there are no papers lying about I know what I need is filed somewhere but for the life of me I can't quite put my fingers on it. You'd think it could be under Taxes, Accountant, or possibly Papers I Might Need in 2010, but it's not.

Heavy Sigh. I think Kenny might be right. My filing system may be a little murky.

It's much easier in my closet where last year I began experimenting with a new system. I started with a green drawer - all my green clothes went into this drawer regardless of whether they were pajamas, sweatshirts, skirts, or undies.

This worked so well for me that this past spring, despite the scoffing of friends and family, I created a pink drawer.

My system still has a few kinks to be sure. Prints are an unusually broad category I've yet to address and I'm completely baffled as to what to with muted shades, but I think you can see the potential. It could just be HG TV worthy.

Oh wait! It just came to me! What I need is filed under Ick! Of course! 

Although Kenny appears to be frowning in the above picture, I think it's mostly an illusion created by the Fumanchu moustache. Once he reads this post and sees that I agree he's right, he'll be smiling large. 

He'll also probably want me to say, "You were right."  He just loves that. 

Graciousness Gone Mad

Texas AandM holds an annual contest to find the most appropriate definition of a contemporary term. The 2007 term was political correctness and the following definition won:

"Political Correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical minority, and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end."

I find this a brilliant window into the foolishness of those who hold political correctness so dear. The problems that inspired political correctness will no more be fixed by political correctness than boxed color fixes the gray in my hair. The gray is only covered, sometimes barely and only temporarily. New gray grows and the boxed color either fades or becomes brassy. Much to my chagrin I might add.

And why, you ask, do I bring this up? I've had the unusual experience of being told I was politically correct. Twice within the last two weeks!

I can't tell you how this tweaked me. Both times I felt a momentary twitch in my left eye.

Both times I indignantly, and somewhat shrilly, cried out "What!"

I quickly learned that both times people were trying to tell me they found me to be gracious and kind.

Well now. Alrighty then. That I like. Thank you. And, please, pardon my indignation and that wee bit o' shrill. 

But light has now been shed. People are equating graciousness and kindness with political correctness? Yikes! Egads! Oh, Good Gracious Miss Molly! I see this as a problem for I can't help but think political correctness is graciousness and kindness gone mad. The pendulum has not just swung to the other end, but has been flung into the ether.

Shall I always strive to be gracious and kind? I should hope so. But I also hope to always stop short of political correctness. I must, for my instinct tells me this ultimately creates nothing but nonsense. And worse, larger ill will.  That I wish to have no part of.

On that note, I wish all a very Merry Christmas. And please, Happy Hanukkah or Kwanzaa me back. It won't offend me in the least. I'm a big girl.

To learn more about the history of political correctness, this small phrase created by small minds, click on this link:

http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1G2-3401803309.html

I'm Not A Mean Girl

Did you know that if you hit a lizard with your hose on jet he is catapulted into the air and lands a good four or five feet from where you blasted him? It's tremendous fun when you're watering.

On the chance you're now thinking I'm a mean girl, I beg you keep a few things in mind.

First, I've seen lizards jump from my second story deck and then race away. They've no qualms about leaving their tails lying about as they...then race away. And, they can dramatically lower their respiratory rate, making it possible for them to survive the toxic, termite killing gases blown into a tented home - gases that can do even a human in. Yes, they do then...race away once the tent is removed and humans again enter the premises.

God clearly made a sturdy creature with the lizard. 

I like to think the acrobats I instigate are nothing more than harmless shenanigans for the both of us. And I must say, a lizard looks almost joyful as he flies through the air. Especially if you can hit him the slightest bit on the underside so as to catch some air under him as he sails from you into the sunshine. 

But now I've a longing greater than that of blasting a lizard into the air. I want to scare a goat.

I'd be the first to agree it's an odd longing. And, until Babs made me aware there are species of goats that fall to the ground in a temporary faint upon being frightened, I didn't even know I'd want to do such a thing.

It perhaps sounds cruel, but if you see it...well, it's hysterically funny.  If you doubt my words you must search YouTube for "scared goats". When you do, you'll find videos such as this: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnnGZnOanz0 

Oh my gosh, I LOL every time I see it.

On the chance you might still think me a mean girl, know that yesterday I was a judge for the first annual Hounds on the Mound here on Fort Myers Beach. I judged the Ugliest Dog and Most Talented. I also voted on the People's Choice for Best Costume.

They don't let mean girls in on that. 

The picture you see is Buster, the very kewl poodle belonging to my neighbor, Jessica Titus. Buster usually falls down and plays dead when Jessie cries, "Bam!" He was somewhat less than cooperative yesterday so the Santa spaniel pulling the sleigh won Most Talented. It was a tough call though!

Jessica Titus is my favorite Beach Realtor by the way. Her company is Fort Myers Beach Realty, www.FMBeachRealty.com.

Ghosties and Travel Tales

Thank goodness I'm an avid note taker as I'm only this week getting around to writing the travelogue about my Texas adventures. 

I was not procrastinating! I've just been wildly busy and as I'm often compelled to mention to my husband, "There's only one of me." 

Why does he find that so funny?

Anyway, I'm calling it A Florida Girl Does the Texas Tea-Step and I beg you to keep your fingers crossed that Tea in Texas Magazine accepts it.

I had never written a travelogue before and the few I've read were somewhat less than riveting. Unless, of course, there's danger, restless natives, or a flash flood in the canyon. None of which I can say highlighted my time in Texas.  They did forget to bring the guacamole for my enchilada at a restaurant in Corpus Christi, but that hardly bears mentioning. 

I felt it necessary to Google "How to Write a Travelogue," but after 45 minutes I felt perhaps I was verging on procrastination. So I just began.

Then I feared the piece was going the way of the shawl I once tried knitting, which before I knew it had somehow reached a truly unruly length. After many cups of tea and 1500 words, I'm ready for a final proofing. It's a hefty piece so I'm hoping the editor of Tea in Texas is short on content for her January issue. 

Here's how it starts:

Fort Myers Beach: Where are my teapot jammies? I can't start the Texas Tea-Step without my teapot jammies. Ahhh...there they are. Good bye Fort Myers Beach. I hope Lyle Lovit's words are true: "That's right. You're not from Texas. But Texas wants you anyway."

If the article is accepted you'll be among the first to hear of it. For now I'd like to send you to the web site of the Driskill Hotel where we had tea in Austin. It's an iconic Texas landmark and also the most haunted hotel in all of Texas.

Authentically haunted I might add. An episode of Ghost Hunting and Milkshakes was recently shot at the Driskill. Concrete Blond's lead singer, Johnette Napoliatno, had such a profound ghost experience there that she created a music video about it called Ghost of a Texas Ladies' Man. To see these videos and learn of other Driskill ghost stories, click on the link below.

You'll also be able to see videos of performers such as Jewel.  She recorded one of her songs at the Driskill as well. Nothing ghosty there though.

http://www.driskillhotel.com/video-gallery.php

Post Thanksgiving Events

 

Several events unfold during this week following Thanksgiving. Aside from my family's united front that my creative use of turkey come to an end.

My Santas leave their boxes and patiently wait for the Santa tours to begin. Both they and my family are required to participate in these tours which involve much reminiscing and choosing of new favorites.

I make a double batch of rum balls. You're supposed to let them sit for two weeks for the flavor to develop but if you make only one batch there are no rum balls by day fourteen.

I take my night yoga onto the front deck. Orion, Taurus and Gemini do much to encourage my yoga practice this time of year and currently I'm in need of tremendous encouragement if I'm to master the bird of paradise pose. I may require a meteor shower. 

Holiday activities and tasks, as well as general merriment will soon ramp up here and so far I'm on point. Oh Joy to the World!

Off to test another rum ball...one must be quite sure they're just right.

Here's my rum ball recipe. It began as one from my favorite gal, Fanny Farmer, but I've changed it quite a bit over the years: 

RUM BALLS
2 cups vanilla wafers
1/2 cup finely chopped pecans
1/4 cup cocoa
21/2 cups powdered sugar
2 tablespoons light corn syrup
1/3 cup Malibu rum

Put vanilla wafers into a food processor and process until the cookies become fine crumbs. Put crumbs into a bowl, add pecans, cocoa and one cup powdered sugar. Stir well. Add light corn syrup and Malibu rum. Shape into small balls and roll in remaining powdered sugar. Store in an airtight container. They are best if allowed to sit for 10 to 14 days.

To see a 54-second video of the bird of paradise pose, click on this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPBgfISx0yY

Omen of the Scarlet Ibis

I'm still thinking about animal encounters and today want to share my tale of the scarlet ibis.

But first a bit of background material: The scarlet ibis, red as a St. Louis cardinal, is native to South America, particularly Trinidad and Tobago.

For a scarlet ibis to be seen on Fort Myers Beach is a rarity. To see him each evening at the same time flying above the back bay with a flock of white ibis, all heading to roost, creates much excitement on our small barrier island.

People stop their day in an attempt to catch sight of him. I myself had tried on several occasions to see him and had dragged my husband to the back bay more than once at 6:15. But we either weren't quite timely or the light was such that you couldn't quite make him out as the flock flew over your head.

And now let my tale begin... 

There once was a couple (whom we may as well call Kenny and Laurie) who traversed this great country with all their belongings on enough occasions that their friends and family tended to lose track of where they'd been at certain moments in history.

This couple continued to soothe their restless natures even after their children were born.

It should have come as no surprise then that their first born (whose favorite color happened to be red) would reach an age where he, too, felt compelled to leave home and seek his fortune in another land. (Let's say for the sake of argument and accuracy that this young man chose the land of St. Louis.)

His announcement of his intentions caused his parents (well, mostly his mother) a great deal of angst and worry.

One evening the father in this tale decided to take his boat into the back bay to fish. After he left, the mother in this tale stepped onto her second story deck and called her son. As she listened to him speak of his departure, she wished with all her heart for an omen to be delivered to her. Some sign that all would be well with her son.

At that very moment she looked up and to the right. She had not paid any attention to the time but there they were. The flock of white ibis were making their way towards her and, as she was high above the ground, she saw him for the first time. The scarlet ibis.

And he was as red as a St. Louis cardinal. As red as the St. Louis Cardinal shirts her son most often wore. The scarlet ibis flew past and away from her.

She became teary-eyed in her thankfulness as her son continued to talk.

Later, she heard her husband walk through the front door. She ran out to greet him and tell him what had happened. But before she could say anything, her husband cried out to her, "You'll never guess what I saw!"

He, too, had seen the scarlet ibis fly toward and then away from him, at the same moment as she. At the same moment their son spoke of his departure from them.

And so the hearts of this couple (well, mostly his mother's) were soothed. All would be well their son. 

I do understand. The problem with anything perceived to be an omen is that its inherently wrapped in a certain degree of wishful thinking. Yet, some moments come together in such a serendipitous fashion that you're left wondering...could they be anything BUT an omen. Such is life for those paying attention to such things.

Odd Encounters

Animal encounters, strange or otherwise, aren't a surprise when you're hiking or camping.

But you hardly expect to have such encounters when you're antiquing in Homestead, Florida with Babs Snyderman and Dr. Leslie D____.

There we were last week, wandering leisurely through a slice of old Florida, the historic Cauley Square, when we saw them. Not one. Not two. No, not three. Twelve. Twelve raccoons were playing in a secluded stone pond possessing what was once a waterfall feature. They romped. They frolicked. They appeared to have not a care in the world.

What a sight! What a photo op! Dr. Leslie D____ was the only one of our trio toting a camera. As a matter of fact, she and her camera enjoy one another immensely and she certainly isn't in need of my instruction.

However. I couldn't help but feel that a photo worthy of National Geographic could perhaps be had if she moved closer or slowly edged her way around the left side of the pond and climbed onto the rocks of the defunct waterfall feature. She'd be only feet away from them! 

Of course, she'd first have to skirt the really large raccoon loitering on that left side. But, he seemed to be paying hardly any attention to us at all.

Dr. Leslie D_____ appeared to hesitate just as one of the baby raccoons began chasing his tail. I gently nudged her forward as Babs, standing behind me, dryly mentioned, "You know, raccoons can have rabies."

Dr. Leslie D____, as it turns out, can be quite immovable.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm right here. Right behind you."

My rear guard appeared to be little comfort but we did take the slightest step forward when the large loiterer on the left suddenly rushed towards us. Trotting with intent might better describe him but, however one might gauge his speed, suffice to say we took him seriously. We squealed like little girls and scrambled back from the pond. The photo op, so we thought, was lost.

We couldn't help but notice as we made our way to the shop fronting the pond that still more raccoons were peaking out at us.

And cats. At least 20 cats.

As it turns out, thanks to the woman who owns this shop, raccoons and cats live in perfect harmony. She throws food out for all of them while they lounge upon her porch, climb onto her roof and crawl from under the house.

It was endearing yet oddly creepy. It also raised some quite practical questions we thought best left unasked.

But my imagination can't help but run wild. What kind of woman invites that many wild and feral animals into her life and business? She's hugely outnumbered. What if they should rally and rise against her? Is this population proceeding unchecked and are there mutations occurring even as I write? Or, is she herself a shape-shifter with a diabolical plan aimed at wresting Cauley Square from humans. Does this raccoon slash cat lady realize her life is a heartbeat away from becoming the stuff of nightmares?

And what kind of animal encounter would this woman find odd?

She might just be a perfect character for my ghost story... 

I've had several unexpected animal encounters in my time. One of the oddest occurred when my kids were still small. My husband had brought home a three foot black snake who took to living in an aquarium in our kitchen. One morning my little Kenny woke me up from a deep sleep as he climbed into bed with me. I told him I had been dreaming that our snake's eyes had clouded over, which led to a discussion of a snake shedding his skin. We got up and went downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast.

Our snakes eyes were clouded over. He shed his skin ten days later.

What on earth do you make of that?!

The picture above was taken by Dr. Leslie D___.

Harder Than It Looks

Although I was enamored of them for a time, cooking shows have lost their luster in my world.

I stopped watching Rachael Ray's 30-Minute Meals upon realizing I was spending 30-minutes learning to make a 30-minute meal. It seemed poor time management.

It's not that cooking shows aren't helpful. After all, I was only able to truly master the art of the omelet by watching Alton Brown's Good Eats. Who would have thought there are at least 7 steps to making the perfect omelet? Foregoing at least half of them does indeed make a difference. 

But in the end, the camera shots on Good Eats tweaked me ever so slightly. I bid farewell to Mr. Brown.

Giada DeLaurentiis' show, on the other hand, is surely the most sensuously filmed cooking show of all time. Yet, I found that, in the end, all Giada inspired me to do was watch Giada cook. Time management ceased to exist. It was with poignant regret that I bid farewell to her.

I would give much to spend time with Paula Dean in her outdoor kitchen, but the first time I saw her show I thought it was a spoof on cooking shows. The way Paula Dean pronounces pecan pie was a source of wonder for this mid-west girl. For the next 30-minutes I simply could not make myself stop trying to capture her drawl and inflection. And there I was yet again - guilty of poor time management. I bid farewell to Paula Dean.

But I've tremendous respect for these people. Have you ever tried to keep a smile on your face for 30-minutes while running a solo conversation and cooking? It's much harder than it looks. I know this to be true because I tried it yesterday while making my Thanksgiving cupcakes and my cranberry sauce.

Here I am a speaker, a consummate multi-tasker, and no stranger to the kitchen. Between all that and the innate uppish-ness I usually work hard at keeping in check, I've often thought perhaps I should host my own cooking show.

But all I can say now is thank goodness I was cooking something that didn't require the use of a knife. Otherwise, I'd be hunting and pecking at my keyboard today with less than the usual number of digits.

As it was I dripped chocolate down my shirt, knocked one bowl off the counter, added salt twice, and forgot my train of thought more than once. And never was I the least bit witty. As a matter of fact sometimes I just couldn't think of a thing to say beyond the obvious, "Fill the cupcake wrappers 3/4 full" or "Stir occasionally til the berries pop".

Alas, I realized hosting my own cooking show was a mere pipe dream. And as I really do not have the many spare moments this post implies, I stopped with the foolishness, turned on some Lucinda Williams tunes and began my coleslaw. It's the one with the secret ingredient - which I may have gleamed from an episode of Rachael Ray.

Anyway...Gobble On! 

The picture you see above is one of my Thanksgiving tables for this season. Ever fond of the eclectic, Thanksgiving usually finds us eating from antique china platters - all of which are different. They don't lead to gluttony but they are bigger than dinner plates and perfect for those among us happiest when their menu items are not touching one another.

And, here's a tip for those who, like me, cannot count flower arranging among their skills. Anyone can arrange a few flowers in antique salt and pepper shakers.

Ghostly and Gothic

What should I do next now that I'm a genuine devotee of my character, Octavia Ashford (as well as her ghosts)?

I'll likely read ever more ghost stories, especially as the ghost story season draws near. 

Ghost stories at Christmas time? Odd to us now, reading ghost stories at Christmas is as Victorian as Queen Victoria herself.

My awareness of this historical tidbit coincided with our migration to Florida and ever since - for nine years now - I do pull out my ever growing collection of ghost stories once December rolls in. I've discovered the words of Mamillius in The Winter's Tales to be true: A sad tale's best for winter. I have one of spirits and goblins. 

I'm leaping ahead this year as I'm already on page 109 of J.S. LeFanu's Uncle Silas, a book famous for "creating an atmosphere of unrelieved terror and suspense." Technically it's more Gothic than ghost, but the two are close relatives and exchanging one for the other during the season does not portend some dire calamity.  

Uncle Silas is quite good. It's diabolical. It's gripping. One deeply feels poor Maud's fear and suspicion of her fiendish governess, Madame de la Rougierre.

Yet, at the same time one wonders why poor Maud hasn't the presence of mind to more quickly put a stop to this woman who wields such an unpleasant hold upon her nerves. A young woman with bravado, such as my Torie Montana, would easily have made short work of a fiendish governess. 

But I suppose a ghost or gothic story without a frightened woman seeing lurid treachery at every turn is one without legs, isn't it?

Back to what I'm going to do next. I've a ghost story of my own beginning to form in my mind's eye. I'll take care that I don't allow it to over excite me through the holiday season. Yet, when I'm alone, I cannot help but wonder down what dark and thrilling path it will lead.

I cannot share more for I must part from you now with unnatural speed. But do not fear. A undefinable sense of danger has not smote me. A malevolent dread is not mingling with the blood coursing through my veins. Nor is panic gathering round me.

I simply must visit Netflix. The English filmed Uncle Silas as The Inheritor. I've got to order it on the chance it could be here by Thanksgiving.

Hello Octavia!

Well my friends, the time has come for Lady Octavia Ashford to at last go live. I'll be doing Octavia Ashford and Her Ghosts, for the first time in its entirety, at the Walk Through the Arts Festival in Fort Myers tomorrow.

It's taken an inordinate amount of time for me to become comfortable with this but I finally feel Octavia.

I've raised the bar here. All of my programs before now have required only an animated version of myself. With this, however, I throw myself into acting and storytelling.

I wanted to tell a ghost story but I also wanted to provide background on the ghost story genre as it stood in the Victorian era. Hence Octavia. As an engaging hostess who sometimes has trouble staying focused on the task at hand, she provides the frame surrounding the story.

If you click on the link below, you can hear the beginning prior to Octavia actually telling the ghost story. It's just short of six minutes long.

But first, read the words below as it's what you'd hear if you were with me in real time: 

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. I invite you to step back in time with me to a December afternoon in 1898. To the parlor of Lady Octavia Ashford - just as the sun is bidding farewell to the afternoon...ok now, click here! Enjoy!

In case you'd like to check out all that goes on at our Alliance for the Arts where the festival is held: http://www.artinlee.org

Working In Threes

Odd numbers are pleasing to the eye. I happen to be especially fond of three's.

I had wanted three children but it's likely time to stop wishing for a third. At this point in life's game a third child would require an extraordinary explanation. No Cobwebs Here would also come to a screeching halt. 

I had wanted three pets. I had two and am now down to one. I'm good there I think, especially as one is an odd number. Although the question begs to be asked - would two Shih Tzu puppies forever put to rest that longing for a third child? 

Other than the above, I work in three's pretty faithfully. I always buy three:
- of any plant calling my name
- matching panties per bra
- bottles of wine (Please note I'm never compelled to drink three bottles of wine) 

I must also have three desserts on my holiday table.

Pumpkin pie with real whipped cream is a given.

Something chocolate is also an absolute must. For the last two years chocolate cupcakes have put in an appearance. Not just any old chocolate cupcakes, mind you. We kindly remove ours from their wrappers, cut them in half across their girth and before they know what hit them, we smear the bottom half with a thick layer of chocolate mocha mousse. The top half is carefully put back in place and the dark little beauties are then quite generously drizzled with a dark chocolate glaze. How I wish I could tell you I thought of these! But they're the brain child of Elinor Klivans and can be found in her book Cupcakes!.

The third dessert is always the wild card. I was leaning strongly towards creme brulee this year but have opted instead for a white chocolate bread pudding. It's a recipe I created for Steeped: The Wanderings and Delights of a Tea Adventurer and I like it because, not only is it wildly yummy, it freezes well and you can slice it and pick it up with your fingers to eat. Quite novel for bread pudding, don't you know. 

In case you, too, need a third dessert for your holiday table, here's the recipe:

White Chocolate Bread Pudding
8 ounces white baking chocolate
2 cups half and half
1 cup sugar
6 eggs
11/2 cups evaporated milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
8 large croissants

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Break up the white chocolate and put into the top of a double broiler with half and half. Warm on medium low heat, stirring occasionally until the white chocolate is melted. 

Add the sugar and continue stirring for 1-2 minutes. Remove from heat. 

Break the eggs into a large bowl and whisk until the yolks and whites are well blended. Add the evaporated milk and vanilla. Slowly pour the half and half mixture into the evaporated milk and eggs, stirring constantly.

Grease an 8.5" x 13" baking dish. Break the croissants into 1-inch chunks and place in the dish. Pour the cream mixture over the croissants. Use the back of a spoon to press the croissants into the liquid. Let sit for half an hour. 

Press the croissants into the liquid one more time before placing the baking dish into a larger pan. Place all into the oven and then carefully pour boiling water into the larger pan. Bake for 40-45 minutes. Once cool, cut into small pieces.

They say you must have three of something before you can call your two of something a collection. My search for a third elephant continues.