I'm In a Cherry Jam

Keeping in mind I'm a research hound, you surely know I had to Google "how to name a blog" before getting started back in June. Good thing I did too because I gleamed a most important tidbit of information.

You should name your blog something that shows you don't take yourself so seriously.

As I naturally lean towards irreverent and was wanting to write only slice of life prose anyway, this made perfect sense. Heeding such sage advice also gives you a little more elbow room. Your readers naturally tend to more forgiving of all flowing from your pen and keyboard.

That said, accuracy is still paramount - as it should be. And I confess to a faux pas. My good friend, Dr. Leslie D., has pointed out to me that Success Is Mine (9/11) contained a grave error.

As it turns out, Maraschino cherries contain not a trace of formaldehyde! I've heard for so long they did I took it as fact...and so neglected to fact check. If I had thought more carefully about the phrase "fact check", perhaps I wouldn't be in this cherry jam. 

Anyway, I stand corrected and am pleased to be a vehicle for the demolition of an urban myth.

But you know what this meant, don't you? I had to make that cake again! The revised recipe is below and I must say, the Maraschino cherry plays no small part.

So I thank Dr. Leslie D., but she's lucky I got the revised recipe right on the first try. She might have started getting cake in the mail. 

As long as I'm speaking of corrections, I also wasn't pleased with the second picture in When Fiends Have Fun (9/21). I've posted another in case you wish to take a look. 

And, since blogging seems to be a theme this week, I wanted all of you to know about a blog just brought up by a woman I greatly admire and whom I can count upon not only to tell me the truth about my writing but tell me how to fix it when I'm stuck, Ms. Carol Drummond. Enjoy: www.mangoesandchampagne.blogspot.com 

If you'd like to read about the misunderstood Maraschino cherry, you can visit: www.whatscookingamerica.net/History/MaraschinoCherry.htm

 Cherry Pound Cake(Revised)

12 ounces Maraschino cherries
1 cup butter
11/2 cup sugar
4 eggs
4 ounces sour cream
1 package Cherry Jello (not sugar free)
3 cups flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda 
1/2 cup Three Olives Cherry Vodka
2 teaspoons almond extract 

Chop cherries and set aside. Cream the butter and then add the sugar. With the mixer on low, add room temperature eggs one at a time. Add sour cream. In a separate bowl mix jello, flour, baking soda and baking powder. Alternately add the flour mixture and the vodka, beginning with the flour mixture. Using a spoon, gently add the almond extract and the chopped cherries. Do not over mix. Bake at 300 degrees in a greased and floured 10" tube pan for 75 minutes.

Glaze
4 tablespoons butter
2 cups powdered sugar
2 tablespoons Three Olives Cherry Vodka
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice 

Melt butter in a pan and add remaining ingredients. Immediately drizzle over the cooled cake.

What Darcie Suggests

Apparently I'll do anything my sister, Darcie, suggests. This likely began when she wanted to ride on the handle bars of my bike as I cruised down a hill too steep for a passenger so precariously balanced. Or, it might have been when she suggested we host an impromptu party since our parents were out. 

Neither time went well for her by the way. I crashed the bike and she ended up with stitches in her chin. Our parents crashed our party but my one guest, Tom Boenig, was easily lost in the sea of her guests scaling our back fence in hasty retreat. The lone, remaining friend hiding in the closet didn't help her case either. 

But I digress. It was Darcie who suggested I begin a blog.

The funny thing is, I'd been casually researching blogs for about a year and had decided against it. My Sweet Willa's Review at GLily.com, with its devotion to the often oddball bits of tea and history, was serving me well.

There are also more tea blogs than you'd care to count, many requiring a strong cuppa to sustain you through endless descriptions of individual teas and their nuances. It makes you wonder if some teas come with a thesaurus or perhaps a booklet entitled "Metaphors for Teatime". 

"What on earth would I write about?"

"Write about your life."

"Why would anyone read that?" 

Her answer was something along the lines of, "Write it and they will come."

People have come to No Cobwebs Here. According to StatCounter.com over 1500 of you since June. I've no idea if that's good for a blog and as some of you have become precious regulars, real numbers are hard to figure.

What I do know is that posting three times weekly with the intent of wooing at least a smile from my readers has opened up my writing in unexpected ways.

Yet, I've the sense that No Cobwebs Here is preparing me for something. That could be wishful thinking but it's recently occurred to me that this might only be a 1-year project. I might just make my last post on the anniversary of my first - June 16ths It's Not Household Management.

I will, of course, have to see what Darcie suggests.

But tell me, would you call me a humorist? 

It's Darcie you see above.

Saved by Torie Montana

It'd been years since I'd last fallen into the trap so you can imagine my shock. There I was staring sadly into the mirror, mourning the dark snippets of hair now lying lifeless in the sink. I'd been seized with the notion that my hair demanded immediate attention; that it was a monstrous affront that mustn't see the light of day.

I must take matters into my own hands I thought - especially as Torie Montana, my daughter the hair stylist, was nowhere to be found. I mean, really, where is a 22 year old on a Friday night at 11 p.m. when her mother is having such a crisis?

Knowing that such impulses generally put one on the road to disaster, you'd think I'd have stopped myself. But whether it was a quirk of the light or the lateness of the evening, I seemed to see clearly what must be done. It was only the tiniest bit off the front that needed to go. That's it! Shaping! How hard could that be?

I combed my wet bangs at what surely must be the right angle and with all the confidence of a woman whose daughter is the hair stylist, I picked up Torie's scissors. I did pause to see whether the sky would really fall as she had led me to believe might happen if I touched them.

The firmament was obviously staying put. So far, so good. I held my breath and made a first cut.

Hmmm...not bad - except for the bottom left edge there...let's try one more small snip...

Oops...well, no worries. My bangs could be a little shorter. If I comb them flatter, press down hard with my free hand and turn the scissors just so...

Oh dear...that's not good. I'm starting to look as if I've been through a chipper. Well wait, wispy bangs are downright sexy and I've seen Torie Montana create the look countless times. You just turn the scissors parallel with the hair and take short, fast snips. 

Yikes! Is there some wrist action I'm not aware of? Or, maybe I'm not cutting deeply enough...

Oh good Lord! What have I done! 

And that's how I ended up staring sadly into the mirror. At this moment I was worried only about my chipper head and had yet to give any thought to how I was going to explain this to Torie Montana. She night not take it well since, generally speaking, my head belongs to her.

Still in angst, I heard the front door open.

"Mom, are you up?"

For heaven sakes, I hadn't felt this kind of panic since my mom caught me kissing Tom Boenig on the front steps in eighth grade! I did the only thing I could think of.

I nonchalantly walked into the living room.

"Hi, darlin," How's that for casual?

"Why are you wearing a baseball hat and your pajamas?"

"I'm wearing a hat? Silly me. I must have forgotten to take it off...you know, from before..."

She looked at me kind of strangely and then yawned. "Well, I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

"Sure thing, Missy Boo. Sleep tight."

She was all the way to her bedroom door before she turned around.

"I'll fix it in the morning."

"Thank you, Torie Montana. You're an angel."

She went into her room and shut the door. I waited until I was sure she was sleeping before putting her scissors back where they belonged. No sense in being completely busted. 

Above you see my beautiful - and savvy - girl, Torie Montana.

Amen Sista!

It took awhile for Florida to grow on me. To be honest, I finally had to make a conscious decision to stop despising this sunshine state I now call home. My hating it was not going to turn palm trees into pines. Nor would it make the air less humid or transform the Gulf into the Columbia Gorge.

Everyday at sunset Kenny and I would walk the beach. Everyday he'd say, "We're lucky it's so beautiful on our last day of vacation." He'd then stop in his tracks, hold his hands out and look around in mock wonder. "Oh wait! We live here!"

At first I couldn't even work up a grimace. As a matter of fact, the consistency of his mock wonder rather grated on my nerves for a time. I may have even, regrettably, let slip a waspish retort on a few occasions. 

After awhile though I couldn't help but smile. Then I found myself waiting for him to say it each evening.

And finally I said it first. I hadn't planned on it. I was even surprised by it. But I meant it.

The forests of the northwest? I couldn't even begin to tell you how I miss them. But, I do love my sugar sand beach.

And I'm pretty fortunate to have a guy willing to daily walk the edge of silly just to lighten his wife's heart.

And she says to herself...Amen Sista!

Above is the Nienhaus family at dinner in Portland, Oregon. 

Falling From Zone 7

Home. No matter how extraordinary your time away, there's nothing quite like walking in your own door. 

It would have been lovely to bask in leisure and a milk bath this morning after having been gone for two weeks but I must hit the decks running. 

And fiddle de de, I'll deal with the explosion that is my suitcase tomorrow Scarlet.

But for all of you I'm posting another bit of writing that's to go into the Garden Rambles section of my book, Steeped. It's very appropriate for this moment in time. I even surprised myself by how happy I was to be in Florida as I drove to Fort Myers Beach from Tampa yesterday.

This piece is called Falling From Zone 7 and was originally published in a lovely magazine called Green Prints. Enjoy! 

After having lived for over 12 years in Portland, Oregon, I considered myself a northwest zone-7 girl, blissfully living the cottage garden dream amid towering hollyhocks and intoxicating buddleias. I didn't question whether or not my sweet-faced pansies would return each year to the little mound where I first planted them.  For so long had I set my seasonal clock by the nodding heads of my columbines in the spring and my mop head hydrangeas in the fall that I never considered all might one day be left behind.

Without warning the unthinkable happened. My husband was offered a partnership in a southwest Florida business. In less time than it takes for my Italian Whites to germinate, my universe tilted and fate transplanted me - without, I might add, the least concern for the unplanted root beer iris pressed into the hands of faithful garden friends as our car pulled away.

I now found myself in subtropical zone 10, a gaudy place of perpetual sun and heat - a land seemingly without the rhythm of the seasons. I knelt to the ground and put my bare hand in the dirt, half expecting it to be the rich black earth I'd left behind. Mere sand slipped through my fingers. I shut my eyes and heard the clatter of palm fronds rather than the swish of evergreens. A tear rolled down my cheek and I thought to myself, I would never garden in such a place.

But the heart of a gardener can only lie still for so long. Try as I might to stop it, I'd find myself idly thinking about mangoes and what sort of fertilizer they must need. I wondered just how tall a pygmy date palm would grow. I told my husband that were I to garden again, a jacaranda would be a rather nice tree to start with.

Then, after several months, I saw it - a shrubby vine trailing up a mailbox. It was completely covered with flowers of rich mauve that blended into the creamiest of waxy centers. I stood awestruck for a moment before boldly deciding to knock on the homeowner's door and politely ask what this beauty was. The woman who answered was happy to tell me all about her cherries jubilee alamanda. 

I thanked her for her kindness and as I walked to my car I kept softly repeating "cherries jubilee alamanda". I began to giggle and headed immediately for the closest nursery. It was good to be back.

The other night, many more months later, it was breezy and balmy, like winter nights often are in zone 10. I sat on my back porch with a cup of tea, holding the cup close so the tea's fragrance rose to my face.

But it was not the tea that caught and held my attention. My angel trumpets and my night blooming jasmine were in bloom for the first time and their heady sweet scent so filled the air around me that I could think of nothing but their fragrance. As if on queue, the blossoms of my weeping hibiscus began bobbing in the moonlight like the globes of Chineses lanterns. I smiled, realizing that my subtropical zone 10 garden had given me the first of her gifts.

I shut my eyes and heard the clatter of palm fronds. To my surprise, a tear rolled down my cheek. I thought to myself, what a beautiful place this is.

Above you see my cherries jubilee alamanda, currently in full glory. 

Teacup Thumbs

When you're lost in conversation with a good friend it's easy for you both to forget you're not alone, that...for instance, you're actually surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of people in Houston's Reliant Stadium waiting for U2 to begin playing.

Suzanne and I, both eager to see Bono live, were passing the time talking more about Qigong and the need for me to transform my hitch hiker thumbs into the softer holding teacup thumbs. 

As in yoga, form is everything. Another demonstration was in order and we both began to practice holding teacup thumbs in section 152, row J, seats 6 and 7.

And that is when the man next to me leaned over and whispered, "That looks a little witchy."

My reply?

I leaned towards him and whispered back, "We've got flying monkeys and we're not afraid to use them."

I've been dying to throw out that line! I wish I could claim it as my own, but alas, I cannot.

It's good though, isn't it? The man I threw it to paused, looked at me and smiled before whispering back.

"No, I bet you're not."

And then came Bono. 

The picture above are the hands of Ms. Suzanne Trotter.

Sherman & Stanley-Fisher

When my Torie Montana was a teenager, I once became teary eyed when telling her about Sherman's 1864 March to the Sea. She proceeded to call her dad at work.

"Mom's teaching me history and she's crying."

What can I say? Sometimes history moves me.

I verged upon teary again last night when Suzanne and I stayed at the Stanley-Fisher Bed and Breakfast on Matagorda Bay. It was a momentary wave of emotion, mind you. Originally built in 1832, this was one of the first homes in Texas.

What its walls have seen! Aside from various presidents, it's believed Stephen F. Austin and Sam Houston were once guests. It served as a hospital when the Civil War raged and for a time the parlor was the largest room in Matagorda and so was used to lay out the dead.

I can't help but think that the sensitive souls among us can feel the richness of a building whose walls have housed so much of life for so long.

And, of course, since Suzanne is friends with the owners, Rick and Peggy Stanley, we were pretty lively ourselves and so can honestly say we might now be a part of the history of the Stanley-Fisher.

The Stanleys are so gracious and fun you feel like old friends before breakfast is over. It's also a bed and breakfast even a man firmly opposed to the concept of such establishments would feel right at home in. You might want to visit www.stanley-fisher.com if you plan on stopping in on SE Texas.

And about that Sherman crying incident. In all fairness to me I must tell you that only several months prior I had been at the St. Louis Historical Society's library. I had in my hand the original diary of a southern woman writing as Sherman's troops camped on her lawn. Her words and thoughts were still fresh in my mind!

Lastly, as you can see in the above picture, we do have a travel companion - asked along at Suzanne's request. He graciously allowed himself to be photographed shackled in the only remaining jail cell at the LaGrange Chamber of Commerce. He appeared delighted to be included for tea at Oh George's in Angleton. And thankfully he wasn't the least put out when I almost forgot him near the cannon at the Stanley-Fisher. He's kind of growing on me.

Gingerfied Motorcourts & Playing the Coquette

At the risk of poaching a fish to death, just let me mention that when Suzanne and I walked out of our rooms on Monday we were both wearing the exact same style shirt and skirt. Enough on the simpatico thing but are you all catching on to the Suzanne-isms I've been throwing in lately? 

A day of tea-ing is hard on a girl so once we got ourselves settled in at the Austin Hotel we celebrated an action packed and successful day with some of Suzanne's friends and a bottle of champagne.

I'm thinking that some of my Florida and St. Louis family and friends would be all about this stretch of Congress street. From the late 30's til the 60's it was a booming, happening locale lined with "ultramodern motorcourts". Congress was the road to travel between San Antonio and Austin.

But as new highways so often tend to do, the opening of I35 began a downhill slide for Congress and by the 1960's places such as the Austin Hotel were no more than seedy flop houses where prostitutes brought cheap tricks. Suzanne wants you all to know we're not talking about the band either. 

Thanks to renovations up into the several million dollar range these hotels, since 2000, have been "gingerfied".  And all are within walking distance of the iconic Continental Club, the premier club for live music in this part of the world.

We made a short stop at the courtyard of the San Jose Hotel, the "anti-boutique boutique hotel" on Congress, where I had a Victorian Lemonade. Can you imagine me ordering such a thing? It was the most unusual beverage I've imbibed in quite some time: a lemon-lavender syrup mixed with iced Blanc De Blanc wine. Wild and wonderful yet so gracious and seemingly from another era.

Prostitution seems to be a theme on the periphery of my life as of late. I'm still not ready to divulge too much on that but I will tell you it's possible I'm soon to play the part of a woman in such a profession. No, not in real life! 

I was to be from California with this project but I'm enjoying Texas so much, I think I must switch locales. As completely enchanted with Congress street as I am, this girl can't yet bring herself to do seedy, not even historical seedy. I'd much prefer to be one of the few demimondaines of the late 1800's allowed into the private men's club of the elegant Driskill Hotel over on Bravos Street.

You'll enjoy an interesting few moments if you've time to check out these web sites:

www.sanjosehotel.com
www.continentalclub.com

And So It Begins

Left you see Suzanne Trotter and her husband, Paul, at Suzanne's beach birthday party yesterday. She was to parachute in but the weather turned windy and the jump was canceled. This Florida girl was freezing but these two romped in the waves like a pair of dolphins. 

How on earth can two women from completely different parts of the country be such mirror images of one another? It's so uncanny that Suzanne and I often stop dead in our tracks and just laugh. 

It's silly stuff mostly - we both own the same car in the same color, have the same paint on our walls, and both have harmonica aspirations. We have many of the same habits, have a stack of hat boxes in a similar corner, cook the same and problem solve the same. 

Does it have any real meaning? Of course I'd love to think so, but who knows? It's entertaining at the least.

Suzanne has been studying to become a Qigong instructor so we've been practising Qigong every morning at 7 a.m. I'll be following up on this new interest back home along with the totally unrelated topic of migas.

But they'll be no Qigong this morning. It's late and the Texas Tea-Step is imminent. Our first stop today will be breakfast at the famous Guenther House in San Antonio. Or an early brunch as our ETD seems ambitious considering the lateness of the evening as I write.  

Qigong is Chinese for "working with the life energy." I finding it to be an energizing practise. You can see a short video about it at www.qigonginstitute.org

Migas, part of a traditional Tex-Mex breakfast, is a tangle of  scrambled eggs, vegetables, and corn tortillas. I wasn't sure about ordering it because I assumed the tortillas would be soggy. They cook up crispy though and it's a culinary experience worthy of your attention, especially with beans - refried or not - on the side. A slice of avocado on the other side sounds enticing too, don't you think?

Migas for 1-2

2 eggs
1 tablespoon salsa
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 corn tortilla diced into 1/2" pieces
1 tablespoon diced onion
1/2 tablespoon chopped fresh jalapeno
1/2 of a small tomato, chopped and seeded 

Mix eggs and salsa and set aside. Heat the olive oil and add tortilla pieces. Once the tortilla pieces are crispy add onion and jalapeno. Pour in the eggs and salsa and scramble til done. Sprinkle the chopped tomato on top and stir once more. 

The Guenther House is an 1860's home sitting at the foot of King William, one of the oldest historical districts in Texas. The home was built by the founder of the Pioneer Flour Mills and is now a restaurant and museum. To learn more you can visit www.guentherhouse.com. They also have a Victorian gift shop and Suzanne and I are going to do our best to convince them of their need for copies of And Then It Was Teatime.

I've really got to go to bed! 

Fresh and Fly and Dank

 

Do you think I brought too many shoes to Texas? As I see them lined up here it does seem an excessive amount of footwear for a two week trip and I must tell you - I wasn't barefoot when I took the picture early this a.m.

Anyway, I've been preparing for my first gig, which is today. I was a little worried about this one as I was under the impression I'd be speaking for a middle school class. That demographic is a tough audience and I confess to being slightly scared to death.  Would they find me as charming as most of my audiences seem to? 

Hmmm...chances are good they might not. It's more likely they might just mock my vintage look and roll their eyes at my humor.  Cool is very hard to pull off with pre and early teens, especially when you appear before them in Edwardian inspired attire. 

I know cool is out of date. Am I looking to be fat or the bomb? Wait, those are old too. Suzanne's son, Paul, just informed me that fresh, fly, or dank is what I'm aiming for. 

But as it turns out, my audience will be third graders in an advanced cultural studies class. Whew! No problem. I'll be fresh and fly. 

I'm even expecting hugs. And I do love hugs. They're totally dank.

Impossible List Syndrome

You know how it is the last 24-32 hours before you leave town. You've a long to-do list and there are items on that list which haven't a thing to-do with your leaving.

These non-travel related items have made their way onto your list because they're the current dangling participles in your life. Anyone with an iota of grammatical sense just feels better about leaving if such items can be checked off before locking the door. 

But, inevitably there comes a moment within this 24-32 hour time frame where you realize the impossibility of accomplishing all on this list. The checking off of dangling participles comes to an end.  I wonder, do men suffer from this impossible list syndrome or is it only women?

You've got to shift gears. Rather than checking these items off, it's time to highlight them so you remember them upon your return. You could perhaps use a black sharpie but that seems the option for those with no intention of ever returning home.

I'm writing now from a hotel in Tampa and I catch a plane to Corpus Christi at 9:30 this morning.

Yesterday, at the 18th hour prior to my departure from the beach, I realized that finishing my beaded opal bracelet was a pipe dream.

At the 12th hour prior to leaving, it occurred to me that there would be no gluing of feathers to Torie Montana's peacock costume.

At the 4th hour prior to climbing into the car the idea of running to the library to pick up a book on Victorian prostitution was simply laughable. More on that another time. 

However, I would have missed the plane rather than walk out my door without cleaning my bathroom. I know it's crazy and I can't explain it. It's just the way it is.

Darn, I forgot to check that off the list.

Here's the Dill, Pickle

As Suzanne Trotter would say, "Here's the dill, Pickle." I forgot to mention the date in Friday's post (A Texas Adventure, 10/2/09). 

1985.

So, I met Ms. Suzanne, an indomitable drink of Texas punch, 24 years ago. At just short of a quarter century, that's a generous amount of time in which a friendship can develop. 

But, when two ladies are as simpatico as we, time no longer has a part to play. We've only laid eyes upon one another four times, for a total of perhaps twelve days. Yet, when we're together the universe tilts, seismic shifts of epic proportions rattle the earth, ancient gods stir, unknown galaxies are discovered and snowballs start rolling uphill. 

And that's on top of plain old friendship. 

And we're about to write another chapter as I'll be heading for Corpus Christi on Wednesday. What began as my going there for Suzanne's birthday on the seventh has turned into the "The Texas Tea-Step". Ms. Suzanne has planned a book/speaking tour for me. Can you believe it? I'm still shocked she chose to take such a thing on!

Wild times are around the corner and who knows how it will all shake out. But one thing is for certain. Something will shake out. As I think Ms. Suzanne might say: "Like salt chasin pepper, darlin!"

The above picture was taken at Polkadots and Moonbeams, a vintage clothing shop in Hollywood, CA. We had met in LA to celebrate our 40ths and camped at Malibu Creek State Park, where M.A.S.H. was filmed. It's an awesome park and when you hiked back to where M.A.S.H. was actually filmed, the skyline still looked as it did when the helicopter flew over at the beginning of each episode. 

If you've a few minutes to spare, you might want to visit: 
http://www.worldfromtheweb.com/Parks/MalibuCreek/MalibuCreek.html 

You can also visit Polkadots and Moonbeams at:
www.polkadotsandmoonbeams.com

A Texas Adventure

Once upon a time there were two women without coin, but with a hankering to see Texas. They decided that if they drove, ate peanut butter along the way, and camped on Mustang Island they could still have quite the adventure.

However, they forgot their tent. Their plans were further shattered by an unkind and somewhat relentless wind. The hundreds upon hundreds of Portuguese Men of War swimming lazily in the Gulf and which lie dead upon the beach decried Texas hospitality.

After two nights they decided this wasn't quite the adventure they were seeking. Something must be done, but what? Assuming they might think more clearly without the wind continually whipping their hair into their faces, they headed into a Corpus Christi drinking establishment, the name of which has long since been forgotten. 

And that is when I, as one of the women in this story, bumped, literally, into Suzanne Trotter. The woman with perpetual lotion in her motion. 

Fast friends within minutes (our birthdays are only days apart), it was decided that not only would we spend the night with her, we would all arise early the next day and drive to Matamoros, Mexico.

Now, we were too young to have really embraced the 60's yet not so far removed from it that certain adventures were foreign to us. Suffice to say that Blanca White's might still remember us.

And that my friends, is not the rest of the story.

How's that for a cliff hanger?