Reasons I Love My Husband (#956)

The chocolate covered strawberry he bought me at Union Station in St. Louis.

*sigh*

If a Poor Man Eats a Chicken...

...one of them is sick!

For as long as I can remember, I have loved watching people perform. From the first time I saw a play, I was hooked. It was a stage production of Charlotte's Web at Flint's Whiting Auditorium.

I haven't had much opportunity to indulge, though.

One of the lovely things about living in a big city is the chance to see. Plays. Opera. Broadway meets Beale Street at the Orpheum.

Last Friday, Steve and I got all gussied up and Steven took me to see Fiddler on the Roof. With Topol. The real Topol. It was amazing. He was as brilliant as you'd expect if you've seen the movie. He can say more with a simple shrug or wink than you'd think possible. This man is 73 years old but that didn't curb his energy.

At the end, he bowed to the ecstatic audience as if he couldn't get low enough. Amazing.

If this is not enough, Steven has discovered that he enjoys plays and musicals, too. Though he's not ready to spend an afternoon vegged out watching The King and I, he's already said he'd be willing to see Wicked with me in June and he's been singing "If I Were a Rich Man" for the last five days!

blankies

Have I mentioned lately that my parents are awesome?

My mom is a quilting genius. She and my grandma made each of my siblings and I a quilt when we were itty, bitty babies. They've all been through a million washes, re-stuffings, little fixes.

Mine is "The Princess Blanket." Isn't she gorgeous? Mine's the best. (I'm the favorite.)

A little aside about the princess blanket:

My dearly beloved is very manly. Except when it comes to my blanket. Then he dissolves into a puddle of gooey softness. Once upon a time, he was just finishing a shower when he heard a key in the lock. Knowing it was too early for my return from work, he wrapped the princess blanket around himself, toga style just in time to see our landlord entering the apartment accompanied by a pair of perspective renters!

"Oops, thought the place was empty," she muttered, shutting the door.

Anyway,

My mom has continued the tradition, making each of her grandkids a blanket, I believe for their first birthday.

Last Christmas, after eight years of marriage, Steve became an official member of the family and was presented with his very own quilt, "The Michigan Blankie." He's spoiled, don't you think? Yeah, he is. It's okay, you can say it. It's okay though, I steal it most nights.

For a wedding gift, my mom made us a picture quilt. It's huge. The left side is my family, Steven's is on the right, and the center strip is all about the wedding. When she showed it to me, I told myself I wouldn't ever sleep with it, only hang it up and stare at it.

I lied.


It's so comfortable! I can't help myself. Especially when I'm homesick, it's so nice to curl up with. Until I wake up to see my grandma staring at me, that is. Then it's just creepy.

I find myself breaking it out whenever visitors come around. What's better than a family photo album? A family photo album that keeps you warm while you look at it.

Adventures in Appalachia-Part Four

Just a teeny tiny note before continuing: this saga, this chronicle of Kentucky life is already over and done with. We left Kentucky in 2006 headed for Memphis and haven't been back save for a few short days to attend Steven's graduation. I'd go back in a second if I had the chance.

On with the show!
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Part One is here. Part Two is here. Part Three is here. Catch up, willya?!

The duck. It just sat there. Day after day, gently bobbing in the rushing water. By this time in the year, it was getting cold again. Not cold enough for a jacket, but cold enough for you NOT to go swimming in Clear Creek.

Maybe you wouldn't go swimming, but I might.

I wanted to see that duck.

I took pictures, thinking I could zoom in and see what was holding it in place. Was it real? Was it stuck on something? I couldn't tell.

For days I watched it.

There was nothing else to do.

One day after work, snuck out to the creek bank. Furtively looking around to be sure I wasn't watched, I took off my shoes, rolled up my pantlegs and waded in. The water was freezing! The rocks were slippery, the current was fast, and I almost fell a few times.

Success! I got the duck. I got that darn duck. I guess it's some sort of decoy, though it's not like any I've ever seen before. Some hunter probably had it planted there and I foiled all his plans. At least I like to think so.

I took it home, stuck a marigold in its back and called it a planter. I've still got it. And I was sick for about three weeks after my little swimming trip, but we won't talk about that...


Kind of a letdown, huh?

Kentucky is a magical place. Besides the obvious things like the mountains and the hidden creeks and the glorious solitude, the people are amazing. I'm not naive. I know every place has its good folks and its bad, and I won't pretend some of the people aren't downright creepy, like the time I saw a group of old, bearded men sitting on a porch with shotguns. Another story for another time.

Everywhere you go, people wave. Driving down the street, a wave. Shopping at Wal-Mart, a wave. Passing on the sidewalk, a wave, a how's your husband and a hug if you've seen the person more than once.

I am normally not a touchy person but it's hard to break the habit once you get hugged and handshook a couple hundred times.

If you pass someones house around dinnertime, expect to be invited in for "a quick bite." If your house floods, somebody'll come to your rescue. If your neighbor's got a garden, you've got a garden, too.

If your church has a sing-in, folks from all over the holler will show up to participate. Banjos will be plucked. Fiddles will be sawed. Feet will stomp, hands will clap, shoutin' will commence.

I miss it.

I'm thinking that it's mostly the connectedness that I miss. The togetherness, okay? Yes, the waving and even the hugging. People in bigger cities (in my experience) just don't care about each other. I could run down the street screaming "Rape!" and people might look out their windows at me, but no one would do anything.

I miss our little church, our crumbling trailer, watching the sun set between the mountains. Seeing the people that have lived their for generations delight in the wonder on my face at the sight of mimosa trees covered in blooms. Especially seeing them re-realize the beauty of the things they take for granted every day.

What I wouldn't give to have it back.

Dinnertime

Your minds can not fathom the realms of deliciousness that await you.

Saturdays are a magical time here in the house of Curtis. I can get up late, leisurely sip my coffee and cook til my heart's content. Or not. That's the lovely thing. Anything goes.

Grilled Ham Steak
Potato/Caramelized Onion Gratin (with slight adaptations)
Blackberry Grunt

I made the blackberry grunt waaaaaaay back here, so click the link if you want the recipe. You will not be sorry.

Here's the gratin, courtesy of Mr. Brown.

Ingredients

5 or 6 Yukon gold potatoes, peeled
2 or 3 Portobello mushroom caps, sliced thin (I'm not really a mushroom person, so I caramelized a few onions to toss in instead)
1 cup grated hard cheese such as Parmesan or Asiago (if you get a good quality cheese and grate it yourself, it'll be so much better, I promise! Avoid the green can!)
3/4 cup half and half
Kosher salt and ground black pepper

Heat oven to 400 degrees and butter a 9 by 13-inch baking dish and set aside.

Using a mandolin, V-slicer or the slicing attachment on a food processor, (or you could just slice them yourself like I did) slice the potatoes approximately 1/8-inch thick. (If you don't want to slice all the potatoes at once, slice them one at a time and build the gratin as you go.) Create the first layer by laying the slices in overlapping rows. Once the first layer is down, season lightly with salt and pepper, then scatter with mushroom (or onion) slices and a couple tablespoons of the cheese. (Don't over-do it on these layers, if you create a barrier between the adjoining potato layers, the gratin won't set.)


Continue building layers until you're out of potatoes or out of room to build, but be sure to save 1/2 cup of the cheese for the top. Pour 2/3 cup of the half and half over the gratin then spread both hands over the surface and push down to work the air out from the layers. Add remaining liquid only if half and half does not come to the surface when you push down.

Sprinkle the gratin with cheese, cover loosely with foil and place in middle of oven for 1 hour. Check for doneness by inserting the point of a paring knife straight into the gratin. If it goes through smoothly, remove the foil, return to oven, and turn on the broiler just long enough to turn the top golden-brown. Remove, and allow to sit at room temperature for 15 to 20 minutes before serving.

Eat. Enjoy. Rest. Repeat.

Things That Make Me Go "Huh?"

Is it possible for something to be infinitely small?

Obviously the potential for infinite bigness exists (though certainly nothing infinitely big now exists since if it did, none of us would be here to enjoy it, having been crowded off the planet.)

A long time ago, a girl told me that if you suck a peppermint down to nothing, it doesn't really disappear, it just keeps getting smaller and smaller and smaller...

BUT. If something keeps getting smaller, won't it eventually be negative? As in a black hole, sucking all matter into it's nothingness?

Things that make my head hurt.

So, anybody know? Is this true? Philip, I'm looking at you. Philip, dear readers, is my genius older brother. The one I had to follow in school. The one that caused math teachers the world around to look at me, heads cocked and stutter, "Sarah. Kennedy? Philip's sister? But, but you're dumb as a bag of hammers! How can this be so?" I'm the one who inspired Mr. Jackson to Tourette's like exclamations of "Judas' Priest!"

Adventures in Appalachia-Part Three

Part One is here. Part Two is here.

The Missionary Apartment.

It was nicely furnished inside, but Steve and I called dibbs on two twin beds and quickly fell asleep, holding hands between the beds. Later, our traveling companions came in to hug us goodbye, but I only remember this vaguely. I was still in dreamland.

At some point during our extended sleep fest, some workers from the school's kitchen came to visit. They knocked. No answer. They opened the door and cautiously came in. Startled at seeing us sprawled out in the twin beds, they quietly left food and drink in the tiny kitchen and crept out again.

We woke to find sweet tea (blech!) and some sort of meal which we wolfed down. We had no idea how the food had arrived and we didn't care. These people could have been cannibals or axe murderers and we still would have eaten their food. My Michigan co-workers had given me a huge basket of granola bars, hot cocoa mix, fruits and other treats as a going away present and so we devoured that, too.

That day was orientation. Steven. Left. Me. Alone. In a new place, knowing no one, with horrible cramps and worse homesickness, I was left. Later that day, they were finally able to plow the road to our housing area. Hemlock Heights, better known as Honeymoon Hill, due to all the people there being couples without children. Driving up to the little duplex, I noticed a note in the tape deck. It was from Becky, "Cheer up, Sarah, it's only for four years!" I cried, but later. Later I would curl up on my unmade bed and bawl like a heartbroken child.

For now, it was time to unpack.

There were six duplexes arranged in a U-shape. We were at the base of the U. Every couple there came out to help us move in. I really need to repeat that. Every couple came out. A woman who was eight months pregnant was lugging and carrying along with everybody else. Due to this abundant help, we were unloaded in no time. Steven headed out with a new friend to drop off the moving van and I started to put things in their new homes.

Steven started classes. He came home every afternoon and told me what he'd learned. We made friends with the people on the Hill. Christina loved to tease me for my northern accent and I'd try my best to sound more Southern. She was from Georgia and her husband from Mississippi. The couple sharing our duplex was Moses (yes, Moses, at a Bible college) from Africa and his wife, whose name escapes me.

Michelle (the pregnant lady) was leaving her job at the Kitchen and asked me if I wanted it. She'd put in a good word if I was interested. Heck yeah, I'm interested! We'd burned through our meager savings and were getting a little desperate for cash.

I started as a cleaning woman. I'd come in as the day shift was finishing serving lunch and clean up their mess. I was pretty good, if I do say so myself. The head kitchen lady, Barb, would always comment on how thorough I was. Before too long, I was cooking the evening meal in addition to my cleaning duties. More hours, more money. ($5.15 an hour is nothing to sneeze at, especially when I could take home dinner to Steven for free.) The guys at Kelly Hall loved me. If I'd prepared too much food, I'd let them take it back to their apartments for later.

Steven started working on the mowing crew. They'd mow (yup), shovel snow, keep up the grounds and whatever other heavy lifting jobs they could come up with. Including killing baby bunnies (accidentally, or so they say) and letting the black snakes live (they eat baby bunnies, dontchaknow).

When the weather got nice, I'd walk to work. About ten minutes of walking while staring, enamored, at the surrounding mountains. Often I didn't pay attention to my immediate surroundings. On such a day, I caught a glimpse of something brown and scaly slithering away. Had I almost stepped on a copperhead? Yes, folks, yes. I trotted the rest of the way to work and kept my eyes on the ground after that.

The end of my journey took me behind Kelly Hall and along the banks of Clear Creek. One day, I saw a duck in the middle of the creek. It didn't move. The next day it was there again. And the next...
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picture is Kelly Hall (borrowed from the official website), which was the men's dorm when we lived there. It also contained the school's kitchen and a huge, gorgeous banquet hall, used for everyday eating and often for weddings, meetings and other community events.

Bagels for BYOB!

I'm proud to report that I haven't purchased bread since starting the BYOB challenge over at the Baker's Bench. I found a great bagel recipe here.

Homemade Bagel Recipe
*adapted from John D Lee*
4 c bread flour
1 tbsp sugar
1 1/2 tsp salt
1 tbsp vegetable oil (Being out of veggie, I used olive. Good result.)
2 tsp instant yeast
1-1/4- 1-1/2 cups of warm water.

Mix all the ingredients in a bowl. The dough should feel stiff, but add the extra water if it's really stiff, or you can't get all the dry flour incorporated.

Plop the dough down onto the counter, and knead for about ten minutes, or until the dough is uniform and smooth. (I used my stand mixer for this, and only kneaded with the dough hook for about five minutes. Kneading dough is great for working out frustrations and building up those muscles. My arms are big enough, thanks.)

Cut the dough into 8 equal sized balls, and let rest for 10-20 minutes.

Preheat your oven to 425.

Recalling your childhood playdough fun, roll each dough ball into a snake. Once it's about a long as the width of both your hands, roll it around one of your hangs and join the ends together. The dough will adhere to itself easier if you wet your fingertips a little before the smooshing part. Practice makes perfect! (I really liked his description for the rolling...he's even got a video of it on his site...)

Let your bagels rest on the counter for about 20 minutes. Meanwhile, bring a pot of water to boil, and grease a large baking tray lightly.

After the 20 minute wait, your bagels will start to look puffy, and it's time to get them boiling! Add them as many at a time as you can to your boiling water without crowding them. Boil for about a minute, turn them over (use a fork or a chopstick) and boil for another minute. Take them out and let dry for a minute and then place them on your oiled baking tray. Repeat until all the bagels are boiled.

Add the tray to the oven, and after 10 minutes, flip the bagels over, bake for another ten minutes.

Let them cool for at least 20 minutes.

Add toppings after the boiling if you like. Onion, poppy seeds, pig droppings, whatever you want. I sprinkled on some sesame seeds and they look beautiful. Bake in the same way, turning bagels over halfway through baking.

Adventures in Appalachia-Part Two

Part One is here.
It snowed from the second we hit Kentucky all the way down into the southeastern corner where we were headed. Snow is no big deal for three tough Yankee drivers. We laugh in the face of snow. As long as we're on flat, Yankee land, that is. Snow in the mountains is another story. We crawled down the roads, some of them hollowed out from the very mountains. Even in my exhausted and emotionally drained stupor, I still marveled over the beauty of the Appalachian Mountains. My first view of them I will never forget. They kind of creep up on you; you don't even realize you're climbing up until you catch a glimpse of the view through the trees. Trees and mountains as far as the eye can see.

Exiting the highway in Corbin, we saw a barbecue place and gas station or two and that was about it. Coming from Flint, which has a population of about 114,000 to Corbin, which has about 7,500 was kind of a shock. And we weren't even at our final destination yet. (Note: Pineville has about 2,000 residents.)

We continued along 25E, winding our way around mountains and slower moving vehicles, looking for salt trucks or even sand trucks to no avail.

Finally we reached Clear Creek Road, the road that would bring us to college and our new home. On the left were a group of trailers that looked like they had been dropped out of the sky and were haphazardly perched along the roadway. On the right was a golf course, snowed in for the winter.

We got to the school and were greeted by a man in overalls who was driving a little tractor with a snowplow attached to the front.

"School's closed for the snow," he called.

We parked our moving van and the two cars in the empty lot.

"You'll never make it up to your housing area in this!"

The tired, vicious snakewoman in me had a little inner monologue: Let us at least try! We've been on the road for 13 hours! Get out of our way! I will drag this van up the mountain!

The real me just stood there, staring at the snow covered mountains.

Overall man (later introduced as Mr. Fain) showed us into a little building just off the main school. A sign over the door proclaimed that it was the Foxes' Den. Inside were mailboxes, vending machines, and oh, sweet Jesus, couches. We all collapsed. Surely students and faculty alike came in and out while we rested, but we were happily oblivious.

Finally, the road to our temporary housing was clear enough for us to pass. Leaving our van at the school, we traversed the twisting road up to a little house set apart from the rest of the school buildings.

The Missionary Apartment.

Adventures in Appalachia-Part One

Otherwise known as "How This Yankee Girl Came to Love Bluegrass"

Telling our families we were moving to Kentucky was hard. Our mothers cried to be losing us, and our fathers thought we were crazy to be leaving great jobs for Pineville, located in Bell Country, the "poorest county in the United States." It's actually the 82nd poorest county in the country. They understood, though. However they disagreed with our decision, God meant for us to go to Kentucky, and we were going.

The day we moved was a church day. We skipped church and huddled with our families in our emptied out apartment to pray and cry together. One more hurried look through closets and bedrooms to make sure nothing was forgotten and we were on our way.

We left after dark.

Steven's best friend, Bogie and his brother, Billy accompanied us, along with our friend, Ryan and my sister, Becky.

We had a huge moving truck, our old Cutlass, and our beloved Lumina, Antonio (RIP). We also had walkie talkies for ease of communication during our eight-hour trek.

The trip started out easily enough. We joked on the walkies, listened to music and speculated on what life would be like in the mountains.

When we got hungry, we stopped at a Waffle House. It happened to be about 3 a.m. in downtown Cincinnati. When we pulled into the parking lot, three of the waitresses ran up to the moving truck grinning and laughing. I felt like a celebrity. Turns out, they thought we were selling soap. I am absolutely not making this up. They asked if we had apple-scented soap for sale. When we said no, they were disappointed and walked dejectedly back into the restaurant. I hoped they wouldn't hold any grudges while making our food.

Inside, we were greeted and seated by a policeman wearing some kind of coveralls like you sometimes see on a mechanic. Yes, he was a policeman, complete with gun and handcuffs. Still, we sat. And ordered, no less.

Looking around the seating area, we saw a man with his arms around two scantily clad women, and few drunk guys boisterously chatting up the waitresses, and some truckers drinking coffee.

Sarah's inner monologue: Okay, we just need to drink our coffee and get out of here. Oh my God, that guy is looking at me. Oh, if he comes over here I'm going to lose it. Oh, he's walking over. I'm going under the table to hide. Oh my God!

Steven's spoken monologue: Guys, drink your coffee and let's get out of here. Hurry up, hurry up, here comes the cop!

Steven drank three cups of coffee and ate two waffles in about five minutes. Then he had to go potty, as often happens. The policeman escorted him to the restroom and unlocked the door for him. How helpful.

We paid our check and hit the road...