Crocheting relaxes me. I always have a project or two in a basket next to my chair. My mind totally clears as I work along. I have a crocheted basket full of afghans for chilly guests. I give away many of my creations. Someone always wants a sweater, bag, afghan or pair of socks. Right now, I am working on a bag.
I really love the hummingbird colors in this oversized shopping bag. It would fit well under a plane seat.
This ruby afghan is heavenly soft.
This is my current project. I just have to complete straps. I will finish it today.
My little dog likes to cuddle while I crochet. He is particularly partial to natural yarns, often trying to snitch a ball for himself. Natural yarns must retain an enticing scent.
Cousin Raymond was the family icon of greed. I grew up with Bud, sharing many meals at his house. His mother was polite enough not to slander me so freely, so I never tired of hearing of Cousin Raymond’s gluttony. She resurrected him often to shame her children in the throes of greed. They were raised just like us. Desserts were usually reserved for Sundays and holidays. Also, after school and in between meal snacks were probably dried-out breakfast biscuits, flapjacks, or a piece desiccated cornbread languishing on the stovetop. Sometimes, a day or two after payday, peanut butter and saltines miraculously survived.
I don’t imply we were too picky to gobble anything that didn’t bite us first. We just didn’t look forward to breakfast rejects. Should an errant plate of cookies or bag of chips show up, we fell on it like ravenous beasts, ate all we could hold, and tried to get more when we felt a little better.
When at his family was at their greediest and most in need of shaming, they’d be accused of being just like Cousin Raymond. It seems when Cousin Raymond’s family had company for dinner, big old, dumb Cousin commenced bawling like a bull calf. “ They’re gittin’ it all, Mama! They’re gonna eat it all. Don’t let’em eat it all!”
Cousin Raymond’s mama indulgently heaped his plate with goodies before anyone else had a chance to even line up instead of whooping his behind like any right-thinking person expected! That Cousin Raymond had it figured out!
If you had to give up one word that you use regularly, what would it be?
Actually, the word I should give up is, actually. I have actually developed of actually overuse it. Most of the time, I actually use it for emphasis that is actually unnecessary. Perhaps this exercise will make me sensitive to its overuse. Actually, I already feel silly.
Mother frequently made oatmeal for breakfast. It was horrible, ranging from distasteful to repulsive. I’d have just as soon had a cow patty. She was a busy woman, easily distracted by the demands of five kids, so quite often, she burned it. That didn’t add to its appeal. Not only that, she was inconsistent in salting, sometimes over-salting, sometimes under. It was common for her to whomp up a second batch in the same unwashed pan she’d burned Daddy’s pap in earlier that morning, which didn’t add to its appeal. As a kid, I couldn’t distinguish the problem. I just knew it was awful and dreaded its appearance on the breakfast table.
Introduced to oatmeal before my first memory, I found it a tasteless paste at best. There were no golden globes of butter, raisins, cinnamon, caramelized brown sugar, puddles of maple syrup, nor sides of crisp bacon and dainty triangles of toast, for us. I was enraptured when introduced to oatmeal properly prepared and served. It was a totally different beast.
Should she be judged on her oatmeal alone, Mother definitely will not get into heaven.
Bob was a very keen angler, but he eventually found time to meet a lovely girl and they were married. After the honeymoon, Bob was in his garage sorting out reels when his new wife came in to watch him.
After a long period of silence she finally said: “Darling, I’ve just been thinking; now that we are married, maybe you don’t need to spend so much of your time out here in your garage and you could think about selling some of your fishing stuff … like do you need all those rods, lures, old reel parts and smelly nets. You could sell that tatty boat and with the money we could have a new bathroom.”
A horrified look crept over Bob’s face and silently stared at her. She said, “Darling, what’s wrong?”
He replied, “Nothing … but for a minute there, you were starting to sound like my ex-wife.”
“Ex-wife!?” she screamed, “YOU NEVER TOLD ME YOU WERE MARRIED BEFORE!”
Bob replied, “I wasn’t…”
Two fishing mates
Bill and Pete are fishing together. Pete is unusually quiet and lost in thought.
“What’s up Pete” asks Bill.
“The wife and I had a row about how much time I spent fishing. She hasn’t spoken to me for days since. I’m thinking of getting a divorce.”
“Don’t be too hasty,” replied Bill. “Women like that are hard to find.”
Heavenly Fishing
Two buddies were fishing together.
“Do you think you can go fishing in Heaven?” asked Bill.
“I don’t know” said Joe, “but here’s an idea – the first of us that gets there should let the other one know.”
A few months passed and Bill dropped dead with a sudden heart attack. Joe carried on going fishing on his own and one day he heard a voice,
“Helloooooo Joe.”
“Who’s that?”
“It’s Bill. You can’t see me, but I can see you.”
“Bill, tell me” said Joe, “can you go fishing in heaven?”
“Well I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The good news is that we can fish every day if we like. The bad news is that you are fishing in our competition tomorrow.”
Who can relate to this?
One Liners from the Edinburgh Fringe
“Our mate Dave was drowned. For the funeral we have a wreath made in the shape of a lifebelt. It’s what he would have wanted.”
“Have you heard about the French existentialist seagull? It flies around and says (squeaky voice) “pourquoi?”
Bad Weather Fishing
Very early one Saturday morning a man gets up early, dresses quietly so as not to wake his wife, gets his lunch made, puts on his long johns and goes to the garage to hook up his boat to the 4×4. Coming out of his garage he finds the rain is pouring down: it is like a torrential downpour. There is snow and sleet mixed in with the rain. The wind is blowing at over 50mph.
He comes back into the house and turns the TV to the weather channel. He finds it is going to be very bad weather all day long, so he puts his 4×4 back in the garage, quietly undresses and slips back into bed.
There he cuddles up to his wife’s back, now with a different anticipation and whispers, “The weather out there is terrible”. To which she sleepily replies, “Yeah, can you believe my stupid husband is out fishing in it?”
The Fishing Priest
Father Michael was an avid fisherman, and whenever he was not fulfilling his priestly duties he would be out on the lough. One summer (2008) there had been weeks of stormy weather and he hadn’t been able to go fishing at all. He was desperate. One morning, the day dawned calm and mild: he could go. But – it was Sunday! He was supposed to be taking Mass in the church. “I know”, he thought. “I’ll pretend I have the ‘flu and Father O’Leary can take Mass for me. I’ll drive 50 miles to a river where I am not known, and have my day’s fishing.”
So that is what he did. However, he could not hide from God. One of the angels spotted him, and immediately snitched on him to God. God peered through the clouds and frowned.
“Are you going to punish him?” asked the angel. God nodded. The angel watched, expecting Father Michael to step in a wasp’s nest or fall in the river. Suddenly, Father Michael struck into a massive fish, and after a lengthy struggle the fish was on the bank. It was a huge salmon, almost certainly a record.
“But…I thought you were going to punish him?” asked the angel.
“I did,” said God. “Now who can he tell?”
Obituary
Doreen’s husband Matt died suddenly one day. Doreen was taking care of the funeral arrangements with the undertaker when she was asked how she wanted Matt’s obituary to read.
Doreen asked the undertaker, “How much does an obituary cost?” The undertaker replied, “One dollar per word.” Doreen then said, “I want the obituary to read – MATT IS DEAD.” The undertaker was an old fishing buddy of Matt’s and he was a little disturbed by such a curt obituary, so he offered, “I’ll make you a special deal since I knew Matt so well. I’ll pay for half of the obituary out of my own pocket.” Doreen’s face lit up and she replied, “Great. I want it to read – MATT IS DEAD, BOAT FOR SALE.”
2c flour 2c sugar 1t baking soda 1/2 t salt 1stick margarine 1/2 c peanut butter 1 c water 1/2 c buttermilk 2 eggs 1 t vanilla Place dry ingredients in bowl. Bring margarine, peanut butter, and water to a boil. Pour over dry ingredients, mix well. Add buttermilk, eggs and vanilla. Mix well and pour into greased jelly roll pan. Bake 350 degrees for 25 minutes. Spread with frosting while cake is warm.
Frosting: 1/2 c peanut butter 1 stick margarine 5 T water 2 t vanilla 1 lb powdered sugar 1 c chopped nuts Bring water, margarine and peanut butter to a boil. Add vanilla, then stir in sifted powdered sugar. If too stiff, slowly add warm water until spreading consistency,
If you don’t have nuts, use chunky peanut butter. I added 4 oz. Bakers chocolate while bringing frosting to a boil, just because chocolate and peanut butter are best friends.
Barbie’s Peanut Butter Cake with Peanut Butter Fudge Frosting
We went to a Labor Day reunion in Kansas last weekend. Bud’s cousin Barbie, one of the best cooks I know brought this cake: word must have gotten out ahead of time. I foolishly waited till the end of the line. It was gone on first pass when the crowd went through. I made one for myself today! If a crowd shows up to dinner at my house tonight I’ll cut myself a piece before serving anybody else, cook’s privilege!
I think this cake would do well as 9×13, layer cake, or bundt cake.
Our big guy, Croc, was so glad to see us after our three day trip, He’s always unhappy to see the suitcases come out but feels better after learning, Kylie, his dog sitter will be staying with him and his brother, Izzy.
Croc came to live with us about six years ago. His original owner was a forty-year-old man in South Carolina who died suddenly. Grandma, an eighty-year-old lady, was overwhelmed by his rowdiness. Sadly, she had to return him to the shelter. Since it was winter, Croc was sent to New Jersey, which had a dearth of adoptable dogs in winter. A relative’s family gave him his next home. Their tiny NJ yard was inadequate. Croc caused a ruckus, disturbing the peace of the neighborhood.
We’d learned to love him, so brought him home with us. We were concerned about how he’d get along with our old American Eskimo dog but they became friends at first sight. Croc just adores children. When we are lucky enough to have a young visitor, he tries to claim them for himself.
Nutsrok 