How was your Saturday? We went to a Celebration of Life service for one exceptional lady. We knew her and her husband, Peg and Bob, because they sang in an a cappella chorus with Mike. I didn't know them as well as Mike did because I do not sing . . . because I cannot sing . . . in the chorus. But I'd had several nice chats with them after performances and at chorus related get-togethers. I was always impressed with both of them, they seemed like such "real" people and took the time to actually engage us in conversation, which meant they really cared.

Last Valentine's the chorus met at a restaurant after their concert. I came in late (really?) and a seat was saved for me in-between Mike and Peg. While visiting with Peg I shared a little bit of my adult history, which hasn't always been easy or pleasant, mostly because of bad decisions on my part that were, however, made in good faith. I noticed that her eyes teared up with compassion. That anyone could be so moved about a casual acquaintance took me by surprise. Then she mentioned just a bit about how one of her children was going through a difficult experience, so she could relate to and empathize with me. She went on to say, sort of incredulously, You know, my life has been so blessed, nothing really bad has ever happened to me. I think she said that because to her the pain that I had faced and her child was facing were in stark contrast to her charmed life, which included marrying her childhood sweetheart, raising four wonderful children and living adventuresomely. It hurt her, especially for her child, I'm sure, to know that not everyone had ALL of that, that many people do suffer excruciatingly, even though we are all blessed, too, certainly. I know her life as a whole wasn't without some degree of normal human aggravation and sorrow, as it would be impossible for anyone's existence to be completely absent of problems or grief. But I'm thinking not only was her life unusually happy and productive, but it was BECAUSE of her positive outlook and delight in the Lord that it was so. I was very touched and grateful that night, I considered her kindness and being placed together a gift.

Not six weeks later she was diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer. Apparently the symptoms came on abruptly, and Peg underwent tests for her diabetes. I don't think anyone could have imagined pancreatic cancer, it was unfathomable. Even after this monumental blow her spirit stayed 1,000% positive, her faith remained steadfast and she continued on with her life, although now the treatments and research took a lot of her time and energy. I saw her on three occasions after the diagnosis. She looked so good and was still darling, lovely, lovable, twinkly Peg.

You can imagine our shock and devastation when just two weeks ago we received an email from Bob telling us that during a camping vacation in Maine, Peg had suddenly become disoriented, pain had set in, she was admitted to a hospital and died two days later. They were in the midst of a sort of farewell tour, perhaps. But NO ONE was ready for this. I mean, just in February she'd told me how "perfect" her life had been. A few weeks later that life was turned upside down, mind-numbingly so, and a few months after that the Lord took her to Heaven?? Fragile. Unbelievable.

The service today was beautiful and unforgettable. Her four children each spoke from their hearts, and it was apparent the love, admiration and respect they each held as they remembered their beloved mother. They rose up and blessed her. The minister spoke, and he, too, held the highest esteem and offered words of praise for Peg. She TRULY was a unique, God-fearing, gentle and fun-loving soul -- with an infectious smile as an exclamation point! It was obvious from the packed church and tears shed that MANY people were graced by her life, loved her dearly and will miss her acutely. The minister did joke that Bob admitted one instance where Peg was less than perfect. Uh-uh! He told us that Peg was very smart and did the Sunday crossword puzzles in INK. ONE time Bob noticed that she got out the Wite*Out. That story was a spot of joy, and there were many such memories scattered amongst the tributes because she WAS the personification of joy, love, patience, etc.

Peg was also an accomplished musician, a singer, church organist, pianist. She LOVED music, and so there was much gorgeous music played and sung in her honor. I was fortunate to hear her accompany a choir on the harpsichord one time. Her poise and flawless playing impressed me. A few times when I was asked to accompany the a cappella chorus on the piano, she made a point to approach me to say something complimentary. That meant so much, coming from a professional, but mainly because of her generous, encouraging spirit. Once I was very nervous, and between the warm-up rehearsal and performance she talked with me and confided that she, too, had nerve issues. It was so nice of her to reach out, I didn't feel so alone in my fear.

Another time I narrowly avoided disaster. My music was arranged in order on the piano ahead of time, ready to go. Or so I thought. Sometimes I have to use extra copies of the music so I can arrange them to avoid difficult page turns, pianists have all sorts of tricks :) After I played the first page I had a hair-raising moment because when I looked up at the next page, GASP!, it was opened to the wrong one. Apparently during the warm-up I had not flipped all of the pages back to the start position. I just short of panicked because I do NOT play by ear, if the music falls off the piano, hello, the song is OVER. But it happened at the end of a phrase for the choir (thank you, God), so I held that last chord with the pedal for an extra measure, hoping it would float seemlessly, while I turned back a couple of pages. This was followed by a short piano interlude, as written. It was such a blur, let me tell you, those few seconds seemed eternal. The choir knew I was off, even though the audience didn't. So the director mouthed to the choir, WAIT. I played on, the director brought the choir back in on cue and the minimal damage was one added measure to the piece . . . and heart failure for me. This was the final concert Peg attended. She wasn't singing, of course, since her diagnosis. But I went up to her afterwards, and said, OH MY GOODNESS! SHE knew, SHE understood. She said, That could have been disastrous! Again, she related to me, and again, I appreciated the connection. I knew she was so happy for me that it was NOT a disaster, but oh, so close. It was like she met people where they were, she could find within herself a point of reference and offer comfort. And she did so gladly.

At the reception I enjoyed seeing photos of Peg. One caught my eye, she was just a small child, but a beautiful little girl. I think she was born with that dancing light in her bright blue eyes. Maybe she was born with a tenderness, too. I mean, I see pictures of myself as a child and wonder what pickle juice I just drank. I do believe some people are predisposed to an easier-going nature than others. I didn't know Peg well enough to say, but I would think she was born with a naturally sweet temperament and that she wisely nurtured it.

She was, in our eyes, leaving us too soon, a young 72. But let her go, we had no choice. I am SO THANKFUL to have known her, oh, so briefly. I could sit here and fret, wishing I'd known her longer and better, but instead, I'm going to cherish that God allowed me to enjoy this exquisite lady at all. In just a few short exchanges she made a world of difference for me. Today we were inspired by Peg. We aspire to such a fruitful, becoming life, to follow after the goodness the Lord worked in her that was so useful to others and drew them to her. Although we cannot exactly emulate Peg, we can study her life and strive to make a difference ourselves.

In closing, I will share that in the tiny hospital in Maine she was so concerned to not bother the staff, she was FINE, you know. She was always FINE. What extraordinary strength and dignity. Peg didn't know the meaning of self-centeredness, her life was about God and others. When the time of her passing was close, the chaplain told Bob to go ahead and say good-bye so Peg would know it was okay to let go, go to Jesus. He told again the love he and the entire family had for her, how special their marriage had been, but that she could go now. Right then she opened her eyes a little and whispered, I love you, too. Then her soul was absent from her body and present with the Lord. But she will NEVER be forgotten by any of us. Our thoughts and prayers are with the family at this time of indescribable loss.

Good-bye for now, Peg. Can't wait to see you again.

KEM

People. Somehow cooking and blogging do not go together, at least not on the same day. I'm finding I CANNOT do both on one and the same day. I do not have that kind of stamina.

My darling husband noted that when he does something good, like going to Annie's funeral, I refer to him as "my husband." But when he does something bad, like roughing up the cupcakes, then I refer to him as "Roach Mike." If this is true, it's all done subliminally, I don't organize my thoughts in such a manner as to produce something like that deliberately, or even consciously. Leave it to him to even notice.

Okay, so MY HUSBAND took me shopping tonight. I came home from Macy's with Buy One Get One Free Fiestaware fruit bowls, you know, the darling teeny ones. Peacock Blue, Lemongrass green, Tangerine and . . . WHITE. One of each. That Lemongrass is the limit. It's FW'S new color and it's a Royal Winner. Now I want four salad plates in Lemongrass. I have dinner plates and bread 'n butter plates in orangesicle, but now I miss salad-sized plates, which are just so perfect for a sandwich. Bread plate, the sandwich falls off. Dinner plate, sandwich looks lost. I used to have white salad plates.

This is very disappointing, but the escalators at Macy's were in fine operating order. A lot of good that did me as I neglected to FOCUS, and when I got home I didn't even hardly realize I'd had two escalator rides. Oh, brother. The couple ahead of me distracted me on the way up. He was playing lovey-dovey, and she was batting his hand off her face. That was so interesting. On the way down I was too delirious with smart FW purchase to even know I was riding an escalator. But Mike assures me we were. He said, The escalator was exceptionally noisy. Well, that would have been good to pay attention to, it would have reminded me of great-grandmother Josie and how that would have heightened her fear of being ground up in the escalator grate like mincemeat, the excess sound effects would have accentuated the whole scene into an absolute riot. Rats.

Husband also bought me two pairs of Birkenstock sandals, which I have to wear because of poor arch support. I try wearing normal shoes and that is always a dismal failure, my foot just spreads down flat like a crepe . . . ICK! These sandals are more like flip-flops, actually, they look like the old Dr. Scholl's everyone used to wear, with the wooden soles (weren't those just the epitome of comfort?) They were half-price of a full-price that was reasonable to start with, for Birks. I got Lemongrass Green and White. Well, I thought I got white until I just went and checked the boxes, wanted to see if the green sandals were same green as Lemongrass FW, and it was nigh unto an EXACT match, not that that is going to serve me particularly well, unless I secure the fruit dish to my head like some kind of a new pillbox, but I still got a bang out of it. But the other color, I've got to be kidding myself, is NOT white after all, it's Black. Which is fine. In fact, it's good. I tend to leave as little time as possible to accomplish something, so we never got to the shoe store until 15 minutes before it closed. There were so many sale boxes to wade through that I became slightly frantic and only half heard the clerk say, We have every color in you size EXCEPT white. But the clerk herself had white, so that's what happened, I got con-fus-ed. But a little scary to not know what you're buying. But black is better. Right?

Now, the other clerk, at Macy's. I went to all the trouble to pick the exact bowls I wanted from the open stock, as all pieces have little variations. So of course the white bowl I picked didn't have a price on it ('cause I swiped it from a boxed set of four that was down to two as someone else had obviously helped themselves prior). So the clerk says at check-out, I have to go find a white bowl with the price on it. I figured she would bring both bowls back to register, but oh no, she left my hand-selected bowl back on the table and came up with the only other white bowl out there, the one I had purposely rejected. So, I had to say, Ummm, could you please let me have the other bowl, I picked it out SPECIAL. She was very nice. She didn't look at me like I had three heads and horns.

So, anyway, now we come home and I have to properly dispose of my pasty mashed potatoes in the Swedish meatballs. So, that was a little involved. Side dishes Amy's Macaroni and Cheese microwaved and raw green pepper strips were not too strenuous, but still, I stand by my belief, cooking is SOOOOO tiring. Now I can't blog tonight. But that's okay, I'll do it tomorrow. It really needs to be done tonight, because my topic is meant to serve as an inspiration for a certain Saturday morning activity, but I can't do it. I made my husband the nice dinner because he was being so nice today. He should take note.

BTW, the Swedish meatballs recipe was just so good, found it in the newspaper. Tastes EXACTLY like something June Cleaver would have served to her boys. Oh, guess what? I have a friend whose uncle was one of the writers for Leave it to Beaver and other quality TV shows. I don't think he is still living. But can you imagine the conversation I could have had with him? WOW! If you want the recipe, let me know. Also, I love the Fiestaware lady on the box, cha-cha-ing in her tiered flowing gown. She is very graceful and snappy all at once. I need to do more research on FW and figure out the whole enchilada. Fascinating American institution. My friend above who had Beaver uncle, I bragged so much about FW that she up and bought every color in the universe of it one year ago. She LOVES it. Her enthusiasm runneth over, so just the other day the little rat also helped herself to the new Lemongrass 4-piece place setting. She is a super fun friend, don't you just love those? And guess what? She is of Swedish descent.

A Good Day KEM

Back on track . . . I think.

Who is with me on this? Fixing a homemade-from-scratch-minus-the-applescauce-dinner is in reality a recipe for EXHAUSTION. Maybe it's because we have those hard, unforgiving tile floors that bounce blenders around and kill your feet and back. Honestly, I need the wooden stool from my childhood to sit on to peel those potatoes. That stool used to be the dishwashing stool. My brother made a cheerful chore chart for the fridge, Who is the LUCKY dishwasher tonight?? Which potatoes, by the way, turned out pasty. Now that just sends the dinner down the drain, if you ask me, which nobody does. If there's one thing I can't stand besides loose hair, it's pasty mashed potatoes. I was over-confident last night because the last many times I've mashed potoates, they've turned out dry, fluffy and lovely. Not this time, sisters and brothers. I don't know what I did differently, except some of the boiled chunks stayed chunks, never mashed, merely winked at the electric beaters. So, I pretended they were creamed potatoes, where chunks are welcomed. When I was growing up Annie would come cook our holiday dinners. She was a famous cook. People to this day still talk about Annie's Leg of Lamb. Unduplicative. And she made creamed potatoes sometimes, which is a cross between mashed and boiled buttered chunks, but somehow saucy creamy, too. Hers were yummy and not a mistake.

While we're talking about Annie, she was . . . precious (remember, I use that word sparingly). She PEELED the grapes. Try peeling a grape. It take takes all day. Try peeling a bunch of grapes. But what a delicacy. She loved to appear at the living room entrance with a white linen napkin draped over her arm and solemnly announce with a bow of the head, Dinner is served. She was very proper. It was a BIG moment for three kids who were bored stiff all day waiting and waiting some more for Turkey Time, who for hours inhaled the aromas wafting from the kitchen that about drove us wild. Then she served dinner perfectly in her starched white uniform which she always wore, her salt and pepper hair formed neatly into a bun at her nape. And she wouldn't leave until every last spoon was washed and put away, never mind that she'd been there since 7:00 AM and on her feet all day long basting the turkey and peeling the grapes and creaming the potatoes. She also was a firm believer in washing every utensil that had graced the table, whether or not it had been used. She was just marvelous, always the calmest of cucumbers, always a kind word on tongue's tip (unlike myself, who sprouts prickles when under holiday meal prep distress).

Annie told me years and years ago that she prayed for me every day. And she did, too. What an immeasurable GIFT. I always worried, When Annie dies, I am going to be in serious trouble because she is the only person who has ever told me, I pray for you every day. Well, she didn't have a very happy life in lots of ways but she never complained and instead found deep satisfaction and pleasure serving others. Sure enough, she gradually became old and sick. Years ealier my granny had secured, upon demand, you don't mess with my granny, a public housing apartment for Annie. But now she needed nursing care and went to live in a home. Some of us would go visit her once in a while, and Annie always trilled a chuckle of delight, also inimitable, when she recognized us. We were blessed to celebrate her birthday one time, she lived way up into her nineties. When she died, sad day, my husband and I attended her Celebration of Life at her Catholic church. I'm so thankful we did. The only people there were her granddaughter and granddaughter's husband and maybe three ladies who went to funerals as a ministry to the deceased's family. I felt SO PRIVILEGED to honor this wonderful woman. I like to think she is in Heaven peeling grapes for Jesus. Except I don't think we eat in Heaven. But I know she is praising the Lord in some capacity with a joyful heart. And I hope she is still praying for me every day (not sure how that works, but I do hope).

I just ate a midnight snack, a whole roasted beet. The three day rule, you know. Plus, the memory of Annie stirred me.

So, I lived through the pasty mashed potatoes and the leftovers are going into the Swedish meatballs for tomorrow's dinner. Somehow, all melded in with the other ingredients and thus well-disguised, I'm thinking I won't care how pasty they are. But it will still bother me a little. Wonder why I'm wired like this. Seriously, I do have better things to worry about than disappointing tubers.

Last night's dessert proved interesting on many counts. The cupcake recipe dictated to reserve one tablespoon of cherry juice for the frosting, hence the delicate pink color. Since I made the cupcakes, then took a nap, then made the dinner, then ate the dinner, THEN made the frosting, I had to store that one lousy tablespoon of cherry juice. So, that is a very tiny little bit of something to stash. A long time ago my sister gave me a set of graduated mixing bowls to cheer me up. The smallest bowl is so microscopic you go, For Corn's sake, WHAT would anyone ever use that for besides saying, Oh, you adorable little mixing bowl. I GUESS you COULD mix one drop of this and one more drop of that in it. So, I thought, Why not? And the one tablespoon was a little ambitious, but we managed. Oops, I just this second thought of something else. And it's a Gorilla- on-Top-of-the-State-Vacuum-Repair-Store-Moment. I only used half the jar of cherries. The rest of the cherries and all their juice went into a medium-sized graduated mixing bowl and into the fridge. All I had to do was dip out a tablespoon of that juice when I was ready. Wow and heck fuzzy, as the saying goes. Another thing not to mention to the clever DTD. SHE never would have dizzed out like that.

Well, when the frosting with one troublesome little tablespoon of cherry juice was finally crowning the cupcakes, which, by the way, aren't they the greatest?, it turns out that the cupcake that landed on my orange Fiestaware plate had 5 whole big cherries in it, mostly congregated at the bottom (my hand mixer didn't mash the cherries so well as recipe indicated, cherries sniffed at mixer same as the potatoes oh, well). This is noteworthy because when I had to halve the jar of cherries, the best way was to count out half. Right? That was sixteen. So, there were 12 cupcakes with 16 cherries. Mine had 5. So that left one cherry for each of the remaining 11 cupcakes. Right? Mike and my stepson thought this was all pre-arranged, but it wasn't. I didn't cheat this time. It was just a little God-favor for the befuddled and beat cook. Or maybe because I had the orange plate and Mike and stepson had boring white. But it's still FW, so it isn't totally boring.

Then, and I was prepared for this, my stepson says, I want to take some cupcakes home with me. This is something new he's started, like I'm a take-out joint. But if he likes my cooking, far be it from me to be a Cupcake Hoarder. So now, my few remaining brain cells taken out by sugar, I set two cupcakes on a paper plate and loosely laid plastic wrap on top. I said, Careful not to dump the cupcakes in the dirt. They are top-heavy and this is what WILL happen: Slip, Slide, Dump. Later, of course, I thought I should have balled up Scotchtape on the paper plate and jammed the bottoms of the cupcakes to it. And even better, today I gave away two more cupcakes, but I manufactured a new brain cell because I slept for 12 hours last night and that furnished me the idea to fancy up those cherry suckers individually in plastic wrap. You know, lay out plastic wrap on counter, there's an art to that, set cupcake in center, swoop up plastic and fasten with garbage bag tie. This way it looked like a cute gift AND, more critically, if you dropped the cupcake it would be protected. This is more crucial than it seems. Once I picked up DTD when she was little from a birthday party. I noticed right away that the house didn't seem clean. It was icky. The nice mother handed DTD (Darling Tiny Daughter) a good-bye cupcake. Cupcake flipped right over and landed head first on the floor. I picked it up before the dogs could and, WOW!, suddenly it sported a wig. I kid you not, the sticky frosting was THICKLY COVERED in hair, mostly dog hair, I think. Of course, I'm one to talk. Well, then what? The mother saw all this, so everyone played Pretend Pretty and DTD and I quickly left with one hairy little cupcake in hand.

I don't know how on earth I can glean so much material from silly little cupcakes, but we're not done yet . . . almost done. I noticed today that the cupcakes, now displayed on a white platter and covered with plastic wrap, well, they looked a little worn around the edges. This worried me. Had some don't-mention-the-word ROACH nibbled to heart's content? Oh, yes. A great big roach named Mike. The cupcakes were generously sized and flowed a little over their foil liners, so Mike felt compelled to pick 'n eat those edges. Dadgum. It was all I could do to recover two cupcakes that weren't quite so raggedy to give to my friends. Honestly.

Last night I opened the dictionary to the exact right page. Tonight I found two words on the same page. What does this leave for tomorrow night?

Oh, when I wrote about Monks' Bread and manna, guess what? My dependable CDW came up with a winner. Get this:

I don't believe we get Monks' bread in this part of the country. It's funny, a friend and I were just talking about Roman Meal bread yesterday (we both grew up with it) and how you can't get that anymore. Why in the world would we both be thinking of bread from our youth ... yesterday? Wild isn't it? :) I don't believe I have ever seen a loaf of Monks' bread ... now it has me extremely curious. I think I would have put that together in my young mind too ... Monks' white bread and honey ... just like manna ...

Bread from our Youth LOVE,
CDW

CDW and I know why this could and does happen. Our minds are quite a bit alike. It's very interesting and fun, at least to us it is, and keeps us highly entertained.

I promise to end with this, you poor weary Blogees. When I was cleaning the kitchen last night, I squirted BAR KEEPERS FRIEND ... best since 1882 ... SUPERIOR LIQUID CLEANSER ... New IMPROVED Formula, aimed for the sink. I have a white sink and Bar Keepers removes the fig and cherry stains and whatnot. I always have bought powder in a can, but THIS time I succumbed to liquid in a bottle as I had never seen it before and KEM can't leave well enough alone, oh no. Well, the opening was clogged, probably because I trivialize shutting the cap all the way (lazy) and it dries out. So at first it wouldn't squirt, then I got testy and gave it a powerful temper squirt and I missed the sink and spattered my shirt all over. How did I do that? So of course my nice good moss-green shirt is all bleached. It's tye-dyed is what it is. I'll bet the Old INFERIOR Formula wouldn't have done that. These companies. They should leave well enough alone. Well, I still got the prized cupcake, you can't win 'em all.

KUPKAKE KEM

I should have invited you for dinner. After roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, baby lima beans (oh, YUM!), applesauce (because my stepson will always eat it, and it's the one part of the dinner that you pour out of a jar, listen, every dinner needs at least one recipe that reads, Open Jar, Now Pour, Good Job, You're Done), roasted beet salad (well, I had the roasted beets and the goat cheese) AND, last, but by no means least, homemade cherry cupcakes with delicate pink cherry frosting . . . well, after all that, the only think left to do is hit the hay. See ya tomorrow!

Bright and cherry, I mean cheery, well, both . . . still have cupcakes for tomorrow . . . oh, the corn of it all,
KEM

P.S. The dinner smelled exactly like Thanksgiving, so I'm wondering if this counts and it would be all right just to skip to Christmas? I didn't think so.

To My Beloved Blogees,

Tonight I compensate for my too-long blogs by writing a too-short one. Isn't that great? What was it my granny used to say about balance?

Mike keeps me on my toes. When he read in my blog yesterday that the escalator in the plaza was BROKEN, he asked, Did you look on the other side of the plaza to see if the OTHER (in this case, UP) escalator was in service? No, I did not. He says I don't learn my lessons. What does he think I am, some sort of common sense genius?? I am a woman. I am not going to operate sanely and with practicality, like a man. I am going to react EMOTIONALLY every time. When the escalator said BROKEN, that's where it began and ended for me.

The big treat for the day was spotting something in the early evening thunder clouds. Stormy skies are quite the awesome thing in Florida. Back in the day, we used to have thunderstorms like clockwork. Ev-a-ree evening without fail, smack in the middle of swim practice, a huge thunder and lightning storm would break loose. The team would scramble out of the pool and huddle under the covered deck for safety. And watch. The Northshore Pool was on the Tampa Bay, quite the backdrop for a sizzling lightning display. It could be a little scary. These storms lasted exactly 20 minutes. No more, no less. They were so cozy. Well, they were, scary AND cozy. I wish you could have been there, it was the best. You would have loved it.

My sister and I always came home from the pool famished, and our favorite solution for starvation was Monk's white bread, toasted with butter and honey. Or Dark Karo syrup. I always imagined that was EXACTLY what the manna in the wilderness had to taste like. You know, the food God provided for His people the Israelites. The food that covered the ground like dew every morning for a singular forty years while they, the Israelites, all gazillion of them, wandered around because they didn't obey God, even though He had illustrated His mighty power and saving grace for them at every turn. And then poor Moses became the people's gripe target, whining day and night, Who shall give us flesh to eat? We're SICK of this manna, better we stayed in Egypt where we ate fish and cucumbers and melons and leeks and garlic and onions. Oh, yeah, and we were slaves, but now our soul is dried away: there is nothing at all, beside this manna, before our eyes. Oooooh, this did not sit well with the Lord. So He clobbered them with quail, which did not have an especially happy ending (see Numbers 11). I'm terribly afraid I would have been one of the complaining Israelites. First in line, big bad frown. I know it. I am fickle. Would have been just like my stepson, But we had this last night. 43,800 meals of manna in a row, wow, that might have tested my patience -- when in reality I had tested God's patience and that's why I would have been toasting in the Sinai desert for 40 LOOOOOONG years eating manna three times a day.

The Bible says manna tasted sweet, well, here, I'll quote the verse. Exodus 16:31b . . . and it was like coriander seed, white; and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey. Maybe the picture on the Monk bread sack of the monk in a long blue robe carrying a tray of his bread looked so spiritual that I automatically associated it with manna. I mean, let's face it, there is a spiritual lesson in manna. It looks forward to Jesus, the Bread from Heaven, Who will satisfy, and we will never be spiritually hungry again. Whereas manna was temporal and therefore didn't and couldn't sustain anyone eternally, even though it SEEMED eternal because there it was EV-A-REE day. And the toasted and honey part lined up with the wafers baked with honey. Oh yeah, and it was white, and the Monk bread in our kitchen was white. The only thing messing up my little comparison is the coriander seed. From what I can tell, they gathered the manna and it was a small round thing, as small as the hoar frost on the ground, vs. 14. They ground it to flour before they baked it into little cakes. At any rate, it translated into Monk's bread for me, etc., minus the parsley taste. Maybe there was no cilantro flavor, because the Bible says it was LIKE corriander seed. Whatever, it made it even more fun to eat because to my swim-soaked brains, Monk's toast with honey was EXACTLY like manna, no two ways about it. Besides, when I was little, I didn't know about the coriander part.

Oops, I forgot to say what was my treat, something I hadn't seen in years. A FULL HALF RAINBOW (well, I've heard of full circle rainbows, this was a whole half circle, oh rats, I don't know how to say it, a COMPETE half arc, touching the earth on both ends). It arched the sky in splendor, I mean, I didn't SEE where it touched the earth, but it did. It was SO CLOSE, too, like you wanted to swing from the arch. I should have had a list of all the Fiestware pastel colors that have ever been, because they were in that rainbow. (I think I got that backwards.)

Monk's bread is still on your grocer's shelf,
KEM

Tonight: Some random thoughts (really?) and a story wrap-up.

So Mike reads my blog about our trip to the mall, where we went to get my free stuff including an escalator ride. He informs, 24 sorry hours too late, The DOWN escalator worked. Boy, oh, boy.

I'd like to know what is cuter than a Fiestaware custard cup. Unless it's their teensy fruit bowls.

I saw on AOL where the washing machines of the future are going to wash a load of clothes with one (yes, ONE) cup (yes, CUP) of water and thousands of nylon beads (OKAY, they lost me). It explained that the water, all eight ounces of it, would wet the clothes (what's their idea of a load?, a pair of socks?), and the nylon beads would collect the dirt. You don't say. Doesn't that sound just a mite too futuristic? In other words, nuttier than a fruitcake? How does AOL find this stuff? Maybe we should all go stock up on some good old-fashioned corrugated wooden washer boards. I can see myself bending over one down in the bay, scrubbing in easy rhythm with the swaying palm fronds (bay is calm, no rhythmic waves.) Hey, this might be all right. No hurries, no worries, just soaking up the sunshine, a scrumptious salty breeze and a lazy wash, letting my thoughts drift out with the gentle rhythm of the tide. Yeah, this sounds swell. Rhythm, to me, is the crux of life anyway.

We're back on spinach, but it was a wet box. Pooh. Spinach that's been drenched for a while just melts in your hands. That's right. Anyway, I picked out the few good dry leaves, which took all night, and dolled them up with beets. Beets are about as underrated as a poor unpopular vegetable can be. So unfortunate. But you roast the ugly little suckers in the oven. You peel 'em, you cut 'em up and decorate the spinach with 'em, 'cause somehow now they've turned ruby beet red 'n glossy purty. You slice up an orange, too. Chunk up some goat cheese and drop it all around. Do some walnuts. Do some orange vinaigrette (wouldn't you prefer to spell that vinegarette? I would.) What you sit down to is a gorgeous, super colorful, SUPER delicious, SUPER healthy Roasted Beet Salad. I saw a picture of it in Betty Crocker's Cookbook and I went, OH MY, YES! Green, purple, orange, white. Sounds like Fiestaware.

Tonight the Andy Griffith Show was the episode where Aunt Bea becomes disgusted that Opie is hanging out at a jail where he's exposed to crime and savage criminals. She "rescues" him from this disgracefully-inappropriate-for-a-little-boy environment by making him stay at home and plant spinach. Opie says, SPINISH. I like that. SPINISH. (The Andy Griffith director got a lot of mileage out of that, he has Opie saying SPINISH every few seconds, and I plan to get a lot of mileage out of it, too, just watch :) But he doesn't like SPINISH. You can imagine just how thrilled Opie is to go from the jailhouse where he hangs out with his cool dad Sheriff to tending SPINISH plants by the side of the driveway with a watering can in hand. Anyway, I didn't really watch the episode, but I turned it on for cheerful vibrations 'cause I can hear it from anywhere in the house, our house has a modern open floor plan, which is, eh, not that great. But not that bad, either. The way I keep house, it's really better to be able to close off rooms . . . all of them. But it IS fun to scoop up the scoop on everything at once because the house is just one giant room and no privacy. So, what I'm getting at is I don't know if I put that Andy episode together exactly correctly or not. At one point I glanced at the TV and saw Aunt Bea frowning at Andy and later I caught a deeply disheartened Opie amongst his SPINISH leaves. Based on that I pieced together the rest of the story from memory. Maybe I'm lying. Well, all that to say, if you can believe this, is that a wet box of spinach should definitely be called SPINISH.

Continuing my Random Roll, so as not to disappoint, I want to tell you THE MOST RIDICULOUS arrangement of words anyone ever assembled within and specifically for my hearing . It happened when DTD was a three month old baby. You didn't know this yet, but DTD was BORN with a toned little body. Her fat/muscle index, or whatever you call it, is exceptional, the lucky duck. So someone asks me, Wow, I never saw a baby with such muscle mass. Do you have her lifting weights? Boy, oh, boy.

THE SECOND MOST ABSURD thing anyone ever said to me concerned supermodel Cindy Crawford. My friend and I were discussing Cindy's beauty in a cement pond in North Carolina (added for color because no one forgets where they were when startling news shapes up, but also true). Well I, anyway, was enumerating her assets when suddenly out of the brown cement pond my friend tossed an unusual take, to put it mildly. She snarked (why isn't this word in the dictionary?), with an obviously pre-meditated conviction, Cindy Crawford has the face of a horse. This was so shocking, preposterous, really, that it left me rendered speechless. WHAT ON EARTH??? All I can say is, I want to look like that horse. Cindy Crawford, if you are reading this, just chalk it up to the green-eyed monster.

In case you are unaware, there is an ongoing Escalator World Crisis. I was downtown today where they have a snazzy outdoor shopping plaza. It has an outdoor moving staircase. I actually didn't have moving staircase on my mind at the moment, unbelievable, I know, but then I saw it. FUN!, I instantly perked up. Fun! until I realized it was roped off with a sign that read, BROKEN. KEM STATS, what can I say.

I was GOING to deliver the punchline to the Sally Goes Shopping Alone and The Little Rabbit that would not Eat post. Well, I can no do tonight because I have wilted. I feel like NIP when he ate poorly, before he learned to appreciate parsley soup and mashed turnips and of course SPINISH. When he only ate dessert and depleted his vigor and vitality and languished around doing zilch. That's how I feel. Which makes NO sense after eating a four-color salad dinner off of FW. Of course, it is 3:30 AM. There, maybe that has something to say about it.

RANDOM REIGNS,
KEM

Hi, it's Sunday when I like to cool my blog jets.

For a long time now I've been trying to practice forgiveness. I'm not very good at it. It's a hot topic, so my church had a Sunday school class on it. I took the class. The class was very good. The class was repeated because everyone in it felt like they still hadn't learned how to forgive. On paper it sounds so easy. God forgives us of our sinful nature and all the sins we continually commit as a result of being born into sin. So, He expects us to forgive others of the far lesser sins they commit against us (but ultimately all sin is against God). But we are hangers-on, some of us. Maybe the depth of the hurt makes it so difficult to let go. But during one forgiveness class a woman was visiting her mother and said, We have to be willing to accept the pain that goes along with forgiving someone. DING, DING, DING! That struck me more than anything to date. YES! Forgiveness is not just a glib, I forgive you. It comes at a cost. Just like Jesus' forgiveness cost Him His life and alienation from His Father, the ultimate sacrifice. I don't know why this never occurred to me before. Forgiveness HURTS. It's acknowledging that we will let someone be blessed, release their wrong, forget, even though our pain is very real. Even if they don't deserve forgiveness. So we don't want to go there, it's too difficult. But since I don't deserve God's forgiveness either, it is a gift, then my arguments and stubborness are not going to be acceptable. The issue is no longer someone's offence, rather it's how great my privilege to live unto the Lord and show His love through forgiveness . . . and how fast can I run and do that? It's a process, though, to get to that point. A good thing God has everlasting patience. I am learning also that what God asks of us are things He must also give us the grace to do. Truly, in my own strength, of my fleshly resources, I do not have the capability to forgive. It comes from meditating on what Jesus did for me. If I don't grasp that, what foundation do I have to forgive anyone? It is all His work, but he does invite me to comply, and I best not refuse.

The other roadblock to forgiveness seems to be esteeming myself too highly. I don't want to deal with that end of it, the end that shows I'm not perfect, FAR from it. But if in humiliy I recognize my own shortcoming, the times I've been the one to inflict hurt and pain, then why wouldn't I run to forgive others? Because I would certainly want others to show the same compassion and forgive me.

JESUS, the Gift Who keeps on giving. Lord, thank you for Your mercy in forgiving me. Out of awe, respect and deep gratitude, help me to forgive others. Teach me to forgive as you do, graciously, generously and completely. Help others to forgive me. Help us all to become more like You, our Savior.

KEM