July 22nd, 2010
I planted a tiny pot of hen and chicks in my garden in 2008. I can’t imagine why I didn’t take a picture of the little succulents. They were adorable in their micro-pot, probably three inches in diameter. The botanical name for hen and chicks is sempervivum, which, in the dusty old Latin, means always alive. Try saying that six times real quick. Sempervivum, sempervivum, supercalifragilisticexpiali…Go ahead. We’ll wait.
June 2009
These chicks have tripled, quadrupled, super-sized. Lookin’ good, chickies.
May 2010
Mama Hen is putting on weight and multiplying. I think she ate one too many peanut butter whoopie cookies over the blizzard months. Okay, that might have been me.
End of May 2010
Uh, oh. What is happening here, Mama Hen?
July 2010
Mama Hen, I thought we had the talk about safe…
Oh, Mama!
Days later, July 2010
You never listen!
Reap what ye sow, Mama. Reap what ye sow.
Okay. I’m just having a little fun with you today. It comes under the heading of procrasti-writing. But our time together here is over. Muse Boy — remember that hunk-of-burnin’-mat-master from yesterday? — He’s hovering. Hovering, I tell you. That can only mean one thing.
Write or die!
Elen
July 21st, 2010
for this…
…to ripen.
In the summer, I live for tomatoes, baby!
Vine ripened grape, cherry, plum, beefsteak tomato goodness.
They become snack food, toasted tomato sandwiches, grilled cheese & tomato, BLTs, ratatouille, Ray’s Red Sauce, broiled sides, and on without end.
Do you have a fave way to prep and consume tomatoes? Let’s hear it.
Conn is standing over my shoulder as I post. How did that happen? Remember Conn here and here? It’s probably the tomato talk. He’s a much more selective — and by selective, I mean picky — eater than Sven. Let’s just say, he doesn’t have the sweet tooth that Sven has.
I guess Conn is back. I haven’t been able to wrangle out of him exactly where he’s been all this time. Yet! I’m guessing he got on board with one of Sven’s island vacays. You know the ones. They usually involve some chick named Birgit or Ilsa. Let’s just say the legs are long, the hair is blond and braided down to the other hemisphere, and the Great White North is a Double D — DD. I can feel Conn’s eyebrow raise as he continues to read breathes down my neck, so I’m thinking I’m on the right track here…
You!…Write!
This is Bad Boy Mat Muse. He’s also known as Wonder Boy Muse and Alpha Muse, depending on my mood, and his. Conn used to be in the sidebar, upper right corner. I took him down when I adopted my first soldier with Soldiers’ Angels. Said I would leave him down until my soldier came home. Then, I just adopted another soldier…and another. I can’t see when I won’t be an angel with SA, so Conn is back. He is eye candy for my writer’s brain and keeps my word count crunched. Sometimes, he brings out my inner drama queen. Did you just hear a snicker?
Come and get me, Muse Boy.
Elen
March 30th, 2009
… before Conn realizes I’m not crunching words like a writer on Red Bull. He just doesn’t get Monday morning. Still, he’s downstairs making my second cup of decaffeine, but I had to barter the last of the chocolate chip banana bread to make that happen. Conn is an eater. This is working for me, because he’s eating up all the calories in my new nonfat life. Okay. Let’s not go there. Monday is bad enough without black, nonfat thoughts.
Yesterday, I forewent my boring, nonfat life and took a trip down this road ~
And stopped here ~
For their annual Oyster Supper. This was my first oyster supper, so I had no idea what to expect. If the word raw was involved in any way, well…. I’d be spending the next hour nibbling from the pickle dish.
I’ve had some of the best and funnest dinners at little country churches, and this did not disappoint. We decided to go to the 5 o’clock sitting thinking it would be a good idea to travel in daylight, since we didn’t have a clue where we were going. It had been raining all morning and dull as dirt, but when we left the sun was shining.
We had called in reservations earlier in the week. You have no idea. These events hop. We parked on the road with a bunch of other oyster supper lovers and proceeded into the front door of the church. We were greeted by a big, grin-eating man sitting behind a card table with a cash box and a list of reservations. We parted with our cold cash and sidled into the back of the sanctuary to sit on the back pew. Hey. All the other pews were packed. The room was modest and beautiful and filled with glorious sunshine. The Sunday oyster supper lovers were dusting the pews with their shirts and jeans and smiling their smug smiles and chit-chatting. They knew what was coming.
About ten minutes after we arrived, the minister stood and delivered a hearty welcome and a few jokes on country churches. She knew her audience. I liked that about her. After that, we all began to file down a narrow and twisty set of stairs to the church basement. To get to the dining room, we had to pass through a room that was nothing but wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling P I E . Come to mama.
We settled at a long table of other church supper goers and waited. I began chatting with a woman across from me who had traveled an hour and a half in rain and fog to be here. She was originally from the area and had attended this church a long time. This is what I learned ~
They’ve been doing an oyster supper here since the beginning of the 20th century. It has been — and always will be — done by the men. Originally, it was a dinner of some hearty oyster soup/stew. The oysters were ordered from Toronto and local farmers were asked to donate milk and vegetables and whatever. Over the years, this dinner has evolved into an oyster and ham event.
The starter is oyster soup with lots of little oysters floating around in your bowl and crackers in abundance. I was thrilled. These little suckers were not in the raw. I offered up a silent prayer of thanks. The main course was ham and scalloped potatoes, peas, coleslaw, fresh buns and butter, crisp pickles and coffee, tea and apple juice. You could eat all the oyster soup you wanted and forego the ham dinner, or skip the oysters and go right to the ham, or sample everything. I. Ate. Everything. I thought about skipping the starter and the main and going straight for the pie, but sanity prevailed.
The wait staff were all male and funny. Let me tell you. They knew their audience of diners. A grinning, aproned cutie leaned over and said, “What is your pie pleasure?” My mouth dropped open and all those little pie brain cells short-circuited. Taking pity on me, he started listing them — raspberry, butterscotch, apple-peach, blueberry, raisin, chocolate, lemon sponge…
I croaked out lemon sponge and had a robust piece sitting in front of me seconds later. After the first forkful, I think I had a little piegasm. Right in the church basement. If I were Catholic, I’d be sweating my next confession.
The pie just kept coming. Let me tell you, men can eat pie. And I love watching them do it. They just jerk their forks at their plates, when the next pie comes around, with a big ol’ pie-eating grin on their faces.
By the time we left, I had the date of the August Beef Barbecue in my cell phone and an offer for a night of square dancing.
I did not — I repeat, did not — have a second piece of pie, but I did have a wee taste of Mr G, honey’s apple-peach pie, which was about a mile high. Mr. G, honey has come to expect this. Right, honey?
And that was my little church oyster supper adventure. Can’t wait until next year.
Conn is reading over my shoulder and looking a little pissy. I think he might have wanted a piegasm, too.
Elen
