How surprised was I to find that I could still bake. This wonderous discovery came when I boldly searched through our kitchen bookshelf, filled with dozens of volumes that the Macster has collected over the years. Ahh but lurking in the far corner was my grease spattered, coffee stained and dogeared favorite of the past 38 years - my Mennonite Treasury of Recipes. A book so cherished, so beloved, they named it a Treasury.
The front cover was lost years ago in a move, or perhaps it was the time I tried to make 'never fail' pie dough. Those ill fated words belong right up there with 'you can't miss it' as you drive off to be lost lost LOST in a maze of Edmonton streets. But I digress.
My long suffering Treasury of Recipes still credits the contributors with the old style wife names - like Mrs. Henry P Friesen, or Mrs. J.J. Dyck. Occassionally a proud Agatha or Sarah was included - but more modest females were known more by their husbands name. Was that the original 'representing'? These were the women who could sew - make an apron, use if for years, then convert it to the most efficient clothespin holder known around! These aprons were awesome - big pockets for hankies Granma used to deal with snotty noses or scraped knees when we grandkids were around. Soft, warn over the daily dress, I still remember the way my grandma's apron smelled - like outside and soap and Avon....that was my granny Marie!
Grandma was a real Mennonite cook too - she would whip up a batch of vereniki in a flash. Served with cream gravy, made in the cast iron pan that she'd fried the homemade smoked sausage in...mmm mmm. All done on a wood stove - the big ones with the hot water reservoir. I can still recall the scents, the sounds of forks scraping those big cream coloured plates, and me as a skinny kid having a vereniki eating contest with Grandpa. Smooth warm cream gravy, fat pockets of "glums" and a shake of salt and pepper - heaven on a plate! I think my record was 7 that day. And it got the approval of my grandpa whom I adored - my big, bald, wonderful grandpa with his thick Russian accent - I am pretty that is where I got my bullheaded streak and occassional stubborness. Yes, occassional.
So when I looked for Christmas cookie recipes tonight, it made me sort of homesick for family and comfort food. Mennonite food. I saw a cookie recipe where the flour portion was defined as 'enough flour to make a stiff dough' and the oven temp is shown as 'hot'. These are recipes for women who meet in small groups and discuss the weather, the church bulletin and making cookies from 14 cups of flour. Mrs. Jake Leiding could tell with the soft poke of a finger if something was 'done' or if it needed a few more minutes. Cholesterol was not a word heard while eating dinner. No sirree! With apron at the ready, Mrs. Pete Peters could feed a crowd in a heartbeat - whether a table full after a day of harvest, or an MCC conference where Borcht for 12 dozen was called for!
A bit daunted, and feeling out of practise, I was feeling unworthy of the Treasury and slunk over to The Best of Bridge. Modern, glossy, with mouthwatering photographs of wonderful creations. Let's try this instead! I found the Jewish Shortbread recipe - no explanation of why it was of that denomination, certainly as un Mennonite as I could imagine, but hey, finely ground walnuts baked into short bread deliciousness? Sounds doable to me!
On with the oven and out with the Macsters Cuisinart - a lovely kitchen machine - far above the title of gadget. A few on hand ingredients, some rolling of the dough into little finger sized ropes (like making little plasticine dinosaurs) a rip of parchment paper and ding! Lovely little crescents of sweet delecate flavour...mmmm yes and I made them! And miracle of miracles - they were as good as I'd hoped.
And now, dear audience, to finish the never fail pie dough story. I may have mastered the short bread, but the pie dough - to this day it eludes me. My first effort was many, many years ago - using the Treasury as a guide: I added the cold water, used a fork to blend, floured the counter top and worked the dough - and worked it and worked it and instead of the smooth, warm, soft pie dough I tried to create - a hard, stubborn monster was born. The dough, not the cook!
I learned a lesson that day - not an especially important lesson but a lesson none the less. You can't add more water to already made pie dough. And if frustrations overtakes, and you throw the offending dough ball against a fridge door - it will stay there. For hours. Or until someone walks into the kitchen and reaching for the fridge handle exclaims "what the hell is this?"
I've never been known as a gal who quits. Well perhaps at times it's a case of not knowing when to quit. Pie crust attempts followed over the years - crusts that defied the strongest of teeth; tortierre that eluded all but those armed with jackhammers and chisels; and tarts who's shells were like those of a clam. Pleasing to the eye, but inedible to the end. Saskatoon berries in a chastity crust. OK I admit it - I was stubborn as an ox, insisting I could bake. I like to think Grandpa would have been proud of my persistence, tho perhaps not so much with the end results.
For now I'll stick to cookies! Attention to ingredients, careful measurements, not leaving the kitchen when cookies are in the oven (very important), and remembering to let them cool on a wire rack - it's something I can do with a high probability of success. Jewish shortbread turned out great - surprising me and the hubby with their sweet taste and melt in your mouth texture.
Lulled by false sense of achievement I have to ask: Am I kidding myself that after 50 years I just might have what it takes to open the Treasury of Recipes and like Indiana Jones grab onto those jewels of my youth? Syrup Kuchen, Portzelky and Pfeffernuse? Well I'll never know until I try!
I used to have one of Grandma's old aprons, perhaps I'll go search for it. I have my family females and menno-girlfriends who can offer guidance as I, Mrs. J. MacArthur nee Friesen, reconnect through a river of rich cream gravy to my Mennonite heritage.
Na yo, let's go!
What makes me "me"
My hood - my peeps - my dog!
Monday, 28 November 2011
Monday, 14 November 2011
The best laid plans, and all that jazz
A celebratory weekend was in store - weeks of 13 hour days at the salt mine, several long Saturdays at the office crunching the numbers, sharpening my pencil and pulling it out of my @$$ and finally FINALLY my budget was done. Hit send - taaadaaaaa. The weekend is here!
Ahhh yes, sleeping in, long lazy breakfasts over tea and the newspaper, perhaps a crossword. Bliss. The forecast - sunny, cool and windy, perfecto for a weekend of pajamas, naps, and catching up on a few chores - at my pace.
But what ho??? Indolence Interruptus!!! Alas and alack my best laid plans were not to be - so Saturday was a work event for the Hubster. We are off in the trusty Kia headed north to a farm trade show. An Ag show - lots of tractors, belt buckles, and green and yellow toys. Uhhhhh okay. A hat over the mop, run a quick brush thru the teeth and off we go. 5 hours on the road, 4 hours of tromping the trade show displays and a belly full of KFC and we are home! Housework?? Harrumph so I got a sinkfull of breakfast dishes washed and a load of laundry done - that counts right?
Well there's always my beloved Sunday - often reknowned for white tornado like cleaning, a frenzy of vacumming, swiffer blazing, dust bunnies cowering in fear! Up and attem - hmmm I need a shower, but say wha? "Hey" my beloved offers over his famous oatmeal "we need a break, why don't you whip up some sandwiches, throw in the thermos and we'll go for a drive!! See the sites, look for coyotes and elks..." Initial enthusiasm quickly cooled as I got into the "sandwich making" mode. Now it's a known fact that I'm a sucker for a compliment and when my true love batts his baby blues and says "but you know sandwiches always taste better when you make them" my resolve to be a non-productive housewife crumbles. So, armed with my trusty "bad hair hiding" ball cap, a bag o sandwiches and the Stanley full o coffee, off we go.
It was a nice drive. The sun was shining, a couple of deer and one daft raven, and we came home. And of course, what is better on a Sunday when you are now fully in "unproductive" mode, after weeks of grueling office work than... that's right - a NAP!
A nap is one of the great gifts of the working class on a weekend. Turn the phone off, the furnace down, get undressed (it's a proper nap, no snooze in the chair event) and climb under the covers - lulled to sleep by the purring of the cat, and the even breathing of my hubby. In terms of behaviors, naps are, in my humble opinion, a worthy weekend event.
Or so one might think. But not today. Nope, it was November 13th and it was a perfect day to put up Christmas lights. Yup. Cold enough to let you know it was soon to be winter, warm enough that there wasn't any ice and sunny enough to see what we were doing.
In an effort to avoid a "|Grizwaldian episode" each year the Christmas lights are carefully put away - rolled not tangled, with hangers and such. We hauled out the totes, and started to unpack. Hmmm the initial review of the situation. Plug in end identified - check. Ladders hauled out and at the ready - check. Power drill - got it. Extension cord - yup. Zap straps - tons and in assorted lengths. We were ready!
As the sun dipped below horizon and the last v of geese flew overhead, after the last shout of encouragement from the neighbors "DON'T FALL OFF THAT LADDER" drifted off with the the chill wind - we were done. There's that special moment when you stand with yor mate in the street in front of your home, admiring the twinkle of lights - it's the official launch of that most blessed of holidays. As we stood arms around each other, I was quietly taking it in, and counting our blessings. A warm safe home, a loving family, a wonderful spouse, a great country - what more could there be?
"So honey," came the words "Whatcha making for supper?"
Ahhh yes, sleeping in, long lazy breakfasts over tea and the newspaper, perhaps a crossword. Bliss. The forecast - sunny, cool and windy, perfecto for a weekend of pajamas, naps, and catching up on a few chores - at my pace.
But what ho??? Indolence Interruptus!!! Alas and alack my best laid plans were not to be - so Saturday was a work event for the Hubster. We are off in the trusty Kia headed north to a farm trade show. An Ag show - lots of tractors, belt buckles, and green and yellow toys. Uhhhhh okay. A hat over the mop, run a quick brush thru the teeth and off we go. 5 hours on the road, 4 hours of tromping the trade show displays and a belly full of KFC and we are home! Housework?? Harrumph so I got a sinkfull of breakfast dishes washed and a load of laundry done - that counts right?
Well there's always my beloved Sunday - often reknowned for white tornado like cleaning, a frenzy of vacumming, swiffer blazing, dust bunnies cowering in fear! Up and attem - hmmm I need a shower, but say wha? "Hey" my beloved offers over his famous oatmeal "we need a break, why don't you whip up some sandwiches, throw in the thermos and we'll go for a drive!! See the sites, look for coyotes and elks..." Initial enthusiasm quickly cooled as I got into the "sandwich making" mode. Now it's a known fact that I'm a sucker for a compliment and when my true love batts his baby blues and says "but you know sandwiches always taste better when you make them" my resolve to be a non-productive housewife crumbles. So, armed with my trusty "bad hair hiding" ball cap, a bag o sandwiches and the Stanley full o coffee, off we go.
It was a nice drive. The sun was shining, a couple of deer and one daft raven, and we came home. And of course, what is better on a Sunday when you are now fully in "unproductive" mode, after weeks of grueling office work than... that's right - a NAP!
A nap is one of the great gifts of the working class on a weekend. Turn the phone off, the furnace down, get undressed (it's a proper nap, no snooze in the chair event) and climb under the covers - lulled to sleep by the purring of the cat, and the even breathing of my hubby. In terms of behaviors, naps are, in my humble opinion, a worthy weekend event.
Or so one might think. But not today. Nope, it was November 13th and it was a perfect day to put up Christmas lights. Yup. Cold enough to let you know it was soon to be winter, warm enough that there wasn't any ice and sunny enough to see what we were doing.
In an effort to avoid a "|Grizwaldian episode" each year the Christmas lights are carefully put away - rolled not tangled, with hangers and such. We hauled out the totes, and started to unpack. Hmmm the initial review of the situation. Plug in end identified - check. Ladders hauled out and at the ready - check. Power drill - got it. Extension cord - yup. Zap straps - tons and in assorted lengths. We were ready!
As the sun dipped below horizon and the last v of geese flew overhead, after the last shout of encouragement from the neighbors "DON'T FALL OFF THAT LADDER" drifted off with the the chill wind - we were done. There's that special moment when you stand with yor mate in the street in front of your home, admiring the twinkle of lights - it's the official launch of that most blessed of holidays. As we stood arms around each other, I was quietly taking it in, and counting our blessings. A warm safe home, a loving family, a wonderful spouse, a great country - what more could there be?
"So honey," came the words "Whatcha making for supper?"
Thursday, 10 November 2011
Budging the Budget - It kicked my Butt!
Sometimes people forget I'm not an accountant. I hate budgets, budgetting, but by no coincidence also am annoyed by budgies.
This past month was a butt kicker - but tonight at the office, alone with my headache, a tiny bag o hallowe'en left over m&m's, and Led Zep blasting on my computer - I did it! I whipped that budget into shape for another year! Another three years actually - and am pleased.
Pleased that I didn't throw my stapler through the screen. Pleased that I suppressed the urge to take my computer to the top of a tall building and in a single strained throw, send it spiraling down to oblivion. And pleased that I didn't try to shred my mouse pad in frustration not once but thrice.
So tonight I celebrate! Break open the finest beer in the house, pop the fatted corn and enjoy yay endulge in my new sin - blogging.
Okay maybe I'm just a little sad that I can't fire up the bike, ride under the full moon in celebratory abandon - but hey, its November. This still is Canada eh! brrrrr.
So if I look a little too relaxed, perhaps nearly giddy, blame it on the budget. It may not be approved, but it's done - any thing else can be done another day!
This past month was a butt kicker - but tonight at the office, alone with my headache, a tiny bag o hallowe'en left over m&m's, and Led Zep blasting on my computer - I did it! I whipped that budget into shape for another year! Another three years actually - and am pleased.
Pleased that I didn't throw my stapler through the screen. Pleased that I suppressed the urge to take my computer to the top of a tall building and in a single strained throw, send it spiraling down to oblivion. And pleased that I didn't try to shred my mouse pad in frustration not once but thrice.
So tonight I celebrate! Break open the finest beer in the house, pop the fatted corn and enjoy yay endulge in my new sin - blogging.
Okay maybe I'm just a little sad that I can't fire up the bike, ride under the full moon in celebratory abandon - but hey, its November. This still is Canada eh! brrrrr.
So if I look a little too relaxed, perhaps nearly giddy, blame it on the budget. It may not be approved, but it's done - any thing else can be done another day!
Sunday, 6 November 2011
How to charge a battery on a new Sportster (yeah right)
Today feels like winter - brrrrr -18C this morning and although we 'fell back' one hour to dayliight savings time, I needed more than just an extra hour under the quilt! But I digress. This afternoon my man and I figured it was time to attend to the batteries on our trusty HD's.
Having been sans ride for 8 years, I was sure that well..how much can it change? It's a bike. Simple design, two wheels, one seat, a headlight, a set of handlebars - check. All the things my first bike from the mid 70's had and several in between.
So out with the manual (having learned the RTFI basics years ago) and off with the seat. Hmmm A lot of black. No sign of a battery post. Hmmmm a head scratcher. No sign of a battery. Hmmmm this is a bit o a quandry. Check the manual "remove the left side cover" more scratching... check the manual....
Having determined which is the left side - and finding some handy nearby garden gloves because now my fingers were frozen, I pried my semi-frozen fingers under the cover. I felt the near snap of fingernails and eased off the pressure - scratch, scratch, scratch - now how come I feel like a dumb weak old woman? How hard can this be! I heard my husband removing his seat, having his own struggles with his bike....
Each time I paused and asked myself that question I'd flash back to my younger years, like a couple of dozen years younger, when I had a nice simple shovelhead to tinker with. No problem, get a rubber mallet, a crescent wrench (or as I used to call it a mennonite socket set) and a big flathead screwdriver and a 9/16th socket - you could completely remove a motor and disassemble the rest of any old Harley. In the old days the manual was a handy beer coaster - or a spot to keep nuts, washers and bolts. And your beer.
Apparently as Bob sings, the times they're a changing, and now nothing looks familiar! I'm like a tourist driving in a foreign country - what looks like I've maybe seen before I second guess! There is no carb, no points and heaven knows what those grey plastic encased things are. Suddenly the fog clears - aha! That is a wiring harness - and my little warning cells in the brain say "don't touch - expensive." I notice hubby connecting the trickle charger to his bike. Dammit I can do this!
I need some light. Remembering the trouble light I'd bought my man a few years back, I located this low tech beauty and voila! illumination! Ok, I think, now things are going smoothly. Re-consult the book - must remove left cover. A pry, a grunt, and urge to use a rubber mallet crosses my mind then a dull click and the cover is loose. Good, good, nothing broken.
Get book. Remove seat - check. Remove left side cover - check. And there is the slickly encased red of a positive post. Aha!! There be battery here captain! I am on track. I remember the golden rule of battery removal - always disconnect the negative post before the positive post or things could go bad. In fact upon consulting the manual again, I find the next few pages of my manual had nothing but little warnings "could result in serious injury or death" type warnings in bold letters. Check - serious injury was to be avoided at all costs.
Now to disconnect the negative post - but alas, no such thing to be seen! Using the low tech trouble light I peered into the bowels of the creature to locate it hidden under the wiring harness and behind something solid and unyeilding. Difficult - yes. Impossible - not totally, but definately tough to get at. Wait - what about the ground wire? Check book.
Egad. Get out the white flag boys - things aren't looking good. The book says to use a long thin multi-jointed socket to wiggle behind the starter (where the hell is that!!!) to remove the bolt the ground it hooked to. It was at this point I imagined all the mini mechanics that were cheering me on (in my mind) turning and fleeing the scene like rats abandoning ship. Should I actually locate that damn ground, and through some multi-jointed fluke of luck get it off - how in the h-e-double hockey sticks would I ever get it back on again come spring!!!
Defeat is such a loser of a word. As I held my now frozen fingers over the trouble light, I knew things would not end well if I applied old world technology (read hammer) on new world mechanics (read sportster) Humbling? For someone who's ridden since she was 16? Who has completed two endurance events involving 3 countries in 4 days on a bike? Who has travelled coast to coast and through nearly 60% of the US of A? Who has jury rigged a broken motor mount with two flattened beer cans and baling wire?!! You want to beleive it's humbling!
After 8 years of wishing I had a bike again, for just a glimmer of a second I felt like it was all a mistake. "Too old" came whooshing through my mind. But wait! As my fingers regained a semblance of feeling I remembered: I may be old, but I got a truck! And money to pay some GENUINE CERTIFIED HARLEY MECHANICS to deal with this damn battery issue.
Or, once I warm up and a chinook blows in, I'll try again. And now to put those flannel sheets on the bed!
Having been sans ride for 8 years, I was sure that well..how much can it change? It's a bike. Simple design, two wheels, one seat, a headlight, a set of handlebars - check. All the things my first bike from the mid 70's had and several in between.
So out with the manual (having learned the RTFI basics years ago) and off with the seat. Hmmm A lot of black. No sign of a battery post. Hmmmm a head scratcher. No sign of a battery. Hmmmm this is a bit o a quandry. Check the manual "remove the left side cover" more scratching... check the manual....
Having determined which is the left side - and finding some handy nearby garden gloves because now my fingers were frozen, I pried my semi-frozen fingers under the cover. I felt the near snap of fingernails and eased off the pressure - scratch, scratch, scratch - now how come I feel like a dumb weak old woman? How hard can this be! I heard my husband removing his seat, having his own struggles with his bike....
Each time I paused and asked myself that question I'd flash back to my younger years, like a couple of dozen years younger, when I had a nice simple shovelhead to tinker with. No problem, get a rubber mallet, a crescent wrench (or as I used to call it a mennonite socket set) and a big flathead screwdriver and a 9/16th socket - you could completely remove a motor and disassemble the rest of any old Harley. In the old days the manual was a handy beer coaster - or a spot to keep nuts, washers and bolts. And your beer.
Apparently as Bob sings, the times they're a changing, and now nothing looks familiar! I'm like a tourist driving in a foreign country - what looks like I've maybe seen before I second guess! There is no carb, no points and heaven knows what those grey plastic encased things are. Suddenly the fog clears - aha! That is a wiring harness - and my little warning cells in the brain say "don't touch - expensive." I notice hubby connecting the trickle charger to his bike. Dammit I can do this!
I need some light. Remembering the trouble light I'd bought my man a few years back, I located this low tech beauty and voila! illumination! Ok, I think, now things are going smoothly. Re-consult the book - must remove left cover. A pry, a grunt, and urge to use a rubber mallet crosses my mind then a dull click and the cover is loose. Good, good, nothing broken.
Get book. Remove seat - check. Remove left side cover - check. And there is the slickly encased red of a positive post. Aha!! There be battery here captain! I am on track. I remember the golden rule of battery removal - always disconnect the negative post before the positive post or things could go bad. In fact upon consulting the manual again, I find the next few pages of my manual had nothing but little warnings "could result in serious injury or death" type warnings in bold letters. Check - serious injury was to be avoided at all costs.
Now to disconnect the negative post - but alas, no such thing to be seen! Using the low tech trouble light I peered into the bowels of the creature to locate it hidden under the wiring harness and behind something solid and unyeilding. Difficult - yes. Impossible - not totally, but definately tough to get at. Wait - what about the ground wire? Check book.
Egad. Get out the white flag boys - things aren't looking good. The book says to use a long thin multi-jointed socket to wiggle behind the starter (where the hell is that!!!) to remove the bolt the ground it hooked to. It was at this point I imagined all the mini mechanics that were cheering me on (in my mind) turning and fleeing the scene like rats abandoning ship. Should I actually locate that damn ground, and through some multi-jointed fluke of luck get it off - how in the h-e-double hockey sticks would I ever get it back on again come spring!!!
Defeat is such a loser of a word. As I held my now frozen fingers over the trouble light, I knew things would not end well if I applied old world technology (read hammer) on new world mechanics (read sportster) Humbling? For someone who's ridden since she was 16? Who has completed two endurance events involving 3 countries in 4 days on a bike? Who has travelled coast to coast and through nearly 60% of the US of A? Who has jury rigged a broken motor mount with two flattened beer cans and baling wire?!! You want to beleive it's humbling!
After 8 years of wishing I had a bike again, for just a glimmer of a second I felt like it was all a mistake. "Too old" came whooshing through my mind. But wait! As my fingers regained a semblance of feeling I remembered: I may be old, but I got a truck! And money to pay some GENUINE CERTIFIED HARLEY MECHANICS to deal with this damn battery issue.
Or, once I warm up and a chinook blows in, I'll try again. And now to put those flannel sheets on the bed!
Saturday, 5 November 2011
Random Ramblings - "I love my bikes"
I know, you are fascinated and ask yourself, how can this career woman/wife/grandmother/birdwatching miracle worker be (gasp!) a biker!
Well it was all summed up for me a couple of years ago when a female co worker said "oh so you like motorbikes, but you don't mean one of those leather wearing, tattoo, loud black bike type bikers?" to which I smiled and said "yup, I'm one of those".
The only challenge this really leaves me with is - what do I share and what do I keep locked up. Whose names do I use or do I change the names to protect those who claim to be innocent? So much to decide, so much to ponder upon.
All I know is this: I have either been dating guys with bikes, riding on the back of bikes, sneaking around with guys who have bikes, or riding my own bike - with or without guys. I have loved, laughed, been silly beyond words, scared stiff, or faced my mortality on a bike. Its been a part of who I have been and who I am now. So - watch this space for more.
Well it was all summed up for me a couple of years ago when a female co worker said "oh so you like motorbikes, but you don't mean one of those leather wearing, tattoo, loud black bike type bikers?" to which I smiled and said "yup, I'm one of those".
The only challenge this really leaves me with is - what do I share and what do I keep locked up. Whose names do I use or do I change the names to protect those who claim to be innocent? So much to decide, so much to ponder upon.
All I know is this: I have either been dating guys with bikes, riding on the back of bikes, sneaking around with guys who have bikes, or riding my own bike - with or without guys. I have loved, laughed, been silly beyond words, scared stiff, or faced my mortality on a bike. Its been a part of who I have been and who I am now. So - watch this space for more.
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