Monday, February 25, 2019

Help! I've locked the car and my wife is inside.


One cold February day my husband picked me up for lunch and we drove down the street to Woody's for a hamburger. As soon as he shut the door on his pickup, he knew he had locked the keys inside. In the old days one would have asked around for a coat hanger or flyswatter handle to bend into a hook, force past the top of the window and fish for the knob on the lock post. We called the locksmith who said his helper could be there in fifteen minutes.

We ordered our food. Before we were done eating, the assistant came in the restaurant with Ed's keys and pointed out the obvious. The pickup was unlocked. However, he had a problem. The bar he used to slide past the window and jimmy the lock mechanism inside the door was stuck in the passenger side door. He told us to go ahead and finish eating while he tried to get it loose.

When we went outside a few minutes later he was still wrestling with the tool. It was only 10 degrees Fahrenheit and I worried about whether I was going to have to walk nearly a mile back to work. Since the pickup was actually unlocked, I got in, started the engine and fired up the heater. It was beginning to be nice and toasty inside while Ed and the locksmith both put their minds and their muscle to loosening the slimjim.

Allow me to paint the scene for you:  A woman is sitting inside a running vehicle. Two men appear to be trying to force the door open on her side.

About that time another customer exits the restaurant. Did I mention that we are parked right in front of the entrance?  The new actor in the scene might be 19 or 20 years old. The first thing he notices are the two men fighting with the slimjim. There are more than enough hands doing that work and he doesn't ask if they need help. Then his gaze slides past them to me sitting in the passenger seat. At that point he stops and looks back and forth from me to them, then from them to me. It is obvious he is wondering why the woman in the cab doesn't just open the door from the inside. I grinned at him. A big, vacant grin that left him wondering if that woman went off her meds very often.

By the time he was out of sight the slimjim finally came loose from whatever it had snagged and I didn't have to get out of the warm cab and walk back to work.

Monday, February 18, 2019

The Difference Between Men and Women

At one time my workplace employed a human resources manager who had the idea he could whip the one hundred or so employees into lean, fit, non-smoking examples of health and well-being.  He devised weight-loss competitions, endurance training and organized a softball team. The encouragement to participate was sweetened with prizes for winning teams. Non-participants were penalized. The only employees excused from joining the annual competition were those whose job provided sufficient physical exercise in the form of brisk walking or lifting and toting.

Interestingly enough, one of the approved activities consisted of reading up on health issues of your choice. No physical exertion involved.

I don't like organized sports. I kept a log of the routine I did at home on my rowing machine, elliptical, and cable weights.

Eventually, the HR manager moved on to another job, and his position was filled by a woman who threw out all his ideas for molding the perfect body. A mandatory annual mini-physical courtesy of the company replaced the competitions. Employees with a recent physical from their doctor were excused.

I haven't been to the doctor since my youngest was born 35 years ago.  So, at the appointed time I showed up to get weighed, measured, and poked. I tried to time it so that I could be first and get to my job at a different location. A lot of company truck drivers had the same idea, and I stood in line and watched them step on a bathroom scale, the first test in the physical.

This wasn't just any scale. In fact, the word scale didn't appear on the box. It was a weight loss monitor. It said so on the box which was hiding under a table with other containers in which the technicians had carried their equipment. I asked the husky man standing in front of me why it wasn't called a weight gain monitor. He cheerfully agreed it would be in his case. The first volunteer confidently stepped on the "monitor." I noticed he was wearing steel-toed work boots and a bulky winter coat. After noting his weight, the technician proceeded to measure his waist using a flexible tape measure. He did not remove his coat, and I couldn't help asking why he left it on. He laughed and said that next year he'd get measured without the coat and it would appear his health had drastically improved.   O-kay.

I watched six more guys get weighed and measured before moving on to other technicians who took their blood pressure and tested their blood sugar and cholesterol. Of those six only one removed his coat. But that fellow allowed himself be weighed with at least five pounds of tools hanging on his belt.

My turn rolled around, and I shucked out of my lightweight coat, considered and discarded the idea of taking off my shoes, and dropped my handbag. I sucked in my waist to get measured, but it didn't matter.  The technician left a good two inches of slack in the tape measure. In my opinion, the numbers skewed the BMI (body mass index) which compares height to weight and indicates possible health risks.

The experience left me wondering if those men simply didn't give a damn what they weighed or if they had a bad attitude toward the required physical and could care less about the results. Regardless, I saw a bunch of male employees do something a woman would NEVER do. Women do care what they weigh and would never deliberately add on pounds of accessories or get their waist measured without being down to bare skin, standing up straight, chest out and stomach sucked in.



Monday, February 11, 2019

Sugar Cookies


At my grade school, room mothers were assigned at the beginning of each year. A room mother was just the mom of one of the kids in the class. Generally, they were in charge of class parties. The unwary were tricked into driving their car with two or three children as passengers for the infrequent outings. 

When I was in the first grade my mom was initiated into that secret society when the other mom's managed to get all the ornery boys in her car. She still talks about having Ricky McKensie, the PK, preacher's kid, in her car.  I don't remember what he did to give her nightmares, but I clearly recall him slapping me once when I beat him at checkers during recess. It must have been bad weather that day because we usually played outside during recess. 

When my brother was in the third grade, mom and her best friend Valerie, were assigned the Valentine's Day party for his classroom of 3rd and 4th graders. That meant they had to bring the refreshments and think of a quiet game for the kids to play.  Actually, Valentine's and Christmas was sort of a free ride in the entertainment department because much of the party was spent exchanging Valentine's cards or modest gifts, respectively. 

A couple of days before the party we went to Valerie's house and played with her kids while she and my mom made sugar cookies. They made a huge batch of dough so there would be enough cookies for all the kids. However, they weren't satisfied with the way the dough turned out.

I don't know what was wrong with it. It was too dry and wouldn't roll out, or it was too sticky and they couldn't get it off the counter. From helping Mom cook as a ten-year-old, I sorta, kinda knew about stuff like that. I couldn't see anything wrong with it, but they threw it out. Being thrifty wives, they didn't just toss it in the garbage. They gave it to us kids to eat. Since there are hardly any ingredients in sugar cookies besides butter, sugar and flour it was safe to eat raw.

We got four spoons and proceeded to chow down on the dough while the moms made another party-sized batch. The four of us kids couldn't possibly have eaten all that dough, but I remember consuming more than my fair share.

The incident gave me a lifelong aversion to sugar cookies.

Tuesday, February 5, 2019

Stained Glass Windows

Stained glass makes me think of artisans crafting a story with pictures. A friend went to England where he toured historic churches, coming home with hundreds of images he had taken of the stained glass windows. The purpose, according to his guide, was to bring Bible stories to life for the illiterate masses while also allowing light into a building constructed of massive stone walls.

An ingenious cook has translated that concept of color and light into an edible delicacy. I thought it would be a fun project to make with my granddaughter. These attractive, easy-to-make cookies are nice for holiday buffets.

Some families have eccentric relatives who are well-known for eating all the chips and marshmallows before they can be used in a recipe. Therefore, my granddaughter and I devised a "marshmallow" trap out of two paper plates, some staples, and a plastic fork.





In the meantime, here are the ingredients and steps to make the recipe:
  
12-ounce package of real semi-sweet chocolate chips    
 10-ounce package of colored mini-marshmallows
For added contrast substitute part of the colored marshmallows with white ones. (optional)
1/2 cup shredded coconut 
1 stick butter
1/4 cup finely chopped walnuts  (optional)


             

Place 1 stick of butter in a microwavable bowl. Empty the chocolate chips into the bowl.



Microwave until the butter is melted.  Watch closely and heat a few seconds at a time.  DO NOT heat until the chocolate chips are melted.


Remove from the microwave and stir until the mixture is smooth. If desired, add the chopped walnuts now. Omitting the nuts results in a smooth mixture. Using them adds another layer of texture to the finished cookie. Cool at room temperature until the chocolate/butter mixture will not melt the marshmallows. If the mixture cools too long, it will stiffen like fudge. Pour the bag of marshmallows into the chocolate and stir with a silicone spatula until the marshmallows are thoroughly coated. 



The marshmallow bandit has not been sighted, so my granddaughter adds more bait to the trap.




Pour out onto two 18" pieces of waxed paper.  Coat hands with a bit of butter and shaped into a 12" log. Sprinkle half the coconut on each roll. Turn the mixture over and sprinkle the remaining coconut underneath the log.



Roll up tightly in the waxed paper.


Then wrap securely in aluminum foil.  Place in refrigerator or freezer for at least two hours before slicing.





We had nearly given up on bagging the bandit when he appeared without warning.


 Uh-oh! He tripped the snare.


                     Gotcha!!


After the cookie log has thoroughly chilled, unwrap and cut half an inch off both ends and eat. There will not be a stained glass appearance to that portion. Use a thin sharp knife to slice off 1/2" pieces and see the stained glass effect.




This makes 2 or 3 dozen cookies depending upon how thick you cut them.


We cut one of the logs and took the plate across the street to share with the neighbor kids. A few cookies did not make it onto the plate since we had to sample them for quality and let little brother taste them. If a two-year-old could vote, he would have advocated sitting down and eating them until they were gone. The remaining log stayed in the freezer waiting for another cookie eating occasion. Unless Daddy finds it first.

My granddaughter enjoyed this project. It taught following directions, kitchen safety, fine motor skills, patience, imagination, and generosity. Grandpa was a good sport and played the bandit to the hilt.


Monday, February 4, 2019

Go-Cart

Everyone knows I was a tomboy. If I couldn't do things better than the boys, at least I tried to be as good. When I heard that our friends had a go-cart, I REALLY wanted to get a turn driving it. I had never driven anything at all, but what difference did that make? Dad's friend Jim had constructed a round track next to his driveway and had gone to the trouble of banking the edges of the curves. Before he would let his sons drive the cart, he had driven it himself and proved that the ridge of dirt would stop the cart if it left the track.

There was no roll cage on the go-cart. It was long and sat practically on the ground, had a right pedal for the gas and a left pedal for the brake. I believe it had a lawn mower engine to power it. And naturally, a small steering wheel. I don't remember if there was a seat belt. I doubt it.

Jim called my Dad one Saturday afternoon to invite him and my brother to try it out. I jumped in the pickup with them before Mom could make me stay home and practice my piano lesson.

I watched enviously while everyone had a turn. This was after Jim had demonstrated it and assured Dad that it was quite safe. I can't remember Dad actually driving it but the boys all had a turn. It was best driven in a clockwise direction and there were no incidents.

I could hardly believe my good fortune when either Jim or Dad asked if I wanted to try it. I was so excited. Now this go-cart can't have been as large as I remember it being, because when they put me in the seat and showed me which pedal made it go and which one made it stop, I could easily reach them. I wasn't any taller then than I am now. The main warning they gave me was to be gentle with the steering wheel since those little tires way out at the front would make it turn a lot further than expected and it could fishtail.

Well, I went half way around the track with no trouble at all. Then, sure enough, I gave it too much gas or over steered and it did a 180 right in the middle of the track. It seemed to like going the other direction just as well so I didn't stop. I went right past all the guys and things were going fine. Jim was elbowing my dad in the ribs telling him that it wouldn't go counter-clockwise around the next curve and to watch what was about to happen.

By then it was time to turn a little to the left to stay in the middle of the track and it didn't want to go left. Instead it kept going straight. Straight over the edge of the track and the bank of dirt. Now I did have the presence of mind to put my foot, my left foot, on the brake when the go-cart jumped that bank, but, I forgot to take my right foot off the gas pedal. The accelerator worked much better than the brake.

Hardly slowing down at all, the cart and I sped south across the lawn, jumped the ditch, crossed the county road and came to a sudden stop against a utility pole (we called them telephone poles then) next to the local mechanic shop. Jim and Dad couldn't quite catch me, but they were snatching me out of the seat a split second later. Obviously, I was unharmed. The go-cart was a little dented up. Dad stuffed my brother and I in the pickup and returned home. I was mortified and it seems like Dad and my brother told mom we had fun until I was allowed to drive.

About an hour later the go-cart family drove out to the farm to rehash the event. They had taken a yardstick to the crash site and determined that my head had missed the bumper of a parked pickup by a matter of inches. They also speculated that the reason the bank of dirt didn't stop the cart when under my control was that I was so much lighter than the rest of them. The boys never got to drive it again. It disappeared the same day.