The Pyrenees---Southern France

The Pyrenees---Southern France

Saturday, September 10, 2011

I Knead More Dough

        Reading Linda O'Connell's post--which was written because we really needed a momentary break from crying ten years ago--prompted me to recall my past dealings with dough. 

      I have so many encounters with bread and rolls and monkey bread and Cinnabons and breadsticks and biscuits, I have started taking my "rolls" with me.

      My name is Sioux, and I am a bread-aholic.

      These days, I try to stay away from white flour. Quinoa pasta and whole grain macaroni fill my cupboards now.

       But a few years ago, my sister and I went to visit a cousin, who baked yeast rolls for us one evening. The plan was for Orvilene (the cousin) to show us how to make them the next day, and give us some "starter" to take home.

       Well, those rolls were out-of-this-world. I can (still) conjure enough drool over them to write an ode about them. They were so delectable, no butter was needed (and definitely no margarine--margarine wasn't good enough for those bits of bread-heaven!).

photo by Shutterfool

       After eating them for dinner that first night, my sister lay in bed before falling asleep and talked. Not about our conversation we had with Orvilene and her husband, nor about the little trip we took that day did we chat. Instead, we talked about those rolls.

      You see, those rolls were bubbling in our stomachs. Whatever powerful yeasty action made those rolls rise up, they were working their magic in our tummies. And although we were complaining about the heartburn, we were trying to calculate how many rolls we could eat tomorrow and still avoid feeling uncomfortable again. 

"I think I had four rolls. I wonder if I just had two or three tomorrow?"

"Oh my!  I've never even had heartburn. This is horrible. I wonder if I only ate a couple?"

     Thankfully, we had something else to worry about the next day besides heartburn. We had tromped around some sites that were historic to our family and ended up with chiggers (my first time for those, as well). And also thankfully, although we brought home some starter, the rolls never even got close to Orvilene's.  (If I had been successful, I would now weigh 642 pounds, and my "rolls" would be even bigger than they are now.)

      As you think about where you were 10 years ago tomorrow morning, and you need a reason to smile, read Linda's post. As is always the case with her writing, you won't be disappointed...


Sunday, September 4, 2011

What $60 Will NOT Get You

photo by extrawack

        My son moved out on his own this summer. He's living 6 hours away, having found a very cool apartment in a very funky building, which is in the middle of a neighborhood full of character and one of the main "characters" is now my boy. 

        He was fortunate enough to graduate from college and actually snag a job in his field (music therapy). In fact, he admitted he almost feels guilty taking a paycheck,  his work is so enjoyable. Not only does he have fun every day, he gets to wear gym shorts to work sometimes. From my son's perspective, clothing--or a lack of it--is crucial to happiness. He was the kid who refused to apply to be a dorm's RA--Resident Advisor--for two years because if he did that job, he'd have to wear a shirt. Going shirtless and shoeless, no matter what the season, is his normal state.

       Okay, he's a musician, so I get his quirkiness. He's also his father's son, and all my son's weird traits came from the paternal pool of DNA.  Except for the good quirks. Those ones came from me.

      Once the boy moved out, my husband and I had a sudden swell of wealth. We had so much extra money at the end of each month, we recently bought a couple of new vehicles. My husband got a large Lexus truck with a Jack in the  Box taco bar in the truckbed. I got a Jag with a neverending chocolate fountain flowing in the back. Where did we get all of this extra moolah?  Did I start pole-dancing, and get a fortune thrown at me every night as the audience begs me to "Stop!  For the love of man, please stop!" ? Did I sell my fat rolls to some oil speculators? 

Nope. All that happened was the boy moving out. And the fortune we're saving is because our grocery bill is 3% of what it used to be.

When he was in high school, the boy and his posse would swoop down on CiCi's Pizza.  For a incredibly small amount (under $5?) he could eat all the pizza he wanted. The group of hairy teenagers would have a leisurely lunch or dinner, each one filling up their hollow legs. When he went away to college, he enjoyed the heaped-high trays of dorm food, and will only go to Pasta House on Monday nights, because those are all-you-can-eat evenings.

Once he moved out from under the sheltering umbrella of mom and dad, he went on his first official now-I'm-on-my-own shopping trip. To be completely honest, he had lived in dorm apartments for two years, and had done grocery shopping then, but it was mainly for snacks and "extras" since he relied mainly on the cafeteria food.  So he was a bit naive...

When I went for a visit to see his new place, he admitted, "I went grocery shopping, and thought $60 would get me food for a month."

I laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

After my tears stopped and our talk continued, he said, "I bet you and dad are saving lots of money since I moved out."

And indeed we are...

It has been a while since I welcomed new followers. I apologize. I'm so glad that occasionally someone will log on as a follower, even if they're pity followers.

Welcome to Marinela Reka, Vanilla Mama, Windowlad, indiwriter, haiku love songs, and Beth M. Wood.   (As an aside, Beth is funny, but you would not like her if you met her in person. She is not spring-chicken young, but she's got a tall, thin pretty, you can't help but dislike her. But read her posts nonetheless. She can't help the way she looks.)