Stacked

I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again: Mom was a terrific cook.

But that is only incidental to this story . . .

Sunday dinner in the Stringam household usually consisted of some form of baked or roasted, uber tender beef and/or turkey and/or chicken and/or ham.

Creamy mashed potatoes.

Salad (green and/or jellied), cooked vegetables.

And thick, delicious gravy.

Okay, yes, there were variables on the theme.

But most of the time, this is what we looked forward to.

There were numerous ways of eating said delicious-ness.

Some of us had little, individual countries of food. Separated by the no-man’s land of bare plate. (I know that is how Husby insisted his food be served when he was very young. Till his father pointed out that all the food ends up in the same place anyway. Hmmm . . .)

Some didn’t care how the food was put on the plate.

As long as it was there.

And in large quantities.

I had my method, which rather morphed as time went by.

First of all, it was mashed potatoes in a mountain, hollowed out at the top to receive a lake of gravy.

And yes, it was so I could get—and maintain—more of the rich, brown yummy-ness.

Other things, veggies, meat, were crowded closely and if they got gravy on them, well and good.

Emphasis on good.

Except for the salad (green or otherwise), which was kept away from the others and eaten quickly (and first) to avoid any chance of gravy splash-age.

Say what you will. The food was amazing.

And gone.

As years passed, I discovered a new and better way of gormandizing.

Layers.

Potatoes topped by veggies topped by chunks of meat topped by a fountain of gravy.

Eaten all together.

Mmmm . . .

Married, with small kids, I went back to things flotched on the plate and eaten quickly (and usually cold) as I tried to get food into my littles.

I have found that this method has remained even though my littles are far from little.

Husby always has and still does calmly arrange his food. Season and butter to taste. Enjoy every mouthful. And finish long after me.

Now, my point in telling you this is:

During our last family supper, we had salads, roast beef, vegetables and gravy.

Most of my kids simply took.

And ate.

#3 son put down a foundation of mashed potatoes. Covered it well with vegetables and chunks of meat.

And smothered the whole mountain in gravy.

Yep. He’s mine.

The Clothes Down Under

It was a hot summer day.
The girl whose family owned the only swimming pool in the town was hosting an impromptu pool party with her friends.
One girl came without a swimsuit.
“No problem,” the hostess said, “I have a whole drawer full. Just find one you like!”
She then waved, vaguely, before turning back to her other guests.
The guest disappeared, returning a short time later dressed in a modest blue two-piece.
Tossing out greetings to the young men and women clustered around the pool, she sauntered around to where her hostess was sitting.
And struck a pose.
“What do you think?”
Her hostess looked up, then shrieked and jumped to her feet. “Where did you get that?!” she said.
The guest blinked and glanced around nervously.
All eyes were on her.
“F-from your drawer, like you said.”
“The top drawer?”
“Y-yes.”
“That's my underwear drawer!”
“Eeeeeeee!” the guest sprinted back into the house.
She had been covered.
In what could easily be mistaken for a swimsuit.
But just being told she was wearing underwear made her scramble madly for shelter.
I thought this story was hilarious.
Then, I saw it happen to my Mom.
Well . . . something similar, anyways . . .

Our family was getting ready for church.
My current boyfriend, coming to church with my family for the first time and dressed uncomfortably in a shirt and tie, was seated in the great room, waiting for the rest of us.
I was the next to be ready, so I sat beside him and started talking.
Something I did a lot.
A lot.
But I digress . . .
My mother scurried out of her bedroom and started puttering around in the kitchen, in plain sight of the two of us. She put a roast in the oven for dinner and then started tidying up from breakfast.
I kept talking.
But for some reason, my boyfirend woudn't look at me, but stared, instead, out the window.
I kept talking.
He kept staring fixedly (good word) at something outside.
Suddenly, my mother, still in the kitchen, said, “Oh, my! Look at me!”
I did.
As she was making a fast exit towards her bedroom.
At first I saw nothing wrong.
She was dressed in her usual fashion. Undershirt, bra, full slip.
Skirt. Stockings.
Oh. Wait. Something was missing.
Her blouse.
Suddenly my boyfriend's fixed gaze made sense.
He had noticed as soon as Mom had entered the room.
Huh. Funny that I didn't see it.
Okay, so observant, I'm not.
Mom went through the rest of the day rather pink-faced.
Which was funny.
She had been completely covered.
Modestly, even.
In at least three layers of cloth.
But because the material had been termed 'underwear', she was embarrassed.
As I would have been.
As anyone . . . you get the point.
Aren't we weird?

Chili Beans

It’s been a roller-coaster of a winter, weather-wise, here in Edmonton.

Okay, I know that, calendar-ally, we are only two weeks into it.

But in reality it’s been winter here since Halloween.

Temperatures rising and falling.

And rising and falling.

Yesterday, it was -3. (26.6 F)

Balmy for the first part of January.

This morning, it’s -23. (-9.4 F).

A teeth-chattering, crackling cold that penetrates everything.

Frosts your windows over.

And is (in the words of Gus Pike) 'cold enough to freeze your nose hairs stiff.'

Perfect for some short-lived, vigorous outdoor activities (emphasis of both ‘short-lived’ and ‘vigorous’).

Or for staying indoors beside a snapping fire with a cup of rich hot-chocolate in one hand and a good book in the other.

We Tolleys have a term to describe this type of weather.

And therein hangs a tale.

If you would indulge me . . .

Husby and I had taken our (then) three boys in to Gramma’s house for the evening.

It was c-c-cold.

Each of us, had been padded and wadded with layer after layer of life-preserving warmth.

We had gotten to Gramma’s.

Unwrapped.

Enjoyed the warmth of a good dinner, good conversation and a couple of rousing games of ‘Probe’ (great game – Google it . . .).

It was time to head home.

Husby had gone out and started the car while I began the process of padding and wadding . . . again.

He came in to transport the first child.

He picked up the little fat-sausage shaped figure and opened the door.

A blast of cold air shot through the entryway.

“Oooh!” our son said, his voice slightly muffled, coming, as it was, through the thick scarf wound around his head. “It’s chili beans out here!”

And just like that, our family had its term for ‘very cold’.

So there you have it.

In Edmonton, our weather ranges from ‘Oh-my-word-it’s-hot-let’s-hide-in-the-basement’ through ‘gah-I’m-soaked-to-the-skin’ and ‘balmy-for-this-time-of-year’ all the way down to ‘chili-beans’.

We call it the new weather.

Grab your parkas!

The Beginner

Another of Daddy’s favourite stories . . .

The rain poured down persistently,

For days he’d stared out wistfully.

A last, he stood with arms outspread,

“I’m bored,” he, to his mother, said.

She thought about it for a time,

(Impressed I say all this in rhyme?)

And then suggested to her son,

“If all your chores, indeed, are done,

The only thing I can suggest

For you, a hobby would be best.”

“A collection, maybe? Moths? Or stamps?

Now go – and to your room, encamp.”

The little boy gave it some thought,

Decided moths were what he sought.

Donned raingear, to the store betook,

To find himself a research book.

Then home amid the raindrops sped,

Threw coat, and landed on his bed.

He read for several hours there,

Then came to mom in clear despair.

“I’ve read that book from end to end,

But failure did the words portend.

For though I read so eagerly,

No single ‘moth’ word did I see!”

His mother frowned and asked to look,

Obediently, he fetched the book.

She turned it over, understood

Just why it did him little good.

‘Advice to the Beginning . . .’, true.

A wealth of facts from those who knew.

But the last word in the title there,

Had caused her fine, young son to err.

It stood out plain from all the others,

The last word there (you’ve guessed it) ‘Mothers’!

Advice to

Beginning Mothers

You can see where he went wrong.

Paradise Lost

I'm a maker-of-beds; a bed-maker, me.

I do it to make things as neat as can be.

My Husby’s a nest-er; glad burrower, he.

Rolled in the bedclothes, cocooned in debris.

I'm ready as soon as my feet hit the floor,

To straighten and tighten and tuck and restore.

While Husby, yes he of the im-press-ive snore

[Through his actions], explains just what bedding is for.

We don’t argue or fight – we’re above all of that,

We don’t even have what you might call ‘a spat’.

But with such different wishes, his – messy; mine – flat,

You’re wondering how we've avoided combat . . .

Well . . .

There’s something that you need to know about me,

I'm sneaky. Hereafter, I'm sure you’ll agree.

Through the night, he may bundle as tight as can be,

But, sooner or later, he’ll have to go [pee].

Forgive my crass blurting of natural acts,

But this is what happens. Yes. These are the facts.

As he nips to the ‘john’ to regroup and relax,

His spouse leaps from bed, morning ritual enacts.

Emerging, he sees, once again, he’s been bossed.

That his needed relief didn't come without cost.

He looks at the blankets, once comfy and tossed,

Heaves a soft, simple sigh for his Paradise Lost.