Small, Medium or Large

My youngest daughter and I were grocery shopping.

That in itself may seem unremarkable.

But, in the course of the conversation as we were wandering up and down aisles, she reminded me of something.

Allow me to share . . .

Our family is large. In a couple of ways.

Six kids, most of whom are over six feet in height.

When they were all still home, these large people ate large meals.

Back then, our supplies were, justifiably, bought in bulk.

It was a necessity if one didn’t want to shop for groceries every. Single. Day.

Which I didn’t.

Sooo . . . bulk.

To us, it was a normal way to live. Peanut butter, miracle whip, honey, pickles, salad dressings, oil, margarine and other foods by the pail. Ketchup in a bag. Soups in gallon containers. Large quantities were deposited in the cold storage according to directions. Then small containers were filled from larger containers and kept in the kitchen for easy access.

By the time the younger kids were helping with meal preparation, this had been the ongoing practice for as long as they’d been alive. Even the older kids had forgotten their ‘long-ago’ when food was purchased in normal-sized containers.

We walked past a tub of margarine. I looked at it. “Huh. Remember when we bought margarine in that size?”

My daughter laughed. “I remember when we bought it in the five-gallon pail and I had to take a smaller container and fill it from the big one!” She went on. “One of my first discoveries when I moved away from home was that food comes in smaller containers. I thought they were so cute and tiny. Little jars of peanut butter and miracle whip. I even had to bring one home to show you.”

“I remember.”

“My roommates thought I was crazy.”

“That goes without saying.” For that comment, I got ‘the look’.

“A person learns so many things when you leave home.”

It’s true.

Life comes in all shapes and sizes.

Small, medium, large. Extra large.

The trick is finding which you need.

Modern Day Archaeology

Looking for this?

In 1979, Husby and I moved to Winnipeg, Manitoba, so he could complete his Master’s degree in history.

It was an interesting, eye-opening experience for a girl who had never been off the ranch for more than a few days.

We were there for eight months.

It was as long as I could be away from my beloved Alberta prairies.

But moving back to Alberta necessitated some commuting back and forth as he completed his thesis.

These trips, a necessity for him, were pure holidays for me.

One, in particular, stands out . . .

We had packed up another couple, parked our kids with our respective mothers, and headed out.

It was a joyous, happy group that talked and laughed our way across Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba.

One evening, the four of us camped at Buffalo Pound Provincial Park, a historic buffalo hunting site just outside of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. (Yes, there really is a place called Moose Jaw.)  Years ago, native hunters used to drive herds of buffalo into the bogs in the area, dispatching them easily as they struggled in the mud.

Umm . . . ick.

Remember where I said that Husby’s thesis was in history?

Well, that would become important here . . .

 Because such sites are good places to find artifacts. Husby’s favourite pastime.

And what else would one want to do when holidaying?

Immediately after setting up camp, the two husbys set out, most notably looking for arrowheads.

We wives stayed at the campsite, visiting, preparing the evening meal and generally enjoying the outdoors and the fact that we weren’t sitting in a car.

About half-an-hour after they set out, our Husbys returned.

With broad grins denoting success.

“We found an arrowhead!” they announced.

“Really?” Okay, we wives were a little bit surprised. Pleased for them. But surprised.

“It really wasn’t that hard! We just looked around and there it was, lying right out in the open!”

“Well, let us see it! Let us see it!”

A hand was extended and there, in the palm, was indeed an arrowhead.

A real arrowhead.

Rubber. With a suction cup on one end.

Carbon dating is ongoing . . .

Up in the Air

Okay. It looks easy here...

Sometimes, walking softly and carrying a big stick isn’t all that effective.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Uncle Leif, then eight or nine years old, had been assigned to go to the field and retrieve Sorrel.

I should probably tell you that Sorrel was a flashy-looking, reddish-brown mare. A passably good cow horse except for a couple of glaring faults. Faults that involved teeth and hooves.

Sorrel liked her own company. And only her own company. When other horses came too near, she would bite or kick viciously.

Woe unto anyone trying to bring her in from the field. She would wait until the climactic moment, then let fly with both hind legs.

One had to be especially vigilant to avoid skin and/or bone-breakage.

With accompanying discomfort.

On this particular day, Leif, mounted on poor, long-suffering Shorty, tried for some time to manoeuvre/avoid.

It was a tricky task.

Finally, he grew tired of Sorrel’s ‘shenanigans’.

Clever out-foxing was indicated.

Returning to the farm, he found a fifteen-foot pole-vault pole (On a farm with eight brothers, such a thing was entirely too common). This ‘lance’ would allow him to herd the mare while staying happily out of reach of anything sharp or bite-y.

Thus armed, he returned to the field and his arch-nemesis.

Moving stealthily into position near the grazing mare, he grasped his weapon by the very end to allow for the greatest safety margin, raised the pole into the approved jousting/poking position . . .

And charged.

But before he could get close enough to contact his victim, said victim took to her heels.

Not one to be outdone by such an obvious manoeuvre, Leif, lance still raised, urged Shorty to increase his pace and follow.

Now all would have been well except for one thing. Leif was holding the pole by the very end.

Arm extended for greatest reach.

Control was fast becoming a problem.

Just as he was pulling the reins to stop his horse, the lance tip . . . dipped.

And poked into the ground.

Launching Leif spectacularly into the air. He landed some feet away.

On his back.

With a thud.

Fortunately, the only damage was the loss of air from tortured lungs.

After some minutes, he recovered both air and equilibrium.

But lost all inclination to complete his assigned task.

Sorrel, happily munching grass, watched him go.

Stupid/smart horse.

Getting Pinched

Five of the six siblings. Husby is the cutie on the far right.

Family travel in the late fifties was . . . interesting.

I don’t know how we survived it.

The kids were herded, en masse, into the back seat of the car and the door was shut.

The youngest invariably rode up front, between Mom and Dad.

No one was buckled in.

The kids rolled around in the back seat like dried peas.

Interaction between the two quadrants of the car was usually accomplished by someone in the back standing up and leaning comfortably over the front seat.

As a sop to safety, the driver often extended an arm sideways when braking.

Yep. Interesting.

Six-year-old Husby was traveling with his family.

Mom. Dad. Six kids.

Their sedan was hurtling over paved roads at speeds close to 60 MPH.

They passed a road sign.

Suggested speed – 60 MPH.

“Dad.” Husby was standing up, leaning over the seat. “What does that sign mean?”

His dad glanced at the sign. “That means we’re supposed to travel at sixty miles-per-hour,” he said. He pointed to the speedometer. “See?”

“Oh.”

Just then, another car sped past them, obviously going far faster than the ‘suggested’ speed.

“How come that guy is going faster?”

“Because he isn’t obeying the law.”

“Oh.”

Things were quiet for a moment. Well, as quiet as a car carrying eight people can be.

Then, “Dad. What happens if you go too fast?”

“The police will pinch you.”

“Oh.”

Husby thought about this for a long time. The police will ‘pinch’ you?

Obviously, it was something to be avoided and/or feared. Husby had been pinched before. It was momentarily painful, but not terribly so. The police must do something really different to make people afraid of being pinched.

Finally, “Dad? When the police pinch you, do they use pliers?”

A six-year-old mind hard at work . . .

Gary

Poor Gary Gnome was quite a sight,

His hair was never a delight,

In fact, most times it was a fright,

Could hair induce a fight? This might!

So Gary’s friends launched a crusade

By Gary’s hair, they weren’t dismayed,

And certainly, they weren’t afraid,

Cause soon they’d have his hair arrayed.

They bought supplies, shampoo and foam,

Some bobby pins, a brush and comb,

Some perfume in a bottle, chrome,

Then sat him in his chair. At home.

They went to work upon his mane,

Determined it’d not be the same,

Coiffeur-al glory they’d attain,

He’d thank them (when his anger waned).

But when they, first, the comb applied,

Collective eyes were opened wide,

What was it each of them had spied?

Why, Gary’s bald head hid inside.

His head was quite a nice one, true,

There was no fuss, not much ado,

Each to the same conclusion, flew:

Just think what he’ll save on shampoo!

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts.

Perhaps a grin?

So all of us, together, we

Have posted poems for you to see,

And now you’ve read what we have wrought . . .

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

Merry Mae

Next week, we'll have a little fun,
We'll talk of 'sports'. It's being done...

Influenza Nurse

Watching the headlines as the Corona Virus health scare spreads.

It's frightening.

I'm reminded of my paternal grandmother and her journal entries about the Great Pandemic of 1918.

I had a little bird,

Its name was Enza.

I opened the window,

And in-flu-enza.

-A children’s skipping rope chant from the 1918 flu epidemic

The influenza pandemic of 1918-1919 killed more people than the Great War, known today as World War I (WWI), at somewhere between 20 and 40 million people. It has been cited as the most devastating epidemic in recorded world history. More people died of influenza in a single year than in four years of the Black Death Bubonic Plague from 1347 to 1351. Known as "Spanish Flu" or "La Grippe" the influenza of 1918-1919 was a global disaster.

My Grandmother, Sarah Lovina Stringam was the nurse in the tiny town of Glenwood, Alberta. Called upon for everything from bruises and scrapes to severe frostbite, she became accepted as the hands and knowledge that made the difference between life and death.

Then came 1918. The Great and horrible war was finally winding down.

The Spanish Flu epidemic was just getting started . . . 

From her journals and in her own words, Grandma gives us quite a glimpse of her life at that time:

“I did quite a bit of nursing during the year of the flu epidemic, both for the family and for the neighbours.  It was frightening because there were so many deaths, especially women who were pregnant.

One of our hired men was the first to have it at our house. I kept him in his room and wouldn’t let him out until he was over it. My husband took it next and I kept him isolated from the rest of the family until he was well. He was just over it when Lono Brown, one of our friends, came to see if I would help him with his wife.

Lono’s first wife had died a few years before, leaving him with two small boys. He had married a young widow from Utah with two small girls. They had been married less than a year.

I told him, when he came for me, that I was still nursing a baby and would have to come home every four or five hours for that.

There was only one telephone in Glenwood, a toll office at the home of Edward Leavitt. He took me to the telephone and we talked to the doctor.

The doctor was getting only two to four hours sleep a day and just couldn’t keep up with all the calls. He told me what to do and said he could come as soon as he could.

For three days, I went to the Brown home and did what I could.

Every few hours I would go home and drop my clothing into a box in our wash house to fumigate them. Then I would change into clothing I kept in another box and go into my home to nurse the baby and see how the household was managing.

Eldest daughter, Emily was twelve at that time.

On the fourth day, Sister Brown, who was six months pregnant started with labour pains. By this time the doctor had come. He stayed for a while but it looked like it would be some time before the baby came and there were other people needing him so much so he decided he had better go.

Right after he went it looked as if things were going to happen so I asked Lono to go for a midwife, Sister Newby.

She came and delivered the baby, who was stillborn.

She said because she was a midwife she was not allowed to handle a dead body. She told me how to wash and prepare the baby for burial and when I had finished, she went home.

The next few hours were hard. I kept praying that her [Mrs. Brown’s] life would be spared because of the children and because she was so far away from her old home and her people but she kept getting weaker and weaker.

She died about six hours after the baby.

Sister Newby came back and told me what to do to prepare her for burial.

I did it and I was surprised that I was able to do it. It was a testimony to me that you can receive divine guidance in time of need if you ask for it.”

What a truly heartbreaking and terrifying experience. I admire my grandmother and others, like her, who simply ‘carried on’ and made all the difference in their world.

Thank you.

The Pain of the Brain

I’m famous.

Well, at least quoted.

Okay, not famous, but quoted once.

Maybe I should explain . . .

You know those pithy sayings that people spout?

Things like:

The pun is mightier than the word.

The road to success is always under construction.

All my life I've always wanted to be somebody. But I see now I should have been more specific.

When I was a boy I was often told that anybody could become president. I'm beginning to believe it.

I don't suffer from insanity. I enjoy every minute of it.

Attempt to get a new car for your spouse—it'll be a great trade.

I said "no" to drugs, but they just wouldn't listen.

Hypochondria is the only disease I haven't got.

Every day is a gift, that's why they call it the present.

Good judgment comes from experience and experience ... well, that comes from poor judgment.

Just because your doctor has a name for your condition doesn't mean he knows what it is.

There is always light at the end of the tunnel - if there isn't, it's not a tunnel ...

And

No pain, no gain.

It was this last that, in 1983, I changed to suit my own purposes. My version: No brain, no pain.

Okay, yes others have said it, but I swear I'd never heard it when I came up with it.

I said it a lot—especially to my kids (and me) whenever we bumped or stubbed or fell. 

My saying was picked up.

And repeated . . .

My good friend, Kelly, was preparing chicken for supper. She had bought a whole bird and was busily cutting it into pieces to fry.

This requires a knife—preferably sharp—which she had.

And finesse. Which came and went.

She was ready to separate a wing from the body. Had set the knife just so. And pressed down. Hard.

The knife slipped.

And caught her innocent bystander of a finger instead.

The blade nearly severed it.

Yes, I know. Horrible.

But now comes the part in between the injury and the medical care.

The part where she grabbed her finger in a tight grip and did the dance of pain around the kitchen.

Accompanied by the words: “I have a brain! I have a brain! I have a brain!”

Later, with her poor hand cozily wrapped, she told me, “All I could think was ‘No brain, no pain.”
See? Famous.

When Kids Speak

Chris and Jerry. And a less embarrassed Mom.

Children.

They have a knack for saying the wrong thing at the right time . . .

Mom and Dad were travelling with Chris and Jerry, my eldest sister and brother, then aged 3 and 2. The little family stopped in at the Palomino restaurant in Forth MacLeod, Alberta (a town about two hours from the ranch).

The stop had been two-fold. A much-requested bathroom break.

And subsequent feeding station.

A table was secured near the restroom door.

The two kids were immediately taken to ensure fulfillment of the first need.

Then resettled at the table as their parents went about satisfying the second.

After their order had been taken, the wait began for the forthcoming delicious food.

With nothing to occupy their attention, Chris and Jerry spent those intervening minutes studying the other people in the busy restaurant.

And missing little.

As they sat there, a young couple came into the restaurant and took the table next to them.

Chris watched as the young man got up, murmured an excuse to his partner and headed for the restroom door.

“Are you going to go potty, too?” she asked.

In her clear, carrying, three-year-old voice.

The restaurant hushed for a moment as all eyes turned to the red-faced young man who ducked quickly through the restroom door. They then turned to the even more red-faced young mother sitting at the table with the tiny broadcaster.

Children.

Entertainment and embarrassment all rolled into one neat, cuddly bundle.

Don’t leave home without one . . .

A Puzzlement

A puzzle is a wondrous thing,

As tiny bits, together, string

And from it, something lovely comes,

From pleasant scenes to contests run.

But is there something else around

That’s similar—in sight or sound?

Where little pieces make a whole,

When sorted from the rig-ma-role.

Oh, my word, yes! Just look and see,

Small pieces bring big things to be.

And these collections of small parts,

Are where the big things really start.

I think right off of dogs or cats,

Or even chickens, pigs or rats,

Each is a sum of tiny bits,

From heads to toes from hearts to wits.

The bigger things are just the same,

The trees of less (or larger) fame,

The mountains with their wondrous towers,

That make so great, this world of ours.

I’m sure it’ll come as no surprise,

That even going down in size,

No matter how minute things get,

They’re made of smaller bitsies yet!

To quote Siam’s great king, Monkut,

“Tis a puzzlement”. Aptly put.

To think that even us and him,

Are puzzle pieces, limb to limb.

I know you’ve heard it now, and then

‘Someone’s’ a ‘puzzle’. Big amen!

But there’s no need to scream and shout,

It means they’re hard to figure out.

But . . .

Though we’re assembled, more or less,

From pieces made and then compressed,

There is much more to you and me,

Than puzzle pieces that you see.

Cause Monday’s do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week begin,

With pleasant thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

So all of us, together, we

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought . . .

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

Merry Mae

Next week, it’ll be my first back home,

Let’s talk of gnomes. Or combs. Or foam.

The White Stuff

It’s the ‘white stuff’ in the middle of the Oreo cookie that sets it apart from all the others of its friends in cookie-dom.

But only if you know about it.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Oh, and I’ve changed the names of the people in this story to protect the guilty.

Because she told me to . . .

Beverly had a younger brother, Farley.

A sweet young boy who doted on his big sister and often did her bidding.

Their Mama didn’t bring store-bought treats home often. She preferred to bake her own.

But when she did, the occasion was noted.

When the Oreos appeared, it was a very good day, indeed.

Beverly, without fail, would take a cookie, un-sandwich it and eat the white bits, re-sandwich it, find Farley, and with a, “Here, Bro! Mom got Oreos! Have one!” give the de-icinged cookie to him.

He was delighted and would happily crunch his treat. “Thank you!”

This went on for some time.

Years, in fact.

Then that momentous day when big sister went off to university.

Shortly thereafter (Oooh! Good word!) Mama brought home a package of Oreos.For the first time—ever—Farley took his cookie right out of the package. 

He bit into it.

“Wow! Mom, they sure have improved these Oreos! They’ve started putting white icing in the middle!”

In life, you can get away with things for a while.

But just know that, eventually, they are going to catch up to you.

And then where will the icing be?

Driving or Driven

Throughout my early years, I spent many, many hours herding cattle.

Driving them into corrals.

And loading them into big cattleliners for shipping.

It was long, hot, dusty, tiring work.

But at the end of the day, it was done.

Done.

Check written. Hands dusted.

Done.

Now, let me tell you my grandfather’s version of the same process, sixty years earlier . . .

The cattle, which had been wintering out in the desert, were gathered to the home place in Teasdale, Utah. From there, they were trekked by Grampa and his brother-in-law, Gus, to the nearest railroad hub, Green River—a distance of over 100 miles through mountains and desert that took the better part of a week to accomplish.

The trip was mostly uneventful, until the herd reached the Green River.

There, they found the Green River ferry ill-equipped to handle such a large number of cattle. Their only recourse was to convince the animals to swim across.

The cattle, natives of the mountains and desert of Utah, were unused to large bodies of water. Especially water that moved. They could not be convinced to cross.

For two hours, Grandpa and Gus tried.

Finally, feeling the two men’s discouragement, the boy who ran the ferry suggested that he bring his family’s cows to the opposite side of the river and see if that would encourage ‘cross-age’ (my word).

It worked! Either because the visiting cows wanted to make new friends, or because they were simply tired of the wretched cowboys whistling to them and chasing them about. Whichever.

They crossed.

Then the cattle were driven up the hill to the stockyards and loaded into train cars.

Now the actual trip could begin . . .

The rules of the day dictated that one man could accompany a certain number of train cars of cattle. Grampa’s herd had filled enough cars that two men could have accompanied them. Grampa was going along, but Gus was not, thus, when another man ran up just as the train was about to leave and asked if he could ride along, Grampa gave permission and installed him in Uncle Gus’ place.

The train started out—destination, Chicago.

When it made a routine stop a few hours later, Grampa saw an old friend he hadn’t seen in years and left the train to visit with the man.

Then got so busy talking that he didn’t notice when the train pulled out.

Without him.

In dismay, he stared after it.

There went his cattle. And, to make matters even worse, the papers that accompanied said cattle. Papers that allowed anyone with the animals to sell them.

Pocket the money.

And disappear.

Bearer bonds for livestock.

Grampa’s only hope of catching them was the next train. A passenger one.

That left in six hours.

After a nerve-wracking wait, he boarded the train and started out.

There are all kinds of people in the world.

Honest.

And less-than-honest.

Fortunately, Grampa had chanced upon one of the former.

When he finally caught up to the livestock train, he discovered his cattle had been well-cared for by the stranger. Fed and watered.

And awaiting their true owner.

The trip to Chicago and sale of the herd was completed and Grampa was able to head home.

A little tired-er. A little richer. And a little wiser.

But what a trip!

Not sure, yet which I prefer.

His day.

Or mine.

From here. Teasdale, Utah.

Through here. Green River, Utah.

To here. Chicago, IL

The only picture I have of Grampa on a horse.
Taken shortly before his death in 1959.

True Grit

Or something similar...

Teaching school has never been easy.

Even in the heavy-handed discipline days of 1903 . . . 

Eighteen-year-old Sarah hadn’t really considered teaching.

When she was approached by a family, her response was: “Well, I really can’t teach. I’ve only passed the eighth grade. I couldn’t teach unless they gave me a permit.” 

A week later, she was facing the fourteen students of Aldrich, Utah.

Some of whom were taller than she.

The woman with whom she boarded told Sarah that the children had run the last teacher out.

Somewhat alarmed, Sarah made some inquiries.

She discovered that the students had flipped rocks at the woman. Constantly. Nothing she could do seemed to help.

They had brazenly done the same to the Superintendent when he came to investigate.

It had finally gotten so bad the teacher quit.

Sarah quietly determined that wouldn’t happen to her.

She called the class to order and assigned seating. Then she told them to get on with their lessons while she put some work on the board.

When she turned her back, two rocks flipped.

She stopped and ordered all of the children up to the front, boys andgirls, and made them turn their pockets inside out.

Most had said pockets filled with little stones.

Sarah confiscated all the rocks and had peace until recess.

After recess, she again lined everyone up and turned out their pockets. Again, many of them had been filled with little stones.

After lunch, she did the same.

And the afternoon recess.

This went on for several days.

Finally, the children tired of the exercise and she had no more trouble.

Sarah might have been tiny.

And only possessed a grade eight education.

But she had the right skill for the job.

Grit.

Beats rocks every time.

Twenty-Seven Twenty-Sevens

1. Mom started me out over 64 years ago with a mixture of evaporated milk, Caro syrup and water. In a bottle. It’s starting to sound good again....

2. From when I was little, Mom always said I was a good eater. Mind you she was a good cook. Maybe it was just a good combination.

3. In a large family, at mealtimes, one learns to gather food on the first round. You never know if there is going to be a second chance…

4. The first thing I remember eating is (are?) potatoes. Mashed. Baked. Fried. Hash-browned. 

Drowned in butter or gravy. My little baby spoon happily scooped up every drop.

5. Mom could save nearly everything by adding cheese sauce. Even formerly-frozen/rather soggy cauliflower took on new life under a generous coating of its golden cheddar deliciousness.

6. Pancakes and eggs and sausages and hot chocolate for breakfast were wonderful. Pancakes and eggs and sausages and hot chocolate for supper were a bona fide treat.

7. Mom always baked fresh bread. Served with fresh butter. Everyone liked—and ate—the crust. I ate the center. Why d’you suppose she was mad at me?

8. I even loved liver and onions. I don’t know what Mom did to them, but I slurped everything down like it was my last meal on earth.

9. If I rose late, I made my own breakfast. Sugary cereal. And chocolate milk with so much powder mixed in you could eat it with the spoon.

10. After school, my treat of choice was puffed wheat squares. Which I made for myself. Brother George often chose to eat a tin of sardines. I won.

11. During volleyball practice after school, I always dreamed of saltine crackers deep-fried in butter. I don’t know why. I never tried them. Now I wish I had.

12. Catsup on a hot dog or French fries or even a bowl of chili? Acceptable. Catsup on Mom’s delicious pot roast. Less so. Meat connoisseur, Dad, disapproved.

13. What’s the record for most number of cobs of corn consumed? I think I beat it. Of course it meant for interesting washroom visits for a while.

14. When Mom made tuna sandwiches, I was first in line. When she tried to sneak in some tinned salmon, I was outta there. Fish bones are gag-worthy.

15. Smooth Kraft peanut butter was the only truly acceptable brand. When Mom tried to foist something ‘cheaper’ on us, it remained uneaten. Till the end of time.

16. Mom would finally break down and buy Kraft again. Which disappeared immediately. Mom would say, “I’m going to stop buying that Kraft. You kids just eat it!”

17. I loved raisin cookies. Till my brother, George, told me that Mom got the raisins off the fly-paper at the back door. After that? Not so much.

18. Our sick milk cow gave really ‘icky’ milk. Even equal amounts of chocolate to milk didn’t help. And our beloved chocolate pudding couldn’t mask the taste! Blaaaaah!

19. When us kids went sledding, Mom welcomed us home with hot chocolate and fresh, homemade donuts. I don’t know which was better. Going out. Or coming in!

20. I loved school lunches. Mom’s were amazing. Except when she put 7-Up in my thermos and I shook it like hot chocolate. That stopper hit the ceiling!

21. Mom put hot dogs in our thermoses. And buns with catsup and mustard in a sandwich bag. Hot hot dogs for lunch! I thought Mom was genius!

22. My favourite dessert was Mom’s Angel Food Cake. Topped with her patented orange deliciousness. She took the recipe with her when she went home. Dessert hasn’t recovered.

23. Although her recipes for butterhorns, chocolate, spice or carrot cakes, pies, chocolate chip cookies, brownies, chippy squares, date squares, and dozens more could almost make you forget.

24. I loved it when Daddy did the grocery shopping. He brought home such store-bought necessities as: Pirate cookies. Jujubes. Cheezies. Ice Cream. Chocolate bars. Soda Pop. Perfect!

25. Daddy believed in stocking up at service stations while on a family road trip. A pop and chocolate bar for every member of the family. I approved.

26. Demon baker, Mom, forgot to make Christmas Eve dinner and when we foraged for ourselves from the fresh deliciousness, she said, “Don’t eat that! It’s for Christmas!”

27. Mom was a fantastic cook. I blame her for the fact that I like everything. Except tinned salmon or sardines. Even Magician Mom couldn’t make those palatable.

Today’s post was a word challenge. 

Each of us in Karen’s fan club submits a number.

Which Karen then issues to another in the group.

Totally fun!

My number this month was 27.

And came to me from the maestro, herself, Karen of Baking in a tornado!

Thank you so much, my friend!

Want to continue the fun?

Visit our other participants.

You’ll be glad you did!

Baking In A Tornado

Spatulas on Parade

Messymimi’s Meanderings