WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

I was groping around blindly, looking for a small lid in the back of the third shelf of the kitchen cupboard, when a tall, skinny tin teddy bear came tumbling down onto the counter-top. Well, I ought to clean out my cupboards more since I’ve not seen that little shaker tin in ages. I probably have not eaten this cinnamon-sugar mixture since I gave up sweets in 2010. The container is a gizmo that you unscrew the top and it is a shaker. You swirl cinnamon and sugar together in the tin, then shake it over hot buttered toast or porridge. I opened it and it still smelled heavenly, so it became my “spread” for toast today. This treat hearkens back to my youth when my mom often made me cinnamon-sugar toast. Nothing was nicer than a piece of hot toast, with a smidge of butter topped with a heavy-handed shake of cinnamon sugar. If I close my eyes, I can see myself sitting at the kitchen table, sipping on cocoa with the aroma of cinnamon wafting up my nostrils. Those are great warm and fuzzy memories. I originally planned to entitle this post, “a loaf of bread, a cup of coffee and thou” but coffee is my shtick, not Buddy’s. But every day I do indeed break bread with my little paesano, albeit a friend with feathers. Buddy is a frisky, lively pet who never lacks for attention, and in fact thrives on being a spoiled boy, and he is indeed the center of attention in this house. Our daily ritual is me making him a piece of crispy, multi-grain toast. As you might remember from a prior post, bread is my downfall. It is Buddy’s downfall as well. I go several times a year to Westborn Market to buy this Superior Bakery rustic bread, a piddling little loaf, which, by the time you take out the “heels”, the misshapen pieces or the slices with gimungous holes which might snag in the toaster, leaves us with about a dozen good-sized slices to toast per loaf. I end up eating the bite-sized odds-and-ends of bread spread with peanut butter. But, Buddy and I share and share alike. During the week, after the workday is done, we split our slice of toast; his is twisted and positioned between the cage bars and onto the perch whereupon he attacks it with a vengeance. But first, I must shield this treat with my fingers while I blow on the toast to cool it so Buddy does not burn his mouth. Sometimes he flaps his wings or chatters angrily because it takes me too long to cool it off. Patience mon petit, patience! The other 3/4s left of the slice is designated as mine and I reheat it and slap a thin slice of Swiss cheese onto the warm crispy bread. Mmm. Every November I load in a large supply of “Buddy bread” for the Winter, and needless to say, the many mini loaves take up most of the freezer. On weekends, when I have more time to indulge, I usually enjoy my portion with orange marmalade and a large steaming mug of Hills Bros. English Toffee Cappuccino … a stately British combo, but for me it is simple, but stupendous.

Today, was not just another Winter day. It was Michigan’s first glimpse at Spring after a harsh and horrid Winter. My boss has been out of town, so I had an opportunity to go outside when the sun was high in the sky, not neatly tucked behind the clouds on a gray and dismal early morn. The weather forecast, plus a glance out the window, told me today had all the earmarks of a glorious walk. I was ecstatic to take this long-awaited walk and I couldn’t get my shoes laced up quickly enough to set out. At first glance, the sidewalks looked clear, but as I kept walking I discovered sidewalk potholes, many which were glazed over with a thin veil of ice. To thwart a spill on these icy and dicey spots, I strayed over a few blocks where I knew the homes were larger, and the sidewalks were in better shape. It was a great decision as that street’s sidewalks were salt-stained, but otherwise clear and dry, so then I didn’t have to concentrate on my footing and could simply enjoy my walk. And enjoy it I did! Just being outside and walking, I felt as if every sense was awakened by my surroundings and I was the sponge, ready to absorb the beauty of the day. I found myself looking here, there and everywhere like the proverbial country bumpkin taking a trip to the big city for the first time. The sun was warmish and shone down on my upturned face. It felt luxurious and I resisted the urge to cast my cap into the air, à la Mary Richards, in exuberance. I was near-giddy and giggling as I heard the gurgle of water whooshing down the sewer drain, as mounds of dirty snow met the street’s slushy puddles and melded, beating a hasty retreat down the drain. The songbirds were out and I heard way more birdcalls than I hear on those cold and frosty mornings when I head out daily to run the car. It was as if the birds likewise were joyous to be basking in the sunshine. It felt good to be alive and to venture out further than my driveway, and in walking shoes, instead of lug boots as has been the case for the past three months. I really only planned to walk just a handful of blocks to risk getting shin splints, but when I found it so clear on Buckingham Street, I did another complete walk around the block surrounding Ford Park, and then another. Finally, I started to head home, and thought ‘well, perhaps one more go around’ and it seemed I just couldn’t help myself. I was glad I strapped on my pedometer because when I removed it, it read a whopping 2½ miles. I was astounded. Thank God for this day because I needed it to clear the cobwebs from my brain and it did wonders for my psyche. It was much more than merely an exercise for stretching my legs. Yup, I’m in my happy place, thinking Springy thoughts and all is right in my world again.

Winter is on my head,
but eternal spring is in my heart.
~ Victor Hugo

A passerby and his pooch brought a huge grin to my Winter weary face very early this morning. I was standing idly in front of the garage after running the car, when I heard a series of yaps and yelps that heralded the arrival of a man laboriously pedaling his bicycle down the street. Where did he come from? I was standing right there the entire time. He just appeared out of nowhere, though I admit, I had heard the incessant barking of a small dog which preceded his arrival. The streets around my neighborhood were still slick with packed-down snow and certainly far from clear to the bare cement, but this older gent soon caught up to my house, then rode past me on his two-wheeler. He doffed his hat and called out “good morning Missy from me and Buster” and I responded back with a wave and a smile “and a good morning to you too sir, and Buster as well” … hmm … “Missy” … well, I kinda liked that moniker, it’s been awhile since anyone has called me “Miss” or “Missy” and that rather made my day. The dog was sitting in a makeshift bike carrier, which appeared to be a fisherman’s wicker catch basket with the lid flipped back and the straps bound onto the handlebars. There was an afghan or something woolen, maybe a sweater, tucked inside the basket, as well as Buster, a Yorkshire Terrier, who was sporting a felt cloth coat and wiggling around, alternatively “smiling” and yapping at the top of his lungs. The silky hair on his ears was blowing in the breeze and I thought a tiny pair of earmuffs might be in order. Buster clearly was enjoying his primo perch and spending some quality time with his master. They were gone in a flash, just about as quickly as they arrived, but I watched them until they became just a speck once they got past the next block. They were a memorable duo – man and his best friend, cruisin’ along on their version of a bicycle built for two.

I chuckled when I came across this cute photo because this little guy reminds me of my canary, Buddy, who often steps right into his food or treat dish while he chows down. The coloring for both birds is even similar. Well, our little feathered friend above has staked a claim on this treasure trove of treats and seems to say “I got dibs on this food – just try and take it away from me!”

When I trotted out the door this morning, at first blush it felt downright balmy, especially after the past few days in the Deep Freeze. Could it be that we have turned a corner and finally kicked that Old Man Winter to the curb? The sun was shining and a big ol’ flock of birds filled up the empty spaces between the bare branches of Marge’s plum tree, just cheeping and twittering away. It was wonderful to hear them. Of course, they have been singing their hearts out, even on the coldest of mornings, when I came outside in multiple layers and still was shivering. I’d glance over or up, and there they sat, lined along the fence, or up in the tree, with a “lookout bird” who was no birdbrain as he was busy scoping out the homes of those kindly souls who regularly load up their birdfeeders. Soon he would alert his brethren … then off they’d go. The expression “this Winter is for the birds” would really disparage the birds, rather than the season, not that this entire season doesn’t deserve every sneer and snarky criticism we can hurl at it. When I see those birds all fluffed up and huddled together on a wire, or in a tree and singing their hearts out, I’d choose the expression “cheerfulness in the face of adversity” instead. All Winter, as I continually heard those chirrups, they cheered me up despite the gloomy sky or adverse weather, and I wondered anew how all “my” Council Point Park critters were faring. Hopefully, some of the stalwart walkers have been tossing an occasional treat or bread morsel their way throughout this ever-lasting Winter and I trust my peanut pals squirrelled away some of the cache of peanuts I kept gifting them as the cold weather set in back in November. I get a kick out of the birds and squirrels and their antics, especially when they are oblivious to me. During this morning’s outing, I spied a cute chickadee scrambling around trying to perch atop my holly bush. He was having considerable difficulty and kept losing his footing, struggling to keep his balance on the hard and pointy leaves. He had some food in his mouth and was determined not to lose it as he tried to right himself so he could enjoy his treat. I tried to glimpse what he was eating, but I couldn’t tell what it was. My neighbor, Marge, discovered earlier this season that the outside critters liked dry spaghetti noodles. She tossed some out on the deck one day, and those noodles, which looked like a blah-colored version of the children’s game of Pick Up Sticks, were finished off in no time. Buddy’s veterinarian is always encouraging me to feed him more “people food” … Dr. Cook has a parrot who loves spaghetti and meatballs. Every time she makes spaghetti, the bird gets a paper plate filled with pasta to enjoy. She assures me that bird eats every bite. Can’t you just imagine what his face looks like when he is done slurping down a plateful of spaghetti and meatballs? Mamma Mia!

If you live in Michigan, you must factor into your Fat Tuesday agenda the buying and eating of at least one fat-laden jelly donut or “paczki” . If you don’t live in Michigan, you might have never heard about these rich donuts and why we flock to donut shops or our local grocery store to load up for one last indulgence for Fat Tuesday. I was thinking this morning that the day is rarely referred to as Shrove Tuesday or Pancake Tuesday anymore around these parts. We call it “Paczki Day”. Just looking at all those delightful jelly donuts packs on the pounds, no matter what the flavor. You might be scratching your head if you need to spell the word “paczki” and please don’t pluralize it by adding an “s”. Pronunciation is dicey as well. A “paczki” is pronounced “poonch-key”. They are easy eating though. The best paczki I have ever eaten were from the now-closed Oak Leaf Bakery on Oak Street in Wyandotte. Customers would line up outside before dawn to get their “paczki fix”. Now you buy ‘em weeks before Fat Tuesday, which takes a little of the anticipation away. Well how about saluting pancakes? When I was a kid, pancakes were always a lazy Sunday morning breakfast. My mom would make up several batches of batter so she was ready to start making pancakes once the griddle got hot. Waiting in the wings was a bowl of sweet butter chunks and a tin of corn syrup. I really don’t ever remember drowning my pancakes in maple syrup, as we only used the sweet, gooey corn syrup which we dribbled over the pat of butter and down the stack of pancakes ‘til it pooled onto the plate. And no Canadian worth their salt would dream of eating their Sunday morning pancakes without a side of lightly fried, sliced peameal bacon. If you’ve never tasted peameal bacon, please don’t confuse it with the item the grocery stores package and sell as “Canadian Bacon” … no, that is not the genuine article. Peameal bacon is pork loin with a very thin ridge of fat which gives it flavor and it is encrusted with peameal, more commonly referred to as cornmeal. Peameal bacon is delicious and I had never tasted more traditional strips of bacon until we moved to the U.S. in 1966. Every time we went back to visit my grandmother, we’d have to stop and buy some to have while we were there. The only time we ever had a sweet dinner, like pancakes, was for Pancake Tuesday. This picture of pancakes swimming in syrup makes my mouth water, yours too?

After Mother Nature unleashed her latest fury, we are once again left growling and scowling, just like this pup, who, despite his fur-trimmed parka and snazzy, Nordic-inspired sweater coat, cannot shake his hangdog look. Well, this big guy looks about as happy as you and me as we ventured out this bitter cold morning. We are inching ever closer to matching the record snowfall of 93.6 inches, from way back in the Winter of 1880-81; right now we’ve had 83.7 inches of snow and need 10 more inches to crow about the snowiest Winter on record. In the mailbox today I received two flower catalogs, one from Wayside Gardens advertising their colorful perennials, and the other from Jackson & Perkins touting their favorite roses and the 2014 introductions. It’s doggone difficult to think flowers with a snow-covered landscape and bitter cold temps. Well, no more perennials or rose bushes for this gardener anyway. I’ve asked them to stop sending them to me and put them on my “Catalog Choice” list to stop the catalogs, but they keep coming. These two entities are the only hangers-on from the deluge of catalogs that landed in my mailbox daily. I’m not a tree hugger, but I’m trying to save the trees. This little dog will be happy for more trees; perhaps he will smile more then and not look so gRUFF. The downside to more trees though is more yellow snow.

Tonight is the Academy Awards. For years I would stay up well past my bedtime to see la crème de la crème of the current year’s offerings. I always hated that they made you wait until the very end to see who left with a coveted Oscar. Of course I could have watched “Entertainment Tonight” the next evening and caught the highlights, but nope, I had to stay up, causing me to be bleary eyed the next day. But it was imperative that you stayed up ‘til midnight so that you were able to discuss or dis outfits, moments and too-long speeches the next morning when you assembled around the office coffee machine. Back in those days there was no social media buzzing throughout the evening. Going way, way back … there were no VCRs or DVRs to capture the too-long awards ceremony for viewing later. You had to stay up or be out of the loop. I’m not a big movie buff and I haven’t seen many of the classic films. When we finally got cable, we had The Movie Channel and my mom would pick out alot of the movies we’d watch, or tape to view later. I’d never heard of most of them, but she’d wax nostalgic about the stars or the music, and sometimes gave me a sneak preview about the plot, so I, too, would look forward to that old film. For years I heard about my parents’ Saturday night ritual: dinner out, then off to downtown Toronto’s Odeon Theatre for the feature film, a second film, cartoons, previews, news clips and a piece of real English bone china dinnerware to boot, all for the price of admission. We had a complete set of fine china acquired while my parents were courting, if I may use that rather archaic term. I guess my favorite old-time movies were the two favorites from 1939: “The Wizard of Oz” and “Gone With The Wind”. As of this date, I’ve never seen “Casablanca”, “Citizen Kane”, “West Side Story” nor ‘Giant” just to name a few. Unbelievably, I’ve never even seen a John Wayne movie! I shocked co-workers one Christmas when they were standing around debating and rating the best holiday movies and they asked me what was my favorite of these classics: “It’s A Wonderful Life”, “Miracle on 34th Street” or “White Christmas” ? I replied I’d never seen any of them. They were further shocked when I revealed I’d never seen “A Christmas Story” and didn’t know who Ralphie was, however I’ve watched “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and “Frosty the Snowman” so many times I might be able to recite portions of those movies from memory. I understand it will be a tight race for the Oscars tonight since there are quite a few good movies this year. So get out the Jiffy Pop, settle into an easy chair and be prepared for a long evening. I shall turn in early and catch the Oscar slideshows on Comcast tomorrow. Toodles and air kisses to y’all.

Well, are we really surprised the third month of the year did not arrive like a lamb and pounced forth like a lion instead? That nasty old groundhog had the rest of the Winter pegged, as did the “Old Farmer’s Almanac”, The Weather Channel, your local meteorologists, heck … even you and me. In fact, with our weather scenario the past three months or so, I half-expected the weather folks to say our one-day balmy March 1st was as gentle as a lamb after what we’ve endured the entire Winter season. Alas, we can only look forward to March 31st, and perhaps that day might be more lamb-like. But beware, the tail end of the month is also Opening Day here in Michigan, an event seldom blessed with ideal weather. Diehard Tiger fans will be there, rain or shine, snow or … whatever may be falling from the sky. The way I see it, I am sure I will be posting a lion’s photo as this month fizzles out, so why not share the sweet faces of these little fuzzball fellows who remind me of Lamb Chop, the famous lamb sock puppet of Shari Lewis. When I was a little girl there were Saturday morning cartoons and “The Shari Lewis Show” and I would never miss Shari as she worked her magic to bring Lamb Chop and her cohorts Charlie Horse, Hush Puppy and Wing Ding to life. I was glued to the T.V., laughing and giggling at the skits with the famous ventriloquist and her mischievous puppets. Sure, Shari and her crew were cute and corny, but most of all, the show was wholesome and great entertainment for lambkins back in the early 60s.

Click, click, click, click. The heavy flywheel on my exercise bike kept turning ‘round and ‘round making a tiny click at each revolution and boosting the odometer with every turn. It was still early this morning, and perhaps I was not fully awake, when I stripped off my cozy polar fleece jammies, slid into shorts and a tee-shirt and stole down to the basement to hop on my exercise bike in an effort to fulfill my New Year’s resolution of a daily bike-riding session. The steady clicking soon had me mesmerized, and I found myself transcending into another persona and slipping away to a faraway place, thus leaving the dimly lit and cluttered basement behind.

* * *

Soon I was tooling around on my trusty old Schwinn two-wheeler with the wider-than-average saddle seat. It was a beautiful morning and I slung a lightweight cardigan around my shoulders and packed myself a little snack which I placed in my wicker bike basket. I pedaled around the sleepy New England town waving gaily to neighbors who were just retrieving the morning edition of the newspaper from their respective porches, robes agape and pet dog in tow. Well, whom do I want to be today? How about the lovely Kate Hepburn, with her dark hair in a messy plait and tightly coiled behind her head, tiny wisps of hair springing out as the sweat beads increased once the road got hilly and the pedaling got more difficult. A simple white broadcloth shirt and heavily pleated trousers clipped back from the greasy bicycle chain would complete my look. Perhaps my wicker basket would contain a generous bunch of sunflowers plucked from a Connecticut wild flower garden along the way. Wait … no, I think I would like to be master sleuth and author J.B. Fletcher, who goes by the moniker of “Jessica”, so that I could go tooling around the fictional town of Cabot Cove, Maine. I’d run errands on my bike until my wicker basket was filled, and along the way, I’d stop to gab with all the locals. Reluctantly, I’d head on home to peck away for a few hours on my old Royal typewriter, a relic to be sure, but it helps churn out those mystery novels everyone loves so much.

Well, either persona suited me fine quite frankly. I kept pedaling and gazing about and soon realized I was warm, so it was time to stop and take a break. I hopped off the bike, hooked my foot on the kickstand and plopped down on a tree stump. I rifled through my brown bag to take out one perfectly pared apple and a wedge of cheddar cheese, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bottle of Snapple “Mango Madness”. Ahhh … that hit the spot. I jumped up, brief respite over, and soon I was back to my journey along the sparkling water’s edge. There were seagulls swooping and circling across the sky. I steered the bike toward an inlet, seeking a little shade. I cocked my head and listened appreciatively to the babbling brook as it slid over the polished stones, and then, though I hated to leave, I turned toward the unpaved road to head home. The rocks and uneven trail jounced me about, jolting my neck, jarring my teeth and causing my bun to become askew. For a brief moment I felt sorry for those poor Michiganders and their pothole miseries they must endure, and constantly yammer about all Winter. After that rocky ride, I found myself getting warmish and peeled off my cardigan, and placed it into my bike basket. By now, the sun was climbing high in the sky and baking down on me. Whew! I wish I had a paper fan as I nearly felt faint. My blissful bike ride must end soon and it was time to head home, get cleaned up and begin the next phase of my day.

* * *

Albert Einstein said “imagination is more important than knowledge”… yes, it is fun to use your imagination sometimes. Sitting on the hard seat of my exercise bike, I was merely present and accounted for. But, by stretching the imagination just a tad, the ride soon became an adventure, just like flying along on my trike or bike when I was a kid, i.e. have wheels, will travel. Forget about rolling out of the warm bed and trotting to the ice cold basement at 5:30 a.m. to turn on the washing machine before hopping on the exercise bike. I don’t generate all that much laundry, so throughout the Winter every time we’ve had frigid weather, I’ve washed the same two polyester-cotton shorts and blouse over, no soap, small load, hot-hot water, 2-minute cycle every day, sometimes twice a day like today. Chug, chug goes the washer, changing rhythm every so often as it is spitting out hot water or cycling through its routine. Sure, it increases my water bill, but protects the pipes. Likewise, the constant drip in all four faucets 24/7 through each of the Polar Vortex events and similarly cold outside temps, I hope will preserve my pipes. So, it seems that the washing machine was the water I heard, not a babbling brook. The searing heat that warmed me up so much was the furnace blasting non-stop at 76 degrees and hot air pouring out of the registers, not the result of warmish Spring or Summer day. The wicker basket is a canvas bag which hangs from the exercise bike’s handlebars and holds my cassette player or my radio headphones when I get too warm and have to cast them off. This bike, this basement – now that is the reality show, whereas the make-believe I conjured in my mind was me just wandering off for a spell and a heap of wishful thinking. Spring: do please hurry!

The match took place early this morning. In the blue corner, Polar Vortex #4, the more powerful of the two, wily and windy and packin’ a one-two punch that could knock your socks off in a heartbeat. In the white corner, Snow Squall weighed in, short in stature but with ice crystals aplenty that could sting like a bee and smack you silly with an icy-cold grip. Both were this morning’s Winter contenders, equally potent, and here for the umpteenth re-match of the season. This scenario played in my head this morning while I tapped my toe as I waited for the noxious fumes from the car to clear out of the garage so I could quickly disappear back into the house. I peered down the street, marveling at the neighbor’s over-sized Christmas bulbs swinging merrily on an ornamental tree in their front yard. Surely, those ornaments must be wired to the branches after all the wacky weather we’ve sustained since nigh on in November. I looked up when I heard a pair of angry blue jays cackling at me … no warbling songbirds were they as they bent down and looked at me from their high perch. “Hey, don’t blame me for this” I told them … “believe me, I share your pain” … with a turn of my heel I closed the garage and trod back to the house, meeting up with a fractious squirrel along the way. We eyeballed each other and he jumped down when I had nothing but commiseration about the weather to offer him, thus ending any potential tête-à-tête and signaling the end of my petite excursion. Winter weary are we, and the referee says we are all down for the count as we prepare to finally exit February tomorrow.