Tort Report

I think I'm allergic to Spring

Our resident reptiles are up and at 'em.  Isaac & Chomper, as we tell our dog, are the good pets; Desert Tortoises (Gopherus agassizii) and blood brothers.

As the days shortened last October and the air began to chill a little bit, we scooped these guys out of their burrow beneath the backyard  peach tree and slid them under the secretary in our breakfast nook for their winter hibernation period.  A long winter's nap - though, truthfully, not much of a winter here this year.

Isaac, the larger and noisier of the two, was occasionally heard talking in his sleep, with sighs and grunts as we worked on the computer next to the secretary.  Isaac was also the first to rise this Spring, appearing in the middle of the kitchen on Washington's birthday.  He blinked his eyes, asked if I'd put the flag out?  And then enquired if there we had any cherry pie around here for the occasion.  With a "yes" and a "no", I ushered him out the back door for this year's first tortoise dandelion breakfast.

He was enjoying recharging in the warm sun and getting his greens, when following day's forecast called for cooler air and a chance of rain.  So, I brought him back inside.

But with the now awakened tortoise and the sufficiently warm climate controlled indoor environment, he was in no mood for another nap.  So Isaac went off padding around the house while all of us bipedal mammals were at work.  I came home that evening and began to search for him.  I found him in our bedroom.  Isaac had tried to climb out the window, which has a sill 8" off the floor.  This is also the window in front of which Strider's dog bed sits.  Apparently after chasing the dog away, he crawled onto the dog's bed and tried to get out the window, but ended up flipping helplessly on to his back on Strider's bed.  I righted him and then put him outside in the patio dog house (which, unlike the window bed, Strider never uses). 

In the mean time I noticed that there was lots of turtle doo-doo. That is both #1 and #2 on Strider's bed.  Yes, there were several turtle turds and Isaac, after waking up in the relatively warm house apparently had to open the flood gates that had been sphinctered-off for the entire winter.  Must have been kind of like when you stick a fellow camper's hand in a bucket of warm water while they are asleep.  This proverbial trick of getting a sleeping camper to pee in his sleeping bag may or may not work at Camp Wanagopoti, but this trick does appear to work for tortoises coming out of hibernation when exposed to warm air.  Only in this case, Isaac had wet and pooed on Strider's bed - not out in Isaac's own great out-a-doors outhouse. 

Did I hear him right; "I wet your bed! And now you have to sleep in it!"

Strider now has to break in a new bed, one that is way too fluffy for his liking.  And Chomper has now joined Isaac in the back tortoise pasture, diligently doing daily delightful dandelion dining.

Dandelion Daze

Lactose Lust

Last weekend, I was quietly padding around the house when I heard my wife talking to the computer.  I slipped up to the door and I could see her staring intently at the computer screen, and as she scrolled through the website I could hear her say in a throaty whisper, "Oh yeah! I like you."  A few clicks of the mouse later and she was overheard pleading to the screen, "Come on, show me how we do it."  "Yes! That is just what I like!"  "Ooh, that is very interesting."  Of course, I knew exactly what website was engaging her attention, it was her favorite cheese making link.  And this time she had found a link that listed Lucky Layla Dairy, located just a few miles north of our house, up Jupiter Road.

With a toss of her lovely wavy locks, she caught sight of me watching from the doorway.  "Hey fella! Wanna to go on an adventure?"  She displayed a naughty smile, and told me about her discovery of Lucky Layla's, a source of raw milk linked to her cheesy website.  The dairy, with its Jersey cows raised on green pastures, was on the north end of suburban Plano - just a few miles drive.  I said, "Sure, let put my shoes on and you just tell where we are going to go."  She was in high spirits.  Going to go see some cows in their natural habitat and look for their raw milk products.

Luck Layla had a small sales outpost flanked by two industrial refrigerators a couple of hundred feet up the gravel drive.  The rest of the dairy was zoned as a biological quarantined area - No Admittance without Permission.  We walked into the sales office, scanned their milk, cheeses and other dairy products while other customers were grabbing what they came for and marching up to the cash register.  Sue decided to grab the last gallon of raw milk and a piece of their Compesino Cheese.  The milk was $8/gal and the green cheese was $6/lb.  Sue had to sign her name on a sheet of paper acknowledging the hazards and risks of consuming non-pasteurized milk.

I find this world of all things "natural" at bit ironic.  My guess is that the set of people who write letters and protest trace amounts (i.e parts per billion) of lead in cosmetics, emission of small amounts of formaldehyde in manufacturing or the minimal risks in natural gas drilling are basically the same set that eagerly pays 4X going rate for non-pasteurized milk.  I figure e. coli, salmonella and listeria, though at times fatal, are "natural".  For my money, chlorinated drinking water, pasteurized milk and regulated pharmaceuticals are sources of a prosperous American 20th Century.  A public blessing.  But on this occasion, we acknowledged the hazards and risks of this raw milk, signed the waiver and returned home. 

Sue had the look of the naughty child, or the proverbial cat that ate the canary: "You know, I feel so naughty.  Buying raw milk, it like contraband in my family."  Her Mom was a public health pediatrician for the county and her Dad, as a veterinarian, worked for the Dept. of Agriculture inspecting dairy herds across western Washington to keep the public safe from contaminated milk.  Besides having a cow or two on the place for family consumption - of course only after it was properly processed.

The gallon of viscous and creamy "contraband" milk was soon turned into a second batch of Parmesan cheese.  The color of this contraband cheese is richer than the first batch made with the thin blue non-fat milk.  They need to age for 10 months, then it will be a taste test.  But, I have a feeling we will be signing more waivers and using Lucky Layla for future cheese batches.

Smoked Gouda -or- Maybe Not so Gouda

[Please see previous post: Problem of the Precarious Pyrite Pagoda -or- How not to make Sharp Cheddar Cheese]

Cheese can be relatively simple to make, and usually (if one is careful) does not take a lot of expensive equipment.  Sue has been immersed in the wonders of making our own cheese, visiting websites and becoming fixated upon mastering increasingly difficult levels of cheese varieties and techniques.  But the basics remain rather simple.

Of course, one inexpensive accoutrement in cheese making is the prosaic cheese cloth.  Having used her cheese cloth to make a mozzarella, a Parmesan and then a second type of cheddar cheese, it was time to boil the cheese cloth and get it clean and pristine and ready for the next cheese project.

The cheese cloth sat upon the burner in a sauce pan filled with water, the plan was to boil it clean.  Like they say, "Rinse and repeat".  It boiled as she worked on writing a paper. It boiled as she did some reading.  It boiled as she surfed on the computer. It then boiled on the proverbial "back burner" of her mind.  And then it boiled dry as she stepped into the shower.  When she came out of the shower, the house was filled with the acrid smoke of a smelter.  The sauce pan with a layered steel and aluminium bottom, had boiled dry and turned the the aluminium layer into a melted metallurgical mega mess.  The range top had a shiny and bright cooled aluminium puddle like a flow of cooled magma on the side of a volcano.  The scorched sauce pan and smoking and incinerated cheese cloth was quickly dispatched to the back patio.

The smoke alarm(s) throughout the house did not sound.  So on Saturday, I installed the new ion smoke detector that Sue bought the very afternoon of the sauce pan's demise. 

"So", I asked, "once you get some more cheese cloth, what kind of cheese are you going to make next?  Perhaps "smoked" Gouda?"

With a smoldering look and a dead pan expression, "That's no Gouda", She replied.

Besides the basic ingredients of milk and culture additives; this cheese making has cost us

• a glass top dining table
• a sauce pan and
• shown the need to buy 3 additional smoke alarms. 

No Gouda indeed.

The Problem of the Precarious Pyrite Pagoda -or- How Not To Make Sharp Chedder Cheese

The clue on Sue's Christmas gift explained that the receiver of this wrapped gift will have something in common with Saddam Hussein.  The box holding the curiously framed and opaque clue turned out to be a do-it-yourself cheese making kit.  With the clue's explanation being: Saddam had Kurds in his way - while you will have curds in your whey.  The cheese making box itself had positive testimonials from from enthusiastic, if not redundant, happy cheese makers, who wrote the manufacturer saying: "Tonight my kitchen will become Cheeseville City!!"

Well Cheeseville City here we come!  Sue came back from the store with 3 gallons of milk last Saturday, having made the easy breezy mozzarella a few weeks ago, it was time to amp up her game and go for a nice cheddar.  Everything was included in the kit, except perhaps a cheese press that retails for $125.  Not to worry, the directions said, one could squeeze the moisture out of the cheddar brick by just adding weight.  They suggested 20 lbs.

With the green cheese having drained through the cheese cloth for about 2 hours, it was time to press the lump into the cheese mold (since we did not have a press) and place weights on top.  Now think about this, the mold was 6 inches across, and the ordinary home cheese entrepreneur was expected to just happen to have something compact enough to press onto a 6 inch diameter surface with a force of 20 lbs.  What would you use? 

We are fortunate. Not only are we fond of cheese, we happen to be a household of geologist, and if you know anything about geologists, you know they love to have all kinds of rocks and minerals hanging around the house with them, they are like family.  Well, Sue grabbed a couple solid 10-pound specimens of iron pyrite (aka Fool's Gold) off their perch on our entertainment center and placed then atop a saucer on top of the cheese mold.  Iron pyrite seemed especially suitable since it has a high specific gravity, and since this stage was just a matter of giving it time to squeeze the moisture out, she moved the process over to the breakfast nook table while she cleaned up the kitchen counter space.

In the breakfast nook sat the table.  It was a fine table.  It was the first furnishing I bought once I got my first job out of school.  I furnished my first real-world, 1-bedroom bedroom apartment with only this stylish glass top table & it's 4-chair set plus a bed. Years of birthday and Christmas gifts were lovingly wrapped on that table.  I was at this table while living in Denver when I saw the Challenger space shuttle explode.  I drafted my business plan after I got laid off for the 3rd time while sitting around this table.  My kids were conceived and born on this table.  Presidents Clinton and George H.W. Bush sat at this table and asked me my thoughts on energy policy and world peace.  I had some of the greatest cheeseburgers ever created right off the backyard grill at this table.

In the breakfast nook sat the table.  On the table sat the cheese with some dazzling pyrite mineral samples piled high and pressing down upon it.  The cheese stands alone, nobody watching it as it began to compress differentially.  It settle at an odd angle and the precarious and perilous pyrite pagoda shifted much like the tower at Pisa.  The weighty pyrite, resplendent with pointy crystal faces jutting out at all angles began, unbeknownst to us, to tip.  The crash was resounding, the dog knew enough to wake up and look awful worried, the crack of the glass table top was heart-rending and the shattering sound of large shards of plate glass hitting the floor was devastatingly loud.

It was a heavy moment when Sue came into the living room to tell me what I already knew, "I broke your table".  She dejectedly when to grab a dust pan and a broom to clear away the devastation.  I observed that I was unaware that this was how one made 'shatter cheese'.  Searching for a pun on cheddar. 
   Without looking up, she crouched on the floor picking up pieces of glass and corrected me, "this is cheddar cheese not 'shatter cheese'". 
   Oh really?  What variety of cheddar? I inquired. 
   As she tossed some wickedly jagged pieces of glass into the waste basket, she replied, it is "sharp" cheddar - no it is "very sharp cheddar".

Fly Away, Fly Away

With Ground Hog's Day and Marti Gras almost upon us ... This is where Jesus rises from the dead, and comes out of the tomb, and if he sees his shadow, then there is 6 more weeks of Lent.  All things temporal are quickly merging in my mind.  It was but weeks ago when our Y'all Log (we're in Texas ya know) burnt itself out and we wrapped up the 12 Days of Christmas and then rung in the New Year.  By the way - Yule Y'all!

Inga flew home mid-December amidst one of our few rainy days this past year.  Enjoyed the holiday with us and did a bit of visiting of old friends locally, but stayed connected with friends back in Oregon via social media.  Classes for the Winter Quarter began January 9, but she opted to return on the 4th; having finished having all the fun she could expect to have around our house.  She was met at the Portland airport by her boyfriend Sean (who always brings her irises - her favorite), and they drove back to Eugene together.  Reports are that she is now enjoying classes mostly focusing on her major in Planning & Public Policy Management (3PM), and they are stimulating - except for one.  But she is coming off an A- in dreaded Quantitative Methods pre-req, so there is momentum there.

After running the numbers from picking Grant up at the University of Missouri and returning him last Thanksgiving, I concluded that my time, hotel and driving expenses were part of a great adventure, but not economic.  So, with the bottom line in mind, we suggested he find a ride back to Texas with some of the many Texas Exes heading back this way for Christmas.  He lined up a seat in the Volvo station wagon of Alison who was driving back to Austin.  But Grant's final final was not until Thursday afternoon, and Alison was restless to get on the road by Thursday morning.  Grant ended up bumming a ride to St. Louis the next morning from a friend and getting dropped at Lambert Field where Southwest Airlines got him a few bags of free peanuts and then home to Love Field on Friday night. 

Grant lingered around home on Christmas break as long as he could, but arranged to ride with Alison on the return trip Sunday 1/15.  I dropped him off at a rendezvous point 25 miles up the road in McKinney.  It was the home of a fellow traveler also heading back to Mizzou.   I was informed during the final stages of packing that Grant would be riding with three young ladies.  I thought, "Four passengers.  This could be a real tight and cozy 10 hour ride".  With surprising forethought the two of us decided to bring along our car-top luggage carrier - just in case it needed to be mounted on Alison's car.   Alison showed up a bit late with another passenger and all of their multitudinous co-ed luggage.  The girls all oohed and awed over each other's new hand bags each received for Christmas.  Grant stood on the street feeling left out, not having a single Gucchi item, just an old back back and a medium sized suitcase.  With the three girls, the one Mom plus Grant and me standing outside the car looking hard at the small space available and hoping it might work.  The Mom and the girls then began pulling clothing and items out of assorted hampers, bags, chests and softside luggage and jamming the fabric into all available interstices.  I offered the car top carrier, but the gals were hard at it, stuffing and squishing stuff into every pore space, so my offer was waved off.  With new hand bags in under their feet and Grant's backpack in his lap, the Volvo departed for a second term at Mizzou. 

I have heard nothing about the journey back to school from Grant.  Perhaps, that tells me a lot.

Inga, once settled into her digs across from the University of Oregon, decided a new mattress was in order.  So, with comfort in mind, she now is getting sleep on a newly delivered mattress.  Nights are now uninterrupted by bone-rubbing, lumpy thinness of a cheap trundle bed.  Life is getting better.

Grant called this week telling us he, his suitemate Carson and friend "Jersey" (guess where he is from?) were looking over apartment options for next year.  The had found a really nice place a mile from campus.  Was $450/mo rent OK?  Sue detected in his voice a bit of pride in taking the step to move out into his own place, mixed with a bit of apprehension that the price was unaffordable and their choice might yet be rejected by parental purse strings.  He was going to let us know on Monday what the deal was.  We heard nothing, so Mom called him.  Turns out Carson's Mom thought they could do better price-wise; so they go hunting again this weekend.

As the kids have all flown away, we watch and listen to their chirps beyond the old nest.  We are pleased to see them making good choices, good friends and learning to fly and land on a bed of their own choosing.

Wanna come up to my place and shuck some oysters?

"The time has come", the writer said,  "to blog of many things:
Of hams -- and clams -- and yuletide feasts,
of briny little beasts -- and kings."

A minor casualty of the global economic cooling in 2011 was the elimination of the Christmas ham, formerly  provided to all clergy and staff members of the Preston Hollow Presbyterian.  The pork barrel resources were redirected toward scholarships and charities, which is truly fine by us.  But that beg's the questions; what shall we now have for our Christmas Day dinner? 

I said "oysters". 
And I was mildly surprised to find consenting nods among my grown up kids.  Then Grant added, "Yeah, but with Christmas candy".

Amidst the holiday shopping, a scouting expedition was organized to find a place in fact to procure our oysters for Christmas Day.  Eureka!  The tony Central Market store had fresh Texas oysters for 79 cents each.  Another bit of scouting on the internet suggested grilled oysters, plopping dollops of herb butter between their valves as they sprang open upon the grill.  Done deal.

Fearing fierce crowds and Christmas Eve closures, I was dispatched to shop for Christmas dinner on the 23rd.  I put on my pork-pie hat and waded into the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd of foodies and high falutin' fancy pants shoppers at Central Market.  I drew Number 89 from the "take a number" dispenser at the fishmonger's counter and waited my turn.  Finally, the digital "Now Serving" display lit up with "89", and I jumped up and shouted "I am Number 89! It's me! I am a Winner!! I am a Winner!!  The tousling crowd around me quickly parted to let this overly enthusiastic -- and possibly unbalanced, guy with a beard pass through.  The fishmonger appreciated my zeal for his wares and gladly served me with Christmas cheer.  I told him I wanted 32 of his very best Texas Oysters, make sure they are closed down nice and tight, as I do not want to see them smile until I have them on the grill and ready to load with herb butter.

I backed away from the seafood counter with two bulging bags of bivalves place on another bag of ice.  I stopped to add a bottle of Italian red wine on my way to the see the cashier girl at the front.

Now a funny thing happened on my way to the cashier girl.  I had a couple of fine ladies stop me and coyly inquire what I was going to do with those oysters?  Each of the gals attentively smiled at me as I lustily explained my plans to grill then in the backyard, gently warming them until I coaxed their shells parted, then slip in some butter and herbs, serve with artichokes and chase with a robust Italian red.  They oooh-ed and aaawed as I described my culinary prowess.  They giggled and exchanged looks with one another, and then the blond cooed as she asked me to tell her where I lived. 

I tipped my brim and offered them but a grin in retreat; for aye and alas my hungry girls, I've me own lass and it she alone who handles my oyster treats; to make sure their coats are brushed, their faces washed, their shoes are clean and neat-- and this is quite an odd feat, because, as you know, they haven't any feet.

My Lass scrubbing and shucking my Oysters
In the Christmas Kitchen

The sun was shinning on Christmas Day and all was smooth and bright. 

The grill was heating, the table set,

Yet we would not have dinner without a fight.

The space above the flames was just big enough to hold all of the mollusks upon grill, with no room to spare.  I returned after a few minutes to check and see if the oysters were "smiling", having loosened their abductor muscles enough to slip in the herb butter.  As I approached the grill packed with oyster shells all in a row, I heard hissing and popping and then a crack rang out as a jagged piece of calcareous shrapnel  shot over my left shoulder.  I backed off, regrouped, and charged the steaming meal once again, only to be met with another volley, this time flying more or less skyward and landing on the patio.  I decided we were done here, and scooped the briny little beast onto a tray before they were splintered and set asunder.

Once we asked a blessing upon our meal, we tucked in, but found many of the oyster did not live up to what would be expected with a moniker of "Texas Oyster".  They were rather small, Vermont-sized I'd say.  As we derisively say in these parts; "All hat - no cattle".  These were often revealed to be "All shell - no mollusk."  The meal with artichokes, my fresh baked focaccia bread was good, but less than the stellar I had imagined.

I am not sure I'll serve oysters again on Christmas.  But if I am ever called upon to give advice on how to pick up chicks: I have this unique perspective, some ladies can't resist an a man walking around showing off his bulging bag of oysters.  Hey sweetheart, how about you come up to my place and shuck my oysters.  It should work great.

Merry Christmas.

The Walrus and The Carpenter

Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

The sun was shining on the sea,

Shining with all his might:

He did his very best to make

The billows smooth and bright--

And this was odd, because it was

The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,

Because she thought the sun

Had got no business to be there

After the day was done--

"It's very rude of him," she said,

"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,

The sands were dry as dry.

You could not see a cloud, because

No cloud was in the sky:

No birds were flying overhead--

There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Were walking close at hand;

They wept like anything to see

such quantities of sand:

"If this were only cleared away,"

They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops

Swept it for half a year.

Do you suppose," the Walrus said,

"That they could get it clear?"

"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,

And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"

The Walrus did beseech.

"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,

Along the briny beach:

We cannot do with more than four,

To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,

But never a word he said:

The eldest Oyster winked his eye,

And shook his heavy head--

Meaning to say he did not choose

to leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,

All eager for the treat:

Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

Their shoes were clean and neat--

And this was odd, because, you know,

They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,

And yet another four;

And thick and fast they came at last,

And more, and more, and more--

All hopping through the frothy waves,

And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Walked on a mile or so,

And then they rested on a rock

Conveniently low:

And all the little Oysters stood

And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,

"To talk of many things:

Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--

Of cabbages--and kings--

And why the sea is boiling hot--

And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,

"Before we have our chat;

For some of us are out of breath,

And all of us are fat!"

"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.

They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,

"Is what we chiefly need:

Pepper and vinegar besides

Are very good indeed--

Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,

We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,

Turning a little blue.

"After such kindness, that would be

A dismal thing to do!"

"The night is fine," the Walrus said.

"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!

And you are very nice!"

The Carpenter said nothing but

"Cut us another slice:

I wish you were not quite so deaf--

I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,

"To play them such a trick,

After we've brought them out so far,

And made them trot so quick!"

The Carpenter said nothing but

"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:

"I deeply sympathize."

With sobs and tears he sorted out

Those of the largest size,

Holding his pocket-handkerchief

Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,

"You've had a pleasant run!

Shall we be trotting home again?'

But answer came there none--

And this was scarcely odd, because

They'd eaten every one.



Christmas Clues 2011

A few Suneson Scenes from Christmas Day, 2011.

It is a Suneson tradition, practiced mostly by Dad, to attach clues to each wrapped Christmas present under the tree.

Grant, studying for finals in his freshman year at the University of Missouri, Columbia (and without a car or even a bike) confessed that his range for Christmas shopping was limited this year.  Grant said we were going to notice a theme to his gifts. We understood. 

His gifts bore the clue - it has gotta come from Mizzou.  (He was pretty much limited to shopping at the Mizzou Tiger Bookstore)

Grant & Inga exchange school swag -
Last year Grant got a U of Oregon snuggy

Mom gets a "Truman the Tiger"
U of MO Mug
Truman actually spins 360 in his alcove

[Not pictured is the handsome gold & black necktie for Dad]

Inga has solved the clue and
rips through the paper for confirmation

Grant shows that he too is a Pepper
We all want to be Peppers
No Party Peppers allowed today!

Grant gets an iphone - says it is required for
Journalism School.
Don't be fooled by appearances - Inside Grant is truly elated about this gift

Inga prepares to hand out a gift to the next family recipient

Sue gives the wardrobe accessory a
swift spin for fashion flourish



Nowadays, most of my clues I fear are too simple for my sophisticated audience.  I think the Christmas clues point to finely to that sealed contents, rather than broadening the mystery.  However, I added one clue - though it did not rhyme:

What Does This Gift

and

Saddam Hussein

Have in Common?

This indeed had the wife wondering.  A Weapon of Mass Destruction?, a deed to a plethora of palaces?

As it was revealed, the gift was a kit to make a variety of homemade cheeses.  And the answer to the riddle clue:  Both the cheesemaker and Saddam Hussein had "curds (Kurds) in their whey (way).

You know who you are and I know you liked that. :-)



Sue gets a cheese-making kit
For Blessed are the Cheese Makers - The Life of Brian



Chrismas Blog Delayed by Inverted Staircase

It has been a week, or maybe two since Christmas.  A bit of a delay in getting photos posted and still have not done any Christmas cards.  The reason? M.C. Escher.  I selected as one of Sue's gifts, a jigsaw puzzle that features 1000 pieces in only shades of gray of a disorienting drawing by M.C. Escher who has floors as ceilings and staircases that lead up to basements.  We are almost finished with this jigsaw puzzle that has been spread out on a table in front of the Christmas tree for weeks now.  We place a few pieces into their correct position while watching bowl games.

We are most free of the tyranny of an incomplete puzzle.  It will be a Happy New Year.

Oh! the sweet misery.

M.C, Escher's "Up and Down" 1000 piece puzzle in only shades of gray
has consumed normal blog time as well as my
efforts to get started on tax preparations - the sweet misery.

Christmas Eve 2011

For those in the Church Business (like Sue), Christmas on Sunday poses an odd juxtaposition.  Christmas Eve is always filled with big worship services and for many churches, multiple services.  After a Saturday night Christmas Eve filled with a Children's service at 5 o'clock, a traditional service at 8 and is often the case, an 11 PM (or Midnight) service that takes one right up to the stroke of 12:00, the 25th of December, Christmas itself.  What is one to do on the following Sunday?  Most of the pageantry, the telling of the Christmas Story and celebration of the birth of our Lord and seasonal highlights have been spent during three Saturday services; whataya got left for Christmas Sunday?  And beside, how many people are going to show up on Sunday morning - truth is almost everyone comes on Christmas Eve, but on Christmas Day almost everyone stays home for the gift unwrapping an family traditions.

WWJD. (What Would Jesus Do?)  According to an alternative interpretation of the Book of II Hesitations 12:25; Jesus thus spoke, "Go with the flow, and may peace be with you".

An thus it came to pass upon all of the Suneson household.  Sue, as Director of Children's Ministry, is in charge of the Children's service at 5 o'clock.  This is the first of the Christmas Eve events at Preston Hollow Presbyterian.  Parents arrive with the young kids who are mostly emotionally hyped out of their socks about the whole Christmas commotion;  some are figuratively bouncing off the sanctuary ceiling, others are having a melt-down, I suspect many are waiting for the "Baby Jesus thing" to get out of the way so they can then get home and get ready for reindeer, candy and Santa Claus.  Sue is on duty for this festive free-for-all flirting fiasco, and as always handles it with great aplomb and with the Grace of God.  Families arrive before the service and kids get to choose whether they are going to participate, and if they so choose, they are dressed as angels, sheppards or wisemen (veteran kids of this service know that angels appear first and therefore have the longest time "on stage").  The Christmas Story is read in segments from the pulpit by High School youth, interspersed with the singing of a few verses of Christmas carols.  As the Christmas Story unfolds, the characters at Jesus' birth are invited to come to the chancel, first the angels appear, followed by the sheppards and then the wisemen come to the front of the sanctuary.  The benediction is given and hearty "Merry Christmases" are exchanged.  Sue checks her watch and getting this all done in under 30 minutes is considered a success. The angel, shepperd and wiseman costumes are collected and stored for next year.  Sue gets back home a bit before 7 o'clock.

Now it is really Christmas Vacation time for Sue and the entire family.

I prepared a quick chicken kung pao stir-fry dinner at home to serve upon Sue's arrival.  And as the evening wends its course toward the small hours, we dress for the 11 o'clock service at the old home church, First Presbyterian in Richardson.  Jr and Sr High youth that once composed "The Joyful Noise!" Youth Choir traditionally return from college to reunite and sing at the 11 PM Christmas Eve service.  Inga and Grant, now alumi of the TJN, had rehearsed with about 20 other former members on Thursday and now joined together to sing a hymn and an anthem in celebration of the coming of God's own son into the world, bringing light and salvation.

Now, it has long been a fable across many cultures that those kinds of animals that were present in the manger at the birth of Jesus, donkeys, sheep, horses, dogs and armadillos, are given the gift of human voice at the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve.  That seems wonderful, but the fable also has this cautionary caveat - if a human actually hears an animal speak in human tongue on Christmas Eve, they will be struck dead.  Bummer.  That is the Old World kind of Christmas.  Never the less, we were blessed that the 11 PM service we attended was kind of a rambling affair, thus keeping us away from our house and its occupant, Strider our dog, well past midnight.  So, we count our blessing this Christmas Eve that Strider, should he have spoken at midnight, we were not around to hear it and then expire.  So we got that going for us.

Safely past Midnight
Strider reverts to non-verbal communication
which we correctly interpret as
"scratch behind my ears and also my dirty hide" 

Upon arriving back home, Inga announces that "we all get to open one present tonight".  A single wrapped parcel is taken from under the tree and handed to its recipient.

Merry Christmas to All, and to All a Good Night!

Grant receives a T-shirt from his sister.
We debate whether T-Rex is "Roaring a Rainbow",
experiencing a "technicolor yawn", or is lisping "gay pride for the Cretaceous"

Inga contemplates which gift she will open first.

Suneson's gather fireside late on Christmas Eve
following church

Take my Car -- Please

With the fast darkening days of Winter solstice, Inga and Grant, both home from the University, fired up the 1994 Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight Royale, replete with hail dimples and large rust (age) spots and pulled away from the curb to add their voices at the rehearsal of The Joyful Noise!  A reunion for college students home for the holidays, who are always invited to sing at the 11 PM Christmas Eve service at 1st Presbyterian, a gathering of those who sang in the High School Choir during worship in past years.  The sister and brother duo made it about a mile and a half before "Woodrow" with his 162,365 miles began to shutter and shake and then quickly conked out in front of the Buddhist Temple.  Grant called home for help, while Inga tried to restart the beast, and finally did, getting Woodrow through the intersection and parked for safe measure in a parking lot belonging to a Verizon technical center.  Sue delivered them to the church on time.

At daylight, I returned to the cold chassis and Woodrow purred to life.  I drove him home, rather than the shop, figuring I would take him out on a few last minute Christmas shopping errands to see how he did and make a repair decision later.  That afternoon, with a trunk full of goodies, Woodrow had a seizure, convulsed and died about a mile from home.  I called the roadside help number on my auto policy card and had him towed to the shop the day before Christmas Eve.  Despite the new battery that had been installed two weeks earlier, the started motor would not kick the engine over.  Without a running engine, the shop could not find out why the engine wasn't running.  Makes sense to me.

New starter starting at $317.  That is a non-started for me.  Likely multiple issues with the beast.  We decide it is time to put Woodrow down.  But not before Christmas.

After Christmas, my first call after an online search for "Cash for Cars - running or not" got a guy who said he'd call me right back with an offer.  Never heard from him.  Next stop on the internet was Junkmycar.com.  I got an offer for $100 to tow it away.  Sue managed to find the title under a heap on my dresser and with paper work and keys, the Salvage company guy came and picked Woodrow's cold, dead chassis up leaving me with a $100 check and a sense of relief.

Out with the old Olds and in with the new!

Chrsitmas Tree DOA

Kadee Christmas Tree Farm
Family Tradition Killed by Texas Drought of 2011

Virginia Pine is dead!
Long live Douglas Fir!

On my way home from business in El Dorado, Arkansas, I skipped off of highway I-30 in East Texas to reconnoiter the traditional Suneson Family Christmas Tree Farm.  For 20 years we have been cutting our own tree and driving the 60 miles back home after stopping for an early dinner at a Texas barbecue joint on the way.  It has always been the way Christmas starts for us here in Texas; fresh-cut pine scent and the lingering taste of righteous barbecue meats.  Sadly, not this year.

2011 was the most severe drought in locally recorded history (surpassing 1917) and the second hottest year known to the Lone Star State, leaving in its wake of dust many unfortunate consequences for many Texans and for many reasons.  One of the unfortunate outcomes for us was the end - or perhaps just a hiatus, of the valued family Christmas Tree tradition.  The drought extracted a heavy toll from the Christmas tree farmers as was reported in the local news following Thanksgiving, with many of the Virginia Pines not surviving. Though the cut-your-own tree farms were mostly open for business this December.  I stopped at our traditional Kadee Farms location to see for myself, and saw an estimated 60% of the trees dead.  Most of the timber in the 6-7 foot range, which is the size we usually cut and take home.  I spoke with the Mr. Kadee himself, and he was now going to install a drip irrigation system, but I could not get him give me a price incentive to bring the family out to select and cut our tree this year.

With Inga just home on Wed. and Grant flying in from St. Louis that Friday evening, and Sue very busy with Advent Season and running a multitude of programs at Church, getting out to Kadee Farms before dark  and before Christmas just seemed too difficult this time around.  The family decided to nix the tree trip before St. Nick's.

Reduced expectations and time management brought the family to Home Depot to look over their selection of trees.  The nearest Home Depot had just a few remaining "Charlie Brown" trees, so they went across town where they found a store with a good inventory and selected a 6' Douglas Fir.

It is beginning to look a lot like Christmas around here after all!

Lump of Coal

I found myself in Arkansas sitting a well for a few days in the mid-December rain and red mud, while Inga arrived home for Christmas break from U of Oregon.  Inga and Sue decorated the house with holiday festiveness.  When it comes to the hanging of the stockings over the hearth, I have two version to choose from; the green felt stocking that I recall my mother sewing for me back in 1962, and a later Christmas stocking "Professional" version, again sewn by my mother featuring a stylized olden day drilling derrick.  Lately, the derrick stocking has hung in hopes of being filled flush with success by some of my end of the year prospecting.  I did not select the derrick stocking this year, but since it was put up on my behalf, I let it stay in hopes that Saint Nick would soon be there.

However, I received the following:

To: Mark
From: Santa


I have been keeping a list and I know who has been naughty and who has been nice.  Unfortunately, the vagaries of subsurface geology do not always align themselves based on human behavior - whether congenial or despicable.  Therefore, I regret to inform you that I am unable to fill your stocking at this time with your request of oil royalties and revenue checks from your Dixie Prospect as stated on your submitted 2011 Christmas wishlist.  Perhaps it is best if you stick with visions of sugar plumbs dancing in your head like the rest of the boys and girls.  Enclosed please find a tangerine, a bag of pistachio nuts and a chocolate bar as a token of Christmas cheer from us here at the North Pole.  I have also included a lump of coal (lignite, as you geologist call it) for good measure.


Best of luck in the future with your oil prospecting.  May I suggest that you get in touch with an acquaintance of mine who goes by the name of Yukon Cornelius; he has some success in the prospecting business and may be able to offer a few pointers on how to properly sniff and taste your way to successful exploration and prospecting.

Yukon Cornelius
Successful Prospector for Silver & Gold

For the Jolly ol' Elf,

Sincerely,

Psoriasis the Elf

Vice President of Correspondence

I generated and sold the Dixie Prospect to a company in Tyler, Texas this summer, and after some delay to iron out some issues with the 84 mineral owners, the well spudded December 12.  Of course I think highly of all my oil prospects, but the Dixie Prospect in southern Arkansas seemed like an especially good one.  Shallow and quick drilling (only 3,200 feet deep), potential for huge reserves of oil, and lots of other wells nearby to help me map the geology, so there is little chance for any surprises - in a bad kind of way.  So I was surprised by the surprise (in a bad kind of way) when we found the sandstone we were looking for to be down dip from a key oil well only 394 feet away and filled with water rather than oil.  I was hoping to find about 45 feet of sandstone that was deposited by an ancient river that flowed through the area about 75 million years ago.  I found only 17 feet of sandstone.

While on location, I had the mudlogger pay special attention to the rock samples in intervals where I expected there to be oil trapped in the old river channel sandstone.  He found a few specks that glowed gold under UV light (indicating oil), but he also found we had drilled through a coal seam.  I hate to find lumps of coal in my Christmas stocking and in my cutting samples when what I really want is oil. 

The company who bought my Dixie prospect asked me to remap the Cretaceous age sandstone river channel deposit based on the data from the latest well so that they can decide whether they want to drill another well on our mineral lease.  I have finished that work and await their decision as to whether we take a second shot or not.

Ever the optimist. Dig and Delve in 2012! 

Dixie Prospect - Mason Heirs #1 Well
Drilling in the pine woods of Arkansas

Mid-December Location turns wet and filled with thick, sticky red mud

Ding! Time to eat those words

I knew a girl in grad school in Austin who once told me during the course of our conversation that she would never want a microwave oven.  I admire the contrarian and I can respect and often applaud opinions held contrary to current trends. 

However, it stuck me at the time as the kind of statement that one could regret.  Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but for the rest of your life - going without a microwave oven could indeed be a regrettable vow.  I did not pursue the reasoning or feelings behind such an opinion, though I can surmise it had less to do with Luddite affiliations and more to do with her innate Calvinistic nature.  Where tea water has always been brought to a boil in a stove top kettle, and if one wants to melt cheese on one's sandwich, there is a way to do such a thing that is decent and in order, meet and proper so to do; and that way is to place the food into an oven of the conventional variety.  Microwaves just did not quite fit into the proper ethic of food preparation - in some people's opinion anyway.  It is kind of like cheating.

Well, of course that contrarian Calvinist later asked me to marry her, and after discussing and settling our differing views on appliances, I eventually did marry her.  Later, we two bought a home with a microwave oven built-in.  This current home had the original functioning microwave oven for 23 years, until one morning in early December we found it cold and dead.  The microwave was in fact so old, that the owner's manual did not even list an email address or website for product assistance, but rather provided an address to which an owner experiencing a problem could write to and post a letter.  How quaint.

I unbolted the cold carcass of the former quick and faithful food warmer and hauled it to the curb for Wednesday's bulky item pick up by the city.  Living for a few days with a empty space between the cabinetry and the range top was a physical reminder of the integral part the microwave oven plays in our daily life patterns.  Truly, with only the touch a few buttons, a multitude of task were accomplished.  The microwave oven had ingrained itself deeply into our lives.  With a quick bit of research on the internet, we narrowed our choices and moved to quickly replace that appliance.  The old unit was 13" deep, but no such model exists any more, so we have a 16" deep MW that juts out a bit.  The new profile makes all of us think the MW door has been left open, but then we realize it is just the allusion created by the bigger than accustomed new MW..

I measured twice, drilled a set of holes; then reread the installation instructions, and measured once again, only to drill another set of holes through the overhead cabinet.  With several hands supporting the unit, it was lifted into place and the second set of bolt holes actually flanged up to the location of the mounting holes in the top of the oven.  The familiar kitchen routines and timing have now been restored as they were.

I reminded my wife of her "never need or want a microwave oven" quote, and suggested that we test the newly installed MW oven model by having her eat those words - but of course, first we could put those old words into the new MW oven, and heat them quickly before she eats them.  Ah, those Calvinist have such a good sense of humor.

PS - I recall the old hit TV show from the 1960's & 70"s, Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In; where they would hand out on air the "Fickle Finger of Fate Award", a dubious honor for some ridiculous statement or achievement.  One night, the inventor of a new device, supposedly able to quickly cook food using microwaves while keeping the bowl cool, got the Fickle Finger of Fate Award, with the punch line being something like: "I suppose we can now cook an 8,000 pound chicken in only 20 minutes."  Who's laughing now?

Lost Love

A foggy & frigid Friday.  I met my wife for a mid-afternoon start on our Christmas shopping.  After our purchases we walked a few blocks to to get some grub at the pub; a bowl of stew, some fish & chips. I washed it all down with a Monty Python Holy Ale brew.  We vacated our table as the early crowd was filling up the place; I, back to the office to put a wrap on the week, while she drove directly home.

Some time later I walked in from the garage and found her sitting at the word processor in the breakfast nook with a Mona Lisa smile.  After a moment of studying her quizzical expression on her face, she asked, "Did you see what was on the table?"
 I answered, after a brief pause, with a very cautious, "ah, no."
"You need to go take a look".

There at her place on dining room table was a piece of stationery with words written in my own hand, and lying atop the hand written letter was an envelope address to Mrs. Susan Suneson, also recognizable as written in my hand.  The envelope had a foreign postage stamp affixed  in the upper right corner.

"Do you recognize that?  Do remember that letter?" came a mirthful voice from the kitchen.  I looked a bit closer and saw it was dated Feb. 1st, 2007.  The letterhead on the stationery was from the Westin Hotel, Warsaw, Poland.  Yes, I do remember sitting in my hotel room on a Winter's night in Warsaw, where I was to make a presentation on some of the Romanian geology and oil exploration prospects I had developed as a consultant for an international exploration company.  There, overlooking a drab, angular gray block, Soviet inspired skyline that evoked well the eve of a Polish Ground Hog's Day; I decide to write a few lines of poetry to my love and send it off in an old-fashioned envelope.  After all, one can only surf just so much Polish hotel TV before craving a few poetic vowels to go with all of the WC, CZ, SK combinations.  The next morning the staff at the front desk pleasantly assured me that they would post my letter to the USA.

Humor me here:
      Warsaw, Poland to Dallas, Texas USA = 5,743 miles
      Love Letter Dated 2/1/2007 - Received 12/9/2011 = 1,773 Days
      Rate of Travel: 3 Miles 458 Feet and 7.4 Inches per Day; or 679.1 Feet per Hour

Now what happened between the front desk and our mail box over these 4-plus years I can not say, nor I can I hardly speculate.  I must have wonder in the few weeks after my return in early 2007 what ever became of my letter; has the world so quickly moved to email, internet and social media that in most places on this planet, a hand written letter is no longer sacred or even much less accounted for? 

Never-the-less, I confess, it seems much more fun and mysterious and full-brimming with fancy to get a letter, once thought lost, delivered nearly 5 years later.  I dare say better than a text message: "How r u?"

Between the extra couple of hugs I received this evening, I have come to lament what must now be the nearly extinct sweet art of protracted composition and words lovingly sculpted to frame sentiment, hopes and fears and then sealed with a kiss.  Indeed, I do lament a generation that never feels a heart leap upon shuffling through the mail to find a letter addressed to them in a cherished script identifiable as unique to the composer.  All the more, how much is now lost among this generation to not grow old with a bundle of old love letters that easily kindle sparks, joys and tears from good times that should not be forgotten.  Progress is good, and as I blog here tonight, I have more praise than scorn for the internet and all - but a hand written letter has always been a treasure and I am reminded tonight of how sorry I am to feel that this intimate form of communication is all but passed.

In fact, I may now write out some Christmas Letters to long lost friends.  Something I have not done in 11 years.  Watch your mailbox as well as your in-box.

Turkey Travels

Old Hat. Round Trip = 1290 miles. 
How the miles do fly behind the windshield. 
Time flies like arrows - but fruit flies like bananas.

I tripped on up to Columbia, Missouri to pick up Grant for a 1 week Thanksgiving holiday.  He had tickets for the last home football game against Texas Tech and thought he would stay to attend the game on Saturday.  But then heard that the dorms would lock-down at 5 pm and the game would still be in progress and then the question was how would I meet him and pick up his dirty laundry to take back to Dallas? 
Plan B: Skip the game, wait for my arrival around 4:30.  Load dirty laundry and computer with Dad immediately upon arrival.  Get food. Get sleep.  Then get going to Dallas the next day.

While the crowds were still at the game, we found our way to Harpo's downtown where I hoped to get the Missouri cuisine craze "T-Ravs".  Game day menu at Harpo's did not include toasted ravioli (T-Ravs), so settled for BBQ chicken wings, though I feel my life is as of yet incomplete without ever having tasted a T-Rav.  The game was on TV at Harpo's so we could see the home team Tigers come back and win in the 4th quarter.  Also seen were lots of co-eds walking around with fuzzy tiger ear barrettes and some with tiger tails hanging out behind their tight gold and black sweaters.  I'm just saying.

The night's stay for us was in Jefferson City (30 miles out of Columbia), the state capitol, where I could save $60 on a motel room over rates in Columbia.  I am ALL about value.

Grant slept in the car through all of Arkansas and all of Oklahoma.  Not that the natives of those lesser states should take any offense - I'm just saying the boy was tired after staying up most of the night in the motel on his lap top.  Mom whipped together the requested quiche Lorraine once we all arrived home.  Grant's view, "It is good to be home".

The week on either side of Thanksgiving Day itself was filled with reconnecting with friends.  A visit to Garland High to check in on the Might Owl Orchestra, where his 2nd chair cello seat had been filled.  Then an afternoon of fire arms shooting, a night of bowling, a couple of afternoons with the Ultimate Frisbee gang and meals out with buddies at the old hangout spots like IHOP and Chik-fil-A.  We didn't see that much of him actually.  Though we had to work out a car loaning arrangement, as "Ol' Woodrow", the 1998 Oldsmobile 88 seemed to have the started motor go south the first day back.  I told him I'd get it fixed before Christmas.

I informed him of my plan to leave at 6 a.m. on Sunday after Thanksgiving for our return to Mizzou.  He spent most of the night rattling around getting his laundry done.  Once the clean laundry was loaded into the SUV that dark and early morning, he managed to sleep through most of Texas (74 miles) all of Oklahoma, all of Arkansas, and most all of Missouri.  He was awaken about 50 miles short of campus by a phone call from one of his friends who has a two-seater sports car and was at the St. Louis airport picking up 2 other friends (and their luggage) - only there was not enough room for 3 people + luggage for both Caroline and the Jersey Kid; Grant had to say "sorry man, I can't help. But good luck with that".  [I need to find out how that was handled - as I don't think there is an app for that]

It was a quick unload at the entrance to College Avenue Dorm, I said "finish strong" and left him with new coat, new shoes, re-supplied toiletries kit and new socks all procured on Dad's plastic.

My solo return to Garland was an educational one; and I say that in a good way -and a not so good way.  Along I-44 in Lebanon, MO there is a well advertised "Factory Outlet" with "Discount Prices" for Chicago Cutlery and Case (made in America) pocket knives.  From my youngest days, a few life lessons were drilled into me;
Don't hitch hike,
Don't ride with strangers,
Don't go into abandoned mines and
Don't wear the same socks a second day. 
Also ingrained into my psyche as a small traveler in the back seat of the station wagon was the understanding that ANY private endeavor advertised along the highway was a "tourist trap!"  This include reptile farms (which strongly appealed to me), private property caves and the likes of other assorted amusements and retail venues.  Well, I not only stopped at the "Factory Outlet" with made in America "Fantastic Discounts", I actually bought a 10 piece butcher block set of Chicago cutlery, a couple of Victornox (Swiss Army) pocket knives and two kitchen utility knives.   Getting back on the interstate with a bag of knives, I had all of those earlier admonitions sounding off in my head; "Mark! Are you really all about value? - OR, did you just get sucked into a tourist trap, despite your careful upbringing?"



     My second bit of education that Monday return trip was a stop at Wilson's Creek National Battlefield, www.nps.gov/wicr/  southwest of Springfield, MO.  This kind of stop was the diametric moral opposite a tourist trap, if it is sanctioned by State or Federal Government, then it is to be considered a high moral calling to stop, see and learn history.  So for a mere $5, I toured the visitor's center and pretty much had the loop road around the battlefield to myself on that breezy 38 degree late November afternoon.  Wilson's Creek is the site were in 1861, Union General Nathaniel Lyon attacked a force of Confederate soldiers and allied Missouri State Guard troops twice the size of his Federal army.  It was a tactical victory for the Confederacy as the Union General was killed after being wounded 3 times, and Major Stugis withdrew the Union Army back to Springfield, having suffered 24% casualties from his army of about 10,000.  However, the surprise attack accomplished its purpose and drove the battered rebels and Mo State Guards out of Missouri, preserving this key state for Mr. Lincoln throughout the rest of the Civil War.  Always sobering to recall how thousands answered the call to defend the cause with their own blood and walk across ground once strewn with bodies and body parts. 

Once home, I just had to know.  Was Lebanon, MO a tourist trap or a retail bargain?  I priced checked at the local Wal-Mart; my Victornox pocket knives that I paid $16.49 for - available at home for $9.98.  That 10 piece butcher block set of kitchen knives - at Wal-Mart the same brand sells a 15 piece set for less than what I paid.  I should have listened to my Dad - "It's a Trap. It's a Tourist Trap!" 

Admiral Akbar warms the Millennium Falcon

at it approaches the Factory Outlet in Lebanon, Missouri

"It's a tourist trap!"

Now, I guess I have to go home a cut my wrists with Chicago cutlery in order to preserve the family honor.

With Thanks Left Over

 

Thanksgiving Feast is Prepared
Come to the Table

Once again our Thanksgiving Feast was a small affair, but that did not stop
us from giving hearty thanks for all of our blessings. I retrieved Grant from
the University of Missouri the previous Saturday, arriving home Sunday
saying it was good to be home. We did a bit of checking in the highways
and byways, alleys and avenues for a few souls to share our table, but
everyone we thought of already had plans. That is all well and fine - let
the preparations begin! 

Six days ahead of time, it was a list-making, double-checking, wham-bam,
T-day food-array, shop-o-rama extravaganza. The back story to this
year's grocery list (even the simple things in life can be laced with
complications you know): Do we stuff the bird? or just make it on the
range? What to do with cranberries? The basic, or is this the year for
Mama Stanberg's National Public Radio horseradish cranberry relish?
(Any votes for the cranberry gel that comes out of the can with concentric
rings imprinted on the red gelatinous cylinder?) Do we need fresh yeast or
can we risk flat rolls? And as always the most problematic Turkey Day
question of them all: If one makes tomato aspic for Thanksgiving and nobody
eats it, is it still a holiday tradition?

This was the menu:

• Turkey (10 lbs) for 3
• Green beans                                                                                                                           (Note: not green bean casserole, we observed everybody else in the store had the makings for said casserole with had the frozen green beans and a can of cream of mushroom soup)
• Cranberries (But what style?)
• Mashed Potatoes with Gravy
• Diced Sweet Potatoes with Ginger
• Suneson Family Cornmeal yeast Rolls
• Two Wines, Beaujolais & Riesling
• Dessert of Home made Pecan Pie and Pumpkin Pie

Now to fill in the back story. For the stuffing, we actually over did it, so
lots went into the roasted turkey and plenty was cooked on the stove top.
Once Grant got up, we asked about his preference for how the cranberry;
given the choices before him he allowed as to how he "was not eating any
more baloney at this circus" - which means he would plan on declining
anything but a small helping of cranberry relish, so we could make it what
ever way we desired. Done. This year it was to be Mama Stanberg's recipe.
My duties this year were that of turkey baster and bread chef. My yeast
rolls weren't giving me much of rise, looking about as flat as a 14th Century
cartographer's globe; but once rolled and ready to bake, they came out fine.
Another reason to give thanks.

Even for left over turkey enchiladas? Yes.

 

I told the cook that she looked like a Puritan at the Thanksgiving Table -
But I can't show you the picture of her after I told her that  ;-)



Strider stretched out after consuming large helpings of turkey skin and giblets