Tag Archives: life lessons


Memorial Day is an American holiday, observed on the last Monday of May, honoring the men and women who died while while serving in the U.S. military. Originally known as Decoration Day, it originated in the years following the Civil War and became an official federal holiday in 1972

It was Memorial Day at my house, with the Flag flying high from the flag post in the front yard. We had all gathered around the pool in celebration of Memorial Day.  Nothing draws a crowd like a good old fashion cook out poolside. My granddaughter and lot’s of her friends had come to enjoy in the festivities.

The men folks were busy grilling hamburgers and hot-dogs to go with a sundry of other goodies to enjoy when I heard one young person say, “Why do we celebrate this day anyway.”

The hair on the back of my head stood up and the cockles of my spine stiffened. I gathered them all about me and this is what I told them.

“We American’s are from everywhere in the world. The world is a lovely place filled with all sorts of folks. Some good, some bad, just like here in American. Here in American we smell freedom. We smelled it back in the beginning when George Washington and his band of brothers went barefooted in the snow and crossed the freezing waters of the Delaware River under cover of darkness to fight for the fresh air of freedom.

We smelled it when covered wagons crossed the Blue Ridge Mountains and made peace with the Indians to settle ancestral land and in Plymouth Rock the heritage of ancestors from far to the North.

These builders of American came in all colors, creeds and forms of beliefs from all over the world. They built sod huts across the plains of the Dakota’s and far points to the west fueling our manifest destiny.

Thousands came crossing the ocean in wooden ships their hopes running high to breathe the air of freedom. They came from all over, the Europeans, Irish, Italians, Chinese, and Japan. They came from all corners of the world to settle in this grand new land and answer only to themselves, this land and their God.

We as a nation spread our wings as an eagle does and traveled west to conquer the frontier. It was our destiny. Those were the hardy and strong, they endeavored to preserve, and so they did.

Many wars fought and lives lost since then to protect this sweet air of freedom so you can enjoy this lovely day poolside in celebration of this fresh air we call Freedom. Wars and conflicts fought by every soul who has ever arrived sitting foot upon our shores committed to freedom. They gave of themselves and gave of their lives then and now so you my dears can continue to breathe the fresh air of freedom.

They come still upon our soil and as they work and strive because as we early ones did, they too smell the air we call freedom and want to breathe it as their own.

Some say we have lost our way and will soon be a second-class country to other places in the world. They know us not for we breathe freedom in our very veins flooding through our blood. Cemeteries are filled with the dead so that you can sit with me this day poolside and ask this very question. Why am I an American?

To be an American is to be responsible for yourself and your fellow man. To work, toil be creative and re-create repeatedly. Even take up arms if you must to protect or free a stranger you have never met, to rush into two falling towers on 911 eleven and give your life to save the one, the many none of whom you know not the names of because you are an American.

That is what Americans do. They move forward into the face of hell-fire burning torrents of misery never flinching never failing never quitting.

We right the wrongs and have the courage to put our booted foot in the strip,  grab the ear of this Thoroughbred we call American, throw our bodies over and onto its broad back sitting tall in the saddle and ride like the wind of an F-5 tornado to defend her. Moreover, that my darling young folks gathered here today poolside in celebration of Memorial Day is what it means to be an American.

America this wonder of all wonders we are all so blessed to call home.”

Pass the Knowledge On!!


A Bliss Busting Moment

This is for all the large busted women out there. I know you will understand and perhaps may have even experienced the ordeal I went through today.

I have a lovely slim fitting white dress with a zipper that goes from my tailbone to the back of my neck. It has a rounded high collar and the loveliest embroidery of summer flowers you have ever seen. I really love this dress. It however needs two people to get in the thing. Well, I can put it on by myself I think to myself even if I’ve never tried before it being the sort of dress where a helper comes in handy to zip the crapper up.

I decided to wear it out to a meeting I had scheduled. Home alone with no Ladies maid or husband to help get the thing on, I decided I could outsmart the lovely white dress which by the way comes down to just above my ankles and looks just grand with my new pair of stunning stiletto heels.

I showered, did my hair which by the way for once turned out perfect all the while rolling around in my mind how I could get my lovely dress on without help. Satisfied now I had figured the whole thing out, off the hanger it came as I gently lay in on the bed. With panties and my boulder holder in place, I unzipped the lovely white dress and with great care not to mess up my for once great looking hairstyle, I gently slipped the dress over my head.

All seems well and I began zipping up the back as far as my arms could reach. I used my left hand to pull the back of the dress up until I thought I might choke myself to death and began reaching for the zipper. Nothing, it wasn’t there. It was still too far down for my fingers to find it. Maybe if I use my other arm my hand will reach the zipper. Those were my thoughts at the time anyway. Releasing my grip from the back, I took a deep gasp of air and repeated the process. Nothing doing my arms being too short and I began mumbling words like Crapper, you can fill in the blanks on the other words.

Not wanting to accept defeat, I quickly moved to plan B. Plan B consisted of taking the dress off, zipping the back all the way up and slipping it over my head. It would mean a quick redo of my perfect hairstyle but I’m okay with that I thought and proceeded.

It took a great deal of effort but I managed to get the thing over my head pulling with all my strength it made it to half way over my boobs. What happened next is a real Bliss Buster of the highest order.

The lovely white dress with the exquisite embroidered collar was stuck and so was I. You see the dress I was so sure I could outwit had small arm holes. The dress is hanging half way down my boobs and for all my efforts my arms are flinging so high in the air they were flapping up against my ear lobes.

Somehow only God knows the dress had bundled itself up into rolls, bundled under more rolls followed by inside out knots between the dress and it’s lining. I’m no quitter I screamed loud enough to wake the dead things I can’t talk about at the moment and shuffled toward the kitchen.

I hate the dress so much at this point, I want to kill it but how I pondered? Kitchen shears that should do the trick those suckers will cut anything.

I squatted down trying to get one of my ear lobe flapping arms to reach and open the kitchen drawer holding the presently needed kitchen shears. It was a no go. Oh, I got the drawer open but naturally the one thing I needed was in the back of the drawer.

Crappers, double double crappers! I couldn’t get my arms down far enough to raffle through the other kitchen utensils and reach it. My ass can feel the draft from the air conditioner and I am so frustrated with the dress I’m not just going to kill it I’m going to bury it in an unmarked grave.

Screaming at the top of my lungs you fringing dress you you’re not going to leave me this way for some Jehovah Witness to find me and you’re not going to leave me this way for my husband to come home and laugh his rear off at me either.

Martin Luther King’s words began ringing in my ears, “we shall overcome”. Even my dog Braveheart had run for refuge to his pillow in the den to hide until it was over.

It took hours of bending squatting and crossing my legs so as not to pee my panties but I retrieved those kitchen shears. Somewhere during the process the zipper broke opening up the dress so it just hung there stuck to my butt in folds, rolls and knots.

My arms are free, my boobs feel like they’ve just been released from a carpenters clamp and I’m good to go to uncross my legs and high tail it to the bathroom.

Free now of the dress alone in my home in my panties and my boulder holder I begin to drink. Nooooooooo not water. I poured myself a glass of wine and then another until I felt the stress releasing me from my ordeal.

Later that afternoon I’m not sure of the time, I put on a pair of jeans and a loose fitting top. I and that once loved lovely slender fitting white dress with the exquisite lace collar made a visit to the garage where upon I retrieved the shovel and deep in the rear of the backyard where noisy neighbors couldn’t see I began digging a hole.

It must have been a really big hole I don’t recall any of the digging process. My husband’s voice bought me back to reality when he returned home in his big ass truck and said, “what in the hell are you doing woman digging a six foot deep four foot wide, eight feet long hole in the backyard? Have you lost your fringing mind?”

I looked up but never said a word. I gave him one of those looks. Ladies you know the look I’m referring too. Fear crossed his face then I heard him say, “you must be out of wine Dear I’ll go get you a bottle, maybe two or three. How many do you want Dear? Oh, never mind I’ll buy a case for you. Go on with what you’re doing Dear mum’s the word with me. My lips are sealed Dear never saw the hole don’t know who/what might be in it either. Be back later Dear” and off he went down the driveway disappearing out of sight.

He’s back now with the wine and I got to thinking for him to plunk out money for a case of my favorite Merlot maybe I should just keep that hole in the backyard and not bother covering it. Well except for a few shovels to cover the lovely slender fitting white dress with the exquisite lace collar.

Want more go to my web site http://www.arleneswitzerflynn.net.

Do me a favor while you’re there download Buzzard’s Glory my novel available through Amazon.  It has some distressing funny crap also.

Life by the ‘Size of the Bowl’

Blackberry Pie !!

When I was a child of eight years there were bushes of blackberry plants that grew along the left side of the fence of my Grandmothers garden. They were plumb and juicy and I could just taste the sweetness of a wonderful Blackberry Pie rolling around in my mind.
“I’ll pick the berries if you make the pie Grandma.” “Not today little one, she replied I’m just not feeling well enough to roll the dough and besides it has gotten too difficult for me to do things from my wheel chair anymore.”
Being an impatient as well as  curious I had watched her make many a pie before the really old age part had come for her. Now my turn to do for her came into my heart as well as my want of a Blackberry Pie.
I remember her always measuring everything before she began into separate measuring cups spoons and bowls. With all the ingredients mixed, she would make the pie dough first and form it into two balls, wrap them in wax paper and put them in the icebox to chill. When I would ask why we had to wait and do such a silly thing as wrap her pie dough in wax paper and prolong the making of a delicious pie, she said the dough needed to set and be cool so it would roll out to be the perfect crust for whatever pie she might be making that day.
I recall looking at my beautiful grandmother and  realizing her pie making days were behind her and my pie baking days were about to begin.
Many was the time she had told me the story about patience being a virtue. There were times I simply choose to ignore the warning. Be careful with that little ditty you might get what you want but the cost may be too high a price down the road when it’s time to pay up.
I would later find out in life that patience really is a virtue and as difficult as it is to follow it works well for nearly all things in life. There are times, however that your heart will pull you to the point that you know in your gut that it is time to go forward and go immediately. Heed these feelings and follow your dreams.
The reward that follows will be your work will be a joy of giving if it is what you want most from it. Your family will be a joy to you if you can’t wait to get up in the morning to love and care for them.
Above all take care of yourself. Care for your health, your time with prayer and meditation, your personal needs and mental health so that you can participate in life not pass through it lost in the seemingly overwhelming events of each day. Learn in life sometimes it is okay to say NO!
I, however still wanted a plumb delicious Blackberry pie and having not yet fully grasp the full meaning of patience began my task of getting one made.
Let’s see I’ll need water, flour from the Hoosier cabinet, Crisco or lard and salt. But how much of each will I need. I didn’t want to wait for the dough to settle and cool all wrapped up in wax paper in the ice box so I simply took a glass of water and stuck it into little freezer part of our ole fashion ice box. It was my child like solution to the waiting on the dough to cool and set so it could be rolled out as part of the process of pie making.
Much of life’s innovations have come from a need to do things better and faster and there is no reason that all the old ways must be followed as it has been done in the generations before ours. Make your own mark on life using the old and adding the new.
Grabbing my Grandmothers woven wicker basket out into the thick of the blackberry patch I ran picking berries from both sides of the garden fence.  What didn’t end up in my mouth ended up in the basket until it was full. I’m gleaming that this took me about an hour to do because I was eating as many as I was picking.
When I returned with my basket full of blackberries my poor old Grandmother had fallen asleep for her afternoon nap.
I began looking around her kitchen until I found what I thought would be the right size bowl to mix the dough. I turned the knob of the gas oven on to lit the pilot light with a long match. She kept bunches of them in a copper holder nailed to the wall next to the stove. When I bent down to light the match on a special stone she kept on the floor next to the stove I read what had been carved on it.

The rock said, “grow old with me the best is yet to be.”  Funny how you can pass something even stumble into it and then there it is in full meaning.
I realized I was getting a glimpse into her life that one day would be my own and it made my heart sing because I loved her so.
I opened the oven door and when the lit match crossed the pilot light it made a puff sound just like it had done for my grandmother a thousand time before.
I stood there in front of her old gas stove and wondered what temperature I should choose for the baking process of this my very first pie. It came to my memory that almost everything was baked at 350 degrees except the turkey for thanksgiving. So 350 degrees it is then for me and my Blackberry pie and so I set the temperature for 350 degrees and shut the oven door.
A Hoosier Cabinet is built small but has storage for small things like spices and such and a wonderful metal box that one puts flour in. When you want to bake or cook something that requires flour you just open the cabinet door crank the handle and sift out what you want into the bowl you have placed under it. It’s not a means of measurement but the greatest of a sifter for flour.
Cranking the little handle I begin to fill my bowl. How much I wonder of flour should I sift into my bowl. I don’t know so I sifted flour until I believed I have the amount just right for my blackberry pie.
Life may be a little like sifting flour. You must be careful not to take on more than you can handle. You must decide what size your bowl will be in life so as to fill it full of joy.
In the old days women used lard for everything from frying chicken, eggs and also for baking. Now in this new fangled world along came Crisco and hog butchering for the boiling of fat to render into lard for cooking and soap making became a thing of the past. You may want to study the things of the past they may yet again come in handy.
The past has a way of repeating itself. If you are not careful making wise choices so as to only keep those things good that worked well and discard the unwanted ways that have led to troubles, trials and tribulations you could find yourself in a pickle of your own making one day. Don’t fret over it just cut your losses and move forward learning all the while.
Retrieving the Crisco tub, how much I wondered will I need to make the dough crumbly so it will be light and fluffy to touch and taste when baked? So with a big spoon and my Grandmothers thing-a-ma-gig for mixing pastry dough I began.
Her thing-a-ma-gig had a wooden handle with half moon wires attached to it. When you turned the bowl with the flour and the Crisco using the devise in and up and down, side to side motion it became crumbly and just perfect for the next step in the baking of my wonderful Blackberry Pie. That is of course if you know what your doing.  Little Crisco lots of flour, not working it’s not crumbling so in goes a little more Crisco and finally after what appears to be ¾ cup of Crisco and two cups of flour it’s crumbly just like Grandma’s.
Don’t forget the salt, I remembered. How much I wonder, not knowing I just sprinkle what looks to me like ¼ teaspoon of salt and dusting my hands over the crumbly flour mixture and with one more toss with the thing-a-ma-gig the salt distributed itself.

Some say salt is the spice of life. I say happiness is.
Into the ice box I go for the water. It’s cold now icy cold because I’ve had it in the little freezer compartment. I skim off the thin layer of ice that has accumulated on top and with a fork to use for blending the dough together. I made a well in the middle of the bowl of my crumbled up mixture and began dumping that icy cold water in.
Slowly at first, I begin to add the water to the middle. Making a circle by turning the bowl as I use the fork to mix in the crumbly flour mixture I see it coming together, little more water maybe that’s what it needs to bind the extra flour mixture. When I am finished I consider that I have put in around 2/3rd cup of water maybe a little more or a little less, after all it’s the size of the bowl.
Taking my little hands I gave the dough a bit of a kneading before separating the dough in half and forming the dough into two softball size pieces.
Back to my grandmothers Hoosier cabinet I go with another one of her bowls. This time a smaller one cranking away for more silky dusty home ground floor.
Now I have two bowls on my grandmother’s old wood kitchen tabletop. I begin to sprinkle flour all around the open space of her tabletop as though I’m about to make a masterpiece to be hung in a museum far way in some big city like New York or Boston.
My grandmother’s kitchen table was made of plank boards pressed together as close as possible held up by four strong oak legs that were hand hewed. You could still see where the wood left plain in shape, large, tongue and grooved on the top, narrow at the bottom of the legs allowing the table to sit sturdy all held together with wooden pegs there it stood sturdy on the kitchen floor. It was a good table and held many generations of memories of women and their baking and sitting around it for family meals. So many at times we had to eat in shifts as in those days one did not take food and wander around the house wherever they pleased like today. Family meals were just that; family sitting at the table in old oak chairs filling the air with conversation, enlightenment, news, fun and yes squabbles.
When I took her rolling pen out of the center drawer, it seemed for me her magnificent and magic table. I dusted it with flour. It being such an old table a small dusting of flour from the little bowl onto the rolling pen danced like snowflakes between the cracks of two old boards loosened just a tad from generations of use causing a whitening of the floor beneath it.
It was my grandmothers table now but one day it would be mine. Those were my thoughts when I was a child of eight. I would fill another generation of memories for this fabulous old piece of wood and hold for safekeeping to be passed on again, again, forever until the end of time. It had been her mothers and her mother’s before that all the way back to the beginning when the country was new and out of the wilderness came the first brave settlers bringing new life to a new land. This land we call home our America.
I begin to roll the floured rolling pen across the flattened ball of dough. I had seen my grandmother give her rolling pen a few turns across the dough then pick it up turn it over to its other side and repeat the process. Sprinkling flour and rolling away until she had a circle made of dough.
Wow, I had done it, but it’s not blackberry pie yet. My excitement grew like that of a new baby kitten the first time she discovers a warm bowl of milk under the kitchen table just for her.

I fold back the dough and lift it ever so softly into my Grandmothers pie pan. My anticipation is growing now and quickly I retrieve another bowl and dump in all the blackberries I had picked.
Oh my I need another bowl, a smaller one this time for the sugar. Oh my yes sugar I’ve never seen my Grandmother bake a pie without lots of sugar. What’s lot’s of sugar, I wonder? Pulling out every bowl she owned, finally I look at my Grandmothers bowls and pick one just the right size or at least I hope it’s the right size. To the brim with sugar it goes until you can’t tell where the bowl ends and the sugar begins.
Oh how I wish Grandma would finish her nap and wake up I need some advice. What kind of spice would a blackberry pie want? She would know.

Take heed you might want to ask those that know before they are gone.
Alone in the kitchen I find a jar of nutmeg and take a good sniff. It seems delightful to me. Next to it is a box of tapioca pudding granules. I love tapioca pudding and begin reading the box, for heaven sakes you can put tapioca pudding in berry pie to thicken the juices from the berries it says. The box says two tablespoons for pudding and ¼ cup for pies. It also says that is for a quart of berries.
Well now here we have a dilemma, I picked the berries, dumped them into the big bowl poured the  bowl filled with the sugar on top so there is no way to measure the berries now. Not to worry this is going to be a wonderful pie so I open my palm and dump out enough nutmeg to make around a teaspoon full. I dust my hands over the berries and sugar and give them a look- see, so far so good.
Now let’s try to figure out this tapioca thing. If I were going to be a big plumb blackberry pie how much tapioca would I want in me?
Then like a bolt of lightning followed by a huge clap of thunder on a hot summer’s day it hits me. It’s not the pie it’s the size of the bowl!
Opening the box of tapioca, I sprinkle away until the good Lord pulls my hand aside and tells me that’s enough of that thank you very much. Not thinking to use a spoon and because things have begun to slow down considerably trying to figure out how much of this and how much of that I just use my hands to mix the wonderful black berries, sugar, nutmeg and tapioca together. When the blackberries are mixed and my hands are a beautiful color of purple I lift up the bowl and dump it all into the dough covered big pie pan.
Quickly I roll out the top cover of the dough for the pie and place it on top. Round and round I go with my grandmothers cutting shears. I cut off the excess dough hanging off the pie pan. Using my little silver baby spoon  once used to feed me when I was little, I raise the dough up and around the edge of the dough rolled for the top of the pie. Gently I press down at the same time making a pretty little circle to seal in the pie dough to the pie pan so the excess juice couldn’t bubble up over my beautiful pie crust and ruin what looks to me like the most beautiful pie I had ever seen.
It was about this time my Grandmother wakes from her nap and magically appears in the kitchen. “Oh my, what a beautiful pie and what a big mess you have made of my kitchen Little One, as she begins to giggle.” I look around and she is right there is flour everywhere. On the floor, on the table, in my hair I’ve got purple cheeks from covering my face with my hands trying to figure out what goes next with what to make this grandeur of a pie.
Grandmother’s don’t get mad, they don’t fuss they just love you no matter what. A good grandmother loves you as Jesus loves you, unconditional love. If you don’t get a good one and end up with a grumpy grandmother my advice is to go borrow someone else s nicer one. A loving Grandmother is a lot like God. She will make room for all who knock upon her door, remember that and take time to stay in touch with her as much as possible. She’s always there for you never waiving in that love, they love you no matter what and will teach you if you will only open your eyes and listen. Grandmothers don’t make deals and trades or force you for favors you don’t want to give. They don’t give you things and take them away after making promises. Grandmother’s always keep their promises unless they die of course then they just didn’t get to stay around long enough that’s all.
“I guess you should take that fork of yours and put a few pricks in the top of the crust so the air can escape so that pie of yours doesn’t explode when you put it in the oven to bake, she tells me with a big wide smile on her face.” I know she is bamboozling with me. Those pricks in the dough are to let the air escape so the pie won’t overflow and drip all down in the oven making a big ole mess to clean up later.Baked and done she says to me, “It looks wonderful to me Sweetie but let’s us give your granddad the first piece okay. Then we’ll know if we have a winner or a do over.” “What’s a do over Grandma?”
“Well, that’s a question for your Granddad to answer. If he likes it great, if he doesn’t it’s out to the berry patch and I’ll talk you through the making of another berry pie. A do over in life dear is when you fall down or fail at something. Get up, start over, no matter how many times it takes. Lot’s of folks quit. Don’t do that. Get up, get going, learn better to do better.”
I remember thinking at the time all this for a little ole Blackberry Pie.
Shuffling across the flour covered kitchen floor in my bare feet my lovely Grandmother opens the oven door and into it I place my prized berry pie. Closing the door I ask her how long should it bake? We’ll bake it until the crust is a golden brown she tells me.
It is at that very moment, I knew I would become a grown woman all to quickly with my own kitchen, somehow in that tiny speck of time it became clear to me to savor each moment as if it were my last. I too would learn about the living and learning the lessons of life guided by the ‘Size of the Bowl’. My grandmother taught me the right and wrong of life in her small cozy kitchen.

Know this, a time will come for us all just as it did for my lovely grandmother when our hair is gray and hearts gentled by life with wisdom we will pass on to another generation to cook and learn about the lessons of life by the ‘Size of the Bowl’.  Seek out the ones who already know these things, listen, learn and incorporate their knowledge into your own new life as you begin your journey.
Was my pie a do over?  Yes and no because like life I have lived by the ‘Size of the Bowl’.
If you stayed with me in this story this long you deserve to know how to make the best Blackberry pie ever made by an eight year old. I’m still making the crust just as I did back then. It’s never failed me.
First things first put 2/3rds cup of water in the freezer compartment of your refrigerator and turn your oven on to 400 degrees to pre-heat.
Let’s do the Blackberry filling first:

Place your sifter over a bowl and place into it 1 cup of sugar
5 tbsp. Flour, ½ tsp. Cinnamon, sift together.

In another bowl add 4 overflowing cups of rich ripe delightful Blackberries combine with the above ingredients mixing gently but well and set aside.

Now to the good stuff:
Place into your sifter 2 cups of flour, ¼ teaspoon salt and sift into your bowl. Crappers if your really new at this make sure your flour sifter is in your bowl before you add the above ingredients.
Add ¾ cup of Crisco mixing together until crumbly. (just a little tip here Clara Darling, if you take your measuring cup rinse it with water and put it in the freezer the same time as your water, well let’s just say it’s magic because when you measure out your Crisco into your now frozen measuring cup it will not stick and slide out like a dream)
Make a well in the middle of the bowl, remove the cold (very cold) water from the freezer and gradually add to the flour mixture with a fork moving the bowl slowly until you see the flour mixture turn into a ball. (Or you can do like I do and just dump it all in.) After all what’s the worse that can happen, you’ll just need to add a little more flour.
Now give it a little kneading right there in the bowl and divide it into half.
Flour and dust your rolling surface to include your rolling pen. Place one/half of the dough on the surface and put a small dusting of flour on top. Roll away up and down right to left. Your dough will be very pliable and easy to turn over for additional shaping.
Place first layer of dough in a good hardy pie pan, fire keeled if you have one if not use what ever one you have. I just find the crust on the bottom bakes much better using a good pie pan that’s all.
Roll out your top crust and turn down in half on your rolling surface making it easy to lift up and place on top of your pie pan and fold back to cover your pie filling.
Place your bowl of Blackberry mixture into the bottom crust of your pie pan and place 1 and 1/3rd tbsp. in pats of Butter on top scattered around the top of the Blackberries in the pie pan.
Cover with the top crust. We are almost done now.
Take a pair of shears and cut any long lengths leaving enough of the bottom crust to fold over and into the top crust. Once this is done bring the bottom rim of the crust over and onto the top and crimp making even indentations with your fingers or whatever method you prefer. I still use the baby spoon method it works for me.
Don’t forget to make two slits on the top of the crust for the air to escape and the pie to bubble up. I like making the sign of the cross but you can make a smiley face or whatever suits your fancy.
Place in the oven on a cookie sheet or pizza pan doesn’t really matter. This will catch any juice that might run out of the rim of your pie and save you from that extra job of oven cleaning later on.
Bake for 1 hour and you’ve got yourself a yummy home made no additive honest to goodness pie. Enjoy!! Thanks for going back and forth in time with me today it’s been a blast.

Life’s many storms

It was noon. Could have been any day of the week or year. I am looking out my kitchen window when Buckie, my rooster began gathering all of his hens back into the brooder house.

He’s not stupid and knew we were under a tornado warning.

Noooooooo, don’t ask me how he knew because he doesn’t have internet or cable TV access in his part of my Forest. None-the-less he knew.

One hen, Murcrow the cougar of the brood was no where to be found.
Buckie crowed and wailed in anguish, “Murcrow hurry hurry the sky is black as night”. She’s not talking and I’m not telling on her either. Soooooooooo I see him waddling out of the brooder house risking life and tail feathers in search of her.
She had found her a spot behind a big bush tucked in nice and comfy under the eave in the back of the house.  Naturally I am privy to all of the doings because like I said earlier I’m looking out the kitchen window and for most folks that would be the back of the house.
Murcrow seems proud of Buckie and his show of affection. Him being the boss of things and protector of his hens. Sooooooooo in her I’m okay voice she chirps “all is well and you have done your best. Now go back and attend to your frightened brood of hens.”
She has seen 16 years of all four seasons now having reached the age where she frankly doesn’t give a crap what the weather is up too.

Crawling next to her behind the big bush under the overhang of the house roof below my kitchen window I hear him tell her, “I’m here, I love you. You were my first fix into roosterhood and I ain’t leavin’ you now”!!

When trouble comes into your life and trust me I’m as old as Murcow in hen years take a lesson and listen.  Saddle up, put your booted foot in the strip, grab the ear of this wild stallion of life, throw your body up and over and ride like the wind for success.  Buckie did!

If that doesn’t work for you hide out and miss being near the ones you love, the dreams you wish you had followed. Don’t do that it’s been done before. Doesn’t work does it?

I watched an old hen teach a young buck rooster to take a risk out of love, passion and respect. When it’s your turn pay it forward. Ride now friends, ride like the wind. Follow your dream we’re all burning daylight in one way or the other!!