Our Friend Jeff

This won’t be the usual light posting about recipes and good tv. This one is about our friend Jeff.

Jeff is from Iowa (Idiots out Walking Around–I laugh every time I think of that). He is an excellent guitar player and plays a mean version of Sweet Home Alabama. He is an awesome dad to his three boys. He also fries up a delicious onion ring, which I discovered just a few months ago.

We’ve known Jeff for ten years. He lives a few streets over from us. We see him almost every day . . . or if we don’t SEE him, we definitely HEAR him. You see, Jeff drives a Harley. When he is off to do errands or meet a friend or do other Jeff-type things, we can hear his EXTRA LOUD Harley driving by. Hubby or I will say (to ourselves of course), “Hi Jeff!

Jeff has talked to me about his love for motorcycles. He feels joy when he rides. He wears a Mad Max style helmet (or maybe more Hogan’s Heroes) and when you see him, you can’t help but smile. The sound of his bike has become a part of our neighborhood’s “symphony of sounds,” if you will. Like the clunk-clunk of skateboarders practicing in the street, the thunk thunk of the boys kicking a soccer ball in the greenbelt, the birds in the trees.

The thing is, we haven’t heard the happy sound of Jeff and his Harley lately. He and his beloved bike bit the dust . . . or more like attacked a tree, exactly nine weeks ago. The bike is totalled, and Jeff is pretty busted up himself. He has been in and out of the hospital all this time, fighting infections with names so long I can’t even pronounce them and having surgeries on broken bones and enduring pieces of hardware being placed inside to just kinda hold Jeff together.

His adorable wife, Denice, has become his Number One Nurse. I saw her yesterday, and she looked exhausted. She showed us pictures of Jeff’s wounds on her phone (eeeuuw!) and talked very positively about Jeff’s progress. But all of us who know him are worried. So, if you wouldn’t mind, send out a prayer or some positive healing thoughts or good karma for Jeff–whatever it is you believe in. Because right now he needs a little help.

Thank you,

Mary

Love Letter to Lola

Dear Lola,

How can I properly express the depth of my feelings for you?

You are beautiful. You are exciting. You are strong. You lift my spirits when they are low. When I’m with you, I see the horizon stretching out before me, the clouds above, the breeze caressing my hair. You take me to places I never thought I’d go.

I catch a glimpse of you through my window and my heartbeat quickens. I see your rich red paint gleaming in the sunlight. You beckon to me. We speak each other’s unspoken language. You know what I want . . . and just how to give it to me. Faster, faster, faster . . . aaaaaahhhhh.

You are The Bomb. I adore you with all my heart.

Love,
Mary
P.S. I promise to buy you a new set of tires very soon.

Peach Tea in Paradise

First of all, I must ask you, is there anything better than lunch out with girl friends? Three old friends and I met at our local Paradise Cafe today to solve the problems of the world. I’m sure the bus boy was wondering if our plan was to stay til closing. I am full to the brim with peach iced tea and have garlic breath from my Ceaser Salad. Life doesn’t get much better.

Speaking of dining with friends, we spent a lovely evening last Saturday with Mr. and Mrs. Brown at St. Francis restaurant in downtown Phoenix. How fun to try a new restaurant and pretend we are part of the “hip and happening” crowd! The website describes it as having “a comfortably modern and rustic sensibility.” To be honest, all I saw was modern–no rustic was within my eyesight, however, we sat on the patio. Maybe the rustic is all indoors (I noticed some pretty brick work–that’s rustic). My pork green chile verde was heavenly, and Hubby loved his pork chop. Mrs. Brown’s pot roast was a work of art, perched on top of a two-inch tall brick of white bread. Mr. Brown ate every last drop of the goat cheese appetizer. The patio’s fireplace provided ambiance, as did the twinkle of white lights in the trees lining the walls. St. Francis felt . . . special. Comfortable, inviting, cozy, interesting. Can’t wait to go back! Check it out at http://www.stfrancisaz.com.

We were delivered home after dinner (thanks for driving, Mr. Brown–your Prius is ever-so-much more spacious inside than one would guess by viewing the exterior), and Hubby suggested he and I go to The Lake Place for a nightcap. We call it The Lake Place. It’s had a number of names over the years, and we’ve decided not to try to keep up. Normally I would’ve grabbed my bag and beaten him to the car, but lately I find I’m enjoying being home with the kids. Hubby wasn’t too disappointed to stay home. We poured glasses of House Red Wine (that’s the brand–affordable and tasty–I’m SO not qualified to discuss wine), and settled ourselves in front of the very entertaining fourth episode of “Roswell.”

Roswell is a tv series that ran for three seasons, beginning in 1999. The show is based on a series of young adult novels written by Melinda Metz. I’m always on the look-out for tv shows that are inoffensive and appeal to all ages. Roswell really fits the bill. It has the sci-fi element for Hubby and William, and it has romance and cute boys for Eve and I. After the second episode, I turned to Eve, who is a big Stephanie Meyer fan and said, “If I were the author of the Roswell series, I’d be pretty mad at Stephanie Meyer for ripping off my story ideas.” There were so many similarities–just substitute vampires for aliens and voila–you have “Twilight.” Oh well, as they say, there is nothing new under the sun. We use Netflix to instantly watch it through our Wii. Try “Roswell” and let me know what you think.

Fresh Lemon Bars (and Patience in Parenting)

One of my very favorite things about living in Arizona is the lemons. Lemons the size of grapefruit, hanging nonchalently over neighbor’s fences, just begging to be stolen, um, er, picked. Sweet, juicy, delectable lemons. Put ’em in pie, in cake, in tea, in margaritas, on brocolli, . . . you get the idea. I can’t get enough of them.

I’ve pretty much made my Love for Lemons known throughout the community. It’s not unusual for a friend to ask via e-mail “do you need lemons?” YES! I’ve come home to find bags of lemons on my doorstep. YES! I’ve opened my cell phone to see a text reading “stop by–lemons on porch r 4 u.” YES! My mother-in-law gifts me with a paper sack full. I am in Lemon Heaven.

Sadly, Lemon Season is coming to a close. Sure, there are still lemons to be had (trust me, this week I plan to scour the ‘hood for any that can easily be reached), but soon the 100 degree temps will turn them into hot lemon bombs as they sit on the branch. So as a tribute to one of our most versatile fruits, today I present you with the recipe for (drum roll, please) Fresh Lemon Bars!

First, we need to address the name, “Fresh Lemon Bars.” I found this recipe in a beautiful cookbook called “Lemons” when I was a young bride. Foofy cookbooks were not in our tight budget, so I hastily jottied the recipe down on the back of a paperscrap found in my purse, nervously keeping an eye out for a book store employee who might put the kibosh on my recipe theft. (I see a pattern here: Lemons = Unnatural Urge to commit petty theft.) Anyway, the name always cracked me up. Who wants “Unfresh Lemon Bars?” These are the best Lemon Bars I have ever tasted. The secret is to use as much lemon zest as you can. I get bored with the zesting, so sometimes my bars taste tangier than other times.

This afternoon I was looking for a place to stow the latest sack o’ lemons. I decided it was much easier to use them, than to store them. I had just gotten my Fresh Lemon Bar ingredients out when my daughter texted me, “Can you give me a ride home from school?” I like her to walk home. I tell her this in the morning when I drop her off. “Walk home after school.” So I text back, “I’m eating ice cream. And I don’t have any pants on.” This was actually true. If any of you are in your 40s and like to bake, I would recommend getting rid of the pants before you begin. You’re cooler and feel unencumbered so can move freely about the kitchen. But being the Super Mom that I am, I put my pants back on and went to get her. I am constantly amazed at my patience in parenting. But that’s another story.

Finally, here is the recipe:

Fresh Lemon Bars

1 cup butter, softened
1/2 powdered sugar (confectioners)
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 cups flour
4 large eggs
1 cup granulated sugar
grated rind of one lemon
6 Tablespoons lemon juice
an additional 1/4 cup powdered sugar to dust on top

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9 x 13″ pan. In a mixing bowl, combine butter, 1/2 cup powdered sugar and vanilla. Beat until fluffy. Gradually add flour, mixing until well combined. Spread evenly into bottom of baking pan. Bake for 20 minutes.

While the pastry bakes, in a bowl, combine eggs, granulated sugar, lemon rind, and lemon juice. Stir to blend all ingredients. Pour lemon mixture over baked pastry layer. Return to oven and bake until topping is set and lightly browned, approximately 20 minutes.

Allow ten minutes for bars to cool, then dust with powdered sugar. I let them cool for at least 30 minutes to allow for easier cutting.

Dear Mother Nature

Dear Mother Nature,

I have a bone to pick with you.

You promised us rain. In fact, you promised us TWO DAYS of rain. The wind, the gray skies, the low pressure system that made my arthritic thumb ache–very nice, very dramatic. Thanks so much.

But I need rain. I need it to wash the bird poop off my roof. I need it to wash the carpet of yellow Sissoo Tree pollen from my patio. I need it to wash the dirt off my van. I need it to disorient your Mockingbird that yells “tweeter tweeter TWEET” over and over again as soon as I put my head on my pillow each night. I need it to clean the air so I can breathe deeply again. You PROMISED!

Yes, I know, the temps are 15 degrees cooler than our normal. The cute puffy clouds are very Mary Poppins and it’s nice for all the joggers and golfers and dog walkers, yada yada yada. Yes, it’s been the best April I can remember. But please–just an hour of rain? Is it asking too much?

And while you’re at, give Mr. Mockinbird in Olive Tree Number Two in The Back Yard a message: Stop with the all-night parties or I’m gonna find my gun.

Yours,

Mary
P.S. Thanks for the puffy clouds.

Puppy School Wraps

On Wednesday nights for as long as I can remember (okay, for a year now), we have been taking Ruby Spoon to Puppy Class.  She is Super Dog during class, but as soon as we get home, everything she’s learned is forgotten.  So we sign her up for another class.  We get home at 7:30 and are hungry for a quick, delicious meal.  Often we have Puppy School Wraps.  This recipe makes six wraps.

Six medium flour tortillas
1 lb. cooked, sliced pork (I fry boneless pork chops in a pan in teriyaki sauce–leftovers would be perfect for this)
one jar roasted red peppers, sliced
one small onion, sliced
Ranch dressing
blue cheese
spinach leaves

In a saucepan, saute your onion and red pepper in olive oil for ten minutes. Microwave your wraps about 30 seconds. Place tortilla on plate. Spread 2 Tablespoons Ranch on tortilla. Place about eight spinach leaves on top of that. Add as much pork as you like. Top with pepper-onion mixture, crumble on blue cheese and voila! I served mine tonight with warm black beans and some crisp green grapes I got at Sprouts this morning.

Honeybunch

A recent conversation between myself and my husband:

Him:  I’m getting fat.  I need to get to the gym more often.

Me:  I look at his stomach and say nothing.

Him:  You’re SO MEAN to me!

Me, hurt:  When am I mean??!!

Him:  Only when you talk to me.

Me:  I didn’t say a word!   And I’m NOT mean to you.

Him:  You ARE mean.

Me, with narrowed eyes:  Explain for me in DETAIL, because I don’t think it’s true.

Him, looking scared:  Well, a lot of times you come into a room and you start talking as if we’re already in the middle of a conversation.  And it’s really confusing.

Me:  That’s not mean.

Him, on a roll now:  And you’re always calling everyone “Sweetie” or “Honey” or “Honeybunch” and nobody knows who you’re talking to.  We have to figure it out by what you’re saying and by process of elimination.  And it’s really annoying.

Me:  But not  mean.  So let me get this straight:  You’re complaining because I’m so EXTREMELY NICE that I call you all by pet names and terms of endearment?  Gosh, I see your point.  I AM mean.

Him:  Sigh.  Nevermind.

Wending our Way From Mexico

Word for the Day:  Wend: To proceed on or go along.

Today I am wending my way through our vacation laundry.  Yes, it’s Wednesday and we’ve been home since Sunday.  I have absolutely no excuse (well, I thought the NEW dryer was broken–I called Hubby and said, “It sounds as if small pebbles are in the drum.”  He sheepishly confessed he’d been picking up William’s airsoft bullets from the driveway and putting them in his pockets.  The dryer drum is full of airsoft bullets.)

We had a relaxing weekend in Rocky Point, Mexico.  We hadn’t been since October, a long stretch for us.  The kids played hookey Friday, and we arrived at our beach by 2ish that afternoon.  80 degrees and a beautiful blue sky decorated with towering white clouds.  We don’t get clouds like that at home.  Hubby and I put our toes in the sand, noses in books, beers in hand; the kids got their shovels and pails to build sand castles, and all was right with the world.

Well, almost right with the world.  Our tradition is to stop at Reggie’s 8/12 Drunken Donuts (think the Mexican version of 7/11 with lots of beer and fresh donuts) and buy a case of Pacifico beer.  I don’t know if it’s just me getting older, or if they’ve changed the recipe–all I know is it gives me terrible, um, stomach distress.   So this time I bought MGD at our Fry’s at home to sub for the gas-filled Mexican brew.  I fear maybe my eyesight is failing too because I accidentally bought MGD 64.  Folks, do not waste your money.  Water is better and has more flavor.  Hubby was very nice about the situation, but wasted little time in driving back to town to Reggie’s for REAL BEER.  My bad.

There was a moment that afternoon when the sky and the sea were the same hazy blue and you couldn’t tell exactly where the water ended and the sky began, as if there were no horizon at all.  Then the sun began to set over my right shoulder and everything went pink, and it was one of those moments when you just think wow, how lucky am I to be witnessing this rare beauty.  I went all goose bumpy and looked over at my family because a) I was hoping they were noticing the beauty and b) I was also hoping they weren’t noticing the goosebumps on my arms and the tears in my eyes because they generally disapprove of my sappy nature.

The ocean was too cold for MY taste, but every once in a while you’d hear a YELP and see some brave soul attempting a swim.  Including my family members, who were very impressed with themselves for lasting a whole five minutes in the frigid water.  The dolphins did a quick “swim by” to say hello (we did not see them at all in October and it worried me), and the pelicans broke their own record of Largest Flock when we counted 60 fly over the water’s edge in one huge wobbly V.  I have this theory that 99% of the time pelicans fly in odd numbers, but I’ll save that story for another time.

Then it was time to go home.  We braced ourselves for the irritating, boring, stinky, bladder-challenging, inexplicable wait at the International Border.  You may have heard we’ve been having some problems with our borders to the South (sarcastic eye rolling).  During the past two years, the wait has increased from ten minutes to as long as three hours. This time, we were pleased to roll through in under 15 minutes.  We had a few mini-traumas on the way home (Ruby, our Trusty Springer Spaniel) has anal gland leakage issues that may have squirted onto Eve’s favorite sweat pants, also creating a smell in our minivan similar to rotting fish. Ruby may also have walked through cactus pods that resemble burr clover but with larger spines. When we arrived home, the kids were happy to be reunited with our Beloved Cats and Facebook pages, and I was happy to see we had a few drips of tequila left to make margs, so Hubby and I (sandy and tired) raised our glasses, and like we always do, clinked and said, “Cheers, Darling!”

Cheers,

Mary