Coming of age
Jan. 5, 2013

I see that I wrote the wrong year on the last post . . .  not overly surprising but I got it right this time.  Today is the señor’s 65th birthday.  He continues to try to catch up with me but so far, no luck no matter how much he ages.  I have prepared a nice chicken noodle soup and grilled asaigio cheese bread for our supper and even baked a cake.  Now that there is a bald-faced lie - the reality is that I bought some cupcakes at Walmart, but then who’s to know unless I blog it for all the world to read.

I use our oven pretty regularly, but what a pain!  This is how it goes: first, I remove from the oven two cookie sheets, one skillet, one saucepan, two baking pans and a splatter screen that are in there because there’s no place else to store them (Chris’ superior spatial skills figured out how to get it all in there).

The pans reside on the bed while the oven is in use so there’s no lying down while the meal cooks.

Next, I get out the butane clicker and get on the floor in front of the oven.  Oops, I have to get back up because I have forgotten to turn the control to pilot and I can’t see it from down there. 

I accomplish that and sometimes remember to take the clicker with me as I get back on the floor.  With much cursing and gnashing of teeth, I manage to ignite the clicker (I confess to being clicker challenged), stick it an arm’s length into the back of the bottom of the oven while pushing in the overhead control that is set to pilot (hopefully) and trying to peer back there even though my arm is in the way because I have to hold the flame in the correct spot.

I then wait none too patiently while the thermocouple (that’s the doodad I am holding the clicker on) heats up sufficiently to remain lighted without the clicker applied to it (a little guesswork goes a long way here).  Once the pilot is burning all by its lonesome, I rise (who needs a gym?) from the floor and turn the oven on.  One wonders who is the sadistic so-and-so who designed the oven with the manual lighter in the back instead of the front.

The good part: the oven is so small that it heats up in nothing flat.

Breakfast . . .

Speaking of cooking: I will relate the story of the little breakfast that almost wasn’t.  It was a clear day in Midland, Texas, the first day of 2013.  Mama in her kerchief (that’s me) decided to fix a holiday breakfast of French toast and bacon.  That’s because: 1. Mama loves French toast and 2. Mama wanted to try out her brand-spanking-new handy-dandy-cooking-bacon-in-the-microwave gadget.  And who doesn’t love a new gadget.  I never cook bacon in the trailer because I don’t want to make a mess, so this gadget is designed to eliminate the mess or at least confine it to the easier-to-clean microwave.

Step 1: Get out the eggs.  Dang!  One is cracked and consequently, they all are cemented to the carton.  No matter, a good soak in the sink and I eventually am able to carefully peel them out without incident, so on to French toast.

Step 2: Get out the bread.  Dang!  The bread is moldy, so there goes French toast.  Back to the drawing board.

I have some non-moldy asaigio cheese bread - sounds horrid for French toast ergo . . . punting . . . Mama sees the handwriting on the wall and opts to whip up some bacon, eggs and toast.  And so she does.  Get out the onion, green chiles, garlic, cheddar cheese and bell pepper; combine with the eggs in a tasty manner.  Top the eggs with Nancy & Jim’s Private Reserve Label Miss Wussy’s Not So Hot Double Flush Chipotle Hot Sauce, spread the toast with cranberry butter, retrieve the perfectly crisped bacon from the microwave oven, and the year is off to a great start, at least the first meal of it.

 









Library, snow . . .

A great discovery - the downtown library has a bang-up genealogy section; I am in hog heaven!  They are proud to have sections for every state in the Union, so I am thinking I must make my way through those stacks.  Have already finished Louisiana looking for my ancestral Wallaces, Means and Kelleys and starting on the Texas section.  As expected, there is a passel of material there.

One day while I was there, a staffer went around telling every patron that it was snowing.  She was practically giddy at the prospect; I confess I took the news without nearly as much enthusiasm, and later felt a tiny pang of guilt at raining (so to speak) on her parade, especially when I saw the entire staff lined up at the window like children watching for Santa’s arrival.

Unsurprisingly, the flakes fell for only a short while; nevertheless, we were shortly informed that Judge Bradford (whoever he may be) had decreed the facility should close early due to inclement weather.  This when the precipitation had already stopped almost as soon as it started and there was no (NO!) accumulation on the ground.  Life would come to a winter standstill if the honorable fellow had any sway in our part of Arizona.

In the night, we did get snowfall enough to cover Ruby followed by a very cold sunless dreary day followed by spring or at least one day to give us hope it’s out there somewhere.

Work station . . .

At my other home, I devised a work station that allowed me to stand while working on the computer.  In an attempt to emulate that set-up and because there is not one place comfortable to sit in the Totee, I opted to try out the stove top for my standing work station.  This is only partially successful; I don’t have my giant monitor with me and this is proving to be a little low to read what is on the laptop screen and when I bend down to peer more closely, I bump my head on the overhead fan assembly.

Ah, the trials and tribulations.