why i ended up with a dozen water goblets

Posted on January 18, 2012 by is there any more pie?

Treasure from the consignment store.

My mother sometimes frets about her attic.  Some of my grandmother’s stuff was stored up there after she died and sometimes my mother frets about the mess overhead.

I can understand that.  I can get worked up to a decent fret once in a while, too.

The Mission, which I chose to accept one evening in December, was to find the box of china that was to be given to my daughter, who is getting married in June.  This wasn’t my grandmother’s china, but my late aunt’s china.  My aunt and my daughter share the same name and it seemed logical they would share the same china.

“Going up in the attic” requires a ladder, a flashlight, a mask (if you can find one) and gloves.  Not a lot of stuff is up there.  It’s mostly old suitcases, boxes of mouse-eaten high school clothes (including some indecently short what-was-I-thinking skirts) and old (not in a good way) Christmas ornaments.

My attitude was:  bring anything that looked good down to the second floor and then sort through it.  I brought giant black garbage bags in which to toss the yucky, unwanted stuff.  My daughter waited at the bottom of the ladder as I popped the door to the crawl space and lifted myself into the darkness.  My mother, bless her heart, fretted that I would hurt myself.

I quickly found the china and several other mysterious-looking boxes.  I pawed through boxes of Christmas junk until I found the manger and its occupants that I’d loved rearranging when I was a child.  I dropped smelly boxes into the waiting arms of my daughter until (a) there didn’t look like anything else interesting to check out, (b) I was hot and (c) my mother seemed ready to have a nervous breakdown.

The fun part came while unpacking the boxes:  my daughter loved the china, the box of my grandmother’s costume jewelry my son had saved (no one knows why) was intact, the manger and the Wise Men and the paper mache baby Jesus had been ignored by the local mice, and we discovered six glass water goblets (Fostoria American, I would learn on ebay) that no one wanted but me.

One of Grandma's water goblets

But I needed eight Fostoria American water goblets for a Scotch-tasting dinner we would be hosting in a few weeks.  Ebay was the place to find them, but the cost of the shipping was more than the cost of the goblets, so I was determined to hunt them down them locally.

That didn’t quite work out.  Water goblets don’t grow on trees.  In fact, I think anyone who ever owned fancy water goblets sold them on ebay in 2001.

I’d have to find a couple of fillers.

Fortunately–or unfortunately, if you are my husband–the day I bought the trifle dish I also found a set of six water goblets that were just the right height. Pretty, too.

I had to buy all six, but the cost was cheaper than a Grandma Goblet, even without the shipping.

The next time I have 12 people over for dinner, no one will go thirsty.

Posted in family, rhode island, secondhand stuff | 2 Comments

why i need a fourth trifle dish

Posted on January 17, 2012 by is there any more pie?

I’m not going to pretend to have anything interesting to blog about today.  I need to dye my gray roots and put clean sheets on the bed.  I need to write a “meaty” seven page synopsis for the new book.  I need to de-clutter the office and pick up prescriptions at CVS and return books to the library.

Last Friday, in a burst of getting-in-my-white-truck energy, I went to town.  Town (when I head north) is ten minutes away.  Town (when I head south, which is what I usually do) is twenty minutes away but with less traffic and easier parking (remember my parking lot fears?) and the beloved/dreaded Wal-Mart.  The library, nice consignment store, post office, used bookstore and gas station is 6 minutes south.  I live in the country.

Anyway…I headed north.  I intended to pick up a check from the not-so-nice-at-times consignment store.  And I was looking for two water goblets (which will be explained in another post).  I was feeling pretty good–the prednisone for the migraines had kicked in and I was going to spend Saturday and Sunday with my two writing buddies—and the Thrill of the Thrift Shop kicked in big time.

So I bought a trifle dish.  Another one.

Okay, I don’t make trifles.  But they look nice as salad bowls or with pasta salad, don’t they?  Huh?  Don’t they?????

Here’s my Pampered Chef trifle dish, a Christmas gift from my mother.  I love it.  I use it for layered potato salad:

Here’s the one I keep my Easter decorations in during the winter.  In the spring, summer and fall they are displayed in an old tin cornucopeia on the hearth (I have never been known for my holiday decorating talents.  Just ask my French Friend Janou or Dancing Mandolin Player or my Sister-in-law Nancy).

I’ve always wanted to make a real trifle in a real trifle dish (hey, don’t laugh–we all have our fantasies, weird as they are).  But they’re so big and it’s such a commitment and if your company doesn’t eat it all then it looks like garbage in a glass bowl.  So when I saw a little trifle bowl/dish I eased it off the shelf and told myself I didn’t need it.

Then I bought it.  And here it is.  Now I can make a little trifle (for 3 or 4 people).

Happy Ending, right?

Please send recipes.

Posted in food, secondhand stuff | 8 Comments

trucks, jane austen and classic rock

Posted on January 15, 2012 by is there any more pie?

It is a truth universally acknowledged that anyone selling a truck for under $1000 on Craigslist in New England will not speak English.

(pardon me, Jane Austen)

Everyone who reads Pride and Prejudice once a year raise your hands!!!!

During our 10-day road trip home last summer, Banjo Man and I resolved to (a) get in shape, (b) spend more time on our music, (c) buy a comfortable couch and (d) clean out the basement.  Once we arrived home, my husband realized that (d) required owning a truck.

I did not agree.  I was sticking to the making-do-with-one-car-and-not-buying-another-piece-of-crap plan.

Banjo Man remained unfazed.  “Surely,” he pronounced, “I can find a truck–just a truck to go to the dump on Saturdays–for under $1000.”

Go for it, I said.  I printed out a list of pick ups for sale on the internet and washed my hands of the whole thing.  Except…I eavesdropped when Banjo Man called the sellers.  I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but Banjo Man was yelling.  You know how people yell when they can’t be understood, as if saying it louder would somehow turn the words into a different language?

Is it inspected?  Inspected.  (pause) IN-SPEC-TION.  YOU KNOW, INSPECTION STICKER????  Who’s Juan?  Sure I’ll hold on. (pause)  Juan, hello, I just want to know is uh, the truck inspected?  IN-SPEC-TED? (pause)  Oh, you don’t speak English either?  Well, thank you anyway.

This conversation was repeated several times over one weekend.   Banjo Man gave up the hunt until December, when the mechanic inspecting the Mazda asked him if he was still looking for a truck to use to go to the dump (they call them “Saturday trucks” around here).  Turned out that another longtime customer had the perfect truck (a little 1997 Mazda) for sale, for $1000.

Banjo Man was beside himself with excitement.  He bought that truck the next morning, after warning me that it was pretty rough-looking and perfect for the dump and beat up.  I was happy he was happy, but I was doing the “eye roll” thing when he talked about it.

Then he brought it home.

Love at first sight, I tell you.  My heart beat faster at the sight of a little white pick up in my driveway.  I knew I’d missed my little white Toyota truck, but I didn’t realize how much until its older cousin took its place.  It didn’t look nearly as bad as Banjo Man said it did.  It looked really nice.

The minute Banjo Man came home with the new license plates and the registration, I took the key and left the house.  I WENT TO THE POST OFFICE AND THE LIBRARY AND THE USED BOOKSTORE AND CUMBERLAND FARMS AND THE NICE CONSIGNMENT STORE AND CVS AND WALMART AND SUBWAY!!!!

On the way home I played with the radio stations and this really cool song came on, so I turned the volume up and rolled down the window.

I googled it when I got home:  I had discovered Lynrd Skynrd (or however you spell it).

I’m in that truck every chance I get.  I have thanked Bewildered Banjo Man a thousand times.  I baked him a pie.  I forgave him for all of his horrible used-car decisions.  I love love love that old noisy truck.

They call me the breeze…

Posted in music, rhode island, secondhand stuff | 4 Comments

the smelly dog car, part two

Posted on January 13, 2012 by is there any more pie?

Because my truck had been towed away three days after my mother’s lung cancer procedure, I had been a little too busy to shop for a new/used car.   But one afternoon Banjo Man and I went to the local Mazda dealer and eyed a few “pre-owned” crossover SUV’s from Kia.  I even drove an over-priced four-year old Mazda Tribute.

At home I researched cars on Edmunds.com and cars.com and checked out prices on autotrader.com and craigslist.  I made pages and pages of notes for Banjo Man to peruse.  There was a particularly perfect used Mazda van three hours away in Connecticut and the dealer was willing to lower the price.  And then my mother came down with shingles, a very nasty case of shingles, which left me no time or energy for car-research or shopping.  There was no time for anything, period.  Cars were low on my list of priorities.

I sat Banjo Man down in one of the bright yellow-but-comfy chairs (the ones that later sold for $25 at the consignment stores–someone got a bargain), handed him a glass of wine and said, “You have to listen.”

I then explained I could no longer research cars, shop for cars, check the Kelly Blue Book prices, read reviews on cars, etc.  I was too stressed, too busy.  We would put the Toyota money in the bank, save it for our upcoming road trip and our daughter’s wedding and we would share the Mazda Millennia.

Banjo Man understood.  He said all the right things, totally agreed with me, gave me a hug, tossed the stack of car notes in the trash.  It was over.  I breathed a big sigh of relief and returned to Mom’s house.

Four days later, my husband came home from an appointment with a sheepish look on his face.  “I know we’re not buying a car now,” he said, “but I was driving by that auto body shop next to Wal-Mart and there was a Kia Sorrento sitting out in front with a sale sign on it.”

I groaned, but since my head didn’t explode he looked a little more cheerful and handed me a piece of paper with his notes on it.

“I went in to the shop and asked the guy about it.  It’s only $6000 and has 53,000 miles on it.  The owner died and the estate has to be settled.  So the auto shop guy put it out there as a favor.  Do you want to google and see if it’s really a good deal?”

“I thought we weren’t shopping any more, remember?”

And then he said the magic words:  “Heated seats.”

In the most secret corner of my heart I yearned for  a car with heated seats.  And Banjo Man knew it, dammit.  He’d played the Heated Seats Card.

“It’s the top-of-the-line model, with 4-wheel drive,” he announced.  “Just one little thing, though.  It belonged to a veterinarian and has some scratches inside.  And it smells a little like dog.  Can you google how to get that smell out of leather?”

Heated seats.  Heated seats.  Heated seats.   It was my mantra the next day when I drove to see the car.  It took a while to get the key from the shop owner, it was raining, the car was parked by the main road and there was mud.  It looked perfectly nice from the outside and, sure enough, the seats were leather.  But gouged.  As if a pack of hungry Rottweilers had scrambled unsuccessfully to escape.  The rips extended to the windows in the back areas, too.  And the scent of dog (don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love dogs but I also believe in bathing them) was overpowering.

I couldn’t quite imagine driving across the country in a few weeks with that smell filling the car.   Would it ever really disappear or would every humid day bring new wafts of bad, bad air?  I could possibly live with the upholstery–and wasn’t there something advertised on tv that miraculously sealed leather?

The price was very reasonable, the miles totalled only 53,000, and the car looked good from the outside.  Maybe…

And then I realized—as the rain poured down while I waited in the drive-thru line for a cup of coffee at MacDonald’s–that I was falling for another one of Banjo Man’s “bargains”.  I was making the same mistake all over again.  The Buicks, the Ford van, the red truck, the Datsun truck, the Dodge, etc.  All the monsters that Banjo Man had optimistically seen as “good deals”.

And now here was the “Smelly Dog Car”.   It was time to take a stand.  Heated seats be damned.

I returned home to my hopeful husband and said:  NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!  I AM NOT FALLING FOR THIS AGAIN!!!

Banjo Man took it well.  For four months.

And then, in September, he decided to buy a truck.

(to be continued, because this is getting too long and if you’re still reading you’re probably ready to get on with your day)

Posted in rhode island | 1 Comment

lucky day, january 12th

Posted on January 12, 2012 by is there any more pie?

“smelly dog car, part two” will continue tomorrow, if only to amuse myself on a cold winter day.

January 12.

My first date with Banjo Man.  1970.  What a hunk, huh?  Who could resist that charm?  And that pink shirt?  With the red tie?  That combo just screams, “Chick magnet!!”

The first day something I wrote was published (for $75).  1985.   I wrote “Hulk Hogan Comes To Town” to amuse my father, who had been sending the children vcr tapes of wrestling matches, and he sent it to the Providence Journal, where to our shock it appeared in the magazine section of the Sunday paper.

The day I received my first check from Harlequin.  1987.

Paul, the postmaster at the time, decorated the envelope and taped it to the window of the Post Office so I would see it when I drove up!  He was sweet like that.

Excuse me.  I must go chill the champagne.

Posted in lake | 5 Comments

the smelly dog car, part one

Posted on January 11, 2012 by is there any more pie?

My fiance heading for work in his nice car.

Banjo Man owned a beautiful Pontiac Le Mans when we began dating.  Little did I know it would be the last new car we would own for the next thirty years.

My first experience with one of Banjo Man’s used cars, a used Jeep Wagoneer, came when it stopped dead at the biggest stoplight in town.  Cars honked and people yelled, until I hauled my seven-months-pregnant body from behind the steering wheel and threw myself at the mercy of the gas station attendants across the street.

It was to be the first of many, many Used Car Nightmares.

Since there were few years we could afford car payments or the extra money for car insurance with teenagers on the policy, we lurched from one cheap used car purchase to another.  Once in a while we’d get lucky and buy something that would actually be a good deal, but most of the time the phrase “you get what you pay for” rang painfully true.  I never cared what I drove, as long as it would hold all of the kids and gave the impression that it would actually last for a while.

I have lots of used car stories.  Be glad I’m not sharing them right now.

Oops…except for this one:  when we lived out west, we’d had back-to-back successes with two used Datsuns and one bulldozer.  Banjo Man was justifiably proud of his bargains.  When one of his co-workers talked about he and his wife shopping for a new car, my helpful husband convinced him that it made better financial sense to find something used.  The guy answered a classified ad in the Spokane paper and was robbed of six-thousand dollars before he and his very pregnant wife were handcuffed together around a toilet in an abandoned house.

In 2000, with an empty nest and the bulk of college expenses behind us, we mended our ways.  I bought my dream car, a Toyota Tacoma truck.  A nervous Banjo Man shopped ’til he dropped all year before buying a Mazda Millennia sedan complete with cash rebates and dealer discounts one week before Christmas.

Life became…calm.  Engines revved, batteries stayed alive, and there were no ominous clanking or knocking sounds from underneath the hoods or the tailpipes.

Eleven peaceful-car years later, my Toyota was recalled due to bad steel.  I was given a healthy sum for my rusted-out truck and despite my tears (I loved that truck) no one felt sorry for me.  Not even Banjo Man.

He roamed around the Toyota showroom, grimaced at the stickers and began to talk about buying “something used”.

I threw up a little in my mouth.

(to be continued tomorrow)

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grandma and elvis

Posted on January 10, 2012 by is there any more pie?

Every year my paternal grandmother proudly reminded us her birthday was the same as Elvis Presley’s.

January 8th.

Dorothy, age 58 and looking quite fashionable in 1960

She was a difficult woman to get close to, but she was clear in her affection for Elvis.  I’m not too sure how she felt about me.

You see, when I was two my grandparents’ only daughter–my father’s only sibling– died tragically and unexpectedly of heart failure.  She was in her twenties, happily married and pregnant.  Her adoring family was, of course, devastated and from then on my sweet, shy aunt’s name was rarely spoken.

Lives changed almost immediately.  My father moved his young family back to RI and spent the rest of his Navy career ashore.  My grandparents sold their home–the home with all of the memories, next to the relatives I would never meet–and moved two streets away from our new house in a different neighborhood.  My uncle soon realized his visits were too hard on the family, and he disappeared from our lives until my grandparents were both dead.

(I met him once.  My parents called to tell me they had a surprise visitor and would I like to meet my Uncle Colin?  I was thrilled, jumped in the shower to get ready, and immediately started sobbing–when you’re a Mother of Six the shower is the only place for breakdowns.  All of a sudden I’d realized what I could have had–an uncle, an aunt, cousins and nieces and nephews and big family dinners. )

So you can see why my grandmother wasn’t cuddly and warm.  Her heart had been broken and she wasn’t really interested in sharing it again.  And who could blame her?

I realize that now.   I wonder how she managed to survive the loss of a daughter and a grandchild and keep breathing.

As a child I could do very little to please her.  She was busy with her crafts–she braided and hooked rugs, true works of art–and her summer home, a place we all loved, on Hundred Acre Pond.  She tamed chickadees and chipmunks (they would eat seed from her hand), baked blueberry pies, fried the fish we caught and kept a notebook in her purse to record unusual license plates.  She loved yard sales, thrift shops and bingo.  But she didn’t exactly crave the company of her grandchildren.

So Grandma, the granddaughter who inherited your love of crafts, baking, blueberries, chipmunks, row boats, lakes and thrift shops would like to wish you and Elvis a Happy Birthday.

p.s.  I am taking good care of your cookie cutters, china closet, ceramic lobster dish and photos, but I sold the Elvis records at a yard sale.

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if it’s on sale…

Posted on January 9, 2012 by is there any more pie?

Banjo Man loves to shop for groceries.  He thinks it’s relaxing.

O-kayyyyyyyyy….

I, on the other hand, would rather stick mascara wands into my eyeballs.

We rarely enter a supermarket together.  He loves to browse and I just want to grab the yogurt and run to the express cashier.  Sometimes I hide in the magazine section and Banjo Man finds me when his cart is full of the things he thinks we need to be healthy.  Or the things that are on sale.  Sometimes they are the same thing, which is why I have fourteen bags of brussel sprouts in the freezer.

I do my shopping once a week at Stop & Shop, because it has the least dangerous parking lot.  I don’t care if something I want is on sale at one of the other two stores in town, because I want to live.  The other parking lots are crowded and frightening.  There is no space to get out of the way of a car, whether you are walking or driving.  They were designed before SUV’s and big trucks, with narrow spaces and narrow aisles and little visibility.

And yes, I am serious.  I have an issue with parking lots, i.e. I don’t want to die in one.

This week blueberries were on sale at Banjo Man’s favorite grocery store (the one with the scariest parking lot in town).  He went to town three times in order to buy them.  I think he is going back again today, because it’s Saturday and what he does on Saturdays (after going to the dump) is go into town to FOUR grocery stores, where he happily purchases the bargains in each store.  His final stop is a place called “Job Lot”, which is a Rhode Island chain.  They buy odd lots from all over the world–food, cards, plastic, rugs, appliances, toys, clothing, furniture—and sell it cheap.

Job Lot is Banjo Man’s idea of heaven.  When he arrives home he lines up everything he bought on the kitchen island and my duty is to admire it whether I’m interested or not.  Canned cherries from Poland (the label actually said made in Auschwitz), herring from Iceland, jam from some country I’ve never heard of, apple juice, balsamic vinegar, spices, etc.  Every week I beg him not to buy this stuff and every week he ignores me.

(I think this must be a primal thing, like the caveman tossing a chunk of meat and gristle into the cave and boasting, “Check out this T-Rex thigh, baby!  The guys and I got lucky near the glacier this morning!”)

Anyway, back to the blueberries…which I love almost as much as I love peaches and am happy to have filling my refrigerator.  Remember the Nantucket Cranberry Pie Cake recipe?  Retired Mountain Lady wondered if it could be made with huckleberries, which sounded delicious.  I tried it with blueberries, though instead of sprinkling the berries with 2/3 cup sugar I used less than 1/4 cup.

These foreign blueberries are not nearly as tasty as homegrown, so I think more nuts and maybe even some lemon zest would help with the flavor.  And a tsp. of cinnamon in the batter is good, too.  I love this cake, piled high with plain Greek yogurt, for breakfast.  And I’m going to make a few more to put in the freezer.

But first I must have my  Saturday chat with Banjo Man:  he asks where the truck key is, I produce it, then he searches for his checkbook, finds an appropriate hat for going to the dump, and right before he prances out the door I say, “Don’t buy anything weird.”

Which, of course, he will do anyway.

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cold gray light of dawn

Posted on January 7, 2012 by is there any more pie?

It’s very dark at 4 AM.

I know this because this past month I have been waking up early.  Very early.  In the summers, when sunrise out west begins around 5, I become a temporary morning person.  A morning person who knows she can spend a few minutes each afternoon napping on the dock.

Since I have never willingly been a Winter Morning Person, I don’t really know what to do with all that dark, cold, extra time.  It’s not as if Banjo Man wants to be awakened in the middle of the night by the screeching sound of my fiddle or the unloading of the dishwasher or the banging of pots, pans and crock pots.

Yesterday, for example, I tiptoed down to the basement and exercised for an hour and a half.  Watched the news.  Read my latest British thriller.  Drank decaff coffee.  Ate a protein bar.  Took a bath.  Scrubbed the tub. Painted my toenails.  Downloaded pictures.  Ripped some cd’s.  Worked on the new book proposal.  Emailed one of my editors.  Cleaned out a bathroom drawer and threw away old make up.  Sorted twenty years of necklaces into individual ziploc bags.  Answered email.  Wrote a blog post.  Paid bills.  Made a list for Walmart.

And then said good morning to Banjo Man, who thinks I’m officially insane.

If this 4 AM business keeps up, I’m going to get a lot of writing done and have a very clean house.   Which will be fine with me, once I become accustomed to this new lifestyle.

You morning people out there, what do you do at dawn????

Posted in personal female whining, rhode island | 2 Comments

the bachelor is back

Posted on January 6, 2012 by is there any more pie?

I’m not embarrassed to tell you that “The Bachelor” on one of my very favorite television shows. It’s the romance writer in me, wanting a happy ending no matter how unrealistic and preposterous.  I watched the first seasons sequestered in my bedroom so as not to be disturbed or ridiculed.  My French Friend Janou would call and we would discuss every aspect of “who would he choose and why” during the commercials.

Then I discovered internet forums, with sleuthing and spoilers and recaps. I could read all about the behind-the-scenes editing, the producers’ tricks, the machinations of the contestants, who was in it for fame and who wanted to pack up her panties and go home.

I begged Banjo Man to watch it, but for years he refused. He eventually felt sorry for me and joined me in the living room. I told him that he could make any remarks he wanted, he could criticize and joke and gape and moan and swear and watch in wonder as beautiful and semi-beautiful women and handsome and semi-handsome men made fools of themselves in front of television cameras. Comments and observations were required in order to enhance the sheer craziness of the show.

Banjo Man was hooked, as he never runs out of things to say.  Plus, he is a very romantic guy who believes in happy endings, too.  Soon we were scheduling our lives around Monday nights. The long-awaited (or dreaded) Final Rose Ceremony shows turned into food-munching events that rivalled the Super Bowl.

Monday night was the beginning of Ben’s season.  Ben was the final rejected bachelor last season.  Everyone fell in love with this guy.  He seemed funny and shy and normal, which a lot of Bachelor contestants are not.

Banjo Man and I settled in on the new couch, in front of the big TV, with bowls of giant salads and big glasses of water (we’re on our Healthy Eating Program right now).  I had a notebook and pen so I could keep track of who got what amount of camera time, who had “sparks” with our hero and which ones were obviously going to be kept around by the producers in order to provide massive amounts of drama.

Poor Ben.  This season’s crop of women included a drunk blogger (Jenna), an epidimiologist (Emily) who used breath spray before a kiss, a shy blonde (Brittney) who brought her grandmother along, a self-involved model (Courtney) and Lyndzie, who rode in on a horse.  Sidesaddle.  In a black ball gown.

She made it look easy.

Oh, and don’t forget Monica, who spent the evening trying to make out with Blakeley and being bleeped for her foul language.

I’ll go out on a limb and pick my final 6:

Kacie, from Tennessee, brunette and perky and “ready for love”
Elyse, gorgeous personal trainer
Emily, of the breath spray and sanitizing hand gel
Jamie, the nurse from NY with the rough childhood and custody of her siblings
Nicki, from Texas, divorced and bubbly and a bit young, but so cute
Lyndzie, the Guinivere imitator

And Courtney, the “I’m a model but I’m open to love” beauty:  I think she’ll be in the final four or six,  only because she was probably hired to be on the show and stir up trouble.  I don’t think this gal wants to end up working in the vineyard with winemaker Ben.  He may catch on early, but I doubt it.  In the previews he was shown skinny-dipping with her.  That’s a Bachelor First, in case you’re wondering.

Bare Ass Ben raised a lot of eyebrows with that move.

I can’t wait for next week.

Posted in a more pie opinion, rhode island | Tagged , , | 1 Comment