Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 134

Half Baked

The greatest food fight in the history of the world. (Credit: The Great Race.)
Mother stopped in the kitchen doorway.The look on her face would have been comical, if it wasn’t so . . . not.Uh-oh. Busted.I glanced sideways at Sally and she looked at me. I dropped the lime I was holding and it hit the floor with a wet ‘plop’.Mom stepped inside the room, then stopped again. She was staring down at the floor. I, too looked down. A large puddle of . . . something that may once have been butter ended right where mom’s white tennis shoes began.Ummm . . .She lifted her head and looked right at Sally and me. I was pretty sure I knew what was coming next. “I knew something was up when the doggo came running out of the room with his tail between his legs!” Nope I guess I was wrong.“How did this happen?”Bingo! That’s the one!I glanced again at Sally. I could see the corners of her mouth turn up slightly.Mine did the same.“We . . . ummm . . . we were baking a cake,” Sally began, rather timidly. Just then the timer ‘dinged’ on the stove. She nodded toward it. “See?”Mom waved a hand, taking in the liberally bedaubed cupbards, walls and floors. “Is this a usual ‘cake-baking’ technique?” Her voice was deceptively calm.“Ummm . . .” I began. Again Sally and I looked at each other. “I’m going to hazard a ‘no’?” “And you’d be right!”Yessss!“Which is wrong on so many levels I can’t possibly count them!”Rats!Again she waved a hand. “So? How did this happen?”I scratched my cheek, then realized something was dripping down my face. I looked at my fingers. Was that egg?“Gwen? Sally?”“We were baking a cake,” Sally said again.Mom raised her eyebrows. “And?”“And things got out of hand,” I volunteered.Mom nodded. “I can see that.”I got a paper towel and wiped my face. Yep. Egg. And quite possibly milk. I frowned as I tried to remember the exact chain of events that had led us to the present situation. “I was looking in the fridge for the eggs.”“And I was trying to find the cinnamon,” Sally added.“And I found them.”“And so did I.”“And I dropped one.”“Right on my head.”I looked at Sally. “It was totally an accident.”Mom interrupted there. “How can you accidentally drop an egg on your sister’s head?”“Well, I was carrying the container and I had to lift it to get past her and it . . . sort of . . . tipped.” I demonstrated.Mom snorted. “Sort of tipped.”“Yeah. And then an egg fell on Sally and—you know—broke open. And then Sally said I did it on purpose, but I really didn’t.”“She totally did!” Sally broke in. “I mean, why lift it over my head. Why not just go around?” She picked up the container of cinnamon and smiled. “And then I accidentally—sort of—spilledthe cinnamon in her direction.”“In her direction.” Mom folded her arms.“Yeah. And it—sort of—got on her. You know.”“I’m beginning to.”“And then Gwen got the flour,” Sally said.I made a face at her. “And you got the butter.”“There might have been a bit of oil in there somewhere.”“And a couple more eggs.” I rubbed at my face with the paper towel again.“And a few limes.”“I know for sure there was a least one cup of milk.”Sally grinned. “At least one because your hair has reached the saturation point.”I touched my dripping head. She was right.Mom said something under her breath.“Language, Mom,” I said.Mom puffed up like a toad. “I get to say whatever I want! You two fruit bats have made your last mess!” She took a long breath. “Now clean this up!” She waved a hand. “I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care how you do it. Get it clean!”“Could we have a piece of cake first?” I asked.Mom threw her hands into the air. “Aarrgh!” “I’m guessing that means no?”She turned and left.Sally and I looked at each other.I gave her a slow grin and tossed an egg up into the air a couple of times.
Each month, a intrepid group of writers submits a series of random words to Karen of Baking in a Tornado. She then re-distributes them to the others in the group.My words this months were: butter ~ lime ~ saturation ~ doggo ~ language
And they were submitted by:  Climaxed         This is so much fun!
Hop over and see what the others have done!


Baking In A Tornado Cognitive Script The Bergham ChroniclesSouthern Belle CharmThe Blogging 911Climaxed12personalities12 My Brand of Crazy

A Toast to You

Mom’s Breakfast. The best meal of the day.Not including all the other meals . . .Radio blaring out the latest country song and today’s beef auction prices.Bacon sizzling on the stove and blasting the aroma of sweet deliciousness into the atmosphere.Perfect eggs beaming their ‘sunny-side-up’ smile.Potatoes in a steaming, melty-cheese mound.And the unmistakable sound of a sharp knife scraping with purpose over a piece of burnt toast. Eliminating all signs of black, way-overdone-ness.For all my childhood, that’s how I thought toast was made. Burnt black, then scraped back to the desired colour and texture required by whomever it was being made for.Imagine my surprise to marry, receive a toaster that had more than just a ‘char’ setting, and discover a world of levels of toasty done-ness.Yow.Move ahead several years . . .Last night, my daughter and her family were over for supper.I made a big pot of rich, creamy cauliflower-cheese soup.Of which there is no more delicious soup on the planet.I’m quoting my daughter, of course.She was in charge of the garlic toast.Made in the oven to the perfect level of . . . perfect-ness.We got talking.It’s what we do.I sniffed. “I think that toast is done.”Daughter: “Oh, man!” There was a bit of scrambling and a pan of blackened pieces of bread pulled from the oven. “Well, I guess garlic toast is out of the question.”“Not so fast!” I grabbed a sharp knife, the first piece of toast, walked over to the sink and started scraping. In no time, it had been restored to a lightly-browned, perfectly-toasted state. I handed it back to her. She stared. “Really?”I grabbed the second piece and re-enacted the scenario.Still slightly doubtful, she started buttering that first slice.Soon, we had a platter full of fairly appetizing, hot, buttery garlic toast.Now granddaughter had been watching the entire process. And proclaimed her profound doubt as to the eat-ability of the end result.In strident six-year-old tones.She finally took a tiny, tentative bite. “Hey! It’s really good!”She finished her piece and reached for another.I like to think of it as ‘toast resuscitation’. Yep. My mama weren’t no dummy.

Really Wild

We had the grandkids over,Our intrepid little band,A treasure hunt, some laser tag.We’d lots of fun things planned.
I said, “The sky’s the limit!”As they started Seek and Hide,Cause for this day, this grammaWalked on her wild side!
We scrambled through the brush,While hunting one and all,Then scrambled through again,Looking for our only ball.
We piled in the car,To play some laser tag,We ‘weaseled’ through the hurdlesAnd Gramma waved the flag.
We stopped and ordered pizza,It just seemed apropos,Then piled in the car again,And headed for a show.
Now when the movie finished,'Twas such a lot of fun,We got back in the car again,Cause none of us were done.
We headed back t’wards home, We weren’t quite finished yet.We had donuts yet to make,And records yet to set.
And then the kids were gone,Their parents took them back,The house was bare and quiet,As outside, the skies went black.
This walking on the wild side,Though much to be desired,And fun the while it lasted,Makes Gramma really tired!











Each month we have a topic,
Once Karen's led the way.
So tell me, now you've finished,
How did we do today?


Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Wild Side maja 12personalities12: four of pentacles: calculated wildernessDawn of Cognitive Script: Walking Wild Lydia from Cluttered Genius: Wild Child Jenn from Sparkly Poetic Weirdo: Wildly Cautious Sarah of My Brand of Crazy: The Wild Ride

Watch-ing Out

A snowy Ninja.
They had spent the weekend playing.Running. Hide and seek-ing. Laughing.Eating.A bit of sleeping.It was Sunday morning.Gramma had them in their Sunday clothes. Hair was brushed and shining.  It was almost time to leave for Sunday meetings.Gramma still had things to do, so Brother and Sister had time on their hands.What to do? What to do?They couldn’t get dirty, so eating was out.As were most of their usual activities.Hmmm . . .Sister conceived a brilliant plan. She would teach Ninja classes!These would entail remaining upright—mostly.And keeping clean—again, mostly.They started in. Or rather, she started in.“Now do what I do!” she commanded little Brother. She climbed up on the bench and hopped off.He climbed up on the bench and hopped off. She repeated the motion.He did, too. Then sat down.She hopped on one leg.Brother raised an eyebrow.She jumped on two legs across the room.Brother looked around.She bent down and sneaked from piece of furniture to piece of furniture.Her head popped up from behind the couch. “Hey! You’re not doing it!” She looked at me. “Gramma! He’s not doing it!”I looked at Brother.“I’m a Watching Ninja,” he said calmly.Well that explains it.And next time I’m in spin class, I’m using it.

Ignorance

It’s possible, or so I’m told, For all of us, e’en wise and old,To know a lot of topics bold,And nothing much of others.
And so today, I’ll illustrate,Perhaps I can elucidate,How knowledge can be, here, first-rate,While, there, less than another’s.
A city slicker full of charm,Stopped one day at a large sheep farm,Gave compliments meant to disarm,While speaking to the shepherd.
Then wanting to assert his worth,That he was smarter from his birth,As proved by clothes and width of girth,And big words, language peppered.
And so he said, “I’ll count your sheep!Cause I could do it in my sleep,And my high reputation, keep,For being so much wiser.”
"And for my talents, one, I’ll take,With him, my own herd, I will make,Or maybe in an oven, bake,He’ll be an appetizer."
The farmer said, “Please go ahead,And add the figures in your head,Your words do not fill me with dread,Let’s see your smarts! Yes, really.”
The ‘Slicker’ yawned, then smugly smiled,And looked the pasture o’er a while,He said, “My figure, I’ve compiled,Though conditions weren’t ideal-ly.”
“Four hundred sheep, plus thirty-two,There, I have shown my ‘smarts’ to you,And now a sheep I will accrue.”He grabbed one. Started walking.
The farmer said, “I know that I,Can see that you are one smart guy,But if, from shoes to smart bow tie,I guess your occupation . . .”
“Could we try doubling-or-naught?I’d like to give mysmarts a shot,And see if your goose can be caught,And stop me from deflation.”

The ‘Slicker’ smirked. “This, I must see.”Said farmer. “It occurs to me. An accountant, you must surely be!It’s obvious to me, too.”
The ‘Slicker’ gaped. “How did you know?You really have dealt me a blow.”The farmer smiled, “I’m not that slow,Put down my dog, I’ll tell you.”













Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we three besought,To try to make the week begin,With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?So Jenny and Delores, we,Now post our poems for you to see.And when you’ve read what we have brought,Did we help? Or did we not . . .
Next week, come back, cause here's the thing,The three of us will tackle SPRING!

Health. Matters

Bonk Eye.Recently, I've noticed something.That, in itself, is remarkable.Moving on . . .I work with a group of elderly people.Some of them like nothing better than talking about their health.Or lack thereof.I've been treated to stories of gall bladders.Knees.Hips.Hearts.Lungs.Mysterious lumps.And a plethora of aches and pains.I cluck sympathetically.Knowing that each of these ailments will probably visit me at some point in the very near future.But what is truly remarkable is the fact that the very young people I also associate with, ie. my grandchildren, are equally interested in their health.Scrapes, bruises and cuts are examined minutely and then displayed, accompanied by a lurid tale of woe.Often.Sometimes, a tiny wound might go undetected for several days. Have scabbed over and be well on its way to healing. But once discovered, it must be fussed over and bandaged and kissed.Several times.My two-year-old granddaughter had fallen and bumped her head.Just above her eye.After the initial tears and hysteria, she had examined her wound in the mirror.There was a distinct bruise.“Mom!” she said loudly. “Bonk eye!”Her mother agreed that, yes, she had 'bonked' her eye.But that wasn't enough.She had to tell everyone in the room.Several times.Later, at dinner, she mentioned it again.Several more times.Her uncle Tristan, having been at an activity, was late to dinner.He slid into his chair and started dishing out food.Here was someone new to tell.“Unca Tristan!” she said, “Bonk eye!”Tristan looked at her. “Yes, I see that you bonked your eye,” he said. He started eating.“Unca Tristan, look! Bonk eye!”“Yes,” he said.“Bonk eye, Unca Tristan!”“Yes.”She took a couple of bites of food. Then, “Unca Tristan!”“I know,” he broke in, rather wearily.“Bonk eye!”“Yes.”This went on through the remainder of the meal.And every time we saw her for the next few weeks.Long after the slight bruise had healed.And until the next injury pushed it off the front page.Then it was, “Unca Tristan! Look!”He looked at me. “On, man. Are we going to have another chorus of 'bonk-eye'?” I laughed.Health issues.Most important at each end of the age scale.Differing only in seriousness.Not in concern.

All Day Sucker

So nice! Sigh.I played hooky.Once.For those of you who don't know, 'hooky' is a term coined to describe being absent without leave.In my case, I was absent from school.And I didn't do it alone.I should probably point out that these were the days before the school phoned home "to inform you that your student 'insert name' was absent on . . . yadda yadda yadda . . ."Back to my story . . .We were in grade twelve. For the last semester of my grade twelve year, I lived with Debbie's family, the Joneses, on their ranch, and attended school in the town of Magrath.Our school bus arrived promptly every morning at 7:30.After an hour and a half commute, we would arrive, sleepy and slightly dishevelled at the Magrath High School to begin a day of instruction.One morning, one of us really wasn't in the mood.Oh, she got up all right.Got ready.Endured the bus ride.But, standing there in front of those venerable halls of learning, she balked.“I don't wanna go,” Debbie said.I stared at her. “What?”“I don't wanna go,” she said again.“Oh.” What did one say to that?“Let's play hooky!”“Debbie, we can't play hooky!”“Yes we can! We've never done it and the semester, the year, the school experience is nearly over!”She had a point. Both of us had been exemplary students.Precisely what our fathers expected.“Deb, my dad would kill me!”“C'mon, Diane, it's only one day!”I looked at her. Have I mentioned that Debbie was the only reason I ever got into trouble? Well she was . . .At that point, our friend Leonard, he of the pick-up truck, appeared.“Leonard! Take us to Lethbridge!” Leonard looked at Debbie. Then he looked at me. I shrugged.“Okay,” he said.. . . and she got other people into trouble, too.The three of us trailed across the parking lot and into Leonard's pick-up.There was plenty of room on the wide seat.We settled in for the 12-minute ride to Lethbridge, a city of about 75,000 just to the north of Magrath.For a guy, Leonard had a surprisingly clean truck. No trash rolling around. In fact, the only thing on the dashboard was his brand shiny new 'Western Horseman' magazine.“Oooh!” I said, picking it up. “Is this the new issue?”“Yep. Just picked it up this morning!”“Do you mind if I read it?”“Nope. Just don't damage it.”Leonard took good care of his things. Obviously magazines were no exception.“I'll be careful.” I sat back happily while the two of them chattered all the way to the city.Lethbridge is not a huge place, but one with several malls and lots of shopping.We spent the day going from one to another.And having fun.At one of our early stops, Debbie and I bought large lollipops.Large.On long sticks.We spent the rest of the day . . . ummm . . . licking.Before we knew it, it was time to head back to catch our bus. No sense in proclaiming that we had just spent the day somewhere other than where we should have been.Leonard stopped his truck.“This has been fun!” I told him. “C'mon Debbie, we'd better hurry!” I slid out.At that point, a friend of Leonard's walked up to his window. “Hey, Leonard, where were you today?”Distracted, Leonard turned to answer his friend.Debbie started to follow me.“Oh, my sucker,” she said, turning back.Remember when I mentioned Debbie's name? Entwined with the word 'trouble'?Well that would also apply here . . .Now Debbie had gotten tired of holding the heavy sucker and had laid it down. Not certain of the surface of the dash of Leonard's remarkably tidy truck, she had chosen to lay it down on his copy of the Western Horseman.That same brand new copy he had been so protective of earlier.She grabbed the long stick, only to realize that the magazine came with it. Uh-oh.Not only had the sucker stuck to the cover of the magazine, but it had also stuck the pages together.“Ummm . . .” Debbie glanced at Leonard, still engrossed in his conversation. “We'll just leave that,” she said, and slid out after me. “See ya, Leonard!” She slammed the door.Leonard, still talking, waved cheerfully and the two of us headed for our bus.Leonard never mentioned his sucker-stuck magazine.The one he obviously never got to read.After he had toted two girls all over Lethbridge.Some fellow hookey-players are just plain nice.

Toddler see. Toddler do.

Who says the younger generation isn’t paying attention . . .?My good friend, Jen, was having one of her ‘normal’ days.Housework.Kids in school.Kids at home.She came upstairs from the laundry room.To hear someone in the front room.Talking.Now you have to know that Toddler Girl wasn’t yet making real words.And the baby was rosily asleep in his crib.Who could possibly be talking?She dashed around the corner of the front room and skidded to a stop.Huh.Toddler Girl had a baby doll wrapped up and tucked into the crook of one arm.In her free hand, she held a toy telephone.She was walking back and forth across the room bouncing her doll up and down in the approved ‘pacifying-the-baby’ manoeuver.But it was what she was doing with the phone that really caught Jen’s attention.She held it to her ear, babbled animatedly for a few seconds (with no recognizable words) and threw her head back and laughed out loud.Then, as Jen watched, she repeated the whole exercise. Walk about jiggling the baby. Talk animatedly. Laugh uproariously.Hmmm . . . I wonder where she picked that up?They are watching.And taking note.I guess talking enthusiastically and laughing while taking care of the baby is a good thing for them to see.And emulate.Unlike my kids who caught me eating peanut butter out of the jar.With a spoon.And forever after . . .Well. Enough said.

One Dirty Sweater

Me. Talking. It's a habit...
Okay, I admit it.Fashion has never been my forte.Yes, I like to look tidy.And clean.And have at least a passing acquaintance with what is popular.I do draw the line at old and frumpy.But sometimes, I’ve been known to stretch the rules a bit.Case in point . . .It was Sunday.I wanted to wear my cream-coloured sweater. It was bulky. Comfy.And, with the frigid cold outside, warm.I donned a coordinating skirt. Then my sweater.Stopped in front of the mirror on my way out the door to do a cursory examination.Oops. Something wasn’t quite right.You have to know that, with the large brood of children we had, it wasn’t unusual to be marked.Spilled on. Used for everything from soiled fingers to runny noses.And sometimes said marks and spillage went unnoticed until my little glance in front of the mirror the next time those clothes were worn.What’s that? Up near the shoulder?What could only be classified as a smudge.If I had the equipment, and the ambition, I probably could have taken a fingerprint.And identified the culprit.But that was unimportant right then. We were getting ready to leave and this was the only sweater that went with this particular skirt. A total change was indicated. Sigh.Then I thought of another solution. A daring, totally doable solution! Turn the sweater inside out.Which I did.I glanced again into the mirror.Perfect! Not one stain or fingerprint.And no one would notice the inside-out-age anyway.Wrong.No sooner had I sat down in one of the pews in the center of the chapel then someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Diane. Your sweater’s on inside out.”I turned back. “I know,” I said. “The other side is dirty.”There was a gasp and the sound of laughter from everyone seated behind me.Then one of them said, and I quote, “Only Diane.”I guess if I have to be known for something, this is okay.

Pretty Purple Ball

In my defense . . .Okay, I have no defense.Sometimes ignorance is just comical . . .It was a treasured wedding gift. A beautiful, purple blanket.Warm.Cuddly.The kind that squeaks when you squeeze its folds.I’m sure you all know what I talking about. When you got to a store and all the blankets are there, neatly folded, on display. And you squeeze the corners to see if they squeak?Okay, well I do.And some of them do.Squeak, I mean.I had no idea this was an indicator that the blanket was 100% pure wool.No idea at all.I just knew the squeaky ones were very warm and cuddly. (See above.)Soooo . . . purple blanket . . .It had served as the main source of warmth (apart from Husby, who is a percolator) on our double bed for a couple of years.When we upgraded to a queen size, sadly, the blanket no longer fit.In the changeover, I decided Mr. Blanket needed a wash.And yes, I know we should probably read tags.Well I do now at any rate.Into the washing machine and set to ‘warm’. (I’m not a complete ignoramus. I do know that very few things should be washed on ‘hot’.)Okay, I’m a complete ignoramus.A while later, I pulled from the washer a perfect ball of purple wool.Only those of you who have witnessed this know just how matted real wool can get when It’s been stuffed into a washer.Several feeling washed through me.Shock. Dismay.Disgust.I managed to stretch it out and it functioned as a child’s drag-me-around TV blanket for several years.But its days of real usefulness were at an end.I’d like to say I learned something from this.Woefully . . .In my defense, I did read the tag on Husby’s sweater.Mine was identical and I thought they were the same.Not.The story continues.Sigh . . .