Love, Laughter, and Life

Adventures With a Book Lover


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#TBT Annabelle and The Garden

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My little girl, Annabelle! How she loved the garden and being outside and snuggles on my lap. I miss her mama personality. As you can see, Anna Banana owned the garden. The house. The yard. The couch. The bed. The chair. As any true cat does.

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This Throwback Thursday flings us back to when we first started a little kitchen garden in our old house. This triangle plot used to be cement. TOTAL concrete. Ugh! After my honey worked his fingers to the bone removing icky cement, I went right to work, planting tiny rows of radish, lettuce, beans, peas. We added flowers, parsley, thyme, and even strawberries. And every year, I continued to remove bits of broken concrete that worked its way to the surface.

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It bloomed, grew, produced, this little potager, and gave me hours of pleasure. It also transformed over time to include a fence (to keep tiny grands from trampling tender shoots), blueberries, a host of insects and pests, and a wide variety of vegetable experiments and floral specimens. The very best year of production was when our neighbor found and homed a swarm of honeybees. Oh, did we miss those bees when he moved!

Do you have a potager? A secret garden? A weed patch?

I’d love to hear.

 


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When We First Met

The fridge, our friend

By Angie Quantrell @AngieQuantrell

I remember the day I first saw you. I mean really saw you.

It was on Halloween, October 31, 2009.

That was the day we moved out of the spare bedroom of my in-laws’ home and into our own space. Such a beautiful day.

I opened you, ready to put cold items in for storage. Oh, look! They forgot a lovely crystal glass bowl.

So I carefully washed the bowl and put it away.

The next day, you surprised us with a shelf and trays full of water.

THAT was why the bowl was left behind. For the leak. From the ice maker. Which leaked pretty much non-stop.

The picture became even clearer the more we got to know each other. We discovered that you really loved to have a dish towel beneath the bowl, just in case you spilled over the edges. And those spaces under the veggie bins? That was your favorite spot for letting water pool and become a lovely icky tan.

The bowl and dish towel

This went on, the emtpying of the bowl of ice and water, replacing the dish towel, and starting the cycle again and again, for years. Until finally, we couldn’t keep up.

So we had to turn off the ice maker. It must have made you sad, but we couldn’t keep up with the water.

Ah. Now we wouldn’t need the bowl. We could use the entire inside of the fridge for our food.

Not true. From somewhere, deep within your beige walls, you had the capacity and urge to leak. Still. Even without a water connection.

Back went the towel and the bowl. It became a game of sorts. Some days there were no drips at all. We thought we might be able to dispose of both bowl and towel. But others days, a deluge of water filled the bowl and the bottom of the veggie drawers. Even with no water connection.

The end came, at last, when even the second shelf was often filled with standing water. One dish towel became two, then three. It was too much.

Good-bye, my leaky beige-y drippy friend. It has been good. Interesting. Confusing. Frustrating.

But you have been faithful. Our food stayed cold, even frozen.

Thank you for your service. I will always have fond memories of our time together, the good times and the bad.

The new fridge – without bowl and dish towel

Hello, beautiful. I remember the day I first saw you. It was April 15, 2016. Tax day.

Here’s to a long, drip-free relationship. Without the bowl and the dish towel.

Thanks for stopping by.

I would love to hear your tales of appliances gone bad.


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HOME

Home. What a big word.

 

Home is . . .

where I reside

the body I wear

the spouse I adore

my family of love

the animals I adopt

the nature that surrounds me

the future I hope for

my faith that centers me

friends who nuture me

fellow writers who encourage me

the city of my residence

the state and country of my belonging

the planet I inhabit

 

Home is a big word.

 

What does home mean to you?


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Small Things DO Count

Does anyone recognize this?

It is absoutely necessary for a stove to work. Don’t ask me for a technical name, but this odd looking contraption plugs in somewhere inside the gas stove, and the flints mysteriously spark and make the gas stove click on. That would be the gas stove that cooks our meals. Not the gas insert that heats a home.

Notice the flint is broken.

Which means the stove is broken.

This piece is only about 1/8 of an inch wide and about 2 inches long. Despite that tiny size, if it doesn’t work, the stove doesn’t work.

Let’s say the flint plug (oh, I like that name) is the bridle that controls the Clydesdale stove.

It’s time for a new flint plug. Day 3 without and counting.

On the other hand, I have successfully poached my first ever chicken breasts for Thai salad and it was wonderful. Much faster than roasting.

Moving on to more stove top experiments.