I’m impatiently awaiting the appearance of my next book on Amazon. It’s all loaded now it’s up to Amazon to post it to my shop and under my name. Very nerve wracking, I WANT TO SEE IT! Okay, enough of that now.
Yay ! I found a favourite childhood recipe. It’s been lost for a long time.
1 cup of milk
½ tsp salt
1 Tbsp of butter
Beat eggs until light and foamy
Add milk and salt and beat
Add butter and put in double boiler
Cook over boiling water in double boiler
For 20 minutes.
Made it again last night for the first time in years. Still wonderful but I halfed the recipe and used skim milk. It takes half the time to cook and because I used skim I used the whole Tbsp of butter and it worked perfectly. I might use even less than the ¼ tsp of salt next time it really didn’t need even the ¼ tsp.
Great for a Sunday night supper with English muffins. They are the lightest creamiest scrambled eggs you will ever eat.
Sometimes I feel like a I was born with an agenda hardwired into my brain but that no body bothered to give me a copy. That somewhere there is a list of things I agreed to do and that as the list goes on things become over riding impulses to get things done. And that once done there is no going back. Some how it got checked off the list and it’s done forever. And the reason I know there is something like that it is the relaxation feeling before the next task/goal.
Some things I’ve always known I wanted to do. Things like entering the county fair and winning ribbons because there is no point in entering if you don’t want to do your best and win the blue ribbon. And I know that goal from the very first time I went to the fair with my dad when I was little.
One of the reasons I learned to play with hot glass is that I was fascinated from when I was very small my anything glass. My favourite toy was a weird barrel with red and yellow fish in it from the time I was really small. It was only about 5 inches long and about 2 inches in diameter and I took it everywhere. My fish in their tiny barrel floating on water in a closed vessel I couldn’t open and it was magical to me. I can remember hiding under the house with it when I was about 4 clutching it for comfort because I knew I was going to get a spanking. I don’t remember what I did or if I was even sorry that I had done something but I remember my barrel. Not a stuffed toy, not a doll just my barrel of fish and I remember crying when it finally broke.
So when I finally got the chance to take classes in hot glass I jumped at it. I thought I’d like the silver work when I first took classes but it was the glass and when it was winding down I knew it was time to go.
I wanted to play a musical instrument from my earliest memories. I was incredibly angry when instruments started in 2nd grade and I wanted to learn to play the flute because the teacher wanted me in choir instead and she said come back in a few years. So when I got the chance to get a guitar in 10th grade because my best friend was learning I had to do it and I didn’t put it down again for years. One of my exes decided I was going to be the next Cris Williamson and went so far to as to buy a mixer and mikes and I couldn’t play anymore. Somehow her plan for me wasn’t made with consulting me in mind and it took all the joy out of it. I rarely play now and I sometimes wonder if I ruined my vocal cords subconsciously to keep from going backwards. Obviously didn’t think that through because I miss my voice. I think I write now because I can’t sing.
At the moment I feel like another agenda item is about to manifest itself and I have no idea what’s coming. I wonder..
When I was in college I took a several voice classes and I loved it for the most part but when you got into the advanced classes you had to give recitals and finally a senior recital. They always some how ended up a battle of wills with the professor though. He insisted from the very first that I was really a soprano and having sung alto since the 7th grade I really wasn’t into singing soprano parts. Sopranos are the bores and illiterates of the choral world many times. They often can skate by with out ever learning how to read music or sight sing. Altos harbor deep seated loathing for sopranos. They are the blonds and the society group of any choir. The altos and the bass/baritones are the engines that drive a choir and the tenors are some where between often. Altos get the spare parts and the difficult parts of chords if it’s a good composer. (Altos love Brahms because his lover was an alto so he wrote great and difficult alto parts. Love me some Liebeslieder.) If it’s a bad or uninspired composer, altos get the drone note that is necessary but awfully boring. So altos develop a sort of reverse snobbery to sopranos and there was no way I was going to be one of those.
So the professor kept trying to trick me into singing higher. He gave me the mezzo line in the duet that has disappeared from my mind. It was a low mezzo part so I really didn’t mind too much and it was a fun and interesting part.
But he really took the cake at my final recital. I was assigned to sing Alfred Hay Mallotte’s “Lord’s Prayer” and I think he got away with the trick because when I first learned the piece in the 3rd grade in Carol Choir for Choir Recognition Sunday when I was still a soprano but he played a really nasty trick on me. He conspired with my accompanist to play several keys higher and there I was in a range I had no practice nor comfort level singing in front of a large crowd. He sat with Cam giggling in the back. I managed to do it with out embarrassing myself but, boy, was I pissed and Paul was quite pleased with himself after the performance. I, however, was ready to kill him. Just because he was right didn’t make me happy. LOL!
I managed to get through “Down by the Salley Gardens” and “Many a New Day” from Oklahoma before calming down but it was an experience I will never forget.
Sent from my LG phonehttp://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2011/09/110907-ring-finger-length-science-genes-sex-hormones-men-women/?source=link_TW_02
My ring finger is almost a half inch longer than my index finger
Happiness is a warm Kitty unless it’s 100 degrees.