I don't eat out often, but I have had the opportunity to enjoy a panini grilled sandwich on occasion at a few different coffee shops. A Panini is just a fancy spin on the grilled cheese of my youth, but with a wide variety of breads and fillings I didn't taste in my youth.
I recently discovered that a rarely used Foreman grill could double as a Panini grill. Who knew? Probably many of you. Regardless if I am the last to know, I am happy with the discovery. It takes only a few minutes of prep, a few more minutes to grill, the addition of a side salad and some fresh fruit, and supper is ready. Easy and relatively healthy, depending on the sandwich ingredients and the spread you use on the bread (butter, olive oil, etc.).
My first attempt last week was French bread slices with a filling of shaved ham & turkey, along with cheddar cheese shreds and slices of Swiss cheese. MMMM. Tasty. Last night, I picked up some white & rye swirl bread from a small town bakery. The filling I used was simply pastrami and swiss cheese. Simple, yet again, tasty. Today, for lunch, I whipped up a version of a sandwich I ate at a coffee shop a few years back. I spread raspberry jam on the insides of the white & rye swirl bread, and layered ham & swiss cheese. A couple minutes on the grill and lunch was done. Divine! (Sorry--no pictures--computer issues are not allowing me to transfer from camera to computer.)
I am not sure what I will try next, or when, but this grill is finally being put to use. (It was a gift I gave my hubby several years ago, but it wasn't used by us before my duaghter scooped it up and took it to her apartment; she is back and so is the grill.) Now that I have figured out how easily I can finish preparing an evening meal after work, the grill will take a prominent storage position, right next to my often used crockpot. What can I say? I LOVE EASY!!
Now, I look for suggestions. Do you enjoy paninis? What fillings do you like? Is there anything I just must try--you know, something 'to die for.'
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
I Lied
I lied. Sort of. Just a little. In my last post, a very serious subject, I talked a little of Halloween and I told how I am not a fan of goriness, especially in movies. I make an exception on gore for haunted houses. For many years, our civic organizations put on a haunted house, and I was invited to take part, first by borrowing out some of my decor and helping out, and eventually, given my own room to decorate as I saw fit. It was fun to be part of the terror (I always went easy on the kids) and a good deal of money was raised for the police department's children's activities fund. It has been a number of years since a haunted house was operated in our little community, and I have not been to one since.
I was invited to partake in a haunted excursion yesterday, and until last night, I forgot how much I enjoyed haunted houses. While others may scream, and clutch their companions ( I think I still have claw marks from where my nephew dug in), I generally laugh all the way through. I was often propelled to the front of the group to lessen the fear factor for my "followers." The scary dudes jumping out are really usually only frightening to the lead person--unless, of course, they wait and jump put behind the last person! BOO! Perhaps, after working in haunted houses for a number of years, I know most of what to expect around each corner, so I don't get too jumpy.
We went to Valley Scare (Valley Fair dressed up for Halloween).
I attended this event with my sister and her two sons, age 10 and almost 13, as well as my two daughters and my oldest daughter's boyfriend. This plan was hatched earlier by my daughters and my nephews, probably at the Labor Day campout that I missed. I only learned of it a few days ago, but who am I to disappoint my nephews? It was the first time my sister and her boys had gone to Valley Fair, so the excitement factor was ratcheted up a bit to begin with. The boys were pumped!
There are a number of indoor and outdoor haunted mazes. We partook in all of them, some two or three times. There was the Carnage at Crimson Isle, Hellside Farm, Blood Creek Cemetery, CarnEvil(fun only if you buy the $1 3-D glasses), Mr. Cleaver's Bloodshed, Chateau du Damne, and the Mangler's Asylum. Some were scarier than others, and there was one very innappropriate comment made in the asylum to one of our group, but all in all, it was very theatrical and a good time if you like that sort of stuff. This is probably not a great activity idea for very young children or those who are really squeamish. To add to the haunted feel, there are smoke machines blowing and haunted music selections playing throughout the park, which is decked out in its finest Halloween decor. Valley Scare really goes all out in this venture. The whole setup was aided by mother nature--a cloudy, damp night with just enough breeze to add a little drama.
While not all rides were open, several of the roller coasters, tilt-a-whirl, scrambler, trapeze swings, and a couple others were available. Unlike the usual summer craziness that is Valley Fair, the lines were not long. I am not sure how or why, but my daughter led us straight to the Wild Thing Roller Coaster. I recall riding this sanity defying coaster once when it was first opened and swore I wouldn't do it again. Somehow, with the cajoling of the kids, I found myself up there....what was I thinking? All I could think as we made that first ascent toward the heavens was that I couldn't back out now and I sure hoped I wouldn't become a victim of incontinence, projectile vomiting, or heart failure. I survived...but, seriously, what was I thinking? Is this really what it takes to be the "Cool Auntie?"
Shortly after gaining composure from the Wild Thing, the Tilt-a-Whirl presented itself. My sister didn't think she could handle it after the Wild Thing, but I kept at her and convinced her, pointing out how tame it was after the Wild Thing. Silly me. I swear, ours was the only car spinning madly, and as my sister held her mouth to heep from vomiting, the car swung even faster. She made it just through the ride, but didn't make it to the restroom before vomiting. Poor thing! She wasn't quite right for the rest of the night. After that experience, there were no no rides for either of us for a while, but once we traipsed through all the haunted areas, my nephew convinced me to ride the old wooden roller coaster...the one I hate almost as much as Wild Thing. We went on again and again and again. Despite my dislike for roller coasters, and my continuing objections to the "Just one more time" pleas, I figured I owed it to my sister to keep her son entertained. Plus, my nephew kept me reminding me how
I am the coolest of all his aunties...they'll say anything to get you to cave, won't they?Well, I can tell you one thing: I will take the haunted houses any time over the roller coasters, but I wear my "Coolest Aunt Badge" proudly!
A final thought to any of my sisters who may read my blog. If you want to be the world's coolest aunt, you'll have to ride the roller coasters and hit the haunted houses with a few of your nephews. Until then, I've paid my dues and am the solitary owner of this badge. :-)
Originally posted on my Area Voices Blog on 10/26/2009 at 11:06 PM
A final thought to any of my sisters who may read my blog. If you want to be the world's coolest aunt, you'll have to ride the roller coasters and hit the haunted houses with a few of your nephews. Until then, I've paid my dues and am the solitary owner of this badge. :-)
Originally posted on my Area Voices Blog on 10/26/2009 at 11:06 PM
An October Nightmare
October is a time often filled with haunting activities: Halloween parties, haunted houses, scary movies, and ghoulish costumes. All these activities are carried out for thrills and entertainment purposes (although I can say I've never watched one of the numerous terrifying movies in its entirety ; I personally don't get thrills from goriness).
Twenty years ago, there was a different kind of October nightmare. It had nothing to do with entertainment and thrills, except perhaps, for the perpetrator of this atrocity, which continues to haunt central Minnesota and beyond. Straight out of an ordinary October night, a monster lurked, then preyed upon the most innocent of victims. Three young boys, just hanging out, enjoying their time together, living in a place where bad things weren't supposed to happen.
Just a few days ago a very sad anniversary came and went, with a renewed interest and a few leads, but still no answers. 20 years and we seem to be no closer to having any answers. Mass media is often frowned upon as using sensationalistic journalism, trying to get their ratings up by falling all over stories that will garner the most public interest. In the case of this story, however, keeping it in the public eye will hopefully one day bring answers to the hope that is still held in the hearts of family, friends, and countless others. It is Jacob's Hope!
I know exactly where I was when I heard of the kidnapping of Jacob Wetterling. It is one of those few moments frozen in time. It was the early afternoon of October 23rd, a Monday, the day after the night of horror. I had just arrived home from work and my neighbor stopped me to tell me of the event. I remember thinking this was "unbelievable." How could such a thing happen in St. Joe? I know my mind also flashed back to the still unsolved Reker sisters' murders, wondering about any possible connection.
I quickly went inside to look for media coverage. I called my parents to find out what they had been hearing. You see, although I never knew Jacob or the Wetterling family personally, I did grow up in that area of the state. At the time, his father had at least two chiropractic clinics, one being in my hometown. I felt drawn to this case, mostly because of my connection to the area, but also because I was a parent of small children at the time. Many people living in or connected to central Minnesota will remember this horror story for the rest of their lives. This is not the only unsolved mystery of Stearns County (murders, missing persons, kidnappings), but it is the one that that seems to have received the most attention. Some of it is due to the age of the victim, but mostly, I think, it is due to the family's fight for answers and their willingness to keep reminding us that until the mystery is solved, there will always be hope, and we will never stop looking.
Halloween of 1989 arrived just 9 days after the abduction of Jacob. The usual array of ghosts and goblins were still out, but as I recall, their tiny hands were being held a little tighter. There were more parents on the pathways of tricksters that night, keeping their little ones in sight. Children once considered old enough to go out alone on this night, had parents hot on their trail. As a parent of two youngsters at the time, and expecting my third, I recall mourning the loss of innocence. It was just an eery time as I thought about where Jacob might be at that moment and what types of monsters now lurk in the shadows of our children's lives.
In all reality, the monsters have always been there, but this hammered it home. More often than not, perpetrators are someone known to the children they violate. The stranger danger is a less likely scenario than the neighbor, relative, or trusted adult when it comes to exploitation of children. Still, in this case, it was an unknown person, at least in the darkness of that October evening. Although investigators still work the case and have some possible suspects, there has never been that one clear break to crack the case wide open. It does seem odd, that in a small town in rural Minnesota, this monster's secret is still being held. Perhaps the perpetrator is cold and cruel enough to keep the secret, but he must have friends, family members, or neighbors that know or suspect something. Just one person that comes forth could be what it takes. If you are that person and you are reading this, now is the time.
As I close this piece, I will provide some links to the coverage of this story. Watching the old clips, and then seeing the newest coverage, it is hard not to see the pain of waiting and wondering that is etched on the faces of the Wetterling family or Jacob's best friend, Aaron. I continue to keep my outside light on as a symbol of hope for Jacob and all of missing children. Jaycee Dugard's family recently got their answers and a happy reunion. It is time for answers, and hopefully a reunion, for the Wetterling family and all others as well!
From the Jacob Wetterling Resource Center: Every kid should be a kid. They should be able to ride a bike, have a lemonade stand or walk home from school confident in their own safety. As adults, we all must play a part in ensuring the safety of kids...to keep them free from sexual exploitation online or in-person.
Jacob Wetterling Forum This includes some You-Tube recordings that I found a bit disturbing. Not sure what to make of them.
WCCO: Wetterling Siblings Reach Out
Will you keep your porch light burning, as a symbol for Jacob and all missing children, that they may return home soon?
Originally posted on Area Voices Blog 10/25/2009 at 12:55 PM
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Cat Haters' Club: Part II
If you read my post yesterday, I am sure you have surmised that I am a cat hater. But I am here to proclaim that I have officially canceled my membership, the one in my heart, as I would have never joined a real cat haters' club. While I had a strong dislike for cats, I wasn't alone. There are many others, I am sure, that don't care for cats, given the number of members in the so-called clubs I linked to yesterday. There are even some famous people that had a great aversion to cats:
Dwight Eisenhower's loathing for cats was so great that he gave his staff orders to shoot any cat seen wandering on the grounds of his residence. One of Johannes Brahm's favorite forms of relaxation was to sit at an open window and attempt to kill neighbourhood cats with a bow and arrow. Napoleon Bonaparte was once found sweating with fear and lunging wildly with his sword at the tapestry-covered walls, all in fear of a small kitten. Noah Webster described the cat as a "deceitful animal and when enraged, extremely spiteful."
While I would have never sunk to the outrageous activities of the above mentioned haters, the dislike of cats was present for close to half a century, with varying degrees of intensity. Although I may not be quite ready to claim intense love at this time, I have moved closer to the realm of the cat lovers below.
St. Francis of Assisi, one of my personal favorites, according to an Italian legend, was saved from a plague of mice by a cat which sprang miraculously out of his sleeve. Sir Winston Churchill's cat, Jock, shared his master's bed and table, and he refused to start eating until his cat was present at the table. Ernest Hemingway shared his Key West home with more than thirty cats. Florence Nightingale owned more than sixty cats in her lifetime and often complained of mysterious "stains" on her paperwork. Mark Twain kept eleven cats at his farm in Connecticut. His daughter, Susy once remarked, "The difference between Papa and Mamma is, that Mamma loves morals and Papa loves cats."
The information on famous cat lovers and haters, including many more examples, is found here. By the way, it seems there are more lovers than haters.
How did this change of heart come about? Let's just say he slinked his way in! He is was a stray cat that had been hanging out in the neighborhood. I'd first heard of his existence from my husband, who shared tales of the pursuit of said cat by one of my dachshunds. Another stray cat in the neighborhood. No big deal, and his existence was quickly filed in the recesses of my brain. It was my daughter and her boyfriend who first befriended the cat. Yes, this is the same daughter who was attacked by the neighbor's cat years ago and has spent her lifetime in loathing of cats. Her boyfriend, however, has always been a cat lover. Oh, the things we do for love.
It played out something like this:
Cat comes slinking to the front yard where boyfriend and daughter are sitting on a bench. He rubs by their legs and "Meows." They notice he is very thin. My daughter sneaks a can of tuna from the cupboard, as well as a dish of water. She does this a couple times.
"You know the cat isn't going to leave if you keep doing that," I say when I first catch her in the act.
"He's hungry. Look how thin he is. You know he isn't going anwhere, anyway. He just lives in the sheds out back, " says she.
I respond: "I know. There are always cats out there. It's probably the same one LuLu was chasing." After a short discussion about the merits of helping the cat, my response was something like: " Well, fine, I don't want him to starve, but don't even think about bringing him in the house. I don't like cats and I certainly don't want one in the house. Besides, the dogs would rip it apart."
"Don't tell dad. He told us not to feed him. He doesn't want a cat around," she replies.
"Well, we can't let it starve. That would be inhumane, and I will tell him so," I reply.
Over the next couple days, the cat takes over the bench, and makes himself at home. He is lying on the steps when I return from work, and purring at every entrance to our home. "Please bring me in," he seems to say. A few times, he is almost able to slither by me as I open the door, but I kindly shoo him out just in the nick of time. I watch daily as he attaches to my daughter and her boyfriend, and they to him. When he rubs up against my legs one day, this stodgy old cat miser softens a little more.
We have determined he was once a pet, even though he has no identification. He is declawed and we think neutered, that is if he is really a boy. It's kind of hard to tell with this cat when it won't sit still when you try to check its genitals.
I can't believe my heart has melted toward a cat. He is a handsome creature, and mostly gentle, though he doesn't like to be fussed over too much. Only a couple days after he came around, I went out and bought him cat food, as the tuna stockpile was withering. My daughter tried to "hide" said food from her dad, afraid of his reaction to their sneaky feedings. I told her not to bother hiding it and I told him, in no uncertain terms, I would not take part in allowing a cat to starve. It seemed a cat, once used to being indoors and taken care of, I assume, with no claws, would be unable to procure enough food to stay healthy. My husband knows me well enough to know I couldn't ignore a creature in need. He did protest any future plans of allowing him to move in. I had still not let him move in when I bought the food. I reasoned with my daughter about all the things I didn't like about cats (shedding hair, litter boxes, etc.). I told her we also needed to make sure someone isn't missing it.
We have not found an owner. We've checked local lost and found ads and asked around the neighborhood. Did his previous owners know he was gone? Are they missing him or was he abandoned? There is no identification to go by. Were they tired of him and just let it go? Could they not afford to feed and care for him any longer? My husband suggested taking him to the shelter, but it is so overloaded with cats, I fear surrendering him to a shelter might be assigning death to him. So, unless an owner is found, my daughter has "adopted" him, agreeing to pay all further costs of ownership, including a visit to the vet to make sure he is healthy and he is really a he.
Recently, it started to get chilly at night. A decision had to be made. The cat moved in and now lives in the basement. My husband has warmed to him, just as I have. The dogs have not warmed to him, and we have to careful that they don't slip downstairs to get after him. The plan is to introduce them in very small increments, so as not to overwhelm the dogs or the cat.
The cat has not been given an official name. They were toying arond with the name Warren, after some rock band singer, which led me to suggest a middle name of Peace. They rolled their eyes and groaned when I explained my reasoning, but I like it. Warren Peace. It has a nice ring to it and it relates quite handily to my half century of dealing with cats:
War 'n' Peace.
If you read my post yesterday, I am sure you have surmised that I am a cat hater. But I am here to proclaim that I have officially canceled my membership, the one in my heart, as I would have never joined a real cat haters' club. While I had a strong dislike for cats, I wasn't alone. There are many others, I am sure, that don't care for cats, given the number of members in the so-called clubs I linked to yesterday. There are even some famous people that had a great aversion to cats:
Dwight Eisenhower's loathing for cats was so great that he gave his staff orders to shoot any cat seen wandering on the grounds of his residence. One of Johannes Brahm's favorite forms of relaxation was to sit at an open window and attempt to kill neighbourhood cats with a bow and arrow. Napoleon Bonaparte was once found sweating with fear and lunging wildly with his sword at the tapestry-covered walls, all in fear of a small kitten. Noah Webster described the cat as a "deceitful animal and when enraged, extremely spiteful."
While I would have never sunk to the outrageous activities of the above mentioned haters, the dislike of cats was present for close to half a century, with varying degrees of intensity. Although I may not be quite ready to claim intense love at this time, I have moved closer to the realm of the cat lovers below.
St. Francis of Assisi, one of my personal favorites, according to an Italian legend, was saved from a plague of mice by a cat which sprang miraculously out of his sleeve. Sir Winston Churchill's cat, Jock, shared his master's bed and table, and he refused to start eating until his cat was present at the table. Ernest Hemingway shared his Key West home with more than thirty cats. Florence Nightingale owned more than sixty cats in her lifetime and often complained of mysterious "stains" on her paperwork. Mark Twain kept eleven cats at his farm in Connecticut. His daughter, Susy once remarked, "The difference between Papa and Mamma is, that Mamma loves morals and Papa loves cats."
The information on famous cat lovers and haters, including many more examples, is found here. By the way, it seems there are more lovers than haters.
How did this change of heart come about? Let's just say he slinked his way in! He is was a stray cat that had been hanging out in the neighborhood. I'd first heard of his existence from my husband, who shared tales of the pursuit of said cat by one of my dachshunds. Another stray cat in the neighborhood. No big deal, and his existence was quickly filed in the recesses of my brain. It was my daughter and her boyfriend who first befriended the cat. Yes, this is the same daughter who was attacked by the neighbor's cat years ago and has spent her lifetime in loathing of cats. Her boyfriend, however, has always been a cat lover. Oh, the things we do for love.
It played out something like this:
Cat comes slinking to the front yard where boyfriend and daughter are sitting on a bench. He rubs by their legs and "Meows." They notice he is very thin. My daughter sneaks a can of tuna from the cupboard, as well as a dish of water. She does this a couple times.
"You know the cat isn't going to leave if you keep doing that," I say when I first catch her in the act.
"He's hungry. Look how thin he is. You know he isn't going anwhere, anyway. He just lives in the sheds out back, " says she.
I respond: "I know. There are always cats out there. It's probably the same one LuLu was chasing." After a short discussion about the merits of helping the cat, my response was something like: " Well, fine, I don't want him to starve, but don't even think about bringing him in the house. I don't like cats and I certainly don't want one in the house. Besides, the dogs would rip it apart."
"Don't tell dad. He told us not to feed him. He doesn't want a cat around," she replies.
"Well, we can't let it starve. That would be inhumane, and I will tell him so," I reply.
Over the next couple days, the cat takes over the bench, and makes himself at home. He is lying on the steps when I return from work, and purring at every entrance to our home. "Please bring me in," he seems to say. A few times, he is almost able to slither by me as I open the door, but I kindly shoo him out just in the nick of time. I watch daily as he attaches to my daughter and her boyfriend, and they to him. When he rubs up against my legs one day, this stodgy old cat miser softens a little more.
We have determined he was once a pet, even though he has no identification. He is declawed and we think neutered, that is if he is really a boy. It's kind of hard to tell with this cat when it won't sit still when you try to check its genitals.
I can't believe my heart has melted toward a cat. He is a handsome creature, and mostly gentle, though he doesn't like to be fussed over too much. Only a couple days after he came around, I went out and bought him cat food, as the tuna stockpile was withering. My daughter tried to "hide" said food from her dad, afraid of his reaction to their sneaky feedings. I told her not to bother hiding it and I told him, in no uncertain terms, I would not take part in allowing a cat to starve. It seemed a cat, once used to being indoors and taken care of, I assume, with no claws, would be unable to procure enough food to stay healthy. My husband knows me well enough to know I couldn't ignore a creature in need. He did protest any future plans of allowing him to move in. I had still not let him move in when I bought the food. I reasoned with my daughter about all the things I didn't like about cats (shedding hair, litter boxes, etc.). I told her we also needed to make sure someone isn't missing it.
We have not found an owner. We've checked local lost and found ads and asked around the neighborhood. Did his previous owners know he was gone? Are they missing him or was he abandoned? There is no identification to go by. Were they tired of him and just let it go? Could they not afford to feed and care for him any longer? My husband suggested taking him to the shelter, but it is so overloaded with cats, I fear surrendering him to a shelter might be assigning death to him. So, unless an owner is found, my daughter has "adopted" him, agreeing to pay all further costs of ownership, including a visit to the vet to make sure he is healthy and he is really a he.
Recently, it started to get chilly at night. A decision had to be made. The cat moved in and now lives in the basement. My husband has warmed to him, just as I have. The dogs have not warmed to him, and we have to careful that they don't slip downstairs to get after him. The plan is to introduce them in very small increments, so as not to overwhelm the dogs or the cat.
The cat has not been given an official name. They were toying arond with the name Warren, after some rock band singer, which led me to suggest a middle name of Peace. They rolled their eyes and groaned when I explained my reasoning, but I like it. Warren Peace. It has a nice ring to it and it relates quite handily to my half century of dealing with cats:
War 'n' Peace.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Cat Hater's Club: Part I
Did you know there are internet groups for cat haters? There is the Cat Haters Club, Cat Haters Club of the World (C.H.O.W.), Cat Haters Club on Facebook, and probably a few more. WARNING: If you are a cat lover, you may want to avoid these sights, as just cruising through, I found myself, a self proclaimed non-lover of cats, saddened by some of the comments. While I have never belonged to any official group, in my heart, I have never really cared for cats. Hate is such a strong word, so I prefer something on the lines of intense dislike, but I know I have occasionally muttered, or forcefully blathered, "I HATE cats!!
I am not sure the roots of this loathing. We had many cats freely roaming the neighborhood when I was growing up. Perhaps that is where it began. Pesky things scratching at you and teasing the penned dogs. I vaguely remember a kitten, maybe even two, cared for by my sister(s). I never paid much attention to the creatures and have few details, though I clearly recall a kitten that ate a dead bird and then proceeded to throw up and get very ill. Perhaps that is another scene that aided in my dislike, because as a child, there was nothing I disliked more than vomit...it ranked right up there next to liver. Cats like liver though, and dead diseased birds, so that must prove they are evil, right?
There were other run-ins with cats that I didn't care for. One of my good high school friends, a huge cat lover, had cat hair everywhere at her house, and the smell of litterboxes permeated the air. Strike another vote against cats. I did find it sort of funny when the cat tumbled her Christmas tree, though. I laughed. Their family did not.
A couple of my sisters owned cats. They loved them. I just shook my head and tolerated them. I couldn't fathom this devotion to animals that would jump up on the counter when you weren't looking and snatch your food. One of my sister's cats once dipped its presence into 4 pies we had baked on the eve of Christmas Eve and left to cool on the counter overnight. I would have banished the cat, at least temporarily, I think. She did not. Her animals were rated right up there as family. When we visited her in Germany, the cat was so overwhelmed and agitated by a constant stream of visitors, that she was losing hair and constantly hissing and snarling at us. I felt bad for Kitty, but I still didn't like cats. I must say, though, Kitty had determination, and not only survived that intrusive spring, but survived a few near death experiences. One shout out for persistence and nine lives.
I did smile when another sister and brother-in-law signed their cats' names to greeting cards, complete with paw-prints. They were childless for the first several years of their marriage, so Bob & Greta were their objects/creatures of affection for a long time. Unfortunately, not good around children and getting old, the cats had to depart when the first baby arrived 11 years ago. Since that time, two new cats have made their way into these cat lovers' lives.
Probably the one event that is most responsible for my dislike of cats, though, was the neighbors' tom cat, also named Kitty. One day, some 24 years or so ago, the neighbor lady gave my two-year-old daughter a brush and told her to brush the cat's hair. Apparently, the cat did not like its hair brushed, the lady's son later told me. I returned from work that night, after midnight, to a story relayed by my husband. He had tried to clean the huge bite mark on my daughter's arm, but it still looked sore to me. I cleaned it again. The next morning, my daughter's forearm had swelled to twice its size, and we quickly ushered her to the clinic, where she received a shot and some oral antibiotics, while we were sternly told to inform the neighbor that unless she kept her cat in the house for the next 7-10 days, it would have to be removed and placed under observation. She was not happy and it made for some dicey neighbor-to-neighbor interactions for awhile, especially since she was not inclined to follow that directive. My daughter's arm healed, but my distaste for cats grew, right along with my daughter's distaste for and fear of cats.
In searching, I found this cartoon that perfectly describes some of the reasons for my aversion to cats.
Fast forward to 2009. Over the last two and a half years, we have become owners to two adopted dogs. While I have always liked (most) dogs, we never kept them as pets before, as my husband and I could not come to agreement on rules of pet ownership during our first 25 years of marriage. I really love my dogs (and hubby does too), partaking in some of the same activities as my cat loving siblings: allowing them in my bed, not banishing dogs that steal food off your plate when you aren't looking, signing their names greeting to cards on occasion, etc. Loving dogs is all the more reason to dislike cats, right? Wrong!
Pet ownership must have awakened a new softness in me. (Stay tuned for Part II).
Did you know there are internet groups for cat haters? There is the Cat Haters Club, Cat Haters Club of the World (C.H.O.W.), Cat Haters Club on Facebook, and probably a few more. WARNING: If you are a cat lover, you may want to avoid these sights, as just cruising through, I found myself, a self proclaimed non-lover of cats, saddened by some of the comments. While I have never belonged to any official group, in my heart, I have never really cared for cats. Hate is such a strong word, so I prefer something on the lines of intense dislike, but I know I have occasionally muttered, or forcefully blathered, "I HATE cats!!
I am not sure the roots of this loathing. We had many cats freely roaming the neighborhood when I was growing up. Perhaps that is where it began. Pesky things scratching at you and teasing the penned dogs. I vaguely remember a kitten, maybe even two, cared for by my sister(s). I never paid much attention to the creatures and have few details, though I clearly recall a kitten that ate a dead bird and then proceeded to throw up and get very ill. Perhaps that is another scene that aided in my dislike, because as a child, there was nothing I disliked more than vomit...it ranked right up there next to liver. Cats like liver though, and dead diseased birds, so that must prove they are evil, right?
There were other run-ins with cats that I didn't care for. One of my good high school friends, a huge cat lover, had cat hair everywhere at her house, and the smell of litterboxes permeated the air. Strike another vote against cats. I did find it sort of funny when the cat tumbled her Christmas tree, though. I laughed. Their family did not.
A couple of my sisters owned cats. They loved them. I just shook my head and tolerated them. I couldn't fathom this devotion to animals that would jump up on the counter when you weren't looking and snatch your food. One of my sister's cats once dipped its presence into 4 pies we had baked on the eve of Christmas Eve and left to cool on the counter overnight. I would have banished the cat, at least temporarily, I think. She did not. Her animals were rated right up there as family. When we visited her in Germany, the cat was so overwhelmed and agitated by a constant stream of visitors, that she was losing hair and constantly hissing and snarling at us. I felt bad for Kitty, but I still didn't like cats. I must say, though, Kitty had determination, and not only survived that intrusive spring, but survived a few near death experiences. One shout out for persistence and nine lives.
I did smile when another sister and brother-in-law signed their cats' names to greeting cards, complete with paw-prints. They were childless for the first several years of their marriage, so Bob & Greta were their objects/creatures of affection for a long time. Unfortunately, not good around children and getting old, the cats had to depart when the first baby arrived 11 years ago. Since that time, two new cats have made their way into these cat lovers' lives.
Probably the one event that is most responsible for my dislike of cats, though, was the neighbors' tom cat, also named Kitty. One day, some 24 years or so ago, the neighbor lady gave my two-year-old daughter a brush and told her to brush the cat's hair. Apparently, the cat did not like its hair brushed, the lady's son later told me. I returned from work that night, after midnight, to a story relayed by my husband. He had tried to clean the huge bite mark on my daughter's arm, but it still looked sore to me. I cleaned it again. The next morning, my daughter's forearm had swelled to twice its size, and we quickly ushered her to the clinic, where she received a shot and some oral antibiotics, while we were sternly told to inform the neighbor that unless she kept her cat in the house for the next 7-10 days, it would have to be removed and placed under observation. She was not happy and it made for some dicey neighbor-to-neighbor interactions for awhile, especially since she was not inclined to follow that directive. My daughter's arm healed, but my distaste for cats grew, right along with my daughter's distaste for and fear of cats.
In searching, I found this cartoon that perfectly describes some of the reasons for my aversion to cats.
Fast forward to 2009. Over the last two and a half years, we have become owners to two adopted dogs. While I have always liked (most) dogs, we never kept them as pets before, as my husband and I could not come to agreement on rules of pet ownership during our first 25 years of marriage. I really love my dogs (and hubby does too), partaking in some of the same activities as my cat loving siblings: allowing them in my bed, not banishing dogs that steal food off your plate when you aren't looking, signing their names greeting to cards on occasion, etc. Loving dogs is all the more reason to dislike cats, right? Wrong!
Pet ownership must have awakened a new softness in me. (Stay tuned for Part II).
Sunday, October 4, 2009
A Visit With the Franciscans
Despite the exhaustion of September, one big highlight of the month for me came Sunday, September 20th. I had made a commitment to my Mom a month or so earlier, and I always try to keep those, even when tired or rundown. I enjoy spending time with my Mom, and since I shared her with a dozen siblings growing up, and these days with dozens of her grandchildren, time spent alone with her is always at a premium. Our mother-daughter adventure took us to donor's appreciation day at the beautiful Franciscan Convent in Little Falls. It was an exhilarating day for both of us.
Our day began with a special Mass with musical accompaniment by staff and students of the St. Francis Music Center. It was an experience that is hard to put into words, but which extracted memories from my younger years and the roots of my faith. As I participated, a feeling resonated in me that my current life, although on a somewhat different spiritual path than that of my childhood, is still filled with the issues of peace and justice I've always held dear. The day awakened in me a new curiosity to explore further some of the roots of my past spiritual journey, continue to assess my current spiritual path, and set sites on where my future faith journey may be heading. I could not do justice to the topic in this blog at this time, so I will leave it at that for the time being.
After Mass, we gathered in the convent dining area for a wonderful meal prepared in the new kitchen made possible by donors like my Mom. On the menu: Baked Chicken, REAL mashed potatoes slathered in butter (with just the right texture to prove they were real), gravy, mixed vegetables, freshly baked featherlight pillow buns that melted in your mouth with each bite, and slabs of homemade apple pie. There was plenty of coffee to wash it down, or for a non-coffee drinker like myself, milk & water. We enjoyed wonderful conversations with our fellow diners, none of whom were known to us previously, but nevertheless, warm connections were made. The table decorations were interesting, each table sporting a different kitchen utensil. This was ours:
A multi-wheel adjustable pasta cutter: that brought forth a few memories and discussions of home baking. How convenient this tool would have been for my mom when she was baking cinnamon pie crust strips or homemade crackers. My dad's cousin would have loved it too, as she lovingly rolled thin-as-paper dough for homemade stroganoff noodles and cut the strips manually.
After lunch, we enjoyed a presentation on the Franciscan Music Center and some very touching stories were shared. We later got a tour of the amazing new kitchen, which I did not have the presence of mind to photograph. Then it was off to the gift store for a couple purchases.
Finally, I was able to refresh some memories of long ago visits to the convent when my great-aunt, Sister Emerita, a Franciscan nun, was still alive. We went to visit her grave for the first time since she was buried there in 1968. Along the stroll to the cemetery, there were a couple areas to rest, the photo below showing my favorite area to repose.
We also met up with some other relatives that belong to the Order of St. Francis. One nun, Sister Mary Ellen, is my dad's first cousin. The other nun, whom I'd never met before, Sister Celine, is my deceased grandpa's first cousin. Between the two of them, one from my paternal Grandpa's side, and one from my paternal Grandma's side, we were able to reminisce about long passed away relatives and I learned much more about my grandparents and great aunt than I ever knew (both of my grandparents passed away in the early sixties, Grandma when I was 2 1/2, and Grandpa when I was 3, and my great aunt just before I turned 8). Both Sisters were thrilled that they each learned more about each side of the family, as well.
Part of my highlight of meeting Sister Celine, who is now 91, was to talk with her about her literary adventure. She, along with her niece, recently (2007) published a book about her life and family, titled: Conversations With Celine. The book talks about living in a large family & farm life in central Minnesota during the first half of the twentieth century, as well as losing the farm during the depression. It also chronicles her life and continuing work and missions she was involved in during her Franciscan journey. Reading the book, I was able to add more dimension to my understanding of that side of my ancestral heritage, which any genealogy lover knows is a huge gift. I learned more about the immigration of my great-great grandfather's family and their early years here (1870s). It was enlightening to learn little tidbits of my grandfather's and great-grandfather's relationships with this part of the family.
Visiting with Sister Celine, I also learned a little about the long writing process for the book, and how much material needed to be cut to make the publishing price manageable. Sister Celine is one of only two relatives still living from that generation. Her older sister is 96, but is suffering from dementia, so Sister Celine is really the only one able to pass on these stories. What a gift she has given to her relatives in writing this book! What hope she gave to me about my own family history projects! If I can complete those, perhaps I can extend my writing to those projects in my dreams.
One of the neatest things about meeting Sister Celine was how young she seemed. At 91, I expected frailness, but what I was greeted with was a small-framed powerhouse. Her energy level was amazing and her mind appeared as clear as a bell. On our long walk to the cemetery, she kept a brisk pace, turning to ask my mom if she was okay. I think my mom was a bit embarrassed, even though she keeps a pretty good pace, herself, for 77. Another highlight is her family resemblance to her cousins, my beloved great aunt (who was somewhat of a surrogate grandmother after my grandparents died) and my grandpa (whom I really only know through photos and stories). I am so thrilled at having this new family connection. As we hugged goodbye, she invited us to please return and once again shared in her delight of meeting once unknown relatives. The delight is definitely reciprocal!
Sister Celine and my Mom
Our day began with a special Mass with musical accompaniment by staff and students of the St. Francis Music Center. It was an experience that is hard to put into words, but which extracted memories from my younger years and the roots of my faith. As I participated, a feeling resonated in me that my current life, although on a somewhat different spiritual path than that of my childhood, is still filled with the issues of peace and justice I've always held dear. The day awakened in me a new curiosity to explore further some of the roots of my past spiritual journey, continue to assess my current spiritual path, and set sites on where my future faith journey may be heading. I could not do justice to the topic in this blog at this time, so I will leave it at that for the time being.
After Mass, we gathered in the convent dining area for a wonderful meal prepared in the new kitchen made possible by donors like my Mom. On the menu: Baked Chicken, REAL mashed potatoes slathered in butter (with just the right texture to prove they were real), gravy, mixed vegetables, freshly baked featherlight pillow buns that melted in your mouth with each bite, and slabs of homemade apple pie. There was plenty of coffee to wash it down, or for a non-coffee drinker like myself, milk & water. We enjoyed wonderful conversations with our fellow diners, none of whom were known to us previously, but nevertheless, warm connections were made. The table decorations were interesting, each table sporting a different kitchen utensil. This was ours:
A multi-wheel adjustable pasta cutter: that brought forth a few memories and discussions of home baking. How convenient this tool would have been for my mom when she was baking cinnamon pie crust strips or homemade crackers. My dad's cousin would have loved it too, as she lovingly rolled thin-as-paper dough for homemade stroganoff noodles and cut the strips manually.
After lunch, we enjoyed a presentation on the Franciscan Music Center and some very touching stories were shared. We later got a tour of the amazing new kitchen, which I did not have the presence of mind to photograph. Then it was off to the gift store for a couple purchases.
Finally, I was able to refresh some memories of long ago visits to the convent when my great-aunt, Sister Emerita, a Franciscan nun, was still alive. We went to visit her grave for the first time since she was buried there in 1968. Along the stroll to the cemetery, there were a couple areas to rest, the photo below showing my favorite area to repose.
We also met up with some other relatives that belong to the Order of St. Francis. One nun, Sister Mary Ellen, is my dad's first cousin. The other nun, whom I'd never met before, Sister Celine, is my deceased grandpa's first cousin. Between the two of them, one from my paternal Grandpa's side, and one from my paternal Grandma's side, we were able to reminisce about long passed away relatives and I learned much more about my grandparents and great aunt than I ever knew (both of my grandparents passed away in the early sixties, Grandma when I was 2 1/2, and Grandpa when I was 3, and my great aunt just before I turned 8). Both Sisters were thrilled that they each learned more about each side of the family, as well.
Part of my highlight of meeting Sister Celine, who is now 91, was to talk with her about her literary adventure. She, along with her niece, recently (2007) published a book about her life and family, titled: Conversations With Celine. The book talks about living in a large family & farm life in central Minnesota during the first half of the twentieth century, as well as losing the farm during the depression. It also chronicles her life and continuing work and missions she was involved in during her Franciscan journey. Reading the book, I was able to add more dimension to my understanding of that side of my ancestral heritage, which any genealogy lover knows is a huge gift. I learned more about the immigration of my great-great grandfather's family and their early years here (1870s). It was enlightening to learn little tidbits of my grandfather's and great-grandfather's relationships with this part of the family.
Visiting with Sister Celine, I also learned a little about the long writing process for the book, and how much material needed to be cut to make the publishing price manageable. Sister Celine is one of only two relatives still living from that generation. Her older sister is 96, but is suffering from dementia, so Sister Celine is really the only one able to pass on these stories. What a gift she has given to her relatives in writing this book! What hope she gave to me about my own family history projects! If I can complete those, perhaps I can extend my writing to those projects in my dreams.
One of the neatest things about meeting Sister Celine was how young she seemed. At 91, I expected frailness, but what I was greeted with was a small-framed powerhouse. Her energy level was amazing and her mind appeared as clear as a bell. On our long walk to the cemetery, she kept a brisk pace, turning to ask my mom if she was okay. I think my mom was a bit embarrassed, even though she keeps a pretty good pace, herself, for 77. Another highlight is her family resemblance to her cousins, my beloved great aunt (who was somewhat of a surrogate grandmother after my grandparents died) and my grandpa (whom I really only know through photos and stories). I am so thrilled at having this new family connection. As we hugged goodbye, she invited us to please return and once again shared in her delight of meeting once unknown relatives. The delight is definitely reciprocal!
Sister Celine and my Mom
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