Winter Pinecone Birdfeeder Craft

As a stay-at-home mom, keeping my four and half year old son, Nate, entertained is a challenge.  Unless I allow him to play computer games or Wii, he looks to me to be his playmate every minute of the day.  I have to admit I was a bit anxious when I thought of what we could do over Christmas break while he was home from school until we received a package with gifts from my sister-in-law.  Since she lives in the mountains of Arizona, she went green and used pinecones instead of bubblewrap for filler.  When I saw the pinecones, I immediately had an idea how to repurpose them.

Last year, Nate's preschool teachers had the kids make pinecone birdfeeders.  With minimal cost, this craft project kept him occupied for over an hour.  I liked that Nate had fun while doing it, nothing electronic was involved and I believe it helped build some self confidence in him.

Here's what you'll need:  6 medium sized pinecones, 2 cups of crisco, small bag of birdseed mix, 2 small bowls (1 each for crisco & seed), 6 pieces of yarn/string about a foot long, spatula and newspaper.   

Lay a few layers of newspaper over a flat workspace.  Take each piece of yarn/string and tie to the tips of the pinecones.

Using a spatula, scoop the crisco and spread onto the pinecone.  Gently push the crisco in between the leaves of the pinecone.  If using your fingers, be careful as the pinecones can be sharp. 

Here's what the pinecone will look like when done with the crisco.

Roll the pinecone in the birdseed.  Use hands to press the seed well into the crisco.

Here's the finished product!

Hang the birdfeeders outside, preferably within a view from inside so you can enjoy the birds who come to visit!

A Basic Instinct

Here it is only a few days after Christmas and we got our first snow storm of the season.  I like snow simply because outside looks like a giant sugar bowl has been overturned and poured its contents over all of nature.  If the weather is going to be cold, there may as well be visual interest. 

Another thing that amuses me at least once every winter season is how people invade grocery stores and gas stations as if an apocalypse is impending.  It only takes one confident announcement from the news media that snow is on the way and as if on cue, an ancient genetic switch is flipped within people.  They become filled with a nervous energy instructing them to buy large quantities of food and a readiness to bunker down in their homes for days as if a disabling storm rages outside.  It is for this very reason that I don’t venture out a day or two before an announced storm.  The grocery store environment is similar to a boiling pot of water where the people are like erratic molecules bumping into each other.  Just like a boiling pot of water if I get bumped too much, I will blow my lid off.

Why do we humans still have that overwhelming instinct to stock up and lock down when we hear snow is coming?  Perhaps evolution hasn't caught up yet.  In the area where I live, there is a grocery store within every ten miles.  That convenience offers to always have in our homes the essentials such as milk, eggs and bread.  Also, with the technology in our cell phones alone, we can get email, watch movies and maybe even reposition a few satellites.  So knowing the weather forecast for the week isn’t at all difficult, making planning very easy.

I’ve noticed a trend year after year that weather forecasters predict snow for Christmas.  Most times they’re wrong.  Out of habit, I check the weather daily to see what the high temperatures will be as well as if there are any storms in the near future.  All week long, there was a prediction for some snow on Christmas weekend.  Then on Christmas Eve while watching tv, the weather lady on the news station reported that the computer models showed the snow storm was not going to affect our area at all.  Computers are not infallible, right?

On the morning of the day after Christmas, I did my usual routine of checking email, reading some news and of course, perusing the weather forecast for the week.  To my surprise, there was a small link on the side that read, “Winter Storm Warning”.  I was even more surprised after clicking on the link that it said our area was going to get eight to ten inches.  Within minutes I get a text from my brother, Matt, who happens to share my slightly obsessive need to know the weather.  “I’m heading to the grocery store.  We’re going to get a storm.”  I get that sinking feeling that I should probably go to the store too.  Being that my sister hosted Christmas day brunch and I was sick with the flu just days before that, I didn’t have much food.  I didn’t want to endure the chaos I knew was ensuing at the grocery store.  I convinced myself that although I didn’t have the usual supply of food goods I like to have on hand on any given day, I had enough to get me through to the next day.  I would have to get very creative culinary style.   Hmm, how about canned beans casserole?

A few hours later my phone rang.  It was Matt telling me how obnoxiously crowded the grocery store was.  He also told me how he had seen a car flipped on its roof on the highway even though there was very little snow on the ground.  I told him to be careful and get home quickly.  “I’m just going to make a quick stop at the gas station and then head home,” he replied.  As we continued to talk about other things, suddenly his tone changed to frustration.  Apparently, there were long lines at the gas pumps. People were filling up gas cans for their snow blowers and possibly generators since this was the first storm of the season.  Matt is not one to be slowed down when he’s on a mission of any kind so he drove by and headed to the next gas station only to find the same crowded situation.

Irony and the atypical blizzard had played a good trick on both Matt and I.  We are the armchair mockers who ridicule others for their last minute rush for gas and food while we champion ourselves for preparing accordingly.  We muse that survival instinct wins over common sense of living in a suburban area where convenience abounds and chances of being snowed in for days on end is extremely small.  After all, we don’t live in the mountains of Montana.  However this time, poor weather forecasting combined with wind whipped snow after a wonderfully relaxing holiday was the best recipe for duping us; making us the same people we laugh at.  Nature got the best of us this time and I’m sure she got a laugh from it.

Not So Nice Fitting Genes

This will sound like bragging but it is simply the truth.  Before I was pregnant, I never had a problem finding clothes that fit me.  My shape had essentially stayed the same since high school up until pregnancy.  I knew what styles flattered me and clothing shopping was quite easy.  For years I tried to put a few pounds on to look a little less scrawny but my metabolism remained in overdrive, efficiently burning calories.  Then I turned thirty.  The extra helpings of desserts and the afternoon snacks at the vending machine began to hug my hips with everlasting love.  I didn’t take too much notice because I still fit in my clothes just fine.

I could not ignore the extra weight gain after the sixth month into my pregnancy.  This was more than just baby weight.  My baby made me crave ice cream like never before.  The consistent volume of a few half gallons I was ingesting weekly started to accumulate everywhere on my body.  I was jolted into reality when the doctor started to express concern for my rapid weight gain.  One even told me outright that I wasn’t going to be happy with how I looked after my baby was born.  Sure enough, she was right.

Unfortunately, I was not one of those women who have a baby and then within a few weeks get the pre-pregnancy body back.  I was surprised to find that I had to wear two sizes larger than before baby.  I know that doesn’t seem like a lot but that equated to about twenty pounds extra.  For someone who couldn't even gain two pounds when trying, this was astounding.  I thought surely after six months I’d start to slim down.  I waited expectantly but the number on the scale didn’t budge. 

Depression hovered over me so I tried to look at the positive side of the situation.  My new size demanded a new wardrobe but when I got to the store and tried clothes on, my positive attitude went out the door quicker than cashmere cardigans on clearance at TJ Maxx.  Absolutely everything I tried on didn’t fit.  I was so used to everything fitting and looking nice and here I was finding nothing that fit correctly.  Those full length mirrors were no help either.  They revealed a view I found quite repulsive.  My former six pack abs looked more like the Michelin tire man’s and my thighs revealed icky caches of lumpy cellulite.  My body had begun to transform into looking like my grandmother’s!

The most frustrating part of this transformation was trying to find pants or jeans that fit.  I must have an old fashioned body shape because the so called modern fit jeans style does not fit me.  I have tried on all brands from $99 to $13.99 and they all have waistbands that hang four inches below my bellybutton, creating the dreaded muffin top, and show more crack than a sidewalk.  Is it too much to ask for a pair of pants that camouflage unwanted curves and cover that junk in my trunk?

This past summer I triumphed over my lack of love for myself by losing a total ten pounds and reassessing my life.  I thought about what was important to me before my physical metamorphosis and what has become important to me since.  Certainly family and friends top the list.  Most importantly, I rediscovered that I am a creation of God.  Psalm 139:14 says, “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made…”  I believe my soul is eternal even after this body, whatever shape it is, dies.  It is how I live my life, not my looks that make me who I am.  Previously I relied on my looks to open doors for me, literally and figuratively.  When I look back to that time in my life, I sheepishly realize how shallow and self-centered I was.  Now instead of hoping someone will hold doors open for me, I am quick and glad to open doors for those who need it.  The more I do for others with a glad heart, the better I feel.  Learning that key lesson has been a true blessing in my life.

So, you may be wondering if I ever found pants that fit.  Yes, I did!  The “at waist” fit pant is a very rare find in clothing stores but I did find one affordable store that carries them.  It’s ironic that fashionistas sourly refer to this style as “mom pants” but rather than take offense to that labeling, I wear them with pride.

It's Just a Trip to the Grocery Store

I like to be organized and plan ahead.  It must be something programmed in my genes because from my earliest remembrances I appreciated order.  That is why I was recently surprised when it was an hour before my guests were to arrive that I found I didn’t have any crackers for the cheese I bought the day before.  Waking up from a stupor of disbelief that I forgot something and didn’t plan accordingly, I began to process a slight feeling of panic. I figured if I had to go to the grocery store I might as well get ingredients for one more appetizer.  Since I am there at least two times a week, I know where things are located in the grocery store probably better than some of the store’s own employees. With renewed confidence that I could get what I needed and get back home in time, I grabbed my purse and keys.

The town I live in is very small, only a few square miles in area which means if I want get groceries, I’ve got a six mile trek to the next town.  The distance isn’t far, I know, but the fact I have got to travel through two downtowns is more like accepting a challenge on the American Gladiators show.  As is always the case when I’m in a hurry, I got stuck behind the slowest driver on the road going seven miles below the speed limit.  Determined not to get in a really bad mood just before my party, I sang a little song to calm my nerves.  Miraculously, this worked and I even made the green light at the first intersection.

I usually write up a list of things I need before I go shopping because I get so easily distracted once I get in the store even when going there for only a few items.  Since I didn’t have time to do this, I began continual mental repetition of the three things I needed: crackers, melon and prosciutto.  I was focused until I got to the notorious parking lot where I was stopped by a little old lady, who could barely see over her steering wheel, backing out of a spot in order to straighten her car.  It took her two attempts and it seemed like forever.  During that eternity, I scanned the lot for open spaces and found one just around the corner.  “Yes!!” I thought but in the last second of my glee a twenty-something guy in his sports car took my spot.  I wanted to roll down my window and yell, “Hey Buddy, you should leave those close spots open for old people, parents with young kids or people in a hurry like ME!”  I eventually found an open parking spot in the fifth row.  I should have been happy as it was a Saturday; the peak grocery shopping time of the week and sometimes there are no spaces to park at all.

As I grabbed a basket at the store’s entrance I was blocked from getting in by two women: one wiping down her cart with the provided anti-bacterial wipes and the other perusing the store flyer.  I began to feel the exasperation accompanied with hot blood climbing up my neck.  I sympathized with the one woman as I am also a “germaphobe” and also wipe my cart down although I take a wipe and then move out of the way.  The Flyer Woman clearly had forgotten she wasn’t the only person in the world and that other people needed to get into the store.  What’s more, I thought, we are in the second decade of the new millennium where technology abounds – look up the sales flyer online!

I weaved my way through the produce area and picked up a cantaloupe melon on the way to the deli area and then I panicked.  What was I supposed to buy?  Oh no!  I dwelled too long on the lack of common sense of Flyer Woman and now I forgot the two other things I was supposed to get.  I looked at my phone to see how much time I had left before guest arrival: 30 minutes!!  Nearby at the deli counter, the mom who was apparently deaf to the ear piercing screams of her child was not helping my absent-minded situation. I glanced around and saw the prosciutto.  Ah, yes. That was it!  I flung a package in my basket. 

Now to get the crackers which are located on the other side of the store.  As I attempted to speed walk, I got stuck in a double-block trap.  You may be wondering what in the world a double-block trap is but I can assure you that if you have been grocery shopping, you have encountered the DBT.  This is where a person puts their cart on one side of the aisle and then stands on the other side so that no one can get by.    I cleared my throat in case she didn’t see me but the woman did not budge, remaining completely engrossed in the nutrition label of a salsa jar.  “Excuse me,” I said.  She still didn’t move.  “EXCUSE ME!” I raised my voice so I was certain she and everyone in the aisle could hear me.  I received her acknowledgement through a look as if I was the one being rude.  “Whatever!  I don’t have time for this nonsense,” I thought.  I continued on my way, putting it into fifth gear as I rounded the corner.  I got to the shelves with the crackers and executed a technique worthy of a competitor in a shopping spree; without stopping I grabbed the large assortment box and continued my speed lap to the cashiers.  As I cruised down the sparsely populated paper goods aisle, I spotted a man earnestly digging for gold, the kind that is found in the nose, while entranced by packages of Ziploc bags. 

Since I only had three items in my basket, I headed straight for cashier number one, the express checkout, while I laughed to myself at everyone else with their full carts waiting in long lines.  I shouldn’t have laughed because as luck would have it, there was an old man who had thirteen items in the ten item line.  The cashier scanned and bagged the items with great efficiency and totaled everything up.  “Twenty three, ninety seven,” she said.  It took the man ten seconds to comprehend the money needed and slowly took out his wallet.  With shaky hands, he pulled out a few coupons.  I began to perspire with impatience and bit my lower lip with thoughts of “why me?” running through my head.  I began to quietly hum. “Twenty two, forty seven,” the cashier said.  He pulled out each bill with great deliberation and then searched his pockets for the forty seven cents.  I looked at the time on my phone.  I had twenty minutes. 

When it was my turn, the transaction seemed to take less than a minute.  I even passed the old man, who was previously in front of me at the register, at the exit door.  I made my way to my car feeling I was back in control of the situation; seventeen minutes and counting.  This time I didn’t get behind a slow driver but I was stopped by every red light on the way home.  I surrendered to the fact I had a good chance of getting home after my first guest arrived.  As I began to wonder what was the worst thing that could happen if I was late getting home, calmness blanketed me.  Time seemed to slow and almost halt.  Before I knew it, I was walking through my front door with four minutes to spare.  My doorbell rang and two guests arrived.  “How about some prosciutto with melon?” I asked with secret delight.  “No thanks,” was the reply.  “I’ll just have a glass of water.”

Although this story was inspired by true situations, it is fictitious.  All characters in this story are fictitious.  Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Going to the Ocean in Pennsylvania

Maybe the title is a little misleading since Pennsylvania doesn't even touch the Atlantic Ocean.  Ok, I didn't go to the beach but rather a fantastic restaurant in Easton, PA called Ocean that realizes a foodie's quest for great food at a reasonable price. 

This is the perfect date night restaurant.  The modern decor and romantically lit interior backdropped with modern lounge music reminded me of some chic hot spot in New York City without both the long travel time and expense.  Being that Alan and I have infrequent date nights, I like to make the most of it and get a little dressed up.  For the evening, I shed my usual jeans and olive oil stained t-shirt ensemble for sleek black pants, a satiny top and high heels.  In many places these days, this attire might get me looks of, "Where does she think she's going?" Ocean's clientel is hip, young and refreshingly eccentric and to my quiet relief, my wardrobe choice was appropriate with this avant-garde environment.  Don't get me wrong, this place is not pretentious.  The staff is always quick to please and the well-stocked bar has a flat screen tv and on that night, much to Alan's delight, was playing sports games.  There is a little something here for everyone's pleasure.

We learned our lesson from an unsuccessful previous attempt to go there with no reservations.  They weren't even sure when we could get seated and that was in the dead of winter.  Even with our reservations we had to wait for a few minutes in the downstairs lounge, where we ordered drinks and perused the menu.  I'm not sure if the delicious pomegranate martini was going to my head or if I was too excited to be at such a cool place.  Either way, I'm glad we had that pause before sitting at our table because every choice on the French inspired menu was overwhelmingly tempting.  I think they know they have a real good thing going in the kitchen so they offer tapas as well as entrees to help ease through indecision. 

Once seated at a table, we were promptly met with a cheerful waitress who told us the specials that evening.  Thank you very much!  My decision making just became much more difficult.  In the end I decided tapas was the planned route to taste bud bliss.  I figured I could try more dishes this way and my plan would have paid off if my eyes weren't bigger than my stomach.  I started with the Ocean salad which is double portion sized.  I could have stopped there but the crab cake BLT seduced me once I saw it on the menu.  Seriously, who can refuse a BLT?  For me, having the additional crab was the icing on the cake if you will.  Before I got down to gormandizing the gorgeous gateau, I ordered fried calamari.  It should be noted their tapas portion size is quite large and two was more than enough.  I realized this when I just about finished the crab cake BLT and when the calamari showed up.  My eyes eagerly desired the beckoning crispy coating that lavishly surrounded each piece.  My stomach was completely satisfied six bites ago.  Unfortunately when it comes to food, I've got very little self control.  I took a reluctant bite and the calamari did not disappoint.  The combination of crispiness with salty flavor thoroughly satisfied my palate.  My taste buds screamed for more while my stomach warned me if I listened to my mouth there would be digestive trouble in the near future.  Fortunately this decision was fairly easy to make.  I asked our waitress for a container to take the calamari home and in the comfort of my everyday home environment, it was my lunch the next day.

This whole experience was on a date night and while I will always deeply love my husband, I fell in love with the food and enchanting surroundings at Ocean.  Although he may not admit it, I think Alan felt the same way about the evening.  We both can agree that the company is truly what made the evening romantic.

Check out Ocean's website at http://www.ocean235.com/

A Scintillating Sickness

The men in my life can tell you that I have acute arachnophobia, although I don’t think there is anything “cute” about it!  My husband, Alan, can tell you my reactions to spiders have come close to inducing heart attacks for both of us.  Unfortunately, my passionate reactions to arachnids have given my son reason to think spiders are in the same category as a murderer.  I wish I could rid myself of this ridiculous fear but it has gotten worse as I have gotten older and also has begun to include just about all bugs. 

The origin of my fear of spiders goes back to my very early years.  When I was a toddler, I would spend a lot of time at Nana B and Pop-pop’s house.  Nana can still vividly recall how I would cry and scream at the daddy long leg spiders that were constant fixtures on the foundation of their house.  She tried using reverse psychology on me by calling them her pets.  It didn’t work.

My phobia hit an all time high point when I was about six, outside skipping rope in our driveway.  It was a warm sunny day and I couldn’t be happier because I was outfitted with my famous black patent leather Mary Jane shoes and white bobby socks trimmed with lace.  These were essentials in my wardrobe and my favorite things as a young girl.  I wore them as much as I could because I had naturally curly hair and everyone told me I looked like Shirley Temple.  We both tap danced – she on a movie stage and me on any available fireplace hearth.  This was the closest I was going to get to stardom.  Anyway, I digress.  So there I was in complete childhood bliss until I was interrupted by a slight tickle on my right ankle.  I looked down to see a very large daddy long leg perched on the lace of my sock.  What happened next is fuzzy in my memory probably due to the huge surge of adrenaline that coursed through my little body.  I am quite certain I screamed at the top of my lungs and, as it is unfathomable for me to have simply bent down to pluck it off my sock, began to run at top speed around the front yard.  I’m not sure where or when the spider fell off but I’m sure it was mocking me with delight wherever he was.

It was on a crisp autumn Sunday during a church service that Dad became the sole believer in my theory that spiders are out to get me.  The large sanctuary had a vaulted twenty five foot ceiling intentionally making one feel small.  While singing a hymn I saw in my peripheral vision a gossamer thread briefly revealed in the sunlight hanging down from that impossibly high ceiling.  My eyes followed the thread to the end where it was – the maker of that thread.  Because the web strand was so long, the spider swayed in a slow pendulum fashion about two feet in front of my face.  Dad was standing next to me, took notice of my peril and bumped my arm with his elbow.  Before he could utter the word “spider” I whispered, “I know.”  He shook his head and stifled an incredulous laugh.  After the service was over, he tried to explain to me the mathematical odds of a tiny spider descending from such a height to perfectly hanging in the space between the person in front of me and my face.  I just asked, “Do you believe me now?”  He answered with an incredulous but confident, “Yes.”

I don’t remember if I told Alan while we were dating that I was extremely afraid of spiders or if he found out through experience.  One regretful recollection was the incident of the spider in his Jeep.  It was dark and getting cold so he put the heat on.  The blowing air from the heat must have stirred the nasty thing from its sleeping den in the vent.  For retribution from waking it from its dreams, it marched across the dashboard towards me.   I thought it was going to bite my head off.  I screamed at the top of my lungs while at the same time ripping my seatbelt off and doing a back flip onto the backseat.  Retrospectively, dealing with the spider might have been a little smarter and safer than testing Alan’s driving skills on an already challenging narrow and traffic filled road.  He had no idea why I was acting like a crazy person and thought my scream was because we were going to get into a car accident.  Since he did not even see the spider and therefore could not kill it, I remained in the backseat until we got to our final destination.

It certainly was not fancy driving skills but only a miracle that saved me from another stealthy vehicular intruder.  The day before the death defying encounter, I was over a friend’s house for a party and as it was mid-summer I left my windows down with the sunroof opened so the car would stay cool.  The revolting creature gained easy entrance to my car this way.  This was a mistake of epic proportions that I would never EVER repeat again in the future no matter how hot it is.  The creature hid somewhere because I did not see it on my drive home that evening.  The next morning on my commute to work, I spotted it on the rear-view mirror and quickly proceed to climb down my decorative paraphernalia hanging from the mirror.  My hand was its obvious next destination.  The thought of having that spider touch my skin was so appalling that one thought pervaded my brain – get the blaggard out of the car!  I cannot explain how there was not a single car around me during Monday morning rush hour on a three lane highway.  It had to be God’s protection for surely what I did next warranted serious injury to myself and others.  I jerked the wheel to the right without looking behind me to get to the shoulder which meant crossing two highway lanes.  Once there, I got out of the car and found a long stick, got the creature on it and flung it into the brush.  I was proud of myself of actually getting rid of a spider on my own.  It wasn’t until I got to the office and calmed down and returned to rational thought that I realized I could have killed myself or worse, someone else by my stupid move.

By definition, a phobia is an irrational fear that invokes erratic behavior.  I have tried to be rational but that is difficult when I am constantly being stalked by spiders.  Yes, I am stalked because at any given point in time I can look at a corner, the ceiling in my bedroom, be in my bed, the car, the shower or gardening anywhere and there is ALWAYS an eight legged creature nearby.  Also, there is nothing imaginary about the painfully itchy little bites on my neck and ankles.  I can divulge many more spider stories involving fits of unbridled screaming, feelings of overwhelming nausea and seemingly absurd behavior, however, I think these stories are self deprecating enough for one entry. 

Cold Weather Comfort Creation

This week's weather has certainly ushered in the feel of fall.  The sun's rays are quitting earlier every day, the leaves are beginning to fall and the rain now brings a chill that goes right to my bones.  It's barely October and already I have switched on the heat and wrapped myself in an afghan blanket.  I must be cold-blooded since I can't get going unless I'm warm. 

Many people say this is their favorite time of the year and as much as I love the foliage and fashion change, I prefer long days and dressing light.  For me, the autumnal equinox equates with hibernation and hearty comfort foods that stick to the ribs.   With all the obvious characteristics of fall around and despite me switching on the heat, I'm still holding out on making crockpot stews and chunky soups. 

Gnocchi is a hearty pasta I have steered away from simply because of its unique consistency.  There was a restaurant Alan and I frequented that would make it with cremini mushrooms in a cream sauce.  Alan raved how delicious it was and since then it was a dish that stayed in the back of my mind but I never tried to cook because it seemed too daunting.  After all these years of cooking cream sauces by the book I decided I was experienced enough to try my hand at the fabled dish Alan fancied by sheer imagination.  Not only did this recipe cook up quick, it was good enough to go back for seconds.  Sometimes I even amaze myself!

1 package shrunk wrapped or fresh gnocchi
1 package of cremini mushrooms, roughly diced
1 small onion, diced
2 cloves of garlic
2-3 slices of bacon, diced
1 pint heavy cream
1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese
1 tablespoon butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon dried thyme
salt & pepper

In a large pan, melt the butter and heat the olive oil.  Saute the bacon, mushrooms and onions.  While these are cooking, boil a large pot of water for the gnocchi then cook it per the package instructions.  Just before the bacon, mushrooms and onions start to brown, add the garlic and thyme - salt and pepper to taste.  Once the mushroom mixture is browned, pour in the cream.  Stir slowly until little bubbles form then add the cheeses stirring constantly and lowering the heat to LOW.  Once the cheese is melted and the sauce is slightly thickened, take the cooked gnocchi and put directly into the pan.  Stir until gnocchi is covered with sauce and remove from heat.  Serve immediately.