QUICK CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP FOR TWO

I buy my chicken breasts at Harris Teeter. At the current price of $1.99 per pound, they can’t bettered for price. I buy six or eight at a time, clean them up, and freeze them individually in sandwich bags. During the cleanup, I can salvage at least an ounce of good meat from each breast.  I cut this extra into smaller bits, bag it, freeze it, and save it for soup. I’ve developed a great recipe for chicken noodle soup for two. The longest thing about this recipe is the time it takes the chicken to thaw. 

Ingredients:

2 Tbsp. butter

6 to 8 ounces of chicken bits

1 small onion, diced

3 cups of water

1 Knorr or Maggi chicken bouillon tablet, crumbled

1 Tbsp. chopped fresh – or fresh frozen – parsley

¼ tsp. of your choice of herbs: rosemary, sage, thyme

1 small to medium carrot, peeled and sliced thin

1 nest of angel hair pasta

Salt and pepper

In your soup pot, sauté the chicken bits and diced onion in the butter until the chicken turns white. -- Add the water, crumbled bouillon tablet, parsley, and herbs. Bring the whole thing to a boil. -- Break the pasta nest in half, and add it and the carrots to the pot. Bring it all back to the boil and time it for 10 minutes.

That’s it!  Serve it up with some crackers and enjoy.

THE PATH OF LEAST RESISTANCE

My mother and I rarely talked about our lives. She told me little about her childhood. Little, that is, that would make me understand why she did a lot of what she did. I did know, and it’s the first and only thing that jumps to mind, that she liked to have her birthday remembered – and my father wasn’t too good at remembering. He was always last-minute-Bud, writing up a poem for her when he remembered that he forgot. Her birthday was December 26^th. She never got birthday presents from her parents: “Oh, Dorothy, you got presents yesterday, you don’t need any today.” As kids, we didn’t know this, but once we learned we sure did make her birthday special as we could. Years later, my sister’s second son was born on December 24^th. You can be sure my mother made a special deal of it.

Now that I think of it, I may be a lot like my mother. I have very few dramatic or even interesting tales to tell about my childhood and later years spent at home – or anywhere for that matter. Neither did my mother. I now believe that both she and I, smart as we were, just took life as it came to us, never really pre-planning what we would do. It’s not that we took paths of least resistance, we took paths offered to us. Very few times did I have to make a great decision in my life. Maybe twice. Once when I had to make the decision not to go back to college after two years. I felt I was getting a fine education in nothing useful to me career-wise. The other time was when, after the banns had been announced, I decided not to marry my fiancé. I loved him but I did not particularly like the attitude he began to show that he would dictate all rules for our marriage. Both turned out to be very good decisions. Perhaps not “all the difference” made by choosing The Road Not Taken – my favorite poem, by the way – but they brought me to where I am now. In that “now” I am very content.

WINTER STARS - A POEM FOR FEBRUARY FIRST

Yes, my poem for February first, and I forgot to post it. No excuses - I just totally forgot it. But here it is, a really lovely poem. Sara Teasdale watched Orion. On clear mornings,I've been delighting in the current display of the planets, Mercury, Venus, Saturn, Mars, and Jupiter, as I take my early walk. I can remember their order by the mnemonic I created for myself: My Very Sweet Mr. Johnston - my husband, of course.

Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too - meaningful words for this Senior.

Winter Stars

BY SARA TEASDALE

I went out at night alone;

 The young blood flowing beyond the sea

Seemed to have drenched my spirit’s wings—

 I bore my sorrow heavily.

But when I lifted up my head

 From shadows shaken on the snow,

I saw Orion in the east

 Burn steadily as long ago.

From windows in my father’s house,

 Dreaming my dreams on winter nights,

I watched Orion as a girl

 Above another city’s lights.

Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too,

 The world’s heart breaks beneath its wars,

All things are changed, save in the east

 The faithful beauty of the stars.

    

THE TROUBLE WITH TISSUES

Facial tissues are the bane of my existence these days. My husband is snotty! Not a snot, just snotty. It’s a long story – over forty years long.

For years, my husband carried a pocket bandana – not a handkerchief, no, he needed a big boy for his big blows. As I wrote in The Sneeze, he makes a great noise when he sneezes – same thing when he blows his nose. He had, still has, quite a collection of bandanas, but he no longer likes having a – how shall I put this delicately – a “wet” handkerchief in his pocket. In a way, I welcomed this change. You have never lived until you’ve hand-washed snotty bandanas while you’re traveling away from home. I did that for the first for the first few trips and then I rebelled. Perhaps that was the germ of the idea for him to use tissues.

Now he prefers to use Kleenex. Not just any facial tissue, the others are, too him, too scratchy, too thin, and prone to blow-through. He likes tissues: one blow and he can throw it away. I rarely encounter a snotty tissue these days, but with great regularity I get a laundry-full of Kleenex remnants. Why? Because he leaves the clean tissues in his pockets. He stocks up every morning. It’s a loud “aaarrrg!” when I open up the washer and see tissue bits all over everything. I try to get as much of it off as I can, but a lot winds up in the dryer and on the dryer filter – and all over the floor. It’s one of my earthly trials.

So, who’s the dummy here, him or me?  Me, of course, because only in recent months have I thought to go through his pockets before I throw the shirts or jeans into the washer. Live and learn – but why did it take me so long?

I do realize that I am not the only one with this problem - this laundress thought to take a picture of the mess.
It's such fun picking all the schnibs off of everything - not!

THE BROTHERS GRIMM

We are now somewhere right between the birthdays of the brothers Grimm, Jacob’s on January 4^th, and Wilhelm’s on February 24^th. Give or take the year, both are having their 230th birthdays.

Today, Grimms’ Fairy Tales don’t seem so grim, but that’s probably because most of us know the fairly innocuous Disney versions. Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Snow White, and even The Brave Little Taylor, came to us complete with malevolent fairies, ugly stepsisters, witches, and giants, but they were soon dispatched in Technicolor and with catchy tunes. Reading the original versions, people today might be shocked at the violence in the old folk tales, but then again, after living in the midst of such movies as Nightmare on Elm Street and The Exorcist, maybe not.

The Grimms volunteered to collect local oral folktales for a friend’s project. They wound up writing them in collections of their own, eventually including over two hundred tales, and gradually toning down some of the stark images in the stories they heard. Modern versions, including operas, films, plays, and, of course, children’s books are mostly low key and very entertaining, but are not at all the moral tales and life lessons originally intended to teach the young.

Compare, for instance, Arthur Rackham’s illustrations for Cinderella and Snow White in 1900 for a volume of Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm, to the Disney illustrations.  As the illustrations became simpler, rounder, with less detail and more color, so too did the stories become relatively sanitized over the years. The morals of the stories are still in place, but they warn more than scare.

The Seven Dwarfs are certainly less intimidating
in the Disney version.

HALLUCINOGENIC INSTANT

In one of her Brunetti books, Death in a Strange Country, Donna Leon has her hero, Commissario Brunetti, think of the answer in a ‘hallucinogenic instant’. It is the “aha” moment, as Webster’s defines it: a moment of sudden realization, inspiration, insight, recognition, or comprehension. It can also be the instant, usually traumatic, when your life flashes before your eyes.   

On a regular basis, nine times out of ten, we just think of what has to be done and we do it. The hallucinogenic instant comes at that tenth time, the time when we are desperate. When we’ve got to solve the problem, do or die.

It also comes when, as noted, our life flashes before our eyes.  This has happened to me. Once, on an excruciating January day after a night of constant snow followed by freezing rain, I was dumb enough to try to get to work on the Long Island Expressway. Wrong decision! It wasn’t essential that I get there. Cresting a hill, the wind took my car and sent it sailing into another car that had had the same experience. Crash! But between the time the wind took the car and the time I crashed, time itself slowed down for me. I even had time to think about what I was thinking. I never thought I was going to die, but I did get a quick review of things past. Eerie, to say the least. I was right near the exit I would have taken, so I left the car and trudged through the ice and knee-deep snow to get to work and start the recovery process. As I walked, I thought more about the experience. It was nasty to be in the accident, but in a way I was delighted to then be among those whose life had flashed before their eyes and lived to tell the tale.

PREJUDICES

Prejudices: we like to think we’ve none, but we’ve all got them tucked away here and there. I believe that we think that when we’ve overcome our parents’ prejudices we are free of it all – ‘taint so. And really, sometimes I think we think we’re prejudiced when maybe ‘prejudice’ wrong word. I do not “pre-judge” people on looks, so I am supposing that I am not prejudiced. But then if someone opens their mouth and out comes something I don’t like or is just not correct – bingo! – the shutters go down. I love this quote from Maya Angelou: “When people show you who they are, believe them.” So maybe I’m not prejudiced, I’m postjudiced.

THE SONG OF WANDERING ANGUS

Today we start the new year. I wish all of my readers a happy, healthy, interesting 2016

The silver apples of the moon...

This poem is a lovely, dreamy thing to me, reminiscent of Robert Frost and Lewis Carroll, and it paints a watercolor picture in my mind. In my second year in college I took an unusual course in literature. I think the college was catering to this particular professor because the year was two semesters of her personal favorites: Chaucer and Yeats. Could there be and two writers more different?  I did enjoy both courses, except perhaps for the required Middle English language lab sessions, and this was one of my favorite of Yeats poems.

    

     The Song of Wandering Angus

by William Butler Yeats

  

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dangled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

KIPLING AND HISTORY

Love those eyebrows!

Today is the 150^th Birthday of Rudyard Kipling, the writer of poems, short stories, and novels loved around the world. I love Kipling’s works. Jungle Books, Gunga Din, Boots. They’re not just for kids, as many people believe. I enjoy them to this day. I was thrilled to visit his home, Bateman’s, in England. I guess you could say he is one of my favorite poets and writers. I read of his birthday this morning on The Writer’s Almanac, one of my best sources for writing ideas. As usual, they ended the piece with a quote. This one really made sense to me:

      "If history were taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten."

True, true, true!  I’ve been saying for years that I’ve learned more history from my adult reading than I ever did in school. (Well, let’s hope so! When you stop learning you might as well curl up and die.) And it is soooo much more interesting. I’ve written about this before – here – but this week it really strikes home. 

We spent our Christmas holiday up in New York with some special people who bought our house when we moved south. I had left books for their future reading – about 12’ worth – and this trip I brought all the books back south with me. The house is being remodeled, and that shelf will hold other things.

I spent a lot of yesterday sorting out the books, deciding what ones to keep, and just delighting in seeing them again. The majority of them are historical novels – Middle Ages, Renaissance, and so on. Europe, India, America, and do on – with some Brit mysteries too, of course.

Many of the books, such as Dorothy Dunnett’s The Lymond Chronicles, a series of six historical novels set in the mid 1500’s, are some of the sources of my historical education. All are a source of some little tidbit of information that I’ve tucked into the grab bag of my memory.  One never knows when one will need to know that a sovereign is a pound, or a crown is 5 shillings, or that a flock of crows is a murder.

Try a historical novel, history in the form of a story – you’ll learn a lot, and enjoy it all too.

A VERY MERRY PC CHRISTMAS

I am going to be non-PC and wish every one of you a very Merry Christmas. I know, I know, it is politically correct to say Happy Holidays, but today is Christmas. It is also the birthday of a dear friend of mine who happens to be Jewish. She and that Jewish kid from Bethlehem share the same birthday.     

Years ago, our family had wonderful next-door neighbors. They were Jewish. He was an excellent doctor, one of the best in town. One year, the year I remember because of what he said, a Christian patient sent him a card with a nativity scene on it. Someone at the gathering saw the card and was very surprised to see it there.  “Not at all,” said our neighbor, “after all, they were a good Jewish family.”

See that? There’s PC, politically correct, and then there’s PC, properly Christian, Christ-like, and he, that good Jewish man, had love for all.

I wish you all love and peace this day.

MADCAP PRINCESS RUNS AMOK

  

MADCAP PRINCESS RUNS AMOK. That was the headline in the newspaper just before I woke up. Dreams are funny things. I don’t have young things to dream about any more. I can sometimes consciously know where a dream comes from.

But in the case of the titled dream I haven’t a clue – especially now, days later, when I’m finally getting to the notes I wrote in my night book. Do you have a night book?  Maurice Sendak had a Night Kitchen, I have a night book. I keep it on a bookshelf handy to my groping hand in the dark. By it, I have a pen with a LED in the tip. They call it a Marine Navigation Light Pen. Sounds impressive!

Pen lit, book in hand, I can jot down the absolutely excellent thoughts that come into my alleged mind in my waking periods.  From many of these thoughts I have fleshed out ideas for pieces I’m doing for the community magazine. Other entries become blog like this one.  

Many times I just want to jot down things I need to remember for the next day. Sometimes I have no clue about what I wrote until I open the journal in the morning. That isn’t surprising, is it?

And just now, as I usually do, I went through Google Images to find a princess crown or some other appropriate illustration, and I found this:

In 1926 there was a Madcap Princess. Who knew?!

DONALD TRUMP AND SIDNEY

Well I’ll be dipped if I can find an on-line reference to it, but I distinctly remember most of a jingle that, on the early days of television, regularly played on, I believe it was NYC Channel 5 – the DuMont station. DuMont was always supportive of minorities, and they regularly aired public service messages like the one about Sidney S. Snigglegrass. It was sung to a lively tune:

Sidney S. Snigglegrass, Jr. was told

Of a magical lamp with a genii of old.

When he rubbed on the lamp

Came a great flash of fire,

And the genii appeared saying:

“What’s your desire?”

Said Sidney: “It’s my desire that every man of foreign descent 

                       be sent 

                         back to where he came from.”

And bam! The oceans were jammed,

Boats and barges appeared,

And thousands and thousands

Of folks lined the piers.

And on it went, until Sidney, holding his magical lamp, was the only one left on the pier. I’m surprised that Sidney himself wasn’t whisked away. I can’t dredge any more of the song out of my memory banks, and I couldn’t find it on Google.

What it said then, and what it means now, should be a lesson to Donald (The Mouth) Trump: this nation was built, and is still building, by people of foreign descent. What’s your background Donald? Many races, many colors, many creeds, along with the people who lived here to begin with: we’re not quite yet the “melting pot” we’d like to be. There are still distinct lumps in the soup, but we’re stirring like crazy and it should be a delicious mix when it’s done. We can’t go along with any loud mouth who declares that the borders should be closed and the nation fenced in.  

And I am unanimous in this. 

415 MONROE STREET - SINATRA AT 100

Ah, yes, Frank Sinatra - my very favorite singer of all time. I wrote this piece for this month's issue of our community magazine, but seeing as how most of you don't live here, I wanted to get it into my blog.        

Does the address 415 Monroe Street, Hoboken, NJ, seem familiar? Hoboken? Right across the East River from New York, New York? At that address, on December 12^th, one hundred years ago this month, Hoboken’s most famous son, one Francis Albert Sinatra, was born.

Is there anyone reading this article who doesn’t recognize the name or face of Frank Sinatra? His music spans generations, from those who were the “Bobbysoxers”, on through to the “Gen-Xers” and today’s “Millennials”. His vintage vinyl recordings are collectors’ items, and there is a brisk business today in Sinatra CDs and downloaded music.

There are many biographies, memoirs, and critical books about Frank Sinatra. Even without reading any of them, people know the outline of his life: his birth to Italian immigrant parents, his luck in landing a job with Harry James and the great bands thereafter, his early mid-life crisis around 1950, when his marriage and his life seemed to fall apart, and his redemption and Academy Award for his role as Angelo Maggio in From here to Eternity. His career was reborn, and in later years he went on to outstanding success in several fields, not the least of which were his savvy business investments.

Sinatra was the singer’s singer. His timing, phrasing, and enunciation were what sold a song. You understood every word. He had a great instinct for choosing the right song, the right arrangement, and the right band or orchestra to back him. Luciano Pavarotti might be the only serious contender who comes to mind as having Sinatra’s equivalent cultural impact, and the two, admirers of each other, got along well. Both were “larger than life”, flamboyant entertainers who knew how to engage and enthrall an audience.

Except for little bits and pieces like the fact that is favorite color was orange, there’s probably nothing new any article on him could tell us. But it’s good to be celebrating his centennial, just as it’s always good to hear a Sinatra song by chance. We stop, listen, smile, and the day just got better. He sang the best of songwriters from Irving Berlin to Jimmy Webb. The titles sing in our minds just reading the names of some of his hits: Angel Eyes, Strangers in the Night, That’s Life, Gone With the Wind, Witchcraft, All or Nothing at All, Blues in the Night, You Go to My Head, Time After Time, Fly Me to the Moon, I’ll ever Smile Again, The World We Knew, Ebb Tide. Most appreciated by those of us from the “Silent Generation” and the “Baby Boomers”: It Was a Very Good Year. 

“Old Blue Eyes” began life in a cold water flat on the east coast, known only to his family. He died 82 years later in Los Angeles, known to the world.

SINATRA BY THE NUMBERS

1 – First of Billboard Magazine’s Number-one Singles: I’ll Never Smile Again, 1940

2 – Academy Awards: Best Supporting Actor in From Here to Eternity in 1953, and the 

      Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award in 1970

3 - His children: Nancy, Frank Jr., and Tina

4 - His wives: Nancy Barbato, Ava Gardner, Mia Farrow, and Barbara Marx

5 - Members of the Rat Pack: Sinatra, Dean Martin, Peter Lawford, Sammy Davis, Jr., 

         and Joey Bishop

11 - Grammy Awards

42 - The denomination of the “Sinatra” U.S. Postage Stamp issued in 1980

57 - Movies he was in from 1944 to 1988

61 - Record albums – not including countless single titles that number around 1,000.

100+ Nominations and awards, documentaries, cameos, radio and television shows and concerts, all too numerous to mention

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER

Today, as I read in the Writer’s Almanac, is the 185^th birthday of the Pre-Raphaelite poet Christina Rossetti. She is the author of one a poem that has become a wonderful Christmas carol, and the one that has become my favorite in my old age. Several composers, including Gustav Holst, have set it to music, but my favorite version is by the British composer and conductor John Rutter. You can listen to it here. (It’s the last line of the music that makes this one soar.) And, leaving out the fourth stanza, follow here:

In the bleak midwinter

                         BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,

In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;

Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.

In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed

The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day,

Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;

Enough for Him, whom angels fall before,

The ox and ass and camel which adore.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,

Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;

But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,

Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;

If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;

Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

   Did you hear that last line? I think John Rutter’s music for this piece is excellent. The whole poem speaks of the true story and meaning of this Christmas season that is just starting. Starting my December off with this carol has been a delight.

  

STRESS-FREE HOLIDAYS FOR SENIORS

Looking back on my blog history, I confirmed that I posted this piece, in one dress or another, both in 2011 and 2013. It is time to trot it out again. We all need reminders to keep the holidays sane.

National Stress-Free Holiday Month - is there such a thing as a stress-free December? Many people have begun to simplify the whole process in several ways. Some of these suggestions might work for you.  

Here’s a good topic: Decorations. To do or overdo, that is really up to you. Paring down your possessions throughout the year is the perfect strategy for cutting down on the holiday ornamentation. Pass on some of their favorite ornaments to your children and grandchildren. (They make great holiday gifts.) It can be counterproductive and a great deal of work to use all your decorative pieces just because you always have. Toss out or give away all but the real treasures you look forward to seeing again each year. To pare down even further, consider using more candles that can be used throughout the year, and fresh flowers that are very colorful but don’t require future storage.

Think about lowering your electric bill and eliminating the hassle of storing, sorting and installing outdoor lights and decorations. Select a great wreath for your front door and remember to leave the porch light on every evening until you go to bed.

Of course, the Gifts. If you’re at the base of a very large family tree you might be having a hard time just thinking of suitable gifts for everyone on those branches and twigs. It’s no longer fun when it becomes a chore going out to buy, and then wrap, and perhaps mail the gifts, or when the monetary end of it gets out of hand, especially for those on a fixed income.

Some families stop giving gifts to those married or over twenty-one, those no longer children. Some families pull names for an adult grab bag swap, in others they exchange gifts under a certain dollar amount. In many families they’ve eliminated gifts for all but those in their own households - after all, is it great fun to open them. Instead, they make a charitable contribution in the name of the whole family.

Next: Cards or Letters. Some have opted out of the holiday mailings, but if you haven’t, whichever you choose to send, you can make life easier for yourself by tackling the job early. Right after the holidays, update your card list (be ruthless!), then save money by buying your cards at the January sales. Begin working on your holiday letter as the newsworthy events occur. Start writing the cards and finish the holiday letter just after Thanksgiving. Sounds easy and, when you start early and stick to it, it is.

       

Last but not least in our hearts: Food!!  Are you still cooking the whole meal from soup to nuts? You are either a glutton for punishment or someone who really, really loves to cook. Let some of the younger generation start to hone their culinary skills. Pass the torch, and then promise to bring along your specialty: the family favorite appetizer, zesty carrots, or praline pumpkin pie. How’s that for stress-free?

Many families are choosing to have their major holiday feast cooked by others. Some have it catered and brought to the house - a great idea, but there is still the clean-up to be done. Others go all out and eat out. Many like to have a festive restaurant meal on the night before their holiday, then rest and recuperate and open some presents the next day. Many must have the main meal on the main day. Either way, you can use Google to search for restaurants in our area that will be open on the various holidays. This is the least work, the least worry all ‘round.

December is a month for all - enjoy all thirty-one days!  You can do it!        

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

A beautiful illustration by Susan Jeffers

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

BY ROBERT FROST

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

A poem for December, for the month of “the darkest evening of the year.” This poem is why rhyme is so deeply satisfying to me.