Shelf Life -- A look into my pantry. Brace yourself.

With Thanksgiving being last week, I spent a lot of time standing in my pantry, perusing the shelves for ingredients needed to make recipes that I only make once a year.  Not that I only use these individual ingredients once a year, but from the looks of the expiration dates on some of these items I clearly do not cook often enough. 

Exhibit A:  Morton Salt.  It was "made on 10-20-08".  If I'm not mistaken the current year is 2016, very nearly 2017.   And it's one of two containers of salt in the pantry.  The other one has no dates at all on it, so it's probably even older.   Logic is telling me that salt doesn't expire. Wishful thinking hopes I'm correct.

Exhibit B:  Hershey's Cocoa. Good grief.   I could sign it up for Antiques Road Show.  Would you throw this away?  It's half full.  I think I made some brownies with it the other day actually.  And they all got eaten. Perhaps by me alone.  But I don't really turn away any sweets based on quality.  Equal opportunity snacker. The bathroom scales agree with that statement.  

Exhibits C & D:  More evidence that I simply don't cook much. Tapioca expired in 2013.  No part of my memory can dredge up what I might have used this for.  ??  

Baking powder expired 2014. But it's almost empty.  It's going in the trash.  I have another container of baking powder in the pantry that still has a couple weeks to live.  

If I were to take pictures of the spices in my spice rack you might see Roman numerals for expiration dates.  Do spices expire?  Seriously?  I'm not tossing any of them at this point.  No worries, I probably won't ever use most of them anyway.  🙌  They fill up the empty spaces in my cool huge hanging spice rack and make it look like I'm an expert cook.  Clearly an illusion.
                   

My final exhibit is one of 3 (THREE) large (LARGE) jars of Jif peanut butter.  It's set to expire in August of 2018. The other two jars, same thing.  I can quite accurately predict that all three of these jars will be history in probably less than 2-3 weeks.   I consume approximately 1 tablespoon every 4 or 5 days. Tops.  

But my beloved husband, bless his heart, is in love with the stuff.  Specifically, only JIF brand. No Skippy, for heaven's sake. No off brands.  No Kroger.  No all natural organic freshly made right in front of his eyes peanut butter at some high dollar food store.  We've been married 42 years.  I'd like to think he'd choose me over PB but I wouldn't actually bet money on it.  No biggie.   

He eats insane amounts of peanut butter, and I look like a pathetic version of Mrs. Patmore from Downton Abbey when I cook.  It's a match made in heaven.  And I'm planning on our match having a really long shelf life.  💕    

Driving lessons across the pond. Guten tag.

A few years ago the hubby and I were in Germany on a work trip for him.  The month was December and unknown to me at the time, the country of Germany is famous for outdoor Christmas markets.  An outdoor market in the cold month of December doesn't necessarily make one hyperventilate with excitement.  But one should.  Vendors set up open tents of handcrafted items for sale in a large open area midtown, with lights and decorations. The most popular time of day to check out these markets oddly enough is in the cold, often snowy, evening.  Hot drinks are served and people come out in droves to stroll, drink gluhwein, visit, and shop. 
  

This picture is of the market in Heidelberg and though it's not that great of a picture you get the idea.  It's a big deal   The people are friendly and it was easy for the two of us Kansans to blend in and appear to be just another German couple.  Until we rented a car and decided to take a little road trip to explore the countryside and more Christmas markets elsewhere.  From Heidelberg we drove to Heilbronn and drove slowly in search of their market area.  In the daylight we could see the market at a distance and we slowly proceeded over the quaint brick streets.  Signage was tricky but we felt certain we'd found the correct street at last, and made a right turn in the direction of the market tower area.  I became nervous pretty quickly because the road just seemed so narrow, but we surmised it was a one way street.   And we drove on and on and made a really tight turn, all the while not seeing any other cars driving on the street we were on.  We did eventually see something else on the street.  Pedestrians.  Yes boys and girls, we were driving on a sidewalk.  Half way across the world from home.  Surrounded by people who looked like us but were considerably more intelligent.  There was  no way to turn around so we crept on until we found ourselves right smack dab in the middle of a big old Christmas market.  Riding in a car.  To say I was mortified... well, that doesn't begin to describe it.  We could see an end to the sidewalk and it looked like it merged with a street.  So we proceeded on, driving over thick power cords that had been draped to the various vendor tents.  Squeezing through tight spots in our little rental BMW.  Kind of giving embarassed smiles and waves to the Christmas Market customers milling around.  Horror of horrors, the sidewalk ended up at a dead end with 3 foot drop off onto a railroad track.  You're wondering what we did?  There weren't many options.  DeWayne put the car in reverse and we backed up through the market, back over the power cords, back around the tight curve, and finally was able to reverse our direction.  Surrounded by people and I'm pretty sure I could read lips.  "They must be from America.  Probably Kansas."   

Does this look like a sidewalk to you?  Okay, in retrospect I have to admit it does.  But I'm telling you the infrastructure in these German villages is daunting.  

And hey, hundreds of happy Germans were entertained that day.  We take a bow.  The curtain closes.  The end.  

Benton and Bunny

My folks had three teenage daughters when they discovered they were expecting a baby.  Pretty sure my dad, Benton, at age 47 just knew his son was finally on the way.  One last chance to carry on the family name.  Oh the gloom that must have been thick in that hospital nursery the first time he glanced down and thought "No son.  Not now.  Not ever."  In fact many many years later I came across the bundle of greeting cards that my parents received after I was born.  Some of them had all the happy exuberance of sympathy cards. Apparently the whole world, or at least all of Ottawa County Kansas, was sad for them.  "Well, you must be disappointed you didn't get your boy."  Stuff like that. Just dripping with happiness and encouragement.

Fortunately neither my mom nor my dad ever let me know any of that.  If Daddy was disappointed in my gender, I certainly never knew it.  For all I knew my dad thought I hung the moon.  We were pretty thick friends, and I became his trusty sidekick and loyal companion.  As a county employee who drove those big old yellow Caterpillar road maintainers, he'd often take me on the job.  I felt pretty dog-gone important as we drove through the countryside doing what I considered to be the MOST PRESTIGIOUS JOB EVER.  And after work, most evenings you'd find me out in the workshop helping him with his carpentry projects.  But by far, hands down, the best times we had involved fishing.  

We'd fish farm ponds between Niles and Vine Creek pretty often, but my favorite memories involve river fishing.  The Solomon River west of Minneapolis.  After suppertime in the summer we'd head to the river in his old 1948 Chevrolet pickup to set our lines.  Our aluminum fishing boat with Evinrude motor was stored on the Miller farm and we'd venture (slide sometimes) down the muddy river bank and climb in the boat.  I loved the trips down the river, stopping here and there to hang baited lines on tree limbs.  One of us would bait and hang the lines and the other would steer the boat with the arm that extended from the motor.  I preferred driving the boat, of course.  What girl wouldn't? But if I bumped into a log or something it was back to baiting lines for me.  We'd travel to a point near the dam then turn around and head back to the Miller farm to climb back up the muddy bank and head home.  The next morning before the sun came up he'd holler at me that it was time to get up and run our fishing lines.  And, wonder of wonders, I'd get out of bed.  And go with him willingly, sometimes half asleep. Watching the sun light up the sky as we traveled along, I'd listen to my dad hum tunes with accompaniment provided by the Chevy engine.  Happy noises to my ears.  We almost always returned home with a big stringer of fish.

My dad almost never, well let's just be honest, he NEVER said the words "I love you" to me.  Probably just the way a lot of dads were in that day, I don't know. But I can tell you from the bottom of my heart there is no doubt that he loved me.  Actions?  Words?  Which speaks louder?  Yep, I was his Bunny girl.  (his words) For 17 years until he lost his life to leukemia, I was his Bunny.  

During those 17 years I was just flat out positive that I loved fishing.  So a few years later when I  married my husband,  and acquired a father-in-law who loved to fish, it only seemed natural that we'd all go fishing.  I'd like to be able to report that I still  loved fishing, but I did not.  No I did not.  Not one little bit. I did not love fishing.  I loved my dad. 

A few years ago I was driving to Auburn Kansas to spend the day in the company of my delightful, adorable, and perfect grandchildren while their folks were at work.  It's a pretty drive through the Flint Hills and I dialed in a Country music station when I took the Admire exit to take the two lane road through Burlingame on into Auburn.  Country music isn't the music genre I usually opt to listen to, but it kind of helped to pass the time as I drove along.  Until one song came on the radio that grabbed at my heart like a vice grip.  Trace Adkins' "Just Fishin".  I can still tell you my exact location when I heard it, and I can report that driving visibility became very poor because of the tears flooding down my cheeks.  

Thanks, Daddy, for taking me "just fishing".  I love you.  We'll fish together again one day.  I promise.      

 For your listening pleasure:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IheODRwalEw

Nostalgia. A side effect of cleaning

Now that I'm sort of semi-retired, my leisurely breakfasts often include thinking about cleaning.  And occasionally, my thoughts become actions.  Some of  my closets are now phenomenally clean and organized.  Some are not.  Yet.  

Last week I uncovered this gem while cleaning a closet.  My dad's hat.  I thought it had been gone forever.  What a precious discovery!!!  I put that hat on my head and let my heart feel the memory of my Dad wearing it.  He only wore it on special occasions, you understand.  Like church or doctor appointments or family gatherings.  His everyday hat was a ball cap permanently saturated with sweat, smelling of a combination of sweat and diesel fuel.  Growing up it was my favorite scent.  Seriously.  It meant Daddy was home.  That headgear was probably destroyed by fire in the trash barrel out back of our house.  (yes you could actually burn all your trash back in the pre-EPA days)  And it probably burned fast with all that diesel fuel!!  

Today I cleaned out a decorative wicker box with a lid that sits in my living room.  Totally forgot that it had anything in it. Surprisingly it contained a lot of kind of cool memorabilia.  Like this AUTOGRAPHED book by John C Maxwell.  I think the hubby received it at a conference long ago.  Pretty cool.  I think I'll read it!!  I haven't read anything other than e-books on my Kindle for years.  I love e-books, but it just today occurs to me that there is no way for an author to autograph his/her work with e-books.  Kinda sad. 

One of my favorite finds was this from our trip to Paris in 2008:

While in Paris on a work trip for DeWayne,  we used this pass to visit museums of Paris.  The L'Ouvre.  Musee D'Orsay.  Palace de Versailles, with it's fabulous GARDEN!!!!   The Pantheon.  This little museum pass stirs up fun memories.  And just looking at it today made my feet hurt.  Holy cow we walked a lot of steps.  The poor pedometer I wore suffered exhaustion from tabulating all of the steps.  Our last stop on museum day was taking a boat trip down the Seine.  Seated.  Ahhhhh.   Our feet thanked us.  

And this little treasure from the Paris trip stirred up really vivid memories:

During the days when DeWayne was working, I would bravely venture out and ride the subway system from our hotel in District 12 down to the center of Paris.  All alone!  No fears!   (to clarify, I wore a large zipped up black coat with my purse and camera underneath.  I like to think it made me look like I was packing heat)    While walking through the subway stations underground and waiting for the various trains to arrive, there was ample opportunity to study the human race.  Using visual, auditory, and often olfactory methods.  Yes, there were some startlingly unpleasant scents.   Live music was always audible in the subway tunnels.  Some of it was startlingly unpleasant, some of it was startlingly marvelous.  My favorite was the day I heard harp music filling every space of the subway tunnel.  The sound was so beautiful it felt like it inhabited my soul.  I skipped looking for my train and walked until I found the source of the music.  And I did.  An elderly balding man playing a harp.  Not what I expected.  I had visions of a beautiful woman dressed in a white flowing gown and perhaps a halo on her head.  But I stood there at a distance and watched him play.  His face radiated love for the music he was making.  His eyes were closed while he played.  No music stand.  Straight from the heart.  When the song finished, he saw me and I walked up to him.  Language barrier prevented any real conversation, but a smile is a smile everywhere.  He had CD's for sale but I wasn't able to understand how many Euros it would take, so he handed me this slip of paper with a website address to order from.  Just today, 8 years later, I ran across the slip of paper.  Never ordered a CD.  But looking at the paper I can still hear the ethereal sounds of that harp.  

Nostalgia is a powerful thing.  Go clean your closets and you'll see!!

Simply B

Simply B

After much time considering starting a blog, maybe today is the day.  Or not.  We'll see.  As brilliant as I consider myself to be with technological stuff, setting up this blog has been kind of challenging.  Yes, brilliant is really brilliant ... well look at that, I figured out how to strike through text all by myself.  

If you're looking for profound posts you may want to skip my blog. I refer to myself as Simply B for a reason.  🙅  BTW the name of that emoji is "face with no good gesture".  Seems appropriate.  

My goal is to have this little blog be empty of politics, mean stuff, deep thoughts, or basically anything of substance.  Occasionally I may stray into meaningful topics.  But don't count on it.  😁  I might share travel info, camping tips, recipes to make and/or recipes to avoid.  And I love Jesus....you will undoubtedly hear about Him.  But again, I'm simply B.  Nothing deep, just an encouraging word or two.  

Until next time, 

Simply B