The Peanut Butter Dog

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Spot is a Bassamation.  She’s a stray that wandered onto the Texas farm of my brother’s fiance shortly before they were married, while they were preparing the grounds for their outdoor chuck-wagon wedding reception.  Try as they might to find her owner, she was still around when their wedding day came, so they tied a bandana around her neck and she mingled with the guests.  Our kids were enamored with the gentle dog but it was my husband, Rich, who surprised us all.  After years of resisting the kids’ persistent pleas for a dog, Rich looked at me and said “I could live with Spot.  Should I go tell the kids?”

Not too surprisingly, we were the hit of the reception – the family that was rescuing the black and white dog.  But getting her home to Minnesota was something else again.  Turns out that various shots and a health certificate were required – fortunately my niece volunteered at a vet’s office who obliged by seeing us on a weekend.  And then there were the flight restrictions.  Our airline didn’t take dogs.  Period.  And all the others would not fly dogs in the heat of the summer.  The idea of renting a car to drive her home was not appealing, but was slowly becoming our only option.  In step my mom and sisters and a wonderful breeder.  While out on a drive in the country, Mom and the others passed a breeder’s sign that said “We ship our dogs anywhere.”  Anywhere?  Not being shy, they trotted up the drive and relayed our predicament. Given her love of dogs, the breeder immediately offered to assist in our rescue of this stray.  Once we identified a flight that a) left before 7am, b) was heading north, c) was non-stop, and d) the temperature had not yet reached 70 degrees, Spot was winging her way to her new home.

At the time, the vet estimated she was 3-5 years old.  She has spent over 11 years as a beloved member of the family.  And although it was the kids who pleaded for a dog, it’s Rich that Spot adopted.  The two are inseparable.  They say that strays are devoted to the person who rescued them, and somehow Spot knows it was Rich.  She’s slowing down these days – at age 15 or so, she’s entitled.  And I finally found a way to worm my way into her heart.  Peanut butter.  The arthritis in her bones is evident in her stiffness and the way she moans.  The vet recommended a homeopathic tablet to help ease her pain, and it’s working.  The trick to getting her to take it three times a day is peanut butter.  I administer the doses, so she now follows me around the house looking at me with her big eyes and a look that says “more peanut butter now?”  I still may not be her favorite, but I’ll take it.

Fall at the Cabin

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If it’s MEA weekend, that means a trip to the cabin, right?  Never mind that we no longer have kids in school, and want to take advantage of the teachers’ convention days off.  It is still a fall ritual.

Knowing this was coming, we debated whether to leave the water system running after our previous visit.  I don’t know if it was laziness or foresight that led us to take the risk.  After all, one can’t argue the niceties of running water.  Watching the temperatures dip to 14 degrees some nights Up North, I admit to being a bit nervous about our decision.  But all was well upon our arrival, and we did appreciate the convenience.

Late October is not the most attractive time of year at the cabin.  Fall leaves are down, grass is beginning to turn brown, skies can be gray.  But it also has its compensations.  As our son Erik said, there is good reason to keep a fire burning in the fireplace, and yet it’s not freezing cold when you step outside.  On one of our requisite hikes, our feet swished through the fallen leaves, or trampled the quieter blanket of pine needles, depending on the nature of the surrounding trees.  The lack of leaves provided greater views, exposing the environs that are usually hidden.  We saw stark evidence of the July storms that blew down vast numbers of trees in the area, and the frequency with which they were snapped mid-way down their trunk.  That left the tree tops either skirting the ground, dangling in mid-air or caught in between by other trees.  A prime example was situated right on the edge of the trail.  A huge tree was snapped in two and its top half rested on two other trees, one of which was right next to the trail.  It’s branches were trimmed to allow us to pass, but bright red plastic tape adorned the branches and announced “Killer Tree” all along its length.  We understood its meaning – its perch was precarious and the tree could easily topple unexpectedly.  We’d just never seen it so spelled out so literally!  I only wish I’d taken a picture.

Our next  discovery was beaver territory.  We came upon an opening that was littered with trees chewed by beavers.  Some had toppled, and were further gnawed along the trunk while accessible on the ground.  Others were poised to fall, their trunks thinned to a narrow stalk.  What was so unique was how recent the activity was – the exposed wood was creamy white and the wood chips were fresh and moist.  We could see the teeth marks, and discovered that we could pull apart tree layers in the supple chips.  It wasn’t hard to spot the nearby beaver mound in the lake, and we retreated down the trail hoping to witness their activity, but the beavers declined to oblige.

At the conclusion of the weekend, it truly was time to winterize the cabin.  No point in pressing our luck further.  It was opportune to have Erik there, so Rich could show him the ropes.  Plunging into the chilly lake water to remove the water intake, laying the hoses out in the yard, and disconnecting the few pipes under the cabin.  It’s time to pass on the knowledge.  After all, we intend to keep coming for MEA weekend for years to come.

All things pumpkin

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I love fall.  And this year’s foliage as been particularly spectacular, especially Up North.  The yellows, oranges and reds all burst on the scene at once, rather than being interspersed with the more reluctant trees still holding on to their green.  I don’t know when I have enjoyed the colors more.

But there is something I anticipate even more.  Pumpkin bagels.  I wait all year for Brueggers to bring them back for the fall season.  I haunt their doors and hope they have enough for me to bring home a dozen.  And of course, they are the best when fresh and spread with pumpkin cream cheese.  Mmmmm.

Earlier this fall, while still waiting for pumpkin bagel season to start, I found something new – pumpkin English muffins!  Yup, none other than Thomas’ English muffins makes them.  They toast up crispy and spicy, and slathered with peanut butter they complement my coffee nicely in the morning.

Even though canned pumpkin allows us to bake pumpkin muffins all year long, somehow they taste best in the fall.  Pumpkin chocolate chip is a particularly decadent version, and a favorite of my daughter’s.  I prefer Bran Pumpkin muffins with raisins or dates.  I needn’t even mention pumpkin pie.  It’s a required staple on our Thanksgiving table.

Pumpkins themselves are particularly appealing.  The outdoor fall decor at the New Scenic Cafe caught my eye as I passed by on my bike recently – so festive and seasonal.  There is nothing like a pumpkin patch, and searching out just the right pumpkins for carving.   It’s been a few years since we’ve carved a pumpkin, but what is better than inviting a mess by scooping out seeds and carving the face?  And I love to see the candle flickering inside, illuminating the pumpkin’s personality.

Hmmm, I think I will have to pay those grandkids a visit soon.  Perhaps they need help carving their pumpkins.  And I’m sure they’d love a pumpkin bagel.

The Road less Traveled

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I wanted to go up the North Shore.  The leaves were peaking and I had my heart set on cycling alongside the beautiful blue lake in contrast to the brilliant yellows and oranges.  But Rich had other ideas.  My first clue was the slip of paper left on the kitchen counter the night before with cryptic notes that I quickly identified as a bike route.  Just not my route.

The day dawned clear and bright – the perfect fall day for a bike ride.  We left early and picked up my friend, Myra, and her bike then Rich broke the news I’d feared.  “We’re not going up the shore.  I figured out a better route.”  And sure enough, we headed in the opposite direction.  Myra was more flexible and gracious than I was, but I knew it wasn’t worth fighting – Rich was driving.  So off we went.

We started in Gary New Duluth and immediately headed across the St. Louis River on the Oliver Bridge.  It’s a unique old bridge that wasn’t frightening on a bike, but I might have questioned its soundness in a car.  We were off to a good start.  We traveled on small local roads, and soon turned onto Military Road.  There was no traffic and we were able to ride 3 abreast on the tree-lined route.  The sun was out and soon warmed us as well as infusing the leaves with depth of color.  I guess it was about this time that I had to admit Rich had made a good choice.  It was a wonderful circle route, which is always preferable to an out-and-back course, we didn’t hit any sections of dirt road, and we got our fill of fall colors, including some very picturesque spots.  Midway Myra and I even convinced Rich to extend the route an additional 10 miles to make it last even longer.

Returning along highway 23 we stopped at the scenic overlook.  Usually it is a sleepy little wayside, but that day it was overflowing with people taking in the view.  And for good reason – the colors were spectacular.  We joined in the fray, taking our share of foliage pictures.

That evening, we met friends for dinner in Duluth.  They called to say that they were going to be late.  They were staying north of Two Harbors and the traffic was terrible…  There were thousands of “leaf peepers” on the road along the North Shore, and they were barely crawling along.  Rich’s face lit up.  He was vindicated, and even I realized that it had been a good idea to avoid the North Shore.

The next day, I just left the choice to Rich.  We were up at the cabin doing fall closing-up chores, but had reserved the afternoon for a bike ride.  He chose our route around Turtle Lake.  As the road narrowed and turned to packed dirt, we had the best colors yet.  The tree branches closed us in overhead with brilliance, and the fallen leaves blanketed the roadside.  Truly spectacular.

In the future I will just have to remember – the road less traveled is the one we want.

These cookies are Ambrosia

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You never know where you will find a good recipe.  This time it was at the South Bay B&B on Lake Whatcom, near Bellingham, Washington.  We were there with our youngest son, Erik, who was a high school senior at the time.  These chocolate chip cookies kept magically reappearing as Erik cheerfully did his part to empty the cookie jar each time he passed.  I had to agree, they were good.  Fortunately our hostess easily parted with the recipe, which she readily admitted came off the enormous bag Ambrosia chocolate chips.

Now I have plenty of experience in failing to successfully replicate others’ recipes.  But this one truly worked.  My results were every bit as good as those at the B&B, and disappeared equally quickly.  Over time, in different kitchens and any season, these cookies consistently turn out to my liking.  That is no minor feat.  Not only are they my family’s favorite, but my son-in-law and now my grandson both ask for them.  What more evidence do I need?  After all these years of testing cookie recipes, I think I can say with utmost confidence that I have finally found the formula for the ultimate chocolate chip cookie.  It is moist, chewy, substantial and generously pocked with chocolate chips.  Nothing better.

I can also attest to the durability of this recipe.  It stands up to a 2-year-old’s manipulation and fascination with dough.  Baking cookies has become a favorite activity of mine with my grandson.  He has his own idea about how cookies should be formed.  But the result is still always delicious.  And he and his daddy are happy when they get to take a bunch home.

Sadly, the lovely B&B is no longer in operation.  But it will be fondly remembered each time we bite into a chocolate chip cookie, because it is unlikely I will use any other recipe.

In the event that you have the same passion for home made chocolate chip cookies, I can save you a lot of research and trials.  Here is the coveted recipe:

Here is a copy of the recipe you can print or save:  Ambrosia Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe

Now I will have to start on a new recipe quest.  I don’t think my family will mind.

Cookie Help

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That search for the ultimate cookie recipe?  I guess I have been at it even longer than I thought.  Just recently, while browsing through a shelf of my lesser-used cookbooks, thinking it was time to prune the collection, I came across a thin volume titled The Complete Chocolate Chip Cookie Book.  Inside was an inscription from my sister and a date – December 30, 1982 – for my wedding shower!  It would appear to have all the advice I need.  Chapter headings include Tools, Ingredients, Worries, People and An Everyday How-To.  Oh, and it even has a definition, complete with illustration: “The perfect chocolate chip cookie is not so crispy as to be dry, nor so gooey as to be wet.”  Hmmm, close enough to my own personal view.  Clearly, this deserves a reread, and perhaps a promotion to my “current” cookbook shelf.  It’s worth a try…  And best of all, my find triggered warm memories, almost as delectable as a chewy chocolate chip cookie!

The Empty House

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They said the house had “good bones.”  In realtor speak that meant that despite the tired cosmetics and the updates that it needed, the house had an appealing structure and was basically sound.  Walking through the house after we’d emptied it of all the contents, I could finally see it.

Devoid of all Mom’s furniture and belongings, my footsteps echoed as I walked across the wooden floors.  Cupboards and doors creaked more loudly than usual as I peered inside to make sure nothing was left behind.  Rooms looked larger than before.  The character became more apparent.

It took on the look of a “new” house.  Rather than feeling nostalgic about the years Mom had spent there and the good family times we shared in that space, I felt like I was seeing it through the eyes of the buyer.  I understood how they could get excited about moving in.  I could see the potential it held, and the opportunities they had for transforming it into their own unique space.

It made me feel good about turning the house over to someone who will give it new life.  Transformations are fine with me, all the better if it renews the spirit of the house.

It’s time to move on.  My daughter texted me as I was leaving the house for the last time.  Pick a flower as you leave for a final memory, she said.  So I did.  I left the house empty, but brought a little bit of Mom home with me.   One final time.

Going Above and Beyond

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An honest citizen and a creative, resourceful policeman just turned a stressful situation into a happy ending.  First, I admit that I brought all this on myself.  It was a beautiful afternoon, and I headed out on a 30-mile bike ride to enjoy the nice weather.  With the fall leaves beginning to peak, I brought along my small compact camera as well as my cell phone which I always take in case of an emergency.  But I forgot to zip the little bag on the back of my bike.  Can you see where this is going?  Sure enough, when I returned home the camera and phone were missing.  Somewhere in the 30 miles behind me they had fallen out onto the road.  The question was where?

Tired as I was, I immediately began to retrace my route by bike, since it began on a portion of road currently closed to cars.  I was sure I knew where they had fallen out, as I had bounced along a washboard-like section of dirt road.  But my search was fruitless.  Not a sign of my missing items.  I returned home to start Plan B – had I enabled “Find my iPhone?”  Who ever thinks they will really need it?  If not, I would try calling the phone.  I was in mid-action when my husband, Rich, got a phone call.  “Are you calling about my wife’s lost phone?”  I heard him say.  His voice didn’t give anything away, but my heart did a flip when he replied “Yes, Officer.”  Hallelujah!  It was news just too good to be true!  An honest citizen had turned in both my camera and my iPhone, but that was only half the story.

Just minutes later, less than an hour after I made my dismaying discovery, the police officer was at our door, camera and phone in hand.  But his tactics for getting them back to us were just short of amazing.  First, my iPhone is password protected, so it was locked and he was unable to use it to find my contact information.  So he checked the pictures on the camera.  He finally located a picture with a van in the background and a legible license plate number.  How resourceful!  But when he ran the number, it came up blank – our daughter and her husband have a new van, and it was too recent for the plates to be in the database yet.  Dead end.  On to more pictures – this time he found photos from our Trans-Superior Cycling Tour, with the title boldly emblazoned on our cycling jerseys.  A google search quickly located Rich’s blog entries about our trip, and revealed our names.  Bingo!  He ran our names through the 911 database, and found a call that Rich made in 2010, which gave him Rich’s cell phone number.  Only he doesn’t use that phone any more.  Fortunately, Rich did leave his new number on his voicemail message.

Even though we offered to come pick up the items, the office delivered them right to our home. Our anxiety melted away when we heard how he had tracked us down, and our faith in people was reaffirmed – both by the person who found the items, and the officer who returned them to us.  We weren’t able to meet the first, but we did entice the latter to sample our homemade apple pie bars.  It was a sweet ending for all of us.

And I checked.  I do have “Find my iPhone” enabled and it works.

 

Then and Now

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The picture caught my eye right away.  Dad’s old photo album had a photo that he labeled “New Road to the Porcupine Mountains” dated 1936.  We traveled that same road this summer on our cycling trip.  What was just being built in Dad’s day is a mature road in mine.

Soon my eyes were scanning other photos as I worked my way through the albums, looking for familiar sights.  It didn’t take long.  Dad went to college in Houghton, so I easily found another common location on the Keweenah Peninsula, the Eagle Harbor lighthouse.  He took his picture from the water, I took mine from land.

We both visited Copper Harbor, although Dad must have gone up Brockway Mountain Drive to get to the overlook for a broad sweeping view.  Since we were on bicycles, we declined the additional climb.  But I think it would have been worth it.

Another album brought a trip to the Canadian Rockies.  We too traveled there this summer.  Who can resist Lake Louise and the pretty hike along the lake to look back at the big chateau?  Apparently neither my dad nor I could.

We had more than travels in common.  Dad loved to ski, and I discovered that he skied the trails as well as the slopes as a young man.  I too took to the trails in the UP last winter.

 

Dad and Mom enjoyed canoeing.  I don’t think they ever went to the Boundary Waters, like I did with my son Carl.  I think they preferred more sedate day trips.  And fashion wear.

Some things are timeless.  It feels good to know that Dad and I chose the same places to visit.  We chose the same outdoor activities.  And we took the same pictures.  Lasting memories, then and now.

Immersed in Images

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The hard work was done.  Or more accurately, the hard physical work was done.  Mom’s house was empty except for the stack of photo albums.  Compared to the rest of the contents of the house, the amount was small.  But it represented a lot of mental and emotional effort.  My oldest sister, Betsy, had planned a final trip back home to help me with the house, so I drafted her to tackle this mountain of memories.

We decided to start with family history.  We had a wealth of old photos we wanted to preserve and share with all members of the family.  To me the natural approach was to marry them to our family tree, lending context and time-frame to this collection of relatives.  Here we struck gold.  My father’s side of the family had been heavily researched in years past, and a cousin has worked in more recent years to update it and computerize the records.  Within a short time, we had access to that family tree dating back to the 1500s on Ancestry.com.  On my mother’s side, we began creating her tree from our own records.  Soon we were in business with side-by-side laptops, churning away at scanning, documenting and saving photos then creating tree limbs and connecting people to photos.  How rewarding it was to see gaps filled, put names to faces and see our past come to life.  There was a sense of satisfaction in handling the old photos and know they were being preserved.  And we found some amazing old images.

Debora Luckey Wiltsey born 1775Henrietta Bouchay Tweedie holding Henrietta MahonMabel Mason Brewer and Richard Brewer 1916Jeremiah and Irene Fellows Robinson

We also found a few gems.  Mom’s college scrapbook mainly held mementos of the events in her collegiate life, but also a few self-revealing pieces.  Our favorite was the collection of newspaper articles, publicity shots and her personal letters home when she won a popularity contest that culminated in a ski trip to Sun Valley in 1940.  Dad’s bound volume of photos and letters documenting a trip with a college professor in 1936 was amazing in its detail.

Molly at the Zoo 1957Modern photos presented more of a challenge.  Compared to the old pictures we had mountains of photos, all carefully mounted, labeled and dated (well, mostly…) in sequential albums.  Not only was the sheer volume a challenge, but we were so easily side tracked.  “Oh I remember that.”  “Who is this?”  “Look at this one!” and peals of laughter punctuated our work.  The piles grew as we hunted to select representative photos of our family life.  More scanning, documenting and saving, ultimately to distribute to family members.

Four solid days of work and we only got as far as the birth of our youngest sister.  And three Rubbermaid tubs full of albums still await me.  I think I know who to enlist for the final onslaught.

I just hope my brother has as much fun with all the slides.