Home Improvement

Something EXTRA May 1981 Page 17
Silver Linings
By Terri Andersen
When We think of home improvement, usually the first thing that comes to mind has to do with the physical characteristics of a home-siding, paneling, additions, etc. - There is another facet of home improvement, however, that's often neglected—and that's the quality of life that goes on inside the home.
There are a number of products on the market for improving the externals of a home, but how about some products that might contribute to a smoother-running inner, home life. The products I have in mind haven't been invented yet (at least as far as I know), but with modern technology what it is, I'm sure a little creative ingenuity could put at least some of these items in the home-improvement section of your favorite department store in the near future: —A refrigerator with an inner glass door so kids can hold the outer door open as long as they want while they study the contents of the refrigerator until they decide what it is they want, OR —A computer that shows all items and their positions in the refrigerator. When you put something in, it gets programmed into the computer and all you have to do is push the right button and the food of your choice comes out automatically. - —A doorbell with a hold button (something like those they have now on telephones) so when you're not dressed or the house is a mess, you can put the caller on hold until you make yourself decent or dash around putting the house in order. For all the caller knows, you could have been in the bathroom of busy on the phone, and no one has to be the Wiser. -A door mat that suctions every trace of dirt off shoes before anyone enters the house. —A music blender that takes the music from three separate stereos and combines them in to a listenable sound for those passing in hallways that lead to the inner sanctums where the divergent sounds originate. –A device that keeps children from disappearing the minute a chore appears. —A central vacuum system that pulls crumbs out of the air before they get a chance to reach the floor or sofa. Or better yet, a device that propels children into the kitchen when they wander into the living room or up the stairs with anything that makes crumbs. —That same device could be improved upon a little to operate in such a way that when kids try to leave a trail of coat, hat, gloves, etc. in their wake, the items would spring right back at them until said children deposited the items in their proper places. –An anti-magnetic field to separate siblings who are trying to kill each other for some unpardonable action on the part of one or the other (usually a minor infraction or imagined offense to begin with). —A TV Set that throws a cover-up shadow over females appearing on screen more naked than clothed when your kids are watching a TV show. —For husbands, a bed that eliminates a wife's headache the minute her head hits the pillow. And while we're on that train of thought, how about a decoder that translates what a wife really means when she says “Not tonight, I have a headache.” (She could mean anything from “I’ve had a hard day and am just exhausted,” to “No way, buster, not after what you said to me earlier.”) Another valuable invention for husband-wife use might be a synchronizer that turns on romantic feelings in both partners at the same time, date and place. And last, but not least, how about a love potion that can be sprayed on children, husband, wife, or anyone else residing in the home, to foster only good feelings toward one another and evaporate all feelings of resentment or ill will of any kind.
Okay, scientists and computer programmers, go to it! You should have enough ideas here to invent a houseful of new gadgets for home-life improvements. Just remember me in your patent rights.

Listen up Men on how to treat a Woman...

(Note from Karen-This one had a chunk missing so I tried to fill it back in after scanning and I hope it makes sense. Also I made up the title above from reading this. I was agreeing with everything she said as I was reading it)

Page 22 Something EXTRA April, 1981

Silver Linings
By Terri Andersen

Spring being Mother Nature's favored Season, when a young man’s fancy Supposedly turns to thoughts of love—and Mother Nature Supposedly being given the female connotation because of her unpredictability—I thought it might be a good idea to give the season's enamored young men a glimpse into the inner workings of the female of the species. - Like Mother Nature, a feminine creatures can be very unpredictable. Tell a woman how terrific she looks, and she'll point out the blemish on her chin or the spots in her outfit. Don’t tell her how terrific looks, and either She'll come right out and ask, “Don’t you like the way I look?” Then she is asking for a comment from you on her appearance. Tell her what a great meal she prepared, and she'll tell you the sauce could have been thicker or the meat more tender. Don't tell her what a great meal she prepared and she'll either fish for a compliment or tell you herself what a good meal that was and how hard she worked to prepare it. (P.S. Take my word for it—she likes to be complimented even if she does make excuses.) Brag about her in public, and she'll shyly demure and act embarrassed. Don't brag about her, and she'll manage to notify those present of her accomplishments herself, wishing that you had done it for her. Depend on her to attend to all your needs, and she'll feel put upon and wonder why you can't do some things for yourself. Do everything for yourself, and she’ll feel unneeded. Don't give her any independence, and she'll be infuriated with your chauvinistic attitude. See her as a Self-sufficient Woman, and she'll wonder why you never pamper her. Let her do all the work in the house, and she'll resent it that you don't help her. Help her with some of the chores, and she'll probably redo them because she didn't like the way you did them. (Some unpredictables are cured only by time and patience.)
Tell her you just can't take to a certain female friend of hers, and She'll defend that friend with a litany of said friend's virtues. Take to a friend of hers too enthusiastically, and she'll suddenly find reasons not to see too much of that particular friend, at least not when you're around.
Remember, a Woman Wants to be number one in her man's life...not so much number one where other Women are concerned. She may be well aware that another woman is prettier, or smarter, or whatever, but she doesn’t want to hear the comparison from her man. Another thing to remember is that a woman wants to be understood. If she's trying to do something noble, try to recognize it for what it is, That reminds me of all the times I ate the wings whenever we had chicken, because I knew no one else in the family liked them, and I didn't want them to go to waste. So what happens when we go to a party and there's a platter of chicken breasts and a few wings? I sit there dumbfounded as I hear my husband tell the others, “Save the wings for my wife, that's the only part of the chicken she likes.” Another rule to remember is; never humiliate a woman, especially in public. Her feelings are very sensitive and even after she lives down the humiliation, the thought of it will lie buried somewhere in her subconscious and surface when you least expect it. A kind word will get you S0 much further than a humiliating one.
And don't forget to keep in touch...literally, that is. A little hand-holding and a little hugging go a long way in cementing a relationship. Okay, men of the world, got that now? A woman wants to be loved, cherished, admired, number one in her partner's heart, appreciated, understood, given equal rights, praised, needed, etc., etc. Which really is what a man wants in his life, too, isn't it?
So what it all boils down to is the Golden Rule of treating the opposite sex the way you'd like to be treated yourself, and the relationship should sail along smoothly through the rest of the seasons of the year.

The first seeds have been duly planted...

Something EXTRA April 1980

Silver Linings

by Terri Andersen
The first seeds have been duly planted in fertilized potting soil on my window sill, and now comes the time for the grand delusions. In my mind’s eye I picture the glorious garden that will be the result of this, my initial effort, as I mentally harvest a home-grown salad of lettuce, tomatoes, radishes, carrots and parsley, to mention just a few of the ingredients I expect to reap from the garden of my dreams. Breathes there a soul who can resist those tempting pictures on the seed packets and in the seed catalogs? What better way to fight inflation, get in touch with nature and eat your way to a healthy, slim figure? So much for the delusions. In reality, I'm probably the worst gardener on the face of the earth, but I haven’t been able to totally acknowledge that fact to myself yet. Each year about this time I forget the vow I made at the
end of the last growing season...the vow of “never again” after a spring of digging and toiling and a summer of weeds and less than adequate harvests. Even Ruth Stout's No-Work Garden Book sounds too much like work to me. I want a garden that takes care of itself after I do my part by putting the seeds in the ground. Then there was the year the kids wanted to do a little gardening of their own. One of their dear teachers decided to show her students how a pumpkin grows. Both kids came home with a cute little plant in a plastic cup, which soon began taking over the window sill. As soon as weather permitted they proudly transferred their plants to the family garden. Not knowing the traits of a pumpkin plant, I had them plant them just inside the little white fence, figuring they had a whole foot or two to grow in. As I watched the vines take over not only the garden but the whole yard, I was tempted to uproot them before any more damage was done. But how do you kill a child's dream of his own special pumpkin for Halloween? Our harvest that year was two lopsided pumpkins and little else. Then there was the potato year. My father had given me a bag full of dried up potato pieces with careful instructions on how to hill them. After two or three rows I got tired of hilling so I dumped the rest on the ground and threw some dirt over them to hide my laziness.
Soon I had all this pretty greenery growing over the load I dumped, while the carefully planted cuts didn’t seem to be doing much. Since I was still pretty green at gardening, I left it all there for nature to take its course. Not being able to see the potatoes under the ground, I had no idea when they were ready so I left them alone until one day I noticed the pretty greenery was getting yellow. I figured I had neglected them and that was the end of my potato crop. It wasn’t until much later that someone told me that’s when potatoes are ready— when the leaves turn yellow. Oh, well, next time I’ll know. But nature isn’t always consistent. The year I planted broccoli I had no idea when to pick them either, so I decided to let them do their own thing. It so happened their own thing was to turn yellow after awhile, but unlike potatoes, when broccoli turns yellow, forget it. So how’s a body to know? You'd think after all these failures I’d give up, but every year about this time I can't help thinking, “this year will be different...I will fertilize, I will mulch, I will weed...and I'll have the best garden ever.” After all, Spring is a time of new beginnings, of hope and of anticipation. So who am I to thwart its promises?

My First Memory of Thanksgiving

Something EXTRA November 1979

Silver Linings

by Terri Andersen
My first memory of Thanksgiving was going to the poultry market with my mother to select a live turkey. The sound of the cackling birds and the smell that accompanied it should have sworn me off turkey forever. But the transformation that took place on Thanksgiving day was enough to cancel out the cringing feelings I had as I watched my mother pluck feathers and clean out all the turkey’s insides by hand the day before the big feast. Thank heavens, modern technology has made that unnecessary today, or my children would never know the taste of turkey—at least not one made at home. As the years passed, mother gave in to modern ways somewhat and bought her turkey in a butcher shop. There was a year, though, when she thought our Thanksgiving would be a turkeyless one, since there was a shortage of turkeys that year and in order to get one you had to have a special pull with the butcher. On the rare chance that a turkey might be available somewhere, she sent me out in search of one, not really expecting me to be successful. In my youthful innocence, however, I walked into the first butcher shop I saw and nonchalantly asked for a 20-pound turkey. Whether the butcher thought I was a good customer's daughter or if he just happened to have a cancellation on an order, I’ll never know, but he sold me the turkey with no questions asked, much to the astonishment of my family When I arrived home with it. The only thing my mother couldn’t figure out, though, was how the turkey got an empty gum wrapper and some dirt attached to it. I didn't dare tell her the bag it was in had torn and the turkey fell out onto the Street. Luckily, a passerby who saw my dilemma found another bag for me, and a good rinsing of the turkey at home made it good as new. Mother was so thankful just to have the turkey, she figured it was a gift from heaven and under those circumstances it must be an okay bird. Since ours was the house where all the relatives gathered, to serve a dinner without the main attraction was unthinkable. You might have the squash, pumpkin pie, biscuits, dressing and all the rest, but without that big bird, it just wasn’t the same. Why everyone gathered at our house, I’ll never know. We lived in a small city apartment at that time and didn’t even have a dining room. When it came time for dinner, into the living room went the kitchen table, with all the leaves we could squeeze into it, surrounded by the strangest assortment of chairs. But as long as we were all together, it didn't really matter what we sat on. The aroma coming from the kitchen and the excitement of all the company is a memory that lingers to this day.
There was no TV, so talk was plentiful and there was always a favorite aunt to patiently play checkers with us until we had our fill. Then there was papa and his cranberry sauce. No way would he tolerate the canned version—it had to be the real thing or nothing. As we sat there puckering our faces from the tart taste of the cranberries, he would tell us of all the dangers of canned foods. And, heaven forbid, someone should try to add a little sugar to sweeten the cranberry sauce. He also had very definite opinions as to the dangers of white Sugar. In later years, after I had married and invited my parents to my house for Thanksgiving dinner, papa wasn’t taking any chances on the kind of cranberry sauce I might serve. He came with his own bag of
fresh cranberries and proceeded to cook them for us all, Splattering red spots all over the kitchen as the cranberries popped, but fresh sauce he had to have. I might add that the first turkey I ever roasted didn’t fill the house with quite the same aroma as mother's turkey did. How was I to know that some Sneaky packer hid a paper bag of giblets in the turkey's neck cavity? And roasted paper and gizzards just don't have the most enticing aroma. But I learned as I went along and soon my house had the same luscious smells that mother's did in my growing-up years. The addition of TV to our lives added a new dimension as the kids watched the Thanksgiving parade while the turkey roasted and the warmth from the kitchen and anticipation of a house filled with relatives was creating new memories for a new generation, mingled with old value from an old-fashioned Thanksgiving.

Do you get the urge to redecorate

Page 16 Something EXTRA September 1979.

Silver Linings

by Terri Andersen
Every so often do you get the urge to redecorate? Does the arrangement of your furniture start to bore you? Do you look at your home with a critical eye and decide it's time for a change? If yes is the answer to any of the above questions, you're in the majority. Which explains why there are so many magazines on the market ready to give you decorating advice. But have you ever tried to copy a room you’ve seen in a magazine? Or have you ever found one that would fit the room you’re thinking of redecorating? Some designers seem to get carried away with a motif and don't know where to stop, until the room looks like a clutter of bargains from a string of tag Sales. When they mix rattan of all shapes and sizes with lattice work and knick knacks that cover every inch of space, then add gaudy prints and enough plants to imitate a miniature jungle, I get claustrophobia. No doubt they expect you to have a live-in maid who does nothing but dust knick knacks and water plants.
Then, of course, there's the other extreme in decorating magazines. You know, the ones that show a 40x60 living room which contains three couches, none of which has to rest against a wall, and there's still enough room to spare for a game of tennis. Most likely there are rooms like that in some palatial homes, but in the average ranch house? So until I find a picture in a decorating magazine that fits my life-style and pocketbook, I’ll have to be content with being my own interior decorator. Not long ago I decided that if I couldn't re-do the living room I could at least move the furniture around to get a different effect. I spent the whole day trying out different arrangements, only to realize that the way it was set up originally worked best for that particular room. All that furniture moving for nothing. Then my husband walked in from work and greeted me with “Hi, hon, what did you do today?” “I spent the whole day moving the furniture around,” I replied, leaning against the wall in an exhausted pose. “You did? It looks the same to me,” he countered, and I knew I might as well bear my exhaustion in silence. I should have waited until he was home to move the furniture with me, then maybe he would have understood the aching muscles along with the frustration of wasted effort I was bemoaning. Another time I did find a new arrangement I liked, only to have everyone dropping hats, books and assorted papers on the floor where a table once stood.
To satisfy these creatures of habit and save my sanity, I had to put the table back where it was or develop lumbago from picking up all the things they dropped on the floor without even realizing the table was absent.
Every now and then I make lists of all the things I’d like to have done to make our house an ideal home....a thorough cleaning, all junk disposed of, roof repaired, yard landscaped, interior and exterior painting, repair cracked window pane, fix the steps on the side porch, etc, etc, And I just found out how to accomplish the seemingly impossible. Friends of ours, after years of putting off all those jobs, managed to get every job on their list done and make their house almost perfect. The reason? They were selling the house. Isn’t that always the way?

Whenever I complained about school when I was a Kid...

Page 16 Something EXTRA August 1979

Silver Linings by Terri Andersen

Whenever I complained about school when I was a kid, Some grownup would invariably say, "Wait til you get out into the working world, you'll be wishing you were back in school.” Now that I’ve been in the “working world” for more years than I care to mention, I still can’t imagine why everyone said that. I like the working world. Maybe it's because my school days were so different from the School days today. When I walk into a classroom today, I can't believe it’s the same institution it was years ago. Gone are the strict rules and regulations, gone is the corporal punishment, and gone is the dress code that prevailed in my school days. The teaching aid equipment they have now makes my alma mater look positively primitive—audio visual aids, tape recorders, record players, slide projectors, computers, intercoms, etc. etc. We had a black board, chalk and erasers. Period. For messages between the principal's office and a classroom there were the two legs of whichever student happened to be spending “time” in the principal's office for some minor offense. “Behave or be sent to the principal” was a threat only the very daring would take lightly,
Since it was rumored the principal had a good thick paddle which she wouldn’t hesitate to use, and many an errant student verified that fact. And how about the sports programs in today's schools? We didn't even have a gym in grade school. We got our exercise by walking home for lunch, and if we got back before the hour was up, we'd have ten minutes to jump rope or play tag in the schoolyard. When I got to high school we did have a gym but the extent of our program was jumping jacks and pushups. And if I thought they were strict in grade school, high school was even more so. All girls had to wear skirts and stockings, with hats required to and from School. Dare to come stockingless in the month of June, and you were threatened with failure to be promoted. Utter a word while the teacher was talking, and you were threatened with expulsion. I remember the time I heaved a heavy sigh of relief when the bell rang to end a particular period and I was made to stand in the corridor for the next half hour while the teacher reprimanded me, threatened to take me off the honor roll and call my parents in as a thorough chastisement. They didn't fool around in those days. How about the choices of subjects the kids have today? We were required to take a language and there was only one language offered—Latin. So Latin it was. At the time I thought it was a ridiculous offering, but time has proven that it does help with spelling and basic meaning of words in the English vocabulary, so that's a plus I think is missing today. The last time one of my sons brought an English paper home, it had extensive spelling corrections made by the teacher, to which my son added his own comment: “No wons perficked.” I guess each system has its good points and bad points. Today's schools have advantages I never dreamed of, but we did manage to learn to read, spell and work out arithmetic problems which the new methods seem to be having trouble with. So the old system must have done something right. And in spite of wishing for my school days to be ended, the desire to learn must have been instilled deeply, as I find myself constantly wanting to take courses in one subject or another. In fact, I’m looking forward to my senior citizenship so I can take free oil painting lessons, I guess we never really stop going to school. All we do is exchange a small classroom for the larger classroom of life itself.
_

Hassles--And Joys of Giving

Something EXTRA December 1978
By Terri Andersen
“Did you finish your Christmas shopping yet?,” I’ve been hearing one co-worker ask another since the day after Thanksgiving. The answer is usually something like: “Almost. I still have two or three more presents to get, but those I did buy are all wrapped and ready to go.” - How did I ever get mixed in with these organized souls? I haven't even made up my Christmas list yet!
Every year I tell myself I refuse to succumb to the crass commercialism of Christmas and that if the family and relatives can just get together, that will be enough to make my day. And as often as I tell my kids not to expect much in the way of gifts since “money is tight this year” (applies to every year since I can remember), they go on counting the days and showing me all the items they'd love to have from the catalogs that come in the mail. Hope definitely spring eternal for them, and since they refuse to believe me when I say “no presents this year,” I always find myself giving in and promising, “OK, but just one gift a piece.” The trouble is, after I purchase that “one gift a piece,” I usually see something that Johnny just has to have; then if he gets two, of course Jimmy has to get two, as well as Billy, Karen and Rick. And since the Outfit I couldn’t resist for Karen cost more than what I got for Johnny, naturally I have to add a little something for him. Let's see, that makes three for Johnny, so I'll just have to get another “little something” for each of the other kids—and so it snowballs. By December 20 it becomes a mad rat race to make sure each child is gifted equally, to blazes
with the budget, suffer the consequences come January. After all, they tell me, Christmas comes but once a year (while the bills linger on and on). In July I swore if I did any gifting it would be only homemade items, but July became December before I knew it, and out I’ll probably go to add to the coffers of big business. Compared to other families of our acquaintance, we definitely do not go overboard (how well our youngsters know what the Jones kids got and they didn't), but in these days of high prices, even a “little something”
carries a “large price tag.” What always bugged me more than anything was to see someone who got three out of the four presents hoped for complain that the fourth one was the one he really wanted most. One year I thought I'd played it smart when I shopped early for a toy the youngest begged for since October. After it was all wrapped and secreted in a closet, a new set of commercials came on TV and suddenly the longed-for toy was no longer longed-for. When I brought up the subject of the now-almost-forgotten toy, the response I got was, “Yuk, I don't want that any more. That's a dumb toy!” What did I do? What any self-respecting supplier would do—I stooped to the technique used on TV and extolled the virtues of the already-bought toy until it once more became the most desirable (then made every attempt to keep the TV turned off before any more brainwashing could take place).
The following year I waited until the last minute so no mind-changing could take place, only to find all the stores completely sold out of the No. 1 desire.
Why do we put ourselves through this? Who started this whole thing anyway? Is it always more blessed to give than to receive? Sometimes I think I would love to just receive and not have to give anything. As I go about my rounds each year, trying to find just the right gift for Aunt Harriet, I have the hardest time finding something suitable for her but I see a hundred things suitable for me, which naturally I have to forego in order to present Aunt Harriet with something she would probably just as soon do without. Why can’t we change the whole system to make it possible for each of us to go shopping for something we always wanted but didn't dare buy for ourselves? Just think how satisfied we’d all be, and how many less returns there would be the day after Christmas. I know, I know—that’s not what it's all about, but it sure would save a lot of hassle. (Shame on me! Where's my Christmas spirit?)
Of course if my idea took hold, there would be no suspense and excitement the whole month of December; no holding your breath each time one of the kids passed your secret hiding place; no thrill of satisfaction when you discover you chose “just what was wanted”; no forgetting self to think of others, (and no big profits for the merchants).
OK–so it's not perfect, but for now it's what we’ve got. Christmas should be more than just gift-giving—it's a holy day as well as a holiday and should be treated as such. I guess for the imperfect humans that we are, it's our feeble attempt to celebrate the spirit of joy that the first Christmas brought into the world, Maybe as the human race progresses, we'll find a better way—in the meantime, have a happy giving season, and a Merry Christmas!

Baked Potholders

Published October 1978
TRICK OR TREAT
By Terri Andersen
This being the Halloween season I thought I'd tell you about some of the tricks I pulled when it should have been treats—in the kitchen, that is. I should have known I was in for an unusual career in the culinary field when I had my first dinner party. I invited my in-laws and was anxious to make a good impression. Well, I made an impression all right, but it's one I have yet to live down. Nobody seems to remember what I served that day, but my baked pot-holder was a smash! It seems somewhere along the way, while, checking the roast (or whatever it was I was cooking), I inadvertently left a potholder in the oven, (in the pan, sopped in gravy, if I have to be truthful about this). When my brother-in-law wondered what that strange smell was, coming from the oven, I checked it out and realized what I had done. To this day, anytime my family hears me say ‘Where's that potholder?” (I seem to have a knack for leaving them around), someone always asks, “Did you check in the oven?” Worse yet, if I happen to serve something that isn't over-tender, I always get the remark, “Is this the meat or one of your potholders?” Really, I get no respect! Over the years I have managed to get a few great meals on the table, honestly I have, but do you think anyone remembers them? No way! All they remember is the goofs—so much so that my reputation as a cook is one of the big jokes in my circle of friends and family. As my own dear brother quotes of me: “She cooks for the gods—burnt sacrifices.” True, I have had my share of burned pots (oh, have I ever!) but I keep trying to tell people it's only because I have so many other things on my mind (you know, the absent-minded professor type). And usually I’m in a hurry so I turn up the heat to keep up with myself. The only trouble is, things do have a tendency to burn on high heat. Then there's the matter of common sense in cooking—a gift that was evidently withheld from me when housewifely qualities were being given out. Not long ago a friend gave me a recipe for Butterscotch Brownies, and I thought it would be nice of me to take a batch to another friend's house when we went to visit. I followed all the directions and thought the result was very tasty—a little flat, perhaps, but perfectly edible, if I must say so. When we got to our friend's house, what do you think she baked for us? Right! Butterscotch Brownies! Except that hers were about an inch higher than mine and able to be bitten into without breaking a tooth. (Seems I fried the brown sugar in the melted butter instead of just dissolving it. Can I help it if the recipe didn't make that clear?)
I guess what I have to do is find recipes that no one else is interested in; then when I produce the results there won't be anything to compare them to and everyone will think the way it came out is the way it was supposed to come out. Although with my reputation as a cook, even if it turned out perfect, everyone would be doubtful as to whether it tastes the way it should or not.
To be on the safe side, when my son had his graduation party I decided to buy an ice cream cake rather than bake one myself. The box said “Remove from freezer about one hour before serving,” so I took it out at two o'clock for serving at three o'clock. The only trouble is, I got to visiting with our guests and didn't think about the cake until more like five o'clock. Ever serve a melting mound of ice cream for dessert? One of my beloved offspring had to remark: “Gee, Ma, even when you don't cook it you manage to ruin it.” (Ha, ha, ha–bratty kid!) But there is one consolation to all this. Not for me, maybe, but for my future daughters-in
law. (There should be four of them someday if all our sons decide to take a chance and get married). Those four lucky girls will never have to hear their husbands say: “How come you can't cook like my mother?”

Baking a cake

Page 8 Something EXTRA May 1979

SILVER LININGS by Terri Andersen

A Betty Crocker award I may never get, but if they start handing out awards for unorthodox methods in the kitchen, I just might be nominated. It seems every recipe I decide to use has at least one ingredient in it that I happen to be fresh out of; and somehow nothing I bake ever looks quite like the picture that accompanies the recipe. Take the time I promised to bring a cake in to work to celebrate a beloved coworkers birthday. Having forgotten to bake the cake the night before, I found myself searching for ingredients to match a recipe at 7 a.m. Not being too foresighted, I already had the first three ingredients of a recipe in a bowl when I realized there were only three eggs in the refrigerator. The recipe called for four. Well, I reasoned, the three eggs I had were pretty big, so they’d just have to do. The cake didn't look as high and fluffy as I thought it should when it came out of the oven, but who measures?
Then came time for the frosting. I decided a simple glaze frosting with confectioners sugar and milk would have to suffice under the hurried circumstances, and proceeded to reach for the confectioners sugar. What did I find in the box which I was sure had at least two cups of sugar in it? You guessed it, about a quarter of a cup. Oh, dear, how do you stretch a quarter cup of sugar?
Back to the recipe file. “Super Mocha Frosting—2 tsps coffee,1/ 2 stick of butter, 1/4 cup confectioners sugar, etc.” Terrific! Mocha frosting it shall be. Into the measly amount of sugar icing went two tsps of instant coffee. Oh, oh somethings wrong. Those coffee granules are not dissolving. Do you think they meant two tsps. of liquid coffee? I bet that’s what it was supposed to be. “Now, what? Some hot water to dissolve the coffee?” No, I guess that wasn’t the answer. The mixture became much too thin—and strong! Nobody would sleep for a week if they had a spoonful of that icing.
“Okay, think fast. You have another 10 minutes to straighten out this mess,” I mourned to myself. Standing before the open refrigerator door, I waited for an answer to present itself. Surely there was something in that great big box that would Solve the dilemma I was in. “Butter—that should do it.” Mix, mix, mix. “Hmm, a little curdly or something. Needs some smoothing out.” Back to the refrigerator. “How about some cool whip? That’s nice and smooth.” So into the mixing bowl went some cool whip. “By jove, it seems to be doing the trick. Just a little more should really do it.” Trouble is, just a little more was just a little too much, and again I had a consistency that was too soft for spreading. “It needs something sticky to hold it together better,” I mused. (A little Elmer's glue? Who would notice, mixed in with the cool whip? No-that would never do. Just a demonic thought, born out of sheer desperation.) By then it was almost time for the school bus to pick up the kids, so I temporarily abandoned my adventurous concoction to get their favorite sandwiches made—peanut butter and jelly, naturally.
And, lo and behold, there was my answer—peanut butter! What could be stickier? So into the conglomerate icing went spoonful by spoonful of peanut butter until the consistency was just right for spreading. When I brought the cake to work everyone had a pensive look as they took a bite, trying to put their finger, no doubt, on just what it was they were tasting. They all agreed it was delicious (well, maybe the word they used was “different” rather than “delicious”), and I can’t figure out why no one has asked me to bake another cake since. I'd like to add that today was my youngest son's birthday and I sent in 28 peanut butter and jelly cupcakes for him to share with his class. When he came home he told me every kid in the class wants him to bring some in again Soon. See, some people appreciate “different” concoctions.

Mid-Summer Joys and Agonies

Published July 1978

By Terri Andersen
Mid-summer! A time of mixed emotions. On the one hand it’s freedom from having to get the kids ready for school, bright sunny days, fun at the beach, warm temperatures, soothing breezes, the trees all in bloom, flower gardens, fresh vegetables, and a leisurely pace. On the other hand there's the feeling of time passing too quickly and knowing that the leaves are already beginning their process of changing. I want to hold back the calendar and make summer stand still for at least another month so I can catch up to it.
Every year when June rolls around and summer is just beginning, it seems there will be plenty of time to do all the things I want to get done. Why one month should make such a difference, I don't know but by the end of July I find I have to give up any ideas I had of creating the neighborhood’s most beautiful flower garden (especially since I didn't even get started yet), and I have to face the fact that the vegetables I planted late are not going to mature overnight. Down the drain are going all my beginnings-of-the-summer resolutions: to get all 33 windows washed; to paint the trim on the front of the house; to finish that Sundress I started last summer; to spend more quality time with the kids; to get a fantastic suntan; to fill the freezer with home-grown vegetables and fruits, etc. Where, oh where is the time going? - For the kids, mid-summer is a mixture of joy and agony too. ...joy in the knowledge they don’t have to go to school, agony in the fact that boredom is setting in and they don't know what to do with their free time. A friend asked me recently, what's worse than a bored 12year old at a cabin in the woods? My answer? A bored nine- and ten-year old who pick on each other all day to pass the time. (Oh, my frazzled nerves!) In June I thought I had plenty of projects planned for the kids to keep them busy through the summer. Now it’s “I’ve got nothing to do, Mom. I’m bored.” How about this, that and the other that were such great ideas in June?” I don’t feel like doing that.” (Applies to any suggestion whatsoever.) How about all the chores that need doing around the house and yard? (Surest way to make the kids disappear for at least an hour.)
 As to the boy in the next yard, they could never see enough of during the school year: “Why don't you go play with Johnny?” I ask. “We’re not talking to each other anymore, Mom.” Or it’s “If you'd buy me that game, Mom, I’ll be kept busy for the rest of the summer.” If you fall for that trap, about ten minutes later it’s “I’m bored, Mom. There's nothing to do.” What about your new game? “Oh, I'm tired of that. It’s not as great as I expected.” But hope springs eternal, doesn't it? Therefore during the month of August I’m determined to renew resolution number 4–to spend more quality time with the kids. There's still Steep Rock Park, Mt. Tom Park, the Historical Museum, a few trips to the library (so conveniently close to an ice cream parlor), White Memorial, etc. Now if my energy just holds out. . . . .