A Long Way to Go for Cinnamon Cherry Peanut Butter.

A few days ago we, a group of us that have been friends for over thirty years, got back from a seven night stay at a lake-side house in Traverse City, Michigan. We found the place in the usual way. Our friend and sister-law Shirley, did the leg work by scouring hundreds of web sites advertising rental properties and made sure she narrowed the field by eliminating the thousands of listings that did not meet our criteria. All those that did not have at least 4 bedrooms, three bathrooms, were not situated close to a body of water, did not have a kitchen big enough for several budding chefs, a table big enough to seat us all at the same time, did not have free wifi, and a games room with plenty of space for games of all kinds, were simply eliminated. That left us with several options which we all had the opportunity to inspect and voice our opinions about. After eight unequivocal "we're good with what everyone else is good with," she chose the one that spoke to her the loudest and clearest and sent in the deposit.
We all arrived in the usual way. Several cars arriving within hours of one another full of necessary supplies that one couldn't be without when on such a promising and highly anticipated trip; bags full of board games, water shoes, boccie balls and towels quickly spilled out of the cars and were hastily enshrined in their respective living quarters until the time of their intended use. Beer can tabs popped and bottles of coolers were raised high in welcome to more memories in the making.
We've been to many places over the years. We have cruised the Mediterranean, checked out Chicago on more than one occasion, walked the hallowed halls of Las Vegas, and lately have decided to stick closer to home by taking in the Great Lakes region and inspecting it by foot and water craft.
Whether by coincidence or unbeknown to us, by Shirley's careful planning, our trip to Traverse City also happened to coincide with the 85th annual Traverse City Cherry Festival. The event is an entire week's worth of concerts, craft vendors, air shows and of course a myriad of offerings of everything cherry. After inspecting countless booths full of cherry jam, butter, salsa, juice, sauce and pies, we came upon one filled with jars of natural nut butters of every variety. Not only were they made of nuts raging from peanut to cashew, macadamia and almond but they were also tweaked to tantalize the taste buds in very enticing ways. If you loved coffee there was Mocha Peanut Butter or Cashew Butter, if your passion lay more on the sweet side, you were able to indulge it with Natural Almond Butter swirled with Clover Honey and of course if the reason you were at the Cherry Festival was for the love of the round, red, pitted fruit itself, you were able to spoil yourself with a jar or two of Cinnamon Cherry natural Peanut, Cashew or Almond Butter. Now the funny thing is that I'm not particularly a big fan of cherries. I could take them or leave them and would much rather sink my teeth into a fresh ripe strawberry, peach or apple. But somehow the combination of all those ingredients rolled into one and available on such a sunny day, five hours away from home, on the shores of  the crystal clear waters of lake Michigan surrounded by life long friends whom I love, proved to be irresistible. A large jar of Mocha Peanut Butter and another of Cinnamon Cherry Peanut Butter found their way into my purse before the day was over.
We did it all during that first week of July, we cruised the waters of Long Lake, we walked the shallow sand bar waters of Torch Lake, we shopped the quaint shops of Alden, ate thin crust spinach pizza and creme brule at a side walk cafe, tubed down the Platte River, and of course played countless hands of cards and games of Apples to Apples and Taboo.
On our way home, several hours closer to home, at one of our many stops along the way, I noticed the same jars of exotic nut butters sitting as an afterthought on a store shelf. They no longer had the glamorous appeal of the ones we clamored over in Traverse City. The tops of the jars looked dusty and the small selection seemed lost next to the large display of Kraft and Jiff. I might have even been able to find them at home, I thought. But on second thought, as I think of the time we spent together, laughing and eating all the wrong things, drinking more than we should have, staying up later than we have in months just to get up and do it all over gain the following day, I would not have done it any other way.
Why did you go to Traverse City, someone asked me the other day. They have the best Peanut Butter there, I replied. And I meant every word.

Life is back to normal. A mad hodge podge of deadlines, appointments, obligations with a large handful of worry underlying the whole daily experience. The economy is in a tail spin, two young adults still living at home and tentatively eyeing the future, the promise of retirement looking more and more tenuous, our 80 something mums still managing on their own but more frequently showing signs of advancing age and yes, our own bodies daily reminding us of our own mortality. Those are the daily underpinnings of our consciousness and Iwould bet our subconscious selves. But, looking out the window at the slowly unfurling maple tree buds and the optimistically greening lilac bushes, I am strangely optimistic myself. What else is there to feel? This tight rope of life we daily venture on to could conceivably snap at any moment. But then the course of action would be clear, pick our selves up, shake of the dust, realign to a new reality and continue on. Until then looking forward with a sense of hope is the only course of action. A handful of umbrellas for balance always comes in handy with a reckless stint of excitement thrown in here or there to break up the monotony. We soldier on constantly grateful for what we have and constantly conscious of how much worse it could be. Spring is here outside our doors and in our hearts.

Cold Feet, Warm Heart

There is nothing that melts the heart more than an unexpected hug or in my case today an unexpected foot warming. Following a bout of gut wrenching stomach cramps late this morning, I retreated to my bed in need of a soft pillow and some warm comfort. The pillow was as soft as expected but the warmth was no where to be found. Despite the warm chicken soup that dutiful and concerned daughter brought up after a while and the sips of hot tea carefully consumed, my feet stubbornly refused to defrost. Our oldest mother cat Essie sat seemingly uninterested at the corner of the bed and occasionally glanced my way as I dragged the nearby housecoat and threw it over my legs. She inched a little closer when the observant daughter offered an extra blanket to cover the bulky housecoat. Several minutes later she rose, stretched and carefully approached the bottom of the bed where the icicles formerly known as feet lay just as cold as they were an hour ago. She turned this way and that very unceremoniously plunked her ample body on top of them.
Almost immediately the big thaw began. There is nothing like body heat to take care of an incurable chill. I'm certain that it would have taken an extra half dozen blankets and an entire revolution of the big hand around the clock to achieve what this normally ornery and unapproachable cat was able to in just a few short minutes. The warmth was so delicious that I couldn't help myself but wiggle my feet once in a while to distribute the wealth among every appendage. She was not annoyed, offended or in the least bit perturbed. The blessed cat sat that way for a good three hours while I worked on my lap top and enjoyed the never ending hug from below.
I know that cats are known to be oblivious and aloof but today's experience has confirmed something I've suspected all along. They see and sense more than they let on. Long live the feline.

Life will not be planned

So much for the great plan to sleep, sloth, read, and overindulge in rented movies while recuperating from surgery. Firstly, one does not sleep post surgery, one is in a twilight zone between weaning anesthetic and the need to avoid all forms of discomfort that come with the territory. And there are a few. Second of all, sloth implies a leisurely, self indulgent, conscious decision to choose doing nothing or at least nothing productive in the face of many should dos at a given time. A better term for post surgery inactivity would be "Help I can't move!". The notion of "taking something for it" is quickly pushed aside in light of the possible consequences as described by the discharge nurse while still in "the twilight zone". As is becoming more obvious by the minute, the idea of reading also does not register as the usual pleasant experience it once was. Reading actually takes energy, believe it or not, energy that is required for holding up the book, focusing the eyes, not to mention the brain, keeping up with the train of thought expressed in the words that you have just made sense of and did I mention turning the pages? So much for reading!
Ahhh movies. The answer to all the above problems assuming you have time between the comings and goings of 'The twilight zone" and moments of "Help I can't move!" to actually make the decision of which movie to watch, remember it's last known location, decide where and in what position you are going to stay in for the duration of the film and hopefully remember any of it. Enough said.
I read a page or two on day 5 and watched the beginning of Sense and Sensibility on day 6. Other than that I spent the whole week in that place between avoiding discomfort and feeling I should be getting some things done. I guess not much changes even post op!
Hello reality, it feels like I never left!

Middle Aged Baby

It's been some forty eight years since I've left babyhood but on Monday I plan on visiting that hood again. There are not too many excuses in life for acting like a baby but getting a God given body part cut out on purpose is excuse enough in my book. The surgery itself will probably take about an hour and they tell me I will be able to go home before the day is over. However, the recuperation period will take at least a few days. A handful of days where no one's needs but my own will be the only things that matter. Thank the Lord that there are no longer little ones around to worry about and chase after and a husband who is remarkably proficient in all things domestic, this will be my time to indulge in sleep and all manner of sloth. The sheets are fresh,the bathroom is sparkling clean, a fresh pot of home made chicken soup is cooling in the fridge next to a fresh container of cottage cheese and a dozen eggs awaiting to be whipped up for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the first couple of days . The only reason I will need to stir from my slumber is to perform the obligatory post op exercises aimed at making sure my blood keeps flowing and my lungs don't fill up. A small price to pay for staying alive while my body adjusts to life without a gall bladder. I have already informed the husband and offspring that mom will be off duty for a while but the routine needs to remain unbroken. Hint, hint...........keep up with the housework or there will be hell to pay! Oh yes, I also plan to read at least a dozen books and watch a dozen movies that have been crowding my wish list. Maybe I should make arrangements for the doctor to take an extra part or two. The gall bladder doesn't justify the amount of R&R I plan on getting in.
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There's no better time than the present

Today is the day I take the plunge.
Over 30 years of promising myself to start writing one day has come to an end.
One day is today and I guess I can officially say I'm writing.
This is not meant to be the beginning of a work of art but it is the start that I've been putting off too long.
Writing for the sake of writing, without an agenda, just to stretch the finger and cerebral muscles, is what this exercise is all about. Who knows, one day it may lead me in a direction I've not considered before. But until then, dear blog reader, this is all I promise you. The rantings of a middle aged woman, tired of putting off the things she has always meant to do.
You may want to tune in to a different blog. This may not be pretty.
Sionara,
e