Since more than a couple of you asked, I'm putting my crab cake recipe out as a blog for anyone who is interested ...

1/2 Cup mayonnaise

1 extra large egg, beaten

1 TBSP worchestershire sauce [I use Lea & Perrins]

1 tsp. of hot sauce [I use Cholula]

1 pound of premium lump crab meat

1/4-1/2 Cup panko crumbs [for binding mostly]

oil for frying

lemon wedges for serving

In a small bowl, whisk the mayo, egg, worsteshire sauce and hot sauce until smooth. Set aside.

In as big a bowl as necessary, toss the crab meat with the panko, mixing well. Gently fold in the mayo mixture. Cover and refrigerate for a minimum of one hour. [If you want to at this point, you can actually refrigerate it overnight. Your choice.]

Take the mix out of the 'fridge and one-by-one shape into about 8 patties. I generally measure about 1/3 cup for each crab cake, and about 2" thick. In a large skillet [I use cast iron] fry over moderately high heat until deep golden in color and heated all the way through, usually about 3 minutes on each side. Drain on paper towels. Serve with lemon wedges.

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Tags: Social media sites

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It is the summer of 2016 and once again we find ourselves in the midst of yet another Olympic Games. It got me to thinking, which is always a dangerous thing with me. Anyway, I was trying to decide which American Olympian would I consider my "favorite".

This is no easy task. I mean, there are so very many to choose from -- Jim Thorpe, to Jesse Owens, to Babe Didricksen-Zaharias, to Wilma Rudolph, to Mark Spitz, to Greg Louganis, to Peggy Fleming, to Tommie Smith, to John Carlos, and yes, even Michael Phelps, and so many others whose names escape me at the moment. How can one choose from such a panoply of truly great athletes?

But for the purposes of this totally unscientific "straw poll", a decision had to be made and my choice is: Every single member of the wonderful Team USA who brought home the gold medal in ice hockey in 1980. I remember the exhiliration I felt when Mike Eruzione made that final goal, and who had a dry eye when goalie Jim Craig took his victory turn, draped in the American flag, desperately seeking out his father in the crowd?  To me, it was the olympic moment that defined "olympic moment".

So there you have it. My choice. I would be very interested to know what your choice would be. Why not give it a go? But at any rate, I now return you to your regularly-scheduled lives...

Tags: Past, Present, Future?

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Summer days always hold special memories. There was a time when summer really meant summer. Your last day of school was always the Friday before Memorial Day, and you didn't have to go back until the Tuesday following Labor Day. That meant that you had all of June, all of July, and all of August to rest, relax, and do whatever you wanted. [Uh, yeah, right. Unless of course, you had MY mother, who always managed to find at least 6 million chores for me to do before I could enjoy any "me time"]

But even among the requirements, there were the days of getting up at dawn and going out the door, where we weren't restrained by things like rain, and heat, and the like. It was a time for exploration, both inward and outward. It was a time for riding your bike 12 miles over to the next little town, not because there was anything more to do over there than where you came from, but just because you could. It was the time of climbing trees [and fences] to get at Mr. Hutchinson's apples, which you knew weren't quite ripe yet and would probably give you the squirts later on, but that didn't really matter at the time. It was gentle thievery and you felt deliciously wicked getting away with it.

It was hotter days and still hot nights spent catching fireflies and listening to the peepers in the trees, and the cicadas in their 7, 10, or 12-year cycles, sometimes the noise being so deafening that you couldn't sleep, but still in some strange way, a comfort to hear. It was sleeping on the screened-in porch, thankful for the cooler [?] outside, but more thankful that the skeeters couldn't get at you.

Then there was the food. Oh, you had hamburgers and hot dogs and corn on the cob in the dead of winter, too, but it never tasted quite the same as when it was cooked over charcoal on that rickedy old grill outside the back door. The watermelon put in the old Coleman cooler and covered with ice to be brought out and sliced and eaten down to the rind [the same rind, by the way, that my Mam-Maw used to collect for the most awesome watermelon rind pickles]

And then there was the ice cream. Made in an old hand-cranked churn, using "people power" to turn that dasher inside the container and the constant additions of ice and rock salt. And then, when the dasher just wouldn't move any more, even when one of us had to sit on top of it and freeze our butts off, we knew that the ice cream would be ready "soon". Those of us who sacrificed our frozen fannies always got the treat of being able to lick the dasher when it was pulled out in preparation for the final packing and "setting" of the cream. I've had more ice cream in my life than I can remember, and most of it was very, very good ... but there is none that has ever compared to what I had back then.

But anyway, I hope you have enjoyed this little walk with me down my memory lane. There really wasn't any "point" I wanted to make. It's just that it is National Vanilla Ice Cream Day and it got me to thinking [always a dangerous thing with me]

I now return you to your regularly-scheduled lives...

Tags: Memories

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When I was little I spent some time in residence at my grandmother's house. It was a big [at least to me] rambling place with lots of rooms, creaky floors, and an ancient swamp cooler that made wheezing attempts at keeping the east Texas temperature moderated. It was a place of feather beds and homemade quilts and claw-footed iron bathtubs that seemed to be as big as a swimming pool. On hot summer nights blankets and quilts were hauled out onto the sleeping porch and we drifted off to dreamland to the sound of cicadas, frogs, and the gentle light of the fireflies.

One year, my Maw-Maw decided that it was time I learned a thing or two about digging in the dirt. She got 3 new tomato plants and we planted them in the far corner of her substantial garden. She carefully showed me what to do, then told me that from here on out, those were MY tomatoes. I would be expected to water them, weed them, feed them, turn the soil for them, keep the bugs off of them...the whole nine yards. Whether they lived or died was entirely up to me. From that day forward and for the next several weeks, along with the other chores she assigned me, I'd be out with MY tomatoes. I'd venture a guess that there weren't another 3 tomato plants on the face of the earth that were so well cared for...at least none in my little corner of the world.

Soon my plants were covered in medium-sized green tomatoes. It was at this point that Maw-Maw decided that one of the plants would be a really good source for something I wasn't expecting. We picked about a dozen. I was kind of put out, too, because I was looking forward to all that "red" that I knew was soon to come. But one didn't argue with Maw-Maw and later on that day, while I was enjoying the fruits of my labor in the form of the best fried green tomatoes I've ever eaten, I realized she was right.

A fairly short time later, I got the "red" I was anticipating, and after carefully picking off all the tomatoes, we had close to a whole basket full. [Maw-Maw generously added some of the fruit from HER plants, too] We hauled the basket into her kitchen and for the next several hours I was treated to a lesson in the proper preparation of tomato preserves. We got enough jars to last for quite awhile, and they were stored down in the well-stocked root cellar that was another really neat nook and cranny of my grandmother's house.

The next Sunday dinner, I almost burst with pride as my sister, my grandmother, and a couple of aunts and uncles, and my cousins all sat and enjoyed those tomato preserves. To this day, while I never did catch the "gardening bug" from my grandmother, I still use those tomato recipes as well as others that have been handed down in my family for generations.

So what was the point of this little narrative? Nothing, really. I was just thinking about older, happier times and I was missing my Maw-Maw. And all the others who helped me along the way to learn things I might never have otherwise if I hadn't had them in my life.

I now return you to your regularly-scheduled lives...

Tags: Cherished Memories

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The other day at the Cincinnati Zoo, an endangered lowland gorilla died. Did he die of disease? Did he die of old age? No. He was shot and killed by those entrusted with his care. And why did this happen? Because a 4-year-old boy got into the habitat enclosure the gorilla called home and the zookeepers feared for the boy's life and safety.

The public response was swift and largely negative. Why did you have to kill the gorilla? Why couldn't you just tranquilize it? Why couldn't someone just distract it while the child was recovered? Why was it the gorilla's fault? The gorilla was just being a gorilla. Where was the child's parent? Why couldn't they watch their child better?

I really feel sorry for the zookeepers in this. In a split second they had to make a critical split second decision. It appeared to them that the child was in imminent danger of serious injury or death at the hands of a wild animal who was acting out just like a wild animal would. To tranquilize the animal would've taken several more minutes and exposed the child to even more danger. A child's life or a gorilla's life? To them, only one choice was acceptable. 

Imagine what would have been the reaction if they had waited to procure the tranquilizer, darted the gorilla, and then waited for the drugs to take effect. In that period of minutes the child very well could have died. Imagine what the public outcry would have been then. They were in a no-win situation. No matter what they decided, it was going to piss some, maybe a lot of, people off. They decided on the side of the child's safety.

Then came the outcries against the child's parent. Where were they? Why did they let their child get away from them? How could they allow this to happen? Well, I don't know. You see, I wasn't there to witness it. But I've had a small child in my life, and I know how quickly they can get away from you, no matter how diligent you're being. You turn your back for a minute and poof! They're gone. 

Incidents like this are becoming more common, it seems to me. People forget the fact [or choose to ignore it] that these are wild animals. It doesn't matter if they're caged or not. They are wild and they will act according to their nature. It's not a "peronal attack" on humanity, it's just what they do. 

Now before you start thinking that I'm "anti-zoo" or anything, I'm really not. Zoos have been instrumental in preserving endangered species and re-integration into the wild of many species due to their breeding programs. Zoos do good things. But perhaps it is time we re-examine just what zoos are, or, more to the point, what they should be.

Maybe it's time to do away with "traditional" zoos with their cages and limited habitats and "up-close-and-personal" contact with the public. I favor things like game preserves and sanctuaries where zoological science can continue, but exposure to people is limited, perhaps with ride-through, don't get off the bus, look but don't touch type of tours guided by zoo professionals. But whatever is done, what's being done now is not a good solution and incidents such as this will continue to happen.

I now return you to your regularly-scheduled lives...

Tags: Current Events

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This blog is in response to RiverRiff's challenge for us to write about friendship. It tells the tale of a guy and a gal who just happen to meet up one day.

It's always hard to fathom why one person just connects with another. The best friend I ever had in my life, bar none, and I didn't have a whole lot in common to bring us together. We'd been raised differently, educated differently, had made different lifestyle choices, and probably would've lived our lives quite contentedly without ever having known each other. And then one day there was a chance meeting.

He was working as an orderly and I was the clerical services director in the combined radiology and pathology laboratory of the same hospital. It was my habit to eat my lunch in my office and one day this guy just knocked on my  door and asked if I would mind if he came in and had his lunch there. He said he was trying to read and it was too noisy in the cafeteria and too cold to go outside. I don't know why I said yes, but I did. He very quietly came in, sat down on the floor with his back against the wall, opened his backpack, took out a book and a sandwich, and for the next half hour or so proceeded to devour both. After a time, he got up, put away his book, threw away his lunch leavings, said thanks, and headed for the door. I think I said something along the lines of "sure...any time".

Thereafter, over time, those "shared lunches" became an almost daily thing. That lead to a friendship that lasted almost 35 years until his death in 2007. Our lives took off in different directions, but we always seemed to be "constants" in each other's lives. We would go months without any contact at all, and yet when we finally did hook back up, it was as if we'd only seen each other the day before.

I had many good friends before I met him, and I am blessed with many good friends now, but I can honestly say that none has compared to my friendship with him. It was and is a friendship I will cherish until the day that I die. I like to think he thought of it the same way.

Tags: FriendMiracles

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It didn't look like much. Just a piece of cotton cloth salvaged from a flour sack or thrown together with bits and pieces from a shirt or dress lovingly made for somebody else. With its two large pockets and wide tie at the top, it certainly wasn't trying to make a fashion statement, but in truth, it spoke volumes. 

There was rarely a time in my life when I can remember my grandmother not having an apron on. One was always draped across a chair near her bed. In the morning when she got up, she put it on just as naturally as she put on her shoes and it didn't come off again until she dressed for bed. 

This was not anything fancy, and to say her aprons were often made of cast-offs and hand-me-downs is not an exaggeration. But oh what a miracle magic carpet it was. Of course, since a goodly part of her day was spent in the kitchen, it protected her clothing from food spatters and the like, but it was so much more. It wiped the water from her hands, the sweat from her brow, and more times than I can count, the tears of a child.

Those massive pockets held tools, and utensils, and eggs from the henhouse, and dewberries from the bushes outside the back door, her ever-present snuff can, and always a hard candy, or a cookie, or a piece of sugar cane for the exploring child. 

It carried with it the smells of her life, both good and bad, and its softness cradled the heads of all her children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. One such apron was even once used as a torniquet to staunch the bleeding from a bad cut on my hand, while my frantic parents rushed me to the hospital across town.

As the years flew by [and yes, they did fly] I guess she needed those aprons less and less, but that didn't stop her from wearing them. She came to a point when she didn't cook at all, and those children and grandchildren all grew up and away. And still, every morning, she donned an apron and waited to see what the day would bring, confident that no matter what, she had it "covered".

My grandmother lived to the ripe old age of 98 and went peacefully in her sleep. And we buried her wearing one of her aprons. It seemed only right. After all, I'm sure she found even more uses for it in heaven ...

Tags: Memories

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On her way to work one morning

Down the path along side the lake

A tender-hearted woman found a poor half-frozen snake

Its tender pretty skin had been all frosted with the dew

Ah well she cried I'll take you in and I'll take care of you.

She wrapped him up all cozy in a coverture of silk

And then laid him by the fireside 

With some honey and some milk

She hurried home from work that night

And as soon as she arrived

She found that pretty snake she'd taken in

Had been revived

She clutched him to her bossom

You're so beautiful, she cried

And if I hadn't brought you in

By now you might've died

She stroked his pretty skin and kissed and held him tight

But instead of saying thanks

That snake gave her a viscious bite

But I saved you, cried the woman

Now you bit me and I don't know why

And you know your bite is poisonous

So now I'm going to die

Ah shut up, silly woman, said that reptile with a grin

You knew damned well I was a snake

Before you brought me in...

---------------------------

This is an old song by Al Wilson and I must admit it was one of the first things I thought about when the "unthinkable" struck France.

Tags: Pray For The Peace Of Paris

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