Simply Green

Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!

I had another simple pleasure planned this week, but then I looked at a calendar and changed my mind. I couldn’t neglect the most festive Thursday of the year. So today, in celebration of the greenest day on the calendar, I'm sharing my greenest simple pleasure, the green smoothie.

I first heard about green smoothies a few years ago somewhere out in Cyber Land. I clicked a link and discovered a woman gushing about her incredible health and beauty makeover and extolling the virtues of drinking spinach for breakfast.

Now, I'm not at all a fan of cooked or canned spinach. Call me crazy, but I have a personal aversion to anything that resembles sewage.  Fresh spinach, however, I can handle. Plus, the words beauty makeover kind of sucked me in so I decided to dub it an adventure and give it a try.

It was delicious.

OK, it wasn't immediately delicous. Cyber woman made  hers with water, spinach and bananas. One sip, and I knew it was a project that needed some tweaking.  I replaced the water with ice and a splash of juice, and I froze the bananas. I also threw in some other fruit for good measure.

And then, I added a little sweetener. Yeah,I know that kind of negates the healthy part.

And then, it was delicious. Seriously, you can't taste the green part at all.

Over the years, it has become a little hobby for me to create new green concoctions. It's kind of like those My Favorite Cookies that I've yakked about before.

I've made them with spinach, with collard greens, and kale. (I once tried to use mustard greens because no one warned me that the mustard in the name is not just figurative. I wouldn't recommend it.) I've used pineapples, peaches, pears, and even apples.  The man of the house likes his with a little orange marmalade mixed in.

For aesthetic purposes, I stick with green or yellow fruits. Whirring in something like strawberries might sound like a good idea, but they just turn it into a brown smoothie. Then, you have that whole sewage issue going on.

Green smoothies, of course, are not a winter treat. I enjoy them through the spring and summer and then on no certain day in October, I pretty much send the blender into hibernation. Because I’m the kind of gal who likes tradition, I always open green smoothie season on St. Patrick’s Day.

And that's what I did this morning.
I feel thinner already.

Making green smoothies is this week's simple pleasure.

****

Sharing with Dayle at A Collection of This and That

Please join us for more simple pleasures. 

Uncle!

That's it.
I'm calling uncle. I'm throwing in the towel. I'm waving the white flag. In every expression possible, I surrender.  You win, Blogger Man, wherever you are.

As if I have not been  busy enough for the past few days with planning, teaching, and trying to get ready for a big upcoming weekend, I am being held hostage by a whirly swirly arrow circlet which will let me neither open nor comment on blogs with any kind of ease or consistancy.

If you've seen me in your neck of the woods,  feel privileged. It means I actually had the patience to sit through 17 whirly swirly attempts to get your blog to load and the subsequent 45 clickless endeavors to get a comment to post.

Behold. I stand at the door and knock...

This has been going on for several days, basically since I reopened the blog after the little  makeover. I can see absolutely no reason or connection to this whatsoever other than the coincidence of time. What could redesigning my own blog possibly have to do with visiting all the others?

Nothing, I tell you, absolutely nothing.

Yet, apparently Blogland is some sort of  Brigadoon which, if you step out for a few days, disappears in the mist for a hundred years.

It isn't my computer or internet connection. I seem to be able to pop about in Email Land without a problem. I can open message boards. I can surf the net like a googling Gidget.

But open a dashboard and try to visit and comment on blogs?

Nooooo.

I'm tired of fighting it. I have become convinced that some sort of gremlin really does live inside this computer.  If he's not gobbling up my pictures and belching them up in a distorted vapor across the screen, he's stealing my Irish Growler. (Because no matter what you can see, my own screen still refuses to growl.)

When the sun comes up, I'll be going for a walk and stepping away from Della the Demon Possessed Laptop before I pick her up and toss her out the window.

Please know that if you don't see me in your neck of the woods, it is not for lack of trying.

Before I go, I have two questions that I hope someone can answer.

#1... Can anyone relate to this specific problem?

# 2 What in the world do you call this tree

currently blooming along the 30 mile country commute?

The blossoms are the palest lavender

and stand up straight on the branches.

It sort of looks like a terrified wisteria to me.
What is it?

A Work in Progress...

That pretty much describes my blog this evening since there are still some things that need tweaking around here. Pretty fitting, I suppose. After all, I want my blog to reflect my life, and I generally need a little tweaking too.

I probably would have a finished product by now if that daughter of mine had been willing to do all the work for me.

But nooo.

In some sort of twisted role reversal, she thought it in my best interest to learn how to do things for myself. The girl listens entirely too much to her father.

So there we sat, side by side. She clicked away at warp speed and used words like pixels.  I littered my desk with sticky notes and only cried once. In the end, we had a banner that I think I can update and a template and colors that we thought were keepers.

Even the computer girl was befuddled with a few things, though. My sidebar pictures, for instance, seemed to take on a mind of their own. Without so much as a click, I had the incredible shrinking barnyard breakfast beneath the live oak tree.

Help...

My fonts also presented a problem.  I wanted to use the one called Irish Growler for the dates and sidebar.

I carefully followed the directions.

I selected...

and previewed...

and applied...

and looked...

No Growler.

I did it again and again, but no matter how hard I tried, the dates and sidebars absolutely refused to growl.  I finally gave up and was playing around with a few other things when suddenly, it appeared.

And then it disappeared.
Then, there it was again.
And then, there it wasn't. Again.

I have flatly refused to give it any more attention, but the spritely little Irish Growler has been playing peekaboo with me ever since. If you happen to spot him on my dates and sideboard, let me know.  

In the end, it was a fruitful project even though it still needs tweaking.  Miss Whimsy even left me a little bonus technology as a parting gift.  She stripped all the songs off of her old Ipod Shuffle and loaded songs for me to listen to as I go about my day.

I appreciate it.

Now, if I can only figure out how to work the thing.

The Great Disappearing Act

I have two very good reasons to be absent from blogland this week. They came home Friday for spring break.  If you’ve read here very long, you know that everything goes on automatic back burner when my two favorite coeds come home from college. I like to hoard my time with them.

Today, I’m down to one. The Practical One has left to bask in the sun on Hilton Head Island for a few days so it’s just Mom and The Whimsy, and I hope to take advantage of her considerable talents while holding her hostage. You see, the girl is a computer whiz.

And I’m what you call technologically challenged.

This isn’t a new revelation. I’ve fought it my entire life. In college, I made a (B) in a total crip course called Educational Technology. Apparently, I can diagram a compound complex sentence with a double gerund, but I can not thread the film into a 16mm projector. No matter how hard I tried, it still spit streamers of celluloid all over the table.

Just like that reel to reel tape recorder.

And forget about synchronizing sound. My films always sounded like a bad Japanese movie.

As a young teacher, I meandered to the copy room one day and was greeted by a Xerox machine wearing a sign that said something like this:

Mrs. B-

I am a machine.

I do not respond to begging,

scolding,

or angry whacks with the palm of the hand.

Please do not kick me.

Such a smarty pants I worked for…

Technology may have improved in the past quarter of a century, but my skills have not. Computers are my natural enemy, and I’ve killed about a dozen of them since the dawn of the cyber age.

The Man of the House blames it on my unwillingness to learn. He must be right because I’ve read tutorial after tutorial and I still don’t know the difference between a blinkie and a button and can’t figure out how to center a picture in a header let alone shrink it.

I would ask for advice, but I probably couldn’t figure out how to follow it anyway.

On top of it all, I’m an impatient clicker.
And if one click is good, a double click is all the better.

clickclick…

On a regular basis, my screen becomes demon possessed and fills up with little blog boxes which multiply faster than I can double click a red (X). I usually throw my hands in the air and scream a little before doing the only computer move I know.

Control alternate delete…

I said all that to say this:

I have been trying to change the look of my blog for some time now, but apparently predesigned templates and centered pictures are above my pay grade. I thought I would dink with it while that daughter is home to handle the fall out.

However, because I don’t want to be a cyber spectacle as I tackle changes, I’m making the blog private for a few days while I do it.

Just thought I should mention it a day or so before I lock up.

I’ll be back.
I hope.

But if something happens, and I inexplicably delete myself from blogland,
It’s been really nice knowing you…

Simply Celebrating!

According to my blogger homepage, this is my 200th post.

I’ll let you in on a little secret: I was watching it approach, and I specifically manipulated this post to fall on a Thursday because this little blog of mine is this week’s simple pleasure.

It seemed only appropriate to share it at my favorite blog party since I celebrated my  100th Post at the very First Simple Pleasures Party back on July 21st. 

I brought my sister.

We fed cows.

Yet, you have graciously let me come back nearly every week since then even though my simple pleasures are always a bit long on the verbal and short on the visual. Thanks.

I’m not even rightly sure why I blog. I have no peculiar gift to share with the world. I’m a marginal cook and a big box decorator. My crafting ability is limited to Gorilla Glue and Mod Podge, and if you’ve ever stopped by on a Wednesday, you know that around here, it takes a village to set a table.

And yet on the day after Christmas in 2009,

I felt the need to get up and start blogging.

About nothing.

Or maybe, it’s about everything.

Becase on two hundred days since then, God has taught me that life isn’t nearly as much about the wow as it is about the now. Maybe that’s my one peculiar calling, to yak out the ordinary.

In Bible-speak, I’m one holding up the  “Behold!” sign.

And for reasons which boggle the mind, some of you actually stick around to listen.  And though I thank you all, and a I truly do, I hope you'll indulge me for a few words directed at a those without whom this simple pleasure of mine would be impossible.  You see, while most people have families, I have a cast of characters.  I dwell among blog fodder.

Like the Duchess, who gets all the blame for raising me.

And The Sister, who by the way is still 50… and I’m still not.

 And her two daughters, The Newlywed Niece and the Professional Princess.

And my own daughters, The Practical One and Miss Whimsy, whom I love and in whom I am well pleased.   They had the courage to fly from the nest (oh please don’t fly too far…) and leave this Mama Bird in need of a hobby.  And so, I blog.

And the Man of the House, who is the only family member who has never read here. He gets all the yakking he can stand in the flesh, and besides... I don’t want to give him the big head.

I thank them all.

But mostly, I just thank my God who hands out gifts as He sees fit.

Who saw fit to give me the gift of gab.

Who meets me in the narrow places and taps me on the shoulder to point out the funny stuff.

And gives me the words upon my wheels.

Blogging is this week's simple pleasure.

*****

Sharing this with friends gathered at

A Collection of This and That

for the Simple Pleasures party.

Dining Under the Pear Trees

I'm pretty much flying solo with the table this week. Last week was way too busy to play with dishes.
But when I came home from school the other day, I was greeted by my favorite sight of the year.

The Bradford pear explosion.

It just seemed to inspire a springtime table of 

 white and green.

So with a little help from the tablescaping team, I gathered together some dishes and linens. Then, I was on my own to try to put it all together.

The linens all came from the Duchess.

Both the tablecloth and napkins came from her vintage linen trunk.

I did a little decoupage on the napkin ring 

and set it across a dessert bowl.

Those  bowls belong to me. I fell in love with the pattern and have been collecting it for a while.  They keep showing up at my favorite antique store, and I keep buying pieces.

I have luncheon plates and soup bowls too.

The white salad and dinner plates

are Italian Countryside by Mikasa.

They all belong to the Sister.

There was no good reason to put them all on the table,

but I  just loved the way they looked all sandwiched together.

I bought these sherbet glasses at the same
 antique store.

 Since my theme color is green this year,

 I figured I would get a lot of use out of them.

The stemware, I've had for a while. I got it at another antique store.

It usually lives on a table in our bedroom.

I cut some some blossoms from our pear trees and arranged them in a tureen that almost matches the floral dishes. Since it wasn't quite tall enough, I set it on some more Italian Countryside.

And because there was no one around to stop me,
I stuck more blossoms willy nilly around the table.

And set it all up on the front porch in view of the pear trees.

The husband is home this week. When he saw me lugging this stuff to the front porch, he asked if we were really going to dine alfresco.

No, we're not.
I explained to him that this is the front porch,
and I didn't want to make a spectacle of myself.

And he said... 

Why stop now?

Such a smarty pants I married.

*****

I'm sharing with Susan @ BNOTP

A Century Old Secret

Last week, the lady who taught the town English

 turned 100 years old...

Isn't she lovely?

The whole small town came out to celebrate its most beloved citizen. She was showered with cards and flowers from everyone from former students to the Governor of our state.


A resolution was read in her honor at the State House...
She was a bullet point in the pastor’s sermon on perseverance...
She even got a shout out from Willard Scott.

It was a week of festivities both large and small which ended with a DAR luncheon on Saturday and a church dinner on Sunday night. 

She must have been exhausted; I know I was. Ever the lady, though, she was far too gracious to show it. She just smiled and narrated her way through every last one.

Story after story.
Memory after memory.

She told how as a single young teacher, she was required to sing in the church choir. She couldn’t sing well at all, she said, so she chose to lip sinc and hide under a big floppy hat.

Which she then proceeded to model for us, cheeky grin included.

I don’t know what was more comical, the sight of her wearing the floppy hat or the fact that the Centenarian knew and used the term “lip sinc”.

It shouldn’t have surprised me, though. The woman is the poster child for the maxim, “You’re as young as you feel.” Naturally, when you reach that milestone one century mark with the vim and vigor of this lady, people ask one question.

What’s your secret?

It really wasn’t a secret, she said. She couldn’t take credit for the Providence of very good genes. After all, her own mother had lived to 105. What she did advise, though, was to make the most of any age by setting your heart on a positive attitude.

To both groups of people, she shared that treasured old verse from Philippians.

Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good report. If there is any excellence and if anything is worthy of praise, *dwell* on these things.

But to the DAR ladies alone, the lady who taught the town English added one more nugget of wisdom.

A little powder and a little paint

makes you look

like what you ain’t.

And she gave us the thumbs up.

Grand old ladies... Does anyone else think they ought to be considered a national treasure?

Locked Out

I locked myself out of my house this week.

Again.

It happened the same way that it always does. I head out the door for some shopping, shut the door behind me, and double check for the essentials.

Purse…
Phone…
Shiny red Kodak…
Keys…

Seriously?

My blond key moments are so notorious that the husband specifically hid an extra key in the garage just to avoid the hysterical long distance phone calls. The system was working just fine until a rash of recent burglaries made me nervous that some intruder could find our key in his clever hiding place.

Which really isn’t so very clever, in my opinion…

So as I was leaving for school recently, I removed that secret key and took it along for the ride. Not to worry, though,  I knew exactly where it was currently hiding.

In the car.
Which was also locked.

I had three choices:
Call a locksmith, too expensive…
Call the Duchess to bring her key, too time consuming...
Or break in to my house.

I chose door number three.

Since I’m a confirmed scaredy-cat, I generally keep that house locked up as tight as a drum. I tried anyway, however, walking around Jericho and testing every conceivable entry.

Yup. Locked.

I considered marching around six more times and blowing a trumpet, but finally I tried the kitchen window. Eureka! It was unlocked. It’s a little higher and smaller than the rest, but still doable.

So I pushed it open.
And I pushed…
And. I.  pushed…

Have you seen Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree?

Yeah, well so have I. Therefore, the kitchen window was not an option. (Boy, do I miss Miss Whimsy…)

Since I was as yet still unwilling to break a window, I had no choice but to MacGyver my way in through a locked door with a dead bolt. For obvious reasons, I have some experience with this. I chose the French doors since historically speaking, it’s easiest to invade through France.

All told, I worked on Project Break- In for over an hour, trying just about any tool I could pilfer from the garage. I would have gotten really testy had it not been for the blog post I was writing in my head and that outside refrigerator.

But finally, that magical combination of screwdriver, paint can opener, and prayer did the trick. I was in.
By that time, I had lost all interest in shopping.

And that’s why the husband's honey-do list this weekend includes putting silicone on that sticky kitchen window. And  why mine  includes creating a super dooper hidey hole for that spare key.

Oh please tell me that someone can relate...