Scout Moves

I was talking to No. 1, (Katie) on the phone this afternoon, and she was describing an assignment she has in a class in which she is a TA. She’s a grad student at UT Austin and just began her first semester there, the smarty pants. The assignment has to do with unusual forms of communication, and she’s gathering ideas—I suggested the old codes hobos used in the early 1900s to warn other wanderers about the nature of people in various houses. I’ve written about that before . Those codes got me ta thinkin’, in the vernacular of someone who might have hiked from town to town carrying nothing but a hobo sack over his shoulder. When I was a kid, around 12 or so, the last of my sisters moved out—two were married, one was in college, and all three lived in a different state, three different states, actually. And I was left alone to deal with our dear mother who was not always kind, or stable. Some days, she was just as inclined to smack you upside the head as to speak to you, if you get my

Of all the things I thought I’d be doing with my free time, I didn’t imagine this—I made rosaries over the weekend. The other day, I was talking to my friend Katy about how I have this collection of pre-Colonial African trade beads. For a couple of years, I designed book covers for a non-profit American publisher that sells books in English-speaking countries in Africa, and because I did the work pro bono, they paid me in trade beads (my suggestion). My husband visited Nigeria once and brought back strings of these beads, and I love the things. I have used these beads to make all sorts of stuff—earrings, bracelets, necklaces, pendents. to decorate purses… Katy asked if I would make a rosary for her. Of course, I would. So, she gave me one I could use for parts, and I got to work. A rosary needs a cross or crucifix and a charm of Mary with three links, and the beads are strung just so. The dangly part has five beads—two Our Father beads and three Hail Mary beads. Then comes the

I did a little shopping at the local farm market yesterday. It’s a full-blown farm market, with licensed farmers and growers selling their goods—every imaginable fruit and vegetable that grows in Ohio, fresh honey, locally raised chicken, lamb and beef, and all kinds of baked goods including dog treats. As I was waiting at a tent to pick up some ground beef, I was delighted to see local popcorn, too. So, I bought a bag from the farmer who grew the corn. In our house, we don’t eat a lot of popcorn, and it’s microwaved when we do. But I know how to make popcorn from the kernels. Hmmm, let me see…Ah, it was October 1, 1975…I remember it well. It was a chilly night on the shores of Lake Michigan, and I was in the tenth grade. My parents and I were settled in the old ranch house after dinner and waiting for the big fight, The Thrilla in Manila—Muhammad Ali vs. Joe Frazier. My mother was a huge sports fan, and we watched everything that ever aired on the major networks and WGN out

A couple of weeks ago, Emily and I bought okra at the farm market. We were walking along the path looking at the stalls and trying to decide what to buy, and she pointed and said, “Okra!” So I bought a pound of it, brought it home, set it on the counter, and that’s where it sat until today. Southern food is part of my heritage. Even though I grew up in Northwest Indiana—and among some in my family, I’m considered a Yankee—my fondest childhood memories involve southern food. And one of my favorites has always been fried okra. Yes, southerners fry everything, but okra, when not in gumbo, needs to be fried. Otherwise, it isn’t edible. Actually, that isn’t wholly true—this weird little pod was brought over to the colonies by slaves who introduced it to Europeans/Americans, and it eventually became part of the Soul Food canon. Slaves took it to Brazil, too, and it was there, in Salvador, that I had an okra sauce over rice as part of an Africa-inspired meal. Really good. But in my yout

In honor of Julia Child's birthday (she would have been 100 today), I am re-posting something from May, 2008, part of my Motherload series I was writing then. Now that this tired blog has had its own birthday—6 years!—don't be surprised if you run across some retreads here now and then. THE MOTHERLOAD PART 5 Julia Child was quite a cook, wasn't she? She was likely the first "celebrity chef" that got people interested in cooking beyond making macaroni and cheese and tuna casserole for the family dinner table. She hosted popular cooking shows and wrote cookbooks that still serve as culinary bibles, but she was so much more. Julia was born into a privileged class—the "leisure class," she called it—in Pasadena, California in 1912 in an age when women weren't expected to do anything but reproduce, be an accessory to their husbands, and roll bandages for a cause. She floated through school and went to Smith College in Massachusetts, the fami

The Greco Band Playing A Street Festival Small Town has an Italian festival about this time every year. We fought for it, too, because it used to be held in the town next door until someone lured the committee over to our side of the border. We shut down the main drag for a couple of days and fill it with inflatable rides for little kids, food trucks selling Stromboli and Italian sausage, a beer garden and tables where people sell Indian dresses. What Indian dresses have to do with our local Italian heritage is anybody’s guess. There is a wine making contest, spaghetti eating contest, tomato sauce making contest and grape stomping. On the final night of this thing, my big summer band plays Italian music, mostly. We played tonight, with our set up placed right in the middle of main street. Just as we sat down and organized the music in our folders with clothespins to keep the sheets from blowing away, it was announced that one of our former members, Raymond “Skeet” Botdorf, die

As I mentioned the other day, while the Witches and I were at Put-in-Bay, we sat through a set or two of Alex Bevan, a folk singer here who is beloved by all. Everyone says he's best known for his early hit "Skinny Little Boy from Cleveland, Ohio," but seriously the man is currently promoting his 26th album. He's no slacker, and does not rest on his laurels. He's got at least one guitar in the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame, runs a pickle and bread business with his wife and is an all-around talented guy. You can learn more about him and his music at his website . And you can listen to him here being fun for us—don't mind the giggling and cackling in the background. I don't know who that is.  

I didn’t write a post here all last week. Did you notice? I just didn’t have much to say, had other things to do and then decided to take a little break. Three of my good friends and I escaped to an island retreat for a few days, sort of like The Witches Hit Middle Bass. Here’s what I mean: I’ve got these friends, and we get together periodically for cocktails and conversation. This is a great group of women—no gossip, no backbiting, no pettiness. We are loyal and loving confidants capable of drawing the very last breath out of a wide range of topics; and when we get together, we occasionally like to refer to ourselves as the Wyrd Sisters (a Terry Pratchett reference) or The Witches, as in “You witches free this Wednesday for margaritas? All but one of The Witches packed up and headed north for Lake Erie because Katy has a house on Middle Bass Island and had invited us to go there Friday through Sunday. Lake Erie has a series of little islands accessible by ferry. Middle Bass is wh