Saturday . . .

I love waking up in my own bed with the windows flung open and a morning dove hoo hooing gently in the background. Dorothy was right, "There's no place like home".

Friday . . . hurry up and wait

2:00 a.m. and there is some type of taxi war going on out on the street below our window. Horns screeching, men bellowing . . . on and on. When Katie's alarm goes off at 7:00 a.m., I could have cried. We were tired . . . I am grumpy. Left the hotel at 10:00 a.m., got through security, found our gate only to discover Atlanta was socked in and our flight was delayed 30 minutes to 2 hours. Two plus hours later we pulled out for a somewhat turbulent flight. The airport is
packed . . . no seating . . .





found our connecting flight gate only to find it had changed, and then again, and then again, and then again. Lots of exercise . . . Now I know that Atlanta on a Friday evening is a travelers nightmare but add in the delays that have now snowballed and five gates and two hours later, we headed . . . home sweet home. 10:00 p.m.

thursday . . . . cold and rainy

our first day of bad weather and it's a lulu. 34 and drizzling something wet . . . not snow, not rain. . . . but definitely something nasty. Frank and I were headed over to the USS Constitution. Two feet out in the "stuff" and we decide a cab would be our best friend. Drizzle gets worse as we board Old Ironsides. Downright fluid. We wander along with the 40 minute tour. The head guy, Jack, is a character. Actually, informative and fun.

Off the boat and realize my heels hurt . . . as in blisters. No cabs in sight. We duck into the museum to get warm and wait for a dry spell. I head the bath room and wonder why there is a urinal. Better yet why the guy at the urinal. Oops. Dork Moment. Don't tell. Back out into the slop. No choice we hoof it back over the bridge and back to Quincy Market. I am barely walking . . . Frank offers to carry me. Does he not remember we are in the 60 ish category. Gotta love him for the offer though. A quick stop for a sweet sausage with green peppers and onions sub and although my feet are damaged, my stomach could care less. Hobble back to the hotel to survey the damages. Oops. Both heels are blistered. So why now you ask, after three days of tramping through the streets of Boston . . . fair question. I didn't want to ruin my Uggs in the slop so I wore my other boots, which by the way are two years old and have NEVER given me blisters. Sigh. Whine . . . whine . . . whine. Frank is out hunting down band aids so we can all go to the aquarium. Or not. We all crash. Stumble across the street to the Black Rose again and more scrod. Did I mention I love scrod. And back to crash once again.

wednesday . . .

Nice day to sleep in. Took the elevators to the 26th floor . . . observation deck. WOW!!! Amazing.

We actually got going late. Headed down to China Town. A little disappointing. We had lunch there and were definitely odd ducks in a mysterious new world.

Trekked back through Boston Common to Beacon Hill. Snap, snap, snap!

Great Christmas doors. Beautiful old buildings. Trying to get our bearings, we passed the State House. We were amused by this sign. Still wondering!!!

A little wandering and nosing in shops. Katie found a little collectible store with coins, gems and dead bones. OK??? And finally back to the hotel. I haven't had so much exercise in a l o n g time. While Katie and Frank went up to play pool, I took a quick three hour nap. Not in a big rush, we walked across the street to The Black Rose . . . an Irish Pub. Yummy scrod. I had forgotten how much I love scrod. Not something we ever see at home. Wandered around Quincy Market again . . . checking out all the vendor wagons. Added another cat to my collection, Katie found a hat and Frank a T-Shirt. All is good. We are happy tourists. Another good day in Boston. Current temp 32.

Sunday . . . off we go

So we decided to runaway for Christmas this year. We arrive in Atlanta . . . on time . . . only to discover that our flight to Boston has been cancelled. I run like a mad woman to the nearest Delta phone and get seating on a flight leaving in less than 5 minutes. Run Katie Run. See Frankie Run. See Jeanne Wheeze. They close the door behind us and two more refugees and we actually make it to Boston faster than expected. Delightful shock, our bags made it too. Oh, Happy day.

Outside to grab a cab and my daughter who has never seen snow is stomping in snow piles with a grin of pure bliss on her face.

Arrive at the hotel, dump our stuff and head to Quincy Market, one block away. We are hungry and there are so many choices . . . . Chicken Teriyaki, shrimp sandwich, and fried clams . . . Snap, snap, snap . . . tons of Christmas lights to take shots of . . . joy to the world . . . we are here!!!!

Monday . . . Christmas Eve

We head downstairs to get some breakfast before dressing in every warm piece of clothing we own. Think Heidi. Or Beverly Hillbillies if you prefer, because I am wearing my vintage 1971 Marlboro Man coat. Loved that thing then, love it now . . . Frank hates it. Out we go . . . into the cold. Actually it was really nice.

Destination . . . The Freedom Trail. We picked it up at Quincy Market and headed toward the North End. Click, click, click, click, camera's going nuts. So much architecture, so much to see. We are in Little Italy and Frank is a happy little clam looking at all the restaurants. I can just see him brain whirling around and around deciding where we will eat dinner.

We wander though historic sights, grab some coffee, wander some more and find ourselves down by the Charles River. Strike up a conversation with a man shoveling the side walk . . . was a teacher for 37 years in the Boston school system . . . he finds us a guy whose wife is Italian and gets some recommendations for dinner. Nice man. We meander back to the hotel. Good thing it is distinctive and can be seen from almost everywhere we had been. Not that we couldn't retrace the Freedom Trail and find our way home. Sort of like the yellow brick road and much better than leaving bread crumbs. We get home and start calling the recommendations only to discover that most of the restaurants are closing at 4:00 to get home to their families. Who could argue.

One finally recommended another that was open and Limoncello's it was. Great shrimp scampi, chicken Marsala and fruiti del mar. Mama chatting the entire time to her sons . . . not a word of English. We waddled home. I had been telling Frank and Katie we needed to try and find White Christmas on TV . . . neither having seen it before. Jokingly I said we'll probably find a Kermit the Frog special. What did we find to watch???? Muppets in Space. Great Christmas Eve fun.

Tuesday . . . . Christmas day

We wake up Christmas morning and all pile on one bed and I starting singing three little monkeys jumping on a bed, one fell off and bumped his head . . . I love that my family understands my insanity. What a great way to start Christmas morning. We had already exchanged gifts back home and no one was in a hurry to do anything so we lounged around until hunger motivated our little bodies.

Direction for today??? USS Constitution. We figured we would walk over to see it even if it was closed and take a look see and of course snap some shots. . . . grab some lunch, wander back and hit some hotel for dinner. Nice idea. Not. We get to the hotel lobby and the concierge has a list of two restaurants open for Christmas dinner . . . and we had eaten at one last night. So asking what we wanted and me piping up with . . . Prime Rib . . . she makes the call and they only have openings within the next HOUR. We make reservations for 12:30 and start our way over there. The route takes us through Boston Common and Katie is delirious with her camera.

Take a left and look for the castle were the instructions to find our restaurant.

OMG. We did, and it was, oh so yummy. Upstairs in the very old, very cosy dining room, fire roaring, we settle down to prime rib, lamb chops and filet mignon. Never mind that we will be washing dishes for the rest of our vacation to pay for this, the food is EXCELLENT. I had to force my little family into desserts!!! And Frank,, because it is his one cheat day of the year and I decide to each order the chocolate mousse cake while Katie opts for the triple set of creme brulee's. The waiter looks at us sceptically, points to what we thought was the whole cake on the stand and says, that is a single portion. Frank and I share a single slice and still didn't finish it. Katie ate the chocolate cow!

We rolled out of there and rolled back through Boston Common for more shots. The fattest squirrels in the world live in Boston. No contest. Some kids have their Christmas snow boards and are having a ball going down a slope in the park. My 19 year old kid has her tongue hanging out in envy. A quick chat with the parents and Katie is zooming down the hill . . . backwards. . . . LOL. After a quick stop for hot cider, we finally stumble home and crash. Bypassing dinner, Frank and I head to the movies to see The Great Debaters . . . excellent flick.

Back home and tumble into bed. A day worth spending.

Feast of seven fishes . . .

. . . Christmas dinner in an Italian household is a treat. Yep, we are celebrating Christmas Eve dinner . . feast of the seven fishes, tonight. It was the only time we could get all three of Frank's kids, their spouses, his brother and SIL and us, in one place, at one time. So there will be eleven of us for dinner crammed at our dining room table. Three 'leaves' later and my longest table cloth is just a tad short . . . but that's OK. No one cares.

So I did my normal cleaning job . . . hiding the dust under rugs, etc. Boiled the shrimp this morning, made the salad and the dip and am waiting for the garlic to roast before I make the garlic bread. Frank is doing all the rest. I mean ALL the rest. He is making:

Baccala sauteed in olive oil with red pepper flakes
Cod soup
Stuffed Airships (calamari)
Italian hush puppies . . . think fried diced clams, bread crumbs, spices in little balls
Meat balls made with pork, veal and beef
Gravy with country ribs and sausage for the spaghetti and stuffed manicotti
Fried Smelts and
Mussels

Wooo-eeeeee. If the table doesn't cave in, it will be a miracle. Oh and for you purists out there, yes, we eat meat at this meal. I, however, will seat myself in front of the stuffed manicotti and threaten anyone who comes near, with a fist holding a very pointy fork . . . it is to die for.

news flash . . . .

. . . winter will finally be making an appearance. Yesterday was 83 and tomorrow will be 57. Hooray. So this means I can finally break out the warm weather meals. Since we saw something interesting on Rachael Ray's 30 minute meals the other day, this morning I bought the ingredients and tried it out for dinner. In our house, we experiment a lot. Some end up in the trash while we put in a quick SOS for pizza and some earn our top honors and are named "do agains". We lucked out, this was a definite "do again". Of course we had to do a little modification to fit Frank's diet but here is the original:

Chicken Sausage, Pepper and Onion Pasta Fake-Bake

1 pound rigatoni
Salt
1 pound cooked chicken sausages
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, divided
1 green or red bell pepper, seeded and sliced
1 cubanelle pepper, seeded and sliced
1 large onion, thinly sliced 3 to 4 cloves garlic, chopped
Ground black pepper
1/2 cup dry white wine or chicken stock, a couple of glugs
1 (28 ounce) can crushed tomatoes, (recommended: San Marzano)
Handful chopped flat-leaf parsley
1/2 cup fresh basil, 10 leaves, torn or shredded
1 cup ricotta cheese
1 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, plus some to pass at table

Place a pot of water on the stove to boil for pasta. When the water boils, salt it and cook pasta to al dente, with a bite to it.

Prick sausages with a fork. Place chicken sausages in a large skillet and add 1 inch of water. Add 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil to the skillet, 1 turn of the pan. Bring water to a boil then reduce heat a little. Allow all the liquid to cook away then brown and crisp the casings, 5 to 6 minutes.

Preheat broiler.

While pasta and sausage cook, heat a deep skillet over medium heat with 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, 2 turns of the pan. Add the peppers, onions and garlic and season with salt and pepper. When the sausages are cooked through, slice them on an angle and add them to the peppers and onions. Cook together until peppers and onions are tender and sliced sausages are crisp at edges then deglaze the pan with white wine or chicken stock. Stir in crushed tomatoes and bring to a bubble, reduce heat to low.

Drain rigatoni and return to warm pot. Add ricotta cheese, salt and pepper, parsley and basil and half of the Parmigiano, a couple of handfuls, stir to combine.

To assemble the "fake bake," place half the sausage, peppers, onions and sauce in the bottom of a baking dish. Top with all of the pasta and then the remaining sausage and sauce. Cover the top of the dish with the grated Parmigiano and place until broiler 2 minutes to brown cheese and set pasta.

Yummy, yummy in the tummy, tummy, tummy.

Little Drummer Boy

Totally love this. . .

forgot to mention . . .

. . . Katie has a new friend. He greets her on her way to class in the morning. I am not thrilled, especially with this close up!!!! Yikes!!!! And apparently he likes french fries. No no no.

.

small town parades . . .

gotta love them. Ours was tonight so Frank and I headed out . . . scored a corner section of curbing and plopped down to wait for the start. Didn't take long. With roads blocked off . . . police sirens wailing . . . kids jumping up and down with glee, we could see the first of the parade.

Then came the obligatory mayor, all the area representatives, beauty contest winners and then what I love best, the kids .

Why the karate kids? Glad you asked. That's our granddaughter on the far left. She had just tested this morning for her blue belt and kicked butt!!!! Yeah Kaity.

And of course you have to have Santa

and as with all home town parades, you have to have your home town oddities. Love this one.

and so if your Christmas spirit is still lacking, I dare you not to grin at this fellow.

God bless small towns, cities, villages, burgs and everything in between . . . may the memories stay bright.

IKEA . . .

is finally open and I dragged Frank 1/2 way across the state to go see. Oh, how I wish I had brought my camera. Rows and rows of colors and bin after bin of goodies. It was heaven. Having never been to one before, I was surprised at the set up. You walk into the monster warehouse, take the escalators upstairs and follow the path. Room by set up room, you look at all the possibilities . . . my favorite? . . . the 730 square foot apartment. Yikes, so tiny, so cool. But downstairs, I was in my element. Stacks of this and that broken down by department. I got stuck in Kitchen and would still be there had not Frank had the where-with-all to bodily drag me out by the seat on my pants. I didn't do much damage . . . some new wine glasses . . . I pop them on a regular basis . . . they were my most expensive buy at $4.99 per six. I bought 2 sets. A grater for $1.99, a set of soft spoons for .59, and a scrubber for .99. Oh, and a package of white cardboard magazine holders for $2.99. And we were out of there and over to Olive Garden for fried calamari. Then to the mall to ogle. And finally home again. It was a fun day's adventure. Frank is now hanging the Christmas lights while I test the wine glasses.

some things never change . . .

thankfully! Last night, Frank and I went to a little independent bookstore that opened this summer just a few miles from the house. Yep, in the midst of losing so many book nooks to B&N, Borders and the like, we get our very own hideaway in which to snoop around. It features both new and used books, mostly used, a coffee bar, great comfy seating, hand made crafts and a back room for cinematic events and hootenannies. Yep, you read that right. I doubt very much if my daughter even knows what a hootenanny is. And, the best part . . . they haven't changed since I went to college, except maybe for the prevalence of gray hair both on stage and in the audience. One of Frank's gym rat buddies was enjoying his singing debut and we went to cheer him on. We were originally only going to stay until John was finished and we could sneak out but we got sucked in . . . and had a blast. While most of the locals in the open-mike venue were folksingers, there was also a really good jazz singer, an opera singer who stepped out of her element and sang an hysterical little ditty about a woman so entranced with making herself beautiful that she forgot to dress before leaving the house . . .

While John was warming up, his wife asked me if I played or sang and I had to explain that I had not one musical bone in my entire body. She then asked what kind of music I preferred. While my quick reply was "eclectic", I started to think about the last six songs I downloaded from iTunes: The Blacksmith Blues by Ella Mae Morse, Bubbly by Colbie Caillat, Dance Tonight by Paul McCartney, The Sweet Escape by Gwen Stefani, Someone is Missing at Christmas by Anne Cochran and Here We Go Again by Country Joe and the Fish. Yep, definitely eclectic.

So, I am happy some things are coming around again in my life time so that Frank and I can share them together.

friendship . . .

One of my closest friends moved away. Am I upset? Am I bereft? Am I crushed. One would certainly think so, but truly, I am not in the least any of those. This recession has not been kind to her and her husband. They have moved to Tennessee to start life over again. I am happy they have been given this opportunity. Am I all that altruistic that I have no feelings of my own? Not at all.

I met Sheri on the Internet some eight or nine years ago on a scrapbook board. Despite Frank's fears of axe murderers skulking on the net, and his insistence of joining me on our first IRL meeting, Sheri was exactly who she was in text; kind, humorous, smart, savvy, caring and best of all she shared my addiction for all things paper. The only thing our marathon rounds of IM's and email did not share, was the New York accent and the twinkling eyes. I should have guessed at both.

We blurt out the same sentence at the same time, we console each other, we laugh and giggle, we roll our eyes at family antics and commiserate on child rearing, we exchange birthday presents, we know enough to blackmail each other from here to Zanzibar, we share our frustrations and joys over our morning drinks. Because, isn't that, after all, what friendship is all about? So does it really matter that we do this all through the magic of the net? I think not. Someone once scoffed at the idea that a cyber friendship had value. I beg to differ. I am blessed that I have found this friend. That she lives not around the corner but miles and miles away makes no difference. Not to me. Not to Laura and Leonore, Gracee and Marg, or Chris and Sue.

So Sheri has moved away and while I am not upset, I cannot wait until their Internet service is hooked up once again. I need to hear the details of the trip, the ins and outs of the new home, the minutia of the life I share with my friend.

it's raining cats . . .

now they are four. Yep, Moak came home with Katie for Thanksgiving and life has had it's ups and downs ever since.

Moak - Happy to be home again, he sniffed out all his old favorite napping sites, did a pool patrol and headed directly to the food bowl as if he had never left. You could almost see him grin. That is of course until Bear and Ninja coming running, full tilt, up to greet him and Moak in utter displeasure hisses and snarls at the monster babies. He still does not like them and I, of course, am watching him like a hawk to make sure my bed does not get baptized a second time because he is dismayed.

Bear - Yesterday morning, I walked half asleep into the bathroom only to be rocked fully awake by walking in cold water. Huh? The bathroom floor was sopping. One look at the water bowl was the key to he who was responsible. Bear doesn't just lap. He sticks his paw in the water and licks the paw. Always. And then he gets bored and tips over the container. Note to self: buy an un-tipable bowl. So just on the off chance, I check Snoops bowl in Katie's room and although not upended like the bathroom bowl, it is half empty and the carpet is squishy. And, Katie wakes up to tell her tale of woe . . . someone (Bear - of course) tipped over the bud vase, at 2:00 a.m., containing six baby yellow roses that Frank had gotten her.

Ninja - Seems least phased by the commotion, perhaps because she is too busy causing her own. Darting here and there, she has learned to fetch with little golf ball size wadded up balls of paper. I spent good part of an hour, while watching TV with Frank, in bed, tossing the ball and having it delivered back into my hand. Love her hi jinks. That is until she, at 4:00 a.m., delivers the ball anxious to renew our game. Not.

Snoop - Has become, of all things, the indulgent, favorite uncle. He watches over the crew meting out playful swats when necessary, chasing along with the babies, and over lording the entire hierarchy. He is happy in the midst of the din until he has had enough and retreats up under the box springs of Katie's bed. To prove how further he has mellowed, he has actually allowed the shy Bear into his inner sanctum when visitors arrive.

Now four days into the visit, everyone has seemingly gotten used to everyone else and I do believe that Moak, who will be happy to once again be a solitary cat, will be missed by all.

i repeat, we do NOT live in the woods . . .

After the feasting was over, the table cleared and the dishes done, the guys and Katie decided to check out the hot rod show over at the Plaza while the rest of us gals hung out watching TV and chattering. A couple of hours later, they returned all excited . . . we could hear them through the screen door as soon as they pulled in the driveway. But they weren't excited over the show, no they were babbling about the sound of the impact, how many there were, who hit whom . . . grabbing for flashlights to access the damage. It took me a minute to piece the story together and realize that less than a mile from the house, on a four lane divided highway, a deer had run into the back of the CR-V. A deer!!! And apparently, there were two . . . both of whom scampered off. This is not deer country. Further north or west, yes. But here in town no. It is too developed . . . or one would think.

This morning Frank is going to take the CR-V in to get the rear panel refastened into place. Apparently some gizmo broke and it needs to be fixed before Katie heads back to school on Sunday.

Nope, I do not, I repeat, do not live in the woods.

in the morning light . . .

you might just see a room, but as I head downstairs to start my day, I see a place my heart loves. It is where we hang out, where we eat dinner on Tuesday nights, where we scrunch up to read, where we sit in front of a roaring fire on cold winter evenings, where we discuss our lives and celebrate our holidays. This is where we feel safe . . . this is our home.

signs I should not clean . . .

Tomorrow being turkey day and all, I decided it was time to remove the top layer of dust, sweep the dirt under the rugs, move the furniture over the stains and collect the tumbleweed sized fur balls for my next knitting project. Yesterday, I started upstairs, all going well until I got to the toilet. I grabbed the new bottle of bleach from under the sink, uncapped it, flushed the toilet and looked down to see an ever increasing puddle growing around the base of the bottle. I scooped it up, twisted the cap back on and flipped it upside down only to discover the cap leaked as well. So here I am straddling the porcelain goddess holding this large container of Clorox which is dripping and splashing from both ends. Did I mention that I was also talking to my SIL at the same time, so add balancing the phone on my shoulder to the mess? I finally tossed the bottle into the sink, ran downstairs to get an almost empty one from under that bathroom sink, ran backup stairs and poured the new contents into the old one.

Meanwhile, the kittens are ecstatic about all the commotion and are doing a happy dance in the puddles of straight bleach still on the floor. They immediately found themselves in the sink getting foot baths and towel dries. That did not go well.

Fast forward to this morning and after being side tracked to the mall by he-who-must-be-obeyed yesterday, the floor finally becomes sparkling clean with no further ado.

Next on my list is the daily changing of the upstairs water bowls for the cats. The kittens was already done so I grabbed Snoop’s and headed to the bathroom when I realized the floor was still wet. The sink being not all that far from the door, I figured I could just lean in, balance, refill the water bowl, and propel myself back into an erect state outside the door. All went well until we got to the propel part. I made it back into position, the bowl did not. There was water everywhere . . . another mop job.

These are omens. I should not clean; I do not like to clean. The Gods and warning me. I must obey. Sigh.

it's a done deal . . .

Painting complete and partially stuffed with goodies. (Note the little blue drawer pulls. They really do brighten my day.) I think I have finally found a home for that which needs one. The stamp shelves that are still to come. Then the crown molding, I am beginning to think, I will never see, and a rug. Then DONE. It really is fun to play in my new spot now.

family runs deeper than anything else . . .

Well, since Frank was going to be working all day putting the second coat of paint on my chest, I knew I would feel guilty if I didn't do something, besides laundry that is. So as I was spooning the last of my Swiss Mocha out of its tin and into my mug for my fall morning fix, I realized the empty tin was so alterable. Here it is.

Step 2, part A

Actually, step 3 was going to be the finished product but yesterday while Frank was in the middle of the job, he stops dead, sits back, stares and me and says, "I am shocked!". Of course I wanted to know what he was shocked about. "You haven't taken one picture of me painting!" I told him the saga was already on the blog and I was waiting until it was done and stuffed before I blogged again. He looked me right in the eye and said, "You never not take pictures of things in progress." So, here we are. Step 2, part A. I'm thinking I must be taking too many pictures . . .

step two . . . done!

It got a bath in the driveway and scrubbed with Murphy's Oil soap. Then it got sanded within an inch of its life which really wasn't hard because most of the finish had long since worn off. This morning it got wiped down one more time so that this afternoon we can use a tack cloth and start to paint. I am so jazzed. I love this silly piece of furniture with all its foibles . . . screws hammered flat on the back if they stuck through, gaps between pieces, odd nooks and crannies, a false floor under which someone added fiber board and wheels . . . who'd a thunk it?

Kitten Capers . . .

I am so infatuated with my Zutter, I actually bound this before it was done. I have two double layouts with background paper and journaling spots yet to be finished, just waiting for photos. Sigh. But the advent of the kittens warranted their own album.