POTTED PEAS

The picture above is of a hanging basket of sweet peas grown in England. Why couldn't I do that?

I love sweet peas, and I've planted them everywhere we've ever lived. They grow easily, bloom profusely and smell wonderfully. I've tried growing them three times here in Mira Loma, but have hit obstacles each time.

First, I planted them in a corner where they would get sunlight at least through mid-day. I strung up a netting for them to climb. They climbed all right, but they obviously needed more sun than I could give them because they only bloomed at the top of the net where they could have as much sunlight as they wanted. I had to climb up on a ladder to cut them for bouquets.

The second year I planted the bush type in that same area, and they grew way out of their boundaries, over onto the grass. And each week when the lawnmowing crew came by they either got weed-whacked or mowed. I think directions for the crew said to mow the grass and it didn't matter if there were flowers draped over the grass -- they rode their machine right over the flowers. I got a few bouquets but it was really not a successful growing event.

I didn't plant any last year, but this year I decided to try a different tack. I had seen on a website that hanging baskets could be used for sweet peas if you planted the bush type. Jerry kind of rolled his eyes when I told him what I wanted to do. He swears he is not going to do any more gardening, and I know that he'll take over whatever I start because I'm not very good at it. So he helped me get all the needed equipment and we sowed.

We planted them in November and watched for germination. Jer told me we were going to have to be ruthless in our thinning, because they needed root space to grow. I knew that, but when the time came I just about had a fit at what all he was pulling up - and I finally had to go in the house and sulk. I knew he was right, but I sure didn't like it.

He was right. This is what we have now. It is not good. There are too many plants. He has not told me that ("I told you so" is not something he wants to say unless he thinks I don't know.)

The potted pea plants are trying to grow, but they are gasping for air/soil/space. The baskets are right outside by office window and as I sit at the computer I can see -- and hear -- them. "AIR. SUN. SPACE." they moan. They do not look healthy at all. But I can't give up yet.


Look. I have one pea! :)

NON-PURIST RECIPE FOR HUMMUS

There was a time in my life when I thought I wanted to be a "purist" in my cooking. By that I don't mean I wanted to go out and grab eggs from under the mother hen -- or head out to the rice paddy to reap something that I'd sown. But I did think that to be a really good cook I should not look to cans any more than I had to. I was willing to shell the peas, de-string the green beans, make the biscuits from flour instead of Bisquick, and use fresh herbs instead of dried ones. By and large things were tastier, and as I was in a new marriage and really wanted to do things right this time, I was willing to take whatever time was called for to make things perfect.

My mother was not a good cook, nor an adventuresome cook. I was seriously underexposed to good food from her cooking - salads were either jello or lettuce and tomato; salad dressing was always Miracle Whip; meat was cooked until it had a consistency of shoe leather. Potatoes were boiled, spaghetti was out of Franco-American cans. Mother did not like to eat nor cook, and until I left for college in 1953, I had never tasted a pizza, seen a bagel, or eaten a rare steak. When I married the first time, my cuisine was limited by finicky children whose preferences ran to hamburger patties. By 1975 and in a new marriage, I decided this was a second chance. Dating as an adult had opened my taste buds to all kinds of culinary experiences and I figured I was smart enough to learn to cook the right way. Armed with books from James Beard, Julia Child, Bert Greene, etc. I started experimenting.

In 1980 Jer and I went to Israel. In our week there I decided I wanted to bring home two souveniers - a piece of art and a cookbook of Israeli recipes (but written in English, of course.) I found exactly what I wanted: a great silkscreen of Moses crossing the Red Sea, and a spiral bound cookbook of everyday Israeli food. What caught my eye in the cookbook is that there was a recipe in there for Hummus that listed the first ingredient as "2 cans of chickpeas."

Going back to the purist idea, I had earlier learned that Hummus was a wonderful appetizer, and I always made it the old fashioned way, soaking the dried chickpeas overnight and cooking them the next day. They had to cook for a long time, and when finished I had to make sure to remove all the little "skins" that covered them. This was a long ordeal. Some of the skins had come off in the cooking but I had to make sure, pea by pea, that no skins remained. Believe me, it was a long, tedious process. But I wanted to make the Hummus the right way, and the right way, I thought, was to do what the instructions said - and removing the skins was a must.

So when I saw in that Israeli cookbook that the people there used CANNED CHICKPEAS I was stunned. Once I got home, I tried it -- and to be honest with you, the Hummus tasted every bit as good as doing it the purist way. From that day forward, I have always used my authentic Israeli recipe from that little book and I've probably been asked for my Hummus recipe more than anything else I've ever cooked.

So here is how to do it the easy way, folks. If you like Hummus, you'll love this recipe. If you don't know what Hummus is, try it out, because it is simply too good to pass up.

HUMMUS

2 1# cans garbanzo beans, drained
5 T fresh lemon juice
6 T olive oil
1 t garlic powder
1 t salt
¼ t pepper
¼ t paprika
Dash cayenne pepper (optional)
1/3 c Tahina paste [usually found at all big supermarkets in international food section]
10 springs parsley.

Reserve 2 T beans for garnish. Process beans in food processor until smooth. Mix in the lemon juice and olive oil, one tablespoon at a time, starting with the Olive Oil, processing well after each addition. Add garlic powder, salt, pepper, paprika and cayenne, processing well to mix. Finally add the tahina, processing well. To serve place on flat plate and smooth out with back of spoon. Garnish with the remaining whole beans in the center, a drizzle of olive oil, a sprinkle of red paprika and a few sprigs of parsley. May also be put on individual salad plates.

Serve at room temperature.

WRITING - PAST & PRESENT

In the files that had to be cleaned out after my mother's death I found this one bit of memorabilia that surprised me. Dated June 20, 1944, it was an acceptance letter written by Union Gospel Press for an article she submitted to them called "Remember the Sabbath" and for which she was paid $1.00.

She died in 1982 and she had kept this letter AND the dollar bill all those years. I tucked it away in my own files and it will be handed down to one of my kids when I pass on.

Oh, how she wanted to write. One of my earliest memories is coming home from elementary school to see her sitting at her old typewriter pecking away. My sis and I knew she was writing stories, and most of them were little moralistic pieces featuring little Barbara or little Ginnie Lou as the good little kids. Of course we weren't interested in what she was writing. As with most kids, we didn't much interest ourselves in the big folks' business unless one of them was baking cookies or bringing home a bag of Sears freshly popped popcorn. So her writing was of no particular interest to us; mother at the typewriter was a common scene.

Mother was a high school graduate who went to work in a photo studio immediately upon graduating to learn "retouching" and "tinting photos" but who married soon and left the work force. According to family lore, her grandmother Louise ghost-wrote a book of early Caldwell, Kansas, and althought Grandma Louise died when my mom was 8, mother always felt that her own desire to write was passed down in her genes from her grandma.

When I saw this letter and dollar bill, I had a vague recollection of it from my childhood. As I recall, mother had a copy of the published story that we all read. It was fun to see her name in print and of course we thought she was now famous and were very proud of her.

Unfortunately for her, this is the only thing she ever published, but it was not from lack of trying. What her constant efforts at writing did was to aim both my sister and me at the typewriter! My sister entered college as an English major. And from the time I was in 9th grade, my mother encouraged me to take journalism classes, which I did through high school and college. And of course any of you who know me personally will know that the drive to write is no less in me that it was in my mother. I do not have a need to publish, but I do have a need to write. That urge bypassed my sister.

The most interesting thing for me when I look at this letter is that my mother was not religious nor was she a church goer. She always sent us kids to the nearest church to where we lived, and I suppose her idea of submitting an article to this publication came from her seeing something we brought home from Sunday School. And the second most interesting thing is that although you can't see it very well in the photo above, the dollar is a "Silver Certificate" instead of a "Federal Reserve Note" that is used today. And I note that my mother wrote her initials on the note up toward the left corner: VRD for Virginia Ryland Dobbins. She wanted to be sure she would always have the EXACT DOLLAR that she earned in her possession.

Yes, I have a copy of the check sent to me for the first article I wrote that was published. But there certainly isn't as much drama in that as in what my mother left for me.

CAN I BE SO BRAVE?

I have been hearing and seeing a lot lately on the new fad of wearing pajama bottoms in public in lieu of "real" pants. The first time I saw this happening was when Michael Jackson was shown being escorted somewhere wearing a dress jacket and the bottom of his pajamas. I considered the circumstances and the celebrity; I did not see it as a trend in dressing.

But in the last few months I've seen quite a number of men who have appeared just as the man above, obviously in pajama bottoms while he is out shopping. The first time I saw one of my neighbors wearing them was as I was walking around the complex and met him coming the other direction. We stopped to chat for a minute, and I couldn't help but see that he was definitely in flannel pj bottoms, a jacket and his walking shoes. Hmmm, I thought. Very strange.

This last week I went to the bank and got in line behind a youngish fellow, casually dressed with nice new running shoes on (way too white to be anything but new), a tee-shirt and pj bottoms. We are really very casual here in So. Cal, but I have been a little surprised at just how casual we are becoming.

Then this week I noticed an ad online for PajamaJeans. Ah Ha! Now these are more like it. Made to look like jeans, they fit better than Pajama bottoms, as you can see by the picture below, borrowed from their website. And I can see how it would be reasonable to wear them in public. I think they are quite nice, and although I don't see a pair in my future, it did give me an idea.

For the most part I basically sit at a computer all day long at home, unless I'm slouched on a couch reading or knitting. I do not have jogging suits or other such athletic attire, as in the course of the day I don't do much exercise beyond lifting my coffee cup to my mouth. But I did decide that in lieu of getting dressed each day with a pair of jeans that are always a bit too tight around the waist, or a perfectly good pair that fit nicely when I was 20 lbs. heavier but fall off my behind now unless I use a belt with it, I'd wear my one pair of cotton (not flannel) pajama bottoms. They have a nice design on them, not like hearts or teddy bears or such, so that if I needed to go outside to check my sweet peas I wouldn't have to change into jeans. I'd look quite appropriate, and maybe even fashionable, in them with a tee-shirt or a sweater. Not for marketing, or going to Starbucks, or to the library.

Now maybe a younger person could feel ok about going into those places. But objectively, if I saw an old lady in the market wearing a tee-shirt and pajama bottoms I'd think she was crazy as a hoot owl. So trust me when I say I'll stick around my apartment when I'm dressed thusly. In fact, I spent this last weekend in my new stylish attire and I'm sold on the comfort and ease of slopping around looking like this. I think this calls for a trip to Target for more bottoms.

CELEBS AND GENEALOGY

I did not much like the new program, “Who Do You Think You Are,” that aired part #1 last night. It uses genealogy to pull surprises on celebs. Probably I should not be so quick to judgment, and after I watch the next airings I may change or maybe even moderate my pronouncement. I had read a not-so-complimentary review of it in the LA Times so perhaps that had skewed my expectation, but even if that was the case and the next programs are much better, I think there was plenty to take issue with.

Genealogy is not, as this program visually suggested, a whole line-up of Wows! I have been doing genealogy for 25 years and I have loved every minute of it. I have eked out little things here, little things there, slowly building a line, family by family, life by life, proving and disproving theories, trying to figure out where to try next, learning all about the history of our country because my families were in the middle of the making of it.

I’ve had lots of successes – but only one real WOW moment, where I stood up in the middle of the Family History Library in Salt Lake City about 9:30 p.m. after being on microfilm readers all day long and said “THERE SHE IS!” All my co-researchers within hearing distance clapped. It was a WOW moment but it happened after I had looked for Mandana Bradley, just an ordinary person, for 20 years before finding her. And I was even looking for someone else when she appeared. Too many WOWS give a faulty picture of the process and do no favors for newcomers starting their research.

If one wants to join a lineage society in the worst way, hiring a researcher to trace a line is a good way to get end results. But doing it that way is missing out on the "alogy" part of "gene-". The new TV program didn’t show just how much fun it is to start at the beginning. I personally think some judicious deleting of celebs and propitious use of genealogy tools and resources would have made for a stronger program. And a more realistic one.

And as my friend and professional genealogist Teresa said this morning as we discussed the program on Facebook: “I wonder if they are going to point out the many distant cousins and friends you are going to make when you do a true genealogical journey. How many years have we corresponded, Bobby? I think you have seen my address change a couple of times!”

Teresa and I are 4th cousins, she in Kentucky and I in California. We have never met each other personally but actually met first by letter in the pre-computer days (1984). Our great-grandmas were sisters. We've shared genealogy finds over the years that helped us build our Corel families, and now by Facebook Teresa and I have daily interchanges, some about genealogy and some about things like the animals she has on her farm.

I realize “Who Do You Think You Are” is not trying to teach genealogy. I think it mostly is presenting a forum for celebrities, which our society nowadays seems to want, and maybe the discipline of genealogical research will gain a few adherents. But I hope down the line someone says to these celebs, and to all the viewers, not to believe everything you see, or everything you read, or everything you find behind a fluttering leaf. And that starting at the beginning is a great place to start!

WHAT ARE DIRT CLODS FOR?

I finally got brave enough to stop the car next to a vacant lot nearby, hand Jerry the camera and ask him to take a picture of me holding a great big dirt clod! I was going to shed my senior citizen persona and become a child again. The grass has to be just the right length, which happens shortly after there has been lots of rain. All it takes is one good pull and up comes a dirt clod just like the ones we used to use when we were kids.

What did we use the dirt clods for? For a dirt clod fight, of course.

Oh, how mother used to hate it when my sister and I and the neighbor kids had a dirt clod fight. Right next door to our house was a huge vacant lot, and after a few winter rains had come and the grass and weeds had grown 8 or 10 inches high, we would stage the most wonderful dirt clod fights. We all knew the rules: we couldn't throw them hard, we couldn't aim at faces, and we couldn't hurt each other deliberately. Other than that, it was every man for himself! The big clump of moist earth held together loosely by the new roots was just the right size for making a good splat on someone. It was hard to aim for the head, because none of us wanted dirt in our face, but we did always hope we could land one on someone's head.

The dirt clod fight never lasted too long, because some adult was always coming out of a house somewhere to put a stop to the fun. For the boys, they just went somewhere else and continued to get dirty; for the girls, it meant we had to shed our shoes on the back porch until the dirt on them dried, peel out of our clothes by the washing machine in our laundry room, and head to the bathroom to take a bath and get our hair washed. Mother always told us we shouldn't have dirt clod fights. But many years later she admitted to us that she really knew how much fun we were having because she and her siblings had thrown dirt clods too, so she never could work up too much irritation at our "shenanigans," she called them.


When Jer and I were talking about vacant lots and comparing rules for his dirt clod fights against ours, he also mentioned that he and his friends ate a lot of things from the various plants in the vacant lots. I was really surprised to know that, because I thought my sister and I were the only ones who found tiny edibles in the plants. So when we picked a spot to stop today, after pulling up the dirt clod I wanted to get a picture of the plant that gave us such cute little seeds to eat.

There were lots of these plants around where I was standing, but they weren't big enough yet to go to seed, so I wasn't able to get a picture of the seeds. But he and I both knew exactly what the seeds looked like and what you had to do to get them out of their little seed cases.


The other thing we found plenty of were foxtails, ubiquitous foxtails. Jerry said he and his friends used to take them and put them up the sleeves of their sweaters. The foxtails would quickly work their way up the arms, which for some reason known only to kids brought them great glee! I never heard of doing that. What we would do would be to put our lower arms together, have someone set a foxtail in the crevice at our wrists, and then by rubbing our arms back and forth with a tiny motion the foxtail would scurry all by itself up to our elbows. Now why that was such a fun thing to do is lost to my memory. It seems pretty stupid now, but as kids we thought it was wonderful.

It was fun spending a little time in the vacant lot today. It brought back lots of childhood memories. We are in a pretty rural area and the neighbors weren't all standing out in their yards or peering out their kitchen windows at us, wondering what those two old people were doing. We did get a few woofs from some guard dogs across the street, but I told them "Hello, Pups" and mentioned that we were harmless, so they pretty much left us alone. When we finished our business, we drove off in the car to our senior apartment complex, where we donned our senior citizen look again and went inside our apartment to take a nap.

WEIRD OR CRAZY: WHICH?

For several years I’ve been receiving a “Word of the Day” e-mail via Dictionary.com. Some words I already know, some I’ll never have use for, but some are total standouts. One of those that I have especially enjoyed adding to my vocabulary is the word “crapulous.” It’s a perfectly appropriate word, Webster says, and basically it describes how I felt the morning after I drank too much for the first time.

On February 17 of this year I found a second word that has delighted me no end because it described a condition I have long experienced but didn’t really understand. The word is an adjective, “hypnagogic.” Dictionary.com defines it as “Of, pertaining to, or occurring in the state of drowsiness preceding sleep".

I have long asked myself how I can be dreaming while I am still awake. Sometimes when I take a nap in the afternoon I can lie on my bed for an hour and not move a muscle, but I am not yet asleep. I keep waiting to fall asleep but at the very same time I also am having dream-like scenes playing out in my mind. Without moving a muscle I can figure out that I must be asleep because my rational mind wouldn’t be thinking the scenario that is going on in my head while I am lying there. But if I were asleep I wouldn’t be analyzing why I am not asleep. As you can imagine, experiencing that state has been such a puzzle to me.

I can wake up in the middle of the night from a dream and then decide whether or not I want to go back to that dream or on to something else. While I am deciding, I have already slipped back into the dream but I am not yet asleep because I am also wondering where the cat is and what time it is and if I really want to continue the dream.

Dictionary.com says I am in a hypnagogic state. I am so delighted to know that, even though I know it sounds a little weird. But learning this word means that I now know what is going on, and I now know that I am not the only one it happens to. Otherwise, there would be no word for it, right?

Sometimes I lie down in bed at night and as I relax I begin thinking of, and then seeing, certain regular images that come again and again in my dreams, nothing that I have ever seen before in real life, but always a certain swimming pool, a certain house built in the round, a certain house I live in that is getting ready to collapse into the basement, a certain pattern of lights that in my “dream” I know are in Manitou Springs at night -- these images are like old friends and each has appeared enough times in my dreams that I can call them up without being asleep. Amazing! All this time I’ve been having a hypnagogic adventure and didn’t know it!

It’s nice to find out that one of my oddities is perfectly normal and natural. I don’t talk about this “condition” because it actually seems a little bizarre, but I can’t deny it either. Dictionary.com illustrates the word in a bit from Christopher Lehmann-Haupt’s story “The Faces of Night, Many of Them Scary” as published in the New York Times, January 9, 1995: “the phenomenon of hypnagogic hallucinations, or what Mr. Alvarez describes as ‘the flickering images and voices that well up just before sleep takes over.’”

And I have to say “YES! THAT’S IT!”

But I’m truly not crazy.