I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon.
Didn't ICE find the illegal aliens who had secretly landed in our trailer parks and ICE shipped them to an El Salvadorian prison? I thought many of the trailer park inhabitants who resisted will be vacationing at the prison, er renamed Cultural Exchange Theme Park, soon?
When the toe heels it may be time for specially fitted shoes. Broken bones, no matter how small, can create or exacerbate other health issues as one ages.
Witchy Woman Yes, I have family nearby. The lake is also across the road. Water is kinda important, eh? A spoonful of coffee grounds just isn't the same without it. Thanks for commiserating with me.
I'm so sorry to hear you're having such a terrible week. I've gone through the float valve thing at my old house in Maine, it felt like forever before they got it replaced. I bought gallons of water to keep my coffee supply steady. I refilled empty jugs for the toilet from the lake. We were lucky it happened in the summer because bathing was at the lake. I can't imagine doing it in the fall with the temperatures dropping. I never asked if your family lives nearby? Hopefully, you can take care of the essentials there.
Very nicely written. I am a big communicator and if more people would put forth a better effort, it would be a better place. Little acts of kindness truly goes a long way. You have identified it well. I can feel your sincerity coming through your writing. I would like to see more of the younger crowd helping or being involved with the older folks. I know my day goes better when someone has said hi or gives a waves.
I don't care for dark British/Dutch humor. Dislike Monty Python as well. Give me a bittersweet French or Japanese movie or a sad Portuguese song. I'm more introspective.
You were very fortunate. I never really fell into anyone's arms.
I need to reassess my needs. My 'romantic' efforts in Thailand had limited success.
March 13th Prompt: What traditional food dishes from your culture does your family still enjoy? Tell us about how the recipe was passed down and what notificatiins were made over the years. My step-grandfather hailed from a Polish family. He chose to keep the spelling of his surname, Cherski, but a few of his relatives anglicized the name to Christie. I liked to tease him by lamenting that the cookie/cracker dynasty would've loved me as a granddaughter because I appreciated their delicious products. Alas, he was not nor had he ever been related to those Christies. Because of his heritage, Grandpa introduced me to pierogis. Now, he never created them himself. Well, okay, once in a blue moon he deigned to peel potatoes for the prep. work, if he was in a good mood. Most of the pierogis were made by his wife and daughters. From start to finish, this meant a long day of assembly line toil. Potatoes were skinned and boiled in a gigantic pot. Bacon was fried in the largest pan. Numerous onions were peeled and chopped. Sauerkraut was drained. All of these ingredients were stirred together in at least two large bowls to make the pierogi guts. The shell ,the outside skin of the pierogi was fashioned from a flour dough mixture cut into circles with the rim of a drinking glass. I remember a haze of flour floating in the kitchen and the delectable aroma of sizzling bacon. Now, the assembly of the pierogis required copious mugs of tea, non-stop chatter, lots of laughter and nimble fingers. A teaspoonful of 'guts' was centred in a douch circle and then the wanna-be pierogi was folded in half and pinched. The secret was to be patient and warm the seam between fingers until a bond formed. This was important. The pierogis were slipped into boiling hot water until they floated to the surface. If a seam had not been closed, the 'guts' spilled out into the pot. Families are forgiving sorts. I'd participated in this ritual at least once a year since my birth. I knew what was what. This did not deter me from taste-testing the delectable 'guts' more than I pinched the pierogis togther. In other words, my intake did not match or better my out put. Before long, I'd be banished from the pierogi party which suited me just fine. I always preferred eating the finished project. I became spoiled. To this day, if I crave pierogis I wait until my sister, or an aunt makes them. I am pierogi-dependent. I'm not sure that a printed recipe exists. The pierogi caretakers just know what to do. Now, my father, the diesel mechanic grease-stained hands cook of the family was famous for producing these biscuit/buns. He worked from sure experience and never consulted a recipe. He never measured ingredients either. He believed in a pinch of this, and a smidgen of that, or a dab here and there. He also mixed with his hands. I dubbed them Father B. Biscuits and they never failed to be scrumptious. Years later,I experimented and managed to create something akin to my father's baking. Imagine my surprise to stumble across a cookbook recipe later still and it claimed these mythical delectables were in fact baking powder biscuits. To me they will remain a fond food memory of my childhood.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.33 seconds at 6:49pm on Nov 27, 2025 via server WEBX1.