The Tale of the Thanksgiving Eve Trivet

trivet:  noun  

1.  a small metal plate with short legs, especially one put under a hot platter or dish to protect a table.  2.  a three footed or three legged stand or support,  especially one of iron placed over a fire to support cooking vessels or the like.

This trivet, would be steel......since a magnet sticks to it.

How old is this trivet?  Who knows.  Mother had it for at least forever, meaning it is older, or as old, as yours truly.....60+ years.  There is a memory, from WAY back, asking as to the use of this object, aka, the steel trivet.  Mother explained it was, in laymen's terms, to transfer heat.  Meaning, if the pot that was used for cooking needed to cook for a rather long length of time, placing the trivet between the heat source and the pan would keep whatever delicacy was in the pan, from burning.  Perhaps, a good way of describing radiant heat. 

Mother has been gone over 14 years and of all the things she held dear to her heart, bird figurines, candle sticks (that had no mate), teapots (mostly brown ones) and other items,  the steel trivet has made the journey with me.  It has traveled a thousand miles away from what was home and back again.  It has been used on flame, electric coils and glass top electric stoves, all without incident.

The call of duty was mac&cheese.  Again, Mother's recipe.  It is the bestest of the best and always a crowd pleaser.  Since it seemed a good idea to double the recipe, for a large family gathering, the trivet, which always sits within inches of the stove, would be a useful tool.

This glass top cook stove has a burner that is rarely used.  The reason it is not used often would be that it has a TURBO setting.  Being married to a gear head, turbo should only be used for something that has 4 wheels and a small block under the hood.  

The chosen pan for this project was a medium sized stock pot.  This pot is not "Cooking TV" style.  Its metal is thin and has had many a dish chiseled out of the bottom of it.

Looking back, boiling the water in this pan, without the trivet, would have probably worked just fine.  As of yet, there's never been a story about burning water in a pan.  Yes, they can be boiled dry, but this was not the case.  The trivet was set on the burner, the pan, full of water, was set on the trivet, the knob that controls said burner, was set on nearly turbo.

It did seem to take a long time for the water to boil so.....the knob was cranked up to turbo.  It wasn't long before a rolling boil had been achieved.  In went two pounds of macaroni.  Of course, anytime something is put into boiling water, it takes a bit of time for the temperature to reach boiling again.  Once achieved, the temperature was cranked down to a nice mid simmer.  Macaroni can be a funny animal, cooked too much, it turns to mush....not enough and it may still retain a crunch.  This macaroni was to be perfecto.  

The timer had been set for 8 minutes, when it sounded the alarm, the pot was taken off the stove, the macaroni drained, the burner turned off.

The trivet was still on the burner.....but.......the burner was off.

Since the dish was not going to be baked until morning, time was taken to make sure all the ingredients were added to the same pot that had cooked the noodles.  It was, after all, a large pot and a double recipe.  If you are aware if my kitchen antics, using the same pot to mix up all the ingredients seemed like a no brainer.

As all the ingredients were being placed in the pot, a loud cracking noise was heard.  The TURBO burner had basically fractured the glass and sent shock waves through its side of the stove top, leaving it to look like some ancient map of dried up waterways.

It could have been a lesson in science, physics or welding 101, but there seems to be a part of the glass stove top that actually melted.

The trivet sits silent on the counter, next to the stove, waiting for its next assignment.

What Year Is It, Ladies?

 1970.  I'm nearly 15 years old.  The very first year of high school, for the graduating class of 1974, is about to begin.  As of this writing, it was 51 years ago.  A freaking lifetime.  

I want to take Ag, aka shop.  My friend, a female friend, she is with me on this idea.  We are denied.  Girls do not take Ag, aka shop.  51 years ago.....a freaking lifetime.

1970, again.  First year of high school.  Girls are not allowed to wear pants to school.  51 years ago.  That freaking lifetime ago.  True story, girls were not allowed to wear any sort of pants to school.  Let that sink in.  51 short years ago.  

FACT: for the fact checkers.  In 1970, the first year of high school for the graduating class of 1974 at Griggsville High School in Griggsville, Illinois.  This particular class had a fresh out of college English teacher.  Our class nearly drove her crazy.  I'm not sure any of us realized at the time, she was just a few years older than we were.  She survived and she showed the females of this class that we had power.  She led us onto a battlefield.  Not one with guns and cannons, but one with cotton and cloth.  She alone, helped us design and put into action a petition to the powers that be.  We, the female students of that graduating class of 1974, wanted to wear pants to school.  AND.  WE.  WON.   Oh yes, there were limits and rules to follow.  Things like absolutely no denim jeans, no shorts and whatever else the shell shocked administration could think of at the time.  Shortly after, surrounding school districts followed in our path.  So, young ladies of today, as you slide into your most favorite pair of jeans this coming school year, give your grandmothers a special nod, perhaps a word of thanks, for something you take for absolute granted.

1974.  We were not only wearing, rocking, I might add, bell bottom blue denim jeans, but shorts as well.  BUT........there were still no females allowed in Ag, aka shop class.  47 years ago.  Let that sink in.

The women's liberation movement lasted nearly 20 years.  It's purpose was to put women on the same level with men.  Not only in the work force, but in the brain department.  I never doubted the idea, over 40 years ago and when I hear women today saying they are still not equal, it makes me want to PUKE.  Again, I never doubted the idea and went into an occupation completely dominated by men.   I wanted to build stuff, I wanted to be a carpenter.   My wonderful father, who told me, "Girls do not drive pickup trucks.", relented and went with me to purchase my first one.  This was 43 years ago.  The timeline is getting shorter.

The movement of women's liberation should have never meant to put the two sexes at war against each other.  It should have meant a level playing field and for women, a choice.  A choice to be a mother, a homemaker and still have a tool box, with the knowledge of how to use all the tools within.   I applaud all women who have entered the workforce in what ever occupation they BELIEVED they could do.   For the women who chose to enter a predominately male line of work, kudos to you.  You know first hand how hard it can be.  To work along side the male species, in the same capacity, trying to match strength, can be daunting.  There was no shame in asking for help because we know that male bodies differ from ours and that is ok.  We are different, have been for millennia and most likely will continue to be.

2021.  Fast forward.  We are supposed to be living in an "accepting" society, anything goes.  There is no more reason to think for one's self because if one disagrees with the main stream narrative, they are labeled and singled out.  So much for the accepting society.  

I'm not sure what has happened to the women's movement of yesteryear.  Today, on several social media platforms, there are channels dedicated to showing videos of women making absolute idiots of themselves.  This has earned them the name of "Karens". They have totally lost control, scream, curse, get into fights and accept no responsibility for their actions.  Yes, mental illness is partially to blame, but not for all of them.  They feel entitled to act, however they see fit, with no repercussions.  I admit, I have watched many of these videos.  I'm not quite sure why, other than thinking maybe I will finally see one where the woman, someone's mother, sister, daughter, friend, has a moment of clarity and begins to wonder what on earth she is doing.  These videos, in my opinion, set the movement of being on a level playing field back decades, if not eons. All for one simple explanation......men keep their emotions in check far better than women.  Obviously, teaching this to the last few decades of females has fallen short. 

Now, men who want to be identified as women are taking the spotlight.  Although I have always had an opinion, something on the back burner of my grey matter, about beauty contests for women, they are still a thing.  I would reckon that it might have something to do with the difference between the female and male physique.  But now, it is permissible, in many areas, for men, who identify as woman, to compete against biological women in above mentioned contests......and win.  It is possible for men, who identify as women, to participate in women's athletic contests.  It is even possible for men, who identify as women, to dang near be named woman of the year.......even though, as biological men, they still have all their man package.  Some have had surgeries and implants but the package of man contains something the female body has, but not near the quantity and that is testosterone.  If ever there were a magic potion, testosterone would be it.  But, if the biological women were to use testosterone, to even their playing field against the man who identifies as a woman, they would be banned from their sport, or whatever they were competing in.

2021.  Where everything is supposed to be acceptable, except facts.  Ladies, are you going to continue to back peddle yourselves to a point where your voice falls on deaf ears?  I sincerely hope not. 

The Philanthropy-ing Philodendron

 Her eyes opened.  It was dark.  Darker than dark.  She knew better than to look at the clock, she already knew.  She stared into the darkness, waiting for her eyes to acclimate to any tiny slice of light that might be hiding in the darkness.  There was none.  Just blackness.  The thoughts that had greeted her, upon awakening, were strange.  Why, after all these years?  She tried to grasp any trailing gossamer thread, of an old web, of sleep, that might have been filtering through the air.  None was to be found.  She rolled over to look at the clock. The clock hands glowed in the dark.  3:00 a.m.  That reality was not a shock.

Why now?  It had been years.  Decades.  But, the visual was just as vivid.  

The first time it happened, she was the perfect victim.  Wondering what in the hell she had done to deserve it.  He hit her.  It wasn't bad, just a couple of scuffs and shoves.  That was her rationale.

The second time, she should have known  better.  Again, if she had only not said anything, all would have been fine.  He grabbed her by her hair.  He pulled her from the couch and began to swing her around the room.  By her hair.  All she had on was a tee shirt and panties.  When he tired of this, he gave her a flip and somehow, she landed on the grate.  The grate belonged to the floor furnace, the only thing that heated the small house.  It was hot.  Hot enough to leave seared, charred, marks on the backs of her thighs.  Her backside  looked like the neighbor's charcoal grill.  She should have kept her mouth shut.

The third time was the worst.  She thought maybe, just maybe, she might die.  He sat on her chest, her arms pinned under his legs.  He had lured her into this position.  She did not see it coming.  Suddenly, he began to hit her.  He slapped her, as hard as he could, with both hands.  The blows landed at her temples.  Her face wore a halo of bruises, from ear to ear, across her forehead. They lasted for several days.  Had he used his fists......she decided not to think about that. 

The last time.  It always seemed to start because she had said something that made him mad.  That part was  probably true.  It usually started with her asking, "Where the hell have you been?".  He stormed across the kitchen, furious.  His arms were already flailing.  She threw her arms over her head, for protection.  He began to hit her.  Again.  She tried to back up, but then she spotted something on the floor.  Slightly under the kitchen table.  It was a six inch piece of a philodendron.  A plant that she had cared for, watered, had a special attachment to.  There it was.  Injured.  Broken.  Wasted.  

She rose up from her cowered position.  She hit him as hard as she could, with an open palm.  The blow sent him under the kitchen table, with the broken vine.  Looking back, she always wished she had doubled up her fist.  Knowing that the battle was not over, she ran to the front room.  The same room that held the char-broil floor grill.  She hit the couch like a freight train and got into position.  Back against the couch.  Legs and arms in fight mode.  He ran at her.

She kicked him, as hard as she could.  He still kept coming.  She kicked again.  Suddenly, he had his arms wrapped around her head.  She thought they were moving towards her throat.  They were.  As his arms passed by the front of her face, she knew there was only one thing left to do.  She bit him.  She bit him so hard that she felt as if it would end with a chunk of human flesh in her mouth.  Then, a miracle happened.  He gave up.  His excuse.  He was just trying to calm her down.  Sure. Right.  From that point forward, he never laid a hand on her again.

Did she leave.  No.  She thought her love could save him from the path he was going down.  But, she came to understand that it didn't matter.  It didn't matter what she did.  She would never be what he wanted.  In order to be what he wanted, she would have to change.  She would have to be someone she was not.  That understanding, as heartbreaking as it was, was the beginning to finding herself.  

She learned that she had put more importance into a six inch piece of plant, than she had ever put into herself.  It was not easy.  It did not happen overnight.  But, it was the starting point to a new beginning.

She can still see that strand of philodendron, laying on the floor.  Its heartfelt message, most likely,  saved her life.  

 

Dough Boy

 Reaching for the phone, it is always a delight to see a name on the screen that signals one of the five grandchildren is on the other end.

"G, what are you doing?" asked the youngest of three grandsons.

Regardless of whether my day was filled with a to-do list or if I was already knee deep in the latest project, the answer is always, "Nothing."  At this point, on the time line of my life, being needed by a grandchild is a rare delicacy, not to be taken for granted.  The 'nothing' was followed with "What's up?"

"I want to bake bread."  This was spoken so matter-of-factly, as if he had been baking bread for some time.  "Not just any bread", he added, "Texas Roadhouse Rolls bread."  

He arrived a short time later.  In his hands was a basket full of ingredients and a quickly scrawled recipe.  The latter, I assumed, had been found somewhere in the cyberspace of the internet.  As he unloaded the basket, he explained that his other set of grandparents were having a family dinner and everyone was bringing some sort of food.  He decided on bread.....rolls to be exact.

Anyone who has more than one grandchild understands that it is not only possible, but most likely a requirement, to view each one as a special and unique individual.  This idea also holds true for the inner wisdom of feeling different towards each one.  After all, they each have characteristics that set them apart.  Having raised only daughters, finding out the specific, eye opening, head shaking qualities of boys is a never ending learning experience.

This particular lad, soon to be 14, is the "McGyver" of the family.  His brain works in ways that, at times, leaves us speechless.  When he was two, he showed the babysitter how to open a locked door with a credit card, after seeing it done once before.  As I looked over his basket of goodies, I chuckled at one of the ingredients listed in the recipe.....flower. "I know, I know!"  He laughingly explained that his younger sister had already pointed out his faux pas.

Holding up a container of Bragg's Nutritional Yeast Seasoning, a flaky concoction of inactive dry yeast and vitamins, he explained that was what his mother had sent.  Obviously, bread making was not a recurring theme in our house, while the daughters were growing up.  Having several packets of active dry yeast in the cabinet, all was not lost.  

There were no instructions as to how to put the mixture together, but he was sure it all went into the mixer at the same time.  He finally accepted the idea that warming the milk, then adding the yeast and honey to the milk, might be a good thing. Putting all the flour into the mixer bowl and turning the dial, to blend the dry ingredients, resulted in a plume of dust that nearly resembled a mushroom cloud.  Then, it was time to add the liquid.  

We watched as the dough hook went round and round, but nothing was sticking together.  The suggestion of more milk was met with some resistance.  But, it was obvious, no matter how long we let the mixer spin, nothing was going to happen.  The additional milk was the ticket.  Finally, the dough began to stick together until the entire blob was sailing around inside the bowl.  He dumped it out on a floured spot on the island, gave it a couple of kneads, formed his dough into a somewhat round shape and placed it into a previously oiled bowl.  We covered it with oiled plastic wrap and placed it in the oven, with a pan of hot water set beneath the bowl, to help the dough rise.  

The dough needed to rise until doubled.  Living next door, he told me he would see me in about and hour.  With that statement, I watched as he exited stage left.  

In his absence, I looked for the recipe online.  The milk was short 1/4 cup.  The liquid part of the recipe was to be put together first, then the flour added........slowly.  

Glancing at the oven, the dough looked pretty much as it had when first put into the bowl.  Nearly half of the allowed rising time had passed.  I recalled having fixed a failed bread dough.  As I walked to the cabinet, to retrieve another packet of active yeast, the Voice, that lives inside my head spoke.  

I had not heard the Voice for quite some time.  Not exactly sure why, perhaps because I was too busy trying to convince myself on how I had been wronged.  The Voice asked me a question.  "Do you not remember what you learned about fixing things?"  I shut the cabinet door, looked at the dough one more time and remembered.  It was from a book, A Course in Miracles.  The subject of fixing things was the topic.  Being an almighty fixer of all things, be it a broken thingamabob, a relationship or a ball of dough, I was always looking for a way to make things right.  The latter sentence is a glamorous way of explaining a control freak.  The lesson was a simple one, but not easy to swallow.  It was not for me to fix things.  My job was to accept them as they were.  I pondered over this revelation again.  Maybe, just maybe, acceptance was the answer.  Was acceptance the apex?  The top of the mountain?  The end to the hardest climb ever? With acceptance, did a solution form that could not be seen before?  I left the dough alone.  The Voice sauntered off to the back recesses of my grey matter.  All the while, playing Her Strut, by Bob Seger.

With the return of the grandson, I watched in silent delight as 'punch the dough down' turned into a visual of a UFC battle.  Rolling the dough was just as entertaining.  He barely skimmed the surface, sending the rolling pin flying into the air on each pass.  He folded the dough, cut it into individual rolls, placed them on the baking sheet and tossed them in the oven.  It was at this time I learned that he had watched a Tik Tok video on how to make the rolls.  The internet and Google are becoming so old school.

The end result was a beautiful set of rolls.  One in particular, cut larger than the others, quickly disappeared for taste test purposes.  The family thought they were the best rolls ever.   

I shall just wait until the next time my assistance is called for.  May it hold as valuable a lesson as did the Dough Boy.

Post Midnight Musings

 1:00 a.m.    Frank Da Fish swims slowly through the brain fog.  He stops briefly, gives a nod and swims off into eternity.  Frank was an inherited pet, from the youngest granddaughter.  His original name was Blue Devil.  The 'was' leads to the past tense.  Frank had lived longer than any of his fish friends, who had been chosen as gifts for a daughter/father dance.  Much longer.  2 years longer.  He began to act odd a few weeks ago.  Laying on the bottom of the tank and then receding into the darkness of a Sponge Bob Square Pants' Squidward castle.  Gotta love Sponge Bob.  An idea came through one day that perhaps the water should be changed in the aquarium.  It was (that word again) a small 5 gallon tank and had a small filtration system.  Changing the water, washing all the decorations and gravel worked a miracle.  Within a couple of days, Frank was found outside of the castle, waiting for breakfast and kept a close watch to make sure the food hit the surface of the water.  Another thought crossed during this cleansing procedure, maybe Frank needed some friends.

Frank was a Beta.  Beta's, for the most part, do not like other fish.  Not even themselves, which was always evident when a mirror was placed next to the glass.  A little research revealed that Neon Tetras, small iridescent fish and catfish were usually species that could reside successfully with a Beta.  A trip to the nearest pet store resulted in the purchase of 6 Neon Tetras, two spotted catfish, food for both and chemicals for the water.  Frank Da Fish was indeed pleased with his new friends.  

The next morning, all 6 Neon Tetras had vanished.  Not one sign of them was to be found in the tank.  One spotted catfish did look suspiciously fatter than the previous day.  But, it ate all 6 in one night?  Something did not seem up to snuff.  On the second day, one of the catfish was struggling.  Too much fresh fish?  

Later in the day, Frank was seen trying to not swim on his side.  Reality set in.  The afore mentioned chemicals.  Frank was quickly snatched from the tank and put in a glass of fresh spring water.  After an hour or so, the glass was drained, Frank was rinsed off and put into fresh water again.  By morning, the end result was obvious.  Frank Da Fish had passed into his fishy eternity.  Whether it was the chemicals, the water from the aquariums at the pet store or a combination of both, a valuable lesson was learned.  Be happy with what one has......Betas do not need friends.  He already had one.

2:00 a.m.:  Was it the right decision?  Still not sure.  Walking away from the printed version of my blog, tRuth As I See It, may have left many of its readers out in the dark because, as hard as it is to believe, not everyone has internet access.  The Post-It note on the refrigerator reads, "If you feel avoided by someone, never disturb them again."  Would have been nice if that phrase had been introduced years ago.  Could have saved the heart from a lot of hurt.  Maybe it was the right decision after all.  One thing is certain, there  will be no monetary loss.  

3:00 a.m.:  Such strange times we live in.  Who would have thought that having an idea, different from another persons' , would lead to censorship?  Not only censorship of thoughts and ideas, but censorship to the point of ruining businesses and burning down cities.  Strange times, indeed.   

4:00 a.m.: Punctuation.  Those pesky little dots and symbols.  There is a need for them.  Without, the message can be construed, into a senseless garbled mess, where the meaning is completely lost.  A song is passing though the grey matter.  The one played at church.  Usually the exit song.  The first couple of notes, banged out on the piano, gave the signal that it was nearly time to depart for home.  Praise God whom through all blessings flow praise him all creatures here below praise him above ye heavenly host praise father son and holy ghost.

Praise God!  Whom through all blessing flow!

Praise Him!  All creatures, here, below.

Praise Him above!  Ye heavenly host!  

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost!

Yep, punctuation is important.

From The Other Side of the Fence

 The other side of the fence is where I decided to get my "news".  The reason for this was a simple one.  I already had a repertoire of talk shows and programs that I would listen to while I worked.  What I heard from them was completely opposite of  what I was hearing from the main stream media darlings. The difference was so stark, that I began to search deeper, for myself, to see what could be found and what was really true.

The first source I came across was an individual talking about Q.  Most of the time, Q is referred to as Qanon, but in reality, whoever Q is, they are simply known as Q.  As I looked into what this was about, I was to find that Q was putting out messages on an obscure website.  A website where conversations about ANY topic can be found.  I then found that there were many people, citizen journalists, citizen reporters, who were covering the cryptic messages from Q.  The number of people who were devoting their time and energy, for little, if any, pay, deciphering the messages was not near as impressive as the number of people who were listening.  Those people numbered in the thousands.  The more I listened, the more I was able to watch those numbers grow to the millions and they heralded from all over the globe.  

The message from Q was simple.  There is a shadow government, a deep state, that has been functioning in the background for many decades.  It has been run by the elite of the world, a basic handful of the uber rich.  This groups' objective is to rule the world, bringing about a new world order.  This benefits the ultra wealthy, but not so much for the common people.  Another goal for them is population control.  Q's end message is one of giving the power back to the people.  There is also a call to action, WWG1WGA.  Where We Go 1, We Go All.

I have been told that Q is a cult, 100%.  Many, many people have never heard of it, or if they have, it has been from main stream media and their message is not only cultic, but have labeled it a terrorist group.  I do not believe either to be true.  I do suggest listening to the words of JFK, shortly before he was assassinated.  If anyone actually takes the time to do that, afterwards, spend some quiet time contemplating what kind of world we could be living in if his dreams had not been cut short.   

Please consider this as well, we are not the laughing stock of the world.  People, world wide, are watching this great country.  Why? Because they know, if the USA falls, their hopes and dreams die with it.  This country is a beacon to the rest of the world.

In a nutshell, this is what I see from the other side of the fence.  There was massive fraud in the November 2020 election.  There are over 5000 sworn affidavits, from everyday people, who witnessed this and were brave enough to come forward and tell the truth.  There were state governments who changed their voting rules and laws, without any input from their constituents. 

We the people have been told stories of Russian interference, impeachment and Ukraine meddling for years.  But, when the truth came out, there was little, if any coverage.  They just hopped on the next thing that could be spun into a really bad web of deception.   

I could spend all day sharing what I have found on my own, sharing what I believe will happen in the next couple of days, but most people do not like to have the ceiling ripped off of their belief system.  Right now, there are millions of people heading to Washington D.C.  Their call to action is, Stop The Steal.  They are going to show support, not only for our President, but for this country and the Constitution that it was built upon.  It is my hope that the people are successful and our country is restored to what it was meant to be for all people, not what a few wealthy think it should be, to benefit only themselves.  

The clock is ticking.  It's gonna be biblical.  Hang on tight.