Late Friday afternoon. Points North of the city. Got out of car to drop something off and there it was. A front loader, sitting there, curbside.
The recipe from my Clarion PA neighbor, Nell Miller, was called Poor Man Meatballs.
No meat was involved.
Take 3 zucchini and grate or use food processor. Tip bowl to let moisture run off and discard. Get zucchini as dry as you can.
Add an egg
and about 3/4 c Italian Bread crumbs. Add a minced garlic clove or two
Salt and pepper let sit a few minutes. Form in patties.
Sauté in olive oil ‘til brown on both sides. Cast iron skillet works wonderfully. Freshly grated Parmesan is always welcome
On my mother’s side.
My Great Grandmother Mary S. Smith Rowley
My Great Great Grandmother Charlotte Ann Clark Smith
My Great Aunt May Baker Rowley Potter b.1883-d.1972
her son Melburn Clark Potter
My Great Great Grandmother Charlotte Ann Clark Smith
Born in Ohio 31 May 1834 Died Durand Illinois 22 January 1916 Aged 81
Buried in Durand Winnebago County Illinois Laona Cemetery
My Great Grandmother
My grandson Michael (14) is the guest blogger today. Michael took some photos of Henry and Josie, their Airedale Terriers, over Memorial Day weekend.
The family visited the other grandparents in Virginia and celebrated Mark’s birthday.
Thanks for sharing your photos, Michael.
You captured the humorous duo! Keep on photographing, too.
xxoo FF Ruthie
Born May 26, 1976
Happy Birthday Mark ❤️ love, Mom
When cleaning out a desk last week, I was reunited with this piece of smooth polished wood. The maker emphasized it was for meditation, NOT a worry stone.
Spalted Maple. What is it? Wood that has started to decay. “Botanical Designation: Not a distinct species of maple; spalting is a fungal discoloration caused by partially decayed wood.”
I bought it from The Wood Rasp Shop vendor at the Pittsburgh Indie Knit and Spin at the Ace Hotel.
In fact, I posted a photo of the maker and his other wood items for sale in November 2018-the post titled Not a Worry Stone .
(I did google worry stones and they can be purchased in bulk)
The gold letters on the yellow ribbon spelled “Cousin”.
Left as a remembrance.
The sign that someone came and put the ribbons there as a tribute touched our hearts even though we didn’t know the person.
Steve and I saw the ribbon on a tree when we were walking in the park. Then we noticed the bench with the memorial plaque right by the tree. We’d not seen it before.
The obituary told how he passed, peacefully under an oak tree in Highland Park, after doing what he loved – hiking. He had a congenital heart condition. So young.
I came home and googled the name and if you click it you can read about his life. Christopher Emmons
The ribbon on the tree, the memorial bench and the message on the plaque, so poignant. Can’t even fathom how much his family misses him.
Storms a coming.
by Jane Miller
My husband and I live with his mother in an old farmhouse with parts dating back to 1842. Except for the window lined porch that faces west, the house is structurally the way it was 100 years ago when the third generation of the Hunter family lived here. Their ancestors were a Scottish Presbyterian family who cleared this portion of Depreciation Lands.
Often my thoughts go to life as it may have been stretched out over a nearly 200 year history when the family sustained themselves with their labors in the fields and there were horses in the barn. Now the horses are gone. The farm is in transition. Our work of the day includes for me, the care giving for my mother-in-law, Lois—almost 90—and the patients my husband “sees” on a computer in his office that was at one time our dining room and in generations past, a kitchen. The beauty of the evolving nature is one constant. We especially enjoy our summer evenings.
On one of the first warm nights this year we sat together on the back deck after mom was in bed, I grieved the loss of the horses and a pasture plowed under by Farmer Beahm, who will soon plant field corn. The sun was heading for its sweet spot between the tree-lined hills as clouds gathered bits of gray.
I remembered an evening nearly 35 years ago on May 31, 1985, the evening a 25-mile long twister took out the trees of that hill and my mother and father-in-law, along with our three-year-old son, hit the basement. I think they wanted a room with windows to better see a storm a coming in addition to daily witnessing the beauty of nature.
On this May evening—one of the first ones a coat and blanket not needed—another storm was brewing. It was May 12, just before the world began opening up to our “new normal” and all of the unknowns this will bring. Then in the skies, a real storm collected clouds and we were fascinated as we watched where the sun would soon disappear in the West. Rick had a Scotch in his hand. I had my camera.
The beauty of the moment mesmerized us and we didn’t heed the warnings of the winds. Our eyes were on the skies, when rain pelted us. For the moment we laughed through the winds, making sure my camera was safe and Rick anchored down the furniture we had to evacuate.
I thought of the storms of the past and the ones that are brewing and a word came to my mind about life on the farm. Resilience. Crops fail. You replant. Animals that sustain you will die. It’s not a moment to moment feeling. It’s a joy that doesn’t depend upon what is happening to you. It’s about being grateful for every moment in every time.
Life goes on and it’s always day by day. Farmers look for their rewards at the end of the day.