Lily of the Valley

It seems I am often misplacing or forgetting where I’ve put something, and I’m not sure whether to blame it on “senioritis” or creeping dementia.
I spend a lot of time looking for ordinary things I need like my glasses, my purse or my favorite pen, resulting in going from room to room looking for them.

Or, looking into the many pockets of the tote bag I use as my carry-all purse for  my cell phone, my wallet or address book; the list goes on and on. I’ve missed answering my cell phone because I couldn’t find it in time in the clutter of my bag to answer it before it stopped ringing, and then can’t remember my password to get the message left.

One day I had my debit card in hand while calling a new bank closer to  our house  and whose number I’d located in thye yellow  pages, to ask if theirs could be used interchangeably as my current one without incurring service fees.  While taking notes, I put my debit card down and  after finishing the call, went to pick up the card to return to my wallet.

To my horror, I couldn’t find it! I hadn’t even left my chair,  and my desktop was clean, but I couldn’t remember where the card had disappeared despite frantic efforts looking into the drawers and under other papers.

  Being too frugal(OK, stingy) to pay my bank for a replacement card, I decided to inactivate the account and open a new one at the bank I’d called.

About a year later when I was again using the yellow pages, out fell the “lost” debit card! I had used it as a marker when I’d made my inquiry call.  Luckily, I hadn’t thrown the directory out when a new one had arrived to replace it. or someone could’ve found the card and possibly  used it.

It’s worse when traveling. I’ve lost articles of clothin I forgot to repack leaving a hotel, or discovered I forgotten personal items. It’s not a problem replacing things ina town, but not off the beaten path or in a foreign country. I’ve “lost” my boarding passes during a long wait for a delayed plane, but luckily, the desk  agent quickly replaced them.

The  most recent incident occurred last month  visiting a friend in Florida.  

She invited me to an early morning exercise session at her activity center that required an ID. Wanting to be prompt, I got   my driver’s license out of my wallet the night before  and tucked it securely into the  velcro-flapped cargo pocket of my shorts.

The next morning when I was dressed, I reached into my pocket to ensure I had my ID.

Not there! Not in any of the other pockets either!

I searched the pockets of other pants hanging in the closet, unpacked my suitcase and even my laundry bag, and turned my handbag inside out to  no avail.

Then my husband and my friend helped me search the closet, his  suitcase, looked under the bed, but  no ID.

I hadn’t left the room during the night and didn’t think a thief had sneaked in just to steal my ID.

Meanwhile, I began imaging the dilemma of being without that precious card: how would I get aboard the plane to go home? Should we go to the police sation, but without a picture,  how could I prove I was whom I claimed to be?

Although worried but trying to appear calm, we decided to eat breakfast so we could think what should be done. Soon after  my husband sat down, he sneezed, so he dug into his pocket for a tissue and what should he pull out but my drivers’s license!  I’d put it into the cargo pocket of his shorts that was hanging next to mine in the closet.

Stories of bread making by real or fictional characters during pioneer times and even now in Amish colonies, made me want to make bread, too.
I’ve pored through cookbooks to figure out the magic required of raising bread dough but it seemed difficult and esoteric. How to produce those wonderul loaves pictured in cookbooks,and with little more than yeast, flour, sugar, salt, milk and butter? No one I knew made bread so I had no one to turn to until the opportunity to learn came when CARD held a breadmaking workshop one Saturday morning. The teacher was a baker for one of the college’s dining halls.
She brought dough for us to work on, but the best thing I learned was the “trick” of adding sugar to the yeast to ensure it’d be fed and would proof as it should.
Although at first I only had a portable hand mixer so the dough came up over the beaters and made a mess, I was determined to succeed and followed directions of kneading, a rising, forming loaves, another rising and baking them.
When baked, however, they were lopsided. It happened time and again. Why? Having no one to compare notes with, I never learned the mystery of that, but didn’t despair. The loaves tasted fine.
I finally found success after I bought a stand mixer with a dough hook. Mixing the dough was easier. The loaves turned out nearly like the cookbook photos and I gained confidence making different varieties: white, whole wheat, raisin, egg, whole wheat with sunflower seeds, multi-grain with walnuts, and even challah that my grandkids had fun braiding.
Now I eschew store bought breads, and even those of speacialty bakeries, because they are more expensive than I can make loaves from scratch.
It is somewhat disconcerting, however, when I say I make bread and listeners assume it is with a breadmaker, but look at me as if I’m foolish to spend hours doing it if I say “from scratch.”
But it is a joy when two loaves come out of the oven resembling pictures of professionals'(ahem!),and best of all, when sliced there are no large air pockets and the aroma of fresh bread fills the kitchen. Moreover, it costs little to make healthful and tasty breads one likes for just the cost of cups of flours of one’s choosing,milk, and scant amounts of yeast, salt, butter and sugar or honey.
Perhaps not everyone has time to bake bread as I do as a retiree, but even busy persons can still do it on a weekend even if they let a bread machine do the kneading first. It’s a relaxing activity, and you get a product that’s wonderful to eat!

(My first essay titled HANDS OUT ended abruptly for some odd reason; evidently the conclusion went into the black hole of cyberspace!  It bothers me that the ending  paragraph doesn’t make much sense so I’m resending what I originally wrote, if you care to read it. Thanks.)

I don’t mind tipping for good service  to a counterperson even if s/he  is paid minimum wage, if I make requests that isn’t ordinarily part of the employment, but when tip jars are there just because  a “bonus” is expected to perform the job of sandwich making, ice cream scooping or for fixing  a latte that they’re hired to do, it’s off-putting.

Despite  my Irish surname, I am actually of Japanese descent, and sushi is part of my heritage.

My immigrant mother made sushi for special occasions including holidays, parties and church and community potlucks.

She didn’t bake cookies nor cakes, but taught us how to make  several kinds of sushi, although not the kinds non-Japanese have come to enjoy at sushi bars.

All the gals in my circle of friends  know how to make the plainer sushi of our mother’s generation, and they undoubtedly learned from their mothers and those before them.

There are three kinds  in my “repertoire.”

The first kind  is the makizushi, or rolled sushi: seasoned rice with various ingredients wrapped in seaweed(nori)and rolled with a bamboo mat called the sudari.  After the short grain “sticky rice” is cooked, it’s slightly cooled and seasoned with a mixture of vinegar and sugar. 

Then put about a small rice bowlful atop a sheet of nori and   flatten . 

Firm, cooked  vegetables such as  thin slices of carrots, string beans and dried gourd strips or mushrooms cooked in a sweetened soy sauce , and  a strip of egg omelet, shrimp flakes and broiled eel or tuna are placed on the rice and tightly  rolled.

Another kind i enjoyable to eat is inarizushi also  called cone sushi. The wrapper is made of fried tofu called aburage.   Ingredients similar to the ones put in the makizushi are coarsely chopped and mixed into the seasoned rice, and stuffed into the pockets of aburage, and eaten like an ice cream cone. Or, a variation is ones shaped like miniature footballs.

Chiraishi,   also called mazemeshi, is the seasoned rice mixed with the same kinds of ingredients,  also chopped. but  merely scooped into bowls or made into rice balls.

So of the three kinds I am familiar with and can make, the makizushi is the most time consuming and elaborate, and reserved for special occasions while the inarizushi and chiraishi are easier  to do  and can be had as often as one cares to.

Although until about 25 years ago,  I observed  many non-Japanese didn’t even want to try a piece of sushi. I once took some makizushi to a church social and only  a couple of pieces were taken by another Japanese person, but   now it’s gotten very popular and it’s the “in” thing to claim knowledge of a favorite sushi bar. Sushi there are made by chefs specially trained to produce tidbits that have raw fish, sea anemone eggs and caviar, or make rolls  with rice on the outside called urazushi(inside out) filled with avocado,  cucumber, crab, or cream cheese and other ingredients previously unknown in Japan.  Moreoveer, the sushi chefs are often non-Japanese,  probably trained in six-week crash courses,  while it’s said the original sushi chefs went through a ten-year period of apprenticeship and training.

I was surprised  last year when we took our grandkids to a Japanese restaurant and they ordered “dragon” a roll of urazushi consisting of cream cheese and broiled eel, and cleverly shaped to resemble a dragon with  horns and a tail.

And I am still amazed to go to a Japanese eatery and see Caucasians order a roll of “maki” slahered with teriyaki sauce and accomanied by wasabi and pickled ginger, accompanied by beer or sake(rice wine).  An example was a recent vacation that included Charleston, SC, and passing a sidewalk cafe where some patrons were eating sushi with chopsticks; in the Deep South where grits are said to be the favored local dish!.

I think it’s wonderful more Americans are cosmopolitan in their approach and attitude toward foods formerly unfamiliar to them and have come to enjoy food as different as sushi.

Once on the “Small World” ride at Disneyland, something went haywire and we were stuck in our boat for about an hour.

Meanwhile, the song, “It’s a small, small world….” kept repeating until it even got stuck in my head for days afterwards.

Day and night it’d replay, interrupting other thoughts, but at least it was a cute song and dancing dolls in costumes of different nations kept it from being too distracting.

The song brings to mind the exclamation, :it’s a small world!” or “What a small world!” when persons whether acquainted or not discover they have experiencd something exactly similarat different places or times.

Or they learn they have a mutual acquaintance.

I believe nearly everyone has had that “Aha!” moment as I’ve had.

When I arrived in Los Angeles years ago and toook a temporary job at an office before I was hired as a teacher, a co-worker happened to have worked with my older sister in Japan.

A former sudent of my husand’s is a secretary at a Chico school, and he learned of her when she got acquainted with our son when their sons were in Little League baseball together.

And after I wrote the article about shave ice for North StateVoices last year, a woman called to invite me to sample shave ice she made and planned to sell after she got the necessary health and business permits to vend.

Well, she happened to be the  niece of a very good friend and classmate  in Hawaii with whom I regularlye-mail.

The last coincidence was becoming reacquainted with a person who long ago had come to our church’s youth fellowship group in Hawaii as a summer student missionary. He, along with his team, helped lead workshops about missions in Africa and taught us folk dancing.

Fast forward more than fifty years and he’s now a retired minister and I newly retired to Chico. We didn’t remember being acquainted, until my old church in Hawaii celebrated its 75th anniversary and published a commemorative booklet.

In the booklet a member I still am acquainted with wrote of the long ago summer missionary team as they’d been the only such group to visit our little rural church. Among the listed names was the retired minister’s, and when I asked him about it, he, too, remembered that experience and we bought enjoyed reminsicing, truly, “a small world” moment!

We traditionally tip, which means “To insure prompt service,” for those of us who’ve forgotten what that stands for, when we are given good service at restaurants and diners  by the servers.

In fact, we would be terribly unwelcome, or even chased after if we failed to leave a tip at some venues!

The tradition is so old on the premise servers are not paid minimum wage so meals would be affordable, therefore patrons should

subsidize them on the basis of their service.

We assume that the better the quality of the service given us, the higher the percentage we should reward it.

But nowadays isn’t it somewhat annoying that tip jars are seen nearly at all counters of venues where the principal job of the counter person is to do what he’s hired to do?

Such as making sandwiches, scooping ice cream or mixing lattes.

I am told by a barrista she’s paid more than the minimum wage but gladly shares in the offerings put into the ubiquitous tip jar prominently placed so customers feel obliged to put some bills into it. 

When I was a low paid beginning teacher, I remember my school district had a written policy, “Teachers must not accept gifts from students” probably fearing we could be accused of favoring those that did.

Other professionals and workers such as refuse colecors and postal carriers aren’t tipped, so why the hands out by an increasing number of counter servers?

In fact, I recall one such eatery posting a statement their name spelled backwards was “A Tip.”  Whether that is the case now I’m not sure as I haven’t gone there  for a long while.

We live in a world dominated by electronics.

Examples abound, among them doors opening and

closing automatically, which brings me to my subject of

recalling how, when I was a kid, ALI BABA AND THE FORTY THIEVES was such an exciting and imaginative tale that fascinated me.

It was my fantasy that I, too, could have a magic genie that obeyed my command to open and close a door as he did in the tale where

he discovered the treasure laden cave of the thieves.

They’d shout, OPEN SESAME, and magically the door opened.

CLOSE SESAME, and the door would close.

The tales were fhe ARABIAN NIGHTS where a clever wife doomed to die if she didn’t  hold the caliph’s interest told him a  thousand and one tales and thus saved her life.

Among other tales included flying carpets and the fabulous land of Persia with its jewel castles and dancing maidens.

But as a former school librarian, it saddens me kids are no longer amazed nor attracted to tales such as Ali Baba’s.

What is the magic of those when jet planes have taken the place of flying carpets and a mere flick of a button opens the garage doors of the garages of ordinary houses without saying, “Open Seasame” or “Close Sesame?”

Strawberries and cherries are  now in season

and I’ve enjoyed making jam this week.

We bought the strawberries, but the cherries

were from our son’s tree loaded with fast

ripening fruit.

As the summer progresse, more fresh fruits

will be available, and not able to eat them all

in a few days, I will preserve them to enjoy

during the coming year.

My mother liked to make guava jelly with wild

guavas growing abundantly near our farmhouse.

One year she made a hundred pints and

intended to sell some, but ended up giving

most away to friends and relatives.

We liked eating  the jelly with peanut butter.

While I liked Mother’s jelly, I never had time to

make any until I retired to Chico.

But without Mother’s guidance, I learned jam

and jelly  making by trial and error.

I read the directions on the box of pectin that’s

required to gel fruits that lack the natural

ones found in guavas and pineapples to learn

the correct method of cooking jams and jellies,

and that was indeed a learning experience to

remember..

Some of my first preserves were so

thick like jello they’d jiggle on the knife and

difficult to spread.

Others were too syrupy and only useful on

pancakes and waffles until we tired of it.

Although cooking preserves on my own came

after retirement, I recall in fourth grade I had

my first “hand-on” experience making marmalade

at school.

One day the teacher announced we were to

bring a paper bag of guavas to class and we’d

make marmalade together.

That sounded exciting and I picked my

share as soon as I got home after school.

The next day several of who remembered to

do the assignment set the pile of  the fruits near the big

stock pot Teacher had borrowed from the

cafeteria.

The fruits were washed the following day, the

stems cut off and each sliced and put  into the

pot. Then water water was added to cover

them.

Using a portable kerosene stove, the guavas

were boiled and allowed to cool until the

following day.

Then the cooled stew of guavas was put into

a cotton sack and hung so the juices could

drip out.

On the last day of the project, the juice was

put back into the pot, sugar and some slices of

orange added, and cooked until it turned into

a thick syrup. Voila, marmalade!

Kids who wanted some to take home brought

jars with lids, but against my mother’s and

sisters’ advice, I stubbornly insisted I’d take

a pretty juice glass instead.

So much for my wilfullness, because as you

have guessed,without a lid, the glass of hot marmalade

was difficult to handle and I nearly burned

my hands even tho I used a piece of newspaper

to wrap it in. Moreover, some spilled as I

transported it on the bus, then on the mile

walk home from the bus stop. The family

barely got a taste of the wonderful marmalade

I’d proudly helped make at school.

I now have enough experience to usually turn

out jam and jelly I can give away without

apologies, but the continual bugaboo is

one or two of each batch always hasn’t sealed

completely during the  processing time.

But I  am not discouraged. I enjoy preserving

for our own use and to share with friends and

neighbors, a useful and pleasurable way to spend

leisure I’d otherwise fritter away.

We  returned this week from visiting a friend who moved to a retirement city in Florida not far from Disneyworld.

It’s perhaps a well-kept secret because we only heard of it when she moved there and she learned of it from another friend whose sister is a snowbird who spends winters there.

In less than twenty years, the planned city has grown from a few thousand residents to over 100,000 and still growing.

Two types of residents live there: the “Frogs” so-called because they are “there till they croak” and Snow Birds who come to escape the harsh winters of their home states.

The city is comprised of many little “towns” and each has service centers, recreational facilities, a mail center and surrrounded by golf courses.

Three town squares, each appropriately named as are the towns, provide nightly entertainment.

We were informed about the general governance of the city, which sounded like a benign autocracy, but perhaps that’s what private developments elsewhere are also run.

Such as no walls between the houses, the backs of houses facing the main roads lack privacy unless trees, shrubs and hedges are planted, front yards must be free of doo-dads, garbbage cans aren’t allowed so trash must be in bags, and one must be  55 or older to  buy in, but relatives over l8 can reside there.

Younger persons can visit for a maximum of thirty days.

But folks happy uninvolved in politics “can live like millionaires on a pension,” the trolley guide said.

Each owner pays a $l5,000 bond separate from his mortgage to maintain the roads and other public infrastructures.

An amenities fee of $l45 pays for the recreational facilities including the golfing, though to play on the three championship courses other than the thirty other nine-hole and eighteen hole courses that are “free.”

Our friend said there were several styles of houses each with five different floor plans, but to the casual visitor as we, the houses were  not much different from other housing tracts.

Cooky cutter with similar sidings except for the more expensive “custom” homes of block tile sprayed with stucco.

Compared with the price of new houses in California, the houses there can be purchased for the unbelievably low of $150,000 to a high of about $500,000 with  pools in their lanais.

Even the lowest priced house of  2-3 bedrooms has 2 baths, a double car garage and a screened patio they call a lanai.

The warm and humid weather requires 24 hours of airconditioning during the summer, our friend said, but the cost is comparatively low from an electric co-op, unlike in Califronia where we are asked to ration for fear of brown-and-black outs.

At the town square we visited on our last night there, the DJ had music for line dancing and urged the audience to participate.

What an extraordinary sight to see hundreds of retires line dancing, some more vigorously than others!

I almost forgot to mention the gated city’s traffic is controlled by a series of roundabouts. You thought Chico had “too many,” well, there it’s at every intersection, along with the ubiquitous golf carts.

Yes, golf carts are the most popular mode of transportation even though one  might not be a golfer. They are seen like an army of ants going to the golf courses, shopping, to plays, recreational activities or just to visit friends. There are golf cat lanes like we have bike lanes.

With ‘nary a house with unmowed lawns or sofas on the porch, it is a picture perfect city of manicured lawns, seasonal flowers maintained by landscaping crews and  medical facilities, a hospital, shops, restauants and everything else one mgiht desidre to be self-contained, but inexplicably, there is no furneral home nor a cemetery.

It seemed to be Utopia for retirees, amd almost surreal, or
like Disneyland,” our friend mentioned, and though we observed folks there appeared to be happy with their new lifestyle of “something for everyone,” will the Good Life wear off when one is no longer physically or mentally fit?

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