Buttering Up

Betty Botter bought some butter 
And she put it in her batter ---
But she found the batter bitter
So she bought some better butter
(Better than the bitter butter!)
And she put it in her batter
And the batter wasn't bitter.
So t'was better Betty Botter bought some better butter.

I made butter today. Kinda just for the heck of it. The ultimate goal was to obtain two tablespoons of buttermilk, because I have a recipe for home-made soft cheese I want to make for New Year's.

In true 90-second-Deb fashion, I quickly scanned the recipes, mostly to work out whether to use the regular beater on the KitchenAid mixer, or the whisk. It's the whisk.

I poured a liter of whipping cream into the bowl and slowly ramped the speed up to 10.

That's when I realized I should have done what the recipe said and used a towel to catch the splashes. Undaunted, I obtained said towel and watched the mixer do its thing.

And watched.

And watched.

Damn. I needed to read that recipe again to see how long this takes! Turns out, it takes ten full minutes of the KitchenAid on speed 10.

So I returned to my task and the mixer returned to its. Now, years ago, when I first got my own KitchenAid mixer, I nearly set it on fire the first day because I used it to knead bread - too large a recipe for too long. This is why I was concerned and re-read the recipe, because Hubby's mixer was getting just a teensy bit warm.

I needn't have worried - in just a few moments more the transition began, buttermilk pouring out of solution and pure butter (looking like scrambled eggs) floating on it. After that I poured of the precious buttermilk into a container - I got over a cup! - and then rinsed the butter and squeezed the rest of the buttermilk down the  drain as best I could.

Admiral, there be butter here! And buttermilk!

In a few quick minutes the cheese concoction was set to warming, the butter stored in the fridge, and tidying done.

Now that I'm sitting thinking about this, I can't begin to imagine what it must have been like in OLDEN times, making butter by hand! Oh sure, they had churners made in various sizes, which worked, I assume, to varying degrees of success! But OMG!!! The hours it must have taken! Unless they literally did tiny amounts every day! C'mon - ten minutes at maximum on a huge mixer = at least five hours backbreaking work!

Once again, I am happy to be a child of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, despite my penchant for learning to make butter, chop wood, spin yard, knit, and quilt! Oh, and home-can a lot of food!

The Coffeepot, the Teapot, the Life

 

This is an item few people under fifty years old will recognize. It is a coffee server. Similar to a teapot, it is used to hold and pour coffee when using one’s fine china, in this case, the Royal Doulton Paisley pattern.

One can make tea in the teapot, but to use this coffeepot, one must first make the coffee elsewhere, then pour it into the coffee server, and from thence to the table for pouring.

To those with a thoroughly modern sensibility, this is ridiculous. To fans of Downton Abbey and other British period dramas, less so.

I marvel at that old lifestyle, where kitchen staff had to carry heaping trays upstairs from the kitchens to the dining room. Keeping the food hot, serving it at just the correct time, up and down those stairs at least twenty times per footman… In order to get everything on time, hot, on plates for all the guests - and there were always guests! - it was like a finely choreographed dance. A well-practised, sumptuous ballet.

The closest we come to such fine skill today is getting the turkey dinner on the table. From a kitchen no more than four feet away, I struggle to get the turkey on the platter, with a serving fork; the gravy in the heated gravy boat; the cranberry on the table in its pretty dish with a spoon; vegetables in serving dishes with spoons; stuffing in a dish with a spoon; chilled wine in wine glasses; chilled water in water glasses; napkins folded artistically; a lovely tablecloth under all; my Royal Doulton Paisley proudly laid beautifully for the enjoyment of all.

The men in my life are blissfully oblivious to how complex the timing of all this is! My female friends nod their heads in appreciation. Getting all this ready at the same time is, if not a ballet, then a miracle!

It is a labour, to be sure. But goodness, the table is beautiful.

That image, of course, is not of a turkey dinner, but you get the idea…

I got married the first time many, many moons ago. So many moons, that I was expected to start a gift registry, not on Amazon (which didn’t exist then) but at The Bay, specifically in the China, Crystal, and Flatware department. Otherwise known as the Bridal department. Because in that ancient time, brides-to-be were EXPECTED to choose a china pattern, a crystal pattern, and a flatware pattern. I, in fact, had to practically beat my future mother-in-law off with a stick to prevent her insisting I select a SILVERWARE pattern as well! Yes, there were several familial discussions about that point!

And this wasn’t happening in Edwardian Britain, but here in Canada, in the latter half of the twentieth century!

The only part of that trousseau I have left is the Flatware: Oneida Frostfire, and thereby hangs a tale for another day.

In the long years after my divorce I struggled to make ends meet. But my beautiful Mother had begun, late in her life, to collect Royal Doulton Paisley for herself, and it is this pattern that I inherited and cherish.

There is a sad part to this story, concerning the teapot.

One year I had been bemoaning to my mother that I had no idea what to get her for Christmas, and she replied that I could always help her out with her china collection. She suggested the teapot in the course of that phone call. She called me back twenty minutes later vehemently exclaiming that I was NOT to buy it for her, as she had just looked up the price and nearly lost her dentures.

She went on about what a ridiculous price it was, how any other teapot would do just as well, and I ended up getting her an ordinary teapot with similar colors to her china, and she claimed she was satisfied with that.

But with 20/20 hindsight, I regret not just putting this lavish item on a credit card and gifting it to her. Her life was cut short by a terrible stroke. I wish she had had the pleasure of pouring tea for her guests from her teapot that matched her lovely china. Especially since, the moment I inherited her china, I set about filling in all the gaps of the service she had left me, and bought the teapot anyway. And all of that was still on the credit card.

My mom loved to entertain, and she set a beautiful table. She also had great decorating sense, which I didn’t inherit, and that brings me to the point of this ramble.

I want the kind of life that coffeepot / server implies.

I want a clean, orderly, well-appointed home where guests can expect to be comfortable and treated like visiting royalty. Where I can set my table with pride, and experience palpable relief from the rush and bother of everyday life when I look at the china, crystal, and flatware all set out beautifully. Where the food is delicious and served hot at the right time.

And where I can pour the coffee for my guests from the coffee server, and everything be, for one precious moment, elegant.

Bloggable Moments

 Apparently I’m on my LAST NERVE.

I didn’t realize it till the events I’m about to describe were all over, but pressures had been building…

So this morning I had to go to my own vet to pick up extra stuff for my injured cat, whom I had taken to the emergency vet yesterday. I was looking for some special cortisone cream to take to my vet to show her and ask if I could use it on my injured kitty’s neck. (The answer turned out to be no, but that’s not actually today’s topic!)

I looked for the cream last night and had put it in my purse.

It wasn’t there this morning.

After running all over the place cursing myself for not putting things where they belong, I resorted to the DUMP, throwing everything from the purse on my bed, and yes, the cream was there.

I carefully repacked the purse and headed off for my two errands.

    1. Go to vet, discuss cream, pick up antiseptic wash

    2. Go to post office with a small gift to mail to my niece.

I got to the vet, showed pictures, got a new collar, picked up the antiseptic wash, and couldn’t find the cream in my purse.

I went out to the car, dumped the purse again, found the cream again, carefully replaced everything, went back in to the vet, and concluded my business.

Next, off to the Post Office. Put on my mask, squirted my hands, picked up a bubble mailer, dug around in my purse for the gift and card, which were not there.

Went back out to the car and dumped the purse AGAIN, only this time, I “lost it.”

An observer would have seen an old lady yelling at something in the front seat of the car. Swearing, in fact, at every item she was pulling from the purse. Swearing as she found what she was looking for and glancing furtively around to make sure there were, in fact, no observers.

I went back into the post office and managed to send the small gift, came back to the car and held it together till I got home.

I told hubby the story of my MaryFuckingPoppins purse.

I asked hubby if he’d just put his arms around my shoulders, and he said

“Why - is the straight jacket not tight enough?”

Male Designers for Female Needs

 Grumble grumble grumble…

So, as an old woman, I have a common condition. Not into diapers just yet, but needing pee protection. Sneezing, coughing, laughing, and sometimes just getting up or sitting down, stuff leaks out a little bit. A little bit more first thing in the morning, especially if I have to wait for one of my housemates to finish reading everything on Facebook before their bums falls asleep and they realize they’ve been in the gd-bathroom for an hour…

So, because of the morning “gush,” as it were, I have to wear what is termed “extra protection” type of pads.

These extra protection pads are huge, but my complaint is that they are LONG - almost fifteen inches in length!

Now, I don’t know about your anatomy, but fifteen inches is a rather extreme length on me! So long, in fact, that the front part frequently comes away from the panty it’s supposed to grip with its firm adhesive and sticks itself to the underside of my belly.

And let me tell you, that adhesive is FIRM against the underside of the belly! I wish it were as firm gripping the panty.

Recently I found myself waxing philosophical as I sat on the edge of the bed, about to stick my protection to the panty. I marvelled at the length, and it occurred to me that yes, a MAN would probably think that longer is better. I confirmed my suspicions by showing it to Hubby, who said that “obviously,” longer offered more protection!.

Just as I thought. See, longer does NOT offer more protection, as frequently bits have leaked out the sides of the pad. The extreme front of the pad is dry, as is the back, but the sides regularly cannot absorb the volume of liquid. Of course, were one to pee S L O W L Y into the pad, I’m sure it could handle it. However, if I could pee slowly, I wouldn’t need the damned pad!

All of which leads me to the question I would like to put to the designers:

Have you ever actually MET a woman?

Ablutophobia

 It’s a real word! It means fear of washing or bathing. And for several years I thought I was a candidate!

Not actually afraid so much as did not enjoy getting wet. Like a cat, for instance. But while I was working I knew I had to wash, if only, as Hubby says, as a Public Service.

But I’ve been retired now for a couple of years. Also, unrelated to being retired, I am at my largest girth of my life, which has resulted in what my Grandpa used to call “Dunlop’s Disease.” His belly done lopped over his belt! Hahahahahah!

The point being, I need to wash under my flap or it gets sore and inflamed...and yes, I learned that the hard way.

Also the humongous knockers, or as my pal P calls them, “the twins.”

This creates quite the difficulty for someone who is ablutophobic! Were I nice and skinny, as I was in my youth, I could get away with a shower every second day. But when one adds the age problem - you smell worse when you’re old - with the weight problem, every second day ain’t gonna cut it!

Today I discovered a “unique” solution to my bathing aversion.

Unique up on it!

I fooled myself. I went into the bathroom for a pee, and while I was there I quickly grabbed the bath mat, ran the hot water, tore my nightie off, and grabbed the hair dryer. I was in the shower before I knew it!

In, washed, out, and dried in under ten minutes.

As long as I don’t get into the conversation with myself about “Idon’twannahaveashower,everything hurts,I’drathergobacktobed,” and I leap into the shower without warning, I’m good.

You’re welcome. 

Same Sean, Different Day

 Background:

I got married at 21 and received a great cookbook as a wedding gift, which I have used profusely for the past 42 years. It contains several recipies for homemade bread. It took me a few years to really get the hang of it, but I pride myself on having become something of, if not a master, at least a qualified bread maker. I’ve done it in a bread-making machine, by hand completely, and with the aid of a KitchenAid mixer. I’ve picked the KitchenAid as my favourite method. I know how to adjust recipes after looking carefully at the ingredients list, because I can predict the problems that would be encountered.

Today

The story begins with my friend M sending me a recipe for a miche baked in a Dutch oven. I’ve never baked bread inside a Dutch oven, so I decided this morning I’d give it a go. I read the recipe, made some small adjustments, and got started.

Now, as many of you know, my knees are not in the best shape, and I hadn’t yet put on my exoskeleton for the day. I needed more flour than I had upstairs, and Boyfriend had already come up for his lunch, so I asked Hubby - politely - if he would please fetch me more flour from the storage in the basement. Which he did.

(I mention this because it might be said that, having asked Hubby for a favour, I invited his interrogation. Male readers, please follow along and think if YOU would have made these comments to your wife. Female readers, follow along and see if a jury of your peers would convict you.)

Action on my part:

Using the mixer’s general purpose mixing blade to mix the salt with the flour and then adding the liquid with the yeast dissolved in it.

H’s question:

“Why aren’t you using the kneading attachment?”

My answer:

“I WILL be using the kneading attachment, right after I use the mixing attachment to mix everything till the dough pulls away from the side of the bowl.”

(Dough pulls away from the side of the bowl.)

Action on my part, walking around H who is standing in front of the mixer as I removed the mixing attachment and put on the kneading attachment.

H’s question:

“Why don’t you just use the kneading attachment? It could do both jobs.”

My answer:

“No it doesn’t. It doesn’t reach or touch all parts of the bowl.”

(Kneading begins. I set the oven timer for 5 minutes.)

(Dough begins to climb up the kneading attachment.)

H’s question:

“Are you sure it doesn’t reach the whole bowl? I think you should be able to use just the dough hook.”

My answer:

“Look at it, Sean. It relies on the body of the dough. It doesn’t touch the sides.”

His question:

“But why can’t you just use the dough hook? Won’t it mix everything?”

Boyfriend now enters the fray.

“Sean, do we tell you which kinds of router to use when you’re playing with your (unintelligible tech-talk)? Let her play with her toys in peace!”

Hubby’s question:

“But the bread machine uses a little tiny paddle to do all this! It doesn’t make sense that you have to use the mixer blade AND the dough hook!”

My question:

“Sean, have you ever made bread using the mixer?”

Hubby:

“No, but the bread machine...”

Me:

“I’M NOT USING THE F*****G BREAD MACHINE, AM I?! I’M USING THE BLOODY MIXER! YOU’VE NEVER USED THE MIXER TO MAKE BREAD! I F*****G KNOW WHAT I’M DOING! GET OUT!!!”

My bread is now rising in peace in a warm corner while I continue to sputter and swear to myself, and my friend M’s voice runs through my head “Just let it go, Deb, just let it go...”

A Strange Neighbour Am I

 I am, sometimes, what my grandfather would have referred to as a “queer duck.”

This phrase has nothing to do with sexual orientation. It has to do with strange behaviour. Today’s outing to the pharmacy is a case in point.

I appeared outside my home, walking to my car, sporting a Kleenex stuffed into both my nostrils. One of my neighbours spotted me and was apparently riveted by the sight. I do not know if anyone else saw me stumbling to the car with a thick white fluffy nose ring...but several drivers who passed me did. There was just enough time to witness the confusion on their faces as I made my way to the pharmacy.

You see, I have a breathing machine, a CPAP. It is a new one, purchased this summer to replace the old one whose motor had exceeded its lifespan.

This time I thought I’d try the nasal pillow mask, which has two little pillowy thingies you stuff into your nose, and the air from the CPAP blows, quite forcefully, up one’s nose to maintain air pressure and prevent sleep apnea.

It took some getting used to - previously I had used a mask that fitted over my entire nose. The nasal pillows are physically more comfy even though the stream of air feels mighty powerful. However I gave them a try.

And pretty much everything worked well. I found the airstream dried my nasal passages somewhat and increased the humidity, and everything seemed to work.

Till the night before last, when the water tank ran dry, and I slept through the night receiving dry air through the nasal pillows. With the result that, upon awakening and turning off the CPAP, I began to sneeze.

And sneeze.

And sneeze. All day, every five minutes.

And my nose ran like a tap - and I do not mean dripping!

I decided to give it a day and see if it would settle down on its own, which it did not, and slept without the CPAP last night, my nose stuffed with Kleenex so I wouldn’t drip, or sneeze all night.

As I awoke this morning and removed the packing, I suffered ten or more sneezes. I then called the company to get an appointment to see about getting the other kind of mask fitted to the new machine.

Then I consulted Dr. Google, looking up “nasal inhibitor.” And found that lidocaine is used to decrease nasal sensitivity, for example prior to inserting a feeding tube.

I found other quite different uses. If you suffer from premature ejaculation, for example, you can rub lidocaine on your member to make it less sensitive! But I digress...

I made my way to the pharmacy in search of a lidocaine spray or cream, and that is when my neighbour spotted me walking to the car with Kleenex stuffed up both nostrils.

A simple explanation perhaps...I had to explain it to the pharmacist when he asked why I wanted lidocaine. Of course my COVID mask was hiding the Kleenex from him, so I said “don’t laugh” and briefly dropped the mask so he could see my stuffed nose. I told him about getting all dried up and continual sneezing and he understood my purpose, and sold me the cream.

So my neighbours probably think me a little odd, which isn’t all that far from the truth. But there is always a reason behind my odd behaviour, even though it might not be immediately apparent to the casual observer!

And, incidentally, it’s working. Slowly. But I haven’t sneezed in over twenty minutes, so that’s an improvement!