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Another dinner and a show…

Sunday night, I went out with the Martins: my Marty and friend Martin, the chef across the street. We had three tickets to see the Broadway hit “The Book of Mormon” at Proctors Theater. The third ticket was for Sam, but we had an extra since he is in Burlington. 

I never thought Sam would agree to dinner and a show with us since Broadway musicals aren’t his thing. He wanted to go because he loved the show South Park.

Sam and I have been watching South Park together for years. The two guys who are the co-creators of South Park, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, also wrote the funniest musical ever written or performed, The Book of Mormon. 

Now if you haven’t seen South Park, I must tell you it isn’t for lightweights. This comedy sitcom isn’t for everyone since they make inappropriate episodes, always making fun of someone famous or current events and offending groups of people.

The show is a cartoon, and no one is safe from becoming “an episode.” Cartoon children are the main characters with filthy little mouths talking about things no child should know about. 

Why do we like it? I don’t know because we do and find the show hysterical. Some people don’t like it, and some love it. It’s a do or doesn’t kind of thing. 

Martin 1.

We asked Martin if he wanted to come with us, and fortunately for us, he did. We went to Maxon’s American Grill and ate dinner before the show. 

Martin 2.

Instead of me trying to explain the show if you are interested in what the hell I’m talking about, here’s the link. The Book of Mormons.

Here’s a Youtube video of The Book of Mormon’s opening number, if you would like to see it.

Now that you have an idea of what the show is about, I must tell you Marty laughed hysterically throughout the entire show. So did Martin and me. 

The musical has clever and quick set changes, and the actors are brilliant and can sing and dance with the best of them. The lighting sets the mood of each scene wonderfully. The scenery makes you feel like the characters are there, especially in the Hell dream number.

I don’t think we have ever laughed that much for over two hours. I loved when the elders broke into a full-on tap number complete with 5,6.7,8.

If you look at reviews, many people loved it, while conservatives and religious groups hated it; no surprise. 

The Book of Mormon won 9 Tony awards for Best Musical, Best Score, Best Book, Best Direction, Best Featured Actress, Best Scenic Design, Best Lighting, Best Sound Design, and Best Orchestra. 

This morning when I did some research on the show, I was impressed to see I was right about the observations I made about the show last night. 

The audience was a completely different crowd than the other shows we have seen over the last couple of years. The audience ranged in ages from 20-60+. It was a hip crowd with very few older senior citizens like usual. 

The audience members had more relaxed outfits, and most wore black, like us. We were totally in our element, including Martin. 

The audience laughed through the show and applauded like crazy. This was the first show people stayed until the end. No one rushed out before the show was over to get to their car first, like usual.

The people who leave early are the same type who used to leave after communion and not return to their pews because they also wanted to get to their cars first.

Why? Why are people always so eager to run out of churches, movies, shows, concerts, and sporting events? Wasn’t the point of going in the first place was to see something you wanted to see or do? 

In the case of leaving before the end of mass, in my opinion, it’s a bit hypocritical to show everyone you are a good Catholic by going to church out of obligation but can’t wait to get the hell out of there. 

These are the same people who shook my hands and my children’s hands and wished us peace, then refused to let us cross the parking lot to get to our car. Or honk at people to drive, for fucks sake! 🤦🏻‍♀️

My dad was no hypocrite, he didn’t like going to church. Period. When I was in Catholic school, I was supposed to attend church every week. To ensure families went, they put all the essential school information in the bulletin.

Instead of taking me to church, my dad would pull up in the front of the church and hand me the envelope that contained the required amount of money we needed to donate each week. Donate?

This was on top of my tuition, and it was mandatory for school parents to work the church fair, held in July, for 3 nights. This was right after working all day, where my father sweated his ass off in a machine shop..🤔

Anyway, my dad would tell me to smile at the usher, hand him the donation basket envelope, and ask him for a bulletin. I went to the same guy weekly, and he winked at me. Easy as pie.

Then my dad would take me to the donut shop or out to breakfast. I loved our breakfasts together. He told me never to tell my mother our little Sunday morning trick. I would never want to ruin spending time with my dad, he was fun, and he loved to eat. I never told her, even when I was an adult. It was our little secret.

Where was my mother when we were supposed to be at church? She said she didn’t have the patience to take a baby, the other child they adopted, to mass. She would be sitting in her robe when we got home, smoking cigarettes, and talking on the phone while their other child was in front of the tv.

The funny thing was, I took both my “babies” to mass by myself since Marty isn’t Catholic. It wasn’t easy some weeks, some weeks they got yelled at on the way home for their behavior, but they did learn things and later became alter servers.

After the boys made their sacraments, I stopped attending church for several reasons. Since then, I have a very close and intimate relationship with God and love Him with all of my heart. I don’t pray; I talk to Him. I trust Him with everything and give my worries over to Him.

Ok, enough church talk. Honestly, good for the people who go because they actually want to go and find comfort in praying with their families and community.

People may not believe how spiritual I am because of the way I am. Guess what? Spiritual people say fuck and curse like sailors. They also love shows like The Book of Mormon and can see the show’s true meaning when others see only raunchiness and swearing.

To me, the show was about love, friendship, questioning faith, trusting each other, and standing up for yourself and others. To work together as a village and not against each other.

The show proved good always wins over evil. It showed you can still do a world of good but go about it differently than the traditional way. It was about trying to spread faith, ringing one doorbell at a time. 

To think, the musical and the message were co-created by two guys who are funnier than shit and aren’t afraid to offend people. The bottom line, they got their point across.

I read somewhere the Mormons took out an ad in the playbill when the show first opened on Broadway in 2011, saying something like: while the show may be entertaining to tonight’s audience, if they read the book, it would change their life, just like in the opening song.

Ding dong.

Hello! 

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Say it again Barry…

I spotted the post above this week when browsing through my Facebook newsfeed. It immediately made me smile, breathe a huge sigh of relief and think of Barry Manilow’s 1977 hit song, “Looks like we made it.”

I was 11 years old when this song was on the charts, and I loved Barry’s whole album. At some point, loving Barry Manilow was a dorky thing. It wasn’t so much dorky, but my taste in music changed as I discovered new music on my own and not only the stuff I heard from the backseat of my parent’s smoke-filled car.

I jumped in and started liking all kinds of music my parents called awful; it was like when people shook their fingers cursing Elvis and the Beetles during their era. Unlike our parents. Marty and I keep up with the newest hard rock, metal, pop, Latino, hip-hop, and dance club music.

We are both musical people since we were young. We appreciate old, new, cultural, light, or hardcore music. We listen to music for hours, usually loudly, in our production kitchen, which is different every day. Lately, we’ve also been listening to music videos on the TV at work.

I remember when I was 11 years old, downstairs in our basement, pretending to be a nightclub singer. My parents had a bar in their basement; almost everyone I knew parent’s had one too.

Not ours, but I found one similar.

There was a couch and two end tables, and armchairs. The furniture was that horrible wooden 70’s looking shit everyone had back in the day. I set up pretend cocktail tables from random shit I found on the “work” side of the basement.

I had an invisible microphone, which I remember always taking my hand and moving the invisible cord out of my way as I sashayed in between all the tables of people. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I want to sing you one of my favorite songs to start off our night with.” Then I’d belt out, “Looks like we made it.” Always a crowd pleaser.

When I discovered my biological history on my father’s side, I wasn’t surprised to learn he was a nightclub singer, bartender, and performer in the Catskills and later moved to California. He took off on his family with three children when my youngest brother Dan was not even a year old.

He turned out to be a deadbeat dad, sadly enough. He only saw his children once while they were growing up, taking them out for the day and promising to see them again. He died in California on his 50th birthday when my youngest brother was 12.

Ugh, what a shame. I have his performing gene and love of cooking to thank, and most importantly, three awesome siblings. I share so many things in common with them that it’s always mind-blowing when we discover more things.🤗

Back to Barry. It wasn’t until my adult years while listening to “Looks like we made it” in the supermarket that I really understood the words I belted out as a kid. It was a sad song. It was about two people making it alone and not together anymore. I muttered, “What the fuck?”

I thought of that song when I saw that post because we made it out of the darkest part of the year. Marty and I both suffer from seasonal depression, which worsens as the years fly by. I’ll bet it affects almost everyone else too.

The song is fitting for today, waking up to -20 degrees which felt like -36 degrees this morning at 5:45 am, which was the coldest period of this artic weather we are experiencing.

Marty went to the farmer’s market alone today; I stayed home and held down the fort with Klaus, who hadn’t left my side on the couch. The weather is warming up today, and it will be a balmy 41 degrees tomorrow. Thank goodness!

The artic freeze didn’t affect me as much, knowing there was a light at the end of the tunnel. We haven’t had a bad winter this season and have been expecting Mother Nature to say, “Take this, suckers.”

Royalty-free image.

While I love warm weather and look forward to summer, I realize daylight is what I love and need; even though we don’t get that much sunshine here in Vermont, we all need daylight.

I’ve felt like a tiny seed planted in the soil all week, and every day I am getting closer and closer to the warmth and light. Look’s like we made it!

***By the way, when we were in Vegas a year and a half ago, Marty asked me when we saw a billboard of Barry Manilow if I wanted to go see him. I giggled, said no, and thought I’d leave that memory alone and not ruin it.

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Hosts once again…

The cast of characters at our dinner party; Marty, David, Arthur, Buzz, Tabetha, Martin, Alexandra, and yours, wearing my cooking glasses and hair done in my food service and dancing teacher bun.

Last night we hosted our first official dinner party since covid. We had our almost full-time neighbors Arthur and David, Buzz and Tabetha, new neighbors and owners of The Arlington Inn we met this past summer when they purchased the Inn. Finally, our buddy across the street, Chef Martin, and his friend Alexandra. 

Usually, when I do extensive cooking as I did, I take food photos, but I didn’t this time. I only took an “usie,” the plural of a selfie. 

We decided at dinner, while everyone loved the meal, it wasn’t about the food; it was about friends around the table telling stories and making each other laugh. 

However, It was also about the crazy good homemade cannoli and Nutella gelatos I made to go with the other Italian dishes. It was my first time making gelato with our gelato machine, which had been in storage for ten years.

I made a bunch of favorite recipes I can do with my eyes closed. A big pot of soft and fluffy meatballs and sausage, homemade pasta, stuffed clams, caesar salad, and eggplant stackers. I’ve made each dish at least 100 times and can count on them. One of the celebrity chefs says never to use your friends as culinary guinea pigs.

The other great thing about this menu was that it was not only simple, but I could make all the dishes ahead and bake or reheat them before we ate.

It’s the most important thing to remember when planning a dinner party, don’t make fussy things like soufflé or dishes with multiple preparations and steps unless these dishes are comfortable for you or in your wheelhouse of recipes.

I wish I had taken a photo of the bar I set up. It was brilliant, if I do say myself. I know what my friends drink for the most part, so I set up the bar according to their preferences.

On one side of the bar, I placed an “Old Fashioned” cocktail ingredient tray with the proper glassware. I made an orange simple syrup along with orange wedges, bitters, and maraschino cherries, all in size-appropriate bowls. I also had other dark liquors and red wine with glasses on that side.

On the other side, I had a “Straight-up Martini” tray again with proper glasses, vermouth, and bleu cheese-stuffed olives on sticks. White wine, rum, tequila, vodka, and gin with small cans of tonic water, seltzer, and cola. A bowl of lime and lemon rounds was included to make mixed drinks. Martin was the bartender, which he could do as well as being a fantastic chef.

Even though we have a cozy home, ok, call it small, we all fit in the dining room without a problem. Everyone stood talking in the living room and bar area during cocktail hour. I enjoyed time with my guests, then headed into the kitchen to bake and reheat the food.

The night went off without a hitch. The two gelatos were the stars of the show! So was that simple orange syrup I made. While I had never made any of these items before, I was confident they would be good; actually, they were fucking awesome!

Our home was filled with friends, talking, and laughter. Our neighborhood had a similar thing but with a group of neighbors who either moved away, died, or were too old or sick to participate. We were the group’s youngsters in our 40s, while almost everyone else was in their 60s. We were so sad when our friends faded fast, and most of all, we missed our “Tavern Night” group, as we called it.

Things have come full circle. We are empty nesters and a few years older this time. Our home has been updated since covid, painting every room, purchasing new furniture, both new and used, and giving the once dark and worn living space a more light and modern feel.

Our hosting is over, for now, and it’s up to the next couple, sometime in March. I can’t wait! It’s so wonderful having our social lives back again right here in Arlington!

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A spontaneous moment…

Me and Kathleen.

My friend and belly dance student Maria, who also has a blog, sometimes wants to write about the same things I do about what happens on Wednesday nights at dance class. She was going to take a photo of the mysterious shoe, then saw I already wrote about it.

Last Wednesday, we had such an incredible, spontaneous moment just before our zilling drill practice that left everyone like, “wow, where did that come from?” Maria beat me to writing about that moment, so rather than rewrite the event; she tells the story brilliantly. 

You must read her post before you continue reading mine. The link to her blog post, “He had it coming.”

While discussing positive self-image, I thought about how much “hate talking” I do to myself about not having a size six body anymore. It’s still a hurdle to overcome and a big one for me, but I accept it more each day.

When Maria spoke up and told everyone about her father calling her mother every day and asking if she did her sit-ups, I stopped looking for a zilling song and said with lots of drama, “some guys just can’t hold their arsenic!”

That’s when Kathleen and I started singing the song “He had it coming” from the Broadway show Chicago. While driving home that night, I was smiling because it was such a great moment and interaction between Kathleen and me. 

Many years ago, before my mother had her stroke, my belly dance group was having our annual fundraiser, a belly dance show with not only all of us but many other dancers from VT and other nearby states. 

I asked my mother if she was coming to the show, I knew the answer would be no, but I always invited her anyway. 

The few times she did come to gigs in Bennington over the years, she came and slept through one set and left. She never came to watch me cheer at games and only came to the first night of our senior play, while almost everyone else’s parents came all three nights. It was as if she had lost all interest in me and the things I was good at.

When I was little, before she started treating me like Cinderella when I was nine, she would be excited to get me into my two costumes and do my hair and makeup for my dance recitals.

I took solo dance lessons and performed solo as well. She strutted around like a proud peacock after the recitals and always had a bouquet of flowers for me.

Back to that belly dance show, my mother walked in ten minutes before the show started. She walked up to the circle of dancers I was chatting with. 

I said, “Oh good, you changed your mind!” She replied, “No, I’m going to bingo next door and wanted to see what you looked like.” Disappointed, I said, “Oh, okay.”

Before she left, she told me, “By the way, you should wear that color lipstick more often; it doesn’t make your teeth look so yellow.” I thought,” lady, you are such a bitch! Are you even fucking kidding me right now?”

She said goodbye, turned on her heel and walked next door to bingo. I was furious and embarrassed she said this in front of my fellow dancers.

I said something like, “I can’t fucking believe she just said that! Oh, wait, yea, I can.” It was perfect timing for her to get a jab in since the show started in five minutes. 

I had five minutes to get my shit together before turning into a Sahidi Sister and dancing, the show’s opening. Then I had to turn into DJ Julz since I ran the music for the show and kept everything on schedule.

That’s my relationship in a nutshell with my mother. The moment was so awkward for everyone in the circle, and it affected my dance sisters about to perform with me. It is a painful memory for me and still makes me enraged.

When I thought about how angry my mother made me that night after reading Maria’s blog, I sang the Cell Block Tango song again but dedicated it to my mother.

“Some women just can’t hold their arsenic! She had it coming; she had it coming, she only had herself to blame. If you’d a been there, if you’d have seen it, I’m sure you would have done the same.”

When I read Maria’s blog post, when I got to the part about Kathleen and me standing next to a cauldron, I instantly had a soul memory from a past life with Kathleen; when we were, are you ready for it? Witches.

I mentioned in my series, “My gifts,” I was a witch in many lifetimes and promised I wouldn’t be in this lifetime. I also knew Kathleen and I had been together before in other lifetimes; I just didn’t know when, where, or what. Now I know one time, at least.

Because of Maria’s blog post, I immediately knew she was with Kathleen and me in that lifetime since what she saw was a soul memory watching us. Interestingly, all the people we have meaningful relationships with, good or bad, are part of our soul cluster.

We keep coming back with our soul cluster members lifetime after lifetime, helping each other learn our soul’s lessons. Some people are there to test us and try to make us fail, some hurt us because we deserve it from a lesson we didn’t learn, some push us along, and others help us succeed with our lesson.

A few weeks ago, during a journey, a beautiful female spirit guide told me I was here to help my mother succeed in a lesson, but we all know how that ended. I told her, “that’s too bad since I was hurt and abused for nothing then.” She immediately told me, “it was a business contract and not to take it personally.” Easier said than done, beautiful spirit guide.

I sent Maria’s blog post to Kathleen, and when we spoke on the phone, she thanked me for sending it. After I told her about being witches together a very long time ago, she laughed. We kidded that the next time someone asks us how long we know each other, we can legitimately say for centuries! Lol.

Thanks, Maria, for your blog post; it had a much more significant impact on me than I thought when I first started reading it. I told Maria a while back I want to dance with her around a bonfire, which she and Jon always have during the full moon; now I know we probably have before!

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Happy 2nd Anniversary to my blog…

I wanted to start a blog for a long time, and it’s hard to believe it’s been up and running for two years. I have to admit I don’t write every day like I used to because none of the pieces I did for the sake of writing were blog-worthy. 

My friend Jon Katz always says to himself in his reader’s shoes, “Why should I give a shit?” When I started asking myself that question, I deleted posts before publishing them.

I used to be hard on myself that I didn’t publish a story every day, but I had to be honest with myself that I am a spätzle maker, delivery person, market vendor, and business owner, not a full-time writer. It’s not a cop-out; it’s reality.

All that aside, I love writing posts for my blog. Some posts are funny, while others are informative, sad, or outright bonkers. Some were creepy and some inspired people to try new recipes, which I love!

Many people loved the series I did on “My gifts,” and some did not, and I lost them as readers. You can’t make everyone love what you write all the time. I also gained a few new readers. If you like my blog, tell a friend or send them my link. I do a happy dance every time I pick up a new reader.

Everyone likes that I am so honest and authentic. They think I am brave. When I think of some of the things I’ve worked through by writing about them, it is brave sharing my innermost thoughts, feelings, and emotions. I also lost readers when I wrote emotional and sad pieces, but that’s okay, I am a lot some days.

This is how I am, honest and authentic, so it’s no different in print. Friends who know me will always tell me they can hear my voice when reading my blog and how my writing sounds exactly like I speak. They say it’s like I am talking directly to them.

Thank you, John Katz and Maria Wulf, who are my friends, bloggers, writers, photographers, and artists who inspire me to become a better writer and storyteller.

Thank you to my family, who have permitted me to be family members and characters in my stories. Thanks, Marty, for supporting me and my writing. It means the world to me when you tell me it was a good piece I wrote.

Finally, thanks to you guys reading this, I wouldn’t have a blog if no one had read it, and I love when people comment on different subjects; it gives me the confidence to keep going. 

I’ve published 473 posts in two short years, with plenty more to come. I’ve written over a million words in that period as well.

Thanks again; it’s humbling that anyone “gives a shit” about what I have to say. ♥️

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The shoe is gone…

I walked into the Old Mill building on Wednesday afternoon and laughed while gasping, “shoe is gone!”

I wrote a piece a couple of weeks ago titled The Mysterious Black Shoe, which I heard from many people that they had never heard of hidden shoes before and how interesting it was. 

Before I started my dance class, we discussed the shoe; funny enough, everyone else noticed it was gone. 

That being said, it wasn’t the case of who lost the shoe; it was about what the lost shoe meant to the people who noticed it or “found” it. 

For me, it was that I found a  new idea and took a big step in my writing career. 

For a couple of my dance sisters, it also had different meanings, indicating new paths for them to follow. 

So is that in the lost shoe saga? Maybe or maybe not; only time will tell. 

I have a few food posts to write; hopefully, I can do it in the next few days. Time is going by faster and faster, and there aren’t enough hours in the day to accomplish everything I wish to.

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Waste not, want not…

Yesterday morning, my friend Martin, the private chef, was prepping for a dinner party he would be cooking and serving that evening. 

I got a phone call while I was cleaning in the production kitchen, “Hey Julz, I have some leftover lobster claws and knuckles if you want them; I won’t be using them.”

Of course, I told him yes and ran across the street to his house. Martin was doing mise en place for the dinner; he just took a cake out of the oven and started a sauce. 

It smelled heavenly in his kitchen! He got out the leftover lobster for me. I stayed and chatted for a few minutes but got on my way since I knew he was busy. 

Martin was making an old-school dish called Lobster Thermidor. He was cooking for an older crowd who would go crazy for it. I would go crazy for it! 

This morning, I started the kitchen task of cracking the claws and knuckles and pulling out the lobster meat. There were a lot of them! 

At first, I was out of practice and timid, but then I sprung into action and was done in no time.

I had a lot of that “unwanted” lobster meat and decided to make Connecticut-style lobster rolls for lunch. 

Easily 2 lbs of lobster meat came from the claws and knuckles!

Instead of using mayo like in Maine lobster rolls, Connecticut-style warms up the lobster in melted butter with chives and a crushed garlic clove. Just warmed up, not reheated entirely. 

Sam came home last night to work a shift in Bennington since he is still a per diem employee. It was perfect timing for the lobster since it’s Sam’s favorite. 

I toasted some GF baguette (even though we would all rather have had a potato hotdog bun but can’t), melted some butter, and added chives and one crushed garlic clove. 

I let the butter simmer for a few minutes, added the lobster meat, and heated it until warm. I filled the buns, and viola! A delicious lobster roll lunch for free! Yay! 

I thanked Martin and texted him photos. He was so happy I got so much meat “out of those things.” Lol

Another cook’s waste is another cook’s treasure. That’s how stocks and sauces are made. 

Saucier Chefs come into the kitchen early in the morning and use the waste of bones, unused ends of produce, and the stems of herbs from the prep cooks. Nothing is thrown away.

The saucier chef roasts the bones and creates stocks, reductions, sauces, soups, and demi glazes. Basically, they are building flavors using waste, time, and skill.

Saucier Chefs create the backbone of the finished dishes prepared by dinner service line cooks and chefs. 

My culinary dream has always been to be a saucier chef. I love making stocks, sauces and gravies. Some of my culinary students used to call me the “Gravy Master.” 😂

I would love to come in early while the kitchen is quiet, except for the baker, who has been there since the middle of the night, creating their own magic with flour, water, and yeast.

The job is to create magic out of waste, then get the heck out of there before all hell breaks loose during dinner service. 

Sounds like a perfect job for me. 👩‍🍳

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A bull in a china shop…

It’s been a challenging week. Klaus had surgery on Thursday to remove a large cyst on his back paw. Of course, it started to grow and get angry looking in November when Otto began to fail. 

After losing Otto on December 9th, it was excruciating being in the same examination room where my poor sweet boy died. Klaus was even sitting in the exact spot where it happened. 

We sucked it up and moved past it keeping our emotions to ourselves, not wanting to let Klaus feel like something was weird or bad happening. 

The surgery could have gone either way, difficult or smooth; luckily for us and our vet, Dr. Beau, it was easier than he thought. He was happy with how the cyst came out/off, and he could close the wound tightly. 

The wound didn’t have to be bandaged, which was terrific for us since Klaus doesn’t like anyone but Sam to tend to those issues. He growls at us when we try to manage him when necessary. 

We don’t think he would bite us, but like my father said, “Any animal with teeth can bite you.” It has happened to people, so it makes me leary.

When they brought Klaus out when we picked him up, he looked pathetic, out of it, and mad. He was wearing a soft cone to protect the wound from licking. A soft cone was the only kind that fit his huge neck. 

Bulldogs are notorious for getting many infections that are hard to get rid of, so he must wear the cone all the time for ten days. Ugh!

Thursday night was rough because he was drugged, uncomfortable, and confused by the cone. We felt horrible, to begin with, then he would turn his head away when we tried to talk to him and wouldn’t look at us.

Friday morning was a completely different thing. He woke up not groggy and didn’t act like he hated us or was mad. He even started wagging his nub again. Yay! 

He quickly figured out how to drink and eat wearing the cone and had no difficulty walking. The wound looks good and doesn’t seem to bother him. 

We have been taking turns sleeping downstairs since he has needed to go out more frequently since he is on prednisone. He usually comes upstairs and wakes Marty up to go out. 

As the day went on, Klaus had no regard for the cone. He is a bull in a china shop knocking into things, bulldozing his way through the house, and bouncing off things he can’t see without his peripheral vision.

He slept great last night, only getting up once, and is back to his old self, making it tricky to keep him quiet and not want to go out and play ball. No Ball for two weeks, Dr. Beau said. Oh boy. 

Klaus is the biggest whiner and crybaby as it is following Marty around constantly and stares at him to go out and play. The next ten days will be challenging in that respect. 

After talking to other bulldog owners, we found out that they are not only one of the most expensive dogs to have since they have a lot of medical issues, but they are crybabies and want to play all the time.

I had a sleepover with Klausie downstairs last night and stayed home from the market today to keep an eye on him and let him out. 

Thank goodness everything went well, and he is on the mend and feeling better. We are keeping our fingers crossed the wound heals without any infection. 

I didn’t realize until Otto became sick in November how hard it is to be a dog’s steward and how much we love them and have to make the right decisions for them, not us. ♥️♥️

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The mysterious black shoe…

We’ve all seen a single shoe on the side of a highway or maybe in a parking lot. Before I wrote this piece, I had no idea how big a phenomenon a single shoe left behind is.

People have been finding”concealed shoes” for centuries in Europe. People have very different thoughts regarding concealed shoes, depending on who you talk to. 

Different countries and religious beliefs come into play when discussing concealed shoes. Concealed shoes are found in the walls of castles, churches, chapels, homes, and other buildings. 

Homeowners here in the states renovating their homes are also finding a single shoe in their walls or hidden in basements. 

These shoes may not always be concealed but hidden. Some are found up on shelves or windowsills right there in the open. But why? Some people believe on a spiritual level that losing a shoe is good luck for several reasons.

The first reason is protection. Shoes protect the feet from harm, cold or hot, and bug bites. Shoes make walking easier in rough terrain. Some say that leaving a shoe in a building or home protects it or the people who live there.

Losing a shoe can represent freedom. Freedom to walk on a new path in life or away from something negative. Some people think losing a shoe is a sign to travel or a new opportunity is waiting. 

Others believe losing a shoe can be a bad omen or not being fully in control of one’s life or what path to take. It may also mean you cannot handle a problem you face.

A person who loses a shoe may have been in danger or been running away from a crime scene. There have been many lost shoes found at crime scenes. Missing shoes became clues that later lead to the capture of many criminals and murders.

Our belly dance space is in an old mill building in Bennington, VT, which now houses many businesses. I love people are rehabbing old buildings instead of leaving them empty and eventually becoming eye sores.

Businesses such as gyms, doctor’s offices, retail businesses, creative spaces, and business offices. The building is in rough shape and not necessarily nice in the hallways and stairwells. 

The hallways and stairs are dark and dingy; the public bathroom is literally a shit hole. The business owners renovate their rented spaces to fit their needs. We have two gorgeous new bathrooms in the space where we dance, called Time for Yourself.

In true Irish fashion, telling a long story before the story, the point of my post, in late November, Kathleen and I noticed a black high heel shoe at the entrance of the Mill building at the bottom of the staircase. 

“Kathleen said, “There must have been a wild party; someone lost their shoe.” I replied, “No if it were a wild party, there would be a pair of panties too.” “True,” Kathleen agreed. Lol.

We saw the shoe every week, then right before Christmas, it disappeared. I thought someone must have finally found their shoe. Kathleen did too, but we never discussed it.

Yesterday, we both gasped, “The shoe is back!” It was proudly displayed on a wooden box at the bottom of the staircase. 

Kathleen shared with me her theory of the black shoe.”It’s a signal for something or someone.” “You mean like, ‘come up and see me sometime,’ as May West said. “Could be,” Kathleen said. 

Then I started thinking of different scenarios of why the shoe was there in the first place. It could have fallen out of someone’s gym bag. That’s a good guess. 

Many people come straight from work to the gym, but after living in Vermont for 30+ years, I know that hardly anyone wears high heels to work. Even getting dressed up super fancy, requiring high heel shoes, is a rarity. Medium heels, yes, those are doable.

I found out quickly when we moved here that the sidewalks and parking lots are unlike in metropolitan areas; if you wear high heels, you are sure to break your neck. Seriously.

Another far fetched theory, it could be a one-legged woman or drag queen needed a shoe for a Christmas party. It was spotted by a friend who took it. The one-legged person wore it to a party; their friend returned it afterward. That’s probably unlikely, so back to Kathleen’s idea of the shoe being a signal. 

I picked up the shoe last night as we left after dance class. It was a Jessica Simpson brand shoe in size 7 and in worse condition than it looked from far away.  A size 7 meant a one-legged drag queen didn’t borrow it, that’s for sure.

I hope I am not offending anyone who has only one leg. Please forgive me, I don’t mean it to be hurtful, but it’s part of the investigation and included in the files.

The clues here are the shoe is from Jessica Simpson shoes. with something strange inside.
Jessica Simpson hawking her shoes on HSN>

After further inspecting the shoe in question, I saw a mysterious piece of painted paper inside the shoe which looked like a piece of bacon to me. It was cut out and not torn, and why was it in the shoe?

When I showed it to Kathleen and Emily, they agreed it definitely didn’t look like bacon. Is the bacon paper another signal for something? Is it a clue? The bacon was not in the shoe before it vanished.

Will we ever find out the meaning of the black shoe? Do we care? Hell yeah! It’s winter in Vermont, so playing Scooby Doo by solving a mystery passes the time and is entertaining.

My last theory is since I can feel the building is haunted, an old mill ghost is screwing around and having fun with the shoe, making a strange noise that sounds like a peg-legged pirate. Ghosts love pulling pranks like this! 

In closing, I don’t think it is a lost shoe anymore since it vanished and reappeared. What do you think? Scooby dooby doo! 🧐

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Oatmeal raisin cookie?

Plus ice cubes!

Take a look at the ingredients in the photo above. You may notice the ingredients are different from other oatmeal raisin cookie recipes. That’s because it’s not a cookie; it’s a smoothie!

I never make New Year’s resolutions, but back in December, I started craving salads and smoothies. Salads in the winter? Ok, there are plenty of winter salads out there. A smoothie? That’s the thing that gets me; I don’t like smoothies.

The closest thing that comes close to a smoothie that I do love is an Orange Julius that you find at the mall. I’ve been in love with these since my teens and still get one every once in a while when we are at Crossgate Mall in Albany. An Orange Julius is like a frothy creamsicle. Yum!

I started looking through smoothie recipes. I have no interest in powdered smoothies or fruit drinks; if I am going to drink one, it will be made with natural, wholesome ingredients. I want to control the flavor and texture.

Replacing my regular on-the-go, quick breakfasts with smoothies isn’t dieting by any stretch of the word. It’s hard to think of what to make for us for breakfast every day before production.

It has to be filling enough to hold us over for hours, something a carby breakfast doesn’t do. A yogurt isn’t satisfying, and a banana with peanut butter gets redundant. Most importantly, it has to taste good.

I picked up a few ingredients to start making smoothies. I bought bags of frozen blueberries and tropical fruit. I got a bunch of bananas and spent way too much time in the milk section deciding what type of milk I wanted to use in our smoothies.

I don’t want to use yogurt in our smoothies since I don’t like the tang they leave. I want the smoothies to be creamy, which means using some kind of milk. I drink Lactaid milk since I am lactose intolerant, but I thought that would be a waste since Marty isn’t.

Many recipes I looked at used oat or cashew milk which are all lactose-free. Then I noticed coconut milk which had fewer calories than regular milk. Coconut milk seemed like natural milk found everywhere worldwide; meaning, how the fuck do you make milk out of oats?

On Monday morning, I made a blueberry and banana smoothie adding protein powder, a drop of vanilla extract, honey, and coconut milk to the fruit. It was meh at best. Shit, it’s the first day, and already it’s not what I was expecting.

I returned to the drawing board, started looking for different smoothie recipes, and struck gold! I found a recipe for Oatmeal Raisin Cookie smoothies! I read the ingredients, knowing I had what was needed. Of course, I tweaked the recipe because that’s me and my palate.

Before and after adding the coconut milk.

If you click on the recipe link above, you will notice the recipe contains cashew butter for more protein. I didn’t add it to our smoothies but added a teaspoon of maple syrup and kosher salt. Before adding the salt, I tasted the drink and thought it was ok, but it didn’t taste like a cookie. After adding a pinch of salt, voila! A cookie in a glass! I loved it!

The other thing I loved was the texture. I blended it well with the blender, but it left small pieces of oats and raisins, which was fantastic in adding texture. I put bubble tea straws in our smoothies to make them easy to drink. It was so damn tasty! Lol.

While making spätzle batter, I started thinking about other smoothies I could make, like the oatmeal raisin one. I have a bunch in mind and will start putting together ideas. Blueberry “pie” is already on the list. 🫐 🥧