Here’s a shot of my Pansies in a Pot in the morning sunshine. So pretty.

Container gardening at its best. I have beautiful flowers to greet me as I leave the house, and when I return home, a big pot of pansies on either side of the back gate. There were a few left over — I had bought a flat, so those are scattered a few in a small pot and one in the vacant end of a concrete block. In between it all, the Lemon Mint that Cindy told me ‘would take the place’, just about has filled every spot available and is thinking about coming up on to the porch.

To my mind, Frankenstein’s monster was more to be pitied that censured; even though I lost count of the deaths he caused by the time it was over. Dracula, on the other hand, had no redeeming features. Gwen is more well-read on the subject than I, having all versions of both stories, both cinematic and various books on the subject at her disposal and she was kinder in her assessment of Dracula. So many young people today have gone crazy (there is no other word for the obsession) over the Twilight movies and books, I am thankful, but not too surprised, that Gwen has explored many aspects of horror. It’s a big leap from Disney to Dracula, but at least it’s not Twilight.

Sunday afternoon, the 28th, we saw The Phantom of the Opera (1927). It was my first time to see this one, too. The Alabama Theater was almost full of fans of the movie and fans of the Mighty Wurlitzer. This was the 36th annual showing of The Phantom at the Alabama Theater. It is sponsored by the American Theater Organ Society, and proceeds from the movie (it cost more admission than usual) go to the preservation and upkeep of the Alabama’s theatrical organ.

The ATOS is such an enthusiastic group of people that they dress in costume and add a theatrical element to the show. We were amazed to see black crape draped figures bearing candelabras and pallbearers with coffin come silently down the aisle. They mounted the eerily-lit and tombstone-strewn stage and set the coffin down. It opened and the organist in white tie and tails climbed out, to great applause. It was a wonderful before-the-show show.

Organist Tom Helms had the original score that accompanied this silent movie; he made the instrument sing. Themes from “Faust” were an inherent part of the movie. I have never loved organ music before, but this performance made me a believer. For this afternoon’s presentation, the music, as performed by Mr. Helms on the Mighty Wurlitzer, ­­the Alabama Theater, was the undisputed star.

This console, with four manual keyboards and a pedal keyboard, 285 stop tabs and 85 pistons, is used by the organist to play the 29 ranks (2117 pipes plus percussion) of the Alabama Theatre’s Wurlitzer Pipe Organ. (Picture and specifications courtesy of ATOS.)

Same thing in Brave: our rebellious Irish youth, Merida, wants her mother to change. Unfortunately, she gets her wish. She is thrown head first into adventure in the wild, wild, woods, into danger but never bloodshed. Actually, she got a scratch near the end, but we didn’t see the blood. She ends up saving the Kingdom, saving her mother, and ultimately, herself.

The complaint about heavy-handedness doesn’t hold water because the story is set in the time of Celts, Vikings, Blue Picts, and for all I know, Gauls. Twas nothing subtle about those people and the usual over-the-top fighting among themselves seems right at home.

The touch of Magic played well, too. Will ‘o the Wisps are real, we know now, just marsh gas, but for the sake of the movie script, they led to the witch’s lair. She was the one who produced the Magic Cupcake (I kid you not) that caused all the trouble. Merida held fast to her faith and to her mother, and it all came out all right in the end.

The previous chess pie, recipe from an online user who swore byit, was too sweet, grainy and soft, but that didn’t keep them from eating it all up. But I wanted to do better. I took some of the sugar out, added some cornmeal for texture, and what have you. Jerry said not to lose the recipe, so I had better write it down before I forget it.

CHARLOTTE’S CHESS PIE

Preheat oven to 350 degrees, prebake a frozen deep dish 9″ pie shell for 5 minutes while you are mixing, with an electric beater, the following:

3/4 stick butter  and 1 1/2 cup sugar

Add: 2 Tablespoons cornmeal

Mix in 4 eggs, one at a time

And lastly, add 1 small (5 oz) can Evaporated Milk and 1 tsp. Vanilla

Pour into pre-baked shell and put on cookie sheet in center of oven for 45 minutes.  Cool and enjoy. Cut into 8ths, as this is rich.

My husband is on a high-fat, high-energy diet had whipped cream on top of his slice!

For this brought back memories of a time long ago, when our four children were just babes. It was a Saturday morning, and Jerry had left for work at 4 a.m. He was the Mississippi Editor for The Birmingham News. I was up, it was daylight, but the children were still abed. Drinking my first (or second) cup of coffee, there was knock at the front door. No, that’s not right. There was a POUNDING at the front door, not a polite knock at all.I answered the door, opening as far as the chain would allow. There were Policemen at the door! At least three in my line of sight, and two or more marked cars on the street in front of our townhouse!

“Good Morning, Officers. What I can do for you?” I asked.

“We want to come in,” the spokesman replied.

“No,” came my immediate answer. I watch cop shows on TV, I know my Constitutional Rights. I fleetingly wondered if I should wake the children to see Democracy in Action, but decided they were too young to appreciate what was happening.

“We’ll go get a Warrant,” he said.

Well, that pissed me off. “GO GET ONE,” I replied and shut the door.  I looked out other windows and saw that The House Was Surrounded, and there were more police cars than I had first noted.

I went to the phone and called Jerry at work. “What did you do, knock over a 7-11 on your way to work?” I asked him, “The place is surrounded by police and they want in. They seem to think you are hiding under the bed or something.”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t do anything, Keep me posted.”  So much for the man of the house worrying about the little woman and the babes at home. I went back to the door.

“We want to come in.”

“No.”

“We’ll go get a Warrant”

“Go get one.”

I closed the door on this peculiarly circular conversation. What, I wondered, did they really want? I knew in my heart they did not want Jerry. I opened the door again.

“Who are you looking for,” I asked?

“When did you last see your husband,” he asked.

“About 3:30 or 4 this morning”, I said, not knowing that this was the Wrong Thing to Say.

“We want to come in.” We were back to square one. I opened the door again.

“My husband is at work, at The Birmingham News. You can talk to him there to your heart’s content.” They didn’t buy that. They still wanted to come in. Finally, the spokesman thought to ask what kind of car he was driving, and the penny dropped, for me, anyway. I rushed to the back window to see if our new used Chevy was still there–we had just last week traded in our ancient station wagon. It was.

“What kind of car do you have?’

I have a Chevrolet sedan, parked out back, and my husband drives a new, white, Ford… it looks like a Mustang but has a smaller motor in it. We traded in an old brown Chevy station wagon.

Note: At that time, the license tag stayed with the vehicle you traded in. The dealership was supposed to change the title from your name to theirs and thence to the new owner.

When the policemen understood that we no longer drove the old brown Chevy wagon, they hung their heads in disappointment and drove away. I called Jerry to say everything was OK now, it was a case of mistaken identity.

When the Police Reporter for The News finally got around to it, he found there had been a rash of holdup of gas stations and convenience stores in our area, around 4 A.M. involving our old car. It had been stolen off Jim Skinner’s Ford Dealership car lot, and put to good use, or in this case, bad use.

Even though we were off the hook for these crimes, the car never was apprehended by the police. I passed it once on First Avenue North, going the other way, and it had a Bullet Hole in the windscreen!

Several months later, we were called by the City to come get our abandoned car off the street (it must have quit running). But we said no, it wasn’t ours, they could tow it away and were welcome to it.

In retrospect, I should have said, “Yes, sir, we’ll take care of it,” because in those days the junk dealelr would pay you $100 and tow it away just for the spare parts. Live and learn.

I had taken many trips in that wagon…just put quilts down and put the kids in back with books, pillows and toys, seat belts and car seats had not been invented yet. I got pulled over for speeding on the new I-65, on a sunny day with no traffic. I had slowed down and was going only 92 mph. Had to endure the longest lecture from the Highway Patrolman, and then he gave me a ticket, too. Insult to injury, indeed.

So, Russ, be careful what you wish for. You may have a squad arrive at your door with a Warrant yet.

Today was the longest day of the year, the best time for driving across town and back. The dining out afterward is problematic, as I am a full generation older than the oldest of the group and food must be ingested earlier in the day.

Today’s program was about two books authored by Lois McMaster Bujold, the first and second in a series re-published together as “Cordelia’s Honor”. The Miles Vorkosiegan saga is well known in Science Fiction Fandom, This same book had been the subject of a panel at a recent Deep South Conference, the 50th of that line. Yours truly was drafted to serve on the panel. The author sat quietly on the back row muttering to herself, “that’s not what I meant at all”.

Since then the SF book club (the one whose meeting I went to, remember) had been discussing online the pros and cons on the two books, especially as the first one was her first effort, and the second one was written years later and showed it in more polished prose and story line. In spite of all that we had a lively discussion in the Barnes & Noble bookstore where we meet.

After the meeting, the young folks (the 30s, 40s, & 50s) go out to eat. Josh, who hates Chinese food, was not in attendance so everyone said, this is our chance: let’s go to the Mandarin House on Highway 31. I declined the pleasure because I am blind as a bat after dark and can drive only to those places hard-wired in my brain, like home, for instance.

Imagine my surprise to see it was still daylight… “I’ll surprise them,” I thought, and hopped in the car. Maryanne had said, “If you get to Vestavia, you’ve gone too far, turn around and go back.” I asked directions and was told to go past all the car dealerships and when you see a McDonald’s, look for a strip mall on the left. It’s in a corner of the mall.
This sounds easy enough and savoring the surprise in store for my friends I zoomed down Hwy.31 past all the car dealerships. Looking for a McDonald’s, it came to me that when leaving home I had grabbed my purse and keys. It also came to me that I had changed out of my jeans for dressier pants. Doing errands earlier that day I had put a little fold-up-and-snap wallet containing driver’s license, debit card, credit card and a folded up twenty dollar bill in my jeans pocket. Unfortunately, I had not transferred it back to my purse. The larger wallet, upon inspection, contained Medicare Card, Blue Cross card, and Unrestricted Pistol Permit. Wasn’t sure how much Chinese food I could get for that so I came on home.

Tomorrow I’m taking Jerry out to lunch at this great Chinese place I know close to home, just across from Lowe’s parking lot. I’ll get some General Tso’s chicken yet.

Granddaughter Gwen and I sat up front with our purses and Kathy had the back with a lot of luggage. Gwen asked if she liked Johnny Cash music and Kathy replied that she liked all kinds of music and she was a guest so the choice was Gwen’s. So we sang along with Johnny for the first half of our not very long trip to Birmingham. I should mention that I came and went by US 231 and not the Interstate–the Scenic Route through a couple of towns and lots of forest. If Kathy had not been there with her smart phone and GPS, I would have wandered around Huntsville a good while looking for access to US 231, but the robot voice from the back seat got us underway. In the lull after Johnny Cash, I asked out of curiosity, “If I am taking you back to B’ham, how did you Get to Huntsville?”
“I flew in from San Diego”, she replied. Big Flummoxed Silence from the front seat. “I am going to my Grandmother’s in Mt. Brook (adjacent to B’ham), where my aunt is and all the family are gathering for a wedding”, she explained. What a great family, I thought to myself, after realizing our Fellow Traveler was not local, though originally from Alabama, I think.
Kathy’s GPS came back into play as we neared B’ham. I rejected its first suggestion, but soon got on I-59 at the entrance of my choice, only to have to go back a mile to I-459 to get to Kathy’s neck of the woods.
We unloaded Kathy’s scooter and luggage in the driveway and before I drove away, a lovely white-haired lady came out to thank me for helping get her granddaughter home. I pointed to Gwen and said that I had brought my granddaughter, too, with the unvoiced message that we would all help granddaughters, ours or others, when we could.
It was a good way to end a good weekend. I still don’t know her last name.

The author and Dr. Demento

This picture, unfortunately, is of my lunch the following day, when the leftover portion had been nuked and the spinach had wilted into the dish and was not as visually prominent. Let me say right now, in case you have not figured it out, that I love one-dish meals: protein, carbohydrates both simple and complex, all together, looking good and tasting better.

I think the recipe was called something like Chicken Pasta Florentine but by the time I got through with it, it bore no resemblance to the original recipe.  In the first place it called for chicken breasts and all I had in the freezer were packages of dark meat, so thighs and drunsticks it was! I know now why you can’t buy boneless drumsticks in the meat department: it is Too Much Trouble to get the meat off with all those tendons and knuckle bones; thighs are easier.

The next thing it called for was penne  pasta. In my pantry the choice was between elbow macaroni and small shells. I chose shells.  Then the recipe, after browning the chicken called for minced garlic…. Where’s the onion? I can’t cook without onion. Onion and garlic go together, for crying out loud! I chopped up an onion to flavor the oil and butter the meat had been browned in.

I pretty much stuck to the recipe after that. I mean, it was just putting the component parts together. The label on the organic baby spinach said it was triple washed and I believed them; the grape tomatoes had been rinsed and cut in half.  I put the chicken back in with the Onions and garlic, and stirred in the pre-cooked and waiting pasta.

This recipe gave me the chance to use my hugest, deepest mother of a skillet, so I had plenty of room for the tomatoes and spinach. The spinach was supposed to wilt and it did, kinda, but I can understand the dish being mistaken for a salad with all the red and green and pasta.  Oh! and a cup full of shredded cheddar melted throughout.

I think recipes are just suggestions.