Saturday, 14 April 2018

Jamming it Up

It started out as an adventure, chasing a rabbit called Marmalade down the rabbit trails of my mind. That was last week's blog. It ended up with 10 jars of onion marmalade sitting on my counter. And how did that happen? Well, as they say, “thereby hangs a tale” (or tail?)

Over coffee with friends, I shared my ponderings about making onion jam for my brother-in-law. Was  it really worth the trouble – cutting up kilos of onions, stirring for hours, bottling and processing. They looked at me like I was one onion short of a basketful. “Surely you’re not going to do that!” they said. “And if you are, he must be some brother-in-law.” Well, yes, he is, but there’s more at work here.

What it’s all about is that I have terrier instincts.

Once I’m on the scent of something, it’s hard to stop me. (Just ask the RS.) Onion marmalade was the golden grail, shining in the distance. I had to hunt it down, to see what it was like.

If Martha can do can I. Simple, right?
First step: find a good recipe. I checked with faithful Google. One recipe mentioned cooking it up in a slow cooker, eliminating the hours of stirring. Easy-peasy, they said. It was another thing to find a definitive ingredient list. Red onions? Sweet onions? Sure, whatever. One recipe matched onions and sugar one to one by weight. Another called for 100 gm. sugar to 3 kg. onions. One called for wine and vinegar, another for paprika and mustard seeds. It seemed as though, whatever you decided, you couldn’t go wrong. So, I decided, like Frank Sinatra, to just do it my way, which is making it up as I go along. That’s what a terrier does, right?

Next step: buy the onions. Well, now, 3 lbs/$2.97, or 10 lbs./$4.97? I’m Dutch, so what do you think I did? Right. The big bag came home with me. The corollary to a big bag of onions is a big batch of jam. The corollary to that is a big cooking pot, lots of jars, lids, etc. Check. Oh, oh, I should have bought sugar, too. Oh, well, probably brown sugar will do if I run out of white. Maybe even corn syrup. Terriers are not all that fussy.

And then I make my first mistake (if you don’t count deciding to do it, and forgetting to buy sugar the first mistakes). I had decided to go with the slow cooker method, but I didn’t get started till 2 p.m. Would it be done by the time I wanted to go to bed? Oh, well, I’d use the high setting on the slow cooker. We shall see what we shall see. Easy peasy, remember? You can’t go wrong. Terriers aren’t so great at planning ahead.

Down from the high shelf came the Cuisinart, only used when I get similar hair-brained ideas. Al watched the tears rolling down my cheeks as I peeled the first onion – only 9 left to go. He took pity on me. Now you might think this is above and beyond the call of duty, and it is, but not quite as masochistic as you might think. He’s been known to chop 10 pounds of onions by hand at the local soup kitchen with not a single tear burning his eye. With Al at the controls of the Cuisinart, the job was done in jig time. What a guy! Love him.

It turns out that 10 onions is way too much for one crock pot. Out came the second one. Well, if I’m making two batches, I should try two flavours – one simple sweet one with a bit of brown sugar, one with a bit of bite and spice with the addition of paprika, mustard, vinegar, and more sugar. Why keep it simple if you can make it complicated?

The hours ticked by, and the kitchen smelled like simmering onions, not a bad smell on a cold rainy day. But by 11 p.m., my onion marmalade looked more like onion soup. I turned the heat down, and went to bed. One online cook had said that’s what she did when it took longer than planned to become jammy.

Are you getting tired of this blow-by-blow cooking adventure story? I am. So I’ll skip over the part about getting up at 12:30 a.m. and turning the crock pots off to quell the bad dreams I was having about the house burning down. And I won’t go into details about additional spices and vinegars and sugars that needed to be added to make the jams tasty and cover up the musty paprika smell.

Ras-el Hanut is a Turkish spice mix. It had been sitting in my cupboards just waiting for a dish in which it could make an appearance.
Nor will I wail about finally having to resort to stove-top cooking to get it to jammy consistency -- 22 hours after I started this gig. Turns out slow cookers are not so easy-peasy after all.

Here’s the end result:

Oh, and this:

Al came home just as I was leaving to run some errands. I said I’d do the dishes later. When I came home a few hours later, this is what I found:

Like I said, he’s a keeper. He taste-tested the sweet onion jam on a slice of bread and said it was very good. I hope Don thinks so too.

Saturday, 7 April 2018

Chasing down Rabbits

Well, the rabbits have been busy blazing new trails in my head this week.

Does that happen to you, too? You’re sitting there minding your own business, and then, suddenly, the puffy tail of one of those little creatures peeks out from an opening between your brain cells and runs off.  You could ignore this invitation to follow the rabbit and see where it leads you, but what’s the fun in that? So you are off on another mind adventure, like a terrier chasing a delicious scent. You might get lost, unable to find your way home again for a while, but the chase – well the chase is worth it.

The rabbit first appeared as I was sitting at the breakfast table all alone, a book open in front of me. Absent-mindedly I took a bite of toast, and wow! Fireworks! Yellow splashes of sunshine! I sat up straight and regarded my jammy toast. Of course – kumquat marmalade – the taste of it brought memories of Phoenix, and warmth, and experimentation with sugar, kumquats and canning jars. That’s all it took.  The rabbit called Marmalade was off and running.

Marmalade: what a lovely word. The mmmmms and the llllls roll off your tongue with a little help from the rrrrrrs. I’d never made marmalade before, but I’m sure I’ll do it again, if I ever see kumquats on the grocery store shelves.

Kumquats – there’s another – but no, that’s another rabbit, another trail. Stick to marmalade..

 Which reminded me: I’m going to visit my sister and brother-in-law next week, and Don once posted a picture of a British pub lunch that featured onion marmalade; he wondered plaintively why nobody ever made onion jam anymore. When I looked up the recipe, I was daunted by the pounds of onions and hours of simmering it would take, and nixed it. But wouldn’t it make a nice gift to bring to him? Yes, I do have other things to do, but this trail smells good. I think I’ll do it, but don’t tell him. He doesn’t read my blog, so it will be a surprise.

Do other people make marmalade? Do they still do canning and preserving? It’s so easy to just pick up a few jars of jam or pickles or chutney at the grocery store – why go to the time and trouble of creating all those jars of stuff? But it’s something I enjoy. Sometimes I get the urge, and can away to my heart’s content. The kitchen smells oh so yummy when that happens. Right now I have applesauce, tomato sauce, tomato jam, relish, 2 kinds of chutney, pears and more sitting on my shelves. Why? Maybe because the flavours that tickle your taste buds are ones you yourself added to the pure goodness of the fruits and vegetables, and maybe, like my marmalade, the tastes burst out in your mouth like nothing else, bringing back memories of their original state. Maybe. Or maybe I'm just crazy. Maybe. It’s another trail to explore another time.

Not yet, though, because the words canning and preserving give me another rabbit to chase. A week or so ago, my quilting friend Lorraine wrote about the Jesuit Pear – a heritage pear brought from France by the first Jesuit missionaries to the area where she grew up in SW Ontario. Some of those pears still survive hundreds of years later. You can read her blog and look at the wonderful art she has created based on these pears.  (Yes, you'll be running down a new rabbit trail, but it's worth it. I'll still be here when you come back.)

Lorraine's blog made me think of my mother’s “stoofpeertjes” (pronounced stofe pairtches). The name means “little stew pears,” – these pears were apparently popular in Holland but little known in Canada. Hard as golf balls, you had to simmer them for hours in a light syrup of sugar and water until they softened and turned a rosy pink. You could gussy them up with cinnamon sticks and wine, but plain and simple is how we had them. They appeared as a side dish at special meals, and they were highly prized. Back then, in the 50s and 60s, a woman in the church had a stoof peertje tree in her yard. When the fruits were ready in late September, the call went out to come and get them. Mom came home with paper bags full of pears and set to work to stew and bottle them. The memory of those peertjes makes my mouth water, and I am off on another trail, to see if I can track down my own source of stoof peertjes. I poked around on the internet – lots of trails to follow there – and found out that this type of pear is called the Giezer Willemand, but only nurseries in Holland and the UK carry it. So that’s a dead end trail, but perhaps one of my 14 wonderful readers, some of whom grew up eating those pears, will have some clues that I can follow up on. And I’ll be off and running again.

Well, slowly but surely, the rabbits trails are petering out. Oh, that’s a good one: petering out/Peter Rabbit – get it? Yes, another little trail...and where that one leads could be fun, but I do find myself heading back home again, tired but happy after a good run, to give my brain some rest.

Until the next time another little critter pokes its nose out of the space between my brains cells.

Saturday, 31 March 2018

Keep Singing

In my last blog, I wrote that this week I would blog about why people travel. But then I realized it would be Easter Sunday when I posted, and that calls for a different kind of reflection.  The other topic will wait.

Easter Morning Alleluia
Four years ago, on impulse, I created a crow piece to celebrate Easter – a raucous, mouth-wide-open squawking crow to celebrate a sublime and sacred event. In my blog that Sunday, I wrote about heart songs – we all have a song in our heart that becomes loud and glad when we are doing what gives us joy. Even the crow! The crow, and all of us, too, for that matter, were created to sing the song that only we can sing.

In that blog, I wrote, “It takes courage to follow the song in our hearts, and especially to believe in the song when it is being drowned out by other noises. Today is Easter Sunday, the day that rings out with songs of joy. Whatever your spiritual persuasion, you can still be stirred by the universal message of the Easter story. It’s all about having a heartsong and the courage to follow it. The Creator had a heartsong and acted on it. Creation – the world we live in and all that it contains, including us  – is the result of that song. The thing deep within us that makes our heart sing is the best of us, it is who we are meant to be..

When the song within us was lost, Courage stepped up and in love, did the hard thing to restore the music. The message of Easter is that the song planted within us cannot die. The name of the song is Love, and love is stronger than death.”

Well. I loved my “Easter Morning Alleluia” piece and all that it said to me, but when it was put on display in a show, it sold. That’s good news, but I no longer have it to hang on the wall. So now (Friday) I feel the urge to create another work of art. The song in my heart is a bit muted, but working on a new piece, I’m sure, will raise the volume.

The piece I envision is based on something I experienced in California when we were on vacation. We had been driving most of the day on busy interstate and state highways in California, and discovered to our consternation that many California drivers are rude beyond reckoning, zig-zagging in and out of traffic, cutting you off, flashing their lights, even when you are going over the speed limit in the center lane. We zoomed by non-stop commercial districts, chains of cheap motels, golden arches, one mall morphing into another. It was totally nerve-racking. And then we got to our turn-off, a much quieter road that would be leading to our destination, a small town in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains.

It took only a few minutes for our racing hearts to notice the peace. Rolling hills, dotted with cattle and bare-branched oak trees, bathed us in a balm of pastoral beauty. We caught our breath, let the tension leak out of us, and gradually tuned into the song in our hearts. Those trees had their own song – to my eyes, they were dancing, their twisted limbs silhouetted against the sky, going this way and that, as though expressing joy.*xIBtQEYaAIoYd8WLSwIBYqQ0Rbeuw/
That week, wherever we traveled on the country roads, we saw them over and over again. No photo can capture the sense of joy I felt traveling through that pastoral beauty, but the scenes are lodged in my heart.

It’s Easter joy, made manifest through Creation, and I’m wishing it for you. 

I’ve started the piece, but realize there’s lots of work to be done, lots of experimenting if it is to say what I want it to say. Maybe, next Easter, I’ll be able to post the completed work.

Saturday, 24 March 2018

The Joys of Poking Around

After four long days of driving, we settled into our first digs in Sedona, Arizona. We’d been urged to go there by friends – “It’s so beautiful,” they said. And it is: red rock canyons, clear blue skies, amazing sunsets.

 And hotels. Lots and lots of hotels. And condos and time shares. Golf courses, helicopter rides, guided tours.  Fancy restaurants. And, of course, tourists!

I have become a bit jaded when it comes to travelling. After our 2015 trip to France, while walking through big and small towns, I sometimes felt like I was walking through a theme park staged just for us. So much of our world is turning to tourism as a lucrative industry to replace the small businesses that have been wiped out by the big boys of commerce. They need to find ways to make a living, so they turn to B&Bs, special attractions, cafes and souvenir shops for their income. They spruce up the village square, polish the big church bell, put potted red geraniums everywhere, and voila! Wherever you look, you find another postcard-worthy scene. It’s great for a while, but then you begin to wonder, “What’s life like here when the lights go out on the tourists?”  When you decide to find out, you stop being a tourist and become a traveller.

The life that goes on after the tourists go home is the part I like most about travelling. You can find it if you engage in the activity of poking around. When you are poking around, you don’t know what you will find, but often it is what sticks in your mind and what gives you stories to tell.

For instance, when we were poking around in Hawaii a few years ago, we came across a local farmer’s market. The farmers were selling big bunches of basil and bags of macadamia nuts for dirt cheap. The cottage we’d rented had a food-processor and some empty jars, and we had bought some good olive oil and garlic. What else could I do but make macadamia nut pesto? We had enough for several good pasta meals, plus a bottle I froze and packed in my suitcase. If you poke around, it’s what you get as a souvenir instead of the wall plaque featuring a hula dancer and a palm tree.

So in Sedona, when we passed a farmer’s market in the parking lot of local shopping center, we stopped and poked around, bought organic salad fixings, and had a lovely meal at our rented home, a trailer parked in someone’s 1 acre yard.

We also chatted with the owner and learned lots about the vicinity. We visited the local artists’ cooperative and learned about the thriving art community there.

Inspiration for another art piece?

We picnicked in a popular park which is packed on hot summer days by the locals. We found a Christmas shop where they carried some very unique nativities to add to our collection. All in a good day’s work of poking around.

There was a quilt shop down the street from our lodgings. Of course, I had to go see what I could see.

The caption says, "Waiting for Wife." He was, in the car, with his cell phone, playing games. 
“Have you visited our quilt show at the library?” asked the shop owner. Off we went to the library located in a residential part of town. (The RS was being exceptionally indulgent that day!) The quilt show was amazing (and free!).

The library was architecturally beautiful, but that wasn’t all.  “Have you visited our used bookstore next door?” asked the librarian.

Thousands of donated books lined the shelves in a building that used to be a Buddhist meditation centre, complete with golden mandalas painted on the walls. We walked away with guide books for the area, an Audubon bird book and a few novels for our down time. Score! And as a bonus, we glimpsed what happens in that town when the tourists go home. It’s a good place to visit, but also a great place to live.

We shared our next lodgings, a house in the desert about ½ hour out of Phoenix, with my sister and brother-in-law. Now there were four of us poking around. We walked the trails at a local conservation areas, and walked the sand roads in the neighbourhood. Sometimes, when you are poking around, you may not like what you see:

I signed up for a free class with a conservation officer and a professional photographer to learn how to take better pictures, and spent a morning with them and other locals learning a lot about the flora and fauna of the area.

Poking around is also how I got to make kumquat marmalade.  Beside the patio at our home, there was a kumquat tree loaded with tiny fruits. I googled Kumquat to find out more. It turns out the skin of these oranges is sweet, and the insides are sour. You eat the skin, and toss out the insides. 

It also turns out that you can make amazing marmalade out of them. So I did. It meant scouting out a local thrift shop to find some canning jars. The thrift stores Sue and I visited in our search were run by volunteers and we had lots of fun finding out what was happening. We even got invited to the Shrove Tuesday Pancake breakfast at the local church. The end result of our poking around: I’m down to my last of three jars of the most amazing marmalade I’ve ever tasted.

Okay, please understand: I’m not against tourism. I’m not against helicopter rides with spectacular views of the canyon you can only see if you get up in the air. We’ve done some of those kinds of things, too. I’m not against hotels and restaurants and lounging around the pool while soaking up warm rays – it may be just the thing to rejuvenate you. Different strokes for different folks. It all depends on what you want to get out of your vacation. I’ll blog more about that next week.

But for the RS and me this year, poking around was the best! And I have the kumquat marmalade to prove it.  

Saturday, 17 March 2018

Field Notes (Week 1)

I thought I’d have lots of time to blog when we were on our road trip. Not so. I learned (again) that a road trip is a time to observe and take notes, but all that info needs time to percolate. Now, a week after we are back, I'm ready to blog again.

These notes are from week one, when we were driving long days to get to our destination. You can learn a lot about a culture through observation, even through the window of our car when you're driving thousands of km. on the Interstate.

●    Three billboards about a mile apart: “Getting tired of knitting, Granny?” “We’ve got you covered.” “Stop in at xxx Casino and we’ll show you what fun is.” Another Casino urges you to “Celebrate the Great Indoors.”
●    Another billboard in the middle of nowhere, painted with lurid flames: “Lust will drive you down to HELL.” Whoa!
●    Cannabis is a big thing: “Need Weed? We got it. Call Cana King.” “The desert’s finest weed – 1st gram free.”Makes you wonder how many tokers are sharing the road with you.
●    Duelling billboards highlight the very serious situation of California’s water shortage, which is pitting farmers against environmentalists. “The Salton Sea Crisis is real.” “Save the Delta, stop the Canal.” And this:

Cell phone towers have proliferated – they are everywhere. Some disguise themselves as artistic statements. One looked like a jigsaw puzzle cross outside a church. But the strangest were the fake pine trees we named pinus cellphonicus – tall poles with fake pine branches sticking out of them in every direction. At first glance, I couldn't believe it, but when I googled the concept, I found out it's not just pines, but cacti, palm trees, name it, they're cell phone towers in disguise. Here's an example I found on a website -- the car was going too fast to get a good one for myself.

photo by Robert Voit on Amusing Planet.
 You can see more at this site: "Can you hear me now?" Absolutely, with all of that help out there!

We saw this:

That coffee has to be as black as tar, don’t you think?

Then we saw a big industrial building, with these words painted on its side: Firearms. Buy. Sell. Trade. Rent.  Ummm, rent? “I’d like to rent a gun, please. I’ll only need it for an hour or so, it’s a very small job.” We saw a Safari Park next door to the gun shop; perhaps the renter might just go and bag himself a giraffe or a tiger?

But the best signs we saw were at Slide Rock State Park north of Sedona, Arizona. The park features a creek that cascades down slippery rocks for about ½ mile and is a very popular swimming hole when the temperatures reach 110 in the shade.

At the park, there’s a concession/restaurant with an outdoor patio. From the patio roof hang signs advertising such things as postcards, ice cream, soft drinks, french fries etc. But if you’re on the inside, looking out, the back sides of the signs are painted with delightful slogans and sayings – good words to live by.  Better than a billboard any day.

Sometimes, the best things are just not standing right out in the open advertising themselves. You need to poke around to find them.

Saturday, 27 January 2018

Just One Word

Have you chosen your word for the year?

One Little Word is a movement begun in 2006 by Ali Edwards. She chose a word in January to be her focus and guide, a word that expressed the hope she was nurturing for her year.

“In 2006 I began a tradition of choosing one word for myself each January – a word to focus on, meditate on, and reflect upon as I go about my daily life,” she writes in her blog One Little Word. “My words have included play, peace, vitality, nurture, story, light, up, open, thrive, give, and whole. These words have each become a part of my life in one way or another.” (

The movement has grown, and it has become a popular practice. Go ahead, google “one little word” or "word of the year" and see what’s out there.  You can read books, buy resources, find memes and art ideas, and take workshops on how to grow from this special word you’ve chosen.

Personally, I’ve sometimes, but not always, chosen a word for the year. One year it was YES! I wanted to say yes to the many opportunities to explore and grow that were coming my way. I created a little wall hanging printed with words and phrases and hung it on my bulletin board. It was a very good year. Perhaps the power of choosing a word for the year lies in just stating your intentions – stating it is the first step to acting on it.

Back in the busy season (aka December) I came across a quote by Meister Eckhart that has inspired me to choose a rather unusual word for this year. The quote is this:

Meister Eckhart was a 13th century theologian who rattled a lot of chains in his day.  Living in a time when the church believed a vast chasm existed between the divine and the human, he made the startling declaration that God and human beings are already bonded together, already in intimate contact. The only obstacle to our experiencing this is our consciousness of the fact. It’s as though we are surrounded by a fog that obscures the presence of the divine. We are walking through life surrounded by Love, but we just can’t see it. We know there is something missing, but how do we connect?

I know that feeling. I read that quote in early December, and wrote the above lines to start a blog. I didn’t finish it because there were too many other things that were consuming me. I was running through life surrounded by Love, but was too busy, too busy to connect with it. December sucked me up. Fortunately it spit me out again halfway into January. Now it’s time to think some more about the quote.

So I’ve decided to make Subtraction my word for the year. I have no hankering to become an ascetic hermit, but something needs to change. And subtraction is not necessarily a negative thing: it can be liberating to shuck off constricting habits, patterns of thought, and emotional scars. There’s a greater freedom in travelling light.

This week, we are beginning a 6 week road trip down south to Arizona. Road trips mean, by necessity, that you leave behind a lot of the things you take for granted at home. I am subtracting the security of friendships, community, familiar landscapes. Subtracting everyday routines means there is more time for reflection and stock-taking. What in my life needs to be discarded? We are going to have new experiences, which will challenge our old ways of being and seeing. Which of our old ways of being and old ways of thinking might need to be subtracted so we can keep growing? 

We go into this trip with our eyes and hearts and minds wide open. We’re wishing ourselves, and you, travelling mercies in 2018. Via con dios.

Saturday, 20 January 2018

Three Women and a Movie

When you let three women of a certain age out loose on the town, who knows what will happen?

I’d put out an email to a group of friends: “Who wants to see “Three Billboards outside Ebbing Missouri” on Tuesday night? Cheap night! Only $6.”

Two were brave enough to accept my invitation. I’m not sure whether it was the pleasure of my company that enticed them, or the movie’s reputation, or the cheap price. I didn’t question – better not to ask. Whatever – it was a date. Those are not plentiful at our age, and you take one every chance you get.

Now the first thing that can happen when three women of a certain age go out on the town, is that one or more will forget the date. There she is curled up with her glass of wine, the fireplace cozy and warm, when something niggles in her brain. Wasn’t she supposed to be somewhere? It almost happened, but fortunately she remembered at the last minute. Another thing might be that one or more of them is “too pooped to pop” by 4 p.m. and is tempted to cancel out. That almost happened, too, but (it must the pleasure of my company, after all!), we all got to the theatre.

Not early enough to get three seats together, however. Remember, it’s cheap Tuesday, and the Valley is full of many older people eager for a cheap date. The early show is preferred to the late one (otherwise, you might be too pooped to keep your eyes open for the show.) So there we were, on a date, scattered throughout the theatre, waving at each other and mouthing words we couldn’t lip read. We couldn’t even have a nice congenial chat while we sat through the interminable previews of coming shows, most featuring explosions and car chases and gruesome endings. A congenial chat would have been nice -- a little gossip, a little catch-up in the news department, a little comparison about our health issues.

Then came the movie. Another thing that might happen when you let three women out on the town is that one of the women could forget her hearing aids, or her glasses, or the Obus form that make the sprung seats bearable so you don’t wreck your back. Yes, a few adaptive appliances got left at home. Par for the course. These things happen, and you have to live with it – mamma always said life isn’t  a bed of roses. So you miss a few lines of dialogue, or end up with a sore back.  It is what it is. Women of a certain age know that for a fact.

Now the movie: well! Maybe three women of a certain age shouldn’t  like a movie that contains  profanity, has some pretty violent scenes, and  jokes about the N word. But there’s something about the heroine Frances McDormand, (flawed as she is), wrinkles, bad hair, and wardrobe- impaired, that speaks to us. She is trying to shame the police into working harder to solve the murder of her teenaged daughter, and she’s not nice about it, not nice like women of a certain age should be. She’s not the “wear beige and shut up” kind of lady, and we all need to be reminded of that. Some things are worth fighting for. We’ll make mistakes, but mamma always said the best lessons you learn are when you make mistakes. (Pay attention: this is the only part of the blog I did not write with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek.)

We emerged from the theatre, shaking our heads and laughing a little. This called for a debriefing, but Courtenay has few coffee shops open at night. Did I mention that our Valley is, in the words of the last census report, “characterized by a relatively large  65+ age cohort and a rising median age. This age cohort is over-represented in the region in comparison to provincial and national figures.” Really, we are just a little ticked that they would get so personal as to mention our “large” “figures”, but oh, well, whatever.  So we went to Timmies, which is open 24 hours, and attracts all kinds of other people out on the town, mostly teenagers (because the old-timers in bed already.) I texted my RS – “Having tea at Tommies. See you later.” Darn that autocorrect – then again, maybe he’d text back and say, “Who the heck is Tommie and what are you doing at his place?” but all he texted back was “OK.” I was disappointed.

Over cups of tea, the three women debrief about the movie, then get down to the congenial chat they’d missed out on, featuring gossip, a catch-up in the news department, and an organ recital about the various parts of our bodies that were giving us problems. We all looked at our watches to make sure we won’t be turning into pumpkins anytime soon, but nobody was wearing one. I had a cell phone, however, which I checked: getting close to 9, the witching hour.

This led to a discussion of cell phones and all that newfangled technology. One of the women confessed she had to ask some kids out on the street how to turn the thing on when she first tried using it. Another said that she still hasn’t figured out how to send messages – every time she tries, the phone operates like a ... surprise, surprise!...  phone, making a call that connects her to the party she’s trying to text. She displays one of her screens and says, “Hey, but I do have a personal hot spot.  Do you have one of those?” There’s a moment of shocked silence, before one of us replies, “Uh yes, but mamma says you don’talk about that in public.” The titters become giggles become loud guffaws. The teenagers at the next table look over in surprise. What’s so funny? Oh, if you only knew.

It’s hard to control three women of a certain age when you let them out on the town.

It was time to go, so after a visit to the biffy (don’t ever pass up that opportunity when you are a woman of a certain age) we headed home. Mission accomplished: a good date. And cheap, even. 
So it looks like there may be a few more of those chick movie nights in the offing. Anyone want to join us?