Han-dee

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I am a little behind in picking up leaves hiding out under and behind bushes in my yard. I was hoping that they’d break down a little and turn into mulch all by themselves but last time I checked, they are as sturdy as ever.

Action photo of Jumbo Hands.

On the up side, it is a good excuse to spend ten bucks on a pair of jumbo garden hands from the Walter Drake catalog.

They are big (14″ x 11″) forked plastic lids that let you scoop up a lot of leaves at one time. They come in an attractive shade of garden green in case you care about that.

Could be a Father’s Day gift as long as you stick something really good in the package with it.

‘Cause, let’s face it, getting garden hands for Father’s Day (even if they are jumbo) would be about as much fun as getting a double boiler for your birthday.

Bittersweet

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Small town cemeteries in the mid-west start bustling when Memorial day weekend rolls around. Leading up to the weekend, lawn mowers chug up and down the rows and weed eaters raise dust and gravel as they trim the edges of the winding paths.

American Legion volunteers study the cemetery map and then fan out to place a miniature flag on every veteran’s grave site.  Another crew places larger flags in a precise row along the side of the cemetery facing the road.

The chief Legionnaire orders up a sunny and hot weekend with blue skies and a bit of wind to move the leaves on the enormous shade trees and rustle the grasses in the surrounding fields.

The visitors come in clusters. They carry peonies in coffee cans wrapped in aluminum foil or pots of cheerful geraniums or wreaths with plastic greenery and purple pansies. They greet people they know and stop to catch up.

When they stop at grave sites and stoop to arrange their flowers, there are silent words of comfort that mix with the sharp pain of loss.

Put Yr Lips Together

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I doubt that I will ever grow up and out of the irrational notion that if I blow out all of the candles on my birthday cake, I’ll get my wish. (As long as I don’t blab about it.)

The custom is rooted with the ancients, when people believed a herd of gods lived in the sky. Smoke wafting from blown-out candles evidently had a fighting chance of reaching a wish granting spirit.

Since birthday wishes are such a time-honored tradition, there’s job security in  cake baking.  But some bakers are probably more secure than others.

Cake Wrecks is only interested in cakes gone wrong. For instance, it was just as well that little Trudi Smith didn’t know how to read when it was time for her to blow out the candles on her purple cake.

Overheard.

“Well, I guess Nuts is Peter Allergy’s brother or maybe sister? Good lookin’ bushes, doncha think?”

“Yeah, nice. Let’s move on. We have to finish one more for a 5:00 pick-up, we gots to hurry.”

“Okay, here’s the gab – it goes on the white frosted swirl two decker round.”

“H 85th (Grand.Mom)?”

“Yeah, that’s what it says. I think it is some kinda computer code or somethin?”

“Alrighty. We’re done.”

(Thanks Meghan for passing this along.)

Big O Count-Down

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If you want, with a few clicks of your mouse, you can sign your name to a big farewell card being assembled by AOL to mark the end of Oprah Winfrey’s 25 year talk show run.

Image from Media Outrage.

Well, gee. What’s going on?

Is it the threat of a random debilitating disease? Is it an emerging cause that demands 100 per cent of her passion and energy? Is it simply fatigue and a reckless “I need to start over!” plea? Boredom? Hunger? Ennui?

Her curiously bewildered fans turn to each other and screw up their faces in deep  concentration. They start to describe their Oprah moments; one by one they recount their favorite guests, topics, clothes and the stupendous giveaways that dazzled audiences through the years.

“To OWN,” one of elders among them finally says. “Right,” another chimes in, “To OWN.”

“O. W. N?”

“Oprah Winfrey Network.” The chorus murmurs in reply.

“AAARG! You have GOT to be effing kiddin’ me!”

Public Service Announcement

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Since the rapture was re-scheduled, you may be a cook facing a big dilemma for your Sunday dinner. You certainly would not have hauled out a big rump roast from the freezer yesterday. Who knows, did you already donate your best pans to charity? Hmmm. What to do?

Here’s a suggestion guaranteed to make you glad you are still of this earth.  Ease on down the road to your nearest Sonic and wheel into a parking spot. For a measly $1.99 each, buy Chicago Dogs for the whole family.

Image from Grub Trade

It’s an all beef hot dog topped with pickle, relish, tomato, peppers, celery salt and mustard served in a soft, warm poppy-seed bun.

There are other dogs on the menu but I think the Chicago Dog beats up the others.

The celery seed and the poppy seed combination gives it a nearly-there gourmet impact.

I have to tell you the first time I tried one I was enraptured. ‘Course, I am also really partial to Sonic’s diet cherry limeades. So maybe it was the combination that brought me close to the edge.