Jenyfer Matthews

We were surrounded – a herd of does and fawns on one side, and a pack of foxes on the other, all of them hungry. They were discontent, one step away from an angry mob – my only advantage being that they didn’t actually have pitchforks or fiery torches. I did the only thing I could do in such a situation: I walked outside armed only with a red plastic coffee can in each hand – one filled with corn for the deer and one filled with whole roasted chicken pieces for the foxes, chicken that my step-mother had bought and roasted especially for the yard pets.

After I poured out the corn, I did as my step-mother the fox tamer instructed and sat in the grass with my arm extended, offering a drum stick. As much as the first fox to approach wanted that chicken, he wasn’t quite sure about me. He got close enough to me that I could hear his little feet in the grass and the snort from his nose as he assessed the situation. When he decided that I looked like a bad risk, he danced away a short distance watching me. He still wanted that chicken. I admit a certain amount of relief. I stood up slowly and walked over to the little knoll they like and left the chicken pieces there.

They seemed to enjoy their dinner, as they didn’t immediately disperse after. It seemed they knew that their regular chef wasn’t home and they were in the mood to put on a show for her understudy. Kind of like school children do when they have a substitute teacher! The deer eventually chased several of the foxes on to the roof of the shed up the driveway and shortly after they all left.

The next morning I was two hours later than they all would have preferred for breakfast as well, and lucky for me there was only one hungry fox out there still loitering and hoping. We were both in luck: I only had about enough left for one fox anyway and he got it all. My step-mother can tell them all apart. The only thing I could tell is that this fox wasn’t worried about me at all – he just wanted his breakfast. He pretty well stood his ground as I approached the knoll. If I had wanted to sit in the dew-wet grass in my pajamas, he probably would have stuck his head in the bucket and gotten the remaining chicken for himself!

I locked the doors before I went to bed. The way the animals all seemed to know that a newbie was in charge I was a little afraid that the bears might decide to let themselves in for a midnight snack!

The only thing better than a swim in a cold lake on a hot summer day…

is a beer margarita on a hot summer day!

My son is off on his overnight camping trip with his grandpa and step-grandma – and I’m on fox feeding duty this evening and tomorrow morning. The question remains whether I’m brave enough to try hand feeding them and whether or not they’d come up to me if I did.

Stay tuned and have a great weekend!

I’ve heard about the fabulous blueberry picking opportunities in the area nearly every summer I’ve visited my parents, but have never gone picking myself until this weekend. There is an area up the Gunflint Trail that has been cleared at different times by forest fires where the blueberries grow plentifully. I could tell you more specifically where we went, but then I’d have to kill you.

It was a hot day and very still – and it takes longer than you’d think to fill up a gallon sized ice cream bucket even if the berries are fat and juicy!

If I crouched too long, I’d get stuck in that position.

But standing wasn’t so much better!

Even after we’d been out there a couple of hours and I’d filled my bucket 2/3 of the way, I still couldn’t stop. We had decided to go back to the car and maybe find another spot but I kept having to stop and pick just a little more because the berries were so pretty!

As you can see, all that hard work paid off in the end. Is there anything better than fresh blueberry pie?

The first week we were on vacation we were staying in a hotel while my daughter attended a tennis camp. The room didn’t have a refrigerator, so we were dependent on eating in restaurants. At first I was looking forward to it – any day I don’t have to cook is a good day.

I quickly went off eating in restaurants. Is there anything on any menu that isn’t deep fried and / or covered in cheese? It’s as if these places are looking for ways to make things as unhealthy as possible. And the portion sizes are ridiculous – even when I ordered a half order of pesto for my son it arrived in a serving bowl and was enough to feed at least two adults.

The children’s menus were just as ridiculous. There weren’t so very many options in the small town where we were staying so we ended up eating at Perkins (a large chain) a lot. If you ordered the macaroni and cheese from the children’s menu, they gave you an ice cream scoop sized portion of pasta and a small side order of your choice. I understand that the children’s menu covers a wide age range and that not all children have the same appetite, so I didn’t think much about it the skimpy serving until my son ordered the “dollar pancakes” one evening instead. The pancakes were actually $1 cheaper than the macaroni, but the stack of pancakes they brought him would have been more appropriate for a truck driver. Where is the rationale in that?

I finally managed by skipping meals or picking off my children’s plates.

It’s not a whole lot better now that I’m at my father’s house however. My step-mother plays dirty: she is a great cook and she spoils me rotten by not only making my favorite entrees, but she also makes dessert every night. How am I supposed to resist carrot cake with caramel frosting, chocolate chocolate chip cookies, or ice cream with fresh raspberries? And just in case I could resist all of that, she bought my favorite mint ice cream bars as well.

She looks perfectly pleasant, but she’s evil, I tell you. Pure evil. No one could resist her wiles – I don’t think I’ve been hungry since I arrived. I’m powerless in her grasp – and it would be churlish of me to refuse her hospitality. I’ve gained about five pounds in my first week, and at this rate even my baggiest pants won’t fit by the time I leave. I’d have to kayak all day, every day against the wind to keep up with this intake.

Three weeks (nearly) down, three to go…

The weather report for the weekend was a little iffy but I’m happy to say we were in luck. Saturday we hiked for about three hours up a big hill at the back of my father’s property. The trail was marked “Hellacious View” – it was clear enough that we could practically see Canada from up there.

We spent Sunday at a birthday party for my step-mother’s niece at a place they have on an inland lake. What a beautiful day! We did some kayaking and ate some fabulous fried fish before we started to play with the big water toys.

The children looked like they were having so much fun being dragged in the tube behind the boat, I decided it was one of those seize-the-moment-moments that I couldn’t let pass by.

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The things I won’t do after a few beer margarita cocktails!

It was a lot of fun, though I was petrified that I was going to flip over into the lake at high speed. I have to admit that I had such a tight grip on the handles of that tube that I broke a blood vessel in one of my fingers and came away with a big bruise!

I’m glad I did it once, but I think I’ll probably stick to kayaking from now on!

I went shopping for a few cleaning supplies to leave for the house cleaner who will come in while I’m away over the summer.

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It wasn’t until I left that I took a look at the sales receipt:

Not only is my bath cleaner over-qualified for the job, I don’t think I’m worthy of my peanut butter either.

My son is a chip off the old block when it comes to his love of harvesting free wild food. I myself have the fondest memories of picking wild blackberries in North Carolina (or at least the product of the picking, between the heat and the thorns the berry-picking itself wasn’t much fun at all) and I have been known to grab big handfuls of basil growing along the curbs in our neighborhood in Cairo. When we are home in the summertime, I can hardly keep my son out of the woods so great is the lure of raspberries, blueberries, thimbleberries, and June berries. He will hike for miles and miles without complaint, munching his way along.

We were at our neighborhood club last week and my son was bored because none of his friends were around. We were planning to stay for a while so rather than listen to him whine, I suggested he go check out the trees at the back of the lawn to see if there were any “limes” growing. I’m calling them limes for lack of a better term – they aren’t really limes as I know them. Perhaps an ornamental version?

It was a good suggestion since it kept him occupied for a very long time, but little did I know what I was letting myself in for: the little man picked 6.2 pounds of limes!

My son was absolutely filthy by the time he was done (the last place you want to stand during a rain storm in Cairo is under a tree – they accumulate a huge amount of dust in between showers!) and he may rethink his enthusiasm next time as I made him carry the bag home.

The next morning he washed all the limes off and demanded we make juice. Since it was my idea in the first place, I could hardly refuse. What else were we going to do with them?

They didn’t look too bad when we cut them open so we got to work. Need I say that in spite of my son’s declaration that he wanted to make juice every day, he quickly grew bored with the whole process? We juiced every lime in that bag and all we got for our efforts were 1 1/4 cups of juice and a sore arm!

I added about 1/2 cup of sugar and 2 cups of water to make the juice. In the end it was…a bit strange. Not bad exactly, but not a roaring success. We did something similar last year and the children liked it more so I suspect I added more sugar last time. They aren’t so enthusiastic this year. I might like it better myself if I added a cup of gin to it.

Does this count as a new recipe for July? Nah…I didn’t think so!

A few weeks ago, at the end of May, I took advantage of a free annual physical that my husband’s employer was offering. I assume it was a way for the insurance company to gather data on the pool of participants so they could set the rates for next year, but whatever. Free check-up!

I did as much as I could that one day – blood work, chest x-rays, ECG, abdominal ultrasound, and an eye exam. I skipped the gynecological exam since I’d had one fairly recently, and was given a referral to another clinic for a bone density check and a mammogram. A week later I came down with a nasty virus and I was spending plenty of time seeing doctors, but I put the mammogram and bone density check out of my mind.

Until this week. I was planning to do the bone density check, which I assumed would be some sort of x-ray, and thought I’d skip the mammogram. I’ve never had one but I can say that every account I’ve ever had from anyone who has was completely off-putting. I tried to let myself off the hook by saying that breast cancer doesn’t run in my family and that my odds were also lower because I breastfed both of my children. In the end I guilted myself into going by saying that there might come a day when I wished I’d been more proactive.

I wouldn’t have procrastinated my appointment for so long if I had known it was going to be so amusing.

The bone density exam was a little more involved than I expected, but still just an elaborate xray. The table was so comfortable I could have taken a nap. Then came the mammogram.

I stepped into the next room with my female technician who instructed me to take off my top while she fiddled with putting x-ray films in the machine. Then came the funny bit: positioning my breast between the sheets of plastic.

I am a thin person, and not particularly well-endowed. Not quite flat-chested, but age and gravity have taken their toll. Picture this technician with her head scarf trying to hold my tiny breast in place with her hand as she attempts to squash it between two sheets of plastic for the x-ray. She kept getting her hand caught in the the process, then every time she opened the plates to free herself, my breast would slip out of position. I offered to help out but she wouldn’t let me (like I couldn’t see the markings on the plastic plate?)

I wish I’d had my watch on to keep track of how long it took her to get the necessary films, and knew how long it would take to do the same exam on a “perfect” subject. While she was adjusting my position, she asked me if I had children – I could hear the doubt in her voice. I told her yes, and that I had breastfed both of them and that the children were both HUGE. That got a laugh out of her.

The smashing part wasn’t bad – I think she took pity on my tiny orbs because she asked me if I was okay and in fact there was very little pressure at all.

After we finally got the films taken, I had the ultrasound done. These rooms all had at least two doors which could be locked and the doctors and technicians seemed to be pretty careful about how the exited so as to preserve some modesty for the patient. I appreciated that. After the ultrasound, the doctor handed me some tissue to wipe up the gel they used during the procedure and then opened the door to the hall to exit while I was lying there topless. Thanks a lot!

I was just preparing to leave when the first technician came to get me because the film of my left breast wasn’t good and we had to try again. More groping. Maybe I’ll bring some double stick tape with me next time!

A good friend happened to have the appointment just after mine. I never saw her but we were texting each other during little breaks in the procedures. She wrote to me to tell me that the mammogram technician was commenting to her that only small breasted women were coming in that day! (I always knew they talked about patients behind their backs!) My friend isn’t exactly small chested and she said as much. The technician replied that she had patients whose breasts oozed out from the sides of the plates. That was an image I could have lived without!

If only all doctor appointments could be so funny

I’m disappointed because I have fallen behind with my new-recipe-a-month resolution. How hard can it be to do ONE new recipe a month after all? I deliberately set my goal low because I knew one a week was never going to happen, but if I can’t do one a month that’s just sad.

I don’t think this counts, but this week I made something up out of my head. I had some frozen fish fillets in my freezer and I decided to adapt a recipe I’d looked at that called for shrimp. I sauteed an onion and garlic in olive oil, then threw in some chopped tomato, frozen chopped spinach, the remainder of a jar of pizza sauce, oregano, and basil. Once that was cooked, I added the thawed fish and let it cook for a few minutes before I mixed in some crumbled feta and put it in the oven just to warm it all through.

I wish I could say that the result was great, but it was merely meh. It did not have nearly as much flavor as I would have liked. I would have loved to have included some black olives, but you can’t get the sort of black olives I wanted here and I decided against the splash of balsamic vinegar because I was worried it might get too tart. At the end of the day, I probably should have just used shrimp!

So you tell me, does that count as a new recipe since it was 1) not really a recipe and 2) not a huge success?

I have found a few new recipes that looks like they would be very nice: one for baked falafel and a couple more summer salads that include shrimp. I hope to try both in the next couple of weeks, before I leave on vacation. I can pretty much already admit that I do very little cooking while traveling so even if I catch up to my resolution this month, I’ll be behind again by August. Oh well.

That’s why it’s better just to call it a “goal” rather than a “resolution”.

This is what happens when mommy is too sick and tired to play with the children on a holiday weekend and allows them to play with her digital camera instead of taking them out.

They take pictures of the television.

They also took pictures of each other, but frankly, most of these were better.

See what I mean?

I’m going to need a reprieve on the new-recipe-a-month resolution thing. Pain and illness are both excellent appetite suppressants and no inspiration for cooking for others. I’ll try to do TWO in June as soon as I’m up to speed again. We’ll see how that works out…