A Penny for Your Thoughts, A Nickel for a Kiss

Up in the Sky by Majali

I once went on vacation by myself to Santa Fe, New Mexico. I went to Santa Fe to eat Frito Pie at the Woolworth's. The Woolworth's had closed down. I remembered this today as I happened on this recipe. The original was served in the Frito bag at the lunch counter.

I have a weakness for lunch counters.

My mother has hooked Nancy on Fritos this year. At the cabin, Donn and Nancy celebrated with champagne and Fritos by the creek before their anniversary dinner.

I sent mother a birthday package to New Jersey at the first of July. When her tour itinerary changed, the package remained. The package has yet to wend its way to mother. The package contains, among sundries, Fritos.

Since attending Christine's wedding reception, I am always looking for a delicious garlic bread recipe.

Often when looking for a good recipe, I consult The Silver Palate Cookbook. I am still looking for garlic bread.

Amy sometimes recalls the Smokehouse garlic cheese bread. When googled, the recipe calls for a packet of Kraft mac and cheese powder.

One of my favorite foods is olives. Not surprisingly, I love tapenade. The best tuna sandwich you will ever eat is at Waters. It is the albacore salad sandwich with tapenade and arugula on herb focaccia. I would be lying if I denied it is one of my favorite foods ever. I try to never lie.

I found Dobby's death incredible. I often think of Dobby and house elves.

Sometimes it's hard to imagine eating at a place with "wool" in the title. A swank restaurant named "Burlap" just opened near me. I made an informal vow never to patronize it.

The two African violets in my terrarium thrive but have not bloomed. I have yet to help an African violet bloom.

Each House Beautiful issue makes me want to paint my room. Lately, it has been pink.

My current life goal is to make Spike Mendelsohn's Toasted Marshmallow Shake. I try to set attainable, pleasurable goals and encourage you to do the same. Help me help you.

The Cabin

My father's side are the hunters. So the cabin walls hold big game antlers, a deer head, and mounted fish. The cabin was built in the 1950s. It is a repository of family memories and ancient crockery at the end of the road of summer cabins north of Mammoth Lakes. You hear the creek everywhere. And this year it was burgeoning. 

The creek is always cold from snowy run-off. But live water is part of the terrain. We wash dishes with it, boil it to drink, and shower under it. When we talk about the cabin, we talk about the creek. 

Unfolding from the driver's seat in the dark of the dirt road and in the light of the porch, you breathe pine. And the screen door opens and Nancy comes out and the screen door slams. The sound of the screen door, the rush of the creek, and the snap of the fire.  

And every day Donn and mother look for clouds. The family is a family of photographers and clouds are a must. I lay the spiderweb quilt on my up-at-the-top-of-the-stairs bed. It was made for an attic bedroom. The screened window is a frame of trees. Three chamber pots remain. (The outhouse was not used by me; we used the inside bathroom, a room I was previously unfamiliar with.)

Mother found an attractive walking stick the first day. I applauded her spartan resourcefulness. We enjoyed the hearth every night. Every morning Donn turned on the gas stove to warm the kitchen. I feel like I ate mostly bread and cookies (the shortbread chocolate chip!) from Schat's Bakery. I was pleased to regale my audience with stove-popped corn one afternoon. Donn made cracked wheat sourdough French toast. Nancy presented her orange ginger salmon with wild rice, steamed squashes, and avocado papaya salad. We had ice cream every night. Donn did not convert me to Thrifty strawberry cheesecake and I did not convert him to chocolate malted crunch. We learned to play Spite and Malice from Nancy. We watched the slide show Donn made for Selina's funeral. Mother and I both finished our books. I took movies of the creek. We spoke of our generations, living under the roof of a sometime home. And the generations slide further down the creek.