Slip Sliding Away

I had every intention of grabbing a snow shovel to keep in the car before I left home that Sunday morning. You know what they say about good intentions. In this case, the road to church was paved with mine.

Driving happily west on Lorne Avenue, my car suddenly began doing its own thing, as though my steering wheel and brakes both forgot their life’s purpose at once. In what felt like slow motion, my vehicle slid into the left lane, then performed a complete one-eighty. It may have kept twirling like one of those Olympic figure skaters if it hadn’t skidded so far into the snowbank that my tires wouldn’t budge. Why, oh why, had I forgotten my shovel? That’s when it dawned on me that I had also—probably—forgotten to engage my ABS traction control. The nice lady behind me, whom I’ll call Good Samaritan Number One, saw the whole thing. She stopped and rolled down her window.

“You’re just going to keep spinning, honey,” she said.

“Got a shovel?” I asked.

“No, but my friend lives just around the corner. I’ll go get him. Hang on.”

While I waited, I called Hubby who was still home but leaving for work any minute. “Help is on the way and I’ll call you when I get out,” I said. “Then I’ll just come home. I don’t want to go anywhere without a shovel.”

A fellow in a truck came along and stopped. I’ll call him Good Samaritan Number Two. He dug around in the back of his truck. “My shovel’s buried in snow. I’ll run home and get another one.”

Pretty soon Samaritan Number One returned, but with no shovel. She’d found her friend still in his pajamas and not particularly enthused about joining our snow party. “But he’s coming,” she said.

Then Samaritan Number Two returned, with a teenager whom I’ll call Good Samaritan Number Three. Shovel in hand, he followed his dad’s instructions about where to pick away at the hard-packed snow behind my front tire. About that time, I realized someone was also shoveling near the back tires. Samaritan Number One’s friend had shown up with the shovel. I’ll call him Good Samaritan Number Four. He advised me to place my floor mats behind my wheels for traction. That was a new one to me, but I did it.

Samaritans Number Two, Three, and Four then lined up along the front of my hood and pushed while I put the car in reverse and stepped on the gas. Voila. I was free of the snowbank and back on the street.

Thanking everyone profusely, I gathered my floor mats and threw them in the car. Back in my seat, I took a deep breath and looked at the clock on the dash. It was only 10:58. Maybe I should carry on to church. I’d only be a couple of minutes late. Or would have been, except for a long train. While waiting for that to pass, it hit me. Not the train. A thought. I hadn’t called Hubby. Maybe I was more rattled than I thought. I put the car in park and sent him a quick text.

Arrived at church, found a seat, joined the singing. Congratulated myself for being there and not wimping out when my normal response would have been to go home shaken and crying. Maybe what isn’t killing me really is making me stronger.

Wait. What if Hubby didn’t check his text messages? I pulled my phone from my purse. Sure enough, he’d tried to call once and texted once. I stepped into the lobby and called home. He had not received my text. Huh. Oh well. All’s good.

It wasn’t until that evening I realized I had “texted” to our landline.

Lessons learned:

-Carry a shovel in the car.

-Don’t forget to turn on the ABS.

-Never text to your landline.

- Floor mats can be used to gain traction when placed up against your tires.

-Thank God for Good Samaritans!

 

Sing 'Til It Stops Hurting

If you’ve ever lived with chronic pain, you know how quickly it can rob you of the energy required to complete tasks, the ability to concentrate, and even the will to live. Yet, like a seriously spoiled child, the more attention you give pain, the louder it screams.

Have you noticed how pain tends to escalate when you’re trying to sleep? That’s because, with your eyes closed and your body mostly unoccupied, pain is pushed right into your brain’s spotlight. If you can distract yourself with a movie, a conversation, or a meaningful project, the pain seems to diminish because the spotlight is aimed elsewhere. The trick, then, is to keep that spotlight focused on other things.

Knowing this, I was intrigued to hear about some scientific studies done on the health benefits of singing. An article on Healthline.com, written by Rebecca Joy Stanborough, MFA, and medically reviewed by Debra Rose Wilson, Ph.D., MSN, R.N., IBCLC, AHN-BC, CHT, lists the top ten benefits of singing for your physical, emotional, and mental health. Here are only some of them.

Singing can relieve stress—provided it’s not in a situation that makes you uncomfortable. If you’re belting out a tune in the privacy of your home or car or singing with a group of people you know and love, Cortisol samples from your saliva taken before and after the activity will most likely reveal a drop. This is a clear indicator of less stress.

Singing may boost your immune system. Don’t we all need that these days? A 2004 study showed singing raises your levels of Immunoglobulin A, an antibody your body secretes to help you fend off infections.

Another benefit is where the pain relief comes in. When you sing in a group, your body releases endorphins. Endorphins can help promote positive feelings and change your perception of pain. Singing with a group may not be an option for you right now, but if you crank up your favorite recordings and sing along, maybe your brain won’t know the difference.

Singing can even help decrease snoring. In a 2008 study, researchers interviewed the spouses of choir members and the spouses of people who don’t sing. Guess what? Significantly fewer choir members snored.

Another good reason to take up serious crooning is to improve your lung function. Because singing involves the controlled use of muscles in the respiratory system, it can help people living with lung issues like asthma, COPD, and more.

I’m sure you know singing in a group contributes to feelings of well-being and belonging. I’ve found this true at church. When I view the live-streamed service from home, I can sing along with the worship leaders, sure. But it’s not the same as being present with others—masks and all! Could it be because one of the neurochemicals released when people feel bonded together is oxytocin, also known as the love hormone? Worship singing, in private or in groups, is all about giving God glory. But in his irrepressible love for us, he also makes our worship beneficial to us.

Did you know singing can soothe your grief? A 2019 study conducted among grieving people, revealed those who sang in a choir saw their sense of well-being remain stable. Over twelve weeks, the singers felt a gradual improvement in self-esteem, causing researchers to conclude group singing can provide wonderful support during times of grief.

Most of us instinctively know singing makes us feel better mentally and emotionally. Now Science reveals our bodies respond as well—which makes perfect sense when you begin to understand how our minds, bodies, and spirits all work together.

So, how do you sing when you’re in pain? It may mean opening a hymn book and forcing yourself to start. Push through. Stay focused. Don’t worry about how good or bad you sound. Just sing. Then try again tomorrow. See what happens.

At the very least, it can’t hurt.

Where did it all begin?

Nothing says romance like a trip to Rome…to view the flower-crowned skull of Saint Valentine himself, exhibited in the Basilica of Santa Maria.

Let me back up a bit. Okay, more than a bit. To AD 496, when the Feast of Saint Valentine was established by Pope Gelasius I. According to Wikipedia, the pope chose February 14 to honor Saint Valentine of Rome, who died by beheading on that date in AD 269. Legend has it the man was imprisoned for ministering to Christians persecuted under the Roman Empire. One tradition claims Valentine performed weddings for soldiers forbidden to marry. Could this be where the romantic angle started? Another legend says he restored sight to the blind daughter of his jailer and wrote her a letter signed “Your Valentine” as a farewell before his execution.

But he wasn’t the only Valentine to be sainted.

Valentine of Terni was a bishop in central Italy, martyred in AD 273, and buried on the Via Flaminia. A third saint named Valentine was martyred in Africa.

Some say that by establishing this Christian holiday, the pope was attempting to reverse a pagan celebration called Lupercalia. I won’t go into the fine details of the rituals involved, but if you were a Roman woman and it was mid-February, you could expect to have your backside slapped with a strip of goat hide to ensure fertility. You might also place your name in a big urn. (This reminds me of the Valentine boxes from my elementary school years.) Rome’s bachelors drew names from the urn and the resulting couples paired up for a year. At the end of the year, they could either marry or part ways.

That’s one way to do it. 

Ancient customs aside, our modern world spares no effort in taking advantage of Valentine’s Day in the name of profit. For your sweetheart, you can purchase everything from expensive perfume to cheap chocolate. Flowers are always popular. Dinner and a movie? Don’t forget your vaccine card.

Less traditional gifts include clothing, travel, or a box of conversation starters to deepen your relationship. Who doesn’t adore a good love letter?

If money’s no object, you can express your love in any number of elaborate ways. A week in the Mexican Riviera? Fresh flowers all year? A new wardrobe? Diamond bracelet? Yes, please.

Those for whom money is a factor (most of us) need to be more creative. If you ask me, gifts of your time and talents always mean the most. Can you cook, draw, repair, write, sing, or play something? Of course, these gifts require planning, which is precisely what makes them more valuable. Don’t make the mistake of grabbing the last card left on the rack for the person you claim to hold in high regard.

A glance at any store’s greeting card aisle this time of year will leave you convinced you’re supposed to also buy cards for your kids, your parents, your grandchildren, your co-workers, and your paper carrier. Let’s not forget the family pet. One website I looked at featured everything from heart-covered sweaters and hoodies for your dog to chocolate-covered strawberry toys filled with catnip for your feline. Imagine how loved your pet will feel with a monogrammed pillow or a red bow tie.

However you celebrate, I hope you spread a little love around on Valentine’s Day and every day.

 

What a Writer Reads

If I could time-travel, I’d return to high school where every morning my homeroom teacher subjected my classmates and me to a fifteen-minute speed-reading session. I would march over to my sixteen-year-old self and say, “Pay attention! Learn how to read faster! You’re going to want this skill. Your future will go much better for you. Trust me!”

Would I have listened? I’d have wanted more details, for sure.

Instead of applying myself, I surrendered too easily. When the speed-reading projector sped up to where I could no longer follow the story, I chose to simply focus my gaze elsewhere, probably on some cute boy. Or close my eyes and rest. Not only that, I proudly told myself I didn’t want to read fast. I’d rather savor every word and enjoy my reading. When the time came for the multiple-choice quiz, guessing correctly often enough to pass proved easy.

I now know those details I’d have asked my future self to reveal. I know that I became a writer. Writers need to spend a great deal of time reading for research. I need to read books on the craft of writing. I need to read novels in the genre to which I aspire. I need to read other genres to expand my world. Now that I’m published, I receive requests from other authors to read and endorse their books. Saying yes is always good, knowing they will return the favor when my books need endorsement. I also spend time reading my Bible every day.

How on earth can I ever get to the myriads of wonderful books I want to read simply for pleasure?

For fun, I took a reading speed test provided HERE. I scored 193 words per minute (WPM) with a comprehension of 82%. If that sounds good to you, it’s not. According to the site, the average speed is 200 WPM with 60% comprehension. To improve my score, I tried THIS WEBSITE and chose a short, simple story. That brought me up to 313 WPM with 100% comprehension. This site claims that for success in college, you should be able to read 350 to 450 WPM. Speeds above 575 WPM are typical. Yikes.

Is it too late for me to become a faster reader? Probably not, but I’d need to really want it and discipline myself to break old habits. How about you?

The notebook where I keep track of such things tells me I read 38 books in 2021. My favorite research book was The Absurd and the Brave by Michael Fathney, which helped me finish my novel about the British Guest Children who came to Canada as evacuees during WWII. A Guest Child himself, Fathney explains how the evacuation program worked, how absurd it was in many ways, and how brave were the children, their parents, their escorts across submarine-infested oceans, and their foster parents. To track this book down, our local library used the inter-library loan service. They found a copy in the Maritimes and had it shipped here just for me. How great is that?

The best personal growth book I read? What If It’s True? A Storyteller’s Journey with Jesus, by Charles Martin. He poses the question, “What if every single word of Scripture is absolutely true and I can trust it? How do I respond? Something in me should change, but what? How?” I’ll re-read this one, highlighter in hand.

In the can’t-put-down department, I chose Anthony Doerr’s
All the Light We Cannot See. It’s a WWII story about a blind French girl whose world collides with that of a German boy forced to become a Nazi soldier.

Going forward, I hope to read more from authors Kristin Hannah, Carrie Turansky, Genevieve Graham, and Cynthia Ruchti because of other great books I read last year. Let’s see if I can do better than 35 in 2022. Happy “I Love to Read” month!

 

 

 

Conclusion of the Lasagna Sagna... er, Saga

Time for the exciting conclusion to the Adventures of Lasagna Making. You’ll recall we left Terrie hunting her neighborhood’s corner stores for lasagna noodles. She regretfully decided to postpone the assembly to the next day. Let’s pick up our story there, in her own words…

Two slow-cookers full of sauce is a lot.

But wait. What would I do with those two crock pots of sauce overnight? Too large for the fridge, I couldn’t risk leaving them at room temperature that long. Out on the deck? They’d attract every cat, squirrel, and skunk for miles. And then they’d freeze. The garage? I didn’t want my sauce tasting like fuel. I simply had to finish the assembling of the three lasagna pans and get them in the freezer.

I ventured out on another walk, this time to Red Apple. I spied several boxes of lasagna noodles on their shelves. Alas, they were all the “oven ready” kind. Not what I wanted. I continued down the sidewalk to Shopper’s where an apologetic sign told me the front doors were closed and I needed to go around back. What if I walked all the way around the block only to discover they didn’t have my noodles? I’d come this far, I may as well keep going to Portage Supermarket. I could see their overhang just ahead.

When I reached the overhang, I realized it belonged to a lawyer’s office. By now, however, the supermarket really was within sight. I went in, purchased my noodles, and walked the eight blocks home. I filled my big stock pot with hot tap water and put it on the stove to heat. While I waited, I recalculated the mozzarella cheese. I pulled up Google to convert to metric again. Woops. I only had half enough cheese! I could have easily grabbed another block while buying noodles! Should I skimp on cheese and serve my family the World’s Fourth-Best Lasagna? No. It could wait another day. I turned off the burner. I squeezed the crock pots into the fridge overnight.

Early the next morning, I drove to my regular store for the additional cheese. Since I was there, I checked out their foil pans. Hey! Deep dish lasagna pans. Those would work so much better than cake pans. I bought three. The cost of my lasagnas now reached over a hundred dollars, but it would be worth it.

Assembly went smoothly, except for having WAY more sauce than I figured I should need. The total measurements of all the called-for liquids did not align with the amount the recipe was telling me to put in each layer. I recalculated everything and couldn’t find any mistakes. Should I use all the sauce and risk runny lasagna? Or go with my gut and risk having it too dry? I did the second thing and froze the extra sauce for another pasta day. Maybe we’d have to settle for the World’s Fifth-Best Lasagna.

Finally found enough noodles.

And cheese.

 

Ready for freezer ... or oven.

Once all three pans were filled and covered, I carefully laid them in the freezer, cleaned the kitchen, and barely gave them a thought until gathering day. By that time, our numbers were reduced to nine people, so we left one pan behind. My son popped the other two in his oven. Ninety minutes later, when it should have been time to remove the foil covering, they were still cold in the middle. Argh! We’d already dressed the Caesar salad. By the time those lasagnas were properly cooked, everybody was too hungry to mind the soggy salad. The lasagna proved a hit, and we filled out tummies from just one pan.

As it turned out, the same crew gathered again two days later and didn’t mind eating the second lasagna. Even if it was two days old and even if it was Christmas Day.

I’ve since bought a kitchen scale that measures in both Imperial and Metric. Lesson learned. Plus, we still have one whole pan in the freezer for another time. Who would dare complain about the World’s Sixth-Best lasagna?

That Time I Attempted the World's Best Lasagna

Our kids and I agreed that lasagna provided the best solution for our gathering at our son’s house two days before Christmas. Most of the work could be done ahead—by me. On party day, it would be a cinch to pop them out of the freezer into his oven. Cleanup would be a breeze compared to a turkey. With one kid providing salad and another dessert, this mama’s job would pretty much be done.

You know where this is going.

I couldn’t simply throw together my ordinary open-a-can-of-pasta-sauce-don’t-measure-anything lasagna. Not when it was our Christmas dinner. And not with our foodie son-in-law around. I Googled “lasagna recipe” and what popped up but “World’s Best Lasagna.” World’s best? What could top that? I skimmed the ingredients. It looked doable and delicious. Three large pans would feed our crew, which meant tripling everything. Of course, the American recipe listed ingredients in pounds and ounces so again, I used Google to convert to metric. I made my shopping list. 

My shopping list(s)

I should have checked it twice.

In addition to two and a quarter pounds of ground beef, I’d need two pounds of bulk Italian sausage. My store had only one pound. The meat clerk advised I’d get the same product if I bought the links, slit the casing, and simply used the sausage inside. I did.

In the cheese department, I grabbed a large block of mozzarella and some Parmesan. The recipe called for ricotta cheese, but when I saw the price, I reached for good old cottage cheese instead. We could settle for the World’s Second-Best Lasagna.

Besides the lasagna noodles already in my pantry, I’d need 24 more. Lucky for me, one of the better brands was on sale for the same price as the store brand. The print on the box was written in Italian, but I saw a large number “24” on the front. What else could that mean but 24 noodles?

You know where this is going.

When I added the price of all my ingredients, it totaled $30 per pan or almost $2.50 a serving, not counting my labor. But hey, it would be worth it for the World’s Second-Best Lasagna. I happily looked forward to the next morning. Lasagna-making day!

Whoa, that's a lotta sauce!

That’s when I realized all that meat and all those cans of tomatoes, tomato sauce, and tomato paste would not fit in my biggest pot. No way. I do own a large stock pot, but I’d need that one for cooking 36 noodles. What to do? If I made the sauce in the stock pot, I’d need to ladle it into something else in order to cook the noodles. Maybe I should cook the noodles first and set them aside. But the sauce was supposed to simmer for an hour and a half. What to do? I ended up browning the meat in my large pot, then dividing everything between two crock pots. It barely fit. Boy, that seemed like an awful lot of sauce. I recalculated everything, confident my measurements were correct according to the recipe. I guess time would tell when I tried to fit everything in the pans.

 

More calculating

Next, the noodles. Uh oh. The box of fancy Italian noodles held only twelve. Why on earth hadn’t I grabbed two? Should I skimp on noodles and settle for the World’s Third-Best Lasagna? Hubby had the car, so I couldn’t just run back to the store. Would our neighborhood corner store carry lasagna noodles? I ventured the three blocks down the sidewalk, doubting they would. I was right. Oh well. It was a nice day and I needed the exercise. I walked the seven blocks to the next nearest store. No lasagna noodles. That settled it. I’d have to leave the assembling of the lasagna for the next day. You probably know where this is going, but I’m out of space. You’ll need to wait for the rest of my lasagna sagna. Er, saga.

To be continued next week.

Losin' It

Let me preface this by saying I am ordinarily an organized person. Ask anyone. So I should think the odds of misplacing my cell phone, my debit card, my car, and my husband all in the same afternoon, all for the first time, were slim.

I take that back. I once lost my car in a Winnipeg parking garage. By the time I located it, time had expired for me to exit with my receipt. I had to pay extra.

I’ve frequently not known where Hubby is, either, but he seems to always come home.

Anyway, let’s back this train of thought up a bit.

One Wednesday afternoon, I was in the writing zone at my desk, where time is meaningless. Suddenly, it was four o’clock. I was supposed to be picking up Hubby from work. The thermometer read a gazillion-below-zero, too, so everything takes longer. I hurried off.

As planned, we went straight to the Co-op for groceries. While I shopped, Hubby’s jobs were to fill the car with gas and pay a cardlock bill at the service counter.

We should have planned a bit further.

I finished my shopping, paid for the groceries, and wheeled my cart to the foyer. Why had Hubby not come to find me when he finished paying his bill? No sign of him in the parking lot. Strange. Was there a long lineup at the gas bar? Had he run into a long-winded friend? Did he forget all about me and go home?

By this time, darkness was falling. I reached for my cell phone to text him.

My cell phone wasn’t there.

Shoot. I’d left it on my desk for the first time ever. The Twilight Zone theme pressed in. I was immediately pulled back decades, to memories of waiting in the Co-op foyer for Hubby, with a cart full of groceries and no way to reach him. I didn’t know whether to be mad or worried. What if he’d collapsed? I didn’t want to abandon my cart, and I sure wasn’t going to push it all the way across the frozen tundra to the gas bar.

I wheeled my cart to the service counter where I waited, keeping an eye on the front doors, while the clerk helped another customer. I asked her if I could stash my cart behind the counter while I walked over to the gas bar to look for my husband…by the way, had he been in to pay a bill?

Yes, he had. And she had my card.

Huh? What card?

She walked to the safe and pulled something out, then handed me the debit card I’d apparently forgotten to remove from their debit machine. First. Time. Ever.

Then she let me use her phone. In my state of mind, I couldn’t remember Hubby’s cell phone number. She waited on the next customer while I had a good think. Still not sure I recalled it correctly, I gave the clerk a number to dial. After three rings, Hubby answered.

Me: “Where are you?”

Him: “Right in front of the store.”

He confessed he had thought I was taking a while, but after eight hours on his feet in the frigid weather, he felt perfectly content to sit in a warm car as long as necessary. The store’s corner wall blocked his view of me, and a truck blocked my view of him.

How could I be angry? If he’d come and found me, I wouldn’t have known about my missing debit card until the next time I tried to use it.

Shakespeare said, “All’s well that ends well.”

John Lennon is often credited with saying, “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”

I prefer Romans 8:28. “…we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good.” (The Message)