annie blog

The Quilt Explanation/Commentary/Breakdown
It

is

coming,

soon.

The Quilt Explanation/Commentary/Breakdown
It

is

coming,

soon.

The Quilt Explanation/Commentary/Breakdown
It

is

coming,

soon.

Peonies

I just love peonies. Growing up, we had lots of beautiful flowers in our yard. This is because Papa Joe, my dad, is a master gardner and loves beautiful flowers. We had rose bushes by the dozen, iris, gladiolas, lilies — you name it. If it was pretty and amenable to the climate of North Alabama — we had it. We also had peonies. But, amidst all the other abundance of flowers, I just never really appreciated them. I do appreciate them now, thanks in part to the previous owner of this house who planted some gorgeous pink peonies years ago.

Why is it that people never talk about how wonderful peonies smell? Unlike the smell of lilies which seems to be the licorice of the flower world in that you either adore the smell of them or loathe it — I think that the odor of peonies would be one of those (almost) universally pleasing odors. I wish that I smelled like a peony.

I have to make an admission here. Over the last year, I read some books about vampires. (I won’t name the titles but I bet that you can guess. Anyway.) In the books, the vampires talked about how different people smell. Actually, they dwelled on odor a lot in those books. The heroine, for instance, smelled like freesia. Reading this always made me laugh. Why?

My natural odor — and I’m talking just out of the shower — is nothing like a flower….but it is like something else that would grow in your garden.

I should lay the blame where it belongs….firmly with this little buster.

Yet another way my life will never be the same because of him.

What did he do to me? All I know is that after he made his entrance into this world he somehow wreaked havoc on whatever body system controls what I smell like.

How did I find this out? Well, I was sitting on the couch one day, feeding my precious little ravenous bundle of joy when Jon came home from class.

Jon: (sniffing….) Hmmmmm, whoa, something smells good. What are we having for dinner?

Me: Um, I haven’t cooked anything today.

A few days later I was in the shower when all of a sudden I started smelling….onions. I wondered where on earth the smell was coming from when it all clicked.

Just call me Vidalia.

I guess that the bonus here is that I’m totally safe from vampires.

And, also, I guess that it is a good thing that Jon really likes onions because, over 12 years later, it is not changing.

Thus ends my crazy blog post beginning with peonies, progressing to vampires, ending with onions. Oh, and me doling out the blame on a precious little baby. I’m sorry, but I think that the blaming is my right as a mother. Some moms blame their children for their pot bellies or stretch marks….me, I’m blaming for smelling like an onion now.

It’s my right, y’all.

Peonies

I just love peonies. Growing up, we had lots of beautiful flowers in our yard. This is because Papa Joe, my dad, is a master gardner and loves beautiful flowers. We had rose bushes by the dozen, iris, gladiolas, lilies — you name it. If it was pretty and amenable to the climate of North Alabama — we had it. We also had peonies. But, amidst all the other abundance of flowers, I just never really appreciated them. I do appreciate them now, thanks in part to the previous owner of this house who planted some gorgeous pink peonies years ago.

Why is it that people never talk about how wonderful peonies smell? Unlike the smell of lilies which seems to be the licorice of the flower world in that you either adore the smell of them or loathe it — I think that the odor of peonies would be one of those (almost) universally pleasing odors. I wish that I smelled like a peony.

I have to make an admission here. Over the last year, I read some books about vampires. (I won’t name the titles but I bet that you can guess. Anyway.) In the books, the vampires talked about how different people smell. Actually, they dwelled on odor a lot in those books. The heroine, for instance, smelled like freesia. Reading this always made me laugh. Why?

My natural odor — and I’m talking just out of the shower — is nothing like a flower….but it is like something else that would grow in your garden.

I should lay the blame where it belongs….firmly with this little buster.

Yet another way my life will never be the same because of him.

What did he do to me? All I know is that after he made his entrance into this world he somehow wreaked havoc on whatever body system controls what I smell like.

How did I find this out? Well, I was sitting on the couch one day, feeding my precious little ravenous bundle of joy when Jon came home from class.

Jon: (sniffing….) Hmmmmm, whoa, something smells good. What are we having for dinner?

Me: Um, I haven’t cooked anything today.

A few days later I was in the shower when all of a sudden I started smelling….onions. I wondered where on earth the smell was coming from when it all clicked.

Just call me Vidalia.

I guess that the bonus here is that I’m totally safe from vampires.

And, also, I guess that it is a good thing that Jon really likes onions because, over 12 years later, it is not changing.

Thus ends my crazy blog post beginning with peonies, progressing to vampires, ending with onions. Oh, and me doling out the blame on a precious little baby. I’m sorry, but I think that the blaming is my right as a mother. Some moms blame their children for their pot bellies or stretch marks….me, I’m blaming for smelling like an onion now.

It’s my right, y’all.

Peonies

I just love peonies. Growing up, we had lots of beautiful flowers in our yard. This is because Papa Joe, my dad, is a master gardner and loves beautiful flowers. We had rose bushes by the dozen, iris, gladiolas, lilies — you name it. If it was pretty and amenable to the climate of North Alabama — we had it. We also had peonies. But, amidst all the other abundance of flowers, I just never really appreciated them. I do appreciate them now, thanks in part to the previous owner of this house who planted some gorgeous pink peonies years ago.

Why is it that people never talk about how wonderful peonies smell? Unlike the smell of lilies which seems to be the licorice of the flower world in that you either adore the smell of them or loathe it — I think that the odor of peonies would be one of those (almost) universally pleasing odors. I wish that I smelled like a peony.

I have to make an admission here. Over the last year, I read some books about vampires. (I won’t name the titles but I bet that you can guess. Anyway.) In the books, the vampires talked about how different people smell. Actually, they dwelled on odor a lot in those books. The heroine, for instance, smelled like freesia. Reading this always made me laugh. Why?

My natural odor — and I’m talking just out of the shower — is nothing like a flower….but it is like something else that would grow in your garden.

I should lay the blame where it belongs….firmly with this little buster.

Yet another way my life will never be the same because of him.

What did he do to me? All I know is that after he made his entrance into this world he somehow wreaked havoc on whatever body system controls what I smell like.

How did I find this out? Well, I was sitting on the couch one day, feeding my precious little ravenous bundle of joy when Jon came home from class.

Jon: (sniffing….) Hmmmmm, whoa, something smells good. What are we having for dinner?

Me: Um, I haven’t cooked anything today.

A few days later I was in the shower when all of a sudden I started smelling….onions. I wondered where on earth the smell was coming from when it all clicked.

Just call me Vidalia.

I guess that the bonus here is that I’m totally safe from vampires.

And, also, I guess that it is a good thing that Jon really likes onions because, over 12 years later, it is not changing.

Thus ends my crazy blog post beginning with peonies, progressing to vampires, ending with onions. Oh, and me doling out the blame on a precious little baby. I’m sorry, but I think that the blaming is my right as a mother. Some moms blame their children for their pot bellies or stretch marks….me, I’m blaming for smelling like an onion now.

It’s my right, y’all.

Well, Hi There
and sorry to be absent here for so long. It isn’t that I haven’t got a few things to say, recipes to post and a quilt to blog about. There is all of that. But I haven’t been able to blog about those things because something grievous has happened in the life of the Barlows.

Our Miss Liz is gone.

She meant so much to us and we loved her so dearly that it is utterly impossible for me to articulate all of the ways that we will miss her, now.

All I can say it she was a precious little Glaswegian who
loved her dad and loved Scotland.
She LOVED my boys.
She followed the Cardinals and always wore White Shoulders.
She loved purple and pink.
And she vacuumed her shag carpet to make it fluffy for the boys to sit on.
She was incredibly sentimental but made room for new stuff in her life —
like old school rap and southerners with crazy boys from next door.
She went to every baptism, and play, and graduation.
She loved fast food and gave my children a life-long love of Pringles.
She made me realize the tiny things that were wonderful about my boys — things I might have missed without her.
And there is so much more.

The day I met her was a great day.
And I’m really glad that the Almighty lined that up.
Even though we’re sad now.

At her funeral there were several songs. I don’t know that she chose the music. Judging by the style, I’m guessing that she didn’t. During one of the songs, I was sitting there thinking about her when I noticed some movement out of the corner of my eye. It was my youngest. He was very studiously playing his air guitar along with the music.

She would have loved that.

Well, Hi There
and sorry to be absent here for so long. It isn’t that I haven’t got a few things to say, recipes to post and a quilt to blog about. There is all of that. But I haven’t been able to blog about those things because something grievous has happened in the life of the Barlows.

Our Miss Liz is gone.

She meant so much to us and we loved her so dearly that it is utterly impossible for me to articulate all of the ways that we will miss her, now.

All I can say it she was a precious little Glaswegian who
loved her dad and loved Scotland.
She LOVED my boys.
She followed the Cardinals and always wore White Shoulders.
She loved purple and pink.
And she vacuumed her shag carpet to make it fluffy for the boys to sit on.
She was incredibly sentimental but made room for new stuff in her life —
like old school rap and southerners with crazy boys from next door.
She went to every baptism, and play, and graduation.
She loved fast food and gave my children a life-long love of Pringles.
She made me realize the tiny things that were wonderful about my boys — things I might have missed without her.
And there is so much more.

The day I met her was a great day.
And I’m really glad that the Almighty lined that up.
Even though we’re sad now.

At her funeral there were several songs. I don’t know that she chose the music. Judging by the style, I’m guessing that she didn’t. During one of the songs, I was sitting there thinking about her when I noticed some movement out of the corner of my eye. It was my youngest. He was very studiously playing his air guitar along with the music.

She would have loved that.

Well, Hi There
and sorry to be absent here for so long. It isn’t that I haven’t got a few things to say, recipes to post and a quilt to blog about. There is all of that. But I haven’t been able to blog about those things because something grievous has happened in the life of the Barlows.

Our Miss Liz is gone.

She meant so much to us and we loved her so dearly that it is utterly impossible for me to articulate all of the ways that we will miss her, now.

All I can say it she was a precious little Glaswegian who
loved her dad and loved Scotland.
She LOVED my boys.
She followed the Cardinals and always wore White Shoulders.
She loved purple and pink.
And she vacuumed her shag carpet to make it fluffy for the boys to sit on.
She was incredibly sentimental but made room for new stuff in her life —
like old school rap and southerners with crazy boys from next door.
She went to every baptism, and play, and graduation.
She loved fast food and gave my children a life-long love of Pringles.
She made me realize the tiny things that were wonderful about my boys — things I might have missed without her.
And there is so much more.

The day I met her was a great day.
And I’m really glad that the Almighty lined that up.
Even though we’re sad now.

At her funeral there were several songs. I don’t know that she chose the music. Judging by the style, I’m guessing that she didn’t. During one of the songs, I was sitting there thinking about her when I noticed some movement out of the corner of my eye. It was my youngest. He was very studiously playing his air guitar along with the music.

She would have loved that.

On The Subject of Breakfast
It has been my observation that most people have sort of a ritual when it comes to their breakfasts. And if their meal is not a ritual, per se, then it is the meal of the day that is the most regimented and perhaps the one that is most often repeated day after day.

Case in point. My grandmother has eaten oatmeal for nearly every breakfast of her life. She’s 97 and claims to have no pain. Maybe we all should take note of that?

I, on the other hand, have never much cared for oatmeal. Actually, I should qualify that statement. I have never much cared for oatmeal that I’ve made for myself. Even when I have come close to making oatmeal that was decent it never seemed right. I always had to end up adding sugar and other stuff to make it good enough to eat and that didn’t seem worth it to me.

Until now.

This is delicious. This is easy. This can be made and then eaten for days after. This is adaptable. This is inexpensive. This is what I’ve eaten for breakfast for the past 2 weeks.

Baked Oatmeal
3 cups rolled oats
1/2 cup (or less, to taste) brown sugar
2 (heaping, for me) teaspoons cinnamon
2 t. baking powder
1 t. salt
1 cup milk
2 eggs
1/2 cup oil or melted butter
2 t. vanilla extract
3/4 – 1 cup dried fruit (I used craisins.)

Preheat oven to 350. In a large bowl, mix together oats, sugar, cinnamon, baking powder and salt. In another small bowl, first beat the eggs a little and then add the other liquid ingredients. Add the liquid ingredients to the dry and mix it all up. Then stir in the dried fruit. Put it in a 9 X 13 or similarly sized baking dish. Bake for about 35-40 minutes.

This is great served with some yogurt. If I’m planning to eat my oatmeal with yogurt that has some sweetener (like vanilla flavored, for instance) then I would use even less sugar in the original recipe. However, I don’t usually like sweet things for breakfast and therefore you should take my advice on the sugar lightly. My inclination is to always use less sugar. You can always add more later but can’t take it away once it is in there.

Makes 6 big servings. Store leftovers in the refrigerator.