Saturday Morning Breakfast Memories

Meals together as a family were a constant as a kid. We were allowed to eat in front of the TV on Friday nights and Saturday nights. The rest of the time it was at a table, though for breakfast on weekdays it was usually just the kids as Mom would eat with Dad as he often left for work quite early.

Those times around the table were good, though as usual, when kids eat together we didn't always behave well. I will admit, somewhere in there, a pea was flung. Dad was Scot/Irish, but Mom was Norweigian. Peas were a staple. I was also quite skinny and physically very active, with a healthy appetite, so one day when I wasn't eating as quickly as I normally did, Dad noticed and said "What's up B, you're eating like a bird", to which my brother R. muttered under his breath, "yeah, Rodan."

You remember Rodan, the murderous superpterodactyl in the Godzilla movies. Rodan was the Japanese monster version of the F15-E and the nemesis of Godzilla. Most of my generation saw them, if only in reruns on Saturday years after they came out, with Godzilla intent on eating Tokyo and battling with an assortment of monsters. They were really cheesy movies, usually dubbed and good for a laugh.

Laughter was a constant in our house, as was home cooking. Food was always a measured production. Nothing gourmet, and rarely something out of a can. Growing up towards the end of the first great depression, Mom learned to make up a delicious meal out of almost nothing left in the fridge. To this day, I still prefer a meal made myself, even if it's wheat crackers and some good brie and a beverage, to something fast food-like. So we ate well. But with active lives, outdoors at every opportunity, walking and running, exploring, running full forward into our life, none of us had a spare pound of flesh.

As a kid those breakfasts were special. We'd start with a beverage. Coffee. Well, the adults anyway, for them, as myself now, coffee was a food, not a drink. We kids got milk and orange juice. I always begged for some coffee (without success) because that wise looking man on the Hills Brothers can, which was wine red and studded with twinkling stars, always looked so content, full of the knowledge of those secret adult rituals as he drank deep from the coffee bowl. The decidedly grown-up feeling of the act itself and the Hills Brothers man with his deep coffee contentment was likely the reason I thought that my parents lingered over the table. And they did, whispering the quiet whispers of long lovers, while we snorted and charged around them, playing soldier and spy.

(As always, click on food photos to enlarge.)

When the meal began, it was a silent flurry of crunchy bacon, the soft doughy texture of homemade pancakes, french toast or rolls, and perfuming us all, the deep-seated comfort of cardamom and cinnamon. The meal would last until every last morsel was taken; it seemed as if we could eat endlessly as if we'd had some successful inoculation at lunchtime and could handle anything. The kids would help my Mom clean up as Mom and Dad lingered around the breakfast table for one last cup of coffee.

As we bustled about, washing up and blowing bubbles at each other with the dish soap, we could hear them, the laughter, and the comfort of their being there. As we finished, I went to pick up from the table the can of coffee with the little man and the stars. But instead, I sat down beside it, full to bursting and simply happy to sit, surrounded by family, unable really, to move past the moment. Whatever laughter there was, there was, whatever deep worries we might all have had still swirled outside our door, but for now, there was something deep and starry in the kitchen. Someplace not just magical, but safe. No matter what happened to us, it seemed like we had these moments to reinforce our bonds, and I lived through many a hard year on the memories of that measureless family security.

This Saturday's breakfast brought that back in small ways, as I gathered with those I love near or near in spirit and thought, the smell of morning coffee bringing a smile to my face, even if I don't have a big brother around to pick on me.

Baked French Toast with Peaches and Walnuts (recipe below). It's a classic recipe from the Pampered Chef which I just tweaked a little bit.


My changes?  I tried adding a little extra of the quality vanilla I use and a couple extra secret seasonings. One of those was Cardamom, used by my Mom in a lot of Norwegian baked goods.

The rest is easy, someday "real" bread, homemade country French here, slathered with a thin layer of cream cheese on each side, poked with a fork and topped with fruit and walnut meats. Then over the top is poured a whipped mixture of eggs, seasoning, pure maple syrup, milk, and butter, baked until puffy and golden. It only takes 10 minutes to put together, and 20-25 to bake. You'll have it on the table before you know it.

It's the perfect family breakfast or you can make it and share with friends. It makes a nice big pan full, perfect for when you have folks over who are hungry enough to eat Tokyo.

Baked French Toast (adapted from a recipe by Pampered Chef )
4 ounces cream cheese, softened
14 slices (1 inch thick) French bread (don't use the smaller baguette size).
1 (29 ounce) can peach slices, drained or a couple of cups of chopped apple slices
 1/3 cup walnuts, halved or coursely chopped
 3 eggs
1 cup less 1 teaspoon milk
1/3 cup maple syrup
3 tablespoons butter melted (halved)
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon cardamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

 Heat oven to 400 degrees F.
Spread cream cheese over both sides of bread slices. Place bread in 13 x 9 inch or lasagna style baking pan. Prick bread slices several times. Top with fruit; sprinkle nuts over peaches.

In a large bowl, whisk eggs, milk, syrup, butter, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and cardamon (you can just use cinnamon if you don't have the other) vanilla extract and half the melted butter. Pour mixture over bread.

Drizzle the top with the remaining butter.

Bake for 22 to 25 minutes or until firm in center. You could also make this with a couple of good-sized handfuls of blueberries and 1/3 cup granola or almonds instead of the peaches/walnuts.

 Yields 6 servings.

Pet Cams - the Latest in Canine Technology

If I'm stopped for a train or slowed for traffic I tend to notice roadside advertisements more. One billboard was for a Pet Cam which caught my attention with

 "What is YOUR pet doing during the day?"  

Most of us leave our pets at home as we work.  Some of us have dog walkers that come over, or there is a doggie door to a fenced yard so the dog can get outside and sniff the trees and the grass. Like a baby monitor/cam, the Pet Cam can be set up with multiple cameras so can see your pet both inside and outside - with live feed so you know they're safe.

I thought about getting one for Abby. I try and make sure there is plenty to drink and the home is pet safe, nothing toxic in reach, extra TP out of the way as Abby (like Barkley) loves to snag the extra toilet paper rolls.  But I wonder if I'd really see anything worthwhile if I got one of those "pet cams".

I'm off to a meeting I have to go into the office for.  Let's see what the doggie cam has to say.

8 a.m.

10 a.m.

12 p.m.

2 p.m.

4 p.m.

truck pulling in driveway

I think I'm better off without the pet cam.  Sometimes it's better not knowing :-)

Barkley Memoires - Dude!

An old picture of Barkley at my best friends house,  It's sort of a "hippie haven" for rescued cats (I think she has 7 now, in and outside on the sprawling farm type property where the cats were dumped over various winters). There's usually bread baking, herbs trying for tinctures and the smell of incense in the air, a very soothing retreat for both man and beast. However, Goldie, a decided indoor cat who sleeps on the top of the cat hostel, was less than amused with Barkley barking at the chipmunks outside.

I'll Take my Squirrels with Decaf Please

Canine Dating Advice

Abby the Lab here.  I am happy that Dad is home, and he and Mom have just been able to chill around the house, just enjoying a quiet day after church. Tomorrow is back to work, Mom working from home with her bouquet of duct tape roses Dad made for her on their first Valentine's Day on her desk.

I have to say, Mom is glad her single days are behind her, as Barkley could attest to some of the lousy dates she had (the worse being the blind date that wanted to go out with her because she was a LEO, thinking that was her astrological sign, and running from the table when he found out otherwise-- his being on house arrest and all).  Those of you who have read The Book of Barkley know THAT story.

So from what I've learned from Mom - I'm going to give you some advice on Dating for humans.

Abby the Lab's Advice on How NOT to get a Second Date. 

(1) Rent an uber-fancy new car and drive around like you actually own it. (a) If you look like you spent $80,000 on a set of wheels but you live in a single wide trailer you are  SO not getting a second date. and (b) Think of all the good toys you could have bought with the $1000 you spent on the Ferrari that so did NOT impress her. Think about it while she goes home alone because she knows it's what's in the HEART that counts - not what is in your wallet.

(2) Rent a chick flick and buy chocolate. Chocolate's not good for dogs but dog Mom's love it but my mom would rather watch "Top Gear". This is too easy - and likely NOT going to work. Use your imagination and don't get her what every other guy gives a gal. 

(3) Sample International Cuisine at a Street Fair - have you SEEN the food at a street fair? Unless you have a large dose of Pepto in your purse, this is one to miss.

(4) Pick up two snack packs of KFC and go to a Renaissance Fair.  Are you kidding me?  Mom says the snack packs do NOT have enough biscuits.

(5)  Swimming with the Dolphins.  Sure it looks all fun and romantic on TV but it can turn bad as quickly as a bottle of Tinks  "doe in estros" scent accidentally spilled in a hunter's pocket at the height of deer mating season, only underwater.

(6) Drive out to a country setting and snuggle with your date under the stars. Watch your date carried off by pitchfork-wielding lunatics.

(7) Cook for your date. If you can cook, great. If you can't, do NOT attempt to heat up two single serving frozen entrees and serve on two plates or your date WILL ask for seconds. Or your head on a platter.

(8) One word. Yatzee. No.

(9)  Avante Garde Live Entertainment. Any event where your date might get splattered with overly ripe fruit or processed meat products is never going to end well.

(10) A walk on a quaint old bridge late at night. Picture downtown late at night. A canal. Meeting that crackhead who wants to toss you into the water after stealing your wallet. Viva la romance!

(11)  Small Carnival on the edge of town.  Carnival Ninjas.  That's all I can say.

(11)  A trip to the Comic Convention.  Look, she does NOT want to see you in spandex, She really doesn't care if Paraxxus is wearing the same outfit as Galactus and if she runs into Thor it might get awkward

(12)  Romantic romp on the Beach.  You know that scene from "Here to Eternity" with Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr rolling around in the waves?  Sure it looks all romantic, but that's Hollywood.  They edited out the beach tar, biting crabs, seagull poop and nearsighted geezers with metal detectors.

(13). Play a video game.  All evening, while your date sits next to you on the couch.  Tell her, while the apple pie gets cold,  you're "just getting your kid to the next level".  Do not get to the next level yourself.  EVER.

You're getting WARMER. . . .

(1)  Take her to an event that you both like, and bring her dog along-- show interest in her opinions, make her laugh.  Bring a homemade gourmet tailgate meal so she doesn't have to eat a corndog and chips with "Cheezeeee" sauce.

And take extra treats for the dog.

Chewy-Ween

What's this Mom, while I was out with my dog walker looking at the Howl-o-ween decorations popping up around the village, a box has appeared.  

Wait!  It's the CHEWY box!

Oh, Chewy - I am but your humble slave, unable to resists the temptations of the big blue box.

Mom's got it open!~

What did you order for me Mom?  I see my favorite - Blue Bars Apple and Yogurt Mini Dog Biscuits and the Greenie Breath Buster Bites which were recommended to us by Cam at

• Army of Four Digest

 But what is this ORANGE package?

It's Boo Bars Mummy Morsels for Howl-o-ween!  Yay Mom!

How about you scare me up a little snack!

How Many Dogs. . .

Come Laugh With Us - In Honor of Madi

Abby T. Lab here. We are joining  Madi's special friend

• Raz

who is hosting the "Come Laugh With Us" Blog Hop to remember our beloved friend Diva Madi the Cat who went to the Rainbow Bridge this year.

Madi was one of the first "BIG" personalities we noticed when we moved to Blogville - she was always so busy in the community, welcoming, creating fun and hijinks, just genuinely fun to be around.

Whether she was busting a move on the dance floor, or flooring the gas pedal of her car, life was always an adventure filled with laughter when Madi was around.

So many events, cookouts, and roundups and car rallies and most special for many of us the Pawlympics!

Madi was always the kind of cat that lived so outside the box, doing things that others were never brave enough to try, living each day in the fullest.

Me, I'm just a dog, so my life was a lot simpler.  Thank you, Madi for inspiring to do so much more!

We miss you Madi!

We are also especially grateful to her creative and loving people who shared her life with us with great joy and humility. May her memories bring you comfort.

Leaving the Light On

As I pull into the long driveway that winds between a stand of spruce trees and the Bungalow, I see Abby T. Lab's head through the sheer curtains, up on the couch, looking down on the driveway as the main floor sits several feet atop the windows of the walkout basement. The windows in this house are old, 50 years?  A hundred?  It's hard to tell.  They're not the best for holding in heat but they do keep out the sound.

I ran a quick calculation and I've spent 13 solid years sleeping in a hotel room (or tent, vehicle or the back of a transport plane).  The last few years, I was able to be home a lot more, as I did less field work and more "manage the technology and people that do the field work". Now I'm I guess what you would call "The Director" if my life was NCIS.  I'm OK with that.  I'm to the point now, that as much as intellectually I miss full-time fieldwork, I'd rather sleep in my own bed at night, even if for two years, before I could get a promotion to take me closer to my husband, I had two homes, in completely different time zones and a three hundred mile drive to and from work on Monday and Friday's.

We've all had our stories of Motel Hell and some that were just fun.  My favorite was a 5-star hotel in the Nation's Capital some 16 years ago where I got $17 macaroni and cheese from the children's menu that was the best I'd ever had, then got to go in the bathroom and talk on the phone and watch TV, while in the bathroom.  No, I'm not cranked by technology, but I was like a little kid playing grown up, calling my Dad "Dad I'm calling you from a phone by the toilet!"  which totally made him laugh.

Then, there was the time I locked myself out of my hotel room in my underwear while grabbing the newspaper.  I had no phone.  I stole a towel off an abandoned housekeeping cart, draped it over my head (they can stare at my butt all day long, but no one will recognize me) and sauntered down to the front desk  "extra key for Dr. J. please".  The clerk is still probably traumatized.

Then there's jet lag. The jet lag is more than a myth, it's a sledgehammer of weariness that hits you as soon as the aircraft door opens up, no matter what time it is. You're lucky if you get a long layover, where you have a day to wander ancient streets in the quiet dawn, strolling among the mazes of alleyways and churchyards and cemeteries of a small village, breathing in air laden with woodsmoke that smells of history. You're lucky if you have time to finally fall asleep in the long hot afternoons, a white sheet wrapped around you like a shroud, pretending to sleep as if it's your own bed and there's more on the wall than a dusty picture of people dead hundreds of years.

There is night after night of sameness. The bed looks like any bed in any hotel.  Dinner is Ramen Noodles cooked in the coffee pot, not because there is no room service or restaurant but because you've had all the interaction with the world you can stand for the day, and you just want something hot to eat all alone.  The mini bar beckons, but you don't go there either, not for the tiny little mortgage you pay with each clink of the little bottle that will only briefly relax your sapless limbs.  The room is quiet, but in your head are the words of hundreds that cannot be stilled, the voices that called you here, to this city, this week, where what little sleep you get will only be when the sodden match that is your brain, has nothing left with which it can spark.

There are the mornings you wake, not knowing what time it is, or what country you are in, and for a moment you pause in your hotel room, breathing heavy with fear as you orient yourself to your surroundings. You look outside, not really knowing what you will see, having arrived in total darkness. A lovely village full of sight and sound, and cobbled steps, or the war-ravaged industrial town, a visage of smoke and ash, gaunt staring rubble rising out from sand, dirt, and weeds with an air of profound desolation that needs no further words. On such mornings I don't need caffiene, just the terror of waking in total darkness in an unfamiliar place will jolt me into my day.
It's a life of constant motion and travel, phone calls, and emails home or abroad from loved ones living the same kind of life,  including one in which you are told "I can't do this anymore", as you sit helpless and shaking 2000 miles away. You don't argue, your only response as the proverbial dial tone growls in your ear is the flinging of a shoe that strikes the wall with a single, shattering blow. The remaining nights you simply sit, as if listening to something very far away or so close as to be contained within you. The phone lays silent, but you do not. You call someone you trust, who also lives on the road, to let it out, and then go on living. Certain types of lives demand sacrifices, but you can no more change that than you can change what is essential to you. You continue with your duty, for it, and order is the only constant that you know.

It's simply part of who we are, traveling where our skills are needed, not because your friends and family mean any less, but because responsibility carries with its own honor. It's a life of many hotels, and meals probably best eaten in low light. It's memories, transparent and weightless, that scatter around you like leaves, blown without destination by winds that forever change.

But tonight, the sounds of my own house are all around, the wind in the eaves, the soft thump of freshly washed towels dancing in the dryer downstairs, the tap of a branch against the porch railing. From the basement early this morning comes the season's first rumble of heat, the house sighs, as do I. From the futon a grey-muzzled rescue dog snores in the contentment which is finding a loving home after years of only being a puppy factory, sent to a high kill shelter when she got sick.  I look at her, her paws gently twitching as she chases silent rabbits on invisible grass, giving out a soft "woof" in her sleep and can't help but smile.

There is comfort in those sounds.  It's like listening to a monk chanting in a language which you do not need to even understand to know. So many sounds, the creaks, the murmurs, whispers of earth and sky and people, quiet tears in a hotel room, laughter and the clink of glasses, sounds evocative of life and death and struggle, things we've been aware of all our lives but never really understood until now. Sounds and words like faded letters on a road sign, not pointing us to where we need to be, but letting us know we were on the right path.

There is no room service, there is no big TV - there are journals and books and more books, tools left about mid function as a mind takes yet another bend in solving the puzzle of the day.  There is dog hair and dust and an ancient refrigerator that operates on sheer will  And there is a stained glass window, as old as I, that replaced what was once a mundane view of a yard,  a window alive with colors that glow when all color everywhere has failed the sky.

For no matter how dark things have been, there will always be that light that awaits you, biting into shadow. It is home, a small dwelling guarded by a sleeping dog and the one that never abandoned me, no many how many nights we were apart.  As for that person I trusted who also lived on the road whom I called on that fateful night so long ago, he is now my husband of five years. He waits for me inside with the light on. There is nowhere I'd rather be.

Park Walkies with Mom and Dad

 I know I won't go in the kiddie pool.  I told you there are alligators in it.  I don't care that you say they are cartoon gators.

 Right there Mom, scratches.

 I love my Mom

Home again, Home again.

Happy Autumn Blog Hop

Abby Lab here - Mom took a walk around the village after church for photos. Only a few of the trees have started to change color but she got some fun pictures. We're joining out friends the OP Pack at

• The Chronicle of Woos

for a blog hop this happy Autumn Day.

Saturday Smiles

Uh, I'll have the BSOD* with a side of hash browns, and a caramel cappuccino.


*Blue Screen of Death