Tag: SOL

Recipe Revue, (but not quite a revue)

Last century, in Tiny Town, Texas, our local newspaper regularly featured the photo of a home cook and three or four of their favorite recipes. Most were the sort you’d find in a local ladies’ auxiliary plastic comb-bound publication. Some were off if you followed the recipes instead of only reading them. Misprints or typos like 1 cup of tea instead of a teaspoon of instant tea mix. 1 c. of lard instead of, well, what kind of recipe might one need with a full cup of lard?

People dressed up for their photos. Nothing like today’s influencer photos. These were studio photos with bad lighting in colorless newsprint. No highly styled foodstagram pictures either. Just the recipe and your imagination or actual ingredients and something to eat as a result.

Yesterday, in suburban central Texas, the hubster opened a last century recipe book hunting down an apple cinnamon bread recipe.

“My sister gave me the recipe. I think your mom makes it too,” he recalls as he flips through pages of handwritten recipes.

“My mom got the recipe from your sister when she was in the paper,” I announce.

“Were you ever in the paper?” he asks.

“Not for the recipes. Mainly for nerdy school stuff. Band, honor roll, the regular school activities everyone did because there was nothing else to do.”

“French breakfast puffs,” he mutters as he continues to search.

“Ha! Those were neither puffy nor Frenchy. They’re basically muffins doused in melted butter and rolled in cinnamon sugar. They’re good, but not French.” I recall getting that recipe from one of my friends who was featured when we were in high school. They were a hit with our family, French or not.

He finds the recipe, discovers we’re out of apples, pushes the recipe book aside and searches for one on his phone. Settling for cinnamon bread with pecan strudel topping, he begins mixing.

I wonder what my blurb would say if I were selected today? Impossible, since the newspaper is defunct, but it’s fun to imagine.

Better yet, hubster and I would be the first dynamic duo, breaking with a single person featured. Would each of us take a turn over two consecutive weeks or would we hang out together? He loves cooking, I prefer eating. He’s the cook, I’m the baker. Team Use Every Utensil (him) or Team Clean As You Go? Complex recipes or one pot wonders? Which recipes would we choose? Three each or three of our favorites?

Hubster’s recipes: Tx cheesesteaks on the Blackstone griddle, cinnamon rolls in an hour, carne guisada with homemade corn tortillas, refried beans, and guac.

Wifey’s recipes: Rotisserie chicken taco Tuesday extravaganza, blueberry smash margaritas, tub of salad with olive oil & balsamic vinegar-serving bowl optional. Oh, and maybe a batch of those French breakfast puffs for special occasions.

Tuesday, April 8, 2025

“Number Five…

is alive!” Remember that movie?

My work bestie and I closed the library Thursday for lunch. I had a full day of lessons with eighth graders and another teacher was scheduled for checkouts. We rarely have lunch together because we try to keep the library open all day. I needed a breather and it’s nice not to have to eat alone.

I taught three full days of research lessons with this particular class and my anchor research topic was AI. I mentioned how we’re embracing AI every day (hello, MagicSchool, Chat GPT, Gemini and all you other invisible bots) and moving toward a Wall-E world, which creeped me out the first time I watched it years ago when E-now 22-was little, which led me to reminding her Wall-E is pretty much Number 5, the robot from the ’80s movie Short Circuit and did she ever watch it? which led to “Who was in that movie anyway, Matthew Broderick?” which led to a Google search (hers) while my brain search recalled Matthew Broderick in War Games, and “Did you ever watch that one?’ which led to an answer: Ally Sheedy and Steve Guttenberg (not how I’d spell it)–Steve Guttenberg? Wasn’t he older? Which made me stop to recalculate how old I actually was when I saw it (we lived in a rural town so that meant I watched it about two years after its release on HBO) which also reminded me I was still a young teen, so anyone over 18 was old in my mind’s eye, which then led to reminiscing and going down the 80s Week theme we’ve been tossing around for the library, ending with an 80s dance party. In the library. Before school. Which led to “Do you know how to dance?’ and I reply “If you call standing in one place bending your knees and swinging your hips to the beat actual dancing. 80s style dancing, so yeah, I know how to dance,” which led to the next class coming in and my brain trying to contain herself because in walked a student wearing…

a Wall-E t-shirt.

Today, it’s year 5 five for me. Number five is definitely alive, although my thoughts might short-circuit every now and then, which leads me to ask, anyone want to join me for an 80’s themed virtual dance party after 31 days of slicing?

Saturday, March 1, 2025

The Summer of…

Slices!

I used to name my summers, give them a theme in hopes of having something to do. I suppose I was setting an intention before setting intentions became a thing.

One year, it was The Summer of Learning. I taught myself to knit and made scarves in the comfort of an air conditioned home while sweltering triple digit temperatures fried the yard. I had a guitar and tinkered with it for a while, but I didn’t get far. I had a three year old and it mainly revolved more about his learning than mine. A summer with a three year old certainly counts for something though. After several summers, I lost track, had another child, and got too busy to even think about naming them.

As the end of the school year became a reality, a friend asked what I’d name this summer. I hadn’t thought of it. Great question. I contemplated.

The Summer of Breaking Free.

My life is good, but there are things I still hold back on. One of them is following through on projects here and there. The fun ones I long to do, but don’t seem to make time for while I’m working because I’m flat out tired. I have a fresh fourteen year old, so I’m now the resident Uber driver. Then there are the necessary projects that best lend themselves to be done during the long stretch of summer break. Look at flooring samples. (Probably best to budget for it first). All the paperwork in case something happens to us. Repaint bedrooms. Might as well paint the bathrooms while we’re at it. And don’t the cabinets need to be replaced too? Yeah, breaking free seems to be more of a long term commitment I didn’t want.

I signed up for a virtual craft and art workshop earlier this month. It’s free, within my price point. I also participated last year and completed some projects. Regrettably, I didn’t purchase access to the courses. This year, I allowed myself to purchase access because the instructors were fantastic, down to earth, and encouraging. For a full week, I connected with thousands of people from around the world and followed along for watercolor orange slices, planner doodling, mandalas, making a stamp from an eraser, sketch noting, block lettered paper collage, illustrated and cut bursts of happiness with sticky notes, and mixed media florals.

This led to cracking open a new notebook, not for writing, but for playing around. For a week I put my work in there and I’m popping in to view the sessions I didn’t have time to complete. I’m not out to become an artist, but it sure has helped me do something beyond my comfort zone. My medium of choice is words. Doing something I’m not great at is a way to stretch myself. I intended for my notebook to be a wordless journal, but some sessions involved journaling, a change I didn’t expect.

One big idea instructors continued to remind everyone was that of embracing what’s on the page (or canvas). If you make a mistake, it just becomes a part of the piece. Keep going and let it be what it wants to be.

Last week my body ached from painting. Walls. My daughter moved into my son’s ex-bedroom and she went in all interior decorator mode with a fierce vision of how she wanted to make it hers. (She is an artist). It took her all of ten minutes to choose her paint color. Dark Ash.

I’ve renamed it Teen Goth.

Her room will become my craft and writing room-at least that’s the plan. I’ve narrowed down my color choices to three. I’m indecisive, but I’m ready to have my own room. Our kitchen table is tired of having me perched at one end with a hot mess of whatever project I happen to be working on. My husband is tired of it too. Soon we’ll be able to eat at our kitchen table without having to shove everything to one side. But first, there’s the paint color. Maybe I’ll close my eyes, spin around three times and point at one. Otherwise it might wait until next summer. I can always repaint if I don’t like the color.

This seems to be The Summer of Painting. Should I rename it? I think I’ll hold on to my original title because painting and doing something other has helped me break free from the walls I put up around myself. On to the next project!

Tuesday, June 27, 2023

A Secret Garden

When you do something noble and beautiful and nobody noticed, do not be sad. For the sun every morning is a beautiful spectacle and yet most of the audience still sleeps.”

John Lennon
“This is my hobby.”

My morning run lures me into a cul-de-sac. Any extra steps to increase mileage and a closed ring helps. As I approach the turn-around, I notice a Little Free Library, the fifth one in my neighborhood. Note to self, I’ll come back to add more books and scope out what’s there. I’m on a run today, so I make a mental note to return tomorrow.

A surprise downpour the next morning keeps the sky thick with clouds. Better to rush out the door once it’s over before the sun burns the clouds and sweltering temperatures begin to rise. Humidity can choke you soon after a summer rain, even if it’s early. I’m on a mission to the Little Free Library.

I approach the area, which has three entry points. The first one, where I see the little blue box of a library tucked into trees has a saucer swing waiting for a youngster to climb into. Squish. My shoe sinks into the mud. Do I keep going? Might as well, I already started along a path. Regardless of which direction I go, more mud will stick to my shoes. This section is set up for littles. A split log creates a bench where a colander waits for someone to sift for acorns, leaves, bits of twigs. Two tiny Tonka trucks are positioned on one edge of the path.

A labyrinth! Yes, I did gasp, and no one was there to hear me.

It’s a transition space between the kids’ area tucked into a dense section of trees and the garden, complete with an entry. By this time, my shoes are so thick with mud, I tread carefully so I don’t slip rather than get caught trespassing. Is this space public? I can tell it isn’t part of the house next to it because there’s a clear distinction between the lawn and this space. Is it an HOA project? It looks too natural to be tended by an HOA. An HOA would’ve ripped the trees out and made sure the bench was anything but wood. Don’t want to be liable for anyone getting a splinter.

I enter the garden area where small bird baths are nestled around wildflowers and wind chimes gently sing in the breeze. Benches and rustic garden treasures complement the plants. Steps lead back to the sidewalk in two more areas and an iron owl greets me as I pass by. I stop for a few photos to share with the ‘tween who wishes there were more places to explore because living in a subdivision is so boring. I have to prove it’s worthy of exploration.

I make my way back to the sidewalk and two people with garden gear appear from one end of the garden. They wave hello. I approach and ask how long this small gem of a space has been around. About ten years. I’ve lived in the neighborhood going on twenty, but cul-de-sacs don’t seem to have much more beyond them. Except for this one. The gentleman introduces himself and I ask if the HOA tends it. “No, I’ve been doing this since I moved in,” he motions to his house across from the garden. “This is my hobby. I wanted to set something up for people to enjoy.”

I don’t know if I enjoyed the garden more than I enjoyed finding it. In an age where people practically shout to get noticed on social media, other people do small things. I’m guilty of spending more time on social media than I’m proud to admit.

Finding this garden taught me a few things:

  1. Expect the unexpected, especially when you’re not looking for it.
  2. Go in a different direction, whether or not your step count depends on it.
  3. Little things make a big difference.
  4. You can enjoy good things even if life gets a little muddy.
  5. You’re never too old for a surprise.
  6. You can change the world by focusing on what’s in front of you.
  7. Doing what you love benefits others.

The Story Keeper: Part II

Wednesday, March 9, 2022

As I worked with a small group of students using the button maker, another student came in, hunting me down. What’s so urgent?

“Mrs. Garza! I have to show you this!”

She holds a folded red bandana. Usually students either show me their own copies of a book I recently added to our collection. A published piece of writing from language arts class. A LEGO mini-figure. A new mani. A second ear piercing.

Walking toward the desk, she slowly unwrapped the bandana. “Look what I have. I need to be careful or it’ll break. It’s over a hundred years old.” Leaving the bandana on the table, she cradled it. A book, but not one I recently added to the collection. It was old. Over a hundred years old. A yellow envelope peeked out from underneath the front cover. I almost didn’t want to touch it, but I couldn’t wait to hold it.

Leather. Old leather, with pieces so worn they had fallen off. I needed gloves to handle it and here she was, brining it to school wrapped in a bandana and plopped into a backpack. Our new library bound books can barely take the brunt of a middle schooler’s backpack. “Where…”

“I got it at a garage sale! The lady gave it to me. I didn’t even have to pay for it. She said it belonged to her grandfather.” Another story about an hour after the previous grandfather story. Must’ve been National Grandfathers Leave Something Special to a Loved One Day and I didn’t get the memo. “Look at the letter!” she exclaims excitedly. “It has actual writing from the 1800’s.” Definitely an artifact because it’s actual writing. Opening the cover, she explains how the page had fallen out, or rather, broken out. There it was, a note with actual writing on it.

I tried not to gasp. I’m not sure if the book is worth anything, but the page was glued onto a sheet of paper which was glued onto an envelope. Yikes! I’m not an archivist, but this one may or may not be worth taking to an archivist. Wanting to check the publication date, I tried to open the next page to find information. It was too brittle. Not wanting to damage it, I opened pages that wanted to be opened. The print is still in decent condition.

I imagine I would’ve fallen in love with this book had I been able to see it back in the 1800s. Sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. I saved the title for last. A book of poems by John Milton. I spoke a little of what I remember about John Milton, which isn’t much, and his famous Paradise Lost. I asked for permission to take pictures. I suggested she check into having an expert take a look at it. What thrilled her most was the note written inside and the fact she got it free. At a garage sale.

This was a second story to add to my collection in the same day. My campus was without a librarian last year and library activities halted. It’s taken me a while to get the flow of it, get to know the teachers, and get to know the students. They are coming in more frequently now, teachers and students. And they’re sharing their stories with me. Even if they were free from a garage sale. I call that a win.

Hi, Neighbor

When I was a kid, the jail sat next to the library. I’d go in to exchange my books, the cool air conditioning, evaporating sweat dripping from my neck resulting from the bike ride there in the hot Texas sun. I wondered if I’d ever be able to take a peek behind the door separating the library and jail. The neighboring door just behind the librarian’s circulation desk remained locked. I imagined a Mayberry jail, one of the criminals trying to figure out a way to retrieve the keys from Barney Fife or rig up some contraption to yank them off an unattended nail next to the cell.

Was Ms. Roper afraid? Did anyone ever open that door? Was there even anyone in jail? Ever? Maybe it was just there to make us think it was the jail. I lived in a tiny blink and you’ll miss it town. I never heard of anyone being arrested. That happened in cities like New York, not our town. Why was it next to the library?

One place, shuts down and isolates a person. The other frees them up. What strange neighbors, the jail and the library.

Walking out, I’d take a look at the neighbor’s front door. The window with the blinds drawn shut. My bike still waiting for me. Hugging my book stack in one arm, I’d steady myself in the seat and pedal off, until next time.