Grannymar

White and Pink Blossoms to warm my heart!

Make sure to name your dog correctly

Folks generally aren’t very creative in choosing names for their dogs. That’s why there are so many named Rover and Spot.  But have you heard the plight of the fellow who thought he’d be cute and name his dog Sex?  It goes like this:

‘One day Sex and I took a walk and he ran away from me.  I spent hours looking for that dog.  A policeman came by and asked what I was doing in this alley at midnight.  I told him I was looking for Sex.  My case comes up next Tuesday.’

‘But that ain’t the worst part.  One day I went to the town hall to get a dog license for Sex.  The clerk asked me what I wanted.  I told him I wanted a license for Sex.  He said, ‘I’d like to have one, too.’  Then I said, ‘You don’t understand.  She’s a dog.’  He said he didn’t care how she looked. When I told him I’d had Sex since I was 5, he said, ‘You must have been an early bloomer.’ ‘

‘When I decided to get married, I told the minister I wanted to have Sex at  the wedding.  He told me I’d have to wait until after the wedding.  When I protested that Sex had played a big part in my life and that my whole life revolved around Sex, he said he didn’t want to hear about my personal life.’

‘After my wife and I were married, I took the dog with us on the honeymoon. When I checked into the hotel, I told the clerk I wanted a room for my wife and wanted one for Sex.  She said. ‘Every room in the hotel was for sex.’  I said, ‘You don’t understand.  Sex keeps me awake at night.’  The clerk said, ‘Me, too.’ ‘

‘When my wife and I separated, we went to court to fight for custody of the dog.  When I told the Judge I had Sex before I was married, he grinned and said, ‘Me. too.’ ‘

‘Now that I’ve been thrown in jail, married, divorced and had more trouble with that dog than I ever imagined, I’m in counselling..  My  psychiatrist asked me what my problem was.  I said ‘Sex has died and left my life.  It’s like losing a best friend and I’m so lonely,’ I told him.  He said, ‘ Look, you and I both know that sex isn’t man’s best friend.  Get yourself a dog.’

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With thanks to an anonymous friend of my anonymouse friend!

Today found me playing catch-up after my week of fun and games down south.  No post pre set and ready for you, so now I might tempt you with a future project…..

My old well used footstool/workbox looking the worse for wear.

This old beer crate I acquired many years ago from the back yard of a country pub.  It was filthy and covered in cobwebs.  Well scoured and left in the sunshine to dry and air for a few days, I set to work on covering it.  The Irish Tweed blanket sample was used as a base cover on the box first time round.  Yes, the box has had two lives already.  First time round it had a cross stitched lid and a fitted plain covering round the base and inside.

The fabric inside the box has not faded like the outside.  The skirt this time had box pleats at the corners.

Five panels for the four sides and the base were covered and laced at the back to keep them neat.

Four castors were added to the base to help with sliding across the floor.  It was and is a very comfortable height to rest my feet on a cold winter’s night while relaxing by a real fire!

Now what way will I embellish it this time?

UPDATE:  A closer look at one of the castors for WWW.  The base of the box was a little thinner than the sides.  Jack was alive when I first covered the box.  He helped me with them.  Man Strength was needed to secure them properly.  I suppose power tools make the job easier these days.

While reading a recipe last March at Not Junk Food a minor detail brought the memories flooding back…… Using a Roux* method of thickening a sauce had me back in the Domestic Science classroom of my old school. It was an all girl school run by an order of nuns.

Sister Mary Josephine of Fright (not her real name, but you knew that) was our teacher for that subject. Domestic Science was considered a very important subject for young ladies about to embark on the adult world in the early 60s. Sure we needed to be prepared for when a strapping healthy Garda, a Teacher or perhaps a Doctor masquerading as a rugby player turned our thoughts to tripping up the aisle and a lifetime of wedded bliss in our own kitchens!

Domestic Science covered three areas, cooking and baking (90 minutes per week), sewing (45 minutes per week) and hygiene and basic biology 45 minutes per week), the latter was all covered in one book and we in fact spent half the class at our sewing. I could draw the elementary canal in my sleep and also was an expert on the heart and lungs. But the other two chapters on the reproductive parts of the body were never opened or talked about in class. Sister Mary Josephine of Fright would blush and move us on to something else. Thanks to growing up in a house full of fellows, I knew all about the dangley bits and was never embarrassed by them. I felt sorry for my peers who came from all female families or where modesty was taken to a prudish level!

Now the sewing part was where I fell down.  Big time!  Sister Mary Josephine of Fright did not know how to cut out a pattern properly, mind you we never discovered that in year one.  The masterpiece that we were to produce for that year was a pair of bloomers.  They were blooming awful with a diamond shaped gusset, and large enough to fit my mother, grandmother and myself all into one leg at the one time!  Everyone in the class was required to use the same pattern. To this day I wonder if it was the pattern used to make nuns knickers!  Elasticated top and bottom, we were allowed the extravagance of a little trimming of lace at the leg ends.

My fabric was slub silk - an ample sized sample that had been in the house for some time and no longer of use to my father.  The fabric was what I called ’slippy-slidey’, so perhaps not the best for an early sewing class.  The garment was to be made by the method of hand- stitching!  We used a run and fell method for all four seams and the gusset! A deep hemmed top and bottom with a channel for elastic was used to finish them off.  It took a whole year for me to finish my specimen, since I was only working on it in school.  Mammy was not a ’stitcher’ so there would have been no advantage in taking it home to work on, or for guidance.  It was eventually completed with much criticism and ridicule from Sister Mary Josephine of Fright for my effort.  Once home Mammy, granny and I had many a laugh about it.  It is a pity that it was thrown in the duster pile, because today, it might find pride of place in the Tate Modern!

Alas, I don’t have a picture, but a similar pair featured in an earlier blog post

The pair first left in the photo come closest!

Now I am tired at the thought of all the effort, blood sweat and tears involved in making them, so I need to go lie down in a darkened room for a couple of hours!  The cooking will have to wait until next week…

Stay tuned!

Watermelon Salad with Feta and a Mint & Lemon Dressing
Serves 4
1 medium or 1/2 large watermelon
200g feta cheese
salad leaves or watercress
10ml runny honey
60ml  extra virgin olive oil
1 lemon
30ml fresh mint

Cut the watermelon into large chunks and remove the seeds. Cube the cheese. Mix together the oil, honey, and juice of 1 lemon. Finely chop the mint and add. Mix together, season with a little salt and freshly ground black pepper.  Arrange the salad in a bowl and add the melon and cheese.

Drizzle with the dressing and serve.

On my desktop today is:-

Ireland’s Eye from the dead centre of Howth!

Since I am on a semi-holiday my brain has gone for a walk….
So today I have four thoughts to share:-

Wrinkles don’t hurt.

Laughing is good exercise. It’s like jogging on the inside.

Growing up is mandatory; growing old is optional.

Wisdom comes with age, but sometimes age comes alone.

Our Loose Blogging consortium of Anu, Ashok, Conrad, Gaelikaa, Ginger, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria, Ramana and I, well those of us not on holiday or distracted by the calls of work, study or family concerns, turn our thoughts to the topic for the week, chosen today by Gaelikaa.

“I Just Hate It When …”

The toast falls on the floor jam side down.

The phone rings just when I sit on the loo.

The rain starts as soon as I finish cleaning windows.

People are late for appointments.

People are rude.

My broadband dies.

You reach for another square of chocolate only to discover you have already eaten it!

The thread runs out just five or six stitches before the end of what I am sewing.

Where are all the people?

I wonder what stories are unfolding behind the façades of these apartments?

A good one for Thursday Special since it’s election day!

Image courtesy of BBC

While walking down the street one day a Labour “Member of Parliament” is tragically hit by a truck and dies.

His soul arrives in heaven and is met by St. Peter at the entrance.

‘Welcome to heaven,’ says St. Peter. ‘Before you settle in, it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a high official around these parts, you see, so we’re not sure what to do with you.’

‘No problem, just let me in,’ says the man.

‘Well, I’d like to, but I have orders from higher up. What we’ll do is have you spend one day in hell and one in heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity.’

‘Really, I’ve made up my mind. I want to be in heaven,’ says the MP.

‘I’m sorry, but we have our rules.’

And with that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell.

The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the distance is a clubhouse and standing in front of it are all his friends and other labour politicians who had worked with him.

Everyone is very happy and in evening dress. They run to greet him, shake his hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at the expense of the people.

They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster, caviar and champagne.

Also present is the devil, who really is a very friendly & nice guy who has a good time dancing and telling jokes. They are having such a good time that before he realizes it, it is time to go.
The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens on heaven where St. Peter is waiting for him.

‘Now it’s time to visit heaven.’

So, 24 hours pass with the MP joining a group of contented souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They have a good time and, before he realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.

‘Well, then, you’ve spent a day in hell and another in heaven. Now choose your eternity.’

The MP reflects for a minute, then he answers: ‘Well, I would never have said it before, I mean heaven has been delightful, but I think I would be better off in hell.’

So St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell.

Now the doors of the elevator open and he’s in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage.

He sees all his starving friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags as more trash falls from above.

The devil comes over to him and puts his arm around his shoulder. ‘I don’t understand,’ stammers the MP. ‘Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now there’s just a wasteland full of garbage and my starving friends look miserable.
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What happened?’

The devil looks at him, smiles and says, ‘Yesterday we were campaigning… …

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Thanks Elly for this one!