Thank you all for your prayers. In case you’ve forgotten, I asked you to pray for me because I was feeding a cast of thousands over the July 4 weekend. I also suggested you pray for those I was feeding. For newcomers to this column, if there are any, my cooking skills are pretty much nonexistent. Oldcomers to this column already know that.
Well, your prayers were answered – I managed to produce an edible pot of goulash and the dessert to end all desserts, cottage pudding. As I explained in previous columns (I’m sure you all remember, if you don’t, that’s okay, I’m in a forgiving mood), cottage pudding isn’t a pudding at all, but a rich, heavy cake with a divine buttery fudge sauce.
The goulash lasted for two meals, the rest of the time we had non-homemade (duh) pizza and various other family contributions.
Our house came alive with the California, Minnesota and southern Iowa offspring and their offspring. By “came alive” I mean the noise level was about 2,000 decibels. Everybody talked, laughed and yelled at once. It was lovely!
Youngest grandchild, Molly Scarlett, age five, loved to have me read “Pokey Little Puppy” to her. Did you know that book is recognized as the most popular child’s book ever written? Well, now you know, if you didn’t before.
One afternoon, as I was reading it to her for the umpteenth time, she heard her big brother, Dylan, in the next room and wanted to see what he was up to. “Can you press pause for a minute, Nana?” she inquired as she jumped down from my lap and dashed into the other room. I’m sure she’ll be a techie genius when she grows up.
One of the highlights of the weekend was a golf outing that they planned as a sort of memorial tribute to Bing. He loved golfing. He also hated golfing. His feelings for the game depended entirely on how well or awful he did. Consistency was not his forte. However, our kids knew even when his game was terrible, he enjoyed chugging around the lovely Spring Valley golf course in his cart, admiring its beauty. I enjoyed it, too, but my love for golf was about as shaky as my game. I was, in a word, terrible.
I once took a mighty swing with my driver, lost my grip and the club looped backward, missing Bing by inches. “I think you’re entitled to a do-over on that one,” he smirked. I think smirking is in very poor taste.
The house is quiet once again. Ivy misses all the pats, hugs and treats everyone gave her.