Simple Gifts
‘Tis a gift to be simple, ‘tis a gift to be free.
‘Tis a gift to come round where you ought to be.
And when you find yourself in a place just right
‘Twill be in the land of love and delight.
When true simplicity is gained,
To bow and to bend we shall not be ashamed.
To turn and turn will be our delight,
Until turning, turning, we come round right.
Don’t you LOVE when an experimental trick turns out?
The first time I tried to make perfectly round fried eggs–the kind you put on an English muffin–I succeeded! My way is, I am sure, NOT how many people do it, but it suits me perfectly, I think.
And it was far more fun to figure it out myself, than to conform, anyway.
I know this breakfast post is supposed to come to you on Monday mornings, but life here is slow to return to normal. Lord willing, I will post another A-Okay Breakfast next Monday. In the meantime, try this:
All you need is butter and eggs and a small tin can, such as tuna comes in, or else a canning ring. I use a canning ring for our Frisbee Eggs. (We call them that because they are slightly domed on top and sometimes have a bubble underneath, close enough in shape to a Frisbee, making little ones laugh.)
Place the ring in a small fry pan.
Put about 1/2 teaspoon butter in the ring and turn on heat to medium, until butter completely melts.
Break medium egg into ring, holding ring down briefly, to prevent egg liquids from escaping underneath ring. Reduce heat to medium-low and cook until it is half-cooked.
Use fork to help lift egg and ring onto spatula, and flip egg and ring together.
Cook briefly on top side. Then flip again, to remove ring.
After removing ring, return to cooking top side until egg is done to your preference.
I had mine with several radish slices and salt. Served with 2 ounces pomegranate juice.
Next Monday, I hope to return to the old schedule with “Good Ol’ Bacon and Eggs”.
See ya’!
Oh, after such a long time of sketchy Internet service, the (round) sun is shining and the air is crisp and wonderful. Such cool breezes as we cherish are blowing over our land and the trees positively glitter from being so clean.
Opportunities to snap photos were also sketchy, since I believe cameras prefer not to be wet. However, catch this:
What I hope is a Viceroy caterpillar is gobbling my rue plant. His little middle is growing round and rounder. At least this one is leaving the dill alone.
We have a set of antique wagon wheels in our herb beds:
This first one shelters the cos, burnet, and thyme.
It’s twin decorates the rosemary and the pineapple sage.
I do love all my herbs and hope you have discovered the joy of growing them.
It’s all new, but it’s old as life, itself: a new way to kill.
You go to the Planned Parent Hoodlums (PPH) and find someone there (Nurse? Janitor? Toxic waste clean-up pro? Who knows?) to give you a poison pill you cannot swallow until you e-mail a doctor.
Right.
You do NOT get a chance to consult with a licensed physician as the FDA says you should. You just web-cam the guy.
It’s the all new telemed coat hanger. And it costs the PPH a lot less. They don’t have to hire a doctor, after all. Whew! Wasn’t THAT a close call!
Friends, this is NOT about equal access to healthcare for women.
This is about those who PROFIT from reaching their tentacles into places where abortion was already “RARE” and causing more of it, by inflicting a dangerous drug cocktail on women and even minor females.
These women and girls are told that if they have any physical troubles, to go to an emergency room and pretend they are having a legitimate miscarriage. Think: If you were a little girl who may or may not have known how you got pregnant in the first place, and have had NO medical counsel, would you know if you were having troubles that necessitated an ER visit? Maybe. And your UNATTENDING physician—where is he? Still unattending, of course, since what he has done is very lawsuit worthy.
Basically, if you dare darken the doors of PPH, you could be merrily sent on your way to hemorrhage to death. Wow, that will certainly cost taxpayers less, since PPH can lay off the toxic waste disposal team, if they bother to have one. Or, hey, they could lay them off and pretend they did not, since they are so into pretending lies, and still collect the money for it. Perfect set up!
But if you do manage to realize you need the ER, and if you do feel enough shame to join in the cover up, and if you do have those poisons racing through your veins, and if the actual REAL attending physician happens to believe you—you will receive treatment based on incomplete information. How safe is that, hmm?
And how obvious PPH does not give a hoot.
About you, that is.
Just money.
Let me tell you one thing: If someone gave a young BOY a poison pill, told him he might feel bad, and if he goes to a doctor NOT to tell what happened, it would be murder and certainly not bankrolled by our taxes.
Let’s hope.
The folks at postaday asked us to list for them our top posts for the year. Since my Internet still has issues with the idea that I am trying to USE it, I thought I would repost this one for those who may have missed it. Hope you like it; it got scads of views!
I remember a dream house we moved into, once, that required walking through a nightmare before we could really own it. In a job relocation, we had looked everywhere for anything that would contain us all and that was not affected by the housing bubble. Funny, although it was the only house we could afford, it was clearly the biggest we’d ever seen. I mean, 4000 square feet with 7 acres far exceeded our hopes, in my favorite layout: an A-frame with wings. I thought it was a dream come true.
On closing day, our realtor apologized for having to board an airplane immediately for a business trip. A lie? Maybe, but certainly convenient for the realtor. The sellers skipped town, too. Our sold house was 400 miles away. The new job beckoned.
The promised cleaning had not happened. In fact, the house was far dirtier than at the showing. Everything unwanted from the attic lay strewn all over the game roomfloor—three garbage bags full of it. The kitchen looked like a murder had happened there. Probably someone had just dragged leaky packages of ground beef across the floor to the fridge when someone slipped and nearly fell in it. And had not wiped it up. Of course, the promised professional carpet cleaning existed only in the land of promises-promises. The finale for the day probably was the cat litter and feces on the dining room carpet and the animal barf on the laundry room floor. That is, until I lifted the nasty, old, wet, cleaning rag from the kitchen sink and found inside it a huge dog clunker. I screamed and nearly passed out, grabbed a plastic bag, and hurried the mess out the front door. And bleached absolutely everything while crying.
What followed was a month of the unbelievable. We mastered spot-treating carpet. I would steam clean every night until I could not remember how to turn the machine off, usually around 2 a.m. We learned how to remove vinyl wall-paper glue with a knife. We used five coats of sealer/primer on the purple paint. I list only part. No one believes the rest. Or cares, usually. Let’s say “the dream house became a nightmare.”
BUT—God went before us. Constantly we found signs of His loving approval. The perfect wallpaper in NEUTRAL colors went on sale for $4.00. A wonderful furniture salesman helped us find honest repairmen. We thank God, often, for the fact that of all the things that did not work, the smoke alarms did, since there was a fire, one night.
God blessed, protected, and boosted us as we slipped into this hard place. He gave us joy and strength as we plowed through insurmountable difficulties. One by one, each small space was ours, by right of conquest.
Lately I’ve been thinking about myself when the Lord first moved into my being. I think I know a bit about how He felt.
But He’s been up late, nights.
I am His by right of conquest.
In honor of the 400th anniversary of the translation of the Bible into English, commissioned by King James of England in 1611, and originally published by Robert Barker, printer to the King, I will use this version for the rest of this year in these posts. Hope we can enjoy the quaint differences we find here and appreciate all that went into it.
Haue yee not knowen? haue yee not heard? hath it not beene tolde you from the beginning? haue hee not vnderstood from the foundations of the earth?
It is he that sitteth vpon the circle of the earth, and the inhabitants thereof are as grashoppers; that stretcheth out the heauens as a curtaine, and spreadeth them out as a tent to dwel in;
That bringeth the princes to nothing; hee maketh the Iudges of the earth as vanitie.
Yea they shal not be planted, yea they shall not be sowen, yea their stocke shall not take roote in the earth: and he shall also blow vpon them, & they shall wither, and the whirlewinde whall take them away as stubble.
To whom then will ye liken me, or shal I be equall, saith the Holy One?
Lift vp your eyes on high, and behold who hath created these things, that bringeth out their host by number: he calleth them all by names, by the greatnesse of his might, for that hee is strong in power, not one faileth.
Why sayest thou, O Iacob, and speakest O Israel, My way is hid from the Lord, and my iudgement is passed ouer from my God?
Hast thou not knowen? hast thou not heard, that the euerlasting God, the Lord, the Creatour of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is wearie? there is no searching of his vnderstanding.
Isaiah 40:21-28
I think I’m back, but my heart hardly knows where to break first . . . .
Disaster #1 – Beloved minister and rescuer of teenage drug captives, David Wilkerson, has died in a car wreck. His wife, Gwen, was with him in the car and is in critical condition. He wrote The Cross and the Switchblade about his early life in New York and how it overlapped the life of Nicky Cruz. After beginning his ministry in Texas, he opened a church in an old theater in New York, where he preached and ministered to whomever dropped in, whether tramp or New York businessman. He was a real modern-day prophet and author of many books, and faithfully published and sent free newsletters (of the postage type) to all who desired to receive them. Listening to his preaching was the first occasion of awakening to the Lord’s call for one of my sons.
Disaster #2 -A beyond-enormous tornado ripped through the Deep South, leaving around 300 dead, at last count.
Disaster #3 -One of the sweetest ladies I know in the world lost her favorite sister to that storm–the sister who stood by her when her son was murdered–gone, along with the sister’s husband.
Disaster #4 – Someone desecrated a memorial to the unborn at Clarion University in Pennsylvania. It was the usual collection of crosses depicting the enormity of the death sentence on the children of our country: 350 white crosses to commemorate the 53 million dead. But the crosses were found turned upside down (a common satanic ritual symbol), spattered with blood-colored paint, and bloody-looking infant footprints appeared on the site. Also in red, on the sidewalk was the phrase, “pro-choice”.
I’m glad to be back with fairly good service available, but cannot process what a sad day it is, out there. It makes our storm seem paltry by comparison (and I KNOW, it’s not a competition and I am glad we do not measure up.)
But tomorrow, Lord willing (I think we need to start saying that more), I will try to bring you a sweet and humorous story from our storm experience.
See ya’.
Home's Cool! 