Ice cream is one of my comfort foods. I'm tired, I want ice cream. I'm depressed, ice cream. Happy, ice cream! I eat ice cream on a very hot summer day as well as on a freezing cold winter night. I've even eaten ice cream for breakfast. That was after I walked more than five miles pushing Tilda-Hilda (my pink bike cruiser, for those who don't know) with a flat tire home. Well, four miles. The Husband walked up to meet me and pushed Tilda-Hilda the last mile. He's such a sweetheart. Lemon chiffon, chocolate, coffee, French vanilla, and pineapple-coconut are my top five ice creams. What are yours? Click   here  to find other A to Z challenge participants.

Today, I'm going to describe my fantasy day of dining out. Six small meals. A graze pig out. My full day of dining out would be in San Francisco. With the dear Husband, of course.  We would be doing a lot of wandering around the city to get our appetites up for the next meal. Breakfast: A chocolate croissant, from a real French patisserie, with a big cup of organic coffee. Snack: Half a fresh organic papaya. The Husband gets the other half. Lunch: Dim sum. Yummm. Stuffed eggplant. Taro cake. Sticky rice in lotus leaf. Chinese broccoli smothered in lots of garlic. Snack: One old-fashioned doughnut hole. Okay, maybe two. Dinner: Without doubt, a Korean dinner where we grill kalbi, tender short ribs, at the table. And, that isn't even the best part of the meal. That belongs to the banchan, the several small dishes of vegetables that are served on the side. Some spicy such as kimchi cabbage,  kimchi radish, and spicy beans. Some kinda sweet or mild to balance the s

The following was written yesterday afternoon (and edited much later) . . .   This is a first for me. Sipping a beer as I tippy-tap out words on the keyboard. This, I'm having -- the beer -- right after drinking a small (which in olden times would've been medium) cup of wonderful coffee. I drink coffee now and then, alas. I like the taste of coffee, as well as the thinking that evolves with the caffeine, but this old body of mine can no longer handle daily consumption of the stuff.  Pobrecita. See, even the little Spanish I know gets evoked in the brain cells. Lately, my morning brew is a cup of boiled water. I'm just not into tea or hot lemon juice right now. For the past week, I've been wanting coffee from Vertigo , a coffeehouse in San Juan Bautista that roasts and grinds coffee beans fresh every day. It's about eight miles, more or less, away. Not far at all, but getting dressed and doing this and that before getting into the car first thing in the mor

Is it redundant to say vintage typewriters? After all, who sells new typewriters these days? For that matter, has anyone invented a new model recently? A girlfriend and I stumbled across this display of typewriters in Downtown Los Altos, California last week. They all looked spic and span. I don't think my fingers are strong enough to make the keys go clickity clack. We have three, maybe four, portable typewriters in the house. One is an electric, two (or one) are (or is) Brother typewriters from the late 1960s, and one is a very old, but not ancient, clunky typewriter like the ones you see in black and white movies. I bought that in a garage sale, thinking I'd use it. Ha! It needed a lot of cleaning so I put it back in its accompanying case. I have no idea where it is now. I took a typing class in high school, which was one of two classes that I learned skills I still use today. The teacher roamed around the classroom, making sure we did not peek at our hands as

"Take my picture, please," I asked the Husband in the mustard field. I walked through the tall mustard to hand him the camera. I wanted to see which was taller -- the mustard or me. What do you think?

Bilingual, I am not. A bilingual person is someone who is fluent in two languages. I'm one of those second generation kids (in any immigrant group) who can understand their parents' language but cannot speak it. Oh, sure, I can say some phrases in Ilocano, the Mama's language,  such as, uh,  Awan ti nakkem mo  which means "There's nothing in your head." Something the Mama said to me often when I was a kid. The Husband tells me it's strange to listen to the Mama's and my conversations. She says something in Ilocano and I respond in English. I say something to her in English and she responds in Ilocano. Most times, I don't even realize she's talking to me in Ilocano.  I suppose you could say we are having a bilingual conversation, just that neither of us are bilingual. There are times when I can't figure out what the Mama wants. It's not because of the language difference, but because of the Mama's unique thinking process. She

My town does not have a bookshop, an art supplies store, or a music store. Once upon a time it had all three. When I was a teenager, I fantasized about one day owning a bookstore with a ceramic wheel in the back so that people who want to play with ceramics can do their thing. I even knew what space in town I wanted to have my bookstore. Sometimes the fantasy of having a bookstore pops up when the Husband and I stumble upon a vacant space on main street or thereabouts. I no longer want a ceramic wheel. But, I do think of offering a service for people to have their packages delivered to my bookstore so that they don't have to fear about them being stolen off their porch. In a tiny way, I am living out my bookshop fantasy by having a virtual online book store at Amazon, which  focuses on books about my town and county, as well as local authors.  I could expand this virtual shop by adding other categories that interest me. Yes, I could. Maybe, I will. I'll put it on my To-Do

Once Molly catches that turkey, I will start cooking. I am grateful for many things. . . the Husband, the Mama, and Molly the Cat. the friends in my life. the ability to live the life I choose. the earth, the sun, the wind, and the water. the unconditional love of God. Peace, joy, love, and happiness to you, Dear Readers. 

I drew socks the other day because I bought some socks for the Mama and me. They are just as colorful as the ones in the picture. The Husband bought socks, too. He was the instigator, which meant he needed socks and the Mama must have forgotten to give him socks for Christmas. Actually, it was more like she forgot to tell me that she wanted to buy his annual Christmas bunch of socks. I should've remembered, but I haven't been good in that department either. A couple weeks ago, I forgot about the Mama's doctor appointment. At least, I remembered the following day and called the doctor's office. We went on Friday for his five-minute examination to make sure she is still ticking. Yup, she is indeed. Her blood count actually went up,  and her blood pressure is that of a spring chicken. The Mama also gained a pound. She'd been losing a pound every four months for the past two years so I was very happy to hear the nurse say she was 110. The Mama's reaction. "

$3.99 for a gallon jar of kosher whole dill pickles. About 70 of them. Three to four-inches long and rather thick, too. As far as I'm concerned, the $3.99 gallon jar of pickles is the best deal at Costco.Yes, indeed. A medium-size jar of kosher pickles at the supermarkets costs more than that. And, when I think how much a single Kosher pickle of this kind costs at a deli—oh, my! The Husband and I bought our second gigantic jar of pickles last week. We went through the first jar in a little over two months. Uh-huh, we like our pickles. We don't eat a pickle every day nor do we each eat a pickle. Even though pickles contribute to our probiotic consumption, we gotta be moderate about it. We also do not want to get tired of these yummy pickles that take up a lot of space on the top shelf of the refrigerator. The Mama doesn't care for pickles. Too sour. But, she does eye the jar, no doubt thinking about what could be stored in it. I asked her if she would like the first

The last of the remaining orchard in our area was pulled out last month. That's why we've been seeing and hearing a lot more crows in the neighborhood. Also, doves, pigeons, and other birds. Squirrels, too.  Fortunately, no rats or snakes. I hope all the creatures that once lived in the orchard have found good places to call home. FYI: The watermark on the photo refers to the other blog I write. I'm participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge this month. To check out other participants, click here . See you tomorrow.   

When I was a youth—did I really write that?—the battle cry was Seize the Day! Today it's more like, uh, seize the moment . In just a snap of a moment, I might finally do a load of laundry. . . vacuum the living room. . . make that darn appointment with the doctor. . . re-order supplements. . . read a chapter. . . prune the lemon tree. . . sew the Christmas gift for the Husband. . .  draft the working outline for a book idea. . . or. . . . You could say I procrastinate. A lot.  At least, I make no excuses. Walden Pond taught me that. So, did the Daddy. I realize and accept the consequences for every action that I do. Or don't. Though I wonder if that is an excuse in itself. I'm participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge this month. To check out other participants, click here . See you tomorrow.   

I have a blue notebook that's entitled Efficiency Notebook . It was something I found in one the Father-in-Law's boxes labeled Office . The notebook's cover states that inside are 80 medium ruled and margin line sheets. After the Husband and I tore out the pages with the Father-in-Law's notes, fewer than 40 blank pages were left. Why didn't we just throw out the notebook? I don't know anymore. Maybe the kuripot in me wouldn't let it go. Kuripot , for those curious, means cheap, thrifty, penny-pinching, or frugal in Ilocano. Some people characterize the Ilocanos, which is my ancestry, as being kuripot . But, then I could just be individually that way. When I hold my palm up, fingers naturally resting against each other, I can't see any light between the fingers. That, according to the Mama, means I'm pretty good about not spending a lot of money. Yes, that's the reason I think insurance of any kind is a scam. Anyway, the Efficiency Notebook

Sixty-nine pounds of organic tomatoes. That's how many pounds of tomatoes the Husband, the Mama, and I picked at the Live Earth Farm in Watsonville yesterday.  The farm was having its last u-pick day for tomatoes, and, we were quite fortunate to learn about it just in time. I have gotten spoiled. Maybe the Husband and the Mama have, too. For the last four years, we have picked enough organic tomatoes to freeze and use until the next tomato season. Frozen organic tomatoes taste almost as if they were just picked. That's reason one for me saying I am spoiled. Reason number two is that I like seeing Mama enjoy herself as she picks tomatoes. I think it brings her back to the days of working in vegetable seed research. We bring her little green bench so that she can sit as she pick tomatoes in solitude under the warm sun. "Don't go too far," she always tells me, as I go to find my own row of solitude nearby, while the Husband walks toward the far end of the f

The most amazing thing happened to me yesterday morning, as I was pedaling my pretty pink bicycle. Quite freaky, in fact. Totally insane. I wish I had one of those cameras strapped to my head so I could've recorded the whole thing, which lasted a few seconds but in slooooooooow motion seemed God, Almighty! long. In my mind, what I did is akin (almost) to attempting the circle-of death-biker stunt. Hey! Don't laugh. You gotta remember I'm a fat, young old fogey turning 60 in a few months, which I say in a very positive way. Okay, okay. I think I've got your attention to the kinda, somewhat, yes, indeed risk I experienced yesterday morning. It was about 8:17 a.m. For those of you who don't know my normal pattern, that hour is like sunrise for me. The Husband was still snoozing in bed, the Mama was eating her breakfast, and Molly the Cat was gazing out the back window probably thinking about climbing the fence. Me, I had a meeting to go to and by, golly, this time

This is dedicated to the Husband's and my friends—the Young Old Fogeys. We Do It! We're too old to do this. We're too old to do that. We're too old so some think. But, we do it. I'm not a young man. I'm not a young miss. Ah. But, we have much bliss For we do it. We hike up the hills. We zip through the trees. We pedal against the breeze. We like to do it. We're too old to do this. We're too old to do that. We're too old so some think. Ha! We do it. © Su- sieee ! Mac. All rights reserved.

Seriously, Lady. Have you nothing else to do, but take my photo? That's what I imagine Molly the by-golly Cat said to me after I snapped this shot. What can I say? The friends have children and grandchildren to brag about. Me? Why, I'm pretty proud about the Husband, the Mama, and Molly the Cat. Yep, I'm still here. I know. It has been nearly a month since I've written.  I've been busy being a writing hack. And, I say that in a good way. Hope you're all doing well out there, dear Readers, each and every one of you. Molly yawns healthily  at night because of the prowling she does during the day in the Mama's jungle.

Once upon a time, in a far away place, a little girl wished upon a star, "I wish I could fly." Unlike other fairy tales, Midge's wish did not come true. So, she thought. One morning, Midge woke up, thinking, "Ah, today is the day I shall fly."   She flung off her blankets and jumped to her feet. Bounce! Bounce! Bounce! With each bounce, Midge hung in the air higher and longer. Nearly three-quarters to the ceiling, she turned somersaults and back flips, cartwheels and spins. She bounced and she bounced until her grandmother opened her door. "Very good, my dear," said Lola Sue smiling so proudly. "You're getting to be quite good with the triple flips. I do believe you take after your grandma." Lola Sue jumped onto the bed, and together they bounced. Bounce! Bounce! Bounce! Holding hands, they bounced even higher and higher. "I think it is time," Lola Sue said."Are you ready?" "Yes! Yes!" exclaimed Midge, altho

I heard these three Mama-isms quite often when I was a small child sitting at the kitchen table: "Don't lean on your hand. God will get mad." "Don't sing at the table. God will get mad." "Don't play with your food. God will get mad." The husband told me he was told similar things as a kid. Just not the part about "God will get mad." His parents usually said something like: "Don't lean on the table. That's not polite." Since the Mama had to remind me more than once about not doing certain things at meal time, I must've figure God wasn't mad at me at all. And, look, I still sometimes play with my food.

I do feel sspassazzy about wearing something red now that I'm a young "old" fogey. Nope, not a red hat. Though I did learn I could've joined the Red Hat Society several years ago. Yesterday, I bought myself a red lacy brassiere. Ooh la-la, indeed. First time, I've ever owned a red one. Wonder why I never got one before. I liked the way I felt free, invincible, and joyful when I tried it on, similar to how I feel after having cut my hair very short. Do I feel this same way when I wear a red frock, red shoes, or red earrings? Not that I can recall, but then I rarely wear red because it is such a visible color. Hello, stop sign. When I was in eighth grade, the mama made me a lovely red dress. She was disappointed that I didn't like to wear it. Ah, kids. I would definitely wear it today. How about you? How does wearing red make you feel?