Before we bought the pigs, we carefully considered where we should put the animals. They should be far enough away from the house that we wouldn’t have to smell them or have to put up with flies, yet they should be close enough that we could stretch a garden hose to the pens so we wouldn’t have to carry water. The land was flat and very sandy in south-central Mississippi, so we wouldn’t have to worry about the pigs making hog wallows because the water percolated away almost immediately. We thought the pen should be in the trees so there would be some shade for the pigs.
We wanted chickens, also. While we planned to let the chickens roam free during the day, we also planned to build a penned area for them so they would have a place to scratch in the dirt on days that we were away and wouldn’t be let out. I loved to watch chickens range around while hunting bugs and seeds, and to listen to their contented clucking. I would build nest boxes into which they could lay their eggs. They would be so happy!
Bacon and eggs for breakfast, coming right up!
A pig should have a little room to root around, I figured, so I stepped off various sized pens to see how much room the pigs would have. We couldn’t find any information on sizing pigpens, so we were “playing it by ear”: The Internet wasn’t available in the early 1980’s. Ultimately, the size of a roll of woven wire decided how big the pens would be. A one hundred foot roll would build a twenty-five square foot pen, for an area of 625 square feet. That should be plenty for two pigs. Four trees would be inside the fence, so the pigs would have good scratching posts. For the twelve chickens, the same logic prevailed, since we could get a one hundred foot roll of chicken wire. We would place the pens side by side so we wouldn’t wind up with a weed lane between the pens. I would carefully build the pens with parallel sides, ninety-degree corners and straight posts. My pigpen would be a thing of beauty!
The following Saturday, a stop at the Farm Supply Store was in order. From my planning, we bought the woven wire, chicken wire, wooden posts for corners, steel posts for line posts, staples and gates. I was surprised at the amount of the bill. This was going to be an expensive project! Dad always said that when you raise your own food, you don’t eat cheaper, but you do eat better. That seemed like making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. But we weren’t raising sows. Whatever.
Wild animals like raccoons and possums were a concern, so the first thing I did was to dig a trench one foot deep where the fence would run. When I got near a tree, I hit tree roots. Big tree roots. Back to the Farm Supply Store for an axe. Chop, chop, chop. Dig, dig, dig. Chop, dig, chop, dig. Took a week off to let the blisters on my hands heal. Mental note: Remember to buy some leather gloves the next time I am in the Farm Supply Store.
When the trench was completed, I needed to dig the postholes for the corner posts. A spade won’t dig a deep posthole because the handle is at an angle and will allow the spade to go only so far down the hole. I needed a way to dig a deeper hole. A posthole digger! Its handle is straight and allows the digging part to go as far down the hole as needed. Well, at least I could pick up the gloves this trip. On the second posthole, I ran into tree roots again. Deep roots. The axe couldn’t reach them because the hole was too narrow. I would need to enlarge the hole to be able to chop them out; that would result in a weak hole because sand is hard to pack solid. Instead, I decided to move the hole a little to avoid the roots. So much for my nice, square-cornered pigpen, but at last I had all the holes dug. I set a wooden post in the first hole and began tamping in the dirt around the post. I used the handle of the shovel for a tamper, until I hit my shoulder with the shovel blade. Fortunately, it didn’t require stitches, but I was out of commission for another week.
Finally, the corner posts were ready for wire. I unrolled the wire, which required a little ingenuity because the wire kept rolling itself back up. As I unrolled it, I set a log on the wire to keep it unrolled. Nancy held the wire on the post while I stapled it on. Then I took the staples out because the wire was too high on the post. I had to put the wire into the trench before stapling it on the post. This was definitely turning into a learn-as-you-go project. However, I had the next phase figured out. I built a fence stretcher out of two-by-four lumber and carriage bolts that would hold the wire flat and give me something on which to hook a chain. The other end of the chain went around the ball on the pickup’s bumper. I slowly eased the pickup forward…and promptly pulled the post out of the ground. @#$%^$#@!
Eventually, I got the post to stay in the ground after several more trips to the Farm Supply Store for cement, corner posts, more staples, and an imaginary case of beer. This damn pork had better be good, is all I can say! Oh, I had fun hanging the gates, too, but it is too painful to get into that here, but if one more person says anything about it dragging the ground they can just go right out there and hang it themselves. I have to sit down a minute. Maybe I’ll have another beer. God, I wish I drank beer. Where is my handkerchief? My eyes are tearing.
Through trial and error and perseverance, the pens were eventually completed, but the posts were all crooked and the wire sagged. The shelters were crude structures, fashioned out of pallets and cardboard, but functional (at least until the first rain.) Did I mention that it rains all the time in Mississippi? @*(%$#@#$. #$^*(^%#@$%. They fit right in with the crooked fence and catawampus posts.
The day finally arrived to go get the pigs. It had taken so long to build the pens that the pigs we got were from a subsequent litter, and they were smaller than I had planned on. I went to the Farm Supply Store to get some 12-inch high chicken wire to clip to the bottom of the woven wire, so the little bastards wouldn’t keep escaping out of the pen. Fortunately, I didn’t yet own a rifle. But the #%(^$@ Farm Supply Store carried those, too! And I wished I had one!!
I have to go lay down for a little while. Maybe my hands will stop shaking and I will stop sweating so much. This story will have to continue another time.
*&$%^&# sun-uf-a $%^#@ pigs.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Doctor by Ron Tuepker
Robert B. was a tall, muscular man. My first impression was that Wally Cleaver was sitting in my examination room and had been on an aggressive steroid program for a year: his arms were massive, he had well developed pecks, six pack abs and legs that were as big around as my torso. He was clean-shaven with a square jaw and attractive features. He sat without any apparent discomfort on the edge of the examination table. It was difficult to believe that such a man could have any complaint.
As I sat down to begin the interview, I saw immediately what the problem was: Robert's left eye could not focus, and wandered freely in the eye socket. It was quite distracting talking to him because one's eyes were naturally drawn to the out-of-control eye.
My specialty was to rebuild atrophied muscles. With most of my patients, this involved major muscles, such as biceps or calf muscles that were injured and allowed to wither away due to lack of exercise. While I had never tried my method on the eye muscles, I saw no reason to believe it would not be successful.
I am not at all happy with this composition, but I have been unable to find the time to revise it, and I doubt this will change in the near future. So here it is, in all its ugly manifestations.
As I sat down to begin the interview, I saw immediately what the problem was: Robert's left eye could not focus, and wandered freely in the eye socket. It was quite distracting talking to him because one's eyes were naturally drawn to the out-of-control eye.
My specialty was to rebuild atrophied muscles. With most of my patients, this involved major muscles, such as biceps or calf muscles that were injured and allowed to wither away due to lack of exercise. While I had never tried my method on the eye muscles, I saw no reason to believe it would not be successful.
I am not at all happy with this composition, but I have been unable to find the time to revise it, and I doubt this will change in the near future. So here it is, in all its ugly manifestations.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Doctor Ioke Tuepker
I was born on a farm in Northern Missouri to parents who struggled all of their lives. I was the oldest of 14 children and was determined to leave the farm as soon as I was able. I worked very hard during school and graduated at the top of my class. During my senior year, I had applied to about a dozen colleges – many of them Ivy League. It was my dream to be one of the best surgeons in the world. I was accepted at the Stanford University School of Medicine, St. Louis University School of Medicine and the University of Colorado School of Medicine. I selected the University of Colorado School of Medicine thinking it would afford me the opportunity to try my luck at skiing and snow boarding. I guess I was not as smart as I thought I was. During my eight years of medical school and my internship, all I had time to do was study. There was no skiing or snow boarding. It was still wonderful being in Colorado and hope to one day return.
After my internship, and proudly being one of the leading surgeons in the world in speleology, I was accepted to practice at the Moscow State University in beautiful downtown Moscow, Russia. I was excited to have been given this opportunity, as Russia does not have very many female professionals much less surgeons. I did not realize the difficulty I would have in being accepted by my male peers but I was going to give it my best shot.
Upon arriving in Moscow, I found a small one room flat close to Red Square, which stretches along one side of the Kremlin walls. On the south side of Red Square was the Cathedral of the Intercession, also know as the Cathedral of St. Basil the Blessed. It is a wonderful creation of old Russian architecture. I enjoyed looking out over the square when I would come home from work. It was amazing how dark and cold my tiny flat was when I would look out over the grandeur of Red Square.
My first few months of working at the University were uneventful. I was settling into life in Moscow. The language was no longer a barrier. Moscow was cosmopolitan – after all, there was a McDonalds (one of the largest in the world) and a Pizza Hut. Everywhere you shopped in Moscow there were very long lines. McDonalds and Pizza Hut were no exception. I did have the advantage of not standing in long lines as my shift ended around 1:00 am.
I was about half way through my shift one day when the head surgeon brought a case study to my office. It concerned an elderly person with some very unusual symptoms. Evidently, this patient has been to many physicians at some of the top universities all over the world. No one was able to diagnose the symptoms and therefore unable to provide treatment. I was given the case. At first, I thought it was an attempt to prove to the Russian staff that indeed, a woman surgeon would never be able to solve this mystery. I was too stubborn to let that happen – by golly I would prove everyone wrong.
An appointment was scheduled for later in the week. This gave me time to do research on the symptoms. It was indeed a mystery as to what was going on and I expended many hours in the medical research library. I came up with nothing, which I found to be most confusing.
The day of the appointment finally arrived. I walked into the examining room with my head held high and my shoulders thrown back. I wanted to portray as much professionalism and confidence as possible. After all, this was going to be a tough case to solve. The patient was a quiet, slight man who was quick to smile. I was immediately taken in by his personality. He followed me to the exam room where I ordered a battery of tests. The attendant arrived for the blood draw. I was convinced the answer would be in the blood profile I was going to order. We did x-rays, EEGs, EKGs, a full physical. I used my periscope (yes, I said periscope. This is MY story), to examine his lungs and heart. After the full physical was conducted, I stated I would notify him when the results arrived. Keep in mind this is Russia so the results would not available for almost two weeks.
It was finally the end of my shift so I headed for home. It was such a cold night and the wind was blowing the falling snow into drifts. I had not dressed as warm as I should have so it was a nasty walk home. I had almost arrived at my cold, dark flat when I suddenly felt like there was someone else on the street. Remember, it was about 1:30 am and the streets were deserted except for the KGB and the big, black Russian Mafia cars driving around. I turned and looked around but could see nothing. It must have been my imagination but I did quicken my step home.
I stayed up until the early hours of the morning pouring over Mr. Tadzhikistan’s chart and medical journals. The results would be in tomorrow and I wanted to be ready to begin treatment. After I arrived at Moscow University Hospital, the orderly brought all the results of the testing I had conducted. I sat at my desk dumbfounded – everything was normal. There had to be a mistake. I ordered new tests and asked for a rush on the results knowing that probably would not happen. I explained to Mr. Tadzhikistan that the results were all negative and further testing had to be conducted. He seemed to understand. What a nice man he was.
I had earned a couple of days off so I decided to do some exploring around Moscow. I jumped on the Metro and headed for the Palace of Facets. This was the ceremonial throne room of the czars built at the end of the 15th century. It is one of the oldest stone civic buildings in Moscow. While on the tour, I had the strange sensation that I was being followed. This is not the first time I had this feeling. What was going on with me? I was really becoming paranoid. I had a great time at the Palace of Facets. When I arrived back at my flat, the door opened without the key. How strange, I was sure I had secured by flat. I cautiously went in but nothing seemed to be disturbed. Man am I paranoid!
Before long, after several days of rest, it was time to go back to work. I was anxious as I knew the results of Mr. Tadzhikistan’s tests would be in and we needed to get him on a treatment program. The results were waiting for me. I spent hours pouring over the results to no avail. There was no difference between these results and the first results. I spoke to the senior medical staff and they were of no help. I was so frustrated. I became angry at their insults stating they knew all along that a female would not be able to help this poor nice man. I left work early and headed for home. I was so confused as to not being able to figure out this poor mans symptoms and was determined that they would not see my frustration. It was so cold out and I was chilled to the bone. I took a different route home, as I had to stop for a few meager grocery supplies. I knew there would be a long wait at the grocer but I had no choice. I figured I needed the time to cool down and standing in the bitter cold would help.
I turned down a long dark alley and immediately knew it was a mistake to do so. I sensed I was not alone. I walked faster and the other person in the ally increased their speed as well. I was starting to be frightened and decided the best thing to do was to turn and face my challenger. I slowly turned around and was surprised to see Mr. Tadzhikistan. I felt relieved. I had not had a chance to tell him the results of the test and figured he had followed me to ask questions. He was such a nice man. As he approached, I got a good glimpse of his face. He looked like a different person. He was dark and angry. He drew a knife and a sinking feeling came over me. I immediately knew what was going on. My cover had been blown. Mr. Tadzhikistan was a member of the KGB and he had discovered I was an Intelligence Specialist with the CIA. This was not going to be pretty.
I let him approach me; there was nothing else I could do. There was nowhere to run. He screamed several words at me and I knew he was serious. One of us would not be leaving the alley alive. His eyes were cold and distant. I realized he had no medical symptoms all along. This was just a plot to get me out of the picture. I thought for a moment, "How long have I been followed"? There was no time to analyze anything. I quickly drew my knife, as he got close. I jammed the knife in his stomach, right above the navel and drew the knife towards his sternum. I then plunged the knife across his chest to the right and then to the left. He gasped and dropped his weapon realizing what had happened. His death would come quickly and painfully. I almost felt sorry as I thought he was such a nice, quiet man with a very lovely family. He wrapped his arms around his front trying to hold his intestines intact. It would be to no avail. He turned and took several steps towards the end of the alley and then collapsed. He was gone. It was quiet. A soft snow began to fall.
I dropped my bag of groceries and immediately went to the Sheremetyevo International Airport where I was able to book a flight to JFK Airport. I would arrive 17 hours later. I knew I had no choice, as the assassination would be discovered in several hours. It was my signature assassination method so I knew the KGB and the Russian Mafia would be looking for me. After arriving at JFK, I was able to connect on United Airlines for a trip to Maui, a small island in the Hawaiian Islands. I would arrive at Kahului Airport in another nine hours where I would be greeted by my brother and his family. I would be safe there and would await my next assignment. I sure hoped it would be somewhere warm next time.
After my internship, and proudly being one of the leading surgeons in the world in speleology, I was accepted to practice at the Moscow State University in beautiful downtown Moscow, Russia. I was excited to have been given this opportunity, as Russia does not have very many female professionals much less surgeons. I did not realize the difficulty I would have in being accepted by my male peers but I was going to give it my best shot.
Upon arriving in Moscow, I found a small one room flat close to Red Square, which stretches along one side of the Kremlin walls. On the south side of Red Square was the Cathedral of the Intercession, also know as the Cathedral of St. Basil the Blessed. It is a wonderful creation of old Russian architecture. I enjoyed looking out over the square when I would come home from work. It was amazing how dark and cold my tiny flat was when I would look out over the grandeur of Red Square.
My first few months of working at the University were uneventful. I was settling into life in Moscow. The language was no longer a barrier. Moscow was cosmopolitan – after all, there was a McDonalds (one of the largest in the world) and a Pizza Hut. Everywhere you shopped in Moscow there were very long lines. McDonalds and Pizza Hut were no exception. I did have the advantage of not standing in long lines as my shift ended around 1:00 am.
I was about half way through my shift one day when the head surgeon brought a case study to my office. It concerned an elderly person with some very unusual symptoms. Evidently, this patient has been to many physicians at some of the top universities all over the world. No one was able to diagnose the symptoms and therefore unable to provide treatment. I was given the case. At first, I thought it was an attempt to prove to the Russian staff that indeed, a woman surgeon would never be able to solve this mystery. I was too stubborn to let that happen – by golly I would prove everyone wrong.
An appointment was scheduled for later in the week. This gave me time to do research on the symptoms. It was indeed a mystery as to what was going on and I expended many hours in the medical research library. I came up with nothing, which I found to be most confusing.
The day of the appointment finally arrived. I walked into the examining room with my head held high and my shoulders thrown back. I wanted to portray as much professionalism and confidence as possible. After all, this was going to be a tough case to solve. The patient was a quiet, slight man who was quick to smile. I was immediately taken in by his personality. He followed me to the exam room where I ordered a battery of tests. The attendant arrived for the blood draw. I was convinced the answer would be in the blood profile I was going to order. We did x-rays, EEGs, EKGs, a full physical. I used my periscope (yes, I said periscope. This is MY story), to examine his lungs and heart. After the full physical was conducted, I stated I would notify him when the results arrived. Keep in mind this is Russia so the results would not available for almost two weeks.
It was finally the end of my shift so I headed for home. It was such a cold night and the wind was blowing the falling snow into drifts. I had not dressed as warm as I should have so it was a nasty walk home. I had almost arrived at my cold, dark flat when I suddenly felt like there was someone else on the street. Remember, it was about 1:30 am and the streets were deserted except for the KGB and the big, black Russian Mafia cars driving around. I turned and looked around but could see nothing. It must have been my imagination but I did quicken my step home.
I stayed up until the early hours of the morning pouring over Mr. Tadzhikistan’s chart and medical journals. The results would be in tomorrow and I wanted to be ready to begin treatment. After I arrived at Moscow University Hospital, the orderly brought all the results of the testing I had conducted. I sat at my desk dumbfounded – everything was normal. There had to be a mistake. I ordered new tests and asked for a rush on the results knowing that probably would not happen. I explained to Mr. Tadzhikistan that the results were all negative and further testing had to be conducted. He seemed to understand. What a nice man he was.
I had earned a couple of days off so I decided to do some exploring around Moscow. I jumped on the Metro and headed for the Palace of Facets. This was the ceremonial throne room of the czars built at the end of the 15th century. It is one of the oldest stone civic buildings in Moscow. While on the tour, I had the strange sensation that I was being followed. This is not the first time I had this feeling. What was going on with me? I was really becoming paranoid. I had a great time at the Palace of Facets. When I arrived back at my flat, the door opened without the key. How strange, I was sure I had secured by flat. I cautiously went in but nothing seemed to be disturbed. Man am I paranoid!
Before long, after several days of rest, it was time to go back to work. I was anxious as I knew the results of Mr. Tadzhikistan’s tests would be in and we needed to get him on a treatment program. The results were waiting for me. I spent hours pouring over the results to no avail. There was no difference between these results and the first results. I spoke to the senior medical staff and they were of no help. I was so frustrated. I became angry at their insults stating they knew all along that a female would not be able to help this poor nice man. I left work early and headed for home. I was so confused as to not being able to figure out this poor mans symptoms and was determined that they would not see my frustration. It was so cold out and I was chilled to the bone. I took a different route home, as I had to stop for a few meager grocery supplies. I knew there would be a long wait at the grocer but I had no choice. I figured I needed the time to cool down and standing in the bitter cold would help.
I turned down a long dark alley and immediately knew it was a mistake to do so. I sensed I was not alone. I walked faster and the other person in the ally increased their speed as well. I was starting to be frightened and decided the best thing to do was to turn and face my challenger. I slowly turned around and was surprised to see Mr. Tadzhikistan. I felt relieved. I had not had a chance to tell him the results of the test and figured he had followed me to ask questions. He was such a nice man. As he approached, I got a good glimpse of his face. He looked like a different person. He was dark and angry. He drew a knife and a sinking feeling came over me. I immediately knew what was going on. My cover had been blown. Mr. Tadzhikistan was a member of the KGB and he had discovered I was an Intelligence Specialist with the CIA. This was not going to be pretty.
I let him approach me; there was nothing else I could do. There was nowhere to run. He screamed several words at me and I knew he was serious. One of us would not be leaving the alley alive. His eyes were cold and distant. I realized he had no medical symptoms all along. This was just a plot to get me out of the picture. I thought for a moment, "How long have I been followed"? There was no time to analyze anything. I quickly drew my knife, as he got close. I jammed the knife in his stomach, right above the navel and drew the knife towards his sternum. I then plunged the knife across his chest to the right and then to the left. He gasped and dropped his weapon realizing what had happened. His death would come quickly and painfully. I almost felt sorry as I thought he was such a nice, quiet man with a very lovely family. He wrapped his arms around his front trying to hold his intestines intact. It would be to no avail. He turned and took several steps towards the end of the alley and then collapsed. He was gone. It was quiet. A soft snow began to fall.
I dropped my bag of groceries and immediately went to the Sheremetyevo International Airport where I was able to book a flight to JFK Airport. I would arrive 17 hours later. I knew I had no choice, as the assassination would be discovered in several hours. It was my signature assassination method so I knew the KGB and the Russian Mafia would be looking for me. After arriving at JFK, I was able to connect on United Airlines for a trip to Maui, a small island in the Hawaiian Islands. I would arrive at Kahului Airport in another nine hours where I would be greeted by my brother and his family. I would be safe there and would await my next assignment. I sure hoped it would be somewhere warm next time.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Food!
Lately I've been doing quite a bit of baking, most of which has gone over very well even with Dad who (as I'm sure you know Jen!) doesn't like his food to be experimented with. Vanessa has enjoyed these meals too and she is one of the pickiest eaters I know so all in all I feel pretty good about my efforts in the kitchen. The cookies and cupcakes I make always go over well so I won't bore you with petty details about that. On to the good stuff!
2-Step Garlic Pork Chops
Prep/Cook Time: 25 minutes
Ingredients:
1tbsp. vegetable oil (or substitute with butter or margarine)
4 boneless pork chops, 3/4" thick (about 1 lb)
1 clove garlic, minced
1 can (10 3/4 oz) Condensed Cream of Mushroom Soup OR 98% Fat Free Cream of Mushroom Soup*
1/2 cup milk
4 cups hot cooked couscous or rice
Directions:
Heat the oil in a 10-inch skillet over medium-high heat. Add the chops and garlic and cook for 10 minutes or until the chops are well browned on both sides. Remove the chops and set aside.
Stir the soup and milk into the skillet. Heat to a boil. Return the chops to the skillet and reduce the heat to low. Cover and cook for 5 minutes or until the chops are slightly pink in the center*.
Serve with couscous or rice.
TIP: Use Cream of Mushroom with Roasted Garlic Soup instead of Cream of Mushroom Soup and omit the garlic (which I did)
*The internal temperature of the pork chops should reach 160 degrees F.
The first meal I made that they all really liked were garlic pork chops. They are very easy to make (I bet Marianna could do these!) and taste absolutely delicious. Instead of a vegetable I used white rice and the excess gravy was absolutely delicous over it.
Last night's dish went over very well too and it was enjoyed by all. It was also Italian so it was a very nice change from the regular way we do chicken breasts.
Cheesy Chicken and Rice Bake
Prep/Cook Time: 50 minutes
Serves: 4-6
Ingredients:
1 can (10 3/4 oz) Cream of Chicken Soup (Regular or 98% Fat Free)
1 1/3 cups water
3/4 cup uncooked regular white rice
1/2 tsp. onion powder
1/4 tsp. ground black pepper
4 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves
1 cup shredded Cheddar cheese
Directions:
Mix soup, water, rice, onion powder and black pepper in 2-qt. shallow baking dish. Top with chicken. Sprinkle chicken with additional pepper. COVER and bake at 375 degrees F. for 45 min. or until chicken is no longer pink and rice is done. Top with cheese.
For a Mexican Twist: Omit onion powder and pepper. Add 1 tsp. chili powder to soup mixture. Substitute Mexican cheese blend for the Cheddar.
For an Italian Twist: Omit onion powder and pepper. Add 1 tsp. Italian seasoning, crushed, to
soup mixture. Substitute 1/3 cup shredded Parmesan cheese for the Cheddar cheese. (Italian version super good)
Stir in 2 cups of fresh, canned or frozen vegetables into the soup mixture before topping with the chicken to get your veggies! Optional.
These have both gone over really well and are super easy to make, perfect for somebody like me! They also dirty remarkably few dishes... :)
I found a g
reat way to spice up our boring old Mexican night of just tacos and burritos with mixed together beans and taco meat. Just make some Spanish rice and put on the burrito. Vanessa raved about that one!
I also must urge you to try Thai watermelon if ever you get the chance. They're just like a regular watermelon with seeds except they're smaller and have a more vibrant flavor. I think it is possibly the best watermelon I have ever tasted!
I'm sure that I'll be posting again, maybe something a little more exciting next time than a bunch of recipes, but hey, they were really good!
2-Step Garlic Pork Chops
Prep/Cook Time: 25 minutes
Ingredients:
1tbsp. vegetable oil (or substitute with butter or margarine)
4 boneless pork chops, 3/4" thick (about 1 lb)
1 clove garlic, minced
1 can (10 3/4 oz) Condensed Cream of Mushroom Soup OR 98% Fat Free Cream of Mushroom Soup*
1/2 cup milk
4 cups hot cooked couscous or rice
Directions:
Heat the oil in a 10-inch skillet over medium-high heat. Add the chops and garlic and cook for 10 minutes or until the chops are well browned on both sides. Remove the chops and set aside.
Stir the soup and milk into the skillet. Heat to a boil. Return the chops to the skillet and reduce the heat to low. Cover and cook for 5 minutes or until the chops are slightly pink in the center*.
Serve with couscous or rice.
TIP: Use Cream of Mushroom with Roasted Garlic Soup instead of Cream of Mushroom Soup and omit the garlic (which I did)
*The internal temperature of the pork chops should reach 160 degrees F.
The first meal I made that they all really liked were garlic pork chops. They are very easy to make (I bet Marianna could do these!) and taste absolutely delicious. Instead of a vegetable I used white rice and the excess gravy was absolutely delicous over it.
Last night's dish went over very well too and it was enjoyed by all. It was also Italian so it was a very nice change from the regular way we do chicken breasts.
Cheesy Chicken and Rice Bake
Prep/Cook Time: 50 minutes
Serves: 4-6
Ingredients:
1 can (10 3/4 oz) Cream of Chicken Soup (Regular or 98% Fat Free)
1 1/3 cups water
3/4 cup uncooked regular white rice
1/2 tsp. onion powder
1/4 tsp. ground black pepper
4 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves
1 cup shredded Cheddar cheese
Directions:
Mix soup, water, rice, onion powder and black pepper in 2-qt. shallow baking dish. Top with chicken. Sprinkle chicken with additional pepper. COVER and bake at 375 degrees F. for 45 min. or until chicken is no longer pink and rice is done. Top with cheese.
For a Mexican Twist: Omit onion powder and pepper. Add 1 tsp. chili powder to soup mixture. Substitute Mexican cheese blend for the Cheddar.
For an Italian Twist: Omit onion powder and pepper. Add 1 tsp. Italian seasoning, crushed, to
soup mixture. Substitute 1/3 cup shredded Parmesan cheese for the Cheddar cheese. (Italian version super good)Stir in 2 cups of fresh, canned or frozen vegetables into the soup mixture before topping with the chicken to get your veggies! Optional.
These have both gone over really well and are super easy to make, perfect for somebody like me! They also dirty remarkably few dishes... :)
I found a g
reat way to spice up our boring old Mexican night of just tacos and burritos with mixed together beans and taco meat. Just make some Spanish rice and put on the burrito. Vanessa raved about that one!I also must urge you to try Thai watermelon if ever you get the chance. They're just like a regular watermelon with seeds except they're smaller and have a more vibrant flavor. I think it is possibly the best watermelon I have ever tasted!
I'm sure that I'll be posting again, maybe something a little more exciting next time than a bunch of recipes, but hey, they were really good!
Friday, July 14, 2006
Writing Assignment
In an effort to shake loose some of the other writers in this family, here is a writing assignment from the book "The Plot Thickens" by Noah Lukeman. Please write as much or as little as you would like about this subject, and post it under the title "The Doctor by _______" (insert your name). The winner gets to visit us in Hawaii!
The Doctor
You are one of the top doctors in the country, and your specialty is diagnosing hard to name illnesses. You have just been referred your toughest case yet. He has been to ten doctors in as many months, and no one can find what's wrong with him. He sits across from you now on his first visit, ready for you to inquire into his medical history.
That's it! Go for it! Be the Bard!
The Doctor
You are one of the top doctors in the country, and your specialty is diagnosing hard to name illnesses. You have just been referred your toughest case yet. He has been to ten doctors in as many months, and no one can find what's wrong with him. He sits across from you now on his first visit, ready for you to inquire into his medical history.
That's it! Go for it! Be the Bard!
Monday, July 10, 2006
Tater Jones on the Case
Tater Jones was everything a person thinks of when he thinks of a Southern Sheriff: big, fat, reflector sunglasses, black and white patrol car with lots of lights on top. You were sure you didn’t want to be on his wrong side, because he ruled Covington County, Mississippi, with an iron baton. I’m sure he had a given first name, but I never heard him referred to by anything but “Tater” or “Sheriff”. He lived in a huge mansion of a place on 20 acres, surrounded by a ten-foot high massive red brick wall, paid for, no doubt, by the graft money he extracted from the enterprising people who sold illegal liquor in the county “laundromats”: Covington County was dry. Miss your payment this week, and Tater shut you down until you coughed up the demanded tithe. >>
However, this story isn’t about Tater Jones. It’s about Hurston Wade. >>
Hurston was married to Janice Wade, a gentle, attractive Southern Belle, who also happened to be my bookkeeper. Hurston was a 100% southern male: a snuff dippin’, pickup drivin’, hard drinkin’ twenty-five year old. A large silver-buckled belt held his pants up; he wore his baseball cap with the brim turned up; and a sunny outlook kept his spirits up. He would say “hello” to Janice while cruising past the office in his pickup by momentarily shutting off the ignition, allowing gas to accumulate in the cylinders, and turning the key back on, resulting in a loud BANG that sounded like a gunshot. >>
Practical jokes were Hurston’s specialty. At the county fair, Hurston might come up holding a couple of Orange Sodas, and ask if you would like one. He would tip it upside down into your front pocket before you could say “Sure!” I never could duplicate that trick, despite lots of practice. Hurston had it down, cold. >>
One day, he jacked up the rear end of a friend’s car and put a block under the differential. When the friend got into his car and tried to leave, the tires spun and threw gravel, but the car didn’t move. Yes, Hurston loved a good laugh. >>
One late afternoon, Hurston came bounding into the store. “Hey, y’all! The train derailed coming into town! There’s two cars of corn spilled all over. Everybody’s going down to haul some home. Let’s go!” >>
“Can you do that, legally”, I asked. Call me a chicken, but I certainly didn’t want to do anything that would get me crossways with the Sheriff. >>
“The foreman in charge of the cleanup crew said he didn’t care.” >>
“Well, let’s go!” I jumped into my pickup and followed Hurston’s pickup to the sight of the derailment. There was corn, lots of corn, as well as probably ten guys with shovels, loading their trucks. We selected an empty spot and backed in. I helped Hurston load his pickup, and he helped me load mine. Waving, Hurston headed toward Old Salem and I turned toward Hot Coffee. >>
“Nance, look what I got”, I hollered when I got home. “Should be just about right to feed out those two pigs we just got!” Working together, we unloaded the corn into 27 large black garbage sacks. The front of the carport was stacked two high with sacks of corn. There must have been half a ton of it. Pleased with our enterprise, we went in to supper and talked about the tasty pork that we would be producing. >>
The next morning, I measured out a quart of corn for each pig before heading in to work. Along with our table scraps and excess produce from the garden, the cost to feed these pigs out would be almost nothing. I was a happy farmer as I drove into work. When I got there, Janice told how Hurston made two more trips for corn after supper, even using an old trailer they had. He unloaded his corn into an old house on their property. Hurston had so much corn, she said it collapsed the floor! We had a good laugh about that, but I thought to myself “Greed tempts fate.” Then the first customer called in, and Janice and I had no more time to talk of corn.
Just before closing, Hurston walked into my office and flopped down in a chair. “Well, I got busted,” he said. >>
“Busted! What do you mean, Hurston?” I asked. >>
Hurston related the following tale. “A railroad investigator showed up at my place this afternoon and said he was looking for stolen corn from the train wreck. I asked him how he came to call at my place, and he pointed to the trail of corn leading down my driveway. The tailgate on my old trailer didn’t fit tight, and I guess I leaked a nice little trail of corn right to my door. He said he was either going to collect for the corn, or call Tater Jones.” >>
“What did you do?” I asked, half-afraid of the answer. >>
“I asked him to wait just a minute, while I went into the house for my checkbook, because I was fixin’ to buy some corn”, Hurston laughed. “He was a pretty nice guy, though, and only charged me $100, which is a bargain compared to what I would have paid at the feed store.”
“Well, that isn’t too bad, considering that he had you over the barrel,” I said. “But didn’t you tell him you had permission from the foreman?” >>
Hurston explained. “I got that bit of information from a guy at the gas station that got some of the first of the corn. Maybe he didn’t ask the right guy.” >>
I was now a nervous wreck. Would I get a visit from the investigator? How would it look for me to get caught with stolen corn? I always avoided trouble like the plague, and here I was, up to my neck in it! I wish I had never seen that stupid corn. As soon as I locked up the store, I headed for home. Calling for Nancy from the carport, I explained the situation. I decided the best thing for us to do would be to hide the corn, and maybe the whole thing would blow over. But where could I hide 27 big bags of corn? The only place I could think of was in the attic. First, I had to make the bags lighter. By suppertime, I had 54 bags of corn. Then I had to laboriously haul them up to the hot, stuffy attic. Fifty-four trips up the ladder! I was bushed. >>
As we started supper, the thought occurred to us that the ceiling wouldn’t be able to hold all that weight. Dang! Another trip up the ladder, and another half hour in 110-degree attic heat moving the bags around. My legs could barely support me coming down the ladder, but I felt that I had done as much as I could. I washed up, sat down, and picked up my fork to try supper again when the phone rang. >>
“Hello.” >>
A deep southern voice started talking. “This is Sheriff Jones. I am investigating the railroad corn spill. I believe you may have something to tell me about that.” >>
My heart stopped. What do I say? As I struggled to take a breath, I decided to make a clean breast of it, to explain that I thought it was okay, and to volunteer to pay for the corn. As I drew in a breath, the deep voice morphed into Hurston’s laugh. >>
“Ha, Ha! I had you on that one, didn’t I?” >>
“Hurston, you ass! Are you trying to give me a heart attack? I was picturing myself in a chain gang, cutting the sheriff’s grass for the next ten years! Boy, you gave me a scare!”
“You have a good night sleep, old buddy!” Hurston laughed again and hung up the phone. My fate was sealed by my own greed. I didn’t get a good night sleep that night or any night until all the corn had been fed out, and the pigs sent to the slaughterhouse. >>
Which is another story.>>
However, this story isn’t about Tater Jones. It’s about Hurston Wade. >>
Hurston was married to Janice Wade, a gentle, attractive Southern Belle, who also happened to be my bookkeeper. Hurston was a 100% southern male: a snuff dippin’, pickup drivin’, hard drinkin’ twenty-five year old. A large silver-buckled belt held his pants up; he wore his baseball cap with the brim turned up; and a sunny outlook kept his spirits up. He would say “hello” to Janice while cruising past the office in his pickup by momentarily shutting off the ignition, allowing gas to accumulate in the cylinders, and turning the key back on, resulting in a loud BANG that sounded like a gunshot. >>
Practical jokes were Hurston’s specialty. At the county fair, Hurston might come up holding a couple of Orange Sodas, and ask if you would like one. He would tip it upside down into your front pocket before you could say “Sure!” I never could duplicate that trick, despite lots of practice. Hurston had it down, cold. >>
One day, he jacked up the rear end of a friend’s car and put a block under the differential. When the friend got into his car and tried to leave, the tires spun and threw gravel, but the car didn’t move. Yes, Hurston loved a good laugh. >>
One late afternoon, Hurston came bounding into the store. “Hey, y’all! The train derailed coming into town! There’s two cars of corn spilled all over. Everybody’s going down to haul some home. Let’s go!” >>
“Can you do that, legally”, I asked. Call me a chicken, but I certainly didn’t want to do anything that would get me crossways with the Sheriff. >>
“The foreman in charge of the cleanup crew said he didn’t care.” >>
“Well, let’s go!” I jumped into my pickup and followed Hurston’s pickup to the sight of the derailment. There was corn, lots of corn, as well as probably ten guys with shovels, loading their trucks. We selected an empty spot and backed in. I helped Hurston load his pickup, and he helped me load mine. Waving, Hurston headed toward Old Salem and I turned toward Hot Coffee. >>
“Nance, look what I got”, I hollered when I got home. “Should be just about right to feed out those two pigs we just got!” Working together, we unloaded the corn into 27 large black garbage sacks. The front of the carport was stacked two high with sacks of corn. There must have been half a ton of it. Pleased with our enterprise, we went in to supper and talked about the tasty pork that we would be producing. >>
The next morning, I measured out a quart of corn for each pig before heading in to work. Along with our table scraps and excess produce from the garden, the cost to feed these pigs out would be almost nothing. I was a happy farmer as I drove into work. When I got there, Janice told how Hurston made two more trips for corn after supper, even using an old trailer they had. He unloaded his corn into an old house on their property. Hurston had so much corn, she said it collapsed the floor! We had a good laugh about that, but I thought to myself “Greed tempts fate.” Then the first customer called in, and Janice and I had no more time to talk of corn.
Just before closing, Hurston walked into my office and flopped down in a chair. “Well, I got busted,” he said. >>
“Busted! What do you mean, Hurston?” I asked. >>
Hurston related the following tale. “A railroad investigator showed up at my place this afternoon and said he was looking for stolen corn from the train wreck. I asked him how he came to call at my place, and he pointed to the trail of corn leading down my driveway. The tailgate on my old trailer didn’t fit tight, and I guess I leaked a nice little trail of corn right to my door. He said he was either going to collect for the corn, or call Tater Jones.” >>
“What did you do?” I asked, half-afraid of the answer. >>
“I asked him to wait just a minute, while I went into the house for my checkbook, because I was fixin’ to buy some corn”, Hurston laughed. “He was a pretty nice guy, though, and only charged me $100, which is a bargain compared to what I would have paid at the feed store.”
“Well, that isn’t too bad, considering that he had you over the barrel,” I said. “But didn’t you tell him you had permission from the foreman?” >>
Hurston explained. “I got that bit of information from a guy at the gas station that got some of the first of the corn. Maybe he didn’t ask the right guy.” >>
I was now a nervous wreck. Would I get a visit from the investigator? How would it look for me to get caught with stolen corn? I always avoided trouble like the plague, and here I was, up to my neck in it! I wish I had never seen that stupid corn. As soon as I locked up the store, I headed for home. Calling for Nancy from the carport, I explained the situation. I decided the best thing for us to do would be to hide the corn, and maybe the whole thing would blow over. But where could I hide 27 big bags of corn? The only place I could think of was in the attic. First, I had to make the bags lighter. By suppertime, I had 54 bags of corn. Then I had to laboriously haul them up to the hot, stuffy attic. Fifty-four trips up the ladder! I was bushed. >>
As we started supper, the thought occurred to us that the ceiling wouldn’t be able to hold all that weight. Dang! Another trip up the ladder, and another half hour in 110-degree attic heat moving the bags around. My legs could barely support me coming down the ladder, but I felt that I had done as much as I could. I washed up, sat down, and picked up my fork to try supper again when the phone rang. >>
“Hello.” >>
A deep southern voice started talking. “This is Sheriff Jones. I am investigating the railroad corn spill. I believe you may have something to tell me about that.” >>
My heart stopped. What do I say? As I struggled to take a breath, I decided to make a clean breast of it, to explain that I thought it was okay, and to volunteer to pay for the corn. As I drew in a breath, the deep voice morphed into Hurston’s laugh. >>
“Ha, Ha! I had you on that one, didn’t I?” >>
“Hurston, you ass! Are you trying to give me a heart attack? I was picturing myself in a chain gang, cutting the sheriff’s grass for the next ten years! Boy, you gave me a scare!”
“You have a good night sleep, old buddy!” Hurston laughed again and hung up the phone. My fate was sealed by my own greed. I didn’t get a good night sleep that night or any night until all the corn had been fed out, and the pigs sent to the slaughterhouse. >>
Which is another story.>>
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