Eggs, To Refrigerate or not to Refrigerate?

I should call this, "A Week in the Life of"...or "Photo Gallery." 

First, though, the chicken egg question. Whether we grow chickens or buy store eggs most of us have heard this question: "Should we refrigerate eggs?"

Well, should we?

I have found the answer. It's Yes and No.

When the eggs are washed. yes. Not washed? No.

A hen produces a cuticle—sometimes called a bloom—that covers her egg shell. The bloom protects the porous shell from losing moisture. The United States requires that eggs be washed, so they need to be refrigerated.  Europe  requires that eggs are not washed. The warm eggers say the eggs taste better, and that eggs ought to be warm for baking. (You know few people make buttery flaky croissants like the French. And they use raw milk as well.. Imagine.)

However, room-temperature eggs ought to be used within a week. Washed or unwashed, an egg will stay fresh in the refrigerator for three to five weeks.  One day out of the refrigerator equals about one week in. If the eggs are dirty, of course, wash them, if not let them be. (You can always rinse them before cooking.)

From My Hens...

Here’s a test to see if an egg is fresh. Put Two Tablespoons of salt into two cups of water. Place in the egg. If it sinks to the bottom and stays there it is fresh. If it floats from the bottom at an angle it is starting to age. If it floats throw it out.

Regarding bacterial invasion, studies say refrigerated or not, the results are the same. However—this is important:  Once refrigerated, do not leave an egg out of the refrigerator for more than two hours. It will sweat, allowing bacteria to penetrate the egg shell.

You know an egg shell is porous for it allows oxygen and carbon dioxide to pass through the shell for an incubating chick. If you have seen a chick hatching you might have noticed the network of capillaries on the inside of the shell--rather like a placenta for the chick.

The birthing process for a chick is long and arduous, taking hours, pecking, breathing, resting, finally breaking the shell, and wiggling out to dry and to rest. What a process. The complexity of it is mind-boggling. First, the chick breathes inside the shell, you know the air space inside the egg shell--that flat space of a boiled egg? That space holds air the chick breathes days before hatching, before he picks a hole in the shell, and can breathe outside air. Carbon dioxide build-up inside the shell jars the chick into action--I better get out of this shell quick.

Well, it’s been  a quiet week here on the farm*...except for the flowers laughing.
*[Farm: one city lot, two 5 x 5 foot raised vegetable beds, a lawn forward and back, two dogs, two cats, one daughter, one grandson, one husband,  one blog writer,  and three hens.

A farm? Not really. Besides my animals are pets, there’s a difference.]

From the Meadow 

We've been wondering what the white flowers blanketing fields are...

Meadow Foam 

The oils are used in beauty products.

Meadow Foam in vase

To the garden:

Strawberry leaf

I was so excited to see this I had to take a picture. Theis is a strawberry leaf, and normally in pictures we see water droplets from dew or rain. These droplets, the pearls around the periphery of the leaf, come from within the plant. It is called transportation. The plant is giving up water instead of taking it.

Chives

To the Forest...
"Mother's Day"

Forest floor. Wild Geraniums

Wild Iris

To the bonfire...

And finally a recipe for Mother's day: Two daughters, two grandsons, one son-in-law, one husband, one bonfire, one Christmas tree's final Harrah, some forest debris, marshmallows, and weiners.

El Yummo

Then today, Saturday

It's not so quiet, the rain on the car roof sounded like a Gatling gun. Sweet Pea and I were on our way to Puppy class but ended up postponing it because she has Kennel Cough. First Lafayette had it then Sweet Pea. Like kids, they pass around colds.  Thus, I am out at 10: 00 Saturday morning with my laptop, and found Starbucks to be hopping. People were standing in line, reading, using their computers. Eugenians do not let a little (or a lot) of rain keep them home. I should drive by Saturday Market to see how the Vendors are doing, swimming probably.

But hark, above the pinging of rain on the roof, I hear the melodious voices of flowers singing in the shower.

Honesty

I’m sitting in an embarrassing spot.

I’m in a car, in a crosswalk.

You know the feeling, you were going a bit too fast, the light changed a second before you expected it, and you come to a halt just a little over the line, in the crosswalk.

Has that never happened to you?

Well, I sat there itching to get out of my predicament, while in slow motion the cars to the right of me turned. The ones to the left turned into their far lane. The ones straight ahead laughed past me. By that time I was figuring someone was in a control booth with a push button for the traffic light, watching me sweat.

I flashed on a time long ago. I was a Dental Assistant in downtown The Dalles, Oregon. The office was on the second story with a window where we could see down to the sidewalk and street below.  I was alone. I looked down at the people below and at a man standing waiting for the light to change.

He was a sitting duck.

The water spray from the dental unit could reach to the window.

I aimed. I pushed the lever. A direct hit.

His reaction makes me laugh every time I think of it.

Payback time.

The following is just too good to pass up:

If any of you have ever queried or applied for a job you can identify.

From #Mary Shannon

#Honest Cover Letter

Dear Hiring Manager,

I am writing to you because I really, really need a fucking job and this particular position with your company/organization, at this juncture in my life, seems good enough.

Your company/organization is appealing to me only because of its potential to provide me a salary, and a matching 401(k) program if I’m lucky. I am passionate about bullshitting my skills, and have done so in countless cover letters such as this one, and I hope to utilize this passion to serve your company/organization’s benefit. 

I may add a line or two here directly from your mission statement, to show I’ve done my research!

This position is listed as entry-level and requires 3 years of experience in addition to a Bachelor’s degree, and a Master’s degree is preferred. That’s pretty fucked up, so this is where I’ll try to embellish my one year of international non-profit experience to make it seem commensurate with additional experience in the field. Insert quantified outcomes here! I am confident I can translate this background to effectively [verbatim buzz-phrase from job posting] and [verbatim buzz-phrase from job posting].

I swear on my mom’s life that I was a really good student at my University (i.e. please don’t make me prove it by having to provide transcripts) and this part is where I’ll tell you about all the accomplishments I achieved when I was a student, hoping that you’ll deem them worthy of consideration as experience, and that you’re even still reading this letter. Now I’ll mention my undergraduate involvement with [student organization] and [student organization], student organizations dedicated to [something even remotely related to what your company/organization does], and use it as an example of literally any type of skill set you could possibly require. By the way, if you haven’t noticed yet, I have fucking great verbal and written communication skills, and I will say so directly here.

I understand you’re likely reading hundreds of similar cover letters from other young twenty-somethings who did everything they were told and did well in school and got their degrees and are now also facing the constant feeling of impending doom that is unemployment… but I can promise you that I’m different and unique and exactly what you need! I look forward to learning more about this opportunity as an employee with your company/organization, a company/organization with which my career goals and personal values only moderately align. I also look forward to any future occasion during which I can convince you to hire me. If I haven’t been abundantly clear, I’m very broke and need this. You can contact me at [email] or [phone number] at almost any time of any day because I’m usually not doing much aside from applying for other jobs, watching Netflix, and having panic attacks about my future. In the meantime, thank you for your consideration!

Sincerely,

Mary Shannon

P.S. As you may have noticed I signed up to be a Travel Agent with Incentive Travel Connection. And as an independent agent who does not have to answer to anyone but herself, I am placing notice that I will not sell tickets, cruises, beverage packages, anything on #The Royal Caribbean Cruise Line.

www.seaglasscruises.com

A Good Head of Steam

“You’re dehydrated,” said the doctor.

Not me. I have an iced tea, an iced coffee and a small glass of fresh squeezed limeade I stole from my grandson, sitting before me. 

My friend was in the hospital after a fall. She was dehydrated. That meant her electrolytes were low. She was in pain from the fall. On top of that, she was in a state of nervous hypertension.

So what did they do?

First, she was admitted to the senior section—that discombobulated her. Next, and you won’t believe this, they gave her an Alzheimer’s test.

She said, “I couldn’t understand even the nurse’s questions. This is a phenomenon that happens when a person is under stress and fear, and she flunked the Alzheimer’s test.  

They were there to “Help her,” they said.

So they diagnosed her with early onset Alzheimers and sent her home. A fine help that was.

That was like a Witch Doctor killing a chicken in front of her eyes, waving it over his head and splattering blood around the room.

The diagnosis is now lodged in her brain.

Yeah, I think they ask who the Vice president is as well. Don’t ask me. I think it’s Biden, but I might say Chaney, or Quayle or Bush or Gore. Hey, I remember Johnson and Nixon.

And I do not believe my friend has Alzheimer’s.

In earlier days we had joked that if someone gave us a list of words and asked us to repeat them we would fail. There she was facing her fears.

.

You do not give a test to someone under strain and trauma. If she wanted the test, wait until she was out of pain, hydrated and calm.

But that diagnosis is now stuck in her brain and it sent me off on a tirade.

"Adam was the only man who, when he said a good thing, knew that nobody had said it before him."—Mark Twain

I can't leave my computer for a minute. While I was replenishing my drinks, Obi climbed aboard his favorite sitting place.

P.S. When planning travel, think of me. www.seaglasstravel.com

The Earth Laughs in Flowers

This morning I was on the prowl for a pink dogwood and found this beauty. 
I love, love, love this tree...

The earth is laughing great guffaws now—we ought to be dancing in the streets.

We used to have a crab apple tree in the yard that would stop traffic.

This was from my childhood, the fruit farm I mentioned in my last blog. The tree was a big as an oak and as is the case with apple trees, the leaves and blossoms pop at the same time. The result is a vision of awesome proportions. People would stop to photograph it.

Our cat, too, stopped traffic one year. 

He was clipped like a male lion. We weren’t being mean to our cat, with him living on the farm, and with long abundant thick hair he would collect foxtails and his fur would turn into a mat. So, on occasion, we would clip him. That year I got creative.

One blogger guru said you must add value to your blog otherwise nobody will read it. He said, if I said "I took my daughter to the park," no one would read further. But if I developed a list of 5 unusual parks in the area a reader would keep on reading.

Not me.

I don’t care about parks in his vicinity I want to know the experience with his daughter.

It’s human interest.

Guess it’s just me.

Long ago when my girls were about four and one, we would often walk to the grocery store. Talk about stopping to smell the roses. Or maybe pick a California poppy or say “Hi.” to the lady in the yard. Like a dog sniffing its way down the street, children know to soak up the experience. It was an event.

I got smart this morning, at least with one thing. I took both dogs for a spin around the pond, and while trying to photograph a wild rose, their constant giggling or pulling of the least was preventing this photographer from doing her best work.

Stand on the leash stupid!

Ok.

Got it.

My find last month, March 17, I was in Wilsonville, OR, and came upon Monument park...

I have to show you this, It isn't about flowers. But then, her name is Sweet Pea.

Saturday my little girl graduated from intermediate puppy class and is wearing her mortarboard. When she graduated from beginner class, the teacher tried to put a hat on her head and she turned into a squirrel--impossible to hold, and ripped off the elastic headband. 

Lastly, mouse pad--mouse--my hand--cat's paw. He wins. I'm out of here.

When I was 5 years old, my mom told me that happiness was the key to life.

When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down “happy”.

They told me I didn’t understand the assignment.

I told them they didn’t understand life.

– John Lennon

Choose Wisely

The incredible edible egg. And from my chicken!

As I held that egg in my hand this morning a new awareness sprinkled on my head. Life’s simple pleasures. We know about chicken eggs. We have seen them our entire life, but not this egg, not this day, and not from my talented chicken.

That little egg, so perfect, so pretty, so contained. Wrapped in a shell durable enough hold up its own momma. I have three hens that give me three eggs a day. Imagine producing enough protein each day to make a chick. (My chicken’s eggs, however, are not fertile.) I keep telling a non-farm-familiar friend that you don’t have to have a rooster to get eggs, but somehow she doesn’t believe me. Fertile or not that chicken still produces an egg a day. I hope my little hen doesn’t feel like she is giving birth daily.  

G-o-l-l-e-y! (A Gomer Pyle exclamation.)

Last year when I found a potato under the soil I felt that I had found gold.

A gardener is like an orchestra leader who waves his arms in the air and music springs forth—or in the gardener’s case, veggies.

I went to the Farmers Market here in Eugene last Saturday, the second Saturday they were open, and they had produce!  In April! They know something I don’t.  Greenhouses maybe? Winter gardening? The carrots, radishes, and beets were tender and sweet, a cut above anything I have tasted in a long time. (Organic, with no bug chomps visible. Imagine.)

Once long ago when I lived with my parents on their fruit farm where they raised cherries, peaches, and apricots, a man and his wife stopped by to purchase peaches. We gave one to the lady, and she fell into peals of ecstasy. “This is the best peach I have ever eaten.” A tree-ripened peach. Huge and juicy. My mother thinned the fruit, sending little green peaches tumbling to the ground in a steady staccato. The ones left on the tree were remarkable.

#Elberta peach. I still remember its name.

Isn’t it fascinating that we can go bopping along, okay we say, life’s good, I will be positive, then something hits us. Like what just happened to me.  I looked up Elberta peach and found that once this “Old fashioned” peach was the standard for a canning peach, but it has been phased out. Tariffs on imports made domestic canning prohibitive.  Rats.

A tree-ripened peach? You will go a long way to find that, and I guess you may never find an Elberta.

I was trying to counteract the maelstrom of sad news that can bombard us daily by looking at life’s simple pleasures, and I got hit. It happens. I read recently that many people feel cut off, stressed out and discouraged. We are connected to the world, yes, but our brains are not built to have all the ills of the world run through them on a daily basis. And for me, today, it was all about a peach.

"All is not lost, however. We found canned Elberta peach preserves online at www.dickinsonsfamily.com. For a crop closer to home, you can plant an Elberta peach tree; varieties are available by mail-order from Stark Brothers Nursery (starkbros.com). And George Noroian still has a limited stock of canned Elberta peaches to sell in boxes of two dozen 28-ounce cans for $60 plus shipping. Call him at 559-591-7044."

I didn’t know when I started writing this where it would end.

Choose wisely.

Okay. I opened #Zig Ziglar’s, book #Over the Top, and found this:  Regarding positive thinking, he said, “Switch it on” It is like a light switch in a dark room. The electricity was there all along.

I can hear someone say, “You are just pouring syrup on crap.” Probably, but it feels infinitely better than staying stuck in the crap.

Let’s switch gears…

In the previous paragraphs, I was letting my fingers do the walking. It’s like life, sometimes we are walking along and our foot lands in a mud puddle with axel grease floating on top.  Wipe it off. Let’s get on with it.  

I wanted to tell you about my book, The Girl on the Pier.

I am reassured by #Anne Lamott (Bird by Bird) who says everybody writes shitty first drafts, except for a few and we hate those people. And since we create God in our own image, He hates them too.

And now for an offering an invitation and an imposition; you are, after all, my chosen people. And this is not my first draft.

Michael Larson, the former agent I heard in Central Point a couple of weeks ago, encouraged us to join a writer’s group. I was tempted. That was until I read Sharyn McCrunb’s comment: “I’m not showing my novel to anyone not prepared to write me a check.”

I also heard that writers groups like to rip and tear.

I don’t have time for that, even if it's good for me.

Since you are my select few, and I need someone to tell me if I have more than a few strands of spinach stuck in my teeth, perhaps one, or more, or you would like to read the manuscript. You don’t even have to write a check, just tell me if you think The Girl on The Pier is viable. (Actually, she’s dead, but she is only a painting, not the hero.)

It would come to you as a document file.

It is 55,000 words. (Actually 55,229)

It is fiction, 270 pages, 14 point font. 

No checks to be written, only request it, and viola’ steamy fun.

Recently I was visiting my artist friend June, and there on her wall was one of her early paintings. (June is 92, drives, is out of the house most every day, going to painting classes, movies, out to lunch.) Her painting showed a girl from the back, dressed in a filmy flowing garment as mine is, and looking out to sea. She was not standing on a Pier, but she had the same ethereal haunting feel as my girl. I must go back and beg and plead that she will let me take a picture of it.

Perhaps that would work as cover art.

If you want to be an early reader, and check my teeth for spinach, just ask at jewellshappytrails@gmail.com

The Girl on the Pier is a love story.

The Girl on the Pier is a painting.

When Sara Andrews and Ryan Walker find each other at a sidewalk café in SoHo New York, it is fireworks. When they become embroiled in the mystery of the painting The Girl on the Pier, it takes them halfway around the world.

Get it here: jewellshappytrails@gmail.com

And then driving home a couple of days ago...

Maybe It's Just Me

Some pro bloggers say that long content makes people believe there is more value?

Really?

Do you want to keep your eyeballs plastered to the computer screen reading a 12,000-word blog?

Maybe it’s just me, for you have heard me kibitz before about run-on content. “Just tell me,” I scream. “I love you, but I have other things to do.”

Maybe it’s just me.

I figure my audience is smarter than I am, I just have a range of experience they do not have, and by some quirk of fate, they might be interested.

So, what am I offering you?

I am offering you advice when I find it, experiences when I have them, and the benefit of living for over half a century.

I am offering you a nudge into believing that the impossible can be achieved—well the near impossible.

I am offering you quotes from the greats, and absurdities from the foolish.

Here’s justice: Man tried to nudge dog into a lake, falls in himself.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YzJYVuqoixA 

I am offering you a chance to believe in this life, in an after-life, and in life beyond this world.

I am inviting you to come along for the ride.

I wish it was on horseback, but alas I don’t do that anymore.

Still wish on white horses, though.

Short, sweet and to the point.

Now go out and doing something great!

Joyce

Traffic

The only time we want more traffic is on a website, not driving down 6^th street in Eugene Oregon at 5 p.m. Or on the Hollywood Freeway for that matter.

Gosh, I remember the time years ago when my girls and I stopped rush hour traffic on 6^th Street because a momma duck with a string of babies had left the sidewalk and was determined to cross the street. I bet she was aiming for the wetlands that lie west of town. The trouble was, someone put a street in her path and filled it with roaring cars.

We frightened the momma duck by catching her babies, sorry, but we pulled a baby from beneath a stopped car. She flew in circles around us as we put her little fluffs back up on the sidewalk. Someone yelled, “Thanks for saving the baby ducks!”

Both daughters wanted to take the ducklings to our property where we had a pond, but I didn’t want them to lose their momma when she was trying hard to save them. Without her, I doubt if they would survive, especially since our property was overrun with duck killing raccoons. 

We left them to their devices, a family together, trying to weave through life’s obstacles.  I drove down 6^th street the following morning, and found no squashed ducklings on the road, so I trust that resourceful momma managed to save her brood.

Funny isn’t it what pops into our head in response to a word.

Baby ducks.

This You Tube is awesome: A man in New York saw a baby duck about to jump off a building’s ledge about 10 feet above his head. He caught it in mid-fall. One by one about ten babies followed. One by one he caught them. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMYGQ7ICKg8

Traffic.

I’ve been hearing a lot about traffic lately, and while 6^th street abounds with it, my website is a country road. Think of country roads, though, where people wave to each other, and sometimes ask if they ask to borrow a jar of #Grey Poupon.

In Hawaii with the long lava encrusted road, people would pull their cars aside to allow others to pass. We would wave and each move on. It was a cooperative affair. The mongooses, too, liked to get into the act. “Wait,” they would say, “here comes a car. Want-a bet we can beat it?”

We always let them.

Wish on White Horses doesn’t sound like a high falutin informational blog, or an entertaining one for that matter. Yeah, I know #50 ways to Boost Your Web Traffic sounds better.

Yes, boosting traffic is what we want on our websites. It means people are finding us. It means our words are worth reading. It means something to the publishing community who counts numbers, and to #Google who determines who gets top billing.

I know everybody and their dog writes blogs, and even my dog Peaches got into the act.www.dogblogbypeaches.blogspot.com.

She has been silent since she passed on to doggy heaven.  I intended for her to add posts from the great beyond, but she is having so much fun being healthy again, and running with Bear that she doesn’t have time to write.

 Bear sleeping on Peaches

I just had an epiphany.  #ProBlogger by #Jon Morrow, one of the biggest, mightiest bloggers in the business, has great give-a-ways, but to get them you must enter your email address. I have probably put my email address on his site 50 times. Does that mean he has counted me as 50 different people?

Ah ha, it’s the old numbers game.

Feel up to following me? And thanks to those who have. Love you guys.

Joyce

P.S.www.thebestdamnwriterbloggerontheblock.com

"Bon Voyage"--my Saturday with #Michael Larsen.

Absurd? I love it.

Have you ever...

• Wadded up a piece of paper only to have it unwad before your eyes?

• Been in a public toilet and, while virtually standing on your head, tried to pull toilet paper off a new roll the size of a European cheese wheel? And then after it has spun around about 50 times as you tried to find its end, you find it to be pasted down? Before all your blood runs to your head, you claw at the paper trying to loosen a piece, and finally, you get a strip of paper, only to look down and see you have created a rat’s nest on the floor.

• Spent 10 minutes trying to choose a toothbrush from the 6,000 displayed?

• Purchased a bag of chips to snack on while driving, and then spent the next ten minutes tearing at the bag, biting it ,trying to pop it open, and then you did, it exploded all over you and the car?

• Needed scissors to open a package of scissors?

• Purchased cold cuts, salami and roast beef, cheeses, olives, to create an easy meal and then spent a half an hour getting into the packages?

• Gone into the grocery story grabbed a quart of half and half--same brand you got before--but when you got it home and actually read the label, you found it was “Non-fat half and half—with sugar and corn syrup?  What sort of an oxymoron is that?

Ain't life’s grand?

To show some contrast, when I was a kid we licked Santa stickers to paste our Christmas wrappings together. Cellophane tape existed, but for some reason, we didn’t have it. Oh, I just found, cellophane tape wasn’t invented by a Scott, but got its name from a slur because the inventor was stingy on his adhesive.

He rectified that. The name stuck.

Here I am making fun of our modern times, but think of this: when I was a kid a little girl next door had braces on both legs because she had been crippled by polio.

“When I’m worried and I can’t sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep, and I fall asleep counting my blessings…”—Irving Berlin

Live long and prosper,

Joyce

P.S. 

On the home front: Two weeks ago I lamented that I needed 35,000 words to complete my manuscript The Girl on the Pier. My goal was 55,000 words. Not possible, I thought. Saturday I told my husband I needed 350 more words. Sunday, 108. Today, Monday, Viola’.  I hit 55,044.

The Girl the Pier is a love story.

The Girl on the Pier is a painting. A customer came to view it, and offered two million dollars to purchase it, however upon viewing the painting he said, “That’s not the painting. There is another.”

Sara ,the executrix, didn’t know another Girl on the Pier existed, but is determined to find it, and why would Mr. Ahmad offer two million for it?

Something was fishy.

The book wrote itself, I just put my fingers on the keys…

Now little bird, fly…

Read at Your Own Risk

A Fiction Story

Once upon a time, there was a civilization where one person could talk to another on the other side of the globe.

This civilization invented the wheel, a way for man to fly, they sent a man to the moon and brought him back safely.

They found a way to interpret ancient cultures and marveled over the remnants of these cultures. The found messages from their forefathers written into stone. The ancients knew true North, the circumference of the earth, and that elusive Pi.

This great civilization, eager to learn, and constantly investigating, found scrolls buried in the earth and they found a way to interpret them. Their forefathers gave them a nudge with a rock called the Rosetta stone that served as a translator from hieroglyphs carved into rocks to the written word.

Stones, rocks, buried scrolls, paintings with codes encrypted, that was how important it was to the forefathers to preserve knowledge for future generations.

The great civilization that can send words around the globe invented the steam engine, rocket fuel, solar energy, the printing press and books made accessible to everyone, not just the learned scholars.

They began to write their stories, as the ancients had done. They wrote down the scientific facts they had found, the diseases they had healed, their formulas, and construction plans.

They built libraries so they could share the knowledge. People read the books for education, fun, and entertainment. Schools taught from them, scholars studied them.

One day this civilization build the computer, and they so loved the computer they began to pour their knowledge into it. Soon, they found it was much simpler and much more accessible to use the computer as a storage tank.

Bookstores closed because people weren’t buying books anymore. Libraries weren’t heralded as the hallmark of study. Because books were cluttering their houses, people began giving them away, clearing them out, for now, they had the computer, and it only took up a couple feet of space.

And then one day a great surge of electricity fried the lines to all the computers…

And because people revered one book, it had been in homes for generations, and for a time the only one read, it was, again, the only one read…

But wait, the rocks are still there.

A Fish Story

Come sit a spell. Have an iced coffee with me.

Iced coffee has become my fuel.  When I read that coffee is good for me, I threw discussion to the wind, gave out a loud whoop, and grabbed the coffee grinder.

Now I see coffee is touted even in Dr. Oz’s magazine.

“You live longer…”

“Feel happier, remember more.”

“Work out harder.”

Sounds good to me.

This is my favorite at home coffee: #Peets “House Blend,” fresh ground beans, French Press coffee pot.

Easy, boil filtered water, pour into pot over grounds, stir, let set a few minute, push plunger.  Viola’ great coffee.

I might have a hot cup, but the rest of the day it is iced—with real good ole organic half and half. I have no wasted coffee, and the amazing thing is it never tastes stale. It can sit overnight and still be good.

This is a far cry from when I learned to drink coffee with dishwater tasting coffee perked in the dental lab, while trying to make it palatable with powdered creamora. My reason for enduring it? I was trying to stave off hunger until one o'clock.

Whoops, I got carried away.  I intended to tell you a fish story.

I went into my accountant’s office the other day to pick up the tax forms, and, I saw a tiny placard on his wall, “I love Fishing.”

“You’re a fisherman,” I said.

His eyes lit up, and he pushed a sheet of paper toward me. It was a short story, just a few paragraphs. I was surprised and delighted that he wrote a story. I read of his experience on the creek bank, the sparkling day, him throwing out his line, a bite, the fish hitting his line with full force. It fought with all its might, and as he had no net, he managed to wrestle it onto dry ground.

Success. He landed the fish.

“My friend thought we ought to capture this monumental moment on film,” he said and shoved an 8 x 11 picture across his desk.

He was all decked out in fishing gear.

I looked closely, “Where’s’ the fish?” I asked.

“There, in my hand.”

Well, there was a tiny silver streak. The fish must have been about four inches long.

 “It hit that line with its whole two ounces,” he said.

That reminded me, once again, of the little accountant in the movie, #You Can’t Take I with You when Grandpa asked what the accountant what he would like to do, and he pulled a toy bunny from beneath his desk. “Make toys,” he said.

When a person is doing what they love to do their entire countenance glows.

And I wonder again what has been pecking at me for a long time, “How does one do the thing they want and get paid for it?” For without pay, you must work at something else.

#Jonathan Mead writes about, and offers coaching on “#Paid to Exist.”

I haven’t gotten it yet—either him or the concept.

Carry on.

Make it work,

Joyce

P.S. I got advice from an agent the other day. She said, “If you haven’t finished your book finish it.”

If you don’t have a platform, Build one.”

Well, duh.