Don't touch the hot _________!

Guess that appliance!

The preschoolers are struggling with the kitchen nomenclature work this week. "Kitchen" is a vocabulary word you surely must know, and don't call me Shirley. "Nomenclature" is a weird vocabulary word that should be defined as "some darn chunk stuck halfway down my throat," as in "We had to slap Joe Billy Dean on the back when he couldn't swaller Ma's deep-fried nomenclature."

Actually, nomenclature means a system of terminology. The word derives from the job description of a Roman steward, the Nomenclator, who announced visitors [called their names] and prompted stumped politicians to recall names and pet causes of constituents. You just can't make this stuff up in a Presidential year.

It's difficult to prompt politicians if you've got some greasy chunk of hush puppy stuck beyond your uvula, which is also known as "that hangy-down thang" in your throat. Because I'm learning the Spanish names for fruits along with the students, "uvas" is my word for the day. Uvas = grapes. That hangy-down thang is named for a "fancied resemblance of the organ to small grapes."

The point of this story is that our young-uns these days are better at naming the current president [George Washington] than they are at naming that hot thing with four burners and a Tollhouse cookie-baking oven. The kids can name measuring cups, microwaves, sinks, pans, and sponges. They know that refrigerator begins with Fffff -- fuh, fuh, fuh, fruh, fridj. So far, no child age 3-5 has been able to name that stove.

Home-cooking ain't what it used to be back in Bobbie Gentry's day!




© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

O, say did your day

start off this bad way?

At three a.m. the sound of the air conditioner dripping down through the ceiling of my clothes closet roused me from my fitful slumber. Not sleeping well, too warm, and vaguely aware that the a/c was running and running.

Hauled myself out of bed to take everything out of the closet that could be damaged by the dripping, then tried to go back to sleep. Fretting about scheduling a service call, not to mention paying for another one made relaxing difficult. This is the second time this summer with this problem, and my entire heating and a/c system was replaced two years ago. Grrrrrr.

Leaving my warm, muggy condo at 7:30 after running out of cream cheese for my bagel, the front door key broke off in the lock. Guess it's a good thing the door was still unlocked at the moment of breaking, or I'd be a homeless person on this rainy evening. With my trusty needle-nose pliers I could extricate the key piece from the lock. Where O where was my spare Francis Scott condo Key?

O'er the ramparts I swore, and started primal screaming

I'm too broke for this to happen! I am a broke lock. I am a broke key. It's a low profile nursery rhyme from my childhood Mother Goose book. Could anything else go wrong this day?



Well, yes. An irritating whiny 1971 Bee Gees song much beloved by my college roommate could become trapped in my head:

And how can you mend a broken heart?
How can you stop the rain from falling down?
How can you stop the sun from shining?
What makes the world go round?
How can you mend a this broken man?
How can a loser ever win?
Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Early Rabbit Warning System

The brain is an amazing thing. Somewhere in my subconscious there's an indication on my Permanent Record that I'm Very Afraid the class rabbit will get out of the school building on my watch. So when my subconscious wanted to alert me to a malfunctioning air conditioner at twelve midnight, an escapee rabbit went running amok in the parking lot of my dream. Little dream preschoolers were all screaming in Edvard Munch horror, "The rabbit is out! The rabbit is out!"

Dang! Instantly I was sitting straight up, wide awake, feeling the adrenalin race through my body. Pour a pot of truck stop coffee right into my veins and bark, "Timmy's in the well!"

The a/c was running, running, running the same way the rabbit was running dream loops around the parking lot. Over my pounding heart I could eventually hear the dripping of the over-worked a/c condenser coils down into my closet and light fixture. Not again! My fight-or-flight rush helped me put buckets under the drips, adjust the thermostat, pour bleach down the condensate drain, and check the furnace filter.

Friday was an extremely oppressive, hot and muggy day with dreadful air quality. The poor air conditioner had done its best in the battle. I would be wide awake for three more hours to appreciate its efforts, and to worry and plan the fall art class syllabus. Thanks to the Early Rabbit Warning System, the dripping was into a bucket. Condo ownership nightmare averted. Munch mission accomplished.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Don Quixote--The Man of Gazpacho

Making gazpacho is as easy as falling off a bicycle. Get right back in the saddle, the saying goes, after an accident, but I didn't.

True, it was really my spouse's blender accident, not mine, but a quarter of a century has passed without my attempting to make gazpacho. Guess that's because I got to clean up the kitchen mess.

My spouse should have known better. A blender must be respected. It should not ever be used to make mashed potatoes unless your true intent is to make an adhesive substance somewhere between caulk and Gorilla Glue. One must learn from one's mistakes.

Similarly, overloading a blender (even a Harvest Gold 1977 blender) with homegrown garden tomatoes, kohlrabi, and boiling water, then hitting the High 10 Blend button is a good way to blast the lid off the small appliance and spray hot tomato juice in an impressive 360 degree fountain. That sort of behavior does not respect and honor the blender. It gives bad Amana kharma or evil eye GE.

Hot tomato juice and projectile chunks. Dripping. Everywhere. In a kitchen already aesthetically-challenged with its Pepto Bismal pink wall paint and original Fifties pink refrigerator. Sprayed across my eyeglasses and cheeks and hair. A lovelier sight you'll never see.

In the present, the Woolly Mammoth reports that his college rental house has an add-on room with an air hockey table and a broken jacuzzi filled with stagnant water. His kitchen has an orange built-in dining nook booth. Ah, yes. I understand the sensory overload issues, and I truly sympathize. BUT, does it have pink walls and dripping gazpacho chunks???

Back to 1981, I couldn't get the tomato splatter stains off the already hideous cracked vinyl window shades after the gazpacho incident. I tossed the shades, then sewed some ridiculous tutti-frutti Hawaiian print voile curtains. I learned from that major lapse in design sense.

Sometimes I dream that Don Quixote, Dennis Hopper, Betty Crocker, and Jackson Pollack walk into a K-Mart, all wearing Hawaiian shirts, to buy a blender. It's the K-Mart in Omaha at the meeting of Ames and Military Avenues with 72nd Street, just across from Benson Park. Windmills, choppers, tomato splatterings...

Gazpacho was a trendy liquid quick-loss diet food favored by womens' magazines in the late Seventies. You know the periodical article type. Fast for two days. Drink tea and broth for two days. Slurp gazpacho for two days before reintroducing solid foods. Look great in that bikini in less than two weeks... Oh, yeh.

Betty Crocker insisted that "men like gazpacho!" Her twenty-four page 1970 advertising cookbook, Foods Men Like, included gazpacho.

I entered wedded-bliss life with advertising cookbooks from Bisquick, Campbells Soup, Betty Crocker, Tollhouse, Quaker Oats, Jello, Gold Medal Flour, La Choy, and Old El Paso. Digging through my recipe box, I find one torn recipe from Foods Men Like, but it isn't the gazpacho recipe.

So, ditch the spouse. Another dozen years, and I'm ready to make gazpacho with roasted Hatch chiles. Comparing instructions for roasting Hatch chiles, and recipes for gazpacho online. Loved this recipe entwined with esoteric "Princess Bride" references. Check it out! My Hatch chiles are out on the little Weber broiler.

Tilting at blenders...My destiny calls and I go!


© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Peeps on a raft, a bus, or light rail

It isn't polite to eavesdrop, but there we all are riding mass transit to save gas money, and Peeps all around us are conducting their lives very loudly by cellphone. Last week I rode the train home from work with a rowdy group discussing their court-appointed lawyers, their Peeps, and their parties.

Sure, they weren't really talking about marshmallow Easter chick treats, but it did give me some funny images of Peeps in court, on the witness stand, in the jury box, and rising for objections. I even imagined a black-robed Supreme Peep Court.

Next train ride, I start imagining all the passengers as marshmallow chicks. I was trying hard not to appear too interested as the lady Peeps ahead of me told a series of escalating stories on the theme of husbands who lose stuff. The best story by far involved a husband losing his set of car keys when they were moving out of their house. The husband and wife Peeps searched everywhere in the house and yard, but to no avail. Six months later the new owners of the house found the car keys under the bin that catches the automatic ice-maker cubes in the freezer.

Excuse me, Peeps, but aren't you supposed to defrost and turn off the ice-maker when you move out? I'm probably crazy, but I don't think I could use the ice cubes automatically made during the tenure of the previous owner, except on a sprained ankle. Still, it's a new location to search for lost items.

When the next President is sworn in, don't you think the White House refrigerator/freezer should start fresh with an empty and clean ice-cube catcher? It would be a good time to replace the baking soda box for odor control, too! The next Prez should have Peeps who can see to this.

Rode the bus one morning with an agitated man cussing out someone for not having his Cadillac repaired and returned to him. I got the feeling the negligent person was a relative or in-law. I loved this line; "Do you think I go to work at 10:30 P.M., and fix Greyhounds all night so I can RIDE A *#@*%">* BUS HOME???!!!" This man really needs some Peep to return his personal vehicle in working order. He might need some soothing pink Peepto Bismal for his indigestion.

Peeps On a Raft is a microwave adventure celebrated annually at my former place of employment. Much like making Smores without the campfire, Peeps On a Raft requires graham crackers, Hershey bars, and marshmallow chicks. When you nuke a Peep sitting atop a cracker-and-Hersheys raft on the revolving surface of the microwave oven, the marshmallow chick expands and twirls in a most entertaining way, much like an orating Presidential candidate--or two.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Squeaky Clean Peaceable Kingdom

Cleanliness is next to godliness, it is said. This wasn't a spiritual mission, just a disinfecting one. A preschooler licked and sucked the pinkish bear's feet. I don't want to contemplate the reasons for this action. I just want to send the whole jungle through the carwash.

Now that the plastic animals are disinfected, please join me in singing, "The pink bear went through the dishwasher, the pink bear went through the dishwasher, the pink bear went through the dishwasher to see what she could see.

Quaker preacher Edward Hicks painted over a hundred versions of "The Peaceable Kingdom." 1820 and his death. The theme for the paintings was Isaiah chapter eleven. If you squint just right, you can see the box of Cascade in about thirty-three versions.



© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Country pickin' fingers

Don't park your double-wide in the Rose Garden, Bill. You weren't a horrible President, especially compared with Dubya. Nothing you and Monica did under the desk was any worse than what millions of good old boys and girls do in offices, Ford F-150s, and tacky motels every day. I just don't want another Tag Team Clinton mud-wrestling administration.

Should Hillary become the Democratic nominee by some weird twist of soap operatic amnesia fate, I will root for her greased pig in the 4-H grandstand against McCain's Hundred Years' War hog. But even then, Bill, please don't set your trailer up on cement blocks out there by that reflector pool!

I'll fix your flat tire Merle
Don't ya get your sweet country pickin' fingers all covered with erl
Cause you're a honky, I know, but Merle you got soul
And I'll fix your flat tire Merle

So, Bill, just set your Lazy Boy recliner out there on the lawn of your library and amp up the Pure Prairie League song. Leave the busted out washing machine on the porch. Don't make me cross state lines to explain it any clearer!

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Chewed paper for worms

Worms, I read in various on-line vermi-chats and vermi-blogs, like dryer lint. This is splendid news, as I've always wanted something to do with dryer lint after comparing and contrasting the color and quantity from laundry load to laundry load.

It must be a family fascination. My dad pours his hot breakfast bacon or sausage grease from the frypan into a glass jar each day to ponder the strata variations as if they were in agate or onyx.

So, from now on my dryer lint is going in the worm bin. True, I worry about my moist little redworms slithering into a furry collection. Does the lint fuzz stick to them, and make them look like little feather boas?

Dryer lint is very flammable, my cub scout son once explained. If you are rubbing two sticks together, it is good to have some dryer lint to catch the sparks. You can also give your lint to the birds for nesting material, but not for new outfits.

Penguin chicks look like they are covered in fuzzy, gray lint. When I was in my papier-mâché penguin phase, I tried covering chicks with dryer lint. It was a total disaster. The lint turned too quickly to goo, and slid right off the penguin forms. Maybe it slides right off the redworms, too.

"Papier-mâché means 'chewed paper'," we introduce the 3-D art project. Little art students gasp, fearing the next instruction. It's a moment easily-amused art teachers savor:

papier-mache
1753, from Fr. papier-mâché, lit. "chewed paper," from O.Fr. papier "paper" + mâché "compressed, mashed," from pp. of mâcher, lit. "to chew," from L.L. masticare "masticate."

A material, made from paper pulp or shreds of paper mixed with glue or paste, that can be molded into various shapes when wet and becomes hard and suitable for painting and varnishing when dry.

You'd think a papier-mache artist would realize that getting a large amount of shredded newpaper soaking wet, then squeezing it out to the moisture level of a well-wrung sponge would create a pulp too dense for a redworm habitat. Alas for one pound of worms, no.

My second worm bin was made with a bedding of torn cardboard t.p. and paper towel tubes, a bit of corrugated box cardboard, and several broken-up gray cardboard egg cartons. Even when these materials have the moisture level of that "well-wrung sponge," they retain enough shape to form air-pockets in the compost. So far, it seems to be working great. The worms have enough breathing room in the compost to stage runway fashion shows. Dryer lint is what the trend savvy worms will be wearing this spring!

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Washing to the Sky

The skyline work of the Nasher Sculpture Center in the downtown Dallas Arts District is Joseph Borofsky's "Walking to the Sky". Figures of people seem to walk a diagonal pole from the lawn of the sculpture garden up into the sky. We like the piece. We've sort of adopted it as one of the metroplex's main landmarks.

Still, I always find it mildly eerie. The figures look like some sort of lifesize educational toys with their studied variety of races and ages, and their fashion sense of Mr. Rogers.



Yesterday I brought home the Duplos and the people for the educational dollhouse for their semiannual sanitizing cycle through the dishwasher. I can't help but wonder if the Nasher ever runs the Borofsky figures through a giant dishwasher.


They look a bit like they are ready to ride a glass-walled elevator to the sky instead of walking up that steep pole.



© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Schridgerator

Microwave. Measuring spoons. Sink. Sponge. A five year-old student is doing kitchen vocabulary words. He has matched the photo cards with the printed words so far. Then we get to "Schridgerator".

Whoa! No wonder he can't match up the beginning letter sound for "refrigerator" with his unique pronunciation!

I've got problems of my own. All this time I've been expecting Richard Strauss' "Salome" to be Rimsky-Korsakav's "Scheherazade" under my veils of delusion.

Hush. Now I must contemplate the 1001 Dances of the Seven Electric Appliances!

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Greased pig wrestling

Don't tell PETA--it wasn't an animal at the county fair! I wrestled a greasy, deceased over-the-range microwave oven out of the wall and down to the dumpster. Yes, my Sharp is riding that big Carousel turntable in the sky.

It had been installed on the cheap by a previous condo owner. The electrical cord was cut, and the wires stripped and twisted under connection caps tucked behind the drywall. The wiring probably went to a harvest gold range hood back when the condo was built around 1980. That's a bit too scary for me.





There's a hilarious greased pig photo in the Bloomington, Indiana Herald Times of July 8, 2007. I'm not interested in debating the cruelty of this old time county fair event. I just want to have a hot shower.

Installing a replacement shouldn't be as greasy an operation. I get my Rosie The Riveter Meets Helen Reddy mindset going, but I probably shouldn't install a grounded outlet or try to lift a fifty pound appliance while attaching it to a mounting frame! I am woman, hear me roar, hear me call for a handyperson. I am strong, I am invincible, I am not an electician.


© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

It's a Jungle Out There

The hummingbird aerial battles are heating up in the condo patio airspace. Closed the big patio umbrella to give the combatants more maneuvering room. The entertainment will more than make up for the loss of shade.



A lovely yellow butterfly, probably a cloudless sulfur, checks out every red canna blossom. A small skipper leaves tiny white eggs on each canna leaf, but a strange insect that looks like a big black waspy ant or anty wasp scurries about eating the eggs and declining to pose for photos.



Another big black insect whirs in from my left just over my shoulder. It settles on a bush for a photo op once the shivers leave my neck.



I've got a couple chrysalids from my vinca caterpillars in a jar. Unfortunately, I ended up with a very tiny caterpillar in the jar as well. These guys have already demonstrated the ability to get out through the holes in the lid and practice their leafrolling in my blue bedroom curtains.

In the deep shade of the cannas, a beautiful white moth sleeps. It's wingspan is less than an inch. I'm really enjoying my newly inherited digital camera with its four megapixels. My woolly mammoth son upgraded to a seven megapixel for his photography classes just as my one megapixel bit the dust.



All this action and beauty distract me from my latest failing appliance, the over-the-range microwave with its deceased touchpad Start button. I can't spare the time to nuke anyway, and can barely remember to eat!

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Emits Showers of Cold Water

Part II of Light Fuse Get Away Fast.

Warning labels on fireworks always make me laugh. Emits Showers Of Sparks. Well, I sure hope so. That's why I bought it!

There should be a cautionary label on those black "snakes" that said Leaves Ugly Marks On Driveway. Makes Your Mom Crabby. That would be more useful.

Speaking of crabby moms, my Kenmore gas water heater's pilot light won't stay lit. Two mornings of cold showers make a mom irritable, especially with dirty dishes piling up, and waiting around for the gas company technician. Get to sit around again tomorrow waiting for the Kenmore serviceman. The darn water heater is only two and a half years old. It has a piezo push-button igniter, so I don't have to light matches or pray that my hair won't erupt in flames. Contortions are still required to watch for the "clean blue flame of quality" through the little window two inches off the ground while holding down the gas knob with one hand and pushing the igniter button quickly and repeatedly with the other while spiders dance on my head.

This would be a nice time for the hummingbirds to pay a visit to cheer me up.

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Cicada killer wasps

When one of the paper wasps managed to get into my condo I ceased being a curious amateur hymenoptera observer. A wasp MUST be on the other side of the glass! I had work to do out on my patio, so I shot the wasp nest with the water hose until it fell down, then tossed it out in the alley behind my fence. Next a cicada killer wasp went riccocheting around the patio. It was bigger than a hummingbird, but steered like a drunk teenager in an SUV with "Pinball Wizard" at full blast on his iPod. So much for playing Nature Girl! I dove back in the condo. Reminds me of when my beautician, the Scary Hair Lady, hasn't oiled the blade on her neck trimmer for awhile...or one of those bad mornings when I drop a fork into the garbage disposal!

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Fry Babies and Weed Whackers

The day after the harvest gold blender leaked all over the place when we were making a fruit smoothie with the preschoolers for their weekly "cooking" activity, Tammy Faye died, and I discovered my Presto hot air corn popper in the deepest recesses of the kitchen cupboard, unused for at least five years. Bumped my head on the cupboard shelf, but I didn't cry, and my mascara didn't run! It just set me off pondering the last thirt-five years of small household appliances, aggravated by the reissue of the recall on Hasbro Easy Bake ovens.

We received a hand-mixer, a blender, and a steam iron in lovely harvest gold as wedding presents. Our first crockpot was avocado green, although I'd probably never even seen an avocado in 1977.

[Lincoln had two "real" Mexican restaurants, one near 11th and Q, and the other near 48th and R streets. We had a new Ticos Restaurant on 17th that still exists, Taco John's and a Taco Bell. Grocery stores had six to eight aisles in that primitive time, and fresh produce selections were not the international, exotic and out-of-season extravaganzas we see now. Except for one brief encounter with Romaine and endive in Mrs. Starr's seventh grade Home Ec class, salad lettuce meant iceberg. Looseleaf was that soggy leaf for decoration under your canned pear half and cottage cheese in the hospital cafeteria. Of course my preschoolers still think lettuce is called "salad".]

We also received a Presto Fry Baby, aka Presto Fry Daddy, Jr. They were very hot items that year, but we exchanged it for a Salton yogurt maker. I didn't use the steam iron much because we were dressing in Dacron polyester and Quiana!



We had an electric skillet, of course, a waffle iron, a Presto electric percolator, and a greasy golden popcorn popper that survived the dorm years. I still had my big yellow hair dryer, although my sister was all about blow dryers, steam rollers, and curling irons. I still had the pink electric blanket my great aunt bought me in 1967, and the electric typewriter I got for high school graduation.



My parents had an electric knife, and an electric charcoal starter for the broiler. My uncle liked to send kitchen Christmas gifts, so they had an electric warming tray, a fondue set, a crepe maker, a wok (whatever for!?)

My new in-laws had an electric can opener for the cat food, a Mr. Coffee, grow lights, a Clairol Foot Fixer, an electric pencil sharpener, a Weedeater, an intercom system, and a new-fangled microwave oven. I held out against microwave ovens until 1985, because I was sure they caused cancer in rats.

By 1980 we all had DustBusters. We still got to choose between a toaster, an electric heating pad, and a bathroom scale when we opened a bank account after moving to Omaha. It would be fifteen more years before I owned a hot glue gun. My ex actually bought one of those Wagner Power Painters seen on cable infomercials, and made a huge mess!

In recent years, at my sons' suggestions, I've acquired an electric coffee grinder, a George Foreman grill, and a toaster oven.

So which ones do I actually use?

Once a day

• Microwave oven
• Mr. Coffee
• Toaster oven

Once a week

• Coffee grinder
• Blender
• Electric skillet
• Wok--not electric

Once a month

• Steam iron
• Blow dryer
• Pencil sharpener
• Hot glue gun
• Crockpot
• Hand mixer

Once a year

• Curling iron

How often do I eat an avocado? Once a week!

Microwave history:

The First "Radarange"

In 1947, Raytheon demonstrated the world's first microwave oven and called it a "Radarange," the winning name in an employee contest. Housed in refrigerator-sized cabinets, the first microwave ovens cost between $2,000 and $3,000. Sometime between 1952-55, Tappan introduced the first home model priced at $1295. In 1965 Raytheon acquired Amana Refrigeration. Two years later, the first countertop, domestic oven was introduced. It was a 100-volt microwave oven, which cost just under $500 and was smaller, safer and more reliable than previous models.

By 1975 Sales of Microwave Ovens Exceeded that of Gas Ranges

Technological advances and further developments led to a microwave oven that was polished and priced for the consumer kitchen. However, there were many myths and fears surrounding these mysterious new electronic "radar ranges." By the seventies, more and more people were finding the benefits of microwave cooking to outweigh the possible risks, and none of them were dying of radiation poisoning, going blind, sterile, or becoming impotent (at least not from using microwave ovens). As fears faded, a swelling wave of acceptance began filtering into the kitchens of America and other countries. Myths were melting away, and doubt was turning into demand.

By 1975, sales of microwave ovens would, for the first time, exceed that of gas ranges. The following year, a reported 17% of all homes in Japan were doing their cooking by microwaves, compared with 4% of the homes in the United States the same year. Before long, though, microwave ovens were adorning the kitchens in over nine million homes, or about 14%, of all the homes in the United States. In 1976, the microwave oven became a more commonly owned kitchen appliance than the dishwasher, reaching nearly 60%, or about 52 million U.S. households. America's cooking habits were being drastically changed by the time and energy-saving convenience of the microwave oven. Once considered a luxury, the microwave oven had developed into a practical necessity for a fast-paced world.

An expanding market has produced a style to suit every taste; a size, shape, and color to fit any kitchen, and a price to please almost every pocketbook. Options and features, such as the addition of convection heat, probe and sensor cooking, meet the needs of virtually every cooking, heating or drying application. Today, the magic of microwave cooking has radiated around the globe, becoming an international phenomenon.


© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Velour Caterpillar

After the big storm of Wednesday night, the students found an impressive caterpillar on the playground retaining wall Thursday. Over three inches long, it looked like it had been sewn of dusty gray velour exactly the color of the nozzle attachments for my mother's 1950s cylinder vacuum cleaner. Down each side was a soft gray fringe that could have been the mustache of the Muppets' Swedish chef. Never imagining the caterpillar would be easy to find again on Friday, I didn't take my camera. It had only crawled two feet.

The search for identification led me to two very useful sites. The first is Discover Life, which can be used to ID all sorts of living things. The search function of the IDnature section let me choose up to four characteristics. It took me awhile because I didn't know that the "fringe" is very aptly called "lashes". The only close photo was the larva of the American lappet moth. Our playground visitor had two bands of dull, rusty gold, instead of the bright red bands.



Phyllodesma americana, larva Dave Wagner / Discover Life

Once I had a name, I was able to find this photo by Jo McGavin on BugGuide.net, another useful site. You have to look at it awhile to realize what you're seeing!



I can't publish John Davis' photo of the adult stage lappet moth, but Phyllodesma americana has some nifty camouflage tricks. Davis is a retired U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service biologist. He has a Flickr gallery of excellent moth photos, and contributes to the Digital Guide to Moth Identification's North American Moth Photographers Group.



I hope we can all identify the Swedish chef making chocolate mousse!

Mom's vacuum was silver gray and just right for little kids to ride. It is not as easy to identify as the caterpillar, although I spent too much time trying. Her well-used copy of Guide to Easier Living taught her that vacuuming was a once-a-week task to be done on Thursday. I'm sure she selected it with this explanation in mind:

The choice of model--whether it's upright, canister, or cylinder--depends on the amount of carpeted area versus hard-surface floor area in the home. The two latter types have swivel arrangements that permit one to reach all parts of a room from one central position. For large carpeted areas, the upright is preferred because motor-driven brushes get deeply embedded dirt out of the rug fibers.

From the Great Achievements page of the National Academy of Engineering:

In 1907 an American inventor named James Murray Spangler created a vacuum cleaner that basically consisted of an old-fashioned carpet sweeper to raise dust and a vertical shaft electric motor to power a fan and blow the dust into an external bag. Manufactured by the Hoover Company, which bought the patent in 1908, it was hugely successful, especially after Hoover in 1926 extended the fan motor's power to a rotating brush that "beats as it sweeps as it cleans." Meanwhile, the Electrolux company in Sweden grabbed a sizable share of the market with a very different design for a vacuum cleaner—a small rolling cylinder that had a long hose and a variety of nozzles to clean furniture and curtains as well as carpets.




Our vacuum was similar to the Electrolux at left, but not quite the same in my memory. For one thing, no kids are riding on it.

Links cited in this post:
http://www.discoverlife.org/nh/ DiscoverLife.org

http://pick4.pick.uga.edu/mp/20q? DiscoverLife's ID Nature Guides

http://pick4.pick.uga.edu/mp/20q?guide=Caterpillars DiscoverLife's caterpillar search page

http://pick4.pick.uga.edu/mp/20q?guide=Caterpillars © Dave Wagner, 2002 photo

http://bugguide.net/node/view/63153 BugGuide.net caterpillar photo by Jo McGavin

http://bugguide.net/node/view/106402 BugGuide.net moth photo by John Davis

http://www.flickr.com/photos/johns_pics John Davis' gallery of impressive nature photos

http://mothphotographersgroup.msstate.edu/MainMenu.shtml Digital Guide to Moth Identification

http://www.electrolux.com/node15.aspx Electrolux history

http://www.greatachievements.org/?id=3775 Great Achievements history of modern appliances

http://anchormama.blogspot.com/2006/03/good-design-and-easier-living.html Thoughts on the Guide to Easier Living

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

The way to your teen's heart is through his...

...blender. Smoothies. Nutritious, energy-boosting, straw-worthy, cupholder-friendly fruit and yogurt smoothies.

On a real world resume I could note that I have thirteen years of experience parenting teen males. That outshines the two years leading the Cub Scout group, the five years of toilet training, and all my continuing education credits in emergency rooms.

A nephew turns thirteen this week. My sister is new at this teen guy division of parenting. I offer this wisdom, although I should probably charge for it:

Teen guys must have their blended fruit concoctions!

They are not morning people.

If they can get themselves upright and deodorized in the morning, you can place a large blended smoothie with a bendable straw into the hand not holding the backpack, and they are as good to go as they are going to get before noon.

Hoping for more will bother you way more than it bothers your teen.

Teen guys like machines with motors and loud noises that smash and destroy stuff.

In this regard they are not significantly different than they were as toddlers.

Before they start "fixing" your car, let them learn to drive the Hamilton-Beach blender.

Smoothies are a teen guy's introduction to preparing his own meals. Before you know it your little darling will want to boil his own pasta. Can guacamole be far behind?

The Ice Crush/Pulse button is used to accompany Steppenwolf's "Born to Be Wild".

Teen guys want to experiment and live on the edge. Bring exotic fruits home from Hinky Dinky and leave them unattended on the kitchen counter.

Teen guys want to think they are "bulking up."

Teen guys want to watch tv while they sip their smoothies. The closer you can move the tv to the blender, the fewer spills on the carpet.

This bonus hint--the longer a heavy metal rock concert t-shirt wallows in the dirty laundry pile, the faster the gross guy perspiration destroys the fabric particles.

Someday your son's taste in music will improve. Until then, sing along.

I want my, I want my MTV

I want my, I want my MTV

We gotta install microwave ovens

Custom kitchens deliveries

We gotta move these refrigerators

We gotta blend these green kiwis!

Get your blender runnin'

Head out on the highway

Lookin' for adventure

And whatever fruit comes our way


© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Labor Saving Devices with Celery and Garlic

I'm getting used to Internet Explorer 7.0 and the other automatic Windows updates beamed into my computer this week. It took time to readjust my toolbars and settings, and I'm still clicking in the wrong place for my favorites. Of course, I still look for spoons in the drawer where they were in the old condo. We moved into the nearly identical new condo in July of 2000, and swapped the silverware drawer with the placemat drawer to make it more logical and efficient!

With the condo full of sniffling and coughing people, it was time to make soup. Mid-morning I started sauteeing celery and garlic. Divided that into two pots for two kinds of soup. In the first pot, I added chopped mushrooms and broccoli, then a can of Swanson Low Sodium chicken broth. Into the second pot went chopped green pepper, carrots, parsley, leftover turkey, yellow squash, peas, a can of broth, and a can of crushed tomatoes in puree. The steam was making me feel better already. The empty cans went into the recycling basket, and the dishes filled up the dishwasher.

On a roll now in the X-Soup championship of the world, the leftover mashed spuds went into Pot One, along with boiling water. Dill and cayenne were next. Over in Pot Two, oregano, thyme, basil, cumin, Worchestershire sauce, and a bay leaf. Oh, the savory steaminess of it all! My sinuses were happy enough to realphabetize the spice rack.

Just about the time the mashed potatoes were blended delumpily into the broth, and I started stirring in milk, my socks got wet. Huh? The dishwasher was leaking. I'm braver with annoying appliances than with certain computer applications or soup recipes. I am woman with True Value 4-in-1 screwdriver, quarter-inch six-point nut driver, and needlenose pliers, hear me roar! Checked the float, the gasket, cleaned the drain screen, and removed the front access panel to peer into soggy darkness. My How To Fix Everything book was helpful, but offered no guidance for standing on my head or curling myself into the dishwasher without getting wet. I needed a miner's headlamp, a dentist's mirror, and clown car experience! My respect for repair-persons was growing the more I contorted.



When the professionals arrived, they quickly determined that the part and repair of my dishwasher would cost more than a new one. I hated spending the $54 for the service call, so I pumped them for recommendations for reliable dishwashers. Keep it simple, they said. Get a dishwasher with a dial, not a control panel. They must have known about my spoon drawer and the Windows toolbars!

Home Depot will deliver my new, very basic, GE dishwasher in a few days. By then the fans will have dried out underneath the cabinets. We've enjoyed the soup, but I'll have to handwash Pot One and Pot Two.

Three Bras Before Breakfast

Thank heaven for Target! It is good to be able to shop before it gets hot on a Sunday morning in North Texas. It is especially good to be able to buy a toaster oven on sale, Cover Girl tinted sunscreen moisturizer, and three bras before breakfast.

My college son, home for the summer, requires bagels. Bagels are one of his Basic Food Groups. Bagels, in turn, require toasters or toaster ovens. Toasters and toaster ovens fit in the category of small appliances where my luck is mighty poor. Coffee makers are my most ungrateful and noncompliant small appliances, followed quickly to that Big Kitchen Counter In the Sky by crockpots of assorted sizes. I must say in my own defense that I have excellent luck with handheld mixers and hair dryers. Professionally, I slay no glue gun before its time.

Yesterday I heard just enough of the NPR Studio 360 segment about vacuum coffee makers that I'm wondering about my grandma's stainless coffee maker that sat on the wheeled tea cart. It looked like a stainless steel laughing Buddha. Coffee smelled better in Grandma's kitchen than anywhere before or since.



Anyway, I got a good ten hours of sleep last night, and then set out to Target for a toaster oven. Found some bras. Three, in fact. Three bras before breakfast. I'm bursting into song! Three bras before breakfast, sung to the tune of "Three Coins in a Fountain," the Academy Award Best Song of 1954 by Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn, recorded by the Four Aces and Frank Sinatra.

All Quiet on the Laundry Front

"It's quiet out there...too quiet," I remarked. When the jungle, the city, or the battlefield becomes too quiet, the reader knows all hell is about to break lose with an enemy offensive. I am conditioned to wait and to fear the worst is one breath away.

My washer and dryer are idle. So is the dishwasher. It's eerie. I don't think this has ever happened before. For twenty-three years my major appliances have been running like an involuntary household heartbeat. Now they are standing silent, waiting for the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unmatched Sock.

Brought a few dingy puppets and dress-up clothes home from work just to cheer up the Kenmores. For one cycle they felt useful and needed again. Tonight at bedtime I'm going to read them The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Gray Bridge. And speaking of lighthouses, check out these photos: Lighthouses, a Photographic Journey.