Dear Reader,

I have one more Thanksgiving snippet to share. This is a short accounting of a man and a cat and a Thanksgiving turkey.
The man was my Uncle Angus, whom I have briefly mentioned before. He was my Daddy's younger brother. His true name was James, but for some reason he was known to many as Angus. In truth, Angus suited him much better than James. My sister and brother and I adored him. He is a difficult man for me to describe. Not a teddy bear type, perhaps more of an impish nature and one who never lost the twinkle in his eye. He and our aunt lived on the other side of the island of Oahu where we were raised. They had no children but they did have a cat and that cat's name was Available Jones. (He once had a dog called Binge, and years later one he named John the Baptist.) I don't really remember Available Jones as I was too young at the time, and it probably was prudent that Available not be left alone in the presence of such a small child. Considering his behavior, he must have been a formidable animal.
Apparently at Thanksgiving, my aunt opened the refrigerator door and Available Jones spied the turkey resting on the top shelf. In one magnificent leap he managed to straddle the turkey. He proceeded to help himself with determination. My aunt could not remove that cat from the turkey. He was so aggressively possessive that he probably consumed a greater part of it before he calmly removed himself to lick his chops and clean his paws.
I would venture a guess that was just one of many of Available Jones' transgressions, because shortly after the turkey debacle, Uncle Angus made a cage of sorts, packed Available in the cage, and left him on our porch for the Humane Society to pick up. My sister is convinced that the cage was purposely made in a flimsy fashion so that Available could escape. Escape he did. I believe that he eventually found his way home after several weeks. It's unclear what happened after that, but the conjecture is that Uncle Angus took Available Jones to a nearby military base where he was adopted. Given his tenacious personality, he was probably promoted to Second in Command.

Best!

Kaleidoscope of K

...totally unrelated K stuff.
I have pictures of my new kitchen (well, it's a year old new) but I can't find them on my computer! So no pics to look at. I do love having cabinets that close, that look nice and that don't have 26 years of yuk on them. I appreciate an oven door that closes all of the way and actually opens fully so that I can get a casserole in and out of it. I like having a sink that hasn't rusted so much along the edges that it's rising up out of the counter. You can get that picture I'm sure!

K is for my first born, Kevin. There were times when I wasn't sure I would survive him. Perhaps I should have paid attention to the fact that he actually broke my tail bone during his entrance into this world. I should have taken that as an omen. He pretty much challenged every dang thing that came along. Well, he's all "growed" up and is a joy to be around. I am very lucky to see him almost every week day as he works in the nursery. He's funny, he's good with people, he's a wonderful father and I just love being with him.

K is for Kitcat...my cousin Clodagh. When my grandfather left Ireland in the late 1800's, he brought part of his family to Hawaii. His sister Lily married the Rev. Kitcat and they went to New Zealand. I vaguely remember Auntie Lily. I do remember Clodagh because as a wee girl I just thought her name was hysterically funny. I was also fascinated by her because my Uncle Angus used to refer to her as "the eyebrow raiser" (he also called another relative "flannel brain"). Anyway, Clodagh would come now and then to visit us in Hawaii. I would perch on the edge of my chair and be mesmerised by those active eyebrows. They were like fuzzy woolly bear caterpillars which moved across her forehead with every word she uttered. Alas, I am sure that the Kitcats of New Zealand are no more. I am sure that Clodagh died 40 years or so ago and I know she never married. Here's to you Clodagh Kitcat. You were something else!

D=Daddy and The Dear Diary of a Demented Domestic Diva

I can't talk about Domesticity without mentioning some of my Daddy's Disastrous and Deviant Doings. (You may want to have a rest before you read this...it may be long and Dumb)
We used to have a refrigerator like this. It was a behemoth, weighed a ton and couldn't be budged. We lived in a huge old house, the kitchen was immense. My mother wanted the refrigerator moved from one side of the kitchen to the other side. She kept threatening to call a moving company to do so. One day when I was very little we all went somewhere, leaving Daddy to his own Devices. When we came home several hours later, the refrigerator stood exactly where my mother had wanted it. Nothing in it had been removed: the milk bottles were still in the same place, the leftovers undisturbed. My father had attached a pulley and rope to the frig, had gone out to the garage and found a big can of axle grease. He greased the floor and slid the refrigerator across with the rope and pulley. It worked like a charm, except for the fact that it took my mother several days to remove the axle grease.
On another occasion when left alone, my father decided that our yard needed some fertilizer. He had some chicken manure on hand and an old pump. He somehow reversed the motor on the pump and blew the manure all over the yard. This also worked brilliantly except for the fact that he had neglected to close all of the windows in the house. We arrived home to find manure in every nook and cranny and the not so Delicate scent of chicken manure wafting through the rooms.
Now being the Daughter of such a man, you can imagine that now and then, I can indulge in Doubtful and Dodgey Domestic habits.
I have been known to wash chard in my washing machine (no spin cycle) when I had picked so much of it to freeze. I was going nuts rinsing it off in the kitchen sink. The little light bulb went off above my head! Ta Da..it did work.
I've used my handy dandy shop vac to suck up all manner of dried vegetable matter that has been hiding in my refrigerator. That worked too!
I also shop vac one of my Newfoundland dogs. She loves it. That also works well.
This I do not recommend: the Drying of bread crumbs with your hair dryer. It's not a pretty sight when you're done.
I leave you with a poem that's really not about housecleaning, Domestic Doings or brooms, but it's lovely. Emily Dickinson wrote this:

She sweeps with many-colored Brooms--
And leaves the Shreds behind--
Oh Housewife in the Evening West--
Come back, and dust the Pond!

You dropped the Purple Ravelling in--
You dropped the Amber thread--
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of Emerald!

And still, she plies her spotted Brooms,
And still the Aprons fly,
Till Brooms fade softly into stars-
And then I come away--

Best!