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My Captain has the most beautifully expressive eyes.  Simultaneoulsy brown and gold, as burnt bronze, it’s easy to get lost in their warmth.

But when he aims them on something in particular, focusing intently, I swear they turn hard and eagle-sharp.  So eloquent are they, often he doesn’t need to speak to convey his meaning.  Even the brows above them are powerfully eloquent. Thick and even, they can speak volumes if he just lifts one or raises them both.  And God help you if he furrows them.

Thankfully we don’t have a lot of furrowing going on around here.

What we do have an inordinate amount of, is Rolling.  There is way, way too much rolling of they eyes going on at this house.  And it’s usually aimed at yours truly.   Believe me, My Captain’s rolling of the eyes communicates impatience, or disdain, or humor way ,way more effectively than any words could hope to.  Most of the time, it’s humor.

Thankfully.

But not always.

Unfortunately.

Yesterday My Captain and his father, Jay, were down in My Captain’s basement/patio project, lovingly known as “The Mud Pit,” when they called me down to discuss posts.  Now, understand, I am usually not invited into these discussions because apparently I add too much confusion, but in this case, there was a decision that I had to make, as ‘The Woman of the House.’  They weren’t looking for input about dimension or material or structural logistics.  No Sirree.  They wanted simply to know if I wanted the posts that would hold the roof to the walk out to be ‘turned,’ or straight planked, or square.   That’s my forte, apparently.  That’s what I can bring to the table.  I’m the designer.  The stylist.

Me.  The one wearing a ‘Mr. Bubbles’ T-shirt.

I put on my most knowledgeable face, and said with strength and confidence, “Of course we’ll go with the ‘Churned’ posts.”

That was when the first rolling of the eyes occurred.

He grinned, “You’re not making butter.  They’re “Turned,” not “Churned.”

Without missing a beat, I replied condescendingly, “That’s how we say it in Ohio.”

Then came the second rolling of the eyes.

He chuckled, “Yes, when making butter.”

“Look, just make ’em ‘churned’.  I know what I’m talking about.”  And I walked away like I had better things to do with my time.

Then I went inside and immediately looked up “churned.”

Apparently I don’t know what I’m talking about.  But damned if I’m going to tell him.  He’ll have to look it up as well if he wants to prove I’m wrong.    I don’t want that to happen, so I’ll just keep him distracted and busy enough that he won’t have time.  And with any luck, he’ll forget about it and I’ll be able to remain a know-it-all in the “churned” department.

Aw, who am I kidding?  He’s such a stickler for details, he probably looked it up on his phone the minute I turned my back.

And I bet he rolled his eyes when he did.

My Captain took me to see the movie ‘The Avengers’ tonight.  It was wonderful, of course.  The music, the story, the technology to make it so real…all of it immensely entertaining.

Oddly, it was none of those things that made the movie worth the price of the $10.00 ticket.

What made it worth that obscene cost (for when I grew up you could go see movies for a dollar,) was the eye-opener it gave me.

We were leaving the theater.  There was a girl across the street from me in a wheelchair.  I had just watched a story about heroes and self-sacrifice, and honor and magnanimity.  And I was limping to our car on my bad knee.

The knee I’ve been whining about ad nauseam.  The knee I’ve been feeling sorry for myself about so verbosely.  The knee I’ve been complaining about and making excuses for and looking for sympathy with.

And there was that little girl moving so purposefully down the sidewalk in what looked like a very permanent wheel chair.

And I had just come out of a movie about heroes.

And I felt very stupid.

And whiny.

And sorry for her.

There is this scene where Captain America, unimpressed with Stark, aka Ironman, asks Stark, “Big man in a suit of armour.  Take that suit away and what are you?

And Stark replies, “A Genius. Billionaire. Playboy. Philanthropist.”

And Thor laughed.

I loved that scene.

But I came out of the movie asking myself the same question.

And I don’t want the answer to be, “A self-absorbed whiner.”

So I’m done bitching about my knee.

But I wish I had a really cool red iron suit, too.

I haven’t been able to post much lately.   I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with Varmint, Critter, and My Captain.  This isn’t easy to do when you have one working leg, and one uncooperative leg.  I don’t walk; I lope.

I’ve been attending championship softball matches, fifth grade activity days, graduation and birthday party preparations.  And I’ve had both hands in each and every one of those activities.  This is normal for me:  I’m usually a ‘mover and a shaker’.  It’s just taking me longer because right now I’m a ‘mover and a loper’.

It’s funny to watch me as I’m trying to hurry these days, because I closely resemble the Hunchback of Notre dame.

Because of the limp.

Not the hump.

In case you were confused.

Last night was our End-Of-Season Softball bonfire potluck.  (It came after not one, but TWO full softball games, which started promptly at 9am and ended at 3pm. We were WHUPPED by the time the bonfire started!)  We had all kinds of yummy deliciousness at this party, from fantastic Deviled Eggs, to barbecued Meatballs, Tomato/Mozzarella salad and Hot Dogs.  And S’mores, of course.

The adults relaxed around the bonfire in the darkening twilight, while the team and their siblings ran around the yard, playing everything from Red Rover to Man Hunt.  They chased Fireflies.  They had a hoola-hoop competition.  They played kickball.  They jumped around on the trampoline.

At one point, our hostess – a true southern belle, transplanted from North Carolina – threw an old, retired wicker chair on the fire.  The reactions were as followed:

My Captain’s Father, Jay:  “I’m moving my chair back!”

Muddy: “Whoa! It’s too early in the party to start throwing furniture in the fire!”

All of the kids: “WOW!  Look at that!!  It’s making the leaves on the Cherry Tree curl!”

My Captain:  Smirked, chuckled, and rolled his eyes.

Me: “Time to get out the marshmallows!”

The crickets were chirping.  The stars were twinkling.  Kids were laughing. It was a warm night, but every now and again a sweet early summer breeze would hit our cheeks.   All was right with the world.

My Captain and I were beat.  He had to get up this morning at 5:00 to go to work, so we stood up to take leave, but several of the kids cried out, “Tell us a ghost story before you leave, Coach Cookie!”

(I should explain that I got the name Coach Cookie this softball season because I brought cookies to games and practices.  I’m afraid I have singlehandedly contributed to the future renal failure of several Tweenie-boppers)

So I began weaving a tale about an old man, three red-eyed dogs, a curse, some mauled horses, and the boulders adjacent to the bonfire area.  It was good.  It was really good.

How do I know this?

Because as we were walking up the hill (or, in my case, Loping up the hill) Varmint asked, “Was that story true, Mom?”

I replied, “Only the scary parts, honey.”

Hey, if you don’t want to be scared, don’t ask for the ghost story.

This was the kind of night that all of those kids (and some of the parents) will be able to look back on and feel warm and fuzzy about.  This is the kind of childhood memory we WANT our kids to have plenty of.  These are the times to be grateful for.

And I am.

Life is a bowl full of cherries!

In this case, they are wee tiny little organic cherries picked off of one of the trees from Grandma Jane’s Orchard by Critter, Varmint, and My Captain.

And they come with pits in them, as all good cherries do.

And since I don’t have anywhere to store it, I don’t have one of those handy-dandy semi-automatic cherry pitting machines.  Which means each and every cherry gets lovingly pitted by yours truly.  At least in this picture it is done by me…..  Because, you know, we have children for a reason…..

Look at that.  The pit is almost bigger than the cherry.  This is going to take a lot of cherries!

After half an hour, and several hand cramps, these are the pits of my labor…and…

This is the fruit of my labor!  Get it?!  Fruit of my labor?  hahhahahahahahahaha!

Sorry.

(Not really.)

This is Xylitol, a naturally occuring sugar alcohol.  I use it instead of sugar, or in addition to sugar.  In this case, I used about half sugar, half xylitol.

Now, here is where I get on my soap box.  People these days want solid, exact amounts in recipes.  I say the world just doesn’t work like that.  ESPECIALLY when it comes to pies or tarts. Why?  Because sometimes you get a sour batch of fruit, and sometimes you don’t.  You’ve got to taste it and experiment, or do what I do, and wing it.

So, here I am pouring some sugar and xylitol in.

And then some cornstarch.

And stirring.

and stirring.

Here is my Harris Teeter brand pre-made pie crust.  GASP!  Hey, it’s quick and yummy.  Don’t be a hater. If I had expendable time, I would make my own crusts.  Guess what I don’t have.   That’s right.

Expendable time.

I am making individual tarts, one for each kid and one for My Captain.  I put a third of the cherries on the crust.  How much, you ask?  A third of what I had.  See?  That is how real life cooks.  You work with what life gives you.  I had so much in the bowl, and I split it as I could.  Tell that to Alton Brown.

Butter.  Salted butter.  Our friend in so many ways, and no doubt what will be the death of me.

And since I’ve come to terms with my inevitable demise, I add plenty.

Then I fold, leaving a hole up top for steam to escape.

All the way around!

And then sugar gets sprinkled generously on top.  And on the counter and the sink and the floor and my shoes.

In it goes to a 450 degree oven for 10 minutes, and then down to 400 for another 40 minutes OR UNTIL THE DANG THING IS READY!  (That was for you, Alton.)

See, I told you I made three!  And aren’t they purty?

Oh lord.  The color is amazing!

I wish I had a camera to do these justice.
I wish I had a camera that had smellovision on it.  Cherry pie smell is second only to apple pie smell.  You can take that to the bank.

Why is my terribly venous hand in this picture?  For perspective, of course.  But, alas, you have no idea how big my hand is, so it really doesn’t help at all, now does it?

To recap:

Cherry tarts are easy.

Wash and Pit your cherries.  Add sugar and cornstarch.  Throw the lot onto a crust.  Dot the pile of goodness with butter.  Bake it, and share it with your friends.

Want to play with it?  Add some lemon zest.  Or add a little orange liquor.  Or add some almond extract.  But heed my words, in this case, simple really is best.

Now….jump in!