Brimming Basket

 

I learned a new term (well, new to me) this month: Maycember. If it isn’t obvious, Maycember is a combination of May and December. It refers to the absolute mayhem that happens at the end of every school year. This time of year, calendars are just as jam-packed as they are during the holiday season, without the benefit of gift-giving, festive decorations, or the cultural permission to slow down. So far, we’ve had two school band concerts, a choir concert, a piano recital, a dance recital, an amusement park field trip, two fund-raising carnivals, and several end-of-year farewell parties. As if that wasn’t bad enough, some of these events occur at the same time on the same day, so there’s literally no way to attend them all. The good news is summer break starts a week from tomorrow. Then there’s a whole week of relative peace and quiet before the summer musical starts.

Pink Tulip

 

For years I was a substitute teacher. It was a great way to supplement our family’s income and still be at home when my kids were. I only subbed in elementary schools, as older kids can be brutal.  When I found this story, I could definitely relate: “A former Marine Corps sergeant took a job as high school teacher. Before the school year started, he injured his back and had to wear a plaster cast under his shirt. The students didn’t know. The first day, he walked into the rowdiest class in the school—the kind that eats new teachers alive. The kids, knowing he was a former Marine, were eager to test him. The sergeant opened a window and sat at his desk. When a breeze blew his tie around, he casually picked up a stapler and stapled the tie to his chest. The room went silent. The rest of the year, discipline was not an issue.”

Half a Dozen Kitty Cats

 

The other day, a friend-of-a-friend on Facebook posed a question: If given the opportunity to forever be an age you choose (not a time, but a physical age), what age would you choose, and why? There were thousands of answers. Apparently, this is a subject we all have opinions about. A lot of men thought seventeen was the perfect age, because that’s when they’d earned their driver’s licenses. Several women chose 21, because they’d felt the most attractive at that age. Older people were more likely to select forties or fifties, when their health was better than today. Not me. If given the choice, I’d be ten forever. When I was ten, I could ride a bike, run like the wind, do cartwheels, and pull myself into a handstand. I ate whatever I liked without consequences. I didn’t pay taxes, didn’t have a mortgage, and no one could make me do anything I didn’t want to do: the perfect age.

Center of Attention

 

“As prophets have taught many times in the past, you may not feel like praying or you may not know what to say, but God hears the secret prayers of your heart. The feelings of your heart and the love for our Heavenly Father and for His Beloved Son can be so constant that your prayers will ascend always. As we pray continually, no matter the circumstances of life, the Lord will offer us His peace and abiding support. I am reminded of the example of the sons of Mosiah, who had success in preaching the gospel and were made spiritually strong because they prayed constantly. We read in the book of Alma, ‘They had given themselves to much prayer, and fasting; therefore they had the spirit of prophecy, and the spirit of revelation.’ It is significant that their spiritual strength came from continued prayer rather than waiting to pray until a moment of crisis when they desperately needed divine help.” – President Henry B. Eyring

Four Inch House

 

How to tell you’re OLD:

When they light all the candles on your birthday cake, the smoke alarm goes off.

You started out with nothing in life, and you realize you have most of it left.

When you take a bite of steak, your teeth might stay there.

Your back goes out more often than you do.

If a storm’s coming, you know before the weatherman does.

There’s Metamucil and Preparation H in your medicine cabinet, but not Bengay.

When invited to two events the same night, you pick the one that gets you home earlier.

Your idea of “happy hour” is a good nap.

It takes you twice as long to look half as good.

You can remember your kindergarten teacher’s name, but not why you walked into the kitchen.

The policeman who just pulled you over looks like a teenager.

You hear “snap, crackle and pop” at the breakfast table, but you’re not eating cereal.

Tiny Monkey Wrench

 

Today is National Buttermilk Biscuit Day. Homemade buttermilk biscuits are great with sausage and gravy, butter and jam, with meat and cheese, with strawberries and whipped cream, or all by themselves.

 

Buttermilk Biscuits

 

2 cups flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/4 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

7 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into thin slices

3/4 cup cold buttermilk

 

Preheat oven to 425F and line baking sheet with parchment or silicone. In a large bowl, whisk together all ingredients. Cut in butter until it’s crumbly. Make a well in the center; pour in buttermilk and stir until combined. Turn dough onto floured surface. Pat into a rectangle, then fold into thirds. Repeat twice. Roll dough to 1/2 inch thick; cut with a biscuit cutter. Place on baking sheet with sides ALMOST touching. Bake 15 minutes. Serve warm with your favorite sweet or savory accompaniment.

Rolling Stone

 

I voted for Mitt Romney in 2012. I saw what a marvelous job he did with the 2002 Winter Olympics, and thought his skills would make him an excellent president. I was thrilled to vote for someone with beliefs similar to my own. Romney didn’t win, but I was proud of the man who did, and of the country that elected him. In 2016, I voted for a former first lady. I felt she was the driving force behind her husband’s presidency, and I looked forward to seeing a woman holding the highest office in the land. She didn’t win, either. In 2020 the man I voted for won, but he didn’t accomplish much. Maybe we should stop electing presidents who are well past retirement age. In 2024, I voted for a woman who wasn’t a convicted felon, who wouldn’t have paved over the rose garden or destroyed the east wing, insulted our allies, painted the reflecting pool, started a stupid war or put her name and face on EVERYTHING.