Adulting: Lets talk that money.

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I am approaching thirty-five this year and my life has taken many changes over and over again. A decade and a half of twenty to mid-thirties makes a big difference on what people do, and how we live and how we spend our money…or even need to.
Two divorces, so of course with each many changes. Career and job changes as well as major location changes add up to what has gone on in my life, among more, to cause me to change my needs financially or sometimes just get by.

Now I am approaching an entire different part of my life and with that comes a financial side, too.

The factors of finance:
Approaching thirty-five.
Career change.
Location/living change.
How I spend my money change.
Health needs change.
Insurance needs change.
And what is important to me change.
My wants.

I am also still at a time of my life soon after having lost every single thing I owned so there has been a lot of building back the basics change, and though I am pretty good on that I have lived small (studio loft) and not needed much as well as of course didn’t go out and buy the exact things I always wanted or would have preferred furniture wise but have lived very comfortably in the past year even if small, which living small has always been a thing for me anyway so it has worked well and now off to new adventures in an RV I don’t have a house full of furniture to store (a big cost) or unload.

In my Better Me sector of life, finances are bound to enter. Where am I being irresponsible? Where do I need to make changes? And what am I missing in my big-girl status? Do I really need that insurance? What can I do to make my taxes less ding causing and what can I do to have less worries and perhaps more savings while still enjoying life altogether? What moves do I need to make as a writer and a traveler on the road?

I’ve done a the right things in my past and many of the wrong. I was able to get through a lot of the rebuild bad moments or get ahead by many of my investments but all being used up now and starting fresh slate but I don’t go into this completely unknowing or with regrets at all.

As the elderly seem closer in age and social security remains forever on the chopping block and I have to begin thinking ahead and I am past the age of ‘just winging it.’ I begin to understand why the day of my grandparents was get a job, sit at a desk, work there until retirement came in, save it all, invest in some, watch it grow and care about the stocks and buy the life insurance policies. That, however, is still not my way of life and I hold no regrets…but the planner in me does sit down to figure some things out and what works for my way of living now…and in my future. Because I am my biggest investment.

The adventures of adulting and finances & insurances begins with earnest. I am past the struggling and have to use every penny for the next meal/rent/etc and on to stepping on a firmer stone in life. No more rebuilding. Just building. I am no longer in the excuse of coming back from losing everything but onto my path of building from here on out for my life. I want a well rounded life, a protected but realistic life and financially thinking is a part of that.

And it all begins with a spread sheet, going over bank statements, a pile of my tax returns and a google search of “finances in your thirties.”

Lets see if I give this more than five minutes before I take a coffee break and go buy a new book.

First three finds of my google search. The biggest thing for me will be the no-kids thing…so therefor I will buy my boat =)

Pretty Simple/The Basics.
The Commandments.

A lot more in-depth, eye-opening at what things cost and children as well as taking care of your parents.

Goals.

Holds more detail about stocks, Roths and a lot of things that involve the % symbol.
Time is about that money.

The Inspired Writer- And The White Moth.

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(Photo by Peggy J. Davenport.)

White Moth.

She flutters attracted to the light, burned by those who shine bright. Falls to the ground, lifeless, lands without a sound.

White Moth, she is found, white wings spread over the blue painted ground, like a once living painting left to be found.

White Moth never sang, she never flew fast upon her white wings, she never knew better than to stay away from what attracted her. She fluttered in her life, through her life, once she hit the heat of light she sputtered.

White Moth follows me. In moments of thought, in moments of change, in moments when I carry question, I have always found her near.

Yet White Moth even in death seems to inspire, to make one wonder, in some cultures, fear. Painters paint, poets recite, and writers write, singers sing, lying there wings spread in death, the white moth somehow impacts more in loss of her slight life than in breath.

She does not have the grace, the beauty or the wingspan of a white butterfly, this makes her scarcely noticed in life, a little sad in death.

The rain comes down, pounding her thin white wings into the ground, little by little she is washed away as if never found.

In many cultures white moth is thought of as a negative presence in life and in death, she symbolizes souls at unrest, death to come, the fragility of the state you are in.
I wonder at her presence in belief of death when she is found at my front door.

With her fluttering wings or her stillness of her sleep of death she is followed by symbolisms, myths, and Shaman law.

Of the white moths presence when she flutters in your dreams, the dream readers believe she brings ill omens, bad luck, misfortune. She has plagued my thoughts and slipped into my dreams since I gazed at her when she lay at my feet.

She is a restless soul of the otherworlds.
I wonder if from another, a message is sent to me. And if so, have I listened?

Sometimes she is thought of a sign of purity and cleansing, even as she carries the names of white witch and ghost. Is there something to cleanse from my life? Is she a ghost of what has been, could be, or should?

For all of the negative, in Shaman law she carries an idea of more. Something deeper, not only plagued in the gray of shadow thought.

The white moth is gifted in the power of the whirlwind….this…whirlwind..life. Such life is.

With her highly sensitive senses she has an ease of movement in the darkness and shadow, this, too resonates with me.

She holds belief the metamorphosis of transformation. At a time of a string of dreams in the exact such, when she showed up at my door, when my life is making much, but then I wonder at her lack of breath instead of showing up in flight and life.

The Shaman have a thought that this slight white fluttering moth has the ability to confuse her enemies. This, too, just might be true.

With her heightened senses she views all from around clearly. As an analytical person I feel this, too.

They say the Moth People usually have psychic and healing abilities and must watch out not to pick up from others their problems and carry them in their own energy, causing confusion and irritability to occur. In this I think of the petals of my own rose of life which have fallen off.

The life cycle of the moth holds symbolism from the time of egg, being birth of an idea. I hold many, work on many, spend hours daily creating many.

White Moths found in the arts.

One of my favorite Artists , whom I met when she lived in the same building I did, the Gaveston Artist Lofts. I bought a few of her prints…eventually might be able to afford more.

Moths in writing.

Moths in song.

Art Talks. My love.

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(Mural as part of the DownTown Mural Project Hollywood, FL. Artist Ernest Maranje )

I’ve always been one to fall over the arts…the ohhs and aww of it all. I grew up spending my summers watching every Shakespeare plays again and again in aww and wonder. I read it all! I even named a damn horse after it! (Kiss Me, Kate)

I had a wall in my room that was papered over with places of the world I wanted to go, poetry, quotes, songs and pictures I liked and cut from magazines, my other walls covered in books.

My mom opened me up to appreciate the old movies, black and white, French and Silent. Rainy days and too hot summer afternoons were spent over these when I wasn’t pouring over book after book. Poem after poem. Ballet and Broadway musicals also practically bled into me (I was even a little ballerina once.) She put me in acting classes one summer but we quickly discovered that my very quiet (I was once) manner wasn’t fit for the stage. There is a VHS tape floating around somewhere. I still remember lines from that performance. I did nothing right.

My grandparents infused me with the love of jazz music. My grandfather played trumpet and piano and the organ. My grandmother the piano, organ and her gravely voice which will forever lead me to love the sound of a womens voice rough in singing, poetry, reading. Also of stage and play and movies here, too. The King And I and madame butterfly my biggest impression there. My grandfather, and his mother were both painters. My grandfathers mind balanced arts of nights and weekends and science by day job. Perhaps that is where my balanced brain comes from.

The era I grew up in of Star Search and my older sister and a perfectly spotlighted fireplace hearth always gave way my path to pop music culture. There is a VHS floating of my music video to Paula Abdul somewhere out there, too. God forbid, if I become famous this is the kind of thing I have to haunt me of emerging.

The library was my world. I didn’t know what I should read, so I read it all. I especially enjoyed reading about people who influenced. I recognized the power of writing the first time I read I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. The poem of course, but the power came from the the book.

The year I was gifted the very sought after typewriter for Christmas left my family listening to the loud clack clack in the night, along with the time of my life when the sound of Beethoven also seeped from my bedroom at all hours. This was my version of moody teenager angst.

Not even sixteen years old yet and New York City. Manhattan. And a doorman who got me free tickets to anything playing anywhere. While some teenaged models went wild in the city under zero adult supervision and nothing but people who treated us like adults, able to drink freely at elegant parties and learn all about Sex and The City in real life and much too young for it, I usually spent my time at every concert and Broadway and off Broadway and play hidden in every nook of the city that I could. I found what smokey joints played original music and that usually had some unknown name strumming some broken stringed guitar. I followed the music to the roof of my own building, to find a singer songwriter strumming and singing illuminated by the clock. (See if you can figure which building? Tip, it’s near SoHo and on Houston Street). I buried my free time into every used book store NYC holds, and they held a lot. Missed are the days when I was able to bring a huge empty extra suitcase and then on return trips book filled on the plane without cost at all. Heavier than a body bag any day. When I did go to those neat openenings and parties I went for the music…Erykah Badu before she was Erykah Badu. Danced with Steven Tyler and other of the likes with whom if I got a chance, it was their art that we spoke about, if not the inspiration that made them, or perhaps the current dusty book that was always in my purse, even then, every time. Often I’d be found reading to small crowds out loud from books in the middle of a new club opening party.
I spent hours sitting on the ground watching dancers work, practice, rehearse and even audition, and often even cry when failed. The physical pain you can watch a dancer put themselves through is heartwrenching, but the emotional pain is what can break them. I was in many buildings all over the city for “Go-Sees” and photoshoots and designers and such so in and out often other open doors and happenings allowed me to see much behind the scenes and even behind those scenes. I could often found just stopped in my day for hours in watch in wonder. My love of architecture had me spending enough time inside of big beautiful gothic churches to make one think that my preferred nose in a book over guys at a party was really a lean toward being a nun. I met writers and talked books more times than I can count, that was before I thought of myself as a writer by half my lifes age now, even though by then I’d published a handful of poetry. Part of how I learned to project my voice, so quiet and meek then I was, was when a Dolly Parton with a penis at a famous restaurant/bar and during an annual big charity event once told me “Oh honey, you’ve got to make yourself HEARD if you want to make it any city, much less this one.” And took me to an open mic with mic in hand and told me to sing. A singer I am not but I did end up singing quite a lot as well as learning another place to practice projecting my voice, poetry readings. I would sing and even read my poetry on that roof top while another strummed guitar to my made up songs, illuminated by that clock with a view of the bridges and the water not far, the sounds of an entire city as my band. The start of learning to write songs for others. In that city I found the man who made art with the spark of a welding machine, he would bend and mold steel to will and form such beautiful things. I spent many afternoons perched with a notebook, watching him at work. (Then we went out and he read me poetry and that was the end of that)
I took my notebook everywhere and wrote everything that went on in my young girl/woman mind back then. I wrote next to the koi pod in a tiny hidden garden near my loft where this country raised girl would find refuse in nature and hide for a moment from all the concrete. I’d sit underneath a weeping willow tree. I wrote as the cherry blossoms bloomed in central park. I wrote watching the swans float in the pond in the park. I wrote perched watching people make and create and perform their arts. I wrote on the subway, late at night when it was empty (I had no idea about danger back then, no fear.) I wrote sitting on the wide ledge of the window that covered an entire wall in my loft, while it rained, my view of those bridges, always remember those bridges. As the rain fell, or as the trash men clanged the metal cans at 4:am. I later burned those notebooks. All of them.

Life took a lot of swings and embedded into me a lot of love of arts from all over the globe. I remember my very first “art-Show.” Canvass of photography eighteen feet tall and almost just as wide of the photographers time in Safari Africa. The elegant cats I could stand life like, face to face with. It wasn’t a great “art”, actually, but it was a great show, and it was my first. I have spent many nights watching a singer sing. I have seen a writers words created for screen, shown in a large theater for many of the field. I remember this for The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in particular. I remember being much more impressed by the PBS version of it than the big time Hollywood version. The energy of the room was what I remember. Having seen the writers at work, spoken to them ages before and now seeing those words I’d read on screen in moving image. Ahhhh.

I remember working in documentaries and learning that everybody had a “day-job” and the “night-job” and always always a project in “the works” creating something of their own, stars being reached for, stars later captured for many. The buzz of the people, always high energy, encouraging of others in any I met, or perhaps it was my youth that made me feel it were that way. I remember how dull the behind the scenes of making art can be, especially in an editing room. But the pleasure of the finished project was always worth it.

I remember learning that making art or doing what your passion is as a job doesn’t always mean a bubbly smile on your face kind of work.

I remember when I first discovered stop-photography, set to music as video, and thought “how the fuck.” I remember the first time I discovered pencil drawings of art that made me thing “there is a magic” they WERE that good. I remember seeing my first painting form, the magic of paints to canvas created. I remember many upon many great photographer create their visions and those images printed were like holding a piece of somebody’s dream. It was discovering peoples imaginations…come to life. And that was art to me.

I remember when I learned cooking had an artform…even that. French trained chef, who taught me more curse words than the world had yet to manage, and to sometimes let your temper fly.

Even the art of comedy has it’s place etched into my life. And when I received my first gift in art form made by somebody, and every one after that. I remember all of that.

Art and my world of it has grown and continued like vines that over take the abandoned theater on the west end of the island of Galveston. Weirdly however, here was the first time I ever really heard the label art attached to everything, and where I learned to voice my interest better, or lack there of at times. I found that, no, not everything is art, though art can be found in everything. Long gone the quiet and meek girl of first time NYC experiences. And that it was ok to not like someones art, not buy it, not take it home. But it is also where one artists most hated painting became my favorite and eventually did, for a time, hang on my wall. It is where my own likeness emerged in oil paints and even the silhouette of the curve of my body found itself in artform. It is where I found a different kind of music than what had been NYC when I was much younger, and also, weirdly until this time, when I began better paying attention to lyrics a little deeper and the writing even more, even though I had written many songs by now myself. It was where I first saw the real struggle of art. I helped create a beautiful show in the lights of stage there and learned what it was like to help many in creating art. I also learned the process of forming and the many lessons that come with it. It was where life itself changed for me, not for the first time, but the largest. And the moment I had to sit and decide what I really wanted to do, and found that it was writing. Creating somehow, my own. By now I’d written and published since before puberty, but never with an idea that what I did even was an artform…even as at the same time I’d admired many others in the same field for theirs and recognized it as so.

Now I am in travels, a project so to speak, for the next several years. The first leg by American roads, to see and discover what is in my own back yard. As much as I have seen half of this great big country, I have yet to see the other half, and some of what my experience is falls in a younger self before I knew how to fully appreciate. I’ve never been to Yellowstone but I’ve crossed oceans…and that is a sad enough thing for me to want to explore a land that has something new to offer every few miles of it, and a tone completely different. Now I travel and plan for travels with lists of libraries, museums, music joints and halls, famous writers homes, art shows and galleries, particular artists and street art. There are many things added to my lists daily. I may not see it all, but I will enjoy it, the fall into the pools of art along the way. Building more memories and a life full of art.

Lit Talk Mondays. Writing program in Houston.

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WriteSpace  , located in Houston is a pretty cool spot for the writer community in the area or the passing through writers.

They are on top of not lacking a for many subjects they hold classes, seminars, and other activities for.

Having programs like this is a really big step in the “write” direction, especially for the Houston community and it’s growing arts. The literary part of the Arts  growth is great to see in cities and communities. To bring writing to a bigger front within each community as well as within the arts community is big big stuff! Ok, I am sure there are more eloquent ways to say that but really what I feel is Big Big Stuff!

I myself left Texas on travels right after I’d learned about WriteSpace so I haven’t been able to personally take advantage of everything they have to offer. But what little I have and what I have heard has been great. If you are in the area or passing through, check out what you might be able to get your hands dirty with there. I know I will in my travels back.

Recently through WriteSpace I learned of a submisson for Remixt Magazine and sent some work, my poem Mermaids is now soon to be published with them.

I’d explain more about WriteSpace myself, and I am sure I’ll touch base on them many times in the future, but until then, why don’t you just check them out check them out directly?

Comment below with writing programs in your community. I’d love to be a part of many literary offers of your towns on my travels over the next year or two.

Pegs Kitchen. Many stories come from the kitchen.

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I love spending time in the kitchen and have since I was a kiddo. Back when I was seven, I thought cooking for my large family standing on a stool next to my mom was a cool thing. In my teens I thought cooking for my even then bigger family and pealing ten pound bags of potatoes about three times a week was more like those Popeye cartoons when being in the Navy meant pealing piles and piles of never ending potatoes.
But I did keep holding onto my enjoyment of cooking.

I went to New York City at a very early…and broke…age. I lived in a models apartment and went one of the trips with only $40 bucks in my pocket. $40 in Manhattan does not get you very far. I remember my first grocery shopping trip and seeing that the cheapest bell pepper cost $3, this was back nearly twenty years ago (which having just done that math made me realize how fucking old I am now) I also was away from home and having come from the deep south and large family I made some comfort food for my first meal, macaroni and cheese and fried chicken. Not exactly models food. I had the could eat a dump truck load of food and not gain an ounce metabolism then, too. Sigh. So the southern young teenager with great metabolism in me just didn’t know better that in a house full of models and trying to make it on the fashion scene of Manhattan, home made macaroni & cheese with fried chicken wasn’t exacty ‘kosher’. But it does make a damn good comfort food for a little ninety eight pound at five feet nine inches girl who was in the big city rather than in the comfort of her books and horses in the country back home.

So after nearly having a heart attack at aged sixteen upon the price of New York foods, I carted my brown bags home and began my whirlwind through the kitchen. The smell soon whafting through my amazing New York models apartment which had an entire wall that was a window overlooking the city with a view of the brooklyn bridge.

Before I knew it these other waif exotic unicorns I lived with that I had only recently met and who all had accents from Russia, France, and Seattle at the time. These long legged creatures who wore magazine fashion on the daily, looking as if they stepped straight off the pages of Vogue even as they woke up. As a young girl just getting into all those fashion magazines I was a little bit in awe. The funny thing was, me being from Texas, I was as exotic to them as they were to me. And the fact that, yes, I did have horses back home, just added to it.

I remember the one from Moscow but born in Kahkistan, the exotic dark eye’d and haired beauty of our loft (we seriously had the red, blond and black hair thing going, and a brown headed one to add in) gliding in to our open kitchen-living area (she glided, that one, she totally had a glide about an inch above the ground) and ask what I was making, once she heard the answer she began going on and on in her deep Russian accent (and in her movie star style, everything she said was over-exhausterated) calling the others in and exclaming about how she had never had a southern meal and another kept calling it “authentic mac&cheese” and all of them looked comparable to the three drooling dogs I would have a decade later while watching me in the kitchen. I, being the southern gal I am, of course made enough to feed an army. I had just come from only knowing how to cook for a family of ten or gatherings of even more. Plus when you are southern you just feed people anyway, especially when they look as hungry as a stick skinny waif of a model who weighs under a hundred pounds at six feet tall can look. And hearing how exotic my southern food seemed to even the girl from Seattle, all beig under aged twenty and all far away from mothers and comforts of homes, how could I not feed them?

Over that meal was born from the group of girls the idea to add money to a jar to buy ingrediants for meals, when I would cook, I would make big meals for them and eat off of them, and anytime I cooked, not knowing how to tone down my large amounts, there was usually plenty for days for all of us out of each meal to be put away in the freezer….making my $40 turn into a season of feeding myself just fine before monies of other scources actually came in.

I wish that I had photos from that time. I had played tourists with my cheap little real film camera back then but have since lost all of the mostly undeveloped rolls of films through various moves, divorces, fires, and floods. But It is only one story among many involving food in my life.

 

 

Writers Inspiration. Fallen Angels Broken wings.

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I have been asked often where I get my inspiration to write. Or it is a topic among writers every day when you submerge yourself in that pool. Either way, it’s a topic in this world, and I am sure in others.
For a writer there are even writing prompts and other sort of stuff out there to help one get past writers block. The thing is, I never have writers block.
Inspiration comes easily…the actual sit and get it down is the hard part. Always. But even when things don’t flood me in my sleep or as has happened, make me get up and leave movies theaters mid-film to go get it all out I somehow find it, happen upon it easily or it comes to me. The idea, not the work, that is. I am flooded with it, sometimes drown in it.
There are moments when I enjoy taking my camera out, and going for a simple walk. I will absorb everything, sight, sound, color, people, language, tone, accent, and from time to time I see “The Picture” to take. The image is a story, always, in my mind. Right away.
Even if my camera happens to not be in hand at that moment, the image is with me.

Since many of these images bring full stories in the works, or in the midst of submission and even publication, I can’t share some…but I can share plenty of other random places my mind wanders to. One image can bring many stories, and whispers, many songs in different tones. And like I said, sometimes that mind needs a little emptying, filled to the brim that it is. So little wanderings, rather than my writings…are always in the happening.

A lot for me comes from Angels. Funny when I don’t believe really in heaven. But Angels have many forms for me, always have. And somehow they are one image and story that have always found me.

Fallen Angels Broken Wings

The Angel fall. Angels wings shatter like stone.
Angel, now like me. Angel, known love. Angel, known cast away.
Fallen Angel, you hold such sorrow.
Angel Once mighty, now lay naked, weeping, and weak.
Angel once graceful, now you walk like I do.

 

  • Feel free to leave your words of how this image hit you, as a writng prompt, in the comments.

Florida. Meeting family, talking politics, alligators, playing tourist, and more.

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Finally getting to some of the traveling summer time. With a lot more to come. Travels  began with a long (very long) drive to Tampa and then Hollywood Florida from Galveston Island. In Joe’s little car with no A/C. So much for my start back to life on wheels after five and a half years of car-free living. I had demanded that he clean the ten years of junk in his car (I swear, that guy) and as I joked about dead things in the trunk…out comes some frickin skins….oy. But the torture of his beloved car is only on my own car-free living head. (And he refused to rent.)

Somehow we even managed to talk politics, Presidential Candidate’s and drive twenty four hours (with some stops but mainly driving and gas up) and not kill each other. And man in a car talking politics this can become very heated.

We both are pretty amazed one of us did not get left on the side of I-10.

Florida is a place that I have been in and out of a few times for equestrian related things in my long ago past but I never really got to see it and never have I been to Hollywood or Miami where I’ve been able to go this Spring/Summer.

Joe and I will begin our American Road Travels from here, as well as  visit, while here, some of his family (let’s see if I get approval. We might just talk politics and Presidential Candidate.)

I was also getting to see Florida with the new eye’s of a traveling tourist rather than work or mission.

And I’m in love.

His grandparents are adorable. They offered us food again and again (I still need that bean soup recipe and nothing like a big breakfast with a huge ol’ hamsteak,his grandfathers face when Joe said I was Jewish…but the laugh when I told him I eat all the bad things), and I got to learn that Joe is VERY much like his PopPop. I died laughing and told them I now knew who to blame for Joe. His grandmother and I often shared a look about those two men. They are also the cutest couple ever. His grandfather has selective hearing while his grandmother just turns her hearing aids off….they are a comical couple that belong in a movie.

His grandmother and I talked of writing and her ideas for a tv series which I truly would watch and hope that she does get it written completely and do something with it as it was perfect. Sharp woman. Hard working people. I also got to see some of Florida and how the retired live which fascinated me how well the state is set up for this. It truly is awesome and I really give the state kudo’s for it all.

The drive down Alligator Alley was pleasant and again the state is really set up for preservation while allowing humans to live there but a good lay out for all it seemed. I DID see a ‘gator that was at least 9 foot! But not really good stopping so no picture.
We took a fun rout through Florida “Orange” country as well and saw how that all worked. Wow. The housing and the fields (which I am somewhat used to from other travels but was all new to Joe) and amount of horseback over see and huge trucks filled with oranges was pretty cool. It is surprising how different the state is place to place and I was quite surprised at it’s size (That strip of I-10 of entering to hitting the highway down the middle was the longest in my life ever and I have driven I-10 from Houston to Los Angeles several times.) The state tricks you of it’s size.

His aunt is awesome. One tough chick and boy can she give The Look to Joe…unfortunately this was mostly about the him not having babies situation. I am sure the blame will fall to me there now, even though part of what helps us date is that neither of us want children, aside from me not being able to. Meeting family can be fun (She’s Jewish, she’s divorced, she’s older, she’s not having babies, no marriage here guys…move along. Did I mention his Austrian background?) She is obviously the Take-Care Aunt of the entire family. She is real though. I admire real and tough woman, though sometimes that’s exactly who I can butt heads with, but thankfully none of that here. And the woman knows how to properly show us the right places to eat and does so just how I like…family style and LOT’S of appetizers all around. Travel is food. Also an incredible host and a lovely home.

I did get put to work. Not all fun and folly goes without payment. Ha!

His Aunt is opening a business down in Florida and we went to help which turned into a task of trying to turn 13,000 feet of white concrete floor into polished and new and clean again…and boy was that thing filthy to start. We went through a day of chemicals that nearly killed us (no eco-friendly was going to take care of that floor) and back breaking scrubbing and seemed to get nowhere. The next day was a hunt for finding a better way, which we did find and though still long and back breaking the chemicals part at least was no longer a problem and our lungs stayed intact. The quote to have this professionally done was apparently near ten grand or some ridiculous number and how the hell hard could it be to clean a floor…or so we had thought. But hard work and all, we came out with much laughter…and some tears. And blisters. But all in all I figured it was a way to work off those vacation calories I’d been building…’Ode to the Cubano Sandwich!

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Vacation…relax and breath and find all the shady spots. It’s been a hot summer. Heated conversations to melting on the sidewalks.

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I never did wrap up that vacation time. funny thing was that J was supposed to be gone for two months due to a school and then straight to work, but after school ended up wth some in between time so we got another surprise vacation moment. I worked through this one, though not as much as when he isn’t here. However, at least eight hours still. It was a different thing, seeing each other when ignoring each other. The way we live with our schedules we haven’t really done this before in over a years time of dating.

My previouse lemon of a vacation start did turned into some refreshing lemonade. Much thirst quenching and enjoyable on these summer days and has contnued on to this one.

J and I really need some relax time and had taken opportunity for it. But we have also explored along the way. With a beach walk and a find of a Spanish snowcone or ‘raspas’ stand where J also discovered ‘corn in a cup,’ or Elote En Vaso, his new favorite thing.

Don’t worry, we put on pants.

The next day began with sleeping in…Sunday, it’s a rule. Then Cuban music while making Salmon omelettes and sipping locally roasted coffee from one of our finds. Otherwise it’s a bit of a day of books and a big bowl of fruit. I think. Maybe. I say this now.

J and I have survived conversations of presidential canidates, gun laws, bathroom laws, veteran health benefits, cars…more cars…lots of cars…and relatonship talk (brought up by a friends own advice asking) food and who is correct or better at particular styles of cooking, the fact that I am always right. World news. The sit in. Brexit. Economy. Money/savngs/etc. Heath and salt, health and butter.

Don’t worry, J is still alive. I of course am.

He is back to work now and the real work stretch has been in action for about a week. In that  I’ve been distracted by the RNC and then the DNC. But what is a little moment for history taken away from my work on which I’ll catch up on?

 

Speaking of when life hands you lemons…..

#Vacation #AKindOfSingleLady #Rest #Relax #Life #Lemons #Work #Whenlifehandsyoulemons

Pegs Kitchen

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Food is an item that, like it or hate it, our life revolves around it. Entire economies revolve around growing it, creating it, cooking it, shopping for it, making pieces and items of it, cooking it, selling it.
Eating a meal together is a time when enemies and families can all come together and set aside differences for at least a moment.
Preparing the meal is a time, for me, of meditation. A non-hurried process that gives me as much as I give to it. I get what I give. It is an ease of hard work, so to speak. A time when you can put your mind to rest and task at the same moment together. When laziness will give you un-taste and lack of enjoyment but effort and care will create not only much for your palate but also for your enjoyment of time.
I’ve always enjoyed cooking from the time I was a little girl and wanted to help prepare our families meals. I was always an experimenter with ingredients and creations even as a child, a teenager, and now a woman. In my adult life I’ve never shied away from trying something new, allowing my tongue to learn it’s way around the world. My senses to be filled. And memories to be made with complete strangers friends over food.
I enjoy shopping for it, growing it when I can, learning about it, creating it, serving it to loved ones, and I very much enjoy eating it.

Making Spaghetti Bolognese, listening to music, and enjoying good aromas, then enjoying the good tastes of a non-hurried prepared meal while watching #Palio  #NoSlackingWhenCookingForOne #Afternoondelight #PegsKitchen #ColorfulKitchen #InTheKitchen