Slow Boat Full of China

All the aunts and Grandmas (and oh yes, the church ladies) taught me the importance of "registering" for my wedding wishes and needs, after Ken and I got engaged. My Yankee Mama was not raised up in these environs, so was unfamiliar with many of the customs of the Deep South. I think they also do that up "there," but perhaps with not as much gusto and reverence as here. Either way, I got the drill when at first I had an engagement ring upon my (then) slim finger. 

For Atlanta area folks, Rich's department store was the go-to for such traditions. Ken and I filled out the proper forms and spent the better part of a Saturday looking for things that we liked, but nothing more important than the china we were supposed to pick. I learned that this was a legacy, one that I should pass down to future daughters and daughters-in-love, and in kind, all those grandchildren which would spring from our DNA. My soon-to-be Mother-in-law, who knew all of the Southern Rules, told me how important this was. When I got to the intimidating wall of china patterns in the hallowed kitchen and dining department of Rich's, I was overwhelmed, to say the least. There were scads of different types, all manner of colors and levels of dishes. 

My people were, for the most part, earthy. Farmers, horse traders, day laborers, and the like. We boast an Irish king, some ten generations back, but that we were, robust and Irish. Less inclined towards tea and such...maybe more Guiness and whiskey. There were threads of culture, even in that...but after it all, I needed to pick a pattern. The prices on the wall were astonishing, and I grew up being taught to think of others first. How could I begin to ask for something that cost that much? So I picked the cheapest pattern they had. It had some blue in it, and it wasn't what I would have picked at all, had I chosen what I actually liked. But I went ahead and registered for it.

After our happy wedding day and honeymoon, we returned to Ken's Mama's house to retrieve the gifts we were given. I opened eight sets of that china. We laid them out on a table and I realized, sadly, how ugly it was. They were boxed up and we took them back to Rich's and bought a pile of every-day Corningware dishes with strawberries on them. Those things lasted us many years, even with feral Viking children eating off them. 

In the ensuing years, my Mother-in-law would often ask me to choose another pattern, one that I liked. She wanted to help me get my china someday. 

I never made any special trips to Rich's or Macy's or Davison's to consider her request. But one day, I met up with one of the young pianists from our church at her parents' house, to practice some music we would be playing together (me on flute). Her Mama was a thoroughly cultured Southern matriarch, with a lovely lilt to her voice and all the right plants in her yard (read: magnolia trees, hydrangeas and plenty of azaleas -- of which I now have plenty).  As we walked back to the piano room, there was a sideboard with twelve sets of china on it, like none I had never noticed. Rich pink and white, with beautiful scenes of different castles for each piece. I asked her what the pattern was and where it came from -- it was "Old Britain Castles" by Johnson Brothers. It comes in pink, green and brown. Pink is perfect. Her sister, Elisabeth, who was unmarried but dutifully collecting things for her hope chest, loved it and attained it from a place in Birmingham, Alabama who imported it from England. I was smitten. This china personified all the things I love to look at. Creamy white, rich pink, castles in the English style. I eventually bought a Queen Anne Victorian house. What more can I say?

I told my Mother-in-law about it and she mustered up all the relatives she could to pitch in to help get it for me. We had to order it and it took around six months for it to arrive on a slow boat from England. Ya'll -- it really wasn't that long ago...but I am not kidding that that was what had to happen. The day before we were set to move into a camper on our five acres in the country, the store called and said that it was here. But of course! I gingerly took the boxes to my Mama's house and Daddy stored them for me. Two years later, when we finished our house, it was a joyful day when I unboxed it in my new, sparkling kitchen.

I still use that china whenever I can, but especially for company. One time, Ken dropped a whole stack of salad plates and broke about half of them. I found more online and replenished most of them, but I keep an eye out on FB marketplace for other matching pieces. During Covid years, I saw that someone had a pile of it, as well as some bowls and a gorgeous, big teapot...all for a very good price. I messaged the young lady and met up with her in Marietta. Somewhere in there, I noticed her name was Elisabeth and thought, "No, that couldn't be the same family!" But yes, it was. This was the self-same girl whose china I first saw at her Mama's house some thirty years ago. She is a professional artist and was permanently moving to France, so was selling her wares before leaving. 

Her china made its way back to me.

Some of it, I gave to one of my nieces, who is also collecting this pattern. Every time I use those scrumptious, lovely dishes, I think of and say a prayer for Elisabeth and her adventures. The world is truly a small place and there are unexpected blessings everywhere we turn...  

Chicken or the Egg? Work First or Play First?

My little people love the moon. Also the stars and especially the planets. Some of them know them all by heart and it is fun to point them out with the help of an app on my phone. I didn't know there would be anything about technology that could make me so happy. 

The moon seems to be the same as when I was a child, and I was thinking how time goes by with people living, breathing, dying, but that glorious moon just keeps shining down on us, basically never changing while our rat race down here tells us that a lot of things are important. But maybe they're not...

Speaking of the moon, the same one was shining when I met my old friend, 52 years ago. We bonded instantly. When I say old, well, we are just 39 I think, right?  She was this 6-foot Greek goddess -  hilarious, brilliant, quirky, totally intellectual human, introvert. I was an athlete and musician, goofy, extroverted. The threads of deep thought, sarcasm, and our love for Jesus were twined together all those years ago and are still stuck there. We will be hanging out together next week for a writer's conference and I cannot wait. With seven children and twenty-something grandchildren between us and in the past, thousands of miles to boot, we've only had small snatches of time to really talk and catch up. There have been people, jobs, health issues, children, grandchildren, opinions, elderly parents, churches and life on both sides. Precious is the friendship that endures over time. The old ones and the new ones are both beautiful, but the old ones are golden. How I thank God for them. 

With a short week ahead of me, along with the conference, our church's music camp is looming. I am in charge of the art projects, so I have to get everything lined up now, before I go. This particular camp at our church is one of the things that won my heart, years ago. Just like any typical "VBS," where the kids have that last evening to show off for their parents and grandparents, I showed up to see some our grandbabies sing and recite things. 

As a side note, I had also just attended a different set of grands' VBS night, a couple of weeks before. Unfortunately, this one was very typical of most churches these days. There were fakey "island" props and lots of shaking going on. The kids and the songs were cutesy and colorful, but with little substance in the songs or content. The pastor stood up at the end and welcomed everyone but was also thin on the subject matter. I mean, if we're going to Disney, let's just go to Disney. If these things really matter, why would anyone dilute them? We've come to the place, even in church, that the most important job is to not offend anyone. In the end, that tends to produce that which is bland, tasteless and benign. The scriptures themselves say that God prefers us to be hot or cold, rather than lukewarm. Now we're getting controversial...

Back to next week's camp -- I dearly love the whole design of it. It focuses on music (and remember, this is a Christian church, so it's full of Christ); there's also art, folk dancing (yes!), scripture memorization, and plenty of time spent on meaningful, rich content and thought. It's different, but timeless. When we have come to "grandparents night" in the past, I felt like I was going back to a more innocent age, where we used to sing about God, the trees, the animals, the sweet brooks and hills. The children had a ball, knew numerous songs and scriptures by the end of the week, and had produced some beautiful art. Who can't get behind that? Now that we are members here and I was a former art teacher, the pressure's on. I'm excited about camp like I'm a little kid. 

Ken always says, work first then play. I say, play, then I'll be so happy that work will feel like play. In the real world, that might not pan out. But it sure feels like play to be ordering art supplies and coming up with a plan. Lots to do in just a few days, but maybe I should take Ken's advice... 

Prisons of Differing Kinds

I heard yesterday that Mother's Day was invented by a woman -- Anna Jarvis -- and that she didn't even have children. She wanted to honor her own mother, and thought that everyone else should honor theirs, too. After it got hijacked by the wheels of commerce -- the florists, chocolatiers, greeting card companies -- she tried to get it repealed, to no avail. She ended up broke and in a mental hospital. That's pretty depressing.  

For what it's worth, these artificially propped-up holidays can be too. When I was a child, my Daddy would always make sure that Mama had a corsage for that day. When I married, he would get me to order those and bring them to church for her. When my house began to fill up with our little ones, I remember the last year I did that...I said, "Daddy, this is kind-of hard to wrangle on Sunday. I have four small kids to get ready for church and it just seems like a lot now. Can you do it next time?" He had gotten accustomed to the earlier arrangement. And had almost forgotten that I was also very much a mother now. For a few years after that, he would pick one up for her and for me. That was sweet, but it really wasn't his job. That was when the guilt set in. 

There's a manufactured pressure in society, one that is calculated and guaranteed to churn out money and purchases. Not just Mother's day, but Father's Day, Valentine's Day (boy, do I feel sorry for the dudes on that one), and really even Christmas. All these holidays have gotten so inflated, driven by the retail market. They play on our heart strings and yes, our latent guilt, to make loads of money. I don't have a problem with capitalism or making money, no, it is a needful part of living. God bless the rich people -- they employ the rest of us. But we shouldn't take the bait about over-the-top buying for our loved ones, when what is truly needed is the thought, the acknowledgement, the appreciation for that person, all along the way and not just because someone designated a "Day" for it. 

Yesterday was Mother's Day and we went to church. I got some texts from our children and then our eldest and his wife took me out for lunch. We went home, took naps and ended up on the front porch. I was feeling sorry for myself, second-guessing my Motherhood. Was I not a good enough Mother? Did my children get all that they needed from me? Are my children angry at me? Why was nobody over here to visit me? I should've invited everyone over for lunch -- why don't I like to cook? Am I too lazy? What is wrong with me?! 

All this silliness, well maybe, and then my neighbor walked up to our porch, needing help retrieving her cellphone. She and I spent an hour walking around, calling her phone, calling other people, sitting and chatting before we found the location of her device. We started talking about Mother's Day and I found that she had the same conflicts about it as I did. We started laughing and enjoyed just being real as we finished our time together sitting on her porch. Right about then, I saw a car pull into our driveway and a couple of lithe, spritely kids jump out. They had picked roses from their own yard and made me little homemade cards. 

Too many times, it's too much about poor ole me. What about my three daughter-in-loves and my daughter, who are all in the actual trenches, wrangling complicated lives with teenagers, rug rats and babies? Then there's the ones who have not been able to have babies or have lost them...where does that put them?! And then next month, we have the Daddy guilt coming down the path. Oh boy... I'm getting over myself right now.   

The Spring of a Grateful Heart

Yesterday I heard an explanation of that old image of seeing a glass either "half empty or half full." I often catch myself looking at things as -- "Oh no! I've only got ____ much time or resources" - or - "I'm gonna miss out!" That is a bad way to look at the world, because there's never enough of anything to fill up what is unknown. And isn't that the way the world works? We can work, plan, dream, achieve, get all the things and still never be content if we see the glass half empty. There's the same amount of goody, whether the glass is half empty or half full. The exact amount. Think about that. Being "hungry" does motivate us to work and reach, but it can become the monster that is never satisfied. 

This past Friday, we (meaning the Carrollton Wind Ensemble) had our spring concert. Most of the pieces were written by local composers, some of them actually playing in our group. We played these compositions, some just so-so but then some amazing. Beethoven didn't always write a winner, you know. Our conductor, Terry Lowry, introduced each composer after their piece. It took way longer than usual, to complete the concert. But it was beautiful, in the idea of it and in the courage of each of these people. Life is not always about the best and shiniest...and actually only rarely is it that. There was a gratefulness that flowed through all of the performance, from the instrumentalists to the audience. There's always a huge weight off our shoulders after so much work, but this one felt different. Hats off to the brave. 

Gratefulness is a gift to yourself and to all the "others" that you bless with it. When I am grateful, I see the world with different eyes. Early in our 44 years of marriage, my husband had what I thought was a stunted idea of romantic gifts. Birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, he would inevitably come up with something practical that I had little appreciation for. Now, with the lens of time, I see that his thoughtfulness was huge. One year, there was a white, metal basket for our anniversary. I was ticked. Then he told me that he searched and searched for it -- that it fit perfectly between the seats in our big van. It also had handles, so I could pick it up and take my purse and books and things easily out to wherever our adventures took us (we were homeschooling four children at the time). Another time, I opened a package to find an empty flute case! He had, again, searched for a new case to replace my old one that was literally falling apart. Another epic gift -- he was terribly excited about Christmas and tried to get me to open my gift early. I always refuse that, because I like the anticipation. Whatever was in that box had to be just incredible, with the way he was going on about it. Christmas Eve, I finally opened it to find a brand-new, leather-bound Franklin Planner. He was giddy. I was distraught. 

My sixty-something self now understands how much thought and love he put into those and other gifts. I am sad that I did not appreciate them more at the time, and am trying to make up for it now by putting my brain into his brain, to see what he sees. Also, heavy hints from me have helped immensely (as I jingle the Brighton jewelry he bought me over every holiday this past year). He's retiring next year (Lord willing), so I'm gonna hang on to these precious items and not assume this is a future trend. I told him he can write me love notes next year and he said, "Well, I sent you a text for your birthday." To which I wrinkled my nose and suggested pen and paper. Silly girl, but I might lose those texts and that would be tragic. 

As I was toying with these thoughts, I began to think on that man, who I have been both a blessing and a curse to all these years. Him, getting up very early to put on his boots, read his Bible before he leaves, follow the same patterns for now-decades, and walk millions of miles on unforgiving factory or retail floors when his knees (and hips) are getting mighty cranky. All the while, never complaining. There were years I was home with our little ones, then our big ones (they didn't get on the bus, ya'll), then years of health issues for me where he covered it with a second job. Yes, I have always worked, whether it was taking care of babies, homeschooling, painting houses or murals, selling real estate or artwork. All women work, if they are worth their salt. It might not be in a factory or business. I was allowed to have my dream of staying home and making a home with our children, with all the creative endeavors along the way. He was with me, in that dream and it was done together, as a team. But without gratefulness, it could go sour pretty quickly. He's not perfect, and I definitely am not. A long time ago, I started trying to think of one thing a day that I was thankful for, in his person. Because sometimes, we just don't like each other. If I neglect to think on what is good about him, it starts going south. Gratefulness buoys us and gives us hope. 

I think on a baby that we lost a couple of decades ago. It was when our youngest child was eleven years old. We thought I couldn't have any more, so were surprised when I found out we had a nine-week-old baby in my womb. I was mid-fourties but thrilled to pieces. We named him Ethan and got busy planning. At fourteen weeks gestation, I miscarried and had to bury our little baby. I thought my daughter was going to have to be buried along with him, she was so overwrought with the death. I, too, felt so despairing and hopeless. Some might think we were crazy for actually wanting a baby in our fourties, but our whole family was deeply sad. Days and weeks went by and I could not find much to be happy about. My younger brother, our pastor at the time, prayed for me and gently read scripture to me about being thankful in all circumstances. I couldn't see how that applied to this situation. 

One night, however, I woke up and padded to the bathroom. There was a little octagonal window in there, and the moon was shining like a beacon. As I looked at the inky night, the stars and the moon sparkling, I began to thank God for the beauty of it, the consistency of seeing those things over my whole life. For what a glory they are, a reminder that life goes on, that the earth still rotates, that the moon still shines. 

Many have endured much worse things, but this was my "thing"' at that time. I thanked God, for taking my baby, for keeping him safe for me up there, for possibly sparing him (or us) from something unimaginable. We just don't know all the facts. My heart broke open as I thanked Him. The tears came, the release palpable. 

When we find gratefulness of any kind, our heart softens, the bitter roots begin to die, and hope springs eternal. Look for that nugget...  

Delicious Wallpaper

When we had four children still at home, you'd think it would be harder to keep the house tidy and clean. But you'd think wrong... The first time I had an event at my house when they'd all moved out, I was mentally scrambling, wondering who was going to help me get this mess sorted. The empty nest is a whole challenge on its own, but when your helpers disappear, a new paradigm forms. The idea of actually keeping up with things as I go becomes important. I tend to operate on a floating mentality, where I bounce from one thing to the other until an event or shower or the pressing issue of company arriving causes me to focus and get everything done at the last minute. There's sweat, heart palpitations, stress, some yelling, and then anger at myself for not paying attention to these things on the daily. I just had another birthday, and it's pretty late to be figuring it out. But I need to, if we're going to keep doing important stuff and making our home a haven for friends, family and wayward souls. Wayward is a pretty good definition for my homemaking skills. I love all the beautiful things, but they indeed need dusting. I don't think minimalism is going to catch on over here any time soon. They say that Maximalism is back, and if so, I'm a rock star...

We recently had several events at our home -- there's Easter (my absolute favorite) with the family, then 30+ women over for popcorn and a movie (ladies' night for the church folks), and then our shepherding group (Ken's a deacon) which turned out over 40 people for soup night last Friday. We spread them all over the house and I'm still marveling at the lack of "mess." Everybody did their part and cleaned up, thank heaven. As Ken and I plopped into our recliners when the night was over, he said, "no more socializing for awhile, okay?" We should have left for Tijuana or something, but the Sunday nap was pretty epic. 

I typically use these "events" to put pressure on myself concerning something that needs doing in the house. Ken works on the yard while I paint something or finish a project. This time, after Easter, I decided to finish the kitchen. It has been evolving for a couple of years. The cabinets are amazing; the former owner did us good with that, but the floors were ick. I bought tile and now they are in a herringbone brick pattern with a creamy colored brick tile. The countertops were next... I searched and searched and of course landed on the most expensive one, Taj Mahal, a pinky-creamy quartzite that I plan on staring at forever. Then we had to re-do the backsplash (If You Give A Mouse A Cookie...), so that became a Victorian pattern in a creamy white on white. It is an east-facing room, with morning light. I didn't understand what that means, decoratively, until after I had painted the thing four times. Mind you, we've only lived here 14 years. An east-facing room needs warmth. It always felt cold, each time I painted. This last, fifth, time, I just painted the top part "Sherwin Williams Antique White" and the beadboard trim was "SW Alabaster." That was really just a holding pattern until I figured out a color. This white stuff just ain't for Yaya, I have to say. 

Elizabeth, my daughter, showed me a lovely picture of a wallpaper in a kitchen similar to mine. I swore off wallpaper a few years ago, because I'd put miles of it up and then removed hundreds of miles of it over the decades. Never, I said. Once again, however, I began gathering samples from every website known to mankind. I found a yummy one with flowers galore, but still wrestled with the fact that it looked strikingly familiar to my last kitchen -- a literal bouquet of bodacious cabbage roses that took over my 90s house (my sister still has the leftovers plastered in the foyer of her house!) Never let it be said that I repeated anything in my life. I must pivot on every project. I spent a ridiculous amount of money amassing said samples and finally, finally settled on the perfect one. It was a funky,  different pattern with an Old World feel. It reminded me of a cover of a book that I read and kept in my bathroom basket for a long time, just because I loved the art (The Lost City of Z, by David Grann). There were monkeys, cheetahs, snakes, a jungle, an emu-looking creature and lots of flowers. I ordered a kit to help with peel-and-stick paper application and started dreaming but ended up calling Anatolli, a gifted Ukrainian dude who spoke very little English but did magic on those kitchen walls. I go in there every day and put my hands and face on that paper and thank God for the perfection of it and that I didn't have to do it myself. Of course, the beadboard required a new color. Next week's project is to glaze it with a rich, dark espresso color. I don't eat cookies, but I'm all about the next thing. Thankfully, yummy is not just about food...  

Spring and the Sounds of Little People

There is nothing like camping in the spring. Seems like we usually end up camping in the fall and winter, who knows why. This year, instead of Pigeon Forge (please don't hate me for not liking it) we went to Hiawassee. The traffic and mayhem in PF surely make those gorgeous mountains in the distance cry. When we are stuck, with thousands of cars all around, I look to the hills and wonder what they must be like. and what it would feel like to breathe in some fresh air. But in Hiawassee, the crystal clear sky and mountain views are in and through everywhere we are. The lakes, creeks, old farmhouses...they all beckon in their ancient stillness. No matter what place you are on earth, where there is nature close by, it is good for the body and the soul.  

Children who are raised with lots of outdoor time, less screens, no phones -- are the blessed ones these days. We had a week with a clutch of such kids. They speak to adults, laugh and play, and are content with what they're given. All week, they made great fun out of the old-timey things: swings, slides, bikes, putt-putt and that original invention - other kids. It was refreshing. We had campfires every night with Smores and plenty of smoke, including some fine cigars. Stories were told, laughing and seriousness were had, and all agreed that this was the best time ever.

The last day of our trip, we headed up to a place called Bell Mountain. I kept thinking someone was mistaking "Bell" for "Bald" -- and in my ignorance thought we were driving to Brasstown Bald, the highest point in Georgia. Ken loves to torture me with views of very high places in our truck. He seems to veer closely to edges and takes great glee in whipping around corners of mountains. All for the purpose of me protesting and freaking like a little girl. On this particular drive, I refused to look out the windows until we got to the destination. Then I broke my rule as we were basically riding on two wheels around a curve. There, spread out in panoramic vision, was a whole valley of mountains (if that makes sense)...the sky was azure blue, with wisps of clouds. I gasped and might have accidentally cussed. I don't know if it was the beauty or the danger that overtook me. Cussing might be a sin, well, of course it is. Ken never, ever does it and I am grateful for that. I, however, have been known to sin, when the world is about to end or I am severely shocked. Or kids have hidden a stinking mountain of clothes under their beds. These are just some of the reasons I need Jesus.  

When we got to the top, there was a parking lot, a mile of stairs and lots of rocks with graffiti everywhere. We hauled ourselves to the top, some of the grands clinging to us, dizzy in the thin air and slightly carsick. It was magnificent. We were overwhelmed with the wonder, marveling that we'd never seen such. Thank you, Aunt Melissa and Uncle Jeff, for telling us about it. Overwhelming is the glory of God's creation.

This morning, I am sad. We are packing up, about to pull the camper back to Villa Rica. There's much to do when we get back, which makes it extra sad. My calendar is already overfull for the rest of the week. I don't want to leave. Can't we wait until the trees are completely unfurled? It will be difficult to get up in the mornings, knowing that there are no grandkids waiting to throw themselves into my arms or ask for gum. Ken goes back to work in the morning and I start hitting appointments. There is quiet. There is work. There are cats (I wish I could take them camping) and plants to water and feed.

 Thank you, God, for the means to do all these things and the joy of living.  

Kernels of Wisdom

I have no idea who decided to throw hard corn kernels in a pan and pop them, but I am eternally grateful.  

Popcorn is the stuff of heaven. It's cheap, easily made, and you can hear angels sing when it's done right. I grew up in a frugal home with modest surroundings. Popcorn was the snack of choice. Hot, buttery, crunchy, salty. Dangerous. Then there was ice cream, the perfect counterpoint to it. Cold, creamy, silky, sweet. Our growing up years were cycles of salty to sweet. Our Daddy who was tall and willowy, with arms long enough to reach all the way around people, a snack-eating enigma. He loved to eat, should have weighed 500 pounds considering the amounts, but didn't. He worked hard but never "worked out" that I remember. He kept our big yard, dug a garden most years, would play ball with us kids, and walked and lifted a lot of heavy packages at his job at the Postal Service. But I never saw anything approximating a barbell in our home. He loved popcorn, ice cream, pickles, cottage cheese and peaches, fried pecans, chips and garlic cream cheese dip and oh yeah, Stuckey's pecan rolls. He'd switch from savory to sweet and back again. But the winner-winner-chicken-dinner was the popcorn. The day he died, he asked Mama for some. She made a batch in the kitchen, handed him his bowl (he said "thank you"), stepped to the kitchen to get hers...when she turned back to him, he had already gone to Jesus. With some popcorn kernels on his lips! He figured he'd just head on up after all that goodness. 

I came to marriage with opinions about the stuff. I didn't know how to cook anything useful, but I knew how to make a proper batch of popcorn (as well as rightly fell a large tree). I remember boxing out people when they tried to mess with the salting and buttering of it. Basketball definitely interfered with my domestic training. Ken and I's first "fight" was over some popcorn. We were very good friends, not dating yet, but were sharing a bowl at one of our singles gatherings after church. It was especially good, with lots of butter and Old Maids at the bottom. For those who don't know what Old Maids are...they are the half-popped, kinda burnt kernels that you find at the bottom of the bowl. They are the Goody. There are also Old Maids who are young ladies who are almost not young anymore and who are not married.  But I don't think they're called that anymore...they're just called Successful Career Women? I am not sure and will cease talking about it. I tend to get in trouble when talking about women for some reason, even though I am one. I thought I was almost an Old Maid when I got married at 21. Now we call a woman that young a baby or teenager or something. But I digress... Ken and I got to the lowest dregs of the bowl and started digging for Old Maids. He slapped my hand and told me that I had to wait until all the popped kernels were eaten. I grabbed the bowl and said watch me. We did some wrestling and I think some of the bounty was lost in the melee. Who makes up rules about popcorn, anyway? Little did we know that this was a pretty good harbinger of our future fights. Not the physical part, but the nature of it. That might have been put down to some kind of underlying tension, but I'm not sure. The temperature definitely went up in any room I found myself in with Ken Norton, but don't tell him that.

Our decades of popcorn love included us and everyone who visited and then our progeny who followed. I have perfected the making of it. For a few years, we bought that chemical-filled product you throw in a microwave. But why? When I found out about how toxic that stuff is as well as the dangers of GMO foods, I chased down some regular ole popcorn, raised on Amish farms and without hybridized genes, hormone-disrupting chemicals or alien DNA. It was heavenly, crunchy, coma-inducing. And then I discovered the real, real butter. Irish butter, that requires you to sell your first-born child to buy. I only use that particular kind on special occasions, which happens, well, maybe weekly. You get a big Dutch oven, heat up a mess of coconut oil til scalding hot. Then pour in these precious nuggets, keeping the pan moving until everything seems popped (please don't remove the lid until done). Then pour it into a gigantic farm bowl, if you have any integrity. Melt a hunk of Irish butter in same pan, then pour it over the corn, stirring it all around. Then salt, not too much, not too little. This is more art than science and I can't help you until you experiment for at least a decade or two. Bring bowls and several bar towels to the living room, along with your beverages of choice. Don't wait. It's still hot and needs to be consumed and now. We are known, however, for leaving leftover popcorn on the kitchen counter with a towel over it, and will commence to snacking on that until it's gone. Heaven forbid you would ever throw any of it away.

Tonight, I'm having a big pile of ladies from church over for movie and game night (we invited all of them) and my contribution is as much popcorn as I can muster up (til the butter runs out). They don't know what's about to go down. I can see Daddy with a grin and a thumbs up. Like I said, that's some heaven right there. And also maybe a 12-step program...