Humor – Straight From the Heart

Just Like His Momma Used to Make

Southern melt-in-your-mouth buttermilk biscuits that I made with my own two little hands for breakfast this morning

Ever since we retired seventeen years ago, my husband has taken over the kitchen. I have to make an appointment just thinking about cooking something. And when he hears me stirring around in there, he yells all the way from outside, mowing the grass, “Get out of my kitchen!”

Funny how the roles have changed. And funny ha, ha, that he thinks because he cooks, I’m supposed to clean up the big messes he makes. Oh, no! If he wants to play King of the Castle, he has to be his own scullery maid, because I’m the Queen! That’s how it works in the Queen’s castle.

But this week, I took over the kitchen. I cooked the sausage. I fried the eggs. I made the brown gravy. And I made the buttermilk biscuits! Without creating a blizzard like he did the last time he attempted to make biscuits and dumped flour all over the kitchen.

I’m not a southerner; I’m a pure-blooded Yankee from Newark, Delaware. My mother didn’t make biscuits; she made yeast rolls. I had to eat supper at my best friend’s house to get a homemade biscuit. Her family was from South Carolina, and her mother was the Michelangelo of making biscuits.

Before my husband kicked me out of the kitchen, I learned to make biscuits. Big, fluffy, golden brown biscuits that would make a cannibal drool. Okay. Maybe that’s a little extreme.

Growing up, my mother did all the cooking, and I gladly stayed out of her way. Daddy was happy. My brothers were happy. And I was ecstatic! I cleaned the house. She cooked. That’s the way we rolled at our house.

I finally learned how to cook, though, but making biscuits was never my life’s goal. There’s an art to it, and southerners turned it into a masterpiece, at least my mother-in-law did. She’s the one who taught me, but it took a lot of practice. And when I finally learned, I made biscuits every day. I shared them with my neighbors. I shared them with my friends. I wanted to share them with the whole world!

But I had to stop making them . . . everyone was getting fat! So, when my husband took over the kitchen, I was lucky to get a slice of bread tossed across the table. You know the saying, “Use it or lose it”. Well, I completely lost the art of making biscuits.

But this week, like being zapped by the Energizer bunny, I kicked my husband out of the kitchen, rolled up my sleeves, and cooked breakfast every morning; biscuits and all. The first morning, the dogs started gagging. The second morning, they were great, swimming in gravy. The third morning, my husband’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. But this blessed, sacred morning, the heavenly host began singing, “Hallelujah!”

Not His Momma’s Biscuits

My husband decided to make biscuits. I decided to keep my mouth shut, a practice I don’t do very often. There’s an art to making big, fat, golden brown, flaky, melt-in-your-mouth, southern, buttermilk biscuits. Not a yearly, spur-of-the-moment thing to impress your next-door neighbor or important dinner guests.

A few minutes later, I walked into the kitchen, and thought I had entered a severe snowstorm. Flour was everywhere! On the floor. On the countertops. In the kitchen sink. I’m surprised the dogs weren’t covered from head to tail. Slowly recovering from the shockwave, I looked up, and lo and behold, there stood my husband looking like Frosty the Snowman with a smile as big as Texas.

As if he had reached the top of Mt. Everest, he said triumphantly, “Look in the oven.” I brushed the flour off the handle, slowly opened the oven door, and there huddled in the middle of the cookie sheet sat five puny little biscuits pretending to be big, fat, golden brown, flaky, melt-in-your-mouth, southern, buttermilk biscuits like his momma used to make!

Oh, No! Not Again!

It’s been a long, hot, stressful summer of extreme heat, rain, tears, and frustration. Working in the yard was and still is like digging a bottomless pit in the desert. There’s no end to the misery, as if I’m being smothered to death by a vicious monster of chaos.

But yesterday was my day to get back on track. I am going to finish one natural area before the sun goes down if it kills me. And if it kills me, I won’t have to worry with it anymore.

When we first moved here, thirty-plus years ago, I had a brainy idea to make a natural area down our long driveway and border it with rocks. And that’s what we did. The rocks were free, thanks to a nearby farmer, allowing us to dig up as many rocks as we wanted. And seven truckloads later, we had enough rocks piled in the yard to build a house!

This summer, I got another brainy idea. Let’s undo it all. I can’t keep up with it anymore. It’s too hard, and I’m too old and stressed out to mess with it. It was good in its day, but I can’t do it anymore. It’s got to go. Low maintenance is my motto these days. Besides, it won’t take that long, a few weeks, tops.

HA! Five months later, my low-maintenance landscaping dream became a Freddy Krueger nightmare of rocks piled sky-high in the backyard, scattered in the front yard, the side yard, and even in the neighbor’s yard, who got several trailer loads for his natural area.

I never do anything halfway. It’s either all or nothing, so I created other natural areas in the front and backyard and embellished them with rocks, creating little landscape monsters to grow up and devour me when I get old and haggard with only one brain cell left.

So, back to the beginning. The sun was going down, I was hot, tired, and hungry, but feeling relieved that I was almost done. I couldn’t wait to get cleaned up and maybe celebrate what’s left of my birthday.

My husband pulled up on the lawnmower, and as we chatted, I noticed tiny mosquitoes swarming around the hole in the ground where I was sitting. Then I noticed something else. Something mean and sinister, like devils from the pit of hell. Suddenly, like a turtle in slow motion, I scrambled to my feet and yelled, “Yellow jackets!”

I can’t believe this! How stupid can I be? I thought he killed them all the last time. Same place, same stupid rock, same idiot repeating the same episode that happened a few short months ago.

Yellow Jackets! Singing, “Happy Birthday to you” while setting my arms and legs on fire. Visions of my last encounter shot me into panic mode as I hobbled into the house, moaning and kicking myself in the butt. Splashing cold water on my arms and legs, my husband yelled, “Where’s the Benadryl? Where’s the Peroxide? Where’s the alcohol? And I just wanted him to shut up, get the gun, and shoot me!

My husband called 911, and I promised myself I wouldn’t spend ten days in hell before finally marching my butt to Urgent Care. And since it was already closed, I climbed into the ambulance and went straight to the ER.

Three agonizing hours later, my name was finally called, and relief was on the way. I’d already received a shot of Benadryl in the ambulance with no side effects. Then came the IV and three vials of medication. Still no side effects. But when the nurse added a more potent dose of Benadryl into the concoction, I knew this was the day I was gonna die! My number’s up! Saint Peter’s waiting, arms open wide at the pearly gates, singing, “Happy birthday to you!”

Well, I didn’t die, I just had a frightening reaction to the medication, which caused a full-blown panic attack and visions of the Grim Reaper pounding at my door.

I guess you can’t live for seventy-nine years without a little danger and excitement. That would be boring. Besides, grandkids and great-grandkids don’t want to hear about Cinderella and Tinker Bell these days. They want to hear about Grandma getting run over by a reindeer, and how much blood poured out, and how many stitches she got, and if it hurt! Real grandma stories with bloody meat on their bones!

Rocks and bushes are gone. All we need now is grass.

Humpty Dumpty Had a Great Fall

And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.

Why was Humpty Dumpty on the wall? How did he get up there? What made him fall? Was he drunk? Was he old and disoriented? Or was he just plain stupid?

I don’t really care; it’s just a silly riddle. But I know people who are like Humpty Dumpty. They risk everything to climb the wall to success, working day and night by the sweat of their brow, making a fortune, and hoarding it all for themselves. Like a lover, they squeeze it to their breast, smother their minds with it, and would rather die than live without it. They are so consumed by greed that they don’t even realize they have fallen off the wall.

Jesus told a parable in Luke 12:16 about a rich man who had such an abundant harvest that he tore down his small barns and built larger ones. And there he hoarded his goods and said to himself, “I have plenty for years to come. I will sit back, eat, drink, and be merry.”

In today’s language, he propped up his feet, turned on YouTube, and said to himself, “I am filthy rich! And I ain’t sharing with nobody, nowhere, no time. It’s mine. All mine! And don’t even think of stealing it. I will hunt you down. I will find you. And I will kill you!

And Jesus said, “You fool! This very night, your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?

Although the times have changed, people’s attitudes are no different today than they were two thousand years ago. We all have selfishness and greed running through our veins, some more than others. Not just with our money, but with ourselves, our time, and our priorities. We are so consumed with ourselves that we fail to see or even care about the needs of others.

There are many Humpty Dumpties in the world, sitting on the wall of superiority, thinking they’re living the good life with all their riches and fame. That, like the rich man in the parable, they believe they are invincible to tragedy and loss, as if their riches can buy eternal bliss. But when they fall off the wall and are broken beyond repair, there is a King who can put them together again. His name is Jesus, the Great Physician. The Almighty King of Kings.

But what if they want nothing to do with Jesus? What if they think they’re smart enough to fix themselves? What if they don’t even know they’ve fallen off the wall and keep hobbling along as if nothing is wrong? What if they’re just too blind and stubborn to ask for his help? What if they don’t even believe in Jesus and his healing, saving grace?

Then, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t put them together again. They will never be happy, never be satisfied, never experience an abundant, fulfilling life. Like Humpty Dumpty, they will be nothing more than a riddle of their own folly, forever lost in their own pride and foolishness.

You’re Only Old Once, and Once is Enough!

There’s nothing funny about old age, yet my husband and I sit and laugh at each other like a pair of old circus clowns. He forgets people’s names, but remembers faces. I remember names, but wish I could forget a host of haunting faces.

Old age sneaks into your castle and steals your brain, your eyeballs, your arms and legs, and jumps up and down on your back like an elephant on a trampoline.

And that’s not all. Those four teeth you’ve been brushing ten times a day? Gone! Like the morning dew.

But old age leaves you with something, at least. Wrinkles. Thousands of them, carved deeply into your skin. And little dough boys and flabby skin hanging like moss from an old tree. How kind and considerate. Just what I always dreamed of having when I was twelve!

Old age is a sinister beast. It will never leave you. It will never forsake you. It will viciously suck you dry. It never sleeps. It never dies. Around the clock, it prowls, seeking whom it may devour.

Old age is neither a gentleman nor a lady. It’s rude. Insensitive. Brutal, a serial killer of the worst kind. But, have no fear! Death will set you free!

Yeah. Like I said. There is nothing funny about old age.

He Restores My Soul

He leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul (Psalm 23: 2,3).

Let’s pretend that your heart is a car. Okay, a truck, if you prefer. It’s traveled thousands of pothole-ridden roads, through thunderstorms and pouring rain. It gets stuck in the mud, and there is no one to get you out. You keep spinning your tires till, suddenly, you run out of gas and the nearest gas station is a hundred miles away. Your iPhone is dead, and Siri is as useful as a blind horse in a maze. What are you going to do?

Like a vehicle, our hearts travel thousands of miles, in and out of love and toxic relationships, getting banged up, stuck in the mud of lies and deceit; foolishly spinning our tires till our gas tank is empty. Now we’re stuck on life’s busy highway with no helping hand in sight. Our hearts are broken; our souls are parched and dying of thirst. What are we going to do?

We can hide our brokenness behind a pearly-toothed smile. We can crack a few jokes. We can win a stranger’s attention with our Ken and Barbie’s charming good looks. But sooner or later, the flimsy walls we built to fool the world will crumble and fall at our feet. What are we going to do?

Our pride screams, leave me alone! I can fix it myself. I’ll just drink a little more, take a few more happy pills, toughen up and keep plowing my way through. No one will see my tears. No one can bring me down. I can do this all by myself!

I tried it my way. It doesn’t work. Thankfully, God has a way of bringing me to my knees. He knows my heart. He knows my foolish pride. He knows the raging storms within, the rugged mountains I’ve climbed, the rivers I’ve crossed, the bridges I’ve burned; every dark and lonely night I spent drowning in my tears. And he knows just what I need.

But, I had to know that I could trust him, that I could give him my heart, without fear of him crushing it in his hands. I had to believe that he loves me just as I am, that he won’t turn his back on me if I mess up. I had to know that, unlike my earthly father, I could trust his love and protection.

The more I trust him, the less fearful I become. The closer I walk with him, the more I feel his love. The more I study his Word, the clearer I see his smiling face. The more I surrender my life to him, the more he restores my soul.

What about you? Does your heart need to be restored? Are you exhausted from trying to fix it yourself? Are you depressed? Discouraged? Frustrated? Have you tried everything under the sun to feel better, to be better, only to fail time and time again? Give it all to God. Trust him with your broken heart, and he will restore your soul.

Not Today, Squirrels!

Keeping squirrels off the birdfeeder is like keeping bees off honey. When you buy a so-called, squirrel-proof birdfeeder, be ready for a big let-down. YouTube is full of claims, and videos to prove them, but I have yet to buy a birdfeeder that is actually squirrel-proof.

Determined not to pay another cent for another birdfeeder, I ordered a 15.75″ birdfeeder baffle from Amazon. It was hilarious watching those silly squirrels twirling around like a top and tumbling to the ground. Ha, ha, squirrels. You guys finally got outwitted by two old dried up prunes!

Then it backfired. The laugh was on us. They figured out a way to hang on and wrap themselves around the birdfeeder like garland on a Christmas tree. I give up! You win! Have at it, you dirty, rotten scoundrels! Maybe we’ll just skin you alive and feed you to the vultures!

Seeing them planted day, after day like a chocking vine around the feeder, made me want to cut off their bushy tails and hang them on a tree. Better yet, maybe I’ll just wring their scrawny little necks and have them for supper!

Still refusing to be outwitted by a bunch of conniving critters, I got to thinking. Maybe we just need a bigger baffle and raise the feeder higher to keep them from jumping on it from the ground.

So, I ordered a 27″ baffle, which my husband exchanged for the smaller one, and raised the birdfeeder higher from the ground. There! That’ll fix ’em!

Oh, yeah? On what planet? Mars?

This is crazy! There’s got to be a way to keep those rascals off the bird feeder. One day, they tore it completely down and had a royal feast. Even the rabbits joined in. This ain’t right! Of all the geniuses in the world and not one of them can invent a genuine, smarter-than-a-squirrel, birdfeeder?

One day, while sitting on the back porch studying the baffle and why it wasn’t working, I suddenly got a brainy idea. What if we raise the feeder again and hang the smaller baffle above the larger baffle? That way, when the squirrels lower themselves onto the smaller baffle, the larger baffle will prevent them from hanging on and grabbing hold of the feeder at the same time.

So, that’s what we did. And surprise, surprise! My little brainstorm worked like a charm. The birds have their feeder back, and the squirrels gather beneath like a happy little family, eating the seeds that spill to the ground.

It’s been working going on two months, now, but I’m not naive enough to think that a bigger, smart-aleck one won’t come along and figure it out. But I’ve got a plan just in case. We’ll just add another baffle and see how he likes that! Maybe my great-grandkids can outsmart me, but never again will I be outsmarted by a crafty, thieving, bushy-tailed squirrel. At least, not today!

I Should Have Stayed in Bed!

Ever had one of those days when you just knew that it was out to get you? One of those days when all your energy got sucked up by a greedy monster before you even rolled out of bed?

We were trying to beat the heat to get caught up in our yard work. Funny how much easier it was before we got old. From sunup to sundown, I’d work like a madwoman till the job was done. One day, my neighbor made me stop long enough to eat lunch with her. That was annoying, but what could I say? She was a good, old southern cook.

But those days are far behind me now. Sometimes, I don’t realize how far behind me till I try to play catch-up with everything I should have gotten done already. Like I said. We were trying to beat the heat, like two old turtles trying to cross the road before they become roadkill.

My husband climbed on the mower, and I went to work rearranging the rocks bordering one of the flowerbeds. Nature has a way of moving things around when you’re not looking. The skies were overcast, and the humid breeze was pleasantly cool. Perfect day for working in the yard.

I was digging a stubborn rock out of the dirt when suddenly, my hands and arms were stinging and burning like fire. Stomping my feet, I ripped off my gloves, yelling and waving my arms like a scarecrow in a hurricane, “Yellow jackets!”

Jumping off the mower, my husband helped me to the house and called 911 as I stood at the sink, whimpering like a wounded puppy, splashing cold water all over my arms.

Oh, it hurts! Oh, it hurts! Suddenly, my heart started racing, and my arms and legs turned to spaghetti. I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die! Hubby helped me onto the bed, and by the time the EMTs arrived, everything had settled back down, except for the excruciating pain.

The good news is, I didn’t die. The bad news is, I continued getting worse until after ten, long, miserable days of intense itching, burning, and swelling, I finally broke down and went to Urgent Care. I wish I had gone sooner, but this wasn’t my first rodeo with yellow jackets. But it was my first for multiple stings, with one leg in the grave already! I will know better next time. Wait! Did I just say next time?

I’m fine, now. The yard is still screaming its head off, and it’s hotter than blazes outside. And since I’m not a glutton for punishment, I’m staying inside until it gets cooler, like around September. Or maybe October. Maybe I’ll just wait until Spring, before it gets hot, and I have to start this insanity all over again.