In Honor of the Patron Saint of the Emerald Isle

Kirsten learned today that in a pinch one can eat Irish food with chopsticks. Such a pinch may be (but is not limited to) when one is eating bangers and mash in the teachers' lounge, has forgetten to pack a fork, does not want to enter the student infested school cafeteria to get a spork, and spys an unused pack of chopsticks in a little frequented corner. If the proof is in the pudding this approch works just fine. I still say God gave you a mouth and why complicate matters, but people will be people, and our common ground is more important that our differences. We both like Irish food.

Fern

I told you we'd make it look better. You're jealous, aren't you? See how soft it is? I'm going to bring it with on my spring break trip to the mountains in Tennessee so I can show it off to my friends there. Just call me lucky.

Fern

I Approve

Kirsten is making me a bed out of things she found at a thrift store. She says thrift stores are where they sell you things that used to be in other people's houses. This is how I feel about the plan:



Fern

On Finding the Best Things

I've had the opportunity to go shopping in some Stores lately. It seems to me that Stores are a very important part of human experience, and I've decided to give them some thought. This is what I've mulled over so far. What stricks me particularly on entering a Store is the number of aisles devoted to chew toys. Now any given chewy might be squeaky, soft, little, edible, tough, smelly, large, colorful (so says Kirsten, who is better at seeing color than me), bouncy, what-have-you, or any combination thereof. This makes me wonder how people ascertain what qualifies as a good chew. Perhaps one uses preferences based on the before mentioned list to decide--I can see that leading in some general directions--but I find myself at a loss to make any reasonable choice with only this information. You see my difficulty of course because they're all on a rack in a Store. It's really impossible to tell which one is best in that situation. If you aren't following me I'll explain: They lack a good solid Place. What is Place? Place, my friend, is the key to finding the best chews. For example, the toys in my house have Place, and I know exactly which ones to find and horde--namely, the cat's toys. There are some dog toys about which are nice enough, but since there are no other dogs around one can't compare them to the cat's toys. The important thing about Place is that something could be someone else's and therefore could be made yours instead. Of course the more Someone Elses there are in a Placeg the better a thing can be. When I went to visit my old home on Saturday I found a bone in the grass. Since all my friends were out--adding up to some dozen possible contestants for bone ownership--there could hardly be a better thing to have for oneself. You can imagine my joy in carrying it around. Actually, you don't even need to imagine because I've included a picture for you. I do hope these thoughts will help guide you the next time you rush off to look at things in Stores. Remember, Place is the thing. Best of luck at finding the good stuff!

Fern

A day full of Important Things

Today Kirsten told me we were going to visit some puppies and, true to her word, that is what we did. The pictures! I hear you say, what about the pictures of the puppies! Of course you, like Kirsten, have missed the point. It's not about the puppies. They're all fine and good when they're wagging their little tails from their little pen. For a while they're even all right when they're chasing you around the duck pool. But tail-biting? Even you tail deprived beings must understand that is going to far. And the way the come and look at the bone you have just victoriously captured for yourself--that look full of innocent nievety as if they just didn't know that bone was off limits. Still I hear you clamoring for pictures regardless of your increased knowledge of what pesky little brutes they are. I will supply some pictures in good time. But onto more important things: myself. Today I got to go visit my old home and my old chums. I achieved many good scampers and even runs in the goat field. One ought to be quite impressed by this. I'd bet several good chewies on your not being able to do such a thing just a few months out from major hip surgery. That is why I am more important than puppies, you see. I will be reinforcing the puppy pictures I provide with pictures of my accomplishments. Durning one of my scampers I came upon a ferocious beast of a bone lurking amid the grass. Not only did I slay it and keep it from the other dogs, but I also carried it single mouthedly back to a nice shady patch of grass. My day was full of vital, helpful activities similar to this. At present I feel that such a member of the canine world deserves her rest. The promised pictures will be posted as I see fit, and first things will come first:

To Boldy Go

We heard a loud low rumble tonight and I had to look around the house to make sure everything was alright. Kirsten said it was the space shuttle landing at Cape Canaveral. She started explaining what that meant, but I was way ahead of her. Dogs have always been ahead of people in space travel. Every puppy old enough to bite his brother's tail knows that a dog was the first living thing to launch into space. Many a brave canine orbited the Earth before any people made it up that way. If you ask an eight week old what they'd like to do when they grow up space exploration is one of the most common answers, especially from the spunky ones. Lately my running and jumping restrictions have brought all my puppy dreams of being an astronaut back to me. A good romp on the moon would be just the thing for me right now, and I'm just certain the folks on the International Space Station need someone to play fetch with. I've been working out all the zero gravity modifications in my head, and I know I'd do a good job at that. The other morning I woke up from one of these dreams as sure as a juicy bone that it had come true somehow. I grabbed the first ball I could find and told Kirsten to give it a throw. She threw it like a pitcher with the bases loaded and I went leaping and bounding after it. I was still pretty tired at the time but I remember quite well that that's what happened. Kirsten suggested to me that it may have been more of a gentle toss followed by a rather light scamper, but she's always so conservative with her stories. When one has put in so much work to master walking on tile and hopping up single small steps one may, I admit, put a little too much emphasis on further improvements, but one is entitled to that. When I scamper I'm scampering on the moon because I know what it's like to work much harder for much less movement. When I'm ready—when my bones are healed and my muscles are stronger—well, I just hope you're ready for Rocket Ship Fern when that day comes. I'll have some blasting off to do when it's time.

Tyranny of the Typist

Kirsten has decided that if she is going to be my typist I must let her have a say now and again. I don't think this is entirely fair. Keyboards were designed by the fingered, and its hardly my fault that as the world turns I do not have the ability to key in a letter without four unwanted others appearing along with it. One shouldn't be penalized for the paws one was born with. As life is not always what it should be, however, I must sacrifice some of my reader's valuable time for her whims. You'll have to forgive her if her imagination isn't up to yours or mine--she is ever so practical sometimes. Oiu nvkljnhpw bu6t9ou;pll vbge OPAQoicewnt. She said she would stop typing if I made too much of a fuss about this, and the previous sentence was my attempt to get by own my own. Let us, then, move onto the substance as chosen by Kirsten.

Today the windows were open to a lovely brisk Florida winter afternoon, and the house was filling up with the smell of Kirsten's freshly baked bread. I still don't understand why anyone would make food at all when he or she could just have it brought to him or her at meal times, but Kirsten says it doesn't work that way for everyone. Her before mentioned bread is quite tasty (I'll admit freely), but she seems to be especially charmed by it and thought others might want to make it themselves. If you are one of those unfortunate souls for whom the old food dish does not fill up on its own, you may want to consider this as a viable source of nourishment. The following is a recipe for a bread machine to make oatmeal bread. Kirsten originally found it on the internet, and it can still be found here.

Grandma's Oatmeal Bread

By Diana Rattray, About.com Guide

Ingredients:

• 1 cup water, boiling
• 1/2 cup oats, old-fashioned
• 2 tablespoons butter
• 1 1/2 teaspoons salt
• 3 tablespoons honey
• 1 tablespoon dark molasses
• 1 large egg, lightly beaten
• 3 cups bread flour (or 2 cups bread flour and 1 cup whole wheat flour)
• 2 teaspoons yeast, sprinkled over flour

Preparation:

Put oats in a mixing bowl; pour boiling water over the oats. When oats have cooled but are still a bit warm, add remaining ingredients according to bread machine manufacturer's manual. Bake on light setting. Makes a 1 1/2-pound loaf.

May all your eatings be grand,
Fern (and Kirsten)