In the Night Time

I battle a special kind of kryptonite. My weakness is small boys in the night time.

They come, sometimes sneaking and sometimes padding on quick feet, to my side of the bed. If I know they are there, I lift the covers and invite their warm sleep bodies in. Often, I will feel their warmth on my back or their breath in my face after they are already snuggled in deep and back asleep.

The youngest one is still soft in the way only young children and babies are. That intoxicating smell of infancy clings to him with a fierceness and I breathe it in every chance I get. The oldest one is lanky already, but his cheeks hold kisses as easily as ever.

I never have the heart to send them back to their bed, with tears in their voices and Momma on their lips. I make their dad do it. His heart is harder than mine. I would rather wake with a crick in my neck and an ache in my back then send them back to their own room.

One day soon, they will sleep all night and never make the journey to my bed. They will grow to be taller than me and only kiss me when prompted. When they lean down to kiss me, I will breathe deep and remember what they smelled like when they were small in the night time.

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Farewell to Puck

Puck was a special Sugar Glider. We named him after the mischievous sprite from Shakespeare. We had his parents, Samson and Delilah, when he was born. He looked like a hairless little, long-tailed mouse then. I once saw him leap into his mother’s arms. So precious. The three of them were the first “kids” Ries and I had.

He was a sweet boy. He was small, like his mother. After Samson died, he was a solitary glider, but I do not think he minded so much. Our room is a lot quieter at night now, without him running around his cage. Puck traveled in his life. He visited Ohio and went camping once. He loved baby food bananas and squash. He adored cantaloupe and meal worms. He rode on Pullo’s back once, which Pullo was not too fond of and he put up with Wicket’s puppy curiosity with patience.

Last year, he had necrotic spots on his ears and tail. We had them removed and he has been fine since. The vet, an exotic specialist, said he was the gentlest and oldest sugar glider she had ever seen.

Puck would have been 12 years old in March. He lived 11 years and died in his bed of old age. We will bury him beside his parents in the backyard.

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Recipe: The Secret to Great Chicken and Turkey Salad

This is less a recipe and more a secret that ever after made my chicken and turkey salad great every time.

On a side note: Yes, it is not Monday. Yes, I know that the recipes have been late often, but I decided that once a week, sometime is good enough for you! Carry on.

Back when Ries and I were still dating, I went back to Ohio with him for Christmas one year. I am glad that we made the trip; it was the only time I met his Granny, who was a wonderful, sweet lady. Like many lessons well learned, this one was shared in the kitchen with family running around and the ladies chatting in the kitchen.

Ries’ mom, Cindy*, was turning the leftover turkey into the obligatory turkey salad when she divulged the secret of making great turkey salad.

Celery.

I know. I know. You probably already put celery in your turkey salad, but it is the proportion that is the secret. When making turkey or chicken salad, the mixture should be half meat and half celery. Sounds simple, but once I started adhering to that rule of thumb, my turkey salad, no matter what else I put in it, turns out perfect.

I make turkey and chicken salad in a dump, taste, and add manner so I am just going to list ingredients that I often put in with some approximations and let you experiment yourself with actual proportions. Ries is probably reading this and having an apoplexy.

Turkey or Chicken Salad

chopped turkey or chicken
chopped celery in equal proportions to the meat
mayonnaise
1 tbl mustard (if I am feeling really fancy I use Dijon)
dash salt
dash pepper
2 dashes Worcestershire sauce

Mix all ingredients well. Eat on a sandwich, crackers, or all by itself. Yum!

*Cindy, whom my brother-in-law has deemed The MacGyver of the kitchen.

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