Elizabeth Moll Stalcup

Crufts and other words I don’t know . . . yet

Continuing our exploration of all things unknown on the pages of The Unbearable Lightness of Scones by Alexander McCall Smith . . . we find the words:

Crufts.  When a stranger issues a compliment, Angus Lordie declares that his puppies are “hardly likely to win at Crufts,” but what does he mean?  For the uninitiated Crufts is, according to the website http://www.crufts.org.uk/search/node/Crufts “the worlds largest and greatest dog show.” And it is not too late to catch this year’s show, March 11-14 at the NEC in Birmingham (NEC? whatever that is! I will have to ask my son-in-law who went to university there ).  According to the website, competitions include the International Agility Championships and the ever popular Friends for Life contest, as well as best in show for which you win a silver cup large enough to hold your dog. This is not to be missed even if Cyril’s six puppies will not be featured . . .

Minger is apparently informal British for “an unattractive or unpleasant person or thing.”

And lastly for today, take a tour of Edinburgh courtesy of google maps.  See Howe Street, Scotland Street, Moray Place and other now familiar locations.  It all makes more sense even when only spied from a birds-eye view but how much more when you click on the little golden man and place him on the street of your choice. This link will bring you to Howe Street: http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=en&geocode=&q=howe+street+Edinburgh&sll=55.954786,-3.201482&sspn=0.010403,0.025706&gl=us&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Howe+St,+Edinburgh,+Midlothian+EH3,+United+Kingdom&ll=55.956384,-3.2023&spn=0.010307,0.025706&t=h&z=15&layer=c&cbll=55.956106,-3.20218&panoid=ESGaH33nmfcL76×1LN_SvA&cbp=12,114.06,,0,5

And this incredibly long link will take you to Scotland Street (where there is no 44):

http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=en&geocode=&q=Scotland+street+Edinburgh&sll=55.956106,-3.20218&sspn=0.004901,0.012853&gl=us&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Scotland+St,+Edinburgh,+Midlothian+EH3,+United+Kingdom&ll=55.959339,-3.194768&spn=0.005153,0.012853&t=h&z=16&layer=c&cbll=55.959509,-3.194869&panoid=-wRZpcRkTo8P17bHwk3b9Q&cbp=12,316.09,,0,5

I hope Bertie lives behind one of the lovely blue doors.

Words I don’t know . . . yet!

I am determined to mine every nugget of pleasure out of The Unbearable Lightness of Scones by looking up all the words I don’t know . . . yet. Mind you, it is rare for me to not know all the words in a book. But the latest 44 Scotland Street novel by Alexander McCall Smith has me stymied. Is it the setting?  I don’t remember this problem with The Number One Ladies Detective Agency, the book that introduced me to the delights of Alexander McCall Smith. That book was set in Botswana but this one is set in Edinburgh, a city I have never visited.  I do however feel some connection, some small inkling of familiarity because my handsome son-in-law, a Britalian (English mum, Italian dad) proposed to my beautiful daughter atop Arthur’s Seat four years ago just moments before a torrential downpour. We still have pictures of them, the bright happiness beaming through their smiles, faces haloed by hoods pulled so tight against the driving rain that their heads reminded me of Teletubbies.

Arthur's Seat on a summer evening. Unfortunately Dan proposed in December.

And one of our oft recited family stories comes from Edinburgh. It goes like this.  My husband once tried to order a half-pint in a pub in Edinburgh.  He had already downed a pint and wanted a bit more, but the bartender leaned across the bar and looked him in the eye and growled, “No man will drink a half-pint in my pub!” A half-pint is a lady’s drink, you see, something any self-respecting Scotsman would know.

On to the mystery words:

Mendacious, an adjective that means lying, not telling the truth.  As in “Olive’s account of the incident in which the teacher had pinched her ear was at the very least confused, and more likely mendacious.”  In other words, the little brat Olive, torturix of our beloved Bertie was lying when she accused Miss Harmony of pinching her ear.

Wittering. I read the sentence to my family and asked them what they thought it meant: “”He could switch it off in the face of constant wittering,” found on page 43 and my daughter, Sarah, thought it meant  whining but the definition of witter (which was not found in my dictionary) is, according to Wiktionary, to speak at length on a trivial subject. I am not sure whom we should pity more: Julia whose honeymoon has not yet begun, yet her groom already see her attempts at conversation as wittering or the prince of narcissism, Bruce, who has stepped on the path of almost certain unhappiness by marrying for all the wrong reasons.

Byres. Now I feel quite foolish because this is one of those words that you see quite often in English novels and yet, when I read it with my new dedication to understanding-every-word I found that I could not pin point what it meant.  A hedge perhaps?  But it means simply a barn, specifically one for keeping cattle. All I can say in duhhh  . . . .

Muckle Hairy Sporran

I adore Alexander McCall Smith, so when learned that a new 44 Scotland Street novel was to be released in paperback, I ordered a copy even though it would be months before it shipped. It arrived last week. This morning I got up and saw rain washing away my beloved snow and was comforted by the thought of spending the day curled up with my new book.

But I was only on page 22 before I was confounded. What on earth did McCall Smith mean by “muckle hairy sporran”?  Was it a Scottish rodent? Or perhaps some Scottish delicacy? Would you like fries with that muckle hairy sporran? I suspected that it was something any kindergartner in Edinburgh would easily comprehend, but alas, I live in suburban Washington, D.C. and had never heard of a sporran much less a muckle hairy sporran. First I looked up muckle which, when used as an adjective, means (in archaic Scottish) very big. That was easy enough. Then I googled sporran  . .  and found a shop that sells them, yes, those little furry purses that Scotsmen sling low over their kilts. I’ve always admire the Scots, so at ease with their masculinity they wear a skirt AND carry purse and still look manly! The shop sold all kinds of sporran from “full-dress” sporran to “daywear” sporran to “piper” sporran (for you bag-pipers) made of everything from seal skin to chinchilla, arctic fox, badger and black and white rabbit–with tassels!  There is even a little flask sized to tuck into your sporran for carrying a wee dram to warm ye when the cold Scottish mist rolls in.

But I didn’t fully catch the drift of McCall Smith’s reference, which refers to a portrait of Francies MacNab rendered by the Scottish artist Henry Raeburn, until I found the portrait online.  McCall Smith described MacNab as “draped in tartan and wearing a muckle hairy sporran.”

Here dear reader, to enhance your reading pleasure, is MacNab in all his glory:  Now wasn’t that fun!

In Frogland

It was just a teeny-tiny fever, hardly enough to cross the line from cold to flu and I was such a good girl, staying home from work, sleeping , sleeping. So when my friends Deborah and Tony called to ask if I wanted to go snowshoeing in Great Falls Park a week later . . . I so excited I bounded through the halls. It is the tail end of the virus, I told myself. There is just a touch of congestion and you know how breathing cold air clears your nose like nothing else.

Truth be told, after a few days inside I was prowling like a tiger in a cage. A record snowfall had hit the D.C. area the prior weekend and I had yet to be out in it.

Originally uploaded by albolivarphoto

The sun was bright on the snow. I got out my cross-country skis then decided, no, I probably was not up for the exertion of cross-country skiing. I would splurge for new snowshoes. A quick call to Tony, who was at REI in Seven Corners, and I was on my way, riding the metro dressed like Nanook of the North in my red Norwegian anorak with the real wolverine ruff, my wooley sherpa hat and gaiters. I was a little worried the metro pooh-bahs might not let me take my old bamboo ski poles on the metro (could those pointy metal bits at the ends serve as weapons?) but no one said a word.

Deborah and Tony fetched me from the East Falls Church metro stop and we were off. In the parking lot, Deborah and I tried on our new ultra modern snowshoes while Tony opted for something that looked more akin to elongated badminton rackets–I am sure they were made to be hung criss-crossed on a ski lodge wall and not to be actually worn–but he said he liked them even though he could not lift his foot more than a few inches and the back point dragged in the snow. The snow was breathtakingly beautiful and I could not wait so I forged on ahead while Tony and Deborah fussed with their equipment. Back and forth I went in deep snow, sinking in a bit less with each repetition as I cleared a section of path. This is a lot of work, I thought as I sucked in air, then womp, womp, womped my way back to where I could see the car a few hundred feet away.

Sam is at it again . . .

Life with my husband, Sam, is never boring. Embarrassing at times, but never boring.  Last night he came home from Target bearing a bag containing not one, but two pairs of bright red fleece pajama bottoms sizes extra large and XXL.  One was a lovely plaid that would have made a good kilt and the other was emblazoned with little brown footballs the size of small hands.  The idea of man over 60 wearing such pajamas–not in the comfort of his own home, but to a football game–a PUBLIC football game, the Redskins vs. Philadelphia Eagles, thankfully an away game, gave me shudders. This is, after all, Philadelphia where the fans throw batteries. Not only that, the lovely red bottoms comprise the lower half of a Santa costume that Sam’s friend, B. J. acquired minus the pants.

“Watch ESPN and see if I make national news!” he called with boyish enthusiasm as he headed out the door this morning for the drive to Philadelphia with B.J., my son Sammy and another friend, Steve, in tow.  I pictured watching the game and in my mind’s eye, saw the camera pan to my husband and decided, no, I will not watch the game but will instead focus on quiet intercession to God, asking the Almighty to blind the cameramen to my husbands finery.

Grandma’s Cinnamon Bread

The 3 x 5 card is stiffly stained with butter, flour and who-knows-what–a mute testimonial to the fact that I am a very messy cook.  I hand it to my husband who says he is going to get up early and start the yeast rolls and he laughs.  Grandma has passed from the earth but we still have her amazing cinnamon bread recipe, yes, the one she used to make in batch at Christmastime for the postman, her pastor and the neighbors, back when she had those incredibly buff, muscular arms.

Here at last is her recipe, the very same one I used to impress my in-laws with holiday rolls.

Here is a scanned copy of the recipe which you can decipher yourself  . . . or, preserved for posterity, below is an updated translation.  And don’t limit yourself to cinnamon bread–delicious though it is–you can vary the type of flour you use and make all kinds of bread or rolls.

Cinnamon Bread (two loaves)

Preheat Oven to 350°

INGREDIENTS

• 4 1/2 to 5 cups flour (the amount varies on the weather and what kind of flour you use)
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 package dry yeast (active dry yeast) or 2 tablespoons dry yeast if you shop at Costco
• 1 1/4 cup milk
• 1/4 cup butter
• 2 eggs at room temperature

TRADITIONAL DIRECTIONS:

Mix 2 cups flour with the sugar, salt and yeast in a bowl.  Pour milk into a large measuring cup, place butter in the milk and microwave until the milk is warm to the touch and most of the butter is melted (there should be still be a soft lump of butter in the middle of the milk).  Pour the milk and butter mixture into the bowl with the dry ingredients and mix at high speed for two minutes until smooth.  Add eggs and 1/2 cup flour.  Slowly add the rest of the flour.  At some point the dough will be too thick for the mixer and you will have to turn the dough out onto a floured cloth and begin kneading the dough until smooth and elastic.

Pour about two tablespoons of oil in a bowl. Dump the ball of dough in the bowl, swish it around the bottom to coat the oil evenly and immediately flip it over so that the oil covers the dough. Cover with a clean cloth and put in a warm place to rise.

*When the dough has doubled in size, punch the dough down and cut in half using a serrated knife.  Roll out half the dough on a floured cloth until it is about 1/2 to 3/4 inch thick. Brush with melted butter, sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar and tightly roll.  Place the roll into a greased breadpan, seam side down, with the ends tucked under.  Let rise until double in size then, bake at 350 degrees for about 25 minutes or until a medium brown.  Brush the top of the loaf with melted butter and turn out onto its side on a cooling rack.

Slice and enjoy. Makes great toast but my family usually devours it before it even has a chance to cool.

BREAD MACHINE DIRECTIONS:

Zap the  butter in the microwave, then put all of the wet ingredients–milk, eggs, butter–in the bottom of the bread pan. Make sure the butter is not hot or it will cook the eggs!  Pile on the dry ingredients over the wet and set the machine on dough.

When the dough is ready proceed with the directions above at *.

The last days of Ralph Oliver Moll

Last night we were told that my dad has only days or weeks to live. He is in a nursing home in West Covina, 20 miles east of Los Angeles.  For the last week, I have been trying to move him to Virgina so he will not be alone but my inquiries only brought bad news. He has been refusing medical care so the doctor has not been to see him in three and a half weeks, so my question, “Can he safely be moved to Virginia?” resulted in a blood test that show nearly every component in his body is badly out of whack.  His creatine levels which should be in the teens are 180. His blood has become toxic.

It is hard to lose both parents in a month. This weekend for the first time since my mother died on August 26, I began to feel almost okay, the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach had eased and I could think of my mom without a visceral reaction.  But now that “kicked in the stomach” feeling has come back with the yawning fatigue that seems to swallow me.

I was always so proud of my fit, healthy parents. Trim, athletic.  In the last decade our family vacations revolved around horseback riding or hiking and I wonder, when did they start to decline? With them on the west coast and me on the east, it seems I missed some crucial turning point. I wonder, was it the accident?

A Way Where There Seems to be No Way

Strategic thinking is one of my strong suits: my mind often ticks through options automatically. But my father’s situation: sick and in a Christian Science nursing home seemed like a brick wall at the end of the road. I was afraid that he would worsen and his fellow Christian Scientists would let him languish and even die all the while proclaiming him healed. Yet once he decided to opt for Broadview, the Christian Science home an hour west of my parent’s home in Los Angeles, there seemed little I could do . . . but pray. Why does prayer seem so wimpy? The last resort when all my heaving and hoeing has come up empty?

So pray I did. And I heard God whisper to my heart, I am still with him. I am there.  I still love him. I also heard God say one morning as I rose to consciousness, Buy plane tickets now. I agonized over the dates, praying, God, show me when to go. When you run a busy Healing Center it is not easy to leave town on short notice. It is not easy to cancel appointments, skip leadership meetings and tell your boss, my rector, that you are headed back to Los Angeles for the second time in a month. The best time seemed to be the week set aside for our family vacation. I asked my daughter if she minded going to Los Angeles and ask my husband if he minded being left behind. He reported that a tight deadline was going to make it impossible for him to go to the beach anyway. He urged me to go to Los Angeles and Sarah said she did not have a preference.

So I booked tickets, then proceeded to be dogged by nagging doubts. Should we go? After all, things seemed to have settled down. Dad was in the nursing home and Mom was sleeping a lot, recovering from months of battling cancer while simultaneously taking care of a husband who could not carry his dirty plate to the sink much less help cook a meal or carry out the trash.

A tribute to my mother

In the days before my mother died, I would sit on her bed and rub her arms from shoulder to elbow, where she was often cold, and then from elbow to wrist, ending by holding her hands, fingers entwined.  We would sit, hands clasps and smile at each other, so glad to be together.

If she was especially cold, I would heat up her rice bag, a droopy fabric tube filled with heavy rice, in the microwave of the nursing home and put it on her feet or against her upper arms if they still felt cold to the touch.  At eighty-nice pounds and five feet tall, she was often cold.  I remembered her fretting about being overweight when I was a little girl but somewhere in her sixties she had lost 25 pounds and two inches and my recent memories were of a tiny woman who continued to shrink in every possible direction until the day she died.

She was ready to go, there is no doubt about that. The first time I saw her after I returned from Africa on August 10, she told that she was ready to go home. My sister, Kathy had moved her to Virginia on August 8, while I was in Kenya, so I thought she meant Covina, 20 miles east of Los Angeles, the town where she was born and lived almost all of her life save her college years—and the 18 days she lived in Virginia– but she meant heaven, her real home.  One week ago we buried her in Oakdale Cemetery in the nearby town of Glendora just a mile from her earthly home.

Letters from Africa to my intercessors

July 26th, 2009

Dear Ones,
I want to thank each and every one of you for being willing to cover us in  prayer.  We leave at 6:10 PM today on KLM flying first to Amsterdam and then, at 11 AM  tomorrow on to Entebbe, the
airport in southern Uganda made famous by the rescue of hijacked hostages by Israeli paratroopers in 1976.

Entebbe is on a peninsula that extends southward into Lake Victoria, Africa’s largest lake.

Three days ago I learned that my mother has cancer in the pleural cavity which surrounds her lungs. We have not told her yet, so she believes she has pneumonia and congestive heart failure. This particular cancer is even more insidious than most because it produces large amounts of fluid which keep her lungs from expanding. The doctors drew a liter of fluid from her plural cavity a week ago.

According to her favorite doctor at City of Hope, the plural effusion, or excess liquid showed up on X-rays in May, so my dear little mother has four to ten months to live.

But we are going to doctor Jesus for a second opinion. Cancer is not too much for Him as he reminded me about a week ago. In the last year we have not lost anyone to cancer. None of the people that we have prayed for have died. We’ve had some amazing miracles including the healing of my sister-in-law whose cancer markers dropped faster than her doctor had ever seen before. She recovered from advanced ovarian cancer; Joe K. who many of you know is healed, along with Jeanette T. and many others.  We are grateful.