Road Trip

This is what I see whenever I go anywhere with Hubby. It is an indian head dress made of plastic beads on safety pins with some string and feathers. Therein lies a tale. We bought it many, many years ago because the in-laws had one in red in their silver truck. Since we had a red truck, we traded and everyone was happy. Well, the red truck went the way of all expensive things during an out-of-work period, and life went on. After many more years and more lucrative employment, we bought a white truck. In-laws bought a red truck, so we traded back. It worked for us, and it gives Hubby a connection with his past and his family, and his mom who passed away nine years ago. Little things do that, you know.




That doesn't have anything to do with this story. This is Hubby. I always have to trick him into going anywhere. It goes like this:
Me: "Hey, what do you think about going for some ice cream?"

Him: "OK."

The stress is almost unbearable.

We always take Highway 89 instead of I15. People try to kill each other on the interstate and I'll have no part of it. This is where the road splits. If you go right, you can head for Washington Blvd. or Wall Avenue, left takes you past Smigh & Edwards and on to Farr West and Roy. Going for ice cream also entails going to Roy to visit Pa, the remaining aforementioned in-law. He's a hoot.



Before we go in the house, Hubby has to take a turn around the yard. This time it's to eat some grapes. It used to be a really great yard, but now it's the yard of a 90 year old man whose kind of wobbly for outside endeavors. It's kind of sad when you consider he built up the yard by himself, a bit at a time as they could afford it.



The old grape arbor ain't what she used to be, many long years ago, but it still has the climbing roses in front. Behind it is what was once a very large garden, fit to help feed all the family of 11.



He even planted choke cherries. Too bad the birds get to them before the people every year. Little jerks. We used to play bean bags here, and the pine tree got in the way. You can't see the pine tree off to the right.



We always call ahead, and he tells me, "Just come on in when you get here." Hubby does the Shave and a Hair Cut 2-Bits knock so he'll know it's us coming in, but he always walks out with us. Parents of people who are now 90 taught their children good manners.


We dally about for a few more minutes for the good-bye chat. It doesn't do to just rush right out the door. Parents who are now 90 taught their children good manners too. For the most part.


Oops. I forgot to tell you about this little cabinet. This is the one and only good piece of furniture my mother-in-law owned. Well, they had a pretty wardrobe in the basement, but only used it for storage. I love this little cabinet, and if I could find another just like it, I would buy it for Hubby to keep his DVDs in downstairs.



After we leave Roy, we head to Ogden on 20th Street. We go past the Ogden temple and the angel Moroni is there, blowing his horn in perpetuity, just like he does on hundreds of other temples around the world.



Ahhhh. The object of the trip comes into focus. This is actually the side view because the sun and traffic were against me. The real sign, in all its glory, is on the top front of the building. This is just the side.



Step inside the door into a little world that hasn't changed significantly since the early 50s, and perhaps even the 40s. It's heaven, and it's packed.



This might be the only thing that has changed over the years, and that only to add new flavors. They even make their own waffle cones. I learned after a single try, that two scoops in a waffle cone was more than I can handle, and three scoops in a waffle cone is a death wish. Now I have two scoops in a cup.



Couldn't you just live here? Elmo would have to go, because he just doesn't fit. They sell Sugar Babies, Beeman's gum, candy sticks, and other nostalgic items.



Three scoops in a waffle cone is just right for 6 feet, 7 inches and 285 pounds of wild western romance. Today he chose two scoops of licorice and one of huckleberry. I'm strictly a burnt almond fudge kind of gal.



I get better pictures coming from than going to, because I'm very attached to my mountains. I'll grant you they aren't as pretty as the Cascades, with their forests and greenery, or the Tetons with their grandeur, but they're mine. They kind of wrap around me like a fuzzy blanket on a cold day.

I lived in Vegas and surrounds for two years, and couldn't find my way anywhere. There were mountains, if you want to call them that, but they were in the wrong place.




I wasn't quick enough to get the whole waterfall cause we were driving past it. It's probably been here for 150 years, and only runs during the spring runoff. It's a landmark I would recognize anywhere.



Getting closer to home! I see Maddox, another local landmark. This will be an especially busy Saturday for them, because it's conference weekend. All the southern Idaho Mormons migrate down in droves twice a year to go to Salt Lake to conference. I think they are contractually required to stop at Maddox to eat.



The fruit stands do a booming business this time of the year. They are selling tomatoes, peaches, pumpkins, and the ones who lie say they are selling this year's apples. I'm warning you right now, that if you buy apples before October, they have been in storage for a year and they're meally. There ought to be a law! There is nothing better than a crisp, sweet apple (not counting dried peaches of course) and nothing worse than a meally one. Blah!!!!!



Look clear up between the mountain and the trees and you will see the spire of the templenickle and the ShopKo sign. It's tricky perspective, because they are really about 4 or 5 blocks apart. Templenickle means home, because we live only a block away.

Hey! Therein lies another tale, and one of my all-time favorites. It was when we lived in the Mojave Desert, and we'd come home to visit. My little one and my sister's little one were just three or four years old. When we drove past the tabernacle, my little one said, "Hey! Look! Brigham has casinos too!" Sister's world-wise little one replied, "That's not a casino, silly. That's the templenickel!"



Little Man said, "So, what's your point?"

Tomatoeville

Grandpa planted lots of tomatoes again this year. We have red ones, yellow ones, cherry ones, and little yellow ones that look like tiny squashes. Those are the best. We have tons of tomatoes. We also have Grandma Florence's spaghetti sauce recipe, so with all those ripe tomatoes, it seemed only logical to make spaghetti sauce. This isn't a decision to be made lightly, because it makes for one hard day. We had plenty of help, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been.



Sweetie K was our best peeler. That has to be the worst job ever. She loves to cook, just like her parents, so she's a real trouper. Her Nana DOES NOT love to cook. Her Nana would rather scrub toilets. Be that as it may. . . . .

We had a pretty good system. Boil the tomatoes until the skin starts to split, (well, Jeez, we're just going to cook them again, right?) dump them in the cold water in the sink, give them a little squeeze, and viola! Peeled tomatoes!

Sister B told us she did salsa and peeled tomatoes for hours. She was impressed with the cook and pinch method we used.



Little Man helped too. He picked the green stems off the tomatoes, and he posed with them. He's certainly not camera shy. The Romas were just the right size for his pudgy little hands. His daddy despairs of those hands. He thinks they are huge. Can you see how tall he is to the cabinet? He tells his mommy and me, "Don't wowwy. I will alwayth be yo baby." He's Mommy's and Nana's baby, and Daddy's and Grandpa's big boy. He's also a ham.




Mommy wanted the tomatoes squished before we started to cook them, so we scrubbed up like for surgery and squished. Sweety K wasn't entirely sure it was such a good idea. Little Man loved it cause it was so gwoth. He was right, it was kind of gross.



We are awesome tomatoe squishers. It was done in no time at all and the tomatoe guts were transferred to a bigger pot so more ingredients could be added and the cooking could begin.



Daddy and Bubby were working on the bathroom downstairs. They needed new worker gloves, and I found a pair that were just the right size for St. Bernard puppy paws. They were invaluable when it came time to chop up all those onions. We all cried like babies. They were particularly potent onions that day.



Bubble, bubble, boil and trouble. I'm not up on my Shakespeare, but it goes something like that. Sweetie K stirred her pot for nearly two hours, just like her sister did the batch before this one. I'm telling you, these kids are jewels! The last time I made this stuff by myself, I swore it would never happen again.



Canning just wears a body out. I have no idea how he got into this position, but he was sound asleep. I straightened him out right after I took the picture. When a boy works as hard as he did and then wakes up too early in the morning, he deserves to fall back to sleep, even if he's twisted up like a pretzel. At least he wasn't squished like a tomatoe.