Grams Made Olive Cheese Balls

Of all the finger food I make for parties, this seems to be everyone's favorite.  In fact, if I'm expecting certain guests, I always double the recipe.  I've been making them for years and don't remember where the recipe came from.  They're easy to make and very tasty.  Serve them warm from the oven.

2 cups finely grated Cheddar cheese
1/2 cup butter, softened
1/4 teaspoon hot pepper sauce
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon paprika
1 cup all-purpose flour
approximately 36 pimiento-stuffed green olives (well drained)

Thoroughly mix cheese, butter, hot pepper sauce, salt, paprika, and flour.  Form a portion of dough around each olive.  Bake in a 400 degree oven for 15 minutes or until golden brown.

Note:  Olive balls can be made ahead of time and frozen.  Then just pop them into the oven and cook them just before serving. 

The Countdown Has Begun

Yesterday Grandad saw the Interventional Cardiologists in Houston.

We arrived at the appointment about 45 minutes early and actually got in early.  Over the next three hours, Grandad was examined by three different doctors; his vitals were taken; he had an EKG and blood drawn.  In addition he was generally poked and prodded by all three doctors.  Their conclusion was what we already knew, Grandad's heart is in atrial fibrillation.  In addition, his heart is in "full flutter."  Both of these are caused by a small area of electrical abnormalities in the upper chambers of the heart. 

They consulted with each other and then presented several options for treatment. 

The first choice is to try a different medication.  They explained that the medication he's been taking, Amiodorone, is considered the "big dog" of medications that regulate heartbeat.  If Amiodorone doesn't work, none of the others is likely to work, but they are willing to try something else if that's his preference.

The second choice is to shock the heart with paddles to restart his heartbeat.  After this procedure he would be required to continue taking the same medication to control his heartbeat.  This procedure works for some people, but is considered a short-term solution.  They do not believe this is a good option for Grandad.

The third choice, and the one they recommend, is cardiac ablation.  Cardiac ablation involves ablating specific areas within the left atrium near the openings of the 4 pulmonary veins which are the blood vessels that deliver oxygenated blood from the lungs to the heart.  The ablation is performed using a heart catheter through the arteries in both legs.  It can take as long as 4-5 hours and may have to be repeated 2-3 times for full success.   There is a slight (1-2%) chance of stroke.  The success rate for cardiac ablation is around 80%.

They did not discuss a heart pacemaker with us, although through research we know that it is the treatment of last resort.

We chose the cardiac ablation treatment and asked to be scheduled as soon as possible.  The first available date is Wednesday, June 8 at the Texas Heart Institute at St. Luke's Hospital in Houston.  He will have to be in Houston on the 6th or the 7th for preoperative testing which includes trans-esophageal echo-cardiogram (TEE) to assess the heart function and, specifically, to look for blood clots.  Any evidence of blood clots around the heart will result in cancellation of the procedure. The doctors must also make a complete map of his heart before surgery.  Once the procedure is complete he will stay in the hospital overnight and, if all goes well, will be released the next day but expected to stay in Houston for a few days. 

We are relieved to finally have a diagnosis and a plan for treatment.  But we were both disappointed that an earlier date is not available.  We have asked to be notified in case any time opens in the schedule.  They indicated that they do occasionally have cancellations and put him on the list to fill any slot that may open up. 

I appreciate the fact that a "panel" of doctors looked at the evidence and presented the options.  I'm a firm believer in the old adage that two heads are better than one.  I also appreciate them giving us the final say in the choice of treatment.

We are home tonight and tired but hopeful.  It feels good to finally have a plan.  Now we start the countdown.  As always, we appreciate your prayers.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Church

Grams and Grandad are in Houston this weekend dog-sitting for our Grand-dogs while Nick and Marie are in San Antonio. They live in northeast Houston, very close to Humble.  We decided that we would drive over to Kingwood for mass this Mother's Day at St. Martha's Catholic Church.  We had driven past it before and thought it would be nice.  We didn't remember exactly where it was so I "googled" the address, punched it into my Tom-Tom, and headed for church.  As usual, we were running on a very tight schedule.

We hurried the ten or so miles following the directions step by step.  As we made the last turn onto Woodland Hills Drive, there was a huge church on our right.  I thought to myself that the church was bigger than I remembered.  We turned into the driveway, ready to rush in just in time for the service to start.  The parking lot was full and there were cars parked along the side of the road.  We noticed a big sign in the parking lot that said "Free Valet Parking."  I must admit that I found that a little odd.  But again to myself, I thought that, given how crowded it seemed, valet parking was a great idea.  We were greeted by two very friendly "parishioners" who were dressed in khakis and golf shirts.  One of them drove off to park our car while to other one pointed us towards the "sanctuary."

As we turned to head towards the church I saw it ... a small sign that said "Welcome to Kingwood Baptist Church."

I quietly tugged on Grandad's arm, he leaned over and I whispered in his ear, "This is a Baptist church." The look of shock on his face was priceless.  He turned to the one remaining valet attendant and explained to him that we were at the wrong church.  I stood by quietly beginning to laugh.  The attendant jumped into a handy golf cart and chased down our car.  They were very gracious and invited us to stay for services at their church even suggesting that we could be "Southern Baptist for the day."  I jokingly told them that I was raised Southern Baptist, but I used to tell my Mother that I overcame it.  They didn't laugh.

As soon as we got in the car, I started laughing maniacally.  I got a huge kick out of almost getting Grandad into the Baptist Church for the day.  He didn't think it was as funny as I did, although he did seem mildly amused.

We made it to St. Martha's just in time for the opening hymn.  It was a special treat, because it was first communion Sunday at St. Martha's.  There is nothing sweeter than second graders dressed up for their first communion.  I'm happy to report that St. Martha's was just as crowded and just as friendly as Kingwood Baptist seemed.  The service was a lovely celebration of first communion and Mother's Day.  They have a fabulous choir, friendly people, an entertaining and interesting priest.   I really enjoyed being there.

However, I can't help but think that my Mother (God rest her soul) had a hand in guiding us to Kingwood Baptist Church for Mother's Day.  Some people never give up!

Thanks for the Memories and Happy Mother's Day

My children have given me many gifts since I became a mom more than 30 years ago. I've gotten many of your standard Mother's Day gifts including flowers, candy, jewelry, clothes and perfume. But of all the things my children have given me, the best gift of all is a lifetime of memories.

I've heard it said that being a Mom is the toughest job you'll ever love.  Whoever said that knew what they were talking about.  I love being a Mom.  But there were times when it was tough, tougher than I ever expected it to be.  There are good times and bad times.  Thank God, the good times far outweigh the bad.

Over the past 30 years I've experienced millions of momentary miracles and equally as many moments that made me wonder what the hell I was thinking when I decided to have these kids.

Those miraculous moments were sometimes followed by real downers. The thrill of holding my babies in my arms for the first time was followed by six weeks of postpartum blues while I thought about how having a baby may have ruined my life. While I tried to follow everyone's advice to "sleep when the baby sleeps" moronic telemarketers called trying to sell life insurance for our new little bundle of joy.

The hours of walking the floors all night with a colicky baby were quickly erased by baby's first smile.  Our first child slept all night by the time she was six weeks old.  I remember waking up that first morning and being absolutely convinced that she must have died in her sleep.  On the other hand, our second child never slept all night until he was five years old.  That's right, I said NEVER.  Not one full night of sleep in five years.  I would be trying to put him back to bed while choking back tears of exhaustion.  Seriously, I used to cry while praying for a full night of sleep.  

There were tiny little miracles like watching her curl her tiny little toes in the sand for the first time; followed shortly thereafter by her looking around the beach, turning up her nose, saying "dirty" and refusing to budge another inch.  She climbed right back into the car and refused to walk on the beach or go in the water.  Years later as a teenager, we always knew where to find her in the summer.  She was at the beach!

I especially loved it when my kids laughed.  There is something so innocent about how babies giggle.  And I fondly remember them standing in their cribs in the mornings sweetly calling "Ma-ma" over and over again in their little bitty voices.  A few short years later, that sweet smiling "Ma-ma" became "MOTHER!" while they rolled their teenaged eyes.

My children are vastly different.  She's a brown-eyed red-head.  He's blond with blue eyes.  She's always been quiet and introspective.  His personality is larger than life.  She's artistic and bookish.  He's mathematically inclined and sports crazy.  She's all about being organic and natural.  He loves things that are shiny and new. 

They have both always been very healthy and both are athletic.  They both played basketball from third grade all the way through high school.  He went on to play collegiate ball.  Some of my fondest memories are of sitting in the bleachers at the gym or a track meet.  She had to be dragged into her first year of "little dribblers" and didn't learn to love it until she had coaches who saw her potential and worked to develop her skills.  It came naturally to him.  He could dribble and shoot by the time he was five.  Seriously, he provided halftime entertainment at her little dribbler games.  As soon as the whistle blew, he was on the floor shooting from half-court and practically doing a dribbling demonstration.  Sports kept them grounded and provided them with a like-minded group of friends.  In the off-season they both played on AAU select teams which kept all of us busy and broke.   Both of them still remain active, enjoying bicycling, running, walking, yoga and basketball.

I remember how our daughter tried to hide her disappointment when her Dad bought her a used Ford Festiva as her first car.  She knew she should be grateful, but it was hard when several of her friends were driving shiny brand new cars.  But she made the best of it, thanked us graciously and never complained about being expected to drive her brother to wherever he needed to go.

Both of my children are unfailingly kind.  During his kindergarten class play the students were dressed as jacks-in-the-box.  When the little girl next to him knocked her box over, fell and started crying, he knocked his own box over so she wouldn't be the only one.

Then there was watching our second child mope around the house because he missed his older sister who had been gone away to college for a mere three months.  This after at least five years of them not being able to stand the site of each other.  It was amazing to watch the two of them run into each other's arms the first time they saw each other again.

I was proud of both of them when they graduated from high school and again when they both were awarded their bachelor's degrees.  I was even prouder to see both of them marry good and decent mates and begin families of their own.

I was so excited when she called me to tell me of her engagement and it was such an honor to be present when our son proposed to his future wife in front of her Aggie graduating class.  And there is nothing at all that can compare to witnessing the birth of your grandchild.  Just the knowledge that she wanted me there, in that room with her, was so touching.

Once, as a teenager, when she was annoyed that I had to know where she was going and when she'd be home, my daughter asked me why I cared so much. I firmly believe that my answer that day was inspired.  I told her, "You are my life's work. You are what God has given me to do. That's why I care so much." Honestly, it just popped into my head. And I still believe it. These children are my life's work.

Happy Mother's Day to all Moms, especially to my daughter!  And to my kids ... thanks for the memories.

Happily Ever After

The upcoming Mothers Day weekend makes me think about the kind of home I grew up in.  In large part, the kind of mother I became is a direct result of where I came from.  With a few exceptions, I doubt that even people who have known me since I was a teenager know very much about my family life.  I have never been good at sustaining long-term friendships and I think that's a product of my raising. 

Generally speaking, my parents had issues.  They fought like cats and dogs, they were verbally abusive and sometimes they were physically violent, both with each other and sometimes towards us kids.  It was more than just spanking; sometimes it was fists and belts.  Two of my five siblings are what's now referred to as "special needs." I would say that definitely added to their stress and undoubtedly to their expenses. 

They were never fiscally responsible.  It was not unusual for our cars or our furniture to be repossessed.  My parents never owned a home of their own.  We either lived with relatives or we lived in rent houses.  We moved frequently, because they didn't pay the rent and would be evicted.  (I'll note right here that I went to seven or eight different elementary schools.  My sister and I once made a list of all the houses we lived in that we could remember, the total was more than fifteen.)

We once spent an entire summer with no electricity and no running water.  Our neighbors allowed us to run a water hose for drinking water and for flushing the toilets.  Most of the time we didn't have a telephone. When we did have a phone, bill collectors called frequently.  Disconnected utilities were the norm for us. 

My Dad was an automotive mechanic.  He worked hard all his life.  He was a civilian employee of the federal government, first for the Army, later for the Navy.  Several times he was transferred, laid off and/or fired.  He had "anger issues."  I once saw him pull a shotgun on an electric company employee who was sent to disconnect our service and I know that at least once he was suspended for threatening a fellow employee.  I know now that my Dad had a condition that I'm pretty sure would be diagnosed as "intermittent explosive disorder."  One of my sisters has the same disorder.  Now it can be controlled with medication. 

Mom was a stay-at-home mom.  From time-to-time she did such things as sell Tupperware or cosmetics.  She battled severe depression and bi-polar disorder her entire life.  When she was in one of her low periods she would not get out of bed for days and more than once she threatened to kill herself.  Those times were hard to endure and the impact they had on me was deep and long-lasting.

They did not expect nor encourage us to attend college.  Several of us had opportunities for higher education, but our parents told us they would not help us and, if we did go, we would be on our own.  We were expected to go to work and to contribute significant amounts of our income to the household, and we did.  (To his eternal credit, my brother Charlie went to night school and eventually earned a bachelor's degree.)  We were all told that once we left home we could never move back home.  

As adults, my siblings and I have discussed in great depth why my parents were the way they were and why they couldn't or didn't pay their bills.  They didn't drink, gamble or live extravagantly.  We just don't know what was going on with them and we never will.  As an adult, I've come to understand that they probably did the best they were capable of doing.  It's what I choose to believe and it helps me make peace with it all.  

Don't get me wrong.  I loved my parents and, considering all this, I had a pretty good childhood.  As a kid, I didn't know this behavior was abnormal or unusual.  I thought everyone lived this way, but mostly I didn't think about it at all. As a teenager, it was embarrassing and I came to hate the way we lived.  I always knew that, if I ever had kids, I would make sure they had a sane and stable home life. 

Before our children started school, we moved into the home where we still live.  Our utilities have never been disconnected and we pay our bills on time.  Both of my kids went to kindergarten and graduated high school with the same group of kids.  They both have friends that they've known their entire lives.  They were yelled at, disciplined, and even spanked, but never abused.  And we helped both of our kids go to and finish college.  From the time they started school, they were taught that their education would not be finished until they had earned at least a bachelor's degree.  College was mandatory, not optional.  They're both educated, employed, and happily married.

The mother I am is the result of the kind of home I grew up in.  The difficulties I endured did not define me, they made me work hard to be the best Mom I could be.  I am content and satisfied with the kind of mother I am.  We have always had a peaceful and loving home.  I have great relationships with both of my children and I love being both Mom and Grams. It was a long trip, but I made it to my happily ever after.

Grams Made Asparagus and Bacon Quiche

I found this recipe in my e-mail inbox last week. I would give credit to the source but I forgot to make a note of it. I made it for dinner tonight and it is quick, easy and delicious. I highly recommend it.

1 refrigerated pie crust (like Pillsbury All-Ready)
1 pound fresh asparagus
6 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled
1 (5-ounce) package grated Swiss cheese
5 eggs
1 cup half-and-half
1 teaspoon dried tarragon
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Unroll pie crust and place in a 9-inch pie plate. Fold pie crust edges under and crimp. Set aside.

Snap off and discard tough ends of asparagus. Cut asparagus into 1-inch pieces; place in a small microwave-safe baking dish. Cover dish tightly with heavy-duty plastic wrap; fold back a small corner to allow steam to escape.

Microwave on High for 4 minutes, or until crisp-tender; drain well.

Place asparagus in bottom of prepared crust. Top evenly with crumbled bacon and cheese.

In a small bowl, whisk together eggs, half-and-half, tarragon, salt, and pepper. Pour over cheese.

Bake for 45 to 50 minutes, or until set.

The Catechism of Kids and Candy

Grams was raised in the Southern Baptist Church.  As an adult, I converted to Catholicism because that's what Grandad practices and I reasoned that I can serve God where ever he put me.  Since I know many who read my blog are not Catholic, I'm going to give you a little bit of background on the Catholic sacrament of First Holy Communion and the rites and traditions that surround it.

May is First Holy Communion season in the Catholic church.  Picture angelic little children ... girls dressed in white dresses and veils, boys dressed in dark trousers with white shirts and wearing their first-ever neckties.  (Those are my children on the right.)

In our diocese, children must complete at least two years of religious education (formerly known as CCD) by attending weekly classes.  It's traditional to make your First Holy Communion  in the second grade, so that makes the kids about 7-8 years old.

There are numerous horror stories where overzealous priests and/or bishops quiz kids about their Catechism or ask them to recite prayers aloud during Mass.  As you might imagine, these stories usually include kids who freeze up and can't answer said questions or recite a even single Hail Mary. Most modern priests have long since abandoned this practice and, if they do question the communicants or make them recite prayers, they do it before the Mass in one of the religious-education classes.

Mass usually begins with a procession down the main aisle of the church.  The procession is led by a "cross-bearer" who carries a large crucifix, followed by altar servers, the lector, Eucharistic lay ministers, and the priest.  On First Communion Sunday, the First Communicants join this procession, following right behind the alter servers.  It's a very serious and stately procession.  The religious education teachers have carefully instructed their students to walk with their hands folded prayerfully.  When the procession begins, the congregation stands and the choir sings.  Moms, Dads and Grandparents lean into the aisle and snap photos of their little angels walking in the procession.

The Communicants then sit together, right up at the front of the church, with their families and loved ones right behind them.  When it's time for communion, these First Communicants go first.  Again, many photos are snapped; although some churches prohibit photography during the actual Communion.

Grams and Grandad attend a very small rural church.  In fact, it's so small that most years we only have one or two kids making their first communion.  This year's class was huge.  There were five First Communicants.

To say that our priest is "old school" would be an understatement of epic proportions.  He's a very pious, serious and old-fashioned priest who has been elevated to the honorary position of Monsignor.   Most people his age would be retired, but given the shortage of priests, he's been moved to our small parish which is as close to retirement as you can get.  He still celebrates Mass every day for our tiny little parish.  And while I appreciate his service, I have noticed that the "old school" part of him can't quite give up many of the old ways.

This morning's Mass and First Communion went very well right up until the end.  It was clear that the CCD teachers, parents and students had all done their jobs admirably. The kids were well behaved and well prepared. 

After Communion, while the Eucharistic Ministers where clearing the altar, I noticed that one of the First Communicants got up and went to the back of the church, presumably to the bathroom.  Before the young man returned, Monsignor got up from his seat, came down off of the altar, and stood right in front of the kids.  For a moment I thought he was going to shake hands with the First Communicants and congratulate them.  But, alas, the "old school" part of him felt the need for one more lesson about the importance of attending church regularly.  It went something like this.

He started by saying in his loud and stately voice, "What and have we already lost one of our children?"  The congregation chuckled.

He continued "Well children, now that you've received Jesus through Holy Communion, it's your responsibility to attend church every Sunday or Saturday night.  But, since you're only 7 years old, it's your parents' responsibility to make sure you get to church every Sunday.  Because if someone saw a child your age walking down the street alone you could get picked up."  (At this point the voice in my head went "Huh?")

He continued by asking "Do you know your multiplication yet?"  A little voice responded "I know some."

Monsignor quizzed "Whats 24 x 7?"  I couldn't hear the response but, obviously, it was something that included "No, that's too hard." or some variation of that.

Monsignor decided to take a different tack.  "How many hours in a week?"  Again some inaudible response from one of the little people that indicated that the answer was above their education and ability. 

As Monsignor continued, the "missing" child came out of the bathroom and realized he might be missing something important.  This led him to dash full speed down the center aisle only to skid to a stop and slip, not so quietly, into the front row of seats.  (I, along with several other parishioners, stifled a giggle.)

Undaunted by the interruption, Monsignor decided to answer his own question.  "There are 168 hours in a week and Jesus only asks for one of those hours."  (Again, the voice in my head with the "Huh?" and I thought to myself "that's not exactly what he means.") 

Clearly these kids were not getting the point to Monsignor's satisfaction.  He decided an illustration was in order.  "If you had 168 pieces of candy and your friend asked for one, would you give it to him?"  A little voice answered clearly and firmly "No!"

Monsignor rephrased and directed the question to another child "If you had 168 pieces of candy and your brother asked for one, you'd give it to him.  Wouldn't you?"  Again, the answer is an emphatic "No!  He never shares with me."  The entire congregation busted out laughing uproariously.  

At this point Monsignor abandoned the question and answer part of the program and made his point that these children have reached the "age of accountability" and must now attend church to satisfy their Sunday obligation and, until they're big enough to get there on their own, it's their parents responsibility to get them there.  He then returned to the altar, gave his final blessing and followed the recession out of the church.

We left the church with everyone talking about the refreshing honesty of children.  Even the stoic and serious Monsignor was smiling with a twinkle in his eye as we filed out and shook his hand.