“I thought you could swing a hammer better than that,” he says.
He is my husband, the automotive machinist.
Me? I am the writer, who shadowed her husband at work. My Saturday morning in his automotive machine shop went exactly as I expected. But apparently, he expected more…
Stay tuned for the rest of the story.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
A favorite American comfort food and easy meal, a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.
FEW COMFORT FOODS rival simple grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.
Grab two pieces of white bread, add slices of Velveeta cheese, slap the bread together, butter one exterior side, flip, then butter the other side, and toast in a frying pan over low heat until the bread browns and the cheese begins to melt.
Even my teenage son can prepare a grilled cheese sandwich.
Add a bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup, and you have the perfect comfort food that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy and like a kid again. At least that’s my description of a comfort food.
What would you add to this list? Mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, spaghetti, Tator Tot hotdish, chili, chocolate cake? I expect answers will vary depending on where you grew up, maybe even your economic status.
When my oldest daughter was in college a few years ago, she helped organize Grilled Cheese Night in her Winona State University dorm. I found this a bit humorous. But the event was popular and, probably, because the grilled cheese reminded students of home.
Which leads me to wonder…with so many families eating out or grabbing ready-made foods on the go, what will today’s youngsters consider comfort foods? Chicken nuggets, Hot Pockets, frozen pizza, a Big Mac?
Share your thoughts. What are your favorite comfort foods? And, more importantly, why?
A grilled cheese sandwich oozes with Velveeta.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
A coveted Bates Motel towel.
FOR SOME REASON my cousin Dawn, who lives in Morgan, thinks I am the mastermind behind recent correspondence she’s received from Norman Bates. He’s the proprietor of The Bates Motel in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho movie.
Yesterday, Dawn received a letter from Mr. Bates and a hand-embroidered Bates Motel towel, she tells me in an e-mail. Dawn doesn’t expound on the contents, but says she plans to reserve a room in the motel later this year. Honestly, I am surprised, even shocked, that my cousin would consider staying at a place that was the scene of a gruesome murder in a motel room shower in 1960.
Maybe Mr. Bates is offering her a good deal. I don’t know. Whatever, the reason, I’m declining Dawn’s invitation to join her and her family on a California get-away. No, thank you.
If anything, I should discourage my cousin from accepting whatever opportunity Mr. Bates is offering. Considering his past correspondence, which included a dead box elder bug, you would think Dawn would be wary. I mean, really, I think this motel owner may be psycho.
Dawn, apparently, is not concerned given the tone of her e-mail. “I love the towel that I received from the Bates Motel,” she writes. Who, in their right mind, would treasure such a gift? Dawn, I guess. She’s not sure what’s more exciting, the package she received from Norman Bates or her son’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, both of which arrived in the family mailbox yesterday. Can you imagine?
That reminds me of my relatives on my mom’s side. Many, many years ago, these extended family members began spending one week every summer, or every other summer, at a central Minnesota resort. They stayed in a rambling old house. Perhaps the place reminded them of the spacious old house where Norman Bates and his mother lived. I’m not sure. But soon enough, the resort house was dubbed “The Bates Motel.”
“What I remember is walking in the back door on our arrival and saying ‘Hi Mother, we’re back,’ and than walking by the locked room at the top of the stairs, touching it and saying, ‘Hi, Mother,’” my Aunt Dorothy tells me. “That locked room was made into a third bathroom and took away part of the fun. We also used to get letters from there.”
Dorothy doesn’t recall details of those letters or much else. Her sister, my Aunt Rae, is researching the history of the Minnesota Bates Motel and will get back to me. But I remember hearing of family Olympics competition that rewarded winners with hand-embroidered Bates Motel towels. Why covet a gold medal when you can have a towel?
I know one thing for certain. When I stayed at the Minnesota Bates Motel in 2006, I hated using the upstairs bathroom across from my bedroom, especially at night. The shower curtain there depicted a menacing hand, grasping a butcher knife, poised above the silhouette of a woman.
Dawn, do you understand now why I’m cautious about anything remotely related to Norman Bates or The Bates Motel? How could you possibly think I have anything to do with the towel and letter you received yesterday from Mr. Bates?
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Hand-stitched lettering adorns a Bates Motel towel.
Check out my December 15, 2009, post, “My cousin receives a chilling letter from The Bates Motel.”
SHE HAS HER whole day mapped out, she tells her friends last week, and then tells me.
First, she’ll stop at Caribou Coffee for free coffee on her way to work in St Paul.
And that’s it, she says, and laughs.
Leave it to my daughter Amber, my eldest, to have such grand plans for her not-quite-a-quarter-of-a-century birthday. I knew those preliminary plans would change, and they did.
Today, at 10:56 a.m. to be exact, she turns another year older. And if she was home, I would hug my daughter and tell her I love her and bake a birthday treat.
But she’s not and I can’t, but I can and I can’t.
She’ll celebrate with co-workers and friends. The hug from me will have to wait. The “I love you” arrives in an e-mail and a phone call. A co-worker is bringing brownies.
This I learn Tuesday evening, when Amber calls to wish her brother a happy 16th birthday. With three children, what are the odds that my oldest would be born on February 10 and my youngest on February 9?
That aside, Amber shares one more bit of news. Retired U. S. Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor will be in the Twin Cities today. And there’s a slim possibility that maybe, just maybe, Amber will meet this first female to serve on the nation’s highest court.
Whatever the days holds, and that also includes a free meal with friends at Noodles & Company and then an evening at church, I’m certain my daughter will enjoy every minute.
I wish I could celebrate this day, her birthday, the day I became a mother, with her. But kids have this way of growing up and moving on. One minute they are babies and the next minute they are adults. Or so it seems.
A birthday rose for my oldest daughter, Amber, photographed this summer in St. Cloud.
Happy birthday, sweet daughter of mine!
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
When will all of this snow STOP? A stop sign on the corner by my house is nearly buried in snow.
MY TEENAGE SON is getting his birthday wish today—a snow day.
Last night he asks, “Do you think we’ll have school tomorrow?”
His dad and I look at each other. “Maybe a late start,” Randy says.
Later, as we’re watching the 10 o’clock news, announcements of late-school starts and closings are already scrolling across the bottom of the television screen. To Caleb’s disappointment, “Faribault” does not follow “Fairmont,” meaning classes are on as normal.
But travel conditions apparently change overnight, when another several inches of snow fall atop the eight or so inches already on the ground. Or perhaps school and transportation officials realize safety should come first.
My husband, who has switched on the TV before leaving for work Tuesday morning, tells me that Faribault schools are starting two hours late. OK, I mumble as I kiss him goodbye, then pull the bed covers tighter around my neck.
Soon I am up, though, unable to sleep. At 8 a.m., I switch on the local news. Just to make sure. Sometimes situations change. After learning that the Senior Clothes Closet, the Rice County Day Activity Center and a few other places are closed, the radio announcer gets to the schools. I’m standing in my kitchen, wondering why he doesn’t announce the school delays and closings first.
“All of these schools are closed,” he finally says, beginning a long list that includes Faribault and almost every other nearby school.
My boy, my now 16-year-old birthday boy will be so happy, oh, so happy to hear this news, when he finally awakens. I expect that will be around noon.
Which is the car in our driveway and which is the snowbank? Tough to distinguish the two, isn't it?
OK, I'll admit there's some beauty in this latest 10-inch snowfall, like my neighbor's snow-draped evergreen.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Eggs are for more than eating.
MY DAUGHTERS, both in their early 20s, sometimes share snippets of their lives that make me a bit jealous of their youthful exuberance.
Take my eldest, who drove down from south Minneapolis on Sunday. A few hours into her visit, Amber asks to use her brother’s laptop. She wants to show us something on her Facebook page. I’m not on Facebook and wouldn’t have a clue how to use it, if I wanted. And I don’t want.
But back to the point. Amber proceeds to show us a hilarious video of her friend James lying on the floor of her basement laundry room, cup clenched in mouth, attempting to catch eggs dropped through a first-floor laundry chute.
Tim is dropping the egg yolks and, on the third try, hits the target. Maybe you have to see this clip to appreciate the humor. But it’s pretty darned funny. Once the task is completed, Tim and James stand side-by-side with bottles of laundry detergent, mimicking a television commercial. Their friend David, who is among the creative talent at a Minneapolis-based ad agency, suggests the laundry commercial.
As I’m viewing the egg episode, I’m thinking two things: How did Tim come up with this idea to drop eggs down a laundry chute? Secondly, if tweaked a bit, this clip is just odd enough and funny enough to work as a detergent or stain removal ad.
Now, on to daughter number two, who is a college student in Wisconsin. Recently, Miranda participated in a photo scavenger hunt during a friend’s birthday party. Among the craziest of images needed was a picture of team members petting a cow. Unlike their competitors, who aim directly for the toy section of a major retailer, Miranda and crew head for, no, not a Wisconsin farm, but for the meat department in a grocery store. Their photo depicts a slab of beef, sans cow. Had I been the judge, I would award extra points for creative thinking.
Another photo requirement calls for them to beg a French fry from a stranger. So the team drives to a fast food restaurant, spies a group of high school boys and asks for a fry. They get the single potato slice and permission to dip it in ketchup, earning them extra points.
I could tell you more about that photo scavenger hunt, but those details involve an old man dancing in a bar, the YMCA song and a parked car. Nothing criminal, nothing bad, but just better left unsaid.
Oh, to be 20-something again, chasing cows in Wisconsin, dropping eggs down a laundry chute…
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
HAVING GROWN UP, as my three kids would say, “in the middle of nowhere,” I appreciate the opportunities available to me as an adult.
But before I get into that, I just want to clarify that, yes, while my hometown of Vesta lies quite some distance from any major city, the people living there today certainly are not isolated. They are a fine bunch who simply must drive out of town to enjoy cultural amenities. I’m proud to call that spot on the southwestern Minnesota prairie my hometown. Very proud.
However, as a child, I had limited opportunities. Part of that was the time—the 1960s and 1970s—and, yes, part of it was the location. We had no bowling alley, no movie theater, no roller rink, no, not even a library in Vesta. And we most definitely did not have live theatrical performances. Sure, we could drive to Redwood Falls or Marshall for entertainment, but, in all honesty, my poor farm family simply didn’t have the extra monies for such pleasures.
My culture experiences were limited to high school concerts and high school plays, or a visiting missionary speaking at the Lutheran church.
So today, whenever The Paradise Center for the Arts in Faribault, where I now live, features a performance by either The Merlin Players or the Paradise Community Theater, I typically attend. Perhaps subconsciously, I am making up for all those years when I was culturally-deprived. But rather, I would like to think that I enjoy good community and professional theatre.
The Paradise Center for the Arts theatre setting for "South Pacific," performed this past summer.
I simply feel incredibly blessed to live in a community that has both a theatre AND a library.
But it’s theatre that I wish to address in this blog post. Last night my husband and I attended two one-act comedies at The Paradise. Bob’s Date and And the Winner Is not only provided us with much-needed laughter during this long, long winter, but also thought-provoking material to contemplate.
As much as I enjoyed the acting and the story lines in these productions, I was disappointed. That disappointment comes not from the stage, but from the audience, or lack thereof. I doubt even half the chairs in this 300-plus seat auditorium were filled.
I am embarrassed, downright embarrassed, that in this city of about 22,000, we cannot fill every single seat.
If this had occurred only once, I might consider this a fluke. But I have been to other shows with similar low attendance. I cannot attribute this to the plays or the performers. I have enjoyed only outstanding shows in The Paradise. In all fairness to the topic, there have been sold-out performances at this theatre.
Yet, in a community this size, every show should be a sell-out. Tickets, at $12 for an adult, are reasonable. I mean, honestly, can you go to a movie for $12?
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
WHAT DO A MAILBOX, snow and taxes have in common?
Well, thus far, they’ve all factored into my Friday.
I started my day with one simple objective, to get all of our tax information together for the tax preparer. I admit that I’ve been putting off this task because, honestly, I detest it. I am not a numbers person. I am not a person who likes forms. And even though I’ve kept meticulous records of expenditures throughout the year, gathering tax information still takes time, time I would rather use for writing.
So I am taking a break now from the tax stuff to get my writing fix, and to tell you about the mailbox and the snow.
I opened my mailbox around noon to discover two unwelcome pieces of mail. One, from the United States Postal Service, tells me that mail delivery to our house will stop unless we shovel our sidewalk and steps. Uh, yeah, when my husband cleared the snow the other day, he forgot the front steps and short sidewalk leading to the steps.
A snippet of the U.S. Postal Service warning delivered to my mailbox on this snowy Friday morning.
We are first-time offenders, but it is clear to me that “To Receive Mail delivery during the Winter Season: Snow covered or icy sidewalks, steps and driveways must be kept clear.” Now, if I knew how to underline that warning in red, I would, because the mail carrier used a red pen. I feel like the student with the failing grade, with a big red F printed across the top of my homework.
The second piece of unwanted mail comes from University Accounting Service, telling my second daughter that her college loan account information may have been compromised. Great, I think, as I email her and wonder if the mailing is legitimate.
Now, as I’m writing, snow is falling. There’s no sense, I think, in clearing the path for the mail carrier until this snowfall stops. And that could be spring.
Writing about snow makes me think again of my college daughter. She’s planning a trip from La Crosse to the Twin Cities today, so I hear from her sister. I’ve already emailed her, suggesting that she cancel the trip because of the weather. I doubt she will listen, but at least I’ve tried.
Now, I should get back to those taxes, because I really don’t want another federal government mailing with warning words bold-faced and underlined in red.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
The Cheese Cave opened last June along Central Avenue in historic downtown Faribault.
WHEN I PURCHASED a chunk of White Cheddar Cranberry Cheese at The Cheese Cave in Faribault a few weeks ago, I was thinking of my husband. He likes cranberries. I mean he really, really, really likes cranberries.
He will be the first to tell you, and I will agree, that my extended family is not much of a cranberry-consuming bunch. When we get together for Thanksgiving, one small can of cranberries feeds the whole family, with plenty left over.
That’s not to say I dislike cranberries. I simply don’t care for plain cranberries, jellied or whole. Now cranberry juice, oddly enough, is my favorite of all juices.
So with that background, you will understand that choosing a cheese speckled with cranberries would not be an expected choice for me. But remember, I was thinking of my cranberry-loving spouse.
Cheeses I purchased recently at The Cheese Cave, left to right, Cheddar blue, White Cheddar Cranberry and St. Pete's Select Blue Cheese.
I wasn’t considering the tastes of my nearly 16-year-old son, who likes cheese, yogurt and ice cream and drinks so much milk that a family cow would be a good investment. It turns out he not only willingly tried the White Cheddar Cranberry Cheese, but actually likes it.
He doesn’t, however, know the truth about this cheese. My son thought, still thinks, that he was eating cheese peppered with, well, hot red peppers. (I assure you, this cheese tastes nothing like Pepper Jack Cheese.) But I’m not about to tell my finicky I-don’t-like-fruit-except-for-bananas teen that he was eating a forbidden-from-his-diet fruit like cranberries.
And I don’t expect you to reveal this secret either.
This all reminds me of a sister-in-law, who shall remain unnamed. She liked Rocky Mountain Oysters….until she discovered that she wasn’t eating oysters after all, but…
The Cheese Cave is housed in a beautifully-restored building in downtown Faribault. The interior, with an arched ceiling and sandstone-colored walls, mimics the caves where Faribault Dairy ages its cheeses.
CHECK OUT THE CHEESE CAVE, one of the newest businesses in historic downtown Faribault and touted as a gourmet destination. Located at 318 Central Avenue North, this store serves as the retail outlet for The Faribault Dairy Company, award-winning makers of cave-aged Blue and Gorgonzola Cheeses. In addition to an interesting variety of cheeses, you’ll find gourmet foods here. You can also grab a bite to eat with specialty soups, sandwiches and salads served. Those can be paired with a limited selection of wine, beer and drinks. Cooking demonstrations and wine, beer and cheese tasting are also offered at The Cheese Cave.
The Cheese Cave, a blue cheese lovers destination for Amablu and St. Pete's Select Blue Cheese, made by The Faribault Dairy Company.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
NEVER HAS THERE BEEN a winter when so many people I know have been involved in motor vehicle accidents here in Minnesota.
The latest occurred yesterday, when Allison hit a slick spot on Interstate 35 north of Faribault and rolled her truck. A fence installed in the median to prevent cross-over crashes kept Ali’s vehicle from impacting an oncoming semi. A motorist found Ali dangling from her seatbelt, apparently unhurt. However, she and her unborn baby were being held for observation overnight in a metro hospital.
Last Friday evening, Tiffany rolled her car four times on a Rice County highway after a semi truck, minus the trailer, failed to stop at a stop sign. Tiffany opted to take the ditch rather than slam into the semi cab. She and two passengers received relatively minor injuries, the most serious a sprained wrist and a compression fracture of the elbow.
Molly, who suffered the arm injuries, said she would rather have the pain than what may have been.
Then there’s David, who two months after a serious accident on a snowy county road, remains in a medically-induced coma. I don’t know details of the incident, only that he was run over by a tractor. I pray almost every day for David and his family.
And finally, the most serious crash occurred nearly two weeks ago involving three vehicles on an icy stretch of Minnesota Highway 60 west of Faribault. The accident left 19-year-old Kim, who was born in an Ethiopian refugee camp and came with his Sudanese family to the U.S. in 1994, dead. I did not know Kim personally, but he attended the same Christian day school my children attended. During Sunday morning worship services at my church, Trinity Lutheran, we prayed for Kim’s family and the Sudanese community.
It’s been a long winter already here in Minnesota. But, no matter where you live, whether in sunny California, icy Arkansas or snowy Minnesota, be safe on the roadways.
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*Names of all individuals involved, except Kim, have been changed to protect privacy.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
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