Burnt Soup & Memories of Africa

I went to visit Chief, yesterday. Here's his "Proof of Life" picture. He's happy as can be, in a much busier environment. I found him tethered with a front row seat of the action and a horde of teenage girls who couldn't wait to tell me that they're only part of his new fan club. 

I did ride Chief in a lesson, for old time's sake. It reminded me of my childhood when someone else had been riding my bicycle and the seat felt funny for a moment.

We have a new foster family member in the house. Cassie is a ten year old collie girl who has been loved her whole life. Unfortunately, her owners have fallen on hard times. Their future is uncertain so they did the best they could in signing Cassie over to us to be rehomed. This gentle soul is free of anxieties and psychosies. She walks around with a smile and a wag for everyone. She'll be a great companion for someone.

Yesterday afternoon, I left Cassie at home with The Artistic One. Knowing I wouldn't be back for several hours, I asked him to take her out for a potty break sometime befor he left to join me. That's not as simple as it sounds. We have a house with stairs down to the back yard and a dog with a history of having broken her leg, when slipping and getting hung up on just such open backed stairs. Cassie doesn't do stairs. This means leashing up and going around the house or across the street, to find some enticing lawn, on which to pee. The additional complication is that The Artistic One is  semi-disabled, with one leg much shorter than the other and the balance problems that have increased with age. "Please walk the dog" is not something I ask lightly. I couldn't ask TAO to go for a spin with a more rambunctious canine but Miss Manners (Cassie) is an exception, so he agreed.

After riding Chief, I headed for our business, to meet with G, whom we've known for decades and who is in a similar profession and needed samples of something we carry, that he does not. He has also lined up investors for several projects over the years and has a good understanding of the specialized aspects of our enterprise. I had mentioned to him that TAO needs to retire and that we're looking to sell to, or joint-venture with some new blood. He has someone in mind and wanted to chat more before making his presentation. TAO planned to meet us there at 5pm.

G visited, asked questions and then told us about his potential investors. He has two brothers in mind, who are looking to place some family money in America, where they grew up. He has known them since his school days. 

If there's one country that comes to mind when anyone starts a conversation about suspiciously large sums of money in need of a home, Nigeria has to be top of the list. Is there anyone alive who has not received letters, faxes and now emails from "Very Trustworthy" lawyers for, or descendants of Nigerian Generals or high placed government officials?

My parents lived in Nigeria for ten years, before I was born. My Mother flew home to England, gave birth to me at my Grandparents' house in Cornwall, then travelled back to West Africa with me, a six week old babe in arms; in the days when planes had visible whirling propellors and multiple refuelling and mechanical readjusting stops along the way; planned or forced.

I was three when the family moved back to Europe. I'm not sure how many of my "memories" are from those young days or from the home movies, flickering across the bedsheet screen that Dad would occasionally errect and we'd sit in the dark with the click, click, click of the projector in the background and listen to his and Mum's narration of life in Africa.

I know that I was a happy, chubby, blonde child in an inflatable paddling pool with a Nigerian Nanny who had her work cut out to keep me from downing fistfulls of red hibiscus flowers and dirt, that I could reach by leaning over the squishy side, uninhibited bare bottom skywards. Nanny was from Biafra. Those troubles hadn't started yet, when we left. Dad often wondered aloud what became of her. My parents had purchased a small shop for her as a parting gift but had no means of staying in touch.

Joey, our African Grey parrot, was a part of my childhood. He was very vocal; immitating phones, voices, dogs barking. He was also quite scary. Joey loved and trusted my Father, who had rescued him and brought him home from the marketplace. Joey's red tail feathers had all been pulled out to be used in JuJu magic. Joey did not like humans, other than Dad, with whom he would lie on his back, in Dad's hand, for tummy rubs and take food from between Dad's lips.

Real memories linger of playing on the living room floor and suddenly freezing as Joey alighted on my shoulder. His talons alone could be uncomfortable and he was not averse to nipping an ear, with that beak, strong enough to crush nuts. Our dachshund always made herself scarce when Joey was out of his cage.

Fast forward to 1978, when I was nineteen. My parents had left the rat-race and bought a general store and bed'n breakfast on the Cornish coast. Out of the blue, an old colleague of Dad's came in to buy a newspaper. He was on holiday and had no idea that he would find my Father behind the counter of a little shop, in a village that lived from tin-mining, fishing, farming and tourism.

A very short time later, Dad received a job offer to return to Nigeria for one last contract, as a consultant for the Nigerian Government; overseeing the construction of eighteen oil refineries, by a miriad of foreign sub-contractors. 

Anyone who has owned a small business knows that it's a lot more work, worry and time obligation than you ever imagined. I have a fridge-magnet that reads "The only thing more overrated than natural childbirth is owning your own business!" Truer words do not exist.

Dad didn't really want to go back and asked for some impossible terms, to deter them from wanting him. They accepted immediately. One of his conditions had been that he could bring his family with him, but you can't walk away from a business and suddenly leave it in the hands of strangers. I was working with horses in a Jumping Yard in Epping Forrest at the time. I gave my notice and came back to run the shop where I'd worked before and after school and during summer vacations in my early teens. Mum went to Nigeria with Dad for six months and then we traded places.

Landing at Lagos airport, skimming jungle, interspersed with plane carcasses, left over from the Biafran War; in a country that had no metal recycling industry, wrecks stay by the road or runway, wherever they expire. 

The arrivals area was my first experience of tropical heat and humidity, as well as of being a minority. Hundreds of dark black faces, bold printed clothes and robes and a few ex-pats with agents to guide them though and pay the ubiquitous back-dash bribes, in order to be reunited with luggage.

I received a Nigerian drivers' license, without ever taking a test. An agent went to pay off the appropriate authorities and voila! I only drove on Victoria island, the safe suburb, near Lagos, where we lived. If I went farther afield, I had a driver.

There are two many anecdotes from that six month period, when planning receptions and dressing for dinner were an important part of my daily life. This post has taken on a life of its own, as it is.

When it was time to return to the airport to go home for Christmas in England, I should have expected that the surprises were not all behind me. If you've ever been bumped from an oversold flight, you know how frustrating that can be. In this case, our plane came in from Kano and was already fuller than it should have been. As we waited in line to head out through security and cross the tarmac on foot to our waiting plane, it was obvious that such a crowd were never all going to fit on the plane we could see a few hundred yards away.

I was at the airport with a British nanny who worked for the British Ambassador and his wife, Candida. (Perfect name for the job:) We were with a group of Irish Lads, with whom we'd had some fun during our stay. I have to give them points for initiative. They opened the large windows and we stepped outside, followed by a steady stream of would-be passengers. The walk to the plane became faster and faster until we ran to claim a step on the boarding ladder. The simple system in place appeared to be "He who has his behind ensconced in a seat, when the plane is full, gets to fly home". We made it but there were people I knew, with valid tickets in hand who were required to disembark and try again another day.

When I arrived home from yesterday's meeting, I found our garage door wide open and, from outside, could hear the angry shrill of the smoke detector. TAO had started preparing one of hismagnificent vegetable  soups, that we portion out  and freeze for future consumption. Unfortunately, he'd turned the stove on high and left. Three hours later, the large cauldron of water had evaporated and leeks, carrots, potatoes, watercress and onions were blackened and nasty, odiferous smoke filled the top two feet of the house, from the ceiling down. I carried the offending pot into the garage, turned on the stove vent and began opening doors and windows. 

Cassie was upset. She's not keen on loud noises. She didn't realize she was lucky to be alive. When TAO came in I felt sorry for him for the loss of his soup, which he so looks forward to. He offered to take us out to dinner to compensate but I was a smelly mess of horse hair and residual smoke and couldn't abandon poor Cassie again that evening. 

We always have something edible in the house. It wasn't hard to come up with a meal, especially to feed one who wouldn't dare complain, for once. We had radishes, fresh egg pasta and ham with several glasses of wine.

I had a hard time sleeping last night. I'm not sure if it was Spring allergies or smoke inhalation but breathing was hard, even after a dose of antihistamine. I also had all the possibilities of selling our business and all the memories of Africa, that the conversation had evoked, trotting around behind my eyelids with heavy hoofbeats.

 

 

The Eleventh Hour for Chief

Chief is safe! He's moving to his new home tomorrow. After some false hopes and rejections, Chief is no longer a throw away horse, he's headed for a reputable local riding school, who see him as a potential Western lesson horse for adults.
I'm greatly relieved, as Saturday is moving day at our barn and was to be Chief's deadline for auction. I'll even be able to check in on him from time to time.

An Informed Decision

Those of you who have known me for any length of time must be aware that I'm more likely to be found at Petfood Express than at the Shopping Mall. My recent purchase of an iPad Air was a journey, that worked its way through a long thought process, as it's hard to manage selection criteria without a complete understanding of my needs, nor a vision of the results that could be achieved.
The quest for a new purse was easier as I had isolated the parameters required to successfully marry form and function.
My last Handbag of Glory was purchased three years ago and brought me great joy. Unfortunately, The supple red leather was grubbied, beyond redemption, from being slung onto the floor of many  cars and construction sites; loaded up with tape-measures, phones, dog-treats and stone samples; and the candy-striped silk lining was ingeniously stapled together, some time ago, to stop my freshly sharpened wooden pencils from making their escape. I had also learned from it that a more structured design would be preferable to the shapeless puddle of soft raspberry hide and silk that clumped anything I might need at the very bottom of it's ever shifting depths, or let the contents dribble over the collapsed lips.
It hurt to realize that no amount of saddle soap was going to save GloryBag  from her demise. Before laying her regretfully in the kitchen trash receptacle, I unclipped the long shoulder strap and stashed it away. It may serve a new purpose one day as a dog-leash or as the fanciest gate tie you could imagine; very usefull with a swivel-clip at each end.
I had reverted to a trusty black Fossil purse that had languished on my closet shelf, displaced by my (then) new favorite. The Fossil fit many points on my wish list; stylish, without being too blinged-out; handles that could be swung onto my shoulder one-handed and enough separations inside and out for checkbook, phone, business cards, dog treats, etc. The Fossil's failing, and the reason it had been replaced, was the lack of complete closure at the top. The magnetic clasp only covers an inch in the middle and, the bag being tall for its slender base, had led to a driving technique combining the abrupt turn of a steering wheel with a reflexive, outstretched grab-attempt to prevent the inevitable cascade  of chap-stick, pens and private unmentionables, all of which were obviously custom designed to roll under seats and brake pedals. The Fossil was also likely to be responsible for travel-related thrombosis as it was necessary to contain it locked between my ankles in order to descend from any flight with the passport and other contents that I had started out with at the beginning of my trip.
When I had time to kill last week; early for my "How To" appointment at the Apple Store, I turned into the inviting "Big Expensive Store" next door. I had a half hour to kill and made a bee line for the handbag department. I now know that, upon winning the lottery, I will be more than content to acquire a Burberry shoulder bag and, for a mere $2,000 more, a matching iPad carrying case. I'll still stick with my turquiose rubber Otter phone protector though. I have found that seeing a phone fall and then bounce, unscathed, is worth more than the prestige labels can offer.
Saturday saw a one day sale at Macy's. I had the notion that Fossil, which Macy's carry, might have another purse for me to love, as so much was right with the one that I already have. Not to be. Fossil has gone "Organic Granola" on me, with cross shoulder messenger bag styling in muddy colors that must surely have sought inspiration from old images of the Pony Express saddle bags. 
Leaving homeless-chic for another day, I was lured by bright lemon and royal blue in bold shapes. Michael Kors, I like the shape of your bags but why ruin good leather by embossing it with chicken-scratches, until it's stiff and hard; too tough for me?
I didn't know that Macy's sold Coach handbags. I had a Coach bag many years ago. It was the top item on the Christmas wish list given to husband, in circa 1990, entitled "Some things you need to know for a harmonious Christmas this year!" (item reference numbers and color selections, as specified). The Coach was a dark mossy green. It was just right and I carried it for a very long time.
The Coach Store has been one of my infrequent window shopping magnet locations. They are out of my usual price range and I've been pleased that the last few times I went there, nothing made me sad at what I was missing. A strange and inexplicable negative satisfaction equation.

This time I was faced with three good options and almost fell for a classy, creamy beige number that I finally decided was both too big and too vulnerable to fit in my world. It was memorable though. The second candidate was smart dark blue. It had a bit of gold chain-link detail that was too much for me and the dark blue was almost black and I was in the mood for something brighter. I've forgoten what that one looked like already so I'm sure I was right to pass it up.

Did I mention there was a sale on that day? 30% off some already reduced prices. I saved my receipt and checked it out online, as it was quite extraordinary and might have fallen into the "Too good to be true" category. But no! My new purse is on the Coach website, not hopelessly out of date, and is listed for considerably more that I shelled out at Macy's. The black Fossil will go back into back-up purse land until next time. Now I must treat the new beauty with leather shield and transfer the nuts and bolts of my existence to their new home.

Daffy

Who knew that a forecast of rain would have us all going around with goofy smiles on our faces, buzzing with day-before-Christmas anticipation? 

The last thirteen months have produced less than six inches of the wet stuff. There are reservoirs so empty that the drowned villages at their depths are now tourist attractions and the salmon can't find enough water to swim upstream for spawning. Farmers have been "harvesting" their herds as the cost of feeding them,when they should be eating grass, is prohibitive.

I rode in the new rain last Sunday. It ended up being a private lesson as, one by one, other riders showed up and decided that, for them, the pleasure didn't measure up against the potential drenching. 

Each ride is bitter-sweet just now. There are changes afoot. Our school-horse lesson program is moving. Our trainer has been given an opportunity to run a complete livery and lesson center in a barn that was bequeathed to the city. It's been a community stables for a number of years but had not been managed well by the concessionaires. The selection process was thorough and arduous; from sixteen candidates down to two finalists. The final Town Hall meeting was a standing room only  affair, with a line around the room of people waiting to speak for one side or the other. 

I was impressed by the perspicacity and depth of the process. The Mayor, Vice Mayor and three Council Members asked good questions and shared their thoughts. When it came time for them to vote they all praised the quality of both applicants. The first to vote went against our trainer. The second stated that in the absence of an obvious difference in qualifications and skills, he would go with the maturity of the older person. The third turn was that of the Vice Mayor, an attractive professional woman, who gave him the Silicon Valley equivalent of a bitch-slap, saying loud and 

clear that she had been CEO of her own first company at thirty. Next was the Mayor. He began by addressing the other side, with quite a speech of appreciation for what she brought to the table. It seemed that this would be the third and deciding vote for her, then he began speaking to Torie. He spoke of advice he'd been given early in his career and that had proven valuable, to always try to hire people who were better and smarter than he. Then he said "Torie, you're a Superstar! You have my vote". That meant that there were two votes for each side. It could easily have gone either way. There were no bad choices to be made. As suspenseful as it all was, we did carry the day with the fifth vote breaking the tie in our favor.

Today, barely two weeks later, there was an Open House for the community to be introduced to their new Barn Concessionaire. The school horses will be moving in soon and be given some time to acclimate before lessons resume. The herd is being whittled down. Torie must purchase the horses as part of this transition, so the financial commitment is daunting. She's selected a nucleus of reliable, safe and healthy horses that will fit with the majority of her riders. Unfortunately Chief is not on her wish list. 

Chief is still a bit of a wild card. Not everyone can ride him and sometimes those that do end up back on the ground anyway. He's a lot of fun and I admit to some attachment to him but I agree he's not a money maker at this time and she can't jeopardize her future by being too soft hearted. She's already done an amazing job of finding great homes for several old faithfuls to live out their days as well loved family members. 

Chief is only eight. He's big and striking to look at. He's a bit behind on his education, as he didn't start work until he was set in his independent ways. On the other hand, he has been started right and can be described as unspoiled and having a great work-ethic. This horse loves to learn. He needs a match with a knowledgeable home and he has only a short time to find one, or he's off to auction.

When my foster dogs move on to new homes, I miss them but know that they are headed for Happy Endings. Chief, not so much. 

I've spoken to a couple of the better riding school programs in the area, about Chief. I've even offered to half-lease him from them, to make it worth their while and to keep guiding him in a positive way, for everyone's sake. Someone's trying him out tomorrow. I hope that it works out, for all of us. 

Freedom, your name is iPad

Thank goodness for a visit from a friend who is knowledge-laden and bowed down with computer lore, as well as carrying great insights about the aspects of my life that needed nurturing by a new technological touchstone. After much puzzling over which digi-friend would be the best companion on my time travels to catch up and become validated as a citizen of twentyfirstdom, there is an iPad Air in the Chiefdom, with a Regal red cloak and a magical, magnetically attachable key-board, in lieu of a scepter.
Said much traveled and foreign-living friend, (dragged) drove me five miles to the new, and previously unexplored, territories of  Bighallways Shopping Mall where many Blueshirted minions were scurrying to arrive at a glass cube, named AppleStore. The secret of the blue shirts was revealed as the glass panels opened before them, whilst a wizard stroked his magic book and waved his fingers in graceful, yet incomprehensible gestures. Several attempts to follow the blue ones through the portal were rebuffed by the gate-keeping Sorcerer, until the spell written on his tome turned from 09:59 to, what must be, the witching hour of 10:00. Open sesame!
We were paired with a charming Blueshirt named Jill, who maintained her composure and lovely smile in the face of a torrent of queries and way too much extraneous information. Lovely Gadabout Friend negotiated "many useful things" to be added to my personal electronic steed, as well as acquiring a 10% employee discount; although she does not own a blue shirt and that is not one of  her colors. May hap we wore them down?

Feeling Left Out

I've been feeling left out of the blog community for a while now. Admittedly, I don't have as much down-time at work as I used to and I rarely have access to the computer at home. I used to drive into the office on weekends sometimes, just to express myself. I'm working towards remedying that soon, with a laptop purchase.
I try to support the blogs I follow. I read them as often as I can and leave short comments, or try to. Sometimes, I'll write a comment that is a more long winded and heart felt response to a post. Almost invariably, that will be the comment that gets a "failure" message or require that I join Google plus and give them the keys to all my contacts, including my business email list. I did once succumb to the temptation and found that Myeffingpony was connected to my professional LinkedIn account. I was horrified. Those two worlds are not meant to be mixed.
I'm alone at work this morning. I am ahead of my obligations and don't feel guilty spending some time trying to understand where all my friends went. (Did I mention I hate the changes to Gmail?). Well, mystery solved! One hundred and fifty of you must have been behaving very badly, as my Protective G-Deity had relegated you to spam. WTF? Am I not considered able to judge for myself? Apparently not.
I have a lot of reading to catch up on. I'm so looking forward to it:)

Gingered Mango Salsa and more friends than expected...

 

When we passed through Charles de Gaule Airport in Paris, in October, there were a few things left to gather to fulfill requests by friends or gifts for family. Perfume was one and Foie Gras was another, especially since the sale of Foie Gras has been made illegal in California. I kept my promise to my friends and I brought some back for our own, as yet to be identified, special occasion.

New Years Eve seemed to be suitably festive and present enough guests so that we wouldn't be forced to "foie gras and repeat"as good manners obliged us to do, when staying with friends in St Martins last Christmas.

I gave a great deal of thought to our menu for the evening. It had to be special and copious but find stylish and/or original ways to tempt the palate, and the eye, all the way to the end of a meal of many rich elements and extended duration.

Gingered Mango Salsa was my balance to the foie gras. (Mango, red onion, red seedless grapes, red bell pepper all diced with chopped cilantro, fresh lime juice, salt and pepper and grated fresh ginger). 

We had small toasted circles of French baguette and dark rye-speckled pumpernickel, both as vehicles for the foie gras, and for textural contrast.

My guest list grew suddenly to sixteen, after a phone call requesting permission to bring along some adult children and one Beau, and another call suggesting a person who shouldn't be left out. 

I had already set up my dining area, complete with glassware and candles, but the new head-count was not possible to accommodate in that space.

Thankful to have help from a very kind and hard working house-guest, I undressed my table; moved the couch and armchairs; dragged the original table down the split level steps; located the eight foot long folding table in the garage and switched the dining room and the living room.

All of the food servings were divided into two dishes. I had two salt and pepper zones and two sources of bread.

Butternut Squash soup in petite bowls was a creamy smooth detour of color and flavor without spoiling anyone's appetite, followed by emerald green and blonde watercress and Belgian endive salad, with just the right zing of fresh garlic and mustard in the vinaigrette. By this time I think I'd somewhat redeemed myself in the eyes of our one vegetarian guest. She was on my impromptu attendees list so had to take her chances.

The Artistic One had labored over our next course. Blanquette de Veau has to be done right and he does it perfectly, finishing the sauce with egg-yolks and cream. There are stages of preparation that must follow the right sequence and none be forgotten. I was happy that I'd followed my intuition and brought home three extra pounds of veal stew to make sure we had enough for left overs. We served the Blanquette with mashed potato and puff pastry vol-au-vent shells piled high with mixed mushrooms.

Cheeses circled the table and we used the same cheese plates as dessert receptacles. Every spoon I own was put into service moving Exotic Fruit Salad and Death by Chocolate from dish to mouth. I had delegated desserts and I thank my dessert-bringers.

It's unusual for us to be awake at midnight but careful planning, a many faceted repast and a short afternoon nap, followed by an espresso, had worked a miracle. There was no flagging spirit. There were no drooping eyelids. We were being swept along into a delirium of sweetness as we counted down and embarked on a New Year with noise makers, champagne and cheers. 

In Dog News...

Rany met his new Furrever Mom on Monday and went to live on a farm with Scout (now Lad) and Brady. Scout is a sweet, easy collie who spent some time in my home last year, after being picked up as a stray, by animal control. Rany reminded me of him and I sent Rany's photo to Scout's Human. Her answer was "He looks like he belongs here with us". She called to hear about his personality and decided he was destined to be hers.

Blessings to adopters who have the heart to take on more mature dogs. I've heard that Rany is responding well to some gentle training regarding "chicken chasing etiquette" . He's very teachable, so I know he and the chickens will be fine. It's a far cry from his prior home, shut in  a small concrete patio area with no sight of the outdoors; no walks; no kind human contact for a number of years.

Will work for treats!

You came back!

Rany's brother, Max, was the more neurotic of the two. They were both fearful of strangers but Max had some additional foibles; barking at bicycles, dogs, pedestrians and motor bikes; ducking evasively, if anyone extended a hand to him.

Max was a lucky lucky dog. Amongst the stack of applications that come in and are kept until matched with a potential "ideal dog", Jack had inquired about Rany. 

Ray-Ray has arthritis in one knee and so was not suitable for Jack's active life of running and skateboarding. We started talking to him about "Mad Max". Jack had some dog-obedience experience with prior pets; a bit old-school, but he was willing and interested to try more positive-reinforcement methods. He worked from home so there would be ample attention and company for his dog.

You're my Person!

 We got together twice, for a number of hours, walking together with Max to be sure all of his personality traits came to light and to indoctrinate Jack in the training that had been begun and teach him how to continue to redirect and rehabilitate this needy collie. Of course, we were evaluating Jack's suitability at the same time. We liked that Jack instinctively knelt down on the ground and let Max come to him on his own terms.
A home-check was done. Jack was told his fence was two low and he went out and built a new and taller fence immediately. He was on the phone to us several times a day telling us how excited he was about Max and listing the beds, toys, leash and collars that he'd purchased. It was obvious that he really wanted him.
Max went to live with Jack three weeks before Christmas. We don't confirm an adoption for a few weeks, as dogs need to settle and become secure in a new environment before showing who they really are and people have to be sure that they love a dog and want to keep him. We were also separating a pair of siblings, who had been together since they were litter-mates. I had evaluated them as dogs with very different needs who would do better apart, but you can't ever be sure until you try.
My other collie rescue team-mate and I have taken turns receiving long phone calls from Jack, telling us every new thing that he and Max were experiencing together and asking for advice on specific situations. It's been going well but we still had our doubts.
Jack had prior family holiday plans, out of State and had arranged to have Max stay with my collie team-mate, who has a fluctuating pack of other dogs and does some boarding for rescued collies.

Some humans can be trusted!

These photos, taken when Jack returned, confirmed that Max has found his furrever home and that Jack has found his heart-dog.