Things Are Not What They Seem. Nor Are They Otherwise

Last October we placed a contract on our new Samara home and closed in January. It's now officially late March. Not early March or mid-March. It's late March; and we're still back in Texas waiting to sell our home. That's not quite right. We're still waiting to put the For Sale sign in the yard. We're waiting on my disposa-phobic husband; but that's a whole 'nuther story, another blog, or at least another post. Yes, I am the victim of a disposa-phob. There. I said it.

We have so much stuff to sell, donate, or toss. And you know what I've discovered? That change nonsense in the so-called Serenity Prayer ain't all that helpful in keeping me serene. So I blog and garden; because other than those tasks, my work here is done. Everything else is all up to my honey-bunny, Rusty.

Rusty makes these pecan bars. I call it crack. It is the best food I have ever put in my mouth, ever. If there was one food remaining on the planet, I’d wish for these pecan bars. And they contain all four food groups, so you know that they're healthy.

Start with a thin layer of home-baked shortbread with loads of butter (there's the fats group). On top of the shortbread is poured a caramel/pecan layer (the protein and vegetable groups), which hardens just enough to stay stiff but not so much as to crack the crack. Now dip half of the bar (picture Heath Bar size) into dark or milk chocolate (the dairy group . . . and vegetable). Voila! Alternatively, dip half of the bar into white chocolate. Oh snap! Just dip one half into brown chocolate and the other into white chocolate.

Here's why I mention the crack bars -- the recipe is a Rusty-secret. It's not written down, and I cannot duplicate 'em. He guards his crack as he guards his garage full of stuff. Now tell me, ladies . . . who's the control freak here? Again, that's a whole 'nuther blog post.

Speaking of blogging . . . I can't do it! I've tried. Months ago I agreed to our home-name of Finca los Jalapeños; and now I can't do it. I type the words into posts using it as the name of our home. But it's just not working for me. About a week ago I made the announcement. Maybe it was the snow, then the rain . . . and my longing to be back in our Samara home. Maybe it was the binge-watch of HGTV's Caribbean Life where all the homes had cute little names. Cute, if not appropriate. Still, most struck me as more acceptable than Finca los Jalapeños. Rusty took my announcement surprisingly well. Not even an attempt to persuade me to hold on to the Jap house. 

Naturally, I'd love to come up with a name all by myself. But compromise is necessary, I realize. Actually, I'm lying and I don't realize it at all . . . I begrudgingly accept compromise. So whatever name I come up with, it had better be good . . . so good that Rusty will whole-heartedly bunny-hop on board. After all, I still have a plaque to order and paint. Incidentally, I've not given up on the toucan image. In fact, I've not necessarily bailed on the toucan with a jalapeño in its beak. But finca, casa, ranchero, hacienda, château, manor, or hut . . . the name shall not involve a Jalapeño.

Today the home's name is Mil Colinas. A thousand hills. Not Casa Mil Colinas, not Hacienda Mil Colinas . . . simply Mil Colinas. Yes, it's absolutely a nod to Rwanda's Paul Rusesabagina, the Hôtel des Mille Collines, and my you're-bored-with-it love of Africa; but today it also describes the thousand hills that we must climb before we can return to our home in Samara. Okay, I'm lying again. I don't have a thousand hills to climb. I need only get two little pet-health-certificates and buy an airline ticket. Honey-bunny, on the other hand, is facing Kilimanjaro!

My work here is done. My work here is done. Today that's my personal serenity prayer. From here on it's all up to honey-bunny. And if he ever decides to sell the Texas home, he'll move to Costa Rica. How do you say voila in Spanish? Lo que hay!