Recipes makes approximately 6 one-half cup servings.
Growing up, potato salad was one of my favorite comfort foods. I loved standing by my grandmother, watching as she processed ingredients in that old mason jar-type chopper. I still love potato salad, but unfortunately, it doesn't agree with my health. This light alternative still has that wonderful potato salad taste, but minus the high calories, carbs, and fat count.
Recipes makes approximately 6 one-half cup servings.
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Such an honor to be interviewed by multi-talented illustrator/author and friend, JD Holiday.
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I’ll admit it. Jealousy is my companion when friends embark on vacations. With smiles that rival beauty pageant contestants’, my girlfriends and their families pile into perfectly packed vehicles, leaving pasty faced and returning Coppertone spokespeople. I endure days (okay, an hour…max) of DVDs showcasing their Brady Bunch type adventures where the only mishap was leaving the cap off the toothpaste. The vacations gods don’t smile on my family, and at times my children do their part to ensure the latter. There has been hide-n-seek with the pet mouse among the suitcases, spit wad art decorating the car windows, and several choruses of “I’m bored,” all before we leave the driveway. In the past we’ve lost our older son in the elevator of a hotel, and pulled him off a plane bound for Cancun (our destination was Missouri). I’ve learned through the years of family trips that the smell of boys’ feet and day-old spilled ice cream embedded in upholstery are indistinguishable, and the funk of both have the power to render the other car passengers speechless. Admittedly, I’ve done my part in adding to the mayhem. Blessed with all the skills of a drunken navigator, I’ve read maps upside-down, and miss-programmed the GPS resulting in a detour through a farmer’s cornfield, courtesy of a narrow gravel farm road. I’ve humored hotel employees with suction-cup animal impersonations by running face-first into clear glass hotel doors. And once I provided “the biggest thrill in a while” (according to the manager) when I flashed an entire rural restaurant because my dress was unintentionally tucked into the back of my dress. After the dress episode, my dear hubby John decided that we should perhaps take a break from our adventures. “A year off will allow us to regenerate our financial resources,” he claimed. “Regenerate resources” my tater tots. This, coming from a guy who breaks into a sweat at the mention of us all taking just a trip to the grocery store. The truth is, he’s scared of his face appearing on the side of a milk carton or on the news—a victim of our misadventures. I made it my mission to prove we could have an uneventful, normal vacation. For the next year I clipped coupons and cut back on unnecessary expenses, except for coffee. Mr. Coffee and I have been in a steady relationship since college, without him I couldn’t remember my name and I was unwilling to end the affair for anyone—even my family. Finally, with money in hand, I pleaded my case to John. “You’ve been working too hard, we never see you. Plus,” I reasoned. “Ever thing that could possibly happened has.” He sighed and stared at the ceiling. “Well, we haven’t been hit by a meteor or run over by a herd of bison. But go ahead and plan a trip. I’m a glutton for punishment.” The night before the trip I packed the car with organizational skills Martha Stewart would be envious of. I played a marathon of Leave it to Beaver episodes for my boys, and ensured their good behavior by bribing them with promises of trips to Chuck E. Cheese. Everything went as planned the next day. The boys, with visions of pepperonis dancing in their heads, read and quietly looked out the car windows. Convinced our streak of bad vacations were over, I convinced John to stop at a gift shop in a small town, an hour into the trip. Oblivious to my family’s whereabouts, I browsed aisles of books that stimulated the imagination, and regal-looking figurines that begged the heart to buy them. Finally, I emerged from the store and watched as my family began to drive away in our Durango. Annoyance replaced shock. John and I always teased each other, and no doubt this was his way of letting me know I’d taken too long. Aww well…can’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me irritated. Might as well play along and give everyone a good laugh. Screaming like a woman possessed, I raced after the SUV, arms waving over my head. I wondered, as my sandals slipped over the pavement, why my husband was accelerating. Didn’t he know when to stop a joke? As I ran, I heard a voice call out, “Ah…Mom, we’re back here!” At that same moment, the Durango stopped, and an elderly man stuck his balding head out the driver’s window, confusion plastered across his wizened face. I was chasing the wrong car.. In my haste to one up my husband, I had been chasing the wrong car. Our record for misadventures grew. Clark W. Griswold has nothing on us. Check out my article at Mother's Always Write_! Check out my essay at Mothers Always Write! Laughter could indeed be the best medicine. Researchers are finding that humor has health benefits such as boosting the immune system, and attributes it to providing the same results as physical exercise. Humor was a constant companion throughout my childhood, thanks to my father. Always a smile on his face, Daddy made it a point to try and find the laughter in any situation. "There's few things that a little levity can't help solve, Sweet-Sweet," he'd say. "And, it takes more energy to feel sorry for yourself." True, he had critics faulting him for this philosophy, but those closest to him knew that he was a deep thinker, somewhat of a worrier, and finding laughter in daily life ensured his happiness and mental wellness. Finding the humor, especially when raising two adventure-seeking boys (so like me) has been beneficial to me as well. It's sometimes either laugh or find a margarita glass big enough to swim in. My parenting humor book, The Toilet's Overflowing and the Dog's Wearing My Underwear will soon be released by DWB Publishing. Stay tuned! And they haven’t. Thirty years ago today my father was taken from me. Yes, he died, but to say he "was taken" more accurately describes the deep pain I feel in my heart. The morning of the accident he told me "good-bye", but I was too sleepy to utter three simple words: I love you. As a parent now, I know my sometimes rebellious teens love me, but to hear them utter those words is a gift and a blessing, and I wish I could've given that final gift to my father. If I could have had a glimpse into the future prior to that morning, I would've pleaded with Daddy not to go, basing my case on the fact that I needed his praise, his guidance. I'd need him there to snap pictures, evaluate the guy taking me to my first dance. Years into the future I'd need him there to walk me down the aisle to my groom, and to be the first to hold his wailing grandson, shortly after my boy's birth. Those things were never meant to be. But in the short fifteen years he graced my life, he taught me a lifetime of lessons. 1. Almost anything can be accomplished, just as long as you try. As a youth growing up just after the Great Depression, my father didn't have a storybook childhood. My grandfather was financially comfortable, but he feared another Wall Street crash and didn't bother investing in hired help. Instead, Grandfather worked his children from before the rooster crowed until long after dark. Education wasn't as important as money to my grandfather. He demanded Daddy assist with the crops, and forced him to skip high school classes. The result was devastating. My father missed too many classes, and was forced to drop out of high school. Relief from oppression came in the form of the military. While in the Army, Daddy obtained his GED, and quickly rose though the ranks to Sergeant Major before he retired. But his tenacity didn't stop there, and for a good reason--he now had a wife to support. Mother told me in later years that it was Daddy's goal to become an engineer for the state highway department, and he did everything he could to achieve his dream. Advanced math wasn't taught in rural high schools, because it wasn't thought to be needed. Staying up until early morning hours, my father taught himself trigonometry, geometry, and algebra. Eventually he achieved his goal of designing roads for the state of Texas. "The only real failure is never trying at all," is something Daddy always stressed. "You can do anything, just as long as you try." His words, his history, and watching him trying until her succeeded at his goals has always been my inspiration for overcoming obstacles. 2. Treat people the way you want to be treated. My father never met a stranger, and as a result was a well-respected figure in our community. Daddy believed that a person's race, religion, or gender was not a deciding factor in how they should be treated. And he believed in looking deeper than physical beauty, and instead at the person's heart. "We all bleed the same, have the same emotions, the same desires," he always told me. "You treat every person with the same amount of respect you'd like for yourself, if not more." 3. Enjoy the little things in life. It's no secret that Daddy was a workaholic. Not only did he toil as an engineer for the highway department, his spare time was spent working on our ranch. Some family reunions were missed as a result of the latter, but he always made it a point to attend every high school drama performance I was in, every athletic event I played in, and every band concert. Daddy had a very loud voice, and I didn't have to look in the crowd to know he was sitting on the front row, leading the cheers and applause. And there was the Sunday walks I took with him through woods. He delighted in every bird song, and every animal print stamped into the ground we encountered. On one of our treks, I asked my father why he insisted on being at my school events, and why he exclaimed on the things we found in nature. Taking my chin into his work-roughened hand and looking into my eyes, Daddy smiled and said. "Because life is too short, and it's important to realize and appreciate what matters." My father has been gone physically for thirty years, but his lessons remain in my heart, and it's that legacy I gladly pass on to my children. Having gluten sensitivity can be a drain emotionally, physically, and on the wallet. A lot of restaurants still don't have a gluten-free menu, and if they do, the choices are somewhat limited, and each entree comes with a heftier price tag. But what hits me hard is not being able to enjoy sweets, especially around the holidays. In the past, I didn't expect relatives and friends to tackle tedious gluten-free dessert recipes, nor did I expect them to mortgage their homes just to satisfy my sweet tooth with a store-bought confection. So I told them I no longer wanted dessert. That was a lie. I'd trade one of my children for a slice of Aunt L's pecan pie. Let's face it, the sharing of desserts is an communal affair. Secrets are told, advice give, memories made. all over pie and coffee. So without a sweet, I felt like somewhat of an outsider, until I researched and found flour-free alternatives. I've mentioned one version of a cookie in a previous post. Below are two different variations. I thought I was, for once, prepared. Armed with enough women's magazines to supply a library for a year, I poured though every article about fitness I could find. I lunged when I reached for veggies out of the fridge, and squatted to the point my family thought I had toileting issues. Yes, I'd have that beach body every 40+ year-old woman craved. Too bad I started toning a week before our vacation to the coast. There are times in everyone's existence when Life slaps them in the back of the head and yells, "What were you thinking?" l got my wake-up call when I stood before a full-length mirror, clad in a peach-colored one piece swimsuit at my friend Calli's house. "You look pretty good," she assured. It was obvious either she'd put friendship above honesty, or she'd gone temporarily blind. Calli wasn't seeing the same reflection I was. Cellulite decorated my upper thighs like lumps of rancid cottage cheese, and my butt hung like a couple of flat bean-bags. I struggled to pull the Lycra over my thighs, wincing as it snapped my skin. The peach-colored suit made me look and feel like the grandmother of an Oscar Meyer weiner. "You've got to be kidding." Calli cleared her throat and walked around, studying me at every angle. "Well...you could wear shorts, and perhaps a short-sleeved shirt..." "And maybe ankle-length pants, and a bag over my head with the words 'PG-14 rating; alarming image' written across the front?" I grumbled. My friend and I agreed that with time (and help from Calli's fashion sense) cute beach outfits could be arranged. Calli sighed and shook her head. "But those legs," she began. I frowned and crossed my arms. "What about them?" She pointed at my tanned arms. "Your upper body looks like it belongs to another person. I almost need sunglasses to look at those white legs." With her help, I applied self-tanner to my legs. Three hours later I looked like an Oompa-Loompa. "There's always tanning beds," Calli suggested. I dismissed that idea, partly because of the ultrav-voilet rays, but largely because of the fear of being forgotten. I'd once seen a forgotten chicken breast on a George Foreman. and the look wasn't pretty, especially not for me. During the rest of the week, I researched ways on the internet to darken the skin on my legs. Finally the morning before the trip, I saw the solution: coffee grounds mixed with olive oil. And my husband and I had just finished our morning java. My heart sang as I almost danced my way to the bathroom. Humming, I smeared on the mixture, imagining the tropical tan I'd have, making me the envy of the beach. I was just smearing on the last bit when the door flung open. There stood my twelve year-old son, mouth agape as he took in the sight of his mother, clad in her nightshirt and covered in coffee grounds. Silence blanketed the room as we regarded each other. I broke the spell by clearing my throat. "Umm...Mama got really excited over coffee this morning." Joseph blinked then shook his head. "Wash your legs please. You smell like a Starbucks." At that point, I was considering handing out free sunglasses at the beach, courtesy of my blinding-white legs. For several months since Nick's passing, I contemplated boxing up his collection of beloved doggie toys and either donating or throwing them away. My brain reasoned that the kids were getting older, would soon leave home, and I didn't want the sole responsibility of taking care of another dog. I'd get as far digging as his Tator-Tot man (courtesy of our Sonic waitress the last time Nick and I stopped by from a green tea) from beneath the sofa, then my heart would take over. As much as I missed my sweet boy, I needed another four-legged friend--someone to share my adventures with and restore the bouts of spontaneous laughter in our house because of antics laced with canine mischief. After a bit of searching, we found CLYDE (Chiweenie) on the internet. He looked wizened beyond his 10 months, and it took a matter of seconds for my family to decide he was the pup for us. We went to the shelter to fiil out necessary paperwork, and my husband discovered BLECKA (now called BELLA), a two month-old terrier mix. Yep, we brought her home too. So, without further ado, here are the two new members of our crew! There's no need to point out that tomorrow is Father's Day. It's a time to honor dads for all the sacrifices made, life lessons taught, and their hard work. And if you're like me, and Daddy is deceased, memories play through your mind like Hallmark movies. and you wish (like every other day) that there was a "one more time." In our family it's tradition to prepare a feast of favorites for Dad and all the other important men in our lives, followed by a dessert and a cup of coffee. But this year, one of the fellas in attendance is both xanthan gum and gluten sensitive. Xanthan gum is used to replace gluten in gluten-free recipes, so creating a sweet that was free of both would be a challenge, until I remembered my grandmother's peanut butter cookie recipe. It's free of both xanthan and gluten, and has only six very basic ingredients. I used some organic coconut palm sugar in the recipe. True, it has about the same amount of calories as the white sugar in the recipe, but it is lower on the glycemic index, and does have health benefits. The finished product took me back to my childhood. The cookie is thin and crispy, bursting with a rich peanut butter flavor. Go ahead, treat dad with a plate these, if you can keep your hand off them yourself. Recipe is below. "Who Needs Flour?" Peanut Butter Cookies 1 cup natural peanut butter 1/2 cup white sugar 1/2 cup organic coconut palm sugar 1 large egg, lightly beaten 1 tsp. real vanilla flavoring 1 tsp. baking soda Preheat oven to 350° F. In a medium bowl, mix everything until well combined. Form the dough into teaspoon sized balls and place 1" apart on a baking sheet lightly sprayed with cooking spray. Flatten the balls with the tines of a fork, making a crosshatch pattern on the cookies. Bake until golden around the edges, about 10 minutes. Cool cookies on baking sheet about 2 minutes and then transfer with spatula to rack to cool. Makes approximately 3 dozen cookies. The Jack Russell/Chihuahua pup had the attention of everyone in the lobby. Tiny and trembling, he leaned against my chest, enjoying the rhythmic beat of my heart. He tilted his head, studying my face before gazing directly into my eyes. My stomach lurched. I could almost feel his pain, his wondering what he did to be abandoned. From that moment, the spotted pup had my heart, and I knew we were meant to be together. I pointed to the bundle in my arms. "I'll take him." The shelter director smiled. "You're lucky. The vet decided even though St. Nick is a little too young to adopt, he feels he'd get better care over the Christmas holidays in a forever home." St. Nick, and he was available a few days before Christmas? This had to be a sign. It was obvious everyone else thought the same thing, and that it applied to them. A puppy, especially one this tiny and adorable, would be a great gift under the tree. Because there was a first-come-first-served policy at the shelter, there was a scramble as people grabbed the appropriate papers.
I'm highly skilled at signing forms minutes before the school bus appears at our front door, and that training paid off when I slid my forms over to the director, seconds before another family did. I crossed my fingers and said a quick prayer, hoping the lady didn't question the validity of my chicken-scratch writing. A half an hour later, and we left with the newest addition to the family, Saint Nick. Having a pet enriches a family. The children learn the responsibility of taking caring of it, and the animal becomes part of the family, embarking on adventures and enjoying vacations. Nicky did that and more. Shortly after his arrival into our group, I noticed a change in my younger son Joseph, who has Autism. Joseph became more willing to be out in public and his speech improved as a result of telling people about his pup. I believe animals are able to sense when a person has special needs. I've witnessed grumpy, old cats become affectionate to children with intellectual disabilities, and horses walk as sedate as ponies when carrying a person with physical disabilities. Nicky was no exception. It's frustrating for a parent when a child on the Autism spectrum can't communicate their wants and emotions--even more so for the child, and that leads to melt-downs, angry episodes that can escalate and last for several minutes. Every time that occurred, Nicky would jump in the chair and lay his head on my son's lap. It was his way of soothing "his boy", and it always worked. I thought I'd have my furry friend forever. Silly I know, but I thought I'd have him in my life for at least 15 years--I wasn't prepared to say good-bye after only three. One night, as he has so many times in the past, Nick begged to go outside. There were no worries. We lived in the country, and the dog always stayed by the porch. A few minutes later I heard a car in my driveway, and the agonized scream of my pup. I still don't know how I got outside. There, on the ground was Nick. My son rushed to get the carrier to take him to our vet. As I loaded him into the crate our eyes met, like they did three years ago. "This is good-bye," they seemed to say. I never saw precious boy alive again. For several months Nick's pillow by my chair was undisturbed. His passing left a hole in my heart, and I couldn't bear the sight of it. I vowed I'd never get another pup again. Just the thought of another canine stepping one paw into the house seemed like treason. My husband John, who had a close bond with the dog as well, agreed. No one would replace our Nicky. "But wouldn't it be an insult to him not to get another dog?" my older son reasoned. John and I agreed, and soon we made the trip to the local ASPCA shelter. We were drawn to a playful Chihuahua/Dachshund pup named Clyde. An hour later, and he was ours. The minute we walked into the house, Clyde walked over to Nick's pillow. There in the middle was my beloved dog's favorite rope, unseen for several months. It was Nick's way of passing the baton, and again opening the door to my heart. ...take the time to release your inner child. If you want to be creative, stay in part a child, with the creativity and invention that characterizes children before they are deformed by adult society. ~Jean Piaget
Like what you see? Check out even more photos on the site of award-winning photographer, my son, Jonathan Roppolo. http://jsrphotography.weebly.com In this age when ovens can receive and reply to text messages, society doesn’t want for knowledge, though in some cases we need to exercise it more. A few seconds on the computer, tablet, or cell phone and we’re zipping down the information highway gathering facts like Pacman after frightened ghosts. But shortly after the last dinosaur roamed the earth and before the cell phone (my generation), people quenched their thirst for knowledge through experiences, advice from elders, or by reading it in a book or instruction manual. A few months after marriage, I became pregnant but didn’t obsess like some other young women. I didn’t bronze the pregnancy test or save it for the baby book, and didn’t pick out curtains for the nursery the first time my face and the toilet bowl became acquainted. I’d grown up on a ranch and bore witness to cows and horses giving birth--they made it seem simple. And besides, there were hundreds of books on the subject, and any of them could answer questions I might have. Wrong. During the fifth month of pregnancy I found none of them could explain why my ankles seemed to have traded places with my knees, and why, on a good day, roadkill could have won a beauty contest against me. And nothing explained that labor hurt worse than an impacted tooth. Raising the baby will be simpler, I always thought. Again, I was wrong. Teaching our dog to tap-dance would have been easier. Nothing I read explained why Jonathan withheld his spit-up until I was wearing white, or resisted loudly passing gas until we were in public and a large crowd was present. No one believes the baby did it. But all that paled in comparison to one morning when Jonathan was six months old. Beads of perspiration formed on my forehead as I watched Jonathan thrash and scream in his crib. My most recent parenting book had assured that taking a quick trip in the car was a great way to calm a fussy baby. That option was out. I’d already driven around the block so many times I was convinced my neighbors thought I couldn’t find my way home, or I was practicing to be a NASCAR driver. No, it was time to call in the experts.I took a deep breath, and swallowing my pride I called the biggest authority I knew on the subject of child-raising...my mother. Regardless of age or gender, just the thought of reaching out to one’s mother in times of need is a comfort. I turned into a sobbing mass of gelatin the minute I heard Mama’s voice. Between gasps, I explained that either Jonathan was ill, or he was forming a plan to take over control of the family by driving me insane. And based on the fact he’d kept me sleep-deprived, I was beginning to lean towards the latter. “Don’t be a goose,” Mama admonished. “How old is he now? Have you started him on solids? If that’s the case, he might be constipated.” “I-I have,” I stuttered. “That must be it. What can I do?” I twisted the phone cord around around my finger, hoping the solution wasn’t my mother’s cure-all for everything...a soapy enema. If I must, I must, but I didn’t relish the thought of my shirt being painted with my child’s bowel movement. “Simple. Prune juice.” I made a face. That was something elderly people were given when they were in the rest home, and for me during some points in my pregnancy, but not babies. “Are you sure?” Mama’s voice took on that listen-up-or-you’re-in-trouble tone. “Yep, a tad of that will get the plumbing flowing again,” she assured. “Just dilute it so…” I didn’t bother to listen to the rest. In my opinion, Mama prattled on a great deal about many things, and I didn’t have time for a lecture today. As luck would have it, I had a bottle of the juice hidden in the recesses of my pantry, visible to only dust bunnies and the occasional visiting house spider. I handed Jonathan eight ounces of straight prune juice in his bottle. “Drink up, Buttercup.” It impressed me that he drank the stuff without a whimper. Another eight ounces will really do the trick. I gave the baby another serving. One lesson that I learned as a new mom was to seize a chance for fun when I could. I was overjoyed when my husband John took Jonathan and me out for an early supper that night. Every woman, at some time in her life has the fantasy of people staring when she enters a room. I was perplexed when we walked into our favorite Mexican restaurant and caught the stare of a gentleman near the door. A look of complete revulsion blanketed his face as I walked past, carrying Jonathan. I knew my lack of sleep left me with bags big enough to check in at the airport, but I didn’t think I looked that bad. His wife was the opposite, offering me a smile. “How can you act like that’s normal? It’s disgusting,” the man said. Anger turned to confusion as I saw the woman pat her husband’s arm and say, "Don't worry about it dear. She probably doesn't realize it yet." I slid into a nearby booth. Realize what? I didn’t have to speculate for long. A thick layer of disgusting smelling, salsa verde colored goop covered my arm and the front of my shirt. An equally large trail of slime stretched up Jonathan’s back, beginning at the diaper and ended at his neckline--it was his bowel movement. “John,” I hissed. "We have to leave. We have to leave now!" I flipped Jonathan around and showed John the mess. For once, I didn’t have to repeat myself. "Let's get out of here," John croaked. My stomach churned like a washing machine. In my lifetime, I’d cleaned many a stall on Daddy’s ranch, and in six months changed enough diapers to fill a dumpster; but to have it plastered on my body, that was different. I held Jonathan at arm’s length as we raced through the restaurant. Everyone who didn’t see our entrance had the pleasure of seeing Jonathan's back as we made our hasty retreat. At the door, we bumped into a young couple that gazed dumbstruck at our son. Flashing the couple a winning smile, John said, “Whatever you do, don’t eat the green chicken enchiladas!" |
A little info about me... Award-winning author (and sometimes illustrator) Debbie Roppolo grew up in the Blackland Prairie region of Texas, where miles of grassland and her horse stimulated very imaginative adventures and served as writing fodder for later years. She had to do something with those memories; having tea parties with chickens was too good to keep to herself.
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