TURMERIC, GOLDEN PASTE and the World's Best Chocolate Chip Cookies!

I've been doing some research on natural solutions to the process of aging as opposed to the normal "western" method of taking prescribed pharmaceuticals. Mind you, I'm not suggesting you shouldn't take prescribed medications. But I do firmly believe in the old adage that you are what you eat. That's true across the board too; for horses, dogs, cats, all animals. 

This past year I've been experimenting with turmeric, adding it to food in non traditional ways. I love lists, although I don't always follow lists the way I should, but they are a good place to start. Here's a list of the things I've added turmeric to :

1. Chocolate Chip Cookies

2. Stir Fry (We're vegetarians here so tofu or some equivalent is used in place of meat)

3. Soup ( Soup with a potato based broth, soup with a tomato based broth)

4. Brown Rice with Vegetables ( We have a Vita Clay crock pot. John invested in it last year. I highly recommend it. I make yogurt, soup, steamed rice dishes in it. Very easy to use. Easy to clean too. )

5. Salad Dressings

6. Mac and Cheese ( I always add at least as many vegetables as pasta. )

7. Frittata

8. Pie Crust ( Mine is made with real butter and whole grain flours, nice and flaky. Turmeric turned it a light golden color, really pretty! )

9. Muffins 

10. Homemade Dog Food and Homemade Dog Cookies (you have to keep both of these refrigerated)

11. Cocoa and Warm Milk (sweetened with honey)

12. Smoothies

13. Banana Bread

14. Biscuits

15. Golden Paste (for the dogs, cats, horses and us)

I'm not going to tell you that there are any sudden, miraculous changes that magically happen overnight. But I am seeing some possible effects from using turmeric every day. John's joints aren't as achy and when they are it's because he's upped the level of intensity of his daily exercise routine rather than the general swelling and pain he was experiencing.

I'm sleeping better. That statement right there will keep turmeric in our diet. Could be my imagination (ie. wishful thinking) but my hair seems to be thicker, to have more body to it. I haven't changed my supplements or shampoo and cream rinse so I will give turmeric the credit for now. With better sleep patterns comes more energy and efficient use of my time. 

But here's the most noticeable changes. Miniver is getting up by herself, has a better appetite, is going outside to play with Apple and has her smile back! Last year I bought a special sling to help get her up because her back legs were going out on her. (She is part Saint Bernard, part Great Pyrenees and part Bernese Mountain Dog. She weighs an easy 150 lbs. ) And the cysts she had developed on her back either shrank or broke open and drained! 

Apple is young, only two years old, but she has developed this wonderful, sweet breath. Even with all of the gross dog stuff that she finds outside to chew up and roll in her overall breath and body odor is really fresh smelling. A friend of mine commented on it last Autumn when she came to stay for a week. She kept telling me Apple was the best smelling dog she had ever met , a definite selling point for turmeric in my book. 

And our cats, all of whom are over eleven, are acting like kittens. I'm finding toilet paper unrolled and pulled down the hallway, small carpets rolled up and pushed in to walls from cats sliding on them and have watched all of them do "Crazy Cat" runs all over the house. Annie, my smallest and oldest, is jumping up on the table again.

I know. These behaviors are things most people don't want to deal with. But to me they are indications of cats that feel good. And what have they all been doing? They steal the dog's homemade food. Actually I've watched the dogs sit back and let the cats eat from their bowls before they eat. I've started putting small saucers of homemade food out for them now too. And, oh, the contented munching and crunchings in the mornings. 

When I use turmeric it gives off a lovely, almost perfumed, odor. The whole house smells wonderful! It's in the same spice family as ginger. Thankfully it's available in bulk from The Merc, our local coop grocery. I'm going to start buying it a pound at a time.

With all of this in mind I thought I would share some of my recipes with you. I hope you'll contact me and let me know how they worked for you. Wonder of wonders, I'll share going down the list above. Don't hold me to that pattern though. It isn't how I usually do things.

CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

Ingredients :

1 1/4 cups whole wheat flour
1 cup whole oat flour
1 1/2 cups organic brown sugar
2 sticks of real butter
2 large eggs
1 tsp pink sea salt
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
2 tsp real vanilla
1 tsp turmeric
                                                            2 heaping cups chocolate chips
                                                            1/2 to 1 cup dried cranberries
                                                            1/2 to 1 cup chopped pecans or          
                                                            or walnuts or mix of the two
What to do : Soften butter and smash and mix it with sugar and salt and vanilla, add in eggs and beat until somewhat fluffy. Mix dry ingredients together i.e.. flours, baking soda, turmeric and add them gently mixing them in to the batter. After adding dry ingredients and mixing GENTLY, add in nuts, cranberries and chocolate chips and gently mix again until combined.

Drop teaspoon full lumps on to a greased cookie sheet about an inch and a half apart. You will be able to cook 12 to 16 cookies on each sheet. Cook them for 8 to 10 minutes at 375 degrees F . I cook mine for nine minutes because my oven has a tendency to be a bit cool. Cookies will be golden brown when finished.

Gently scoop them off the cookie sheet on to a cooling wrack. Cookies will be crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside.

Don't be afraid to play with your recipe. You could also add raisons, walnuts, almonds, chopped apricots, dried blueberries. I've even grated in a carrot or some zucchini before. My kids and most of the children in the neighborhood grew up eating my cookies and came back for more too.

I'll add more recipes with each post. Enjoy the cookies! Now you'll be able to tell everyone that chocolate chip cookies are good for you!

I am, ever yours, Nancy, laughing

STAR TREK VOICES and JAZZ AND RIFFS ON THE WIND or How I sniffed the box...

Sometimes I freeze. It's my Right Brain Introvert side. It's just easier to stay in one place and think about the things I already know and understand than to push myself, even a little, outside my own boundaries. I just want to repeat the familiar, find comfort in the known patterns rather than the unknown. 

I hear this Star Trek voice that says, " Failure is not an option. " although failure, repeat, wash and rinse, and failure one more time is what it's all about as an artist. You've heard this so many times by now that it's become cliched, but there are great piles of junk in every artist's studio they will never let the world see because it didn't work, did not express whatever statement the artist was trying to make. Experimenting with new materials, pushing the boundaries to see what will happen and then watching it all collapse in on itself is normal. All you ever see in any exhibition is the end product beautifully displayed with perfect lighting and background music to set the stage. 

It's taken me a good long while to realize that I understand horses because they live, a majority of their lives, on the right side of their brain. I call it horse time. There is no clock, no definite schedule, no itinerary except being in the moment and surviving, existing. It's the perfect Zen "BE". That place of "BE" is where I have to find my way back to when moving outside the comfort zone and back in to the creative zone. Like a horse I have to skirt the issue, move around the box first, before I step inside. I need to sniff it, taste it, experiment with the doorways before I realize I'm not going to die because the box contains me and then, horrors of horrors, moves and shifts under my feet on it's own!

I know I'm mixing too many metaphors here but then again even my writing is an experiment. I play with the words, throw them in to the bag, toss them around, shake them out and wait to see where it takes me. The essay that almost won my ticket to my nearly ideal place was like that. I kept writing one jumbled up essay after another, editing, rereading, editing, washing and repeating before I, literally, tore them up in to pieces and started to put the best bits together to say what I really needed to say. With John and Valentina's help I put an entirely new essay together, made up from my other stories, sat here and cried because I was so afraid, and sent it off. 

Letting it go was like stepping back and allowing my toddler to stand up, fall down, bonk himself and then, knowing he might hurt himself, standing back and letting him do it again. For his confidence to grow I had to wait for the knocks and bruises to happen. I was my own toddler in this case and a whiney one at that. And I did get banged around a bit but here I am, still breathing. Course my basic nature hasn't changed that much. I'm still ready to run that quarter mile without asking questions or looking back when something spooks me. And even when I'm in familiar territory I still need to do my own approach and retreat to get myself close enough to sniff and taste the next step in to or outside of the box, depending on perspective. 

With that in mind I am going to copy my essay in to this post, to let it breath on it's own one more time. Time to move on. 

JAZZ AND RIFFS ON THE WIND

Comments From the Pasture

 They come to me , a force of their own, as they fly across the length of the pasture, long legs beating a rhythm, jazz and riffs on the wind. When they reach me, they stop in a line of color, brushing my soul with theirs, letting our hearts synchronize one to the other. They lead me through every day of my life, and they are perfect, each in their own right.

     We all get to the middle of that place in life where we ask ourselves if we're on the right road, if we’re walking the path that fills our heart. Sometimes we never complete the answer. But we ask it. It's one of those rites of passage. 

     I'm a late bloomer, probably because I've worked so hard at keeping the 'child within' side of me alive. I'm an artist. For me to be creative I need to live in a horse-time kind of world, where clocks and bills and schedules are irrelevant, at least while I'm in the studio or sitting here, writing.

     I have three (plus one) muses in the pasture. Each of them brings a gift to the stage. Apache's is healing, power, focus and great presence. When he stands next to you, you feel the Earth rotate, and time stands at attention, waiting. He grounds himself and any other who visits, with his barrel-shaped body, stout legs and great heart.

     When I am with Apache, my American Bashkir Curly, I hear bells, huge, slow moving, powerful hosanna bells that ring with a clear bass, telling me that change is natural, inevitable and easily faced as a herd. 

     Lucky, Mr. Hollywood, is my tall, leggy, sorrel Fox Trotter. He's the one who captures the hearts of all the little girls who come to visit. His conformation is nearly perfect, coat like red silk, with huge, soft brown eyes that see you quietly, honestly. Shy, and an introvert, he prefers to stand behind me, waiting to be introduced. Lucky calls to me every day when I walk out to the barn, even when grazing at the far end of the pasture. His voice is a lovely deep baritone, operatic, rich, expressive. And when we ride he carries me carefully, gently. Maybe his name should have been Sir Galahad. 

     Never least of the three, there is Stone, my sturdy little American Mustang. His color was perfect for the environment he came from, speckled in brown and dark grey on a light creamy grey coat with dark Prussian blue legs and haunches. He's my horse of a different color, with his slightly Roman nose and large soulful eyes. He has endured great loss with a stoic presence, watchful and ever vigilant. The day that he connected with me, at last releasing some of the fear and pain he carried, I cried. It was an overwhelming wave of sadness, making me catch my breath with its honesty. He needs a herd, a partner. He shows it with his willingness to move with me gracefully, in sync and elegant. He gives his heart fully without regret, inspires me with his wildness and natural integration with the world he lives in, always adjusting to his present.

     And then there is my "plus one” : Willow. She came to me an orphan, much too small to be without her mom. I took her without looking back, knowing very little about donkeys. She needed me, I stepped up. I've been there before, learning along the way to be a "parent". When she was ill, we nearly lost her. She came back because I sat on the ground, holding her and calling her back. 

     Willow brings laughter and attitude. When I am not there she is boss lady of the pasture, stomping her tiny hooves, shaking her head, pinning long ears to show her ire. She pushes her bubble of energy out in front, moving everyone who gets in her way. No predators in our pastures! She sets the rules and trains all of the dogs who've lived with us to always respect her space and her herd. And she's so small she walks under Lucky, stopping to rub her head on his belly. We call them the Alpha and the Princess.

     I keep a stack of barn books that record our days together. The games we've played, the events and accomplishments, the rides and worries are all there. Ideas for paintings, drawings, stories and essays are on those pages. They pop into my head while I am breathing in the mysterious world of horses. 

     I am obsessed. And I am entranced, captured, held by an image they give to me. They are the music in my days. I am an artist, a horsewoman, a storyteller and a prisoner of their hearts.

     We are impermanent here. Before long, we will be forced to pack up and go because we don’t own the property we live on. We need a new home, new pastures and fields on which to write our story, tales which will intertwine with the stories long embedded in your land if you decide to entrust us with its stewardship. We feel ready for a new beginning in Virginia. We will bring our energy and enthusiasm, but also our respect for the needs of the land and wildlife, mindful of Nature’s long-term health and it’s potential to bring joy and peace to many generations. We promise to be good listeners, gentle farmers and caretakers, and a resource for the whole community, freely passing on what we were taught by our elders, our horses and the land itself.

A DOG'S PERSPECTIVE or HOW I LOST THE RANCH

Well, bummer, I didn't win my ranch. I was in the top ten entries out of 3700 people but they canceled the contest. Not enough entrants (they needed 5000) to make it worth their while. That close! I was that close. 

Sometimes it's like that. Whatever I'm working on is a near miss, close to the top but not quite there, almost in the pocket and it bounces off the rim. Just about finished and I loose the original draft or five pages from the middle. 

I can't decide whether to feel like this (Put your finger on your lips and make a buh...buh...buh sound!) or...to feel like I've bitten in to more than I thought I could handle.

I admit I had a mini melt down about it. DANG! I really thought I had it in the bag this time. I was going to save the day, walk in to a turn key ranch with a rental house for extra income, barn, arena, studio/shop with running water, electricity and even a bathroom. I came that close to heaven. And the last shot from center court with the buzzer going off bounced off the rim ... again. 

I think I've got those February Blues, the middle of Winter Blahs, the Phooey Balooey Crud, the Grey Sky Doldrums. 

Kind of hard to keep my perspective when I get such a huge near miss. Sometimes I just want the "giant Mommy" to bring me cookies and milk and say, " There, there. It's going to be OK. You can try again. You really were that close. Not your fault the contest was canceled. Now eat your cookies, brush your hands off and get busy. Time is a wasting. " 

Maybe all I need is a change of perspective, or maybe a friend to stop by and listen while I talk it out. 

Or maybe just someone to chew on for a while. Oh well. No worries.

Life is ...

AUGUST ESSAYS, AN IRON PAN

I have an iron skillet. It's old, came in to the world before I did. My Grandmother cooked in it. It was one of the things I asked for after she was gone. 

There's history in that old skillet. I get teased because I'm a vegetarian and that  frying pan was well seasoned many years ago with bacon grease and lard. My Grandma used it for nearly every meal. She fried bacon or ham and eggs for breakfast, fried tomatoes and grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and fried chicken and gravy for dinner. They were farm people and worked long, hard hours every day of their lives. Calories were a necessity and so was fat. It was the fuel that kept them going, starting their days before sunup and working until well after sun down. Not a fat person among them either. They were too busy working to worry about weight issues.

I remember sitting in the kitchen at her little formica table with the red top, waiting for my breakfast. She was very proud of her "new" little table. The old walnut kitchen table was in the barn (and I asked for that one too). I wasn't allowed to kick my feet against the table or the aluminum chairs that matched, the ones with red seats. So I would sit quietly, waiting for my breakfast, watching my Grandfather eat great volumes of food; pie and oatmeal, eggs and toast, big cups of coffee with real cream and fresh orange juice. He always ate first because he needed to get out the door. Wasting time was not allowed in their house.

Grandma would fuss over me, trying to get me to eat more. "Eat. EAT! You're much too thin. How can you live on so little? " And she would fix me oatmeal with brown sugar on top, raisins and walnuts, floating in real cream from my Grandpa's dairy herd. " Eat all of it. It's good for you, sticks to your bones!" Her dog, Penny, loved me a lot. I would eat tiny bites while Grandma was watching and then hold the bowl down for Penny to eat the rest. Grandma wanted me to eat as much as Grandpa! There was just no way. I really was a tiny, little girl with an appetite to match. But I also wanted to make my Grandma happy so I would eat some of what she fixed and Penny got fatter while I staid on the farm. Like I said, Penny loved having me there.

I remember her big, strong hands cutting and cooking, cleaning while she went. A kitchen was her dance floor and her meals were a work of culinary art, Kansas farm style. 

My Dad and his brothers grew up eating meals from that pan. Grandma brought it to her marriage with Grandpa. And she taught me how to cook in it too. Showed me how to watch the heat so it wouldn't scorch, how to turn it up or down for different parts of the meal. I learned how to make gravy and sauces, omelets and frittatas, fried tomatoes and onions with peas in that pan. 

She also showed me how to care for it. You never wash an iron pan with soap, NEVER. You can rinse it quickly with hot water and a scrubbing brush kept just for that purpose, but rubbing it with salt and lard was better. Now I use olive oil but it has the same effect, keeping the perfect surface for cooking on. The blacker the pan,  the better. And you always store it upside down. Keeps dust and flies from getting inside, on the cooking surface. And if there's a mouse, it can't climb in to the pan either. Grandma was very practical.

I do the same now, use that old pan nearly every day. My son gave me a lovely set of excellent cookware. I use those pans too but my iron skillet is my pan of choice for nearly every meal. I remember cooking meals as a very young, tired Mom with a baby in my arms, asleep, while I fixed eggs for my toddler. I'd drop butter in and then the eggs, but not until the butter was just sizzling. Timing is crucial when you cook in an iron skillet. Too soon and your food turns to soggy mush. Too late and too hot and your food is scorched and under cooked in the center. It is still a challenge because weather and humidity can affect the way things cook too. It's all very intuitive, perfect for my right brained methods. 

There's history in that old pan. It holds years and years of laughter, anger, conversations, fears and crying, beginnings and endings. It was used through the Great Depression, World War One and Two. And we've added to that. The first men walked on the moon, buildings in New York came down, babies were born, And Grandma and Grandpa died.  I taught my boys to cook in that iron skillet, before they left home. It's a different world than the one my Grandmother grew up in. I wanted them to know how to take care of a house as well as a car or lawnmower. And I've taught my husband how to cook in that pan too. He can fix a mighty fine breakfast omelet if I do say so myself. And any good chef can tell you that making an omelet perfectly is the mark of a very good cook indeed. 

That pan was made at a time when tools were made by hand, one at a time. A true craftsman made my iron skillet and it still looks just like it did when I inherited it. It is an entity now, with a life and history of it's own. One day I hope to give it to one of my Grandchildren and to have the opportunity to teach them to cook in it too. 

It's a circle, you see. I love circles. We complete them in our lives over and over again, sometimes small unnoticed circles and sometimes large ones, like moving to a place of your ancestors. I've taken that old pan with me everywhere we've lived including to Germany, in my luggage. I wrapped it in a pair of blue jeans and then filled it with socks. It put me over my weight limit but I gladly paid the penalties. I was starting my first home, just married and so achingly young. If I had my pan I knew it would be OK. 

I've put that pan in to every new kitchen we've moved in to, first thing unpacked, always. It's how I carry our history with us, my past, my children's childhoods and mine, my life with my husband. If we move again, hopefully to Essex County, Virginia, I will bring my cast iron pan with me in the truck,packed in a suitcase and wrapped in a pair of blue jeans. That's become a tradition too, a good luck charm if you will. 

And I'll bring our history with us, the laughter and tears, hard times and good times and family. We'll cook our first meal there, adding our story to yours and telling it to our grandchildren and, if we're lucky, their children too. All we can offer is our enthusiasm, our love of the land and our horses who inhabit it, our iron pan and echoes of everything we are as a family. It's a circle that stands open. I hope you'll let my pan and I, my family on four legs and two,  complete the circle in a kitchen you've built and loved the way I will. We'd like to add our story to yours and keep the kitchen door open always, for you. 

AUGUST ESSAYS, THE YELLOW FOREST AND THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED

Sooner or later we all get to the middle of life place where we ask ourselves if we're on the right road, are we walking the path that fills our heart. Sometimes we never complete the answer. But we ask it. It's one of those unacknowledged rights of passage. 

I'm a late bloomer, probably because I've worked so hard at keeping the 'light and silly child within' side of me alive. I'm an artist. For me to be creative I need to live in a horse-time kind of world, where clocks and bills and schedules are irrelevant, at least while I'm in the studio or sitting here, writing. My WHAT'S IT ALL ABOUT ALPHIE stage came later, much later. And it happened when I learned the word NO. 

I don't usually say it like that. I don't shout or loose my temper, get angry or gnash my teeth. I say, " No, thank you. That won't work for me. Thank you for asking though." and I move on. Most of the time the other party wants an explanation.

" But why? It's a great idea!" Or, " You really need this thing a ma jig. Your life is going to be so much easier if you have one. Why wouldn't you want one?" Or, my least favorite (and the one I have practiced saying NO in a firm, non judgmental way to), the folks who think they are here to save me and convert me to their religious set of beliefs. 

(Snore...) " No, thank you. Not my cup of tea." 

I love that word, "NO!". It's such an effective tool. And I no longer feel like I owe any reasons either, at least most of the time. 

Living with horses has taught me a lot about how to protect, in a quiet and efficient way with no overt emotion, my personal space. They don't expect any explanations and they respect my ability to say, " Move three steps back please. I am coming through. Thank you." . No anger and sometimes laughter when they test to see if the rules are still in place.

Nope. No. Nuh uh. Nah. Nada. No thank you. Not going there. Noooo...

Pretty simple, easy to understand and very effective. Almost all languages have the same word for , "No.". And if the person I say no to doesn't seem to be listening, I walk around them and move on. It's a waste of time and energy arguing and is, sometimes, exactly what the other wanted anyway. They want to engage in behavior that is inappropriate for the sake of the confrontation. Again, not my cup of tea.

But where does that leave me? I've read over and over again that we are the makers of our own lives, find our own paths. Do I believe that? In part I do. I think that it's what I decide to do when I come to a divided path, an intersection, that determines who I am and where I end up. When I walk out the door, realize that I left the milk bottles behind and turn around to go get them and leave a few minutes later, avoiding the skidding out of control truck that hits the car in front of me head on, I did have something to do with that because I listened to a small inner voice that said, " Wait, turn around."

And when I stopped to take this shot, stood up and saw a six foot rattle snake slither across my path four feet ahead of me, RIGHT WHERE I WAS GOING TO WALK, it was because that inner voice said, " Wait. Watch." and I avoided a possibly dangerous interaction, while out on a hike, with a snake who's territory I was in. He would have struck because I frightened him, not because he wanted to bite me.

That's free choice. We live in a circle of life that interconnects, weaves together in to a pattern that carries us forward on to paths there to teach us. I can choose to tell the truth and sleep well or lie and toss and turn, worried about whether I will hurt someone or get caught in the lie. I choose to say, "No, thank  you." to things, to events that I know will hurt someone else.

When I was on my own and very young I took terrible risks. Most teenagers do. We are experimenting with our lives and oblivious to the possibility that we might hurt our parents, grand parents or siblings by getting ourself hurt. My brains turned on to that idea when my Mom died just after my oldest son was born. There we were, my husband and I, responsible for a real human being that we had brought in to the world and my Mom died and, a year later, his Dad. We were on our own in a huge world with another baby on the way and no back up! 

The world is a pretty big place when it's just you, the babies you're responsible for and the horizon. There were intersections everywhere, choices and worry and unbelievable happiness, terrible pain at every turn. Nothing focuses you more than having children. 

And here I am, in the middle of my life, thinking about going back. I want to be closer to my family, to spend time with them without airport security checks and extravagant air fair costs. I want to have an occasional weekend meal with them, spend time catching up and then go back to a new horizon, that place we came to because I decided to take another chance.

I want new pastures for my horses, new trails and shorelines to explore. I want a new environment to be my muse, that place my ancestors came from. I love the open skies of the Midwest but need the rolling hills of Virginia to fill my dreams. I want to add a dimension to my pattern by caring for a home that the original owners loved as much as we will. And I want to care for it so it has longevity, becomes the place my children's children go to for time with their Grandparents and their herd, the gardens, space and quiet. I want to send my money and essay in to make a new path to walk on. I choose to take a zig instead of a zag, and to come to Essex County to do that.

I would like the opportunity to own instead of lease, to have the freedom and possibility to give my family an inheritance that they have memories attached to. All I can promise is myself, my enthusiasm and creativity, my husband and the family, four legged and two legs, that we bring with us. And the story that we will add to yours. 

By saying No or Yes, we add to history and open roads not yet traveled. 

I am, ever yours, Nancy, in the middle and standing in the yellow forest, waiting.

WESLEY BERRY FLOWERS , NEVER DO BUSINESS WITH THEM! or How to laugh when you're taken advantage of.

Flowers. I have a picture of myself sitting in my Grandmother's spring flower garden, my diapered little bubble butt plunked down right in the middle of her prized tulips, a cat in my lap and pollen on my face. I had been tasting her flowers. Patient soul that she was, she took a picture instead of getting upset.

The definition of FLOWER in the dictionary is: flow·er

ˈflou(ə)r/

noun

1. 1. 

   the seed-bearing part of a plant, consisting of reproductive organs (stamens and carpels) that are typically surrounded by a brightly colored corolla (petals) and a green calyx (sepals).

   synonyms:

   bloom, blossom, floweret, floret "blue flowers"
2. 2. 

   the finest individuals out of a number of people or things.

   "the flower of college track athletes"

   synonyms:

   best, finest, pick, choice, cream, crème de la crème, elite "the flower of the nation's youth"

verb

1. 1. 

   (of a plant) produce flowers; bloom.

   "these daisies can flower as late as October"
2. 2. 

   be in or reach an optimum stage of development; develop fully and richly.

   "it is there that the theory of deconstruction has flowered most extravagantly"

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I've always had flowers in my life. When I was little my Grandpa would drive in to town, where we lived, and would help my brother and I to put in a garden. There were all of the usual suspects, lettuce and spinach, peas and beans, peppers, tomatoes and onions. And then there were flowers, always flowers.

He would bring carefully saved seeds from the year before, marigolds and zinnias, daffodil bulbs and tulips, morning glory and hollyhock. None of them were expensive or exotic. They were farm folks and flowers were Grandma's indulgence as she got older, something she did not allow herself while raising children and trying to hold on to a farm during the Great Depression. If you couldn't eat it, you didn't grow it.

But I was the grand daughter. I was a very good reason to have flowers, to plant flowers, save seeds and share them. My connection to flowers is a thread that weaves through my life. They bring great joy to almost everyone who sees them, smells them, plants them and watches the cycles of their lives. 

I've done guerrilla flower sowing for more than forty years, spreading wild flower seeds along country roads and ditches every where that we've lived. Even when we were very young and struggling, I would sneak out at night while my babies were asleep and plant daffodils and tulips outside the apartment house that we lived in. No one ever said a thing about it but they did enjoy them when they came up. When I drove past one of the places we had lived there were still daffodils growing there in the spring, their hardy little yellow bell shaped flowers swaying and brightening up a landscape with nothing but bushes and green grass in it.

And I love the language of flowers too. The daffodil means " You are the only one. My love is for you. " 

 I give flowers for gifts. When a baby is born I plant flowers to celebrate, send seeds to the new parents. For birthdays and anniversaries, funerals and graduations I send flowers. 

I love receiving flowers. I've always thought it must be fun to be the one who makes the deliveries because people always smile, always. They thank you and laugh because they're so delighted. And sometimes they cry because it's such a lovely surprise. I love thinking about the person I'm sending them to, what colors they like, what they wear, their lifestyle, what I'm trying to say with the flowers which is, always, love.

Now a days there is the internet, making it easier than ever to find a pretty bouquet from a reputable florist and sending it. It's one of my favorite activities, finding a place that is in the local area and sending them an order. So when it doesn't work out, I am not just upset or disappointed, I am shocked and angry. Flower sending is something that I invest a lot of thought, time and money in to. It's part of who I am as an artist and master gardener, organic farmer (on a small scale) and storyteller. I sometimes spend hours picking out just exactly the right bouquet to send because the language of flowers is one I learned as a girl. I love the secret meaning of flowers even if the person I'm sending them to doesn't. It's a symbol, a gift and a story painted with the flowers in a vase.

This past Saturday my son's partner was having her birthday. I wanted to let her know how happy we are to have her in the family, to tell her how much fun we've had getting to know her and her children. And I wanted the flowers to arrive on time, on her birthday. I paid extra to make sure the bouquet would be what I wanted, to have it get there when it was her birthday and on a day when I knew she would be home to receive them. So I contacted wesleyberryflowers.com and gave them my order. They have thirteen outlets listed in the city she lives in so I knew she would get them on time. 

But it didn't work out like that. They took my money, gave me the order number and nothing happened. There was no delivery. I found out about it a few days later when I texted my son to see if she liked them. No flowers. I went back, checked my account to see if the order had gone through. Yes. They had my money. I checked the numbers I had been given for the order. Yes. But no delivery. So I contacted Wesley Berry Flowers and asked to speak with a customer representative. The person who answered was from another country and english was definitely a second language for them. AND THEY HUNG UP ON ME. I called again, thinking maybe the connection was the problem. THEY HUNG UP ON ME AGAIN. I called again. THEY HUNG UP AGAIN. I called again, same thing.

This video is EXACTLY what happened to me. No one would speak to me. I was repeatedly hung up on. At last I called the original bricks and mortar place in Detroit, where they originated. The man cussed at me, told me where to go and where to put you know what. THE WORST BUSINESS I HAVE EVER ENCOUNTERED. 

I have filed complaints with the Better Business Bureau. I have gone through the procedure to get my money taken back, canceled my bank card to make sure that they can not take any other money from my account. I've posted to every social media here on line that I can think of to warn people. 

WESLEY BERRY FLOWERS is a SCAM. I hope that any person reading this makes note of the name and avoids this company on line. When I began to research this company I found whole web sites dedicated to the complaints and law suits being filed against these people. I also called FTD to let them know that they are using their logo on their website, one of the reasons I trusted them. 

On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being worst and 10 being best, I would rate WESLEY BERRY FLOWERS at -100. That's negative 100%. I WILL NEVER DO ANY BUSINESS WITH WESLEY BERRY FLOWERS again ever for any reason. And I will not hesitate to let people know about my experience either. 

What a waste of energy, time and money. Giving flowers as a gift should bring joy, comfort, happiness. It tells the recipient you love them just the way they are. It says thank you for being there. 

I do always try to find the up side of any event. That's my nature. I am basically an optimist. If you want to talk to a curmudgeon who has no manners and is possibly the worst business manager you will ever hear, call him up. He was so nasty he made me laugh! The original location is in Detroit, Michigan and their number is listed on their website. If you want a good laugh, call him and tell him about what you think of a poorly run business. He was one of the funniest asshats I have ever spoken with. 

I am, ever yours, Nancy, smiling and shaking my head at the way things go

PS. Sorry about the rant, but there are a lot of people who read my posts. Feeling bad about sending flowers, or trying to send flowers and being taken, is not something I would wish for any of you.