Return of the Corn Stalker

Being as I like to eat food, and I feed a lot of other people who also like to eat food, I'm always on the lookout for a good opportunity to get me some.  So when the chance presented itself to dance on out to a bean field when the harvester had done, off I went.
The dusty little bean plot was dotted with scavengers like Bestie and me, each picking our own little area in which to scrounge for dry pods to shell later, or sifting the little red gems out of the dirt.  Well, almost everyone picked their own little area.  One individual kept roaming the lot in a random fashion, chatting cheerily with himself, and eventually staking his claim on the row I had already selected as my own.  I was a little taken aback, but, like Jeremy Renner, I can fight but I won't unless I have to, so I just moved to another row.  And he did it again.  So I relocated once more.  And then he wandered away, still happily conversing with himself.
Bestie and I decided we were fulla beans, and as we left the field she leaned toward me and whispered, "I have to ask.  Is that the Corn Stalker?"
"It was," I said.  "But now...it's the Bean Stalker!"

Armie Hammer Grill

Once upon a summer when a seasonal worker needed to borrow a temporary residence, we lent out our travel trailer.  At season's end the trailer came home more furnished than when it left us.  I returned the library books Mr. Seasonal had borrowed, tossed the leftover food that remained, kept the audio-cassette player left behind (I'm old enough to still own audio cassettes and I know how to use them), and claimed the brand-new looking George Foreman grill for The Precious.
The Precious is quite the chef with this handy appliance.  He grills sandwiches, cooks hash browns, toasts buns and makes hot dogs.  He uses his fancy gadget for snacks, breakfasts, snacks, lunches, snacks, dinners, snacks, and midnight...snacks.
There are only two problems with The Precious's use of this sweet little specimen of convenience.  He never remembers to put it away, and he never remembers what it's called.  So this is what I hear, all day long:
The Precious: "Mama, I'm getting out the Bob Dylan grill."
Pixie: "The Precious, I'm trying to clean up the kitchen.  Put away the Patrick Stewart."
Lefty: "Wait, I brought home a panini from work and I want to heat it up in the Jim Parsons."
Treasure: "You mean the Rebel Wilson?"
Angel Doll: "Get the Jeremy Renner out of my way."
Hunneypunkin: "Are you talking about the life-size cardboard cutout, or the grill?"

Holiday Egglessness

Chicken eggs are an allergen unto The Precious and the ducks don't wanna lay in the winter, so I thought I'd get all creative with the holiday baking.  I have learned that a half cup of applesauce can take the place of an egg in some recipes.
Turns out, applesauce can also substitute for sugar and shortening/butter/oil.  Luckily for me, I still have two hundred and ninety-eight quart jars of home canned applesauce from a couple years ago when our two little apple trees declared their Best Year Ever and I dehydrated apples and froze sliced peeled apples in cinnamon sauce and canned apple juice and apple sauce and apple pie filling and cinnamon apples until I cried and hated apples.
Thus did I come up with evil plan number one: Fill all my holiday platters and bowls with applesauce and call it good.  My scheme was vetoed by The Precious because he's just not an applesauce fan.  (Hater.)
Evil plan number two: Bake all the holiday goodies with applesauce in place of the eggs, and NOT substitute for sugars and fats.  So far it's successful, and I even finally learned how to use that lonely second-hand cookie press from the back of the bottom of the least-used drawer in the house.
The Precious approves of the baking, but has expressed some limitations regarding the substitution of applesauce for eggs.
No bacon and applesauce for breakfast.
No applesauce and hashbrowns.
No over-easy applesauce.
No scrambled applesauce.
No applesauce McMuffins.
No deviled applesauce.
The Precious has declared that even Jeremy Renner would call these sugar cookies and gingerbread cutouts applesaucellent.

A Real Live Nativity Story

Once upon a long time ago, though I had a happy hoard of holiday decor, my Christmas collection lacked a Nativity scene.  You know, the little barn housing a donkey, an ox, and a holy swaddled infant, all topped with a glittery nova.
"You find the Nativity that you want," Nanny told me, "and I'll buy it for you."
For years after that, I searched for the perfect Baby Jesus scene.  There were wooden Josephs, carved camels, glass Marys, china angels, tin sheep, and copper Magi.  There were yard Nativity scenes large enough to include my life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cutout.  There were stuffed fabric Baby Jesuses designed for little children to not be suffered to come unto Him.
Nanny went to heaven before I chose a Nativity set.  And then I inherited hers.  And it's just the right one.