Well HELLO Hotness!

Mr. Wonderful in the flesh. Just a little Sunday Treat for me,
and a reminder that sunny days will come again - God willing.

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Paint it Black ...

The Rolling Stones had it going on. While Mike was busy pulling Heaven only knows WHAT out of the forgotten nether regions of our ceilings, I painted this wall in the third floor playroom black (it's chalkboard paint, not theatre of the macabre). The verdict? I love it! It actually looks quite striking if I do say so myself and if and when we ever remove the painter's tape and put the tarps away, I'll show it in it's entirety.

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Tearin' it up II

Because no child's room is complete until you tear out the existing ceiling to expose the true hideousness beneath. You can thank us later son! 

It's hard to resist that little voice inside your head that says "you know what would go great with that gaping, hideous hole in the ceiling would be another hole right here in the wall!"

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Tearin' it up

It always starts with just a little pick to "see what's up under here?" 

And the next thing you know you're holding the whole ceiling in your hands!
(kudos to the former owners who, rather than repairing a leaky roof, simply installed a layer of plastic between ceiling layers. Crafty souls). 

I always love that part when you peel away the last layer to discover ... 

The gross nesty things and mummified remains! 

Chalking that up to another attack of charm ...

Dear House, I do love you so. You are always so full of surprises.

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Old Stove Love

Just to prove that I am NOT alone in my old-stove love, I share this recent email from Dan Kerlinsky, who kindly granted me permission to share his madness with the masses: Thanks Dan!
The home I own was built by a man in 1955.  He could not afford a new range or icebox when he built so he went to the local hardware store to buy used appliances.  In the window of the hardware store was this magnificent, new, Frigidaire range and refrigerator in yellow cream.  Built by General Motors, not General Electric.  It says right on one of the many, many pieces of chrome in front "made only by General Motors"  The thing is a BEAUT !   It has as much chrome as a Studebaker.
Dan asked the proprietor about a used range.  The owner said that he had one but he was trying to get rid of the yellow cream set in the front window.  The proprietor thought he would buy a colored set and sell them like hotcakes but everyone wanted white.  The yellow cream set was a year old and he just wanted it GONE!  They worked out a deal and here it sits in my kitchen.  The Refrigerator has traveled to a new home in  Pennsylvania with Mr. Dan.  Mr Dan sold his home to the pesky neighbor kid who lived next door.  That would be me. He left the 40 inch wide mammoth because it would have taken out a wall on it's way to the moving van.  I took over the care of this homestead in 1981.  I actually took over in 1972, but Dan and Ann wouldn't sell to me then because I was only 13 years old.
My range has remained un-named although it has been my cohort in many crimes of recipe murders and many recipe births.  Fifty years of feeding, canning and traditions until early June last year when the party was over.  A Key lime pie seemed to be her demise.  Sparks and a smell of burnt wiring.  Tragedy!  QUICK!  Paddles? CPR?  Yellow pages?  I performed an autopsy on my friend.  Found the culprit.  A nerve had touched ground.  Feverishly, I called all over (just this earth) to find a donor nerve of the same type to transplant.  To no avail, nobody would speak to me after I mentioned "I have a 1955 Frigidaire range"  I learned quickly to ask for the nerve not the application.  Found someone who would listen to my cries for help.  He asked what I wanted it for so I told him.  He  said, "Yep, this should work, we close at five, come over and I'll cut you a piece"
Drove there for the organ procurement.  Got there exactly at five.  Rats!  The door was locked.  They were gone.  As I pulled on the door two men came out from behind the building with their lunch pails in hand. (Does anyone really use a lunch pail any more?)  My savior was an angel, about 65 years young, who asked what I wanted.  I told him I was there for a piece of wire for my stove.  "Oh, You're that guy"  He grabbed his key, opened up the front door and said "Stay here, I'll cut you a piece.  How long do you need it?"   "Five feet"   He came back with it and handed it to me.  "Here, happy cooking" The donor nerve was free of charge.   Drove home to finish the resurrection of my patient. 
SUCCESS!  The big red rings lit up like halo's.  I was back in the gastronomy business.
So, your article from a few weeks past about your range had really hit home to me.  I wanted to send it to Mr. Dan in Pennsy.  He is 90 years young now and often inquires about his old yellow cream friend here in Ohio.  He even cut out an article from the Wall Street Journal about the Cash for Clunker Appliances plan that our government was thinking about and sent it to me saying he knew of one guy(me) who would never trade in the old for the new. 
So that's my story.   All this for a simple request for a reprint.

Lost: One Paint Roller, Answers to "Work."

How is it even remotely possible that in a house - no, an entire PROPERTY - that has been under constant construction since 1996 I am unable to put my hands on even ONE paint roller handle?


I have rollers, tarps, tape, and paint but alas no handle to hold it.

Granted, sometimes my painting style is more "barehanded gorilla goes ape with paint" than anything but I like to at least START OUT with some semblance of professionalism.