When Celeste said she just wanted to have a few friends over to swim at her dad’s pool for her birthday this year, I was thrilled. It was a simple and affordable choice. (Plus, it wasn’t MY house.)

She didn’t want to plan anything too big because her Uncle Rod and Aunt Brenda’s first baby is due any minute and she wanted something she could easily cancel if he came early. She’s determined to be there when that baby arrives. (They live in Pittsburgh.)

It turned out perfect. There were several of Celeste’s friends, her grandparents, aunt, cousin, one of our neighbors, me and Geoff, and Mitch, his girlfriend, Pam, and two of her kids (her youngest wasn’t there). Oh yeah, our pup was there, too. Wore himself out. I don’t think he understood the concept of doing laps since he did his around and around the outside edge of the pool.

This is cousin Hunter, age 8, standing next to the newly-9 Celeste. (And no, he’s not holding up his middle finger. That’s his index finger. He was trying to get me to hurry up and click the picture already.)

I’m glad Mitch and I get along so well we can do things like host a party for our kid together without it being awkward or strange. I think the world of his girlfriend, and her kids are fantastic.

Several people gave Celeste cash for her birthday, enough that she was able to buy herself something I’d be refusing to get–a cell phone. It’s one of those prepaid minutes kind, not something we have to pay every month. (Sometimes I get the feeling I’m the last person on earth not to have a cell phone.) She’d been lobbying for one for ages, using such persuasive arguments as “it will teach me how to budget.” I’m not really sure who she plans to call on this thing, but she couldn’t be happier.

I still can’t believe my baby is 9. It’s going too fast.

“Your cereal’s going to get soggy,” I warn my 9-year-old daughter as she sits, lump-like, in front of her bowl.

“I know,” she says, carefully dunking a disintegrating batch of Coco Pebbles with her spoon. “It tastes better that way.”

She allows the cereal to sit until it congeals. It resembles brown tapioca. I snarl my nose in disgust, which is apparently her signal that it’s ready to eat.

“Try it,” she says, offering a spoon of her sludge. Because I’ve spent these past nine years trying to coax her to taste different foods, it feels hypocritical to refuse, so I try a bite. It’s actually good. Better than good.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that I liked it. I’ve been eating strange foods ever since I was a kid. I believe it was potato chip sandwiches that got me started. Raw pie dough was a delicacy, as were raw potatoes. Even now, I like to put sliced raw potatoes in a bowl of water and refrigerate them until they’re good and cold, then eat them loaded with salt.

Unfortunately, I’ve never been particularly good at coming up with strange food combinations that actually work. Luckily, those around me seem to be gifted that way. I’m forever saying, “That looks disgusting.” Which I almost immediately follow with, “Can I try a bite?”

Sandra, a peanut butter-loving friend, recommended mixing Jif with baby gherkins or crispy bacon–neither a taste combination that I could imagine. Both were surprisingly good. She also suggested a cream cheese, olive and pecan sandwich. Now, that was fantastic.

My friend Nancy’s mom boils macaroni, then once it’s soft, she drains it, throws it in a pan and cracks an egg over it, then mixes it up. After it’s fried, she serves it with ketchup. When I mentioned this to my husband, he looked contemplative a moment, then said, “Sounds good to me. Maybe if we just added some cheese . . .”

Speaking of my husband, he loves sour things. He once created a dish he calls the “perfect pucker,” a concoction consisting of a bowl of grapefruit pulp that has been liberally salted and doused with a teaspoon (or three) of vinegar.
Even though I love both salty and sour, I’ve grown accustomed to having enamel on my teeth, so I haven’t yet given it a try. (I’ll stick with sneaking sips of green olive juice from the jar.)

My friend Sue likes to smear cherry preserves on her toast, then add shaved turkey breast. She says cling peaches make a good substitute if no cherry preserves are on hand. She also likes to coat a slice of bread with mustard and brown sugar, then broil it in the oven for a short time. She swears it tastes like a sugared, cooked ham. My husband says it probably does. (Cooking people seem to share a private knowledge of taste combinations that escapes me.)

My niece likes to fill a bowl with several marshmallows (or a bunch of mini ones) and add about a quarter stick of butter, then microwave until melted and bubbly. Stir with a spoon. She warns that if you eat this when it’s too hot, it’ll burn the roof of your mouth, but if you wait too long, it’s yucky. (She also said it quickly becomes one with the bowl and can be a nightmare to clean.)

My friend Wendy admits to eating plain mayonnaise sandwiches, although sometimes she says she goes all out and mixes her mayo with peanut butter, which she spreads on a cracker.

Wendy also shared a story about when she was growing up. “Mom used to make a casserole that I absolutely hated, and she made it at least three times a week. It consisted of beef, corn, stewed tomatoes, and some other things all mooshed together. I was one of those kids who didn’t like my foods even touching each other, so Mom’s casserole concoction was particularly off-putting. I would go to bed hungry rather than attempt to choke down the foul food. Fast forward ahead 20-ish years. On my birthday, Mom gave me a framed copy of that casserole recipe. At the bottom she wrote, ‘Hee-hee-hee. Love, Mom.‘ I have it hanging on the wall in my kitchen.”

My friend Charee’s grandmother tortured her family once a year with her Easter bunny cake, which she decorated with coconut and jelly beans she bought on clearance the year before.

Stale coconut and rock-like jelly beans. Sounds disgusting.

Can I try a bite?

Do you have a strange food combination or bizarre snack you’d like to share? Please post it under comments (anonymous comments are now allowed!) or email it to me at karinfuller@cnpapers.com. Thanks!

Geoff and I dog sat for my parents last night while they took Celeste to Ohio to watch her cousin compete in a horse show. Rather than going back and forth several times (we live about 20 minutes apart), we were spending the night there, and we were both looking forward to it. It’s so pretty up there. (This picture was taken from their front yard.)

When we arrived, though, the house was SO warm. They have this bizarre double-thermostat (some kind of timer thing?) and we were afraid if we messed with it, we’d screw it up, so we went outside, hoping it might be cooler with the breeze from the river. No such luck. It was unbearably muggy out there. But before we could go back inside, the pup slipped out of his collar and tore off straight for the nearest neighbor’s house. The neighbor who owns wolves.

By the time we recaptured the brat, we were both wringing wet. We decided to go back inside, turn the ceiling fan on high and watch a little TV. Except we couldn’t figure out how to get any of their THREE remote controls to operate the set. After running through all logical options, we began randomly pushing buttons and were finally rewarded with a single channel. The show? The O’Reilly Factor.

NOOOOooooooo!

We went upstairs to see if their bedroom TV might be easier to operate, except as soon as we walked in the room, Murry jumped on the bed . . . and peed on it. He’s NEVER done anything like that before. I don’t know what got into him. I carried all the bedding downstairs and got it started in the washer. (Nothing like running a dryer to make a hot house even hotter.)

And then my parent’s oldest dog had to add his two cents. Mac, who is about 15 years old, sometimes woofs at things that aren’t there. He has this scratchy, old Jazz singer kind of voice, so it’s a cool little bark. Unfortunately, when he started, my two boneheads didn’t recognize there was no emergency and they panicked. One “oof” from Mac and they were off, yapping and howling all night. Add to that the ding-dong-dong-ding chiming of their big clock every fifteen minutes and you have a recipe for a night of pure hell. I feel like a zombie today.

“Remember that friend you wrote about who helped you get in touch with your inner hoochie-mamma?” my friend Julie asked. “Well, I’m going to help you get in touch with your inner bovine.”

“Does this involve me chewing cud or leaving smelly pies on a field?”

“No.”

“Does it require enduring a farmer with cold hands?”

“No,” Julie promised. “All you have to do is dress up like a cow and go to Chick-fil-A with me on Friday. It’s their annual Cow Appreciation Day. If you dress like a cow, you get a free meal.”

This wasn’t the first time that Julie, a mild-mannered mother of three, had turned into a cow. She earned a free meal by going Guernsey last year during Chick-fil-A’s first dress-like-a-cow promotion. This year, she wanted me to go, too.

According to the official press release, last year’s event-the company’s first–was a huge success. “A herd of 200 cow-spotted customers stampeded the Chick-fil-A in Olive Branch, Miss., while 60 young ‘bovines’ from a local summer camp visited the chain’s restaurant in Conway, S.C.”

But the herd was much thinner in Charleston. Only eight people last year. And this year? Just two. Yours truly and the instigator.

“Just slap on a few spots and we’ll go as Holsteins,” said the cattle prodder. “It’ll be fun.”

Looking like a fool in public and chasing after a free meal-both things at which I’m quite adept. “Count me in.”

That night, I found an old, white, hooded sweat jacket, which I covered with spots cut from a black trash bag. Then I cut large cow ears from heavy, white cardboard and stitched them onto the hood. The effect was udderly ridiculous.

“You’re not really going out in public in that?” asked my horrified daughter as I modeled the top half of my ensemble for her.

“Be nice or I’ll make one for you, too,”

My costume still needed some beefing up, but since I was unable to find a coordinating cowbell, I made a nametag instead. “Hi. My name is Patty.”

On the big day, Julie and I stood by my car in the mall’s parking building, taping on spots, then we each tucked a puffy pink glove in our waistbands to serve as the udder. I carried my obnoxious jacket until we were standing in line, then slipped it on. Hood and all.

“We have cows!” exclaimed one of the guys at the counter. Someone hurried to the back for a camera. (Oh bull. Why didn’t I think to bring mine?)

(Note to reader: The text contained in the previous set of parens was meant to be read with a sarcastic tone.)

Julie and I vogued for the camera, proudly displaying our udders as if posing for Hugh Heiffer. The shots were (don’t act surprised–you know this is coming) total beefcake.

The only downside were the cow puns, which we were unable to stop. There were complaints about bull-emic looking young women and the sad disparity between the calves and calve-nots. We were “spinning our veals,” born in the barn, and at home on the range. You know, a never-ending stream of bull-oni.

But it was so much fun that we’re already planning our costumes for next year, when we’re determined that no trash bags, construction paper or cardboard will perish in the making of our attire.

And I have no doubt that we will succeed. That Julie and I will be there again, year after year. Since she and I are, quite obviously, friends for-heiffer.

The things I get myself into . . .

Ric Cochran, V100’s afternoon (3 to 7 pm) DJ, called to see if I’d be willing to try my hand on the air as a regular guest on his show. So thoroughly charming was Ric (and so convincing was he that I wouldn’t make a complete fool of myself on the air) that I agreed to give it a shot.

I can’t count the times this week that I’ve had mini panic attacks at the thought of being live on the air. I’m not a fast thinker. Any clever lines I manage to come up with are usually the result of long battles with the keyboard. They seldom spurt forth easily on their own. But like I said, Ric’s charming and convincing, and luckily, he’s also very easy to talk to. He managed to get me talking, although I’m not sure how I sounded. Hopefully, after a few more attempts (yesterday was my first), I’ll not be as nervous. I’m on the schedule for Thursdays at 4:15.

I built a house once. It was a long time ago. A different lifetime ago. But I still pass it every time I visit my parents. It remains one of my most frustrating and unsatisfying accomplishments, but something I’ve never regretted.

I knew every inch of that house when it was still just on paper. Before that even, when it was only in my head. I knew little about construction except what I’d learned from watching my dad as he fixed this or that. Dad was fearless about the projects he took on. Nothing seemed to intimidate him, regardless of his level of experience with whatever skills the job might require. He had this “every expert was once a beginner” mentality about him that I think rubbed off on me. If others could learn to do it, just as he learned to do it, so could I.

I began envisioning my future house when the lot was nothing but a weedy, junk-car-covered piece of ground on the next ridge over from my parent’s house. At first, I was fascinated by log homes, so I immersed myself, reading everything I could find about that type of construction. Then I became intrigued with both underground and expandable homes (the latter being homes that are completely under roof but only partially finished, with the basement, attic or upstairs rooms left to do later). My research was extensive.

Gradually, I came up with my plan. Build a basement that was topped with a subfloor (to support later levels), then cover that subfloor with industrial grade rubber roofing to keep the water out. Finish the basement with a full bath and its own mini-kitchen, and live there until enough money was saved to build the rest of the house.

The night before the first dozer was scheduled to arrive on the site, the immensity of what was about to happen suddenly loomed large. This wasn’t some little weekend craft project. It was a house. It was every cent we had saved. There was no water at the site. No electricity, gas, sewer, telephone or cable. There wasn’t even a road. I had never attempted anything even close to this size. It terrified me.

I realize now how dangerous it can be to step back and look at the big picture. When I did, I was so overwhelmed I nearly called it all off. Somehow, though, I forced myself to see just one step at a time. Dozer work first, gravel the road second, order block third, find contractors for whatever we could not do ourselves. Each was a small and totally do-able step.

Those small steps continued until the basement was done and, a few years later, the rest of the house under roof. Then, when the house was just one room and some flooring away from completion, my husband and I were divorced. Someone else lives in my dream house.

Frustrating as that was (and still occasionally is), it’s not something I would have avoided. I think sometimes more is gained from the journey than from actually reaching the destination.

Wrote professor Betty Bender, “Anything I’ve ever done that was ultimately worthwhile initially scared me to death.”

The house wasn’t the only time I found myself feeling that way.

I built a person once. It was a long time ago. Nine years this month. At first, I didn’t know what I was doing there either, but I stuck with it, determined to go from beginner to expert. Celeste has been an often frustrating, yet immensely satisfying, part of my life. When I was hugely pregnant and the contractions were coming two minutes apart, I remember thinking, This is really happening. This little girl is going to be depending on ME for ages to come. I saw the immensity of it and it scared me to death.

Sometimes it still does.

But, much like with that house, I’ve been taking it one small and totally do-able step at a time.

And she’s definitely something I’ve never regretted.

The water was shallow (and so clear) across most of the river. Even at the better swimming holes, you could still walk most of the way across.

Celeste and Jordan on the swinging bridge that goes over to the Boy Scout camp.

Gale Harman (left) and my brother, Kurt, serving up the roasted pig.

Furry Murry enjoying a cool dip in the river.

Our pup, Chewie, resting after his swim. This dog is fearless–headed right out into the water after the kids. The current was a little too much for him, though, and we had to pull him back in.

Jordan takes his turn on the tire swing while Murry (in the background) heads out the path for a walk.

Once again, former Carbide Campers will be getting together both in Charleston and on Blue Creek to have some fun and remember their days as Carbide Campers. It’s hard to believe it’s been 24 years since Carlisle and Camelot closed.

Friday, July 14 - 6 PM to ?
Bear’s Den (lower level of the Daniel Boone building, Capitol and Washington Streets, Charleston). Come join in the planning for the big 25th-year reunion in 2007.

Saturday, July 15 Come on out to the Creek (Hunting/Fishing Club) and bring your own picnic. We’ll go to the camp sites and do some hiking, and those equipped and interested can camp-out at the Club on Saturday night.

Sunday July 16
There are no formally scheduled events this year, although everyone will likely hang around and visit, as always.

Click here for directions.

BRING YOUR OLD PICTURES FROM CAMP (and reunions)! Randy Rice will have his laptop and scanner on hand so your pictures can be added to the website.

You don’t have to be a former Carbide Camper to enjoy this collection of old camp song lyrics.

No matter what time of day I get online to update this blog, I have so much trouble adding photos or graphics that I end up giving up. Text-only posts are dull. I’ve tried linking to photobucket.com, ofoto.com, and straight from my computer. Maybe one out of every 15 I try will work. Suggestions, anyone?

SORRY — THE PHOTOS MENTIONED IN SUNDAY’S PAPER CANNOT BE UPLOADED DUE TO A PROBLEM WITH BLOGGER.COM.

When I suggested the camping trip to my husband, he immediately quoted one of his friends. “If the great outdoors was so great, why was indoors invented?”

“It’ll be fun,” I persisted.

“It’ll be in the 90s,” said Geoff.

“It’s right by the river,” I said. “And there are plenty of trees, so we can be in the shade.”

“I bet it’ll rain,” he said. “Haven’t you ever heard that rainstorms will travel thousands of miles just for the chance to rain on a tent?”

“I checked the weather. There’s only a slight chance,” I said. “Besides, the tent is waterproof.”

Geoff emitted a somewhat sarcastic sputtering sound. “How’s that Dave Barry saying go? ‘Camping is nature’s way of promoting the hotel business?’ Sounds like the words of a man whose been rained on.”

I shrugged. “So long as you don’t mind us going without you.”

“So long as you don’t mind me not going,” said Geoff.

I assured him I didn’t . . . since I also felt assured that once he saw the growing pile of camping gear at the top of the stairs, he’d get the itch, too. I was right. The night before we left, he added his sleeping bag to the pile. (So contagious was the camping bug that our 10-year-old neighbor, Jordan Holmes, soon added his, too.)

So with two adults, two kids, two dogs, four sleeping bags, one tent and enough gear to last a week all crammed into our little Toyota Matrix, we headed out for our one-night camping trip. Our destination was a camp near Buckhannon where our friends, the Harmans, host a big Fourth of July party and pig roast each year. Relatives and friends come from near and far to set up tents and campers in the field below the old house, then spend their days riding dirt bikes and ATVs, fishing and swimming (and bathing) in the river, cooking out, and sitting around the fire to talk. There are kids of all ages and dogs of all sizes and they all get along.

We arrived early enough to nab a heavily shaded spot by the creek to set up our new tent, which went up easier than any I’d ever dealt with before. After, we helped the kids build a dam in the creek, then spread our sleeping bags on the ground and laid there talking while Celeste, Jordan and the dogs continued to splash in the water.

We packed so much into our short time in the country that it seems hard to believe we weren’t there much longer. The kids spent ages swinging way out over the path on an old tire swing. We swam several times in the river. Biked to the Boy Scout camp and walked across the old swinging bridge. Went on a four-wheeler ride. Stayed up late into the night feeding the pig-roasting fire. And we were only there one day.

Jordan blew us all away by accepting a dare to eat one of the eyes from the cooked pig. (Impressive, too, was the distance that eye covered when he spat it out.) My nephew Zach ate the tongue, prompting someone near him to quip, “Just think–it’s tasting you back.”

Then, after one last swim in the cold river, it was time to go home.

“This was so much better than I was expecting,” Geoff said. “When we do it next year, let’s plan to stay several days.”

“Do we have to wait until next year?” Celeste asked. “I want to go camping again.”

I looked to Geoff for his reaction. He smiled and shrugged. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind going again either. Especially if we can find another place that’s something like this.”

So can you recommend a WV campground (or camping spot) you can recommend for us? We’re especially looking for those that are dog friendly and have some place to swim, like a river or lake. Please post your recommendations here or email them to karinfuller@cnpapers.com.