Churning Peanut Butter

In general, the division of labor in the household works out pretty well naturally.

I am happy to mow the grass. Garnet is happy to weed the garden.

Where everything breaks down is peanut butter. We buy the all-natural, creamy peanut butter that comes with the dire warning, "Oil separation occurs naturally in this product. Stir before using."

Few tasks are more odious than having to stir in the oil in a new jar of peanut butter. If there were extra room at the top of the jar, that would be one thing. As, it is though, it's a given that some oil will spill over the sides in the process, and you will get it all over your fingers.

I don't know about you but I have to stop and wash my hands immediately.

Plus, kitchen knives are not quite long enough for the job, and, when you're trying to make sure that all of the peanut better at the bottom is stirred in, you get more oil on young fingers and it's back to the sink to wash them again.

The other day, I was standing at the counter making Sparkle Girl a peanut-butter sandwich. The jar had just enough for the sandwich.

It's going to be time to stir another jar of peanut butter soon, I said.

"I'm going to be out of town that day," Garnet said.

Doobins Becomes an Entrepreneur

Mr. Doobins is starting to learn about the world of money.

Before, we either bought him something or told him that he wasn't going to get it.

Now, with some things, we give him the option of earning money to buy it. He is still hazy about the particulars of money so we don't worry about specific amounts, just his willingness to exert some effort to get whatever it is that he wants.

Sometimes, Garnet suggests ways that he could make money. Another time, he might ask whether he could sweep the front porch to earn some money.

The other day he was thinking about the latest Lego Star Wars kit that he just had to have when he had a brainwave.

"I know," he said, "I could make a big mess and you could pay me money to clean it up."

Clapping in Handcuffs

In the process of congratulating me about getting married, lots of people have shared wedding stories of their own.

One editor at the paper talked about how, when he was a reporter whose beat required dropping by the courthouse regularly, he was asked to witness a number of weddings.

Hearing that we had married at the magistrate's office, one woman said she wished that she had married at the magistrate's office. Saying no more, she walked off.

I was surprised at the number of people who had been married by a magistrate or justice of the peace or judge.

Carolyn Sakowski and her husband, Alton, were married by a justice of the peace in Kansas.

"Beverly Sills sang at my wedding," she said, "even if she was on the 'Mike Douglas Show' that was on TV in the other room at the JP's house. After the ceremony, I got in a car with the two witnesses, and Alton went to class. He was getting his MFA then. I think the JP and his wife would have bet this one wasn't going to
last!"

It has, in fact, lasted 32 years so far.

"And it's still fun," Sakowski said.

Amy McNeil said that she had to laugh at the part of the story about my marriage that has a man in handcuffs.

"My husband and I got married at the town hall in Bloomfield, NJ, which is right next to Newark," McNeil said. "The ceremony took place in the 'Hall of Violators.' The judge married us there instead of in the court so we wouldn’t have an audience of 'could-be convicts.'

"Instead, when we left the Hall, we encountered them all in the hallway because the court doors were still locked. Some could-be’s, also in handcuffs, turned around so we could see them clapping. Oddly enough, it was quite touching!"