STEPHANIE’S
CHIC ON THE CHEAP

INFORMATION PLEASE

When I was a young boy, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood.  I remember it being a polished, old case fastened to the wall.  The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box.  I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked in to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person.  Her name was “Information Please” and there was nothing she did not know.
“Information Please” could supply anyone’s number and the correct time.

My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor.  Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer; the pain was terrible.  But there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give me sympathy.  I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway.  The telephone!  Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landline.  Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear.

“Information Please,” I said into the mouthpiece just above my head.

“I hurt my finger …”  I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.

“Isn’t your mother home?”  came the question.

“Nobody’s home but me,” I blubbered.

“Are you bleeding?” the voice asked.

“No,” I replied.  “I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.”

“Can you open the icebox?”  she asked.

I said I could.

“Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger,” said the voice.

After that, I called “Information Please” for everything.  I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was.  She helped me with my maths.

She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died.  I called, “Information Please,” and told her that story.  She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child.  But I was not consoled.  I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?”

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Wayne, always remember there are other worlds to sing in.”

Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone, “Information Please.”

“Information,” said the now familiar voice.

“How do I spell fix?”

All this took place in the Pacific Northwest.  When I was nine years old we moved across the country to Boston.  I missed my friend very much.  “Information Please” belonged in that old wood box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat in the hall.  As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations really never left me.  Calming in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then.  I appreciate now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle.  I had about a half-hour between planes.  I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now.  Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, “Information Please.”  Miraculously I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.

“Information.”

I hadn’t planned this, but I heard myself saying, “Could you please tell me how to spell fix?”

There was a long pause.  Then came the soft spoken answer, “I guess your finger must have healed by now.”

I laughed, “So it’s really you,” I said.  “I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?”

“I wonder,” she said, “if you know how much your calls meant to me.  I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls.”

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.

“Please do,” she said.  “Just ask for Sally.”

Three months later I was back in Seattle.

A different voice answered, “Information.”

I asked for Sally.

“Are you a friend?” she said.

“Yes, a very old friend,” I answered.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” she said.  “Sally had been working part time for the last few years because she was sick.  She died five weeks ago.”

Before I could hang up, she said, “Wait a minute, did you say your name was Wayne?”

“Yes,” I answered.

Well, Sally left a message for you.  She wrote it down in case you called.  “Let me read it to you.”

The note said, “Tell him there are other worlds to sing in.  He’ll know what I mean.”

I thanked her and hung up.  I knew what Sally meant.

Never underestimate the impression you make on others.

Whose life have you touched today?

~ Courtesy and with permission poeticexpressions.co.uk
Thanks Mike and the Team

CHICKEN AND BARLEY SOUP WITH LEMON AND THYME

This soup is hands-down delicious like one you’ve not tasted before.  Serves 4-6

INGREDIENTS:

• 10 cups chicken stock (or chicken broth – I prefer stock)
• 3/4 cup pearl barley
• 1 pound fresh mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
• 3 large carrots, cleaned and diced
• 4 large celery ribs, cleaned and diced
• 2 1/2 cups cooked chicken (broiled, baked or rotisserie), cubed or shredded
• 1/4 cup fresh thyme, minced OR 1 TBSP dried thyme
• 3 TBSP freshly squeezed lemon juice
• Salt and Pepper

NOW WE DO THIS:

In a large soup pot add chicken stock or broth over medium high heat.  Add pearl barley, mushrooms, carrots and celery.

Bring to a boil.

Turn down heat to medium-low and simmer until barley is tender.  About 40 minutes – stirring occasionally.

NEXT:

Add chicken and thyme to broth/soup.  Stir and cook for about 15 minutes.

Season to taste with lemon juice, salt and pepper.

Stir and cook an additional 5 minutes.

Thin with additional chicken stock or broth if needed.

SERVE:

With big chunks of artisan bread.