Sep 8, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
I love the creamy, cheesy soups at restaurants. But I can’t afford to go out each time I want one bowlful. For the price of less than three restaurant servings, this recipe serves up 12 or more portions. It’s simple to make, freezes well, and goes great with breads.
It can be made on the stove top or in the slow cooker. Directions for both follow the recipe.
INGREDIENTS:
1 chopped onion
2 TBSP butter [if stove top, not needed for slow cooker]
6 small red potatoes, chopped
1 large [26 oz.] condensed Cream of Chicken soup
1 soup can of water
16 oz. frozen broccoli, thawed and chopped
1/2 can milk
1 lb. Velveeta cheese, cubed
1 celery stalk, chopped
1 large carrot, chopped
4 – 6 strips cooked bacon, crumbled
Salt and pepper to taste
Chives for garnish [if desired]
STOVE TOP DIRECTIONS:
Saute’ onion in butter.
In 5-quart stockpot add onion, potatoes, soup, water. Mix well, bring to light boil for 10-15 minutes until potatoes are cooked. Add broccoli, milk, carrot, celery. Stir regularly. Bring to light boil for 5 minutes. Add bacon, mix well. Reduce heat to medium high. Add cheese. Stir until melted.
SLOW COOKER DIRECTIONS:
In 5-quart crock pot combine all ingredients (butter not needed for slow cooker).
Cook on high for three hours, stirring every hour to blend cheese and ingredients.
*You may want to soften the potatoes before adding to the slow cooker. You can do this by either boiling for 10 minutes, or microwaving for 6 minutes (be sure to puncture first, so they don’t explode!). Handle carefully, as they will be hot, and cut into pieces before adding to slow cooker.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Sep 5, 2011
by MollyJoRealy @MollyJoRealy
There’s a fairly new song by Andy Grammer that basically says, no matter what, it ain’t that bad. So keep trudging along. The song is “Keep Your Head Up”. Not only does it have a catchy beat, but the words are nifty. I was pleasantly surprised to not hear anything about sex, drugs or violence.
Lately I’ve come to realize what’s really been holding me back from writing. I mean, really writing. From studying the craft, from expanding my vocabulary and resume. From doing what it is I have always known I was born to do. I was born to be a writer. So why aren’t I?
I’m afraid. I’m afraid of a great many things, but to let it influence how I do or do not use my gifts and talents… not much of a role model, am I? I’m not afraid of failure. I have a handful of rejection slips and “no thank you” emails already. That’s not it.
I’m not afraid of not being good enough. If I was a truly lousy writer, it wouldn’t bring me the joy that it does. I’m not even afraid of needing a “real” job to make ends meet.
It dawned on me a few weeks ago, and try as I might to push the thought away, to drown it out with the common sense mantra of “that’s so ridiculous!”, the fact remains . . .
I am afraid of success.
I’m afraid of leaving my foundation and flying. I’m afraid of the ghosts in my past coming back to haunt me. I’m afraid of reliving mistakes that I’d left behind. I’m afraid of people not understanding, of reminding me of who they think I am, of me not being able to stand tall and look ’em in the eye.
I’m afraid of becoming everything I know I can be . . .
Because that means things would change. It could mean meeting new people (a skill I still haven’t fully mastered). It could mean traveling. It could mean people counting on me for more. It could mean the opportunity to fail bigger.
It definitely means the unknown.
I used to have this joke-mantra. I’d say, “Change is bad.” To which my friend Jeff would tell me, “Change is change. It’s not good or bad. It’s just change.” We’d argue a lot on the subject. Nobody won, because we couldn’t convince the other.
Of late, I can see that he was right. And I’m ready. I’m ready to change for change’s sake. I’m ready to take the bull by the horns and do what I need to do to be the writer I’m supposed to be.
Today’s church sermon was about “Rejecting Old Excuses”. Let’s just say it was one of those puzzle pieces that is fitting neatly into the arrow God is building for me.
It’s time to stop wishing and hoping and thinking and praying. It’s time to act. And write. And submit. And be rejected. Over and over. And over again.
A few months ago, I was speaking with a close friend who was lamenting the lack of call-backs for job interviews, when it seemed others were getting so many. I quickly told him, “Why do you want so many? You only need one!”
I guess it’s time to take my own medicine. I can’t be kicked out if I haven’t stepped in.
So this is me. Back on in the saddle again. Writing it out. Keeping up with the To-Do List. And getting rejected.
It’s the best feeling, ever.
I promise.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Sep 3, 2011
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
This is another Writer’s Digest Community Writing Prompt from last year.
SONGS: Take two of your favorite songs, and match up a line from the chorus of one with a line from the chorus of the other. Then, write a scene that starts with the first lyric, and ends with the second.
“What are you doing New Year’s Eve?” he asked with a smile; his smile.
“It’s too early to think about that right now.” I tried hard not to fall under his spell. I was certain, however, that my clumsy efforts to avoid his gaze made me look like a fish out of water. A giant, washed-ashore, debilitated, practically dying, fish out of water.
He chuckled as if I were a cute toddler learning to walk. Emotionally, he wasn’t too far off. But I was planets away from letting him discover my reserves. And so I played it off by opening my datebook for evidence.
Datebook. How much more oxymoronic could it be. It was a personal jab, how these bound leather-jacketed pages screamed to be opened to reveal nothing of what they promised. Grocery lists. Doctor appointments. Work assignments. Contact information. Anything and everything. Except dates.
“Here,” I poked. “See? Today’s only – ”
He refused to let me finish. He gently wrapped his strong manhand around my accusatory finger. I’m pretty sure we lit the place up all by ourselves. It was painfully enjoyable.
He sat across from me, playing with my hand atop the café table. Gently pushing and pulling information. So easily, I didn’t even realize I was giving up bits and pieces. So earnestly, I forgot to lie.
“Wait,” I breathed, gripping the table for stability. Wait, I commanded myself.
“What’s wrong?” he leaned forward in his concern.
“You’re making it worse!” I edged my chair back.
“What?” he mock-gasped; knowing full well what I meant. I looked anywhere but at him. If I let go of the table, I would certainly float beyond the neon stars above us in my bliss.
He took my hand again, tethering me to himself. I would not fly away.
“Let’s walk.” It was a gentle command; for he was already rising from his seat, taking his coat and coffee with him. I followed numbly, playing his grown-up game of Simon Says.
He led me over the concrete path, through the intermittent crowds, under the trees raining color upon us. I shivered from the all-consuming experience and he quickly pulled me to the side of the path. Under a dim yellow lamppost, he brought his coat behind me and pulled it around me. I was surrounded by the scent of him. His warm hands soothed the collar around my neck and I shivered all the more, embarrassed that such gentlemanly care could turn me to Jell-O. I knew better than to try to speak.
A red-golden leaf fell between us, startling us both into chuckles. My pent-up, heightened awareness took advantage of my fallen guard; and my body convulsed into a loud symphony of laughter, letting go of all that was in me.
He joined with me, his baritone sound in harmony with my soprano.
A tear of relief sprang to life on my cold cheeks. Still laughing, still holding me close by the collar of his own coat, he raised one hand to tenderly thumb it away. I closed my eyes to avoid showing him inside me; but I felt his presence, his touch. He was not going anywhere.
“Hey.” He whispered. I hesitantly opened my lids to see his breath on the air. He placed a gentle kiss on my lips, and the warmth flooded me, staying even after he withdrew to look at me again.
His smile was new. It was mine. “So, what does your datebook say about tonight?”
I smiled back. “It’s Autumn.” With all it’s joyously colorful experiences. “Autumn in New York.”
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
I love the creamy, cheesy soups at restaurants. But I can’t afford to go out each time I want one bowlful. For the price of less than three restaurant servings, this recipe serves up 12 or more portions. It’s simple to make, freezes well, and goes great with breads.
