Lucky the Horse Does a Walkabout

I was standing at my kitchen sink, blissfully skinning a bumper crop of tomatoes, preparatory to canning. In my zone, I was startled when my husband walks in and blurts out, “There’s a horse in our front yard!” My immediate reaction was, “Oh goody. Does that mean we can keep him?” followed by, “Say what?!?”

I gaped at him and he repeated, “There is a horse in our front yard!” I rinsed off my hands and went to look out the picture window. Sure enough, there was a horse blissfully grazing on grass. I went back to the kitchen, dried off my hands and grabbed a couple of carrots from the fridge. I went outside and slowly walked towards him. He raised his head, whickered, and went back to grazing. From a cursory glance, he was well fed and well taken care of.

When I was in arm’s length from him, I said, “Hi guy. What’s happening?” He looked up at me and blinked. Obviously, nothing was happening. I snapped the carrots into pieces and placed on my hand and held out to him. He began lipping my hand to get the chunks and crunched. I reached out to rub his neck and he turned to face me, bringing his face into full contact with my hand and if he had been a cat, he would have been purring. My husband stood on the front porch, aghast. He knew I had had close contact with horses in my childhood and youth, but I guess he just never realized what that entails. His largest animal contact entailed his Bassett hound.

In a matter of moments, the horse and I were buddies with me stroking him, him rubbing his head against me and both of us very happy. I turned around and softly instructed my husband to get me the length of light rope in our shed. Cautiously, he brought it to me and I gently snuck it around the horse’s head. I chirped at him and pulled on the rope and he followed me into the back yard. I fastened him to a post under one of the oak trees and then fetched him a big bucket of water.

“Beats me”, I told my husband. I had given him a once over. “He’s been recently brushed, fed; his hooves and shoes are recently maintained. No signs of any trauma, struggle, injuries. Mystery horse, that’s what he is. Mystery horse. He didn’t run heavy to get here. He just walked and here he is.”

Content he was well secured, watered, and safe under the tree, I went back into the kitchen where I could watch him from the kitchen window and began to again work on the tomatoes. A couple of hours passed and he was still there and obviously content.

The summer silence was broken by the door chime. My husband went and came back into the kitchen with a harried looking woman. “She’s looking for a horse.” His lips were twtitching.

“Well”, I asked her, pointing out the window, “Is that him?” She gasped and started laughing. “That rascal.” We went outside and the horse made a noise that meant he knew the woman. She introduced herself and said she lived in the farm at the cul de sac. We have a small neighborhood and at the end of cul de sac is a drive with a No Trespassing sign at the beginning. Apparently, it led to her farm. We had heard roosters crowing in the morning and several times, the soft moo of cows.

“Meet Lucky. He is a recent acquisition. Great horse, sweet as sugar, but he loves to take walks. We thought we had him securely gated but I guess he’s smarter than us. His previous owner said to watch out, that he could slip locks, chains, etc. and when he wanted to do a walkabout, he would. We’ve only had him two weeks. We bought him because his owner had health issues and couldn’t keep him anymore. Apparently, he is up to his old tricks.”

“I rubbed him. Hi Lucky, good to meecha.”. I handed the piece of rope to her and she led him down the road to her farm. I went back to work again. Looking out of the kitchen window, the space he had stood seemed strangely empty.

A few days later, I was doing the supper dishes and looked up. There under the tree, was Lucky, in his place. I laughed. I told my husband what was up, grabbed another piece of rope and the stepstool. He followed me outside as I fashioned an improvised bridle from the rope and used the stepstool to climb on board. “Uh, don’t you need a saddle or something?” my husband rather fearfully asked. “Nope. Got the rope, got a grip, ready to ride.” He watched in awe as Lucky and I headed down the drive and then down the strip to his home.

I had just barely gotten to the end of the little lane when Lucky’s new mom came out of the house, heading towards me. We both had a good laugh as I rode Lucky to their porch and climbed off. We led him to the gate of his enclosure and sure enough, that rascal had slipped the chain. I took the rope off and waved him back into his field.

I was embarrassedly thanked although I assured her, the pleasure was all mine. I walked slowly back home thinking of the contact with him, both physically and spiritually. Our hearts had chosen new friends. My husband once told me that our hearts chose our friends, not our heads. He is right.

For the past few years, Lucky has come to visit. He is a very sly horse and when he wants to walk, he does. His owners thought of renaming him Houdini. Considering the fact that he has made a friend who always welcomes him and spoils him with apples and sugar dipped carrots, regardless of the weather, a friend with a gentle hand who rides him safely home, I think Lucky needs to keep his name. Maybe I’ll change my name to Little Lucky.

My husband just mutters and shakes his head.

Nice Area, Nice People, Viscious Luncheon

This post came about due to becoming acquainted with J. K. Bevill at Lost Creek Publishing (  He is from Jasper, Alabama.  Please go visit him!  Excellent photographer and blog poster of Charlie and Yvonne’s Gospel Show featuring Cookie Lee of world reknown.

Years ago, I visited the Jasper/Townley/Cullman area because of my roommate the first year I was in university. Her father was a minister and ended up going from Nashville, Tennessee to Cullman, Alabama. I went home with her several times and developed a fondness for the area including two restaurants: Victoria’s and Hickoryland BBQ.

I thought this post would be  a fitting addendum to a story that began years ago. Now I must warn you, as a Southerner, there is no such thing as a short story. Eventually, you will come to the reason for the title of this blog, along with a little color, and a retro recipe that is part of the story.  Just hang in there.

Along with other happy coincidences, my two aunts lived in Nashville at the time and attended the church my roomie’s father pastored. They just loved him and his wife and a few weeks after they left, my aunts gave them a call. Happy to hear familiar voices, the pastor and wife invited them to come visit some Saturday because it really was a nice area with nice people. It came about my aunts did their visit the next Saturday.

When they arrived in Cullman, they were told a member of the new church had invited the minister and wife to luncheon that same day but became excited to invite additional visitors from Nashville.  So, my aunts, my aunt’s husband, pastor and wife went to luncheon.

Imagine: A dining room of lovely mahogany furniture set with delicate old china, savory odors from the kitchen, everyone all gussied up and on their best behavior. The men quickly began to talk about golf while the ladies went into the well manicured yard to look at several prize rose bushes. Soon, it was time to go into luncheon.

As a sidebar here: In the South, lunch is often call Dinner – y’all come for Sunday Dinner. It’s just a pickup kinda Dinner but our first tomatoes are in….you get the picture. In this case, it was called luncheon.

Everyone then sat down in that calm dining room, fragrant with food, gardenias, and Youth Dew perfume. When I asked my aunt about this a few weeks ago, she recalled the menu: delicate homemade yeast rolls filled with thin sliced country ham, potato salad, small crustless pimiento cheese and chicken salad sandwiches, sliced tomatoes (first of the summer!), fruit salad, tall crystal glasses filled with sweet tea and garnished with lemon and mint from the garden.

When everyone had eaten all they felt was courteous to eat, the hostess announced, “We are having a special cake. One of the ladies in my circle brought this to our last meeting and it is delicious.  It’s called Watergate Cake with Cover-up frosting.” she then brought in this light white cake frosted with delicate green cool whippy frosting and garnished with chopped pecans. It was at that point, all hell broke loose.

After making a clever (he thought)remark about politicians, the husband began to rant about the crooks running for office, how they were bleeding folks dry, blah blah blah, especially the latest Carpetbagger that was running for office.

The wife, embarrassed, tried to put it aside but the husband persisted. Within a few moments, husband and wife began shouting at each other, calling each other names, accusing each other of being easily duped idiots; on and on. Folks around the table sat in silence, eyeing each other and sipping tea. Finally, the minister was able to interject a word about the cake. Cake and coffee was mercifully served. Oooos and ahhhhs ensued. My aunt asked for the recipe. After neatly writing on a recipe card, the hostess asked if anyone else needed anything else (only to leave) and the visitors made their escape.

The verdict by my aunt after all those years: Nice area, nice people, vicious luncheon….good cake. I agree. it is a good cake for the summer: cool, light, a pretty green (or not as you choose). The original recipe called for 7-Up. I use club soda or regular water and fix in a 9×13 baking pan. I let the frosted cake chill in the fridge before serving. Eat quickly or within a couple of days.

I have seen various versions of this cake. This is THE recipe given to my aunt. Y’all enjoy and please behave yourselves when you serve it.  I don’t know the origins of this recipe.

Watergate Cake with Cover-up Frosting
1 regular size package white cake mix
1 package (4 serving size) pistachio instant pudding mix
3 eggs
1 cup water
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1/2 cup chopped nuts
Optional and fun: drop or two of green cake coloring
1 (3 3/4 oz.) package pistachio-flavored instant pudding mix
1/2 cup milk
1 (8 oz.) container frozen whipped topping, thawed 1/2 cup chopped nuts
Instructions Cake: Combine all ingredients in large mixer bowl. Blend, then beat at medium speed for 2 minutes. Pour into greased and floured 9 x 13 inch pan. Bake for 30-35 minutes at 350 degrees. Cool and frost.

Frosting: COMBINE pudding mix and milk in medium bowl. Beat at medium speed 1 minute. Fold in whipped topping. Remove 1 cup frosting; combine with chopped nuts. Spread on bottom layer. Top with other layer. Spread remaining frosting top of cake. Chill before serving. Garnish with chopped nuts and coconut if you choose. I personally like to top with a few maraschino cherries. This can be done as a two layer cake or cupcakes – just watch the baking times.


Best Li’l Cookin’ Show….

I was reminded, while on the trip to Florida, of one of the most unique, funny, and downright odd cookin’ shows ever – Cookin’ Cheap.  It was produced in Roanoke, VA on their public TV channel and aired from 1981-2002. The “cooks” were two local archetypical Southern mama’s boys.   Those of you from the South know what I am saying here. It was not haute cuisine but it was cookin’ and it was cheap.

Laban Johnson and Larry Bly were truly, truly….well, they just were. Antics o’plenty, asides that would make you spew your morning coffee if you were brave enough to drink while the show aired, questionable knife skills (did he really need that HUGE dull chef’s knife to peel that small onion?), strange concoctions from the viewers (potato bud chicken, bean pie, crabby potatoes, hamburger soup. Hi-waiian hotdogs, beer sprout soup, sandwiches al la leftovers), lots of stuff made with cream of something soup, and sugar – lots and lots of sugar (with this much sugar in it, you know it has to be good). Every Saturday, my roomie and I were there in front of the tube guffawing, applauding, appalled. Laban and Larry were amateurs, often struggling to open a box of cake mix. The food was often awful and often looked and sounded like glop.

What made this show so wonderful was the chemistry between these two friends.  One tall, the other one short. They bicker, giggle, josh, and…sometimes dress like old Southern ladies.  The Cook Sisters visited every week.  And what a strange trip they were. Tootsie Cook was Larry and based upon the old maid aunt that raised him.  Sister Cook was Laban and I swear, based on our next door neighbor when I was a kid, Mrs. Goldie.

What reminded me of these halcyon days was being served….Hamburger Soup one night for supper. I remember the boys liked it when they fixed it and years later, after having finally had it, I agree. It is cheap, easy, tasty, and comforting. I am posting a recipe for it and I hope you will hang around long enough to watch one of the few surving segments of this show posted at the end of this. This is the one where Laban wrestles with a pack of chicken thighs to produce the dreaded Potato Bud Chicken. Larry fixes a cobbler and talks about his Aunt Tootsie’s cobbler.

There are some segments, blessedly videotaped and preserved years ago, surviving on You Tube, Please, y’all, check them out. This is an easy way to go Visitin’ Cheap into the South.  Not perfect cookin’ but, Perfection belongs to God, not us, the Southern author Flannery O’Connor would have told you, her eyes boring holes in yours as she poured Coca-Cola in her coffee.

Hamburger Soup1 lb. ground beef
1 c. chopped onion
1 cup diced potato
1 c. sliced carrots
1 c. shredded cabbage (optional)
1 c. sliced celery
4 c. v-8 juice (I use store brand, low sodium)
¼ c. rice I use brown)
3 tsp salt
¼ tsp thyme
1 bay leaf
2 cups water
Cook ground beef and Onion until brown Drain fat. Add other ingredients. Bring to a boil. Cover and simmer one hour.

The Dancing Crinoline: A story of the Carolina Cherry Blossom

I was reminded of this incident of my misbegotten youth when someone commented on the picture I posted of the Carolina Cherry Blossom:  “What a hellion….I mean, what an adorable child…”  I was both – an adorable hellion.  I was the apple of my papa’s eye, the heart of my grandmother Ninny, the unsolvable puzzle for my mother, and for my two teenaged aunts, I was….hell.

We were a multi-generational family living in the home built the previous century by one of our ancestors.  My bedroom had actually been the bedroom of a family member (young man) who went off to fight the War of Northern Aggression.   He returned home to die of his wounds, in that room.  I would often look out my bedroom window, down onto the ancient gardenia bush below.  In the summer, I would breathe in its fragrance and wonder if he had dreamed of it, while so far away.  At night, I would look down and see the pure white blooms glowing like earthbound stars.  I imagined him lying in the same room, in the heat of his last summer.  Could he smell the gardenias and magnolias?  Did he suffer?  When he was young, like me, did he stay up late at night and look out at the sky?

But I digress.  We were a multi-generational family and to be honest, eccentric.  A southern version of the Addams family, if you will.  Full of all manner of oddnesses and peculiarities, but loving and accepting of each other.  No gothic Faulkneresque cannibalism or ugliness for us.  We were a happy and tight group.  At least, we were until The Hellion would spring forth to torture her poor aunties.

My Aunt Gay was the beauty of the family – black curly hair, coffee bean brown eyes, skin that was roses and milk, full lips and winsome ways.  She was also a little, shall we say, nervous?  Easily excitable?  She was extremely particular about her appearance and dress. Always perfect, in fashion, neat, clean, dainty.  She made many of her clothes and they fit her like smooth kid gloves.  She had several sets of crinolines – fluffy puffy magical undergarments that swelled her skirts and often peeped beneath them.  Pure white, or pale yellow with pastel roses and ribbons, sky blue and pink combination…lovely things they were.  They were also a royal pain in the whazoo to maintain.

Gay would hand wash them and then mix up the perfect starch solution and dip them in the solution.  They would be hung on the line to dry and then, she would iron them to fastidious perfection.  Hours of work was involved.  I loved those crinolines.  I’d pass by the laundry line and gaze and dream.  How my heart yearned for just the plainest one!

My mother dressed me sensibly.  Clothes that didn’t easily rumple, capris and shorts for the summer, dresses that had some pleats but no frou-frou like lace or crinolines.  I pined for frou-frou.  I craved crinolines.  I coveted eyelet.  Never mind the fact that I climbed trees, roller skated down the sidewalks, trained my cats and dogs to do tricks or enjoyed making miniature towns and streets and army bunkers in the dirt.  Forget the fact that my grandfather taught me to box because I was small and the neighborhood kids picked on me (but not very often after the first couple of times). Or that I had imaginary sword fights on the outside steps leading up to the third floor (Errol Flynn had nothing on me!)  And let’s look the other way when I would shinny down the tree outside my window to sneak out at night and roam about the yard.   I wanted to be a lace begarbed hellion.  Sensibly dressed hellions were ordinary and dime-a-dozen.  I had learned the words “femme fatale” and longed for it.

One Saturday, my dreams possessed me.  I could not avoid the laundry line that day.  Every step took me past it.  Every glance flew to the bundles of froth drying in the sun.  With the deep sigh of the damned, I shucked off my little red capris and my oxfords and ran to the line.  Reaching up to the most beautiful crinoline, the pale yellow one with the pastel ribbons and rosettes, I jerked it from the line in one sure motion.  Without taking a breath, it slipped over my head.  I gazed downward, amazed at the beauty, like sea foam, swirling on the grass around my feet. I had been reading Greek mythology and in my mind, I was Aphrodite rising from the foam.   I twirled and tripped up in the skirts.  Picking myself up, I pulled it up under my armpits.  Perfection!  I began to leap about – plie-ing to the best of my short-legged ability.  Going down a bit of slope, I gained momentum.  I was flying!  I was thistledown, I was the Faery Queen, I was a prima ballerina!

Around the house, I leapt.  Unbeknown to me, my aunt Gay had gotten off from her part-time job at the dress shop early.  As her dainty foot hit the sidewalk as she stepped down from the bus, I came around the house.  Horror!  Her eyes fixed on me at the same time mine fixed on her.  Picking up the skirts of the crinoline, I took off at run around the house.  Throwing all to ground, she took off behind me.  Around the house we went three times, each time, she got closer.  Our family watched from their various positions on the front, side, and back porches or the upper story windows.  No one dared intervene.

As she was about to grab the long braid of hair flying behind me, I swarmed up the tree that branched out at my bedroom window.  Like a squirrel I left her and the ground behind.  I settled myself onto a branch and shucked the crinoline down to the ground.  Like a tragic blossom, it belled to the ground at her feet.  Gay screamed at me, “You little wretch, if I ever get my hands upon you, you are going to become knacker meat for Mrs. Williamson’s dogs (a mastiff and a Pekingnese, both of them beasts)”.  I sat on the branch, feet hanging down out of reach.  I was not coming down.  I could ride Mrs. Williamson’s mastiff like a pony and I currently had marks on my ankles from where Huo had latched upon me as I had snuck into Mrs. W’s raspberry patch.  For all his size, he was a fearless watchdog.  His name should have been Dragon.

Finally, my Grandmother was able to stop laughing and come outside to intervene.  Putting her arm around her daughter’s shoulders, she looked up at me.  “Little Love, if Aunt Gay promises not to grind you up, will you come down?’  Gay had muttered under her breath at my nickname.  Ninny shushed her.  “Do you promise not to grind her up, set her on fire, tie her up and drop her down the well, or cut her hair in her sleep, if she comes down?  I need to finish supper.”  Gay stood silent, arms crossed, cheeks red and eyes burning with tears.

“Mama, I was going to wear that crinoline tonight when Frank took me to the dinner dance at the Washington Duke Hotel.  Now, it is ruined….ruined!”  She put her head on Ninny’s shoulder and cried as if her heart was broken, as indeed, it was.  Ninny looked up at me and shook her head.  I wasn’t home free yet.

“Little Honey, I’ll fix up your white eyelet while you take your bath.  Your sky blue crinoline and my pearls will be perfect.  Okay?”  Gay looked up at me and stuck out her tongue.  She hugged Ninny, picked up her purse and went into the house.  Ninny crooked her finger at me and motioned for me to come down.  “And you, you will hand wash this crinoline, make any repairs, starch it and iron it.   Do you hear me?”  I swung down from the tree and solemnly went into the house, forlornly lugging  the bedraggled crinoline.

I took it to the laundry room.  I didn’t have to wait long.  Ninny came and took the crinoline into her hands.  She gave it a swift once over and declared that under the circumstances, it was in good shape.  So, no sewing for me to have to do.  I hated sewing then and I hate it now.  FYI:  My sewing kit is a stapler, some straight pins, and duct tape. Together, we carefully washed the crinoline and treated stains.Starch was mixed and we dipped the crinoline in.  We hung the crinoline and hoisted it to the ceiling to dry.  The warm room would cause it to dry quickly.

Later that evening, I was sitting at the window in my bedroom.  I saw the white Corvette convertible holding my aunt and her boyfriend pull into the driveway.  Carefully, I pushed the screen away from the window and balancing myself, leapt onto the special branch of my oak tree.  I made my way down to the ground stepping quietly, to the side porch where the two lovers were sitting in the porch swing, Frank’s arm around my aunt’s shoulders.  I stood for a moment or so to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness.  Just as he was about to plant a kiss, I picked up a small pebble and threw it.  It glanced off the back of his head.  He brushed at his head and went back in.  Another pebble.  Another brush.  Another attempt at a kiss.  Three times.  Just as he was about to whip around to see what was going on, I went behind the hedge out of sight.  About that time, the porch light came on.  “Settin’ time” was over.  I hugged myself as I shook with silent laughter.

Back up the tree to the safety of my room.  As my bedroom door opened, I slid under the sheets, eyes closed.  Gay stood there for a moment.  “I know you aren’t asleep. Don’t even try it.”   She came and sat on the bed.  “Why?”  I sat up.  “Because I want to be as pretty as you.”  She looked at me and smiled.  “You are already prettier.”  And she went to her room.

For my birthday that year, there was a large box from her.  In it was my very own crinoline – white with white satin ribbons, rosettes, and lace.

Kunoichi-no-Chesterfield, or Owarai Kombi

It was a dark and stormy night….no, it wasn’t. Actually it was very early Monday a.m. My husband awakens me from a sound sleep with a hiss “someone is trying to break in the house”. I nod to let him know I heard and understand. He slides from his side of the bed and quickly slips on a pair of shorts and grabs the metal baseball bat. Equally soundless, I slip into my Ed Hardy tennis shoes (my favorite pair with the aqua and white stripes, rhinestones, geisha on one side, koi on the other). I slide open my lingerie drawer and pull out my sword.

We make our way down the hall in blackness. Sure enough, someone is rattling and kicking at our door. On the silent count of three, my husband jerks open the door and I switch on the light, my sword held high, ready to behead the invader.

A 20-something kid takes in my nakedness, white hair and sword and then rivets to my husband in red silk boxers holding the metal bat. Terror written all over him, he screams and falls to his knees, face to the floor. Obviously, the vengeful demons before him have scared him sober. The kid was beyond drunk and had become confused and thought he was at his own door.

Brad pulls him to his feet while I stand there, sword still in ready position, trying very hard not to burst out in laughter. “Good freaking grief. What an idiot.” and I smack him on the back of his head. We decide for Brad to drive him home a few streets over. I go and put on some clothes and follow behind in my car.

When we get there, I reach up and grab his hear and pull him down to my level, roundly lecturing him…stupid…driving that drunk…I could have killed you (his knees buckled at that) ashamed…stupid…ought to beat your butt…Brad stood with arms folded leaning against the car and shaking his head.

“yes ma’am…no ma’am….sorry ma’am…blubber blubber blubber.

He stumbles into his own house and we drive home, laughing hysterically all the way. “Did you see the look on his face?” “I’m surprised he didn’t poop his pants.”

A friend who heard this story commented: “I would have loved to see the look on the kid’s face. You KNOW he will tell his friends about “the mysterious lady with a Japanese sword down the road.” Your home WILL be the mark of intrigue and mystery–a haven of two non-super heroes with a sword and a metal bat. This is comic book material worthy of the Eisner Awards–Blade of the Not-So-Immortal Kunoichi, published by Not-So-Dark Horse Comics. Better yet, submit this plot to Quentin Tarantino as the basic outline of the third installment of the Kill Bill saga, Kill the drunk kid!”

Because of this episode, I have been given another title and to be honest, I like this one best: Kunoichi-no-Chesterfield

I think it is better than the Carolina Cherry Blossom, Wren, Magnolia of the East, Empress of the 11/16 Society.

Lord, what fools these mortals be. I’m still trying to decide what frightened him more – the deadly sword or the naked lady in Ed Hardy tennis shoes.

Preacher Cookies

I don’t know how it is where y’all live, but here in the South, preachers love to go visiting. I imagine it is about an equal split between being friendly and checking on the welfare of the congregation and doing visiting in times of trouble.  The other 50% folks say, is to get fed.  

Many jokes are made about preachers showing up to Sunday dinner or for supper during the week.  The name of these cookies derive from one of the other type of visits when refreshments might be served.  You see the preacher coming down the road or a neighbor calls and lets you know, “He just left here and is on the way to your house”.  These cookies are so quick, you can have them done by the time he gets settled in your husband’s favorite chair.  These are more like candy than cookies and are good with a glass of cold milk or a cup of coffee or tea. 

We had a new preacher one time, every Sunday about the time we were sitting down to dinner (lunch is frequently called dinner in the south) after church, would show up.  He loved my father’s fried chicken and that is what we inevitably had.  Of course, he got passed the platter first and would grab both breasts and put on his plate.  After a few weeks, we decided it was time to disavow him of this notion.  So next time when he came to the door and then sat down, all we had on the table was white loaf bread, baloney, a jar of mayo, a pitcher of sweet tea and a bag of potato chips.  He excused himself, said he just drop by on the way to so-and-so’s and left.  Next Sunday, same thing.  Third Sunday, he figured it out and started visiting two maiden ladies who were famous for their pot roast.  After that, we resumed our regular dinner and once in a blue moon, would invite him to dinner.  Sometimes, it’s hard to train folks in good manners, but it is worth it.

 1 stick unsalted butter
4 tablespoons cocoa
2 cups granulated sugar
½ cup milk
Pinch of salt
½ teaspoon vanilla
½ cup peanut butter
3 cups quick-cooking oats

In a heavy saucepan, melt butter over medium heat. Add cocoa, sugar and milk. Bring to a boil and boil about 2 minutes. Take off of the heat and add salt and vanilla. Stir in peanut butter (it will melt quickly.) Stir in oats.  Drop onto wax paper or parchment paper by tablespoonfuls and allow to set up.  Makes about 3 dozen.


%d bloggers like this: