A CANDY BAR AND A LIQUOR STORE SAVED MY LIFE

This is the truth, as I see it.  It's not very often that a Sunday School Teacher of good standing confesses a liquor store and a candy bar helped save her life.  But those two combined forces worked for my good on a very scary, stormy afternoon.

I'm not afraid of spiders or bugs or standing on the observation deck of The Empire State Building. Or going to the doctor or owning a black cat.  I will eat Oysters in a month without an R but the flavor is not there.  I never met a stranger I didn't like because you can always count on the kindness of strangers.  Crowds can be iffy but necessary.  Absolutely, my least favorite things are the dark and fast moving storms behaving poorly.  Living on the curb of tornado alley all of my life, spring is usually very dark and stormy.

The disquieting fact is tornadoes can occur in any month of the year.  My first experience came on a warm, sticky December day.  With sirens blaring and the wind kicking up, my new employer, who was with a client, told me to go outside and check the weather.

I've always wondered why people stand in the yard looking.  But all of my twenty-two years didn't prepare me for looking away.  I just stood there watching a churning black green cloud go straight for the hospital.  Cars were still driving up and down the busy thoroughfare.  And then a complete 90 degree turn to the north turned the funnel cloud away and up across several neighborhoods.  But not into the hospital.  My knees were wobbly for the rest of the day.

I know the color of the sky, the heavy air, the ache in the bones, the smell of the rain.   When it is "tornado season" I plan my trips according to the expected weather.  On this day, I even called ahead before starting my tour northward.  But it is the little bits that just blow up unexpectedly.

After a quick Coke break, I noticed a slight grey green tinge to the sky.  The air was heavy with moisture.  But the cars headed east did not have their wipers on.  A good sign.  I continued west.   Maybe the sky was getting darker.  Then a large flash of nearby lightening caught my attention. Surprise.

I have travelled this interstate a thousand times in my life.  Every pocket of civilization is blazed into memory.  I know where old barns leaned sideways and then into the ground.  The never ending construction of a house built in odd sections with gaping siding, loose insulation and pocked paint, with a rusty playset and bikes littering the abandoned life once lived just yards from a busy interstate.  A meat processing plant - deer, cattle, hog - now just tumbled bricks after a fire.  A religious cult living on a hilltop ridge just miles from the cult's gas station where unsuspecting college girls stop to get gas and are amazed by fancy painted leather jackets and friendly conversation.  Evidently, Jesus never got the cult's peculiar message.  A sparkling new subdivision erases former owners.

Even with all of my knowledge of this highway to the Pacific (almost) I pause too long to ponder and pass the last exit for 13.85 miles - an eternity in a horrible storm.  Just a nice stretch of land for farming and cattle.  Hunkered down cattle are never a good sign.  And trees bending near the earth and a lack of highway traffic except for the few idiots who miss their exit.

And wind.  Big time wind, shaking the car.  And swirling clouds almost overhead dancing "maybe we are, maybe we aren't."  I kept waiting for broken trees to go flying across the road.  Did I mention that funny light which sometimes has a tinge of pink.

But that is not all that is shaking.  Somehow I have managed to call my navigator for a weather report.  But I can hardly hang on to the steering (loose term) wheel at this point and talk so I have put the phone down and I'm yelling in the car.  My body starts shaking with the most physical fear I have ever felt.  I never want to be that scared again, ever.  I don't want to pull off the road because I think heading forward will lead me out of the storm at some point.

My hands are gripped on the steering wheel but are shaking so badly it feels like I'm hanging on to the handle bars of The Runaway Mine Train at Six Flags.  The body shakes are only adding to my fear as I scream out to my navigator everything I'm feeling.  I'm sure it wasn't easy having to listen to the sheer terror in my voice.

Navigator shares his info which is not good for me.  I'm driving right into a horrible storm.

Then I start bargaining with God.  We are closely related and I'm not always a quiet prayer lady.  Especially when sharks are in the water when I'm in the water or a storm is imminent.  Thank you, Jesus and Hallelujah are not usually light utterances.

Of course, I am now screaming prayers.  Maybe He can't hear me over the storm.  Asking God to help me breath because it does make a difference.  Asking for protection and please not to roll into the median.  Asking for my body to quit shaking so I can drive better.  And then I hit the big thought.

All in quotes and caps.  Dear Lord, please stick this car to the ground.  For the first time in my life, use my weighted body to hold this car down.  God, I'm not skinny!   For once, use this to my advantage.  Make all of those Butterfingers worth their weight in gold.

Butterfingers are my favorite candy but only as a candy not as an ingredient.  I lost a lot of weight over 15 years ago and have kept it off.  But occasionally, I treat myself to a Butterfinger because I love them and I have done better not living in deprivation than dieting in starvation dreaming of denied foods.  Just knowing I can have one takes away the obsession.  But I have eaten plenty in my time.

So this is why I declare Butterfingers are sticking the car to the road, making it heavy, heavy, heavy.  Obviously, it did the trick and God heard my prayers.  Maybe pause to think about his crazy child confessing to years of eating the candy.  Duh.

The handy navigator is encouraging me along each mile and finally announces the much hoped for, blessed exit.  I drive straight to the liquor store and run inside. I am still shaking from top to bottom.   The men inside are casually watching the weather on t.v. but aren't too concerned, however, they are solicitous of this wild woman screaming for a Butterfinger.  After thirty minutes of walking the aisles, nerves are calming and I find a nice bottle of Kahlua, a thank you purchase for the shelter.

This week, storms are already predicted.  We are right in the bulls eye as an "area of concern" on Thursday.  I intend to stock up on Butterfingers.  I figure when the storms cross the state line (I live in the middle of the state),  I'll pour a nice dollop of Kahlua over my vanilla ice cream, crumble the candy over the top and head for the storm shelter (bathtub).

FULL VOICE

I usually miss the official spring service of The Messiah.  But not on purpose.  I grew up hearing my Daddy practicing the music as he prepared for the yearly Easter event at our church. Humming, whistling or just bursting out with a word here or there.  Wonderful.  Counselor.  He loved to sing. And he loved to improvise on the piano in his own special method.  Having played in the band, he knew music but I don't know if he ever took piano lessons.

I'm not up with the roosters.  I'm up with those earliest of morning birds.  My favorite morning birds bursting with the joy in a dark morning.  I don't know what wakes them up but you could set your watch by them.

When I was little, for some reason, I would wake up in the middle of the dark early morning which seems to be the darkest time of day.  I was wide awake and afraid, probably because every noise in the night had to have a reason and I would lie in bed trying to figure out in my nine year old mind what caused the noise.

One particular morning I was terrified.  I woke up and thought a man was crouched in the shadow at the end of my twin bed.  I had a foot board so I couldn't see but I had hung a small hat at the top of the short poster.  It may sound funny now but  I was scared beyond scared.  I couldn't decide what to do.  I could see the man and he wasn't moving and he wasn't leaving.  Of course, my mind probably couldn't reason enough to realize a real person couldn't crouch in this position forever and especially not breathing!

After what seemed an eternity of not moving my own position, I came up with a plan.  I can hear my trembling voice as if I were saying the words right now.  I didn't want anyone to be hurt and I wanted him to leave. Most of all, as a fan of too many detective movies, I knew I didn't want to see his face.  You have to believe me when I say I had been waiting a long time figuring this out.  This person's knees were most likely permanently frozen into place.  But I didn't know that.  I knew I wanted my Daddy.

I yelled out into the dark.  "STAY DOWN! STAY DOWN!  I don't want to see your face.  STAY DOWN!  STAY DOWN!"  Of course my plan had not gone much farther as to who would leave the room first.  Well, he didn't move.  In the background, I could hear the first early bird beginning to chirp.  To this day, I love that sound of morning around the corner.  And then another different bird.  I cried out again so loud I hoped my father would wake up and hear me.

He came hurrying down the hall, opened the door and turned on the light, running to my side.  What was wrong?  Of course, then all my bravery of resisting the man at the foot of the bed gave way to tears, finally.  My father picked up the cap on the poster, holding it up to show me.  He didn't laugh at me because he could see it wasn't funny.

How blessed to have a father who would come running to me, in the dark as I cried out, too scared to move.  And how wonderful to have a Heavenly Father perching The Early Bird on a branch near my window, reminding me it may be dark now but morning light is just around the corner.  And a chorus of morning birds singing Hallelujah, The Prince of Peace.

A RAMBLE ABOUT A DRIP

That kind of day.  Barely awake, lying in bed hearing a drip, just a little drip.  Maybe the lavatory handle wasn't tight enough.  Rolled out of bed to go check the handle.  The faucet was dry.  Back to bed.  Little bitty slow drip, drip, drip.  Almost slow enough to fall back asleep between drips. But they are a worrisome thing.  My mind woke up a little more and questioned my tub faucet might be dripping.  Nothing.  But the difference now was I had turned on the light and I chanced to look up and see the slowly darkening circle of a drip producing factory.  Made in America.  A second floor present just for me.

One can bathe fairly quickly under the threat of anything collapsing.  I did.  The circle was starting to bulge just a little.  I got dressed and hurried to the kitchen to hunt for breakfast.  My kitchen looked like every counter top at the house of waffles after Garth Brooks fans  headed for a snack, waiting in line for hours to squeeze into the little orange booths.  There maybe were enough coffee cups but dishes and silverware were flying left and right.  This happened to me recently.  Somehow I discovered a plate I thought was clean, while I was eating my second meal.  It had been washed for the dishwasher and placed in the rack.  I'm not too sure about a couple of utensils. Good thing I was not entertaining.

Since a pecan waffle was just a dream, an egg for breakfast sounded like a winner.  I like protein in the morning.  A couple of scrambled eggs cooked in sufficient butter (a personal choice/dilemma). Slowly cooked and gently turned to produce a soft cooked eggliterian delight, my daughter's favorite. If I weren't so lazy at the moment, I would share photos of my technique.  Oven toast is a family necessity although 7 out of 9 people pop their toast from a toaster which usually hangs around on the counter scattering old bread crumbs.  We prefer a 350 degree oven for nine minutes, pre-buttered with good bread.  We keep butter in an old silver plate butter dish on the counter.  My theory is that I use less butter when it is not cold from the fridge.  Anyway, quick and easy.

And then I remembered the egg carton incident of the previous evening when I considered breakfast for dinner.  Brinner.  Best dinner ever even without bacon.  Or the highly anticipated frozen sausage biscuits I purchased just for a treat.  Once again, breakfast is one of my favorite meals at any time of the day.  But the kitchen gremlin was just getting started and someone left the box out on the counter all day.  But of course, if the counter top had not resembled a commercial kitchen counter I would have seen the the biscuits.  Which was probably when I discovered the egg incident.

Your mother always tells you to check for broken eggs because you don't want those kind of cartons.  And that is what happened.  Like an apple, busted eggs can ruin the whole bunch.  And that was it for any hope of eggs until my next grocery trip.  I didn't bother to put the eggs down the sink because the kitchen gremlin was making me wonder what I would do about supper.  I did tie the carton up in its own bag and place it in my plastic trash can.

But over night that same gremlin put a whole in the bag and in the morning I had pre-scrambled eggs oozing in the bottom of the bin.  Trade off to another bag and as much cleaning as I could muster, being in a hurry by now.  Water, Fantastic and dish detergent.  No bleach because I was already dressed for the day.  I heated up a cup of yesterday's coffee for breakfast.  Breakfast of female heads of state.

Out the door to the manager to let them know about the leak.  Thankfully, my newest splurge (but not daily!) was on my side of the rush hour traffic.  Easy in and out.  I ordered my Tall Caffe Latte and added one pack of sugar for a hint of breakfast nourishment.  Their coffee ($) is so good I can understand why I haven't picked up this habit. One of my favorite people, never known to be extravagant, was addicted to this caffeine laced product.  It was always a shock to see him walking around with a cup in his hand.  But I now realize his sensibility was based on having that perfect treat and after all, he was a professor who did deserve  sustenance when dealing with students all day long.

No more excitement for the day until I decided to finally go shopping for a bath pillow to go with my newest, highly anticipated bubble bath just arrived from HSN.  My doorbell rang three times that afternoon, quite the oddity these days.  But now I could take a nice, relaxing bath to hopefully induce sleep, but not in the tub.  And the leak was fixed so I didn't have to worry about upstairs being downstairs.

I was returning a teapot, big brand, red, to this store which also has a big red emblem, famous for delightful commercials.   At home, when I boiled the water the very first time and opened the spigot to pour the water into my cup of tea, I burned my finger.  Who would make a teapot used for boiling water without an insulated thing a my jig.  And especially, a brand of such aid to kitchen people.  I couldn't get over the sense of that matter.  And then I realized, I did buy such an implement.

Returned the pot but no adequate replacement, now so eager to search of a bath pillow for my weary bones.  I walked all over. Towels, beauty products, back and forth.  How hard can it be?  One employee just said he didn't know and walked away.  Another employee fiddled with his walkie talkie for about three minutes but couldn't make contact with the other world.  I said, no bother.  I'll look again.  And I walked back to the linen area.  But of course, it is hard to find something when all of the pegs are empty.  Why would seven pegs for bath pillows be empty?  I had enough.  Between the sneaky teakettle and the disappearing bath pillows.

Next stop to a nearby store.  I knew they would have the best pillow known to exist because they always go beyond the norm to supply bed and bath products.  This store is like a candy shop and container store for women.  I think I saw a man in the bridal registry department, once, questioning his ability to really share in anything he might want for a wedding present, except bar ware.

No dilly dally for me.  The sun was setting and every joint was reminding me to be on the lookout for the superb bath pillow selection.  The man who works in this area knows his merchandise which is what I initially meant to mention but the eggs messed up my train of thought.  Good service is impossible to find except for the nice people in this store.  They go beyond the norm to try and find what you are looking for.  Retail therapy blog will have to wait.

And so will the pillow.  Even Mr. BBB was amazed at the run on bath pillows.  It makes you wonder.  Someday soon, I will find what I am looking for.  I guess the winter/summer/winter weather phenomena has take over and all those hot baths will soon make a run for hand lotion.  I bet Upstairs has a nice bath pillow.  I just don't want anymore sloshing leaks.  I thought about getting one of those fancy bath trays that reaches across the tub.  But this one had a wine glass holder, a tapered candle holder and a book holder.  That's alot of stuff to hang over my bath water.  The wine would be steamed, and I can't read by one little candle.  Besides, I have another story about reading dry books over wet surfaces.  Maybe when my pillow arrives, I'll share.

CHILI BY DISTRACTION

Coming to you from the land of Cumin.  And a day of anticipated ice and sleet now glistening in the sun which is flickering like an indecisive light bulb.  In my little world, we are the lucky region experiencing only a little winter weather.  But we are never in the consistent, mind-numbing cold world of never lose your mittens or forget your hat and travel with peanut butter in the car.  And due to this fact, our world comes to a halt when anything actually sticks to a road and the temperature is below 32.  We don't do winter driving well and we live in a hilly place.  We are programmed to jump out of bed and run to the TV to see which schools and businesses are closed if we think we heard sleet hit the window during the night.  

But preparation for a snowy, icy possibility is our forte.  Because people actually think a winter storm warning might bring a little fun in February as long as the power holds out.  And our power company prepares diligently but mother nature thinks she looks better in shimmering branches and low hanging iced pines.  A hearty crew works mightily while we are selfishly enjoying a white day.

During the possibility of a winter "event", we lose our ability to drive just thinking about all of the places we must go shopping to put in our winter supplies.  There are eight sleds left in town and definitely no generators.  Little old ladies are counting their candles.  We have had other winter examples which taught us what it is like to live for days or a week at the top of a hill without power.

If one is to be sequestered, one must have chili.  The kind of chili which can take days to plan almost like a Thanksgiving dinner.  The perfect chili.  I did all of this while waiting for the perfect moment to begin the awesome chili preparation.

Two pounds of Angus ground chuck.  One pound of behind the butcher counter ground sirloin.  Tomatoes.  Onions.  Garlic.  Cheese.  Frito's.  Sour cream.  Milk.  Coca Colas.  Green olives.  Windmill cookies.  Strawberries.  Eggs.  Apples.  Butter.  Crackers.  Bread.  Paper goods and Tide.  And anything Little Debbie.  Rolaids and Tylenol.

All items guaranteed to be out of stock two days before the possibility of the broadcast event.

The mood struck me last night.  With the pressure of Downton Abbey starting soon and a quick visit with a friend, I began the process.  I had my onion and garlic chopped before I called my friend.  I browned the meat.  Added my whole tomatoes et all plus water.  Set out my spices - Hungarian Paprika, black pepper, curry, chili powder, salt, cayenne, Added tomato paste.  Of course, I didn't stand by the stove and do each thing.  No.  I would go sit in my chair and chat and then get up and stir the pot.  Turn it up or down.  Put the lid on and take the lid off.  During the middle of Downton Abbey, I left the room and put the lid on and turned off the stove so it would be ready for the fridge.  After poor Isabel's horrible engagement party, I tasted the chili.  Mmmm.  Oh no.  I have done this before, more than once.  I like tomatoes in my chili but now I remembered why I no longer add them.  I had made a lovely, simmered pot of spaghetti sauce minus the wine which I would have incorporated if I had had a good bottle nearby.  

When you want chili and you get spaghetti sauce, it is disappointing.  Spaghetti sauce is not the comfort dish one longs for when thinking about a frosty day.  It will do but not with sour cream and Frito's and cheese.  At least I had angel hair.

When the cooking gets tough, call home.  At first light.  Of course.  In all of my speedy and not overly attentive course of cooking, I had forgotten the CUMIN.  And no spice can turn a questionable morsel to the Tex-Mex side of the fence as quickly as a dash of cumin.  Mama was a chili saver.  And she knows chili!

The pot of spaghetti sauce was about to become chili.  I could have eaten it for breakfast I was so excited to correct the situation.  But I carefully put the cold pot on low and waited for the stew to warm up.  I added the cumin and a little water, put the lid on and turned the heat up a smidge.  And waited.

A magic timer went off in my head.  Chili time, finally!  Yes.  It smelled like chili, after hours of anticipation, preparation and regeneration.  I got my bowl down.  But of course, skinny cooks can't be trusted so I took a taste test.

Whoa.  Maybe not a good whoa.  Why is there a piece of silver floating in my chili.  I thought it was a bay leaf and then I remembered another ingredient I left out.  This was a little piece of silver paper.  And another piece of  paper - round.  Just like the quality seal affixed to the top of any new spice bottle.  I grabbed the bottle.  I don't know how the paper ended up in the batch.  At least two tablespoons of cumin did make it in.  There is  definitely a Tex-Mex flavor.  Very spicy.

My heart sank once again.  I've ruined the chili, twice.  A well-loved, expensive pot of chili.  Disappointed Frito's, sour cream and cheese.  I offered myself up as the test.  One big bowl of Cumin with all the fixings.

I'm still standing.  But then I took a closer look at this picture and I wondered.  Where is the rest of the silver paper?  Thank goodness it's quality sealed.  I think I will try to make chili one more time in my lifetime.

2015 EIGHTEEN DAYS IN

Yet.  Three little letters.  

Yet is certain of nothing.  Nothing good and nothing bad.  It is a hinge on a door in our life.  It is opening or closing.  And sometimes our whole world hinges on the direction of the door.  Or the coming in or going out of a person.  Sometimes the wind blows the door open with spring air or blows the door shut when a storm approaches.

We say to people “the door is always open.”  But really, the door can’t remain open all of the time.  Night falls and very few people go to bed and leave the front door wide open.  Sometimes it may be unlocked but not wide open.  There are reasons we shut the door at night.  To keep the heat in the house.  To keep a monster out of the closet.  To signal to the neighbors this house is down for the night.

We shut the door and turn off the porch light.  And draw the drapes.  No more illumination of what really goes on inside when someone is outside looking in. 

Lights off – go away. 

Yet, Mr. Larry Wilkins in Kuttawa, Kentucky had his porch light on January 3.  He was home with his two dogs when there was a light knock at the door.  He opened it to find a bloodied, shivering little girl.  The dogs welcomed her in and she told Mr. Wilkins about a plane crash.  Her parents were dead and the plane was upside down. 

She saw his porch light and walked barefooted through the woods, wearing clothes suited for Florida and not the cold, wet Kentucky night.  Mr. Wilkins said she was a brave little girl.  He wouldn’t even walk through those woods in the dark.

She is seven years old.  I can only guess that she knows every word of Frozen or was wearing sparkly purple nail polish and a special beaded cornrow obtained at a souvenir shop where tan, young women gain job skills braiding hair, folding t-shirts and scooping up Hermit crabs.

 

I do know she is amazing.  She survived a plane crash and realized her parents were dead.  In the same situation, most adults would be beyond coping. 

Yet, Sailor had the presence of mind to pick herself up and go for help.  She was not waiting for someone to come to her. 

Yet resides with the negative but, the never finished and.  But yet is a contract of possibility, more is yet to come.

Eighteen days into the new year of  2015.   A year of hopes unseen, yet.

THIS TIME OF YEAR: SQUIRREL WITHOUT UMBRELLA

I love fall!

My newest habit is a result of cooler weather.  But a warm front came along, throwing the digits back into the miserable eighties.  Really?  At the end of October.  But that is just October.  My favorite month.  Apple pie.  Football.  State Fair.  Reading a book sitting by an open window.  The sun changing.  Baseball.  Caramel.

A cool evening draws me out outside. Faithful pup runs up the stairs, stomping in the leaves just beginning to fall.  Happy for company, he grabs a twig to catch my attention.  But I am busy lighting a candle, setting down a mug of marshmallow overflowing hot chocolate to strike the match.  A perfect fall evening of solitude.  No air conditioners, just a low current of night time noise. I pick up my phone and begin my latest obsession - Spider. Peace, quiet and relaxation.  A tonic for a goodnight's sleep.

Then the artillery begins.  The thawacking sound of an acorn letting loose, dropping through levels of leaves, ricocheting off the roof.  I raise my hand to my head as minimal protection.     

What goes up must come down.  A girl, a bow, an arrow.  Standing in the middle of a quiet street, she leans back, shooting the arrow up into the blue.  Gravity sends the arrow back down.  Her little brother picks up the fallen arrow and the process begins again.  Up it goes and down it comes.  At some point, he questions the operation and is running around with a dishpan on his head.  "Where is it?  Where is it?"  He stands next to her, sticking to her like glue.  He can't see the arrows whooshing down through the leaves.  She is not afraid, then, now or ever.  Until one of the arrows hits the roof of a car parked at the curb.  They retreat quickly into the house. A dishpan is not quite the perfect accessory when the sky is falling.     

   

This was just a little thing.  But I am into little things.  Last week, I was in traffic on a four lane thoroughfare, a major east west connector and also a primary exit off the interstate.  This road runs through red lights, past strip shopping centers, churches, schools, drug stores, banks, the gym I sometimes think about, local and chain eateries, the vet's office, the grocery store, my favorite antique mall, apartments, entrances to lovely subdivisions.  

There are trees everywhere.  And poles connecting this to that with wires crossing the street.  A wire was silhouetted in the sky.  A little squirrel was running across with a mouthful of acorns or nesting material sticking out of his mouth.  Zippity Do Da.  Zinging across the certain canyon of death as thick traffic traveled below.  One slip of a little foot.

But he was on a mission.  Building a nest and gathering supplies.  He may have the advantage of not sensing the perilous situation.  He just did what he had to do.  No quibbling.  From watching squirrels in my backyard, I doubt he gave a second thought to jumping out on that wire.  He didn't test the tension with his foot or grab an umbrella for balance.   He didn't stop to consider the traffic below.  He was moving along even though the very scary was right below.  A squirrel has to do what a squirrel has to do.  I think that is amazing.  The something inside of him that says nuts to gather and nests to build.  This is that time of year.

His sky is falling.  Acorns.  Manna.  Provision.




Revision. Previously published 10/20/14.

WOO PIG SOOIE PIES

Please don't tell Martha I renamed her lovely Pumpkin Whoopie Pies.  She is quite the stickler for details.  While I know she has heard of Arkansas, I don't know if she has actually been here.  And I'm almost certain she has never seen a grown man wearing a Hog Hat cheering like crazy in a stadium full of other fans.  Of course, she is

WOO PIG SOOIE PIES

an expert on almost everything.

Although Martha has cooked a truckload of hog products, from bacon to ham to tenderloin to chops, I can't really see her calling the Hogs, throwing her arms straight into the air and wiggling her fingers while screaming Woo Pig Sooie.  Around here it is common knowledge the call came from folks calling their pigs (Hogs) back to the old homeplace.  As a national producer of pork products, the little piggy that stayed home is definitely a bit sharper than the little piggy hurrying to market.

This delicious Whoopie Pie answers the quest for the frantic fall search for all things pumpkin.  And a tasty addition to any tailgate party whether outside in the elements or around a coffee table.

Honestly, the recipe is labor intensive but always worth the effort.  I finally got smart and fixed the cookies ahead of schedule and stuck them in the freezer until needed.  Great idea.  On party day, I thawed them in the fridge.

Anything with cream cheese frosting is worth the effort.  The butter, cream cheese, vanilla and powdered sugar are meant to be together.  

But I'm not the Queen of Piping which is a talent Miss Martha can do with her eyes shut.  I try. When you don't have an industrial plastic bag dedicated to frosting frufru on cupcakes and rolled out sugar cookies, but you have the whole tipping caboodle leftover from the happy homemaker days of piping as a way of life when necessary, you improvise.  I don't have an assistant to run out and purchase emergency supplies in the middle of creaming butter and cream cheese.

However, with six finished, piped, filled cookies, I paused to think that my improvisation using a storebrand baggie might not end well.  It didn't.  I resorted to my handy dandy multifunctional iced tea spoon for plopping cream cheese frosting.  I don't know which would have troubled Miss Martha the most, using a baggie for a piping bag or the improper usage of my tea spoon.  Here is the delicious, worth every effort, fallish, pumpkin recipe.

PUMPKIN WHOOPIE PIES

Cake Ingredients
3 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
3 tablespoons ground cinnamon
1 tablespoon ground ginger
1 tablespoon ground cloves
2 cups firmly packed dark brown sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
1 can pumpkin filling, chilled
2 eggs

TO THE RESCUE

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Filling Ingredients
3 cups confectioners' sugar
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
8 oz. cream cheese, softened
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, whisk flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger and cloves together.  Set aside.  In a stand mixer, mix brown sugar and oil until well combined.  Add pumpkin filling and mix well.  Add eggs and vanilla until well combined. Sprinkle flour mixture over pumpkin mixture until fully incorporated.  Drop heaping tablespoons of dough on a parchment-lined baking sheet about 1 inch apart.  Bake until cookies are just starting to crack on the top - about 15 minutes.

Sift confectioners' sugar in a large bowl.  In a stand mixer with a paddle attachment beat the butter until smooth.  Add the cream cheese until well combined.  Add sugar and vanilla and beat just until smooth.  Transfer filling to a disposable pastry bag and spread a healthy portion on the bottom side of one cookie and place the second cookie on top. Refrigerate for 30 minutes.

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Using culinary flare, arrange the finished Woo Pig Sooie Pies on a plate, in a basket, or atop a mini hay bale.  Accent with mums, daisies, acorns, leaves or mini pumpkins and gourds.  Place on a handwoven, hand dyed with berries from your summer garden, tablecloth.  Watch the pies disappear!