The year was 1942. The place was Junior High School. I was in the ninth grade. There was another English teacher giving me fits. She had the painful habit of poking her forefinger in that depression at the base of your neck. You know, where your collarbones meet in the middle.

I have been hungry for cookies lately. Today I broke down and made some. They were from an old cookbook I found somewhere or other. What a disappointment. I have many tried and true recipes that turn out fine every time. Why, oh why, do I continue looking for new ones. Anne reminds me of that fact every time I have a cooking disaster.

It's that time of year again: “Easter Egg Time.” What do you do with all of those colored hard boiled eggs?

I remember when my kids were of Easter basket age. After the drabness of winter (it had been a long time since Christmas), they needed some cheering up. With no birthdays since December, there had been little to celebrate. They were ready!

I remember when I was a teenager. We lived on a farm. World War ll was in full swing. It seemed that anything good was rationed, but chicken and eggs were not. Mother always raised chickens, even when we lived in town. But to sell eggs and have meat to eat took a larger number of chickens. Of course, she could let some of the hens “set.” They would be out of egg production for the duration of incubating their eggs into baby chicks and beyond. It was more profitable to buy baby chicks in the Spring.

Who mows your lawn nowadays? You probably don't. A whole new business has grown up around grass and the need to manicure the lawn. Everyone works nowadays. There are enough “honey do” chores for Saturdays without spending several hours doing lawn care.

Watching television back in the early days of TV was much different than what it is today. Of course, the screen was tiny, 12 inches, compared to those now available. Black and white it was. We could only imagine that the tree leaves were green and that pretty dress the star of the show was wearing was candy apple red. However, we had good imaginations. After all, we had our ears tuned to the radio for a decade or so. The sound effects of that era prepared us for the magic of black and white television. We could now see what before we had only heard.

I like upside-down cakes. They go together quickly and you can eat them warm. Warm is best, anyway. As much as I like gooey frosting, the small nine inch upside-down cakes never go stale around our house. Ice cream or Cool-Whip is a welcome addition, too.

What child doesn't like a decorated cookie? What mother likes to do the decorating? Some do. Some don't. If you have a couple preschoolers tearing up the house, the last thing you have time to tackle is decorating fancy cookies.

The word “COOKIE” has a magic sound to a child's ears. You might even get them to lie down for a nap, if you promise cookies when they wake up. I know. I used bribery as a parenting tool when mine were at that changeable stage between diapers and pull-ups. It works, if you vary the bribe.

Can you sing? I can't. Does your bucket have a hole in it? Mine looks like it was used for shot gun target practice. Let me tell you about it. I was looking through an old photo album the other day and came across a picture of my youngest daughter, Elizabeth, singing with her high school chorale group. She even learned to read music.

It was in the fall of 1942 when my brother, Rod, approached me with an offer to take me hunting. “I will teach you how to hunt squirrel,” he said. Wait a minute! Where did he get off using such a big word? Rod could take school or leave it. He wasn't an educator. Not at all. I did figure I was teachable, however.