A friend had recommended her housekeeper and, after much discussion, we finally decided to swallow our pride and call her. It was probably the smartest thing we've ever done.

She is a delightful, energetic lady, wise way beyond her 32 years, who spent about six hours working her tuchus off the first time she came to our house. The most significant impact of her efforts on my feeling of relief was delayed, however, until the next morning, when I realized I could actually walk into the kitchen without slippers on and not worry about stepping on a sticky spot of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream that had dripped on the floor. I walked out of the kitchen, paused, looked at the bottoms of my BARE FEET, and Lo and Behold! They were CLEAN!!

Yes, in case you were wondering, most of the time when we drop food on the floor we do wipe it up right away. Or the dog does. But there is that occasional rushed intermission when the commercials have ended and our favorite show is coming back on when we may have dripped a glob or two and not paused to clean it up.

There is something about the feeling of having a really clean house that is hard to describe. It's not just pride of ownership, although that figures into it. Unfortunately, it seems that now our energy level is inversely proportional to our increasing years.

We still have lots of "stuff" to throw out, but just knowing that the floors are clean makes the prospect of having a neighbor actually come into the house when she wants to borrow an egg not quite so daunting (instead of asking her to wait on the front porch for the egg!).

Maybe it's just psychological, but paying someone to do something you just have no energy for is a good thing. I know many people will read this and say well, that's nice if you can afford it. Believe me, with one of us on a staff writer's salary at a small-town newspaper and the other on disability, I didn't think we could either. Until I took a closer look at where our income was going.

For me, that daily $2 for coffee on the way to work added up to about $500 a year (2x5x50, allowing for 2 weeks of vacation)! When I looked at it that way, it really did seem like an extravagance I could give up, or at least cut back on for the sake of having clean floors.

Now I buy organic coffee at the natural food store and make myself a cuppa Joe when I get to work, using a one-cup coffeemaker I've had for years. (You can find them just about anywhere.) The housekeeper vacuums, mops and dusts every other week, and it really IS something we can actually fit into the budget. And when we have some extra bucks, we have her stay a bit longer and help us clear out some of the clutter in the garage or office.

When I was a kid, my dad quit smoking. But, he continued to put the 35 cents per day that a pack of cigarettes was costing him (yes, this was WAAAAAY back when) into a huge jar in his closet. When it filled up, he took it to the bank. Eventually he had saved enough to buy my mom a mink stole. Not that I advocate buying a dead animal's coat with your savings if you quit smoking or make your own coffee at work, but think of what you could do with that money -- besides hiring a housekeeper.

For $500, you can:

(1) donate some of it to CARE (http://www.care.org), one of the most worthwhile organizations in the world that has many different programs fighting hunger, poverty, AIDS/HIV, and increasing access to education in developing countries, especially for girls. Or, to Heifer International (http://www.heifer.org) to provide a cow, goat, alpaca or chickens to a family in a developing country that will help them become self-sufficient by selling the milk, fleece or eggs in their village.

(2) buy a small TV for the kitchen so you don't have to miss the first few seconds of your favorite show after the commercial, if you're still dishing out the ice cream.

(3) buy two round-trip tickets from Eureka to Portland to visit Powell's, the coolest bookstore in the world (http://www.powells.com).

I'm sure you can think of all kinds of other ways to spend $500. And what the heck, make it $400 and buy yourself that special cup of coffee once a week. And maybe even a scone. You're worth it.

"Don't soften the goal of educting kids" (I wonder if the correct spelling of "educate" could be educted from the context? Educt (verb, trans.): to infer or deduce. Both educt and educate are from the Latin "educere.")

On the local California Highway Patrol dispatch website (http://cad.chp.ca.gov):

Incident: 0166 Type: Traffic Hazard Location: NB TOMPKINS HILL JSO CR info as of: 7/9/2008 11:16:07 AM ADDITIONAL DETAILS 10:56AM 3 SLAVES IN THE RDWY. 11:47AM 1039 ... /POSS OWNER/ENRT NOW. (The "possible owner," having somehow missed the Emancipation Proclamation, was later arrested for violating Calif. Penal Code Section 50631, "Attempted possession of humans with intent to elicit labor for no pay." It was later learned that the suspected "slaves" were actually high-school teachers.)

In a press release about a judge selected for an art show:
"... a rye sense of humor in his work."
(Do you think his barley sense of humor is as funny as his rye? Does quinoa even have a sense of humor?)

In a story by a co-worker:
"...viola!"
(I'm assuming this person was trying to say "Voilà!" as in "There you have it!" I wonder if the same effect can be achieved with an emphatic "Cello!" or other stringed instruments?)

In a headline on our very own front page (oy vey):
"Lightening sparks blazes in Humboldt"
(OK, but if lightening sparks blazes, what does darkening do? Put them out?)

Personally, I light a “Yahrzeit” candle for my mom. It’s a Jewish tradition that is usually done on the anniversary of a loved one’s death, but I do it on her birthday and Mother’s Day as well. It just seems right.

Helen Virginia Morey, née Hartman
July 30, 1910 - March 20, 2006

My mom wasn’t the stereotypical Jewish mother, though she had her moments (and joked about them). One of my favorite memories — and one my partner and I still re-enact — is Mom saying to me: “Put a sweater on. I’m cold.” I guess it’s a mom thing. If she’s cold, I must be cold as well.

She did firmly believe in the power of chicken soup, and other homemade delights, to heal whatever ails you. In her case, actually, it was more often her homemade tomato soup, made fresh with tomatoes she grew herself every summer. On countless summer trips to visit my folks, I returned home with containers of frozen tomato soup, which I then delighted in rediscovering in the back of my freezer in the dead of winter.

I would call her and say, “Guess what I’m eating for dinner?” and she would say, “Hmm ... could it be my famous tomato soup?”

Another cherished memory of my mom and food is from my teenage years. Whenever I was sick (or had “the curse,” as her generation called it), she would make me a cup of tea with honey, and a toasted English muffin with butter and apricot-pineapple preserves. To this day, I still want tea and an English muffin when I’m sick, and it still makes me feel immensely better.

Besides such lovingkindness, which came naturally to her, she also had the most beautiful voice and instilled in me a love of music I cherish to this day. I loved listening to her sing, which she did frequently at home. As a young girl working in the kitchen with her, she taught me to harmonize to songs like “By the Light of the Silvery Moon,” “When the Red Red Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbin’ Along” and “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”

One of my most treasured possessions is a 78-rpm recording of her in her 20s, singing on a radio show called “The Wheeling Steel Hour” in Wheeling, W.V., where she was born. She enlisted in the Women’s Army Corps during World War II, and sang for soldiers with the USO. As I was growing up, she sang in the choir at Wilshire Boulevard Temple in Los Angeles, the temple we belonged to.

At age 93, my mom was asked to sing for more than 200 people during the annual Christmas party at the retirement community where she moved after my dad died. She sang her favorite Christmas song, “O Holy Night,” and was asked to sing it again the following year.

Yes, she was Jewish, and that didn’t matter. She loved beautiful music, and thought “O Holy Night” was one of the most beautiful songs ever written. I was privileged to be in attendance at the party the last time she sang it, and I remember the hearty applause afterward. Unable to contain my pride and adoration, I leaped to my feet and shouted, “That’s my mama!” which delighted her immensely and elicited much laughter from the crowd of seniors.

I still can’t hear “O Holy Night” without getting goose bumps, and yes, a bit teary-eyed.

Mom lived to be 95 1⁄2, and was on her own from age 91 until shortly after her 95th birthday. She was always a hoot, and kept her sense of humor through the end. In fact, after a heart attack put her in the hospital shortly before she died, she said to me on the phone, “A heart attack! Imagine that. I made it to 95 without one!” I think she intuitively knew she wasn’t long for this world, because she said several times, “I’ve had a good, long life, haven’t I?”

She loved to laugh, especially at herself, and I credit her for my inclination to not take myself too seriously. I couldn’t begin to count the number of times she said, “Oh, how silly of me.”

I will always be grateful to my mom for so many things, but the greatest gift she gave me was simply being a shining example of selflessness, kindness and compassion.

It’s not just because he was a plumbing contractor and knew everything about everything. Of course, that was part of it. But I think there’s a tendency in all of us to feel a little lost when our parents are gone, no matter how young or old we are. Now that I’m an orphan (if indeed one can be an orphan at 54), I’m frequently thinking of questions my dad (or mom) could answer, if only they were still around.

So instead, I carry on conversations with Dad in my head:

Me: “Dad, our car is making a funny noise.”
Dad: “Like what?”
Me: “Well, it’s kind of across between fingernails on a blackboard and when you scrape your fork or knife on the plate and everybody at the table glares at you.”
Dad: “Very funny.”
Me: “I knew you’d think so.”
Dad: “See, I did that fork thing just so you’d remember me when I’m gone.”

Floyd R. Morey
Feb. 10, 1919 - Jan. 16, 2002

I don’t really need specific things to think about just to remember him. Although, every once in a while when I’m at a drugstore, I’ll sneak a whiff of Mennen After-Shave and I’m instantly back in his bathroom that time when I was 8 years old and I doused myself with it because (as I told my mom afterward) “I wanted to smell like Daddy, because Daddy always smells good.”

The most poignant memories I have of my father are the little ones, the dozens of moments that all run together in my mind and bring me a joyful feeling for having known him: how he never swore in front of women, because that was something men just shouldn’t do in front of a lady; his laugh when telling stories about his and my mom’s (mis)adventures on the road with their trailer; how he never hesitated to loan me money when I really needed it, even if he did think I should have been building up an emergency savings account; the way he became more open with his feelings about what his family meant to him when he found out he had a terminal illness; how he always had a hug for me; how he took for granted that of course he would try to fix any little thing wrong with my car when I came to visit, even if I told him it wasn’t necessary; the way he would stand in the driveway and wave goodbye until my car was out of sight when I left after a visit.

Shortly after my partner’s father died, my parents came to visit us in Healdsburg, where we lived in the ’90s. They took us out to dinner, and at the restaurant my dad and I were talking about how something worked. He took a pencil out of his shirt pocket, took a paper napkin and proceeded to sketch on it what he was trying to explain. Later, after we dropped them at their hotel, my partner turned to me and said, “My god, it was like he was channeling my father!” Indeed, he wore the same type of shirt, combed his hair in a similar fashion, had a working man’s hands and loved to talk about how things worked, just like Judy’s dad. They were so uncannily alike that we have decided they probably met in heaven, sat down together with their pencils and paper napkins and ever since then have been remodeling the place.

Dad, if you’re listening, I just want to say thanks. Picturing your smile, hearing your hearty laugh in my head and imagining your strong arms around me will always bring me a warm glow.

The Rub has earned a permanent place of honor on my bathroom counter.

This stuff is amazing. At least, it works for me and my partner and several friends who have tried it. The label says "Arnica Cream for sore muscles and injury treatment." It's used to treat "stiffness, injuries, muscle and back pain, bruises and sprains." It's petroleum-free and doesn't contain menthol, so it's not one of those potent-smelling liniments like Ben-Gay.

I have arthritis in my hip, wrists, back and neck, congenital bone spurs in my neck, and degenerative lumbar disk disease, and as I approach the archetypal "senior" age (55), it's all getting worse. When my hip flares up or I've been on my feet too long and my low back is screaming, I rub on some of The Rub. I swear (and no, they're not paying me to say this, and I did not get a free bottle), this stuff really does help (me). It doesn't make the pain go away completely (I fear only narcotics would do that, and I try to stay away from them), but it does take a significant edge off the pain, and it lasts several hours so I can get back to sleep when my hip pain wakes me in the middle of the night.

It's a bit pricey ($9.99 for a 4-ounce bottle at Eureka Natural Foods) but it is so worth it, and a little goes a long way.

When I first saw it on the shelf, I wasn't sure that something applied externally could get to the pain centers of my brain in sufficient quantity to help. Then it dawned on me that if narcotics could be absorbed through the skin, as was the morphine patch my father was given when he was dying of leukemia, so could Belladonna and Leopard's Bane.

So, I took a chance and invested a few bucks in myself for a change. (Hey, at least it wasn't something I fell for in a late-night infomercial ... for a change.)

The Rub's ingredients, and their common names, are Arnica montana (Leopard's Bane), Aconitum napellus (Monk's Hood), Belladonna (Nightshade), Calendula officinalis (Garden Marigold), Hamamelis virginica (Witch Hazel), Hypericum perforatum (St. John's Wort), Ruta graveolens (Rue) and Symphytum officinale (Comfrey).

I suppose I should include this disclaimer here: The Times-Standard and/or MediaNews Group and/or Jen Morey, author of Jen's Den, assume no responsibility or liability for any negative reaction to the above-mentioned product by any reader of this blog.

Like I said, it works for me. If it doesn't work for you, give it to someone else to try. And in case you're wondering, it has a very mild, slightly herbal scent and those who use it don't leave a trail of fumes in their wake.

If you try it and like it, or not, let me know what you think. I will continue to share my personal experiences with other such products here, as I have successes or failures with them. I am a firm believer in trying the natural approach first, as humans have used such plants for thousands of years and, until they were persecuted as witches and had to hide their practices, a village medicine woman or man was the most respected and wisest person in town for very good reasons -- they knew what worked.

Watch out for this one, folks -- it's a doozy. It hit me out of the blue in the space of about 3 hours.

First, you wonder why your jeans got tighter all of a sudden, then you realize it's because you have this really bloated feeling in your tummy. Then you try to walk downstairs and out to your car in the parking lot, thinking there's no way you're going to make it before you pass out. Then the nausea hits. You sit in your car, hyperventilating, thinking for sure you're dying and telling yourself, "Just start the car, Jen. Drive home, Jen. You'll make it, it's only 7 minutes to the house. Just put it in drive - the car knows the way."

I'll spare you the rest of the details. This thing had me in bed, bath and beyond help round-the-clock for five full days. I have never felt so weak and enervated, except after I had pneumonia. Oh yeah, and after my gallbladder surgery. OK, maybe I have felt that weak before. But when you're in the agonizing throes of this flu's stranglehold, you can't help but think it's the worst you've ever felt.

My dilemma: The only thing that sounded good to eat was saltine crackers and 7-Up. (Maybe because that's what Mom always gave me when I was sick, and I always want my mommy -- even at 54 -- when I'm sick.)

The problem: The saltines in our cupboard were at least 3 years old. This is how I discovered saltines go stale even when they're in their original sealed packages, unopened. Moisture is evil. It finds a way in, no matter how airtight you think you've stored something.

The solution: You can "re-crisp" them on a cookie sheet in a 200 F oven for about 5 minutes. But you have to watch them or they turn brown and get overly crispy. If this happens, they'll disintegrate if you even think about trying to pick one up.

The better solution: Buy a new box of saltines every 3-4 months and throw the old ones out on the backyard lawn for the birds and squirrels. Or, crush them and use them in a recipe. (I'll have a few ideas posted in a day or two.)

Anyway, if you catch this flu, just be warned: It may be at least a week before you get much of an appetite back. It's been a week and I'm still craving saltines.

Also, be sure to hydrate yourself. Drink little bitty sips of water frequently. Or 7-Up. It's so easy to get dehydrated and that makes you feel even worse.

How about you, readers? What can you add to the list of driving annoyances? Here are two more of mine:

• Tailgaters, especially guys in big SUVs or pickups, usually jacked up with huge tires. I always feel sorry for them as I pull over to let them pass and they floor it and shoot past me to prove that I was going way too slow to be in their lane (even though I was doing the speed limit). Why do I feel sorry for them? Because it's common knowledge that the bigger the truck, the smaller the ... oh, never mind.

• Smokers who toss their butts out the window: What the hell do you think they put ashtrays in cars for? Find somewhere else for your loose change, you idiots, and start using your ashtrays. Careless smokers are the imbeciles who start brush fires and forest fires. Why is this so hard to comprehend?

Please, folks - for safety's sake: Turn on your headlights when it's raining (or foggy)! Most cars have warning buzzers that will remind you to turn them off when you get out of the car.

I got in the habit a long time ago of checking three things before closing the car door: The lights are off, the parking brake is set and the keys are in my hand. I even jingle the keys in my hand to double-check that they really are in my hand, in case just looking at them isn't enough for it to register in my brain that I didn't lock them in the car.

And regarding new driving laws: Now is the time to get in the habit of using a hands-free device for your cellphone ... BEFORE the law goes into effect on 7/1/08. They say if you do something for three weeks straight it will become a habit. So, when I get in my car now, I automatically take the cellphone out of my purse, plug the earbuds into it, put the earbuds in my ears and the cellphone on the seat next to me. I have my cellphone set so that I can press any key to answer an incoming call, so I don't even have to take my eyes off the road to answer it. Then I tell the person to hold on until I pull over.

It's more than about getting a ticket starting in July. It's really about nearly getting broadsided or cut off dozens of times by unthinking cellphone users. Like the bumper sticker says, folks: HANG UP AND DRIVE!

What a difference! They actually seem to glow with an aura (and yes, I was wearing my glasses at the time I made this observation). I guess I just have to trust that it's not EMF radiation I'm seeing ... if I grow a third arm, I'll let you know.

Anyway, thank you to all those who take the time to decorate their homes, because you've certainly gone all out this year. One of life's little pleasures, and I have my parents to thank for this habit, is to drive around the neighborhoods we know have great lights and see what new features they've added. (We don't do this as much as we used to. Gone are the days of riding around in my folks' 1965 Buick, when gas was 31 cents a gallon.)

In any case, this urge to splurge confounds me. I don't understand the need to spend, spend, spend. Whatever happened to "Our life is frittered away by detail... Simplify, simplify, simplify!" (Henry David Thoreau)

Personally, I've been inspired by having to clear off the coffee table to make room for our little table-top tree. This is the first year we bought a tree that was less than 5 feet tall, and I'm hooked. It's so cute! And it only needed one string of lights, and has plenty of room for all our favorite ornaments.

Anyway, in making room for the tree, I went through some piles of stuff that had been on the coffee table for (ahem) a few months. OK, about 12. Lo and behold, it ALL went to the recycle bin! Outdated catalogs, magazines, newspapers, maps for a trip we took a year ago, and on and on.

So I'm inspired to tackle a few more piles tonight, a few tomorrow night, and so on. In fact, I'm even excited about it. Maybe I've finally caught the feng shui bug that I've been chasing for years that has so far eluded me, just out of reach.

I'm reading a great book on feng shui called "Move Your Stuff, Change Your Life" by Karen Rauch Carter. I have several other books on feng shui, but this one is my favorite. I'll try to remember to add some quotes from it to this blog in the near future.

One suggestion I found incredibly useful (and so obvious I can't believe I never thought of it): Place an attractive basket for recycling junk mail somewhere near the front door or wherever you dump the mail when you come into the house. Never take the junk mail any further than that basket, and don't even open it - just drop it in its place. When it comes time to take in the recycling, or put it out for pickup, just dump the basket into the recycle bin. The recycle center doesn't care if it's unopened, as long as it doesn't have stuff like CDs, pens or other freebies in it.

Meanwhile, Happy New Year, cyberfriends! May 2008 bring less clutter to your space!

— 6 eggs, beaten
— 2 cups milk
— 1⁄4 teaspoon nutmeg
— 8-ounce loaf Italian peasant bread, cut into 1-inch thick slices
— 3 cups fully cooked, finely chopped spicy Italian sausage
— 3 crisp, sweet apples, cored and sliced into very thin rounds
— 2 1⁄2 cups grated Grana Padano cheese (or Parmesan, or Asiago, or Romano)

Lightly butter a 9-by-9-inch baking dish.

In a medium bowl, beat together the eggs, milk and nutmeg. Soak each slice of bread in the custard until fully saturated. Arrange a third of the slices in the prepared baking dish.

Top the bread with half of the sausage, half of the apples, and 1 cup of the cheese. Layer another third of the bread over the fillings, then top with the remaining sausage, apples and 1 cup cheese. Top with remaining bread.

Pour any remaining custard over the top. Sprinkle with the remaining 1⁄2 cup of cheese. Cover tightly and refrigerate overnight.

When ready to cook, preheat the oven to 325 F. Bake uncovered for 1 to 1 1⁄2 hours, or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Serves 6 to 8.

(Recipe from Michele Kayal/The Associated Press. Published in the Times-Standard 12/19/07.)

This is a breakfast casserole, kind of like a savory bread pudding. There are a lot of these types of recipes around, especially the make-ahead type. A very common one that I find in those church fundraising cookbooks uses ham, cheddar or Swiss cheese, and white or wheat bread. Tres boring, IMHO.

Personally, I would probably use mild sausage rather than spicy (as the AP author uses), or even something like locally made chicken-apple sausages. (Since the casserole includes apples and cheese, I would think a spicy sausage might overwhelm the other main ingredients.)

The AP writer did something that always irks me. She assumed everyone who would read her recipe has access to a gourmet cheese shop; one of her ingredients is "Grana Padano" cheese.

I always have a problem with writers who list ingredients like "Grana Padano" cheese without telling you that it's just like Parmesan except it comes from a different part of Italy, and without telling you what you can substitute for it.

So, before adding this recipe to my blog, off I went to one of my favorite references: The Cook's Thesaurus.

If you can't find Grana Padano, substitute Parmesan or Asiago or Romano. "Grana," it turns out, is simply the term used to refer to hard or grating cheeses — like Parmesan or Asiago (sold by the chunk in the deli section, not in a green cardboard can!). I added this notation to her recipe.

I often find myself wishing we had a gourmet cheese shop here. Some of our local stores carry a nice assortment — I'm thinking of Eureka Natural Foods and Wildberries in particular — but they're nothing like the cheese shops I used to frequent in the Bay Area. That said, imagine my surprise to find one of my favorite cheeses, Mizithra, at Safeway of all places. But that's for another recipe, at another time.

- 1 can (14-16 ounces) tomato sauce
- 1 cup grated sharp cheddar cheese
- 1/4 cup grated parmesan cheese
- 1 small can chopped black olives
- 1/2 teaspoon oregano (or to taste)
- 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder (or to taste)
- 1 sourdough baguette, sliced about 1/4-inch thick

Preheat the oven to 425 F.

Mix the first 6 ingredients in a bowl. Lay out the slices of baguette on a cookie sheet. Spoon a dollop of the pizza mix onto each slice, pressing down slightly with the back of the spoon to spread the mix almost to the edges. (You may need to experiment with quantity - you don't want so much mix on each slice that it flows down over the edges when baked.)

Bake for about 5-8 minutes (watch them carefully the first time so you know how your specific oven cooks them). They're done when the sauce is bubbly and the bread slices are crispy around the edges and the cheese is melted. Some ovens may take up to 10 minutes.

Let cool a few minutes, then transfer to serving plate. Hide some in the kitchen for the cook, otherwise he or she won't get any once they leave the kitchen.

Experiment with your own ingredients - chopped artichoke hearts, mushrooms, fresh garlic, pesto, sun-dried tomatoes, kalamata olives, jack or mozzarella or whatever cheese suits you. Just be sure to chop all the ingredients fairly small so they mix thoroughly in the sauce.

Bon appetit!