foodie | The Blog I'm Not Writing

The Nose Hairs I’m Not Weed Whacking

May 17, 2013

Robyn Parnell The Write Stuff (literary life), family life, Isms (religion), freethought, foodie, friends, books & magazines, Me so happy, YEE HAW! The Mighty Quinn, Children's Book Week, Powell's Books, CSA, Little Farm of the Owl, mushroom stock, Lego helmets, Nova, cat fetching, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, National Women Suffrage Association Leave a comment

Tuesday May 14 was the Official Release Date ® for The Mighty Quinn. May I have some trumpets, please?

Ah, shucks. Thank you.

The book’s ORD coincided with a Children’s Book Week excerpt reading/book signing event at Powell’s Books on Tuesday evening.

The event went well, despite the fact that I would rather trim my nose hairs with a weed whacker than do anything resembling public speaking. Seeing all the beautiful, friendly faces in attendance, including RB, LAH, SCM, JG & TG, CC & SC, helped calm my cotton mouth jitters.[1]

I was totally surprised by an intended: the presence of two cherished, Bay Arean [2] friends. MH and Belle managed to keep a secret, that the lovely and talented LH & DA were flying up from the Bay Area for the evening. They honored me not only with their fabulous presence but also by bearing the favorite victuals of acclaimed authors everywhere a token of their appreciation, [3] a four pack of orange Jell-O.

* * *

We shall return to Great Moments in Self-Promotion Literary History after this word from our Feminist Free-Thinking sponsors.

Sometimes, someone else says it better. And sometimes they said it better some time ago. (in this case, over 140 years ago).

Reason & Science lead to atheism. Reason & Science lead to feminism. The National Women Suffrage Association was formed this date in 1869 in New York city. Elizabeth Cady Stanton said, “You may go over the world and you will find that every form of religion which has breathed upon this earth has degraded woman… I have been traveling over the old world during the last few years and have found new food for thought. What power is it that makes the Hindoo woman burn herself upon the funeral pyre of her husband? Her religion. What holds the Turkish woman in the harem? Her religion. By what power do the Mormons perpetuate their system of polygamy? By their religion/ Man, of himself, could not do this; but when he declares, ‘Thus saith the Lord,’ of course he can do it. So long as ministers stand up and tell us Christ is the head of the church, so is man the head of woman, how are we to break the chains which have held women down through the ages? You Christian women look at the Hindoo, the Turkish, the Mormon women, and wonder how they can be held in such bondage.”

· The Richard Dawkins Foundation for Reason and Science (Official)

* * *

Consider yourself a recipient of the Pretty Purple Toe award if you can guess which two of the following five are legitimate reviews of The Mighty Quinn.

An easy-to-use guide for bird owners looking to train their pets to perform simple tricks such as flapping wings, to more advanced tricks such as playing dead in the owner’s hands or ringing a bell, The Mighty Quinn walks the reader through a step-by-step process with explicit instructions and full-color photographs.
(Midwest Book Review)

A new classmate helps fifth-grader Quinn Andrews-Lee re-evaluate longtime friendships and stand up to a bully….Parnell creates interesting child and adult characters and confronts them with serious issues, including child abuse, care for the environment, ethics and even skin color… humorously interrupted by the realities of family and school life.
(Kirkus Reviews)

Every surgeon who carries out rhinoplasty procedures will benefit from The Mighty Quinn. The beginner is guided through the performance of a standard rhinoplasty…with the latest breakthroughs in the management of difficult cases, such as saddle nose, skin sleeve problems, and dorsal grafting.
(Aesthetic Surgery Journal)

“An absolutely delightful read and such memorable characters! Tweens will identify with both Quinn and Neally and will still be thinking about them long after they close the book.”
(Sandra McLeod Humphrey, Clinical Psychologist and children’s author).

It is curious how incest, impotence, nymphomania, religious mania and real estate speculation can be so dull.
(Richard Findlater, Time and Tide) [4]

This toe’s for you!

* * *

Thursdays are our pickup days for our weekly CSA share. We’ve been CSA patrons for five years; this is our first year with La Finquita del Bujo (“The little farm of the owl”). We get an email on Sundays which lists the likely contents of the coming week’s harvest. This week’s share will include (lots of) lettuce, plus beets and greens, carrots, kohlrabi, Chinese broccoli, dill or cilantro and chard or kale.

Daughter Belle’s AP Environmental Science class had a class project/party at the farm on Thursday. They made and baked pizzas, topped with veggies from the farm, in an outdoor brick oven. I told Belle I’d try to time my share-picking-arrival so as not to require any M4 [5]awkwardness for her.

In anticipation of the wine and broth braised root veggies I planned on making for dinner, I started a batch of mushroom stock on Thursday after breakfast. It made for a sensory-sensational morning. The savory, umami (or as I like to think of it, yo-mommy) aroma of mushroom broth wafted into the office as I performed what would otherwise have been the mundane tasks of checking manuscript submission status and fiction market listings.

No-Fuss (or a little, if you’re prone to botheration) Mushroom Stock

Hint: Keep a bag in the freezer for stockpiling the mushroom stems that are often not used in recipes. Shitake, porcini, button, crimini – no need for varietal separatism. A United Nations of Shrooms is best. Throw ‘em all in there. [6]

1. take a pound (~ 4-5 cups) of stems, along with a handful of dried mushrooms and perhaps some frozen whole ones, too. Heat a medium-sized stockpot over medium-low heat, add a small amount of EVOO and brown the stems a bit (no need to thaw first), along with a small peeled & roughly diced carrot. That’s all you need: shrooms and a carrot. If you’re a Stock Fundamentalist who believes that the only true path to Broth must involve the trinity of carrot/onion/celery, you can add small diced portions of the latter two veggies.

From the Book of Aromatics: in the name of the Carrot, the Onion, and the Holy Celery

2. Add ~ 8 cups of water, or enough to cover the shroom bits by at least two inches. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, simmer until stock is reduced by one half (or more, if you want a really rich flavor). This will take at least 30-40 m.

3. Strain the stock through a very fine sieve (or colander lined with cheesecloth), pressing on the veggie solids to extract every last bit of shroomy liquid. You now have ~ 3 – 4 cups of stock. Use immediately, or frig and use within a few days, or let cool and freeze.

* * *

Several years ago our all-white cat, Nova, discovered the cache of Lego pieces in the upstairs bonus room. We in turn discovered Nova’s proclivity for a certain kind of Lego piece, when MH put on his shoes and yelped as his instep pressed down on a hard piece of plastic. Somehow, a Lego helmet had gotten into his shoe.

We are a barefoot-in-the-house family, and so there is always a motley assortment of shoes and sandals on our front door rug. I was the next to step on a helmet while putting on my shoes. A subsequent stakeout revealed that Nova, when she thought the coast was clear, would come downstairs, little white helmet in her mouth, and most definitely and deliberately drop it into a shoe. We began to remind each other to shake out our shoes before putting them on. We were not always consistent in passing on this reminder to guests. I’d like to think we just forgot about it, but must admit to the possibility that our omission was intentional, as we enjoyed the delightful (well, to us) expression on a visitor’s face – the mild eyebrow elevation of surprise morphing into confusion – when they went to put on their shoes and discovered they had been honored with Nova’s footwear enhancement.

Nova eventually tired of the shoe-game, and discovered the joys of Human-aided Helmet retrieval. We’d be sitting at the breakfast table and she’d bring a Lego helmet [7] and drop it by one of our chairs. A Lego helmet makes a distinctive clicking noise when dropped onto tile or wood flooring. She’d drop the helmet, we’d pick it up and lob it into the kitchen or down the hall. Its distinctive shape caused the helmet to skitter and bounce in an erratic manner Nova found irresistible, and she’d chase it, bat it around, and eventually pick it up and return it to us for another round.

She has done this, off and on and with variations in the game, for years. And with no other Lego pieces; only helmets. [8] We’ve found stashes of helmets under various pieces of furniture, and have rescued many from the central vacuum dirt canister in the garage.

Her latest variation is to find a helmet and bring it to the office. The office carpet muffles the helmet-dropping announcement, so she has devised another routine to get my attention. Helmet in mouth, she enters the downstairs covered litterbox, which is under the “kid’s” computer desk. She pees in the litterbox, or sometimes just pretends to – either way, the sound of her pawing about in it alerts me to her presence. She emerges from the box, drops the helmet in front of it, then dashes into the hallway, looking back at me with an I’m-helping-you-keep-your-promise-to-yourself-to-be-ergonomically-smart-and-take-frequent-breaks-from-the-computer expression. [9] I, of course, dutifully pick up the helmet and throw it for her. It will be at least six rounds of fetching until she decides I need to get back to work.

Or sometimes, I come into the office and see a helmet outside the litterbox, with no kitty in sight. Her calling card, I assume.

* * *

Remember to check your shoes before you put them on, and let the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!

[1] Along with the zen-like calm that can only come from knowing that I carry a whoopee cushion in my props bag.

[2] Not Aryan, but Arean, as in, “of the Bay Area.” They flew in from San Francisco, not Berchtesgaden.

[3] A “souvenir” of sorts, from the shenanigans at MH’s & my wedding reception…which is a story best told in person, over something stronger than orange Jell-O shots.

[4] This was critic Findlater’s actual review for Lillian Hellman’s Toys in the Attic.

[5] Meet My Mother Moments

[6] Except morels. Oregon foodies are supposed to adore morels, but moiself thinks they taste like what muddy socks smell like.

[7] It seems we had an endless supply, from years of buying Lego Classic Space sets.

[8] She will play fetch with wads of paper, but only on the staircase.

[9] Really, that’s exactly what her kitty facial expression means. We’ve had it translated.

The Fish I’m Not Licensing

May 10, 2013

Robyn Parnell books & magazines, current events, family life, foodie, Me so happy, music, Oregon, reproductive rights, The Write Stuff (literary life), TV Children's Book Week, fish license, goats, halibut, Heather Vogel Frederick, Interrupted anthology, Joy, Once Upon a Toad, Powell's Books, surrogacy, The Go-Gos, The Mighty Quinn 2 Comments

Dateline: Tuesday afternoon, driving to lunch/errands. I change the radio (I cannot abide a certain Taylor Swift song unless it is the goat version) and land smack dab in the middle of an advertisement for Northwest Surrogacy Center. A suspiciously animated-yet-serious female is talking about how fulfilling it was for her to serve as a surrogate for a gay couple. Her story ends with a brief/odd comment on how handing over the baby was “…the easiest part.” An official (male, ahem) announcer takes over, and talks about how the center is looking for women between the ages of 21 – 40 who have already had one “easy” pregnancy, and how surrogates can make “up to $27, 000.”

“HA!” I hear myself say, [1] as I pound the steering wheel. “Like that’s a reasonable reimbursement.” I must pull over to the side of the road and do the math.

Gestation is no 9-5 show. It’s not even back-to-back swing shifts. When you are pregnant you are pregnant 24 hours a day (and during the last month it can seem like 48 hours a day). Forty weeks of pregnancy = 5,720 hours; thus, being paid $27k for the gig works out to less than $5/hour, less than minimum wage. Even less than that, when you factor in what the post-preggo Pilates [2] are going to cost. The never ending story, of how anything considered “woman’s work” is undervalued.

My short story “Maddie is Dead” has been reprinted in a new book: Joy, Interrupted – An Anthology on Motherhood and Loss. The anthology is released…uh…just in time for Mother’s Day? Rather peculiar timing, considering the subject matter. From the book’s press release:

Joy can be interrupted – but not lost. Most people think of motherhood as a joyous experience, but for some it can be an experience of interrupted joy. This anthology delves into the subject of motherhood and loss from different perspectives of authors and artists from all over the world. This anthology includes Short Stories, Poetry, Art Work, Essays, Fiction, Creative Non-Fiction and more. Contributors explore such topics as Adoption, Death, Infertility, Disabilities, Illness, and Estrangement. Various themes addressed include Coming of Age, Identity, Recovery, Connections, and Forgiveness.

But wait, there’s more:

The internationally acclaimed contributors are: (snip snip of a whole lotta names that are not mine), Robyn Parnell, (more snip snip)…

Internationally acclaimed? This is news to moiself. But if it’s in writing, it must be true, right?

Still, I await the multilingual kudos. Having heard none, I’ll furnish my own:

Συγχαρητήρια [3] Ole! Felicitations! Chúc mừng! Pongezi! Gratulerer! Cestitke! Kung hei lei! Donadaliheligv! Comhgháirdeachas!

May 13 – 19 is Children’s Book Week.

Get ready to Get Mighty!

The Mighty Quinn, that is.

The Mighty Quinn is available now at Amazon , Barnes & Noble and other online booksellers, in both paper and eBook formats. Starting May 14 it will be available at your regular brick and mortar bookstores.

Of possible interest to you locals (local as in Portland metro area): As part of the celebration for National Children’s Book Week I’ll be doing a reading-book signing event with another local author at Powell’s Books Cedar Hills Crossing (Beaverton) on Tuesday, May 14, beginning at 7 pm. Another Local Author is Heather Vogel Frederick, who’ll be reading from her newly released book, Once Upon a Toad. [4]

After the reading and signing my family and I will be de-stressing celebrating at Peachwave Frozen Yogurt afterwards (Cedar Hills Crossing Mall, enter by the Starbucks) – stop and say howdy if you can!

“Caveman Matt” Chapter 5, The Mighty Quinn

* * *

From their halcyon days as America’s sweethearts to their current status as superstars who pioneered a genre, The Go-Go’s preside over an amazing three-decade reign as high pop priestesses….
(from The Go-Gos website, re their upcoming concert tour)

That is what I want to write, and get paid for doing so: hyperbolized press releases.

I’m trying to imagine phrases like “halcyon days” and “amazing three-decade reign” – not to mention “high pop priestess” – being used in conjunction with my name. Not to get all philosophical or nothin.’

I couldn’t find a High Pop Priestess Picture. But the green telephone is worthy of royalty, don’t ya think?

You may remember [5] the Halibut That Ate My Daughter’s Brain (April 19 post). I have been experimenting with halibut chowder/soup/stew variations every Sunday since, with the apparent approval or at least toleration of our regular Sunday dinner guest, the lovely and talented (and patient) LAH. I have been tormenting son K, a lover of all things seafood chowder-y, with information re my culinary concoctions. Next week is finals week for K, and he’ll be home from college for the subsequent Sunday dinner, the 19^th. There is enough halibut and fish stock left in the freezer to make him his very own tastefully-sized tureen trough-full of whatever version I shall deem as the best-est. [6]

* * *

Remember to get your pet halibut his fish license, and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!

[1] Actually, I hear myself say a stronger version of HA: the version that rhymes with, HORSESHIT!

[2] Or whatever exercise regimen you’ll undertake in a futile attempt to undo the damage done to your body in order to give someone else “the gift of life.”

[3] Acclamations are in Greek, Spanish, French, Vietnamese, Swahili, Norwegian, Croatian, Cantonese, Cherokee, Irish Gaelic.

[4] I have read this book and recommend it, especially for fans of Fractured Fairy Tales.

[5] Or, like my family, you may be trying to forget.

[6] Not many footnotes in this post, eh?

The Woodpecker I’m Not Strangling

March 22, 2013

Robyn Parnell annoyances, books & magazines, community, extended family, family life, foodie, friends, Holidays, making fun of Norwegians and/or the Irish, nature, Oregon, politics, The Write Stuff (literary life), YEE HAW! 4 Seasons in 4 Weeks, cars and cellphones, CPAC, distracted drivers, farting preacher, illiterate feedback, Irish, names, Northern Flicker, singing goats, Suzanne Mathis McQueen 4 Comments

It’s the season. We’ve been reclaimed by a Northern Flicker.

I love woodpeckers, and the Northern Flicker is especially striking in its coloration and behavior. About that behavior – that striking behavior.

During their March – June breeding season, a flicker calls (makes a loud, rolling rattle with a piercing tone that rises and falls in volume several times) and drums (repeatedly and rapidly pecks a tree or other solid object) to communicate with a mate, or proclaim its territory and attract a mate. But why settle for drumming on a mere tree when you can make a MUCH LOUDER SOUND OMG YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LOUD by using our chimney flashing as a drum skin?

“Yo, Freddy. Flicker,” I said, while pounding the exterior of the chimney with a pole to convince him to seek friendlier territory. “I understand that this is your equivalent of placing an ad on perfectmatch.com, but your strident call is going down our chimney and into our house, where the residing, non-flicker females neither understand nor appreciate its intended implications. And that repeated bashing of your beak against the chimney flashing sounds incredibly loud and is incredibly annoying for us bipeds, not to mention what it must be doing to your tiny avian brain…and are you perchance a mentally challenged flicker? Just asking.”

Oh, he’s not stupid, and he’s not pecking on metal because he can’t find a suitable tree, according to a Jackson Bottom Wetlands Friendly Biologist ®. A metal object allows Freddy Flicker to make the most noise in the flickerhood. An accessible chimney flashing – jackpot! That is one awesome find for a flicker, who uses its acoustic amplifications to announce to nearby flicker friends and foes, “Here I am! Everything around here is mine, mine, mine!”

Friendly Biologist said flickers will return year after year to the same house if it works for them. And indeed, we’ve seen a flicker pair, and their offspring, at our suet feeder for the past couple of years. I’m firmly in the pro-woodpecker procreation camp. I could just do without them using our chimney for their pre-coital garage band rehearsal, ya know?

What We Talk About When We Talk About Us

We had a dinner party on Sunday to honor son K, who was home from college on spring break and who had recently celebrated his 20^th birthday.[1] Seeing as how Sunday was the 17^th, That Irish Day, we had an Irishy menu [2] and MH made seating cards with shamrocks or some other leprechaun-worthy fauna decorative picture next to each guest’s name. Our youngest guest was the adorable, precocious, getting’-down-with-the-alphabet, 5 year old “Peach.” P had a minor dramatic episode when she noticed her mother’s name card, and she fussed to her father about it. “That can’t be where Mommy is sitting because it doesn’t start with an ‘M.’”

Her mother (whose name begins with S) relayed that story a couple of days ago, and I laughed to read her email. I was older than Peach but way younger than K when I first reflected upon the discrepancy in how adults address children and children address adults. Why was it, I ventured to ask certain tall people, that parents may and in fact do call their children by name, but kids are supposed to address their parents by their relationship? Mom calls me Robyn, not “second daughter,” but I must call her some variation of Mom, [3] even though her name is Marion. I didn’t see what respect had to do with it, but the tall people always included that word in their answer to my question.

INSERT VIDEO http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FOUqQt3Kg0

A few years back a friend of mine shared this observation with me, about me: When I’m talking about my husband to my kids, I call him by name if I’m speaking about something between he and I (“I’m going to get M a book on owl pellets for his birthday”), and I refer to him as “Dad” if I’m talking about something between him and our hatchlings [4] (“Are you planning on getting Dad an owl pellet for his birthday?”). If MH calls on the phone and wants to speak with Belle or K, I vary the name-thing: “Mark wants to talk with you,” or, “Dad’s on the phone for you.”

I hadn’t noticed that, nor even thought about it, until said friend brought it up.

When I talk about my parents, sometimes I use their names and sometimes their parental “titles,” and sometimes upset my elder sibling, NLM, by doing the former. N was especially sensitive to this after our father’s death, four years ago. To her, N explained to me, it sounded less-than-appreciative of what a wonderful dad Chester Bryan Parnell was, to call him anything other than what we called him when we were kids, which was “Dad.” I reassured her that I have nothing but love and respect in my heart when I call our father by his given name…and warned her that I will likely continue to do so (although, in consideration of her feelings, I try to remember not to do it around her).

I love my father’s name – always have, for many reasons, including that it was unusual, and that he had acquired various nicknames he had over the years. [5] For whatever reasons, his smiling face and gentle, laughing green eyes become even more vivid to me when I think of him, my beloved Dad, as Chet.

* * *

Speaking of my father, I know he would have appreciated the following blurb, for both content and tone.

* * *

Hands free, my ass

To the guy who almost t-boned my vehicle when you turned left, at a stop sign from a side street onto a busy street, and my Madza 3 [6] was so right there, in broad daylight, lights on, no excuse not to see me unless you were distracted, and you looked right at me, or rather right through me, and even though our eyes made contact your brain was somewhere else. Your window was down and your mouth was moving – your car passed so close I could see your ear bud headset and hear you talking to someone who wasn’t in your vehicle – as I slammed on my brakes and swerved.

You are, apparently, yet another fool who has fallen for the lie [7] that hands-free cell phone devices are a solution to the risks of driver distraction. It doesn’t matter if it’s technically legal – once again, the law lags behind to the science. The law will catch up, and using a phone with brains hands-free anything will, eventually, be outlawed. Until then, dude, educate yourself as to the science behind distracted driving. Or don’t educate yourself. Stay ignorant if you must, but stay off your fucking cell phone, in any manner whatsoever, while your vehicle is moving.

* * *

Last weekend provided one of those last minute treats (besides escaping being taken out by a careless driver): friend Suzanne Mathis McQueen drove up to the Portland area from her home in Ashland for a quick weekend visit. The reason for the quickie was both personal (her two all-growed-up sons live nearby) and professional. The pro part involving Suz’s promotional activities in the Portland area for her book, 4 Seasons in 4 Weeks. One of the few people who looks as fine in real life as she does in her author’s photo (I could slap her for that, but I’d rather hug her), Suz is a wise, witty and compassionate person, a pro-woman, pro-man advocate who is also a kick in the pants to be around. Her book uses the unique, even poetic metaphor of the four seasons to characterize the cycles and rhythms of human life (think circadian, and expand). Along with her positive illuminations of life’s phases, the book’s pictures and illustrations are amazing. Flipping through the pages, I felt like I was in an art gallery.

* * *

Department of
Even writing fiction you can’t make this stuff up

A deep, robust belly laugh strengthens the core/abdomen, makes your teeth look whiter and brighter and your children and spouse seem smarter. And cancer – it helps cancer, somehow. Etc. etc. A true belly laugh is a rare thing, as is lucid feedback for a writer. Feedback itself is hard to come by, and when you get it, ’tis sometimes constructive, sometimes neither here nor there, sometimes remarkably irrelevant, and sometimes downright face-palm worthy. As for the latter, my abs are firmer, my teeth whiter, I am cancer free and live with geniuses as per the laughter provided by the following incident.

Last July I’d queried a literary press to see if they’d be interested in considering a short story collection of mine. As per their guidelines I sent a sample story along with the query. They held on to that story for several months, and replied in October that they liked the story but didn’t understand it. I found this amusing; even so, at their request I sent them another story from my proposed collection.

(Note: that second story was published in the summer. One of the editors of the publishing journal told me they particularly liked the story’s narrative structure.)

This week I received an email from “The Editors” of the press. They wanted me to know that they’d given the story to their readers, many of whom liked it and some of whom didn’t. Thus, the editors felt “stalemated” and decided not to pursue my collection, but had asked one of the readers “who liked your work the most” to provide a short note of feedback for me.

Indeed, the feedback was short, although reading anything with the following WTF? gems seemed to last a lifetime. (my comments)

“Her (the story’s protagonist) flashback with ___ needs to come later. I feel like there is going to be a robbery, because she’s a convent store and there’s no conflict, but bring it in sooner. “

(* These “sentences” are almost incomprehensible to me.
* The flashback is exactly where it should be. It would make no sense to have it later in the story, as it sets up subsequent action…which the reader should know, assuming the “reader” actually read the story.
* Reader “feels like” there is going to be a robbery? Gee, maybe that’s because there is a robbery, in that very scene to which the reader refers.
* The protagonist is not “a convent store,” whatever that is.
* And if there is no conflict, how am I to “bring it in sooner”

“My biggest concern is that I don’t have a feel for ___. At first I think she’s kind of sad and structed and wimpy, but then she so boldly goes after the crook….What is her motivation for attacking him? …It’s all conflicting to me.”

(* My biggest concern is that I have a strong feeling that this press is seriously considering feedback from a remedial adult literary program dropout who thinks “structed” is a word.
* What is her “motivation” for attacking him {the would-be robber, aka, “crook” – a term which, BTW, is never used in the story}? Uh, the fact that the robber threatened and then injured the clerk, and the protagonist had the means and opportunity to do something – maybe, that had something to do with it. Ya think?
* Yeah, it’s all “conflicting” to me, too. Probably because I’m kind of “structed.”

The CPAC (Conservative Political Action Committee) convention, highlights of which included why-won’t-she-just-go-away Sarah Palin mocking Karl Rove and a straw poll in which Rand Paul narrowly defeated Marco Rubio for…for best Conservative Straw, is certainly worthy of commentary. [8] And speaking of gasbags, [9] although I am still enamored of singing goat videos – relax, you’re safe, none embedded here [10] – nothing quite brings a spring to my step as periodically viewing the compilation of the best of The Farting Preacher, aka Robert Tilton. [11] A fitting tribute for the infamous evangelical cheekflapper, and good wholesome fun for everyone.

Wishing you a weekend of love and laughter, and if you’re feeling “structed”, well, let ‘em rip. The hijinks will surely ensue.

Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!

[1] My proud FB announcement of the occasion: Today my son is old enough to be the son of a mother who has a twenty year old son.

[2] Wine and honey glazed salmon; colcannon, soda bread, orange and green and white veggies.

[3] Or, “Moth-errrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” when disgusted as only an indignant child can be with her parent’s cluelessness.

[4] It’s flicker breeding season, perhaps you’ve heard? I’ve got birds on the brain.

[5] Chet was ahead of his time, going for daily runs when…well, when no one else did. An out-of-shape neighbor saw him heading for a run one afternoon and snickered, “There goes Chet-the-Jet.” The nickname stuck.

[6] Zoom Zoom

[7] No doubt perpetrated by the makers of such devices.

[8] But not my me. I’m still too busy laughing about “structed.”

[9] Can I segue, or can’t I?

[10] There’s always next week.

[11] Televangelist Tilton’s Success-N-Life swindle theology taught those so dumb they couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the heel gullible, credulous people that their burdens, in particular poverty, were a result of sin, but if they made certain “vows” (i.e. donations to Tilton’s ministry), God would reward the vow-maker with material riches.

The Bird I’m Not Putting On It

March 8, 2013

Robyn Parnell are we having fun yet? (Women & Men), community, exercise & fitness, extended family, family life, foodie, friends, making fun of Norwegians and/or the Irish, music, nature, Oregon, politics, reproductive rights, science birthday, Cheetos, Jackson Bottom Wetlands, Khan, laughing too loudly, Pi Day, Portlandia, schedenfraude, TSA Comments Off

I’ve lost track of how many and micra-leathermans I’ve had stolen by TSA agents and sold on ebay confiscated for national security purposes. Thus, I greeted the recent TSA Announcement – that they are lifting the ban on small knives and various sporting equipment in carryon luggage – by opening a can of It’s About F**ing Time.

The policy change, which will bring US airports in line with international standards, is based on a recommendation from an internal TSA group, which decided that nail clippers, tiny pocket knives and corkscrews represented no real danger, said David Castelveter, a spokesman for the department of Duh the agency.

Don’t you just feel like booking the next flight to wherever, and boarding with the largest allowable carryon bag filled with two golf clubs, a toy bat, ski poles, a hockey stick, a lacrosse stick and a pool cues…and, of course, your USS Enterprise pizza slicer.

Speaking of national security issues, a New York man was arrested for laughing too loudly. In his own home. [1] Yep. Robert Schiavelli was charged with acting “in such a manner as to annoy, disturb, interfere with, obstruct, or be offensive to others,” after Daniel O’Hanion, Schiavelli’s next-door neighbor, complained to police that the man’s [2] laughter could be heard – gasp – across the driveway.

I’ve always assumed my driveway to be an impenetrable, almost sacred barrier protecting me from the giggles, chuckles, titters, tee-hees, chortles, and unrestrained mirth of my neighbors. But…really?

I keep hoping to read a follow-up report, in which the complaining neighbor is arrested and charged with with acting in such a manner as to “in such a manner as to annoy, disturb, interfere with, obstruct, or be offensive to the non-douchebag population of America.” But until that glorious day, there must be a way to find this woman and pay her to stand in front of Mr. O’Hanion’s.

* * *

Son K turns twenty today. It seems like only yesterday I was screaming obscenities at the delivery nurses and threatening to castrate MH counting the seconds until I could hold my widdle cootie wootie snookums ookums in my arms. Happy Birthday, my boy. This Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan’s for you.

* * *

On Monday I did my first volunteer shift at Jackson Bottom Wetlands, where I will be helping collect data for a small mammal survey. While I was there I saw at two groups of small mammals: first graders [3] on a field trip, traversing the trails with their teachers and adult chaperones. One of the adults walked ahead of her group, to where I sat (just off-trail) with my data cards and supplies, and asked what I was doing. I showed her a data card and started to explain that I was helping with a biologist’s small mammal survey. She waved her hands above her head, exclaimed, “Kids, come here, it’s a scientist!” and then quickly whispered to me, “I’m going to say you’re a scientist, okay?

Not wanting to act under false pretenses, I made no dubious claims for myself, but did my best to don the veneer of a madman bent on world domination a friendly, responsible scientist.

I showed the students one of the tracking papers, upon which was imprinted the paw prints of voles and other rodents that had sampled the tracking tube’s bait. There were ooohs and aaahs for a minute or so, then their teacher led them down the trail, toward one of the wetland’s bird viewing shelters. A little boy turned around as his group was leaving and stepped back toward me. He made eye contact, smiled shyly, looked at his shoes and said, “Good scientist-ing!” I returned the smile, and the compliment: “And good student-ing to you!”

One boy and his father apparently stayed behind after their group had returned to their school busses. I saw exploring the trails, just the two of them. They came to where I was finishing up refitting the last of the tracking tubes. I gave the boy an inside look at the contraption, and told him how we used an upended film canister was used to hold the bait. As soon as the words had left my mouth I flashed a knowing glance at his father and said, “What am I saying? It’s a digital age – he probably doesn’t even know what a film canister is.” The boy’s eyes widened and he started telling me, in the great and glorious detail that can only be provided by an enthusiastic six year old, about how he uses a film canister to hold his “special dice collection.”

* * *

I assume y’all have made your plans for Pi day? The symbol pi, from the 16th letter of the Greek alphabet, (π) is the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter. Pi is usually calculated to 3 digits, 3.14, thus Pi Day is celebrated March 14 (which also happens to be Albert Einstein’s birthday). On the annual celebration commemorating the mathematical constant π (pi), you can eat pie, discuss the discussing the significance of the number π ,listen to the pi song…and have plenty of time left over to eat more pie.

In the past few years I’ve made special dinners on Pi day, serving different combinations of foods that are not necessarily pie but that are…well…round food. I’ve no menu plan for next week, and haven’t yet decided how much thought I want to put into it.

When I can’t or don’t want to think too much about what to make for dinner, I have a fallback dish that I’ve come to think of as my Portlandia special: put a bird on it.

http://www.ifc.com/portlandia/videos/portlandia-put-a-bird-on-it

Or, in this case, an egg.

I love my Portlandia dinner because it’s easy, tasty, healthy, and I can cuisine-it up or down: Italian, Spanish, Indian, Mexican, Moroccan, pacific Northwest …. even Norwegian [4]. Gather finely diced onions; carrots; celery; garlic; peppers; ginger – whatever base your cuisine fancy requires. Sauté your aromatics [5] in a large cast iron skillet. Add other sliced and/or diced veggies, greens, whatever you have on hand, whatever spices fit the taste you’re going for, some cooked grains or leftover plain pasta you have in the frig. Or you can skip the stovetop and go the roasting route: toss everything together with some EVOO and stick the skillet in the oven. When the veggies are done to your preference, add the eggs. One egg per person; crack each egg into a small bowl, gently press down with the back of a spoon to make a “nest” for each egg in the pan, add the eggs, and return the pan to the oven (if on the stove, cover it and turn the heat to low) until the eggs are set.

Top it all with a light sprinkling of freshly grated Parmesan if you’re going an Italian or Mediterranean route, or a dollop of Greek yogurt thinned with lemon or lime juice (for Mexican or Indian flavors), or other cheeses, any fresh herbs, and a good grind of black pepper.

* * *

The SCM Department of Because I’m Petty That Way

Ah, the cheap thrill, remembering that feeling akin to schedenfraude…. How do I adequately describe the perverse satisfaction I received the other day when I was driving home from an errand and had to stop at the stoplight by an LA Fitness Club? I looked at just the right moment at just the right place, and saw a young(er), moderately fit woman attired in fashionable exercise togs exit the club, pull a bag of Cheese Doodies [6] (not to be confused with Cheetos ® [7]) from her purse, and begin noshing like a bulimic on death row.

* * *

It was a slow week for politics…oh, that’s a lie. I just wasn’t paying attention. Until this caught my eye.

Karen, I’d advise you to aim the knife a good deal lower.

And let the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!

[1] Loud, uncontrollable laughter? It’s safe to assume he was not watching Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo.

[2] Schiavelli, who suffers from seizures and neurological impairments, told reporters his neighbor often taunts him due to his disability.

[3] Of the curiosity and excitement level that is so cute as to be illegal in many repressive countries. Or Michelle Bachman’s congressional district.

[4] As long as you hold the herring and lutefisk. And please, don’t tell me where you’re holding them.

[5] If you really want to put the joi in the joi of cooking, why not try some acrobatics while you’re prepping the aromatics?

[6] Not a real food.

[7] Also not a real food.

The Fritatta (for my father) I’m Not Cooking

February 15, 2013

Robyn Parnell current events, extended family, family life, foodie, Holidays, Isms (religion), movies, Oregon, politics, The Write Stuff (literary life) Band of Brothers, Children's Book Week, frittata, Morning Glory, paratroopers, pope resignation, Powell's Books, Samuel L.Jackson, Snakes On a Plane, Steven Spielberg, The Mighty Quinn, Tom Hanks, WWII Comments Off

Monday, February 11. I headed upstairs (where the backup TV/DVD player resides), a glass of champagne in my hand.

“You’re going to watch something – what?” K asked me.

“Band of Brothers.”

“Oh,” she replied. “Of course.”

Monday was the four year anniversary of my father’s death. He’d called the night before, and we talked for a long time, longer than usual (we talked on the phone at least once a week). He was in a reflective mood. [1] One of the many things we talked about was the HBO series, Band of Brothers. The year after the series came out on DVD I purchased the set for my parents – a Christmas gift, I think. Besides being one of the greatest mini-series in the history of the genre, B-B was the impetus for many detailed conversations between my father and me, about his experiences as a paratrooper in WWII [2] and also those of another paratrooper, his brother-in-law, my Uncle Bill. [3]

My family hears the elegiac, haunting main theme wafting down the stairway, and they know where I am. And what I’m thinking about.

I don’t know how to describe the greatness that is Band of Brothers. So I won’t. Just watch it, if you haven’t already. Were I ever to meet Steven Spielberg and/or Tom Hanks, I would thank them, profusely, for producing that series. Not a word about Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull or The Money Pit would cross my lips.

* * *

Tuesday morning I had leftover frittata for breakfast. Earlier in the week I’m made a kale,[4] potato, onion, Spanish (smoked) paprika, parmesan cheese frittata for dinner. I don’t know if my father ever had a frittata, for any meal. I do know he would have liked it.

A great scene in a greatly underrated movie, Morning Glory:[5] Grouchy, veteran, respected but currently unemployed television journalist Mike Pomeroy (Harrison Ford, in a credible Mike Wallace mode) has been essentially blackmailed into becoming the co-host of DayBreak, a ratings-poor, national morning show of the “infotainment” style Pomeroy despises. Pomeroy tries to sabotage the show by getting drunk, refusing to banter with co-host Colleen Peck (a cheerfully acid Diane Keaton), and by making use of a clause in his contract that allows him to refuse assignments, like cooking segments, that he considers beneath him. Pomeroy eventually forms a mutual if grudging admiration with Becky Fuller, (Rachael McAdams), DayBreak’s new, “Energizer Bunny” producer. When DayBreak begins to rise in popularity and ratings, Becky receives a job interview from a rival show. Colleen tells Mike that his refusal to adapt has driven Becky away. He goes to the TV set kitchen where food segments are done, and Becky watches in shock as Pomeroy shows the viewers how to make a frittata.

* * *

Always nice to have something to look forward to, and I – we – have May 13 – 19, which is Children’s Book Week.

CBW is the yearly celebration of “books for young people and the joy of reading.” Every year during CBW author and illustrator appearances, storytelling, parties, and other book-related events are held at schools, libraries, bookstores, museums across the country.

Mark your calendars, if you are a local. Tuesday, Tuesday, May 14, starting at 7 pm, moiself and two other authors will be doing a reading and book signing at Powell’s City of Books, at their Cedar Hills Crossing (Beaverton) location. This event has just been scheduled; I don’t yet know all the logistical details it will involve (walking up and down the book stack aisles, wearing a sandwich board advertising The Mighty Quinn?), but you can be certain I’ll post further harassments reminders as the date approaches.

Powell’s is the largest independent new and used bookstore in our solar system, and if you don’t know this, well…. Even if you’re from waaaaay out of town (any New Hampshire readers out there?), you need to make a pilgrimage to Powell’s if you are any kind of a book lover. If not for my event, then soon. So, you can’t fly to Portland in May? Not to worry, there is a Children’s BW event somewhere near you.

Whatever your favorite childhood book is, was, or will be, may the remembrance of it be worthy of the Pretty Purple Toe award.

* * *

No political commentary, nor rehashes of the latest misogynist pinhead proclamations in this week’s post. I am too focused on fathers and frittatas and positive memories to celebrate, say, the resignation of the leader of one of the most wealthy, opulent, hypocritical, corrupt cults on the planet one mere pope. Now, if we could get all priests, imams, preachers, lamas, gurus, popes — and the ovine followers who give them “authority” – to resign…. Yeah, you can wake me for that breaking news.

* * *

In honor of Valentine’s Day, a reminder of that most romantic of date movies, When Harry Met Sally Snakes On a Plane Snakes In a Dish.

Because I can only imagine that when Samuel L. Jackson gets serious about love – about anything – hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!

[1] The temptation, of course, is to think he had some kind of premonition. No evidence or proof of that, on my part. Just gratitude.

[2] In his case, training for the invasion of Japan that never came, due to Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

[3] Bill somehow survived actions from North Africa to Italy to D-Day to the Battle of the Bulge. Not surprisingly, he was hospitalized after the war for what was then called “Shell Shock”, now understood as PTSD.

[4] Observant readers will note that it is bok choy, and not kale, in the picture. What can I say – all the kale went in the frittata.

[5] I love Roger Ebert’s review of what makes the comedy so enjoyable: “It grows from human nature and is about how people do their jobs and live their lives.”

The Awards I’m Not Winning

February 8, 2013

Robyn Parnell are we having fun yet? (Women & Men), books & magazines, foodie, Isms (religion), Oregon, politics, reproductive rights, science, The Write Stuff (literary life) Austin, Bellevue Literary Review, Darwin, Flying Spaghetti Monster, George Takei, literary awards, Pulitzer Prize, Rachel Maddow, Texas, women in combat Comments Off

“I always thought lawyers and academics had the markets cornered on meaningless accolades, but writers make them look like pikers.
I think there’s an inverse relationship between money earned and laurels cited. I wonder if it could be proved mathematically.”
(SCM, attorney, blogger, writer, Regency Errata warden, astute observer of The Human Condition)

The previous and following exchanges are brought to you via SCM’s[1] e-wondering about the authenticity of a ____ award, claimed by X in X’s writer’s bio (“Do you really think that _____ counts?”).

My reply: Oh my sweet Flying Spaghetti Monster, it’s an award winning writer! And another, and another….

These days you can’t spit without hitting an award-wining writer (and I have tried). Of course, X’s “award” it doesn’t count. IMHO, none of them do. It’s this circle jerk game, allegedly to confer honor (read: publicity) upon both the award or contest winner, and the journal or organization that bestows the laurel. Writing awards, prizes, contests — it’s become like the kiddies’ soccer team, where everyone gets a trophy, eventually, just for showing up and paying the participation fee. Hollow decoration, for those who know what be going down.

And yet, editors more often than not ask you to list “any prizes or awards” in your submissions cover letter. In order not to feel like a schmuck and maintain a modicum of integrity (given my rather jaundiced opinion on the literary awards biz), I have to list my brush with honor thusly:

In 2012 I was able to fine tune my I-don’t-care-about-winning-it’s-an-honor-just-to-be-nominated speech when my story “Here is What,” published in Bellevue Literary Review, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

I wrote a snarky essay about the subject, titled “You Can Be (Or Already Are) An Award-Winning Writer!” An article that makes fun of the contests and/or/awards that literally every literary journal has/holds? Yeah, sure. There’ll be massive bidding wars over the rights to print that. I tried to get the essay published, despite my advisory mantra to myself (“this will be impossible to publish — everyone has an awards contest !!!”). I toned down the snark, and appealed to an editor’s sense of Of -course-We-can-laugh-at-ourselves [2] in my cover letter:

Few writers would mind having the description Pulitzer Prize-winning author attached to their name, but what about “Winner of the Punta Gorda Prize for Swamp Prose” [3] as one’s claim to literary fame? The proliferation of literary awards is the subject of “You Can Be (or Already Are) an Award-Winning Writer!”, my essay that takes a good-humored look t this all-too-normal aspect of the writing life.

I sent a copy of the article to SCM, who graciously and enthusiaastically offered to post my essay on her blog. If that wasn’t honor enough, she also bestowed upon it the Atttorney At Large Award for Aimless Accolade Assassinations, or AALAAAA.

Damn the torpedoes and f*** the Pulitzer [4] , I’ve got an AALAAAA.

AALAAAA! AALAAAA! It sounds like the battle cry of literary triumph!

Unfortunately, it also sounds like a terrorist’s last-ditch attempt at self-assurance as he reaches for the grenade strapped to his chest….

Show me someone who is always smiling, always cheerful, always optimistic, and I will show you someone who hasn’t the faintest idea about what the heck is going on.
(Mike Royko, 1932 – 1997)

* * *

MH returned on Sunday from a three day business trip to Texass Texas.[5] It has become our family tradition that when we travel to purchase a deck of cards with some kind of “local” connection. MH returned with an Original-Historical Drawings of Texas deck: each card has a unique drawing of an aspect of Texas history and culture, from the Rattlesnake Roundup to Congresswoman Barbara Jordan to The Yellow Rose of Texas. I got a kick out of the description for the five of heart’s San Antonio Riverwalk: “…known as ‘The Venice of Texas’…”

Talk about damning with praise, faint or otherwise.

Whaddya mean, there’s nothing going on? Upcoming celebrations include Darwin Day, a global celebration of science and reason held on or around Feb. 12, the birthday anniversary of evolutionary biologist Charles Darwin.

There are few things more synergistic than celebrating Darwin’s birthday with discourse about the Flying Spaghetti Monster.[6] In the immortal words of the inimitably interesting, intelligent and impudent [7] Rachael Maddow, “I like my evolution reporting with a side of carbs.”

* * *

Women in combat. No, I’m not referring to the battles women face in trying to get standard, life-saving treatment at Catholic hospitals. It’s the military thing, courtesy of Defense Secretary Leon Panetta’s lifting the military ban on women in combat.

I still can’t wrap my mind around the phrasing: “lifting the ban on women in combat.” Women have been participating – and dying – in wars, in combat, ever since the sorry concept was constructed by some pissed off Neanderthal. Only now, they can get credit? Lifting the obliviousness about the reality is more like it

The old saw about protecting the women and children flies and spits and shakes its impertinent ass in the face of the fact that, during wartime, civilian deaths always outnumber military casualties. And who are the civilians? The much-vaunted “women and children,” whose protection from the evil, encroaching ___ (insert enemy of choice) is cited as justification for combat.

Objective consideration of a person’s ability to do a job, any job, should be gender-blind. Most of us civilians – and even a few former and active soldiers, it seems – forget that the majority of those in the armed services never set foot on what used to be called the front or battle lines [8] ; the majority comprise the support staff, on which the “warriors” depend. Every soldier has to be prepared to fight, but most contribute to the fight through transport, medic, food, equipment procurement, distribution and maintenance positions. Or, as Napoleon Bonaparte, famous miliitary leader and infamous sufferer of Short Man’s Syndrome put it, “An army marches on its stomach.”

Not every male soldier makes the cut (or desires to) for combat positions, and the wash-out rate for the so-called elite combat units is high (the all-volunteer paratroopers units, in which my father served during WWII, had a wash-out rate of over 80%). Review the standards for the job. Keep the physical and mental standards truly appropriate to the job, and have only those who meet the standards, men and women, young and old, gay and straight, qualify for those positions.

One bubagoo the silly voices raise: okay then, all of you miss smarty-panties, if all military positions are open to women, what about women registering for the draft?

Well, what about it? The U.S. Constitution (Article I, Section 8) authorizes Congress “To raise and support Armies…” and goes on to permit the regulation and training of such armies [9]. Nowhere is the gender (or age or ethnicity) of these Armies mentioned. Of course, we can assume that the framers assumed an all-male (and Caucasion) army; nevertheless, but all it says is Congress has the power to raise Armies.

If it served Congress to do so, I have no doubt that women would be drafted in a heartbeat. Or so was my argument in the late 1970s-early 1980s, when some of us were still trying to get the Equal Rights Amendment passed. Register for the draft? Pass the frigging ERA and I’ll register for your friggin’ draft.

About the appropriate standards. Police academies used to have minimum height standards which effectively screened out most female – and Asian and Hispanic male – applicants. Thirty-plus years ago I remember reading an article in the Orange County register about a Vietnamese-American man who desperately wanted to be a cop. This was at the time when police and fire agencies in California were desperate to increase the number Asian and Hispanic officers. The man was intelligent and independent [10] and eager to serve, kept himself in awesome physical shape — he did everything he could to qualify, and he would have, except that he was ~ an inch shorter than the minimum height requirement. And, okay, so maybe this part of the story tempers the previous remark about his intelligence, but he decided to re-apply to the academy, and before taking the next physical exam he had his wife repeatedly bonk him on the head with a wooden plank, to try and raise a bump that would get him to the minimum height level.

I don’t know what happened to the bonkers-for-cops dude, but it wasn’t long before anti-height discrimination lawsuits provided the nudge for the police to evaluate their policies, and most agencies subsequently, eventually, eliminated the minimum height requirements. Unlike the cinematic shoot-’em-up image, the majority of police work involves negotiation skills, keeping cool under pressure, the ability to quickly evaluate and de-escalate dangerous situations…and, yes, kick ass if and when necessary. As police departments around the nation have discovered, if you can pass the police academy training, assessment and examinations (including lifting and dragging a 160 lb dummy, weapons and marksmanship training, tolerate getting pepper-sprayed and tasered), the fact that you’re lacking an inch doesn’t matter.

Which, of course, women have been telling men for years.

Should someone ever insult me in a most egregious manner, there is one thing that could make it better: if I could get George Takei to call that person a douchebag. No one does douchebag like George, as you may recall when he famously took down the Arkansas school board member who called for gay teens to kill themselves.

Ain’t nobody out to get me that I know of. But there are no shortage of botox-brained blowholes worthy of being Takei-shamed, including Alabama high school football coach and psychology (I kid you not) teacher, Bob Grisham.

(From salon.com article An Alabama high school football coach has been suspended for 10 days without pay for making anti-gay comments and for referring to the first lady as “fat butt Michelle Obama” during a class last week. It was in the middle of a class discussion that Bob Grisham told his students: “I don’t believe in queers. I don’t like queers. I don’t hate them as a person, but what they do is wrong and an abomination against God,” the Times Daily reports.

I’m trying to imagine a classroom discussion in which a teacher thought it relevant to comment on the First Lady’s posterior, disparage “queers,” and blame justify his hateful, paranoid ignorant opinions to his Imaginary Friend. But that would require more drinking than I’m willing to do right now. Instead, let the hijinks ensue and take it away, George.

Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!

[1] Previously identified on this blog as…SCM

[2] A quality which few Serious Literary Lions (editors, publishers, or writers) are known for.

[3] The actual title of an actual, if erstwhile, literary award.

[4] At least until people agree on how to pronounce it.

[5] Well, he was in Austin, which, I am told, is more like the People’s Republic of Texas.

[6] In yet another Oregon Claim to Fabulousness ® , the Church of the FSM was started by Oregon State University physics graduate student Bobby Henderson

[7] Stop me, before I i-word again.

[8] with today’s increasing use of kill-from-afar technologies, and wars of terrorism and insurgencies, “front line”-style warfare may soon be an exhibit in the Smithsonian.

[9] Interestingly, it also states that “no Appropriation of Money to that Use shall be for a longer Term than two Years;” which seems to make our maintaining of our standing armed forces unconstitutional.

[10] He defied his relative’s wishes by wanting to become a cop, a profession seen as dishonorable by many Asian immigrants, who came from countries where the police forces were corrupt.

The Cheesecake I’m Not Serving

February 1, 2013

Robyn Parnell are we having fun yet? (Women & Men), books & magazines, current events, extended family, family life, foodie, Isms (religion), music, Oregon, politics, The Write Stuff (literary life), TV, Yikes! Bill Mumy, cheesecake in the boudoir, click, Cory Schreiber, George Crane, Guns, J. Edgar Hoover, James Beard, Lost in Space, Louie Louie, Marion Barry, Marionberry, Michelle Bachmann, Pat Robertson, refrigerator door, slavery, The Orange County Register, The Worry Clinic, U.S. Constitution Comments Off

The new line drawing is here! The new line drawing is here! [1]

Scarletta Press‘s managing editor/idea guru Nora Evans came up with a wonderful idea to cap off the cover design of my book. Instead of using the standard, black & white thumbnail photos of the author and artists she’ll have The Mighty Quinn’s illustrators, Aaron and Katie DeYoe, do line drawings of the author and artists, in the style of the book’s text illustrations.

I’ve always wanted to attain artist’s rendering status. The Picasso-esque [2] sketch college roommate LMW drew of me ~ 30 years ago doesn’t count.

The picture will be something ala this style, without the spaghetti-flinging.

* * *

Insert your own, favorite (and graceful) segue here. ‘Cause I’m all out of ‘em.

One of the most intricate, fascinating, and overlooked (IMHO) aspects of The Gun Thing ® is the research into what happens during actual gunfights; i.e., real, live human beings shooting at one another, as opposed to dueling computer game avatars, one-shot-takedown cinematic secret agents, or politicians shooting off their mouths.

No matter what you think you think about the various proposals to have armed guards in every nook and cranny and orifice in America, it would be worthwhile to acquaint yourself with “Your Brain Under Fire,” (Time Magazine, January 28 issue). This article gives an overview of the science behind how your brain reacts when you are shot at, or when you shoot at someone. It’s a fascinating read – a mere three pages of text, should only take ten minutes of your time. Or twice that if you are a NASCAR fan or were home-schooled at the Michele Bachmann Academy of Historical Reading Comprehension [3] or are a regular viewer of Toddlers & Tiaras.

* * *

Sitting on our counter is a delicious slice of Marionberry [4] goodness. Not as in His royal badness, former DC mayor, Marion Barry

What’s on the counter is the remainder of a piece of Marionberry pie I hid in the freezer a couple of weeks ago (I wanted a taste of it before my son K used his I’m-returning-to-college-tomorrow excuse to finish it off). Mere words cannot describe the berryliciousness of this treat, but since I’m not a fan of interpretive dance, language will have to suffice. Yummers.

For the past x weeks we’ve been the beneficiaries of friend LAH’s project to cook her way through Rustic Fruit Desserts: Crumbles, Buckles, Cobblers, Pandowdies, and More, the cookbook from Portland’s legendary chef, restaurateur and James Beard Award winner, Cory Schreiber. We’ve had fruit cobbler in the refrigerator, chocolate cake on the table, and more. We’ve had cheesecake on the counter…but none in the boudoir.

Cheesecake in the boudoir

Believe it or not, Ripley, this particular segue will eventually make sense.

Televangelist Pat Robertson, arguably the first person to survive a partial brain abortion, has fought a lifelong battle with chronic AIM (ass-in-mouth) syndrome. The unintentionally comical Robertson can always be counted on to produce a bizarre brain boner during a slow news week.

Robertson’s face-palm worthy howlers have included attributing same sex attraction to evil spirits , earthquakes to voodoo, tropical cyclones to legalized abortion , endorsing wife-beating and nuking the State Department . The latest manifestation of his AIM comes in the form of his blaming “awful looking women” for marital monotony.

Which, of course, made me think of cheesecake in the boudoir.

* * *

Please give me some good advice in your next letter. I promise not to follow it.
(Edna St. Vincent Millay, Letters)

As an adolescent growing up with politically conservative parents, I looked at friends’ copies of the LA Times for actual news reportage, and read the Orange County Register [5], the only newspaper in our household, for entertainment. Besides The Register’s editorial page, few of its regular features were more entertaining than The Worry Clinic, a syndicated advice column written by George Crane .

The Worry Clinic was a six days a week venture for Dr. Crane: two days to worry about love and marriage, and one day each devoted to worrying about business, child-rearing, personality development, and what Crane called “mental hygiene.” (As Chicago Tribune columnist Bob Green noted, apparently Dr. Crane saved the seventh day so that he could worry himself, after worrying for everyone else the other six days.).

I don’t remember if The Register printed all of The Worry Clinic columns; I do remember they ran the ones that dealt with relationships and child-reading. Dr. Crane, who somehow managed to receive several degrees from Northwestern University, liked to say that he learned most of what he needed to know working as a farm hand during summer vacations from high school and college. It showed.

Each of The Worry Clinic‘s columns was illustrated with a line drawing of a woman and/or a man, whose clothing and hairstyles were 1940-50s suburban caricatures. No matter that it was the 1970s, few men sported hats, let alone fedoras, and women/housewives (the terms were synonymous in Dr. Crane’s world) seldom wore Betty Boop dresses and pearl necklaces when doing the dishes.

My parents clipped select TWC columns and scotch-taped them on that most passive-aggressive of family communication devices: the refrigerator door. I penciled snarky comments next to the columns’ particularly flaming, WTF? passages, and enhanced the illustrations with moustaches and googly eyes. I was never called on that vandalism editorializing by my parents, who therefore, I reasoned, never re-read the columns they’d taken the time to clip and post. The postings themselves were evidence that my parents read TWC, and for different reasons than I, who used them as a horrifying/amusing, negative barometer of sorts. Indeed, Crane’s “advice” provided many of the formative, click moments that reinforced my growing feminist understanding of the world.

There was certain egalitarianism to Crane’s counsel. No matter if the advice seeker was man or woman, young or old – TWC advice, in a nutshell, [6] consisted of three tenets:

1. If wives are not slavishly praising their husbands they are nagging their husbands.
There is no in-between.
2. All marital/family discord is due to wives not serving their husbands
enough “cheesecake in the boudoir.”
3. See (2)

Your husband ridiculed your father’ s re-telling of his How I Single-handedly Won the Battle of Iwo Jima story during Christmas dinner, and now your parents aren’t speaking to you? You obviously aren’t serving your husband enough Cheesecake in the boudoir.

Your children are doing C- work at school and smart-mouthing you at home? The wife should be serving her mate more Cheesecake in the boudoir.

Although you correct them at every opportunity, your in-laws refer to your disabled daughter as “that cutesy-wootsy Mongoloid?” Hubby needs Cheesecake in the boudoir.

Ashamed by your failure to be a loving husband after you criticized your wife for developed a bleeding ulcer when your son returned from the Vietnam War a heroin-addicted, double amputee? Your wife needs to serve you more Cheesecake in the boudoir.

Boudoir-free Cheesecake

This crust-free version has way less calories and fat grams, and thus less guilt (pre- or post-feminist), than your typical cheesecake.

- ½ c sugar
- 2 T all purpose unbleached flour
- ½ T pure vanilla
-16 oz Neufchatel or nonfat cream cheese, softened
-2 whole eggs
-3 ounces sweet baking chocolate, melted. (optional). [7]

1. preheat oven to 325. Put a kettle of water on to boil.
2. Combine sugar, flour, vanilla & cream cheese in a mixing bowl. Use an electric beater on medium speed to mix the ingredients until they are well-blended. Add eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition.
3. lightly oil or spray four 5 oz custard cups with neutral [8] cooking spray/oil. Place cups in an 8″ or 9″ square baking pan.
4. poon cheesecake batter into the cups. Drizzle spoonfuls of the melted chocolate over the surface of the batter and use a toothpick or thin-bladed knife to make as many swirly chocolate designs as your foo-foo heart desires.
5. transfer pan to oven; add hot water to the pan, enough to come halfway up the sides of the cups. Bake for 45 minutes.
6. Use oven mitts to oh-so-carefully remove the custard cups from what is now their very hot water bath. The individual cheesecakes will be puffy, and will “fall” a bit as they cool. When cool enough to handle, cover the cups and refrigerate them overnight, or at least for two hours.

Serve as is, or top with one or more of the following: slices of fresh berries, a dollop of lowfat sour cream or greek yogurt whipped with vanilla or a dash of lemon juice, shavings of best quality dark chocolate, crushed peppermints or crumbled chocolate creme de menthe thins, (or for a real treat, Ghiradelli’s Peppermint Bark )

* * *

Department of StartingTo Sound Like The Old Folks

All together now: How can it be February, already?

‘Tis a relatively brief but important month, filled with several way-cool happenings, including my daughter’s birthday (number 17, yikes). February 1 has hosted its share of significant cultural events. I shall mention only the most important two:

* the 1954 birth of writer-producer-musician-actor Bill Mumy, beloved by aficionados of bad sci-fi TV as Lost In Space‘s Will Robinson.

* the 1964 attempt by Indiana Governor Mathew Walsh to ban “Louie Louie” for obscenity. Really. The FBI started an investigation into the matter and concluded, THIRTY ONE MONTHS LATER, that they were “unable to interpret any of the wording in the record.” Of course, adults tittering over the need for such an investigation was like blowing a dog whistle to horny American teenagers,[9] who spent hours listening to the Kingman’s famously garbled hit single, trying to figure out what the Feds thought they heard and what the rest of us thought we’d missed. Many a youthful fantasy was shattered when kids finally bought the sheet music for the song and discovered there was not a whole lotta shakin’ going on.

In hindsight, the Your Tax Dollars At Work department should have scheduled J. Edgar Hoover for a 5 minute tutoring session with a middle school grammar teacher, who could have explained to the closeted, cross-dressing, racist, evidence-planting, Commie-baiter defender of American Values the difference between obscenity and unintelligibility.

I would have paid good money to watch those hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!

[1] Well, not quite yet.

[2] Cubist face; three eyes; one boob.

[3] Iowa (January 2011) Bachmann declared: “We also know the very founders that wrote those documents (the US Constitution) worked tirelessly until slavery was no more in the United States… Men like John Quincy Adams, who would not rest until slavery was extinguished in the country.” Not only did the writers of our constitution not “extinguish” slavery, they implicitly upheld the institution by regulating it. And John Quincy Adams? He was extinguished in 1848, fifteen years before the Emancipation Proclamation.

[4] Yet another reason to love Oregon, home to the crossbreed Marionberry, released in 1956. A good year for blackberry hybrids. And Chevys. And women.

[5] Even my parents recognized that the libertarian-leaning OC Register was biased in its coverage of public schools. If I came home with a story about how an African-American student sassed a Chicano student for sneezing on his ‘fro pick during lunch recess, The Register would run a story the next day about how there was yet another race riot at Santa Ana High School.

[6] An appropriate container

[7] Are you allergic to chocolate? No? Then it’s not optional. Who am I kidding?

[8] “Neutral” refers to the taste the oil imparts, and carries no political inference. Neutral oils are nearly flavorless; olive oils have distinct flavors and are never neutral, even if the olives are from Sweden or Switzerland.

[9] Pardon the redundancy.

The Panini I Am Not Ordering

January 18, 2013

Robyn Parnell extended family, family life, foodie, general ruminations, The Write Stuff (literary life), YEE HAW! Katie and Aaron DeYoe, panina, Scarletta PressThe Mighty Quinn, The Lone ranger, The William Tell Overture Comments Off

Slap some pesto or mustard on two slices of sliced ciabatta stuffed with roast veggies and mozzarella or provolone, and press the concoction on a warming grill. Mmmmmm.

It’s a yummers dilemma for me – although I do appreciate the above-described gourmet sandwiches, I don’t like ordering them in restaurants. Whenever I hear myself saying panini I feel as if I’m using an Italian pejorative to mock the waiter’s manhood.

* * *

Every week should have a Yee-Haw! moment

After Monday’s four-way Skype conference with Scarletta Press’s publisher and editor and publicity gurus, my head was spinning[1] with the details leading up to the launching of The Mighty Quinn. I now have an even stronger appreciation for Scarletta’s social/media and PR directors, whom I picture as incarnations of the beautiful and fiery Durga, the multi-armed god of multitasking.[2]

I should be getting the final galleys for TMQ by the end of the month, and am so looking forward to seeing the additional drawings from Katie and Aaron DeYoe, TMQ’s illustrators. Aptly described on Scarletta’s website as “the cutest pair of redheads you’ll ever meet,” Katie and Aaron’s delightful, whimsical line drawings capture the essence of TMQ’s characters, including the nemesis, Matt Barker.

* * *

On Wednesday I received info re another book that is approaching its launch date. The editor of the Joy: Interrupted anthology sent a group email to the book’s contributors,[3] reminding us that proofs of our articles are due back to her by a certain date. My name was on the email’s Good for You list of authors who had already returned their edits, which got me thinking about the errors I’d discovered while checking the anthology galley. Once again, while proofreading a story of mine (that had already been copy-edited by an editor, I was mystified and amused by the ghost in the machinery: the typos, missing or inappropriately inserted or transposed punctuation, and other boo-boos that were not present in the original document.

This is a common experience, in my experience. For every five continuity errors a wonderful copy editor catches in one of my stories (“You describe your protagonist Arthur as a gap-toothed redhead in chapter two and a toothless blonde in chapter four”), I’ll find one randomly inserted apostrophe, inverted quotation mark, or the like.

Publishers, authors, editors – many if not most of us literati-types thought that electronic transfer of files and documents would eliminate the pesky errata gremlins. You email the file, they open and/or save it as is. What could possibly go wrong? But, noooooo. The phantom, inappropriately placed em dash strikes back.

MH, with with his years of chip testing/design and computer systems experience, is my go-to tech consultant. I showed him the original document I’d sent to the anthology, alongside the galley copy I received with the mystery insertions. I told him how frequently it happens with other publications, and therefore I don’t think it’s anything the editors are doing…and, so, what gives? He admitted to being puzzled over the situation before offering this insightful reply:

“Something happens.”

* * *

Who was that masked man anyway?

On my way to running errands/get lunch, I tuned in to my favorite (okay, my only) classical radio station. Without warning I heard the infamous and exuberant pounding cymbals and staccato strings – some Philharmonic Orchestra’s rendition of the William Tell Overture.

Specification: I used the phrase “without warning” because some kind of intro would have been nice, seeing as how the overture to Rossini’s William Tell opera is one of the pieces of music that fits into my Move The Furniture/Pull Over genre.

If I am at home or work and a MTF/PO song comes on the radio, space must be cleared for dancing.[4] If I’m in the car and a MTF/PO song is on the radio, in consideration of the safety of the other drivers I must pull over to the side of the road. When the William Tell Overture[5] is in full swing I am Ke-mo-sah-be, Tonto, Silver, Scout – I am the entire cast of The Lone Ranger, galloping full speed over and through the faux-sagebrush-festooned Hollywood backdrops great plains and arroyos of the American West.

Safely parked on a side street, I caught my breath as the overture ended, and had a mild epiphany of sorts. I am not a hardcore classics aficionado and am unfamiliar with Rossini’s opera in its entirety, and for the first time in my life I began to wonder about the rest of the work. Imagine, attending a performance of The William Tell Opera, which would open with…well…The William Tell Overture. And The William Tell Overture is just that – the overture. Not the after-ture, or the middle- ture, it is the overture.[6] Imagine hearing it for the first time and thinking, after you’ve stopped hyperventilating, “Okay, now, what? What could possibly follow this?!”

Clarification: what, exactly, qualifies a song for the coveted MTF/PO status? It’s difficult to explain. With apologies for my appropriation of SCOTUS Justice Potter’s infamous definition of pornography, I’ll just say that I know what it is when I hear it. And Stevie Wonder’s Signed, Sealed, Delivered is a slam dunk in this category.

* * *

Confession/Caveat

Even if your home-from-college-son is in the other room supposedly immersed in a computer game and with his headphones on, and you are in the kitchen with the garbage disposal running, do not assume you will be safe from his detection if you squeeze out a barking spider.[7]

You’re welcome.

* * *

There was to be more to this post. Much more…. You could have be afraid, very afraid. There were several deserving candidates for Asshat of the Week, etc. What can I say – saved by the MTF/PO. Push that sofa to the wall, get down with your bad self and shake your groove thang[8]. It’s time for hilarity to ensue.

Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!

[1] Spinning in a good way, as opposed to the Exorcist/projectile, pea-soup spewing way.

[2] Variously depicted as having anywhere from 8-18 arms, Durga is actually the Hindu deity representing the power of the Supreme Being that preserves moral order and righteousness in the creation. Which sounds like multi-tasking to moi.

[3] My story “Maddie is Dead,” first published in the literary journal The Externalist, will be in the anthology.

[4] Which in my case sometimes means just running around in a frantic if joyful circle.

[5] Someone smarter than you or moi defined an intellectual as “a person who can listen to the William Tell Overture without thinking of the Lone Ranger.”

[6] An overture is an instrumental composition intended especially as an introduction to an extended work, such as an opera or oratorio.

[7] Barking spiders – what farts are blamed on when there’s no dog available.

[8] Or accept that robo-call from Bangalore if your groove thang has been outsourced.

The Butt Cheeks I’m Not Cooking

January 4, 2013

Robyn Parnell current events, extended family, family life, foodie, friends, games & puzzles, Holidays, music, politics anti-gay bigotry in sports, cat turds, Fiscal Cliff, fish cheeks, French, gay civil rights, halibut, John Lennon, KenKen, New Seasons Market, New Year, NY Times Crossword Puzzle, salon.com, Topsy the Elephant 4 Comments

Lizards may not have lips, but fish have cheeks. The former are imaginary; the latter, delicious.

I’d ordered fish cheeks at restaurants but had never found them available for purchase. An Oregon coast fishmonger told me that the much-prized fish cheeks were sold mainly to restaurants and were rarely available in retail markets. The first time I saw halibut cheeks on sale was over ten years ago, at the newly opened branch of a locally-owned organic market (a shout-out to our beloved New Seasons!). I checked out fresh meats section of the store, passing by other patrons who stood in front of the beef, poultry, lamb and pork cases while the butchers took their orders. When I reached the seafood display case I nearly mashed my nose against the glass with excitement, and the fishmonger smiled in appreciation.

“Look what you have!” I blustered. “You have halibut cheeks!”

“Butt cheeks?” The woman to my right gasped and dropped a freshly wrapped package of New Season’s house-made chorizo in her shopping cart. “They sell BUTT CHEEKS?”

I exchanged bemused glances with the fishmonger, who, I could see, was about to enlighten the aghast shopper. Greedy moi launched a preemptive strike[1]. “Yes, they do.” I grinned at gasping sausage woman, and cheekily (sorry) patted my own behind. “They are considered a delicacy in some Eastern European countries.”

I was able to buy ‘em all: two pounds of halibut cheeks.

Sweet and tender, with a flavor and flaky texture that is often compared to with lobster,[2] halibut cheeks are so tasty on their own that IMHO, the KISS[3] doctrine applies to their preparation. Here’s how we celebrated Little New Year’s Eve[4] at the Black Cat Café,[5] with dear friend and discerning dinner guest, LAH.

Yummers Halibut Cheeks (serves 4)
-1 pound Halibut cheeks (about 8 – 12 pieces)
-EVOO
-Sea salt
-2 ½ T unsalted butter, divided
-2T freshly squeezed lemon juice, divided
-lemon wedges

Film two large cast iron pans with EVOO and heat the pans over medium-high heat until the oil is hot but not smoking. Sprinkle both sides of the cheeks with salt; place cheeks in the pans (don’t overcrowd – give ‘em plenty of gasping room). Sauté the cheeks for 2 minutes. Flip them over, cook second side for 2 minutes. Add the butter and lemon juice (dividing them among the two pans). After 30 seconds flip the fish again, so that both sides are coated with butter. Cook for another 30 -60 seconds (do not overcook; depending on thickness, total cooking time for the cheeks should be a mere 5-6 minutes). Plate and serve with lemon wedges to squeeze on top.

Don’t ask don’t tell

During this lovely dinner, I sniffed a cat turd. There’s no graceful segue; it happened.[6]

I heard something scuttling on the floor by my chair, and with all the holiday goodies we’ve been given (including a package of chocolate goober things called “Moose droppings”) I assumed the cats had once again gotten up on the counters and knocked down some treats down…. And I screamed at K when he said, “Yeah, I was going to say to you when you picked that up, ‘I think it’s a cat dingleberry.’”

Don’t ask. Oh, but you didn’t, did you? I told, without being asked. And if you’re a Facebook friend of my daughter’s, you already know.

* * *

♫ So this is Christmas/And what have you done
Another year over/A new one just begun ♫

As much as I have always loved the Tweenolidays[7] I have a love/hate relationship with New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. I have been to and hosted my share of entertaining New Year’s celebrations; still, more often than not, it’s a couple of days to tolerate, not anticipate. This is methinks, a combination of three factors:

1) The Ghost of The Younger Years ® rattling its memory-chain of the Are We Having Fun Yet?! pressure: It seemed to me that I did not have the kind of festive/bacchanal/out-with-the-old-in-with-the-new adventures immortalized (and exaggerated, yeah, I know) in cinema and literature, and thought that I was supposed to do that, even if I didn’t want to, and that every other person on the planet was Having A Great Time save for moi;

2) The gut-check of the Mature years: I’ve passed a certain AARP- significant age, and that effin’ John Lennon song gets played over and over this time of year, the lyrics of which seem to taunt me with the reality of the insignificance of my accomplishments during the past 365 days (“…and what have you done?…another year over….”)

3) There is no factor #3.

* * *

A new year. Here we are, two thousand and thirteen. Fiscal cliff, schmiscal cliff. We stared into the void. Dutiful American © that I am, I am supposed to ponder…something. I believe it is my patriotic duty to declare, “No matter what else happens, at least my taxes might not go up.”

Not to be flippant, but the issue was so complex; I tried to find a study guide to help me understand it, but apparently they don’t make Fiscal Cliff Notes.

A New Year. Here we are, two thousand and thirteen. That bears repeating, because just like the intestinal gas bubbles caused by your uncle’s New Year’s Blowout Chili-dawg casserole, the boogeymen of yesteryear keep surfacing.

Despite the number of professional male athletes who spoke out in support of LGBT on rights in 2012, a recent Los Angeles Times article detailed how gay athletes still feel unwelcome in pro sports. To come out as gay (which no active NFL, NBA, major leagues or NHL players have done) is considered a “career-ending” truth-telling, largely – gee, I’m just guessing here – due to attitudes like those of Detroit Tigers right fielder Torri Hunter.

The über-masculine named Torri told the Times that he believes an out gay teammate would make him “uncomfortable.”

“For me, as a Christian…I will be uncomfortable because in all my teachings and all my learning, biblically, it’s not right,” Hunter said. “It will be difficult and uncomfortable.”

All his learning. Okey dokey. Has Hunter done any learning about how someone with his skin color[8] playing baseball alongside white teammates once made the majority of white Americans “uncomfortable,” because in all their teachings and learning, biblically, the “mixing of the races” was not right?

BTW, this isn’t the first time Hunter’s insight-free jaw flapping statements have gotten him attention. In a 2010 interview with USA Today about the changing demographics in baseball, Hunter referred to dark-skinned Latino baseball players as “impostors.”

I look forward to Torri Hunter’s Detroit Tigers teammates addressing the question if being on a team with an ignorant religious bigot makes them uncomfortable. In the meantime, without further ado-doo, Imposter of the Weekgoes to Torri Hunter, for his up-until-now successful imitation of a sentient human being.

The TMI Files

I subscribe to salon.com. I usually find their articles an equal mix of cogent, timely and provocative, seasoned with more than the occasional dash of WTF thinks this crap is news? But on Little New Year’s Eve, the article with the story line: “My Sexual Resolutions,” oh, really, salon? I am so not going there (zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz).

I hoped in vain the article would have a subtitle, something along with lines of “…which I vow to keep to myself.” Alas, no.

* * *

This stupid day in history.

On January 4:

- 1649 – English Civil War: The Rump Parliament votes to put Charles I on trial.[9]
- 1885 The first (successful) appendectomy is performed by Dr. W. W. Grant, on Mary Gartside.
- 1974 – President Richard Nixon refused to hand over tape recordings and documents subpoenaed by the Senate Watergate Committee.

Notable births on January 4 included
- 1809 – Louis Braille, French developer of the touch reading system for the blind
- 1960 Michael Stipe, R.E.M. singer/songwriter

Two significant January 4 bucket-kickers
-1903 – Topsy the Elephant (died in America, born in India, ca. 1875) was electrocuted.[10] Yet another reason to hate Thomas Edison.
- 1999 – Iron Eyes Cody, Italian American actor (nee Espera Oscar de Corti) best known for portraying Native Americans (he was the “crying Indian” in the Keep America Beautiful PSAs).

* * *

2013. I’m going to have to start those…how do you say #@!%& French tapes, en francais? There it sits on my desk, mocking me: Rosetta Stone Francais Level 1. I promised Belle that if she sticks with French for all four years of high school, she and I will travel to France after her graduation. It seems as though I may have to keep that promise, and my two quarters of college French seems like a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Although I’ll have my own translator in the family, I’d like to reacquire some survival basics, other than being able to complain about the lack of TP in the WC (Il n’y a pas de papier dans la salle de bains).

* * *

My KenKen books are full, and this is not to be tolerated in a new year. I’ve become quite fond of the math puzzles[11] and consider doing at least one of them, along with the NY Times Crossword puzzle, a daily, sanity-break necessity. My New Year’s present to moi was a shopping spree on Amazon, where you can (and I did) waste far too much time perusing their puzzles offerings. I limited myself to three: Puzzle-a-day Kenken; Ferocious KenKen, and Crazy for KenKen. It was a tough call to settle for the third book, the full title of which is Crazy for KenKen: 100 Logic Puzzles That Make You Smarter. I kept searching for its companion: Batshit Crazy for KenKen: 100 Irrational Puzzles That Blow Your Higher Reasoning Skills Right Outta Your Nostrils.

The New Year is here; hilarity ensues.

Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!

[1] There weren’t many halibut cheeks in the display. I wanted them all.
[2] Not by me, but by people who like comparing things to lobster.
[3] Keep It Simple, Sweetie.
[4] The eve before New Year’s Eve.
[5] Aka our dining room. So named for the painting, titled, “The Black Cat Café,” that hangs on one of its walls.
[6] Or, shit happened, as the saying goes.
[7] the days of between Christmas And New Year’s day, briefly mentioned in last week’s post.
[8] Jackie Robinson couldn’t help but be “out” about that.
[9] Some historians believe Charles got a bum deal.
[10] Topsy, a circus/amusement park elephant, had killed three men, including a trainer who tried to feed her a lit cigarette. Although the sadistic trainer was not considered a threat to elephants, Topsy was deemed a threat to humans by her owners and killed by electrocution after the cyanide-laced carrots she was fed failed to do the job.
[11] KenKen is way better than Sudoku, which, IMHO is like watching grass grow while the paint dries.

The Lye-soaked Cod I Am Not Eating

December 14, 2012

Robyn Parnell extended family, family life, foodie, friends, Holidays, making fun of lawyers and/or doctors, making fun of Norwegians and/or the Irish, Oregon, politics, reproductive rights, The Write Stuff (literary life) Big-Hearted Big Nose Carrot Man award, helilcopter crash, Intel, Irish, lawyers, lefse, lutefisk, Lutheran parents, mall shooting, Minnesota, nametag, Norwegian, Scarletta Press, Southern California childhood, The Mighty Quinn 4 Comments

Had you been so fortunate to be a local lady friend of mine, you might have received an invitation like this:

Ladies Lefse Party
Wednesday December 12, 2012, 6:30 p – ?

Ladies hosting:
-Robyn Parnell & Belle

Ladies Likely to be in attendance:
-the lovely and talented you

Ladies Unlikely to make an appearance:
-The Lady (and the Tramp)
-Lady Marmalade
-Lady Antebellum
-Michelle Obama and Nancy Reagan, or other Past and Present First Ladies
-Ladies Home Journal
-The Bare Naked Ladies
-Lady Gaga

As always, your munificent, bed-bug-free hosts will provide lefse preparing accoutrements and serve lefse and Norwegian meatcakes for supper, in a festive yet pepper spray-free environment

* * *

I am half-Irish, tribally-speaking (as are both of my parents), but residing within approximately 25% of my genes is a lefse-loving Norwegian. My mother’s full-blooded Irish mother married a full-blooded Norski. Perhaps it was the fabled Irish love for potatoes that was partly responsible for Bapa’s[1] love of lefse. It certainly wasn’t her love of all things Norwegian. Although she adored her husband, Al, she refused to allow lutefisk [2] in her house. Every December Albert J. Hole [3] succumbed to the pull of tradition and purchased a chumbucket load fragrant batch of lutefisk atthe Lutheran Ladies ® Christmas bazaar, and every December Bapa would send her husband outside, in the Northern Minnesota winter, and make him partake of the lutefisk by himself, on the back porch.

* * *

JR always has the best Lefse Ladies Party hat, which she custom designs for the occasion.

When I was a young–un my family’s one nod to honoring ethnicity or keeping The Olde Country Traditions ® was serving lefse and meatcakes for Christmas Eve dinner. The feast would be prepared by Bapa and her eldest daughter, my aunt Erva,[4] who fled Spokane every year to winter in Southern California at Bapa’s house. Although my mother loved lefse she never acquired the knack of making it. Her children[5] have continued the lefse dinner tradition with their own families, though none with the panache and sartorial elegance as the lefse events hosted by yours truly, if I dare say so moiself. And I just did.

* * *

Speaking of lutefisk and other things that stink like an eel monger’s morning breath, Oregon has once again garnered another fifteen minutes of the national news tragedy spotlight, after the mall shooting earlier this week. TV media coverage of the tragedy saw the local stations engage in their typical, nuance-free, breathless blathering treatment (TERROR AT THE MALL!!!!) of anything they call a “breaking event.” The news anchors’ and on-sight reporters’ desperation to fill air time, to say something (even when it’s just been a few minutes after the 911 calls came in and no one really knows what’s going on, therefore there is nothing to say) would have been comical, save for the subject matter.

An interesting sign of the times, methought: a number of phone calls were made to TV news reporters from people who’d been inside the mall and had fled when the shooting started. Apparently, their first thought upon reaching saftey was to whip out their cell phones and share their story with the talking heads. Several callers stated they’d seen the shooter, before they realized he was The Shooter ®. The callers each described a young man wearing a load-bearing vest and a white mask, holding something long and rectangular (a semi-automatic rifle), running down a mall corridor. Uh…didn’t that seem alarming, or at least noteworthy? the reporters asked the callers. “Sure, but this is Oregon,” one caller replied, “and you see a lot of strange things in Oregon.” Another caller said he assumed the Masked Dude was running “…to join a flash mob,” or similar happening. Yep. If you see something bizarre, assume the Portlandia crew (or Leverage or Grimm ) is filming nearby.

* * *

About ten years ago there was a series of events that got Oregon in the national spotlight. There was the vacationing California family, on their way to the Oregon coast, who were stranded in the Siskiyou National Forest after the husband/father made the fatal mistake of trying to “shortcut” through a mountain range, driving a non-off road rental car on unfamiliar backcountry roads, in winter, in the snow[6]. Then there was the incident involving nine climbers on Mt. Hood who fell into a crevasse (three killed, four critically injured). A military rescue helicopter, which had successfully plucked two of the injured climbers from the mountainside, returned for a third, tricky pickup at an altitude of over 10,000 feet. The helicopter began wobbling – the wind had suddenly shifted, and the copter’s rotors clipped the edge of the mountain. A news crew covering the rescue operation shot spectacular the video footage, which played over and over on the national news (and which was later featured in a National Geographic Amazing Moments special), of the copter plummeting into a snow-covered ridge and tumbling down the mountainside.

By the third event, which I cannot recall, more than a few friends sent me teasing emails to the effect that my MH and I were raising our children in a hazardous territory (“what’s going on in that wacky/dangerous state of yours?”). This prompted our son, K, to come up with a new state slogan[7]: “Oregon – come for the thrilling recreational opportunities, stay for the rescue helicopter ride.”

* * *

There are several recipients deserving of the AssHat of the Week, in particular, yet another knowledge-free man in a position of power, this time a fucking judge, for the FSM’s sake. Superior Court Judge Derek Johnson , who evidently thinks that eating paint chips is a required judicial practice, said that a rape victim whose attacker threatened to mutilate her face and genitals with a heated screwdriver didn’t put up a fight during her assault, and that if someone doesn’t want sexual intercourse, the body “will not permit that to happen.”

But all that all that lefse has put me in a more generous mood, and I’d rather salute something positive. And so, without further ado or cursing, I promise, the Big-Hearted Big Nose Carrot Man award goes to Scarletta Press, whose awesome Director of Publicity, Desiree Bussier, is interviewed by Publisher’s Weekly about the publisher’s new emphasis on children’s literature, which will include my novel, The Mighty Quinn.

* * *

The new nametag’s here! The new nametag’s here!

Several years ago, MH received a particularly glowing annual performance review from Intel [8]. As happy as I was for him when he shared the news, it left me with a certain melancholy I couldn’t quite peg. Until I did.

One of the many “things” about being a writer, or any occupation working freelance at/from home, is that although you avoid the petty bureaucratic policies, bungling bosses, mean girls’ and boys’ cliques, office politics and other irritations inherent in going to a workplace, you also lack the camaraderie and other social perks that come with being surrounded by your fellow homo sapiens. No one praises me for fixing the paper jam[9] in the copy machine, or thanks me for staying late and helping the new guy with a special project, or otherwise says good on you, sister. Once I realized the source of the left-out feelings, I came up with a small way to alleviate them…sort of.

About the nametag. You’re at your office party, or a fund raiser for an animal rescue organization, or a neighborhood potluck, your spouse’s family reunion – you’re at an event that is primarily social and so the guest’s professions are irrelevant, and there are a bunch of people who probably aren’t acquainted with one another, so the hosts greet you with those Hello-my-name-is nametags and felt pens at the door. Summon your Andy Rooney voice for this next sentence. Have you ever wondered, when you’re at the kind of party I just described, why some people just can’t leave their credentials behind?

Since I don’t plan on suing the guy who took the last cheese doodle from the appetizer platter, why do I need to know that you’re a lawyer? Yes, you probably worked hard for your degree, as the other guests did for theirs, but in this venue your LL.D. is no BFD, and appending your name with those initials only serves to give the impression that your main credential is that of I.m.D. (imperious dickhead).

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not one of those attorney-haters. Some of my best friends are lawyers.[10] And while the legal profession is much (and often rightly) maligned and thus I chose an easy target for my example, in my experience doctors are the worst when it comes to the afore-mentioned nametag faux pas. If the party has no relation to medicine, not even remotely, and I don’t plan on having a pap smear right here by the punchbowl, why do you think I need to know you’re a doctor?[11]

Hello, my name is

Dr. Pomp O’Ass

Richard Head, Ph.D.; M.D.

I custom ordered my own nametag from a local office supplies store, and it’s finally here! As you can see, it reads Robyn Parnell, N.a.D.

As in, Not a Doctor.

Bring on the next party. I am so ready.

Hijinka ensue.

* * *

Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!

[1] My maternal grandmother, so nicknamed by my older sister, who couldn’t properly say “grandma” until she was in her late forties.

[2] Some ethnographers believe the preponderance of lutefish in the Norwegian diet was largely responsible for the Norwegian migration to America in the early 1800s.

[3] Yes, Hole. I wonder why my mother never considered keeping her original surname.

[4] I had an Aunt Erva. So did you, although yours may have had a different name. Everyone has had an Aunt Erva.

[5] Her 3 daughters, at least. My brother, I dunno. Yo, bro, are you a Lefse Dude?

[6] The father died of exposure after setting out to find help. The mother and their two young girls were found alive, days later, by a helicopter pilot.

[7] Oregon’s state slogan used to be, “Things Look Different Here.” The Higher Ups ignored K’s suggestion, and in 2003 changed the slogan to, “We Love Dreamers.”

[8] He doesn’t actually work there, but they’d heard he was a good guy.

[9] Always left by the previous user, who loudly wonders who did this evil thing?!

[10] Okay, I have one lawyer friend. If only she were a lawyer-of-color, or lesbian.

[11] I like doctors, too. If only that friend of mine were a doctor, as well. A biracial, bilingual, pan-sexual, multi-cultural doctor and lawyer.

The Blog I'm Not Writing

The Nose Hairs I’m Not Weed Whacking

· The Richard Dawkins Foundation for Reason and Science (Official)

The Fish I’m Not Licensing

The Woodpecker I’m Not Strangling

The Bird I’m Not Putting On It

The Fritatta (for my father) I’m Not Cooking

The Awards I’m Not Winning

The Cheesecake I’m Not Serving

The Panini I Am Not Ordering

The Butt Cheeks I’m Not Cooking

The Lye-soaked Cod I Am Not Eating

The Mighty Quinn

Recent Posts

Archives

Categories

Robyn Parnell

View Full Profile →

My FB page

Follow “The Blog I'm Not Writing”