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!
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 19th. 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.
A 55-year-old man was taken to Legacy Emanuel Medical Center Monday after accidentally sparking a fire inside his downtown Portland apartment. Lt. Rich Chatman, a Portland Fire and Rescue spokesman, said Rafael Borgos was smoking while using an oxygen machine, igniting the element and sparking the fire.
JK Rowling’s Harry Potter and The Philosopher’s Stone was rejected by a dozen publishers before its acceptance by Bloomsbury. Lord of the Flies was turned down by over 20 publishers, one of whom found William Golding’s manuscript “an absurd and uninteresting fantasy which was rubbish and dull.” F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby was dismissed by one publisher with the curt counsel, “You’d have a decent book if you’d get rid of that Gatsby character.”
Besides talent, imagination, hard work and perseverance, you need thick skin to be a writer. The good news: if you are one of those Sensitive Creative Types ® born without a hide as substantial as a rhinoceros’s, there is help for you.
Not content to rest on their laurels as one of the most prestigious online literary journals, [1]Stoneslide Corrective also provides an immeasurable service to authors via their Rejection Generator project:
“The Rejection Generator rejects writers before an editor looks at a submission. Inspired by psychological research showing that after people experience pain they are less afraid of it in the future, The Rejection Generator helps writers take the pain out of rejection.”
It’s really quite simple. Give your email address to the Rejection Generator, and in a few minutes and you’ll receive a rebuff that is as random, dispiriting and annoying as a literary journal’s typical impersonal rejection, and you didn’t have to bother with formatting (or even submitting) a manuscript.
I was thrilled when I received an invitation from Stoneslide’s editor to provide “Guest Editor” rejection letters. Don’t waste another minute of your valuable time trying to actually get some work done – get yourself to the Rejection Generator, and the next snide dismissal of your creative aspirations could be from moiself.
More notes from the glamorous literary life.
Earlier this week I was researching A Certain Literary Agent, checking the agent’s listing on writersmarket.com and other writers’ resources. I vet all agent and publisher listings against their citation on Preditors and Editors, an independent, clearing house-ish site wherein writers report their experiences with agents and publishing services. “We’re hearing good things about this agent” is P & E’s remark about A Certain Literary Agent. Perhaps this is due to ACLA’s list of Recent Salesto Publishers, which, among other intriguing tomes, includes the book How to Light a Fart.
My first reaction was, This is the agent for me! Upon further reflection, an entire book on how to light a fart? That was, at most, five minute tutorial at my grade school. [2]
* * *
Speaking of students and their proclivity for and interest in emissions ignition, finally, a surefire way to get your kids interested in both science and history:
I’m trying for a graceful segue to…something else. Anything else. Trust me. It isn’t easy, once you’ve been bitten by the banana blaster bug. [3] Still, I shall endeavor to address more refined subjects.
Some of our most beloved literary works feature a disconcerting yet truthful depiction of the moral malaise of post-Industrial megalopolises. Brutally accurate renderings of the modern urbanite’s disdain for the ethical strictures of the bourgeois can be found in the novels of
Have you ever seen a cat fart on a waterbed? It’s really funny.
No! Stop!
Can you tell that my forthcoming book’s target audience is ages 9 – 12? [4] Should my publisher and editors come across this blog post, they will no doubt heave sighs of relief to recall that The Mighty Quinn contains no references to characters piloting the posterior crop duster. [5] Belching the Pledge of Allegiance, now, that’s another matter.
Yes, as per subject matter right now I’m in desperate need of an IQ elevation. Where’s the Masterpiece Theatre theme song when I need it?
Much better. Although I’m still in a mood. Perhaps I’ve gone too long without seeing a new screaming goat remix video. [6]
Moving right along to This Stupid Day in Recent History:
April 12 is the birth date of Tiny Tim, American “singer” best known for his taste-free falsetto/vibrato renditions of vaudeville classics, and his many appearances on the 60′s sketch comedy program Laugh-In. T-Tim would have been 79 today had he not died in 1996 from stringy hair syndrome heart disease.[7]
Other notable/cultural April 12 milestones include:
1988: Sonny Bono was elected mayor of Palm Springs California.
1966: Jan Berry of the surf-rock duo Jan & Dean received severe head injuries when he crashed his Corvette into a parked truck near Dead Man’s Curve in Beverly Hills. [8]
1954 – Bill Haley & the Comets recorded “Rock Around Clock.”
1934: Highest velocity wind broke all records at Mt. Washington, NH, 231 mph.
That last citation was NOT a thinly veiled return to fart references. But if you insist.
Breaking (sorry) headline of the week
From a NY Times story about prospective New York City mayoral candidates discussing the possibility that former Rep. Anthony Weiner (you remember the I got a rocket in the pocket of my mighty tighty whitey dude? [9]) might join the race:
[7] His cover of Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” is guaranteed to send Nancy Reagan to a meth rehab facility.
[8] The song Dead Man’s Curve, which included sounds of a car skidding and crashing, was a hit for the duo in 1964.
[9] In May 2011, the married 46 year old Rep. Weiner tweeted photos of his underwear-clad, I’m-so-happy-to-see-you naughty bits to a 21-year-old female college student who’d been following his social media posts. In the ensuing scandal, dubbed “Weinergate” by a grateful press, other such pictures to other women soon surfaced, and Weiner resigned his congressional seat in June 2011.
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: “Andgood 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
[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.
[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.
I like things made from felt. Colored balls of felt strung together make the best necklace.[1] When I’m really playing dress-up[2] I prefer neckties, but although there are a quajillion felt crafters in this world (try doing a “felt” search on etsy), none of them made felt neckties. And then I found her: LeBrie Rich.
LeBrie Rich is the proprietor and felt artist (feltrist?) of Penfelt. Once I saw the variety of hand-crafted felt items on her website, from wearables to objects d’art, I said to myself, “Self,” I said, “this crafty craftsperson may be up to a custom order.” And indeed, HRH Ms. Rich, the self-titled (and deservedly so) Duchess of Felt, was game for a challenge. As per my input she designed for me a skinny, pumpkin-orange felt necktie. Adorned with little orange felt balls. My happiness knows no bounds.
♫Peace on earth and mercy mild/goddamned sinners reconciled♫
Ahem…that would be, Peace on earth and mercy mild/god and sinners reconciled. (Hark the Herald Angels)
While scanning radio channels a couple of weeks ago, I caught the tail end of a program that had apparently featured a Holiday version of Mondegreens. You know what a Mondegreen is, even if you’ve never heard that particular term. A Mondegreen is a malapropism of your ears. Instead of mis-saying the wrong word or phrase, you mis-hear it. The neologism is attributed to writer Sylvia Wright, who in a 1954 Harper’s column wrote about her chagrin at discovering that as a young girl she had misheard the last stanza of one of her favorite Scottish poems, “The Bonny Earl O’Moray.”
What Wright heard: They hae slain the Earl O’ Moray, And Lady Mondegreen.
The actual line was: They hae slain the Earl O’ Moray/And laid him on the green.
Love the experience, hate the name. Mondegreen? Such a delightful oops phenomenon, the kind that makes us certain we heard John Fogerty giving an antsy concertgoer helpful directions on where to recycle his beer:
“There’s a bathroom on the right”
when he was actually singing, There’s a bad moon on the rise, is deserving of a more interesting appellation. Suggestions, anyone?
My all-time, personal favorite Mondegreen in personal to me in that I might be the only person alive who swears she heard the song this way. A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I thought rocker Billy Squire was singing an ode to the love that dare not speak its name – that of Liberace for his favorite lighting fixture.
Turns out Billy Boy was not crooning, “My Candelabra,” but rather, My Kind of Lover. Yeah, suuuuuuure. Take a listen for yourself , and then tell me I was mistaken.
I’d love to hear your favorite aural mishaps. Here are some of mine, listed by “Mondegreen,” accurate line (song/recording artist)
♫ “Midnight after you’re wasted.” Midnight at the oasis. (Midnight at the Oasis/Maria Muldaur)
♫ “The girl with colitis goes by.” The girl with kaleidoscope eyes. (Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds/The Beatles)
♫ “I got no towel, I hung it up again.” I get knocked down, but I get up again. (Tubthumping/ Chumbawumba)
♫ “Excuse me, while I kiss this guy.” ‘Scuse me, while I kiss the sky. (Purple Haze/Jimi Hendrix)
♫ “Let’s pee in the corner/Let’s pee in the spotlight.” That’s me in the corner/That’s me in the spotlight. (“Losing My Religion”/R.E.M.)
♫ “She’s got electric boobs/her mama, too…” She’s got electric boots/a mohair suit… (Bennie and the Jets/Elton John)
♫ “Are you going to starve an old friend?” Are you going to Scarborough Fair? (Scarborough Fair/Simon & Garfunkel)
♫ “Baking carrot biscuits.” Takin’ care of business. (Takin’ Care Of Business/Bachman-Turner Overdrive )
♫ “Four-headed woman.” [3]More than a woman. (More Than a Woman/The Bee Gees)
♫ “Ham on rye.” I’m alright. (I’m Alright/Kenny Loggins)
♫ “I’ll never leave your pizza burning.” I’ll never be your beast of burden. (Beast of Burden/The Rolling Stones)
♫ “I’m the god of Velveeta.” In the garden of Eden. (In-a-gadda-da-vita/Iron Butterfly[4])
♫ “Pretty Woman, won’t you lick my leg.” Pretty Woman, won’t you look my way. (Pretty Woman/Roy Orbison)
♫ “Since she put me down there’ve been owls pukin’ in my bed.” Since she put me down I’ve been out doin’ in my head. (Help Me Rhonda/Beach Boys)
* * *
Holiday detritus: The sequel
Despite having abdicated my presidency of the National Sarcasm Society,[5] I have sometimes been accused of viewing the world through jaundice-colored glasses. But my inherent skepticism re sentimentality goes on hiatus for Misty River‘s poignant, Don’t Take Down the Mistletoe. Even a reputed cynic like me can become teary-eyed when I hear this song, with its beautiful harmonies and the theme of appreciating that which so often seems unnoteworthy – the simple joys of what is (and who are) right in front of you. It gives hope to Old Married Farts® like moi.
* * *
That’s enough for a heart-warming interlude. Leave the mistletoe up, sure, but it’s time to get re-pissed about something.
In the wake of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting, former astronaut Mark Kelly phoned his wife, the former congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, who as we all know was gravely wounded in the 2011 Tucson shooting. As per an interview with the Washington Post, Kelly said to her, “Gabby, we can’t just put out a statement anymore….If we just talk about it, things won’t change. We need to try and help.”
I applaud Giffords’ and Kelly’s launching of an anti-gun violence organization to take on the NRA and pro-assault weapons lobbyists and push for legislative changes in America’s gun laws. This is a pathetically long-delayed baby step[6] in addressing an incredibly complicated issue[7]…but all the legislation in the world won’t make a difference until there is a critical mass of attitude adjustment. This country needs a movement to change awareness and perception re firearms, ala MADD.
I’ve heard it said that the slack jawed and simple-minded good-hearted denizens of Droptrou, Alabama will never understand the benefits of regulating civilian ownership of military weaponry, and will cling to their guns like cheap, zero-ply, recycled environmentally-friendly toilet paper to a dingleberry. But there are reasons for hope.
Can you picture today, in 2013, someone bragging about how he consumed three six-packs at ____ (Thanksgiving dinner; Joe’s Bar; his mother’s bat mitzvah), then drove home and took out his neighbor’s lawn jockey when he tried to park in his own garage but ended up on their front porch?
Uh…you can imagine that? Yeah, me, too.
Okay, there are still yahoos like that, and probably always will be. But the number of fatalities related to DUI has been declining in the past 30 years and continues to fall. This is due in large part to a radical change in societal attitudes towards DUI since Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) was founded in 1980.
It may be hard to remember that prosecuting attorneys used to defend themselves for not pursuing drunk drivers because they could rarely get a conviction. The P.A.s (and the drunk’s defense attorney) could count on at least a couple of jurors thinking to themselves, “Gee,I’ve driven ‘under the influence’ and I’m not a bad person – besides, the defendant didn’t mean to crash into the station wagon and kill that woman and her daughter and injure her husband and two sons[8]….”
Society needs a MADD-style movement applied to guns. We’ll never be fully able to reason with a truly deranged person; I got that. But I think that the alteration of the association of machismo and even patriotism with civilians having and using guns for anything other than sport shooting and subsistence hunting[9] is possible.
Many hunters hold nothing but scorn for their so-called peers who use semi-automatic or other assault style guns. They consider it ungallant, unsportsmanlike[10] to say the least, and note that no “true hunter” should need – or want – an Uzi to bag a deer.
The drunk driver, once an inspiration for comedy and boys-will-be-boys type excuses, is now an object of revulsion. In addition to the criminal penalties and civil liabilities resulting from a DUI conviction, I think the vast majority of Americans would be horrified, ashamed and humiliated to be known as someone who drinks and drives. Imagine the change, if the same could be said about guns.
Dude, you bought an AR15? What’s the matter – the Viagra not working for ya?
Disclaimer: my support for the attitude-adjusting work of MADD is in no way intended as a slight against a related organization, D-DAMM (Drunk Drivers Against Mad Mothers).
“Speaking personally, you can have my gun, but you’ll take my book when you pry my cold, dead fingers off of the binding.” ― Stephen King
(I loathe the “age range” rankings common to the (American) book selling biz, and although both Amazon and Barnes & Noble put this book in their 9-12 readers category I recommend this book for adventurous readers aged 9 to 90.)
It doesn’t seem right to be at a loss for words when describing a book with “Lexicon” in the title, but that’s where I find myself after reading Noyce’s unique tale. Nevertheless (however; even so; all the same; as Emily the llama might suggest) I’ll give it a try.
Cousins Daphne and Ivan get more than they bargained for when, attempting to relieve their boredom on a rainy day, they embark on a treasure hunt that takes them from a magical cupola in their Great Aunt Adelaide’s barn to and through the enchanting, mind-boggling and sometimes frustrating Land of Lexicon. As with all remarkable treasure hunts, a quest is involved: all of the children are missing from the various bordering, bickering villages of Lexicon, and their disappearance has something to do with the extraordinary, shimmering lights in the sky. The cousins must keep their wits (and nouns and adjectives and verbs…) about them as they traverse the peculiar, charming worlds of Lexicon, where they must solve a succession of puzzles involving imaginative syntax and math mysteries …
Gotcha, you sneak! – you might say at this point – this is a book adults want kids to read. As in, give ‘em an alleged adventure story to stealth-bomb them into absorbing some grammar and algebra lessons? Yes, it’s fantasy with “educational elements,” but the learnin’ stuff is expertly woven into the story (it is the story), and there’s nothing sneaky about it. Occasionally the narrative is too clever for its own good (if that can be considered a criticism) and the cast of village characters can be hard to keep track of, but it is refreshing to find a book that entices, rather than insults, the intelligence of both its characters and its intended audience. Plus, you gotta (okay, I gotta) love a cast that includes Emily the loyal, thesaurus-ical llama, the verb-loathing Noun Man, the Mistress of Metaphor, bee-keeping witches, Mr. Prosaic, and other quirky characters prone to spouting lines like, “These lands exist as theoretical constructs, not tourist attractions!”
Oh, and the kids save the day and survive getting stung by grammar-sensitive bees. Hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
[1] Because I say so, that’s why. Also, whenever I wear a felt ball necklace someone always asks if they may touch it, which gives me the opportunity to graciously reply, “Yes, you may fondle my balls”.
[2] And for me, it is playing. Anything other than my workout clothes or tie-dye t-shirts is dress-up.
[3] There needs to be a special award for this one, because a four-headed woman would be more than (just) a woman…wouldn’t she?
[4] The band themselves, drunk during a rehearsal in 1968, botched the lyrics, and decided to keep them this way. That is, the in-a-gadda way, not the Mondegreen, cheese-product way.
[5] official fundraising motto: “Like we need your support.”
[6] Paging Congress: report to Giffords and Kelly to be fitted for your testicular implants.
[8] Which is what happened to friends of my family, 11:30 on a Sunday morning, on their way to church. A drunk driver blew through a red light. The surviving sons both suffered permanent brain damage.
[9] And those rare cases of real and specific threat to one’s self or family (e.g., being stalked by a gun nut)
[10] Until you arm deer or quail or whatever you target with equal weaponry, I consider all sport-hunting of animals to be the ultimate definition of unsportsmanlike.
[11] Disclosure: although I’m no relation to the author and have never met her, my book The Mighty Quinn is forthcoming from Scarletta Press, Lost in Lexicon‘s publisher.
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.
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….”)
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: BatshitCrazy 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.
♫ Chipmunks chestnuts roasting on an open fire…. ♫
‘Tis the season, oh yeah.
Belle has a pear tree in our front yard. She purchased it, many years ago, using her allowance and babysitting money, and planted it (with MH’s help). Last Saturday she discovered, to her delight, that her father had wrapped the tree’s trunk and branches in green and blue lights.
Not to be outdone in the parental décor department, and because nothing says Happy Holidays like pranking your offspring, I gave myself a decorating project this week. Monday afternoon, walking home from the school bus stop, Belle was greeted by this festive site:
Yes, now she has a ____ in a ____ . I can hear you, humming to yourself.
Belle’s response to my arboreal embellishment was the archetypal teen’s determined-to-stay-cool non-reaction. Part of what made her non-plussment so genuine was that, in a very basic way, she truly didn’t “get it.” MH and I had to explain the Partridge family reference. Seeing as how we are the Cretins Without Cable TV ® family, if Nick at Nite or whatever has the reruns, we’re out of luck.
“Maybe we can check Netflix?” I wondered aloud during dinner. “Or, we can probably find a song or two for her, probably on YouTube.”
Her looked at me askance as she shuffled the cards and passed the deck to her father. MH dealt the next round of Thirteen[1] and said, with possibly the greatest forced nonchalance known to humanity, “I think there might be a Partridge Family album up in the attic.”
After 24 years of marriage, you think you know the man….
Earlier this week I received the preliminary copy of the Marketing Plan my publisher, Scarletta Press, has drawn up for The Mighty Quinn, my middle grade novel. Reviewing the plans was both an exciting and gut-churning, where are my blood pressure pills? task for me. Although I can be the life of the lunch table (or lefse party, as attentive readers will discover next week) I am a pathetic excuse for a self-horn-tooter.[2] The readings and book signing appearances I’ve done for past publications have been ordeals for me.[3] Ah, but who knew that watching a Partridge Family video could be so reassuring? No matter what happens in any public appearance I may have to may be fortunate enough to make, I figure it is highly unlikely I’ll look or act as dorky as the Laurie Partridge character does when she mimes playing the keyboards by robotically flicking her wrists as if she’s trying to dislodge some exceedingly sticky boogers from her fingertips.[4]
* * *
“I couldn’t imagine somebody like Osama bin Laden understanding the joy of Hanukkah.” —President George W. Bush, at a White House menorah lighting ceremony, Washington, D.C., Dec. 10, 2001.
That was a truly historical stinker of a Presidential quote. And (how’s this for a segue) some folks think any dish made with Brussels Sprouts is a stinker. Some folks are occasionally right, but mostly, they are wrong. This week, I had some leftover BS – whoa, the judge’s ruling says that acronym has got to go. This week, I had some leftover B sprouts (just lying around, you know, keeping the house safe from bed bugs and Libertarians), and came up with the following for Wednesday night’s dinner.
Let Them Eat (BS) Cakes - 3 medium shallots, peeled, stemmed & halved
- Brussels sprouts (~ ¾ lb before trimming), stem ends trimmed, outer leaves removed
-3/4 c low fat ricotta cheese
- 2 eggs
-1 t baking powder
-sea salt, freshly ground black pepper to taste
- 1 ½ t or more ground cumin (toasted and freshly ground, if possible)
- ½ c chickpea flour, plus more, if needed
-EVOO (extra v olive oil) or canola or grapeseed oil, plus cooking spray or oil-mist-thingy
1. Place sprouts & shallots in food processor, pulse until shredded, or until evidence of Brussels-sproutness is camouflaged. You should have ~ 4 c of shreds.
2. Use a fork to mix ricotta, eggs, baking powder & spices in a large mixing bowl.
3. Add shredded B-sprouts and shallots to bowl, stir until incorporated.
4. Sprinkle chickpea flour into the bowl and stir. Add more flour if necessary, 1T at a time, until you have the desired consistency.
5. What is the desired consistency? Reflect on this, for a sec. Perhaps recalling those petty but entertaining family spats over the inadequacy of the Thanksgiving gravy[5] will help.
5a. If you’re going the fritter route (ala pakora[6] style) and like using a bucket o’ oil in which to fry foods because you don’t give a bodybuilder’s ass[7] about your arteries, you’ll want the mixture more moist.
5b. For “cake” style (think crab cake texture) you want the mixture just moist enough to hold together but not so dry that it falls apart.
5c. there is no “c” option. Make up your mind.
6. Line a large platter with a piece of wax or parchment paper. Using an oiled or sprayed measuring cup, or just your lightly oiled hands and keen sense of proportion, scoop out ¼ c of the mixture, form/press into cakes, and place on the platter. Place platter in frig and chill at least 20m or up to several hours.
7. When ready to fry ‘em up, film a large cast iron pan[8] with oil, heat pan over medium for two minutes, then add cakes, flattening them with the back of a spatula.[9] Sauté 5-7 cakes at a time (depending on the size of your pan), for 3-4m each side, until browned. Spray or mist the tops of the cakes w/oil before you flip them (quickly remove the fry pan from stovetop; do the oil-spraying thing over the sink, never near an open flame, unless you support the Firefighters Full Employment Act). When cakes are done transfer them to a clean platter and keep ‘em toasty warm in the oven while you cook the remaining batch.
Served with heaping dollops of nonfat Greek yogurt thinned to a sauce-like consistency with a whole lotta lemon juice and spiced with a pinch or so of cayenne.
Dateline: the last weekend in October. MH and I had driven up to Tacoma, to visit son K for the University of Puget Sound’s Homecoming/Parents/Alumni weekend revelry. On Saturday morning, MH participated in the UPS 5k Fun Run while K partook of his idea of Saturday morning fun (sleeping in). I made my way to one of the campus’ cafes, where I sipped the foo-foo drink of the day (pumpkin spice chai; foo foo is sometimes quite yummers), listened to KUPS and read the local (Tacoma & Seattle) alternative newspapers.
Skimming through the events section of Seattle’s The Stranger made me feel young again and older still, all at the same time. We were headed back to Oregon on Sunday the 29th, which meant – damn! I would have to miss the Zombie Speed Dating event scheduled for the 30th:
“All (undead) singles 21-39 years old are welcome”…
Oh, never mind. Zero for three.
Scanning the newspapers’ lists of upcoming gigs made me want to extend my visit for another weekend. Surely, I thought, I could talk MH into driving up to Seattle see an amazing triple bill: the bands Bruce Willis’s Smirk and Septic Flesh opening for Bitch Magnet. Or we could trot on over to an adjacent club and catch their house band, Diarrhea Planet. But wait—there’s more. Across town the joints are jumping with the mellows sounds of Truckasauras, White Coward, Bigfoot Accelerator, Laff Hole….
In my college Days of Yore[10] I spent way too much time in my dorm’s lounge, allegedly taking study breaks, which oft-times consisted of my fellow dormies and I dreaming up band and/or song titles of our own. Composing clever band names was easier than actually forming a group or writing songs, and much more practical, given our utter lack of musical talent.
I’ve always had an attraction for song titles that are a story unto themselves. The much (and often rightfully) maligned Country-Western field arguably leads all other musical genres when it comes to evocative titles. “You’re the Reason Our Kids Are Ugly” – with a title like that, you don’t even need to hear the lyrics, do you? What I would have given[11] to have composed the inspirational choruses of:
- If My Nose Were Full of Nickels I’d Blow it All on You
- Help I’m White and I Can’t Get Down
- Flushed From the Bathroom of Your Heart
- Who Bit The Wart Off Grandma’s Nose?
- My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink, And I Don’t Love Jesus
- The Pint of No Return
* * *
Twenty years ago, driving home from an yet another unnecessary errand I’d undertaken to keep me busy busy busy on the day I was expecting amniocentesis results,[12] I was aurally assaulted by my car’s radio. Good thing I’m not superstitious, or I might have considered it a bad omen when, two times in a row, I switched the channel because a station was playing my most detested kind of song (“Oh baby come back, I’ll be lower than worm dung if you leave me“), only to find that the subsequent channels were also out to get me.
There I was, driving on a public highway, yelling a How the hell should I know? answer to Michael Bolton’s plaintive (read: screeching) rhetorical entreaty, “How Am I Supposed to Live Without You?“
Okay; cleansing breath; punch the radio dial instead of the steering wheel. Punch punch. Oh yeah, just what the doctor ordered: Laura Branigan’s version of the same damn song.
Punch punch punchity-punch. No. This cannot be happening. I’d punched myself right into Harry Nilsson’s plaintive, wailing, “I can’t live/if living is without youuuuu…” Once again I found myself smacking the steering wheel, this time screaming, “Excuuuuuuuse me, but if you can’t live without me then why are you still alive?”
As soon as I returned home I wrote down the lyrics that were swirling through my festered mind. I borrowed an electronic keyboard from a neighbor and painstakingly, one-fingeredly, came up with a suitable tune. I figure the subject matter cried out for a country-western, full-twang treatment; thus was begat my one and only foray into songwriting, the mercifully unrecorded[13], “If You Can’t Live Without Me Then Why Aren’t You Dead?”
Attention, Garth Brook’s manager: if the Garth-man is looking for that next big hit to lure him out of retirement…[14]
And they say nobody writes love songs anymore.
Hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
[1] A card game we often play at dinner. We’re the geeks at the restaurant who pull out the mini-deck of cards after the server has taken our order.
[2] That sounds like some vaguely naughty, self-abuse practice. Not the kind of thing to be mentioned in the same paragraph as a children’s novel. See? I told ya I sucked at self-promotion.
[3] I’m of the writers should be read and not seen school of thought. Not a good fit for the prevailing attitude that everyone should want to be a celebrity, or at least in the public eye, for their 15 minutes.
[4] I hope I’ve redeemed myself for the earlier quasi-sexual reference. Boogers are kid-friendly!
[5] Aunt Erva wanted you to make it soupier and Uncle Anus prefers it clam chowder thick.
[6] An Indian snack or appetizer of almost infinite variety, typically composed of shredded veggies dipped in a gram or chickpea flour batter and pan-or deep-fryed.
[7] Probably not any smaller than the average girly man’s tush, but the musclemen’s gigantamous torso and thighs do give that illusion.
[8] You’re not still using nonstick cookware, are you? That stuff will kill you. Or give you herpes, or shingles or axillary lymph node tumors, or club feet. Whatever you’re afraid of.
[12] Procedure performed due to maternal age, rather than family history of genetic disease, disability or malformation. Unless you think a family tendency to deem The Lawrence WelkShow the height of entertainment qualifies as a disability (and I do). But they don’t have a test for that. Yet.
[13] So far. Hey, the century is young. Any takers?
I tweaked my wrist while setting up my new ergonomic computer stand.
* * *
Not even one paragraph into the post, and I digress.
Last Sunday, during my family’s customary dinner at the BCC, [1] friend LH mentioned that, in anticipation of Tuesday’s election results, she’d purchased a bottle of champagne and a bottle of tequila. Bubbly = good news, tequila = ay yi yi.
As Election Day approached I shuddered to think of a Mitt Romney presidencyay-yi-yi outcome, but forced myself to consider the possibility. The only way I could do that sober was to fantasize about distracting Romney’s Secret Service detail[2] and hoisting his magic undies into a wedgie of presidential proportions.
I never asked LH about what kind of tequila she’d purchased. Shots of any rotgut (“mixtos”) brand, or even your best reposado, would do for a toast to misfortune. But the following margarita is too good too good to waste on sorrow. This is not your Applebee’s bar blender/slurpee-style margarita. The key is using the best ingredients: the proper tequila, ditching the triple sec, and only fresh lime juice.
La Margarita Que yummers – makes 2 -2 margarita glasses prepped w/kosher salt and lime slices or wedges
cocktail shaker (do not even think of using a blender)
-1/2 c tequila blanco **
-1/4 c agave syrup or nectar
-1/4 c freshly squeezed lime juice. Not frozen, nor from a plastic jar. Fresh.[3]
Combine ingredients in cocktail shaker, fill shaker with ice & shake well while singing your favorite variation of Guantanamera. Strain into prepared glasses. What do you mean, how do you prepare a glass for a margarita? Do they let you out without a chaperone?
** Always use tequila made from 100 % blue agave. Use only blanco (silver or white) tequila in this recipe.
* * *
On Tuesday I gave a good deal of thought towhich bottle LH might be tipping later that night. It was better than thinking about the news, which I tried to ignore all day, which means I had to stay off my computer. The three advance dinners in our refrigerator offer silent but yummers testimony as to which room in the house became my safe haven.
* * *
What, me worry? Well…yeah.
To those who might call me cynical I have four words: Look around. Pay attention.
Cynical? Try realistic. Or, observant:
- millions of viewers make “reality” TV (Jersey Shore & Here ComesHoney’s Booby… whatever) a rating success
- the past four years have seen a buttload of Republicans who support (or refuse to refute, which is the same as supporting in my book. Silence = acquiescence, y’all) the thinly disguised racial slur/code word rhetoric of the tea party/birther barfbags, and just as many GOP gorps muster little more than a lame, “Golly, that was a poor choice of words,” when their candidates launch their latest, mind-numbingly ignorant attacks on women’s private[4] medical issues
- there are an exasperating number of media outlets that pay attention when Donald Trump’s facial orifice moves, as though there could be anything other than self-promoting trollery in his blatherings, which regularly, cacophonously, emerge via the festering conduit linking his mouth and the brain tissue allegedly residing under his shag carpet cranium.
I could go on, but it’s too damn depressing. Oh, and any one person in any of those categories, guess what? They get to vote. And their vote counts, the same as yours or mine.
As a country, intellectually and culturally, we’re not the brightest bulb in the planet’s chandelier.[5] My dear friend, expat-Oregonian and temporary[6] Coloradoan LH nailed it: I just have to hope and believe that tomorrow we won’t read a version of the UK Guardian headline, circa 2004: “How can 35 million people be so stupid?” Peggy Noonan predicted that Romney would win because she has seen an increase in Republican yard signs. Two things that should never be mixed together: Republicans and scientific methodology.
And then, late Tuesday eve, I discovered that although you still cannot lawfully partake of non-medicinal marijuana in Oregon, LH’s fellow Coloradoans were celebrating their legalization measure, along with our northern neighbors in Washington.
Yep, I finally dared to heed the Big Talking Rectangle. Although I missed Diane Sawyer’s feeling no pain reportage and Karl Rove’s losing his loo biscuits on Fox News, there was plenty o’ else to love.
I loved that marriage equality measures looked to be passing in Maryland, Minnesota, Washington and Maine. I loved that so many of the Republican slime-fests came to naught; I loved that Colleen Lachowicz, the Maine Democrat who was slammed by the GOP for her online gaming activity, won her seat in the Maine state senate, and that Tammy Baldwin won her senate race in Wisconsin despite the She’s a commie lesbo! smears from conservative pundits[7]. And I really, really, really – and did I mention, really? – loved learning that those “Life Begins at Rape” GOP caveman, those walking, talking, human peshas [8]Richard Mourdock, Allen West, Joe Walsh and Todd Akin , all lost their respective, disrespectful campaigns.
Loveliest of all, as astute friend and Brown Dwarf expert MM observed, was that, apparently and ultimately, Mitt Romney forgot his binders full of concession speeches.[9]
* * *
Yo, future candidates. Behold grace, and a dose of humility and pragmatism, in action:
“You always have two speeches prepared, because you can’t take anything for granted.”
(President Obama, 11-6-12)
It is a political tradition, like ass- and baby-kissing, for the winning side to praise the loser’s “gracious” concession. And from late Tuesday-early Wednesday, the talking heads did that, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. However, I think they were remiss in applying that adjective to Romney’s five-minute, teeth-clenching, whine concession speech.
Romney bragging about how he hadn’t written a concession speech was condescending and naïve, not gracious. Making the nation wait until early Wednesday morning, nearly two hours after the AP, CNN et al had called the election, was stubborn and petulant, not gracious.
I heard no grace in Romney’s mercifully brief but nonetheless arrogant, clueless and sexist recognition – phrasing expected from the most stereotypical 1950s corporate CEO but cringe-worthy when coming from a 2012 candidate for LOTEFC[11] – of his sons “for their tireless work on behalf of the campaign, and… their wives and children for taking up their slack as their husbands and dads have spent so many weeks away from home.”
Romney’s mopey wish, “that I had been able to fulfill your hopes to lead the country in a different direction,” was a thinly veiled tantrum. I wanted it to be different – waaa! As for what followed, those of us who are religion-free know well the creepy, patronizing, presumptuous and sinister threats that are often disguised with an ostensibly innocuous, I’ll pray for you.
“Ann and I join with you to earnestly pray for (Obama) and for this great nation.”
Yeah, cause you’re gonna need it! Ick.
In Romney’s insular world, his ethnicity and gender give him power as per his religion.[10] Add that to his birthright of wealth and social and political prominence – it’s obvious the dude is used to having it his way, and not having to do much on his own to get it. His the other guy won so let’s all pull together now speech had all the sincerity of a hostage reading a ransom note at gunpoint.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed. I think the reliably more-articulate (and less profane)-than-moi salon.com columnist Mary Elizabeth Williams put it best:
He wanted it to be “different,” and he’s praying for you, America. That is not “gracious.” What it is instead is a pretty typical Romney, a man who would arrogantly refuse to entertain the notion of defeat and then grind in his heels and refuse to accept it for as long as possible. A man who…thanks men for their tireless work and “wives” for picking up the slack. That was your glimpse, Tuesday night, of what your President Romney would have looked like. And maybe it doesn’t sound gracious to say so, but thank God that’s the last look we’ll have.
* * *
MH, like me, is sick of the years of political mindfuckery, and wants it to fade away. For the record, for what it’s worth, MH does not agree with my interpretation of Romney’s speech. He thinks I’m reading/hearing too much into it; he thinks I should let it go. Perhaps, unlike MH and very much like the Dixie Chicks, I’m not ready to make nice.
* * *
Thanks…I think:
Every Wednesday, after my Tai Chi class, I have lunch at a local pasta café. This week the café’s cute, chatty, mildly spacey and abundantly tattooed counter-girl squirmed with excitement when she brought my Caesar salad to my table.
“Harry Potter! You’ve seen Harry Potter?”
“Have I seen Harry Potter?” I doffed my reading glasses and brushed a crouton off of my NY Times crossword puzzle. “You mean, the movies?”
She giggled her affirmation.
“Every one,” I confessed. “And read all the books.”
“I finally figured it out, who you remind me of,” she gushed. “Especially when you put on your glasses – you look like the professor who reads the tea leaves…I can’t remember her name, but isn’t that great?!”
Me: “Uh, yeah…the flaky one[12] Professor of Divination, Sybill Trelawny.”
* * *
Sometimes, you just have to crank up the volume and dance. As Professor of Divination, I see a Go-Gos song in my future. Hijinks ensue.
[7] “Barney Frank in a dress” is my favorite of the histrionics flung by conservative spewmeister pundit/columnist Jeffrey Kuhner.
[8] A wet fart (Worthington family lingo). AKA Brewer’s Farts, Fudgies, Playing Misty….
[9] Awesome bit of Schadenfreude from a person who, unlike me, rarely exhibits taking pleasure in such a petty but satisfying emotion.
[10] Damn right I’m whacking on the Mormon thing. And so should you. All aspects of a politician’s belief system should be on the table for evaluation, religion included. No exceptions. Future blog posts shall deal with this issue – be forewarned.
Active, reliable, sarcastic, affectionate, bipedal, cynical optimist, writer, freethinker, parent, spouse and friend, I am generous with my handy supply of ADA-approved spearmint gum and sometimes refrain from humming in public.
