My youngest child has a unique way of saying grace in the evening. Instead of the usual requests and thanks, she thanks God for everything, even the things that are yet to come. An average prayer from her goes something like this:

"Thank you for the food, and for making the food, and for everyone that maked the food, and thank you for my sisters not to hurt me, even though I might be mean to them, and- Hey! You're not holding my hand!- and thank you for us to have a bright sunny day tomorrow and thank you for us to all be nice to everybody and..."

Somewhere around that point, dinner's aroma wafting up to our noses temptingly, we place a fork in her hand and shout "Amen!", just so that we may partake of the meal. I often feel guilty for cutting her short, but hey, dinnertime is important, right?

But there's a bit of a good lesson to be had in her prayer. Not that the confused words of my child are something incredibly profound, (I hope I will never be arrogant enough to think like that!) but there is something to learn in nearly every part of our lives. She thanks God for things that are yet to come, and she does it with the perfect faith that those things will happen! Just like the story in 2 Chronicles 20, where the army of Israel marched into battle with musicians as their advance guard, trusting God for the blessing to come. This is just one of the examples of childlike faith that we lose as our logical adult minds take over.

So, instead of the pleas and complaints and tentative requests and guilty self-recriminations of my usual prayers, today I'm going to try praying like my baby does;

Thank you for the food that is on our table today, and thank you for what is going to be there tomorrow and the next day. Thank you for my family, that they are kind and sweet no matter how cranky I am. Thank you for my job, my car, the sunshine outside, the rain and the dew and the strange next door neighbor who shoves Chapstick through her screen window. Thank you for the things that will happen tomorrow, whether they are good or bad. Thank you, in advance, for whatever happens in my life.

Labels: faith, prayer

The sunny and peace-loving middle child... that smile can melt my heart any day.

The ethereal oldest, so fragile and lovely...

The baby, the last of 'em. Social, funny, and as sweet as that confection in her hand. Most days...

Anyone who has read this blog knows how fond our family is of traveling, and how Mike and I tend to be non-corporate types when it comes to spending our money. With those two facts in mind, I would like to present to you a website that is the prefect culmination of independent and travel: Darn Good Digs.

Darn Good Digs is run by Michael and Allison, of Brooklyn, New York. They are adventurous travelers as well, with a little son. They've started a site for hotel rooms priced below $150, independently owned, with neat features and otherwise made for the adventure loving traveler!

The inns reviewed are all over the globe, with an easy map for location, user reviews of every property, and nifty little tidbits of info about the locales. I would highly recommend that you check it out the next time you have some travelin' to do, and/or submit your own review for inclusion! Another reason to visit: right now they're running a little giveaway promo for a travel bag.

Remember that independently owned businesses of any kind (ahem...) give much more money back to the community than chains. Please support your little local guys!

Labels: budget, hotel, inn, non-corporate, travel

...as a foodie, I am learning more and more to despise the foods that are sold at the grocery store. The only chain store that I know of that sells good tasting stuff is Whole Foods, and they are hours away from me. There's a great little local independent, but they are kind of touch and go in their inventory.

So when I saw some thick cinnamon rolls are Meijer the other day and my mouth watered, I knew I would have to make my own. I found a recipe that had a more brioche-like dough than the one I've usually used, and I will never go back to the old recipe! I tweaked it a bit for taste, health (as healthy as pastry can be- who am I kidding?!)

Recipe adapted from this.

Ingredients:

Dough-

• 1 (1/4 ounce) package or 2 tsp instant yeast
• 1 cup warm milk, fresh or sour
• 1/4 cup honey
• (Optional) 1 tbsp malted barley syrup
  
• 1/4 cup sugar
  
• 1/3 cup butter, softened
• 1 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 2 eggs, room temperature
• 3 cups all purpose flour
• 1 cup whole wheat flour

Filling-

• 1/3 cup softened butter
• 2-3 tbsp cinnamon
• 1 tsp orange zest
• 1 cup brown sugar
• 1/2 cup chopped pecans (Optional)

Frosting-

• 1/2 cup softened butter
• 1/3 cup cream cheese
• 1 1/2 cup 10X sugar
• 1 tsp vanilla
• 1 tsp triple sec (or 1/2 tsp orange extract)
• smidgen of fresh-grated orange zest
  
• pinch salt
  

Mix the milk, sugar, and yeast. I know this is old-fashioned, but I always let it sit for a minute or two while I measure out my other ingredients, just to make sure. When it froths a bit, you know you're good to go. Pour in the liquid sweetener(s), then beat in the butter, then add egg. Mix in flour and salt, knead gently for about 5 minutes. Cover with a damp towel (or plastic wrap). Let rise for 50-70 minutes, depending on how warm your kitchen is.

After rise, turn your oven on to 375˚
Flour your surface very well and roll out dough to just a bit thicker than a pencil. Try to keep a rectangular shape. The dough is soft enough that if it rips, you can tear off a chunk, wet it slightly, and stick it back into the formation. Remember to keep the flour under, this will happily stick to your counter! Spread with butter, keeping the edge near you 'clean'. Mix sugar & spice (and everything nice...) and sprinkle over the dough. Roll up, using the clean edge as the sealing edge. Slice appx 1 1/2" thick or so, placing upright in parchment paper-lined baking dish. Place close together if you want them all soft and sticky!

Let rise again for just a few minutes, then pop them in the oven. While they're baking, whip the frosting ingredients, starting with the cream cheese & butter together, then the liquid flavors, then add the powdered sugar a bit at a time and whip until fluffly.

The rolls are done after appx 20 minutes, or when a center tears out with no elasticity.

If you can stand it, wait until they are cool, then frost. I had to do one right after they came out, and you can see the frosting melting down the side here! Sprinkle with crushed nuts and/or chopped raisins, if you'd like. Not optional: coffee or tea!

Labels: baking, food, pastry, recipe

This is a meal that my nonna (grandmother) cooked when I was little. I have a vague remembrance of nonno (grandfather) shouting instructions in the kitchen, so I do not know if it was from his heritage (Hungarian/Italian) or hers (Croatian/Italian). Either way, it has been in my family for at least three generations, and is a constant favorite.

I will apologize in advance for my photos. I've never quite gotten the hang of cameras, lighting, or cleaning my house ;)

We don't have a proper name for this in my house. I grew up calling it 'paste' which offended the heck outta my dad, but oh well. It is pasty, certainly, but it is some sort of sublime potato salad/coleslaw the likes of which I have rarely encountered. It is a cheap meal- tasty, hearty, and more or less healthy. It is also incredibly forgiving with proportions and exact items, as you will see.
Recipe below.

Ingredients:

• water, to boil
• 2-3 medium sized potatoes, either starchy or waxy.
• appx 10-14 oz. lean beef (leftover grilled steak works awesomely for this, or you can buy raw and cook for the meal
• 1/4 cup (give or take) minced sweet onion
• 1 can beans: kidney, pinto, whatever. Kidney beans are our favorite, for color contrast and texture.
• 1/2 head cabbage, red or green
• olive oil, kosher or sea salt, fresh cracked black pepper: to taste
• vinegar: I use white wine, but we've also used red wine, apple cider, and balsamic. balsamic is not good for this, too strong and sweet.
• optional: tiny bit of orange zest.

Steps:

• Boil a quart or two of water, salt it heavily, dice the potatoes into appx 1" cubes, and toss them into the boiling water. While this is going, open the can of beans and drain appx 1/2 the liquid out, then dump them into a large bowl. Add the minced onion. Pour about 1-2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil over the beans & onions.

You'll know the potatoes are cooked when you can stir them and the corners break ever so softly. Or you can smash one against the side of the pan. Drain, saving the water if you make potato bread.

• Add the potatoes to the bowl, reveling in the steam...

• Whatever you use for meat, dice it up into appx 1/2" chunks, or appx the size of the beans you're using. This meat looks sickly, it's bad photography, sorry.

• Now add that to the mixture, salt to taste, and toss. Let this sit- for the flavors to blend- for a bit, or chill it now if your prefer. We love the hot salad on cold coleslaw contrast.
  

• Take your head of cabbage, and, using a large serrated knife, shave the cabbage just as thin as you can make it:

Some of the chunks in this pic are almost too wide. You don't want coleslaw, and you don't want mince. It needs to be shaved. My dad (and his before him) used to do this himself, and nearly every single piece of cabbage was almost transparent. I am not quite so picky with my cutting, but the thinner pieces do soak up the dressing better.

• Toss the cabbage with kosher salt, a bit of cracked pepper, a tbsp or two of olive oil, and about a tbsp of vinegar. Add orange zest (just a tiny bit!) if you'd like. Toss well, every piece should be coated. Add more oil/vinegar if you wish. My husband doubles everything I put on for his own plate.

• Now take your cabbage salad, while still cold, and make a nice bird's nest out of it on your plate. Dump a proportionate amount of the potato salad mixture on top, and enjoy!

Labels: cooking, dinner, food, hungarian cooking, italian cooking, recipe

Dr. Barten sighed and dropped the patient's file on the counter.

The patient looked up hesitantly at the man of science.

"What is it?" He asked, prepared for the worst.

"What you have, Mr. James, is a case of Smug."

"What?" The patient was incredulous. They always were.

Dr. Barten looked at the white metal heating vent on the floor and nodded. Mr. James bluffed and squirmed, denied and argued. Those actions further clinched the diagnosis. The doctor picked up the file once again, flicking little points with his fingernail as he spoke. His eyes went elsewhere in the room, anywhere but Mr. James,

"Compulsive being right, fact checking to prove a point, excessive celery intake, and Trophy Wife syndrome. It all points to only one thing, sir."

"B-but I contribute to charity!" The man blustered, angry now, "I coach Little League for my son!"

"Mm-hmm. All signs."

"Well!" The man got up and began to button his shirt, "I will just have to go get a second opinion!"

"Please do so, Mr. James." The doctor's answer was dry and barely interested. Once the patient became combative, there was little to be done.

Mr. James fumbled with his tie and wallet, got up from the examination table and strode roughly towards the door. As his hand touched the knob, however, his shoulders slumped ever so slightly and he half-turned to his old family GP,

"If-if it really is, what's the cure?"

"Oh, well, not too complicated, really..." the doctor's voice was now warmer, just a bit compassionate, actually. "You just need to volunteer at a soup kitchen, give up the second home, buy generic clothes for a month or two. Shop the clearance aisle, maybe. It's different for different people, but I think you'd do well to drop Little League for a few weeks, maybe spend some time cleaning your mom's garage out. You said she'd been putting pressure on you-"

"I will definitely be getting that second opinion!" The man snapped. He tried to slam the door behind him, but the hydraulics prevented a hard close, and he wound up looking foolish. A passing nurse bit her lip to keep from smiling. She knew the diagnosis the moment the man set foot in the waiting room, and she knew the hydraulic doors were just a small part of the cure.

Dr. Barten had little time to think of Mr. James, for next was a woman patient, a Miss Angela Vourhagen. She had been prepped by Jo, one of Mr. Barten's newer nurses. On the chart was that bubbly handwriting so vexing to look at, and her notes seemed to indicate an auto-immune disorder of some sort. With raised eyebrows, the doctor knocked on the gray door and entered.

"Hello!" He always tried to be cheerful right from the start. It helped somewhat.

Miss Vourhagen, however, was having none of it. She turned a pitiful face to the doctor and merely bent her mouth a bit at the corners.

"How are we today?" Dr. Barten sang out, snapping a cover on the otoscope. The patient began to list her ailments alphabetically. This generally meant that they had done some internet research before coming in.

He peered inside her right ear, noting the perfect health inside and the little metal ring through her cartilage. Looking inside her left ear, he commented on the lack of earwax buildup.

"Oh, that's because I'm a vegan." The patient responded, with that little edge of tone to her voice that he was becoming so familiar with lately. The doctor felt his insides turn over a bit. It was spreading faster than he had thought.

"Ms. Vourhagen," asked the doctor, "what do you do for recreation?"

The patient put her head on one side, her ailments temporarily subsided,

"Well, I hike the trail twice a week," she answered, "and I volunteer at a shelter. I'm active in PETA and Greenpeace and I place survey calls for the Green Party."

"Sounds like quite the full schedule, there." He observed dryly, making a tiny mark on her chart. Some of the prescriptions he gave to others became the symptoms of the next. It was odd.

"Well, Doctor," she leaned forward and hugged her knees, "one has to give back to their world, you know. So many people go through life consuming, there has to be a group of people keeping this planet safe." She looked at him meaningfully.

The doctor nodded and stood up. His swivel chair make a squeaking sound and spun softly into the exam table.

"There's been a virus going around, Angela. I'm pretty sure you've got it. I'm going to prescribe some different volunteer work for bit- how about you visit the retirement home down the road, spend some time talking to patients there about the Great Depression, ask them how they survived the War. Then I want you to-"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?!" Miss Vourhagen interrupted him furiously.

"Ah, ahem, yes." He nodded, "You have a case of Smug."

"I do not!" She shouted, "I am healthy! I am-"

"I'll see you next week for a followup, Ms. Vourhagen."

The doctor was becoming immune to their protestations. It wasn't that much of a complication, this epidemic. It came on slowly, almost below notice. He walked out while she argued, and let the door shut gently behind him. He rubbed his forehead, flicked his eyes over the patient charts hanging neatly above his desk, and plumped down in his chair. Jo walked by and patted his shoulder.

"Stupid people," Dr. Barten grumbled at her, "that guy with the tie, and that guy before him with the church, and that lady yesterday with her non-vaccinated kids... it's spreading so fast but they all think they're immune, that it's someone else who has it. I just can't stand even looking at them anymore! I think-" he stopped and put his hand on his heart, "I think they're making me sick!"

"Hmm," Jo frowned, "you should get that checked out. I've heard there's somethign going around..."

Labels: diagnosis, short story, smug, smugness

It’s all your fault, you know. You did this to me. Yes, you, with your altruism and do-goodmanship. Don’t tell me that’s not a word, what with all the idiot technical jargon people make up these days, one can say pretty much whatever one wants.

But it was really you who started it all. Don’t you remember, that day in the grocery store two years ago?
Of course you don’t, because you didn’t see me.
I saw you, though.
You were standing there in the wine aisle, carefully studying a gold and purple label. Your hair was a mess- wispy curls stuck out from one side of your head while the other side lay flat down over your ear. Your very perfect ear.
Do you remember what you were wearing that day? You can’t possibly, because it was so obvious that you dressed with no care whatsoever. A thin artsy tee shirt under a ratty track jacket, long skirt clinging to your ample thighs, and mismatched socks. Not so mismatched that it was stylish or mod or anything, not you. One dark blue sock with tiny pink flowers, and one deep purple sock with tiny brown curly designs. At first glance I’m sure they looked similar to you, and if you noticed the irregularity after you were out, I doubt as you would have cared.
I watched you, transfixed, while you read and frowned, lips forming words almost imperceptibly. Watching that movement made me tingle just a little bit in the back of my neck, I’ll bet you didn’t know that your soft pale mouth is incredibly sensuous.
You stooped and set the bottle back in its little slot, and I watched a fingernail (complete with chipped orange nail polish- marvelous!) tap along the tags on the shelf until you located a clearance tag.
Silly girl, didn’t you ever learn that clearance sale wine is marked down for a damn good reason?

A sharp poke in the ribs brought me back to reality. Diane, my girlfriend at the time, wanted me to make a judgment on the vodka that she would undoubtedly use to get smashed with that night.
“Grey goose, or Absolut?”
“I don’t care, Diane, its for you. You pick.”
She frowned and huffed a bit.
“I want you to express opinions more, we’ve talked about this, Von.”
“I already expressed my opinion- I think we shouldn’t drink anything hard tonight. Just a few beers.”
“I want a vodka tonic.”
“Diane…”
My attention was wandering back to you, though. You’d dropped a bottle of Shiraz into your cart and were now standing two feet closer to me, perusing the Riesling. I could have recommended a good vint and year, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want to be approached by some random jerk in the booze aisle. It would have to be more perfect than that…
Diane poked me again.
“Grey Goose.” I stammered, wanting desperately to flee.
“Mm…” she put her head on one side and fingered the frosted bottles, “I think I like Stoli. Why don’t you like Stoli?”
I sighed and rubbed my forehead, glancing once more at the vision that was you. You stopped your browse, yanked a hairpin out of your jacket pocket, and twisted the unruly part of hair up into an odd little lump, pinning it on top of your head. I wanted to kiss it. When your hand dug further in the pocket, the material of your shirt stretched across your torso and revealed a sumptuously round belly. I had never seen anything quite so alluring in my life. After years of dating hard, toned women, seeing that softness jarred me, reminded me just why women are women.
Diane picked her way down to the end of the aisle, demurring over tonic and grenadine, while I stole a moment to peek inside your shopping cart. You looked like one of those girls, at first glance, who might be a freaky vegetarian or something, but I was reassured by an incredibly thick (and expensive) steak lying on the green plastic cart webbing. There’s something powerful about a woman who can eat a steak the size of her head.
Diane called to me, and I barely caught a glimpse of the rest of your groceries: soy milk, jasmine rice, chocolate chips, raw spinach, red pears. The diet of a sensuous person. Your voice came to me then as I turned the corner, you were singing something old sounding, off-key, of course.

I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, but fortune smiled upon me in the checkout. I turned to one side to avoid staring at the Cosmo magazine covers (Diane had a hawk eye for that weakness), and spotted you next to us, in checkout lane 8. Your little stash of food had been supplemented by a teetering stack of vivid Jello boxes. Of course. What kind of free-spirited soul could exist without that existential kid’s food?
You shrugged off your jacket, revealing round, white arms and a tiny vine tattoo that trailed around your elbow and down your forearm. I watched as you set each item from your cart onto the conveyor belt, arranging them in some sort of geometric pattern that must have made sense inside your head. You chatted amiably with the cashier while Diane snipped at ours. You paid in cash, pulled haphazardly from a woven green bag, dropping nickels on the floor. Diane swiped her debit card and cursed when it didn’t work the first time through.
We parted ways after paying, you headed right and we to the left, but we met again in the parking lot. I suppose I can’t say we ‘met’, since you had no idea of my presence, but I saw you. The same curiosity that got me to look in your cart compelled me to scoot around the backside of your car, reading bumper stickers. There weren’t as many as I would have thought, just the Tolkien quote about not all who wander are lost, a little art piece of a fairy or something, and a bright yellow sticker that screamed: KILL YOUR TELEVISION.
I slammed our cart into the roundup and trudged back to my car, feeling a void in my soul as you peeled out of the lot, music blaring raucously. Where would I ever see you again? I had to meet you, talk to you, tell you everything I have ever felt and seen and known…

Would you care? Would you listen? Or would you smile and nod and wander off, call the cops, ignore me, possibly even ridicule me? I’ve never taken well to rejection, have even set up a falsely jaunty air about me to ward off anything that could be construed as a brush-off.
But for you, that was going to change.
Right away.
I drove home from the supermarket that night with a new resolve. I was going to be a different man, a better man, a man that could be worthy of someone like yourself. I would use less electricity, eat less meat, recycle, exercise more, be more conscious of my environment and my fellow man… you know the kind of stuff. I didn’t know how that could bring me closer to you, but somehow it felt right. Seeing you made me instantly want to be a better person, and I didn’t care if you never noticed or appreciated. It was for you, no matter what.

The first thing that I did could have been he beginning of my descent, or maybe the first act of emancipation. That garish bumper sticker kept running through my head, like one of those banners that a plane drags around at a baseball game.
I poured Diane her vodka tonic (Grey Goose after all) and left her in the living room to drink herself into the stupor I had come to resent. The tv was heavy, but it was on a wheeled stand, and I lived on the fifth floor. It just fit through the sliding glass door, gave it a little push to get those casters over the aluminum track and all was well.
Diane’s voice came from the couch, tinny and distant,
“Are we watching it outside tonight, Von?”
“You could say that.” I grunted, trying to get the bloody thing up and off its stand. It took some doing, but I managed somehow, your image still bright in my mind. It wobbled there on the edge for a tiny moment in space, and Diane’s voice called again from the couch,
“Von?”
Von wasn’t going to answer her anymore. The one-eyed monster teetered backwards, forwards, then tumbled gracefully down to earth.
It took seven minutes to fall.
Or so it seemed.

When the earth reached up to embrace the thing, they met in a sparkling kiss devoid of sound or clumsiness. It was like an ice storm, a ballet, a war. I didn’t hear it explode, nor did I hear Diane’s outraged shrieks. I felt them, distantly, but they did not penetrate my mind. That was you, you know. You had opened this space in my mind where I could retreat from the ugliness of the world. The only thing that I could hear was your slightly tuneless singing.

That might have been the night that Diane left me. I’m a bit fuzzy on details now, but I have a vague memory of vodka, lime, and vomit. Maybe some bar should make a drink inspired by that. It didn’t bother me all that much, our relationship had become characterized by nothing more than ennui and discord. Mine was a new world, and she did not belong in it.

I thought about you every day, wondering when and if and how I would meet you again. I became a quieter person, decidedly a better person. My job began to grate on me, corporate finance never had seemed like a thrilling career, now I saw it for the true drudge it is. Possibly sensing my disillusionment, my boss put me on increasingly challenging projects. Nothing helped. I quit drinking altogether, hoping it would sharpen my brain. It only served to sharpen my desire to see you once more.
I told no one of my growing obsession, but friends began to look at me askance. I grew weary with scanning every crowd, every subway train, every packed diner for your face. I reminded myself that, in a city as big as ours, it would be virtually impossible to find you again.

And then Tom Simmons died. He was the head of one of the larger steelworks corporations that our company was trying to acquire, and my boss thought it would be good form to represent our company with a personal interest. I was dispatched to attend the funeral.
I don’t remember much about the liturgy, other than the fact that it was cold and fairly wet that day. I gave proper condolences to the family and friends, eliciting not a little disgust at my company’s wanton display of kowtow. When it was over, I stepped out onto Washington St. and headed for the carpark. The rain had stopped by then, leaving only sodden, reeking masses of fall leaves in the streets.
Through this mess shuffled a bum, muttering under his breath and staggering in that way that they have when they’re a bit over the rainbow. I watched him count off building numbers, then yank at a door handle of the church kitty-corner from me. Warm yellow light spilled out into the gathering dusk, and from the opposite direction came another figure, bent against the wind.
My heart knew it was you before my eyes did. Although you were bundled almost beyond recognition, I somehow recognized the bend of your back, the line of your shoulders, the tangled hair. You slipped into a side doorway of the same building the bum had gone into.

My chest could scarce contain my heart. After all this time, here you were, not three miles from my office! There was nothing else to do but walk into that yellow pool of light and seek my destiny.

Inside, I blinked a bit while my eyes adjusted to the brightness. There was a tremendous clatter coming from one room, while I found myself standing at the far end of a soup line. Of course. Someone like you would have to spend the odd Thursday evening feeding the homeless.
And there you were, snapping on rubber gloves, cutting a huge sheet cake into tiny squares, making sure each piece got one of the tiny red splurts of frosting. Dishing the cake slices out onto plates as the ragged men and women made their way through the line, adding to the sugar with your own bit of pleasantry,
“And how are you today, Mr. Carter? Same as always, huh? Nice to see you here… Jennifer, have you found that other glove? No, I haven’t seen it either. I will certainly tell you if I find it… John May, John May, you make my day!”
Your face was flushed from the harsh autumn wind, your hair drooped over one eye, obscuring it from my view. You greeted every person in that line with maternal warmth. I knew that I had to make a move. As the last straggling bag lady stumped off with her plate of food (two pieces of cake, with a wink from you!) I took my place in front of your station.
“Can I help you?” your voice was sharp, your eye flicked over my neat three piece. I tried to answer, but found that I had suddenly lost my voice. It was the first time ever that you had spoken to me.
“I- uh,”
“Do you need a meal?”
“No!” I almost shouted, desperate not to be grouped with the wretched masses surrounding me, some of whom were beginning to stare, “No, I just- just…”
“Church office is down the hall and to the right.” You tipped your head in the direction indicated, then went back to cutting apart perfect little squares of cake.

And that’s when it hit me. In order to get your attention, in order to win your heart, I would have to be one of the people you smiled so kindly at. If your affection belonged to the underdog, I would have to become the lowest of underdogs.
I stumbled out of the church blindly, my mind whirling with my newfound discovery. Everything that I knew would have to be turned backwards. Everything, that is, except for my love for you.
That night is hazy in my memory, but the next day is burned bright. I arrived at work late, disheveled, and determined. My boss questioned me about the funeral of the previous day, how had it gone.
So I told him. I told him exactly how people had looked askance at me, how they had been insulted by the presence of a vulture’s emissary. I told him about the yellow pool of light on the sidewalk across the street from the Catholic church, about the homeless men inside. And then I told him just where his capitalism belonged, and where he could put it. I screamed my disdain to him, to the world in general, a world that can allow these broken people to wander the streets hungrily in the cold November gloom. I was still shouting when they escorted me out of the building.

That took care of one of the steps to becoming free, free for you. Now on to the high-rise apartment, the car, the suits. A lot of it I gave away, some I destroyed. It was in one of these destructive episodes that I violated the terms of my lease (Section 12: No burning allowed in the building) and was summarily booted out. My life’s savings- tainted money, obviously- I gave to people that were guaranteed to squander it, thereby ensuring it would not enter a useful capitalistic money stream. Within a few months I was out on the streets, scrounging dumpsters for my dinner (have you ever seen how much perfectly good food gets tossed in this city?) drinking away the cold March days, keeping warm with little trash fires under a bridge.
It’s a great life, really, one I would never trade now that I’m here. There is so much freedom to be had- no clock, no mortgage, no rules. It’s a filthy life, sometimes, degrading at others. I wanted to make sure I was good and ready before I visited the Presbyterian church on a Thursday night again. My beard had to be full, matted, and slightly burned on the edges. My clothes had to have that not-often-washed shine, that smell. It took a while, and it all would have worked out for the best if it hadn’t been for the little twerps who put a Phillips screwdriver through my eardrum one night on 35th St.
You have to understand- I have always been a fighter. I cannot, will not, take abuse lying down. Any punk who shoves a Phillips screwdriver through my eardrum is going to wind up with the same tool in their jugular vein. It’s as simple as that. So of course they had to go and make a big deal about it, call the press, build a sham of a trial, scream the murder conviction at the top of their lungs. Damn kid had it coming.

So now I can never visit you on a Thursday night. I’ll never get one of those little slices of cake with the red frosting on top, the little swirly piles of frosting. I would have kissed that cake, since it touched your hand. They do give me cake here in the pen, but it doesn’t have the red. Sometimes it has crushed walnuts on top, usually just a tiny smear of some greasy white stuff. You would never serve me that, would you? I don’t belong here, its too sterile and harsh, I need to be out there, on the streets, where I can step into that pool of yellow light, pull open that door, and enter the warmth of your presence. I’ll never do that, not in this life.
And it’s all your fault.

Labels: short story

My dear mommy is moving forward in her art career. She has now added a blog, as well as an interesting and active Deviant Art account! I am so proud of her- as my mom, as an artist who is original and truly creative, and as a woman who has come out of the ashes to be strong and courageous!

I've shared the link to her actual site here before, but I'm putting it up again, since it's rather far down in the archives. It is, like anything built by a developer-in-the-family, still a work in progress, but I expect it to be stunning one day very soon.

Meanwhile, her blog has interesting little snippets about her work, her inspiration, and even technique, for those of you interested. There's even a little story about the tragic day my sister and I got hit by a car, ever so long ago. I hope she continues to post regularly, and I hope you all rush over to her site and buy a painting!

Labels: art, artist, blogs, painting

We've noticed a spike in traffic, and our archives are rather hard to get to, so we're going to repost some of the older articles here over the next few days. Originally published Aug. '07, this was written when we still lived in Columbus, Ohio. Enjoy, feel free to comment, and mazel tov.

I rather made a fool of myself today.
I assumed something without testing it.
From my assumption, I wound up interrupting people who could have been working.
I learned something, though. And what I’ve learned, I shan’t forget.


You see, I was volunteering at my church. I put myself on the landscaping schedule, and this was my week to go pull weeds.
It’s a good thing, pulling weeds. Getting down in the dirt, scrabbling around with a spade, breathing the clean fresh wind, touching the wood and earth and plants and bugs.
I spent a solid hour, weeded a good-sized patch of perennials and wood chips. When I was done, my five-gallon bucket was overflowing with the unwanted fauna, trash, and dead flower stalks.
Now, where to put it? My first thought was to bring it home, just take care of it myself and not have to bother anyone at church. But our trash comes only once a week, and our family of five fills that can up beyond its capacity every single week. Looking around, I spotted the huge dumpster the church keeps on the far end of the lot. Well, of course. I pull church weeds, I use the church dumpster! So I trotted off across the vast parking lot, bucket in hand, iPod blaring The White Stripes dolefully in my ears. Simple enough.
Twenty yards from the dumpster, I glanced up and noticed a sizable chain barring entry. Well, that’s common enough- trash is one of those commodities being hijacked routinely, no surprise they keep it locked up. The dumpster is in one of those wood fence setups to disguise the ugliness of its existence, and the chain held the massive doors shut directly in front of access to the trash heap. One end of the chain was fixed to the left door, while the other end had a massive gleaming piece of metal that I assumed, naturally, was a padlock.
And that, folks, is where I went wrong.
Setting my bucket down with a sigh, I trekked back across the parking lot, into the church vestibule, and went in search of someone who might hold the key. The girl in the front office was thrown for a loop- “We lock the trash bin?” –and went in search of the maintenance guy for me.
Our church is pretty good-sized. Not a mega church, those scare me, but not your local little country parsonage, either. Tracking someone down requires a little bit of legwork. Front desk girl eventually found maintenance guy, off working with some painters, and called him towards us,
“Do you know where the key to the dumpster is?”
He blinked at us.
“The key,” she repeated, “she has to throw away some weeds and the trash is locked up.”
Now he looked fuzzled,
“We lock the trash now?”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling like this wasn’t going to end well, “there’s a big chain on it with a padlock.”
The painters set their stuff down now and stared at me as well. I was starting to feel like the low point of everyone’s day- dumpster girl. Then I saw a light come on in his eyes,
“Oh, no, that’s just a thumb toggle lock. Just push it open. We never lock the trash.”
“Oh.”
Everyone smiled and laughed and went back to work. I walked back across the parking lot, walked about ten steps closer to the dumpster than I had before, and saw that indeed it was just a large push lock. All of that for nothing. All I had to do was walk a few yards closer and see that it took merely the flick of my thumb to access the trash bin. Easiest thing in the world, right?

How many of us react to life in this way? We see a goal from far away and it looks so hard, possibly unattainable. Do we march right up and knock? Some of us do. Many of us, however, would rather walk the long way around before finding out that it was right there the entire time. How often have I heard statements like these from people I care about:
“I could never get accepted into that school/gallery/team…”
“That kind of business would never hire me…”
“I could never have a spouse/kids/relationship like that…”
“No one would ever vote for me…”
“The publishing/acting/modeling/dance/music world is so hard to break into, maybe I should just abandon it altogether…”
I’m guilty of that last one myself. I have books, good books, sitting on a hard drive, waiting patiently for the day I gain just enough confidence to print them off and send them to be reviewed. I can visualize the day that I get the first issue back from a publisher, the day that I walk into a library and see my own name on a shelf, the day someone, somewhere, shakes my hand and tells me that my words touched them in some way.
But for some reason that I cannot even precisely name, I am scared to take those last ten steps toward the garbage can. I see the big, shiny, terrifying imaginary padlock of rejection slips and editors, and I would rather walk the long way round than face my fears, laziness, low self-esteem, whatever.

It wasn’t anything earth shattering. I didn’t ruin anyone’s day, hurt anyone, or set any projects back with my silly request for a nonexistent key. The people involved probably wouldn’t remember today if you asked them. But the situation revealed something to me. Driving home from church that day, I reflected that I had had the key in my possession the entire time- my own wits. My own strength. My own ability. It’s there.

And the next time anything at all that I want or need looks inaccessible, I’m going to march right up and rattle the doors. Just wait and see.

Labels: assumption, courage, fear, learning

Mike and I have a love of all things spicy. One of our favorites would have to be pickled jalapeños. These can be obtained at the store, but we love them homemade. Anyone want to can with us today?
We'll start with basic ingredients: an assortment of fresh vegetables, white & cider vinegar, and salt.
After a bad experience a year ago, I never touch a pepper with my bare hands. Cut the tops off, de-seed if you like, and prep the peppers for canning. While this is going, set to boil: 1 quart vinegar (I mix equal parts white and cider, but you can use all white.) 1 quart water (or more), and half a cup of salt. If you like the taste of pickling mix, throw a bit of that into the vinegar, or you can put some into the jars. Oh- you should be sanitizing jars right now. How many? depends on how much stuff you cut up, how tight you can pack the jars, and how big your jars are. I always sanitize more than I need, just in case...


Here's my army of jars. They're not super full because we love the carrots & onions as much as we do the peppers. Now I'll roughly chop onion, carrot, radish, cabbage, garlic... and anything else I can think off.
I put the salt directly into the jars, poured the boiling water/vinegar mixture over until there was 1/2" of head room, wiped the rims, and sealed them off. Aren't they just beautiful? Then I put them in a 10 minute water bath while I made flour tortillas-
Ah, homemade tortillas, warm pickled peppers, and hot refried beans (of which I failed to get a photo, of course!)
Life can't get any better than this!
They're not quite as pretty once they water bath, but that's partially because of the cider vinegar. Still, they're preserved, and they're yummy, and I did it all by myself, so I know what's in that jar!

Labels: canning, cooking, jalapenos, preserving

So, my sis and I decided that we just had to learn how to make petit fours- those elegant bite-sized cake thingies.

She's pretty good in the kitchen- fairly neat, follows recipes, all the required things. I, on the other hand, tend to resemble the Swedish Chef muppet a bit more- flinging flour and utensils about and keeping a large supply of various bandages on hand at all times.

We worked out a plan whereby we would each bake a cake at our respective residences, then meet up the following day for the extensive decorating part of the process. We had no idea how challenging this was going to be! I used a pound cake recipe, baked flat in sheet cake style. Em did more of a sponge cake, which she did not like but I rather took a fancy to. We each let our cakes 'tighten up' in the fridge overnight, then spilt them the next morning and filled them with melted jam. So far, so good.

Then came the dipping. Em had a Wilton pourable fondant recipe. It was about as pourable as mashed potatoes, and set up rock hard on the few cakes we managed to cover. We thinned it, over and over, trying different application methods such as squirting the fondant out of a plastic bag, dipping the cakes right into the pan, and dripping it down the sides with a spoon. I'm sure something went wrong somewhere, but who knows what it was?
Our next idea was chocolate ganache- simple to make, much more tasty than fondant, and we just happened to have all the ingredients on hand. This went much easier, but of course did not look as 'pretty' as the pastels we had hoped for.
The raspberries were a nice natural decor, and who doesn't like raspberries and dark chocolate? We also tried a white chocolate ganache, but bought the wrong meltables at the store and wound up with grease chips, more or less, that melted into a pool of grossness and would not solidify for hours. We eventually tinted that hot pink, for the heck of it, and dipped some of our cakes in that. The hot pink/dark brown/raspberry shades wound up coordinating nicely, giving our bruised egos some solace!
I learned one thing: there is a reason petit fours are usually cut into neat little squares: pointy angles don't hold up so well under heavy drippy frosting!!
Still, my trapezoids were fun.
A terrible shot of some of the finished ones, complete with royal icing, etc.
There were my favorites- princessy!

So, all in all it was not an unmitigated disaster. However, the experience humbled us a bit in the kitchen department. Of course I'll have to tackle it again!

Labels: baking, cooking, kitchen, petit fours

Just wanted to share a few of my favorite websites/blogs/silly things. These keep me giggling on random evenings when I should be doing situps or something.

So much as looking at the food on this website will make anyone- and I mean anyone- feel like they eat healthy. My arteries clog when I load this page... yet somehow, some of this food seems appealing. Anyone out there brave enough to try it with Michael and I this summer? We can get a three for one special on the heart surgery!

Because cats are cute, and cats saying stupid things are somehow cuter (more cute?) this ever-popular site is a daily smile for me. Check out the extra tabs across the top for more versions of funny...

I adore Ree Drummond's writing, of Pioneer Woman Cooks. Not only is she classy, funny, and spunky- she's a homeschooling mom of four! And she finds time to take and post wonderful photos, cook all sorts of nummy things, and write about it all. Her blog has won some wonderful awards over the past couple of years.

This cooking website is written from a lil apartment in NYC, and I have found some priceless recipes here. It is also written with humor and wit and is very real.

This blog is hilarious- bad real estate photos and postings from all over the world! The captions make it all worthwhile!

Notcot.com always has something nifty to look at, usually several pages worth. It is user submitted, so if you know of some awesome design/tech/whateva you can submit your own thing!

Ever need just one sheet of 5/1" graph paper? No? It's just me...? Oh. Well, this website has printable papers for just about any need you have.

Esprit Cabane is an online magazine with very neat re-use crafts and projects. Some are gardeny, others are more crafty. There's even a recipe for homemade house paint- using just chalk dust and some other random things!

For anyone who has ever worked in retail, this website has a way of validating your existence. I deal with the public every day, and I have certainly met some psychos, but the people who work in gas stations and restaurants seem to get the brunt of it. Updated several times weekly.

For a final laugh, check out Cake Wrecks.

And here is a picture of a piggie.

Labels: blog, blogs, cooking, humor, piggie, websites