Time and Tide

I can see part of the fireworks that are set off downtown at midnight if I stand on my bathtub, the brave ones participating in the outdoor festivities better bundle up well, subzero wind chills predicted! Today I pranced around grocery town, grabbing this and thats and a deal of buy one get one bag o' oranges. Eight pounds of oranges. Years ago, I could catch an orange on the back of my neck, tip my head down to roll the thing to the front of my head and launch it back into a three ball cascade with a flip. The good old days.

I practiced to Elton John's Love Lies Bleeding, which has a nice intro beat to do several small tricks before breaking into variations on a three ball routine. I'd end by catching two of the balls down the front of a tucked in blouse so that they looked like old lady bazooms, and yell, "Here comes Grandma!" or some such. Old Lady: "I found a lump in my breast the other day but it turned out to be my belt buckle." Ba Doomp.

That may be a resolution, right there, relearning juggling routines. I was on the brink of getting to do an underhand pass when other things got in the way, like college and gravity. Good to the last drop. Practice over a couch, you don't have to bend down so far for retrieval.

Ah, tis the time for reflection upon the past year and resolve to move forward in this new one, which we do anyways everyday. The name January comes from the Roman two-faced god Janus, who was in charge of beginnings and endings, doorways and halls; this is also where the word 'janitor' originated. See? You never know what you will find here.

Last year contained too many breath-holding moments for my taste as far as deadlines and extensions. No great calamities, no exquisite triumphs. Hm. Just life. Really, what more could I ask for? What more does anyone want? Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Tell you what, though, besides juggling, I would like to 1) well, you already know about knitting a pair of real socks. Not fake lumpy socks that turn into mini blind dusters, but true to fit socks. 2) Walk and take pictures of cement. I really like the types of cement used in city sidewalks, there's a brown type, a sort with larger pebbles, a kind with tiny screw shells mixed in, sheets of slate and a few red sandstone. I like the cement markers, too. 3) Give something up, and I think it will be the plants. They add oxygen but are neglected. Even the orchids, which bloom like clockwork, should go. It's too much to care for and that would open space and time for 4) More art. I haven't ever posted any drawings that I do, all anyone has seen are the poor Nomi mannikens that are still a work in progress.

That's enough of fun stuff, the deeper, personal, oh my god not that category will be on paper and tucked in a drawer where I check in from time to time to see how I'm doing. I throw a few Dove chocolate squares in there too, so when I feel I've let myself or others down, there's always food. Dove also writes little "Promises messages" inside the wrappers, specifically designed for sensitive people looking for love.

Today's message was "Joy to...you." The three little dots indicate a pause where you might think "the world" but No, it was "...you." Doesn't that make you feel better? That the Mars company who makes Dove wants you to know they care? It's my little secret, I smile and knowingly nod as I crumple the wrapper into my pocket with the twelve other little wrappers. This thought keeps me warm throughout the investigative hearings into last year's income tax return, if I submitted one. I'll remember that, really, joy to me. My moment. My Dove. My chocolate. Try to take it away from me and you lose your arm up to your elbow.

Maybe I'll send a few down to the jerk below, his attitude could use a few carbs.

They used to sound the church bells at midnight, many years ago. There was a factory whistle that would sing out also, someone had to be there to ring the bells or flip the switch. Maybe it was more important then, this marking of time, of events; or perhaps the night crews wanted to participate in their own way. It was a lonely sound, coming across the clear cold night and yet hopeful, a blessing, a reaching out.

My Mom and I would stay up and she would open the back door so we could hear the various factory whistles, it was a cacophany at midnight in this then blue collar town. Happy New Year we would say, and hope for better times.

I will listen for you at midnight, call out your name and I will hear it. Happy New Year, happy new year.

Happy New Year, Jerk Downstairs

Well if I could put in MY two senses, common and in, I would say that Mr. Personality downstairs needs to make a resolution to cuss more so that the rest of us would then have a constant drone of the F word resembling the sound of a Mississippi paddlewheel boat. Think of it. Break out the pralines and the juleps; get Mr. Jemmin's banjo.

Nothing elegant about this wad's infernal language, just F, plain and unadorned. Can't be Irish, Polish, or Jewish, three nationalities that know how to embroider a sentence with profanity to be admired. A constant string of F's would be easier to tune out, ambient noise I think it's called. He cuts loose any hour in a scream of primitive pain and hurls unlucky objects against the wall. There is a real electric guitar that He Can't Play but doodles in chords and sounds produced by turning buttons. Loud. And here I am complaining again.

Now, if you say Om, good things are supposed to occur. What in cosmic existence is supposed to happen with this other word of words? Maybe if you say it enough, they mail you a free GED and a job application, both of which would be a step up for this one.

In other news, yours truly has made the best dough to put under a midnight shrimp and garlic pizza, baking now. It was the luckiest of luck to live next to Concetta C. in another life, who taught me how to make Sicilian pizza, which comes out more like a focaccia. Lots of olive oil, let the dough rest while stretching it to fit the pan, more olive oil on top and bake at a low temp for over an hour. Because of the ingredients on top, it will come out earlier than that, or we will have shrimp biscuits which really wouldn't be bad either.

See you later.

Time To Resolve

How to accessorize for the New Year's holidays: clutch bags are hot which means you either have to put the damn thing down to be pilfered or have yourself rendered defenseless since you are taken down to maneuvering with one arm. I don't understand clutches nor do I want to speak their language. Ask a man to hold a wallet in his hand all evening and see what he says, and I bet it isn't "Happy New Year." To me, it's another way for fashion to immobilize a woman.

What the heck fits in there anyhow? A license? A comb? Tissue? Again, I want my emergency escape kit with me. In my purse I have tissue, contact lens stuff, dental floss, emery board, a wallet, pens, pepper spray, um, don't laugh a compass, lipstick, eyedrops, Ricola cough drops, a small flashlight, divorce papers, name change papers, coupons, appointment book, Imodium, Tylenol, clonopin, quarters for the meter, cell phone, calculator, band aids, water purifier, collapsible stove, and a tent for four.

Somedays I stick lunch in there, don't have a respectable lunch sack at the moment. So you think I am going someplace and be dependent on somebody else in case of emergency? So I can juggle a clutch? I think not, bwana.

Accessory hint number two: big bangles. Big bangles get in the dip or any other food you're reaching for; this can be handy if your trying to save a snack for later as there's a bit of storage space between the bangle and your wrist. Also handy if you get a flat on the way home, just slap that sucker in place and jiggety jig, off you go.

Same thing for accessory hint number three: the over large cocktail ring. Why, for god's sake? Again, it merely gets in the way of intimacy and pisses off the hosts when you chip their Hodaka Hasabe vase. Your hand just can't act natural when clunked down with such nonsense, and will tire by the end of the night, dragging behind you like some troglodyte hand from one million B.C. You may be in the next room already, and your hand will still be dragging itself out of the lady's room with piece of toilet paper stuck under the damn ring, just to show you.

The last accessory hint was some sort of barking about wearing a hair statement--the word statement was used--with feathers. I'll get the cats right on it. Go out and hunt me a blue jay, kids. Just where are these feathers from? You know the most likely source is China. Chinese chicken feathers. Oh boy, we're living now. Wait, I do have a cat toy with feathers, do you think that counts?

I tell you, any accessory made of feathers would soon become a cat toy in this household. Wear feathers in your hair in this place, and you just voted yourself as a cat climbing tree. Watch 'em creep up your leg just to get that damn bird. Or launch themselves from the top of the fridge as you pass by. Put some liver pate behind your ears while you're at it. Same same.

Gosh, I love fashion, but criminy, unless it makes life easier for myself and those around me, forget it. Try putting on gloves with a large ring, or get your coat on with some of those bangles. Your hands won't fit all the way through the sleeves so you are totally utterly dependent on the kindness of others which won't last long when they see how much fun it is to push you down into a snowbank or a hedge just to watch you try to stand back up.

I'm going to make some resolutions, easy ones so that something goes well. I have a good feeling about 2009. Cold night here, the temp has dropped. Snow predicted, we have milk and cat food, the essentials. Bundle up against the wind, it cascades over the ice muraines of the frozen lake; as you look up at the red slit of scarlet sunset, the cold steel of the lake wind makes you avert your eyes from the bitter cold. Frozen planet. Blood sky. Night falls. Home. Here.

Love

The Gods Are Good

Traversing the meridian and the space time continuum this morning landed me at AmVets, a favorite place to fulfill the hunting and gathering instinct and my sneaking innate megalomania. What? Someone has discarded this? Why, I can build an empire in a day with this plastic clamshell / papier mache egg from Germany / aluminum kitchen utensil from the fifties that probably has a lead core!

I found a mirror in a Balinese frame and a few long sleeve knit tops, then headed over to the line. A local grocery chain prints coupons on the back of its own receipts, and the cherry bomb of these coupons is the one giving three dollars off a ten dollar purchase at AmVets. I had several of these and busied myself by handing them out to qualified people in line. The only rule was that you didn't think I was trying to steal your stuff, sometimes an issue with the more sensitive shopper or recent immigrant from a non-English speaking country.

So I return the cart to the corral, and looked back at the items kept behind the counter. What!? What!? Is it is it is it? Whoa baby. There were a number of people crammed up at the register by this time, so I got back in line and held my breath for what I imagined was held in the box on the shelf. At my turn, I requested to examine the item and there it was, a Kit Cat Clock that I have coveted for ages!

Trying not to act excited, I wondered what the asking price was; the lady turned the box over and scribbled on the back in black grease pen was the amount of $3.48. $3.48!!! God's chickens, the going rate these days is a hefty $39.99 on Amazon, going up to $69.99 for the Genuine Austrian Rhinestone edition.

Getting home, the box produced all necessary parts and a pamphlet explaining the story of Kit Cat. There is a creed:

Put a smile on everyone's face,
Love in everyone's heart,
Energy in everyone's body.
And be a positive force in everyone's life!

I'm all for that. Available at what I think are exorbitant prices are sweatshirts, a Kit Cat watch, a couple of $199.99 cookie jars, and you can sign up for a smile message to be received by email.

Kit Cat is now keeping time on the wall, his tail wagging back and forth along with his eyeballs. Here is the website if you'd like a dose of Kit Cat yourself, or if you don't know what on earth it all means:
http://www.kit-cat.com/

My home is a tiny bit cozier now that there is a Kit Cat in the house. On the opposite wall are several wooden Indonesian dragon masks with those huge bulging eyeballs, made large to watch for evil. Between them and the observant moving eyes of Kit Cat, I'd say we're covered.

Robots Cannot Harm Humans, says Asimov

Hey, it's a sort of live cyber boy on the right side of the MySpace screen, and there is a webcam picking up his reactions to mystery messages that we as observers, can only imagine. Well, boys and girls, that do leave a wide spectrum of assumptions to be made.

The room in back of these men is clean and well lit, they are dressed conservatively in outfits you find at Gap or JCPenney. No food crumbs or yesterday's burrito are apparent on face, teeth, or chin. These young 'uns are scrubbed, bland, and tender in the emotions which play across their baby faces. You ever see a person react like that? Smiling softly, or frowning to concentrate on typing the right phrase? What was in that burrito besides Edrito's famous rice and beans?

I ask, does this represent the online community of romantic atmosphere, or did we latch onto a satellite feed from the Hallmark channel? O untried people with little experience outside of cable television or your bedrooms, this is not real life, and if any of those young men doodle around on a keyboard looking for acceptance, I will eat that IKEA lamp sitting next to me.

You may know of the poignant commercial which played upon our oh so human empathy produced by IKEA...go to YouTube for a refresher if needed. The sad little lamp, out in the rain by the curb with tinkly piano sharpening the edges of rejection. The shade tilts downwards like a drooping head, you can almost see the imaginary shoulders of the lamp shiver in the damp, bleak downpour.

Then, IKEA guy, with his Swedish accent steps into the frame and says, what on earth is the matter with you, this lamp has no feelings, it's old and the new one is better. Except it sounds like he says "batter" which works with me because almost anyone with a foreign accent knows design and drinks champagne out of a flute while driving 160 kilometres per hour on the Autobahn.

So whatever cloud MySpace is flying around in plain old skeeves me out. In our imaginations, we are being led to believe that innocence and honesty reign onscreen, when these young icons of flirtation merely are responding to a director standing in front of them with a paycheck with which they can go out and purchase a South American cookbook on puppy recipes or pictures of your mother, you get what I mean.

But we fall for it, whether human or sad little lamp. Droid love, maybe, is batter than none.

Research Funnies

Balmy Buffalo, the temp is near fifty degrees, breezes are warm with a touch of the pineapple and drinks with paper umbrellas in them, yes, kiddos, that warm. Conundrums! Of course now the wildlife of the city rejoiceth in such moderate climate, and I have seen several of the feral cats hitting the cat cafe my neighbor provides under her parked car.

This is quite early, I'm skipping the evening post so I just wish to slip in this moniker: you know how people say things have changed and long for the good ol (sniff) days? This late morning I spent crucial research hours, two, if you must know by the clock on the parking meter, in the microfilm room of the Central Mother of All Erie County Libraries. Helpful librarians help set me up in minute detail and I gave it a gung ho, scanning Vital Statistic records as listed in the local rag, November through mid-December of 1952. Oh god, am I seasick.

When offspring sonny boy was little, I tried his car racing video game---I love to drive, it's so freeing---and promptly got motion sickness. What is this!? I used to get oogie when reading while riding, but nothing else except that gut-wrenching spinning ride, The Octopus, ever bothered me. What got the equilibrium to revolt with the video game? I dunno, but never did I reach the checkered flag wave of video win, without feeling like the morning's scrambled eggs were fighting their way back up. Oog.

Now, here I am intent on black and white print and got through six reels of fillum whilst my eyeballs rotated like the windows of a one armed bandit slot machine. This newspaper often moved the VitStat column around, so there was no assumption made as to where it was located per edition. I am the intent one, before deciding on becoming a teacher, hopes were pinned on Research Librarian. Faugh. I would have been puking up things not seen since 1962.

Dizziness aside, what entranced this red hen was the news. Oh sure, pot roast, fifty-nine cents a pound. Opium in measured doses is good for restlessness. Women dressed like Mrs. Cleaver. But brother let me tell you, the mayhem and human demand for instant personal physical justice reigned as much as it does today, I swear on my whiter than whites.

Murder, beatings, assault, molestations, more murder, switch and bait, robberies, children attacking and beating up adults, gangs, muggings, you name it, with gruesome details sprinkled on like jimmies. This is from the respectable paper in town. Mundane keeping up with the Joneses blurbs filled space---Mamie Eisenhower's bangs were the next big fashion---the DeSoto provided comfort and space for your growing family---your bridesmaids fated evenings were guaranteed by the dropped waist and layers of nylon netting of the new off-the-shoulders dress. Fated evenings, I didn't make that up.

As for Mamie Eisenhower's bangs, well, check back with President Eisenhower if he was interested in her bangs. I think not. Google "Kay Summersby", who was a chaffeur for Eisenhower and looked more like Mata Hari Exotica complete with deep red lips and a fruit salad involved in her orchidated tresses. Not First Lady material, Kay. But apparently wearing a maraschino cocktail in your hair is what caught Eisenhower's eye, not the bangs. Oh Mamie, what you pretended not to know.

Just as much crime and corruption were evident in the whirling news of bygone years. So if anyone meows about them good old days, tell them ain't no sucha animal according to your Auntie 2seahorses. Opium indeed. Bangs, hrumph. Five teenagers beat man with baseball bat, no respect fer their elders. H-bomb tested in Pacific, shocking.

I need a cuppa tay. Something to solidify the morning jaunt and make the room stop spinning. Freaking merry go round microfilm. It will certainly all become worth the nausea if any information pops into the screen. There is the other newpaper I have yet to check but not today, I am out of parking meter quarters and need to get away from mechanical things that bugger my linear character.

You all continue to have a good day. Next is the fish tank, a delight to fight the plecostomus who views the incoming vacuum siphon as an invader that he wangs at with his side fins. He's a good boy, and will let me skrinch his nose gently. Fishy fishy, here I come. Peace and fruit salad.

Comings and Goings

Today succumbed to the Mall for a brief fried brain experience that resulted in shirts and a sweater for my son. O I could not wait to get out of there, the schlock was marked down to prices that made my thrift store sensibility cringe. Fifteen dollars for a crappy cotton shirt determined to fade and be a fuss to iron. Ha. I can pick a better brand of quality material up in good condition for four bucks, I say! Send the thrift store shirt to the laundry for a five dollar pressing and it is still cheaper than brand new. Can you smell the self-righteousness in these words?

I did get Bri a nice cotton sweater in a color that doesn't do well second hand, and two shirts that possibly have been dipped in some sort of plastic as they are stain resistant and iron free even though made of cotton. Teflon? Could he fry eggs on it? I then wandered for twenty feet deeper into the maw of shopper's psychedelic mushroom tour of sea minerals for you, Hickory farms ground up guess what this is, and the minimalism of Express for men where there were bins that you could dig through and get a pair of boxers for twenty bucks. Turning towards the sunlight, I bolted past the pomegranate mango lotion and ran.

The wheels on the car pointed back towards the city and found my favorite little gift shop, Positively Main Street. I scooped up a few mark downs, a nice little bowl, and a flyswatter that yells Ouch when you whack the bug for a friend who fights Japanese beetles. Still, the main purpose of getting correctly sized knitting needles took me out to a large shop where a seventy percent off white prelit Christmas tree came home with me also. Thirty bucks, and I am done.

The first run back into the city took me by Bubble Man, who was out today. Every city has its characters, and bless us, we have the Bubble Man. He is a middle-aged man who lives with his brother and uses a fan to blow bubbles from his third story window over the intersection of Allen Street and Elmwood Avenue. You see him with his bubble wand on the best of days when, even if you are happy, seeing him makes you happier.

The Bubble Man cleansed me of Mall Shock, purifying the space I traveled through with his bubbles. Good to be back. Good to be thought of. Thank you, Sweetie.

The spinning of the earth has passed notice of the winter solstice; now the daylight begins to extend again. I can feel it. Sleepy dark days for winter beds, enjoy them while you can...

Sock

For two and a half hours. I sat on the couch. Trying to start a sock.

Learning to knit socks is one of my life challenges; how cool can that be? To make them to measurement for my goofy feet, to twist yarn into coherent pattern, economical, practical, happy sock! By eleven thirty at night, I was ready to throw the goddam couch through the window to open a large enough hole for the needles, yarn, instructions and forty five freaking how to books out into the atmosphere to rain down amidst the flakes and amaze the people still digging out their cars in the lots. Christmas time should not include the f-word.

I am not the most fiber friendly person, having totally, mistakenly skipped out on taking Home Ec in high school. I pay for it now in not knowing how to sew two pieces of material together and when I do, there is much buckling of seams, mismatches and car crashes. My knitting is not even or orderly, no way would I ever tackle a sweater. But a sock? A jolly sock?

Subsequently the beginning part of casting on in a Continental stitch is sloppy, the beautiful Japanese yarn looks like the cat barfed it back up, the loops are so uneven and loopy. To make a sock, you start with four double pointed needles and hope. Cast on, divide the stitches among three, then knit two purl two for about an inch and a half, forming a cuff.

Knitting is theraputic unless you are half off the usual dose of Prozac and teaching yourself something new so the brain grows more dendrites to ward off the Alzeheimer's. I can make scarves with one hand tied behind my back, little cell phone covers, cat toys, dishcloths, simple stuff. I own sock books, have read sock books, and personally, wear socks quite often. Wouldn't you like a pair of socks from Susan? But this, so far, is torture. Not like waterboarding torture, but like frustration why can't I get this children can knit socks torture.

So, to get my knitting skills back into gear, a short recipe for a neck warmer is selected instead. I may have to signup for sock lessons at the local. Today I shall twiddle with finish up gifts, made to be sent afterwards. I dipped an envelope in cold jasmine tea for color and smell, now drying on a towel rack. Kai is spinning on top of the china cupboard, and the car needs redigging out before the freezing rain and fifty mile an hour winds (woof) come this evening.

Maybe I'll also dig out my recorder, the playing of which is on par wtih my sock knitting skill. Oh the day, it's just beginning.

Cowboy Driving

sday, December 23, 2008

What has happened to the streets department? Where are the plows that used to be sent out to other areas of the country when they got hit? Were the old ones not replaced? This is Buffalo, we need crews and machinery!! and ! again!! The streets are narrowed messes and the parking lot here is incomprehensibly not done. What the so-called service did was throw bits of salt onto the six inch deep packed snow. You have to remove the stuff, not aggravate it. This new management is lacking in finesse. I went out to get a few things before we get blown in again, already the sky is a deep lilac color and filled with snow. Winds are supposed to get up to 50 mph, and freezing rain shall appear. Birds shall fly backwards, bats will leave their winter crevices, the sun will dull to deep red, and NPR will play "Santaland Diaries" by David Sedaris at seven. Enough of the weather report. Since Boston was canceled, I have time, time on my hands. Whee! Here I come, art! I told no one that I am here, what kind of misanthrope is this you ask; well, I am taking a three day sabbatical devoted to creative urges and I don't want to hear from relatives, friends in town, or stray animals. Nyet, notski, nope. It's gonna be me and drawing, knitting, setting up the cd player I bought Last Year, and whatever else strikes moi. I stopped by the thrift shop not for anything in particular, just to look. The time to go for great bargains is right after Christmas, when people donate items that can't be returned to stores, or things that they received replacements for. I am scanning for a toaster oven, but I want one that doesn't look like it's going to start a fire. It will come in time. Oo, I could bake bread, make yoghurt, repair clothing. Snowbelle, bless her heart, likes to chew wool and I could shoot her. Some cats do, Siamese are known for it. My Etsy mittens need some fixing because of her, so that could be on the list of to-do's. Ta daa. Sleep well, lord knows what the weather outside is planning, I will be under the blankets listening to the wind come in off the lake. Peace and balance.

Vinter Vunderland

Oh, the wind still curls and howls around the corners, but the kids don't care, they are sliding down the immense mountains of snow piled up by the tractors. The parking lot is impossible, and part of the roadway is still impassable; they brought in dump trucks to help cart the snow away, there isn't anywhere to put it.

Sometimes they are able to dump it directly into the Buffalo River if there is so much; usually the environmental agencies discourage that because of the salt, car pollutants, etc, that go along with it. It is impossible to get in and out of the lot, I became stuck twice today exiting, then on the way in when they made a line of cars back up the one way street so the dozers could load up the trucks. The snow is deep in the streets, and difficult to guess where your car will land.

My little car is now fixed, there were bad wheel bearings, a brake pad issue, and a nail in one of the tires. Good lord. The mechanic is a godsend, a worldly fellow, a good man. Took a chunk out of the bank account, but it had to happen; between the snowstorm, the inaccessibility to the street/parking/weather crap, and the money, Boston is a dream. I have to call dear dear Scott today and tell him, spoke to him yesterday, he said not to sweat it. But, wah.

Bri got safely to the airport, and at last phone call was waiting for the train in Baltimore. Oh, it was good to see him, hear him, hug him. The lad.

Alright, all you ott and culcha lovers outta the room, for while waiting for the car to be repaired:
White snow, small woman in a red jacket; a walking blood drop
on silk. Cars slotted into snow cases, fossils suspended in frozen, ponderous weight. Warm bodies of undefined gender bring shovels.
Unearth these ice crystal tombs,
Open the sarcophagus. Unbox the horse, who
Slips unshod forward and back. Rocking horse, fly
up over the mounds, comet tails bursting from hooves.
Plow furrows and heave your strong back into the harness of gears
Mechanical paladin. Pull time back into service, time dances around
The frosty yards on light feet diurnal, nocturnal,
Winter solstice, spring equinox. Clap TickTock back
Into the braces, move your wheels, thick clods slow him down.
Draw water, burn stone, weave through the ruts and hills
And bring us to our completed destination. Lever and wedge
Heave-ho atomic chains of hexagonal explosion aside,
Sloppy paths relaxed and uncertain pointing direction
Roundabout compass. Home. I want to go home.

There's another about birds in the storm, but we can save it for later.

Bedtime story: Once there was a monkey who cut off his tail and said: "Well, it won't be long now." You sleep warm, safe, dream of heroes.

Grief and Gravy

Oh good lord, apparently I didn't hit the correct button so this evening's post went the way of the blowing wind, and her name is Mariah. Just some of the highlights as my son's flight is delayed and I have to do mom stuff, like worry...

Let's see, first the bitching about this little girl child who tore up my classroom today, slamming tables, knocking books over, beating the counter holding the fish tank by repeat-ed-ly crashing her table into it while looking me in the eye to make sure I knew she was mad at me. The other kids are tired of it, I'm tired of it, she's been suspended for this sort of crap once already, the mother thinks there is no problem because this is what kids do at this age; I wrote her up and sent her to the office.

She starts out with little slams, and if I ignore her, increases volume and velocity to medium, then really big slams, and finally goes into Playhouse 90 with Patricia Neal on uppers and Johnny Walker Red. Drama. And then stomps out to go to the principal to complain about my professional incompetence at giving her a gold crown and the prize of prizes because I am not awed by her eight year old table slamming, book throwing, kicking other children powers.

This is the child that I would leave waaayyy out in the woods by a gingerbread house with candy cane door posts and gumdrop panes. I would make sure the witch inside was having drop in company and needed extra protein to round out the supper. I would spread adorable little plastic ponies and plastic lip gloss gems and plastic glittering sparkle jewels in an arrow design leading right to the front door. There would be a bag made out of hologram pattern paper, all rainbow-y, labeled, "Just for the Nicest Little Girl Ever" with a picture of grandma and mom smiling and kneeling with outstretched arms. Mom and Grandma would be bedecked in plastic jewelry and surrounded by winged balloons. This is the gathering bag for loot planted in the mossy banks of the woods. The bag would be playing music from whatever Hannah Montana was doing that day. This particular child, acting true to nature, would overstuff the bag with plastic shit, be weighed down, sighted by the witch looking out her window, refuse to let go of the beautiful bag filled with all the beautiful jewels, and thus be anchored so the witch could catch her, prepare a mirepoix, arrange potatoes around her, and bake at 400 degrees for ten hours.

Knowing this child, she would give the witch the shits the next day after ingestion. I will not miss this one, and I have worked with some doozies.

Be careful what you eat. It may contain children. Oh, ha ha, just kidding. (Disclaimer so I don't lose my job). Sleep well, I go to find my own child, tall and strong and true. I will give him such a hug.

Cerebellum Funnies

Various running arounds, a new appointment with a new practitioner who seems to be a down to earth person who likes bugs, as she said when handing me her card with a dragonfly impressed upon it. I like bugs also, and think they are overlooked as companion animals. We can talk about that later.

I sat in the waiting room which was surrounded by many small doors marked Private. Every few minutes, a person would pop out of one of the doors, announcing the name of the client and they would disappear. It was fascinating, for there were four different doors surrounding the area. I got through three magazines before my door opened.

Now this morning, I found the last pair of clean pants, a pair of Norma Kamali MC Hammer baggy with cuffs that look dated but okay. Unlike any of the tame knits I usually wear, today I selected my totally sequined tiger stripe tunic which picked up on the theme of laundry needing to be done. It's late and I gotta go, the roads are iced and sloshed.

The door has clicked shut before I remember that I am going to see this new medical professional and my god I am wearing wooden jungle animals over sequined tiger stripes and my god, these pants. Third grade kids love how I dress, but they aren't doling out the antidepressants after evaluating me.

It worked out well, and I am taking a reduced amount of prozacchio see how it goes. After answering her questionnaire, it appears that I am pretty normal, just a sneaking panic attack here and there. Just the sort of thing you like to hear from a professional. So come ring my doorbell on Halloween kids, it's okay.

I have lots to do in getting ready for the son flying in, his flight gets here at 1045 pm. Yay! Visiting children! He turns thirty in January, for heaven's sake. Nothing like seeing someone you love arrive.

The small drifts are melting, the air is cold and clear. Do I hear last minute tinkering from the North Pole? Wait, let me look through my special telescope...oh, it's a package, a lovely one with a ribbon, addressed to the Nicest People ...I think it must be for you! (No gagging, it's called twee, I think).

Goodnight, my little elves.

Buffalo Bred

The question you ask any ex-pat that you are visiting is if you can bring them anything from the area. The answer usually involves some form of food not available elsewhere, and having lived in Florida and Chicago, I completely understand. Local heat-seeking denizens nod knowingly when newbies add fifteen pounds to their girths upon getting off the Mayflower and settling in to good Buffalo chow. We are good eats, here.

Not that Florida or Chi-town lack in their own flavor; in Florida the shrimp used for bait were bigger than what you find in the seafood case of this northern town. Chicago has the famous fran-cheesie, Greek, Jewish, and tavern food, all revered in solemn hallelujiahs. But try to get a decent red-hot, pizza, or batch of wings elsewhere and you are sore out of luck, brothers and sisters. This is what my Scott in Boston Mass has asked for, a plate of wings from Duff's.

With my son coming into town, I know we will hit Duff's, I only wonder if they would last two days later through a roadtrip. I'll ask, maybe freezing wouldn't kill them, but the succulent juiciness under the crisp exterior would be missing when reheated.

In another life, I worked many kitchen jobs. Wings are so easy to make, I could do it on one leg blindfolded while singing "Inagattadavida". I don't understand how they taste so different from one locale to the next, but there are some messed up chicken wings being touted as original that the cat wouldn't touch.

Frank's Hot Sauce. Butter. The End. Fry the bejeezus out of the wing and toss 'em in said concoction. Crack open a cold one.

Tuesday's are green till midnight, when they click into the warm pinks of Wednesday. The amaryllis blossomed in school, lifting our spirits as though we took part in this minor success. An ice storm is supposed to hit, but it is already past rush hour and not even a crystal has slickered the sidewalks into treachery. I am going to light a candle, in hopes of a snow day. So much to do at home.

Sleep cozy, the shortest daylight of the year, the winter solstice, is within the week. Ah, old bear.

Ah Me

Fifty-seven feels like six like twelve like twenty. You are basically you from the age of six onwards, according to the child psychology courses in college; I agree. One changes and grows socially and emotionally, but it is still the same voice I have always heard in my head. Me.

My skin, however, is trying to get to the center of the earth and gravity is winning, pulling, continually down. If you leave a brick on a lawn, it eventually sinks in over the years from the ground softening with rain, temperature changes, and yep, gravity. This is why you have to watch This Old House so you know how to prep an area with ground cloth and crushed stone before laying a brick path.

I have salt that came from an ocean that once covered the mountains that are now the Himalayas before they were pushed up that high by India crashing into Asia. Got it from the health food store, advertised as pink, the purest on earth, blah and blah. Only thing, every oncet in a while, you get a bit of grit in there, as mined from the peaks by the natives. You bite down on grit and eventually your teeth will be like the ancient Egyptians, whose molars were flattened by the amount of stones in the bread flour back in the B.C.

I know you just read this blog for all the non-fictional nonsense so you can win the next round of Trivial Pursuit. You really want me on your team. Anyways, the point of the salt is that nothing stays the same, from oceans to the summits of mountains, earth roiling and folding onto itself.

That would be an interesting time lapse, a sped-up version of India smooshing into the larger continent on film. God film. Universal Pictures located in the real Universe. What would it look like, these immense pilates for tectonic plates? Would we cry when the oceans that once covered the Sahara receded? Applaud at the appearance of Hawaii, future home of President Elect? Flowing, liquid, converting back to magma, all this. And your little brick, too.

My son is coming into town for the weekend, and will be staying with me, I am so excited. Here it is the end of 2008 already, I just finished washing the baby food off his face, wasn't it? I see him aging, folding, flowing. Go for it kiddo, it's a great life.

Deedle deedle dumpling, my son John
Went to bed with his stockings on.

Sleep well, sleep quiet, covers.

The Couch and Moi

Oh, Couch, my lovely couch, a pillow and thee plus a cuppa tey. Or maybe not, the laundry pile should be attacked and beaten into submission. Wham! Wham! Whack!! It's archaeology, with the circulating pieces like jeans on top and in rotation, with sedimentary layers of the rest of it in seasonal order descending. At the bottom are summer jammies or maybe a tank top. I'm not looking.

I dislike the laundry room. It's open, well lit, clean sort of, and the washers take big loads. Drawbacks are non-privacy, timing so you don't lose your good towels, and, it's not my couch under a comforter. Further, I am not in my glory. I should wear glasses only for the next two weeks, and the vertigo of switching from the usual contact lens has me teetering. Also, I think my hair is sticking up funny.

Today was like working at the pediatric developmental institution, would someone please send a large, coherent team of counselors, school psychologists, and social workers to this inner city school? We have none, we are lucky to have a librarian three days out of a six day rotation. Full moon at perigee. Believe everything that is said about the effects; my god, if the gravitational pull influences the oceans, it certainly affects organisms, including children baying at lunar changes.

Today my friend Sandra brought me a fish fry. A fishie fry!! Her church had one for a fundraiser, and delivered to the school at lunchtime. Nothing like a Baptist church fish fry. Nice piece of breaded haddock, homemade mac and cheese with sharp cheddar, green beans cooked with a ham hock, a cup of slaw, cup of potato salad, tartar sauce (which I skip), wheat bread, hot sauce, and a slice of pound cake. Your fork and knife are tucked under the paper that the fish is on inside the clamshell styrofoam tray. Oh heaven.

The wonderful thing is that it was a surprise; Sandra is a shyish, quiet woman who teaches resource to students that need an extra boost. Her area is right next to mine, and for one terrific year we worked together, she "pushed in" my classroom to work with the students assigned her. Things never stay the same. She trotted over today with the goods, and simply said, "This is for you." Frabjous. So you know that couch is looking good. I am full of the Lord's fish. Healed!!

Schedule tomorrow: laundry, dishes, and cookies for Christmas. There are new babies in the fish tank, Martian seems betterish, Oh I would like to put up the tree, but what a unholy job. I have a white plastic tree with purple lights and the best ornaments. Nah, it's just too much and I am going off for the holidays.

Well, as predicted, overcast sky this evening, but I can feel you Moon, I know you're there. Pull me up through neap and ebb, lullaby waves crash intertidal. Ocean, ocean, ocean. Oh waves, oh lune, oh fish. Sleep in comfort.

Nuts de la Nuit

I can't watch only parts of Silence of the Lambs, I have to see the part where Clarice shoots Jame Gumb dead. No matter what Ted Levine works in, that voice is one thin line away from telling you to put the lotion in the basket. I saw Flubber with Robin Williams one Saturday afternoon, where Levine plays a minor role but christ almighty, my lizard brain said to run up a tree and blend in with the foliage.

Don't like movies where people get hurt. Once they're dead I'm mostly okay and in fact wanted to be a medical illustrator when young but married and I let that dream just bump along the wall and finally get stuck under the couch. It is very gratifying to know that the actors are actually still alive mostly, with the final part of reassurance being to look them up on IMDB and see that they are fine and had been paid to behave that way.

There was a list in college of The Best Books Evah, according to the recent professor. Well, Blood Meridian was there, and in order to add to an already high level of literary sophistication, I got it in the bookstore. Made. Made myself read it to the end, where the poor bear is dancing, stumbling while turning because it is being shot by the jerks in the audience for fun.

It stayed on my bookshelf, for I wondered what on earth am I not seeing in this story, an allegory for some sort of shit or other, intending to reread, research, blah and blah. Every time the title hit my line of vision, a shudder gripped my innards because I know there are people out there just like Cormac wrote, as if the west were populated by borderlines out for a day with guns.

I don't remember if I left the book in the laundry room or if it got tossed, but I had Clarice Starling shoot it several times before disposal. I do enjoy anything that Stephen King writes except for his stories. Introductions, books on how to write books; I imagine he's a likeable cuss and wish him well but leave me alone with the images.

Part of my English minor involved "adopting" an author and dissecting the motives, career, underpinnings, bon mots. I chose Truman Capote and got snickered at as if I had said Rip Taylor. Henry James was suggested, The Portrait of a Lady was read, and I said that licking the sidewalk was preferable to reading anything further by himself. Torture. Slow. Ponderous, like a big lady with aching feet.

Really, fiction has little if any charm. Hand out facts, histories, recipes and science, now you're talking. What do you read? One of my little students had skipped breakfast and felt oogy. I keep cereal on hand for a sometimes lunch and gave her a pile on a kleenex to stave off pangs till lunchtime. I read the kids the cereal box, especially the snippet stating that this particular concoction helps lower blood pressure, a good thing for your teacher, kids. They laughed, but I wonder if a few won't read the boxes they have at home. A small hope.

The first person within my circle of adult friends unexpectedly lost her job today, the position was simply eliminated at the bank she worked at. Gone. One of the larger banks in the nation. Here we go.

See you in the funny papers. Good night.

This n that

The walking wounded is getting into the cat's meds again; I banged my toe two days ago resulting in an owie that is developing armies of white cells. Pus, kids. I found the remaining keflex from the vet, looked it up on the web and found it applicable for bacterial infections.

The coolest part is that the spectrum of this particular cephalosomethingorother was found growing as a fungus near a sewer in Sicily. Blow me down! Eat your mushrooms, darlings, and live long.

I have again changed hair color, leaning toward a warm iridescent light brown as compared to the deep red that has been the past year's statement. It won't stay brown for long, brown is so, well, pedestrian. I love the colors that I've seen the painted women wearing; the red orange yellow flamethrower tints just pop my pistons. Magenta. Aqua. Oh to be in my teens and twenties.

Personally, I am all for body art, you go and augment whatever you like, stick stuff under your skin to make a design, whatever floats your boat; thank god age has kicked in for me, or I would have been lizardtop zebrabottom girl. Even now, a giant red octopus on my back is ever so appealing, but nay. Other avenues call.

So far I am keeping up with a regime of increased fish oil, CLA, and calcium; so far, so good and energy is up. I can feel the vibes, keep sending them. Or is that my sore toe throbbing?

I tell you, last night I almost called every single one of you up to come over and Pound the rooty toot that lives downstairs. The man is a troglodyte with a vocabulary of one. He must work the second shift, I think the girlfriend left and he sure doesn't seem to miss her as he keeps bringing over buddies that yell "fuckin' A" as loud as he does. They begin at eleven p and were still yelling effin-ay at the video screen in the wee 3 a. NOOOOO, I DON'T BELIEVE IT, FUCKIN' AAAAAAAAAAA, as if each result shook the kingdom, bailed out the auto industry, changed water to wine, and cleared up my student loans.

Ah well, The Cake by the Lake doesn't like her fingers typing such drivel, but if little Mr. Stuff doesn't get a dictionary, maybe Santa will bring him one. Would he get the hint, do you think? I would be more forgiving if instead one heard LOVELY ROUND THAT WAS BY JOCULAR JOVE, which means effing-ay in English.

I am toddling off to bed with cat meds flowing through the veins, hurtling down the circulatory system to fight the bacteria in my toe. Maybe my toe will grow cat hair, and I will have a weretoe. I'll let you know if I find it digging through the litter box later.

Beddy bye, dream beyond belief.

Sagittariday Night

Hello, hello. The snow turned out to be a foof of nothing much for this area, yet I was awakened at 2 a.m. by the back up beeps of a parking lot plow. The turkey supply has whittled itself into the shape of one last casserole, and even the cat is sick of it. Try wiggling meat in front of an uninterested and probably insulted cat to feel like an idiot. Look! Turkey! Wiggle wiggle!

How are you today, my sunshines? I watched some supposed ghost videos online and even though I am a believer due to personal experience, these looked fakity fake fake, fake fake (intonation of Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits). Sure, it's possible, sure we have Photoshop, you aren't going to know unless you go through some event yourself, or trust someone deeply who has.

Well, I am giving myself the creeps again, so let's change topics. Last week I had purchased the bottom of a water bath canner to process fruits next season, the lid was missing. Today I went back and there was the top, so minor yay. Ran out for groceries before deciding which way the incredible clogged head was going with this cold that showed up yesterday.

I am currently working my way off of the antidepressant Prozac, after the primary care doc suggested it would be a way to get the extra weight off. So far, no weight loss, but I am doing this ever ever so slowly so as not to piss off the gods of mental machinery and hit serotonin syndrome withdrawal. I have tried going off the meds twice before with carny sideshow results, but did it throughout the short space of three months. No no no.

What was that movie, the one where Harry Hamlin ran around in a toga and had to kill this fantastic Ray Harryhausen Medusa? Well, that was me suddenly off meds; and here you thought it was stop-action puppetry. Prozac messes with metabolism and blood sugar, not good. Would really like to live without the stuff, going down from 40 to 20mg was a bit of a hoot, but now I am tapering from the 20 mg per diem.

We will see. There are all sorts of cleansing this and thats to help you get through withdrawal, I have good prescription coverage, but maybe I will be one of those people who need to be on the stuff for life. Dunno, but want to try. I have been prescribed a litany of meds at one time or another, and the side effects are not acceptable to me. Prozac is the least offensive, and staying on it when the physicians would like to toss the latest med at you has been an argument.

When it was needed, and it still may be, the fluoxetine works compared to Effexor, Cymbalta, Lexapro (oh not ever again), Zoloft, Paxil, Amitryptaline, Celexa, Trazodone, Ambien, Clonopin, and megadoses of Vitamin D. Whatever the drug company salesperson was selling that month was what Miss Doctor wanted me to try. Desperately, I did.

Well, I want to see what it's like, tapering off in hopes of bolstering energy. What tangled webs we weave, this medication business.

Sleep well, without worry, you know everything will be alright with or without the minor inconveniences of a pill or two. Bless you.

I’yb sig

Unk. Nobe stubbed ub. Head ag. Teef hurt. Thank you for your sympathy, now to get on with it. In this town of little brain, I found a bag of lemons on sale at the Hispanic grocery for two bucks. Maybe they were sprayed with methilicone sulfide dioxide or ddt in Mexico, but with a head cold, I like a fresh lemon in my tea with honey, and prices usually range from 49 to 99 cents for One Lemon. This sale is a sign from the universe that it wants me to feel better.

Plans for the weekend include sitting on the couch, crawling to the fridge for turkey soup, and sleeping; yes it's that good. This has been coming on since the beginning of the week, and I thought that I dodged it with Neti pot therapy. I hate the neti. Yes, it cleans things out, but damn if it doesn't feel like I am pouring wasp venom in there, it stings so. Hell with that, doesn't improve my disposition.

I've already had my cold for the year, this is an interloper who'd better cycle itself outta here because there are things to do. My alternative, even though it involves sitting up straight, is online shopping, always a whee. Oh-oh, just looked out the window Which Was Clear A Second Ago.

We be having a snowstorm. Since I live downtown next to an expressway and numerous parking lots, one of the ways I can tell if it's snowing at night is that the sky turns orange from reflecting the streetlights. Is that halogen? Mercury? I dunno. My head hurts. Don't even talk to me about money in the water changing the chemistry tonight, who the friday cares. Jesus.

The degree of visibility is determined by how many lights on the buildings can be seen through the storm. Right now the giant imitation if it fell on you you would die Statue of Liberty on top of Liberty Bank is having a hard time making her blinking torch seen. This bank has two towers, each topped by a Statue. God knows how they got them up there, but the torches blink alternately.

I don't even have to look out the window to tell if it is snowing, I have the hearing of a Rottweiler and can tell how prolific it is by the sound of the snowplows clearing the raised highway. A broad scrape means they are getting ready to be clobbered by snow from the southtowns, a deeper rumble indicates piles of snow already on the pavement in amounts that will slow traffic down. Silence means a snow emergency and a travel ban is on. I like the last one, it is the only time I don't hear the semi tractor trailers going by.

I am near a ramp, which required the drivers of large trucks to blast their horns before merging. Also near is an off ramp, calling for employment of the "jake brake" in order to slow down. Brrraaappppuhpuhpuhpuh. Did I mention that this apartment is a two bedroom with utilities included?

Well, kids, I am starting to melt into a oogy but happy homo sapiensis who has had enough of today and wants to sleep. The Liberty Building is not visible at all, nor City Hall, nor the highway, nor the office building that is lit up red and green for Christmas. The sky is a brownish purple orange, the color of something nuclear and radioactive.

I see you later, bubbies. Peaceful evenings, tangerine midnights.

Wishing Well

Yesterday I tossed a pair of pants over the shower curtain bar as I changed into jammies, and a few coins clattered into the empty tub from the pockets. Like a wishing well, I thought, like throwing money into water for a wish. Where did that come from? Are we bribing naiads for favors?

This summer I went to Niagara Falls on the American side where you can get right close to the rapids in places where the roiling water eddies and slows, mere feet from the catastrophic edge. Oh, the embankment is well worn by daredevils who dip their toes in, myself, I wouldn't trust the current or the guy behind me who might push. It is a juxtaposition of calm waters and suicide. Ducks paddle amid small hummocks of sod and reeds in the little cove; not twenty feet away the water smashes against the bedrock of the cataclysm in frothing madness, rumbling the ground beneath your solitary human feet.

Really, to experience the Falls, walk on the American side on Goat Island. Incredibly terrific and there are terraces built to view the water's rush. It can be hypnotizing, but even more so is the amount of money thrown into the fray; it's found back by the ducks, in a humble dry spot near the edge of the WPA concrete construction, and in depths of the water reflecting sunlight. More that one person has been skedaddled and arrested from trying to retrieve coins in less than safe areas.

But think of it, before white people began throwing money over, natives tossed in maidens and young boys. No gold in this area, but I bet a pile of clam beads is down in the abyss. After the missionaries and trappers arrived, who threw in the first ducat or whatever the monetary exchange was at the time? Now take it through the seventeen hundreds, eighteen hundreds. What sort of coins are at the bottom or jammed in rocks from those time periods?

Even now, the flying eagle quarters and Mercury head dimes must weigh in at a few thousand, Indian head pennies, silver dollars, Liberty Bell half dollars included. It has to be a treasure trove for the numismatic tribe.

Because I have an aquarium and use spoons to anchor down the melon I feed Cadillac, I have learned that silver is highly antibacterial. Using a silver spoon kills all the bacteria within the tank, evidenced by white cloudiness a day later. Not good for the fish, took me a while to figure it out, stainless steel is no problem, the cleaning cycle continues.

In your water pitcher, if you have one that filters the yck out, is a bit of silver so that green stuff doesn't grow up the sides of the container. My question is, what effect is all the silver and copper coinage having on the bacterial environment of the Lower River? Without good bacteria, the gunk stagnates into an anaerobic sluice of pollution and a potential zone unable to support the traditional species of fish with ample oxygenated water.

Tomorrow I will go out and try to annoy people on street corners so that I don't bore you with this science stuff and have a really good story to tell. I am exhausted from the hurdy-gurdy of waking up at 722 this morning when I have to be at work by 755. Guess what I looked like today. Professional was not it.

So, I am finishing up my cards and whatnot, and sitting with Martian who is a bit subdued today, to my concern. Then to bed to bed to bed and sleep sleep sleep. You have pennies in your pocket, you don't have to throw them in water to make a wish. Toss them onto the ground for someone to find. Leave a quarter on a bus stop bench for a traveler. It's a bit of fun, and will come back to you two times over.

Dream on, loves.

Wauf!

I have been fouled, felled, and fella--wait, no no, that's not possible. But here is anarchy! Subdivision! Ferocious, unasked for undermining of my cherished bookmarks and files. Damn these freaking updates!!

Firefox, how can you not trust Firefox! The fritzes that I have been complaining about were in control of everything except the refrigerator and stove. Firefox conveniently offers an update that kicks invasive ass. I succumb, and today when I turn on the electronic hoodoo, my screensaver, Mr. Kitty, has been replaced by the vapid landscaping of Windows XP for crying out loud and where is this from?

I hunt for Mr. Kitty, click on My Pictures to find no one at home, nada, not one little file photo visible in a vast hinterland of white screen. Everything is gone, everything. Now why does a fifty-six year old woman have a kitten screensaver? Because just looking at his face makes me happy, unlike the open grassy supersonic meadow of Windows. That just makes me nervous, who knows what's in that grass, your horse could hit a gopher hole and the both of you would be ass over teacups.

I go to bookmarks which have also been slickered into whatever they're selling, no Reference, Science, Shopping, Animals and Companions, or Klaus Nomi. Shriek!! The saved Klaus pictures are gone! Lyrics, images, kaput. This is violation, they must be in this machine somewhere, click click click. Firefox simply lifts its leg and widdles on my demands for my stuff back. I cannot get onto MSN for email, AIM to frantically IM Brian, or find any semblance of my instilled memory.

I go to poach two eggs for supper, land them in salsa on a corn tortilla with avocado and sit and eat. One of the prepped gourds gets painted in a Keith Haring style, god knows what my son will have to go through to clean out this place once I'm gone, and I then rouse myself back to the computer, ears down, to beat my way onto MySpace and lament.

But Waht? Waht's this?! I started a scan for viruses before leaving, and find a frozen screen upon return; the way out of this is a manual restart after whose flickering screen stabilizes appears MR. KITTY!!! I AM SO HAPPY!!! Everything else is back, and the update is still in place so things are running a bit smoother. Sound is still missing, some images are not loading, but my desktop is fuzzfaced and cute, the kind of cute that washes away the injustices and whining people of the day. Go to hell, says the face, I am cute and you do not matter any further, do not bother my Susan with your emotional instabilities.

Oh yay. Yay. Sigh. It is after nine, have to get to work double early as the head pork chop of the school system is coming in for a visit to see if the seventh and eighth grade can be stuffed into our space. I am turning in. It's been a day, going into work related matters would only cause you to go out and get sterilized and we really don't want that.

December, one of my favorite months only because I think it is the most fun to say. Good night, O things that go bump in the night.

Pie

For those of you not interested in flat baked goods mounded with fillings, there will be a short entertainment at the end. The rest of us will be here in the laboratory doing science stuff with pie. The dark nights and cold winds bring out the baking gene in this northeast city, you can smell the golden crusty goodness all the way to Syracuse.

Actually, that's the General Mills plant where they toast Cheerio's and Lucky Charms. Drive by the loading dock, sparrows are rolling in the gutters too fat to fly from the spilled grains and flour. Sugar up, little buddies, that Cap'n Crunch will keep you warm in the strongest of gales.

However, I came to write to you today about pie, the preferred dessert in my social circles. Cake, yeah yeah yeah, usually dry with overloaded sugared frosting and needs a glass of milk to get it down, little nutrition, wheat, eggs, sugar, butter. It's okay, I haven't ever turned down a cupcake, but pie has no peer. Magna cum laude, is pie.

It ranges from savory pies such as tourtiere, chicken, and quiche to the light pies of meringue to the heavy workhorses such as a mincemeat which you wouldn't turn your nose up at if I made it. Make my own mince, (hitches thumbs in suspenders), and therefore avoid a lot of the icky candied citron that tastes like a lozenge from the bottom of grandma's purse last opened in 1940. Oh mince. While cooking it makes the house smell like Christmas in the European fairy stories and will drag Charles Dickens out of the crypt to sit at the table, if you are interested that sort of thing. It's that good.

I modified the Joy of Cooking recipe and leave out the suet, for god's sake I don't want to kill anyone. And the citron, a little orange and lemon peel is good, but no angelica. Ptooey. I use a round of beef ground twice at the butcher's, sour cherries, pounds of raisins and currants, walnuts, a bit of the aforementioned candied peels, brandy, apples, and a concoction of spices in amounts that could mummify a small animal. Here kitty kitty. My gosh, this is exciting.

The crust is made of flour and butter, salt. I heard on NPR that adding a titch of vodka to the crust in lieu of a portion of the H2O makes a finer, crisper crust, as the flour gluten reacts only with water, the alcohol evaporates and etc. Can't recommend it, went to the liquor store for a cheap bottle of vodka and my god what on earth these prices, could rubbing alcohol be used instead? No no no. But the science teases me, I know eventually I'll cave and buy a bottle and then I'll let you know if it works.

I do make a good crust (snaps suspenders, chews on a wheatstalk). Julia's recipe, and if you have to ask Julia who, well, get with the program. My apple peeler and I could get a pie inside the oven in twenty five minutes at one time. In Florida I squeezed those gigundo lemons for juice, mixed it with eggs and we lived on lemon meringue. Rhubarb custard sweetened with strawberries and oranges. Woof. Blueberry, straight laced sour cherry, raisin pie, Canadian butter tarts. Key lime. Coconut cream. Banana cream. Amish lemon.

The only disaster I came up with was from a southern gullah churchified pamphlet for cantaloupe pie. I'm sure it was my fault. The texture was too weird, the flavor sickish sweet. I'm sure you've had better luck. Let me know.

Well, of course all this pie talk has me a hankering for a wedge (spits---ding!), and I'll go dig out a bit of that mince I was caterwaulin' about prior to this here discussion. Oh, for all of you that stuck through this that really were not interested in pie, here is the promised short entertainment: 3.14. 22/7 (hyuck hyuck).

See you later, gators.

Sleep well, Charles Dickens. Sleep well, all.

Hoot

One of my ears is lower than the other by only a quarter of an inch. A smidge. Therefore, any reading glasses on my visage tilt as if I am straight from Woody Woodpeckerville, or a ladies' luncheon with punch. The solution is to buy inexpensive frames from the dollar store and bend them to fit my crooked little haid. This however, throws off the balance of the nose rests, and there I am, back at the beginning of the problem. So spinach, I say.

I have started this paragraph over five times, each subject less interesting than the other. All I can say is, send me your addresses and I will mail you a holiday card with a small, flat prize inside once the prizes arrive. Just ordered a gross of them from my new favorite store on Ebay, and they should be here in a week. No, no clues, you just have to wait and see.

You could send any addresses to my emergency backup email addy, cakebythelake@gmail.com. unless you have my homebase addy or send me a note via MySpace whose security I trust like Russians at KMart. I have basis for this.

When son Brian was in high school, American Field Service offered an exchange program with Russia, during the time Moscow was being invaded by tanks. Our American kids went there, and the Russian kids were to come the next year which they did with Irina, the adult chaperone. Apparently in Alexandria, all stores keep goods away from the customer, behind glass, out of reach. Here, everything is out in the open, which to the Russians seemed like sheer wide-eyed Amehrreekan stoopitness.

One portion of the field tripski was shopping at a locally giant mall, where Irina the adult sat on a bench with open shopping bags on either side of her. Instructions to the students were to steal anything they could lay their mitts on, and drop it in the bag. Sneakers, cameras, batteries, toiletries, it was holiday pillaging with Jingle Bells in the background. They were laughing at the naive Eenglees (English) while tossing Bic razors into Irina's loot bags, probably to later shave her chest, no lie.

They. Had. No. Idea. Regarding. Camera. Technology. and that they were on every security video channel while being followed by plainsclothesmen, detectives, security guards, ticked off store clerks, and K-9 dogs. Oh ho ho. Security surrounded Irina and told her to round up her gang, and the Cheektowaga police were called. All swag was returned to the stores, and all stores but one dropped charges. The one department store called their lawyers in NYC, and would have turned it into an In-ternational In-cident, except local authorities from American Field Service dissuaded that idea in a gesture of sanity.

"That eesint us'" spouted Irina as she watched the videotape. "And besites, noh bahddy beleef you, I vill deny effreetink" and she was correct. Communication was at the time so poor, that it took up to half an hour for a phone connection, and then you weren't sure who was on the other sputtering end. They could care less what the Rooskies stole from the Eenglees, more power to them.

In Russia, if you could get away with something, it was a badge of honor to hornswoggle the government. Same rules applied for them here, and the incident didn't stop a similar foray into KMart, where the Russians switched their old sneakers, walking out of the store wearing new.

It made some of our kids from the high school embarrassed and sad that the students they came to know in Russia would come over here and steal. But what was interesting was that none of it was high-end stuff. Like I said, the bulk of it was sneakers and toiletries like deodorant, make-up, soap, razors, and ointments, things that weren't easily gotten in Russia. When Bri lived with his foster family in Alexandria, there wasn't any dish soap for dishes, nor hot water in the apartment as the government hadn't turned it on yet. Just a rinse in cold water and that's it, for body and bowl.

Well there, plenty of paragraphs describing Chreesmoose cheer, let the balalaikas play.
I am going to start a list of things to do, and will cross off maybe six of them as reality slides into home plate. I talk to you tomorrow, my little hedgehogs, it is dark, the wind still whistles, and the last of fall blows down the street.

Good night, peaceful quiet.