Doing my part to disrupt the space-time continuum.

Posts tagged ‘family’

Snow Log – Day 4: Growing Increasingly Concerned

6 am: Every tick of the clock signifies another moment lost, buried beneath the snow and ice, hold-up in our home in Georgia. At least we are together and warm, I tell myself. At least we have cheese. But after 4 days, a stunning revelation has emerged: even cheese is not enough. And I’m troubled by the thoughts that haunt me … worried that we may plummet to depths, the likes of which, this family has never seen.

7:15 am: The disturbing behavior of my cabin mates gives pause to the thought that they, like me, may be on the verge of utter madness. I must keep a close eye on the small one. He appears to be up to something, coming in and out of the house with sharp icicles, pretending to harbor pride over the size of each one. But will he use them against us … or ME … his mother?! I’m careful to admire the icicles as they glisten in the light so as not to upset him … but I’m watching out of the corner of my eye for any sudden movement.

9:32 am: Found my larger cabin mate pilfering about in the kitchen claiming to be looking for another “coffee pod.” I think the truth is something far more sinister, for he NEVER has a second cup at home. I believe he’s plotting something and may have aligned himself with the small one. They’ll be growing hungry soon … I must prepare myself for whatever comes next … even if they turn against me. I must try to save this family!

12:47 pm: As predicted, lunch time is slowly bringing a level of angst to the males of my group in spite of the fact that the snow is, indeed, MELTING. It appears they’ve turned a certain measure of expectation toward ME to provide sustenance beyond grilled cheese sandwiches.  Being snow-bound has caused a discernible deterioration in my culinary faculties … yet I fear that if I fail them, they may resort to something so dark that I cannot survive the evil. I MUST think! THINK! What else can I do with this bless-ed cheese! There must be something!! I’ll send the small one outside for some fresh air so I can work without distraction.

1:15 pm: The small one returned hungry from “playing” in the slushy snow. The large one has taken a break from his “work” on his computer. I’ve contemplated the thought that they may be using some sort of telepathy to communicate. I’ve managed to convince them that sustenance is coming – at least enough to keep them settled for the time being. The small one has insisted that tomato sauce out of a can will provide him the nourishment he needs. But I don’t trust him with the sharp lid once it’s removed. The tall one remains stoic, but I’m not easily fooled. He’s tapped his cheese-tolerance, anxiously combing the pantry for something more … I fear he will snap like a mouse trap when he sees the paltry offerings. Then what?! My confidence in his ability to remain sane is waning. I feel his clouds rolling in. He is on the brink. As am I.

3:45 pm: They’ll never find me here! I’ve been hiding in the back of my closet for almost 3 hours.  I know I must escape and find a non-cheese food product lest the madness overcome us all. I’ve contemplated the worst: Baking a mixture of the remaining cheddar and the last of the prune jam at 350 degrees until golden brown. What I wouldn’t give for just 1 can of Spam …

No wait! That would be worse.

5:02 pm: I’ve not heard a sound in hours but I can hear the snow continuing to melt. Perhaps the males have devoured one another? Maybe the tall one overtook the small one and is lying in wait. Either way, I remain alone … here in this closet … wondering how we could have ever anticipated JOY in this snow storm to begin with. Georgians are not prepared for such an event.  I was not prepared. Next time, (if there IS a next time) I will take another course.

In the meantime, I’m left to consider my present circumstances  … cheeseless, Spamless, hungry and alone in this cold closet fearing I’ve lost my family in this snowy madness.

Awaiting Snow

Living in the South means that when the forecast calls for snow, everyone in my house gets REALLY excited! I am no exception!

I spent the day nesting and preparing. In my head, the dialog went like this:

ME: We might be stuck inside all day tomorrow because of snow!

ME: How exciting! Better tidy up so it’s a pleasant place to be stuck!

ME: You are soooo right! But what about food?

ME: Gosh! Let’s run to our local grocer and buy all the bread.

ME: Ok. Let’s get some of those little packets of hot chocolate, too. You know… the kind with those little mini-marshmallows.

ME: Isn’t it just STUPID the way ‘marshmallow’ is spelled?! It should be ‘marshmEllow’. How annoying!

ME: Yeah! I know what you mean. It IS stooopid. Now I’m mad. Let’s also get oatmeal. Oatmeal is a great breakfast for snowy days.

Then I cleaned all day.

Right now, we’re hunkered down in our tidy, snuggly home …. fireplace ablaze, marshmallows melting in hot chocolate … and we’re waiting – waiting – waiting for snow. It’s just so exciting … in spite of the minor spelling annoyance.

Happy Snow Day, Y’all!

 

 

Mary Invents Bullet points

This isn’t exactly a “Merry Christmas” post. It’s really just Christmas story musing. Since virtually no one will be sitting around reading blog posts on Christmas, maybe it’s an okay follow-up to the holiday cheer.

Hardly a Christmas has gone by that I haven’t contemplated the plight of Mary, Jesus’ mom.

I don’t know how many Christmases I’ve spent weeping for that poor girl, while at the same time, relishing the story behind the story: That she was CHOSEN by god for a blessed miracle.

It was intriguing to think how stealthy the whole thing came down. Mary and Joseph, not yet married, not yet doin’ the nasty and yet, BLAM! There she is, preggers, having to hide from an entire community that would just-as-soon stone her as poot in her direction if word got out. Then there’s Joseph. Good guy, by all accounts. Goes so far as to consider ‘releasing’ Mary from their engagement without the finger-pointing and public humiliation that society would have obliged. Until …

An angel arrives on the scene to say, “Whoa! Dude! Hold up! God, like, TOTALLY has this thing under control. He’s been cheating on you with Mary but it’s cool! The groom in the womb will save you from your doom!” (That sounds just a little less stupid when you remember that Jesus is called the ‘bride groom’ and the church is called the ‘bride of Christ’. )

Naw. Nevermind. It’s still stupid. Anwyay

Joseph, who must have been pretty much freaked out of his mind at that point, rolls with the whole thing because, truthfully, what’s he GONNA do? Say to the creator of the universe who could crush him like a cockroach, “No thanks  … I’ll just peace-out and leave you two love birds alone…” ???? Me thinks not.

In any case, the person REALLY left in a predicament was Mary. She was what? 14 years old? And there she is, left with all that responsibility. She had a baby to birth, a funeral to plan and a resurrection to organize! All without benefit of prenatal vitamins or pain meds. And who was going to help her get all that stuff done? Nobody was going to believe her cockamame story in the first place:  “No! I did NOT have sex with that man!”

No cigar!!!! No one would believe her. It’s a total pickle and hardly fair.

Now, I know that for all the die-hards out there who simply cannot tolerate anyone messing with their Christmas story, (let alone their bible interpretations), this post is a total knicker-twister. Let me just say, I was once a die-hard myself with a Christian resume’ as long as your Christmas list so I know how this can wrankle with the winky. But I stand behind the notion that surely the god of the universe could have come up with a plan that didn’t hang a powerless little girl out to dry.

I dunno … it’s just my thought.

Her Belly Cried Hungry

Many years ago, I was introduced to the poetry of musician, author and poet, Joy Harjo. Her words are brilliant and her insight, astounding.

The poem I’ve posted here springs directly from the stirrings I felt after reading Harjo’s She Had Some Horses. While my poetry finds itself a mere ‘wannabe’ by comparison, I love to play and some of the best toys are words, as my mother once told me. So in the style of Joy Harjo, I present this work in progress:

Her Belly Cried Hungry

Her belly cried hungry after eating crow
Her belly cried hungry at feasts of self-indulgence on
shiny, silver platters
Her belly cried hungry devouring self-help books and
the splintered shelves that house them
Her belly cried hungry consuming the bounty
of a creek bejeweled with pebbles
Her belly cried hungry purging rage on skin-soft pillows
Her belly cried hungry ingesting pills from palms of torn, pink flesh
—- Her belly cried hungry

Her belly cried hungry when she swallowed her tears
Her belly cried hungry chewing fat-marbled promises
Her belly cried hungry savoring promises that she kept
Her belly cried hungry as she licked the wounds
of the child inside her
Her belly cried hungry as she gorged at the table of sin
Her belly cried hungry at pristine banquets with bleach, white linen
Her belly cried hungry, full of swallowed pride
Her belly cried hungry relishing a strength she didn’t know she had
—- Her belly cried hungry

Her belly cried hungry sipping holy wine and fresh, blessed bread
Her belly cried hungry rolling idle prattle on her tongue
Her belly cried hungry stuffed full of anger
Her belly cried hungry as she bit the hand that feeds her
Her belly cried hungry while eating her words
Her belly cried hungry, growing fat while growing thin
—- Her belly cried hungry

Her belly always cried hungry though never truly empty …
And her belly always cried hungry, though never really full.

The Fascination of A Dead Frog

We walked side by side after the rain stopped. The park was almost entirely empty. I guess no one wants to  go for a walk right after it rains. He ran on ahead toward the creek.

The thing about 10 year old boys is that anything that’s gross, sticky, bloody or puky is THE most fascinating thing beyond all human reason. “Mom! Mom!” he yelled,  “LOOOOOOK! It’s a FRRRROGGGGGG!”

By the time I’d caught up, he was knelt down on one knee. “It’s deeeeaaaad,” he said in a low, slow and reverent tone as he poked the remains of the decedent with a stick.

It wasn’t just dead. That fucker was flat. Flat-Dead. Squished … as if  he’d gotten trampled by an entire HERD of bull frogs.

My son was spellbound by the crime scene. “Ew” he whispered, “Look at the guts.” I leaned in closer looking more at my son than the remains.

“Oh,” I said, trying to lighten the moment, “I’m sure the little guy is fine!” I nudged my son gently with my elbow. “Looks like its just sleeping,” I tried to coax a smile.

Silence fell. Blink – pause – blink.

“Mom…” he began as his voice grew frustrated, “Really?! I mean … No. Just … ugh … No! It is NOT sleeping … It’s deeaaad!” Poke. Poke.

“Aw, c’mon now! Don’t be so negative Mr. Gloomy Pants!” I encouraged. “Give the poor little guy the benefit of the doubt! Maybe he’s just tired or maaaaybeeee….” I said trying to rouse his sense of humor, “Mayyybeee he just got back from a huge frog party and he needs some time to recuperate? You know … take a nice little shower? Maybe knock back a juicy quarter-pounder … with cheese?”

Blank looks on 10-year-olds are hard to ignore when they last 6 hours. It’s even harder when you can clearly see the wheels turning as they inwardly battle the inevitable, horrible truth: That they share YOUR DNA. Finally, he broke the silence,  “Do you SEE that gray stuff? I’m like a thousand per cent sure it’s his brains.” Poke.   

I was determined to make that kid laugh, even in the face of the gruesome scene that lay before us.  “Well … that doesn’t mean he’s not okay in a manner of speaking,” I began. “I mean, you could wear him as a hat or maybe you guys could hang out and play Wii? Look!” I said as I used a twig to lift what I think was a leg, “He’s flat enough that I bet you could use him as a Debit Card! You know …  you could do a little shopping…?”

I bit my lip and waited for a grin, a chuckle … a something… but no. He sat back on the concrete in utter defeat with his head in his hands. All hope was lost. His mother would never be anything other than weird and that frog would ever be anything other than dead.

I put my hand on my despondent little guy’s shoulder and proceeded tenderly, “Son … Seriously… Never mind what I just said … ” Slowly  he raised his head and met my eyes. “Honey … Dead frogs don’t make good Debit Cards … just trust me on this one.”

Rose-Colored Glasses, Crocs and a Big, Green Booger

My 3 kids amaze me.

Each is unique, smart and beautiful. Of course, I’m the materfamilias, so it’s not like you’re gonna hear me say, “My kids suck! They’re gross! Ew!” Lucky for me, they don’t suck and they aren’t gross so when I blather on and on about the wonders of my kids, all you can really do is just sit there and look pretty.

2 of our 3 kids have jumped the Mother Ship and are now navigating the wonders of the world on their own. I no longer get to screw up their lives on a day-to-day basis … only intermittently and even then, my efforts aren’t taken as seriously as they once were. Damn kids.

Me in my Rose Colored Glasses

When it comes to how I view my offspring, I am quite guilty of donning the proverbial rose-colored glasses. But for me, it’s not that I don’t SEE the flaws. Oh, I see them. Like a big green booger, I see them clearly. It’s just that the glasses help me focus on the potential found even in a booger if it belongs to my kid. It could be formed into something useful, I tell myself, Perhaps glue or add glitter and bedazzle  some Crocs with it. (Crocs are so ugly, they’d probably look BETTER with a glittery booger stuck on them.)

Anyway, the point is this; I think most of us moms do that sort of thing. Not, bedazzle Crocs with boogers, but we view our kids with a hopeful eye and a vision for the future that often INCLUDES the flaws, the weaknesses and the imperfections.

It’s probably true that we’d prefer to view our kids as perfect and overlook the flaws entirely. But in my opinion, if we’re smart, we won’t do that. Instead, we’ll embrace the imperfections every bit as much as the perfections and in doing so, find ourselves  balancing in that wondrous place in the middle where unconditional love lives.

The fact is, it’s often our flaws that make us interesting, unique and … well … US. That’s all the more reason to slip on the Rose Colored Glasses for a clear view of the very things that make our kids the spectacularly unique creatures they are!

Naughty, Cheesy… and What the Hell?

There is ONE thing on the planet that – if it were to disappear tomorrow, I’d be like …

What the hell …?!!?

If this one thing were gone, it would severely challenge the point of living. From whence would come the rhyme? The reason? The purpose for being? Oh yes! You know what I’m talking about!

It’s CHEESE, my friend. CHEESE.

For cheese to disappear from my world would mean I’d have to pack my smelly little suitcase, hop on the nearest Mother Ship and find a new planet. Hopefully, one made entirely out of cheese, where the inhabitants place cheese wheels atop their heads as an adornment and hang those little Laughing Cow Mini Babybel cheese pellets from their earlobes. That’d be neat. I’d like that. I’d be like, Whoa! You you look hot with that cheese wheel on your head, and they’d be like, Whoa! Have one of my wedgies to become a sexy cheese head like us! and I’d be like, Whoa! Sure! Thanks! and they’d be like, Whoa. Come join us for some Stromboli!

Which brings me to the point of this post: Stromboli.

(That’s probably THE DUMBEST segue you have ever read, but trust me, it will be a dumb little bridge worth crossing.)

This recipe for Stromboli is little more than lust and passion rolled up in bread dough and baked at 375 degrees. And Oh, CHEESE  …  How you-complete-me.

I first discovered this recipe when I was trolling around on AllRecipes.com getting off on the food porn. The original poster, Jude Mulvey, titled the dish 3 Meat Stromboli.

While the name is somewhat provocative and could possibly solicit an improper thought, for the sake  a more PG13 type of food naughtiness, I re-named the dish 3 CHEESE Stromboli. Maybe not as sexy to some, but a total turn-on to me.


3 Cheese Stromboli: Great for fattening up you skinny bitches reading this post.

Having made this dish like … one hundred million times … I am confident in declaring Jude utterly and entirely brilliant in all ways Stromboli. The dish is simple, easily manipulated (I could REALLY get naughty here but I’ll refrain) and out of the ball park DE-LISH. I love it so much, I may just roll around in it naked again next time I make it.

Here’s all the goodies you’ll need:

1 loaf frozen bread dough, thawed
1/4 pound thinly sliced salami, deli ham and pepperoni
1/4 pound thinly sliced provolone cheese
2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese
1/2 cup grated Romano or Parmesan cheese (For the love of cheese, do not use the power crap! Grate the real thing!)
1 tablespoon garlic powder
1 tablespoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon dried parsley flakes
1 teaspoon pepper
1 egg yolk, beaten

Here’s how you make it:

1. Let dough rise until doubled, according to package directions. Punch down. Roll each loaf into a 15-in. x 12-in. rectangle. Arrange a fourth of the salami, ham, pepperoni and provolone cheese over each rectangle. Sprinkle each with a fourth of the mozzarella cheese, Romano cheese, garlic powder, oregano, parsley and pepper.
2. Roll up each rectangle jelly-roll style, beginning with a long side. Seal seams and ends. Place seam side down on two greased baking sheets. Brush with egg yolk.
3. Bake at 375 degrees F for 25-30 minutes or until golden brown. Let stand for 5 minutes before slicing. Serve warm.

Just so you know, I’m fully aware that this is in no way on your skinny bitch diet. Screw that! Stromboli told me to tell you that it doesn’t give a happy rat’s ass how fat your ass gets. All it wants is your love and affection and a little food passion once in a while!