Another Food-Related Post, Of Sorts

Chai teabags. Fragrant and tasty. My new addiction.

Betrayal

So, Savage and Grumpy got all excited about the town chili cook-off and even ordered two enormous cast iron pots, weighing in at 46 pounds each. Now the UPS woman hates me.

I set about seasoning them, a process that can take weeks, especially since they can only go into the oven one at a time, sans their lids. I injured my arm lifting the behemoths. So I had to cease the seasoning process for a while.

Meanwhile, I tried to find out about the much ballyhooed chili cook-off. For some reason, I could not find any info about registering for it. There were no fliers floating about town, no application form in the daily fishwrap and no one I spoke to seemed to know anything about it. Yet it was always mentioned in the newspaper articles about the upcoming Ramona festival.

As it turned out, we had to be out of town on the day of the festival and alleged chili cook-off. A son-in-law returning safely from Iraq beats a chance to show off our cooking skills any old day.

The other day, I got ahold of a copy of the local weekly and learned why we couldn't get any info on the cook-off. Apparently our town council, eager as always to build community spirit (yeah, right) decided that the chili cook-off was for restaurants only.

Way to go, Tumbleweed Junction!

Blue Jean Blues

So, today this young girl asked us older women, "How can I make my jeans look all frayed and thready?"

I remember having to work on jeans before wearing them. We used to wear them to the beach, wade into the ocean, let the sun bake them dry on our legs, rub them with sand, repeat as necessary.

This was back in prehistoric days, when jeans were dark blue, as stiff as tin, and you had to buy them several sizes too large to end up with a good fit.

Kids are so spoiled today, I swear! (snicker)

Seriously though, most of the jeans I see for sale nowadays are already frayed, faded and thready, with holes in them and all. No wonder I have to buy my 16 year old daughter new jeans all the time. The jeans are already completely pooped out when the kids get them!

signed, Granny Savage. (sigh.)

P.S. We'd also have rather been beat with the nerd stick at student assembly before buying pre-embroidered and decorated jeans. That stuff was personal!

The Savage Chef Was Cooking Tonight

Shrimp done the Scampi style and such, but the 1000 Island dressing for the salad was sooo much better than the sugary slime one gets at the grocery.

It is lazy-girl-easy, too!



Well, just because I like you:



Thousand Island Dressing


1 c. mayonnaise--yeah I know how to make it, but I used Best Foods. Sue me, bitches!

1/4 c. chili sauce--seriously, who besides freaks like myself buy this? Don't know. Don't care.

1 sieved or very-small-minced hard boiled egg

2 T. tiny-minced onion

1/2 c. tiny-minced celery (I did some of the leaves, too. I am sooo about the flavor!)

2 T. tiny green, pimento-stuffed olives, minced tiny (worked out to about 8 of them suckers)

2 T. Cornichons, minced tiny (wee picklets, gotten at Cost Plus-I used 4)

2 T. fresh parsley, chopped tiny

2 t. fresh lemon juice

1/4 t. salt

1/4 t. freshly ground black pepper

Whomp them all together. Voila!



And lots of wine and rum and juice. Yes.

Goodbye

I came here, to this quiet place, to say goodbye to you. You were always someone I looked up to. I felt that you would always be there for me, and for the people that I love. I believed in you.

Let me fill you in on what's been happening lately. In case you don't already know.

Every day there is more violence and more hatred, and last week I quit reading the newspaper because every morning I would read it at breakfast and every morning I would go to school nauseated and I didn't know why. Maybe you think that sounds really naive, but I honestly didn't make the connection. Every day, every damn day! Murders and rapes and baby killings and cancer and war and sewage and terrorists and race riots and disease and hate and hate and hate.

There is a man who lives down the street from me, his name is Georgie. Georgie is a man in shape and size but really he is just a sweet little boy and that is all he will ever be. Georgie liked to play hopscotch in front of his house. He always carried a box of chalk in his back pocket to draw the hopscotch squares on the sidewalk. Everybody in the neighborhood liked Georgie and no one here would ever hurt him. But a couple of months ago some guys, I think they were some kind of gang, came into the neighborhood and saw Georgie playing alone. I was home sick and I saw what happened from my bedroom window. The gang guys formed a circle around Georgie and they took his chalk and threw it into the streets. They were all laughing, except for Georgie, who started to cry, really blubber you know, wiping his nose with his hand. One of the guys started scuffing out the hopscotch game with his boots, and another one took a can of spray paint from his jacket and began to write stuff on the sidewalk. Georgie tried to get away and they pushed him down and kicked him and spit on him and then they held his head and sprayed paint in his face. I was already calling 911 and then I ran down to the street to try to help Georgie. The gang guys had run away, and I tried to wipe the paint off of Georgie, but I couldn't and then I was crying but Georgie was quiet and he went away in the ambulance and when he came home again he had a brown cane for walking and a white cane because he was blind and he can't play hopscotch anymore and that was his favorite thing.

I meant to tell you a bunch of other stuff, like how my cousin Rosa, who is only two, has cancer and all her hair fell out and she throws up all the time, and how Mama's new boyfriend hurt me the other night when I was in bed and Mama was at work, and how it seems like bad people have all the money and fun and they never get in trouble but people I know who are good get sick and die and it seems like you just don't care. I think maybe you are only for some people, but not for me or the people I know. I have thought about this for a long time, and I just can't believe in you anymore.

Goodbye, God.

Goodbye.

There Should Be a Song

In my house (The Big Pink Pile O' Stucco) there is a little room. It has no door-- it is more of an alcove off the front room. When I saw it, I knew its purpose. Grumpy got to work with the wood and the saw and so forth, time marched on, and the little room became our library. Every time I go in there, I feel good.

I lie. I do not feel "good." I feel touched by God.

It is the place where The Books live. Can I possibly make you understand how happy this little room makes me? I sit on the little loveseat with the cheesy purple velvet slipcover and I stare at my precious paper babies. Sometimes, a teeny bit of drool falls from my lips onto the book that I hold in my blessed hands.

Books. Beautiful collections of words.

I want to kiss them. I want to eat them.

Okay. I guess I know who is going to be sitting alone at lunch tomorrow. I don't care. I have books.

I'm sorry.

(Not really.)

I can't help it.

They are so beautiful!

Girls Gone Soggy

We came home tonight, drenched and damp. Sudden rain, which in our part of the planet is rare indeed. It was a good thing indeed to find bourbon waiting. A hot man and a cool bourbon makes the Savage smile.