Official Fathers Day Blog *

So, today the alarm shrilled at half-past OH MY F***ING GAWD, WHAT TIME IS IT?

Oh my brain... It hurts...

Several unsavory non-PG-rated phrases later, I got up, washed and dressed and in general tried to make myself presentable. The general consensus is that Mothers Day is the big restaurant traffic-jam-fest, but here in Tumbleweed Junction, Fathers Day is taken very seriously indeed.

Soon (ha!) after a lot of screaming and running up and down stairs and so forth, my little family found themselves waiting in line at a corporate chain restaurant breakfast buffet. Yep, Grumpy's first disappointment: no regular menu service. I consoled him by pointing out that the special holiday menu mentioned an omelet bar.

Somewhat mollified, the dad of five (also grandad of five) was persuaded to seat himself in a booth, where he had ample time to wonder aloud (key syllable: loud) how long it would take the waitress to fetch his GD Bloody Mary. Answer: A pretty damn long time. Himself was not a happy Dad at this point.

On to the buffet. The Princess and I were picking dubiously at the dismal offerings when we heard an angry man begin to berate a server. Hmm... could it be?

Yep. Apparently, the omelet station cook-server did not understand English. Still, doesn't everyone know that omelets need lots of melted cheese, damn it? The Princess and I slithered back to our booth, our plates filled with odd bits of bread and gravy and fruit. I don't do breakfast. In a perfect Savage world, all eggs would come deviled.

Luckily for me, the breakfast buffet came with champagne. I drank. I picked at my "food." I drank some more. After a while, let me tell you, I loved everybody. My family, my fellow diners, the staff, the kitchen help responsible for concocting the gelatinous biscuit gravy...

Defense attorneys would pay to have me on the jury, I'm just sayin'. Who needs E? Just give the Savage Chef some cheap champagne on an empty stomach and sit back and watch the love begin.

Ah well... Since his breakfast was less than delicious, I hope to make it up to the old fart with a fine dinner: Pot roast, artichokes, strawberries, and potatoes so good you'd run over your grandma with the tractor to get some:

Savage Chef's Cheesy Scalloped Potatoes

1 lb. or so potatoes, peeled and sliced thinly (I used Yukon Golds the other day, but russets or just plain taters work just as well)

1/4 c. or so sliced or chopped onion (I used chopped purple onion, on accounta that's what we had)

Maybe a little chopped garlic? Or maybe not--I totally forgot it today

1 t. or so of salt--I like kosher

Enough grinds of black pepper to make a good-sized pinch

1/4 c.( or a whole lot more if you are a Savage) of grated cheddar cheese

2 T. or so of grated parmesan cheese

1 c. heavy cream

Butter your smallish baking dish and layer the sliced potatoes in it. Season them with the salt and pepper. Sprinkle on the onion (and garlic, if using) and top with the cheddar and parmesan. Pour the cream over everything and place uncovered into a 350 degree oven for about an hour. Let sit a few minutes before serving

I am not kidding you. These potatoes are so delicious, you should have to have a gourmet's license to consume them

*For all the Dads who cannot be with their loved ones on this Dad's Day. This means you, Nick. Happy first Father's Day! And happy first Father's Day to Tyler, too!

Pomp and Circumstance and the Savage

So, the big pink pile of stucco is just a stone's throw from the local high school. We like this, on accounta the fireworks. Pretty lights... Big booms... Sparkles...

Next year will be the finale; the baby of the family will graduate, and we will be leaving Tumbleweed Junction.

Ordinarily, graduation day would not rock my world, but I had a sharp shock this week. While looking up something else entirely, I uncovered some sobering information. One of my former high school gradmates has gone and become an astronaut. This is a boy who was in most of my classes, but we were never buds or anything like that. Still, it disturbs me.

An astronaut. My childhood dream job. I am a former sixties child. We dreamed of being astronauts. We knew what sonic booms were. We watched the moon landing on our black and white television sets. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, LIFTOFF!

I am very glad that I never went to any of my high school reunions. I can just imagine it. Everyone there would be either a CEO of some corporation, the owner of their own hugely successful business, a famed neurosurgeon, or an astronaut.

And then there would be me. The housewife. Oh kill me now.

Burn, Baby, Burn

Apparently, when the Savage Chef (with or without her beloved consort Grumpy) goes out to dine, red lights flash and sirens blare in the kitchens of our local vomitoriums. "Drain the fresh oil out of the fryer and dump in that stuff that was sitting in a barrel in the back room when the boss bought the place"(in 1946), they say.

For two days in a row, your Savage Chef has suffered from dyspepsia. First it was the lumpia. Fried black and handed to her in an oil-soaked paper bag, urp--oh, it was not pretty. Still, she tried. Oh, how she tried. She valiantly ate her way through nearly half of the cat-turd-like cylinders before she collapsed, whimpering and convulsing, grease leaking from her mouth and nose and congealing in small, smelly puddles 'neath her writhing limbs.

This morning, she and King Grumpy decided to avail themselves of the hearty cuisine of the local chain ristorante. After a half hour or so, their food arrived. Apparently the cook was channeling Paul Prudhomme during one of his early acid trips. Have you ever eaten a blackened crab cake? No? Well neither had the Savage Chef. She did her best imitation of a sickened cat, pawing at the table in a symbolic attempt to cover the filthy thing.

The meal was comped, but the Savage Chef was left hungry. Grumpy was able to eat his French Dip, but he was made even more grumpy by the sight of his lady left lightheaded and weak. He was so guilty (though it was clearly not his fault) that he completed several home repair projects that he had been putting off. So there is indeed a silver lining inside of every little black cloud, isn't there?

What a Difference a Letter Makes

So, I had occasion to visit The Town Where Grumpy and Savage Met. Yes, it was an historic moment. BTW, the West Coast Grandson is so adorable he should be cloned. Carlsbad Thai food sucks, and your Savage had a sharp shock. She is only just now beginning to recover, aided by tall bourbons and muscular cabana boys with supple fingers.

Now let me tell you, I married a poor man. His ex reamed him out but good, and at the time I was naught but a minimum wage slave. So when it came time to select the traditional wedding set, we went to the best (that we could sort of barely by the skin of our teeth afford).

Rings & Things. Soon, I was the proud possessor of a genuine diamond, one third of a carat on a 14 karat band. It was official. We were engaged.

Never mind that shortly after the nuptials, I dropped my rings down the kitchen sink drain pipe. Thank gawd for the elbow bend pipe. (Or whatever the hell plumbers call it.)

Anyway...

So, there I was. Hungry. Facing a long drive home. But I was also waxing nostalgic. I had to see it. So I drove to the little shopping center.

Something was wrong...

WINGS & THINGS?

With a simple change of one letter, the world had shifted on its axis and I no longer knew what was what. (To sort of quote my dad.)

Well, I guess those signs are kind of expensive, and when all you have to do is change one letter...

Anyway...

I entered the Wingatorium and read the menu. Feeling brave, I selected the spiciest of the wings. I ate. I gulped coke. I drove home with a tear in my eye.

They say you can't go home again. I say you can. You can, but you may have to eat something. And that is not necessarily a bad thing.

The Real Dr. Frankenstein

Long before the invention of mind-numbing tranquilizers such as Ritalin, there was an operation known as the transorbital lobotomy. Quite simply, ice picks were hammered into the eye socket, underneath the upper lids. The picks were then rotated in circles. This was supposed to cure mental illness. Often, however, it created a mindless automaton. One of the most famous lobotomy failures was Rosemary Kennedy, who was forced to spend her entire post-operation life under constant medical supervision.

The transorbital lobotomy was first performed by Dr. Walter J. Freeman in 1946. He did the operation in his office, and sent the victim--er--patient home in a taxi. Dr. Freeman's son reports that the surgical instrument used was in fact an ice pick. Amazingly, Dr. Freeman not only remained out of prison, he went on to do thousands of lobotomies, ruining countless minds and finally killing a patient.

One of his patients was a 12 year old boy named Howard Dully. He tells his story here: http://www.soundportraits.org/on-air/my_lobotomy/page3.php3

The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down

A little less than four years ago, I got internet access. I had never wanted it before. Maybe because of the lingering horror of September 11th, I suddenly had a need to feel connected to the rest of the world. Of course since then, I have used the internet as a shopping mall, the world's biggest reference library, and as a back-fence chat hangout. Ah yes, the chat forums...

I registered on several forums that interested me, but there were two at which I spent a lot of time; perhaps too much time. Now, one of those message boards is no more, yanked out from underneath its increasingly bitchy, feuding participants by the understandably peeved owner. The other sems to be dying slowly; perhaps it will rally, go into remission. I hope so, but I find myself unable to work up a great deal of enthusiasm about the possibility. For me, the ride is over. They're turning out the lights over the midway. It's time to move on.

I am here on blogspot because of a very funny lady who posted on the now-dead forum. Until I read about her blog, I didn't know that there were free sites on which to post your mental meanderings. Welcome to my new addiction, I guess. Goodbye chat forums, hello blogging. By the way, my spell-check does not recognize "blog" or "blogging." Then again, it didn't recognize "Wiccan." It thought I wanted to type "Incan." Is there that much similarity in their rituals? I don't think so.

Citizen Savage

So, 6-6-6 is nearly over. Nothing terrible has happened--yet. We ate veal for dinner, and so made the baby Jesus cry, but so far, no lightening bolts...

I did have a sudden urge to go to church, but that was on account of Bingo; I was feelin' lucky. Instead, I voted, like the good little citizen that I am.

I made cherry muffins and egg salad, verbally tormented a couple of telemarketers, despaired over the faulty structure of my latest novel, and did several crossword puzzles. (In ink! And mom always said I was stoopid!) All in all, it was a typical Savage day.

I really have to get out more.

Though it is not yet summer, here in Tumbleweed Junction it is already hotter than Satan's pizza oven. After my mentally exhausting voting experience, I chose to cool down and relax with this delightfully sweet and refreshing summer punch:


Savage Chef Summer Cocktail

2 oz. light rum

1/2 oz. Cointreau

1 oz. orange juice

1 oz. pineapple juice

1/2 oz. grenadine

twist of lime

Shake with ice and strain into well-chilled glass. Repeat as necessary until those funny politicians make sense, or you pass out in a pool of your own sugary drool.

666 and a Devilish Fudge Sauce

Happy End of the World Day! Won't you join me in drinking a steaming glass of brimstone punch? Take a deep breath. Smell the sulfur! Isn't the inferno gorgeous this time of year?

Today is my father's birthday. 6-6-6. I am the daughter of the Beast. So today, I think I should do something special. Maybe bake an oleander cake, frost it in shining black, and decorate it with bat's blood. Or maybe I will kidnap the neighbor's yappy little ratdog, remove its heart with a nail file, and fry it up in some rendered baby fat.

Nah.

Maybe I will just drink rum and grapefruit until my eyes cross, then make the Savage Chef black cocoa brownies that appeared here on March 22nd. After all, they are nice and dark. As dark as my evil heart, heh-heh...

You know what would be even better? Brownies sundaes, topped with vanilla ice cream and hot fudge sauce!


Savage Chef Hot Fudge Sauce


2 c. heavy cream

6 oz. butter

Melt, then bring to a low simmer.

Add and whisk to dissolve:

1-1/3 c. white sugar

1-1/3 c. dark brown sugar

Reduce heat to very low and whisk in:

2 c. cocoa

1 t. vanilla extract


Do not let the mixture come to a boil!

Keep whisking until it is no longer lumpy.


This hot fudge sauce is so good that you will have to restrain yourself from eating it all with a spoon (or your bare hands) right then and there.

It freezes well too, and some bad, bad people have been known to eat it straight out of the freezer like it was candy.

PSA from DADD (Dipsos Against Dumb Drinkers)

When You Quit Drinking:


After 6 hours, you begin to sober up.

After 12 hours, your balance improves.

After 18 hours, your eyes aren't so red anymore.

After 24 hours, that tremor in your hand is going away.

After 36 hours, your breath no longer kills house plants.

After 48 hours, you find that you have more energy.

After 3 days, you start sleeping through the night.

After 4 days, you begin to think that you will never take a drink again.

After a week, you rob a liquor store, because you haven't had a gawdamm drink all week.

Politics, Drama, and Mother Love

Ooh! Upon reading the mail, I see yet another example of how we mommies look after our cubs. It seems that one of our local political candidates was unfairly attacked in print by an opponent, and by golly, her momma just wasn't going to stand for that, no sir! I hope I am not violating any copyright laws by printing this excerpt from the candidate's mailer. *


--------------


Dear Friend,

My daughter Brenda told me not to worry about it. The nasty political attacks don't bother her. In fact, coming as they do from a politician like Jim ----s, she isn't really surprised--she says she expected it all along.

But I'm her mother--I have to say it bothers me when someone I love is attacked so unfairly. So I insisted she let me personally write you this letter.

---------------------------


**here the letter goes on about a lot of pertinent and uninteresting local stuff**


The good mama closes with:

------------


Brenda's father served his county (sic) proudly in the United States Army. Just before he passed away, he told Brenda, "In your heart, you always know what is right."

So now I couldn't be prouder that Brenda is doing what is right. Her father would be proud, also.

Sincerely,

(the real name of Brenda's mom)

---------------------

So, is that a classic that brings a tear to your eye, or what?

I don't know about you, but I sure need another bourbon!

$$$

*Actually, I don't give a rat's ass if I am.*

Life in a Western Town...

So, it's been a while since I sent out any smoke signals from the big pink pile of stucco, but rest assured, it was for a damn good reason. My very own little grandson came to visit me, all the way from Hawaii. I don't want anyone to think I am prejudiced or anything like that, but he is without a doubt the most perfect little creature ever created. If y'all are lucky, one day he will rule over you, and life will be better than good, it will be Zekelicious.

Oh yeah, he also brought his mama with him. I am rather partial to her, as I gave birth to her by my very own self, and she is brilliant and kind and beautiful. But enough about these other people. Let's talk about me.

I survived a Toilet Spider incident! Not since Okinawa have I been so ooky-fied! Of course, the spider on The Rock was about 8 inches across (the dreaded banana spider) and the Tumbleweed Junction spider was about 7-1/2 inches smaller, but still, the experience was a traumatic one, and I think I deserve a big drinky and a bit of a lie-down.

Oh, and some chocolate, too. I am suffering from baby withdrawal, and I am weepy.