Savage Tells All

2008-03-24T22:01:00.000-07:00

Because I am a cook, I love my pots and pans. I love my ladles and my wooden spoons and my mandoline that makes the most perfect waffled potato slices ever. Most of all, I love my knives. Big heavy Henckels, cut through anything and ask for more. I still love them all, but tonight I found a new love, a new culinary helper. I wish I could post a picture of him here, but words will have to suffice. I am talking about the Haul-Master Bigfoot Hand Truck from Harbor Freight. I love my Big Blue!

http://www.harborfreight.com/cpi/ctaf/displayitem.taf?itemnumber=37520

Imagine suddenly finding your weenychunk girly self transformed into a huge macho pro wrestler type person, able to life 700 pounds and transport it almost anywhere you want. Rrraawrr!

See, I just ran out of room for my cookbooks, as I was passing through downtown Carlsbad yesterday, and discovered the most wonderful little used bookstore: Fahrenheit 451, (not related to the late lamented Laguna Beach store, but a jewel box of a shop, with marvels to be found in every nook and cranny) and loaded up some new treasures. The owner is incredibly helpful, by the way. Do drop in, if you are in that neck of the continent.

Well, getting back to Big Blue. I bought him for Grumpy, and he lives out in the garage. (Blue, I mean, not Grumpy!)

Though if he doesn't behave...

Anyway, I got tired of tripping over the stacks of cookbooks, to which I had just added a big pile of great finds from Fahrenheit 451, including Vincent and Mary Price's "A Treasury of Great Recipes." Since it was too late to slap Grumpy awake and make him go to Home Depot and buy wood and build me more shelves, I was quite pleased to find some old, forgotten crapshelves in the garage. Left over from when we lived overseas, covered with dust and spiderwebs but nevertheless appearing functional, I thought that surely they would do. I tried to wrench one free from its surrounding junk, with the idea of dragging it across the yard and into the house.

Dear Zeus and Hera, but pressboard weighs a ton!

Then my eye espied Big Blue. Together, he and I made short work of the task. Yo-ee-oh! Yo-oh!

I may have bought him for Grumpy, but now he is mine.

If you had asked me yesterday to list my favorite culinary aids, I would have said my knives, my little oskar, and my cast iron frying pan. Today I would add: Big Blue.

I Look Like a Murder Victim

2007-08-03T22:23:00.000-07:00

You know what? It's impossible to stone cherries and remain unsullied.
Good thing I wore my ugliest old house rag clothes, because I am spattered with cherry juice from head to foot. Yes I wore an apron, but it only covers the front of my torso, so my sleeves, arms, hands, face, and lower legs are dimpled with pink. Well, actually my hands are pretty damn reddish all over, as I had to catch the pits in my hand, so as not to blow out the semi-new garbage disposal machine.

Why am I covered in cherry stain, you ask? Am I making a pie for the cherry pie loving Grumpy?

No.

I have embarked on a mission far more important than pastry.

I am attempting to create the perfect cocktail.

So far, I have learned how to create my own simple syrup, grenadine, and sweet and sour. Today I made homemade maraschino cherries. Now you must understand, these cherries will be nothing like the garishly hued, strongly sweetened orbs you can buy at any store. These cherries are the real thing. Real, fat, fresh Washington cherries, pitted and gently placed in a warm bath of Luxardo maraschino liqueur. They are currently resting on my kitchen counter and tomorrow (when I empty the fridge of all the food for tomorrow's family reunion picnic) they will go in the fridge, to rest and ferment.

I am a somewhat impatient person, but I will sit on my hands and wait for my cherries. What else can I do?

I'm drinking cheap red wine right now, and eyeballing my cherries.

Life, and the Meaning of Ass

2007-07-26T00:21:00.000-07:00

Some things rise and fall. Some things fall away. But the ass is with us, always. If you are blessed with a great ass, all you have to do to maintain it is to perform a bit of exercise now and then, or have one of those butt-lift operations that I hear they do in Brazil. Tits may come and tits will surely fall, but if your ass falls, it is your own damn fault.

It is said that there are tit men, ass men, and leg men. Do not believe this. All men are all of those things. Especially the tit and ass parts. Be there a man so dead that he cannot rise to the occasion of the sighting of a great pair of boobies or glutes, no matter which he says he prefers?

And can any so-called leg man out there say that he would not love a beautiful pair of tits or ass cheeks shoved into his face?

Yes, I've been around the block a bit--hell, I helped them rewrite the map.

The saddest thing is, things do not stay the same. When I was in high school, my darling (gay) friend Mike grabbed my ass one day, in front of several of our friends and screamed, "Oh my gawd! It's as hard as a rock!"

That was 30 some years ago. Today, my ass is not so hard. Firm, yes, but no longer hard. Maybe if I took up bicycling again?

Happy Holiday!

2007-07-03T16:47:00.000-07:00

July 3rd is Stay Out of the Sun day. I just heard about it this morning, and I believe that this may become my new second favorite holiday, after Halloween of course. I celebrated by staying inside and cooking things and reading things and drinking things. I may not fear the reaper, but I do have a cautious respect/bit of an aversion thing going on with Old Sol.

You'll Never Know What I'm Apologizing For

2007-06-29T13:04:00.000-07:00

I guess it's true what they say: booze and pills don't mix. * All I can say is, thank goodness I abruptly forgot how to use a keyboard last night, so you are spared approximately 400 words of heartfelt braindrool. I can scarcely bear to look at it, but it seems to be about a plant. And life. It would no doubt make an excellent poster for some over-aged emo chick's bedroom, hung right next to the 'Hang in There!" kitty and the David Hasselhoff one where he has his hands down his pants. I should throw the dirty little page away, but I'm going to keep it, to remind myself of my secret, sentimental self, and why I should never let her out to play.

* Sedation dentistry, a Vicodin, and one teeny, tiny (cough-cough) glass of wine.

Instead, I'll go to my default, and post a recipe for quiche. It's what I'm eating now, with an amusing little French rose. (That's pronounced roe-zay; I can't get the accent mark to work. Also, the thing on the computer that plays music from the internet seems to be very broken.) The wine is amusing because I've drunk so much of it, by the way.

This recipe makes just enough for two 5 inch tart pans, and it really needs a salad on the side, but I couldn't be bothered, today.

Two Small Cheese Quiches

Heat your oven to 350 degrees. Pour yourself a glass of wine.

Make crust:

2/3 c. flour

1/4 c. butter

a couple of pinches of salt

enough water to hold it all together, say 1 to 1-1/2 tablespoons. I forget, but you'll know when it's right. Press it into your pans. Have another glass of wine.

Filling:

2/3 c. heavy cream

1 large egg

Blend together and season with a bit of salt and pepper, at least. I also threw in a bit of garlic, dry yellow mustard, and red cayenne pepper. How's the wine holding up?

Strew a bit of thinly sliced onion on the bottom of your crusts if you like; I do. Generally, I also add a bit of bacon, but not today. Grate 2-3 ounces of cheese and dribble it over the crust. I know I used some cheddar, and perhaps some scraggy bit of something that was left over that I can't recall, as I made these quiches three days ago. Ooh, this bottle's empty.

Where the heck did Grumpy put that corkscrew? What happened to my glass?

I couldn't remember how long they should cook, but 55 minutes seemed to do it. If you don't keep opening the oven door and checking on them as I did, perhaps 50 minutes would be enough. You don't want a wobbly, blobby quiche--that is, after it has cooled, but if the smoke alarm goes off, it's too late.

(I'm going to have one of the safety-at-work signs made up for my kitchen. Mine will say: ___ smoke-alarm-free days.)

As I said, it goes well with salad: Caesar, if you can be bothered. Above all, don't forget the wine. Really.

You know, it's really good, straight out of the bottle. Really

Death, and other parts of Life

2007-06-22T21:22:00.000-07:00

I have recently noticed a disturbing trend in my video viewings. A quick perusal of the pile next to my machine: Six Feet Under; Dead Like Me; Dead Ringers; Donnie Darko... Do we begin to see a theme here? I really need to lighten up. Maybe some Disney? Yeah, I know... Corpse Bride, Nightmare Before Christmas... I guess I am an evil Momma. Though I do like that little brat George in Dead Like Me. She reminds me of myself when I was younger. And alive, of course. I mean, I'm alive now, of course. Crap. Is my slip showing?

Cue music.

Fadeout.

Savage Chef, Career Counselor

2007-06-16T21:57:00.000-07:00

Well, aside from creating an involuntary flambe of some perfectly innocent burrito meat, it's been pretty quiet in the Savage Chef kitchen. Though I must say, it is truly astounding how high flames can leap (towering inferno, indeed!) when one pours a cup of cheap red wine into a greasy, smoky pan of meat. As the flames leapt upward, I experienced a brief flashback to the flaming tortilla incident of '91, but alas. This time, there were no handsome firemen rescuing this foolish damsel. No, an older and wiser Savage huffed and she puffed and she blew that naughty fire right out. (Don't try this at home, kids. The Savage Chef is a professional (fuckup). And she can console herself with the knowledge that unlike a certain old friend of hers, the fire department does not have her on speed dial, just to check up.

On to cheerier things:

No one can say that I am not a devoted wife. Grumpy has reached a time in his life when he is ready for a change. * Accordingly, I have been keeping my eyes peeled for any likely career opportunities. Soldier of Fortune magazine has some intriguing advertisements, but I don't think mercenary killers can get accompanied tours, so that's out. I'd miss the old man too much, you see. Hmm.... What else is he good at? No. I'm too jealous. I'd cut da bitch. Let's see...what would be the perfect job for a Grumpy who wants to gear down a bit, but still rake in the bucks?

I pondered away, and suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, like a slip in a puddle of--anyway... Whilst skimming the fine literature available at the grocery checkout stand, I discovered a certain young lady who is in dire need of a designated driver. Now, I am not tooting my significant other's horn too hard when I say that he is one hell of a driver. He loves it. Hell, he even drove a big rig for a while, and they made him an instructor. So, I am currently revising Grumpy's resume to send off to Paris Hilton (or whoever reads stuff to her) with the aim of offering his services as personal driver. I mean, talk about your major oversights here. Paris is so wealthy, and yet there she is, driving her own dumbass all over town, and getting herself into trouble. In my day, no young lady of consequence would be seen conveying her ownself about town like common trash. I blame her mother. The girl was just not raised right.

Of course, they first have to let the poor girl out of stir. In, out. In, out. She must feel like---uhm, never mind...

* I try to get to the paper first, so I can throw away the Harley Davidson ads.

Tomorrow (or whenever, okay?) Why Savage watches and reads stuff about death.

The Raw and the Cooked

2007-06-04T17:14:00.000-07:00

First off, a confession here. My name is Savage, and I do not drink coffee.

>Hi, Savage!<

Despite coming from the loins of dedicated coffee drinkers, I have never felt the urge to indulge in the roasted and boiled bean. Even nowadays, in the age of Starbucks, I do not indulge; never mind that most of the green lady's beverages scarcely resemble coffee, what with the milk and the sugar and the divers flavorings.

For this, I am labeled outcast. So be it. I do not need a jolt of caffeine to start me up in the morning. If truth be told, I would prefer a glass of chilled champagne, or a mug of cold chocolate milk. (Dependent upon mood and circumstance.)

(Yeah, I know chocolate has caffeine in it. Bite me. )

This being said, I must confess to a certain yearning, one that I find a bit embarrassing, one that has on occasion caused me shame. (That time at South Coast Plaza, for example. Yes, I did inhale, but that was all!)

(It is simply not true that I licked the canisters. Nor did I threaten the counter boy with death if he didn't let me "just fondle the beans a little bit."

Can I help it if the same small brown nuggets that are so banal when brewed up in water to be drunk are so tantalizing when they are dry? Why do roasting coffee beans smell so drop-on-the-floor delicious?

And why do people eat burnt cookies (biscotti)?

There was a time when I realized that I had an addiction. Opening my cupboard to fetch a devilled egg plate, I noticed that I had six teapots. Now, this could come in handy if I were to open a small tea room, otherwise, not so much.

And speaking of--why do I have three or four (I think one is hiding) devilled egg plates? Am I opening a Southern tea room?

Was I the only girl who hung around those mall perfume stores just to sniff the cups of coffee beans? (And leave unsatisfied?) Coffee beans roasting. Mmm... Some smells are cold. Some are warm. The smell of roasting coffee beans is warm. Some things smell of the color that they are. Roasted coffee beans smell brown. The smell makes me feel good.

But you still can't get me to drink coffee.

Another Night in Paradise

2007-01-19T01:40:00.000-08:00

Well, Grumpy just peeled himself out of the comfy chair and went to bed, after aurally assaulting me with Sonic Symphony Opus #114. All in all, it was a pretty good night for us. Only four or five neighbors complained about his snoring tonight (winter weather, shut windows). He kissed the cat goodnight, scratched me behind the ears, and staggered off to bed for a couple of hours. As usual, I am wide-eyed silently screamingly wakeful. I want to sing! I want to dance! I want to change the world; climb mountains, cross seas--or at the very least, shop. Why can't the world run on vampire time? Though I drink only the blood of dead medium-rare cows, I can readily identify with the vampire's need to be awake while the rest of the world sleeps.

My Queendom for an all-night bookstore with a bourbon bar! Imagine if you will, a building positively groaning on its foundation from the weight of words bound in paper, leather, and cloth. Studded with cushiony velvet chairs with handy hassocks and end tables, classical music softly playing, the smell of cinnamon buns, freshly brewed coffee, tea and hot chocolate floating by... Oh, heaven is just a short drive away! (In my dreams.)

Ah, yes. As I curl up with my literary selections, a handsome young cabana boy brings me a tray of hot chocolate and cinnamon buns. Then, with a merry wink and a smile that shows off his dimples, he says, "And I thought Madame might enjoy this." And with a flourish, he tucks a white linen napkin about my lap, as he sets a fragrant goblet of Maker's Mark at my elbow.

Aaahh... A girl can dream...

Reading the Funny Papers

2007-01-06T02:32:00.000-08:00

I can scarcely believe this. Did I write this whilst in a drunken stupor, and send it in to Ann Landers's replacements?

*actual Annie's Mailbox letter, January 5, 2007*

* Dear Annie:

I am a 15-year-old female, and I'm addicted to porn. Not so much the porn in pictures, but porn in stories. I know I shouldn't be reading this kind of stuff, but I can't seem to stop. Sure, for a month or two I can go without, but then I get back into the habit. I read these stories on the Internet.

Everyone thinks I am such a good girl. I don't want to spoil the image or disappoint my parents. I know I should tell them, so they can help me overcome this addiction, but I'm afraid I'll lose their trust ( and my Internet access.)

Things are starting to get worse because lately, I've been looking at pictures and want someone to touch me. The desire is getting stronger every day. Do you have any suggestions about how to tell my parents that their good daughter may not be as good as they think? I feel so guilty and untrustworthy --Bad Good Girl.

Holy crap. I am in love. Whoever wrote the above, snuck into my brain and stole all my snark. I melt. Ooooh....

Friday Challenge

2006-12-15T08:46:00.000-08:00

Tell a story in 100 words or less.

Jerry
My brother.
He died last year. Kidney disease. I used to keep him company during the long hours of dialysis. We were so close, sometimes it seemed I knew his thoughts, and he mine. I wonder if he knew that his doctor asked me to donate one of my kidneys.
And that I refused.

A Christmas Poem

2006-12-14T10:31:00.000-08:00

As we decorate the Christmas tree, shop for presents, and relax with our loved ones, let us not forget those who cannot be at home this holiday season.

In 1986 James M. Schmidt, a United States Marine Corps Lance Corporal, stationed in Washington D.C., wrote the poem below:

Merry Christmas, My Friend

'Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
in a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone.

I had come down the chimney, with presents to give
and to see just who in this home did live.

As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand.
On the wall hung pictures of a far-distant land.

With medals and badges, awards of all kind,
a sobering thought soon came to my mind.
For this house was different, unlike any I'd seen
This was the home of a U.S. Marine.

I'd heard stories, I had to see more,
so I walked down the hall and pushed open the door.
And there he lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor in his one-bedroom home.

He seemed so gentle, his face so serene,
not how I pictured a U.S. Marine.
Was this the hero, of whom I'd just read?
Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed?

His head was clean-shaven, his weathered face tan,
I soon understood, this was more than a man.
For I realized the families that I saw that night,
owed their lives to these men, who were willing to fight.

Soon around the nation, the children would play,
and grown-ups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom, each month and all year,
because of Marines like this one lying here.

I couldn't help wonder how many lay alone,
on a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.
Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees and I started to cry.

He must have awoken, for I heard a rough voice,
"Santa, don't cry, this life is my choice
I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more.
My life is my God, my country, my Corps."

With that he rolled over, drifted off into sleep,
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.

I watched him for hours, so silent and still.
I noticed he shivered from the cold night's chill.
So I took off my jacket, the one made of red,
and covered this Marine from his toes to his head.
Then I put on his T-shirt of scarlet and gold,
with an eagle, globe and anchor emblazoned so bold.
And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride,
and for one shining moment, I was Marine Corps deep inside.

I didn't want to leave him so quiet in the night,
this guardian of honor so willing to fight.
But half asleep he rolled over, and in a voice clean and pure,
said "Carry on, Santa, it's Christmas Day, all is secure."
One look at my watch and I knew he was right,
Merry Christmas my friend, Semper Fi and goodnight.

--James M. Schmidt, Lance Corporal, USMC

And:

Don't forget to drop a toy or two in the Toys For Tots barrel. Though the USMC Reserve is in charge, those barrels are stood by active-duty Marines in dress blues. Can't miss 'em. You can make a child's Christmas a little bit brighter this year, with your new, unwrapped toy donation.

Cooking Instead Of Thinking

2006-12-12T14:21:00.000-08:00

I don't even want to think about everything that is happening right now, so I'm planning our Christmas menu. Here are three yummy bites for your hors d'oeuvre table:

Marinated Mushrooms

People either love or loathe these little critters. I think they are good as is, or finely minced and added (in wee amount) to a chicken liver pate cracker spread, or stirred into cream cheese.

Rummage through the loose white mushrooms for the tiniest ones they have. Wipe them clean and drop into salty simmering water. Cook gently a scant five minutes. Drain and set aside while you prepare the marinade:

Blend equal parts olive oil and white wine vinegar, in an amount sufficient to cover the mushrooms. Whisk in a little white wine, some minced garlic, salt to taste, freshly ground black pepper, and tiny strips of white onion. Blend and simmer gently until hot. Pour over the mushrooms and cover. Let sit at room temperature until cool. Refrigerate for several days, unless your kitchen is as cold as a meat locker. Stir a couple of times a day, if you can remember to.

After a few days, they will have reached full flavor. Scoop them out with a slotted spoon or fork and serve.

Pineapple Cayenne Lime Refresher

This sweet, tart, spicy treat is as good at Christmas as it is at a summertime luau.

1 fresh pineapple
2-3 limes
a shaker of cayenne (red) pepper

Remove the top, bottom and rind of the pineapple. Cut into strips and remove core sections. Cut trimmed pineapple pieces into serving-sized chunks. Chill. When time to serve, squeeze lime juice over pineapple pieces and sprinkle with cayenne. Be sure to use a serving tray or dish with sides, as the juice will get everywhere otherwise.

Best Bourbon Balls By Far

I've loved these special little treats since I was a tiny little Savage Chef. Just remember that you must be patient, and allow them to age before you eat them!

8 oz. melted semisweet chocolate
1/4 c. light corn syrup (Karo)
1/2 c. Kentucky bourbon (I like a mellow one, such as Maker's Mark)
approximately 55 vanilla wafers, crushed (use rolling pin or small food chopper)
3/4 c. confectioner's (powdered) sugar
1 c. finely chopped walnuts (I give the chopped walnuts a quick whirl in the mini chopper)

Blend all the above ingredients, and let stand about 30 min. The mixture will get very, very stiff. Scoop out little balls of it and roll them in more confectioner's sugar. Then put them away in a covered container with confectioner's sugar to cover and leave them alone for at least a week, except for an occasional shaking to make sure they're well covered with the sugar.

I Love a Parade

2006-12-04T20:35:00.000-08:00

So, it was the annual Holiday Parade time in beautiful downtown Tumbleweed Junction once again. Unfortunately, your Savage Reporter could not attend, as she had urgent business elsewhere.

So of course, mad happenings ensued. As the celebrants assembled to march, a local loony decided to see what his SUV could do. Raymond Mendoza took his Chevy Blazer for a spin, first slamming into a bank building before crashing into a stop sign. He did not heed the sign, preferring to plow onward, clipping the front of a beautiful, mint condition 1963 Chevy Impala SS. The owner of the Impala, one Jesus Serna, was not pleased. Nope, he was for damn sure not. He exited his vehicle and leapt onto the Blazer and reached inside to...contact Mendoza. Apparently, Mendoza panicked, since he sped up, reaching an estimated speed of 50 mph as he dragged Serna along the pavement. Serna, understandably peeved, attempted to bite Mendoza (in an attempt to get him to slow down, he said). Sadly, his attempt was in vain. As Serna's knees were rapidly losing skin, he let go of the Blazer, falling to the roadway. Fortunately, he was not seriously injured. Police officers at the scene estimate that Serna was dragged 1,300 feet. Way to go, Ray! That's a Tumbleweed Junction record!

Moving right along, Mendoza, still at the wheel of the Blazer, made a U-turn and headed for the staging area of the holiday parade. After demolishing a wooden barricade and frightening the assembled paraders, he eventually came to a stop in a nearby field. Witnesses reported smoke coming from the SUV. (Well, I would guess so.) Mendoza was arrested "without incident." Okey-dokey. Personally, I would have kicked him in his dainty bits, but that is just me. (There is a legitimate reason why I cannot carry firearms in 47-1/2 states, but never mind.)

I would just like to state here that if you ever want to experience something even remotely resembling excitement in Tumbleweed Junction, first check to make sure that the Savage Chef is out of town. This is not superstition or rumor; it is fact. And try the veal at Datillo's. It is excellent.

Thanksgiving Day Mystery: Part Two

2006-11-29T14:05:00.000-08:00

So, the house was cleanish, seating and sleeping arrangements had been made, and all the food that could possibly be made ahead of time had been made. The turkey was in the oven. Guests began to arrive. Food and drink were consumed in mass quantities. People laughed and talked loudly, while babies played with each other and chased the terrified, overfed cat.

Then that evening, the trouble began. First, a baby began throwing up. Then the Savage collapsed, cleverly breaking her fall with her face and shoulder. The next morning the baby was better, but an emergency hospital run was necessary for a very sick teenager. When she was safely at home, her father collapsed and was sick for days. Meanwhile, word came that other guests, now at home, were sick too. Savage, lying on her fainting couch of pain, decided that she had poisoned everyone.

But perhaps not. Word came of a daughter and son-in-law, who had entertained guests the day after Thanksgiving. None of those guests attended our party. Still, the kids and many of their guests were now terribly ill. At this point some people were irresistibly reminded of the Stephen King book, The Stand. Were there others like us?

So far, there has been nothing in the papers, but I shall keep looking.

I wonder if it could have been some sort of mass food poisoning, similar to the recent e-coli spinach contamination. Perhaps fresh yams will be found to be full of bacteria? It would have to be a food common to most Thanksgiving dinners, as dinners were eaten at our house, my daughter's house, and Denny's restaurant. (I don't know why those people wanted to eat there the day after Thanksgiving, but they did, and they became quite ill.) I've tried to find out what everyone ate and didn't eat, but really, everyone ate everything. It was Thanksgiving, for goodness sakes!

If anyone else had a similar experience, I would love to hear about it. I just keep hearing the Twilight Zone theme music in my head. I would also like tips on fainting gracefully, the way girls in novels and films do. I am sporting a truly impressive black eye that rings the entire eye socket and continues above and below and to the temple, in addition to a purple shoulder. The last time I fainted, I broke my foot. So, if you have any useful advice, I would love to hear it. Also, tips on dealing with a sick Grumpy would be appreciated.

Thanks. I'm going to lie down now.

Worst. Thanksgiving. Ever.

2006-11-28T12:56:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, my worst Thanksgiving nightmares came true. First, it seems that some Hawaiian consumer found bugs in her cornmeal and because of this, all cornmeal was removed from western grocery shelves.

Thanksgiving turkey without cornbread stuffing? Cancel the holiday. I'm serious.

Days of frantic searching followed. Then, at the local Vons, I saw it.

Oh, can you feel my sigh of relief? Cornmeal was back.

And all was bright and green in the Savage world, and the air smelled of cinnamon and chocolate. Yes, it really did. But no matter how much shopping one does, one always forgets something, and so it came to pass that Savage and Grumpy did need to make a pre-invasion run for mass quantities of ice.

Understand that one of the major joys in my life is embarrassing my stern old man. So, as the Master Gunns himself grabbed bag after bag of frozen water and flung them into the cart, a somewhat bored Savage asked, in her best Girl Scout Camp, pitched-to-be-heard-across-the-lake voice,

"Do you think this is gonna be enough ice to keep the body cold?"

Corny, yes. Still, her declamation gave quite a few shoppers pause. The genteel old lady, who was just entering the door by the ice machine, backpedaled through it, perhaps never to return.

Still, never a smile did the aptly named Grumpy crack. But please, don't think of him as some kind of brute. He only beats me when I deserve it.

Damn, I'm sore.

Just kidding. Though it is true that I do look like I just went several rounds with Muhammad Ali, and made a poor showing of myself, at that.

(Ugh, the cat is eating out of the dustpan I haven't had time to empty; this place is still a mess. Remember, I mentioned Thanksgiving nightmares, plural?) *

* Involving pain and suffering and hospital visits and IT'S REALLY NOT MY FAULT!

Would I lie to you?

I need to clean up some broken glass, so more tomorrow. Maybe.

I'm Not Really Here

2006-10-24T14:37:00.000-07:00

Savage is busy-busy-busy, but here's a quick tip:

Those blow-up Halloween decorations are stupid looking. Sorry to be so blunt, but not only do they look ridiculous and make a really annoying noise like an on-its-last legs vacuum cleaner, but they look so pathetic the next morning, lying there limply like giant-used condoms. If you must display such pathetic monstrosities, please do not deflate them during the day. Think of the children, won't you?

However, I recommend that you avoid their use entirely. If you ignore my advice, be aware that I have a cute little pink pocket knife (Hello Kitty) and I may be impelled to use it.

* Today's Outrage: A local store is displaying pink and red Valentine's day M&Ms. Words fail me.

Looking at Something that is Not There

2006-09-11T00:00:00.000-07:00

SEPTEMBER 11,2001

We will never forget.

Would a Rabbit's Foot Help?

2006-08-08T14:34:00.000-07:00

It happened without warning. All of a sudden, I could no longer shift for myself. I mean that every time I tried to capitalize a word or use an upper tier punctuation mark, my keyboard refused to work. Then the computer would try to turn on my earthlink home page, over and over again. This happened whether I was connected to the internet or not. Being the brave Savage that I am, I took immediate and decisive action: I panicked. Certain that an incurable virus had infected my machine; I fell into a deep depression. Eventually, I realized that I must pick myself up off the floor (as I was choking on dust bunnies) and do something constructive. I collected my daughter and my purse and went shopping for shoes.

My trusty, crusty, rusty car Phil, sailed as smoothly down the road as the day he rolled off the assembly line. After a quick stop for daughter's coffee, I restarted Phil. A terrifying rattling, crashing noise came from under his hood and he began to shake like a cheap blender crushing ice. The last time Phil made a scary noise it was the battery exploding. But I don't think it was his fault that time. I blame the lightning, which was igniting little fires all over town. We called Grumpy and let him listen to the noise. He said it sounded like a blown valve (whatever that is) and he could come and look at it. He did, and then with his truck behind us and flashers flashing, we coaxed a rattling, quivering Phil home at the stately speed of nearly thirty miles an hour. We didn't know what else we could do, though many passing motorists offered suggestions, many of which were accompanied by helpful gestures. It was rather like what I imagine riding on top of a lawnmower would be like, and I do not mean the riding kind.

At last, quite literally shaken, we arrived at home. The mail was in, and among the usual junk, magazines and bills was a small yellow postcard from National Dealer Warranties. It read:

FINAL NOTICE

Expired Warranty Notification

On the back side it said:

Your factory vehicle warranty has expired.

Call for extended coverage, 20% off.

P. S. This offer expired in 72 hours!

I set the card down gently on the table and trudged upstairs. With the last of my strength, I collapsed in my chair and stared sadly at my sick computer. Through the window, I could see Grumpy burn his hand on the hot engine of my sick car. No car and no computer. Sigh. And to top it all off, I didn't even get my shoes. However, I did get a small purple lap desk, which would now come in handy as I would have to do all my writing in longhand from now on. I really think I must be psychic.

A bit later: As I write this, Grumpy is still working on Phil. Now it looks as though the problem might be with the fuel injection system, which is bad news as it will cost a lot of money for parts. But things are looking up in the computer department. As you can see, I am once again able to blog. The trouble turned out to be nothing more than

THE WINO SYNDROME

For those of you who may not be as tech-savvy as the me, Wino Syndrome may occur after one repeatedly bathes one's keyboard in wine or other liquid substances, such as bourbon. The problem is exacerbated when certain other foreign substances, like say, chocolate chip cookie crumbs, meld with the liquid to form a lacquer-like surface that jams the keys. This was explained to me in a rather more succinct manner by Grumpy himself. As this is my fourth keyboard in three years, I am now forbidden by Himself to eat or drink anywhere near the computer. What this will do to my literary output I do not know. I tried to effect a compromise with a promise of no snacks and a tightly sealed sippy cup, but he just kept saying, "Four [expletive deleted] keyboards!

He is such a meanie.

How. Fat. Are. They. ?

2006-08-03T00:20:00.000-07:00

According to a recent telephone survey of 11,000+ obese people, 75% say that they have healthy eating habits. 40% swear that they do "vigorous exercise" at least three times a week.

HEY, FATTIES! Last time I heard, bending down to dig out that last carton of Chunky Monkey from the bottom of the freezer does not qualify as "vigorous exercise." And I do not care what McCrapfoods says--an 8 ounce burger, fries and a coke will never be healthy eating, not as long as the Savage Chef rules the world.

Do not flame me with rude comments. I freely admit to being less than svelte, but at least I am that way because of my love of butter, cream and beef. (Not to mention bourbon.) Exercise makes one sweat, which is unattractive, and I only run when something bigger and tougher than I am is chasing me, and let's face it, something tougher than I am doesn't come around all that often.

Now, if you will excuse me, I must go eat something yummy. What kind of chocolate goes best with Maker's Mark?

Road Trip!

2006-07-30T21:55:00.000-07:00

So, it seems that the pathetic excuse for a human that Las Vegas elected Mayor has declared war on homeless people.

It is now illegal to "feed the indigent" in Las Vegas. So, whether you merely hand over your uneaten sandwich half to that salivating bum, or engage in wanton free food hand-outs, you are liable to be arrested and fined. The Lord Mayor of Las Vegas, one Oscar B. Goodman, fully supports this atrocious new law.

Goodman has also suggested that panhandlers with signs asking for food be sued for "false advertising."

Dear God.

I do not travel much these days, but I am sorely tempted to gather up a posse and descend on Sin City. Our valiant crew will be armed with sacks of donuts and sandwiches, hamburgers and fresh fruit. What the hell, we'll even throw in some minis of booze. Life on the streets is tough, and no sane person chooses it. Yes, the homeless deserve a break today. *#&! Mayor Goodman!

The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same

2006-07-18T22:14:00.000-07:00

A mere week ago, I was blathering on about the unseasonably pleasant (merely high double digits) weather here in good old TJ. Ah, but it seems I spoke too soon. We had a triple digit kind of weekend (109 degrees, or so the crazy old man with the thermometer says), and last Sunday night, 'round about just after midnight, we who were sleeping the sleep of the just (or at least the sleep of the righteously drunk), were awakened by the sound of terrorist planes dropping bombs. No, actually, it was only thunder. There once was a time, a more innocent time, that we would have known this. (Cue the music, Raoul).

Lightning slashed from the sky, and threatened our rooftops with fire. Thunder boomed, and so forth. Then came the welcome rain. Very unusual that was, for So-Cal. Alas, the rain ended all too soon, and we returned to our usual programming. And so it goes, in Swelter City. They (whoever "they" are) say that there are a million stories in the naked city. Well, this is one of them. Only I am not naked. If I were, I would stick to my leather chair, and that wouldn't feel very good.

Over and out.

end of transmission

The Savage Chef May Have To Go Away For A While

2006-07-18T14:17:00.000-07:00

So, last weekend we went to buy a present for a very special little boy. He will be five years old next month. He loves the Power Rangers and the Disney movie Cars. We have only one real toy store in Tumbleweed Junction: Kay-Bee Toys. It is the most child-friendly of stores, unlike the evil Toys-R-Us, which posts a warning that children are not welcome inside without an adult. What the hell? Well, I guess they don't need my money. I never shop there.

Inside Kay-Bee, a joyous pandemonium reigns. A constant soundtrack of beeping, barking, crunching and whirring is punctuated with the silvery bells of childish laughter (good one, huh?) and the frequent parental exclamation, "Wow! Cool! I had one of those when I was a kid." The aisles are narrow and stacked high with a fantastic collection of playthings. We found the perfect remote-control Cars vehicle and we should have been happy, but for what had greeted us on the way into the store, and returned to assault us at several inside displays.

A freaking giant Santa Claus snow globe! Playing Christmas music!

Christmas in July? I DON'T THINK SO!!!

It's July, damn it! They should be pushing pool toys, sand pails, and little toddler-sized sunglasses. This is ridiculous! Next thing you know, they'll start wishing you a Happy New Year in May! Argh! Agh! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *

* The Savage head explodes. We will pause for a moment of silence...

I Still Hate the Desert

2006-07-11T01:20:00.000-07:00

So, we have a rare pleasant night. I can turn off the air conditioner, but first I must pull back curtains and draperies, yank up blinds and shades, and open seventeen windows. The one in the library stuck, I had to bang it with the meat pounder to get it open.

Sailing downstairs to open more windows, I once again missed the last step and had to do a sudden balletic leap to avoid breaking anything I am attached to.

Really, 'twas nothing. On worse days, I miss the last two steps, fall in a heap and moan and curse.

Someone here is watching Monty Python's Holy Grail. What a perfect movie it is! If for nothing else, I would have to admire the boys for managing a song in which they rhyme "indefatigable" with "Clark Gable."

You can't buy that kind of clever.

No. Really.

Musings on the Fourth of July

2006-07-05T00:07:00.000-07:00

So, I should have known that things were going downhill fast when I opened the fridge and found a praying mantis flexing its legs in front of the vegetable bin.

But what the hell, it was our nation's birthday. I did not bake it a cake, but I made it some damned good baked cornbread and the Grumpy made ribs--not the piggy kind, the beefy dinosaur bone kind.

Traditionally, we start out the day with the playing of patriotic songs, not the least of which is our national anthem. No one batted an eye when we lived on base, whether overseas or stateside, but in Tumbleweed Junction, some of our neighbors find our patriotic fervor just a little bit strange. Damned commies!

Ahem.

Anyway, I can see how folks are not quite as jazzed up about the Fourth as they used to be when your Savage was just a wee little thing. When I was a child, fireworks were sold on every corner and vacant lot and everyone gathered in the street to shoot them off. Folks churned homemade ice cream and barbequed meat and drank lots of beer and stuff like that.

Even the littlest ones were handed a "punk" to wave around in circles. The orange glow would linger long enough to make a pattern in the night air, sort of like drawing on an Etch-a-Sketch. Nowadays, fireworks are illegal most places. Our nation's special night has been robbed of its brightness. They tell us that fireworks are dangerous. People have lost eyes, fingers and maybe other appendages as well.

Hmm... I know something else that is very dangerous. Every year, thousands of people die and millions are injured, in automobile accidents. Let us ban those murdermobiles!

A few of my more renegade neighbors bought illegal fireworks in the one local county that can still sell them, or they bought over the border in Mexico. The 'works were exploded as clandestinely as possible, to avoid arrest by the roving fireworks detection squads.

I did not actively participate in the limited fireworks display. Instead, I climbed to the top floor of the big pink pile of stucco and watched the governmentally limited display. I watched my next door neighbor share the magic of sparkly fireworks with his little son. I swear that if I had heard one more ooh or aah from that darling little child, I would have dissolved into a puddle of mommy goo.

Aah! The colors! The sizzle! The howling dogs!

The sulfurous stink! How could I have forgotten that?

Official Fathers Day Blog *

2006-06-18T17:16:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-15T00:02:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-13T21:50:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-12T22:58:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-09T12:36:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-08T13:36:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-06T23:02:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-06T00:05:00.000-07:00

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)

2006-06-04T01:47:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-03T01:15:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-06-03T01:04:00.000-07:00

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.

It Could Happen Here

2006-05-24T15:00:00.000-07:00

News Flash --- Dateline: Sometime in the near future:

"Good evening, fellow Americans. Tonight's top story: Divers continue to rescue hundreds of survivors of the Great Tilt. Millions more are feared lost at sea. The entire state of California is under water. More on this story as we receive news of late-breaking developments."

Now, don't you roll your eyes at me. It could happen.

Someday, 90% of the United States' population will reside inside the borders of California. It seems to be the way we're heading. Though real estate developers work overtime, painting over prices on their billboards with ever-higher and more fantastical prices, the people just keep on coming.

I see some hands: Yes, you in the "Surf Nevada" tee shirt. What is your question?

Surf Nevada boy: "Thank you, oh wise one. Why do they raise housing prices so steeply, and so often?"

Well, my little water-logged innocent; because they can.

Only a few years ago, you could buy a three bedroom house in Tumbleweed Junction for under $100,000 dollars. Such houses now sell for three or four times that amount. Where do young families come up with that much money? Who knows? Still, they keep on coming, and not just to my town and to other so-called "affordable" locations. They come to San Diego, they come to Los Angeles, they come to Orange County and many such places that are far more expensive than the "Inland Empire."

Sometimes I picture this huge flume, with people across the United States lined up at the high end, sliding down into California, achieving their dream at last. When they arrive, we give them a map of the freeways, a fish taco, and we wish them good luck. Then we laugh amongst ourselves, and sell them our hundred thousand dollar bungalows for half a million dollars. Then we move to Indiana, or North Carolina, or anywhere that a couple of hundred thousand dollars can buy you a half acre of wooded property and a house with rooms big enough for a grand piano and our fourteen display cabinets full of Orange Festival souvenir bobblehead dolls.

It doesn't matter.

When all the native and long-time Californians have moved to less expensive states, still they will come. Like locusts to the Nebraska cornfields, like lemmings to the precipice, they will come. They will slide down that slippery flume of perpetual debt into our fair state and they will need houses and schools and roads and swimming pools and SUVs. The state population will continue to swell, until the aggregate weight of several hundred million people (and their SUVs and their pool toys and their five-thousand dollar barbecue islands) is greater than what the left side of the continent can bear. As the rest of the United States will by then be populated by a mere few million ex-Californians and a few oddball holdouts, the continental land mass will begin to shift and yes, tilt, dunking what was once known as the Golden State into the cold Pacific ocean.

Oopsy! Bye-bye, San Bernardino freeway! Bye-bye, Golden State bridge! Bye-bye, Disneyland! (I hope Mickey and Minnie can swim.)

Think about that as you wend your tortuously slow way home on the blazing griddle known facetiously as the "free"way.

Or, you could just take another sip of your Frappadappachino Molte-Dulce Latte la Vente Espresso de Jelly Belly "coffee." Watch out! That jerk with the New Jersey license plates just cut you off. Wow... I never saw it done with both arms before. You'd think he'd teach his little girl better manners.

Black Is the New White

2006-05-19T23:05:00.000-07:00

It's great when new products come out, isn't it? The wonders of early twenty-first century technology and design would surely astound a time traveler from an earlier time. Take the latest addition to the chic modern bathroom: black toilet paper.

Why would I want black toilet paper, you ask? Why not, says Miguel Pereira da Silva, whose Portugese paper company, Renova, makes the most innovative toilet accessory since that little thing you put in the tank and it turns the water blue.

The company also sells tp in red and in orange, "to celebrate exotism (sic) in the bathroom."

The commercial for this product looks like a strange art-porn film, to judge by this still:

Is she ripping his underwear off to see if he wiped?

According to the article this astonished Savage read, Mr da Silva feels that black toilet paper signals "avant-garde creative work."

I suppose that might be so, if one does one's best creative work in the toilet.

Meditation on Mother's Day Flowers

2006-05-14T23:00:00.000-07:00

The blossoms yearn toward the light,
One dying leaf left behind.

I Hate Sick People, Including Me

2006-05-01T22:21:00.000-07:00

Well, I am only just now recovering from my periodic visit to the hallowed halls of medicine. Ah, military medicine. They are consummate professionals, especially in the lab. They hold your ID card ya see, so your piss and blood won't be credited to anyone else but ye.

The nurse on deck held my ID card before her eyes, stared hard at my ruddy little face, and asked me for my birth date. She then handed my ID back to me. I glanced at it before stowing it in my wallet and found that I was now a 75 year old Asian woman. For the record, I am in my forties and am a blue-eyed blonde. I guess someone knows where they keep the keys to the controlled substance cabinet, eh?

Speaking of the pharmacy... Of course there was a mix-up with my meds. Though I had been intending to go to the Doc's Diner in the basement and grab a Krispy Kreme doughnut and some milk, I flew out the door like my head was on fire and my rear end was catching. My tummy grumbled and my head was buzzy from the lab test enforced fast, but I just could not bear another moment in that sickatorium.

God bless our medical folks, though. What would we do without them? I can't imagine spending my days with sick and sometimes whiny-assed people. We are lucky that they are fascinated with the inner workings of the fatty blood bags we call bodies. They earn every dollar that they are paid.

Except when they morph me into a tiny, elderly Asian lady. You know, I have to draw the line somewhere.

Another Food-Related Post, Of Sorts

2006-04-30T00:37:00.000-07:00

Chai teabags. Fragrant and tasty. My new addiction.

Betrayal

2006-04-29T22:17:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-26T16:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-19T23:53:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-19T23:14:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-14T01:55:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-05T00:15:00.000-07:00

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.

Baking, Baking, Baking...

2006-03-22T22:39:00.000-08:00

So, tomorrow I get to make four batches of brownies for the drama club. I could be like all the other mommies, and buy a brace of brownie mix, or order out from the grocery store bakery department.

But this is me, the Savage Chef, that we are talking about. I just happen to have developed the world's best brownie recipe. To make it, you need something called Black Cocoa, which is available from http://shop.bakerscatalogue.com/items/.

Because I am a merciful Goddess of Cuisine, here is the recipe:

Savage Chef's Cocoa Brownies

Melt 1 c. unsalted butter. Stir in 1/4 t. salt. Or, just save yourself the trouble and leave off the salt and use regular butter. Do not use margarine, or I will hunt you down and kill you like the filthy little reptile that you are.

Stir in 3/4 c. regular cocoa (I prefer Hersheys) and 3 T. black cocoa (see above URL).

Also stir in 2 t. vanilla extract and 2 c. sugar.

Beat 2 eggs, and stir them in.

Stir in 1 c. flour.

If you like nuts, stir in 1 c. walnuts or pecans or whatever, or some chocolate chips or whatever you litte heart desires. Scrape into a greased 8" pan and cook at 350 degrees for approximately 40 minutes, or 50 minutes with the chocolate chips added.

Yeah, Yeah, Corned Beef. But What's For Dessert?

2006-03-17T09:31:00.002-08:00

This is what we're having tonight, after the corned beef, at the home of the Savage Chef and Grumpy. If you are the sort who enjoys battling crowds of drinking amateurs, then it would be good the next morning for breakfast, before you get to work at getting the green beer stains out of your best shirt. It is fragrant and delicious enough to eat without any icing. I usually sprinkle a bit of confectioner's sugar on top when I take it out of the oven.

Applesauce Bourbon Spice Cake

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour an 8-9 inch square pan.

Whisk together and set aside:

1-2/3 c. flour

1 t. baking soda

1 t. salt

1 T. cinnamon

1 t. clove

1/2 t. allspice

Cream together:

1/3 c. shortening

1-1/3 c. sugar

Beat in 1 c. applesauce and 1 large egg.

Stir in 1/4 c. bourbon and 1 T. vanilla extract.

Blend in the flour mixture.

Scrape into prepared pan and bake for 45-50 minutes. While still hot, sprinkle with confectioner's sugar, unless you plan to ice the cake. If you do, this is a good one:

Quick Caramel Frosting

1/4 c. butter

1/2 c. dark brown sugar, packed into measuring cup

1/4 c. milk, plain or evaporated

Stir over medium-low heat until sugar is dissolved. Bring to a simmer and cook, stirring, approximately 5 minutes. Take off heat.

Stir in 1 t. vanilla extract and approximately 1 c. confectioner's sugar. Stir it up and let it cool until it is firm enough to pour or spread over the top of the cake. This frosting tastes like very sweet caramel-butterscotch candy; I generally save it for the conventional spice layer cakes.

Happy Happy Joy Joy!

2006-03-16T22:11:00.000-08:00

I live in the kind of town where a local restaurant brags that they serve both Sloppy Joes and Pop Tarts.

Somebody wake me up, please. I am having a nightmare.

But hey, there is good news on the horizon. The area grand poohbah of the Catholic church has declared St. Patrick's day a Lent-Free day! On that day, and on that day only, the good local Catholics may consume the pink, stringy meat. Oh yeah.

As you may imagine, everyone here is pretty darned excited.

Too bad, all you Catholics in the other dioceses. Neener, neener, neener!

Memories

2006-03-14T00:35:00.000-08:00

So I recently read that beauty experts say that perfume lasts for maybe six months, tops. After that, it sours. Hmmm...

I don't think so.

A few days ago, I finally pried up the stopper of some perfume I bought on Ebay. It had never been opened, and time had somehow managed to glue the little bottle shut. I was afraid that any vigorous attempt to open it would lead to a broken crystal stopper.

On that morning, my patience was rewarded. With a tiny sigh, the little bottle opened at last. The fragrance of more than a half-century ago filled the room. Deeply fragrant flowers, rich spices, warm musk and amber blended with the scent of dark pipe tobacco-saturated wood...

Memories that were not mine flooded my mind.

I dabbed the tiniest little bit on my wrists.

Days later, the fragrance lives on my skin and in my room. It will not fade away.

The scent of years gone by remains.

Still, it lingers.

Today in Excitementland

2006-03-06T15:01:00.000-08:00

You know how you always seem to find change beneath your sofa cushions when you really need it? We just bought a new sleeper-sofa from our favorite furniture store, opened it up for our guest, and guess what? There was a quarter inside. I do not know what this means. Just thought I would mention it.

What Did You Learn in School Today, Son?

2006-02-28T13:29:00.000-08:00

Well, now I have heard it all. Last week, two local high school students were suspended for the heinous crime of bringing a dangerous substance to school. They were bad, and have been punished.

What terrible and dangerous substance did they expose their innocent young classmates to? Was it alcohol? Was it heroin? Was it a crate full of automatic weapons?

No, gentle readers, it was none of the above. I will tell you what these youthful miscreants, these felons in the making, brought to school that peaceful winter morning. Brace yourselves, now. These teenaged hoodlums brought

Snow.

You see, this is Southern California, and our winters are mostly winters in name only, at least down here in the flatlands. However, if you care to journey up into the mountains, you can see real, live snow. These two young men decided that their friends would enjoy the novelty of a "snow day." So they got into their trucks at four a.m. and drove up to Big Bear, there to fill the truck beds with fresh, cold snow, which they brought to school.

Delighted students were soon throwing snowballs at one another, until da man showed up and busted them.

Ramona high school principal Mike "Toughlove" Neece said that one of his most important responsibilities is maintaining a safe, orderly learning environment.

Sez Mike, "Anything that disturbs that or disrupts that is inappropriate on a school campus. Anything that could cause injury, or could cause a student to get upset and instigate a fight, or damage students' personal property is just inappropriate behavior."

He then stamped his foot for emphasis, and punched Chuck Norris (who was making a personal appearance at the school) in the mouth.

As the troublemakers were led away to face their punishment, principal Neece reminded them that the incident was going on both of their permanent records.

The unrepentant delinquents replied, "Give us a break. It's only snow."

2006-01-16T21:30:00.000-08:00

This is my favorite doll.

That's it. Nothing more to say. It's been a slow and boring day.

"Hi! This is Billy Joe Jim Bob, my fiance!"

2006-01-11T12:17:00.000-08:00

When did the word "fiance" come to mean "boy I'm letting bang me this week, because I am a stupid little slut"?

8 years ago, we left the little glass box of an overseas assignment and came home with three daughters. The first time the eldest one, who was in high school, came home and told me about some girl at school and her "fiance", I was a bit surprised. I didn't think a young girl had any business getting engaged that young. I wondered aloud about what her parents thought.

Boy, was I naive!

As it turned out, this use of the word "fiance" was common usage at her high school. The same thing was true with the next daughter, and now again with the youngest. Welcome to the United States, I guess!

Hey, the first time I watched stateside tv and saw the Jerry Springer show, I about fell out of my chair!

My daughters would never have a "fiance", or they would be going off to some convent in the Swiss Alps. I wish that at least, these future welfare mothers would use birth control, but I am sure that is too much to ask. Interferes with their freedom to choose, don'tcha know. (Insert rolling eyes emoticon here)

Every Time I Open My Mouth, Someone Stupid Starts Talking

2006-01-06T00:36:00.000-08:00

It's true.

Okay, you could at least look doubtful. I'm not dumb enough for Hollywood.

Am I ?

I'm Not Here

2006-01-06T00:13:00.000-08:00

It is true, what that cruel person said. I will do anything to avoid anything remotely resembling work. It used to be that I could only shop if I bathed and dressed and drove myself to a shopatorium. Nowadays, I do most of my shopping by the drag and click method. There are a few places that require my actual live voice on a phone line, however.

I think it should be a tele-merchant-rep rule: Do not eat whilst taking phone orders. That is what breaks are for. I swear to Zeus! I don't know what she was eating, but I swear this bimbo was masticating a mastodon from the toenails up while I was talking to her!

And no, I don't want batteries. Or magazine subscriptions. Or info on timeshares. Leave me alone, Chewy!

Dog Days

2006-01-05T12:16:00.000-08:00

To do my work, I need peace and quiet. So I moved to the suburbs. But I had this neighbor, Mr. Oriani, who had this little dog named Wags. I used to like dogs. When I was a kid, I had this beagle named Arnold. I really loved him. One day, when I came home from school, Arnold wasn't there. My mom said he ran away. Later, I found out that Mom had taken Arnold to the pound because he dug up her tulip bulbs and peed on the Oriental rug in the den.

Anyway...

Wags barks all the time, day and night. I put on my music really loud sometimes, to block him out. But sometimes I would like it to be quiet.

Wags has this really annoying sort of yip that he can do without pause for hours on end. It sort of sounds like he's in pain or something, but he's not.

I went over to see Mr. Oriani last week. Wags was yipping away really loud, and I hadn't been able to sleep or get any work done. Mr. Oriani always said Hi when I walked across the yard and he was watering his lawn. He kind of reminded me of my Uncle Dave, an old fat guy who smiled a lot and always gave me Lifesavers. I wasn't really sure what I was going to say. Sometimes, I get sort of tongue-tied around old people. I mean, I wanted to ask Mr. Oriani if there was some way he could keep Wags a little bit quieter, but I didn't know how to ask. So anyway, I went over there, and Mr. Oriani was hoeing his garden.

How're you doing, Billi, he said.

Oh fine Mr. Oriani, I said.

Wags was on the porch barking really loud, but Mr. Oriani didn't seem to notice.

How's your mother, he said.

Okay, I said.

That's good, he said.

When is she going to visit again, he said.

I don't know, I said.

Well tell her as soon as the icicle radishes come in, I'll send her some, he said.

Hey, how did she like that strawberry jam, he said.

Oh she liked it just fine, I said.

Good, good, Mr. Oriani said.

He took a long drink of the orange soda he always drank. Wags nearly busted a gut barking, but he never left the porch.

Well I gotta go downtown now, I said.

Bye, I said.

Have fun, Mr. Oriani said, waving the empty orange soda bottle at me.

When I walked away, I felt so stupid. I went downtown, to the hardware store. I told the guy there that I needed to kill some gophers that were messing up my lawn. He sold me some poison. I mixed up some of the poison with some pork sausage I had in the fridge. I went out at midnight with the sausage, but I felt really bad and I just put it in the garbage. Then I went back home and lay on my bed for a long time, thinking. Poisoning a dog. How low could I go? Anyway, it's not right to blame a poor dumb animal. The dog doesn't know any better.

I was really glad that I hadn't poisoned Wags.

I don't like to think that I'm that kind of person.

The next night, I took the rest of the poison and mixed it with some orange soda.

I put the soda in Mr. Oriani's refrigerator.

It's been real quiet around here lately.

Cooking Your Goose the Savage Chef Way--part 3

2006-01-03T16:09:00.000-08:00

The Menu:

Roasted Goose with Crackling Garnish

Roasted Root Vegetables in Goose Fat

Asparagus with Parmesan

Goose Gravy

Goose Liver Cracker Spread

Crackers, Green Olives

Red Wine

This was a really simple meal, but one that left us too stuffed to even consider dessert. The most difficult part about it was removing the excess fat from the goose. The rest of the meal was extremely easy.

Goose Gravy

Decide how much gravy you need and then use 2 T. of goose fat and 2 T. of flour for each cup of broth. Stir the flour and fat together and cook a bit, then add the warm broth. Due to the aromatic vegetables and seasoning in the broth, my gravy didn't need any additional flavoring, but taste yours to make sure. It was a very pale gravy, like chicken gravy, but very tasty.

Crackling Garnish

Simply take the cracklings you've ground up, and serve as an optional meat garnish on the table. They are good on the pate-covered crackers, too.

Roasted Root Vegetables in Goose Fat

Peel and cut up some potatoes, carrots and onions. I wish I had thought to buy those little round stewing onions, but I had to make do with the regular kind. Throw in a few peeled, halved garlic cloves, too. Put them in a small roaster pan and splash them with some goose fat and perhaps a bit of the goose broth or some wine. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and any herbs or whatnot that you like. Either roast with the goose, or wait until it is done and resting. I waited for the goose to come out, as there wasn't quite enough room in the oven. Then I turned the oven heat up to 400 degrees and let them cook until tender and browned, basting them with the goose fat in the pan every once in a while.

Asparagus with Parmesan

This was the easiest of all. I trimmed some asparagus, put it in a shallow baking dish, sprinkled it with salt, covered it with water, and nuked it until it was done. Then I sprinkled some finely grated Parmesan cheese over it when I served it.

Goose Liver Cracker Spread

Take the liver you've had soaking--no, not the one in your body that you've been marinating in bourbon all day; the goose's! Dry it and lay it in a pan with some melted butter. I usually put a squirt of olive oil in the pan first, as it prevents the butter from burning too easily. Cook the liver until it is just barely pink in the middle. Cut it up, and push it through a fine sieve, discarding any hard or stringy bits. Stir in a tiny amount of white wine, (as I did), or red wine, bourbon, or the flavoring of your choice. Scrape the pan and stir in the butter and cooking juices, then stir in a tiny bit of garlic.

The pate spread should be airy and mousse-like. Season it with just a touch of salt, if necessary. I used salted butter, so I added no salt. Season also with a bit of black pepper and either hot Hungarian paprika or a mixture of paprika and cayenne. Either way, it takes very little seasoning, as the goose's liver does not make very much canape paste, just enough for a little snack for everyone. This is very tasty with stuffed green cocktail olives, too. I like the small ones; I think they have more flavor.

How I Cooked My Goose

2006-01-03T10:33:00.000-08:00

Goose:

1 12 lb. goose
1 green apple
1 onion
1 rib celery, leaves and all
kosher salt

Broth:

Goose neck and giblets, excluding the liver
Goose wing tips
celery
onion
carrot
garlic
kosher salt
crushed black peppercorns
sage
thyme

Adjust oven rack and preheat oven to 400 degrees. Remove the giblets
and rinse out bird with cool water. Drain and dry with an old bath towel. Cut off any long, hanging neck skin and save it for making broth. Skewer or sew the flap shut. Cut or pull out all chunks of whitish fat from the bird's cavity, and save for rendering. I had easily 3 cups worth of fat chunks this time.

Since the goose will still put out an incredible amount of fat (nearly 2 quarts for my bird), I believe that the traditional bread stuffing is best left to the turkeys and chickens of the fowl world. Core the apple, but don't peel it; cut it into wedges. Peel the onions and cut into wedges. Cut the celery into several smaller pieces. Cut the garlic clove into several pieces. Rub kosher salt all over the belly cavity of your bird. Stuff it with the vegetables and apple. Skewer, sew, or otherwise secure the opening closed. My goose had a band of skin meant to hold its legs together, but it got all stretched out, so I skewered the opening shut.

Now take your poultry shears and snip off the long, bony part of the wings (the part that looks sort of like a beckoning skeletal finger). Save these for the broth. Grab your meat fork and begin stabbing your bird all over, especially in the legs, thighs, and breast area. I also did the back, as bird backs always seem soggy and undercooked to me. Set the goose breast-side up on a rack inside a covered roaster. Roasting the goose with the cover on prevents the fat from smoking and sputtering.

Put the giblets (except the liver), the wing tips, any excess skin, along with some celery, onion, carrot and garlic into a pot. I used a meat cleaver to cut the neck and wing tips in half. Sprinkle some sage, thyme and kosher salt over it all. Add some crushed black peppercorns and any other sort of herb you fancy. Cover with water and set to simmering. It should take a couple of hours to make a nice rich broth.

Put the liver in a bowl of salted water and let soak for an hour or more.

Dice the chunks of fat you have removed from the goose and put them in a saute pan on very low heat. The fat will slowly liquify, until at last, you are left with some browned hard bits in a lake of fat. Strain the fat into the container you are saving the rest of the liquid fat in, and use your food grinder or processor to grind up the hard bits, which are known as cracklings. Set these aside for later.

Roast your goose at 400 degrees for approximately 60 minutes. Take the roaster out of the oven and turn it down to 325 degrees. Pour or siphon off all of the accumulated fat, but save it for roasting vegetables, making gravy, and freezing for frying potatoes later. I had more than a cup of fat at 60 minutes.

Put the bird back in the oven, still covered, and continue roasting. Every 30-60 minutes, pull it out and pour or siphon off the accumulated fat. At the end of the second hour, I poured more than 3 cups of fat off. This second hour seems to be the big fat-shed time. Your total roasting time for a 12 lb. bird will probably be around 4 hours, but don't rely on that. When your goose is cooked, it should have a somewhat dessicated look to it, with long white leg bones sticking out where the meat and fat has shrunk away. You don't want it tough, but you don't want to be left with a lot of solid blubber, either.Pour off the remaining fat and re-cover the roaster.

Let the bird rest on the counter while you prepare the rest of the meal.

Next: Side Dishes

Let's All Be Different, Shall We?

2006-01-02T23:37:00.000-08:00

Goose is the unknown bird to most Americans, and that is a shame. I just had my first goose, and it was an experience to remember.

Wait a minute... That sounded a little bit weird...

Starting over...

Instead of a turkey, why not have a goose for your holiday meal?

When celebrating the holidays, most Americans think of turkey. An entire industry has grown up around the American tradition of a big, stuffed turkey on major winter holidays. We have special side dishes, (some of them memorably h0rrible), to accompany the big bird. If one is a turkey virgin, one may call upon the good ladies and gentlemen at the Butterball turkey factory, for advice on all things turkey. The big birds, some weighing nearly 30 pounds, are sold year-round at every American supermarket.

So, why eat a goose, you might ask?

Because they are so darn good! Difficult to find, yes, unless you live in one of the larger metropolitan areas, geese sometimes turn up in even the most remote of marketplaces during the holiday season. Grab a goose while you can. >snicker< I did, and my family is glad that I did. A goose is all dark meat, and it is positively loaded with fat; delicious, fragrant fat that slowly bastes the meat as the bird cooks, making each slice of roasted goose tender and buttery, while it still retains a deliciously chewy quality.

Tomorrow: How I Cooked My Goose

I Hate Computers

2005-12-31T02:00:00.000-08:00

Oh dear God! I finally did it!

After hours of mind-bending labor, I managed to muddle through the process of putting up my ****ing picture topside. At first, I thought I had done it correctly, but then I realized that my giant, moonlike face was appearing as a daily post. Arrrgh!

I am exhausted. I never did talk about the way Christmas music makes me feel, or blather on about our annual Christmas Eve bash, but damn. I need a nap. And somebody drank all the bourbon. I blame the penguins.

Oh Yeah...

2005-12-21T23:55:00.000-08:00

I'm a Grandma! My baby had her baby! Drinks on me! Wooooooooooooooo!

'Tis the Season to be Jolly

2005-12-21T23:48:00.000-08:00

The saddest part about Christmas is the turning out of the tree lights before going to bed. I do it, because I am a responsible adult who does not want to wake up dead tomorrow on accounta a fire caused by cheap wiring.

But first, I dance along to a couple of tunes from A Charlie Brown Christmas. My new wood floors were made to be danced upon.

Christmas time makes such a child of me.

Today's Horoscope

2005-12-18T23:48:00.000-08:00

Aries: Today, you will want to kill someone. You will do so, as you have done so many times before. Many people hate you, but they are afraid to tell you so. You love this. Avoid Leos. They will not only tell you that you suck, they will probably punch you in your mouth.

Taurus: You will sleep through the alarm, and upon arising, you will decide to eat some cereal and watch cartoons. Then you will take a nap. Do not worry. You will wake up in plenty of time for dinner. Try not to eat too many starches, Tubby. Avoid Aries when that vein in their forehead is throbbing.

Gemini: You are at war with yourself again, so you decide to sleep in separate rooms. Later, you will fight with yourself about what mixer to use in your drink. Happily, you will both decide to drink it straight from the bottle. Listen to Libras. Then laugh at them.

Cancer: You have never stopped being bitter about your sign's name. Get over it, you weepy, hormonal bitch. Have some chocolate and find someone with money to take you shopping. Yes, you are pretty. Avoid sarcastic people.

Leo: Oh, fuck you. You think you're hot shit, don't you? Well, okay...but you know, a little bit of humility could go a long way towards easing people's dislike of you. Eat more vegetables; it will keep you regular. Wear fur and diamonds, but never at the same time, unless it's after six p.m. Avoid everyone, unless you are wearing a Kevlar vest.

Virgo: Pure as the driven snow, eh? Yeah, right. We know what you do when all alone...heh-heh. You alphabetize your soup cans, ha-ha! Freak. Get a hobby that involves body parts. Other people's body parts. Wear bright colors once in a while. Beige is boring. Like you. Avoid Leos. They will only hurt your feelings.

Libra: You are the most balanced of signs. This may be why you have difficulty deciding how to part your hair. Sometimes, when the ugliness of the world overwhelms you, it is best to stay at home. Tomato soup is your friend. Call your mother. (Unless she is a Leo, Aries, or Scorpio. If this is the case, she will only hurt your feelings.) Call the suicide hotline instead, and volunteer to help.

Scorpio: What can one say about the zodiac's most notorious pervert? (Besides, "Congratulations.") Try to behave yourself in public, however. Not everyone needs to see your "special place." Yes, everyone probably does want to sleep with you, but it would embarrass them to admit this in the middle of mass. Go home and look at yourself naked in the mirror. You'll feel better.

Sagittarius: Fun-loving, athletic, muscular. Are you the most popular gym teacher at Central High, or that weird guy or gal who keeps posing all the time? You're buff, okay? Let it go. Eat a stick of butter. In fact, hang out with that lazy Taurus. Sloth can be fun!

Capricorn: I would gladly insult your boring, pedantic, adding-machine-for-a-heart ass, but I am afraid that you might turn me in to the IRS. Why did I hire you as my accountant? Oh yeah. Because you are the best. Yes, you are. (You won't report those excessive deductions for canola oil, will you?)

Aquarius: The Freak of the zodiac! Your mind is strange; labyrinthine; composed of more layers than an LSD-soaked onion. Good news! This translates to someone who perfectly navigates this bizarrely constructed world of ours. You would make a great tycoon, or you might just kill your wife in an ingenious, untraceable way.

Pisces: You booze-addled, sweat-soaked loser. Sooner or later, either your addictions or your free-floating anxieties will kill you. Until then, try to relax. Try yoga. And eat some meat. It makes you strong. On that note: Avoid strong people. They will only make you tired.

'Tis the Season of Caring and Giving

2005-12-18T21:39:00.000-08:00

I will now share with you the true meaning of life Prepare yourselves.

THE MEANING OF LIFE

(!!!)

Ahem. Life is 80% tedium, 10% toil, 6% joy, and 4% bourbon.

Now we need to figure out how to wedge more bourbon in there.

Short Note Re the Holidays

2005-12-17T01:01:00.000-08:00

What is all this nonsense about how one speaks of the holidays? Silly me, I always thought that common etiquette and common sense dictated what one wished others during the season. If I am Christian, I shall naturally wish you a Merry Christmas, and expect nothing more in return than the same, or some equally felicitous reply. If I am Jewish, and I wish someone a Happy Hanukkah, I do not want an unkind response. If my pagan heart is moved to wish you a Merry Yule, do not burn a cross on my lawn. The happy coincidence of several holidays occurring at once should bring more joy to the season.

Enjoy yourselves, people!

Unless you truly find pleasure in being a horse's ass.

Grumpy Deals With a Household Problem

2005-12-16T08:08:00.000-08:00

While the slacker world sleeps, Grumpy is on the job. His alarm shrills promptly at 3:40 a.m., which is just the first of many things that will make Grumpy, well, grumpy, all day long. Startled awake, he lunges for the alarm button, falls out of bed, and knocks a glass of forgotten bourbon off the nightstand onto his head. He says some very bad words.

"What fresh Hell is this?" moans the Savage Chef, wrenched deep from a savory culinary dream.

With a damp snarl, the Grump lurches to the bathroom and turns the shower tap on as high as it will go, as it takes some time to heat up water here at the Big Pink Pile of Stucco. His usual M.O. is to shave while the water is heating. The bathroom is on the second floor; there is only a tiny slit of a window near the ceiling. There is a door between the shower room and the sink area; it automatically pulls itself shut. These facts are important.

In the sink room, Grumpy shaves, and so forth. A few minutes have gone by; enough for the water to have heated. Grumpy tries to open the door. It will not open. He twists at the glass knob and pulls and tugs, but mysteriously, the door is stuck. Not as in swollen-wood shut, where a good, hard yank should take care of it; it seems that the door latch is not moving from its berth. Grumpy is a dignified man of some years, with a responsible supervisory position, so he does what he usually does in any frustrating situation.

He yells.

Once again, the Savage is torn from the arms of Morpheus ("Call me Mor") who, in the guise of a handsome young cabana boy, had just been about to serve her a tropical drink, little pink umbrella and all. Savage staggers into the sink room and finds the love of her life pounding furiously at the stubbornly shut portal. Steam is billowing from under the door.

"It won't open! What the hell?" screams Grumpy.

Grumpy shoves Savage aside and charges downstairs, naked as a caveman. More yelling and much banging emanate from the kitchen. The Grump returns, with the Savage Chef's good meat thermometer. The bathroom door has a safety feature, a tiny hole through which you can release the lock button, should a small child or suicidal spouse lock themselves inside. Leaving her brilliant mate futilely stabbing away at the tiny hole with the much-too-large thermometer, the Savage goes downstairs to fetch the ice pick. Upstairs, the pounding and cursing has resumed. Savage peeks out the front window to see if the police have arrived yet. She trudges back upstairs.

"Out of my way!" says Savage, brandishing the unsheathed ice pick. Grumpy has seen that movie too; he gets out of her way. Poking and picking at the lock-release hole doesn't do a bit of good. The walls are slick with moisture. One can barely see in the thick, steamy fog. Mushrooms begin sprouting in the corners, ferns curl from the floor tiles. Perhaps twenty minutes have passed since the nightmare began.

"I'm going to be late for work!" shouts Grumpy. He lives in terror of being less than punctual. In the Grumpy world, "punctual" means "at least half an hour early." His loving spouse frequently lies to him about the starting time of events lest they become social pariahs. Grumpy cannot be late. He makes an executive decision.

"I'm going to kick the door down."

He goes downstairs to get his boots. A few well-placed thuds from his steel-toed stompers, and much of the door lies scattered on the shower room floor. Grumpy reaches in and wrenches the door open. The water that has boiled from the shower head for almost a half hour has cooled to a refreshing tepidness. A few minutes later, the head of the household is out the door. Now, in addition to a Christmas tree, we get to buy a new door at the hardware store this weekend.

That afternoon, the Little Princess complains of all the noise, which disturbed her slumber. She asks what on earth went on. She is shown the door. She rolls her big, blue eyes.

"You people sure like to kick in doors around here!"

That is completely unfair, Savage Mom tells her. This was an emergency. About that other little incident, well, all that needs to be said is that a Savage has her reasons.

Where were you?

2005-12-09T01:32:00.000-08:00

Yes, you. Where were you, when you first heard important national news? For years, people talked about where they were, and what they were doing, when they heard that JFK had been assassinated. I was in kindergarten, and my memories of him dying are all confused with memories of the death of Pope John XXIII, who died on the third of June in that same year of 1963.

When they lowered the American flag for the president, I thought it was for the pope. (Okay, I wasn't the brightest child. I lived in a dream world most of the time.)

Anyway, I got to thinking: How many times did I first hear "big news" on my car radio, while driving through the endless SoCal traffic?

Things I first heard about while driving: John Lennon's murder. John Belushi's death. Asshole murdering teflon creep driving really slowly in a white Bronco. President Reagan's near-death experience at the hand of a flaming psychotic.

The day the towers collapsed, I was listening to the radio at home. (No internet yet, and we had no tv.) Since I was listening to a classical radio station, I heard nothing for hours and hours and oddly enough, no one telephoned me. Then, the station mentioned that a plane had crashed into one of the towers. I thought they meant a small craft. A while later, an embarrassed-sounding announcer announced that they would were going to a direct feed--all news report, and I heard all the horrifying details.

Savage Housewife's Handy Holiday Decorating and Party Tips

2005-12-06T00:12:00.000-08:00

1. Take down the black bat Halloween garland from the library chandelier. It makes the baby Jesus cry. Show some class. Decorate the light with those iridescent plastic snowflakes you got at Wal-Mart, instead.

(Sorry. that was supposed to go on my To Do list.)

2. Folks, that big blow-up Santa on your lawn is ugly and its motor makes a noise like that vacuum cleaner that the Salvation Army thrift shop refused. It also scares the dogs and little children.

3. Lime green is not a good color for a Christmas tree. Trust me on this one. I don't care if you saw one at the mall. I saw a mooning Santa doll there, too. You don't see me buying one though, do you?

4. That Redneck Christmas cd was kinda cute the first time-- maybe-- when we'd had a whole bunch of Uncle Billy's Everclear punch, and someone called the police, and we turned off all the lights and didn't answer the door--remember? No, I didn't think so, so I'll just tell you this one time: Put on some Bach or some Bing Crosby or something, or things are gonna get ugly.

5. Do not purchase and festively wrap up underwear for your little children. Do not give them sugar-free soy crunchies or toothbrushes in their stockings. If you do, they will remember this later, when they are selecting your nursing home.

6. If you have extremely loud relatives who, bless their dear hearts, give you a splitting migraine when they are all screaming at each other at the top of their lungs at holiday parties, you shouldn't have to hide in an unused bedroom. Wear small earplugs, the kind members of our armed forces wear on the flight line. Nod and smile a lot. Sometimes, drinking a bit helps. Fill a Coke can with bourbon. Refill every fifteen minutes, or sooner, as needed.

I shall update this list whenever I deem it necessary, or you good people out there could send in your own handy hints and timely tips.

Fever Dreams

2005-12-05T21:00:00.000-08:00

I've been sick. How sick? Too sick to write. That, for me anyway, is pretty damn sick. I was in a bad way. Fever fancies and delerious declarations--since I am rarely ill, and then usually only for a day or two, I make up for it by being quite dramatic about it. First came a creeping incoherency (I at first blamed the bourbon), then the realization that I was both hot and shiveringly cold, then nausea, blorping, and general collapse.

Well, enough about that. (I'm making myself feel sick all over again, just typing this.) I'm feeling a tad better, now, and almost ready to start bitching about things once again.

Local Fun in Tumbleweed Junction--I Love a Parade

2005-12-03T15:01:00.000-08:00

So, we woke up this morning, still drunk from the night before, and someone (I think it was me) screamed, "Oh my Gawd! The parade starts in thirty minutes!"

We had promised the little blossom that we would attend, to see her bang the brass with her high school band. We bathed and dressed quickly--no time for breakfast, of course, and raced downtown in the truck.

*Added note here for clarity, as SOMEONE (I won't embarrass you by mentioning your name--unless you annoy me again, that is-- was appalled.) So, let's get this straight, once and for all: the possibly still drunk "we" would be the royal "we," as in me, the Queen. The good old boy who went to bed early was the driver. Hell, he never lets me drive his truck, anyway. He doesn't even let me drive my own car, when his old fart self is present. Anyway, on with our story...

An hour and a half later, our child and her crew finally trudged by. "Where is she?" said Grumpy. (He needs new trifocals.) I, cool as always, was jumping up and down screaming, "Hi, Honey!" She ignored me magnificently, like the baby goddess that she is. I thought I heard the girl marching next to her say, "Wow. Who is that loud old lady?"

It was a great parade. We had fire trucks. We had a cement mixer. (No, I don't know why we did. We just did.) We had Shriners. They were not in their cute little toy cars, though. I was sooo disappointed! They rode in stupid dune buggies. I mean, really! I'm sure some of them weren't too fat to be able to shoehorn themselves into the proper bitty cars.

(We also had a horse that took the world's longest pee in the middle of the street. That animal must have been saving it up for days!)

The brutally unseasonable sun beat down on my black velvet dress, until I thought I would faint. Some Hell's Angel-looking types pissed off the cops when they halted and did some cool maneuvers on their bikes. Turns out, they were actually Christian ministers--Hogs for the Lord, or somesuch.

Whew! I may have to lie down for a while. I'm not used to this level of excitement!

Savage Dos and Don'ts

2005-12-02T16:22:00.000-08:00

First in a continuing series of hints on proper behavior, by your Arbiter Of All That Is Correct...

If you have a permanent peplum of blubber around your middle, no low-rise pants and no belly shirts for you, Tubby.

If you sport well-earned stretch marks on your tum-tum, do not pierce your navel and display it for all of us to see. Geez, Moms!

If you are a trick-or-treater and you need a shave, at least wear a fucking costume, you lousy teenaged hoodlum.

If you are candy, and you are sugar-free, you have no reason to exist.

If you are a salesclerk and you hate your damn, boring, ill-paid job, please remember: Your crappy job is not my fault. Slacker.

If you are a married man, do not ask your wife where the duct tape is. She neither knows, nor cares. Contrary to popular male belief, women do not have GPS installed in their ovaries at birth.

Also, married guy, do not attempt to ease your wife's empty-nest syndrome by acting childish yourself after the real kids grow up and leave home.

If you have a waterbed with a mirrored canopy, do not allow your parents in your bedroom. You don't want to know about your parents' sex life; believe me, the feeling is mutual.

If you are my neighbor, and you keep a loud, vicious dog for "protection," keep the mutt in the house, please. He can't save your stupid ass from the backyard.

Do not talk on your telephone while driving. If I catch you at it, I just may have to ram your witless yuppie ass. My car already has so many dents, a few more won't bother me.

While visiting my home, do not ask where my television is. I don't have one. If you wanted to watch TV, why didn't you stay at home?

When someone dies, the correct funeral attire is something covered up, fairly formal, and DARK. Black. Dark brown. Navy. Dark gray. Your glittery skank-ho club dress or your "Look Ma, I got on clean boxers" jeans will NOT cut it.

When shopping with your little darling, and he/she begins to throw a screeching fit, take the little bastard outside, ASAP, or I will be forced to demonstrate my proven method of post-natal birth control.

Silence is golden. So, STFU. If you are wondering if this is directed at you, it probably is.

Cut people some slack. Nobody is perfect. Except me, of course.

I'm So Cool, I Think I'll Go Put On a Sweater

2005-12-02T15:42:00.001-08:00

I love this technology-rich time that we live in. It used to be, when you were out in public and started talking away and there was nobody with you, it meant that you were a freeze-dried whackaloon, and sane people would shun you. Nowadays, however, you're just another jerk with a cell phone. I love that I don't have to feel embarrassed when passersby catch me having a spirited discussion all by myself. They see the little thingy in my ear, and they are reassured. All is well.

The way I see it, no one has to know that I have never owned a cell phone, and that the little thingy in my ear isn't connected to anything.

I've Got a Secret

2005-11-30T23:54:00.000-08:00

Today, I had a secret, a secret I was bursting to share. As I shopped in the Michael's craft store and the sweet elderly lady next to me confided, "I'm buying this stationery so that maybe my grandchildren will write me letters," I very nearly shouted out, "MY DAUGHTER IS IN LABOR!"

I bit down on my tongue, so as not to seem like a Shopping Loony. You know what I mean, right? Those crazies who pop up when you are quietly sifting through the sale racks at Robinson's May, or trying to find the perfect match to your dress fabric in the ribbon section of Jo-Ann's Fabrics. One moment, you are quietly absorbed in your shopping and in the next, the Shopping Loony invades your space.

"Oh, I really like that selection of colors you have there. I can't wear purple; it makes my teeth look yellow. My mother can wear purple though. She doesn't have any teeth. Well she does, but she only wears them to chew."

You murmur, "Uhmmm, thanks."

SL is undeterred by your barely-above-freezing manner.

"So, I'm making a remote control cozy for my mom. She says that when the temperature dips below 78 degrees, her buttons freeze up."

"Uhmmm...hmmm..." you mutter, as you sidle farther down the aisle.

SL follows you closely. Any closer, and you might have to explain to her that you are heterosexual.

"Personally, I say it's the ice cream."

(What? Oh, the hell with it. Who cares? Where the hell is the 1/2 inch navy grosgrain, anyway?)

You are nearly in the Styrofoam ball department, now. Still, IT advances...

"See, she has me scoop her up a big bowl of ice cream--she really likes the kind with walnuts, but the doctor says she shouldn't eat nuts on account of she gets these pockets in her colon, you know, that trap bits of food and stuff... Anyway................bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...................

You have stopped listening.

You know that she is still talking, because you can see her lips moving; the lips that you notice are edged with this whitish crud--oh god...

The navy grosgrain! At last! You escape to the cutting counter--but wouldn't you know it, the SL follows you.

"2-1/2 yards," you tell the cutter.

"So, what are you making?" says the SL.

The cutter looks up and smiles. "Oh, you're sisters, aren't you? I can tell! Are you making matching outfits?"

You die.

When I'm An Old Woman...

2005-11-28T00:12:00.000-08:00

When I'm an old woman
I shall wear purple
Just like I already do.

I'll eat too much chocolate
And waste all my dinner
Just like I already do.

I'll drink all the bourbon
And scream for champagne
Just like I already do.

And I shall tell everyone
To go and fuck-off
Just like I already do.

The Savage Alphabet-- part 2

2005-11-27T01:13:00.000-08:00

* continued *

C is for Capybara: The world's largest guinea pig. The Laaduu breed and consume capybara on their feast days. They first lured them into their traps with very old corndogs given to them by missionaries. The Laaduu enjoy the missionaries very much. They say that they are particularly tasty with chili sauce. The corndogs they can take or leave.

D is for Death: The uninvited visitor, who never leaves empty handed. (Maybe if we left out some cookies and milk for him, he'd leave us alone-- ya think?)

* to be continued *

Musings on "Black Friday"

2005-11-26T11:23:00.000-08:00

* To America's retail wage-slaves on their worst day of the year: the view from the other side of the cash desk, from one who has labored on both sides. *

My name is Savage, and I have retail problems.

Okay, I am a woman. I shop. I know what I am talking about. (Can I hear an amen, sisters?)

As a former retail clerk who has served both the nicest of customers and the rudest and stupidest, and as a former retail clerk who has served with both the best of employees and the rudest and stupidest, I have a few things to say on the subject.

As a customer, here is what I require:

I want to go in and pick out what I want, and if I have questions about the merchandise, I want you, the sales clerk, to be able to answer them, or to quickly find someone who can. Do not say, "I dunno," and think you can leave it at that.

I want to be able to pay for my merchandise in a timely manner, and I don't want any rudeness to enter the transaction zone. Do not give me any of your pompous attitude. Remember which one of us is standing behind the register for minimum wage. Princess Diana you are not.

(Y'all still with me so far?)

I do not want to hear your private conversations, especially when they refer to customers. I do not want to hear an after-the-sale evisceration of the looks, weight, character or taste of the unfortunate shopper who preceded me at the cash register. Oh, and I really don't care when you are taking your break, or what your boyfriend said last night, or the results of your medical test. Can the employee's break room chatter while on the sales floor, okay?

I do not want to have to send out a search party for you when it comes time to pay for my stuff. Be there. It's your job. They aren't paying you because you're so darn cute. Really.

Unpacking boxes, hanging clothes, recording sales info; these are things you have to do, I know. What you need to understand, is that these things are not as important as waiting on your customer. If the customers go away, YOU WILL NO LONGER HAVE A JOB.

(Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were listening. Your mind seemed to be wandering.)

Dress like a grown-up professional, not a teenaged hooker/slacker. I don't think you want to see my undergarments or private body parts; I assure you that I do not want to see yours.

Do a good job, be smart and keep your eyes and ears open. Soon, perhaps, you can leave your crappy retail job for something better. Until then, remember:

YOUR CRAPPY JOB IS NOT MY FAULT!

The Savage Alphabet

2005-11-25T00:23:00.000-08:00

A is for Alone: We are all alone, no matter that we may surround ourselves with friends and family. In the end, we die alone. Those of us who realize and accept this fact lead lives of overwhelming sadness. The human animal much prefers fiction to fact.

B is for Beelzebub: Very few people believe in him nowadays; fewer still fear him. My grandfather says this is why the world is going to Hell in a handbasket.

*to be continued*

Working Stiff

2005-11-24T19:54:00.000-08:00

He punched in one night, put his tuna sandwich in the office fridge, wished the day shift guy a good night and settled down to read the paper. He had just finished the comics and Dear Abby and was about to skim the front section, when the buzzer rang. He set down the paper, sighed, took a sip of coffee and logged on to the program. He reviewed the subject's case history, tapped away on the keyboard for a couple of minutes, then returned to his paper. He finished the national news and was deep into the sports section when the phone rang. He picked it up and spoke quietly and gently into it, while his face went through a series of horrible contortions and his long, thin fingers drummed restlessly on the desk.

"Yeah, Mom. Yes. I'll be there. Sunday. I know. No, Cindy and I aren't going out anymore. She said I was too involved with my job. I know, Mom. Mom! I'm not even thirty for--

"Grandchildren. Uh-huh. Yeah, right, Mom. I know. Look, I'm at work here, and the boss--

"Yeah. I love you too, Mom. See you Sunday. Goodbye."

As soon as he hung up, the buzzer rang. He read. He typed. He would do this many times as the night wore on. At three o'clock he ate his tuna sandwich and bought a candy bar from the vending machine. At eight, the day guy came on and he punched out and went home.

While getting ready for bed, he thought of the many people who had died that night. He thought about leaving the business, going into another line of work. Those ads for dental assistant school looked interesting. He drank a glass of milk and got into bed. He fell asleep with the sun shining on his face.

On Sunday, Death went to his mother's house for dinner.

The Shortest Country Song Ever

2005-11-23T02:40:00.000-08:00

Yew broooke mah heaaarrrt,
So Ah kicked yer aaassss.

Thank you, thank you ver' much. Goodnight!

Savage has left the building.

It's a Turkey of a Day for the Savage Chef

2005-11-22T19:35:00.000-08:00

It's been a long day, I'm in one of those moods, and the big day is almost upon us. Time for a Thanksgiving rant. So, let me put on my apron, roll up my sleeves, step up on my soapbox (actually, the crate my ice cream compressor came in), and just rant away. Don't worry, you can stop and make some nachos and pour a beer or whatever; I'll still be here when you get back.

Say, those look tasty. Mind if I have one?

Forthwith, I would like to state quite firmly: Sausage, oysters, raisins, peanuts, candy corn, prunes, apricots, rice, ham, eggs, old sweat sox, eggplant, caviar, mushrooms and leftover fruitcake, have no place in a proper Thanksgiving turkey stuffing. A proper Thanksgiving turkey stuffing consists of homemade cornbread, seasoned with salt and freshly ground black pepper and some sage and thyme; celery, onion, some green apple chunks if you like--I do-- and perhaps a bit of chopped up neck meat and giblets, which may or may not include any of the liver.

Add sufficient melted butter and turkey neck broth to moisten it just enough to enable it to be packed inside the big bird, remembering that you don't need much of either, as the turkey's wonderful, fragrant juices will baste the stuffing into a truly ambrosial dish. If you do not make your own stuffing--and I cannot imagine why you would not, as it is so simple that you could have a handy small child do it--then please do not ever, ever resort to that dusty, dry boxed faux stuffing mix the grocery stores sell. It isn't possible to say enough Hail Marys or Our Fathers to do penance for that mortal sin. Either wangle an invitation to someone else's house, or dine out at a reputable establishment; one that employs real cooks, not microwave jockeys.

A properly executed stuffing is often the best part of the whole Thanksgiving Day meal. Like the little boy said, "No more turkey for me, thank you. I'll just have some more of that bread he ate!"

Beyond my deeply held religious belief in the sanctity of stuffing, my pet peeves regarding Thanksgiving Day foods are many. In general, I despise the ready-made, so-called convenience foods that all too many culinarily deluded people rely upon these days. In particular, I detest such gustatory abominations as:

Green beans (from a can!)-- canned-cream-of-crap-soup--fake-onions-also-from-a-can casserole. Ladies, I implore you. Do not believe everything that you read in Good Housekeeping magazine. Sometimes they lie to you. Really.

Mashed potatoes made of alleged potato flakes. Hollywood uses this stuff when they want to simulate a snowstorm. Better you should eat real snow. It doesn't clog your bodily plumbing, and you can use it to make killer daiquiris.

Canned (do you begin to see a theme developing?) yams with miniature marshmallows on top. What sick mind invented this shit? My cat left a more attractive mess on my bed quilt, that time she ate three lizards in a row.

Gravy from a can. Dear Lord, WHY? What on earth do these people do with all the luscious turkey drippings? My brothers' little boys don't mind it, though. I remember being that age. All the little boys seemed to really like to eat paste.

Those icky, pre-cut carrot pucks. They DO NOT taste like tender baby carrots. They taste like orange Lincoln Logs. You shouldn't eat wood. I don't care what that old guy who ate pine trees said.

Nasty bottled ranch dressing to go with the carrot pucks. Grumpy calls it "raunch" dressing. I concur.

Canned cranberry sauce, whether berry style or jellied. Especially grievous to this eater is the practice of pushing the jelly straight from the can onto the serving plate. There it sits, wobbling slightly, in all its cylindrical glory. This presentation does have one virtue: it gives me something to giggle at, as I steel myself to the thought of partaking of the rest of the dreadful meal.

"Dinner rolls" from the grocery bread department. Why not just throw in the towel entirely, and pass around that baggie of Wonder Bread? You know you want to. And don't even try to tell me that's butter. I know whipped margarine when I see it.

Well, so much for the main meal. Anyone up for dessert? I thought you'd never ask.

Those Cool Whip and Jello creations. Why are they so often a leprous green? There's a reason why they are called "molds" you know, and it's not just because of the pan they're made in.

Finally, DO NOT EVEN THINK of serving me a frozen pumpkin pie, or an instant pudding one in a faux crust that you grabbed from the grocer's freezer case. More of that darn Cool Whip, you say? That's it. I'm outta here. If anyone wants me, I'll be outside in the driveway, letting the air out of your tires and writing nasty things on your windshield in gravy. From a can.

Next year, come over to my house. We'd love to have you. I'll do ALL the cooking. Please. Don't make me beg. I have canned gravy, and I'm not afraid to use it.

Why Savage Drinks So Damn Much

2005-11-06T01:58:00.000-08:00

Let me tell you about a typical Savage Swiller day...

People ask me why I drink. I tell them that it depends on the occasion. For example, one day last week I woke up, still a bit fuzzy-headed from the night before, poured myself eight ounces of vodka and topped it off with two ounces of Coke. I needed the caffeine jolt for energy, as I do not drink coffee. The vodka was because it doesn't announce itself the way my usual bourbon does. The soda crackers I consumed with it were in anticipation of a churning stomach. The aspirin chaser was for the free-floating headache with my name on it. The eight ounces of straight vodka that followed the first wee drinkie were necessary for my sanity. The day ahead of me was going to be rough. I prayed that I would make it through in one piece. At that moment, the doorbell rang. My hand shook, and I spilled the last few drops of vodka on the carpet. It was time. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and prepared myself for

Luncheon With My Parents.

Daddy insists on driving.

"You sit in the back, and give us directions," Mom says. Daddy starts the car. Well, he turns the key, looks puzzled when there is no sound, then fumbles for the keys on the floorboards. Daddy starts the car.

NINETY MILES AN HOUR TO THE STOP SIGN!

(It's one hundred feet from my front door, by the way.) My mother says (in her usual conversational tone--imagine a very deaf Ma Kettle), "What's the best way to go?"

Go where? I think, as I cover my ears with my shoulders.

Daddy whips around the corner at high speed (Mr. Daddy's Wild Ride!), then slows to a pleasant eight and a half miles per hour, straddling the center line and staring off into space. Do not bother him; he is in the Driving Zone. It is a happy place. For him. Soon, there are fourteen pickup trucks and SUVs behind us. The drivers of these vehicles (I worry that they may be armed) are not happy. They are eager to let us know this. Oncoming traffic skins the paint from both doors. I ask Mom, "Where do you want to eat?"

"I want to eat someplace NICE!" she screeches.

Damn. There goes my plan to take you to Ptomaine Palace. However, I am nothing if not flexible. I throw out suggestions. "Red Lobster? Mimi's? TGI Fridays?"

I know that we must go to a corporate-clone sort of place, or else my mother will say, in her whisper-that-wakes-the-dead voice, "I think they're foreigners here. Who knows what they're serving? I've heard that these people eat dogs!"

Meanwhile, Daddy is driving down an unpaved country lane. We pass by cows, silos, and a pack of mean and hungry-looking coyotes that are savaging what I hope is some kind of large animal. Whatever it was, it was wearing overalls and a baseball cap, but lots of people dress up their livestock these days, right?

"Al! Where the hell are you going?" screams my mother.

"I dunno. Wherever she told me to go, I guess. "

Realizing that I am the "she" being referred to, I take a look around and do not recognize any landmarks.

"Well, if you had let me drive..." I whine, instantly reverting back to the twelve-year-old I once was.

"You know we don't know which roads to take!" says Mother.

Well, aside from the fact that they managed to get to my house, and that they shop in the town that we are going to, and that they always gaff off my directions anyway...well, aside from those things, she is correct. I take charge.

"Turn here Daddy, " I suggest. (Foolishly, as it turns out.)

A few hundred yards down the lane, Daddy turns the car onto a farm access road. A whole bunch of cows gaze at us. No, a flock. No, wait--a herd! Anyway... A pack of farm dogs run alongside our car, barking their little canine lungs out. Soon, we come upon the actual farmhouse. Should I get out and ask for directions? Uhhmmm... probably not. A woman with a rifle is standing on the porch. She opens her mouth to yell at us. She appears to have no teeth. Brandishing the rifle in what I feel is a threatening manner, she pauses in mid-tirade to spit an astonishing amount of cloudy, brownish liquid in our direction. I tell Daddy to turn the car around.

Fortunately, none of the bullets pierce the car. The cows stare placidly at us as we leave. I realize that if I crouch down behind the car seat as if I were fixing my stockings, I can take a few quick nips from my flask. (Why did I leave my rosary beads at home?) A few minutes later, somewhat restored and able to speak in complete sentences once again, I ask, "So. Mom. What kind of food would you like for lunch?"

"Let's go to Hungry Hunter," she says.

Good, I think. Generic steakhouse. Should be a piece of cake--or should that be slab of beef? Daddy knows where it is. Sort of. We make a double left turn and drive the wrong way down a blocked-off street. Those pesky orange road cones cling to the car's undercarriage for several blocks. We briefly get stuck in the middle of a flock of pink plastic flamingos, but soon extricate ourselves.

"They shouldn't have those things in the middle of their lawn when their house is so close to the road," says Mother.

Finally, we arrive at the steakhouse. Daddy parks. Perhaps the people who own the white Bentley won't notice the dents...

We enter the dining establishment. I say a prayer.

"Al! We're going to the ladies room!" bellows Mother, as though she were in charge of encouraging the passengers of the Titanic to enter the lifeboats. Everyone in the dining room looks at us. A Japanese tourist snaps our picture. Daddy remains oblivious, entranced by the artful display of after-dinner mints cunningly arranged in a plastic bowl. In the bathroom stall, I take the opportunity to have another couple of drinks from my flask. Damn! The flask is now empty. Luckily, I have planned for just such an emergency. I have three more flasks in my purse and two in the tops of my stockings. Maybe I should just start carrying around the 1.75 liter bottle around instead. (But it would be hard to be discreet while sipping from it.)

Back in the dining room, Mother rejects two tables for being in the mysterious Unclean Section, but at last, we are seated. I realize that Daddy is MIA. We find him sitting by himself at a dirty table, reading a discarded children's menu and coloring on the placemat. We persuade him to join us. Soon, our very own waitress cruises up to our table. She goes through the "specials" spiel. She is middle-aged. She has waited tables for many years. She knows that no one ever listens to the list of specials. She knows that customers will ask dumb questions, and demand special treatment. She has grown accustomed to the slings and arrows of customer service. She believes that she has heard and seen it all.

She has never met my mother.

"Would anyone care for a drink before ordering?"

"Where do you get your chickens from?" Mother demands.

The waitress is confused. "From the freezer," she says.

"How do I know they don't have Newcastle disease?" jabs my mother.

"They're not from around here," parries the waitress.

"Well, what about the salmon? Has it been checked for mercury?"

"No," the waitress answers shortly.

Riposte! Take that! (Why did we come to a steakhouse, anyway?) I say, "Mom, how about the rib-eye special?"

Daddy is looking up at the waitress like a little boy trying to get the teacher's attention, his finger pointing at something on the menu. Everyone ignores him.

"You know I don't eat beef. All those hormones they give the cows!"

I am growing desperate. And thirsty.

"Well, how about a nice garden salad, Mom?"

She stares at me as though I have grown another head. "Are you crazy? Haven't you heard about all those people dying?"

Now I am confused. "What people, Mom?"

"Those people in Kansas or Pennsylvania or somewhere. They ate green onions and then they died!"

Huh?

"Well then, just ask that the green onions be left off your salad," I say, thinking it a perfectly reasonable solution.

"How do I know the lettuce didn't come from some foreign country where they use dirty fertilizer on it? Do you know what they use?"

No, and I don't want to know. In just a moment, I am getting up and going back to the Ladies to drink some more.

Suddenly, it is over.

"I'll have a turkey croissandwich."

I wonder if turkeys suffer from Newcastle disease. I decide that I really do not care.

"Is the turkey lean?" 'She Who Must Be Obeyed' asks the waitress.

Yes. We've had it on a bread and water diet for weeks.

The waitress snaps her gum. Wait, she didn't seem to have gum, before. Maybe she just cracked her jaw. "Mustard or mayo?" she says.

"Do you have lemon for the tea?"

"Coleslaw or potato salad?"

"I want Sweet 'n Lo for my tea."

Somehow, without either player acknowledging the other, the order is transmitted and recorded. When her croissandwi(t)ch arrives, my mother will look at it suspiciously. She will take two bites and then abandon it on her plate. "I'm not hungry," she will say as she sighs, making the napkins at the table across the room go flying. I let Daddy order his meal all by his very own self and for a wee bit, we are hung up on the beverage selection. The restaurant serves Pepsi. Daddy wants Coke.

"Why don't you have Coke?" he asks the waitress plaintively.

"We just don't. We have Pepsi."

"But I want a Coke."

"We only have Pepsi."

"Why don't you have both?"

"Because we don't."

"But I like Coke."

"Sorry."

"Oh. Well, do you have Moxie?"

Suddenly, the waitress has a brilliant idea.

"I'll bring you a Coke," she sighs.

Daddy smiles like a good little boy who has been promised a cookie. All is well.

At last, it is my turn.

Here it comes.

I can have one if I want!

I am an adult.

I have a husband, and several grown children.

I'm a homeowner. I pay taxes.

So there!

"I'll have the Petite Steak Special and a glass of red wine."

My mother's eyes widen.

"Going to get schnockered before noon, are you?" she asks. "Do you always drink first thing in the morning?"

I grind my expensive dental crowns together, and manage a rather tight smile.

"It's. Eleven. Forty. Five. I mean, no! I don't--"

"You know, I read in the Reader's Digest that women shouldn't drink more than two drinks a week. It upsets your estrogren balance."

I read in the National Enquirer about a daughter who beat her mother to death with a gin bottle.

The drinks arrive. Sullenly, I take a big gulp of wine, and nearly choke. Mother sneers.

"At least I'm not driving," I mutter. I excuse myself and return to the Ladies for fortification. On the way there, I run into our waitress and order a carafe of wine.

"But put some vodka in it," I tell her. She does not seem surprised by my request.

Back at the table, the food has arrived. My vodka-wine sits embarrassed in the middle of the table, the subject of stares angry (Mother) and perplexed (Daddy).

"You know, alcohol is nothing but empty calories. Do you really think you need them?"

I take a deep breath, and suck in my stomach. "Well, Mom, maybe I shouldn't eat this steak. All those fatty calories, you know."

Damn! She's goaded me into answering back. It's like entering a time machine...

"Beef is very bad for you. Those hormones they give the cows..."

"Mom," I say quietly. "Since you don't seem to be enjoying your meal, perhaps you should order some dessert."

"I'd like some pie," Daddy says wistfully.

Mother glares at him. "You know what the doctor said, Al! You need to lose some weight."

I look at Daddy, all 125 pounds of him on a five-foot nine-inch frame. In shorts, his legs give Colonel Sanders evil thoughts. What the hell kind of quack were they going to?

"Your father is pre-diabetic and pre-hypoglycemic."

What?

She scoops up my pair of rolling eyes and throws them home.

"He has to take pills!"

Geeezuz, I would too, if I had to live with the Food Nazi.

Daddy is gazing longingly at the pie being served to the table next to us.

"And, he has pre-diverticulitis, so he's not allowed to have nuts."

No.

I let that one pass.

"Well," I say, taking pity on him. "I would like some dessert. What kind of pie do you want, Daddy?"

His smile is wondrous to hehold. He has apple pie, with ice cream and a beer(!) I order more wine. Mother glares at us. We ignore her. I make another visit to the Ladies Drinkatorium. On the way back home, Daddy blows through three or four stop signs (I wasn't counting--unless you count my imaginary beads--and pulls out in front of opposing traffic even though our light is red. I don't panic because, after all, we are all pre-death. I'm sitting in the back seat, happy that this family excursion is nearly over. When I look out the window, I realize that we are on the I-15 freeway, heading north towards Las Vegas. Home is twenty-five miles behind me and getting farther away by the second.

Bwahahahahahaaa! I don't care. I know that there are plenty of places in Vegas to get a drink.

And I still have one flask left.