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.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Friday, August 03, 2007
I Look Like a Murder Victim
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.
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.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Life, and the Meaning of Ass
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?
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?
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Happy Holiday!
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.
Friday, June 29, 2007
You'll Never Know What I'm Apologizing For
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
* 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
Friday, June 22, 2007
Death, and other parts of Life
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.
Cue music.
Fadeout.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Savage Chef, Career Counselor
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.
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.
Monday, June 04, 2007
The Raw and the Cooked
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.
>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.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Another Night in Paradise
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...
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...
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Reading the Funny Papers
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....
*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, December 15, 2006
Friday Challenge
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.
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.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
A Christmas Poem
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.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Cooking Instead Of Thinking
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.
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.
Monday, December 04, 2006
I Love a Parade
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Thanksgiving Day Mystery: Part Two
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Worst. Thanksgiving. Ever.
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
I'm Not Really Here
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.
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.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Would a Rabbit's Foot Help?
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:
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.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
How. Fat. Are. They. ?
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?
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?
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Road Trip!
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!
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!
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same
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
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
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...
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...
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
I Still Hate the Desert
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Musings on the Fourth of July
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?
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?
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Official Fathers Day Blog *
So, today the alarm shrilled at half-past OH MY F***ING GAWD, WHAT TIME IS IT?
Oh my brain... It hurts...
Several unsavory non-PG-rated phrases later, I got up, washed and dressed and in general tried to make myself presentable. The general consensus is that Mothers Day is the big restaurant traffic-jam-fest, but here in Tumbleweed Junction, Fathers Day is taken very seriously indeed.
Soon (ha!) after a lot of screaming and running up and down stairs and so forth, my little family found themselves waiting in line at a corporate chain restaurant breakfast buffet. Yep, Grumpy's first disappointment: no regular menu service. I consoled him by pointing out that the special holiday menu mentioned an omelet bar.
Somewhat mollified, the dad of five (also grandad of five) was persuaded to seat himself in a booth, where he had ample time to wonder aloud (key syllable: loud) how long it would take the waitress to fetch his GD Bloody Mary. Answer: A pretty damn long time. Himself was not a happy Dad at this point.
On to the buffet. The Princess and I were picking dubiously at the dismal offerings when we heard an angry man begin to berate a server. Hmm... could it be?
Yep. Apparently, the omelet station cook-server did not understand English. Still, doesn't everyone know that omelets need lots of melted cheese, damn it? The Princess and I slithered back to our booth, our plates filled with odd bits of bread and gravy and fruit. I don't do breakfast. In a perfect Savage world, all eggs would come deviled.
Luckily for me, the breakfast buffet came with champagne. I drank. I picked at my "food." I drank some more. After a while, let me tell you, I loved everybody. My family, my fellow diners, the staff, the kitchen help responsible for concocting the gelatinous biscuit gravy...
Defense attorneys would pay to have me on the jury, I'm just sayin'. Who needs E? Just give the Savage Chef some cheap champagne on an empty stomach and sit back and watch the love begin.
Ah well... Since his breakfast was less than delicious, I hope to make it up to the old fart with a fine dinner: Pot roast, artichokes, strawberries, and potatoes so good you'd run over your grandma with the tractor to get some:
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!
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Pomp and Circumstance and the Savage
So, the big pink pile of stucco is just a stone's throw from the local high school. We like this, on accounta the fireworks. Pretty lights... Big booms... Sparkles...
Next year will be the finale; the baby of the family will graduate, and we will be leaving Tumbleweed Junction.
Ordinarily, graduation day would not rock my world, but I had a sharp shock this week. While looking up something else entirely, I uncovered some sobering information. One of my former high school gradmates has gone and become an astronaut. This is a boy who was in most of my classes, but we were never buds or anything like that. Still, it disturbs me.
An astronaut. My childhood dream job. I am a former sixties child. We dreamed of being astronauts. We knew what sonic booms were. We watched the moon landing on our black and white television sets. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, LIFTOFF!
I am very glad that I never went to any of my high school reunions. I can just imagine it. Everyone there would be either a CEO of some corporation, the owner of their own hugely successful business, a famed neurosurgeon, or an astronaut.
And then there would be me. The housewife. Oh kill me now.
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.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Burn, Baby, Burn
Apparently, when the Savage Chef (with or without her beloved consort Grumpy) goes out to dine, red lights flash and sirens blare in the kitchens of our local vomitoriums. "Drain the fresh oil out of the fryer and dump in that stuff that was sitting in a barrel in the back room when the boss bought the place"(in 1946), they say.
For two days in a row, your Savage Chef has suffered from dyspepsia. First it was the lumpia. Fried black and handed to her in an oil-soaked paper bag, urp--oh, it was not pretty. Still, she tried. Oh, how she tried. She valiantly ate her way through nearly half of the cat-turd-like cylinders before she collapsed, whimpering and convulsing, grease leaking from her mouth and nose and congealing in small, smelly puddles 'neath her writhing limbs.
This morning, she and King Grumpy decided to avail themselves of the hearty cuisine of the local chain ristorante. After a half hour or so, their food arrived. Apparently the cook was channeling Paul Prudhomme during one of his early acid trips. Have you ever eaten a blackened crab cake? No? Well neither had the Savage Chef. She did her best imitation of a sickened cat, pawing at the table in a symbolic attempt to cover the filthy thing.
The meal was comped, but the Savage Chef was left hungry. Grumpy was able to eat his French Dip, but he was made even more grumpy by the sight of his lady left lightheaded and weak. He was so guilty (though it was clearly not his fault) that he completed several home repair projects that he had been putting off. So there is indeed a silver lining inside of every little black cloud, isn't there?
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?
Monday, June 12, 2006
What a Difference a Letter Makes
So, I had occasion to visit The Town Where Grumpy and Savage Met. Yes, it was an historic moment. BTW, the West Coast Grandson is so adorable he should be cloned. Carlsbad Thai food sucks, and your Savage had a sharp shock. She is only just now beginning to recover, aided by tall bourbons and muscular cabana boys with supple fingers.
Now let me tell you, I married a poor man. His ex reamed him out but good, and at the time I was naught but a minimum wage slave. So when it came time to select the traditional wedding set, we went to the best (that we could sort of barely by the skin of our teeth afford).
Rings & Things. Soon, I was the proud possessor of a genuine diamond, one third of a carat on a 14 karat band. It was official. We were engaged.
Never mind that shortly after the nuptials, I dropped my rings down the kitchen sink drain pipe. Thank gawd for the elbow bend pipe. (Or whatever the hell plumbers call it.)
Anyway...
So, there I was. Hungry. Facing a long drive home. But I was also waxing nostalgic. I had to see it. So I drove to the little shopping center.
Something was wrong...
WINGS & THINGS?
With a simple change of one letter, the world had shifted on its axis and I no longer knew what was what. (To sort of quote my dad.)
Well, I guess those signs are kind of expensive, and when all you have to do is change one letter...
Anyway...
I entered the Wingatorium and read the menu. Feeling brave, I selected the spiciest of the wings. I ate. I gulped coke. I drove home with a tear in my eye.
They say you can't go home again. I say you can. You can, but you may have to eat something. And that is not necessarily a bad thing.
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.
Friday, June 09, 2006
The Real Dr. Frankenstein
Long before the invention of mind-numbing tranquilizers such as Ritalin, there was an operation known as the transorbital lobotomy. Quite simply, ice picks were hammered into the eye socket, underneath the upper lids. The picks were then rotated in circles. This was supposed to cure mental illness. Often, however, it created a mindless automaton. One of the most famous lobotomy failures was Rosemary Kennedy, who was forced to spend her entire post-operation life under constant medical supervision.
The transorbital lobotomy was first performed by Dr. Walter J. Freeman in 1946. He did the operation in his office, and sent the victim--er--patient home in a taxi. Dr. Freeman's son reports that the surgical instrument used was in fact an ice pick. Amazingly, Dr. Freeman not only remained out of prison, he went on to do thousands of lobotomies, ruining countless minds and finally killing a patient.
One of his patients was a 12 year old boy named Howard Dully. He tells his story here: http://www.soundportraits.org/on-air/my_lobotomy/page3.php3
The 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
Thursday, June 08, 2006
The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down
A little less than four years ago, I got internet access. I had never wanted it before. Maybe because of the lingering horror of September 11th, I suddenly had a need to feel connected to the rest of the world. Of course since then, I have used the internet as a shopping mall, the world's biggest reference library, and as a back-fence chat hangout. Ah yes, the chat forums...
I registered on several forums that interested me, but there were two at which I spent a lot of time; perhaps too much time. Now, one of those message boards is no more, yanked out from underneath its increasingly bitchy, feuding participants by the understandably peeved owner. The other sems to be dying slowly; perhaps it will rally, go into remission. I hope so, but I find myself unable to work up a great deal of enthusiasm about the possibility. For me, the ride is over. They're turning out the lights over the midway. It's time to move on.
I am here on blogspot because of a very funny lady who posted on the now-dead forum. Until I read about her blog, I didn't know that there were free sites on which to post your mental meanderings. Welcome to my new addiction, I guess. Goodbye chat forums, hello blogging. By the way, my spell-check does not recognize "blog" or "blogging." Then again, it didn't recognize "Wiccan." It thought I wanted to type "Incan." Is there that much similarity in their rituals? I don't think so.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)