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.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
666 and a Devilish Fudge Sauce
Happy End of the World Day! Won't you join me in drinking a steaming glass of brimstone punch? Take a deep breath. Smell the sulfur! Isn't the inferno gorgeous this time of year?
Today is my father's birthday. 6-6-6. I am the daughter of the Beast. So today, I think I should do something special. Maybe bake an oleander cake, frost it in shining black, and decorate it with bat's blood. Or maybe I will kidnap the neighbor's yappy little ratdog, remove its heart with a nail file, and fry it up in some rendered baby fat.
Nah.
Maybe I will just drink rum and grapefruit until my eyes cross, then make the Savage Chef black cocoa brownies that appeared here on March 22nd. After all, they are nice and dark. As dark as my evil heart, heh-heh...
You know what would be even better? Brownies sundaes, topped with vanilla ice cream and hot fudge sauce!
Savage Chef Hot Fudge Sauce
2 c. heavy cream
6 oz. butter
Melt, then bring to a low simmer.
Add and whisk to dissolve:
1-1/3 c. white sugar
1-1/3 c. dark brown sugar
Reduce heat to very low and whisk in:
2 c. cocoa
1 t. vanilla extract
Do not let the mixture come to a boil!
Keep whisking until it is no longer lumpy.
This hot fudge sauce is so good that you will have to restrain yourself from eating it all with a spoon (or your bare hands) right then and there.
It freezes well too, and some bad, bad people have been known to eat it straight out of the freezer like it was candy.
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.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
PSA from DADD (Dipsos Against Dumb Drinkers)
When You Quit Drinking:
After 6 hours, you begin to sober up.
After 12 hours, your balance improves.
After 18 hours, your eyes aren't so red anymore.
After 24 hours, that tremor in your hand is going away.
After 36 hours, your breath no longer kills house plants.
After 48 hours, you find that you have more energy.
After 3 days, you start sleeping through the night.
After 4 days, you begin to think that you will never take a drink again.
After a week, you rob a liquor store, because you haven't had a gawdamm drink all week.
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.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Politics, Drama, and Mother Love
Ooh! Upon reading the mail, I see yet another example of how we mommies look after our cubs. It seems that one of our local political candidates was unfairly attacked in print by an opponent, and by golly, her momma just wasn't going to stand for that, no sir! I hope I am not violating any copyright laws by printing this excerpt from the candidate's mailer. *
--------------
Dear Friend,
My daughter Brenda told me not to worry about it. The nasty political attacks don't bother her. In fact, coming as they do from a politician like Jim ----s, she isn't really surprised--she says she expected it all along.
But I'm her mother--I have to say it bothers me when someone I love is attacked so unfairly. So I insisted she let me personally write you this letter.
---------------------------
**here the letter goes on about a lot of pertinent and uninteresting local stuff**
The good mama closes with:
------------
Brenda's father served his county (sic) proudly in the United States Army. Just before he passed away, he told Brenda, "In your heart, you always know what is right."
So now I couldn't be prouder that Brenda is doing what is right. Her father would be proud, also.
--------------
Dear Friend,
My daughter Brenda told me not to worry about it. The nasty political attacks don't bother her. In fact, coming as they do from a politician like Jim ----s, she isn't really surprised--she says she expected it all along.
But I'm her mother--I have to say it bothers me when someone I love is attacked so unfairly. So I insisted she let me personally write you this letter.
---------------------------
**here the letter goes on about a lot of pertinent and uninteresting local stuff**
The good mama closes with:
------------
Brenda's father served his county (sic) proudly in the United States Army. Just before he passed away, he told Brenda, "In your heart, you always know what is right."
So now I couldn't be prouder that Brenda is doing what is right. Her father would be proud, also.
Sincerely,
(the real name of Brenda's mom)
---------------------
So, is that a classic that brings a tear to your eye, or what?
I don't know about you, but I sure need another bourbon!
$$$
*Actually, I don't give a rat's ass if I am.*
Life in a Western Town...
So, it's been a while since I sent out any smoke signals from the big pink pile of stucco, but rest assured, it was for a damn good reason. My very own little grandson came to visit me, all the way from Hawaii. I don't want anyone to think I am prejudiced or anything like that, but he is without a doubt the most perfect little creature ever created. If y'all are lucky, one day he will rule over you, and life will be better than good, it will be Zekelicious.
Oh yeah, he also brought his mama with him. I am rather partial to her, as I gave birth to her by my very own self, and she is brilliant and kind and beautiful. But enough about these other people. Let's talk about me.
I survived a Toilet Spider incident! Not since Okinawa have I been so ooky-fied! Of course, the spider on The Rock was about 8 inches across (the dreaded banana spider) and the Tumbleweed Junction spider was about 7-1/2 inches smaller, but still, the experience was a traumatic one, and I think I deserve a big drinky and a bit of a lie-down.
Oh, and some chocolate, too. I am suffering from baby withdrawal, and I am weepy.
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.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
It Could Happen Here
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.
"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.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Black Is the New White
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.
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.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Monday, May 01, 2006
I Hate Sick People, Including Me
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.
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.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Betrayal
So, Savage and Grumpy got all excited about the town chili cook-off and even ordered two enormous cast iron pots, weighing in at 46 pounds each. Now the UPS woman hates me.
I set about seasoning them, a process that can take weeks, especially since they can only go into the oven one at a time, sans their lids. I injured my arm lifting the behemoths. So I had to cease the seasoning process for a while.
Meanwhile, I tried to find out about the much ballyhooed chili cook-off. For some reason, I could not find any info about registering for it. There were no fliers floating about town, no application form in the daily fishwrap and no one I spoke to seemed to know anything about it. Yet it was always mentioned in the newspaper articles about the upcoming Ramona festival.
As it turned out, we had to be out of town on the day of the festival and alleged chili cook-off. A son-in-law returning safely from Iraq beats a chance to show off our cooking skills any old day.
The other day, I got ahold of a copy of the local weekly and learned why we couldn't get any info on the cook-off. Apparently our town council, eager as always to build community spirit (yeah, right) decided that the chili cook-off was for restaurants only.
Way to go, Tumbleweed Junction!
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!
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Blue Jean Blues
So, today this young girl asked us older women, "How can I make my jeans look all frayed and thready?"
I remember having to work on jeans before wearing them. We used to wear them to the beach, wade into the ocean, let the sun bake them dry on our legs, rub them with sand, repeat as necessary.
This was back in prehistoric days, when jeans were dark blue, as stiff as tin, and you had to buy them several sizes too large to end up with a good fit.
Kids are so spoiled today, I swear! (snicker)
Seriously though, most of the jeans I see for sale nowadays are already frayed, faded and thready, with holes in them and all. No wonder I have to buy my 16 year old daughter new jeans all the time. The jeans are already completely pooped out when the kids get them!
signed, Granny Savage. (sigh.)
P.S. We'd also have rather been beat with the nerd stick at student assembly before buying pre-embroidered and decorated jeans. That stuff was personal!
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!
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
The Savage Chef Was Cooking Tonight
Shrimp done the Scampi style and such, but the 1000 Island dressing for the salad was sooo much better than the sugary slime one gets at the grocery.
It is lazy-girl-easy, too!
Well, just because I like you:
Thousand Island Dressing
1 c. mayonnaise--yeah I know how to make it, but I used Best Foods. Sue me, bitches!
1/4 c. chili sauce--seriously, who besides freaks like myself buy this? Don't know. Don't care.
1 sieved or very-small-minced hard boiled egg
2 T. tiny-minced onion
1/2 c. tiny-minced celery (I did some of the leaves, too. I am sooo about the flavor!)
2 T. tiny green, pimento-stuffed olives, minced tiny (worked out to about 8 of them suckers)
2 T. Cornichons, minced tiny (wee picklets, gotten at Cost Plus-I used 4)
2 T. fresh parsley, chopped tiny
2 t. fresh lemon juice
1/4 t. salt
1/4 t. freshly ground black pepper
Whomp them all together. Voila!
And lots of wine and rum and juice. Yes.
It is lazy-girl-easy, too!
Well, just because I like you:
Thousand Island Dressing
1 c. mayonnaise--yeah I know how to make it, but I used Best Foods. Sue me, bitches!
1/4 c. chili sauce--seriously, who besides freaks like myself buy this? Don't know. Don't care.
1 sieved or very-small-minced hard boiled egg
2 T. tiny-minced onion
1/2 c. tiny-minced celery (I did some of the leaves, too. I am sooo about the flavor!)
2 T. tiny green, pimento-stuffed olives, minced tiny (worked out to about 8 of them suckers)
2 T. Cornichons, minced tiny (wee picklets, gotten at Cost Plus-I used 4)
2 T. fresh parsley, chopped tiny
2 t. fresh lemon juice
1/4 t. salt
1/4 t. freshly ground black pepper
Whomp them all together. Voila!
And lots of wine and rum and juice. Yes.
Goodbye
I came here, to this quiet place, to say goodbye to you. You were always someone I looked up to. I felt that you would always be there for me, and for the people that I love. I believed in you.
Let me fill you in on what's been happening lately. In case you don't already know.
Every day there is more violence and more hatred, and last week I quit reading the newspaper because every morning I would read it at breakfast and every morning I would go to school nauseated and I didn't know why. Maybe you think that sounds really naive, but I honestly didn't make the connection. Every day, every damn day! Murders and rapes and baby killings and cancer and war and sewage and terrorists and race riots and disease and hate and hate and hate.
There is a man who lives down the street from me, his name is Georgie. Georgie is a man in shape and size but really he is just a sweet little boy and that is all he will ever be. Georgie liked to play hopscotch in front of his house. He always carried a box of chalk in his back pocket to draw the hopscotch squares on the sidewalk. Everybody in the neighborhood liked Georgie and no one here would ever hurt him. But a couple of months ago some guys, I think they were some kind of gang, came into the neighborhood and saw Georgie playing alone. I was home sick and I saw what happened from my bedroom window. The gang guys formed a circle around Georgie and they took his chalk and threw it into the streets. They were all laughing, except for Georgie, who started to cry, really blubber you know, wiping his nose with his hand. One of the guys started scuffing out the hopscotch game with his boots, and another one took a can of spray paint from his jacket and began to write stuff on the sidewalk. Georgie tried to get away and they pushed him down and kicked him and spit on him and then they held his head and sprayed paint in his face. I was already calling 911 and then I ran down to the street to try to help Georgie. The gang guys had run away, and I tried to wipe the paint off of Georgie, but I couldn't and then I was crying but Georgie was quiet and he went away in the ambulance and when he came home again he had a brown cane for walking and a white cane because he was blind and he can't play hopscotch anymore and that was his favorite thing.
I meant to tell you a bunch of other stuff, like how my cousin Rosa, who is only two, has cancer and all her hair fell out and she throws up all the time, and how Mama's new boyfriend hurt me the other night when I was in bed and Mama was at work, and how it seems like bad people have all the money and fun and they never get in trouble but people I know who are good get sick and die and it seems like you just don't care. I think maybe you are only for some people, but not for me or the people I know. I have thought about this for a long time, and I just can't believe in you anymore.
Goodbye, God.
Goodbye.
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.
Friday, April 14, 2006
There Should Be a Song
In my house (The Big Pink Pile O' Stucco) there is a little room. It has no door-- it is more of an alcove off the front room. When I saw it, I knew its purpose. Grumpy got to work with the wood and the saw and so forth, time marched on, and the little room became our library. Every time I go in there, I feel good.
I lie. I do not feel "good." I feel touched by God.
It is the place where The Books live. Can I possibly make you understand how happy this little room makes me? I sit on the little loveseat with the cheesy purple velvet slipcover and I stare at my precious paper babies. Sometimes, a teeny bit of drool falls from my lips onto the book that I hold in my blessed hands.
Books. Beautiful collections of words.
I want to kiss them. I want to eat them.
Okay. I guess I know who is going to be sitting alone at lunch tomorrow. I don't care. I have books.
I'm sorry.
(Not really.)
I can't help it.
They are so beautiful!
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!
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Girls Gone Soggy
We came home tonight, drenched and damp. Sudden rain, which in our part of the planet is rare indeed. It was a good thing indeed to find bourbon waiting. A hot man and a cool bourbon makes the Savage smile.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Baking, Baking, Baking...
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.
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.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Yeah, Yeah, Corned Beef. But What's For Dessert?
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.
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.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Happy Happy Joy Joy!
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!
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!
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Memories
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)