I'm a wreck.
Hair's on end, clothes on backwards, holes in pants (not the cool kind)….that's when I'm going out. I don't know what's happened to me. Old age? Bad hips? Don't give a shit? All of the above? Back in the day, you'd never catch me out unless I was fully loaded. Hair done, face on, heels. A trip to the grocery store presented a fashion opportunity, not a dreaded chore. Okay, I didn't always look great at the grocery store. Or, maybe I did... Often, I put on a baseball cap and flats for a quick skip to Ralph's or Whole Foods. Of course, my hair was freshly washed, but maybe not blown out. My face wasn't photo ready, but still. A dab of concealer, a hint of blush, a berry lip stain. My baseball cap was cool, maybe something pricey, hard to find, from the early 20th Century, African American Baseball League perhaps - just cause I'm a white girl didn't mean I couldn't get all hip-hop on your ass. And, my flats came from Kate Spade or Tory Burch. Oh, those were giddy days. Last week, I made a mad dash to the grocery store. I'd been cooking for days, getting ready for surgery, putting stuff in the freezer for hubby. I waited till the last possible minute to go. I needed the ingredients in, like, three seconds. So, I grabbed my army green drab jacket (Hubby calls me Castro when I wear it) tennis shoes with no laces, and took off. I didn't look in a mirror before I left. Let's face it. Who cares? I remembered I needed to pick up a prescription. So, I stood in the pharmacy line, waiting. My head itched. I scratched the top. Ack. When did I last wash it? I groped further back. The hair there felt flattened and matted. Bed hair. From which night? I looked around, kinda embarrassed. I noted the quarter-ton woman in animal print leggings, tank top, her braless boobs doing a gelatinous dance around her waistband, and shrugged. Feeling a little better, I patted my hair into place, a reflex I suppose. During the pat down, I hit something crusty. I froze. Crusty? Ewwww. The hair over my ear stuck stiff to my skin. Without calling attention to myself (I kept the gagging sounds pretty well under wraps) I did some more exploration. Whatever crusted to my hair, clung to my ear. I scraped at it and held my finger out. Red. WAS I BLEEDING? Did I have blood RUNNING down my head? OMG. I looked around again, thinking I'd see horrified faces, pointing, or someone motioning the paramedics in my direction. Nope. Just Tina the Tiger in her leggings and long, swaying, boobs, picking the three teeth she still had in the front with a 50% off coupon, not glancing at me at all. Then I did what primates have been doing since we've evolved from the dirt. I smelled it. Hmmmm….it didn't smell like blood. Upon closer inspection it looked a little too orange too. I had no choice. I had to taste it. Marinara sauce... from the pizza I ate at lunch. Huh. I finished my finger snack, got my prescription, and went on with my shopping. In for a pound... If you're ever in the congo and you need the lice picked out of your hair…I'm your girl. "Can you believe it?" I told my daughter on the phone when I got home. She laughed, loud, for like, five minutes. "I'm a hot mess," I said. "No, you're not, Mom," she said. "You're savory….a feast for the eyes."
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Remember when air travel looked like this? Me neither. But, I've seen Mad Men and this is what it looks like there. I know it must be true because Jon Hamm would never lie to me. I might not be sure about yesteryear, but I'm positive about now. It's the seventh circle of hell. It makes hitchhiking from Los Angeles to Miami with the Mayor from Toronto seem like a good idea. Never in a million years did I think Americans would tolerate the whole airport fiasco…er…process. We're the people who revolted, left England and a monarchy to create a country where everyone is welcome, a democracy. A place where we could do whatever the hell we wanted. Okay, we didn't do any of that but we've seen it on Netflix. Still. Its amazing to me that we'll refuse to wear a helmet on a motorcycle but we'll let some felon with an anal probe grope us in our bare feet. Yes, the shoe-less shit really climbs up my ass. Have I mentioned I love my shoes more than life? Not keen to throw them in some dirty bin that just seconds before held a pair of Crocs. Gotta empty your purse, take off your jewelry, watch, wallet, why don't we all just go nude. The line would go a lot quicker, I can promise you that. All of this crap before we even get on the plane. Remember when no one knew what a carry on was? Everyone checked bags. Now it looks like this. Go ahead. Check bags. Make my day. Bahaahaahaahaaaa. Why do we get into what looks like a gigantic phallic symbol with wings, made of what…aluminum...whatever…that goes, I don't how many thousands of feet in the air, flown by these clowns? You're right. I don't know if I've ever been on a plane flown by these two exact clowns but I've been in thousands of work places in my life. They're full of clowns. Why would the airline industry be any different? What are they doing back there? Why is the door shut so we can't see? Why do they try to talk to us mid-flight about the scenery in that creepy porn pilot voice? You know what I'm talkin' about. Thanks porno pilot, I'll look at the scenery when I'm actually in it. On the ground. Why don't they just shut up and fly the damn plane? On a related note…can anybody tell me why the whole plane isn't made of whatever the 'black box" is made of? Seems like a no-brainer to me. Welcome to your airline experience. I'm so glad we paid a kazillion dollars for these seats. Yeah, it's not a big deal. The flight's only 14 hours long. Oh, right. That's why we paid a kazillion dollars for these seats. Because they serve food. This guy sat across the aisle from us. And by us I mean hubby. And by sat I mean stood. He never sat down. He spent nearly the whole flight fiddling with something in the overhead bins. Maybe snacks, I don't know. Hubby had to lean sideways, toward my side, for most of the flight to avoid a nose inside crack situation. Finally, my flying pet peeve. Apparently, along with our dignity, we've lost our hearing. The second you step on the plane the steward…I mean…flight attendant starts yelling at you. "THIS IS A FULL FLIGHT." DING DING DING. That's a mysterious very loud noise that goes off for no reason, that intersperses with the Flight Attendants screaming commands. "IN THE EVENT OF AN EMERGENCY…" DING DING DING. "I WILL BE COMIMG DOWN THE AISLE SHORTLY WITH YOUR DRINK SELECTION." To add insult to injury drinks are not free. She leans over to inquire: CAN I GET YOU SOMETHING TO DRINK? Of course, by this time, you're stone deaf. So, you're screwed. Hope you had a grand time FLYING THE FUCKING FRIENDLY SKIES. I've been brain deep in my malingering manuscript so I haven't blogged in a while. Well, that's one reason. The other is I can't think of anything to blog about. I don't know how daily bloggers do it. I'm not that clever. Anyway...my mind has been taken over by most things dark and usually when I blog it's about things that annoy me. Or, things I'm trying to figure out. I decided to shake it up and write about things I love. Like, really love. Like, couldn't live another day if I didn't have them, love. Things I love so much they put that weird expression on my face. Besides, I can't think of anything better. The Bad Seed. If you've never seen this, your life is not what it could be. Originally a book, then a play, then a movie...which was made even better because the theater cast played their roles in the movie so their performances are over the top to say the least. Their dramatic, back of the house, approach to acting only adds to the creepy campiness of this fantastic film. Rhoda, Rhoda, Rhoda. What to do about Rhoda. One of the first, if not the first, fictional work to explore the nature vs. nurture theory. Are psychos born or made? Is there a serial killer gene? If your mother was a serial killer are you destined to make lampshades and door knob covers out of your neighbors, or perhaps enjoy them with some fava beans and a little Chianti? According to The Bad Seed - of course you are. Rhoda is an 8 year old force of bad genetic nature. She kills those who don't give her what she wants. Clearly, it's not her fault. If that brat Claude Dagle would've given her the award that he won, but she obviously deserved, he'd still be alive today and not floating on the rocks in the lake with tap shoe marks on his forehead. Only Rhoda could make "If I give you a basket of kisses will you give me a basket of hugs?" sound like, "Don't turn your back on me bitch or you're next." It's worth seeing if only to watch two mothers', one the killer's and the other the murdered boy's, mutual meltdown. Mesmerizing. Every year I try to make this a Christmas tradition (aren't we sick of Elf already?) but it never takes. Usually hubby is the only one I can corral to sit through it annually. The egg nog helps. So, I saw the original of this in the LA Times. As you'd expect, I had to have it and I tracked down a copy. This is hanging on my wall, in my house. I don't know what I love about it more...the fact that it's hilarious and tacky, or that everyone who sees it looks at it, then quickly away. Once, the pizza delivery guy asked if he could take a picture of it. If the pizza delivery guy loves it...what more do I need? Presents. I wouldn't want to spend another day in a place with no presents. I'm not one of those "it's the thought that counts," kinda gals. Especially if it's "the lack of thought that counts" sorta presents. I make a list, including website and item number information so hubby can SURPRISE me. Although, he gets surprised too...when he sees the price. But, he's a sport. Or, he's so relieved not to have to come up with something that he'll absolutely know I'll love that he goes with it. This list comes in particularly handy at birthday time. And no, I don't celebrate my birthday week. What kind of chump do you think I am? I celebrate my birthday trimester. No, that is not a typo. It's 3 months of fun and games at our house. We (and by that I mean hubby) do it up right. For 3 months it's all about me and my presents. I don't make him watch the Bad Seed for nothin'. I Love Lucy. For real. If there's a heaven it's at 623 East 68th Street and Lucy and Ricky still live there and Fred and Ethel come in without knocking and mayhem ensues. Whenever I'm in a jam, I think...What would Lucy do? Then I usually don't do it to avoid an even bigger jam. I own all zillion episodes and never tire of them. I laugh like I've never seen them before every time. I can recite dialogue. I have my favorite episode (no, not the candy making one). It's the Ethel Goes to Her Hometown one. Look it up and watch it. You won't be sorry. I love Lucy not just because she makes me laugh, but because Lucy was gangsta. She had creative control over her show (unheard of for a woman in the 50's) and she was the first woman studio owner (RKO became Desilu Studios). Not to mention Desi Arnaz, who originated the concept of re-runs, who gave up salary at the front end to own the show outright and got all the residuals, and created the 3 camera method that is still used today to film TV shows. Yet, he couldn't recognize his own wife in a moustache and a sombrero. Home Town Buffet. Any restaurant with "All You Can Eat" on their sign is my kinda place. Especially if there's 37 tables groaning with every kind of preservative loaded, calorie laden, and artery plugging food imaginable. I love to eat the fried chicken, pasta, tacos, mashed potatoes and corn dogs all on one plate. Some call it gluttony. I call it carb loading. After all I am in physical therapy. I love it that I'm usually one of the only one's there under 400 pounds. I love the old ladies that take huge bags and sneak everything they can out. Including the sugar packets on the tables. I love it that people come at lunch and are still there at dinner. I've heard. Word to the wise: Try to avoid going on crab leg day. It's a life risking proposition. You know you're in deep shit when a brigade shows up wearing headsets so they can put out the call when they find the seafood table. And those big MOFO's can move fast. Run for your life. If you can get your pants buttoned back up. Tasteless Religious Chotchkes. This is Sock Monkey Jesus. Although, Woodstock Sock Monkey Jesus is more apt. Love the Jesus Christ Superstar 'do and the beads. This was a gift from our son. He knows how to get on his mama's good side. Action Figure Jesus. He has wheels on his sandals. If you run him up and down a flat surface really fast and let go of him, he takes off. It looks like he's walking on water. Another gift from our son. He's in the will now. Saint Joseph. I don't even have to hunt any of this down. It comes to me. This guy was found by our gardener. Buried in the yard, in a plastic bag, upside down. If you're up on your Saints (which I am) you'll know that Saint Joseph is the patron saint of property, more specifically houses. If you want to buy or sell a house, you bury him upside down in the lawn of said property. This find was enough to make me take up gardening. Or, give the gardener a tip. Whatever. Freida Kahlo cross. Those are coke bottle caps painted with her image. Including her mustache. And unibrow. Need I embellish? I don't know if Voo Doo counts as a religion. I don't know why not. This was a gift from our daughter, Kristen. Another one in the will. At any rate, whenever I see this I say, "Oh MY GOD! I LOVE this thing!" So that makes it religious. This is an hors d'ouerves platter. The pins are to stick the finger food with. I've used this at countless dinner parties. Not one person has ever taken the stick out of his crotch. And finally, this photo, even though it's not very focused. This is me and my mom at my book signing, two months before she died. That's her. Holding one of the book marks that were made by my good friend Mary Beth in honor of my book. There's something so perfect about my nearly 80 year old mother holding a 13 inch Rob Rhino dick book mark. She said she'd seen better. My mom was the last of the old school broads. I loved that about her. “How hot is it in this hell hole dump anyway?” I sounded a lot like a bitch, but so what? The fat guy behind the counter looked over the top of his bi-focals, silent, sweating, letting that one pass. We stared each other down. He was this close to calling me little lady. They say things like that in the Heartland. Just one reason I hated it. I didn’t have time to pick a petty squabble, so I carried on without pressing. My son gripped my sweaty hand with his sweatier one. We looked a sight. I was too young to be his mother, but still I was. He was too smart to be only a four year-old, but still he was. We spent all our time together, just the two of us – so we made the best of it. There we were, new in town (again), poor (still), and shopping for shoes on the only street with stores. Freakishly, we looked exactly alike back in the day. I was taller. The August humidity beat us down, its assault relentless. I wanted to get out of the blistering store, quick. As usual, I had more need than money. But, I’d grown skilled at account juggling when purchasing anything that couldn’t get eaten or didn’t keep the roof over our heads. What bill would go unpaid so I could buy shoes? My son had no such worries. Happy to be out of our basement apartment with no windows, he talked a blue streak, his still dimpled hand tight in mine. We lived like moles. We’d hit daylight, blink-blink-blink, hard and fast, getting used to the sun. It occurred to me this was not, necessarily, a normal way to live. I knew there was a better way. Just not for people who couldn’t keep the phone turned on because they had to buy Payless shoes. Daniel was a shoe guy, even at four. He led me, arm stretched out like a leash, up and down the aisles. The bubble gum smashed on hot rubber aroma crept up our noses. We sped through the cheap inventory like K-Mart Dollar Days veterans. “Mother (he always called me Mother, but would’ve preferred first names), you won’t believe it.” He hopped up and down, his floppy, worn sandals almost mute on the cheap carpet. He lunged, grabbing up the shoes his dreams were made of like they’d been surrounded by a pack of pleather loving, bargain hunting jackals. There they were – tacky in a lidless box – two toned, brown and white cowboy boots with fringe. Ecstatic, Daniel whooped, elated, pogoing like a jumping bean. Wondering about the ruckus, the fat man behind the counter waddled over. By the time he lumbered down the aisle Daniel yanked his sandals off, leaving his socks on pulled up to his knees (that’s another story) and jerked the boots on both feet. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen him so happy, his cocoa colored eyes took up most of his face, glistening with wonder at his luck. “Well, Mama, looks like you gotta little Roy Rogers on yer hands there,” the fat man winked. They say things like that in the Heartland. I smiled, nodded, my face blank as rice paper. Roy Rogers? Dale Evans, maybe. They don’t say things like that in the Heartland though, so my lips stayed sealed. Daniel swiped at his damp brow, skipped, then ran and kept on running, up and down every aisle. “Daniel, stop,” I hollered. Fat man put his hand on my arm to shush me. “Now, Mama, boys will be boys and he’s gotta try out them thar boots, get ‘em broke in.” Boys will be boys - unless they want to be girls. Wouldn’t this porky cowpoke choke on his beef jerky if he knew? Daniel loved those boots because they were the closest things to high heels he could get – boy pumps. He loved their look, the clack-clack sounds, and the added height. Not to mention the fringe that swung in hysteria every time he moved - the closest he’d been to heaven. Even at the tender age of four, it was clear that in the poker game of life my son had been dealt a full house, queens high. But, they don’t say things like that in the Heartland, or anywhere that I knew of, so no one said it. But, like all elephants in the room it weighed a ton or two (tutu and pink feather boa notwithstanding) and we ignored it. Daniel and I pulled it around like the frozen pig fat Oprah plopped down in the wagon on her first weight loss show. It was our secret. He was too young to know much about it, other than he thought other boys acted dumb and he’d rather try on his mother’s clothes than play with guns. He had masculine toys. He loved the He-Man action figures. But, Princess Teela was his favorite. He’d gotten the Castle of Doom for Christmas and Teela always beat the shit out of He-Man and sent him to the dungeon. Daniel knew, in his little boy gut, that I didn’t mind and wouldn’t discourage him. Maybe it was my youth, my blissful ignorance, but I didn’t expect he would be someone else. I didn’t know that I should try to influence his personality, lucky for us. I didn’t love him less or feel disappointment. That was our bond, and the way it went, for years. From the bottom of my scraggly purse, I scraped up the $6.00 to pay for the boots he still had on and we left, fat man grinning and waving us out. Still on his boy pump high Daniel kicked one of the several metal poles holding up the awning running the length of the sidewalk…then the next one…and the one after that. It was unlike me not to stop him. I was hard on him. I didn’t have the slightest clue what to do with him. His wicked intelligence made him seem older and I expected him to act it. When he behaved like a child it annoyed and embarrassed me. After all, at seventeen, I was a child when he was born. If anyone was going to act like a baby, it was going to be me. But, for those few moments, I let my son act like a four year old. A four year old in boy pumps with fringe. He galloped down the sidewalk kicking poles. All dark hair and eyes, plump fists at his sides, his round face broken by his smile, legs askew, kicking up and out, fringe flying. His giddy happiness made us both forget about the stupefying heat. Soon the poles lost their allure and he moved on to the parked cars. First he kicked a couple of tires. Not such a big deal. “Daniel, don-” I couldn’t finish the admonishment. What I wouldn’t have given to kick stuff. How did I get here? Well, I knew how I got there. The problem would be getting out. Dwelling below the surface of the earth, eating Rice-a-Roni only on special occasions, and watching Eight is Enough reruns every night was the same life I’d rebelled against and here I stood, living it. Good move. WHAM! The sound of a plastic cowboy boot toe hitting the metal side of a car door rang loud. Probably time to act like a mother – something I struggled with. Still, I couldn’t fake anger. I hated this town, this life. I had no idea who owned that car but I felt sure I’d hate them too. What did I care? He whacked two more doors before I grabbed him by the arm and went through the discipline motions. “Mother,” Daniel’s gaze bore into mine, tears about to run over. “Are you mad at me? Don’t you like my boots?” He searched me. Like always, he tried hard to read me, gauge my moods to intervene with a quip, a joke or a kiss if he saw sorrow. He hadn’t gone to school yet but he made me laugh harder than anyone I’d ever known. “No, I’m not mad.” I always spoke the truth to him. Another not good parenting plan. “I’m happy for you. And yes, those boots are…fantastic.” He grabbed my hand again. When he held it he really held on, and seemed as he rarely did, like a little boy - at my mercy and small. Like we were the only survivors on the island and he knew for certain holding my hand was the right thing to do, that I could save him. Didn’t he know I was the one who needed saving? When he got older, and things changed, his hands could still break my heart. When his words were bitter, his hands were still sweet. I held his palm up to my mouth and kissed it a bunch, loud cartoonish kisses. He laughed his belly deep, little boy laugh and galloped ahead toward our mole hole, me a little lighter than when I started and Daniel thrilled to wear the most hideous boots this side of Liberace on the 4th of July. Every few steps he’d check behind to make sure I was still there. He feared I’d get lost or fall and hurt myself. He was a worrier, a thinker. I’d smile, nod, and he’d skip on, comforted that all was well. I couldn’t see the future that day, or any other, and I’m not sure what I would’ve, or could’ve changed if I had. But it was all before…the drugs, the alcohol, the disappointments, and the heartbreak - his, mine, and, ours. Before the better angels of his nature got their asses kicked by the darker ones, before our bond severed, brittle and worn, our relationship swirling into a tailspin, both of us in freefall, without the aid of the other. I had my opinion, he had his, and they were not the same. I didn't know what an objective observer would say because I was not one. But I knew this - on that one sweltering day in Junction City, Kansas Daniel was the best little boy in the world and I was his mom. I'm sure you're sick of hearing about Italy. But, this is my blog and I get to write about whatever I want. Plus, I don't think you're really sick of it. What is it exactly that's so great about Italy? Funny you should ask. Take this, for instance. This skeleton guy is hanging on a church wall. It's about 25 feet tall. What a fantastic way to introduce your kids to church. Scare the shit out of them right off the bat. And not just once. Every single Sunday. I don't have stats but I'll bet Italy's crime rate among teens is lower than ours. Every time little Luca picks his nose, or punches little Isabella during the sermon, all Mama has to do is point. This'll straighten his ass up, pronto. If that's not enough, there's this. It's on the other side of the same church. Again, about 25 ft. tall. Skeleton Stereo. AWESOME. I mean, come on. You know you're kids are gonna talk about you in therapy. Might as well make it worth their while. This isn't in the same church. Duh, it's not a skeleton. This is in a different church. In the middle of the aisle. Nothing like a corpse laid out on the floor to get the party started. Yeah, yeah, I know. My hand basket is on its way to pick me up...blasphemy is my strong suit. But, really? Isn't this a little much? Nah. You're right. It's fantastic and you can rotate churches with your kiddies. Then there's this guy. He's a dead guy covered with some kind of metal. A human made into sculpture. There's actually a bunch of these all over the place. Lots of churches have their own dead guy. I thought this was a good idea for me. If I go first, hubby can have me encased in metal and enshrined in a prominent spot like the living room. Or, the bedroom. Maybe even sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in my stiff, metallic, little hand. It might decrease his chances of marrying again. But so what? Like that's my problem? You might recognize her. I posted this photo on my Facebook page already. It's Saint Lucy. The patron saint of eyesight. Hard to tell from this photo but those are her eyeballs in that bowl. A little confusing because she still has eyeballs in her head. "It's too gruesome to paint her without eyes," Tour guide said. Really? Unfortunately, I didn't get photos of the other martyred Saints we saw. Mostly because they were in places we weren't allowed to take photos in. Martyrdom is big. Apparently you've got to die a gruesome death and then you're in. There's the guy who is always painted with giant rocks sticking out of his forehead and blood running down his face. He was stoned to death. Me: "That's not too gruesome to paint?" Tour guide: Silent. There's the guy who's always painted holding his own skin since he was...skinned to death. Me: "That's not too gruesome to paint?" Tour guide: Silent Or, the guy who's always painted with grill marks all over him because he was...you guessed it...barbecued. I didn't bother to ask. Virginity is good. Sex is bad. If you have sex its important that you don't like it and you're punished for it. Even the Greek myths celebrate virginity among its Goddesses. About the only acceptable way to get pregnant is by a snake, a pig, or an invisible man. Hey, that's the way a lot of women get pregnant today. WTF? Coincidence? See girls? We really are like Goddesses. They've got these sassy little angels all over the place. My favorite was one I couldn't photograph. He was nude except for his chaps (butt-less of course) with a big, wide cowboy belt holding up the chaps. Picture Howard Stern's flight into the MTV awards that one year. But smaller. No shirt. Less hairy. Love it. Sassy. Speaking of Sassy. This is Kinky Boots David. I mean, Donatello's David. Kinda like Michelangelo's David if his kitten-with-a-sword sex game had been interrupted by having to pose. I mean, really. How much do you love this? In case you couldn't decide... Yeah, you love it. I love the Italians. Even our tour guide had to comment on it: "If you answer the door totally naked, it's entirely plausible that you just got out of the shower. If you answer the door naked, except for your hat, boots and sword...somethin's goin' on." Yeah, we even had cool tour guides. For comparison. No photograph can do justice to this sculpture's magnificence. You really gotta be there. At first, I felt ambivalent about seeing it. I've seen the replica in Caesar's Palace...that's pretty much the same, right? Not even close. (For more on our ugly americanism see this). In Florence, the message is: "We've got Michelangelo. You don't." And do they ever. What a guy. He was only 26 when he finished the David. He was in his early 30's when he painted the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. He'd only painted one painting before that and never a fresco which involves wet plaster and is very difficult. He didn't really like to paint. He was hard to get along with. He was obsessed with the nude, male form. He'd sculpt nude women but they looked like men, burly, buff men, with bad boob jobs. On the Sistine chapel ceiling even God has firm, taut, buttocks. He'd drag his feet on projects he didn't want to do. Like a gigantic tomb for a Pope. It took him 40 years and he never finished it. Pieces of it are displayed around Italy. He knew his own worth and died a millionaire. Part of his feet dragging involved negotiations. He'd stop work to re-negotiate his fee. Not starting again till he got the price he wanted. He never married and when he died at 89 he had a young, male, Roman companion. You go, Michelangelo. I'd love Italy just for him Okay, this isn't really a toilet. It's a bidet. Both of our hotels had them. In restaurants toilets have no seats. Not even women's toilets. In hotels you get double toilet action. I don't know about homes. We never got an invite. Shocking, I know. I'm afraid of bidets. How do you use it? Do you straddle it facing the wall? Do you sit on it like a regular toilet? Do you turn both handles? There's soap? Too much pressure for me. I was afraid I'd have some embarrassing bidet accident that would go down as legend, talked about at every hotel staff party for years to come. No grazi. There is no one photo, or series of photos, than could ever do justice to Italy. But, as you can tell, it's in my mind forever. As a writer, I can't help but love a country that reveres its artists like Italy. Everywhere you go there's someone's artistic expression. No surface goes unloved, no building unadorned. The Italians value art, they preserve it, they restore it, they dig for it, they hang on to it. It's a country where angels guide you, Saints have your back, and breathtaking beauty soothes your soul. I've been humbled by gratitude ever since I laid eyes on it. I'm sure there's nothing left to say about Italy's food that hasn't already been said by more talented writers than me. But, one of the magnificent things about Italy in general is everyone who goes feels like they're the first. The food, so far, is deserving of its own post. When I die, I'm certain I'll have never eaten finer food. Last night we had Tuscan style food. We didn't know it was Tuscan style but the waiter told us. No idea what that really means except they don't have seafood and the wine is sublime. And cheap. We got this whole bottle for less than one glass in the US. We started with figs and prosciutto for an appetizer. They brought the figs, whole, on one plate and the prosciutto on another. No frills, no fancy prep, just the food. Fresh, simple, glorious. I wanted pasta. I hadn't had it yet and, well, it's Italy. It's a law. I ordered the Carbonara. I make it at home but wanted to taste the real thing. Needless to say, I probably won't make it anymore. Hard to believe pasta, butter, prosciutto and eggs could taste so heavenly, but it did. Hubby had the Pasta Castalinga - named after the restaurant. Castalinga means housewife. So, they've got it going on in Italy, those housewives. This pasta had tomatoes, chili flakes and basil. Sweet, spicy, light, perfect. I knew it was time to go when hubby started to recommend this fantastic pasta to the other ugly Americans sitting at the next table...the Pasta Cunnilingus. Dessert. Even though we'd stuffed ourselves and drank a whole bottle of wine...well...dessert was still a no brainer. Especially almond biscotti dipped in Vin Santo. When you get to the pearly gates, this is what they're serving. I swore I'd never eat again. Till breakfast. When hubby and I travel, we make it a point to never eat at the hotel we're staying in. We prefer to take our chances out and about. But, our zillion dollar hotel room came with breakfast so we felt like we had to. Good call. How could you not eat in a place so lovely? And how could you not love a waiter who brings you your own foot stool. I mean, right? Even the flowers were delicious. I just wish I could've filled all these plates. I tried. I think I even love that toaster. Man can't live by bread alone. So how about some of this? And this... A little bit of this... Or, this... Or, this... Yeah, I know...ridonkulous. No, I'm not kidding. Yes, there's still more. If you're feeling healthy. Healthier... A little cereal? Granola? Pumpkin seeds? Yogurt? Like, the best in the world...yes, that's a whole wall of champagne back there. That's what I'm talkin' about. Thought they'd never ask. I know, looks like I hardly ate a thing. That was my first plate.
I've gotta go...we're getting ready to go to dinner. And I ran out of time before I could add lunch pictures. So glad I brought my fat pants. This is George and Alice. To the untrained eye they look pretty much like everyone else. They are SO NOT like everyone else. I'll start with George. He's tallest. George is a musician, engineer, attorney, quasi-geologist, father to twins, husband. A conversation with George goes like this: George: That was when I was a pirate. Me: Ahhh...what? George: Yeah, pirate. I used to swing in on a rope. Aaaaargh. There was more to this story, but he had me at pirate. Or, George: Yeah, that was when I fixed the air-conditioning at the Chicken Ranch. Me: The whorehouse Chicken Ranch? George: Yeah. When I was in high school my parents retired and moved to Nevada. Right. I'd forgotten that the natural progression was, you go to high school, your parents retire, then you're fiddling with the air-conditioning at a whorehouse. Me: You just happened to find yourself there when the air conditioning broke? George (with an aren't you simple look on his face): No...my mom sent me. She made friends with a lot of the girls. Of course. Or, George: That was when Ray Charles came to my house... Or, George: That was when I went camping in Australia and got invited to the male puberty ceremony with the aborigines... You follow me. Then there's Alice. She's a pipeline engineer, mother of twins, wife, and entrepreneur. She owns and operates a Chinese restaurant, a chain of massage stores, and I'm not sure if she still owns that factory. Alice left China, her traditional Chinese family, her culture, her language, to come to America, alone. She arrived not speaking much English, but still managed to buy and operate a business with thirteen branches. She is the only person in her family to not have had an arranged marriage. She married her pirate-friend-of-Ray-Charles-whorehouse-repairman-male-aborigine-puberty-ceremony- guest-guy, because she wanted to. Because, she told me, "He's the best, purest man I've ever known. He's all the way good." Be warned, if you sit still next to Alice long enough, she'll buy you, remodel you, bring a couple of her cronies over from China to bitch slap you into shape, hang an "Open" sign around your neck, and expect you to turn a profit in a week. Alice didn't like the food at the only Chinese restaurant in their town, so she bought it, remodeled it, brought a couple of her cronies over from China to bitch slap it into shape, hung out the open sign and its going gangbusters. Lucky us, we were treated to a feast there with George and Alice, just recently. The food kept coming. We kept eating. I think they brought about 65 lbs. of food to our table. I thought we'd died and gone to Chinese heaven. If Buddha ate Chow Fun, he got it at Alice's restaurant. BTW...sometime during the evening, perhaps mid-pirate story, George quoted something from my blog. Me: George! You read my blog? George: Yep. My sisters do too. I passed it onto them. Let me tell you, finding out that George reads my blog and passed it on to his sisters is like discovering Francis Ford Coppola watches the videos of your 1st grader's school play on YouTube and forwards them on to Sophia. I digress. The first time I met George and Alice, they'd attended a company soiree. George and hubby work together. A little known fact - All Asians know when there's another Asian in their midst. They might not know how Asian you are, or what kind of Asian, but if you've got a drop of Asian blood they will find you. And when they do, you're in the pagoda for life. Alice found me. My soul sistah. She's treated me like family since that day. The second time I ran into George, he'd attended a company soiree, alone. Alice had taken a fast boat to China to buy a factory or some such (Alice buys factories in her off time). I had the opportunity to talk to George. Me: Where's Alice? George: China. Buying a factory. Me: Oh, well...nice to see you, at any rate. George: Can't stay long. Me: Why? George: Because Alice is in an all-girl Chinese band. She plays the Chinese mandolin (I could be wrong on the exact instrument, but what's a girl to do?) and sings. Me (not catching on): Oh...well...she's in China, right? George: Yeah. I'm taking her place. Me: You play the Chinese mandolin and sing in Chinese? (I let the fact that he wasn't a girl, slide) George (shrugs): I do all right. As he was leaving, he told me: George: You know, I got married really late in life. I'd given up. I didn't think marriage was in the cards for me. Me: I was speechless, for once. George: Then I met Alice. She opened up my life in ways I never imagined. So, no. George and Alice aren't like everyone else. We're so lucky to know them, to call them friends. Yep, George and Alice are the cherry on top of our Chinese chocolate cupcake life. Madison is our oldest granddaughter. At 10, she's all grown up, according to her. She's beautiful, smart, funny, and in the family tradition, an eccentric. Her super sized brain is always humming. Churning over ways to drive her mother nuts, keep her sisters and brother in line, put together the perfect outfit, and in her spare time, plan world dominion.
But, she loves camp. And, cooking. When she was much younger, and we lived much closer, she'd stay with us for a week in the summer to go to camp. But, first things first. She'd charge through the front door, plop her backpack down and head to the kitchen. “You’re going to be a gourmet you know,” is what I'd tell her. At first, when she wasn't even walking, she'd fake cook with Tupperware and wooden spoons. She’d crawl over to the Tupperware drawer, pull herself up, yank it open and throw it all out. Armed with the ice cream scoop and measuring cups, she’d cook for hours. Then, she graduated to cooking the coffee. I’d sit her up on the counter and she’d measure out the coffee grounds, spoonful, by painfully slow spoonful, and dump it in the coffee filter. This. Took. For. Ever. I was reminded why I didn’t have the patience for this sort of thing when I was a young mother. Now I’m a Saint. At least that’s what I'd tell her. When Madison was 6, going on 7, she and great grandma (my mother) came to visit for a week of FUN IN THE SUN! Madison arrived, primed for a week at beach camp, and more serious cooking since she was BIG. My mother, you should know, is a miracle of medical and psychological science - a four time cancer survivor, the first of my father’s seven wives, the 2nd wife and widow of her recently deceased 2nd husband, and a lifelong smoker. She's a heavyweight, make no mistake. I’m an only child, so my children and grandchildren are her only, too. She's as overbearing as you’d think. Or, perhaps more than you’d think. After the birth of my son, she came over every day. Not every other day, or every third day...every single day. To point out everything I did wrong. Which was, apparently, a full time job. Probably, overbearing doesn’t quite cover it. I'd finally decided to have a serious talk with her about boundaries. We were both adults, after all. So, the next day, when I heard her station wagon roar into my driveway, right on schedule, I hid behind the couch and pretended I wasn't home. As you might imagine, the passing years have only made her stronger. She hovered over Madison like a plane waiting for runway clearance, which clearly rubbed Madison the wrong way. That, and the kissing. Great grandma's cigarette/coffee breath was more than she could bear. So, having to spend nearly three hours with great grandma in the car, plus the idea of a whole week in the same bedroom with her, seemed a high price to pay for a week at camp. Understandably, Madison arrived at my house in a mood, but the prospect of cooking had potential. She'd celebrate her 7th birthday during her visit, so things could definitely pan out. Despite great grandma's continual, nagging interference, the days flew. Madison spent from 9 to 3 every day surfing and kayaking. Life is a cabaret when you're 6, going on 7. Every evening, we’d cook dinner. In between those times she and great grandma tussled over all things minor. "She's old, but she means well." Is what I'd tell her. Good luck. Every man for himself is what I'd think. Soon enough, Madison’s birthday arrived and it was time to make birthday cake. Because Madison was so BIG, she'd graduated to measuring, stirring, and sifting. Chopping, the stove top, and the oven were still pretty much off limits. At least that’s what I'd tell her. Ever the optimist, when it came time to cut the cake she'd so painstakingly helped make, she reached for a butter knife, expecting me to do the usual protesting. However, in the family of knives it was a relatively harmless one, so she thought there was a slight chance I might relent. To her surprise and delight, I handed her the serrated cake knife, which to her might as well have been a cleaver. I put my hand over her much smaller one and guided it over the cake. Together we cut the first slice and I told her, “The knife has to move right through without sawing back and forth. It can be more dangerous to use a smaller knife when you need a larger one. You have to have the right knife for the job.” We proceeded to cut several more slices. The only thing that made this more perfect for Madison was great grandma making suck, suck, sucking sounds in the background. The kind she makes when she wants everyone to know she disapproves heartily of whatever’s going on, but far be it from her to say so. All in all it was a pretty good day for a 7 year old - sun, sand, ocean, cake, and semi-supervised rebellion with a big knife. Not only was great grandma taking in air like the Hindenburg but Madison felt pretty sure her mom wouldn’t have liked it either. Life was good, my friend. Life was good. The rest of the week flew by and soon it was time to go. After the usual Madison/Grandma breakfast wrestling match everyone packed up and headed to the car for the long trip home. Madison burst into tears and clung to my legs. I should note that Madison, much to her mother’s chagrin, is not a sentimental child. At the ripe old age of 3, in a room full of youngsters, she gleefully blew Santa’s cover. This bombshell wreaked havoc all around and ensured employment for therapists for years to come. So, as saintly, and as grandmotherly, as I had behaved during Madison's stay (we did get donuts every day, and there was that one time I wore flip flops), I still suspected that the prospect of missing me wasn’t what brought on the torrent of tears. Madison insisted otherwise and protestations ensued. She just couldn’t possibly stand the thought of leaving me. Now I felt really sad. Truth be told, I was going to really miss her. I am much more “grandma” like than I want to admit. Could it be? Had it finally happened? Had I finally wrestled the “best grandma in the world” crown away from my mother? I grew misty eyed remembering how I let Madison ride up and down the escalator at Nordstrom’s 6 times, even though it was the half yearly sale, and that woman in stretch pants was holding the last pair of Stuart Weitzman leopard print stilettos in a size 5 ½ when she was clearly a size 8. It was possible after all! I could see that crown hovering over my head, maybe a little wobbly like Queen Anne going to the guillotine, but I wasn't going to get hung up on pesky details when a victory was in sight… I pulled Madison aside, and I told her, “Don’t forget I love you very, very much. You’re my favorite in the whole wide world. I’ll call you tomorrow and you can call me whenever your mom says you can.” I told her over and over so she’d never forget. Finally, on the verge of tears myself, I put my beloved granddaughter into the back seat of the car, great grandma already in the driver’s seat (suck, suck, sucking sounds). I strapped her into her seat belt, kissed her forehead and still wet cheek - my fallen angel. Madison faced straight ahead, ramrod stiff, and moved only her eyes sideways to look at me. The biggest, bluest eyes in the world, eyes that are exactly like her mother's, and but for the color, very much like my own. With my heart breaking, I said, “you won’t forget what I told you, right?” Staring, with laser like intensity, at the back of my mother’s head, Madison said, “No, I won't. You have to have the right knife for the job.” There are many weird, and annoying, things about me. Here are two: 1. I will make things I've never made before when we have company for dinner. Even if it's dinner for say, eight. 2. The possibility that it won't turn out doesn't bother me at all. I do have one rule about this, however. I don't make anything that you need to strike a match to. Like a flambé, or cherries jubilee. Although, as I type this, I think I might be missing the boat. I could say things like: "It's supposed to be on fire." And, "Don't cry. Eyebrows grow back really fast." I'll have to mull this over. Anyway, the other night, my good friend Marybeth came to dinner. You might remember her. We stiffed her out of her portion of the champagne she so thoughtfully gave us. I really owed her. So, I wanted to make her a very nice dinner. I have several fantastic recipes that I know for sure turn out. But, I didn't pick those, at least not exclusively. Living on the edge is what I do. We had sea bass, salad and roasted veg. Nothing that I really felt like writing about, though. Marybeth is a vegetarian, and we are carnivores, so I wanted to impress her with my versatility. Instead, I bought sea bass, which is pretty hard to screw up. Which is a good thing, since I flew blind on that. No one made gagging sounds though, so I had that going for me. I made an appetizer and dessert that I'd never made before, too. They turned out pretty well, if I do say so myself. I thought I'd hoist them onto you. For an appetizer, I whipped up (although "whipped" makes it seem quicker than it was) ricotta Madeleines with tomato jam. Disclosure: I have an unnatural attraction to Madeleines. I love the pan. I love the precious seashell shape (why aren't they called seashells? Those crazy French), I love the way they look weird on the top when they're baking but the underside always turns out perfectly ridged and fanned. I love their size, the way you can eat four or five because they're small and unobtrusive. I...I better stop. As I expected, they were light, creamy, puffs of heaven. Worth the fiddling they required. The fiddling was made worse by yet one more weird and annoying habit I have...I don't read directions...sometimes at all. Most of the time, if at all, too late. These have very little flour, and a whole lotta ricotta. Hey...I'm clever too! But, it's the pepper that makes them. That sexy, hint of heat. The tomato jam was another story. It was easy, just some chopping, throwing in of spices and a 20 minute simmer. I liked it at first, then not so much. Sometimes food wears out its welcome with me. I'm not including the recipe here for the jam because it has already fallen out of favor. If you want it, just ask me and I will give it to you. This recipe came from a cookbook devoted entirely to Madeleines called We Love Madeleines by Miss Madeleine. Don't judge me. Ricotta Madeleines: This makes 12 regular sized Madeleines. Preheat oven to 400 1st fiddly step: 3 Tblsp. all purpose flour 1/2 tsp. baking powder 2 pinches salt 1 large egg 1 tblsp. packed light brown sugar zest of one lemon 3 tblsp. unsalted butter, melted Sift flour, baking powder, and salt into a small bowl, set aside. In a medium bowl, combine the egg, brown sugar, and lemon zest. Whisk to combine. I used dark brown sugar because it's what I grabbed first and I was too lazy to get the light sugar instead. They were no worse for the wear because of it. Add the flour mixture and whisk till combined. Add the melted butter and whisk till combined...again. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 1 hour or up to 24 hours. I have no freaking idea why. I did it though, for an hour. 30 minutes before you are ready to bake, remove batter from fridge and let it sit till it's room temp. Again, no clue why you have to do this. But, I take my Madeleines seriously, so I let it sit out for 3o minutes. Next less fiddly step: 3/4 tsp. cracked black pepper 1/2 cup whole milk ricotta 1/2 tlbsp. EVOO It's best to have a non-stick Madeleine pan. If you do, still spray with cooking spray. Mix these three ingredients into the batter you've let come to room temp. Fill the Madeleine molds about 2/3 of the way. Bake for 4 minutes then lower the oven temp to 350,bake an additional 4-8 minutes, till they're golden brown around the edges. Let cool about 5 minutes. Take out carefully. They are light and a little fragile. If you make a tomato jam, you just scoop some on these little bites of goodness. You could use a fig jam too. Or, even a marinara. I like the savory with the sweet though. My high altitude adjustments: I used an extra large egg and a bit less than 1/2 teas. baking powder. I fill the 1/2 teas. with baking powder then press my finger into it. Some falls out, and that's about right. Don't judge me. For dessert, I threw caution to the wind and made biscotti. They were shockingly simple. No matter that they have to bake twice. After all, that's what biscotti means...baked twice...now I'm just showing off. Had I known how simple these were and how superbly they'd turn out, I'd have been making them well before now. Considering they get dunked in Vin Santo, or Moscato, or Port...I'm in mourning for all the years I've spent biscotti-less. Someone, or even a few someones, will get these for Christmas. Hubby and I ate the leftovers for breakfast. It is already well established that we have poor judgment at breakfast. Anyhoo, you chop dried apricots (or any dried fruit that blows your skirt up), pistachios, egg, flour and sugar. That's pretty much it. You shape the dough into a log. Wait, okay, this part did make me nervous. If you recall my piecrust post you will remember that anything that involves having to flour the counter or board and shaping dough into anything resembling something edible, is NOT my forte. Despite my post traumatic stress, it went swimmingly. You plop the sticky dough out onto a floured surface, with floured hands, shape into a log and bake it. You take it out, let it cool, then slice into 1/2 inch cookies. Then bake again. Done. Biscotti: This makes 15 cookies, excluding the ends. You have to eat the ends to make sure it all turns out, don't you? Preheat oven to 350 1 egg 1/3 cup sugar 2 tsp. finely grated orange zest 2/3 cup plus 2 tblsp. all purpose flour, plus more for rolling 1/2 teas. baking powder Nutmeg 1/2 cup unsalted shelled pistachios 1/3 cup chopped dried fruit - although if you use a small fruit you don't need to chop. Whisk the egg and sugar till pale. Beat in the orange zest, then slowly fold in the flour, baking powder and a good grating of fresh nutmeg. I'm one of those annoying people who buy whole nutmeg. If you only have regular nutmeg, I'd say about 1/8 tsp. Fold in the fruit and pistachios. Flour work surface and your hands. Form the dough into a flattish, squarish, loaf about 10x2 inches. It might stick a little to the surface. You can rough it up some to get it off. It's a pretty sturdy dough. Lay the loaf onto a parchment covered baking sheet and bake for 25-30 minutes. You might want to rotate the baking sheet half way through cooking. I don't remember if I did that. Knowing me, probably not. Transfer to a wire rack. I just lifted it off still on the paper. Let cool five minutes and then slice into 1/2 in pieces. I found that you need to use a really sharp knife and slice it cleanly and quickly through. You don't want to have to saw it. It is still a little underdone, so it'll smash. Put the cut slices back onto the cookie sheet, with or without the paper. I skipped it. Cook again for 10 minutes, turn them over and cook for another 5 minutes. Let them cool and then store them in an air tight container. High altitude adjustments: I did the finger in the baking powder trick, so it's a bit less than called for. I baked it for less time too. 25 minutes the first round, and 5 minutes on one side, and 5 on the other. So, a total of 10 less minutes. These are sublime dipped in Vin Santo, Moscato, Viognet, or a Tawny Port. If you use a red fruit, like cherries or cranberries, you'll want to dunk them in a Frambroise or a Ruby Port. They're good with coffee too. I've heard. Marybeth brought these two bottles of bubbly and the chocolate almonds with her to dinner. In case you need reminding why Marybeth is my very good friend. I can be bought. |
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November 2017
IF YOU LIKE THE BLOGS YOU'LL LOVE THE NOVELS IN HER TWISTED CRIME SERIES |