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.
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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. Last weekend, I had my first book signing. I wished all of you could've been there, and some of you were. So, I wanted to share some images. My very good friend Audrey Michele took all the photos and as usual, they're perfect. A beautiful representation of what was one of the most special days of my life. Note the champagne glass hiding in the corner. I think that was my second, or fifth, glass. Perfect weather. The stunning view from our balcony. The incredible cake. I think everyone was relieved it wasn't more...Rob Rhino shaped... Yes, those are my pink chandeliers and they're awesome. Just so happens my book cover colors complimented them. Coincidence? These were all mine. Well, not technically, but I kept picking them up and drinking out of them even though they were someone else's. Hey, it was MY party. That's Richard's hand, the awesome guy from the Four Seasons who helped us out that day. He was sweet enough to pose with my book too (what could he do? he was trapped 28 floors up) which I will post on my FB page later. My new friend, Manuel Ramos, Denver attorney by day, successful author by night. We have the same agent. She makes a lot more money on Manuel. This is me, forcing him to hold my book. I think I've already made it clear I'm obnoxious. Hubby chatting up the guests. This is Patsy, her beau David, and Manuel. Patsy Brown is our realtor extraordinaire. After helping us find our beautiful home here in Denver, she hasn't been able to get rid us. This is me, dying...I mean reading. Out loud. I didn't plan on doing it but when Manuel discovered my plan...he vetoed it. And Flo (you can see the back of her head here), his wife rounded everyone up, made them sit down, and then she was the BEST audience member ever. She laughed at all my jokes. She reminded everyone in her Flo firm way that they could buy a signed copy before they left. Cash or check, please. I gotta say, I LOVE Flo. She's a great supporter of authors...she's married to Manuel and all. But she's a dynamo and I want to spend more time with her. This is Lori and Lee. And hubby. Lori is laughing at my jokes. Actually, I have no idea when this photo was taken or what she's laughing at. I just choose to believe it's at my jokes. "She just said what?" Awkward. "Yep, I think she really did just say that." I said what? And my mom never thought I'd amount to anything. Me signing for Flo and Manuel. Did I say I LOVE Flo? I do. I even had a little line! And more champagne! My hallway. Me and my bull at the end. Who knew you could sign an e-book? Sheri did. And she brought they stylus and everything. I'm too hip for words. Well, Sheri is. This is me, looking all serious author like. In my furniture that does tricks. That chair pushes in and it looks like it's just a table. That's the trick. Me and Audrey Michele. Love to you, Audrey. You rock. There's more photos...but I have to save some for my FB page! It's just too much fabulous for one day.
Thanks to everybody who made it over, and to everyone who was rooting for me but couldn't make it. It was a GREAT day. Today is Kenneth's birthday. He's our youngest. Which, can't be right because no one his age can be our youngest. I won't say how old he is. This is still my blog, after all. I'll give you a hint though, this photo is more than ten years old... I have to confess I'm not sure what an ode is. I think it's poetic. Even though I could find out in half a second what it means, I'm not gonna. I just like it. This is still my blog, after all. In this instance, it means "Shout Out." Kenneth is one of those people who are not appreciated enough. So, today, on the anniversary of his birth, I'm gonna appreciate him, show him some love, with one of my favorite things - a list. This is a list of some of the things I love and appreciate about Kenneth. Almost everything I know about baseball, I know because of Kenneth. Well, his Dad too, but it isn't his Dad's birthday. I know a double-header lasts a hell of a long time. I know what a change-up is. I know its important to count pitches. I know there's no half-time, cheerleaders, points, or crying, in baseball. What I still don't know is why the coaches and the managers wear baseball uniforms. Kenneth doesn't know why either. Kenneth is thoughtful. He bought me this leg lamp because one Christmas TBS played A Christmas Story over and over for 24 hours. I said, "I love that guy's leg lamp. How awesome would it be to have a leg lamp of my own?" Now I can tell you, it is indeed, AWESOME. Because Kenneth bought it for me. You know you want it. Kenneth carries groceries without me asking him to. If you're cold, he'll give you his coat. He's never late. If he says he'll do something, he does it. He fixes stuff. He helps me with the techno crap on my website and Facebook page because I'm a zero. He once spent all day trying to hook up my new MP3 player in my car. He's that kind of guy. He was Best Man at our wedding. He made a toast that he'd thought of himself. This was big. Kenneth is shy, not terribly fond of public speaking. But, I've never heard a better toast. Except for the one his Dad made at our daughter's wedding. But, it's not his Dad's birthday. He cracked open the champagne and poured us a glass. He made me cry. This photo and memory means the world to me, and his Dad. All of our kids were fantastic on our wedding day. But, it's not their birthday either. This is Cosmo. This is Kenneth and his sister Kristen's arms. She gave him this rabbit for his birthday, a zillion years ago. I love that he gave his rabbit such a cool guy name. Even though she was a girl rabbit. I love that he will probably be embarrassed that these photos are here. He will probably be embarrassed by this whole post. But, that ship sailed. Not sure why Kenneth's head is cut off in this photo. But, I love that he planted these roses for us. He worked at it all day. They were beautiful and the only thing I missed, and miss still, since we sold that house. I love that Kenneth thinks anything happening below the waist is hilarious. Fart jokes? Fuggetaboutit! Naked fart jokes? Stop...he's dyin! Oh...he laughs at my jokes too. That's key. He also read both my books, in manuscript form. Even the first, really crap one. He didn't even say it sucked. I love that. I have stuff on my book shelves that can only be called, tacky. My sock monkey Jesus, my naked fat lady salt and pepper shakers, my Van Gogh figurine sans ear... Kenneth baptized this shelf my tacky shelf. I LOVE it that Kenneth has kept this tradition alive and has his own tacky shelf. This is Nunzilla (she rolls and spits sparks out of her mouth) and the Expanding Nerd. He started out a minuscule sponge like thing and when soaked in water, he expanded. You know you want one. I love it that Kenneth is a good cook and made this meal himself last Thanksgiving. No, that's kind of a lie. I love it that Kenneth re-creates the exact meal that I've made at holiday time for the last decade, plus. Right down to the apricot jam I spread on the bottom crust of the pumpkin pie. That's really something. Traditions are for carrying on. To know that this dinner has meaning to him, well...that's everything, isn't it? Speaking of carrying on. This is Kenneth and Madison, our now 11 year old granddaughter. It's hard to believe how much time has passed since I first met Kenneth so many years ago. Before Madison was born. We've grown. The funny thing about writing is it never goes the way you plan. This blog, for instance. I wanted to salute Kenneth on his birthday. But, I noticed there's a pattern here. It's as much about me as it is about him. Kenneth makes me feel like my best self when he's around. That's the gist of it. I feel like a good mom, a good friend, a good cook, and don't forget, funny! So, happy birthday to Kenneth. I'm thinking of him today and all the years we've gotten to know one another, and all the ways knowing him has made me happy. I wouldn't trade them, or him. He's my youngest kid, and that's that. I know one thing for sure, when Kenneth gets married...she won't be good enough for him and I'll be the mother-in-law from hell. You could ask my sons-in-law to elaborate...but it's not their birthday. 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. I saw something on TV the other day that really bugged me. It got me thinking. There's stuff I see on TV that just bugs me and I think I need to share. James Bond. Specifically, Sean Connery as James Bond. I know, I know, I can hear the hissing and booing from here. "He's the best James Bond of all time," you say. Really? In that outfit? What exactly is Her Majesty's Secret Service? I could forgive the bad rug. Don't act like you didn't know Sean Connery wears a piece. But, a baby blue, terry cloth, shorty short jumper? Come on, now...007 shouldn't have camel toe. A sad fact I didn't even think possible. Although, as I type this it occurs to me that I might be missing the point. It calls to mind another James. James Earl Jones. As in, Sean Connery must have balls the size of James Earl Jones' to parade around in this outfit. No, I take that back. If he did, we'd see 'em. I don't really don't need to be acquainted with James Bond's junk, shaken or stirred. Cher's 2013 Tour. Now, I love Cher. Back in the day, she was my soul-sistah. I still know all the words to Half-Breed and have been known to sing them, loud, in my car. Her Farewell Tour in the 90's lasted five years. And, turns out, she was just kidding. As much as I love her, I've got to beg...please, please, enough with the see through spandex. Double sided, heavy duty Spanx aren't attractive. My son (who will not speak to me after he reads this) says, "If you didn't know how old she was, you'd think she looked great." Well, I do know how old she is. She's 150. I know because I'm 151. I get she's trying to Turn Back Time. Aren't we all. When you look like you jumped off the table mid-embalming, it's time to wrap it up. And I don't mean in glitter. Christopher Hitchens is dead but the Kardashians keep multiplying. The world is worse off because both of these things are true. If you stuck your religious neck out or took the moral high ground Hitch could set you straight with a perfect, stinging, fatally true sentence. Who else could write, "The Missionary Position-Mother Theresa in Theory and Practice?" A smart, thoughtful and painful rebuke of the world's most revered Saint. Who wouldn't love him for that alone? Christopher Hitchens remained an atheist to his dying breath. He knew how to commit. Tiger Woods' Comeback. Not gonna happen. Look at this jerk off. Who but a jerk off would take a picture like this? The man with the world's worst taste in women isn't coming back. In fact, he should just go away. I think there's a waitress at Denny's with his name on her. My apologies to all waitresses at Denny's. I was gonna do five annoyances, but I figure this is enough irritating bullshit for one day. Please be warned, if you irritate me, I will blog about it. "People want to know about you, who you are." That's what my oldest son said. It's no secret that I want people to buy, read and like, my just released novel. After it got published, I hit the social media ground running with a website, a twitter feed, and this blog. It's too soon to tell what, if any, difference it's all making. I started down this public road because of my book, and like many reclusive writers I balked at all the self promotion. I have to say though, I've enjoyed writing this blog. More than I thought I would. And, I hope people read it and enjoy it...more than I thought I would. So, I thought I'd take my son's advice and talk about who I am, even though it feels weird. Who cares? But, in case anyone does... I grew up on a highway - this highway. A sort of town, in the middle of nowhere. "Huh? Where is that?" people say when I tell them. "You don't look like you come from a place like that," used to be the highest compliment anyone could pay me. But, now, I'm not so sure. After all, it's on this highway that I learned: how to slit a turkey's throat then stuff it for Thanksgiving. how to cut the balls off a bull then fry 'em up in a pan. how to load a gun. how to shoot clay pigeons and glass bottles at the dump. how to ride a motorcycle. how to drive a tractor how to mix a 7 & 7 what a brooder is. how to get thrown off a horse, just right. how to smoke. how to put peanuts in my coke. that eating Faye White's homemade maple bars are the closest I'll get to heaven. What's a town without its people? There're not a lot of them there, but in all my over 50 years, I've never met people anything like those I grew up with and I don't believe I ever will. Eccentricity, to me is normal. Some say the characters in my novels are...well...odd. To me, spending time with them is just like spending a day on the highway. The folks where I grew up believe: drinking and driving is a skill set. getting run over by tractor blades doesn't necessarily kill you. a dog mauling among friends isn't that big a deal. Pi aren't squared. Pi are round. Cornbread are squared. "I thought somebody woulda shot you by now" is the same as "I'm so glad to see you." pot can grow in barns. you should be nice to your neighbors, you'll be related to them eventually. the system is there to work it. they should put your crippled horse down because you don't have the heart for it. they should drive you to the grocery store or the doctor or anywhere you need to go if you don't know how to drive. they should sell things they can't afford to be without so they can pool their money and give you $13,000 in a cigar box to help pay for your chemotherapy. they should come to your house as many times as you need so they can change your dying husband's diaper because he's too heavy for you to lift. they should give you their last piece of bread because you're hungry. eating Faye White's homemade maple bars are the closest they'll get to heaven. Funny enough, I couldn't get outta there fast enough. But, the truth is, I go back there in my mind, every day of my life. It's the well I draw from, they're the people I carry with me, the place I count on to never change. I wouldn't be a writer if I hadn't come from there, or known those people. Now, my life couldn't be further from this place. I'm a wife, mother, grandmother, retired professional fundraiser, writer, and author. I don't smoke. I live on the 28th floor of a luxurious high rise in the center of a bustling city, downtown. I love clothes, shoes and Le Creuset cookware. This is my life now, it's who I am. But it's not all I am. I'm still the girl who: loves the smell of wet alfalfa, chicken frying in a cast iron skillet, all you can eat buffets and road trips. won't pay full price. Ever. loves costume jewelry better than real. could get down on my knees in gratitude when I go to the grocery store and don't have to put anything back at the checkout counter because I don't have enough money. never did learn to make maple bars. And no matter where my life leads, or what I accomplish, inside I'm still that poor, uneducated, pregnant 17 year-old who came from the highway and dreamed of bigger things. 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.” When my novel got published, all my writer peeps, my agent, and my publisher chanted, "Facebook, Facebook, Facebook..." so I had to do it. I had to create a Facebook page. Easier said than done. Especially for someone like me who thinks "friend" is an actual person. In the flesh. Who you've had cocktails with (cocktails are important in my friendships). I'm a social media zero, how could I "do" Facebook? So, I thought, "why re-invent the wheel?" Old people who are social media zeros still stay things like, "re-invent the wheel." Mostly because we were probably there when the wheel was actually invented. I digress. Not having any idea what to do with said page, I thought I'd see what other authors did. You know what they say, "Talent borrows, Genius steals." With that pithy saying in mind, I set out to steal. I haven't read an Ann Rice novel in many years. So, naturally, she crossed my mind first. Yeah, that's how my mind works. It's spastic. Lo and behold, Ann has a page. She calls her "friends" the People of the Page. Clever, Ann. The page looks okay. Lots of writer like stuff, some current event and political stuff. Some shout outs for various events she's attending. And, of course, lots and lots of "friend" comments. And lots of comments in response from Ann! Ann Rice chats it up with her Facebook friends. Now, it did cross my mind that perhaps an assistant posing as Ann chats up Ann's friends. But, it turns out, her assistant has his own page. Ahem... At any rate, Ann likes her friends, she says nice things about them, and she goes to the mat with them over things she believes. For some reason, this all made me very happy. If it's good enough for Ann, it's good enough for me. Ann also follows other writers and gives kudos. She lets her People of the Page know about good books, other than her own. Way to go, Ann. I noticed that Ann follows Stephen King. So, I checked him out. Stephen King has 3 Facebook pages and 4.5 million followers. Followers, as you probably already know, are the Professional Facebook Page equivalent to "friends." Stephen King, however, does not sully himself with any of his pages. They are all maintained by his publisher. So, you can tell Stephen how much you love his work and his publisher will...do nothing. This pisses me off. Come on, Stephen. I've read almost all of your books. Even the ones that were 400 pages too long. Okay, yes, I did just skim a lot of it, but so what? I defended you when others said you were past it, your best work is behind you. "No Way," I'd say. I declared, on Goodreads no less, that you get a bad rap because you write horror. I emphatically denied that your first five books were your best. Okay, so I didn't emphatically deny that, but still. Now I find out you're never gonna "like" me back. You'll never rave about my book to your 4.5 million followers. That probably means a quote from you for my next book cover is out. Let me put this in perspective Stephen. I have, as of this writing, 70 followers. Who I love and am eternally grateful for. But, I need more. I want a bunch of people to buy, and read, my book. You could help me. One word from you and I'm on the bestseller list. Since you probably don't know, let me enlighten you with some inconvenient truth: Ann Rice has roughly 760,000 followers. Gillian Flynn has 3 pages, 1 in French, and has 30,000 followers (I saw your quote on her book cover, by the way, and yes, I'm bitter). Dean Koontz has five pages and 1.5 million followers. If all of that isn't bad enough, why don't you put the following in your publisher's pipe and smoke it: Steig Larson has 7 pages, 2 in Swedish and has 1.8 million followers. Jane Austen has 2 pages and 750,000 followers. Charles Dickens has 750,000 followers. They are all dead. Even J.D. Salinger has 3 pages and 350 followers. He only wrote one book (so what if it was Catcher in the Rye), and never came out of his bedroom except to refill his martini glass. Come on, Stephen, help a girl out. 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 |