Writer's Block and Its Detritus

NOTE TO THE READERSHIP:  After finding the dusty draft, just published, on conquering writer's block, I searched to see if I'd ever written myself out of that box before. Lo and Behold! Back on 10 January 2010, a more somber moi tried to scribble her way free of that writing snare. Just as self-centered and focused on pity as most of my posts, I don't get the feeling of resounding success that came from the "Cats Trump Writer's Block" posting.  There's a lesson there.  You should be getting a vibrating-cum-annoying-ring text message on your smarty-panted phone about now... and with every Pity Party Post published herein.  Yes, there was an app for that!  If you adjust your "Settings," you might be able to avoid future text alerts for depressing REPOSTS!

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Oh, my dahlink readers, I am so sick.

At least, this is a common, plebeian, ordinary sort of sick, as opposed to my usual krapola of unheard of neurological disorders and infectious disease firsts, auto-immune oddities and literally rotting bones.

You know that steroids weaken the immune system, right? That cheers me whenever I get some infectious process -- because when acutely ill, the first thing I am supposed to do is DOUBLE MY STEROIDS. Gee, let's take MORE immune-suppressing drug, especially now that the germs are attacking!

Okay, so here is the deal.

I have writer's block, I think. Plenty to say, that's not the issue. Hyper-awareness of my own worth is more the cause. When you know just exactly how little you matter, there's no point to yapping on and on.

Still, writing is invigorating and good for me. And, to be brought low by gunked-up stinky yellow mucus AND silence would be just too much to bear. Especially that "silence" part.

So I am going to continue this here post, this ode to bodaceous blogging, as a Live Blogging Event. Anything goes. The ridiculous shall be honored. No spell checks allowed.

No erasures, no deletions. Above all? NO CAVEATS. No breathy declarations of what-i-really-meant-to-say.

Here we go. Keep your fingers crossed in hope that, by the end of this process, I will have regained some sense of writerly purpose.

More and more, I am keeping the Boob Tube on, even when I am not watching it. This is typical, I believe, of people who feel lonely. Still, when I turn it off, I relish the silence and fuss at myself about the ridiculous waste of energy, and the pollution of noise and idiocy.

One of my Brother-Units was overly generous at Christmas time, and I used his excessive generosity to purchase a Wii system, with the Fit program and balance board, plus extra remotes and whatcha-ma-callits. I used it with great fun until New Year's Eve when the virus first made its concerted attack.

Shortly before Xmas, we turned the dining room into a library. Don't argue or fret, just accept it. Dining room? Now a library. Okay?

So we have a tiny old t.v. stashed in the new reading room, that no one likes to watch. In the bedroom, we have the main viewing machine, but Fred, especially, wants to replace it with a fancy-schmancy new one. The one in the bedroom is to be moved into the library (the tiny one already in there? I dunno its fate.).

The thinking behind these genius moves is that "We can Wii" better in there, since the center of the room is free. "Wii"ing in the bedroom, in addition to sounding like an odd excretory process, is a cramped endeavor.

I believe that fixing this situation will be my goal for today. This will entail sending The Fred to make the television purchase, slightly reworking the library layout, dealing with wires and connections and Semi-Technical Schtuff.

By the end of the day, The Library will have been humbled to the status of Room-With-A-Few-Books.

And maybe I can play a little Wii Tennis tonight. I confess that just playing tennis as a video game brings back most excellent memories.

My legs are on fire. The right foot is completely messed up, burning and twisting, bringing me down, pissing me off. In a nostalgic move, the shooting electrical charge that I associate with my first year or so with CRPS, is back, and the end point of the surge? You guessed it: all the way down the leg into the foot, culminating in fireworks within the spacious confines of my BIG TOE.

That first year (or so!), Fred was often treated to my loud hacking yells -- in the middle of watching a movie, eating dinner, deep sleep. Even though I knew that the sudden electrocutions of my feet were coming, anticipation did nothing to keep me from screaming with pain. I tried and tried to maintain silence, to not give a hint of distress, fear, or frustration. Most of the time, I failed. The instances of success were marked by an inability to breathe and palms gouged-- from digging nails, a failed fist. And here I am, nine years later, back at it -- a regular screech owl, talons sharp and at the ready.

I wake myself up, screaming.

Of course, I also occasionally wake up laughing my ass off.

In addition, I am often shaken back to consciousness by the weight of Dobby, Our Little Idiot, perched on my chest, a worried look on his face. It happens whenever I am so audacious as to put my arms under the quilt -- something I have been prone to do during this incredible cold snap. This triggers some large anxiety in him -- does he think I am being eaten by the quilt? Death by textile? [Dobby has a "thing" for threads, materials, weavings, tapestry and affects his evaluations so seriously that I can imagine him as a bent tailor, absentmindedly rubbing some fine cloth in between his index finger and thumb.]

It is unfortunate, though, this need to rescue me from my quilt.

I have just the one quilt that I am able to tolerate over my body. I sleep on top of another [lesser] quilt, and cover everything but my legs with this worn, beloved, rubbed-soft cotton handmade wonder... It is full of holes, stained [despite being washed twice a week] by coffee and, thanks to the seven major shoulder surgeries between August 2008
and April 2009, considerable blotches of betadine and -- sorry -- blood. It's as sanitary as can be... but is looking fairly sad.

I have tried other things and it is either a problem with weight or softness -- too much weight on this CRPS-afflicted body, and the pain levels and burning get out of control -- too little softness and the irritation to the skin also increases the burning sensations that are the hallmark of CRPS-type pain.

I miss getting between the sheets, though! Just like I miss shoes -- oh, God how i miss shoes!

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Well, it looks like the television scenario will extend into the weekend, as Fred is getting a slow start, and I don't feel like irking him with request upon request.

Over on Twitter (another universe, Twitter!), I am shocked by the frequency with which I see folks writing these exact words in response to the current humanitarian crisis in Haiti: "What about the people who need help in our own country?" It's my least favorite form of argumentation, if it even qualifies as such. The only thing I know to say -- though I would never take up the argument on Twitter -- is "well, we are not talking about those people right now..." There's not a reasoned response to be made to people who are looking for a fight or who wish to use others purely as something to stand on. And I mean that almost literally and with near good intentions.

Into my head just popped: chowder. Specifically, fish chowder. I watched a recent episode of Chef Bobby Flay's Throwdown show -- about Manhattan Fish Chowder, meaning simply that is has a tomato base. What can I say? I feel catholic on Friday. It sounds like dinner to me.

Cooking has become something I very much enjoy, even as the mechanics of getting it done have become complicated. We foresee a day when I won't be able to do it any longer -- mostly because of my hands and their unpredictability, as well as the situation with my shoulders. Ah... but until then? I am becoming quite the cook. I've always loved it, but as I have needed to concentrate and think my way through the process more and more -- imagine! I got better at it! Go figure.

I've decided to perform penance (get this catholic shit out of my head! out! out!) for my sinful thoughts about Fred's persistent participation in Wednesday night suppers over at the Existentialist Congregation -- yes, the place being run by Militant Lesbians. This penance has taken the form of making the dish he takes to these weekly potlucks. This week, they got to feast on my carrots. It's my own "recipe," though I don't write anything down -- I think this is actually a common presentation for carrots, though The Fredster ooohs-and-ahhhs like it is something special. Cooking for 10 people, I used 15 whole carrots, cut into 1/4 inch rounds. A bias cut would be fine, too. Just cut the suckers up however you want. The more surface area, the more of the sauce you will taste... Then steam them until just soft. I make my own curry "powders," as I am very picky about spices... Sometimes, they are the only thing over which I have quality control. Why? Oh... I would have to go into the intricacies of getting out of the house, going shopping, etcetera. hmmm. You know what? I *started* a post a few weeks back, like the very day I was getting sick. It remains a draft. I will tack it onto the end of this post -- this post that is rapidly spiralling out of control.

Back to the hot topic of carrots. Where was I? Ah, curry. Cumin, cardamom, mustard, cayenne, coriander, and turmeric -- best if all are in "whole" form, then toasted and ground, in proportions of your choice, as needed. I add other spices according to my mood, mostly. Chipotle. Cinnamon. Fennel.

I suspect that I use spices as a form of sexual sublimation. Exotic, passionate, rich, intense. And so forth. Ahem. Cough. Titter.

Peppers. Nutmeg. Various peppers. Fenugreek. Cloves. Saffron.

Find what you like. For these easy carrots, you want to complement their sweetness and the citrus that you will also be adding. In other words, it won't be the star of the show, so keep it out of the "smoky" range and more in the Arena of Simple.

So... to the carrots directly, or in a separate pot if you are kinda timid, start adding your curry, then some butter. Then salt (sea salt, kosher). Finally, add the zest of one large navel orange, as well as about a quarter cup of its juice. Serve immediately or in the time it takes to fly across town to your pseudo-religious Wednesday night Christian-bashing session. Cough. Ahem. Titter... Cloves. Garlic. Chiles...

The stock market, in its infinite wisdom, has taken back all the goodness it gave just last week. Pow! Boff! Bam!

Incredibly, I need to rest now. And I am soaked again from the fever breaking -- for which I am grateful. I am just tired of washing up and changing my clothes several times a day! Before I lay down under my previously mentioned quilt, I will start a load of laundry. Added incentive is the fact that Marmy Fluffy Butt decided to mark my softest hoodie, the little beyatch.

So has slapping all these words down managed to break through the walls of my writing block? I don't know. It doesn't feel particularly liberating, but then that could be due to a mounting sense of frenzy and fatigue -- a simultaneous combination that is soul-wearying.

As promised, and without prejudging whether it really "goes" or not with what I wanted to say about "control" of cooking ingredients.... here is the kernel of a post that never made it. I haven't altered a word of it, which may come back to haunt moi, eh? I also have no idea why that particular YouTube vid was tacked onto the end, although I remember thinking that I loved this child, and wanted her energy and happiness:

okie-dokie, so we are sick as dogs... although, where the meaning of that comes from, i dunno. dogs are not, by nature, "sick."

right?

this virus is cruel. i woke feeling pretty doggone (who let the dogs out?) good. no coughing. temp 98.4 (no shit!) just an aching head, with pesky swollen glands. for me? a big nada. no problem. gonna coast through the day, get some work done, mebbe write a little, do my wii, face cleaning the bathroom (procastination issue).

i was looking forward to showing off for fred. "how do you feeeeeellll, ffffred, dahlink?"

"moi? moi? i feel fuh-fuh-fine, ffffred!"

while waiting for fred to wake up, i did morning chores, and began to lag. yes, the energy did flag, and i, i began to fade. i was, in short, diminished.

sorry. i was briefly channeling t. s. eliot.

or yeats.

it's so hard to tell, anymore. i grow old.

eating the peach is not gonna be my issue. no, i think that monster slinking toward jerusalem is gonna get moi.

hey, i bought a new toothbrush the other day! wait, i didn't tell you i went out, did i? well, i did. grocery shopping. and i had an emotional meltdown right in the middle of the damned store. see... i hadn't left the house in 29 days. that's right. TWENTY-NINE FREAKING DAYS. that's how high my pain level has been, how miserable my legs, how very, very bad it has been. oh, poor moi {peeking to see if you pity moi, yet...}!

anyway, i had been begging to go to the store for days, but fred didn't put together my eagerness with the notion of going-to-the-store as a FUN activity. so when we entered said establishment and he announced, "let's split up, we'll get done faster"?
i started to boohoo. can you believe it? how retarded am i, and increasingly so, with increasing frequency?

poor man. in his mind, i go out whenever he does (pretty much daily, and at least twice a week for social engagements. he had not counted the passing of TWENTY-NINE FREAKING DAYS, nor did he really register the number of DIY amputations of my legs that i had undergone in fits of desperation at the increasingly increasing pain. he *cannot*, of course, and i don't want him to follow the bouncing ball of my suffering, anyway, poor soul. i've ruined his life enough, don't you think?

oh, hell, where was i? did i tell you i am spiking a way high, a mile high fever?

the toothbrush. oh, yeah. so we were in the market, en train de faire le marché, when i remembered i needed a new one. i pop a few wheelies and race down the toothpaste, toothbrush, shampoo, deodorant, and sundries aisle. fred is tearing after me, the shopping cart careening this way and that... he sees me stop in front of the pitiable selection of plaque-scrapers, and calls out: "wait! we have a supply of new toothbrushes at home!"

now... i don't know exactly why that sent me over the edge, but it did. i had not been out of the house for... well, you know. do you get how hard it is to run a household by sending a guy with adhd to do the necessary errands? have you tried making a detailed grocery list when you are only able to go to the store yourself but a couple o'times a year? i am a very visual person. back in the day (i.e., before crps, before avn, before ai, and so on)? i just took a mental stroll down the aisles, pictured what was there, made my lists in almost perfect synchronicity with the actual order of the products. i made a killer list, detailed but simple, a list on which even the most shopping-challenged could rely.

no more. oh no. now i am liable to hand my sweet man something along the order of:

apples, if they are under $1.39 a pound. and fresh. also, please don't buy them if the skin is even slightly loosened from the inner fruit. you know what i mean. like they'd been stored in a cold bin for too long. we're looking for très fresh.

keep an eye out for endive. gots to have my endive.

toilet paper
pasta

lowfat plain yogurt (7)
drain cleaner

get yourself something for snacking
bananas
ham bone

celery seed for me, ground celery seed for you
italian roast whole coffee beans for me; columbian blend for you; when will we go to farmer's market to get ethiopian beans, hmmm?

white onions, yellow onions, please don't buy pre-bagged





READERSHIP!  How fitting that this video "does not exist"!  It's Karma for all the narcissism displayed above.  I shall reincarnate as a worm.

© 2015 L. Ryan

Honor the Fred, or else.

Fred tried to make me jealous.  He failed, miserably.          

by glittergirl

Ah, the benefits for spouses, sidekicks, and dear friends of mild short-term memory loss in those we love!

Fred is joyfully planning a coup.  Not a seizure of power, he insists, but more a revolution of celebration. He's always been ill at ease with the word "fun." It ties him in a knot, almost immediately.  You tell Fred, ":Let's have some fun!" and you'll witness facial contortions indicative of pure panic.  But if you work at it, and find some convoluted way to say it, like:  "Let's make today a better day than yesterday!" -- he's with you, he's ready, he has a referent. He almost jumps for... well, not "joy," of course, but perhaps "ascending hopefulness."

So he has volunteered to lead the Service at his place of, well, worship, on 22 December 2013.  He, uh, worships at a Unitarian Universalist affiliated congregation of militant existentialist lesbian feminists.  There has been a decline in the lesbian demographic of this exciting group, and their commitment to existentialism has always been questionable, as a majority of the membership cannot string enough defining words together to form a sentence about the post-World War II philosophy.  Which leaves militant feminists as the predominant ongoing influence.

Hank self-identifies as a Christian.  As far as I know, he's straight -- although he and I, and several friends, used to enjoy allowing others to assume we were, basically, a jaunty gay gang.  I wrote a poem about that, I think, over at AllPoetry, but don't know if I snagged a copy when I left that enterprise.  Let me see.  Be right back...

Damn, that was exciting.  I found a .zip file of my writerly "stuff," many things too personal to find posting here, but that may change according to shifts in courage, should they come.  Anyway, it's long and full of allusion but it does tell the story of our "jaunty gay gang," out to convince people at post-worship Sunday potluck picnics that yes, they did, indeed, know a gay person!  The rumors of invasion are, indeed, real! You're surrounded and we are eating your potato salad!

I'll get back to Fred's current initiative on the other side of the poem and its "Author Note."

"Peasants, Indian Nobles, and the Decline of the Tlaxcalan-Spanish Alliance"

as i write this, the defense of marriage

act seems to be circling the sucking

drain,

whether counter the clock 

or with it, i cannot tell,

though what else will determine the hemisphere?

i read the article behind these poems; fatigue set
in, i circled the drain. actually, it's better said
that i dove right in, sieve bound, no curvature, no wasted motion;

i am that sick of it.
surely there is nothing
left to say, only the abiding strength of what we know?

but i felt this way twenty years ago, as well,
when we were almost always together, all four of us,
at some point in any potato salad, fried catfish 

and slaw gathering: me and fred and ramak and alejandro.
our solution was that, together or apart,
we were all gay -- for the asking.

it was fred's idea, after his gazillionth whispered, crooked
fingered (halting and prepared-to-be-apologetic)
"fred, are you gay?"

he decided to always answer "yes," figuring and theorizing,
hoping and praying that then, at least, that person
would think they knew, at least, one gay person.

he had epidemiological visions of a spreading virus,
shedding little viral progenies, emptying the now vapid host,
having sucked and eaten its innards, free and bounding away

to spread the word: i know someone who is gay; i have a friend
who is gay.  fred hums "imagine" as he sands the frets of his guitars.
pleased, eased, now there were the four of us in the game -- but

back when there were two, when it was just me and fred,
we had the comfort of knowing others knowing
we lived together and seemed suspiciously, knowingly intimate

or, at least, weirdly close, not that we needed or required
or needed or required that knowing knowing at all, at all,
and then there came ramak --

for whom none of it was light as air, pretty as a feather, pithy
as a cold beer teachable moment, but she played.  the obsidian glint in her eye,
however, kept many a potential postulant from leading with the required question.

the butch hair, the soft breasts unbound under thin egyptian cotton tees,
her general cold courtesy, all these kept the question under lock and key
because romy was always romy, what else, who else, could romy be?

so we three hobbled along like monopoly's shoe and hat and iron,
fred and i trying to keep the joy in it, ramak sometimes giving us
the hairy eyeball.  along came alex, part alejandro, half gringo,

and the same with being gay, he first needed to know his audience,
prepare the footlights,  his traveling troupe, his imagined dresser,
but he was not in the closet, no, or if so, not

for the usual pedestrian reasons.  it was more out of castilian courtesy.
but as a game, well, and a game, you say, that we all four would play?
well, that might work, not that i don't cry in fear at night of being alone,

you understand. (and i would secretly hold fred's hand: ramak would either
redo the hairy eye or quickly wipe the hint of a tear at alejandro's crying game.)
"welcoming" church picnics were our specialty, we ate free

but were pale, all four, from the night before, so we lost some of the original
artistry, the courtly dance of far away corners coming together to hold hands
and circle, jauntily, in the middle, by the buffet tables, queens of may.

alejandro was hung over from the peculiarity of tequila one awful sunshiny
sunday morning afternoon, and thus he "snapped" -- his word, worthy of a copper's
tyranny of interrogation under a hot bare bulb -- "i just snapped, damn it,"

said alex, alejandro temporarily in barcelona

(santiago an emergency alternate),

so the four of us piled high our paper plates,

"raised high the roofbeam," 

goose-stepped over to the roots

of an ancient southern oak,

and ate and ate and ate,

til our cheeks pooched out. 

  
we were memorialized on polaroid, and what a tale that photo told, beyond
an apparent feeding frenzy.  i wore a thin jersey top with a hood
of my favorite deepest blue, the hood up, my curls defiantly creeping

out, curls no matter what i put them through. "she was just so freaking stupid,"
whisper wailed alex, stabbing what might have been chicken, but could have been
fish, "and what was there to say but 'so what if i am?' to the mousy-brown

sweet tea idiot, so much my mother i could spit."  aha, ramak nodded to me
and i lent her a bent eyebrow in return.  alex's mother was an unrecognized
but powerful female force in live performances of los reyes the gipsy kings

never introduced, just the spanish chica who carried the trills to the apex in a peasant 
bandanna blouse and blousy skirt, while they sprayed on tans under gold chains
on hairy chests over fat bellies and excluded her from the recording studio

and its royalties.  fred was oblivious to the backstory drama, didn't see his dream
game implode between jellos studded with grapes, watermelon chunks,
frisbee golf and christian volleyball, open to all.

i suggested we switch to vaudeville,

a barbershop quartet:.

fred's bearded hawk-nosed head,

my curly round-cheeked cheery face,

romy's amazingly white teeth

and sultry exoticism --

each popping up,  in harmony,

"i'm gay-y-y" --

 "i'm gay-y-y" --

 "i'm gay-y-y" --

and then an extended

holding of the line,

with jazz hands twitching

as a waving, jerky alex

hops up behind, 

boater waving, starting us all

in a slow,

flat-crowned

chorus kick,

leading a rafter rattling

(whether rafter or no)

speed increasing, voltage volting,

(Milyen volt az előadás? How was the show?)

flabbergasting

"so.  what.  if.  i.  am...

so.  what.  if.  i.  am...

o mama!  

o papa!

so.  what.  if.  i.  am...  

i'm gay!"

what really happened is that fred's dream was killed by the obvious:
a straight couple with twisted liberal tendencies,
and guilt (the woman in love with ramak,

but not gay), and alex keeping two journals,
one a  homosexual compendium of erotica that could
make a person weep, the other private password-

protected files in a folder marked "Peasants, Indian Nobles,
and the Decline of the Tlaxcalan-Spanish Alliance" on his mac.
our plan to have everyone in the world know at least one gay person

failed, failed even if we deflated the world to continents,
those continents to a country, that country to a region,
that region into little tiny counties, with towns of plastic 

red and green monopoly houses, motels, hotels,  
and b&b accomodations, monopoly's shoe, hat,
iron, and thimble jive dancing in the corner establishment saturday

nights before sunday picnics,
arguing why a gay bar cannot be a jazz club.
who to tell -- and how to tell -- the difference.

Author notes

A contest entry for: Nobody's Gay by T.H. 

This poem's title is taken from a Grinnell College Latin American Studies research paper written by Eliot Spencer in 2005, a Senior Paper requirement for certification in Latin American Studies.

It tickles me that people want to see the picture under the tree.  I am a poet, or trying. It does exist, but without Alex.  I'm staring at one of the huge tree roots, Fred is staring at me, and Ramak is glaring at the woman taking the picture -- who was in (very unrequited) love with her. Alejandro would never, ever play the game and was, at this period, I believe, having mooched all of us to death, mooching his way around South America, Spain, and Portugal.  Ramak telegraphed so well that even her willingness to play was pointless, plus she was always the same to all she met that... well, Romy was just above it all.  

So it was just me and Fred, really.  That's what I get for writing narrative stuff, I suppose, and making it plausible.

All I know is that the plausible picture of the four of us, the game, itself, driven by "welcoming" Christians and their curiosity, was all about wanting to be loved, wanting to love, and desperately needing to be able to relax into the truth and just chow down on free fried food.  We simply found a way to so structure our discomfort that we could pretend the strictures of hate, prejudice, and damnation did not exist.

Really, I should call these posts "performance art," though to call this "art" is an aggrandizement. It is such an accurate representation of the flightiness of my poor brain...

So... before that terrible poetic interlude, I was telling you about Fred's Christianity.  It emerges most often when he's hurt by some change among his friends at the existentialist congregation -- he clothes his concern and pain in feisty battle readiness, in condemning their condemnation of organized religions, especially Christianity.  

Basically, the congregation, about 30 years old now, has historically been made up of people marginalized by organized religious groups, sometimes in childhood, sometimes in young adulthood and on occasions such as coming out as gay, lesbian, or transgender.  Their faith, they say, went the way of their trust and love of the institutions that had sworn them an allegiance of support, guidance, and acceptance.  Not always, but often, the end result is a stunted thought process and a continual aggravation of wounds that never healed.

Fred says it was not always like this, not always this bitter, repulsed response to notions large and small, from stringent anti-Christian stances to degradation of men, because men are behind every bad thing that has ever occurred in human history.  Yes, the anti-male hysteria is real, and yes, I do characterize it as a "small" notion.  The men in the group are among the most liberally compassionate, pacifist, and open-minded guys you'll ever meet -- and the militant existentialist lesbian feminists all know it.  They'll even admit it in the span of a lightening strike.

Fred wields Christianity as a bat to hit the high-powered, stinging pitches that are hurled toward his strike zone, by which I mean that he is hurt and using ideology to fight back.

Hmm.  Do you hear bells ringing?

There used to be a solid core of existential philosophy study going on there, and, odd as it may sound, that study was full of fun.  Gatherings were fun, even if sometimes necessarily "deep." Now?  Existentialism is being not-so-gently shoved off the altar, left undiscussed, considered arcane -- and most members couldn't provide the sketchiest sketch of its history, meaning, or significance.

The happiness of the place (it is, after all, where I met Fred) hinged on fun, on a miraculous conjunction of existential ideas and theories for action with the lives that congregated around them.

Fred now often leaves for the 11 am service at 11:25 am.  He also sometimes goes early for a meeting or out of excitement for a scheduled speaker and ends up home at 11:15 am.  He comes home pale and sweaty, sad and angry.

He was born on Christmas Day, was Fred.  Raised in the Catholic Church, educated by nuns, he got over that abuse with the help of single malt scotches and beautiful women in Ethiopia.  He experimented with naturalism as a faith, and considered himself a modern druid for a bit.  The way he sometimes eyes certain trees, I suspect he still might.  But for several years now, he speaks with more and more respect of Christianity.

There's not a bit of evangelical fervor flying around backward in our suites here in The Manor, nor have we held Wednesday night Bible Studies (though I LOVE Bible Studies!).  Sometimes I insult Fred, hopefully without it showing, by thinking that this new faith-based man must be punking my ass.  Other times, I wish he would allow me into that precious space in his heart.

I started by saying Fred was trying to evoke my jealousy.  Little does he know that he does that every day, but we won't go down Self Pity Alley on this journey.  He got up early, as in well before noon, and as he handed me a wonderful jug of coffee, chirped "I have a lunch date." Then he stood up and grinned at me, feeling all superior and stuff.  This as I pictured the leftovers that I am counting on him (and Sven, and Bianca, and the Cabana Boy) to dispose of, while trying to appear unconcerned, and definitely not jealous.
He'd already told me about his plans over the weekend, but forgot -- so, ha!  I don't mind finishing off the incredible and perfectly spiced Spanish Omelet, complemented by a side of superior vegetarian chili.

The luncheon today is dedicated to a small group of revolutionaries plotting the goings-on for the upcoming pre-Christmas service on 22 December.  They are planning... a fun celebration of Christmas, free from any heavy wrapping in ideology, desire for conversion, or even contemplation of the lunacy of a Virgin Birth. This is more about a Jesus child, touched by God, running around nekkid as a jay bird and rejoicing in life lived well, finding the space and the spirit to befriend the frowning and judgmental, to soothe the injured.

A tree, small presents, maybe even a living tableau.  Jingle-Bells by the Ukulele Band.  Themes of love and hope, peace and good acts.  Sugar cookies.

That's my Fred.

He is excited but also, like me, tending toward "borrowing trouble." What if people refuse to come?  What if someone tries to openly denigrate Christmas?  What if he will be required to deliver a cogent thesis to explain Christianity itself?  (This is not a crazy worry.  The congregants are a hyper-educated bunch, full of professors and degreed fine arts practitioners 'n such.)

My job, I've decided, is to try and correct the course should the Christmas Celebration Cruise Ship veer from following the twinkling star.

But they'd better get with the program, those militant existentialist lesbian feminists or I won't be sending along any more savory tarts or rich mushroom polentas to those famed Wednesday night suppers and ukulele band practices.

Honor the Fred, or else.  A new commandment.

© 2013 L. Ryan

Downright, Outright Goofy

I am feeling downright, outright goofy.  This happens with overstimulation.

I mean, imagine yourself as me.  C'mon, be a sport.  It won't take.  I mean, you won't literally turn into me.  I promise.

This goofiness flows from some intense physical pain, some worry over tomorrow's appointment with the surgeon, and a series of 5 (five) inane phone calls with a durable medical equipment supplier customer service  representative.

It doesn't matter what product sector is being discussed, does it?  All you have to do is reference "customer service" and your audience is primed.  Sitting up straight, grabbing a fresh beverage, ready to smile and scoff!

Ah, but I am sorry to add that my addled state is also a combination of Sandusky, McQueary, the whole general topic of abused children, Coach K's landmark achievement, the discovery of a new poetics, and the inevitable buildup to the annual Cal - Stanford Big Game.

Maybe it is the pain medication, maybe not.  I am just going to vomit the junk, the news, the thoughts, the expectations, and my essential pettiness... out.  That's right, I'm going to purge all over you one more time.
Fred did his duty;  He stood shifting from foot to foot, his weight over his left leg, then over his right, a short smile frozen under his incredibly sexy moustache -- looking all the world like a toddler about to wet his pants. We joke about it being his ADHD stance, the shifting being a heroic effort to maintain focus on my jabbering, my intense gossip, my steadfast repetition this afternoon of what I said last night.

Fred was saved by the bell.  The kitchen timer went off, and he fairly ran out of Marlinspike Hall, my savory and cheesy polenta casserole carefully wrapped in a pink-and-white bath towel, destined for consumption at this Wednesday's Supper with his beloved bevy of Militant Lesbian Existential Feminists.  O! To be Fred.

[O! I wish I had doubled the recipe and kept half for myself and the rest of The Manor Staff condemned to pass Wednesday evenings at home.  Because that, my friends, was some excellent polenta -- if the many taste-testings it required were representative of its final superior wonderfulness.]

Like I said, goofy.

I would have thought that, by now, the automatic suggestion feature on Google Search would have adapted so that when you type "s-a-n-d" into the search subject box, "Sandusky" would appear.

Nope!  "Sandra Bullock," that's what pops up as the suggested topic.  I don't know, maybe that's a good thing.  She's a good actress, a beautiful woman, funny, and by all accounts, a fine human being.  All things that Jerry Sandusky is not.

Before I forget, let me say that I found Bob Costas' eyes incredibly compelling last night as he spoke with the alleged child rapist.  They were red, tired-looking, and laser-like in the middle of an appropriately drawn visage.

In the wake of the continued disaster that is Assistant Coach Mike McQueary, I have a theory.  [There's room in the Disaster Wake for my theory and millions more!]  Now that he has torpedoed his hold on veracity by attempting to make himself look better in an email, it has also come out that the prosecution has been unable to identify, much less locate, the boy McQueary saw in the shower with Sandusky in 2002.  My theory is that Sandusky is making a play on the situation's weaknesses and has bought the services of some former participant in The Second Mile, the charity through which the coach seems to have acquired access to kids -- a sickening reinterpretation of the expression "at-risk child," the charity's target population. With McQueary increasingly discredited, imagine Sandusky's triumph were he to produce the mystery victim of the shower incident recounted to the grand jury, and were that victim to deny the rape, and support the version of events that labels the interaction just naked rough-housing?

I smell a rat.  What other scenario would support the otherwise clearly idiotic decision to give an interview to anyone, much less an on-the-air Bob Costas?

I was so hoping that we could send one clear message to the kids who are being abused right now, today, as you read this.  Something along the lines of "we've got our act together now, young ones... we are listening now, we understand now, and we are coming to save you... hang on!"  It's no surprise to them that this is turning into another adult clusterfuck.

Let's think about something more pleasant.  In Palo Alto Saturday, it's the 114th Big Game between Cal and Stanford.  The Game, the Big Game, yadda yadda.  What we all are referencing between the ears, of course, is The Big Play.  That's right.  November 20, 1982.  Wikipedia lends the day sufficient gravitas, I suppose, in its accounting:

The Play refers to a last-second kickoff return during a college football game between the University of California Golden Bears and the Stanford University Cardinal on Saturday, November 20, 1982. Given the circumstances and rivalry, the wild game that preceded it, the very unusual way in which The Play unfolded, and its lingering aftermath on players and fans, it is recognized as one of the most memorable plays in college football history and among the most memorable in American sports. 

After Stanford had taken a 20–19 lead on a field goal with four seconds left in the game, the Golden Bears used five lateral passes on the ensuing kickoff return to score the winning touchdown and earn a disputed 25–20 victory. Members of the Stanford Band had come onto the field midway through the return, believing that the game was over, which added to the ensuing confusion and folklore. There remains disagreement over the legality of two of the laterals, adding to the passion surrounding the traditional rivalry of the annual "Big Game." 

With Cal leading 19–17 late in the fourth quarter, quarterback John Elway and the Cardinal overcame a 4th-and-17 on their own 13-yard line with a 29-yard completion, then managed to get the ball within field goal range for placekicker Mark Harmon. Elway called a timeout with 8 seconds left on the clock. Had Elway let the clock run down to four seconds before calling time, the ensuing kickoff would not have taken place since the clock would have run out on the field goal. But Elway was under instruction from coach Paul Wiggin to call time out at the 8 second mark to allow time for a second field goal try in case Stanford drew a penalty on the first attempt. Harmon's 35-yard kick was good, putting Stanford ahead 20–19. However, the team's celebrations drew a 15-yard penalty, enforced on the ensuing kickoff. This was crucial, as Stanford was now kicking off from their 25 instead of the 40. At that point, Cal announcer Joe Starkey praised Stanford and Elway for their efforts, and added, "Only a miracle can save the Bears now!" 

With 4 seconds left, Stanford special teams coach Fred von Appen called for a squib kick on the kickoff. Due to confusion, Cal took the field with only ten men, one short of the regulation eleven, but still legal in American football. What happened next became one of the most debated and dissected plays in college football history.

The Play

• Harmon squibbed the kick and Cal's Kevin Moen received the ball inside the Cal 45 near the left hash mark. After some ineffective scrambling, Moen lateraled the ball leftward to Richard Rodgers.

• Rodgers was very quickly surrounded, gaining only one yard before looking behind him for Dwight Garner, who caught the ball around the Cal 45.

• Garner ran straight ahead for five yards, but was swallowed up by five Stanford players. While Garner was being tackled, however, he managed to pitch the ball back to Rodgers. It was at this moment, believing that Garner had been tackled and the game was over, that several Stanford players on the sideline and the entire Stanford band (which had been waiting behind the south end zone) ran onto the field in celebration.

• Rodgers dodged another Stanford player and took the ball to his right, toward the middle of the field, where at least four other Cal players were ready for the next pitch. Around the Stanford 45, Rodgers pitched the ball to Mariet Ford, who caught it in stride. Meanwhile, the Stanford band, all 144 members, had run out past the south end zone—the one the Cal players were trying to get to—and had advanced as far as twenty yards downfield. The scrum of players was moving towards them.

• Ford avoided a Stanford player and sprinted upfield while moving to the right of the right hash mark, and into the band, which was scattered all over the south end of the field. Around the Stanford 27, three Stanford players smothered Ford, but while falling forward he threw a blind lateral over his right shoulder.

• Moen caught it at about the 25 and charged toward the end zone. One Stanford player missed him, and another could not catch him from behind. Moen ran through the scattering Stanford Band members for the touchdown, which he famously completed by running into unaware trombone player Gary Tyrrell.

The Cal players celebrated wildly—but the officials had not signaled the touchdown. Stanford coach Paul Wiggin and his players argued to the officials that Dwight Garner's knee had been down, rendering what had happened during the rest of the play moot. Meanwhile, the officials huddled. The chaos at the end of The Play made the officials' task very challenging. In particular, the questionable fifth lateral took place in the midst of the Stanford band, greatly reducing visibility. Referee Charles Moffett recalled the moment:

“

I called all the officials together and there were some pale faces. The penalty flags were against Stanford for coming onto the field. I say, 'did anybody blow a whistle?' They say 'no'. I say, 'were all the laterals legal'? 'Yes'. Then the line judge, Gordon Riese, says to me, 'Charlie, the guy scored on that.' And I said, 'What?' I had no idea the guy had scored. Actually when I heard that I was kind of relieved. I thought we really would have had a problem if they hadn't scored, because, by the rules, we could have awarded a touchdown [to Cal] for [Stanford] players coming onto the field. I didn't want to have to make that call. I wasn't nervous at all when I stepped out to make the call; maybe I was too dumb. Gee, it seems like it was yesterday. Anyway, when I stepped out of the crowd, there was dead silence in the place. Then when I raised my arms, I thought I had started World War III. It was like an atomic bomb had gone off.

”

After determining that Cal had scored and no one had ruled any of the laterals illegal, Moffett signaled the touchdown, rendering the illegal participation penalty on Stanford irrelevant and ending the game. The final score was Cal 25, Stanford 20.

Uploaded by 10TVMan to YouTube on May 5, 2008

You know what?  I kind of wish we could just stay in that moment!  Arms in the air, band in the end zone, Cal over Stanford, what could be more right?

Anyway... Go Bears!

I made reference to having discovered a new (to me) poetics.  For some reason, I was very much wanting to be in the Bay Area today -- thoughts of the Big Game (and memories of the Big Play) surely have given that away!  So, of course, I fell into memories of late afternoon poetry readings and hitting the bookstores without any money to buy books, up one San Francisco hill and down another.  I was thinking about Ferlinghetti, making sure he hadn't died (he hasn't) and that City Lights is still going strong (it is), and in the midst of all that clicking, I came upon an ad for something called The CHENI@D by Bill Costley, "poet, playwright, journalist, blogger," that has been published at The New Verse News.

Here, for instance, is Book 1:

CHENEY Qu@driDr@gon 

CHENEY Qu@driDr@gonspits 4 sizzling bullets,
     splitting his unravelling
          reptilian-tongue in 4:
1: pricks Dubya’s 1-track brain,2: sprays the Ov@l Office w/vicious juice,3: invokes the CHENEY, Bush & Rove Trinity4: bewails his VP-apotheosis’ limitationto quadrennial surges of dr@conic-power.
Hidden in a quasi-virtual cavern,a dr@gon-slayer matches those 4-tonguesup/w a Shick Qu@dr@, mantra-ing:
     “Detongue the Qu@driDr@gon…” 
unaware a 5-bladed Gillette Fusion
     will take his tongue as well…

And here, Book CXV, fast become an inexplicable favorite of mine:

CHENEY AU BAR

CHENEY sits in a FL bar

far from where liberals are,

nursing a Shirley Temple dry,

listening to local AM radio

for news of Crist vs Rubio,

smirking at its internecinity.

“Thank God for ex-Cubans”

he murmurs, cheerily; nearby

2 bar-flies stare blankly.

It is, we are told, and I believe it, an "epic in progress."  And somewhere in my readings, I could swear it was passed off as a new poetic, though maybe I made that up. The New Verse News blog site is dedicated to "politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues," not at all something new, but something I have always supported, and so, will lie about, if that helps the cause at all.

That about covers the broad strokes of my goofiness, my alleged goofiness.  Except for the terrible pain, except for tomorrow morning's appointment with the surgeon, except for the hilarious phone stylings of the guy aiming to help me get a new wheelchair.

If you but apply yourself, Dear Reader, I'm sure you can approximate the pain, the surgeon, and that inanity much more efficiently on your own than with my bumbling, mumbling assistance.  Plus, I am very likely to bring it up again.

Tomorrow.

Wednesday Night Suppers

I spent several hot hours this afternoon in a state that seemed simultaneously a part of waking, a part of sleeping, definitely involved in sweating, highly aware of felines, and disgusted by the telephone and its attendant messages.

Having hoofed it to the bathroom upon shaking off all of the above, that was where I screamed a tender "Bye-ay-ay!  Have-ah-ah gooo-oo-d thai-aye-aye-am!" to Fred, who was off to consort with the Militant Lesbian Existential Feminists at their regular Wednesday Night Supper. (I always wonder what Fred actually hears me screaming, since my phrases are sucked up by Marlinspike Hall's intramural echo effects -- It's all those Garderobe Chutes, remember?)

Oh, drat, I didn't quite get that right, did I?  I meant to say: the Militant Lesbian Existential Feminists and The Mousse, she of the indeterminate persuasions.  The Mousse was tagged as The Mousse due to her fondness for the chocolate version of this dessert, the only food [besides a garlic pizza] to ever strike me low with food poisoning.
As it would happen, The Mousse participated in the previously mentioned "several hot hours," horning in on my rest by leaving a long, idiotic, breathless message for Fred, complete with ingratiating references to my various past contributions to these weekly culinary adventures.  In fact, I was planning to get up and cook something fascinating for My Clueless Darling to take... but something, something, something seemed to push me back into my steamy lethargy, lolling about the bed, smushing one incubating hairy feline after another. 

[And when I use "loll," I mean lax, lazy, AND indolent.  Take that, you verbmeisters.]

In an effort to eat cake and ice cream at every possible opportunity, The Mousse strives to celebrate any birthday, inoculation, anniversary, voter registration, first or last drunk, momentous sexual indiscretion, substantial retail discount, and whatever.  It turns out that tonight is Elaine's birthday and Llewellyn-Femme's Fifth Anniversary of Her First Swim With Sharks.  Tiger shark diving season is getting ready to kick off down in the Bahamas, so The Wednesday Supper Gang is also going to lay hands on Llewellyn-Femme -- in a non-Christian (yet inclusive) kind of pseudo-ecumenical militant lesbian existentialist feminist way -- in order to bless and protect her from sharp white teeth and iron jaws during her stints in the cage.

Anyway, so The Mousse opines during her extended whine on my voice mail service that Fred should probably help out by bringing ice cream, which would go nicely with her shark-themed birthday gateau.
I know that everything she says is in code, and when I break it down, I toss and turn and incorporate her ball-breaking bullcrap into a fresh, restless dream.

I was hoping to sort of pull myself back together while Fred is partying down at E-Cong, a vast repast before him on the long folding table, surrounded by women who don't share his spiritual beliefs, and one who wants to jump his bones.

He's not the only guy.  The Church Secretary is a guy.  And sometimes our old friend Sven shows up. 

I am hoping, though, that Sven didn't decide to attend this evening's supper -- because Fred recently decided to take Sven's inventory -- a very rare thing for even-keeled, sweet-hearted Fred.  With a little time, he'll remember that Sven's a friend, even if we've all been pretty weak in the Friend Maintenance category.

It has to do more with Sven's wife, Hazelnut.  She's an honest-to-goodness Minister, having trained in Existentialism at the knobby knees of Rev. R. Lanier Clance, Founder and Minister Emeritus of the First Existentialist Congregation.  Somehow, she learned very little, and over time, has forgotten that.

Anyway, this is not a critique of her sermonizing... but of her vast talent for taking hostages. 

Oh, okay, it's all about her every-sixth Sunday delivery of the same message:  How Christianity Hurted Me (pout::pout::pout).  Her father, damn the man, was a missionary who inflicted the habit of prayer on his children while tending to a lost flock of Native Americans who had the gall to claim pre-existent spirit-oriented lives. 

At some point in her childhood, Hazelnut suffered a severe injury, lost a leg -- She lives in pain.

I think that she has pain as her core.  I think pain is what is going on. 

So Fred is hot under the collar, almost continually, about the feminist inroads being made at E-Cong.  He's at the point where he responds to any challenge by demanding that you ("you" standing in for one Militant Lesbian Existential Feminist) "define your terms." Unfortunately, some internet genius cobbled together a list of 74 different "types" of feminism, a list which Fred declared authoritative and inviolate, and which he promptly committed to memory.

Should you defy authority and, undaunted, offer up a 75th version, Fred will stomp his feet, sputter, and craftily reply: "Yeah?  Well, spell it!"

Sven is blind. 

I am not trying to elicit any particular response by informing you that Sven is blind.  I am simply trying to advance what may appear to be a stalled narrative.  I wish the story could be told without mentioning either Hazelnut's missing leg or Sven's missing eyesight. 

I'd much rather do a commercial for their jazz music -- Sven tickles the ivories, Hazelnut croons;  They're wonderfully good.  Neither is disabled, both are achievers, maybe even overachievers.  That Hazelnut manages to be a full time teacher, pursue her musical ambitions, and serve as a Minister, is downright inspirational.  Sven is equally busy, also holding down a challenging job while serving as the driving force in their jazz career.
I mention their achievements to the Fredster, adding the raising of two fine sons to the list.  I'm hoping that he'll remember that Hazelnut has a right to her opinions, that he really does like and appreciate her, and that Sven is quite capable of critical thought and is no one's captive minion.  

"Yeah?  Well, spell it!"

Fred is so angry at Hazelnut he could just spit.  He tells me that she trashes Christianity, and with glee.  He tells me she is rewriting the history of E-Cong (a large part of which is his own history) and inserting feminism into a perfectly fine stand-alone existential foundation.  The beginnings of this Existential Fellowship were solidly grounded in philosophy and psychology, in personal responsibility, and in caring for one another -- never a simple task.  "No one used the F-word back then!"

I never thought that I would be a sounding board for attacks on feminism, and in my own home, too.  Okay, so, technically, we are just caretakers here, squatters in this vast manor until such time as Captain Haddock and Company resume their  occupancy -- but it feels like home.  I don't think I've ever been so close to an Indentured Domestic Staff before coming to Marlinspike Hall. 

Just the other day, hands on his hips, standing in the middle of the Fragonard Hobby Room, lost in its thinly veiled erotic frills, Fred had something of a hissy fit, and dared to define fair feminism as stuff women do.  So very frustrated with E-Cong and its revisionist historians, he now mistakes gender as the driving force behind feminist thought... an easy mistake to make, but tiresome, too.  The pink tits and ass of Fragonard did not help matters any.  [I'm just sayin'.] 

Yes, yes.  We have waltzed around "what's-wrong-with-calling-it-humanism?" and there's been fervent fomentation of Søren Kierkegaard and philosophical approaches to Christian theologies.  Unfortunately, Hazelnut could be heard, in the background, improvising melody and turning "phallocentrism" and "don't-it-just-beg-the-question-baby?" into pure rhythmic scat.

As a result of  these highminded debates and other equally muddled communications, Fred resigned from the E-Cong Board of Directors, and Sven promptly signed on.  Fred thinks that Hazelnut forced Sven to put himself up for nomination and that his presence signals the beginning of Militant Lesbian Existential Feminism's heyday.

"Yeah, well..."

My patient and compassionate Fred recently decided that Sven would be an Excellent Guy were he just free of Hazelnut.  His reasoning is that Sven doesn't know or have the capacity to navigate this world (being blind from birth and all) and has come to so depend on his wife that he is "clearly" suffering from... Stockholm Syndrome.  That's right, Sven has been held hostage and has come to sympathize with his tormentor, his wife, his partner in song -- Hazelnut the Haggling Hun.

I don't mind listening to most anything Fred has on his mind.  Like everyone, he works things out sometimes by talking things out.  He's very procedural.  He's an incredible writer, very clear, his words pristine in concert with his thought.  His humor will surprise you.  His elegant persuasions sway, his logic is rarely fallacious.

But he isn't budging on this one.  The Fredster fails to progress, his labor stalled. Which would also be fine, even kind of fun to debate, to examine -- but for one unanticipated twist:  Sven needs to be enlightened. That's right, Fred plans to inform his friend that he is being manipulated and hijacked in the worst way.  He plans to soften the blow by reminding Sven that he certainly doesn't deserve this fate, and shouldn't be judged for having subverted his good judgment to Hazelnut's ill-conceived opinions and attitudes.  What with Sven being so handicapped 'n all, no one will judge him harshly for his singular lack of backbone and his inability to agree with Fred over Hazelnut.

I heard a peculiarly soft voice issuing from my gaping maw, and thought:  Uh-oh.  My superior tone was dripping with condescension, equally at ease when among the people as when mingling with my equals.

I was enunciating, in the manner elicited back in my school days by a demonic French prof who would mark cadence by fierce taps on my curly head with a wooden ruler.  Always a bad sign, this patient, sneering enunciation.

Fred promptly made me define my terms.  Feeling kind of antithetical (also nauseated), I proceeded to draw a distinction between being correct and being right.  As in, he may be correct, but I am clearly right.  Miss Marmy Fluffy Butt, my Debate Coach, nodded her approbation.

And so I cling to my rightness.  He has no business saying anything of the sort to Sven.  "Sven, my friend, your whole life is but a regurgitation of your wife's bullshit... It's called the Stockholm Syndrome... It's a psychological paradox and I just thought you oughta know that you haven't had an idea to call your own in over 20 years... But I wanna reiterate that you couldn't help it, you're blind as a freaking bat!"

I don't think Fred heard any of my reasons to shut-the-hell-up-about-the-silly-stockholm-syndrome but I think I saw a flicker of something in his eyes when I said:  "Well, at least promise me that if you say this awful thing to him, that you will stand by him as a friend after it is said.  You have a responsibility to do so..."  It was probably a trick of lighting.

Who would have thought that these Wednesday night "church" suppers had so much at stake?  Jealousies of all sorts, machinations worthy of Machiavelli, insincerity as an art form, suffering bodies, suffering minds, troubled souls. 

I guess I can decide not to give a crap about The Mousse.  Given the Sven, Fred, and Hazelnut Triad, she just doesn't measure up as a worry or concern.  She's a simple annoyance. Just try and jump his bones, you dessert-driven nagging harpy, I don't care.  Whose Manor does he come home to, hmmm?

I'm up in the Computer Turret at the moment (obviously, huh?!) and it looks like Ruby the Honda CRV is coming down the road, throwing up dust and scaring our herd of Square Island Buffalo. Yep, that's her, weaving and dodging those giant hooves.  Unfortunately, La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore pulled up the drawbridge when she came home from rehersals earlier --  he's gonna have to leave Ruby to crank it back down...

What the... ?

Even from here, it's clear that Fred has the mother of all black eyes and two (maybe three) fingers in a splint.  And I am not sure, but I think he is GURGLING.

Bless his heart.

I think I'll just sleep up here tonight.

Vent: Saving the Day

I need to vent.  This may come as a surprise to those of you who, perchance, view my blog as nothing *but* one vent after another!  Feel free to sit there, stewing in your surprise.  Me, I'm gonna vent.

Gentlemen, don't start off your conversational day with a ridiculously naive question about... abortion.  Don't, especially, use a lighthearted tone and a vocabulary more appropriate to a phone poll interviewer. 

And don't state, even in your desperation for an exit strategy, that you didn't mean to "upset" anyone.

Your take on The Female, this morning, my friend, was abysmal.

The next portion of my day was spent trying to decipher a financial assault from Linda of Home Depot fame.  She charged to my beloved credit card a jaw-dropping $5752.93 -- this after Fred authorized her to charge a mere $2441.96. 

Fred was not home, of course, having followed his abortion exit strategy with an actual exit.  He's off meeting with those Militant Lesbian Existential Feminists.  I tried to warn him -- as he called a cool "G'bye, love ya"
-- not to spring his discussion topic on The Girls. 

I sent them an artfully arranged plate of fresh-baked individual Spanish omelettes (tortilla de patatas), darling creations from my tired old muffin tin and from our larder's nearly-gone ingredients.  The last bits of obsessively saved onions, the final odd-sized-and-about-to-bloom potatoes, the remainder of my spicy black beans, some pickled jalapeño I keep forgetting to use.  The dregs from a jar of hot salsa.  Carefully diced and mushed, showing restraint with the cumin, for once, I married it all together with the perfect ratio of egg to milk, and with a wonderful olive oil.  Damned good, damned good. 

I don't like to add cheese but was cajoled and muscled into it, at least limiting it to a quick sprinkle on top at the end of baking -- then nicely browned.

The point of making the individual size was to have portion control over this admittedly wild and crazy, but increasingly chunky, group of Lesbians (+ Fred).  Twelve perfect little tapas.  Still, I had to eat a couple of them for quality assurance.  And Fred, who clearly is not dealing from a full deck today, chowed down prematurely on another three or seven before plating them for The Lesbians.  It could be, also, that Uncle Kitty Big Balls led Dobby and Marmy Fluffy Butt in a Kitchen Raid.  Whatever -- I am not sure what message The Girls are going to discern from a gift of three miniature Spanish omelettes arrayed on a serving platter whose diameter tops 20 inches, easily. 

Maybe Fred will think to tell them it's a tasting menu for some upcoming fundraiser.

focaccia di Recco

Abortions and disappearing tapas, together with vague plans for murdering Linda, put me back in the kitchen.  The only logical response to all this crap was to cook, trying, this time, to preserve the evidence.

I was trying to decide between a focaccia and a galette as the best vehicle for mushrooms and caramelized onion -- with the possibility of some acorn squash, also caramelized.  Time to read recipes, my favorite fictions!

The Percocet and ibuprofen were kicking in.
A late coffee was delicious.
My mood was rising.


Only rarely did my humongous credit card balance gurgle to the surface of my grey matter, burn into my retina. 

At odd moments, too, the precise conditions under which I might deem abortion "amoral" swam around in my mental mush.

The recipes began to drive me crazy.

It's as if the writers were more concerned with documenting their idiosyncracies than encouraging me to whip up a meal according to their design.  I made the mistake, for instance, of looking at a Pampered Chef recipe for "Mushroom Focaccia Bread."   I was naive enough to think the point was the food and the techniques employed to create it.  Ha!

Here's a sample of what the Pampered Chef folks consider cooking guidelines:

Slice mushrooms using Egg Slicer Plus. Chop onion using Food Chopper. Heat Stir-Fry Skillet over high heat; spray lightly with oil using Kitchen Spritzer. Add mushrooms and onions; cook, stirring frequently, 5 to 7 minutes or until golden brown and all liquid is absorbed. Remove from heat; set aside.


In Classic Batter Bowl, combine pizza crust mix, yeast packet and 1 tablespoon of the seasoning mix. Add water and oil; stir until mixture forms a ball. Turn dough out onto well-floured Cutting Board. With floured hands, gently knead dough 8 to 10 times. Lightly sprinkle Rectangle Stone with flour using Flour/Sugar Shaker. Roll out to edges of baking stone using lightly floured Baker's Roller.


In Small Batter Bowl, combine mayonnaise, garlic pressed with Garlic Press and remaining seasoning mix; mix well. Spread mayonnaise mixture evenly over dough using Large Spreader to within 1/2 inch of edge. Using Handy Scraper, make 1/2-inch deep cuts around edge of dough at 1/2-inch intervals, forming a decorative border.


Grate Parmesan cheese using Deluxe Cheese Grater. [Emphasis mine]

I mean, seriously?  What would happen, do you think, if I used my Beat Up Old Carbon-Steel Wok?  Any serious wokker will tell you that The Pampered Chef's Stir-Fry Skillet (oven safe to 400 degrees... chuckle, chuckle), with its "DuPont™ Autograph® 2 nonstick coating inside and out," is an absurdity.  The one thing we can all probably agree on, abortion issues and credit card usury aside?  Stir-frying requires high, high heat.  You want to sear or caramelize?  You do NOT reach out for your nonstick cookware!

Jeez, I only have my Mediocre Multipurpose Grater on hand... and the only available bowl is this old crappy one that I stole from a long ago roommate and, oddly enough, have never felt like naming.

Even after I extracted what was left of my good mood from the clutches of the Pampered Chef recipe, I kept taking hits. 

Even the usually safe Diane Seed sold me out.  Her basic recipe for Focaccia with Cheese is based on the original Focaccia di Manuelina -- Manuelina's having been credited as the creator of focaccia with Recco cheese.  Of course, the number of cookbook authors claiming to have the "original" recipe is legion.  Whatever. 

It's a beautiful recipe, at first glance.  Tepid water, plain flour, salt, olive oil, cheese.  A hot oven.

Add enough tepid water to the flour and salt to make a soft dough.  Knead for a few minutes then leave to rest for an hour, covered by AN INVERTED PUDDING BASIN.  [caps mine!]

I'm all for having Diane tell a story or two, or even, as her website puts it, "weave a spell." Weave away.  Charm me!

But don't freaking put in the freaking recipe, to that point a thing of austere beauty, that I have to rest my dough under a freaking "inverted pudding basin."  What would happen if I left that lovely soft dough rest beneath, say, the pillbox hat, an Oleg Cassini knockoff, that my mother wore to Mass the entire month of March in 1962?  Would my dough fail to revive if recklessly lodged under a very stern, plain (and -- again --nameless) stainless steel bowl?

And why is Diane Seed bleeding an English esthetic all over her Italian cookbook, anyway?  I mean, really.  Of what good is that inverted pudding basin?  Am I steaming my dough?  Am I making dumplings?  Are we having Dim Sum? No, I am not;  We are not!

Inverted.
Pudding.
Basin.
Decorative.
Earthenware.
My. Ass.

It goes on and on, this degradation.

Look -- I know that bakers are peculiar about dough.  I am peculiar about dough.  But in our public venues, in our recipes, we should strive to obliterate what weirdness we can. 

I'm just sayin'. 

Maybe your Weirdness Quotient is under control.  Well, lucky you!

I've always liked Jacques Pépin's attitude.  Without sacrificing crucial technique, he'll say, 'I do it this way.  It's easier and it tastes good.  You can try this, this, or this, too.' It's all about what works.

One of the most entertaining cookbooks I own is Julia and Jacques: Cooking at Home.  (I miss Julia Child.  Whenever I do something *large* in the kitchen, I think of her.)  There are recipes, sure, and important dictates as to technique -- but there is also a fun sense of suggestion and personality.  Julia chirps and throws in a little more butter;  She is the fussy francophile, one of the authors of the iconic Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Jacques fairly purrs and revels in things rustic and simple;  Never mind that he was chef to Charles de Gaulle and other heads of state.  Jacques takes on Julia's butter with frequent counteroffers of garlic.

Ah. Fred is home, bouncy and cheerful.

Clearly, he is trying to force bounciness and cheer upon me.  Harrumph.

Well, at least The Lesbians sent gifts:  Roasted red pepper hummus, bags of pretzels, and Bagel Chips.  Beulah, he tells me, "adored" the Spanish Omelette "Tasting." [I glare at him; He grins.]  Now he is telling me about Sassie's kitten, who chewed on his hair and covered the back of his head with love bites.

"Sounds like a serious Board Meeting," I opine, my glare having fallen flat.

Pulling off his stiff new jeans and sighing as he pulls on his sweats, Fred promises to deal with Linda, Demon Flooring Expert of the Lone Alpe Home Depot... tomorrow.

He's suggesting a gnosh, a movie, maybe a nap. 

Fred is insisting on a day off -- let The Manor run itself, he says.  Abbot Truffatore is at the Monastery this weekend, where he belongs (It's Homecoming!) and though we expect The Captain to drop by any day now to see how the Haddock ancestral manor is faring under our guidance, he is not here now, is he?

Fred always returns to me strangely assertive after a day with The Girls.  That, and this opportunity to vent, is saving the day...

He actually wants to be with me.