Starbucks Effluent

A report from Seattle and the Puget Sound says that the Sound's water is flavored. With vanilla and cinnamon. The report attributes it to "holiday baking." That's a whole lot of cookies.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061227/ap_on_sc/cinnamon_sound

My theory is that the residents of the area are discarding the dregs of their Starbuck's, rather than drinking them. for the love of God, people! Drink UP!

I Love You, You Know

In the morning, I feel the urge to spread the love. My dog is the first person I see. "I love you, wee doggie! Isn't life wonderful?"

The dog replies, "pant pant pant, can I go outside to sniff the frost-covered ground full of smells and intrigue and life?" Like all good dogs, he talks in implied speech, all eyebrows and tail and attitude and italics.

My son is still sleeping. I could rush into his bedroom and wake him with a hug. "I love you! You make my life wonderful!" I will add endearments that are reserved just for him, that make him roll his eyes but secretly I suspect he loves.

Wonder Boy might say, "Mo-ooooom (in that drawn-out, annoyed pre-teen way)." Or he might say, sleepily with a smile, "Thanks, mom." And he's been known to say, "I love you too, Mom."

At the hospital, my father might grumpily ask for water and ice chips, and then fuss at me when I have the wrong straw or the cup is too full. I want to say, "I love you!" but when one is thirsty, the words do little to quench it.

I have a friend who is going through rough times, for whom "I love you" is a slap in the face, a reminder that the threads of his life are unraveling. The words themselves have the effect of a slap, and from his great heart in pain, his first reaction is "Is that all you got?"

We live in a world where love is a verb. Love is something that you do, not say. It's easy to say, even. It's a crutch, it's a substitute for action. Sit on your ass, say "I love you," and then do nothing – that's the recipe for madness, I think. If all the world has is a simpering "I love you" and a vacuous stare, maybe a weak hug, then what good is that.

Bring on the dog leashes, the shovels, the ice chips, the soup pots and the humanitarian aid. Love is a verb, people.

Tastes of Home

I missed a few days of Holidailies, so this is an attempt to catch up a bit. A mixed grill.

Jerky: The only reason for driving like a bat out of hell across West Texas is, well, besides out of the sheer boredom, is to get into Johnson City before 5:30pm, so you can go to the Whittington Jerky store. TA DIE FOR! This time, we cruised in at 5:24 in the rain. I dispatched the boy to walk the dog while I went inside to hurriedly choose my jerky. It was easy this time - no browsing needs. Two pieces each beef, turkey and the new one - pork. Oh, and four pecan pralines, please.

Beer: Usually one of my first beverage orders when I get to Texas is a Shiner Bock. It's available now everywhere, and I don't drink it anywhere else in the world. In fact, my current beer crush is Dos Equis Amber (oscuro). BUT drinking one Shiner Bock is akin to taking the local waters - it is a must to reorient myself to my home turf. But then again, I'm odd that way.

Salad Dressing: When I go to Threadgill's, I order a salad with jalapeño mustard dressing. I don't even like lettuce anymore (give me spinach, please!), but I will eat this salad. There's something about the mixed lettuce, the tangy dressing and the saltines that just screams home to me.

Black Beans: In the rest of the southwest, black beans are cuban. But here in Austin, for some reason, you can get black beans, whole or refried, with your plate of Tex-Mex. I should do more extensive research on this, but one of my fave things is a black bean tostada (chalupa) with Monterray Jack cheese, guacamole and fresh pico de gallo. Oy. Delish.

Suiza sauce: I guess that means "swiss" and I'm not sure if it's swiss cheese (probably not). But enchiladas suizas are local and divine. the suiza sauce at Trudy's is tangy and cheesy and creamy... just perfect with chicken. When the verde sauce is too much, and a sour cream sauce is too rich, the suiza sauce hits right in the middle. And I really haven't seen that in New Mexico or Arizona.

Salad Dressing Two: I have blogged about this before, but it's worth mentioning again. Sisters Sass Dressing, esp. sesame garlic, is worth buying a cooler, packing four or six bottles in ice and transporting it across state lines. That's what I used to do with a case of Shiner Bock, and now it's salad dressing. Hey, it's the 21st. C.

Potato Leek Soup

I just dove right in to making this soup. No cookbooks, no recipes, just the basic idea of what soup should be, how it should taste and how to use the ingredients I had on hand, procured at my favorite market in the world, Central Market in Central Park, Austin, Texas.

In the past, I've started with chicken broth, and I did have some canned but I just didn't use it this time. It was easier to use the boiling water for the taters.

I also had some modifications to my usual routine, given that I was not in my own kitchen. I'm using my parents' kitchen, which was very familiar to me from 1970 to 1987, when I used to cook here from once a day to once a month (after I got my own place). And in high school, as a home ec project, I "organized" the kitchen into zones, centers, triangles and some other thing that was in the textbook. So I used to know where everything was. But no more. Too many cooks spoil the kitchen organization.

So, I started by sweating the chopped leeks in olive oil and butter, along with three cloves of crushed garlic. Pinch of kosher salt too. The water for the taters was on but didn't boil for a very long time (the space age gizmo on the stove doesn't trigger properly with certain pots), so I ended up turning off the leeks in the soup pot while the potatoes cooked in another - the pasta pot.

The taters sorta overcooked, just a bit, but since I was mashing/pureeing the soup anyway, it didn't matter much. That's the good thing about potato soup. I used Yukon Gold taters because I'd never had them before, but they were not that different from Russett, and I know that is culinary blasphemy. Perhaps when you boil, there isn't much difference?

Anyway, I drained off half to two-thirds of the boiling liquid but retained the rest, added the leeks and brought the whole thing to a boil again. Mash in the pot, puree with stick blender or in the blender, then add ½ c. milk. Adjust the seasoning (kosher salt, white pepper, fresh thyme), and it is ready.

I served this with good Italian bread and butter, in deep bowls with thick soup spoons. Hearty, filling and fragrant. It freezes well for a rainy day or a bad cold.

Traditions

When my dad had his stroke in 1994, I drove all the way from Arizona again, to rush to his side. By the time I got to him, he was sitting up in bed. Still a bit confused by the events, I had the newspaper to read to him. He grabbed it from me and devoured it. The next day, I made him some "thick soup" as per doctor's orders (no solids, no thin liquids for post-stroke patients) i.e., chicken broth with potato and noodles all pureed. I was thinking I would spoon it into his mouth. He grabbed the jar and started drinking it.

This week, 12 years later, I brought him potato soup and some pineapple. He wanted the pineapple but requested that I feed him. He's just so weak. After ten or so chunks, he cut me off. He also scarfed down several Hershey's kisses, unwrapping them himself. Not too weak for that. No desire for TV or news. No need, perhaps.

The man is incredible. I admire him so much. He told me (in his idiot savant aphasic speech, where he reaches for similar words and they are often related, but it's like Password and you have to figure out the connection in order to get the gist of the sentence), "why all the prime show?" (Translation: why the big fuss over me?) Um, because we all thought you could get better, and you wanted to get better, so… the fuss. He seemed to accept it. "Oh."

The heart of a lion and a will of iron, in a body made feeble by time and tide. I saw a resemblance in his skin, his swallowing and his breathing to that of my mother in her last year. He is an Old One now with that unmistakeable smell, the frail gestures and the age spots and thin skin. I've seen it before on many many Old Ones, but I never thought of my dad as one of them. And perhaps he wasn't one until this illness, or maybe I have been fooling myself for the past three years.

He's always been my hero, with strong back, features and speech. A champion, a warrior, a commander. When I saw with fresh eyes, that he is an Old One, the compassion welled up in me. It was okay that I needed to brush his hair, wipe his mouth. It was okay that the papery skin of his hands covers the bruising and marks of the multiple IVs and equipment from ICU. The old man in the bed is what my lionhearted father has become, but I can still almost tangibly see the vital dad that used to be. The one who taught me to sail, to sharpen a knife, to make a martini, to splice an electric cord. This is the man who taught me to build a fire, to smoke a ham, to change the oil. I've been watching his hands, listening to his voice and learning from him forever, it seems.

And now he's teaching me how to let go of him. But also how to love him all over again as one of the Old Ones who won't be around but still is, laughing at the jokes, giggling over the amusements of grandchildren.

And with a gasp, I realize that we, me and my child, are learning how to treat me when I, inevitably, become an Old One. The lesson leaves me raw for a bit, a feeling that goes away only after savoring a good rioja and a bit of sheep feta on some good Italian bread. And quiet. Eyesight will dim, hearing will diminish, my skin will sag and then become papery thin. But my child will still look at me and see not just the Old One, but all the moments and hours and days that we spend together.

Yes. There's time to make some memories today. Time to lose a little sleep and do what Santa requires. I have time still, lots of time.

That's Life (Christmas Eve 2006)

Sitting here at the dining room table with a glass of tempranillo, potato leek soup, crab cakes and good bread with good butter. Keith Urban on the box, child off doing something non-electronic as per instructions, having just flipped all the playing cards all over the table in his attempts to learn how to shuffle. We play a lot of rummy at Grandpa's.

The table is covered with:

Aforementioned wine and food

Bionicles

CDs, about 50

DVDs, about 10

A therapy ball

Keys

A Tic-Tac dispenser with one left (cinnamon)

A plastic bag of Sharpees, assorted colors

Two xmas videos for consideration

An open box of reduced fat Triscuits, with a crappy recipe by Rachael Ray (tuna and white bean salad, canned beans and tuna – blech) on the back of the box

A note pad

A receipt for a hairbrush, glasses case

Some wrappers from Hershey's Kisses, long since eaten

I am not going out again tonight. It's after 6:30 pm and while I don't have ANY chocolate, I think I'll survive on the many wonderful tasty things we brought with us and that we bought today at Central Market. I have had chocolate today, and I think I'm good. In a pinch, there's always Bailey's.

During the brief conversation over dinner (soup and crab cakes for me, Hebrew National dogs and ketchup for Wonder Boy), it was pondered whether or not Bionicles have penises. I'll have to Google it since Wonder Boy declines to answer.

My father is rallying. He's weak, he's frail and he's delicate. But he has a strong will to live and I think that surprises him. He understands the gravity of his situation two weeks ago, as I explained it to him. He asked questions, and I answered as best as I could.

In a few minutes, we will log off the various electronic distractors, decorate our tree, make something ultra-sweet and baked, watch a video, a movie or fight over what we will watch on digital cable, read from our book and tuck in for the night (oh, and someone will have a little bit of elf work to do)…. And tomorrow we'll get to see the Old Man again.

I am so blessed. To have made it to Austin in bad weather, to have the abundance of this messy kitchen table, to stroll through Central Market joyfully, to visit my dad in the rehab hospital and be greeted with "Hello, Dr. Cox!" (He's proud of the Ph.D.)

That's life. Messy kitchen tables, frail old folks safely somewhere warm, kids keyed up on Christmas Eve, moms and dads biding their time innocently until bedtime, Hershey's kisses and do Bionicles have penises. That's life, and I'm so blessed.

On the Road

Argh. The drive from Arizona to Texas is no fun anymore. I quit. There's just way too much of West Texas, people. Too many road-killed deer, too many large trucks, and too many California plated cars that are going 90.

this time there was lots of rain, snow flurries, probably ice after the night fell, and way way too many McDonald's and not enough cool little coffee joints or Chinese take-outs. Heh.

I'm back to care for my dad and wrestle some kind of Christmas holiday out of these dark days of hospital mishaps and clueless nursing care. I'm going to kick some butt and take some names tomorrow. I don't care if it's Christmas... there is only ONE PATIENT in that hospital as far as I'm concerned.

Boring post, but I'm trying to beef up my Holidailies count. :-/

Simple Greens

A food post, for once.

I love greens. I really do. This is something that is new. Since I was about 35, I have adored greens. Having been raised by a southerner who boiled greens until they were almost black, completely without any leafy texture and smothered in bacon, I was violently opposed to greens. It took me a long time to enjoy cabbage that wasn't in cole slaw.

A friend turned me on to mesclun, kale, spinach and other wonders, and I'm now hooked.She made steamed kale on a campout which is a pretty odd thing to cook in camp, but thank goddess she did.

(I feel sure I have blogged about this before, so I won't go into elaborate recipe writing.)

Favorite way to make greens is steamed with some balsamic vinegar and/or olive oil and salt.

Favorite greens: spinach, close second is the three green mix from Trader Joe's (collard, turnip and chard). Kale I like but in moderation. Spinach is quick to steam, kale takes the longest. Leave or take the bacon, but as a flavoring only. Also good with corn bread for soaking up the liquid that comes off any steamed green. Add a glass of buttermilk, and you've got a happy southern girl.

I can always tell when I have had some greens though it takes a day or so for the signs. And I will stop right there, so as not to be indelicate and completely un-southern. ;-)

Longest Night

Whether you reckon tonight or tomorrow night as the longest, I have certain habits (they are too loose to call traditions) for this night.

I like to engage myself in thoughts and activities that reach across this cusp of time, azimuth and photoperiodism, thoughts that beckon to the year to come. This is my own private new year's eve. I want to spend the darkest longest night with those people, things and behaviors that sustain me, warm me, hold me close and fill me up. Fill the coming year with strength, love, hope, courage and all good things (esp. solvency, great sex and more books - hey, if I'm wishing, best do it right.)

Lighting several dozen candles, even a tea light or votive. Reading aloud from an adventure book to the lad. Drinking a glass of wine or spirits (try warming up the Bailey's - ooooo!). Pulling my woolen shawl close around my body, pink from a hot bath and clad so cozily in my cold weather yoga clothes. Listening to the muse passing through Josh Groban or Bette Midler or Loreena McKennitt. (Or The Boss. :-)

As I stare at the flames (and the blue screen light), I am sending my warmest thoughts to loved ones out there in the world, not with me tonight. One with a heavy heart disconnected from the reason(s) to live; one with a determined will to rise above physical challenges; one looking for the courage to face the past, make peace and make changes; one confronting the demons that eat him up inside, literally. And one dear one facing surgery and the inevitable creeping fears despite the warm circle of love around her.

On such a night, I have even a little bit left in my cup of charity for the one who has wounded me and attempts to continue. Poor sod, his power will wane just as does this night. It is time for us Northern Hemispherians to turn again toward the light on this Longest Night.

As Josh croons, and as my son slips into cozy polyfill and lucky blanket sleep, I am content to wait for the dawn, knowing that the opportunity comes again each and every morning to find my way, to heal my heart, to look again at the sky and breathe deeply.

Blessed be on this Solstice night.

Time Has Come Today

My son has needs that go way beyond wish lists, Legos and chocolates from the advent calendar. But he has those needs too. We have our traditions and we have our challenges. This year, I hope to make new memories and wipe away some bad ones.

But I've gotten a very late start. Certainly, as soon as I had planned to be all caught up and daily in my Holidailies posting, catastrophe happened (see previous seven posts), and either I was without reliable connection or I was floored by the swirl of life around me. And here I am struggling to make the grade (my goal of 30 entries), but still be true to the kind of blog entries I want to make and look back on.

Holidailies aside, I have also gotten a late start with baking, decorating, cards and package sending. I have the three packages I am supposed to send, right here, ready to go out tomorrow. I hope they arrive by Saturday. I have the recipe for gingerfolk which I need to make for Tuesday. And I have the boxes of brownie mix for my dad(well, the right kind of mix is a tradition!) and magic bars for the office party. And decorating... hmmm. The red and green box is still in the garage.

In fact, I still need to do three more loads of laundry to be caught up from the lightning quick visit to Austin. Where does all the time come from, and where does all the time go?

No, what I did today instead of laundry, decorating, cards or baking... I read aloud to my son. I recently read that reading anything out loud (even the billboards on the way to work) exercises parts of the brain and gets them all talking to one another. And being read to also stimulates some part of the brain... but mostly I think it provides the kind of entertainment that goes directly into the hard drive, to the long-term memory, to the core of one's soul, to the fabric of one's character.

It may not be a habit, what with all the chores and the single mother tiredness and the competition for his and my attention (hmmm, hello blog! hi Nintendo!), but it is something that we will do every night until my son is 20 (or he can't stand it anymore). After one day and 48+ pages, it might be a habit already.

I will read aloud (and might ask him to read to me some nights) every day, for even five minutes, preferably 30. If I were the new year's resolvin' kind of gal, that would be it. Reading aloud feeds the soul, the heart and the mind.

What are we reading? Why, a little elfen story about Santa Claus, of course. Kringle (We're all the way to Part II.)

The Heart of a Lion

The gift that does not disappoint.... my father's lion heart.

Tom Brokaw called these people The Greatest Generation. Indeed. But you have no idea until you see it for yourself.

On Dec. 6, my dad was presented at ER with oxygen sats in the 70s, shortness of breath, and wonky heart rhythms (more so than usual). His children were called, we made a quick decision to intubate him to "just see" what was going on, but all of us were preparing, via rapid-fire cross-country cell phone calls, to rush to his bedside to say goodbye. An 85 yr old man, a stroke patient for 12 years, congestive heart failure, a host of Rx drugs to maintain him. He is a widower, his wife having left in 2003. He lives independently, with the help of caregivers who come in and fix him food, clean his house, make sure his glasses, bills and Rxs are current. His children live all over the country, but he maintains his home because he's always said, "THIS is the nursing home." He and my mother worked hard to make it financially possible.

My father loves Cole Porter, Beethoven, Mozart, Dwight Yoakum, Gipsy Kings and Josh Groban, Errol Garner, Marlene Dietrich, Jacques Brel. He plays the keyboard which is next to his table, he does the crossword (in ink), he mows the neighbor's lawn on his riding mower, he enjoys a glass of iced tea in the afternoon and a bowl of almond crunch cereal in the morning. He loves flannel shirts in winter and Hawaiian shirts in summer.

He fought in the Pacific theater in WWII, somewhere else in the Cold War (not supposed to say, but eastern Europe was involved and there was no "fighting"), on the homefront and TDY for the Korean War, and at home, TDY and in Thailand for the Viet Nam War.

He taught me how to shoot, drink, dance and rope (I taught myself to ride) - making me the perfect cowboy. He helped me with my astronomy homework in college, and he taught me how to memorize poems among many other lessons.

Over the years, he has given me several watches for Christmas (always Seiko), a bedspread that I still cherish (it's threadbare now), books, money, cashmere sweaters, wool socks, down jackets.

My father has given me backbone, heart and humor.

And last week, he gave me further lessons in courage, honor and strength. On a ventilator, through sedation, he wagged his eyebrows, he squeezed my hand, he permitted many forehead kisses. He listened to our advice for getting off the vent, and he gritted his teeth and did everything he had to do. He exercised the muscles he could, he indicated his strong will to live and he made jokes. He unquestioningly fought another war. And he's winning.

On Dec. 13, he sat in a chair and breathed on his own for hours, showing the doctors that he could. While they shook their heads and said things like "well, he *is* 85..." my dad quietly and with dignity gave Death the boot for a little while longer. His will encouraged the doctors to dig a little deeper and try a few things.

He is alive still, moving through the steps required to get back home to his chair, his TV, his puzzles and his in(ter)dependent life.

And that is all the gift I need from him this year.

In the waiting room I wait with the waiting waiters

Actually I'm all alone in this waiting. Except you and me, blog.

Empty chairs, uncomfortable chairs, old magazines. Is every waiting room in the world like this? not all of them have windows. Windows out to a hallway. A clear view of the public bathrooms. Lots of hospital workers traipsing back and forth. The squeaky doors leading into ICU. They are locked during non-visitor hours. You have to have a key pass to enter.

I wonder why they don't have any couches? Too many desperate souls camping out?

I went to Lone Star Kolaches this morning and bought two dozen. One for the morning shift, one for the evening shift (this evening). And a fresh from the oven sausage kolache for me, and some of the best coffee I've had out of a non-Starbucks cup in months. It has that nice nutty warm acidic roll on the tongue, it's fragrant and strong without being bitter and it's warm in a papery foamy cup NOT the ones with little condoms on them. Just a basic Dixie cup.

I have to get back home and then figure out how in the hell I'm going to get back here again so soon. I'm told this is a common problem. But I'm nearing the bottom of my suitcase, and just laundering those clothes is not going to renew my spirit. This is one time that doing laundry will not save me.

Oh bloody hell, I did NOT even start thinking about Christmas until this morning. How in the crud am I going to pull this off?

It's Saturday, Dad

I had a really odd conversation with my dad today... involving a letter board that I drew on a
piece of paper. By pointing at letters, he asked what day it was and how he got to the hospital. "Who sent me?" I related the story of how he got there, from Monday to Saturday the present moment. And then he drew a compass rose in the air, and wanted to know what direction the window was facing. The sun has not shone through the clouds since his arrival at ICU
(gimme an I, gimme a C, gimme a U, gimme a f'ing ICU, RAH! our team is #1, go fight win!)

We discussed Celestial North and decided that the window face southeast, just the same view as my son's birth day in the same hospital, when I was pushing out Wonder Boy in a floor above ICU, but still the same orientation to the universe. I hope to goddess that he sees another window, another view of the blue sky, the moon, the sun, the stars before The Old Navigator leaves permanently to go check the weather. (Years ago, that was the joke. Old navigators never die, they just go check the weather.)

I was wearing his coat. When he opened his eyes to greet me (that needs quotes - "greet" me), they flew
immediately to his coat and a furrowed brow... "you've got MY coat on." I said, "well, I'm cold and I don't
have a proper coat, so I'm going to buy one when weleave here today..." I trailed off, but his brow was smiling at me.

Later, I showed him my new powder blue ski jacket. And tomorrow, I'll show him my new longer black "professional" coat. With the button-in wool lining. He always did take an interest in whatever outerwear I wore. It's a dad thing.

The Day John Lennon Died

Twenty-six years ago, John Lennon was cut down, shot dead in front of his house.

I remember where I was. I was in bed, alone, my boyfriend gone on a biz trip to Dallas. And he woke me from a sound sleep about 3am. I'd gone to bed hearing the horrible news of John's death at the hands of that asshat, weeping and sobbing a little. And so the man calls me from the drunk tank of the Dallas Co. jail. Apparently he had fallen asleep at the hotel parking garage, leaning over to put his validated ticket into the slot. Fell. Asleep. Passed Out Drunk. (It sounds like a Ron White routine.) With his arm out the window of the company car, reaching to put his ticket into the thing that raised the arm so he could get into the garage.

So he called to tell me to call someone else in the morning (I have a long established policy that I don't bail out boyfriends except in extreme cases.). And I broke the news. And when he hung up, apparently, he turned around and broke the news to the gentlemen who were enjoying sleeping it off with the County that night. Some 25 drunks heard about John's death from another drunk who called his girlfriend.

Now, that's word of mouth, and that's my story.

The Day That Will Live In Infamy

A small candle lit to remember Pearl Harbor Day. My dad was already in officer training (or had he graduated?) having gone into the Army Air Corps when it looked like Hitler was serious. And the entire window of The Aspic and Spooon here is ablaze with candles for my dad who is on wait-and-see status in ICU but marginally improving.

The Spooon is two years old. Happy happy birthday, baby. For me, this blog has been a warm and cozy place to just blather about food mostly, but my life, my thoughts and a few photos. I never know if I'm going to stop, and I really should do a back-up or maybe collect my fave entries into some kind of proto-book of essays. But that would be work. For me, The Aspic & Spooon has been a lark, a nice bit of pub chat after a hard day, a place to gather all my wool, as my mother would say.

I am flying to Texas as I write this (posted 5 hours later), to see to my ailing father who is in the hospital on a ventilator because of pneumonia. It's particularly bad in many ways, and there is no telling what tonight or tomorrow will bring. But I'm headed to his side, with my darling Wonder Boy by my side.

Behind me are a number of angels and friends who got me on the plane, and around me are my better angels – my virtual family of online peeps (shout out to The Table and to fans of Love of Laundry! Thanks for all the good wishes and thoughts in our direction); and my Mothers, those ancestors who really are around all the time. (My own mother is quick to remind me that there are men there too. But they mostly smoke over in the corner, smirking and laughing and enjoying their company.)

Peekamoose (not his real name – like I needed to tell you that) has been a blessing all the way around. His medical knowledge is very helpful, and his big heart, wisdom and care have afforded me a perspective that I needed before embarking on this journey.

Rachelle is the ever reliable, always hearty and hardy friend who has a key to my house, permanently, it would seem. She is the gerbil's angel at this point, but also mine and Wonder Boy's.

Athena (not her real name, but it's Greek get it??? She's greek) drank a small glass de bon vin rouge, helped me think through my lists and gave me a wake-up call (not knowing that I have a bladder set on permanent 5:30am wake-up – perhaps TMI). She did some other stuff but it's far too personal to mention and I promised I'd keep it a secret (or be sued). (HINT: It involved wool. shhhhhhh) She was mostly there to make sure I had eaten, that I didn't go to bed in my clothes and that I remembered to pack.

Joann at the boarding kennel is Mr. Peep's the Wonder Dog's angel; Steve the Texan cabbie turned around and went back for my left-behind purse (not all that unlike the Left Behind children!! :::strokes beard:::); Jan the Texan ticket agent who saved mah bacon and the pilots of this aircraft who were nice to Wonder Boy and invited him to fly the plane after they gave him a look at the cockpit. (Yes, Betty, Beanmom, Mynx, Peekamoose and you smutty Greek chorus behind me, a small part of me just wanted to blog the word 'cockpit.')

There are people on this plane who were nice to us in the airport too – just fellow travelers who spoke a kind word when it would be easier to push past us, grumpy to get on the plane. One pretty lady even grinned and said, "what is UP with people today?"

Though I feel alone most of the time, it's simply not true as there are people all around me all the time. And when pressed to rely on them, it is amazing to learn that they come through. I'll be damned: people might just come through for you, if you allow them.

If I get nothing else out of this experience, that nugget is worth all the chocolate, frankincense, CDs, Tickle Me Elmos, cranberry sauce, gold, roast beast and brandy that Christmas has to offer.

(What is myrrh anyway? Pomade? Vegemite? Hallucinogens?)

The World Went Upside Down Today

IMG_0372.JPG
Originally uploaded by mrswonderful.

My father is gravely ill in Austin. He's in ICU with aspiration pneumonia. He's on a vent. The (cowboy) ER doc didn't give him good chances, but we elected to intubate him and buy some time. We are making plans to go there ASAP.

And all I really want right now is a good friend to come make me a cup of coffee and sit at my table with me.

This photo is from the last time I visited him. The last time I talked to him is when I told him I'd been promoted to Managing Editor. Unless you count me telling the ER doc to tell my dad I love him.

Fast and Furious

What fun! I just put a Nice Family Meal on the table and made the house presentable IN ONE HOUR! Well, the bathroom was clean, the floor picked up, the laundry tamed in hampers, the beds made and the trash carried out in an hour, and then 15 minutes or so of making dinner. But there was a table cloth, candles, nice plates, napkins and glassware.

And a dinner guest ta die for, I'm tellin' yew!

We had chicken and portobello ravioli in a homestyle marinara sauce, all made from scratch at the italian deli, and lovingly warmed up/cooked in my kitchen. Ciabatta, olive oil and garlic with fresh mozz and olives. Sangiovese, candles and good conversation chock full of connection, humor, wisdom and caring.

It was yummy - for the eyes, for the heart, for the tum. And I am spiking the hypothetical ball in the endzone - SCORE one for the single working mom (despite the Mrs. part of Mrs. Wonderful, I am single.)

And now, the lad is headed to bed, the dishwasher splurshes and the novel about Amsterdam in the 1600s beckons.

Holiday Accomplishments

I need to feel progress so here's a list.

1. I have spent all but $100 in cash on xmas this year, and I'm done except for the travel and the CHOCOLATE.
2. I have stuck to my list for WB.
3. I allowed big ticket items onto the list because last year we had a lot of coating and no chunky chewy center.
4. We are expanding our generosity and it just feels normal.
5. I'm not stressing about anything gift-wise. Heh.
6. I can mail pkgs. from work. HUZZAH! NO POST OFFICE!
7. I have put away a couple of pretties for me to wrap so I can ooh and aah on xmas day.
8. I'm pretty much done with shopping, except for some online stuff.
9. I squelched an urge to run away to Australia.
10. I decided to splurge on tickets to a place with very very large potentially dangerous animals that perform for humans, sometimes injuring their trainers.
11. I am actually looking forward to seeing my family.
12. I already know I'll be dizzy from looking at the pretty spinny lights at Zilker Park on Christmas night around sundown. We will remember to have cash for cotton candy and light-up thingeys. We will have eaten a nice dinner already and will not be at Jack-in-the-Box with the cops and hospital shift workers on bloody Christmas night.

Sushi Cafe of the Damned

Unfortunately, I think Wonder Boy and I are going to start a blog, or column, or something called "Wretched Restaurant Review." Not intentionally, mind you. We seem to be doomed to choosing mediocre and wretched restaurants. Or we go into innocent places and get a wretched experience.

The latest is today's sushi quest. Rule of Thumb: NEVER crave sushi on a Sunday in a "medium-sized city" aka podunk. Despite its tout to have reached 1,000,000 in population, Tucson is the biggest small town you've ever seen. It is a college town, a snowbird town, a tourist town and a western town all in one, with many of the people here playing dual and triple roles.

How does this apply to restaurants? We have a number of sushi restaurants. With proximity to California's sushi empire with its culinary training and fresh fish, we actually get quite a lot of trained sushi chefs, so the actual sushi isn't bad. However, the service is the usual laconic shuffling or understaffed bustle of a small town restaurant.

And the sushi culture is pretty cheesy, if you ask me. When did "Tucson Roll" get invented? surely its jalapeno center is the happy and marketable mix for patrons who like comida chino as well as their beloved jalapeños. (Man, there's a lot to say about cheesy sushi culture - sushi being invented largely for the American market, the pictures of sushi, the little scraps of paper we write on, the sitting at the sushi bar... mental note for further study).

Enough of the blathering. Today, we combed the yellow pages to find a sushi place open for lunch on Sunday. Not many of them. One place, that boasts "healthy" Japanese food (does that mean all cooked? or not greasy? wha? what it means I find is snobbery, plain and simple - *our* restaurant knows better) is open for lunch. However, they are far from new customer-friendly. We were "greeted" by a bewildering number of signs, menus, college student workers, words, noise and a sofa that was "too bouncy" according to Wonder Boy.

A guy at the cash register was shouting an order back to a line cook (this place used to be Carrow's - remember them?). The sit-at counter had been turned into the self-serve ice cream, salad dressing, condiment, soft drink, ice tea and utensil counter. Again, bewildering number of choices and unclear on how to proceed.

Wonder Boy's standard order is "miso without the onions" and "nori rice rolls." I said for the second time to the sushi jerk (what? that's the proper term for help, no? or should it be "sushista" except he didn't actually touch or make the sushi...), "this is our first time." His droopy Sunday-at-noon eyes glazed over slightly more as two more brain cells fired up and he said, "oh, then maybe you want to look at that...?"

That was the glass case with the PLASTIC faux food on display. Ah HA! you can actually see what you're getting, albeit faded in the UV light and minute particles of dust gathering. A stack of bound menus (with pictures) was next to the case on its own little throne.

We retreated with menu and chagrin to the bouncy sofa to study before we ordered.

I decided to get the #14 sushi bento box (or something, I've forgotten what I was going to order, and you'll see why in a sec), and so we march up, again to Droopy.

"Hey, first of all, I'd like to get nori and rice rolls, just rice and seaweed, for him... " I trailed off as Droopy's posture lost an inch, jaw dropping, chin jutting slightly forward.

"Oh. Um, wow. Well, we... don't... actually... make sushi like that ON THIS SIDE..." (uh oh, was I at the Sushi Cafe of the Damned, ready to deal with sushi patrons who had tried one too many fugu??) "... we have a sushi bar, like, in there." Droopy gestured to the black curtain in the corner. OHHHHHH!

"Alright, we'll go there."

We went there. For about 20 seconds. A full-figured college gal, beautifully made up and dressed in starched black haute cuisine uniform complete with apron, raised her pencilled eyebrows as we approached. We said, "Hi. Two, please."

She said, with that little head tremor that says "I canNOT believe these PEOPLE," "Are you ordering sushi TO GO?" Perhaps I should have gone with the brainwashing and said yes. But clueless Mrs. Wonderful that I am, I said, "No, we're eating here."

She said, as she was sizing up my nearly 4'10" half-grown well-behaved son, "We have a VERY strict NO CHILDREN policy." Without missing a beat, I retorted, "Ah well then. WE have a VERY strict NO YOU policy."

(And THANKS, Droopy, for the heads-up that you wouldn't accomodate an easy request for a kid, and then sending us to Dragon Lady's lair where children should be neither seen nor heard).

We turned and left. In the parking lot, Wonder Boy said a few choice words (the worst of which was 'THAT SUCKS'), and then nearly dissolved in tears, hiding his face in my tummy for a little bit. Both the hunger and humiliation sorta cancelled each other out, and we found another restaurant after a short drive to let our hunger take over again.

Where we had a milder but still wretched experience. But that's a tale for another day.

We boycott YOSHIMATSU HEALTHY JAPANESE CUISINE on N. Campbell, Tucson, Arizona.

Turkey

While Coldplay's X&Y wafts around The Spooon this morning (with a background of Jimmy Neutron), I am looking at a mountain of turkey pickins and the turkey stock I made from the carcass.

To review, here's how turkey gets eaten around here:
1. Make carved turkey (seasoned with garlic, Old Bay, apple, celery and onion) and all the trimmings (sweet taters, roasted root veg, green peas, wasabi mayo, olives, countless nibbles of other stuff) and eat with or without family.
2. Pick over turkey carcass for rest of day and into the next.
3. Reheat leftover veggies, eat.
4. Eat turkey bits over the sink with salt.
5. Put turkey carcass in fridge for 1-5 days.
6. Cover turkey carcass with water (including onion, celery and apple that was in cavity), and bring to a boil then simmer for 3-10 hours.
7. Separate bits from stock (I use the strainer that fits into my stock pot).
8. Go through bits (cooled) to remove bones and non-meat items. Watch for teeny bones.
9. Chill stock and remove fat.
10. Use stock and bits to make turkey and rice soup.
11. Use carved and picked off bits to make turkey pesto salad, or add to pesto pasta.
12. Eat carved bits over sink again, with salt.
(This can go on as long as there is turkey, soup and/or not much else to eat.)

I have to say that I love making turkey stock. I think the quantity of bones (and the larger size as compared to chickens) makes for a more satisfying experience in stock-making. And probably because I just don't usually buy a whole chicken.

First Day

This post will be mostly procedural, and I'd hoped for better. So maybe I'll end with a joke or a curseword or a revealing story. Not much food talk here, though.

Every since Blogger got sucked up by Google, I have had trouble with my "identity" but only according to Blogger. I have conflicting log-in IDs. *gasp*

Holidailies is ON. Which is good because it seems this year that all traditions are going by the wayside, and this hoary old tradition of scribbling my brains out online is the last... which is BS because I still have tons of tradition. And I'll change my little icon thingey soon.

This year, I feel like doing xmasy things, actually. Driving around looking at lights, cards, making gifts, baking cookies. I even had the idea to put up the tree last night (heh, just an idea since nothing got done last night). I have a box of gifties in the living room that I need to finish up and send to my brother. And another for the private gift exchange I do every year with friends. I'm sorry that the Secret Santa went belly up. I was sorta looking forward to getting a prezzie from a totally anonymous person.

I just finished NaNo and I WON! Go me! 50,559 words and some of it worth reading. Wow. The sad thing is that all the excerpts are down now, and I didn't get to read any of them. Wah. I formatted the part that's worth reading, printed it out and now will let it all sit for a week while I catch up on putting away laundry, finding the top of my desk, etc.

It's the end. No time for a joke. How about a curseword: BOLLOCKS. Thanks. Try the veal, don't forget to tip your waiters.