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Jumping for Joy

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Twice recently I found myself literally jumping up and down delirious with some sort of emotion I’m not sure I could identify. The last time I felt it, I was around 16 years old playing in the mud with my buddy Princehoss. That girl knew, and still knows, how to play. Holy crap! That’s what I was doing. I was playing! Well, I love to play and I am going to do it more often.

In the first case of joy jumping, I was actually jumping. I got an invite to double dutch from Tamale. She and her chick rocker friends, literally chick rocker friends as they were all female and played drums or guitar, have a dutch gang and they let this old lady hang with them. We tried variants on rope swinging and running in and out of the ropes and best of all I had to jump a six-foot chain link fence to get to the slab. Of course I was bone sore later and it didn’t help that I ripped my ass muscle to disability, but it was so worth it.

The following weekend Anna came over and taught me how to make my wannabe petite diced tomato cans into flowers with tin snips and spray paint. Jesse nailed them to our backyard fence for color in this drab desert town. I took pix of the whole experience – from flesh slicing snipping to spray paint tagging to gloating fence nailing. Maybe I’ll share with you the secrets of my creative, artistic mentor in a future pictorial, but for now all you need to know is that seeing the final product made me squeak and jump. I can only imagine what Anna thought, but she still talks to me so I couldn’t have totally blown my cool. The above flower my kids call the sun star flower.

Joy.

Salsa Sabrosa de Alex

Alex occasionally blogs about her adventures in cooking. Her mad kitchen skills are one of the many reasons you could find her annoying. Another would be that she’s a adored among the kids at school who think she’s soooo beautiful. I would avoid her, but she’s ridiculously nice (and cool, and funny, and shares her recipes). Besides, the kids are right. She’s an attractive woman with three cutie pie boys to prove it’s genetics and not simply superficial style.

The specialty in the Alex home is Mexican food and so accordingly she cooks great meals for her familia. She’s posted posole, chicken tacos with each tortilla hand fried, and bean tostadas. Each of these served up with a side of salsa. I don’t pretend with myself. I can’t manage that – not even with all the love, adoration, and dedication I have to and for my family. Did I mention that my ancestral women folk worked? It’s a lame excuse since those women managed to work AND cook, but it’s all I got.

Ignoring my rationalizations and knowing I can’t cook, I decided to attempt Alex’s salsa. It was hard work. I slaved in the kitchen. And like my cookies, there was deviation from perfection. Fortunately, this is one of those informal recipes you get from gramma and friendly types. Precise measurements and enumerated directions are for Betty Crocker. And without further ado:


(Alex’s salsa photo)

1 28 oz. can petite diced tomatoes, unless you didn’t pay that close attention and got plain old diced tomatoes, which gives you a slightly chunkier texture
A generous sprinkle of garlic salt, however much that is
A few grinds of fresh pepper, as though you had fresh pepper
Juice of 1 key lime, or in my case lemon juice because I didn’t have a lime, much less a key lime, rolling around my kitchen
Seed and mince 4-6 jalapeños, but don’t try to put your contacts in afterward
Chop 1 onion, organic cancer fighter
Finely mince 1/2 bunch of fresh cilantro, or the whole bunch since there’s not much chance you’d use the other half, which would just go wasted like so many CSA greens
Mix it all together in a big bowl. The end.

We drank it out of margarita glasses with salty rims (that’s a joke). The salsa stood alone at my table, complimented only by the chips. Salsa is what was for dinner. I put the remainder in jars. See?

I ate one jar the next day and gave the other to Todd-o the following night. A half hour after saying goodbye to the final jar and after a couple of beers, Jesse went looking for the last bit of salsa and was peeved to find there was none. The moral of the story is that Alex’s forgiving salsa recipe must be solid if I could stir it up and a late night tipsy muncher would mourn the last bit.

I Heard the News Today…


The best part about my recent trip to Canada is that I allowed myself to take a real vacation. I didn’t even get dressed without reading the newspaper. Here’s a round-up of stories that captured my attention.

From the Globe and Mail in Vancouver…

From the Obituaries
McDonalds franchise owner responsible for the invention of the Egg McMuffin passed away March 25th at the age of 89. Had I known, I would have canceled my trip in favor of mourning, or at the very least I would have had a breakfast sandwich in his memory. Say what you’d like about McDonald’s, but Herb Peterson was a great man whose McMuffin has brought me great joy. (The Canadians may take exception to the term “Canadian bacon”, but I say the Chicago-born Herb can call that stuff whatever he likes.)

Tiny Mentions
A French folk song is the oldest recording of the human voice. Recorded 148 years ago, a 10-second recording was made by a Parisian inventor who got lots of recognition. The singer’s name wasn’t mentioned. As usual, the poor artist gets the shaft again. If you have a particular sort of something you can even listen to the recording.

Star Gazing
In less than 48 hours Carla Bruni managed to step neatly out of the role of temptress, husband-stealer and all-round sexual velocraptor into the role of an impeccably poised first lady. People are trying to compare her to Jackie O but, pul-eeze. Forget it.

Big Boys with Little Toys
To commemorate their 40th anniversary, Hot Wheels had a design contest. All the major car companies were represented and somebody won. Hooray! The real news is that this momentarily took Parrish’s mind off LEGOs and Bionicles.

Homework Completed
George’s teacher told her to look for a great tree while in Vancouver and she did just that. After reading this story about Stanley Park’s Hollow Tree, George was on a mission. She listened to the story closely, cut out the article, and kept it with her even as she slept in the closet. We went to visit the tree where George was interviewed by a broadcast journalism student. He asked her several questions about the tree, to which she gave her informed opinion. Her major soapboxing was that it was time to stop spending money on the tree. “Trees are part of nature and they should fall over theirselves.”

American Politics
(Editorial note: There is hardly mention of McCain except in terms of his existence. Clinton is mentioned occasionally, but mostly in terms of her desire to renegotiate NAFTA. They don’t appreciate that idea. Obama is the love child of Canada I think. They discussed him in detail, including the following article.)

Did you know Obama only wears white dress shirts? Apparently so, and this article even gives you tips on getting your own white shirt. Seriously. Because it really matters if you are white collar. I think I’m going to go buy myself a blue collared shirt. No disrespect to Obama, but since I’m now forced to think of the symbolism of my shirts…

We may have the same news here in the States. I wouldn’t know. I don’t have time to read the newspaper now that I have my internet access back. Canadians have a serious lack of free wifi.

Baking Cookies

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I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have told my children that kids die in Iraq and so quit asking me for Eegee’s. It was a tough day, but that’s not much of an excuse. I could probably be a better mother. I lost my interest in feeling guilty as a granddaughter, daughter, sister, aunt, niece, cousin, and in-law after an intervention. The “professional” said I could let it go, so I did. Maybe I need a mommy intervention.

I’ve been wondering because Mz. Molly asked me some pointed questions about reacting in a positive way to family who would control you through guilt. It didn’t seem realistic to suggest an intervention, so I told her I’d think on it.

That night I made chocolate chip cookies for the kids. They’ve been good little zombies and I wanted to treat them. I read the “traditional” recipe on the bag and realized happily that I had all the ingredients except for the chips. So we bought the bag and were on our way.

The thing about my baking is that my mother was a working mom. Her mother was a single working mom. And even her mother, my great-grandmother, was a single working mom. My dad’s mom worked too. What woman was responsible for teaching me how to bake cookies?

I made up my own guilt-free, perfectly imperfect chocolate chip cookie recipe just for Molly, and myself. Here’s how it played out:

In a big bowl combine flour, baking soda, and salt. Oops, in a small bowl. I’ll wash the big one in a second. It’s encouraging to see that there are no wee beasties in my flour, but if I double the recipe, I can get fresh flour for future mischief. Unfortunately, there’s a 1/4 cup left and my frugal inner voice can not waste it. Oh, darn. The bag upended spilling the flour on the floor. Sweep it up and put flour on the grocery list. Stir.

In a big bowl – maybe I won’t wash that one out. In a big bowl mix softened butter – softened! I didn’t see that. Ah, well. Chilled will have to do. Mix cold butter, sugar, and brown sugar. I should have softened the brown sugar. It’s a block. Well, that’s what ice picks are for. I mean, they are for ice, but they’ll work on any chunk of something that has petrified in the pantry. Beat.

The cold butter and chunky brown sugar stall my beater and the familiar smell of band aids from the motor fills the air. This is a good beater. It has been with me for 20 years of cold butter and chunky brown sugar. At this point, a wedge of brown sugar pushes my beaters apart and threatens to bend them at the base. After ice picking the wedge out, I’m pleased to see that ol’ faithful shook it off and finished the work of butter batter beating.

“Do you want me to finish these cookies or not? Okay, then get out of the kitchen.” Baking is a great family activity.

Oops! Add organic vanilla was supposed to come before beating cold butter, sugar, and chunky brown sugar. The recipe doesn’t actually call for organic vanilla, but it’s what I have and I feel good about it. Now, it’s all beatted. Beaten?

Anyway, it’s time to add the cruelty free, locally produced, organic eggs. That’s right. These eggs are so hot, so now, that surely everyone will realize what a great human being I am. I’m proud to add them to the mix one at a time. While the recipe calls for one-at-a-time eggs, it’s one of those serendipitous things because it gives me a chance to remove the shell fragments that fall in the dough when I crack the eggs.

All done with the eggs, add the flour a little at a time. There’s some. There’s some more. You know, when I was younger I didn’t have the patience for that. I’d get to the point when I just dump it, which is what I do next.

I’m at the end of the process. Now all I have to do is add the chocolate chips. Holy crap! Dos problemos aqui. First, these chips are made by Nestle and I swore when I nursed my son eight years ago that I would boycott Nestle. I’d better hide the bag deep in the trash. This bit of shame just might erase the local goodness of my eggs and the chemical-freeness of the vanilla. Secondly, I doubled the recipe and only have single the chips. Whatevs! I’m not turning back now.

Time to drop them by huge spoonfuls (does anyone really make beautiful dainty chocolate chip cookies?). It gives me the creeps to even think on it. I’m sure they are convenient to carry and good for the waist, but who wants to watch for 10 dozen cookies to cook? It would take all freaking day!

Preheated oven, no greased pans, easy-peasy. OMG! Did I really just say easy-peasy? First batch, underdone. Second batch, overdone. Third batch, burned. Each kid got a doughy cookie and a glass of milk five minutes after they should have been in bed. I can’t stand the thought of making these innocents brush the comforting, warm yumminess from their baby mouths with sterile, burning toothpaste. I make brushing teeth optional.

This recipe yields enough cookies for kids, teachers, and the midnight cookie monster. The cookies are as imperfect as their maker, but tasty nevertheless. They are part wholesome goodness that benefits the world and part corporate evil that packs on the pounds. On balance, I have to say that I’m perfectly satisfied by the effort and have no need to feel guilty about any of it. I could do better, and may in the future. I may do worse. For certain, I will not be paralyzed to do nothing.

Sign of the Times

I know those of you who are parents will appreciate the educational impact of this new toy and those of you who are still in touch with your inner child will appreciate how Playmobil has kept up with current events. In any event, you must take a gander at this new toy. Don’t fail to read the reviews as they are equally HI-larious!

Playmobil Security Checkpoint

Been Sick

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The shortish story…

Apparently, I let myself get sick. Then I refused to admit I was sick. After weeks of such nonsense, I agreed to go to see my primary care physician. She should be called something else because none of those descriptors fit – not primary, not care, not physician. I’d change her identification to Dr. “I don’t care I just want you out of here” or “I hate my life M.D.”

My chest x-ray was hazy so I was sent to the ER where the nurses repeatedly asked what interaction I had with the homeless population. About the third time I replied, “Have you been in your waiting room?” The nurse tells me that sometimes a security guard with a dog will come and shoo the indigent away.

When the triage nurse called my name, Jesse and I began lumbering toward her careful to avoid the drunk and detoxing. She greeted us with her outstretched arm holding a mask. Dr. Cancerscare’s warning call that we were on our way carried the threat that I had TB. A cursory glance at the chest x-ray indicated that the apexes of my lungs were clear. So, NOT TB! But no one looked at my x-rays (apparently, not even my PCP). They just operated on the cancer/TB idea because it’s more fun that way. Besides, who ever heard of the flu turning into pneumonia? That never happens. I got a mask because the hospital didn’t want me to offend the homeless population in the waiting room with Rebecca germs. Apparently, that’s a one-way homeless-to-Rebecca privilege. Jesse requested a mask for himself on principle.

Eventually, Doogie Houser partially slid my x-ray out of it’s envelope took off his mask and said, “This isn’t TB.” He wrote a prescription for antibiotics and kicked us out. I was instructed to re-contact my PCP.

And so I made the attempt, but the doctor didn’t want to see me. “I was there on Thursday. I have pneumonia.”

“Still, you are a new patient. We can’t accommodate new patients until April.”

“But I have pneumonia now. The hospital told me to follow up with your office.”

“And we can see you in April.”

“But I was admitted to the ER under Dr.’s name.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I need follow-up for PNEUMONIA!”

I did go in for follow-up with one of Dr.’s colleagues who gave me a relationship appointment for March and a referral to an ear doctor, which never materialized.

My friend betts brought this for me when she heard I was sick. How sweet is that? That drink is the yummiest yum ever – candied ginger, lemon juice, and honey. It made me feel better, but didn’t cure my pneumonia.

My step-father called in a personal favor with the head of pulmonary care at the University Medical Center. Ahhh… real health care. I think the good doctor is operating on the theory that I had the flu, then while in compromised health I contracted cocci, and that came with a complication of pneumonia and pleurisy. How unfortunate is that? Cocci and pleurisy without so much as a kiss. Unfortunately, insurance gave me trouble with the tests so the good doctor saw that I was admitted to the hospital.

I don’t remember much about the hospital because I was sedated after a series of nurses attempted with a series of blown and elusive veins to put in an IV. Since I’m terrified of needles, I had a mini-breakdown in hour two of this process. I do remember receiving a wellness blessing with rancid ointment from my priest, protesting a TB test, more needles, having to pee after my CT scan, and begging to be released.

And after two hours haggling with the insurance company over what meds they will allow, we decided upon a cocktail of drugs that the insurance company is willing to gamble I won’t have an allergic reaction to, though I have previously. I’m not taking the pain meds but I am on two antibiotics that have only caused a minor rash and nausea. That’s where things stand until early March when I see the good doctor and the evil doctor for follow-up.

So, that’s where I’ve been.

Garbage Soup Redeux

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I’m reposting a excerpt from a blog I wrote last year about Valentine’s Day. Partly because it got a good response and I like praise and partly because the holiday is a loser holiday for Jesse as I am never materially satisfied. Either it’s too much or not enough.

In the next few days I plan to come up with gift suggestions to make Jesse’s life easier like fair trade organic chocolate or bath and body products I might actually use or maybe a Prius limo. Honestly, I think I might like a composter even though I have no clue what I’d do with good dirt out here in the desert. Maybe one of you will see something to put on your list.

And now for old news…

++++++++++++++

February 12, 2007

Please don’t go out on Valentine’s Day and drop a chunk of change on flowers that were coated in pesticides, kept in a green house, and shipped across the country. What is that supposed to say? “I love you so muchly that I’m giving you something unnaturally begotten. Also, in its making a part of the world was poisoned. Lastly, even with the aspirin dissolving in the water, it’s doomed to die leaving nothing to show for the cash. THIS is the symbol of my love for you.” Please. Save your money. Buy a plant. I hear that bamboo palm is good for taking formaldehyde out of the air.

…

I am compelled to request that you forget the expensive roses! Instead, share this recipe for Garbage Soup, from a Sonoran Desert cookbook (with editorial from me). It would be good for your wallet, the environment, and an honest statement about the longevity of love.

INGREDIENTS:
water (the elixir of life)
vegetable waste (eggplant sounds like elegant fare for a Valentine dinner, but gack!)
coffee grounds (from the pot you shared over morning breath)
eggshells (you already walked on them so they are nicely crushed)
other similar kitchen waste (so not the shit you sling at each other like monkeys after the kids are in bed)
not grease (this is about living plants not the yummy goodness of slaughtered lambs)

DIRECTIONS: Chop waste in food processor or blender with equal parts water. Mix it up until it’s as convoluted as your fights. Bury soup around outer edges of plants along side the hatchet.

Commercial fertilizers can kill beneficial microorganisms in the soil. This recipe for plants can be used in lieu of those fertilizers. Can you feel the love?

Consumers Cut Off

When our economy began to tank we saw a downturn in the economies of several other countries who rely on our consumerist behavior to support them. Consequently, we want to rush through a stimulus package that borrows money from China, maybe, to buy Chinese goods. That’s great for us, because we’ve come to expect a certain lifestyle that is slightly beyond our means. What would happen if at the national, state, local, and individual level our credit was cut off because we had a “higher than acceptable risk profile” and we were forced to reevaluate our values versus spending habits?

A banking company in the UK has cut off the 7% of their credit cards with just that sort of spending to payment history. The story reads as though the bank is Big Brother saving consumers from themselves. My feeling is that with the economy trending down these folks will have difficulty making payments and the bank will have to eat it when those people finally go belly-up from their “support of the economy”. This bank is saving it’s ass and maybe the by-product is that 160,000 Brits will have to apply for a card elsewhere or hopefully make better choices.

Would American banks do this to Americans who have been ordered by the president to spend money to the extent that it’s ingrained in our psyche and part of our identity? The mall is a shared American Experience! Even more interestingly, would the U.S. get cut off and therefore have to make more difficult decisions about what we do with taxpayer dollars? Perhaps we have forever status with our creditors. But what if our balance were due and we had to say no to ourselves? My mother-in-law sent me this YouTube video that asks a similar question. Where are American vales? Do we support the mission in Iraq? Do we reinvest in our corporate structure? Do we refocus our funds on children?