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Oklahomie Eats

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I packed two cut-up melons from Tucson Community Supported Agriculture, along with French bread rolls, turkey, yogurt, sun tea, water with ice, chocolate milk, grapes, pineapple, and of course yellow mustard. Plus, the backseat barfers get to pick a big bag of chips all for themselves as is our tradition.

We ate here (I’m calling this “White Sandwiches, NM”)…
and here (Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, TX, without any appropriate puns).
Of course in Oklahoma, you get food from the backyard including berries
and tomatoes.
That was just one tomato variety of the at least four growing at my mother-in-law’s house. Anything we didn’t find in the yard, we could have purchased at the Farmer’s Market. We only walked away with a watermelon, which was all it took to turn this frown upside down.
I can’t think of my hometown without thinking of The Diner. Handsome Hubster had an eggurrito (Eggarrito? We don’t ever actually read at the menu.) just like he did the day the 9 YO boy was born.
And squeezing it in on the last day, The Greek House.
That plant is more than a little freaky. You know what else is freaky? After you order, pay, and find a seat in the SRO dining room, they FIND YOU without ever asking for a name, assigning a number, or even questioning if it was you who requested the extra yogurt. I didn’t take a photo of the food because I was too busy eating.

I pretty much plan my visits home around food. Winter break we’ll hit Victoria’s*, where the marinara has tarragon and red pepper but tastes cinnamon-y and Misal of India, even if moving by the interstate put the kibosh on the atmosphere. Unfortunately, if the rumors are correct we’ve sadly seen our last meal at Pepe Delgado’s*, who catered both my wedding and the christening of my first born.

We had some good eats outside Oklahoma. Hideaway was consumed in Texas.

Does it count as outside Oklahoma if the food was leftover from dinner in Oklahoma? We definitely ate in Santa Rosa, NM.

The service at Lake City Diner was, uh, er, well, let’s just say relaxed, though I knew that from the reviews. Apparently, not all the diners were familiar with Google. We had already seen The Big Blue Hole, so we weren’t in any hurry to go anywhere. Also, slow service doesn’t automatically mean bad service. Besides, the architecture was interesting and the green chili everything was worth the wait.
Best of all, on this entire trip, not one single person or animal barfed.

* Sorry Denveater, I think Victoria’s Pasta Shop and Pepe Delgado’s are both possessively named restaurants.

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My Fairy Godmother

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Dashing out of town to attend my 20th high school reunion (I graduated early, yes I did), I breathlessly told my friend Yvonne that I had given up finding a decent outfit for the formal turned semi-formal turned dressier than church clothes event, which was, or could have been the first or second night. I wasn’t all that clear. I supposed I could find a cotton skirt or, uh, something not grease/dirt/snot/food stained.

Yvonne is a native Tucsonan, which I find fascinating since they are so rare. Her parents at some point in lineage were from Mexico. With her black-as-night hair and splashy red lips, I can’t help but see her as the visage of 1940s era Tucson, although with four boys aged 9, 7, 3ish, and not yet 1 it has to be the case that she’s sweaty, disheveled, and exhausted at least some of the time.

In any event, Yvonne dashed into her closet, pulled a few hangers off the rack, and sent me on my way. MIL pressed my lightly rumpled dress and the 7-YO girl helped edit my jewelry for the first night. I love this BCBG dress. I’m just a breath too big for it and probably should have used scaffolding to hold stuff in. As it was, my pantyhose only lasted an hour or so before being stashed in Caddo Artist‘s handbag. The pre-prom photograph doesn’t do the dress justice.

Yvonne had me doubly prepared for Night Two. I forget the label on this draped-neck number. Also, sadly, I don’t have a photo of the bottom half of the dress and its soft sweet double ruffle at the hem. I do have this.

I’m sure I was saying something endlessly fascinating like, “Yes, I did so go to Norman High School. I did too. I swear to God we went to high school together.” Alternatively, it may have been, “Yes, I do remember the time I got involved with that ridiculously good crowd of smart, kind-hearted, and responsible kids who for whatever reason committed 7 felonies and 13 misdemeanors together.”

What I lack in photographic evidence of Yvonne’s excellent taste and generosity in loaned dresses I have in spades regarding shoes. Yes, Yvonne even sent me forth into reunionland with footwear more lovely than Cinderella’s. While the dresses and shoes must return to the owner, this photo of my feet with my sweet’s feet is mine forever, just as Handsome Hubster is mine to have and to hold (unless, of course, we have some sort of hard drive failure).
Thanks big time Yvonne. I would have been nekked and barefooted were it not for you.

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Freshly Mopped

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The Senior Warden and I recently marveled at how predictable our behavior can be. For example, both she and I rearrange the furniture when we are looking for new perspectives or needing to reunite ourselves with our under-the-couch pets. I also like to clean my house prior to embarking on a journey. That’s a metaphor, you know, and it’s related to the moving of furniture and my struggle for perspective because the dust bunnies can be damned. Unfortunately, my brain isn’t working that way right now.

The way my brain is working right now is that you can go on an actual vacation that leaves you feeling slimed – gooey, not skinny, because that would be “slimmed” and I just don’t care that spell check prefers not to recognize my noun verb; though you might feel slimmed, an adjective verb, if you are surrounded by of the sort of people who starve you. In either case, those are usually called home visits. Did I mention I’m going home? Well, I am and when I return, I want clean floors. I spent an hour in the kitchen on my hands and knees, first with a scrub brush (’cause it’s a hard knock life) then with a rinse mop.


Saltillo tiles really look dirty, I mean hide the dirt don’t they? Upon completion of the kitchen tiles, I did the same in the dining room (they’re going to shine like the top of the Chrysler building!). Hello, kitty.


Shut up! Those are the after photos. The kitten isn’t circling her own poo, that’s the original concrete stain showing through the peeling concrete paint. So… uhm… the moral of the story is you can shower as much as you want, some of the dirt just ain’t never going to wash away.

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Hubster’s Travels

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Handsome Hubster went to Montana. He promised photographs. By the way he talked I imagined sweeping images of romantic vistas that reminded him of his beloved (that’s me), who he’d left behind. An image along the lines of …

Yessss. I imagine a picnic with pink lemonade, potato salad, coleslaw, and roast beef sandwiches. I can smell the beef now.

HO-LY COW! WTF? [Gag, wretch] HH, are you serious? When you were talking about the amazing sights, I didn’t realize you were referring to amazing sites. Though I admit, the bison jump and the bison kill are marginally interesting.

Not as interesting as the tipi rings.

Those are cool, but what I really want to see pictorially is you, babe.

You’re squirrelly, it’s true, but I want a picture of you.

Ahhh… so handsome, even in silhouette.

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Nugget Update

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Perhaps you remember a nice family who, out of the kindness of their hearts, fostered a sick or injured bird in their peaceable kingdom. Not knowing the extent of Nugget’s problems, we opened our home to her. Everyone pitched in. The people set up a private space. The dog and cat kept predators at bay. The birds shared their food and bedding. Yes, we stepped up in service to one of God’s creatures when the pathetic Nugget pleaded for sanctuary.

After much tender loving care, it became clear that Nugget was not ill nor egg bound. Nugget came to us after being on the losing end of a fight with her peeps that left her temporarily paralyzed; then walking as though inebriated; and now, almost fully recovered. We’ve taught her to take treats by hand; we’ve taught her to free range, and we are working on teaching her to properly perch. I don’t know what she was learning at that school she attended, but it wasn’t how to be a chicken.

Turns out, Nugget is no chicken. Nay, she’s a pit bull. The ReblNation (née Mom-a-Tron) homestead is a place where we all get along — no exceptions, and frankly, I’m struggling. My sweet flock, who had risked illness and sacrificed their resources for the sake of this damn bird, has been sucked in by an impostor! Oh, yes. Today, Persephone innocently passed by Nugget who then jumped on her back and pecked away. Persephone said, “Screw this,” and booked it far away from the pesky pecker. Persephone is a lover you see. I don’t think Flower cared for the gross display of bullying and she barked at Nugget, who then attacked Flower.

“Dude!” I said. “You weigh like half what my lightest bird does and you still aren’t secure in your footing. They will take you down.” Clearly, we have to keep working on unschooling Nugget. She may be ready for the school yard or more likely the prison yard, but not yet for my yard. Even so, I thought her spunk was newsworthy for those who love her and would like an update on her progress. I grabbed my camera. This is what I caught.

Ho, yeah. She pecked at Sailor Moon. Nugget is lucky that I had put her back in the crate after she got onto Persephone and Flower. Sailor Moon likes her space and everyone else’s. She likes her food and everyone else’s. She can keep the banties warm or she can make them miserable. Better I distract Sailor Moon with a treat. Not fully expressing her aggression, Nugget then goes after Fireball. That’s right. The only hen Nugget hasn’t fussed at is Buttercup, who is my most haughty bantam. Even so, you can tell how much better Nugget feels by how she’s standing at full height and showing off those tail feathers. I’m thinking she has less physical rehab left and much more social rehab in her future.

And so if you were thinking good thoughts for Nugget and the kids who love her, you can quit. Instead, think good thoughts for my computer for the battery is deceased and think good thoughts for my work because they need traffic and think good thoughts about loose nukes and stuff like that. Nugget will be just fine.

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For the Hawt Voyeur

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The Hawt Mz is amazed by Oklahoma’s beauty. That’s understandable. Peaceful contentment emanates from all who live there, including this guy.

One of my favorite things about Oklahoma is the generational connection. Irises were harvested from Handsome Hubster’s grandmother’s garden in Sulphur by his aunt who then sent them to me as a housewarming gift. Just look at how happy they are snuggled up to the house!

After moving in, we hired a plumber to bring the fireplace up to date. After a wicked winter when we lost a good bit of the pecan tree and the whole of central Oklahoma was out of power but not gas, it seemed like a good idea to replace the gas furnace as well. MIL found the perfect replacement.

Walking through the house on my first tour, I was struck by lighting. This window seat runs the entire length of the dining room and provides storage too.

Yes. It’s home. And I’m looking forward to seeing it again.

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I’m Going Home

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In September 1995 on a random drive-by situation, I saw a man place a FOR SALE sign in the yard of a cute little house near the University of Oklahoma. I arranged for my sister-in-law of six months to check out the place with me. I loved it straight away, but didn’t have in mind buying it. I did think it would be a good way to get Handsome Hubster out from underfoot while I set up his surprise birthday kegger, so I set up a date for him and his sister to check the place out. Here, you can check it out too:
See? I did not lie. The house was built in 1930 and has a gas fire place, wood floors throughout, and all the odd characteristics of an older home. When Hubster and SIL arrived at the party after seeing the house, a fifty eleven people yelled, “Happy birthday!” and Hubster said, “We gotta buy that house.” “Seriously, dude. Happy birthday.” “I’m telling you I want that house.” I looked at SIL. She nodded in agreement. Damn! The party wasn’t enough; he wanted a whole house!

Buying a home wasn’t on my radar. Besides, my new husband and I were flat busted broke, as always. What I didn’t know is that this home was picked up by a prospector for a song. The previous occupants, by legend, were fans of sex workers and snow. Also, the house hadn’t even been listed so we sorta got in at a good time.

We put in a ridiculously low offer and asked the seller to pay closing costs, refinish the floors, retile the kitchen, mud room, and baths, paint the whole thing inside and out, and install new kitchen cabinets and appliances. That real estate tycoon took our offer. We waited five months to close, but in the end the house was ours. I planted azaleas. Aren’t they lovely?
Yes, they are. Take another look. Green grass, pecan tree, cute as a button home-sweet-home. We set up my mother-in-law there while we take on Tucson. I look forward to seeing it again. I’m going home. I’ll let you know when.

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Hold the Phone

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I’ve admitted before that my parents were freaks. They totally own it, so I don’t feel guilty for putting it out there for them to read or not, because, you know, whatever. One way in which they were not much like other parents is that they only made rules about important things like telephone etiquette. Consequently, I have some phone hangups. For example, salutations are scripted.

“Hello?”
“Hello. May I please speak to Populist?”
“Speaking.”
“Hi, Pop. This is Mom-a-Tron.”
“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

See? How sweet is that?

There’s also:

“Hello?”
“Hello. May I please speak to Populist?”
“Populist isn’t available at the moment. May I take a message?”
“Yes. Please tell him Mom-a-Tron called.”
“Okay, does he have your number?”

Shut up. Back in the day people talked to people on the phone or they didn’t talk on the damn thing. No machines, no computer generated voices, no status updates.

Right? I like the scripts, so don’t get all caller ID-y on me. What am I supposed to say when you answer the phone with, “Hi! Mom-a-Tron.” Because then I’m all, “Uh, hi. This is Mom-a-Tron.” Follow the rules, people.

My parents had other phone scripts too. Since people can only call between 9 a.m. and 9 p.m. with an hour of cushion in case something is important like a 9:59 p.m. call that Denveater and I already ate so we’re going to Tracyland to make friendship bracelets, all calls received after 10 p.m. or before 8 a.m. must be answered with a terrified, “WHAT’S THE EMERGENCY!?!” Peace in the City and I had a quick ring code, so I sorta busted this one a couple of (thousand) times. Those were emergency calls though. As a mature woman nearing her 20th reunion, I’m much more fond of the restricted call times and more aware that John Stamos worship isn’t exactly an emergency.

My parents also insisted that it’s sick and wrong to call someone and chat for longer than it takes for an in-person visit. Come sit in my messy freaking house and let’s chat (no presumptions though, call first). Otherwise say what you gotta say and hang up already. Though by that logic Populist and I could talk for 39 hours and 32 minutes. Since he knows that I don’t like the phone, he doesn’t call anyway. He’s e-awesome like that.

The phone philosophy and resultant rules stemmed from my folks’ belief that the phone is an interruption. Maybe you were looking for a pack of smokes, yelling at your kids, or aerobicizing while singing Karaoke to Rita Coolidge (you know you want to) when – BRING! YIKES! Holy cow, that phone is loud. I am supposed to drop what I’m doing and answer it all nice and happy like? Yes, because what if it’s important? That reminds me. Never, not ever, should you call someone or answer the phone at dinner time. Even death can wait until after roast, rice, and gravy.

Yup. The phone is a tool. It’s not an application. It’s not an accessory. It’s a tool. And if you are passing out my home number to someone who expects me to do something for them, then you are a tool too.

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Unexpected Guest

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We had a friend stop by for a bit of convalescence. Meet Nugget.

I suppose what I should say is, “You remember Nugget, of course.” After all, you met her earlier this year when she made her debut on national television.

She’s lost her balance and after a good hen pecking Hawt Mz decided that perhaps Nugget needed a break from the bullying. There was more than one Recess Queen in the school’s coop. Those chickens should set a better example for the summer camp kids. They could have inquired about her health. Fireball did.

So did Persephone.

Cessy said, “Howdi Do?”

Boris, the best damn dog around, sat guard knowing an injured chicken is a lame duck in a neighborhood shared with hawks, owls, and coyotes, among others.

Nugget is quarantined. She can’t be around kids if she’s sick and I’m certainly not going to let her too close to my flock. My Peaceable Kingdom is no place for shunning or ostrich-ism, so nugget was forced out into the open to stretch her wings and eat ants. (I wish she’d teach my chickens that trick.) Looky there! She’s got her balance back.

Okay, she didn’t really. If you look closely you can see my finger under her breast. My finger is attached to my hand and my hand is holding nugget up.

In all seriousness, Nugget is *the* favorite hen of the kids at school. She is reliably compliant for holding and petting. She’s a good layer. While she’s perked up, her comb is noticeably flaccid. She moves her legs and wings on her own, but she tips over when not held upright. Those of you who are inclined to farm mentality or too busy worrying about Iran, this is the end of the post. For the rest of you, think kind thoughts for Nugget and the hundreds of kids who love her.

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Where I Won’t Live – or More Fun with Google

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When I moved to Tucson, I had it in mind to return to Oklahoma as soon as possible. Immediately, I noticed how unfriendly and often inaccurate the fast food workers were. In fact, the entire town seemed to be lacking any need to appear, much less BE, polite. The most egregious breach of etiquette has to be door infractions. I offer you, by way of example, the story of a visibly pregnant mother, me, trying to take her toddler, the 9-YO boy, to see his dad. I did have a stroller laden with a year’s supply of Cheerios, three types of sunscreen, woobies, and various sundries. In other words, anyone looking my way could tell I had my hands full. Reaching past my overly ripe belly, I opened the door to the Hubster’s building, braced it open with my foot, struggled to reorient the stroller toward the door, and then stood by waiting for my uterus to drop as three or four people entered by way of the door I had just opened. Don’t get me started on the Tucson Mommie Cliques. Yes, that’s a proper noun because I have aptly named them.

At first, my only friends were the cold and distant authors of parenting books and illegal cable. Over time I singled out a few friends. Like Robyn! She’s a great friend who I met here. Of course, she’s from Kansas by way of Oklahoma, so…. Okay, Robyn doesn’t count and she’s leaving me to follow her Ph.D. hubby anyway (YAY or BOO depending). I’ve also found some solid community resources. Like Allegro! Oops. The co-founder, as I think I’ve mentioned, is from Oklahoma, so…. At least Todd is always by our side and, yes, he’s from Oklahoma too.

Unapparently, I’m trying to make the point that I’m not ready to move and Oklahoma may not even be an option. The stick whipping my donkey ass whist I bite at the dangling carrot of fulfilling the Hubster’s graduation goal. I know it’s a sentence fragment. Pretend it goes with the previous sentence. Last year I was chastised for obsessing about the move by my favorite Cuban mother. See? Not all my friends are from Oklahoma, though she’s more Oklahoman by behavior than she is Tucsonan. I take her advice more to heart than I do most people. Except you, of course. She doesn’t even read my blog.

Once I quit dreaming about the move back to Oklahoma, I quit wanting to go there or anywhere else. Suddenly, great things about Tucson revealed themselves. For example, while their hearts are sometimes closed to pregnant mothers opening doors, their minds are open. You can move in any social circle regardless of your political party, religion, or background. It’s not perfect, but no place is.

Today I took the newly 7-YO girl to watch Hannah Montana at the cheap theater. Don’t judge me! I don’t know about the movie, story, or acting, but the scenery called to me. Large fields, large rooms, large people (people who treat you good). I mean big fat embraces with no pretense. There’s no need to network because everyone is already together.

Robyn told me that she thought I had grown since moving here. I hope so! My desires for my children to live with a robust family and community life have lit a fire under this otherwise stationary behiney. It’s a different carrot and a different whip that forced me to try to be the idealized me. I’m not even close yet, but have a stronger identity as a parent than at any other station in my life.

On this I mulled as we watched the movie and when Hannah revealed her secret identity and the 7-YO reached over to hold my hand, I wanted to cry. I sure am proud when my kids have recitals, when they get good school reports, when they look cute in their church clothes, but when they show empathy revealing they aren’t automatons, well, then I’m a waste case.

She let go of my hand about the time the small hometown of Miley shoves her back into the closet with the refrain, “Put back on the wig!” I realized, I can’t live in a place where I have to wear a wig (getting to wear a wig is another story all together). Maybe that means I can never live in Oklahoma. I don’t need people to agree with, but I do need people to talk to. I need open minds and open hearts. Considering the lack of diversity in voting the past few years and the gun provision inserted by an Oklahoman into the credit card bill, I just don’t think the doors of acceptance will be open in the same ways for myself and my other non-wig wearing friends. Then again that all happened in a movie and not in Oklahoma (the put back on your wig stuff — obviously the rest is a matter of record).

Per popular vote (all Snow White and the 7 Dwarfs of you), where won’t I live? I turn to Analytics for help.

If I take a world view, I have to live in the USA. All my blog friends are here, however, Australia beckons too as does India and Canada. I’m working on the Hubster pursuing an international locale. It’s sorta like, “If I can’t live here, then I’m taking my marbles and leaving.” I would never advocate that with my kids though, so…. Okay, looking in this country. I have no peeps in the North, so forget you Fargo! Sadly, my brother in Louisiana isn’t reading nor the family in the Free State of Jones County Mississippi nor my great aunt in Alabama. I won’t be moving near y’all. At one point I thought Missouri or Arkansas might be good locales, but again, they aren’t clicking me and won’t be getting me. Yes, my adoring fans are all in Arizona followed by Oklahoma and then Connecticut. Hi, Populist!

The stats aren’t fair though. When I changed my blog layout, I forgot to add back in the Analytics code so I wasn’t getting data for like a week (that “like” was dedicated to Peggy, Joe, and Ruth). OH! It was horrid to see days of zero hits. I thought I had offended and how would I win all eight of you back? But then I got my code and, ahhhhh. Much better. So, I took a year view of my stats and saw that I really can live anywhere within the USA – except Rhode Island. Hey, RI! YOU SUCK!