The Shit & The Fan

The shit hit the proverbial fan yesterday.

Last night, post shit-laden fan maneuvering, I posted a little ditty about my dilemma. Having offended someone about whom I've written, I was asked to do what anyone who knows (1) how much of a struggle exposing my writing was for me and, (2) how isolating and difficult an existence this little cluster fuck that is my life remains, would never ask of me: To delete posts.  My question then became this: Do I obliterate the posts relevant to her solely, as requested, or do I obliterate the blog entirely, rather than complacently give in to self serving censureship? Or, do I leave my writing as it is, standing firm and strong, spine in tact?

I thought about it all afternoon and night, weighing all of the arguments thrown at me.  Between yesterday afternoon and last night, I have wavered and regained my footing countless times.   I knew that I had said nothing untrue and, even though it was unflattering, it was nothing I haven't said out loud, in person, to the person herself.  I decided to stay true to myself and, for once, not succumb to the mandates of people who give not one shit about me.

This morning, I awoke feeling sick and friendless. I wondered how people continue to write when they feel strongly about something, but realize that those upon whom they rely for support aren't actually standing in the room with them anymore once controversy enters. I  have spent my morning bumping into walls and babbling to myself.  In the end, I fear that my spine lies crumbled on the bed between the neatly folded laundry and Waldo the Cat.  I give.

Aidan of Ivy League Insecurities said something about the post I've just deleted, before the crumpled spine hit Waldo's big orange tail and while the post was still something on which she could comment.  And her comment cut me to the quick.  She was encouraging and sweet and, utterly true to the Aidan I am getting to know through her wonderful writing, she placed it squarely before me. She said, "Obliterate nothing unless you see compelling reasons to do so."

Reading it made me cry, Aidan.  Thank you for that.

The beautiful encouragement everyone wrote here has been wonderfully cleansing, as odd as that may sound.  I thought it had fortified me, had helped put me where I absolutely needed to be to do what was right for me.  But Aidan's simple refrain just kept ringing in my head.  It refused to step away from me, it insisted on becoming that song on the radio that gets stuck in my head.

My compelling reason to obliterate my posts involving this person, true and fair a rendition of the event as each may be for me, is that Evan asked me to do it.  Knowing that this person is important enough to him that he would ask so impossible a thing of me also makes me cry, but, frankly, that's not such a big deal since I'm already a blubbering mass of tears and snot.

I'm not going beige, I'm merely allowing myself to be censured.  Wild.  Fucked up.  I'm not sure what the difference is, to be honest.  I'll let you know how it feels.  In a fully censured sort of post, of course.

I'm still not convinced that it's the right thing to do, but here goes... 

Brown Eyed Baker's Giveaway...

Check out Brown Eyed Baker's giveaway!

Tequila Mockingbird Needs Your Vote!

I entered Aiming Low's If It Has More Than Two Ingredients It's A Recipe.  So Bite Me. contest, and am one of the 12 finalist!  The recipe is Evan's brainchild.  He is, after all, the Creative Director and Designated Brains of the group.  However, as the Taste Taster and Slightly Tipsy Cheerleader of this particular recipe, I can tell you that it is delicious.

Anyway, the deal is that the winner is determined by vote. So, please check out the contest and vote for Tequila Mockingbird!  (While you're there, read Aiming Low.  Great writing and tremendous wit!)

Tequila Mockingbird 

A drink for the literary elite, the tenured literature professor and the novelist who needs a "tightener" now and again.

 Ingredients

1.  Pour a shitload of good Tequila over ice.
2.  Add just enough club soda and pineapple juice to turn it yellow.
3.  Sit down.

Thanks for your help! And enjoy the drink!

Happy Birthday to My Girl

Yesterday, my niece, Alexandra, turned 21. 

My brother, the father of two, says that no one wants to hear about other people's kids. He says the people who love those particular kids are the only ones interested in the minutia of the kids' existence, and, thus, has never been tempted to thrust upon others unsolicited tidbits of his daughters' lives. He knows that the people who want information will ask, and that only about half of those inquiring are merely feigning interest out of a sense of duty or politeness.

I believe that he is correct. I also I believe that the rule about not boring people with child-oriented tales applies solely to the parents of that child. And I further believe that as an aunt, I am actually honor bound to torture strangers and friends held captive by circumstance or etiquette with what I perceive to be fascinating anecdotes about this precious person. And I'm going with that.

I love the person Alexandra is. I always have. She's a remarkable woman who started out as remarkable little girl. She has always been kind and generous of heart. Even when she was exceedingly short, she abhorred a bully and she has never suffered an injustice silently, especially when she saw it perpetrated on another being. She was barely walking on her own the first time she befriended someone who needed a friend, and she's been doing it ever since. And, like her father and her aunt, she doesn't suffer fools lightly, but she allows people to fully establish themselves as shit heads before she walks away.

Among her other attributes, Alexandra has a rather twisted sense of humor that leans decidedly toward the perverted. This is a woman who came to a huge party at our house carrying a bag tucked carefully, but firmly, under her arm. When I went to take it from her, she looked mildly panicked and pulled me aside. She had grabbed the bag, without thinking, she said, as she ran out the door. She was mortified when she realized that she had taken this bag because she was worried that it might offend one of our completely wasted and unquestionably inappropriate friends. She moved her arm to reveal the picture printed on the bag: A brightly colored rainbow danced between white, fluffy clouds, under which a beautiful purple unicorn stood humping another equally beautiful green unicorn, with just enough penis showing to make it all truly magical.

Note that she did actually purchase the bag.

This kid kills me.

Interestingly, the penis thing goes way back to her pre-perverted sense of humor. When Alexandra was four years old, she asked me if we could have one of our chats. Without a moment’s hesitation, I scooped her up. I loved these chats. We dove onto the sofa and snuggled in for a nice, long session. We chattered and giggled, told fabricated secrets and planned imaginary events. She told me about all of the kids in nursery school and described in grand detail what this boy looked like and what that girl traditionally brought on her assigned snack day. Alexandra, a talented mimic, played the part of each child, flamboyantly replicating accents and mannerisms with the detail and care of a studied artist.

When she'd finished telling me about The New Boy and how cute he was, she snuggled in close to me, an impish smile overtaking her face, and cupped my face in her tiny hands. Looking me square in the eyes, she said, "We like penises, don't we?"

"We like...what?"

"Penises," she giggled. "We like them, don't we?" Giggle, giggle.

Holy shit! I am not prepared for this, I think, frantically seaching for some kind of response. She was looking at me, little hands firmly in place, giggling, waiting.

“Don’t we?”

My thoughts simply would not settle on the issue of penises and whether we liked them.

This is something her parents should deal with, not me, I thought, nary a penis in sight, so to speak.  A parent is for this stuff, for dealing with questions…if this is handled incorrectly or indelicately, I could cause…oh, shit, who knows?…all kinds of irreparable damage, causing…shit, I don't know, all kinds of scarring and...

Just then, her mother walked past the doorway.

"Friederike, wait! Alexandra just asked me if we like penises," I heard myself whispering ridiculously loudly.

She chuckled, rolled her eyes and, calling Alexandra by her nickname, said, "Funny Hubie."

"No, wait! Don't go! What do I say?" Why am I whispering, I do wonder, since Alexandra is nearer to me than her mother is?  The whisper is that horrible whisper-shout thing obnoxious people tend to do in an effort to be cute or sneaky or something equally annoying.

Friederike never even broke stride. She kept walking, flashing her I-thought-you-were-smarter-than-this look at me and said, "Oh, no, she's all yours."

I turned back to that precious smiling face. Crap, she's still here.

Alexandra immediately replanted her hands on my cheeks while firmly pulling herself up onto her knees.

"Don't we." Giggle.

My brother sauntered by. "WAIT!! WHAT DO I SAY?" By now the whisper-shout had evolved into a kind of shrill, wounded animal-sounding whine, making it more of a whisper-shout-scream. The sound made Alexandra and her father laugh out loud.

"Hey, you wanted to be the aunt. You know what to tell her," my dear brother chuckled as he walked off.

What the fuck does that mean, I wanted to be the aunt? And how do I know what to tell her? I could absolutely do this little girl in emotionally without ever meaning to. The chances are really good that I'll say the completely wrong thing---I'm only an aunt!   I’m pretty sure I only thought all of this and hope to God I didn’t actually say it, but it’s hard to be sure.

"I'm supposed to feed her crappy food and take her shoe shopping! I can't be responsible!" This, I said out loud. It mattered not, though. I heard him chuckle again, from very, very far away.

Jesus, this just can't end well, I thought, oddly, in the same grating whisper-shout-scream.

Slowly turning back toward her, I saw my sweet girl looking at me, her precious little face wearing a huge grin.

“I can do this. This is absurd. If they trust me to do this, then I can do this,” I said under my breath.

"Okay.” Inhale. Make eye contact. Exhale. “What do you mean, Honey, that we like penises?" Okay. This is okay. Inhale.

"I mean that we like boys and boys have penises."

"Uh-ha.  Yeah..."  Exhale.

"Girls don't, you know. Have penises, I mean."

"Oh. Okay.” Makes sense. “Yes, that's true..."

"Well, and if boys have penises, and we like boys, then we like penises, too. Right?"

Wow. That's really logical thinking. That makes perfect sense. This is an amazing child.  I realized that I’m no longer whisper-shouting-screaming in my head.

"Yes, Honey, that's right."

"Hmmm," she said thoughtfully, stroking my cheeks gently. "Soooo, can we have ice cream now?"

Alexandra, I hope I haven't embarrassed you, as I suspect I’m inclined to do without much effort. I love this story and I treasure the memory of that day. I saw that you would hold true to the course you assumed at the beginning of your existence, a course that would lead you to think about all kinds of amazing things, to question and ponder the wonders of the delicious world around you. You are kind and funny and brilliant and beautiful, and since your arrival, the world is a brighter, happier place for me.

We love you dearly.

I'm thinking the next story I tell about you ought to be non-penis specific...

New Year Ramblings...and Shrimp with Pasta...

 from The Graphics Fairy

 

Having just entered a new year, many of us are still looking back at what has passed, and forward to what we hope will be.  I think we're supposed to reflect and feel grateful for the good things, letting go of, or perhaps blocking out, the not so good things.  I suspect we ignore the not so good because we want to be happy as the New Year comes in, we want to be positive and hold out hope for feeling renewed.  In short, we feel desperate about the lives we have created and we need to bullshit ourselves into a stupor.

I, however, remain reluctant to look back on 2009 and, if I must, I am most certainly not inclined to ignore anything that may, upon close inspection, ooze, all greenish and slimy, out of the seams.

It has been a rough year for me, one filled, oddly, with a tremendous amount of hope.  I've hoped that I would understand the absurd, accept the outrageous and feel kindly toward the assholes.  Alas, I find that I am imperfect, and I elect not to set myself up for more of the same.  I want a New Year full of success and fulfillment, and, if the New Year must bring with it crap, I want new and improved crap.  I want different crap.  I want a higher class of crap, if you will.

As I contemplated the upcoming New Year, I sat in a cluster of days that held in its sweaty little palm a big old bundle of, yes, crap. 

***I have, upon request, deleted this portion of this post.***

In the meantime, I’m looking into 2010 with a bit of caution and a shit load of conviction.  I’ll look back only enough to avoid making the same mistakes again, and I’ll look forward as I do the things I say I want so much to do.  I’ll hold nearer to me those who are dear, and I’ll close the door on those who continue to cause me, or those I love, even a second of unnecessary pain.  In Spring, I’ll plant a garden full of flowers and vegetables, and, until then, wait impatiently to smell the clean, wet dirt and taste the freshly picked cherry tomatoes as they pop in my mouth.

I’ll stop trying to understand the absurd or accept the outrageous, and I’m thinking I don’t really want to feel kindly toward the assholes after all.  If crap must float past now and then, as surely it will, it’ll have to be a higher level of crap if it wants my attention.


***I have, upon request, deleted this portion of this post.***
Apropos to absolutely nothing (like that's ever made me hesitate), we had Shrimp with Pasta for dinner.  It's easy and delicious.

Shrimp with Pasta

Ingredients

1 lb. Jumbo shrimp per person, cleaned (amount depends on the appetites you're trying to satisfy)
6 Large Mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
2 Large cloves of garlic, finely chopped
1 Medium onion (Vadalia, if you can get one), finely chopped
Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Butter
Asiago Cheese, grated
Fontina Cheese
Good wine (red or white, but something you would drink)

Angel hair pasta, cooked (figure about 5 ounces of dry spaghetti per person)

Preparation

1.  Cover the bottom of your hot pan with oil and a bit of butter.  (The butter adds a nice flavor, but isn't necessary.  The oil helps keep the butter from burning.  Go easy on both; you can always add more.)  Saute the onion until golden brown; set aside.  Do the same with the garlic and then the mushrooms, sauting each separately, but putting the sauted food in the same bowl when set aside.

2.  Add more butter and oil to the pan and throw in the shrimp.

Let the shrimp cook until it is browned (the pan should be very hot before you put the shrimp in, or it will overcook before browning).  Cover the bottom of the pan with wine (not too much, you only want a shallow pool in the bottom of the pan).  Cook until the wine evaporates.

3.  Add all of the remaining ingredients to the shrimp; mix well.  Add the pasta to the shimp mixture and mix well.  Top with the cheeses and mix again.

4.  Transfer the shimp and pasta mixture to a serving dish and serve hot.

This is such an easy and delicious dish.  You can really play with it--it's impossible to hurt it.

Ahh, I think I feel better now.  Thanks for listening....

Twitter?

Here goes nothing...I've just joined Twitter.  For those of you who are on it (in it? with it??), do you like it?  Is it worth the extra thing to check?

Brown Eyed Baker's Giveaway

Oh, yes, another wonderful giveaway!  Check out Brown Eyed Baker's blog to see the great kitchen scale she's giving away.

Beautiful Blogger Award

Thank you, Simply Life, for this!  I'm passing it on, too. 

Here it is for you, Not Quite Nigella, The Kitchen Witch, Souffle Bombay, Nutrition as Nature Intended and The Little Foodie.

My New Mixer Made French Bread!

We agreed not to give each other Christmas presents this year. On top of being broke and  feeling very Grinchesque (perhaps as a result of being broke), Evan has been doing major renovations on the house.  As an added benefit to having the house perpetually ripped apart, we have been getting rid of more crap than any small crowd of dedicated pack rats should own at any given time. So, the last thing we need is more crap. Evan and I spend a lot of time together, good time, time during which we actually pay attention to each other, and we decided that we'd simply do more of the same for Christmas. Time together and no money spent on new crap.  How can that be bad?

We also decided to make the Christmas gifts we we're giving to Evan's extended family.  He made beautiful bird houses and feeders, and I made bread and cookies.  Since we were seeing his family on Christmas Eve, I made some of the cookies two days before, and the day before Christmas Eve was set aside for making the bread.  French bread seemed the safest choice in this sea of picky eaters and hardcore critics. It's a beautiful bread, as breads go, and it suits most tastes.  Easy.

After a nice, relaxing Christmas Eve morning together, Evan ventured outside and I started looking for a bread recipe I liked.  He strolled in and out of the house, and did whatever he was doing.  I sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by the computer, cookbooks and notes, as I looked at recipes. 

Not quite a week before, I participated in the Foodbuzz 24, 24, 24 event.  For my part in it, I baked 24 cookies from each of 24 recipes.  I did this, if you can imagine, without a mixer. In the past, I had used Evan's mother's mixer for things like creaming butter and making cake batters, but I worried that the mixing time involved in 24 recipes might be too much for the old dear.  Houdini's mixer was top of the line when she bought it in the 1960s or so, but now the motor has trouble with too much activity, and wants to blow up when faced with a heavy a batter.  Of late, this includes anything with flour in it. 

Also, it's one of those mixers with the shallow mixing bowl, so the batter tends to fly out during mixing, hitting the ceiling, the cat, me, and making it all so much less fun than it seems like it ought to be.  When this happens, the cat glares at me as if convinced that I am deliberately flinging shit at him and, being a cat and all, his idea of pay back is to pee on the clean laundry.  I make cookies, he pees; it's a vicious cycle that has subsided only because the mixer became a piece of kitchen art. 

Another reason I'm reluctant to use the mixer is that one of the mixing blades doesn’t fit properly into its hole, so it jams into the other blade occasionally, subsequently, and repeatedly, requiring Evan to rebend it into shape once he has unwedged it--no small feat--from its clinging partner.  Aside from that, it has been a joy to use.  (Actually, it has been an honor to have and use it.  Houdini loved to bake and I've loved having her mixer, even if only to cream butter and sugar, and offend the cat from time to time.)

With all of this behind and before me, I had decided to mix my 24 batters by hand, and skip risking blowing the motor on Houdini's mixer.  I thought I had been a good sport about it all.  I was under the impression that, even after blisters had formed on my mixing hand, I had kept the whining to a minimum, both during the 24 event and afterward.

Apparently I was wrong.

It’s possible that I moaned ever so slightly at the mention of more baking and the attendant mixing, even though it was I who, so cheery and perky and Grinchy, suggested it, and I might have whimpered quietly, though, undoubtedly, repeatedly, while flipping through my recipes.  It’s so hard to be sure.

It's likely that the anticipation of hearing me rant about freshly washed and peed upon laundry combined with  the memory of watching me scape chocolate cookie dough from the ceiling was more than Evan could face.  On Christmas Eve day, he lured me into our bedroom, smiling, and presented me with a box big enough to house a small child, wrapped in Christmas paper (the box, not a small child).  I couldn't imagine what he had done.  Although I had felt comfortable with our agreement to thumb our noses at the puckered, disapproving face of social dictates and expectations, I suddenly felt sad that I didn't have a present to give him.

Our edict and my expression notwithstanding, he was beaming, "Open it!  I know we promised no gifts, but this doesn't count."

I stuttered and protested until finally succumbing (and, honestly, who wouldn't?...huge box, pretty sure there isn't actually a kid in there, Evan's smile even bigger than the box...).  In that box was a beautiful, brand new, silver Kitchen Aid Pro 500 Stand Mixer!

When I was a very little girl, I got new shoes at the beginning of the school year.  Since it was my only pair of shoes for the year, unless my feet grew enough for my little toes to separate the top of the shoe from its sole, I got to pick them out with only minimal adult interference.  I always chose shiny, patent leather Mary Janes, and if I could get them with bows, I was in prissy-girl heaven.  I would wear those shoes out of the store and home, walking all through the house, here and there, to and fro, for no reason at all except to hear the clicking of my pretty new shoes on the floor.  I would revel in the tingly, new shoes feeling all the rest of the day, and then, at bedtime, I would take those new shoes to bed with me.  I'd put them in the bed right next to me, on my pillow, so I could touch them and smell their new shoes smell until I feel asleep.

I had the same feeling when I saw my mixer.  It was just like getting those Mary Janes, those pretty, new, shiny shoes.  It was like getting the ones with the bows.

I stood there soaking it all in for what felt like hours.  I looked at my beautiful new mixer, I touched it, and cleaned it, and I tried its different attachments on it, and then I broke in my new mixer by making French bread.

By the way, the bread was a tremendous hit.  The mixer, however, was the true hit of the holiday.  When I saw Evan's ex-sister-in-law and current sister-in-law on Christmas Eve night, they huddled around me, excitedly asking for every detail of the day and of the presentation of the mixer--Where were you when he gave it to you?  What did he say?  What did you say?  Were you surprised?  Do you love it?  Isn't he wonderful?--as if that big box had held a four carat diamond engagement ring.

Frankly, I don't know that he could have made me feel one bit more loved had he given me an engagement ring, or that I could have been more thrilled...wait...four carats...?


FRENCH BREAD
(adapted from allrecipes.com)
Makes 2 large loaves

Ingredients:

5 ¼ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
2 ½ packages active dry yeast
1 ½ teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon sugar
2 cups warm water (110 degrees F)
1 tablespoon cornmeal                            
1 egg white

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 375 degrees (F)

1.    Proof your yeast by putting the yeast to 2 cups of warm water, salt and sugar.  Wait about 8 to 10 minutes.  If yeast mixture foams, your yeast is alive; if it doesn’t foam, discard it and begin again with fresh ingredients.

2.    To the foamy yeast mixture, add 2 cups flour, and beat until well blended using a stand mixer with a dough hook attachment.  Gradually add the remaining flour; blend thoroughly.

3.    On a lightly floured surface, knead in enough flour to make a stiff dough that is smooth and elastic. Knead for about 8 to 10 minutes. Shape into a ball and place in an oiled bowl, turning once to coat the entire ball of dough with oil. Cover, and let rise in a warm place until doubled.

4.    Once it has risen, punch the dough down, and divide in half. Turn it out onto a lightly floured surface. Cover, and let it rest for 10 minutes.

5.    Roll each half into a large rectangle. Roll up, starting from a long side. Tuck the ends under just before you make the last turn on the roll.  Moisten the edge with water and seal.

6.    Oil a large baking sheet and sprinkle with cornmeal. Place the loaves, seam side down, on the prepared baking sheet. Make 4 or 5 diagonal cuts about ¼ inch deep along the length of the loaf.  (Lay the knife almost down on the bread and use a quick, fluid motion to make the slice.)  Brush each loaf with the egg white for a shiny crust. Cover with a damp cloth and allow the loaves to rise until they’re nearly doubled, or for about 35 to 40 minutes.

7.    Bake for 20 minutes. Brush each loaf again with the egg white. Bake for an additional 15 to 20 minutes, or until bread tests done. If necessary, cover loosely with foil to prevent over-browning.

8.    Remove from baking sheet, and cool on a wire rack.

The bread is beautiful (the pictures don't do it justice) and delicious.  You could add a bit more sugar or maybe a bit of honey--I'm trying the honey next time--but it's really wonderful just like this.  I modified the original recipe, adding the tablespoon of sugar, which I think was a good change.

I was in such a rush in the end that I didn't take photographs of the loaves of bread before they were handed out.  I wrapped each one plastic and then in a cotton (not terry cloth, but soft cotton) Christmas tea towel, and tied each end with ribbon.  They looked beautiful and the recipient had a pretty kitchen towel to keep.