important? This is why. George Friedman (no relation, I presume, to our little Tommy Friedman who thinks so highly of himself) of Strategic Forecasting, tells us about the very real danger to our country's security of leaking even a name of a CIA employee of the Directorate of Operations, ever. Go ahead, pass it on. George says it's OK.
Now, I made a really good salad dressing for a salad for 45 teachers tonight. It is to go with a mexican food themed dinner. You probably have everything you need right now for Chili-Lime Vinaigrette:
1/2 of a 6oz can frozen limeade
3 T frozen orange juice concentrate (or 2 drops orange oil)
1 packet McCormick Taco Seasoning
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
1.5 cups olive oil
Mix well at least 2 hours before serving, shaking very well before dressing the salad.
The salad is of spring greens, very thin onion sliced onions, and segments of seedless oranges cut into chunks. If I were really ambitious, I would caramelize some pecans, but - phhhhht. I'm lazy today.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Monday, October 17, 2005
It all has to do with Texas, sadly.
Now, remind me again of what Tom DeLay has to do with the current price of gas?
Ah,yes. I remember now...
Now a word about that expensive salt I was reluctant to use because it was so expensive. I'm talking about Fleur de Sel or Sel de Guerande. It's one of those artisanal food products that are just so hyped, you want to puke. Then you do something like cook a simple pork roast with it, and you become a true believer.
I had some plain-jane-not-berkshire-or-anything-expensive-like-that pork sirloin roast. I decided to pop it in the oven, but on a whim I dusted it with the aforementioned sel, before I put it on a bed of unpeeled garlic cloves and stuck it in a 400 degree oven to brown. After 20 minutes, I covered the pot, lowered the temp to about 300, and cooked it a little less than 2 more hours. The meat was sublime. I guess I will be making room in my budget for said sel from now on, and not just to put on top of my buttered baguette.
The web site linked to above is really neat. Very clever, very French without being snooty. I think you'll like it.
As an antidote to too much pleasure in life, do check out the first link, though. We will not be able to afford fleur de sel if we don't stop these greedies who, evidently, are unable to stop themselves from impoverishing us middle class types who use our credit cards to buy stuff like fleur de sel, and who keep the engine chugging.
Ah,yes. I remember now...
Now a word about that expensive salt I was reluctant to use because it was so expensive. I'm talking about Fleur de Sel or Sel de Guerande. It's one of those artisanal food products that are just so hyped, you want to puke. Then you do something like cook a simple pork roast with it, and you become a true believer.
I had some plain-jane-not-berkshire-or-anything-expensive-like-that pork sirloin roast. I decided to pop it in the oven, but on a whim I dusted it with the aforementioned sel, before I put it on a bed of unpeeled garlic cloves and stuck it in a 400 degree oven to brown. After 20 minutes, I covered the pot, lowered the temp to about 300, and cooked it a little less than 2 more hours. The meat was sublime. I guess I will be making room in my budget for said sel from now on, and not just to put on top of my buttered baguette.
The web site linked to above is really neat. Very clever, very French without being snooty. I think you'll like it.
As an antidote to too much pleasure in life, do check out the first link, though. We will not be able to afford fleur de sel if we don't stop these greedies who, evidently, are unable to stop themselves from impoverishing us middle class types who use our credit cards to buy stuff like fleur de sel, and who keep the engine chugging.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
The West Point of Capitalism Rips Grover. Really.
Lookee here for some hope for our captains of industry, Harvard Business School graduates. These guys ripped Grover Norquist a new one in the LTE's to the Harvard B-School alumni magazine, after Grover was interviewed by the magazine. Now, Harvard B-School is called the West Point of Capitalism for a reason, and remember they let W in when the University of Texas Law School wouldn't. His daddy had to get him away from cocaine, so he sent him to-----Massachussetts?????? WTF????? The home of gay marriage, people who actually pick up their dogs' shit, and every other danger known to Our Way of Life? He went to Harvard to get sober, y'all, and give him something sort of constructive to do.
No recipe, we ate out of cans tonight; I am so embarrassed...
No recipe, we ate out of cans tonight; I am so embarrassed...
More war on the middle class? You tell me.
This worries me. I hope it doesn't turn into another stealth campaign against an already-battered middle class. Talk about your kitchen table issues!
Maybe this recipe for fast, cheap, filling food will become an everyday dinner, instead of an after-Christmas-excess stopgap-til-payday meal. It's still good, though, and good when the nights are cold, and your kids can see their breath when they horse around at the bustop in the morning. The richer you are and the thinner you are, the more bacon you can use in it.
But watch that mortgage interest deduction thing, OK? We are all in this together.
Maybe this recipe for fast, cheap, filling food will become an everyday dinner, instead of an after-Christmas-excess stopgap-til-payday meal. It's still good, though, and good when the nights are cold, and your kids can see their breath when they horse around at the bustop in the morning. The richer you are and the thinner you are, the more bacon you can use in it.
But watch that mortgage interest deduction thing, OK? We are all in this together.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
A blast from the past, to eat...
This is going to be a little convoluted, sort of like a Garrison Keilor story, but not so interesting. I sort of doubt that I can connect it all in the end the way he does, but it will ramble like his do.
Mr. dks did a lot of hard work with no sleep for many days when Katrina victims were coming to San Antonio. (Don't worry - he actually likes working in crisis mode. I think it reminds him of his Army days) He called me last week, breathless with excitement, and asked, "Would you like to go on a date next Sunday night? You'll never guess who I got tickets to see! (Dramatic Pause) Neil Diamond!!!!!!. Some foundation donated tickets to people who worked for the Katrina evacuees, and they gave me two!!!!!"
I think my reaction left something to be desired, because he said something like, "Aw, c'mon, you might like it! I love Neil Diamond. I know you don't very much, but the tickets are worth a lot. It won't be too boring, don't you wanna go?". So I said, very lovingly, "OK. If I don't have to get dressed up, and if you don't buy the tee shirt."
So, on Sunday night, we left two hours early for the SBC Center on the east side of San Antonio. It was a good thing we left that early, because evidently there are a lot of people in San Antonio who, like Mr. dks, love Neil Diamond, and the roads to the arena were packed. I was already crabby about having to go see Neil Diamond, but I was getting crabbier by the minute with all the sitting at stop lights, cussing at non-turn-signalers, and traffic fumes. When we arrived, we had to pay $10.00 to park 1/4 mile away! But I kept that loving smile pasted on my face.
We got into the arena after my purse was checked for a camera and my cell phone inspected for the camera feature (like, yeah, I was planning to take picture after picture of Neil Diamond from the 4th row from the roof), and I had steered Mr. dks away from the tee shirts. We made our way to the nosebleed seats (that were priced at $86.00 per, btw) a "Survivor"-like adventure, because we had to climb almost to the roof up stairs as narrow and steep as a Himalayan crevasse. And we sat for an hour, while Mr. dks told me again, a number of times, he really likes Neil Diamond, while I felt as though I were in the Coliseum in Rome, and this was my "circus" part of the Roman ration of bread and circuses, thinking, "This is how they keep us voting for jerks every four years, they hypnotize us with Neil Diamond, WWF, and Nascar." I also endured a number of announcements telling us that "Mr. Diamond will perform for two hours without an intermission, and no one will be seated during the first song." To pass the time we discuss again the fact that Neil Diamond fenced saber for NYU (Little Harvard is a fencer).
OK, so 15 minutes late (remember, we are talking about San Antonio, here), the lights dim, and musicians rise from the bowels of the SBC Center, "Mr. Diamond" appears, and Mr. dks tenses with excitement. The show begins, and I am blasted so far into my past that I have hoarfrost in my hair. I can't think of one song from the past "Mr. Diamond" did not sing Sunday night. I endured. With some grace, actually, even through the patriotic light show during his "America" song.
So this week I am feeling nostalgic, amplified by finding yesterday a packing box of vinyl recordings, including, you guessed it, those of "Mr. Diamond". And stuck (probably with sugar) on the back of one of those Neil Diamond LP covers from the early '80's is a recipe I had been looking for since 1984. It is dated "Halloween, 1983, from Patti Vande Krol", and it is for "Monster Cookies". Now, I had found a few similar recipes over the years, but I wanted that original one, the one on the recipe card with the 5 roosters on it, from Patti Vande Krol. And now, thanks to Mr. dks' love of Neil Diamond, I have it again, and I am going to give it to you. The gift of this recipe does not require that you send me any Neil Diamond CD's in gratitude, it is free:
6 eggs, lightly beaten
1 pound brown sugar
2 cups white sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons (yes, teaspoons) corn syrup
4 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 pound margarine softened (I remember using butter)
2 2/3 cups peanut butter
9 (yes, 9) cups oatmeal
12 ounces chocolate chips
8 ounces M&M candies
Mix in order given. Form into 2 tablespoon-sized balls. Place on greased cookie sheets, and flatten with a sugar-dipped glass. Bake at 325 degrees for about 10 minutes, or until medium brown.
"These stay chewy for weeks if sealed tightly", the recipe says. And, yes, you read correctly, there is no flour in the recipe.
I hate peanut butter cookies, pies, candies - I hate peanut butter in any way other than on whole wheat bread with a little honey; but I remember absolutely adoring these cookies, and I wasn't even pregnant when I ate them. So I can recommend them. But I don't remember how many this recipes makes, I only remember they did not last in my house the 2 times I made them.
Godde bless.
Mr. dks did a lot of hard work with no sleep for many days when Katrina victims were coming to San Antonio. (Don't worry - he actually likes working in crisis mode. I think it reminds him of his Army days) He called me last week, breathless with excitement, and asked, "Would you like to go on a date next Sunday night? You'll never guess who I got tickets to see! (Dramatic Pause) Neil Diamond!!!!!!. Some foundation donated tickets to people who worked for the Katrina evacuees, and they gave me two!!!!!"
I think my reaction left something to be desired, because he said something like, "Aw, c'mon, you might like it! I love Neil Diamond. I know you don't very much, but the tickets are worth a lot. It won't be too boring, don't you wanna go?". So I said, very lovingly, "OK. If I don't have to get dressed up, and if you don't buy the tee shirt."
So, on Sunday night, we left two hours early for the SBC Center on the east side of San Antonio. It was a good thing we left that early, because evidently there are a lot of people in San Antonio who, like Mr. dks, love Neil Diamond, and the roads to the arena were packed. I was already crabby about having to go see Neil Diamond, but I was getting crabbier by the minute with all the sitting at stop lights, cussing at non-turn-signalers, and traffic fumes. When we arrived, we had to pay $10.00 to park 1/4 mile away! But I kept that loving smile pasted on my face.
We got into the arena after my purse was checked for a camera and my cell phone inspected for the camera feature (like, yeah, I was planning to take picture after picture of Neil Diamond from the 4th row from the roof), and I had steered Mr. dks away from the tee shirts. We made our way to the nosebleed seats (that were priced at $86.00 per, btw) a "Survivor"-like adventure, because we had to climb almost to the roof up stairs as narrow and steep as a Himalayan crevasse. And we sat for an hour, while Mr. dks told me again, a number of times, he really likes Neil Diamond, while I felt as though I were in the Coliseum in Rome, and this was my "circus" part of the Roman ration of bread and circuses, thinking, "This is how they keep us voting for jerks every four years, they hypnotize us with Neil Diamond, WWF, and Nascar." I also endured a number of announcements telling us that "Mr. Diamond will perform for two hours without an intermission, and no one will be seated during the first song." To pass the time we discuss again the fact that Neil Diamond fenced saber for NYU (Little Harvard is a fencer).
OK, so 15 minutes late (remember, we are talking about San Antonio, here), the lights dim, and musicians rise from the bowels of the SBC Center, "Mr. Diamond" appears, and Mr. dks tenses with excitement. The show begins, and I am blasted so far into my past that I have hoarfrost in my hair. I can't think of one song from the past "Mr. Diamond" did not sing Sunday night. I endured. With some grace, actually, even through the patriotic light show during his "America" song.
So this week I am feeling nostalgic, amplified by finding yesterday a packing box of vinyl recordings, including, you guessed it, those of "Mr. Diamond". And stuck (probably with sugar) on the back of one of those Neil Diamond LP covers from the early '80's is a recipe I had been looking for since 1984. It is dated "Halloween, 1983, from Patti Vande Krol", and it is for "Monster Cookies". Now, I had found a few similar recipes over the years, but I wanted that original one, the one on the recipe card with the 5 roosters on it, from Patti Vande Krol. And now, thanks to Mr. dks' love of Neil Diamond, I have it again, and I am going to give it to you. The gift of this recipe does not require that you send me any Neil Diamond CD's in gratitude, it is free:
6 eggs, lightly beaten
1 pound brown sugar
2 cups white sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons (yes, teaspoons) corn syrup
4 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 pound margarine softened (I remember using butter)
2 2/3 cups peanut butter
9 (yes, 9) cups oatmeal
12 ounces chocolate chips
8 ounces M&M candies
Mix in order given. Form into 2 tablespoon-sized balls. Place on greased cookie sheets, and flatten with a sugar-dipped glass. Bake at 325 degrees for about 10 minutes, or until medium brown.
"These stay chewy for weeks if sealed tightly", the recipe says. And, yes, you read correctly, there is no flour in the recipe.
I hate peanut butter cookies, pies, candies - I hate peanut butter in any way other than on whole wheat bread with a little honey; but I remember absolutely adoring these cookies, and I wasn't even pregnant when I ate them. So I can recommend them. But I don't remember how many this recipes makes, I only remember they did not last in my house the 2 times I made them.
Godde bless.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Food for thought....
So much that has been going on makes me tear my hair, I haven't had much time to think, really - just read the news with my mouth agape, shaking my head in disbelief over the ruination of the country.
But I do sees signs of hope this autumn - Goddess of Purple and her posse moved out into their own house. I didn't so much mind them in my house, so much as all their stuff and they just kept bringin' more stuff into my house every day. It was getting harder and harder to pretend to treasure the broken happy meal toy my grandson gave me as a present, or the 267th picture with "I love you" written on it by my granddughter. I mean, the refrigerator was completely covered with art and doctor appointment cards from her. But, they are in their own house which they can bring as much stuff into as they wish. Goddess of Purple is employed and enrolled in a master's program, The Ned is not only employed, but employed with health insurance, and Baby Ned is beginning to actually figure out they expect him to really write his name in kindergarten. I can dust off my hands and move on.
So I am moving on to the Courage for Congress campaign. Our friend, John Courage, is running (again) to unseat Lamar Smith in our 21st Congressional District of Texas. It would be real nice to have a congresscritter that actually represented me and my neighbors rather than the businesses Tom Delay wants represented. So Mr. dks and I have been working to help get Congress some Courage.
Just to let you know there has been some cooking going on around all those happy meals and PBJ sandwiches, here's a trick I learned from a Quebecois to make an ordinary roast chicken pretty impressive - before roasting it, even if you season it under the skin, dry the skin, rub it with softened real butter, and sift white flour over the buttered skin. Then roast it as directed by your roasting chart for that bird. When you take it out of the oven, take the skin off it in one or two pieces, then carve the bird. You can then raffle off the pieces of skin, they are that good. This is also a good strategy for roasting a turkey, but you do have to keep the breast tented until the last 45 minutes or so of cooking.
This rather dull, but heart-felt entry was made in honor of Cathy Irish, who liked my other, very rare, entries.
Godde bless!
But I do sees signs of hope this autumn - Goddess of Purple and her posse moved out into their own house. I didn't so much mind them in my house, so much as all their stuff and they just kept bringin' more stuff into my house every day. It was getting harder and harder to pretend to treasure the broken happy meal toy my grandson gave me as a present, or the 267th picture with "I love you" written on it by my granddughter. I mean, the refrigerator was completely covered with art and doctor appointment cards from her. But, they are in their own house which they can bring as much stuff into as they wish. Goddess of Purple is employed and enrolled in a master's program, The Ned is not only employed, but employed with health insurance, and Baby Ned is beginning to actually figure out they expect him to really write his name in kindergarten. I can dust off my hands and move on.
So I am moving on to the Courage for Congress campaign. Our friend, John Courage, is running (again) to unseat Lamar Smith in our 21st Congressional District of Texas. It would be real nice to have a congresscritter that actually represented me and my neighbors rather than the businesses Tom Delay wants represented. So Mr. dks and I have been working to help get Congress some Courage.
Just to let you know there has been some cooking going on around all those happy meals and PBJ sandwiches, here's a trick I learned from a Quebecois to make an ordinary roast chicken pretty impressive - before roasting it, even if you season it under the skin, dry the skin, rub it with softened real butter, and sift white flour over the buttered skin. Then roast it as directed by your roasting chart for that bird. When you take it out of the oven, take the skin off it in one or two pieces, then carve the bird. You can then raffle off the pieces of skin, they are that good. This is also a good strategy for roasting a turkey, but you do have to keep the breast tented until the last 45 minutes or so of cooking.
This rather dull, but heart-felt entry was made in honor of Cathy Irish, who liked my other, very rare, entries.
Godde bless!
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Back In The Saddle
We just went from a family of 4 to a family of 8 to a family of 12 and back to a family of 7 in 2 weeks. Wanna know how we did it? This is how:
Once we were 4 - myself (AKA No-Knee, Irish Banshee Mother, Book Mother, and Kitchen Bitch), Rev. Mr. Larry (The Patriarch), Bubby (17 year old future Harvard student AKA "Little Harvard", sort of after his coach, who is "Big Harvard"), and Robert the German exchange student (AKA Hans). Daughter Goddess of Purple and her hubby SIL (son-in-law) "came home" to San Anto after SIL lost his job, bringing Molly (the 8 year old Banshee-in-training), and Sam (the randomly OCD 5 year-old who only Molly can really understand). Then Hans' family came from Germany to pick him up, since he, very oddly, didn't want to leave this zoo. So we had Daddy Hans (Herr Doktor Engineer), Mama Hans (Kinder Therapist, AKA Die Renate), Christian (AKA Afrikamann), und Die Esther (15 years old, blonde of Aryan proportions, AKA Brunhilde).
We showed them the glories of a South Texas Summer with tubing on the Guadalupe, obeisance to the Alamo, a River Walk Thing, lots of BBQ and pinto beans, enchiladas and chicken-fried steak (it's really German, you know), and dancing to Two Tons of Steel at the Gruene Hall (including the 110 degree temperature inside at 9 PM). They took Hans and left last Wednesday, probably with great relief.
I spent Friday, Saturday, and Sunday at DemocracyFest in Austin, of which I will write more later. I spent the last two days cleaning the kitchen. Rev. Mr. Larry told me plaintively upon my return Sunday night (Yes, I know it was Father's Day) "I did dishes every night, but it was a loooooong weekend!". I am now determined to blog every few days. I know you don't believe me, but DemFest converted me. After having breakfast with Jerome and Kos, and spending quality time with other cool political blogers, I am going to have my say, too. I am especially grateful to Roses and Othniel from TexasKos for their good example, as well as all the other committed bloggers who keep me informed.
Stay tuned for more. I hate doing HTML, and must learn to do it here on Blogger before I can actually give good Source. Please be patient with me. Oh! Some good news - the A/c Guy told me last Thursday that he thinks he can keep Big Mama (The Condenser) goin' another summer! Godde is good.
Once we were 4 - myself (AKA No-Knee, Irish Banshee Mother, Book Mother, and Kitchen Bitch), Rev. Mr. Larry (The Patriarch), Bubby (17 year old future Harvard student AKA "Little Harvard", sort of after his coach, who is "Big Harvard"), and Robert the German exchange student (AKA Hans). Daughter Goddess of Purple and her hubby SIL (son-in-law) "came home" to San Anto after SIL lost his job, bringing Molly (the 8 year old Banshee-in-training), and Sam (the randomly OCD 5 year-old who only Molly can really understand). Then Hans' family came from Germany to pick him up, since he, very oddly, didn't want to leave this zoo. So we had Daddy Hans (Herr Doktor Engineer), Mama Hans (Kinder Therapist, AKA Die Renate), Christian (AKA Afrikamann), und Die Esther (15 years old, blonde of Aryan proportions, AKA Brunhilde).
We showed them the glories of a South Texas Summer with tubing on the Guadalupe, obeisance to the Alamo, a River Walk Thing, lots of BBQ and pinto beans, enchiladas and chicken-fried steak (it's really German, you know), and dancing to Two Tons of Steel at the Gruene Hall (including the 110 degree temperature inside at 9 PM). They took Hans and left last Wednesday, probably with great relief.
I spent Friday, Saturday, and Sunday at DemocracyFest in Austin, of which I will write more later. I spent the last two days cleaning the kitchen. Rev. Mr. Larry told me plaintively upon my return Sunday night (Yes, I know it was Father's Day) "I did dishes every night, but it was a loooooong weekend!". I am now determined to blog every few days. I know you don't believe me, but DemFest converted me. After having breakfast with Jerome and Kos, and spending quality time with other cool political blogers, I am going to have my say, too. I am especially grateful to Roses and Othniel from TexasKos for their good example, as well as all the other committed bloggers who keep me informed.
Stay tuned for more. I hate doing HTML, and must learn to do it here on Blogger before I can actually give good Source. Please be patient with me. Oh! Some good news - the A/c Guy told me last Thursday that he thinks he can keep Big Mama (The Condenser) goin' another summer! Godde is good.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Happy Celtic History Month
In our family, St. Patirck's Day begins on February 15th and ends on March 31, or Easter, whichever comes first. We play all all the Irish music CD's we have, over and over and over, until everyone but me goes mad and pulls out their hair. And we eat this recipe for Soda Bread frequently:
Bob McGuire's Soda Bread
1.75 C. buttermilk
1 beaten egg
.25 C. melted, cooled butter
Mix the above. Set aside.
4 scant C. unbleached (King Arthur) flour or 3 C. unbleached, 1 C. fresh whole wheat
1/2 C. white sugar
1 T. caraway seeds
2 C. golden raisins
1 t. baking powder
MIx in large bowl. Add the liquid ingredients, stir carefully but thoroughly. Then stir in, quickly,
1 t. baking SODA.
The dough should be rather soft, like a tender biscuit dough, not too stiff. That is why I said scant cups of flour, but it should not be actually wet. If it is, carefully and quickly add a tad more flour.
Pat into a 10" circle, slash a cross about 1/4 inch deep across the top, and bake at 325 for about an hour. I use a baking stone, but have used a cookie sheet successfully in the past - be sure to grease it if you do.
Test by thumping it , if it sounds hollow, it is done. Put it on a rack, and cover it with an irish linen tea towel, and cool it to room temperature. Cut and serve with strawberry jam and strong tea. It should have a crunchy crust and a tender crumb.
For non-feast days, my Grandmother Annie made this without the fruit, and called it "Milk Bread", a staple in her house. She actually would rather have eaten cream puffs and napoleans, but such is life...
Bob McGuire's Soda Bread
1.75 C. buttermilk
1 beaten egg
.25 C. melted, cooled butter
Mix the above. Set aside.
4 scant C. unbleached (King Arthur) flour or 3 C. unbleached, 1 C. fresh whole wheat
1/2 C. white sugar
1 T. caraway seeds
2 C. golden raisins
1 t. baking powder
MIx in large bowl. Add the liquid ingredients, stir carefully but thoroughly. Then stir in, quickly,
1 t. baking SODA.
The dough should be rather soft, like a tender biscuit dough, not too stiff. That is why I said scant cups of flour, but it should not be actually wet. If it is, carefully and quickly add a tad more flour.
Pat into a 10" circle, slash a cross about 1/4 inch deep across the top, and bake at 325 for about an hour. I use a baking stone, but have used a cookie sheet successfully in the past - be sure to grease it if you do.
Test by thumping it , if it sounds hollow, it is done. Put it on a rack, and cover it with an irish linen tea towel, and cool it to room temperature. Cut and serve with strawberry jam and strong tea. It should have a crunchy crust and a tender crumb.
For non-feast days, my Grandmother Annie made this without the fruit, and called it "Milk Bread", a staple in her house. She actually would rather have eaten cream puffs and napoleans, but such is life...
Monday, January 24, 2005
Inauguration Day, Military Retiree Style
Well, Mr. Retired Army Officer scheduled his asshole scope for this Very Day! It was to be a real colonoscopy with knock-out juice, color photos to take home, things cut out for Lab Rats to cut up and look at, everything! And - he scheduled it for - 6 ayem. So he gets up at 4;30, wakes me up at 5:00, fully dressed, the paperwork in his hand. While I take a shower, he is sitting there, paper in hand. Nervous. Very nervous.I notice at the guarded gate to the Army post that a number of vehicles are being very thoroughly searched, but I have no worries, I have Military I.D.! And so, predictably, we arrive at Military Hospital # 3 at 5:45. The regular doors aren't even open, so he goes in the ER, waving me off irritably.I drive back home, wake up the 16 year old who was supposed to have set his alarm, gotten up, run, showered, and been ready to eat the Krispy Kremes I so thoughtfully bought on the way home for him. The way I wake teenagers up is way worse than any alarm clock. I begin by pounding loudly on the door, opening it screaming, throwing water on the sleeper and sending the dog onto the recumbant figure to lick his face. I was pissed, and I guess he figured that out, because he got up right away, ran to the shower, took a record short stay in the spray, and left with his girlfriend who is called Shawnee Woman in our house.After about another hour, I get a call from the nurse on the Asshole Wing telling me the Gas-Passer and the Ass-Master have released Mr. Retired Army Officer, so I head over there. By now, there is so much color commentary on the Inauguration Festivities, that I realize Inauguration Day is the reason for the "enhanced security" at the gate to Military Hospital #3. So I pull up to rescue My Man from the Ass- Master; and, yes, sure as shit, wouldn't you know MY CAR is "selected" for a "random check". I sigh, pull over, get out my ID card for which I had previously attested in writing that I understood by entering a US military installation I was giving up my rights to not be searched and seized. I am instructed to turn off my vehicle, get out, and surrender my cell phone and anything else with a battery in it. Because this is a loaner car, while mine is in the car hospital, I feel quite smug, for there is virtually nothing of mine in the car except my wallet, my garage door opener, and my cell phone. "This will be a piece of cake. That's why they picked me", I say to myself with an easy-going tiny smug smile. Well, they take said ID card off to a little hut, hustle me out, instruct me open every car door, which I do quite calmly, then proceed to take apart my garage door opener and my cell phone, punching buttons on each. I'm thinking, "Dumb Ass, that's a great way to blow yourself up if there are explosives in this vehicle", just as the bomb dog comes out of the little hut and "alerts", by standing at the rear of the rental van that doesn't even have a gum wrapper in it. So there is a bit more urgency to the voices now, and more guys come over with more mirrors and a walkie-talkie - not the cool Secret Service type that discretely come out of the left cuff, but the big, clunky, old, scratched ones they give the soldiers - you know, the ones that are sorta like the old, ragged, non-kevlar, woodlands patterned vests they give the soldiers in the deserts of Iraq? - and I begin to lose my little smile. A guard asks me in a very urgent voice, "Ma'am, Ma'am what do these keys open?"; and I look and see two strange, squat keys in his hands, which he is trying in the ignition, in the glove box, anything with a keyhole. I told him I had never seen them before, and he said he found them in the compartment under the front passenger seat. Then began a sort of flurry of walkie-talkie-ing, mirror looking, and whispered conversation. They took out the rear seat, pulled up the carpet, and looked for a lock box welded into the car body, ideal for hiding drugs or plastic explosives. Now, remember, there is a nurse waiting with Mr. Retired Officer for me, I can't call the clinic because they have my phone, and I am beginning to be rather urgently questioned about why I have a rental car, my purpose for entering the installation ("Because my husband just had a colonoscopy and excision of multiple polyps by your boy Ass-Master who looks younger than my 16 year old who doesn't get out of bed in the mornings, Moron."), and I am being approached by two MP's who are getting out of a black SUV, who are handed my ID card - remember my ID card? - the one that was to get me out of this Inaugural Security Circle Jerk? Well, it was EXPIRED. And I was the Major Excitement for the day. "Ma'am", I am told, "we need to see another form of identification. Your ID card is expired, and we have confiscated it. You will be issued a receipt for it, and you will be escorted to the clinic to pick up your husband. If you do not have a valid driver's license, your car will be impounded." "Fair enough," think I. And after my valid driver's license is validated, I am accompanied by an MP SUV to the hospital door, told to leave my car unlocked, the hazard lights on, and to get Mr. Retired Officer. As I am going in the door, some very old, very shriveled, very disabled old bat with more wrinkles than a 5-year-old dollar bill harrumphs, and says to nobody in particular, "How does SHE rate parking right up front?
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Little Tucker C.
I am getting a big kick out of all the schadenfreude about poor little Tucker Carlson getting riffed from Crossfire, and Crossfire maybe even getting the ax. I think it is CNN with it's (middle) finger to the wind, betting that the tipping point is near.
What really interests me is, will PBS dump him after so hurriedly hiring him to add diversity to it's shows, including News Hour? When he started showing up on PBS, I turned it off, and gave up. What the hell were they thinking hiring Baby Rush in a bow tie? Did the bow tie somehow convince the powers that be at PBS that he is an intellectual? Or is PBS trying to quietly keep the wolves (remember the wolves?) from the gate of the quaint PBS Village?
So maybe my read on CNN's bet is just wishful thinking. I am still wearing black.
Tonight I am catering a salad supper for 45 teachers, even though it is 36 degrees here in South Texas. They are getting spinach salad with white balsamic dressing, and finger Caesar salads stuffed with long garlic crouton and julienned parmesan. As a side they are getting mini empanadas.
What really interests me is, will PBS dump him after so hurriedly hiring him to add diversity to it's shows, including News Hour? When he started showing up on PBS, I turned it off, and gave up. What the hell were they thinking hiring Baby Rush in a bow tie? Did the bow tie somehow convince the powers that be at PBS that he is an intellectual? Or is PBS trying to quietly keep the wolves (remember the wolves?) from the gate of the quaint PBS Village?
So maybe my read on CNN's bet is just wishful thinking. I am still wearing black.
Tonight I am catering a salad supper for 45 teachers, even though it is 36 degrees here in South Texas. They are getting spinach salad with white balsamic dressing, and finger Caesar salads stuffed with long garlic crouton and julienned parmesan. As a side they are getting mini empanadas.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Chaos on I-10, heading this way!
What that means is, my grandkids are coming...
Sam, a randomly OCD 4 year old, whose saving grace is that he panics if he doesn't have a book or two at hand, and some chocolate tucked away somewhere handy, is coming with his sister, Molly, the absolutely sweetest ADHD kiddo in the whole world (and that includes her Uncle Bubby, who is my LAST baby, and still living at home), his Mom, Gillie Bear, and her husband, Ned. Ned is the Sackett our daughter married. His family lives in Cut And Shoot, Texas, no shit.
This family holiday will closely resemble Robert Earl Keen's. I plan to keep Ned sedated with heavily spiked egg nog and heavily spiked fruitcake. That is an important part of a Sackett celebration. Molly wants shrimp and pigs in a blanket. Sam is getting a chocolate cake, which has been an excellent management tool for the last week. His mom has been threatening him with not going to Noni's house for chocolate cake if he doesn't leave her alone while she is on the computer.
This chocolate cake is, embarrassingly, made from a HEB brand mix, with coffee instead of water, and an additional 3 tablespoons of Valhrona cocoa. To Sam it will be a slice of heaven, to everybody else, acceptable. It proudly stands on my mother's footed cake plate (she used it 4 times in my memory).
Larry, otherwise known as Butch, my spouse the clergyman, will be worried about ice. Will there be enough? So every few hours he will go to the store for another few 10lb bags that I have no room for in the freezer. The bags will sit in the sink, melting, so I can't wash dishes. So he will see it melting and go out for more, while the perfectly good icemaker in the Costco fridge will be tsk-tsking, wishing Butch would let her do her job.
Molly will not fall asleep until we threaten her with extreme bodily harm or a midnight trip back east along I-10. She will then cry herself to sleep. In my bed. My kingsized bed, with the dog. There will be room enough only for Butch and the cat. Butch will not move Molly to the floor, so guess who will sleep on the floor? Certainly not the dog. She had heartworns when we rescued her, and had heartworm chemotherapy two years ago, so God forbid she should sleep on the (carpeted) floor. Even though the floor is so nicely covered with her beautiful golden hair.
Butch will sleep on the floor, as a good Christian husband should do. Then he will wake up before everybody else, potty the dog, make coffee, go get Krispy Kremes and a paper. The reason he has to go out to buy a paper is because I got so pissed off that our local paper endorsed Bush, that I cancelled the subscription. Butch can't do without a paper, so he buys one from the guys that sell them at the freeway "get ons". Each day has it's own vendor. He gives them a dollar for a 50 cent paper, so it ends up costing us not only gas, but more actual money for me to protest our paper's misguided stupidity. Or plain cynical malevolence, whichever. He will come home from Krispy Kreme and Ned will be drinking coffee, Sam will be eating cake and reading a book, Molly will have cartoons on VERY LOUD, and I will be in desperate for doughnuts or drugs.
Happy New Year.
Sam, a randomly OCD 4 year old, whose saving grace is that he panics if he doesn't have a book or two at hand, and some chocolate tucked away somewhere handy, is coming with his sister, Molly, the absolutely sweetest ADHD kiddo in the whole world (and that includes her Uncle Bubby, who is my LAST baby, and still living at home), his Mom, Gillie Bear, and her husband, Ned. Ned is the Sackett our daughter married. His family lives in Cut And Shoot, Texas, no shit.
This family holiday will closely resemble Robert Earl Keen's. I plan to keep Ned sedated with heavily spiked egg nog and heavily spiked fruitcake. That is an important part of a Sackett celebration. Molly wants shrimp and pigs in a blanket. Sam is getting a chocolate cake, which has been an excellent management tool for the last week. His mom has been threatening him with not going to Noni's house for chocolate cake if he doesn't leave her alone while she is on the computer.
This chocolate cake is, embarrassingly, made from a HEB brand mix, with coffee instead of water, and an additional 3 tablespoons of Valhrona cocoa. To Sam it will be a slice of heaven, to everybody else, acceptable. It proudly stands on my mother's footed cake plate (she used it 4 times in my memory).
Larry, otherwise known as Butch, my spouse the clergyman, will be worried about ice. Will there be enough? So every few hours he will go to the store for another few 10lb bags that I have no room for in the freezer. The bags will sit in the sink, melting, so I can't wash dishes. So he will see it melting and go out for more, while the perfectly good icemaker in the Costco fridge will be tsk-tsking, wishing Butch would let her do her job.
Molly will not fall asleep until we threaten her with extreme bodily harm or a midnight trip back east along I-10. She will then cry herself to sleep. In my bed. My kingsized bed, with the dog. There will be room enough only for Butch and the cat. Butch will not move Molly to the floor, so guess who will sleep on the floor? Certainly not the dog. She had heartworns when we rescued her, and had heartworm chemotherapy two years ago, so God forbid she should sleep on the (carpeted) floor. Even though the floor is so nicely covered with her beautiful golden hair.
Butch will sleep on the floor, as a good Christian husband should do. Then he will wake up before everybody else, potty the dog, make coffee, go get Krispy Kremes and a paper. The reason he has to go out to buy a paper is because I got so pissed off that our local paper endorsed Bush, that I cancelled the subscription. Butch can't do without a paper, so he buys one from the guys that sell them at the freeway "get ons". Each day has it's own vendor. He gives them a dollar for a 50 cent paper, so it ends up costing us not only gas, but more actual money for me to protest our paper's misguided stupidity. Or plain cynical malevolence, whichever. He will come home from Krispy Kreme and Ned will be drinking coffee, Sam will be eating cake and reading a book, Molly will have cartoons on VERY LOUD, and I will be in desperate for doughnuts or drugs.
Happy New Year.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Cheap Democratic Soup
Some bacon, diced (as much as you can afford)
1 small onion, cut up
half a bell pepper, cut up
2 cans (about 16 oz each) navy beans, white beans, anything but expensive Italian Cannelinis
a bit of butter (again, if you can afford it)
a bit of leftover rice is nice
water
Frizzle the bacon in a large skillet. Add the onion and bell pepper, saute until limp. Add butter, if used. Pour into the pan the 2 cans of beans, liquid included. Add enough water to completely cover by 1 inch, and cook about 45 minutes on low, or until water is reduced by half. Add the cooked rice, if used, mash the stuff until about half the beans are mush, and serve. A little fresh thyme would be nice as an understated, small garnish. Serves 4 for supper, with bread and/or salad.
1 small onion, cut up
half a bell pepper, cut up
2 cans (about 16 oz each) navy beans, white beans, anything but expensive Italian Cannelinis
a bit of butter (again, if you can afford it)
a bit of leftover rice is nice
water
Frizzle the bacon in a large skillet. Add the onion and bell pepper, saute until limp. Add butter, if used. Pour into the pan the 2 cans of beans, liquid included. Add enough water to completely cover by 1 inch, and cook about 45 minutes on low, or until water is reduced by half. Add the cooked rice, if used, mash the stuff until about half the beans are mush, and serve. A little fresh thyme would be nice as an understated, small garnish. Serves 4 for supper, with bread and/or salad.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)