This is the way the world ends ...

I had a last supper, so to speak, and it was anything but vegan.  A few days before my gastric bypass surgery eight years ago, we headed over to a very fine steakhouse where I shkoffed down Oysters Rockefeller, a large steak with sides, home baked bread, and some kind of dessert involving chocolate.  I might have also had a salad.  I know I had a drink.  Today, I would have problems getting down any of that foodly bountitude.  Seriously, half a drink, one cooked oyster, and a bite of steak. Is it worth it?  Yeah, it's worth it.  It's just not always comfortable.

Whether tomorrow is Judgment Day, or the world ends on December 21, 2012, or I die at my desk at age 100, I really would like to have a last meal worthy of the occasion but in keeping with my altered gastric state.  There is one food I can eat reasonably well with a minimum of discomfort, and that is lobster.  I want lobster, lots of lobster with lots of butter, and more lobster with that white sauce they serve you at Kobe's Japanese Steakhouse, and then more lobster the way they used to make it at Al Steiner's on Chestnut Street in Cedarhurst, stuffed with exquisite crabmeat.  Lobster and butter, is there any better way to go out?

Dystopia are a writer's best friend.  For some reason, almost everybody really gets into those stories about the future where everything goes wrong.  Some disaster flicks are awesome.  Others are barely so-so.  My all-time favorite disaster flick is the appropriately named "Armageddon", with Bruce Willis and a disturbingly normal Billy Bob Thornton.  Runner up is "I am Legend", a film so frighteningly real that I've only watched it once.  The scariest part for me, besides the zombies, is the price of gasoline at the abandoned stations.  Is it just coincidence that the price of regular gas is approaching $6.66 a gallon?  I think not ...

To a great number of Christians, however, the story of Judgment Day is not a work of science fiction, but a future event as real as death and taxes.  The thing is, God is a bit whimsical, and to keep his children on their toes, he left clues to all these signs and portents but failed to provide the date and time of the main event.  So for over two millenia, humans the world over have been trying to parse the truth out of Biblical passages which can be read any number of ways.  Apparently, there is one dude who is so sure that his truth is the whole truth and nothing but the truth, he has spent a good part of his fortune on getting the word out:

The end of the world will be at exactly 6 p.m. on May 21, 2011, says (89-year-old Oakland-based Harold) Camping, who along with his organization, Family Radio, are behind those billboards across the country forecasting the Rapture this Saturday. The Rapture, the Last Days, Armageddon and the Final Days of Judgment are all interchangeable. It's when God will destroy the Earth to show his love for humanity. . .

The Rapture is at 6 p.m. on May 21, 2011, where ever it's 6 p.m. first, with the "fantastically big" world-ending event taking place on a time zone by time zone basis.

That means we can expect the Rapture to start when it hits 6 p.m. at the International Dateline at 180 Longitude -- roughly  between Pago Pago, American Samoa, and Nuku'alofa, Tonga. We'll know it's Judgment Day because there will be an earthquake of previously unprecedented magnitude, Camping predicts.

So, according to these calculations, the Rapture will actually begin like a rolling brown out across the globe at 11 p.m. PST on Friday, May 20th. "Everyone will be weeping and wailing because they'll know in a few hours it'll come to their city," said Camping.

Which I think makes it 2 a.m., EST on Saturday, May 21st.  Since I'm almost always awake at that hour, I'll let you know what happens.

In this last of meeting places

We grope together

And avoid speech

Gathered on this beach of the tumid river . . .

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

                                             - T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"

Brave New World

Thursday I had an obligatory visit at my doctor's office.  Obligatory because if I do not show up at least once a year, the doctor will not issue a prescription for the medication I have been taking, successfully and with no side effects, for thirty years, and which keeps my heart from over-fluttering.  The ARNP who checked me out was a very pleasant and professional young lady who confided in me that she had been working on her mother for ten years, and apparently mom still was refusing to go have a colonoscopy done.  Maybe refuse is too strong of a word.  Decline is better.  That's what I did, decline.  She asked me when I'd had my last mammogram and Pap smear, and did not pass out when I told her it must have been early 2006.  Then she mentioned the colonoscopy, and I politely demurred, adding "I don't take flu shots either."  To her credit, I did not get a lecture, but just a gentle reminder that she hoped I would think about having these things done.  Then she gave me a scrip for a panoply of blood tests.  I'm anemic, so taking my blood doesn't make my day any better.  Those are fasting blood tests, so after midnight I can have nothing but water, although she did say that in the morning, I could have water and black coffee.  I might consider it, since the black coffee was thrown in.

I suppose there are very good reasons for my submitting to being prodded and poked, and in no way do I want to encourage anyone to follow in my footsteps.  I am all for preventative medicine ... for other people.  Oddly enough, needles don't bother me, and my experience with the medical profession has been, for the most part, positive.  I don't fear doctors or nurses or phlebotimists or even technicians who turn my chest into a bosom pancake. My bosoms always bounce back, so to speak.  No harm, no foul.

What I dislike is getting caught up in an endless cycle of doctor visits, laboratory tests, and prescription medication.  My personal manner of preventive medicine has been benign neglect, and so far it has worked.  The few times I have had real health issues, I went to a doctor and took care of it.  I take two prescriptions, and two only, and that is only because they are vital to my ability to function.  I respect and envy people who have the discipline to take supplements that improve the quality of life, but I won't even take a vitamin pill.  I realize that one day this pigheadedness is likely to get me into trouble. 

On the other hand, I don't smoke, I rarely drink and never in quantity, and I don't abuse drugs, legal or illegal, so that should count for something.  Genetically, I stand a chance of hitting my century mark.  My biological relatives on both sides had long life in their genes, and despite having been born at the turn of the last century without the advantages of modern medicine, all lived well into their eighties and nineties.

I think that the "better living through chemistry" mindset has overtaken our society.  We drug our kids when they are young, and then we wonder why they turn so easily to street drugs in their teen years.  There are legitimate uses for medication in kindergarten, I suppose, but a burnt out teacher with a room full of boisterous kids isn't one of them.  (Neither is a foster parent who can't be bothered to try to work with a child the old fashioned way before screaming for the child to be put on meds).  I'm still annoyed that my son's kindergarten teacher suggested Ritalin because he was a bit of a motor mouth.  Imagine that, a five year old boy who talks a lot and doesn't enjoy sitting  at his desk like a little soldier for six stultifying hours, listening to La Vaca Grande drone on.  After Rob asked when she had gotten her medical degree, we had his classroom changed. 

When the time comes, when I have no other choice, I'll take my medicine, but until then, I'll take my chances.  At least my mind is clear and my kidneys aren't overworked from processing poisons.

It's a wonder my blood pressure hasn't gone through the roof ... the cat got at my knitting again.  Fortunately, I had not switched over to my brand-spanking new size 9 bamboo needles, but he messed with the yarn to the extent I had to frog back several hours of work.  Bummer. 

In the news:

• The Food Police are trying to get Ronald McDonald fired.  Why should I care, I hate clowns.
• The CDC has warned the public to prepare for a Zombie Apocalypse.*
• A mother in California has been injecting her 8 year old aspiring beauty queen daughter with Botox to improve her looks.  Fortunately, child protective services removed the child from her custody.
• An organization in San Francisco has gathered enough signatures to put a proposal banning circumcision on the ballot.  All the Jewish residents are going to have to flee to "haven cities" to get their kids snipped on the eighth day.
• Newt Gingrich steps on his own ... *ahem* ... while wearing golf shoes, after attacking his party's economic program.  If you like train wrecks, this is the candidate to watch
• Is Saturday, May 21, 2011 "Judgment Day"?  If it is, my courtroom bud Trish has the right idea in holding off paying her bills until Monday.
• President's Mideast Discourse Elicits Dissonant Responses in U.S. and Abroad - oops, looks like Obama just borrowed Newt's golf shoes.  Quel mistake, Mr. President.  You can't fix things in the Middle East by forcing Israel to return to pre-1967 borders.  Hope you have other sources of campaign dollars, if you know what I mean.

*If zombies ever start taking over the planet, the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) says we'd better be prepared for it.

If the undead really start roaming the earth looking for fresh brains to eat, we can't rely on our ability to shoot 'em dead the way people do in video games or in horror flicks. Instead, the agency says, we need to treat it like any other disaster.

"So what do you need to do before zombies…or hurricanes or pandemics for example, actually happen? First of all, you should have an emergency kit in your house," Dr. Ali S. Khan, assistant surgeon general of the United States, wrote in a blog on CDC's web site. "This includes things like water, food, and other supplies to get you through the first couple of days before you can locate a zombie-free refugee camp."

When I mentioned this article to my son, he became quite animated.  We all agree that in the event of a zombie apocalypse, the emergency kit should include water, food, medication, and ordnance - you know, military supplies like weapons, ammunition, combat vehicles.  My son, the Eagle Scout, still lives by the Boy Scout motto:   

 

"Be Prepared."

 

 Or maybe that should be "Live long and prosper."  

Have a happy happy joy joy day.  Let's hope the evangelists are wrong about the Rapture, but if they are correct, it has been a pleasure blogging with you.  See you on the other side.

The dog ate my homework, the cat ate my knitting, and the family ate my split pea soup

Tuesday was a pretty good day, but Wednesday, which started immediately after I posted the May 18th post, is already down the tubes.  I'm in a funk, a fury, and a bad mood (reminds me of a scene from Howard the Duck, but I won't even go there), and it's not even 2 AM.

I committed the cardinal mistake of leaving my knitting on the couch while I worked on the computer.  When I came back, the knitting was on the floor, one of the needles was missing, and the project was half off of the remaining needle.  I found the missing needle, plus the missing endpieces from both needles, and what looked to be the remains of my row counter widget.

Wait, it gets worse.  Some years ago, I switched from metal knitting needles to bamboo (with an occasional foray into rosewood) for most projects.  Wooden needles are warmer to the touch, much easier on the hands, and less likely to drop a stitch like those slippery metal needles.  That's the good part.  The bad part is that some of my cats are fatally attracted to the wooden needles, and love to chew on them.  I don't want to speak ill of the dead, but Dora was the prime offender.  I suspect that her twin, Dejah Thoris, has taken up Dora's cause, perhaps with the assistance of a certain playful pup named Indiana.  Once the needles are chewed on, they are useless ... the yarn gets caught, pulls, and the project is ruined.

I got started on a search and rescue mission, but nothing was salvageable except the project itself, which needed to be brushed off and put back on a pair of intact needles.  Of course, I did not have a spare set of size 9 single pointed wooden needles, so I had to resort to metal.  The cat hates metal needles.  And I managed to scare up one ill-fitting widget.  So after court, I'm taking my lunch hour down the road to Joann's to pick up size 9 single point bamboo needles and a proper widget.  UPDATE:  still using the metal needles.  They work with this type of yarn, and I have been too busy to shlep to Joann's or Michael's.

Now that the weather is getting warmer, I want to be done with all my scarves and little sweaters, and switch back over to knitting socks.  Nice, small projects which don't take up a lot of room on one's lap, or smother one in unwanted warmth.  Living in Florida during The Menopause Years is quite enough warmth for me, thank you.

Which hasn't stopped me from craving a bowl of homemade split pea soup, so that is what I put on to cook when I got home from work.  You will be able to find the recipe with all the other recipes at the recipe blog.  Sydni, I hope you are reading this, because when I made it, I was thinking of you.  No meat whatsoever, my dear.  This is the way my mother always made it when I lived at home, and I didn't realize people put ham bones or frankfurters into their pea soup until I went to college and got out in the world.  But really, there are so many soup recipes that have meat or chicken or seafood in them, it is nice to really taste just the veggies once in a while. I can assure you, this soup is so good you will not miss the meat (and with the price of meat these days, that is, as Martha would say, a good thing.)

In the beginning, there were vegetables and dried legumes in one pot, and onions with butter in another ... and it was good

I have been getting ready for my cruise, and one item of importance is reading material.  Since I equate relaxation with reading, and since I read at a frightening rate, I need to be prepared by having with me at least one book for each day of travel.  So I have been having fun downloading ebooks into the Kindle app for iPhone.  Part of the fun is finding new authors and finding good bargains.  Since I stick to one genre for entertainment - mysteries - I spend a lot of time perusing through old favorites, new favorites, and those endless lists of recommendations.  I love recommendations.  I have found a bunch of new authors by checking out those recommendations.  The best part is that in order to get you interested in a new series, Amazon will offer the first book for free or some ridiculously reduced price.  So in addition to the usual suspects: Rex Stout, Ellery Queen, Patricia Cornwell, Lilian Jackson Braun, Janet Evanovich, Kathy Reichs, Tess Gerritsen, Karin Slaughter, Sue Grafton, Jane Haddam, J.A. Jance, Faye Kellerman, Diane Mott Davidson, Sara Paretsky and Linda Fairstein, I have been introduced to a veritable pantheon of mystery-writing giants.  Lee Childs is at the top of that list, and J.A. Konrath (Jack Kilborn) is a gem.  Another nice thing is rediscovering the golden oldies, and that brings me to the book I am currently reading - The Mysterious Affair at Styles, by Agatha Christie.  This, the very first Hercule Poirot book, was published in the U.S. in 1920, and when reference is made to the war which affected the lives of both Poirot and Hastings, Dame Agatha is, of course, referring to the Great War, the War to End all Wars.  What is absolutely wonderful, to me anyway, is that although the book is set almost a century ago, and in England of all places, there is nothing stuffy or even old-fashioned about it.  Her writing feels contemporary, despite the lack of DNA evidence or other CSI-type wonders now taken for granted.

Crap, I forgot all about Ngaio Marsh and P.D. James ...

Never mind ... this soup is so good ...

Heaven ... I'm in heaven ... indescribably delicious.  Comfort in a bowl. 

Later, came crashing to earth.  On the Cooking Channel, "Iron Chef" is showing Battle Natto, with a much-younger Morimoto being targeted by the infamous "Ohta Faction."  Natto beans are one of the more disgusting foods in the world, and without a doubt the most disgusting secret ingredient.   I keep thinking they must mean "snotto beans" because ... well, a picture really is worth a thousand words:

I'm sure I can get those beans a guest shot on the SyFy Network.

Good One

Tuesday was a lovely day.  It was warm and breezy.  I had a full morning in court, which I loved.  I found a place where I could get Hostess Sno-Balls and Drake's Cherry Fruit Pies.  I spent my lunch hour on the banks of a retention pond, reading, knitting, and enjoying the breeze.

Not such a good day for Arnold Schwarzenegger.  Apparently, he finally came clean about a child he fathered about 14 years ago while the mother worked in the home he shared with his wife and children.  How utterly tawdry.  Why is it that politicians and actors or any combination thereof, cannot keep their pants zipped?

And while we are on the topic of politicians who cannot keep it zipped - Newt Gingrich, twice divorced for cheating on the spouse of the moment, is already in trouble with his own party for dissing their budget, publicly, loud and clear.  I love to see Republicans eat their own.  I also love to see Democrats eat their own.  Remember, I'm a rational anarchist and I think both major parties, as well as the Libertarian party and any other organized political party, are a blight on America.

The Final Chapter:  Osama in the Ninth Circle of Hell

Well, Mr. Bin Ladin, here we are at long last.  The Ninth Circle of Hell, as conceived by Dante Alighieri, was reserved for the worst sinners in history, those who are guilty of treachery - treachery to family, state, guests, and to God.  Let's skip Rounds 1 through 4, and get to the main event.  I know you have been anxious and excited about meeting the Main Man of Hell.   You know him as Shaitan or maybe you prefer Iblis.  Not that it matters what you prefer, and he's running the show now, and he prefers to be called "Lucifer." 

So now, you have reached the center of Hell.  There have been some changes since Dante "built" this place in the Middle Ages, and I think you'll like the new accommodations.  Here's how it works ... oh, are you cold?  Sorry ... according to Wikipedia, Dante decided that contrary to the conventional vision of Hell being a pit of everlasting flames, Satan, who has somehow acquired two extra heads, is waist deep in ice, weeping tears from his six eyes, and beating his six wings as if trying to escape, although the icy wind that emanates only further ensures his imprisonment (as well as that of the others in the ring). Each face has a mouth that chews on a prominent traitor, with Brutus and Cassius feet-first in the left and right mouths respectively. These men were involved in the assassination of Julius Caeser—an act which, to Dante, represented the destruction of a unified Italy and the killing of the man who was divinely appointed to govern the world. In the central, most vicious mouth is Judas Iscariot—the betrayer of Jesus. Judas is being administered the most horrifying torture of the three traitors, his head gnawed by Satan's mouth, and his back being forever skinned by Satan's claws.

What we do now - there being so many new sinners to deal with - that the worst of the lot (and that includes you) will rotate into the Inner Circle on a regular schedule.  The rest of the time, you will be assigned to an appropriate upper Circle, so in your case, you can expect to spend a good deal of eternity dog-paddling in the boiling blood and fire of the River Phlegethon.  But as the new sinner on the block, so to speak, you are going to get first crack at a place by Satan's side, or under his wings.  Sorry, bad joke.  So say a quick hello to Adolf Hitler, to your right, and Vlad the Impaler to your left.  You lucky dog, you get to take center stage for the next millennium or whenever you rotate out.  Don't worry about that turban, Satan likes to constantly gnaw on the head of whoever occupies that spot. 

I'll be taking my leave of you now, Osama bin Ladin.  For the rest of eternity, you may think on the irony that you were led to the very center of Hell for an eternity of torturous punishment, by an American Jewish lady from New York.  Well, gotta go, back to the sun and fun of Florida, back to America, the land of opportunity, fast food, and religious freedom.  But let me leave you with a little eternal earworm ...  "no phone, no lights, no motor cars, not a single luxury; like Robinson Crusoe, as primitive as can be."  Now THAT'S torture!

For the memory of Michael Opperman. 

If at first you don't succeed

I just realized that during Blogger's maintenance down time, the internet managed to eat my post from Thursday, May 12th.  It is gone forever, and I am saddened and a little annoyed.  All I can remember is that I was ranting about passwords and PIN numbers.  If you try to click on the link from Facebook, you will be told the page does not exist.  I am sincerely sorry about that.

Why I love Sunday:  my boys are watching "Tron Legacy" after a Big Breakfast of eggs scrambled with tri-color bell peppers, onions, and sausage crumble, and a pound of bacon sprinkled with brown sugar and baked off in a 425 degree oven.  I am enjoying my second cup of coffee.  The hallmark of a really good cup of coffee is how it tastes when you drink it black, and that is the only way I have drunk coffee for many years.  This coffee, the Lady's Double Chocolate Cream, is exceptional, and we picked it up at the Paula Deen store in Savannah and had it ground there.  I've always been wary of "flavored" coffees, as I can usually pick up an off-taste from the flavoring, but this is so smooth and natural I have been drinking it every morning since we came home after our weekend there.  I am also very wary of products that are hawked by celebrity chefs, and it sometimes looks like Paula Deen has put her name on every conceivable type of marketable product, but all I can tell you is that the coffee is superb.  I feel an online order in my future.  I also feel relaxed, at peace with the world.  Call me a homebody, but as far as I am concerned, this is what it is all about.  Life is good.

The loaf is upside down

I developed a recipe for what I am calling "Out of Season Peach Bread", extrapolating from my recipe for cranberry nut bread.  I am hoping that a quick bread works even better than the pound cake (although everyone who tasted it thought it quite good), but will have to let you know later.  UPDATE:  I OFFICIALLY GIVE UP ON PEACH BREAD.  I am not pleased with the taste, nor the texture.  Despite being a heavier quick bread batter, the damn peaches sank again, and while it came out of the pan without difficulty, the bottom of the loaf was unpleasant.

Christopher Eccleston, Matt Smith, David Tennant - the Ninth, Eleventh, and Tenth Doctors

Change can be good:  I hate to admit this, after my online rants, but the Eleventh Doctor is beginning to grow on me.  Maybe it's just that I like the Doctor Who franchise so much that I will go with Whoever plays the Doctor.  Perhaps it is because the writing remains top notch and the stories hook me in.  Or it could just be that I need a break from endless reruns of Guy Fieri's Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives.

I caught this news article today.  Could not miss the headline: 

Boy abused by mother, then child-welfare system

"The torture started before the Leesburg boy reached his second birthday. His mother severely beat him for crawling into another child's crib.

For the next several years, she ground the soaring spirit of that child into ashes. She and her boyfriend slapped, punched and hit the boy. The couple drank, did drugs and got into fistfights in front of him. They made sure he knew that he mattered to them about as much as a pile of stinking garbage.

Eventually, the boyfriend left, and other men started coming around. His mother let them have sex with his 9-year-old sister, and he got to watch. He remembers it. And he remembers his mother forcing him into sex acts with some of the men.

State child-protection workers would investigate complaints of filthy conditions, bruises and welts from excessive corporal punishment and lack of supervision on four occasions between January 2000 and November 2003, when they finally took him and his sister away and put them in foster homes.

The healing should have started there, but the state Department of Children & Families sometimes dispenses its own barbaric brand of neglect. And this unfortunate child came in for a heaping measure."

This is the world in which I work.

I don't know who bears the majority of the blame (other than the mother), but there will no doubt be a major administrative review of everything and everyone touching that case.  It is particularly disturbing that this happened in Lake County, the site of two of the most egregious cases highlighting the state's failure to protect it's children:  Bradley McGee in 1989, and Kayla McKean in 1998. 

The reason I bring this up is to point out that in the case discussed in the above article, it was not DCF that was responsible for monitoring the child's placement in foster care, and therefore was not the "dispenser of barbaric neglect" as alleged by the reporter. Thanks to the Legislature passing laws requiring privatization, those responsibilities were farmed out to case management organizations, in an attempt to save money and strip DCF of the tremendous power it had once held as the umbrella agency known as HRS (the Department of Health and Rehabilitative Services).  Of course, if the child was not timely removed after the earlier investigations, that may well have been the responsibility of DCF, as they are still doing child protective investigations in most counties. Or it could have been the county sheriff's office, and DCF not involved at all.  It would be nice if just once the media got it right.

Here is the problem, as I see it, with all this privatization jazz: the CMOs, as we call them in our alphabet-happy world, are not uniform in quality across the state, or even within a particular county where more than one CMO may be providing services.  Balkanization of protective services, foster care, and adoption services has been, in my opinion, a failure.  CMOs and/or their lead agencies (yet another level of privatization - pray, tell me where are those savings?) are particularly reluctant to criticize a foster home that they have previously vetted and licensed.  The result is substandard foster homes, plain and simple.

The other reason I bring this up is to point out that the budget for child protective and other social services is being slashed mercilessly by Governor Voldemort and the Florida Legislature.  I have been through these cycles before.  No good can come of it.  If DCF and the CMOs are struggling now with overworked investigators and case managers, resulting in an escalated employee turnover problem, leading to a bunch of new workers without sufficient training or resources, cutting the budget can only make it that much worse.  The other result of a ravaged budget is a reduction in available services to children, most importantly, psychological services of varying sorts (including the sexual trauma counseling referred to in the article.)

"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose" - The more things change, the more they stay the same.  I have seen some very positive changes in Florida's child protection over the past twenty years, but privatization is not one of them.



Sporting chance:  It's the Miami Heat and the Chicago Bulls competing for Eastern Conference winner.  Guess who I'm rooting for?  Big hint:  it's the team without the bad sport, foul-tempered bully.  UPDATE:  the Bulls swamped the Heat.  They tromped on their heads.  They kicked their butts.  They ... you get the idea.  Go Bulls!



True confessions:  I cheated.  (I had to put this up.  I am crazy about Mary Astor.)

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I was juiced to try out some recipes from Jane Butel's book Finger Lickin' Rib Stickin' Great Tastin' Barbecue.  Specifically, I wanted to prepare "Terry Johnson's Hawaiian Luau Barbecued Beef Ribs" and "Steve's Bermuda Lamb."  By the time I got back from Publix, I was in no mood to start slicing, dicing, chopping, and measuring the ingredients for the two different sauces.  So I cheated ... threw the lamb in a ziploc bag with some Sticky Finger's Carolina Classic, a mustard based sauce, and did the same to the beef, using Sticky Finger's Carolina Sweet Sauce.  Next stop, the oven.  I'll let you know how it all turns out.  UPDATE:  Very good!  I'll post the instructions on the recipe blog.

Beef back ribs on the left, country-style lamb "ribs" on the right

Still in search of

Peach Cobbler Bread

Fresh Peach Bread

Peach Bread

Heavenly Peach Bread

Peach Bread (epicurious)

Peaches 'N Cream Yeast Bread Recipe

Peach Bread (very moist)

and last but not least, my cranberry bread recipe.  Since it uses fresh cranberries, it stands to reason I might be able to swap out with fresh (or canned) peaches.

.

I wish it was that easy.

My Ira. Just thirteen years old this April 11th, if you count from this incarnation.   Technically speaking, he will be 35 this coming August 28th.  I suppose that may seem strange, coming as it is from an attorney, a logical individual known to be down to earth and not given to flights of fancy, but the simple truth is, I believe in God, ghosts, and the occasional reincarnation.  The proof is in the pussycat, and his name is Ira Carlos Cesar Arana Castaneda Morris Rothfeld.

More on that later, but right now, the issue is Ira sitting in my chair, pulling my hand away from the computer's mouse, stretching out on the keyboard, or climbing into my lap whenever I decide to sit down and write.  Not tuna, not kitty crunchies, not nothin' can distract him from his Holy Grail.

I believe that Ira thinks email, Delphi, Facebook and Google Blogger are creations of the Devil, because they divert my attention from him.  Of course he also feels the same way about those yappie dogs, Woody and Indiana, and Princess Polly, the other gray cat who has been known to nose him out of his position at my side, as well as all of my efforts at knitting.

 

Maybe he's right.  It seems Facebook and Google haven't been playing fair out there in cyberworld.  (But, my dear furry Muse, that won't keep me from writing.  I just hope somebody out there is reading.  Or cooking.)

Speaking of cooking (this is, nominally speaking, a food blog) I came across not one, but two interesting (read:  I want to run out and buy the ingredients and cook them today) recipes in a cool little cookbook I picked up 25, 30 years ago, by Jane Butel.

  I said it was cool and little. But a lot of big flavors inside.  Apparently, Jane Butel is credited with having started the Tex-Mex food craze, and she conducts cooking classes which I would love to attend.  Unfortunately, she teaches in Arizona and New Mexico which sort of limits availability.  But when I checked out her site, I found this list of recipes.  Wow!  Did I hit the motherlode or what?  And before I headed out to Publix!  Some might call that serendipity.  I call that dinner.

Update:  No cooking on Saturday, space rangers.  Rob and I headed out to Target for eyeglasses, and while we were there the skies opened up.  Thunder, lightning, buckets of water.  Once we were back in the car, we were not going to get out again to run into Publix.  Maybe tomorrow.  If not, there are still enough leftovers here to feed a family of six.  We are quite happy with the accomplishment of getting new glasses (and in Rob's case, an updated prescription) plus having all of our existing glasses tricked out with new nose pads.

 In the news: 

Which idiot jounalist described this hovel as a "mansion"?

Osama, you sorry excuse for a big, strong, powerful terrorist ... your organization has been reduced to threatening little old ladies.  Wow, that's some revenge they have planned!  Going after President Obama's grandma.  Shame on Al Qaeda, and shame on you.

Speaking of shame, we hope you got an earful from your colleagues in the Seventh Circle of Hell.  Or maybe not, since you've spent the last few days up to your ears in boiling blood and water.  Well, pull yourself together, man.  We've got a little roadtrip planned for you and you won't want to be late to the party.

First, the middle ring of the Seventh Circle.  Here are the suicides, those who have committed the ultimate act of violence against themselves.  I have to tell you, I have a problem with the original description of this ring, as I do not agree with Dante that all suicides should be punished in this manner.  Instead, I think this ring should be limited to those who suicide to escape punishment for their earthly crimes.  One of my favorite suicides is Hermann Goering, the one time Reichsmarshall of Nazi Germany.

Quite the imposing figure.  Of course he doesn't look like that anymore, as the evil suicides are transformed into gnarly trees and bushes and are fed upon by the Harpies.  So you may have some trouble locating your old buddy, Mohamed Ata, one of the most evil suicides in history.  Unless maybe that twig in the Harpies' mouth is him ...

Watch your step as we head in the Inner Ring ... here are the blasphemers, the sodomites, and the usurers.  I bet you feel right at home here in the desert of flaming sand, but don't get comfortable, we're just passing through.

Getting to the Eighth Circle is a bit of a problem as we will have to rely on available transportation down the cliff - which is to say, we have to catch a ride with Geryon.   Don't we fooled by his honest face; there's a real sting in his tail. 

I've convinced Geryon to do a fly-over, so that we can skip the endless Eighth Circle Bolgias and head for the bottom of the Ninth.  No, this isn't a trip to Yankee Stadium, you poor fool.  Hey, look down there at Bolgia 5 - there is a serious overcrowding problem there.  Corrupt politicians - meaning at least half of all politicians since the beginning of time - are immersed in a lake of boiling pitch.  What a reward for a life of public service!  Boss Tweed, Spiro Agnew, Fulgencio Batista, Ferdinand Marcos, just to name a few.

Speaking of politicians, I guess I missed this when it came out a few weeks ago:

"As Katie Couric gets set to leave CBS News after five years in the anchor chair, it doesn't appear as if Sarah Palin will be sending any flowers.  Appearing on Fox News Tuesday, Palin mocked the CBS newswoman who told People Magazine she is looking forward to a new position that will facilitate "multi-dimensional storytelling.""

Sour Grapes Sarah, just kwitcher bitchin' ... it's not Katie Couric's fault that you could not answer a most basic question during the 2008 campaign:

"In a series of interviews with Couric authorized by the McCain campaign, Palin stumbled over a number of questions, most memorably when asked, "When it comes to establishing your world view…what newspapers and magazines did you regularly read?"

Palin appeared unable to name a single publication – a performance for which she was much maligned – and later said she found the question insulting, as well as emblematic of a liberal slant in the mainstream media."

Not even the New York Times, Sarah?  Wall Street Journal, Time Magazine, Newsweek, Washington Post, The Guardian, Pravda ... you couldn't come up with anything?  And you're dissing Katie Couric?

Bygone Baklava and Bats in the Belfry

How could I forget the baklava?  Maybe it is because I am so busy remembering passwords and PIN numbers! 

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that Cory had expressed a craving for homemade baklava, and I was all set to make it, possibly using those cute little phyllo cups in the freezer section.  And then I got sideswiped ... by peaches-on-the-brain.  Bah. 

Blogger dashboards were unavailable for over a day, which meant that you could read, but I couldn't add any posts or do any editting to posts-in-progress.  I had a bunch of ideas whooshing through my brain, and for all I know they may still be there, but it is Friday night and I am so tired, that driving home was an adventure.  Once there, I headed for the couch and passed out for a few hours.  Getting older sucks, have I said that lately?

Best line of the week:  came from one of our CPIs (Child Protective Investigators) just today.  Here's the set-up:  this has been my week for shelter duty, which to the uninitiated means that if there is a shelter hearing, I'm the designated attorney to cover it.  We rotate this responsibility among six attorneys, so it is not terribly onerous.  This week, though, there were shelters every single day.  Hey, it happens.  Today, when I walked in, the CPI saw it was me, followed me up to the table with a big smile on her face and said, "I think you are becoming my favorite attorney!"  No idea what it was I had done that brought her to that conclusion, but it was nice, nonetheless.

Best picture of the week:  I've heard of bats in the belfry, but never termites in the belfry.  Imagine my surprise coming out of the "new" courthouse this morning, when I saw this:

In the 15 years I've been practicing here, I've never seen this being done, even when the old courthouse was being restored.  I wonder if this is the first time since it was built?  I can only imagine what kind of super-termite has taken up residence in a 120 year old building.  Anyway, by the time I returned for afternoon court, the termite guys had more than half the building wrapped up like a Romanesque Revival circus tent.

Mala Madre:  that's me.  My poor, sick son just came downstairs and asked if we had any soup (read: homemade) and all I had in the freezer was some tomato soup, not the sort of thing someone with a sore throat and upset stomach should be eating.  No chicken soup.  No Jewish penicillin.  No goldene yoich.  My child is suffering and he is having to rely on CANNED soup.  I am a failure as a mother.  First the baklava, now this.

But I did cook last night, trying out the recipe I had developed for chicken stroganoff.  Very tasty, indeed.  My boys approved, including Indy and Woody who somehow managed to convince Daddy to part with a little taste.  I will post the recipe in a little while, so if you are interested in a new chicken recipe (is there really such a thing?) check over at the recipe blog.

In the news:  can you believe Al Qaeda is sinking so low as to threaten the President's grandma?  Grandmas are sacrosanct, and only a bunch of crazed terrorists would single one out as a target.  And here's the other way of looking at it - the US takes out the most wanted man on Planet Earth, and the best his organization can do is threaten somebody's little old Kenyan granny?  Shame on Al Qaeda ...

Newt Gingrich is running for the Republican nomination for President.  Good God.  The Republicans tried to impeach Bill Clinton over his affair with Monica Lewinsky ... can you imagine them getting behind a candidate with this sort of baggage?

Gingrich has been married three times. In 1962, he married Jackie Battley, his former high school geometry teacher, when he was 19 years old and she was 26. In the spring of 1980, Gingrich left Battley after having an affair with Marianne Ginther. Detractors have often said that Gingrich visited Battley while she was in the hospital recovering from cancer surgery to discuss the details of their divorce, but Gingrich has disputed that account. His daughter, Jackie Gingrich Cushman, has written that it was her mother who requested the divorce, that it happened prior to the hospital stay (which was for the removal of a benign tumor, not cancer), and that Gingrich’s visit was for the purpose of bringing his children to see their mother, not to discuss the divorce.  Six months after the divorce from Battley was final, Gingrich wed Marianne Ginther in 1981.

In the mid-1990s, Gingrich began an affair with House of Representatives staffer Callista Bisek, who is 23 years his junior. They continued their affair during the Lewinsky scandal, when Gingrich was a leader of the Republican investigation of President Clinton for perjury in connection with his alleged affairs with Paula Jones and Monica Lewinsky.  In 2000, Gingrich married Bisek shortly after his divorce from second wife Ginther.

Fortunately, I have no loyalty to any political party, and if pressed, will advise that I am a Rational Anarchist.  If I was a Republican, I would be pulling my hair out over the available candidates ... Newt ... The Donald ... Sarah Palin ... Ron Paul.  The only one who comes close to qualified is Mitt Romney, and the chances of this country supporting a Mormon for President are about as good as the chances for a female or Jewish President ... which is to say, damn close to zero.

I Have a Dream

With all due respect, this post has nothing to do with the late Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.   It has to do with my dream of having a peaceful lunch hour under a tree, gazing out at the water.   It also has to do with my dream of having all of my favorite Robert Heinlein and Ellery Queen novels available on Kindle.

I've been dreaming about that quiet lunch for a couple of weeks now.  So every morning when I get to the office, I try to park under a certain tree.  It keeps my car cool, and it lets me hold out hope that I will relax there, on the banks of a retention pond, enjoying the shade, the breeze, and my knitting for a half hour or so.  On Monday, someone stole my parking tree.  On Tuesday, the tree was available, but I was pressed for time in the office and lunch was two bites of a Seven-Eleven Big Bite.  Even slathered with mustard and relish, it did not go down easily.  Maybe later today or maybe tomorrow ...  working in an industrial park these past few years has led me to appreciate the occasional shade trees and a glimpse of retention ponds that are well-populated with water fowl and ringed with cattails.  Sometime it is the simple things that bring the most pleasure.

I love Kindle, and I especially love the fact that I got it for free with my iPhone.  But it seems that many of the books I like to read and reread are not available on Kindle.  It might have something to do with the fact that some of those books are no longer in print, and that might have something to do with the fact that the authors of those books are all dead, and that might have something to do with the fact that my taste in murder mysteries was canalized in the middle of the last century, and that might have to do with the fact that I started out reading the mysteries which my grandmother had collected during her membership in various book clubs in the forties and early fifties.   Yes, I know it's a run-on sentence.  Just don't try to hold your breath while reading it, and you'll be just fine.

Now during the past year, Amazon has started to release a good number of Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe novels on Kindle.  And as I mentioned previously, they have also released some Ellery Queen novels.  Well, just two to be exact, and I've already downloaded and read one of them.  Same deal with Heinlein; I think they may be up to four books on Kindle, and those aren't the ones I want to read.  So I went to Amazon, found most of the books I wanted, and clicked on the magic button:

Tell the Publisher! I’d like to read this book on Kindle
That was all for today.  I have other dreams, but nothing that can't wait until another blog post. 

Oh, have I mentioned lately that I am a rabid Magic fan and that I love Dwight Howard?

Check this out:  on Monday night, Dwight Howard went on Twitter and indicated that the Orlando Sentinel is trying run him out of town just like Shaquille O’Neal.

“Y does it seem like the writers of Orlando sentinel are tryna push me out of Orlando with dumb articles. It’s annoying. Can I enjoy my summer and get ready for next season in Orlando. Pls. Same thing u guys did to Shaq. Smh”  Smh is Twitter language for ”shaking my head.”

He went on to say in some other tweets:  “I’m not blaming the media. I’m saying stop with the dumb articles. They don’t make be decision of mine. I jus don’t want Orlando fans to believe them. Cuz they don’t know. I love my city.”

So in response, Mike Bianchi over at the Orlando Sentinel whined like a little girl whose mother told her she had to wear the pink panties instead of the lavender ones, and tried to make excuses about how it was a sports writer's responsibility to gossip and speculate about what I like to call "facts not in evidence."

Hey Mike, why don't you shut yer piehole?  You're not reporting the news, you're making it up.  Perhaps you would be happier writing for a rag like the National Enquirer.  Over there, they're perfectly happy with gossip and innuendos.

Point of information, I still love Shaquille O'Neal.

Listen, these players have got to do what they've got to do.  The days when a player like Larry Bird or Patrick Ewing would spend his entire career with one team are long over.  Loyalty is apparently a misplaced value, not just on the part of the players, but very much on the part of the team ownership.  I'm still shaking my head over the Magic's most recent peremptory  move, trading away Vince Carter, Rashard Lewis, Marcin Gortat and Mickeal Pietrus.  Now don't get me wrong, I love seeing Hedo back in a Magic uniform, and I know Gortat wanted more court time, but I think Carter and Lewis were the type of loyal player who would have continued to serve the team well.  So for both sides, it's all business now, and we can't blame the players (well, except for Lebron James, but he's an ill-mannered bully) for taking steps to enhance their careers and earning potential.

Back to the title of this post:  I also have a dream of finding a great peach bread recipe.  The boys are quite pleased with the peach pound cake, as is, and I really think I just have make minor adjustments to avoid the peaches settling and it will be perfect.  So if I find a great peach bread recipe along with this great peach pound cake recipe, I'll be heading to Georgia to stock up on the main ingredient.  I'm debating if my destiny lies with a quick bread or a yeast bread.  Stay tuned.

If I Only Had a Brain

Today's earworm brought to you courtesy of The Scarecrow:

I could while away the hours, conferrin' with the flowers
Consultin' with the rain.
And my head I'd be scratchin' while
my thoughts were busy hatchin'
If I only had a brain.

No idea why that popped into my head while I was driving home in the car.  Also, no idea why I became determined to capture the elusive cat known as Zebbie, to give him the combing he so desperately needed.  Zebadiah John Carter Rothfeld is an almost 15 year old, all white, blue-eyed male, congenitally deaf almost from birth.  He is so skittish, he will run from us even when we are trying to give him a treat.  Zeb is the only pet I have ever lived with who would not let me touch him.  If I was a cat psychologist (now there's a profession for me) I would have to diagnose him with paranoid catzophrenia.  Although he is a shorthair, he has some kind of thick undercoat that causes him to have big, honking knots in his fur.  After a couple of years of this, he really looks pretty raggy, so while Rob was at taekwando I managed to chase Zeb into my bathroom.  With the help of a pillowcase, I got him contained, and then combed.  And combed.  And combed.  If I say so myself, he is looking rather spiffy.  The weird thing is, although he cried a little at the beginning, he never tried to use his back claws or his teeth (Zebbie once spent 10 days in isolation at the vet because he bit the assistant who foolishly insisted on carrying him to the back) and after a little while, he settled down, curled up against me, and let me clean his eyes, and pet him.  The sad thing is that when he allowed me to pet him on his head, I found a rather large growth just outside one of his ears.  It did not seem to bother him, but it can't be a good sign. 

You've heard the expression "white on rice?"  This is white cat on a rice cooker.

Today is my Middle Brother-in-Law's birthday, and it is a special one since he is now eligible for Social Security, although this is a guy who has a black belt in taekwando and still owns and operates his own lawn care business, so I don't see him retiring in the near future.  It is also special  because later this year he will become a grandpa for the second time.  My Number One Niece the Lawyer and her husband the lawyer are expecting their first child, a girl, and now you also know what sideswiped me away from my dogged completion of the Cat's Paw Scarf.  I always stand ready to be sideswiped by good news.

Charles, Cory, and Robert at Casco Martial Arts

I guess this would be a good time to tell the story of how I became the Bear.  I realize I left Osama waiting for me at the Outer Ring of the Seventh Circle of Hell, but it will give him a chance to catch up with some of his old friends - Josef Stalin, Saddam Hussein, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Attila the Hun, the Ayatollah Khomeini, Vlad III of Romania, Lizzie Borden, Queen Mary I, Ilse Koch, Caligula, Mao-Tse Tung, and Andrew Jackson.

Way back in the last century, during my senior year at SUNY Stony Brook, Rob and I resumed the dating relationship we'd left off the year before.  One night, Rob came home after a date, and found this message written on the small blackboard his mother had hanging on her kitchen wall:

Robert - Keep your hands off Cindy Bear.  Signed, Yogi Bear

It was that simple.  Both of my brothers-in-law, as well as my husband, refer to me as "Bear."  If I was going to have a tombstone, which I am not, I would expect that in addition to my "proper" name, it would read "Brkexpat, the Bear.  Beloved wife, mother, auntie, cousin, friend, lawyer, cook, knitter, dog whisperer, cat wrangler, and rabid Orlando Magic Fan."

Happy birthday, Charles, and many, many more.   I wish you health and long life, and much happiness.

Back to the Future: Osama in Hell

Mr. Bin Laden, how the hell are you?  Yes, yes, I realize we left you hanging out - literally - at the River Styx, with all the Fifth Circle Sinners, but after all, it was Mother's Day Weekend and we all had better things to do than worry about your lack of comfort.  Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that we are going to give you the keys to the city ... unfortunately, it is the city called Dis, where the lower circles of Hell are located.  You might even say we are "Dissing" you. 

As you may know, the Sixth Circle is reserved for those who are guilty of the sin of heresy, and their punishment is eternal entrapment in flaming tombs.  So many people have prayed that you would burn in hell for all eternity, and there was some thought about installing you here permanently.  But it was decided that the Sixth Circle is really too good for you, and there are plenty of hot spots left for someone of your loathesome nature.

The Seventh Circle is all about the sin of violence, something you know a great deal about.  I am somewhat in favor of leaving you in the Outer Ring because the purpose and manner of punishment seem to fit your crimes. "This ring houses the violent against people and property, who are immersed in Phlegethon, a river of boiling blood and fire, to a level commensurate with their sins."  For example,  Alexander the Great is immersed up to his eyebrows.  There are also references to Attila the Hun ... not sure how high the river flows in his case, but in yours, I'm sure you can match Alexander eyebrow for eyebrow any day of the week.

To be continued ...

It's simply mind-boggling just how many Talking Heads, Choleric Politicians, and Melancholic Theologians are second-guessing our government's decision to finally rid the world of Osama bin Laden.  Are these blathering fools simply seeking their 15 minutes of fame, or is there some other reason for weeping tears over the perceived moral implications of taking out America's Public Enemy Number One in a carefully, one might say, flawlessly conceived and executed operation which showed our military and our government, at their very best?

This article by Maureen Dowd makes hash of the offensively outraged.  I especially like her remark about our former President, the big crybaby.

I want memory, and justice, and revenge.

When you’re dealing with a mass murderer who bragged about incinerating thousands of Americans and planned to kill countless more, that seems like the only civilized and morally sound response.

We briefly celebrated one of the few clear-cut military victories we’ve had in a long time, a win that made us feel like Americans again — smart and strong and capable of finding our enemies and striking back at them without getting trapped in multitrillion-dollar Groundhog Day occupations.

But within days, Naval Seal-gazing shifted to navel-gazing.

There was the bad comedy of solipsistic Republicans with wounded egos trying to make it about how right they were and whinging that George W. Bush was due more credit. Their attempt to renew the debate about torture is itself torture.

W. preferred to sulk in his Dallas tent rather than join President Obama at Ground Zero in a duet that would have certainly united the country... 

Unlike Osama, the Navy Seals took great care not to harm civilians — they shot Bin Laden’s youngest wife in the leg and carried two young girls out of harm’s way before killing Osama.

Morally and operationally, this was counterterrorism at its finest.

We have nothing to apologize for.


I have been doing a post-mortem on the peach pound cake, which I have now been able to slice, photograph, and taste:

You can see that despite my careful ministrations, the peaches still settled at the lower half of the loaf, leaving it a little moister, but not soggy.  Other than that, it is a pretty pound cake with a nice, fine crumb.  It slices rather well.  Both Rob and I like the flavor.  I think it's a keeper, but I will continue to fine tune it.  Possibly less peaches, or the same amount of peaches cut even smaller.  Maybe one less egg.  Or skip the peach schnapps and just rely on some vanilla and/or almond extract.  Almond and peach enhance each other's flavors.  I might increase the baking powder.

Or all of the above.  And then when the fresh peaches come into season, I'll head up to Lane Orchards in Fort Valley, Georgia, buy a bushel and start fine tuning all over again.

A very happy birthday to my friend, and former college roommate, Kathy, a warm and funny lady of many accomplishments, not the least of which was putting up with my youthful flair for the dramatic.

Mother's Only Half a Word

Okay I admit, that's a kind of awful title to today's post.  And no, my godson Peter, bless him, did not suggest it to me, although I bet he's now sorry he didn't.

But wait a second ... there's mother love, motherload, mother-in-law, mother-to-be, Mother Nature, Mother Teresa, Mother Earth, Mother Mary, Mother Goose, working mother, godmother, Mother's Gefilte Fish, and of course, Mother's Day.

Today is the second Sunday in May, and that means, here in the United States, it is Mother's Day.  Different countries have different designated days, as well as different customs.  There are religious roots and affiliations in some countries, while others use it as a means of supporting their local Hallmark and florist.  What the heck, it's good for the economy.  But the one thing those days all seem to have in common is the underlying gentle reminder that moms need an occasional "thank you" and an "I love you, Mom" from their otherwise ungrateful spawn.

My son does not need Mother's Day to remember to treat me right, and truly, I have no complaints.  He has an excellent example in his own father, as well as his uncles, who have been steadfast good sons to their mother.  As I read through my Facebook page, it is very nice to see just how many of my friends have paid tribute to their mothers, and I suspect that those who are lucky enough to have their mothers still with them are not shy in expressing their love and gratitude the other 364 days of the year.

I had a somewhat difficult relationship with my adoptive mother, my maternal grandmother, but today is not the day to talk about that. The devil is in the details, and so many years after her passing away at the age of 93, the details don't matter as much as they used to.

We had our good days ... this was one of them, although I was only about 4 months old.  I lost my mother Joyce (right) much too young, and my grandmother (left) went through the worst thing that can happen to a parent, which is outliving your child.  Then she was faced with the necessity of starting over and becoming a parent to two very young children, at an age when her contemporaries were enjoying their grandchildren and their empty nests.  So in my mind, I try to cut her a little slack.  Her life wasn't happy, and it wasn't easy, and that's all I'm going to say about that.  Certainly she loved me, and throughout my life she gave me good advice, gave me a good moral foundation, and encouraged me to work hard to succeed.  It is the truth that sometimes her messages were scrambled, her manner of delivery was rough to take, and she knocked me down as often as she put me up on a pedestal.  But, what didn't kill me made me stronger, so here's to you, Mom, and to you, Joycie - Happy Mother's Day.  In my own way, I love you both.  Try not to kill each other up there in Heaven.

Speaking of mothers with less-than-ideal parenting skills, tomorrow begins the murder trial of Casey Anthony, accused of having murdered her then-two year old daughter, Caylee.  Ninth Circuit Chief Judge Belvin Perry, not a man known for his sense of humor, could not have realized that the date he set, almost a year ago, would land just one day after Mother's Day.  As an attorney, I have spent the last few years mentally cringing at the performance of her lead attorney.  All I will say is that what happens from here on should be interesting.  I'm not even sure Mr. Baez knows how to pick a jury.  I don't either, as I have done bench trials my entire career (there are no jury trials in juvenile court) but then I'm not defending someone facing the death penalty.  In other words, I am not pretending to be something I am not, or claiming to be competent in an area of which I am virtually ignorant.

Since I won't have anything to do with horse racing, it's not likely I will ever be faced with the dilemma of what hat to wear to the Kentucky Derby, but I love hats, and loved looking at the pictures recently featured in the Orlando Sentinel.  I'm still trying to decipher the meaning behind some of the hats worn by female guests at the Royal Wedding, but that's got to be another blog post.

Some of the hats worn to the Derby were just downright stupid, and come to think of it, were all worn by men.  These are probably the same men who own a beer-drinking hat.

Such a sexy look

I love hats like those worn by the women in "My Fair Lady" at the Ascot Opening Race.  Many of the women at the Kentucky Derby followed that tradition, although there was one female with a Wisconsin Cheese Hat that definitely spoiled the ambience.  Here's the link to the Orlando Sentinel site if you would like to pick a favorite.

Finally, a very special Mother's Day wish to a very special mother.  Although she has never given birth, she has loved and cared for and raised eight little ones like they were her own blood.

Happy Mother's Day, Teena.  I couldn't have done it without you.

Tiptoe through the Pantry

If I wasn't afraid that I would, in my ridiculously overtired state, accidentally cut off a finger, I would certainly be cooking.  But I had trouble keeping my eyes open while I drove home.  Truly, operating big machinery or slicing and dicing with a santoku knife should never be done when one is not completely alert.  Maybe later, maybe tomorrow.  I have weekend duty tomorrow, so I will surely be awake for that.  I hope.

I saw this on the Facebook page of one of my high school friends, and while I'm sure it is "going around", it was too funny not to post over here as well.

Oh dearie me ... well, it is a good three hours later, I've had a lovely nap, and I'm less inclined to start cooking now than ever.  I also woke up having completely changed my idea of what to do with the chicken and eggplant ... it was going to be Greek, now it's not going to be Greek.  Good thing I was too tired to stop at Publix on the way home to pick up a chunk of kefalotiri.

I want to do something different with the eggplant, so I left the chicken in limbo (not, however, the same Limbo which is a stop on Osama bin Laden's tour of Hell) and tried combining the eggplant with some blue crab claw meat I picked up earlier in the week.  I found something as totally different from the Mediterranean flavors of tomato, garlic, and oregano as I could imagine - it involves curry and coconut milk - and is certainly worth considering.  I would still make the eggplant into oven-fried slices, but then, instead of topping them with a tomato based sauce and cheese, I would finish them with the curry crab recipe. 

Sounds good, but now what do I do with the chicken?  Back to chicken parm, that's a plan ....

.... and later, much later, our heroine awakes only to discover she has a shelter hearing in Orlando.  Zoom zoom.  But it's all good, and it led to a nice early trip to Publix, and now I am ready to organize my kitchen and my cooking.  Here's my plan for the weekend, although I make no promises regarding substantial compliance with this list:

Oven fried eggplant slices topped with curried crab and shrimp sauce
Turnip Greens
Sheryl's Easy Potato Salad and My Version (not better, just different)
Chicken Parmesan over Manicotti
Grape tomatoes, mushrooms and pesto
Peach bread (no, I haven't forgotten the peach bread)

Having cleaned out my refrigerator, frozen the good stuff and tossed the bad, I am ready to refill it with cooked goodies.

The pantry closet from the Fourth Circle of  Hell

So I couldn't find my zante currents for the curry anywhere in my pantry closet ... finally found them, along with raisins, craisins, dried blueberries, dried cherries, 52 kinds of mustard, every kind of bread crumb known to man, three different types of peanut butter, canned fruit, canned beans, dried beans, enough salad dressing to float a boat, pastas, pasta sauces, cookies, barbecue sauces, six kinds of flour ... you get the idea.  There is a certain level of disorganization which I find disturbing.  Maybe it's time to move ... the walls need painting also.

In the meantime, I got my groove back and have been cooking since this morning.  The oven fried eggplant recipe actually works, the curried crab and shrimp sauce is very tasty indeed, and the turnip greens are still cooking.  The hallmark of a good southern vegetable is being cooked for at least a couple of hours.  Trust me, it is well worth it.  There's other stuff on the stove as well, so please stop on by the recipe blog a little later today.  I hope you find something you'd like to cook, and if you do, let me know if you enjoyed it.  Despite my occasional ranting tangents, this is still a cooking blog.

Cook like there's nobody watching, and eat like it's heaven on earth.

Sideswiped

Brkexpat's Inferno Itinerary

So, Mr. Bin Laden, how are you enjoying Hell?  How far have you gotten in your travels?  How is the weather?

We realize it is early in your journey - there ARE nine circles of Hell, you know - but there is no need to rush.  Eternity is forever, and that's a long time. So go ahead and check out the accommodations but don't get too comfortable in the vestibule or in Limbo.  Those are not places you are going to be seeing except for this one time journey.  You may think the wasps and maggots in the vestibule are pretty awful, but by the time we are done you will look back on that as the Club Med of Hell.  Just remember to keep your hands and feet out of the Acheron ... and for goodness sakes, do NOT pet Cerberus.

Perhaps you should just skip the second circle (lust) and the third circle (gluttony) because those aren't your vices.  Fifth circle is greed, something you do know about.  Maybe you can assist one of those sinners in pushing those weights, back and forth, back and forth ... but you can't stay there, you know.  We have a much more interesting punishment in mind for you.

Well, time to gather your thoughts, hike up that skirt of yours, strap on those galoshes and gird your loins, because the next trip is across the River Styx.  If you thought Charon was a surly Ferryman, wait till you meet Phlegyas!

To be continued ... 

Killing unarmed Osama bin Laden 'doesn't serve justice' – Rowan Williams

'It is important that justice is seen to done', Archbishop says reacting to the death of world's most wanted terrorist.

The Archbishop of Canterbury has said that the killing of an unarmed Osama bin Laden by US special forces left him with a "very uncomfortable feeling".

Excuse me, Archbishop Dingleberry, but the destruction of the World Trade Center left me with a very uncomfortable feeling - let's call it horrified grief - and I am not unique in that regard.  Are you suggesting we should have given this man a "sporting chance" to kill even one more American?

Another country heard from:

Pakistan's foreign secretary also raised fresh doubts about the legality of killing Bin Laden. Clutching UN security council documents, Salman Bashir said: "There are legal questions that arise in terms of the UN charter. Everyone ought to be mindful of their international obligations."

Bashir added that this "violation of sovereignty, and the modalities for combating terrorism, raises certain legal and moral issues which fall ... in the domain of the international community".

Bashir old boy, if you are lucky, the US won't go after your sorry excuse for a government for harboring a war criminal.

And for all you whiny clerical and law school professor types who just have to find fault when the US defends itself, let me assure you that Osama bin Laden did not suffer one-tenth the pain and terror experienced by every one of his three thousand victims.

Putting my soap box away ... for now.

I got sideswiped, by the way.  I had made some really good progress on the Cat's Paw Scarf during the weekend in Savannah, but then I got some news and headed to Joanne's for yarn and went off on a knitting tangent.

Never you mind what it is, or who it might be for ... the point is I got side tracked YET AGAIN.  I don't know if this is a personality defect, or my adult ADD taking over.  It's true I get distracted easily, but I was doing so well by focusing on one project, and then ... kerblooey.  Foiled again.  Sideswiped.