Everything Old is ... still old

 I used to love going to antique malls.

I still go, but I used to enjoy it a lot more than I do now. I love the feeling of being surrounded by old timey things my mother or grandmother used to use. They bring up memories of my childhood, all warm, fuzzy, and campy.

There is nothing like a huge dose of nostalgia to make you shell out 20 bucks for a tiny bowl because your grandmother used to serve you pudding in it.

I chuckle when I see some cheap old toy I’d bought for myself at the dime store back in 1965, now priced in the double digits.

“And my mother said I wasted my allowance on a piece of crap,” I scoff. “Look at the cash I’d have made if it hadn’t gotten thrown out.”

Your average antique mall hits the sweet spot between the delicate fine art pieces at Christie’s Auction and the calcified florist vases at Goodwill.

Need to replace the Barbie head that your brother popped off and stuck in the oven? Somewhere in the antique mall is a booth displaying an array of disembodied Barbie doll heads and no one is creeped out by it.

Back in the day, antique malls played music from the 30s and 40s as I rifled through lace dresser scarves and orange reamers. Did I want to relive imprinting homemade gnocchi on a version of my Aunt Marie’s milk glass vase or did I want to serve martinis from a gilt-edged cocktail set at my next dinner party…which would also be my first dinner party?

Antique malls gave me the ability to visit that sanitized, glorified, fictionalized version of the past that makes people binge the Turner Classic Movie channel.

But something must have happened during the pandemic. When did MY stuff become the antiques?

And why are they playing Kenny Loggins?  

How am I supposed to feel a sense of nostalgia when there are entire booths of what I already have in my kitchen? Corning Ware is not an antique; it’s what I make baked ziti in.

All the useless junk I passed up at those home parties where you’re supposed to prove your friendship to the host by purchasing wall sconces or an apple peeler – they’re all there. In this I feel somewhat affirmed.

There was an entire booth dedicated to kitchen décor, specifically farm animals and green checks. That was a thing for about five years when my kids were little. Someone would have green-checked goose cannisters, someone else, green-checked chicken cannisters.

I was feeling superior, having not succumbed to trendy fashion. I put it all in plastic and that never goes out of…

…then I found the Tupperware booth. Honestly – if you ever want to know how long a couple has been married, check out the color of their Tupperware.

My last refuge was textiles. I love to rifle through old clothing, even though I’ve never gotten up the nerve to wear any of it in public. It takes a certain amount of chutzpah to pull off a vintage look.

“Look, Diane. Remember wearing these!” one lady exclaimed, pulling an item off the rack.

“Oh my god, yes,” her friend answered. “Can you believe we went out in public wearing that?”

They screamed with laughter.

I hurried to the door. Thank goodness I was wearing a coat.

A Linguistic Rant

You know those grammatical errors that are like chalk on a black board?

Having typed that sentence, I realize that people younger than me don't know about chalk on a black board. Even I don't technically know about black boards, because in my day, chalk boards were green. But they still made the same screeching, teeth gritting sound if you rubbed the chalk on them just the wrong way.

As out-dated as that previous paragraph may be, I'm told that common grammatical errors, particularly those made while speaking, are now accepted as part of the lexicon. So, risking being called "outdated" (I'm 64 -- that ship has sailed), I insist on being the gatekeeper of the lexicon in certain circumstances.

Honestly, in normal conversation, I might use the occasional "ain't" when phrasing something colloquially. And goodness knows, the one contribution for which I thank the south is the phrase "y'all." Growing up in New Jersey, we had "yous" or "you(s) guys," but that just advanced the assumption that everyone in New Jersey is in the mafia.*

Breaking it down to "you all" sounds stuffy; but "y'all" -- perfect. Unless you go too far and insist on "All ya all" -- that's just over playing the down-homey trope.

So you see, I'm not a grammar purist.

However, if you are presenting yourself as a professional, at least acknowledge that the words with which you insist on assaulting my brain are wrong slang.

Keeping all the above in mind, I'm asking everyone to Stop. Using. The. Word. ANYWAYS.

Stop it. Now. There is no such word.

It's "anyway." Anyway. Why is this so hard?

I'll concede this: I listen to a lot of podcasts. You don't exactly have to be vetted in professional broadcasting to do a podcast. 

Doesn't matter. "Anyways" has infiltrated the slickest podcasts; it comes out of the mouth of people who should know better. You may as well utter the phrase, "I seen..." (I almost didn't refer to that most horrible of phrases. I know how hard it is to control the gag reflex when you hear it.)

There is even a larger problem here, though; and I shudder to mention it.

As alarming as it is to hear the word "anyways" used by a proficient announcer, there is this even more alarming evidence of the destruction of lingual integrity: an editor allowed the word in a book.

Before you defend this atrocity, I'm well aware that prose written from the viewpoint of a certain character will be written in said character's voice.

That wasn't the case. This was third person omniscient -- meaning, told by THE GUY WHO SHOULD KNOW THERE IS NO SUCH WORD AS "ANYWAYS."

I'm not going to reveal the book because, other than this abomination, it's a wonderful book. In the moment I viewed That Word, however, the book made a flying trip several feet across my bed, upsetting dog and cats and causing a brief "hmph" from Chuck (the same reaction he'd elicit were I being knifed to death two feet away).

So, stand with me, America! Let's not allow "anyways" to become an accepted part of our language! They've apparently dispensed with the whole "never end a sentence with a preposition" rule. I have seen sentences -- nay -- paragraphs -- beginning with "because" or "but" in respected publications.

Do not allow this word "anyways" to further erode the integrity of our linguistic foundation! Hold your fellow humans accountable for the utterance of this outrage! Stand with me and refuse to acknowledge the acceptance of this degradation of grammatically correct usage!

I feel so much better -- I know this is something that will unite us all.

Today, "anyways;" tomorrow, vaccinations!"

*This is not true, by the way. Very few New Jersey Italians are or were in the Mafia. Most of us are just working slobs like everyone else, only we cook better. That being said, after a lifetime of she and my father constantly plucking us out of the brink of poverty, my mother quipped that she should have caved to the stereotype by "just signing up" with the Mafia -- as though she was going to join  the fire department's ladies auxiliary. 

A Post for Readers Only

This is a post about books. More specifically, this is a post about reading. The two do not necessarily go together.

So, if you just like books, but don't like to read: Come back another time; I often make literary references and like movies too, so that may appeal to your particular aesthetic.

If you like neither books nor reading, you fall into one of two categories: You are my brother Art and someone in the family guilted you into reading this; Or you felt, since you made it out of high school, there was no need to read anything further than video game reviews; in which case...what are you even doing here?

Even Gulliver has his doubts

I'm told everyone has their version of a literary Waterloo -- the book everyone -- everyone -- loved, said was brilliant, won awards, etc. -- that you could not get through*.

My literary Waterloo is 100 Years of Solitude.

This book is also a landmark in my life. Prior to attempting to get through it, I was adamant about reading one book at a time. 

Many people have several books percolating at one time, but not me. I gave each book the respect of my full attention. I'd finish it -- pause at least an hour to mull its impact -- and then.,.only then...begin my new relationship reading matter.

And then I encountered
100 Years of Solitude.

The fact that the first page of the book is a genealogy chart should have prepared me. All the names were similar. I might insert here that I later found out that this WAS DELIBERATE.

What kind of psychopath author tells you on the first page, "This is going to get really confusing and I did that on purpose...because I hate you?" This was an abusive relationship, plain and simple.

Okay. Perhaps I'm projecting a bit.

The fact is, I began 100 Years of Solitude with the idea that I wouldn't begin another book until I finished it.

Months went by as I hacked my way through the South American jungle; at least I think I did. I say it took me months, but actual reading time was minimal. I'd look at the book, consider the book, contemplate what I'd read of the book, realize I was going to have to reread what I'd already read of the book because I'd fallen asleep, and then turn on the TV.

Meanwhile, other enticing books crossed my path, but I had to wave them along. After all, I'd read that everyone else loved it and it won a Pulitzer, for god's sake. Oprah loved it, so surely the problem was with me. 

I fought on, during which the only thing I remember, having completed over half the book, was an unnaturally-old man chained to a tree in a yard.

I know, I know: Blah, blah, blah, magical realism*, blah, blah, blah, hyperbole, blah, blah, blah, metaphor. Like Water for Chocolate didn't torture me like this.

I got all that literary jargon. It's just that...I had to admit: it made me hate reading. And, to me, reading is like breathing.

So I shelved it. 

That's right. For the past five years, I've been cheating on 100 Years of Solitude.

Only now I no longer practice literary monogomy. Oh no --I've opened my reading experience to include multiple relationships all at once. There is my nighttime while-the-lights-are-on book; my Kindle book for when I'm awake in the middle of the night; my audiobook for the commute to work; my audiobook for my commute from work; my weekend binge book; and my non-fiction required reading over breakfast book.

This is what 100 Years of Solitude has done.

It reminds me of the first time I read William Faulkner. It was incomprehensible to me, but for whatever reason I kept at it. I hated it and loved it at the same time. I fought with it and called myself stupid. I almost gave up and, in fact, stopped reading completely for awhile, figuring my future was in something like banking or dog grooming instead of anything requiring words.

And then, Benjy Compson started calling, "Caddy! Caddy!" in my head and I had to go back. And Benjy led me to the maze and beauty of the rest of the prose. Faulkner is never going to be an "easy read;" but eventually, the words begin to take on a rhythm. I found myself talking to myself in Faulknerian. It was worth every backtrack and rereading it took to complete The Sound and the Fury.

So I joined the ranks of the few who absolutely love William Faulkner's work. And that's how my youngest son wound up with a middle name he hates.

I've been in a between-World-Wars books kind of mood lately, but suddenly that old man chained to the tree started calling me.

"Quitter!" he taunts; and then the coup de gras: "Lazy reader!"

Ouch.

And so I'm heading back to South America, armed only with a printout of the genealogy chart.

But, just between you and me, I'm seeing Stella Gibbons on the side.

*James Joyce's Ulysses is not in this category because no human being enjoys reading it. There are entities who claim to adore it, form clubs around it, quote it excessively, and extol its brilliance to whomever will listen. But these are not humans. They are aliens, as is Joyce. Jung  diagnosed Joyce as being a schizophrenic only because the idea of an alien was...ahem...alien to him. Ahem. 

They Said, "Yes!"

I'm not the sentimental type. 

To me The Hallmark Channel is just lazy storytelling set to forgettable music with wardrobe out of Coldwater Creek or L.L. Bean, depending on the time of year.

You will not find a single romance novel on my shelves or in my Kindle; in fact, if the phrase "smile that made his eyes crinkle" shows up within the first 15 pages, I will physically throw the book away. EYES DON'T FREAKIN' CRINKLE, BRENDA! If they're crinkling, you need to get the dude to an ER, not "feel my heart skip a beat."

The fact is, I've grown into a rather cynical old broad and, quite frankly, after a year of being an "essential employee" (not essential like healthcare professionals, but essential like the pizza delivery guy -- both essential, but one gets praised in Facebook memes and the other gets coughed on by anti-vaxers), I've become downright bitter.

I think the pandemic took the perkiness out of the sunniest dispositions. But, honestly, you only have to spend a few minutes scrolling social media to know the world is filled with discontentment and skepticism.

Then this weekend, this happened:

That's my son Charley getting down on one knee and proposing marriage to Sarah at Longwood Gardens.

I might add that I was not there. I did know he'd planned it, but I didn't know when.

John and me (ca. 1972)

When he told me his plans, I was nostalgically touched; for generations Longwood Gardens has been our place to visit, no matter where we lived. There are photos of my family at the garden dating back over half a century. If there is anything such as "ancestral lands" for my family, Longwood would be it. 

I was envious. When I was 12, I decided I was going to own Longwood Gardens. Not only was I going to own Longwood Gardens, but there was going to be a guy who was damn well going to propose to me there and I was going to make sure he knew where it should happen and how I wanted it done.

Turns out Longwood wasn't for sale so there went that plan.

Gazebo where -- admit it
 -- if you went to Longwood,
you were adamant that jerk Rolf
was going to dance with you in.

I have to admit, I shuddered for Charley when he told me his plans. Longwood is so crowded in the summer. I envisioned him trying to get the proposal out as a six-year-old streaks by and some old lady wanders cluelessly between them. 

But I also know that, while this seemed like the biggest event now, there are so many landmark moments before him, a bungled proposal would become no more than an amusing anecdote around the after dinner table for the two of them. But, still -- a mother worries.

Charley called me the Sunday evening after he proposed and said he was sending pictures.

I asked if he had thought to bring a friend along to document the moment.

"This proposal is well documented," he assured me.

The photo above -- taken by a bystander. The documentation Charley spoke of was all from complete strangers.

Wait.

What?

That's right. Complete strangers stopped to watch and document an occasion that occurs every day, millions of times, over and over, since forever. These angry, divided, disheartened humans stopped their personal experience of the day to watch two people they didn't even know, decide to commit to each other.

Seriously -- was no one going to shout out, "Just trying to pay less taxes by filing jointly" or "Marriage is a device of the patriarchy?"

Nope.

For a moment...for just that moment...life was the simplest thing in the world: two people in love taking their first scary, shaky steps together into their future.

And for a moment...for just that moment...an entire conservatory full of disparate individuals came together, dropped their jaundiced view of the world, and recognized the purity and poignancy of the moment.

A couple couldn't ask for a greater mitzvah, if I may respectfully borrow a term.

That was enough to make this bitter old lady do something she's never done in her entire life -- I happy cried.

And I couldn't stop. 

I see the photos and I start right back up again. Especially when I remember that the guy in this photo:

Is the same boy in this photo:

BUT I AM IN NO WAY SENTIMENTAL, do you hear me!

Floating in a tin can

Why does Richard Branson taking a rocket jaunt into the fringes of space bug me?

It’s not like the millions spent for Branson’s 90-minute joyride was ever going to be spent on anything but the billionaire version of a road trip. It was never going to heal the planet or save an African village from contaminated water.

So, no -- I’m not disappointed that his money and the money burned away by the rest of “The Club” isn’t going toward more altruistic endeavors.

It certainly bothers me that it is possible for there to even be billionaires on this planet that is suffering on so many levels. But that’s not Branson’s or Gates’s or Bezos’s or Buffet’s problem; they just did whatever the
system allowed. And, if they lobbied to have the ladder pulled up after them, it’s only with our blessing they did it.

I recognize that telling people what to do with their money is not only an infringement of their rights, but is downright rude. I can’t very well scold Charley on his collection of totally useless replicas of medieval armory; he’d only point to my growing collection of gnomes, blocks of clay, piles of fabric, containers of crystals...at which point I would remind him of the 124 hours of pain I endured giving him life and to just shut up about all that.

Meaning -- it’s a slippery slope to start inflicting guilt on people who are spending money they are convinced they worked for on something you aren’t personally interested in.

I can’t gig Bezos on planning to spend billions on his own joyride, using funds he chose to pocket instead of paying his employees a living wage or at least letting them go to the bathroom with dignity; when I, in fact, spent $58 at ThredUp for two Talbot’s blazers*, using funds from my paycheck which, I have to admit, I wouldn’t have if it weren’t for my invaluable assistant Tina and my volunteers, who never get paid but are permitted unlimited use of the bathroom.

One man’s space flight is another woman’s wardrobe score. 

So, no -- I don’t think my annoyance has anything to do with the money spent on Branson’s flight.

It’s the reaction to his little stunt that annoys me most of all. The media fawning is starting to tick me off. 

It’s not like this guy achieved something that hasn’t been achieved before; he only figured out a way to make it pay. The most obvious thing observers of his landing noticed was the great big Virgin Galactic logo emblazoned on the bottom of the ship.

Let’s not imbue this joyride with any noble purpose; it was a commercial, plain and simple.

So this whole adulation of a foray into space (more like the edge of space, but they got to experience weightlessness, so...weeeeeeee!) is hardly justified. This was an ad to mine the cash from other bored millionaires for whom nothing is enough anymore.

Branson’s crewmate and Virgin Galactic employee Sirisha Bandlha insisted that the trip was an advance for science: 

"So on this last flight, if you look at some of the footage you see me messing with this tube, I'm actually performing a science experiment in space."

“Messing with this tube.”

This was a baffling new scientific term.

So -- I actually found the “science experiment” Bandlha referred to. It was NASA-funded and had to do with horticulture. Oh -- and NASA had already performed it before. They just wanted to know if a regular schmo could manage to...ahem...mess with a tube.

Oh.  Okay. I get it. I’ve had to write grant proposals. (I’ll just leave this here for now.)

So no one, not even NASA, calls this stunt the commercial that it was. The focus continues to be either on the waste of money or on the major strides humanity had taken. Either way, it worked to Branson’s ultimate purpose of exposure of his brand.

It reminds me of a bit comedian Robert Klein used to do shortly after the first moon walk.

He pointed out that Neil Armstrong could have been an instant millionaire if instead of the famous words he uttered, he just shouted “Coca Cola!”

 *Yes! Two Talbots blazers for less than 60 bucks -- and they fit great even though I’m shaped like an Oompah Loompah! No affiliation, by the way; I was just so tickled to be able to afford investment pieces on my budget. 

The Inevitability of Dogs

Goodness knows I've tried.

I've been writing about food and clay and, of course...me. But long-time Linguini readers know that, sooner or later, a dog was going to come bounding into the blog and take over. 

I've had my share of doggie characters, well documented throughout this blog. There was bossy Zsa Zsa and her miraculous healing gifts, neurotic Topper, eager-to-please Hokie, hyper Gaspode, and Salt -- the canine philosopher and guerrilla pooper. 

That's five dogs -- five bundles of memories of puppyhood and training and quirkiness and love.

But also five incidents of heartache when the time came to say goodbye. 

After we lost Hokie to cancer, we were not in a position to be able to support a pet. Besides, we were caught in a whirlwind of bad luck and there was no point in dragging another innocent life in on our chaos.

Plus there was the financial consideration. Even if you can afford the cost of purchasing a dog plus the food and vet bills when they're healthy, one complicated illness could  break you. They offer insurance for that sort of thing these days. At the time, ironically, we couldn't afford our own healthcare, let alone supporting a dog.

My youngest son and his fiance have sworn off dogs completely. Joe and Caisee have discovered that, in the absence of dogs, you can go anywhere at any time. There is nothing to "let out" at night or feed in the morning. They are content with their low-maintenance cats.

I tried to embrace what Joe claimed were the perks of being canine-less. The entire side of my bed was mine to stretch out in and, when the UPS guy showed up, I could open the door like a normal person to sign for my package rather than squeezing past a flailing pack of barking maniacs.

But it was no use. You don't think you'll miss having to step over reclining canines while you're trying to cook Thanksgiving dinner for 10 -- but you do. 

Gulliver was my gift to myself when I went from two jobs and no health insurance to one full time job with benefits.

"A redhead with green eyes -- you're in trouble," his breeder quipped when I insisted Gulliver was the one.

The operative word here is "one." In a perfect world, I'd be surrounded by dogs. Right now being single-canine parents is preferable. While my husband works primarily out of the house, I'm out all day. To have more than one dog wouldn't be fair to Chuck or the kids dogs.

With only one, there is no worry over whether the love is being doled out evenly or whether one needed more discipline and wouldn't that one notice the other one wasn't getting the same sort of discipline as the other or that one got a video game for Christmas that the other might want...

Oh. Right. Dogs.

What I wasn't prepared for, though, was how naturally Gulliver trained, without a whole lot of fuss and bother. Aside from peeing on Charley's girlfriend's foot the first time we all met (he'd only been with us a week at the time), he quickly got with the whole potty training thing.

I recommend this as a litmus test for anyone considering accepting a new member into your family. Sarah was gracious about the whole incident and now she is a treasured member of the Linguini inner circle. 

Like most late-in-life children dogs, I'm much more relaxed about raising Gulliver than I was back in the day. I think that's why Gulliver is the perfect example of carefree dogdom.

I considered hauling him into obedience classes like I did with all his predecessors. But, frankly -- look at him. I can't see Gulliver doing perfect sit/stays for rally competitions or standing calmly for conformation judging.

Besides, I'm no longer a part of that world, mostly because it was no fun for either me or my dog. Every time we'd compete it was like taking one of my kids to be "evaluated" -- there was always the chance that Joe might break into his Harpo Marx impression, causing us both to laugh inappropriately and be emitted in disgrace.

This NEVER HAPPENED in my edited version of my history of being the perfect mother.

I might add that the one thing that has consistently drawn me to adopt Australian Shepherds is that, while they are loving, smart, obedient, and hard-working, they are wary of strangers. You don't normally see an Australian Shepherd* bounding up to people with gregarious enthusiasm; they're more the watch and appraise type.

I connect with this philosophy. Hold back. Who knows what they're up to. According to my plan, Gulliver and I would navigate the world, appraising those we encountered as to whether they can be trusted, knowing full well that we were better off on our own.

But remember -- I'm not the only one around here. There is Chuck.

Chuck loves being around people and his job fulfills that need. So, while I slaved away at work, Chuck turned Gulliver sociable.

No. That's an understatement. Gulliver approaches everyone with the attitude that they love him. He doesn't even consider they might not be a dog person or they might mean him harm or -- worst of all -- they might want to engage in a lengthy conversation.

And, of course -- he's quite sure everyone thinks throwing the orange ball for him is the funnest game ever!

*Many people shorten the Australian Shepherd name to "Aussies." I don't do that because "Aussie" is the shortened name for the Australian Cattle Dog -- which are actually Australian. Australian Shepherds are not. Now you know.

In which I cite Greek myth, George Bernard Shaw and pretend I'm artistic

Pygmalion was a Greek king who was also a sculptor. He fell in love with one of his sculptures, causing George Bernard Shaw to write a play about this dysfunctional relationship.

Pretty soon Lerner and Lowe thought it a rather musical subject and further decided the two people on the planet that looked most like a Greek king and a marble statue were Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews.

This made money on a small scale, but not yet enough. So it was decided that, while Julie was perfect musically, she was way too governess-ish for a statue and would be better suited working in that genre instead. The role of the statue was recast with Audrey Hepburn who, while definitely statuesque, was a total fail in the musical area, but made up for it with enthusiastic emanations.

But back to Pygmalion. He had a definite opinion of his creation, creepy as it may be.

So here is my dilemma and clumsy segue.

My current project is a wall hanging made up of polymer clay tiles augmented with stuff. When I say “stuff,” this whole project was inspired by the grab bags offered by Fire Mountain Gems and Beads -- all shapes and types of beads to play with.

I might add that what I lack in artistic competence I make up for in enthusiastic emanations. I like shiny things and bold colors, so minimalists, move along; nothing to see here.

But back to Pygmalion. I have a definite opinion of one of my creations.

He’s a jerk.

I don’t know how it happened.

The color pallet for this square is one of my favorite color combinations: teal and gold. Don’t ask me why I decided a gold head on a teal background, other than I kind of like the poking and smoothing involved in sculpting a face. There are molds for this sort of thing, but I didn’t want my faces to look like everyone else’s faces.

I just didn’t prepare myself for this particular face to be that of a jerk.

I don’t know what it is about this guy that convinces me he’s a jerk, but look at him. I’ve done everything I can think of to make him anything else -- made him smile, made him angry -- but even settling for a benign stare -- you can still tell he’s a jerk.

But he’s a jerk that I brought into being. I can’t just squish him into oblivion. If I’ve determined he is a jerk -- I’ve determined he...is.

But I do have some creative influence. He deserves a pink bow tie. I know he thinks this make him look intelligent, but it actually makes him look like more of jerk.

I know what you’re thinking: who does he remind you of in your past that was a jerk?

I admit I’ve wracked my brain to think of who it might be that has me disliking this creation so much. Obviously, I’m projecting...but to whom?

Who do I know who is an absolute jerk...an a**hole....................................................

…………………………………………..

Oh! How did I miss this?

The ultimate a**hole:

Egbert the a**hole

In Which I Learn to Speak French...sort of

Oeufs en cocotte is just baked eggs

 When I was a precocious 20-something, I took out a loan and bought a Bon Appetit magazine.

I thought that was the height of culinary mastery. This was before the internet or Food Network; even before Emeril. I couldn't even make most of the recipes in the publication because they called for exotic ingredients like capers and quail and I was more on a budget of peanut butter and chicken livers.

There was only one dish I could make in the Bon Appetit magazine and that was oeufs en cocotte. Just eggs, cream, and butter -- that's it...only in French. It was in French and I could afford it, so saved the recipe.

This was when, in order to save a recipe, you cut it out, printed it or copied it by hand.

 Then you put it into a recipe box. 

For any non-boomers reading this, a recipe box was an actual, physical box. Theoretically, the recipes were neatly glued to or written on 3x5 index cards and categorized by meal type.

In terms of judging other cooks, size mattered. If you had a tidy 4x4x6 recipe box with clean cards covered in glistening plastic holders, you were obviously a “throw a can of soup on it” type of cook.

Real cooks had huge, sticky monstrosities with ripped magazine pages crammed in between the category markers and pieces of paper with cryptic instructions like “bang it against the counter until soft then boil for 15 minutes in the pot with the loose handle,” with no indication as to what was being prepared.

Every female Boomer had (or has) one of these, no matter what they tell you. Most of them still have the ones that belonged to their mothers. We’ve come a long way, Baby -- but ya gotta eat.

And that is where the recipe for oeufs en cocotte has stayed for the last 40 years. It would surface now and then and I’d consider taking a stab at it. But, honestly – have you met my family? I’d just have to say the name of the recipe and everyone would start doing bad Maurice Chevalier and Julia Child impressions.

No -- sunny-side up was good enough for the likes of the Jacksons.

I haven’t delved into my recipe box in years. My old standby recipes by this time are etched into my brain; and between the internet, cookbooks and YouTube, I’m never without a source for new stuff.

In fact, it was while I was on Pinterest (my Happy Place) that oeufs en cocotte popped up again, only in the guise of “baked eggs.” Oeufs en cocotte are presumptuous; baked eggs are the eggs of the people.

I got creative and added spring onions and spinach

An egg’s an egg, right? Oh! No, no………non! Baked eggs are creamy and satiny; they are eggs for the discerning egg lover*. 

I could have been enjoying baked eggs for the past 40 years!

So now I’m thinking about all the other things I’ve avoided for equally stupid reasons. Shall I tackle Proust? Start listening to K-Pop? Join the Society for Creative Anachronism?

I suppose I should, perhaps, learn French.

*There is no other term for an “egg lover.” I spent way too much time finding this out.

With baguettes from Madison Farmers' Market

So who asked you?

Sixteen Years Ago

You don't have to read this -- but anyone can. Sixteen years ago, I started this blog. I was 48 and had spent a lifetime writing things no one ever saw. 

Oh, I'd spent over a decade working for newspapers -- dry, local politics where molehills turn into mountains and parking locations foster speeches quoting things like the Magna Carta and very specific translations of the Bible. I hated it because all my eye-rolling gave me a headache.

These days, no one is reading lengthy prose, so it's safe to come out of my writing cave.* But I'm just not cut out for Twitter -- too many people thinking they're delivering mike-drop jewels of glibness. It may be narcissistic to share this to Facebook, but I don't flatter myself that complex issues can be solved in a few sentences -- not that I'll attack complex issues. There's enough of that static cluttering the internet.

No. I write because of that static that has everyone believing the lie that we have more dividing us than we have in common. But I'll stick to my old format, thankyouverymuch.

Now, take a moment and observe that photo up there. While I admit I used it to lead this column because I'm pretty sure it's the last surviving photo of me as a vegetarian -- meaning I was probably as cute as I was ever going to get. (I also want you to notice the added drama of the fencing, which I thought gave me a sort of tough urban edge when actually it was taken by my husband at our son's little league game.) 

I found this while looking through our photo archives and considered using it to lead all my social media. Then everyone would say, "Wow! She looks pretty good for 64!"

I notice this is a trend among book authors and it annoys me. So, in the spirit of total honesty, I will stick with my usual photo.

True disclosure: this photo is about a year old, but it's the most recent one without a mask. 

Take a selfie, you say.

I don't take selfies. I don't have anything against them (unless the only thing on your Facebook page is one selfie after another, in which case, find a hobby), it's just that my arms are too short and I end up looking like a Shar Pei.

Really -- there are no serious photos of me because it's just my husband and me around here these days and he only takes photos when I look ridiculous. So you get the above and this.

I suppose this is by way of re-introducing myself to what used to be called "the blogosphere," where crickets are chirping and me and my kind can roam free -- free of the nastiness of other social media forms.

...at least I don't have an aol e-mail address...

*Anyone wishing to cause mischief here has probably given up by now because this is way down at the end. If you haven't given up -- I've gone through bankruptcy, foreclosure, joblessness, poverty, and two heart attacks. You can't scare me. 

Toy Cars

File this under the category of Phrases that Make Me Cringe:

Under a photo of a car or truck: “Here’s my new toy!” 

Now, I get that when Baby Boomers began to realize that they were aging, it suddenly became A Thing to be perceived as a Child at Heart. Subsequent generations have followed suit and now we have a culture that really could benefit from the direction of a straight-laced nanny. There is a lot to be said for using your “indoor voice,” particularly when in public on your cell phone discussing your digestion problems with your healthcare provider.

However, I have come to accept that in order to convince ourselves we’re never going to die (I’M certainly NOT), we must do whatever it takes to deny the aging process. (Though, I must pass on to my fellow Women of a Certain Age – no one is fooled by those SnapChat filters. The Good Ship Ingénue has sailed and good riddance!)

So, honestly, I have no problem if adults spend their spare time playing with doll houses, racing remote control cars or running their model trains on a tighter schedule than a subway in Tokyo while wearing a railroad engineer’s hat and blowing a wooden whistle (you know who you are). I, personally, have my gnomes and talking dogs.

If you want to embrace your inner eight-year-old, have at it. But here’s the thing – eight-year-olds break toys. They ram them into walls, leave them on stairways, or throw their sister’s Ken doll out a second storey window dressed in Barbie’s tutu. No big deal because they’re toys.

Two-and-a-half tons of steel and flammable liquid: not a toy. Not even remotely a toy. Leave your heart of an eight-year-old…12-year-old…hell – teenager…home. (It is my opinion that teenagers should only be able to drive 20-year-old Cavaliers with a blown-out transmission and a cassette player that doesn’t work*.)

When I encounter a 6,000 lb. Silverado on the Beltway, I want to know it’s being driven by a 40-something with a kid still in college, a mortgage and a sense of his or her own mortality. (It would also be nice if you could be driving a 3-ton truck because you actually need one, what with it being almost November and I’m still sleeping with the windows open and the fan running – but that’s another issue.)

I commute 10 hours a week at a minimum and I am constantly dodging drivers who grew up watching everything from Smokey and the Bandit to The Fast and the Furious, all – I assume – at a time in their young lives where they were unable to separate fact from fiction. Because it’s really not speed that is the issue; believe me, in that respect my driving habits would probably surprise…well, no, they probably wouldn’t surprise anyone who’s had to commute. Honestly, on a two mile-long straightaway on Va-231, when I’m late for work and no one is in front of me…I WOULD TOTALLY OBEY THE 55 MPH SPEED LIMIT, OFFICER.

Take that same straightaway, place in it a loaded 18-wheeler followed by a leaf-peeper in absolutely no hurry, a farm-use truck whose tailpipe emits noxious fumes every time he hits 40, a priest, a minister, and a rabbi…and me – and in my rear-view mirror I see a black Escalade, closing in fast. In the opposite lane are oncoming headlights. The Escalade pulls out and passes us all in one go and only makes it because the rest of us immediately brake. Though this would be an ideal opportunity to protect the gene pool in one fiery crash, no one wants Finster Baby to take the poor guy in the opposite lane with him. Besides, an accident would make us late.

But even Finster Baby showed good judgement when compared to the perfect storm of idiocy I witnessed last week. In a construction zone in the pouring rain, with two lanes merging into one, I could see an ambulance was trying to make its way through traffic behind me. Most of us pulled over onto the shoulder, except for a farm tractor traveling 15 mph and a huge black truck that was behind me, but passed me when I pulled over to make way for the emergency vehicle. The ambulance was forced to pull into the opposite lane, where those kind souls actually were on the shoulder. Behind me, an SUV pulled out of the line of those who pulled over and passed everyone, only to encounter the black truck, which was now stuck behind the farm vehicle, still putt-putting away like he was in the middle of a barren hay field. With a screech, the SUV pulled over the double line in the wake of the ambulance, passed the black truck (who was now honking his horn at everything) and the farm vehicle. Not to be outdone, the black truck gunned into the oncoming lane, missing by inches the oncoming cars pulling back onto the road.

To what can we attribute such a perfect storm of assholery in one place? Immaturity.

Eight-year-olds live in their own world and everything that goes on around them is seen through the lens of their ego. It is age-appropriate and precisely the mindset you need when you’re very small, vulnerable and totally ignorant of the ways of the world. When it seeps into adulthood, the results are thinking that everything, including who get through traffic first, is a competition you need to win to feed that ego, now grown huge and hungry.

So, no, you do not have a “toy.” You don’t take out loans to buy PlayDough. No one is making a living fixing Cabbage Patch Dolls. When a piece of Monopoly is missing, you just need a dime or a thumbtack.

And when a pedal car tips over, no one gets hurt.

Unless, of course, it meets up with a black Escalade. In his world, we’re all just pedal cars on the VA-231 of life.

*

Yes, he still has this car. Good luck in December, Heir 2!

In Which I Slink Back From Oblivion

Have I ever stayed away from Linguini this long?

Blogs became passe' as Twitter snipped away at readers' tolerance for lengthy prose. It's safe to come back and write as I write. No one is reading it; certainly no one who would care what I think.

In a way, I'm rather happy my erratic posting schedule chased away the few regular readers I had. How bogged down in correctness and apologies I had become! Going back through some of my scant postings, I can barely get through all the switch-backs and detours of my own writing. But I leave it here because it's real. This is what happens when you start thinking more of the reader's reactions than the truth of what you are saying.

I continue Linguini, partly from tradition and partly for that occasional visitor that may stumble in, read that top post and have some sort of reaction, good or bad. But the main reason I continue is the same reason I began this blog almost 13 years ago:

Even before there was such as thing as a “blog,” this stream-of-consciousness-Andy-Rooney-esque commentary on life would be continually running through my brain, getting in the way of other, more fruitful thoughts. Only I’d edit my rambling, stopping myself just short of – dare I say – enlightenment to study the grammar of the sentence with which I was involved.

This is the only purpose I can see for this thing called “blogging.” It might shut up the never-ending flow of commentary long enough for me to balance my checkbook in peace.

I was 48. I was incredibly stupid.

Cauliflower RiceOrWhy I Hate Eating Out

Every now and then, I happen upon food in a restaurant so absolutely wonderful I have to either figure out how to recreate the recipe in my own kitchen or be forced to visit the restaurant again, requiring yet another meal out.

Eating out demands a whole social system I’m usually just too exhausted to deal with. Other diners, the host person and waitstaff all require my interaction. Most of them – well intentioned, I’m sure – want to chat using that hideous manifestation of extroversion connection: Small Talk.

Server: How are you today? (Translation: Are you going to be low-maintenance, or…gluten free?)

Me: Fine. (Translation: Please don’t tell me your name…)

Server: My name is Ashley/Bradley/Brooke/Chandler and I’ll be your server. (Translation: You’re going to complain about the air conditioner hitting you in that seat. I know it.)

Me: Hi. (Translation: Oh my God! Now I have to remember his/her name. I’ve already forgotten it! What ever happened to people named John and Mary? What do kids with weird names do when they want pre-printed stickers to put on their notebooks and they can’t find a sticker with the name “Tracey” spelled “T-R-A-Y-S-E-E?” They would have to special order…)

Server: Ma’me? Ma’me? (Translation: Are you having a stroke? You didn’t hear me ask what you wanted to drink and you’re tipping the chair over and dropping the cutlery all over the place.)

However, Dirtman requires I go to restaurants on occasion and going with him doesn’t make matters any better. Dirtman doesn’t go to restaurants so much to eat, as to socialize. (Yeah, I know – how have we stayed married 30 years?)

First Dirtman scopes out the room, looking for someone he knows… or someone he might know… or someone wearing a Virginia Tech t-shirt… or someone wearing anything. He chooses his victim, wolfs down his food, excuses himself to go to the bathroom, never to be heard from again.

This leaves me at the table alone and at the mercy of a server who, now feels sorry for me and wants to ramp up the conversation.

Server: Are you enjoying your meal? (Translation: Jeese, even her husband doesn’t want to eat with her.)

Me: … (Translation: My mouth is full of food. Is it more rude to answer with a mouthful or try to swallow first and risk that, since this is small talk, she/he doesn’t really care and will move on before I get a chance to answer, in which case she/he’ll think I’m rude…)

Server: I’ll just take some of these dishes away. (Translation: Maybe I should go get her husband who is sitting at that table chatting with that group of bewildered Buddhist monks.)

I carry my Kindle with me always for just such occasions. I act like I’m reading something requiring full concentration. (Translation: I am deep and too focused on my reading to discuss whether it’s hot enough for me.)

During one of these meals I was introduced to a magical manifestation: Cauliflower Rice; specifically, cauliflower rice from Zoe’s Kitchen. Zoe’s is fast food (ish), without the health risk – and they make an incredible hibiscus green iced tea. And cauliflower rice answers the prayers of a 60-year-old woman who has finally admitted her carb-loaded days have passed (begrudgingly -- I still sneak in a pasta day. I'm not a psychopath).

Zoe’s Cauliflower Rice, infused with wonderful fresh flavors, forced me to spend half the time I should have been focused on the Charlottesville Opera’s performance of Oklahoma! instead trying to figure the interesting seasoning mixture that made the dish so captivating.

My first attempt contains the obvious flavors of lemon and dill and is very good. But it lacks the one very important spice that gives Zoe’s version its unique flavor. Cardamom was acceptable, but I have to own up to a miss.

You know what this means. It means another visit to Zoe’s Kitchen. Otherwise I’ll never be able to eat Cauliflower Rice without pants.*

*For those that know me – sorry for that visual flashing in your brain.