A brief respite from being dragged down Memory Lane

By now everyone has seen the flash mob Hallelujah Chorus, so I'm not going to imbed it here. Follow the link if you haven't seen it.

Oh, and make sure you are at maximum tissuage*.

A few things that struck me after watching it a (ahem) few times. I wonder how many people we see singing aren't the ones who practiced for the event. I, myself, could have sung any of the parts, having worked out a simplified, four-part version for kazoo that was to be performed one Christmas Eve a very VERY long time ago that never came to pass because of the refusal on the part of Dark Garden some people not to practice and the inability to find someone to play bass kazoo.

Anyway, this time of year, every church tries to whip its choir into shape enough to wow the Christmas Eve crowd with a passable version of the Handel classic and, thereby, inspire the once-a-year folks to sign on for the duration. So I figure there had to be a few church choir members in the food court crowd who, upon seeing the spontaneous outbreak of a piece they knew, stood and joined the singing.

Then there is the standing thing. I've seen a lot of comments on the internet about how rude it was that so many people didn't stand. Standing during the Hallelujah Chorus is a tradition, not a sacred rite. If this had occurred at my local mall, the lack of standing would have been the same. Most men don't around here don't bother to remove their hats during the Star Spangled Banner either.

It made me laugh to see the people in the background actually fleeing the area, as if they were terrified they'd be charged for listening to Handel without having to choke up a "love offering."

What did touch me, though, were the parents with children. I got a little weepy watching parents make some gesture or sign to their children telling them to pay attention -- "this is special; this is a moment." Watch how many parents reach out and touch their children in some way; they're so aware that this mundane shopping day suddenly became a gift that would never leave either memories.

I have to admit, if this were to occur in our local mall, while Dirtman and I would enjoy the performance, just about every other Linguini would be heading for the door. John Boy would be afraid a sing-along was about to break out. Dark Garden would balk at the idea of sacred music being inflicted upon him while he was doing a chore he hated in the first place. As for the Small Assorted Cratchits (which is what we call the Heirs and the Twins this time of year), duct tape over their mouths might be be wisest course of action.

In stark contrast to the organized and grand version of this perennial classic that is sweeping the web, I offer this older, more rustic version by the Roches (whose Christmas performance in Northern Virginia I swear I will attend one day when I grow up). It's not quite as full-bodied as a mall full of singers, but mesmerizing by its own merit.



*"Tissuage is a word because I say it is.

Those holiday specials were...ummm...special

Here is my dilema: There are certain things I love but I'm not sure I love them for what they are or for the memory they induce.

For instance: There is a song in my Playlist by Julius LaRosa called "Eh, Cumpare." Bluntly, Placido Domingo will not be performing it anytime soon at the Met. It's a campy song, but I love it. I love it because I have a very specific memory from when I was five or six of that song coming on and my mother, grandmother and two aunts singing and miming along and laughing so hard they couldn't breath. I'm pretty sure there had to be Old Fashioneds and Martinis preceding the performance (for everyone but my mother, who didn't drink but had no problem acting like she had). From then on whenever that song was played, the entire Linguini assembly would begin singing and miming and laughing. (This was obviously not only a Linguini thing -- if you watch Godfather III, they have a similar -- though certainly more organized -- reaction to the song).

So, for what it's worth, growing up I absolutely loved Christmas specials. Not just the ones for kids, though. During the Christmas season, I was permitted to stay up past my 8 o'clock bedtime (that's right -- through my sophomore year in high school I had to go to bed at 8 o'clock...) and see all the Christmas shows that ran throughout December; and everyone had one -- Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Red Skelton (who ran the same one every year -- Greer Garson; I loved it), Dean Martin, Andy Williams, and any other celebrity who had a "variety show" (TV Guide designation) on the air at the time.

I see clips of them now and part of me cringes. The writing was horrible, the "special effects" were embarrassing (and not even done ironically) and the music was canned. But -- what was it? I couldn't look away.

Well, of course it was that I was warm and comfy on the sofa surrounded by relatives (oh brother, was I surrounded by relatives...), safe, secure and convinced that this whole "living" thing was a breeze. And, of course, there were cookies.

To this day, I hear Bing Crosby sing and my whole stress level drops.

And, so, for those of you who have forgotten how wonderfully horrible they were or for those who have not experienced the "specialness" of the 1960s Christmas Special:





Or, of course, you could just go to Branson...

How many more sleeps 'til Christmas?

It's pretty safe to say that every Linguini can quote most of Dickens' A Christmas Carol from memory. Bits and pieces of it creep into our lexicon this time of year, but each line has it's own particular source depending on the situation, speaker and gravity of what we are really trying to say.

John Boy, Dark Garden and I grew up with six versions: two records (one featuring no less than Laurence Olivier), the 1951 movie with Alastair Sim and the 1938 version with Reginald Owen, the musical version from the 70s and the rather bizarre version starring Mr. Magoo (more on that at a later date). Dark Garden was quite young when the musical movie came out and he probably has the fondest memories of that -- seeing it at Radio City Music Hall at Christmas time was our reward that year for good report cards in the first semester (I wore my very fashionable maxi-coat that was gray and John Boy said made me look like Sgt. Schultz from Hogan's Heroes -- but I digress...).

Since then, there has been a flood of Christmas Carols (and I'm not counting every sitcom's obligatory Christmas episode that always seems to be a really stupid variation) and each with it's own merit. We have our personal favorites of course, though I like different ones for different reasons -- sometimes just for one line.

It stands to reason that a little of this would rub off on the Heirs and I wondered which of version they would take to heart. I figured the musical version if just for Albert Finney's muttered one-liners or maybe even the Patrick Stewart version because it's Capt. Picard from Star Trek.

But, no. This is the Heirs' favorite version of the Christmas Carol. I have fond memories of the two of them cuddled around me while we watched this.

I never cried over commercials until...

Christmas commercials don't make me cry anymore. I doubt they make anyone cry. They're loud and crass or, worse, deliberately and heavy-handedly sentimental. Jewelry commercials are the worst and don't get me started on car commercials that even hint that a car is an appropriate Christmas present.

I was never a weepy person. Oh, the opening of Lassie always had me swallowing hard, but that was about it. I had a friend who always exited gooey movies in tears and I'd be rolling my eyes.

Then life happened -- I had kids and troubles and turmoil and that all changed. Now I cry over everything. Heir 2 can't leave for college or come home from college that I'm not I'm blubbering in the driveway. I just have to hear a dog whimper and I tear up. I even found myself crying while watching Charlie Chaplin and Jackie Coogan in The Kid.

When I was a teenager, though, I was a rock; except when this commercial came on. I was fine until the veeeeeeeery end -- the kid's reaction...you'll see what I mean.





See? See? Am I right?

With apologies to modern animation...

I get sucked into a sentimental vortex during the Christmas season, so you will have to bear with me while I drag family members kicking and screaming down memory lane.

Happily, just in case you thought that some childhood holiday trauma memories have been permanently lost with the decay of time, there is always some kindred victim soul who managed to preserve it for you.

And so we have today's first offering. Thanks to YouTube, my brothers and I are seeing this for the first time in color.

When I found it and watched it, I was surprised at how much of this cartoon was ingrained in my head -- we used to do Grampy's "Hmmm.....hmmmm.....hmmm....I got it!" all the time (when we were little, I mean -- it would be silly to do it now...). And that song; I'd forgotten where it had come from.

For those of you who don't remember, Grampy used to show up in Betty Boop cartoons.

The Long and Winding Road

I travel it twice a day, five -- sometimes six -- times a week and I've been doing it for a year and a half. You'd think I'd be numb to it by now.

The road between my house and the farm where I work is so phenomenally beautiful you would think it was deliberately laid out just for aesthetic purposes; like someone directed, "Put the mountain here and that little foothill there, a broken down barn right on the road, sprinkle a few sheep there and there and -- oh -- have that light come in from the east at just this angle to light up this, but not that...and a cow -- there must be a cow!"

Actually, it is never the same day to day or even hour to hour. The seasons change, the weather changes, the light changes and even the residents initiate change. Yet there is consistency also. The housing boom and subsequent bust had very little affect on this road -- there is only one vast empty field accessed through an elaborate stone archway festooned with now-tattered flags announcing, "Homes!" "Lots for Sale!" The sign with contact information has been knocked over and broken in the ditch for over a year now.

Naturally there is other evidence of the housing crisis cropping up here and there; but there is an overall stability also that speaks of a privilege peculiar to this part of the country -- properties are not sold, so much as passed down to relatives. There is a lack of foreclosures along this road because few of them carried mortgages.

So it is comforting to know that there is a rhythm on this road that I can count on; the plowing in spring; the foraging trails of deer during the winter that on any other road would be a catastrophe; sheep shearing; calving; and even skunk mating season that results in a minefield of putrid-smelling roadkill.

It isn't all boring regularity, though. There are those bizarre little minor events not important enough to remember to relate at the dinner table, but that are funny in their rural, bucolic context. For instance, there are several poultry farms near here and one day someone must have left their turkey pen open. Driving into town to make a bank deposit I saw about a dozen turkeys on the side of the road, apparently conferring with each other over which direction to take. On my way back, maybe 20 minutes later, they were still there. I decided they were waiting for a bus.*

I'm rather proprietary about life along this road, as if my mere presence ensures that life will continue. If a tree falls along Back Road will it make a noise if Sisiggy isn't driving by to hear it? I think not. I am convinced that on my days off the little man who takes a walk everyday just to the end of his vast property and back stays indoors and the lady who walks her Beagle just ties him up in the backyard and sleeps in.

On a sharp curve is a huge, tidy farm with sheep and cattle. Many times when I drive by in the early morning the owner (at least I assume he is) is on his front lawn with his cup of coffee, surveying his good work. Two border collies sit obediently at his feet, awaiting their orders. I wave to him and his return wave is practically a salute. There is no sign of a female presence on the property; no flowers appear on the porch in the spring, nor any other decorative indication that one season is any different from another. The only vehicle in the driveway is the immaculate early-model farm truck. The outside of the house if devoid of a single bush or border and the white paint is renewed regularly. He is in control of his land; a tight, iron-grip of control.

I have decided I like this man but, like the ex-wife I've conjured for him, doubt anyone could ever live with him. By now he's convinced himself he likes it better this way and, were he a talker -- which he is not -- he would tell you so in a firm tone that would prevent your disagreement.

I have built stories like this for each of the houses I pass. The ramshackle farmhouse where a little old lady regularly hangs out her laundry, rain or shine; she's a little addled, but she makes due with regular visits from old friends. There is the young family who live next to a tiny country store; I'm positive the oldest boys is recruited to make regular trips next door for milk and, in my mind, he's always barefoot and in need of a haircut. I've made up an entire medical history for the little man who walks to the end of his property each day.

Even the mountains have a story and I try to picture what this valley looked like when those mountains were as big and craggy as the Rockies and here I am, a tiny speck driving through in my little Subaru Anachronism.

My very favorite thing is finding old road beds and trying to conjure what this area looked like before this nice, convenient road cut off the maze of small country lanes. You can still see the shadows of the old paths, especially when you come across a very old house that has been modified so that its back is now its front.

I get a little annoyed when I meet up with another vehicle on what I consider "my road," especially when they pull behind me and want me to drive over the limit because they're in a hurry. Their heads usually have that sideways tilt, letting me know they're on their cell phone because, you know, it's been an entire three minutes since they dropped off little Finster and his his status may have changed. (What is it with people who can no longer drive without a cell phone attached to their ear? Are their families that inept?)

Sometimes...more times than I like to admit...my drive is the best part of the day...unless, of course, there's something good on TCM...

*Don't worry -- since I was unable to determine which farm the turkeys were from, I called the sheriff's department, which had already been informed (several times over) of the wayward turkeys and were dealing with the problem at that very moment. I considered heading back to the site to watch the turkey round-up, but decided to leave the sheriff's department with their dignity intact.

Back to plate-spinning

Today is my last day home after a welcomed break for the holiday. Four days off and I've found my old rhythm of housekeeping and homemaking. In four days organization has begun to return along with all my old enthusiasms.

It's called Being Rested. The past four nights I did not go to bed trying to fit the puzzle pieces of who has to be where and what car will take them and how it will all work around letting out dogs and making sure we all have the proper clothing clean and ready to wear.

Instead, for four glorious nights I knew in the morning would be coffee, then a quick lick around the house, and then the easy dance between hanging out laundry and writing and knitting and cooking and sewing.

The little glitches in the day that normally bring the whole opera to a screeching and tragic halt -- for instance, Dirtman being called into work early -- mean nothing more than perhaps flipping a chore or two. Suddenly words I haven't uttered in a very long time come out of my mouth: "No big deal!" Almost...cheerful.

Tomorrow the circus goes back on the road and I will begin my fabulous plate act, running from spinning plate to spinning plate, making sure they stay moving so they don't fall and break.

I can never think beyond the plates while they're spinning, though. They are useless, but urgent and, frankly, I have to be thankful for the opportunity to perform. Rent must be paid, the lights must stay on, Linguinis must be fed.

But, until Christmas, the plates are all there is.

Thanks for ... the turkey...

It is The Day After Thanksgiving and Dark Garden sends us an e-mail complimenting Dirtman and me on the food we’d had the day before. Because it is The Day after Thanksgiving, I don’t open it until the Day After the Day After Thanksgiving.

The Day After Thanksgiving is the day I stay in bed recuperating from The Week Before Thanksgiving. (Long-time Linguini readers know this involves Turner Classic Movies and a heating pad).

So I get the e-mail and, I have to admit, I’m surprised. I was not particularly impressed with this year’s menu.

The turkey was, as always, very good. Dirtman usually takes care of the turkey with minimal input from me; so, other than resolving each year that Someone Else should carve (someone who is neither Dirtman nor I), the turkey was perfect.

Everything else – meh.

In all fairness, this is the first year I’ve done an all-out Thanksgiving in this house. We had a tiny celebration here the first year and the next year we were at Dark Garden’s house. The kitchen here is very tiny and I’ve had to give away most of my cookware because it didn’t fit in the oven or on the stove. (Ironically, for the first time in my 23 years of marriage, Dirtman was able to find the turkey roaster on Thanksgiving -- but it won't fit into the oven).

I came to realize, though, that in most of the world, huge kitchens with multiple ovens are not seen outside a commercial establishment. If the rest of the world can have their family over for a big meal, well then a good ol’ Yankee girl can certainly do just as well…

…sort of…

…so the praline topping on the sweet potatoes wasn’t crunchy enough…

…and the dressing was too bready (DG would complain about the apples, but he was the only one alarmed at fruit in his stuffing; and maybe John Boy, who doesn’t like vegetables in his cake either…)…

If my job was not away from home (ah, for the good ‘ol days of working from home…), I probably could have solved these problems by doing a whole lot ahead of time. Hindsight being 20/20, I know now what I could have done to prevent side-dish backup.

Did I mention the microwave broke the day before Thanksgiving? No?

So, all-in-all, I think I deserved my TCM and heating pad day – I also spent the day explaining to two 20-somethings how one goes about heating up Thanksgiving leftovers without a microwave…

NOTE: In actuality, the highlight of the day was not the meal at all, but the game of Balderdash that followed (which was actually two games of Balderdash, since Heir 2 made us all go around again until it was after midnight and we were all so tired we couldn't write anymore).

Move on, already...

It's tempting to jump on the "Ah-Hah! See -- it was the bank's fault all along" bandwagon making the rounds this month among foreclosure victims (for lack of a better word).

I have to admit that I've spent an inordinate amount of time giggling at the vacuous expressions on mortgage-provider employees as they try to explain how they came to sign off on thousands of foreclosures barely having the vaguest idea of what a mortgage is.

For those of us who lost everything during the past few years, we're just happy that, for once, we're not being blamed. And if it means throwing those poor slobs under the bus, I've got to admit for a brief moment it meant relief.

Honestly, though, I know it's not those dazed, confused souls trying to maintain some semblance of dignity as they try to justify signing documents stating they work in states they've never been to or witnessed signatures of people they didn't know. But let's face it, we've all had it out for the financial community in general ever since Bear Stearns went belly up. Bernie Madoff had us lighting torches and marching through the village.

For people like me, it's been good to have the banks around to absorb some of the smug self-righteousness of those who are surviving this financial climate. If I had a nickle for every person, pundit or writer that used the phrase, "living in houses they couldn't afford based on money they hadn't yet earned," I would still be a homeowner. Other than that being the ultimate in arrogant statements, I've found that to be the case in most households -- even ones that are not facing foreclosure.

Which is why I've stopped gloating over this current mortgage crisis. Yes, there was and is rampant greed in the financial world that caused varying degrees of malfeasance. But...

...but...

BIG HONKIN' BUT... that still doesn't excuse our national obsession with buying, wanting, lusting after and judging by Stuff. Focusing on the financial world's contributions to our economic woes may be satisfying, but it gets us nowhere. I heard the fashionable response when someone makes dire economic predictions based on what's happening now is to slough off the whole economic downturn on "a dip in the cycle;" in other words, no need to worry -- this is just what happens sometimes and we'll be back to business as usual again in no time.

Well, yeah...that's why it's cyclical; it's also known as insanity -- doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

We all know that the world was slightly insane, right? And Financial Experts (credentials, please!) claim the key to getting the economy running again is to get money into the hands of the consumer so they can buy more Stuff. And it's probably true -- it really will get us back to where we were, again and again and again.

I am not so naive to think this event was going to change the economic tide of the universe. But there may be out there...and you know who you are...people who recognize this financial upheaval for the gift it is -- albeit a very, very hard gift to accept. It's like getting a big, humongous girdle for Christmas from a really skinny friend and when you look at it you swear it's way too big but then it turns out that it not only fits you, but also makes you look really, really terrific -- you hate to admit that it's a perfect fit and that you needed it all along, but there's no getting around the fact that you need it because you are too damn bloated.

That kind of gift.

Someday I will write of my Journey to the Center of the Socio-economic Earth Sector, where my only armor was my race and my willingness to grovel, neither of which I'm particularly proud. That's for another day.

The point is, I'm glad I know now what I didn't know in my insulated middle class existence. And that's what I think of when I see people grasping at straws to stay in the homes they can't possibly maintain the payments on or refusing to accept that they are in over their heads and are, instead, victims of the hapless banking system.

I want to tell them, Let it go. Admit it: unethical and illegal banking practices aside, you were drowning. Accept it, learn from it and, for your own sake, move on.

Then, maybe, the things will go back to the way it was for everyone; and, for some of us, it will be even better.

But wait! There's more!

Picture this: 14-year-old Sisiggy, sitting on the couch: striped denim jeans, red tank top, loooong brown hair (NO HEAD BAND because Sisiggy wasn't allowed to wear a headband because her mother said that would make her look like a hippie whore. So she only wore a headband one timewhen her mother, in response to 13-year-old Sisiggy referring to the household as "the Third Reich," threw up her hands and said, "That's it! I give up! Do whatever you want! You want to go around like a putana, go around looking like a putana," resulting in 13-year-old Sisiggy going to her friend's house dressed in the aforementioned outfit, only this time with a 3-inch suede band -- that was actually a choker necklace -- tied around her forehead; something which she never did again since the suede caused her forehead to break out so much that it was a week before she could appear in public without her bangs covering her face). So don't picture the headband.

But, in case this escapes you, I was still dressed cool. Of course there were no witnesses to confirm this other than, perhaps, Dark Garden, who probably doesn't remember, and John Boy, who wouldn't have noticed.

Still, I insist that in 1972, I had my cool moments, brief as they were...

So there I am...cool.

On the television comes an advertisement: Time Life Records. They're hawking the Sound of the Big Band Era. It's hilarious. Old people songs; "Remastered!" Glenn Miller plays while photos, c. 1940s, flash on the screen. It's so campy. They've even wheeled out some of the ancient musicians to give musical credibility to artists who hadn't been heard from for over 30 years. It was kind of sad, really, that these people who were once at the top of the music field, were now hawking these nostalgic compilations during the cheapest advertising slots on local TV.

I am laughing. John Boy comes in and joins me in laughing. Dark Garden comes in and joins us in laughing (though, because he's only 6, he's not quite sure why). We are making fun of the fact that old people like my parents might be interested in all this campy music and that it would conjure memories of all those silly photos flashing before our faces.

You know where this is going...

So today, picture this: 53-year-old Sisiggy, sitting on the couch: baggy pants, over-sized shirt, looong brown hair (who's got money for a haircut?) -- not cool. Not cool and not caring a flying flip that it's not cool; because there is nothing cool about 53 years old, baggy pants, over-sized shirts, looong brown gray-flecked hair, and not caring a flying flip about it.

So there I am...not cool.

And there they are: Dewey Bunnell and Gerry Beckley from America hawking Sound of the 70s, which is basically every single I had in my hot pink 45-rpm record carrying case (adorned with yellow smiley-face stickers) -- along with campy photos of people who looked way cooler than I ever did. Let me repeat that with a different perspective: Dewey Bunnell and Gerry Beckley from America hawking music by Bread. If you are over 50, that's one of those Things That Make You Go, "Hmmm..."

I had a brief moment of nostalgia, during which I thought, "Well, it was nice to hear those again............................................................once."

Except, perhaps for Hotel California. That song should just stay retired.

Fleeting trends we're glad have passed

One of the pleasures of watching old movies is seeing the fashions and trends of the day that were either being reflected or encouraged at the time the movie was made. I'm not talking about ideology here; that's a subject I wouldn't attempt to tackle in a blog entry. I'm talking about the day-to-day stuff that people encounter that can sometimes tell you not only what era this film was made in, but pinpoint the precise year.

Naturally you get a big heaping eyeful of the fads that defined the time. But, more interestingly, you'll get a glimpse of trends that were popular for the blink of an eye or that never quite caught on.

For instance, one of my favorite movies is Laura starring Gene Tierney*, an elegant film noir in which Tierney plays a classy career woman who is sought after by every man she meets, including the detective assigned to solve her murder (trust me -- this makes perfect sense if you've seen the movie). At any rate, Gene Tierney is a beautiful woman playing a beautiful woman. And then they put her in this:


Okay, so one fashion faux pas in a movie is no big deal. And then, further along in the movie, this:


Even Gene is not quite sure what she had draped on her head...

Just about every actress (except Grace Kelly) has had her share of incredibly poor fashion choices now documented for eternity in some movie or other. Even Katharine Hepburn had her off days. And we won't even mention some of the hats Doris Day attempted to pull off in the early 60s...

Food trends, though, are a little harder to spot. I remember in the 1960s the dish that was considered most elegant was crepe suzette (remember -- "Cathy adores a minuet, the Ballet Russes and crepe Suzette...") and it pops up in a number of movies.

I find it sort of amusing when Cary Grant serves Quiche Lorraine with great ceremony in To Catch a Thief. Quiche Lorraine is one of those end-of-the-month dishes around here because there are always bits of bacon and swiss cheese around and eggs are a nice, cheap protein.

Another example of this occurred in a movie whose name I can't recall (I suppose I could find out, but I'm too lazy and it doesn't matter) but had George Sanders at a nightclub with some woman and another man who had approached their table. In front of him are two large tulip glasses with a white ball in each. He pours champagne over the white balls and, while sitting there delivering dry, witty lines, uses a spoon to flip the balls around in the glass. I looked at the other two characters to see if, perhaps, this was an indication of some mental problem with George's character. But -- no -- they were perfectly fine with what he was doing.

I didn't think anything of it and made a mental note to Google this next time I was at my computer, which I naturally forgot all about within five minutes...

...until a few days later when I was watching another movie I forget the name of and the woman character came upon some fresh peaches, which she proceeded to peel and place in a champagne glass -- one of those wide, flat versions they used to use before flutes became popular. She then poured champagne over the peach, she and her guests toasted and everyone somehow managed to get a mouthful of champagne before the peach flipped out of the shallow glass.

Clearly, I thought, this was a trend that, thankfully, did not catch on. Well, that -- and someone discovered using peach schnapps didn't look quite so silly when drinking a Bellini.

This time I did remember to Google and found this little article, for all you foodies out there who care...

The most disturbing food trend seems to have begun during the thirties. In Dinner at Eight there is a kerfuffle over a lion-shaped aspic that has to be substituted by crab meat. In Alice Adams, Katharine Hepburn laments to Fred McMurray that her mother has served him a heavy roast beef dinner in a heat wave instead of "something iced and jellied." (You may have missed the line, because the scene stealer at this point is Hattie McDaniel and her maid's outfit.)

Now, I like Jello just as much as the next person. I have even, on occasion, indulged in Jello salads (Jello molds are, according to John Boy, a Protestant phenomenon. We never saw Jello molds until we had married Protestants and attended their group functions. Catholics don't do Jello molds, you see.).

However, I can't wrap my mind around a savory gelatin dish. Every now and then someone tries to have aspic make a comeback, but it never quite catches on. It's one of those things that looks like it should be delicious, but then you realize it's something like tomato soup...only it's cold...and solid...sort of...and, well...slimy. And suddenly your throwing up in your mouth a little.

Then there is this tantalizing snippet from The Women: Norma Shearer wants to serve her husband a dish they both love: Pancakes Barbara. It's said as if everyone knows what Pancakes Barbara is and all we are told is that it will make her husband fat. This is another one of those items it took me forever to remember to Google. So, thanks to IMBD:

Almost as theatrical and certainly as decadent as flaming crêpes Suzette, pancakes Barbara are pancakes smothered with whipped cream, vanilla ice cream, blanched walnuts, and hot chocolate sauce. Just hearing about them can put on five pounds. In another version: pancakes Barbara are blackberry pancakes served with brandy sauce and named for Barbara La Marr, a beautiful silent screen star. The dessert was on the menu at the MGM commissary in the 1930s, and was a favorite of studio boss Louis B. Mayer.

And this is where I will close since Heir 2 was looking over my shoulder as I looked this up and has now suddenly developed a 1939 craving for Pancakes Barbara...

*I don't know if I loved the movie or if I loved the movie because I loved watching it with my father back in the day. Legend has it that my father wanted to name me Laura, but my mother nixed the idea (strangely, my first doll was named Laura). So instead I was named "after Ma," though her name wasn't Jean, it was Eugenia -- everyone called her "Jean." So I was named "Jean" and everyone was happy. Years later, long after my mother's death, my father said that he agreed to the Jean because of Gene Tierney and that, if I had noticed (I hadn't), he always called me "Jean" (i.e., Gene) and not "Jeanne" like everyone else.

In which we are puzzled and amazed by citified ways

Just a few observations of things that go on in Northern Virginia that are probably very commonplace to the residents, but strike us as rather bizarre:

• An unmarked white panel truck on the opposite side of the road suddenly pulls a "k" turn in the middle of a busy four-lane highway (Rt. 7 in Falls Church, for those from around here), pulls into the righthand lane in front of me and another car and then stops dead. Then, from out of nowhere, forty or fifty Latino men come swarming from behind buildings and jump into the truck. No -- it doesn't surprise me that I was cut off and stuck behind this truck or that all these Latino men began jumping in. What surprised me is that someone had a construction job they could work at...
• We arrived an hour early in Arlington and decided to get coffee at a little sidewalk cafe. Of course we're now in "the city" (at least as compared to the farm), so we experience the usual street noises: traffic and construction, particularly a jackhammer. But then I look around me and there is not a whole lot of traffic and not a sign of construction going on anywhere. Which leads me to believe that somewhere there is a company that markets "Sounds on a City Sidewalk" mood CDs specifically for outdoor cafes targeting young professional working people who like to look harried and busy.
• I am really thankful for federal buildings that have x-ray machines for my purse so I don't have to have that uncomfortable moment when the security guard opens that little zippered section of my purse -- you know the one. I'm so old, this still embarrasses me; but not so old not to have an embarrassing little zippered section of my purse.
• Whenever I travel to The City, I'm convinced I need a Blackberry; and an iPhone; and something with GPS. I'm not quite sure what I'll do with any of these since it annoys me just to send a text message and I hate it when my cell phone rings. But I feel obligated to pull out my cell phone and stare at it, maybe push a few buttons, so I look like everyone else. As soon as I get home, though, the feeling goes away.
• What are you all doing over there in Occupied Northern Virginia that you need 80 bazillion nail places?

Tonight I feel as though I've been to visit another planet and I will be very thankful tomorrow morning when the only "traffic" I have to contend with is a tractor pulling feed hay to another field.

Yet Another Curmudgeonly TV Rant

Warning for those of you sick of these. You're excused. See ya later.

For starters, let me first fess up -- during my Lost Summer I watched more TV than I ever had in my life; not whole shows, mind you...if there wasn't something good on TCM, then I just kept flipping channels looking for direction. For this reason, I actually do know a little something about the programs about which I complain -- rather than my usual method of relying on heresay and getting it wrong (as in the American's Top Model vs. Project Runway fiasco in a Spot-On column I did).

I have since weaned myself off this habit -- and perhaps sometime I will do a blog why I think weaning is necessary, especially if you think it isn't, and how I did it. But that's not for today.

It seems that the new fall shows are being canceled already. I was only dimly aware new fall shows had started, but...really? Already? Not one of the shows even vaguely resembled Turn-On (which gives you an idea of how old I am...).

One of the reasons for this is -- and I quote -- "poor performance among younger viewers."

Really?

That's whose opinion we're relying on to determine what we're allowed to watch?

It explains everything!

It explains why those Kardashian people are making money. It explains why one channel devotes itself almost entirely to weddings of spoiled, whiney couples and their dysfunctional families (it's either Bravo or WE -- whatever; the channel numbers are close to each other on my cable remote). It explains why creating a wonderful meal is a fierce battle on the Food Network. It explains why Ashley Simpson showed up on The Dog Whisperer (the fading celebrity's next to the last ditch effort to revive their career -- after this, it's off to Branson and red, white and blue cowboy attire).

I will admit to being baffled at first, then outraged that I was watching a glorification of talentless, superficial,self-absorbed, self-centered Californians (sorry, Californians; but, as much as you all disparage the sophistication and physical attractiveness of everyone east of your "canyons" and west of your accountants' beach house in the Hamptons, you do know that the rest of the country considers you all a bunch of idiots*, right? -- all except my former editor Chris, who is one of the smartest women I know and who I envision as a sort of Jane Goodall living among the apes).

Upon further reflection, though, I resigned myself to the fact that there is no solution to this and eventually television will be nothing but a cesspool of so many talentless attention grabbers and their exploiters that in order to maintain the momentum they're going to have to resort to killing each other off in creative ways. While crass, this could preserve our gene pool.

We're already seeing signs of degeneration. Monk had a lackluster final season. House has turned into just another medical soap opera. Between American Pickers and Pawn Stars, watching the History Channel is very much like spending a weekend following my in-laws around. And freakin' Ashley Simpson is on The Dog Whisperer.

And I'm not even going to mention The Jersey Shore, because Heir 2 told me not to. He said everybody complains about The Jersey Shore. But, just so you know -- the people on the Jersey Shore are not from the Jersey Shore. Those of us who lived on the Jersey Shore avoided places like Seaside Heights in the summer because of people like them -- usually from New York or North Jersey). Now I'm done not mentioning The Jersey Shore.

Well, look at that -- I've written all the way to here and I haven't even touched on The Leering Channel...excuse me -- The Learning Channel -- little people, morbidly obese people, perpetually pregnant people, morbidly obese pregnant people, pregnant little people and people with severe mental illness being treated as though all they have is an "organizational problem." They're all there for us to -- ahem -- "learn" about!

Okay. I'll stop. For now. Before I start on the cable news channels...

*I feel perfectly justified in making a broad generalization about people I've never met, such as Californians. After all, people make broad generalizations about people from New Jersey based on that hideous show about sleaze buckets at The Jersey Shore who are not from the Jersey shore. (I wrote this before Heir 2 told me not to mention The Jersey Shore.)

In which Dirtman gets older

What would it take to get two college-age kids on break to agree to spend an entire day with their parents and allow said parents to choose the movie they would go to?

Don't worry -- neither of us is dying.

It's Dirtman's birthday.

Dirtman, Visionary*

So the four of us met up at one of our favorite treats, Alamo Drafthouse, to see the movie Red (Which was good, as what it was; we're not talking To Kill a Mockingbird here...). And we have the photographic evidence to prove it.

I would like to say a few things about this photographic evidence: I get very little cooperation from my subjects and I'm not fond of having my own picture taken.

So, if you want to see current Linguini photos, you pretty much have to take what you can get -- except in the case of Heir 2, who will pretty much pose for anything but a serious photo.

As for me, no matter what happens, I always look ticked off. I truly am not angry -- I just seem to have a face that looks that way (although I will admit that, while Dirtman is taking my photo, I'm usually barking instructions out of the corner of my mouth).
I caught Heir 1 on his way in -- very quickly, since all the time I'm taking the shot, he's nattering, "Why do we always have to make a scene?" You'd think he'd know the answer to that by now...








Never did get a good shot of Heir 2...but we do have a nice, blurry photo of this guy...



...but you all know what Heir 2 looks like, right?





*Have you noticed the re-emergence of Dirtman's neck? He's lost a whole lot of weight and looks great...and very impressive when he dons his business khakis and arranges free stuff for the farm -- like an agricultural well so that when we suffer a drought like we did this year, we can still provide the food banks with lots of vegetables. He did that this week!

Breakfast at Linguini's

This year we discovered what we have is an Autumn Patio, discovered as we were hanging out laundry and suddenly realized how pleasant it was in the backyard now that the weather is cooler and the sun is hitting at a different angle.
We've taken to spending more time out there and Sunday morning I made up some homemade cinnamon buns and coffee to eat while enjoying the scenery. Since Dirtman* works this afternoon and evening, this will be our version of an "anniversary meal" for this year.



In the summer the patio is unbearably hot. Even with an umbrella over our outside table, it is impossible to sit out there until the sun disappears behind the mountain.

Now, if Dirtman isn't working that evening, we take our "happy hour" out to the patio, driving the dogs nuts -- Zsa Zsa is always hoping I'll drop an olive or two -- and looking out at this.

*...who, we promise, is getting a haircut right now, as I am typing this...

You know you're old when...

You have to scan in your wedding photos because there was no such thing as a digital camera back when you were married.

You know you've been married a long time when people look at your wedding pictures and say, "Oh, my God!"


We used to look a lot like our wedding photos; then we looked just a little more mature than our wedding photos; now it's tough to convince people these really are our wedding photos.

Nevermind. We've toughed it out through as much muck as can be thrown at a couple, so don't tell me the institution of marriage doesn't work. It's just that people expect of marriage things it was never meant to do. And then, when it breaks their hearts or forces them to grow in ways they never intended, they get scared and run.



So there we are, 23 years ago -- and countless pounds gained, lost and regained since (our glasses alone had to weigh 20 pounds back then...).


So, Happy Anniversary, Sparkey, from Sister Ingnatius Toyota of Our Lady of Perpetual Motion.

The Secret of My "Success"

I’ve never been cagey about the financial situation here at Casa de Linguini. In a way I’ve been trying to get away from being defined by our bankruptcy and foreclosure because we are so much more than that.

However, unless you’ve got a never-ending fountain of money at your disposal, finances pretty much set the ground rules by which you are required to live. It determines where you live, what you wear and how you spend your spare time; it determines the media to which you have access and, as I’ve come to find out the hard way, it determines how you are treated by total strangers.

This last is a puzzling phenomenon because the entire economic collapse could be summed up by saying that what we were determining as “valuable” was really an illusion, whether it’s a hedge fund manager’s promises of investment returns, Porsche’s assurance that buying their car will make you look successful or Oil of Olay hinting that if you slap on their lotion you’ll get your youth back.

So you’d think we’d know a thing or two about books and their covers, but that would require deeper thought than deciding which media source to go to for our daily dose of stereotyping.

I digress (I’m sure everyone is sick to death of my nattering on about the influence of television).

My point is, I’m very transparent about the fact that our finances are excruciatingly tight. I’m not a stupid person. I am, on occasion, rather witty. I am educated through my own means and well-read. I am honest and strong. I’m a really good mom and have the compassionate, empathetic, hard-working sons to prove it. I’m a fiercely loyal spouse, which I shouldn’t have had to prove.

But I’m still poor as a church mouse.

So I’m not Successful.

No, no. I’m not fishing for validation here…I’m trying to make a point.

I keep reading of financial predictions and the economic goals and all I keep hearing is that we all want to get back to the way it was.

Really?

I don’t.

Let me tell you about “back the way it was.” We were very wealthy then, as I recall. But our kids weren’t “done” yet and I required Dirtman to run interference for me whenever we had “contact” with the outside world (there was a two-year period during which I did not answer the phone – ever). Our marriage had faced what most would have considered "challenges," but that were, in fact, the kind of noble sufferings that made us sort of admirable martyrs; certainly nothing embarrassing that would cause our sensibilities to come into question.

Back then, we were considered “successful.” I’m not going to tell you how successful; but – trust me – we were on every non-profit’s direct mailing list.

Do we really want to go back to that measure of success? Cash value? Bernie Madoff was worth quite a bit – was he successful? (Yes, I know. The skeptic in my brain wants to yell back, “Yeah – if he hadn’t gotten caught!”)

I rather hoped all these economic woes would have taught us something about what constitutes success.

And so I repeat: I’m not a stupid person. I am, on occasion, rather witty. I am educated through my own means and well-read. I am honest and strong. I’m a really good mom and have the compassionate, empathetic, hard-working sons to prove it. I’m a fiercely loyal spouse, which I shouldn’t have had to prove.

And – I insist – I am a success.

Without fail...

Loads of laundry come and go at different times and in different combinations, but...

...every Sunday at 11 a.m. there they are on the clothesline: six identical brassieres (I'm wearing the seventh), one green satin nightgown, one green silk blouse and one pair of Peds (the green silk blouse outfit is the only one requiring I wear ballet flats).

...if I skip a week the neighbors call to see if I'm all right. I guess it's comforting.

In which Sisiggy leaves the state -- all by herself

I don't get out much.

This is not hyperbole; and when I say "out," I mean beyond the country road that runs between my house and the farm where I work. It's a beautiful drive and I consider it one of the perks of my job that I get to see a bucolic panorama on my way to work everyday instead of, say, freeway overpasses, strip malls and fast food restaurants. But I can go months and never leave the road where I both live and work.

The reason for this is partially logistic. We are three adults with two vehicles going three different places. At any given time, someone has to stay home while two are at work/school.

I've come to realize, though, that the other part of this is that it's just easier to stay home and I've found I'm susceptible to the easier path -- not very rewarding, but safe. So here I found myself at the end of a summer with my world shrunken to a 10-mile stretch of road.

So when my friend (and former co-worker at the farm) Susan suggested I come and visit her at her new apartment in Maryland where she and her husband moved last July, my knee-jerk reaction was to politely say, "Yes, we must do that sometime;" and if she pressed me with a specific date, there was always the answer, "Dirtman is working that day and needs the car and Heir 1 has school..."

It's not because I don't want to see Susan and Larry. In my head, I'm constantly updating her on what's going on at the farm and in my life. But her invitation brought me to the realization that I had not driven myself anywhere (other than work) in over a year and I was actually having anxiety over something that I usually never gave a second thought about.

It is always easier to give in to the anxiety than it is to overcome it and I've been spending way too much time on the easy path.

Dirtman and Heir 1 were very cooperative about juggling rides when I announced that I intended to drive to Maryland on a Saturday afternoon (really, only about an hour-long trip) and meet up with Susan and that I was going to do this all by myself (was that an attitude of relief I sensed?).

I was, of course, rewarded for my bravery. It was wonderful to see my friends again and, of course, Susan cooked a terrific meal; and we talked...and talked...and talked...

Oh, and did proper homage to Brandy. How can one not do proper homage to Brandy?

And then, without a second thought, I headed home...with a bagful of homemade cookies for my very own...and we all promised we'd do this again sometime soon.

I mean, it's not like it's a big deal or anything...

Dinner and a show!

Short post, so...

...sorry...had to go get groceries tonight (or, in New Jersey-ese: had to go food shopping).


And now Wuthering Heights is on.

Smell the heather!

In which a little of my bitterness shows through

So I'm flipping around channels last night*, hoping against all hope that there might be something of interest on the television. There wasn't, of course; but during the search I happened upon one of those home and garden shows that follows a family looking to buy a house.

I have to wonder what others looking at our culture think when they see people walking through a perfectly acceptable, immaculate house turning up their nose because the huge living room isn't huge enough or the appliances in the kitchen are three years old. What do they think when a woman looks at a perfectly serviceable stove top and wrinkles her nose with disdain because it's "so dated."

And are people doing strange things in their bathrooms these days that they have to be the size of a ballroom?

Nobody knows better than me that sometimes you just want luxury and, if you got the money, I say go for it. But won't a simple statement of preference suffice without claiming, "I can't live with that Formica counter." You can't live with an abusive person; you can't live with rabid dog; but a granite counter top?

Okay, I'll admit, compared with the caliber of houses Dirtman and I look at, these houses are palaces. A Formica counter would be an upgrade (in the last house, any counter would have been an upgrade).

The ironic thing is, I'll bet I turn out more meals for bigger crowds of people from my tiny circa. 1960s kitchen than any of them do from their football field size rooms. (Though I do miss my kitchen from The House That Shall Not Be Named. Two ovens really made big dinners run smoothly and it was nice having a dishwasher). No one cooks anymore; they just watch Food Network and promise themselves that they will one day.

So I've sworn off home and garden TV, leaving me with TCM and only TCM. I can relate to the kitchens on TCM.

*An unfortunate side effect of my Lost Summer.

Oh, she may look all sweet and cuddly...

...but she's just dreaming of ways to turn the entire house upside down.

Phoebe is perhaps the one animal not well-documented during Linguini's five-year existence. This is because Phoebe is our resident recluse.




She's the oldest pet around here, evidenced by how young Heir 1 is in this photo.

The reason Heir 1 is looking so happy is that when this was taken, Phoebe had just been pulled from the jaws of death with the aid of copious amounts of cash two-weeks worth of torturous (to me) pharmaceuticals supplied by a now very wealthy vet and administered to every orifice of her body. And I have the scars to prove it.

Phoebe proceeded to live her life as she pleased, sleeping either on the front porch or Heir 2's bed and taking a two-week vacation every summer. Each year she would disappear at the end of June and then, just when we were ready to write her off as having gotten lost or hit by a car or picked up somewhere, she would show up on the front porch looking for breakfast.

As she got older, though, Phoebe became a hermit and never ventured outside Heir 2's bedroom. I think this is because he was the only one brave enough to pet her; she had a tendency to clamp onto his hand so he couldn't pull away until she was good and ready.

When Heir 2 went off to college and Heir 1 moved into his room, it was with the understanding that Phoebe came with the room. It wasn't exactly a match made in heaven. Phoebs did not approve of the change in roommates and she and Heir 1 could be heard arguing with each other long into the night.

It seems that whatever item was important to Heir 1, Phoebe adopted as her own. If Heir 1 wanted to work on the computer, Phoebe wanted to lay on the keyboard; if Heir 1 wanted to play a video game, Phoebe wanted to lay on the console. She would rub herself all over his clean clothes -- never on the dirty laundry (I suggested the radical idea that perhaps putting the clothing in a drawer might solve this particular problem...what was I thinking?).

The battle escalated until one day Heir 1 flung Phoebe into the office where she's been ever since (seems laying on the gaming console wasn't quite getting the message across -- so Phoebe peed on it.)

So the office has become a sort of nursing home to Phoebs -- who we are convinced has a feline form of Alzheimers. For awhile she slept in her litter pan and relieved herself in the dog's water bowl. Now she sleeps ... well, wherever she damn well pleases -- she's Phoebe, after all.

She loves to argue. You would think a cat with a face that sweet would have a delicate little "mew." Think again. She's sounds like she's been smoking a pack of filter-less Camels for 40 years and she uses her lung power to let you know that her food bowl is empty, you have blocked access to her favorite perching spot (the dining room table) or her personal bidet is in need of cleaning.

And -- for the love of God -- don't pass her without scratching her head or patting her back. She will hunt you down and kill you in your sleep nag you until you acknowledge her or stuff treats in her mouth.

Whenever Dark Garden sees her he suggests we "put her out of her misery." I keep reminding him is would be more like putting her out of our misery.

When Heir 2 left for Roanoke this year, he was quite sure he was saying goodbye to Phoebe for the last time. But she's like one of those aging relatives who uses their illness to manipulate the entire family -- she just keeps going and going and driving everyone crazy...

I gotta admit, for all the trouble she is, I'm kind of pulling for her to hit the over-20 mark.