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.

Thank you, Middle Eastern cuisine, for baba ganoush

Here's the thing about eggplant: I love eggplant. So, on a Saturday when I do my bi-weekly shopping, I buy an eggplant.

I’m going to make eggplant parmesan or eggplant melanzane (which is like saying “eggplant eggplant,” but in Sicilian it’s pronounced “moo-lin-yan’” and that’s what my grandmother called a casserole with just marinara, eggplant and romano cheese).

On Saturday I have great plans for that eggplant…

…which don’t take place that night because – duh – I’m tired out from shopping and doing all the stuff that doesn’t get done during the week. Fire up the grill and let Dirtman do the cooking. Men like that, right?

So, Sunday…we take a drive on Sunday, just anywhere. We try to get lost.We come home late. Too late for eggplant anyway.

Monday…I work at the DM V. And it’s a Monday. Need I say more? Leftovers.

Tuesday…Again, DMV. Cheese quesadillas. Again. If it’s Tuesday it must be quesadillas.

Wednesday, Thursday and Friday are days I work at a food pantry. By the time I get home, playing with food is the last thing on my mind. I ditch my weekly pledge to cut down on carbs and boil up the pasta – a little olive oil, a little parsley, some garlic and a lot of cheese, done. Or eggs. (Yawn)

Back to Saturday and there is my lovely eggplant – only now it’s blotchy and sad.

Another eggplant destined for the trash…

…until I discovered baba ganoush*.

It’s simple, really. Cut the eggplant in half lengthwise, poke a few holes in the skin, brush the cut side with olive oils and bake, cut side down, for 35-40 minutes at 400 degrees. As it cools, finely mince a clove or two of garlic. Scrape out and mash up the meat of the eggplant, add the garlic, two or three tablespoons of tahini, the juice of a lemon, a teaspoon of cumin, ¼ teaspoon cayenne (this makes it pretty hot) and salt to taste. Use it as a dip for pita wedges, cucumber slices, celery – whatever.

(Disclaimer: Dirtman hates baba ganoush. But, then, Dirtman is compelled to dump cream sauce on fresh, tender asparagus and was raised on Miracle Whip. So, basically, he's brain damaged.)

The wonderful thing about baba ganoush, in addition to its snappy taste, is that it only uses the interior of the eggplant. So when I have a week like the one I just mentioned – which is, like, always – that sad, blotchy eggplant can still be a perfect starter with a smooth goat cheese... and a martini as dry as a Stephen Fry quip.

*I’ve seen this spelled so many different ways, I opted for the one that was phonetic. I’m sure it’s not authentic.

A Somewhat Delayed Fathers' Day Post*

Genealogy research is one of those activities, like bird watching, you don’t come to until you are older.

I don’t know why this is, because it’s rather counter-productive. By the time you’re interested, most of the people who could have provided the information you desperately need are dead or mentally incapacitated.

I never knew my paternal grandfather, who died in the trenches of World War I. I’ve been gazing at his picture from a newspaper article written about him in the early years of the war, when he voluntarily signed up to serve -- in spite of his military exemption because he had several children (my infant father) and one on the way -- because, as he is quoted as saying, “there are plenty of slackers.”

I want to slap him, knowing as I do the hardship his death caused my widowed grandmother, who was forced to dole her children out to boarding houses to raise themselves.

So I signed into an ancestry research site. A search reveals his name on the draft registration roster and in two clicks I'm looking at my grandfather’s signature on his registration form. Suddenly he is a person – my person. My grandfather. For a moment I’m stunned.

This man whose name, when spoken, resulted in an eye-roll from both my father and my aunt, was suddenly real to me. Would he have asked me to pull his finger? Would he have swiped in front of my face, bent his thumb toward his palm and claim possession of my nose? Would he like me?

And why, for God's sake, do I care?

At one point, the family tree splits, with each branch settling in two different counties in New Jersey, and two entirely different economic and social classes. I don’t think I need to mention which branch I’m descended from.

There are no Elizabeth Bennetts or Mr. Darcys lurking in my family tree; not even a Jane Eyre or Jo March. My people were servants to those characters, nameless, faceless workers who supported the romance that is presented as the Regency and Victorian eras.

Is it some sort of inherited memory that I never had the same romantic vision of the 19^th century as the media presents?

Deep down I’m always aware that while a small population was fluttering about in hoop skirts and covering their noses with lace hankies, even more people were breaking their backs carrying the water to keep them in their dainty finery. That's my people.

I look back at my grandfather’s picture. Though he gazes back at me with my father’s eyes, I still feel anger at this arrogant truck driver who stumbled into the line of fire. Had he not been who he was, had he not died, growing up I might have actually had a grandfather.

But then, had he lived, my father might never have been forced to leave college to get a job as a jewelry salesman to support his mother. It was there he met my mother. Where it not for that arrogant truck driver (or as Pa used to say, “I think my father was sort of a jerk.”), my parents would have never met.

And you, dear reader, instead of reading this, would be scrolling through Facebook posts on “Look at These 70s Celebs All Grown Up!” And Dirtman would be roaming freely about the world, trying to engage anyone and everyone into conversations about the weather. (On behalf of my family tree, you’re welcome.)

Physicists say that it is humans who impose a linear quality to the concept of time; some claim that events just happen without regard to past, present or future.

My existence has depended on the trajectory of a bullet shot in 1918 by a soldier whose name I’ll never know.

This amazes and humbles me.

*Portions of this post were originally published in (an old, old) column of Spot-On.

A New Year's Post In Which I Manage to Not Invoke the Name of the President-Elect*

Dear 2017,

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the need to address the New Year. Things seemed to be progressing at a pretty normal pace. It seemed my input wasn’t necessary like it was for your siblings 2012 and 2014.

And then there was your sibling 2016 – the Hannibal Lechter of years. I realize now that, as New Years go, these little discussions are mandatory since evidently subjective and arbitrary timeframes have no respect for decency.

In the past, I’ll admit I’ve judged you and your siblings on the crap you flung at me, personally. It never occurred to me that, lacking my direction, you’d expand your systematic destruction to the world at large.

So…2017…we need to talk. Because evidently, like a pre-teen, you seem to think that if I don’t specifically tell you not to do something, it automatically means it’s okay to do. For instance – I never said to my kids, “don’t play Jousting Tournament on your bicycles.” I went for the simple “don’t be a moron,” assuming that would prevent them from careening at each other with the gas grill rotisserie shafts. I was wrong.

Indeed, I never specifically told your sibling, 2016, to not bring our entire civilization to its knees. At this time last year, such as statement was sort of like telling someone “don’t take any wooden nickels.” Such a phrase was outdated because any idiot would know the difference between a sanctioned, intricately-minted coin and a piece of worthless junk carved to look like something of value that can slip through a dysfunctional mechanism.

And so 2016 was the year that was so horrible, a bevy of celebrities opted to jump ship rather than endure even one more week of it. It was the year so horrible that even the people who got their way still seemed to be really mad at the people who didn’t. It was the year no one was happy.

What has made it even worse is that 2016 packed up and disappeared, but didn’t take its garbage with it. So here we are, drowning in the detritus of your sibling and you show up expecting some sort of celebration.

Well 2017, you’re going to have to prove yourself. Frankly, you don’t have a whole lot to work with and Kardashian mutations are still infesting every aspect of our culture (deep down I suspect this is the root of all the world’s problems).

So for now I’ll wait…and watch…and find a nice, safe place for my spare pair of glasses.

Warily,

Sisiggy

*Sort of.

10 Things That Really Bug Me A Lot More Than They Probably Should

1. People who talk about their sports team in terms of "we;" as in "WE really tore them up this week;" as if the speaker him- or her-self had been out on the field instead of parked on the sofa eating tortilla chips.

2. Using Facebook to say "Happy Birthday, "Happy Anniversary," "I love you," etc. to someone you live with...to someone you live with. For pete's sake, turn your head! There he or she is! Now speak the words. That's how we used to do it in the olden days.

3. (while we're on the subject of Facebook) Postings threatening me that if I don't "share" them, I don't love the poster, I don't love 'Murica, I don't respect veterans, I want people to die of cancer, will have something horrible happen to me.

4. Not just stinkbugs, but dive-bombing stinkbugs; dive-bombing stinkbugs IN THE DARK. They turn me into Tippi Hedren in The Birds when she for some inexplicable reason goes to the upstairs room, opens the door, sees big honkin' birds all over the place and then enters the room anyway.

5. When people write "Walla!" instead of "Voila!"

6. Owen Wilson. I don't know why -- might be his lips. He has Donald Trump lips (and I DO know why HE bugs me).

7. The fact that, in 28 years of marriage, Dirtman has not finished a single container of anything. He leaves approximately a tablespoon of product in any container -- whether it's shampoo, a box of cereal only he eats, or milk -- and then opens a new container. I guarantee, if I go into the kitchen right now, there is a bag of wheat squares on top of the fridge with precisely two squares in it. And, actually -- I think this bugs me precisely as much as it should.

...and yes, I've told him. I've gone on 10-minute rants about finding one freakin' cracker wrapped up in a big saltine box in a cabinet already crammed with a jar of Jif with a teaspoon of  peanut butter and a bottle of Log Cabin with a tiny pool of syrup at the bottom, along with almost-full opened versions of each product. I mean, how is that one freakin' cracker too much?

8. That there are people who will think I am overreacting to #7.

9. When my computer refuses to download something with the phrase "You are not connected." I take this personally and get really sad.

10. That every article you read these days is in the form of lists. It's a cheap trick to get people to read something absolutely inane.

Boneless Pork FrankenloinorHow to make so many substitutions to a recipe it no longer resembles the recipe you started with

So I had this portion of a pork loin sitting in my freezer; this hunk of meat that I had to commit ahead of time to make because one doesn't defrost a loin of pork and then put off roasting it because one got home late and only had the energy to make a martini OR make dinner and, the way things have been going lately, the martini always wins so long as the Tanqueray holds out.

This particular pork loin was a cute little end piece I surreptitiously snipped off the end of a larger roast I'd made earlier this summer for the family at large. It was the perfect size for two people to have dinner and a few pork sandwiches.1

A boneless pork loin is basically a big hunk of solid meat, a sort of blank canvas for flavor and, paired with a morning spent watching Food Network, it was destined for a more creative treatment than my usual rub-n-roast.

At first I thought I'd cut it into individual boneless chops, butterfly the chops and stuff them. But, in seeking inspiration from the internet, I happened upon a video of stuffing a pork loin roast.

Now here's the thing about recipes off the internet: they're written by people who actually make meal plans; people who go grocery shopping on a regular basis -- people who have money to go grocery shopping on a regular basis. Here in Linguiniland, grocery shopping is done as a last resort -- when even the ramen is gone and you can see straight through the top shelf to the bottom of the crisper drawer.

The guy on the video had thought out his meal so far ahead that he had figs on hand for the stuffing and time to hunt down something with the unfortunate name of "fat caul.2" He was so organized, he had butcher's twine and so wealthy, he had a Le Creuset roaster.

So, basically, this is the same recipe, in so much as there is a pork loin that it's stuffed, but all similarities end there. My stuffing is significantly more humble: the only bread on hand was stale hot dog buns in the freezer and from that I just threw together the standard stuffing I use at Thanksgiving in a much smaller quantity.

I substituted the "fat caul" with bacon because I figure you can substitute just about anything with bacon. (Couldn't they come up with a better name than "fat caul?")

My butcher's twine is the end of a skein of cotton yarn I used to knit dishcloths. Just call me the MacGyver of the kitchen.

I did have to learn to butterfly a pork loin, not easy when it's a teeny tiny pork loin end. But, just as you can use bacon as a substitute for everything, you can also use bacon to camouflage ugly knife skills. And it doesn't have a depressing name like "smoked pig stomach lining."

I roasted the whole thing on a bed of onions and made a sort of jus/gravy (I like jus, Dirtman likes to drown things in gravy -- so I compromise).

The recipe was a success, but will work infinitely better with a full roast. Next time, I'll plan ahead and put apples and pecans in the stuffing.

The bacon could barely contain the stuffing in my tiny butterflied roast and I doubt that...Thing That Shall Not Be Named... would do much better. I'm sticking with the bacon anyway; the flavor was out of this world! I doubt anything called "caul" could do much better.

...And then I don't have to explain to anyone that I wrapped their dinner in a caul.

1. The perfect size for a couple that never hears from their sons for whom they sacrificed and slaved, obtaining gray hair and probably an ulcer, yet are never bitter or expectant of any gratitude for the 70 hours of labor she put into bringing said sons to life or the ENDLESS MONTHS OF HOMESCHOOLING SHE SPENT EXPLAINING THE DIFFERENCE AMONG "TO, TOO AND TWO" AND "THERE, THEIR AND THEY'RE;" but a couple that does not want to confine their pork loin consumption to times when said ingrates deign to drop by expecting to be fed.

2. The only other reference I can think of to a "caul" is in the book David Copperfield -- apparently David is born with a "caul," which is eventually sold because people were evidently less squeamish and more superstitious. Since a "caul" is, basically, the afterbirth over the head of a baby that hadn't been pierced in the birth process, it hardly conjures culinary visions in my brain but, instead, sort makes me throw up a little in my mouth.

The (not anything like Campbell's) Cream of Tomato Soup recipe

Let's face it. I could write prose until I'm blue in the face and most people who know me would just say, "Knock it off and cook something."

While writing is an aspiration, cooking I do okay -- save for a few pathetic stabs at vegetarianism in the 90s and some extremely frugal recipes requiring the addition of something called "texturized vegetable protein."* It was a sad, sad time in Linguiniland.

And so...the Tomato Soup recipe. This is the one I made for the cafe. Notes follow.

7 cups crushed tomatoes

1 cup shredded carrots

3/4 cup finely chopped onions

1 (13.7-oz.) can chicken broth

1 T. sugar

2 tsp. salt

3 T butter

3 T. flour

1 cup heavy cream (have used half-n-half successfully)

2 tsp. dry basil or 2 T. chopped fresh basil

1/2 tsp. celery salt

1/2 tsp. pepper]

1/4 tsp. garlic powder

Sweat carrots and onions in olive oil. Add tomatoes, chicken broth, sugar and salt. Simmer for 30 minutes.

Cream mixture with immersible  blender (or food processor or regular blender1).

Add cream.

In a separate pot, melt butter and blend in flour. Add to soup and stir until thickened.

Add herbs and spices and simmer 1 hour. Taste to adjust seasonings.

Just a few caveats:
Since canned tomatoes differ so much between brands and I can't afford to choose one over the other, I don't always use the flour and butter to thicken the soup. If the tomatoes are thick enough, I just splash in the cream (you can use half-n-half too -- which I usually do, since that's what I have around).

Also, the basil is going to vary widely, especially if it's fresh. The 2 T. is based on basil I grew. This last time I used fresh basil from the store and it took the whole package to get it to where I was happy. Just remember that, if you add more, let it simmer at least 10 minutes before tasting again.

So there it is. Too much trouble for soup? After a while it become second nature and goes very quickly. Especially if you do it twice a week for a year or so...at 8 o'clock in the morning before the double shot espresso kicks in. 

*Back in the day, Texturized Vegetable Protein (TVP) was a staple in Linguiniland. TVP could replace meat in a myriad of re.cipes, but we only used it to reduce our meat bill as much as possible. By pairing TVP with deer meat( given to us by a member of our church who loved to hunt but whose wife could not bring herself to "eat Bambi"), I was able to slash our food bill to next to nothing ($75 a month for a family of 4). However, the TVP experience is a frequent subject of many nostalgic conversations between the Heirs, usually involving the frequency of bathroom use or as a gauge of how nauseous something made them; as in, "the food poisoning made me run for the bathroom more than TVP;" or "the flu made me throw up more than TVP." Through it all, I insist, I was a good mother.

On Being an Introvert

I am so glad that being an introvert has become fashionable. At least, I assume it has -- one can never tell whether what you are interested in has become popular, or if it's just showing up a lot on your Facebook feed because of your interest. 

At any rate, it turns out that being an introvert is okay now. 

"But, Sisiggy," you say, "Here you are blathering on about being an introvert -- but you are blathering in a very public place -- the internet."

Yes, but my original blather is as I sit at my computer alone (but for Topper-get-down on the bed spewing noxious fumes and Dirtman  a few yards off muttering sport statistics that have no basis in my reality).

This isn't about the obvious attributes of introversion, but the most common is that introverts find large gatherings draining -- which sounds to me like I'm being accused of snobbishness ("I find these people so tedious, Dah-ling!"). It is actually the opposite of that. I think, when faced with a large gathering, we introverts become extrovert-wanna-bes.

What? You think we want to huddle in the back, pretending to be talking on our cell phones? (Prior to cell phones, the most we could do is dive into the bathroom.)

I manage a teeny, tiny remote portion of a very large non-profit and, therefore, have to attend meetings where I know, if I'm lucky, only one or two people out of hundreds. I am there with my boss's directive to "network."

Networking -- the person who invented this activity should have a flat tire on I-395 outside of Arlington at 5:30 p.m. on a Tuesday; they should encounter a locked bathroom a half hour after having consumed bad guacamole; they should get in a checkout line at the grocery store behind someone with a fistful of coupons, only some of which have not expired, requiring further examination on behalf of the clerk and the supervisor, called to pass judgement on the wording on several of the coupons.

My boss is a networking superstar. She works a room like Auntie Mame and makes small talk sound like the Gettysburg Address. I am in awe of her as I follow her around, smiling politely as she introduces me, while the entire time I'm just thinking up an excuse to go home or, perhaps, go help out the caterers (thereby at least accomplishing something).

This actually came in handy recently. I escaped during a break in a meeting where we were told to "introduce ourselves" to at least one other person from outside our department (since I'm a department of one, this meant everybody). I would argue, as an introvert, that this was not actually, then, a break, but a continuance of the tortuous interactive meeting. So I headed to my car with my phone plastered to my ear. Blessed silence! To fill out the time, I decide to clean out my glove compartment and noticed that I needed to print out a new insurance card.

See? Introversion has it's purpose.

Usually, though, when faced with such a meeting, I scan the room for someone like me -- usually sitting at the back row or table, pretending to be texting someone. This is where I will sit. We introverts have an understanding with each other. We will exchange names and, if asked, we will both have someone to refer to as "a connection" we made. Then we sit in silence and pray for the event to be over.

Later, though, I always swear that next time I will enter the room with a, "Hello everybody!" And everyone will give an exclamation of delight as I enter the room, my arms outstretched to encompass all these people I consider friends -- because what extrovert doesn't consider as a friend every person with whom they've made eye contact?

I will not have to introduce myself to anyone because everyone will be coming up to me, unable to resist the gravitational pull of my charm and folksy eloquence.

And there I'll be, in the center of all those people...those people whose names I, of course, remember*...who expect me to...what? What do they expect of me? Read their expressions, right? That 's how you tell what they want from you. But they're all smiling. That's it. Smiling. And talking about...what? I can't understand what they are saying, they're all talking at once...saying things and smiling...

It requires focus and listening. But it's always someone who talks too quietly and you lean in and still can't hear and ask, "What?" and still can't hear, then give up and just smile and nod until you notice a look of horror on their face and you realize that they've just related to you about their recently-deceased grandmother who raised them.

Or they ask me a question. Oh no!

I make a noise, nothing like speech. Like any good Italian, my mouth doesn't work without the aid of my hands. And I'm off, babbling and gesticulating like an idiot, running out of air at the end of sentences and laughing at my own stupid jokes. I go on and on because I don't know how to end it, so I say (and I'm not exaggerating; this is honestly how I've ended some of my more inane diatribes), "I'm done now."

Then I chuckle, pretend to suddenly notice the refreshment table and say, "Oh! Water!" and hurry away.

And speaking of the refreshment table, what demon of Satan's thought up the idea of having to eat, drink, stand up and talk, all at the same time? (I suspect it's the same person who came up with sing-alongs, high school gym class and those silly games they make you play at Tupperware parties -- all, ironically, activities at which extroverts excel.)

So, you see, in a way, it's a blessing I'm an introvert. No one, not even the most annoying extrovert, should have to witness that embarrassment.

So, Extroverts of the World, I have a deal for you: If you will just leave me alone when you see me sitting placidly off to the side at some event, next time I'm completing some mundane transaction like gassing up my car or buying a pizza, I won't punch you in the head when you command me to, "Smile!"

*I have, under pressure of speaking to someone I didn't know, forgotten the name of my husband. Recently. We've been married 27 years. And the question, "Is it 'Jean' or 'Jeanne'?" confused me because I didn't know who they were talking about.