Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Expressive

In the kitchen is where I like to express myself. I'm good at this.

Prepping dinner is therapeutic, pouring wine as I cook is cathartic. Serving dinner is rewarding, eating dinner is re-kindling.

Baking is only for special occasion and for showing gratitude. Lest there be chocolate addictions rampant in this house, I limit the cookies and cakes and don't buy cookie cutters in cute shapes. (Besides, I only sanction the illogical, growing collection of balls, candles, and milk glass.)

Cooking breakfast in the morning gives me a Carol Brady start to the day that I indulge in, there is something so 1950s about scrambling eggs for my hubby in the morning and offering the kids (turkey) bacon before school. Between my shiny silver earrings is a smile from knowing; I can simultaneously be Rosie the Riveter and everyone else I need to be in my modern generation.

However, as much as I love to please people with food, I hate to admit, the expression that comes from my kitchen much of the time is selfishishness. I am selfish in the kitchen.

Much as I love hitting my culinary target, everyone is subject to my whims. What my family eats is contingent upon my moods. My moods are contingent upon weather, hormones, the programming on the Food Network and History Channel, things I read and even the music I listen to. I have control of the kitchen and like a witch with a cauldron, I throw things into the skillet to appease my situational desires.

Can't help it.

Last night, for instance. Heavy on carbs - cauliflower, roasted potatoes, and parmesan-crusted boneless pork chops.

Hubby: "Can you please try not to make this dinner again? Pork chops, even the boneless ones, are fatty. And everything else is so...starchy."

Me: "Sure, honey. I'll never cook this again which means definitely not in a month."

Daughter: "Can I have Cream of Wheat instead, I don't like pig chicken." (Pig chicken is code for pork chops).

Son: "I want oatmeal.  I don't want the dinner you cooked, Mom, why did you cook stuff I don't like?" Heaven forbid.

Now, some Moms would be upset by this. Five people in the house to feed and not a one pleased with the meal she labored over. Not me. I packed the uneaten food away knowing I had lunch for myself for the next three days. And not just lunch, food that comforts (me).

Another example is Tuna Casserole.  Like pork chops, it is something my Grandmother made when I was a child, food I grew up on. Yeah, I like it...and just like the parmesan-crusted pork chops seared in olive oil, I have put my own spin on this food I grew up eating. I use whole wheat noodles, my own Bechamel, a Goya seasoning packet, and fresh, organic peas with chunk white albacore. My grandmother used additives and flavor enhancers I don't care to mention (one of them might rhyme with "take 'n rake").

Even though I have brought these foods into the 21st century from the post-WWII era, even though I have refined the flavors with fresh-from-Earth goodness, product knowledge and experience, hubby still won't eat them. My son frowns upon this food.  My daughters are hit and miss.

The hell with them. I say as long as I'm cooking, you get what I bring to the table.

I say, as long as you depend on me to cook what you bring home, it'll be a little saucy.

And the kids know, until they cook for themselves, should they not approve of the main course and healthy sides awaiting them at the dinner table, the cereal box in the pantry and cold milk in the fridge is their next best option (and a bonus dish of guilt comes with this plan).

It's far more likely I'm feeling the effects of Pinot than power, so I assure you, this is a benevolent exercise of authority. No one goes hungry here.

I'm expressive and mostly through food. Even if it's not a menu the recipients prefer, it has made the Mom happy. It may be a little selfish, but pleasing the cook yields better flavor.

In this house we may not all like the same food, but we each know this; even if it's not a favorite, it's better than no flavor at all (who in their right mind prefers no flavor at all?) and in my kitchen, everyone has the freedom to change their mind...

...and to express themselves.





Posted by Sam at 12:59:42 | Permanent Link | Comments (1) |

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

The Tradition of Tidepools

"No, now. I need to see the frozen Charles NOW!" ... Kate Winslet as Clementine in the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

I just couldn't bring myself to go shopping Thanksgivig weekend. My kids couldn't provide me with a convincing argument to take the entire family (including the 2 year old) to the movies. But by Saturday morning at 11:00 a.m., I had to get out of the house. I felt unproductive and restless but retail therapy was not the answer (I have come far, people - very far). My husband teased me incessantly after his second cup of coffee...

Hubby (imitating me): "Ohmigod it's like almost noon and I haven't done anything today. I have to get out of the house and do something let's go to the beach NOW!" he smirks.

Me: "Shut up."

Hubby: "Let me get my shoes, honey and we'll go to the tidepools."

Me (thinking): Damn, he really gets me, and today, he actually knew how to handle me.

Within half an hour we were in the car, stopped for sandwiches, and driving towards the Pacific Ocean.

In Eternal Sunshine, the Charles River placates Clementine (if anyone can still be beautiful with blue hair, it's Kate Winslet). I flee to the ocean; it fixes me when I need fixing, it's the best place to be when we're in the groove, and it puts things in perspective for me when I don't know what I am doing.

Every year over Thanksgiving weekend we go to the tidepools at La Jolla Cover here in San Diego. Speaking of perspective - find an active tidepool and you can see little microcosms, hierarchies, social pecking orders, resilient ecology - just this past weekend we saw a deep tidepool with seagrass the color of clovers and kelp that went from purple to red, depending on the sunlight, which is probably why we found an octopus and a lobster within it's rocky basin. Right next to this pool was a shallow one that didn't look like more than a litter pile of broken opaque shells, until you looked closer and realized there were hundreds of hermit crabs scattering about. They were very busy. I found my name carved into a rock next to "JIM" and I wondered, did I do that twenty-two years ago when I was discovering The Doors? I don't think so, but I took a picture of it anyway.

The thing about heading to the water is this - it became a tradition accidentally. My husband and I know there is nothing to be bought at a store, seen in IMAX, or waited in line for that equals the peace we find by the ocean. Plus, seeing the calm, blue horizon and smelling the sea air instills us at once with what we seek...riddles and their coveted answers, with a soundtrack sea birds and waves. 

I need the ocean. More often than not, I go there, or imagine myself on it's shores.

I can't take complete credit for this tradition however, my parents started taking me to these tidepools thirty years ago. The good things stick. And traditions that our family creates all on our own - not something we find recommended in an article or that we see in a brochure -those traditions give us a glimpse into things bigger, things smaller, and all emotions in between.

That is time well spent, and when I say this, it's because I know what I am doing.

Posted by Sam at 15:47:18 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Thursday, November 22, 2007

The Fight Over Thanksgiving Day Television

Hello.  My name is Inugo Montoya.  You killed my father. Prepare to die.

...from The Princess Bride, one of the many movies I plan to watch today, Thanksgiving, a day when good movies are always shown on regular television (albeit interrupted by pre-holiday commercials that insist "We're open at 4:00 am!").

My husband started the fight for the remote early this morning. "There are three football games on today. THREE!"

"But I'm watching Planes, Trains and Automobiles.It's a classic John Hughes movie from the 80s."
 
"Well I'm watching Brett Favre and Koren Robinson. It's an important game in a 2007 division match-up."

"Me too!" my eight-year-old son chimes in.

The battle begins.

Here is what I had slated to watch and programmed into the DVR while I soaked oysters in buttermilk, fried them in corn meal, cubed bread, grated nutmeg, and called my girlfriends scattered across the country:

Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade
Planes, Trains and Automobiles
The Princess Bride
Peter Pan
Home Alone
....to start.

Those movies supply a lot of magic for a day like this. Balloons, compassion, true love, fairies, pirates, mermaids, and outwitting the bad guys.  How do sports fit in to that?

Well, I guess if all the world is a stage to me, all the world is a field to the males in my life.

But combining Neverland and a ball game?  There is a way to make this work.

Happy Thanksgiving...

Posted by Sam at 10:20:47 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

I Never Thought I Would...

I watched old home videos last Friday night. Sometimes retrospect throws me into melancholy or oblivion, but lately, what is happening in the moment is enough to confuse the hell out of me.  There are things I said in the home movies I would never say now.  There are people in those home movies I can't believe I trusted. But there exists a common denominator between now and then; the ability to surprise myself. I suppose it's part of growth, it's justifiably human, and I should try to enjoy (at least, learn from) the things that seemingly come out of nowhere.

If I don't already.

Since I make lists and play with formats...these are some things I never thought I would...

Try to unlock the front door with my car key remote.
Tell the phone, while it's ringing, "I'll be right there!"
Get the wind knocked out of me so far down the line.
Consider the possibility of Greg Maddux retiring in San Diego.
Let my son wear a dirty uniform and believe in the reason it's so important.
Dread the holidays.
Outlaw words like "stupid" but still say things like "you little sh**!" 
Handle portion control without depression.
Put my cell phone in the refrigerator and the carton of milk in the cupboard.
Sing along with, let alone know all the words to: the Scooby-Doo song, the Spongebob Squarepants song, Blues Clues, Drake & Josh, or Hannah Montana.
Put on the TV for the kids so I could get some work done.
Not care if my car is dirty.
Make so many sacrifices.
Resent making those sacrifices.
Be okay with making sacrifices.
See so much sense in contradiction.
See the answer to the ills of the world within nutmeg.
Resist impulse buys and not buy a new pair of boots every Fall.
Be able to let things simmer instead of fanning the flames higher.
Write for a living.
Be grown-up enough to have a Plan B.
Be so happy.
Still want more.
Have so many scars from making bruschetta, Stroganoff, handling sharp knives, and my shiny gas stove (and still be so enthusiastic about the kitchen)
Be psychotic from sleep deprivation.
Love something so much.
Still be 13 at 36.
Love someone so much.
Depend on a spinning class for clarity.
Feel a sense of accomplishment from cleaning grout.
Care about how the Tupperware is stacked.
Make a list like this and call it a writing exercise.
Accidentally kill the family pet (poor little lizard).
Watch Jaws so I could cheer up.
Be alright enough to throw this out there.

....Since life is full of unexpected things, I suppose this list will only grow. And I'm not scared, which is surprising.

Posted by Sam at 12:35:49 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Thursday, November 15, 2007

17

Something important happened in Major League Baseball earlier this month.  Greg Maddux won his 17th Gold Glove and now has more than any other player in MLB history. Of course, because it was Greg Maddux, you heard little about it from him. Humble and downplaying his accomplishment as usual, he said it was "cool". Graceful like always, he said he was fortunate to be pitching and was honored to receive another prestigious GG award.

Happy that the Sox won but despondent that baseball is over for a while, I read up on baseball still (Beckett didn't win the Cy Young. Injustice! And that's another blog. At least Peavy won unanimously.) I was avoiding a deadline the other day and looked up Maddux's stats - I wanted to be distracted and amazed simultaneously.

Here is only some of what I found:

17 Gold Glove Awards, more than any other player (oops, I already said that)
4 Cy Young Awards
347 wins
3,273 strikeouts
74.2 innings pitched without a walk in 2001
20 consecutive seasons with 13 or more wins (20 games twice, 19 games 5 times, 18 games twice)
2.09 ERA in 38.7 World Series innings
4 ERA titles
5 wins titles
5 innings pitched titles
7 games started titles
(if you want to see more of the same, follow this link, it's a great article
http://www.signonsandiego.com/sports/drooz/20070918-9999-drooz.html )

Of course, stats are just numbers, says my husband who is an Astros (read: Roger Clemens/Nolan Ryan) fan. In a way, he's right.

 Archimedes was just a mathematician. The Bill of Rights is just a document. The moon is just a celestial body. (If you like my reasoning, read up on baseball fan/Pulitzer Prize winner George Will, he had an influence on me here).

My husband has asked me why Greg Maddux, why am I such a fan? Well, I'm a baseball fan (in my humble opinion, baseball is more clean and intellectual than any other sport, and I'll talk about what is has done to battle social injustice in another blog). You can't be a real baseball fan without being a Maddux fan. I think Maddux does his job the way people should live their lives.

Here is one of my favorite quotes by Maddux:
"It's not your arm that makes you a great pitcher. It's that thing between both of your ears we call a brain."
and quotes about Maddux:
"Maddux is a cerebral assassin on the mound. He knows his strengths and his limtations as well as those of every hitter." (Stats, Inc., 2003)

Of course, those are just words.

Posted by Sam at 17:58:45 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Get Your Little Hands Off My Sharpies!

Some things a mom just needs for herself.

Come to think of it, everyone needs certain things for themselves that no one else touches, no else sees, no one else can access.

For me, it's my ultra-fine-point and chunky Sharpie markers.

I keep the fine-point Sharpies in a plastic cup on the highest shelf in a kitchen cabinet, right above the ice cream bowls, next to the dusty Margarita glasses. The chunky Sharpies hide in a Spongebob tumbler that has lost it's top.

Why are these markers so important to me? First of all, they're permanent (if it's not going to last, I'm not interested). Can you imagine what a two-year-old running around the house could do to leather couches or white walls with a teal Sharpie? I can, and it scares me. But I will not relinquish a favored possession because I am afraid of what could happen. That's silly living.

More importantly, my Sharpies represent the efficient me; filling my date book and checking things off as I go along, using the blue Sharpie. Writing on brown paper lunch sacks with the turquoise Sharpie in handwriting my kids recognize. Signing well thought out, professional letters and SASE's with style using the black Sharpie. Sending a 'just because' card to my husband's office with the crimson Sharpie, so he knows making him feel just as loved as the kids is a priority to me.

It's not surprising when I realize the colors of the Sharpie rainbow represent my moods as well. And they are tools for what I consider to be higher purposes in my domesticated/work-at-home lifestyle. These tools keep me proactive, progressing, pro-forward motion. They're small, they're inexpensive, not a bad habit at all, a minor indulgence for mom and only mom.

I don't sign interoffice memos anymore, it's been many years since I played with a Sharpie cap during business meetings. I don't keep regular business hours or necessitate a Staples online account for office supplies. My desk is my kitchen table most days and it takes a pounding underneath my laptop and smudged by various Gerber Graduates toddler meals.

But my fine-point and chunky Sharpies have followed me from doodling on my Chuckie Taylors in high school, to labeling term papers in college, to my former career in event planning and catering all the way into stay at home/work at home motherhood which keeps me very busy, thank you very much.

Whatever it is I choose to do, wherever it is time takes me, I'm on a mission, armed with Sharpies so I can make my point, and leave my mark, colorfully.
Posted by Sam at 13:08:33 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Thursday, November 08, 2007

Dinner for Breakfast

Have you ever had breakfast for dinner?  When I was a kid, we did it all the time.  Scrambled eggs or cheese omelettes, bacon, hot buttered toast and orange juice. Sometimes even pancakes or waffles. Sometimes we tossed the eggs and bacon with spaghetti and had Carbonara. 

Now that I'm the Mom, we still do breakfast for dinner.  My Spaghetti Carbonara is a little more embellished...with nutmeg, Grana Padano, and pancetta. My kids love to over-ride traditional dinner fare and have breakfast for dinner, it's fun. It's a special night when you get syrup instead of ketchup, after all. Breakfast for dinner is a welcome change when the family is so over my comfort food.

But me, I like dinner for breakfast. I have never been a big breakfast eater. I find cereal cold and impersonal. I only like oatmeal as a color, or in cookies. Eggs bore me after a while. I think the real culprit is my coffee and the half bottle of creamer I put in my heaping cup of Joe every morning. It fills me up.

Brunch I can do, though...since we're talking about food and childhood, a few times every year when I was a young, my parents would take me to Gladstone's for Fish in the beach cities of Los Angeles where brunch was done right....cracked crab, Eggs Benedict (my absolute favorite of all time), potatoes many ways, omelette stations, sushi, oysters on the half shell, chocolate everywhere.  I could do that everyday, but I would soon be dead. And if it's not brunch the Gladstone's way, I don't want it.

I'm sort of Veruca Salt about breakfast. I want indulgence, and if I do not get it, trouble is imminent. I spite myself with low blood sugar, a caffeine crash, and an excess of calories the rest of the day.

Unless there are leftovers in the fridge from last night's dinner. I have been known to eat dinner before 10:00 a.m.

Tuna casserole, pasta with steamed shellfish, baked potato and steak are all fair game. I justify it this way...pre-workout, I need complex carbs and protein for an optimal exercise session. Or post-workout, it's good to eat dinner and re-fuel, to recover, with hearty food. 

Now that I'm the Mom, I have no time to indulge myself at breakfast time. If I'm lucky, I get a Carnation Instant Breakfast down before we walk to school. Or I wait until I get home from dropping the kids off and sit back to have dinner again. It's something about my life that makes no sense, it defies convention, and I find that so tempting.  Like the way kids think eating breakfast for dinner is so silly they just can't say no.

To me, seeing a styrofoam container denoting restaurant leftovers, or a well-seasoned Tupperware on shelf #3 with shrimp and rice satisfies my hunger and keeps me out of a rut. It separates me from the "part of this nutritious breakfast" facade that the media wants me to buy into. My body does not know if protein comes from an egg or a fish stick. I get the fuel I need, I get plenty of exercise, and I drink lots of water. Does it matter what I eat, when I eat it?

Only to me.

Dinner for breakfast is a harmless little domestic rebellion and it tastes soooooo good.
Posted by Sam at 10:25:48 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Siesta! Who's With Me?

Why don't we have Siesta here in America?

Just wondering.

From 2:00pm - 5:00pm everyday, from my tear ducts, to my stomping heels, and back into my basal ganglia, I could sure use a Siesta.  Like, a three hour break from the craziness and the run-run-run of life.  It's when my children test my conditioned coping skills and overall love for them simply by doing homework, requesting snack after snack, and watching really bad shows on TV. It's also the time of day when stale orange sunlight creeps through the windows and I really don't like that.

My son loves homework when the math, critical thinking, spelling or writing skills come easy to him.  Throw in a concept that challenges him, however, and he reverts to age 2 (or worse - he becomes me). "Estimate to Check" is this thing where you round numbers up or down on a math worksheet to check the accuracy of a subtraction problem. For example, 1132 would be estimated to 1100. Okay.  Got it. Apparently, I arrive at answers differently from my son - the school system now has changed methods for teaching subtraction/borrowing from decades after I graduated from elementary school.  This only adds to my son's frustration.  "Let's call your teacher," I suggest. "FINE!" my son says. We bicker so much that the person who answers the phone at the school sits and listens to us until I realize she's picked up. "Oh, hello. Room --, please."

"Hi, it's Alex's Mom. Got a quick question on estimate to check. Is it round down and up by tens, hundreds, or thousands?" I ask.
"By hundreds," his teacher assures me.
"Okay, thank you!" I try to be chipper but I want to tell her this estimate to check business is silly, and by the way, thanks for switching up the methods and causing for me a mental explosion.
"That wasn't my teacher," says my son.
O-kay.  

Somewhere in Europe, there are very smart people taking a siesta. Here I am in homework hell, in a witching hour that lasts 180 minutes, and only my laptop to understand me.

"Momma, Zoe is annoying me," my son now claims about his younger sister. What the hell does he expect me to do?
"She's drawing on a piece of paper with a pencil," I state with a logic-tempting matter-of-factness in my voice.
"I know.  The sound of it annoys me." The sound...of a pencil on soft paper...annoys him.
He starts erasing the castle his sister is peacefully creating.
"Momma, Alex won't let me draw!!!" from Zoe. The whining has begun.
"Alex, let your sister draw." I am still calm.  I am being calm.
"I'm not bothering her," sinister smile from the smug little ****.

The eight year old is trying to pull a Jedi mind trick on me.  He's sitting at the kitchen table doing his you-can't-make-me version of "These aren't the droids you're looking for."

I need a time out from my own children.  I run to the bathroom where I hope they won't follow me and I call my husband.   Damn, all I get is voice mail. 

"Honey, they're driving me crazy [whining continues].  Please come home.  I know it's PMS but all the same I'm holed up in the toilet because I can't face the mental challenge they're giving me.  OkaycallmeIloveyoubye."

Well, that was a telling voice mail. I heard a little bit more than myself talking.

I emerge from the bathroom and ask my son if he needs a hug. He is before me in a characteristically Taurean stance - toes propped up, horns pointed, non-decipherable glare -  steam all but coming from his nose. He thinks about it. "No, I just want to figure this out, Mom!" Awww, poor guy.  He's not a bull or a Jedi or even a shorter version of me. 

He's just a kid.

At this moment, I decide I'll do whatever it takes to help him overcome his frustration and make him feel better. I'll sit up with him past bedtime at the kitchen table, I'll massage his little ears when they get red from him being so pissy, I'll search the Internet for an Estimate to Check solution we can both easily absorb. I like it when he's happy. I want him to think he can do anything.

Funny how the Universe works...just as I sit down next to my little guy with a fresh perspective and open mind, my husband, the math wiz, comes home. 

Little while later, the homework is done. Little while later, I've come to a coherent conclusion. And look at that - 5:00 is less than an hour away.  I think we're gonna make it.

Until tomorrow at 2:00pm.

Posted by Sam at 15:04:33 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Monday, November 05, 2007

A Mini-Thanksgiving

At the stroke of midnight Saturday, after the last Halloween party and the remaining candy tossed in the trash while the kids slept, I declared Halloween over - finally.  Bury the dead, I stated aloud, though no one heard but me and the ghosts of the ghosts.  Time to move on, baby - good eatin' is around the corner.

I just couldn't stand it anymore.  I had to start on Turkey Day, albeit a little early.  I made a mini-Thanksgiving tonight.  I brined a roaster chicken overnight.  Early evening tonight I slid butter underneath the skin of the whole chicken. I drizzled olive oil over the top.  I sprinkled grey salt generously, cracked some black pepper as well, then shook on some dried oregano, smoked paprika, and of course, the cayenne.  I lamented the absence of the lemon shoved up the cavity but hey, life goes on.  The chicken roasted the Nigella way - 15 minutes per pound on 400 degrees plus 10 minutes.

In a flat, glass Pyrex I tossed some peeled, sliced sweet potatoes with nothing but salt, pepper, and olive oil and roasted them in my Advantium.  A few minutes later, as the taters rang done, I added melted, clarified butter and cinnamon. Hubby loves it this way.

While the chicken was in the oven and the finished sweet potatoes tempted me from the sidelines, I cooked some bacon , made a vinaigrette out of it's drippings with red wine vinegar and dijon mustard, then tossed with spinach and put my daughter to work slicing red bell peppers.  Her culinary skills have kicked in.  She took off tonight like a bird from the nest, and I am one proud Mama.

For no other reason than I could, I boiled some red bliss potatoes, mashed them with buttermilk, butter, sour cream, cayenne, and salt.  That was easy.

We toasted life with apple juice.  We give thanks daily, but tonight was special.  As we ate, a khyron at the bottom of the football game read "Padres and Greg Maddux agree to one-year deal." 

Cheers!
Posted by Sam at 19:44:38 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Friday, November 02, 2007

There's a Culinary Cure For That, Ya Know

Now, in the recent string of wildfires, I did not lose my home, a loved one, any personal belongings, or even get a sinus infection from the bad air. But what a couple of weeks I have had - I am still playing catch up and trying to get our lives back into the groove we knew pre-fires.

Pre-fires, I got the uniforms washed, the items packed in backpacks for my daughter's sharing, and defrosted things for dinner everynight - that's just to start. Then life threw us this curve, and it could have been anything really - a bad diagnosis, a car accident, anything that keeps you inside your home, not knowing what is to come and scared to lose what you have. But I am complaining on a much more topical level.    

I am tired.  I have a to-do list longer than a soccer sock. Mounds of paperwork await me and I forgot to pick something with my daughter to share in front of her class today (and it was free choice sharing, the best kind).  I burned the cookies for the re-scheduled Halloween Happening after I forgot to add the baking soda.  They were flat and too brown on the sides. So tomorrow, which should have been a regular Saturday, will be jam-packed with too many activities due to all of us San Diegans "refusing to lose the holiday spirit".  We'll all be walking zombies come tomorrow at the soccer games - made up homework, made up games, made up practices, made up carnivals, made up conversations!!!!! All neatly coordinated with the best intentions around what Saturday, November 3rd already had penciled in on the calendar. 

Just for fun, the day after the madness that is Halloween, the universe decided to throw in a field trip I volunteered to chapperone pre-fires. No wonder they always are short volunteers - those lovely field trips eat up an entire day of productivity. Today I recuperated by spending much too much time baking mediocre cookies (nowhere near what I am capable of baking), and there is a pointed part of my discontent. I have five columns to write under the gun (not conducive to creativity!), then tomorrow the two parties, two games, volunteering at the Halloween Happening...all contributing factors. Maybe Sunday I can take on the four piles of clean laundry hiding in the corners of the kids rooms. If I don't collapse first.

So knowing the fun (read: hell) I am in for tomorrow, I had to do something right now to make myself feel better. So I grabbed the Pyrex that held the chipotle mac and cheese I made Halloween night (it was a bit spicier than I anticipated), took a package of M&Ms, and sat down to watch Jaws 4: The Revenge. That should placate the PMS at least. What I am really trying to quell with food and battle are my worst fears: losing whom and what I love, writing poorly, representing myself with mediocre food and not being able to keep up with my own life.  These things have all been shown to me like a movie preview in an IMAX theater the past couple of weeks.

I survived, though. Of course it wasn't real...and I'm not going anywhere near writing that movie.  No, that one will write itself, and besides, my will to live right now is strong, as I must redeem myself for the substandard oatmeal raisin.  I'm still so mad.

The mac and cheese with a chocolate ending is a good start.  There is a culinary cure for most of what gets to me - and when there isn't, I can sit down to write, I can snuggle with my babies, I can rewind Chief Brody saying "Smile you son-of-a-*****!" until I see monsters destroyed. Monsters destroyed...yeah.  THIS is why I write (well, this and the pipe dream of a beach house).

Sharks, fires, bad food...it could have been anything, really.
Posted by Sam at 17:08:14 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |
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