Hi Readers,

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of chaos, heartbreak and bad news. The rational side of me knows that this isn’t exactly a shocker, because fuckit, it’s February, which is always the cruelest month. Sorry T.S. Eliot, but you got that one wrong. Cruelest month? So not April. February owns April’s ass.

Some of the hardship is personal, swirling in the corners of my house and my heart, but other blows have come by surprise, over  phone lines and old connections–connections long neglected but still very much live wires, once you recognize a familiar voice, hear a story, feel the reaching out of a hand.

It’s hard to reach out hands. It’s even harder to say the words; words you never thought you’d be saying. Words that are thick and clumsy in the throat, and Jesus, there’s no way to say them gracefully.

How do you say such things?  Words don’t seem adequate at all.

But that’s pretty much all you’ve got, eh? Words.

“I’m afraid I’m a terrible mother. I just…lose it sometimes.”

“Today, at the pharmacy, I had to choose which of my children I would buy medication for, because I couldn’t afford both. I had to choose one child over the other. What does that make me?”

“We’re on our fourth stint of rehab, but let’s face it. Nothing will change.”

“So many of our friends are sick, or dying or in the hospital after falling over their slippers; crap, when did we get so old?”

“He suffered a head injury in combat and I’m not sure if I know him anymore. He turns and shouts in the night.”

“We haven’t been able to pay the mortgage for months. We’re basically squatting, waiting for the anvil to fall.”

“Her name is Jackie. I went through his phone. He’s texted her 233 times this month. And yeah, there are pictures of his dick.”

“We had to put Snickers down last week. I come home from work every day and still expect to see him there, waiting. How long is it going to be before I stop expecting  him, tail thrumming?”

“I miscarried. Again. This isn’t going to happen, is it?”

These are the hands reaching out and the voices over the wires, and I don’t know what to say or what to do. I have my own messes to clean up, messes that I don’t even know are cleanable, but this winter it has hit me, stark in the jaw: Everyone has something. Even that Stepford Wife, who lives in the beautiful house, who takes her impeccably groomed child to the bus stop in full makeup at 8 am–even that alien freak has something.

I’m not sure I can handle my own garbage, let alone anyone else’s, and yet I want to. I will. I do what humans do, if only to listen over a line.  Even if you cannot hold my hand, it is there. Extended. We will hunker in the trenches together. I’ll bring the hardtack.

If ever I/ should seem to take for granted
This lovely life/ that I’ve been handed
Darlin’ don’t just stand there/come knock me around

Cause I know/I can write my way out of this /black hole
Back to all the things that I miss
You stay/digging at your own little ditch

That’s just another thing on my wish list

If I should slide/over and under
You know I just might
Stay until I get it right.

*Lyrics courtesy of Jets to Brazil– Wish List

Just so you don’t think all is arctic gray over here, I’d like to share a few bright things with you.

~A conversation with Miss M:

M: Mama, I love you 100.

Me: I love you 1,000.

M: I love you a million!

Me: I love you to the  moon and back.

M: (haha) I won! I love you like Google.

~Pictionary night with the family

I am on a team with ASR, and Miss M. My artistic skills are terrible, to say the least. I draw a card that reads: high heels. I try to draw two legs with shoes with Gi-normous heels on them and the kids are stumped. Finally, ASR blurts out, “Pole dancer?”

~Medical conference

My husband is attending a medical conference (starting Friday) at a family-friendly resort. The Minxes and I are going, and yes, I will be complaining about the butt-damage induced by water slide marathons. And naturally, something will go amiss. But it’s going to feel so healing to play. Butt-chafing aside.

**I feel like I’m always apologizing for absences and not visiting as much as I’d like, and…actually, it seems like I do that a lot. It’s got to be annoying, I know. But I hope that you readers know how much I cherish you. Happy Valentine’s Day. I love you.

Participating in MamaKat’s Writing Workshop again this week! One of the prompts was: Who is at your front door?  For more awesome writing and fun, hop on over to MamaKat!

***

“Dammit,” I say to my stepson, as I turn the Collins glass around for the bazillionth time. “I can’t get the angle right. Why can’t I photograph cocktails?”

“Want me to try?” he says.

“Go for it. You can’t suck any harder than I’m doing. Maybe it’s the light? I don’t know.”

He takes the camera, crouches down, and studies.

The doorbell rings.

I look at the clock: 2:30 on an incendiary August day.

“Colin must be doing another lemonade stand thing,” I say. I turn and yell, “Girls! Get the door! It’s Colin! I’m busy.”

The girls thunder down, all tan limbs and bare feet and throw the door open.

Silence.

Then, “Um, Mom?”

Awesome Stepkid R. shoots me an evil grin. “It’s that creepy meat man again.”

“Ugh! That guy needs to bugger off.” I roll my eyes and walk reluctantly to the door, where the girls still stand, staring.

Two very young, very earnest, very uncomfortable-looking boys, clad in ill-fitting suits, stand outside, squinting in the summer sun. I look down. They have books and pamphlets in their hands.

Awww, Jesus. Mormons.

The girls study them curiously. “Why are you dressed so fancy?” Miss M. blurts out, and I cut her a stink eye.

The boys smile, though, and the dark-haired one laughs. “Well, seriously, we wouldn’t be dressed like this if we didn’t have to, especially on a day like today. It’s just sort of part of the job.”

I do not have time for this shit.

They’re sort of cute, though, in their terrible suits, and it’s rotten outside, and even my cold black heart softens at the sight of them.

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you,” I say, hand on my hip. “I’m an agnostic and my husband’s an athiest and you’re not gonna get anywhere with us, and I’m not listening to any spiels, but you are welcome to come in for some lemonade, if you’d like.”

The blond one looks uncertain, but the dark-haired boy smiles and laughs again. “Some lemonade would be awesome. Thank you.”

They immediately remove their shoes at the doorway as they enter, loosening their ties a little.  The girls follow in their wake, sensing something good.

“I’m Peter, by the way,” dark-hair says. “And this is Justin.”  I shake their sweaty hands.

“Dana.”

“And who might you be?” Peter asks the girls, crouching down to eye level.

Oh, this kid is good.

As the boys enter the kitchen, they spy ASR, camera in hand, circling the Collins glass, trying to find an angle. As they sit down on the stools at the counter, they eye him with open curiosity.

“Mommy makes food and stuff and then writes about it,” Miss M says. “She takes pictures too and sometimes it takes forever.”

I laugh and fill two tall glasses with ice and lemonade, sheepish. “Blogger.”

“That’s a cool job–a writer,” Peter says, taking a long draw from his glass. “Oh, gosh, this is great. Thanks for letting us in. We were dying out there.”

I top off their glasses. “How long have you been out there?”

“Like today, or how long have we been on Mission?” Peter says.

I shrug. “Both, I guess.”

“Well, Mission-wise, I’m almost done,” Peter grins. “This is my last month.” He bumps Blondie on the shoulder. “Now Justin here is just starting his; I’m kinda showing him around this week.”

“Are you glad to be almost done?” I ask.

Peter nods. “Yeah. I mean, it’s been good, it’s been a good experience, but I’m looking forward to being done. You miss people.”

Justin bites his lip and looks me in the eye for the first time. “I’m really sorry to ask you this,” he says, “but would it be possible to use your restroom? We’ve been out since morning.”

“Oh, jeez, sure, of course,” I say, somehow feeling guilty for not knowing. I point down the hall and say, “Second door on the right.”

“Thank you.”

Peter studies the mess of construction paper, markers and string on the countertop. “Art project?” he asks the girls.

“Yeah, we’re making masks!” D. says enthusiastically. “I’m making a parrot one and M. is making a rabbit but she’s mad because she can’t get the ears right.”  She cocks her head, gives him a lopsided grin. “Wanna help?”

“D.!” I say, mortified. “I’m sure these guys need to get back…” but as I speak, Peter picks up a pair of scissors and reaches for construction paper.

“Sure,” he says, as Justin exits the bathroom. “To be honest, it gets pretty boring out there. We’re grateful for the break.”

M. sidles up to Justin. “Can you make good ears?”

“You know, it’s been a while, but I am great at ears,” he says, sitting back down at the counter. “What kind do you need?”

Awesome Stepkid R. puts the camera down. “Hey Dana, I think I got your shot.”

“Thanks,” I say, and he vacates, fast as a fox.

I realize I’m in for a bit of a visit. The boys are cutting and there’s glue involved and the girls hover intently.

There’s a half-consumed pan of key lime bars on the sideboard, so I cut the rest of them, put them on a plate, and settle in for the duration.

They’re sweet with the girls, measuring string and asking them what they like to do in the summer, and I quickly dispose of the liquid in the Collins glass.

“What was that in there?” Justin asks, as I rinse it out.

I give a hard bark of laughter, unable to help myself. “Something you definitely cannot have.”

Luckily, they laugh, too. “You have a  nice family,” Justin says.

“I used to teach high school English, in a different part of the state,” I say, filling the sink with dish soap. “There was a large Mormon population there. I always really enjoyed the kids–great manners, really hard workers. I always wondered about the Mission thing, though. It seemed so cruel to me, making these kids leave their families, go from house to house, trying to talk to strangers. I just thought that had to be so hard.”

“You don’t sell stuff, do you?” Miss M. asks. “Mommy isn’t nice to people who come around selling stuff.”

The boys crack up. “No, we don’t have to sell stuff. But sometimes people still aren’t very nice.”

Peter takes a second key lime bar, looks at me. “Sometimes it gets pretty weird. People let us in, and then yell at us, or say stuff like, ‘We feel so sorry for you, being brainwashed by that cult.’”

Justin secures the ears to Miss M.’s mask. “What do you think?”

She puts the mask on, runs to the bathroom mirror. “Good!” she says. “We did good.”

Peter looks at the clock and sighs. “It’s probably time to go back out there. Thanks for the lemonade. And the cookies.”

They bid the girls goodbye, and M. hops up and down. “Come back and do crafts with us soon, okay?”

Shoes back on, pamphlets back in hand, Peter slaps Justin on the shoulder. “Onward.”

**endnote: At the end of the month, Peter returned to our door, finished with his Mission. He just wanted to tell the girls goodbye, and good luck.

Greetings TKW readers,

It’s Mr. TKW here for my first, and hopefully not last, guest feature. Hey, I figure that if pops-in-law can do it, I can do it too.

First, a little back story. I met Kitch nearly eleven and a half years ago, became engaged four months later, moved in together, transitioned from a big city to a small town for work, and married shortly after.  Every decision during that time was a no-brainer (duh, I found a funny, smart, talented foxy mama), with the sole exception of saying goodbye to my beloved urban lifestyle. That decision hurt a little.

Dear readers, please understand that I grew up as a shy nerd, engrossed in my studies nearly continuously. After marrying young and divorcing in my late twenties, I discovered I now had some free time, a few coins to scrape together, new friends, a little confidence and a whole city to explore. The next four years were…a blur. Remember the Vince Vaughn character from the movie “Swingers?” Yup, that was me.

This hipster doofus lived the stereotypical bachelor lifestyle: happy hour with co-workers, dinner with my mates, clubbing, and the inevitable 2 AM greasy diner visit (while trying to score digits whenever possible…wait, I just sounded so ’90s right there…forget I said that).  I also developed a strong affinity for techno and electronic music (which Kitch, the rocker chick that she is, can’t abide). As exciting as that lifestyle may sound, it became oddly routine, particularly the libations involved. I grew tired of the standard fare of microbrews, Seven-n-sevens and Jack-n-diets. And then an event of tremendous importance changed forever my imbibing ways: the purchase of a seemingly innocuous little manual called The Art of the Cocktail by Philip Collins (I can hear you humming Sussudio in your head, but it’s not the same guy, and let’s face it, that song blows).

The experimentation then began, with some good–and not-so-good–outcomes. A sampling of my notes:

Vodka or gin martini: not bad, a nice burn, a classic staple to fall back to.

Scotch: odor brings a Proustian flashback to the antiseptic scent of a hospital in India. Next…

Rusty Nail (Scotch and Drambuie): not bad, but the bartender gave me a strange look and said “Here you go, old man.”

Manhattan: “Here you go, old lady.”

Appletini: raises doubts about my sexual orientation. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Moscow Mule (Vodka and ginger beer): ginger is only meant to be consumed in small quantities. I think that’s why it is barely touched on sushi plates.

Stinger (Brandy and creme de menthe): like having liquor and minty mouthwash mixed together. Blech!

Margarita: not really part of this list, but I just wanted go on record that ordering this outside of a Mexican restaurant or resort is a serious violation of the man code. Sad to say I know guys who have done this.

Singapore Sling, Zombie, etc: “Too many notes, Mozart.”

I never did discover perfection in a glass during my (mis)adventures. It was not until many years later, after retiring from the single life to marital bliss, that I found a potion that comes fairly close, for my taste at least.

I present to you the Pear Martini: elegantly simple, a subtle burn, flavorful, age appropriate and somewhat androgynous.

Pear Martini

3 oz Absolut pear vodka

1 oz Domaine de Canton ginger liqueur

freshly squeezed juice from half a lemon

A splash of simple syrup, which is optional, depending on how sweet you like your cocktails

Shake together in a tumbler and serve in a martini glass over crushed ice. Makes two drinks.

Sometimes late at night when everyone is asleep, I’ll mix up one of these, wrap the headphones around my ears and listen to a steady mix of The Crystal Method, The Chemical Brothers and Morcheeba.  I’ll close my eyes and drift off to Club TKW.  Shhh…let’s keep that between us.

This was written as an exercise for the amazing Heather King’s “Just Write” that she hosts every Tuesday on her blog The Extraordinary Ordinary. For more musings and great writing, head on over!

******

This weekend, at a party, I ran into a man, who used to be a boy, who used to attend my high school, who I desperately wanted to notice me back then.

Desperately.

And he did notice me–we were in classes and vague social circles together–but he didn’t notice me. Not in the way a girl yearns to be noticed.

His locker was five metal boxes down from mine, which shames me that I remember this–Jesus, who counts lockers?–but I did, and sometimes when I saw him there, shoving in textbooks, I’d freeze. I’d forget my own locker combination and stare at the dial, willing the numbers to come back to me.

He wasn’t an asshole, but sometimes he could be cruel, in a cavalier way, tossing off a zinger or a rebuttal that punctured. But somehow, it didn’t seem like he’d meant to hit mark. I had a sponge heart, and it was just his way.

A boy that easy in his skin is dangerous. He’ll fling a casual arm around your shoulders, say “Hey you,”  and ask about the German test tomorrow. And then like quicksilver, you aren’t even there, and he’s moving across the hall to kiss his (beautiful) girlfriend.

What kind of fairy dust graces that boy?  If he hadn’t just touched you, you wouldn’t have thought he was real.

That boy was never mine. Boys (and girls) like that never are, are they?

But here I am, two decades later, at a baby’s birthday party. He’s there, I’m there, and when I see him, for a technicolor minute, I’m the girl at that locker, fumbling for her combination. But it only lasts a minute. My husband is getting me a drink and his wife is introducing herself, and she’s funny and stunning and we shout over the storm and thrum of children shrieking through the house.

Today it hits me: What a crazy thing–what time, and experience, and yes–pain–bring to the landscape.

The boy I used to think was magic cracks a beer, asks me about my family, my sister, and I hesitate, then spill the hard truths.  There aren’t any ghosts in this room.

I’m just meeting someone for the first time.

The summer before third grade, Grandpa Roll fell off a ladder and shattered his hip. He didn’t just break the sucker–it literally blew up in a cloud of dust. The doctors were stunned. “His bones disintegrated like powder,” they told Daddy.

And thus began years of hospital stays, physical therapy appointments and doctor visits for Grandpa Roll.

Okay, just so you know, it’s not Grandpa Roll (as in dinner roll) it’s Roll (rawl). Just had to clarify that, although either variation is, admittedly, pretty weird.

Grandpa’s full name was Rolla (rawl-ah). I never could really wrap my head around that. Who the Hell names their kid something as jacked up as Rolla?

I thought my name, Dana, was bad enough.  Boys could be named Dana, which I found hugely shameful. When I was in kindergarten, there was a boy in my class named Dana, and he was a glue-eater. It was traumatic.

I never knew if Grandpa Roll minded his name or not. It’s possible he just never remembered it, because Grandpa Roll was horrible with names. He messed them up with stunning regularity.

Sometimes he’d call me Dana, but just as often he’d call me my sister C.’s name or Rita, my aunt’s name or my mother’s name, Mary. I just got used to answering to whatever name he threw out.

Grandpa Roll’s doctor, who we took him to at least twice a month, was a little Italian man with the last name Cerrone.  Grandpa Roll never learned to say it right in six whole years.

I irked the doctor a little, I think, because soon he was deliberately mispronouncing grandpa’s name, smirking as he did so.

We’d walk in for our appointment and Grandpa Roll would say, “Hello, there, doctor Cir-coney.”

And Dr. Cerrone would slap him lightly on the shoulder and boom, “Well, I’m just fine, Roller. How are you?”

I’d always have to chew my gum extra hard to stop myself from laughing.

Roller. Roller Coaster. Steam Roller. My sister and I thought that was a screech.

Once, in a moment of particular malice, my sister and I even made up a song:

~sung to the theme of “Rawhide”:  Roller, Roller, Roller/Here comes slow-ass Roller/ Rawhide!

I am not proud of this, because grandpa used a walker and was, indeed, slow-ass, but my sister and I thought our little ditty was genius.

Eventually, I couldn’t help asking Mama about grandpa’s strange name. “It’s so gross,” I said. “Who names their kid Rolla? Is that even a real name?”

Mama laughed a little, sitting at her sewing machine. “I think it’s a real name, but who knows? Actually, believe it or not, your Grandpa Roll got off easy. You should hear the names of his brothers and sisters–now that’s some serious weird.”

“Weirder than Rolla? You have to tell me.”

“You know, why don’t you let your father answer that one,” Mama said, returning to her sewing project. “They’re his family, after all.”

Mama probably thought I’d forget all about it by dinnertime, but I didn’t.  I pushed my green beans around my plate and said, “Hey Daddy. Mama says you have weirder names in your family than Grandpa Roller.”

He shot my mother a wry look, thought a minute, and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”  He ticked the names off on his fingers. “Let’s see…there’s Rolla, Mata (pronounced “mate”), Myrtle, Oleva, Aleen, Leta, Martha and Richard.”

“What’s with ‘Martha’ and ‘Richard’?” my sister said. “They totally got off easy.”

Daddy laughed. “No idea. Maybe my grandmother just wore out by the time the last two came along.”

“Unfair, man,” my sister said.

“Don’t forget your cousins’ names, Dear,” Mama said, smirking across the table at him.

Daddy rolled his eyes. “Jesus Mary. You just had to go there, didn’t you?”

“Come on, Dad.”

“All right. My aunt Aleen named her boy Loyal and her daughter Lorelle, and aunt Leta’s boys were Linford and Arlo.”

My sister and I howled, shaking the table with mirth. ” Whaaa? Linford? Loyal? Loyal is what you name a Labrador Retriever!”

My sister gestured with a fork. “The worst is Mata. ‘Mate?’ Gross. Who wants to be named after a word for reproduction?”

Daddy grinned and pointed at my sister. “You can laugh all you want, Missy, but you dodged a bullet, yourself. Mary was obsessed with The Sound of Music when she was pregnant with you. She was all set to name you Leisl.”

“Leisl? Agggggg!” My sister recoiled. “I totally would have changed my name.”

“Leisl was a perfectly fine name,” Mama said, feigning affront. “At least it was unique. My mother named us John, Mary and Patricia.” She harrumphed. “Talk about lack of imagination.”

“I’d take Mary over Oleva any day,” my sister said.

“Olivia isn’t a bad name,” I said. “Why turn it into Oleva?”

Mama lit a cigarette, blowing smoke. “I don’t know. Maybe they thought those names were fancy.”

She considered for a moment. “You know, grandpa Roll grew up on a farm and they didn’t have two cents to rub together.”

She looked at Daddy. “Remember how he had to quit school because the horse died? They didn’t have money to replace it, so he had to leave school in sixth grade and work the farm. Without a horse to pull the plow, it took three times as long to harvest anything, so they couldn’t spare him.”

“Well thanks. That’s depressing dinner conversation,” my sister said.

“Maybe fancy– ‘weird’–names were their way of trying to make the kids feel special, because they had a really hard life,” Mama said, rising to empty the ashtray.

“But you know what’s worse?” Mama replaced the ashtray, sat down and looked at Daddy. “What your mother’s parents did to those girls.”

Now this was interesting.

“There’s something worse than being named Mata?” my sister said.

Daddy shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. “Ugh.You’re right. That was bad.”

“My mother came from a big farming family, too. Seven kids in all. My grandfather desperately wanted boys, because boys could help with the farming and the heavy labor. But the first six children were girls. Each time, he’d get all excited, and Bam! out popped another girl.  He was so disappointed; angry even. He refused to call the girls their given names–he made up nicknames for them.”

We waited.

“Let’s do this in order,” he said slowly. “First was Grace, who he called Bob. Then Alice; she was Jim. Then Inez; she was Jake. Frances–poor old Frances–she got called Shorty. My mother, Helen, was Bill. Bernice was Bernie…and Seeny, too for some reason.”

“They called them boy names?” I said.  Heck, ‘Dana’ was getting better by the minute.

“Well, at least they gave the one boy, George, a nickname too,” Mama said, and Daddy laughed.

“They called him Rastus.”

“Rastus? Oh my God. Maybe the girls didn’t have it so bad,” my sister said.

“Count your blessings, girls,” Daddy said, eyes twinkling across the table. “Believe me, it could have been worse.”

*Hi Gorgeous Readers! I’m still frying fish, but not so many as last week, so hopefully things will pick up around here soon. If you have any weird family names (or if you were almost named something horrid), I’d be so excited to hear about it, so do tell. Love to you all.

I know what you’re thinking, and no, I haven’t gone all nutjob on you. This is, indeed, a casserole recipe that will not make your jeans explode.  We are still in the thick of the Save the Ass! campaign here at Chez T., mainly because it’s time for my hubs’ bi-annual commitment to Le Regime.  Sigh.

Those of you unfamiliar with the butt-pain that is Le Regime can catch up here.

In short, Le Regime entails a lot of high-protein, easily portable mini-meals and grueling hours of exercise. For both of us. For husband, it means lots of little noshes and sweat sessions. For me, it means: Dana never has time to eat because she’s so busy making high-protein little noshes and lifting pots and pans while listening to her spouse grunt, groan and arrrrrrrr it out in the other room with his dumbbells.

It’s a good thing he’s so dang cute, let me tell you.

This breakfast dish fits the bill perfectly–it’s got about 20 grams of gut-busting protein per serving and can be made in advance, wrapped up and toted to the workplace or gym or wherever your lifestyle takes you.  I like it because it serves four, meaning I get three “free” mornings where I don’t have to fret about what to feed my vain girly-man.

So if the holidays were a little vindictive to your hind end, or whether you’ve resolved to eat more meatless meals, or you’re slave to a girly-man, I’d suggest you give this recipe a try. It’s delicious, not too spicy, and full of cheesy goodness.

Chiles Rellenos Casserole

serves 4

approximately 300 calories per serving

6 large eggs

1 cup low-fat milk

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1/4 teaspoon chili powder

2 (5.75oz) cans diced green chiles, drained

1 chopped jalapeno pepper (optional)

1/4 cup sliced scallion

1 cup diced red or orange bell pepper

salt and pepper

4 ounces reduced fat, extra sharp Cheddar cheese, such as Cabot or Cracker Barrel brand*

1/2 cup chopped cilantro or parsley

Preheat the oven to 350. Grease a shallow 2 quart casserole dish.

Combine the eggs, milk, flour, chili powder, drained chiles, jalapeno, scallion, red pepper, 1/4 teaspoon salt and 1/8 teaspoon pepper in a large bowl. Stir well with a whisk. Gently stir in cheese and half of the herbs.  Pour into prepared dish.

Bake for 35-40 minutes or until golden and puffed; the center should still jiggle slightly.

Cool on a wire rack for ten minutes, cut into wedges and sprinkle with remaining cilantro/parsley.

In other news, I’ll be a little scarce this week–there’s a bunch of fish frying over here–some good, some not so good. I’ll spare you the details. But I’ll leave you with a photo of our newest little resident. He’s been spending some time hanging out in the back yard and rolling in my dead garden.  He’s quite the charming fellow. The girls have given him the name (so creative) of Mr. Fluffytail.  Both he and I wish you the most wonderful of weeks!

I have never seen such a mountain of  filth in my life.

“Holy…?” I say under my breath, reaching behind my back to shut the door. The door of my sister’s apartment. The apartment I have a key to and never use, but today I have a surprise birthday present in my arms.

The living room is blanketed with ash. Bowls of cigarette butts overflow onto tables, couches, area rugs. Candles lay weeping in their own waxy juices, spilling onto end tables and shelves. Candles everywhere–what the Hell? Who does my sister think she is? Sting?

There’s discarded dirty underwear on the floor.

Niiice. I kick it into a corner.

Glasses. Cheap cocktail glasses–the ones I helped her pick out from Tuesday Morning–pepper the room, abandoned in various stages of consumption.  Smeared with lipstick and grease and nicotine and God knows what else, those glasses wink in the late day sun.

I drop the gift in a corner and yank open windows. How long has it been since fresh oxygen has seen this apartment? How long has she been marinating in here, in this shitty little box, with the yellowed linoleum and the dessicated carpet and the kitchen the size of a closet?

I walk into the kitchen. The stove has been broken for months, but C. doesn’t care. The girl can’t cook, won’t cook, thinks cooking is “boring.”  My sister is single and fierce and will not fry up that bacon in the pan, that’s for sure.

She eats, though.

That’s pretty evident from the wasteland of plates, forks and bowls encrusted with vestiges of cheese, lettuce, stuff. I’m looking at days upon days, weeks of days of dishes.

She hasn’t bothered to rinse anything. Her dishes are a Rorschach of past meals–salsa, vivid orange pools of Kraft French dressing, errant smears of mustard. Jesus.

She doesn’t own a dishwasher, but that’s a moot point. Looking at the edible inkblots, I know this isn’t party wreckage I’m staring at. Every stain on every dish smacks of C.–the salads she makes when she’s barely able to bring the fork to her mouth, swimming in French dressing, full of cheese and questionable lettuce.  The toast she makes and dips in mustard, when there’s nothing else in the house to eat.  In the sink, her signature is everywhere.

I open the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. A large bottle of McCormick’s vodka and a few stray Otter Pops.

A girl’s gotta have priorities.

I think about opening the refrigerator but I reconsider. My vision has already been overloaded–do I really want to engage the olfactory, too?  I don’t want to stomach whatever science experiment is festering in that thing.

Surely, I’ve seen the worst of it. There’s no way the bedroom can be fouler ground than that kitchen. I put my hand on the bedroom door, which is open just a sliver, and I pause.  I feel kind of dirty looking in my sister’s bedroom. I mean, isn’t the bedroom the most private and sacred of places?  Would this take my (already) borderline violation of privacy to a level that’s just flat-out terrible?

Then again, she did give me a key.

If you give a sister a key, will she use it? If she uses it, will she walk in the door at unexpected moments?  If she walks in unexpectedly, will she stay to inspect? If she stays to inspect, will she stumble into a wasp’s nest?

I enter the bedroom and throw the windows open.  It reeks of stale air and dirty clothes, but I stalk past, shutting the door behind me. A girl, any girl, deserves her secrets.

I walk back into the living room, flip the stereo on, scan the cd shelf, decide on the Gin Blossoms. I crank the volume, tuck my hair into a ponytail, and walk into the bathroom. Sleeves rolled, I locate the canister of Dow Scrubbing Bubbles and glaze the bathtub with a heavy white layer.

As the bubbles work magic, I grab two large garbage bags and go to work on the living room. She’s got an incense stand on top of the television. When did she start burning incense?  I think about the cigarettes and the candles and the incense and decide I’m glad she doesn’t cook. This place is kindling.

Bottles, empty Cheetos bags, butts, old magazines, near-empty nail polish containers, socks beyond saving. Trash.

I dampen a few paper towels and swipe across the tv screen.

“Dang,” I mutter. “How do you even see anything through this?”

I find a table knife and excavate candle wax, layer by layer, singing along with the Gin Blossoms.

All last summer as if you don’t recall
I was yours and you were mine forget it all
Is there a line that I could write
Sad enough to make you cry
All the lines you wrote to me were lies

I scrub the bathtub with the only stiff thing I can find, an un-used back-scrubber from a Bed, Bath and Beyond gift basket I gave her for Christmas last year. I force the brush back and forth, focused on the hard brown ring in the center of the bathtub and the mildewed faucet. I run scalding water over and apply another coat of bubbles.

I’m not sure how to deal with the ash on the furniture and carpet. I decide to vacuum first–yes, she does own a vacuum, in impeccable condition–and then study the tables and shelves. I decide to wet a big bath towel and plunder as much ash as I can for the money.  I riffle through towels in the closet. My hands fall on an empty bottle and one half-full one stashed in between the terrycloth.

Who you hiding these from, Ponyboy?

I rinse the soiled towel in the bathtub, pressing down hard until water runs clean. I wipe the bathtub again, smears of bubble and ammonia-scented air. I bash the plug into the drain, turn the water hot as I can get it, and fill.

I grab a bottle of Dawn dish soap from the kitchen and pour it into the tub, almost emptying the sucker. Bubble, bubble.

I collect the dishes, plates, silverware, glasses, bowls, cups from the kitchen and living room and place them in the bathtub until water threatens to spill onto the floor.  I look around the bathroom and throw a few toothbrushes in, just for good measure.

I’m waiting for the dishes to soak when she walks in, sunglasses on, cigarette and paper sack in hand.

“Duuude!” she squeals, grinning. “What’s up?”

She scans the room.

“This is…just…wow!”

“So okay, but your dishes are soaking in the bathtub. There were too many to deal with, so I decided to wash them in there.”

She laughs and gives me a hard, quick hug. “Hey, what can I say? Remember that book we had when were little?  The Man Who Would Not Wash His Dishes? That book was awesome.”

I don’t remember. She shuts the apartment door and tosses her purse on the couch.  She takes the bag into the kitchen. “You want a drink? I’ve got fresh tonic.”

“A drink is a capital idea.”  I go into the bathroom, pluck two glasses from the bathtub, rinse them in hot water, and bring them to her. “Strong.”

“As if there’s any other way. Lime?”

“Sure.”

She brings me my drink, takes a sip, then hands me her glass. “Wait. Hold on.”

She runs on tiptoes into her bedroom and emerges with an armful of  dirty dishes. “There’s mooore!” she says in a singsong voice, laughing.  She clanks them into the bathtub.

I set the drinks down. Present under my arm, I wander to the stereo and re-start the cd. Delighted, she tears into wrapping paper and ribbon. I pick up my drink, swallow and feel the burn.

The months roll past the love that you struck dead
Did you love me only in my head?
The things you did and said to me
Seemed to come so easily
The love I thought I’d won you give for free

*Lyrics from the Gin Blossoms’ “Found Out About You,” from New Miserable Experience

Dare I say that this risotto is better than the last risotto I made? The one with the saffron, the most expensive spice in the world? I think that if you haul out the big wallet guns and perfume your risotto with saffron, you’ve guaranteed yourself an unbeatable dish, right?

Almost, but nope. I have to say, I thought this mushroom version was superior, and Mama agreed.

I do have to preface this with the warning that it’s still not the cheapest risotto to stir on your stove; this recipe uses dried porcini mushrooms for extra oomph, and dried porcini mushrooms aren’t a penny-pincher’s dream.

Luckily, you don’t need a lot of dried porcini (only an ounce or so) to get your money’s worth, and boy, are they worth the money. Dried porcini mushrooms=luscious little flavor bombs.

I don’t know what happens to a porcini when you dry it, but it’s magic.  Drying sexifies those suckers in the best possible way.  They become almost meaty, and the soaking broth (you reconstitute them in hot water) infuses the rice with umami* love.

C’mon, say it with me: oooooooh-mami.  Umami is just dang fun to say. It’s right up there with another of my favorite words: kumquat.  How can you say kumquat with a straight face? I cannot. That word turns me into a giggly seventh-grader.  Am I the only word dork out there who plays favorites?

Anyways, dear readers, I think you should make this risotto.  It’s divine. And even despite the pricey porcini and the Arborio rice and the good Parmesan cheese, it’s not going to break the bank.  If you’re a veg-head, use vegetable stock instead of chicken stock and you’ll still be happy.  Personally, I like the richness that chicken stock adds to the dish, but if you object to a pot of simmering cluckcluck, use the veggie stock.

For those of you committed to the post-holiday Save the Ass! campaign, feel free to omit the last 1 1/2 tablespoons of butter at the end, but do not omit the Parmesan cheese, I beg of you.  Just ask Ina Garten. If you splurge on the good cheese, you won’t have to use more than a handful or two to really make this dish sing.  It’s worth a few extra minutes on the treadmill.

Mucho Mushroom Risotto

serves 6

1 (1-ounce) package dried porcini mushrooms (you can find these next to the fresh herbs in the produce aisle)

1 cup boiling water

4-5 cups low-sodium chicken stock, warmed

1 tablespoon each butter and olive oil

2-3 shallots, sliced

1 cup mixed fresh mushrooms, such as cremini, chanterelle, shiitake or button, cleaned and sliced

1 1/2 cups Arborio or other short-grain rice

1/2 cup dry white wine, such as Pinot Grigio

salt and pepper to taste

1/2 cup fresh Italian flat-leaf parsley, chopped

1 1/2 tablespoons softened butter (optional)

A few handfuls of freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Remove dried porcini from packaging and place in a small bowl. Pour boiling water over mushrooms and let soak until reconstituted and soft enough to chop, about 20 minutes. Remove mushrooms and chop. Do not throw away the soaking water!

Strain the soaking water through a cheesecloth placed in a fine sieve to remove any silt or dirt particles. Set soaking water aside.

In a large saucepan over medium-high heat, warm the chicken broth and the soaking water; keep at a simmer.

In a large saucepan (preferably non-stick), melt the 1 tablespoon butter with the 1 tablespoon of olive oil on medium heat. Add the rice and the shallots; stir until the rice is coated with the butter/oil and the shallots have begun to soften, about 4 minutes.

Add the chopped dried mushrooms, a little salt and pepper and the wine, stirring constantly, until liquid is nearly evaporated.  Keep adding warm stock, in 1/2 cup increments, stirring until liquid is almost evaporated and then adding more stock.

After ten minutes, stir in fresh mushrooms and keep stirring/adding stock as necessary. Cook about ten minutes more, on medium to medium-high heat, stirring frequently, until rice is tender but still has a good chew to it.

This could take up to 30 minutes if you live at high altitude, but check the rice at the 20 minute mark.

When rice is done, stir in butter (if using) and salt and pepper to taste. Stir in parsley and top with Parmesan cheese.

Serve in warm bowls, passing additional Parmesan cheese at the table, if desired.

*Umami is a relatively modern term, referring to what Asian cultures have deemed the fifth sense of taste.  Umami refers to a meaty, salty taste, often found in bacon, Parmesan cheese, mushrooms and soy sauce.  Those are all good things, are they not?

Dear Readers,

On December 15, Miss D. celebrated a birthday. She woke up and announced: “Hey, Mom! I’ve hit the double-digits, baby!”

I was wildly proud and utterly terrified at the same time.  Instead of the usual birthday pictorial, and heck, I’m so late that it’s shameful–I thought I’d share some of her words with you.

My budding writer just finished a personal narrative for school, and her teacher deemed it “awesome.”  I think it’s pretty awesome, too. Her minxy voice comes through, which I love.  I left in the errors, just for grins…gotta love a good [sic].

So without further ado, please welcome Miss D.

**My Favorite Day**

Lights flashing everywhere, lasers flashing, I run to the arcade, ready for battel. The letters read, LAZER TAG!!!

I was at Boondocks with my friend Gregory. We were both 9, active, crazy and ready. We ran to the entrance (a little damp from bumper boats, and hair frizzy because of the go-carts).  Me and Greg waited in line while my sister and brother went to play mini-golf.

“No way. You can’t be serious.”

“Yep.”

Me and Greg just met a girl who said her earings glow in the dark. I think its a lie.

Soon we were in, it was so cool. The girl’s earings did glow in the dark, but that wasn’t all. My skirt shined and spun like a disco ball.

“I’m a living disco ball!”

Then a couple minutes later I noticed that MY TOENAILS GLOWED GREEN!

I was on Greg’s team, known as the “Red Team.”

We entered the dark, scary, heart stopping room. We walked to our base. Then “Booommm!” The objects all around exploded with rainbows of color, the battel was on.

We all ran out of the base but stayed in territory. Red and green lights flashed like deadly lazers. A blast of happiness shot through  me, I was estatice.  There was this one lady I shot over and over again. She was surprised, confused and frustrated.

Soon the lights were off, we went to our base like soldiers.

We looked at our scores. Hello! I came in second place! Greg was in last, he got -96. My score was 978!

Then I walked out proudly into the shining lights.

**In other news, I’m guest posting today over at Bruce’s awesome blog! I’d love it if you’d come say Hi!

I’m getting a little crush on my Essential Pepin cookbook. It’s full of great stuff, and some weird stuff, too, but I like weird.

Well, only to a certain degree–I’m consciously avoiding the section titled: Charcuterie and Offal.  I’ll try weird but I’m not eating pituitary glands (sweetbreads) or intestines, and I’m not making my own sausage.  I think I’m permanently scarred after reading Upton Sinclair’s novel The Jungle in the tenth grade. Rubber boots and fingernails and hair ground into sausage? Eww. I don’t want to know what goes into sausage; I don’t think my nerves could take it. Thanks a lot, Upton. Keep the muckraking to yourself, buddy. I don’t wanna know.

I’ve been working my way through the cookbook, marking things I want to try, and this soup was one of them. I chose it mainly because it sounded weird. Celery and noodle soup?  That’s weird, right?

But I like celery. I like noodles. And in the winter, I will tolerate soup. I can’t say I like it, but I certainly don’t loathe it, like my friend Karen’s mom does. Nor do I feel shame in eating it, like my sister’s college roommate, Erica.  Erica refused to eat soup.  I’ll never forget the horror on her face when she saw me tucking into a bowl of chicken noodle.

“Soup?” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You’re eating soup? Poor people eat soup! Gross!”

Quirky girl, that Erica.  She also showed up in high heels for a camping trip, but that’s another story.

A few days ago, it was definitely soup weather.  The wind was blowing like nobody’s business, and on a blustery day, soup is a good thing.

I took out my Essential Pepin and perused the soup section, settling on this one.  However, I knew I was going to have to tinker with it because I didn’t have vermicelli noodles–or any noodle other than penne for that matter–and I had a scant two cups of celery on hand.

The good news is, Pepin is totally down with tinkering. He even suggests playing with the recipe: “Many similar versions can be prepared in the same manner. You can use leftover vegetables, such as a rib of celery, a bit of lettuce, an onion, and a carrot…”

I like that in a chef; his recipes aren’t too precious. Tinkering is fair game.

Good thing, because no way did I have any intention of braving the grocery store in that wind. Meteorologists in Boulder clocked it at 88 miles an hour at one point; I was staying indoors, people.

Thus, I totally bastardized tinkered with the recipe.  The original recipe appears first, and I follow it with the modifications I made.  The soup was simplicity itself. Pepin says it’s the soup he craves when he gets a cold, and I can see why. The flavors were clean and subtle and comforting. This isn’t a soup to eat when you want a wallop of flavor; make Mulligitawny or gazpacho if you want wallop.

I ate a bowl for lunch and then served it again at dinner, topped with some rustic homemade croutons. Oh boy–let me tell you, you want to add the croutons. They took the soup to an entirely different level.  My husband, who is indifferent toward celery, actually raved about his crouton-topped bowl. Croutons are magic.

If it’s blustery outside or you’re feeling a little blue, give this soup a try.  If you have leftover veggies on hand, more the better. Nothing improves my mood like putting leftover things to good use, which Erica would probably call “poor.” I call it smart.

Celery Soup

serves 6

from Essential Pepin

1 tablespoon unsalted butter, plus more for optional garnish

1 tablespoon olive oil

3 cups sliced celery, peeled if the stalks are large and stringy (add the leaves for additional flavor)

1 cup sliced onion

1/2 cup sliced scallion

6 cups water

1 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon pepper

1/2 teaspoon dried thyme

1 1/2 cups very thin egg noodles (vermicelli)

1 cup milk

Melt the butter and oil in a large pot. Add celery, onion and scallion and saute over medium heat until softened, about 2 minutes.

Add the water, salt, pepper and thyme and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat, cover and simmer for 10 minutes or until the vegetables are soft.

Using an immersion blender or a traditional blender, puree the soup.  Return to the pot if necessary and add the noodles. Bring to a boil and simmer for 3-4 minutes or until the noodles are cooked.

Add the milk and stir to heat through.  If desired, put a little knob of butter in the bottom of each soup bowl and pour hot soup over.

TKW’s Bastardized Celery Soup

serves 4, unless you are eating French-like portions

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

2 cups celery, de-stringed, leafy tops included, chopped

1 cup diced onion

1 clove garlic, crushed

2 Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and diced

1 cup fresh spinach

3 cups water

3 cups chicken broth

1 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1/2 teaspoon dried thyme

2-3 tablespoons heavy cream*

fresh parsley, to garnish (optional)

Melt the butter in a large stockpot. Add the celery and onion and cook over medium heat until softened, about 3 minutes. Add the garlic; cook 30 seconds. Add the water, stock, potato, spinach, salt, pepper and thyme and bring to a boil.

Reduce heat, cover, and simmer for 20 minutes or until the potato can be easily pierced with a knife.

Blend soup. Reheat and let simmer another 5 or 10 minutes or until slightly thickened. Add cream. Garnish with parsley and, if you are smart, homemade croutons.

Homemade Croutons

2 cups stale rustic bread, such as ciabatta, sourdough or baguette, cut into 1-inch cubes

2 tablespoons olive oil or melted butter

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon pepper

1/8 teaspoon garlic salt (optional)

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Place bread on a large cookie sheet; drizzle with oil or melted butter, tossing the cubes around to coat. Spread cubes in an even layer and sprinkle seasonings over.

Bake for about 8 minutes or until brown and crisp.

*I know Pepin’s recipe called for milk, but I was hesitant to add milk to hot soup, fearing the milk would curdle. Plus, I knew I’d be reheating this soup for supper, and cream is much more stable than milk when re-heating.  If, as I did, you throw a potato in the soup, it adds creaminess, allowing you to add only a small amount of cream with satisfying results.