Not exactly an "Officer and a Gentleman"

On Friday I was blogging about my shoes and I digressed into a story about a sprained ankle and a Sam. I don't know what it was about this particular Sam but while I dated him I also suffered from an Achilles Heel tear.

I was coming home one night in December or January. It was cold, as it is known to be in the Midwest in those winter months, but it was one of those clear and no snow type of nights. My driveway was clear of snow and it was dry. Except, I learned the hard way, one tiny little spot. There was one damn spot of ice about 6 inches wide on the whole freaking driveway and of course, I stepped on that tiny spot. And slipped. And fell. And I really really really hurt my ankle-leg-foot part of my body. I was laying on the driveway crying my head off at 1 am.

I sort of crawled and dragged myself into the house and sat on the floor. I then called some friends of mine to come get me (the Sam was working as a DJ at a gig and there was no way he could come get me so I didn't even bother to impose) to take me to the hospital. I hurt hurt hurt. And I had no idea what was wrong. I thought I broke my leg or foot or ankle or all three.

So I went to the ER and learned I had a torn Achilles. I got a temp cast thingy on it and then the next day I got a boot thingy on it.

When all this happened I was teaching at the college level. The day after the incident I had a morning class to teach and an evening one. So, my friends of the ER trip gave me a ride to the school and the Dean of students took me to the doc that afternoon and back to the school. Sam and I were supposed to have a date and he was going to pick me up at school when class was over. But with all the running around and teaching and stuff, I sort of forgot to mention to Sam I screwed up my ankle/ foot.

So he shows up to get me and comes to my room. I was sitting at my desk with my leg propped up and was chatting with some students. Sam comes in and takes one look and asks what happened. I told him and he chuckled. I grab my crutches and ask him if he'll carry my bag. He takes one look at my giant pink bag and says no way.

What he does instead is hand me my bag and picks ME up, one shoulder fireman carry style, and grabs my crutches and off we go. As he went through the hallways with me hanging ass up over his shoulder, my casted/booted foot dangling, people in the hallway step aside and applaud. They laugh. They clap and cheer. I raised my head and waved at everyone as we paraded passed them.

We arrive at his pick-up truck where he so carefully and gently deposits me on the passenger seat, kisses me, smiles and asks what I want for dinner. As we pull out of the parking lot, everyone who is still around cheers. We wave.

Not Richard Gere and Debra Winger, but still.... it was good. Oh so good.

Maggie

A bit melancholy this morning

Mac seemed to have a great time at the Prom. He looked so grown up and dashing in his tux. I mean, he looked really REALLY grown up. I can see why the girls think he's a cutie. Okay, so I'm his mother and I'm biased but really, he was looking really cute. And grown up.

And since I have this ADD brain* the path I took was...

He's growing up and next year he's going to university and then law school. He's not going to hang out this me or stay at home with his 'old' mom all the time. Because he'll be at school doing grown up things that boys do in school; hopefully that will also involve lots of studying....

And he'll meet some woman and get married and have his own family.

Or he'll be as screwed up as I am about love and relationships and he'll just shag everything in a skirt and marry his job and have lots of money and jet around the world spending it frivolously.

Either way, he won't be hanging out with his mother, who will be old and alone. Well, not so old; I won't be 40 before he goes to college. My point is, he won't be at home with me.

Frankly, then, that means a huge part of my life is coming to a close and what the hell am I going to do now?

Daddy-O, I'm not killing you off, no matter what the employees at Hobby Lobby think (we were looking at vases and saying how nicely they could be turned into urns for him when he died, and we got some strange looks...anyway) and as we were talking the other day, we are both closer to death than, well, not death. I mean, you're almost 65 so you're not going to be here forever. And I'm staring at 40-- someday-- shit, someday soon!

And I'm going to be alone. I've said for a good many long years now I was a person who was meant to be alone. I never figured I would have a relationship that would amount to much, or that I've played all the loved cards I was dealt, or that I'm not the marrying kind. Hell, even if I could find a man, I think I'm too old for him to want to marry me, even if said hypothetical relationship should ever happen... (We all know I'm a bum magnet. Nothing good comes of me dating other than disasters that make for excellent blog fodder.) Really, who would WANT to marry me?

But I never really thought of what alone meant, and how alone that really really is. Mac is going to do something astounding with himself. I can feel it in my bones. He has enough of my wanderlust in him so he'll make home wherever he is. But he will be an adult. Daddy-O will die and I'll be really alone.

When I think of alone like that, it's really REALLY alone.

Even if I'm an atheist, can I still be a nun and join some sort of sister cloister thingy? I could fake it........ right?

All Hail the Big Three (of course I mean Prada, Dolice, and Gabana),
Sister Mary Maggie Mae, patron saint of shoes..... and lost cause romances

*I would like to point out that at the beginning of this post I warned you I was going to take you on a trip through my ADD brain.... you WERE warned. Geez!

Like white on rice

For years Daddy-O ate food that my mom (God or whomever, rest her soul) cooked for about 40 years even if he didn't like it. How about that? I didn't really know this until one day I was gonna fix and chicken and rice casserole and he said he didn't like rice.

I was drawn up short and started in with the Chinese rice torture: do you like white rice? No Did he like brown rice? Yes. Did he like fried rice? Not particularly. Does he like white rice at the Chinese restaurant? No, because it's sticky. But, I told him, it's supposed to be sticky! But nope, he still said he didn't like rice, but the man ate white rice for 40 years cause my mom fixed it. Sometimes, it was easier to just eat what mom fixed rather than argue with her. Hmmm.

By the way, I like white rice, fried rice, and sticky white Chinese rice. Brown rice, to me, is super icky.

So, I didn't make chicken and rice but I tried to convince him he would like it since it had mushrooms, cream of chicken soup, and cheese in it. No dice; he wasn't gonna eat it.

When I was a kid we had rice as a side dish. Just plain old white rice. Sometimes mom would make something she called 'Spanish Rice.' Since she's dead, I can't really ask her what it was, so to the best of my recollection it was like Manwich Hamburger sloppy joe meat sauce dumped on top of rice. I remember I at it but it wasn't my favorite thing.

Mom also made white rice with 'sweet and sour chicken' poured on top of it. She browned chicken and used green peppers, pineapple, pineapple juice, and corn starch as the 'sweet and sour' part. Then the whole thing got poured over it and that wasn't too bad; I liked it. She also made "Hawaiian meatballs" with the same sauce but with meatballs poured over rice. You see a trend here? Oh, and I liked it, too.

I also remember that she made white rice, put it in individual bowls, and covered it with milk and sugar. Ok. I have no idea where that came from. Or what in the world we had with it. Then if there was left over rice int he morning, I did the same thing for breakfast but let the rice just stay cold. But I do like that and still to this day, I'll make a pot of rice, let it get sticky, and cover it with sugar and milk and call it dinner.

It's hard to believe that I would eat rice as a kid since so many don't like it and make maggot comparisons, but I would just chow down. My mom would try and make potato pancakes with cheese with leftover mashed potatoes and I would gag and make retching sounds and not touch them, but I would eat rice like Confucius.

I don't like brown rice. It's yucky. I guess I could say it tastes "grainy" but... uh... ya know.

I don't like Rice-A-Roni; trust me, that is so not the real San Francisco treat.

Rice pudding is... acceptable, but I prefer tapioca.

I want a rice steamer.

An old Chinese proverb says, "talk doesn't cook rice."

Take a minute for rice,
Maggie-san

The first time I saw a dead body

One could argue that the story I'm about to tell is really about the second time I saw a dead body. Apparently, family lore goes that the first time I saw a dead body was when I was about about 2 years old. My great-grandmother on my mom's side had died. My parents went to the viewing and no one thought I should be brought up by the casket at my age so in their infinite wisdom, all the fam-damily adults thought it would be best if I stayed in the back of the funeral home and be held by my Daddy-O. So I was 2 years old and being carried around at adult height and I could see over everyone, all the way to the front of the funeral parlor, and right into the casket. And according to legend, I said in a loud clear 2 year old voice "Why's that lady taking a bath with her clothes on?" And of course it was a moment when it was dead silent. And then everyone laughed and thought I was the cutest thing in the world.

But see, I don't think that counts as the first time I saw a dead body (even though that's a damn adorable Maggie Mae story). It doesn't count because:

1. I don't remember it
2. I saw a dead body the way we expect to see them: after the mortician had done all the funeral homey things to it and got it all dressed up and made to look like sleeping (though I don't care what anyone says, a dead person looks dead, no matter how good a job the funeral dudes do). You know, I saw it in a casket at the funeral home, with soft lighting, crying families, organ music- you know, a dead person in their natural habitat. They way dead people were intended to be stared at.

The story I'm about to tell you is about the first time I saw a dead body. And try as I might, it's unfortunately not really funny......

Do you remember I told you I had a paper route and I was the youngest kid in my town to ever have one at age 10? Well, I did. I loved my paper route. And the people were very nice to me- well, most of them were, except for Mr. James Gardner. I would always park my bike at Mrs. Greenbean's house, the first one I delivered and then walk the rest of my route, which ended back her at house. It was easier for me to walk my route because there were lots of elderly folks who wanted me to place their papers in a 'just so' spot.

I had a good relationship with most of my customers. They were pretty protective of me and worried if I was late. And not late like past the delivery deadline, but late if I didn't come past their house as my usual time; remember, this was around the time of the first big child abduction of Adam Walsh that was famous so people were always looking out for me. They left me presents all the time and nice tips. Mrs. Greenbean, as I said, let me park my bike at her house and on Saturday mornings (the only day of the week it was a morning, Monday thru Friday it was an afternoon paper and there was none on Sunday) she would fix me breakfast. There was a guy, Sam, who owned a gas station and he would give me a glass bottle of Pepsi a few times a week and he was the first person who showed me the trick of putting peanuts in the soda bottle. So, people were nice and kind. They watched out for me and in turn, I watched out for them, I guess.

One customer was an old lady named Mrs. R. The first time I met Mrs. R I was scared out of my ever-loving mind. First, she lived in a big, creepy, creaky, old house on a corner at the bottom of a hill. It was a huge scary monstrosity, painted black and it was peeling. One shutter hung askew. There was a fence around the front yard and the gate squeaked when the wind blew it, or when I had to push it open to walk up the front sidewalk to leave her paper in the mailbox hooks next to the front door. There were no flowers. The kids all said a witch lived there and the house was haunted- okay, we all saw that coming, right?

The first time I had to collect from Mrs. R I thought I was going to have a heart attack at age 10. She answered the door and was the most frightening old person I had ever seen in my life. Her hair was snow white and looked like she had been caught in a wind tunnel or like Medusa but without the snakes. She was hunched over with a slight hump. She always wore house coats and slippers and shuffled as she walked so slowly. She was the most wrinkled person I'd ever seen, with more lines on her face than a London tube map. She was old and since everyone said she was a witch and with the looks of the house, I was terrified. And it must've shown on my face because she asked me if I was scared of her and I actually blurted out why and she laughed and laughed and thought it was the funniest thing in the world. She told me she wasn't a witch, just an old lady. And to let the kids keep thinking she was a witch because they stayed off her lawn. And from that day on, Mrs. R. was one of my favorite people.

A few times a week she would be at the door waiting for me and have me come in for a snack, usually a few stale vanilla wafers and some warm flat soda but that was okay. Her house was old and dusty and dark. Her tv was new but she had an old Victrola in the corner and her phone was an ancient black rotary thing. But she liked to talk. Even then I knew she was lonely. And her voice was low and raspy like she'd had a 4 pack a day habit for 60 years, and she whispered with a Katherine Hepburn shake to it. Her voice matched her scary appearance but she was a nice and kind lady with sparkling blue eyes.

We had developed a routine. I would leave her paper in the hooks of her mail box, right outside the door and then I would ring the bell. I could go on my way then, and she would come get her paper. Since she was at the bottom of the hill, and I had to go up it, I would turn around and check to see if she had come to the door yet and most days, we would wave at each other. Sometimes, but very rarely, she didn't get the paper before I got to the top of the hill, but as a kid, I always thought it was because she might be on the phone, watching one of her 'stories' or in the bathroom.

One Thursday, Mrs. R met me at the door and told me she had a cold but gave me a quarter to get a candy bar (and yeah, that actually covered the price of a candy bar at Sam's gas station in 1980). The next day, a Friday, I left Mrs. R's paper and went up the hill, turning around to check like always but she didn't get the paper by the time I got to the top. Even now, 28 years I later I still remember wondering if I should go back down the hill and knock on the door to check on her since she said she was sick yesterday. But I didn't because I was going to stay overnight at my friend Misty's house and she was one of 7 kids so I wanted to hurry so I wouldn't miss any of the chaos that was her house.

Saturday morning rolled around and I was doing my morning delivery. I had left my bike at Mrs. Greenbean's house as usual and went on my way. I wasn't a morning person even then and I usually didn't visit with anyone on Saturday morning because papers had to be deliver by 8am and I always waited until the last possible second, so I know it was around 7:30am.

I got to Mrs. Rs house and I knew right away something was wrong because her Friday paper was still. in.the.mailbox. I stood stock still, holding the Saturday paper. I went to the front door and knocked. No answer. I rang the bell and beat on the door and still no answer. And then I did something I was taught to never do- I snooped. I pressed my face to the glass and peered inside. And that was the first time I saw a dead body, the details forever seared into my brain.

Mrs. R was sprawled on her kitchen floor, on her stomach, arms and legs akimbo, jutting out at all odd angles. A chair was knocked over and there was a yellow Melmac coffee cup on the floor. Her hair was spread out and I couldn't see her entire face, just her mouth, open and slack. And here's what I remember happening next: I ran next door to the Hoffman's and beat on the door but no one answer so I ran 3 blocks to Sam at the gas station. I was crying and surely spewing gibberish but I finally got him to understand what I was saying. I remember sitting on a stool there, holding peanuts and a cold bottle of Pepsi but not eating or drinking, while Same called 911 and he left, probably to go check himself.

I'm sure Sam's wife called my parents who came and got me and I'm sure either they finished my route or the news paper office did. I don't remember.

I do know that I would check the paper for the next few days to find out when the funeral was. Then on the day of viewing, I figured out it was at the funeral home that was half way between my house and my paper route. So on the day of the viewing, I did my paper route, when to Mrs. Greenbean's house and changed clothes (I had stuffed school clothes in my paper delivery bag) in her bathroom and rode my bike to the funeral home. I went inside and paid my respects and then went home. I never told my folks I was gonna do it or did it. I think at that time it was because I wasn't sure if I wanted to go and was afraid they would make me if I said something about it. But when I got home that night, it was like they knew. Mrs. Greenbean had probably called and told them what I was up to. Or they figured it out on their own. Either way...

For a long time I wondered if I could've saved her. I wondered if I should've broken in the front door glass and called 911 on her black phone and then done CPR that we learned from the "BAT Man" (Basic Aid Training policeman) in fourth grade, if it would've saved her. I wondered if I could've saved her if I would've went back down the hill on Friday. Now, as an adult all these years later, I know that she was dead when I saw her on Saturday morning and no amount of CPR could change that. And as for Friday.... well, who knows, right?

That was the first time I saw a dead body.
Maggie

Tales from Maggie's Kitchen in 2 parts- Part 2

I'm continuing my days of yore cooking stories,. gather round all ye children and be afraid, very afraid for someday, Miz Magz may actually cook for you!

Story A- Where's a good bakery when you need one?
The chicken was in flames. The pizza was toast. All within one week. For some stupid fucking reason that only the gods of hell would understand, I get some wild hare brained scheme to bake an apple pie. From scratch. I have no idea what I was thinking- maybe that I hadn't experienced enough Kitchen Torture yet? But yeah, I decided to make a homemade apple pie. In the same week that I burned a chicken and a pizza to the point of needing fire extinguisher refills, not once, BUT twice. So oh yes, I should be baking, by all means... NOT!

I would like to see a show of hands from all of you who know there were certain apples you cook with and certain ones you bake with and certain ones you ate raw and certain ones you DID NOT FUCKING EVER WANT TO PUT IN A PIE??? Those of you with your hands up suck. Yeah, you know what is coming. You know. I was 25 years old and had never made a pie in my life. Cut me some slack, please.

I got my cookbook out and made a crust. From scratch. It was very...doughy. And there was lots of flour every where. And I guess there is a reason some recipes say baking soda and other say baking powder- there is a difference. But I managed to not get that right. Then came the apple part. I was really tired from making the dough and shopping. So, I cored the apples and chopped them up and threw them in the pie shell. I tried to make the dough strips on the top, like lattice work, but it looked bad so I just decided to bake it without- think of an open faced pie.

Okay, lots of things are wrong here as I am sure you are figuring. I, um, forgot, to peel the apples. I cored them but I forgot the peeling part. I know it said it in the cookbook, but I think I just overlooked that part. And, as aforementioned apples, I didn't buy the right ones to cook with. Oh no, I ended up with the TARTEST apples in the WORLD. And one tiny minor detail- I forgot the sugar. Oh please, like none of you have ever forgotten any ingredient when cooking before? I'm sure you're thinking this isn't a big deal because it probably went up in flames anyway, right? Well, sort of....... um ............. not exactly.

See the pie bubbled over- pie juice from the apples that I must have left sort of wet from rinsing - and I managed to save it from being blasted with the fire extinguisher that I had to use again. But a potholder stuck to the bottom of the pie pan, so it went into the oven, and then fell to the bottom of the oven and caught fire so I yanked the pie out of the oven and sprayed the pot holder lying on the bottom. Yep, flames. Not big ones, but flames nonetheless. The pie looked okay otherwise. So I have a flaming ovenmit and a saved pie and another damn fire extinguisher to refill. And 4 year old Mac singing, "we're goin' to Pizza Hut, we're going to Pizza Hut..."

So, a guy, a date sort of guy, came over after dinner and Mac and I serve the pie. I am all proud. I even managed to get the smell of singed and smoked ovenmit out of the house. The pie looked fine, but tasted horrible. The guy actually spit his bite back onto the plate. So did I. So did Mac. Mac actually uttered , "Mommy, this doesn't taste like the ones we get at McDonald's." Oh and it was the last date with that guy.

The next day I just went to the fire station and I think they were afraid to laugh. I said one word: "pie." They just filled the sucker up, handed it to me and let me leave. I swear the strained sounds of muffled cackling laughter so did not waft in the air behind me.

Story B- I Swear I have nothing against chickens!

I was making hard boiled eggs, or trying to make them. I brought the water to a rolling boil, then gently dropped in the eggs. And they would explode and pop. And splatter all over the stove, me, the exhaust overhang thingy. I do this to an entire dozen eggs. Each one explodes. I have scrambled egg looking goo floating in the water and all over the place. I am pissed. I call my mother and the conversation is something like this:

me: I got defective eggs at the store. An entire dozen. I am so gonna call there and complain. They can't go selling bad food. Especially dairy. That is so wrong. Someone could've gotten sick or got salmonella or botulism because of these things.

mom: what was wrong with the eggs? Rotten?

me: No, I was trying to hard boil them and all they did was break, pop and explode. I have egg crap all over the damn place!

mom: what do you mean explode? Did you do it in the microwave or something?

me: no, I boiled the water, dropped in the eggs, and just *bam*- exploding everywhere. I am so gonna call the manager...Mom, why are you laughing, mom, are you there? Breath mama, breath!

mom: *sounds of gasping for air though hysterical laughter and wiping away tears.*

Guess I should have put the cold eggs in cold water, then turned the pan on. Ooops.

And thus concludes Maggie's cooking escapades. Now, I would like to tell you all that I have gotten so much better over the years and rarely do I have cooking fiascoes that in any way, shape or form resemble these stories.

I make a wonderful egg plant parmesan. I have a recipe for homemade tomato sauce that tastes like granny from Italy would make. I make homemade pasta (with a rolling pin and knife, not a pasta maker). I love to make yeast rolls, Hungarian pecan tassies, pork chops with apple stuffing, braised lamb chops with apricot glaze, pot roast in a red wine sauce... these are just a few dishes from my current cooking repertoire. So see, time does heal all... cooking mistakes.

I'm smokin' hot,

Maggie

Tales from Maggie's Kitchen in 2 parts- Part I

Writing about my grilling experience from yesteryear reminded me of my cooking stories of the past and I thought I would share these.

First, I wrote these on a previous blog under my old moniker and I have to say these are some of my most popular writings- I wrote these about 3+ years ago. And these are some of Hecate's favorite stories, and I know she could use a chuckle right now... If you read these before, I apologize for the repeat. And newer readers- enjoy and I promise to not have my feelings hurt over your hysterical howling laughter.

Story A- Why does the Chicken Cross the Road?
There was this one time, no it wasn't band camp, when I decided to bake a whole chicken with potatoes and carrots. This was about 12 years ago, and Mac was around age 4. I had always baked pieces of chicken that were already cut up, but the whole fryers were on sale for like 23 cents a pound so we were going to do it up right! Well, I took the chicken and held it under the water and rinsed it off, letting the water run through the cavity. I put it in the roasting pan with the veggies. I turned on the oven for 350 bake for 45 minutes. Okay, no worries. Dinner would be great, I was thinking. Mac and I would eat well and I would have leftovers for the next day.

In 45 minutes, I checked the chicken and it wasn't done. Well, okay- it was whole so it might need a bit longer than the already cut up pieces I was used to baking. So I waited another 15 minutes- still not done. Well, I thought maybe it was some special chicken that needed more time, so I cranked up the temperature to about 450 degrees. And waited another 30 minutes. Um, guess what? The chicken still WASN'T done. For those of you who are math impaired like me, we have now had the bird in the oven for 90 minutes. So I let it go and finally after 3 hours in the oven I took the damn fowl out. I sat it on the stove top, poked it with a fork and the entire thing burst into flames! I grabbed the fire extinguisher and put out the fire.

Well, I called my mom, as any woman would in this situation. We tried to figure out why a chicken would just burst into flames for no reason. I thought that maybe the flames happened because of spontaneous combustion or some such scientific nonsense. I also thought maybe the cold air hit some sort of hot pocket in the birdie. My mom thought that...um... Maybe a more logical reason could be that the paper bag which holds the "innards" of the bird were left inside the chicken while I cooked it and they caught on fire...

Yeah, I know NOW, but back then I had no clue that chickens were sold with their guts tucked inside the cavity in a little paper sack. Who the hell does this? What sort of weird person wants chicken guts? And why sell them in a paper sack hidden away, like drugs or contraband? It wasn't like there were directions for the chicken cooking novice. For example, they put warnings on Preparation H that say don't take orally because we know someone did this...Why not chicken directions? I mean, really! The Nerve! I cannot be the first person who cooked the chicken, guts bag and all. Is it supposed to be some little gift for the chef from the butcher? It was all so very Silence of the Lambs. And it was slimy, yucky, raw meat for goddess sake so there was NO way I was going to stick my hand in the cavity of the chicken before I cooked it. I rinsed it out- read above- see there, I told you! People- guts in a paper sack caught my three hour cooked chicken on fire!!!

So I ordered a pizza from the Hut for dinner- Mac liked it better than chicken anyway- and the next day I went to the local fire station and had my fire extinguisher refilled- at no charge- Mac liked the fire trucks anyway!


Story B- Why I'm Pizza Hut's best customer
First, a disclaimer: I was raised by a mama who is a true southern cook and I think I can count on one hand the number of times she fixed stuff that wasn't from scratch. We never had food from a box or frozen or instant. So the world of pre-made was all new to me when I was in my own apartment.

A few days after the chicken incident, I decided to fix a frozen pizza for Mac and myself. This is merely a few days later, by the way. DAYS...

Not too tough, right? Pre-heat oven, open, place on cookie sheet, set timer and then take out and eat it. Okay, I did all those things. But when I took it out of the oven, it didn't look right. The cheese wasn't all melted. And the crust looked...funny. So, back into the oven for a little bit went the pizza.

Well, umm, I let it bake a little while longer and when it had been in for about 45 minutes and then I opened the oven door, it burst into flames. I am NOT fucking kidding you at all. Flames. So, needless to say I grabbed the fire extinguisher and put out the fire. Again. For the second time in three times.

Flames in my kitchen. Again. Well... I cannot believe I didn't get evicted.

Then I called my mom. Hey, that is what every girl in this situation would do. And it was her fault I caught it on fire in the first place- if she had been a mother who didn't like to cook us homemade food that was delicious and yummy, then I would know what to do with a frozen pizza out of a box. In talking with mama, I learned that frozen pizzas come with a cardboard circle under the crust.

I ask you- who does this? Was this public knowledge? I didn't know there was cardboard there! When I unwrapped it and placed it on the pan, it never dawned on me to TURN IT OVER to see if there was cardboard or some other foreign substance stuck to the pizza- I expected nothing but, oh, say, pizza crust!!!! There was no warning label on the packaging saying "remove cardboard circle." Damn it, twice in one week I caught a meal on fire. Damn it, twice in one week I caught my oven on fire.

So, I ordered a pizza from the 'Hut, as I am prone to do when I catch the food on fire- it was becoming a tradition of sorts. Mac liked it better than frozen anyway. The next day Mac and I went to the fire station to get the extinguisher refilled- also a bit of a tradition. Mac liked to play with the firetrucks. The same firemen were there- don't these guys ever go home? Why couldn't I have a different set of firemen? Anyway, usually the fire fighters charge for a second re-fill but when they heard the story of the pizza, so closely on the heels of the "flaming chicken" story...Um, let's say it was a complimentary fill up. I don't think the guys had the heart to charge me for it...At least that is what I think they were trying to tell me though their hysterical laughter.

And that stuff in the extinguisher is a real bitch to clean up. It is oh so yucky.

Well there you have it. Cooking tips from Mags- watch tomorrow for part 2. Oh, and feel free to stop by for dinner some night and I'll fix us up some nice vittles...How brave are you?

Julia Child I wasn't,
Maggie

Musical memories and must own tunes

Music is a very powerful tool. It can set a mood, make us laugh or cry, or transport us back in time. I hear "Purple Rain" and I think of AlaskaSam back when we were in college. I hear BNL"Long Way Home" and I remember AIISam singing to me. "Josephine" by the Wallflowers make me think of the first night I spent with CowboySam. My list goes on and on. Music can intensify a mood. I have music I want to hear when I am sad or lonely; I have tunes I choose when I want to go for a walk or exercise. There are dance tunes that make me boogie or that make me want to just drive my car with the windows down- road trip music. There are certain artists I love and will always go back to even when times suck. For example, I always throw Billy Joel in when nothing else appeals to me, or when I need something.

I think every genre is worthwhile though I may not always like it or choose it. I don't like country and rap isn't always my favorite. I hate death metal. There are certain artists that I hate and will always change the channel, but hey, that's my right.

Couples almost always have "their song." I don't mean that song you hear that simply just reminds you of someone- I have that with my kid, my friends, my parents- but that special song that you pick together. It represents you as a couple somewhere and somehow at a point in time. Some couples have some cutesy story of how the song came about. It's that special song where you can play it to make each other smile. Or you request it at the club, school dance, or play it on the juke box so you can dance to it. Or call in to your favorite Friday night request and dedication DJ? Or you hear it randomly played on the radio and you have to call your partner and gush, "I just heard our song and thought of you!" You know, the song you play 317 times in a row after you get dumped and cry your eyes out?

Hey, I know I sound a bit tongue and cheek but I have had "our songs" with old Sams: "She’s gotta way" with my ex-husband; "Your kiss is on my list" with PoetSam; "Suddenly" with the boyfriend in high school that my parents HATED; "Heaven" with the guy I should have lost my virginity to; "Have I told you lately" with CanadianSam; "Can’t fight this feeling" with a boy in junior high who had a huge crush on me but I was really too shy to do anything about him but every time this song was played at a school dance from 7th grade through senior year we both abandoned out respective dates and danced to it together (I wonder what ever happened to him????). These were "our songs!" Now I can't remember how most of them got picked to be our couple song, but I still, for the most part, fondly remember the Sams (except for the Spermdonor and CanadianSam- no fondness there at all) attached with the song.

Music is powerful like this. We hear a song and it can just shoot us to a time or place or an event. The song can help make a time, person or event be burned into our brains forever. Music is a powerful catalyst in life. Music has helped defined generations- look at girl groups of the '50s, hippies in the 60s, 70s disco, and one hit wonders of the 80s along with the inception of rap tossed in to really create a musical nightmare, or emergence. Oh yeah, and hip hop of the 90s.

I love music that makes me just be-pop up and down. I love "1234" by the Plain White Tees, "Single Ladies" by Beyone, "Gotta be Somebody" by Nickelback, "I'm Yours" by Jason Mraz, and "I Kissed a girl" by Katy Perry- these songs make me dance and smile and laugh. They may not make my forever album list but they are songs that put a smile on my face and I can't help but turn the volume up and sing along, however off key I sound.

Often I wish we had a soundtrack for life- you know, just like in the movies. Wouldn't it be great if music would just play and swell to accommodate daily events? It sure would make life more interesting, and half the time I have an internal soundtrack going in my head all the time anyway. And Mac told me he wished some Pink Floyd song (I can't remember which one) would play as he walked into English class in slow motion, of course. (I have no idea.... he's 16 years old...) Though I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree because if I'm feelin' hawt and sexy and have to walk from point A to B and I know people (ie MEN) are watching me, my soundtrack stride song is "Smooth" by Rob Thomas/ Santana... go figure!

Hell, when most people don't know what to say so they say it with music. How many of us have given someone- a friend, a lover, a family member- a compilation album for a present? Maybe we've wanted to say we're sorry and can't so we play a song? Look at Hallmark cards! They've officially run out of limericks, poems and funnies because there is now a glut of musical cards on the market!

What would films be without music? The infamous "da dum da dum" right before the shark attack? Or the music to Halloween that just about stops the heart? The "I'm flying" scene from Titanic? These scenes wouldn't be nearly as powerful without music, if shown in utter silence. Movies need music- soundtracks... duh!

As I put together my music list that I think everyone should own to have a complete collection, I have been reminiscing about where it sends me- people, the past, the present, even smells are conjured up with some music. I certainly don't live in the past, but it has been a nice stroll down amnesia lane as I put this list together. This list, remember, is what I think EVERYONE should have in their collections to be complete- not just what I own. (I like Teddy Geiger's Underage Thinking album but he has a long way to go to hit my Hall of Fame. And I love The Killers, for some reason, but again, not feeling enough love to give them a place for forever perfection.) These are the albums, not just a song, but an entire album that I would love to fill an iPod with. Ohhhhhhhh, an aside, wouldn’t it be a great to get an iPod as a present and it was already filled with these albums???? OMG- that would be better than shoes, Cosmos, sex and office supplies!!!!! Okay, maybe not better than shoes...

Anyway, here's my list!

1. Joshua Tree by U2
2. Elvis
3. Sting
4. The Beatles: Abbey Road, The White Album and Sgt. Pepper's lonely Heartclub Band
5. Billy Joel's Great Hits Vol. I and II
6. Bon Jovi Slippery When Wet
7. Pink Floyd The Wall
8. AC/DC Back in Black
9. Led Zeppelin
10. Lynyrd Skynyrd Pronounced Leh-Nerd Skin-Nerd
    
11. Bob Dylan The Essential Bob Dylan
12. Bruce Springsteen Born in the USA
13. The Eagles The Very Best of
14. Jimi Hendrix Are you experienced?
15. Janis Joplin Pearl
16. The Who
17. Nirvna Nevermind
18. Dave Matthews Band
19. Eric Clapton Unplugged
20. The Grateful Dead Anthem of the Sun
21. Michael Jackson- Thriller
22. Aretha Franklin Gold and Aretha’s Best
23. Soundtrack from Footloose
24. Soundtrack from Top Gun
25. Carol King Tapestry
26. Berlioz Symphonie Fantastique
27. Vivaldi The Four Seasons
28. Green Day American Idiot (This has gotta be the BEST rock anthem album since Tommy)
29. Puccini La Boheme, Tosca, and Madame Butterfly
30. Van Morrison The Best of Van Morrison
31. The Doors The Very Best of the Doors
32. Soundtrack from the film PS I Love You
    
33. Joni Mitchell Hits
34. Frank Sinatra Sinatra Reprise The Very Good Years
35. Styx Greatest Hits
36. Journey Greatest Hits
37. Eminem The Marshall Mathers LP
38. Carly Simon Reflections
39. Soundtrack from the film Grease
40. Rod Stewart If We Fall in Love Tonight, Unplugged…and Seated, and The Great American Song Book Box Set

So, what are you favorite albums? What music can you just NOT live without? What would your ideal play list be? What gets your toes a'tappin'?

Sing along,
Maggie

"After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music" ~ A. Huxley

Mother's Day- a tribute

I was thinking about my mom recently and since it's Mother's Day I thought I would share my current remembrance.

My mom was pretty much "mom" like when I was growing up. She wasn't what you would call cool and she wasn't June Clever, but she was a good mom. All the kids in the neighborhood liked my mom. She let all us kids just be kids. She listened to us, she never batted an eye if my brother and I wanted to bring friends home for dinner or to spend the night. One day she came home from work to find 9 of us watching a movie in the living room and fixed enough spaghetti for dinner to feed all of us.

Mom baked cookies and made sure we did our homework. She tolerated our loud music, the front door banging- though in the summer by July she would be known to scream "either go out and stay out or come in and stay in but STOP BANGING THAT DAMN DOOR", and our constant barrage of visiting friends. She never stopped the games of tag until it was too dark to see at night. As long as we cleaned up our dress up mess or made sure the sprinkler was turned off, we could make messes and play with the garden hose as much as we wanted.

My mom was our mom and didn't try to be our pal and buddy. And as an adult, looking back, I love that even more about her. We had chores and if they weren't done she yelled. We had rules to follow and if we didn't, we could get a smack with the wooden spoon on the butt. We were expected to be respectful, to not sass, not talk back and if we we jerks, she wasn't afraid to heap on the guilt and ground us. Mom worked outside the home so we all had to do our part. She was also pretty in tune with what was going on at our schools and in the community. Again, it wasn't so she could be "cool" but because it was her job to know as her role as our parent. She didn't try and dress like a teenager either. She always looked nice but she did look like a mom- you know what I mean by this!

Now I want to clarify, my mom wasn't backward but she didn't try to act like a teenager or make fun of our music or clothes or verbiage. She didn't try to act like a teenager but she knew stuff. She was the manager of a retail store while I was in high school and this store had MTV on all the time so she was pretty familiar with music of my generation, which were the big hits of the 1980s, often thought of as an oxymoron in and of itself. Now, again, she knew the music, liked some of it, hated more of it, but tolerated it whether she was at work or whether is was blowing out of speakers at home.

As I'm telling you all this you probably have a pretty good picture of my mom- a nice, understanding, kind woman from small town Midwest. And you're probably wondering why I'm making sure you know that my mom was an excellent mom but very much "mom" like... I have a reason!

So it might come as a surprise that my mother had a favorite song and a favorite video. Well, okay, maybe not that she had a favorite song- lots of moms have a favorite song. But, I'm including the link here of my mom's all time favorite song and video- OF ALL TIME. When this came on the radio or TV, she would run in the room and blare it and dance around. Ummmm, yeah. Seriously. She really did. If it came on the radio when we were in the car, she blasted it. Even when she became unable to walk without her cane, she would still crank it up and "chair dance". I. AM. NOT. KIDDING. Even thinking back on it now, it still cracks me up and leaves me shocked and surprised. Really. I'm not kidding- this was her favorite song and video. Enjoy!

Whitesnake - New Music - More Music Videos

Extra, Extra, read all about it!

When I was a 10 years old I got a paper route. I was the youngest person to ever have a route. And I loved it. I always collected on time and paid the paper back for what I sold and I did it on time. I tried to sell subscriptions and there were always contests sponsored by the newspaper for all sorts of prizes, and I usually did well.

I didn't have the sort of route where I could ride my bike and toss papers on the porch. I had terrible aim and could never hit the porch, to start with. I could hit pets, people, flower beds and if there was a body of water from a puddle to a kiddie pool my hurled paper would land there no matter what. And I had lots of older people on my route who would like the paper placed in a certain spot. Rather than riding my bike place to place, I would walk my route. I left papers in mailboxes, between doors, on a table on the porch, and for one lady I even opened the door to her sun porch and left the paper on her recliner.

My customers were really nice folks. I had a 5 block walk or bike ride before I ever delivered my first paper, which at age 10 wasn't a big deal. The paper was an afternoon one so I would get home from school and get my papers and take off. Sometimes one of my parents would pick me up and have my newspapers along and leave me at the start of my route. I had about 48 customers and a few businesses on my route. Because I was a girl and because I was so young, the customers on my route were pretty protective of me. If I was running "late", which means I wasn't late but didn't have their paper delivered by the usual time, people would call my folks to ask if I was okay, not to complain.

I had customers who would have cups of cocoa ready for me in the winter. I had people who baked me treats and would give me after school snacks on a daily basis. Christmas time was a huge haul because I got presents, money and baked goodies. Because I couldn't ride and deliver, there was a couple at the beginning of my route who let me park my bike on their porch and I would loop around and get it when I was done. One couple had video game system and we didn't have one at home so they would let me play anytime. The man who owned the gas station would make "bets" with me for glass bottles of Pepsi. I got presents on my birthday. I had a few people who would fix me breakfast because Saturday was a morning edition so I would have breakfast with different folks. So, I had some really nice people on my paper route.

Except for one.

Mr. James Gardner.

He was mean. Really really mean. First, he had a yippy dog that he didn't tie up. Sometimes it chased me. Other times it was blocking the porch so I couldn't get the paper in the right spot and then he would call the circulation department and complain about me. Sometimes his dog even chewed the paper and again Mr. James Gardner would call the office and complain about me. He was difficult to collect from. He dodged me when possible or pretended to not be home. When I finally could corner him he would always want to pay me with $100 bill that he knew I wouldn't have change for. Then when I left him several notes that I would cancel his paper service since he didn't pay me, he would go to the newspaper office and pay his bill, then complain that I never knocked on his door. He never tipped. Papers had to be delivered by 5:30 pm during the week and one time I remember I was late because the papers were late (It was a halt the presses day in a small town!), and he got his paper at 5:38 pm and he had already called and complained to the office- and was standing on his porch yelling at me. He would look for any excuse to yell at me. I talked to his neighbor once and he could see me and then he yelled at me for not being quick enough. Are you getting the picture he was a mean guy? I was just a 10 year old little girl. Really, what a jerk, right?

Well, I lost it. I was 10 or 11 years old at this point and I just lost it. I was on time, I wasn't running late. There was nothing unusual going on. All I did was try to collect payment for the paper. And it happened. He yelled at me, telling me he didn't get a paper the night before and he wanted a discount. Well, I knew I had left him a paper. One, because I just KNEW I had, and two, if I hadn't he would've called and complained and I didn't get a complaint notice. I told him he was wrong and I couldn't give him a discount, but I would get him a yesterday paper and have my parent's bring me back with it in about a half an hour. Then he started yelling at me and that's when it happened:

I yelled back. I was shaking. I think I said something along the lines of: "You're a mean man and I'm never going to deliver your paper again!" And I ripped up the newspaper into bits and I threw the pieces at him, and turned and ran away.

I stormed down the street all indignant and mad. I was shaking. I was upset. And by the time I got to the gas station across the street I was in tears. The guy who owned the station had watched what happened and was trying not to laugh. I was crying because I was mad, because I thought I would be in trouble and lose my job, because I thought my parents would be mad because I was disrespectful to an adult, because I had never treated another person like that in my life, because the adrenaline was gone.

Well, the gas station owner gave me a soda and listened to my story. He knew Mr. James Gardner was a mean and crotchety old man. He knew the guy was trying to not pay me and complained all the time. The owner told me it would be okay and for me to deliver the rest of my papers and then go on home and tell my parents what happened. I took off and did the rest of my route.

When I got home my parents already knew what happened. The gas station owner called and filled them in. My parents knew the trouble Mr. James Gardner had always given me. My mom had already called the newspaper office and they talked. The knew the trouble he had given me. And the gas station owner had called the paper office in my defense. I got to keep my job.

I didn't get in trouble, though my parents did tell me that might not be the best way to handle problems in the future. But the good news: I never had to deliver him a newspaper again.

Years later I found out that the gas station owner knew what happened because he could see and hear the altercation, and the three mechanics who worked for him were all watching and listening, wrenches in hand to come down the block and save me if need be. And they had just cheered for me and howled with laughter. It became a neighborhood legend- and people asked me about it all the next day, and still talk about it now: remember the day the little girl with the huge newspaper bag ripped up the neighborhood terror's, Mr. James Gardner, newspaper and let the wind blow the bit to places unknown, leaving him red faced, and sputtering with a yippy dog in the background, who had to walk to the convenience store to get the paper from then on?

Your former newsie,
Maggie

Childhood Flashback- A Day Moon

It was summer time, between my freshmen and sophomore year in high school. My mother was sitting on the sun porch reading a book. I was at the neighbor’s house, one house away, with my BFF (who isn't a BFF- I have no idea what happened to her...anyway!). We were on the front porch at her house, talking. It was hot, we were bored and trying to figure out what to do. We were listening to the radio and singing along, of course.

A car goes by, with the music blaring and a bunch of boys waved at us and drove on. We knew them from school and of course we immediately giggled, and started talking about them- they were a year old than me, in a grade above. They drove by again and again, circling the block. Each time they would wave or yell something at us. They weren’t being rude or gross- politically incorrect yeah, but no nasty name calling or asking for sexual favors. Just things like “hey baby” or “ooooo sexy” or “looking good”.

About the 5^th or 6^th time they passed, things were a little different. BFF and I had figured at some point they would stop and hang out- that was just what kids in our small town did. BUT… this time when they came by, they slowed down… and one of the boys mooned us! He hung his lily white butt out the window and mooned us, plain as day, in the middle of the afternoon. They sped up and took off.

BFF and I were speechless, then we about died laughing. We howled and laughed until the tears poured down our faces. Then my mother yelled at us to come over to her. We walked to my house, a whole 100 yards away, still giggling. She was curious to see if we could tell her what was so funny. She knew the boys had been driving by, she could see that, but she didn’t know about the mooning. As we started to tell her, here came the car of boys again. And once again, they MOONED us. This time my mom got a full view. All three of us were laughing hysterically. The car came around a third, and final, time. My mom had come out of the shadows of the sun porch and when the boys ‘dropped trou’, she was right there, applauding and laughing- BFF and I clapped too, giving them a standing ovation. The boys were caught and drove like a bat out of hell down the road, trying to get away, thinking they were busted since there was an adult there.

A day moon.- who wouldda thought?

White moon shining,

Maggie