Monthly Archives: August 2007

Your Mind Is So Full Of Red

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Biography Channel
A&E Televison Networks

To Whom It Concerns:

Whenever I mention my current favorite show in cnversation it is immediately canceled. It took awhile to catch on. It started with Soap, which everyone says was canceled when Jerry Falwell flipped his wig over Billy Crystal’s gay character but I know it was me. I mentioned it in sixth period Chemistry and whoosh! No more Soap. Even so, it wasn’t until my friends and I refused to go out on Saturday nights until after – shhhh! – Xena that I knew I could have favorite shows but their names could never cross my lips.

So it’s totally my fault that your fellow A&E stooges canceled Nero Wolfe. At the time, I wrote A&E a letter filled with naughty, unprintable words, though I didn’t hesitate to print them. It’s effortless with that SEND button, isn’t it? I apologize to your programming executives since I plainly forced their hands by inviting friends over and throwing weekly Nero Wolfe parties. I even got The Nero Wolfe Cokbook for Christmas one year. Obviously, the cancelation was my own fault.

You will be pleased to know I subsequently learned to tell people my favorite show was one I wanted canceled immediately. Most of the time, this strategy was successful. A number of unpleasant sexist and even racist offerings went the way of the electronic dodo, so I’ve thought of it as Using My Powers for Good. The name of my real favorite shows were my secret for the better part of a decade. Then I slipped.

Yes, it’s true. In March, my father became ill and I met his Canadian in-laws. They look just like us, you know. Anyway, with these cultured, intelligent people, I discussed British comedies we all loved. We had as marvelous a time quoting Monty Python as you can have while your beloved relative is dying. My guard was down, and I mentioned my favorite show was Midsomer Murders. The televsion was in Dad’s sick room, so I didn’t see any TV during his month-long decline. Naturally, when I came home, you’d canceled Midsomer Murders along with Poirot and Sherlock Holmes, leaving me with no British detectives all day Sunday. Fortunately, you replaced it with things called The Unexplained, Psychic Investigators, and Haunted History. Please know I am almost prepared to tell everyone I’ve ever known these are my favorite shows.

It’s tough, though. I hate you a lot for taking away shows that didn’t consdescend to me. But – for the moment – I still hate Cops more.

By A Bamboo Fence On A Rural Route

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Yesterday at work, I wrenched the muscles and so forth attached my left hip, which was so exciting I forgot my right hip has been giving me trouble. Every time I moved yesterday it was like lightning striking inside my brain, and driving home was almost impossible, what with each pothole sending vibrations through my hip to my brain like small explosions. Walking from my car to my front door was an act of supreme determination, and once inside the apartment, I couldn’t sit, stand or lie down without suppressing the urge to scream. All this was terribly entertaining but even more so was this exchange the night before.

Pete: What’s wrong with your left leg?
Tata: Nothing. It’s the right one bugging me.
Pete: The left one doesn’t hurt?
Tata: Dude, I have an almost magical ability to recognize pain. The left doesn’t hurt.

Twelve hours later –

Tata: So. My left leg couldn’t hurt more if it were in flames.
Pete: Is it? Check!
Tata: It gives every appearance of not being on fire. No smoke. Few embers.
Pete: Do you want me to give you a massage?
Tata: More than life itself.

That I can stand today without passing out is exciting beyond belief and a tribute to Pete’s skill as a masseur. To celebrate my good fortune, let’s check in with Karama Neal at So What Can I Do? Why? Here at Poor Impulse Control, one person’s problems are hilarious but we take the common good seriously.

You’re going to shop. Buying gifts online and having them shipped to people you adore but don’t actually want to see is a fantastic use of modern technology isn’t it? It is! I’m about to buy Siobhan a present, and as Karama suggests, I’ll buy it at an online charity mall. Not only am I the bestest BFF of all time – especially if really nice people don’t count – I’m contributing to the happiness of people who won’t embarrass me with thank you notes.

I can’t give blood because I dated everyone and possess the blood iron count of a palid Mediterranean princess. Not kidding. We used to get tested, donate or try very often when Grandma Edith was a dialysis patient. The techs used to ask me why I was still conscious with an iron count that low so now I worry in rooms with sharp corners between my noggin and the floor. Anyhoo, Karama reminds us that blood banks are always short but especially short on supplies in the summer.

On a personal note: I apologize, I should have mentioned this months ago. When Dad was dying, we were utterly helpless for a while, bumbling about trying to find our way. One person who helped us and asked for nothing in return was Bud Royer of Royer’s Round Top Cafe. He shipped us pies – incredible pies – and puddings and delectible stuffed quails. His generosity bowled us over time and time again, and we can never repay him for his support for us while his friend, our Dad, was dying. I will never forget that Darla couldn’t be persuaded to eat a bite but tucked into a custard pie with a spoon and the closest thing to contentment was saw those dark days. Of course, she growled if anyone made for the flatware. Darla’s no pushover and we’re talking about pie, folks. Anyway, if you have occasion to ship pies, you will not regret ordering from Royer’s. I’m going to do that myself this week. I thank you for reading this far.

I’ve Loved All I’ve Needed Love

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This morning, Pete said, “I’ve been having weird dreams.”

No kidding. I keep waking from dreams in which Morgan, beautifully dressed, smiles at me in my mother’s house, descends a flight of stairs, walks out the door and meets his future. It does not occur to me to try to stop him. I wonder again if I will survive knowing he’s marrying someone else. When I wake up, I don’t think about Morgan because my own life is so full now, but when I dream, he leaves again. And again.

Tata: I keep dreaming about people who didn’t love me. Or love me enough. My subconscious is holding a going away party.
Pete: (Thunderstuck) Exactly!
Tata: A Go In Peace – But Please Keep Going Fete. Hey, did these people treat you badly?
Pete: Now that you mention it: they could have been nicer.
Tata: Huh. There should be a clue around here someplace…

We drank coffee and ate fresh bagels on his front porch. Perhaps you recall that I sometimes forget to inhale, which my co-workers find hilarious after I draw that first panic-stricken breath and cough like a giant walrus. I have them trained – I think.

Tata: BARK BARK BARK!
Co-worker: Forget to breathe?
Tata: (wheeze wheeze wheeze) …yes…
Co-worker: AH! I knew it! Forgot to breathe again. Mathilde, you owe me five bucks.
Mathilde: Merde! Couldn’t you have tuberculosis instead?

Anyway, this morning, I remembered to breathe in the middle of a good swig of coffee, which meant the barking had a certain spray quality. I clamped a hand over my mouth and ran for the edge of the porch, where I sprewed recycled coffee into the shrubbery. You went to college. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Pete, who is somewhat used to me now, said, “Breathing again?”

Tata: At last!

Later, I stood on Pete’s back porch as he worked on his car. A song has been playing in my head for days, and I hadn’t detected the message from me to me. As I stood there in the sunlight drinking coffee Pete made for me, I let the song in my head play, and suddenly, I heard the message:

“I’m happy. Hope you’re happy, too.”

I burst into tears because I was. Pete turned the garage corner as I was still wiping my eyes.

Pete: Didja choke again?
Tata: No. Not this time.

Friday Cat Blogging: I May Disappear Edition

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Friday it is, and I’m so exhausted you can be Edgar Bergen and I’ll play Charlie McCarthy.

I tossed a sheet on the floor because tossing a sheet on the floor was funny. Drusy claimed it. In fact, she promptly fell asleep and stayed there after she woke up. I wondered if she might need to see the vet, but she perked right up with a little air conditioning. Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, was largely unaffected by heat. These kittens may not be as scrappy as our departed hero, who was a rock star, you know. Here, Topaz gives Drusy an affection sneeeef! sneeeef! sneeeeef! My heart just about stopped when that terrible picture appeared in the view finder screen contraption.

Topaz, our intrepid climber, claimed this box full of Dad’s spices as if she were a giant cat and the box a low-hanging tree limb, and from here stalked the nonchalant Drusy. Topaz has developed a gooey crush on Pete. Two nights ago, Pete walked through my door and before I’d even closed it behind him, Topaz was standing on his toes, exclaiming, “Ohhh, Pete! You’re dreeeeeeeamy.” Drusy’s not taking that lying down, except that she now lies down next to Pete, rests her tiny head on his lap and looks up at him with those peculiar green eyes.

I am getting very sleepy… so sleepy… I will open a can of tuna… and another… and another… I will cluck like a chicken… I won’t remember we had this little chat…

What am I doing with this can opener?

I couldn’t love the kittens more. My heart would asplode. I tell them so and rub their adorable bellies. Still, I can’t help thinking the recycling bin contains a few surprises.

A Little Bit Of Your Love To Me

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I don’t owe you an explanation, but here is one: art is life. Here is another: in life as in dreams, things may be what they represent, not what they are. Drusy is playing with a jar of cardamom seeds.

The boxes opened, the pans, jars and boxes neatly set up in rows resembled nothing so much as crooked houses on crooked streets leading to a villa. I rearranged a few things until I could see children ducking down alleys and a church parking lot, a pool and tenements. Maybe you see it; maybe not. We know I’m a crappy photographer and it wasn’t a permanent installation. I’ve put away the pans. I have no idea what to do with a gallon of frijoles negros except it could take me all winter to eat that much rice & beans for breakfast.

When your father, a chef and food writer, dies and you get one-quarter of his spice cabinet, I recommend you too try miniature urban planning.

Some items pictured won’t look familiar to the home cook. The reason for this is when Dad heard about interesting new products or additives, he wrote to their manufacturers for samples. I’m not kidding when I say he had a big bucket of Splenda left after a few years of road testing it all sorts of ways. So. I don’t know what to do with agar-agar or xanthan gum, but I will find out. Let’s hope they’re not explosive.

Over the weekend, a conversation about peppermint stick ice cream at Harp & Sword went a little pear-shaped. It was not my intention to criticize, or imply I had credentials other than taste buds and – you know – experience with eating dessert – I adore Minstrel Boy, and my suggestions were offered with respect and affection. I don’t claim to have Dad’s encyclopedic knowledge of food or contribute as he did to one. Nope. My point, which I failed to articulate, was that if dinner was a big hit you only need a small sweet, just to finish the meal gently. Dessert is an embellishment. So. If Grandma’s supernaturally fantastic peppermint stick ice cream is enough to send guests into paroxysms of joy, don’t weigh them down with a catastrophically rich brownie unless it’s a microscopic portion. It’s all too much! In other words: you can be so generous with dinner guests that they puke. Sure, that’d be funny – yakking always is if you’re not mopping it up – but is that the goal?

Oddjob, dear Oddjob dislikes almonds. In the boxes Daria packed, I found sliced almonds, marzipan and something called almond bark. I despise marzipan but recognize it as a better decorative medium than caulk, so I’ll use it. Somehow. This almond bark thing, though, I don’t know. It’s greasy to the touch and tastes like white chocolate. The first ingredient on the list is palm oil, a big no-no for friends with heart and cholesterol problems. Unless you don’t like your friends and want to duke it out chemically with your old nemesis Lipitor.