Delicacies for Monsters

This is one of my favorite stories! This is how I traumatize my children!

One night, a year or so ago, Sara-Grace (then 7) appeared, sheepish and wide-eyed at the side of my bed, spooked (probably from watching "A Haunting" on TV with one of her sisters!) and insisting on sleeping with the big people.

Clearly, blessed sleep would be a long way off if I tried to force her to sleep alone in her obviously haunted, possessed, erie, and just plain EVIL bedroom (cute and pink-laden though it was). So, without even openning my eyes, I relented. "Get in", I said, pulling back the covers beside me.

Little heels dug into the wooden floor beside the bed. That wouldn't do. She wanted to sleep BETWEEN us (because grown-ups make very excellent protective barriers, you know).

But Mark is warm and all, well, you-know, Mark-like, so I told her she had to sleep on the outside. At this, her fear-widened little eyes just got wider and her hands clenched tighter around the stuffed dolphin she carried with her for protection.
On one side of the bed was the big scary window and on the other was the big scary door to the bathroom. Her little head ping-ponged back and forth between the greater evils, looking for a lesser one.

"WHY do I have to sleep on the outside?", she queried. This was followed by WAY too many logical reasonings about marital rights, parental omniscience, the duties of children from her over-explaining mother.

Undaunted and un-swayed, Sara-Grace repeated, "WHY do I have to sleep on the outside?"

I was fresh out of logic on the subject at this point but I guess the usually-elusive "funny switch" in my brain was still awakeand tripped, because, already tickled by my comic genius, I blurted out, in a burst of great humor and unconscionable parental insensitivity, "BECAUSE WE WANT THE MONSTER TO EAT YOU FIRST!"

Mark (who had been watching quietly to see if I would protect the sanctity of our marital spoon) and I dissolved into uncontrolable laughter. Sara-Grace, on the other hand, to this day does not think this was the least bit funny (though I suspect that mature perspective and family lore will combine to bring about the use of this line on her own poor, defenseless children someday).

By the way, she settled for sleeping on the window side (because a window offers slightly less accsessiblity to monsters than an easily-openable door, you know).

Sara-Grace's "Scary" Room!

Brown

I have a curious relationship with the color brown. For years -- ok DECADES -- I HATED it.

To me, brown was the color of dog poop and the naugahyde on a Lazy-Boy and ugly panelling and DIRT. Brown is the color you get when you get carried away and mix too many other, colorful colors together -- the color of the water you rinse your brush in while painting rainbows and butterflies. It is the color of mud. And old stations wagons. We had a brown station wagon when I was a kid. With fake wood panels on the sides. Actually, we had TWO of them!

My aversion to brown was so ingrained that my husband (Matt, the first one) always joked that he was going to buy me a brown dually truck (also something I detest) -- with brown interior, of course.

I'm completely oblivious to when the courtship started. Insidious little gestures in unexpected places, I suppose. I'm not sure what year it was that deep dark brown was voted "the color of the year" but I remember being aghast about it. But then I saw it used, and used well, here and there. In catalogs. In decorating magazines. In retail decor and products.

There's something delicious and alluring about shades called "chocolate" and "expresso" and "sable". Maybe it's all in the presentation. There's a lot of persuasion in nuance and association. If they came up with a name that made the color of dog poop attractive, what might we be won over by next?

Those luxurious shades of brown... they lured me. They charmed and romanced me. Their bold drama. Their sophistication. Their deliciousness.

Maybe I just finally climbed onto the bandwagon. I'm like that. I'm usually the last one to come around to a trend. But come around I did. In a big way. When I finally hoist myself onto the bandwagon, I can suddenly see very plainly that everyone else was right.

If you had told me anytime in the 40 years before 2006 that my wedding colors would be pink and white AND BROWN I would probably have fainted dead away. But, indeed, brown was the dominant color at my 2008 wedding. Pink and white were just the accent colors. And all that brown was GORGEOUS, if I do say so myself! (Pictured are my girls and I getting ready to walk down the aisle.)

And I painted my master bathroom an exquisite shade called "chocolate truffle". And there are photos to prove it! Every time I walk into that bathroom I LOVE it. The sparkle still hasn't worn off. I've had to restrain myself from painting the rest of the walls in the house brown as well. I painted our master sunporch bedroom in our little house in Enid "chocolate truffle" too. One room per house -- that's what I'm allowing myself.

When I think back, I remember that my mother hired a decorator once, long ago, to re-do our dining room and the adjacent tv room. The walls were deep, chocolate brown with white trim and white wainscotting. The furniture and curtains were in shades of creme and tan and the accent fabric was a plaid of black, brown, tan, and creme. It was gorgeous. I was very proud to have it be seen by my friends when I brought them home with me from school. I would have the exact same decor today if given the option -- and that was 1977! What else in 1977, stylewise, would I gladly embrace today? Not much!

Now I have to be very careful not to have the all-brown wardrobe. I could wear brown every day. It's the new neutral. It even matches my hair. And I LOVE it. Recently I bought three new tops at my favorite thrift store (for $3 each, I might add). Two of them were brown. One was a designer that I totally covet -- a long-sleeved, brown velvet, v-neck, button-down shirt by Eileen Fisher. For THREE DOLLARS! It probably would have sold new for about $129.00. The other was also orignally expensive -- Banana Republic. I made myself buy a gorgeous green cableknit cardigan too -- just for a little variety in my closest.

So I'm a complete (yes, COMPLETE!) convert to brown. A traitor to my previous staunch position. What really worries me though, is that, lately, I have REALLY come to hate burgundy. Will burgundy come to be my new favorite? Will it overtake my closet? Will I drive a burgundy car? Or maybe even a burgundy DUALLY TRUCK!

P.S. I just read this to Emily (who, by the way, is wearing a burgundy Hollister t-shirt at this very moment). She says that burgundy -- and another of my least favorite colors, navy blue -- are THE new colors! I should have known. I already drive a navy blue car. I guess I'm on my way! Maybe this time I won't be the last one on the bandwagon!

Fairy Dust

Launching a career in real estate in the midst of our present economic condition (won't I be glad to retire THAT overused phrase as soon as possible?) may not be the most optimal timing possible. Skip the champagne and the big send-off and just get the ship in the water, captain! Ya know?

A few friends have been more concerned than supportive. One, in particular, basically told me (in so many words) that I'm just plain stupid -- TWICE! I'm pretty sure my dad has decided there's no hope for me and what he sees as my constant stream of "unwise" decisions!

But I've done enough soul searching to know I'm where I'm supposed to be, doing what I'm supposed to be doing. Houses are just "my thing"! Besides, it's intriguing, sanctioned, voyeuristic trespassing! Too fun! And it doesn't even clutter up the house like my beloved decorating magazines do!

I've been reading quite a bit lately -- hyping myself up on lots of personal success and real estate strategy books. Trying to keep the right attitude. Trying to do it all "right". Trying to be as successful at real estate as are my idols and mentors who have demonstrated for me that it can be done -- even now, in this recession.

Wrapped in a swarm of enthusiastic thoughts, I drove home from work one day last week, sort of communing with and talking along the way to God (such a tiny word for such a HUGE, awesome, ungraspable concept, isn't it?).

"Ok God, like I really need this to go well. I'm doing everything I can think of to bring about my own success but a little divine guidance or a Godly tip or two would go a long way." That sort of thing. I guess I'm a little confrontational and not too terribly reverent with God. But that's just me. I've concluded that He probably understands that (cuz I am the way he made me, right?).

This long miserable winter has been a very overdone production, in my opinion. Snow that loiters for days on end is a rare occurance around here. But the white(turning to gray and black!) stuff has persistently lingered -- like the smell of ripe sneakers! And then every few days (and sometimes several times a day) the flakes start to swirl down again -- just for extra seasoning I suppose! I've even forgotten what that big fireball in the sky is called. But I do believe that, even as we suffer and shiver, God is up to something, conjuring up blessings for us. "All things work together for good..." and all that variety of unfathomable grace!

On this particular day, that yellow thing up above had made a brief appearance and there was even blue stuff up there with it! As I drove along in the winter-drab landscape, communing with the Higher Power on the subject of real estate success, I flung out to the universe something of a challenge. "Ok... so what's the magic formula that can make this all work?"

The instant the thought germinated in my mind, faster than an answer could have been spoken, a cloud of sparkling, shimmering, "fairy dust" the size of a small swarm of bees flittered down onto my windshield. Woosh! God's glitter! I froze, looked around, and waited hopefully to see if anything else would happen. Nothing did, but the fairy dust had been enough.

I know that a gust of wind came along and blew the snow off a tree branch and it settled down toward my car with sunshine illuminating the sparkle factor, but the timing was too perfect NOT to just KNOW that it was an answer to my thought. I believe that, while capable of dramatic miracles, God tends to work quietly within the systems He created most of the time. Why wouldn't he use snow and wind and sunlight to encourage us?

Simply, subtly, I had been granted the magic I requested -- by God, by the trees, by the snow and the wind and the sunshine. I was shown, in a magical moment words really can't capture, that benevolent cosmic forces want good for me. I was granted confirmation that my "foolish" path is really the RIGHT path. God endorsed me. I know it.

Now, all you naysayers, GET OUT OF MY WAY! YOU JUST WATCH ME!

Formatting

Just in case you were wondering why I'm REALLY lousy at formatting, I want you to know that Blogger has REALLY weird formatting defaults. I have re-spaced and indented every paragraph in "Making Ends Meat" several times to no avail. Funny, it used to ADD spaces. Now it subtracts them. ARGH!

Making Ends Meat

I spent much of my childhood with an awareness that there was a dish that I had never tasted. Like paella and ratatouille, my family never made this recipe. But then, there were lots of dishes I'd heard of that we never ate, so this type of dietary omission wasn't unusual.

Now and then and here and there I would hear people say they "couldn't make ends meat". I always wondered exactly what "ends meat" was.

To my best estimation, it sounded like some type of meat loaf to me. Or maybe it had something to do with rump roast (that's just a horrible term, isn't it)? Or was it what one did with the end of the meat, the dregs -- I pictured the last of the ground beef clinging to the sausage grinder.

I wondered what could be in "ends meat" that was so costly or difficult to make that people couldn't make it and why they valued it so much that they pouted and complained, world-weary, at the deprivation.

I remembered a few of my mother's specialty dishes -- cheese gritz souffle, homemade baked macaroni and cheese, and "Thelma's" (we've long since lost track of who Thelma was!) special oatmeal chocolate chip cookies -- that were only made on rare occasions due to labor-intensity.

Then one day (probably well into my 30's!) it dawned on me... "ends MEET"! Oh.

An image of a large, intertwined segment of thick, heavy rope with it's cut ends touching came to mind. I get it!

Aren't "kid-isms" cute (even in one's 30's!)? Around here we still say "girl cheese sandwich" (grilled cheese sandwich) (unless there are boys around!), "robin noodles" (raman noodles), and "strawbabies" (strawberries). We like these so much that we have chosen them over the correct term!

In an effort to save face, I have decided to call my turkey meat loaf recipe "Ends Meat" from now on. Here's the recipe:

Ends Meat

2 lbs. ground turkey (best, for texture purposes, if it comes frozen in a tube rather than fresh in a tray)
1 small zuchini

1-3 carrots
3/4 cup frozen (thawed) spinach (be sure to remove as much liquid as possible before adding)

4-8 mushrooms

1/4-1/2 onion

1/4 cup sour cream

1-2 eggs

1/4 cup ketchup

1/4 cup cheddar cheese

bread crumbs (completely optional)

garlic to taste

salt and pepper to taste

season to taste with oregano, basil, tarragon, or Italian seasoning or a combination (about 1 teaspoon total)

top with:

ketchup

grated cheddar cheese

Grate zuchini, carrots, onion, mushrooms, and cheese. Dump all ingredients into a big bowl and smoosh it up with your hands until mixed. Move to a loaf pan (or two -- usually two). Top with ketchup and cheddar cheese. Bake at 375 for about an hour. Be sure to take it out every 20 minutes or so and pour off the excess liquid (created by the vegetables).

This is a good way to use up random vegetables that are languishing in the veggie drawer. You can alter the quantities and types of the veggies as needed.

I created this recipe to smuggle vegetables into little veggie-haters, so it's a wonderful way to hide veggies so the kids don't know they're eating them (I always explain any perceived spinach as "parsley" or "spices"). No one knows they just ate four vegetables (or five, if onions count as a vegetable)!

Enjoy!

Mortality in a Box

Yikes! I hadn't realized it's been THREE MONTHS since I last posted! My apologies! I'll spare you the excuses. Suffice it to say: I'm in a good place when I'm writing. And I'm not when I'm not. Bear with me!



*************************************************************************************



I was not an ordinary kid. I was always a grown-up in a kid's body. Later I got a grown-up body and reduced the dissonance a bit. I have always been very serious. During my early years I worried about things that should be excluded by the stereotypic ideal of a "carefree childhood".



I had that startling moment of realization of my own mortality at the age of ten! This has always seemed cruelly early to me -- especially in light of some people I know who didn't have that dark, existential experience until they were in their 40's!



I remember the day. Double sets of bunk beds in "the bunk room" at our lake house. Barbequed chicken on the patio for dinner. With corn on the cob. And Dr. Pepper in a can. The hum of motorboats in the distance. A happy, light-hearted setting. Yet somehow, around twilight, I wandered into the bunkroom where one thought led to another and then another and another and then my mind conjured up the thought: "SOMEDAY I'M GOING TO DIE!" The entire atmosphere of the earth seemed to reverberate with the shock of this thought. Me. Anne. This body. This mind. This life. Will one day DIE! And be no more. And then what? Darkness? Oblivion? A heaven that I could not imagine? My delicate ego could not grasp the end of ME. A tsunami of panic swept through my body. My vision shut down to a tunnel for a minute. Darkness closed in on me.



Somehow I got ahold of myself and managed to go on with existence among the living. But I think I've wrestled with my fear of mortality ever since in the form of anxiety, depression, spirituality, related studies, and a fascination with the paranormal that, if I had been informed of it as a kid, would have had my youngster self hiding under the bed for the rest of my childhood!



Maybe I needed the early preparation. My mother died when I was 23. She was just 48. Not fair. Cruel. Very, VERY cruel, in fact!



I've buried many, many loved ones since. Sometimes I feel like Matt and I spent most of our 15 years together burying people. My house is full of relics of those I love who have gone on.



Two weeks ago Mark and I buried his father. I actually enjoyed the time I got to hang out with his body at the funeral home. I added roses to the floral sprays and just relished the last of my time with his physical presence. Not scary anymore. But still profoundly confusing.



When I think back on that summer evening at the lake when I was 10 and realized my own mortality, an image comes to mind. On the dresser in that bedroom was a box that was my beloved grandmother's. The size, a circumference adult hands could encircle. Gold laquer. Half base, half lid. Just a trinket from my grandparents exotic travels, I'm sure. A black Scotch tape scar across the top where the lid was taped down as it was transported from one place to another.

I don't know why I remember that it was in that room. I don't know why the box was in the room in the first place or why my grandmother had put it there when there was little else of her personal effects in this house that had been furnished by the previous owners. I don't know why that box has became associated with the realization of mortality for me. I do know one thing though: there's God in it all. Because, inside that gold laquered box, if you lift the lid, is the painted inky blackness of its interior (another symbolic reference to oblivion somehow?) and, painted on the bottom of the box, hidden away, deep in this symbol of mortality, is a BUTTERFLY! Of all things! A butterfly! That glorious creature that transcends lowly life on earth by sinking into the virtual death of cocooned dormancy only to emerge anew, transformed, and with the gift of flight!

I don't know about you, but, for me, that's God telling a terrified little girl that there are glorious wonders beyond this life that we won't know until we open the box or until we emerge from apparent death into the other side! It just took me until I was 35 to realized the message contained in my grandmother's box. The comfort, the promise, had been there all along!



I keep the butterfly box on a shelf in my library. Next to a black and white photo of my mother. Near all my books on sprituality, reincarnation, near-death experiences, ghosts, and various religions. It clearly belongs in the company of these tomes that help me wrestle with my mortality ponderings. Beside a ceramic box shaped like a miniature vintage telephone (for communicating with the beyond, perhaps?). And next to it is an oval box, made of brass. When my birthgrandmother died many years ago, my birthmother chose that box for me from her mother's belongings. She wanted me to have something of Granny's. It is the only thing I have that was hers (I didn't get to know her very well). Inside of it I keep the only gift she ever gave me -- a string of blue and white china beads that she sent me for my college graduation (I was deeply touched by the gift at the time). And on the lid of the box, affixed to yet another shiny, circular, gold-toned box belonging to one of my dear grandmothers, is a silver BUTTERFLY! It seems that God is in cahoots with my grandmothers (and my mother!) to give me comfort and promises of something wonderful beyond!

Peace and blessings to you all!

Feline Hospitiality

Tessa's cat, Stormy, has an appetite for bugs. He always seems to have in his mouth some buzzing insect that had the poor judgement to happen through our yard. Tessa, ever the diligent kitty-mama, keeps telling him, "Stormy, it's NOT polite to eat your guests!" But he stubbornly maintains his entemological menu. Tessa says this is why he can't have parties!

At right: As I wrote this, Stormy was having a small june bug as a light snack!