Bullied: A Confession

I was bullied growing up. A lot. I was an easy target: shy, skinny, insecure, quick-to-cry, and, most crucially, slow-to-tattle. For some unGodly reason, I didn't rat out my tormenters, no matter the offense. A kid who doesn't tell is the Ultimate Lottery Ticket for playground thugs.

I've been thinking a lot about bullying lately. Actually, if I'm honest, I started thinking about bullying 9 years ago, when I got pregnant with Miss D. I remember talking to my mother over grilled cheese and soup, saying, "I hope this kid has more spirit than I had. I was a wimpy kid. I've always hated that about myself. I want this kid to be tougher."

The Good News: Miss D. certainly has spirit. In spades.

The Bad News: Miss D. is incredibly sensitive. Like her Mama, tears well up in her eyes easily and often. And when I see those tears, a cold shiver rattles through me. I can't help it. I both cherish and mourn that soft little heart.

Miss D. learned about bullies last year, in first grade. First. Grade. I couldn't believe that we were facing the Ugly Dragon so early in her school career. But life isn't fair, eh? So I tried to navigate her through the minefield as best I could, and we did okay, I think. But it's a long and jagged road ahead of us; just thinking about it deflates me.

I thought about bullies the other day, when I was going through a shoebox of old photos and stumbled across this one.



This photo was taken my senior year in high school. A group of kids from Advanced Biology took a week-long whitewater rafting trip down the Yampa and the Green Rivers. I was a member of that group. So was Jill.

That rafting trip was filled with thrills, hi-jinks and hilarity. It also had a surprise waiting for me--a surprise that had a lot to do with Jill.

A little background. Jill was odd. Odd enough to place her far, far down on the social food chain. On that food chain, it wouldn't be a stretch to call Jill a paramecium.

Parameciums eat lunch alone. They sit in the library alone. They are the last ones chosen for the flag-football team in Phys. Ed. I'll stop there--you know who I'm talking about. Every school has them.

It also didn't help that Jill had bright orange hair and ghostly white skin and was blanketed in hundreds of freckles. She sported glasses. And braces. And outdated, off-brand athletic shoes.

Jill was in my section of Advanced Biology. One day, when I was out with strep throat, our class chose lab partners for the dreaded Rat Project.



Every year, the Rat Project struck fear in the hearts of Advanced Biology students. The Rat Project was a month-long, intensive dissection of an enormous white rat. Each pair of students got its own formaldehyde-soaked specimen right after Thanksgiving. And if, by Holiday break, the dissection wasn't completed, one student in the pair toted that rat home and stuck it in the deep freeze for a few weeks. Just the idea of shlepping a half dissected rodent, the size of a cat, home...to cram in beside the ice cream and the Stouffer's dinners? It gave me the willies.

Long story short: because I was absent on partner-picking day, I got Jill. When I learned that I'd be spending a month alone with Jill and a gi-normous, reeking rat, I was less than pleased. I am ashamed to say that I even sulked a little.

What I didn't know was that being paired with Jill was a happy accident in disguise. Turns out, Jill loved dissection. She was good at it, too. She enthusiastically tore into Godzilla (our rat) and had him rationed into tiny, dessicated bits in no time. When Holiday break came around, we bid Godzilla goodbye. No deep freeze for us.

After the Rat Project, I forgot about Jill. She went back to her own table and her paramecium existence. And then Spring came. Jill and I were assigned to the same raft on the Yampa Adventure. Again, I was less than thrilled--a week in a small raft with Jill and a handful of others, attempting pleasant chit chat and paddling like mad? Yick.

The first morning, Jill emerged from her tent slathered, head-to-toe, in a heavy layer of zinc oxide. The snickers and remarks were immediate.

"God, doesn't she know what normal sunscreen looks like?"
"Who's Casper?"
"EEK! Bright light! Bright light! Mogwai!"
"Hey, Marshmallow girl!"

I was furious. Nice. Our raft was a laughingstock. Jill adjusted her floppy hat and pretended not to hear, paddling harder than the rest of us.

One night during the trip, I couldn't sleep. In truth, I hadn't slept much the entire week. The ground was hard and lumpy and the tent smelled funny and the spring nights were shockingly cold. I'm an indoor girl. Restless, I grabbed my jacket and headed outside. I wandered along the river for a while, listening to it burble and eddy beside me. When I got to a group of large rocks, I was surprised to see a long-haired figure sitting there. Jill.

"Can't sleep?" I said.
She shrugged.
"I am so not a camper," I said. "I hate how lumpy the ground is. My tent smells weird, too, like wet dog or something."
She didn't answer.
"Wasn't that gross today?" I rattled, plopping down on a neighboring rock. "All of those water crickets we ran into? Ewwww." I shivered. "Those things were freaking huge."
Pause. "That was kinda gross."
"Jeez, I'm freezing. How long have you been out here?"
"I'm out here every night." She pointed skyward. "You can see the stars really well from here."
"They are pretty. I have no idea what I'm looking at, though."
"Not even the dippers, there?"
"Ummm....dippers?"
She laughed a little. And then she pointed out each constellation, one by one, patiently guiding me through them and explaining what I was seeing.
"That's cool. You know a lot about stars."
She shrugged. "My dad bought me a telescope when I was nine."
We talked about stars and planets and space until, teeth chattering, I headed for the stinky comfort of my tent.
"Thanks," I said, over my shoulder. "For the lesson."

I'd like to say that Jill and I became friends after that. I'd like to say that for the remainder of my high school year, I smiled at Jill and chatted with her in the hall. I'd like to say that I told everyone in the raft the next morning how much Jill knew about stars. I'd like to say that. But I didn't do any of those things.

I never bullied Jill, but I bore witness. I did nothing to stop the giggles and eye rolls and barbed remarks. It's not something I'm proud of, particularly since I was bullied as a kid and knew the collateral damage. I knew, and I did nothing. And those who do nothing aren't much better than the ones hurling the insults, are they?

I attended my 10-year high-school reunion, hoping to see Jill there. Hoping to tell her that I was sorry. That she taught me a lot that night. Of course, she did not attend. Why on Earth would she want to see us again, walk into a room of old, ugly faces?

It's something I hope to tell Miss D. someday. How one night, one starry spring night, a freckled girl taught her mother a lesson. In more ways than one.

Neighbor Friday: Bon Appetit Hon

Hi Friends! While I'm gambling my life away in Sin City, I'm entrusting you to the wit of Wendi from Bon Appetit Hon. She's bringing both the funny and the tender today, and I know you'll love her as much as I do.

For more Won't You Be My Neighbor fun, click on the icon below and visit Amy at The Never-True Tales!



****

Before I get to my Neighborly contribution....there's all kinds of backstory to this. Like I didn't own a car until I was 25 so all my commuting was done on the bus. I even lugged bags of groceries home on the bus every week, otherwise I didn't eat. Most of my bus memories were of the weird people that were attracted to me for some reason...like the lady with a deformed arm (I don't know how to say that kindly) who asked me if I could help her button her pants or the people that talk to the voices...yeah, that kind of thing. And I had kind of forgotten about this memory for the longest time, I think because it was so normal (well, for me).

After the worst breakup I've ever been through, I really questioned whether I would ever find love, if I was worthy or capable of being loved. And then this memory came back to me. And it gave me hope. Which I needed, especially after the therapist I had started seeing to try and put the piece of my shattered self back together got busted for helping a man break out of prison. There is nothing like the feeling of turning on the 11 o'clock news and seeing your therapist in racy boudoir photos (which she sent to said inmate) and learning that she broke some convict out of the pokey. Yeah, that's the woman I want helping me to understand how to make better choices... So after all that blathering, here's my story.


Mine Eyes Have Seen


I was watching the movie Notting Hill the other day. Total chick flick. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, I always get weepy at the end. There’s a scene where Julia Roberts gives Hugh Grant a painting. She says something about how it makes her think about what love feels like.


We all have our own ideas about what love feels like. Maybe it’s a touch on the back of the neck. Or the warmth of a hand in yours. But what does love look like? And how does that change over a lifetime?


There is one day I clearly recall being in the presence of a lifetime of love. I was coming home from work on the bus after a tragically ordinary day. The ride held nothing unusual and I took on my usual mass transit demeanor; I sat staring out the window, blocking out the noise and people around me. It must have been early spring because I remember being weighed down by the heaviness of my sweater and coat and the light fading early, long before I got home.


To gaze out the window facing me on the other side of the bus, I had to stare though an elderly couple that occupied the seats in front of it. I paid them no mind. To be truthful, I was oblivious to them until they signaled for the bus to stop. Hearing the ringing of the bell, I looked at the hand that slowly lowered to resume its place in the woman’s lap.


As the bus pulled up to the corner, the couple raised themselves from the seats. Once the doors opened, it took them a few moments to descend the steps. She exited the bus before he did and as he navigated those three steps, he practiced a routine that must have been familiar to him. Grab the rail, place the cane on the step, lower one foot, lower the other, place the cane on the next step, and so on.


My attention was riveted on them while most everyone else looked at the traffic light, probably hoping that we didn’t miss the green light and have to sit there longer. Once the elderly man reached the sidewalk, he reached over to his waiting companion, took her left hand, and quietly placed it just above his right elbow. Supporting one another, they walked down the street and out of my life, unaware of my interest in them.


I’ve never forgotten the feeling I took away from seeing that. To this day, it remains one of the sweetest gestures I have ever seen. In that one action I heard unspoken words of trust and respect, support and endurance. Watching that corner scene, I almost felt as though I was spying on the couple. It was no more than a moment and yet it was one that struck me as intimate and personal, not for public display.


I’ll never know who those people were. But if I could, I’d thank them for giving me hope that love can be present in the quiet moments of everyday life even after a lifetime together.

Barefoot Bloggers: Ina's Baked Shrimp Scampi

I had to punt on February's first Barefoot Bloggers recipe, coconut cupcakes. Things got a little crazy at Chez T. at the start of the month. Things are still nuts--Hell, when aren't they--but I did make time to make the second recipe of the month, Roasted Shrimp Scampi.

Except. This recipe is a complete Ass-Buster. You can find the original recipe here:

Ahem. 12 tablespoons of butter and three tablespoons of olive oil? Holy Backside Suicide, Batman! And I'm escaping to Sin City (as we speak, actually) for my 41st (sheeeeeeeeiiiiiit, I am old) birthday. I can't be old and fat. That's just too depressing.



So I re-worked this sucker. I'm sorry. I just had to. That thing had no business starring in Half-Assed month. Which truly has been half-assed month, hasn't it, since I've hardly posted any recipes? Forgive. I'll make it up to you in March, pinkie-swear.

Anyways, here's the recipe in re-vamped form.



Half-Assed Baked Shrimp Scampi
adapted from Ina Garten
serves 6

2 pounds shrimp in the shell (12 to 15 shrimp per pound)
3 teaspoons olive oil
2 tablespoons dry white wine
kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
4 teaspoons minced garlic (4 cloves)
1/4 cup minced shallot
3 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley leaves
1 teaspoon minced fresh rosemary
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper (I used 1/2 teaspoon)
1 teaspoon fresh lemon zest
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 extra-large egg yolk
1/2 cup panko (Japanese breadcrumbs)
Lemon wedges, for serving

Preheat oven to 425.

Peel, devein and butterfly the shrimp (cutting up the back where the black vein once was), leaving the tails intact. Toss the shrimp with the olive oil, wine, 2 teaspoons salt and 1 teaspoon pepper. Allow to sit at room temperature while you prepare the garlic/butter mixture.

In a small bowl, mash the softened butter with the garlic, parsley, rosemary, red pepper flakes, lemon zest, lemon juice, egg yolk, panko, 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper.

Starting from the outer edge of a 13-inch oval gratin dish, arrange the shrimp, in a single layer, butterfly side down and tails curling up toward the center of the dish. Pour the remaining marinade over shrimp. Spread the shrimp evenly with the garlic butter.


This is what they look like before going into the sauna!

Roast for 10-12 minutes or until hot and bubbly. If you like the breadcrumbs browned, you can pop the shrimp under the broiler for 1 minute.

Serve with lemon wedges.

Verdict: To quote hubby: "MMM." This scampi is still decadent enough--honest. By cutting the butter in half, but keeping the same ratio of spices, garlic and herbs, this shrimp has plenty of bang for the buck. It's love food, people. And you won't have to hide under the covers after you eat it.

Guest Post: Naptime Writing

Hola, Readers! Since it's Freakshow Circus week, my wonderful friend Naptime Writing has generously agreed to guest post for me! I adore her. She's got just enough wit and snark to have me doubled over in giggles on a regular basis. She's also honest as Hell; if you haven't read her post on Ambivalent Parenting, you must head over to her blog right now and do so. It's sheer brilliance.

Enjoy! And thanks, Nap! You are awesome!

***


Walking a city street today I heard a man in a red and blue plaid button-down tell someone on the phone, “I’m wearing a red shirt and a khaki jacket.” Then he pulled his olive green windbreaker tighter and zipped it. Good luck being found with that description, I thought, and began thinking about how we describe ourselves and others and how really crummy we are at seeing reality.

All my life we’ve been told who and what we are by people who don’t really look. In my case, the snap-judgment labels paint a dismal picture. High maintenance. Overly dramatic. Controlling. Negative. Know-it-all. Bitch. Family and strangers alike are happy to tell me how terrible my personality is. Thank you very much, society, for finding a way to make me want to despise and fight every impulse I have, even if knowing exactly what I want, being emotive, cautious, creative, interested in learning, willing to share information, and a rather strict rule follower could benefit me as an adult.

Labels have always made me feel like I’m a burden---too much for most people and generally abrasive. I can handle that, I guess, even if I feel like crap about myself most of the time. But when I had a child I glimpsed some of the same qualities in him and wanted to spare him feeling that way. From only a few weeks old, my son stared suspiciously at anyone new and watched---without warming to them for days. People would try silly things to get him smile and laugh, while their antics received a cool appraisal that seemed to say, “Do you find yourself amusing? How lovely for you. I don’t agree.” People were offended. They said he was “so serious” and “surly” and “shy,” though none of those was true.

In reality, he was (and is) circumspect. He checks out every angle before diving in with wild, silly, and boisterous abandon. He just wants to make sure, first. Cautious. Careful. Qualities that will serve him well as an adult. He is, for instance, guaranteed never to buy from an infomercial or company with earning statements like Enron.

There’s nothing wrong with babies who laugh easily and enjoy strangers. But there’s also nothing wrong with children who do not think strangers are perfectly delightful. I don’t find almost anyone delightful, so why should I expect something different from a young person?

My child is a lot of things that other people don’t like. He has very strong opinions, and is quickly and loudly labeled by family and strangers “picky” and “spoiled.” He is intensely persistent and will cling to an idea for, honestly, more than a year if he really means it. (Ask me later about the “when will the cats die so we can have a dog,” and the “we need a metal detector just in case” projects he’s been engaged in for nigh on twenty months.) People who know him barely or not at all call him “spoiled” and “stubborn” and “a control freak.” He knows what he wants, he expresses it clearly, and he stands there and waits, often patiently, until he gets it. Sounds like the sort of thing people spend thousands of dollars to learn at a seminar after the impulse was beat out of them as children, but everyone is willing to tell me how unseemly these qualities are in a child.

Last week we went on a long walk that included a trip to my preschool-aged son’s favorite rock, bread store, and book store. But we didn’t have time for a toy store. (For the record, toy stores occur to him once every two months. But when they do, woo-hoo, stand back.) Endless raging and sobbing and carrying on for the final mile of the walk, despite logic, reasoning, empathizing, ignoring, threatening, and judicious use all the other tools in my Super-Mom Knapsack of Wise and Useful Tricks. We made it home, barely, and I made a mental note to offer a choice this week. So today we agreed to change the walk to include the bread store, book store, and toy store. As we finished THREE HOURS of awesome bonding as-much-fun-as-you-can-have-without-sugar good times, he told me we went to the wrong toy store, and again raged and sobbed and cried for over a mile. Despite logical efforts to point out the time of day, the heretofore child-centric nature of the walk, the appointment with the plumber, the possibility next time of going to a different store, the reality of using different names for different stores, and my totally legitimate five-miles-into-a-walk-while-eight-months-pregnant exhaustion, he would not let it go.

After a mile I stopped and had The Talk with him. This talk has been a long time coming and I issued forth calmly and a bit more self righteously than I wanted. The Talk was given, unfortunately, in my own mother’s voice. To wit:

The world does not revolve around you. There are times in life we don’t get what we want. Sometimes other people are in charge. And right now, since I’ve heard you and talked with you and explained to you and told you my answer absolutely will not change, this conversation is over. And if I hear one more word about this, just one more boo-hoo or word or argument or idea, I will park the stroller and walk home alone.

The Talk had little effect, but the threat worked just fine. Score another one for old school parenting and the my-way-or-the-highway approach I vow to avoid. Unless I need it. Or just want to use it. Because, really, principles are all fine and good unless you don’t want to stick to them, right?

At lunch I told him we can compromise and negotiate and that it’s great that he knows what he wants and keeps trying. The way he feels is important, and it’s quite impressive that he articulates how he feels and makes himself clear even when people disagree. Yay for him. But that when I say my answer will not change, the conversation is over.

He said it was good to know that. And that maybe we could play just one game before naptime.

He’s going to be a great CEO. Or lobbyist. Or both.

White Bean Dip with Roasted Garlic and Rosemary

Okay, Readers! Those of you who wanted a homemade hummus recipe are about to be rewarded...with something that ain't really hummus.

But. This dip has a nice hummus-like consistency and is absolutely delicious, particularly when served with the homemade pita chips below.

I know, I know, who has the time to make their own stinking pita chips? Well, obviously you do because you are also the same freaks who make your own hummus.

Be warned, however. The combination of the dip and the spiced chips is so addictive, it may just hurl you headlong into a jag.

I also thought the dip was delicious when spread on romaine lettuce leaves, topped with sliced turkey, and rolled up, burrito-style. Almost as good as my crack snack.

White Bean Dip with Roasted Garlic and Rosemary
adapted from The Food You Crave by Ellie Krieger
serves 12 as an appetizer

2 cans (15.5-ounce) white beans, drained and rinsed
2-3 tablespoons whole roasted garlic (recipe follows)
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
the grated zest of 1 lemon
2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
Salt and pepper to taste

In a food processor, combine all ingredients except salt and pepper; process until smooth. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve with fresh vegetables or pita chips.

Roasted Garlic

1 head garlic
1 tablespoon olive oil

Preheat the oven to 375.

Cut the top third of the garlic head off so that the tops of the cloves are exposed. Place the garlic head, unpeeled, in a small ovenproof dish and drizzle with the oil.

Cover with aluminum foil and bake for 30 minutes. Uncover; bake 30 more minutes or until garlic is soft and golden brown. Cool. Squeeze the roasted garlic from each of the cloves and mash into a paste. Store any additional roasted garlic in an airtight container in the refrigerator.

Spiced Pita Chips
from The Food You Crave by Ellie Krieger

1/4 cup olive oil
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon salt
6 pita breads (preferably whole-wheat), cut into 8 wedges each.

Preheat the oven to 375.

Combine the olive oil and spices in a large bowl. Add the pita wedges and toss to coat. Spread the wedges in a single layer on two baking sheets and bake, tossing once, until the pitas are brown and crisp, about 15 minutes. Cool.

These will keep in an airtight container at room temperature for about 3 days.

~PS: Just a little aside to let you know that this week is a Freakshow Circus at Chez T. If I'm not commenting/visiting your blog much this week, please know that I'll be back next week when things slow down!

Sunday Giggles

I'm passing this along to you today because it's too good to keep to myself. I wish I'd been witty enough to write it. Go visit Nap!

Slow-Cooked Asian Comfort

It's official: I am over winter. Over it, I say! It's been one of those rare winters where we've had snow on the ground since Christmas. Snow on the ground since Christmas blows. Especially if you have small children and are the Shmuck in the Neighborhood Who Lets All the Stray Kids Into Her House.

A few weekends ago, it was cold and snowy and I had a house-full of kids...most of whom were not my own. I was frantic all day, running from room-to-room, trying to prevent the utter destruction of my house. It was harrowing.

The good news? I'd had the foresight to plop dinner in the crock-pot early in the day, so it was just a matter of cooking some vegetables and soba to serve on the side.

The Chinese call this method of slow-braising "red cooking"; the meat turns a reddish-mahogany hue from the soy and is fragrant with anise and cinnamon.

It's incredibly comforting. Especially after a day preventing mass destruction.

Asian Pork with Noodles
serves 6-8

3 pounds boneless pork shoulder
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
4 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 cup soy sauce
1/2 cup dry sherry
1/4 cup dark brown sugar
2 tablespoons toasted sesame oil
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
2 star anise pods
1 cinnamon stick
5 cloves garlic, smashed
1 2-inch piece ginger, peeled and sliced
6 to 8 whole dried shiitake mushrooms*
1 pound soba or ramen noodles
1/4 cup water chestnuts, sliced
2 Fresno chile peppers, seeded and thinly sliced**
2 scallions, sliced
1/4 cup fresh cilantro

Season the pork with salt and pepper. Heat a skillet over medium-high heat with the vegetable oil. Add the pork and brown on all sides, 6 to 8 minutes. Transfer to a plate.

Combine the broth, soy sauce, sherry, sugar, sesame oil, red pepper flakes, star anise and cinnamon stick in a 5 quart slow cooker. Stir to dissolve the sugar, then add the garlic, ginger and mushrooms. Add the pork, cover and cook 4 hours on high, then 2 hours on low, or 6 hours total on low.

Transfer the pork to a platter, cover and let rest 15 minutes. Remove the mushrooms from the broth and halve them, then return to the broth. Skim fat off the top of the broth.

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and cook the noodles according to package directions. Slice the pork, removing any pieces of fat. Divide the noodles among bowls and top with some of the broth, mushrooms and slices of pork. Garnish with the water chestnuts, cilantro, chiles and scallions. ~I also steamed some broccoli and added bean sprouts for crunch.

* I couldn't find these to save my life. I just used dried mixed mushrooms.
** ditto the Fresno peppers. Jalapenos work fine.

It was a perfect night for noodle slurping and cuddling and watching Jeopardy! Which is exactly what we did. Okay, maybe winter isn't *all* bad.

Neighbor Friday: Bad Mommy Moments-Update!

Hi Readers! I'm so happy to bringing you a ditty from my dear friend ck over at Bad Mommy Moments. Ck is truly one of my favorite writers. She's funny with a capital "F" but she can also bring you to tears in no time; if I didn't love her to pieces, I'd hate her. I'm that jealous of what she can do with a pen (or a keyboard).

I've been an ardent fan of her blog since I first started blogging last April. This girl can bring it!

She's bringing the funny today, so relax and enjoy!

For more neighbor fun, click on the icon below and hop over to The Never-True Tales for some good reading!



And in the I Am a Total Dork Department!
...I forgot to mention that I'm at Kristen's awesome site Motherese today! I'd love it if you'd come visit!


***
ONE and I enter the bagel bakery with great hopes of different things. I want an everything bagel, lightly toasted with just a *kiss* of cream cheese. She wants cream cheese – lots of cream cheese - with or without the bagel. For me, the soft and crunchy breakfast is what I’ve been craving for the last thirteen hours. For her, the bagel is a mere vehicle to get the creamy spread into her mouth as quickly as possible. I won’t allow her to eat it directly from the tub at home--and she would. I'm a meanie that way.

ONE is all about white these days. White shirts, white dresses, white nightgowns. The moment I clothe her dolls, she strips them back down to see the white canvas of their torsos. Warm milk is her drink of choice. Basically, if there is anything nearby in any shade of white, she wants it.

Like the attention of the white-haired lady waiting behind us for bagels. ONE smiles at the woman until she makes eye contact and waves back. An invitation.

ONE: “My mommy has a baby in her tummy.”

WHITE-HAIRED LADY: “Oh does she?”

ONE: “I going to be a big sister.”

WHITE-HAIRED LADY: “Isn’t that nice.”

ONE: “Yeah.”

The white-haired lady turns to me.

WHITE-HAIRED LADY: “She speaks very well.”

ME: “Thanks.” I tap my feet. Our bagels should be done by now. I am so hungry I’m about to rip it out of Bagel Boy’s hands, but he hasn’t put the cream cheese on it yet. He seems confused by the toaster.

ONE: “My mommy puts whipped cream on my gy-nie. Makes it feel good.”

The white-haired lady’s mouth dips into a little O. She stares at me. So do the people behind her. I smile and pull ONE close.

ME: “No, no, Sweetie.” I force a laugh. “That’s not whipped cream. It’s Des-i-tin.”

ONE: “NO Des-i-tin. WHIPPED CREAM like on my JELL-O.”

ME (low voice): “Pea, relax. We’ll talk about it when we get in the car.”

ONE: “NO! I GOTS WHIPPED CREAM ON MY GY-NIE.” She plops down on the floor and reaches under her (white) skirt for her (white) panties.

ONE: “I show you!”

The store is silent. A baker’s dozen worth of customers lean in.

BAGEL BOY: “I got an E-T toasted with cheese and a Raisin Cinnamon with extra cheese over here. Anyone?”

I grab my irate child before her "performance" gets our bagels comped and pull her towards the register. Bagel Boy waits for us there, his eyes wide. I throw some crumpled bills at him and leave without my change.

I keep my eyes forward as I march my screaming child to the car and buckle her into the car seat. She yanks her bagel out of the bag and hurls the wax paper to the floor. I let it fall and slam her door shut.

I take a deep breath. Another. I get in the car and back out of the parking spot. I catch ONE’s reflection in the rear view mirror; a white goatee already lines her chin. As I drive away and take a bite of my highly-anticipated, lightly toasted everything bagel, I realize it’s dry.

Bagel Boy forgot the cheese.

***

Thanks, ck, for agreeing to be my neighbor today! I love ya, kid. You always make me smile.

Old Friends and Muffins

**Shameful picture alert!** Seriously bad hair and gangly limb warning! Proceed at your own risk!

And also, if you EVER tell my girls that I was once a cheerleader, I will make a fancy pair of earrings out of your kidneys. There will be no cheerleaders in the house of Chez T. We are a cheerleader-free zone here; cheerleaders are blood-sucking zombies in disguise.

I will also take a moment to preach against the wrongness that is my hair. Sun-In is whack, people! Ah, the 80's. So much shame, so little time.



Stephanie moved to my town the summer before eighth grade. She hailed from Connecticut and was far, far more mature than me. Initially, she was bitter about the move from her beloved East coast, but after a while, she settled in and focused on more important things. You know. Boys.

Unlike me, Steph could flirt. She could even converse with boys. She wasn't afraid of them, which boggled my mind. She could walk past a group of boys, stop, say a few words and move on without pissing herself.

She also had glorious, thick red hair, boobs and a closet full of Guess jeans. Why she hung out with me, I have no idea.

But boy, was I grateful, because the summer before eighth grade, in typical teen-girl-mean-girl fashion, my circle of friends decided that they hated me.

That summer, they called me in the middle of the night and whispered, "Everybody hates you, bitch." They bribed the most popular of boys to ring me up and deliver blows like "Hey, did you know they all got together this weekend and burned every picture of the group that had your face in it?"

Until Steph arrived, that first day of 8th grade loomed in front of me, black and horrible. And then, like some East coast angel, she fell on my doorstep and I was saved. She was worldly, unafraid. By her side, I could be brave.

Like many teenage girls, Steph was always on some crazy diet. I'd never been on a diet before; I needed a few spare pounds, honestly. But watching her, my sophisticated and gorgeous friend, pore through Seventeen magazine for diet tips, I was smitten. It seemed like a very savvy and glamorous thing to do. So, like any good Lemming, I followed.



We went on some doozies. There was the Smoothie Diet, the Lean Cuisine Diet, the Cottage Cheese Diet, the Baked Potato Diet. Of course, neither of us needed to diet. Not one bit.

Steph had a mother who tolerated these little bouts of craziness; her mother struggled with her own weight and knew diets like the back of her hand. Steph was fully allowed to sit down at the dinner table, refuse the meal being served and slurp down some sludge of fruit and yogurt and wheat bran.

If I'd tried a stunt like that, Mama would have eaten my head.

So I really only could "diet" over at Steph's house. The routine was usually the same: I'd spend the night on Friday, we'd follow the diet through Saturday and then, bored to tears by rabbit food and hungry as pirhanas, we'd eat our way through Sunday.

It was rather easy to de-rail at some point, because Steph's mom was a terrific cook and baker. There was always some amazing treat in the kitchen, luring us in.

One weekend, after a particularly dismal Saturday on the Grape Nuts Diet, Steph and I smelled these muffins baking Sunday morning. Between the two of us, over the course of the day, we killed the dozen.

Who needs Grape Nuts when you can have these succulent, not-overly-sweet muffins? Just don't eat the whole batch yourself.



Banana Tia Maria Muffins
makes 12

1/2 cup butter, softened
2/3 cup honey
3 eggs, beaten
1 cup mashed, ripe banana
1/3 cup milk
3 tablespoons Tia Maria, Kahlua, or other coffee liqueur
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 cups whole wheat flour

Cream butter and honey until fluffy. Beat in eggs, bananas, milk and Tia Maria. Sift together the salt, baking powder, soda and flour. Add to banana mixture by hand until just moistened. Batter will be slightly lumpy. Drop into greased muffin cups, filling almost to the top. Bake at 375 for about 20 minutes.

~These muffins also do nicely with about 1/2 cup of nuts or mini-chocolate chips stirred in.

Blessedly, Stephanie and I are still friends. Although our diets were destined for failure, our friendship endured. As soon as she grasped that high-school diploma, she ditched our mid-West butts for her beloved East. But though the miles between us are many, our hearts still know each other, in ways only old friends can.

Scotch Butterscotch Sauce

Any of you who come here with any regularity know that there are plenty of reasons to pity my husband. Plenty.

But the reason I'm talking about today involves sweets. The lack of sweets. Specifically, the lack of any sweets in my house geared towards anyone over the age of 8.

We have *kiddie* sweets--fruit snacks, chocolate-chip granola bars, dum-dum pops. But dark chocolate? Haagen-Dazs ice cream? Any cookie besides a teddy graham? Nope.

It's not that hubs is fat; he most certainly is not. And it's not that I don't love him; of course I do. It's just that I don't crave sweets. I really don't. And so, when I'm at the grocery store, I forget about them. I remember the sweets for the girls--I'm not that stupid--but then I just sort of drop the ball. I ignore the candy/cookie aisle and traipse straight to the chip/nut aisle, which is more my speed.

My poor hubs does crave sweets. And if he's in the throes of a bad sweet jones, he's sorta screwed. I'll hear him pawing desperately through the pantry, sniffing out the smallest bit of chocolate, and I'll feel a pang of guilt. I forgot him. Again.

I also don't bake, so we have zippo baked goods on hand. Except at Christmas, when he dreamily ate his way through Cookie-of-the-Week-Month.

This results in some good-natured grumbling on his part. "Christ, do we have one item in this pantry that doesn't contain salt?" he says, riffling through the shelves. He has been known, on occasion, to get so desperate that he actually enters a grocery store. And then he'll come home, hide his stash, plow through it, and forget the cupboard is bare. Repeat.

This Valentine's Day, I decided to make hubs a delicious, sweet, adult treat. Because he's an excellent husband and dad, and he weathers sugar deprivation so valiantly the rest of the year.

I whipped up this sundae sauce for my sweetie. It's wicked simple and butterscotch-y good. I bought some artisanal coconut gelato, toasted up some almonds, and we were in business.

Except. The day got away from me and I forgot about dessert! I suck! Even when I make dessert, I forget about it!

I even forgot about it until Monday afternoon, when I opened the refrigerator and saw the jar of sauce on the shelf.

Sorry, honey. You are stuck with a Lame Wife. But cheer up, sweetie. This is waiting for you when you get home.






Scotch Butterscotch Sauce
makes about 1 cup
from Bon Appetit Magazine

1 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1/3 cup whipping cream
1/4 cup butter
2 tablespoons light corn syrup
2 tablespoons scotch whiskey
1 teaspoon vanilla

Stir sugar, cream, butter and syrup in a heavy large saucepan over low heat until sugar dissolves. Increase heat and simmer until sauce coats the back of a spoon, about 4 minutes.

Cool slightly. Stir in scotch and vanilla.