Backbone Cupcakes

I was leafing through a giant pile of pictures the other day, cursing myself for not being the scrapbooking type. Hell, I'm not even the baby book type, a fact I was cruelly reminded of when Miss M. turned 4. I opened M's baby book to insert Miss D's birthday card for her, and realized I hadn't filled in a single page for year 3. I suck.

After the Baby Book Shaming, I decided to tackle that pile of photos. Which just reminded me how hard I suck.

But I found the above picture and it made me smile. Even though it's blurry and shitty. This pic was taken a year or so ago, far before the blogging days, so there really wasn't a reason to take a picture of a cupcake...

Except that there was.

It's no secret that I was a fearful, wimpy kid who was bullied relentlessly. It was horrendous, living in that kind of fear, but in a way, I asked for it. I allowed myself to be treated like the World's Own Whipping Boy. I came home every day after school, ate my snack, did my homework, and went to bed without saying a word to my parents about the abuse. Bullies love a victim who won't spill.

Some bullies are worse than others. In my case, it was a stout, ruddy-faced girl named Sandra, who flushed dozens of my mittens down the boys' restroom toilet and even attempted a ski jacket once. She whispered into the ear of every girl in our class, warning them that if they spoke to me, if they sat near me at the lunch table, they were toast. She told the boy I adored that I was a dyke, a word I'd never heard of before.

There are special places in Hades for the Sandra's of the world. There have to be, right?

Last year, Miss D. got a big old dose of Mean Girl from an aggressive cretin named Alize. Lucky for me, Miss D. is the worst at hiding her feelings. The first day Alize messed with her, she arrived home with swollen eyes and a face as open as a bloody wound. And I knew.

Bless Miss D. and her open-book soul; she spilled the goods, smearing my shirt with tears and snot, shattered that someone could be so mean.

So I rubbed her back and wiped her face and told her about Sandra. And Rebecca. And Nicole. And Shannon. And an entire pack of girls in junior high. I managed to attract them in droves, because like all feral animals, they perked up at the scent of blood.

And I told Miss D. the secret that all bullies seem to know: a girl who won't fight for herself is dead meat.

It's a nasty little lesson, particularly when it has to come in the freaking 1st grade...those wenches start early nowadays.

There are plenty of people who will disagree with me, but I will never, not ever, be the parent who tells her child to just ignore a bully. Ignorance is not bliss; it is a free ticket for someone to ride your ass relentlessly.

A few days later, Miss D. came home from school, uncharacteristically silent. I mean, this is a kid who hits the door with a barbaric YAWP! every day. Something was afoot.

It came out at bedtime: my skinny Miss D., who I had to order special pants for in the 1st grade, had an incident in gym class. Quite plainly, her pants fell down. Quickly, she pulled them up, but someone saw. Any guess who that someone was?

And that someone laughed. And threatened to tell the whole class.

I pulled her close, smelled the strawberry shampoo in her hair, felt thick in the throat.

And then I said, "What did you do?"
"I sorta wanted to die, Mom. I was so embarrassed. She saw my underwear and everything."
"I'm so sorry, baby. That's my fault. Remind me in the morning to pin your pants tighter, okay?"
"'Kay."
"But when she laughed? Honey? What happened?"
"I told her she was mean."
"You did? Really? What did she say?"
"Nothing. She shut her fat mouth."
"I think it's good you said something to make her shut that mouth...I'm glad you decided to do that."
"'Kay. But Mama?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't forget about the pants, okay?"
"Promise, baby. Consider it done."

The next day, while Miss D. was staring down the fire-breathing dragon that was Alize, I made cupcakes. Because growing a backbone is mighty hard work. A girl needs to keep her strength up.



Thank God this girl is learning faster than her Mama.

White Trash Motherlode: Orange Julius

I absolutely adore this picture of Miss D.




Do you know why? Because, to my despair, most people don't think Miss D. looks anything like me. In fact, when she was a baby, I got the following remarks from anonymous folks in public places:

"Well, shoot, your DNA sure didn't translate, did it?"
"Oh Wow! You adopted a Shanghai baby, too?"
"What an adorable little girl! What country did you get her from?"

I mean, asshole remarks aside, I have a tiny streak of vanity that wants SOME part of my child to look like me. I can't help it. I just feel that way. And it hurt my feelings when people looked at Miss D., looked at me, looked back at Miss D. and then shook their heads, perplexed.

Unbeknownst to them, however, Miss D. does resemble me. Need proof?





I know, right? Lucky Miss D. got her Mama's stilt-like legs. And although I am saddened by the fact that she, like her Mama, will probably have to endure the nickname "Flamingo Legs," I am also pleased to see some part of me represented in this little human I grew for 9 months.

My legs aren't quite so scrawny any more, but when I was a kid, it was a problem.

My mother is still indignant, to this day, about a phone call she received on the first day of school in a brand new city:

Mama: "Hello?"
Lady: "Ummm, yes, is this the mother of (pause and slight riffling of paper)...Dana? In Mrs. ______________'s class?"
Mama: "Yes...?"
Lady: "Well,ummmmm, I'm calling, Ma'am, because Dana is sitting here in the front office? She's scheduled to be in gym class but the gym teacher?"
Mama: "Yes...?"
Lady: "Well, Ma'am, the gym teacher just wasn't real sure if your child could participate in regular gym activities? You know? With the frail legs and all?"
Mama: Long pause. "Are you telling me that the gym teacher thinks my daughter is deformed?"
Lady: realizing the shitstorm she just walked into... "Well, ahhhhh, I can't say anything about whether she thought that, mind you...but has your daughter been ill recently? Is that it?"
Mama: using that icy Southern tone... "I will have you know that there is nothing wrong with that child! She is just very small boned... And she's very active and just doesn't hold onto any weight, but I can assure you--she is certainly NOT deformed or sick. Lace up the gym shoes and get her back in there NOW."
Lady: "Er, ok, Ma'am, I'll pass that on. Thankyoubye."

Boy, Mama was steamed. And after that little incident, Mama started making me an Orange Julius every day after school, because obviously, someone needed a little meat on her bones.

Orange Julius
makes 2

1/4 cup orange juice concentrate
1/2 cup whole milk
1/2 cup water
1 tablespoon powdered milk*
2 tablespoons honey or powdered sugar**
1 teaspoon vanilla
6-8 ice cubes, depending on the size

Combine all ingredients in a blender and whirr until frothy.

* I don't really think you need this; Mama just threw it in to try to fatten me up. I bet some vanilla protein powder (something we didn't have back then) would probably ramp up the nutritional value.

**This version is not nearly as sweet as the version you can get at the mall...just a warning! So if you need the sweet--add another tablespoon or two of honey/sugar.

Serve to any child who is so moth-eaten scrawny that people assume illness or deformity.

P.S.: This Orange Julius is delicious, but I do not guarantee results. Children who have legs like Whooping Cranes often remain so for the rest of their natural lives.

P.S.S.: Miss D., little minx, I apologize. There's no denying where those gams came from.

Risotto Therapy

My sweet neighbor Jen had the Wisdom Tooth Extraction from Hell a few days ago. Jen is one tough cookie, so when the dentist offered to prescribe Vicodin to kill the pain, she said, "Oh, I'm sure Advil will be enough."

Foolish, Foolish, Naive Jen. I am unsure why she is friends with me, because if ANY person offered to prescribe me Vicodin, for any reason, I'd be running out the door with my pills immediately. Me loves da Vicodin!

Two days later, I called her (and yes, I took two days to call her after her ordeal...again, why is she friends with me?) to see how she was faring. Poor Jen was crying. Literally.

She'd been in unbearable pain and unable to eat anything but soup for two days. After assuring her that VICODIN IS YOUR FRIEND, I got to work whipping up something other than soup for her to gum down. Soup for two days straight is just depressing. I'd cry too, if I had to eat just soup for two days.

I decided that someone that miserable deserves risotto. Problem is, I'd never made it before. Risotto is higher maintenance than Anna Wintour; you have to stir it constantly and decide when is the exact time to add ladles of hot broth and babysit the damn thing for half an hour. I don't do high maintenance.

But Jen cried. This was serious business. She deserved risotto.

I pored over a few cookbooks but I didn't find the perfect recipe. Because I needed to apply Risotto Therapy immediately and so a trip to the grocery store wasn't in the cards.

I did, shockingly, have Arborio rice in my pantry, because I've been *meaning* to try my hand at risotto for a while now. And luckily, I had a few boxes of chicken broth hanging around (fallout from Bean Week).

A quick rummage through the refrigerator yeilded a shallot, red and orange bell pepper, a few mushrooms, 2 cups of spinach, parmesan cheese and 4 slices of Applewood Smoked bacon.

And of course, we ALWAYS have wine in this house.

Viola! Risotto Therapy to the rescue.



Emergency Risotto
serves 4-6

4 slices Applewood Smoked bacon, chopped
1 shallot, diced
1/2 cup each red and orange bell pepper, chopped
1 clove garlic, chopped
2 1/2 cups Arborio Rice
1 cup dry white wine
7-8 (about) cups of chicken stock, heated to boil and then kept on simmer (you may have some left over)
1/3 cup sliced mushrooms
2 cups fresh spinach
1 tablespoon butter
2/3 cup finely grated parmesan cheese
salt and pepper to taste

Heat chicken stock in a large pot; keep at a simmer. In a large pot, on medium heat, cook the bacon until brown but not crisp, about 5 minutes. Add the shallot, peppers and garlic and cook until softened, about 5 minutes more. If necessary, add a glug of olive oil (a tablespoon or so) and add the rice; stir and cook until the rice becomes translucent, about 2 minutes.

Add wine and cook, stirring, until it is almost completely absorbed. Add one cup simmering stock. Keep cooking and stirring until liquid is almost absorbed--at that point, you will start adding stock by ladlefuls (about 1/2 cup) at a time, stirring until it's almost absorbed and then adding stock again. Stir constantly!**

Cook for about 15 minutes or until rice is nearly al dente. Add mushrooms and spinach and cook for about 3-6 minutes more until rice is al dente (you can add more stock after the mushrooms and spinach are added).

Remove from heat, add butter and parmesan, and cover. Let sit a couple of minutes, then stir, adjust for seasoning, and serve in bowls.

**And yeah, the method sounds scary at first, but it wasn't that hard...if I can do it, you can.

I cooked this batch a little South of al dente because poor Jen couldn't chew. Still, it was warm and a welcome change from soup.

And thank goodness the girl came to her senses; the Vicodin Fairy came and she feels much better!

Not All People are Assholes: 4

And last but not least, some of my favorite people, girls who make me laugh like crazy!

Jen and Sarah who are not only sisters, but they like each other!
Whispering Writer for some of the craziest marital conversations ever.
Leslie for her self-depracating sense of humor.
Binge for her sparkly personality
Rebecca because I just recently found her blog but feel like I know her already.
The Diva because Canadian Divas are always amusing!

And there you have it!! 4 days of people who are NOT assholes! Amazing!

Feel free to leave suggestions in the comments box below if you know someone AWESOME and want to share with me!

Not All People are Assholes: 3

Here are some more awesome bloggers for you guys! Hope you all are enjoying the weekend. We are!

Check these talented bloggers out:

Robin for her loving, poetic spirit.
Jessica for her daily struggles with the cutest blonde on the planet.
Theycallmejane for her dry wit.
Fae for never letting me forget that I am DONE.
Jen because she is right: Mama did Never Say There Would Be Days Like This!

Off to soak up some Sin City sun!

Not All People are Assholes: 2

Today I bring you six great food writers! Now I know not all of my readers are foodies, but we all could stand to learn a few things from these talented folks!

Wendi
Eralda
Velva
Chiara
Elizabeth
Erin

I hope you enjoy these great wizards in the kitchen as much as I do!

Not All People Are Assholes: 1

I know, right? I can't believe it, either! Well, except for my readers, who are certainly not assholes, because I have the coolest readers on the planet.

And to prove to you that not all people are assholes, for the next few days, while my darling hubs and I celebrate his belated birthday in Sin City, I am going to share a few links to some of my favorite people.

Now I am assuming that my favorite people who appear on the side of this blog, should you scroll down a little (and you have done that, right?) are already well known to you. If not, naughty you! Those are some awesome people. Go see them. Now.

Ahem. Anyways, I'm gonna link up a few other favorites of mine in the next few days, in the hopes that my awesome readers will discover more awesomeness.

There needs to be more awesomeness in this world.

And if there is awesomeness out there who I haven't discovered, please link to them in the comments section...on Monday!

Today's List of 6 Big-Hearted People:
Tiffany for her courage.
Curious Cat for her tours of the UK
Laura because she can do the amazing crafts that I cannot
Lyndsey for her stunning pictures, which I also cannot provide
J for doing it all with twins
NDM for making me feel okay that sometimes I think my kids make me nuts

Go check these awesome people out today, if you haven't already!

Blue Cheese Souffle:Epic Fail

Confession: I've never made a souffle. You know that fear I have of yeast? I also fear egg whites.

Egg whites are temperamental and high maintenance. If there's even the slightest dribble of yolk or the speckiest speck of dirt in the mixing bowl, the egg whites get cranky and say, "Screw you, lady--I'm not performing." Egg whites are like those bitches in high school who were only nice to you maybe once every two weeks.

Barefoot Bloggers is intent on tormenting me and making me face my fears. While I'm not going to blame them for picking a souffle recipe, I will admit that I was nervous about this one.

You can find the recipe for Ina's blue cheese soufflehere.

Not only was I nervous about a souffle, I was sort of thinking, "ewww, hot blue cheese?" Blue cheese is okay ice cold in my Cobb Salad, but in a hot, eggy mixture? Not sure about that one, Ina. Have you been into the Vicodin again?

And I thought I'd heard something about egg whites and weather...as in, sometimes if it's too damp or cold, the egg whites won't perform. Just like my other nemesis, yeast.

It was a miserable, rainy, dark day when I had to pony up for The Blue Cheese Experiment. Grrrrreat.

I did as Ina said and let the eggs come to room temperature...something I have a few issues with, but I was afraid to deviate from the recipe.

Well, not that afraid, obviously, because I was so dubious about the flavor of this dish that I sauteed up 3 slices of bacon and added them to the souffle. I mean, bacon makes everything better. Bacon deserves it's own cool cape and Batmobile, don't you think?

My husband pretended not to hear me cursing a blue streak as I attempted to scald milk, separate eggs, whip the whites on 3 different speeds and then fold them into warm, cheesy goo...all almost at the same time. I felt like I needed 2 more arms to get this dish into the oven.

Have I ever mentioned that I hate folding egg whites? It's too gentle for me. I wanna just muscle them into the batter and be done with it--but nooooo, you have to go low and slow or else your dish deflates.

By the time I had this sucker ready for the oven, I was truly cranky. In fact, I literally threw it into the oven, sloshing batter up the sides of the souffle dish and onto the floor.

And then, genius that I am, I slammed the oven door shut. Which was the one thing my mother told me not to do when making a souffle. Whoops.

I quickly threw together a simple salad (literally...this KitchenWitch was a bitch by now), warmed some bread and swilled some wine while the souffle baked.

Surprisingly, it hadn't deflated too much--even with all that abuse! I mean, the pan was a wreck from all that sloshing about, but I still had fluffy, brown, eggy stuff lookin' at me.




I plated it, poured wine, we sat down, took a bite. I studied my husband. "It's not bad!" he smiled at me.

"You lying lump of turd," I said to him. "This sucks. It tastes like sweaty gym socks...not that I've eaten gym socks..."

"I was trying to be positive."

"Feel free to lie when I cook something from my recipe files--in fact, I encourage it--but this is Ina's recipe. I don't give a rip if you like it or not."

"Good to know that distinction. Duly noted...now...can we order pizza or something?"

We ended up settling for frozen samosa and the salad. Sorry Ina...even bacon, the superhero of food, couldn't save this one.

Monsters

Jill at Scary Mommy is running a contest right now, looking for the Scariest Mommy of them all. If you want to hear just what a "Scary Mommy" is, go here:

Now there are times when I'm plenty scary. Times when I let my kids eat mac and cheese 3 meals a day. Times when I lean down and hiss in Miss D.'s face, "if you touch your sister one more time today you are OVER, get it?" Times when I feel so overwhelmed, angry, out-to-sea lost that I have to lock myself in the laundry room for a while.

Guilty.

But this is my Entry. The Scary Mommy most like me.

Monsters

Three weeks before her third birthday, Miss D. starts seeing monsters. My fierce warrior child, who fears nothing, now cowers in corners and under covers. Monsters usually appear around 3am. I wake with my heart pounding in my throat, hot with the strength of her scream.

"Monsters! Help me Mommy! I scared!"

I fumble for lights, footing and child simultaneously in the night and realize that I'm just as scared as she is.

**

I was almost in my third trimester with Miss D. when the newspaper was late. This drives my part-German self crazy. I need coffee and the paper to make me human in the morning; without them I am foul. Sourly, I resorted to the television. Mornings suck hard enough without some perky anchor with teeth too good to be true telling you what traffic's like Out There.

I flicked the screen on just in time to see the second tower of The World Trade Center descend into rubble and smoke.

I thought it was a joke at first, or some weird movie stunt. Everybody did. You just don't believe things like that can happen, particularly if you're my age and have missed most of the good tragedies like JFK and World Wars and even Lennon, who I was too little to know.

I spent the rest of September 11 like most Americans did, grotesquely tuned-in. I channel-surfed maniacally, looking for answers or truth or the latest horrible picture, but it was a one-handed quest. The other hand was glued to my swollen belly,and I remember looking down at it and and thinking, "What on Earth have I done?"

**

My friend Tamar, an Israeli Jew, taught at Hebrew University. Her son, Yarden, was born ten days before Miss D. She has lived in Jerusalem, and then Tel Aviv, and has seen unspeakable things in both.

She watched when a bomb destroyed her favorite cafe; watched when the student union blew up in her workplace--minutes before she arrived at the U. She learned to avoid crowds, buses, open-air marketplaces. She grew accustomed to having her car searched by young men in uniforms.

"It's sad, so sad, what's going on in Israel, and yet still, I feel it is my home," she wrote after yet another bombing near her neighborhood. "It's part of our life here. We live with it and we go on."

She is stronger than anyone I know and holds tight to her faith, even when horrible things happen. She sends me pictures during poppy season, her son beaming through an endless kaliedescope of orange.

I have seldom seen her rattled, but not long after Yarden's first birthday, she wrote: I had to get Yarden a gas mask today. They require every child at the daycare to have one. I haven't even bought my son a pair of real tennis shoes yet. But he has a gas mask.

She and her family now live in Chicago, and she convinces herself that she feels safe. When I ask her, she says she dreams in orange.

**

My sister, who used to be beautiful, has cataracts in both eyes. One more blow to either of them and she could be blinded. Her left eye is smaller and hangs lower in its socket, part of the occipital bone poking out at an awkward angle. She's lost several front teeth and dresses in long sleeves. Her husband has a temper.

We grew up side by side, camped in the backyard, had parents who loved us and spoiled us and told us we had good brains.

The last time she was hospitalized, my father offered to pay for her divorce.

"I know you don't approve, but I love him," she said. "Some people just aren't strong." She looked out the window. "I've never had any luck."

**

There's an old gentleman, a relative of mine, who my mother never lets me be alone in a room with--never has. He's in his 80's now, small and wizened like a bad grape. He's a God loving Baptist, has gone to church every Sunday for generations, gives hundreds of dollars to charity, is a pinnacle of the community. All the women in the family call him Papa.

When my mother was nine, Papa stuck his hands down her shirt in a dark cinema.

She ran all the way home, hysterical, and told her mother what had happened. My grandmother said, "Oh my goodness, is he still doing that?" and continued frying chicken.

**

I fumble for lights and words and my quivering daughter at 3am. She's sweaty and she's peed herself and she claws at my neck, burrowing her nose into my hair.

"It's okay, baby. It's okay, Mommy's here," I say, rubbing her back.

"Everything's okay, Baby. No Monsters here," I whisper, and choke on the lie.

Jumbo Shrimp: Not an Oxymoron

Readers, I need to share something with you. It's time. Those of you who read this blog with any regularity have, I'm sure, figured out that I have a few (just a few, mind you!) character flaws. Hard to believe, I know.

But there's one flaw that I haven't shared with you yet. Despite many years of therapy, and tears, and hand-wringing, there's a habit I have that I just can't kick.

I cannot, for the life of me, tell any cretin who rings my doorbell selling something to Fuck Off.

In fact, the person at my door doesn't even have to be selling something. Example: I am an agnostic. I'm pretty damn sure of this. And yet,whenever those sweet-faced Mormon boys come a-calling, with their earnest smiles and their ill-fitting suits, I let them in. I give them lemonade. I let them use the loo. I won't talk religion with them, but I'll let 'em in. This summer, I had a pair of dudes who came to my house every couple of weeks, because they knew I'd let them pee and offer them popsicles. I am that bad.

And you know what? Most of the people who come to my door are selling something, because I have hardly any friends. And I'd really like to be able to tell those strangers at my door to Fuck Off. I would.

And the person I'd most like to tell to Fuck Off is The Creepy Meat Man. Miss D. came up with that title for him, and it's fitting. He makes our collective skin crawl.

Not only does he have beady little toad eyes and bad breath and maybe 5 teeth in his mouth, The Creepy Meat Man is a stalker. He rings my doorbell once a week, even though I've told him repeatedly that we have only 2 real meat eaters in the house and he should not come by more than once a month, at *most*.

Somewhere in his tiny lizard brain, The Creepy Meat Man always seems to know when I'm home. Which would be no problem if I could just ignore the doorbell. But I have children. And when the doorbell rings, my children behave eerily similar to dogs. They call out, run excitedly in circles, peek out the window.

Busted.

Mostly, I say NO to The Creepy Meat Man. But once in a blue moon, I will not want to go to the grocery store, so I break down and buy something. And because of that occasional folly, I am stuck with him. Now he will not go away, no matter how often I answer the door, smile tightly and growl, "Don't need anything."

In addition to The Creepy Meat Man, we have a Not-So-Creepy Meat Man. He only comes once every six weeks and gives me free cheesecake, so of course I let him in the door. Plus, he sells really good product.

Like the GINORMOUS shrimp he carries only 4 times a year. No lie, these shrimp could eat Miss M. for breakfast...they're that big. And I can never resist them, particularly if I'm having a party.

Thus was the case the other week; I had a large bag of T-Rex Shrimp and friends coming over, so I created an appetizer with them. I'd love to say that everyone raved about how delicious the shrimp were (true) but mostly, all I got was, "Holy Crap! Look at the size of those buggers!"

And indeed, they were impressive.



Proscuitto-Wrapped T-Rex Shrimp over Greens
serves 6

12 big-ass shrimp (the biggest you can find), peeled and deveined
12 fresh basil leaves
6 slices proscuitto, thinly sliced and cut in half
6 cups mixed greens, tossed with your favorite viniagrette

Heat grill (or a grill pan) to medium-high. Season the shrimp lightly with salt and pepper. Nestle a basil leaf in the groove of each shrimp (where the vein has been taken out). Wrap shrimp tightly with the proscuitto, securing with toothpicks, if necessary. Drizzle lightly with olive oil.

Grill 2-5 minutes per side, depending on the size of your shrimp.

Serve over greens, drizzled with a little extra viniagrette.

*So I guess it's okay to answer the door sometimes. But seriously, I need an "Answer-The-Door" Intervention. Either that, or an advertisement in Guns-and-Ammo, because the Creepy Meat Man needs to go.