tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-97419842024-03-07T08:54:11.254-05:00PeevishBitch, bitch, bitch...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger504125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-45402463896647698132010-06-15T14:29:00.000-04:002010-06-15T14:29:43.692-04:00Well, this is a quandary...I really don't live here anymore. I live on Facebook and in the real world. I don't share much of my thoughts with the outside world. Privacy has become a good thing.<br />
<br />
I've had what you could call a tumultuous past four years, what with all the changing going on with my body and the consequent changes it wrought in my psyche and my behavior. There were days where I <i><b>loved</b></i> being me and days when I absolutely <i><b>loathed</b></i> it. I think I've reached a comfortable landing point, though. I can be me, authentically, and not feel like anyone else's opinion is going to invalidate my own. I don't seek validation from others anymore: it has to come from within. It's easy to say that, but it's harder - much harder - to feel that in the marrow of your bones and to trust its source. Now, I do.<br />
<br />
The changes in my health have been overwhelmingly positive: I no longer go to sleep at night fearing that I might not wake up in the morning due to sleep apnea. I'm not depressed anymore. The joint pain that was starting to settle in my knees and ankles has disappeared, as has the foot pain that had me wincing every time I stood up. My high blood pressure is out of the stratosphere and hovers near normal with a very low dose of one medication opposed to the higher doses of <i><b>three</b></i> medications it took previously (as hypertension is genetic in my family, it may never be completely normal without medication).<br />
<br />
The changes I've experienced mentally are akin to a roller coaster ride - all kinds of thrilling twists and turns, sometimes feeling like I had no brakes, routinely making me dizzy, but all the while knowing there was an end to the ride coming. I've had way too much attention from random men, to the point where I don't do a Girl's Night Out with single women any more. It's got to be all of us old married hens sticking together, as I get approached when left on my own as the single girls find dates. Since I've been married for almost all of my adult life, I hardly know how to handle this and it makes me uncomfortable having to fend them off. I'd like to say I haven't ever been tempted by any of them, but that would be a huge lie. I've been tempted plenty. PLENTY. Which leads me to...<br />
<br />
The changes that have been wrought in my marriage have been, for the most part, constructive and positive. I am completely unwilling to settle for third place in my husband's affections - that's lower than the dog, folks - and have let him know in no uncertain terms that that shit shall not continue. If there has been one good thing that's come out of all of that random male attention, it's that I've realized my own worth and power. I was, yes, a fool to not realize it earlier. However, I've got a handle on it now, and it's not going anywhere. We're celebrating our 20th anniversary in two weeks. I'm happy about that now.<br />
<br />
So, as of right now, it looks like the future may be fairly smooth sailing. There may be some rough waters ahead as our daughter enters adolescence, and menopause sounds like a blast , but for this moment, I'm optimistic. And that seems like a pretty good place to leave things.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-8886104293305934042010-01-12T09:29:00.000-05:002010-01-12T09:29:55.956-05:00Today, I am peevish about...... relatively little, really.<br />
<br />
It's midterm week here at my school, so I have students taking tests and generally behaving in the mornings, and then afternoons for grading with no students. Granted, I have a metric shit-ton of papers to get through, so I can be righteously peevish about that. It's still a pretty sweet schedule.<br />
<br />
I also get to go out to lunch with some of my colleagues, which I usually enjoy. The work-husband is usually in fine form over lunch, as is my new work-boyfriend (OMG, hello? I've somehow picked up a work boyfriend - a 27-year old flirt who has relatively few social boundaries and a thing for "older women." Does that mean I'm cheating on my work husband? And wait - I'm now an "older woman?!" Fuck me running! Oh, the tangled web we weave...). Plus, I have my favorite girlfriend teachers around if I get my stuff done, so it's all fun and games by Friday.<br />
<br />
So, no peeves here today, really. Hope your day is relatively peeve-free, too.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-47328085561095453932010-01-07T22:56:00.000-05:002010-01-07T22:56:03.734-05:00Today, I am peevish about...... the fact that I have a cold. Again.<br />
<br />
It started as a tickle in my throat, then a chesty cough, and now congestion everywhere. My head is a snot factory, to which my nose is the spigot. I have lost my senses of taste and smell, and I'm sure I have Zombie Breath of the Undead. You think that's redundant? Nope, merely uber-descriptive.<br />
<br />
It's not as though this was the first cold of the season, either. I was sick over Thanksgiving, up until a few days before Christmas. Then, I caught this beauty just after we rang in the New Year. W.T.F?!<br />
<br />
I would really like to catch a break and get some immunity from these farking miserable colds. 'Scuse me, now, as I go gnaw on some vitamin C.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-85505897525305818072010-01-06T10:29:00.000-05:002010-01-06T10:29:03.900-05:00Today, I'm peevish about...... my trousers.<br />
<br />
They are a size XS (Extra Small) yet they are at least two inches too long. Honestly, I'm not <strong><em>that</em> </strong>short!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-40187851788612089522009-12-31T16:09:00.002-05:002009-12-31T16:23:12.224-05:00Moving into the New YearSo, here we all are, perched on the precipice of a new year. A brand new year, full of promise and possibilities, that's just itching to get started - a blank calendar ready to be filled with appointments, memories, dates, and events.<br /><br />The WCM and I had an epic argument about a week ago. It was the most powerful argument of our entire marriage, indeed, because the marriage itself hinged on that argument. It lasted two days. Those were tense, miserable days indeed. I am not a confrontational person by nature. I tend to pull back and wait things out - not the best strategy when dealing with my bullish spouse, who will make a big noise, pawing and stamping, charging to get his way. This time, though, I stood my ground and got what I needed. I said my piece - reiterated it, restated it, rephrased it until it was <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">completely</span></span> understood - and finally won my concessions.<br /><br />We will be starting therapy this year. We need it. I will no longer accept coming in last in my husband's attention. He will endeavor to remember that <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">intimacy</span></span> in marriage is as important as <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">companionship</span></span>. Without the former, one might as well have a roommate.<br /><br />Peevish Place will be starting out 2010 at the bottom of the hill. It's a good place to start, in my opinion, as one can only climb up.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-68135527967077940342009-12-23T11:03:00.003-05:002009-12-23T11:26:09.672-05:00Choices and ChangesI've made no secret that I've been having troubles with the WCM lately - mostly because I refuse to accept that what I've currently got is going to suffice for the rest of my life. There are choices to be made, and changes that come with them.<br /><br />One of the things that I've always believed is that people don't change who they are. You must accept them for who they are and not think that you can change their personalities, their appearance, or any of their less-than-perfect aspects. Sure, they can try to change what you don't like, but when they do, you run the risk of them resenting you for it. The WCM and I have embroiled ourselves in a bit of a power struggle, where I think I've been the one doing all the changing and accommodating, and I find myself resenting him for it. I also resent that after all the things I've changed for him, there is always something else he wants me to change, something else that's <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">wrong</span></span> with me and I need to fix, before I'll become acceptable. And lastly, I resent that he expects me to do all the changing, and won't honor the one simple request that I've made at least once a year for the last 18 years. It's a request that most men wouldn't mind in the least. I dare say, most men that have been married 20 years would be <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">thrilled</span></span> that their wife was making this request. But then, the WCM is not most men.<br /><br />I played a very dangerous game last month. I went out to a bar with a friend and flirted. A lot. I collected phone numbers from very interested men. I heard all kinds of ridiculous flattery, drank lovely coctails that I didn't have to pay for, and had a lot of fun.<br /><br />At the end of the night, when I was throwing the phone numbers away - because at the heart of it all, I wouldn't do that to the WCM, even though <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">some</span></span> of them were <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">REALLY</span></span> tempting... - I couldn't help but hear that cynical bitch that lives in the back of my mind as she snarked "well hell, honey, <span style="font-weight: bold;">there</span> were at least <span style="font-style: italic;">seven</span> men that you wouldn't have to change shit for."<br /><br />I honestly believe I've reached my breaking point. There are choices and changes in store for me in 2010. I just hope that I can live with them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-79593726362325786162009-12-10T20:20:00.002-05:002009-12-10T20:50:24.332-05:00Heart DogI was never a dog person, much preferring cats. Who wouldn't prefer sleek feline independence to slavish canine slobbering? Cats are much neater and far less demanding than dogs. A cat is never going to wake you up at 3:30 in the morning because it has to pee. A cat won't bug you for a game of fetch, barking at you endlessly to throw the frisbee, Throw the Frisbee, THROWTHEFRISBEE!!!!!!!!! No, indeed. A cat has way too much dignity to lower itself to ask you for anything. Cats are cool.<br /><br />Imagine the surprise felt by my family when the WCM and I went and got ourselves a puppy. It was September 1996, shortly after a shocking and emotionally traumatic miscarriage. I needed desperately to mother something, anything, to help heal the huge hole left in my heart from losing a baby I'd barely known existed but had wanted with every fiber of my being. The WCM suggested a puppy.<br /><br />I'd long loved the look of the big-eared, short-legged Welsh Corgi. Having found a breeder, I learned that she had only one puppy available: a little black-headed tricolor boy. We went to visit him that night, and I fell instantly in love. He was a charmer - playful, affectionate, loved to cuddle. The WCM wasn't exactly convinced, as he wanted a larger dog - a Lab or a Shepherd - but he caved instantly when I found out that this puppy and I shared a birthday.<br /><br />We had to name him after a dance, according to the breeder, so we named him Electric Slide and called him Slider. He became my firstborn, my furry son, my heart dog. I taught him to catch treats out of the air, to play fetch with a frisbee, and to sit on command. He used to snuggle up on my lap and fall asleep as a puppy, and would always come over if I sat on the floor, giving me his belly to scratch. He used to love riding in the front seat of the car. Too short to get his head out the window, he'd press his nose up against one of the air vents instead. <br /><br />As he got older, we got him a pet - another corgi that we named Zippy - so he wouldn't be lonely while we weren't home. Zippy's a trip. Where Slider thinks he's a furry human, Zippy knows he's a <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">dog.</span></span> Make no mistake, Zippy's an <span style="font-style: italic;">animal</span>, and he's happy to be one. For ten years, they have run the house together, and I have loved every minute of it. I, who was never a dog person.<br /><br />Slider is now thirteen and a half years old. He's got arthritis, has gone deaf, and is going blind. Today, we found out conclusively that he has lymphoma and hasn't got much longer to live. I do not know what I am going to do when I have to take him for that final ride in the car. I can't stop crying.<br /><br />My heart hurts.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-58969242109103160382009-12-08T12:07:00.002-05:002009-12-08T12:43:15.225-05:00MirrorsShe was a small child, dark haired, with big eyes. More used to speaking to adults than to other children, her speech often surprised grown-ups, as she used words that to them, sometimes, were unfamiliar. The playground was a strange place for her, and negotiating those first friendships wasn't easy. She didn't speak the language that the other kids rattled off so fluently. School was a place that she went during the day, where she got to go to art and music classes, had to learn boring math, and was always sent to the library during reading and spelling time, as her own reading level was several grades above the rest of the class. There, she would pore endlessly over the stacks, losing herself in new and different worlds, inventing her own, authoring her childish fantasies in volumes bound with construction paper and yarn.<br /><br />When things interested her, she was very involved in them - to the point of leading the group work, bullying the others into doing things her way. When she was not interested, however, you often found her ignoring the task at hand, staring out of the window daydreaming, or lost, once again, in a book. Her parents, feeling she needed structure, provided lessons of all sorts - ballet, piano, gymnastics, girl scouts. She did all with some degree of success, ultimately discontinuing all but piano. She was good at it, and it provided her with some degree of identity - The Girl Who's Good At Music.<br /><br />Her parents, still unsatisfied with her inconsistency, had her tested psychologically. The tests revealed above-average intelligence and an eye for details, but no more. She had a very vivid imagination, and needed to be motivated to learn what didn't interest her. Learning for learning's sake was not something she thirsted for.<br /><br />This little girl grew into a woman, married, and had a child who is almost a clone of herself. With a few differences, such as more ability and interest in math and art and less in reading, her child's elementary school experience is mirroring her own.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Today, I took Miss Peanut to a psychologist to be tested for Attention Deficit Disorder - something that they really didn't know about when I was a child. Her last three teachers have all suggested, some more gently than others, that she should be tested. I finally caved, knowing the kind of child <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">I</span></span> was, and knowing just how much she is like me. It's been very difficult for me to do this - nobody wants to think that there could be anything wrong with their precious perfect angel. In this, I am no exception. I was prepared, though, to hear the worst. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised.<br /><br />The psychologist asked, after interviewing both me and Miss Peanut, then Peanut on her own, if I'd ever had her intelligence level tested, as she seemed to be off the charts (in a good way!). She said that without further testing, her diagnosis at this point would be inconclusive, but that it could be that Miss Peanut does indeed have some ADD. This, when combined with an overactive imagination and high intelligence, leads her to be distracted in class when she's bored. Having heard that countless times from parents of students (and having mentally rolled my eyes <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">every. single. time.</span></span>) I felt compelled to point out that even if the work is boring, she needs to do it and understand it without the distraction of ADD symptoms. The psychologist agreed, and we're going to explore further testing, to either rule it in or out.<br /><br />It's an interesting nature versus nurture question for me, though. I've been raising Miss Peanut in a much more open and much less strict environment than the General raised me. Mr. Peevish and I are still married (for better or for worse, it seems), where my parents were divorced before I reached Miss Peanut's current age. She is an only child, where I had a pesky younger brother. I went to private school, and she does not. Yet, we are, it seems, still as alike as we look..Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-74431578531294632122009-12-02T21:14:00.003-05:002009-12-02T21:38:31.786-05:00EndingsI've never been so happy to see a month end. This past November was one of the worst months of my life, and I've lived a few doozies, let me tell you.<br /><br />I missed a very important deadline in the academic world, thus ending my streak of always having my grades in on time to date. I was officially called upon the carpet for it and have officially apologized to parents and students alike. Safe to say, I will never make that mistake again.<br /><br />Also ending this month was any free time that I ever had - now with another person hanging around the house, an adolescent person who needs a ride to and from work, swim practice, and school, I've found I've less time to indulge in my afternoon winding-down rituals.<br /><br />Scarily, almost ending this month was my marriage. For nearly 20 years now, my union with the WCM has been stable - boring at times, irritating as sand in your swimsuit at others, but always stable. It was rocked hard this month, and the sad part about that is that <span style="font-style: italic;">he doesn't even know it.</span> Suffice it to say that I should have a fucking Oscar on my mantelpiece for the acting that I can do. Believe me when I tell you that he knows what the problem is. He just doesn't know the magnitude to which it affects me. I've told him. Repeatedly. He just. doesn't. get. it.<br /><br />Lastly, a few of the illusions I've had about myself have ended. I've had the chance to look clearly at myself in the mirror and examine the parts of me (physical and not) that have been giving me <span style="font-style: italic;">agita</span> for a while. I've accepted that I'll never wear a bikini, but that I can look damned sexy with the right lingerie. I've accepted that I'll probably never find what I'm looking for within my marriage, but I don't know what I want to do about that at this point. I've accepted that I could and should work a little harder at my job, but am not sure what I'm going to have to give up in order to do that.<br /><br />So many endings without subsequent beginnings. No wonder November was bleak.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-2607206957341443422009-11-14T16:30:00.002-05:002009-11-14T16:49:06.161-05:00Friends and laughterI have a long road ahead of me, teaching this new course. Already, I've had some bumps on that road, and will now have to redouble my efforts just to stay on target. I know that this uncertainty about my abilities has played a part in my depression this last month.<br /><br />For my whole life, I've both judged myself and been judged on what I can do - my worth was always measured by my intelligence. Twisted as it sounds, it was one of the things that allowed me not to care about how I looked: as long as I was "worthy" inside my skin, it really didn't matter what the outside of me looked like. It reinforced my belief that putting emphasis on one's looks made one shallow. I've since achieved a slightly less skewed balance on that viewpoint. Because my self-perceived worth has been challenged this school year, I've dropped into this depression.<br /><br />Today, I spent the afternoon surrounded by friends at a bridal shower. Tonight, I'll be helping another friend celebrate his upcoming 40th birthday. I'm thinking some friends and laughter will be just what the doctor ordered to drag my out of this.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-11264840774980588372009-11-13T17:21:00.002-05:002009-11-13T17:37:29.835-05:00On the vergeFor the last month, I've felt as though I've been constantly on the verge of tears. I usually only get this way a couple of days out of the month - why, hello, Aunt Flo. So miserable to see you. - but this went far beyond those days. This was systemic. It affected my work and my relationships.<br /><br />I'm familiar with depression and how it feels - like being constantly shoved underwater, unable to surface through the thick barrier of ice above you. I've been there. This is similar.<br /><br />I've deliberately kept myself busy, attempting to push through the feelings and come out on the other side of this mini-depression. That has failed, colossally. I've tried to smother those feelings in chocolate. That was a major disappointment. I've tried losing myself in the internet. Nope, didn't happen.<br /><br />So now I have to feel these feelings - and just <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">what</span></span> am I supposed to do with them?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-79712989278330280362009-11-12T22:20:00.003-05:002009-11-12T22:31:45.056-05:00Enough is as good as a feastRecently, Mr. Peevish and I adopted a 16-year old.<br /><br />Not formally, you know. Just, informally, as her mother is having trouble providing some of the basic requirements of parenthood - things like transportation to and from school every day, meals, and emotional support. Her mother, <span style="font-weight: bold;">the lawyer</span>, is doing interesting things like locking her child out of the house, not allowing her to eat anything unless she pays for it herself, and refusing to take her child to school every day. So, I've pretty much just adopted the kid.<br /><br />I pick her up for school every morning and drop her off at one of her <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">two</span></span> part-time jobs after school. On days when she doesn't work, she comes to our house for dinner and to do her homework on my computer (and to raise her crops on Facebook's Farmtown, but hey, we all play there, right?).<br /><br />She's a good kid. And I have enough of everything - food, support, time - that I can be generous with what I have. For that, I am thankful. I'm glad that I have the luxury of being able to give to those who need it. I hope that it makes a difference for her.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-86429615244683287422009-07-25T15:17:00.000-04:002009-07-25T15:17:00.658-04:00And what does Big T eat with Mac and Cheese?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQevblothpHW8uQZquff8DXanDtn_lScc4QeVocJAtvl3vsGPpjr5fFTCc5qtbTqMXI9Dqs4gdVTWARpHOlORCOJAa2uJ_0zvUsU8qW5XZD7WDm3xnqMNGUGLvScHqXGQ2sZoI/s1600-h/mostly+food+037.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQevblothpHW8uQZquff8DXanDtn_lScc4QeVocJAtvl3vsGPpjr5fFTCc5qtbTqMXI9Dqs4gdVTWARpHOlORCOJAa2uJ_0zvUsU8qW5XZD7WDm3xnqMNGUGLvScHqXGQ2sZoI/s400/mostly+food+037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362112365276437026" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />That's right, y'all: Stewed Tomatoes. Big T is a former colleague of mine who was always ribbed over the loudspeaker about his "favorite vegetable" when my pal Hoedje read the day's lunch menu to the school. Me, I'm not so much a fan of stewed tomatoes, but the WCM has been clamoring for them ever since the tomato plants began to yield. S, I went out to the garden yesterday morning and plucked some green peppers and some tomatoes - Roma tomatoes and some grape tomatoes, too, since they were ripe.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvuigXgks3Hxbg2Wh0JmlYQMHmqxVSeDWpAu0Pscnd-liP8wv4JQrkeW6FHqB2oYC9uYHMIKohpyk5MYVCiSmNLb5Q5eSbwkfkZpX1l6r30UKtWdOLeqXdJY3c-hdNcP6lqV2/s1600-h/mostly+food+011.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvuigXgks3Hxbg2Wh0JmlYQMHmqxVSeDWpAu0Pscnd-liP8wv4JQrkeW6FHqB2oYC9uYHMIKohpyk5MYVCiSmNLb5Q5eSbwkfkZpX1l6r30UKtWdOLeqXdJY3c-hdNcP6lqV2/s400/mostly+food+011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362109039062772450" border="0" /></a><br />First, I filled my saucepan with water and started it boiling. Then, I cut a shallow X on the bottom of each tomato, because who wants stewed tomatoes with peels in them? Ew! I gave each tomato a quick bath in the boiling water - about 30 seconds each, really - then plopped them into an ice bath.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5cAar7cf_CnmF1_qp2-Pb7EB-rwsVX1aS0DEuWGufddRY5_MRCehmS6_O5C0l5lDJ3x4iVUjMQAd4lvojfdDAq4Bqeu4mZA0WWHQ6gb9EGZ0un4k3FqxX9RXAOmxMxuUZM4U-/s1600-h/mostly+food+012.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5cAar7cf_CnmF1_qp2-Pb7EB-rwsVX1aS0DEuWGufddRY5_MRCehmS6_O5C0l5lDJ3x4iVUjMQAd4lvojfdDAq4Bqeu4mZA0WWHQ6gb9EGZ0un4k3FqxX9RXAOmxMxuUZM4U-/s400/mostly+food+012.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362109719842859602" border="0" /></a><br />While I was letting them chill, I started cutting up my peppers and onions. I needed about a third of a cup of each.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAySQMQVesO3RBPtvrA_jumCKYIqmfXM-TX4kAEq4j3yYXVHpw_RHjQ6vcyLHMQSY3bvofl3nXbzQ0hlrZi_9W93yrhyphenhyphen-nAtesKQtOIZ4K5t3Dx7gybd0TuckciDEIfCWCtsNy/s1600-h/mostly+food+035.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAySQMQVesO3RBPtvrA_jumCKYIqmfXM-TX4kAEq4j3yYXVHpw_RHjQ6vcyLHMQSY3bvofl3nXbzQ0hlrZi_9W93yrhyphenhyphen-nAtesKQtOIZ4K5t3Dx7gybd0TuckciDEIfCWCtsNy/s400/mostly+food+035.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362110536667347282" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I had way more green pepper than I needed, so I slid the rest into a freezer bag and let them chill with their previously frozen brethren. I always overestimate the amount of green pepper I'm going to need, and I hate to see it go to waste. So I stick it in the freezer for when the price goes up over the winter and I'm going to want some for my tomato sauce.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOq9lNmcClAmsZE3ssoCPe8ickfMQCgkgpNVOzHkCLKE_OXBQ2a0Im4CRVUpDBkLV6-k6GnGru6CN6y9m6J5e5nOuonDdH8_t1TAVmPtq6w-hy8DKqNkqqzFDD3CYnnE7G4F5v/s1600-h/mostly+food+036.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOq9lNmcClAmsZE3ssoCPe8ickfMQCgkgpNVOzHkCLKE_OXBQ2a0Im4CRVUpDBkLV6-k6GnGru6CN6y9m6J5e5nOuonDdH8_t1TAVmPtq6w-hy8DKqNkqqzFDD3CYnnE7G4F5v/s400/mostly+food+036.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362110735488416402" border="0" /></a>Thrifty, eh?<br /><br />So I dumped this into my saucepan with some olive oil, salt, and pepper to get it all softened and flavorful while I went about peeling the tomatoes. The hot bath followed by the ice water shock allowed them to slip their skins easily, and I was left with a bowlful of plump rosy naked 'maters.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGoTQAo9KE8hsUeUndFA-t7BzrYG5E5GfdMgUx4WXyhtpR6eUfoddpZGIJ8SWq6TsYHbYZlBDT0nKr4cip4jdNMO0rxNpSAR7O8w-159FZ25iVjfT0MGylESsi0-9NqhzCjYa8/s1600-h/mostly+food+024.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGoTQAo9KE8hsUeUndFA-t7BzrYG5E5GfdMgUx4WXyhtpR6eUfoddpZGIJ8SWq6TsYHbYZlBDT0nKr4cip4jdNMO0rxNpSAR7O8w-159FZ25iVjfT0MGylESsi0-9NqhzCjYa8/s400/mostly+food+024.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362111367966747202" border="0" /></a><br />I cut the Roma tomatoes in cross sections and halved the grape tomatoes. I dumped them into the pot with the softened pepper and onion, and added some dried basil and oregano. If I'd had any fresh herbs, I'd have added them instead, but alas, I was without.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKWzwbTymI1ICxA-qJBYD-xvGaTLaWFN4uZBl5ngIkmTREzyYGuGuSw9fE6awlsgo1Jon9ZPujgO7CfYAg8vFTmFaFemgfJChx3vlLTuMrVCHFC7HmxnUiIGPBMift4qkUDAd/s1600-h/mostly+food+038.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKWzwbTymI1ICxA-qJBYD-xvGaTLaWFN4uZBl5ngIkmTREzyYGuGuSw9fE6awlsgo1Jon9ZPujgO7CfYAg8vFTmFaFemgfJChx3vlLTuMrVCHFC7HmxnUiIGPBMift4qkUDAd/s400/mostly+food+038.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362111971354455970" border="0" /></a><br />Aren't they pretty? I let them stew for another 5-10 minutes, and they got nice and soupy. The WCM was exceedingly complimentary, so I think this recipe's a winner.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-46369095130720551852009-07-24T20:15:00.000-04:002009-07-23T21:07:39.205-04:00Cheesiness!One of my mother's best Sunday dinners came from cans and boxes - it was better for all of us that way, as there were clear instructions, times and temperatures given, and very little room for improvisation allowed. She'd make a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, dump a can of stewed tomatoes into it, and boil a few hot dogs. Voila! Dinner!<br /><br />Quite frankly, I learned how to cook because I have a strong survival instinct and refined tastebuds. Thankfully, I was only subjected to my mother's "cooking" two weekends every month, since I lived with the General and my stepmother. Not-quite-feigning an interest in all things culinary, I pored over my mother's cookbooks and gently took those reins out of her hands. Sometimes, I'll still find myself cooking dinner if I'm invited over to her house. She's a piss-poor cook, but she's quite clever, huh?<br /><br />Anyhow, I make my macaroni and cheese from scratch, since it just tastes so much better that way and isn't loaded with mono-whatever and hydrolyzed-whatsit. It's also quite speedy, if you can plan it.<br /><br />Tip #1: when you're cooking pasta, cook the whole pound whether you need it or not. Once cooked, put whatever you're not using into a gallon sized ziploc bag, add a glug of olive or canola oil, shake it about to coat the pasta, and throw it in the freezer. When you need cooked pasta to add to hot sauce sometime, you take the bag out of the freezer, empty the frozen brick of pasta into the colander and run hot water over it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJV8lGbwn5ixQ8KiquiK8WbsdgPsRzXLvZ8QCMmGs6rLgD1K9dusgP_TIyDIu3XTCnJgvX3IKCylNi93f3PN9f4nr0rd6l7Nfy7-6R_-pQr1-EAaB6BT3eUj7_sTexGSXr1WU/s1600-h/mostly+food+025.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJV8lGbwn5ixQ8KiquiK8WbsdgPsRzXLvZ8QCMmGs6rLgD1K9dusgP_TIyDIu3XTCnJgvX3IKCylNi93f3PN9f4nr0rd6l7Nfy7-6R_-pQr1-EAaB6BT3eUj7_sTexGSXr1WU/s400/mostly+food+025.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361825782412078866" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It thaws in a flash!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1YiTEsbdS1G-ZT4nlPomH1TVkoKdhrv2EMFyaIy-N8ALiRk6Q-4pp8W1L40C2adCvRM3ivaFjfWH2vzGLIRVje4U8uyuiMG5V9zUyRHsfttXEJn2xqMuy9D6ff9BljSlVE2-P/s1600-h/mostly+food+026.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1YiTEsbdS1G-ZT4nlPomH1TVkoKdhrv2EMFyaIy-N8ALiRk6Q-4pp8W1L40C2adCvRM3ivaFjfWH2vzGLIRVje4U8uyuiMG5V9zUyRHsfttXEJn2xqMuy9D6ff9BljSlVE2-P/s400/mostly+food+026.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361826147559058994" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Tip #2: when you're making cheese sauce, do as I did and make a monster batch. Freeze the leftover sauce. You can thaw it in the microwave, dump it on the pasta, stir, then bake. You've got homemade Mac & Cheese in under 30 minutes, which includes the baking time.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsNS5BaazFNGqQJscQxMMp1mXHpDMiGsaGOYEWvKrM-j09BFa1x5jykQfL434sq69Bblh2syJROHNUugcVgYda6MayH3RHztbjG5m1uZbNW7sU7NAzZ6a-4SxRDqvD7YGLb0z1/s1600-h/mostly+food+033.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsNS5BaazFNGqQJscQxMMp1mXHpDMiGsaGOYEWvKrM-j09BFa1x5jykQfL434sq69Bblh2syJROHNUugcVgYda6MayH3RHztbjG5m1uZbNW7sU7NAzZ6a-4SxRDqvD7YGLb0z1/s400/mostly+food+033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361826440312224370" border="0" /></a><br />Tip #3: when you go to Costco or whatever huge warehouse store you may frequent, and you see the packages of ham steaks, don't think "Jeez Louise! Who the hell is going to eat <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">that</span></span> freakin' much ham?!" Instead, throw one into your cart. You've got 3 ham steaks in there - that's 3 mac & cheeses, or 2 mac & cheeses and one ham & cabbage soup, or breakfast for a family of 9 minus the eggs and homefries. Just buy them. They're lovely.<br /><br />Ok, tips done, time for some fun! Ingredients - Half & half (not necessary, but nice!), milk, cheese, flour, salt, Colman's dry mustard. Note the number of open bags of cheese I have. It would seem that instead of looking for an open bag, a certain spouse instead just finds any old bag of cheese and rips it open. So, if you have one of these spouses, you may find yourself in a similar situation. This is a great way to use up all of those bags. I'm all about space consolidation.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjughlUB56rCqNFfu_KCH6VOrgHwWDs_Potvvnx77KyYgLPhVbUW8phOD-MX7ZfbedHqCcCOWnImU-D33ZdeeeMlo-sXFzPIRA7b-mHrD978nOGlx-pqNyCD6U4pgEjsCornuxI/s1600-h/mostly+food+018.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjughlUB56rCqNFfu_KCH6VOrgHwWDs_Potvvnx77KyYgLPhVbUW8phOD-MX7ZfbedHqCcCOWnImU-D33ZdeeeMlo-sXFzPIRA7b-mHrD978nOGlx-pqNyCD6U4pgEjsCornuxI/s400/mostly+food+018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361818463588396466" border="0" /></a><br /><br />So, first, melt you some butter. Plop a whole stick of the stuff into your saucepan.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGEUGMb3gDaxpx7HAAFh5h9ktwbL-pTsywPnwOld-nMPeBBHdUHBcRmf7pf6WBtyHWgI8AmRTtudwWQavyoxXrREhll16JFN67P8D-irKUjPLlfb3YO2MKno0nvQzmD3KGtKXM/s1600-h/mostly+food+017.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGEUGMb3gDaxpx7HAAFh5h9ktwbL-pTsywPnwOld-nMPeBBHdUHBcRmf7pf6WBtyHWgI8AmRTtudwWQavyoxXrREhll16JFN67P8D-irKUjPLlfb3YO2MKno0nvQzmD3KGtKXM/s400/mostly+food+017.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361817590955600786" border="0" /></a><br />Let it melt all the way, then dump in 8 tablespoons of flour, one teaspoon of salt, and one teaspoon of Colman's dry mustard. Whisk the bejesus out of this, because you don't want it to burn!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7QhPRH9DIkc41uxTU3RSJaHubhFFgpZLpxsCBKx8DXKVcfl0YbFsyWGKMEBXEoXczHiH7nEX4hjV9mlcoaLcBzdHqHd17dW_OuBPQOTG42XOA4348wyk-zNoA4CRUZrJyf3n4/s1600-h/mostly+food+020.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7QhPRH9DIkc41uxTU3RSJaHubhFFgpZLpxsCBKx8DXKVcfl0YbFsyWGKMEBXEoXczHiH7nEX4hjV9mlcoaLcBzdHqHd17dW_OuBPQOTG42XOA4348wyk-zNoA4CRUZrJyf3n4/s400/mostly+food+020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361819578491223618" border="0" /></a><br />Then, add 4 cups of the white stuff. I used one cup half & half and 3 cups of milk. You can do it however you like, though. Go wild. Once again, stir it like crazy, otherwise you're either going to have lumps or you're going to burn it. Neither scenario is desirable. So stir. You'll be stirring until this comes to a near boil and gets quite thick. I recommend using a whisk, since it eliminates the lumps better than a wooden spoon.<br /><br />Now, take it off the heat and dump in as much cheese as you think it can handle. I thought my bechamel could handle about 6 cups of cheese. I was right.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh05lk18bJYJmaeApr9dpqL7VOLb_Uoxbsmhv6dgGvjrJhJoQakNkYQXKbEMLG-63dkc5H_eOZCNGw5bUSFSJJBYeC_1xdqiQ0-7oxIhe2BX_GAQezIiTMltvhrgh1Ub-jbrUF7/s1600-h/mostly+food+022.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh05lk18bJYJmaeApr9dpqL7VOLb_Uoxbsmhv6dgGvjrJhJoQakNkYQXKbEMLG-63dkc5H_eOZCNGw5bUSFSJJBYeC_1xdqiQ0-7oxIhe2BX_GAQezIiTMltvhrgh1Ub-jbrUF7/s400/mostly+food+022.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361820149602877442" border="0" /></a><br />Once again, sing it with me, you've got to STIR this shit until it's smooth and velvety, because lumpy cheese sauce is nasty. Once it looks like this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht9RAs_L4XRQhkyyrYBLwfu55GXGTWqfimCOMJ1DqVMXhNusK9lgVuJQ8yEIzMVqp5_uCPVHQuVg6tjwROs0-_xw_kNXskVveYHLs29Ocw1d4RfmEgmXFtdi6Ek1BJHQefFYUj/s1600-h/mostly+food+023.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht9RAs_L4XRQhkyyrYBLwfu55GXGTWqfimCOMJ1DqVMXhNusK9lgVuJQ8yEIzMVqp5_uCPVHQuVg6tjwROs0-_xw_kNXskVveYHLs29Ocw1d4RfmEgmXFtdi6Ek1BJHQefFYUj/s400/mostly+food+023.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361820670560488946" border="0" /></a>then you've got something.<br /><br />So you reconstitute your pasta that you'd made sometime last week, easy peasy. If you're a vegetarian, you can add the cheese sauce and continue living your virtuous meat-free life. If you're an unrepentant carnivore like me and cannot imagine a meal that doesn't feature some slain animal carcass, then continue on to the next bit.<br /><br />Ham! You remember that ham steak? Cube it, then throw it into your casserole with the pasta, cover the whole mess with about a third of that cheese sauce, give it a stir, sprinkle it with more cheese, cover it with a sheet of aluminum foil, and bung it into a 350 degree oven for about 30 minutes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DuTJlCMgtvo_JaIzSceFIGW6yucTSzOWZItKkPOgkDLIJ7AHOOzoHu2D8-7Kr2w2_3Ns5sOPad3RTyQByLn7Pg7fRGh3ejPetrrp4AzROTvnVqRHO_BZrHdBQeJkGfbvltQJ/s1600-h/mostly+food+041.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DuTJlCMgtvo_JaIzSceFIGW6yucTSzOWZItKkPOgkDLIJ7AHOOzoHu2D8-7Kr2w2_3Ns5sOPad3RTyQByLn7Pg7fRGh3ejPetrrp4AzROTvnVqRHO_BZrHdBQeJkGfbvltQJ/s400/mostly+food+041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361824590023010674" border="0" /></a>This was before Miss Peanut and the WCM went back for seconds. There's enough left for Miss Peanut to have a meal of it tomorrow. The WCM accompanied his Mac & Cheese with my homemade Stewed Tomatoes. I'm going to save that recipe for tomorrow. Lord knows, I've little else to report on!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-65496626819961328842009-07-23T19:29:00.007-04:002009-07-23T20:13:11.533-04:00Ratatouille<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOE-NtgOnm3TObAm_fPcP7-91pimTmBt-4i6djFDqkM9Eo9XhE0AR-Ui3ZKJlZHM69cqCl67T2MxRWjtKUlZSwbiyOSVHE5E4Z8olrpz1rRvrkL7z7B8FWh_gyRH5nS_sIhuEm/s1600-h/mostly+food+002.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOE-NtgOnm3TObAm_fPcP7-91pimTmBt-4i6djFDqkM9Eo9XhE0AR-Ui3ZKJlZHM69cqCl67T2MxRWjtKUlZSwbiyOSVHE5E4Z8olrpz1rRvrkL7z7B8FWh_gyRH5nS_sIhuEm/s400/mostly+food+002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361801990034879842" border="0" /></a><br />So, I've been telling you all about the lovely garden produce I've been harvesting from my garden. I figured it was time to show you some. After watching Remy the rat assemble a beautiful <span style="font-style: italic;">ratatouille</span> in the movie by the same name, I thought that, as I had a smallish skinny eggplant, a zucchini, and several tomatoes, that I could do approximately the same thing. So I did.<br /><br />Now, I have to tell you that the ratatouille of my childhood was always an aromatic soupy mess, served alongside some kind of meat. It was not a meal in and of itself. Nor was it <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">ever</span></span> so artistically arranged - the General had better things to do with his time than fiddle with the placement of vegetables in crockery.<br /><br />Be this as it may, I have to avow that half my intent in arranging it thusly was to entice Miss Peanut to try some. She's a picky little thing, turning her nose up at all vegetables that are not asparagus. Let me tell you something else: it did not work. It wasn't half bad, though, so I'll share with you how I made it, just in case you find yourself with a free afternoon, some veg, and a burning desire to arrange circular veggie slices with mathematical precision, shall I? Ok, then.<br /><br />You'll need one skinny eggplant, one skinny zucchini, and about 3 skinny plum tomatoes. They should all have roughly the same diameter. It will make your life easier if you plan it this way. In my case, serendipity played a part, since that's how they grew.<br /><br />You'll also need one large-ish shallot, a clove or two of garlic, kosher or Maldon salt, freshly ground black pepper, a few healthy glugs of olive oil, and an ample handful of <span style="font-style: italic;">herbes de Provence.</span><br /><br />Peel your eggplant. Whether you peel the zucchini is completely a matter of preference. I prefer not to, so I didn't. I'm lazy. Slice all the veg in damn-near paper thin slices, making neat cross sections. Put the zucchini - and only the zucchini - in a large bowl.<br /><br />Finely chop the shallot and mince the garlic. Throw this in the bowl with the zucchini. Add the salt, pepper, <span style="font-style: italic;">herbes de Provence</span>, and olive oil, and toss well, making sure that all the slices have some specks adhering to them. Oh, and since you're wondering why I'm picking on the zucchini here and not the eggplant, it's because eggplant is like an oil sponge. You put the oil on the eggplant and you're going to wind up emptying the entire bottle in there. It's not a good idea!<br /><br />So then, into the casserole. A slice of eggplant, herbed zucchini, then tomato. Repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeatrepeatrepeat until you've either filled the casserole or run out of vegetables. If you've got any residual specks of herby goodness left in your zucchini bowl, scoop them out with the side of your hand and sprinkle them lovingly all over the assembled loveliness before you pop it into a 350 degree oven for about 30 minutes. If you were me, you'd throw some grated parmesan cheese over the whole deal after you take it out of the oven. But you're not me, so you'll do what you want.<br /><br />On the whole, I prefer the General's fragrant soupiness, but this is really pretty.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-75675732866884586532009-07-18T19:15:00.002-04:002009-07-18T19:23:58.152-04:00Facebook ate my brain...That damned Facebook done ate my brain! I spend waaaaay too much time there these days, frittering away my summer vacation.<br /><br />I've also been cooking and baking a lot, since our garden started producing vegetables - tomatoes, bell peppers, zucchini, and eggplant. Our blackberries are ripening now, the strawberries are flowering, and the raspberries are just putting out fruit. The fledgling fig tree has a few figs on it, but, as I am not a fig fan, I refuse to wax rhapsodic about them. I couldn't give a fig. (har, har, har... groan...)<br /><br />But mostly, I've been reading like a woman possessed and making ice cream. I've gone through a book a day for a whole month, pausing this last week to collect myself before launching into another spate of devouring pages. The ice cream, well, let me justify it this way: I have an ice cream maker, see? Why should I pay for inferior ice cream when I can make delicious additive-free confections at home?<br /><br />So far, I've made chocolate, vanilla, mint chocolate chip, cappuccino chip, and butter pecan. I've been all over <a href="http://www.foodgawker.com">foodgawker</a> for recipes - next up is peanut butter with chocolate covered peanuts and fudge swirls <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">or</span></span> fresh strawberry. I really don't know which one I'm going with, but whatever it is, I can guarantee that it won't last long in our house.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-82770304204566333072009-06-17T12:10:00.005-04:002009-06-17T12:34:32.979-04:00The Best Damn Apple Cake Ever.So, ever since my brother-in-law, AC, got divorced a year or so ago, my husband has taken to inviting him over for dinner every now and then. Yesterday, we had a surfeit of bratwurst, so the WCM invited AC over. I sauteed a lot of sliced onion, then simmered them with the bratwurst in lager for about 40 minutes. I made my very favorite red cabbage with bacon and goat cheese, and whipped up my late mother-in-law's famous mashed potatoes. That woman was a nasty piece of work sometimes, but she made ass-kicking mashed potatoes.<br /><br />So, the mind wandered a bit while I was mentally making preparations to produce this epicurian feast, and asked my consciousness what I was going to serve for dessert with this meal? Hmmm, said consciousness, how about an apple cake? You've got lots of apples to use up, why not make them even yummier with cake? Mind responded with a mental two-thumbs-up and we were all resolved that apple cake it was to be.<br /><br />So here's how it was accomplished:<br /><br />I preheated my oven to 350 degrees.<br /><br />Then, I took a stick of butter and melted it in my medium-sized frying pan. To this, I added six peeled, cored, sliced apples, and sauteed them for about 5 minutes. Then, I added one half cup of white sugar, 2 tablespoons of ground cinnamon, and one quarter cup of packed brown sugar, and let this bubble away for a while - about 15 minutes - until there was a lovely cinnamon caramel sauce. I turned the heat off, arranged the apples with two forks so that there was a single layer in a rough concentric-circle pattern, and prepared the cake batter.<br /><br />You need:<br /><br />1 stick of butter<br />1.5 c. sugar<br />1/2 c. canola oil<br />1 teaspoon vanilla<br /><br />3 eggs<br /><br />1/2 c. milk<br />1 teaspoon vinegar or lemon juice<br /><br />1.5 c. flour<br />1/4 teaspoon baking powder<br />1/2 teaspoon salt<br />dash ground cinnamon<br /><br />(See how those ingredients are separated? There's a reason for that!)<br /><br />Cream the first set of ingredients together until you've got a smooth mixture. Add the vinegar to the milk. Combine the last four ingredients together in a smallish bowl. Then, you're going to add these ingredients in a round-robin fashion in three batches: one egg, stir, a splash of milk, stir, a bit of flour, stir, and keep going until you've used up all your eggs, milk, and flour. (a normal person would've said to combine, alternating wet and dry ingredients, but y'all know that I'm not normal!)<br /><br />Pour the cake batter on top of the apples in the skillet and spread it out until it covers them completely. Put the whole shebang in the oven for about 40 minutes, or until the top's a golden crackly brown and you can stick a toothpick in the center of the cake and have it come out clean.<br /><br />Let the cake sit for about 15 minutes and try not to pick of the crunchy edges. I know, they're damn near irresistible, but you're going to have to try. Slap a platter on top of that skillet, flip it, and unmold the cake. Be careful, because the caramel on the bottom of the pan is still liquid and you don't want to scald yourself!<br /><br />Let it cool all of the way - or, if you're like me, most of the way - before slicing it up and devouring with with your choice of beverage. I recommend milk, personally, but it would pair wonderfully with tea (Earl Grey. Hot. Make it so!).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFI5ZNbmxI7dd5lXkbF18qOm3NtbfNJeU0Ih8yl7qwyOiXe2a8INQ-q88eLBYi0YEB3Mjk6He52H608QMCcJ9b3I8E1y_m3mJ_DHvV0QWYwXdM3cTM1s5XeLioS6REjZZDhxf7/s1600-h/Fossils,+Birthday+Party+092.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFI5ZNbmxI7dd5lXkbF18qOm3NtbfNJeU0Ih8yl7qwyOiXe2a8INQ-q88eLBYi0YEB3Mjk6He52H608QMCcJ9b3I8E1y_m3mJ_DHvV0QWYwXdM3cTM1s5XeLioS6REjZZDhxf7/s400/Fossils,+Birthday+Party+092.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348335373097643298" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-88408244420242533812009-06-10T20:41:00.003-04:002009-06-10T20:43:16.660-04:00Hey, didja hear that?Didja? Huh? Didja hear that?<br /><br />Listen very closely, now, as you'll soon hear it again.<br /><br />Wait for it...<br /><br />Here it comes...<br /><br />AAAAAaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..........<br /><br />Summer vacation is here.<br /><br />Tomorrow is a day where I have NOTHING to do. Nothing planned, nothing required beyond a few phone calls in the morning. NOTHING.<br /><br />I'm looking forward to it.<br /><br />So, how've you all been?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-3998796223199927322009-05-20T21:16:00.004-04:002009-05-20T21:58:33.705-04:00Small ChangeStandard disclaimer: not my real life, this is a strict work of fiction, from the fertile and twisted brain of a very horny woman...<br /><br />Usually I am the dominant one - the one who cannot sit still or wait to touch. I approach, reach out, capture and still with my body. Impatient to feel, craving the silken burn of his hands and lips, I rush to begin and take the aggressor's role. Rarely is satisfaction so pleasingly wrought as when I work for it thus. The control of it calls to me, the power and mastery of the situation fulfill me. Almost as rewarding as my own climax is the knowledge that I caused another's.<br /><br />This day, though, he made me wait. Not physically restrained, but held off by his regard and posture, I waited, wondering what lay unsaid between us. Head to the side, I stood in my delicate heels, attending his desire. An eyebrow arched, a devilish smile, his hands lifted and caged my jaw, angling my head and drawing me forward to meet his mouth. One hand slid further into my hair, firmly anchoring my mouth to his. The other hand traced down my back, pulling me closer to his promise of pleasure. My own hands flew to his shoulders, seeking balance, and searched for his shirt buttons, fumbling ineffectually at my attempts to uncover his body. Breaking the kiss, shaking his head, he murmured a playfully disapproving "no." He slid his hands around my waist and untied my dress. As it unfolded and slid noiselessly to the floor, he slipped my lacy camisole over my head, tossing it carelessly on the puddled dress.<br /><br />He stepped back to survey his work, and I ducked my head and fought to keep my hands by my sides instead of crossing them protectively over my scarred midriff. Two fingers on my chin raised my face. his gentle "stop it" rang loudly through my head - loud enough to straighten my spine and square my shoulders. "We'll keep the heels," he stated decisively. "Everything else goes." My eyes, shocked, flew up to his. Never had I bared myself completely to him. I had always covered part of myself. My fingers trembled as he stepped behind me to unhook my bra. As it slithered down my torso, he cupped my breasts from behind, feeling their weight, teasing their sensitive tips with his thumbs. My head fell back against his shoulder as I absorbed the caress. his lips cruised my shoulder up to my ear, leaving a tingling trail that tightened those peaks further.<br /><br />His palms flattened on my ribcage and slid inward and down, firmly pressing my soft abdomen, feeling the scarred ridges left there, holding me immobile. As his one hand quietly made its way under the elastic of my panties, the other cupped my jaw and twisted my head, granting him access to my mouth. I welcomed his tongue as I welcomed his long fingers, both thrusting inward, invading my body. My hips gyrated with the rhythm he set, brushing his hard length behind me. I sagged back against him as he withdrew his fingers, but jerked upright when he knotted his hand in my lacy underpants and ripped them from me.<br /><br />"The bed," he muttered and tilted his head toward the snowy duvet, soft as a cloud. Not sure of his intent, I perched my bottom on the edge of it. "Further back," he instructed softly. I watched, fascinated, unsure, as he sat on the edge of the bed and slid his hands from my ankles to my knees. As he parted them, arranging them akimbo, I fell back, supporting myself on my elbows. The delicate, tentative swipe of his tongue against my most sensitive flesh raised gooseflesh and pulled a moan from deep inside me. Murmurs, pleas, exhortations to the supernatural passed my lips in no random or coherent order. I could only feel his mouth and hands on me, lips sure and firm one second, soft and tender the next, slowly building the pressure within me.<br /><br />The burn began at my knees, slowly surrounding me in torpor. The slide of two long fingers inside me released the burn, and it streaked like wildfire up my legs, coalescing at the juncture of my thighs. My head thrashed on the pillow, my body convulsed helplessly, consumed completely by the stark, sheer pleasure he brought me. As I regained enough strength to lift my head and peer down at him, I saw more of that impish devilment in his eyes and wondered idly what more he could have in store for me...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-44136400305360878182009-05-09T21:05:00.002-04:002009-05-09T21:11:52.785-04:00RunawayWhoops!<br /><br />See the thing is, I got really busy recently. First, I took up this running thing (still not a fan, by the way), and then I got a social life with some visiting friends, and then I got sick (upper respiratory infection, ick!), then I found this trilogy of cowboy romances and just didn't even <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">turn on the computer</span></span> for, like 2 days, and do you know how many Facebook notifications you get if you don't log on for 2 days?<br /><br />And don't even let me mention how busy May is for me in school terms - and the last two weeks are killer, what with Senior Final exams, being a single parent for a weekend while the WCM goes searching for the preserved remains of deceased crustaceans in upstate New York, then regular final exams, then packing everything up, then getting my grades in, then finally, about the second week of June, just being able to lean back and go "AAaaaahaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh" with a tall glass of iced tea and a cookie.<br /><br />So, I'm ready to run away for a while and hope I don't wig out too badly before that blessed second week of June.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-55422468971634420312009-04-25T12:14:00.002-04:002009-04-25T12:37:53.300-04:00RunningIn the past, if you've been reading a while, you may have heard me wax rhapsodic over Pilates. I've enthused about the Wii fit, as well. I may even have penned a sonnet or two about walking, though it was more on the ability to do so than on any enjoyment received from such.<br /><br />Just recently, I've started running, as I want to do that 5 K. I can promise you, I believe, to <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">never </span></span>wax lyrical about the joys of running. Quite frankly, it's almost more than I can <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span>manage to get one foot in front of the other in a synchronized fashion and propel myself forwards into motion. I can just about run a quarter of a mile all at once now. While shamefully proud of this rather negligible accomplishment, I will tell you that the joy is only in the accomplishing it and not in the actually doing it.<br /><br />Frankly, I have always thought that the process of doing something - for a hobby, mind you, not professionally - was far more important than the end result. For me, I have always found more enjoyment in the creation of a scrapbook page than I ever have in regarding the finished page itself. The crocheting is more fun than smoothing the finished afghan on my lap, and the reading of the book, getting lost in the words and the story, are far more delectable than merely finishing the requisite number of pages.<br /><br />I am struggling, therefore, with running. I <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">want</span></span> to like it, as it's a very healthy habit that I'd like to be able to adopt. Many of my friends are running now, and I'd like, literally, to keep up with them. However, for the life of me, I can find no joy in <span style="font-weight: bold;">doing<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span>it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-59165501948719185442009-04-23T19:48:00.003-04:002009-04-23T20:16:00.663-04:00GTFO!!You know, sometimes I really wonder why certain people became teachers. They whine, bitch, moan, complain, kvetch, and kvell so damned much about every little stinking thing - the students included - that you don't half think they'd have made far better use of their lives doing something like, oh, selling insurance or cleaning the streets or scooping poop in public dog parks.<br /><br />See, there was this faculty meeting after school today. It was unusually long, as there've been a lot of issues raised recently regarding our governor's controversial wage cut for all state employees. People are understandably grumpy about it - after all, who in their right mind ever welcomes a ten percent reduction in salary? Yeah, that's right: nobody. However, there was one <strike>complete castrating bitch</strike> strident harridan today that just <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">had</span></span> to pipe up about the plight of the teacher. You know, how we don't receive paid holidays, take work home all the time, and are generally unappreciated.<br /><br />Ok, so sure, she has a point. However, there are some perks - at least for me, personally - that make up for those things.<br /><ul><li>One, I don't ever have to work on my birthday. It's during the summer. I have a whole summer free - sure, I don't get paid for it (although it seems like it, since I elect to spread my salary over the 12 months instead of taking it only during the 10 months of the year that I'm in the classroom), but then nobody can compel me to set foot into my classroom on that day.</li><li>Two, I get to exercise my creativity on a daily basis. I'm not stuck in a cubicle, chained to a computer, slogging through reports and figures. I tried the cubicle-farm wage slave thing and didn't like it. The soul-deadening experience was not an experience I want to repeat.</li><li>Three, I actually get paid to do something I love. During my very first teaching job, where I didn't have direct-deposit and had to pick up an actual paycheck every week, I routinely forgot about payday. The school secretary would chase me down to give me my money. It was, and still remains, somewhat of a bonus to me - I get paid to come to school every day.</li></ul><br />All of this doesn't mean that I don't actually <span style="font-style: italic;">work</span>, because I do. I work hard. It just means that I love what I do. This colleague of mine, well, let me just tell you that this is her<span style="font-style: italic;"> second</span> career. She started in industry and has come to teaching through the alternative route to certification. I think it's time for a reminder to smack her upside the head: if, once you've been teaching for a couple of years, you find yourself lamenting the downsides of the classroom and longing for the cubicle, just remember - you're not tied to the profession. If you don't love it, then do us ALL a giant favor and GET <span style="font-weight: bold;">THE <span style="font-style: italic;">FUCK OUT ALREADY!!!!</span></span> Quit your goddamn bitching, STFU, and get on with your life. Nobody wants to hear it, I <span style="font-style: italic;">promise</span> you! You are obviously not cut out for teaching and should do something a little more <strike>personally</strike> financially rewarding for you.<br /><br />Thus endeth my rant. Thank you for listening.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-81166618834045992212009-04-20T21:05:00.003-04:002009-04-20T21:20:45.400-04:00Hot and DeliciousDid you ever have a day when you got exactly what you wanted and needed at exactly the moment you both wanted and needed it?<br /><br />I had that day today. It was a Professional Day, which meant no students in the school so teachers could get their grades in the computers. After a morning of hard graft grading papers, I stumbled down to the Work Husband's classroom nearly incoherent with hunger, and stood in front of him, wild-haired and dead-eyed, mumbling "Food. Me. You. Now."<br /><br />Bless him, he chuckled at me and took me to lunch at the diner down the road. A quick glance at the menu inspired me to order the Cheesesteak Wrap. Now, if you're not from around Philly, you're not going to know the glory of a cheesesteak. This is a sandwich made from very thinly sliced beef that's been thrown on a grill and shredded by two metal spatulas until it resembles a pile of brown rags. This is then slathered in cheese and cushioned on a soft long Italian roll. I prefer mine with fried onions, American cheese, and thick lashings of ketchup. This was what I had today, but in a wrap, not a roll.<br /><br />People, it was hot, juicy, meaty, thick, salty, greasy, and delicious. It was everything I needed in that exact moment, and completely satisfied me in a way that very few things have ever managed to do. Gawd. I'm shaking right now just remembering it. Mmmmmmmm...<br /><br />So, fortified by both the food and the convivial conversation - the Work Husband is not the Work Husband merely for his looks alone, you see - I was able to very nearly finish my work today. All in all, it was a very nice way to come back to school.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-59627365104601491652009-04-19T22:23:00.002-04:002009-04-19T23:39:05.009-04:00There is no internet in EuropeI just got back from chaperoning a 10-day school trip to London and France. A colleague and I took 14 students with us and pretty much had a ball. Sorry I've been incommunicado, but, as the title says, there's no internet in Europe.<br /><br />Well, there is internet in Europe, but none that I could easily access. So, instead, I saved it all up and wrote it down in an actual pen-and-paper type diary. Can you believe that?! How retro!<br /><br />I'll give you the highs and lows here, briefly. First, the low:<br /><br />We had to send a student home from the trip for misbehaving. Trust me when I tell you that his misbehavior was repeated, flagrant, and over the top. I feel bad for his parents.<br /><br />Then, the highs:<br /><br />Oh. My. GOD!!! LONDON!!! I went back to the Motherland! I saw all the sights - how touristy! - and even ate fish and chips. I rode the tube, peered through the gate at Buckingham Palace, and thrilled at hearing the bells chime at Westminster Abbey. From there, I took 11 of the kids on a bus trip to Windsor Castle while the other chaperone took the other 4 into London to Camden Market. Windsor was where Incident Number 1 took place with that student I talked about above.<br /><br />And then we went to Canterbury - on Easter Sunday - where we visited Canterbury Cathedral and ate Hot Cross Buns. The bus then took us to the white cliffs of Dover, where we boarded the ferry bound for Calais.<br /><br />Hopping off in Calais, we made our way to Rouen and snapped photos of the uber-Gothic cathedral there before partaking of a truly international dinner: Spaghetti Bolognese at a Chilean restaurant in France. That was a true WTF moment on the trip. That night, a group of students and I ventured out and walked around Rouen as it got dark - surprisingly, we had a pretty good time just goofing around, and wound up at Quick, which is like a French Burger King. My students were thrilled as anything to order their <span style="font-style: italic;">hamburgeurs et frites</span> in French, and they were really cute! Then, Incident Number 2 took place.<br /><br />The next day, we got on the bus again and made our way to Caen where we stopped at the Peace Memorial. That was a sobering event, but not nearly as heart-stopping as what followed: visiting the American cemetary and Omaha Beach. It's absolutely staggering to stand at the corner of the cemetary and see all the white grave markers stretching far beyond the reach of your vision. Somehow, all of the kids and I ended up on the beach at the same time. After dipping my fingers into the English Channel and taking 16 pictures of the group assembled in front of the water (one with every camera). We boarded the bus, yet again, for the tiniest town in France, where we were to stay for two nights. Let's just say that the hotel was lacking, the town was dead, and there were no communal meeting facilities for our students. This was NOT a good combination. It led to Incident Number 3, from which there was no coming back. It was decided that our Troublemaker would go home when we got to Paris, as we had to give his mother time to buy a ticket for him.<br /><br />The next day, we visited Mont Saint Michel, which was awesome!! I got to be our tour leader, since our guide had some bad knees and couldn't climb the bazillion steps up to the top to buy the tickets to the Abbey there. It was amazing - the view is spectacular - and the architecture is just gorgeous! From there, we went to St. Malo, which is a really cute little town in Brittany. We had galettes and crepes, learned about the history of the town, and bought a bunch of souvenirs. Then, holy crap, we headed back to the hotel for the worst meal in the history of France. The kids, though, rose to the occasion, and we had the most hilarious conversation ever around the table. Afterwards, I wandered Plancoet (the town) with a bunch of students. During the evening before, we'd found a condom dispenser outside a pharmacy - which they'd found uproariously funny. It was decided that a packet was to be purchased with pooled euros, and that the condom fairy was going to pay a visit to some of our party that evening. The strawberry condom apparently made its rounds under the doors of our rooms that evening, until it was discreetly left in a bedside drawer.<br /><br />Then, finally, we were headed to Paris, but not before we made a stop at Chartres to see the amazing cathedral there. Lunch there was also the best meal we'd had in France. One of my kids, H, ordered escargots and salade nicoise for lunch. She loved the escargots. I'm so proud! Another, A, ordered one of the specials of the day - rabbit leg and tagliatelle - and declared it to be the best thing he'd ever eaten. We arrived in Paris that evening and ate at a Moroccan restaurant. From there, I took our group on the metro to Notre Dame and then for a wander around the Latin Quarter. We encountered possibly the most polite Parisian waiter in the 2000+ year history of the city. Sixteen people ordered fancy coffee drinks, pastries, desserts, and crepes in a Parisian Brasserie, and this man was nothing but pleasant and congenial.<br /><br />After arising the next day at <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">four fucking a.m.</span></span> to take Troublemaker to the airport, I had a bus tour followed by a walking tour of Paris. Pictures, pictures, pictures!!! All of the kids were exhausted by the time we were finished, and we decided that we'd just have ourselves a little dance party in the hotel cafeteria. A bunch of the kids came with me to the mall next to the hotel, where, after a little dress shopping (I got a dress and one of the other girls got a skirt outfit), we went to Auchan for some party supplies. We got different kinds of chips, crackers, cheese, candy, a baguette, and some sparkling cider for variety. We got into our pajamas, slapped our iPods into portable speakers, and played card games until we were too sleepy to continue. We bonded. Awwwwww.<br /><br />Friday was the Louvre in the morning, then shopping in the afternoon. I had a group of kids that I affectionately called my Ducklings following me around the Louvre, as they have really strict rules about the under 18 crowd. We saw the main highlights, but then walked to a cafe and had a delicious lunch. We walked through Les Halles, where we saw a bunch of people lounging on the grass and came across a group of old men playing <span style="font-style: italic;">boules</span>, which is pretty typical in a French park. I took pictures, but one of my kids got video of it. We did some shopping, finished our souvenir buying, found a bakery (one of our kids hadn't had an authentic <span style="font-style: italic;">pain au chocolat</span> since arriving in France), got some bread and pastries, and wandered back to the park. Once there, the other group found us, and we all had a nice flop on the grass. We met the rest of the tour group at the Centre Pompidou, and then made our way to dinner. After that, we went up the Eiffel Tower and saw the city from the birds-eye perspective. After that, we got on a Batobus and had a tour of Paris by Night from the river Seine.<br /><br />After a 3.5 hour nap, we got up and headed for the airport. Then home. And here I am.<br /><br />I wanna go back!!!!!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9741984.post-24507960484143304592009-04-07T20:59:00.005-04:002009-04-08T16:53:10.945-04:00Switcheroo<span style="font-weight: bold;">Typical - I say it's slow these days and all of a sudden, I've got loads of backed-up writing pouring out of my brain... Standard creative writing disclaimer...</span><br /><br />*****<br /><br />He needs me, and he hates that he needs me. I represent his weakness, his craving for closeness and comfort, his pent-up desire, and his neglected wants. I am his shame and satisfaction clothed in flesh. He alternately turns to me and spurns me, as his shame waxes and wanes. I can read it in his eyes when he comes to me, in the stance of his naked body as he stands still and waits for me to approach.<br /><br />I know that he thinks of his wife when he closes his eyes. When he feels my touch, I know he wishes it were her fingers trailing along his skin, her lips teasing his nipple, her teeth gently nipping his thigh. My body becomes hers when seen in his mind's eye, and he resists touching me intimately, confining his hands to safe areas where there are no obvious differences - my sides, the flat of my back, the swell of my calf. He comes to me because she won't give him what I willingly surrender.<br /><br />Even though his touch is neutral, I still receive pleasure in his embrace. It's a twisted pleasure, though, more mental than physical, though the physical is intense. It's a triumphant fist in the air ever time he throws his head back in ecstasy. It's fireworks exploding on the Fourth of July when he groans my name. I celebrate the fact that I can produce that euphoria, that I can bring him to that peak, as my own husband finds little use for my talents.<br /><br />For my husband, I am a figure, a symbol. I am a wife and mother, no longer a lover. Our trysting days are long past. The tender explorations of our courtship have been long since relegated to memory. I am the drudge that cooks and cleans. I hang his laundry and do his shopping, my womanhood sacrificed on the altar of his comfort. He wastes no affection on me. Weeks will pass without a kiss, the merest sign of matrimonial contentment, let alone anything greater. Sex requires too much time and exertion more fruitfully spent on other activities.<br /><br />And so we close our eyes, my lover and I, each yearning for the ones who vowed before God and Man to have, hold, and love us until death do us part to do exactly that. We close our eyes and have each other in the way that lets us both stay in those marriages. Sweet kisses temper the bitter truth that a marriage can last longer than the love that inspired it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2