Chocolate Covered Xanax

Housewarming Party!

2010-02-13T22:13:00.000-08:00

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The all new Chocolate Covered Xanax

Licking the bowl

2010-02-04T14:21:00.000-08:00

My last post may have been just a tad bit morose. The morning after writing it I sat down at the computer and found myself completely embarrassed. Why, oh why, can't I simply write sometimes and not push the publish button? Disgusted, I closed the lid and haven't been able to write anything since.

Then I opened the new book I'd just started reading. "A Homemade Life" by Molly Wizenberg, who is also the author of the fabulous food blog orangette, is a memoir about life with food in the middle. As I became thoroughly engrossed in the stories and recipes, I ran across this paragraph:

I guess you could say that having a blog is a little like the windows of a house I used to live in during my sophomore year of college. I loved opening them wide during the day, so that the smell of the eucalyptus trees outside could drift in and sweep out the rooms. But occasionally I would come home and find a squirrel on my desk. A live squirrel. He would have climbed up the tree outside and jumped in through the window, and now here he was, rifling with his tiny, scratchy claws through whatever he found, tearing up every paper and scrap. Blogging is a little like that. It's an incredible pleasure to open the window, to put yourself out in the world that way. It's even better than the scent of eucalyptus. But occasionally you come home and find a squirrel on the desk, so to speak; a nasty comment, maybe, or even worse, something you wrote yourself, probably late at night, when you should have been sleeping, something that makes your cheeks hot.

Oh, happy day. It's not just me. Molly's had publish button regret too. I'm not alone in the world.

And with that epiphany, there was only one thing to do. Make Molly's chocolate cake.

This cake, a French melting chocolate cake, only uses five ingredients. And only one tiny tablespoon of flour. Do you know what that means? That means the majority of the cake is made from butter and chocolate. This is not a cake for the weak.

The ingredients: 7 ounces good quality chocolate (at least 60% cocoa solids - I used an extra dark semi-sweet), 1 and 3/4 sticks of butter, 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar, 5 eggs and 1 tablespoon flour.

Chop the chocolate into little pieces, cut the butter into small cubes and put them in a bowl. Microwave them for 30-second bursts, stirring between each burst. Pretty soon the chocolate and butter will melt together and turn into smooth, sultry liquid velvet, just perfect for smearing on an inner thigh.

Stir in the sugar, mix well, and let the batter cool for about five minutes. Then add the eggs one at a time, stirring well after each egg. And then the one tiny tablespoon of flour. Mix that in too.

Pour the batter into a buttered cake pan. (Molly says to also line it with parchment, but I never do. It worked just fine without it.)

If you can restrain yourself from licking the bowl and spoon, you have a lot more discipline than me, although that's really not saying much.

Bake it in a 375 degree oven for about 25 minutes. You'll know it's done when it's not jiggly in the middle, and when it's a bit puffed up and crackly. Scientific, no? You'll want to cool it in the pan on a rack for about 15 minutes. Then flip it out onto a plate upside down. Use another plate on top and then flip them both over so the cake is right side up. This is a bit complicated, but you can do it. Trust me.

Despite its humble appearance, this cake is absolutely delicious. Tasting like a brownie mixed with the inside of a truffle topped with a thirty-minute orgasm, it's deep, rich and totally decadent. I served it with lightly sweetened fresh whipped cream.

Molly calls this the "Winning Hearts and Minds Cake." I think it could win over a few other body parts as well.

Enjoy!

Have you ever had one of those days

2010-01-21T13:29:00.000-08:00

when you wake up at 3 a.m. with your bed so full of regrets and resentments that there's no room for you anymore so you force yourself to just get up?

Have you ever realized that you're holding onto your anger for no good reason like it's your Great Aunt Inez's fine crystal vase, and if you happen to take just one finger off it then the whole thing might crash to the floor beneath and break into a million tiny little pieces, and you'll be left standing there naked and vulnerable for the whole world to see?

Have you ever wandered around Old Town wondering why you're in such a horrible mood and wanting to blame it on PMS but realizing that would be betraying all your feminist principles as well as allowing your first ex-husband to have been right about something. And then you plop down painfully on the sidewalk because you dropped your keys in the gutter and stumbled trying to pick them up with the sudden realization that you now have to embarrassingly specify between your first and your second ex-husbands?

Have you ever become disgusted at your own self-absorbed melodrama and told yourself - For Fuck's Sake Look at Haiti and Shut the Hell Up- but then still shed a tear when the girl at Los Bagels rolls her eyes at you because she made your bagel for here and you need it to go, and you wonder if you told her the wrong thing to begin with by mistake because you just turned 40 and senility is waiting right there around the corner?

Yeah, me neither.

Country Waving

2010-01-20T22:00:00.000-08:00

I'm sure you remember my film making friend Kristin and her amazing movie about Blocksburg.

Here's her latest. It's a totally charming as well as useful film about the ins and outs of waving in the country. It'll be shown at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada next week.

Enjoy!

Did You Hear That?

2010-01-19T09:42:00.000-08:00

Date: January 18, 2010
Time: 12:30 p.m.
Place: Bayshore Mall, Eureka

Two women and a man are eating bad Chinese food in the Cafe Court of the Bayshore Mall and talking about their online dating adventures.

Woman 1: Every man who I think might be the slightest bit interesting turns out to be a complete freak. The last one I was talking to made some crack about drowning me.

Woman 2: Not really the kind of joke you should make if you want someone to actually meet you.

Woman 1: No kidding!

Man: Meanwhile, I met a guy online who's a real estate developer in Fort Bragg and owns two houses. He sounds really great.

Woman 1: Why couldn't I have just been born a gay man?

Man: A gay man without a gag reflex. It helps.

Monday Wishes

2010-01-10T17:34:00.000-08:00

Wishes are a funny thing. They seem to be an innate act for some of us, while for others, they're a struggle. I went to a birthday party yesterday for twins who were turning 3. When we told them to blow out their candles and make a wish they did just that. No questioning or wondering what to wish for. They knew exactly what they wanted.

I'm one of those who hope that my wish was good enough. I wonder, should it have been made just for me or should I have made it for those who have less? Would I be shallow if I wished for material possessions or should I stick with strengthening my soul and hoping for good health? I don't want to waste a perfectly good wish on silly things.

Today, my wish comes less burdened by extraneous thoughts because it's truly and only for someone else. It's for one person who is beautifully articulate in her deeds and words. Who makes me giggle and snort and laugh like I haven't in a long time. It's the one person who knows that underneath my thick exterior there is imperfection and insecurities. She doesn't care though. She loves me just the same, and I reciprocate.

My wish for her today is that she feels loved, appreciated and needed (because she is). I wish for her eternal happiness that is tempered with just a touch of bittersweet (because nobody likes sugar all the time). And lastly, I wish...
that Kristabel has the most.................well, I can't tell you because it won't come true.

Happy Birthday beautiful! I love and miss you. Wish I could be there on this super special occasion.

Top 10 Joys of '09

2010-01-03T15:24:00.000-08:00

It's a new year, and unlike some of the more industrious people I know, I just don't do resolutions. But a new year is a good time to take a look at the previous one, and that's what I've been doing today. Here's a list of the top 10 joys of 2009 in my little world.

10. Oatmeal and beets
I've never liked either one of these foods. Then suddenly this year I began, with reckless abandon, eating oatmeal with almond butter and bananas, and roasted beets with goat cheese. Yummy (pay attention to this adjective. It will resurface later.)

9. Art
I am so fortunate that I am surrounded by amazing art and artists every day - even on the dumpsters in the alley on the walk to Ramone's.

8. Old friends
Man, I love you guys.

7. New friends
Joining a book club was something I never thought I'd do, but when a friend told me that not only was it not required that you even read the book, but that the meetings revolved mainly around the food, which was always thematic, I figured I'd have to at least give it a try. The last book we read was "When You Are Engulfed in Flames" by David Sedaris. Since it was set in France and a wacky neighbor made strange Italian-sounding dishes, the food for the meeting included lasagna, croissants, cheese and wine. One woman also announced that she would be bringing Bananas Foster. I didn't really get how that went along with the theme, but who's going to turn down Bananas Foster? At the meeting, she cooked the brown sugar, butter and bananas together until they formed a delectable smelling sauce. She then poured in rum, lit it on fire, and as the flames began shooting up out of the pan threatening to set the kitchen on fire, she threw her own arms up in the air and started shouting, "When you are engulfed in flames! When you are engulfed in flames! I win!!!" God, I love this book club.

6. Old family
Man, I love you guys.

5. New family
Okay, I know you're not exactly officially or legally or anything my new family. And I know it's a little embarrassing that you probably know a lot more about me than you probably want to and more than most of my old family because of this blog, but...well...I like you a bunch.

4. Blogs
I swear I would have no idea what was going on in our community or the rest of the world without blogs. Plus I've met the smartest, wittiest, sexiest, most interesting people in Humboldt through them. You know who you are.

3. Champipple, limoncello and Saturday Night
Bomp chicka bow wow....hic....chicka bomp....hic....chicka bow bow. Yeah.

2. That guy with the big hands
A new year has never looked sweeter.

1. Beautiful, beautiful Humboldt County
Are those of us who live here the luckiest people on the planet? Why yes we are.

Lest you think it's all sweetness and light around here, coming up next will be my top ten irks and irritations of '09.

Happy New Year!

Are you there, vodka? It's me, Kristabel.

2009-12-28T17:30:00.000-08:00

This year Dad and Mama Xanax are spending the holidays with my brother and his family in New York. When they told me a couple of months ago, I knew I would miss them, but that it would mean a different sort of Christmas for me. No obligatory family events, no shopping stress, no oven-slaving, no fake cheer. I revelled in the thought of the fabulous Un-Christmas I was going to have.

Then I realized that it also meant a holiday without Mama Xanax's pecan pie. This would have to be remedied. Unfortunately I have a little pie issue. No matter how hard I try, I cannot make a decent pie crust. If it's not so tough it's unchewable, it's so flaky it falls apart during the rolling, and I end up piecing it together in the pan, and then the filling seeps out the bottom making everything a soggy mess. I've tried every recipe I can find, including the nasty no-fail vinegar crust. I've asked every expert pie maker I know for tips. I've watched others make them. I've read books. I've watched videos. And always failing, I have resorted to buying pre-made crust, which although it holds together, is really thin and awful tasting.

So it was with great skepticism that I read the rave reviews for a pie crust developed by Cook's Illustrated using vodka. Something about gluten not forming in vodka which keeps the dough moist and flaky...blah blah science stuff blah... But then I thought about my own life, and how vodka has often been the answer to a variety of problems. Why not pie crust? So I decided to try it.

Here are the ingredients: flour, salt, very cold unsalted butter, very cold shortening, sugar and vodka. Oh, and ice water. That's not in the picture. Sorry. Some people like to use all butter. Some people like to use all shortening (although why you'd want to do that and not have that sublime butter flavor is beyond me, and we're not even going to talk about that disgusting butter-flavored shortening.) I'm pretty sure you can do whatever you want; I just decided to follow the recipe this time. Mix the flour, salt and sugar in a bowl.

Cut the butter and shortening into little cubes. If you use a food processor like the recipe in the link says, your cubes don't have to be quite as small. I like to do it the old fashioned way so I can pretend I'm Laura Ingalls Wilder. Except now I'm most likely old enough to be Ma Wilder. Sob.

Use a pastry blender or two knives to start cutting up the cubes of fat and mixing them with the flour mixture.

Keep blending and cutting until the mixture looks like yellowish cottage cheese. I realize that doesn't sound very appetizing, so just bend over and smell the butter. Then sprinkle the vodka and the water over the top of the dough.

Use a spatula to mix it all together. Now bend over and smell the vodka. Really I just like telling you to bend over.

Then use your hands to knead the dough until it's smooth and holds together. This is what happens when you ask your perverted boyfriend to take a close-up of the dough kneading. You get a cleavage shot instead. The dough will be very wet and very sticky. As will your cleavage if you're doing it right.

Split the dough in half, shape it into balls, flatten them into disks, wrap them in plastic and stick them in the refrigerator to chill. This dough is so sticky you have to chill it a long time in order for it to be firm and workable - probably at least two hours.

This was the perfect time to take a break and have a little Un-Christmas celebration: Chinese food and horror movies.

Spread some flour on the counter, unwrap your dough and roll it out to fit your pie pan. I was nervous, but look... no tears! It held together perfectly and was so easy to work with.

Put it in your pan and crimp the edges in whatever pretty way you want.

Then you get to fill it. I used the pecan pie recipe on the bottle of Karo syrup because that's what Mama Xanax uses. I also broke into her stash and used these amazing pecans from Georgia she has our southern belle cousin send every year.

One day I'm going to artfully arrange the pecans in gorgeous concentric circles on top of the pie. This was not that day.

Throw it in the oven and bake it based on whatever you've filled it with. It was so fun watching this pie bake. You could actually see the vodka bubbling along the edges of the crust as it cooked out. I was so transfixed, in fact, that I forgot to take a picture, but you'll see for yourself. Look at this beautiful thing.

And the taste test? Oh. dear. god. This is the best pie crust I've ever eaten in my life. And what's more...I actually made it. There's no trace of vodka at all. It's tender, flaky, buttery and absolutely perfect.

I took a slice to Grandma Xanax on Christmas day and excitedly told her about the new recipe. "Sounds like a waste of good vodka," she muttered, but this is a woman who could probably make pie crust in one hand while plucking a chicken with the other.

Enjoy!

Link to the recipe at Serious Eats

I heart Christmas typos.

2009-12-22T12:46:00.000-08:00

That's how I like my Herald Angels singing too, sister!

Dear Santa, No thank you. Love, Kristabel

2009-12-16T11:53:00.000-08:00

Photo credit to Bumblebee, who was standing outside Broadway Animal Hospital laughing so hard the picture is blurry.

Mountain Lions, Anacondas and Cupcakes Redux (aka Happy Birthday, you)

2009-12-15T21:38:00.000-08:00

My cousin Keri will be celebrating her birthday tomorrow. I hope it's filled with all of her favorite things. I was fortunate to be able to see her on Thanksgiving, and we spent a few good hours reminiscing and completely boring our partners. Keri and I started Chocolate Covered Xanax over two years ago when she came to spend a long weekend in Bear River. We wanted to use it as a way to keep in touch with each other. On Thanksgiving we talked about the adventures of that weekend (and about how things just may slow down for her soon, and she can start writing again. Crossing fingers.) So I thought I'd bore our partners...and anyone else who's already heard this story...yet again. Because when I think back on it, I get that warm fuzzy feeling that only homemade limoncello and near-death experiences can give. And I get a little tear in my eye because I love and miss Keri and wish I was celebrating with her right now. And it's our blog; we can be sappy and repeat ourselves if we want to, damn it. Happy Birthday, beautiful.

Mountain Lions, Anacondas and Cupcakes
June 21, 2007

It's almost 1 a.m. on the longest day of the year. I should definitely be asleep by now, but the sudden realization that Keri and I could have died, or at the very least been made horribly unattractive yesterday, is keeping me awake. It could also be the amazing orgasm I just enjoyed or the late-in-the-day caffeine fix.

After spending most of yesterday drinking homemade limoncello while making Brady Bunch tiki talismans out of clothespins, Keri and I needed a break. I hadn't shown her much of the valley yet, so we set out on a little late afternoon drive. First we headed to the toilet graveyard that sits about a quarter-mile away from my house. I have no idea what past lives these toilets have led, but every time I go by, the rancher who owns the property seems to have added more, and I am usually compelled to leave flowers.

Suitably impressed with the graveyard, Keri wanted to see more of this great land, so we headed up the mountain toward Southmayd Ranch. It's an eerie drive - dark, wooded, steep - there is a patch of trees that seems to have been afflicted with a disease at one point as they appear black, dead and decidedly ominous. Once you reach the top of the mountain, the sky opens up, and there is an absolutely gasp-inducing view of the valley below. A small house sits at the top of this road with a deck that juts out over the side of the mountain. The house is very rustic - faded wood siding and a variety of different-sized windows. It looks like it was pieced together from parts of other houses abandoned long ago. There used to be a young couple that lived there, but on this day, there was no sign of life at all. The yard was overgrown, and from the little bit that we could see through the dusty windows, the place looked empty. We stopped the car, and Keri said to me with the persuasiveness of one skilled at peer pressure, "You know you want to break in and look inside."

We opened the gate at the top of the driveway and began walking toward the house. As we got close, I stood on my tiptoes trying to get a look at the inside. Not being able to see much, I continued walking past the house to try to get a look in the side windows. Keri, on the other hand, opened the front gate and began heading down the hill toward the deck. She had decided that the best way to see the house would be to scale the deck and get in through the screen door.

I stood watching her, admiring the fact that her six-foot willowy legs could easily climb the wooden posts while my short and stout ones are chronically planted to the earth. She had just about reached the deck when suddenly a noise came bellowing from the shadows underneath. It sounded like the whoosh of a gas heater being turned on followed by the deepest, most resonant growl I have ever heard, and I got the distinct impression that it was a territorial warning. We both froze in place. My eyes darted around wildly looking for large rocks, sticks, super hero powers or a strapping ranch hand with a big gun, but there was no such luck. Keri turned to me and said with extreme calm, "Did you hear that?" And suddenly we both realized we were definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time. She turned and got out of the yard as quickly as she could, and we both walked back to the car swinging our arms above our heads and talking very loudly, which is what I've always been told to do when accidentally crossing the path of a mountain lion. Of course, we're not sure that it was a mountain lion......

We both slammed the doors of the car and sat shakily trying to breathe for several minutes. As soon as I could get a steady hand on the steering wheel, I turned the car around and began the descent back down the mountain. With the windows open and the smell of the evergreen needles wafting in, I could almost forget our narrow escape.

I was just about to turn on some roller-skating-in-the-driveway-in-my-Joan-Jett-headband music when a movement from the woods caught the corner of my eye, and I heard a rustling sound near the edge of the road. Choosing to ignore it, I remained looking straight ahead. And then I heard Keri say the words that every girl loathes to hear while in the dark forest,

"What the fuck was that?"

Apparently, we had disturbed a giant snake in his journey across the road. Keri said that it was about the diameter of a stop sign pole, although my boyfriend says that it got bigger every time she told the story. Boys. She watched it rise above the road in a writhing, angry snake dance and slither off into the trees. I looked at her incredulously. "How'd we get to Jurassic Park?"

Rolling up the windows and locking the doors, I continued down the hill and was ecstatic to see the open pasture and my cute little house - where only birds, deer, bats and the occasional mischievous raccoon or possum frolic nearby.

After our frightening adventures in the wilderness, Keri and I came to a quick conclusion that a little baking therapy was in order. And that it must, of course, include chocolate.

I'm a scratch baking kind of girl - organic butter, high-quality chocolate, real Mexican vanilla. I'd rather have an invasive medical procedure without anesthesia while being preached at by Pat Robertson than serve someone a cake topped with that nasty, tongue-coating frosting made from Crisco. But in this case, instant gratification was definitely more important than gourmet quality.

At our grandparents' house in Samoa, there was always a crystal bowl filled with wrapped candy sitting on the coffee table. Keri's favorite was the triple-layered coconut neapolitans, and mine was the chocolates filled with fruit cream - especially the ones with the delicious orange filling. It was just these candies that I thought of as I opened the cupboard and saw a box of Trader Joe's chocolate orange cake mix. Perfect.

I mixed up the cupcakes while Keri whipped up a lovely orange juice glaze. In about a half-hour we were happily licking sweet chocolate crumbs and tart citrus icing off our fingers. That once-uncomfortable feeling of having narrowly escaped tragedy somehow mixed with the lusciousness in our stomachs and became something more akin to a fuzzy daydream.

Art Appreciation

2009-12-12T20:39:00.000-08:00

Mark and I had a lovely time in SoHum today. We went to the Winter Arts Faire at the Mateel and saw all sorts of beautiful handmade goods and art. We ate some delicious squash lasagna and listened to some hippie dippy Christmas celtic music.

After that we headed into Garberville where we walked around looking at more beautiful art and people until the rain caused me to come down with a severe whining disorder. We ducked into a coffee shop, got warmed and caffeinated, and all was right with the world again.

I thought I'd share my very favorite piece of art. It was hanging above our table, and I couldn't stop staring at it. Its title: Mystery Hottie.

I think a better title would be Mystery Hottie Wearing a Bad Toupee.

Or....Mystery Hottie Hasn't Noticed a Mangy Shih Tzu is Sitting on her Head. Feel free to add your own suggestions.

P.S. Mystery Hottie can be yours for only $200 at Flavors Coffee Shop.

Did you hear that? (Double Bonus DYHT week)

2009-12-08T13:24:00.000-08:00

Date: December 8
Time: 12 p.m.
Place: Cafe Court, Bayshore Mall, Eureka, CA

A somewhat neurotic man and a very helpful woman are eating cheap Chinese food and chatting.

Man: I've been wanting to put my computer out in the living room instead of the bedroom, but I'm afraid that when the neighbor kids jump on the trampoline they'll be able to see the porn through the window.

Woman: Well, you could hang a curtain.

Man: Good idea. Did you know that I always clear all my private data everytime I get off the computer? All the history and everything.

Woman: Why? So your dog won't see what you've been looking at?

Man: I'm afraid that if a burglar ever comes in my house, he'll steal my computer and then see all my porn.

Woman: Huh. I think you should just stick a note on it that says, "Dear Burglars, please don't judge."

Did you hear that?

2009-12-05T22:34:00.000-08:00

Date: December 5
Time: 7 p.m.
Place: An Arts Alive venue in Old Town, Eureka

A man, as part of a large crowd enjoying a holiday choir performance, turns to the woman standing next to him and says:

"That was the biggest jingle bell clusterfuck I've ever heard."

Beginnings and endings, they make a girl ramble. And cry. And eat.

2009-11-23T18:24:00.000-08:00

My world has been filled with beginnings and endings lately, and no one who knows me will be surprised that I shed many tears through each one. Tears of joy. Tears of sorrow. Tears of anger. Tears because that's what happens when I try to express any god damn emotion at all.

Last weekend was my aunt Teresa's memorial service. My family and I sat together and watched a fantastic video my uncle Ken put together celebrating Teresa's life. For the last several years she had been very sick and could barely move or talk. She laid in bed most of the time. This was the last image of her for most of us.

But on the video we watched the Teresa we hadn't seen in a long time - a girl who rode horses and walked her pet pig on a leash through the streets of Rio Dell. A woman who jumped out of planes while raving about her parachuting instructor's ass. A woman who spoke out for the rights of people with disabilities and worked tirelessly to raise money for Multiple Sclerosis research.

We watched, remembered, laughed, cried and talked. And then, of course, we ate. A lot.

The day before Teresa's service, Mark and I attended a beautiful wedding on Moonstone Beach. Kim, one of my favorite human beings on the planet, married Jack, who is madly in love with her. Kim has always wanted nothing more than to simply live happily ever after, but yet it's eluded her time and again. Until now, that is.

We watched Kim and Jack, surrounded by the many people who love them, wiggle, giggle, make vows to one another and kiss and kiss and kiss. And then, of course, we ate. A lot. And drank. A lot.

Today I attended a funeral for the father of a friend. Her father was also a good friend of my dad. She and her mom sat with perfect posture at the front of the church as one by one, people told stories and shared memories about their dad and husband. He was loved and will be missed by many.

I'm always astounded by people who show such poise in the midst of great sadness. When someone close to me dies, I sob, wail, pound my fists, scream even. I wear my grief like a gigantic Carmen Miranda headdress gone sour, and everyone can smell the rotten fruit before I even enter the room.

Afterward, I hugged my sweet friend and tried not to say anything trite. And then, of course, we ate. A lot.

A little over a year ago, I moved into this tiny little funky cottage in the middle of Loleta. Unable to be seen from the street and totally surrounded by trees, I've always felt like a fat little bird here, completely safe from predators. Now there will be a new bird in the nest. A tall thin one who has a habit of leaving his clothes right in the middle of the floor where I trip on them in the dark.

Mark is deep but uncomplicated. He is smart, even-keeled and incredibly kind. He has changed my life in ways I could never have imagined. Plus, he makes me laugh. And I make him laugh. How much better can it possibly get than that? So with simultaneous excitement and trepidation, I'm making room and clearing clutter. We'll add shelves and move furniture. With some benadryl, ear plugs and luck, this beginning may ease into a comfortable middle where we'll kiss and cry and love and live happily ever after. Oh, and eat, of course. A lot.

Please Buy Local and Handmade. Pretty please? With a glob of glitter glue on top?

2009-11-20T19:54:00.000-08:00

Here's my shameless plug for the holiday season. This Sunday is Handmade Holidays, another fab indie craft fair put together by the Crafty Mavericks. It's at the Bayside Grange from 10 - 4. There are over 35 vendors, all selling magnificent handcrafted goods, as well as live music, cupcakes and so much more. It's going to be a great time.

I'll be unveiling my new line of pendants made out of upcycled maps.

There's plenty from the older lines as well.

Bird Pendants

Weird images from vintage dictionaries

Vintage sheet music and sexy postcards

And lots and lots of words

Why did I think someone would want to hang a bauble with the word bacon around their neck? Because I was hungry when I made it. And high on vicodin.

Hope to see you there.

Did You Hear That?

2009-11-11T21:48:00.000-08:00

Date: November 11, 2009
Time: 1:30 p.m.
Place: The Spa at Personal Choice, Old Town, Eureka

Three women are talking about the pros and cons of several local dining establishments.

Woman #1: I have a policy not to eat anywhere with a sneeze guard.

Woman #2: The last time my husband and I went out to dinner he found a button in his mashed potatoes. A button! It came off of one of the waiter's uniforms. He didn't find it until it was in his mouth.

Woman #3: Well.....I'll never forget the time I found a mop string in my crab cake.

Alphabet: A History (B is for Burnt Sienna)

2009-10-27T21:15:00.000-07:00

B is for Burnt Sienna

One summer when I was eight years old, my Aunt Teresa gave me my first set of real paint. Not plastic tubs or dried tablets in a hinged box, but metal tubes full of thick acrylic goodness.

I held each tube one by one reading the names that were written underneath a small square showing the color inside. I knew right away that these were no ordinary colors, for instead of the plain red and blue and yellow I was used to, long foreign names took their place. Napthol Crimson. Indigo. Vermilion. Ultramarine. Burnt Sienna.

Teresa squeezed the brownish Burnt Sienna from one of the tubes onto a plastic palette. I watched in fascination as she mixed in a little bit of Ochre and then a dab of Titanium White. "There," she said. "Remember....the color of the grass on the sand dunes at the beach starts with Burnt Sienna."

Aunt Teresa brought more than just color into my life.

When I was in high school and had begun to have sex with my boyfriend for the first time, she wanted to talk to me about it. "I'm not going to tell you about love or diseases or birth control," she said. "I know you know all that stuff already. What I want to know is if he's giving you orgasms. Because if he's not, you need to teach him how. It's important."

Very early in my first marriage, I found that to continue to carry the baby growing inside me would result in my death. It was Teresa who sat beside me with silent streaming tears as I learned to maneuver the needles I would have to stick in my stomach for two weeks preceding the abortion.

When this same marriage failed, and no one around me knew what to say, Teresa didn't say anything. She sent me a book titled, "100 Things You Don't Need a Man For." With a $5 bill as a bookmark so that I could drink a mocha while reading it.

That same summer of 1978 when Teresa gave me the acrylic paints, she also took me to Clam Beach for a sunset picnic. She spread out a blanket behind a sand dune to shield us from the wind. Out of a brown paper bag she lifted a loaf of bread and a large thermos.

"Is that hot chocolate?" I asked, licking my hopeful lips.

"Even better," Teresa answered. She unscrewed the lid, and the richly-scented steam filled the air around us. "This is called fondue. It's made out of hot cheese. You tear off a piece of bread, dip it into the cheese and eat them together. It's sooooo good."

It sounded good to me, and it smelled even better, so I quickly ripped a hunk of bread off the loaf.

"Before you eat it, you have to promise me you won't tell your mom about the fondue," Teresa said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "because I put wine in it."

Elated that the aunt I so much admired thought I was grown up enough to eat wine, I promised her I'd never say a word. I then dipped the bread into the thermos of gooey cheese and took a small bite. It was delicious. I grabbed an even bigger hunk, drenched it with an even bigger gob of cheese and stuffed it into my mouth.

Teresa and I ate the whole loaf before falling on our backs to lick the last of the sticky fondue off our fingers, surrounded by the grass on the sand dunes, whose color started with Burnt Sienna.

My dear Aunt Teresa passed away last week after an exceptionally long battle with multiple sclerosis. She will be greatly missed.

Read Alphabet: A History (A is for Art) here.

Culinary Travels with New York Little Brother

2009-10-14T09:41:00.000-07:00

My wife and I attended a wedding last weekend in a small town in Wisconsin. A few hours to kill before the wedding found us driving around looking at the fall foliage, drinking cider and enjoying some time completely unscheduled without the kids.

To my delight, we found ourselves smack- dab in the middle of a Columbus Day Weekend street fair and carnival. Wandering around listening to locals argue about which is a better mascot, a Packer or a Bear, sampling endless supplies of free cheese and listening to high school cheerleaders rattle off cheers and chants about the dogs and bratwurst they were peddling at their fundraising stand, I ran into this beauty of a sign:

Knowing my love of Mexican food, you can imagine my eye was first drawn to the "taco" portion of the sign. Walking tacos no less, whatever the hell that might be...I immediately inquired. I expected them to be wrapped in foil. As this was a street fair, I assumed it would allow one to walk around with said tacos. I was wrong. You see in Wisconsin, walking tacos refers to the meat in the tacos. Anything that used to walk can be put in them. In this case it was pig (yes, the guy said pig and not pork,) and chicken. Apparently cow and bull had been sold out by the time I got there.

Two chickens and a pig later, my attention was drawn to bacon...chocolate covered bacon! What, are you kidding me? Two of the most wonderful treats in the world, finally dating long enough to have offspring.

As you can imagine, the young lass that accompanied me to this fair had stayed at this stand long enough to be polite and hear the history of walking tacos, but at this point had had enough and wandered off to look at more exciting local handicrafts such as wooden spoon kitchen witches, doilies and such.

Jim, the corn fed gent that walked me through the taco talk, pointed to the sign just as I was finishing up chicken #2. Mouth full, I gave him a head nod, and held up three fingers. Jim took three slices of raw bacon, dipped each into a vat of melted chocolate, and let them cool for just long enough to make sure the chocolate stuck to every inch. Transfer to the even bigger vat of hot oil was smooth. A couple of minutes later, I was in heaven...pig and chocolate heaven.

And I thought the only thing I was really going to like in Wisconsin was the cheese. So happy to be wrong about that!

The absolute best time to get your Saturday Night. Revised. Yet again.

2009-10-13T15:56:00.000-07:00

is on a stormy Tuesday afternoon.

I know it's been awhile, but you remember the tune. Sing it with me.

Bomp chicka bow wow....chicka bomp chicka bow bow.

Mmmmm hmmmmmm.

It's like holding autumn in the palm of your hand. And then cramming it in your mouth. While moaning in ecstasy.

2009-10-09T14:44:00.000-07:00

Cheddar cheese on apple pie; you either love it or you hate it. The rest of my family thinks it's really weird, but my mom and I just can't get enough of that glorious combination.

Fortunately for me Mama Xanax has a few trees, and she always shares. Golden Delicious apples are ripe right now - perfect for pies topped with thick slices of extra sharp cheddar, which was what I was planning to make last night. Then I saw this recipe over at Bon Appetit and just had to try it. If you're one of those that loves a little cheddar with your apple, you should too. And if you're one of those who's never tried it but thinks it sounds a little weird, these will win you over. These apple turnovers are quick, easy and really delicious. Here we go:

2 medium Golden Delicious apples, peeled, halved, cored, cut into 1/2-inch cubes (I used three because they were small apples.)
1 1/2 cups grated extra-sharp cheddar cheese
1/4 cup pure maple syrup
1/4 cup chopped walnuts
1/4 cup sweetened dried cranberries
Pinch of salt
1 17.3-ounce package frozen puff pastry (2 sheets), thawed
1 large egg, beaten with 1 teaspoon water to blend (for glaze)
Sugar (Oops - I left the sugar out of the picture. Pretend there's a bowl of chunky raw sugar sitting next to the apples.)

Take the first six ingredients and mix them together in a bowl. Isn't that lovely? A perfect marriage of fruits and nuts with some sharpness thrown in for flavor - kinda like the comments section at the Humboldt Herald.

Then take your thawed sheets of puff pastry and use something round, like this small dish, to cut four circles out of each sheet. Place the rounds on a baking sheet covered in parchment paper.

Then spoon the filling onto half of the rounds.

Make an egg wash by beating an egg with a little water.

Brush a little bit of the wash around the edges of the rounds and fold over. Then use the tines of a fork to seal it tightly and make it look pretty.

Cut a couple of small slits in the top, brush the tops with more egg wash and sprinkle on the sugar.

Mmmm. Mmmmm. Mmmmmm. See how my turnovers are bursting open at the seams and spilling out everywhere? This is because I filled them too full as I'm just a more-is-better kind of girl. I'm sure you'll be completely cautious and frugal with your filling.

Enjoy!

UPDATE: Some sweet jackass who really knows how to grate my cheese noticed that I didn't give any baking info. Sorry! Bake them at 400 degrees for about 25 minutes. Remove them with a spatula onto a wire rack as soon as they come out of the oven, otherwise they'll stick.

If you haven't eaten lunch yet....

2009-09-29T12:45:00.000-07:00

You might want to check out the specials at World Cup on F street.

My lips are just....tingling.

Unmarked and Unnamed

2009-09-24T16:28:00.000-07:00

At the edge of the Ukiah Valley Cemetery, there is what appears to be a large parking lot. Composed of dirt and gravel, it stretches nearly 100 yards before the ground breaks into well-cared for headstones placed carefully with flowers and memorabilia. Only it isn't a parking lot.

It is a mass grave where 433 people with disabilities have been buried. Buried and forgotten. Unmarked and unnamed.

On Monday, September 21, I was fortunate to be able to attend the seventh annual Day of Remembrance coordinated by the California Memorial Project. A collaboration between several California agencies, the purpose of the project is to remember and honor over 45,000 people who died and were buried in mass and unmarked graves in state hospitals and developmental centers.

Led by people with disabilities, a number of whom have lived in state institutions, the project is an enormous act of advocacy - they are reclaiming and healing their shared history by honoring those before them. They are achieving this by restoring the cemeteries at the state institutions, recording the stories of people who lived in them by decade, and documenting the history of the client/survivor movement in California.

After an opening ceremony at the mass grave site, we were led into the heart of the cemetery to another, much smaller, unmarked grave. People attending were then given the opportunity to share their stories and remembrances.

Some spoke with obvious pain about their own experiences of living in an institution. One woman was committed when she was fifteen because "in those days your parents didn't have to have a reason. They could just put you in there if they were tired of you." She talked about being abused by staff people and witnessing a murder. Others spoke about the horrific experiences of their family members.

Some read poems and others sang songs.

Undeserved confinement,
Someone's Grandpa
Sitting in a chair,
Watching birds sitting in a tree...
Lost lonely souls,
Souls not as lost as presumed,
Touched by the light of the universe.

One man said that he had survived over 140 shock therapy treatments. "One day I saw a little girl get killed right before my eyes. It wasn't right. I tried to talk to someone about it - to tell them it shouldn't have happened. I was mad. That was when they took me for my first shock treatment. After that, every time I spoke out about something - anything - I got another shock treatment. Before I went in the state hospital, I could read and write. I can't read and write anymore. "

"But I'm one of the lucky ones. I got out, and I'm still alive." He swept his arm in the air across the empty plot of land in front of us. A plot where 1660 people with disabilities had been cremated and buried. Buried and forgotten. Unmarked and unnamed.

Addicted to Veggies

2009-09-19T09:55:00.000-07:00

My friend Sarahfae is a wonderful person. I'm not one of those bloggers who would enjoy being fired for talking smack about my job, so let's just say that Sarah is a scrumptious little dollop of chocolate cream cheese icing on a large ugly rotten-prune-filled cupcake. She is also a vegan and a raw foods enthusiast. But she's not one of those vegans. You know - the ones who look at you like you've just clubbed a baby seal if you use cow's milk in your latte. No, Sarah is different. She simply believes that eating a lot of fruit and veggies can change your health - and the world. And she's got a new blog to prove it.

From the Addicted to Veggies mission statement:

The real purpose of this blog is to learn through research, and share what we’ve learned with anyone who is interested about living a better life for themselves through eating more fruits and veggies.
In turn we plan to discuss the effects that these simple, healthy and positive choices have --- on our personal lives, the lives of animals, our precious local economy, as well as the big intimidating global picture.

Sarah is a genius at concocting deliciousness. She loves to take vintage cookbook recipes and turn them into whole new creations. Just look at this raw version of fried green tomatoes:

And this mango/orange/peach cobbler:

I am amazed at the things she makes without any cooking or baking whatsoever. Even this cake!

Her blog is full of wonderful recipes, tips, tricks and vivaciousness. And check out her banner photo. Totally snort-worthy. In more ways than one.

Welcome to the blogosphere, Sarah!

Sunday ponderings

2009-09-13T21:10:00.000-07:00

So here I sit, wallowing in self-imposed blogging anxiety because I am supposed to be writing based on B. There are just too many possibilities....blood, breakfast, brains, bondage, bad choices, boots, breasts, bourbon, bitter, bicycle, bald, beg, burrito, bumpy....and the list goes on. So instead, I'm pondering some questions I have about these two photos taken with my terrible cell phone camera. Perhaps you can help.

Antibacterial gel with a convenient plastic hanger. Sign of the times....or sign of obsessive compulsive disorder?

A portrait with a squash for a hat. So bad it's good, or just so, so bad?

I lean toward the latter conclusion in both. You?

Alphabet: A History (A is for Art)

2009-09-01T22:55:00.000-07:00

I am joining Charlotte's Web and City Wendy , among others, in Alphabet: A History, a blog effort to write one's way through the alphabet with a series of short memoir pieces, one for each letter.

A is for Art

Last Sunday, my cousin Nathan, Mark and I drove to the hills of Rio Dell to visit my Grandma Edith. Only a few months away from 90, she still lives alone on several acres of land in a house built as a show home by Pacific Lumber Company in 1932 and made entirely of redwood.

In the 1992 earthquake, the house fell off its foundation, and in the renovation, Gram took her one chance to have white walls instead of wood - to her, a sign of gentility that she had long yearned for.

On two of the white walls in the living room, she has displayed some oil and acrylic paintings by Nathan's mother, my aunt Teresa, an accomplished artist. One of the paintings is a detailed landscape. It features a mountain top with a Native American man sitting on a horse looking out over the valley below him. Filled with saturated earth tones, it's a peaceful and beautiful scene.

Grandma Edith gave a piece of the apple fritter we had brought her to the dog, licked her fingers and then spoke to Nathan as she pointed at the painting. "See that picture? Your mom painted it when she was a teenager. Isn't it pretty?"

Nathan nodded in agreement.

"She entered it in the Humboldt County Fair," Grandma continued, "and it won third prize. When I went to see it, I couldn't believe it only won third. 'Take me to the one that won first prize,' I said. So your mom led me over to the picture that had the blue ribbon on it. Do you know what won first prize?"

She scowled at all of us, almost accusingly. We stopped chewing our donuts and shook our heads back and forth in unison. We had no idea.

"A giant tit. That beautiful picture lost to a giant tit."

"Well, Grandma," Nathan reminded her, "it was 1974."

She ignored him.

"I never had a thing to do with the fair after that. They could call me up tomorrow and beg me for money because times are tough and they can't raise enough to have a fair this year, and I'd tell them to go to hell."

Maybe we should've gone to Curley's.....

2009-08-16T17:37:00.000-07:00

Twelve gallons is a lot of blood. That's how much Mark (the boyfriend formerly known as Big Hands) donated over the last few years to receive a gift certificate for dinner at his choice of several local restaurants. He chose Moonstone Grill and invited me to go with him. Actually, I chose Moonstone Grill and invited myself if you want to get technical, but that's not important.

We arrived in the parking lot yesterday evening just in time to see a young woman dressed in white walking into the restaurant. I tried to replace the good luck with that that was forming inside my jaded mind with beautiful day for a wedding. It was so gorgeous on Moonstone Beach that I almost succeeded.

Inside we enjoyed the view as we began our meal with oysters and smoked albacore wontons. At the table directly across from us, a couple in their fifties was sitting with a couple in their seventies. As the older woman raised a glass of water to her lips, her hand shook badly, and a small stream spilled down her sleeve.

Imagining the blood bank issuing a Hometown Buffet gift certificate next time for ordering too lavishly, I went with the bigeye tuna instead of the abalone I really wanted. Mark had the filet mignon. We passed the time waiting for our food by checking everyone else's out.

The meal arrived at the table across from us. The older woman had ordered my second choice, the pasta with asparagus and mushrooms. The dish was served with, not a fork, but a gigantic spoon, and as soon as she started trying to eat with it, she began to have trouble. The spoon was too big for her mouth as well as her hand which was shaking so badly she couldn't hold the spoon steady. She couldn't get the slippery food to stay on it, and it kept sliding off onto the tablecloth. Soon there was a pile of mushrooms and noodles on the table beside her plate. She then began using the fingers of her left hand to try to pick up the food on the table and put it back on the spoon, which more often than not resulted in it falling right back off.

My throat ached as I sat there conflicted, trying not to stare. Should I walk over quietly and help cut her dinner? Should I slip her a fork? Should I say something to the waitress? In the end, I couldn't decide whether taking action would help or embarrass her further. I cowardly remained silent and cheered inside every time she succeeded in getting a tiny bit of mushroom or a small piece of noodle into her mouth.

The others at her table were either completely oblivious, wrapped up in their own food and conversation, or were avoiding the fact that perhaps their own frightening future was sitting before them, until suddenly the older woman's husband glanced over and saw the food that had accumulated on the tablecloth. He pulled her plate away from her and scowled. "Just look at the mess you've made." He pushed her plate back while shaking his head in disgust.

The younger woman looked up. "Maybe we should get her a fork." But nobody did. Eventually the older woman just stopped eating, although I was happy to note that even though she had to hold the glass with two hands, she continued to drink wine. She certainly needed alcohol with such assholes for dinner companions.

After a finish of cheesecake and creme brulee, we went for a much needed walk. Moonstone Beach was alive with energy. Laughter tumbled from one end of the beach to the other, and the sweet smell of pot smoke wafted from the bushes. As the sun started to set, we saw a large group of people, most of whom held cameras.

A stunning dark skinned woman in a silk wedding gown stood with her husband on top of a small sand dune. A bagpipe player stood a few feet away. Around them danced several women and one small girl wearing dresses of magenta. The vibrant hue against the dull gray of the sand made for a shocking, albeit quite lovely, contrast.

The newly wedded couple put their arms around each other. They smiled as the cameras erupted in loud manic clicks. And then they kissed. Surrounded by hot pink hope.

What will happen to them? I wondered.

Will their marriage be like mine, which would have been two years old this very weekend, but instead failed miserably nearly out of the gate?

Or will they stay together long after their laughter has disappeared, and his kindness is replaced by disgust because her hands have become weak and her dinner has turned wayward?

Or will they, sixty years from now, find themselves standing on a small sand dune on Moonstone Beach one evening while the sky turns pink above them? "I remember how beautiful you looked 60 years ago," he'll say. She'll look at him and grab his hand. "And I remember how awful those bagpipes your mother insisted on sounded, " she'll say. And then they'll laugh until the sky turns dark.

As if he could read my mind, Mark leaned over from behind me and pressed his warm cheek to mine. "Maybe they'll make it," he whispered. I leaned back against him and closed my eyes.

Indeed. Maybe they will.

Wondrous and amazing photo of Moonstone Beach at sunset is by Rambling Jack.

Champipple Therapy

2009-08-05T12:55:00.000-07:00

My friend Renee is a licensed therapist. She spends her days listening to all kinds of people and helping them to fix their lives. She is also one of the most practical, down-to-earth and calm people I know. Nothing seems to faze her. If there's ever a gigantic code red disaster near me, I hope Renee's there too. All of these qualities make her really good at listening to her friends and giving them helpful advice.

A couple of days ago she and I were talking on the phone. I was rambling on about an influx from out-of-town family members this week and all of my concerns and anxieties revolving around the visits. The feelings of inadequacy. The apprehension about past transgressions. The embarrassment of now being twice divorced. Renee listened patiently to my stream of pure melodramatic angst, and then she gave her best therapeutic advice.

"Oh, just drink a lot. It's not like they'll think any less of you."

Genius. My worries dissolved, I decided to start right then. This recipe is brought to you thanks to Renee and her very wise counsel.

I give you: Champipple.

Champipple was a drink favored by Fred Sanford from the t.v. show Sanford and Son. He loved to mix his Ripple, which is super cheap fortified wine like Thunderbird, with various other drinks. Mix it with Cream Soda? You get Cripple. Mix it with Beaujolais? You get Beaujolipple. My favorite combination is a classy little number of Ripple mixed with Champagne, also known as Champipple.

These days I don't use Ripple anymore. That's just oh so there's-nothing-to-do-in-Fortuna-when-you're-a-teenager-so-let's-go-get-drunk-at-the-cemetery-and-make-out-with-boys-in-black-eyeliner, and I'm over those days. Mostly.

So instead I use a cheap red wine, usually leftover from a few nights ago and forgotten on the counter, and an even cheaper champagne.

First pour the champagne into a great big goblet, and then pour the wine on top. I like to use about 7/8 champagne and 1/8 red wine because I really just want a blush of color and a hint of merlot flavor. Big Hands prefers more of a half-and-half mixture because he's sophisticated that way.

Toast, sip, gulp. Gulp. Gulp. Repeat.

Proceed to making prank phone calls (Don't forget to hit *67 to block your number from caller i.d. first. It's not the 80's anymore, damn it.), doing the Thriller dance and making out at the cemetery of your choice. I highly recommend the one on Rohnerville Road.

Enjoy!

A nice girl in Blocksburg

2009-07-28T13:21:00.000-07:00

Through the glory that is Facebook, I found out yesterday that my friend, Kristin Windbigler, is, among other wondrous and creative things, a filmmaker. Kristin is a Humboldt County girl who, like me, went off to other places as soon as she could, but was eventually lured back home by a force that can only be understood by those who've experienced it. She made this fantastic short film about returning to Blocksburg (that's a tiny little town southeast of Bridgeville, which is another tiny little town southeast of Fortuna) and its notorious reputation. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Kristin also maintains a website about Blocksburg and helped to write a book about growing up there called Children From Our One-Room Schools.

Her films have been featured at the Western Folklife Center. You can also see more of them on her blog. I highly recommend Story Machines, which is a fascinating tale of her grandfather who was a logger and owned a machine called a Phonacord that created records, and how he used it to record her family's history. The film features old footage from Washington State and Mount Shasta, as well as from Humboldt County.

Like ice is cold, baby.

2009-07-25T12:14:00.000-07:00

I've been getting my craft on like mad lately. My hair smells like hot metal, my fingers are blistered and my bottom lip has a bloody indentation in it from hard concentration. But it will all be worth it on Sunday because Arcata's hosting the first Humboldt County indie handmade market, the Snip and Stitch Craft Extravaganza, and I'll be there in full crafty glory.

There will be about thirty local artists, designers and crafters showing off their gorgeous wares, and the Monster Women and the Ian Fays are playing. It's going to be a great time, plus it's a wonderful opportunity to support local people making beautiful and uncommon goods instead of buying factory made crap from China.

So come to the plaza between 10 and 4 and visit me. I'll be the one in the Carnival Girl Designs booth smiling uncomfortably and looking like I need a drink because I'm an absolutely horrible salesperson.

Here's some of my latest adornments:

Bird pendants

Vintage sheet music pendants

Mexican loteria card pendants

Strange pictures from vintage dictionary pendants

and of course risque' French postcard pendants

Hope to see you there!

Blog Crush #562

2009-07-13T11:00:00.000-07:00

You may remember my recent post about Humboldt County Bookmarks. It turns out that through the magical power of the interwebs, the owner of the bookstore, Steve, whose picture I shamelessly pilfered from a google image search, found out about the story.

And what do you know? Steve's got a blog too!

Last night I spent the best hour reading through the archives, and I can't wait to read more. There are posts about Bigfoot news, sightings and stories. There are posts about Steve's own Bigfoot travels and adventures. There are fabulous pictures of all kinds of things including black helicopters, giant salamanders, Bigfoot art like the picture above (also shamelessly pilfered. Sorry Steve.) and subway sandwiches. Plus there's enough dry wit and wonk talk to make me have to fan myself.

Check out my favorite post so far - you won't be sorry.

And if you're ever in the Crick, go visit Steve - and not just because you're hoping to find another Humboldt County bookmark.

the road to hell is paved with bad analogies

2009-07-09T21:30:00.000-07:00

If you're a regular reader of this blog, then you know that I'm a big fan of a little spanking now and then. You know what I'm talking about. A swat on the behind just makes the day better. Those of you peeking through the fingers of your covered eyes and professing to yourself that you have no idea what I'm talking about...you're fooling no one.

So it was with glee that as I bent over to put some groceries in the refrigerator tonight, I felt a swat on the backside and turned around to see a familiar mischievous grin on Big Hands' face. I smiled at him then continued the kitchen chores.

Thwack!

Another one right when I least expected it. Then before I could even turn around, Thwack! Another rear end smack. I looked at him with surprise.

"I just can't help it," he grinned. "It's like my hand is a magnet, and your ass is a refrigerator."

That's right. Your ass is a refrigerator.

For a split second I thought about torturing him by pretending I was extremely offended, or worse yet, by bursting into tears and running into the bathroom. It might have been a good way to avoid dishes and get Indian food. But one glance at Big Hands' face, and I knew that with sheer terror, he also realized that he had just compared my ass to a gigantic appliance.

I couldn't help myself. I laughed until I cried for nearly 20 minutes.

Willa Crick Peaches

2009-07-01T20:13:00.000-07:00

I love Tuesdays. Not only does Tuesday mean that it's not Monday anymore, but the Farmers' Market comes to Old Town. And not only does the Farmers' Market come to Old Town, but Los Bagels is now open on Tuesday so I can grab an egg salad on a salt bagel while trying to balance the plethora of multicolored veggies hanging off my arms because I've forgotten a basket to carry them in once again.

Yesterday I wandered up the alley toward F street in search of some big beautiful beets. I found them next to a big beautiful beet farmer and paid my $6 for a couple of bunches. Then I went looking for fava beans, but before I could find them I was distracted by a little table full of gorgeous ripe peaches. Could it really be? Yes, the first of the Willow Creek peaches have hit the market. Forgetting all about the fava beans, I spent the rest of my cash on heaven scented French white peaches.

I hurried back to my office and showed them off to my co-workers excitedly, who oohed and aahed in appropriate admiration. "What will you do with them?" one asked.

I paused as peach visions danced in my head. What would I do with them? Bake them in a pie? Slice them and eat them over ice cream? Leave them whole and eat them slowly with the juice running down my arms while sitting naked in the sun? I told them my plan.

"I'm going to make a peach arugula pizza for dinner."

They looked at me in silence as if I had said I was going to make stray kitten pizza. I didn't understand the horror. People put pineapple on pizzas, why not peaches?

So that's what I did. And it was delicious.

I used Tomaso's dough from the Co-op. I like to make dough from scratch, but sometimes I'm lazy, and Tomaso's is cheap and good. I sprinkled some cornmeal on the pizza stone, rolled out the dough and poked it all over with a fork. Then I put it in the oven at 450 degrees for about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, I cut up three peaches, thinly sliced half a red onion and minced two cloves of garlic. I put these in a bowl with a handful of arugula and tossed them with olive oil, salt and freshly ground pepper.

After the crust came out of the oven I grated some fontina cheese on top then sprinkled on the peach mixture. I then crumbled some Cypress Grove chevre over the top. I can't think of anything that isn't made better with a sprinkling of CG chevre.

Then it went back into the oven for 10 minutes, until the cheese melted and it looked all toasty and golden brown.

It may sound a little strange, but the flavors taste really nice together. The sweet peaches pair well with the spicy arugula and tangy goat cheese. The recipe needs work, though. I think next time I would have doubled the arugula and used more salt and goat cheese. The peaches were really juicy, so the pizza dough needs to be pretty thick in order to not get soggy. I rolled the dough too thin.

I told Big Hands of my critique and asked him what he thought would make it better for next time. He sat in thought, slowly chewing his pizza for a few minutes before answering.

"I thought it was perfect. The only thing that would have been better is if you were topless while you made it."

He's a smart man with a lot of homemade pizza in his future.

I can't wait to read about me later on your blog

2009-06-30T09:23:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's because I love show tunes. Maybe it's because I'm a little twisted. Maybe it's because Big Hands and I might just possibly be the first Humboldt blogosphere love connection. Or maybe Tuesday's just boring. At any rate, thanks to crossgirl, this video has had me laughing and humming to myself for the last hour.

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Hmmmmm. The whole thing won't show on my screen, and I'm technologically challenged. You may have to go to the site to view it. If anyone knows how to change this and make it work, please let me know. Slowly and with small words.

Zinnia chronicles

2009-06-20T23:47:00.000-07:00

Fleas in your underwear? I know nothing about that.

Humboldt County Bookmark

2009-06-16T09:47:00.000-07:00

Mondays are the best day to take off from work. After a busy and exhausting working weekend out of town I decided that I needed yesterday to recuperate and decompress. The laundry needed to be washed, the house needed to be cleaned, bills needed to be paid, the garden needed to be weeded. So I dove in to what was really important first. I packed a bag with sunscreen, a towel and a sandwich and took myself to Willa Crick for the day (aka Willow Creek in some circles.)

It was a lovely day; warm, sunny with clouds that would pass over and block the sun for a bit just as I was getting so hot I thought I might have to jump in the river. After falling asleep on Kimtu Beach for a few hours I woke up covered in a sticky layer of sand with dark clouds rolling in from the hills. I looked around me and the beach was deserted. Time to head to my other favorite place in the Crick - Bigfoot Books.

Bigfoot Books is wonderful, not only for the huge collection of all books Yeti-Sasquatch-Bigfoot related displayed in the front window. The store is in an old house, so you get to wander through maze-like rooms to see them all. The books, while well categorized, are stacked on bookcases and the floor all the way to the ceiling. The majority of them are dusty.

More often than not while you wander through the stacks, you are treated to overhearing phone conversations by the owner who I believe is named Steve. He'll either be talking about the latest Bigfoot sighting he's heard about, the latest hoax, a retelling of stories he's heard from locals and tourists alike or just his general philosophy about Bigfoot Love. This, of course, is my favorite part.

Yesterday I was searching for an old dictionary to make jewelry out of and a Caribbean cookbook. I found both. I took them up to the counter. The cookbook was five dollars, but since the dictionary wasn't priced, Steve started flipping through it to determine if it would be three dollars or four. As he ran his fingers across the edges of the pages, the dictionary suddenly opened up to reveal a large pressed marijuana leaf. He looked up at me with a mixture of amusement and trepidation.

"You'd be surprised at how many of these I find."

I laughed. "No, I really wouldn't. I was born here."

He smiled and closed the book.

"That'll be nine dollars. I won't even charge you extra for the Humboldt County bookmark."

Later at home I opened it up again and noticed that the bookmark had been very appropriately placed - on the same page with the entry for 'potato chip.'

Scenes from the June 5 Rally

2009-06-05T22:40:00.000-07:00

Here are some photos from today's rally at the courthouse in Eureka to protest the latest appalling and unconscionable cuts proposed by Schwarzenegger to people with disabilities, the elderly, low income families and many other members of our community. The rally was well attended, and based on the number of honks, waves and yells, was also well supported. It was organized by Tri-County Independent Living.

For Kristabel: Guest post from New York

2009-05-26T19:22:00.000-07:00

OK, so probably not my best work here, but really, what do you expect on my quick break for lunch? Thinking of you.

Goodbye Bladder of Gall

Sung to the tune of Elton John's Goodbye Norma Jean

Goodbye Bladder of Gall

Though I never really knew you at all

You had the task of concentrating bile

When organs around you would call

The stomach, pancreas and liver

All whispered, "Yo, get to work."

But you just sat there smiling

For a non-vital organ, I guess that's a perk

And it seemed to me, you lived your life

Like a lazy dog in the sun

Never wanting to leave the porch

Not even if there was fun

And I'm pretty glad that you're gone now

And left like you did

The surgeon tore you from my guts

Before I ever could

Just a little blog pause

2009-05-19T15:46:00.000-07:00

Chocolate Covered Xanax will be in a holding pattern for a bit while I get a badly behaved part ripped out of my body.

Don't worry, I'll be back in a couple of weeks with exciting tales of the cleanliness, caring and culinary delights of St. Joseph Hospital.

I suppose I should wait until after the surgery to be so sarcastic.

In the meantime, Heraldo, Carson Park Ranger and Carol have all assured me that to honor my absence they will be posting their most outrageous Saturday night fantasies.

Big Giant Plant Sale

2009-05-14T19:36:00.000-07:00

The weather is supposed to be sunny and lovely this weekend. What a perfect time to walk around a gorgeous yard drinking lemonade (or limoncello in a flask. Mmmmm), buy some plants and maybe even take them home and put them in the ground.

Charlie's Blossoms annual plant sale starts tomorrow. The plants are beautiful and healthy, and there's a huge variety: perennials, annuals, flowers, herbs, veggies. Plus the prices are super reasonable, and if you buy one or more tomatoes, you get one free.

Charlie's Blossoms Annual Plant Sale
Friday, Saturday and Sunday, May 15, 16 and 17
from 9 to 4
4180 Loop Road, Fortuna

Here's a map.

Check it out, and tell them Kristabel sent you.

I got my stash already. Don't they look amazing?

They're all ready to go in the brand new raised beds that Big Hands built for me. Although Zinnia, the sweet thing who adopted me several weeks ago, seems to have other ideas.

P.S. This is my mom's place, so be nice. And pick up after yourself. And please don't mention anything about Saturday night.

Did you hear that?

2009-05-10T19:00:00.000-07:00

Date: May 10, 2009
Time: 5:00 p.m.
Place: Fortuna Safeway

Usually I reserve this space for conversations I've overheard. Well, actually, they're usually conversations that I've eavesdropped on, but overheard sounds less pathetic. Today, though, I'm sharing a conversation I had with a man at Safeway that I really can't figure out.

I am fortunate to have been born a nutball magnet. (Thanks, Mom, and Happy Mother's Day.) If there's a person who's a little off, a little rough around the edges, a little wild-eyed anywhere near me, they will almost always start talking to me, and it's almost always fascinating.

Today I was shopping for bananas. I'll only eat them when they're barely ripe, so I was trying to find the very greenest there. A man with unkempt grey hair started fondling the bananas next to me.

"You know," he said, "You can get these at Costco, and they look like they came right off the boat."

I looked at him quizzically. I wasn't sure what boat he was talking about.

"It's true. My wife and I got some, and when they turned brown, we ate them with cat."

I wasn't quite sure how to respond, so I didn't, just cocked my head in confusion as he hurried away.

I'm still left pondering. Is this a racist joke that I don't get? Does his cat like really ripe bananas? Should I stop shopping in Fortuna? Anyone?

Quote of the Day

2009-05-05T13:15:00.000-07:00

Last night I attended a public meeting in Eureka to discuss the California budget crisis.

More specifically, to discuss the horrendous cuts being made to individuals and services of some of our most vulnerable community members, equaling over 100 million dollars, and how they will affect people in Humboldt County.

More specifically, to be lectured to about the inevitability of these horrendous cuts and how "we're all in this together" from someone who makes over $100,000 a year. My favorite quote:

"You see we're not actually talking about cuts here, we're just talking about how services will be provided differently."

I have no comment other than a deep and heavy sigh.

Meyer Lemon Bars

2009-04-23T21:33:00.000-07:00

This year I was asked to bring dessert for the annual Easter feast. It took me days to decide what to make. I wanted something fun and spring-like. There would be kids there, so I didn't want anything too foofy or complicated. I mulled over the possibilities. Carrot cake? Strawberry shortcake? Rhubarb pie? Coconut Lime cupcakes? Oh, the dilemma. I debated so long that the day before Easter I still hadn't decided what to make. Fortunately while meandering through the produce aisle at the Co-op, inspiration suddenly struck in the form of a large pile of the most gorgeous Meyer lemons I'd ever seen. They were practically glowing as they called out to me, and there was no way I could pass them by. Lemon bars it would be.

I love lemon bars, and I can't imagine anyone who doesn't. They're fun, decadent and so pretty. Just like me, Heraldo.

The Ingredients:

Crust:

2 sticks of butter at room temperature
1/2 cup of sugar
2 cups of flour
1/8 tsp. of salt

Filling:

7 large eggs at room temperature
2 1/2 cups of sugar (Meyer lemons are sweet. If these were regular lemons, I'd use 3 cups)
1 cup of freshly squeezed Meyer lemon juice
the zest of about 2 lemons
1 cup of flour

Powdered sugar to dust on top.

Aren't these beautiful? A cross between a lemon and a sweet orange, Meyer lemons are less acidic, more fragrant and sweeter than a regular lemon. I could go on and on about them. How they make an amazing limoncello. How great they are preserved and used in a Moroccan lamb tagine. How they make the most delicious lemonade ever, but I won't today. Today it's all about the bar. Alright. Stop staring at my lemons and preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

To make the crust, cream the butter and sugar in a mixer until it's light and fluffy.

Mix the flour and the salt together and, with the mixer on low speed, add them gradually to the creamed butter and sugar until just barely mixed.

Dump the dough into a prepared 9" x 13" pan and press it with your hands to cover the pan evenly. Build a little edge around the sides.

Bake the crust for about 20 minutes.

While it's baking you can make the filling. First squeeze the lemons. Supposedly if you roll a lemon around with your palm on the counter for awhile, more juice will come out. I don't know if this is true or not, and I'm always too impatient to try it. I use one of these handy metal fruit squeezer things over a strainer. You can also just use your hands. If you do, be sure to squint up your eyes and make Incredible Hulk sound effects while you're squeezing. These lemons were so juicy it only took three to get a cup of juice.

Then grate some zest from 2 lemons - more if you like a zestier taste - and add it to the juice.

Whisk together the eggs, sugar, lemon juice and zest. Add the flour and continue mixing until it's well-combined. Check your crust. If it's a nice light brown color, take it out and set it on a wire rack.

Pour the filling over the crust and stick it back in the oven.

Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, or until the filling is set and no longer jiggly. Let it cool on a wire rack.

Now see in the upper left hand corner of the above picture where I almost dropped the entire pan of lemon bars and stuck my thumb in while trying to catch it? If you happen to do something similar, don't you worry one little bit. Your bars will be just fine because you'll be covering them with a lovely coating of powdered sugar. And powdered sugar, much like the heavy makeup on an unshaven drag queen, will hide a variety of sins.

After the bars cool to room temperature, sprinkle on the powdered sugar and cut them into squares. Arrange them on a fancy plate and throw on some extra lemon slices to make the whole thing look pretty and to hopefully distract your family from the fact that you procrastinated so long that you made the lemon bars on the same day as the dinner and were in such a hurry that you took them out of the oven too soon and the filling didn't set up all the way and so they'll probably have to eat them with a spoon.

And by the way, they still taste divine with a spoon. Or smeared on an inner thigh.

Enjoy!

The Joy of Chinatown - guest post

2009-04-14T13:40:00.000-07:00

The following is a guest post by my little brother Troy who moved to New York City about ten years ago. And who doesn't call his big sister often enough.

Troy and I share many things, and our mutual love of all things Chinatown is near the top of the list. Neither one of us can imagine being friends with anyone who doesn't appreciate the sights and sounds and smells and tastes of these little cities within cities.

One of my favorite memories of Troy is when we both lived in San Francisco in the early nineties. One Saturday night Troy was almost finished causing general mischief and consuming so much beer that I can feel my liver twitching just thinking about it. He was starving. If you've ever been drunk and famished at 2:30 a.m. in The City, you know that food options are few and far between at that time. As he weaved down the sidewalks grumbling and madly trying to find something - anything - to eat, he happened to find himself on a fairly deserted street in the middle of Chinatown. Most of the street was dark, but about 30 feet ahead of him was a bright light spilling out onto the sidewalk from a little shop. He walked closer, and just like a mirage in the desert, the glowing window appeared before him holding exactly what he had been yearning for: succulent, shiny Peking ducks hanging by their necks from the ceiling. He rushed through the door, slammed his money down, waited impatiently while the man behind the counter cut the string from his duck, ripped off a leg and took a gigantic bite. His eyes glazed over in ecstasy. There was nowhere to sit, but he didn't care. Mumbling a thank you through his full mouth to the shopkeeper, he headed back out into the night. Troy spent the next hour walking around San Francisco ravenously eating that duck, brown glaze dripping from his mouth and fingers.

But wait. In my bossy, eldest sibling kind of way I've forgotten that this is Troy's post, not mine. Anyway, here's what Troy sent me today. He had jury duty. In Chinatown, as luck would have it.

11:45 a.m. This is where I had lunch today. So dirty and so cheap! I knew I was in the right place when I walked in and was the only white guy there. I ordered chicken and stringbeans and some pork dumplings. I got beef with egg and broccoli. I didn't care and ate the whole thing.

12:30 p.m. Then on to this place for a quick beer (maybe 2) before heading back to jury duty. It was me, three Chinese guys, all somewhere between 75 and 300 years old, a Chinese hooker, and what I believe to be a homeless dude curled up in the corner. I made small talk with the hooker, but I don't think she really understood me. She seemed surprised when I left. Goddamn I love Chinatown.

Maybe I'll get picked for a trial and can hang out here for a couple more days!

3:00 p.m. Sadly, the story ends here. I am not part of a trial, and as soon as the copier is fixed, I will get a copy of my proof of service. Hopefully I'll be back in 6 years...

Friday night mix

2009-04-11T10:09:00.000-07:00

What do you get when you mix four bloggers, a barbeque dinner, a case of Great White, some leftover vicodin and two dozen eggs?

This:

My favorite is the deviled egg. Happy Spring!

Your helpful tip for today.

2009-03-31T12:40:00.000-07:00

Here in Humboldt we're all concerned with reusing, recycling and reducing our carbon footprint, yes?

Well, I don't know about you, but I had never thought about how my use of ....ahem...adult playthings was affecting the planet. Until today, that is, when I happened upon this site: Recycle My Sex Toy

We've all been there. New batteries installed. Lights down low. Mood music on the stereo. And just when you're totally ready to get down with your bad self, you hear a sickening thud. A slow grind to a complete halt signaling a very sad, not to mention frustrating, end to a trusty friend.

But what to do now? Throw it away? Make art out of it? Use it as a towel holder? Fortunately, this company will take your gigantic rechargeable Rock-Your-World Jack Rabbit and turn it into playground mulch for the kiddies. They'll even send you a $10 gift certificate so you can buy a new one.

You're welcome!

The Absolute Best Time to Get Your Saturday Night (Revised. Again. I can't help it .).....

2009-03-25T22:09:00.001-07:00

is in a dark seedy alley in a city not so far away.

Or at least that's what I'm hoping.

Sing it with me.

Bomp Chicka Bow Bow....Chicka Bomp Chicka Bow Bow......

Why I will not be attending the peace march on Saturday

2009-03-19T18:22:00.000-07:00

I'm all for civil disobedience. For peaceably assembling. For street theater and the Raging Grannies and Code Pink and Veterans for Peace.

But if I see one person juggling while riding a unicycle, passing out 9/11 conspiracy leaflets, spouting about global warming, picking up hot chicks or in any other way using the event as an excuse for frivolity instead of a reason to express being righteously pissed off that billions have been spent, thousands upon thousands have been killed, millions have been displaced, tens of thousands have been wounded and hundreds have killed themselves, then the likelihood that I'll end up in jail is very high.

And I look terrible in orange.

photo source

Priorities

2009-03-13T20:16:00.000-07:00

Tonight we celebrated my dad's birthday at Shamus T-Bones out in Carlotta. If you haven't been yet, you really should. It's fantastic. We gorged on various barbecued meats, cornbread muffins, chili, coleslaw, salads and baked beans and washed it all down with beer. If there's one thing my family knows how to do, it's eat. And we do. Well and often.

Earlier in the day my mom had baked my dad's favorite raspberry/blackberry pie and had dropped it off at T-bones to surprise him. There was no way she would trust a restaurant with a birthday dessert. It was a glorious pie. The crust was flaky and tender. The filling glittered with red and was sweet with just the right hint of tartness. Topped with vanilla ice cream it was the perfect ending to a completely gluttonous meal.

Big Hands endeared himself to my parents by eating more than everyone and moaning in ecstasy while inhaling the pie. It was a really good time.

Unfortunately our exit from the restaurant was a bit shaky. We all walked our very full bellies slowly to the door trying not to pop the buttons off our jeans or make attention-getting grimaces.

Mom was holding the half-empty pie plate in her hands and somehow lost her footing on the cement curb. Her feet flew out from under her; she landed flat on her back, bruised her tailbone and cracked her head on the sidewalk.

The hostess came running as Dad and Big Hands helped her sit up. Mom was stunned and in obvious pain. She put her hand up to her throbbing head, gave a little moan and then looked around wildly.

I leaned down to her. "What is it Mom? Are you okay? Do you need help?"

She looked up at all three of us with tears in her eyes and asked,

"Is the pie okay?"

Did You Hear That?

2009-03-10T20:09:00.000-07:00

Date: March 10, 2009

Time: 5:30 p.m.

Place: a Fortuna laundromat.

A man is talking very loudly on his cell phone in the middle of the laundromat.

"Really? You found it in her room? She admitted it was hers?"

Long pause.

"Well, it sounds like you need to decide what you'd rather have - a daughter who's a tweaker or a daughter who lays around on her bed and does nothing. Either way I'd ground her. For at least two weeks."

Pretty, tasty and best of all, easy.

2009-03-05T12:45:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not talking about myself, silly.

It seems the last several months of life chaos have aged me about 50 years and left me with a nasty little hole in my stomach. Along with taking drugs (not the fun kind, unfortunately,) and avoiding just about everything that tastes good, I have also had to stop drinking alcohol. Oh, the unfairness!

The other day I opened up the crisper drawer of my refrigerator to find it not full of healthy green vegetables, but of apricot ale I had forgotten was there. I grabbed one from the drawer, held the cold moist bottle in my hand and looked longingly at the label. My mouth began to water as I grabbed a bottle opener from the drawer, popped off the lid and watched the frosty vapor emerge from the neck. Slowly, I brought the bottle close to my lips and inhaled the delicious scent while closing my eyes.

Then suddenly in my mind's eye I saw myself clutching my stomach while rolling on the floor writhing in agony, set the bottle down on the counter, and did the next best thing - turned it into bread.

Beer bread is fantastic. It's easy to make like a quick bread but isn't quite as dense. It still has that yeasty bread smell and taste. You can experiment with all different kinds of beer and additions to make it great for just about any occasion, like slathering it with butter and feeding it seductively to your naked moaning lover.

This recipe yields a bread with a little sweetness. I used Pyramid Apricot Ale because that's what I had on hand, but I'll bet it would be even better with Lost Coast Tangerine Wheat. Maybe with some dried cherries? It's also a recipe I wrote down and now can't remember from where. So if it's yours...I'm sorry....and thanks.

Here are the ingredients:

3 cups all purpose flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 cup sugar
3 tbsp vegetable oil
1 12 ounce bottle of apricot beer
1/2 cup diced dried apricots

Preheat your oven to 350F and lightly grease a 9×5 inch loaf pan.

Dice the apricots into chunky little pieces.

Whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt and sugar in a great big bowl.
.

Make a little well in the center of the dry ingredients and pour in the vegetable oil and the beer. Ooooooo....pretty.

Stir the mixture just until no streaks of flour remain. It'll be very sticky and goopy.

Then throw in the dried apricots and mix them into the batter.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and put it in the oven. It's thick, so you'll probably have to scrape it out with a spatula. This picture shows two pans because I doubled the recipe. It's always good to have a loaf in the freezer.

Bake for 55-60 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean and the top springs back when you lightly press on it. The bread should be light or medium gold. Turn it out of the pan and let it cool on a wire rack. It will look even better and browner and might even glisten if you give the top of the dough an egg wash. I didn't have any eggs, so mine isn't as gorgeous as it could have been.

Slather with butter, find a naked moaning lover and enjoy!

Fed Ex: A Covert Operation

2009-02-26T14:00:00.000-08:00

For the past several days I've been housesitting for a friend who lives on one of the busiest streets in Eureka. It's not a very tough job and consists of feeding the cat, sleeping in the giant comfy bed and bringing in the newspaper and mail. Oh, and spying on Fred (that's not really part of the job, just a bonus.)

Yesterday I arrived at the front porch to see that Fed Ex had paid a visit and delivered a couple of packages. Realizing that it was a busy street, the delivery person very carefully hid them so they would not be observed by casual passersby.

And just in case I happened to miss them, there was also a note left on the door.

Super stealth, guys. Good job!

I love the Academy Awards.

2009-02-23T12:20:00.000-08:00

I know, I know...a bunch of self-indulgent egomaniacs congratulating themselves, etc., etc. But I can't help it. I love them, and I was so excited yesterday when I was able to talk the owners of a giant high-definition television into letting me spend the evening reveling in the sparkly pretentiousness.

But this year my heart felt like a wine-stained and wrinkled evening gown in that horrible grey color everyone was wearing when I saw the winner of the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award, Jerry Lewis. And I just have one thing to ask the Academy:

Are you fucking kidding me?

Here's what Mike Ervin had to say about it in The Progressive.

The Oscars are about to insult people with disabilities.

At the Academy Awards ceremony Feb. 22, the board of governors of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences will present its Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award to Jerry Lewis.

Lewis is notorious for making disparaging remarks about others, particularly gay people and women.

But he has said equally degrading things about people with disabilities.

For decades, disability rights activists have criticized how his annual telethon for the Muscular Dystrophy Association exploits people with disabilities by making us into objects of pity.

To this, Lewis responded in 2001, “You don’t want to be pitied because you’re a cripple in a wheelchair, stay in your house!”

Lewis becomes particularly enraged when those who protest against his telethon and him are people with muscular dystrophy — like me.

In a 1993 article in Vanity Fair magazine, he said about me, “This one kid in Chicago would have passed through this life and never had the opportunity to be acknowledged by anybody, but he found out that by being a dissident he gets picked up in a limo by a television station.”

The damage Lewis has done to the disability community goes far beyond name-calling. He and his telethon symbolize an antiquated and destructive 1950s charity mentality.

This says that people with disabilities have no hope and nothing to offer unless we are cured, so the whole focus should be raising money for behemoth charities that can find that cure.

This is a dangerously simplistic outlook.

It devalues and dehumanizes people with disabilities by suggesting we can be worthy contributors only if we first shed our disabilities.

It gives people permission to avoid addressing the daunting task of creating an inclusive society if they simply make an annual contribution to Jerry.

Disability rights activists still fight daily to shatter the barriers that exclude and segregate people with disabilities. Those barriers are rooted in the outmoded charity mentality.

Lewis and his telethon are the primary force that perpetuates that mentality.

By giving Lewis this honor, the board of governors of the Academy shows that its view of people with disabilities and our potential has not evolved in 50 years.

Sigh.

Sometimes things shift.

2009-02-20T09:16:00.000-08:00

Life is fluid. Change is often needed for growth.
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Damn, I'll miss you Eko.
You and your refined palate.

xoxox

Just a tiny little sappy pre-valentine's day post

2009-02-10T12:19:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago I was lying naked on my stomach on a really comfy bed in San Francisco with my eyes closed listening to the city sounds outside the window. It was late afternoon and warm in the room; I was tired and the cacophony of sirens, cars honking, people shouting and cable cars clanging was lulling me into a near-sleep state.

Suddenly ice cold water plunged over my neck and down my back, soaking both my ample torso and the sheets I was lying on. I sat straight up screaming "Damn it!" and looked crabbily at my roommate, a cute tall guy with big hands who had accompanied me to the city and who was suspiciously holding a large empty glass.

"Sorry," he muttered sheepishly with a sideways grin and a shrug of his shoulders. "I thought it would be sexy to dribble a bit of water on your back and lick it off...but it didn't quite work out that way."

And in one small dorky moment of humanity I began to think that happily ever after may not be quite as elusive as I'd thought.

Saturday night souvenir

2009-02-07T15:58:00.000-08:00

My friend
Boy Most Likely To
went to San Francisco,

and all I got was this lousy chocolate-covered penis.

Friday Crafty Inspiration

2009-02-06T12:26:00.000-08:00

If I wasn't going to be stuck in traffic school this weekend (damn you, Trinity County and your 55 mph speed limit and your no-online-or-home-study rules) I would so be making one of these, but I thought I'd post it anyway for any of you who need a weekend project.

I especially like the tattoos. Happy Crafting!

I also heart being tagged.

2009-02-01T10:28:00.001-08:00

Really. I know some people think it's a pain in the ass but grudgingly play along. Others won't play at all. But I love discovering things about people - especially if they're really weird. The things, not the people. No, the people too. You know what I'm saying.

Indie over at the Bitten Apple tagged me. The instructions are to post the sixth photo of your sixth folder, then tell the story behind it.

These are my friends Julia and Angie. Aren't they cute? Yes, those really are name tags made from maxi pads on their shirts. We belong to a little group called "Not Yo Mama's Craft Nite." About once a month or so we get together for eating, drinking, kvetching and, of course, crafting. This picture was the product of a few too many lemon sorbet martinis. Mmmmmmm. My mouth is watering just thinking about them. I believe Julia's just about to hold the knitting needles she's hiding behind her back up to Angie's throat to threaten the last martini away from her. We're a tough bunch.

The group's been on hiatus for awhile, but we're going to regroup in March and are looking for new members. If you've got a crafty side and are interested (Indie, Monica, Carol, Beachcomber...?), shoot me an email for an invitation. It's a great time.

So now, I tag (Don't worry, I won't hold it against you if you won't play. Maybe.).....

Hank (Sorry, Hank. It was so fascinating the last time I tagged you, I just had to do it again.)

Jen

Jack

Eric

My favorite headmaster

and another Jen

I still heart statcounter

2009-01-29T12:52:00.000-08:00

It's that time again! Here's a list (with just a little bit of commentary) of all the words and phrases that have led searchers to our little chocolate covered home in the blogosphere. There were the usual of course: assless chaps (which we haven't mentioned in ages,) chocolate breasts and the variants of spanking bench, but this time there were some that were new and just a little unusual. Really, I couldn't make this stuff up.

cheap xanax blogspot

Hey! We may be easy, but we're not cheap.

crush xanax in liquor

This either sounds like a really bad idea or a really great Saturday night.

humboldt county spanking

Just doing our part to liven things up behind the redwood curtain.

doggystyle promotions

Does it really need promoting? I thought everyone liked it!

gay spanking road rage

Why am I visualizing my friend Pancake wielding a paddle and screaming, "Taste the rainbow, bitches!" ?

sexual frustration blogspot

I realize the Saturday Night posts have been a little few and far between, but geesh...

i think my couch has poison oak oil on it what do i do

I don't know either, sweetheart.

xxx hot sluts

Yeah! It's about time!

tiger gets lost brady bunch

Oh my god! I love that episode almost as much as the one about the cursed tiki idol! Or the one where Jan wears a wig! Or when Marsha breaks her nose!

make a jail using pretzels and marshmallow

The kids must be making these in school now instead of those stupid missions.

humboldt weed

Wrong blog.

aging goddess martini

I'll start thinking about what ingredients should go in this new drink as soon as it stops making me sad. Maybe they'll make it for me at the Gilded Rose. Sniff.

Bigfoot ate my internet connection

2009-01-27T14:05:00.000-08:00

When I moved to my funky little cabin in Loleta, one of the things that made me happiest was a close unsecured wireless internet connection named Loletalag. Since I'm still paying off a contract I no longer use with a nasty satellite company, pilfered internet is the only thing within my budget.

Several weeks ago the Loletalag connection suddenly disappeared. At first I thought that perhaps the owners had gone on vacation or that maybe something was wrong with their computer, but with a heavy heart I'm sad to report that Loletalag seems to be gone for good. My days of free stolen internet are over, which is also the main reason for my blog slacking.

I have so many stories to share, so I'll do what I can when my boss isn't looking. And if you know any good wifi hot spots around Loleta and Fortuna, let me know. Especially if they're in close proximity to cheap alcohol and/or strong coffee.

Another year better

2009-01-11T15:54:00.000-08:00

Somebody is having a birthday. This somebody is one of my favorite people in the whole wide world. To me she's like warm, melty ice cream on a hot cherry pie or a dip in a refreshing lagoon in the tropics. Yeah, she's like that. And for just one day I hope she knows how much I love and miss her. Happy birthday beautiful, this one's for you!

Portland Travelogue

2009-01-06T13:08:00.000-08:00

You might remember my fabulous trip to Portland almost a year ago to spend some much-needed quality time with my twin-voiced cousin Keri. We drove miles for doughnuts, created metal artwork, shopped for thrift store items and sex toys, danced to ABBA and so much more.

Last week I went back to Portland to return a visiting Grandpa Joe and get in some more cousin time. I just knew that you all would want me to share the action-filled photos from the trip:

Ah, yes. Feet on coffee table. Butts planted firmly on couch. For three days straight.

What you can't see in the photo are the stacks of videos ("Lars and the Real Girl" is my new fave,) stacks of books, wads of kleenex from the multiple good-cry sessions and empty cups that were continually being refilled with warm and boozy Tom and Jerry's. Also not showing is the bit of moisture on the corner of Keri's mouth from drooling as she watched her boyfriend on t.v.

Mmmmmmm. Can you say, "Bob's your uncle?"

No, it wasn't the most adventurous trip we've ever spent together.

It was much better than that. There's something exceptionally wonderful about spending time with someone who feels like home. Who represents where you come from and reminds you of your roots. Someone whose life will be interconnected with yours no matter where you go and what you do. Someone who will sing the Swedish Chef song with you in perfect harmony. That's what Keri does for me.

And for those of you who are worrying that my crazy road trip days are over, don't be. I'm going to San Francisco this weekend, so prepare yourselves now. Big hands and drag queens go very well together.

A few goodbyes and a couple of hellos.

2009-01-02T16:32:00.000-08:00

With a sigh of relief I said farewell to 2008 on December 31. The last few months of the year have been unbelievably difficult, but about three weeks ago I uncurled myself from a fetal position, got off the kitchen floor, took a deep breath and an even deeper swallow of tequila and decided to get on with it. I have never been so happy to begin a new year.

Saying goodbye to my life in the Bear River Valley has not been easy. It's the sort of place that creeps into your subconscious and won't let you go. It gets under your skin. Literally. For as I sit writing this, my inner thighs are covered in ugly red welts. They get like this every few days, and when I feel the familiar itching and burning, I know that the Bear River Valley and its state flower, the poison oak plant, have not unleashed me yet.

I've washed all my clothes, towels and sheets. I've scrubbed my shoes. I've cleaned everything I can possibly think of that might have come in contact with the nasty oil. I've even searched my yard here in Loleta for signs of the plant but have found nothing.

I've begun to think that the only answer is that we need closure - the valley and me. So here is my final goodbye to 2008, as well as a hopeful hello to '09. After all, as my Rio Dell grandma would say, "When God closes a door, he never quite closes it all the way, so the wind keeps blowing it open and gets dirt everywhere and you have to chase the chickens out with a broom."

Or something like that.

Goodbye bright blue skies of ABBA ranch.

Farewell, my sweet 2408. You're a punk, but I love you.

Adios, favorite rusty truck.

So long toilet graveyard.

I'll be seeing you, strapping ranch hand. No, really. I'll be seeing you.

Goodbye gorgeous rose of summer.

And goodbye to you, too, chilly rose of winter.

Farewell dry wit and dripping faucets.

See you later, tomato dreams.

It's time to move on, poison oak. Think of this as an opportunity for growth and just let go. You can do it.

And you, beautiful Bear River. I'll miss you the most. Even with the giardia.

Phew.

And so.....

Hello 2009.

Hello hope and happiness and light and laughter.

Hello Gilded Rose.

Hello, delicious cosmopolitan. I know you're oh-so-1998, but I don't care.

And hello drinking companion with big hands.

You know what they say. Big hands, big brain.

Or something like that.

Happy New Year!

Holiday Wishes from CCX

2008-12-24T12:59:00.000-08:00

To continue with our Arctic Blast snow theme, I thought I'd share a seasonal photograph of a snowman I saw once while visiting the Sierra foothills.

Happy Holidays! Here at Chocolate Covered Xanax we hope all of your...ahem...biggest....and brightest wishes come true.

Donner, party of 8, your table is ready.

2008-12-22T19:07:00.000-08:00

So we're having some snow issues here in Oregon. Let's just get this straight right now. We Oregonians are a mild people. We don't descend from the Norwegians like half of the state of Minnesota. We mostly come from California so we are unprepared for wacky weather like we have seen for the last week. The news stations (who love to name weather systems) have called this storm "Arctic Blast 2008". We here at the gateway to Mount Hood call it "What the @#%#$@^, doesn't God know it's my Christmas break and this is seriously cutting into my plans Blast 2008". I know, pretty similar names.

We're at 3 feet and counting. It's snowed here for the last 3 days straight. I'm seriously considering calling an ambulance for a severe case of cabin fever.

We were able to get out to a neighbor's house today and were rewarded with witnessing a fender bender, 3 cars spinning out, one car missing the road completely and getting stuck on the sidewalk and finally a refill on homemade kahlua by said neighbor. Thank God for kahlua and hot chocolate. I can probably put off the call to 911 now.

Hope you and yours have a Merry Christmas.

Holiday hysteria - it's a gas.

2008-12-18T14:06:00.000-08:00

I realize that after admitting the following transgression Heraldo will never make out with me in the backseat of my car again, but while accompanying Bee to her holiday party in Crescent City yesterday, I bought toothpaste at Walmart.

The checkout line was so long that I started to wrestle with the wrapper of the large box of peppermint candy I was also purchasing so that we could eat some while waiting. (They were those delectable melt-aways. I couldn't help myself.)

Suddenly Bee nudged me. "Did you see that?"

I hadn't.

"Some guy just stole something and ran out the door. He threw the box right there."

Not wanting to pry myself away from the task at hand of ripping the plastic off the peppermints, I didn't look up. "What'd he steal?" I asked her.

She giggled. "Beano."

I laughed. "Ha! Yeah, right." I had finally gotten the box open and handed her a peppermint.

"No, seriously. He slipped the Beano out of the box and into his pocket, threw the box down, and ran out the door. Look."

I looked to the place where her finger pointed, and there it was. An open empty box that used to contain Beano.

Why things like this strike me as hilarious is a mystery unto itself, but I laughed until the tears rolled down my face and my stomach hurt and the Walmart clerk looked questioningly at Bee while wondering if she was going to have to call 911.

For a split second on our way out the door I felt a twinge of guilt that neither one of us said anything to an employee about the shoplifter. But then I just shrugged my shoulders because, truly, a person who has to steal Beano from Walmart doesn't really need any more problems in his life.

Shameless Blog Promotion

2008-12-12T10:04:00.000-08:00

If you're still looking for the perfect holiday gifts, or if you just need something pretty for yourself, don't miss tonight's Design Collective show at the Accident Gallery. The Design Collective is a series of shopping events that celebrate Humboldt County's local design talent. The Holiday Collective is the 3rd in the series and last for the year!

Like a certain other blogger, I am also a jewelry designer in my spare time and will be there drunkenly hawking my wares. Because there's beer. And food. And a DJ. And admission is free. So it's a good time whether you're shopping or not.

Here's Shane and Monica. Monica is wearing one of my pendants featuring a piece of vintage sheet music that says "Pretty Baby," which she is. (I blatantly stole this picture from Greg without even asking because I'm bad. Very, very bad.)

You can see more of my stuff here, but I really hope to see you tonight!

Sometimes a picture's all I've got.

2008-12-05T12:34:00.000-08:00

Doc Weed's Memories of Humboldt

2008-11-24T12:15:00.000-08:00

While ~~dicking around instead of working~~ taking a short break today I ran across this blog entry about a young man's experience working for a mill in Humboldt in 1956. It's a pretty fascinating tale, and I thought some of you might be interested in it as well or even recognize the landmarks and people mentioned. Here's an excerpt:

We arrived in Fortuna, the main market town for the dairy farmers and loggers alike, in late morning on the fourth day. We picked up some food and other supplies, got directions, and headed east on the narrow, winding country road leading to Carlotta, where we would be working for the next two months. On the way, we passed through Hydesville, another quaint farming village. After Hydesville, the road wound into the hills and, an hour later, we were in Carlotta, which, as far as we could tell, was nothing more than two sawmills, a general store and a post office. Not even a diner or gas station! Now all we had to do was figure out where we were going to live.

At the Post Office, we learned that there were plenty of campgrounds up the road–including Grizzly Creek Redwoods State Park– but the most intriguing was a place managed by Strong’s Station, an old stagecoach stop along the road between Fortuna to Red Bluff, a town on the other side of the mountain. This was a private redwood grove, owned by Hammond Lumber Company, through which the Van Dusen River, from which we could get our water and in which we could take our baths, ran. It was beautiful and very quiet, and we assumed that we would be able to live comfortably and peacefully there for the next two months.

We soon learned that “comfortably and peacefully ” weren’t quite the right words, but we had no way of knowing what adventures were coming our way when we plunked down our $12 a week camping fee on that first day.

To read the whole thing click here.

Super Diamond

2008-11-21T12:12:00.000-08:00

Super Diamond was the featured musical act on the Late Show with David Letterman last night. You may have heard of this fantastic Neil Diamond tribute band based in San Francisco. But did you know that the cute keyboardist with the dark hair and chiseled cheek bones hails from Humboldt County?

James Terris graduated from Fortuna High. I remember him way back then as part of a late 80's Flock of Seagulls/Cutting Crew/Tears For Fears sideways haircut group who named themselves after an ingredient in stiff hairspray (Peg...something?) I had a thing for the drummer.

Music was always James' passion, and now it's also his living. I'm so happy that he is able to live the creative life he dreamed of.

Here's last night's performance. Enjoy!

seven things....

2008-11-11T20:00:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Eko, for giving me something to write about besides my melodramatic personal life. He seven-things tagged me, and it's been so much fun reading about everyone else that I just can't resist playing. Here's seven things you might not know or might not want to know about me:

1) I dream almost every night about carnival rides, water or carnival rides in water. I've never sought out interpretation because I truly don't want to know the meaning. I'm afraid they'd stop.

2) Though several people have tried to teach me, I can't drive a stick shift.

2) I love my scars, my stretch marks, the bump on my nose and miscellaneous other body oddities. I love them on other people too. Perfection is so dull.

3) I hate doing the dishes and am always tempted to just throw them out the window when they stack up. I'd rather do any other chore - even clean the toilet or unclog a sink - than do the dishes.

4) I was psychically tuned in when I was a kid. On my sixth birthday the phone rang. I said to my brother, "That's Aunt Teresa, and she can't come to my party." And that's exactly who it was. When I was nine I repeatedly dreamt that my grandma was standing at the kitchen counter taking medication from a bottle, and I was trying to scream at her not to but no sound would come from my mouth. She later committed suicide by overdosing on sleeping pills.

5) Even though I disagree with them on just about everything, I find the Fortucky rednecks drinking whiskey at The Playroom highly entertaining.

6) I cannot do hallucinogens. Pot gives me panic attacks. LSD makes bugs crawl all over my body. Mushrooms make me curl up in a fetal position on the bathroom floor for two hours. That's why I stick to booze.

7) I have nearly died three times. The last, in 2000, I was less than two hours from death from pneumonia gone septic when I made it to the emergency room. I think it's why I'm never afraid of change.

And in the spirit of keeping things going, I tag (Sorry if you've already been)

Keri (Has anyone seen my cousin? This blog has become the Kristabel show. Where are you????)
Fred
Rambling Jack
Katie LeJoi
Headwrapper
Hank
Joe

moving and breathing

2008-11-08T10:06:00.000-08:00

This is how it works.
You're young until you're not.
You love until you don't.
You try until you can't.
You laugh until you cry.
You cry until you laugh.
And everyone must breathe
until their dying breath.

~Regina Spektor

Next week I will start the first of many trips out of the bear river valley, my car filled with boxes of things I once thought were important. It will be hard to leave such beauty.

Last winter the little schoolhouse Squirrel and I share began to fall apart and has continued to over the last ten months. Water lines were constantly broken. Fences, gates and steps rotted and disintegrated. Pipes leaked, appliances stopped working and the shingles came off the roof one by one.

Squirrel and my relationship began to erode along with the house, and though we tried the best we could, neither one of us has been able to make the necessary repairs. We will no longer be living together.

I find myself without anger or accusations or blame, only with a deep sadness and a grief for a dream that has died, along with an anxiousness that always comes from a future uncertain.

At the end of every day now I make my way home to a funky little cabin made of recycled windows and abandoned wood. I sit on the floor, talk to the resident spider, shed more than a few tears, eat Greek yogurt and sleep in a tiny loft that makes me feel like a fat little bird hiding from predators.

And for the first time in a very long while I can breathe again.

Write to Marry Day

2008-10-28T21:30:00.000-07:00

When Squirrel and I were planning our wedding one of the things that really bothered me was the fact that we could. Get married, that is. Purely because we're straight.

I looked through our guest list and realized we had a number of friends coming who were gay - several of them long-term couples. It felt so ugly and discriminatory, and even though I knew our friends probably wouldn't feel this way, to me it felt like we were throwing our heterosexual privilege in their faces.

I wanted to make a big statement, like having someone read the text of the Massachusetts Supreme Court ruling on same-sex marriage. Preferably my flamboyant friend Pancake. In drag.

Squirrel, being much more understated and less willing to piss off our fundamental Christian relatives, wanted something a little more subtle. In the end, we compromised, and to this day I still regret the watered-down wording we chose.

So here's what I wish we would have said. It's beautiful, and spells out exactly why marriage is not a privilege but a right.

FROM GOODRIDGE V DEPT OF HEALTH (Mass. 2003):
Marriage is a vital social institution. The exclusive commitment of two individuals to each other nurtures love and mutual support; it brings stability to our society. For those who choose to marry, and for their children, marriage provides an abundance of legal, financial, and social benefits. In return it imposes weighty legal, financial, and social obligations. Without question, civil marriage enhances the welfare of the community. It is a social institution of the highest importance. It is central to the way the Commonwealth identifies individuals, provides for the orderly distribution of property, ensures that children and adults are cared for and supported whenever possible from private rather than public funds, and tracks important epidemiological and demographic data. Marriage also bestows enormous private and social advantages on those who choose to marry. Civil marriage is at once a deeply personal commitment to another human being and a highly public celebration of the ideals of mutuality, companionship, intimacy, fidelity, and family. Because it fulfills yearnings for security, safe haven, and connection that express our common humanity, civil marriage is an esteemed institution, and the decision whether and whom to marry is among life's momentous acts of self-definition. It is undoubtedly for these concrete reasons, as well as for its intimately personal significance, that civil marriage has long been termed a civil right.

I am so thankful that California has made a similar decision, and I urge everyone to vote No on Proposition 8 and affirm the dignity and equality of all Californians.

Oh, and for those who are still using the "but they've got civil unions" argument? Although it probably won't be the last time anyone says this to you, it should be:

Separate is not fucking equal.

H/T to Joe for the heads-up about Write to Marry Day.

Sunday Morning Confession

2008-10-26T10:08:00.000-07:00

I can make a tender almond butter cake from scratch to serve 100 people, fill it with creamy lemon mousse and fresh raspberries, ice it with white chocolate buttercream then cover it with hand-molded white chocolate seashells,

but I can't fry a damn egg to save my soul.

It's very sad.

The Absolute Best Time to get your Saturday Night....

2008-10-16T21:31:00.000-07:00

is definitely not on the beach in Dubai.

Thank god Baker's Beach is still safe.

Bomp Chicka Bow Wow...Chicka Bomp Chicka Bow Bow...

Mmmmmm hmmmmmm.

Plan B pumpkin bread

2008-10-12T09:36:00.000-07:00

The sun streaming through the bedroom window woke me up yesterday morning, and the first thing I could think of - after becoming sufficiently caffeinated - was that it looked like a great day to take a long walk. I put on my shoes and full of early weekend energy, started to open the front door to burst forth into the world. Just at that moment a huge gust of wind blew the door so hard that it tore from my hand and hit me smack in the middle of the head. Obviously the world wasn't ready for my bursting.

So off I went to rub my head, feel sorry for myself and start on plan B, a little fall baking. I love this recipe. It's really easy, really good and tastes just like autumn.

Pumpkin Bread

The Ingredients:

Place two cups of pumpkin (either canned or cooked), 3/4 cup water, 4 eggs and 1 cup of melted butter in a big bowl. Yes, I said one cup, also known as 2 sticks, of butter. This is important. Humboldt winters can be cold and harsh. You may need a little extra meat on your bones just to make it through. Just trying to be helpful.

Stir this with a big spoon until it looks like this:

Then in another bowl place 3 2/3 cups flour, 2 1/4 cups sugar, 1 1/2 tsp. salt, 1 tsp. nutmeg, 2 tsp. cinnamon and 2 tsp. baking soda.

Stir this up, add it to the wet ingredients and stir them together until the mixture is well blended.

Then you have a decision to make: to add or not to add. Some people like nuts in their pumpkin bread, and others like raisins. Some people like both, and some people like nothing at all. I prefer chocolate chips. You might think this is an odd combination, but it's one of those things that sounds strange and maybe even distasteful at first, but is in reality most delightful in the mouth - much like apple pie with cheddar cheese, Jones green apple soda and oral sex.

I'm also one of those rare women who prefers milk chocolate to dark, especially in pumpkin bread. Add the ingredient of your choosing, stir it up well and place it into your greased and floured pans. I like to use this all-in-one butter/flour baking spray because I'm lazy.

This recipe makes two large loaves of bread. I made one large loaf and four small ones this time because I wanted to give some away.

Bake at 325 degrees for about an hour - maybe a little longer. Most recipes tell you to bake quick breads, cakes and the like at 350 and take them out when an inserted knife comes out clean. This makes things too dry for me. I like my baked goods moist and gooey and decadent and salacious, so I bake them a little lower and take them out when the knife still has a few crumbs clinging to it.

Enjoy!

Google's been spying in my Outbox

2008-10-07T12:42:00.000-07:00

Every once in awhile I get a little tipsy. Alright, sometimes I get a lot tipsy. Okay, sometimes I get totally plastered.

At any rate, this state of mind often makes me think I'm incredibly smart, witty and insightful and should share my rare talents with the world. If you are my friend, my lover, my ex-lover, my boss, my neighbor, my cousin, my co-worker or that guy I thought sounded straight in the "ABBA Love" Yahoo chat room, you know what I'm talking about.

The next morning while perusing my email, I sometimes find that perhaps I shouldn't have gone ahead and hit the Send button.

Now Google has the solution for this temporary affliction. It's called Mail Goggles. That's right, it's like a breathalyzer for your computer only instead of breathing into a machine, Mail Goggles makes you solve a series of math problems before allowing you to send any email. It only works at certain times which are pre-set for late nights on the weekend, but you can set it for self-monitoring too - like if you're prone to a Sunday brunch of bloody marys at The Alibi.

Considering I can barely do basic math sober, this service could most likely save me from potential disaster, or at the very least major embarrassment, but it certainly would make life a lot less interesting.

Thank god they haven't invented Phone Goggles.

Wren's Debate Party

2008-10-05T11:30:00.000-07:00

My friend Wren throws a great party, and Wednesday's little debate get-together was no exception.

She had beautiful floral decorations on the table.

The rooms in her house were glowing with candlelight, and she brought out one of her most prized home decor accessories, dressed up for the occasion. We called her Sarahquin.

Of course, the most important thing was the food. We were all asked to contribute by bringing some sort of food or drink item from Alaska - open to interpretation. This was a rather spontaneous party, so I just didn't have time to make the Baked Alaska I really wanted to bring for dessert. I decided on bear claws instead.

There was also wild salmon dip,

several things that needed to be killed in order to eat them,

as well as chocolate moose cake.

As the wine flowed, the food disappeared, and the wine flowed some more, Sarahquin mysteriously began to participate in the debate herself. Her best answer:

"Darfur? Well, gosh, I know I'm not going to be very popular with some people for saying this, but in Alaska we have to wear fur sometimes. It's really cold, doggoneit."

Then she winked, and we hugged her and told her it would all be okay.

Thanks for the party, Wren. Good times, good times.

Did You Hear That?

2008-09-29T08:28:00.000-07:00

Date: September 24, 2008
Time: 10:00 a.m.
Place: Old Town Coffee and Chocolates

A cute small man at the next table is discussing his love life with his coffee drinking companion.

Companion: "So, you're into Asian guys?"

Cute small man: "Yeah. So my ideal man would be an Asian midget. My therapist thinks I may need to broaden my horizons."

The new mouth to feed

2008-09-25T21:29:00.000-07:00

My house no longer smells like these little bastards.

My blankets are no longer coming apart at the seams.

My lacy underwear has no new holes (except the ones created by human fingers ripping them off in the heat of passion of course)

I no longer find piles of crackers in the corners of cupboards.

Squirrel no longer wanders through the house swinging his machete and mumbling obscenities to himself.

There's peace in the schoolhouse in Bear River Valley tonight.

All thanks to King George.

Who's totally worth the price of cat food.

And now in the something tells me there might have been alcohol involved department

2008-09-09T23:55:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's me, but I cannot stop laughing hysterically at this article from the Fresno Bee, "Burglar victims wake to spice rub, sausage attack."

The victims, both farmworkers, told deputies they were awakened by a stranger applying "Pappy's Seasoning" to one of them and striking the other with a sausage.

And an 8-inch sausage at that!

Unfortunately in the end, the great big weapon was eaten by a dog.

I'm sure Pappy's is lovely, but personally, when being rubbed by burglars, I prefer that they use larrupin sauce. And don't worry. I'm not even going to tell you about my sausage preferences.

This sign

2008-08-29T20:54:00.000-07:00

takes on a whole new meaning here, doesn't it?

Well....for the first time in my entire life I have absolutely nothing to say.

No drunken apologies.
No Saturday night suggestions.
No country living complaints.
No hot blogger fantasies.
Not even any random questions.

Wait, I have one random question about the plural form of penis. Is it peni? Like cacti? It should be. But anyway...

if anyone has any writer's block/brain cramp suggestions please let me know.

Or you can just go create your own fabulous church sign here.

The R-Word

2008-08-17T17:08:00.000-07:00

Check out this fabulous PSA by the ARC of Virginia, the ARC of Northern Virginia and Blueberry Shoes Productions in response to Tropic Thunder.

Thanks, Mr. Stiller

2008-08-14T22:04:00.000-07:00

Thank you so much for bringing the phrase "never go full retard" to the world. We just don't have enough horrible and demeaning things to say, especially when talking about people with disabilities. I am pleased to see a creative genius like you at work. There's just not enough hate speech in the world. /sarcasm

No matter where you stand in the whole Tropic Thunder controversy, the fact remains that we as a society continue to not only allow, but widely accept the use of "retard" or "retarded" or "tard" when talking about people with disabilities. I hear it several times a day - from the mouths of children as well as adults, on television, on the radio. There's even a proliferation of other versions of "tard" to describe people perceived as unintelligent: Celebutard, technotard, debutard, and the list goes on.

I have a lot of friends who have disabilities. I hear their stories of being bullied, victimized, tortured and teased. I see their fallen faces when they overhear someone laugh, "You're such a retard."

My friends talk about this word often - sometimes with anger, but more often with shame. A shame, not aimed at the people who use these words or at a society that allows and even encourages them to, but a shame at their own disability. Their own difference. A shame at who they are.

There are always people who attempt to use the "it's only a word" argument. "It's only a word," they'll say. "It can only offend you if you let it." Bullshit. A study done by the International Coalition on Abuse and Disability found that over 83 percent of women with developmental disabilities have been sexually assaulted and that 50 percent have been sexually assaulted 10 or more times. Hateful words lead to hateful actions.

It's easy to talk about other people's cruelty and ignorance in private, but I've never quite known what to do when things are said in public. Do I confront the offenders and bring more attention and likely ridicule to my friends? Do I try to explain the hurtful words away and keep perpetuating the silence? Do I encourage my friends to speak up for themselves when I know that they are often so afraid of others' disapproval they won't even speak up about what they'd like for breakfast?

So I was thrilled to see these little "words hit like a fist" cards being offered from Active Gray Matter. The image on the front is the one above. The image on the back is the text below. I've got 200 coming my way, but they're giving away 10,000 more free if you'd like some of your own. I can't wait to start handing them out - and giving some to everyone I know so that they can do the same.

It's time to end the hate.

Marshmallow monday, Oregon style

2008-08-04T20:55:00.000-07:00

We admit it, we've been neglecting our marshmallow duties. You know how it is, right? Vacations, laundry and a few limoncellos and before you realize, it's August. Let me be the first to apologize. I'm sorry, really I am. And because I am a Type A person who needs people to like her I 'm going to try to make it up to you.

May I present:

Key Lime Marshmallows with Toasted Coconut, Macadamia Nuts, and White Chocolate

Using Kbel's recipe I used key lime juice instead of water to mix with the gelatin.

Then I toasted shredded coconut and chopped macadamia nuts. Chop up some white chocolate chips.

Spread it all out in the bottom of your pan. After whipping the marshmallows like they like it, you pour it over the toasty goodness that's waiting for it.

Once it's set up then I cut it in half and put one layer on top of the other. Now you'll get 2, 2, 2 bites in one!

If you've done it right your clothing will look like this:

We decided we may market our marshmallow creations because, after all, we need to make a million by the time we're 45. Forty would be ok too but it doesn't leave a lot of wiggle room.

Here's where you come in. We need a name for our burgeoning marshmallow empire. Help some sistas out will ya?

If you don't leave a business name I'll send my flying monkeys after you.

No, seriously, I will.

This guy may be a

2008-07-31T06:31:00.000-07:00

gun totin', god fearin', golf club swingin', conservative Republican from Fortucky, but he can still get down with his bad ABBA-lovin' self.

Rock on, Terry. I would've given you the sundae. Or maybe some Swedish meatballs.

Welcome Home

2008-07-22T08:53:00.000-07:00

Keri is on her way back today from visiting Burt's family in Minnesota, or as she fondly calls it, "Home of the Hot Dish." Ah, family vacations. Almost everyone I know has a family vacation story. I have several, but those are for another day.

Today I want to welcome Keri back with a special little memory about a family vacation we all took together one year. All ten of us, including Grandpa Joe, spent a week on a houseboat on Lake Shasta. That's right - ten people, four of them bratty teenagers, and one tiny bathroom. Good times.

On our last night there, our parents had the grand idea of holding a talent show. This was the year that "Yo MTV Raps" debuted, so Keri and I decided to write our own rap song for the event. Our brothers (both sporting fine mullets at the time) provided the background beats. I still remember the first line.

Here's a little story
We'd like to tell
About a family vacation
That was
PURE HELL.....

For some reason our parents were less than amused.

And so I give you, straight from the summer of 1988:

D.J. Parachute Pants and The Flashdancer

Yes, that really is our hair. We were totally tubular!

What's your favorite family vacation memory?

Welcome to ABBA Ranch, King George

2008-07-20T19:14:00.000-07:00

King George, previously of my favorite Boy Most Likely To...arrived on Friday. He was a little bit shy at first and spent one worrisome night hiding in the closet, but today he seems to have made himself right at home.

I find myself just calling him plain old King and singing him ridiculous cat versions of Elvis songs. You ain't nothin' but a tom cat.... eating all the time.... I'm sorry, Boy.

Book Review

2008-07-13T20:38:00.000-07:00

The other night I had dinner with my friend Wren - something we haven't done in far too long. Wren is an amazing woman in so many ways. She always helps me to remember that we must constantly remain open to whatever life brings our way.

And look what life brought my way via Wren. A new book! Wren swears by it and has insisted that I pass it around to all my other girls when I'm done...those inclined to care about tickling pickles, that is.

I've only made it through chapter two (titled "Meet the Penis & The Land Down Under), but so far it looks pretty good. Of course I can't be sure yet as I don't have a pickle. I mean, I don't have a pickle attached to my body. I mean...well, never mind. I don't know who Dr. Sadie Allison is, or how she became such an expert on the subject, but she seems to really know what she's talking about.

I think my favorite part of the book is that it is filled with random shaded boxes called "Sadie Sez." Interspersed through the different pages of fascinating facts and technique advice are these little gems filled with extra Dr. Sadie pep talks like the following:

Do you know the ONE technique that elevates a great blowjob into an outstanding blowjob? Enthusiasm. More than paint-by-the-numbers know-how, true oral sex artistry comes from wrapping energy, emotion, joy and rapture into your orgasmic masterpiece. Try it!

I can almost imagine Dr. Sadie jumping up and down and waving pom-poms above the headboard, can't you?

I also love the cover and think it's very appropriate. After all, who hasn't practiced zen and the art of stifling your gag reflex on a kosher dill?

Country Creatures Part 2

2008-07-07T20:48:00.000-07:00

The weather in Bear River is almost always different than it is in town, especially during the summer. When I leave the house at 7 a.m. it is usually bright, sunny and warm, and I'm usually in short sleeves and flip flops. A half-hour later, mid-way through the descent down Wildcat Road, I realize that I've again dressed completely inappropriately as it's foggy and drippy and remains that way through the rest of my commute into Eureka.

The ride home is exactly the opposite. It's a glorious moment when I turn onto Bear River Ridge Road and the sky cracks open to reveal a bright blue without a cloud in sight.

The other day as I turned onto the ridge and looked down into the Eel River Valley I had to stop and get out of the car just so I didn't run off the road. I was standing in sunlight, but the fog was creeping in from the coast and over the trees. It reminded me of the winter ocean in its eerie beauty, and I just had to get a picture.

I got back in the car and continued on my journey across the ridge. Suddenly right in front of me was something I'd never encountered there before: a giant turkey. I see lots of turkeys here in the valley, but not like this one. The wild turkeys are thin and nondescript. They wander around in large groups and always run away when anyone goes near them. This turkey was different. It was big, fleshy - even flashy with its bright red....well...thing on its neck. You know what I'm talking about.

What really set this turkey apart, though, was his attitude. He stood there in front of my car glaring at me. Then he let out a loud, "Ggggooooobbbbbble!" I'm sure he meant to have an exclamation mark on the end.

I thought he was adorable. I grabbed my camera and rolled down the window to capture him in all his turkey cuteness. It was then that he ran over and started trying to peck my arm. I screamed and rolled up the window quickly as he continued to yell at me. "Gobble. Gobble. Gobble!" He then started pecking at the window. I thought he was going to break it he was hitting it so hard with his beak.

I stepped on the gas a little bit to try to get away from him, and he moved out of the way. As I stepped on it harder I heard a loud thunk coming from the back. The damn bird was trying to jump onto the back of my big boxy Element. He was squawking and flapping his wings and pecking the back window as hard as he could. When I stopped, he ran to my side of the car and began pecking at the window again. When I tried to go, he moved to the back and repeated the same bad behavior. I was too afraid to go faster because I didn't want to hurt him. I was too afraid to get out of my car and shoo him away because of the visions of missing eyeballs and bloody stumps. So I rolled down the window a tiny bit to try to reason with him.

"Listen, " I began. "I'm really sorry about the whole Thanksgiving thing. It started a long time before me. Remember that year I tried to go vegetarian and went with a tofu version ? With the gross cashew gravy? Don't I get some points for that?"

He was not impressed.

"Okay..this year...I'm going with chicken. Trust me. You and your kinfolk are safe. You can go pick on someone else now."

He seemed even more agitated than before and tried even harder to stick his sharp beak through the crack in the window. There was only one thing left to say.

"Turkey. I'm really sorry about this, but get the fuck out of my way."

I stepped on the gas as hard as I could, praying that I wasn't running over his skinny little turkey feet and leaving him in a cloud of dirt.

Fifty or so feet later I stopped and looked behind me in the mirror. There he still stood in the middle of the road looking extremely flummoxed, and I could hear his faint gobble in the distance. I picked up my camera and took this really poor shot through the window.

Just as the shutter clicked he started running toward the back of my car again, and he wasn't limping a bit, the little bastard.

Tomatoes and Contentment

2008-07-06T19:42:00.000-07:00

I don't often go back and read my old journal entries, but sometimes when I'm tired or lazy or in heat or just not wanting to write I find myself flipping the pages back to weeks or months gone by.

I try to always write first thing upon waking before the night visions are gone and the coffee has lifted the morning fog. Sometimes there are pleasant surprises to read like the bizarre dreams described that I now have absolutely no recollection of or the snippets of small moments in time that seemed insignificant but now seem particularly beautiful.

Sometimes there are not so pleasant surprises, like how trite and overemotional I often sound, or how silly the words are now that I've gained some time and perspective on whatever it was that I was struggling with.

Yesterday while sitting in the morning sun I was flipping through some of January's journal pages, letting the memories I had put away stream back in for awhile.

This past winter was unexpectedly difficult in many ways. The harsh weather coupled with the physical as well as mental isolation of the dark months were sometimes almost too much to bear.

I expressed this in pages and pages...and pages....and pages, sometimes writing the same thing over and over in some sort of strange compulsion. Reading the words made me wince and flinch and twitch and want to throw the whole thing in the river. But just as I was about to fling the notebook away in disgust, I turned the page and saw something different. Apparently on January 19 I had become so tired of my own overwrought angst that I had grabbed a marker and scrawled in large red letters,

"All I want this year is heirloom tomatoes and contentment."

That's it. Nothing more. I think I just wanted to stop the whining and sum things up so I could get on with it.

Tomatoes and contentment really doesn't seem like that tall of an order, but somehow they've both been eluding me. And so, it's taken me six months, but today I took matters into my own hands and at least tried to get on with it.

After a few hours with my hot pink rubber superhero boots and a spade,

I'm half-way to having heirloom tomatoes.

And after the manual labor, a sunny afternoon spent with a book and a homemade chocolate chip cookie at my own private swimming hole on the beautiful Bear River, contentment may not be as far off as it seems.

Country living creatures part 1

2008-07-01T20:04:00.000-07:00

It took me awhile to get used to the residents here in Bear River Valley. I'm not talking about the ones who live in their own cute little houses a mile or so away. I'm talking about the ones who live in my cute little house.

The first thing I noticed upon moving into our funky old schoolhouse was a baby bat living in the rafters of the porch. Next to it was a big fat wasp nest.

Then there was the squirrel (the gray fuzzy kind, not the kind wearing the wedding ring,) under the porch.

Then there were the mysterious creatures running around in the attic. To this day we're still not sure if they're more squirrels, rats, feral cats or all three.

We've also found raccoons in the laundry room, lizards in the bathroom, frogs in the kitchen and spiders as well as the ugliest bugs imaginable just about everywhere.

Most of these creatures are fairly easy to get along with, and we all go about our daily lives under the same roof tolerating each others' habits and quirks. In fact, when Squirrel has to work the occasional night or happens to go out of town, I now take comfort in the noises coming from the attic and the fact that I'm not really alone.

A few weeks ago I noticed that the fringe was coming off of a beautiful blanket my mom had given me for my birthday last year. I kept finding small pieces of gold and red fibers all over the house. Then I started hearing rustling noises coming from the corners at night, and we kept finding little brown pellets in places where little brown pellets should not be.

Squirrel has a serious aversion to rodents. Anytime he sees a glimpse of one he starts ranting about the bubonic plague and swinging his machete around wildly. It amuses me to no end.

Last week Squirrel had a job interview. He took his freshly ironed clothes and put them in a suit bag so that he could change in town. Luckily Bee is very generous with the use of her apartment while she's at work, so I went to raid her refrigerator while Squirrel was changing clothes. Suddenly I heard a shout from the bedroom. "There's a mouse in the bottom of this suit bag!"

I giggled, "Don't let it out at Bee's!" and ran to look at it. The suit bag was lying on Bee's bed. I gently lifted the corner, and the first thing I noticed was a giant nest made of lint and red and gold blanket fibers. "Oh...you little hoodlum..." I whispered to the mouse and pulled the whole top of the suit bag up. There staring at me was not one...not two...but four little mice. Quickly scooping up the bag, I let them out downstairs where I knew they'd be a nice meal for the stray cats living under the building.

I kept laughing at Squirrel while he muttered under his breath about diseases and traps and went on his way.

At home later that night I had almost forgotten about the little stowaways until I opened up the top drawer of my dresser. There, amongst the tangled piles of panties lay the remains of what used to be a fun little collection. There were massage bars with distinct bite marks and chunks out of them. There were pieces of edible pleasure balm spread all over the bottom of the drawer. There was a hole nibbled in the motion lotion, and it was leaking everywhere. And the brown pellets. All over my lacy underwear. I was suddenly not amused or feeling very neighborly anymore.

I spent the next evening buying traps, smearing them with peanut butter, spreading them around the corners of the house and listening gleefully for that satisfying snap.

This is war, you little bastards.

The Winner

2008-06-30T20:12:00.000-07:00

This was a tough decision. Some of you really....ahem....rose to the occasion.

Some of you...no need to mention any names...obviously needed a cocktail to lube your creativity.

Some of you were more interested in your own entertainment (Dancing in stilettos on our birthday? Um, no. Lying on our backs in stilettos while you feed us chocolate-dipped strawberries? Um, you bet. Take a note for next year.)

Our girls Erin and Bee made us shed a little tear with their thoughtful words and beautiful gifts, but they get to share in the chocolate covered joy anytime they want already.

So...it was a tie between Eko's 9 to 5 fantasy of Heraldo hog-tied in the back of a limo...yum....or the mysterious Anonymous's trip to NYC to see Mamma Mia on Broadway.

Dozens of phone calls and a cousin-on-cousin wrestling match later we had a winner:

Congratulations, Anonymous! (It was the "cheeky devils" part that really gave you the edge.) Here's the winning entry in its entirety:

For m'ladies: All expenses paid trip for two to NYC. 5 star hotel accommodations, wonderful wine and sumptuous meals, shopping, donuts and abundant massage/spa time. Tranny club hopping, limo ride to Harlem for a spanking from Bill Clinton (oops, projecting) and Mamma Mia on Broadway baby.
Happy Birthday you cheeky devils.

Follow the link in my profile to send us an email with your mailing address. The big prize is just sitting here waiting to be mailed to you.

Thanks for playing.

Get Your Entries In.....

2008-06-27T10:28:00.001-07:00

Thanks for all the wonderful, outrageous and....well...downright odd birthday presents.

Although there are a couple of clear front runners, it's not too late to win the big prize.

Keri and I will be making our decision this weekend, so you've got until Sunday at midnight. We'll let you know Monday morning.

The Chocolate Covered Xanax Mystery Gift Assortment. Just let your mind ponder that for a moment.

You know you want it.

Treasure hunting

2008-06-25T20:25:00.000-07:00

June is a busy month. So much to do and so little time. For our little family of dysfunction it means the end of school, the end of work (I know, I know, it's not fair, blah, blah, blah), multiple birthdays, anniversaries, projects, planning of said projects, vacations, BBQs, unpacking the summer clothes that your winter weight won't quite let you fit into anymore, etc.

On top of all these activities the yard seems to be going crazy, only in a good way. Flowers that I had long forgotten have started to poke through the weedy, neglected soil. I figure if they have the will to live then go for it. I love seeing their big expectant buds reaching for the sky. Just beautiful. My floral taste has matured over the years. I used to love daisies and calla lillies. Not that they aren't pretty in their own way but I find myself attracted to the vintage looking ones. You know, the ones that Grandma had in her garden. The dahlias, peonies, roses and hydrangeas. Oh, don't forget lavender, mint and some pinks.

Along with my change in flowers I've found I now lean toward old, loved objects as well. Maybe it's because I'm getting older that I seek out these treasures. Every year in June, Portlanders stage multiple neighborhood garage sales. Some are in historic, wealthy areas while others are in newer, ritzy developments. If you're like me and seek the thrill of the hunt you won't want to miss this opportunity. This year I went to the Laurelhurst area. Unbelievable!!! If you have the same right brain thinking and imagination that I do, prepare to be jealous.

Vintage Xmas ornaments, real crystal from a chandelier, old jewelry= $7.50

Postcards from the 1920's and Little Golden book = .75

Antique paper and silk Japanese fans from the 40's = $3.00

Tea tin sans lid = $1.00

Ricer/jelly strainer = $5.00

Apron from the 30's = $2.00

Playing with all my new treasures = priceless.

So...what's your best garage sale find??? Sorry Kristabel, you can't count the spanking bench.

It's Our Birthday!

2008-06-23T21:01:00.000-07:00

A little over a year ago Keri and I stood in the kitchen at ABBA ranch licking a bowl of chocolate/orange cupcake batter after our harrowing experience in the wilderness. We were both feeling a little sad as she was leaving the next day to head back to her real life in Portland after a few days of crafting, boozing and kvetching in Humboldt.

"God, you know what would be the perfect thing for a day like this?" Keri asked. "Some chocolate covered xanax." It was then and there that we decided to start a blog for the sole purpose of staying in touch with each other.

We thought we'd exchange a few photos,~~bitch about whatever was pissing us off at the moment~~ talk about new coping techniques, analyze in excruciating detail our relationships with men, share crafty tips and delicious recipes and ~~complain~~ brag about our families. And we did all these things. Plus a few more.

What we didn't realize at the time was that our little chocolate-covered world would also lead us to a community of people who were doing the same things that we were. Okay, well maybe not exactly the same things, but you know what I'm saying. Communicating. Putting stuff out there. Discussing. Sharing. Really, through all the neuroses and drunken stories and stupid girl tricks and tears and laughing so hard that limoncello comes out our noses....we're blessed to know you all.

So we want you to celebrate our 1st Blog Birthday with us! Some of you may see it as a Bloggiversary, but no. You don't get spankings for an anniversary, after all. We've decided, in a blatant rip-off of our favorite Boy Most Likely To..... to offer a little birthday contest giveaway.

Unlike our favorite Boy, we're not nearly as generous or practical. No useful gas card here. Instead, the winner will be the lucky recipient of a fabulous Chocolate Covered Xanax Mystery Gift Assortment. What will it include? We can't tell you for sure. But we promise you'll love it. Really. Don't be scared.

The rules? Just leave us a comment telling us:

What would you give us for our 1st Blog Birthday?

There are no restrictions. Money's no object. Fantasies are fine. You don't have to wrap it.

The most creative answer will get you the big prize.

Thanks for putting up with us. We love you. Yes, even you, Ordinary Guy. And especially you, Heraldo. Still. xoxoxox