This was written as an exercise for the amazing Heather King’s “Just Write” that she hosts every Tuesday on her blog The Extraordinary Ordinary. For more musings and great writing, head on over!

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This weekend, at a party, I ran into a man, who used to be a boy, who used to attend my high school, who I desperately wanted to notice me back then.

Desperately.

And he did notice me–we were in classes and vague social circles together–but he didn’t notice me. Not in the way a girl yearns to be noticed.

His locker was five metal boxes down from mine, which shames me that I remember this–Jesus, who counts lockers?–but I did, and sometimes when I saw him there, shoving in textbooks, I’d freeze. I’d forget my own locker combination and stare at the dial, willing the numbers to come back to me.

He wasn’t an asshole, but sometimes he could be cruel, in a cavalier way, tossing off a zinger or a rebuttal that punctured. But somehow, it didn’t seem like he’d meant to hit mark. I had a sponge heart, and it was just his way.

A boy that easy in his skin is dangerous. He’ll fling a casual arm around your shoulders, say “Hey you,”  and ask about the German test tomorrow. And then like quicksilver, you aren’t even there, and he’s moving across the hall to kiss his (beautiful) girlfriend.

What kind of fairy dust graces that boy?  If he hadn’t just touched you, you wouldn’t have thought he was real.

That boy was never mine. Boys (and girls) like that never are, are they?

But here I am, two decades later, at a baby’s birthday party. He’s there, I’m there, and when I see him, for a technicolor minute, I’m the girl at that locker, fumbling for her combination. But it only lasts a minute. My husband is getting me a drink and his wife is introducing herself, and she’s funny and stunning and we shout over the storm and thrum of children shrieking through the house.

Today it hits me: What a crazy thing–what time, and experience, and yes–pain–bring to the landscape.

The boy I used to think was magic cracks a beer, asks me about my family, my sister, and I hesitate, then spill the hard truths.  There aren’t any ghosts in this room.

I’m just meeting someone for the first time.

The summer before third grade, Grandpa Roll fell off a ladder and shattered his hip. He didn’t just break the sucker–it literally blew up in a cloud of dust. The doctors were stunned. “His bones disintegrated like powder,” they told Daddy.

And thus began years of hospital stays, physical therapy appointments and doctor visits for Grandpa Roll.

Okay, just so you know, it’s not Grandpa Roll (as in dinner roll) it’s Roll (rawl). Just had to clarify that, although either variation is, admittedly, pretty weird.

Grandpa’s full name was Rolla (rawl-ah). I never could really wrap my head around that. Who the Hell names their kid something as jacked up as Rolla?

I thought my name, Dana, was bad enough.  Boys could be named Dana, which I found hugely shameful. When I was in kindergarten, there was a boy in my class named Dana, and he was a glue-eater. It was traumatic.

I never knew if Grandpa Roll minded his name or not. It’s possible he just never remembered it, because Grandpa Roll was horrible with names. He messed them up with stunning regularity.

Sometimes he’d call me Dana, but just as often he’d call me my sister C.’s name or Rita, my aunt’s name or my mother’s name, Mary. I just got used to answering to whatever name he threw out.

Grandpa Roll’s doctor, who we took him to at least twice a month, was a little Italian man with the last name Cerrone.  Grandpa Roll never learned to say it right in six whole years.

I irked the doctor a little, I think, because soon he was deliberately mispronouncing grandpa’s name, smirking as he did so.

We’d walk in for our appointment and Grandpa Roll would say, “Hello, there, doctor Cir-coney.”

And Dr. Cerrone would slap him lightly on the shoulder and boom, “Well, I’m just fine, Roller. How are you?”

I’d always have to chew my gum extra hard to stop myself from laughing.

Roller. Roller Coaster. Steam Roller. My sister and I thought that was a screech.

Once, in a moment of particular malice, my sister and I even made up a song:

~sung to the theme of “Rawhide”:  Roller, Roller, Roller/Here comes slow-ass Roller/ Rawhide!

I am not proud of this, because grandpa used a walker and was, indeed, slow-ass, but my sister and I thought our little ditty was genius.

Eventually, I couldn’t help asking Mama about grandpa’s strange name. “It’s so gross,” I said. “Who names their kid Rolla? Is that even a real name?”

Mama laughed a little, sitting at her sewing machine. “I think it’s a real name, but who knows? Actually, believe it or not, your Grandpa Roll got off easy. You should hear the names of his brothers and sisters–now that’s some serious weird.”

“Weirder than Rolla? You have to tell me.”

“You know, why don’t you let your father answer that one,” Mama said, returning to her sewing project. “They’re his family, after all.”

Mama probably thought I’d forget all about it by dinnertime, but I didn’t.  I pushed my green beans around my plate and said, “Hey Daddy. Mama says you have weirder names in your family than Grandpa Roller.”

He shot my mother a wry look, thought a minute, and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”  He ticked the names off on his fingers. “Let’s see…there’s Rolla, Mata (pronounced “mate”), Myrtle, Oleva, Aleen, Leta, Martha and Richard.”

“What’s with ‘Martha’ and ‘Richard’?” my sister said. “They totally got off easy.”

Daddy laughed. “No idea. Maybe my grandmother just wore out by the time the last two came along.”

“Unfair, man,” my sister said.

“Don’t forget your cousins’ names, Dear,” Mama said, smirking across the table at him.

Daddy rolled his eyes. “Jesus Mary. You just had to go there, didn’t you?”

“Come on, Dad.”

“All right. My aunt Aleen named her boy Loyal and her daughter Lorelle, and aunt Leta’s boys were Linford and Arlo.”

My sister and I howled, shaking the table with mirth. ” Whaaa? Linford? Loyal? Loyal is what you name a Labrador Retriever!”

My sister gestured with a fork. “The worst is Mata. ‘Mate?’ Gross. Who wants to be named after a word for reproduction?”

Daddy grinned and pointed at my sister. “You can laugh all you want, Missy, but you dodged a bullet, yourself. Mary was obsessed with The Sound of Music when she was pregnant with you. She was all set to name you Leisl.”

“Leisl? Agggggg!” My sister recoiled. “I totally would have changed my name.”

“Leisl was a perfectly fine name,” Mama said, feigning affront. “At least it was unique. My mother named us John, Mary and Patricia.” She harrumphed. “Talk about lack of imagination.”

“I’d take Mary over Oleva any day,” my sister said.

“Olivia isn’t a bad name,” I said. “Why turn it into Oleva?”

Mama lit a cigarette, blowing smoke. “I don’t know. Maybe they thought those names were fancy.”

She considered for a moment. “You know, grandpa Roll grew up on a farm and they didn’t have two cents to rub together.”

She looked at Daddy. “Remember how he had to quit school because the horse died? They didn’t have money to replace it, so he had to leave school in sixth grade and work the farm. Without a horse to pull the plow, it took three times as long to harvest anything, so they couldn’t spare him.”

“Well thanks. That’s depressing dinner conversation,” my sister said.

“Maybe fancy– ‘weird’–names were their way of trying to make the kids feel special, because they had a really hard life,” Mama said, rising to empty the ashtray.

“But you know what’s worse?” Mama replaced the ashtray, sat down and looked at Daddy. “What your mother’s parents did to those girls.”

Now this was interesting.

“There’s something worse than being named Mata?” my sister said.

Daddy shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. “Ugh.You’re right. That was bad.”

“My mother came from a big farming family, too. Seven kids in all. My grandfather desperately wanted boys, because boys could help with the farming and the heavy labor. But the first six children were girls. Each time, he’d get all excited, and Bam! out popped another girl.  He was so disappointed; angry even. He refused to call the girls their given names–he made up nicknames for them.”

We waited.

“Let’s do this in order,” he said slowly. “First was Grace, who he called Bob. Then Alice; she was Jim. Then Inez; she was Jake. Frances–poor old Frances–she got called Shorty. My mother, Helen, was Bill. Bernice was Bernie…and Seeny, too for some reason.”

“They called them boy names?” I said.  Heck, ‘Dana’ was getting better by the minute.

“Well, at least they gave the one boy, George, a nickname too,” Mama said, and Daddy laughed.

“They called him Rastus.”

“Rastus? Oh my God. Maybe the girls didn’t have it so bad,” my sister said.

“Count your blessings, girls,” Daddy said, eyes twinkling across the table. “Believe me, it could have been worse.”

*Hi Gorgeous Readers! I’m still frying fish, but not so many as last week, so hopefully things will pick up around here soon. If you have any weird family names (or if you were almost named something horrid), I’d be so excited to hear about it, so do tell. Love to you all.

I know what you’re thinking, and no, I haven’t gone all nutjob on you. This is, indeed, a casserole recipe that will not make your jeans explode.  We are still in the thick of the Save the Ass! campaign here at Chez T., mainly because it’s time for my hubs’ bi-annual commitment to Le Regime.  Sigh.

Those of you unfamiliar with the butt-pain that is Le Regime can catch up here.

In short, Le Regime entails a lot of high-protein, easily portable mini-meals and grueling hours of exercise. For both of us. For husband, it means lots of little noshes and sweat sessions. For me, it means: Dana never has time to eat because she’s so busy making high-protein little noshes and lifting pots and pans while listening to her spouse grunt, groan and arrrrrrrr it out in the other room with his dumbbells.

It’s a good thing he’s so dang cute, let me tell you.

This breakfast dish fits the bill perfectly–it’s got about 20 grams of gut-busting protein per serving and can be made in advance, wrapped up and toted to the workplace or gym or wherever your lifestyle takes you.  I like it because it serves four, meaning I get three “free” mornings where I don’t have to fret about what to feed my vain girly-man.

So if the holidays were a little vindictive to your hind end, or whether you’ve resolved to eat more meatless meals, or you’re slave to a girly-man, I’d suggest you give this recipe a try. It’s delicious, not too spicy, and full of cheesy goodness.

Chiles Rellenos Casserole

serves 4

approximately 300 calories per serving

6 large eggs

1 cup low-fat milk

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1/4 teaspoon chili powder

2 (5.75oz) cans diced green chiles, drained

1 chopped jalapeno pepper (optional)

1/4 cup sliced scallion

1 cup diced red or orange bell pepper

salt and pepper

4 ounces reduced fat, extra sharp Cheddar cheese, such as Cabot or Cracker Barrel brand*

1/2 cup chopped cilantro or parsley

Preheat the oven to 350. Grease a shallow 2 quart casserole dish.

Combine the eggs, milk, flour, chili powder, drained chiles, jalapeno, scallion, red pepper, 1/4 teaspoon salt and 1/8 teaspoon pepper in a large bowl. Stir well with a whisk. Gently stir in cheese and half of the herbs.  Pour into prepared dish.

Bake for 35-40 minutes or until golden and puffed; the center should still jiggle slightly.

Cool on a wire rack for ten minutes, cut into wedges and sprinkle with remaining cilantro/parsley.

In other news, I’ll be a little scarce this week–there’s a bunch of fish frying over here–some good, some not so good. I’ll spare you the details. But I’ll leave you with a photo of our newest little resident. He’s been spending some time hanging out in the back yard and rolling in my dead garden.  He’s quite the charming fellow. The girls have given him the name (so creative) of Mr. Fluffytail.  Both he and I wish you the most wonderful of weeks!

I have never seen such a mountain of  filth in my life.

“Holy…?” I say under my breath, reaching behind my back to shut the door. The door of my sister’s apartment. The apartment I have a key to and never use, but today I have a surprise birthday present in my arms.

The living room is blanketed with ash. Bowls of cigarette butts overflow onto tables, couches, area rugs. Candles lay weeping in their own waxy juices, spilling onto end tables and shelves. Candles everywhere–what the Hell? Who does my sister think she is? Sting?

There’s discarded dirty underwear on the floor.

Niiice. I kick it into a corner.

Glasses. Cheap cocktail glasses–the ones I helped her pick out from Tuesday Morning–pepper the room, abandoned in various stages of consumption.  Smeared with lipstick and grease and nicotine and God knows what else, those glasses wink in the late day sun.

I drop the gift in a corner and yank open windows. How long has it been since fresh oxygen has seen this apartment? How long has she been marinating in here, in this shitty little box, with the yellowed linoleum and the dessicated carpet and the kitchen the size of a closet?

I walk into the kitchen. The stove has been broken for months, but C. doesn’t care. The girl can’t cook, won’t cook, thinks cooking is “boring.”  My sister is single and fierce and will not fry up that bacon in the pan, that’s for sure.

She eats, though.

That’s pretty evident from the wasteland of plates, forks and bowls encrusted with vestiges of cheese, lettuce, stuff. I’m looking at days upon days, weeks of days of dishes.

She hasn’t bothered to rinse anything. Her dishes are a Rorschach of past meals–salsa, vivid orange pools of Kraft French dressing, errant smears of mustard. Jesus.

She doesn’t own a dishwasher, but that’s a moot point. Looking at the edible inkblots, I know this isn’t party wreckage I’m staring at. Every stain on every dish smacks of C.–the salads she makes when she’s barely able to bring the fork to her mouth, swimming in French dressing, full of cheese and questionable lettuce.  The toast she makes and dips in mustard, when there’s nothing else in the house to eat.  In the sink, her signature is everywhere.

I open the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. A large bottle of McCormick’s vodka and a few stray Otter Pops.

A girl’s gotta have priorities.

I think about opening the refrigerator but I reconsider. My vision has already been overloaded–do I really want to engage the olfactory, too?  I don’t want to stomach whatever science experiment is festering in that thing.

Surely, I’ve seen the worst of it. There’s no way the bedroom can be fouler ground than that kitchen. I put my hand on the bedroom door, which is open just a sliver, and I pause.  I feel kind of dirty looking in my sister’s bedroom. I mean, isn’t the bedroom the most private and sacred of places?  Would this take my (already) borderline violation of privacy to a level that’s just flat-out terrible?

Then again, she did give me a key.

If you give a sister a key, will she use it? If she uses it, will she walk in the door at unexpected moments?  If she walks in unexpectedly, will she stay to inspect? If she stays to inspect, will she stumble into a wasp’s nest?

I enter the bedroom and throw the windows open.  It reeks of stale air and dirty clothes, but I stalk past, shutting the door behind me. A girl, any girl, deserves her secrets.

I walk back into the living room, flip the stereo on, scan the cd shelf, decide on the Gin Blossoms. I crank the volume, tuck my hair into a ponytail, and walk into the bathroom. Sleeves rolled, I locate the canister of Dow Scrubbing Bubbles and glaze the bathtub with a heavy white layer.

As the bubbles work magic, I grab two large garbage bags and go to work on the living room. She’s got an incense stand on top of the television. When did she start burning incense?  I think about the cigarettes and the candles and the incense and decide I’m glad she doesn’t cook. This place is kindling.

Bottles, empty Cheetos bags, butts, old magazines, near-empty nail polish containers, socks beyond saving. Trash.

I dampen a few paper towels and swipe across the tv screen.

“Dang,” I mutter. “How do you even see anything through this?”

I find a table knife and excavate candle wax, layer by layer, singing along with the Gin Blossoms.

All last summer as if you don’t recall
I was yours and you were mine forget it all
Is there a line that I could write
Sad enough to make you cry
All the lines you wrote to me were lies

I scrub the bathtub with the only stiff thing I can find, an un-used back-scrubber from a Bed, Bath and Beyond gift basket I gave her for Christmas last year. I force the brush back and forth, focused on the hard brown ring in the center of the bathtub and the mildewed faucet. I run scalding water over and apply another coat of bubbles.

I’m not sure how to deal with the ash on the furniture and carpet. I decide to vacuum first–yes, she does own a vacuum, in impeccable condition–and then study the tables and shelves. I decide to wet a big bath towel and plunder as much ash as I can for the money.  I riffle through towels in the closet. My hands fall on an empty bottle and one half-full one stashed in between the terrycloth.

Who you hiding these from, Ponyboy?

I rinse the soiled towel in the bathtub, pressing down hard until water runs clean. I wipe the bathtub again, smears of bubble and ammonia-scented air. I bash the plug into the drain, turn the water hot as I can get it, and fill.

I grab a bottle of Dawn dish soap from the kitchen and pour it into the tub, almost emptying the sucker. Bubble, bubble.

I collect the dishes, plates, silverware, glasses, bowls, cups from the kitchen and living room and place them in the bathtub until water threatens to spill onto the floor.  I look around the bathroom and throw a few toothbrushes in, just for good measure.

I’m waiting for the dishes to soak when she walks in, sunglasses on, cigarette and paper sack in hand.

“Duuude!” she squeals, grinning. “What’s up?”

She scans the room.

“This is…just…wow!”

“So okay, but your dishes are soaking in the bathtub. There were too many to deal with, so I decided to wash them in there.”

She laughs and gives me a hard, quick hug. “Hey, what can I say? Remember that book we had when were little?  The Man Who Would Not Wash His Dishes? That book was awesome.”

I don’t remember. She shuts the apartment door and tosses her purse on the couch.  She takes the bag into the kitchen. “You want a drink? I’ve got fresh tonic.”

“A drink is a capital idea.”  I go into the bathroom, pluck two glasses from the bathtub, rinse them in hot water, and bring them to her. “Strong.”

“As if there’s any other way. Lime?”

“Sure.”

She brings me my drink, takes a sip, then hands me her glass. “Wait. Hold on.”

She runs on tiptoes into her bedroom and emerges with an armful of  dirty dishes. “There’s mooore!” she says in a singsong voice, laughing.  She clanks them into the bathtub.

I set the drinks down. Present under my arm, I wander to the stereo and re-start the cd. Delighted, she tears into wrapping paper and ribbon. I pick up my drink, swallow and feel the burn.

The months roll past the love that you struck dead
Did you love me only in my head?
The things you did and said to me
Seemed to come so easily
The love I thought I’d won you give for free

*Lyrics from the Gin Blossoms’ “Found Out About You,” from New Miserable Experience

Dare I say that this risotto is better than the last risotto I made? The one with the saffron, the most expensive spice in the world? I think that if you haul out the big wallet guns and perfume your risotto with saffron, you’ve guaranteed yourself an unbeatable dish, right?

Almost, but nope. I have to say, I thought this mushroom version was superior, and Mama agreed.

I do have to preface this with the warning that it’s still not the cheapest risotto to stir on your stove; this recipe uses dried porcini mushrooms for extra oomph, and dried porcini mushrooms aren’t a penny-pincher’s dream.

Luckily, you don’t need a lot of dried porcini (only an ounce or so) to get your money’s worth, and boy, are they worth the money. Dried porcini mushrooms=luscious little flavor bombs.

I don’t know what happens to a porcini when you dry it, but it’s magic.  Drying sexifies those suckers in the best possible way.  They become almost meaty, and the soaking broth (you reconstitute them in hot water) infuses the rice with umami* love.

C’mon, say it with me: oooooooh-mami.  Umami is just dang fun to say. It’s right up there with another of my favorite words: kumquat.  How can you say kumquat with a straight face? I cannot. That word turns me into a giggly seventh-grader.  Am I the only word dork out there who plays favorites?

Anyways, dear readers, I think you should make this risotto.  It’s divine. And even despite the pricey porcini and the Arborio rice and the good Parmesan cheese, it’s not going to break the bank.  If you’re a veg-head, use vegetable stock instead of chicken stock and you’ll still be happy.  Personally, I like the richness that chicken stock adds to the dish, but if you object to a pot of simmering cluckcluck, use the veggie stock.

For those of you committed to the post-holiday Save the Ass! campaign, feel free to omit the last 1 1/2 tablespoons of butter at the end, but do not omit the Parmesan cheese, I beg of you.  Just ask Ina Garten. If you splurge on the good cheese, you won’t have to use more than a handful or two to really make this dish sing.  It’s worth a few extra minutes on the treadmill.

Mucho Mushroom Risotto

serves 6

1 (1-ounce) package dried porcini mushrooms (you can find these next to the fresh herbs in the produce aisle)

1 cup boiling water

4-5 cups low-sodium chicken stock, warmed

1 tablespoon each butter and olive oil

2-3 shallots, sliced

1 cup mixed fresh mushrooms, such as cremini, chanterelle, shiitake or button, cleaned and sliced

1 1/2 cups Arborio or other short-grain rice

1/2 cup dry white wine, such as Pinot Grigio

salt and pepper to taste

1/2 cup fresh Italian flat-leaf parsley, chopped

1 1/2 tablespoons softened butter (optional)

A few handfuls of freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Remove dried porcini from packaging and place in a small bowl. Pour boiling water over mushrooms and let soak until reconstituted and soft enough to chop, about 20 minutes. Remove mushrooms and chop. Do not throw away the soaking water!

Strain the soaking water through a cheesecloth placed in a fine sieve to remove any silt or dirt particles. Set soaking water aside.

In a large saucepan over medium-high heat, warm the chicken broth and the soaking water; keep at a simmer.

In a large saucepan (preferably non-stick), melt the 1 tablespoon butter with the 1 tablespoon of olive oil on medium heat. Add the rice and the shallots; stir until the rice is coated with the butter/oil and the shallots have begun to soften, about 4 minutes.

Add the chopped dried mushrooms, a little salt and pepper and the wine, stirring constantly, until liquid is nearly evaporated.  Keep adding warm stock, in 1/2 cup increments, stirring until liquid is almost evaporated and then adding more stock.

After ten minutes, stir in fresh mushrooms and keep stirring/adding stock as necessary. Cook about ten minutes more, on medium to medium-high heat, stirring frequently, until rice is tender but still has a good chew to it.

This could take up to 30 minutes if you live at high altitude, but check the rice at the 20 minute mark.

When rice is done, stir in butter (if using) and salt and pepper to taste. Stir in parsley and top with Parmesan cheese.

Serve in warm bowls, passing additional Parmesan cheese at the table, if desired.

*Umami is a relatively modern term, referring to what Asian cultures have deemed the fifth sense of taste.  Umami refers to a meaty, salty taste, often found in bacon, Parmesan cheese, mushrooms and soy sauce.  Those are all good things, are they not?

Dear Readers,

On December 15, Miss D. celebrated a birthday. She woke up and announced: “Hey, Mom! I’ve hit the double-digits, baby!”

I was wildly proud and utterly terrified at the same time.  Instead of the usual birthday pictorial, and heck, I’m so late that it’s shameful–I thought I’d share some of her words with you.

My budding writer just finished a personal narrative for school, and her teacher deemed it “awesome.”  I think it’s pretty awesome, too. Her minxy voice comes through, which I love.  I left in the errors, just for grins…gotta love a good [sic].

So without further ado, please welcome Miss D.

**My Favorite Day**

Lights flashing everywhere, lasers flashing, I run to the arcade, ready for battel. The letters read, LAZER TAG!!!

I was at Boondocks with my friend Gregory. We were both 9, active, crazy and ready. We ran to the entrance (a little damp from bumper boats, and hair frizzy because of the go-carts).  Me and Greg waited in line while my sister and brother went to play mini-golf.

“No way. You can’t be serious.”

“Yep.”

Me and Greg just met a girl who said her earings glow in the dark. I think its a lie.

Soon we were in, it was so cool. The girl’s earings did glow in the dark, but that wasn’t all. My skirt shined and spun like a disco ball.

“I’m a living disco ball!”

Then a couple minutes later I noticed that MY TOENAILS GLOWED GREEN!

I was on Greg’s team, known as the “Red Team.”

We entered the dark, scary, heart stopping room. We walked to our base. Then “Booommm!” The objects all around exploded with rainbows of color, the battel was on.

We all ran out of the base but stayed in territory. Red and green lights flashed like deadly lazers. A blast of happiness shot through  me, I was estatice.  There was this one lady I shot over and over again. She was surprised, confused and frustrated.

Soon the lights were off, we went to our base like soldiers.

We looked at our scores. Hello! I came in second place! Greg was in last, he got -96. My score was 978!

Then I walked out proudly into the shining lights.

**In other news, I’m guest posting today over at Bruce’s awesome blog! I’d love it if you’d come say Hi!

I’m getting a little crush on my Essential Pepin cookbook. It’s full of great stuff, and some weird stuff, too, but I like weird.

Well, only to a certain degree–I’m consciously avoiding the section titled: Charcuterie and Offal.  I’ll try weird but I’m not eating pituitary glands (sweetbreads) or intestines, and I’m not making my own sausage.  I think I’m permanently scarred after reading Upton Sinclair’s novel The Jungle in the tenth grade. Rubber boots and fingernails and hair ground into sausage? Eww. I don’t want to know what goes into sausage; I don’t think my nerves could take it. Thanks a lot, Upton. Keep the muckraking to yourself, buddy. I don’t wanna know.

I’ve been working my way through the cookbook, marking things I want to try, and this soup was one of them. I chose it mainly because it sounded weird. Celery and noodle soup?  That’s weird, right?

But I like celery. I like noodles. And in the winter, I will tolerate soup. I can’t say I like it, but I certainly don’t loathe it, like my friend Karen’s mom does. Nor do I feel shame in eating it, like my sister’s college roommate, Erica.  Erica refused to eat soup.  I’ll never forget the horror on her face when she saw me tucking into a bowl of chicken noodle.

“Soup?” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You’re eating soup? Poor people eat soup! Gross!”

Quirky girl, that Erica.  She also showed up in high heels for a camping trip, but that’s another story.

A few days ago, it was definitely soup weather.  The wind was blowing like nobody’s business, and on a blustery day, soup is a good thing.

I took out my Essential Pepin and perused the soup section, settling on this one.  However, I knew I was going to have to tinker with it because I didn’t have vermicelli noodles–or any noodle other than penne for that matter–and I had a scant two cups of celery on hand.

The good news is, Pepin is totally down with tinkering. He even suggests playing with the recipe: “Many similar versions can be prepared in the same manner. You can use leftover vegetables, such as a rib of celery, a bit of lettuce, an onion, and a carrot…”

I like that in a chef; his recipes aren’t too precious. Tinkering is fair game.

Good thing, because no way did I have any intention of braving the grocery store in that wind. Meteorologists in Boulder clocked it at 88 miles an hour at one point; I was staying indoors, people.

Thus, I totally bastardized tinkered with the recipe.  The original recipe appears first, and I follow it with the modifications I made.  The soup was simplicity itself. Pepin says it’s the soup he craves when he gets a cold, and I can see why. The flavors were clean and subtle and comforting. This isn’t a soup to eat when you want a wallop of flavor; make Mulligitawny or gazpacho if you want wallop.

I ate a bowl for lunch and then served it again at dinner, topped with some rustic homemade croutons. Oh boy–let me tell you, you want to add the croutons. They took the soup to an entirely different level.  My husband, who is indifferent toward celery, actually raved about his crouton-topped bowl. Croutons are magic.

If it’s blustery outside or you’re feeling a little blue, give this soup a try.  If you have leftover veggies on hand, more the better. Nothing improves my mood like putting leftover things to good use, which Erica would probably call “poor.” I call it smart.

Celery Soup

serves 6

from Essential Pepin

1 tablespoon unsalted butter, plus more for optional garnish

1 tablespoon olive oil

3 cups sliced celery, peeled if the stalks are large and stringy (add the leaves for additional flavor)

1 cup sliced onion

1/2 cup sliced scallion

6 cups water

1 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon pepper

1/2 teaspoon dried thyme

1 1/2 cups very thin egg noodles (vermicelli)

1 cup milk

Melt the butter and oil in a large pot. Add celery, onion and scallion and saute over medium heat until softened, about 2 minutes.

Add the water, salt, pepper and thyme and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat, cover and simmer for 10 minutes or until the vegetables are soft.

Using an immersion blender or a traditional blender, puree the soup.  Return to the pot if necessary and add the noodles. Bring to a boil and simmer for 3-4 minutes or until the noodles are cooked.

Add the milk and stir to heat through.  If desired, put a little knob of butter in the bottom of each soup bowl and pour hot soup over.

TKW’s Bastardized Celery Soup

serves 4, unless you are eating French-like portions

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

2 cups celery, de-stringed, leafy tops included, chopped

1 cup diced onion

1 clove garlic, crushed

2 Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and diced

1 cup fresh spinach

3 cups water

3 cups chicken broth

1 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1/2 teaspoon dried thyme

2-3 tablespoons heavy cream*

fresh parsley, to garnish (optional)

Melt the butter in a large stockpot. Add the celery and onion and cook over medium heat until softened, about 3 minutes. Add the garlic; cook 30 seconds. Add the water, stock, potato, spinach, salt, pepper and thyme and bring to a boil.

Reduce heat, cover, and simmer for 20 minutes or until the potato can be easily pierced with a knife.

Blend soup. Reheat and let simmer another 5 or 10 minutes or until slightly thickened. Add cream. Garnish with parsley and, if you are smart, homemade croutons.

Homemade Croutons

2 cups stale rustic bread, such as ciabatta, sourdough or baguette, cut into 1-inch cubes

2 tablespoons olive oil or melted butter

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon pepper

1/8 teaspoon garlic salt (optional)

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Place bread on a large cookie sheet; drizzle with oil or melted butter, tossing the cubes around to coat. Spread cubes in an even layer and sprinkle seasonings over.

Bake for about 8 minutes or until brown and crisp.

*I know Pepin’s recipe called for milk, but I was hesitant to add milk to hot soup, fearing the milk would curdle. Plus, I knew I’d be reheating this soup for supper, and cream is much more stable than milk when re-heating.  If, as I did, you throw a potato in the soup, it adds creaminess, allowing you to add only a small amount of cream with satisfying results.

This week, at MamaKat’s Writer’s Workshop, one of the prompts was: describe something you’ve punched. It was just too good to pass up. For more tales of mischief, head on over to MamaKat!

***

The red smock sticks to my skin, chafing my chest.  My misery is amplified by the noonday sun, glaring through the window. I grab the edges of the polyester garment and fan it out, back and forth, trying to get some air circulating in there. It’s not helping.

“Ugh, this sucks.”

“Hey, at least you’ve got room in there,” Donna says, pregnant belly straining against the fabric of her smock. “Look at my freaking legs.”

I look down at what used to be her ankles, now swollen like sausages. There’s no demarcation between ankle and calf any more. I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help myself. “Jesus, Donna. That’s gross.”

“Yeah, yeah, stuff it, skinny. I’m going back in the cooler to stock milk. At least it’s cold in there.”  She sighs and wags a warning finger in my direction. “Birth control. Use it.”  She turns and waddles toward the solace of the cooler.

I look at the clock; it’s almost noon. I dread the noon hour, when the summer school kids from Golden high school cross the street in packs,  pillaging the nacho machine and the cigarette cases.  I leave my place behind the counter and plop a dozen hot dogs onto the rotisserie, checking the ketchup and mustard dispensers to make sure they’re full. Just touching the hot dogs makes me gag and I hold my breath as I open the rotisserie, willing myself not to inhale.

I wash my hands and vow to become a vegetarian.

The door jingles open, and the first few hooligans straggle in.  The boys arrive first, shaggy-haired and long-limbed, but I don’t mind them. They at least are sullen and silent, unlike the girls, who snap orders and roll their kohl-crusted eyes and smirk as I ring up their purchases.  The girls are bitches. I look out the window and see them coming, a block behind the boys. Great.

The boys plop down typical teenage fare: powdered donuts, bags of Doritos, Slim Jims, giant containers of Gatorade.  The one in the red flannel smokes Marlboros, so I reach above the counter and place a pack near the register.  The orange-hair chews; I grab a disc of Skoal and place it next to the cigarettes. Several others head for the Slushie machine. The only boy I know by name, Neal, has a Miller Genuine Draft tall boy in his hand.  Today, like every day beforehand, I give him the dead shark eye and say, “Forget it, Neal.”

Neal grins lopsidedly. “Awww, come on. It’s boring as fuck in there. Give a guy a break, why don’tcha?”

I point to the cooler. “Back.”

He sighs good-naturedly and with an exaggerated stomp, returns the beer to the cooler, replacing it with a container of Sunny D. “You’re no fun, you know.”

“I know.”

The door jingles and the girls walk in, breasts threatening to pop out of their tank tops, butts hanging perilously close to the seams of shorts.

The boys pretend to ignore them, but they sneak looks in their direction, unable to help themselves. The girl stalk past, all red talons and attitude.

Donna emerges from the cooler and stands in a corner, arms akimbo, eyes watchful. The girls are known for sticky fingers, especially in the lip gloss aisle. She looks pointedly at the boys and gives a quick jerk of her head towards the door; they shuffle out, grumbling under their breath.

The girls won’t look at Donna but they hurry with their purchases: Snapple, Sugar Daddy’s, Starburst chews. I’ve never seen them buy anything but sugar and cigarettes. I automatically take four packs of Marlboro Lights down from the case and put them on the counter.

They pay quickly but can’t resist a parting shot. “God, this place sucks,”  nose-ring girl says, stuffing her smokes in her purse. “It would totally suck working here.”  They snicker and leave, bell ringing behind them.

“Yeah it does suuuuck working here, but it doesn’t suck as hard as summer school, dumbass,” I say under my breath.

A few stragglers come in afterwards, mostly sweaty kids in the marching band. For some reason, they practice in the middle of the day, when it’s too hot for dogs or crazy people.  They keep us in business just in Gatorade. They’re nice kids, the marching band ones, but for some reason, there’s no in-between: they’re either emaciated or plump as plums. It makes me wonder. What about marching band encourages extremes?

When the band kids leave, Donna heaves a sigh. “I need lunch. God, I’m so fat but so hungry. Being pregnant in the summer is nasty.” She takes off her damp smock and throws it in the back room. “You want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good.”  How can anyone have an appetite with this hot dog smell?

Donna leaves and I prepare for the regulars. I refill my Diet Coke from the fountain area. It’s flat. Fuck. I’ll never be able to replace the Co2 container without Donna. I crunch on a CornNut–my lunch of choice–and hear a jingle. It’s Scooby.

Why they call him Scooby, I have no idea. He works construction and is so tan that he looks bizarre, with his white-blond hair and pale eyes.

Scooby grabs a large Pepsi from the cooler and puts so many jalapeno peppers on his nachos that my eyes water just ringing them up.

“Heh, heh,” Scooby laughs. “This’ll give me the squirts. Worth it, though.”

“Thanks for sharing that, Scoob.”

“Heh. Just trying to add a little levity. It’s dead in here, man.”

“Dead is good Scoob. Dead is good.”

“Later, Serious.” He puts on his Ray-Bans and scoops up his toxic snack.

“Later, Scoob.”

A car pulls up to the full-service pump. We haven’t done full service for six months, but Donna keeps forgetting to remove the full-service sign. The driver sits in his car for a minute, then honks–three rapid blasts of the horn.

I open the door and make a slicing gesture across my throat. “We. Don’t. Do. That. Anymore,” I yell.

Instead of getting out of the car to pump his own gas, the man flips me the bird and screeches out of the parking lot.

Tres Beer Man comes in a bit later. Tres Beer man comes in between 1:30 and 2 every day and buys exactly three cans of Budweiser. He’s got to be pushing eighty years old. I’m intrigued by Tres Beer Man. Why does he never splurge and buy a 6-pack, saving himself the trip tomorrow? He never does, though. Every day, three beers.

I bid him goodbye and try to wrestle the Co2 canister out of the back, but it’s just too heavy. Shit. How heavy is this thing? Donna waddles in, hand on her belly.

“Forget that. Make James do it when he comes in at 3. No waaayy I’m lifting anything right now. Why did I get Taco John’s for lunch? Bad mistake. Bad.”  She pauses, looks around. “Dead zone time?”

“Yeah. Go put your feet up. You look terrible.”

It’s slow but steady my last hour, mostly husky-throated regulars taking advantage of the 99-cent special we’re running on generic cigarettes.

At one point, though, a white van zooms into the parking lot and a short man, overalls stained with paint, dashes into the store. “You got any Ex-Lax?”

His eyes are wild.

“Umm, let me check?” I say. “Ex-Lax?”

“Yeah, Ex-Lax, Ex-Lax,” he says, as if I’m deaf.

Nobody’s ever come in here for Ex-Lax, not on my watch, anyways. How the heck do I know if we have it?

“I need diuretics, too,” he pants, pawing through the Rolaids and Tums. “You got any diuretics?”

Donna smells a rat. She slowly emerges from the back room and plucks a few boxes from the shelves. She hands it to overall man.

“Great. Can I get another packet of diuretics?”

Donna hands him another and he races for the cooler, grabbing three containers of Gatorade. He throws a 20 on the counter and runs to the van, not waiting for change.

I look at Donna, bewildered. “What the heck?”

She rolls her eyes. “Drug test. Idiot.”

“Seriously? Whaaa?”

She smiles wearily. “Ah, young thing. So much you don’t know.”

And she’s right. I still don’t get it. But it’s five minutes until three and she gestures toward the back, taking my place at the counter. It’s time for life to begin.

I grab the yellow card, stick it in the time-clock, and punch.

Happy New Year, lovely readers!  I’ve spent the past few weeks off the grid, trying to restore health, balance, and mental energy by just not plugging in.  I actually read an entire book. Impressive stuff, I know.

I can’t say that I succeeded in all areas–it was the holiday season, after all–but I am feeling a little more quiet, a little more at peace in my body and my head. And that’s a good thing.

In my past life, I may have been a turtle or a tortoise, because when things get batshit crazy, I pull myself into my little shell and just hang out in there for a while.  I used to beat myself up about this tendency. It’s a cowardly way to cope, is it not?  But as I get older, I’m a little more accepting.  Some people are tigers, and some people are turtles.  Undeniably, I’m the latter.

I have really missed you all, though, and I’m glad to be back in this space and I look forward to inching my way back into the loop, reptilian-style.

A few updates from the last few weeks:

~Miss M. has made a full recovery from her tonsil trauma. I’m busily trying to purge our freezer; it’s Popsicle Mountain in there. She tired quickly of them and nobody wants to eat popsicles in the winter, especially with 8 inches of snow in the back yard.  Does anyone in Miami need some popsicles?

~Miss D. is restless and ready to return to school. She’s bored, even with shiny new things to play with.  She’s so bored that she’s taken to bizarre forms of entertainment, such as trying to eat her morning cereal with a fork. That little experiment didn’t go so well.

~Mama was back to chemo treatments the day after Christmas. Geez, talk about a buzzkill. But she’s anxious to get through, so she climbed back in the saddle with grace.  She’s got a lot to teach me about weathering through, that one.

~I’m trying desperately to get inspired about cooking again.  We’ve been far to reliant on Honeybaked ham sandwiches and leftover mashed potatoes.  Not that I’ll ever tire of a pile of mashed potatoes, but it’s time to shake things up a bit in the kitchen. Maybe lighten it up just a bit, eat things a tad lower on the food chain after the Month of Meat.

This is not a Resolution. I want to make this clear. I don’t make New Year’s resolutions because I am weak in constitution. Why set myself up for failure?

Okay, I just re-read that sentence and it’s official. Past life? Totally a turtle.

Anyways, I don’t do the resolution thing, but I would like to get inspired to eat more veggies in the winter. Summertime is never a problem–I scarf down tons of veg in the sunny months. Winter is problematic. When it’s snowy and cold, the only way I want a vegetable is if it’s smothered in cream and cheese, sitting next to a large hunk of filet mignon.

So while the Chinese declare 2012 the Year of the Dragon, I declare this the Year of the Veg.

So…I am going to try to go meatless once a week.

Did you notice how low I just set that bar?

Eating meatless once a week should so not be a problem–not for me, not for anyone–and yet, that’s all I’ll commit to.  In fact, I’m so uncommitted that I’ll consider a meatless weekly lunch as a victory.

Turtle, dudes.

The good news is, the Cookbook Addict got some new tomes for Christmas. I can’t help it, readers. I’m afflicted.

The super-good news? One of those tomes is Jacques Pepin’s Essential Pepin: More Than 700 All-Time Favorites from My Life in Food.

Jacques Pepin, aside from being an amazing chef, is a hard-core lover of the veg.  If I took a bite out of Pepin’s left leg, I’m pretty sure it would crunch and taste like celery.

And although Pepin is French, and classically trained as a French chef, he’s been in the food business so long that he’s branched out from the traditional, cream-sauce/gratineed preparations.

Not that there aren’t gratins or recipes with cream in the cookbook–there are–but there are also plenty of lighter, ass-friendlier offerings.

But you know what? I’m going to try some of those gratins, too.  They sound too delicious to bypass. I just will eat them as my main dish, not sitting next to a bloody slab of cow.  Adding a little cream or cheese to something as virtuous as a vegetable is really not a cardinal sin, in my book. At least once in a while.

This past week, I’ve been working my way through Essential Pepin, Post-It bookmarks in hand, and I’ve got to say, I’m kind of excited to get in the kitchen again.

I haven’t been excited to get in the kitchen for three months. This renewed motivation is big deal in the Land of Kitch.  I’m excited to be excited.

My first offering to you is a simple salad of carrot and sunflower seeds, which probably sounds weird and repellent to you but it didn’t to me.  I love sunflower seeds. And raw carrots.*

I was intrigued by the recipe because–well, it was kind of weird. But it also got my attention because I thought this salad would be texturally interesting.  Sweet shards of carrot, rich walnut oil, little meaty pops of sunflower seed? Call me curious.

Pepin suggests this salad as a side or a first course; however, he also mentions that it makes a delicious filling for a sandwich.  It was this last suggestion that made my mouth water, so I tried it that way.

It was delicious.  I ate my sandwich and immediately called Mama, the giver of the cookbook.

“I just ate the weirdest sandwich for lunch but it was so delicious! It’s the simplest thing, really, but when you put it together, it works. You really have to try it.”

“I’m glad you like the cookbook. I’ll try it as soon as I don’t feel like rat shit.”

Mama, bless her.  I love a good cuss.

I encourage you to try this. I must confess, I ate the leftovers as a salad, topped with some crumbled French feta, with a bit of fresh parsley stirred in, and loved it even more.

The next time I make this, I think I’ll grate my own carrot on a box grater instead of using the pre-shredded carrot from the grocery store. I think the more delicate the texture of the carrot, the better.

Happy New Year, everyone.  I’m happy to stuff my foot up the hind end of 2011.

And hey, look at me!

Meatless Lunch #1? Done and done.

Carrot and Sunflower Seed Salad

serves 6

from Essential Pepin

6 medium carrots (about 12 ounces), peeled and shredded

1/2 cup sunflower seeds ( the shelled kind, yo)

2 teaspoons crushed, chopped garlic

1/2 cup chopped mild onion, such as Vidalia or Walla Walla (or shallot)

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons sherry vinegar

5 tablespoons peanut, walnut, hazelnut or almond oil

red lettuce leaves (I used spinach)

Combine all ingredients except lettuce in a bowl. Mix well. Serve on lettuce leaves or as a sandwich filling.

*I said raw carrots were delicious, okay? Cooked carrots are loathsome nuggets of vileness.

Let me count the ways the holidays suck: Those “What We Did This Year!!!” holiday bulletins. Aunt Rita’s Fruitcake. Those annoying-ass-plastic-clam-shell thingys that all toys come in now. The line at the Post Office.  The olfactory clusterfuck coming out of every candle store at the MegaMall. “Feliz Navidad,” the Christmas song from Hades. Shall I go on?

I know, I’m a crank and a Scrooge and Christmas is the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

Once upon a time, when I had a life and did not have children, I liked Christmas just fine. I’d shop, wrap, schlep my butt over to my parents’ house and get shitfaced on Mimosas by 1 in the afternoon. And then take all my loot back to my apartment. What’s not to like?

But then I had kids. Christmas dies an ugly little death after you have children. Because all of a sudden, there’s this pressure to make magical memories with them. Total fucking buzzkill.

The pressure of creating the perfect Christmas for your children? It’s the reason they need to install a Valium Salt Lick in the shopping mall after Thanksgiving.

And while they’re at it, can they make the drinking fountains squirt out grain alcohol? Because mommies need that shit.

And what about that whole Mall Santa Photo Thing? There are pictures of horror-stricken, traumatized, wailing kids all over the Internet this time of year. Why do we subject our kids to this? We put them in the itchiest, most uncomfortable outfits they own, haul them down to the mall, make them wait in line for an hour with those freaks who bring their dogs to see Santa, hiss at them if they try to do anything normal, like fidget or run around, plop them into the lap of a strange bearded dude, and expect them to think, “This is Awesome!”

Now before you accuse me of snobbery and arrogance, I will admit to you up-front that I took first-born to see the Mall Santa. Guilty. I did it, and I paid out the ass for the dorky picture…oh wait. No, I didn’t.

Because I was brilliant enough to wait until my child was three years old before I took her to see Mall Santa.

I have reasons for this. The first year, I’d just given birth. The Woman with the Hemorrhoid that Ate Colorado was totally not up for Mall Santa. Also, first-born was so underweight that she looked like E.T.

The second year, first-born was going through the Winter of Oozing Eczema. Enough said.

Year three, there was nothing holding us back. Except for the fact that she was three. The Demon-Child Year.

But I, determined to get my $24.95 snapshot of Holiday Bliss, put her in the itchy dress and schlepped her down to the Megamall. On a weekend in December. Clearly, Mommy ain’t real bright.

Things went South within a half hour. First-born stormed the kiosk that carries those hand-held massager thingys. Ummm, y’all know those are vibrators, right? Massagers, my fat fanny. These particular specimens even glowed and sparkled. First-born snatched herself a snazzy pink vibrator and took off running through the mall, full-tilt. Not only did I have to chase after her, I had to drop my purse and 3 oversized shopping bags from Crate&Barrel mid-mall, because first-born is wicked fast. Finally, I tackled her, in front of the Coach store. “Hi, swanky ladies in track-suits buying overpriced bags…don’t mind me here, wrestling The Vibrator Bandit to the ground…”

And then there was the hideous wait in line, with those freaks who bring their dogs to see Santa. First-born had an irrational fear of dogs at age three; it’s a *long* 45 minutes when your toddler acts like every Shi-Tzu in a sweater is Cujo.

Admittedly, I was in a foul mood when at last, it was our turn to shine. (Hello? Can I campaign any harder for the Valium Salt Lick and the Everclear Drinking Fountain?) First-born shuffled towards Santa and then bolted, insisting, “I’m not sitting on the hairy man.”

So I did what any mother would do. I shook her and hissed into her ear, “Do it now or no Happy Meal.”

She sullenly plopped her butt on Santa’s lap and as the Mall Elf chirped, “Smile and say Snowflake!” first-born spontaneously combusted.

“Stink! Argh! He stinky-stinky!” she hollered, opening her jaws wide and chomping firmly down on Mall Santa’s wrist.

You’d think they’d prepare these Mall Santas for shit like this. I mean, kids piss on Santa all the time; can’t they handle a leeeetle nibble?

Mall Santa hucked first-born off his lap and said accusingly, “Your kid just bit me lady!”

As if I didn’t have eyes.

“She didn’t do it that hard,” I retorted. Pussy.

“She broke the skin,” Mall Elf said helpfully. Stuff it, Enabler.

“She broke the skin,” Santa repeated.

“Oh come on!” I said. “Don’t tell me one of those things (gesturing to a sweatered and cranky looking Dachshund) hasn’t ever taken a chomp out of you. Chill, Kris Kringle.”

Which is how, in December of 2004, I ended up in the office of Paul Blart:Mall Cop, filling out an inordinate amount of paperwork. I also had to take first-born to the doctor, get her blood drawn and analyzed, and fax the results back to the MegaMall. Because my kid could, you know, have rabies.

The entire ride home after the Santa Incident, first-born insisted that she had done nothing wrong. In fact, she argued that Mall Santa deserved to be bitten. Because “he stinky, Mama. Santa not supposed to stink.”

Pass the Valium Salt Lick, please.

Or a pitcher of these.

Champagne Cosmo
from Fine Cooking
serves 8 people, or 1 Mommy after a trip to the MegaMall

1 1/2 cups cranberry juice cocktail, chilled
1/2 cup Grand Marnier
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice
8 thin strips of lemon zest
2 bottles (750 ml) brut sparkling wine or champagne, chilled

Combine the cranberry juice, Grand Marnier, and lime juice in a small pitcher and mix well. Hold a lemon strip over a tall Champagne flute, twist it to release the essential oils, and drop the zest into the flute. Repeat with seven more flutes.

Divide the juice mixture equally among the flutes. Top each flute with the sparkling wine (depending on the size of your flutes, you may not need all the wine). Serve immediately.

Author’s tip: If you have remaining champagne, inject it.