FMD is smoooookin'

Yikes, it's been awhile. Things here have been busy, but in a not totally crappy way, considering. It seems my entire state is on fire, ‘tho – so that’s a bummer. And speaking of things flaming, the “Big Gay Weekend” occurred in San Francisco and the world has continued to turn and sunrises still happen and all the uptight folks that are convinced that their marriages will somehow be made null and void by allowing “those people” to marry are still, in fact, legally wed. Show of hands - don't ya' think that those uptight folks are just a little disappointed? I mean, it'd be an excuse to get out of a not-so-great 30-year relationship, wouldn't it? "Sorry - we can't stay married 'cause guys can marry guys now so I'm outta here." Another romance goes up in smoke.

And my Aunt’s health is also going down in flames – another bummer, but not altogether unexpected. She DID finally get to go spend time at her lake home, which is where she is now … with my Uncle and all kinds of well-meaning guests. (You know the kind – lovely folks that wanna keep ya’ busy and make small talk to make sure that it doesn’t FEEL like they’re not just there to see if you’re still alive buuuuut … meanwhile there's a giant elephant in the room no one wants to talk about – and it is wearing your pajamas – and you’re busy feeding the beast peanuts. Annnnd I’ve officially killed the metaphor. Letsee what other mayhem I can cause ...)

Continuing the whole “fire” theme I’ve apparently lit here (get it? Lit? Fire? It’s a joke, son.), July 4th is just around the corner and, for the daughter of a firefighter, that means …

JAM!

Yes, true statement - “Frankly, My Dear …” jam is gonna be in full-force in a matter of weeks. I know that I’ll be making apricot, will likely make some strawberry and, if the local berry farm comes through for me, I believe raspberry and blackberry will also be on the menu. Like years past, I have a payment idea in mind, and wanna lay it down for ya’ ...

I’m gonna make big batches of jam until, basically, it’s no longer fun for me. I’ll post photos, or something, and will let you know the flavors available. You’ll find a local fire-prevention related charity in your neighborhood, county, city or state – and will donate some random amount of money to it. Then you’ll send me a note saying “hey – I sent money to this great place that does such and so, can you please send me some jam?” and I’ll do so.

Proof? I require none. Your word is good here. How will you know the jam will be worth whatever money you’ve donated? Heck, I have references. They will back me up like a house afire.

Wow – somebody stop me. I’m on fire. Seriously – I’ve exhausted my quips.

Ok, I'll stop.

Day 14,610

In My Breakfast with Hobbes (originally written on June 26, 2007 ...) I described how I typically spend my birthday. It is, if you read through that post, traditionally a solitary event.

The introverted nature of how I spend “my” day is not because I have no friends, and it isn't because my family is remote (either physically or emotionally). I don't even know when I started celebrating my birthday alone, but I feel it is my right to spend this day as I see fit. (Interesting side note: WHY I feel entitled to this is puzzling to me. It isn't as though I DID anything to earn this so-called "right". In fact, I damn neared killed my mom and myself when I was born.)

It is a story that I've been told for years - when I was old enough to care to know, or to ask. I'd known that I was a c-section baby back when c-sections were NOT something scheduled for the convenience of anyone. They were used as emergency actions only - and I was in need of emergency action. Babies and mothers have an unwritten communication ... when the child is prepared to be delivered (or when a mom is prepared to deliver said child), notice is served by either causing massive discomfort (in the form of contractions) or by *ahem* lobbing a "water balloon" outside of Mom … either of which serves as an "I'm ready" notice to the parents and the kiddo.

If sitcoms are to be believed, either of these “notices” trigger 21 1/2 minutes of hilarity and amusing actions that result in 30 seconds of actual physical labor and a final "awwwwww" reveal moment where the newborn is shown, nicely cleaned up, save for a little grape jelly on the crown of their perfectly shaped 3-month old head. Roll credits, cut to commercial. I’m here to tell all y’all – it ain’t necessarily so.

It should surprise no one to know that I didn’t BECOME non-graceful at a certain age – I was born this way. As much as I can say that I’m a Catholic, or a ferociously private person, I am, always have been, always will be, and started out on this day many years ago as a klutz. I arrived two and a half weeks early, and was very underweight because, as it turns out, I was all kinds of tangled up inside of my mom. I won’t go into details, but my mom and I conspired and successfully wrecked the entire back seat of my grandparents car, along with several blankets, the hall carpet at my folks’ home, and the arrival carpet at the doorway to the ER. Upon my mom’s arrival to the hospital, the doctors had the Chaplin in the room, “just in case”.

I also don’t remember exactly how old the other birthday tradition that I have is, though I know it was something that I started doing somewhere in my early 20s. At the time, it was a fairly unique idea, but I know of many people – daughters mainly – who practice it now. On the anniversary of my birth, my parents get a dozen roses. After all … all I did was show up. They’re the ones that did all the heavy lifting to make sure I made it through that day and, happily (and with little thanks to me), so did my Mom.

I don’t know how old a person typically is when they realize that their birthday is NOT, in fact, a national holiday. I’d love to monitor the average child when they come to understand that, on Mom or Dad’s birthday, there are still chores and work to be done, deadlines and phones to answer, bills to pay and food to be put on the table at mealtimes. I guess I like the idea of decorating that table with a token of my appreciation. I get to celebrate my birthday in any way I’d like not because it’s my right to do so … but because my folks helped me through this day so many years ago.

Happy 40th birthday to me, with thanks to Mom and Dad.

Pretty Please With Cherries On Top

As someone who takes pleasure in cooking (and eating), I find that I get specific enjoyment when I come across a food item where I *think* I know what the taste will be, and then experience something a little bit better. Or, in this case, a lot better.

Here we have a few of the ingredients. Pretty basic stuff - flour with salt and baking soda in one bowl, eggs and some flavor extracts in another bowl, and a third bowl with some chocolate chips (in this case white and semi-sweet).

And here is the awaiting mixing bowl, which you can see already has the white and dark sugars and butter waiting. I’ll even tell ya’ that the end goal is “cookie”. So no biggie there, right?

Here’s a small bit of the dough all put together and waiting for me to parcel it out and bake it.

Did ya’ see it? Maybe you should go back and take a second look – because the extra “oh sweet mother of GOD these are incredible cookies” addition is in that dough.

Well no matter - here are the final items – just waiting for a tall glass of ice cold milk.The extra thing is there, too. Give up?
Now you may ask “how can adding something so basic like dried cherries (soaked in Kirsch and Grenadine) make that much of a difference?” It just … does. Pick up the current issue of Bon Appetit, turn to page 22, and whip up a batch and tell me if you don’t agree.

(Of course, my being a “rabid baker” means that you could also ask me to share. They were so dang good when I made them on Saturday that I made three more batches today. Guess I'll be bringing in some treats to work tomorrow.)