Who am I?
Someone very recently posed this question to me. I found myself unable to answer.
I can easily fire off a few defining characteristics.
-Family-oriented.
-God-fearing.
-Feisty.
-Educated.
-Female.
-Kitchen/Baking junkie.
-A daughter.
-A sister.
-A friend.
But who am I? No freaking clue.
Back when I was working, I was introduced as "a cop". But is that really all I want to be known as? If that were the case, I would have just folded myself up in my locker at the end of the day until it was time to go 10-8 again. I had a life outside of my job, outside of my uniform. Or so I thought.
After I lost my job, I felt like I had no purpose. Like I was just...there. I convinced myself that my life was on hold and that it once I was rehired everything would simply start over. "Ok, life sucks right now, but I'm going to get a new job and then everything will be right again".
In some ways, that is true. I never understood until now how vitally important a job is to the mental and emotional well-being of the psyche. The idea of going to bed because you to have something to go do in the morning. Getting off of work and getting to grumble and grouse about work even though, secretly, you love it.
Every time I tried for a new PD and failed, I was crushed. I saw each job possibility as that chance to press the restart button and if I couldn't, it was devastating. It got to the point where I stopped telling people about my next test dates, my next interview with such-and-such PD, because then I'd have to subsequently inform them that I had yet again let it slip through my fingers. I felt like I was letting everyone down. It's quite narcissistic when I think about it. Like everyone is going to base their hopes and dreams on whether or not I get a new job. It has taken me a while to realize that it wasn't their disappointment in me that I was seeing, but disappointment for me.
The only voice I was hearing say, "you are a failure" was my own.
I've always walked with a very quick gait. I've never been an 'ambler'. Even people much taller than me sometimes complain that I walk too fast and need to slow down. Part of the reason for this is simply that I'm shorter than everyone else, so I need to walk twice as fast to keep up. But another reason for this is that I have a goal to get to...I'm in a hurry and please move aside because come hell or high water I'm going to get to where I'm going, dammit. These last few years I've felt like I've been forced to slow down and go at a much slower pace. I can't say I've done so willingly. More like an imaginary hand is pushing me back by the forehead, and I'm mulishly plowing forward against it, only looking forward, and not stopping to look at what's around me right at that very moment. Push push push.
Today, I found a new store at the mall that sells nothing but 50's style clothing. Somewhat rockabilly, but a bit more authentic. Less skulls and tattoos, more full skirts, crinolines, even snoods. They had this incredible black velvet, curve-hugging dress with capped sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. It was the last one in stock. What the hell, I thought. I'll try it on.
The sales associates handed me a pair of leopard-print pumps for the full effect, and even my dad (who usually doesn't have much to say on the topic of women's clothing) insisted that I buy the dress. Then I looked at the price tag. $129.00. How could I, someone on unemployment, justifiably make such an extravagant purchase? Unthinkable.
Push push push.
I cringe when I think of what I've missed by just pushing against that hand on my forehead, while neglecting everything else. The relationships I let fall by the wayside. How many other opportunities did I ignore? Why didn't I take this extra time to improve on the guitar? Go to Oregon? Read more books? Take a random road trip by myself? Always, always, the excuse was: I can't afford to do it right now. When I have a job. When I have the money. For some of those chances I didn't see or take, it may be too late.
Push push push.
The question I'm asking myself now is, why was I always seeing that hand as an obstacle? Why did I see it as the block to what I felt was my destiny?
Why didn't I realize sooner that it was actually the hand of God?
Believers have this idea that God has a hand in everything. That God is gently guiding us through life's journey. A very calming, comforting imagery, no? Not so much with me. Like any parent, He has had to take a bit of a firmer approach with one of His more...uh...obstinate kids. In my case, God has been trying to get me to stop and see what's around me right now, rather than allow me to just charge unabashedly through life without stopping to check a few things out. He practically had to hit me with a frying pan to get me to apply to grad school. All those times I tried and didn't get the job, I didn't fail.
He was simply telling me, "Not yet. I have some other things for you to see first".
The journey continues to answer the initial "who am I?" question.
Oh, and I bought the dress. And it looks damn good.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Git off mah lawn, you young rapscallions.
Occasionally, I feel like a cantankerous, ornery old man. Not because I'm evil (shut up) or a man. But because all old men have that old battle wound that acts up every now and then.
However, those old men with battle wounds are BAMFs who got those wounds committing various acts of derring-do. They have that bad knee that acts up when it rains. The itchy trigger finger when they think of all them Nazis (pronounced, "Nazzies") they did in. Faded tattoos that rest on now wrinkled skin.
I'm not comparing myself, by any means. I am not, nor shall I ever be, at the same level of those men. I have never committed any wanton acts of bravery. I don't even have any tattoos. All I have is one scar. Obtained through very modest means.
(Actually, being as graceful as an epileptic rhino, I have many scars, but we won't talk about those. At least not today.)
I have a scar on my lower back, a few inches to the right of where a tramp stamp would go. A scar that, ever now and then for some inexplicable reason, will itch like CRAZY, despite the fact that it has long since healed.
How did I get such a scar, you ask?
Watch. And cover your ears.
However, those old men with battle wounds are BAMFs who got those wounds committing various acts of derring-do. They have that bad knee that acts up when it rains. The itchy trigger finger when they think of all them Nazis (pronounced, "Nazzies") they did in. Faded tattoos that rest on now wrinkled skin.
I'm not comparing myself, by any means. I am not, nor shall I ever be, at the same level of those men. I have never committed any wanton acts of bravery. I don't even have any tattoos. All I have is one scar. Obtained through very modest means.
(Actually, being as graceful as an epileptic rhino, I have many scars, but we won't talk about those. At least not today.)
I have a scar on my lower back, a few inches to the right of where a tramp stamp would go. A scar that, ever now and then for some inexplicable reason, will itch like CRAZY, despite the fact that it has long since healed.
How did I get such a scar, you ask?
Watch. And cover your ears.
All those people watching are seasoned CHP officers. I can easily say it was one of the worst 5 seconds of my life. Not so much because it's painful (though it is), but because even though you are completely aware of everything going on around you, you can't do a damn thing about it. I remember screaming (inside my head), "Stop screaming. Shut UP, dammit. They are going to make so much fun of you when this is over. Wuss. You suck."
When it was over, what you can't hear is me laughing hysterically as soon as the ride ended. It was funny, yes, but I was so full of adrenaline I couldn't help but giggle like a moron.
The alligator clamps were attached to a belt loop on my jeans and the top of my right shoe. Both clamps left blisters. The ones on my foot disappeared, the ones on my hip did not. Every now and then, it will itch. Especially when there's a lot of static in the air...
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Deck the Halls.
I LOVE Christmas music. For those of you naysayers who complain about hearing it everywhere, I have to say that that's one of my favorite things about the holidays. In truth, my college roommate and I used to start listening to it as early as September while we'd decorate our dorm/apartment for fall. In fact, she sent me a text the other day telling me she was decorating for fall while listening to Christmas music and no one else seemed to understand such bizarre behavior.
This past Monday I turned on the radio in my car and was thrilled to realize one of the local stations finally started playing nothing but holiday-themed music. YAY! Bring on Rudolph! Here comes Santa Claus! CHARLIE BROWN!!
But of course, there are those that occasionally come on that make my ears bleed. Worry not, the list is relatively short. But here it is, for your reading pleasure!
5. "Wonderful Christmastime" – Paul McCartney
That being said, I have to be honest and say this is song SUCKS. It hurts me to say this. I feel like Paul, knowing full well that he is adored and has legions of fans, decided to experiment and write a truly crappy song to see if his followers would bite. As much as I love me the Fab Four, I can’t get behind the shitty synthesizers. And I’m sorry Paul, “ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong” does not constitute a credible song lyric. But I'll give you a pass and choose to believe that this song came as a result of some low-quality psychotropics.
4. "Do They Know Its Christmas" - BandAid
I applaud Bono’s charity efforts. I really do. But I don’t get how certain groups (cough-coughPETA cough-cough) seem to think the best way to get to people is to make you feel like an asshole for having a better lot in life. And when the original songwriter has gone on record saying it's a shitty song, that's when you KNOW it sucks. And if that doesn't convince you, check out the original album art:
"Who invited those shirtless dudes? Didn't they see the invitation said 'black-tie only'?"
With such eye-rolling lines as “Tonight thank God it’s them, instead of you”, and “There won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas” I really do have to ask who came up with this trend of writing Christmas songs that make you feel bad. And on that note...
3. "Christmas Shoes" - Newsong
My mom and I disagree every year on this one. She loves this song, and I hate it. For those of you not familiar with it (lucky you) I’ll give you a quick rundown: Narrator is doing some last minute shopping. Narrator is not feeling Christmas-y (what a douche). Narrator notices dirty kid in line in front of him buying shoes (taking pains to point out that not only is he dirty, but he is ‘dirty from head to toe’. Making him an even bigger douche).
Also, to me, somehow the 'dirty kid' is Pigpen.
Dirty kid is too poor to buy said shoes for his dying mom (who is dying on CHRISTMAS EVE. Are you suicidal yet?). Narrator plunks down a few bucks so mom can enjoy shoes for a couple of hours before she snuffs it. Narrator learns the true meaning of Christmas is not to spend time with your loved ones because life is so short, but that you must buy them as much useless shit as possible, like cheap shoes, right up until they die. Because that’s what’s important. Merry Christmas.
2. "Dear Mr. Jesus (Please Don’t Let Them Hurt Your Children)" - Powersource
(Note: Before you denounce me as a terrible human being, I just want to point out that I’m not making fun of child abuse. Just this song and the sanctimonious dick who wrote it.)
I first heard this song during the holiday season a few years ago, and it still confuses me. Not only is there no mention of Christmas anywhere in the lyrics, but every single line makes you hate yourself as a human being.
Nothing says ‘Merry Christmas’ like a 6-year old singing about how mommy hits her.
1. ANYTHING BY MANNHEIM STEAMROLLER.
This one-man band/atrocity came into existence in the 1980’s, and Chip Davis still hasn’t realized that no one gives a shit about synthesizer heavy music anymore. ALL of MS’ music sounds like someone drank too much eggnog, busted out their Casio SA-76 and then tried to play a crappy rendition of “Deck The Halls”. In the dark. Oh, and that person is deaf. If Christmas were a video game, the likes of Eartha Kitt and Bing Crosby would be Xbox (or Playstation. Or Wii. You get it), and Mannheim Steamroller would be Atari, or some other old-ass console whose video games all look like pixilated diarrhea.
Honorable mentions:
"Merry Christmas with Love" by Clay Aiken.
It’s Clay Aiken. Enough said.
Every time I hear Madonna’s whiny, pouty rendition of this Eartha Kitt classic, it makes me want to run over her with that ’54 convertible. Besides, someone like Madonna can’t get away with singing lines such as, “think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed”.
The Boss blurting out “SANNA CLOTHES IS KAMANA TAN” does not get me in the Christmas spirit. Nor does the 10-minute intro where he seems to be unsuccessfully trying to get the audience all riled up for the band's next number.
That does it for me, childrens. And to all a good night.
This past Monday I turned on the radio in my car and was thrilled to realize one of the local stations finally started playing nothing but holiday-themed music. YAY! Bring on Rudolph! Here comes Santa Claus! CHARLIE BROWN!!
But of course, there are those that occasionally come on that make my ears bleed. Worry not, the list is relatively short. But here it is, for your reading pleasure!
5. "Wonderful Christmastime" – Paul McCartney
That being said, I have to be honest and say this is song SUCKS. It hurts me to say this. I feel like Paul, knowing full well that he is adored and has legions of fans, decided to experiment and write a truly crappy song to see if his followers would bite. As much as I love me the Fab Four, I can’t get behind the shitty synthesizers. And I’m sorry Paul, “ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong” does not constitute a credible song lyric. But I'll give you a pass and choose to believe that this song came as a result of some low-quality psychotropics.
4. "Do They Know Its Christmas" - BandAid
I applaud Bono’s charity efforts. I really do. But I don’t get how certain groups (cough-coughPETA cough-cough) seem to think the best way to get to people is to make you feel like an asshole for having a better lot in life. And when the original songwriter has gone on record saying it's a shitty song, that's when you KNOW it sucks. And if that doesn't convince you, check out the original album art:
"Who invited those shirtless dudes? Didn't they see the invitation said 'black-tie only'?"With such eye-rolling lines as “Tonight thank God it’s them, instead of you”, and “There won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas” I really do have to ask who came up with this trend of writing Christmas songs that make you feel bad. And on that note...
3. "Christmas Shoes" - Newsong
My mom and I disagree every year on this one. She loves this song, and I hate it. For those of you not familiar with it (lucky you) I’ll give you a quick rundown: Narrator is doing some last minute shopping. Narrator is not feeling Christmas-y (what a douche). Narrator notices dirty kid in line in front of him buying shoes (taking pains to point out that not only is he dirty, but he is ‘dirty from head to toe’. Making him an even bigger douche).
Also, to me, somehow the 'dirty kid' is Pigpen. Dirty kid is too poor to buy said shoes for his dying mom (who is dying on CHRISTMAS EVE. Are you suicidal yet?). Narrator plunks down a few bucks so mom can enjoy shoes for a couple of hours before she snuffs it. Narrator learns the true meaning of Christmas is not to spend time with your loved ones because life is so short, but that you must buy them as much useless shit as possible, like cheap shoes, right up until they die. Because that’s what’s important. Merry Christmas.
2. "Dear Mr. Jesus (Please Don’t Let Them Hurt Your Children)" - Powersource
(Note: Before you denounce me as a terrible human being, I just want to point out that I’m not making fun of child abuse. Just this song and the sanctimonious dick who wrote it.)
I first heard this song during the holiday season a few years ago, and it still confuses me. Not only is there no mention of Christmas anywhere in the lyrics, but every single line makes you hate yourself as a human being.
Dear Mr. Jesus, I just had to write to you
Something really scared me, when I saw it on the news
A story 'bout a little girl beaten black and blue
Jesus, thought I'd take this right to you
Dear Mr. Jesus, I don't understand
Why they took her mom and dad away
I know that they don't mean to hit with wild and angry hands
Tell them just how big they are I pray
Please don't let them hurt your children
We need love and shelter from the storm
Please don't let them hurt your children
Won't you keep us safe and warm
Dear Mr. Jesus, they say that she may die
Oh I hope the doctors stop the pain
I know that you could save her and take her up to the sky
So she would never have to hurt again
Please don't let them hurt your children..
Dear Mr. Jesus, please tell me what to do
And please don't tell my daddy
But my mommy hits me, too.
Nothing says ‘Merry Christmas’ like a 6-year old singing about how mommy hits her.
1. ANYTHING BY MANNHEIM STEAMROLLER.
This one-man band/atrocity came into existence in the 1980’s, and Chip Davis still hasn’t realized that no one gives a shit about synthesizer heavy music anymore. ALL of MS’ music sounds like someone drank too much eggnog, busted out their Casio SA-76 and then tried to play a crappy rendition of “Deck The Halls”. In the dark. Oh, and that person is deaf. If Christmas were a video game, the likes of Eartha Kitt and Bing Crosby would be Xbox (or Playstation. Or Wii. You get it), and Mannheim Steamroller would be Atari, or some other old-ass console whose video games all look like pixilated diarrhea.
Honorable mentions:
"Merry Christmas with Love" by Clay Aiken.
It’s Clay Aiken. Enough said.
"Santa Baby" by Madonna
Every time I hear Madonna’s whiny, pouty rendition of this Eartha Kitt classic, it makes me want to run over her with that ’54 convertible. Besides, someone like Madonna can’t get away with singing lines such as, “think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed”.
"Santa Claus is Coming to Town" by Bruce Springsteen
The Boss blurting out “SANNA CLOTHES IS KAMANA TAN” does not get me in the Christmas spirit. Nor does the 10-minute intro where he seems to be unsuccessfully trying to get the audience all riled up for the band's next number.
That does it for me, childrens. And to all a good night.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
27
I've always found the idea of birthdays to be a little off. On the anniversary day that we made our debut, everyone stops and makes sure to congratulate and celebrate us on our "special day".
But technically, on that day, Mom did all the work.
Today, 27 years later, my mom is in the kitchen, hurrying to finish a large pot of posole and some tacos al pastor, my favorite foods, for the friends and family arriving later. She's been at it since yesterday.
She cooks for me in lieu of a birthday gift, despite the fact that 27 years ago she already gave me THE gift.
And yet, she still does all the work.
So while everyone else is sending me text messages and Facebook posts wishing me a happy birthday, I'd like the be the one who says,
Thanks mom.
But technically, on that day, Mom did all the work.
Today, 27 years later, my mom is in the kitchen, hurrying to finish a large pot of posole and some tacos al pastor, my favorite foods, for the friends and family arriving later. She's been at it since yesterday.
She cooks for me in lieu of a birthday gift, despite the fact that 27 years ago she already gave me THE gift.
And yet, she still does all the work.
So while everyone else is sending me text messages and Facebook posts wishing me a happy birthday, I'd like the be the one who says,
Thanks mom.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Creating the Crazy
My fellow Harry Potter Nerds will enjoy this.
As many of you know, my Halloween costume last year was EPIC. I told no one of my plans, so when I showed up at my friend Cindy's Halloween party dressed as an Oompa Loompa, let's just say the costume was a hit.
Seeing as how I find myself still unemployed, I had plenty of time for this year's costume.
This year's costume was Bellatrix Lestrange.
This was no small feat. I went to costume shops in search of the right Bellatrix costume, but none amounted to what I had in mind. So I had to make it myself.
The inspiration.
The end result.
As many of you know, my Halloween costume last year was EPIC. I told no one of my plans, so when I showed up at my friend Cindy's Halloween party dressed as an Oompa Loompa, let's just say the costume was a hit.
Seeing as how I find myself still unemployed, I had plenty of time for this year's costume.
This year's costume was Bellatrix Lestrange.
This was no small feat. I went to costume shops in search of the right Bellatrix costume, but none amounted to what I had in mind. So I had to make it myself.
The inspiration.
The end result.How did I do, my peeps?
Sunday, October 23, 2011
The Final Countdown
(Note: Sorry I've been absent, y'all. I'm currently in week 5 of my MAS program, and it's kicking my butt. Not complaining. It's awesome! But it does take a fair chunk out of my week. I miss recreational reading.)
Everyone has a bucket list. That lift of Stuff To Do Before You Bite The Big One. And it occurred to me that I, too, have a list of stuff I want to do before I get murderized. Some of it might be a bit more unconventional (or boring) than others, but what do you expect from me?
Also, because I am an organizational freak, mine are listed by category.
Places To Go:
1. Ireland. Everyone has that European location they dream of visiting. Most people want go to Paris. Italy. Potheads go to Amsterdam. I want to go somewhere cloudy, with lots of green fields and sheep. And beer.
2. New Orleans. For the history. I'm weird like that.
3. Boston. Cook's Country is filmed here.
4. Australia. Possibly steal a dingo, and threaten bratty children with it. "This thing EATS BABIES!"
5. A taping of Saturday Night Live.
6. La Tomatina in Spain.
7. Oktoberfest in Germany.
People to Meet:
1. The Pope. Give him a high five. For no other reason than to be able to say, "I hi-fived the Pope".
2. Laurie Notaro. She is one of my favorite authors. She also happens to be one of my favorite authors who is still alive.
3. Hugh Jackman. Pure indulgence. The man is HOT. Plus I hear he's a nice guy.
4. Coldplay. This requires no explanation.
5. The President. Why the hell not?
6. The Dalai Lama. For a fist bump.
What I'd Like to Learn
(Those of you who tell yourselves you want to learn the meaning of life, I'll help you: The Meaning of Life is life itself. The good and the bad. Me writing this useless drivel? That's the meaning of life. Everything from getting the married, getting divorced, your car breaking down, getting the dream job, Being constipated, to picking your nose. The meaning of life is to LIVE IT. Ok I'm done.)
1. Modern Major General. I want to learn all of the words, and be able to recite them correctly. I would also like to learn the words to "It's The End of the World (As We Know It)".
2. Cheese. As you already know, my mom is the Cheese fairy. And I would like her to teach me how to make this wondrous dairy product so I can try it myself.
3. Quilting. I am beginning to think I am secretly an old woman. Shut up.
4. Learn to swim. Right now I can only manage to flop around like a retarded octopus before someone comes to my rescue.
Experiences:
1. Get married. (That's right, I have a sensitive side! Pick your jaws up off the floor. It's filthy.)
2. Produce a kidlet. Possibly adopt one.
3. See a musical on Broadway.
4. See the LA Philharmonic.
5. An actual white Christmas. With snow.
Things to Do:
1. Pet a goat.
2. Ride a horse.
3. Ride an elephant.
4. Get a Nikon SLR camera.
5. Zip line.
6. Cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner myself.
7. A mud run.
8. Have a Halloween party.
9. Own a house.
10. Be a speaker at a high school career day, preferably at my alma mater.
11. Write a book.
12. Run in a Zorb.
13. Take a nap in a hammock. (This would have been possible in Big Bear a few weeks ago, but it was cold as shit and the hammock was outside. Plus the cabin was situated on some kind of crow reserve or something. So it was either freeze, or get my really, really nice parka pooped on.)
Now that I've written and posted this list, chances are I'm going to find other stuff to do and will have to amend it, many times. What can I say? I'm fickle sometimes.
So what's on your list, my peeps?
Everyone has a bucket list. That lift of Stuff To Do Before You Bite The Big One. And it occurred to me that I, too, have a list of stuff I want to do before I get murderized. Some of it might be a bit more unconventional (or boring) than others, but what do you expect from me?
Also, because I am an organizational freak, mine are listed by category.
Places To Go:
1. Ireland. Everyone has that European location they dream of visiting. Most people want go to Paris. Italy. Potheads go to Amsterdam. I want to go somewhere cloudy, with lots of green fields and sheep. And beer.
2. New Orleans. For the history. I'm weird like that.
3. Boston. Cook's Country is filmed here.
4. Australia. Possibly steal a dingo, and threaten bratty children with it. "This thing EATS BABIES!"
5. A taping of Saturday Night Live.
6. La Tomatina in Spain.
7. Oktoberfest in Germany.
People to Meet:
1. The Pope. Give him a high five. For no other reason than to be able to say, "I hi-fived the Pope".
2. Laurie Notaro. She is one of my favorite authors. She also happens to be one of my favorite authors who is still alive.
3. Hugh Jackman. Pure indulgence. The man is HOT. Plus I hear he's a nice guy.
4. Coldplay. This requires no explanation.
5. The President. Why the hell not?
6. The Dalai Lama. For a fist bump.
What I'd Like to Learn
(Those of you who tell yourselves you want to learn the meaning of life, I'll help you: The Meaning of Life is life itself. The good and the bad. Me writing this useless drivel? That's the meaning of life. Everything from getting the married, getting divorced, your car breaking down, getting the dream job, Being constipated, to picking your nose. The meaning of life is to LIVE IT. Ok I'm done.)
1. Modern Major General. I want to learn all of the words, and be able to recite them correctly. I would also like to learn the words to "It's The End of the World (As We Know It)".
2. Cheese. As you already know, my mom is the Cheese fairy. And I would like her to teach me how to make this wondrous dairy product so I can try it myself.
3. Quilting. I am beginning to think I am secretly an old woman. Shut up.
4. Learn to swim. Right now I can only manage to flop around like a retarded octopus before someone comes to my rescue.
Experiences:
1. Get married. (That's right, I have a sensitive side! Pick your jaws up off the floor. It's filthy.)
2. Produce a kidlet. Possibly adopt one.
3. See a musical on Broadway.
4. See the LA Philharmonic.
5. An actual white Christmas. With snow.
Things to Do:
1. Pet a goat.
2. Ride a horse.
3. Ride an elephant.
4. Get a Nikon SLR camera.
5. Zip line.
6. Cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner myself.
7. A mud run.
8. Have a Halloween party.
9. Own a house.
10. Be a speaker at a high school career day, preferably at my alma mater.
11. Write a book.
12. Run in a Zorb.
13. Take a nap in a hammock. (This would have been possible in Big Bear a few weeks ago, but it was cold as shit and the hammock was outside. Plus the cabin was situated on some kind of crow reserve or something. So it was either freeze, or get my really, really nice parka pooped on.)
Now that I've written and posted this list, chances are I'm going to find other stuff to do and will have to amend it, many times. What can I say? I'm fickle sometimes.
So what's on your list, my peeps?
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
And Of Course, Cheese.
A few months ago, I co-hosted a BBQ. T'was tasty and an awesomely fun afternoon.
Co-host took care of all barbecuing duties, while I took care of, well, everything else.
Co-host took care of all barbecuing duties, while I took care of, well, everything else.
Now, before you lecture me on an equal share of responsibilities, keep in mind that I am an unemployed deadbeat who paid for none of the groceries. Plus, my culinary abilities notwithstanding, I move through a kitchen (as with life) with as much grace and poise as a drunk walrus wearing roller skates. Seriously. I’m clumsy and have a natural talent for dropping everything that passes through my hands. Add some knives and foodstuffs to that equation, set it all up in a kitchen the size of a postage stamp, and can you really blame the others for dropping the groceries and mysteriously disappearing?
I did have someone chop someone onions for me, though. Otherwise I would have gotten all weepy and boogerific. Sexy.
One of the dishes I made that day was a rice casserole-type dish made with white rice, canned corn, Cacique table cream, and cheese.
Not just any cheese, mind you.
My mom’s cheese.
Right now, you’re saying out loud (weirdo), “your mom makes her own cheese?” because that’s the inevitable question that follows the statement, ‘My mom’s cheese’, which you would think is self-explanatory.
My dad works at a dairy, which means we get all the sweet hookups in terms of beef and milk. Friends and relatives will frequently use my dad as a...I don’t know what...beef ambassador? Bovine liaison? Anyway, they’ll buy the beef directly from the dairy. Sounds like a great idea, right?
Maybe.
Many of you are used to seeing your meat (hee hee) all wrapped in pretty white paper, perhaps with an Albertson’s bar code slapped onto your order of beef tenderloin. Not so this way. When you buy your meat through the Dairy Emissary Program, your burger is still mooing.
Take a big bite outta that.
When we were kids, every now and then we’d wake up to find an adorable wittle calf all curled up in the garage. The first time this happened, our immediate reaction was “holy-shit-we-have-a-pet-cow-lets-pet-it-and-love-it-forever-and-ever-and-ever!!!”
Later that afternoon, we ate it.
Needless to say, after the first calf, every one we woke up to thereafter was treated with a more aloof manner. Think of it as being detached from the condemned.
Vaya con Dios.
besides not trusting creepy uncles.
Anyhoo, like I said before, we got free milk, too. Every so often my dad will bring home 3 or 4 gallons of milk, and just leave it sitting on the counter. During the night, the Cheese Fairy would appear, wave her mozzarella stick-wand, and the milk would magically transform into...
Creamy, cheesy, crumbly, DELICIOUSNESS.
You know you want it.
I’m totally full of shit, by the way. My mom makes it. She is the Cheese Fairy. Did I just ruin the fantasy for you? I’m sorry. Sorry you’re so LAME!
Back to the cheese.
It can be crumbled, eaten fresh, melted into a quesadilla, or, if left to dry for a few days, roast it on the stove on a piece of foil for our own little version of grilled cheese. This stuff ROCKS. I keep telling myself I need to learn how to make it, but like so many of my mom’s recipes, I feel like this is best left to her expertise.
Plus I think she’d look way better with fairy wings than me.
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