peevish mama

I think you see people at their purest when they don’t know they’re being watched. Written out, that’s a painfully obvious statement. Yesterday I dropped Supergirl off at school and although I don’t typically walk her in, I do stay and wait until she gets in the door. She ran toward school, her backpack bouncing against her rump, turning around once to wave and blow a kiss. Just like that, she stepped seamlessly out of her home life into her school life, her public life. She had her hand on the door when she spotted a Golden Retriever tied up to the fence. She jerked the door, changed her mind and walked over to the dog, her hand outstretched and facing up — just as Red Vogue taught her. First she knelt, then she sat, her face level with the dog’s. She was petting him, and this is the part that killed me, she found the dog’s tag and bent her face in to read it. It mattered to her. Who is this dog? The dog rested his chin, for just a moment, on top of her bent head. Kids streamed past her as she sat with the dog, running her fingers through his thick biscuit coat. I watched from the car, my foot on the brake, feeling like a voyeur into the very essence of sweetness. How is this girl even mine?

Got my ass rocked off last night, which is always a good thing, but particularly so when you weren’t necessarily expecting to get your ass rocked off. An unexpected, revelatory, surprise ass rocking is the very very best kind. And when steely banjos and flying cellos are involved, well, then you just stand back on your heels and go, Shit, man. Who knew? Pipes knew, that’s who. That’s why he jumped on tickets for himself, Sassy Jewels, Ten Gallon, Gigi, and us as soon as they went for sale months ago. And, oh blessed Bertha, I am so glad he did!

Having given I and Love and You a few listen-throughs, I was expecting a soulful, bluegrassy, folksy show. I was not expecting to get my ass rocked off. I went in kind of blind, happy to ride along in the backseat of someone else’s idea for the night; Pipes is to be trusted in these matters. I got my first inkling that we might be in for something special during the opener: The Low Anthem. I left my group for a little scouting mission to see how far up we might be able to get and suddenly found myself in the hot pulsing belly of First Ave, totally enthralled but what I can only describe as thrashing hillbillies. They were very hairy (of head, not of body) and they were on fire, playing bluegrass like they were all hopped up on meth (which they weren’t. At least I don’t think they were). We only caught the end of their set, but it was frenetic and exhilarating, wild and raw. Speed bluegrass is not the kind of music I would necessarily listen to on my own, but so goes the magic of live music. When there’s that kind of energy and musicianship raging in front of your eyes, pummeling your rib cage, hell, it’s really hard not to get caught up. I was practically panting when I found my friends again.

When the Avett Brothers came on, First Ave exploded. They were ridiculously good. Ree. Dick. U. Lous. Now I get it. NOW I GET IT! I get why they’ve been sold out for  months. They were beyond sweet and gracious with the adoring crowd – obviously jacked up to be performing. North Carolina boys happy to be in Minnesota for a night. The brothers are beautiful song writers first and foremost, but man can they sing. The eldest, Scott, has a superhero voice – it’s shot through with gold streaks, completely unique and seemingly indefatigable – like an alloy of a man’s voice and a precious metal. After two hours of some serious singing, he sounded as fresh as a daisy – like I said, a friggin’ superhero. His brother, Seth, has the dulcet, pretty voice, the perfect sound to wrap under and over and all around his brother’s. Mmm. Wrap me up in that blanket anytime. Like sexy overgrown leprechauns, they jumped around, played a bunch of different instruments, tore through song after song – their talent and musicality was staggering – as was their energy. There’s a reedy blue grassy vein through all of it, but often they teetered into punk and the next song would have a total Buddy Holly feel to it and then, just as deftly, they’d woo us into a smoky honky tonk shack – all with a cool, sharp edge. It was just an amazing, amazing show, and now, listening to their album again, I realize it’s all in there – beautiful song writing with deep roots in country, folk, blues and rock served up in a completely modern, clean, brilliant way. It was good. Really good. Lucky fucking us.

On Friday afternoon, I packed Doctor Dash’s car with entirely too much stuff for a 36 hour getaway and hit the road. The book club ladies had left a couple hours prior, and I was anxious to catch up so I wouldn’t miss anything. I hadn’t even considered that the drive might be anything more than a means to an end, but as soon as I hit that open highway, I felt my whole body go aaaaahhh . . . 

Man, I had forgotten how good it feels to drive. Solo, no less. No kids. No stops. No satellite radio. Just me, my thoughts, some tunes and the road unfurling ahead of me like a gray ribbon.

I grew up in suburban Detroit – car country. The day I got my license was – let me see – the fifth happiest day of my life: marrying Doctor Dash, the birth of each monkey, and then, yep, getting my license. I went to the DMV on my sixteenth birthday (duh, waiting another day would have been an exquisite torture) and the first thing I did afterwards was drive my sweet ass cream Buick Electra station wagon with wood panelling over to Sweet Sue’s house. We were besides ourselves. We were crazed. We were euphoric. We went to see Manhunter at the Pontiac Showcase Theaters, because we needed a destination. The movie scared the crap out of us and we were so frazzled and giggly when it finished that neither of us noticed that I was driving south on Telegraph Road instead of north towards home. We were deep in the hoods of downtown Detroit before we figured it out and sheepishly turned around.

Not surprisingly, I was a total lead foot. Over the next years, I managed to cry my way out of three traffic stops before an Indiana cop decided he wasn’t buying my shit and slapped me with a huge ticket. I had been driving back to college and I remember wailing something about being soooo excited to see my friends because I missed them soooo much. I guess he didn’t find me and my giant perm and crocodile tears all that compelling because he said I don’t care and walked away. To which I shrieked You’re so mean! 

The summer between freshman and sophomore year in college, Sweet Sue and I convinced our parents to let us go on a tour of the East Coast. We crashed with friends and relatives, ate, people watched, and schemed about how to get into bars with only one fake I.D. between the two of us. Despite all our underage drinking shenanigans, it was the epic drive that I remember best. We drove fast (Sweet Sue got a ticket) and we drove far. There was a lot of Van Morrisson played on that trip.

And of course, college was sprinkled with so many great road trips: Dead shows, football games, Mardi Gras, spring break, camping. It was all about getting out of South Bend, maybe trading cloudy skies for some sun, scaring up an adventure in some new place. Same friends, different location – beers, laughter and running around in technicolor.

In my twenties, road trips weren’t always so frivolous. To and from law school and first jobs in big firms, I drove with angst and stress whispering in my ears. I turned up the music and wished for the road to go on forever, for the hours to stretch and multiply, keeping the crush of reality at bay for just a bit longer. As long as the wheels were moving, time might just stand still.

I had forgotten all about the joy of the open road. Call me crazy, but it’s hugely compromised by having to think about snacks and DVDs and toys that beep. Once upon a time all you needed was a joint, a pack of gum and a full tank of gas. What a lovely discovery to find that a long drive is still a total pleasure under the right circumstances – specifically, alone or with adult company and going somewhere fun. 

And say what you will, but, America, with all its warts and freaks, is a great place to road trip. Endless space, sun, wind, music, open road. It’s a good place to run. It’s a good place to chase. It’s a good place to drive far. Think far.

Last night as I shampooed Devil Baby’s hair, my thoughts kept straying to my weekend away with the book club ladies. Mere hours before, I had been sitting in one of the various roving sloppy circles of the weekend (in front of the windows with the view of the lake, in front of the fire place, around the wooden farm table, on two benches in the sun at the tip of Stout’s Island) surrounded by a near constant flow of words and laughter, maybe a few tears and quiet moments. Devil Baby didn’t want me to wash her hair and as she whined and resisted, I thought about the women who let me say what I needed to say, without judgment, with nods and murmurs of understanding, with stories of their own. I felt physically exhausted (more on that in a second), but mentally alert – almost limber. The way you’d feel after one of those rare classes in college where you felt like you cracked through to some greater truths, some deeper understanding of whatever topic you were discussing.

I’ve said it before, but these book club ladies are super analytical. They are processors and thinkers. They’re also highly verbal people. So you sit in enough circles with them and you’re going to hear really nuanced and insightful explanations or theories about the stuff that’s on their minds. They are also lyrical and romantic and curious. Lady Shutterbug has this completely endearing habit of saying “O.K., I’ve got a question for you guys . . .” and throwing out some juicy dilemma or a giant octopus of a topic. The word soulful came up a few times over the weekend – it’s what we look for in a yoga teacher, in a book, in a song, in a friend. But to be soulful, I think you must be honest. And to be honest, you must be brave. And the ladies are brave. (Not that you’d know it, judging by our mini frights over the course of the weekend: country folk on snowmobiles with night vision goggles, cat burglars, cracking ice, grandpa poltergeists). I think my take-away from the weekend, the reason I feel so clear in my head (despite all the wine, etcetera) is that I got to speak and hear the truth for hours and hours and hours. A mother’s truth. A wife’s truth. A woman’s truth. 

I wasn’t privvy to every single conversation, but as we meandered through the thicket of our lives right now – motherhood, sex, food, balance, friendship, botox (just talking, just talking), work, non-work, house work, clothes, husbands, art, faith, bras, meditation, moods, yoga, books – I felt like there was so much disclosure, so much sharing, but equally as much listening and mental note taking. We are not old, but we are not young. As such, I think we’re aware that we’re learning a few things along the way. The tricks, tips, and shortcuts. The surefire cures, the hit recipes, the best this or that, the worse this or that. I’m a huge fan of a “hot tip” and I feel like I was scurrying around, gathering the ladies’ hot tips like falling leaves. On the topic of food alone, I can’t wait to make Lady Pretty Twigs’ green goddess dressing, Lady Doctah K’s oven ribs and mushroom barley soup, Lady Tabouli’s kugel, Lady Shutterbug’s eggbake, Lady Homeslice’s chocolate mousse cake, and Lady Peace’s salad with stir fried veggies. And Lady Doctah Poodle, her fruit was fab, but what I really can’t stop thinking about is something she said right before I left: that perhaps it’s not a question of being a good mother or a bad mother, but of being an authentic mother. This is a really beautiful way to look at this job we have now and will have for the rest of our lives. It allows for imperfections and yet the standard is lofty, one worth calling to mind again and again, like a mantra.

But the weekend wasn’t all talk. There might have been a little drinking. There might have been a little dancing. There might have been a little singing. And there might have been some shrieking and laughing. And some of that might have happened indoors. But it all might have happened out on the white expanse of the frozen lake under a full moon, too. I must say, the ladies went a little crazy. A little really crazy. They cut loose. Soooooper loose. They even indulged me and my ridiculous notions and took turns with my cushy headphones and did a little tiny dancing. OH, TINY DANCING, HOW I LOVE AND ADORE YOU! We gave those country folk in their icehouses an eyeful and an earful, I’m afraid.  The image of my friends, running, spinning, swaying, singing, falling onto their backs and gaping up at the moon is something I’ll not soon forget. And I suspect the same goes for the country folk cowering in those ice houses.

I am absolutely besotted with this concept. Coined by French philosopher, Gaston Bachelard, it loosely translates to pathways of desire. It’s the worn paths of hard packed dirt that naturally occur when people repeatedly find the most compelling (or shortest) way to get from point A to point B.

Do you remember? Do you remember all the paths of desire on your old schoolyard? The well loved artery from the merry-go-round, where you’d spin and spin until you felt sick, to the small clearing at the edge of the woods where you could lie in the leaves and squint through your lashes at sky and an impossible tangle of black branches? It’s the path a child is likely to take, or a dog.

Sometimes, the shortest, most logical route is stamped in concrete and we know nothing of a path of desire. And sometimes, the concrete does not suffice and our feet are impelled to cut through, veer off, bisect swaths of land, following an intangible rationale not accessible to city planners and engineers. It’s just so romantic. It’s the intersection of geometry and emotion – like frown lines, laugh lines.

Right now, with the snow covering all the sidewalks and paths, there are chemins du désir everywhere. Down by the creek in front of our house, the snow is padded down in patterns that don’t match up to the cement walks I know to be underneath. Come spring, we well-behaved Minnesotans will take to the pavement and forget all about the blanket of snow that innocently gave us the freedom to follow our heart’s desire.

For a poetic exploration of les chemins du désir in the beleaguered city of Detroit, check out this post over at Sweet Juniper.

It may come as a surprise to you, but I love Valentine’s Day. I don’t consider it to be a Hallmark holiday construed to torture lonely hearts, purge the sappy and guilt ridden of their hard earned pennies and replenish the candy coffers of children. Instead I take Valentine’s Day to be a simple and pure celebration of love. What’s better than love? And if you are lucky enough to be in love, why not have a day where the red carpet is unfurled for all sorts of showy and not so showy demonstrations of that love? Why not wallow in cupids, hearts and flowers for just a day, without feeling sheepish, without feeling cynical? Why not be a little flamboyant? A little racy? A little cheesy? Why not?

Valentine’s Day happens to be a quasi anniversary for Doctor Dash and me. In February of 1992, after five months of friendship and on again off again more-than-friendship, I finally stopped my senseless running and over-thinking. I stopped being cavalier about my friend’s feelings. I stopped ignoring the fact that if there were a hundred people at the keg party, Dash was the one I always wanted to talk to. I stopped. With Dash. And I thank my lucky stars he stood still long enough for me to run around like the fool girl I was and then find my way back. 

♥ ♥ ♥

Last night, our sitter comes at 5:00 so we can go to the wake for Circus Lady’s dad. As I look at a beautiful board of old photos, her mom and dad so young, stylish and happy, I feel my heart contract. How can it be, that you can love someone almost your entire life only to have them ripped away from you? What is she going to do now? How will she live, with her other half, her life’s partner, gone? It’s too much, I wail to Doctor Dash in the car. What’s the point of this short wretched life? There is so much suffering, it’s over so fast, WHAT THE HELL IS THE POINT? For twenty minutes we plunge in deep as we race to our next destination. We question the logic of despair and human suffering, the need for faith, our lack of faith, how the existence of an after-life seems like such an easy palliative, how incredible it is that as humans we still don’t know, we don’t really know what happens after we die or whether there is a God. In our car, hurtling through the dark, I feel like we’re careening into the yawning, impenetrable depths of life’s greatest mysteries. And then Dash says simply: I think the point is love.   

With all of this churning in my chest, we grab our mats and walk into the yoga studio for Crackerjack’s special Valentine’s class and there she is in her red shirt, with her arms open for a hug. She’s got wine chilling and a table set up for appetizers for after class. She’s greeting people, making sure everything is just so, fluttering around with that anticipatory energy that is so uniquely her. Renaissance Man is helping her, quietly lighting votives all around the studio, being the man behind the woman (and if I’m not mistaken, having a pre-yoga glass of wine, but I can’t be sure). All of this I take in as a sensation, through tear blurred eyes. Mindfully, excitedly, and with open hearts they are preparing something special, for others. And boy does that class lift my spirits and settle my angst. By the time Doctor Dash is able to peel me away from my friends and the wine, I’m feeling positively bouyant, peaceful. And a little drunk. 

It’s ten o’clock so we rush over to Barbette, one of our fave haunts. I watch Doctor Dash get out of the car and check the meter. He’s the details guy, the responsible one. When I’m with him I’m free to not pay attention to where we’re going, not carry money or keys, chatter aimlessly, make silly observations, daydream. I stand on the chilly sidewalk, dusted white with salt and frost, and wait for my friend, my love, of eighteen years.

Love is the point.

In the last twenty or so hours:

I find my thoughts hovering around my friend, Circus Lady, who is grieving for her dad. I made her soup. What else can I do?

I hear of Alexander McQueen’s death. A fashion designer I have only admired from afar, way out of my reach in every way, but he was only 40.

I spend the darkest hours of the night awake, reading by the light of my phone. The last time I checked the time it was nearly four o’clock a.m.

My youngest daughter pushes me to the brink, no, beyond the brink on the way to school. I yell and say things I regret. I am left feeling like a rung out dishrag, ashamed at myself for my rage and lack of self control.

My cleaning lady tells me she’s pregnant. She is one day older than me and is giddy and scared as any woman pushing forty would be at such unexpected news. It’s all right there, written on her face. I notice we are both standing with our hands clasped in front of our hearts. A gesture of joy? Surprise? Supplication?

I try and fail to find a red fez for Supergirl and I am disproportionately sad about it.

I am too tired for this day.

Apparently, in order to find the dancers, the people who just can’t help themselves, you simply have to throw a dance party.

At one point, I opened my eyes and saw a bunch of people dancing with their eyes closed. And with sooooooo many witnesses.

It was truly unfettered. Un. Fettered. UNFREAKINGFETTERED.

Is there anything more satisfying than just dancing your balls off? With your eyes closed?

Didn’t think so.

OK, that’s possibly a little misleading. Possibly a little very misleading. I’m no Kenny Rodgers, if you know what I mean. There haven’t been that many who have travelled in and out my door, if you know what I mean. I’ve loved many boys (and still do), but I haven’t luuuuved many boys, if you know what I mean. Cough. Cough. Good Catholic girl, etcetera, etcetera. And yet, and yet . . .

A couple weeks ago, I went out and kicked up a little dust with my girls on a Thursday night and long story short, I ended up calling some old buddies at three o’clock in the morning. You know, just to shoot the shit. First I called The Fox, then I called Devious Knickers and then I called Tartare. By some miracle, none of them picked up, and I left them each long and ludicrous voicemails. I talked and talked and talked until each of their respective phones cut me off. What can I say? Doctor Dash was working an overnight shift and I was bouncing around the house, snarfing Dutch Crunch Mesquite BBQ Chips and feeling chatty. I was in a state of mind that called to mind my old good time friends. I could have kept dialing, but after Tartare a seed of good sense took root and I switched gears and listened to some loud music with my cushy head phones. Like I said, I was bouncin’.

The next morning, over a woozy and funny breakfast with some of the aforementioned crazy girls, I happened to mention that I had called my buds in the wee hours and Nanook’s eyes bugged out at me just a little: You went home and drunk dialed two GUYS? There was no judgment in her voice – just surprise. It hadn’t even occurred to me that my calls might be deemed inappropriate by oh, I don’t know, like, the whole world.

I started pondering, because that’s what I do. Was it inappropriate for me, a married lady, to call two married guys at three a.m? (By the way, Doctor Dash is also friends with them – he has a separate and distinct but equally as important friendship as mine – but I knew them first – they are mine). What’s the litmus test for inappropriateness? What my mother would think? What their wives would think? The purity of my intentions? What The Fox and Devious Knickers think? What Doctor Dash thinks? What is the test?

And more importantly, WHY DOES THERE HAVE TO BE A TEST? They are my friends. Some of the most hilarious, trippy adventures of my life have happened to me with one or both of them at my side. London, Chicago, Southbend, Detroit, New York, Seattle, Key West and God knows where else. We’ve wandered and imbibed and woven miles of floating tapestries with our serpentine conversations, our peculiar observations and our extravagant laughter.

They are two of my favorite people in the world. They just happen to be men.

By mid morning, I had heard back from both of them. The Fox and I chatted on the phone and Devious Knickers and I exchanged a flurry of emails. They were amused by my ramblings, sounded happy to hear from me, if a little surprised at the late hour. It was great to catch up.

Since he is ever willing to indulge me in my musings, to delve into the shadowy crevices of human nature, to poke holes in the smooth fabric of convention and peek his curious little eyeball through, I wrote to Devious Knickers about the issue I’d been noodling since breakfast – why did I feel like, suddenly, the friendship that I had with them was no longer legitimate? No longer sanctioned. Devious Knickers responded: “And to get back to the issue of calling boys that aren’t your husband at 3:30 a.m, yes, you are right that there aren’t too many people who would understand what was at play there.” But isn’t it enough that we all knew what was at play there? I knew I wasn’t being shady and he knew I wasn’t being shady, so isn’t it ipso facto NOT shady?

And to take it one step further, aren’t we allowed to do what we used to do ever again? Eat, drink and smoke everything in sight and go on a crazy adventure in some strange place? There are socially acceptable reasons to see my college girls, but them? It seems like it just can’t happen anymore – not without chaperones. They are lost to me and I to them. We joked of going to Cairo. Exotic cafes with hookahs and belly dancers, delicious lemony mezze, dusty labyrinthian streets, bustling markets with shady characters beckoning and yelling over tables of gold, silk, and fruit. Oh, to go to Cairo!

And to be fair, I got to marry one of my adventure boys. We do go on adventures – I have that in my life, but I still miss those boys, those adventures, that freedom, that youth.

Doctor Dash, is an eminently fair guy, who understands my friendships and loyalties, the things that make me happy. He knows how I am about my guy friends because he was (and is) one of my guy friends. And he agrees that there is a double standard for old friendships based on gender. He agrees that it’s unfair. He agrees that it doesn’t make sense. But the standard is there nevertheless. We talked about the fact that he could jet off to meet up with them at any time, no questions asked. On the one hand I’d be happy that the boys I love are together, reenforcing and tending to old and valuable friendships. On the other hand, I would be bereft. I would feel so left out. So sad to be missing the fun.

To my surprise, he said: You could go to Cairo, but only if both of them went. Aha! Oho! I’ll take that! He is nothing if not fair, my Doctor Dash. Fox? Devious Knickers? What do you say? Cairo? Hulloooo? Hulloooloooloooo???

Just mulling anyway.

Just mulling – missing a vanished piece – wondering if it’s vanished forever.

Last week I got an email from Chief Big Voice letting me know that he and Saucilicious made the short ribs and that they were WONDERFUL, that they are his new fave! Oh, joy! I simply cannot convey how much that warms the cockles of my heart. I know Chief Big Voice was more likely than the average bear to make the short ribs since he had eaten THE ORIGINAL SHORT RIBS that fateful night when he, Dash and I were all blown away by the mysterious alchemy of beef, savory liquids, time, heat and love. The fact remains, however, that so many lovely things needed to happen for me to get that email, to wit:

First of all, he had to go to the store, buy all his ingredients, come home, pull up my post, click on the link to the recipe and get down to the business of cooking. If I know Chief Big Voice, he didn’t follow the recipe exactly because he’s a little peevish about recipes too. He chopped and seared and made a gigantic mess of his kitchen and let the whole meaty business braise for hours upon hours, filling his house with delicious vapors. He let it cool over night, scraped off the layer of fat, re-warmed the ribs, made some sides, and Oh, Lordy, I could swoon, sat down to a beautiful and delicious meal with Saucilicious on a cold winter’s night in Pennsylvania. This is seriously almost, ALMOST as good as having sat down at the table with them and this vicarious pleasure is really what I have to settle for when my food peeps are spread all around the country. 

Second and more germanely, he had to read this blog. And this, my friends, is not something I can take for granted. The fact that anybody reads this blog is a source of wonder for me, but infinitely more so if you happen to own a penoose. I sort of understand why my lady friends might like to read, written out loud, what we’re all thinking and feeling. But the guys? I don’t know – it’s hugely gratifying to know that this place hasn’t become a parlour of motherhood, vaginas and sparkly things. Of pms, bitching and boots. Of poopy diapers, faux fur jackets and cookie recipes. Where am I going with this? Oh ya, I guess I am pleased I didn’t scare away any penooses. I guess I’m pleased to be more than a mommy blog, a lady blog. Maybe that’s peevish of me, but it’s true. 

So, thank you for reading, my brothers. It means the world to me. 

And as a token of my appreciation, I hereby bestow upon you my new obsession: red chimichurri sauce. It’s pungent and tangy and smoky and spicy and, dare I say it? MANLY. It’s meant for grilled meat, but let this lurk in your fridge long enough and you will discover what I did: it goes with anything meaty, cheesy, eggy, or fatty. In fact, right before I took this picture, I put a little in my bowl of chicken mushroom soup and it made it sooooo much better. The vinegariness just cuts through the fat and makes your plate sing and dance – it’s the Michael Jackson of sauces, only Thriller Michael, not pajamas and blazer Michael. This recipe is adapted from New World Kitchen by Norman Van Aken, which I’m told is a great cook book, but I wouldn’t know because this is the only thing I’ve made from it and probably the only thing I will make, which is fine because this sauce is more than well worth the price of the book.

So, as promised, Chief Big Voice, here it is. And for my brothers Golden and Maestro de Bife – this is going to kick your ass, hermanos, mark my words. Salt and Pepper Polymath, you will love and adore this and it just may send you bushwacking across the creek to give me a hug. Gear Daddy, Renaissance Man, Ivory Tickler, Ten Gallon and Pipes – you’ve had it, you’ve loved it, here’s the recipe, you’re welcome. Soul Daddy, this is right up your alley. Meester Panqueques, Tartare will fleeeep over this. San Flan, The Fox, Devious Knickers, Patriouk, Magnificent Bastard, Rip Van Techno, Irish Laddie and any other boys who may tune in from time to time, this one’s for you. Enjoy, fellas. I know you will.

Chimichurri Rojo Argentino

1/2 cup Spanish sherry vinegar

1/4 cup virgin olive oil

1.5 tablespoons hot paprika (I used regular Hungarian paprika, mixed with Spanish pimentón and a little extra cayenne, but if you can find the hot, go for it)

2 teaspoons cayenne pepper

4 cloves garlic, minced or crushed

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon cumin powder

1 bay leaf, broken in half

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

xo peevish mama

Let’s not mince words. I’m in funk. A thoroughly funkified funkmaster funkty dumpty funkalicious funkafreaky funk. I feel like I’m looking at the world through the musty living room curtain of a nonagenarian smoker, my thoughts veering wildly from: mother fucking mother fucker it’s colder than a mother fucker in this mother fucking god forsaken ice hole of a bung hole of a place, to the decidedly more upbeat and pithy: What’s the point of anything? To make matters worse, it also seems I can’t write my way out of a paper bag. In a classic chicken and the egg quandry, I don’t know if I can’t write because of the funk, or if I’m in the funk because I’m not writing. As frivolous and silly as this blog may be, I must admit that it does bring me some pleasure and even a measure of peace from time to time, so the yawning silence of my keyboard has got me down. In the dumps. In the dumptastic, dumpgusting, dumptopia, dumptragic, dumpster diddy dumps. Speaking of dumps, that last post, the one about winter, I felt like a constipated old woman (yes, the one with the dirty sheer curtains) hell bent on taking a huge dump only to squeeze out one unsatisfying, measly, rock hard pellet. I know that’s gross. Sooooo gross. So so so gross.

But look, can’t you tell I’m feeling better already? 

Actually, the reason I’m feeling better is that yesterday I got to take in a double feature of girl love. First there was a tasty riotous lunch at Blackbird Cafe with Nanook, Birdie and Pretty Young Thing for a belated celebration of Crackerjack’s birthday. Two bottles of wine would barely begin to wet the whistles of this crew after sundown, but tucked into a cozy table in the middle of the day with no kids, it felt deliciously decadent and before long we were shrieking and chattering like a tree full of crazed baboons. It was lovely. A total breath of fresh air. Happy Birthday CJ!

And then last night as a few of us were lingering at Lady Biker Babe’s house after book club, my funk was detected. They are nothing if not astute, this bunch. They are nothing if not fixers, this bunch. They can sniff out and snuff out a funk a mile away. I mentioned my writer’s block and the fact that I can’t seem write my way out of a paper bag. Actually, I don’t think I used the words “paper bag” at all, but bear with me, I’m trying my hardest to stay away from the dump metaphor. Instead of poopooing the paper bag, they saw the paper bag. They nodded, quietly acknowledging the paper bag and then without a lot of fanfare, Lady Shutterbug handed me some pinking shears. Then Lady Homeslice used her socked foot to slide a nail file in my direction over the couch cushions. On her way out the door, Lady Doctah Poodle wrapped my fingers around some knitting needles. Lady Tabouli (whom I’m temped to rechristen Lady Rollergirl after a story I heard last night – she gets to pick) palmed me a tiny switchblade and Lady Biker Babe tossed a lighter in my lap. I don’t remember anything specific that anyone said, I just know that in their own way they were helping me fight the funk. They were helping me fight my way out of the paper bag.

So, what else can I do but just try, right? What else can any of us do? But. Just. Try.

I don’t know if you would find this surprising or completely predictable about me, but I’m a huge fan of the fat man. The reason I phrase it like this is because at Lady Doctah K’s holiday party, my ladies were shocked, shocked I tell you, to learn that we have a fake tree. Oh, please, I can practically hear you gasping too. As if somehow, the persona I project out in the the world is someone who would sooner lay herself over the tracks of the Polar Express than forgo the bracing red-cheeked adventure, the spindly glamour, the bright piney smell of a real tree. Truth be told, I was thinking that our tree looks rather bushy compared to all my friends’ trees. And I think – well, I think I know – bushy ain’t good. Bushy ain’t good in any arena of life that I can think of, except for maybe squirrels tails and actual bushes (and I don’t mean the lady variety, so get your mind out of the gutter). My friends Rip Van Techno and Circus Lady always have a gorgeous tree – tall and leggy, like a supermodel to my hairy peasant. But in my defense (not that I’m defensive), I grew up in a stridently faux tree family, annually regaled with cautionary tales of fires, allergens, critters, and messy pine needles. As a girl, I would wrinkle my nose at the carcasses of natural trees, pathetically awaiting removal at the ends of driveways in January, thinking Hooo boy, that family dodged a bullet, they’re so lucky they aren’t dead. So it’s not surprising that the first year Doctor Dash and I were married, I went right out and bought a big beautiful fakey for our apartment in Boston. And now I’m kind of stuck with the bushy beast, unless I’m willing to step into multiple tree territory, which as of this date, I am not willing to do. But that’s not at all where this post was going.

I’m feeling the need to talk about Santa. We are on the eve of what is most likely the last time we will have a houseful of believers. Saint James is nine. I thought for sure it would be over for him this year, but he seems to be, as of yet, a true albeit muted, believer. We went to get the annual Santa picture taken yesterday and he waited in line in silence, as if weighing the evidence for and against, ticking through his Santa knowledge base: collected memories, words overheard, cookies vanished. He gamely sat next to Santa for a picture, smirked and when asked what he wanted for Christmas, answered: I don’t know. Now, I know he knows. What kid, in this day and age, with the material blessings he has, doesn’t know exactly, precisely what he wants? I think Saint James was trying to avoid bringing down this whole house of cards. He was trying to buy himself some more time. He was trying to avoid catching Santa, and all of us, in a great sad lie. I remember being crushed when I asked my mother about Santa and she told me the truth. I had been looking for affirmation, just a word to let me know that in the face of everything I was hearing at school, it was ok to keep believing – because I still wanted to believe. I remember flipping out and shrieking at my mother as I ran from the room: I don’t care what you say! I still believe in the Easter Bunny! Waah! Waahh. (Have a mentioned I was a rather melodramatic girl?) 

We go to extremes to keep the dream alive: stashing gifts at other people’s houses, buying and hiding different wrapping paper, eating cookies we’re not hungry for on Christmas Eve, keeping our antenae on the alert for those nasty third born children, wise and mouthy, threatening to ruin everything for our precious innocents. A few years ago, my son’s best friend started to mouth off about the mall Santas not being the real Santas. We had yet to cross that bridge as I had been careful to always take them back to the same guy at Southdale Mall. I’m not proud of this, but I smacked that boy down like an angry Grizzly sow. I summoned up all of my gigantic, prickly, legitimate adultness, locked eyes with him and cooly replied that WE SAW THE REAL SANTA. TOO BAD YOU MISSED IT. MAYBE NEXT YEAR. Oh, geez. Bad mama? Good mama? What the fuck? But look! It bought me a couple more years! Well worth it, I’d say.

I’ve heard talk of parents coming clean with their kids because in an era of truth-trumps-all, that’s what you’re supposed to do. This article in the New York Times has various experts weighing in on the Santa issue. It’s fascinating reading, especially for someone like me who is watching with alarm as the cobwebs lift from my son’s eyes by the minute. I like what Allison Gopnik has to say: “Why do children love imaginary figures like Santa Claus, then? Because they like to pretend. And when children pretend, they are exercising the evolutionarily crucial human ability to envision alternative ways the world could be. In adults that ability is at the core of our very real capacities for invention and innovation.” That’s a pretty snazzy rationalization for the big old guy – makes me puff up my chest like I’m doing something really good for my kid, for humanity even! 

But the whole Santa thing is so much simpler for me. None of these articles mentions the simple fact that it’s fun. It’s fun to believe. And as you grow, it’s fun to pretend. And when you’re grown it’s fun to knit together a world so your children can believe and pretend. The years where they’re old enough to understand about Santa and young enough to believe in Santa are breathtakingly few. They skip by as quickly as elves scattering out of sight. That kind of magic – it’s a big deal. I would hazard to guess that everyone remembers the moment they learned the truth: how they found out, who told them, the stash of gifts they discovered in the back of their parents’ closet. First teeth lost, first periods, first kisses, first bras, first drives, first jobs, first loves. These are the things we remember. They each represent stepping over one of the many shimmering lines between childhood and adulthood. Sometimes taking the step is messy, sometimes easy, sometimes painful, sometimes mind blowing and perfect, but always seemingly inevitable. And here, now, both feet firmly planted on the other side of the line, I can say:  Honeys, my loves, please believe me when I tell you this. Wait. Wait as long as you can. There’s no rush.

Merry Christmas my readers, my friends. May your holidays be simple and lovely, shiny and bright.

Lady Doctah K and Doctor Mister Lady Doctah K throw a lovely holiday party every year. It is elegant and pretty, warm and inviting. There are beautiful flower arrangements, delicious food, lovely wines and a well stocked bar. And. And there is always a gaggle of loud rowdy women from book club who storm in lookin’ all fancy with bemused partners in tow, get their hands on a cocktail within seconds and start to surf the waves of shrieks and cackles that crash through the house for the duration of the fest. I describe this as if I am nothing more than a detached observer to the phenomenon, a curious sociologist scribbling notes, when truth be told I may actually, kind of, sort of be in the midst of the ruckus. This year Doctor Dash was on-call and Lady Shutterbug was also stag, which I think upped the ante a little bit. Without the calming influences of our well behaved hubbies, we went in fast and hard on the gin and tonics and ended up staying until two a.m. Although this hardly explains Lady Homeslice’s behavior, as Mister Lady Homeslice was in da house and she still managed to titillate a group of innocent fireside sitters with her silver panted gyrations. Twice! Oh, it was beautiful. By the end of the night my bookish sisters were screaming and dancing to Tom Petty, getting their sequins all tangled up and laughing. Laughing and laughing. 

I can’t even figure out why we laugh so much. Half the time no one has even said anything and there we are, eyes locked on one another, horse faces in full neigh (OK, maybe that’s just me), the hysterics bubbling forth like a shaken bottle of champagne. There’s a piece of it that’s purely and joyfully auditory. Every one in the book club has an uh, umm, uhhh, robust laugh. So if one person starts, it’s hard not to follow. This month we’re reading Foxfire by Joyce Carol Oates who describes Goldie, one of the members of the girl gang, as follows: “(she was) famous for her hyena laugh which had the unnerving power to draw your laughter with it whether it was your wish to laugh or not or whether there was logic to such laughter or not . . . ”  So there’s a bit of that, except everyone’s a Goddamn Goldie, so you can imagine. Also, I think that because month after month we delve into all sorts of difficult issues through our books, the emotional barriers between us are gauzy, stretched almost to the point of transparency. When you talk about books, you’re really talking about yourself a lot of the time. I feel like I’m always right there at the surface with these guys, hence the hair trigger tipping into laughter. And finally, but most simply, there’s the obvious fact that being as smart as they are, these ladies are funny – plain and simple. They just say and do funny things. They crack my ass up. Alas, Lady Doctah Poodle and Lady Peace had left by the time Lady Shutterbug unearthed her camera and some of the other ladies were MIA, but, hey, there’s always next year (or next month).

In the post mortem flurry of emails, Lady Tabouli wrote something to the effect of: Did you ever think you’d meet women who would make you laugh like this in your late thirties and forties? The answer for me is a resounding no. I never thought I would. But I have. And I thank my lucky stars for the giggly gift of them.

is a walk around the lake. I was fed up. Bored. Antsy. Annoyed with myself for all of the above. So I took a walk. And on my walk I saw clouds the color of bruises and sherbet. I saw the sun set and the moon rise, innocent and optimistic, nearly full and dangling from fishing line. I saw an island of seagulls perched in the middle of the lake like origami flicking to life. I saw a girl pull out her ponytail holder and her beautiful hair tumble out in wave of auburn. I saw the city shimmering silver, a magical two-dimensional movie set. I saw a giant bald eagle in the same spot we saw him yesterday, perched on a lamppost, King of the Lake. He craned his neck to watch me beneath him. He looked massive against a darkening sky and I whispered, Hail King.

I haven’t had time to write because I’m in the balls out planning stages for a Chilean Argentine Feast that we’re hosting with La Chilenita and her hubby, Sporty Scrivener, this Friday night. This whole week has been a flurry of emails, menu tweaking, ingredients sourcing, linen ironing, tomato fondling and taste testing. I test drove the skirt steak from Clancey’s, prepared it a couple different ways, Dash scribbled notes on graph paper, we looked at each other while we chewed. Yes. Good. I have literally purchased tomatoes from three different places and tried them all in search of something that approaches tasty. Alas, this is not the time of year for delicious tomatoes, so I picked the most flavorful, albeit unripe variety from the Linden Hills Coop and stashed them on my windowsill. Every day I examine them to determine their ripening progress: I gingerly probe them, take their temperature, listen to them with a stethoscope, eyeball them, sniff them and probe them some more. I have an elaborate plan should they lag behind. They need to be perfect by Friday and it is a delicate dance to coax them to perfection. Don’t make me do it, I whisper, knowing no one will be happy if I have to stuff them into a paper bag with an apple. I’m not even sure this works with tomatoes like it does with avocados and bananas, but desperate times call for desperate measures. La Chilenita is running around town doing much the same because this feast needs to be GOOD.

This dinner was part of our parish’s live auction and proof positive that chivalry is not dead. Last spring found me at the annual gala, on crutches and stag (Dash was on-call). I wasn’t going to go, but I got a few calls, and you know me, I HATE to miss a party. My Little Springroll and her hubby Runner Laddie kindly gave me a ride, carried my clutch, signed me up for stuff, got me wine and generally clucked over me and made sure I was fine, which I was, if a little pathetic. I was, however, fretting that our dinner would be allowed to blow through the room like a giant tumbleweed. When the auctioneer started to talk about it, La Chilenita was no where to be found, I had no way to escape and so I went into full cringe-hide-under-the-tablecloth-mode. And this is when my two heros of the night swaggered into town. Yes, maybe they wanted the dinner for 8 that much, maybe they did it for a good cause, or maybe they did it for the gimp in the feather headband nervously pretending not to pay attention to the proceedings. Maybe, just maybe, they did it for friendship. Ten Gallon and Runner Laddie had a blazin’ showdown and all of the sudden the dinner was sky high, higher than anything else and I went from full cringe to full swoon because NOW WHAT THE HELL WERE WE GONNA DO? La Chilenita and I are just little ol’ us! We’re home cooks, not fancy cooks!  And that last slew of bids had firmly pushed us into fancy terrain! Holy shit! La Chilenita and I looked at each other agog when we found each other. No worries, we’ll make it great, it’s gonna be great, it’ll be fun, it’ll be great, great, it’ll be great! we assured ourselves, knowing we had months to plan. Nothing like the balm of time. Until you run out of time. We pictured ourselves leisurely perusing cookbooks in her backyard with glasses of wine on warm summer evenings. Instead we met at Sebastian Joe’s, leaves on the ground and our hair on end.

In the end, my two gunslingers realized they were bidding against friend, not foe, split the dinner and each invited one couple, all of whom are dear friends. So all our fretting and planning and cooking and tasting is a total and complete joy. We’ve got a sexy, candlelit room planned, a festive and sultry playlist, beautiful wines and a menu that we’re proud of. La Chilenita and I decided we would cook for our friends as if they were in a South American home. We’ll cook with time, we’ll cook with care and most importantly, we’ll cook with love. And if if turns out a little bit fancy? Well, tanto mejor!