Role Models

my wedding day, originally uploaded by alpharat.

Happy, happy 10th wedding anniversary to Alpharat and The Fabulous Nicole!

Dear Mr Presi-DON'T-ASK-DON'T-TELL-dent

Dear Mr Presi-DON'T-ASK-DON'T-TELL-dent,

Well, it turns out that banks aren't the only entities needing strict regulation: my washing machine is out of sych with my dryer, which means I have fifteen minutes in which to congratulate you on last night's most moving speech to the HRC. I wept. Honestly, I don't know how you made it through your own speech without weeping.

That was some damn good stuff.

I have no criticism for anything that you said or the way that you said it, and you looked damn fine in that suit, too, not to mention the fact that I can tell that even though you're very busy these days you continue to brush and floss. You have the best smile in all of Washington D.C.!


Personally, I believe that all civil rights issues, and now especially LGBT civil rights issues, ought to be of utmost concern to our federal government. I'd just as soon you go ahead and get real bossy with state leadership, and refuse to take no for an answer, concerning equality for all.


Sure, I passed high school civics, and I should therefore know all about checks and balances and shit like that. I have to admit, though, that civics was kind of a blow-off course at my school, so I didn't think anything of studying for only half the material for any given exam and typically did just that, then traded exams with our Belgian exchange student who hadn't studied at all, so she could finish my test and I could look at her answers before I went back and changed some of my answers, and the teacher pretty much thought these shenanigans were either cute or what it was gonna take for me not to be left behind.

I realize now what a disservice I did to myself because I never learned the real dope on the specific checks and balances between congress and Wall Street. Hell, I even missed the chapter on Wall Street being a branch of the United States government! But, dude, it does kind of seem to me lately that the only checks and balances between Wall Street and congress are the financial kind -- meaning Wall Street writes checks and congressmen enjoy bigger balances so that Wall Street can rob United States citizens and enjoy even BIGGER balances!

So, my question is, if we're not even checking and balancing the relationship between Wall Street and congress, I don't see how anyone could possibly complain about a simple little executive order abolishing Don't Ask Don't Tell. I mean, it ain't gonna cost Wall Street OR congress one red cent, so why would EITHER of them even give a damn?


So, before you get to work on this executive order, which is probably going to take a lot of paperwork and even more time considering how smoothly that Cash For Clunkers thing went down, why don't you just get on the TV real quick and be straight (ha! I made a funny!) with the people one more time:

Tell everybody it's not enough for the LGBT community to make all the noise on their own. WE ALL need more straight people making WAY MORE noise on behalf of LGBT people and any of us straight people not making good, loud, POSITIVE noises in favor of LGBT equality might as well start yanking female people out of boardrooms and relegate them to polishing floor-boards, rob Native American people blind and then inject them all directly with the small pox virus, and, of course go back to shoving black people to the back of the goddamn bus.

I'm sorry for yelling at you like that. The spin cycle is so loud I can't hear myself. And, the dryer is buzzing, so I really gotta go.

Thanks for a great speech. Now, let's get to work.


Love,
Zilla

PS: Don't forget to call Yusuf and tell him, no offense, but we all talked it over calmly and decided we want Bette Midler and the Staggering Harlettes to sing "Peace Train" in Oslo this year.

Dear Mr Presi-DON'T FORGET ABOUT EXECUTIVE ORDER-dent

Dear Mr Presi-DON'T FORGET ABOUT EXECUTIVE ORDER-dent:

I'm really sorry for not writing yesterday. I was in such a bad mood, though, that I temporarily lost all ability to spell or punctuate and my syntax was all like, whoa, so I thought I should just sit tight for a day while my mood (and the fall-out about you-know-what) settled.

Dude! Peace Prize! You GO!

That's all I have to say about that.

Plus, congratulations.

Make that, unmitigated congratulations, because there will be no "even though the pool of nominees was small," "you haven't done anything yet," "my mother in-law isn't ready for a black man in the white house," "let me see your birth certificate," or "your mother wore army boots" coming from me, no sir.

Now I'm really done with that topic.

I have been wondering though, just how sucky it was, you know, to be lying there in bed trying to finish up an already too-short night's sleep, only to be awakened by some guy in a suit telling you that five cats in Norway chose you to receive a great honor, and your first thought, because you're smart and all, had to be, "Aw, shit! This isn't going to play at all well."

Did you call Norway immediately and say, "Thanks, guys, but your timing's off, so before any announcements are made I'd like you to offer this award to Yusuf Islam, partly because he does so much humanitarian work, but also so my friend Zilla can hear him play 'Peace Train' live just one more time on December 10th."

Or did you knuckle right down to trying to figure out how not to hurt their feelings? I'm not curious so much as I am interested, the difference between curiosity and interest being, of course, one's level of caring. I care. A lot. About way too many things, way too ineffectively.


Before I let you get back to work, I'd like to take a moment to encourage you to be a little bit bossier. Specifically, I'm thinking ... eff-bombs dropped on congress are better than smart bombs dropped on the Middle East, and those fat bastards at J.P. Morgan Chase, Goldman Sachs, and US Bank could stand to have their testicles put through a meat grinder. Hell, even my bank, Fifth Third, could use a well-executed power-wedgie. Think about. If you decide you need a profanity coach, I'm your bitch.


I do hope Bo had a swell birthday, that Malia and Sasha continue their excellent-so-far adjustment and are doing well in school, and that you and Michelle are remembering to take time out for yourselves and each other ;-)


Well, I guess that's it for now.


Every blessing and every happiness and a whole lot of love love love,
Z

shake the crap out of it

I won't bother to look back for confirmation, but I can guess that my falling-off with blog posts probably started, if not in practice, at least in my subconscious mind, around March of this year.

March is when Paula friend-requested me on Facebook.

Paula came into my life when I was in the second grade. She and her family moved into the Woods's old split-level, across the street and kitty-corner from our tiny (looked like a double-wide) ranch. Her address was 419, mine was 500, and any numerologist worth her salt will not need to read any further: both our fathers had tragically foreshortened lives.

Paula looked so tense when she appeared in the doorway of my second grade classroom. She had a navy blue coat of some sort slung about her shoulders and held books in front of her body as if to protect herself. I remember this now; I should have remembered it in junior high when we started to drift apart.

Everybody hurts and fears being hurt; everybody protects themselves.

At the time, I thought we were drifting apart because she was lucky and got breasts and hips before I did.

From the moment I met her, I loved Paula. Loved her, head over heels: she was my age, and she lived across the street and her mother was a nurse and she even had a black Barbie (named Christie, and I think she was a nurse), by far the most exotic toy I'd ever seen! When we seemed to be drifting apart, I could only assume that it was me, not her -- I was flawed, she was perfect; she was worthy, I was not worthy; I was straight as a board and she had curves and Garth liked her and then Mitch liked her and then Scott liked her, and then the other Scott was calling me "flat," to my face, in study hall. It was hormones that tore us apart and it hurt like a bitch, I'll tell you what.

But it wasn't the hormones, neither her hips nor her breasts, it turns out. It was that while I was assuming that she was too curvy and cool and stylish (her mom saw value in a child having the "right" clothing; mine did not) for me, she was assuming I was too smart, too critical for her.

It's not that we never saw each other; it's that we'd stopped sharing secrets and leaning on one another.

The things I've learned about her since March -- the trying sorts of things that happened to her during high school and after, the things that I should have and would have been there to help her through, if I hadn't decided her breasts and wardrobe counted me out.

Freshman year, I went to college and dove right in as expected, while she went to a different university, took one look at her dorm room, and leaped at door number two, opting out of higher education and relocating to another state with a guy who was all wrong for her.

Then, her father was killed. He was killed in a car accident at forty-seven years of age. I heard the news and wanted to be there for her at her father's funeral. My mother said school was more important. It wasn't the first or last time I let my mother push me around. In the past I've despised myself for allowing that -- for letting my mother tell me what to do when my own heartfelt impulse was better than her rational logic.

After her father's funeral Paula left the wrong-for-her-guy and settled with a right-for-her one. I like him. He's the kind of smart, creative, self-made man who can call me "darlin'" without sounding like a condescending asshole, and guys like that are hard to come by. I'm happy to see her happy. I'm thrilled that when the youngest of her four kids was done nursing she hauled her ass back to school and created a professional life for herself that she loves and at which she excels.

Eight years after Paula's dad was killed, when my father died at age fifty of lung cancer, Paula did not come to the funeral service, and I'm glad, because it was an embarrassing service. It was embarrassing in that it was so obvious to everyone that the minister hadn't a clue who my father was or what he'd been about while he was living. Paula did, however, come to my over-crowded, one-bathroom house, after the service. She told me, "If you need to cry, it's okay to cry." I just did not have any tears.

But I had cried for her father.

Like a baby.

Her father is one reason I am less fucked up than I might otherwise be.

I think maybe he loved me. At the very least, he appreciated me for the off-beat goofball that I have always been. He is the one who called me Maude, even though Maude was eighty and I was nine. He is also the reason I'm fearless in the kitchen. I mean, Paula's mother, no fool was she, had every kid except one (Steve, the eldest, who was blind and developmentally limited) in that household following a recipe and doing their part by preparing a weekly meal from the time that they could read and reach the knobs, but her father never followed a recipe. He was resourceful and creative. He could take the week's leftovers, add a little of this, a little of that, and turn out a hearty and delicious meal he always called by the same name: Daddy Delight. The only thing that was ever the same about any given Daddy Delight is that it was filling and delicious.

My own father once went out of his way to buy a Father's Day gift for a man who was not his father. He sent his own father the obligatory card and an impersonal gift, maybe a polo shirt or a necktie. He sent this other man a small great blue heron sculpted from wood, something I recognized as having deep meaning to my father. I asked him, "why?" He said, "We can't choose our parents, but if we could choose, I would choose Fred to be my father."

Well, Dad, I would have chosen Paula's father. I would have chosen him because he had this way of making me feel significant, and you ... you told me once, one time, only one time, that I was significant. You actually said the words, "You are significant." I had to look up "significant" in that giant unabridged dictionary you were so proud of. You told me, once, that I was significant, but you never, ever, succeeded in making me feel that way. Most often, in spite of your best intentions and efforts, you made me feel small and inconsequential.

Whatever.

It was a little bit me; it was a little bit you.

Eh, fuck it: in most roles, you were first rate. As a daddy, you sucked ass. And I loved, and I do love you, still.

It's a bitch to be a human being, with all our human failings and it's a gift to be a human being, with all our human failings.

If I had been given the choice, though, the truth is, I would have chosen Paula's dad over you.

So, shortly after Myrt birthed Ella in May, Paula came to Myrt's house, and it was the first time I'd seen Paula since March of 1988, when she came to the house where I grew up and told me that it was okay to cry. It was as if no time had elapsed, no stitch had been dropped.

Last week, Paula arrived on Thursday night, bringing bounty from her garden.

We cooked together.

The food was good.

Friday night I shared "Eulogy" with her, partly because I suspected she would get it (we both laughed until we cried), and partly because I wanted her to meet, at least in some small way, the best friend forever who sent that movie to me.

Saturday night, I introduced her to my local best friend and that whole tribe, with ample warnings beforehand (you'll probably get your butt grabbed, and don't be surprised if someone brings out a fat one) so she could say we should not go if it seemed just a little too much. She handled the butt-grabbing like the confident and self-possessed grown-up she's become; she ... made my friends back off when I politely passed on the fat one.

Sunday morning came too soon.

I'm at the beginning of planning Thanksgiving for 14. I love making this meal and can do it with both hands tied behind my back, except for the gravy. I'm not a big gravy fan. Seems to me, if the turkey and potatoes are moist and flavorful, gravy just isn't necessary. There are, however, those who love gravy regardless of the moisture level of the turkey and potatoes, so I posted a small Facebook SOS, hoping that Beanpole's mom, who is on my guest list and is my Facebook friend, would offer to handle the gravy. In the home where she grew up, after all, gravy was a beverage.

I got what I intended to get from Beanpole's mom, but Paula sent me a recipe, of sorts, as well. The first part of the recipe is as follows:

About 2-3 hours before the gravy will need to be made, put a cup or two of milk into a Ball jar or other receptacle with tight fitting lid. When the milk is room temp or better (I just put the jar on the stove between the burners where some of the heat from the oven will warm it up) add flour -(my guess is 1/4 - 1/3 c. for each c. of milk- might even take 1/2 c. - but it's one of those things that you just get used to by doing - you want a slightly runnyish paste, I guess), put the lid on and shake the crap out of it.

Shake the crap out of it.

My mother would cringe. My father would crumble in his grave. I did not learn to cook under their roof.

If Paula says, "shake the crap out of it," that's what I'm going to do: shake the crap out of it.

We should all just drop our pretenses and shake the crap out of it.

It Echoes in Here

Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!

Dear Mr President

Dear Mr President:

First, health is not analogous to transportation because health, whether it's good or bad, is simply a function of having been born alive, and nobody asks to be born. Nobody.

Thanks to human ingenuity, those of us who were born alive and live to the ripe old age of 16 years can choose to learn to drive a car, and then procure a driver's license. In many cases, we can do this whether we're healthy or not, and sometimes even whether we're ambulatory or not.

While it would sound crazy to suggest that any person is entitled to own a car, or that driving a car ought to be compulsory by law for every person when they attain a certain age, some licensed drivers can afford to, and choose to, buy a car. If they get caught driving without insurance, they will be assessed a fine. I guess anyone who knows the rules and gets behind the wheel anyway pretty much deserves to pay that fine.

But being born into this life is not a choice, therefore a person who fails to insure her health does not deserve to be fined. Comparing health insurance to auto insurance was pretty, well, not too bright on your part, was it?

When we ask whether or not health care is a basic human right, we're asking the wrong question, because the answer is obviously no; the answer is obviously no because the question takes for granted the continued practice by doctors and nurses who could choose to stop practicing at any moment. Nobody in this country becomes a doctor or a nurse (or a medical practitioner of any type), at gunpoint, and, personally, if I need risky neuro-surgery I'd prefer the surgeon holding the instruments not be shaking with anxiety over the gun pointed at his head.

So, what's the right question, President Obama? That's easy: when confronted by a friend or neighbor or family member or even a complete stranger who, either by misfortune or self-abuse, could benefit from our help and care, what should we do?

Even with my hethen upbringing, I need nothing more than my own conscience to guide me: if somebody needs help, don't judge, just help. Just, help.

Now, unless I misunderstand the most basic edicts of one of history's most trusted and beloved teachers - the teacher many seem to believe to be God incarnate - I believe Jesus, a pretty darned good teacher, would also suggest that we ought to help any ailing individual, whether friend or foe, whether native neighbor or illegal alien, in any way we can. We ought to help, just help, in any way we can.

Honestly, Mr President, I don't know whether I'm more baffled by the degree to which you seem to agree with the republicans on the multi-faceted issue of health reform, or more outraged that so-called Christian conservatives would withhold care from any individual who needs it.

Because we as individuals too often look the other way, frequently tend to see to our own selfish better interests, and tend to rationalize our unmitigated failures to do the right thing, nothing will change unless someone is courageous enough to hold the entire group accountable.

I hold the entire group accountable, but my power, compared to yours, is extremely limited. I voted for the guy I thought would have the guts to hold the group accountable. He's letting me down because he's letting my friends and neighbors and fellow human beings down. I'm utterly disappointed.

Medicine needs to be socialized not because good health is a basic human right, but because good health, though sometimes attainable, is NOT our basic human right, and too few people truly give a shit how we live.

For that matter, too few people care how we die.

Thank you, Mr President -- thank you, for not nearly enough.

Love, Z

Come to Jesus Casserole

I was recently asked, via email from Al Malekovic to write a review of Country Bob's All Purpose Sauce. Always game, after a quick look at Country Bob's website, I agreed to write a review in exchange for a sample bottle.

Having been formerly married to a food service broker and distributor, one thing I understand is that the recipe on the back of the box, bottle, or can, is designed toward broad appeal (in order to sell more product). I asked Mr Malekovic to include recipes calling for meats my husband likes.

Within a week I received a package containing two (two!) 13oz bottles of sauce and an informative pamphlet. I opened a bottle of sauce immediately so that I might get an idea of what my family was in for.

The bouquet reminded me of A-1 Steak Sauce, which I have never tasted because I don't find the pungently vinegary bouquet even remotely appetizing. I tasted Country Bob's All Purpose Sauce anyway, because an agreement is an agreement.

It tastes as good as it smells.

Comparing the labels of the two brands reveals that the sauces do share a similar base (tomato, vinegar, sugar). For those who like Steak Sauce, it's worth noting that A-1 retails for about $5.50 for a 15 oz bottle while Country Bob's 13 oz bottle retails for just over three bucks. Maybe raisin paste, which A-1 contains and Country Bob's does not, is a costly ingredient.

If I were going to overpower a quality slab of tender red beef with steak sauce, I'd go with the cheaper brand. My son, who actually likes A-1, assures me that Country Bob's is an acceptable substitute.

The informative pamphlet (in which I learned that Bob Edson perfected his sauce in 1968, has been selling it since 1977, and incorporated Country Bob's in 1982, at which time he and his partners appointed Christ Chief Executive Officer) contained the following eleven recipes:

Country Bob's Pickin Food
Little Party Bites
Shrimp Cocktail Sauce
Wingettes
World's Greatest Burger
Honolulu Bob Burgers
Grilled Pork Tenderloin
Country Bob's Meatloaf
Corn Pone Pie
Country Bob's Fantastic Baked Beans

(Looks to me like Jesus has a healthy, if not particularly health-conscious, appetite.)


The recipes were all simple enough, and there are a few mouths to feed chez Zilla this week:


My son in-law doesn't like casseroles.

My husband doesn't like cornbread.

Neither of my two younger daughters likes tomatoes and the youngest doesn't like kidney beans.

I don't like A-1 Steak Sauce and I don't cook with shortening.

Feeling a little devil-may-care, I decided on the Corn Pone Pie recipe, a casserole of sorts that calls for all of the above items, plus ground beef, onion, chili powder, and a cup of Country Bob's All Purpose Sauce.


I cranked the oven up to 425 degrees.

I cracked an egg into a small mixing bowl and added 1/3 cup of milk. Baking with cold ingredients can lead to a poor result so I set this aside and got busy with other things.

In my favorite large skillet, I browned 2 pounds of lean ground buffalo (as opposed to 1 pound of ground beef) and a cup of chopped-as-the-meat-browned red onion (as opposed to 1/3 cup chopped onion) in two teaspoons of olive oil (not 1 tablespoon of shortening).

After draining off as much fat as humanly possible I added a can of Hunt's Fire Roasted Diced Tomatoes (instead of 1 cup stewed tomatoes), 1 cup of Country Bob's All Purpose Sauce, and two tablespoons of chili powder. True to form, I omitted 3/4 teaspoon salt.

For the record, I don't omit salt when I bake, but usually omit it when I cook, especially if I'm throwing together a recipe that calls for canned or other prepared foods.

While the meat & tomatoes simmered in a covered skillet, I opened a can of black turtle beans. These are smaller and therefore less of an obstacle for those who aren't at all fond of kidney beans. They're also higher in anti-oxidants and other nutrients than most other beans. Rather than drain off half the bean liquid, I placed the beans in a strainer and rinsed them until they stopped sudsing. Taking this simple extra step makes for a less musical but nevertheless more pleasant post-meal atmosphere, if you get my drift.

I also opened a can of Del Monte Fiesta Corn, drained the liquid off, and set it aside.

Opening three cans of anything for any purpose is enough to give me a hankerin' for a Pabst, and by now happy hour was upon us, but I settled for a diet highball because the only beer in the house was Anchor Steam and Negra Modelo, and I don't do decent beer any better than I do the flavorless varieties -- it all puts me straight to sleep.

After a cigarette behind the barn, so to speak (Bob's recipe calls for fifteen minutes of covered simmering), I added the beans and half the corn (Bob's recipe calls for zero corn) to the meat, stirred it well, and dumped it into a my olive-oiled, 3-quart, french white, oblong casserole dish.

I dumped the rest of the corn and one box of Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix into the bowl with the egg and the milk. Adding Fiesta Corn to any corn bread recipe makes for a more interesting texture and adds a little bit of color. I stirred this with a fork until just blended, then spooned it on top of the meat mixture.

I set the timer for twenty-two minutes and nearly popped my spine out of alignment putting that thing into the oven.

Bob's recipe feeds six. Mine should have fed eight and only five of us were dining. The casserole disappeared.

The son who likes A-1, the son in-law who can't stand casseroles and the husband who dislikes cornbread ate two servings each. The disliker of beans and the disliker of steak sauce (me) ate a serving each.

There were no complaints, and four "yeah, I'd definitely eat that agains." It was so easy to make and caused so little grumbling, I'll probably make it again.

Since I have five ounces remaining from the first bottle, and another whole bottle of sauce to go, I plan to concoct a Meatloaf Magdalene (should be sinfully delicious!) next Friday. Naturally, I'll have to switch out Bob's 12 saltine crackers for the same volume of fine, dry, whole grain and flax seed bread crumbs.

The acid test, though, will happen the next time I offer my stepson grilled steak. If Country Bob's All Purpose Sauce passes muster with him, I doubt I'll spend the extra coin on A-1 again.