Where's the Beef?

Cooking seemed like an interesting thing to tackle, back in the first days of our marriage.  I was suffused with the glow of new love, and wanted to prepare my husband a dinner he would never forget.  As it turns out, I am the one who will never forget.

I had a day off from work, and I planned to make “homemade” sauce for my beloved.  No Ragu from a jar for this devoted wife.  My mother in-law had given me her recipe, as my husband always gave it rave reviews. I was planning to make this sauce extra special with the addition of an entire pound of browned chopped meat! Lest you pause here, and say “what’s so special about that?”  Let me tell you about our household budget.  We were subsisting on “the borrow from Peter to pay Paul system.” We didn’t have two nickels to rub together.

I pulled out my large pot, (received as a shower present, and making its first foray to the stove), and began gently sautéing garlic.  I added my 3 cans of plum tomatoes, tomato paste, and the browned chopped meat.  I blended in the seasonings stated in the recipe and set the pot on to simmer. Oh I was so proud, how easy was this? Then I tasted my creation……..bleechhh! Obviously I had not followed the directions as carefully as I should have.  What I was lovingly cooking tasted like tomato cotton candy. I reviewed the recipe, and with dawning horror realized that instead of a pinch of sugar, I had added the proportions for one of the tomato components.  A half cup.

You may say, “Well scrap that, and start over.” On my budget that was a non-starter. How can I fix this I pondered?  I had read somewhere that if something is over salted; you dump in a few raw potatoes, and let them absorb the excess.  Well if it worked on salt, maybe it would have the same effect on sugar. Into the pot went 3 large peeled spuds.  I let this concoction simmer away, allowing the Idaho’s do their thing. It didn’t work, plus now the potatoes had disintegrated into my sauce. You may say, “Well scrap that, and start over.” No, I was not defeated yet.  What is the opposite of sweet?  Why sour of course! A healthy dose of vinegar was introduced to the mix.  Another simmer, another taste, and yuucckkkk, still pretty bad. I plowed through my spice rack (another shower present making its maiden voyage) and began tossing spices Willy Nilly. Still no major improvement on the sauce.  As a last ditch effort the Tabasco sauce was pulled off the bench and put into play.  Sadly, we were still losing at the half.

I racked my brain for a solution. Then it came to me, I figured a half cup of sugar is to pinch, as a pot of tomatoes is to a vat!  (And they say you never use algebra in the real world!) I transferred my concoction to a gigantic lobster pot, (yes, another shower present!) then added 6 large cans of tomato puree.  Why would I have so many cans of tomato sauce you might wonder?  Haven’t you people ever heard of the Can-Can sale at Shop Rite? It was so cheap, they were practically giving it away, and since I naively fancied myself as a soon to be fabulous cook, I had stocked up. I began stirring this vat with the help of a canoe paddle, as it straddled two burners on my stove top.

Victory was mine!  Believe it or not, it didn’t taste half bad. Of course if you wanted to find any meat in the sauce you would need to send in a search and recovery team.

That night over dinner, my new husband remarked on what a great sauce I had made.  “You should use this recipe all the time, it’s delicious!” he stated. “I’m glad you like it”, I replied ““I decided to make enough to last 5 years.”  “I do have one suggestion, though”, he added,” next time, why don’t you add a little meat?”

I'm 15 for a Moment

I heard a song today “100 Years” by Five for Fighting.  It so reminded me of the past weekend at my 40+ grammar school reunion.  “I’m 15 for a moment, caught in between 10 and 20,” Such a watershed time on our journey to growing up.

I was raised in a blue collar town, where the majority of the Moms stayed home, and the Dads took the one and only car to work every morning. We didn’t go away on vacations; in fact our families invented the “stay-cation.” We walked or rode our bikes (usually a hand me down) around the neighborhood. If it wasn’t within riding or walking distance, chances are you weren’t going. Eating at a restaurant was unheard of, going out to dinner meant we were going to Grandma’s house for Thanksgiving.  There wasn’t a lot of extra money but I don’t think we even noticed.  We were all in the same boat.  Everyone’s parents were called Mr. and Mrs., and they had the authority to give you what for, if they caught you messing around. Our parents had high expectations for us.  Woe to the unlucky child whose parents got a call from another parent or, God forbid, school! One would have a lot of explaining to do, and lame excuses were not tolerated.

Lest you get the wrong idea, it was a wonderful time! We spent hours together at each other’s homes, or played together on the playground. Our summers were spent catching fireflies together. We attended Girl Scout and Boy Scout meetings, usually run by someone’s Mom or Dad. Our friendships were constantly changing, as we moved in and out of different groups of classmates, our best friend this year, might be our sworn enemy next month. We were new teens, scared of being un-cool, not fitting in, let’s face it, we were all around awkward! We had begun to notice one another, outside of the role of person who sits next to you in school. Our golden days of childhood were rapidly coming to a close. Goodbye to the age of innocence.

At the end of 8^th grade we all scattered off to different high schools, meeting new friends. In four quick years we either went out to work, or off to college. As is wont to happen we, for the most part lost touch with each other.

The story might end here, but luckily it does not! Some of us who “found” each other decided to throw a reunion for our entire 8^th grade class. We wondered if anyone would be interested, so we started making calls. One thing led to another, and the event was planned.

I am sure most people that attended, entered that venue with at least a little trepidation.  “How will I be greeted?”  “Will people remember me?”  I know I did.  I should not have worried about a thing! As we began to reconnect, something miraculous took place.  The years fell away, and we were all back in 8^th grade. My former classmates all grew into fantastic adults. We reminisced about the “old” days, caught each other up on where our lives had taken us. The overwhelming feeling was one of total acceptance. Everyone was sincerely interested in their former classmate’s stories. We all had that common ground of shared experiences that took place at a pivotal time in our lives. I think we realized that these people helped to shape us into the persons we have become, as we helped to shape them!

Old friendships were renewed, new friendships were forged.  I was 15 for a moment, caught between 10 and 20, and it was awesome!

An Open Letter to Heather at Credit Card Services

My friend “Heather” from Credit card Services called me today, but then again she calls me almost every day, sometimes twice. She even managed to get her mitts on my cell phone number! She is such a jokester; she always starts by telling me this is my final notice to find out how to lower my credit card debt.  “Heather” is a pathological liar; she will never give me up! I have tried to end our phone friendship over the years, but “Heather” is nothing if not persistent. She usually passes me along to one of her pals for an interesting chat.  I want you to know “Heather”; some of your friends need some lessons from Ms. Manners, as they are downright rude most times!

Let me tell you about some of the zany conversations I have had with your buddies.  I asked one gal pal what was the address of the company where she was employed.  She informed me that she had no idea!  I replied, “You mean every morning when you go to work, you don’t know where you should report?” “Do you get teleported there, or do they blindfold you, and bring you to an undisclosed location?” She asked if I thought she was a “f*****G moron. Well to be painfully honest; I do. She then requested that I perform some bodily acts, which are in my opinion anatomically impossible.  Another male friend of my BFF “Heather” couldn’t explain to me why he was not allowed to pass our call on to his boss; I stayed persistent in my queries, and was hung up on! Another scam artist apparently was so annoyed with my sparkling repartee, that after I hung up on him, he called back!  He wanted to tell me to do the same anatomically impossible feat as the aforementioned young lady suggested.  Talk about your one trick ponies!

In the beginning, when I realized that these impromptu phone calls would be a daily occurrence in my life, I decided to have some fun at your expense “Heather.” Sometimes I would trot out my wacky accents.  I would try and sound British, French, Spanish, or Red Neck, as the mood hit me. Other times I would impersonate a young child, by repeating “how-lo, how-lo, in my best Elmer Fudd impression. My imagination ran wild!  Sometimes I made believe I was the FBI, and was so happy they called, as they were under investigation.  Other times I would tell them to hold on, while I retrieved my credit card, and then put the phone down on the counter till I heard the operator informing me that if I wanted to make another call, I should hang up. I was particularly fond of my Verizon imitation; this is when I would keep repeating “Can you hear me?” “Can you hear me now?’ as your buddies at card holder services kept raising their voices in exasperation.

It might have been a tad mean, but on different occasions I made believe I was Jennifer Anniston, Condoleezza Rice, or Ellen DeGeneres.  I think you need to know “Heather,” that your buds are a bit on the start struck side, or very, very, gullible. You might want to tell them they can stop waiting for; my autographed picture, an inside tour of the White House, or Tickets to my show.

After awhile all this hilarity became stale, and I began to use these calls as a kind of free “Anger Management” therapy. This was especially true if your call came while I was making dinner, reviewing homework, or just having a bad day.  I would channel my best “Judge Judy” attitude and let it fly! There is something to be said about screaming “you are an idiot,” to an idiot! Usually the politeness filters in my conscience don’t allow what’s on my mind, to make it out of my mouth. As much as I would like to yell “can’t you count” to the person in the express lane with 50 items, or “did you happen to look in a mirror before you left your house?”  I never do. (Well almost never) With these calls, all bets are off. It is positively liberating! For this I must thank you.

Lately, though, “Heather,” when I see your number flash up at me, “Out of Area,” or some odd area code (you sneaky little minx!) you and your associates hang up on me as soon as I say hello! My husband and children are firmly convinced that you and yours now recognize my voice or voices as the case may be.   

Could it be “Heather,” that you are giving me up? One can only hope!