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!

I've Been Axed!

I can always tell what rooms my sons have been in during the morning. They are reeking of that teenage scent Axe.   For those of you that do not have young teenage sons I will explain. Axe is the current “in” thing for the well groomed young man. This product comes in deodorant, body wash, and body spray.  Additionally it comes in a variety of editions with names such as Provoke, Instinct, Vice, Click and my offspring’s choice, Dark temptation. This particular flavor is supposed to evoke the smell of hot chocolate; my olfactory senses are evoking car fire.  I know this is a rite of passage, but I wonder why the user needs to douse one’s self so heavily, that it becomes difficult to breathe when an unsuspecting bystander comes within ten feet of the wearer. I can tell where they have ventured in the morning by following their scent trail. I have to tell you, that the smell doesn’t completely disappear till hours after they have left the building!

I started thinking back to my own adolescence, and realized that the names have changed but the actions remain the same.  In my day, the young men would drown themselves in English Leather, High Karate and Joe Nameth’s favorite, Brut. They were not alone.  The colognes of choice for young ladies during that time were Chantilly, Heaven Scent, Love’s Baby Soft, Tabu, and Ambush!  The only thing they had in common was their cloying sweetness.  My heart goes out to all those school bus drivers stuck in an enclosed space with twenty assorted teens, saturated with twenty competing fragrances. I guess Visine for tearing eyes, and an industrial gas mask should be regarded as necessary accruements for the job.

As time marched on, so did our taste in colognes and perfumes. Young men moved upscale to Polo, and Aramis, while we gals took a spin with Obsession, Lauren and Eternity. Catching a whiff of the aforementioned scents brings back a flood of memories; most of them centered on Disco fever, and my skin tight Calvin’s! For a time we all dabbled with Musk oil, that fragrance based on the theory that the pheromone based scent would attract the opposite sex like bees to honey.  It was short lived, as the smell more reminded one of Musk Ox.

Meanwhile, our parents had their own favorites; Dads had Aqua Velva and Old Spice. Bay Rum was reserved for special occasions.  Mom had Jean Nate, for everyday and Channel Number 5 for fancy affairs. Thankfully for us kids; Evening in Paris had gone out of style. They used restraint upon application, as the one bottle was usually stretched out between Christmases.  I don’t think my parents ever entertained the idea of buying scents for themselves.  Soap, water, deodorant and a dusting of talc usually sufficed. I can honestly say any colognes or perfumes that came into my parent’s home were received as gifts.

As time moves on, it is interesting to note what colognes and perfumes are currently scattered on our bedroom dressers.  It probably comes as no surprise that my go to scent is Channel Number 5, while my husband leans toward Old Spice. Funny how even our choices in fragrances came full circle!

Queen of the Funeral Home

There is an old cliché about Irish Wakes that liken them to a big party, where the mourners engage in boisterous revelry.  This is not entirely true. However they do seem to always evolve into a large family reunion.  No one knew this better then my mother.  Every morning the first stop in her perusal of the newspaper was the obituaries. She always knew someone, who had shuffled off this mortal coil. She was queen of the funeral home back when I grew up, well schooled in the proper wake protocol. She knew where everyone should sit; immediate family in the upholstered chairs upfront, lesser relatives further back, friends, co-workers, and neighbors in the cheap seats at the back. Children who had reached the age of reason were required to attend as well. Our job, back then, was to smile politely as we were dragged up to everyone she knew for an introduction.  We all knew our parts perfectly.  “You remember my daughters” she would ask as she pushed us front and center.  “Oh my God, yes, look how beautiful they turned out” would be the reply, as our cheeks were pinched.  Now don’t get me wrong, our looks did not send small children scurrying away in fear, however at different stages in our young lives, beauty was not the first adjective that popped into one’s head.  Mom just ate it up!

My mother was the go to person to find out everything you wanted to know about Wakes, but were afraid to ask.  She could tell you not only what type of floral tribute to send, but which florist gave the best price, and the nicest flowers.  She had a personal stash of Mass cards ranging from a single all the way up to eternal perpetual prayers said by the good brothers and sisters in the overseas mission. You want to donate to a Charity in the deceased’s name?  She would know their favorite charity, or make sure she found out.  She could also supply you with a name and address of where to send your donation. Woe to the poor funeral director who did not have enough tissue boxes scattered strategically throughout the funeral home. When Mom was in the house, that situation was rectified immediately! 

Mom also had opinions about obituaries.  She always maintained that what made up the dash was the most important.  I am talking about the dash that comes between the date of your birth, and the date of your death.  What you did between those dates should be remembered in one’s obituary.  She loved a good meaty obit which told you more than a spouse’s name and the number of children; one that included a person’s favorite pastime, or passion. 

My mother has been gone now, almost 10 years.  She had a wake and funeral that she would have been proud of.  What my sisters and I have been discovering (much to our surprise) is that she must have passed down the Funeral “Diva” gene to us. It seems that our first stop in the morning papers is the obituaries. We will then notify each other, and start making our plans accordingly.  We all have a stash of Mass cards, and know which florist to use.  One of my sisters has already written out her obituary, she is sure her husband would forget some of the things in the dash. (not that she is planning on leaving anytime soon, she feels her ETD, or estimated time of departure isn’t for at least another  30 years) I have to say I was surprised when I looked it over for her.  I didn’t remember her being a finalist in the Miss Universe Pageant circa 1979, or helping Al Gore invent the internet. Then again my memory is not what it used to be.

Depending on the closeness of the recently departed, I also bring my sons to the wake.  While there I drag them around to friends and relatives and say “you remember my sons?” And when they reply, “Oh yes, look how handsome they turned out!”  I just eat it up.

In Search of The Perfect Tan

Back in the days when dinosaurs roamed, and I was a kid, there was no such thing as sunscreen. Our mothers would slather us up with baby oil containing a healthy measure of Mercurochrome, and we would head off to the beach.  After an hour , we would be cautioned to sit under the umbrella, or put on the rash guard of the times; a white cotton undershirt. Needless to say the first night, our little rented bungalow reeked of Noxzema, and was filled with the whimpering of children in pain.  Laying on hot sandy sheets, with a ferocious case of the chills, a great start to summer.

Still the lesson wasn't learned. As a teenager my friends and I would wrap our bi-fold album covers in aluminum foil, and make sun reflectors for our faces. When the "Who" introduced  the album "Tommy", we eagerly moved up to the tri-fold reflector arena.  As soon as we were able to lay out at the beach without being frostbitten, our sun worship would continue. We worked on our tans religiously, flipping every half hour for even coverage, and continual basting with baby oil.  We even toyed with the idea of using motor oil, as one girl had read this was a popular option with southern gals. Now I don't know if this was a myth perpetrated by NASCAR, or the good people of Pennzoil, but we decided to stay with our Johnsons & Johnsons, and leave that other oil in the car. Our motto was "Burn, Peel, and Repeat."

Then  there was the advent of the "self tanning" lotions.  They sounded great on paper, but unless you wanted to look like an Umpa Loompa, and have your palms stay an unnatural color for two weeks, they did not deliver the even golden tan we hankered for. We stuck with the tried and true. Burn, peel, and repeat.

Lets' face it, we lay in the sun every chance we got.  This continued well into our young adulthood. No one wanted to come back from a mid-winter get away without a little color.

Then one morning, it was time to pay the piper. Those creases on our face were not just from sleeping on scrunched up sheets.  They were permanent.  Our payment had come due! The sun had prematurely wrinkled our skin into alligator hide.  Spackling compound became the first item applied, when one was doing their makeup. Our moisturizing cream expenditures rivaled the National Debt.  I had my dermatologist on speed dial. Welcome to SPF 150, and floppy hats!

 I had finally learned my lesson.  It was too late for me, but I would be a watchdog for my children. Before I would head to the beach with my offspring they would be generously covered  in waterproof SPF 50 cream.  Their lips would be coated with specially formulated sun block. They wore long sleeved rash guards, hats, and water shoes.  The lotions and potions would be reapplied every hour on the hour. If they developed wrinkles, alligator skin, or worse, it could not be laid at my feet.

My children returned home at the end of the summer, the same shade of pale they were sporting when they arrived. My possibly over zealousness became abundantly clear at the close of one summer. An end of season photo was taken of their swim team.  All the children were photographed in their swim suits, sans rash guards.  You could be in a darkened room, and still be able to pick out my children.  They were so white that they actually glowed in the dark. The older they got, the more they bucked my sun paranoia.  Rash guards were being stowed away in back packs, hats were mysteriously lost, and I started seeing...TAN LINES!

 Whats' a mom to do? I had protected their skin for 12 years, and now I must trust them to use the quarts of sun screen and tubes of zinc oxide  lovingly tucked  in their back packs. I can only pray that they are quicker learners than I, and hope that their future doesn't contain a face full of Naugahyde. I am  fairly sure that they can't rig their I-pods into sun reflectors, to my knowledge  there's no app for that!

Sherpa Training

Every Friday evening during the summer, my husband makes the trek from up north , to join us on the Island. Every Friday evening, we get a call from our driveway, when he arrives. His message never varies, "send the boys down." My three sons hurry down the steps to help him carry in his things. One son lugs in his suitcase, which I have a feeling he lives out of all summer. Another brings in the leftover tomatoes, lettuce and bread, from his go to dinner meals of BLT's. The last one brings in the mail from up north and any other odds and ends .   My husband brings in himself. He would never make it as a Sherpa, but I think many of us moms would, we are the "Sherpettes."

Many of us have homes that employ the "reverse" living configuration. Kitchens being located on the uppermost floor. These are excellent training grounds for our Sherpette lessons.  You know who we are; the ladies pushing the overloaded shopping carts through the local grocery store. We are the hunters/gatherers for our families.  We load up on milk and orange juice, bread and cereal. Sacks of fruit, and packages of snacks. Barbeque fixings, and a variety of dinner ingredients. I can't vouch for anyone else, but I'd say easily 20 plastic bags of groceries enter my home weekly. This is not counting the cases of water that disappear like hot cakes.

How do you transport those overwhelming loads up to the third floor? You might ask. In the least amount of trips possible! The children always seem to be curiously absent when I return from a food run. So it's' up to mom to put on the Sherpette hat and get to it. I drape as many bags as possible down the lengths of my arms, while carrying a case or two. I have been known to toss dry cleaning over my shoulder, and carry my purse with my teeth. I slowly make my way up three flights, precariously balancing my load. Occasionally I run into an avalanche, when a bag or two breaks, and scatters the contents. This is when I get to practice uneven terrain maneuvers while  dodging rolling cans and apples. I am a Chiropractor's dream!

Once the supplies make it to the top floor, I set up base camp. Frozen food gets stowed, fruit gets washed, and the cartons with one millimeter of fluid taking up the shelf space in the fridge, get tossed and replaced with full containers. Apparently the mountaineering folk I live with, are emotionally attached to empty food containers, as that is the only plausible excuse I can think of for returning empties to fridge and pantry.

Mission accomplished, I sit back, and catch my breath. Miraculously my children reappear, and my newly purchased stores disappear.  I know tomorrow I will embark on yet another supply run.  I am  queen of the food aisles, master pack mule extraordinaire ! Happy shopping to all my fellow Sherpettes, see you at the grocery store.