Monday, April 30, 2007

STATIC ENERGY

I am a samurai held in abeyance
for purposes of spirit
resigned containment
costuming a passionate potential
my pugnacious warrior
is anesthetized for now
toned down & tenuously tethered
this gladiatress waits
for her golden winged chariot
to sail into thine heaven

Sunday, April 29, 2007

MY HERO!

Two Days. Two days at McCormick Place, costumed as Huggy Bear. Cute and cuddly on the outside, hot and sweaty on the inside. Every so often I'd escape into the bathroom to gulp some air and splash the perspiration off of my face. "Let me in," I pleaded as I gazed into the mirror. The eyes that looked back at me were the eyes of an interloper. I slowly blotted the beads of moisture from my face. My mask slid back into place as I was sucked back into the swirling sea of folks who swarmed the Convention Hall. My stint as purveyor of hugs was almost over.

Time and reality can become distorted when you get caught up in pretending. Oh, the promotional hugs were real enough, yet I had been pressed into a strange place, like a violet between the pages of the dictionary. Later, as I stood in the hotel room shower, I felt the water drum it's beat, lavished in it's ancient song. I was a shapechanger, merging back into myself, but with a new dimension. Huggy Bear had built my confidence, but the real test was now to come. How would it feel to enter that space forthwith, as a person? My insecurities, doubts, and anxieties taunted me, and I felt a surge of determination. I was as good as anyone else! "Dear God, be with me," I murmured as I pulled my clothes on.

Pushing through the glass doors, the change I sensed wasn't just with me. There was a winding down: Business had been accomplished and this was more or less the schmoozing hour, before the big push to pack em up and move em out. I searched the thinning crowd and found Jeremy, the sweet young boy who viewed the world from his own perspective. His hugs had been precious, and he was just as receptive to me, now, as he had been to Huggy Bear. His eyes spoke volumes as they sparkled at me, spoke more than the rest of us say with the voices we take for granted.

Suddenly a hush fell over the crowd. A whisper fanned over the room like a flame.

" Carey Grant... pst.pst.pst." "
"................HERE! ..psst ...psst ....psst.."
"...spokesperson for... pssst ... pssst... pssst..."

It was like the parting of the Red Sea. This was a splendid orchestration of public relations, complete with press. His entourage included a dozen of Chicago's Finest. These spiffy cops formed a circle around him, hands on hips, elbow to elbow like a water ballet. I looked past them, to a man who wore a costume every time he was in public.

"Excuse me," I murmured as I gently pushed past two beefy arms and slid into the circle. My heart was beating wildly. "Mr. Grant, I'd like to give you a hug." The crowd had closed in and was rapt in the moment. There he stood, bigger than life. My idol, my first crush. He took me in his arms and as he embraced me I felt reality click into place. Here was someone who had spent most of his life pretending. I felt a sadness in our hug.

As I unwrapped my arms, he tipped me back and stared into my eyes. Looking up at the crowd he drolled, "Isn't life grand?" Then, bending over me, he pressed his lips to mine. I was transported into the movies i'd grown up with. For a glimmer of a moment I became his Katherine Hepburn! As I slipped back into myself, back into the crowd, I heard a very young woman comment to her friend, "Who'd want to kiss HIM? He's OLD!!!" I smiled inwardly, and then I hunkered down next to Jeremy's wheelchair. "You're the best hugger here" I told him, tears flooding my eyes as we said our goodbyes. He threw himself into my arms, and hugged me for dear life. My Hero! ~finis~

LIP SMUCKERING GOOD

It started out as such a simple common sense good idea. Raise a handful of hogs for market. After all, they eat just about anything, and pretty much entertain themselves. Course, the bigger they got, the more they ate. And the more they ate, the bigger they got.

Well, working nights at the Jelly Factory offered up an opportunity that was too sweet to resist. Fifty five gallon drums filled to the brim with grape jelly. Free for the taking. What wasn't suitable for human consumption was surely fit for this kingdom of swine.

A glut of delectable preserves, hauled home in the back of the old Chevy pickup truck. Tipped into the feeding trough, glistening jewel-like in the sun. The scent was divine. Snouts quivered in anticipation. Talk about hog heaven!

They frolicked and cavorted, lapping up this sensational ambrosia. Hogwild. Not for a moment did they stop to consider that they were destined to become the sweetest hams on the planet. Night after night, an endless supply. Day after day, a perpetual sugar high.

In fact, you could say they were living high on the hog. They lurched about, sloshing syrupy slop to and fro. They wallowed in it. Every fly in the county came to share the abundance. These porkers were oblivious. Up to their eyeballs in luscious goo.

Well, come Auction Day, they were plenty big. The truck was all fueled up and ready to go. Ma already had that money mostly spent, in her head, on new furniture. With great anticipation, Pa and Junior set out to hose em down and load em up.

Guess who had the last laugh. Not half the county, that's for dang sure. Those glorious purple pigs got a reprieve. Pa got all red in the face. He was fit to be hog-tied. Ma didn't dare look at him for the rest of the day for fear he'd remember it was her idiot idea in the first place. But oh, what a tale she'd spin for the girls tomorrow night at the plant. And that's no hogwash!


~finis~

RHUBARB FACTOIDS

I was pleased to find online vast enthusiasm for rhubarb. I found ideas for rhubarb pudding cake, rhubarb ketchup, rhubarb conserve, rhubarb strawberry crumble (I adore anything with oatmeal in it), rhubarb nut bread, rhubarb pancakes, frozen rhubarb daiquiris, and spicy rhubarb shortribs. And that aint' even the tip of the iceberg. Rhubarb has been popular for thousands of years, and other than in modern day America, shows no sign of losing it's status as the most loved pie fruit in the world (tho it is not a fruit). . .

Thanks to the Romans, the word "rhubarb" takes its name from the latin rha barbarum. rhubarb grew along the banks of the river rha, the ancient name of the volga. Back then, the region was considered foreign, or barbarian territory. Thus, rhubarb literally means "from the barbarian, Rha."

The use of the word "rhubarb" dates back to the early days of Shakespearean theater, a use that carried forward to present day. Dictionaries first define rhubarb as the lovable, edible plant that it is. Then the slang definition follows. To prepare yourself, get into the feeling behind it. say RHU-barb with attitude!!! Now you can see how the word became synonymous with a heated argument or squabble. One dictionary even went so far as to link rhubarb to baseball, where a rhubarb meant sparks were flying between the umpire and the pitcher.

Besides it's tasty possibilities, the oxalic acid in rhubarb is effective in controlling aphids, and in breaking down & neutralizing the CFC's that threaten the ozone layer of our atmosphere. The moral of the story: Even though the pie plant's flavor might be "barbarum" to some, never underestimate rhubarb!

Smooch
Auntie Hattie

Saturday, April 28, 2007

UBER-KIMCHI

SEPTEMBER 28, 2005

I FINALLY put together my first batch of Kimchi the other day. Whoo woooh! My fifteen liter Harsch Fermentation Crock is about three quarters full, not exactly the small trial batch recommended. No worries, my daughter predicted last night after a heady sniff that it will disappear in no time. I did loosely use The Ultimate Kimchi Recipe by Eric Armstrong... most importantly, the attitude & techniques.

First, the most daunting part about this for me is that I have never seen, smelled, nor tasted Kimchi. So I was heartened when Tansy stuck her face into the opening & bobbed up all excited exclaiming "WOW, KIMCHI!" I have been preparing for this culinary adventure for a couple of years... btw, another daughter, Mollea, piped up "HEY, shut that, it STINKS!" LOL

I began with my largest stainless bowl, it is pretty huge (12 quarts?). 3 large Napa cabbages quartered & cut into one inch strips filled it up. I rescued the cores & sliced them thinly, hoping for a variety in texture. Then I incorporated the Celtic sea salt. Next a few small heads of some form of red cabbage my daughter was given by an elderly Hmong couple, loose & curly heads with lots of white mixed in with the red. It wanted to be included.

Most of the ingredients came from our local farmer's market, & our garden. Our daikon radishes grew only to be a few inches long, so a generous amount of kohlrabi was added as well. Three apples from the orchard, minus the worms. Four lovely fresh beets. Three HUGE bunches worth of the nicest green onions I have ever seen (a good two feet long), but mostly the green part.. a tiny acorn squash peeled & sliced, so crisp & sweet.

A half of a jicama begged to be included. A variety of fresh peppers, some sweet & some hot, slivered. Fresh living carrots so sweet & crisp. as I incorporated new stuff, the mixture continued to settle down so that the bowl never got to overflowing but just about. I did use one thin oriental eggplant, my only trepidation. I hope that wasn't a mistake. My intuition said to add it. Lastly, one of the kids went down to the creek and harvested an armful of the freshly renewed watercress that is so abundant. It goes to seed in the summer, the timing couldn't have been more perfect. The spiciness and deep green color were the final needed touch.

This Kimchi created itself, I was but the facilitator. I dissected a grapefruit (had no lemons or limes) & mangled it in another bowl. Added 9 huge fresh cloves of crushed garlic, locally grown here in Wisconsin. Part of what is so neat about this is all of the love that went in to growing the ingredients, literally dozens of people had a hand in this ultimately. Some unrefined rice vinegar, generous handfuls of sesame seeds, sesame oil. Then I ground in my coffee grinder 5 varieties of hot dried peppers I had on hand, and added a few handfuls of the very fragrant chili/paprika blend that is a staple for us. All in all, about a dozen different types of peppers are included. Lastly I grated a generous amount of ginger root. And added a dribble of raw apple cider vinegar.

I tasted the veggie mix and decided it needed a teensy bit more sea salt. Then I massaged the chili paste into the veggies. Couldn't resist licking my fingers when I finished, a perfect blend of spicy peppers, garlic, sesame, & ginger. YUM! The amount of seasoning covered the mixture perfectly, couldn't have planned it better. Altogether I spent seven hours lovingly participating in this process. After all of my worries about doing it "right" it turned out that I knew exactly what to do (felt very familiar). My crock rests on the floor next to my bed, and the fall weather is crisply perfect for slowly fermenting.

I am bedbound, and in quite a bit of pain usually. I covered my bed with a crisp white cotton covering & sat Naked Goddess/Buddha style making the most glorious mess! Twas a healing/spiritual experience, very Zen. I wanted to wait a few days before tasting it, perhaps today. The smell is intoxicating, very seductive. I am salivating just thinking about it.


UPDATE: The Kimchi turned out FABULOUS... very intense with a wonderful array of textures, visually pleasing, nearly intoxicating. We bottled it in smallish jars, the sort filled with Nutella & olives & such. There are a few still stashed in the back corners of the fridge (for special occasions). BUT the real corker is this... due to lack of enough jars at the time, a fair amount (perhaps a third) was left in the crock to be dealt with later. Now, precisely one and a half years hence, the Kimchi still lurks within my lovely crock next to my bed, and I am terrified to open it & see what's happened. Perhaps it is the veggie equivalent of Limburger cheese... but then, I adore stinky cheese, perhaps I will adore super aged Kimchi as well.

Oh yah.... I am no longer bedbound, or housebound! Thus is the power of Kimchi, moreso the power of LOVE!!!
smooch,
Auntie Hattie

BABIRUSA

I remember one neo-pubescent August dawn. The thundering of a train about to break through the bedroom wall shattered my dreams. What a heartstopping sound that yanked me out of my bed in the wee hours. It took me some chest thumping moments to realize that the nearest traintracks were four mile off. Faint whistle whispers wafted through the dead of night occasionally. This was another matter altogether.

The sound of the hogs squealing to beat the band set my feet into motion. There was something surreal about the monstrous livestock truck laying on its back, wheels still spinning, filling up our yard. I stood in my nightie, watching the sleepy eyed driver crawl through the window of the cab, cursing a blue streak.

His story cracked off in chunks. "…Up all night loading prize hogs at the state fair…" They are running as fast and as far as their little legs will take them, in all directions. "Must've fallen asleep….." eyeballing the guardrail he had ripped through, and the embankment that had flipped his rig. "Holy shit, my boss is gonna KILL me…" He looked as if he were hoping it was a bad dream.

The early morning calm had been transformed instantly to adrenaline laden chaos. To six kids living an isolated country existence, this was a reprieve from the mundane. Add the County Sheriff, lights flashing, radio crackling, brass badge gleaming, holster bulging. Wow.

I guess my parents had a different view of things. "No, you can't chase the pigs." "Stay away from the truck." "Get back here." "I SAID GET BACK HERE!!!" "Leave that poor man alone..." We were every bit as excited as those hogs.

That was the first time I ever saw a grown man cry, when he called his boss. The Grand Champion Boar had been crushed beneath the trailer. It took all day to put the truck right, catch & load the livestock, mend the guardrail.

And I sat vigil with that boar, watching it swell in the hot August sun, waiting for the rendering people to come. It took on gargantuan proportions. People driving past slowed to a crawl and gawked at this pig the size of a hippopotamus. I guess if it had taken much longer, the poor thing would have exploded. They stuck it in the gut and it made a funny sound and spewed pink foam and a smell you only want to smell once, a smell that changes you forever.

~finis~

TELESEX OPERATOR

DEAR TELESEX OPERATOR........My wife and I went to the doctor today to see if we could bring back the excitement in our sex lives.. I am 84 and my wife Gert is 83. He suggested that we might want to try sex in a public place and we did and we were thrown out of Burger King and told we can't come back.. There was one bright spot in this mess. My wife said that she had forgotten that I had such a Whopper......That's not the EMERGENCY.....I called the doctor back and explained the situation and he suggested that heights and thinner air can drive the hormones to a new level......and he was right...we had wild sex except that Gert is now hanging by one hand from a 50th floor balcony and I don't have the energy to pull her up........WHAT SHOULD I DO???????? PLEASE LET ME KNOW RIGHT AWAY!!!!!!!

HOT and AFRAID of HEIGHTS.......HAROLD

Dear Harold

What goes up must cum down, which I imagine you have discovered for your self, if you were fortunate enough to get it up in the first place. Whilst it was a mite unchivalrous abandoning ole Gert on the 50th floor balcony, by now she oughta be frozen firmly in place & you can probably feel safe leaving her there til the spring thaw.

I do hope she managed to put on some clothing after the Burger King incident. If not, there may be a problem as I hear that President Shrub has issued a Purple Alert and appropriated 999 Apache Helicopters to shoot down any suspicious unidentified masses that may be terrorist bombs attached to the outer walls of high-rise buildings. Your beloved wife probably looks like a blue shaved goat right about now, which unfortunately is the terrorists favorite new ploy. I have it from very reliable sources that the Al Kaida Smurf Suicide Goat Herds are running rampant.

If you could blindfold yourself & venture out onto the balcony briefly, I would suggest peeing on her. this will serve two purposes; first she will be frozen more securely in place, assuring her safety over the long haul. Secondly, she will be transformed into a lovely ice sculpture. Just hang a "Happy Bar Mitzvah" banner on her & I'm pretty sure they will leave her alone. Then you can haul your sissy ass back to wherever you came from, and you & your Whopper can rest up til spring. BEST WISHES & regards to Gert

smooch
Your Sexologist Extraordinaire

SUPER-JESUS-LAND

Before the last presidential election I wrote a sour grapes fantasy about the right-wing-nuts, tis fun to be childishly petulant once in a bit... o.o

Here's a peek into my somewhat vengeful heart:

About these so called Christians; a favorite fantasy of mine is that when everyone ends up at the Pearly Gates, many excited because the end times finally "came about", there are two lines; one for the souls who supported Bush & gave him his power, blind to the truth, and the other for everyone else. Of course, the Bushies are all eager and pleased with themselves, they even have a crew "monitoring" the line to make sure nobody sneaks into their queue who doesn't belong there, particularly gay people and poor people and colored folks and such who are lacking the proper credentials.

St Peter is in charge of the general line, greeting us individually, willing to forgive the sins of the humble. The line is long but moves along easily, much to the building consternation of the "moral majority". Finally God himself makes an appearance and personally unlocks a beautiful golden door, way off on the right, telling them somberly that they have earned their eternal just reward ten times over.

Crowing with delight they stampede through, onto a vast & long spiral slide the size of a mountain, well oiled, pitching themselves down into a Hell beyond their wildest imagination. Still pumped with a frenzy of spiritual adrenalin they manage to fool themselves into thinking that Satan's Amusement Park is their exclusive club, and it IS in a manner of speaking.... .

They are stuck with each other for ever and ever, with nobody else to point fingers at or force to pay their debts, no minions to take advantage of for minimum wage, nobody to do their chores for them, or their dirty work.

Oh yeah... alas, the commissary and concessions only take Euros, the new world money standard, so even those who figured out how to take their hoards of wealth with them are wretchedly poor, unable to ride any of the rides, or buy even a hot dog. Their dollars may as well be confederate! They are forced to eat out of dumpsters, and perform degrading acts just to survive. They get to wallow in the fear and hatred of their own making. The angels who watch over them are gay...

Everyone else lives happily ever after, finally, amongst kindness and truth and plenty.
The End o.O

Friday, April 27, 2007

MIRACLE OF SORTS

One wintery night I was laying in bed reading a poignant book entitled "Small Miracles of Love & Friendship". Breathtaking vignettes of occurrences that defy an easy explanation. the sort that affirm faith. Spiritual nourishment. Anyhow, suddenly there was a soft rustling outside my window. It's midnight, inky dark... The dog is instantly alert. After a minute or so, a more persistent thrashing against the pane. And again moments later.

I'm doing a mental inventory. Is someone locked out? Impossible, we never lock the doors. Has the cat slipped out, clamboring atop the bushes, trying to get back in? I expect it to stop, but it does not. I hold onto Golly, she is more curious than agitated, ears cocked high. The cat appears from nowhere, equally alert. The energy in the room ZOOMs. So, it's not the cat! LOL

There is a curiousity to the timing. Silence, then a more persistent battering. It's so frigging cold, I don't want to leave the warmth of the bed. My book lays on the pillow, and I want to lose myself in it once again. Getting up means painfully navigating around the bed, moving a bunch of paintings, scrunching aside the parachute that covers my walls. Icy toes, icy EVERYTHING! I clasp the silky fabric in my hands, can't see a dang thing out the window. Only reflections of the room.

I slip behind the parachute & cup my hands against the window, pressing close. My nose flinches at the icy glass. My eyes adjust to the darkness and move beyond the glass, out into the spiky green shrubbery. Suddenly there appears before my eyes the most glorious bright red cardinal, a huge male. He beats his wings against the glass once more, inches from my face. We look directly at each other as he hovers, sandwiched between ferny green and glass. If I were to open the window he would have come in. I do not, and he flies away into the night.

Cardinals are not nocturnal. How amazing. He is gone, but leaves something nebulous behind. Weird. Neat weird. Magical. A sign m'thinks. I only wish I had a clue WHAT!
smooch
Auntie Hattie

A SCENTUAL TALE

Well you will never guess, not in a million years, what we came cross a while back. We being my friend Karrie and myself. She stopped by, with a couple of those monster travel mugs filled with steamy coffee, for a Sunday morning gabfest. This is a rare and much appreciated event. She mentions she's been having trouble sleeping, and I offered her a Sobakawa pillow; I'd bought a dozen and had a few to spare.

So, they were stashed behind the pie-shaped loveseat. In the corner of my room. Sealed in plastic bags. Thank goodness. We pull one out, and she starts sniffing it. Not that it took any special talent or sensitivity to notice. In fact, it would take a rare talent NOT to observe the scent that emanated in a most profuse manner.... from the plastic bag.

It touched her jeans, her jeans reeked. Her hands. My hands. My comforter. The fan picked it up, and wafted it about. My nose touched the plastic, now it lingered there. "Pee?" she pondered. Hmmmm... "The cat?" I mused... "Heavens no, I would know if it were a cat..." She is a critter person. "So familiar, I just can't place it" She is intent on solving this scentual puzzle. "Fox?" Some male spray...? no male I know has stood on the couch & done his business!

We tick through the whole gamut... not doggish, and anyhow this is not an area accessable to dogs. Nor rodential. YAY for that! "Sheep?" (me) "Goats?" (her) "Camel?" (me) It smells almost like very cheap incense. Sort of musky. We ponder it back and forth, it is almost growing on us. Well, literally, it has covered us both, this most peculiar and haunting odour, by this time.

I have hauled a second pillow out, & it too is smelly. Every inch of both of them, not some spotty little spray. It is thoroughly imbedded throughout the plastic. Some polyvinylchloride gone awry? I am embarrassed; a stinky gift... but she is a farm gal, and shrugs it off. "Not so bad" she assures, "I have smelt MUCH worse"... and I agree, it is musky. Not Jovan White Musky... nope. Primally animal musky.

She leaves a bit later, pillow in hand, promising to air it out when she gets home. I toss the other back behind the couch, it is the best place for it, for now. I wash my hands. And my nose. I change the shift I was wearing. I am not about to change my comforter, tis on the far side of the bed.. I spray it with orange oil, the fan still plays games spinning molecules through the air. And then CLICK, it all makes sense.

I grab the phone & dial her cell, she can't be but a mile down the road. "The ERMINE" I exclaim! She laughs... "I was just thinking.. MINK?" (Her dad raised mink, and foxes as well, how strange is that?) We laugh together... YES!!!

Last year, between cats, we were overrun with rodents. Mice, voles, and probably rats as well. Late one night I got up to pee & settled in to watch a troupe de meese cavorting & frolicking in and out of the shower, vinyl curtains parted for perpetual encores of mousecrobatics. They gleefully celebrated having outsmarted my poisons, assorted traps, and various spells & curses. Seriously, somersaulting whilst thumbing their noses at me.

That this scenario had become the norm was the last straw. I threw my hands up in utter defeat. "I give up GOD, these are your creatures, and I trust you to handle this in your own wise way... just please do SOMETHING!" Then I trooped back to bed, relieved to have handed my rodent burden over to a higher power.

Within two days a most magical creature presented itself, a midnight cavort so enchanting twas as if transported from a beloved fairytale. Fur whiter than snow, black tipped tail fit for royalty, inquisitive eyes that probed my own as if to say, "worry not m'dear, tis a piece of cake." Within a week the house was as quiet as, well, no mice.

We saw him several times over the course of that surreal week, & then he vanished. The ermine hole is right there, in the corner, behind the pillows. Of course, he made sure all the other critters knew it! Indeedy. "They" have been absent since, & the new kitty is added insurance.

Karrie suggested she bring the bag back & we stuff pieces of it into the remaining mouse holes... better to be safe than sorry. Ha ha ha... Yeppers, tis a very musky scent. It is almost pleasant, almost perfumey. In small doses. Almost...

MY ARMENIAN HERITAGE

I grew up a mutt actually, half Armenian, half German Swedish Danish etc. My folks were both artists & we were raised in a huge old brick one room schoolhouse in rural Wisconsin. I think my dad was trying to protect us from the shame & humiliation he felt as a kid, being an immigrant. He insisted on raising us "American" even tho we begged him to teach us Armenian. My grandfather Ohanas committed suicide by drinking a bottle of lye shortly before I was born. My other grandfather (Hentry Kohl) was hit by a drunk driver & killed around the same time. Shall we say I was born into a chaotic angst?

I loved my gramma more than all the stars in the universe. Because we did not share a spoken language, we spoke the language of love. That included her braiding my hair, teaching me how to crochet & make Armenian pin lace, and feeding me weird things. She smelled funny, like pine tar soap and mothballs and garlic. She loved me unconditionally & beyond measure.

They were not happy people; in his homeland my grandfather had come home one day to find his wife and children had been raped, massacred & beheaded by the Turks. He convinced them to spare himself because he knew how to cook, and had a fine hand hammered brass pot in which to do so. He traveled with them after that, witnessing their atrocities, feeding them in order to stay alive. He had two gold pieces which he kept tucked inside his rectum. They are still around somewhere, as is the pot.

Eventually he met my grandmother Rebekah, in Constantinople. She was in love with a Turkish soldier, which was a no no and destined not to be. The two of them decided on a marriage of convenience in order to qualify for passage to the United States, where they had been told by missionaries the streets were paved with gold. Single folk had little chance of securing passage on these mission boats. There was no love between them, just the common goal of survival.

Their first son, Arturo, was born on the boat. It was a slow boat. When they arrived in Boston, my grandfather, Ohan, was devastated to find the streets were not actually paved in gold. He was bitter ever after that, about being lied to. My father was born in Boston & named Katcheek. Years later, after too many years of being called "cat shit" by schoolmates, he changed his name to John Jack. It was as American as he could come up with. This was made simple by the army, who could not find a birth certificate and made a new one up for him.

As a child his first day of school was the first time he was exposed to the English language. They had Armenian neighbors & friends, shopped at Armenian stores, went to the Armenian church. My grandparents never did learn English, and my grandfather in particular was a very unhappy and unfulfilled man. Because of his lack of education, and the depression, he was scrambling to feed the family working whatever manual jobs he could find. When the public relief people came to the house & humiliated them, my dad wrote a letter to the Whitehouse describing how they had made his mother cry by treating her badly. President Herbert Hoover wrote back personally, apologizing and promising to change that, and the state welfare folk actually came back to the house & apologized!

My father joined the army but only lasted several months. In basic training, it was his job to show the Venereal Disease films to all of the new recruits. It was bad enough watching them once, but a steady diet of this hastened a mental breakdown. He got a discharge for being homesick basically, and returned home to attend the Layton School of Art on the GI bill, where he met my mother. He met her in the elevator, she had a long blond braid that he tugged on & pissed her off royally. Neither of them could recall being apart after that day. They wanted a dozen kids, they settled for six. I was the eldest.
Smooch,
Auntie Hattie

A FRIEND IN NEED

My cell phone rings as I sit on the john at a 7-11. Don't ask! *Ring* is a misnomer, the phone plays a rousing rendition of something or other by John Phillip Sousa. Luckily this is one of those uni-stall bathrooms with a lock on the door, so our bifurcated conversation has no audience. I can tell from the caller ID that it is my delightful & beloved Goddess/wife Althea.

"Howie honey, I am just leaving the Fetish Mall." I picture her lush body wedged into her teensy car. The black leather seat, heated by the afternoon sun, nearly scorching her thighs as it caresses her tender flesh. I think I grunt softly. "I just ran into Larry at Whips-R-Us" she continues.

Her voice has that throaty Lauren Bacall quality to it. Sultry. I hear her start the car, and I sense her attention shifting to the traffic around her as she pulls into it deftly. I hate it when she drives & talks, but I know better than to criticize. "Are you wearing underwear?" I blurt out without thinking. My mind is still on the hot leather beneath her heavenly bottom, enviously so.

"HOWIE!!!!" she screeches into my ear. "I'm trying to tell you something important!" I hear her inhale deeply, and I know she is smoking. I won't say anything though; I am better off pretending I do not know about her secret vices. "I don't like the way Larry is behaving" she continues. "I am afraid he will do something drastic. This divorce is taking a terrible toll on him, and it's barely begun."

We met Larry & Darlene at a local Bondage Munch, and had subsequently gotten to know them better at a private play party. From that point on, we became best of friends and did practically everything together. The funny thing is, Larry presented himself as Dominant, even though it was obvious to us that she wore the pants in the family. Complicated power issues are not uncommon within alternative lifestyles however, and nobody gave it a second thought.

Then Darlene announced one night that she had found a slave who made her happy, and that she no longer wished to submit to Larry. Poor sap. We all saw it coming a mile away, but he didn't want to face it. Instead of working things out together, they sort of erupted into a big damaged mess. Now, his attourney and her attourney are having a blast tossing hot potatoes back & forth.

"Ironically, they are fighting over their TOYS. Not the house, not the furniture, not even the pets." She inhales again. "He was at Whips-R-Us, trying to find a duplicate of that gorgeous nine tailed braided number they both like so well." I'd had the pleasure of feeling the biting lash of that very flogger across my shoulders & buttocks on several occasions, and I could understand why neither of them wanted to give it up. "Anyhow, I invited him to dinner. Pick up a bottle of Speyburn, we're out."

"May I also buy a couple of Partagas?" I venture hopefully. At $8.95 apiece, I'm not often allowed to indulge. She had convinced the neighborhood liquor store to stock them for me, for those special occasions. Not that this was a special occasion. However, Larry enjoyed the spicy peppery smoke with faint cedar aftertones as much as I did, a perfect accompaniment to a premium single malt Scotch like Speyburn. "You know how much Larry loves a good cigar" I wheedle.

"Sure." she is distracted now, I can almost hear her mind ticking along at million miles an hour. "Listen, I want you to get the house spiffed up and make dinner. Everything you need is in the fridge, I left the recipe on the counter." It's a good thing domesticity is my forte. "I am stopping at the spa for a facial & massage, Larry will be there at six." I hear her shutting the car off and opening her door. "See you later!"

We may as well have served spaghettios. The pan of made-from-scratch lasagna I fussed over for hours is congealing, unserved, on the dining room table. The candles that hours earlier sent ethereal shimmers dancing over the polished walnut surface were now puddled rivulets of hardened wax, a testament to this abandoned feast. Larry had swum through two tumblers of Scotch, sans rocks, before nearly drowning in his own maudlin angst.

Luckily, the Goddess of the household has a solution for everything. Althea hauled Larry over her knee and gave him a good old-fashioned spanking. First he cried, then he howled, then his sobs subsided as her hands worked their magic. I'm sure you don't want to hear the details.

She listened while he spilled his heart. Then she gave him a piece of her mind, and plenty to think about. Later she handed him a beautiful hickory paddle, shaped like a heart. "Give this to Darlene. I've talked to her, and she is willing to take you back, on her terms. She will be here to pick you up in a few minutes."

Well, all's well that ends well. Larry followed Darlene out of here like an obedient & adoring puppy. I got to smoke two fine cigars as I sat out on the patio alone. Hey, it was a long night out here by myself, and when would I ever get a chance again to smoke TWO Partagas again?

Althea and Larry had been so caught up in the drama they never noticed. "Oh, hello dear..." I see she is still all worked up, her energy is supercharged. Her eyes speak volumes as they spark across the two fragrant butts reposing, spent, in the ashtray. "How may I please my lovely Goddess?"

~finis~

Thursday, April 26, 2007

JUNK LUST

He perches, on the edge of the mattress, intently scanning “The Farmers Trading Post”. “FOR SALE: Pr. of McCormick 1020’s, can make one complete, one runs. $800.” His tongue glides back and forth over the edge of his sandy moustache. A tiny mouse scampers boldly past his knobby toes, unnoticed. “1959 GMC ¾ ton pickup, needs restoring, runs. $750 firm.”

Eyes aglaze, a soft moan escapes past his flickering tongue. “GAS ENG.: 6 h.p. Fairbanks H. 2 ½ Fuller Johnson, 2 Fuller Johnson w/mud pump, 3 McCormick M.” The mouse’s name is Herman. Pimply legs twitch, topped by his fart stained underwear. It used to be white, long ago and far away. Before she met him. He has a whole collection, lying in a discolored heap on the grime littered floor.

She gazes into the closet, at shiny orange Fleet Farm bags filled with a hoard of crisp new clothes he refuses to wear. Her eyes lock with Herman’s. A knowing look passes between them. His eyes glaze over again.

“ ANTIQUE REFRIG. $150. GE 1930’s model, coil on top.” She stares out the window, past shabby sagging sheds, to the scrap spewed field. Old stoves, TV antennas and bikes, twisted by the tornado, heaps of siding ripped from homes, the shambles of countless lives.

Herman creeps quietly to her side. Mesmerized by the past echoing into the future, she blinks back her hopelessness. STOMP! Her huge foot crashes down, bits of hair and guts oozing into the carpeting. “That’s nice dear,” she murmurs.

A FOND FAREWELL

Every kid has an awesome opportunity to learn about the facts of life when they own a hamster: Squirrel away as many goodies as you can. Everything goes in a circle. Avoid people who squeeze too tight. Even your best friend will poop on you once in a while.

A mother blocks out a few of the myriad of colorful details that her children enrich her life with. At least I did. But kids remember all. His name? Harry. Favorite food? Peanuts. Pastime? Running on his wheel. Death? One fateful fall day…..

Poor Harry was done in, in an untimely fashion, by his passion for peanuts and by his beloved wheel. His hoard of peanuts had gradually dwindled, to the point where peanut anxiety was escalating to frenzy. And there, in the corner, on the far side of his wheel, was a whole pile. Just out of reach. You could say he was suffering from peanut envy.

These peanuts had taunted him for quite some time. He chased those peanuts for miles, like a greyhound after a mechanical hare. He could see them. He could smell them. He couldn’t quite reach them, no matter how hard or long he ran.

And so one fateful night he got clever. There was no room for a lateral attack. Over the top was out of the question. Although he loved to climb, the wheel wasn’t exactly climber friendly, and I suppose even a teeny-brained hamster could picture how idiotic he would look trapped upside down in the corner of the cage.

But hey, hamsters are burrowers by nature, and the obvious approach to those peanuts was to sneak under the wheel. It was a tight squeeze right quick, but he was already halfway there. Tighter and tighter, he pushed onward and felt his body being forced against the glass by the wire framework, almost there, smell them, almost…

That critter, air squeezed out, guts squeezed in, trapped by greed. He was a hairy little pancake when Tansy found him the next morning. Wanted to play with him. So did the dog. Daddy has a better idea. A funeral.

Not just any funeral. The first order of business was the coffin. Skedaddle around the house searching for a little box. Line it with a holy old sock. He was laid out with an inkling of dignity. My sweet seven year old genius, thinking to protect her sweet friend, wrapped him neatly and thoroughly with nice shiny black electrical tape. At this point she’s pretty sure the dog won’t be able to chew it open.

All the while Daddy is taking the opportunity to expound on funeral customs around the world. And so, after a short discussion, a decision was reached. A funeral Pyre would take up a good bit of time. Might as well milk this to the max, they concurred.

A gaggle of four sisters spent that full morning gathering twigs and branches egged on by Daddy. The chill autumn air nipped at their noses and frosted them pink, but they were too caught up in the preparations to notice. Everything was about set when they scrambled into the house to slurp some soup and eulogize.

Finally the big moment was upon them. They gathered in the middle of the driveway, filled with anticipation. Harry’s life was well memorialized by their excitement. The shiny black casket sat solemnly placed onto the stack of tinder. Daddy appeared with the charcoal lighter fluid and matches. After dousing the whole works thoroughly, a match sparked it into a roaring inferno. Oohh.. Ahhh!!!

Everyone backed up, flames dancing in their awestruck eyes. After the mandatory admonitions (stand back, don’t burn yourself!) Daddy retreats to the rare solitude of a quiet house, knowing sometimes a parent has to step back and let life happen

They watched from a distance briefly, then drew closer like moths, heat seeking, enchanted moths. Tansy grabbed the perfect sturdy stick that she had set aside. This was her show, after all, and she began to tend the fire, pushing here and there, keeping an eye on Harry the whole time. They gathered up dry leaves and added them for a wonderful smoldery effect, and eventually banked the coals around the dearly departed.

I doubt that anyone else could have taken the task more seriously. By now she realized the folly of the tape, poking at the tenacious mass in the center of the fire, willing it to burn, knowing it wouldn’t. She’d roasted enough weenies to realize Harry was well done. Impaled on the end of the charred branch, she lifted him gently, reverently suspended over the ashes, rocking him to and fro as she contemplated a fitting ending. Then hoisting the stick above her head she swung with all of her might, lofting Harry majestically over the ledge into the trees, a grander send-off than a soul could hope for.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

THE DEAL

The folks at The Sunshine Shores Used Car Dealership watched as the old gentleman tottered down the street. "He looks like a gust of wind might carry him off," mused Dolores. His white seersucker suit draped his body, whispering upon his tenuous flesh, what little of it was left. Everyone breathed a collective sigh. They watched him almost flicker in and out of the picket fence as he moved past it and turned to cross the street. This was a special spot in the morning, a lull of expectancy hovered as he wafted toward them.

The Assistant Manager moved to open the door with a grand gesture. "Welcome to our establishment, Mr…" "Mathias, Benton Mathias." Their hands gripped each other resolutely. Then Mr. Mathias turned in a courtly manner toward the reception desk. "Well Miss, aren't you a sight for sore eyes." Bowing to press his tissue paper lips to the back of her hand, his eyes met hers as he bobbed back up. They were clear blue, sparkling as through a looking glass, reflecting 80 some years of living. She met his gaze, saw his soul dancing.

She saw him as a baby, pulling himself up on his Mama's skirt. Saw him running out the door of his youth, letting it bang behind him. Saw him nervously kissing his first girl; kissing her again years later at the altar; kissing her lifeless cheek goodbye many years later. "Don't you look dapper, Mr. Mathias." She looked away, feeling like a voyeur, smiling at the crooked knot in his nubby azure tie. She reached out, lovingly, to straighten it. This was her Father, her Grandfather, her Uncle, her Son in fifty years. "How can we help you?" she asked gently.

He turned back to the rest of the staff as they waited expectantly. "This is the big day!" he announced, pride puffing some substance into his form. He pulled his checkbook from the inside pocket of his jacket with a flair of anticipation. "Today I am buying the car of my dreams." His eyes were drawn out through the window, to the old pink Cadillac parked in the lot. They saw not the scrapes, the dull luster of the paint, the worn seats and tires. "Isn't she a Beaut!" And in his vision she was. "Now let's dicker!"

The Lot Jockey caught the keys in mid-air. "I'll check everything out for you, sir, top off the gas." He grinned to himself, whistling as he pulled the car up to the door. This was the best part of his day, although he would never have guessed at such a possibility when he first took this job two years ago. Every morning he went through the same ritual, every day it thrilled him just a tiny bit more. He looked down the block to Mr. Mathias' bungalow, to the driveway this very car had left it's mark upon. He could feel the remembered crunch of shells under his feet as he quietly went to retrieve the car each day, at nap time.

Inside, in the crisp cool showroom, a deal had been made. The fountain pen was as much of a relic as it's owner. It wobbled a bit as the check was drawn and signed, wafted to and fro to dry the ink. "Well, now, isn't it a glorious day!" He beamed with anticipation and excitement. " I've always wanted to buy myself a wonderful car like this." He looked thirty years younger. "This is the best day of my life!"

"Let me drive you home, Mr. Mathias." The manager opened the showroom door and walked out with the sweet old fart. Dolores took the check, voided it, and opening the cash drawer, laid it in it's own special spot, with all the others. There was one for every day since Mr. Mathias' concerned children had brought the car in and sold it to Sunshine Shores. She gazed out the window, and in her mind she could hear the words spilling out of his heart as he bent to get into the grand old car. "This is the best day of my life!"

Monday, April 23, 2007

IF DEATH WERE A MAN

If Death Were a Man
by Kathy Lukasavitz

If Death were a man
He'd come like Pan into my garden
smelling of Cedar and Raspberries
Although He would not be invisible

I'd blush at His nakedness
His directness
His intent

When in an embrace
I'd place my nose in His ear
and realizing my maturity
finger His animal body hair
then we'd peel my veils away
one by one

Peace, Shanti;
Love, Kathy


She was closer to my mother's age than mine, but she was the dearest friend I could hope to have, from our first meeting when I was a teen. In the wee hours of the morning, late in the fall of 1995, I had a dream of her begging me to "Take care of Luke" her husband... WEIRD. A few hours later she called to tell me she had been diagnosed, that morning, with advanced ovarian cancer and likely wouldn't live to see the next summer.

Over the course of the winter I indulged her in a whatever special treats I could find; she loved nature, her gardens were her passion. when I visited, it was always she who would end up comforting me. We would listen to native music, talk and laugh and cry, nibble on exotic fresh fruits & such... the last time I saw her, she could barely breath, that was really hard to watch. She told me how terrifying it felt... and I felt so helpless. She spoke of flying through the pine trees, how she looked forward to being free to do so. She promised the first thing she would do was try to find me and get a message to me. And she gave me a book, The Soul of the Night by Chet Raymo, and her poem. It was our last visit.

In the late spring of 1996, I awoke early one morning, around 3 or so. There was an eerie chill in the house, icy really, tho it was warm outside. I walked naked through the darkness of the house, wondering where the cold was coming from. In the kitchen window was a light, about the size and shape of a football. I couldn't tell if it was outside or in, and I tried to touch it. It was a beautiful blue and as I reached for it, my hand went through it. I could feel her energy, it was amazing.

I went back to sleep, and was awakened in the morning by a phone call telling me she had passed on at about the time I had experienced this. The circumstances of her passing poignantly matched the version of the poem she had written. Luke had carried her upstairs to the bathroom; it was a great old ramshackle farmhouse with the bare necessities. He brought her back down to their bedroom, and before he could tuck her back into bed, she died in his arms.

A poetic demise

ENVELOPMMENT

ENVELOPMENT
from Cully to Hat
when first we met

Rising in the yet unlit morning
encumbered by the past’s weight of
countless judgments
of symbols without and within.
We seek love and meaning.
.
We know each other not,
and little of ourselves,
Seeing each only in the world’s vision
that is cast upon us in shadow.
We approach each other in the darkness,
as if lost, hoping to find in each other
a place that we recognize
in order to gain the light. .

THE CHAMELEON

he settles upon a leaf
hoping to turn it
but it turns him

he explores a branch
hoping to stick with it
and finds himself stuck

he flees on the ground
hoping to gain some
without losing himself

he clings to the past
hoping to find
that which he lost

he toys with the truth
hoping to change it
but it changes him

he is an enigma
reflecting his fears
to hide his desires

THE TOUCH

His Clothing was unremarkable, as was everything else about him. No one noticed him arriving or leaving. No one knew the color of his eyes, the sound of his laugh. The thump of his footprints. His smell. His thoughts. He had never blown out a birthday candle, made a wish or a toast, opened a present. Never given nor taken anything. Never offered, never asked. Never broke a rule. Never argued.

He took care of his own needs. Shopped, cooked, cleaned. Always in the same time, place, manner. No surprises. Cut his own hair, had no need for a doctor or dentist. What he was was what he was. What he knew was what he knew. Period.

And then one day everything changed. He slipped on an icy patch. Fell. A woman swooped down, helped him up, touched him. He was in a daze. How strange to be touched. It almost hurt. More so than his elbow. She gently pulled back his sleeve, looked into his eyes, saw his soul. She hustled him into her house, dabbed at his scrape with iodine. "This will sting," she warned gently. Bandaged him caringly. She kissed him on the forehead and sent him on his way, never knowing what she had done.

The next week he went to a barber. His elbow was still stiff and it wouldn't do to let his hair get unruly. It was time. He marveled at the caress of someone's fingers on his scalp, running through his hair. He tried to hide from the small talk behind his newspaper. Felt awkward. A funny, buzzy feeling ran through him.

Stopped in a restaurant. Marveled at being asked what he wanted. Being waited on. Having his needs noticed and cared for. He left his first tip and was surprised by the good feeling he left with. At the corner, a baby smiled at him, and he smiled back. There was almost a bounce to his step and he started to hum. "Shine your shoes, mister ?" He sat breathing in the smells, hearing the sounds, seeing the sights. And feeling. Feeling hands on his feet. Touching him. Touching him. Feeling. Feeling…

AMENDED HEART

"Remember my turtle, the one we rescued? The one that got run over?" It is a stretch to go back over all of those years, sort through all of those turtles moved to safety, out of harms path, always moving them along in the same direction they were going, so they didn't have to turn around and start all over again.

What made this turtle special was my daughter's innocent idealism. It is difficult to ignore a passionate three-year-old in the throes ofdetermination. She had learned her lesson in caring well, and was about to learn an even harder one now. Or so I thought.

"He's dying," I told her gently. "NO HE'S NOT!" she screamed, tears splashing down swollen cheeks; boogers bubbling out of her nose and onto he lips. "Let's move him into the ditch," I suggest. "Let's take him home," she insisted!

This turtle had been creased down the middle, cracked in half. Not a happy camper. None of us were at this point. Putting him into an old burlap sack seemed to be adding insult to injury, and there is no kind description for the smell of a freaked out, broken turtle.

I pictured a somber funeral under the lilac bush. He wouldn't fit in a shoebox. I glanced over at my sweetie, lapping up traces of snot, eyes shiny bright like the world after a cloudburst. My heart is swelling with all of life's lessons that lay ahead.

This one became a lesson in faith. I expected the worst. She knew better. Put him in a tractor tire. Tended him. Named him. Loved him. Set him free.

Now, years later, she returns from a stroll around the pond with her boyfriend. "Remember my turtle?" I stare into the past. Time merges that headstrong tot with this confidant young woman. She smiles. "When his shell mended, it grew in the shape of a heart." The shape of possibilities.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

SUNDAY MORNING RANT

I like starting my Sunday mornings with my beloved Cully, & Charles Osgood. CBS News Sunday Morning is more palatable than most of the media onslaught generated now-a-days. Today Cully was in poke & push mode, titty twisters & wet willies, boogers & farts. I escaped the bed briefly to pee & make coffee... hoping the coffee would tame him. SNORT. As I type he is threatening spitballs and making fists, offering to rumble. Yup. Asshole mode is looming.

So Rachel Carson is featured, an homage to her foresight. GRRRRRRRRR!!! This woman of simple truth KNEW fifty years ago what the greedy bastards who run things are still in denial about. I remember reading her Silent Spring as an adolescent; it affirmed my consciousness about the splendor and wonder of this marvelous planet and the stewardship necessary to ensure a thriving future for all beings, not just the most self-serving of humans. Here are a few of her quotes:

"If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life."

"For all at last returns to the sea ~ to Oceanus, the ocean river, like the everflowing stream of time, the beginning and the end."

"Those who dwell, as scientists or laymen, among the beauties and mysteries of the earth are never alone or weary of life."

"If facts are the seeds that later produce knowledge and wisdom, then the emotions and the impressions of the senses are the fertile soil in which the seeds must grow."

"If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder, he needs the companionship of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement and mystery of the world we live in."

"It is a wholesome and necessary thing for us to turn again to the earth and in the contemplation of her beauties to know of wonder and humility."

"Only within the moment of time represented by the present century has one species ~ man ~ acquired significant power to alter the nature of his world."

"Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts."

"Like the resource it seeks to protect, wildlife conservation must be dynamic, changing as conditions change, seeking always to become more effective."

We wonder what's gone wrong, why we seem to be losing respect for each other & life itself. I lay, ears filling with tears. Mankind, especially in this society, is losing touch with nature. Instead of feasting on God's bounty, grown in the backyard & lovingly prepared, we chow down chemically laden corporately produced profit driven CRAP. We drive a block to buy something we would have made for ourselves just a few generations ago.

Who takes the time to lay on the ground, smelling the earth & the grass, staring at the wonderment of the stars? Who bothers to notice a neighbor in need, of help or resources or even just some simple attention. Who can afford to even care anymore? Because it feels like it's just too late to turn things around, and perhaps the planet would be better off without us.

LIFE IS GOOD

The day is as gray & bleak as I feel. A day stuck halfway betwixt winter & spring. There is a moment of respite as I pout, waiting in the parking lot of the grocery store. This car is way too small for the two of us, and I'm more than relieved to have it to myself. Stewing, I am. Stewing because HE loves to talk yet can't seem to listen. Stewing because I haven't been able to complete one sentence in the past hour and a half.

A flock of people leave the store. One catches my eye. A man. Jaunty, attractive, young, he has a special spring to his step. The eye-catching part is the two bouquets of lush flowers coned in sparkling plastic.

Not one but TWO.

What sort of guy buys two big bouquets?

What in the world is he up to?

There is an intensity about this guy as he heads for the car directly infront of me. Tis a small red Chrysler, not old, not new. The bucket seats are covered in a grayish fake fur. The two bouquets do not go together. They are altogether different, not a mix & match sort of deal.

He opens the car door, and doesn't get in.

Instead, he gently lays a rainbow of spring flowers on the driver's seat, and closes the door.

My curiosity is ablaze as he sprints to his Pearly Silver Truck, clutching fancy purple lilies, and peals out.

What in the world?

Rather than heading for the exit, he slithers alongside the building, backing into an employee parking spot.

Oh my, I'm the voyeur extraordinaire.

I can barely see him, as he lies in wait.

In my mind's eye, a lovely young woman comes out of the store. Does he know her?

Well, he must if he leaves flowers in her car. He wouldn't be stalking some stranger florally, could he? She will push her cart to the car, and voila! A smile of delight springs to her lips. In my mind's eye.

My focus flickers between the storefront, and my mysteryman.

A dowdy woman with a bunch of little kids. nope.

A graying lady carrying a loaf of bread. nope.

A cluster of nondescript folk dispersing in all directions.

I look back at the stalker, and am alarmed to see him pulling out of his spot. Did I miss something? I have not seen any gorgeous young babes, the sort that find flowers bestowed so impulsively.

My attention is jerked back by the ancient old man who totters before me.He is leaning heavily upon his cane as his gnarled fingers struggle with the car door. My eyes move sideways, directly into the eyes of the kind young man who has pulled into the fire lane & stopped. The range of emotions that cross his face are earthshattering. In the end though, the one that shouts out is LOVE.

There is a movement of red as the old man finally opens the door. I am transfixed as he starts into the car, and then jerks back in confusion. His head snaps up, looking about with the most amazing expression on his face. I look as well, only to catch a flash of silver curling into traffic, a minnow in a stream.

This gentleman is stunned. And baffled. He blinks big huge blinks behind thick glasses, as if something would appear to him if he could only blink hard enough. His lips open and close, like a hungry guppy. Finally, he bobs down to pick up the flowers, holding them to his face as he pulls himself upright again. He looks about one last time, then back at the flowers.

It is now apparent that the blinking is essential as he wipes the tears from his cheeks. He stands for the longest time, looking deep inside to a space that is only his. I feel so honored to be here. So moved by this simple display of humanity. And then he slowly folds himself into the car, and drives out of my life.

Well, isn't that something? In just a few moments I've been humbled, seen the good side of people. My faith is restored, and I am suddenly contrite at how selfish & shallow I'd been. I smile to myself as I see my partner emerge from the store. Oh, there is a simple human level that we all share. Life is too short to hold grudges.

Rick ducks into the car, package in hand, and turns the key. I look at him, eager to share what I've seen. "guess what." I begin to say. "SHUT UP," he barks, " I NEED TO THINK!" I shrivel back into myself, nurtured by the simple little drama that I've witnessed. Life is good. Yep, life is good.

Saturday, April 21, 2007

ICE CREAM, YOU SCREAM

i thought i would write about ice-cream. my favorite, way back when, was Spumoni, but i bet it's not easy to come by now, at least the good stuff. the Italian grocer beneath my apartment on Brady st. in Milwaukee 35 years ago had some real authentic Spumoni, and frozen Cannoli's that were to die for.

the only flavor of ice-cream i would currently refuse to eat is bubblegum. Rick the Prick, a particularly despicable mistake from my past, bought a 5 quart bucket of it once & then wouldn't let us have or buy any other flavors til we ate that up. it was in the freezer for at least a year, maybe more. totally disgusting, none of the kids would even eat it. we threw it out when he finally left.

my daughter Teale & i commonly have urges for nuts and chocolate. the ultimate was Ben & Jerry's Wavy Gravy, but they discontinued it... twas chock full of hazelnut and gooey fudgey stuff. i've written them a bunch of times begging them to reconsider, to no avail. i think i heard a rumor that they also discontinued Cherry Garcia, which is a shame too if true, because fruit & chocolate is also a very good thing. yup yup.

i remember the old Baskin Robbins days, i was loyal to their Jamocha Almond Fudge. that was a good thirty years ago. and Pistachio, what could be yummier than cool green pistachio? i do remember getting sick on Rum Raisin, my mom bought one of those HUGE tin cans of it from the Schwanns guy when i was a kid & nobody else would eat it so i ended up eating the whole friggen can mostly, eventually. i guess i am not inclined to ever have that again either.

i like the strawberry cheesecake from Kwik Trip tho it's a tad sweet. i adore cheesecake tho, mostly because it is richer than sugary. texture is very important to me. i used to make ice-cream commercially, for the pizza place i owned in New Jersey in the mid 70's, The Ruby Slipper. i could buy uber heavy cream from the local dairy for 10 cents a pint, would go buy fifty pints at a time. the flavors i was most partial to were our Honey Nut, and Toasted Coconut. my secret was heavy on the cream and light on the sugar.

we had a four big electric freezers for that, but i do remember hand cranking it as a kid every year on the fourth of July. usually that was plain ole vanilla, but there wasn't anything plain about it in my memory. and my mom would make the most amazing Hot Fudge, which i actually liked leftover cold even better, stolen one finger lick at a time out of her secret stash in the fridge. yup yup haven't tasted that in forever either, i have never made it tho it certainly is simple enough. i do believe it is simply sweetened condensed milk with lots of good chocolate melted in. or i heard once on the radio you can melt some vanilla ice-cream with some chocolate for the same effect.

by the way, i am sort of stuck on the phone with my ex (father of my 4 wonderful kids) who is hiccupping & trying to speak Dragon. if i were to make up an ice-cream i would start with some rich buttery Hickory Nut Pie made by this waitress named Sue in Leroy, and mix it in with some creamy Vanilla Custard. that pie is the best thing i have ever tasted bar none, much like Pecan but all the better because of the Hickory Nuts, and the love. i did have Shoefly Pie in Pennsylvania once, at a truckstop, after filling up on chicken livers & biscuits. Oh My GOD. what Sweet Agony... literally.

i remember as a kid my dad would promise us ice-cream after spending a day doing yardwork. he'd pile us in the old rusty white ford station wagon & drive into town to the Pines Drive-in. the choices were chocolate or vanilla or twist. twist was the best of both worlds i always thought. then it was a race to slurp it down as fast as the hot summer sun was melting it. the best bite was always the last one, that last bit of drenched honeycombed cone. the trick was to push it way down with your tongue so you didn't run out of ice-cream before you ran out of cone. remember that? i can't recall the last time i had an ice-cream cone. lick lick.

on main street Hartford (my home town) there were two drugstores with soda fountains. one had the high old fashioned stools that sun around, and the other modernized and put in a lower counter but the stools still spun. both places, Poole's and Chapmann's, had gobs of gum underneath the counters. an ice-cream cone was a nickel a scoop. i remember buying a double decker of butter pecan one day and walking out the door with it... damned ice-cream fell right off onto the sidewalk. that was the day Elvis died. bummer.

and when we were really little and such treats were extremely rare my dad would go through a long drawn out magical mime routine that would culminate in his threading a make believe needle with make believe string and threading it into one ear & out the other, then tying it in an elaborate bow on top of his head. then we would have to shout all sorts of abracadabra words and do whatever else he could contrive as he built the suspense to the max. the result was as completely magical as could be when finally he manifested a round yellow carton of KreeMee Vanilla ice-cream.

for my sixth birthday party, my mom took some of that same ice-cream and added a few drops of red food color & a few drops of peppermint extract. she'd mix it all creamy & pink & then scoop it into paper cupcake cups & refroze it til it was hard once again. decorated with candied violets & served with cake. i am starting to realize how much love and ice-cream have in common. it is a reward. i mean, nobody ever gets punished with ice-cream do they? "SHUT UP & EAT YOUR ICE-CREAM AND DON'T LEAVE THE TABLE UNTIL YOU ARE FINISHED!!!" ha ha ha. but then....

when i was in college i got a weekend babysitting job working for a Shorewood doctor. they had a half gallon of Butter Pecan ice-cream in the fridge. somehow i figured out that it was totally addictive with salt. sprinkle of salt, spoonful of ice-cream. sprinkle of salt, spoonful of ice-cream. i ate the entire thing. had to walk to the corner store and buy another carton. then i had to open it & eat the amount that was originally missing. oops, somehow that one got polished off as well. back to the store. i have conveniently forgotten how many times that happened but i have since lost the urge to binge, at least on ice-cream. i was mortified at my loss of control. self punishment i guess.

now-a-days, Teale & i can make a pint of Ben & Jerry's last for a week or more. we don't do it very often. if it is generic cheapo ice-cream, i prefer vanilla whilst she prefers chocolate. i adore sherbet, especially when i have a sore throat. and one of the things i cherished about Manhattan was Italian Ice. Culver's has an intense Lemon Ice in the summertime that is guaranteed to give this greedy sensation freak a blinding ice-cream headache... with chunks of Blackberry, or Strawberry, or Peach...

Blanche Eisenacher, the old lady down the road who was my surrogate gramma, used to indulge me once in a while when i visited her. her place was a haven for me & i would ride my bike there pretty often. the ice-cream was not frequent, and was all the more special because of that. she must have been scrimping always. she would make an entire ritual out of it. her table was covered with old worn oilcloth, and i loved going outside & pumping a new bucket of water for her which then sat on the kitchen counter with a long gray enameled ladle for drinking out of.

she had little green glass (depressionware) desert cups and it would take her forever to scoop a scoop into each one. then she would open a jar of wild blackberries she had put up and scoop some of those over the ice-cream. we would sit there together and savor every last bit. she would gossip about the neighbors and tell me stories about her childhood, and about taking the train to Minneapolis as a young woman to become a domestic. she met her husband Harry at a Saturday night dance. i remember sitting with him sometimes & listening to the Milwaukee Braves on the big old static-y radio in the front room, sun scattering through the white lace curtains. he was sort of scary tho, he was nearly deaf so he yelled mostly. LOL. when he died she was so forlorn.

so, that's about it for ice-cream, at least for now... Gee Willikers, i hope you have enjoyed my trip down memory lane.
smooch,
auntie hattie

I WAS & WAS NOT LIKE HIM

OK, so I wrote this to a guy who was pursuing me a couple of years ago, before I found the love of my life. Thank God he showed his true colors almost immediately by responding with alleged delight that I had pegged him, then immediately posted it to his profile on AFF where we had met. (((duh))) Jerk.

***********************************************

my guess... we have this and more in common:

our pendulum swings wide; high highs, low lows..... anything but the middle.

average has no appeal, & to be considered such would be an insult; to settle for such would be a sin (if we believed in sin).

we hit jaded a while back and forge on, crafting disillusion into a seductive artform.

we are magnetic to the extreme; attracting and repulsing; being attracted and becoming repulsed... or bored.

boredom is a deadly place to be avoided at all costs; we'd sooner spend time at a leper colony, which would be anything but boring to our perverse sense of humanity.

we are TOO MUCH to contain and often spill over into people's comfort zone's.

we don't know when to shut up, or rather we do but fail to do so because of a compulsion to be heard.

we could easily be emotional vampires and commit major soul-suckage but for the fact that self respect ranks high.

we have so much to give that it actually HURTS not to have someone to receive us on the same level.

our light shines BRIGHT and we especially like using it to explore dark forbidden places.

we both love and loathe who we are... there is some shame in settling for less than our potential, for kowtowing to society even a little.

we connect quickly and completely, but unplug as soon as we figure out there's not enough spiritual voltage available to sustain us.

the more visible we are on the surface the more invisible we become innerly.

there is a primally lonely void that gnaws within, a faminous hunger we cannot placate by socially conventional means.

although we believe our dearest desire is to find our match & be completely understood, that just might be more truth than even we could bear to face.

i am like & unlike the countless others

GRUNTY MEN

My beloved partner Cully is all boy, especially enamoured with bodily functions & how to have fun with them, or have fun talking about them. Yup yup. We do spend plenty of time giggling about the most inappropriate stuff. His dear departed mother, Odessa, potty trained him most properly fifty some years ago by encouraging him to make "Grunty Men". Today we proudly carry on the tradition of "Grunty Men" & "Grunty Gals", and under the covers in the dark of night... "Grunty Ghosts"... and they are real stinkers, let me tell you!

APPLE HATTIE

the ablution of splashing of water over fruit is a baptism of sorts, a blessing, a moment of appreciation for the miracle of creation & the cycle of life; and my part in that. tis affirming. i used to pick the biggest most perfect beautiful colorful apple, but over the course of 50 some years i have learned to choose the one that needs & desires eating. it may be bruised or malformed or discolored or smallish or just lonely. it's always pleased to be chosen & i feel appreciated, which is vital.

so, we are communing, this apple and me and our beloved mutual creator. a long while ago, i would have dried & burnished it to gleaming perfection with one of my mother's soft white cotton floursack dishtowels. now i prefer to kiss the droplets away slowly & reverently. i caress the skin with the tip of my tongue, enjoying the smooth texture and anticipatory energy of our merging. cupping this precious ripened fruit in my capable hands, my pleasure is heightened by the turgid nature of it's form.

the spent blossom winks from the puckered bottom. therein a fulfillment of purpose conveys the pleasure of a job well done. no pining for moonlit budding, nor for the swelling sundrenched blush, the heady scent luring birds and bees to engage in an age old ritual. yup the plant kingdom is ultimately too laid back to fuck, leaving the dirtywork to the insect whores, then bearing the fruits of their labors. literally.

CHOMP! so much for the blossom end of things. crisp moist flesh contrasts with yielding skin, juice spurting forth. the fragrance is breathtaking. *sigh* i nibble my way upward to the core, savoring each morsel, ultimately to unearth one by one each precious seed tucked into it's own niche. every seed a potential tree. how awesome is that? all the more pleasure as i tickle them free with my excited tongue, drawing each sensuously into my hungry mouth. slowly i masticate them, ever so intently one after the other, groking fully their ultimate sacrifice. (shussshhh you! ...despoiler of a gal's fanciful seed fetish!)

as i progress beyond the core, the round lush curve that remains is savored, dangling aquiver from the stem. the vestigial umbilical cord that once nurtured this wonderment remains in my fingers as i lick the sweet moisture from my blissful lips. the stem alone is spared.

smooch,
Apple Hattie

SARDINE LOVE

sardine love; a two way street
nestled closely, head to feet

a fate of headless wonderment
minds agog, bodies yet spent

in dreams of flesh fishishly oiled
with the juice of loins well toiled

the square security of tin
holding lusty us within

pressed together in desire
the possibilities inspire

one to wonder what may be
if only we might find the key

*smiles* at the chum of her affection
hoping he will swallow her jiggy poem
...hook line and sinker

NUDE FOOD

Thanks to the influence of my favorite son-in-law Yoda (InfoIdolatry) I now have a spot to park my vignettes, poems, and other ramblings. Hopefully this will inspire me to write (anything) on a more regular basis.

"The Naked Goddess Show" refers to the fact that I live nude, for the most part, and in particular nearly all of the cooking in our home is done wearing nothing but goosebumps. Plans for a Naked Goddess Cookbook have been in the works for a long while, thus my intention is also to post irreverent recipes, perhaps on an adjunct page. Beyond irreverent really, they are kinda naughty... go figure.

Nude Food: Stay Tuned!
smooches,
Auntie Hattie

Friday, April 20, 2007

LOVE QUOTES

was browsing through m' thesaurus
& came upon these sweet tidbits under LOVE:

"Our highest word and the synonym of God"
~Ralph Waldo Emerson~

"An alliance of friendship & animalism"
~Charles Colton~

"Friendship set on fire"
~Jeremy Taylor~

"Spiritual fire"
~Emanuel Swedenborg~

"Two minds without a single thought"
~Philip Barry~

"A perpetual hyperbole"
~Francis Bacon~

"The heart's immortal thirst to be completely known & all forgiven"
~Henry Van Dyke~

...sweet, eh?

THE THRILL OF A LIFETIME

It was a big ole bruiser of a car, way back then. Way back, when little boys were out in the world being loud & getting dirty. The old cruiser was cherished unconditionally, as men are wont to do with their toys. The little boy was cherished unconditionally, as mothers are wont to do with their boys. Thank the Lord.

This day was a blessing. The sun lurked, creeping back from a weeks vacation, peeking from behind clouds to see if it was welcome. It was. This little boy would be confined no longer. His mother's heart sang a song of joy... the Hallelujah Chorus if truth be known. Muddy floors & clothes be damned.

Now this day had been anticipated & planned for. A clever boy, he hadn't wasted time pouting and moping. Rather, he had built various and assorted boats, trying them out in the sink until they were seaworthy, or at least puddleworthy. He was the captain of this armada, crafted from assorted junk gleaned from nooks and crannies. And he was itching to take on the world.

But wait! He had laid by supplies as well. A jelly jar filled with kerosene, snitched while his mom was busy, stashed in his boot. Two partial books of matches. One salvaged from the depths of the couch. One stolen from his dad while he snoozed off a few bottles of Blatz Beer. These were hidden in his box of dead bugs where his mom NEVER trespassed.

He preferred sturdy wooden kitchen matches, felt a thrill when they flared to life. His mom wasn't a complete idiot however, and kept them safely stowed. Not about to be out maneuvered, he spent illicit moments studying his dad's matchlighting techniques. Holding onto that magical bit of cardboard tightly, hands cupped just so. Just so thrilled when he finally got the hang of it, heart thumping at nearly burned fingers.

And dumb luck was on his side as well, for he wasn't even old enough to read the warning "close cover before striking", much less know better than to practice his pyromanic skills in the closet. Yes, luck and God had gotten him to this point. Now fate stepped up & took his hand. "Let's go out & play" she whispered in his eager ear. And so they did.

There, out front, in the street, the rain had left a miniature ocean. Textured & colored by the sky's reflection, shimmering with rainbow swirls of gasoline & oil. Hidden from his mother's view by his neighbors hulking Hudson, he was nearly delirious with anticipation. He knew better than to touch that massive pride & joy, having tested each limit life had offered up to him by trial & error.

He set his fleet to sail, arranged just so, ready to do battle. Scampering to & fro with assorted props, firing off spitball canons, spewing sound effects. He spilled his hoard of kerosene onto the water, mesmerized by his vision of the grand finale. Anticipation brought him to a frenzy of adrenalin.

It isn't difficult to imagine the moments before the climax. His little fingers quaked as he pulled the matches from his pocket. The wind puffed out several as he crouched intently, his hands cupped. He turned the other way, not about to be thwarted. His face glowed with excitement as he set blaze to that vast puddle of possibilities.

"BOOM" he cried, imagining the screams of terror as make-believe mariners realized their destiny. Shrieking as he ran back & forth, watching his ships incinerate. Totally focused on his fiery drama. Totally caught up in the moment. Totally drawn into his own private world, a world that he ruled.

KA-BOOM!!! The climax was so much huger than he could have imagined! The neighbor's wonderful old car now a vast ball of flames, thanks to a leaky gas tank. That little boy hit the bushes full speed ahead, his heart beating like a metronome cranked to the max, marking time as his name echoed through the neighborhood, long into the twighlight. A part of him lurks there still, pondering the thrill of a lifetime.

~finis~

THE LITTLE RED ROOSTER

Foxy Joxy & Goosey Brucey
were sitting in the tulip garden
enjoying the spring air and a bit
of pink lemonade. Goosey Brucey
was looking through his purse for
a box of animal crackers when he
heard the leaves rustle.

Suddenly the Little Red Rooster
came popping out of the bushes,
bristling with excitement.
"Let's grow a great big organic
vegetable garden this year" he
squawked.

Foxy Joxy & Goosey Brucey
looked at each other. "We'll grow
the best produce in the world!"
clucked the Little Red Rooster.
"Won't that be fun?"

At first it was. they planned and
plowed. They planted & played.
"Hey, you're having too much fun"
the Little Red Rooster complained.
"Get back to work!"

One day Foxy Joxy was out in
the garden raking. "Hey, don't do
it that way, do it this way!" Guess
who. Pretty soon Foxy Joxy
got tired of working & went inside.

Then Goosey Brucey went out to
water the plants. "Don't pull the
hose that way! And don't forget
to do it again later" scolded the
Little Red Rooster. Luckily it rained
because Goosey Brucey didn't really
feel much like watering again.

"Hey! Let's make the garden bigger!"
exclaimed the Little Red Rooster.
"We can sell the extras & make piles
of money." Foxy Joxy & Goosey
Brucey looked at each other.

"I'll meet you in the garden at the
crack of dawn" hollered the Little
Red Rooster as he flew out the door.
"We'd better get to bed early" said
Goosey Brucey.

He & Foxy Joxy woke up to the
cock's crow and hurried out to the
garden. "What took you so long?"
grumbled the Little Red Rooster,
with his mouth full of bugs.
"I've been out here for hours!"

"I think I'll go back to bed" said
Foxy Joxy. "Me too" said Goosey
Brucey. The Little Red Rooster
stomped his foot. "I'll just do it
myself" he declared. And so he did.

They took a nap and then spent a
fun day at the beach. "I worked
by myself all day long" complained
the Little Red Rooster. "Good for
you" they answered, "good night."

And so it went all summer long.
The more the Little Red Rooster
complained, the less they helped.

"Who's going to help me eat this
zucchini?" asked the Little Red
Rooster. Foxy Joxy & Goosey
Brucey scurried off with a picnic
basket filled with peanut butter &
jelly sandwiches.

"Fine!" screamed the Little Red
Rooster. "I'll do it myself!"
He tried, he really tried. He ate
zucchini until he felt green. He
couldn't sell it, he couldn't even
give it away. "I'll put it in the
compost then" he said, & he did.

"My beak and feet are sore from
pecking bugs and scratching weeds."
hinted the Little Red Rooster. "Come
to the movies with us" invited his
friends. "I can't" he answered, "I
have to do all of this work myself"
and he stormed off.

Foxy Joxy & Goosey Brucey looked
at each other. "What should we do?"
They found the Little Red Rooster in
the garden tying up the tomatoes.
"Can we help?" they asked.

The Little Red Rooster didn't even
look at them. "I'll do it myself" he huffed.
Goosey Brucey & Foxy Joxy went off
to see a musical and eat popcorn. They
came home from a cool afternoon at the
theater to find the Little Red Rooster
sweating in the hot sun, hard at work.

"Would you like some help?" they asked
"Leave me alone" he muttered. And so
they did. "Maybe we should apologize"
said Foxy Joxy. "For what?" asked
Goosey Brucey. "I have no idea" said
Foxy Joxy.

The Little Red Rooster worked half the
night by the light of the moon, all by
himself. Soon the Little Red Rooster
had veggies coming out of his ears. He
didn't even have time to pick them. The
weeds grew faster than he could pull them.

"I can't do this by myself" muttered the
Little Red Rooster. Foxy Joxy & Goosey
Brucey looked at each other & smiled.
"HELP!" pleaded the Little Red Rooster.
"PLEASE!"

And so they did. They invited all of their
friends. They picked and sang, weeded
and laughed, watered and danced. It
was fun working together.

"I guess I bit off more than I could chew"
said the Little Red Rooster. "I really
appreciate your help, thank you!"
"You're welcome." His friends smiled
at each other.

"Don't forget to take some zucchini home
with you" said the Little Red Rooster.
"And come back tomorrow for lunch,
we'll have a huge salad. Foxy Joxy &
Goosey Brucey looked at each other and
laughed.

"Next year we can make the garden twice
as big!" crowed the Little Red Rooster.
"I'll be the Carrot King of the Universe!"

"Good Night" said Goosey Brucey &
Foxy Joxy.

(they walk into the moonlight arm in arm)