Sunday, December 4, 2016

Cooking with Sammy

It was the late 1960’s and we were college roommates. First Sammy and Janie roomed together in a dorm. Then Janie and I became best friends and wanted to share a place. The following year the three of us got a shotgun house off campus. It cost $20 each a month for rent, not including gas to run the stove and the freestanding heater in the bedroom. There are many funny stories about a year in the life of three crazy college kids away at university.
Sammy was the one with the vast social life. Janie was the glam gal. I’ve always been bookish and introverted. I was the one with the cookbook.
Sammy liked to entertain. She could burn water. No one cared who the cook was unless some guy was shopping for Mrs. Right to cook and clean for him in the future. I don’t think anyone ever thought that about red-headed, freckled, wild-child, Sammy.
I remember there was a dinner she invited her folks to. They were driving up from Boise to Pocatello, Idaho and we’d feed them and they’d assure themselves we were not tearing up the town. The menu was fried chicken, homemade biscuits, and canned green beans since Mom had just sent me a case. It wasn’t unusual to find a case of canned food on our doorstep – it was Mom’s version of a CARE package.
Nowadays people would run out to KFC and get a bucket of chicken with sides. There was no such option in 1968. It was me getting the supplies ready: raw chicken I cut up myself, flour, salt, pepper, oil, butter, and milk. Everything for the dinner was made from scratch.
When I cooked, I wanted people out of the kitchen. This was not an easy task as our shotgun house had a bathroom and walk-in pantry at the back. The eat- in kitchen was home to the front door. Visitors had to walk into the kitchen, then turn left to get to the living room. The bedroom with our three army cots in it was on the other side of the living room. Someone was always running through the kitchen for something.
We had an ancient gas range and an antediluvian frying pan. It required copious amounts of oil to do its work or food would integrate itself into the metal.
The first sign my day was not going to go well was an eruption of smoke. I was still making up my dredging flour with salt and pepper while the frying pan was heating. Suddenly, we had what smelled like a three-alarm fire. Sammy had tossed two pieces of raw, flourless chicken onto the hot, oil-free, frying pan.
The chicken promptly adhered to the metal with the intention to stay. I had to pry them out, then cool the pan, scrub charred chicken bits off with steel wool, and start over. Sammy wisely vanished as the air around me turned blue. 
Janie was busy neatening our tiny home.
While the dredged chicken bubbled in a thin layer of hot oil I got to work on the scrumptious biscuits. There has never been a canned biscuit that could hold a candle to these beauties. Hand mixed, rolled, and cut, they were baked until they were golden – crisp on the outside, warm and moist on the inside. They’d break open like magic and melt in your mouth. Best biscuits ever. 
Being starving college students we used cheap home goods. The green beans were on the stove warming and a small plastic bowl stood ready to receive them. We had a variety of bright plastic bowls in various sizes used for serving. There was a larger plate for the chicken to go onto. I have no idea where we got it. Our dishes were probably from the Salvation Army because I don’t think any of them matched. Jam jars for glasses. Silverware mismatched, but we had enough for a serving spoon for the beans. You get the poor college kid routine in the late 1960’s. 
Janie set the Formica table and found chairs to seat Sammy and her parents. Janie and I would eat in the living room.
As soon as the biscuits were out of the oven and off the rack I wrapped them in a thin cotton towel in the red plastic bowl. This was the only bowl big enough for them. The green beans were in an orange bowl. I put both on the table. 
Just as I was ready to start heaping fried chicken on a platter Sammy's parents arrived. But where were the biscuits? I glanced over at the table and realized they were missing. I put them on the table, didn’t I? Right next to the beans. The beans were there.
I dashed into the pantry, which was too cold for keeping biscuits warm.  “Janie, where are the biscuits?” I called, thinking maybe she’d moved them into the living room for some reason. 
Sammy waltzed into the room and answered me. “I put them in the oven to keep them warm.” 
Thin plastic bowl. Oven. Noooooo! 
Jerking open the oven door I beheld a red plastic sculpture. It draped itself over the towel and the biscuits, running down into the openings in the towel. More red plastic was drooling down, dripping off the oven rack and gathering on the sizzling hot floor. Grabbing another towel, I pulled the melted mess out and tried to peel the plastic off the towel and my precious biscuits. Not happening.
If her parents had not been there I might have tried sticking Sammy in the oven for a little warming. Janie was sent on a secret mission to the local Quik-Stop for a can of biscuits. It gave me time to peel the plastic off the inside of the oven, swearing a quiet blue streak so Sammy’s mother couldn’t hear. After that I slid in the plate holding the chicken to keep it toasty and put the beans back in a pan on a burner.
In the end, it came together. We ate the sad, canned biscuits. Her parents didn’t care. It was food. For some reason, they attributed dinner to Sammy’s culinary skills, of which she had none. 
By the time everyone had eaten I was no longer ready to go all Baba Yaga on her. I did threaten to remove her fingers with a sharp knife if she got anywhere near my edibles in the kitchen in the future. I don’t think she believed me.

Friday, November 4, 2016

Bullying

I'm not going to reproduce the entire article here, but I'm featured the on Butterflies and Roses blog belonging to author Brinda Carey.

Excerpt: 

"Words hurt. The childhood rhyme sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never harm me is wrong. 

In my career as a child protection worker I learned the most devastating abuse was emotional. Emotional abuse occurs in a variety of ways. Generally, with words and either inappropriate inclusion or exclusion. Sometimes with gestures meant as threats of violence. Emotional abuse occurs in all types of neglect and abuse. It is the most difficult problem to treat. A bone heals. A bruise fades. The emotional trauma is often there for life."

For the complete article go to: Butterflies and Roses by Author Brinda Carey.

Monday, October 10, 2016

Ethid

My grandmother was never able to say the name Edith correctly.  She always said Ethid. So when I decided to relate this family legend I used the name as I do not know the name of the baby sister who died. This was written with the intent of presenting it to the Halloween meeting of the East Texas Writers Guild.

Ethid was pale, her lips dusky blue. She'd always been fragile. As the baby of the family she'd been Maria's secret favorite. Poor suffering child, she was safe at last in the arms of the Blessed Mother. But how Maria would miss her joyful smiles.

Adjusting the white frock she'd stitched for her sister, Maria determined Ethid was ready for the viewing tomorrow. Blinking back tears, she turned from the tiny casket. She blew out the oil lamp and tiptoed away, careful not to wake their grieving parents.

Crawling into bed with her younger sisters, Elizabeth and Catherine, she envied them their peaceful sleep. As the eldest, many tasks fell on her shoulders. Seeing Ethid properly attired for the grave was one of them. Snuffing the light, she settled into the warmth of their bed. Closing her eyes she slipped into exhausted slumber. If only she knew Maria had finished her new frock.

Tendrils of sleep took her down towards comforting rest.

"Maria..." a wispy child's voice called softly. "Maria..."

It was so painful to think she was hearing Ethid calling her name one last time from the gates of heaven. Tears pricked against her eyelids. And then, for some reason, Maria opened her eyes to what should have been a pitch black room. Expecting to see nothing, instead, she lurched up in bed. There, above her, was the new frock, floating in the air, illuminated with heavenly light. 

"Thank you, Maria..."

But she didn't hear the thanks of her sister's spirit. She had quietly fainted.





Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Not all Writing Exercises are Equal

Today I attended a writer's workshop and we had a flash fiction exercise. It involved each person in the room writing one related sentence on a piece of paper to make a story. 
I had a hunch when the first writer who got my paper said, "I see the words, but I don't understand them," that maybe I was in trouble. I did explain two mystery words. Nonetheless, the result of my starting sentence was somewhat like the end of a bad drug trip.  ;) 
Here's the story:
1. Chopin's Polonaise filled the air.  (That's my starting sentence. Chopin is a Polish composer and a Polonaise is a musical piece. I'm not sure saying: "Chopin Polonaise  Op 53" would have helped.) Its lovely, if  you'd like to listen while reading the rest of this. 

2. The sun broke through the clouds sending sparkling shafts to the ground. (What? Aren't these sentences supposed to be related and make sense?) 
3. Makalesh, the long brown-haired Coon Cat, at first lazily pawed at the light streaks, blocking them then releasing them creating strobelike effect. (Okay, we're doing light here...
4. With the appearance of the rainbow, the shards of light came alive and danced with Makalesh to the sound of the music. (Hey, we have someone who figured out that "filled the air" might mean music.)
5. Perhaps there will be a treasure at the end of this rainbow. (And thus ends the polonaise, cat and light show.) ROFL 
This goes to show how important it is that the reader has the faintest idea what you are talking about to begin with.  Elsewise, we have a lot of "sound and fury signifying nothing." (Shakespeare) 
Next time my sentence will be: Stop! 
I can think of so many things that could follow.
  1.  Stop!
    1. In the name of love!
    2. Put the cookie down!
    3. Hands in the air!
    4. Don't stop!

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

Bridges

Bridges - 2016 Anthology: Selected works by the East Texas Writers Guild is now on sale through Amazon. 

This is a 374 page book by selected writers of the Guild. It has the most consistently good work of any anthology I've run into. I'm not saying that because I'm one of the authors. I'm saying that because the selection committee found authors who produce good quality work. It is as simple and as difficult as that. 
Unlike many anthologies (I'm not generally a fan of anthologies) there is a thread of quality that runs through it. There is no OMG this is so horrible selection nor is there a Pulitzer prize winner. What it offers is good, solid writing.
All of it. 
How do I know? I  read it.  Slowly. I've taken time to reflect on the quality of the writing. I was surprised at how good it was. I just met these folks a year ago. I didn't know them from Adam except as people who, like me, write. 
The children's stories are entertaining. The poetry (again, I'm not a huge fan of poetry) is surprisingly good. It contains fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and memoir. Everything from science fiction to stories about a child's imaginary worm friend. I love that children's story! 
This is a book that should be sold in airports. You can read complete stories on short hops or several on longer flights. It is a beach book. A nighttime book. A book to share with children or grandchildren. It is a book to give for a birthday to a friend who loves short stories. 
The quality of the printing and cover design is excellent. 
I wish there was a Kindle version. There is not. Maybe next year.