I’m not feeling chatty today, mainly because I’m peering at the world through a Benadryl haze. I’m not having serious allergy issues or anything, I’m just suffering from being bitten to death on my feet and ankles while enjoying a candlelight tea with Fuzzy last night, in the back yard. (Chants to self: I will remember to spray my ankles with OFF in the future.) Benadryl stops the itching, but knocks me out, so I’ve been cranky and groggy all day. However, I’ve just done tomorrow’s grocery order which includes a benadryl anti-itch stick. So, hopefully, only my feet and ankles will be groggy, in the future.

Or at least, I’ll be coherent.

I’ve just watched a great movie, though, Saving Grace, about a woman whose husband dies, leaving her with a pile of debt, which she pays off by growing marijuana in the greenhouse of her estate in Cornwall. It’s a quirky film, and a bit uneven, and but quite enjoyable. If you liked Calendar Girls, you’ll probably enjoy this. If not, well, there are some cool accents to listen to.

I’m playing with a piece of fiction that came out of a conversation I had over coffee the other day, and a prompt from WarriorPoet(2) at OD, two things that are totally disconnected, yet spin together nicely. When I’m done playing I might share it, or might not.

Time to drink more water, and go to sleep, as tomorrow’s a gym day, so I need to be well-rested.

Valentine
The things about you I appreciate may seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
And chase the soap for half an hour.
I’d like to have you in my power and see you eyes dilate.
I’d like to have your back to scour
And other parts to lubricate.
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
To chase you screaming up a tower or make you cower
By asking you to differentiate Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.
I’d like to successfully guess your weight and win you at a fte.
I’d like to offer you a flower.

I like the hair upon your shoulders,
Falling like water over boulders.
I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential
(I’d like all your particulars in folders marked Confidential).

I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose
The neat arrangement of your teeth
(Half above and half beneath) in rows.

I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges.
Your upper arms drive me berserk.
I like the way your elbows work, on hinges.

I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands.
I’d like to teach them how to count,
And certain things we might exchange,
Something familiar for something strange.
I’d like to give you just the right amount and get some change.

I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you nod and hold a teacup. I like your legs when you unwind
them.
Even in trousers I don’t mind them.
I like each softly-moulded kneecap.
I like the little crease behind them.
I’d always know, without a recap, where to find them.

I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.
I’d like to cross two hemispheres and have you chase me.
I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers
Or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I’d like you to embrace me.

I’d like to see you ironing your skirt and cancelling other dates.
I’d like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.
I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt
Or frightened senseless by invertebrates.

I’d like you even if you were malign
And had a yen for sudden homicide.
I’d let you put insecticide into my wine.
I’d even like you if you were the Bride of Frankenstein
Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s Jekyll and Hyde.
I’d even like you as my Julian of Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan
How melodramatic
If you were something muttering in attics
Like Mrs Rochester or a student of boolean mathematics.

You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.
I’d like to find a good excuse
To call on you and find you in.
I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin. And see you grin.
I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,
I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin,
I’d like to make you reproduce.

I’d like you in my confidence.
I’d like to be your second look.
I’d like to let you try the French Defence and mate you with my rook.
I’d like to be your preference and hence
I’d like to be around when you unhook.
I’d like to be your only audience,
The final name in your appointment book, your future tense.

–by John Fuller

Yesterday was the first Sunday of Lent, and the first such service I’ve experienced in the Episcopal church. The service, during Lent, varies greatly from the rest of the year, and includes choral chanting of the Great Litany. St. Andrew’s is fond of the 1928 version of the Book of Common Prayer, and both services are essentially Rite I, with the 10:00 service including music. That’s the one we attend.

I realize that much of Lent revolves around seeking attonement, and yet, rather than feeling like a supplicant, I found a great sense of peace during the chanting of the litany. There’s something sort of Zen about choral chanting, about a rote response to the cantor’s verse, about the half-spoken half-sung phrases that pushed thoughts of self out of my head and let me just be.

Fr. Young mentioned during his sermon that one of the old guys who attends the morning mass, the one without the music, commented that recitation of the litany was punishment for all wrongs, and that his response was, “You think it’s bad to recite it, at the 10 AM service they SING it.” We laughed, of course, because the line was offered in a way that elicited laughter, but I couldn’t help thinking that I like the singing. It’s so restful, hearing the chanting resonate in and around you.

This church community is small, and the congregation tends to be older, though that’s slowly changing, but it feels very homey to me – welcoming and thought-provoking, intellectually challenging, sincere. I’ve come to really like it.

Oh, and for the record: I’m giving up cheese. I thought about going off caffeine, but Fuzzy feared for his safety. And I’m far more addicted to cheeese than to coffee, anyway. But, because I also believe that this is a time to expand horizons and do Good, we’ve joined the “Drive for Life” community on LiveJournal (thanks Jacobine), which arranges transport for animals being adopted from rescue, or being moved from kill-shelters into foster- or forever-homes. We volunteered for a trip in March, but they said they’d filled it after all, so we’ll keep watching.

It seemed as though every time I thought the rain had let up enough to take the dogs out, the skies opened up once more. I love rain, but I don’t love wet dogs, and Zorro generally sticks his tiny nose out the back door, and then retreats to the comfort of bed, on days like this.

At five, the rain had tapered to a refreshing drizzle, and I decided the dogs could deal with that. It was wet out, but it wasn’t cold, and they were so happy when they saw me move toward my windbreaker, retrieving it from the end of the bannister where I’ve taken to leaving it these days, that they didn’t even freak when I put the hood up.

Cleo’s got enough spaniel in her that the rain doesn’t phase her. Also, she’s mostly white, which means that she has an intense need to get as dirty as possible. Today, I won, and she only got muddy feet as we took a route that didn’t pass any of her favorite spots to roll in foul substances.

Zorro impressed me. He was so antsy that he didn’t even curl his tail between his legs and demand to go home, when the rain increased halfway through our hour romp. He kept his chihuahua-plume happily looped over his back the entire time.

As for me, well, the windbreaker wasn’t marketed as rain-resistant, but it seemed to do a fairly good job, although I had to stop and roll the hood back so that I could see – a tricky maneuver when one has a leash wrapped around each wrist.

On the homeward leg of our excursion, a neigbor who was out checking her mail flagged us down. “Where are their raincoats?” she asked, grinning at the sight of us – wet and happy.

“I’ve tried sweaters and stuff on them,” I told her. “They always end up glaring at me with mortified expressions and refusing to move.”

She laughed and nodded. “Mine are the same,” she said.

We finished the block with bounces in our steps, and my smile wasn’t just because of the rainwater facial provided by nature, but because I have a neighbor who understands life with small dogs.

Today I’m writing about Fred. He died last year, and today was his memorial, in Florida. His wife picked a date near his birthday, telling us it was a party to celebrate his life, because that’s what he wanted. We would have attended, but couldn’t, so I’m writing this instead.

I didn’t really know him very well, but he knew me all my life, which is both weird, and normal, I guess, in extended relationships between families. Relationships that go back so far there may as well be a blood connection.

When I moved back to California in 1998, after three years in South Dakota, it was to work for my mother again, but in the process I was re-introduced to life-long family friends Cheryl and Fred (to me they were a unit), and got to meet them as a grown up. (I know Cheryl better, of course, because I SAW her every day for a year, at work. But this is about Fred.)

He was a large man, with a personality that was at once forceful and gentle. His opinions were always offered laced with sardonic humour. His voice reminded me of the baker from the old Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood show, sort of phlegmy and creamy: New Jersey mixed with the filling of a chocolate eclair. And really, since he was a cook, it was the perfect sort of voice to have.

He spoke the language of food as casually as the rest of us chat about last night’s episode of The West Wing, but he produced culinary wonders, running the gamut from braised lamb chops and garlic mashed potatoes, to barbecued ribs and cole slaw. (In fact, I, who detest cole slaw, LOVED his version.)

He was more than just a chef, though. He spoke two other languages that I responded to: geek, and music. It’s the latter that floored me more than the former, however, because he got me hooked on music I’d never expected someone of my parents’ generation to appreciate. Specifically, he introduced me to Enigma, music I’d previously only heard at a few skating shows. Clubby, dark, sensuous music with an almost tribal pulse running through it, married to Gregorian chant, of all things.

I never knew much about him, and for most of my life he was little more than a name, and a presence at the periphery of my world, but the presence became a person, someone I could listen to forever, just because I liked his voice, and someone I’ll always remember with fondness and respect.

I’m sitting here now, listening to Enigma, and drinking strong coffee, toasting to Fred. I’m pretty sure that he’s someplace where the cheesecake is the perfect texture, the espresso is divine, the net never lags, and the music never stops.

Last night, I posted a ‘bits and pieces’ entry that amounted to post-it note-sized blurbs. One of them mentioned the dish that I grew up calling “Basta Fazool” (and note – the b in basta is barely a b – it’s not quite a p, though…if you haven’t heard Southern Italian accents filtered through New Jersey, you will NOT understand this sound. But there it is.) Progresso makes a canned version, but it’s so salty it’s really scary (this is a problem with MOST canned soups, actually). If you want to be all proper, the correct name of the dish is ‘paste e fagioli,’ where really just means ‘noodles and beans’.

I don’t usually surf the net looking for recipes when I’m making something I grew up with, but I did last night, and found that the version of Basta Fazool that I grew up with, which is meatless, is not the standard version. Apparently it’s much more common to use chicken stock as a base, and include bacon or pancetta in the soup. I don’t do this, but Laura who has a groovous blog called Cucina Testa Rossa does, and the recipe she uses can be found in this entry.

My own recipe is in the extended entry.
Continue reading →

The email I use for NetFlix is:
melissa AT missmeliss DOT com
Feel free to add me as a friend, just comment or leave me a note so I know who you are.

I still can’t connect to the part of my brain that knows how to put words together in a readable fashion. This is extremely frustrating. Meanwhile, I let the ideas burble and bubble and brew.

* * * * *

I popped into the local Curves the other night and started the paperwork to transfer my membership from San Jose to here – it’s only been forever – and am both nervous and excited about hitting the gym tomorrow morning.

* * * * *

I considered giving up cheese for Lent, but I’m not sure I could stick to that while still limiting carbs. Cheese, nuts, and olives are my life these days. Oh, and yogurt. Fuzzy agrees that if I give up caffeine it would be hazardous to his health.

* * * * *

Someone needs to remind me to post about my favorite tea shop, ever.

* * * * *

Project Runway SPOILERS:
Oh god, they kept Wendy IN?!!! I’m not sure how I feel about that. I WANT to like her because she does have talent, even if her choices aren’t always the most glamorous, and because she’s a working mother and not 23, but I have a problem with her utter bitchiness, and I mean, not in an amusing way. (Her website, btw, reveals that she actually has more talent than was seen in the competition)

* * * * *

Desperate for a taste of tradition, and needing some good comfort food, I made meatless pasta e fagioli (which, in the dialect of Italian I grew up hearing, was always ‘basta fazool’). It wasn’t garlicky enough, but I found another blogger who not only grew up hearing a similar pronunciation, but ALSO has a great (not meatless) recipe posted, which I will try next week or the week after.

I think it’s never garlicky enough, really.

I made a personal resolution to try and post something to my blog every day. Note that I’m just saying ‘something’ and not ‘something substantial’.

The thing is, there are only ten minutes left in the day, and I’ve just finished stapling and labelling 830 flyers, and my shoulders are killing me, and I’m tired. Too tired for coherence.

But I have entries buzzing in my brain. And if I don’t post something, I’m likely to forget about them.

So these are coming attractions, of a sort. I’ve been musing about staplers all day, a friend asked a question about one’s online space (and changes made thereto), and if he approves, I’ll be answering it here, and then, I’m toying with this month’s Blogging for Books challenge (link to be edited in later).

Also, I have to update my reading blog as it hasn’t been, since mid-January, and then there’s the rant about why inviting a person trying to reduce the amount of processed food and simple carbs in her diet to a Shrove Tuesday pancake supper is tantamount to cruelty.

And of course, anyone reading this is welcome to suggest topics as well.