Halushki

Tiger Mom, Maybe; Ninja Mom, Definitely

2012-01-13T09:03:00.000-05:00

Mother: Hey, did you hear anything about any new after school language classes coming up?

Child: Whaddaya mean?

Mother: You know, like the French class you took after school last year?

Child: Huh?

Mother: You know, like the French class that's taught by the high school students who come to your school one afternoon a week for a few months to teach you a foreign language?

Child: Uh...I dunno.

Mother: So, if I email your teacher or look through your backpack, I won't find out that there's another after school language class starting soon?

Child: Oh, that.

Mother: Yes, that.

Child: I don't really want to do that again.

Mother: It's not an option.

Child: But, I already...!

Mother: Hold on. Before you say anything else, let me tell you that I'll gladly listen to your argument, but you're not going to win this one. I already know that. I know how this is going to end: with you going to language class.

Child: Sigh.

Mother: So?

Child: I have the sign-up paper in my backpack.

Mother: Good!

Mother: Oh look! And today is the deadline to sign-up! Lucky for us!

Child: How did you know that today would be the deadline? How did you know to ask about this today?

Mother: I know everything.

Child: Heavy sigh. You probably actually do.

Mother: I think Chinese this time. Your sister can help you.

Child: No, she won't.

Mother: Oh yes. Oh yes she will.

Child: How do you know?

Mother: Oh...I just know.

Pennsylvania Farm Show with The Tractor Expert

2012-01-10T00:22:00.002-05:00

This is The Tractor Expert.

He knows a lot about tractors, farm equipment, and all sorts of machinery that make noise and move things around in a loud, destructive/constructive fashion.

Today he is at the Pennsylvania Farm Show - a week-long extravaganza of farm equipment, farming supplies, pigs, goats, chickens, cows, milkshakes, butter sculptures and gewgaws galore.

Right now, he is on his third ice cream. Farm Show is a lot like camping: Mom lets you eat a lot of junk. Eating ice cream is also important if you are a Tractor Expert.

Here are some of the many fascinating tractors you will find at the Farm Show.

Some people think the only kind of tractor is a John Deere. While John Deere tractors are extremely awesome, they are not the only kind. The world is filled with many types of cool tractors.

The Tractor Expert says, "Peace. There is room for all here. So much awesomeness."

The Tractor Expert knows that where there is large machinery with pointy, jabby, rusty bits - plus animal dung - there will be tetanus.

You don't want to get tetanus. Tetanus could seriously ruin your ice cream eating plans for the weekend. What with the locked jaw and what not.

Sure, not a lot of people get tetanus these days. Still, this is a convincing display. It even won a prize.

The Tractor Expert does not know what the brown tube-shaped clump is supposed to represent. Although, it's entertaining to think it might be tetanus-riddled animal dung.

Here are some Farm Show piglets.

The Tractor Expert knows that life can't be all about tractors. Some days, you need to find your joy in other places. Like looking at these cute, sleeping piglets.

The Tractor Expert wanted to snuggle a piglet. However, he was reminded that piglets - pretty surely - would not go lightly into being snuggled. Still...one can dream.

Here is The Tractor Expert on a carousel horse.

The Tractor Expert looks like he is grimacing in about-to-pukedness after so much milkshake and ice cream and apple dumpling, and now being whirled around on an up-and-down pony. This is not, in fact, why he is grimacing. The Tractor Expert is grimacing because he hates the camera flash.

It didn't matter how many times the photographer reminded The Tractor Expert that the flash was not on (thus the many blurry photos). He still made that face mostly.

This is a premium old-timey tractor!

The best thing about this tractor is that it looks like it's called "Kerosene Boy". Which would be a great name for a steampunk superhero.

This is the famous Butter Cow.

The Tractor Expert wondered how the Butter Cow sculpture was made. The photographer helpfully explained that the Butter Cow was designed and crafted using magic.

The Tractor Expert pondered this answer and then accepted this as a reasonable explanation.

The photographer is also available for kids' birthday parties and tutoring Calculus.

This is The Tractor Expert pointing out some of the award wining mushroom displays.

The Tractor Experts was uncertain whether the cupcakes were real cupcake, or whether they were mushrooms designed to look like cupcakes. This also happened to be a question the photographer once asked herself sophomore year in college. Although, this was after she had already eaten a mushroom cupcake.

Don't eat the mushroom cupcakes. It will be at least Sunday afternoon before your roommate's face stops looking like the Cheshire Cat and someone notices that the Jefferson Airplane album has been skipping for twelve hours.

The Tractor Expert never once questioned why someone would also make a rabbit sculpture out of mushrooms.

The Tractor Expert is accepting. Also kind of naturally wacky.

This is The Tractor Expert in a greenhouse wearing an Amtrak conductor hat and studying a miniature garden diorama made of Lincoln Logs, plants and aquarium stone.

This is how you raise a creative out-of-the-box thinker.

Pennsylvania farming country is, evidently, chock full of them.

They're kinda of eye-rollingly bad.

But you kinda also want one.

The Tractor Expert thought the Attack Turtle was an excellent notion.

The photographer was looking for Attack Pony for a friend whose pony attacked and killed a llama.

It's the kind of thing you'd think would only turn up in a Tom Robbins book. But no, it really happened.

Here is The Tractor Expert at the weather exhibit.

The weather exhibit was an educational display about all the ways that nature tries to bugger farmers with lightning and tornadoes. There was a movie on video loop of a category 587 tornado wiping out all of Kansas, pretty much. It was very scary.

The Tractor Expert touched the glowing orb and said a small prayer for all the really cool farm machinery that has gone on to greener fields after being devoured by tornadoes.

It was a difficult exhibit. So much excellent destruction - but so much destruction of excellent farm equipment.

The Tractor Expert left feeling a little confused, a little philosophical.

"Maybe after the tractor was crashed in the storm, someone got the parts and made a new tractor. It could happen."

Maybe, Tractor Expert. Maybe

Here is The Tractor Expert with four PA State Troopers.

The PA State Troopers were very happy to pose with The Tractor Expert, declaring him "a good kid" and saying, "hey, Buddy, how'd ya like the show?"

The Tractor Expert was over-the-moon to be standing with all those tall, strong, uniformed, gun-toting guys.

The photographer was also feeling a little verklempt.

This is The Tractor Expert.

With the last tractor of the evening.

It was an incredible, gigantic tractor.

The kind that made you feel good to be an expert in such things.

The Tractor Expert gave the great red tractor a hug.

Then posed for a photo.

And then it was time to go home from the most super day ever.

The Tractor Experts gives the Pennsylvania Farm Show two enthusiastic, ice-creamy thumbs up.

Homeschooling Figure Skaters

2012-01-06T10:11:00.000-05:00

A while back, someone asked me to write a post on my thoughts about homeschooling.

They were especially wondering whether I'd ever consider homeschooling my daughter who is a competitive figure skater.

At one point when I lived in center city Philadelphia in the catchment area for a seriously failing public school, I had looked into homeschooling. I bought the books, joined the co-ops, engaged in the debates. I was convinced it was for us. Then we moved to the suburbs of Harrisburg and into a seriously awesome public school district. It's not perfect. But the more general complaints about learning by the bell, stunted and stilted curriculum, and turning children into mindless automatons were swept away by free violin lessons beginning in fourth grade, Chinese language class beginning in seventh grade, and fifth graders having access to seventh grade algebra lessons.

I know, right?

And while there are many positives to be gained only through homeschooling, for us the scales had tipped. Or had at least evened out.

And before anyone starts the debates, I've met just as many socially awkward kids who are homeschooled as those that are public schooled. I've met as many kids from both sources of education whose spirits have been nurtured to precocious - even endearingly obnoxious - levels of creativity. My kids have run up against public school bullies, church group bullies, homeschooled bullies, sports bullies and bullies in the grocery store. My kids also have great friends from all those groups.

So all to say, I'm bowing out of any debate.

But thinking about homeschooling a child to accommodate a sports schedule...honestly, I'm going to bow out from debate there, as well, other than to say I wouldn't discount it as being a crazy idea.

Generally - generally - I think that kids who are driven and disciplined in one area are driven and disciplined in other areas. If your kid is working hard enough at figure skating to progress and test or compete well, then he/she is probably the kind of kid who will work hard at academics as well (even though grudgingly at times.) This isn't to say that some kids aren't pulled out of school for pie-in-the-sky reasons ("Six-year-old Sally landed a toe loop and placed first at Little Fish Rink's Basic Skills Competition. A lot of parents tell me she's Olympic material!")

(Nothing against Little Fish Rink. It could be the best place for a low-stress learning and practice experience. But if competitive skating beyond smaller competitions becomes a longer-term goal, I think one has to be realistic about what's going on at Big Dog Rink, as well. )

But even in this case, I'd worry less about the homeschooling and more about what will happen if the pie doesn't pan out for Sally as quickly or as easily as mom or dad had anticipated.

All that said, I do often wonder whether just figure skating in and of itself doesn't offer a fairly decent core curriculum education.

Sure, a kid may not learn Chinese or get violin lessons.

On the other hand, hang around skating rinks enough and you're bound to pick up some Russian (if only as relates to yelling at kids to point their toes and snap their axels). And the other day, my daughter and her friend asked me to turn up the classical music station in the car because the song playing might contain the dynamics for a good long program music choice.

My first reaction was "Pffffttt. Geeks."

(I promise, I said it in my head.)

But then I thought, "Cool!" And even "Nifty!" And "Hmmmm, I don't remember having had the slightest interest in classical music as a kid, even during eight painful years of piano lessons."

Although, I think I did later buy the soundtrack to Clockwork Orange. Not that I encourage this.

So what this is all leading up to is my idea for the Figure Skating Homeschool Curriculum.

I think it could work. Almost seriously, I think it could work.

I'm kinda not kidding.

Sorta.

Anyway, I've created an end-of-year survey test. See what you think.

FIGURE SKATING HOMESCHOOL TEST

It may need a bit of tweaking and additions because it's heavily biased toward pre-teen female singles skaters.

Feel free to add your curriculum and test question suggestions!

Pay attention! School's in session!

Open Letter To Retail Shoppers, Especially During This Time Of Year

2011-12-15T10:16:00.001-05:00

I am a low-level, store-floor retail employee.

I am paid somewhere between $7.00 - $9.00 per hour to offer helpful customer service.

I am paid to be factually knowledgeable regarding the products our store sells. If I do not have the answer to your particular question, it is my job to find another employee who can answer your question, or to research your question myself and get back to you with an answer in a timely manner.

I am paid to find solutions to potential problems regarding the products you've purchased in our store - as well as with your overall shopping experience - whether that solution comes from me or whether I need to contact a manager or other customer service help.

I am paid to be friendly, courteous, efficient, and non-judgmental in my service to you.

I am paid to help keep the store neat and organized so that you have an enjoyable shopping experience.

Sometimes, I may engage in brief, cordial conversations of a personal nature as initiated by you, the customer. Retail employees are generally “people persons”, and my manager does encourage some on-floor non-business conversations so that employees can build good relationships with customers and offer better personalized service.

If I fail in any of these duties, you have every right to speak to my manager about my poor job performance.

I should shape up.

However, please remember there are many services that are not part of my job description.

At one time or another, I have been asked to do all of the following:

- watch your child while you shop

- hold your child while you shop

- solve problems with products you bought from other vendors who subsequently offered poor or no customer service

- act as a substitute punching bag for your overall frustrations with your boss/spouse/kids/in-laws

- act as a substitute punching bag for your overall frustration with the corporate decisions of our company which you personally disagree with. I am willing and able to carefully and sympathetically listen to your agitated annoyance over a specific product or even regarding the Overall Way We Do Business. I will try to offer a satisfactory solution and hopefully some catharsis for your currently unpleasant state of mind. However, if you begin frothing, yelling, or jabbing a finger at me, please understand that at this point I’m going to my Happy Place and thinking about chocolate fudge sundaes and winning the lottery. You’d be better off venting at someone higher up the pay scale. Like a manager. Or majority stockholder.

- engage in argumentative conversations about anything, but especially religion, politics, and sex

- listen to sales pitches for your philosophy of life, the universe, or anything contained within

- confirm rumors and conspiracy theories about our company, store, or products

- allow you to follow me around for the afternoon while I work. Because you’re lonely.

- be your therapist

- be your confessor

- be your girlfriend

- be your mom

- be your captive audience for some new jokes you’re working on

- offer medical advice regarding your condition

- listen to opinions which are hateful or offensive according to a reasonable standard. If in the course of our customer-employee interaction, you say something like, “Presbyterians are all a bunch of jerk-off, low-lifes and should all go to hell” our interaction is over. The cue that you’ve crossed a line is the smile leaving my face and me abruptly saying, “Is there anything else I can help you with today?” Please do not assume that this is how I would react when off the clock.

- listen to insults and profound creepiness, whether intentional or un-intentional. Ex: “Hi, Sweetie. Listen, Hon, can I get porn on this eReader thing? I mean, the good stuff, Darling. For free. Maybe with animals?” The cue that you’ve crossed the line is me abruptly saying, “This conversation is making me uncomfortable. I’ll contact my manager and you can continue your shopping experience with him.”

- clean your wound

- flush the toilet for you and clean up your bodily fluids/solids (I may have to do this. But do not be surprised if an old Lithuanian curse descends upon you in the following week.)

- offer delivery service in my spare time

- do something illegal, Ex: “Could you photocopy a chapter of this book for me? I don’t need the whole book.”

- allow you or your children to act in unsafe way in our store, no matter how skilled you/they are at rock climbing/bungee jumping/gymnastics/parkour/juggling/roller blading/fire breathing

- turn a blind eye when you bug other customers beyond a reasonable standard of behavior expected in public places

- allow you to wander around drunk

- solve consumer problems that result from your own procrastination and poor organization. I can try to help with your Hail Mary shopping. But if you don’t have the book by tomorrow of the gift for tonight and this is the first I’ve heard about it, you can start the litany of blame by addressing the person in the mirror.

I am a low-level, store-floor retail employee.

I am paid somewhere between $7.00 - $9.00 per hour to offer helpful customer service.

When the store closes, I go home from my (probably) part-time job, the job I work to make ends meet. I do laundry and take care of little kids. Or I study for upcoming college and high school exams. Or I watch a little television and then go to sleep so I can get up in time for the full-time job I work during the day.

I love working here as much as I need to work here.

I should do my job well. And you should demand that I do my job well.

But just be clear on what my job is. And is not.

And during the big consumer holidays, let’s agree to go easy on each other.

I’m willing to go above and beyond in offering some services not included on my official retail resume, as long as customers refrain from getting miffed when I don’t. Or can’t.

I like going above and beyond.

I enjoy surprising customers with random acts of retail - and even personal - kindness. It makes me feel good to do so.

Except for flushing your toilet.

That’s nasty.

“Things I Had To Explain To People Today” Game

2011-12-05T23:14:00.003-05:00

Here's how the game works:

I'll tell you how I explained something to someone today.

You guess what it is I was explaining.

Ready?

Go!

1. You only need two little drops. That's enough. You don't need to use the equivalent of two dead horses.

2. Do you see now why I told you not to swing on that _________? Do you understand that I wasn't just being a meany? Now, help me find a screwdriver. This whole bottom of the _________ is scraping the floor.

3. Because it looks better with the long end matching the long end and the short end matching the short end. Although, people will probably trip over it now. But that's their problem.

4. You know how a rotary phone had a wire hooked to the wall and voices came over the wire? And now how with your cell phone, there is no wire and the voices come through the air? It's like that.

5. He was like the Lady Gaga of the 1970s. Except skinnier.

6. You're about a three on that scale. But only because I've only ever seen you dress like my husband dresses when he's doing yard work.

7. I really hate this song. Every time I hear it, all I can think is "This is what Satan will play in hell on Christmas Day to punish Woody Allen."

8. It means “far away”. So in this case, it means you're making it move from far away.

Guess in the comments.

CLICK HERE FOR ANSWERS!

A random photo of me in a little red car, significant of nothing.

My Memoirs

2011-11-30T08:15:00.004-05:00

Mother: WHOA! HEY!

10-year-old child: What?

Mother: I just slipped on the kitchen floor!

10yo: Oh.

Mother: That was scary!

10yo: Mm-hmm.

Mother: I almost fell!

10yo: Ok.

Mother: I, like, literally saw my entire life flash before my eyes!

10yo: Oh yeah. And what was that like? Your entire life?

Mother: Mostly me being really cool.

10yo:

Mother: You know...except for just now when I slipped on the kitchen floor.

10yo:

Mother: But mostly, I was awesome.

10yo: I have to go sort my laundry now.

Mother: Someday, you'll appreciate how awesome it was just to witness my awesomeness on an every day basis.

10yo: Whatevers.

Out Where There Ain't No Internets

2011-11-26T23:46:00.003-05:00

There is mountains.

And there is typewriters.

And there is mountains.

And there is art.

But Internets is far and few between.

Thanksgiving! Happiness!

2011-11-24T16:35:00.004-05:00

Blankety

2011-11-23T23:34:00.001-05:00

Okay, so...

In some places, the night before Halloween is called Mischief Night. On Mischief Night, kids go out and solemnly swear to be up to no good.

It's generally mild-mannered nuisance mischief: wrapping toilet paper around neighbors' bushes, throwing corn at front doors and running away, maybe an egg or two tossed at a mailbox. (Unless you live in Camden. Evidently, Mischief Night there involves arson.)

Damn kids. Whaddaya gonna do?

And I was wondering the same thing with this NaBloPoMo word.

Blankety.

The hell? Whaddame gonna do?

So I thought and I thought and I thought....

And I thought up Blankety Night!

Blankety Night is the night before Thanksgiving. And the tradition of Blankety night is that while all your pies are baking and while the turkey is defrosting in the sink (because you know you forgot to take it out of the freezer in time to allow it to thaw in the fridge)...

while you are waiting in anticipation for the great day of being thankful and eating great gob-fulls of food for which you are also thankful, Blankety Night is the time for us to come together and bitch about all the blankety-blank stuff in our lives for which we are not, really, all that thankful. And then find a way to be thankful for it. Even if it's a blankety blanking bitch.

Blankety Night is not a time to wallow in self-pity or to sharpen talons in preparation for a Battle Royale with who/whatever is being a blankety blank in our lives.

Blankety Night is a time for trying to make the best of our bad situations, even the measly annoyances.

And lying if you have to. Fake it till you make it.

So, yeah. We're all thankful for our family, friends, general well being and clean running water.

But I'm blankety thankful for

My blankety dish washing machine that broke. I couldn't afford to pay someone to fix it, so I had to go out and buy my own blankety set of Torx screwdrivers. Which I then had instantly handy when the blankety clothes washing machine broke.

The blankety weird guy at the Civil War Museum who was acting all weird and then parked his car near my car in the parking lot and waited there. I was able to show my kids that it's okay to not be a cowboy and be stupidly brave when dealing with weirdos in parking lots. We all went back in the building and alerted a security guard who then waited with us walked us to the car.

My blankety doctor who drew blood and found I had borderline high iron levels. I'm supposed to go donate blood now more often. Which I should have been doing anyway.

The blankety cat who fought with a blankety fox. I was able to get a free rabies booster.

The blankety rain this summer and fall. I needed to be reminded to start saving for new gutters.

The blankety kid who was bullying another kid in the hallway at Parent Teacher Night. I told her to knock it the heck off, and when my kids died of embarrassment, I had the opportunity to give them a lecture about how the whole blankety world wouldn't be going Hades in a blankety hand basket if more people would step between bullies and their victims and tell the bullies to knock it the blankety heck off. Or knock it the blankety hell off. Whichever works. (And then, of course, find compassionate means to help the bully understand why it is she is being such a jerk and how to change her life around so she can feel better about herself, etc., etc., yadda, yadda, yadda.)

Blankety mosquitoes. I'm still working on this one.

So, that's how you do it! Blankety Night!

Have fun re-thinking your hardships and/or lying to yourself.

It tastes as good on your lips as cranberry sauce and gravy!

Today's Blog Topic: Kielbasa

2011-11-22T23:51:00.000-05:00

Kilbo.

Kielbasy.

At Easter. At Thanksgiving. At Christmas. At Just Because.

With all I've told you about the Pennsylvania Coal Region so far, if you still think you don't have a reason to visit, well all that's about to change.

It's a little deceptive because you can't really shop online. But the shop is online.

Sort of. As a teaser.

Kowalanek's Kielbasy Shop

You want to click on that link.

You want to click on that link not only for the menu and the directions and the history of a 100-year-old kielbasy dynasty.

You want to click on that link for the musical stylings of Tomosius K.

(Look in the upper right corner.)

You want to click on that link, because you want to hear songs like

Kielbasy Heaven

And Yonko Sweetheart

And just in time for the holidays, The 12 Days of Kowalanek's

And yes - oh very, very yes -

Dat Lady Luvs Da Kielbasy

And when you come visit, start with four rings of fresh and six rings of smoked.

That will get you through until The Feast of the Epiphany.

Snow

2011-11-21T23:00:00.008-05:00

So, for this suggested blog topic, my intention was to interview my mother.

My mother has a lot to say about the weather.

And having lived in Pennsylvania all her life, she has a lot to say in particular about Pennsylvania weather.

Go ahead. Ask her. I dare you.

And since she has very, very much to say on the topic of winter weather, I thought she might enjoy sharing her Polish-Lithuanian-Appalachian wisdom and experience regarding such matters with a wider audience.

Alas, my cell battery died somewhere in the beginning of the conversation, and my mom sounded like she was otherwise occupied doing something else anyway. I have no idea what. Maybe she had leaves to rake. Maybe she was shopping on QVC. Maybe she was on the other line with the President. My mom can be oddly secretive at times, so she could very well be part of some kind of CIA or Vatican deep cover. Operation Babushka.

No matter.

I've talked enough to my mother about The Weather: Snow. Here's a conglomeration of all the snow/winter weather conversation we've had, and how they usually go:

Me: So Mom, right off the bat, what are your thoughts on that freak snow storm in October? Whew! Was that crazy or what?!

My Mom: Oh well, yeah, that was a lot of snow. But you remember that one October. That one when it was your dad's birthday?

Me: Uh, I think so. Tell me that story again.

My Mom: Oh, well! It was October 17, your dad's birthday. And your dad never missed a day of work, never even took a sick day.

Me: Never? Really?

My Mom: No, your dad always made it to work. He was working for PP&L out near Allentown back then. So, it's his birthday and there was an ice storm. On October 17. And the roads were so bad he couldn't get to work.

Me: Wow!

My Mom: Well, yeah, but Allentown didn't have any ice at all, so when your dad called to tell them, well you know what happened.

Me: No, remind me.

My Mom: Well! They didn't believe him! They thought he was making up the ice storm to get off work for his birthday! It wasn't until the next day that everyone heard about the ice storm. Well, of course, this was back before computers and all that.

Me: Back before electricity.

My Mom: No! Now you're being silly. There was electricity. He worked for the electric company. No, but you didn't hear news right away like now. So there was an ice storm on October 17 and that's why after September 30, I always have to tell people that I might or might not be able to drive to see them depending on the weather.

Me: So after September 30 in Pennsylvania, prepare for snow.

My Mom: It doesn't happen too often, but that time it did. And now again. People should carry chains for their tires just in case.

Me: You put chains on your tires?

My Mom: You had to know how to put chains on. Didn't your father teach you how to do that before he let you drive?

Me: Maybe. I don't remember. I know I had to change a tire and drive a stick before he'd let me get my license.

My Mom: Chains are the best thing. We never had snow days at school. That snow would be up to your knees and you'd still hear the bus coming down Front Street in New Boston with the chains on the tires. We always made it down the Potsy (name of a ridiculously steep hill, littered with horseshoe turns) to Mahanoy City.

Me: Bummer.

My Mom: No, not like today. There's a flake or two and no one has school.

Me: The bus drove downhill both ways in the snow, right?

My Mom: Yeah, both ways downhill. And you better not talk on that bus because you'd get it from the bus driver. There was no goofing off.

Me: So, does it snow more or less these days?

My Mom: I remember lots of snow up over the tops of the cars. We had big snowstorms back then. We still have big storms now, too. That township plow, with all that snow last time, you'd think they could plow up the alley instead of down. They keep blocking in my garage! How am I supposed to get out?

Me: I don't know. Can't you call the township and complain?

My Mom: Oh, I don't know. What are they going to do? If I see Jimmy across the street with the back hoe, sometimes I get him to move the piles of snow.

Me: Ah.

My Mom: I don't know why they do that, though. You'd think they'd see most of the garages are on one side of the alley and they wouldn't plow them all in.

Me: So, getting back to snow season in Pennsylvania...when is it safe to take the chains off.

My Mom: Oh, you can't drive in them all the time!

Me: I know, Mom.

My Mom: Those things are loud.

Me: Okay, so when does the snow end? When is there no risk of snow?

My Mom: I never plant anything in the garden until after Memorial Day. Just to be safe.

Me: Wow. Memorial Day. Really?

My Mom: Well yeah. There was that one Easter late in April. We were down Warminster at your cousins' house. But you know, that's further south so it's warmer there.

Mom: About 90 miles south-ish. More southeast.

My Mom: It's warmer there. The daffodils are out earlier. So, that Easter, we were driving back and after the mountain (Blue Mountain) we hit a blizzard. And later we called your grandmother and she didn't believe us. There was no snow near Philly.

Me: That's crazy. How come all these other Pennsylvania people don't believe you when there is this freak weather? You'd think that living in Pennsylvania, they'd know how kooky the weather can be.

My Mom: Yeah, but they don't live in the mountains. It's colder there.

Me: To be fair, the mountains are only about 1,800 feet or so where we live.

My Mom: Oh that's enough! You can see when we drive to your Aunt J's house in Harrisburg. In spring, we don't have the leaves on the trees yet, but down near Harrisburg, the leaves are out.

Me: Yeah, but that's the state capital. They pay higher taxes to have leaves earlier.

My Mom: Oh, go on with ya, it's the mountains. I don't care how much you pay taxes. It's still colder here. You're being goofy again.

Me: I guess. So, what about this "bread, milk, eggs" chaos that happens every time a storm approaches? Why does everyone in Pennsylvania go out and buy bread milk and eggs?

My Mom: That's so if you can't get to the store in a storm.

Me: I know, Mom, but why bread, milk and eggs? Why not hamburger, potatoes and Pepsi?

My Mom: Oh, I don't know. That's just the basics you need to cook.

Me: It's like everyone is getting ready for a French Toast party

My Mom: We made sure we had bread, milk and eggs long before there was French Toast. We used to just have bread, milk and eggs because that's what you needed to cook.

Me: What about potatoes? And cabbage?

My Mom: I don't know. You probably have those things, too, back then.

Me: So what do you think? Is it going to be a long winter with lots of snow this year?

My Mom: Well, don't ask the weathermen. They never get it right. All that doppler radar and satellites. They make everyone crazy with these storms.

Me: Not like in the old days.

My Mom: You know what the weatherman was back then? It was my Uncle Tony walking into the back yard, walking back in and saying, "Looks like it might snow."

Me: I love that story.

My Mom: Go on with ya. You're being goofy.

Homelessness

2011-11-20T23:31:00.002-05:00

At least once a day - and most days, twice - I drive my eldest daughter eight miles to the skating rink.

The road we drive is Interstate 83, and the entirety of the drive is through the Harrisburg metropolitan area.

Some days, the drive can take twenty minutes or less.

But usually not.

Usually there is some snarl of traffic here, another jam there as the highway bottlenecks to two lanes and then one lane. The rush hour starts at 7:00 AM and pretty much lasts the entire day until 7:00 PM. Fridays it's worse. Rain days are worse still.

And even though the road crosses the mile-wide Susquehanna River with a view of the city skyline and mountain vista to the north, and the specter of Three Mile Island to the south...well...after five hundred or so crossings the drive begins to lose any scrap of novelty or hint of excitement. Even ten-car pileups with smoke and sirens become - unfortunately - workaday.

So a few days ago, trapped in another endless slowdown of traffic on a part of the highway not quite in the city, not quite in the suburbs, I tried a little mind game to pass the time.

Instead of being stuck in the gray, drear location of a not-quite-anywhere overpass near Harrisburg, I suggested to my daughter that maybe we were actually somewhere else.

I suggested that the nondescript sameness of the site opened a sort of time-space portal that could alter our awareness of where we were. That the gray, blending edges of the scenery would allow us to sort of slip through this place, shift ever so slightly and end up, really, in any twin location that exists just on the outskirts of almost every major city.

There are elevated highways leaving every city - not through the showcase window that offers the best prospect of the art and industry of a place, but through the back alley where deliveries are made.

The few brick warehouses with fenced in parking lots and garage doors covered in graffiti tags.

Three our four scraggly trees growing at odd angles from sad, small patches of dirt.

A railroad track. Of course, a railroad track.

And I told my daughter,

"Just think! Right now this same scene is playing out in a lot of cities all around the world. We could be anywhere! There is a section of road just like this in Chicago, in New York City...in London or even Rome. Right now, there are people stuck in traffic on overpasses just like this in Denver or Sao Paolo. Johannesburg and Tokyo. Looking at views of warehouses and scraggly trees and bits of railroad yards.

We don't have to be here in Harrisburg. We could be far away from home right now. This overpass can teleport us to any of thousands of similar overpasses anywhere on the planet!

Makes the sitting around feel more exotic and cosmopolitan, yeah? More like an adventure!"

And we both kinda thought about this for a while -

this instant excursion to far away lands that look, after all, very much like this gray and worn part of Harrisburg that's only meant for passing through, mostly, unless you happen to be a scraggly tree or making a delivery to a warehouse.

And then without saying anything, we both decided that this was the most depressing and stupid time-space travel machine in the history of the world ever.

And we were mildly glad to be home.

In our own traffic.

Oh well.

Glee

2011-11-19T22:15:00.001-05:00

Glee. Noun. Great delight or pleasure.

Things That Made Me Feel Glee This Week

☺Figure skating
☺Mayonnaise
☺Campfires
☺White wine with hints of pear
☺Billy Bryson
☺Midsomer Murders
☺My 10 year old's jokes
☺My 5 year old's made-up songs
☺My 12 year old's new habit of telling me I'm awesome (for a 45 year old)
☺Balkan punk
☺Ceilings painted blue
☺The Hotel Hershey
☺Naps
☺Wool socks
☺Getting rid of junk
☺My husband's newfound landscaping hobby
☺Food
☺Balsam
☺Fiddles
☺People who start conversations with "I'm going to tell you something, but don't think I'm weird, okay?"
☺Weather
☺Caramel Brulee Latte

Things That NO Make Me Feel Glee
☹ Crunches on the ball
☹ Mean people
☹ Crunches on the ball
☹ People who say they "hate kids" (see: mean people)
☹ Crunches on the ball
☹ Hearing the song Hotel California

See? I'm pretty easy to please.

I am the doctor!

2011-11-18T19:30:00.000-05:00

And YOU are the DALEKS!

Roasting My First Turkey

2011-11-17T23:32:00.003-05:00

The first turkey I roasted all on my own was Thanksgiving 1986.

The roasting took place in a Boston University apartment on Commonwealth Avenue. I don't remember who was there. Perhaps my roommate from Greece. Maybe some other Coal Region ex-pats who didn't make the journey home that holiday.

I do remember that I never removed the bag of giblets before roasting.

It's not something I would have thought to do. And my mother didn't say, "Oh, hey, by the way - there will be a paper sack full of turkey organs tucked inside the turkey. Remember to removed it before cooking."

I mean, I thought the whole idea behind getting someone else to do the slaughtering and disemboweling was so there wouldn't be a moment when you had to handle a turkey liver. Or a heart.

My mother tells me that she chops up the organs, sautes them, and then hides them in the stuffing. (Or filling, depending on how much Pennsylvania Dutch ya have in ya.)

I tell her that every time she reminds me of this, I have to pay $100 to a hypnotist to make me forget. Because my mom's turkey filling (or stuffing, don't ever call it dressing) is so delicious that even PETA sends her a waiver, noting that most turkeys are despicable and grumpy and kinda deserve what they get. P.S.Don't tell anyone.

And one time, Howard Zinn was drunk at a party and confessed to a co-ed that although he did not celebrate Thanksgiving due to his moral outrage at the general cultural relativism which excuses inexcusable atrocities, he was also a tart for my mom's home cooking.

So yeah. Giblets. Eww. But yum.

Anyway, this is a photo of the second turkey I roasted - this time, in an apartment on Beacon Hill in Boston, Massachusetts.

Well, it's the carcass, anyway.

Can you guess what year this might have been?

(Hint: Look at the hair. My friend is not being ironic.)

I'm actually surprised that I have a photo that so nearly matches a NaBloPoMo suggestion on such a weird topic.

Actually, I'm kinda not surprised.

Canoodle

2011-11-16T23:08:00.004-05:00

5 year old: A girl kissed me in school.

Mother: Oh really? A girl in your class?

5yo: Yes.

Mother: Did she kiss you on the cheek?

5yo: Yes.

Mother: What did you think of that?

5yo: I didn't like it.

Mother: Did you tell her that you didn't like it?

5yo: Yes. G. and I told her that boys and girls only should kiss if it's your family.

Mother: And what did she think about that?

5yo: Well, she said that sometimes boys and girls kiss if they are in love.

Mother: Hmmm.

Father: That's very European.

Mother:

Father: What?

Mother:

5yo: I'm going to tell her there should be no more kissing.

--------

Mother: So what about you? Are girls kissing boys in your class?

Child: NO.

Mother: Good.

Child: Well. Not in class.

Mother: Oh?

Child: One girl and boy kissed. But it was at a party.

Mother: Oh.

Child: Yeah. They locked themselves in a bathroom. And they kissed.

Mother: Hmmm.

Child: Yeah. But now they are mad at each other.

Father: Why? Did she tell him he can't play baseball every weekend? Or hang out with his friends?

Mother:

Father: What?

Mother:

Father: What?

Mother: No kissing until after grad school.

Child: Wait, what? What's grad school? How long is that going to be?

Screamers

2011-11-15T22:12:00.007-05:00

So, the next word in my list of NaBloPoMo suggestions is "screamers".

Which may sound like a type of horror movie. Or a particularly gut-dropping thrill ride at an amusement park. Or some kind of small caliber firework that rockets away with a screeching whistle after blowing off your fingertips.

In fact, this definition of "screamer" - judging from the source of the suggestion - refers to yet another kind of food from whence I grew up.

Not, perhaps, an ethnic speciality or - upon breaking down the ingredients - even a type of food that you can't get just about anywhere if you put your mind to it.

However, this food is not just about the ingredients. Or the packaging. Or even the fabulous ain't-nothin'-else-like-it taste.

It's about all three of those things.

And it's about the experience.

I was going to describe a Screamer to you, but I think this guy from Roadfood.com says it best:

Screamers are a legendary hamburger with Tony's hot sauce and onions with a buttered bun, just as described. They are hot, no question about it. They will burn ya twice. Certain days of the week are hotter than others. I imagine that Joe (current owner, not Tony) makes big batches of the stuff and if it sits around unsold it gets hotter. It is heated before application to the Screamer.

The typical happy meal at Tony's is 2 Screamers chased by a Guers Iced Tea or a Chocolate Milk. The milk seems to cool the bite of the hot sauce a little better than the tea. The place is open from about 8:30 PM till about 2:30 or 3 AM. Despite the name Tony's Lunch, it is not open for lunch. It caters to the bar crowd and night owls. Not that there are many bars in Girardville anymore, but people come from all over creation for Screamers and with good reason. They are fantastic. If you don't like spicy food, get a burger however you like it with normal condiments. These burgers are hot, and I like hot stuff. The secret I believe is the butter on the bun. Not grilled, just spread on like your Mom used to do with your school lunch. The heat of the meat does the rest.

The sauce cannot be purchased to take home. The recipe is more secret than launch codes. Tony's is a great, great place. I haven't had one in years but I don't imagine much has changed.

This about sums it up.

I honestly couldn't have said it any better.

Most Screamer Runs (that's the process of driving to Girardville to purchase Screamers, although it could also describe what happens a few hours later) go down like this:

You're sitting around, maybe at Roman's Bar, maybe at the Black Diamond, drinking your third bottle of Yuengling and playing with the change from the fiver you had to break -

Or maybe you're sitting on the front porch drinking a Yuengling and your old lady just yelled at you to keep it down, it's after midnight -

Or maybe you got home from a Friday night football game and you're sitting around your mom's kitchen drinking your dad's Yuengling -

And someone says to someone else, Yo, I could really go for a Screamer. How 'bout youze guys?

And someone else says, Oh, Yazzuz, if I eat one a dem right now, I'll be shittin' fire all day tamorrow.

And that should be the end of that.

Yet somehow, this last bon mot gets everyone to thinking just how delicious a Screamer is, and no matter how much it burns going down or coming out, it's always worth it.

So then you all take a sip of your beer and shuffle around a bit waiting to see if anyone is going to volunteer to go out in the cold and drive down the mountain to Girardville. And nobody says anything for a while. And then you start talking about the game or yer old lady or the how the Journey song on the jukebox always reminds you of sophomore year in high school even though you never intentionally listened to Journey in high school and if the remake of Don't Stop Believing is a good enough reason to hate Glee, well then that's a good enough reason. And yo, remember that time after homecoming, me, you, Chesko, Bughead, and Anne-Marie from North Schuylkill took your dad's car and you only had yer learner's permit? And we drove out to that party and almost skidded down a strippin' hole? And Chesko broke his tooth on the back of your head when we hit that railroad track goin' fifty, da fuck? Oh yeah, and we ended up down at the Dunkin' Donuts in Pottsville with them kids from Mt. Caramel and that boy said to meet him at Tony's?

And then everyone gets quiet again, but another hour and two more beers have gone by and now you're that much farther from a Screamer - from biting into the buttery softness of the bun, sinking into the nuclear delicacy of the hot sauce, the quick crunch of onions, the top layer of your tongue flaying away in ecstasy and washing it all down with chocolately salvation in some Yonko-Catholic palate immolation ritual that simultaneously offers bodily purification via gustatory rapture.

No one says this. But it's what you're all thinking.

Finally, someone stands up and announces, "I'm heading to Tony's. Who's going wit me?"

It's a tough decision. Because although you'd be one of the first to get your fresh, hot Screamer...well...man, it's after midnight and your pupils are permanently dilated and just walking into the fluorescent light and getting a glimpse of all the other meat-hungry, lager-stupid Skook zombies is a reality-mirror you're not sure you're up for right now.

At the same time, you don't feel like sitting around reminiscing like the bad tracks on Springsteen's Born In The USA album. And someone else is flipping through channels on the television and it looks like all QVC and Mesothelioma Attorney ads.

The night is cold.

The car is colder.

The stars are billions in the Pennsylvania sky.

The drive is quiet on your way out of town into the valley.

Blacktop roads with only a few streetlights here in Gilberton, now a few more string through Mahanoy Plane, the patch towns barely there then gone as you speed through the dark. Roads around here all have unofficial names: the Burma, the Goldstar, Two-Miler. Your mom told you once that this stretch was called The Flicker. Your grandfather was dating a girl from Mahanoy Plane. She was walking at night along The Flicker with a friend, coming home from a dance, and she was hit by a car and killed. Or maybe The Flicker was the name of the patch town itself? A village. Three or four shingled houses shrugged together along the hill. You can see the outlines at angles. One boarded up and lifeless. Another slightly tilting silhouette, you catch a kitchen light, someone at a table with a Yuengling, another person putting on a jacket, getting ready for a Screamer Run herself.

It took this long for the heat to kick on, and now you're roasting. You roll down the window and a blast of icy air reminds you that it's way too cold to roll down the window. You roll up the window, and realize you're hungrier than you've ever been ever. It seems like a week ago since someone first made the suggestion of food. Now it's a mile to go before you eat.

What were you thinking?

You're tired.

Your buzz is wearing off

Is there anything in the world that would possibly be worth the drive through these non-hours of the morning when most mortals are content with slapping together some coldcuts between bread, having a quick snack, and trundling off to beds and pillows and sleep, sleep, sleep?

There is.

ANOTHER Busy Day! Can you believes it? Luckily....

2011-11-14T22:38:00.004-05:00

I can punt.

Because I HAVE been writing. Just not here.

It counts. I say so.

Here's my list of posts at Insert Eyeroll:

CLICK ME! -> JOSETTE'S AWESOME INSERT EYEROLL POSTS

Just in case it's not clear, this is a satire site.

Which means I get to make up stories that are close to the truth - but not really the truth - in an attempt to point out deeper truths.

I just want to make that clear.

Because a few people thought the story about homeless people in Harrisburg was true.

If it were true, then Harrisburg would really suck.

But it's not true. And so, Harrisburg is awesome.

That's basic Logic 101.

Which I happened to get a C- in at college.

I did, however, get an A+ in English and a special dispensation to use double prepositions. In at.

I'll tell you later why I was so very busy. But right now, it's important to just know that I was

1) Out of town

2) doing Very Important blogger stuff

3) and talking to other bloggers who did a very good job humoring me and my ramblings about things like rabies vaccines, ice skating, hookers, potato chips, and living next door to a South Philly mobster.

All true. No satire.

There's nothing funny at all about potato chips.

Busy Day

2011-11-13T22:49:00.000-05:00

Today was a busy day.

Sometimes, writers don't write on busy days, even when it's NaBloPoMo.

Sometimes, they have to do other things that don't allow them time to sit and write. Or stand and write.

Like fishing.

Or running with bulls.

Or drinking a lot of tequila.

I did not go fishing or run with bulls or drink tequila.

But I was still busy.

I'm writing about how busy I was, and it kinda counts, but it kinda more doesn't count.

So that's that.

You get what you get and you don't get upset.

Here a picture to make you happy.

It's me.

With country-western hair.

My Worst Hair Day Ever

2011-11-12T21:00:00.000-05:00

Yeah.

It would have to be this one.

Grudges

2011-11-11T23:56:00.004-05:00

Okay. Grudges.

Let me think on this a while....

What the hell is a grudge?
I mean, I think I know. But maybe I don't.

Grudge. noun. a feeling of ill will or resentment

So it's a feeling. And it's resentment.

And people bear grudges. And they hold grudges.

Good lord, I'm exhausted already.

But sure, I have undergone some times of feeling extended ill will and resentment toward someone.

See here -

A somewhat incomplete list of grudges I have born and briefly held:

The time I wanted to go on the Salt-and-Pepper Shaker ride at Knoebels, but you wouldn't go on with me and made up all kinds of excuses to not go on with me. And I wasn't allowed to go on alone.

The time you told me I was the worst scissor-cutter you'd ever seen.

The time I didn't get to be May Queen, but you did. I knew it was because you were taller and I was shorter.

The time you yelled at me in front of the entire lunch room because I forgot to bring the bell downstairs from the classroom.

The whole "who is the best Beatle" argument. Then the "Yoko versus Linda" debate that almost turned into a fist-fight during a sleepover party.

The day you kicked me out of the car because that was the day you decided I wasn't "in" anymore.

The concert you asked me to but then brought another girl.

The play rehearsal when you were supposed to stage slap me, but you slapped me for real. In the face. On the wrong side of the fake blood capsule.

The eight weeks I helped you work on that stupid movie script - the re-writes, the readings - but then you cast a blonde, busty girl in the lead role. When you knew I was a better actor all along.

The day I told you who I was going to invite to the dance. And before I got a chance to ask him, you cornered him and asked him yourself...to go with you.

The party when you asked me to fend off all the people who were pissed off at you. And I did. And then you pretended that you were never angry with them in the first place. And they become pissed off at me.

Those are a few grudges I have held.

But don't anymore.

Not because in retrospect the events weren't actually as hurtful or frustrating as I thought at the time. Although, probably they weren't.

Not because I'm a forgiving person. I'm sometimes not. Although, mostly I can be.

Not because these events were ultimately character building experiences which made me stronger, and so I now have no regrets. And what the hell does that even mean, anyway? Freaking Dr. Phil.

Grudges - more exactly, an extended feeling of ill-will and resentment - take a lot of active holding on to. And even trying to get over a grudge is a pretty tedious and involved activity. All the soul-searching and post-mortem analysis. All the drudgery of attempting to put on a happy face when really you just want to stab someone. All the machinations to let the wrong-doer know - but without letting them know that you're intending to let them know - that you're holding a grudge. And they'd better watch out.

I suppose I do all that...for a while.

And then, eventually, I just kind of don't.

I haven't thought a way over or around or through the grudge. I haven't come to terms. I haven't considered it a different way. I haven't done anything really enlightened or reasonable or rational or spiritual to get over the grudge.

I think I just...find something else to do?

Maybe I'm lazy.

Or maybe I'm distracted by shiny objects.

That's not to say that I've forgotten - or forgiven - any truly malicious wrongdoings by people who are more wholly scoundrel-like in their dealings with other humans. But that doesn't take much work. That kind of disesteem comes with an easy clarity. And some folks have certainly undergone honest-to-goodness traumas and inflicted disasters which involve life-long treatment and re-dressing of tender scars and gaping wounds. But harms such as these cause more than the comparative simplicity of "ill will or resentment."

Grudges?

I've a had...a few.

They take a lot of time and effort.

I like naps and glitterballs much better.

Poetry

2011-11-10T22:58:00.002-05:00

I write some poetry.
I didn't write this.

I wish I had.

Although, maybe Jeep Cherokees aren't the status symbol they used to be. Replace with the car of your choice.

I think the gist is that no matter how lowly our ride, we Americans are all someone else's 1%.

Jeep Cherokee
by Bruce A Jacobs

You've never known
a single Indian
who wasnt painted
onto a football helmet
or branded in chrome
on a tailgate, but there you go,
off mashing the landscape
like some edge-city explorer,
flinging yourself toward
new worlds beyond the driveway,
Lewis and Clark
with a seat belt.
Go ahead, you trampling trooper,
you goose-stepping little
Godzilla, you shining beast
of raging fashion,
riding the big teeth
of your tires as if you
would ever follow a dirt road
anywhere but to a car wash.
This is America,
and youfree to drive
anything you can buy
but I will tell you:
Hitler would love this car-
a machine in which even the middle class
can master the world,
purchase their way through peril
safely as senators.
This is a car for
a uniformed strongman,
a one-car motorcade
through a thatched village
of strangers.
This is the car that will
replace Prozac.
This is the car that Barbie buys
with mad money
after the date with Angry White Ken.
This the car that makes it safe
to be hateful in public.
Go ahead. Climb in. Look
at yourself, way up there
on the bridge of this
thick-windowed ship of enterprise.
Everybody knows
the only way today is to
buy your way through,
be bigger, be better,
be a bully, be a barger,
be sure youre safe from the poor,
bustle your way through
each days bombardment
with the muscle of royalty.
You've got the power
to bring back the monarchy
four fat tires at a time.
Go anywhere. Youre entitled.
You have squashers rights.
Onward! Accelerate,
you brawny bruising winner,
you self-saluting junta on wheels,
you reclaimer of gold-bricked streets.
Democracy is for people
stuck in small cars
and God has never ruled
through traffic laws.
Get used to the feeling
of having your way.
Each broad cut of the steering wheel
is your turn at conquest.
The power-assisted triumph
of the me
in heavy traffic.
You are rolling proof
that voting is stupid,
that the whole damn machine is fixed
before it leaves the factory,
that fairness is a showroom,
that togetherness is for bus riders,
that TV has the right idea:
there is just you in a small room
on the safe side of glass,
with desire spread out before you
like a ballroom without walls,
and you will not be denied,
youve got the moves and the view,
you dont need government, unions,
bank regulation, mercy,
the soft hands of strangers.
Youve got 4-wheel drive
and a phone, youve got
the friendship of a reinforced chassis,
youve got empathy for dictators
without knowing it,
youve got freedom from read-view mirrors,
youve got wide-bodied citizenship,
youve gained Custers Revenge:
caissons packed with children and soccer balls
coasting across the plowed prairie,
history remodeled with one great
blaring of jingles and horns:

Hail Citizen King!
Hail the unswerving settler!
Hail the rule of logo!
Hail Jeep Cherokee!

Elements

2011-11-09T23:55:00.006-05:00

Wednesday afternoon

while you were not here

we saw a green field
and along the edge, trees
braced for colder days

we found a walkway
zig-zagging across the wetlands
we looked for frogs
but they were already asleep

we stopped near a clear pond
and dipped our fingers into the water
and laughed at how cold
the trees' feet must be

you asked if the geese knew
that we were nearby
I said yes they know
and we are welcome

this patch of grass is so green
can we walk up that path?
not today, I said
that's a different adventure

this is a big leaf
and I would be sorry
if I should lose it
it would make such
a fine hat

these flowers look like red flames
what shall we call them?
just red flames
that is a good name for these flowers

these are leaves, not mud
mud is soft and wet and dirty
these leaves are crunchy
these leaves are okay for new sneakers to walk on

right mommy?

who put these stones here?
do you know?

i like this day
i like this day, too

you are a good mommy

this is a nice forest

it is easy to be good here

this is milkweed

feel how soft on your hand

see how the wind

says it's time to go?

will we come back to this place?

I think so, yes

another day
you and I.

Imagination

2011-11-08T23:20:00.007-05:00

Child: It's light outside! It's usually dark in the morning!

Mom: Time moved back an hour.

Child: We can do that? Just change time?

Mom: No. Only I can. I'm a Time Lord.

Child: Really?!

Click on picture to view full size.

My 5-year-old son's drawing of the himself with the cast of Dr. Who:

Dr. Who, Amy Pond, and Rory

Dr. Who is saying "I am The Doctor."

Rory is commenting on the weird sun in the sky.

Amy is singing the YMCA song.

The giant eye above them is, of course, an Atraxia spaceship.

One can only imagine.

Cabbage

2011-11-07T22:16:00.012-05:00

(Recipes at end of blog post. Good recipes. And a photo of my mom.)

Cabbage has an unfortunate reputation.

Stinky. Gassy.

The food of people from foreign lands - dirty, flea-bitten, stepping off gangplanks and living on top of each other in tenements.

Cabbage Eater. Kraut.

Although the French petite chou is endearing, as little cabbages often are.

The lowly cabbage. It can't help that it's stinky. And windy.

I didn't grow up eating a lot of cabbage. Not because it wasn't all around me - my ethnic heritage is Lithuanian, Polish, Irish, and Pennsylvania Dutch (think Amish, except the kind of Amish who's not afraid to punch you in the nose if he had to.)

I was literally steaming in cabbage. Yet, I didn't eat it because I used to be the pickiest eater on the planet. Yes, even picker than your kid.

However, times change, children mature, and palates are deadened by so many cups of steaming hot coffee and that summer in France when one smoked Gauloises -

And eventually, one day, you return the long way around to getting to know cabbage again - not via a trip home to the St. Canicus church picnic and a Styrofoam bowl full of buttery halushki.

Church ladies cooking up something buttery and cabbage-tastic in Mahanoy City, PA

But slyly. Unexpectedly. Almost embarrassingly and as a slap in your high-falutin' face as you were acting all cosmopolitan and adventurous, showing off your flair for being comfortable with the exotic as you dipped-in to a bowl of Vietnamese soup or a plate of Aloo Gobi...and with the second mouthful, it dawns on you:

This is cabbage. This is potatoes. This is broth and noodles and the same kind of root and cruciferous melange that every culture that ever lived through hard times has thrown together to get themselves to the next hard time.

And you just paid $8.95 for something you've been p-shawing for years. (Except without the turmeric and galangal.)

Here's the other thing:

You should just eat your cabbage. Eat it. Eat it, eat it, eat it.

Cabbage is damn healthy for you. (Or purports to be. Maybe cabbage is not really healthy but finally got a good PR manager.)

Vitamin C, fiber, potassium.

Cabbage also may have important cancer-fighting super powers. Ever hear of indoles? Yeah, me neither. But a quick Google around will tell you that cabbage is packed with these phytochemicals that may turn the evil estrogen into safer estrogen. And if you've ever had cervical dysplasia - and really, who has that kind of flexibility and strong lighting to check themselves; best go get your Pap smear and find out for sure - there are some studies out there which begin to indicate that cabbage may be good for all your nether regions. As raw as possible. As masticated as possible.

And I'm talking about the cabbage, just in case you got off track.

Miracle cures aside...

Here are a few of my favorite old-timey cabbage recipes. Enjoy! And feel free to add your own in the comments!

Lithuanian/Polish Halupkis
From the St. Ann's Church Cookbook, circa 1987 - recipe by Irene Roman with my additions.

2 1/2 lbs ground beef
1 lb ground pork
2 medium onions, minced
1 1/2 tsp garlic salt
1/4 tsp black pepper
1 tsp salt
2 eggs
3 large cabbages (don't be shy)
1 1/2 cups rice
1 (10 3/4 oz) can tomato soup
1/2 jar (14 oz) catsup (or ketchup)

Directions:

Turn on your favorite polka album.

Core cabbage and steam until tender. (Open the windows.)

Cook rice and let cool.

Drink a small glass of sweet wine or a shot of Four Roses.

Combine meat, onions, eggs, cooked rice and spices.

Moosh it up with your hands. Really get into it. This will develop your upper body until you can crush beer cans under your armpits.

Place ball of meat in a cabbage leaf.

Scream after touching steaming hot leaf and run hands under cold water.

Drink a highball.

Roll up cabbage leaf and tuck in ends. (Repeat scream, etc.)

Place layer of cabbage in a big-ass roasting pan.

Arrange rolled cabbage and meat in roaster. Really tuck them in like babies.

Pour tomato soup and catsup over them.

Take your curlers out.

Bake at 350 degrees for about 1 1/2 hours. This will give you time to get to Mass and back again.

This is not a woman who has burned her hand on hot cabbage leaves.
This is my mother. And she is an Eastern European ninja.

Irish Colcannon

Recipe from Spiral Path Organic Farm (Terra makes it with kale which is just as yummy. Kale is so good for your eyes that you will have X-ray vision after one bite. I promise)

1 Bunch of Kale or Lacinato Kale, cut into thin slices and then cross cut fine

2 Onions, chopped

5 cloves of garlic

2 C grated carrot

1/3 C olive oil

¼ tsp pepper

1 tsp salt

6 C potatoes, diced with skins on; more nutrition, richer flavor, less work

¼ C minced fresh parsley

Instructions

Sauté the onions, garlic, and carrots until soft. Add the kale all at once and stir often over high heat until well wilted. Add ¼ C water, salt & pepper. The steam will rise, cover the pan and allow steaming at low temp for 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Place this on the bottom of a 9x13-buttered pan. Spread parsley mashed potatoes (see below) over the kale mix. Top with 2 C of your favorite cheese, mild cheddar is great. Bake at 350 degrees for one hour.

Parsley-Mashed Potatoes: Dice 5-6 cups of potatoes. Barely cover with water, add 1 t salt. Bring to a boil and then simmer until potatoes are very soft, about 15 mins. Pour off water (save for soup stock). Add about 2 C milk, 4 T butter, and parsley. Mash by hand or with mixer. Add salt, pepper and 1/8 t nutmeg (yes, my secret ingredient for awesome mashed potatoes) to taste. Vegan style: use the potato water-no milk.

Colcannon: a traditional Irish and West Scots meal of butter, cabbage (or kale), potatoes, salt & pepper. It is an old Irish Halloween tradition to serve colcannon with prizes of small coins concealed within this warm comfort food.

Here's my ginger boy at the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Girardville, PA.
He looks very Irish. However, there is no red hair from the Irish in our
families that I know of. The red hair comes from the Italians
and probably the Lithuanian ancestors who shacked up with Vikings.

PA Dutch Pepper Cabbage

From the Zion Evangelical Lutheran Church Cookbook, Manheim, PA. No date, no copyright page - it's like these people have never heard of Creative Commons. Recipe by Mary Ulrich.

1 medium head of cabbage, shredded

1 green pepper, chopped fine

1 tsp salt

Syrup

3/4 cup vinegar

1/4 cup water

1 tsp dry mustard

1 3/4 cup sugar

1 tsp celery seed

Add 1 1/2 cups boiling water to cabbage, pepper and salt. Let set for one hour. Drain. Add syrup mixture which has been boiled gently for 5 minutes and is cold.

Now go finish starching the sheets and call the daughters in to scrub the floors.

This is my Great Aunt Louise who lived in The Foot (aka Mahanoy Plane, PA).
She was part PA Dutch. Which explains the whitewashing, I believe.
She is in her garden - a magical place of bottles filled with
colored water, seashell pathways, and lots of cats. And an outhouse.
Which you can see in the far right. An endless source of fascination
for great nieces and nephews high on soda and circus peanuts.

You can check out more cabbage, butter, onion, noodle, garlic recipes from my neck of the woods at CoalRegion.com