E is for Ecbatic(1)

Today tastes like escargot, endive, eisel², and erasers.

Two lines and two footnotes. A record, even for this blog.

Some months ago, when I had That Conversation with my doctor ("You need to change your evil ways, Spike." "Or what, doc?" "Well . . . let's just say I wouldn't start any long books or all-day suckers if I were you.") I found a recipe for cauliflower soup that didn't taste like punishment, but was still actually low-fat and all that good stuff. I began carrying that for lunch each day, playing with the ingredients for variety.

DH Gareth came into the kitchen one day, and asked, "What is that heavenly smell?" I told him, and he poked his head into the kettle to see for himself. He smacked his lips and said, "I think we need to throw a dinner party, and feature this as one of the courses."

So we started planning. We'd wanted to throw a paired tasting dinner for our extreme foodie friends for some time; had discussed ways to do it--a travelling dinner where we'd have appetizers at one home, soup at the next, and so on; or possibly just getting together for dinner once a month and rotating the hosting duties. But nothing came together.

Until this last Saturday, when we whipped up a batch of soup, begged an insane foodie buddy to make us some pasta (fresh, from-scratch pasta with seafood sauce! So not on the cardiologist's diet, "If it tastes good, spit it out.") roasted a fabulous leg of lamb, and I made a Boca Negra-- a deadly flourless chocolate cake flavored with bourbon. The cake is a deep black souffle, and yes, you will have a black mouth upon consumption of the same.

Dinner was a hit, but Gareth needs to refine his pour a little. It's easier to serve some more wine to come out even with the course, not so easy to remove some excess wine from one's bloodstream! We almost had a house full of guests who came to dinner and couldn't leave!

This brough up a round of "we have to do this more often," and "we'd love to host the next one," and Mischief's Lad volunteered that he had some elk in the frezzer that he didn't want to go bad, so we told him that if he'd set the date, we'd be there.

Hoping something grows from this. I think once a quarter'd be nice, as well as dividing up among the participants well.





1. Ecbatic: a grammatical construction indicating result without intention. Like Topsy, it just growed.

2. Eisel: a sour wine, resembling vinegar

What's Possible?

Today tastes like liverwurst and truffles . . . oh wait, that was this morning's breakfast and last night's dinner. But at the same time, metaphorically apt--meaty, earthy, organic and satisfying.

One of our favorite restaurants held a paired tasting menu last night, featuring truffles. It was almost like finally eating with the Chairman on Iron Chef--two well-known chefs about town each presenting their vision of an item with common ingredients, centered around truffles because it's truffle season. White Alba truffles, that is. I was really looking forward to last night because I could finally decide which I preferred--black or white? Decisions, decisions, I know. (And the answer is . . . black. The flavor's more intense.)

But it was a glorious meal, nontheless. Even though we did not get to bed until almost midnight (on a SCHOOL NIGHT!!) and I packed breakfast to take to work with me, it was a wonderful evening. We swapped foodie stories and restaurant reviews with a couple at our table, and wound up exchanging e-dresses and a vague promise of dinner together someplace after the confetti settles from the new year.

And I think of our conversation, just Gareth and I, out on the patio in the balmy November air. Where we talked about priorities and Christmas lists, and I realized that more and more, I want experiences rather than stuff. I want stuff to make stuff with; I want the experience of having made the thing. I don't necessarily want the thing itself.

And I think about that, and I think about the fabulous dinner we had (and we're going back for New Year's Eve, to that same restaurant. I made reservations last night, just to be sure we'd have a seat.)

And I re-read the query of today's post above, and the only answer I find is: just about anything. In the immortal words of Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley, "You just gotta decide, girl, and then you let me know."

Cue the riff.

Meatcake, or Beware of Geeks Bearing Gifts

Today tastes like roasted garlic mashed potatoes, beets, and carrots. Not surprising, if you read the rest of this post.

See, every year the gang throws several parties in designated months. This allows us to set our social calendar, knowing when we will all gather together. Winter's End, the April Party, the August Party, Dead Man's, Grimm's Christmas. Medieval garb is always welcome, and the themes vary, tho' usually with a heavy fantasy component. This year, the theme was a dwarves' celebration.




One of the parties corresponds with dear husband Gareth's month o' birth. Traditionally, birthday cakes are disbursed to members of the group celebrating. However, Gareth does not care for sweets.

For a couple of years, a good pal and I had bandied about the idea of making a double-decker meatloaf, then frosting it with mashed potatoes. Just like a layer cake. However, we usually remembered we were going to do this right after the party. Like the next day, as we nursed our hangovers with dim sum.

Ah, but this year we got our acts more or less together the month before. We planned to get together the day of the party so we could devote some time to making the meatcake. Six pounds of meatloaf, a boatload of mashed potatoes and riced carrots. Beet juice to color some of the potatoes with, and a crash course in how to make frosting roses.

Et voila!



There wasn't enough room to write "Happy Birthday, Gareth" in barbeque sauce, so we opted to draw his sigil instead--the triangle within a triangle. Good enough to eat, no??

While Strolling on the Banks

Today tastes like the chocolate Coca-Cola cake my mother would make for birthdays if you begged specially. The old formula Coke, not the "classic formula" they came out with after the fiasco of new Coke. It's not the same, I've tried the recipie on my own, in nostalgic moments when I can conveniently forget that the recipe calls for three sticks of butter, and a cup of sugar on top of the half-sack of minature marshmallows, AND the Coke, AND the box of confectioner's sugar. Oh, did I forget the two cups of pecans?

Yup, it's a recipe out of Hell's Kitchen--nothing but sugar and fat. No redeeming virtues at all. But ever so yummy--carmelized sugar and chocolate in one gooey masterpiece, ready to go right out of the oven.

Did I mention it freezes well and microwaves beautifully? That would be why I'm out in the morning, walking for an hour before I go to the gym for my workout.

It may be spring when the swallows come back to Capistrano, but it's fall when the waterfowl come back to Phoenix. One hears that irrigation canals criss-cross the city, which made it possible to farm a water-hungry crop like citrus, and still nourish lawns and golf courses so people who move here from greener pastures to get away from winters and allergies can recreate what they left behind--moaning about the unbearable humidity and thier everlasting allergies.

But it's one thing to see photos, and another to live in a city that was laid out by Bradbury's golden-eyed Martians. Raised canals cut gouges through farmland turned suburbia, with parks and fields lying low beside them. In summer, when the monsoons have been niggardly with their moisture, the fields are irrigated--flooded--with water drawn from the canals, grass swaying under three inches of water soaking into the soil.

And having water available brings its own little ecosystem. In the winter, its common to see ducks going about their business on the canals, finding places under bridges where the current's surface flow eddies, dabbling after weeds that found cracks in the cement liner to grow, flapping out onto the banks to go to work on some grass humans planted in a backyard poking under the fence, or in a park.

So the school by my house had irrigated the soccer field over the weekend, and a little pond lay in the lowest spots. The ducks, bless their little webfooted hearts, had noticed water and grass--which meant that there must be worms and other good things. They were paddling about on the pond, oblivious to the skeletal goalposts and backstop sprouting from the surface like Excalibur.

Pussycat, Pussycat

Ok, have not been to London recently (and have not viddied any queens), but did go to Florence, Italy for a marvellous 10 days--and only just got caught up enough to start blogging again.

The trip isn't over till you've done the laundry and finished up the journal entries. Therefore, although the plane touched down 9/17, the trip just ended yesterday, when I glued the last wine label in the emphemeral Travelling Art Journal.

It appears that the legend of this trip is going to be the serendipitous finding of a paired wine tasting. We were wandering the streets of old Firenze, looking for a place for lunch, and we came across a menu whose format we recognized--matching wines with courses. For that very night. So we popped in to see if this was an every night thing, as we usually save a blow-out meal for the last dinner in a place, and this was the next-to-last dinner.

Ah, no, tonight only, the chef explained. She would put together a paired menu once every couple of weeks, depending on what was fresh in the markeplaces and what came in from the wineries. So we decided we would eat in the local equivalent of McDonald's (i.e. a cheap, fast, filling meal) in order to have one special dinner.

We discovered that Chianti actually works with certain flavors (like liver) and certain textures (like duck-the oiliness of the bird cuts some of the roughness from the wine). A big surprise to these two non-red drinkers.

Finished a knitted lace tank while on vacation--those 14 hour plane rides are good for something at least. It's bad when you realize you're watching "Herbie -- Reloaded" and it's better than nothing. Hooooo.

Signing off for now to dig through the e-mail morass. I hate to switch to no-mail because I'm afraid of missing something, but then getting caught back up is nightmarish.

Previous Oral Fixation

We used to go to the mall and buy huge soft pretzels, with little cups of American cheese to dunk the pieces in. Lori, stick straight stick slender, proud of her tanned kneecaps. Karen with her round freckled moon face, Gwen with the overbite she could stick her thumb behind with her teeth clamped. She could have modeled for Matt Groening.

Spring break, summer break, winter afternoons lumpy with clouds. The mall with its “cobblestone” floors and fake lampposts to add character. Sweltering in the heat under layers of clothes—none of us drove, so we walked or took the bus. Shivering and sunburned in halter tops and cutoffs rolled up our thighs.

The pretzels were expensive, hard on our pocketbooks. And they went so fast in their hot salty cheesy chewiness. But one would do for a light lunch or heavy snack. We’d sit on the low walls of the greenery islands, licking salt and cheese from our fingers as we consumed them, struggling with our timing. Fast enough to enjoy them while they were hot, but slow enough to make them last a little longer.

Sometimes I think everything would be all right if I could just have a pretzel like that again. But they taste different now. And the mall has lost its infinite realm of possibilities.

On the First Day of Birthday . . .

Today tastes like grapefruit sprinkled with sugar and baking soda—bitter, sweet, and fizzy.

Celebrated the twelve days of birthday this weekend—actual day is today, 4/4. I am as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth. Oh, and I’ve been able to run for president for a couple of years now, so my last truly significant birthday is behind me.

It’s funny how we can’t wait to add another year for so long. “I’m four AND A HALF,” we say. “I am sixteen going on seventeen.” “I’m almost twenty-one.” And then, after a few years, for the rest of our lives we resort to evasions—“thirtysomething.” “Fortymumble.” “Not quite old enough for Social Security.” Or we flat out shave off five or ten years—which I think begs the response “My, but time has been unkind. I would have taken you for fortymumble, not thirtysomething.”

I recognize that I’m guilty of evasions, as evidenced by the opening paragraph. However, I plan to begin ADDING years when evasion no longer works. At least, until someone tells me that I look my age. Yes, I too think that song is about me. (Don’t I, don’t I.)

Anyway—the twelve days of birthday. First Consort Gareth complained that HE didn’t get twelve days of birthday, and I told him that his lack of imagination wasn’t my problem. I rather like the idea. I’ve blogged elsewhere about the twelve days of holiday, and the logic holds. Any celebration is worth stretching out and enjoying rather than trying to cram it all into one whirlwind day.

So first, I took Monday, my actual birthday off. An attorney I used to work for made it a point never to work on his birthday, and I really liked the idea. Hey, that’s what I have personal days and vacation time for. I remember being really bummed when my birthday fell on a school day—bright spring morning, full of promise, just getting warm after winter—AND MY BIRTHDAY—and I had to spend it crammed in a classroom. Ick. I was so jealous of the kids whose birthdays fell during the summer when class was out.

Friday night, we had plans to go out to dinner with a couple of friends. Not the “intimate party” of ten or so, but a grand total of five. Wunnerful, wunnerful. All of them people I either want to get to know better, or can spend oodles of time with and enjoy every minute of it. We went to our favorite little Polish place where the food is a thing of beauty, and the only thing that could derail it is the service, which needs to come up a notch or two to be ghastly. They don’t have enough hands to go round, and the staff they have are charming and pleasant—but forgetful, and don’t cover the gaps in service well. If you sit me down, then plop a drink and menu in front of me, you can walk away for quite some time before I begin getting antsy. But don’t sit me down, take my drink order, and then take a hike. I’ll notice.

Ah, but the angels eat their goulash, and vie to be the next one to visit this plane of existence, just for the experience. So—bring a book, and learn where the iced tea pitcher is kept.

Saturday we went for an art crawl to our favorite hanging spots around the Valley. First Consort Gareth and I like museums and other public sorts of spaces, where you can go and see the art without having another consumer experience BUY THIS BUY THIS BUY THIS BUY THIS flashing in your face. Until you get to the gift shoppe. But then, you can always choose to skip that part of the tour. Shrug. Some kinds of cake are for looking, others are for eating, and I like to keep the two separated so I don’t end up with a big bite of crystal sugar and cardboard.

Over by the Nelson gallery on the ASU campus, they have opened up the Experimental Ceramics gallery—which has been coming for literally years. I had given up on ever getting inside. But while we ran through the Nelson (and there’s a great installation of a couple’s personal collection of challenging works there, including a sculpture in the Inuit tradition with a boy mounted on the back of a loon, red and black paint on both their faces. The lines of flight are so wonderfully captured; they are both so free in the wood. Perhaps I’ll be seeing wings on the Big Bad Muse.) the gentleman in the gift shoppe mentioned that the ceramics gallery had opened; had we been there yet? Why, no, but we were going to fix that in a hurry.

So we moved the car to a garage where we could leave it for a while and not have to scurry to feed the meter. Off to the ceramics gallery, where they had an eclectic collection of sculpture. I understand that dusting and touching presents a problem, but still, I hate it when they put sculpture in glass-front bookcases so you can only see one side. That makes it like flat art, you can’t see the back of the painting. Or rather, you can, there’s just not a different view. It’s like a movie rather than a play; it reduces your opportunity to interact with the thing—even if you have to keep your hands off.

They had many many charming teapots—both functional and not. I guess when your thang is ceramics, a large part becomes teapots. I liked a demitasse set where the pot and cups were halved—there was a straight wall down the middle so it could still hold liquid, but you would by default only get half a cup. Another set I liked was soft and melted, with the pot in the center and cups that fit into the pillowy niches of the pot. It was graceful in form and functional as well—all that shared heat would keep the tea warm longer. Yummy.

We went to lunch, as we were way past the four-hour rule at that point, and then to the Tempe Arts Festival on Mill Avenue. Yes, all sorts of stuff and things and things and stuff and then some more. All with big fat “buy me!” signs out.

I wasn’t really in an acquiring sort of mood. I’d received prezzies Friday from my dear friends; and then Saturday I got a book press from First Consort Gareth. In general, I like stuff you can make stuff with—so a book press was perfect! I’d mentioned I’d been lusting for one for a while to Gareth, so getting one was really snazzy. Hence, the artsy-craftsy fair was wasted on me—all I wanted to do was nose about and shop. Picked up an idea for shaping a backpack, and enjoyed seeing all the wooden turned vessels there.

Then off to Barcelona for dinner—just carpaccio, spinach and goat cheese salad, and dessert for me, thanks. I was still full from lunch! But really good sangria with dinner, so all was well there. And dessert was espresso gelato, in a mug lined with chocolate and hazelnuts . . .

Sunday I went for a massage, and then met brother in law and Most Excellent Grandmother for dim sum. The rest of the day I just wasted . . . well, not really. I’m thisclose (makes the hand gesture) to finishing a series of beaded ATC’s, which is good because they have to be in the swapmeistress’s hands by the fifteenth, which is too too close for comfort! And on top of that I have thank you cards to make and send to my bestest pals who give me goodies. Is there any way to get some extra hours from all the daylight other states save? Just three or four more would help ever so much, and I’ll trade balm from our balmy winters. Any takers?

Monday I washed both my old car, Huitzilipotchli, and Sherman (who I believe is actually Incitatus. Sometimes you just don’t know until you interact with them for a while.) That took most of the day. Even miracle cleansers that wash clean and dry spot free take time to use, and then put away.

The plan is to sell Huitzilipotchli. We don’t need three cars, and an unused car is a car that is rotting. With care and a low-mileage commute, Huitzilipotchli should see another two-three years of solid use. We’re figuring he’d be good for a college student who lives a few miles from campus and works a few miles further out—say, 4-8 miles round trip each day. Or perhaps a SAHM who wags the kids to school, does a handful of errands, and carts the kids home in the general neighborhood. Not a cool car, but inexpensive and reliable for a little while more.

The Quality of Friendship

Today tastes like those jelly nougat candies with the fruity pectin pebbles buried opalescent in the matrix of vanilla bland chewy.

A number of things came together for me; and while I know I promised progress pics of the latest tank, if you're very good and patient I'll be able to complete the thing this weekend and show you a finished foto right off.

It's Hallowthankmas, after all, and one of the traditional topics of conversation is about the celebrations of the triumvirate/trinity/hydra-headed holiday. How many little SpongeBobs showed up on your doorstep this year? What did you eat for the feast--we had turkey, green bean casserole, and sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows, pineapple, walnuts and brown sugar.

So in keeping with that, may of the lists I'm on are chattering about the final celebration, when presents are opened, lights are strung, and families reunite one last time (we only do this twice a year, after all, for the last two blow-outs of Hallowthankmas). Why only twice a year? Why, because we can't stand each other, that's why.

That's been a recurring theme, and finally someone took up the gauntlet and asked why. Why, if you can't stand each other and are miserable sitting there while Aunt Ethyl slugs down martinis (Ethyl's real name is Katrina, you see) and picks everyone to shreds; while Uncle Bob waxes lyrical about his latest surgeries and big plans if only an inimical universe will stop punishing him for daring to dream big; while Cousin Audry whines and wrings her hands and wet-blankets any sincere suggestion that might help her pull herself out of the pit she insists she's trapped in--why on earth do you feel obligated to put yourselves through that? Would the world truly end if you sat this year out and spent Hallowthankmas with people who nourish your spirit? Who eat with you instead of feeding off you?

And this discussion really strikes a nerve, because earlier this year, I had to ask myself the same question regarding the people I hung out with in real life--my meat friends. The meme and paradigm have been shifting slowly over the past few years. I'd seen it going on and put my shoulder to it a couple of times to try getting it out of the rut I saw coming. But come the fall (yes, before election time--August of so)I had a really powerul insight, and once something is seen, I can't unsee it.

Hanging with one bud one on one (a rare and marvellous thing with this bunch. It's gotten so a party of ten is an intimate gathering. It sounds like the height of cool to throw a party and get 300 through the door in a night--without property damage or theft, mind you. This is a gang that polices itself in the main, and everybody knows everybody else.) So anyway, hanging with Samwise and she happens to mention something she and Lynchpin were doing.

Lynchpin is the one everyone knows, her and her husband Hub. They organize a lot of group activites, they founded the Moveable Feast, they're respected and liked by many in the gang. Everyone wants to be close to or very much like Lynchpin and Hub. Which is not necessarily a bad thing . . . in some respects.

So as Samwise was talking (and it was about bookbinding; not meant to be a show of status, "I'm close to Lynchpin and you're not. I'm higher in the pack than you are." It was in relation to the SCA, though, and I am not a member and do not wish to be. Not at this time, thanks.) she happened to mention something about how Lynchpin was balked by someone at the latest event, and how Lynchpin flew into one of her infamous temper fits, and how everyone had to tiptoe around her while she sulked. And Lynchpin will be the first to tell you that she can't lose gracefully, and likes to win more than anything else--tho' she's not too good at doing that gracefully either. Whst's the point of winning if you can't crow and gloat, after all?

And unfortunately, I realized that I knew a set of people Just Like That. Three-year olds. Prone to unbridled little egos, temper tantrums when things didn't go their way, and in need of constant validation--"Look me, mama! Look me, look me!" Just like Lynchpin.

And that made me wonder if I wanted to be a part of a group where the person most admirable was basically a very tall three-year-old. Yes, building castles of blocks is cool and fun, and hearing the stories of white unicorns with purple manes who stole the cookies is amusing--but when you get to be the endless giver of support and validation and don't get anything back ('cos a three-year-old doesn't yet grok that other people are just as real as they are) and have to be careful to allow them to ALWAYS win to avoid the inevitable tantrum afterwards . . . well, there's a reason I don't have kids and don't have a job where I can work with them for the majority of my waking hours.

So. Holiday parties are upon us. I've made a point of not attending Great Pumpkin Night, nor TaleSpinners Night. I'll be going to the Three Days Past Solstice Celebration because I have goodies to pass out to some of the other friends. But the annual Tolkein celebration is upon us.

We're such fantasy geeks, this gang of mine. When they released Return of the King on the big screen, we were there in the line party for the screening where they were running the whole trilogy back to back to back. Every geek's dream, to see them all that way. My butt was numb for a week!

And being foodies, directly after Fellowship a small contingent of us were endlessly repeating that line about "What about second breakfast? And elevenses? And nuncheon?" "I don't think he knows about second breakfast, Pip." And daydreaming about how cool it would be to watch the movies and have second breakfast. And elevenses. And nuncheon. And tea. And dinner.

So when they announced the release of Two Towers to DVD, we planned a Tolkein celebration. It's not hard if you pace yourself, and have a bunch of couples so each pair makes one dish. No one has a lot of work to do.

But you see, it's held at Lynchpin and Hub's house. First Consort Gareth really wants to go--he loves to cook, and has an idea for gingerbread with cream and dried apricot butter. Not too sweet, but spicy, fruity, and interestingly textured. And he's not happy going if I don't go. He'll stay home, and he's good about not doing the passive-aggressive thing where he hisses and glares while claiming nothing's wrong (that's my game, thenk yew) but at the same time, he won't be the playful merry otter-boi he is.

Sigh. So I'm sitting here on the one hand, clamoring along wondering why anyone would go to a celebration when there's nothing festive for them there. When it's going to be sitting there feeding the psychic vampires a drop at a time. I'll have my knitting with me, but I've trained this group not to treat it as a shield. More like a nervous twitch; so I can't really get away with, "Just a moment please; I'm counting and I really do want to hear what you have to say."

And at the same time, I want to answer along with the chorus of, "It's just not that simple." Nothing is.

Perfection

Today tastes like . . . pineapples, limes, and unripe bananas, with a touch of cream and the texture of meringue.

It’s Friiiiiiiday, gracias a Dios, and in a very little while I will be out of
this office (spelled H-E-L-L) and off to be shamelessly pampered at the salon, meet with my knitting muse/head pusher Terpsichore, and pack for a trip to Mexico. Hence, this very very long post will have to keep you happy for a week. Decide now if you want to gobble it all down RIGHT NOW, and emerge with words smeared on your chin and behind your ears; or if you'll savor it a few paragraphs at a time.

But I don't want to hear it if you give yourself indigestion. You have been warned.

The Dowager Empress Odie-Bird shared a prose poem earlier this week, in which the narrator talks about rituals and holidays, and trying new things especially for holidays. Of playing with the traditional Thanksgiving recipies to make something uniquely your own, perfect and special.

And then ends the poem by suggesting making reservations.

So that’s First Consort Gareth and my Thanksgiving this year. We’ll be in Cabo San Lucas, eating the traditional Thanksgiving seafood enchiladas. I remember a Thanksgiving where I was in my early twenties and Brother Splunge was a teen, and the Dowager Empress and Papara decided that we were going to the horse races in Ruidoso for Thanksgiving. No turkey. No trimmings. No family save the absolute nuclear one.

Speaking of nuclear, Brother Splunge and I almost melted down. You would have thought that the winter holidays were celebrated in Rockwellian fashion, with Grampa tucking napkin after napkin into his shirt, Gramma putting the last touches on the homemade mince pie (no shortcuts from a jar for her, nosireebob), and row upon row of kids with fresh-scrubbed faces all waiting for their chance at the turkey.

But, well, none of us care much for turkey. It’s fine for a meal-- maybe two, if you count the heart attack on a plate that is tetrazinni. (How can something that is mostly a cheese and cream conveyance device NOT taste splendid?) But after the full-blown meal, and then a plate of tetrazzini, there’s still half a carcass left taking up real estate and slowly drying out.

But of course, it’s the fitting in that counts. For a while, after I had gradually realized that leftover turkey holds the same appeal as a slow root canal for me and the ‘rents; that the price of reporting that yes, we TOO had had turkey for Thanksgiving was a nasty repeat of turkey for a week; and concluded that fitting in that way just was not worth it, we were able to convince Brother Splunge that Cornish game hens were actually little turkeys. Yes. We lied to a trusting, naive child.

That worked for about three years. Then he was old enough to be cynical and read the labels for the “little turkeys;” talk to his classmates about how he got a whole turkey to himself for Thanksgiving; and deduce that we were feeding him a line along with dinner. So, back to a big brown bird that took three days to defrost, a day to cook, and one meal to get tired of.

So off to Ruidoso we went that year--and had a most excellent time learning to handicap the ponies.

Having discussed yoga in a previous post, it must be time to chat about mara, illusion. And taking up the theme, here's a couple of thoughts on the illusion of perfection.

When I started thinking aboout blogging, I had in my head an image of exactly what I wanted to show. I'd have progress posts every Monday to keep me honest, "window on my world" photos and essays on Wednesdays to keep me looking around and noticing what there was to notice in my world, and essays every Friday. Each little week in perfect order, three posts of opalescent wisdom and humor. Each one oh-so-very timely, with holiday posts in appropriate places, and amusing vignettes.

Thankfully, that crumbled before it could really get in my way.

Writing has always been a top-down experience for me. You start at the top of the page and work your way down. Maybe you have a basic outline in mind (boy finds girl, boy and girl fall in love,monster eats girl, boy seeks vengeance and is turned into a monster himself) but I never worked out of sequence, writing the easy parts first, or drafting the skeleton and building on it. Any time I started to listen to the shoulda's, the center could never hold, and mere anarchy was loosed upon the page.

I was reminded just today that while I've filled lists extolling the virtues of the TKGA's master program, I haven't said a word about it here. I replied that it had been a couple of years since I passed Level I, and I was slogging through Level II. One of the requirements is knitting an argyle sock in the flat, another is knitting a vest.

And I just realized why the program has stalled itself, and may require the push of a new year to get rolling again. I shoulda'd it to death.

I wrote out a list of all the requirements, with deadlines for each one--reasonable deadlines, mind. I've knit argyles flat before, so I know how long it takes, and I know how long it takes me to knit a vest--but I flubbered and the project died about five months in because I don't have colors that turn me on, and I haven't come up with a vest pattern I like. You aren't required to knit a pair of adult socks in fine-gauge yarn; nor are you required to design a vest yourself. But when I missed the first deadline because I was uninspired, I let the project drop because I SHOULD do the work in this particular order. Pffffftt.

I'll say it here, so I can hold myself accountable--one of the wild card projects for next year will be the Master's Program. (As mentioned before, I like to have five going so as to always have something appropriate to the situation. I plan to use Linus Project; Southwest Trading design; socks; and two wild cards as my categories in '05.) And I will work on whatever piece of the thing strikes my fancy--whether it's the swatches, the research, the vest or the socks. Maybe I'll make the argyle socks one of the sock projects.

Some of the women in the local guild are working on their Level I projects. The sad part is that we all started at the same time. It's not that they haven't finished the requirements--most of them have at least one set of swatches completed--but that they're afraid of sending in something that isn't perfect. So they'll re-knit, and re-do, criticizing their efforts and never ever actually putting them forth to be judged. It has to be perfect the first time.

And that's sad because the levels are set up as learning experiences. You do the tasks to the best of your ability at the time, then send them for evaluation. just like in school, the last learning experience most of us had.

Except that after the test is marked, you're handed back your work with information about how to fix the bits that weren't up to par. You didn't fail, this doesn't go on your permanent record--you clearly needed some information you didn't have. And now here's where to find it, so read, learn, and try again. You have nothing to lose but your lack of knowledge.

But no, the gals say they've learned enough knitting up the last batch so they don't feel good about sending off that sub-par bunch of string, and therefore they need to do it all over again so that it's PERFECT.

I can't imagine what they'll do when they actually get a batch off if errors are found. Will they give up? To have done so many four inch bits of knitting, over and over, to have wrestled to read the judges' minds and to have spent so much time only to have to do bits over AGAIN (wailing, tearing of hair, rending of garments) would be frustrating indeed. Especially because more might have been learned with less angst if they had only said--these aren't perfect, not in my eyes. But so what? I'll get feedback regarding what they think isn't right, and I'll re-do the swatches that don't pass muster. More importantly, I get to find out what I'm doing that is just right as it is.

And sometimes, that is indeed the most important part. See you in a week.

Slip Me Some Tongue

Today tastes like cornmeal, chiles, cheese, and tongue.

I've been playing with the Dowager Empress Odie-Bird's Revered Relleno Recipie (TM), and the results have been . . . tasty. Scroll down for the actual instructions, then pop back up for the modifications.

For the first itiration, I wrapped the Monterey Jack cheese straws in smoked turkey slices before slipping them into the peppers. That worked nicely, smoky salty turkey with the gooey cheese and the sting of the chiles.

Today I tried adding beef tongue. Oh my.

Bink, First Consort Gareth's father, would make tacos de lengua for special occasions. It's a good deal of (hot, nasty) work -- first to obtain the tongue, then to cook it and let it cool overnight, then chop chop chop the meat into little nuggets of rich beefy goodness. THEN, you can heat the oil and stand over it folding and frying tacos; which have to be eaten while they're hot, so the cook ends up feeding everyone else first, and then making one more serving for himself.

And of course, one tongue makes about four dinners for four people. We are two. There's lots of leftovers.

This would not be a bad thing, except that tacos are a lot of work, and even with the tongue prepared, you still get to stand over the vat of boiling oil for an hour or so.

But rellenos--that's a five minute dish. And the tongue and the cheese interact to make a wonderful buttery flavor, spiked out of its rich dream by the chiles.

Here's how it works.

You'll need whole roasted chili peppers--Big Jim is the common variety. They're four to six inches long. We're lucky enough to be able to buy them roasted, stuff 'em in baggies while they're hot, then toss 'em in the freezer.

So, thaw, peel, and seed one chile per person for a side dish, three or four for a light meal.

Take a block of Monterey Jack, and cut one narrow slice of cheese per pepper. Wrap the cheese with a thin slice of the chosen meat. The whole bundle should be about the size of your little finger, or a breakfast sausage link. Stuff the chile with the bundle.

Scramble one egg, and lay out some cornmeal--about three tablespoons per chile. Swish the chile through the egg, roll it in the cornmeal, and fry the chiles in about two tablespoons of oil until the cornmeal is golden brown and crunchy.