I feel very fortunate that my mother prepared almost every meal I ate growing up.  Influenced heavily by legacy of the house-wife generation, my mother managed to learn early on in her life how to be a good mother and cook, and perfected the delicate balance between career woman and wife/mother with a concerned sensitivity.  I never knew the misfortune of the hip young mom who sustained her children with nightly devotionals to drive-in cuisine.  Our meals were served from the kitchen stove.
     My mother was also the product of the development of tertiary processed foods-- convenience foods manufactured to make dinner times faster, easier.  Perfectly proportioned meals were ready to eat with a mere ten minute heating time.  Just add water and a green salad.  We grew up eating a strange mix of hearty family recipes, fried in tender affection and stewed in history, and Hamburger Helper paired with canned fruit and simple green salad, stretched to feed the whole family.
     And there was always dessert.  Homemade pies or Little Debbie.
     It only comes to my attention in recent years that my mother made the best of what we had, and rarely invested time or money in finer culinary ventures.  The second daughter of a widower dairyman, she had to step into a role too mature for her age, learning so early how she could save time and money and make sure the food was hot and flavorful enough to keep everyone satisfied and the budget balanced.
     We used Kraft Parmesan Cheese.  You know the kind-- that green cylinder that you pop open to pour on top of your greasy Me-n-Eds.  We used fresh veggies but powdered garlic.  Bottles of dried herbs were kept plentiful, and used sparingly, in uncreative combinations.
     My mom is a fantastic cook nonetheless.  She taught me how to flawlessly and confidently execute cooking procedures.  I grew up thinking I'd be a baker as an adult.  She's never made a bad dish in her life (less one single pumpkin pie faux pas.)  She never sends a guest away hungry.  Her only fault:  She is extremely un-inventive in the kitchen.  She openly admits this.  New flavors intimidate her; while she can utilize ingredients without a recipe with success, these dishes are lackluster.  It never occurred to her to buy a garlic press and fresh cloves of this amazing aromatic until recently, (and now my parents are enamored with it.)  Learning to re-vamp her recipe box after Dad's heart surgery was a whole new beginning for her, one which left our days of family holiday baking on the cold front stoop.  
     My husband was raised with late nights and fast foods.  Divorce ended the days of family dinners.  The single-mom era had begun, and his youthful mother learned to get by on burgers, fries, and monotony.  Dollar meals saved the day.  She had a minimal arsenal of regulars that she could prepare in a pinch.  Chris hungered for fresh side dishes and casseroles, and the comfort of preparing mis en place with the executive chef (who could simultaneously answer Civics questions.)
     Chris loved my mother's food.  Dinner time was how he became one of the family, how I learned who he was, and how he learned to open up.  She has fed him for over seven years now.
     It came as a slow surprise to me that Chris developed into a Foodie, despite Carl's Jr., and I have, in turn, joined him.   As we progressed from dorms to apartments, we also grew into wedges of parmesan cheese and fresh herbs.  Pre-marital counseling posed the question- how do you spend quality time together?
     We cook.  We will not leave our tiny apartment until we find a place that can out-do its spacious kitchen.  It is time spent creating, talking, enjoying.  Marriage has brought hours of food exploration, farmers' markets, and strange foreign foods.  No technique is too complicated, or at least cannot be practiced to perfection.  Together we've tried foods that I never imagined plated artfully before me, or that I'd find in my own home.  He has surpassed me in skill; I come home to elaborate dishes (thank you Food Network for your educational programming.)
     And, the most simply startling discoveries-  Parmigiano-Reggiano, aged to perfection, satisfying to the senses.  This is an ingredient that I cannot turn my back on.  Shopping brings on a new challenge: where is the saffron, the red snapper?  Components have become more sophisticated and exciting.  And, to be assured that our children will not want for casseroles, this is as satisfying as a block aged six years.
     Food is important.  It is survival; it is art.  I would never exchange my mother's laborious displays of love for foie gras.  Nor would I cease this exciting practice of culinary adventure for free time.
     Cook.  Our children deserve this devotion, our lives this spice.  It is the time we spend, the flavors we cherish, that enrich us and sustain us.  This is a gift, homemade meals; this is a treasure, new food finds.  These things enrich lives and palates.
    These are the finest ingredients.

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     Things of late have been a bit off for the Michel household.  Rent was raised, Chris was just barely eligible for financial aid (because, in somebody's skewed world, I make too much money,) and we've been spilling an unbelievable amount of soda on our furniture.  It's all just been...off.
     On Monday, Chris's boss called to tell him that she was going out of business.  As of that day.  Come turn in your key.  He went, she was distraught, she gave us two quarts of frozen custard and a bunch of onions, and Chris was  suddenly out of a job.  Not a good time.
     My brother-in-law's band is on tour across the Western states, and yesterday their van blew a tire while they were driving in the mountains in Wyoming.  The driver lost control, and they very nearly went over the cliff, but veered back into the mountainside.  Jesse was very shaken.  And so were we.
     There was the- er- issue with my mother-in-law.
     Last week was uber stressful at work, what with the state survey and all.
     My toe got all fucked up.
     These are not terrible things, just unwelcome.  Even so, there are future events that shall bring joy.
     Good Mail.  It is like getting a gift.  Letters are best-- the most personal and meaningful.  I never get letters.  But, other mail can be counted as Good Mail when it is something you enjoy receiving, and you never know exactly when it will come.
     The usual mail is boring, even depressing.  This week it shall improve and deliver much happiness.
     It started today.  Along with an invitation to Chris's cousin's baby shower (love invitations,) there was a big, puffy shipping envelope stuffed into the Michel box.  As we walked back up to the apartment, we tried to guess what it could be.  Chris opened it, and...
     Our Green Bags!  Chris ordered them a couple weeks ago, and we'd forgotten about them.  With all of the produce we buy, we're eager to try them out!  We're looking forward to fresher, longer lasting veggies.
     I was reminded of other Good Mail.  I ordered our books from Amazon.com, and can't wait.  I am also looking forward to getting in the sexy business cards that Chris designed and had printed for me.  When things are poopy, a nice little spark at the end of the day makes a big difference.
     Good Mail really makes my day.
     I wish for good mail every day.

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     I got off on the wrong foot.

     This morning I woke up from a terrible dream.  I was at work, but the location was the hospital I used to work for.  It was dark and mysterious.  I was somehow simultaneously a student, surrounded by faces from my childhood.  I kept telling everyone, "my husband and I live in Washington now," although it was pretty obvious that this wasn't the case.  Everyone kept smirking and saying, "It's too cold in Washington."  We were paired up with one another as a team to assist residents in a special activity.  A game.  We were happy about this game.  When it was that particular resident's turn for this activity, their name popped up on a board in every room (much like the flight schedule boards at airports,) and a little bell rang.  The "team" would come in, get that patient, then take them outside for the activity.

     When you were little, did you ever sit in the middle of a large blanket and let the big kids pick up the corners and toss you high into the air?  The activity was something like this, and the activity space was my old elementary playground.  Only, as the dream progressed, it got more urgent, more secretive.  I began to realize that the residents were taken against their will, tossed up in the air on a dirty tarp repeatedly until they died, then wrapped in the tarp and thrown away.  I began to realize that I wasn't working for a SNF, but some horrible death facility.

     I quickly ran to the room of one of my favorite residents who was relatively young, alert, on the mend, to make sure his life wasn't in danger.  I tried to act normal.  We chatted about Washington, and I told him about the snow.  He showed my some paintings he'd done, and talked about his plans to return home soon.  Then he said, "You know that bell that rings for play time?  They're really coming to take the patient away.  Forever.  I think we're all going to be killed."  He chuckled ruefully.  I froze, not knowing what to do.  At that moment, a ding rang out and his name appeared on the board.  I tore it away from the wall, but he'd already seen it. 

     I began talking frantically, trying to figure a way out.  He denied that it would be the same for him; after all, he was young, going home soon.  Why wouldn't they just let him go?  I heard my name being paged over head, and realized that I was on the "team" that was going to kill him.  I grabbed his hands, and desperately tried to explain, to get him to try to escape, anything.  He looked scared, but said nothing.  The head nurse entered, hands laden with scary-looking restraints.  They began removing his IVs, his O2, anything keeping him comfortable and alive.  His face began to age drastically, he weakened.  I wept, screaming at them, trying to stop this whole thing, but they ignored me and began tying his hands and feet together, taping his eyelids shut, injecting him with something that stopped his healing.  I touched his arm and told him I loved him, that he had been a good person on this earth, he'd really taught me a lot, that I'd do anything to stop this if I could.  He looked at me, and his fatherly affection turned to anger, and he muttered "fuck you."  He died even before the "game" began, and they broke his neck and folded him into a small package, and carried the tarp away.

     I was running.  Running away.  Down hot, dry streets.  Through used car lots, and the ghetto.  Lost.  My necklace jingled with my stride.  Running and crying, in fear that they would find me and torture me for not cooperating.  A noise distracted me, and the streets faded away and were replaced by the morning light streaming into my bedroom.  I turned my alarm clock off, my muscles stiff and mind haunted.  Eyes hardly open, I stumbled to the bathroom to start my day.  I stepped into the shower and

     BAM!  I jammed my toe onto the shower door track.  That woke me up.  The pain was searing, and I looked down to see the tub floor covered in scarlet.  My toe was pretty deeply sliced.  I took the fasted shower ever, aware of the horrible pain and blood running into the drain.  I cleaned and bandaged it, but couldn't even wear shoes today.  I was twenty minutes late for work, didn't eat breakfast, and cannot clear my head.

     The nurses are telling me to get a tetanus shot.  The last one I had was in '89.  But I don't think I will.  I can't afford to leave work.  The bleeding stopped, and it certainly looks fine now, just a small cut in appearance.  Hurts like a bitch, though.

     I wish I could have opted for a coffee to wake me up.

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     We awoke this morning to find that it was raining in Fresno.  If you could call it rain.  A gentle drizzle fell to the earth, ceasing shortly after it began, and left the air smelling damp and raw.  I went out into the gray morning to fetch a special donut breakfast for my husband and myself, and for the first time in months, I rolled down the windows in my car and breathed in deeply, heavily, knowing that in a few short hours the freshness would evaporate up to the sun and we'd be left with the stink of July on dehydrated Fresno streets.
     C'est la vie.
     This week at work, state officials came in to conduct our annual survey.  It was hella stressful.  Sooooo stressful.  I did get a ton of over-time and free lunch (because department heads weren't allowed to leave the premises during the day,) but I was really glad when the weekend came.
     Yesterday, I was left alone when my husband went to work for a few hours.  Somehow I felt like I deserved a treat, something to reward myself for all of the bullshit I put up with at work.  I went to get a pedicure.  As the overweight Asian pushed my cuticles around, she peered up at me from under tiny frames and informed me, "at this place we also do wax.  For eyebrows and other.  I tell you this, if you want wax.  Eyebrow wax."  She grinned knowingly and continued to look into my eyes until I gave an uncomfortable, "Oh, thanks."  I realized that she was making a comment on my eyebrows, which are light and fine and barely there, and apparently unkempt.  I can't get waxed because it never fails to rip my skin off of my brow, but I should probably pluck more frequently so that Asians won't judge me.  By the way, she fucked up my foot pretty badly, leaving it scabbed and raw.
     After a hotdog, I came home and took a nap.  After I got up, I recalled something and I can't remember if it really happened or was a dream.  The pedicurist was exfoliating my leg and paused to rub an area curiously, stating, "You missed a spot shaving."  She wouldn't really say this, would she?  Must have been a dream.
     Later Saturday night, Chris and I- no, just Chris- decided that we were going to go see the new Batman movie.  I have seen all of the Batman movies, and to be frank, haven't really enjoyed any of them.  But, he has been ranting obnoxiously about seeing it for some time before it opened, so we went.  And, boy, was it a mistake.  I didn't realize how insane opening weekend would be.  We were left in the very front of the theater in the only two seats together.  I couldn't handle it.  So, we traded our tickets in and saw it this morning, arriving early enough to sit at the top. 
     It was depressing.  I felt nothing but despair and anguish the whole time.  The darkest, most gruesome of the Batman movies, it really captured the hopelessness that I imaging Gotham city would feel.  While the others had a sense of whimsy, this one was sullen and intense.  I suppose that all of this makes it a successful film, but not at all like a comic book.  Although not entirely up my alley, it was superbly done.  What a legacy Heath Ledger has left.
     I just finished reading "Twilight," and liked it so much that I want to get the others in the series.  Chris suggested Amazon.com to save some money.  Okay, why haven't I been shopping on Amazon for years?!  I got the next in the series, pre-ordered the third when the paperback is released, and bought Chris some graphic design book he wanted for $30 plus free shipping.  Holy crap.  I could build an awesome library on those prices.  Now I keep thinking, what else can I find on Amazon?  Maybe a bigger bookshelf...
     Tomorrow is Monday, and I am having to remind myself that there are more reasons to go to work than there are to up and quit.  This weekend, I received phone calls from work on both days asking what to do about a disgruntled family member.  As much as I want to run screaming in the direction of unemployment and satisfaction, I know I need to get up and drag my miserable ass in and earn a few lousy bucks that'll pay the goddamn rent.
     These two days were not enough.  Not nearly enough. 

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Show us the book you're reading right now.
Submitted by Strive2Be.

Twilight (The Twilight Saga, Book 1)

Stephenie Meyer

I know that this is "young adult" literature, but I was looking for an easy, captivating read, and I found it.  After so many years reading heavy, serious literature, and analyzing every little aspect in them, I've recently begun desiring books that exist strictly for entertainment, something I can read just for kicks.  A co-worker suggested this, and I really loved it.  It's fast, fun, and subtly sexy.  Plus, it's a vampire story, which I can't resist.  I've already ordered the next two on Amazon.com.

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"Self-pity is a psychological state of mind of an individual in perceived adverse situations who has not accepted the situation and does not have the confidence nor ability to cope with it. It is characterized by a person's belief that he or she is the victim of events and is therefore deserving of condolence."

"Why are you in health-care?  Don't you have a degree in... English?"  And suddenly I'm back in that exhausting old conversation about my intentions, and as I pick at the unfinished and intensely rich mizithra-stifled pasta, I wonder how long it will take people to forget that I am a unsatisfied product of the arts and begin classify me as a disgruntled working-class schmuck like the rest of 'em. 
"If you don't like it, what do you want to do?"  This is where I will bite myself in the ass.  I can see it coming: the food is good, the company better, and I suppose I'm feeling a bit self-indulgent.  I will tell them, and I will have to listen to what follows.  I give brief pause to consider whether to cop out with a nonchalant shrug and light-hearted self-mockery, or initiate the inevitable.  I've noticed that this red wine isn't very aromatic, and does nothing on my tongue.  I should just drink water.  I should have brought a better vintage for this birthday celebration.  I should keep my damn mouth shut.
"I want to write," I say. In vino veritas, eh?  I swallow the rest of my pour.  "I just want to write all day, and get paid for it."  Stupid.
"You should!"  Smiles and encouragement.  I am gracious.  They will not accept this answer easily enough.
And there it is.  They all treat it the same: like it's that easy, like to simply write is to succeed and to pay the rent and nothing further is required thank you very much, so it is probably that I am not be making the effort.  You could get published, they say.  Or be a journalist.  Do something to get there.
I do write.  On this I am firm, and they are again interested.  I silently kick myself for not quietly letting it go, but they need to see how difficult it is.  Short stories, I admit, blushing.  Poetry.  Mostly non-fiction, but not memoir, not yet.  I write, I tell them, and it is nice to talk about it.  I write, and I enjoy it.  But then, I'm still in health care.
Surely then someone will ask why I don't teach, to at least be doing something I'm good at.  Not being an English teacher is usually hard to understand.  What else can I make use of this knowledge with?  Why bother if you aren't teaching?  With this group we pass that hurdle swiftly and humorously, and I don't get defensive; they all accept that teaching is often more bull-shit than we'd like to admit.  Not that I haven't considered it, particularly when the odor of the elderly gets to me.
This time I am not met with the agonizing (uninvited) career guidance.  We talk about instant literary successes, and languid poets.  From the head of the table, one looks at me jovially and suggests- no, proclaims- "You really need to join a writers' association."  He points out all of the known writers who were in them, even here in Fresno, and the things they did in the meantime to eat while the wrote their way to success.
This is a new thought.
I do miss the community of writers, I admit.  It is the only thing I miss about school.
Sure, he says, there are a few.  Do it.  You need to.  I will help you find one.  He is persistent.  I can't disagree that this isn't a bad idea.  But I'd still be in health care.
As I roll it over in my head, it starts to sour.  An association.  I think what I miss is the self-tortured bleeding hearts.  Yes, the self-important, the ever-hungry atmosphere, where we would come together in our common struggle and constructive criticism.  Only writers understand writers.  It was a safe place.  An association means business, not empathy.
But that was academia, says his wife.  Academia is a bubble, says his wife.  You can't live in Academia.  You need to know where to get published, what people are writing about.  You need to network.  Get out there with your writing and earn your pay.  That community will accept your writing, too.
I immediately bristle.  We are on to dessert by now, following a dissonant birthday serenade.  My spoon swirls thoughtfully around my ice cream as I figure out how to react.  She's right.  I know this.  But I want to argue.  These people are authors!  Poets!  Scholars that have assisted in the blossoming of writing minds!  They have volumes and volumes of published works!  This community is good enough for me!
The lump in my throat is sudden and hard and needs immediate spumoni attention.  It occurs to me how badly I miss Academia, with it's never-ending support and selfless lack of competition.  I miss when writing was writing, and being published was a pipe dream or a reality, not a necessity.  I miss thinking that it would magically happen my way.  I miss beer with first-name-only mentors over non-fiction, or liquor if we were waxing poetic, and the unabashed sharing of even the most self-indulgent pieces.  I've forgotten how much writing there really was.  I have especially forgotten the bitter aftertaste it left in my mouth from it's lack of reality, it's cushy pillow for our broke and artistic asses that opulently hid the ground of hard work.  And it rushes back lustfully, flushing my face with desire.  It becomes clear that these people think more realistically than I do, and that I have been conditioned to think too romantically, and that I am in no real predicament.  Doing little more than I am already doing, I could be more involved in the writers' community in the stark and cutting world.  I do not share this aloud.
I agree that joining a writers' association would be beneficial, I'd like to know the names of some here locally.  I do need to network, yes, I need to make the effort to be published if I really do want to be a writer full-time.  That was my answer, right?  I want to write?  Dinner is over and we stand to leave.  I really think you should, he says again.
Here I am in Corporate America, filing and billing and signing by the X.  Knowing that business is first, even with writing.  Feeling self-pity.  Refusing to exit or re-enter my bubble, and dreading that even in writing, I must work. 
So soon I will join a writers' association, print business cards, and submit writing samples.  I will fail, I will write more, I will do it again until something happens from it all.  Because I want write, and only write.  Because I am earning good money already, and can write regardless of occupation.  Because self-pity has been nipped in the bud.  Because Academia is a distant mirage, and I am standing at the edge of the map, facing dragons.

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Show us a music video that tells a great story.
Submitted by notreallylois.

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What do you think is good blog etiquette and what do you want from your readers?
Submitted by April.

oo00OOPlz dOnT TyPe l!Ke ThIS CuZ iT ISnT kEwL.  This just shows me that you are an iD!0t.  Let us honor the guidlines set before us for effective written communication.  These rules can be broken- always- but the complex system of the written language has been considered for centuries, and exists because it makes life easier.

Being passive-aggressive in a blog is baaaaaaad bad etiquette.  This is why I quit using Myspace; my blogging neighbors were too involved with each other, too passionate in their writing about one another, and I was afraid to read them, only to find that yet another person was pissed at so-and-so.  It is so immature; that's not why I'm here.  When you are angry at someone, do not write a blog about it that you know they will read.  Do not talk about how hurt you are, hoping that the person responsible will get the hint.  DO NOT aim to hurt someone through writing.  Oh, what a tangled web we weave through our cutting words and backhanded blogs.

I suppose a web-log is a diary of sorts, a log of events, feelings, writings, musings, thoughts, etc.  So, anthing that one feels the need to log is appropriate.  For me, it is a place to write.  Writing is important; what you write is less important.  Saying what you have intended to say is what writing is all about.

From those I read:  Two things, really.  I want to know what you're all about.  You entertain me with your honesty and personality and creativity, and things another person finds interesting in their lives is worth the read.  Also, I want purpose.  Whining/griping multiple times throghout the day does not make for a good read.  If you need to bitch at the end of the day, blogging is fine.  I may or may not be interested in reading it, but I hope you write anyway.  What I like to see is that someone has something to say, and they have supported what they are trying to convey. 

From my readers:  There are a couple of the simple exercises that I used to use with my students at The Writing Center when we read beginning essays that I would find particularly helpful in this context.  We would read, then write on the following:

"I think you are trying to say..." (complete and elaborate.)  This is to explore what you think the writer is really trying to get at, and if they are actually supporting it/saying it at all.

"I want to hear more about..." if there is anything that stands out, what is it, and why?  This very well may be the strongest point in the piece, and the writer doesn't know it yet.  Or, if they haven't yet explained themselves, this is a chance to give them feedback from the reader's perspective.

And, always ask why.

I think the best way to become a more effective writer is to write often and to share your writing with others (without shame!  Without fear!)  This is why I find blogging such a useful tool as a writer.  So, if any of my readers happens to want to give any kind of feedback, of this or any nature, on my writing, I encourage you.  Writing is never complete, and another perspective on the things I say would be much welcomed.

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What was the best thing about your weekend?

She sat across from me, her strong legs propped on a wire chair stolen from the next table over, grinning from under her outrageously over-sized sunglasses.  It was smoulding hot, and sweat trickled from my hairline, gluing curls to the back of my neck.  I wiped my brow realized that we were alone out here- other patrons opted for more moderate dining atmospheres.  But the patio beckoned, as did pancakes and Stella on this Sunday afternoon, and we answered the call like true Fresnans and endured the heat, and let the hours slip past unnoticed us as we satisfied the thirst of our friendship.  Our glasses were refilled to delay heat stroke and we raised them in gratitude.  Before long, I was reminded that there is more than one form of true love, and I drank it in.

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My eyebrow is twitching. 
When I was a senior in high school, my right eyelid twitched every day for three months straight.  I even went to the doctor to see about it.  No answers were given. 
That eyelid starts up again here and there, lasting days, weeks.  Now my left eyebrow seems to have been taken by the trend, twitching for days now.  I eat bananas, drink water, down wine dance breathe scream.
I think it is stress induced.
Twitch.  Twitch.  Twitch.
I want more information on Washington.  The internet is not giving me what I want.  Where to see?  Where to live?  Where to work?  Where to play? 
Where? 
Where? 
Where?
I want a dog. I want a house.  I want a desk.  I want oil paints and a new dresser and a club chair and a latte.
Want. 
Want. 
Want.
I am Californian, what am I thinking?  I know I'm alive by my dripping sweat and dust and discontent and the sunny beach and by perpetuating stereotypes.  Snow doesn't fall in the mighty San Joaquin.  My hair would frizz.  And I would be walking around Tacoma with a perpetual ponytail and chilled to the bone that is easily chilled.  It would be too satisfying.  I'd want to stay.  There are no Fugazzi's in Olympia.  There are no In-n-Out's or Bulldogs.  There are no Pismo's or Santa Monica's or Kingsburg's.  There's just snow and rain and
Frizz.
Frizz.
Frizz.
Where is Paul Mitchell?
I better pack a sweater for the weather that is cold and bold and old in my bones but I jones and I know that the time is mine I'm in my prime nothing should stop me or block me just shock me maybe it will rock me or it will pop me but fuck it Imma try I will not die it's a far cry from this fruit fly or a squash pie but I've gone awry let's do it get to it I knew it don't screw it let's go fo sho no mo no mo no mo I will I shall I want I twitch I frizz and it is what it is so I leap I fly I try and live live live

This is disjunct intermittent but has left no room for subtlety.  I've had too much wine.
But let's be serious for a minute.  The banjo is really awesome.  To quote Stewie Griffin "what are those dulcet tones?"  I heart bluegrass.  I think I'd rock that shit.
End Scene.

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