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Thursday Recipe Club: Steve’s recipes for Masala and Dalchini Pulao

April 26th, 2012

River Birch

(Photo by Steve Rawley)

I’m writing these exactly how he scribbled them on little pieces of paper. Because little pieces of paper are hard to keep track of, but recipes on a blog are not. (Yeah, he cooks like a maniac, in addition to taking lovely photos. No, you can’t have him.)

— wm

Masala
1 part each cumin, coriander, turmeric, chili plus
2 parts garam masal
onion
ginger
tomato salt

Dalchini Pulao
1 pound rice
4 teaspoons ghee
2 cinnamon sticks
1/4 teaspoon cumin
Pinch of turmeric
Pinch of salt
Water

Fry cumin and cinnamon for 1 minute; add turmeric and rice. Add H20; bring to boil; cook.

Wednesday Recipe Club: Sugar Cookies a la Mimi

April 25th, 2012

Apple blossoms in our yard! I (heart) spring.

Apple Blossom time

(Photo by Steve Rawley)

From my mother-in-law:

Mimi’s Sugar Cookies

1 1/2 cups butter, softened
2 cups white sugar
4 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
5 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt

Mix dough. Chill before cutting out. Roll out dough 1/4″-1/2″ thick. Bake at 400 degrees for 6-8 minutes.

Quick Icing
2 cups powdered sugar
2-3 tablespoons butter
1-2 teaspoons vanilla
Cream

Add cream and mix to desired consistency.

Sandra Tsing Loh is not a baby.

February 13th, 2012

But her dad is. #blesshisheart. She’s just stressed out and slowly going broke. I have never read such a painfully funny article in my life.

Ouch.

And no, I’m not saying that in an “elderschadenfreude” way, ‘k? ‘K.

a blog a day keeps the freaks away: another post about Neil Goldschmidt, my cat’s health and “Pretty in Pink”

February 6th, 2012

Foggy morning

(Photo by Steve Rawley.)

Misc. everything, by me, Wacky Mommy:

1) No one told me Will Smith and Jada Pinkett (soon to be not) Smith were divorcing. Explain yourselves, prettiest couple in the world next to President and Mrs. Obama.

2) Is it really necessary to make one movie, much less two, about the poor, sweet, late Linda Lovelace? Do all oppressed women everywhere a favor and skip the soon-to-be-released movies. Skip Deep Throat, too, if anyone happens to suggest that you view it together, for a little “fun.” Go read her autobiography/biography by Mike McGrady instead. Seriously. She was one of my heroes growing up, because she lived through her past. Rest in peace, hon.

3) The wild tom, Baby, is back at the vet. There goes another several hundred dollars that I don’t have. Love you, fluffy boy. Please stay healthy.

4) Tired today. Gardened and planted all weekend. It’s looking nice out there… Maybe Stevie will take some pictures this week for me to post.

5) My kid is getting some dental work done soon. Not so much fun. Send some good thoughts his way, would ya? Thanks.

6) Off to read now, and possibly write. No word from the vet about when Baby gets to come home. Soon, we hope. Well, our grouchy old-lady cat is glad he’s gone, but the other cat and I miss him.

7) I was thinking about this Goldschmidt situation a little more. How I feel about this can be best explained by Andrew McCarthy, telling off James Spader’s douchebag character, Stef, at the end of “Pretty in Pink.” (Somehow I never saw the movie — watched it with my daughter this weekend. It’s awfully good.) The douchebag has convinced his BFF, Blaine (played by McCarthy) that Molly Ringwald’s character is a poor, ugly, worthless slut, and that he shouldn’t date her. And like the big idiot that he is, Blaine listens to him. Then he wises up.

Blaine, to Stef: “You couldn’t buy her, though, that’s what’s killing you, isn’t it? Stef? That’s it, Stef. She thinks you’re shit. And deep down, you know she’s right.”

That’s what I’m saying. That’s what we all want, am I right here? For people to not think that we’re pieces of shit. For Goldschmidt, he can atone forever, but there is no hope for him. He is upset because he knows that Steve and I can’t stand him, and are calling him out for the child rapist asshole from hell that he is. So he needs to go climb back under his rock and stop re-traumatizing the rest of us by trying to crawl out again. Give up, already. Done.

For the rest of us? We all need to be a little more like Duckie, and a little less like James Spader. Or Charlie Sheen, as the case may be.

8) Just heard from the vet: The cat has cystitis. They’ll shoot him up with antibiotics and send him home with pain meds. Three hundred dollars, please. (Edited to say: Total was $353.13, and that included pain meds for him only, not me.)

all for now,

yours, as always,

wm

pacifist to a point

January 4th, 2012

i’m a peace-loving girl, right up to the point where two freaks break into the house and try to come after my family.

after that? all bets are off.

This is one crazy story. Glad she and the baby are both okay. (A fund is being established for Mrs. McKinley and her son, if you are so inclined…)

Thursday Thirteen, Ed.#69: A Christmas Celebration, In Thirteen Parts

December 24th, 2011

Our Sorrowful Mother

(Photo by Steve Rawley)

(this originally ran Nov. 30, 2006. happy reading :) wm)

And now, for the Thursday Thirteen you’ve been waiting for: A CHRISTMAS CELEBRATION, IN THIRTEEN PARTS:

1. Mom and I decide to take the kids to the Grotto, the National Sanctuary of Our Sorrowful Mother, for the 18th annual Festival of Lights. Petting zoo! Puppet show! Strolling carolers and people dressed like olden times, who ask you, “Do you know the way to Bethlehem?” (No, I don’t. But if you figure it out will you take me?)

2. I tell Mom I’ll buy her dinner first, c’mon, it’ll be fun. She is game. She tells me she’s never been to the upper level of the Grotto. I am floored by this. “IT IS SO COOL UP THERE!” I tell her. The kids: “CAN WE SEE IT? NOW, CAN WE? CAN WE TAKE THE ELEVATOR?” Me: “No, it’s dark. And there are cliffs. But next summer!” Also, I forget to bring donations for the food drive. Mom brought some stuff from her cupboard. And she insisted on buying us dinner. Wouldn’t let me pay for tickets to the festival, either. Moms are like this.

3. Both kids, shouting: “LOOK AT ALL THOSE LIGHTS! AND THE ANGELS, LIT UP! THERE ARE PEOPLE SINGING!” Followed by, “What are all those candles for?”

4. We go to the petting zoo, at Wacky Boy’s request. The volunteer gives us warnings: Don’t let the goats grab the whole ice cream cone full of feed out of our hands. Spin around if they try to. And around and around and around. Don’t give any to the alpaca. Or the horse. Or the rabbits. I lose track of all the instructions. We spin and spin. We are mauled by goats, anyway.

5. Wacky Girl: “HEY! I do remember this place!” (Good, since it’s the seventh time she’s been.) She and mom head off for the puppet show. She is the only one to call out the answer when the puppeteer asks the audience: “What does Feliz Navidad mean?” She is proud of this. She and Mom like the puppet show. Mom is wearing a cute hat, and her warm jacket. It’s not raining. Or snowing.

(more…)

gratitude day 22

November 22nd, 2011

grateful for everything today: the rain, salmon leaping across the roads, my health being way better than it was two years ago at this time. grateful that my wildass tomcat is feeling better, grateful that Steve has a week off for vacation (? what???), grateful for the apple pie I just assembled and threw in the freezer, to bake on Thursday morning, and grateful that it’s almost December, cuz I like December. not cuz of Christmas, necessary, but because it just seems like such a cheerful month.

also grateful for brussels sprouts, which i hated so much as a child (ask my mother: “God, no, I’m not making brussels sprouts, calm down”), but which now i adore. especially roasted with a lot of balsamic vinegar, olive oil, salt and pepper.

the end.

— wm

qotd: “Arrested Development”

October 28th, 2011

Michael: “And you finished off the whole bottle?”

Lindsay Funke: “I had to, it’s vodka. It goes bad once it’s opened.”

Michael: “I think that’s another of mom’s fibs, like ‘I’ll sacrifice anything for my children.'”

hey, you. get offa that cloud that is facebook and read my blog.

September 13th, 2011

It’s Tuesday, and about time for an update from the Wacky House:

* School has started. The kids are doing great (4th grade and 7th grade this year #wheretheheckdoesthetimego???.

* Steve took some vacation days here and there this summer, and is back to work. He can bike to work now. He’s still bloggin’ away, as you can see, and occasionally arguing with assclowns. (Currie, you really do work my nerves. And don’t think I’ve forgotten how you like to defend pedophiles like “homeless activist” Michael Stoops.) (Hell hath no fury, and memory, like me.)

* Do I have a job yet? No, I do not. I am planning to start working the phrase “as a former sex worker” into conversations, though. For example: “As a former sex worker, I can recommend the non-fat skinny vanilla latte.” That should lively things up.

* Will I be placed in a school this year? Will I remain unpaid and still-gainfully retired, writing away? We’ll see…

* Book is almost ready for publication, I’ll keep you posted. Still working on my Dear Late Granny’s cookbook/memoir. Bogged down a little, what else is new? Seriously. I spent about 400 500 617 hours pinning laundry to the line this summer and watering the garden and yard. Seriously. It rained today and I almost ran out and kissed the muddy ground I was so happy.

* am Oregon girl.

* Mt. Hood fires need to go out. The air quality has been crummy, the sunsets and sunrises look a lot like L.A. and… I like trees. That mountain terrifies me, but I love it. Maybe the rain will help?

* in other family news, the youngest cat, Baby, has let the following be known (via his messenger, the youngest child, Wacky Boy): “He does not want his Chicken Coop to be called that anymore; he wants us to call it his ‘Man Cave.'” (Referring to Baby’s corner retreat in the library, where he keeps his scratching post, blankie, toys and catnip.)

* When my husband woke up our daughter this morning “it’s after 7! wake up!” she responded with this: “Fu…..” Her father’s response: “What was that?” Wacky Girl, fast on her feet, even when she’s sacked out: “I said ‘Ugh.'” Yeah, sure you did.

* This is the same girl who yelled, “Goddammit!” at her father when he got shampoo in her eyes, when she was not-quite-two. Steve: “Nancy, do you have any idea where she got that?” Me: “Nope.” (inside, heart swelling with pride, My girl.) (and really, aren’t you a little surprised that she didn’t yell, Goddammit, Steve!)

* what’s up with you??

— wm

great interview with Grace Paley

September 1st, 2011

love this. (interview with the late writer Grace Paley, from the Paris Review.)

INTERVIEWER: What were you doing before you became a published writer?

GRACE PALEY: I was working part time. I was hanging out a lot. I was kind of lazy. I had my kids when I was about twenty-six, twenty-seven. I took them to the park in the afternoons. Thank God I was lazy enough to spend all that time in Washington Square Park. I say lazy but of course it was kind of exhausting running after two babies. Still, looking back I see the pleasure of it. That’s when I began to know women very well—as co-workers, really. I had a part-time job as a typist up at Columbia. In fact, when I began to write stories, I typed some up there, and some in the PTA office of P.S. 41 on Eleventh Street. If I hadn’t spent that time in the playground, I wouldn’t have written a lot of those stories. That’s pretty much how I lived. And then we had our normal family life—struggles and hard times. That takes up a lot of time, hard times. Uses up whole days.

INTERVIEWER: Could you tell the story of the publication of your first book?

PALEY: I’d written three stories, and I liked them. I showed them to my former husband, Jess Paley, and he liked them, and he showed them to a couple of friends, and they liked them, so I was feeling pretty good about them. The kids were still young at the time, and they played a lot with the neighborhood kids, so I got to know the other mothers in the neighborhood. One of them was Tibby McCormick, who had just gotten unmarried from Ken McCormick, an editor at Doubleday. She knew about these stories, and poor Ken was more or less forced into reading them—you know, The kids are over at her house all the time, you might read her stories. So he took them home and read them and he came over to see me and said, Write seven more of them and we’ll publish a book. So that’s what happened. Luck happened. He also told me that no magazine around would touch them, and he was pretty much right about that too, although two of the stories in that collection were finally taken by Accent.

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