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Showing posts from August, 2013

Summer Tomato Soup

Leave the couch where you're fighting strep throat. Go to the garden. See the tomato plant fallen over, taking the reinforced cage with it. Sigh.

Instead of fixing the cage, pick all tomatoes you can find which are ripe. Get a rash on your arm from the plant.

Old picture. I'm getting very very lazy. Same variety, though.
Carry the tomatoes inside. Wash them and your arms.

Finely dice an onion. Put it in a pot with an unconscionable amount of butter. Saute on low.

Throw in half of a ripe red pepper, diced. Keep cooking on low.

Core about ten tomatoes, using that cool tool you call "The Claaaaawww" in a sinister voice as you chase the kids around with it.

Roughly chop the tomatoes.

Throw them in the pot with the onions. Walk away.

Hang out on the couch with your spouse. Read a book, knit, talk, whatever. When the youngest child says, "Shouldn't you stir these?" get up and stir them.

After they're all cooked, use an immersion blender to puree them off the heat.


Sympathy For The Devil

Last week, I out to dinner with an old friend and we discovered that we both know a short, roly-poly balding guy who is certainly no Tatum Channing in the looks department. My friend had worked with him, and Wingman had coached with him.  Her observation about him was "That pig." He should rot in hell for the way he behaves." (He hit on her while being married to a nice, roly-poly woman.)

Funny thing is that I had the same experience with that guy and had wished for the same outcome for him. But if you were to ask the priest who was my high school religion teacher, he'd say it was my friend's fault and mine.  But not Roly-Poly's because according to him, men are innocent of all actions when it comes to being around women.  Which makes women responsible for everything from the Kennedy assassination to global warming. And me responsible for the bad judgement of men for over 30 years...

When I worked for the candy company, I traveled with mostly men as there wer…

The Bucket List

Admittedly, we were dirty fighters while we were married. I was the queen of sarcasm, while Wingman's weapon of choice was blaming. He gave up playing in a band to marry me, his film editing career in NYC to be close to the kids and worked a job he particularly didn't enjoy to allow us to live the lives we lived.  I'm not going to say that his arguments were totally unfounded, yet I would counter that everyone makes compromises and sacrifices in life.

When Wingman died, I thought about all the things we said we were going to do and never did.  Early on, we were fortunate enough to be able to travel because of one of my jobs.  But looking back, there were a lot of years that I can't remember a single trip, vacation or otherwise important occasion.  That's sad for both us and for the kids.

He was not a man who liked Christmas at all, which was my favorite holiday to indulge is special gifts. One year, it was giving him a week at a Yankees Fantasy Camp.  Wingman …

(Don't Fear) The Reaper

I had a nightmare as a kid about the bogey man climbing up through a hole in the bedroom closet floor. He wore a harlequin suit, had a spiked nose to match the knife he carried, and cut my hand off when I turned on the light switch next to the closet. For years, I used a pencil or ruler to flick the switch from outside the room, fearing having him leave me with a bloody stump.

Then there was this crazy neighbor with red hair and freckles who had even crazier friends.  They tied me to the weeping willow tree in the front yard, put tent caterpillars all over my face and body, and said they would kill me if I cried.  My mother chased them away as they watched caterpillars crawl on my hair, lips and around my nose.  To this day, I still cringe when I see tent caterpillar nests in trees.

Besides the bogey man and caterpillars, I have my share of other fears. I HATE bridges, which is pretty interesting when participating in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer involves going over the Brooklyn, …

Tattoo You

I have to admit that I am totally fascinated by tattoos. And tattoos seem to be everywhere and on everyone but on me.

The first tattoo I remember was a great-uncle who had a Popeye-like anchor on his forearm.  It was dark blue and sort of faded, and I wondered where and why he got it.  Because he was a chain smoker with a loud, barking cough whenever he spoke I never asked him about it, thinking that he would cough up a lung with his answer.

When I went to fashion school, one of my friends got a tattoo of a red and white polka dot mushroom on the top of her hand.  Mushrooms were very desirable back then to everyone but her parents, who paid top dollar at her painful expense to have it removed before we graduated. What kept me from getting a wide-eyed owl (my then-fascination) inked on me was the fear that my own not-so-tolerant parents would want to remove it themselves with a dull knife.

Wingman and I went to a wedding where the bride and groom were counselors at a rehab center and the…

Let's Make A Deal

Women tend to change their handbags like they change their underwear.  Many of them have as many handbags AS they have underwear.  Not me though.  I do have the underwear (and I promise, I change it regularly), but I tend to use the same bag until the handles are ready to fall off.  Which tends to pose problems, because things go into the bag that have a hard time finding their way out. 

A couple of Friday nights ago, a friend of mine was the opening band at a local club.  Following his set, I joined him, his wife and son at a restaurant for something to eat. My friend was having a difficult time reading the menu, what with being a vain rock-and-roller and all, so I slipped him my reading glasses knowing I had a spare pair in my bag. As I felt around, I came up with a pair...but it was missing an arm.  So I fished some more and came up with a pair of sunglasses.  Then another pair of sunglasses. Plainly embarrassed, I continued looking in my bag, while their son was looking at me in…