4 posts tagged “thoughts: family”

"You put the lime in the coconut..."

Silly, but true. Like Mumble, this song always gives me 'Happy Feet'. It's tied to happy memories. Midnight gatherings in the kitchen where a group of three S.B.C.'s (sisters by choice) would gather in their chosen robes and begin tossing things into their well loved cauldrons to produce edible spells to chase away emotional ailments or celebrate their successes. This was our theme song.

While our paths have moved us in different directions and taken us down alternate paths, the warmth of those memories always makes me smile, move about the room, or sing loudly behind the wheel of my car, windows down and laughing aloud as others in nearby vehicles can't help but join in.

"You put the lime in the coconut..."

Cheers my S.B.C.'s, wherever you are tonight.

 

 

The Bail Out or in my circle the question was always phrased:

"If you woke up in a motel room with a dead (man) whore, who would you call to help dispose of the body?"

Lucky for me, I never planned on having that problem - either of them to be exact. But...should the Universe implode and slap me with those set of circumstances my $.35 (could be higher these days) would find the (hopefully welcoming) ear of my Designated Person. Who, like a Designated Driver, will (again, hopefully) always have your safety and best interest at heart - even in the most unsavory of circumstances.

A Designated Person is that one person who is capable of loving you at your best and in most cases - love you at your worst. They'll listen openly and tell you honestly if you're fucked. And...should your diagnosis be fucked, they'll still be around to offer support and while I jokingly comment that support entails helping me to dispose of the body...it's not something I'd ever ask of my Designated Person, but instead for his suggestion on a totally fab lawyer he feels would fit my budget (which, I admit - is pitifully small).

In the case of the man whore in the motel room, Designated Person would be waiting at the police station when I turned myself in for questioning and should I be released (as Karen pointed out) have a large bottle of Tequila (possibly two, maybe three) in hopes of erasing or diluting bad memories of current event.

So, just in case you wish to change your number or set your cell phone to stun or block, like a favorite Pokemon - I choose you Duckman. You're my Crane, unless you prefer to be Shore. Everybodies got to have that one person they'd call or in BL terms: A Designated Plug Puller.

Or that person who lets you know quite simply, "I love you, but you're fucked."

With Love,
Leaky

What was your worst cooking experience?

Cookies.

Loved them. Worshipped them. Couldn't get enough of em, when I was little. The best kind...the kind that came freshly baked from Mom's oven. That truth is still in play today. There's nothing quite as heavenly as Mom's fresh baked chocolate chip cookies.

However, my cookie baking experiments wouldn't begin in Mom's kitchen, they took place in Grandma's. While Grandma was a Kitchen Goddess in her own right, the ability to make cookies was a sacred ritual blessed only upon my Mother. Grandma's culinary religion was grounded in soul food and ancient recipes given verbally and memorized from one generation to the next. The only thing I ever saw Grandma bake was blueberry muffins, bread, and carrot cake.

While crawling in and out of cabinets in search of pots and pans to bang on in hopes of furthering my rock-n-roll career, I discovered a dust covered tome of recipes. The pages were yellowed with age and brittle in too rough hands. Carefully, I extracted what I believed to be my own personal Ark of the Covenant, feeling like a feminine version of Indiana Jones.

Excited, I clasped the aged book to my chest and chased down Grandma in the garden, showing her my prize. She smiled and ruffled my hair and continued her watering while I pulled up an empty bucket and sat, opening the pages and reading aloud the fruits of my discovery. My hands shook as I paused on the chapter containing cookies. It was then that I knew...I knew I was destined for the same greatness in cookie baking as my Mother. I too would be blessed by the Kitchen Pantheon to make mouthwatering cookies that would one day save the world!

Sensing my need for greatness, Grandma took me to the kitchen to commence secret cooking preparations. I waited patiently as she pulled my hair into proper cooking ponytail and garbed me in her sacred blue and white polka-dotted apron. I studied the curious gadgetry she pulled from this drawer and that - all of it seemed magical. I almost wondered if I'd be given a wand and a large pointy black hat, though I'd never seen Mom or Grandma wear such things in the kitchen.

Our sacred ritual tools gathered, she laid the powders and liquids that were required to meet my cooking spell requirements. Satisfied, she left it up to me to read and measure the magical ingredients. Already I could tell these cookies would be the greatest ever baked.

The batter mixed, the cookies shaped, oven pre-heated, we slid the cookie sheet together into the ovens awaiting mouth. Setting the timer, we retired to the living room to await my cooking genius, sacred book tucked protectievly against my chest.

Ding!

Dashing into the kitchen I jumped up and down excitedly as she pulled the first batch of sugar cookies from the oven and sat them on the table to cool. I smiled widely at Grandpa who'd sat himself at the table waiting to congratulate and sample my bakeing wares. This would be the greatest day ever!

Cookies cooled, we each took one of my Golden Discs of Perfection. I plopped mine immediately into my mouth and began to chew.

My chewing didn't last long. I spat the golden glob of dough onto the table between us and began wiping my tongue with my hands. Horrified, I grabbed the cookies from my Grandparents hands before they could bite into The Nasty Golden Discs of Crap.

"They taste like..." I gagged..."They taste like feet!" Tears stung my eyes. Shunned! I'd been shunned by the Kitchen Pantheon. Tragedy! Oh, Tragedy! "If this were Christmas, Santa would be dead! My cookies would've killt him!" I lamented before breaking into a fit of defeated sobs.

Grandma and Grandpa sympathetically rubbed my back. Grandma insisted that all we needed to do was add more sugar to the rest of the batch and all would be well.

So we did.

And...they still tasted like crap.

Five dozen of Golden Discs of Crap later, my face was puffy, red, and wet with tears. "Throw them out! Throw them out! They are not fit for eating!"

But...A Grandparents Love is Legendary.

That weekend, Grandma and Grandpa, armed with the blackest perculated coffee known to man, they ate every last one of those Golden Discs of Crap, complete with a smile, a hug, a kiss, and a promise that I'd continue my experiments in cookie baking.

Tsp. Tbsp. Does it really matter?

Oh, yes. Yes it does. One tbsp instead of a tsp of baking soda turned the cookies that could've saved the world into ones that could've ended it.

While my Kitchen Blessing didn't come in the form of cookie baking like my Mom. The Kitchen Pantheon blessed me at a later age with a knack for making foreign foods and adding to them my own bizarre flare. We all have our niches and Grandma and Grandpa knew that eventually I'd grow into mine.

In Memory of my Grandparents, my greatest discovery in life.
My true Ark of the Covenenant.
The both of you made me shine.