My Mouth On Drugs

Monday I was temporarily crowned. Unfortunately I didn’t get to wear a beautiful gown, or walk regally down an aisle lined with magnificent bouquets of flowers, dragging the train of my velvet and ermine robe behind me. Nobody reverently placed five pounds of gold and jewels on my head. And I didn’t get to walk back down the aisle looking all queenly to the strains of triumphant music and the applause of my eight followers. Instead of a majestic gown and ermine robe, I wore a paper bib. Instead of a golden crown heavy with jewels, I wore scratched plastic glasses that sparkled with water and tooth bits. Instead of the sweet smell of flowers wafting over me, it was the burned smell unique to pulverized tooth enamel. And instead of jubilant music, I heard loud, disturbing grinding.

I don’t have any phobias or incapacitating fears when it comes to going to the dentist, but I’ll be honest—it’s not my favorite thing to do. My dentist is the king of shot-givers but still, there are other things I would choose over being his pincushion. I suppose it could be nerves, but I think whatever is in that shot he so deftly squirts into my gums makes me a bit loopy. My body begins to feel kind of peculiar. My hands sweat and shake a little bit. I feel tingly, and my legs feel like they wouldn’t hold me if I had to jump out of that chair and run home because I just remembered I needed to feed my cat.

After I’ve been given the shot, and my dentist is sure I’m not going to turn purple or start convulsing, he goes off to brighten another patient’s day, leaving the dental hygienist and me to wait for my face to get numb, my tongue to begin protruding, and the first drop of drool to appear. As we wait, another weird thing starts happening. I start babbling.

Dr. Griffith gives really good shots doesn’t he? He’s the best shot-giver ever. I don’t even feel them. Not a bit. My youngest daughter’s living in Ecuador now. She has iguanas in a tree in her yard. And a kitty. Not in her tree. In her house. Well, it could be in the tree, but mostly it’s in the house. I don’t think she wants it to be in the tree. Iguanas, you know. Although she tells me they eat fruit, not kitties. Did I tell you she’s getting married? In Ecuador. Ecuador is far away. Did you ever think you’d have a child living in Ecuador? I never did. But it’s okay. I’m getting used to it. I am going to take her wedding dress to her when it comes in. We ordered it in October. We don’t know the wedding date yet. We all wish she’d pick a date. So anyway, I’m trying to teach myself Spanish. On the computer and from these little podcasts I have on my mp3 player. I got it from my son-in-law. The computer program. Not the podcasts. Not the mp3 player either. I downloaded the podcasts from the internet. The people on the podcasts are Scottish so they speak English with a Scottish accent. Hahahahah. I went to Scotland once. It was beautiful. They’re helpful, though. I mean the podcasts, not the people. Not that the Scottish people weren’t helpful. They were great. It was easy to talk to them because they spoke English. Not Spanish. So I understood them. Pretty much anyway. I want to be able to at least try and talk to Jorge’s family when we’re there. I know they’ll talk really fast but I think they’ll slow down for me if they know I’m trying. Don’t you think they would do that? We’re taking salsa lessons. Dean and I. Dancing salsa.  Not tomato salsa.  So we can dance at the reception and not look like idiots. So Jorge’s relatives won’t scratch their heads and say, “really? is that a dance?” Turns out we stink, though. I love Skype. I Skype with my daughter so it doesn’t seem like she’s so far away. We used to Skype with our other daughter when she was living in Colorado but now she’s here. It’s so nice to have them in town. I took our grandkids to McDonalds and the park not too long ago. On one of those nice days we had. You know how we get those teaser days and then it snows? It was a teaser day. We used to Skype them but now we don’t have to. Skype is awesome. We all have Skype phones now. So we can call Ecuador all we want. Have you ever used Skype? It’s amazing. Did you know it’s free? It’s like we’re just down the street from each other. Actually, my other daughter is almost just down the street. She lives not too far from here. She has the softest cat in the world. He’s great. My cat’s great too but she’s fat. I like fat cats, though, so I don’t care. Is it okay if I listen to my Spanish lessons while you work on my tooth? I wasn’t sure if the earphones would get in your way. Maybe I can get a lesson in while you’re working. And it’ll distract me from what’s going on. Not that I’m worried. Because Dr. Griffith is a great shot-giver. The best. I don’t feel anything. Do you have something I can use to wipe off this drool?

In a month I go back to be permanently crowned......which means I will once again receive the shot......and probably babble.  I wonder if a small gift would be in order.◦

My Mouth On Drugs

The Pied Piper Played and There Was No Cheese

Damn those bloggers! I think they’re causing me to develop an inferiority complex. They keep posting and posting and posting and their posts are not monthly or weekly, but daily. And they’re not just posting ramblings about escaping gases or body probes.They are actually posting about things they have built, or sewed or baked or traveled to see. How the heck do they find the time to do that? Come on …. a hand-pieced quilt in a day? Really? And you still have time to blog about it? You just baked six dozen cookies, five layer cakes and a gingerbread house for your son’s bake sale but you wanted to share your photos with us before you leave to attend your hot-yoga class and you’ll post the recipe for the duck a l’orange you’re preparing for dinner as soon as you’re back? Are you crazy?

Honestly, do these bloggers not work? Or sleep? Or eat? Or go to the bathroom? Who do they think they are -- Jack Bauer? Do they not have a hus I mean children to care for? How do they fit watching Lost into all that creating and blogging?

Oh, and then there are the followers. I follow. I have followers….a few….very few. But what is a follower anyway? Is it like a friend on Facebook?

Ha! I have 46 followers now.

Well I have 99. People like me better. Loser.

Should I feel bad that only eight people are following me …. and almost half of them are my family? Is it possible I need blogger therapy? Therapy to discuss the deeper meaning behind why I am not leading well? Therapy to show me how to grab the baton, step high and lead? Or maybe I just need to be more specific about where I’m going. Maybe followers just don’t like surprises. Today, my followers, I am going to lead you to the land of whine!

Or maybe I’m just not cut out to be a blogger. Maybe those daily bloggers with 175 followers and 92 comments on each of their posts are the same people who were the editor of the school newspaper, class president, head cheerleader and dated the captain of the football team. Or … oh, and I like this one. Maybe they are making up their own followers! Maybe they have created a bunch of new people and then they assume those identities and comment on their own blog! That would mean they need therapy. Hey! You there!  Yes, you.  The obsessive blogger. You are crazy. Really. You need therapy.

Wow. That felt good.  Maybe I just don’t care after all.◦

The Pied Piper Played and There Was No Cheese

Trolls are not nice people

It’s March. It will soon be March Madness and people will be mad for basketball. They’ll go mad for their team and their picks. They'll cheer and shout and love this month.  But March is not a good month for me. I am just mad. I hate the month of March and most of the month of April. I’m cranky and out of sorts and nothing makes me happy. It’s warm(er) outside so that means nordic skiing is pretty much over, but the hiking trails are either still blocked with snow or too muddy to step foot on. The time changes, so instead of getting up and driving to work in daylight, I'll do that in the dark again. What’s the point of a longer day if it’s too wet and muddy outside to do anything?

To make matters worse my job has been so boring lately that staying upright in my chair has been a feat of Herculean effort, made possible only by the few licorice lentils I allow myself when I feel a coma coming on. On top of that, our yearly blood chemistry results came in the mail yesterday and my bad cholesterol is up a little from last year. So now when I eat those lentils, I’m going to do it with even greater guilt, resulting in an even madder me. But I have to eat them, because if I don’t, I might not be able to control the resulting sloom drool and I’m pretty sure there’s an office policy prohibiting drool on keyboards.

For me, cleaning the house and kneading bread are good ways to get rid of a bit of the stay away from me, life stinks feelings I always experience this time of year. Yesterday, to try and make myself feel better (and improve the odds of maintaining my marital status), I did both. I cleaned the house, and I mixed up, kneaded vigorously, and baked sourdough onion bread. After five hours the house was clean, the bread was cooling on the kitchen counter, and I was feeling a whole lot better.  I even felt a smile pushing its way to the surface as I went downstairs to pull freshly washed rugs from the dryer.  I love newly laundered rugs.  Rugs with no grease splatters on them, no animal fur, no food bits.  I love clean rugs almost as much as crawling into clean sheets on Sunday night.  I carried the rugs upstairs feeling better than I had for days. As I started laying them on the kitchen floor, I noticed that where there had been two loaves of bread when I had gone downstairs to get the rugs, now there were only onion bits and one.  Damn that dog!  That pretty much canceled out any improvement I'd managed to make in my mental outlook.

Either she doesn't like onion, or she only had time to grab and run with it before we interrupted her afternoon refreshment because there was only dog drool, no missing chunks.  And Dean wonders why Shadow and I are not friends.....

So, as I said, it’s the month of madness and I've been mad. But there are all kinds of madness. There was a time when one madness led me to another madness which led my whole family to yet another madness.

In 1981, during a previous oil and gas boom, Dean and I were renting a house in Rock Springs owned by an ancient and evil troll who lived two houses away. This evil troll called us over one night, and with soft cheese sticking to his false teeth, he sat with hands on his TV tray and said to us, "the grass in the yard of the house I am allowing you to rent from me is 1/32 of an inch too long.” It so happened that it was my job to mow the lawn due to the fact that I was a stay-at-home-mother of two young daughters with nothing to do, and Dean was required to sit at a computer and lift a heavy mouse all day. “But Mr. Ancient Evil Troll”, I said. “I have two young daughters. One is but but six months old. I must mow while she sleeps and she sleeps so little.” “I care not!”, snarled the troll, as soft chunks of cheese fell out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin.  I got mad.  "I'll show you", I said to myself.  And instead of personally placing the next montly rent check in the evil troll's gnarled hand, I put it in an envelope, stomped down to the post office, and mailed it.  This did not set well with the troll.  “Be gone!” he bellowed as spittle flew out of his mouth.  "Leave this place!"  And we did. 

However, due to the oil and gas boom, there were few places available to rent, and greed was king.  We had no other choice than to explore other options.  On December 1, 1981 we moved here. 

Over 40 miles from the nearest town.

And stayed for nine months.

With no electricity. With no natural gas.  With no running water. With no ability to communicate with the outside world.  But with no evil trolls. 

                                                   Laundry day.

Maybe sometime, if I sense any interest, or I just feel like writing, I will tell you about the time I thought we were going to die, in our truck, stuck between two snowdrifts.   Or about the day I butchered my first (and last) chicken all by myself.  Or the day I almost killed (unintentionally, of course) my youngest child.  Or what I did that time when drifted highways kept Dean in town for two days. And I had run out of firewood. And the wind was howling. And the temperature was below zero. And I was alone. With my children. 40 miles from nowhere. Or maybe I'll tell you what cabin fever REALLY means.  If you're interestered.

◦

Trolls are not nice people

The things we do for the ones we love

One summer when Dean was in graduate school, we spent close to two weeks tagging along with his thesis advisor and two of his fellow (male) graduate students and drove from Nebraska to Nova Scotia where the other grad. students were going to be doing their fieldwork.  Along the way we stopped and looked at every rock and discussed every geologic formation. Let me clarify that.  Along the way, they looked at every rock and discussed every geologic formation. In order to conserve our very limited resources, Dean and I and the other two grad. students shared a tent or motel room most nights. It was during this trip that I first learned that men will not share a bed with each other. They will sleep snuggled up together in a tent but won’t sleep in the same bed in a hotel room. Even if that bed is so large they would be sleeping in separate zip codes. Even if it means one of them has to sleep on the floor. It seemed a little weird to me then, and all these years later I still don’t see the reasoning behind it. Men will slap each other’s butts without a qualm. A quarterback will lean over and stick his arms very snugly in between the center’s legs. Sweaty, stinky wrestlers will roll around in a circle, wearing barely a loincloth and hug and grab each other in disturbing ways. And yet those same men will not share a bed.

We didn’t eat in restaurants very often because our funds wouldn't allow it. Well....that’s not completely true. It was more a matter of choice. Choice one: buy gas to go see that super cool geology formation/pile of rocks/gravel pit/rock shop/fault which is a bit out of the way or choice two: eat in a restaurant with a real wait staff. My vote never counted. (That's my memory of it anyway).  I happened to be five months pregnant on this trip and when my body said it needed to eat, it needed to eat now. One of those moments occurred while driving along an interstate in the middle of nowhere and the first opportunity to eat happened to be a McDonalds. Dean, ever disdainful of McDonalds restaurants, refused to eat at them.  He would (and will) eat at other fast food joints but not McDonalds.  Go figure.  Fortunately, he realized that telling a starving, pregnant woman to wait for something more suitable would not bode well for him so he pulled in, we entered and I ordered.  I don’t remember what I ate, but I do remember that instead of feeling a pleasurable sated feeling, I felt sick afterwards and consequently I also joined the "no McDonalds for me---ever" ranks. That was the last time I ever darkened the door of the golden arches. Until yesterday.

Yesterday I entered the favorite restaurant of kids the world over with Emerson, Myra and Pierce in tow. We were a procession of clutched hands, just like kindergarteners on a field trip.  We had just spent an hour at the park conquering the rock wall ...

and the scary see-through ladders.  We needed sustenance.   As we drove toward those revered cheeseburgers, chicken nuggets, chocolate milk and Happy Meals, the kids filled me in on the rules. We have to eat our lunch before we can play. Right, Nada? Right. But not ALL of it, Nada. We don’t have to eat ALL of it, just most of it. Right? Right, Nada? We can eat just half the hamburger. Just half of the hamburger is okay, before we go play, because that’s a lot. Half is a lot. Right, Nada? Right. Half is okay. We don’t have to eat all of it. Okay? Okay, Nada? Right.

31 years and eight months after my last McDonalds meal, I ate a burger from McDonalds with no post-consumption regrets (if you don't count my regretted fat intake) and way too many fries.  It’s hard to sit and stare at uneaten french fries nestled next to half-eaten child-size cheeseburgers without nibbling.   I had alot of time to nibble as kids came and went and new friendships were made and ended in the time it took parents to eat their own Big Macs.  Three happy meals (with toys) and 1½ hours later we exited the golden arches and headed home. There were chocolate chip cookies we'd made in the morning waiting for us. 

◦

The things we do for the ones we love

Let 'Er Rip!

Last night I was dreaming in spanish again. I wasn’t singing this time

(Did the music work?  I've been haunted by this stupid player. Some might even say obsessed.   Pleeeez say it worked.)

but somebody was babbling away to me in spanish and I understood every word they said.  I don’t remember every detail of the conversation, but I suspect that it went something like this (in spanish, of course): Wake up! Wake up! Someone is trying to kill you. There are gases pouring into your bedroom. You must open your eyes before the tears pouring out of them blind you and you can’t find your way out of the house. Save yourself, Senora. Quickly! Wake up! I woke up, took a deep breath … gagged. Within seconds I knew that smell. Shadow! Not again. Jeez. Recently she has become a factory of eye-watering, nostril-pinching, gag-reflexing odors. I am married to a man. I have experience with flatulence. But the stench produced when Shadow cuts the cheese is indescribable.

Don't let that innocent look fool you.  Evil gases lurk within.

Once I could breathe again I argued with myself over the next step. Should I make myself crawl out of my warm bed, walk the six feet over to where Shadow is tooting peacefully in her bed, wake her up, explain to her that she is killing me, grab and pull her stinky body out of her bed, place myself in the danger zone and push her out of the bedroom? Or should I stay in bed and hope there would be no more gifts from her for the remainder of night? It was the middle of the night and I am “of an age” which means the window was open so the room was cold. And as it happened, Shadow’s stink bomb occurred at one of the rare moments when I was actually enjoying the feeling of a warm blanket on my body. I stayed in bed.

Shortly after, I regretted that decision. I had barely begun drifting off to the land of Nod when I heard "pppppppfffffffffffftttttttttttttttttt.” At least I had a warning that time. I quickly squeezed my eyes tight, pulled the sheet and blanket over my face and held my breath. I checked the air after about 20 seconds only to discover it was still filled with noxious fumes. I told myself if it happened one more time I was leaving the bedroom and spending the rest of the night on the couch. Sure enough, it wasn’t three minutes later and I once again heard, “ppppppppppppfffffffffffffftttttttttttttttttttt." That dog cut the cheese three times in fewer than five minutes.  The air was hazy with deadly gases.  I looked over at Dean who was completely oblivious to the fact that our bedroom smelled worse than ... I don't know.... I honestly can't think of anything worse.  He was peacefully in dreamland, happily making little puffing noises and totally unaware that one spark from static electricity could cause our room to burst into flames.

I am ashamed to say that I did not crawl out of my nice warm bed and head for the couch. Nor did I grab Shadow’s bed and drag her out of my bedroom.  I was just too lazy to put forth the effort. It’s a sad thing to admit you are a person who would prefer to breathe in toxic fumes rather than get out of bed in the middle of the night and deal with a health risk.  Either I finally just went to sleep and somehow managed to live through the additional gaseous fumes filling up our bedroom or Shadow’s body had reached its maximum production. Either way, we all woke up alive with no apparent side effects.  And one of us didn't even know their lungs were at risk.◦

Let 'Er Rip!

Happy Hour In Wyoming

Most days when somebody brings doughnuts to work I either:  1.  spend my day trying to avoid eating one or, 2.  spend the day rationalizing why I should be able to eat one.  Then there are the days I  crave a doughnut and nobody brings any to work.  I really wanted a doughnut this morning. It’s Friday. Isn’t there some unwritten rule that on Fridays somebody will bring a box of glistening, sprinkle-covered lard to the office?

You may wonder why I don’t just bring doughnuts myself. It’s the guilt. I would not be able to live with the guilt of bringing in a box of artery-hardening fat. Because if I brought doughnuts to work, I would feel obligated to eat one. Doughnut guilt is rivaled only by mother guilt in its all-consuming power. If somebody else brings them in, it’s out of my control. It’s not my fault there is a box of luscious, lardaceous, little cakes on the conference table. I only bear the guilt if I actually eat one. Then it just comes down to creative rationalization. If I walk by that conference table five times and the doughnut with the chocolate frosting, cream filling and sprinkles is still there, it means I should take it. Or, if even one of those doughnuts is still there at 12:30 p.m. it’s a sign that I should eat one. (That saves me from acting on the temptation most times because if there’s a crumb left by 10:30 a.m. it’s a miracle.) Now and then I use the reward system with myself. Remember three weeks ago when you went out for Mexican food and only ate one bowl of chips? You deserve one.  One of my favorites is, You worked out five extra minutes on the elliptical last week. Go for it. And then there’s the I won’t have a glass of wine with dinner tonight so I can eat this doughnut. (That’s just delusion.)

Yesterday after work, instead of my 35 minutes on the dreaded, hateful, torture machine we hit the Nordic trails on the mountain. It was an hour and a half of skiing on pristine snow. But it almost didn’t happen. Three blocks from home, as we were nearing the stoplight, I looked down at Dean’s feet. I wanted to be sure he hadn’t decided to wear his ski boots and risk my life by catching those big, square toes on the accelerator and missing the brake pedal when the need arose. I didn’t want to get up close and personal with folks innocently heading to the Mini Mart for the doughnut I didn’t get today. I was relieved to see he was appropriately clad in his tennis shoes. “You remembered your ski boots, didn’t you?” “Crap!” he said as he cranked the wheel, whipped into the right lane, missed the exit off the road, hit the brakes, and stopped at the light I had worried about only two seconds earlier. At least he wasn’t wearing the boots.

We retrieved the boots and arrived at the trails a little later than planned, to find our co-worker, Matt, waiting impatiently for us. About 15 minutes into our ski, I realized I hadn’t put on my ski socks. I was wearing the little thin socks I wore to work. You might wonder why that would matter. It matters because I have pilfered Abby’s skis and boots and the boots are about ½ size too big for me. Even on the days I actually remember to wear my heavier ski socks with the special sock liners, my feet slip around a bit in her boots. To keep my feet from slipping around as I skied, I was forced to curl my toes under and grip the inside of those boots as hard as I could. It didn’t help much. But that’s okay. I built up a lot of muscle in my toes last night.

As we skied further away from the main trails, the snow got softer and the tracks completely disappeared. That’s not a big deal if you are Dean and Matt and have worn your backcountry skis with nice metal edges. Backcountry skis that make a nice wide track and are heavy and solid and allow you to glide along, breaking trail, barely breaking a sweat. Nice wide, solid skis that allow you to ski in your zen-like state as you take in the breathtaking view, admire the pristine snow, and absorb the silent beauty. I did not wear my backcountry skis. I wore Abby’s classic skis. Classic skis are perfect for groomed trails with nice packed tracks. Not for breaking trail. I did not reach that state of peaceful tranquility as I skied. There was a lot of heavy breathing and carrying on complete conversations with myself as I tried to stay upright in tracks of soft snow created by the two men gliding peacefully ahead of me in their nice, wide, solid, backcountry skis.

Mean Me: What were you thinking, Cathy? Why didn’t you bring your backcountry skis? You watched it snow all day from your window at work. You knew the trails wouldn’t be groomed.

Nice Me: I know….but wasn’t it beautiful? It was so soft and fluf

Mean Me: Fluffy shmuffy. You screwed up.

Nice Me: Geez. I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t thinking.

Mean Me: And holy cow! How could you forget your ski socks? You know those boots are too big for you already and you need to fill the extra space with thicker socks.

Nice Me: Okay! I said I was sorry. What do you want me to do? Go back down and get them?

Mean Me: They were in the box with your boots for pity sake. How could you miss them?

Nice Me: I remembered Dean’s boots—sort of. That must count for something.

Mean Me: Crap. Where’s a track I can follow?

Nice Me: Was that my ankle twisting? Uh oh. I hope I’m not getting a blister.

Mean Me: That’s what you get. You’re the one who brought the wrong skis.

Nice Me: Give me a break. I’m doing the best I can. I’m sweating worse than if I was on the elliptical.

Mean Me: You wanted a workout so stop whining………………..Idiot.

Every now and then Dean and Matt would stop and wait for me. I’d see them up ahead, standing, relaxed, resting on their ski poles, and gazing out upon the vista. I’d trudge up. They would comment on the beauty of our surroundings, sigh, rave about the conditions of the snow, and ask me how I was doing. Awesome, great. I’m great. Isn’t this just the best snow ever? Then they’d glide off, I’d curl up my toes, grip my boots and follow.

Mean Me: If you would have brought the right skis and remembered your socks you would have been able to keep up with them. You would have been able to stop and rest now and then and enjoy the view right along with them. And you could have even taken pictures.........if you would have remembered your camera.

Nice Me: Shut up.

That’s why I wanted a doughnut today. I deserved it.◦

Happy Hour In Wyoming

Stalking the wild rye

I was going to discuss real coffee drinkers vs. pseudo coffee drinkers in this blog post.

My cup of morning coffee is on the left and Dean’s cup is on the right. Seriously? His counts as (snort) coffee? .................  But then I saw the pancakes he was cooking for me, weighed the risk that making fun of his coffee might result in my weekend breakfasts becoming cold cereal, and had a change of heart.

Instead, this post is all about bread.

Sometimes when I want to bake bread, but no recipes are calling out to me, I will ask Dean what bread he would like me to bake. On the rare occasion when he actually cares, he will suggest rye bread. So for the past few months I have been on a mission to find the perfect rye bread recipe. I wanted to present him with a beautiful, brown, steaming loaf of rye bread. Actually, I should say a steaming, brown loaf of rye bread minus those caraway seeds. I hate caraway seeds.  I love him, but not enough to put caraway seeds into a bread I would also want to eat.  As it turned out, finding rye flour was almost as hard as finding the perfect rye bread recipe.  Who would have thought rye flour could be such an elusive commodity?  I was dauntless in my search for that flour and finally discovered it at Albertsons and even then it was in hiding. I, innocent bread baker that I am, thought it would be kept with the flours, but no. It was in a completely different section keeping company with other exotic food stuffs like soy flour and buckwheat flour.

Anyway, I have attempted to bake rye bread three times. The first time must have been such a traumatic failure that I have blocked most of the details from my memory. Dean will eat even what I consider to be a baking failure, which means he’s not a good judge of my baking skills. However, I kind of remember throwing my first rye bread attempt into the garbage, which means it was so bad that even Dean wouldn’t eat it. The second recipe was a sourdough rye bread. I really figured this would be a success. Every sourdough bread I’ve baked has been light and tasty with great texture. I knew rye bread would be a bit heavier, but the resulting bread from this recipe could have been used to brick a house, although it did have lots of flavor---if you had the strength to lift a piece to your mouth. That’s it, I told myself.  I quit.  I give up. There will be no fresh-baked rye bread in this house. Ever. Then Leslie called me last week and told me she had found a rye bread recipe in the collection of my mom’s recipe cards that my dad had given her. Really? Rye bread? From Grandma? Rye bread will not defeat me. I will not be bested. I refuse to give up.

I knew hoped this recipe would be THE recipe. Once I got hold of the little recipe card I noticed that “mom” was written in the upper right corner. This recipe not only came from my mom, but her mom. It had to be good. My mom wouldn’t keep a recipe that wasn’t good. However, that didn’t mean it would be good for me. I once told my mother that it was impossible to make good fudge in Wyoming. Your recipe just won’t work here. It’s the altitude, I told her. No matter what I did, it came out grainy or too hard or too soft. And rolling too-soft fudge into balls (which, it turns out looks very similar to elk scat) and sending it to school with your youngest daughter as her contribution to the Christmas feast, can cause irreparable trauma to one so young. My mom came for Christmas, scoffed at my altitude excuse, and whipped up a batch of fudge. It was perfect. It was not grainy. It was smooth. And it was soft but not too soft.  Not soft enough to make into elk scat.

So as I was saying, I mixed up my mom’s recipe for rye bread knowing it should be good, but under no illusion that it would be good. Guess what? It WAS! The only thing missing is pastrami and swiss cheese.

My mom's Swedish Rye Bread

3 cups rye flour

1/2 cup dark molasses

1/4 cup shortening

1 tsp salt

2 1/2 cups hot water

1 packet dry yeast

3 1/2 to 4 cups regular flour

Mix first five ingredients.  Cool to lukewarm.  Stir in yeast and flour.   Knead good.  Let rise til double (about two hours).  Punch down.  Let rise 30 minutes.  Shape into three balls.  Cover.  Let rise ten minutes.  Shape into round or long loaves.  Cover.  Let rise 1 to 1 1/4 hours.  Bake 35 minutes at 375 degrees.

Bon Appetit!◦

Stalking the wild rye

Hablo espanol un poquito

It’s been two weeks now since I began my dogged resolve to learn Spanish. I have diligently sat at this laptop ten times, for 30 minutes a whack, reciting words to Maria and some guy who refuses to tell me his name, taking tests, and playing vocabulary games.

I’d been gloating to myself about how easy this learning Spanish thing was, how smart I was and how shortly I would be strutting around spewing out Spanish phrases like I was a native. Lessons one and two had lots of parts and lots of words but they were easy. I’m a natural, I gloated to myself. And then Wednesday night I clicked “Lesson Three.” Who knew that the first two lessons were made up of the few words I remembered from my two years of college Spanish. I have somehow managed to retain these words since that ancient time when only real nerds knew what a computer was and they used those nerdy brain cells to program and print vitally important pictures of animals made up of xs and os. Wait a minute, I’ll bet those weren’t just pictures of penguins and giraffes. This Valentine weekend has got me thinking about xs and os. I’ll bet those nerdy boys were encoding secret love language into their pictures hoping that some nerdy girl would figure it out. With each x and o programmed into the room-size computer, nerd-boy would dream of a girl jumping on the back of his Schwinn, throwing her horn rimmed glasses in the wicker basket, and riding off with him into the sunset.  And she probably spoke Spanish.

Wednesday night I needed a nerd to ram those new Spanish words into my brain. I was disheartened and frustrated and sad to be faced with the knowledge that I wasn’t all that smart and this whole project was not going to be a piece of cake.  (I could have used a piece of cake). And speaking of cake, since this whole learn-Spanish ordeal has started, I’ve been eating more things that aren’t good for me. The seven number limit has begun taking over. I’ve become a person who not only can’t speak Spanish but is constantly on the lookout for chocolate or cookies or cake. “Excuse me. Are you going to finish that chocolate bar? Because it’s just been sitting there.  Next to you.  And you're not eating it.  I’m trying to learn Spanish.”

Thursday night I repeated lesson three. I remembered a few more of the vocabulary words and a couple of phrases, but most of the time when mystery man asked me questions like, "what would you say if someone opened a door for you?", I drew a blank. Oh, I could think of what I wanted to say. For one thing I wanted to say, "hey buddy. What’s your name? Maria told me hers. What makes you think you can keep asking me these questions and you haven’t even introduced yourself?"  But instead, I groaned, willed my brain to come up with the answer, and then finally gave up in defeat and clicked the “next” button so Maria could cheerfully tell me what I should have said.

Friday night I forced myself to sit at this hateful laptop, open the Spanish program and repeat, again, lesson three. Just suck it up and do it whiney girl I told myself. I furrowed my brow, pushed the headphones tight onto my ears, squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated. I forced myself to answer before Maria confirmed or (more likely) denied my answer. Friday night I got a few more right than I had Thursday night. I’d surprise myself by remembering a phrase that was brand new to me, like “escucheme” (listen to me) but in the next question I’d forget that thank you was gracias. I’d answer puede ayudarme? (can you help me?) correctly to mystery man’s question, but I’d forget how to say I speak Spanish. I was really annoyed with myself, and to top it off I’d already eaten everything sweet we had in the house.

After my lesson, since I didn’t have any chocolate to keep me busy, I was surfing the TV and I ran across a Spanish language station I didn’t even realize we got. Don’t ask me why, but I’m a sucker for those reality wedding dress TV shows. You know, the one where the bride comes in searching for the perfect dress but the one she wants costs $6,000 and her budget is $750.00 and the rest of the show is all about the drama of “will she or won’t she break her budget to get the dress of her dreams.” Anyway, I’m flipping channels and next thing you know I hear Spanish being spoken, and a woman is looking at a wedding gown. How perfect is that? I say to myself. I can get my wedding dress reality show fix AND maybe learn Spanish at the same time. And guess what? I not only heard Spanish words from that miserable lesson three, but I knew those words. Yes, I knew them! I understood them! I’m not saying I understood the whole sentence but I knew somebody said, “estoy bromeando” (I’m just kidding) and then not long after, I heard “listo?” (ready?) Really! I wanted to jump off the couch and slap myself on the back. You know what? They said them over and over and I knew them over and over. Estoy bromeando. Listo? Listo! Estoy bromeando!

De Veras? (really?), you say. De Veras! I say. No estoy bromeando!◦

Hablo espanol un poquito

A Short Update

For any of you who wondered what the heck was going on in my last blog post, as in........why did that dingbat write words that made it sound like there would be music to listen to but all I'm seeing is a big empty space? Or, why is there a music player here, with a little play button but nothing is playing? Well..............gosh...........I don't know.  It worked for me Saturday. But now it appears to be so slow that the little players either don't show up at all or they do show up and then it takes forever for the music link to load.   Here's the deal.  I spent hours (really....hours) trying to figure out how to load those stupid little music players.  It involved alot of Google searching and nerdy techno reading and finding code and then finding out that code didn't work and searching for more code and testing it and FINALLY finding something that worked.

I was so close, so many times.   Dean would gaze longingly at the computer and ask if I was finished yet.   I would confidently respond, "just five more minutes.  I've almost got it.  Just testing it now."  Next thing you know it was an hour later, then two hours later, then three ...  Dean's standing by me again, sigh, "are you finished........now?"  So I just wanted you all to know that I realize you're all busy and don't have time to wait minutes for a music player to load just so you can listen to songs that I dream about or make me want to learn to dance.  Okay, me learning to dance is a stretch but I'm trying to be positive here.  Anyway, just pretend like you saw a music player, and it actually played music.  I could should have been scrubbing a toilet or cleaning a catbox, but instead, I spent hours in a vain attempt to entertain the one or two of you out there who had already scrubbed your toilets and cleaned your cat boxes and had nothing better to do than read the ramblings of a code-impaired techno-nerd-wanna-be (and that's just sad.)◦

A Short Update

Aye Carumba! La Vida Es Loco!

An interesting progression of one thing leading to another has begun happening in the five days since I accepted my own challenge of learning to speak Spanish.  (114 days to go, but who's counting).  First of all, right this minute, as I typed this post title, I realized I've been learning  Spanish since I was a young child and I just didn't realize it. Crazy, no? I honestly don't know what aye carumba means or if I'm even spelling it right. But I'm pretty sure I learned that phrase while Speedy Gonzales was chasing down Wiley E. Coyote just before he blew up Bugs Bunny as Bugs was stealing spinach from Popeye.

I have two music cds propped up against my computer at work.  Yes, only two.  Get over it.  I play  these two cds during those times when my normally challenging, they-want-it-when? workday is reduced to a boring, mind-numbing, who-has-candy-outside-their-cubicle-I-need-something-to-stimulate-me effort to maintain an upright position in my chair while at the same time appearing to be challenged. At least when the boss walks by. Clicking my mouse to the beat of a song can be stimulating, and if I alternate the clicks with each chew of candy/doughnut/pretzel/cookie, it can be downright challenging. Some days that's the only way I can keep myself from falling face-first into my keyboard. This week I increased my cd collection by one.  I now have the additional choice of a spanish music cd Abby and Jorge gave me for Christmas.  This complicated process of  listening closely in order to pick out the words I recognize from the spanish songs, while rhythmically clicking and chewing, has the additional benefit of  forestalling Alzheimers.

However, a side effect of all this spanish music listening is that I have begun to dream with spanish music playing in the background.  Really. Two nights in a row I was dreaming spanish music. And not only that, I was singing it! Yes, singing! The real spanish words. To this song! 



How weird is that?

And here's something even more crazy. spanish music has taken control of my brain and I have signed Dean and I up for a salsa class!  I intend to.  I have the form.  I will be filling it out.  Soon.  Really.  If you have ever seen Dean and I dance, you know that our prospective Salsa instructor has no idea of the challenge ahead of her.   I will be trying to lead.  Dean will be one beat off.  He'll go one way when I want to go the other.  I'll lose my count and stop dead in the song, wait, count, start again.  Dean'll still be a beat off.   I'll move like an arthritic ostrich, arms flapping, head bobbing.  Dean will duck and sway, still one beat off, hoping to avoid my flailing limbs, now and then grabbing a wing arm to twirl me.

Listen.


Are you feeling it?  My foot's tapping. My head's bobbing. My left hip just moved.....it's Salsa Time!

Aye Carumba! La vida es muy loco!◦

Aye Carumba! La Vida Es Loco!