All posts filed under: horrible warning

pure & true apple butter by the dead-simple oven method/ a raisin and a porpoise

could lead to dancing

The other day I went on a long-ish drive with some children I know pretty well.  We had the music cranked. “This,” said one of these children, whom I would not dare identify, “is a good song for dancing with your butt.” It’s true.  It IS a good song for that kind of isometric boogie you can only do while seated in a car, among other things it is good for.  Here’s another: if you are driving alone in a deserted area and in a bit of a lather over some injustice or idiocy you have gotten tangled up with, it can be very useful to howl “ANGER IS AN ENERGY. ANGER IS AN ENERGY. ANGER IS AN ENERGY. ANGER IS AN ENERGY,” right along with Mr. John Lydon at the top of your gravelly lungs until you can, in an ‘Om, Shanti’ kind of way, inquire of yourself if you are ready to let that feeling go, and thus make yourself ready to be among people again before you arrive at your destination.  I …

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red rice with smoked cheddar and squash

meanwhile

By way of explanation as to where in the sam hill I have been, I could offer this compelling photograph and say no more: “Is that,” you may be wondering to yourself, “a timely reminder to back up all my files, in the form of a person with a stethoscope trying to detect any faint sign of life within the innards of the Porpoiseful laptop?”  Why, yes it is.  You can’t quite tell from the picture, but he is about to inform me that there are, in fact, absolutely no detectable signs of life whatsoever.  He is about to say, in effect, “Go forth, oh ye who cannot set a good example, and serve YET AGAIN as the horrible warning that will scare everyone straight.” So that had a lot to do with keeping mum.  Numerous other factors contrived to keep me occupied, but that was the real immovable object.  Now I write you from my precarious perch on the slippery uphill part of the learning curve of a new computer. Not complaining. Another complication …

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what mint and cheesecake have to do with schnauzers

minty fresh

My sixth birthday present was a dog, a gentlemanly terrier who was, for the most part, a very easy-going guy. We had been persuaded by someone, maybe the breeder or some wise friend, that a mixture of wet and dry food was the right thing to feed him.  We had been persuaded.  He had not.  So every evening we would mix that up for him, and every evening he would snarf down all the wet food and leave the dry, sorting on the fly at a pretty considerable rate of speed, given his impressive accuracy.  No kibble passed his little black lips.  Henceforth into eternity, rejecting some ingredient that is enmeshed in one’s meal became known, in my family of origin, as “kibble-rejecting.” In a nice restaurant once, my husband caught me kibble-rejecting in my salad, kicking the scratchy fronds of frisée to the curb of the bowl.  “What are you doing?” he inquired, and I explained that I believe frisée to be more suitable for scrubbing stubborn stains off the sink than for eating.  …

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