Contrary to popular belief, the world does not speak English. I’ve learned this the hard way, by getting lost in a foreign country. One of the rudest things one American can say to another American, who is about to travel abroad, is, “Oh don’t bother trying to learn the language. They all speak English.”
I went to Hong Kong. Americans I knew who traveled there said to me, “Don’t bother trying to learn any phrases. They all speak English.”
These people were, in the words of Red from “That 70s Show” “Dumb-asses.” Hotel clerks speak English. Taxi drivers do not. Waiters in dives do not. Store clerks do not.
In an email once, I mentioned to a “friend” that I was learning Spanish in anticipation of moving to Baja one day. She wrote back and in a condescending tone, told me, “Don’t bother, sweetie. They all speak English.”
Tell that to the dozen people I tried to speak to in restaurants this past weekend, from the bartender to the waitress. Or to the three different guys we stopped to ask for directions.
“Que?”
It is arrogant to think that the world speaks English. The world speaks their own language, and those lucky enough to be educated in a foreign language may speak English. They may speak French. As Grandpa would say, “Thanks to us, they don’t speak German.” Unless, of course, they are German.
July 09, 2006
July 05, 2006
Belated Happy 4th of July
I stood on my balcony last night and watched fireworks go off all over the Valley. Our house is relatively high up for Las Vegas, so I get a great view of the entire southwestern and southeastern part of town. All over, you could see orbital flashes of red, green and blue. Vegas can be a rather bland looking town if you take out the view of the Strip, so to see the sky just over the City lit up like Tammy Faye's face was a nice change.
Fireworks are one of the best things in life -- as long as you are watching them. I can't say I enjoy hearing stories about kids and rednecks who get their fingers blown off from them.
Like many other 4th of July holidays, yesterday was one of those magical rare days that I will always remember. The 4th is probably my favorite holiday. It's warm outside, it's almost always sunny -- except for the 18 years I lived in San Francisco, then it was always foggy, but still magical. There's always wine and good friends involved, which means there are always stories to tell.
The odd thing about the 4th is I don't recall one holiday ever where there was a political debate at any of the celebrations I attended. On a daily basis, we are a country that complains about not only the other political party, but our own. The only debate I heard yesterday was whether to drink chilled red wine or mojitos. Our little gathering was a democracy. An equal number of people had wine versus mojitos.
Maybe the 4th of July is a bit like Christmas. You know -- everyone is nice to everyone else for a day. On the 4th of July, we put our politics aside and are simply Americans, not Democrats or Republicans.
Good thing that's over. Let's go back to being nasty to each other. Real fireworks are fun, but come on, so are the verbal ones.
Fireworks are one of the best things in life -- as long as you are watching them. I can't say I enjoy hearing stories about kids and rednecks who get their fingers blown off from them.
Like many other 4th of July holidays, yesterday was one of those magical rare days that I will always remember. The 4th is probably my favorite holiday. It's warm outside, it's almost always sunny -- except for the 18 years I lived in San Francisco, then it was always foggy, but still magical. There's always wine and good friends involved, which means there are always stories to tell.
The odd thing about the 4th is I don't recall one holiday ever where there was a political debate at any of the celebrations I attended. On a daily basis, we are a country that complains about not only the other political party, but our own. The only debate I heard yesterday was whether to drink chilled red wine or mojitos. Our little gathering was a democracy. An equal number of people had wine versus mojitos.
Maybe the 4th of July is a bit like Christmas. You know -- everyone is nice to everyone else for a day. On the 4th of July, we put our politics aside and are simply Americans, not Democrats or Republicans.
Good thing that's over. Let's go back to being nasty to each other. Real fireworks are fun, but come on, so are the verbal ones.
July 04, 2006
Good God, Not a Woman!
Anger has been simmering inside me for a couple weeks now over a certain current even, and it has reached a boiling point. I’m talking about the Episcopal Church’s recent election of Katharine Jefferts Schori to the role of presiding Bishop.
My mama raised me Episcopal. She had been a Catholic all her life till she met Daddy, a Methodist. They decided that rather than one having to join the other’s faith, they would decide together on a new denomination. They chose the Episcopal Church. My father, a staunch Republican, was oddly drawn to the Episcopal faith because, as he said, “of all the churches, it’s the most liberal.” There are two things my father loathed in life. Unions and Baptists. And fans of the Mississippi State Bulldogs, but I’ll save that till football season.
If you are not overly religious, the Deep South is a tough place to live. My mother was religious. Daddy just sat on the fence when it came to God. He didn’t want to burn in hell when he died, but at the same time, a lot of what he read and heard about the Bible seemed like “fairy tales invented by sober people.” Hey, those were his words, not mine.
So though I took after my daddy – I hated the Bulldogs with a passion and much preferred the Ole Miss Rebels, who Daddy thought were the closest things to angels on earth – Mama made me go to church every Sunday. Sometimes, to be sociable, I would go to the church of my pals, be it Baptist or Presbyterian or Methodist. Those are your choices in Vicksburg, Mississippi; at least those were the choices of the kids I hung out with.
Nothing made me miss the Episcopal Church like going to someone else’s church. Everything out of the other preacher’s mouth was “Jesus” this and “Jesus” that, which may not seem unusual as it is church, but in my church, there was more talk of Saints and the G himself. The other churches weren't all fancy and gilded like mine. And their choirs were too “kumbaya” for my taste. Our choir was more like an opera than a choir, with sopranos and baritones and the somber but dramatic organ pumping out Phantom-like notes. But I enjoyed Reverend Saul’s sermons. He always told amusing stories about someone long dead and historical, and every sermon was an allegory that made you think, “Hmm, maybe I should stop talking bad about people.” The service was polite and well-mannered, no clapping, no, “let me here you say ‘Praise Jesus’.” It was very ceremonial, almost like a nutty secret society for rich men wearing purple robes. I liked it as far as churches went. But the Episcopals haven’t faired well in this evangelical country of ours, mainly because they were too stuffy and not “Jesusy” enough. Hey, I just invented a word.
As soon as I turned 18, I stopped going to church. I have no proof there is no God, and I have no proof there isn’t one, and frankly, I get more spiritual comfort from a raucous Saturday night, which leaves me exhausted on Sunday morning. Sometimes on airplanes I pray, swearing I’ll be good if He or She just lets the plane land safely. Once, I had a cancer scare, and I prayed: “Dear God, if I’m going to die, please let there be good meds. I’d like to go out with a nice buzz.”
When I heard that the Episcopal church had elected Jefferts Schori as presiding bishop, I felt proud to have been raised Episcopal. I love the idea that out of all the ignorance and hatred that spews out of the more Evangelical faiths, the Episcopal Church elected a woman as their top dog. But not all is well in the pulpit. Not only is Jefferts Schori a woman, but a couple years ago, she voted with the majority of Episcopal bishops to approve the New Hampshire Diocese's election of V. Gene Robinson, the first openly gay bishop in the Anglican Communion. She has allowed the blessing of same-sex couples in her Nevada diocese.
In other words, she’s a liberal. You know, like Jesus.
So now six U.S. dioceses already have rejected her authority. Many church leaders predict that by the time she takes office, about five more, for a total of 10 percent of the nation's 111 Episcopal dioceses, will have joined the rejectionist camp.
Daddy died in 1995. He hadn’t been to church in about ten years – maybe on Christmas Eve Midnight Mass, but I think he did that for the reception afterwards at the Reverend’s Rector. I really don’t believe he would have had a problem with the election of a woman to the head of the church. He may not have agreed with her views on gays, but he would have said it was none of his business what other people do.
Jefferts Schori was trained as a scientist as well as a theologian, she entered the priesthood late in life, only 12 years ago, after an initial career as an oceanographer specializing in octopuses and squids, who evidently treat her better than members of her own church. Her husband is a retired professor of theoretical mathematics, and they have a daughter serving in the Air Force. The Bishop isn’t a slouch and neither is her family.
She got in big trouble during a sermon recently for referring to the “Mother Jesus” in a sermon. In her response to criticisms of heresy for referring to a female Jesus, she gave a learned disquisition on medieval mystics and saints who used similar language, including Julian of Norwich and St. Teresa of Avila. "I was trying to say that the work of the cross was in some ways like giving birth to a new creation," she said. "That is straight-down-the-middle orthodox theology.
So take that you dumb-asses who won’t tolerate a brainy, gay-loving woman with squid cooties leading your church.
The Episcopal majority is concerned about the split, but I say, “let them go.” There are plenty of bible-thumping, women-hating, gay-loathing denominations that will have them. If Daddy were here, I know what he’d say. “Try the Baptists.”
My mama raised me Episcopal. She had been a Catholic all her life till she met Daddy, a Methodist. They decided that rather than one having to join the other’s faith, they would decide together on a new denomination. They chose the Episcopal Church. My father, a staunch Republican, was oddly drawn to the Episcopal faith because, as he said, “of all the churches, it’s the most liberal.” There are two things my father loathed in life. Unions and Baptists. And fans of the Mississippi State Bulldogs, but I’ll save that till football season.
If you are not overly religious, the Deep South is a tough place to live. My mother was religious. Daddy just sat on the fence when it came to God. He didn’t want to burn in hell when he died, but at the same time, a lot of what he read and heard about the Bible seemed like “fairy tales invented by sober people.” Hey, those were his words, not mine.
So though I took after my daddy – I hated the Bulldogs with a passion and much preferred the Ole Miss Rebels, who Daddy thought were the closest things to angels on earth – Mama made me go to church every Sunday. Sometimes, to be sociable, I would go to the church of my pals, be it Baptist or Presbyterian or Methodist. Those are your choices in Vicksburg, Mississippi; at least those were the choices of the kids I hung out with.
Nothing made me miss the Episcopal Church like going to someone else’s church. Everything out of the other preacher’s mouth was “Jesus” this and “Jesus” that, which may not seem unusual as it is church, but in my church, there was more talk of Saints and the G himself. The other churches weren't all fancy and gilded like mine. And their choirs were too “kumbaya” for my taste. Our choir was more like an opera than a choir, with sopranos and baritones and the somber but dramatic organ pumping out Phantom-like notes. But I enjoyed Reverend Saul’s sermons. He always told amusing stories about someone long dead and historical, and every sermon was an allegory that made you think, “Hmm, maybe I should stop talking bad about people.” The service was polite and well-mannered, no clapping, no, “let me here you say ‘Praise Jesus’.” It was very ceremonial, almost like a nutty secret society for rich men wearing purple robes. I liked it as far as churches went. But the Episcopals haven’t faired well in this evangelical country of ours, mainly because they were too stuffy and not “Jesusy” enough. Hey, I just invented a word.
As soon as I turned 18, I stopped going to church. I have no proof there is no God, and I have no proof there isn’t one, and frankly, I get more spiritual comfort from a raucous Saturday night, which leaves me exhausted on Sunday morning. Sometimes on airplanes I pray, swearing I’ll be good if He or She just lets the plane land safely. Once, I had a cancer scare, and I prayed: “Dear God, if I’m going to die, please let there be good meds. I’d like to go out with a nice buzz.”
When I heard that the Episcopal church had elected Jefferts Schori as presiding bishop, I felt proud to have been raised Episcopal. I love the idea that out of all the ignorance and hatred that spews out of the more Evangelical faiths, the Episcopal Church elected a woman as their top dog. But not all is well in the pulpit. Not only is Jefferts Schori a woman, but a couple years ago, she voted with the majority of Episcopal bishops to approve the New Hampshire Diocese's election of V. Gene Robinson, the first openly gay bishop in the Anglican Communion. She has allowed the blessing of same-sex couples in her Nevada diocese.
In other words, she’s a liberal. You know, like Jesus.
So now six U.S. dioceses already have rejected her authority. Many church leaders predict that by the time she takes office, about five more, for a total of 10 percent of the nation's 111 Episcopal dioceses, will have joined the rejectionist camp.
Daddy died in 1995. He hadn’t been to church in about ten years – maybe on Christmas Eve Midnight Mass, but I think he did that for the reception afterwards at the Reverend’s Rector. I really don’t believe he would have had a problem with the election of a woman to the head of the church. He may not have agreed with her views on gays, but he would have said it was none of his business what other people do.
Jefferts Schori was trained as a scientist as well as a theologian, she entered the priesthood late in life, only 12 years ago, after an initial career as an oceanographer specializing in octopuses and squids, who evidently treat her better than members of her own church. Her husband is a retired professor of theoretical mathematics, and they have a daughter serving in the Air Force. The Bishop isn’t a slouch and neither is her family.
She got in big trouble during a sermon recently for referring to the “Mother Jesus” in a sermon. In her response to criticisms of heresy for referring to a female Jesus, she gave a learned disquisition on medieval mystics and saints who used similar language, including Julian of Norwich and St. Teresa of Avila. "I was trying to say that the work of the cross was in some ways like giving birth to a new creation," she said. "That is straight-down-the-middle orthodox theology.
So take that you dumb-asses who won’t tolerate a brainy, gay-loving woman with squid cooties leading your church.
The Episcopal majority is concerned about the split, but I say, “let them go.” There are plenty of bible-thumping, women-hating, gay-loathing denominations that will have them. If Daddy were here, I know what he’d say. “Try the Baptists.”
July 02, 2006
The World’s Best Hostess?
Parties in Las Vegas are a scary occasion, right up there with the 2000 and 2004 elections. When I get an invite, particularly from someone I don’t know well, or someone under the age of 40, I often find myself making excuses. “I have friends in town,” was a once oft-used excuse until hosts started saying, “oh hell, bring them. We have plenty of Cheez Whiz for everyone.”
I grew up in the South, the place the rest of the world thinks as white trashy and redneck, and granted, there is a lot of that. But one thing any Southerner knows how to do well is throw a simple party. Southerners are friendly people by nature, and they like to please. I don’t know why we are that way, but in an area where racism is more in your face, the need to please divides racial lines and results in one of life’s most coveted talents: the ability to throw a damn good hootenanny.
Even if the alcohol is bad, the food simple and the conversation focused on Church and George W. Bush (damn those Southerners for help electing him twice), any Southerner knows that the moment your guests walk through the door, you have food waiting and you shove a drink in their hand. There’s music playing in the background and the lighting is not too bright as you don’t want your aging female guests to feel like they need to cower in a corner hiding their crow’s feet (okay, that’s just me, probably).
I have been to three parties in a row in Vegas in the last month. At the first party, I waited a half hour before I was offered a drink, and then it was a Coke – not even diet, mind you – or Fetzer wine ($6 at the grocery store). I may be Southern, but everyone knows I lived in San Francisco for 20 years. For God’s sakes, I have standards when it comes to wine.
There was nothing to munch on while we waited for dinner, which consisted of ribs, rice, corn and potato salad. So no care was given to the beauty of the meal (all yellow and white, unless you count the bloody ribs I didn’t eat) much less the variety, all starch. There were kids running around screaming, and no nice background music -- just some annoying DVD playing for the toddlers. I left as quickly as I could.
The next weekend, at another party, there was music and thankfully, no kids. There was a bar set up and food laid out. However, the only thing the host served was red wine. I poured myself a glass (the hostess had directed me to the bar) and after taking a few sips, I set it down on what I took to be a secure surface, but it wasn’t. The wine tipped over and spilled all over the white carpet. I immediately started apologizing and trying to sop up the stain with a napkin. The hostess ignored my apology and laughed only when another guest suggested that she serve her guests wine in a sippy cup. She then implored the other guests to go outside while me and her husband were left to tend to the mess I had made. Granted, I was not going to leave the mess, but those were her words about me, “the mess she made.”
He had a steam cleaner and the stain came right up.
Last weekend there was a good party with good food and good wine, however the lighting was bad and everyone was asked to take their shoes off. The host allowed the guests to huddle off in their clicks, rather than encouraging mingling. A good Southern hosts will drag you by the hand if she has to and get you involved in a conversation with a stranger by starting off with an funny story to break the ice: “Hank here once got so drunk that he didn’t realize he had parked on the train tracks. A train came along and when Hank woke up, he was ICU! He didn’t know how the hell he got there! Isn’t that funny?”
So last night, it was my turn. I threw a party. I deliberated over the menu and the guests list. It had to be people who would get along if brought together, or if clashed, would clash in interesting friendly ways, sort of the opposites attract theory. I fretted over the musical selection and lost sleep trying to come up with one perfect drink that would do well in 107 degree weather (at night) as well as compliment the food.
I invited my friends over. The lighting was good. The food was good. The music was good. The mojitos were great. I had several of those. The guests clicked and talked. And then I noticed something. I wasn’t talking. My guests were doing all the talking. They clicked too well and I was too pooped from all the planning and preparation to join the merriment. I tried to interject a funny story, but the dialogue was flying back and forth rapid fire, like a Gilmore Girls episode. I couldn’t get a word in. I was Luke, the dull boyfriend. Everyone else was Lorelai, the cute mom.
Then, I realized one of my guests was staring at me. Actually, she was staring at my mid-section. I looked down. My shirt had hiked up and a fleshy roll of belly was sticking out over the top of my skirt. I pulled my shirt down and thought to myself, “gee the lighting in here is a little bright.” So I waited another ten minutes till there was a tiny, microscopic pause in the conversation and I moved everyone outside by the pool, where there the pool and yard light gave the night, and me, a soft illumination. I hid in the dark, nursing my mojito and watching my guests have a great time.
Even the best laid party plans have their downside. You can throw a party where everyone is having a great time, but you’re left feeling exposed with your belly fat hanging out. You’d complain, but everyone is too busy having fun to listen, and all you want to do anyway is sleep.
I grew up in the South, the place the rest of the world thinks as white trashy and redneck, and granted, there is a lot of that. But one thing any Southerner knows how to do well is throw a simple party. Southerners are friendly people by nature, and they like to please. I don’t know why we are that way, but in an area where racism is more in your face, the need to please divides racial lines and results in one of life’s most coveted talents: the ability to throw a damn good hootenanny.
Even if the alcohol is bad, the food simple and the conversation focused on Church and George W. Bush (damn those Southerners for help electing him twice), any Southerner knows that the moment your guests walk through the door, you have food waiting and you shove a drink in their hand. There’s music playing in the background and the lighting is not too bright as you don’t want your aging female guests to feel like they need to cower in a corner hiding their crow’s feet (okay, that’s just me, probably).
I have been to three parties in a row in Vegas in the last month. At the first party, I waited a half hour before I was offered a drink, and then it was a Coke – not even diet, mind you – or Fetzer wine ($6 at the grocery store). I may be Southern, but everyone knows I lived in San Francisco for 20 years. For God’s sakes, I have standards when it comes to wine.
There was nothing to munch on while we waited for dinner, which consisted of ribs, rice, corn and potato salad. So no care was given to the beauty of the meal (all yellow and white, unless you count the bloody ribs I didn’t eat) much less the variety, all starch. There were kids running around screaming, and no nice background music -- just some annoying DVD playing for the toddlers. I left as quickly as I could.
The next weekend, at another party, there was music and thankfully, no kids. There was a bar set up and food laid out. However, the only thing the host served was red wine. I poured myself a glass (the hostess had directed me to the bar) and after taking a few sips, I set it down on what I took to be a secure surface, but it wasn’t. The wine tipped over and spilled all over the white carpet. I immediately started apologizing and trying to sop up the stain with a napkin. The hostess ignored my apology and laughed only when another guest suggested that she serve her guests wine in a sippy cup. She then implored the other guests to go outside while me and her husband were left to tend to the mess I had made. Granted, I was not going to leave the mess, but those were her words about me, “the mess she made.”
He had a steam cleaner and the stain came right up.
Last weekend there was a good party with good food and good wine, however the lighting was bad and everyone was asked to take their shoes off. The host allowed the guests to huddle off in their clicks, rather than encouraging mingling. A good Southern hosts will drag you by the hand if she has to and get you involved in a conversation with a stranger by starting off with an funny story to break the ice: “Hank here once got so drunk that he didn’t realize he had parked on the train tracks. A train came along and when Hank woke up, he was ICU! He didn’t know how the hell he got there! Isn’t that funny?”
So last night, it was my turn. I threw a party. I deliberated over the menu and the guests list. It had to be people who would get along if brought together, or if clashed, would clash in interesting friendly ways, sort of the opposites attract theory. I fretted over the musical selection and lost sleep trying to come up with one perfect drink that would do well in 107 degree weather (at night) as well as compliment the food.
I invited my friends over. The lighting was good. The food was good. The music was good. The mojitos were great. I had several of those. The guests clicked and talked. And then I noticed something. I wasn’t talking. My guests were doing all the talking. They clicked too well and I was too pooped from all the planning and preparation to join the merriment. I tried to interject a funny story, but the dialogue was flying back and forth rapid fire, like a Gilmore Girls episode. I couldn’t get a word in. I was Luke, the dull boyfriend. Everyone else was Lorelai, the cute mom.
Then, I realized one of my guests was staring at me. Actually, she was staring at my mid-section. I looked down. My shirt had hiked up and a fleshy roll of belly was sticking out over the top of my skirt. I pulled my shirt down and thought to myself, “gee the lighting in here is a little bright.” So I waited another ten minutes till there was a tiny, microscopic pause in the conversation and I moved everyone outside by the pool, where there the pool and yard light gave the night, and me, a soft illumination. I hid in the dark, nursing my mojito and watching my guests have a great time.
Even the best laid party plans have their downside. You can throw a party where everyone is having a great time, but you’re left feeling exposed with your belly fat hanging out. You’d complain, but everyone is too busy having fun to listen, and all you want to do anyway is sleep.
June 26, 2006
Talk About Fashion First
I stole this from Gawker's site – it came in their mailbag. If this isn’t a good example of people behaving badly, then slap my face and call me Anna – and I’m not talking about Anna Nicole Smith. Read on:
“Thursday, 8pm: I’m walking home from a friend’s house via 7th ave when I notice a woman about ten feet ahead of me stumbling in her heels. The straps were not staying put on her shoes and she kept getting her heel caught and stumbling, say, every 10 seconds or so. The man she was walking with never seemed to notice or care. But the best aspect of this story was that, as we approached a crosswalk, an ambulance came roaring down 7th avenue, with horns and lights and sirens blaring. It had its blinker on indicating it was going to make a left turn, cutting in front of me and this woman and her companion. Well, this lady was having none of it. She stepped right in front of the oncoming ambulance, as it attempted to make a turn, and put her hand up, shouted, “I’m crossing!!!” and proceeded to cross the street, stumbling in her heels the entire way. I’d say the rescue was delayed maybe 30 seconds due to this, and perhaps someone died. The woman? Anna Wintour. I guess the devil crosses when she sees fit!”
“Thursday, 8pm: I’m walking home from a friend’s house via 7th ave when I notice a woman about ten feet ahead of me stumbling in her heels. The straps were not staying put on her shoes and she kept getting her heel caught and stumbling, say, every 10 seconds or so. The man she was walking with never seemed to notice or care. But the best aspect of this story was that, as we approached a crosswalk, an ambulance came roaring down 7th avenue, with horns and lights and sirens blaring. It had its blinker on indicating it was going to make a left turn, cutting in front of me and this woman and her companion. Well, this lady was having none of it. She stepped right in front of the oncoming ambulance, as it attempted to make a turn, and put her hand up, shouted, “I’m crossing!!!” and proceeded to cross the street, stumbling in her heels the entire way. I’d say the rescue was delayed maybe 30 seconds due to this, and perhaps someone died. The woman? Anna Wintour. I guess the devil crosses when she sees fit!”
June 25, 2006
Feed Me
If it’s Sunday, I must be thinking about food. Ever since I was a little girl, Sundays were for one thing and one thing only: making bets on how soon after lunch Mama passed out from her highballs. I kid my mother. She waited till right after dinner to pass out.
No seriously, Mama may have devoted Sundays to Jack Daniels, but she also had her priorities straight. Starting on Saturday afternoons, she would take out the latest issue of Gourmet and she and my father -- who, when it came to food, was metrosexual before his time -- would flip the pages and ooh and ahh over photos of Soufflés the way some people flip over expensive jewelry.
My parents were Captain Ahabs in their own right. Their Moby Dick was not a whale, not even a seared Ahi Tuna. It was Soufflé. Damn, I have never eaten so many bad Soufflés in my life as I did during the late seventies. Where did bad Soufflés go when they died during those days? My mama’s oven. They came out as flat as my hair during the awkward years (which I’m still living, evidently).
We were southern, yet we couldn’t eat green beans like normal southerners. During those experimental food days of the late seventies, we had to eat French Bean Almandine. I longed for a simple canned bean casserole smothered in Campbell’s mushroom soup and topped with a can of French Fried Onion Rings. While others ate Jell-O mold, we learned the benefits of a fire extinguisher when my mother made Bananas Foster. I swear, she wanted to make that desert because of the alcohol involved (Drink your Desert!). Having heard that alcohol could kill, I almost turned Baptist that day and left behind my Episcopalian principles of “drink up” as the 11th commandment. That day alcohol nearly killed us all -- and no one had had a sip. What was worse is there were a few terrifying seconds while the flames licked uncontrollably across the kitchen table as my father struggled with the nozzle on the extinguisher. Metrosexuals, then and now, are not good with equipment.
The only saving grace back then was my grandma. She also liked to cook, but she didn’t need Gourmet magazine to tell her how to do it. She was a no-nonsense southern cook who understood you could win more friends with salt pork than you could saffron.
When she cooked, the Sunday table groaned and sighed from the weight of all the food. We had lima bean, cooked straight up thank you, Parker House rolls, asparagus done the proper Southern way: right out of a can, damnit. We had roast beef that fell onto your fork it was so tender, we had mustard greens that had percolated in the pressure cooker along with the aforementioned salt pork. Grandma’s served corn on the cob that had been boiled, not grilled the way Daddy liked it, but instead, she would infuse the water with Zataran’s crab boil to give the corn the impression we were in New Orleans. She also served rice and a thick brown gravy made from the juice of the roast beef.
Seconds were mandatory. When Mama made Soufflé and her French Beans Almandine, the only seconds were leftovers from Grandma’s Saturday night meal.
It bothered my mother that she couldn’t cook as well as my grandmother. Of course, my grandmother never tried to make a Soufflé. If she had, she may have failed, too. But asking her to cook something like that is like asking W to consider an opposing view. It just wasn’t in her nature.
Eventually, my parents moved on from their Gourmet magazine phase – though they never cancelled their subscription. When my father died, there was a chest filled with them that Mama sold to a local antiques dealer for a few hundred dollars. After the excitement of making complicated food wore off, they did what other culinary-challenged Southerners – and everyone else – does: they simply went out to eat.
I moved to San Francisco, and developed for a few years a tradition of going to the Mission District and having burritos, before meeting my husband, an Italian. Now winter Sundays are all about wine and good pasta. In the summers, we grill, as if obligated to do so once the temperatures rise in our new town of Las Vegas. Mama’s Jack Daniels is replaced with spring water. We have to watch our calories, you know. Today, as the sun baked Vegas to 111, we grilled Jamaican Jerk Flank steak and had a cucumber and green onion salad, a slight nod to my Southern roots. We also had corn on the cob. We grilled it. Just the way Daddy would have liked it.
No seriously, Mama may have devoted Sundays to Jack Daniels, but she also had her priorities straight. Starting on Saturday afternoons, she would take out the latest issue of Gourmet and she and my father -- who, when it came to food, was metrosexual before his time -- would flip the pages and ooh and ahh over photos of Soufflés the way some people flip over expensive jewelry.
My parents were Captain Ahabs in their own right. Their Moby Dick was not a whale, not even a seared Ahi Tuna. It was Soufflé. Damn, I have never eaten so many bad Soufflés in my life as I did during the late seventies. Where did bad Soufflés go when they died during those days? My mama’s oven. They came out as flat as my hair during the awkward years (which I’m still living, evidently).
We were southern, yet we couldn’t eat green beans like normal southerners. During those experimental food days of the late seventies, we had to eat French Bean Almandine. I longed for a simple canned bean casserole smothered in Campbell’s mushroom soup and topped with a can of French Fried Onion Rings. While others ate Jell-O mold, we learned the benefits of a fire extinguisher when my mother made Bananas Foster. I swear, she wanted to make that desert because of the alcohol involved (Drink your Desert!). Having heard that alcohol could kill, I almost turned Baptist that day and left behind my Episcopalian principles of “drink up” as the 11th commandment. That day alcohol nearly killed us all -- and no one had had a sip. What was worse is there were a few terrifying seconds while the flames licked uncontrollably across the kitchen table as my father struggled with the nozzle on the extinguisher. Metrosexuals, then and now, are not good with equipment.
The only saving grace back then was my grandma. She also liked to cook, but she didn’t need Gourmet magazine to tell her how to do it. She was a no-nonsense southern cook who understood you could win more friends with salt pork than you could saffron.
When she cooked, the Sunday table groaned and sighed from the weight of all the food. We had lima bean, cooked straight up thank you, Parker House rolls, asparagus done the proper Southern way: right out of a can, damnit. We had roast beef that fell onto your fork it was so tender, we had mustard greens that had percolated in the pressure cooker along with the aforementioned salt pork. Grandma’s served corn on the cob that had been boiled, not grilled the way Daddy liked it, but instead, she would infuse the water with Zataran’s crab boil to give the corn the impression we were in New Orleans. She also served rice and a thick brown gravy made from the juice of the roast beef.
Seconds were mandatory. When Mama made Soufflé and her French Beans Almandine, the only seconds were leftovers from Grandma’s Saturday night meal.
It bothered my mother that she couldn’t cook as well as my grandmother. Of course, my grandmother never tried to make a Soufflé. If she had, she may have failed, too. But asking her to cook something like that is like asking W to consider an opposing view. It just wasn’t in her nature.
Eventually, my parents moved on from their Gourmet magazine phase – though they never cancelled their subscription. When my father died, there was a chest filled with them that Mama sold to a local antiques dealer for a few hundred dollars. After the excitement of making complicated food wore off, they did what other culinary-challenged Southerners – and everyone else – does: they simply went out to eat.
I moved to San Francisco, and developed for a few years a tradition of going to the Mission District and having burritos, before meeting my husband, an Italian. Now winter Sundays are all about wine and good pasta. In the summers, we grill, as if obligated to do so once the temperatures rise in our new town of Las Vegas. Mama’s Jack Daniels is replaced with spring water. We have to watch our calories, you know. Today, as the sun baked Vegas to 111, we grilled Jamaican Jerk Flank steak and had a cucumber and green onion salad, a slight nod to my Southern roots. We also had corn on the cob. We grilled it. Just the way Daddy would have liked it.
June 24, 2006
Don't Ask
This one is making its way around the Web:
George W. Bush goes to a primary school to talk to the kids and score some points with parents. After his talk, he offers question time. One little boy puts up his hand and George asks him his name. "Stanley," responds the little boy.
"And what is your question, Stanley?"
"I have 4 questions:
1. Why did the USA invade Iraq without the support of the UN?
2. Why are you President when Al Gore got more votes?
3. Whatever happened to Osama Bin Laden?
4. Why are we so worried about gay-marriage when half of all Americans don't have health insurance?"
Just then, the bell rings for recess. George Bush informs the kiddies that they will continue after recess.
When they resume, George says, "OK, where were we? Oh, that's right, question time. Who has a question?" Another little boy puts up his hand. George points him out and asks him his name.
"Steve," he responds.
"And what is your question, Steve?"
"Actually, I have 6 questions.
1. Why did the USA invade Iraq without the support of the UN?
2. Why are you President when Al Gore got more votes?
3. Whatever happened to Osama Bin Laden?
4. Why are we so worried about gay-marriage when half of all Americans don't have health insurance?
5. Why did the recess bell go off 20 minutes early? And ,,,,
6. What happened to Stanley?"
George W. Bush goes to a primary school to talk to the kids and score some points with parents. After his talk, he offers question time. One little boy puts up his hand and George asks him his name. "Stanley," responds the little boy.
"And what is your question, Stanley?"
"I have 4 questions:
1. Why did the USA invade Iraq without the support of the UN?
2. Why are you President when Al Gore got more votes?
3. Whatever happened to Osama Bin Laden?
4. Why are we so worried about gay-marriage when half of all Americans don't have health insurance?"
Just then, the bell rings for recess. George Bush informs the kiddies that they will continue after recess.
When they resume, George says, "OK, where were we? Oh, that's right, question time. Who has a question?" Another little boy puts up his hand. George points him out and asks him his name.
"Steve," he responds.
"And what is your question, Steve?"
"Actually, I have 6 questions.
1. Why did the USA invade Iraq without the support of the UN?
2. Why are you President when Al Gore got more votes?
3. Whatever happened to Osama Bin Laden?
4. Why are we so worried about gay-marriage when half of all Americans don't have health insurance?
5. Why did the recess bell go off 20 minutes early? And ,,,,
6. What happened to Stanley?"
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