5:00 Fridays

So Obama has once again declared he'll repeal Clinton's (Bill's, that is) "Don't Ask Don't Tell" policy. Seems to me that the spirit of that ridiculousness sparked Vegas' "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" ad campaign. Um, as if we just don't talk about it, it doesn't matter. Yeah, tell that to your jilted bride who's gonna get a mad case of herpes thanks to your hedonistic indiscretions.

Besides that, so much for the whole equality thing. What a novel concept anyway. Have we really seen that work in any realm? I mean really, we wouldn't have Title IX, affirmative action, and so on if Equality really mattered. "Don't Ask Don't Tell" is just one more cog in that stifling machine. I'm thinking that "separate but equal" more closely aligns with where our country has socially been pointing its nose. Then again, based on the raving rants and roars by the likes of a tub bellied arse named Rush and a becurled beauty queen named Sarah, I'd say our nose, theirs and their minions' at least, is pointing elsewhere.

Hear's hoping that Obama makes some headway on the repeal of "Don't Ask Don't Tell." I'm applauding his wisdom with a drink.

Oh, and lest you think this is not a real drink, allow me to point you to page 214 of the fine book The Daily Cocktail that my dear friend Kate gave me.


Gay Marine

few sprigs of fresh mint
4 - 5 lime wedges
1 T sugar
1/2 ounce Grand Marnier
1 1/2 ounces Mount Gay Barbados rum
1 - 2 ounces apple juice (Surely every parent of young kids has this on hand!)


In a silver (or at least stainless steel) cocktail shaker, muddle a few sprigs of mint, the lime wedges, sugar, and Grand Marnier. Add some crushed ice and pour in the rum. Stir and top off with the apple juice. Serve in an old fashioned glass with some mint and a lime wedge as garnish.

Cheers to ALL those patriots who serve loyally, courageously, dutifully.

Wordless Wednesday: Defiance.

I Get Around.

Lest you think me a slacker, I figured I'd share some other tidbits I've been writing. While Dirt & Noise is my home in this web of a well, The Web, I do settle my boots to dry in other equally inviting spots. None, however, so out of OSHA filth and decibel level standards as this honky tonk.

From my Foodie Mama Outpost:
Check out one of my new favorite dishes that hails from my very own kitchen. Now beware, I don't really use precise measurements so don't curse me if you can't cook and muck this up with your own messed up teaspoons and metric conversions. If you just cook with your gut and trust your hunches, you'll serve up some splendid suppers.

Gnocchi. Butternut Squash. Mmmmmm.....


And those uber cool women at Silicon Valley Moms actually let lil ol' moi contribute to their regional blog, Deep South Moms. You'll see that I do an inordinate amount of bitching over there. It's all easier to swallow if I end each post with "Bless her heart."


Here's what I had to say about what I think is the worst part of parenting.

5:00 Fridays - Farewell, JD Salinger

“Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all.”

I have this line, among many others, underlined in my tattered paperback copy of Catcher in the Rye from roundabout 1984. I related to Holden Caulfield, so much so that we very nearly named our youngest son Holden. I was skeptical of the phonies, eschewed the bores, and intimidated by those whose suitcases were nicer than mine. And to this day, money makes me feel blue as hell.

My high school penciled notations in the opening of the book indicate that the same words would be appropriate in my memoir one day. See, even at a young age I wanted to write. This was after math and science kicked my ass to Nova Scotia and I realized that the closest I'd get to medicine was as a doctor's wife (which didn't happen): “If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”

Holden, though he was an angst ridden, complicated, yet wise, youth of 17, spoke my language. I, a 15 year old in an all girls boarding school surrounded by phonies, wannabes, and American duchesses, could never navigate my way through the social kinks and curves. I was lost and often alone. I felt like I was the only sane person in a loony bin because no one shared my story, or admitted to it anyway. Holden must have become real to me then. My 15 year old self.

I'm almost 42 now. I won't re-read Catcher in the Rye, for I don't want the lines to lose their glow. I want to remember Holden as the boy whose ear flapped hunting hat wasn't out of place in my world, the world more sodden with fancy labels and Bergdorf buys. We even bought a hat like Holden's hunting hat for Bird when he was a baby. He was a doll in that thing, puffed out chunker cheeks pooching out beneath the corduroy and faux fur. Holden would be 75 today. I have a hunch he'd have much to say about the phonies and bores in these, our modern times. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Today I tip my hat to the venerable JD Salinger who died yesterday. He was 91.

Writer. Recluse. Crackpot. Enigma.

Let's inhale a healthy dose of peace, wrap up in a stole of silence, and sip some rye.

Catcher in the Rye

3 ounces Templeton Rye
Splash of ginger ale
Teaspoon or so of maple syrup (It is imperative you use the real deal here; Mrs. Butterworth isn't worth it!)

Pour rye over ice in a lowball glass. Add ginger ale. Slowly stir in maple syrup. No garnish today. Holden, and JD Salinger, would find garnish to be a grand gesture stinking of superfluousness.


Some parting words from Holden Caulfield: "What really knocks me out is a book, when you're all done reading it, you wished the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it."

Wordless Wednesday: Bird. Dog.

5:00 Fridays

Mac Daddy and I got married in Key West. Almost 10 years ago. That means we should be buying each other tin or aluminum to commemorate the big milestone. Clearly a cheapskate SOB groom came up with that addition to the anniversary gift list. I am pretty well stocked on Reynolds aluminum foil so I'm going to go with the modern interpretation and insist on diamonds instead.

A tennis bracelet would be lovely. A belly button ring would be...um, tacky. And not so lovely, not to mention extraordinarily painful since my belly button is not pierced. and nor will it ever be, regardless how closely I teeter to a midlife crisis or anything resembling such lapse in judgment. If you knew me in college you'd know that I already spent my lifetime of judgment lapses back then. I hear they're not reprinting that currency these days.

I recall hearing a quote from my idol Audrey Hepburn that women under age 40 shouldn't wear diamonds. I was about 22 when I heard that. 20 years ago. I'm well into my diamond years. Present the diamond jewelry in a tin box if you must keep the foolish tradition alive.

Mac Daddy and I used to travel to Key West every year with our dear friends Chris and Shan (@turn_design). Since we all acquired mortgages, student loans, and well, children (though they were more than a mere acquisition), we have not been back. We used to all live in the frozen tundra somewhere between Minneapolis and Chicago. We'd be enduring winter's wretched blast right about now, with no sign of spring in sight and the damn department store merchandising teasing our inner sunbathing beauty. Chris, Shan, Mac Daddy, and I at least had Key West tucked into the back pockets of our flannel lined jeans. We all wore Birkenstocks on the plane in anticipation of feeling the sun bring some pinkness back to our frigid digits.

While it's not "Minnesota cold" here in North Carolina, it has been a pretty cruel winter for those of us who burned our furry hooded parkas and Moon boots upon registering to vote in this state. As a nod to Key West and the warmth it burnished in our psyches, I bring you:

Key West Breezes

(Note: Much like my cooking, I never measure precisely so just go with what suits your palate.)
3/4 cup coffee (good quality, dark roast)
dash+ of Kahlua
dash+ of Frangelico
dash+ of Grand Marnier
dash+ of Baileys

Add all the liqueurs to hot coffee. Top with whipped cream and a quick grate of nutmeg or cinnamon.

Here's to whatever warms you on a cold winter's night. Other than a mug of this tucked into my cold shivering hands, I have Mac Daddy to thank. He lets me put my cold feet on him; he endures flannel sheets long after we've done the spring cleaning; he warms my chilly disposition; he heats me up in all the right places. Va va vavoom!

Wordless Wednesday: Jedi Snuggie