Steve was also very patient with his idiot Mama…
We used to have an Akita named Steve (The Kid said on the way home from getting him, that he looked like a Steve. And he did.).
For the first few years we had him, he was all over the house. Up and down the stairs, kitchen, bathroom, laundry room, wherever. Often when we came in the house, we’d hear him racing down the stairs to greet us.
Until one day.
Actually, I’m not quite sure what day, but eventually we noticed that he’d stopped going upstairs. We tried coaxing him, calling him, even luring him up with a few of his favorite treats.
No dice.
Never again did he venture up more than a few steps. Inside our house, his world shrunk to the ground floor.
If Crowley ever saw this, he’d wiggle right out of his skin.
Our current dog, Crowley enjoys some television, but is very choosy. Dogs, horses, and elephants are his must-see TV, and he will come running in when he recognizes the jingles from commercials with his preferred animals, or if we spot one and call out, “Puppy!”.
He loves to watch sports with Petey. But unlike my spouse, Crowley’s a discriminating viewer. He loves football of any stripe. He loves basketball, but only college hoops, not the NBA (don’t ask me how he can tell the two apart. These days, all the players look like middle schoolers to me). Baseball and golf? No love.
When we were first married, we had a chow named Harry. We bought him at a pet store because he had gotten too big for the cages the puppies were kept in, and we knew we wouldn’t have been able to sleep at night if we’d left him in that situation.
I’d like to see you turn your back on this mooshie face.
He was obviously a puppy mill pooch, and we think maybe his mother drank heavily when she was pregnant. He was an odd, odd boy. When we brought him home, he hid under the bed for the first three days. He never warmed up to any humans except Petey, my best friend Bo, me, and later The Kid.
But in what had to be the strangest doggy quirk ever, he was terrified of ice cream. Why? It’s not like he was lactose-intolerant, he and Petey could go through an entire brick of Velveeta in one sitting. So why?
And Steve and Crowley’s eccentricities…why?
Dogs do bizarre, unfathomable stuff we will never understand. We just won’t. The knowing is a canine Rubicon that can never be crossed.
On the flip side, there are things that humans do that are utter head-scratchers to our poochy pals. And, that’s my point this week. 
What follows are the top 10 burning questions that curious pups have for us homo sapiens:
1.) Are you hungry? Because I could eat.
2.) I once saw a cat in this yard. Do you think it’s back today? (Asked every single day)
3.) When you go to work today, will you be gone forever? Because you were gone forever yesterday, and I don’t like that.
4.) Who is that puppy in the mirror? Do you know him?
5.) I’m going to the kitchen to root around in the trash. You want something?
6.) Why do you get that loud monster out of the closet, put its tail into the wall and walk it around the room? It scares me.
7.) Do you want to go OUTSIDE! OUTSIDE! OUTSIDE!?
8.) Hey, I just found this stinking pile of something. You wanna roll in it when I’m done? 
9.) Don’t even try to deny it. You’ve been spending time with another dog. Who is it? Is it that puppy in the mirror?
And finally:
10.) You gonna finish that?
Thanks for your time.
I don’t know about you, Gentle Reader, but after enjoying this recent festive holiday season, I am feeling both penniless and puffy.
When I’m feeling especially off track, and in need of nutrition but very limited calories, I opt for a roll-up. You can use zucchini, cucumber, carrot, sliced into thin strips, but I just love Boston bib lettuce. I’m not actually fond of the lettuce with anything but tuna, somehow the astringent flavor of the lettuce works well with the rich, fecund tuna and its additions.
When I’ve made a special trip to Whole Foods or La Farm Bakery Cafe for some of Chef Lionel’s Vatinet’s fresh, delicious, bracing sourdough miche, I have a sandwich on it. There are few breads that even come close to Chef Lionel’s. Frankly, it’s tough to find anything that comes close to the flavor and quality of the product they make and serve at La Farm.
And, when I’m feeling a little more laissez-faire health-wise, a special treat for the entire Matthews family is to eat tuna with a big old stack of scoop-shaped corn chips. Fritos sells scoops, but the dollar store usually sells a generic brand that’s just as good as the name brand, and about two or three dollars cheaper.
Just try it.
Not always, but occasionally I add hard-cooked egg. It’s great for stretching both egg and tuna. It also changes the flavor completely, but in a really good way. It’s like a disguise.
Then lately, I’ve started using sunflower seeds. The texture it adds is addictive. I’d miss it if I left it out. Petey’s not a fan, but The Kid’s a true convert.
Thanks for your time.
The bride was stunning; her wavy blonde hair caught up in a jeweled barrette, her gown a fitted sheath of cream lace with a short, flowing train. Her groom was practically glowing with joy and the primal compulsion to protect and nurture his new wife.
The ceremony, for me, was surreal. I’ve known Miranda since she was born. Mom and Dad live across the street from the little girl who early on had chosen my parents as her adopted grandparents and been chosen by them in return. She’d grown up alongside The Kid.
Often Miranda was so bashful our only glimpse of her was peeking out from behind her daddy’s shoulder. On those days the only speaking she did was intense, whispered conversations with her parents.
Some days with a steely glint in her eyes, it was Miranda’s world, and we were all just living in it. With a hint of a raised eyebrow, she was in charge and expected immediate obedience—and somehow got it. And the entire time never speaking above a near-whisper.
As she got older, she became a gracious young woman who usually kept her cards close to her chest. When she did share thoughts and feelings, they were all the more valuable for their rarity.
I’d seen seeds of this self-possession in the toddler, but the natural poise of her demeanor spoke of another Miranda.
Miranda and The Kid (who was four years older) had a unique relationship.
And lastly, Alex, the young man who was now one half of the entity known as Alex&Miranda, knew the bride in a way that no one else ever could or would. He probably had the clearest and most complete picture of her. Alex knew places that Miranda didn’t yet know she possessed.
I sat, watching the child I knew, navigating the space while giving her full attention to every guest with so much grace and warmth. I realized she wasn’t the child I’d watched grow up. Nor was she the demure Sunday school student, nor the new in-law, nor the young adult ready to take on and change the world.
My version of AAA is of absolutely no help if, as my mother warns, “You’re out late at night, in the middle of nowhere and your car breaks down.”
Italy is the largest producer, and consumer in the world. They also have tons of recipes for them. But my favorite way to eat them is the first way I had them, and the most classic, simple prep. I cut off the sharp tips of the leaves, trim the stem, and steam them for 30-40 minutes, or until tender.
After it cools I serve each on a platter with a spoon and a small bowl of mayonnaise. Working from the outside, peel off a leaf, dip in mayo, and scrape the tender meat off with your bottom teeth. Larger areas of the leaves become edible as you go.
The second veg is asparagus, another food chock-full of vitamins, minerals, and fiber.
An asparagus farmer once confided to me that he’s thrilled that the trend is for pencil-thin, or “baby” asparagus. Because it gives the inferior product a market. They taste like grass and almost impossible to prepare without over-cooking. The desirable stalks are the ones as thick as your thumb. 
There are undeniably, people out there who don’t like asparagus. But there’s a chance they’ve only had the tiny straw-like version. They deserve to know what good asparagus tastes like. So serve them in the most simple, basic way.
I first encountered my last favorite veg as a child in Puerto Rico where avocado trees are ubiquitous. The matriarch of life-long family friends the Murphy clan, Momma Cat was about to tuck into one. I asked for a bite, and she gave me one, but warned, “they’re an acquired taste.”
It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever put in my mouth. It was like a mean-spirited practical joke. Why, I wondered would anybody eat avocados on purpose?
/cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/52469365/shutterstock_531291301.0.jpeg)
Here’s something I’ll bet you didn’t know:
But I do have some fresh ones for 2019.
On the flip side, I need to consider the consequences of my actions. Before I let rip with a one-liner which is hilarious in my head, I must put myself in the other’s shoes, and determine how that witticism would impact my feelings.
I need to speak much less and listen more. There is no telling what truths and wisdoms I never heard because what I wanted to say had to be said immediately. How many people were there that needed me to just shut up and receive the trust of which they felt I was worthy? How many moments of intimacy and human connection did I damage or destroy because I thought my words were more important than theirs?
I promise to regularly venture outside my comfort zone. At least three times in the coming year I will read books from unfamiliar numbers of the Dewey decimal system. I will sample more than ten new foods. Listen to unfamiliar musical genres and watch movies that I would not normally see. And, each month try an increasingly spicy dish.
I will acknowledge that my judgement is not superior to the rest of the planet. No more lessons, lectures, or pointing out the errors of the ways of my fellow man. On a related note, I am also not the hall monitor of the world. If it’s not hurting anyone, what other folks do is none of my business. Although, I do reserve the right to point and laugh—discretely.
And finally, be more grateful. For everything. For the good things in my life; but that’s easy. I want to be grateful for the tough things in my life, because those are the things that temper the soul, make us stronger, and give us confidence once on the other side.
Every year, my grandmother sent us a package for Christmas. An old-school, wrapped in brown paper, tied with a string package.
When Dad unwrapped that bandaged baked good, my mom, two brothers, and I eyed it like it was a coiled rattlesnake or a six-car pile-up. It frightened and upset us, but held over us a primal fascination, and we couldn’t look away. If that stuff had been weaponized, and the Russians knew about it, the cold war would have been won by the USA in the mid-sixties.
The second item in the box was a large coffee can. Inside was something that our family literally fought over. Each time somebody walked into the kitchen, they’d walk out munching, and the rest of us would grumble and quickly find a reason to go in there ourselves and exit munching.
I never thought to get her recipe for the butter, so I make my own version. I leave out the All Bran and use deluxe mixed nuts from the Peanut Roaster in Henderson. It’s not the same as the scrabble that came in the mail, sealed up in coffee cans, but like hers, it’s pretty hard to keep one’s fingers out of it.
1-10 ounce can fancy mixed nuts
12 ounces butter (1 ½ sticks)
A few variations: add different nuts or cereal. Make the butter, adding minced sundried tomatoes, let it cool to softened butter stage, then put it into a piece of plastic wrap, roll into neat log and refrigerate. This flavored butter can be used on meat, pasta, or with some Parmesan cheese grated on top, delicious garlic bread.
Thanks for your time.
Hello.
Take care, and thanks for your time.
The horse originally belonged to Hank Hitch, the angriest kid I have ever, ever known. If 1 is totally emotionless, and 10 is running around, shrieking, and tearing your hair out in rage, Hank got out of bed every morning at about an 8.5.
He and his family lived in Puerto Rico when we did, on the same base. His dad ran the base exchange; it’s a military general store. Everything from perfume to bicycles. When they moved there, they joined the on-base ranch, Lazy R, and got a couple of horses for the kids.
Rufus was a run of the mill buckskin. That’s a horse with a blond-ish body and a black mane. The thing was, though, Rufus was kind of a jerk..jpg?ver=2017-06-21-123040-550)
One morning our little base, our Mayberry with palm trees woke to an exciting scandal.
Homer had bought Bud and me a couple of sodas, so Mom decided, as a joke, to pay back the $1 by buying him a raffle ticket for Rufus.
A couple of times a year local youth would come to Lazy R in the middle of the night and take seven or eight horses. It was the equine equivalent of a joy ride.
In a day or so, a message would come that our horses had been found safe, and for a small finder’s fee they would be returned. The fee was a ten spot, six-pack, or a carton of smokes (remember, this was the seventies). It was a game, the horses were never harmed, and everybody involved kind of enjoyed it. A little innocent skullduggery to break up the day.
It was unprecedented. But ranch members knew the temperament of the beast, and completely understood his choice.
Thanks for your time.
Well, inside of this person (me) is a three-year-old who flat-out hates to wait. Who wants to know when it’ll be over. Who thinks this is stupid and it’s gonna take forever. Who don’t wanna…Who’s done and will now sit and pout and probably cry dramatically.
My mom used to order one of those honey-glazed, spiral-sliced, straight from central casting holiday hams. They were gorgeous, and delicious.
They cost about a thousand dollars per pound. And, Jason had an easier time getting his mitts on the golden fleece. The hams must be pre-ordered in advance. The stores are usually at some random strip mall in the middle of nowhere. 
And pickup is its very own circle of hell. I’ve seen the lines. They are so long that while in it, time moves in reverse. Folks at the head of the line check the time by glancing at their phones. In the middle of the line, they rely on sun dials. At the back of the line, time frightens and confuses them, and they entreat the sun to ensure a good harvest.
That little impatient three-year-old inside me just couldn’t let my mother subject herself to that porky purgatory one more time.
So, I am now the family pig preparer. Each year I make a different flavored glaze, then crust it with chopped nuts that go, flavor-wise. This year it’s watermelon rind preserves and pistachios.
&
But we always have a ton left after the holiday meal. And everybody’s got their favorite ham dish.
Refrigerate for at least an hour, then serve on bread, or use as a dip for crackers or crostini.
:max_bytes(150000):strip_icc()/Breading-Set-Up-57ede6fb3df78c690f30f09c.jpg)
Make three-part dredge. Put seasoned flour in one vessel, beaten eggs and milk in another, and Panko in a third.
The Kid?
Thanks for your time.
It will come as no surprise to a student of the human mind, or frankly, anybody with a lick of sense, my view of Christmas was informed by the first one I remember.
That earliest Christmas memory, when I was five or six, was spent on the couch. I had pneumonia, and just enough energy to observe. My holiday was whatever went on around me. I had a Disney Christmas anthology book and many seasonal Little Golden Books, including my favorite, “The Night Before Christmas”.
I watched all the Rankin/Bass shows of Santa, Frosty, Rudolph, and the Island of Misfit Toys. And of course, Charlie Brown’s Christmas. The Peanuts gave me an appreciation for jazz, in the form of the Vince Guaraldi Trio, and the beautiful, majestic Shakespearian language of the King James version of the nativity.
In 1973 I was nine, and it was all about my brother Homer’s wedding. He was marrying Kelly, a very sweet young woman. Mom told me she’d sew my outfit for the wedding and it could be whatever I wanted. She probably regretted that promise when she found herself stitching together a purple velvet skirt and vest, with a coordinating lavender frilly-fronted shirt.
Mom was panicked because the order she’d placed in mid-September for my gifts hadn’t yet arrived. My little brother’s presents had been received and wrapped weeks ago. I knew nothing of this drama.
Until my dad asked me to go into the kitchen and fetch him a cup of coffee. I was more than a little grumpy. C’mon, I had just opened my gifts!
Later I proudly wheeled it outside for a ride. Along with twenty or thirty other kids. It seems the exchange had received a huge shipment of one particular model of cantaloupe-hued 10-speeds. That day a horde of tween Mongols mounted on tangerine bicycles was released upon the streets. We traveled in packs as wobbly as new-born colts on our brand-new, slightly too-big bikes.
But it was that 1960s holiday convalescence on the sofa which deeply and irrevocably set a reindeer on rooftop, joyfully over-decorated, scary fruitcake, white Christmas in my heart.
It made my expectations high, but my standards low. In my head is a Currier and Ives print set to the dulcet tones of Johnny Mathis. But to make me think, “Best Christmas ever!”, all I need is the sound of bells, a glimpse of ribbon and tinsel, a few thousand Christmas carols on a playlist, and the pure crystalline happiness when passersby smile back.
The Kid calls this annual lunacy my Chistma-thusiasm.
bull city mom 