Gentle Reader, this is the second essay I’ve written for this week’s spot.
The first one stunk.
So, here’s the thing; the original subject is vastly important. It’s polarizing with the potential to get people from zero to irate in just a couple of words. And just like too many issues these days, the divide between each side is the distance between here and the sun. 
I’m not sure if you know this Gentle Reader, but one of the aims in my writing is to amuse. And, to me at least, this subject is not funny.
But I thought I had an interesting take. One that would throw a new light onto the entire debate. I pictured my particular combination of 600 words the words that would, if not bring everyone around the campfire for a rousing Kumbaya, at least shed new light on the subject, and provoke conversation.
True to my morbidly geeky soul, I framed my column as a science fiction story set in the future. The characters looked back from a time where the issue had been solved many years ago. They’d look at 2019 and feel the kind of bemusement and shame we in 2019 feel about the Salem witch trials, or new Coke.
I wanted to write the piece without offending or alienating a single pair of eyeballs. Writing that, I cringe at how utterly deluded and smug that ambition was. Stratospherically better minds than mine understand that a subject that doesn’t arouse passion is not a subject of import.
Here is the evolution of one of my columns: I choose a topic. Then the piece starts writing itself in my head. Usually by the time I put finger to key board I have a pretty clear idea of where it’s going. 
But I can’t begin the actual process of writing until I come up with an opening line. And, Petey and The Kid will sadly attest that often this step is torturous for all of us. I wander around like an especially hammy silent film actress, bemoaning my lack of inspiration and proclaiming that I’m not cut out to write anything more than a grocery list, and I should’ve become the guy at the circus that follows the elephants around with a broom.
Walking the dog and showering are the activities that are the most frequent opening line maternity wards. Some weeks I log more dog walking miles than a long-haul trucker and take so many showers that I start to look like the creature of the Black Lagoon’s mother-in-law.
But, once I start, my trouble is not finding things to write, but finding a way to stop writing. Brevity is not a familiar companion.
For that first piece, every word was a struggle. 
And it showed. It was a mediocre essay written by a self-effacing yet nauseatingly earnest middle schooler. In my heart I knew it; I couldn’t admit it, but I knew it.
The Kid knew it. My child is my first look editor. When I asked for an opinion, I was met with an uncomfortable silence—for the first time since I’ve been writing.
So finally, I admitted its awfulness and begged my kind, patient and accommodating editors to pull the original column.
And, since I strive to make this a “warts and all” space, I decided to document for you, Gentle Reader, the path that brought this week’s word to page. Funnily enough, this replacement column only took one short shower and one quick dog walk in the rain.
The result is one column, a wet dog, and freshly shaved legs (mine, not the dog’s).
Thanks for your time.
Jennifer Jetpaque was taking her eleven-year-old daughter Jillian to summer camp in the mountains of southern Venus. She considered the time a gift. They had some of their best talks during this type of enforced togetherness.
“I’m reading a book about Jane Doe, and how she became president. Do you remember that?”
“Well, there’s some stuff in the book that I don’t understand. It says that her opponents talked about her appearance; that she was old, and not very attractive.”
Jennifer answered the question honestly. “I have no idea, Jilly. To many people back then, the most important thing a woman could be was beautiful—like an ornament. Women who weren’t conventionally pretty were discounted and pitied. Beautiful women were celebrated, but not respected, because women weren’t allowed to be both attractive and smart.”
“What does one have to do with the other? And why did it matter what other people thought? Why didn’t women just do what they wanted and not listen to other people?”
Jillian’s forehead was crinkled, and she was tugging her left earlobe, her familiar tells of frustration. “What if a woman had the right answer? What if a man hurt a woman and then said he didn’t? Did they not believe the woman?”
Jenn continued, “Since they thought of women being less than, it especially upset them when women stood up for themselves or expressed emotions. So, they’d make it into a joke, or declare the offending woman was crazy, evil, or both.”
“Well, Jilly, tens of thousands of years ago, it was ‘might makes right’. And because most men are bigger and stronger than women, they ran things. Men realized they liked this power thing and wanted to hold on to it. So, they came up with rules to keep it out of the hands of women. And if a woman stepped out of line, it made some people very angry. But honey, all that ended a very long time ago.”
“Because,” her wise eleven-year-old said, “The first thing we learned in kindergarten was sharing and cooperation!”
Achingly adorable, but not the chowchow we’re looking for.
Way closer, but still not the chow chow we’re looking for.
This stuff is delicious on its own. It’s a puckeringly sour, crunchy, twisted kind of Cole slaw.
Slow-cooked meats, like brisket and pork shoulder with lots of fat and connective tissue. Mayonnaise-based potato salad and macaroni salad can be served with a small dollop of chow chow that is a perfect foil to heaviness. Stir it into deviled eggs for a briny kick.
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Working in batches, pulse veggies in food processor until finely chopped. Transfer to large bowl and stir in salt. Cover and refrigerate overnight./chow-chow-green-tomato-relish-3059158.Step_6-5b9ef1b7c9e77c0050032caa.jpg)
Transfer vegetables to a large nonreactive pot and stir in vinegar and all remaining ingredients. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat; reduce to a low simmer and cook, stirring occasionally, for 30 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool completely. Cover and refrigerate for up to 1 month. Or parcel into zip-top freezer bags and freeze for up to three months.
To country folk and farmers, wasting food is a huge sin. And with no freezers, or produce regularly coming in from warmer climes, one needed to be creative to enjoy bright flavors and crunchy textures in the dead of winter.
Thanks for your time.
I like to think of myself as an intelligent, artistic, cultured soul.
I once watched a TV show where Sir Simon Schama, British historian and art expert broke down and explained Guernica, Picasso’s depiction of the Nazi’s target practice bombing which devastated the village and inhabitants of Guernica during the Spanish civil war.
The difference between my comprehension and the actual things that were going on in that painting was the difference between stick figures and a 3D Imax motion picture. As he spoke, the canvas shifted from dark-ish and mildly depressing, to the visualization of the absolute horror of man’s ultimate, murderous inhumanity to man.
It was a mind-blowing revelation.
Looking at a couple of the photos made me feel wobbly and uncomfortable. It was mightily unpleasant. I was attracted and repelled, in equal measure. I almost felt seasick.
But as I studied them, I began to get the feeling that some ineffable something was seriously off-kilter.
The objects in the photo looked so realistic, they had ceased to look completely real. They appeared to be painted, but in a hyper-realistic style. The colors were too bright, the lines looked both sharp and slightly out of focus. The shadows were either absent or heightened.
I felt like a caveman confronted with a spinning wheel. The photographs confused and unsettled me. Some of them kind of made me angry—not because of the subject, but because of the way they made me feel.
When we left the museum, I just wanted an artificially-colored cocktail and an Archie comic. I wanted some metaphorical hydrocortisone for my irritated psyche. I had that mixed drink, but instead of a comic book, I watched a soothing British baking show.
Thanks for your time.
Have you ever seen a cartoon where a big guy hops on a see-saw with a little guy, and the little guy flies up into space?
My child surprised me with Beasley’s Chicken + Honey (237 S Wilmington St, Downtown Raleigh). Beasley’s is one of Ashley Christensen’s eateries. Chef Christensen is Raleigh’s #1 culinary rock star. Her standards are as high as the quality of her dishes. Her menus are thoughtful, and the food is invariably fresh and delicious.
First, we ordered a couple of their house cocktails. The Kid got a Benton’s Old Fashioned, and I got the American Trilogy. They were both tasty, but oh so strong. Their bartender does not skimp. After one, the world’s cheapest drunk (that would be me) was about four sips away from looking for a lamp shade with which to dance.
We decided to order a few sides to share alongside our entrees. We got the mac & pimento cheese custard, a terrific example of the egg-forward version of the Southern classic.
One word—balance (now, hopefully, the see-saw palaver makes some sense).
It was the grit fries though, which should be required eating for every human who strives to become a skilled cook. It was a graduate degree on a plate.
This dish was a symphony of balance; crispy fries, creamy aioli, and crunchy chowchow. It was sweet, salty, sour, and a little bitter. Each element was delicious but eaten together it was one of the most delicious, complete bites I’ve ever been lucky enough to eat.
I strongly urge you to go to Raleigh and visit Beasley’s for a plate of those fries, but in the meantime, I have an example of culinary balance that’s a bit easier to get your hands on.
It’s crunchy and a touch bitter (toasted rye), crispy and sour (sauerkraut), creamy and rich (mayo and 1000 island), melty and nutty (Swiss cheese), salty and fatty (corned beef). An associate’s degree between two pieces of bread.
Thanks for your time.
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.
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.
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?
Dogs do bizarre, unfathomable stuff we will never understand. We just won’t. The knowing is a canine Rubicon that can never be crossed.
What follows are the top 10 burning questions that curious pups have for us homo sapiens:
3.) When you go to work today, will you be gone forever? Because you were gone forever yesterday, and I don’t like that.
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.
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?
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?
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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.
bull city mom 