From Me to You

Happy Thanksgiving!

Now get out of here and go eat some turkey. And stuffing. And mashed potatoes. Mmm, mashed potatoes . . .

When Targeted Marketing Goes Wrong

We're hosting 22 people for Thanksgiving tomorrow. I prefer to ignore that fact (and the floors that need to be mopped) at this moment, and instead discuss . . . Sesame Street.

I got an interesting bit of spam in my Inbox yesterday. It was an exhortation to not miss my chance to buy tickets for a show called "Sesame Street Live: When Elmo Grows Up."

There are many, many things wrong with this.

I have purchased tickets to a show at this particular venue before, so you might think they just send out announcements for all their shows to anyone who's on their buyer's list. Except I went to that show* a year ago, and this is the first such announcement I have ever received.

Last time I checked, I do not have children. (Despite my particular kind of Dog Crazy, I do realize that Mia is not my child, thankyouverymuch.) I would have serious doubts about any adult who goes to a show called "When Elmo Grows Up" unaccompanied by someone under the age of, say, seven years of age. Unless Elmo grows up to become a crack dealer or a male prostitute, this is not an age-appropriate show for me. I don't think I'm the demographic they meant to target.

And anyway, does this not sound like the stupidest idea for a show EVER? I mean, come on. I would much rather see what happens to Oscar the Grouch. Does he ever get out of his garbage can? Do the worms go with him? Does he go to a therapist and discover a new, sunny outlook on life?

Which Sesame Street character would YOU like to see a sequel for?

*"Phantom of the Opera," and A. had to go with me. We went out to eat at a kick-ass German restaurant afterwards. Someone later asked how he liked the show. He said he liked the sausage. He's a great one for culture, that A.

Let's Burn Some Cabbage!

Look at me, writing recipes like I'm some kind of foodie. Except this isn't so much a recipe as a method. And do foodies ever write recipes for cabbage? Whatever, cabbages are stupid cheap this time of year. Especially if you're like the MiL, who stopped at a farm stand and bought two of the biggest damn cabbages in the WORLD for $1.50 each. Good food value, if you can get over being intimidated by a cabbage the size of a volleyball. Thankfully, cabbages keep extremely well.

BUT ANYWAY.

If you don't like cabbage, don't run away. It's just because you haven't had THIS cabbage yet. "This" is Burned Cabbage. That's what my grandmother, Duchess, called it. It's not really burned--it's actually kind of caramelized. Except in the 1960s, your average housewife (Duchess) didn't watch The Food Network and didn't know what the hell caramelization was, and so she called it burned. This is the only way my grandfather, Holy (let's not get started on my grandparents' nicknames at this time, okay?), liked cabbage. Holy also liked scotch and cigars, and he called everybody "Skax." You would have liked Holy.

BUT ANYWAY AGAIN.

The MiL calls this "Holy's Cabbage," and this is now the only way that A. likes cabbage, too.

So. Green cabbage will be softer and sweeter, but purple cabbage works too. It will just be a funky color and take a little longer to cook. Core the cabbage and cut it up into ribbons. It doesn't need to be particularly fine, not like coleslaw or anything. And you can leave the pieces fairly long. Melt butter over medium-low heat in a skillet. How much butter is kind of up to you, but you need enough. "Enough" will be about one and a half tablespoons for about half of a normal-sized head of cabbage (which will make three side-dish servings), but if you want to use more, I'm not gonna stop you. When the butter has foamed, dump in the cabbage, stir it all around, then cover and cook until the cabbage is soft, stirring occasionally. Then take the cover off and increase the heat to medium. And now you just cook it. Don't stir continuously, just every once in awhile. Let it brown, but not burn. You don't want black bits in there, just dark brown (although I HAVE literally burned it a little before, and it still tastes pretty damn good, so don't get your panties in a bunch over the exact color of the bits). It will take 10-15 minutes. When it's done, it will look like this:

Messy stove, dirty spoon . . . yup, one of my signature food photos.

I usually add a bit of salt, even when I use salted butter (and I ALWAYS use salted butter--for everything). But that's it. Three ingredients, and the result is meltingly soft and surprisingly sweet.

Try it--you'll like it. And if you don't? Eh. So you're a cabbage hater. There are worse things.

The Walls Weep

I know that title sounds terribly literary and promises some kind of beautifully written story that's damn near poetry. Unfortunately, this is me and my life we're talking about, and poetry rarely enters into it. In this case, it is the literal truth that the walls were weeping. Allow me to explain.

Two of the four walls in our bedroom are both external walls, which means they're stone, and north-facing, which means they're colder than a witch's . . . nose. Cold like radiating cold. The room is unheated, except for a space heater that is only meant to keep it from being literally freezing in there. So these cold walls that radiate the cold into the room also suck warm air out.

It's all very pleasant.

Especially because one of these cold stone walls is directly behind the head of our bed, and when we sleep at night, condensation forms on the wall behind us. Imagine, if you will, the fun of reaching behind you when half-asleep to readjust your pillow and brushing against a freezing, wet surface. Cozy.

However, this is something I have come to accept and deal with. In the morning I pull the bed away from the wall, swipe at the wall with a tissue, and it's dry by the time we go to bed that night. Until this weekend.

This weekend we reached a whole new level of wet. I guess it's because the temperature dropped so sharply so fast, and then stayed cold for awhile. Whatever the reason, the stone walls in our bedroom were weeping moisture. The condensation was literally running down the walls. The whole wall was wet and dripping. Wiping them down didn't help. The space heater didn't help. Leaving the door open to circulate air didn't help. Friday night, I couldn't even sleep half the night because my head was so cold, and when I got up on Saturday, I realized my hair was damp from the moisture and our pillows, sheets, and down comforter were wet.

AND, the paint on the walls, the pretty paint that I just applied a few months ago, was starting to bubble and blister. Oh, HELL no. That was NOT okay. Discomfort I can handle. Damp sheets are gross, but manageable. But allowing our newly-painted walls to get all cracked and wretched again was not an option.

This called for serious measures. This called for the brilliant problem-solving abilities of A. Who decided that the best way to dry the room out would be to close off all the heating ducts in the house except the one that goes to our bedroom, and blast all the power of the furnace into that one room. Which is what we did on Saturday night. It was the first time the furnace had been turned on in about a month, and the first time EVER that our bedroom was even reasonably warm. Not tropical or anything--we still slept under our usual flannel sheets, two wool blankets, and the down comforter--but when I got out of bed in the morning, my whole body didn't automatically clench into a full-body shiver because of the cold.

And the walls were dry.

Alleluia and praise A.'s precious name. Worth his weight in pie, that man.

The Most Pretentious Euphemism EVER

Yesterday in the Home and Garden section of our newspaper, there was a big article about heating with woodstoves or pellet stoves. Some jackass quoted in the article referred to this sort of heating as "European zone" heating.

As you know, we heat with a woodstove here at Blackrock, and have for some years. So I took a photo to illustrate "European zone" heating:

Bonjour

I guess calling it "huddling around the woodstove in the dining room because every other room will freeze your cojones off" wouldn't sell as many stoves.

Escapism

On a day like today, when it's in the low twenties outside and maybe 35 degrees in our bedroom, the sideways snow is blowing, and we're expected to get 6-12 inches before the end of the day, it's nice to have a memory of a warm, pleasant day to dream about as I huddle by the woodstove.

The last nice day we had was about a week ago. It was 65 degrees and sunny, and I was outside raking leaves. I raked up several piles, then went to get the trash can to stuff the leaves in for transport to the compost heap. When I returned, I found that Mia had discovered the piles and was very pleased that I had thought to make so many comfy beds for her.

Surely you didn't expect the Princess to sleep on that nasty hard GROUND, did you?

Alas, that bright day when I was so warm I had to take my sweater off is but a distant memory now. There will be no more shedding of layers. From here on out, I'll be piling them on.

Suddenly, winter seems to stretch into eternity . . .

What Not To Wear--Blackrock Edition

I remember a long, long time ago, in the distant past when I had cable, watching that show "What Not To Wear." Annoyed the shit out of me, that show. Those smug hosts pissed me off, digging through people's closets, laughing and making snide, bitchy comments about the clothes those people wear on a daily basis. I wanted to give both those patronizing bastards a boot to the head.

I don't want to give them a boot to the head now--I just want them to live a day in my life and see how well their fancy clothes fare at Blackrock.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love to dress up, and I do it pretty well when I need to. But it drives me to the brink of insanity to think that there are people watching these shows who think that their wardrobe isn't good enough because some dink on t.v. is criticizing the wearing of comfortable shoes. Real life requires real clothes sometimes, and those clothes are not always fashionable.

A short list of things that would be totally inappropriate to wear at Blackrock:

1) Three-inch spike heels. I don't care how long they make your legs look or how slenderizing they are to your figure, if you get stuck in the mud, you will not look elegant and fashionable. You will look ridiculous.

2) The perfect (and crazy expensive) black pant. (Why can't those assholes just call them pants, like everyone else? No, they must be "the black pant.") Good in theory, bad in practice when three dogs and two cats have deposited five pounds of fur on that $300 black pant.

3) A classic camisole and cardigan. Cute? Yes. Feminine? Yes. Warm enough for Blackrock? Not a gelato's chance in hell. You're better off with flannel-lined jeans and an alpaca sweater.

4) Thong underwear. You try to chase sheep in thong underwear and tell me how that works out for you.

5) Accessories. Hoop earrings and necklaces will get caught in the firewood that must be carried on a daily basis. Rings will be lost when hauling water. Tattoos are okay.

So if you ever visit me, remember--forget the dress pants. Pack the sweatpants. You'll thank me in the end.