Apocalypse Now: Why We Really Love Zombies

Who's Your Stylist?

I have questions about zombies after watching World War Z last night:

 What happens when everybody becomes a zombie (an apparent zombie goal) or do they not even have a goal…are they just zombies?   They don't seem very organized.

What is worse: having a zombie on the plane, or snakes on the plane? If zombies are on the plane, can you ask for their peanuts since they won’t be eating them--just you?

This harkens back to the question, "What if everyone is now a zombie?"  It seems when people become zombies, they have a radical weight loss and are wearing rags. So if everyone is a zombie, THEN what do they do…just stagger around…or open Zombies R’ Us? Zombie toys. “The flesh tears away in a realistic manner.” Zombie boutiques. A zombie buying a McDonald’s franchise and calling it McDead?

The zombie glass where you will drink...what else...Zombie cocktails!

 Zombies are dead so they can’t die. So what happens if everyone is now a zombie and there is a lack of living flesh? Do they starve? They can’t die. They can’t reproduce and having tiny zombie babies. But. If there were zombie babies, the zombies could open milk bars and call them “First and Last Latch.”

Just what the heck are zombies so pissed off about anyway? Being undead? Get over it. 

 I remember reading that Brad Pitt had a difficult time with studio heads in selling the idea of this movie, and consequently, getting funded for it. A studio executive argues, “World wide domination of zombies? Think of what that would cost to cast, or the special effects?” Would Brad Pitt counter with, “Zombies are a growth industry.”

The new Thanksgiving Thursday and Black Friday

 How could Brad Pitt work at the United Nations with that hair and be taken seriously?  His boss, even though he was fighting a world war zombie epidemic, had on a suit and tie the entire time. What is Brad Pitt going to say? “I need time off for low lights?” (For zombies: that’s a hair highlighting technique.)

 One zombie survived the plane crash and was twisting and snarling held in by his seat belt. If he can’t open the seat belt, and Brad Pitt doesn’t help him, which he didn't,  does that mean he spends eternity stuck in seat 12A?

 Brad Pitt figures out we need an inoculation of viruses and bacteria to camouflage us from zombie interest, but don’t we carry those things around in our bodies anyway?   And…would this be a productive counter argument to those parents who are anti-innoculators. “Your child will become a zombie.” 

 Why don’t the zombies like Nova Scotia and Wales? What do they know that we don’t know.  At one point, looking for a safe destination, it was said, "India?  Forget it.  It's a black hole."  I thought, "Whoa. Calcutta, maybe." I heard the populace of India yelling "HEY!"

 In the book “The Last Myth,” by Matthew Barrett and Mile Gilles, the authors postulate that allowing the challenges of the 21st century to be high jacked by the apocalyptic story line, we find ourselves awaiting a moment of clarity when the problems we must confront will become apparent to all—or when those challenges will magically disappear, like other failed prophecies about the end of the world. 

The real challenges we must face are not future events that we imagine or dismiss through apocalyptic scenarios of collapse—they are existing trends. Collapse of the economy, the arrival of peak oil, global warming and resource wars. The evidence suggests much of what we fear in the future has already begun. We can wait forever while the world unravels before our eyes,  or we can wait for an apocalypse that won’t come.

You think this is bad?  Bring on the zombies!

Pope Francis I : First "To Do" List

The Beautification of Run-D.M.C. I'm putting this on the new Pope's "First To Do" list: Declare Sainthood on Run-D.M.C. 

 1) First, you have to die. Jam Master Jay died in 2002. 

 2) Once you have been dead at least 5 years a cause for sainthood can be opened. Done...and the cold case file on Jam Master Jay is still open 'cause they never solved his murder. 

 3) The local bishop or other religious leader will assign someone to collect all sorts of documents and conduct interviews about the life of the candidate. Joseph Simmons aka Rev. Run has got that covered. The Adidas, the chains, the snap brim fedoras. I offer as my own proof an English muffin bearing the image of Jam Master Jay holding aloft his gold record.

 4) Once they have all the information, the file will be sent to the Sacred Congregation for the causes of Saints in Rome. They will study the file and, if it seems the person exhibited some form of heroic virtue, that person will be declared a Servant of God and an official Cause for Sainthood will be opened. Reeling from their first taste of failure, personal problems began to surface for the trio. McDaniels, who had been a heavy drinker in recent years, was losing control to alcoholism. Jay was involved in a life-threatening car accident and survived two gunshot wounds after an incident in 1990. In 1991, Simmons was charged with raping a college student in Ohio, though the charges were later dropped. He was also battling depression and would frequently mix poison with Coca Cola—his signature drink—later coined "The Jimmy Simmons". They survived depression, car accidents, shootings, alcoholism. The early saints would starve for their faith? Run-D.M.C. drank POISON for theirs. 

 5) More investigations and interviews will be conducted and if the person passes all favorably, they will be named as Venerable. With so much personal chaos and professional uncertainty, the members turned to faith to try to steady their lives. Both Simmons and McDaniels joined the church, with Run becoming especially devoted following his legal troubles and the toll it took on his finances. There are no atheists in foxholes, Son. 

 6) Next, more investigations and at least one miracle must be confirmed and verified due to the intercession of the candidate. Again, I submit Exhibit A. Got that covered. I've already wrapped and gotten it ready to go to: "The Pope - Vatican City - Italy."

 7) If all goes well, the candidate will then be Beatified by the Pope and receive the title of "Blessed." "Blessed Rev. Run." "Blessed Run-D.M.C." Could chart...with a bullet.

 8) In the final stage, more investigations and at least one more miracle must be verified. Once all that has been done, the file is turned over to the pope who will make the final decision. It will be up to the pope to declare a person a saint and then arrangements are made for the official canonization ceremonies. This process can take many years, even centuries. Of course, the person became a saint the moment they entered heaven. The Church just needs to investigate to make sure the candidate is worthy of emulation and makes a good role model for future generations. The Pope is Francis I.  I wanted him to come out and sing "My Way."  Either that or "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina." Don't they make Adidas in Argentina? 

 I'll go to the Immaculate Shrine today and light a candle in petition. "We praise and bless you, Father, for having enlightened the mind of man to discover new musical techniques. Its mission is to uplift and educate men and society both materially and spiritually. Lead us not into temptation, oh Lord. Deliver us from the temptation toward ruining the gifts given to us by You with such wisdom and love. May they sing to your Glory. Through the intercession of Mary, Queen of the Apostles, grant this prayer.

We're Gonna Rock Down To Egyptian Avenue

Egyptian Avenue, Highgate Cemetery

I just finished reading Necropolis: London and Its Dead, by Catharine Arnold. It covers burial practices in London from tribes through the Romans and the Plague. Ornate Victoriana and into the present. The premise (in a nutshell) is that London sits on centuries of its dead...and here's how they did it. 

Years ago, longer than I care to remember, I used to live for long stretches in London. I knew it like a native; sometimes better than a native. There is an old early 19th century cemetery in the northern part of London called Highgate (for the community where it is located.) Karl Marx is buried there. Charles Dickens' wife. Many notables. The cemetery had to be closed to the public in the 1970's when neglect was rampant and grave robbing was occurring (mainly from a local warlock in the neighborhood.) In 1975 an organization called "Friends of the Highgate Cemetery" was formed, and I contributed and participated for many years. In the autumn I would be there with my trowel or clippers, taking away ivy (but leaving it in more artistic array,) and general overall care giving to the acreage.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

Now you can visit the cemetery yourself, although the West side is still tour only. They even have events there. Much changed over time, and more open: http://www.highgate-cemetery.org/index.php/home

One unique feature, among many, about the cemetery, and Highgate in general, is that it sits at the top of London and in certain spots you have an overview of the city, looking down. It's rather unique and very lovely.

At the end of Necropolis, the author quotes from Ford Madox Ford's The Soul of London.  When I read the passage, it reminded me of that view:

 "For all of us it must be again London from a distance, whether it be a distance of six feet underground, or whether we go to rest somewhere on the other side of the hills that ring in this great river basin. For us, at least, London, its problems, its past, its future, will be at rest. At nights the great blaze will shine up at the clouds; on the sky there will still be that brooding and enigmatic glow, as if London with a great ambition strove to grasp at Heaven with arms that are shafts of light. That is London writing its name upon the clouds. And in the hearts of its children it will still be something like a cloud--a cloud of little experiences, of little personal impressions, of small, futile things that, seen in moments of stress and anguish, have significance so tremendous and meanings so poignant. A cloud--as it were of the dust of men's lives."

*CC: Al Gore

Well.....

Not quite yet.

*
CC was used at the base and closing of a letter or memo to show the other party/parties  were to receive the knowledge. In the context of correspondence, blind carbon copy (abbreviated Bcc:) refers to the practice of sending a message to multiple recipients in a way that conceals the fact that there may be additional receivers  from the complete list of recipients. 


This concept originally applied to paper correspondence and now also applies to email  In some circumstances, the typist creating a paper correspondence might ensure that multiple recipients of such a document did  not see the names of other recipients. To achieve this the typist added the names in a second step to each copy, without carbon paper; Set the ribbon not to strike the paper, which leaves names off the top copy (but may leave letter impressions on the paper). 


 With email, recipients of a message are specified using addresses in any of these three fields: To: Primary recipients Cc: Carbon copy to secondary recipients—other interested parties Bcc: Blind carbon copy to tertiary recipients who receive the message. The primary and secondary recipients cannot see the tertiary recipients. Depending on email software, the tertiary recipients may only see their own email address in Bcc, or they may see the email addresses of all recipients.  Talk about wasting work moments.


Think of sitting at your work desk, machines loudly clacking while the room is full of blue smoke from your co-workers.  If there is a computer, it takes up an entire wall.  If there is a photocopy machine it is locked and only used for special purposes and usually sits on a large platform like an industrial god.  And there you are, with your boxes of colored carbon paper in pastels like pink, green, blue and yellow.  At some point, you or your company have decided who gets what color.  


 Inky fingers from un-jamming a typewriter ribbon.  Inky fingers from pulling those carbon copies apart.  Inky fingers from ball point pens.  Inky fingers from rubber stamp pads, from when you reloaded the toner into the copying machine.  You had to think long and hard about wearing white on this hot, summer day.  


...and now we have the carbon footprint.  By the way, the street surface has to be between 144-158 degrees F to cook that egg.  We aren't there...yet.

Sleeping On The Job

I keep having these dreams where I am working extremely hard to make things succeed. They are highly detailed. My offices don't have windows.  Sometimes they involve physical labor.  I am tired when I get up in the morning after working this "double shift."

 What I want to know is: what is the account number for my dream bank where my dream paycheck is being direct deposited?

Time Is Money If You Know What Time It Is

There is one bank I use where I almost always go through their drive-through bay. Over time, I've gotten to know the three men who are usually in the booth. An older gentleman, (who is a native Washingtonian,) and I have discussions about "the old D.C." When people slept in parks to escape the heat, or the trolley cars, trying to make a comeback as part of the 11th Street bridge project. There is a young man in dreads with the name of a major character from the tv series, "The Wire." He shares the name, but lacks the violence, being very sweet-natured, and then there's a young man from Africa who upon meeting me for the first time swore I would never remember his name, and the next time I saw him did remember, and he said, "I was sure you wouldn't."


During this past year I've noted that the clock in their booth doesn't work. At first I jokingly said I was going to buy batteries for it, but over time they told me they had fiddled with it, and it wasn't a question of batteries but "just not working." Two weeks ago, I said to the man from Africa, "Doesn't it drive you nuts that you look at the wall and it's always 7 o'clock?" He said, "That clock has it's uses. I can use it's reflection to see who's behind you, and if someone is trying to walk up to the booth." I asserted, "I am buying you a clock!" He laughed and said, "Do it and we'll hang it with gratitude!"


This weekend, instead of going to the bank first, I drove to a Target and bought a clock with big black numbers (easy to read.) The clock was only $10.00-- but the batteries were $8.00. Once I got out to my car, I had to use a key to unscrew these Phillips head screws securing the clock to the cardboard packaging and me cursing the Chinese. The new Chinese water torture. Merchandising torture. Chairman Mao proclaiming against the weak Imperialist paper tigers.


While I was waiting in line at the bank, I took a picture of the car in front of me with it's back window loaded with clouds. I felt like it was my blogging friend Reya saying, "Nothing to worry about. Waiting is good!" (She's know for her cloud photographs.) When I finally got to the window, the money drawer slid out, and I put in the clock and my check. Mr. Nigeria was at the window. He started laughing and said, "Is this for real?" I told him, "Ab-so-lutely," and he replied, "...but I was joking!" I said, "I wasn't. I've talked to all three of you and want you to have a clock while you work in that booth."


He was waving his hands around at this point, not quite knowing what to say, but very formally did say "I do not know how the ___Bank can ever repay you for this kindness." I wanted to say, "With large unmarked bills," or "...add some more zeros to that check."

I shook my head and said, "No need. This is to make your work day easier. In the end...

... The Clock Always Wins"

tOy Veh Story!

I doubt that I'll be going to see Toy Story 3. For one thing, I am not a fan of Pixar animations. If anything they creep me out. I'd much rather watch old Betty Boop cartoons:


I heard from my friend Phil (formerly of Playaz Ball) this weekend. He was taking his children to see Toy Story 3. I had just been reading various reviews of the movie. So many cited this "beautiful full-circle ending for the toys," and "...a beautiful transition ending for Andy's childhood," and "...as long as we remember that our inner child isn't what we're told, but what we invent."

After listening to Phil's little adventure into Toy world, I wonder how much of his own inner child survived. Here it is in his own words:

This is neither here nor there, but I had to share this. We were taking our girls to see Toy Story 3 today. We had a coupon for a free TS3 movie ticket from a DVD we bought recently. All you had to do was log on and print your ticket with the code they give you.

We logged on to the Disney site, put in our code, and they gave us some "validation code" and they - I sh*t you not - ask you to hand write the validation code onto a ticket you print, then TAKE A PHOTO OF THAT - THEN....UPLOAD IT BACK TO THEIR WEBSITE before they would give you your "free ticket." I thought, "Am I being had? Is someone filming me right now?? Am I running this site?" (meaning the surreal creations on his blog.)

This morning, he sent me the directions and the sample photograph of what Disney provides:

Create Your Proof Of Purchase

1. Place your 1 tickets next to each other on a table.
2. Check out our example proof on the right.
3. Clearly write your unique submission code 8132478 on each of the tickets
using a blue or black pen - as illustrated by our example right.
4. Use a digital camera to take one picture of all the 1 tickets. Try to make
sure that the tickets fill up as much as possible of the picture.
5. Save the picture to your computer (refer to the computer or camera manual
for how to do this).
6. Upload your proof of purchase photo.


Phil said, "I did go to the movie. I did not jump through their (hula) hoops." One reviewer said, "I raise my hand, and without shame, add my name to the list of adult males who shed more than a couple of tears at this movie." I'm guessing after his own ordeal, Phil may be shedding a few of his own over lost innocence. Define "free," eh Phil?

"All this for a ticket? What? You don't think I'm human?"

..that's all folks!

(Keep On) Truckin' On Tite Street

....get me The Royal College of Heraldry....STAT

Many of you who read my blog know that I sell things online through eBay and Amazon. This past week, I finally had my first royal sale. I sold a cd of the Grateful Dead to a Marquis in London, and "yes," he's the real deal. I googled him.

I always knew there might come the day, when I would be selling a beanie baby to Brad Pitt, or a Hound Dog Taylor cd to Margaret Thatcher, but I never quite pictured a hereditary royal scanning for sales.

The cd was mailed off to his London home on Tite Street, an infamous street in Chelsea that previous housed, among others, Oscar Wilde and John Singer Sargent. I show Sargent's studio in a picture below. My Marquis bought his own home from a Rothschild in the 1990's.

He also inherited the family castle in the Northern part of England. I was telling Reya of http://thegoldpuppy.blogspot.com/ about this sale, and how I had a hard time reconciling this man listening to the Dead in his castle. She wrote back, with a *snap*, "Looks like the perfect place to crank up the Dead, if you ask me."

Makemake* - Greetings From Traffic Island

*Makemake is the Creator God of the Polynesian People, or "How I Spent Christmas Day."

Redefining "Going Postal"

I was out running errands today and my first stop was the post office. There was one Hispanic woman in there mopping the floor, and two workers behind the counter. I was the only customer. As I approached the counter I heard one of them commenting to the other about how they had gotten rid of a "crazy woman" by hitting her with a broom.

I said to the woman who made that comment, "And what if I was a crazy woman? Would you hit me? I was half teasing. She looked me dead in the eye and said, "I'd hit you." Then she said, "Lavita (not her real name.) Get that broom out of the closet. This woman doesn't think we wouldn't hit her for being crazy."

I knew her co-worker realized this could get them into trouble, and she was quickly back pedaling saying, "Oh. We don't really hit crazy people with a broom. She was just joking (I knew otherwise.) I shifted the topic to two little girls who had come in with elves hats on, and how the post office had closed early the day we had snow, but...that whole exhange really gave me pause about what's going on in there.

Later, I went into a Staples. There was a line. I was talking to the man behind me about calendars and other things, and I told him the above story. Somehow during the telling of the story the whole crowd went silent: the clerks, the people in line. I looked around at them and said, "Listen. You can't make this stuff up," but I could see their jaws had dropped. The man I had been talking with said, "Well, I guess this redefines "going postal." I said, "Usually don't they have a gun in the back and just go crazy themselves?"

I can't joke this off, I'm afraid. I know in my heart those women hit a person. I could hear it in their voices. It's been bothering me all day.

Brrrffday

I spent a lot of time outside yesterday taking snow pictures. Did you?

I opened my hall window that is over an exterior porch roof. It was a wall of snow.

What's he doing there? Childhood duck.

My neighbor's children at the end of their time sleighing down the hills. His twin was wisely in the house, cuddled up reading. I like how seasonal their jackets are. I like how he hugs his little sister and is kind to her. He had me take a lot of pictures using his camera.

A rose that doesn't know any better. I love late roses, and God bless Homestead Gardens in Davidsonville for selling such sturdy plants.

My squirrel wind chime from Harwichport, Massachusetts. He's used to snow.

.....and someone made me a snow birthday cake with pod candles made from the ornamental grasses in my yard. The bestest gift I could receive. This Winter Solstice baby, born during a blizzard and who loves snow, wishes you a good week. Enjoy the white cold. The days now grow longer.

Happy Thanksgiving

:::Blowing dust off blog:::: Anyone out there? A rough year for me. Rough. A rough decade. A rough 15 years. I just finished reading a mystery by Dick Francis (a friend had recommended him to me, and I thought, "nah," but then I thought, "She has good taste," and I've been enjoying the books,) in between reading about Merv Griffin and his hustler boy pool parties with Liberace, or books about how we become autonomous and why. In this particular Francis mystery, Rat Race, the protagonist, a pilot, befriends a jockey and his twin sisters, one of whom has leukemia. They are a united family and enjoy each other's company. The pilot sees the healthy sister, reflecting on her sick twin, and he thinks, "I knew she was thinking of Midge. Face something big enough and you always have to grow up."

That sentence stuck with me all day, "Face something big enough and you have to grow up." I've had to face a lot of big somethings in the last decade, foremost the loss of my parents, but other things. The school of hard knocks. I was trying to decide what to do about Thanksgiving this year. In my early youth, Thanksgiving was just our immediate family, plus my aunt and uncle, but she died when I was seven, and that ended until my parents, with two other church families decided to do this trade-off: where the families would rotate Thanksgiving between the three, theoretically to give the women every two years off. Reflecting back, I don't see how this was "better," per se in that "yes" you got time off, but when it was your turn, you were cooking for 20.

My mother was a masterful cook, and everyone always said, "This is her favorite holiday, where her cooking skills shine," but thinking today of how it would be: my father screaming at me the night before to set the formal table, having the crystal washed and the silver polished, and just the sheer tension the whole next day; which was odd, because my parents constantly entertained, and a level most people wouldn't believe. Once I started doing Thanksgiving myself, it struck me as more odd (the stress,) because you can cook everything (theoretically) the day before. I'm still pondering that one. One friend speculated that maybe my mother saw this as some test of her womanhood, or just testing in general, and performance anxiety set in. Maybe. I'm not sure.

Yesterday, I took off early and hit Whole Foods to pick up my "on order" free range turkey. It was horrible in there. Just horrible. I stopped counting how many times I had a cart slammed into my body after 20. And yet. The woman who works in the vitamins section that I've befriended came up and gave me a big hug, and we stood in the swirling aisle chatting and ignoring the hubbub. She even walked with me to my checkout lane, while we continued chatting. More hugs. Nice.

While I was in there, I was studying the pies. They had them on a large baker's rack. The pumpkin looked...bleh. Pale undercooked crusts with overcooked fillings. Sweating. The cherry and apple held portent of sour fruit and cardboard crust. A German man was standing next to me and he saw me rejecting pie after pie, and I guess I mumbled, "That's not even cooked," and he said, "Zees pies are not kooked?" I reassured him that they were, but how do you translate, "They are both overcooked and undercooked?" I went over to the dessert section and studied the cakes. Better. This woman next to me: a tiny little thing who looked like Andy Warhol's Sylvia Miles in the face (and voice,) but had on weird après-ski wear: Fair Isle knits and furry boots and a cluster of diamond rings on every single finger. She kept screaming (to this very well dressed mature man,) "ALLEN (pure New York.) ALLEN!!! I'VE SCORED!!! Beaming. A peach cake. I thought, "If I were Allen, my peach pits would be shriveling right now at hearing my name screeched that way.

Later that night, I took a picture of the turkey in my refrigerator and sent it to friends. My buddy Drew emailed back, "I can't believe how tidy your refrigerator is compared to mine!" I wrote back, "I was just thinking it doesn't look tidy at all." I was also studying that bottle of Veuve Clicquot that's been sitting in there since last New Year's.

When my mother took sick, we tried to sustain Thanksgiving, but it was such sadness. You would hand her a potato and potato peeler, and she would have this sad little smile on her face. So much wanting to be part of things, but no longer remembering. My San Francisco friend Lisa instant messaged me last night. Her mother, widowed and living in their home town 90 miles out of San Francisco, fell and broke her hip and had to have emergency hip replacement surgery. I told Lisa that for a stretch (in this lost period of my life,) I spent close to eight Thanksgivings between two parents, always in the hospital, either missing Thanksgiving totally, or eating it in a hospital cafeteria at noon so they could close early, or not having it at all: Chinese in an underheated house with my mother saying "Why isn't Papa here?" To quote John Lee Hooker, "Don't Look Back." I felt for Lisa. She has a lot of difficult choices facing her in the next months. "Something big enough and you have to grow up."

I was supposed to have Thanksgiving today out in Eldersburg at a former neighbor (and friend's) sister's house. I had even met with all involved, and we had talked about the day, what to eat, etc. Then by the time last week rolled around, and no proper invitation was forthcoming, I realized I didn't want to be an afterthought, nor ignored for whatever reasoning, and I was going to have to make up my mind what to do. In those years after my parents, I tried it all: going to the ocean, eating at a fancy restaurant, eating buffet at a restaurant, not eating turkey food at all (Chinese, Indian,) going to the movies all day. Nothing seemed to satisfy. Then I started cooking for older people I knew, and that entailed a new set of skills: cooking for the elderly. I've blogged on that topic before. The last of the women died last fall, and I took on the responsibility of her estate--something I have sworn I will never do again (and I've done it a lot.)

I thought I finally had her house sold. It was on the market since February. I had restored it without going insane in expenditure, and there it sat with nary a nibble until recently. A D.C. schoolteacher was going to buy it. Settlement date was the 24th (this week,) and then on Monday, (thank you Michelle Rhee,) her work hours were cut back, the bank said, "Nope!" and the deal fell through. Back to square one. Plus I had been putting pressure on myself for weeks to be over there in filthy packrat conditions (have you see A&E's Hoarders? Then you know.) In garden sheds, in the attic, in the basement. Vermin droppings, untouched decades of dust. Hello Miss Haversham. So that bad news.

This was the first Thanksgiving I truly had no responsibility to honor the holiday other than for myself. I thought I could easily ignore it, but I thought, "Why?" Why not do it and use the time to remember, to think of my future, to be thankful for the blessings of simple things. And so I got up this morning and began (and this photo blog is mainly for the amusement of my friends, so if it bores you, come back later and I'll be writing about what a total loser Lord Byron was or the Romanov jewels or magical thinking and luck.) I am getting ready to write again on a more regular basis.

The first thing I made was crinkle carrots in a curry-butter-brown sugar glaze. Easy peezy and put them in the fridge for later.

A friend told me just this week how his mother always put roasted chestnuts in her dressing. I've always made what my mother made: old-fashioned cornbread-white bread sage stuffing. But I thought, "Chestnuts? Sure." They had chestnuts from Italy at Whole Foods. They also came already done and in a jar, but for something like $14.00 for a tiny jar. I thought, "Google!"

I put out peanuts for the squirrels this morning, and they came running. I watched them while they watched me. We call this ritual, "The floor show." One of them said to me, "I hear you have Italian chestnuts roasting in there...so what's with the peanuts?" I went and got him a chestnut.



Scored with the cross mark of Christ's death and resurrection and served at the time of his birth. Memento Mori. In truth? To let the steam out so they don't explode in your oven.

Not a dud in the bunch. I read online this morning. You should put them in cold water to begin. If one floats? Toss it. If they don't pop open? Toss it. Even then, you may peel and find one rotten inside. Not my fancy dancy Italians. They were like Fabio on Top Chef. "We are not purrfict, no?"

Perfezione! Bella!

Now that the oven was free, it was time to start the turkey. Just a peek at turkey porn, and it's not a pay-per-view site:

I never put stuffing in the 'boid. ("ALLEN! It's the poifect boid!") I put in a chopped onion, an apple, an orange, a lemon, and some thyme and rosemary. Actually, while all of this was going on, I was thinking of that movie Avalon, set in Baltimore, and the family that is perpetually late to the family meals. "You cut the toikey without us? You CUT the toikey?"

This was me goofing on taking pictures with one hand, while cooking with the other. Taters. Lots of taters.

Buddah and Organic Cream Cheese. Lots of buddah.

Whisk, whisk.


Whip, whip

There will be no lumps in these taters! Did I ever tell you I went out one rainy Thanksgiving night with my highly stylish friend Mark? We were going to see Leaving Las Vegas where Nicholas Cage basically drinks himself to death. Mark had a briefcase. We were at the Dupont Theatre. Pouring. Torential. We get seated and Mark pops open the briefcase. It was a traveling bar. Rye predominated. Every time Nicholas Cage (a raging alcoholic) had a drink, we had a drink. Mark and I still giggle about that night. I don't remember a thing about the movie. Cage dies at some point, and Elisabeth Shue wore this great bustier by Vivienne Westwood.

I mixed a can of whole berry sauce with some of my own. I had orange zest in it and only left that orange slice on top until I served the food later.



Ta Da! Nine pounds and four hours later...Let me tell you. This bird amazed me. I was dreading carving it. Not my best skill, plus I was tired at this point. But. I did the basic anatomy you do with a turkey: twisted off the wings, then the legs. The meat was so tender it fell right off the bone. I did the same thing with the main torso. Ripped off big hunks for ziploc bags and didn't carve at all. Into the freezer you go. Unlike Claudette Colbert, I could shoot this bird from any angle. It didn't have a bad side. I thought about The Road. I'm going to go see that this week. Isn't there a cannibalism scene in there?




After all that, I sure didn't eat much. That's a salad plate of my everyday and right purdy. And my mother's little quail (one of a pair.) There is so much butter on that plate, call me "Paula Deen, y'all." I chopped the chestnuts coarsely after debating grinding them up in the Cuisinart. They turned out beautifully. Now I want to explore things like chestnut soup.



...and the cake. Allen! The cake! On a pretty piece of Majolica pottery. German Black Forest. They had just put it out at Whole Foods. It tastes very fresh. The cherries are not cloyingly sweet, but have a "very slight" sourness and tasted of pure black cherry--real black cherries, not from a can. They were also between the layers. The cake was a mocha light chocolate (again, not overly sweet,) and the frosting was whipped cream and chocolate chips. It looks heavy and rich. And yet....no. But mit schlag. Lots of schlag.

Happy Thanksgiving all. Guess what? Thanksgiving doesn't have to be dysfunctional. You can do it solo and have it be fun. Honor your holidays. Corny, yes, but of such things memories made.

Well....As Hamlet Would Say... "What Is This Quintessence Of Dust?"

I’ve been writing about an older woman I knew who died last September at age 96. I’ve been dealing with her estate, and all of her personal effects, for the past year. Let me tell you another story about this woman.



Her parents were from Russia, and they came to this area at a time of great turmoil in their country. Her teenaged mother had fled their burning village during the Russian Revolution with only a copper pot and pillow. She was smuggled out and never to see her family again. I knew her mother, as well. When "Granny" was in her last week of life (and she lived to be a grand old age,) she reverted back to speaking only Russian, and she kept talking to her mother (whom she hadn’t seen since she was seventeen) up high in the corner of the hospital room. She had once told me when I was a young girl that she loved her mother so much, she would put two chairs together to sleep next to her. I found the copper pot in the basement about a month or two ago.



I had heard about this pot for quite some time. You can't imagine how I felt when I found it. Realizing that this teenage girl ran from her village during a revolution. Never saw her family again. And she entered this country with only a pillow and this pot. To paraprhase Nabokov, "Speak, History."

They ran a little Mom and Pop store named after their daughter over on A Street on Capitol Hill. When they died, they were buried in this really old cemetery over off Benning Road which is a part of D.C. you don’t want to linger in, not even the residents, not even during the day. Things were so bad, they had to keep the cemetery gates locked, so to visit you would have to call the caretaker and meet him there so he could let you in…and wait to let you out. And yes, I've heard of muggings and murders in graveyards. We aren't even safe with the dead.

Several times I was asked to go with the lady so I could re-landscape the gravesite. It was a very dark, dank, dismal place to be. High iron gates, a lot of overgrown vegetation. Leaning markers. Very little sunlight (so shade plants) and always the danger some “youth” would come through the back way and attack you. I was never comfortable there. The place reeked of neglect and being forgotten and lost in this changed world where it was plopped down under lock and key. Everything said “stay away.”

All of this upset the lady greatly. She wanted to be able to visit her parents in peace. She decided she would unplant them and move them to a cemetery not far from where she lived. Her family was there, all in a row: her sister, her brother-in-law and her niece. She approached her spiritual leader about how to go about this, and he forbade it; saying it was against religious law…which was hogwash on toast.

What was odd, (to me,) was that she had worked for Congress in the 1930’s…up through the 1970’s. She never married, was a career woman and very opinionated and strong minded; i.e. not a woman to hold her tongue, but just lay it right out there. She had subscribed to The Village Voice since it’s inception. The same for Rolling Stone. Very attuned to her culture. I have to admit it's interesting to know that you can yell at Bush on the television when you're ninety. She was highly political, and even in the last weeks of her life, loathing Nixon, Reagan and the Bushes to the end. She desperately wanted to be well enough to vote in the last Presidential election and she missed the opportunity by weeks. I thought about her a lot on that day.

Her parents had been Orthodox, but she never really pursued religion until after her mother died. This adherence and obedience to a controlling bully, I could never understand. There are so many stories I could tell against this man, but won’t. While I never called him a self absorbed, lazy creep to her face, I did tell her to go ahead and move her parents, because it was so important to her. She never did, and she carried that upset with her to the end.

In the last year of her life, she lost her teeth, and we went through hell with that. It took a good nine months to replace them (a lot of trips to the dentist on day’s off,) as she was so frail and it was hard to get accurate measurements. It was also an out of pocket expense, so a lot of sacrifice on the part of everyone to get this done. And when the teeth were done? She wouldn’t wear them.



A few weeks ago, I was in her basement: bad lighting, overheated and tossing, tossing, storing, and I found a pair of teeth. I had to wonder. “Are these hers?” I showed them to her nephew, and he held them up to the light, much as Hamlet hoisted that skull, and he said, “No. This is my grandmother.”

Later that night, the nephew said, “I think we should go to the cemetery where she is buried, and bury Granny’s teeth there.” You have to understand. I’ve been doing quirky things like this my entire life, so I was game. Soooo…this past weekend I said to the nephew, “Let’s go bury the teeth” because it was the week of her birthday.



As bizarre as this seems, I hope I am doing things like this when I’m eighty, because it sure keeps life interesting. I’ve dug graves in my past, I’ve landscaped them, and now I’m doing burials. So yeah…..we didn’t get Granny replanted next to her daughters….but on the other hand….we did.

Postscript: I went to see my dentist this morning. He's originally from India and into high tech interactive server everything. Huge enthusiasm about you name it. I got a tour of his new offices, very modern, very elegant, and we talked about all that he had done. He just kills me. He has got "a guy" for everything: "You like that tile? I got that from a guy in Philadelphia who knows a guy in Italy. You need a plumber? Call my guy. Computer tech? Carpenter? Jewels? I've got a guy in Jaipur." His wife is a pip, too.

I was telling him the story above, and he listened and nodded--he got it, then he told me his story. In moving his offices, he was getting rid of some things, including plaster molds of teeth. One set belonged to a young man of eighteen that had died not long ago. He was driving on River Road in Potomac at 3 a.m. and hit a tree. The car burst into flames and he died trapped inside. My doctor had kept the mold because it was an interesting dental correction, and in the end, the parents sent the police to him to identify the young man's remains through his dental records. He had just completed this sad task, so it was still fresh in his mind. He hated to toss the molds, but it was obviously a very sensitive thing to ask the parents about; i.e. "Do you want your son's dental molds?" He approached them with delicacy, and in the end they did want them.

He understood my story completely. I told him, "I have my own plaster molds, and my mother's molds, on a shelf on one of my bookcases." They make an interesting conversation piece." Then we stood and both of us took pictures with my camera of the beautiful vista out his office windows. "Look at that sky," he said. "I need that sky."