Because it really is personal…

This morning I decided to do something I haven’t done since we moved here over a year ago. It’s something I did on a very regular basis, and everyone enjoyed the benefits.

I smoked. Meat, that is, not nasty cigarettes or one of SD’s fragrant cigars. I had a lovely chicken and a nice chunk of beef, and a bag of porkchops. I also have a nice pile of cherry wood from an anemic tree I had SD chop down. Charcoal is abundant, having bought it on sale at the end of the summer.

So I took my lovely chicken and plump roast, rubbed them with oil and coated them with kosher salt and cracked pepper. I built a fire in the fire box and lovingly layered high-quality charcoal with chunks of cherry (incidentally, SD saved a huk of the cherry for himself, to make an interesting thing on his lathe. A lamp, perhaps, or maybe a vase). The air was filled with fragrant smoke as the fire grew. I put fat handfuls of fresh oregano and lemon thyme in the water pan, and set the meat in the smoke box.

I babied it along all day, adding a few briquets or another chunk of wood to keep the temperature at the requisite 240 degrees and then 8 hours later, Voila!
Delicious meat:

There’s just enough fire left to smoke some porkchops, coated with orange mustard glaze. They ought to be done later tonight.

Yum, y’all.

Mr. Manners

…sort of

#4 is in the room. It’s not quite 10 am and I am working on my first cup of coffee because we ate at Moe’s last night and I was up until after 2 am with indigestion. You’d think I’d learn.

#4 has appointed himself He Who Determines Good Taste and Manners. I have, in the last 5 minutes, been gravely informed that “Cereal is best eaten with a spoon” and “If your pants rip on the playground it’s rude to show everyone your underpants.” and “If it’s difficult to pick up your food with your hands that means your supposed to use a fork.”

I am glad that I have someone to keep me straight on these things. Rules like these keep me from embarrasing SD when we go to company parties. You never know when the urge to show your underpants will overcome you.

#4 gifted me with these golden nuggets of wisdom while standing in the middle of the living room floor, with his hands on his hips in an authoritative pose, wearing naught but his teal-blue Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs.

Attention:
I have a new place in the blogosphere. If you’re interested, let me know and I’ll tell you how to get there.

This place will still be active. The new place is reserved for snarky attitudes and generalized pissiness, and stuff I don’t want my kids to read.

#3 got into the poison ivy last weekend. He’s got it all over his arms, neck and face, including his right eye. Naturally, he is most uncomfortable.

I took him to the doctor at the school nurses insistance, where he was administered a very poorly received shot of prednisone in his arse.

He’s still itchy and symptomatic, tho not nearly as bad as he’d be if he hadn’t had the shot. Earlier this evening, he was scratching and whining. I scared up a spray can of Lanacane, and sprayed him all over. His eyes rolled back in his head and he gave a soft groan of relief. Then he picked up the can and held it to his face with great affection, and said “Mom, this stuff is Jesus Juice.”

I’ve been following (to a limited degree) the Radical Feminist (RadFem) vs. Sex-positive Feminist (sex-pos)discussion for a bit. It’s an interesting bit of society, especially given my position as a Christian Housewife.

The Rad-fems have real issues with the sex-pos camp. Mainly (as well as I can glean) that the sex-pos folks are perpetuating the stereotype of women as toys and property, due to the objectification through pornography and strippers. I mean, you don’t look at strippers because of their minds. The sex-pos folks say that it’s their bodies and they can do as they damn well please with them. The Rad-fems believe it is every womans responsibility to look out for other women, and to shove our culture in a direction that views women as equals to men. Unfortunately that implies that any woman who isn’t a Rad-Fem is in need of shoving, preferably by a Rad-Fem.

Well ok. I can see both points. Honestly, if I had the ability to pole dance I would. I’ve always thought exotic dancing was phenomenally sexy and looked like a whole lot of fun. I also think the ability to make men bark and act foolish is a certain form of power in it’s own right. I think pornography has it’s place, and like potato chips or muscle cars, can be distracting to the point of causing a person to fall. Any obsession is dangerous.

TO assume that a man is reduced to animal-like behavior by sexually charged material is to denigrate the man. Not all men fall to their knees and drool at the sight of Barbie in a thong, and those that do are (in my experience) held in contempt by those that don’t.

That’s not to say I like pornography. I don’t. Frankly, I feel polluted after I’ve seen it. I don’t like slasher movies or anything with Adam Sandler in it either. However, I can totally see how someone would become aroused by watching porn. I can see how someone like me (middle aged housewife) could use it as a means for fresh ideas in the bedroom. I’ve considered it, but I am too concerned with seeing the things I DON’T want to see to be willing to risk it in order to get to the stuff I could use. I just don’t want it in my mind, to rattle around for years and raise it’s head at the most inopportune moments (like Communion, or while kneading bread).

I still can’t get the fisting scene from Caligula out of my head. Most of the time, no problem, then BOOM there it is, Whats-his-name-Sutherland with a handful of lard.
Maybe other folks don’t have that problem, but my memory is too crisp and too random to allow me to be cavalier about what goes in.

Anyway, back to the rad-fems and all. They believe what they believe very strongly, and with great coherence to their arguments. Howver, enough of them become strident and catty with their remarks as to discredit themselves. Seriously, when someone starts calling names, I assume they don’t know what they are talking about and have to resort to 7th grade restroom tactics “XX is a SLUT” and “YY is a STUPID SLUT”. They totally discredit themselves in my eyes.

I have the great privilege of belonging to a demographic both sides have utterly forgotten about: White, Middle class, Christian housewife. In general, I’m ok with that. My mandate as a WMcChHw is to take care of my own, and when that’s done I worry about the rest. I don’t feel the urge to march with my tiny fist raised in defiance to the Patriarchy, because I, being who I am, am an equally yoked partner with the Patriarchy. I don’t feel any oppression. I feel great privilege and honor to be able to do what I do. I don’t want to defy him. I love him. He loves me. I sacrifice for him. He sacrifices for me. No oppression there.

I remember being in the 10th grade, and we took these career apptitude tests. It was determined that I was suited for a career in medicine or some kind of science/research thing. My teachers cheered, those 1980 Gloria Steinem Feminists. I was going to be Important and Cure People and Stuff. Then one actually bothered to ask me what I wanted to do. “Housewife and mother” I replied and you’da thought someone just shot Mother Earth. NOOOOOOOOO! they howled.YOU’RE WASTING YOUR INTELLECT! YOU’RE SACRIFICING YOURSELF ON THE ALTAR OF THE PATRIARCHY! They were very shrill in their disapproval. Which only cemented my resolve. My mother did it. I can do it.

See, even then, I thought the whole idea behind feminism was choice. Prior to the movement, women didn’t have a choice. They were expected to stay home, and divorcee’s were Bad. I thought feminism was about options. It turns out it was, as long as the option you chose was acceptable to the Matriarchy. And Housewifery wasn’t on the list.

So, I dropped under the radar and did what I felt was best. I found a man who shared the same world view, and we’ve spent the last 20 years propping each other up and helping each other shoulder the burdens.

I didn’t trick or treat much as a kid. My parents disapproved of Halloween and the shenanegins affiliated with it. When I was 5 to 9 yrs old, we lived in a neighborhood that was slightly unsavory, and even if my parents had approved of shenanegins, we would not have knocked on doors there. There was a widower a couple of doors down who took great pity on my brother and me and would present us each with a paper sack full of sweetarts and butterfinger minis and mary janes. Bliss!

Mom would dole the candy out to us, one piece per day, until it was all gone just in time for Valentines Day and another load to ration. The exception to the Halloween Edict of Doom was the church sponsored Trick or Treat for unicef. We’d dress up, and bang on doors while holding little boxes with slots in them, asking for coinage and folding money to be donated to Unicef, to help dig clean water wells and build pole barn schools for the Needy In Africa.

I remember one time, when I was really REALLY excited about the event, Mom fed us lunch with broccoli. I hated broccoli. I hated it so bad that I threw it up. Dad firmly announced that if I am throwing up, I am too sick to trick or treat. So, while my brother and all my friends from church were banging on doors and begging for nickels, I was laying on my bed, stiff as a board and seething with the injustice of it all. I eventually got over it, sort of. I forgave but I still haven’t forgotten.

I noticed recently there are ads on the TV for Trick or Treat for Unicef. I am immensely pleased by this. The essence of Trick or Treat night bothers me. It boils down to this: culturally sanctioned extortion. Give me candy or I’ll vandalize your car.

I’m all for costume parties, those are great fun. SD and I have matching pirate/wench outfits we trot out whenever a costume is needed. I like my wench dress. It hikes the boobs and nips the waist and allows for a certain sashay that I don’t ordinarily employ. His is sexy too, in it’s own way. An ankle length coat with gold braid, green and gold cumberbund…nice…Ankle length on someone 6’3″ is alot of coat. Someone once asked him where was his eyepatch. He replied that he is a better shot than that guy. Pardon while I waft off into sweet fantasies of red bearded pirates in long coats and dark boots…hmmmmmm

ok…
Trick or Treat. I kind of agree with my parents philosophy. I don’t like it. I have imposed my beliefs on my own children, with the understanding that I wouldn’t bark or growl if they chose to go all out with their own kids. As mine have grown up, we’ve had a tradition of building a bonfire and having a cookout. They would throw unorthodox versions of fuel into the flames, and SD and I would argue and get hostile with each other about the proper way to make hobo packs. We would make just enough smores to agree that they are the sweetest, nastiest things on the planet. A couple of times I had the forethought to bring out a dutch oven, and would make Memphis Molly.

I don’t know what we’re going to do here. There’s no place for a bonfire, and #4 is chomping at the bit to go trick or treating. He’s alot harder to brainwash than the other boys were. We’ll come up with something.

#4 has that charming, innocent 7 yr old imagination. A couple of days ago we received a couple of chairs we’d ordered. They came in the marvelous huge boxes that #4 instantly claimed as his own.

Initially, the box (we allowed him 1) was a vessel of transportation, ranging from a ship on the high seas to one exploring the remote corners of the galaxy.

Then he flipped it over on himself and it became a means for time-travel and transmogrification. I had to endure the presence of a a foul-breathed carnivore from prehistoric Pangaea for a solid 15 minutes. Man, it was noisy.

Then, bored with interstellar travel and the bone-crunching activities of as-yet undiscoverd monsters, he chose to fashion some holes and become A Robot.

That lasted about 15 minutes. He decided to play on my sympathies and make an aquarium. He’s been asking for months to have one, and indeed he does have a tank of water with some artificial plants in his room. For some reason no fish will survive in it for longer than 3 days. Anyway, he made a nice big aquarium, populated by the rare and colorful PencilFish.

When all was said and done, he gave me a hug and a gift, and said “thanks, Mom, you’re the best!”

All for the love of a great big box.

HIgh School is something I try not to think about too often. It was something to be endured, sort of a right of passage necessary to get to the next plane of existence. As long as I kept that in mind I was able to survive, and even thrive in certain, limited venues.

As in any school full of adolescents, each person was put in a societal box, and not allowed to step out of it. You had cheerleaders and jocks, intellectuals, and (the bulk of the population)the anonymous, those folks that,when they show up at the 20 yr reunion, have everyone asking “who’s that? I don’t remember him”. Then there are the bottom-dwellers. These are not the people adults would consider bottom dwellers. These are the people who, through no fault of their own, look funny, have peculiar tastes, maybe read the wrong books or wear the wrong clothes. They can be as intelligent at the AP math students, as athletic as the cheerleaders and jocks, and even as physically attractive as the Pretty People. Yet, due to some nebulous criteria, they fall into that last level of High School Hell, and are treated like lepers.

I had 3 close friends, Ann, Karen and Lisa. Ann and I were master cynics, having grown a thick skin through the callous treatment of our middle-school peers. We had a sense of sarcasm so muscular that people simply wouldn’t talk to us for fear of what we might say back. Their fear was completely warranted. Ann and I hated school, and everyone in it (with a few exceptions: Rhonda B., Barry N. and those folk). Karen was inexplicably cheerful, and everyone liked her, but due to her unfortunate resemblance (at that time, she has since blossomed into a most attractive woman) to Olive Oyl, she hung out with us. In a large part, I think we made her look good because neither Ann nor I were exactly beautiful. Lisa came into the mix by chance. She moved in during the 8th grade, from Bangkok Thailand, where her army father was stationed. She was sitting against a wall one day, when the 3 of us noticed her and sort of inflicted ourselves on her. She was (and still is, even more so)pretty in an exotic way, athletic, intelligent, and talented. She was also painfully shy.

I can’t really speak for the 3 of them, as we’ve lost touch, but I know that they are the reason I didn’t slit my wrists. I was pushy, arrogant, deeply cynical, and scared out of my mind. It is a wonder to me they didn’t hold a tribunal and bury me in a fire ant bed.

It was good, but it was not what we had at the restaurant. I guess I’ll have to purchase a cookbook.

I believe I may have found Paula Deen’s recipe for crab chowder. I am attempting it for supper tonight. I had to purchase $15 worth of crab legs, so if it doesn’t turn out it will be a bit before I try it again.

The secret ingredient appears to be sherry. And canned cream of potato soup. Go figure!