Annoying Christmas Newsletter, Vol. III

"The elves are dressed in leather

And the angels are in chains.
The sugar plums are rancid
And the stockings are in flames."
Christmas With the Devil - Spinal Tap

Christmas came early to the Bourgeois/Toler neighborhood this year, whether we were ready for it or not. Yep, the day after Halloween, the 100 foot, tallest Christmas tree east of the Mississippi, arrived via flatbed truck at The Grove shopping center, a mere block and a half from our home. Denuded as it was of most of its’ branches, the behemoth was hoisted into place by a crane and then painstakingly reassembled over the next couple of weeks by a crack team of Lesbian elves. Since by the time it’s all of a piece the tree is thoroughly and irrevocably dead, not to mention as brown, well, as a dead tree, they spray paint it green. (The “elves” insist it’s just fire retardant, but I saw the cans; fire retardant, maybe, green paint, definitely.) Finally the finishing touches, big bowling ball sized plastic globes in red and gold and silver, are added just in time for the star-studded, spectacular tree lighting ceremony the Sunday BEFORE Thanksgiving. This year’s extravaganza featured Patti LaBelle, the Cheetah Girls, a bevy of other b-listers, and, always a big crowd pleaser, a gaggle of critically ill kids from the local “Make-a-Wish Foundation.” (Just call me sentimental, but am I the only one who thinks using sick children to lure shoppers into a hedonistic orgy of commercial self-indulgence is wrong, wrong, wrong?)



Of course there’s the usual Santa’s Village workshop photo stop,(Tuesdays and Thursdays are pet nights), and “real” snow every evening at 7 and 8 PM.



Back by popular demand this year, (after their unfortunate replacement last season by the all girl “Brass Belles” marching band), the Santa Sluts, dancing the North Pole hoochie coochie twice nightly in front of the Cineplex. Guess a troupe of mini-skirted female Santas prancing around like so many reindeer in heat does reflect the true meaning of Christmas best after all.


The entire extravaganza is brought to you by one Rick Caruso, mega mall mogul and my personal year end, front running nominee for The Beast (that would be the Big One, old 666 himself – see my blog entry "Where Every Day Is Halloween). I feel quite sure Spinal Tap had him in mind when they penned that quintessential feel good carol, Christmas With the Devil, an enduring holiday favorite at my house, and I’m sure at yours. (Actually the Judith Owen version is quite fetching.) Anyway, I’m over there almost every day. One afternoon I got caught up in a march of striking Santas (actually striking WGA writers out looking for a little love), and another evening I broke out in hives (no joke). But let’s not make more of that than necessary.

Try as Mr. Caruso may, however, the real star of Christmas in our hood is the Hancock Park home of erstwhile record producer, sometime rap promoter and all round bon vivant Norwood Young, who each year transforms his house and yard into a winter wonderland of twinkling lights, Soul Santas, festively adorned naked male statues, and a brace of metallic orange, high-end automobiles. And, by the way, the 17 human scale, anatomically correct, replicas of Michelangelo’s David are year round fixtures, without the Santa hats, of course. The whole sordid thing just goes to show you what can happen when “they” move into the community.



But enough of the Christmas spirit. I know the question big on your minds is “what’s been happening with Annie and Tommy this year?” Well, truth is, not a damn thing. 2007 was pretty much of a snore, and as it happens that’s not necessarily a bad thing. (You know the old adage. No news is good news.)

Tommy is still at CBS Program Practices where he continues to create that all important buffer zone between the Parent's Television Council and you, and to make it safe for you to watch television with your parents, children, grandchildren, and heck, with the dog and the cat too. So the next time you think you hear the “F” word on CSI Miami or believe you glimpsed a sliver of a forbidden female body part when Jennifer Love Hewitt bends over on Ghost Whisperer some Friday night, think hard about it before you file that complaint with the FCC. That’s an eight figure fine, folks. Heads might roll, jobs might have to be cut, and Karl Rove, who I hear is looking for work, might just get the position. Then you’d really be in trouble. (Can anyone say “all Disney all the time?”)

As for myself, after spending most of the year gainfully unemployed, (which I actually began to like), save for some tedious and pathetically unremonstrative freelance jobs, I finally fell into some full time work just in time to seriously compromise our holiday travel plans.

The show is called Shockwave, (History Channel, Fridays 9 PM PST, sometime around then wherever you live. You should probably watch it so it’ll get picked up and I’ll have a job, ‘cause if people don’t watch, it won’t, and I won’t, and you won’t want to have that on your conscience.), and it’s the kind of work I swore I’d never do again. (No, it’s not strip club cinema verite.) We acquire clips of freak accidents, natural disasters, train wrecks, massive explosions, (Hell, yeah!), parachutes that don’t open, boats that crash, silos that fall on men riding John Deere tractors, and really fool stunts that were bound to go wrong from the get go. Then my job is the find the people involved, call them on the phone and talk them into going on television and telling us how, “I thought I was gonna die,” for a relatively small amount of cash. And it’s really nice if we can get them to cry on camera, although we don’t pay extra for that.

Now since we don’t have a Hurricane Katrina or even a trailer park tornado every day, some of these stories are seriously old, so old in fact that my first resource is often the Social Security Death Index. If they don’t show up there, I can usually find them by nosing around the web. It’s not stalking, but it’s close.

Oh, and I started a blog, but if you’re reading this you already know that.

Speaking of stalking, stepson Matt has been MIA this year. He doesn’t write. He doesn’t call, so I drive by their house every once in awhile to see if he and his mother still live there (they do). It’s been hard on Tommy, but I’m pretty sure this secures my spot in the wicked stepmother hall of fame and I’m down with that.

Hank and Maude still love me though, (at least they say they do, but they could be lying). Tommy nixed the idea of taking them over to The Grove for a pet night photo with Santa, and I couldn’t get them to pose wearing the little reindeer antlers he brought them last year. But I did manage to get a photo of them expressing their true feelings about the season (and just about everything else). Maude continues to work on her weight training and Hank is putting the finishing touches on his plot to take over the world. If they had thumbs we’d so be screwed.

We did manage a couple of outings this year. Went to New Orleans for Jazz Fest (go, spend money, help the city recover), and took a few jaunts up to wine country. And of course, we took the usual trek to Gordon, GA for Thanksgiving at my Cousin Mint’s, a true exercise in unbridled gluttony, and then a weekend visit with the “Toler” boys en famille. And may I say, Gordon really knows how to do Christmas! Check out the smokin' Rudolph on Main Street and toy soldiers down by the railroad tracks. You gotta love it.



Got back just in time to start planning our annual Christmas open house. Tommy entertained with fellow musicians Jon Detherage, Jim McGrath, Gwen Owens, and Julie Bergman, with everybody joining in on a few verses of “Santa’s Drunk Again,” and other favorite carols.

It was a tres festive gathering, marred only by some sticky fingered grinch (you know who you are and so does Santa) who lifted a few bills from the purse of another guest. Really bad Christmas karma. If I were you I’d be looking for a Salvation Army kettle to stuff that 40 bucks into pronto, or a lump of coal in your stocking could be the least of it.


Foodwise, I truly outdid myself this year. Check out my dessert table. I made it all myself, and need it tell you it took DAYS. (No, your eyes don't deceive. Some of the gingerbread men are indeed missing limbs. I call them my Gitmo protest cookies.)


Since I can’t share the goodies with you over the internet, I’m going to do the next best thing and give you Miss Vickie’s recipe for the Red Velvet cake. (Which I made into a “present.”) Miss Vickie is from Gordon. Those ladies really know how to cook, and it is, quite simply, the best red velvet cake I’ve ever tasted. (And it's probably not fattening either.)

We’re having a multi-cultural holiday for ourselves this year. I’m making tamales and jambalaya for Christmas dinner, which I think we’ll pair with a little Zinfandel, maybe a bottle of Napa Pinot Noir (or two), and then it’s off to Yosemite for New Year’s weekend. Pray for snow.
However and wherever you spend yours, may your day, and the coming year, be merry and bright. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Shalom. I love you all and wish you peace!

MISS VICKIE'S RED VELVET CAKE

2 1/2 cups cups cake flour
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 1/2 cups vegetable oil
1 cup buttermilk
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon cocoa
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cider vinegar
1 1-ounce bottle red food coloring

Preheat over to 350 degrees. Mix all ingredient in a large bowl. Pour into four prepared, (I use Baker's Secret), 8-inch cake pans and bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes. Cool in pans for 15 minutes then on cake racks until completely cool.

Frosting

6 cups powdered confectioner's sugar
1 8-ounce package cream cheese, room temperature
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup chopped pecans

Spread between layers of cake. Make a second batch of the frosting to ice top and sides.

To make the "present" cake, bake in square 8-inch pans. Omit nuts from frosting for top and sides. Make "ribbon" from foot-long fruit roll-ups, slightly moistened and coated with sparkling sugar. Unroll roll-up, leaving the paper backing on. Lightly spray with water and sprinkle with sugar. Let sit for a few minutes until sugar sets. Peel off backing, lay long strips across cake and fashion bow from shorter pieces folded over and pressed into icing on top of cake. If you want to put gingerbread men on the side, purchased ones will do nicely. However, if you'd like my recipe for gingerbread men, (they are particularly delicious), just drop me an email.

Happy Halloween, From My Cats to Yours

Hanks wants to wish you a Happy Halloween. Maude too, although, as cats, albeit black cats, they don’t really have a clue, and therefore aren’t actually up to wishing anybody a happy anything. They do look really cute in their little Halloween poses though, and it’s an excuse to post some new photos of the kids without exposing myself as some crazy cat lady.


If I dress up for the occasion at all, I do witch to complement the pets. The late great kitty Harold and I got all tarted up and posed pretty for the holiday a few years back. I’m sure wherever he is, (that would be in a cat shaped “urn” on my bookshelf), he’d like me to wish you a Happy Halloween on his behalf, although he never wished anybody a happy anything while he was alive either.

Over at Bob’s Donuts in the Farmer’s Market, they’re making their seasonal black cat donuts (pumpkins too, but that’s so obvious). I bought one of each just to take these photos, and then I had to eat them, don’t you know. (I wonder if they plan to make donut turkeys for Thanksgiving? I certainly hope so.)


There are lots of recipes for Halloween foods out there, most of them simply variations of stuff you would eat any other time of the year – the aforementioned donuts, cupcakes, candied apples, candy, candy, candy. But only one really speaks to my imagination as an original. (I don't even want to speculate about the mind that came up with this one.) It’s been floating around the internet for awhile, and although I haven’t made it, I’m just waiting to find the right occasion. Maybe to take into the office on the last day on a job that I hate or for the birthday of somebody I’d really rather not be remembering. Maybe next year I’ll get my mojo on and give a Halloween party just to try it out. I’m sure Hank and Maude would approve. This one’s for the felines.

KITTY LITTER CAKE

1 box spice or German chocolate cake mix
1 box of white cake mix
1 package white sandwich cookies
1 large package vanilla instant pudding mix
A few drops green food coloring
15 small Tootsie Rolls

SERVING "DISHES AND UTENSILS"
1 NEW cat-litter box (small size)
1 NEW cat-litter box liner
1 NEW pooper scooper

1) Prepare and bake cake mixes, according to directions, in any size pan. Prepare pudding and chill. Crumble cookies in small batches in blender or food processor. Add a few drops of green food coloring to 1 cup of cookie crumbs. Mix with a fork or shake in a jar. Set aside.

2) When cakes are at room temperature, crumble them into a large bowl. Toss with half of the remaining cookie crumbs and enough pudding to make the mixture moist but not soggy. Place liner in litter box and pour in mixture.

3) Unwrap 10 of the Tootsie Rolls and heat in a microwave until soft and pliable. Shape the blunt ends into slightly curved points. Bury the rolls in the cake mixture. Sprinkle remaining white cookie crumbs over the mixture, then scatter green crumbs lightly over top.

4) Heat remaining 5 Tootsie Rolls until almost melted, shape and scatter them on top of the cake, hanging a couple decoratively over the edge of the box. Sprinkle with crumbs from the litter box. Place box on a sheet of newspaper and serve with scooper. Enjoy!

I know some people who claim to have made it, and they insist it’s pretty darn tasty. (Cake, pudding, cookies, candy – what could be bad?) But really, who cares what it tastes like? This is one of those desserts you just make for the look. Anticipate oohs and aahs, and keep it well out of the way of the cats.

Where Every Day Is Halloween

"If you hear him howling around your kitchen door
Better not let him in
Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of London again"

Werewolves of London – Warren Zevon

I saw this banner one day last week as I was passing through North Hollywood on my way to Macy’s to buy a pair of boots, and was so taken with it that I had to go back home and get my camera. It was so worth it. This just may be the scariest photo I’ve ever taken. Really, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but either way, I think it’s safe to assume that this is one of those places, God help us, where every day is Halloween.

Now I could make this posting about the horrors of getting old in a society that routinely neglects and warehouses it’s most vulnerable and venerable citizens, (your warehouse being more or less horrible, depending on how much you, or your relatives, can afford to pay), but that would be too easy. Rather I’d like to give you a tour of some of the scariest places on the web, places where every day really is Halloween. And, believe me, there are many things way scarier than ghosts and goblins and witches and things that go bump, bump, bump in the night.


For starters, let’s consider body modification. No, I’m not talking about getting a crimson dragon tattoo on your fanny or simply piercing your nipples or you penis, (although that’s gotta smart), I’m talking about the stuff you’ll find at www.russfoxx.com. Russ’ specialty is body suspension, which gives new meaning to the expression “hanging on tenterhooks.” True, hanging around suspended from meat hooks embedded in your flesh is nothing new. Certain plains tribes of American Indians did it and called it the Sun Dance. They said it brought them closer to God. These guys apparently do it just for fun.

If sticking skewers into your skin and dangling from the living room ceiling is a little too radical for you, you might want to consider subdermal implants (think horn buds on top of your head), having your tongue split (just what you’d imagine) or the newest craze with the terminally enchanted, ear sculpting, and not the kind that corrects the dreaded jug ears either, but rather the elfin kind. (The better to hear you with, my dear, so they claim.) Satisfied client Kimberleigh Roseblade enthuses, “I’ve turned myself into an elf and I couldn’t be happier.” And should her interests change, she’ll fit right in at the next Star Trek convention too.

Some who aspire to the elfin lifestyle but aren’t quite ready to surgically alter their appearance, might consider the less drastic approach adopted by Randy Constan. After a lifetime of dressing himself in Peter Pan drag, Randy has finally met his soul mate Dorothy, a woman willing to live the rest of her life as an incarnation of Tinkerbell. (I would’ve guessed Nana, the dog, as a more appropriate alternate, but that’s just me.) I’m sure you join me in wishing them a joyous and, dare I suggest, fruitful, union, and a happy Halloween forever.

And speaking of drag, my favorite online drag queen, Kathryn DuBois, continues to delight me with her ever tasteful ensembles and invaluable advice on shopping for wigs, over-the-counter depilatories and plus size fashions and lingerie. An inspiration to cross dressers and big girls every where, here’s to you, Kathryn, and may every day continue to be Halloween.

Even real girls enjoy playing dress up, but only a few will go to the lengths of the aptly tagged “Spook.” What this woman does to her body truly is spooky. I don’t know about you, but I lost my fascination for squeezing my guts into a bound casing way back with the panty girdle, and while these days I may venture so far as to wear Spanx for a special occasion, (like when I’ve overeaten for a month and my favorite black slacks won’t zip), I never imagined there were women who actually relished being the middle link in a string of lady sausage. Spook is heavy into corset training, and from the looks of things, she has plenty of tight-laced company. I lead such a sheltered life.

And just because some fundamentalist Christians give Halloween a bad rap, don’t think they don’t like to wear costumes too, (just think about that living nativity scene, coming to a First Baptist near you this December), especially if it figures in with comforting and indoctrinating the kiddies. Do you remember being scared of the dark? Not wanting to go to sleep because of the monster under the bed? I myself was convinced a witch lived behind the hot water heater in the hall I had to pass through to get to the bathroom at night. We’ve all had our personal demons. Would that our mothers had only known about “Armor of God Pajamas.” What a blessing, for Halloween or any ween really. Slip ‘em on and sleep securely, wrapped in the armor of the Holy Ghost himself. Oops, bad choice of words, but you get the idea.

Let me tell you, these people don’t need Halloween. They’ve got something much, much scarier, and I don’t mean hell, (although that figures into it in a big way). I’m talking Armageddon here, the End Times, the Apocalypse, the Four Horsemen, and all that. Are you ready for the Rapture? One way to know for sure is to check out raptureready.com, where you’ll learn all about the demonic doings of the Illuminati, the Trilateral Commission, “Satan’s Little Helpers,” (that would be the liberal media), and, of course, the beast himself, the big guy, Mr. 666, the Antichrist. And although they’re not sure who the Antichrist is, they have some interesting candidates for your consideration; William Jefferson Clinton, (of course), Bill Gates, (yes, that Bill Gates), ABC News reporter Sam Donaldson (a bit of a wild card, but could be), and, new and a comer, former French President Jacques Chirac. Don’t see anybody you like for the job? You can nominate your own Antichrist! I’m going with some of the conspicuously absent, say George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Paul Wolfowitz, Condi Rice, (if Hillary can be president, a female Antichrist is a possibility that can’t be ignored), maybe Ann Coulter, or my new favorite right wing witch, Michelle Malkin. And if you prefer your Armageddon stripped of religious dogma, check out armageddononline.org, no God, no Jesus, no proselytizing, just the straight dope on how the earth is, well, going to hell in a hand basket, and soon, very soon.

But you gotta love Michelle Malkin. Straight from the gates of Fox TV to the blogasphere, she spews hatred, war mongering, sophistry, half-truths, and outright lies with the best of the old boys. And there are lots of them out there. Want to scare yourself silly? Type “pro war blog” or something similar into your search engine and fasten your seatbelt. Too vile and too numerous to single out for the most part, I do want to afford a special mention to bamapachyderm.com, (Alabama elephant, get it?), if only because he is, no doubt, a homeboy and fellow UA graduate. Bamapachyderm thinks Al Gore made up global warming, spouts dominion theology and supports Fred Thompson for President. Very scary stuff.

By now I’ve frightened myself right over to www.glamguns.com (Guns for Girls). Gonna get me a “Hello Kitty” AK47, hunker down in the duplex, eat some chocolate. It’s a scary would out there, especially in those places where every day is Halloween.

QUICK ROCKY ROAD FUDGE
(Just the thing to munch while waiting for the Rapture)

16 ounces semisweet chocolate, chopped (A high quality chocolate is better)
2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, chopped
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 (14 ounce) can condensed milk
1 tablespoon vanilla
1 cup mini-marshmallows
1 cup salted peanuts, chopped
1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips

Line and 8-inch-square baking pan with aluminum foil, allowing enough to come up the sides of the pan and fold over the edges. Spray with nonstick cooking spray.

Mix chopped chocolates, baking soda and salt in the top of a double boiler. Add condensed milk and vanilla. Set over bottom part of double boiler containing 2 cups simmering (not boiling) water. (Or you could use the microwave, but you didn't hear it from me.) Stir with a rubber spatula until chocolate is almost, but not completely melted. Remove from heat and continue stirring until chocolate is fully melted.

Stir in marshmallows, chopped peanuts and chocolate chips. Pour fudge into prepared pan. Refrigerate for about two hours, or until set. Remove fudge from pan, lifting with foil, and cut into squares.

Scary Good!!

Clarence Thomas...

"There's smoke on the water, it's been there since June.
Tree trunks uprooted in the high crescent moon.
Hear the pulse and vibration and rumbling force.
Somebody's out there beating on a dead horse."
The Man in the Long Black Coat - Joan Osborne

Well, he’s gone and done it, written a book. Quite possibly the book nobody has been waiting for, but none-the-less, here it is, “My Grandfather’s Son: A Memoir," (more accurately a screed), by United States Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas. Before you rush out and buy it, I’d suggest you do as I did and visit your local Barnes and Noble, peruse a copy over a double latte, (you can do all the ‘good parts’ in about an hour), and then put it back on the shelf. God knows Thomas doesn’t need the money. He reportedly got a whooping $1.5 million for it already, for just putting a pen to paper, and buying it would simply serve to further enable him to spew invectives all the way to the bank.

The fact that I am a staunch liberal, even “yellow dog,” Democrat not withstanding, I really wanted to find common ground with Thomas, and, perhaps somewhat wistfully, assumed I could. After all we both grew up in small South Georgia towns in families of modest means, and, even though I’m not black, that still makes us almost homies. My hopes were quickly dashed, however, by the bitter, spiteful tenor of his tome, and in particular his vicious sliming of an adversary he roundly defeated some 16 years on. (I’m sure you’ve heard the expression “beating a dead horse,” and, Clarence, it truly applies to you.)

Before I go off on the confirmation hearings debacle, let me say, unequivocally that I believe Anita Hill, always have, always will. And as a woman of some ambitions myself, I totally understand why she may have “put up” with Mr. Long Dong Silver's questionable behavior for a period of time, whether out of naiveté, fear, or, more likely the sure and certain conviction that if she spoke out nobody would do anything about it and nothing would change, except that she’d probably find herself out of a job. Been there, done that.

But let’s just say for a minute she was lying, a pure tool of left wing liberals who made the whole thing up. Earth to Clarence, you won. You’re a member of the United States Supreme Court and arguably one of the most powerful men in America, if not the world. That’s what that long black coat is all about, dude. It ain’t just a look. So, have a gloat, a good laugh with your conservative buddies, and get on with a lifetime, that’s right, a lifetime, of imposing your pernicious and narrow-minded judgments on the rest of us. You’re a sore winner, Clarence, and a vindictive one at that. Whoop-de-damn-do indeed.

If there’s one thing I abhor more than a sore winner, it’s the ungracious and ungrateful. And you, Justice Thomas, are the epitome of an ungracious and ungrateful man, and you evidence an unforgiving and mean-spirited attitude that I find astonishing for a man of your supposed religious convictions. (Although I guess a practicing Catholic who has his first marriage annulled, effectively rendering his only child illegitimate in the eyes of the church, must make some exceptions.) I mean as I understand it, expressing gratitude and giving thanks for one’s blessings is a cornerstone of your faith, and I'm thinking it might just be something you’d be well advised to pay a little more attention to.

Life is hard, even for the most privileged born. Life is unfair (just ask Anita Hill), and success is invariably as much the result of luck (some call it grace) as hard work. When I get a break, whether by sweat or serendipity, I’m grateful. I’m very big on gratitude.

But you, Justice Thomas, are not merely ungrateful for the good fortunate bestowed on you by fate and, yes, perseverance, you are downright contemptuous. Quite frankly your disdain for your Yale law degree sickens me. So what if you were accepted as the result of affirmative action? My husband too was accepted to Yale at a time when allowances were being made to accommodate transfer students and those of modest economic means and diverse backgrounds, (he met all three criteria). No he’s not black, but, yes, he too had a difficult time finding what he considered appropriate employment after graduation. And never once have I heard him express anything but gratitude for the incredible opportunity to pursue an education that he never could’ve dreamed of as a boy and that, in the long run, has served him well. And by the way, you haven’t done too badly yourself. (Did I mention you were a member of the United States Supreme Court?) Would your success have been any sweeter had you gotten your law degree from Howard University (a fine institution in itself)? I’m guessing then you’d be whining that you couldn’t find a job because your degree was tainted by virtue of having been conferred by a predominately black school. Just, like I’m betting that the student (whoever he or she might be) who didn’t get into Yale Law School because you did probably wouldn’t have felt the same way. So get down on your knees and say “thank you, Jesus,” (or whomever), and mean it.

And let’s talk for a minute about that grandfather of yours. I’ve been waiting for some reviewer to read your book and say, “now we know why he’s so fucked up.” ‘Cause I think I do. Here is a man who, by your own admission, beat you, verbally berated you, cruelly refused to let you participate in sports or join the scouts, made you work like an unpaid, dare I suggest, slave, and eventually threw you out of his home when you had the audacity to drop out of the seminary. Yet you virtually canonize the man and give him most, if not all, of the credit for your eventual success and accomplishments. Maybe, Clarence, just maybe, you have some issues to deal with that don’t have anything to do with Yale, or Anita Hill, or white women, left winged zealots, or light skinned black folks. Finally, I am left with the indelible impression that you are, after all, just as you say, your Grandfather’s son. And that, Justice Thomas, is probably the scariest prospect of all.

Other than intensive psychotherapy and the afore-mentioned course in gratitude, what might do you good would be nice helping of humble pie. So called because it used to be made with “umbles,” that being the liver, heart, intestines and other offal meats of cow, deer or whatever dead animal might be available for dinner for the poor folk back in the middle ages.

Since I don’t want to go there, I’ll settle for “a” humble pie, and one of the most humble, and delicious, pies I know if is southern homemade egg custard pie. (I’m sure Clarence ate a lot of it growing up.) It’s not fancy, and it’s very simple to make, but it’s SO good, plain or with a dollop of whipped cream on top. (Too good for Republicans, really, but I’m willing to make exceptions myself.) I just hope before he eats it, Justice Thomas finds a minute to give thanks by saying grace, ‘cause I’d really hate to have to poison his food.


EGG CUSTARD PIE

1 unbaked 9-inch pie shell (buy it or make your own)
4 large eggs
2 cups whole milk
1 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon real vanilla
1/2 teaspoon grated nutmeg (fresh if you have it)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Beat eggs in large bowl. Whisk in sugar and salt, followed by milk, vanilla and grated nutmeg.

Pour filling into unbaked pie shell and bake in the preheated over for 45 to 50 minutes until the filling is set (until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean).

Cool, served with freshly whipped cream. Absolutely yummy. And if you really must read about Clarence Thomas, I heartily recommend "Supreme Discomfort: The Divided Soul of Clarence Thomas" by Kevin Merida and Michael A. Fletcher.

Flower R.I.P.

“I got a letter this morning,
how y’all reckon it read?
It say, ‘hurry, hurry, boy, the gal you love is dead.’”
Death Letter Blues – Son House

We all saw it coming. Flower’s dead. Not TV dead like when they kill off your favorite character on “The Young and the Restless,” not dead like Bobby on “Dallas” dead, but really truly, dead, dead.

Or maybe she isn’t. Maybe it is more like soap opera dead. Maybe she became this diva, and her agent was demanding a gazillion dollars an episode, and a bowlful of Kalahari caviar, say dung beetles, in her dressing room every morning, white ones only. Or maybe she got offered the role of a lifetime on National Geographic, and jumped networks. It could happen.

If I were feeling particularly mean, I’d post that as a rumor on Meerkat Chat, and likely get flamed from here to hell and back.

People are hurting. “Rezin” cried for an hour after the episode. “Marci41” is still crying. “Bitsy6365” can’t stop crying. “Mrssilentwarrior” wonders how to break the news to her daughter, who is sure to be haunted by the vision of Flowers’s death for years to come.

Some say they’ll stop watching "Meerkat Manor" altogether, that this season’s body count was just too high, first Carlos (infected meerkat bite) and pups Len (goshawk entree), and Squiggy (poor little gimp never stood a chance). Then Mozart’s babies got eaten by their Aunt Kinkajou, (who can forget the bereaved mother finding a single gnawed and bloody paw in the sand), and now Flower herself. Others have found more creative ways to cope with their grief.

The East Coast Meerkat Society is no longer taking orders for the stained glass Flower Memorial Suncatcher due to overwhelming demand. But if you hurry you can still get the “2008 Flower, Her Story” desk calendar or a copy of “Flower’s Book, Remembering When.” The folks at Animal Planet have set up a fund for memorial donations in Flower’s name to the Fellow Earthlings’ Wildlife Center, and “Melbacake” suggests lighting a virtual candle for her. Several fans have posted heart-wenching video tributes on YouTube.

Seriously, wasn’t it better back in the day when instead of killing “Dr. Dan” off on “As the World Turns”, he was just replaced with another actor. No warning, no explanation needed. (“Nice face, Dr. Dan. That nose was worth every penny.” “Been on a diet Dr. Dan? Lookin’ good!”) After a week or two we just accepted it. And let’s face it, few among us would have noticed one week if “Flower” wasn’t, well, “Flower.” I’m not saying all meerkats look remarkably alike, but there you have it. And wouldn’t that have been better than giving hideous nightmares to millions of innocent children, or watching those ratings drop like the ball in Times Square on New Year’s Eve?

Of course the producers seem to have that base covered too, or at least they've come up with something to make the best of the situation. And while their plan to release a feature film on Flower's life sometime next year doesn’t exactly qualify as boldly exploiting her death, it does, however, convey just the slightest whiff of James Cameron asking for a minute of silence for the victims of the Titanic in his acceptance speech for the Best Picture Oscar.


Let me stop for a minute and assure you that nobody feels worse about Flower than I, (although, on second thought, there are probably quite a few who do). But be assured, I do feel bad. She was a noble beast, a true cultural icon, the matriarch of a mob of animals made for anthropomorphosis – cuter than prairie dogs, a whole lot cuddlier than honey bees (I’m betting that Bee Movie is so going to bomb), and, when they stand on their hind legs they look amazingly human, if you discount the body hair and multiple nipples. And how like us they were. Flower was the 21st century everywoman, reigning over an extended dysfunctional family living together in a great big burrow park in the Kalahari. They cheat. They steal. They gorge themselves on poisonous insects. They join gangs and tag their neighbor’s burrows with urine. They eat their young. My guess is you look far enough beneath all that fur – tattoos and a pack of Camel filters. And as for what really happened to Shakespeare in season two, I’m thinking drive-by, that or second hand cigarette smoke.

And, frankly, how do I say this delicately, Flower was a slut. This mother of 30 (or more) cheated on main baby daddy Zaphod with Houdini, quite possibly passing off the latter’s babies as Zaphod’s own. She ran off and abandoned her pups on more than one occasion, (guess child welfare services was busy with Britney), threw out her own daughter, Mozart, twice, once forcing her to leave a litter of infants behind, and seriously considered eating her own grandkits. That she was ultimately bitten by a cobra, no surprise there. After all she is a member of a species of mongoose, (Remember Rikki Tikki Tavi and those bad ass cobras in "The Jungle Book”?), with a brain the size of a peanut and the sexual mores of a $20 hooker in front of the Catholic church on Easter Sunday morning. Did you really think she was going to die a peaceful death in an elder hospice surrounded by her children and grandchildren?

I understand they gave her an appropriate and respectful send off. I’m hoping they prettied her up in a little satin lined casket and held a wake so all the other meerkats could pay their respects. Afterward they’d retire to the warren for a little reception. The Zappas would bring a lizard pate, and the Commandoes a grasshopper and scorpion surprise. Zaphod would’ve drunk too much and had to be carried, in tears, to his burrow, closely attended by the recently widowed Kinkajou, (who is also his stepdaughter), while daughters Rocket Dog and Mozart got into a squabble over who was getting the company china.

That’s the way we would have done it down south, where the funeral feast is a time honored tradition. It is largely an on-going orgy of “covered dishes” commencing the moment the deceased deceases and continuing until the day after the interment -- a sometimes week long ritual that must harken back to the old Appalachian custom of sin eating, although in this instance we’re all doing the eating, and enjoying it too, if that could be possible given the circumstances. (Thus the true meaning of the words “comfort food.”) As I’ve mentioned before, we were Methodist and nobody does a funeral like the Methodists, except maybe the Episcopalians, and only because they usually serve “punch.” Gayden Metcalfe and Charlotte Hays observe in their most excellent, must read, book, “Being Dead is No Excuse, The Official Southern Ladies Guide to Hosting the Perfect Funeral,” that the casserole is the most characteristically Methodist death dish, and they are so right. Women of my mother's generation used to keep a stash of pre-made casseroles in the freezer so when somebody died they could just pop one in the oven and have it to the family before the body was even cold.

For Flower’s wake I would make my sweet corn pudding casserole. The original recipe came from an old McCormick spices cookbook, one of the first I ever bought. Like flower it’s a classic. She deserves nothing less.

SWEET CORN PUDDING
(Too good to save just for funerals)

4 eggs
1/2 cup milk
3 cans cream style corn
2 cans whole kernel corn, drained
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter or margarine, melted
1/3 cup sugar
3 tablespoons arrowroot (or cornstarch)
1/1/2 teaspoons seasoned salt (Season-All)
1/4 cup chopped onions
1/2 teaspoon ground mustard

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Beat eggs and milk in large bowl. Add corn and butter.

Mix sugar arrowroot, seasoned salt and ground mustard, add to corn mixture. Stir in onions.

Pour into buttered 3-quart baking dish.

Bake 1 hour until top is lightly browned. Stir once, midway through cooking.

Serves 6 to 8, unless you give in to the temptation of making a meal of it. For dinner music I’d suggest Cassandra Wilson’s cover of “Death Letter,” much more soulful than the Son House version. Enjoy with a bottle of Pinot Gris, and raise a glass to Flower.

Oenophilia and Pimento Cheese

"Rolling down the street, smoking indo, sippin' on gin and juice"
Gin And Juice - The Gourds

We celebrated our 13th anniversary last week with a trip to wine country. Drove up to the Napa Valley by way of Paso Robles, and took a side trip to the Alexander and Dry Creek Valleys, over in Sonoma, while we were there. It was harvest time and the grapes were heavy on the vine, as were the CHP on the highway.

Did you ever really stop to think about the absolute idiocy of wine touring? You get into your car and cruise winding two lane blacktops for the better part of a day, stopping to sip a bit of the grape here, there, everywhere. Everyone on the road is at least as tipsy as you are. Many of them are, in fact, greatly inebriated, some of them are talking on cell phones as they drive, and quite a few of them aren’t even competent behind the wheel stone sober. Of course the designated driver idea is a good one, but most of the time on the wine trail, let's face it, that’s all it is. Wine limos? We tried that once, and they’re great if you don’t mind a total stranger throwing up on your shoes.

In the interest of semi-sobriety, we share tastings, (unless it’s free), so by the end of the day, (our record is 8 wineries per, although this trip our best was 7), we’re only slightly snookered rather than drooling drunk. Still, it does give one pause when you exit the tasting room and spy the black and white lurking behind some bushes just down the road. I mean it's not like they don't know you've been drinking. (Whatever you do don’t look drunk. Deep breath. Stand up straight. Sit up straight. Pull out straight. Slowly, slowly. But not too slowly. Oops, did I signal? Did I need to signal? Is he coming? Lights on or off? Whew. What you want to try next, reds or whites?) I’m serious, stop any car after 4 PM and it’s a DUI for sure. I really don’t understand why everybody doesn’t get busted. Best I can figure the boys in blue have an “understanding” with the vintners, which is something you really don’t want to think about too much.

And how about those folks who take their kids wine tasting with them? They’re my favorite (aside from the limo barfers). Loading up the younguns’ in the SUV and going drinking doesn’t exactly sound like my idea of responsible parenting, unless one of them is between 16 and 21 and has a driver’s license. (Quite frankly I once fantasized about using the stepson as a designated driver, but that was before he was arrested for underage drinking in Burbank City Park.)

So why do we do it? We live in California. We love wine. The countryside is beautiful. It’s cheaper than a trip to Europe. Wine is less fattening than barbecue. Marijuana is illegal. (Try to imagine for a moment an alternative universe with tasting trips to barbecue country and cannabis country. Scary, huh?) And that’s just for starters. It’s a lot of fun. You should try it. And if you do, for your reference, here are a few of our “hits” and “misses,” (a 5 goblet rating being best), and a dynamite recipe for pimento cheese sandwiches.

LAETITIA WINERY: If you head straight up the 101, just outside of Arroyo Grande you’ll see a sharp right hand turn up to Laetitia, the first winery of any note since Buellton (home of Anderson’s Split Pea Soup). If you’re coming from LA, you’ve been on the road for about four hours, and you’re ready for a drink. Nice hilltop property with a killer view of the interstate, mellow calico cat. Their non-vintage bubbly is excellent and affordable, and you can almost always find a bargain. This trip we scored a tasty $10 Pinot Blanc and an almost awesome cheapo Merlot. RATING: 3 goblets and 1 champagne flute

DOMAINE ALFRED: On Orcutt Road near San Luis Obispo. A little hard to find but worth it. We get lost coming or going every time, but keep coming back for the Califa Chardonnay, a real, rich California Chard that’ll set you back about $35. They have an excellent Pinot Noir too. But be warned, we think they might be Republicans. RATING: 4 goblets (break 1 if they do indeed turn out to be Bushies)

GREY WOLF CELLARS: In Paso Robles, about 2 miles off the 101 on Highway 46 West. Mom and Pop family operation. They like dogs, big, slobbering, friendly dogs. The Golden is a crotch sniffer. They almost always have a great well priced Syrah, and their wolf’s paw logo is pretty cool too. Left with an ’05 Predator Syrah. Will let it age until at least '10. Sure we will. RATING: 3 1/2 goblets (would’ve been 4 but for the dog)

CHATEAU POTELLE: The only must stop on our trip. High on Mt. Veeder, midway between the Napa and Sonoma Valleys. We discovered this little jewel when we met the wine maker in a hot tub at the Paso Robles Inn a few years back. (So California, I blush.) High-end boutique wines in the French style. We like everything. You can't go wrong with their VGS (stands for Very Good Shit) wines and we highly recommend the Cougar Pass blend for a moderately priced, smooth drinking red . Great place to picnic. The yellow jackets think so too. They really liked my pimento cheese. Also the tender flesh between my right ring finger and pinky. Ouch. FIRST AID TIP: The VERY best home remedy for a bee/wasp sting is TOOTHPASTE. Put it on the sting immediately and allow it to dry. Reapply if necessary. Magic. Luckily we hadn’t checked into out hotel yet and I had some in the car. Still hurt like a bitch. Adding insult to injury, I find out that yellow jackets, unlike bees, don’t die after they sting you, but rather go on to sting again. Kinda sucks, doesn’t it? RATING: 5 goblets, 1 tube Colgate Total Plus

WHITEHALL LANE WINERY: New find on the main drag through the Napa Valley, Highway 29, in St. Helena (a gag me precious little town if ever there was one). They’ve forsaken that pesky cork for screw caps (whites) and glass stoppers (red), and this just may be the place that finally wins over the cork snobs. We were impressed. Bought something red, just to try out that glass stopper. Tasting fee applied to purchase, nice touch. RATING: 4 goblets

STERLING VINEYARDS: Napa, just outside Calistoga. Once owned by the Coco-Cola Company and now the property of world's largest beer, wine and spirits consortium, the same folks who used to own Burger King, (go figure). Accessible only by sky tram. Arguably the best location in the valley. Breathtaking view. Very decent, but undistinguished, wines, many of which you can buy off the shelf at Pavilions. However, at $20 a ticket each, I think we’d have rather used the money for another bottle of Merryvale Cabernet. (If you must do one of the big boys, we recommend Beringer Winery in St. Helena. Great reserve tasting, beautiful property, makes you realize big isn't necessarily bad.) Sterling Vineyards RATING: 2 goblets

STAG’S LEAP WINE CELLARS: Napa, on the Silverado Trail. A $30 tasting fee for wines I can buy at World Market, (albeit in the locked case), and no food pairings with that? I don’t think so. We went for the $15 non-reserve tasting. The wines were standard issue Napa and uniformly good, but we were already in a bad mood. Stuffy and unnecessarily pretentious. We’ll probably skip it next time. If you want to pay a premium for a reserve tasting go to Duckhorn Vineyards, also in Napa, or J Winery, over in Sonoma in the Russian River Valley. Pricey but you won’t feel ripped off. RATING: 1 cracked goblet and a stale water cracker

BALLENTINE VINEYARDS: This one was a trip. Little Mom and Pop shop, Betty and Van, probably pushing 80, cute as a couple of brass buttons, photos all over the place of them cooing over grapes and tractors and each other. It was the end of the day. The tasting room pourer had apparently left without telling the rest of the staff. We were greeted, eventually, by a gregarious young hippie-dippy dude who drifted out from the cellar, (a recent graduate of sommelier school weighing his career options between Napa and Humboldt), who poured generously and waived the tasting fee. The wines were surprisingly good, and inexpensive. When we left the young man tucked an extra bottle of ’01 Zinfandel into our bag. Yes! RATING: 3 goblets and a bong

SAUSAL WINERY: Pretty little family winery on Highway 128, just outside of Healdsburg in the Alexander Valley. Met a local lounge lizard who gave us a couple of his CDs. (He turns out to be a very good guitarist.) Suspecting that if we didn't buy any wine the two adorable, in-your-face black cats, Sophie and Gypsy, were likely programmed to claw our eyes out, we ransomed our vision with two bottles of ‘05 Fat Cat Petite Sirah, a steal at $10 each, and a very nice reserve Zinfandel. RATING: 3 goblets and two catnip mice


EVERETT RIDGE WINERY: West Dry Creek Road. Nice, friendly little place, consistently good moderately priced wines, no tasting fee. Plenty reasons enough for the trip over there. Pourer’s daughter won “Big Brother, Season 6,” so the hubby being employed by CBS got us cachet and a couple of off list tastings. Capped the day with a bottle of their swell '04 reserve Syrah. RATING: 4 goblets

PASSALACQUA WINERY: Dry Creek Valley, just across the one lane bridge (think about crossing it with a bunch of drunks) on Lambert Bridge Road. Particularly nice whites. Best picnic area in the valley. Unfortunately the yellow jackets found us there too. I guess, there’s something about the smell of fermenting grapes and my pimento cheese sandwiches. RATING: 3 goblets and a can of Raid with DDT

The best thing about wine country, other than the wine, is the opportunity to picnic in some of the prettiest spots in California. And, for us southerners, it isn’t a picnic without pimento cheese sandwiches. There are as many pimento cheese recipes as there are southern cooks. My mother used to mix hers up by putting it through a big iron meat grinder that clamped on the end of the kitchen table, but that was before God gave us the Cuisinart. Hers was really good. I think mine is better.

DYNAMITE PIMENTO CHEESE SANDWICHES

2 cups shredded extra sharp cheddar cheese
2 cups shredded sharp white cheddar cheese
1/2 cup roasted pimento peppers (canned is fine)
1 cup mayonnaise
1/4 teaspoon red pepper (scant)
1/2 teaspoon sugar
Dash of salt to taste
White sandwich bread

Shred cheeses using shredder disc of food processor.

Put cheeses in bowl of food processor with blade attachment and process until pulverized. Add pimento a bit at a time, processing until well mixed.

Add mayonnaise, process until smooth.

Add red pepper, sugar and salt, process until well mixed.

Transfer to lidded container and refrigerate.

May be used immediately, but is best when flavors are allowed to blend for at least 24 hours.

For sandwiches, stick with tradition. Use plain white loaf bread. Trim the crusts and cut in half on the diagonal. Delicious with lemonade or a bottle of chilled Alma Rosa Rose. (Also very good spread on slices of apple, but you didn’t hear it from me.)