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.