Now don't freak out, the Fabulous Ma'am is safe and sound. I have not fallen victim to road rage or a random drive by at The Galleria. I have been asked by one of my followers about the common occurrence of getting shot . Let me say from the outset, that these were not crimes, just another high point in the life of a Southerner.
The excitement surrounding a family member who has been shot is without peer. When my little Trixie was a pupil at Pine Valley Country Day School she quickly realized that when kin get shot, your get all the attention. Shots trump any other news. One of her classmates arrived with details of newborn baby sisters. Trixie burst into tears and announced " My Tiny Mama got shot!". Miss Nell, the head mistress, rushed to the tearful tot, and was told the details that mother was in the hospital and "her got shot". When I arrived a few hours later, nonchalantly, the entire staff met me at the door. Miss Nell appeared, with a sleeping Trixie in her arms. She explained that under the circumstances, she had personally tended to my little one. "How is your mother? Trixie told us she was shot. What on earth has happened to our community when a nice lady like that is shot!" My mouth must have fallen open as I stood in shock. Had my mother been a victim of violence on her way to the Tik Tak? Had the hospital called the school trying to locate me? Soon the wheels started turning and I came to understand what story had been relayed to these poor teachers. Yes, Tiny Mama was at the hospital. She did get shot.Flu Shot. Hospital Quick Clinic.
My father's grandchildren proudly share the fact that Big Daddy has a bullet in his leg. They assume it was from olden days when he was a soldier. Not hardly. First of all,he was a little kid during the Big War so it was not a battle wound. Actually, the bullet didn't come from a gun. The real story behind this great myth of Big Daddy is just as weird.The truth is Big Daddy and his crew had the great idea that they could make a bullet blow up by hitting it with a hammer. After listening to Big Daddy talk with his family and childhood friends, it became clear that getting shot in our hometown of Southport during the course of play was not uncommon. He never taught us any of his childhood games that required firearms, never encouraged us to tease each other with weapons.However, the fact that he was shot while playing seems like a rather All- American boyhood happening to him. . He never makes it sound like a dangerous , potentially lethal experience.They were experimenting and learning the logistics of armaments and the volatility of live ordinance. He is a living example of the rules of physics.He does have a bullet in his leg.
I think maybe this type of childhood is why Montessori Schools became so popular. Getting shot was part of country day care.
It should come as no surprise that I was able to find a husband so similar to Big Daddy that he, too, has been shot. Tom Berenger carries shrapnel in his chest from a shotgun shell. That he hit with a hammer. Deja Vu or what?
Tom B's father was shot during a rabbit hunt with his older cousin ( he was 10, older cousin was 12). Evidently during the excitement of rabbit extermination, the .22 got away from Wayne William and the bullet got Tom Sr. Nobody got crazy, no police were involved, no Live at 5 report. Just no rabbit.
We have a family member who proudly told people " I have shot myself, stabbed, myself, and set myself on fire". All of these, were true.And no, he was not suicidal. Only difference from the rest of the family is he was a grown man. He shot himself in the leg while practicing quick draw on a hunting trip. He stabbed himself on a ski pole, and set himself on fire using lighter fluid on red ants. Like most good tabloid, the headline is much juicier than the full details.
I have been shot .It was when I was a Prisoner of War. A Nazi as I recall, and my brother accidentally shot me in the finger with a b.b gun. According to the G.I. that pulled the trigger, I was trying to escape. This was clearly against the Geneva Convention, as my cousin G.Walter pointed out, higher authorities had to be informed. G. Walter was all too excited to go straight to the top with this report of open fire on a prisoner. The Commander of Operations would have to be involved. Especially since, for the first time, G.Walter was not the one about to be court martialed.
Sidebar: We played war all the time. This is before the idea that violence at an early age made you a psychopath. Since I was the only girl with all boy cousins, I was always either a Nazi or later, a Viet Cong gorilla. I preferred being a gorilla because then I got to climb trees and attempt Jane (as in Tarzan &Jane) moves on the huge wild grapevines in the woods behind our house. In the days prior to CNN, it was possible for a child to go about life without realizing that guerrillas and gorillas are not the same thing. I digress.
The Commander in Chief of the River Road Theater of Operations was my Granddaddy. Rather than wait for the Nuremberg Tribunal to judge my brother on charges of war crimes, Old Daddy became the Weapon of Mass Destruction and wrapped the Red Ryder around a black walnut tree. The next day, a new upgraded pellet gun was purchased at the Western Auto. The NRA would be happy to know Second Amendment rights were not violated.
Times have changed and getting shot just isn't what it used to be. Still, we will always have fond memories of childhood in Carolina.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am
These are my daily observations on things important, obscure, ridiculous, Southern, or curious in general.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
When I Got Shot
Tom B's father was shot during a rabbit hunt with his older cousin ( he was 10, older cousin was 12). Evidently during the excitement of rabbit extermination, the .22 got away from Wayne William and the bullet got Tom Sr. Nobody got crazy, no police were involved, no Live at 5 report. Just no rabbit.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentine's Day with The Bachelor
It's Monday, February 14, so I know I will be spending at least an hour with two dozen women and The Bachelor. I know what you're thinking. You think you have figured out who the Fabulous Ma'am really is? Sorry to disappoint. I am not the blonde girl from Georgia who has had husbands die in plane crashes and race car wipe outs. I am a member of a group of ladies from the burbs who share a special moment via the internet every Monday night. Wine is mandatory. Also, those extremely desperate chicks trying to get that mess of a man known as Brad The Bachelor are involved.
Right now my twisted sisters are feeding the family fast and furiously, chilling a tasteful bottle of vino, and getting ready to hunker down with flatscreen and laptop to take part in a running internet critique of every action on this bizarre reality show.
Now The Fabulous Ma'am has already admitted to a mild fascination with Housewives of Atlanta. Until now, I have kept this shady behavior to myself. The Bachelor Bunch is a different story. We have no shame. Since none of us are computer savvy enough to figure out how to "chat", we just get on Facebook and start a running commentary as soon as the show starts. If you have just been released from Gitmo and don't know the premise of the show, here's the short version: hard up girls with tramp stamps play, plan, and plot for the affection of a clean looking guy that supposedly has a job and wants to marry someone. Pretty much anyone that can make it to the end of the show. A pivotal point in the show is the hot tub. Hot tub performance can make or break it for a would be bride. The Bachelor always gives credit for the hot tub round. Usually just before he dumps you. A classic line sounds something like " First, of all. I want you to know what you did in the hot tub was world-class. BUT........". You can fill in the blank with phrases such as " I wouldn't introduce you to my parents with a gun to my head you are such a freak. But I will always remember what we had." Sometimes The Bachelor cries. This makes The Bunch go crazy. We can tolerate a lot. But a crying man just doesn't work. MAN UP!!!! You have a house full of easy marks and you're crying? Where are you from? Mama's boy? Sorry, that was insensitive.
Right now there is a crazy stalker chick ( there is ALWAYS a crazy stalker chick) and she has plans of physically hurting people if they get between her and The Bachelor. The strange part is the guy is kind of freaked out by her but still gives her the cheesy rose. Speaking of the rose, you would think they would be some fine, huge American Beauty roses. Last week the roses looked like they were part of the bargain bin from Kroger. Crooked and skinny. I know this is a minor point, but these women are fighting for the grocery rose like it was the Hope Diamond. What is happening to our world when healthy, attractive girls are so hard up for a date , they will do anything ( and I do mean anything) to get picked out like a puppy by a guy who has had more hands on him than a basketball in the playoffs!
Granted, I am a charter member of a group of gawkers that prove there is an interest . But then again, look at the fans of NASCAR. Just saying.
Gotta go. I have 10 minutes to give Tom Berenger his Valentine dinner ( shrimp creole I picked up from the Cajun Market) and his romantic present : a box of bullets for the 9mm.
That's amore'.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am
Right now my twisted sisters are feeding the family fast and furiously, chilling a tasteful bottle of vino, and getting ready to hunker down with flatscreen and laptop to take part in a running internet critique of every action on this bizarre reality show.
Now The Fabulous Ma'am has already admitted to a mild fascination with Housewives of Atlanta. Until now, I have kept this shady behavior to myself. The Bachelor Bunch is a different story. We have no shame. Since none of us are computer savvy enough to figure out how to "chat", we just get on Facebook and start a running commentary as soon as the show starts. If you have just been released from Gitmo and don't know the premise of the show, here's the short version: hard up girls with tramp stamps play, plan, and plot for the affection of a clean looking guy that supposedly has a job and wants to marry someone. Pretty much anyone that can make it to the end of the show. A pivotal point in the show is the hot tub. Hot tub performance can make or break it for a would be bride. The Bachelor always gives credit for the hot tub round. Usually just before he dumps you. A classic line sounds something like " First, of all. I want you to know what you did in the hot tub was world-class. BUT........". You can fill in the blank with phrases such as " I wouldn't introduce you to my parents with a gun to my head you are such a freak. But I will always remember what we had." Sometimes The Bachelor cries. This makes The Bunch go crazy. We can tolerate a lot. But a crying man just doesn't work. MAN UP!!!! You have a house full of easy marks and you're crying? Where are you from? Mama's boy? Sorry, that was insensitive.
Right now there is a crazy stalker chick ( there is ALWAYS a crazy stalker chick) and she has plans of physically hurting people if they get between her and The Bachelor. The strange part is the guy is kind of freaked out by her but still gives her the cheesy rose. Speaking of the rose, you would think they would be some fine, huge American Beauty roses. Last week the roses looked like they were part of the bargain bin from Kroger. Crooked and skinny. I know this is a minor point, but these women are fighting for the grocery rose like it was the Hope Diamond. What is happening to our world when healthy, attractive girls are so hard up for a date , they will do anything ( and I do mean anything) to get picked out like a puppy by a guy who has had more hands on him than a basketball in the playoffs!
Granted, I am a charter member of a group of gawkers that prove there is an interest . But then again, look at the fans of NASCAR. Just saying.
Gotta go. I have 10 minutes to give Tom Berenger his Valentine dinner ( shrimp creole I picked up from the Cajun Market) and his romantic present : a box of bullets for the 9mm.
That's amore'.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Possums and Princesses
Tonight I attempt my biggest organization tackle since the garage episode landed me on steroids and a heating pad. That bastion known as the Play Box. I went through the first pass, sorting out the four versions of Tickle Me Elmo (Chicken Dance Elmo, Hawaiian Elmo, BellyLaugh Elmo, and the all time favorite Baby Elmo). Baby Elmo made the cut, the other Elmos went in the Other Little Girl Box. The Other Little Girl Box is the result of Trixie being the end of the line of children in my family. She received all the "handy downs" from my nieces so when she outgrows her fabulous togs, I tell her it is time for them to go to another little girl. Thus, the OTLGB.
Next came baby clothes (last baby will be 10 in April). Here, I really became ruthless. Rumba pants, crinoline(anyone who has ever worn one, knows the best thing you can do is give it away),monogrammed diaper covers, headbands with bows that were supposed to keep strangers from saying "what a pretty little boy", ruffle socks, slippers, I was on a roll. Screeching halt. Baby ballet shoes and first tap shoes. not ready for those to go. Back on track, the clothes that still have tags but are 3 sizes too small. Easy call as additions to the Other Little Girl Box. The Italian leather Mary Janes. I took a moment, remembering how cute she looked in those on the one day they were ever worn. Off they go to the OLGB. Converse tennis shoes with flames on the sides, maybe I should bronze them. No, I get a grip, they need to go. You can only have so many bronze shoes. I mean the hard bronzed kind, not the supple leather perfections with 4 inch heels, those know no bounds. I digress.
Finally, we get to the dress up box. The fairy wings that have a hole in them where Trixie got stuck in the tree have served their purpose. Off they go. I spy something that looks suspiciously like Snow White's dress. OMG It survived! I made it 15 years and 3 little girls ago. Next to it is the beautiful blue satin of the Cinderalla ball gown I made for Halloween 1995. That little girl is now 5'11, so this probably won't see action in this house again. So I think. On que,Tunisa shows up with her BFF Holly GoLightly. Holly is a sprite who covets Trixie's cool hat collection. After seeing the Snow White costume, she pleads the case that she can wear it for Halloween. Or just in general. Alas, Snow White and Cinderella are saved. She nabs a pair of Hello Kitty pajamas, and off they go. I'm making progress. Then Trixie comes in.
"Ma'am! That is my favorite thing! How can we give that to the Other Little Girl? Here, give her your creepy baby doll instead.". Baby Girl is my doll that my father bought when I was born. She is the Picture of Dorian Grey. While I'm still looking good, Baby Girl is showing our age. And , for some, it is not pretty. First of all, she has an eye that used to close but now is stuck in mid-blink. She used to drink a bottle and then wet her diaper just like a REAL baby. That is, until she peed on my brother and he put a BB in her mouth. Urinary issue solved. Her ears show where my grandmother pierced them with pearl earrings that were really sewing pins. Baby Girl has some issues with her fingers where someone seemed to teethe on her. She is currently wearing a smocked Feltman Brothers dress that originally belonged to Tunisa. One sock is still on, the other long gone. She has travelled more than most people. My first international flight, I wore a yellow dress with a white double embroidered organdy pinafore and Baby Girl wore a batiste sleeping gown. We both got Pan Am wings from the stewardess. ( The yellow dress and pinafore are in the closet that stores evening clothes and Tom Berenger's tuxedo). Trixie turns the poor BabyGirl's head around so it faces the wall and continues on her rescue mission of her favorite things. Beanie babies are the first to go. Next, Webkins that Trixie tells me are "so 15 minutes ago" . (Where does this child get this). Her collection of baby dolls, Old School. They quickly go in the big box.
Then she spies it. The red velvet emperor robe. I LOVE THIS! The crown that went with it was eaten by the dog but the pointed princess hat of the Rapunzil dress is still with us, so it substitutes for imperial garb. She stuff tiny panties into the pointy hat so it stands up straight. In her regal robe and pantyfilled princess hat , she heads downstairs to show Da (aka TomB). She settles in with him to watch a National Geographic special, looking like the Imperial Wizard. I come down just in time to see Tom B outside with some creature who is trying to get away. Trixie, in Wizard outfit, has my phone and is squeeling as she videos her Da and the fattest possum I have ever seen. Tom B is bouncing the critter by its tail, making sure the needle teeth of this mad marsupial don't chomp into him. Trixie is steadily videoing, giving commentary that rivals when TV reporters talk with the folks who have just lost the trailer to the tornado. "This is awesome, people". The girl knows the importance of seizing the moment and rousing the excitement of her potential audience. The child sounds like the excited radio reporter with the Hindenburg. I'm watching the whole thing, trying to decide which is funnier. Tom B and his possum or his cinematographer dressed like a Klansman.
"Can we keep him, Ma'am"? "This is the best". "Da is the MAN". Clearly he is her hero. Or is it the possum? When she opens the door and gets ready to run out to pet the possum, this memorable moment comes to a screeching halt. I hear my mother's voice saying "don't you touch that thing! It has rabies. It will bite you and you will start foaming at the mouth and then what am I going to do". Wait. Tiny Mama isn't here. I must be channeling her!
I'm having an out of body experience as I watch this mini-me vibrate with joy and excitement. For a moment, I am that little girl so fired up , knowing I am the luckiest girl in the world. Anybody can be a princess, but a possum owner is as close to heaven as one could ever hope for. "Come scrub your hands with soap! Possums carry leprosy! The Home Owner's Association will not allow possums!". Tiny Mama's voice is back. Trixie is me. I am Mama.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall.
I am my mother, after all.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am
Next came baby clothes (last baby will be 10 in April). Here, I really became ruthless. Rumba pants, crinoline(anyone who has ever worn one, knows the best thing you can do is give it away),monogrammed diaper covers, headbands with bows that were supposed to keep strangers from saying "what a pretty little boy", ruffle socks, slippers, I was on a roll. Screeching halt. Baby ballet shoes and first tap shoes. not ready for those to go. Back on track, the clothes that still have tags but are 3 sizes too small. Easy call as additions to the Other Little Girl Box. The Italian leather Mary Janes. I took a moment, remembering how cute she looked in those on the one day they were ever worn. Off they go to the OLGB. Converse tennis shoes with flames on the sides, maybe I should bronze them. No, I get a grip, they need to go. You can only have so many bronze shoes. I mean the hard bronzed kind, not the supple leather perfections with 4 inch heels, those know no bounds. I digress.
Finally, we get to the dress up box. The fairy wings that have a hole in them where Trixie got stuck in the tree have served their purpose. Off they go. I spy something that looks suspiciously like Snow White's dress. OMG It survived! I made it 15 years and 3 little girls ago. Next to it is the beautiful blue satin of the Cinderalla ball gown I made for Halloween 1995. That little girl is now 5'11, so this probably won't see action in this house again. So I think. On que,Tunisa shows up with her BFF Holly GoLightly. Holly is a sprite who covets Trixie's cool hat collection. After seeing the Snow White costume, she pleads the case that she can wear it for Halloween. Or just in general. Alas, Snow White and Cinderella are saved. She nabs a pair of Hello Kitty pajamas, and off they go. I'm making progress. Then Trixie comes in.
"Ma'am! That is my favorite thing! How can we give that to the Other Little Girl? Here, give her your creepy baby doll instead.". Baby Girl is my doll that my father bought when I was born. She is the Picture of Dorian Grey. While I'm still looking good, Baby Girl is showing our age. And , for some, it is not pretty. First of all, she has an eye that used to close but now is stuck in mid-blink. She used to drink a bottle and then wet her diaper just like a REAL baby. That is, until she peed on my brother and he put a BB in her mouth. Urinary issue solved. Her ears show where my grandmother pierced them with pearl earrings that were really sewing pins. Baby Girl has some issues with her fingers where someone seemed to teethe on her. She is currently wearing a smocked Feltman Brothers dress that originally belonged to Tunisa. One sock is still on, the other long gone. She has travelled more than most people. My first international flight, I wore a yellow dress with a white double embroidered organdy pinafore and Baby Girl wore a batiste sleeping gown. We both got Pan Am wings from the stewardess. ( The yellow dress and pinafore are in the closet that stores evening clothes and Tom Berenger's tuxedo). Trixie turns the poor BabyGirl's head around so it faces the wall and continues on her rescue mission of her favorite things. Beanie babies are the first to go. Next, Webkins that Trixie tells me are "so 15 minutes ago" . (Where does this child get this). Her collection of baby dolls, Old School. They quickly go in the big box.
Then she spies it. The red velvet emperor robe. I LOVE THIS! The crown that went with it was eaten by the dog but the pointed princess hat of the Rapunzil dress is still with us, so it substitutes for imperial garb. She stuff tiny panties into the pointy hat so it stands up straight. In her regal robe and pantyfilled princess hat , she heads downstairs to show Da (aka TomB). She settles in with him to watch a National Geographic special, looking like the Imperial Wizard. I come down just in time to see Tom B outside with some creature who is trying to get away. Trixie, in Wizard outfit, has my phone and is squeeling as she videos her Da and the fattest possum I have ever seen. Tom B is bouncing the critter by its tail, making sure the needle teeth of this mad marsupial don't chomp into him. Trixie is steadily videoing, giving commentary that rivals when TV reporters talk with the folks who have just lost the trailer to the tornado. "This is awesome, people". The girl knows the importance of seizing the moment and rousing the excitement of her potential audience. The child sounds like the excited radio reporter with the Hindenburg. I'm watching the whole thing, trying to decide which is funnier. Tom B and his possum or his cinematographer dressed like a Klansman.
"Can we keep him, Ma'am"? "This is the best". "Da is the MAN". Clearly he is her hero. Or is it the possum? When she opens the door and gets ready to run out to pet the possum, this memorable moment comes to a screeching halt. I hear my mother's voice saying "don't you touch that thing! It has rabies. It will bite you and you will start foaming at the mouth and then what am I going to do". Wait. Tiny Mama isn't here. I must be channeling her!
I'm having an out of body experience as I watch this mini-me vibrate with joy and excitement. For a moment, I am that little girl so fired up , knowing I am the luckiest girl in the world. Anybody can be a princess, but a possum owner is as close to heaven as one could ever hope for. "Come scrub your hands with soap! Possums carry leprosy! The Home Owner's Association will not allow possums!". Tiny Mama's voice is back. Trixie is me. I am Mama.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall.
I am my mother, after all.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Bunker Mentality In the Burbs
The sun is up in Houston and we didn't fall victims of global warming. I still don't understand that whole idea. If we are globally warmed, then why am I wearing Uggs in my sunroom? ANYWAY, Josie Feliciano is back today and we are on another mission of reorganization. I use the term "we" loosely. I made the unorganization, and it means job security for Josie if I just make "baby steps" in this therapeutic endeavor.
The past few days the grocery stores have been packed with freaked out Houstonians buying supplies for survival as they go into "bunker mode". The first store to show the terror, as usual , is Spots. Liquor Store. This is a huge store that offer not only the best assortment of potent potables, but also a smorgasboard of high fat, decadent yumminess. Also, an impressive humidor, so if you need to drag on a Dunhill during the devastion, this is the place. If push comes to shove,it is possible to prepare for Armagedon with one stop shopping. Pay cash and you get a discount.
When the weather gets in mass destruction mode, Tom Berenger has to be on emergency mode/lock down with his oil field fire fighting gig ,leaving me to fend for myself. Sort of. I checked in with Tiny Mama and Big Daddy, just in case my power goes out and was able to get a reservation with them early. This is key to survival. Always be prepared. This also shows the importance of calling before your siblings beat you to it. My brother, The Baby Jesus, lives in the city, so if he gotto her first, Tiny Mama would be busy killing the fatten calf, arranging his pictures, and making sure everything was perfect for the Second Coming and Spouse. He will probably be tired and need a nap after that 20 minute hell on the freeway, so Tiny Mama will have his room dark, with the sheets turned down. Did I mention he is the only son?
If my younger sib, Boo gets her call in first, or more likely goes stealth mode and starts sending in the beloved grandchildren/name sakes, then I'm gonna end up in the back seat of Big Daddy's Explorer. Luckily, I know where the can of Planter's Peanuts are kept in the console, and since I'll be in their garage, I will be able to make trips to the garage refrigerator.
Upside to being in the garage, I won't have to listen to my mother's "boyfriend" Bill O'Reilley or venture into THE NO SPIN ZONE during my frigid evacuation.Just exploring my options made me think I better take inventory of just what we did have on hand in case of a blizzard. I have read about the Donner Party, and I could easily become veal if Big Daddy has to go too long without pigskins or ice cream.
I found 6 different types of cocoa. Since I have a gas stove, I would be able to prepare a chocolate fondue, chocolate truffles, or just do a little chocolate molding like the Barefoot Contessa is currently demonstrating on HGTV.
Next, 8 jars of Cajun Injector Spicy marinade. Hmmmm. Don't think I'll be frying any turkeys since I haven't already gotten the basics for that recipe: Eight 10lb turkey and 5 gallons of peanut oil. But from the looks of my pantry, I had planned on it at one point.
Roasted red peppers, Sundried tomatoes, 3 half packages of jumbo pasta shells, 2 silver envelopes with the "cheese stuff" written in Sharpie pen. After a second I recognize these are the packages that come in Kraft Macaroni&Cheese and Tunisa has eaten the box of pasta but abstained from the cheese. She also abstained from cooking it. A weird thing that her father, The Baby Jesus, used to do. At any rate, pasta is a possibility.
4 pounds of confectioner's sugar. Put that with the cocoa and I'm thinking fudge.Just found 4 cans of Eagle Brand sweetened condensed milk. Fudge is a real possibility. Not traditional, but certainly worthy of a church cookbook variation.
3 gallons of Major Peter's Bloody Mary mix. Why do we still have this? How long does Bloody Mary mix last. I could heat this up and call it soup. Or, nab that big jar of Jumbo Olives, use the partial bottles of Vodka, and attempt to dull the fear of impending disaster. All the way around, this works.
4 pounds of raw sugar. Those brown boxes were hiding in the back. That's why I keep buying it. I buy raw sugar because, as you can tell, I keep my body a temple, and am very picky about what I eat. I only use half&half with turbinado with my morning Nescafe'. Before you start feeling superior that I don't have one of those French-press deals or that fancy schmancy one shot-one cup coffee makers that everyone who is ANYONE has, let me share this tidbit. The Queen of England drinks Nescafe'. If it's good enough for one's monarch, it is good enough for the Fabulous Ma'am.
Cake flour, bleached &unbleached flour, self rising, and all purpose, plus a 4 pound bag (formerly 5 pound bag before our current unfortunate financial climate) of Dixie Crystal, and 10XX Superfine sugar. Crepes are a possibility. Or if I start right now, I can crank out some poundcakes for the duration.
6 jars of maraschino cherries. They don't look so good. Must be from a Mardi Gras party where they were key to the Planters Punch. Oops! Just found a jar that says Madagascar Vanilla Beans. So that's what happened to them. I open the jar and find what looks like fat earthworms that mistakenly got on the flagstone and died. Not to be wasteful, I put them in a cup and add a splash of Dripping Springs Texas Vodka.Those worms are expensive! In theory, they should plump up and then I can go to the next step of putting them in a decorative jar of sugar which I will use on just everything. Barefoot Contessa is my guru.She gave me this advice. She is a little chubby, so you know she is cooking all that stuff. She seems fun.Also, unlike some other domestic megabrand whose name will not be mentioned, Ina has a husband. And no prison time. I digress.
After perusing the pantry, I realize that if we lose electricity, I could easily find myself with 3 freezers thawing out all manner of God's creatures that Tom Berenger has shot, speared,hooked,or trapped. Let me stop right here and say that I do not eat what he kills. My theory is as long as there is a Piggly Wiggly, I do not need to track and kill dinner. I will not eat a face I have looked at. Not vegan, just citified. Let him be the chef on "Critter of the Day".
Happily, it is now 50 degrees. I plan to finish harvesting my frozen lemons and spin the juice out with my cool little juice weasel. Since we are not going to die of the coming Ice Age, I have found pleasure in knowing that my home is equipped for a pleasant survival.
Take the fresh lemonade,2 shots Vodka, 1 shot Cointreau,place in cocktail shaker, shake over ice. Rim the tastefully selected stem of glassware with lemon juice, follow with sugar, pour out a celebratory Lemondrop Martini.
Cheers to you my little survivalist.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am
The past few days the grocery stores have been packed with freaked out Houstonians buying supplies for survival as they go into "bunker mode". The first store to show the terror, as usual , is Spots. Liquor Store. This is a huge store that offer not only the best assortment of potent potables, but also a smorgasboard of high fat, decadent yumminess. Also, an impressive humidor, so if you need to drag on a Dunhill during the devastion, this is the place. If push comes to shove,it is possible to prepare for Armagedon with one stop shopping. Pay cash and you get a discount.
When the weather gets in mass destruction mode, Tom Berenger has to be on emergency mode/lock down with his oil field fire fighting gig ,leaving me to fend for myself. Sort of. I checked in with Tiny Mama and Big Daddy, just in case my power goes out and was able to get a reservation with them early. This is key to survival. Always be prepared. This also shows the importance of calling before your siblings beat you to it. My brother, The Baby Jesus, lives in the city, so if he gotto her first, Tiny Mama would be busy killing the fatten calf, arranging his pictures, and making sure everything was perfect for the Second Coming and Spouse. He will probably be tired and need a nap after that 20 minute hell on the freeway, so Tiny Mama will have his room dark, with the sheets turned down. Did I mention he is the only son?
If my younger sib, Boo gets her call in first, or more likely goes stealth mode and starts sending in the beloved grandchildren/name sakes, then I'm gonna end up in the back seat of Big Daddy's Explorer. Luckily, I know where the can of Planter's Peanuts are kept in the console, and since I'll be in their garage, I will be able to make trips to the garage refrigerator.
Upside to being in the garage, I won't have to listen to my mother's "boyfriend" Bill O'Reilley or venture into THE NO SPIN ZONE during my frigid evacuation.Just exploring my options made me think I better take inventory of just what we did have on hand in case of a blizzard. I have read about the Donner Party, and I could easily become veal if Big Daddy has to go too long without pigskins or ice cream.
I found 6 different types of cocoa. Since I have a gas stove, I would be able to prepare a chocolate fondue, chocolate truffles, or just do a little chocolate molding like the Barefoot Contessa is currently demonstrating on HGTV.
Next, 8 jars of Cajun Injector Spicy marinade. Hmmmm. Don't think I'll be frying any turkeys since I haven't already gotten the basics for that recipe: Eight 10lb turkey and 5 gallons of peanut oil. But from the looks of my pantry, I had planned on it at one point.
Roasted red peppers, Sundried tomatoes, 3 half packages of jumbo pasta shells, 2 silver envelopes with the "cheese stuff" written in Sharpie pen. After a second I recognize these are the packages that come in Kraft Macaroni&Cheese and Tunisa has eaten the box of pasta but abstained from the cheese. She also abstained from cooking it. A weird thing that her father, The Baby Jesus, used to do. At any rate, pasta is a possibility.
4 pounds of confectioner's sugar. Put that with the cocoa and I'm thinking fudge.Just found 4 cans of Eagle Brand sweetened condensed milk. Fudge is a real possibility. Not traditional, but certainly worthy of a church cookbook variation.
3 gallons of Major Peter's Bloody Mary mix. Why do we still have this? How long does Bloody Mary mix last. I could heat this up and call it soup. Or, nab that big jar of Jumbo Olives, use the partial bottles of Vodka, and attempt to dull the fear of impending disaster. All the way around, this works.
4 pounds of raw sugar. Those brown boxes were hiding in the back. That's why I keep buying it. I buy raw sugar because, as you can tell, I keep my body a temple, and am very picky about what I eat. I only use half&half with turbinado with my morning Nescafe'. Before you start feeling superior that I don't have one of those French-press deals or that fancy schmancy one shot-one cup coffee makers that everyone who is ANYONE has, let me share this tidbit. The Queen of England drinks Nescafe'. If it's good enough for one's monarch, it is good enough for the Fabulous Ma'am.
Cake flour, bleached &unbleached flour, self rising, and all purpose, plus a 4 pound bag (formerly 5 pound bag before our current unfortunate financial climate) of Dixie Crystal, and 10XX Superfine sugar. Crepes are a possibility. Or if I start right now, I can crank out some poundcakes for the duration.
6 jars of maraschino cherries. They don't look so good. Must be from a Mardi Gras party where they were key to the Planters Punch. Oops! Just found a jar that says Madagascar Vanilla Beans. So that's what happened to them. I open the jar and find what looks like fat earthworms that mistakenly got on the flagstone and died. Not to be wasteful, I put them in a cup and add a splash of Dripping Springs Texas Vodka.Those worms are expensive! In theory, they should plump up and then I can go to the next step of putting them in a decorative jar of sugar which I will use on just everything. Barefoot Contessa is my guru.She gave me this advice. She is a little chubby, so you know she is cooking all that stuff. She seems fun.Also, unlike some other domestic megabrand whose name will not be mentioned, Ina has a husband. And no prison time. I digress.
After perusing the pantry, I realize that if we lose electricity, I could easily find myself with 3 freezers thawing out all manner of God's creatures that Tom Berenger has shot, speared,hooked,or trapped. Let me stop right here and say that I do not eat what he kills. My theory is as long as there is a Piggly Wiggly, I do not need to track and kill dinner. I will not eat a face I have looked at. Not vegan, just citified. Let him be the chef on "Critter of the Day".
Happily, it is now 50 degrees. I plan to finish harvesting my frozen lemons and spin the juice out with my cool little juice weasel. Since we are not going to die of the coming Ice Age, I have found pleasure in knowing that my home is equipped for a pleasant survival.
Take the fresh lemonade,2 shots Vodka, 1 shot Cointreau,place in cocktail shaker, shake over ice. Rim the tastefully selected stem of glassware with lemon juice, follow with sugar, pour out a celebratory Lemondrop Martini.
Cheers to you my little survivalist.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Freezing at the 29th parallel
It's a phenomenon not seen in these parts in years. Too early, and too often to be a hurricane? Right you are. It is the weirdness that embraces the Great State of Texas when we get the exciting/frightening/" fix me a martini kind of news known as Potential Snow Flurries. As you may have heard, last weekend was nearly 80degrees and beautiful. I, the Fabulous Ma'am, decided to go uber domestic and work on my garage. My housekeeper Josie Feliciano, was make great progress inside, happily doing some salsa to the beat of the Hoover, so I felt it best to get out of her way. The garage was calling.
Tom Berenger was at the gun range ( we have a new recreation center that is loosely based on a Chuckie Cheese place. Replace Big Gulps with Beer, and that scarey Mouse show with shooting ranges and you pretty well can see the appeal) so I had time on my hands and needed to feel I was tackling my organizational impairments. Things started out slowly but soon I was in my happy place. Stacking, packing, organizing, just like on HGTV. Had the box of clothes for the resale shop that mysteriously kept leaving, visiting Josie's Ford Focus, and returning empty. Can't really see Josie in size 9, 3 inch mules, but she seemed so accomodating today, who was I to stop the dream? After 4 trips to the Focus, I was seeing a clear path and Josie had made her last dance around the living room. I came in, took a shower, and started dinner .Company would arrive at 8pm. Around 5:30, I noticed my back was a little stiff. Grabbing a pinch of a muscle relaxer, I stopped to moisturize before going downstairs to the pork tenderloin. An hour later, TomB gets home, showers, and starts the first batch of Lemondrop martinis. My back wasn't doing the rebound I had hoped for,so I sipped a little martini in hopes of a synergistic effect. Now, I know what you're thinking. The Fabulous Ma'am is living dangerously.Not to worry. Let me explain.
This medical advice came years ago from an elderly neighbor who told me that when caught in dire straights, such as pain and hosting a party at the same time, you should look up what constitutes an overdose of pain meds , and then take 2 less. Wait an hour, check for a pulse, and then have a drink. Since this woman had been such an influence on my early married life, I always took her advice. The lady in reference was Mrs.Owen. Not Owens, Owen. No S. She lived across the street from me. 85 if a day when I moved in, she always gardened with her HUGE diamond rings in her brassiere. She said they were the only 2 suckers a girl could trust. She drove one of those schoolbus length Lincoln Towncars that you get when you have white Barbara Bush hair, a small handgun, and hard liquor at 5pm. Mr.Owen had passed away decades before but continued to represented in the boudoir through a portrait that hung over her bed. She said if he couldn't be in the bed, he would always be over it. On her dresser,a framed picture of Ronald Reagan. The only two men she would ever have considered sharing a bedroom with.
Mrs. Owen taught me the importance of having a sterling pattern that matched your mother's and sister. That way, you could easily accomodate a seating of 36 without any worry. It is important to be prepared. Also, place your tablecloth on the table as soon as it is pressed, a fold line down the middle is acceptable, but by spraying a mist of water, it will settle. Also, you should have your T-Bills with a man your husband trusts. ( at this time in my larvae state, I didn't know what a T-Bill was, let alone who my husband would trust with one or some. How did T-Bills come, anyway? Did you get them in eaches or dozens, or just how?) Since we lived in a neighborhood that was built in the late 1920s, Mrs. Owen had once been a newlywed on the street and now felt it her duty to make sure this generation of new housewives avoided the pitfalls that she had already manuvered. When my neighbor down the street announced she was expecting a baby, Mrs.Owen said "A baby. My Word! You've not even been on vacation".
She was quick to come running across the street when she saw me pulling weeds. She said she was hoping to find the reason for me being on hands and knees, was morning sickness. When I explained I had not been on vacation so this was not a possibility, she was livid. This did not look good. I should not be seen looking like a field hand. Where was my man? My husband, she wanted to know where was my husband? Why would she be looking for him? No!!! Your MAN. The person whom you trust with pruning, planting, and transplanting. My Man. My Mr.Winston. That's who she was looking for. My Man.
Mr.Winston looked like he had been in grammar school with Mrs.Owen. Together they made sure her corner lot of Thomas Road was always perfectly manicured. She knew the name of every type of magnolia tree that grew in Jefferson County. Her daylilies were legend and you knew you had been accepted into her world when you opened your door and found bundles of lily stalks, wrapped in the morning newspaper. Mr.Winston would be back across the street, ready to wave when the gift was received and then report back to Mrs. Owen.
Mrs. Owen had come from a community in Houston known as Rice. Mr.Winston had come from Rice when God was a boy to tend Mrs.O. He traveled back to West Rice University twice a month to make sure Mrs.Owen's daughter's yard was also acceptable in that realm of propriety. Little Miss Owen, we heard, had a crew that worked under the supervision of Mr.Winston. This daughter was born when Mrs.Owen was 45 years old. Mrs. O. told me the day Dr.Rubenstein gave her the news, she went to her attorney and made out her will, and then made reservations for dinner at the country club. She knew she would die and wanted everything planned out for Mr.Owen. He was a busy man.
Now I know you are thinking "Driving Miss Daisy". Not hardly. Mr.Winston rode in the back, braced for flight, as Mrs. Owen slammed the pedal to the metal and made the 80 mile trip in under an hour. On one of their trips to Houston, Mrs.Owen felt she might be having a heart attack, so instead of pulling over or even letting Mr.Winston drive, she continued on the 610 Loop until she came to an acceptable neighborhood. When the Lincoln finally came to a stop at the ER of Twelve Oaks Hospital, Mr.Winston went on a stretcher right next to Mrs. Owen. She was having chest pains, but he was verging on a heart attack. Both were back in the front yard in the spring.
I loved to visit for a "toddy" and listen to her speak of a time long ago. Randolph(Mr.O) and Mrs. O were both "old South money" but had known bad times. In her living room hung a shadow box with an elaborate fan displayed in it. She said it had come from Randolph's people, originally from the French branch of the family.The court of Marie Antoinette (Mrs. O felt Marie was a hussy. I digress). During the Great Depression, Mrs. Owen noticed Randolph taking it off the wall and wrapping it as if a package. He explained a man from New Orleans was offering $500 for the fan, and it made more sense to make the deal, than to worry and hold onto something that was frivilous. Mrs. Owen said they would always regret the sale, the money would be gone, better times would come, and the fan was part of the family heritage. She personally found it borderline vulgar, but it was from Randolph's people. Somethings, memories, are worth more than money. As always, she was right. She and the heirloom fan outlasted the Great Depression, The War, the other wars, and eventually Randolph. And Ronald Reagan.
When I walked over one morning and told her I was leaving the neighborhood she was quiet. She asked me not to share any details, it didn't matter. It wasn't her business. Besides, she had known him longer than I had and greatly preferred me. He was not considerate about the sound of his car on a Sunday morning while she shared time with Billy Graham.
My winter in the neighborhood with Mrs. Owen and Mr.Winston was my first experience of being a homeowner during a snowy ,hard freeze. For some reason, today's impending freeze makes me think of being that naive housewife. I remember Mr.Winston came over and wrapped my pipes, covered my camellias, and asked that I watch to make sure Mrs. Owen didn't drive. He had hidden the keys but he knew if she got it in her mind, she would get that car started.
Today, I sound more like Mrs Owen than the person who learned so much over mixed drinks. It didn't work out being a housewife. I wasn't meant to be a spouse to a house. I was meant to be strong, formidible, large & in charge. Tom Berenger is The Man. And he knows it's best not to be in the backseat when The Fabulous Ma'am is behind the wheel. I can't drive 55. But that is another story for another time.Stay warm,
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am
Tom Berenger was at the gun range ( we have a new recreation center that is loosely based on a Chuckie Cheese place. Replace Big Gulps with Beer, and that scarey Mouse show with shooting ranges and you pretty well can see the appeal) so I had time on my hands and needed to feel I was tackling my organizational impairments. Things started out slowly but soon I was in my happy place. Stacking, packing, organizing, just like on HGTV. Had the box of clothes for the resale shop that mysteriously kept leaving, visiting Josie's Ford Focus, and returning empty. Can't really see Josie in size 9, 3 inch mules, but she seemed so accomodating today, who was I to stop the dream? After 4 trips to the Focus, I was seeing a clear path and Josie had made her last dance around the living room. I came in, took a shower, and started dinner .Company would arrive at 8pm. Around 5:30, I noticed my back was a little stiff. Grabbing a pinch of a muscle relaxer, I stopped to moisturize before going downstairs to the pork tenderloin. An hour later, TomB gets home, showers, and starts the first batch of Lemondrop martinis. My back wasn't doing the rebound I had hoped for,so I sipped a little martini in hopes of a synergistic effect. Now, I know what you're thinking. The Fabulous Ma'am is living dangerously.Not to worry. Let me explain.
This medical advice came years ago from an elderly neighbor who told me that when caught in dire straights, such as pain and hosting a party at the same time, you should look up what constitutes an overdose of pain meds , and then take 2 less. Wait an hour, check for a pulse, and then have a drink. Since this woman had been such an influence on my early married life, I always took her advice. The lady in reference was Mrs.Owen. Not Owens, Owen. No S. She lived across the street from me. 85 if a day when I moved in, she always gardened with her HUGE diamond rings in her brassiere. She said they were the only 2 suckers a girl could trust. She drove one of those schoolbus length Lincoln Towncars that you get when you have white Barbara Bush hair, a small handgun, and hard liquor at 5pm. Mr.Owen had passed away decades before but continued to represented in the boudoir through a portrait that hung over her bed. She said if he couldn't be in the bed, he would always be over it. On her dresser,a framed picture of Ronald Reagan. The only two men she would ever have considered sharing a bedroom with.
Mrs. Owen taught me the importance of having a sterling pattern that matched your mother's and sister. That way, you could easily accomodate a seating of 36 without any worry. It is important to be prepared. Also, place your tablecloth on the table as soon as it is pressed, a fold line down the middle is acceptable, but by spraying a mist of water, it will settle. Also, you should have your T-Bills with a man your husband trusts. ( at this time in my larvae state, I didn't know what a T-Bill was, let alone who my husband would trust with one or some. How did T-Bills come, anyway? Did you get them in eaches or dozens, or just how?) Since we lived in a neighborhood that was built in the late 1920s, Mrs. Owen had once been a newlywed on the street and now felt it her duty to make sure this generation of new housewives avoided the pitfalls that she had already manuvered. When my neighbor down the street announced she was expecting a baby, Mrs.Owen said "A baby. My Word! You've not even been on vacation".
She was quick to come running across the street when she saw me pulling weeds. She said she was hoping to find the reason for me being on hands and knees, was morning sickness. When I explained I had not been on vacation so this was not a possibility, she was livid. This did not look good. I should not be seen looking like a field hand. Where was my man? My husband, she wanted to know where was my husband? Why would she be looking for him? No!!! Your MAN. The person whom you trust with pruning, planting, and transplanting. My Man. My Mr.Winston. That's who she was looking for. My Man.
Mr.Winston looked like he had been in grammar school with Mrs.Owen. Together they made sure her corner lot of Thomas Road was always perfectly manicured. She knew the name of every type of magnolia tree that grew in Jefferson County. Her daylilies were legend and you knew you had been accepted into her world when you opened your door and found bundles of lily stalks, wrapped in the morning newspaper. Mr.Winston would be back across the street, ready to wave when the gift was received and then report back to Mrs. Owen.
Mrs. Owen had come from a community in Houston known as Rice. Mr.Winston had come from Rice when God was a boy to tend Mrs.O. He traveled back to West Rice University twice a month to make sure Mrs.Owen's daughter's yard was also acceptable in that realm of propriety. Little Miss Owen, we heard, had a crew that worked under the supervision of Mr.Winston. This daughter was born when Mrs.Owen was 45 years old. Mrs. O. told me the day Dr.Rubenstein gave her the news, she went to her attorney and made out her will, and then made reservations for dinner at the country club. She knew she would die and wanted everything planned out for Mr.Owen. He was a busy man.
Now I know you are thinking "Driving Miss Daisy". Not hardly. Mr.Winston rode in the back, braced for flight, as Mrs. Owen slammed the pedal to the metal and made the 80 mile trip in under an hour. On one of their trips to Houston, Mrs.Owen felt she might be having a heart attack, so instead of pulling over or even letting Mr.Winston drive, she continued on the 610 Loop until she came to an acceptable neighborhood. When the Lincoln finally came to a stop at the ER of Twelve Oaks Hospital, Mr.Winston went on a stretcher right next to Mrs. Owen. She was having chest pains, but he was verging on a heart attack. Both were back in the front yard in the spring.
I loved to visit for a "toddy" and listen to her speak of a time long ago. Randolph(Mr.O) and Mrs. O were both "old South money" but had known bad times. In her living room hung a shadow box with an elaborate fan displayed in it. She said it had come from Randolph's people, originally from the French branch of the family.The court of Marie Antoinette (Mrs. O felt Marie was a hussy. I digress). During the Great Depression, Mrs. Owen noticed Randolph taking it off the wall and wrapping it as if a package. He explained a man from New Orleans was offering $500 for the fan, and it made more sense to make the deal, than to worry and hold onto something that was frivilous. Mrs. Owen said they would always regret the sale, the money would be gone, better times would come, and the fan was part of the family heritage. She personally found it borderline vulgar, but it was from Randolph's people. Somethings, memories, are worth more than money. As always, she was right. She and the heirloom fan outlasted the Great Depression, The War, the other wars, and eventually Randolph. And Ronald Reagan.
When I walked over one morning and told her I was leaving the neighborhood she was quiet. She asked me not to share any details, it didn't matter. It wasn't her business. Besides, she had known him longer than I had and greatly preferred me. He was not considerate about the sound of his car on a Sunday morning while she shared time with Billy Graham.
My winter in the neighborhood with Mrs. Owen and Mr.Winston was my first experience of being a homeowner during a snowy ,hard freeze. For some reason, today's impending freeze makes me think of being that naive housewife. I remember Mr.Winston came over and wrapped my pipes, covered my camellias, and asked that I watch to make sure Mrs. Owen didn't drive. He had hidden the keys but he knew if she got it in her mind, she would get that car started.
Today, I sound more like Mrs Owen than the person who learned so much over mixed drinks. It didn't work out being a housewife. I wasn't meant to be a spouse to a house. I was meant to be strong, formidible, large & in charge. Tom Berenger is The Man. And he knows it's best not to be in the backseat when The Fabulous Ma'am is behind the wheel. I can't drive 55. But that is another story for another time.Stay warm,
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am