never forget

‘One of the lessons of 9-11 is that evil is real, and so is courage’
- George W. Bush

(to see the entire interview, begin here)

lucky girl

Next year, when I turn 38, my father will have been gone for exactly half my life. I strain for memories now, wishing for nothing but the sound of his voice and getting a brief, odd glimpses instead - the scar under his thumbnail, his paint splattered boots, the way he'd pull his face when he shaved, the mysterious collection of coins in his pocket, the amount of sugar he'd take in his coffee, and oh, gosh, how he'd laugh. Sometimes he'll silently appear in a dream, smiling as if nothing is amiss and no time has passed at all. I'll carry him with me all through that next waking day, remembering that yes, once upon a time I had a dad who loved me.

Butt hug

What happens when cat owners go off to work on a Monday morning.



More blog later, gotta go work out.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

so wrong.

(but I laughed anyway.)

Read this little news item to Mike this morning over bacon:

John Joe Thomas, 28, of the first block of Sunshine Road in Upper Darby, allegedly told police he killed Murray Joseph Seidman, 70, because the older man had made sexual advances and that the Old Testament spelled out stoning as the punishment for homosexuality.

"I stoned Murray with a rock in a sock," Thomas said to police, according to court documents.

His reply:

"In a box? With a fox?"

♥

a little love song to start your Valentine's Day. I hope you all do something wildly romantic or, at the very least, treat yourself to some chocolate.

feel the love...

(click for big)


I know, I'm such a romantic.

(this is your one week reminder, ladies & gentlemen. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

going dark

This afternoon, our family lost our hero...and though it happened the way these things usually do, I don't think any of us were really prepared for a world without him in it.

I'm going to need time and silence (and the Arizona desert) to say goodbye.

versus

I called Mike at work this morning, after I had gotten my usual news fix.

Me: "Um...did you happen to look at Drudge this morning?"

Mike: "No, why?"

Me, sighing : "Just look."

I heard a bit of clicking as he found the page, and then...



..."Oh, great. The bad guys have Dr. Evil and all we have to save us is Pee Wee Herman."

Smokin' hot butts

We've gone full redneck.


Mike got a smoker for his birthday.

(sides mostly by Heart 'N Soul Restaurant).

- Posted from my iPhone

good girl.

She ate 4 fat worms and a blackberry as big as my thumb...& then passed out in the weeds. Full tummy = a happy turtle.

Wuv, Twoo Wuv

Cold blood, warm heart.

Aw. ♥

I love this woman.

(Happy mother's day!)

the family cat tree

When someone exclaims, "You have six cats?!" I almost always say, "We didn't plan on six!" Anyone who has a houseful of cats will usually tell you that it was completely unintentional.

We started out with one cat who seemed a little lonely - so we got her a companion kitten. Then the original cat contracted FIP, leaving us with one. The whole experience was so painful I decided that I was perfectly content with a singleton, declaring "no more cats!" Ever. Really.

Then Mike found abandoned kittens in a woodpile. 3 weeks old, unweaned, sick and loaded with fleas, he brought them home to me in a bucket. And after 5 weeks of middle of the night bottle feedings, vet appointments and wild rumpus kitten wrangling, we suddenly found ourselves living with four cats in a two bedroom apartment. We moved into a big, cat-friendly house pretty quick after that.

Our lone boy cat was a terror - beating up on his three sisters and wreaking the general havoc a young male is apt to do when he's bored. He clearly needed either a pal or a distraction so when a friend's cat turned up pregnant I agreed to take one boy kitten, which of course turned into two - "The twins do everything together! They're best friends! And look! Double cuteness!" - Fine, I said. We'll take both. Who am I to split up such a perfectly matched pair? (yes, they were in the dishwasher and no, they're not allowed in the kitchen anymore)

And just like that, there were 6, pushing me well into "cat lady" territory. Feel free to intervene if I ever get as crazy as this one:

braiiiiiiins!

This morning, Mike and I had one of those "which would you rather be, a vampire or a zombie?" discussions that tend to happen before either of you have had enough coffee. Mike thinks that being a vampire sounds too difficult, what with the allergy to sunlight, undead politics and the dandified emo wardrobe requirements.

"I mean, being a zombie is simple - just shuffle around, moan and eat human brains."

I smirked and said, "Well, then, you'd be a natural...that's two thirds of what you do now."

He made a face at me and muttered under his breath. "Bah. I don't moan."

That Seventies Food

(guest blogged by Mike)

I don't think my mom signed up for it. She was the daughter of reserved Lutheran Germans, but somehow ended married into a family of raucous Irish Catholics, and west side Irish to boot.

One of four girls, she brought three large boys into the world. Insofar as a child of the depression could have delicate sensibilities, she had them. Insofar as children of the post-war middle class baby boom could be a natural disaster going someplace to happen, my brothers and I were that.

Whenever Breda asks about my mom, my answers are no doubt unsatisfying - in truth after all this time my memories of her have faded to a kind of soft haze of good humor, good stories and good food.

The last of course piqued the interest of my dear bride (no mean cook herself). What was my favorite? What did she do best? What did she like?

Again, I could not help but to disappoint. Growing up our dinners were the usual fare: pastas, potatoes, pot roasts, and meat loafs, but all prepared by someone who knew what they were about in the kitchen, and thus delicious.

Delicious, but not unique. In fact I would stack Breda's versions of the above against anyone's, and she would come out the winner. I am a lucky man.

Wasn't there any special dish that I remembered? Okay, there is one, but it's a little embarrassing - it's not fancy, it might not even rate as commonplace - kind of a mix of sausage and canned beans that was for us only - serving it to company would not even be considered. But boy, was it tasty. Whenever the grocery store expedition returned with the ingredients for bean casserole, my brothers and I would dance around like some species of giant hobbit anticipating a feast.

Recipe? I didn't think there was one - it started life a a side dish at one of the family gatherings, and my mom, ever practical, asked the appropriate aunt what was in it, figuring it could be expanded to fill the near bottomless bellies of her hungry brood.

Years later, when I lived alone, I tried to recreate it from memory. How hard could it be - some beans, some sausage, some other stuff - something awful. I'm not a master chef, but rarely do my attempts go directly from stove to waste basket. This one did.

Sadly, I informed Breda that the recipe was lost to time.

My wife is not so easily deterred, she is not known as "She Who Finds Things Out" for nothing. My brothers were enlisted to find mom's cook books, but this is not the sort of thing that ever appeared in Betty Crocker or Julia Child, so it didn't look good for this particular bit of culinary archaeology.

Then one day, not long ago while sitting around Breda's mom's table, digesting one of her delicious meals (did I mention I am a lucky man?), my younger brother handed Breda a green vinyl, loose-leaf notebook.

"I found this on one of our bookshelves; it was mom's recipes. Do you want it?"

You might of thought he offered he the map to the Lost Dutchman mine for the speed of the grab she made. And yes, there was a recipe for...




Five Bean Casserole.





1 lb. Bob Evans hot sausage
2 med. onions, chopped
1 cup chopped celery
1 can each (drained):
green beans
yellow beans
kidney beans
lima beans
1 16 oz. can pork and beans
1 6 oz. can tomato sauce
1 6 oz. can tomato paste
1 cup light brown sugar
1/2 tsp. chili powder
2 Tbsp. prepared mustard
4-6 slices of bacon

Brown sausage, remove from pan. In drippings saute onions and celery. Mix in rest of ingredients, spread tomato paste on top and top with bacon.
Bake in large covered dutch oven @ 350 for one hour.

Memories fade, photos get lost, and the universe is relentless in pushing the past aside to make way for the future, but the taste on the tongue remembers.

P.S. it says one cup of brown sugar. I used about three quarters, and it was still very sweet - next time, I'll cut it to half a cup.

Enjoy.

my first cat

After Sebastian had picked us out at the pound and approved of his new home, my mom and I realized that we had absolutely no idea what to do with a cat. He was a gorgeous Maine Coon - lovely green eyes, a silky coat (& curly belly fur!), big snowshoe paws, and a sweet disposition - and we were completely smitten, but we'd both only ever had dogs. We had all the requisite food, bowls, toys, treats, and litter box however the cat was now hiding under the sofa and not doing any of the expected cat type behaviors like playing or purring. Mom and I looked at each other, perplexed and a bit dismayed. We'd really hoped for purring.

"Let's call Mike," said my mom, suggesting we ask for help from the only cat person we knew.

This occurred well before we got married, but being the dutiful future son-in-law, Mike came right over to solve our little cat problem. Sebastian, who was promptly coaxed out from under the sofa with treats and petting, set about exploring his surroundings as we discussed the finer details of cat ownership. "Well, then," I thought. "This cat stuff is easy."

But I did have one more, very important, question. "What's the best way to potty train him?"

Mike grinned, picked up Sebastian, and set him down in the litter box. "There you go. Done."

"Wait, what? That's it?" I was completely flabbergasted. How could this be?

"Yep. It's hardwired."

And that was the moment I knew - I was a cat person, too.

___________________________________

Sebastian, now 12 or 13, had been losing weight and acting a bit off. A couple days in the vet told us nothing except that he was dehydrated and had a slightly high white blood cell count. Probably old age, we were told. Antibiotics, a couple days of IV, and a wait and see approach was suggested.

Late last night, we got the phone call from Mom. Sebastian had collapsed. He wasn't breathing well and his back legs weren't working.

After a hurried trip to the emergency vet and a night spent in oxygen, Sebastian hadn't improved. So early this morning, my mom chose to do the most loving thing a pet owner can ever do. It's such a great mercy for small creatures since they don't ever understand the why of their suffering, they just want to be free of it. It's a difficult gift for a pet owner to have to give.

Choosing to love an animal also means choosing to break your own heart. But, oh...that purr makes it all worth it in the end.

feetloaf

This would be just the funniest thing to serve for Halloween supper, especially in our house.

(found in the Halloween food pool on flickr.)

Maybe next year.

I hope everyone is having a safely spooky holiday - we're busy getting ready to go to the annual Bug, Bones and Dead Animals Halloween bash at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History. Mike is dressing as a ninja and I'll be his eternal nemesis, a pirate.

...and I'll be in good (bad?) company - seems there are real live pirates trolling the waters of Lake Erie! Shiver me timbers!

hippie, please.

(title blatantly stolen from Marko, the munchkin wrangler)

Last night Mike and I celebrated his birthday with a quiet dinner at a Turkish restaurant in Cleveland Heights, a hip place notorious for a lively bohemian vibe, artsy shopping districts, diverse neighborhoods full of wonderful old houses and, well...liberals. Visiting is like an adventure for Mike and me, tourists in this land of hemp-wearing Gaia-worshiping vegetarians. We love the tiny, quirky little shops and, of course, the people watching is excellent. The city also is home to some of the best restaurants in the area, so we end up going pretty frequently.

Parking is always a bit of a hassle, as it is in most old neighborhoods that have suddenly become culinary or nightlife hotspots but luckily, and after much circling, we were able to find a spot in one of the public lots. I was busily scrounging around in my purse for loose change for the meter and looked up to see this:

Yes, a crocheted parking meter cozy. Some sort of public art, I suppose, but....but...really? What the hell?

Between being trapped for hours in yesterday's odd architecture and then this, I felt as if I'd slipped down some psychedelic rabbit hole into an alternate, Crayola-colored universe.

The lamb, however, was delicious.

Mike's National Match

Up early, with the sunrise at our backs, we sped west toward Camp Perry yesterday morning. The phone rang a couple times during the two hour drive - Robert, already waiting for us on Rodriguez Range, was checking on our ETA and keeping us up to date on the details. "Firing point 22, little end, to the left of the flagpole..." I relayed these messages to Mike- they sounded like clues to finding a buried treasure.

The sky was ominously gray. This is not a good sign on the shores of Lake Erie and it had started to rain sometime between our house and our destination. I worried about men standing out in the middle of a big open field, all holding long metal sticks in their hands but kept my thoughts to myself.

We arrived, fueled by coffee and excitement and were flagged down by a young man walking near the parking lot. I rolled down my window and said hello.

"Hi! I'm Nate! Robert's down in the pits but you're at firing point 22. I'll meet you over there."

Finally, a face to put to the name. Nate is a blogreader who contacted me last week, telling me he was in Camp Perry with the Virgina Rifle Team. He wanted to meet Mike and me and asked if we would perhaps join him for dinner some night. (we never did make it to dinner- but donuts on the range are just as good when there's fine conversation.)

We brought our gear to our spot and waited, eating donuts with Nate who patiently explained the rules and scoring to me. Mike was shooting in the 4th and final relay, after Robert. He was pacing and standing - I think he might have been nervous. It started to rain in earnest and so I walked back to the car to both stave off my shivering and to get my Eee PC out of the weather. Blogging would have to wait. By the time I got back, Robert had joined us. I hugged him - happy both to finally meet him and because he, like an angel of mercy, offered me a rain poncho.

You ever go to a dance and there's an older couple, almost gliding across the floor? Moving precisely, no wasted steps, all muscle memory and rhythm their bodies know this song - they've waltzed together for years and it shows. Well, watching someone shoot with as much experience and expertise as Robert is like that. Makes it look like the easiest thing in the world and the most natural - as if the human body was designed for rifles and not the other way around.

He scored well, Xs abounding.

Mike was up next - he was in a tshirt and jeans, no shooting jacket, soaked to the skin with rain, and using a borrowed Garand. Thankfully Robert was coaching him, calming him - I saw quite a few pats on the back. "Remind him to breathe," I thought. Mike was grinning the whole time, I gave him a thumbs-up. My fingers were turning blue.

Robert came back during one of the preparation periods to give me the score - I didn't know what it meant. "Is that good?" I asked. I was assured that it was. Mike's a good rifle shot and the slow, measured pace of this sport suits him. 10 rounds prone slowfire, 10 rounds prone from standing rapidfire, 10 rounds standing slowfire and he got every shot on the target. No zeros and one X, with a final score of 244.

He's getting a medal next year.

zapped

Mike strikes again.

The microwave has gone to Appliance Valhalla.