Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Seven Sorrows Pendant

Pictured: sterling silver Sorrowful Heart of Mary pendant, small offering bowl carved out of lapis, and an antique/vintage Russian teacup saucer.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Bought it for $7.00 USD off of Etsy late last year; I still have no fucking clue what I'm going to do with it.

To-Be-Bridge

HIGH AND ON THE INTERNET. WRITING DESCRIPTIONS FOR FLICKR IMAGES JUST UPLOADED (RE: Miel de la Mariée INGREDIENTS). ACCIDENTALLY WROTE:

INSTEAD OF:

LOL, BRIDGE! (IT'S ALL ABOUT LADDERS AND BRIDGES, BABY!)(WHEN IS A LADDER NOT A LADDER? WHEN IT'S A BRIDGE; NEITHER GOING UP OR DOWN.)

LATE YESTERDAY DUSTED OFF LADDER IN BACKROOM AND MOVED BROOM FROM LOUNGE TO BACKROOM TO STAND OPPOSITE OF LADDER. (NEW UNEXPECTED ALTAR, AHOY!)(SURPRISE, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, AND NICE OF YOU TO FINALLY JOIN US!)

BRIDGES AND LADDERS BE ON THE MIND, YO.

...

...

I GET MARRIED IN LESS THAN TWO WEEKS.

PS:

ALSO, WHILE I'M ON THE CAPS:

TWITTER, I AM //SO// NOT APPRECIATING YOUR UNEXPECTED GREMLIN CHOICE OF REVERTING TO THE "GREEN ANGRY POINTING HARPY WOMAN PICTURE THAT DOESN'T WORK AS A TWITTER ICON" INSTEAD OF THE "DEAD GIRL CRAWLS OUT OF TV TO KILL YOU THAT WORKS OKAY AS A TWITTER ICON" WHICH I HAD SETTLED ON.

(OKAY, OKAY - I KIND'VE SORT'VE LOLED A LITTLE INSIDE.)

(LOLOLOL, SHE'S BITCHY AND ANGRY. OH DEAR, ISHTAR, OH DEAR.)

APRIL FOOLS DAY

FUCKJESUSNO. DON'T FUCKING TELL ME IT'S GOING TO FUCKING SNOW ON APRIL THE FUCKING FIRST; THAT SHIT AIN'T FUNNY. (I'M SO NOT LAUGHING. NOT EVEN //SLIGHTLY//.)

Love Cake

Love cake received on Valentine's Day.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(ME? CANDY? HA! I GOT A //CAKE//!)

(Just for him I ate it like a little piggy with my nose buried deep into the cake.)

(It was like the bestest ever Little Debbie snack.)

Bok Chek Stare

When Beh was alive she's sit and stare blankly for hours at a time and neither Italics nor I knew what the fuck she was up to. It wasn't until recently - very, very recently - that Italics discovered that "fixed staring" was a symptom of a brain tumor. (Beh was diagnosed with "a brain thing" around May of 2008 and passed quite suddenly in early June.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

We found this incense burning frog in the local health food store when Christmas shopping on Winter Solstice and couldn't resist its Bok Chek stare. (BEH WAS ALWAYS CHEWING UP THE FUCKING CARPET, HENCE ALL OF THE CHEWED UP FUCKING CARPET.)

Silver-Plated Goat Lid

If I remember right, I believe my initial reaction to finding this silver-plated goat lid on EBay was "OH MY FUCKING GOD, IT'S LIKE A COMMUNION PLATE COVER, BUT WITH A FUCKING //GOAT//! OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! FERTILITY GOAT / BAPHOMET COMMUNION PLATE COVER! WANT IT, NEED IT, CAN'T SANCTIFY THINGS WITHOUT IT!"; I was slightly less ecstatic when I won the item for £1.04 (that's roughly $1.47 USD with current rates), but happy nonetheless.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Christ only knows what it once covered. (Too circular and small to be part of a butter dish set, so I wondered if it was the top off a mustard container, or some sort of jam or preserve jar.) What I DO know is that it fits PERFECTLY within the metal and cut glass container we use to house our wedding rings for THE GREAT RITE, so now the pair of rings can hang around little Baphomet's neck like joyous, silver wreaths.

I also really dig the COMMUNION PLATE COVER vibe; from first glance I got a strong "BLESS, SANCTIFY AND INFUSE" feeling from it. It's just big enough (especially due to the domed lid) to "seal" things from view - sort've like a spiritual warming plate. The strong imagery of FERTILE FRUITFULNESS and PROLIFIC ABUNDANCE (the goat, blossoming flowers, and lush, thick grasses) makes me think this might be the perfect top for the "SEEDS ARE SUBMERGED IN A COVERED VODKA GLASS FULL OF WATER" method of germination.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(HOW CAN YOU SAY "NO" TO A COMMUNION PLATE COVER WITH BAPHOMET / A FERTILITY GOAT ON TOP? ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU CAN //ALMOST// PLAY SPIN THE GOAT WHEN YOU LOOSEN UP THE NUT!)

(SPIN THE GOAT; WHEN SPIN THE BOTTLE IS JUST TOO MAINSTREAM AND LACKING PAGAN INFLUENCE.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Cosy's Knits

Bad circulation = mind-numbing distraction 24/7 during winter.

To combat my hands turning purple and blue I enlisted CosyPDX to knit me a pair of fingerless gloves. (Purple gloves! HOW MAGIC IS THAT?)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(PURPLE IS TOTALLY A MAGIC COLOR, YOU KNOW.)

New Game

I'm ANGRY, ANNOYED, BITTER, DISAPPOINTED, DISCONTENT, DISCOURAGED, DISGRUNTLED, DISILLUSIONED, DISSATISFIED, FRUSTRATED, IRRITATED, PISSED OFF, RESENTFUL, RESTLESS, SAD, UNHAPPY and UPSET.

The one thing I'm not? DEPRESSED.

(The one thing I'm NOT is the only thing I wish I WAS because then, at least, I'd know what the first step requires. Up until now it's been easy - the answer was always the same, because it was always the same question. Except, this is a new game that I've never played before, and I can't bullshit my way out of this round without previous experience.)

Black Magic Cat

Mr. Mistoffoless, my elusive, mysterious, two-booted black magic cat, only visits on V. special nights. In total - over the course of nearly two years - I think I've see him (HER? I'LL TELL YOU ONE THING, IF IT //IS// A "HER" THEN SHE'S -STILL- "MR. MISTOFFOLESS") five or six times, while we see the OTHER cats on a nearly daily basis.

("OTHER cats" = CATS THAT ARE SIGNIFICANTLY LESS MAGIC AND INTRIGUING AND FUCKING USE MY GARLIC PATCH AS A FUCKING PORT-O-POTTY AND I SWEAR TO ALL THAT IS HOLY, NEIGHBORHOOD CATS, YOU BETTER CHOOSE YOUR OUTHOUSE SPOT IN A NEW FUCKING PLACE BECAUSE I AM //NOT// A CAT WITCH - I'M A CAT FERTILIZER WITCH, IF YOU CATCH MY NOT-SUBTLE-IN-THE-SLIGHTEST DRIFT, AND IT'S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE ONE OF YOU FAT ASSES CHOKES ON A BBQ CHICKEN WING OFFERING AND I HAVE TO BURY YOUR FUCKING ASS IN THE GARDEN.)

The two skin-and-bone orange tabbies live next door and across the street, and pitifully coming running the second we establish eye contact through the kitchen window. I've learned, dear and gentle readers, how to do kitchen work without a single, escapist glance out the window least the moment of distraction - the moment of weakness - is caught and capitalized by these nefarious felines.

(THAT'S RIGHT, I HAVE TO DELIBERATELY IGNORE THE NEIGHBORS' CATS BECAUSE IF I VERIFY THEIR EXISTENCE THROUGH EYE CONTACT IT'S AN INVITATION TO COME RACING OVER LIKE I'M GOING TO THROW OPEN THE DOOR TO MY HOUSE, INVITE THEM IN, AND HAND FEED THEM FOIE GRAS.)

(IF THE RACING OVER PART WASN'T BAD ENOUGH THEY FUCKING START MEOWING LIKE THEY'RE FUCKING DYING BEFORE THEY EVEN BEGIN RUNNING TOWARDS THE HOUSE AND I CAN ACTUALLY HEAR THOSE WAILING NOISES THROUGH THE DAMN CLOSED WINDOW AND, REALLY, WORLD, I'M NOT AS HEARTLESS AS I MAY SEEM, EVEN IF THEY'RE DIGGING UP AND SHITTING ON MY GARLIC.)

Behind us, several houses down, lives a walrus of a cat whose massive, Marlon Brando physique can be traced back to the offerings he's pillaged for the past several years. (LIKE I'M GOING TO STOP MAKING OUTSIDE OFFERINGS BECAUSE SOMEBODY ELSE'S "OUT ALL NIGHT DOING WHATEVER THE FUCK IT WANTS" CAT CAN'T CONTROL ITSELF AROUND FOOD.) I only ever see this cat running - running TO our fucking house ("FOODFOODFOOD!") and running AWAY from our fucking house ("OHSHITCRAZYWITCH!").

This past winter? I caught tubby doing lightening speed at three in the fucking morning outside a window while we were cleaning the house, his excess folds jiggling and crashing into one another in a collision of fat, skin and momentum. "HEY, FAT ASS, WHERE'S THE FIRE?" I shouted through the window, but he was in the ZONE, yo, and completely ignored me - finger tapping on the fogged over glass and all.

Since seeing WALRUS MARLON BRANDO CAT hauling ass wasn't out of the ordinary we - Italics and I - returned to housework, not giving it, or its motives, a second thought. Until - THAT'S RIGHT, THAT INFAMOUS WORD "UNTIL"! - I found myself in the backroom, dropping Mr. Mistoffoless's magic stone (STORY AT 11!) on the coffee table.

AND WHAT, I'M SURE YOU'RE ASKING YOURSELF, HAPPENED, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT? WHAT HAPPENED AFTER YOU DROPPED MR. MISTOFFOLESS'S MAGIC STONE ON THE COFFEE TABLE? WELL, I'LL TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENED - Behemoth straddling the patio pillar, barely able to balance while scarfing The Old Woman's offerings of homemade bread and chilli fucking BBQ wings IS WHAT HAPPENED.

"IF YOU'RE EATING THE OLD WOMAN'S BREAD AND CHICKEN WINGS YOU BETTER BE DRINKING HER FUCKING WHISKEY TOO," I warned it through the patio door. Like any gluttonous creature caught mid-binge it paused in that OH SHIT, BUSTED! way, mouth full of food and stunned, half-pretending that the desire to return to its previous, not-yet-disturbed action wasn't the prevailing, dominant urge.

It only took a fleeting glimpse of eye contact for WALRUS MARLON BRANDO CAT to dig how serious I was, and, with some resentful reluctancy, Jabba slithered off the pillar, nearly knocking over the shot glass HE DID NOT DRINK FROM EVEN ONCE (NOT EVEN ONCE!) with a couple of chicken wings for the road.

(THIS CAT? THIS JABBA BEHEMOTH WALRUS MARLON BRANDO CAT? THIS CAT WHO WOULD SURELY LEAVE A DENT IN THE HOOD OF YOUR CAR IF YOU WERE UNFORTUNATE ENOUGH TO OWN THE CAR THAT IT WANTED TO SUN ITSELF ON? HE WASN'T ALWAYS FAT. IN FACT, LONG, LONG AGO, WAY BEFORE I BECAME A RIGHT PROPER WITCH, WAY BEFORE HE BEGAN MISAPPROPRIATING OFFERINGS HE WAS THIN, LITHE AND AGILE.)

(AND, REALLY, I HAVE TO LOL - WE'VE ALREADY LOLED, AND HAVE LOLED ABOUT THIS FOR SOME TIME, ACTUALLY - SOMEWHERE IN THIS REGION THERE'S A VETERINARY CLINIC. AND, SOMEWHERE IN THIS VETERINARY CLINIC THERE'S A DOCTOR WHO, ALONG WITH DUMBFOUNDED, SPEECHLESS AND PUZZLED OWNERS, HAS NO IDEA WHY THIS PARTICULAR CAT CONTINUES TO PUT ON STAGGERING AMOUNTS OF WEIGHT. TO THEM IT'S AN X-FILES MYSTERY, TO ME IT'S CONTINUOUS OFFERING THEFT.)

All the cats I see on a day-to-day basis are normal cats; house pets without a spark. They're either running to or running from, or they're lazily stretched across cars and windowsills. When you look at them and interact with them there just isn't anything there. There's a void of connection, of being. They seem robotic, driven by the most basic animal instincts but nothing else. (AN ANIMAL ACTING LIKE AN ANIMAL? SHOCKING AND DISTURBING, I KNOW.)

Mr. Mistoffoless, though, has something going on. I always catch him mid-action or mid-thought, and just as my sight begins to adjust to the darkness our eyes meet for one long second and, before I know it, he's GONE GONE GONE. In that momentary pause, in that heartbeat of connection, I feel self-awareness. I feel a conscious, sentient being, interacting with his surroundings on a level that makes the other neighborhood cats seem educationally subnormal.

Mr. M, he's got some magic in him, and when he stops mid-action or mid-thought and cranes his head in my direction, he's asking if I saw, or noticed, or understood, or managed to follow along with his train of thought. And because I CAN'T TELEPATHICALLY READ A FUCKING CAT (or any other living, breathing, existing thing - I GUESS I'M NOT ONE OF THOSE LUCKY WITCHES WHO'S BEEN BLESSED WITH MUTANT SUPERPOWERS) I'm always left feeling like I've just been mentally dwarfed by a sophisticated, intellectual giant.

"...AND WHAT DO //YOU// THINK?" Sometimes he'll ask, both yellow eyes intensively fixed on me. The question just hangs the air, suspended by a deafening urge to answer with a cerebral, profound response worthy of the company I unexpectedly found myself in. "UHMMMMMM..." is always my astounding reply which, unsurprisingly, doesn't blow him out of the water.

Dilated eyes flicker away from contact as his haunches tense, the night rolling off the black of his fur as we stand perfectly still in the silence, "YES, THAT'S WHAT I THOUGHT." And without another word he's gone, again, for a month, for two months, for almost a year. Mysteriously appearing, mysteriously disappearing, untraceable and elusive - that's my black magic cat, Mr. Mistoffoless.

Bee Bee's Home

I spy, with my little eye, THE FIRST MOTHERFUCKING (BUMBLE)BEE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING SEASON! (BEE BEE'S COME HOME! BEE BEE'S COME HOME!)

(This announcement totally deserved something better than Twitter.)(Dude! IT'S THE FIRST BEE! OF THIS SEASON! DUDE!)

Upside Down Lemon & Rose Geranium Cupcakes

Made for Ostara using recently pruned scented geranium leaves and then soaked with a honey-geranium-orange flower water-lemon syrup.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Gold Star

Shoney Bear, our obese, bowling pin shaped (I BELIEVE THIS MAKES HER A "PEAR" IN WOMAN SPEAK) rat chewed a hole in my wedding dress last October. (I WAS NOT AMUSED IN THE SLIGHTEST, CHONEY CHARK PARK, BUT I THINK WE CAN AGREE, ALL AROUND, THAT I TOOK THE WEDDING DRESS MUTILATION PRETTY WELL SEEING HOW YOU'RE STILL ALIVE AND NONE OF YOUR FUR WAS USED TO PATCH UP THE CHARK PARK PUNCTURE.)

And, I admit, there was a LOL! worthy element to the unexpected event, which is often the case when something DISASTROUS or STUPID or INFURIATING or ANNOYING happens in this house. (LOOK, WHEN YOU OUTLINE TO THE UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING THAT EXISTS WITHIN THAT YOUR PRIMARY LANGUAGE OF COMMUNICATION AND INTERACTION SHOULD ADHERE TO A STRICT "LOL!" CONTEXT ALMOST ALL OF YOUR DISASTROUS OR STUPID OR INFURIATING OR ANNOYING INSTANCES AND OCCASIONS CAN BE REDUCED DOWN TO SOME SORT OF "LOL!" ELEMENT MAKING THE DISASTROUS OR STUPID OR INFURIATING OR ANNOYING INSTANCES AND OCCASIONS JUST A LITTLE BIT MORE BEARABLE.)

(IT'S A SYSTEM THAT //WORKS//, YO.)

(FOR THE RECORD, AGAIN, I WOULD LIKE TO DRAW ATTENTION TO THE FACT THAT I, THE BRIDE WHOSE WEDDING DRESS WAS JUST RUINED, TOOK THE MASTICATION MISHAP WELL. EXCEPTIONALLY WELL. ALMOST, YOU COULD SAY, SUPERNATURALLY-DIVINELY-I-AM-ENLIGHTENED-NOW-FUCKERS! WELL.)

Despite being an EMOTIONALLY VIOLATE, HORMONALLY CHARGED AUTISTIC WOMAN WITH A REALLY FUCKING SHORT FUSE I was COOL WITH IT. (YOU NOTICED THAT, UNIVERSE, RIGHT? ...RIGHT? SURELY I GOT A GOLD STAR NEXT TO THE EVENT IN SOME SORT OF SPIRITUAL PROGRESS REPORT, RIGHT?)

Things break. They fall apart, they wear down, they succumb to use, abuse and life. Things evolve WITH YOU, and during that time you learn THE THING, ITSELF, WHILE V. V. V. SPECIAL, IS STILL, REALLY, JUST A THING and one of the most important lessons you can learn - at least if you're a shallow, superficial materialistic person like me WHO REALLY, REALLY LOVES //STUFF// AND REALLY, REALLY LOVES //HER STUFF// - is that IT'S NOT ABOUT THE THING, IT'S WHAT THE THING //REPRESENTS// that counts. (GOLD STAR, PLZ!)

(SOMEONE ONCE ATTRIBUTED SUCCESS IN RITUAL TO THE ITEMS USED. (LOL, SERIOUSLY.) THAT THE INTENT, ITSELF, WASN'T AS IMPORTANT AS THE SPECIFIED PROPS. (LOL, SERIOUSLY TIMES TWO.) THAT SUCCESS IN RITUAL WAS 60% DEPENDENT ON HAVING THE //EXACT// ITEMS CALLED FOR. (LOL, SERIOUSLY FOR SERIOUS SERIOUSNESS!)

So I was COOL WITH IT. (OKAY, MAYBE NOT "COOL WITH IT" IN A NONCHALANT SORT'VE WAY, BUT I MOST DEFINITELY ROLLED WITH THAT PARTICULAR PUNCH, EVEN IF A FUSSY FACE OR TWO WAS MADE IN THE PROCESS.) 2008's Wedding Dress Massacre was the final HARVEST NAIL in the HARVEST COFFIN and thanks to the previous HARVEST NAILS (our first reaping (1 & 2), giving Italics HARVEST HOME as a gift, finding an antique sickle, celebrating the season with locally grown produce) the schizophrenic pattern I'm always looking for was, for once, more than totally obvious.

The perfume I had randomly chosen to test? Kincardine Maiden? It was-is-was based on the concept of Scottish corn dollies, an indigenous harvest idol and symbol. By October 28th we had already reaped, gifted, sickled and feasted on the fruits of the year so the Kincardine Maiden hole was just a representation of completion - three days before the Old Woman's reign began on Halloween (Samhain).

Some Say Prayers, I Say Mine

Spring happened sometime between borsht and The Sisters of Mercy; before the last of the slanting, sloping rays of the setting sun disappeared behind subdivision roofs, and after the first hissing pop-n-crackle of the turntable's speakers instantly coming to life with the push of one rectangular button.

Or maybe it happened during Lucretia, My Reflection when swimming in the golden light of dark matter - dirt embedded under fingernails, damp earth clinging to jeans, seeds spilling from hand to soil, body dancing, dancing, dancing under the beam of the last light, the final streak of glowing warmth hitting skin and setting flesh alight like an incandescent orthodox icon.

"WE GOT THE KINGDOM, WE GOT THE KEY / WE GOT THE EMPIRE, NOW AS THEN," I sang - I prayed - while planting on the concrete patio steps, the upper half of my body crossing the open threshold from outside to inside for seeds and biodegradable peat cups, only just aware of the significance of the movement - the moment - of mirrored life.

("WE DON'T DOUBT, WE DON'T TAKE REFLECTION...")

Lost in the whirling, tumbling pull of cannabinoids I shed my skin of self-consciousness (whatever thin, transparent, negligible "skin" I have) and freed myself into the rushing current head first, heart open and body willing. It was prayer, it was praise, it was giving thanks while simultaneously grieving, it was the soul speaking directly without words, without thought, without distractions or filters. It was tribute, it was worship, it was exaltation and glorification of being.

("SOME SAY PRAYERS / I SAY MINE...")

Or, perhaps, Spring might've begun the second I dropped the dull needle to vinyl, and, as Dominion began playing, I threw open the patio door and knelt at the concrete pew of nature. (THE PEW OF NATURE, ADMITTEDLY, WOULD'VE BEEN MORE...NATURE-Y...IF THE GROUND HADN'T BEEN SO FUCKING DAMP MAKING IT ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO DO ANY PLANTING ON THE BARE EARTH.) Papa's birds, roused by sound, crept closer to the house, the melodious song of the blackbirds echoing lyrics, joining Chippy (who was sitting on an empty bag of seedling compost) and I in the ancient rite, reveling and paying homage to the beginning of the end.

And when all was said and done, all was celebrated, when the warmth waned, the night breeze cooled, when the seeds were covered, the soil spent, when the remnant of the sun was just a faint haze of fading orange in the obscured horizon I bowed my head in reverence, in thanksgiving, and tenderly held the promise of new life while filling earthen chalices with water, one biodegradable peat pot at a time.

Clannad's Past Present, the closing hymn, gently ironed out the electricity of jangly guitar rock and ecstatic, heady dancing gave way to reserved thankfulness. In the chill of the gloam - with the blue Loch Ness monster watering can in hand - I found myself suddenly chanting "BEE BEE, COME HOME, BEE BEE, COME HOME, BEE BEE, COME HOME..." when watering Beh's only-just-planted container of bee balm.

Maybe Spring began when my eyes welled up with tears that threatened to break the barrier of lashes and spill across my sun-kissed cheeks. Watering, I felt the bitter sting of loss, the ache as sharp as it was almost a year ago when we lost our Bee, and then when I lost her, again, when the honey bee, at the send of the season, crawled through the office window and clung onto the sagging DIY screen and slowly died next to me - less than a foot away - as I cried and stroked it's listless, buzzing body. "BEE BEE, COME HOME," I coaxed my Bee, I coaxed all of my vanishing, dying Bees, so they knew that they haven't been forgotten, so they knew that they were still needed.

God, I don't know, maybe Spring actually began with the decision to bake fresh bread a day before (molasses oatmeal "farmer's bread"). Or to defrost one of the last frozen blocks of borsht and have it - along with the freshly baked bread - for lunch this afternoon. Or when I said "FUCK IT, IT'S NEVER TOO LATE!" to the idea that maybe, just maybe, it was a little TOO late to start Spring planting when the sun was about to set.

Or when I saw the haggard, Old Woman in the sediment of my tea cup, reaching over the deep ravine to the young Bride, becoming and yet letting go. Or after I jokingly scattered pumpkin seeds I cleaned and toasted ("LOL! WE CAN USE THESE FOR DIVINATION! WATCH!") to find a poised scorpion lurking within the contents ("LOL! MR. AWESOME CAN HAVE THESE! LOLOLOL!"). Or the wild, careless dancing I gave into when Children of Bodom's covers of Somebody Put Something in My Drink and Rebel Yell came on while I was cooking dinner.

Or, fuck, maybe Spring officially began when I took two homemade pheasant pot pies out of the oven that Italics and I had made together and we discovered that my set of asterisks had magically transformed - through the power of baking - into a promise of what was to come:

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(DUDE, WHEN YOU'RE HIGH //ANYTHING LEAF-LIKE// LOOKS LIKE POT LEAVES, OKAY?)

(PLANTED: aubergines (5), bee balm (approx. 60), courgettes (5), peas (2 trays), Russian sunflowers (11) and sub-arctic tomatoes (5). WATERED: apple trees grown from seed (3, but one hasn't sprouted leaves yet), Russian olives (no signs of life yet) and strawberries (need to separate and plant into strawberry pot). INSIDE: aubergines, courgettes and sub-arctic tomatoes. LEFT OUTSIDE: bee balm, peas and Russian sunflowers.)

(IMPORTANT NOTES: Crumbled up Beh's two-pack of BEBE COOKIES (CRACKERS?) and added the crumbs to the compost before planting Beh's bee balm over it. <- THAT? THAT'S CALLED //MAGIC//, BABY!)

Cornmeal Pancakes w/Oatbran

Too sore to Buns of Steel this morning I test drove a new cornmeal pancake recipe instead:

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(NOTE TO SELF: Buttermilk cornmeal pancake recipe = better!)

Morning After Offering

The wonderful, awesome, totally amazingly terrific thing about being part-divine (SORT'VE BEING LIKE A MULATTO, BUT WITH MORE BENEFITS, AND LESS INHERITED ETHNIC FEATURES) is that sometimes you wake up in the morning and there's been an offering left by a devoted worshiper.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(IF YOU CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHAT THE FUCK THE ORANGE THING IS SITTING ON THE BROOM WITH THE GREEN OWL YOU'RE IN GOOD COMPANY; IT TOOK ME ABOUT 10 MINUTES AND SEVERAL DIGITAL PICTURES BEFORE REALIZING IT'S JUST ANOTHER OWL, BUT //UPSIDE DOWN//. "WHOA," I KNOW.)

(AFTER YESTERDAY'S ANTICS I CAN ONLY ASSUME THAT ITALICS IS THE GREEN OWL AND I'M THE ORANGE OWL SINCE THERE WAS A POINT LAST NIGHT - AT THE BAR - WHERE, THONGLESS, DRUNK, AND LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY AT HAVING SPILLED SOME OF MY MOTHER'S ASHES ONTO MY DRESS (AND THEN DELIBERATELY INTO MY DRINK - WHAT, I WAS SUPPOSE TO SWEEP HER CREMATED REMAINS //ONTO THE FUCKING FLOOR//?!) I ANNOUNCED I WASN'T FIT TO DRIVE HOME.)

(WHICH WORKED OUT OKAY SINCE I DON'T OWN A CAR, DON'T HAVE A UK DRIVING LICENSE, AND MY MOTHER-IN-LAW WAS PICKING US UP.)

Maybe it was for the ZIPPER ABRASION received last night on my inner labia after an extended Lent approved lap grind. Maybe it was for me shouting IT PAYS TO BE THE FAT GIRL TODAY! when all of the £1.00 novelty underwear at H&M were size 16. Maybe it was for STRIPPING OFF MY BLACK SEQUIN THONG AT THE BAR TABLE AFTER ASKING ITALICS WHETHER IT'D BE SEXIER IF I ATE MY DOUBLE STEAK BURGER WEARING MY NEW SPUDS MACKENZIE THONG but forgetting to follow-up that two part hypothetical situation by putting the new pair of panties in question (suggestion?) on.

Maybe it was for ACTUALLY STANDING OUT IN THE FEMALE POPULATION and being the only woman who WASN'T wearing THE SAME TWO GODDAMN BANGLES OVER HER CARDIGAN. Maybe it was for suggesting WE SHOULD TOTALLY COME BACK ON THE NIGHT WHERE KNOCKED UP WOMEN EAT FREE and I should DISTEND MY STOMACH TO PROVIDE THE NECESSARY "BUMP", ORDER TWO MAIN COURSES, AND EXPLAIN "I'M EATING FOR TWO, YOU KNOW" to an unknowing waiter who suspects nothing short of honesty from expecting mothers-to-be.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(HEY, I EFFING BREASTFEED LAST NIGHT, OKAY? THAT MAKES ME AN HONORARY MOTHER, OR THE LIVING EMBODIMENT OF THE GREAT FERTILITY GOAT.)

(I'M GOING WITH "HONORARY MOTHER" SINCE THERE WEREN'T ANY FREEBIE NIGHTS AT THE BAR FOR "LIVING EMBODIMENT OF THE GREAT FERTILITY GOAT". BUT ONCE THAT NIGHT POPS UP, I'M TOTALLY ALL OVER THAT SHIT, YO.)

Maybe it was for MY HAIR BEING HALF-UP (I like it ALL THE WAY UP, he likes it ALL THE WAY DOWN), or WEARING THAT GOTH PLUM MAC LIPSTICK, or BEING SLIGHTLY DRUNK AND NOT GIVING A FUCK, or SUGGESTING HE SHOULD GROPE ME IN THE DISABLED BATHROOM, or JUST BARELY MANAGING TO ESCAPE AN ESPECIALLY LOLERIFIC SITUATION WHEN "SECURITY!" RUDELY INTERRUPTED ME GETTING EATEN OUT BY ITALICS AS I TRIED TO TAKE A PICTURE WITH THE DIGITAL CAMERA.

When you have a day like yesterday you can "MAYBE IT WAS FOR..." indefinitely, so I'll just assume it was one of the above, or a combination of one or two.

(ITALICS REALLY LIKED THE FAT GIRL COMMENT, BUT, THEN, HE ALWAYS DOES.)

A Day of Awesome

Do you know what's AWESOME? Waking up to find a plastic grocery bag stuffed with homegrown rhubarb waiting for you like an unexpected present on Christmas morning. (ZOMG THAT'S FOR //ME//?! AWE-FUCKING-SOME, says the Ukie woman who, as a Ukie girl, would wander around the great outdoors gnawing on endless stalks of organic Sourpatch Kids (when I wasn't foraging other people's blueberries, currants or raspberries) when she was too fucking lazy to go home to eat.)

Do you know what's more AWESOME than that previously mentioned AWESOME? Being able to spend a dubious amount of time pouring over cookbooks and internet cooking sites to find THE MOST PERFECT, MOST FUCKING AWESOME rhubarb recipe known to man (TO MAN, PEOPLE! TO MAN!) and getting more and more excited with every highly rated recipe you come across.

And do you know what's AWESOMER than THAT? Settling on a deep dish sour cream (SOUR FUCKING CREAM, SAYS THE UKIE GIRL NOW WOMAN, ONE OF THE ONLY BASIC FOOD GROUPS THAT UKRAINIANS RECOGNIZE!) strawberry and rhubarb pie tucked into golden, flaky lard pastry. (WHAT, YOU THOUGHT I'D RUIN A PERFECTLY GOOD BAG OF HOMEGROWN RHUBARB ON A VEGETABLE OIL-BASED CRUST? LOL! LOL! LOL!)

(COULD IT GET MORE AWESOME? LORD ALMIGHTY IN HEAVEN, YES. I HOPE YOU'VE ADEQUATELY SEDATED YOURSELF.)

Do you know what's AWESOMER than the already previously mentioned AWESOMER AWESOME AWESOMENESS? Coming home after a day of being out (MOVIE + BURGER KING (SNUCK INTO THE MOVIE, SHHH!) + GROCERY SHOPPING) with fresh ingredients on hand, hellbent on creating THE MOST PERFECT, MOST FUCKING AWESOME deep dish sour cream strawberry and rhubarb pie tucked into a golden, flaky lard pastry known to man and discovering that the plastic grocery bag stuffed with homegrown rhubarb - the unexpected present on Christmas morning - has mysteriously disappeared.

(OH, BUT THE /REAL/ AWESOMENESS IS ONLY /JUST/ STARTING!)

What could possibly be more awesome than the supreme awesomeness aforementioned? Realizing that SOMEONE ELSE IN THE HOUSE, despite knowing that the plastic grocery bag stuffed with homegrown rhubarb was YOUR unexpected present on Christmas morning, opened and claimed YOUR present while you were out and irreparably ruined it in the process. (MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT.)

(CAN I GET A LOLOLOLOL THAT I WAS ACTUALLY //SHOPPING FOR THE THINGS I FUCKING NEEDED TO MAKE THAT FUCKING PIE// WHILE HE WAS SIMULTANEOUSLY FLUSHING THE PRIMARY INGREDIENT - THE INGREDIENT THE WHOLE PIE ADVENTURE WAS BASED ON - DOWN THE PROVERBIAL TOILET? THAT, DEAR AND GENTLE READERS, IS WHY HE'S "MR. AWESOME"; HIS INNATE TALENT FOR RUINING THINGS BORDERS ON SUPERNATURAL.)

And more AWESOME than that sparkling gem of awesomeness? THAT GODDAMN BAG OF FUCKING RHUBARB WAS THE FIRST FUCKING THING THAT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW FUCKING GAVE ME IN THE LAST BILLION MILLION YEARS THAT I COULD ACTUALLY FUCKING EAT. (FOR CHRISTMAS? I REQUESTED A BOX OF CHOCOLATE THAT WAS SITTING AROUND IN THE HOUSE BECAUSE IT WAS CHOCOLATE LITE, SOMETHING MY GERD/HERNIA/STOMACH THING COULD COPE WITH. WHAT DID I GET INSTEAD? A DARK FUCKING CHOCOLATE ORANGE AND ORANGE BOOZE. SHE FUCKING KNOWS I CAN'T EAT DARK CHOCOLATE, ORANGE, OR ANY SORT OF ALCOHOL, BUT INSTEAD OF //LISTENING TO ME// SHE DID WHAT SHE WANTED AND LEFT ME WITH CHRISTMAS GIFTS I EVENTUALLY HAD TO //GIVE AWAY// OR SUFFER V. SERIOUS CONSEQUENCES IF I ATE/INGESTED/DRANK.)

AND MORE AWESOME THAN //THAT//? My father-in-law - the "unexpected present on Christmas morning" snatcher - MADE OUT LIKE IT WAS MY FUCKING FAULT THAT WE HAD TO HAVE ANOTHER PATENTED "SITUATION" IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE AFTER I CAME HOME TO DISCOVER THAT THE GIFT I WAS GIVEN ENDED UP BEING MUTILATED BY ANOTHER MEMBER OF THE HOUSE WHO, AT AGE 69, SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO TOUCH OTHER PEOPLE'S THINGS. AND, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY COULDN'T I JUST BE //COOL// WITH SHIT WHEN HE DOES THINGS LIKE THROW OUT ASHES THAT BELONGED TO MY MOTHER, OR GIFTS ITALICS HAS GIVEN ME, OR PROJECTS I'M WORKING ON, OR KILL, RUIN, MAIM, BREAK ANYTHING THAT BELONGS TO ME OR IS IN MY POSSESSION? WHY CAN'T //I// BE A LITTLE BIT MORE UNDERSTANDING ABOUT HIS NEEDS AND ACTIONS?

And, finally, what's SO FUCKING AWESOME that it completely trumps any past AWESOME AWESOMENESS discussed in this journal entry AND THE HISTORY OF THE KNOWN UNIVERSE? That instead of being treated to a homemade, deep dish sour cream strawberry and rhubarb pie tucked into a golden, flaky lard pastry the entire household is treated to this:

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Black & White Wyches

Locating your regional black and/or white "wych" has never been easier in Scotland!

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(PSST! SHE'S THE ONE WEARING MAC'S "RAGE" LIPSTICK, DECKED OUT IN HER SANTA MUERTE GEAR AND IN THE BEER AISLE LOLOLOLOLOLING AT THE WYCHWOOD BREWERY ALES AS THE BATTERIES FALL OUT OF HER TRES BROKEN DIGITAL CAMERA.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(NOTE: DO NOT ATTEMPT TO APPROACH THE ABOVE MENTIONED REGIONAL WITCH UNLESS YOU CAN TELL, 100%, THAT SHE'S IN WHITE "WYCH" MODE THAT DAY.)(ABOVE MENTIONED REGIONAL WITCH'S DEFAULT "WYCH" MODE IS "BLACK WYCH", FYI.)

Confirmation Gloves

Italics and I get married every year. (And when I mean "MARRIED" I mean "NO, I DON'T MEAN RENEWING PREVIOUS WEDDING VOWS MADE SEVEN YEARS EARLIER, I MEAN WE GET //MARRIED, MARRIED// EVERY YEAR LIKE IT'S NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE." <- I'll explain later, but the short of it? ANCIENT PAGAN FERTILITY RITES, BAY-BEE!)

(That's RIGHT! All you northern hemisphere folk can thank us for Spring and Summer, which surely - SURELY! - wouldn't and couldn't happen if we didn't perform the annual pageant.)

Maybe some frugal witches - ARE YOU OUT THERE, FRUGAL WITCHES? DO YOU EVEN EXIST? ARE YOU JUST A FIGMENT OF THE IMAGINATION? ("FRUGAL WITCHES" SOUNDS TOO LLEWELLYN TO NOT EXIST!) - find joy in dusting off old ritual clothes to be used again, but me? I AM NOT ONE OF THOSE POSSIBLY NON-EXISTENT FRUGAL WITCHES AND I REFUSE TO PRETEND OTHERWISE.

(I vowed, early on with Graveyard Dirt, that I wouldn't PRETEND, LIE, EXAGGERATE or INVENT any of the experiences recorded here because it'd go against the spirit of intent. Hence the lyric "and s/he who tells a bigger tale would have to tell a lie" from Peter, Paul and Mary's Autumn to May.)

(PRETENDING THAT I AM NOT THE MATERIALISTIC "BRING ME GOLD, BRING ME FRANKINCENSE AND SPICES, BRING ME BEAUTIFUL THINGS THAT GLITTER AND SHINE!" WITCH THAT I AM WOULD BE TOTALLY DISINGENUOUS; I'M ONLY BEING COMPLETELY HONEST WITH YOU HERE SO YOU KNOW I'M LIVING UP TO MY SWORN PROMISE OF ABSOLUTELY 100% NON-FICTION CONTENT.)

But, really, you can't expect a virginal, first time bride-to-be to NOT want something totally unique intended to commemorate the special occasion, right? (RIGHT.) And that's why, every year, once the snowdrops begin popping up in the dirtyard I know it's time to find that gift - that special little gift or two from the to-be-groom to his to-be-bride so when he sees her, for the first time during the rite, she's wearing a token of his love - so there's a representation of newness in the union between the flesh and the divine.

(IT SOUNDED LIKE A GOOD EXCUSE TO GET SOMETHING SUPER SPECIAL AROUND SPRING ONCE A YEAR, OKAY? ISN'T THAT PART OF GETTING THINGS YOU WANT? DRAWING UP EXCELLENT ARGUMENTS AS TO WHY YOU NEED - NAY, DESERVE! - SOMETHING A LITTLE MAGIC AND SPECIAL? WITCHCRAFT 101.)

Last year I wore full-length gunmetal opera gloves with my lapis intaglio rings over the gloves (a bull on one hand and a scorpion on the other), so when the lapis and silver and gray material were stripped away all that was left was my naked skin and one simple, understated wedding band.

This year I wanted a more innocent feel (last year I wore seven layers of clothing and jewelry, all seven eventually removed off by my new husband so that by the end of the rite the only thing I was left wearing was my "new" wedding ring) so I've been thumbing through EBay in the hopes of finding some sort of communion or confirmation article that'd fit the bill.

About a month back we thought we found it:

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

SOME OF YOU, NO DOUBT, HAVE ALREADY PICKED UP ON THE V. SUBTLE CONTEXT CLUE DUE TO MY USE OF THE WORD "THOUGHT". AS IN, THERE WAS A SLIGHT CONTRADICTION FROM THE ORIGINAL ASSUMPTION MADE. THE SLIGHT CONTRADICTION, IN THIS CASE, IS THAT DESPITE MEASURING MY GODDAMN HANDS AND FEELING CONFIDENT THESE FUCKERS WOULD FIT I ONLY MANAGED TO PULL THEM OVER FOUR FINGERS.

The "AWWW - FUCKSHITGODDAMN - SHUCKS" sentiment was shared by both Italics and I. So these exquisite, crocheted beauties handmade by a French nun will just have to reside in the Black Rabbit Box until that very special little girl comes into our lives. (UNLESS, OF COURSE, I DECIDE TO TAKE A SLEDGEHAMMER TO MY HANDS ALA LOTUS FEET.)

Creatrix & Destructrix

IT'S ALWAYS A GOOD SIGN WHEN THE LAST THING YOU DO BEFORE COMMITTING YOURSELF TO 45 MINUTES OF AEROBIC EXERCISE IS LOCATE ALLRECIPE'S HIGHEST RATED CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE RECIPE SO THE FIRST THING YOU DO AFTER EXERCISING IS BAKE COOKIES.

A BALANCE IN ALL THINGS, DEAR READERS. (HOW'S //THAT// FOR A LIVING-YET-DIVINE EMBODIMENT OF CREATION AND DESTRUCTION?)

Five Easiest Words

Blinded by the depths of despair I threw myself at the feet of the Universe - a lost person, a confused animal, a star struggling to burn - and screamed into the empty vacuum of my soul, purging the darkness, the discontent, the feverish, hounding feelings of mislaid human being until they sank, buried in the quiet of the ground, anchoring me to the prevailing silence of a contemplating awareness.

"Be something worthy of worship," It - She, He, They, Us - whispered; a parent comforting a child, a hand across the aisle uncovering the answer to question number four. So amazingly perfect, so amazingly concise - so amazingly obvious and clear and apparent and visible to the naked eye.

(Why didn't I see before? Understand before? Come to the same conclusion myself, when it was there, staring at me, this entire time?)

I followed the ruminating mantra like the yellow brick road, leaving behind my frozen, lifeless shell kissing the ground. (Lips to dirt, mouth to soil, soul to earth.) Naive, complete, overflowing with enlightenment and possibilities; never thinking for a second that the yellow-gold would tarnish and age, never thinking for a second that the gleaming ribbon would discolor and disappear, reclaimed by old habits and forgetfulness.

Caught up in the moment of renewal I never thought that the sprawling compass I was given could disappear. It never occurred to me that the risen, self-made track cutting through those desolate hills could be so easily forgotten, could be so easily abandoned once celebration aged to apathy. But even in overgrown neglect the road still exists, waiting to be remembered, waiting to be exhumed, waiting to be rediscovered when - in my darkest, most lonely hour - my screams are deafened by the ground once again.

And then, like a pig, my open, screaming mouth will fill with grit as I desperately search, desperately look, desperately dig deep into the blackness of the earth to find the yellow brick road that I know exists beneath layers of obfuscating dirt, hiding the most (in)valuable archaeological truffle of them all:

BE SOMETHING WORTHY OF WORSHIP; the five easiest words to remember, the five easiest words to forget.

Biologically Advanced Parasitoid

Remember how I said yesterday in PATIENCE, GRASSHOPPER that I wasn't going to get all HEAVY and shit? (I BELIEVE I SAID: I'm going to leave the HEAVY shit with Marty "SORRY BOYS, YOU'RE JUST TOO LOUD" McFly and dazzle the internet world with a shocking amount of INNER PERSONAL DEPTH that's SO OVERWHELMINGLY COMPLEX THAT ANY ATTEMPT TO COMPREHEND THE CORE OF MY BEING WOULD SURELY DRIVE THE AVERAGE PERSON TO THE EDGES OF SANITY for another day. (SORRY, INTERNETS, YOU'RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO SETTLE FOR ANOTHER EXTRA SPECIAL PERSON TODAY WHO ISN'T ME.)) And then, LOLOLOLOL, I unsurprisingly got ALL HEAVY AND SHIT.

(WOW, MY GOD, THAT'S SORT'VE LIKE HOW I WAS BEING ALL TONGUE-IN-CHEEK SNARKY ABOUT THE MISAPPROPRIATION OF LANGUAGE BY POP CULTURE BY USING PRE-EXISTING WORDS AS UNWITTING (AND ULTIMATELY DOOMED) HOSTS WHOSE PREVIOUS, UNIVERSALLY ACCEPTED DEFINITIONS ARE MANIPULATED INTO NURTURING THE PARASITIC REDEFINITIONS GERMINATING WITHIN THEIR ORIGINAL CONTEXT AND THERE I WENT, LIKE THE BIOLOGICALLY ADVANCED PARASITOID ORGANISM HYPOCRITE THAT I AM, AND BUILT UP A FOUNDATION OF TRUST WITH YOU ABOUT MY REFUSAL TO TREAD DEEP WATERS AND THEN, WITHOUT WARNING, CHANGED THE UNIVERSAL DEFINITION OF "NOT GOING TO GET HEAVY" BY DOING THE EXACT //OPPOSITE// OF WHAT WAS PROMISED THEREBY REDEFINING "NOT GOING TO GET HEAVY" AND GIVING AN OLD WORD A NEW AND FASHIONABLY HIP CONTRADICTORY MEANING!)

Biologically advanced parasitoid organism hypocrite aside, I did - UNINTENTIONALLY! - trickle into HEAVY AND/OR DEEP territory yesterday, so this entry - FOR REAL - is going to be the painfully mundane one without any personal depth or divine epiphanies or cataclysmic realizations but it SHOULD have some RIGHT PROPER SWEARING so at least the fine, delicate balance of the universe is maintained by the flagrant abuse of the word "FUCK". (And that's only because I'm too tired and lazy to even pretend that I can stir people's souls and bring about a global revolution with a journal entry dedicated to what I've fucking cooked in the past week or so.)

Tomorrow I can get to Lent and the bed sheets and accidental anal penetration and how a group of activists shut down the airport on the day my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, came home from his month long holiday in Florida (LOLOLOLOL!) and how I'm living a vampiric lifestyle that's managed to atrophy the essence of my soul and feelings of spiritual worth and how I spent an hour crying the day before when I realized that the tape that I had applied to the reflective wallpaper of the closet had come completely undone and every anally accurate strip of duct tape cut, placed and smoothed down was now warped and stripping off the walls AND I SPENT ALMOST A FUCKING HOUR WORKING ON THAT SHIT AS PERFECTLY AS POSSIBLE AND WITHIN FORTY-EIGHT FUCKING HOURS ALL THAT EFFORT, ALL THAT TIME, ALL THAT ENERGY GETS THROWN OUT THE FUCKING WINDOW AS IF IT DIDN'T HAPPEN IN THE FIRST PLACE AND JESUS HELP ME (BECAUSE YOUR FATHER HATES CAKE), THIS ISN'T JUST //ANOTHER// INFURIATING EVENT IN MY DAILY LIFE - IT'S THE SUMMATION AND REALIZATION OF THE 100% PERFECT ANALOGY THAT CURRENTLY //IS// MY LIFE.

(NO, I'M -NOT- GETTING "HEAVY", I'M JUST EXPERIENCING AN INSULIN SPIKE, OR SOMETHING. LET'S SHIFT THE BLAME ON THE END PIECE OF THE QUICK FRENCH BREAD I HAD FOR BREAKFAST WHICH WAS, PERHAPS, A LITTLE TOO BULKY FOR BREAKFAST BUT SINCE MY PARENTS AREN'T HERE TO CHASTISE ME FOR EATING 1/6TH OF A KIND'VE-SORT'VE-BUT-NOT-REALLY BAGUETTE IN ONE SITTING I DON'T EVEN GIVE A FUCK. SO THERE, PARENTS, AND INSULIN SPIKE DUE TO A QUADRUPLE SERVING OF HOMEMADE BREAD - SO THERE!)

So let's be boring and talk about food because I VERY MOST SERIOUSLY LOVE FOOD but I'm NOT going into HOW MUCH I VERY MOST SERIOUSLY LOVE FOOD because, once again, I'll be treading quasi-deep grounds AND WE'RE GOING TO BE TOTALLY //ABOVE// GROUND TODAY, BABY. (CHTHONIC WUT?) This entry is - boringly enough - just a quick run-through of things I've created in the past week or two that I might want to refer back to at a later date. (BECAUSE SOMETIMES, JUST SOMETIMES, YOU CAN'T HELP BUT OFF-ROAD EVEN THE FIRST TIME AROUND, YOU KNOW?)

My major soul-crushing number one problem in the past few weeks? I've been totally uninterested in cooking for the most part, which is V. bad for someone who uses her time in the kitchen for relaxation, meditation and connection to the incorporeal world. (The absolute BEST times to interact/hear Papa? Is when I'm high off my fucking ass and cooking. BUT THOSE ARE STORIES FOR ANOTHER DAY, SAYS THE SEX PIG WHO OFTEN WANDERS OFF HER PATH OF ORIGINAL INTENT.) I'm finally starting to feel a little less burned out so my fingers are metaphorically (and metaphysically) crossed that this bumpy phase'll just smooth out and I'll find myself, once again, living and breathing and existing that natural rhythm I use to hip pop to.

01. DEEP DISH ALFREDO PIZZA

My skepticism with this recipe began when I saw that the pizza dough only called for //4// ingredients (i.e., flour, water, oil and yeast). First of all, FOUR ISN'T A MAGIC NUMBER, OKAY? (OKAY, SO TECHNICALLY IT //IS//, BUT 5'S TOTALLY MORE MAGIC THAN 4, WHICH GOES WITHOUT SAYING, RIGHT?)

Secondly? WHAT FUCKING PIZZA DOUGH RECIPE DOESN'T CALL FOR SALT? (AND WHEN I CAPS LOCK "DOESN'T CALL FOR SALT" I DON'T MEAN IT COYLY CALLS FOR "A DASH OF SALT" OR "A SPRINKLING OF SALT TO TASTE"; I MEAN "THERE ARE ONLY FOUR FUCKING INGREDIENTS IN THIS RECIPE AND NONE OF THOSE FOUR HAPPEN TO BE FUCKING SALT".)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I'm a first generation born in the USA Ukrainian (my mother was born in a German refugee camp in 1947) so I'm genetically predisposed to be biased towards certain types of cooking due to my pure Slavic blood that hasn't had a chance to become diluted in the great American melting pot.

(OKAY, SO MAYBE //NEAR// PURE SINCE I'M PART NATIVE AMERICAN BUT SINCE I GET THAT PARTICULAR GENETIC BALL OF YARN FROM UKRAINE, TOO, I THINK IT MAKES ME DOUBLY UKIE, OR SOMETHING. <- IT'S A LONG STORY WHICH INVOLVES MY NATIVE AMERICAN GREAT-GRANDFATHER TRAVELING THROUGH EUROPE IN A WILD WEST SHOW BUT HE GETS SICK WHILE CROSSING THE ATLANTIC AND REFUSES TO CROSS THE OCEAN AGAIN TO RETURN HOME AND EVENTUALLY SETTLES DOWN WITH A HUTSUL UKRAINIAN WOMAN IN THE CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS AND HAS MY GRANDMOTHER BEFORE BEING THROWN OFF A HORSE AND DYING. <- THE IRONY IS THAT LAKHOTAS ARE KNOWN FOR THEIR TRES EXCELLENT HORSE RIDING SKILLS AND THEIR CONNECTION WITH THEIR EQUINE BRETHREN AS ARE THE HUTSULS, THE NOMADIC HORSEMEN OF THE CARPATHIANS. AS IF THAT WASN'T ENOUGH HE WAS PART OF THE TOURING TROOP DUE TO HIS MOST EXCELLENT HORSE RIDING SKILLZORZ - THOSE WHO LIVE BY THE HORSE, DIE BY THE HORSE?)

In my world - THE SLAVIC WORLD! - I recognize and observe only four food groups: cream (sour cream, cream cheese and any thick rich fatty dairy substance that ends with a suffix of "cream"), fat (butter, goose fat and bacon grease), pork (bacon, bacon, bacon and bacon grease, again, just for good measure) and salt.

(Deep Dish Alfredo Pizza = a culinary effort that's comprised of three layers, one of which not featuring any of my preferred dietary food groups? OH. HELL. NO.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Of course - OF FUCKING COURSE! - just as I begin gathering all of the ingredients to make the fucking Alfredo sauce I realize - being the genius that I am - that there's no Parmesan in the house. (AND WHEN I MEAN "NO" I MEAN "ABOUT 1/2 CUP THAT HAD BEEN PREVIOUSLY GRATED AND HAD BEEN SITTING IN A TUPPERWARE BOX FOR ABOUT A WEEK" AND "ONE TINY STICK OF ACTUAL FOR REAL PARMESAN CHEESE FROM ACTUAL FOR REAL ITALY SENT TO ME BY AN ACTUAL FOR REAL PERSON THAT I WAS SAVING FOR AN ACTUAL FOR REAL V. FUCKING SPECIAL OCCASION AND HOMEMADE DEEP DISH ALFREDO WITH A FOUR INGREDIENT PIZZA DOUGH BASE WITH NONE OF THOSE FOUR INGREDIENTS BEING SALT ISN'T IT", JUST FYI.)

And so what does a 28 year old woman on the verge of total identity burnout (who's been crying every fucking day for a motherfucking fortnight regarding her lack of life despite existing, who was only just trying to relax by cooking since COOKING WAS ONCE VERY THERAPEUTIC AND RELAXING, YOU KNOW) do when faced with the dilemma of MAKING ALFREDO SAUCE OUT OF VIRTUALLY NO PARMESAN CHEESE at twelve-fucking-thirty in the morning? She says "FUCK IT, FUCK RUMPELSTILTSKIN" and braces herself for a DEEP DISH DOUBLE/HEAVY CREAM PIZZA, that's what. (I MIGHT'VE OVERCOMPENSATED WITH THE EXTRA CREAM CHEESE.)

I think I summed it up best (AND MOST ABSTRACTLY) with my mutilation and regurgitation of Radiohead's "Karma Police" on Twitter (EXCEPT I SORT'VE DIDN'T STICK TO THE FIRST ROUND OF SYLLABLES SO I COULD START IT WITH "CULINARY POLICE"):

CULINARY POLICE / ARREST THIS WOMAN / SHE'S MADE PIZZA / SAYS IT WAS ALFREDO / SHE DIDN'T HAVE PARMESAN CHEESE / THIS IS WHAT YOU'LL GET / THIS IS WHAT YOU'LL GET...

Click thumbnail for larger image.

And what the fuck did I get? A sad case of style over substance (at least for me). And a realization that maybe we kind've sort've need to invest in a pizza pan because the cheesecake pan whose Teflon coating is flaking off and sticking to everything isn't really that suitable. And that, due to very scientific experimentation, a recipe consisting of five ingredients really is MORE MAGIC than a recipe calling for four - especially when one of the five ingredients is MOTHERFUCKING SALT. (TRUST ME ON THIS, I'M A WITCH.)

ADDITIONAL NOTES: Alfredo sauce LITE was still detectable as Alfredo sauce. Cooked two chicken breasts in Italian seasoning and white wine; shredded the meat and used it as a topping. Varied mozzarella by shredding a block and throwing on a container of mini-balls.

RECIPE SOURCE: All Recipes

02. TURKISH LAMB SOUP

Me? I could live on soup; soup and bread. Italics, my husband, says it's genetic. (WHAT ELSE COULD EXPLAIN THE FLUSH OF UNMISTAKABLE AROUSAL I EXPERIENCE WHEN DIPPING INTO A BOWL OF HOMEMADE BORSHT THINNED WITH FULL-FAT SOUR CREAM?) In my ideal world, in my ideal routine I'd be making two things from scratch every week - soup, and, if your short term memory is still mostly functional, bread.

I wing a bastardized version of the Ezo Bride soup on a monthly basis (instead of boiling the lamb straight I marinade it overnight in black pepper, garlic, thyme and olive oil and then brown it before pouring in water to make stock, and I generally add several different vegetables - anything from baby corn to swedes to potatoes - instead of the one carrot suggested) but despite the numerous pots I still haven't taken a proper picture of the end result.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

So, instead, I'm offering January's take on the Ezo Bride recipe where I used leftover goose confit (OH HONEY, YES I DID - SKIN, FAT, BONES AND ALL!) instead of lamb, homemade gravy instead of beef bullion, goose fat instead of butter and added a can of butter beans to the traditional mix of baby corn, carrots and swede that I normally use. (USING THAT CAN OF BUTTER BEANS? HUGE SUPER BIG JUMP FOR ME AS I'VE ONLY RECENTLY BEEN ABLE TO APPRECIATE (APPRECIATE = STOMACH AND THEN THOUGHTFULLY PONDER AND CONTEMPLATE MY PREVIOUS VOLATILE REACTION TOWARDS) THE USE OF BEANS PAST THICKENING UP BORSHT.)

ADDITIONAL NOTES: Used leftover confit of goose and gravy from Christmas as the base, added can of beans and used chicken stock instead of lamb/beef. REMEMBER TO MAKE THIS NEXT YEAR, DAMMIT, BECAUSE THERE WILL //ALWAYS// BE CONFIT SCRAPS THAT NEED TO GET USED.

RECIPE SOURCE: Turkish Cooking

03. TOASTED, FLAKED ALMOND & LEMON ZEST MERINGUES

When life gives you ten leftover egg whites you make a batch and a half of meringues...a whole month later than you intended. (IT'S OKAY, THOUGH, BECAUSE OLD EGG WHITES ARE THE BEST FOR MERINGUES. OR SOMETHING.)(OR SOMETHING = PRETTY SURE I READ THAT ON THE INTERNET OR IN A COOKBOOK OR SOMEWHERE BECAUSE THAT'S SOME CRAZY SHIT TO JUST PULL OUT OF YOUR ASS.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(NOTE: I WOULDN'T RECOMMEND USING OLD EGG WHITES IF YOUR ASS HAS BEEN INTIMATELY INVOLVED IN THE PROCESS OF MAKING MERINGUES.)

(NOTE: UNLESS YOUR ASS IS MAGIC, OF COURSE, WHICH IS THE ONLY EXPLANATION AS HOW I MANAGED TO ROAST THE MOST PERFECT PRIME RIB FOR NEW YEAR'S EVE.)

(NOTE: I WAS OVERWHELMED BY DOPAMINE AND LUSCIOUSLY MARBLED RED MEAT AND COULD ONLY EXPRESS MY LOVE AND AFFECTION FOR THE RAW 6LB ROAST BY SITTING ON IT. NAKED. AND MAKING ITALICS TAKE A PICTURE OF IT. OH, IT WAS ONE OF //THOSE// CUTS OF MEAT!)

Making something like thirty meringues was the easy part, taking pictures of the final product is where things went awry (see BLOCK OF 10). By the time I cleaned the kitchen for the second time the last of the natural light was gone and I had to rely on the fucking under-the-cabinet spotlights.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Ms. Graveyard Dirt? NOT AMUSED, NOT HAPPY. Hence the less than artfully arranged tower of meringues, the lack of props, the total absence of effort and the whole two pictures taken: ONE WITH A BLACK BACKGROUND AND ONE WITH A WHITE BACKGROUND. (FOOD PHOTOGRAPHERS, EAT YOUR FUCKING HEART OUT.)

ADDITIONAL NOTES: Nothing that wouldn't be incriminating. (IF THE ENTIRE PRIME RIB/RIB ROAST THING ISN'T ALREADY.)(DID I MENTION THAT I WAS HAVING MY PERIOD AT THE SAME TIME? THAT MAKES THE ROAST //MAGIC//!)

RECIPE SOURCE: Good Food, April '05

04. MOCK EGGPLANT MEATBALL PARMESAN

I experience a deep, personal crisis whenever I have to take a personality quiz. Inevitably this Aries with a Pisces moon will be forced to choose between describing her ideal life - spontaneous, or routine. Once I reach that Sophie's Choice hurdle I fold and call it a day because, as much as I'd love to fall under the stereotypical generalization of Aries (spontaneous), I know that without a certain amount of structure (routine) the most important aspects of my life that keep me SANE and A SEMI-NORMAL, FUNCTIONAL HUMAN BEING would be in feral chaos.

Grocery shopping, coincidentally, works the same way. FOR INSTANCE (OH, THOSE FAMOUS LAST WORDS), I never grocery shop without a list based on 4-6 meals I plan to make in the very near future (routine). Although, sometimes, even with that SCHINDLER'S LIST (LOLOL, GET IT? GET IT? SOPHIE'S CHOICE AND NOW SCHINDLER'S LIST?) in hand I have a tendency to inexplicably deviate from that rigid structure (spontaneous) - especially when my eyes fall on the shapely, shiny, majestically purple ghetto ass of some FINE lookin' aubergines ("EGGPLANT" TO US UNSOPHISTICATED AMERICANS) of the female persuasion.

And then, a week later, those fresh looking ladies aren't as, uh, naturally fresh as they had before because SOMEONE (and I'm not naming WHO but I WILL say that THIS DUBIOUS PERSON IN QUESTION IS THE CULINARY CAPTAIN OF THIS NON-SAILING VESSEL) kind've sort've FORGOT ABOUT THEM. That once shapely, full-figure physique bursting with life and promise that stopped me (YES, ME, THE AFOREMENTIONED CAPTAIN) dead in my tracks? Gone; replaced by methamphetamine addicts whose wizened and flaccid constitution silently relays their destructive downward spiral. (AT LEAST THEY HAVE A FUTURE ON SS DEATH BOAT AND/OR GHOST SHIP?)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

So they were sliced, salted and rinsed and then dredged through seasoned flour, dipped in a buttermilk'n'egg mixture, dredged through a breadcrumbs'n'oat bran and fried, one by one, until golden and crispy. And THEN? And THEN, since the guilt of WASTING PERFECTLY GOOD FOOD BY NOT USING IT AT ITS FRESHEST was eradicated I naturally forgot about them. (YES, AGAIN, WHICH IS PRECISELY WHY I AM CHILDLESS AND RESPONSIBILITY-FREE SINCE I OBVIOUSLY CAN'T BE TRUSTED EVEN WITH EGGPLANTS.)

Inspiration came in the form of ambivalence edging towards boredom. I wanted meatballs baked in homemade tomato sauce, but, JESUS, how many times have I played (and replayed) the same old spaghetti and meatballs game? (ANSWER: MANY, MANY TIMES.) To spare us from another round of a dinner I didn't want to tire out I made an executive decision - A FRANKENSTEINIAN VERSION OF EGGPLANT PARMESAN!

MOCK EGGPLANT PARMESAN, I announced to the wayward ladies during a compassionate intervention. THE LIFE YOU ONCE WERE LIVING CAN BE YOURS AGAIN, I assured, marching the emotionally fragile, withdrawal suffering slices of breaded eggplant from their rehab Tupperware container with a pledge of a a new prosperous, affirming life waiting for them in the casserole dish if they only chose THEMSELVES over the weakness that had overrun and ruined their lives. (It's easy to persuade impressionable vegetables when they're mentally vulnerable.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

So, so, so. So a tomato sauce was made from scratch and the meatballs were made from scratch. Once everything was done I covered the bottom of the non-stick casserole with a thick layer of breaded eggplant, ladled a generous portion of sauce to cover the eggplant, sprinkled a good handful of grated Parmesan cheese, hid the mess with an overlapping blanket of sliced pepperoni, topped the magic carpet of sliced charcuterie with the browned - but not entirely cooked - meatballs, ladled the remainder of the sauce to cover and then crazy liberally coated the top of the "bake" with even more Parmesan cheese.

How's that for an impromptu dinner?

ADDITIONAL NOTES: Needs to be refined. Lose the pepperoni and work in some sort of cheese, either feta or something suitably melt-y. Definitely requires two batches of both meatballs and tomato sauce.

RECIPE SOURCE: N/A

05. LEMON SQUARES

You know how sometimes cooking something - anything - is like a gateway activity? Like you go into the kitchen with the intent on solely making tomato sauce and meatballs, but before you know it you've got NWA on in the background and you're EXPRESSING YOURSELF through a bastardization of eggplant Parmesan, homemade French bread, and lemon squares? And before you know it your little jaunt in the kitchen's spanned four hours, countless Iron Maiden MP3s and one father-in-law trying to ignore your absolute existence every time he comes back to the kitchen to pour himself another drink?

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(OH, I KNEW YOU WOULD.)

These squares were horribly, terribly and disappointingly unremarkable. After baking bread and assembling dinner I felt spurred on to complete the menu with something light that'd cut through the heaviness of the meal and decided, fuck, since I was ALREADY using my brand new Farmer's Almanac Everyday Cookbook I might as well find something lemon-y to use up all of the goddamn lemons in the house as the grand finale.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

With a heavy heart I can confess that it wasn't the happy ending I was hoping for. (At least my in-laws can put on a brave face and take it as their civic duty to eliminate the unsatisfactory remains of the great American institution.)("AT LEAST", LOLOLOL, WE'RE TALKING ABOUT A MARRIED COUPLE WHO ENTHUSIASTICALLY PROCLAIM THAT MY TACOS, WHICH I MAKE USING AN OLD EL PASO SEASONING PACK, ARE "BETTER THAN YOU CAN GET AT ANY RESTAURANT" WITHOUT A SLIVER OF SARCASM OR FACETIOUSNESS BECAUSE I SERVE A BOWL OF CHOPPED LETTUCE NEXT TO THE FRYING PAN OF MEAT. SERIOUSLY.)

ADDITIONAL NOTES: STOP FUCKING EATING THESE BECAUSE THE FUCKING SUGAR CONTENT IS MAKING YOU FUCKING SICK. (JESUS H. CHRIST AND ALL THAT'S HOLY I //KNOW// BETTER!)

RECIPE SOURCE: Old Farmer's Almanac Everyday Cookbook

06. QUICK FRENCH BREAD

Wait, WUT? A bread recipe that requires very little kneading and basically no extended rising time whatsoever? (KNEAD UNTIL TOGETHER, LET REST FOR 10 MINUTES, KNEAD FOR ONE MINUTE, LET REST FOR ANOTHER 10 MINUTES, SHAPE, RISE ONCE AND BAKE, YO.) A BREAD RECIPE THAT REQUIRES VERY LITTLE KNEADING AND BASICALLY NO EXTENDED RISING TIME WHATSOEVER THAT MAKES TWO LOAVES AND OFFERS A VARIATION FOR GARLIC BREAD?

Click thumbnail for larger image.

IN THE INFAMOUS WORDS OF CHUNK: "OH SHIT, WHAT?"

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Okay, so, it browns quickly and ended up being a LEETLE more golden than I would've preferred, but the generous tropical tan didn't detract from the flavor or texture one bit. And I waited - LORD, HELP ME, HOW I WAITED - for my in-laws to retire, because all I wanted to do was lock myself in a closet with a tub of olive oil spread and an entire loaf of bread and eat until my unholy carb carving - IT'S NOT A HABIT, IT'S COOL, I FEEL ALIVE / IF YOU DON'T HAVE IT YOU'RE ON THE OTHER SIDE / I'M NOT AN ADDICT, OH YEAH, THAT'S A LIE - was sated for the next twelve hours.

ADDITIONAL NOTES: Maybe kind've sort've a little TOO sweet? Brushed on melted butter made the crust too soft and chewy; would prefer a much "flakier" dry crust next time around.

RECIPE SOURCE: Old Farmer's Almanac Everyday Cookbook

07. MANTI (TURKISH PASTA DROPS)

Cooking isn't without it's own natural phenomena full of whispered secrets and alchemical knowledge. If you gently, and ever so carefully, poke around some social circles you may encounter in hushed tones that recipes - CERTAIN RECIPES, VERY PARTICULAR RECIPES, V. SPECIAL RECIPES WITH OBVIOUS FEELINGS OF SELF-IMPORTANCE AND ENTITLEMENT - have the ability to relentlessly stalk you.

Those recipes? Those certain recipes, very particular recipes, v. special recipes with obvious feelings of self-importance and entitlement? They're the ones who immediately surface when you crack open a cookbook. They're the ones who arch their proverbial bodies against the cookbook's spine, so when your thumb idly flips through the pages of print it gives the recipe the exact momentum needed to magically part the seas until you're staring at the all-to-familiar text of one of THOSE recipes; the recipes that have the ability to relentlessly stalk you, the recipes that cookbooks always - for whatever (un)Godly reason - seem to open to as if the list of instructions and proportions of ingredients were psychically petitioning your subconscious for complete and total manifestation.

(COOKING, AS YOU CAN CLEARLY SEE, IS V. MAGIC INDEED.)

The recipe for Manti (described as a Turkish "fresh pasta drop") in Turkish Cooking has been my culinary equivalent of a stalker, and I've been living with it's incessant need for attention ever since Italics bought me the cookbook years and years ago. The one consistent, reliable thing in my life was knowing that when I reached for the discount tome of Turkish cookery the book would instantly pop open to the yogurt and paprika glazed mountains of Manti.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Every instance wasn't just a chance encounter. Every meeting, every peripheral brush was a inconsolable need for validation and love. It pinned, it languished, it despondently sank into the depths of heartbreaking despair when I'd pause thoughtfully over the platter of Elmer glue drenched parcels, remembering how I managed to forget about them (AGAIN) and after that long, contemplative second the page would be callously turned to reveal the next recipe.

It wasn't that the Manti were forgettable, they just seemed like a pain in the fucking ass to make (and I know all about food that's a pain in the fucking ass to make). The thing about these Turkish pasta drops that dissuaded me at every awkward run-in is their terrifying resemblance to the production line needed to manufacture even a small batch of pyrohy.

(Look, dude, I'm Ukrainian, okay? One of our celebrated national dishes is pyrohy (also known as "pierogi"), a sort of stuffed dumpling/ravioli smothered in butter and sour cream. I love pyrohy, I'd perform EXTREME SEXUAL FAVORS for a plate heaving with bundles of fat-soaked dough and mashed potato made by the oldest Ukie woman alive, but THAT love - the love that dares not speak its name - isn't the rash, illogical kind, hence why I only fucking make pyrohy once a fucking year and THAT, dear and gentle readers, is at Christmas.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

While I absolutely LOVE COOKING I absolutely fucking HATE GETTING DISTURBED WHILE COOKING. (Some people yoga, some people meditate - me? I cook. Don't fuck with me when I'm cooking unless: 1.) we have an established relationship where you're permitted to penetrate a number of my orifices or 2.) you're bringing the bong/pipe/joint/whatever DIRECTLY TO ME AT THE STOVE so I don't have to take a break when I'm in the middle of cooking.)

So I knew, due to previous experience, that when it came time to tackle my recipe stalker of Turkish origins it'd have to be when my in-laws weren't around to disrupt the manual labor flow. That time finally came this past weekend at 1:00 AM while O'Reilly ("WE'LL DO IT LIVE!") blared through the house speakers. (WHEN YOU'VE DECLARED TO THE UNIVERSE THAT YOUR PREFERRED LANGUAGE OF COMMUNICATION IS "LOL!" IT'S IMPORTANT TO FILL YOUR LIFE WITH INSTANCES, STIMULI AND PEOPLE WHO MAKE YOU LOLOLOLOLOL.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

By the time Hannity was on Italics was finished with work (Italics, bless his heart, works four separate jobs - all at home - so we can always be together) and he offered an extra set of hands. At first I kind've sort've dismissed his offer until I remembered how amazingly proficient he was with pyrohy making (OBVIOUSLY FUCKING A UKRAINIAN WOMAN FOR NEARLY TWELVE YEARS HAS RUBBED OFF ON HIM) and then thought, well, why can't quality couple time come in the form of a joint cooking effort? Armed with two rulers, one stock cube box 2" wide, four hands and LOLOLOL! punditry in the background we started our great Manti adventure together.

(GREAT MANTI ADVENTURE = MAKING A FILLING OUT OF MINCED LAMB, CELERY TOPS, GARLIC PASTE, SALT & PEPPER, MAKING A SIMPLE, UN-YEASTED DOUGH, ROLLING IT OUT TO 3-4mm THICKNESS, SLICING THE SHEET INTO 2" SQUARES, STUFFING EACH SQUARE WITH A HEAPED 1/2 TSP FILLING, PINCHING THE MOFOS SHUT, TOSSING THEM INTO A ROASTING DISH, LIBERALLY BRUSHING THEM WITH MELTED BUTTER, COOKING THEM IN THE OVEN FOR 30 MINUTES, FILLING UP THE ROASTING PAN WITH HOT STOCK, COOKING THEM FOR A FURTHER 30 MINUTES (OR UNTIL ALL OF THE LIQUID'S ABSORBED) AND THEN GLORIOUSLY DOUSING THEM WITH DRIED MINT, FRESH GARLIC YOGURT AND A BUTTERED PAPRIKA SAUCE.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

We retired to the lounge with that hauntingly familiar mountain of Manti, the plump parcels saturated with yogurt and smoked hot paprika that so earnestly - for so many years - begged for just a moment of my time to cross the threshold of concept to reality. And while devouring the pursed little packages as Bernie danced across the scene (ZOMG VOODOO CURSE ZOMG!) I wondered if I'd ever see my Turkish culinary stalker again.

ADDITIONAL NOTES: Didn't have any fresh parsley in the house so I used finely minced celery tops/leaves. (THANK YOU, COOK'S THESAURUS, THANK YOU!) I accidentally rolled the meat in 1/2 tsp portions when they were supposed to be 1 tsp; lucky mistake since I had just enough of the mix to fill every square //exactly//. Exposed dough (dough that wasn't submerged beneath the stock) was a little TOO hard, so next time around I think I'll cover the manti completely with liquid.

RECIPE SOURCE: Turkish Cooking

Oh, HELL No

THIS MORNING? JUST BEFORE I WOKE UP? I DREAMT ABOUT BEING BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL AND STEALING FOOD. THAT'S RIGHT - NOT NAKED, NOT LATE FOR A CLASS, NOT FREAKING OUT OVER A TOTALLY UNEXPECTED POP QUIZ, BUT STEALING FOOD OUT OF THE TEACHER'S LOUNGE.

IT WAS THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL AND THE FRIDGE HAD A BAG OF BUTTERMILK FRIED CHICKEN AND I WAS ALL "OH HELL NO, SOMEONE'S JUST GOING TO //LEAVE// THIS CHICKEN HERE?" QUICKLY FOLLOWED BY "OH HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLL NO, IT'S GOIN' HOME WITH ME, THIS CHICKEN'S COMIN' HOME WITH ME!" AND BEFORE I KNEW IT I HAD A BAG OF FRIED CHICKEN, A LOAF OR TWO OF GARLIC BREAD AND A SWORN DUTY TO ORGANIZE A MID-SUMMER BEACH PARTY FOR MY CLASSMATES AT LAKE MICHIGAN.

(I DIDN'T EVEN WAKE UP HUNGRY!)

(AND, ALSO, THE BAG OF FRIED CHICKEN? ALL BREAST. 100% WHITE MEAT AND BATTERED SKIN, BABY.)

I MEAN, LET'S BE COMPLETELY HONEST - WHAT THE FUCK WOULD'VE YOU DONE WHEN FACED WITH THE PROSPECT OF SCORING A FREE BAG OF BUTTERMILK FRIED CHICKEN WHOSE MERE EXISTENCE APPEARED TO HAVE BEEN A DIVINE JOINT EFFORT/PROJECT BETWEEN ANGELS, DEVAS AND BUDDHAS? AND NOW WHAT IF - WHAT IF! - EVERY PIECE IN THAT FREE BAG OF FRIED CHICKEN MADE BY THE SPIRITUALLY ENLIGHTENED WAS PURE, UNADULTERATED CHUNKS OF SUCCULENTLY JUICY, GLEAMING-AS-IF-IT-HAD-BEEN-BLEACHED BREAST?

(EXACTLY, "OH, HELLLLLLLL NO! FUCK THE TEACHERS; THE CHICKEN'S GOIN' HOME WITH ME!")

1 of 2 Cs

EARRING "COW TAG" WORN AS EITHER A PINNA, AURICLE OR CONCH PIERCING? HMM. (LOLOLOL @ "HMM", MORE LIKE "MOOOOOO".) Now if I could only remember what the other fucking "c" was...

(A WRENCH ON MY ANKLE, A CROCODILE ON MY BACK AND A COW TAG DANGLING FROM MY EAR - PAGANISM/WITCHCRAFT 2K!)

Patience, Grasshopper

Due to a serious case of almost-way-too-near-NO-I-AM-NOT-FUCKING-JOKING-GIVE-ME-ONE-REASON-TO-START-SCREAMING-LIKE-A-TODDLER burnout and the newest installment of OVERLY INTELLECTUALIZED IDENTITY CRISIS this journal entry's going to be excruciatingly mundane. (APOLOGIZES IN ADVANCE; I'LL UP THE FUCKING SWEARING IN THE HOPES THAT THE CHRONICALLY RECURRING EXPLETIVES SOMEHOW DISTRACTS YOU FROM THE FACT THAT I'M SERIOUSLY FUCKING LACKING IN THE "FEELING LIKE A REAL HUMAN FUCKING BEING" DEPARTMENT.)

(AND WHEN I MEAN "SWEARING" I MEAN HILARIOUSLY OVERUSING "FUCK" SINCE THAT'S THE ONLY EXPLETIVE THAT'S WORTH SPITTING OUT LIKE A TOURETTE'S STUTTER.)(AND WHEN I MEAN "HILARIOUS" I ACTUALLY MEAN "NOT ACTUALLY AMUSING OR FUNNY IN ANYWAY" LIKE WHEN SOMETHING IS "SICK" OR "FAT" (OR ANY OTHER MODERN INTERPRETATION OF A WORD THAT, LOL, SPINS THE ORIGINAL MEANING INTO //THE EXACT OPPOSITE//! LOLOLOL!) WHEN THE THING IN QUESTION IS, IN FACT, NEITHER LITERALLY "SICK" AND/OR "FAT".)

I'm going to leave the HEAVY shit with Marty "SORRY BOYS, YOU'RE JUST TOO LOUD" McFly and dazzle the internet world with a shocking amount of INNER PERSONAL DEPTH that's SO OVERWHELMINGLY COMPLEX THAT ANY ATTEMPT TO COMPREHEND THE CORE OF MY BEING WOULD SURELY DRIVE THE AVERAGE PERSON TO THE EDGES OF SANITY for another day. (SORRY, INTERNETS, YOU'RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO SETTLE FOR ANOTHER EXTRA SPECIAL PERSON TODAY WHO ISN'T ME.)

The wonderful thing about Spring is even when I'm in the throes of despair and beating my flailing fists against my chest in existential crisis I can't help but be taken in by the awe-inspiring beauty and rejuvenation of this season. Waking up at twilight I shuffle around the house and watch - through windows - as darkness begins to blanket my mirror to the outside world. Everything disappears beneath a wave of blackness, all the life, all the brown turning green, all the tender shoots that gently bend beneath the sharp breeze.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

When night comes it drapes a curtain over the world I spy on, obscuring everything except the highlighted, glowing outline of neighbors' drawn windows. When night comes the light illuminating my world - the light I live by - is cold and clinical, spilling out of spiral shaped, environmentally friendly florescent light bulbs. When night comes I feel Diana stirring in me, and, like Her, I covet the golden warmth of light, and pine for the feeling of absolute completion that comes with the morning's sunrise.

(OH, DEATH, WITH YOUR IRONY AND ATTRACTION: AFRAID OF WHAT YOU ARE, NEEDING WHAT YOU AREN'T.)

Morning's first pitch black, with twinkling stars that pulse blue-white-red against an endless backdrop frozen in time. In the east the horizon cracks and splits; the fringes of space and sky interweave, slowly painting the domed curvature of a Byzantine cathedral. (AND FROM AN ANCIENT, EARTHEN PASSAGE I EMERGED INTO THE GREATEST CATHEDRAL OF THEM ALL AND THOUGHT MY HEART WOULD BREAK IN DIVINE ECSTASY WHEN I SAW THAT THE HEAVENS WERE UNDERGROUND - THE GOLDEN ORTHODOX STARS BREATHING LIFE INTO THE FLAWLESS, MAJESTIC BLUE THAT CLOAKED THE CONCAVE UNIVERSE IN A UNHEARD, BUT STIRRING, HYMN.)

And from that deep, unconscious blue the hope of light appears, lifting the rolling darkness from the world, drawing up the curtain until black is blue and blue is a lighter blue, a free, exhilarating blue of promise that races at full speed to the very end of the world. (LIGHT FROM DARKNESS, SOMETHING FROM NOTHING.) My world - everything I love, everything that brings me happiness, everything that brings me joy and makes my heart sing - reappears, and I stand on the other side of glass watching a waking world, a living person instead of a forgotten ghost.

(NIGHT, SHE SAID, IS OUR TIME. BUT WITHOUT DAY, WITHOUT LIGHT, WE'RE INCOMPLETE. SO WE KNEEL AT THE HOLY ALTAR OF THE SUN, OUR OPPOSITE, OUR OTHER HALF - WHAT WE INHERENTLY AREN'T, WHAT WE INHERENTLY WANT, WHAT WE INHERENTLY ARE DRAWN TO - FINDING THAT HE'S ALREADY THERE, KNEELING, WAITING AND DESIRING OUR DARKNESS WHICH BRINGS RESPITE AND RENEWAL.)

LOLOLOLOL, WAIT, I SAID I //WASN'T// GOING TO GET ALL HEAVY BECAUSE I DIDN'T THINK I HAD IT IN ME. (I GUESS "HEAVY" IS MY DEFAULT SETTING? WHO WOULD'VE THOUGHT, RIGHT?) I'm ditching the waxing poetic tangent from this point on and filling that self-analysis void with THE PREVIOUS PLEDGE OF OVER-THE-FUCKING-TOP SWEARING!

Back in February we were hit with an amount of snow I've never, in the eight or nine years living here in Scotland, seen. It took nearly two fucking weeks for the overlaying quilt (I OFFICIALLY OVERUSED "BLANKET" SO NOW I'M GOING TO HAVE TO GO THROUGH ALL OF MY BED SHEET SYNONYMS!) of white to recede, and when it did I found that Spring had been cozying it up beneath that figurative quilt of ice'n'snow.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I was, if you remember (see Bride's Awakening), inspired to brush off months of dormancy and air my winter gardening sweater. (WINTER GARDENING SWEATER = A HORRENDOUS WINTER SWEATER BOUGHT AT FASHION BUG IN THE LATE 90S AND GIVEN TO ME AS A CHRISTMAS GIFT BY A BEST FRIEND.) Due to my sleeping schedule I didn't have a chance to tackle the few outside jobs I had planned, so the evening was spent planting seeds indoors.

Within days of planting two of the six Voodoo seeds germinated, the dill, basil and tobacco sprouted and all of the vegetable seeds bought to fill my GIANT SEED VOID arrived. The dill and basil were left in the backroom while the rest of the seeds/sprouted plants were moved beneath the light. (OH, I AM TOTALLY ENJOYING HAVING THAT FUCKING GROW LIGHT ON FOR 18 HOURS A MOTHERFUCKING DAY AGAIN.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I managed to complete some pretty intense gardening over the course of a day or two, shit that //HAD// to get done before my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, returned from his month long sabbatical at the Florida property. (THE DIRTYARD IN THE FRONT AND THE APOCALYPTIC WASTELAND KNOWN AS THE BACKYARD HAS BEEN, FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, ABANDONED BY HIS ROYAL GARDENING HIGHNESS AND WE'VE WATCHED THE COMMUNAL SPACE SLIDE QUICKLY INTO RUIN, UNABLE TO DO //ANYTHING// TO PREVENT IT SINCE, TECHNICALLY, THIS ISN'T //OUR// HOUSE SO IT ISN'T //OUR// GARDEN.)

Once I noticed that the bulbs Italics bought me during our 2008 CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE were beginning to bud all six terracotta containers were dragged from their under-the-bedroom-window pad and moved to the concrete patio steps so I could monitor their progress through the patio door. (MONITOR PROGRESS = STAND FOR A SUSPICIOUSLY LONG TIME WITH MY FIRST CUP OF TEA OF THE DAY WHILE SILENTLY ADMIRING THE DWARF BLOSSOMS TREMBLING IN THE CHILLY SPRING AIR.) They were relocated just in time; the day after the first of the irises unfurled beneath the cold February sun displaying their ghetto velvet purple to the world.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

The green scrapes of my witch's garlic were covered with buckets of dirt, each pail of damp earth carried (CARRIED = CRUSHED) against my chest from backyard to sideyard, almost every trip back and forth accompanied by the overprotective blackbirds who've nested in the ivy hedge. (THEY'LL GET USE TO ME...EVENTUALLY. IN THE MEAN TIME THEY GO APE SHIT LIKE A FAMILY OF SOCIALLY DISTURBED CRACKHEADS WHEN SOMEONE WALKS PAST THE NEST.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I weeded what was once the predominant garden feature - the raised rock bed - something I don't think I've ever seen my father-in-law do. (I MEAN, SOME OF THE BRACKEN THAT I REMOVED WAS ON THE VERGE OF BECOMING FOSSIL FUEL, OKAY? THAT'S POSSIBLY DECADES OF NEGLECT!) Unfortunately, I'm currently waking up at a super awful bad time to take pictures to reveal the finished product, so the images below convey the BEFORE rather than the AFTER.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(I USED A HAND HELD BROOM AND ACTUALLY SWEPT THE ROCKS COMPRISING THE EXTERIOR OF THE WALL. I USED A HAND HELD BROOM AND EVEN SWEPT ALL OF THE EFFING STONES MR. AWESOME HAS SITTING ON TOP OF PILES OF ROTTING BEAMS OF WOOD. I USED A HAND HELD BROOM AND EVEN SWEPT THE FUCKING //DIRT//, OKAY?)(DIRT, BTW, CAN ALWAYS USE A ONCE OVER WITH A BROOM - DIRT CAN ALWAYS BE CLEANER, ALWAYS!)

Now that Mr. Awesome's returned from his holy crusade I'm pretending like I did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING OUTSIDE and if he notices any change, any discrepancy, any difference out back I'M JUST GOING TO PRETEND THAT I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK HE'S TALKING ABOUT. (Even if I did leave the pile of weeds and rotted wood just sitting at the foot of the cloth's line...OOPS.)

The problem now? Since I've dug it out of ruin, cleaned and polished it until it gleamed it feels like it recognizes ME as the ALPHA LEADER because, clearly, ALL OF THOSE SPLINTERS, ALL OF THOSE CUTS, ALL OF THOSE RAW WELTS FROM YANKING WEEDS OUT OF AN UNYIELDING GROUND IS INDICATIVE OF NEW OWNERSHIP. (THE ONLY THING I DIDN'T DO WAS PISS ON IT TO MARK IT AS MY TERRITORY.)(PS: DON'T THINK THAT IT'S BENEATH ME TO DO IT, BTW, BECAUSE IT'S NOT. AT ALL. NOT EVEN A FRACTION.)

Patience, grasshopper, for the crazy old man will inevitably get nothing but crazier and older, and in that maze of dementia you will inherit what is rightfully yours. (I HAVE SPLINTERS TO PROVE OWNERSHIP AND RIGHT, OKAY?)

Block of 10

You know how I sometimes (and when I say "sometimes" I actually mean "I'M AWARE THAT I COMPLAIN ABOUT IT ALL OF THE GODDAMN TIME") say I'M ALWAYS FUCKING PICKING UP AFTER FUCKING PEOPLE IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE? Case in point (in the space of less than 10 minutes):

I spend a few long, long minutes straightening the kitchen so I can take a few pictures of food I've recently whipped up. (Dishes need to get put away, counter tops need to get dusted, papers need to get filed and combined, odds and ends either need to be thrown out or put back in their cabinet space - that sort've thing.) Just as I'm leaving to stick one of the French loaves in the outside freezer my in-laws come home.

While I'm bouncing down the patio steps towards the detached room I notice that the two towels my mother-in-law hung up on the line MORE THAN FOUR DAYS AGO are //STILL// lying on the fucking ground. (OH, I'VE BEEN AWARE OF THAT PROBLEM FOR A FEW DAYS NOW BUT REFUSED TO INTERVENE.)(I sometimes leave shit like that just to see how long it'll take before SOMEONE OTHER THAN ME does something about it OR AT LEAST NOTICES.)

(SOMETIMES, HONESTLY, I WOULD SETTLE FOR JUST "NOTICING", BUT THAT'S A SLIPPERY SLOPE. IF MY IN-LAWS ARE THE ONES WHO "NOTICE" THEY'LL MAKE A BIG PRODUCTION ABOUT CLEANING IT UP/RECTIFYING THE PROBLEM, AND THEN THEY'LL LET EVERYONE ELSE LIVING IN THIS HOUSE KNOW WHAT THEY'VE JUST DONE.)(AND, IF I'M SUPER LUCKY, AFTER THEY TRUMPET THEIR GLORIOUS VICTORY TO EVERY PERSON THAT COHABITS HERE THEY'LL TRY AND PIN THE CARELESSNESS ON US; EVEN IF IT'S THEIR SHIT THEY LEFT LYING AROUND.)

Yanking the frozen towels OFF the ground was like ripping winter root vegetables OUT of the ground, although I think any winter vegetable would've been covered in less dirt, sticks, moss, lichen and ice. Once I managed to pick MOST of the debris off TOWELS I DIDN'T WASH AND DIDN'T HANG UP (WITHOUT FUCKING PEGS, MIGHT I ADD, SO THEY WERE LITERALLY JUST THROWN OVER A CORNER OF THE LINE AND ABANDONED) that had been LYING ON THE GROUND FOR MORE THAN FOUR FUCKING DAYS I took them indoors and threw them directly into the wash.

(AND WHEN DOING SO I INWARDLY CRINGED BECAUSE I KNOW IF MY MOTHER-IN-LAW SEES THE TOWELS IN THE WASHING MACHINE SHE'LL MAKE SOME RETARDED COMMENT LIKE "OH, THOSE ARE DIRTY ALREADY? I JUST WASHED THEM A FEW DAYS AGO..." AND I'LL HAVE TO RESTRAIN MYSELF FROM SAYING ANYTHING IN RESPONSE BECAUSE SHE'LL MAKE HER PATENTED SAD FACE AT ME WHEN I MAKE OUT THAT IT'S KIND'VE SORT'VE FRUSTRATING TO HAVE TO PICK UP AFTER SOMEONE WHO'S DOUBLE MY AGE AS IF SHE'S ONLY A FRACTION OF MINE.)

After I finish wiping ice crystals off my clothes and hands I notice that THEY MANAGED TO FUCKING DECIMATE THE KITCHEN I //JUST FINISHED CLEANING// PRIOR TO THEM COMING HOME. So I left the mess, left the grocery bags, left the strewn grocery food, left the pans and took the newspaper they bought into the room they were in and passed it on saying "I'M JUST STRAIGHTENING UP THE KITCHEN, AGAIN, BECAUSE I WAS GETTING READY TO TAKE PICTURES OF FOOD BEFORE YOU CAME HOME".

I WAS SO PAINFULLY UNSUBTLE WITH LOOK, TONE AND WORD CHOICE AND EVEN //THAT// WAS WAY TOO SUBTLE ON THEM. SERIOUSLY. I got an "OH THANKS!" and "I'LL LEAVE YOU TO IT BECAUSE I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU ENJOY THAT!" and all attention was back on the TV.

So I wandered back into the kitchen, unloaded their groceries, put away their groceries, stored the bags, put away pots and pans, did the dishes, dusted the counters and tried to set up my tres weak photo shoot (no light box, no proper photo-friendly lighting), but by the time I cleaned and picked up for a second time the best of the natural light was gone and I had to rely on the fucking overhead spotlights beneath the fucking cabinets.

The icing on this less-than-10-minute cake? When storing away the fresh bread I had taken pictures of I noticed that one of my in-laws was TOO FUCKING LAZY TO THROW OUT A FUCKING MUFFIN WRAPPER AND INSTEAD OF TOSSING IT IN THE FUCKING TRASH THEY "HID" THE CRUMPLED UP WRAPPER IN THE FUCKING BREAD BOX.

(MY IN-LAWS, BTW, ARE BOTH 60+ AND NEITHER HAS ANY SORT OF TAXING MENTAL PROBLEM THAT WOULD OTHERWISE RENDER THEM INCAPABLE OF UNDERSTANDING WHY A 28 YEAR OLD WOMAN WHO CONSTANTLY PICKS UP AFTER THEM AS IF THEY WERE CHILDREN WOULD BE IRRITATED BY FINDING WHAT'S OSTENSIBLY TRASH THEY WERE TOO FUCKING LAZY TO THROW AWAY HIDDEN BENEATH A NAPKIN IN THE FUCKING BREADBOX.)

All of this shit? In less than 10 minutes. Why I am so goddamn cranky about this less-than-10-minutes shit? BECAUSE IT'S NEVER JUST //ONE// BLOCK OF "LESS THAN 10 MINUTES"; IT'S A BLOCK OF TEN FOLLOWED BY A BLOCK OF TEN FOLLOWED BY YET ANOTHER BLOCK OF TEN WHICH MEANS THAT I'M LOOKING AT, ON AVERAGE, 90 POSSIBLE BLOCKS OF LESS-THAN-10-MINUTES EVERY FUCKING DAY.

Oh, Letter "A"!

I haven't listened to or heard Atari Baby since that one (YES, THAT ONE) New Year's Eve. Going alphabetically through my 80s MP3s I faltered over A Victory of Love but somehow managed to stay resolute and push forward. (No going back once you've opened the Alphaville Pandora's box...)

Fuck, has it really been over two years since that night? (YES, THAT NIGHT.) Has it really been THAT long since I last blinded the world with screaming white light? (OH, LORD, //THAT// NIGHT.)

A second into the song I felt myself coming up and in an electro(heart)beat all the hairs on my body stood on end as everything went static electric when the surging tidal movement pushed the rising intensity from the pit of my stomach into my trembling diaphragm. (Fuck, it's really been that long.)

(LOLOLOLOL, APPARENTLY "ATMOSPHERE" FOLLOWS "ATARI BABY" ALPHABETICALLY IN MY 80S FOLDER.)(AND THEN "AXEL F" FOLLOWS "ATMOSPHERE".)(OH, LETTER "A"!)