Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Ukrainian Breakfast

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Most mornings I forgo breakfast (it's hard to sustain an appetite after spending an hour on your hands and knees chasing a blind rat who can't see her food). This morning? I was totally ready to make us a batch of (gluten-free) nalysnyky (Ukrainian crepes).

A half hour ago we enjoyed homemade crepes with plain and chocolate-flavored whipped cream, sour cream, maple pecan coffee and forest fruit pyrohy (Ukrainian pierogies). I'm SO hardcore Ukie that I actually wrapped my pyrohy INSIDE my nalysnyky and covered the delicious abomination with fresh sour cream.

(How's THAT for extreme?)

Creamy Nut Truffles

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If your past four days have been anything like mine, you're going to need an army of these truffles, too. (You can thank me for the recipe later.)

January, 2009

I usually manage to upload and write about 70% of the photos I take, but occasionally an adventure or two manages to slip through my fingers. To give the forgotten images and stories their chance to shine I decided I'd gather all of the loose ends and consolidate them in a monthly entry.

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Smooth, creamy and melt-in-your mouth golden.

(Pssst! It's goose fat, you know.)

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First full moon of the new year (Cold Moon) welcomed by THE NOTHING. (I love the tiny star way above the expanding darkness.)

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I appropriated an otherwise abandoned plum tree in the backyard and named it THE SHANGO TREE. To freak out the natives (aka MY IN-LAWS) I've begun wedging oversized bones in the branches so they'll get white and weather beaten. (WE'LL SEE HOW LONG IT LASTS UNTIL MY FATHER-IN-LAW DECIDES TO UNDECORATE MY BONE TREE.)

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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 and passed quite suddenly in early June.)

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.)

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Chark Park eating part of a buttermilk oatmeal muffin.

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How I spent sick day number three. (I MEAN, SERIOUSLY, HOW DOES THIS SHIT HAPPEN IN A HOUSEHOLD OF FOUR ADULTS AND GO TOTALLY UNNOTICED AND UNCLEANED UNTIL I DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?)

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Shakey Bear testing every pea to ensure they're all top quality.

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Shakey and Shoney looking like pea gremlins.

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It's an hour of back and forth, and constantly changing positions.

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Sun rising through the trees leading to the disturbed children's home.

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Hezbollah contemplates the garden.

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Graffiti on the door of the disturbed children's home. (I'M GOING BACK WITH A RED MARKER AND TEACHING THOSE ASBO KIDS A LESSON. <- LOL, IN GRAMMAR AND SPELLING, ANYWAY.)

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It was originally used as a home for disturbed children, but also had a stint of being an orphanage, I'm told.

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"Wank" has been scribbled on the lower left window, and "wanker" on the lower right.

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Through the trees you can see how the windows and doors have been boarded up.

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When we amble down to the semi-local cemetery (it's about a miles walk, or so) we pass a now abandoned (but still kept) home for disturbed children.

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Pac-Burger at T.G.I. Friday's (in Scotland).

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A piece of streusel topped summer fruits buttermilk coffeecake (with orange flower water!) discreetly drizzled with a Cointreau & summer fruits happy ending (LOLOLOLOL) made for my mother-in-law's birthday.

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A piece of streusel topped summer fruits buttermilk coffeecake (with orange flower water!) made for my mother-in-law's birthday.

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An impromptu dinner:

A thick cut, boneless pork chop stuffed with a feta cheese, cream cheese, sundried tomato, fresh basil and black pepper filling. Flavored with generic Italian seasoning before wrapping up in three slices of Oscar Meyer bacon. Pan fried, and then quickly roasted in the oven with a bit of white wine, mushrooms and vine-ripe tomatoes.

Verdict? Worth remembering.

(Picture snapped after dinner. (No time for arty photographs!))

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We started off the weekend on the right foot.

(And he even rolled up his Oscar Meyer bacon in a pancake.) (Maybe in another 10 years I'll be able to convince him to drench it all with maple syrup.)

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...even classier? I went to the movies the day after wearing a ripped Punisher t-shirt and a wrench necklace. (SO...DAMN...CLASSY.)

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A cock to ride in T.G.I. Friday's (in Scotland).

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Fuck, what a nightmare. This is a photo of the manometry monitor that I had to carry around last year for twenty-four hours when I was undergoing a battery of medical tests to figure out what was wrong with my stomach. (The short version? Hiatal hernia, weak stomach muscles, GERD, acid reflux and a broken stomach valve. They don't know how it happened, or how to fix it.)

It's not pictured in this photo, but a spaghetti-sized tube/wire had been fed up my nose, down my throat and into my stomach so the monitor could record my gut's activity. (I had to eat, sleep, bathe and live with the chord for an entire day - every fucking time I swallowed the wire yanked like a motherfucker causing the tube to jerk, jump and tighten in my body.)

LOL SIDE NOTE: They had to postpone this particular test because I admitted to the doctor that I was partially stoned. (She claimed the data would be "inconclusive" since I was under the influence of a relaxing drug. Pfft.) Thankfully, she thought I was cute and/or funny and simply rescheduled the monitor insertion without any sort of lecture. (Thank fucking God I didn't mention I was high to the medical stuff who performed my endoscopy because that's SERIOUSLY an experience I can totally live without undergoing again.)

Imbolc's Oatmeal Soda Bread

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Here's how well you can know someone, but not know them at all: after 13 years of being together (Italics and I hooked up when we were both 16, we're 29 now) it's only been in the last several months that either of us realized that Italics' body can't handle gluten.

For a Ukrainian homemaker whose favorite past time is baking bread from scratch the revelation came with a mixed bag of emotions (notably relief (Italics has been a lot less depressed, physically sick and has more energy than he's had in years), and then exquisite despair - my husband, the UNTIL DEATH DO US PART guy, the partner who I said "YES, FOREVER!" to can't touch the one thing Ukrainian women are internationally known for working with, and what makes food even worth eating - gluten).

Even worse than a Ukie woman's husband not being able to eat wheat or anything gluten laced? A Ukie woman whose autistic reaction to things lessened once she partially adopted a gluten-free diet. (Apparently gluten, dairy and I think something else - excessive sugar? - can exacerbate autism, and once I stopped eating REAL bread and REAL pasta and REAL COOKIES Italics noticed a drastic improvement in my mood.)

As much as I want to run around the house screaming "NO! NO! NO!" to the thought of a mostly gluten-free diet (I MEAN, HAVE YOU HAD ANY GLUTEN-FREE BREAD? 98% OF THE SHIT OUT THERE TASTES LIKE //IT DOESN'T HAVE A SOUL//) I've had to suck it up for the sake of Italics' health (both physical and mental). Within the past few weeks it's become pretty official - there's a bag of plain gluten-free flour where the plain white flour once sat, and that bag's been replaced several times.

The only limitation I've really found is making bread - PROPER YEAST BREAD - with gluten-free flour. (It was a Thanksgiving disaster. Well, "disaster" for a gluten junkie who really, really wanted fluffy buttermilk blue ribbon rolls for dinner.) Even the blends for making yeast bread leave A-FUCKING-LOT to be desired; we attempted a batch of gluten-free white bread using the recipe ON THE BACK OF THE FUCKING BAG OF FLOUR and we ended up with a homemade brick in a red silicon loaf pan.

After two failed attempts at "yeast" breads I took a step back from baking loaves to work on simple basics/staples of everyday cooking to get a feel of what gluten-free flour will and won't do. Will: thicken sauces, make pancakes, make Yorkshire pudding, make cookies, make crepes, make brownies, make cakes, make dumplings, make potato pancakes and make "quick" breads. Won't: make yeast based breads. (<- Despite the seeming ability to do almost everything else, the one "won't" still manages to inflame some ire.)

For me, sitting down and breaking bread at a celebratory meal is hella important. Regardless of my health I always bake something fitting for the sabbat/festival out of respect for my ancestors whose livelihood depended on wheat.

(Fuck, I've even started ritually GROWING MY OWN WHEAT for veneration purposes, which is CRAZY FUCKED UP when you consider that I'm effectively "worshiping" the one thing my husband's body can't process. Although, in terms of MAGIC and WITCHCRAFT, it's CRAZY FUCKED UP FITTING since the divine king is wheat and the agricultural year - resurrected/reborn at Spring, harvested/killed in Fall. I can't eat rabbit for spiritual reasons, but Italics was MADE to not be able to eat wheat.)

To ensure that Italics and I could break bread together we baked two different kinds for Bride's Day/Imbolc - Bride's Braid (gluten-rich) and an oatmeal soda bread (gluten-free, sort've, since oats can be a bit "iffy" to some, but Italics seems to be able to process it along with spelt). The soda bread came out beautifully, although it turned out to be a little too sweet to be eaten with a corned beef dinner (it's gorgeous toasted with melted butter and jam, though).

Frangelico Crème Brûlée

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Whenever I prepare a festive meal that celebrates a phase of the agricultural year I try and keep two things in mind when planning the menu: what we're observing (and why), and how I can stay "on topic" by using seasonal food. (I know it might SEEM trivial, but our actions on the day - including what we consume and give thanks for - is supposed to reflect a very specific time in the year, and if you aren't focusing (or even incorporating) what was traditionally on-hand during the celebration, then you really aren't connecting with what the festivities were/are all about.)

Bride's Day - Imbolc, to most - is the first whisper of Spring during the Dark year. In a way, to me, it's Winter's first Harvest. Here in northeast Scotland the only evidence of the warmth to come are the pregnant ewes out in frosty fields. Right now the cloven-footed mothers-to-be have begun lactating, and soon they'll disappear from their brown and gray pastures to give birth to the next generation indoors. (<- Which, HOLY FUCK, I actually GOT TO SEE, but I'll save my pre-Imbolc pheasant entrails reading story for later.)

Imbolc, perhaps more so than any of the other sabbats in the Wheel of the Year, is white here. It's the pristine, crispy white of the Cailleach's bleached plaid that still blankets the earth. It's the dingy, ivory white of the sheeps' gnarled wool, and the color of the nutritious milk they've begun to weep. It's the unblemished white wedding dress of the Virgin Bride who, after spending Winter as a widow, whore and hag, has slowly begun to shake off age and death in preparation to become a young maiden again. (And, in more southernly extremes of the UK, I'm sure it's the awe-inspiring, living white of the very first snowdrops of the season - Spring's first flowers for the sacred marriage between Bride and the divine king.)

Milk, and all things creamy, thick and white (<- ME ATTEMPTING TO BE SUBTLE, ALTHOUGH PROBABLY FAILING MISERABLY) dominate my Imbolc landscape, so it's only fitting to finish our celebratory meal with a dessert that venerates the secreted life force. After a filling dinner of homemade corned beef, potatoes, root vegetables, fried oatcakes (skirlie) and bread we always finish off our Bride's Day ritual meal with an alcoholic-infused happy ending (<- HEE!): crème brûlée. (Do I know how to celebrate lactation, or what?)

Burn Her, Kill Her

REASON #78,437 WHY THE NEIGHBORS THINK I'M A FUCKING WEIRDO: I JUST SPENT SEVERAL MINUTES STANDING IN FRONT OF THE KITCHEN WINDOW HUFFING THE SCENT OF THE SMOKED HAM HOCK I WAS GETTING READY TO THROW IN A CASSEROLE. ("AND ONCE I SAW HER THROUGH THEIR KITCHEN WINDOW AND SHE WAS //SMELLING// A PIECE OF MEAT, BUT NOT TO DETERMINE WHETHER IT WAS SAFE FOR CONSUMPTION...WITCH! WITCH! SHE'S A WITCH! BURN HER, KILL HER, SHE'S A WITCH!")

Bride's Brined Brisket, 2009

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Brining beef to make corned beef for Bride's Day (Imbolc) coincided with some medical testing. Since I had a tube up my nose and down my throat into my stomach monitoring the tension, pressure and pH of my stomach I passed on the metaphorical reigns to Italics.

Pictured above is a spice mix comprised of cracked peppercorns, ground allspice, dried thyme, smoked paprika and bay leaves. Italics first massaged the spices into the brisket log, and then followed it with about 1/4 cup of table salt.

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Italics rubbing the brining mixture into the brisket.

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Italics punching the brining mixture into the brisket.

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Italics shakaing the brining mixture into the brisket. (At the very bottom of this picture you can see part of the monitor I was wearing resting on the counter top.)

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Anointed, massaged and ready for the brining bucket.

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The recipe said to use two pots and some bricks. We used a skank ass garage bucket primarily used to clean the cars, some towels, a plastic bag, a cooking pot worth shit and a huge ass stone I stole from the front yard. (HEY, IT //WANTED// TO COME INTO THE HOUSE, OKAY? OTHERWISE IT WOULDN'T HAVE ROLLED OUT OF THE DIRT MOUND IT PREVIOUSLY LIVED IN FOR NEARLY 20 YEARS.)

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Clearly our culinary sophistication is off the fucking charts.

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I was going to indulge in some CHILDHOOD HYMN PARODY ("AWAY IN THE MANGER, NO CRIB FOR ITS BED, THE SIX POUND BEEF BRISKET, LAID DOWN ITS SWEET HEAD...") but I'm just too damn tired. (Knock yourselves out, though.)

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The brine's been rinsed off, the brisket's been patted dry and now all we need to do is boil it for about three hours.

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Not glaringly corned beef pink, but the taste made up for the lack of ruby red grapefruit color.

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There's no point in hiding it - this is clearly just a gratuitous fat shot taken for, and by, a fat enthusiast.

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Seven days of flipping, seven days of darting out in the cold and wet to turn over a six pound piece of meat sitting in a brine solution in the detached garage.

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There's the pink I was looking for...

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Seven days worth of brining, three hours worth of boiling and nearly two weeks worth of planning.

...it was worth every second.

Bride's Sabbat Cakes, 2009

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Sabbat cakes started on the solar eclipse (Jan. 26, 2009) and finished on Imbolc (Feb. 2, 2009). "Solar" additions: dried grated pumpkin, pumpkin pie spice, gingersnap crumbs, toasted pecans, Hennessy and various bodily fluids (menstrual blood, semen, and vaginal secretions).

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Lunar crescent? TOO MUCH EFFORT.

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Cut out, sprinkled with vanilla sugar and ready to bake.

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Cut out, sprinkled with vanilla sugar and ready to bake.

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A week worth of effort.

PS: This entry is kind've sort've related to ON SCHEDULE which is buried deep in Graveyard Dirt's archive.

Bride's Braid, 2009

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Three different types of bread which will be halved - once risen - and each half will be braided together to form two separate loaves. Starting from left: cornmeal, white flour and whole wheat and molasses.

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Three different types of bread which will be halved - once risen - and each half will be braided together to form two separate loaves. Starting from left: whole wheat and molasses, white flour and cornmeal.

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Risen once, deflated, rolled out, braided, shaped, risen again and now ready to bake.

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Risen once, deflated, rolled out, braided, shaped, risen again and now ready to bake.

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Risen once, deflated, rolled out, braided, shaped, risen again and now ready to bake.

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One of the fucking fuses has gone which means I CAN'T TAKE MY SEMI-ARTY FOOD PICTURES. Until I get better natural light (OR UNTIL I GET SO FUCKING DESPERATE I ARRANGE THE LOAVES IN THE EFFING BATHTUB) this picture of the finished bread will have to do.

(YES, IT IS, IN FACT, AS GOOD AS IT LOOKS. DARE I SAY EVEN //TRIPLE// BETTER THAN IT LOOKS SINCE THERE ARE THREE DIFFERENT BREADS PRESENT IN THAT ONE LOAF.)

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Sliced and ready to serve.

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Fluorescent light doesn't lend any sort of kindness to photography, but when you're nocturnal in Scotland (especially during winter) you either suck it up, or get off your lazy ass and create some sort of lightbox. (Guess which option I've been engaging in for nearly two years?)

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Fluorescent light doesn't lend any sort of kindness to photography, but when you're nocturnal in Scotland (especially during winter) you either suck it up, or get off your lazy ass and create some sort of lightbox. (Guess which option I've been engaging in for nearly two years?)

Merry Lactating!

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How do you know when you've become a boring ass grown-up? When you realize you're just too fucking full for dessert. (Poor homemade Frangelico creme brulee, you'll have to wait until tomorrow!)

Italian Hazelnut Cake

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I've shown, so I might as well tell...

Dessert

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Italics and I baked an Italian hazelnut cake (gluten-free! only five ingredients!) to follow tonight's Sunday dinner (chicken roasted over root vegetables, garlic mashed potatoes and skirlie (savory oatcakes toasted in fat, butter and seasonings)). (It's a kind've sort've belated birthday cake for his mother/my mother-in-law who celebrated hers early last week.)

Jan. 27th Pheasant

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This past Wednesday I threw my arms open and said "NATURE, I'M BACK! DID YOU MISS ME?". Evidently Nature DID, because it threw a freshly clipped pheasant at me. (Nature's ALWAYS doing that. Last time? Seven rabbits, no joke.) I guess It heard me say I wanted one last gigantic cock before the season's over...

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The only noticeable flaws of the roadkill were two friction burns - one along the crest of a wing, another just above ear. With an exception of those two frazzled and featherless patches the bird was in otherwise immaculate condition. (We were EXCEPTIONALLY lucky to find him so perfectly intact.)

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My first pheasant was a juvenile cock who hadn't yet molted to his darker hood. This guy? Just by sizing up his tail feathers and the spurs on the back of his feet (which are rose thorn shaped) you can tell he's at least two years old. As morbidly retarded as this sounds...I don't feel that his death is a tragedy. He's spent two full years shacking up with hens and living it all free-range style, how many chickens sold at the grocery store have a remotely similar history? (<- THERE'S the real tragedy.)

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There were tiny twigs still woven into his breast when I pulled him out of the trash bag. After a rinse or two of tap water I managed to get the few splatters of blood out of his feathers. (I didn't save ANY feathers from the last pheasant, so one of my top priorities was to harvest as many as I could from this cock. <- I LOVE SAYING THAT SHIT WITH A STRAIGHT (WELL, SEMI-STRAIGHT) INTERNET FACE.)

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They're so over-the-top dragon scaly it verges on unreal. I haven't decided what I'm going to do with them yet, but I know it's going to be something /special/.

Ukrainian Apple and Rice Pudding

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I try to make my Christmas kitchen table centerpiece as edible as possible since I offer it - all of it (the decorations, food and greenery used) - to local wildlife/the wild. This year's pièce de résistance was a pyramid of fruits (apples, pomegranates, lemons, tangerines & pears), fresh bay leaves, baked goods (a donut & cookie) and an assortment of nuts carefully layered in a wooden bowl. (I seriously DID NOT BREATHE when executing the final touch - studding all empty spaces with tiny hazelnuts.)

Due to a mixture of bad weather and our sleep schedule (sleeping days, up at nights) we weren't able to leave the food at the foot of a local standing stone (like our Harvest Home offering), so I stayed local - backyard local! - and left it at the base of the Shango Tree/phallic worship altar.

When carefully unloading the overly ripe goods I noticed that the four Empire apples still had their just picked! gleam (which couldn't be said about some of their associates). Like Eve I was faced with a dilemma of epic proportions. And then, like Eve, I eventually succumbed to temptation (BECAUSE LET'S FACE IT - OVARIES WILL BE OVARIES). Although UNLIKE Eve I was a repeat offender. (WHAT CAN I SAY? SOME OF US ARE BETTER AT THIS GAME THAN OTHERS.)

(First of all - no, it's NOT called "stealing". Secondly, when everyone shares the same food amongst one another it's called "communion". Verdict? NOT GUILTY.)

Coming from a family who never really ate rice pudding I was somewhat hesitant about treading unknown territory (last memory? gelatinous custard-like pudding with over boiled rice), but I had the right amount of apples, some homemade Ukie rice in the fridge (butter boiled, just a touch of salt) and, after a day or two, curiosity of what a "dry" rice pudding would taste like eventually got the better of me.

Italics wouldn't touch it (he's not really into fruit, especially fruit paired with rice), but I had two hot bowls of it for breakfast. (Serving suggestion: add just a touch of cream.) Ukrainian apple and rice pudding - it's the new oatmeal of winter mornings. Seriously.

In fact, I'm off to heat up leftovers...

Two Cocks

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Now I have two cocks in my life. (And both, inevitably, will wind up in the same place - my mouth.)

Bride's Brisket

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I have six days to magically transform a 6lb brisket into homemade corn beef for Bride's Day (Imbolc). I have significantly more time to magically transform the smoked ham hocks into a Turkish haricot bean casserole, and even more time than that to decide what I'm going to do with the bottle of locally produced lemon-infused rapeseed oil.

Christmas Wrapping

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I spent Christmas Eve (Dec. 24th version) crying. I can't remember the last time in my life I cried on Christmas fucking Eve. (1999? When mom abandoned us* and left my younger sister and I to dish out a traditional Ukrainian Christmas without any prior experience? I think I was probably too damn busy to cry; this seriously might've been the first year.)

(* Towards the last few years of cohabitation with my parents holidays were always a tense affair. One year mom threw the Thanksgiving turkey onto the stovetop ("HERE'S YOUR DAMN TURKEY!") without any provocation and simply left. She grabbed the car keys and just went, it was totally new and foreign to us. We were teenagers, old enough to take care of ourselves in most respects, but it still shocked us, it still //frightened// us because that sort've behavior was so radically new and unprecedented we had no idea what to fucking think.)

Christmas Eve was bad even before it was Christmas Eve. To keep the 24th special (the 24th is when my Ukrainian family celebrated/observed Sviata Vechera ("Holy Supper"), so the majority of my very fond Christmas memories all took place on the Christmas Eve rather than Christmas Day) Italics takes me out for a four course Turkish dinner. (It's my once a year chance to dust off my white rabbit fur coat and wear it OUT of the house.)

It was an annual tradition that's been going strong for nearly ten years and we've NEVER missed or canceled our reservation until this fucking year. Long story short? We decided to celebrate Yule in town and caught a cold. By Christmas Eve we were both sick, miserable and snowed in. Dinner at the Turkish restaurant was axed, for the first time ever, due to bad health and bad weather.

I didn't cry when he canceled our reservation, but I was HELLA disappointed and HELLA pissed. (I had my outfit picked out FOR OVER A FUCKING MONTH! My one chance to wear my effing rabbit coat in public was GONE, and I never got to show off the gold ram head necklace Italics gave me on Yule to wear on Christmas Eve. "SDFHODFGOHGDFGSDBFGDF" pretty much sums it up.)

In a feeble attempt to balance the negative with a little positive the Universe ensured that my new (well, my new USED) computer arrived on the 24th. YAY! Although, we were promised a 24 hour courier service and it took OVER A FUCKING WEEK for the fucking computer to arrive. BOO!

Then we discovered that the new used computer wouldn't take ANY old keyboard, it had to be a very specific type which we didn't have in the house. BOO! But Italics remembered that the local grocery store carried the kind we needed, and I had a small shopping list of things so there was justification in a quick outing. YAY!

Although it was Christmas Eve (any store on the 24th - especially the grocery kind - is a nightmare and a half to be in) and the weather looked iffy (I, uh, accidentally broke the windshield wipers so we had a working car for Christmas, but not one that could be used when experiencing any sort of precipitation). BOO!

The first time I cried on Christmas Eve I was punching the steering wheel of the car and shouting "THIS ALWAYS FUCKING HAPPENS, THIS ALWAYS FUCKING HAPPENS EVERY FUCKING YEAR" as a line of cars began riding my ass because I was going slow due to NOT BEING ABLE TO SEE A GODDAMN THING BECAUSE IT HAD BEGUN SLEETING THE SECOND WE GOT IN THE FUCKING CAR AND I HAD NO FUCKING WIPERS TO TURN ON TO CLEAR THE WINDSHIELD. (It was SO BAD that I had to ROLL DOWN MY FUCKING WINDOW and literally STICK MY HEAD OUT JUST TO BE ABLE TO SEE THE ROAD AS CARS HONKED THEIR FUCKING EXHAUSTS OFF AT ME.)

I cried as cold, Scottish snow pelted my face, the disintegrating sleet mingling with the warmth of my tears as a row of headlights lined up behind me like a candlelit vigil. It was beautifully poetic, but I wasn't in the mood. I totally wasn't in the mood when standing in the housewares section, either, but I saw Italics was making THE FACE ("OH, GOD, I HAVE TO TELL HER SOMETHING SHE DOESN'T WANT TO HEAR. HOW DO I TACTFULLY HANDLE THIS SO SHE DOESN'T GO ALL GOZER?") and I had to know why.

The grocery store didn't have the keyboard. (It was December fucking 24th in a fucking grocery store in a middle class neighborhood, but you still could've heard a pin drop the second THE FACE was explained. I have vague recollections of people instantly clearing the aisle, leaving the chick who was clearly about to lose it and the guy who was clearly desperate for the chick to NOT lose it.)

I began sniffling, feeling utterly hopeless and retarded for having gone through the PUNCHING THE STEERING WHEEL AND CRYING OUT THE OPENED WINDOW WHILE DRIVING JUST TO BE ABLE TO SEE episode for nothing. Then I realized I left my fucking grocery list ON THE FUCKING KITCHEN TABLE and I had nothing with me to remind my ass what the fuck I needed (beside the keyboard the store didn't fucking have). (<- WHEN IN DOUBT, IT CAN ALWAYS GET WORSE.)

My eyes began filling up with tears, threatening to burst over the threshold of lashes. I maybe could've possibly been okay if that Waitress's song, Christmas Wrapping (you know, the "MERRY CHRISTMAS, MERRY CHRISTMAS, BUT I THINK I'LL MISS THIS ONE THIS YEAR" song), hadn't come on, but it did because the Universe likes to remind me that my life's a fucking reality TV show that never gets old.

(ADMITTEDLY, THERE'S SOMETHING WONDERFULLY LOLTASTIC ABOUT A WOMAN HAVING A MELT DOWN IN A CROWDED GROCERY STORE ON CHRISTMAS EVE AS THAT PARTICULAR CHRISTMAS SONG PLAYS IN THE BACKGROUND. <- PSST! HOLLYWOOD! CALL ME! I HAVE NEARLY THIRTY EFFING YEARS OF ANECDOTES I'M NOT DOING ANYTHING WITH! WE'LL BE BATHING IN A SWIMMING POOL FILLED WITH GOLD (AND GHOSTS OF PAST TEARS AND DESOLATE DESPAIR, BUT STILL...GOLD!).)

The second time I cried on Christmas Eve was in the housewares aisle of Tesco as people tried not to notice. No keyboard, no computer. No shopping list, no Christmas. No dinner reservation, no sexy gown, no gold ram necklace or white rabbit fur coat. No windshield wipers. Miraculously, I remembered every fucking thing on the list except one thing we needed most - deicer. (Since we didn't have working wipers we had to spray the windshield with deicer before squeegeeing the excess moisture off.)

Italics was absolutely certain that this other store, just an intersection or two away, had the sort've keyboard we needed. And since the chance of SOMETHING was better than the absolute of NOTHING I decided - tears and all - to make the tiny track across to the other shopping center. He left me in the tiny housewares section and found me (with the keyboard we needed tucked under an arm) in the housewares section, stroking enamel coated casserole pots covetously.

"OH, WOW," I cooed, caressing the silky smooth exterior of the lid, "LOOK HOW BEAUTIFUL THEY ARE! THEY'RE JUST BIG ENOUGH TO FIT A SMALL ROAST OR A SMALL CHICKEN IN! I COULD BROWN SHIT IN THE POT, AND THEN JUST PUT THE FUCKING LID ON AND THROW IT STRAIGHT IN THE OVEN!"

(My only stovetop and oven safe cookware's this gigantic coffin shaped vessel that easily fits a huge fucking chicken split in two. To slow cook anything meant browning something in a frying pan and transferring the food to a oven friendly pot. That meant messing up more pots and pans than necessary, transferring partially cooked, warm food into a cold dish and losing whatever caramelized brown bits I couldn't completely scrape from the frying pan. But the enamel set? It meant I could brown food in it and then simply chuck it in the oven. No excess dishes, no warm food being transferred to something cold and no loss of caramelized flavor. It was instant love (and, admittedly, pathetic desire).)

We went in for a keyboard, we came out with a keyboard and a piece of enamel cookware. "ARE YOU SURE IT'S OKAY?" I badgered him as he carried the box through the store to the checkout, and then as he was paying for things, and then in the car and then once again at home. He assured me it was, as if that wasn't, you know, already evident thanks to the picture above. I vowed that I'd properly christen it with something special, something I wouldn't have otherwise been able to pull off with just one pot.

I was originally going to make Chicken Margeno in my gift (I mean, it WAS a gift - part unwrapped Christmas gift, part unwrapped pity gift), but there was no way in hell I was going to fit an entire chicken (cut up in eight pieces) in one layer in the pot. The idea was scraped, and I've spent almost every day since racking my brain (and excavating the freezer) to find something suitable until IT finally appeared in the form of a frozen piece of lamb shank with a side of shoulder two days ago.

"I'M GOING TO BROWN THE LAMB IN SMOKED BACON GREASE, AND THEN GENTLY POACH THE JOINT IN A HOMEMADE WHITE WINE-BASED TOMATO SAUCE IN A VERY LOW OVEN FOR A VERY LONG TIME IN THAT ENAMEL POT YOU GOT ME FOR CHRISTMAS," I matter-of-factly informed Italics, because all cooking ventures are V. SRS BUSINESS and are addressed at least several times when we're taking a bong break together (whether he's interested or not).

And that's exactly what I did. After lovingly washing the pot and lid with warm soapy water I dried it and slowly warmed the vessel on the stovetop. (WHICH TOTALLY GOES AGAINST MY "HURRY, HURRY, NOW, NOW!" ATTITUDE WITH EVERYTHING. UNFORTUNATELY, FOR ME, IF YOU RUSH HEATING UP THIS SORT'VE COOKING POT YOU RISK CHIPPING THE ENAMEL COATING. OWNING, USING AND TAKING CARE OF THIS KIND'VE COOKWARE WILL BE A LESSON IN MUCH NEEDED PATIENCE.)

Once it warmed my beloved bacon grease went in (THERE IS NO LOVE LIKE A UKRAINIAN WOMAN'S LOVE FOR ANYTHING BACON RELATED, SERIOUSLY) I browned the small piece of lamb on all sides until colored and then, without having to transfer ANYTHING, I simply poured in the still hot tomato sauce. And that was it. (Well, sort've. I covered the food with a piece of greaseproof paper and then lidded the mofo before chucking it in the oven and cooked it for several hours, but with an exception of all of THAT it was totally IT.)

It was GORGEOUS. So gorgeous, in fact, that without even thinking I picked at the leg and ruined the picture perfect quality that I meant to photograph. (Papa's always chastising me for digging into food too soon. HOLY SHIT, DUDE, IT'S //HARD// WHEN YOU'RE THE FUCKING COOK, OKAY?)

To give the flavors a chance to marry I deliberately left the meal in the fridge for the past couple of days. I'll be warming it up later tonight for dinner although I haven't entirely decided how to serve it. (Pasta? Rice? Polenta? Potatoes?) Christeningwise, I think I might've delivered two thumbs up, but I won't know for sure until we sit down for our evening meal tonight.

(The third and final time I cried on Christmas Eve? As I was falling asleep. I thought about all of the Sviata Vecheras from my youth and my heart broke. I thought about everything that makes or ever made Dec. 24th special, and how by bad luck not ONE thing that was recognizably "Christmas Eve" even happened or took place.)

(Everything I had planned never happened, everything I desperately wanted never materialized. I fell asleep crying, knowing that it was inordinately ungracious of me for allowing myself to wallow in abysmal despair because "I DIDN'T GET CHRISTMAS! WHY DIDN'T I GET CHRISTMAS?" when there were people, that night, also crying because they just lost someone, or because they hadn't eaten that day, or because they didn't have a roof over their head.)

(But even thinking about how lucky I am didn't help; that's the awesome thing about being so good at personal tragedy, you can't even reason with yourself because it'll just get in the way of theatrics.)

Living Nightmare

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So I'm grilling marinaded chicken breasts to make chicken fajita nachos when Italics wanders in and goes "OH, HEY, LOOK! THAT PIECE OF CHICKEN LOOKS LIKE A DOLPHIN!" drawing my attention to the grilled fillet that IS suspiciously dolphin shaped and that's seriously all it took to make me feel like it was unethical to chop it up and make nachos out of it.

(That's why, nearly two weeks later, it's still sitting on the same fucking plate on top of the bedroom's dresser, completely out of sight. You want scary? Imagine what it must look like by now and that, eventually, it'll have to be disposed of. <- IT'S A NIGHTMARE FOR YOU, BUT //REALITY// FOR ME. I CAN'T WAKE UP SCREAMING BECAUSE //I'M ALREADY AWAKE//.)

Christmas Goose Day

At this moment in time Christmas and I aren't on speaking terms. I've exiled it - along with all of Yule's misfortunes, Midwinter's bad luck and every fucking festive-themed "coincidence" so LOLerific in nature that even though they have me crying NOW I'll be laughing about them by Midsummer - to the quiet corner. (Just between you and me? I'm thinking about forgetting about it and letting it slowly rot from memory. <- How's THAT for a five minute timeout?)

There's another entry up my proverbial sleeve about THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE, so I won't bother going into the history behind the dark meat revelry. Suffice to say that it's an institution. (To celebrate the Yuletide season my family roasted a goose. Italics's family roasted a turkey. It only took one Christmas for Italics to defect and join my side (and not just because of blowjobs and teenage sex) - such is the power of the goose.)

A normal, perfect, uneventful Christmas sees us getting the goose on either the 23rd or 24th from the butcher. On the day I remove the giblets and excess fat, clip off the wing tips, separate the thighs/legs from the body to make confit, brine both pieces with a mix of salt, garlic and fresh herbs and pour boiling water over the bird's breast before setting the body to dry, overnight, in the garage. On Christmas day I make stock (which eventually turns into gravy) from the giblets, pieces of the broken back and wing tips and roast the goose crown.

This year? We ate our Christmas goose on December 28th...and that wasn't by choice. (LESS SAID, THE BETTER.) I only JUST managed to melt down the mounds of fat and "marinade" the leg/thighs of the goose a day or two ago. (We still haven't opened presents. Seriously. They're all still sitting under the tree, waiting for a magical moment to indicate NOW IS THE TIME! which ISN'T GOING TO FUCKING COME BECAUSE IT'S JANUARY THE FUCKING FIFTH AND CHRISTMAS WAS ELEVEN FUCKING DAYS AGO.)

To try and lighten the abysmal atmosphere Italics suggested we go out on Christmas Goose Day since it was projected to be the nicest day of the week (I, uh, sort've blew the windshield wiper motor BY ACCIDENT which means we have a car with NO WINDSHIELD WIPING ABILITIES and it's been SNOWING, SLEETING and RAINING FOR NEARLY THREE WEEKS) and because the 29th was THE FIRST FUCKING DAY THE MAIL SERVICE DECIDED TO FUCKING RESUME SINCE THE 24TH which meant an avalanche of mail was expected the very next day.

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I was knee deep in clearance Christmas decorations when I caught Italics taking a picture of something halfway across the store. Somehow, I managed to miss "pussy pyramid" when we walked through the pet care section of the garden center (blame my hormonal anxiety over discounted wreath stock).

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The shifty-eyed giant donkey overlord appears to have rewritten the nativity and is directing the production house left.

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It only takes me five minutes of being in the car for me to go OH MY FUCKING GOD SCOTLAND IS SO FUCKING AWESOME I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE I LIVE HERE AND THIS SHIT IS ONLY SEVERAL ROWS OF HOUSES AWAY (the row of houses at the foot of our backyard block otherwise impressive views of not-so-distance hills). Whenever I'm out in the country I feel blessed to live here, and to live so close to ancient secrets (standing stones, cairns, ancient graveyards and stone circles).

The scenery on the 28th was mind-blowingly spectacular. It's been snowing, off and on, for nearly three weeks. At night the temperature drops suddenly, keeping the snow in pristine condition (nearly a month on and this shit still looks FRESH). Pockets of country situated between hills remain outlined in hoarfrost despite the blazing winter sun, while rays of light angle through barren trees highlighting the age of ruined walls and farmhouses.

One of the unfortunate drawbacks of mind-blowingly spectacular scenery is that the best view points are often the ones that have no safe shoulder to straddle. Add treacherous snowbanks, narrow, icy country lanes and SUVS haphazardly plowing down said narrow, icy country lanes with treacherous snowbanks and you have an accident waiting to happen. This is the only picture we got of our country outing.

(In the photo there's a particularly high, snow-capped mountain-like hill in the distance. That's Bennachie, the source of Winter. The Old Woman - better known as the Cailleach - is often associated with the highest point in the region. Here in this region of Scotland the highest point is Bennachie, which holds evidence of bronze age goddess worship at the peak.)

(Note to self: Saw three deer (two babies?) along standing stone road, and then three male pheasants further near the stones. Laughed hysterically when we drove past a predator bird tearing into a freshly killed rabbit in a snow covered field as a single crow stood awkwardly near the hawk (?) pretending that the shared space was a complete and total coincidence and it wasn't waiting for an opportunistic moment to shotgun the remains. "DOE, DEE, DOE, JUST WAITING FOR THE BUS..." Oh, corvids, somehow you find a way to make me laugh daily, <3!)

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The kitchen Christmas altar, pre-stars (my dangling star lights arrived the day after). Normally I create an elaborate center piece altar for the kitchen table using evergreen, ivy, bay, nuts, apples, pears, citrus fruits and candy, all centered around a large loaf of ritual Ukrainian Christmas bread (Kolach, sort've like a communion bread) set with candles.

Due to a million and two reasons - WHICH I WILL NOT TALK ABOUT BECAUSE CHRISTMAS IS STILL IN THE TIME-OUT CORNER - that yearly tradition didn't happen. Instead, I opted for something minimal, but despite the somewhat sparse look I still managed to retain some significance in the otherwise mundane looking setting.

Between the two pillars of candles are a tumbler glass filled with bay cuttings (from our small bay tree out back), a small gold colored oak leaf shaped offering dish holding my TREE NUTS (a pair of English walnuts, joined at the stem), a bottle of late harvest/sweet dessert wine and a bottle of sparkling elderberry (non-alcoholic).

(I bought the Beerenauslese last year and completely forgot about it. It was rediscovered, on Christmas Goose Day, when thumbing through various foil-wrapped bottles looking for my Martini Rossi Asti Spumante (to make the BETTER THAN JIZZ sauce for the Yule Log). The elderberry drink was bought when we were out shopping; I had a feeling the berries would go well with the goose's dark meat (it did, V. well, in fact).)

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Normally we eat off the coffee table in front of the TV (in the communal lounge) to spare us from constant disturbances (aka in-laws). When there aren't any "disturbances" to be had we like to play grown-up and eat at the kitchen table.

Since it was Christmas Goose Day I had no choice but to bring out seasonal table linens (I attempted to create The Saltire, Scotland's flag, using white and red cloth settings), fine china and crystal glasses.

(I was already on my second glass of Beerenauslese by this point, which is evident in the table setting - none of the glasses are full except the designated wine glasses.)

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After the altar candles were lit, the ancestors invited/invoked and ushered into the house (I open the backroom's patio door and call out in Ukrainian to all of our ancestors to beckon them indoors to celebrate the festivities with us), the elderberry bottle uncorked and the water poured (since the wine had already been poured by that point, heh) it was time to sit down and give thanks for the annual tradition that is known as Christmas goose.

In addition to the roasted crown of goose (the thighs and legs, as mentioned above, were taken off to make confit) we had homemade German sweet and sour red cabbage, homemade gluten-free bread dumplings smothered with bacon grease and bacon, pyrohy (aka "pierogies", Slavic potato dumplings) smothered with bacon grease and bacon, new potatoes roasted in goose fat, sour cream (to be eaten with the pyrohy), homemade cranberry sauce and homemade plum sauce.

The dinner ended with Italics laughing at me as I gnawed happily on the one goose wing I was allowed (the wing was my mother's favorite part of any bird, so I make the ultimate sacrifice with every roasted bird and offer one of the two wings to the Mother (who is also the Old Woman/Cailleach; IT'S COMPLICATED, I KNOW, BUT IT MAKES SENSE TO MY BRAIN, OKAY?)); he said I sounded like a wild animal eating.

(Wild animals? Loudest fucking eaters in the world. Seriously. You haven't heard euphoric grunting, panting and gnawing until you catch a hedgehog eating sweet potato pancakes or the remains of buffalo wings.<- DON'T TELL ANYONE OFFICIAL THAT I GIVE VISITING WILDLIFE PANCAKES AND BUFFALO WINGS AND CHEESECAKE AND PIZZA, THEY JUST WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND.)

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I'm beginning to frost our EDIBLE Yule Log*, which was almost as late as our BURNING Yule Log (we finally managed to finish it on December 31st; we renamed it "the 2009 Log"). I can't remember when the tradition started, but every year I make a Yule Log for Midwinter (a dessert so rich and filling it sees us through Yule, Christmas and, typically, New Year) and even though this year's was hella late, it was still made.

* A gluten-free chocolate sponge rolled up and stuffed/frosted with a heavy cream, shaved chocolate, Frangelico and sweetened chestnut filling. I always serve the Log with a homemade dessert wine/cream sauce (aka BETTER THAN JIZZ SAUCE), which is so fucking good you can catch me, at least once a day, eating the sauce straight out of the fridge with a spoon.

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Every fucking year I go I'M TOTALLY GOING TO COOK ONE OF THOSE TEENY TINY LITTLE BABY CHICKEN BIRDS FOR THE RATS FOR CHRISTMAS and every fucking year I forget...except for this year.

While we tucked into our Christmas goose dinner, the rats tucked into their roasted poussin (basted in homemade herbal butter and covered with bay leaves and bacon) and there was a serene peace in the house as living people, deceased people, living rats, deceased rats and everything else incorporeal visiting and celebrating with us that night joined in the yearly tradition known as Christmas goose day.

Chicken Marengo, Take II

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New Year calls for something special. Normally we splash out and secure ourselves a mother of a rib roast (the highlight of this carnivore's year), although this year I wanted to buck tradition and do something different.

I initially wanted a haunch of wild boar, but I couldn't find anything particularly local. While searching for an on-line supplier we stumbled across an alternative meat site supplying exotics like crocodile, kangaroo, wild boar, kobe/wagyu beef, happy veal and several different types of buffalo (including American bison, something this 1/8th Lakhota hasn't had in a few years).

My flesh eating heart skipped a beat. (<- That's TOTALLY not true. It skipped at least several, and palpitations echoed the staccato whisper of "osso buco".) "EFF A HAUNCH OF FUCKING BOAR! LET'S GET STEAKS OF SEVERAL DIFFERENT TYPES OF ANIMAL AND GRILL ON NEW YEAR'S DAY!" Italics, tempted by bison burgers (something the 8/8th Scotsman hasn't had in a few years), gave me thumbs up provided we waited until the VISA switched before making the order (roughly around the 21st of December).

Without any sort of warning or indication the site closed for the holidays just before the 21st. On Midwinter I sat, mouth agape, credit card in hand staring at the monitor in disbelief. (Oh, it's been ONE OF //THOSE// YEARS (which 2009 distinctly wasn't, at least not until the last three remaining weeks).) My fantasized visions of buffalo burgers and kobe steaks danced straight out of my head into IT AIN'T FUCKING HAPPENIN' land, leaving me with a question mark stamped void.

When the smoke cleared leaving me and the giant abyss I was staring into I realized that I had one option (one option I've been secretly kicking around for a few months that needed the most flimsy, superficial excuse to coax me into finally acting upon it), recreate the first meal I ever made to impress Italics when we were 17 (we're both 29 now) - Napoleon's favorite, Chicken Marengo.

(I'll let you know how it goes, unless it's a complete and utter disaster. And if THAT'S the case, we'll just pretend I never even mentioned it, okay?)

Christmas Goose Exorcism

"I CAST YOU OUT, SALMONELLA! THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!" <- Another unapproved exorcism by yours truly (the Vatican's going to send my ass a nasty fucking letter, heh).

Ceremonial Borsht

When making a homemade pot of traditional Ukrainian borsht becomes a ritual. (In this case, the moments post ancestor "invocation" and pre-incense smoke bath (in addition to treating the ringworm with garlic, tea tree oil and topical fungal cream I also fumigated the inflicted skin with frankincense). <- ALL I CAN SAY IS, THIS SHIT BETTER NOT SPREAD (OR ELSE, MR. AWESOME, //OR ELSE//).)

Me. You. Borsht.

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Me. You. Borsht. (Don't know how? Perfect (because I'm going to teach you).)

WTF Dinner w/WTF Sauce

OH, GOD HELP US, MY FATHER-IN-LAW HAS BEEN INSPIRED* TO COOK. (<- TIME TO HIDE IN THE BATCAVE.)

* Whenever I spend several consecutive nights in the kitchen he becomes overwhelmed by the insatiable need to cook. ("I CAN DO THAT, TOO!" is something you can't get away from in this house. If finds me working on something - especially if I'm enjoying it - within 48 hours he's playing "LOOK AT MEEEEEEE!" catch-up. (And gets V. pissy if you 1.) fail to notice and 2.) fail to compliment.) 70 years old going on 4, right?)

His end results - which are guesstimated mimic attempts of things I've recently provided the family with** - are at once horrifying, amusing, disgusting and, if I'm being completely honest, occasionally irritatingly offensive (it wouldn't be so bad if he didn't exude his patented "I'VE JUST DONE IT BETTER THAN //YOU//" old man smugness, but he does...every effing time).

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PHOTO CAPTION: I apparently inspired my father-in-law (aka Mr. Awesome) to do some cooking. When I first saw it I couldn't figure out if he made SOUP or PASTA SAUCE, but the leftovers provided just enough context clues.

** The picture above? His attempt at "spaghetti and meatballs". Just ignore the fact that chicken's replaced meatballs (WTF?), fettuccine was used instead of spaghetti (OKAY, OKAY, I'M NIGGLING WITH THAT, I KNOW) and that my in-laws haphazardly throw their uncovered leftovers straight in the fridge for everyone to see (and accidentally touch when searching for EDIBLE food). (<- OH GOD I'M CRINGING NOW JUST THINKING ABOUT IT!)

Two days earlier I fed the family an enormous spaghetti and meatballs dinner where EVERYTHING was created from scratch (well, the garlic bread was made from a bought loaf of ciabatta that I slathered with garlic butter, sprinkled with Italian herbs and grated Parmesan cheese, but beyond purchasing the fresh pasta and bread everything else was entirely homemade). Mr. Awesome, enjoying the meal //so much//, decided to recreate it less than 48 hours later.

My version:

* Tomato sauce made from three different types of tomato (sun-dried, fresh and canned), fresh herbs from the garden, garlic, roasted red peppers (I scorched them under the oven's grill and then peeled the charred skins off), basil infused olive oil, red wine, balsamic vinegar and other spices and seasonings.

* Overnight meatballs (I like mixing the ingredients together and letting them sit overnight so the flavors can intensify before cooking) made from fresh steak mince, more fresh herbs from the garden, grated fresh Parmesan, garlic, basil infused olive oil, balsamic vinegar, locally produced oatmeal (I tend to use oatmeal instead of breadcrumbs when cooking), a touch of the tomato sauce above and other spices and seasonings.

(I normally fry the overnight meatballs in a little bit of olive oil to give them a crispy crust and then transfer them over to a lidded casserole dish so they create an even layer. Once they're snug I pour over the homemade tomato sauce, crumble an entire block of feta over everything, sprinkle over a generous amount of Parmesan, cover the dish with foil and cook everything in a hot oven for about 15-20 minutes until it seems done. I also give the casserole a few minutes beneath the oven's grill (uncovered) to give the feta a wee bit of color before serving the meal.)

(Unfortunately, I don't have any images of this dish (despite it being a somewhat staple), but I'm PRETTY SURE the meal is mostly palatable if these pictures are anything to go by. I mean, it was good enough to "copy", right?)

His version of my version:

* Tomato sauce made from one can of tomatoes, a fried onion, chicken breasts and indistinguishable seasoning served over waterlogged pasta. (Or, as I like to call it, "WTF DINNER WITH WTF SAUCE".)

CLEARLY, YOU CAN SEE THE STIFF COMPETITION THAT I DEAL WITH ON A DAY TO DAY BASIS. HOW I'LL EVER LIVE UP TO HIS CULINARY PROWESS IS BEYOND ME. I SHOULD PROBABLY HANG UP MY APRON(S) (<- APRONS ARE LIKE KITCHEN LINGERIE, YOU NEED A VARIETY TO SUIT THE MOOD AND OCCASION!) AND ADMIT DEFEAT AT AGE 29...SIGH.

My prediction? He's made "chili" ("chili" = any ground meat, an onion, a can of beans and a can of tomatoes). I'll creep even FURTHER up the limb I'm already already on and state that if it is "chili" he was directly inspired by the Turkish beef and haricot bean casserole I made a few days ago that he finished off without asking (so much for leftovers).

Dreading Mortality

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Last night I woke up from a nightmare where Italics died (supposedly, it never got confirmed) in a freak accident walking to the local shopping center. One of his childhood friends who still lives across the street (whom I never met, but heard plenty of stories about) witnessed the event, and it triggered some sort of psychotic episode and the guy committed suicide, citing Italics's death in his note.

My brother-in-law was with me when news of the neighbor's death surfaced. I was beyond consolable; I was a crazed animal - clawing, screaming, thrashing. Italics's older brother tried to tame the beast, but I fought back in desolation and despair. ("WHO THE FUCK LIES ABOUT SEEING THE DEATH OF A CHILDHOOD FRIEND IN A SUICIDE NOTE?" and "WHY CAN'T YOU SEE THAT IT'S TRUE? IT'S SO RANDOM, SO BIZARRE IT HAS TO BE TRUE! NO ONE MAKES THAT SORT'VE SHIT UP FOR NO REASON!")

The dream never resolved itself. I woke up with the weight of mortality around my shoulders, and no matter what I did I couldn't shift the burdening yoke. There were fears within fears, and an increasing sense of futility and pointlessness (the kind that makes it easy to accept that there isn't anything after this and we're moving through an one act play that will eventually be swallowed by oblivion).

When Italics stumbled out of bed he found me despondent at the computer. Despite being up several hours I couldn't fall into my normal routine (<- HENCE NO ENTRY YESTERDAY), and by the time he woke up I was wallowing in existential melancholy sprawled over my ancient keyboard (which predates Italics even KNOWING me).

He listened to my dream and let me cry. He patted my head when I confessed I felt guilty spending any "non-work" time on the computer because if this IS all we get, I'm systematically flushing very precious moments of time I could be spending with HIM down the cosmic toilet. He reminded me that even if I felt that way, we still spend more time together than the average married couple (we both work at home so we're never apart) and, despite co-inhabiting with his parents, we live a fairly intimate, woven life together.

So, to distract myself from the inevitably of death (and whatever DOES - or doesn't - follow), I tried to lose myself in cooking. Lunch was prepared, eaten and digested, followed quickly by the creation of a Ukrainian apple cake and while that was baking I prepared ANOTHER reduced-to-clear lamb treasure (this time a whole shoulder weighing nearly 6lb for only £6.00!) for dinner.

(I heavily seasoned the joint with several types of peppers and salts and massaged in a fresh rosemary-garlic-smoked bacon grease-butter unguent just before roasting. Then, once the skin developed a beautiful golden color, I poured over a mixture of stock, bay leaves and red wine and basted the shoulder with the liquid every twenty minutes. Total cooking time? Two hours and thirty minutes. <- THAT'S A LOT OF EFFING BASTING, YO.)

Despite all of the effort and babying of the roast we never managed to eat our lamb supper. An hour before the joint was ready - between PAPERBOY and BUBBLES (because nothing quelches the uncertainties surrounding death better than early 80s video games) - we got hella hungry and raided the kitchen. Dinner ended up being crusty bread, olive oil spread and a platter of mixed cured meats (two types of ham, two types of salami, and chorizo). I did, however, have room for cake. (WHO DOESN'T, RIGHT?)

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My grandparents (and mother) crossed the immigrant ocean in 1951 and settled in Chicago, but when my grandfather retired he and my grandmother relocated to two acres of land in southeastern Wisconsin. There they recreated the Ukraine of their youth - fruit orchards, vineyards, vegetable and flower gardens, it was a veritable paradise of memories brought to life.

The majority of the fruit they planted was apple (more than an entire acre of their property was dedicated to growing various species, my favorite (for both climbing AND eating) was McIntosh), but there were cherries, plums and pears, too (not to mention grapes, rhubarb, strawberries, raspberries, currants and gooseberries).

When picking season began you knew, at some point, my grandmother would bake this impossibly dense brick of an apple cake. (Which makes out like it was hard as fuck, which it totally wasn't. It was, literally, the size of a brick, with no less than four to five inches of rich, moist-yet-dense almost bread-like sponge with an additional inch or two of sugary, spicy baked apples topping it. You struggled to fit just one bite of the tall order in your mouth. Seriously.)

My dad? Loved the cake. He loved it so damn much that I swore, as a child, I'd one day recreate it for him. Unfortunately (for me), my grandmother passed away before I could get the recipe. Unfortunately (for my father), I grew up, met Italics, got married and decided I'd rather devote time blowing my husband than baking cakes for a man I don't even feel close to. (TRUE STORY!)

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY.

Anyway, this cake wasn't for my father. Or Italics. Or my grandmother. It was for me, and my hazy memories of shoving countless pieces of towering blocks of homemade apple cake into my very small mouth without fear of retribution.

(My grandparents, much like Italics, never criticized me for my ignorance regarding appropriate proportion sizes ("LOLOLOLOLOL, "SUGGESTED SERVING SIZE", LOLOLOLOLOLOL!") or my fundamental inability to appreciate the concept of "moderation". <- HOW SHOCKED WAS I WHEN I LEARNED THE PIG WAS ONE OF MY SPECIAL ANIMALS? NOT VERY.)

Stechishin's recipe for Yabluchnyk (Ukrainian Apple Cake) structured the cake exactly like my grandmother's. (<- A thick layer of cake sponge on the bottom, with a thinner layer of sliced apples covered in sugar and spices on top.) Although, UNLIKE my grandmother's I could actually fit a whole piece of Stechishin's apple cake in my mouth - smaller layer of sponge, larger (and a more //experienced//) mouth.

The apples were spot on - soft, but firm, keeping their shape perfectly beneath a sugary glaze of spices and butter. While cooking, the excess moisture bubbled up around the slices like caramel sauce, but once the liquid cooled it seeped down into the sponge beneath. It hit all the marks - something light and crumbly (bottom of sponge), something denser, richer and more moist (top of sponge/bottom of apples where spices, butter, apples, sugar and cake collide) and something fresh, with a giving (yet solid) structure (top of apples).

It's not 100% spot on (of baba's version), but it's close enough.

Leg of Lamb Boulangere

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I've diced leg of lamb to make souvlaki and shish kebab. I stabbed the fuck out of myself with kitchen scissors (now ritual scissors) when reducing a shoulder of lamb. I've marinated lamb neck fillets in a paste of thyme, garlic, salt, pepper and olive oil for homemade soup. I casseroled a shoulder of lamb in tomatoes and spices all night long in a low oven, roasted lamb bones for the rats as a treat and gathered the rendered fat from the bones for cooking. I've reduced two pounds of leg of lamb into a near fine paste to make an authentic doner kebab. I've diced, sliced, skewered, grilled and casseroled but I've never - despite my frequent forays into the culinary world - roasted lamb until last night.

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I saw it over a month ago at the meat counter. It was sitting by itself - a vacuum sealed wallflower - amongst the special offers. There was little love for the leg of lamb, it had already been "reduced to clear" twice. The decision was made even before I realized I had reached a decision. Before I knew it the £10.00 leg of lamb was tucked underneath an arm like a folded up newspaper.

"I JUST MADE THIS GROCERY TRIP MORE EXPENSIVE," I informed Italics, brandishing the clearanced leg like an expensive bottle of wine; there was palatable excitement in the air. (ACTUALLY, NO THERE WASN'T, BUT IT SOUNDED LIKE A GOOD PARAGRAPH END.)

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Within days of cramming the leg into the freezer ("FOR LATER!") I found THE recipe while reading the Sunday Times. (About the only thing I DO manage to read - other than cookbooks - is the Sunday paper, and if I manage to get to THAT in a timely manner (as in, the week it was published in) it's deemed a miracle by the Vatican.)

"WE'RE HAVING //THIS//," I announced, tilting the supplement magazine in Italics' direction so he could see the recipe's accompanying photo. "NOW TO FIGURE OUT WHEN..."

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Lamb Boulangere, a seasoned leg of lamb smothered with a fresh herbal butter and then roasted directly over wafer thin slices of thyme studded potatoes (basting them with cooking juices, dripping herbal butter and glorious beads of lamb fat). The absolute BEST part? With an exception of the time needed to produce translucent-thin slices of potatoes there wasn't anything else overtly complicated or time consuming - perfect for the super high novice leg of lamb roaster.

The second absolute best part? (YES, THERE CAN BE TWO ABSOLUTE BEST PARTS.) Some serious hands on loving was required (my favorite sort've cooking!). After stabbing (or "cutting", if you aren't a wild animal savage like me) the leg of lamb and rubbing in the salt and pepper seasoning you needed to firmly massage the freshly made herbal butter (garlic, rosemary and lemon thyme) into every nook, crevice and cranny of the leg until it's coated in a glistening sheen of dairy fat heaven. (When food requires a handjob, you know it's going to be worth the effort.)

By partial candlelight - just after one in the morning - I began rhythmically easing my knife down on pungent rosemary leaves, releasing its cleansing, green scent in the air. By one thirty in the morning the leg of lamb had received its full handjob massage and was relaxing on its wire rack, waiting to be placed directly above the roasting pan of potatoes.

By two the lamb and potatoes were formally introduced, by three the house smelled like lemon thyme and butter, by four Italics and I were hovering over the roast like kids on Christmas morning (ITALICS: "IT LOOKS BETTER THAN THE MAGAZINE PICTURE!") and by five I was having an orgasm brought on by my first stimulating brush with boulangere potatoes and roasted leg of lamb.

Our dining experience? It bordered on //spiritual//. (Oh, honey, it was that effing good.) It took me nearly ten minutes to coherently compose myself. And once the smoke cleared, once my thighs stopped trembling, once the golden, magic spell of creamy-divine-melt-in-your-mouth-sunshine-of-the-gods loosened its hold on me all I could manage to say was:

"YOU KNOW HOW WOMEN SOMETIMES SAY THEY HAVE A RECIPE THAT THEY'LL MAKE TO GET LAID? FORGET GETTING "LAID"; I'D MAKE THESE POTATOES TO GET FUCKED." (Homemade panna cotta or creme caramel is for making love; boulangere potatoes is for primitive, animalistic, primal fucking.)

PS: I'm hoping that by some point this winter there'll be a drastic improvement in the quality of my cooking pictures. The majority of my V. SRS COOKING happens when we're up in the middle of the night, which isn't an awesome time to take pictures when all you have are a few eco-friendly fluorescent tubes for lighting. Fingers crossed that by the new year I'll have managed to construct the cardboard photo light box I've mentioned so many damn times in passing.

Full Moon of the Dead

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A full moon rising over my El Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) kitchen altar.

Fet Ghede, 2008

My problem's always been with moderation (and not even in (anti)socially accepted "cool" ways). Drugs and alcohol aren't my weakness; going OVERBOARD by expending more energy and effort than necessary is. "Simple", "easy" and "quick" aren't in the forefront of my vocabulary until I'm stressed out, strung out and on the verge of an autistic breakdown. (<- USUALLY INVOLVES FRUSTRATED TEARS, NOT UNLIKE THE TERRIBLE TWOS.)

When two sabbats and/or holidays back into one another I know - despite planning for BOTH - that it's only a matter of time before one leaves the Thunderdome victorious. (TWO SABBATS ENTER, ONE SABBAT LEAVES.) In other words, out of the two religious dates I plan to simultaneously observe, one will eventually garner major emphasis and the other becomes discreetly assimilated into the first (although it's still reflected in ritual and celebration to some degree).

Halloween and Fet Ghede are perfect examples of two major festivals riding each others nuts. Both are crazy important for me (with Halloween welcoming back the Divine Female/Black Goddess, and Fet Ghede welcoming home the (now dead) Divine Male/Papa), but both require exceptional amounts of effort and due to THAT fact I've never managed to celebrate both to my idealized standards.

Samhain requires nearly a month of planning. The Halloween boxes need to be unearthed, and the various altars created. Pumpkins need to be purchased and carved. Music playlists need to be created, ceremonial outfits need to be planned and all of the intoxicants and entheogens need to be sorted. The entire house has to be cleaned (including the bedroom; washing away the Bride to welcome the Whore), certain rituals need to be performed (the changing of the guard, our biannual haircuts) and a magic supper (usually homemade soup and bread) needs to be made.

On the day itself I need to prepare myself, the house, the ritual room and Italics. I brush, floss and choke on mouthwash until my teeth gleam. In a steam bath I massage extra virgin olive oil into my skin and shave my legs, underarms and bikini area. I rub myself down with a homemade sugar and honey scrub to a ridiculous degree (behind ears, the soles of my feet and between my fingers and toes) before turning on the shower to thoroughly wash myself and my hair.

Eyebrows get plucked, my hair gets dried (and set in curlers) and I then spend over an hour in the bathroom - with a glass carving board sitting on top of the sink to create a square ledge for my brushes and jars - applying make-up. Later on in the day/night - just before taking our first MDMA pill (<- A PURER FORM OF ECSTASY) - I'll get dressed in my ritual outfit, take the curlers out and style my hair.

That? That's just me getting ready; one thing out of thousands that need to be accomplished that day. (I'll spare you from what I do to the house, the room and to Italics before the ceremony begins.) Preparing for the Samhain/Halloween ritual requires a tremendous amount of planning, effort and energy - all of which doesn't even take into account the tremendous amounts of effort and energy needed to actually PERFORM the ritual (or put yourself in the right frame of mind to undertake such a serious role).

The problem with celebrating Halloween the way we want to - taking copious amounts of drugs (<- MDMA, POT, MUSHROOMS, POT, ALCOHOL, POT, NITROUS AND, YOU GUESSED IT, EVEN MORE POT) and having ecstatic, debauched sex all night into early morning (<- WE'VE EASILY GONE FOR NINE HOURS) - leaves us pretty wrung out for Fet Ghede.

When you spend the entire night of the 31st pissing in ritual bowls, sexually taunting and teasing your familiars and helpers, having anal, oral and vaginal sex, anointing each other in oils (and alcohol) and assuming the role of the Black Goddess you're going to wake up to three things the morning after:

1.) A stiff jaw which refuses to open for anything wider than a straw.
2.) A happy, but thoroughly exhausted body.
3.) The unholy mess you managed to create the night before.

November 1st, then, is spent laughing about the night before while cleaning the mess up, occasionally complaining about any stiffness and/or soreness experienced. Not much gets done due to the innate need to "keep it easy" so the house gets straightened up and the rest of the waking day/night is spent having more sex or relaxing in front of the TV.

Rather than being better, November 2nd (Fet Ghede) is actually worse - the happy MDMA buzz that was still influencing you on November 1st has finally worn off and you're suddenly aware of how physically (and mentally) exhausted you are. Thanks to the serotonin floodgates of Halloween you suddenly find yourself with a serotonin deficit leaving you irritable, cranky, moody and unmotivated (<- DEPENDING ON HOW MUCH MDMA YOU TOOK) - not exactly an awesome frame of mind to be in while attempting to celebrate the resurrected spirit of the Divine Male. (OR, LOL, RATHER FITTING IF YOU'RE A WOMAN CELEBRATING THE DIVINE MALE. <- HA HA!)

The problem with Samhain is that it requires all of your physical, emotional, mental and spiritual attention. Fet Ghede - at least for me - demands physical and mental exertion more than anything else. (The festival is the first meal of thanksgiving we have during the Dark year, it's the WELCOME HOME, PAPA! feast. I set up an altar for him and create - from scratch - a three course "southern" dinner and we get terrifically stoned (and drunk) while eating and watching God-fucking-awful movies that only Papa could like (i.e., White Chicks).)

If you've never created a multiple course meal solely by yourself for a crowd of folk let me assure you - without my typical Aries exaggeration - IT'S A LOT OF HARD FUCKING WORK. Between planning the meal, shopping for it, creating it and executing everything perfectly so there's no scorched food or delays between courses requires a stupid amount of concentration, motivation and good mood - three things I typically DON'T have two days after a heavy night of exalting the Black Goddess.

Last year we were struck down by a debilitating case of influenza mid-October. Thanks to our ability to only celebrate Halloween/Samhain during a very specific time frame (<- WHEN THE IN-LAWS GO ON VACATION FOR TWO WEEKS LEAVING US ALONE IN THE HOUSE) we never managed to haul out the boxes to create our seasonal altars. For the first time since we began exercising our own unique brand of spirituality and beliefs, the Black Goddess wasn't welcomed home and I was devastated.

(OH, THERE WERE LOTS AND LOTS OF TEARS, LOTS OF FLU-TINGED TANTRUMS AND UNEARTHLY HOWLS OF INCONSOLABLE DESPAIR...OR SOMETHING.)

The ONLY positive from all of that negative? Fet Ghede finally had its (his?) day out of Halloween's shadow. Despite the presence of the in-laws (I normally don't leave any sort of altar when my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, is home since the last time I left an altar out he threw garbage onto one of my offering plates) I brazenly created a quick'n'simple altar in the communal lounge for Papa due to the special circumstances (2008 election year, Papa had some V. SRS investment) and it sat - for all the members in the house to see - from Halloween to November 5th (the day after the election).

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2008's Fet Ghede altar was EXCEPTIONALLY low-key for me. (THIS IS ABOUT AS BASIC AS IT GETS, FOLKS.)

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Papa's altar (and doll) was in perfect position to "watch" TV during election night as we ate our celebratory Fet Ghede feast.

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Despite the lack of complexity I'm sure the Fet Ghede altar spread was more than enough voodoo for my in-laws.

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Some of Papa's favorite things sitting on top of my ballot envelope. (<- I TRADED MY VOTE FOR A PROVERBIAL "GET OUT OF JAIL FOR FREE" CARD. PAPA GOT TO VOTE, I GOT A GOLDEN TICKET.)

On Fet Ghede we bake Pan de Muerto for our ancestors and loved ones recently departed. Unlike the previous year (2006), our skull sculpting wasn't up to scratch (I'M BLAMING THE FLU) so you'll have to excuse our embarrassing foray into bread shaping (something we're usually A LOT better at).

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Last year we lost our Busy Bee (one of our pet rats). It was particularly hard to lose Bee since it was immediately after Hezbollah's death. (Bee always acted strangely - "OH, BEE'S JUST BEING BEE!" - but she began exhibiting even stranger behavior after her roommate, Crazy Rat (aka Hezbollah), passed away. It turned out that our Bee had "a brain thing" (tumor) and quickly succumbed to the disease within weeks of Hezbollah passing.)

Bee's FOR REAL name was Sloop John B (Hezbollah was Rhonda and Jigga was Barbara Ann). Due to being introduced into the family in the later stages of Hezbollah and Jigga's life she often got referred to as "the Baby", which eventually shortened to "Bee".

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Hezbollah got sick out of nowhere (which is typical of rats due to their high metabolism rate). Despite knowing it was her time to go I flexed my magic muscles and attempted my first ever stab at healing. Despite all odds, she lived, but only just. After several weeks of unexpected ups and gut wrenching downs we finally lost her, and I'm 100% sure the only reason why she lasted as long as she did was because of our little magic sessions.

Crazy Rat's favorite movie was Hitman (IT'S A HUGE LONG STORY THAT, ONE DAY, I MAY TELL), so it was only fitting that her individual pan de muerto reflected her taste in cinema.

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I remember being EXCEPTIONALLY frustrated with the ancestral loaf of pan de muerto because, going into the oven, it was PERFECTLY skull shaped. Unfortunately, it entered looking one way, but left looking entirely different. The cloves originally gave it a cutesy jack-o-lantern appearance, but once baked the clove studs lost their Halloween charm. (SIGH.) It tasted fantastic, though - I added a little bit of rum to the orange-sugar glaze before brushing it over the bread, and added just a wee taste of the marmalade glaze made for the ham.

Last year we feasted like we had never feasted before. Dinner was a three course meal spread throughout election night. (Instead of celebrating on the 2nd we postponed the festival until the 4th.) We started with a traditional southern soup - Brunswick stew - and carried on to an eight dish dinner (marmalade glazed ham, roast potatoes, roast squash, crabcakes, hoppin' John, pan de muerto, buttermilk rolls and homemade lemon butter dip (for the crabcakes)) and finished with a homemade pumpkin pie.

Despite wanting to celebrate Thanksgiving (in 2008) I never got a chance to, so Fet Ghede stepped in - unbeknownst to me at the time - and provided us with our thanksgiving meal, albeit earlier in the month than I'm accustomed to. (<- TRADITIONALLY, IN THE USA, THANKSGIVING IS CELEBRATED THE LAST THURSDAY IN NOVEMBER. AND TYPICALLY IT'S TURKEY, NOT HAM, HEH.)

I won't even want go into detail how much food I managed to pack away that night because it just might make me sick to even consider. (NORMALLY I CAN EASILY EAT FOR TWO, BUT, THAT NIGHT, I WAS EATING FOR PAPA, CHIPPY AND ALL OF OUR ANCESTORS.)

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The marmalade glazed ham in all of its glory.

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The marmalade glazed ham in all of its glory.

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Left to right: roasted acorn squash, carved ham and homemade crabcakes.

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Homemade crabcakes.

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More marmalade ham and crabcakes.

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Roasted squash and ham. (<- THE DAMN SPICES - CINNAMON AND NUTMEG - GOT EFFING SCORCHED IN THE OVEN, BUT THE SQUASH DIDN'T TASTE BURNED, THANKFULLY.)

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Hoppin' John. (A traditional beans and rice dish.)

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Roasted potatoes and roasted squash (again).

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Our place settings with the pan de muerto to the left, the homemade buttermilk rolls to the right and the lemon butter dip (for the crabcakes) in the center.

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Dessert: homemade sweet potato pie with a spicy streusel topping.

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Dessert: homemade sweet potato pie with a spicy streusel topping.

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Dessert: homemade sweet potato pie with a spicy streusel topping.

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Dessert: homemade sweet potato pie with a spicy streusel topping.

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Papa's place setting for the Fet Ghede feast (it was right next to his altar space).

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Papa's place setting for the Fet Ghede feast (it was right next to his altar space).

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Papa's place setting for the Fet Ghede feast (it was right next to his altar space).

This year we DID manage to celebrate the return of the Black Goddess Ms. Graveyard Dirt style (with a LITTLE less intoxicants than usual since it's been A VERY LONG TIME (<- NEARLY TWO YEARS!) since we "partied" due to my broken stomach valve) which left us out of commission for Fet Ghede.

Although considering last year's effort - flu and all - I'm sure Papa doesn't mind TOO much for this year's laidback atmosphere. (<- ESPECIALLY SINCE I PROMISED EVERYONE THAT I'D DO THANKSGIVING THIS YEAR //FOR SURE//. <- I AM TOTALLY, TOTALLY READY FOR SWEET POTATO CHEESECAKE WITH A MAPLE PECAN GLAZE.)

Sutured Chicken

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My first sutured chicken*. (If I said "I HONESTLY, TRULY FOR REALLY REAL DIDN'T MEAN FOR IT TO LOOK LIKE A ROASTED BABY," would you believe me?)

(No, I didn't think so either.)

* A boneless chicken stuffed with a walnut-pita bread-spice-pancetta filling, lined with parma ham and massaged with rendered duck fat and spices.

Some Women Love Smoked Bacon Fat

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What could possibly make this homemade roast chicken dinner casserole* any better?

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If your answer was "covering each homemade dumpling/biscuit with a thick slab of smoked Polish bacon" you are correct, congratulations.

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Holy shit how sexy is //THAT//? (Some women love chocolate, some women love champagne and some women love smoked bacon fat. <- BEWARE OF THE LAST TYPE, FELLAS, THEY'RE INFAMOUSLY CRAZY.)

* I roasted a paprika-oregano-lemon chicken over a bed of vegetables'n'herbs (celery, swede, carrots and potatoes mixed through with lemon thyme, butter, garlic, brandy, bay and mushrooms) and served it with homemade stuffing (gluten-free bread, pumpkin and sunflower seeds, spices, cayenne pepper, garlic, celery and mushrooms) and cabbage (sauteed in butter with oak smoked pancetta and roasted hazelnuts).

The next day I made brown chicken stock using the leftover carcass, skin, and wing tips and added all of the roasting pan juices from the previous day. The day after THAT I cubed up the stuffing in little squares, cut the leftover vegetables and chicken into tiny pieces and combined everything (meat, vegetables, stock, cubed stocking, sauteed cabbage leftovers and some frozen peas) into a bacon greased casserole pan and topped it with a homemade biscuits**.

It was JUST BEFORE I capped the pan with greaseproof paper and foil when I had my moment of smoked Polish bacon genius. And the rest? Pictorial history.

** A traditional Ukrainian biscuit recipe. Instead of using two cups of flour I ended up with one cup of wholewheat flour and one cup of gluten-free flour and made the bland dough more interesting by seasoning it with garlic infused Scottish rapeseed oil and herbes de provence.

This House is Clean

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The altar building gremlins have been exorcised! ("THIS HOUSE IS CLEAN.") And, on top of THAT dazzling feat, I cut the throat of a few houseplants (<- GIFTS FROM MY SEMI-ESTRANGED FATHER; SORRY, DAD, NOT INTERESTED IN YOU OR THE BORING ASS HOUSEPLANTS YOU SEND ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY) and rearranged what was spared for the oncoming winter.

Up until this summer the wooden table in the backroom was an accidental Wadjet altar. (I had three succulents of varying sizes in terracotta colored ceramic pots grouped together on the carved table top. My small statue of Wadjet lived in the dark cove between the three pots, peeking accusingly at anyone who got too close to Her succulents.)

At some point in the beginning of the year Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, decided to move around some of his backroom plants and it ended up costing me one of MY plants. (He moved a tree - A FUCKING TREE! - in front of all of my succulents! IN FRONT OF MY CACTUS-LIKE PLANTS WHO LIVE IN THE DESERT AND LOVE AND NEED AND DEMAND SUN. WTF, MR. AWESOME, WTF?)

Once he was gone for an extended period of time I sat down and rearranged his rearrangement but the damage was done - I lost my aloe (which I had for nearly, Jesus, six years?) and almost lost my jade plant. With the jade tottering towards death I immediately placed it in front of the patio doors (along with the other succulent, a kind've sort've aloe looking thing whose name I can't remember) to get full sunlight. (The backroom patio is south facing, so it's the work room and record room and drying room and movie room AND plant room.)

With Wadjet and Her succulents gone (Wadjet eventually replaced Anat on our office/computer room windowsill altar when Anat's war hand caught on my tit, fell to the floor and broke in several pieces - OOPS) I filled the void with a seasonal arrangement - Hezbollah's lemonade / cracker / head shop / Hitman stand (<- WE BOUGHT A WOODEN HOUSE FOR THE TINY CHEAP-CHEAP BIRDS OUTSIDE, BUT FOUND OUT THAT CRAZY RAT FIT //PERFECTLY// IN IT SO WE DECIDED TO GIVE IT TO HER AND KEEP IT INDOORS), my no-longer-dormant Apache chili plant (which grew layers and layers of dangling tentacles), Hezbollah's special friend (a ceramic European robin), and my crocodile'n'brush pollinating set (<- I KEPT A MAKE-UP BRUSH ON TOP OF A CARVED CROCODILE ASHTRAY SO I COULD POLLINATE ALL OF THE INDOOR VEGETABLES MYSELF SINCE THEY WEREN'T EXPOSED TO OUTSIDE POLLINATORS).

Now that there's a legit threat of frost in the air it felt somewhat unseasonal to see the mostly pruned chili plant and Hezbollah's shack stand occupying the table top, so Wadjet's repotted succulents (the jade plant looks AMAZING now, BTW) were moved back, and to make a magic three I nestled the last survivor from the Shango (Bone) Tree's altar against the two thriving plants. (<- SHH! THEY'RE ACTING AS //ROLE-MODELS// FOR THE BABY SPROUT!)

The stubby Apache chili and my GARDENIA THAT WILL NOT QUIT GROWING EVER OR AT ALL (I swear to all that's holy that I PRUNE THAT FUCKING THING MORE THAN I SHAVE, SRSLY) got moved against the radiator, and I'm really hoping they'll situate themselves happily there because once winter hits the space you're looking at in the picture will - FINGERS CROSSED! - be occupied by this year's STONER TREE. (<- It's a Christmas tree BUT WITH A DIFFERENCE! And now that we have A CAR and NO FEAR OF AUTHORITY and a CHAINSAW we're thinking about having a fresh tree this year - OH, NO, ANOTHER CUT'N'RUN CHRISTMAS/YULE TRAGEDY!)

Of course you can't actually SEE any of the work I've painstakingly described in this entry and I've one million percent neglected explaining what actually IS going on in the photo, but knowing me that's to be expected, right?

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Here's the sad reality: regardless of all of the evidence that says otherwise, I'm not always an intuitive cook who gets things amazing-awesome-right the first try.

WAIT, NO, I TAKE THAT BACK! Because in actuality, I did pause, and I even asked Italics if he knew (LOLOLOLOL, LIKE HE'D MAGICALLY KNOW FOR SOME REASON MORE THAN ME, RIGHT?) if lemon reacted to metal. THAT INTUITIVE, GUT FEELING WAS THERE, DAMMIT, I WAS JUST LAZY AND TIRED AND WANTED TO GET THE JOB DONE SO I IGNORED THAT LITTLE QUESTION OF UNCERTAINTY.

If it wasn't the wire whisk I used then I WILL BLAME THE METALLIC TWINGED DISASTER ON MY DECEASED GRANDFATHER AND HIS EFFING BOTTLE OF HEINEKEN THAT SAT FOR A YEAR IN THE GRAVEYARD. (<- HE DIED LAST YEAR IN SEPTEMBER, SO I PUT A BOTTLE OF HIS FAVORITE BEER BEHIND PAPA'S HEADSTONE AND PAPA KEPT IT SAFE FOR ME, BUT MORE ON THAT LATER!)

OKAY, OKAY IT ISN'T //THAT// BAD. The curd didn't set like store bought shit, it has more of a runny honey consistency (one that begs you to dip a spoon in for a second and third and fourth time), and there IS a slightly metallic taste just at the very start, but it eventually fades away and you're left with golden sunshine in your mouth (OR SOMETHING). So it isn't a disaster as much as it's a disappointment, since I like to be supernaturally awesome at things the first time around (in this case, making lemon curd).

This was SUPPOSED to be a lemon mint curd using the last of the Moroccan mint out back, but fuck me if you can actually TASTE the mint (they said use 6 leaves, I used 13). I'm quite keen on trying this again using ONLY WOODEN SPOONS and maybe a few leaves off my lemon-rose scented geranium. (I WILL GET LEMON CURD RIGHT, DAMMIT - DO YOU HEAR THAT UNIVERSE?)

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Because the patio door faces the south it's the perfect place to grow plants AND sun dry anything harvested, so for the next few weeks this spot will be continually occupied with a rotating line-up of leaves, mushrooms, seeds and berries until everything's fully dehydrated and ready to be packed away in jars, bottles and bags. (<- THE WITCH IS STORING SHIT UP FOR WINTER.)

Way, way in the top left corner there's a ramekin filled with concrete looking dirt sitting in a white bowl with a red rim. That? That's crossroads dirt from right outside our property*. One of these days I'll get around to moistening the hardened dirt to pry it out and dry it for a second time in order to reduce it to fine powder; it's been sitting like a lump of coal for almost a year now because sometimes I can be REALLY lazy about things (really, REALLY lazy).

(* Long story short? A water pipe burst near the center of the crossroads last year - the crossroads our house is situated on - and when the street got dug up I stole some dirt and buried a witch bottle there before it got filled and covered with asphalt. BUT MORE ON THAT LATER BECAUSE I HAVE //PICTURES// AND EVERYTHING!)

The mustard colored ceramic bowl in the top center - the one with leaves poking out - house the rowan berries picked on the autumn equinox. Rather than throwing away the leaves that were attached I decided to dry them out as well since they're probably good for SOMETHING. (LOL @ HOW "SOMETHING" ALMOST ALWAYS DEFAULTS TO "OH, HEY, THIS COULD GET BURNED AS PART OF AN INCENSE BLEND...", TRUFAX.)

In front of the rowan bowl sits an orange ceramic bowl with a line of blue waves. That's some of the parsley that was picked on the equinox and then featured in our main Harvest Home altar. It'll be a mixture of parsley grown around our corn (to promote bigger plants with large roots), and parsley grown at the foot of the Shango (Bone) Tree on the phallic worship altar.

To the left of the parsley is my resin skull incense burner (IF I HAVE TO BLUDGEON A WOULD-BE INTRUDER IT WILL BE WITH THIS CRANIUM CRACKING INCENSE BURNER, SRSLY FOR REAL) filled with green acorns collected on this weekend's educational mushroom walk at a local castle. (OH, GOD, I DON'T EVEN WANT TO GO INTO IT. YOU KNOW HOW SOMETIMES YOU CAN GO TO A SOCIAL EVENT (EVEN WHEN YOU AREN'T EVEN SOCIAL TO BEGIN WITH) AND IT TURNS OUT THAT YOU - YOU, WHO ARE A LEGIT FREAK AND YOU KNOW HOW MUCH OF A FREAK YOU ARE - AREN'T EVEN A REAL FREAK COMPARED TO THE OTHER PEOPLE ATTENDING THE EVENT? YEAH. THAT.)

The huge tray of red berries taking up most of the picture are haws (hawthorn berries) that we picked over a week ago at an apple and pear festival. (I had a helluva time finding hawthorn shrubs locally, but after we picked a few pounds worth at the harvest festival I naturally discovered bushes upon bushes growing along a country lane within walking distance - NATURALLY, OF COURSE.)

I really, really wanted to make syrup with these guys, but with the threat of frost looming I still want to be able to harvest the rest of the rowan berries, blackberries (I want to make a bottle of blackberry whiskey for the Old Woman / Cailleach) and elderberries so this batch is getting dried while I focus on other wild berries. (Besides, the recipe calls for one cup of fresh or 1/2 cup of dried; best to dry them off and deal with what's more delicate and requires cooking from a fresh state first.)

Behind the haws are heads of wheat gathered from a local field. I meant to ritually reap wheat from a few locations, but due to a fucked up sleeping schedule we missed out on being able to cut bundles for ourselves. Thanks to the tractors farmers use every few feet there's a thin line of crushed wheat that didn't get cut, so we managed to pick a good handful of heads off the ground for seed/planting purposes.

These wheat heads come from a field famous for a stone (THE DRUM STONE). I was lead to believe that a bloody battle took place there ("OH MY GOD I WANT SEEDS OF WHEAT GROWING ON AN ANCIENT BATTLEGROUND!"), but when researching the monument I found that it was more of an ancient marker and men marching TO battle stopped there to "make arrangements" before going off to war. (Next year? Next year I hope to collect wheat growing next to standing stones and other neolithic monuments.)

Behind the wheat are drying chilies and plum seeds. This year I grew several varieties of chilies indoors - Apache, Cherry Bomb, Prairie Fire and Ring of Fire. The Ring of Fires are the longest, the Cherry Bombs are the short, fat grenade shaped ones and all of the others are Apaches. (The Prairie Fire was a late bloomer, so late, in fact, that it only finished flowering about a week ago.)

The first batch of plums were given as a gift when I made an offering at the local standing stones, another two batches were committed to a vodka grave (<- I'M MAKING A SPICED PLUM LIQUEUR FOR RITUAL USE!), the fourth batch were baked in a seasonal pie and the fifth now sit in the fridge awaiting their inevitable fate. The only pits I got from our plum crop this year are the ones pulled out when making pie (since the liqueur recipe called for the flesh AND pits of the fruit) and the ones still sitting in containment, so I'm saving and drying what I can for God knows what.

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A gift from Italics who knows me TOO well. (TO HELL WITH THE HERO, GIVE ME THE MONSTER! *MONSTER LOVE GRABBY HANDS*) Although I don't entirely understand why an alien is representing monsters and monster love...

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The tall row of plants are the very last of my vegetables. Way in the back - so way in the back you can't see anything other than the stem and the bamboo stick supporting it - is my Ring of Fire chili who reflowered so I have one or two more I'm waiting to harvest. The middle plant with upturned yellowish fruit is my Prairie Fire, and the last plant in line is the one aubergine (eggplant) I spared from the seasonal cold and brought indoors. Eventually all three will get cut down and ritually burned so I can mix magic ash into dirt used next year for all of my gardening (I'd compost if I could, but I can't so I burn and mix instead).

The two spiky plants in front of the line of vegetables? DRAGON'S FUCKING BLOOD, BABY! (Holy shit SRSLY! That's what Dragon's Blood looks like as a teeny tiny little thing!) Much love to my witch friend, Carolina, who sent me some seeds when I bought some of her V. awesome homemade kyphi. (<- THIS IS ANOTHER "BUT MORE ON THAT!" STORY/SCENARIO.)

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Whenever I go out of my way to make something EXTRA SPECIAL NICE I always make a point of sharing it with everyone (and by "everyone" I mean everything ancestral and incorporeal that we live with, not necessarily my in-laws). Because I don't have a kitchen altar I normally set a special place next to us using our best linens and then move the offering of food and drink to the backroom after we're done eating.

Last year we attended a harvest festival at a local castle where they sold produce, fruit and plants grown within the walled garden throughout the year. Our Castle Pie Adventure had it all - apples, plums, springtime bulbs and outdoor sex in a very public place against a tree. To celebrate the event I decided to bake a plum pie, but discovered I was one pound short of plums so I used the apples we bought instead.

(And THAT'S how Castle Pie was created! One pound of plums, one pound of apples, a plethora of spices, shortcut pastry and a topping of spiced streusel. I have pictures of Castle Pie 2008 HERE and HERE. It must've been sort've okay good because I found Italics, who doesn't like fruit, picking at the pie on more than one occasion. <- I crudely joke that he got Castle Pie twice, heh!)

This year the sale wasn't advertised so Castle Pie 2009 didn't actually come from a castle - it came from the backyard (plums) and a heritage garden (apples). I was HELLA disappointed because I really wanted CASTLE PIE ADVENTURE to become an annual harvest tradition for us - especially now since we have a car and don't have to have QUICK public outdoor sex against a tree because one of my in-laws is sitting in the parking lot waiting for us.)

When we went to the mushroom walk this past weekend THERE WAS A SIGN ADVERTISING THE EFFING WALLED GARDEN SALE. For whatever reason the company that manages Scottish heritage sites (i.e., castles and gardens and monuments and large houses) didn't bother UPLOADING THE INFORMATION ON THEIR OFFICIAL SITE so we missed out (not once, not twice but THREE FUCKING WEEKENDS IN A FUCKING ROW). I seriously wanted to make rude Italian gestures at the NTS.

Harvest Home Offering

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Is it criminal that we haven't been back to the semi-local standing stones since walking to them for the first time earlier in June? (YES, PROBABLY.) In June it was effort - it was a fucking EXPEDITION - that had us cutting through sopping wet cow fields, hugging the linear trail of dashes along the sides of country lanes, receiving shocks from electrified fences and cutting through fields of growing wheat as summer's morning sun beat down on us with a crazy amount of ferocity for six in the fucking morning.

But now? But now we have a car - A CAR! AFTER NEARLY TEN YEARS! A FOR REAL CAR WITH FOR REAL WHEELS AND A FOR REAL ENGINE AND A FOR REAL GAS TANK - and the Scottish countryside is my oyster. (<- Hence the lack of quality posting recently. First we were sick, then we were having country sex in historical settings (OH, NEOLITHIC MONUMENTS AND ANCIENT CEMETERIES AND IMPOSING SCOTTISH CASTLES) and THEN Harvest Home hit and I've been scrambling madly to try and retain a quickened pace of urgency to ensure all of my proposed activities, celebrations and rituals come to fruition.)

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When I picked up the fox roadkill on Lammas (I haven't yet written an entry about it, but there are pictures of me processing the body nearly step by step in LAMMAS 2009) I didn't waste ANYTHING. The majority of its vital organs were gone (the stomach cavity must've exploded on impact leaving nothing noteworthy except a friction burned heart) so what remained was carefully extracted and frozen - the hide was gently peeled from the mangled carcass, the feet cut and bundled together, the windpipe, eyes, tongue and teeth meticulously removed and muscles from the mostly undisturbed haunches were stripped off and frozen into little fox steaks.

What I couldn't salvage and use I carefully wrapped in plastic and froze as well, packing it alongside the rabbit, crow and female blackbird in the outside freezer. (LOL @ THAT GODDAMN FREEZER TURNING INTO MY CREEPY GIRL ROADKILL MORGUE. IF ONLY MY IN-LAWS KNEW THEY WERE PAYING EXTRA FOR ME TO RUN AN EFFING FREEZER FOR WILD ANIMALS AND THEIR BUTCHERED PARTS.) I wanted to give those remains as an offering, but I couldn't make up my mind WHERE I wanted to leave them. (The standing stones were the first place I thought of, but I was afraid if people found the pile of gruesome leftovers there'd be some SATANIC PANIC in the air. <- POOR LITTLE MISUNDERSTOOD DEVIL-WORSHIPING WITCH!)

In the end, though, the idea came full circle and the fox remnants were left at the foot of the original standing stone (the other two in the background were later added - they seem to be proper standing stones, although probably not part of the original circle). And to combat any SATANIC PANIC I naturally went overboard making the offering look EVEN MORE SUSPICIOUSLY LIKE DELIBERATE WITCHCRAFT. (Although how BLACK MAGIC can it be if I'm also leaving plums, rowan berries and a small loaf of bread? <- CLEARLY, I AM IN LEAGUE WITH SATAN HIMSELF.)

This is my offering to the Old Woman, the Cailleach, my "darker" self (as opposed to the Virginal Spring Bride, my "lighter" self). With this offering I'm effectively giving thanks for what I received during my reign as the Bride and passing on a portion of my gifts and bounty to my other self. I've sowed, I've nurtured, I've reaped, harvested and learned, and by giving a portion to myself I'm also accepting the experience, wisdom and riches that comes from work. (LOOK, I NEVER SAID IT WAS GOING TO MAKE PERFECT SENSE, DID I? Although it makes PERFECT sense to me...)

The magenta pile of raw meat are the remains of my beloved fox (I DID EVERYTHING BUT STRIP NAKED AND FLING THE BLOODIED AND FLAYED PELT ON MY BARE BODY) and behind it is a huge ass soup bone that I picked up for Chippy, our live-in demon who's been house trained like a dog. (<- WHAT DOES AN AUTISTIC GIRL DO WHEN AN ANCIENT SUMERIAN DEMON COMES KNOCKING? SHE PUTS A DOG COLLAR ON IT, GIVES IT LOVES AND HUGS AND FLIES KITES WITH IT.)(HE HAPPENS TO LOVE FLYING KITES V. MUCH, THANK YOU.)

The round loaf of bread is a traditional Ukrainian bread called babka (it's sort've like a cake bread; rich, sweet and fragrant like brioche) that I normally bake during our Easter/Hieros Gamos celebrations. Normally I only bake babka (or paska) in Spring, but I found a recipe for a pumpkin version and after THAT I wouldn't consider anything else. Thanks to me being me the bread wasn't gloriously orange-gold like it was supposed to since I opted to substitute sweet potatoes for pumpkin (I think they have a better, more rounded flavor) and the tres swish potatoes I used were more corn silk gold than pumpkin orange. (SIGH.)

The babka is sitting on a jellied stack of bones from the three different birds consumed during our Harvest Home celebrations. (Long story short? Because I identify the Cailleach as my MONSTER HAG BABA YAGA SELF I offer Her/Me/Us primitive witch food - booze, bread and bones. <- THREE THINGS, LOLTASTICALLY ENOUGH, UKRAINIANS ARE VERY FOND OF.) I made a stock using the frozen bones and gizzards of last year's Christmas goose (I always offer the carcass of the body to the Woman, but keep the shit trimmed away prior to roasting for stock making) and then added leftover roast duck to the soup. The last set of bones comes from our ROADKILL PHEASANT which I butchered, tidied up and then casseroled with venison.

The plums are windfall fruits from the two plum trees that I've been babying for the past couple of years. (It's taken A LOT of effing work to get those fuckers to flower and bear fruit. Like NEARLY THREE YEARS WORTH OF EFFORT AND WORK AND CAJOLING, PLEADING, DEMANDING AND THREATENING.) I promised any fruit, vegetable or herb that touched the ground to the Old Woman which made plum picking V. interesting when Italics was forced to shake branches way above me because he couldn't reach the ones at the very top. (OH, BUT IF ONLY YOU ALL COULD'VE SEEN ME HALF-NAKED AND RUNNING BACK AND FORTH WITH A HUGE ASS BASKET OVER MY HEAD TRYING TO CATCH EVERY PLUM PLUMMETING TO THE GREEDY GROUND BELOW.)

Last are a huge handful of fresh rowan berries from our overloaded tree in the dirtyard which sits at one of the perpendicular angles of the crossroad we're situated on. (I've been meaning to sit down and string the fuckers up into necklaces and garlands and shit BUT I JUST HAVEN'T HAD THE TIME. Currently I have bunches of rowan berries liberally scattered throughout our altar and in various ceramic bowls throughout the house.) Italics said that it was the berries that finally pushed the Harvest Home offering into OBVIOUS WITCHCRAFT TERRITORY. (BECAUSE, LIKE, PILES OF ROTTING MEAT, PLUMS AND A LOAF OF BREAD ARE CLEARLY AMBIGUOUS UNTIL YOU ADD ROWAN BERRIES.)

OH WAIT ALSO! I also offered water at the stone, pouring it over the very tip of the stone and letting it race down to the earth below. (You can kind've sort've see the streaks in the first picture, especially if you view it in a larger size.) As we departed I managed to unearth an oddly shaped stone - really reminiscent of the one we were just at - from the soil and I took it home with us in the hopes I can create a miniature recumbent circle at the base of the Shango (Bone) Tree's altar next year.

(I'm just going to let the next few pictures speak for themselves. ME? RUIN THE THE PERVASIVE ATMOSPHERE? SURELY NOT!)

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The nipple peak tentatively emerging from the dense morning mist is Bennachie, also know as "Mither Tap" ("Mother Tap" due to the breast shape of the hill). In ancient times it had a significant religious role in the indigenous people's lives. (The Old Woman, the Cailleach, usually inhabited the largest hills and peaks in the area.) While I can't see Mither Tap from any of our windows, the second we're on the road that winds down to the cemetery it (She?) comes into view.

For a year or two now I've been desperate to get to the summit to collect materials to create my own neolithic/stone age hammer. (In stories the Old Woman brings Winter down by striking the ground with Her hammer.) I have no idea how to fashion a hammer out of stone, sinew, leather and wood BUT THAT ISN'T GOING TO STOP ME. (FEAR ME, SCOTLAND, FOR ONE DAY I WILL CONTROL WINTER AND YOU WILL TREMBLE IN THE RIPPLING WAKE OF MY AWESOME POWER! (<- Actually, LOLOLOLOL, I just want to ensure A WHITE FUCKING CHRISTMAS EVERY YEAR, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.))

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After collecting a mostly perfect roadkill rabbit (THAT'S ANOTHER STORY I'M SAVING FOR LATER, BUT THE CONDENSED VERSION IS: FOUND A DEAD RABBIT - RATHER BLOATED BUT 100% IMMACULATE FUR - ON THE WAY TO THE STANDING STONES AND SKINNED ITS PELT TO BEGIN THE LONG ROADKILL FORAGING PROCESS OF CREATING A HOMEMADE RABBIT BLANKET; YAY FOR STANDING STONES PAYING IT FORWARD!) and offering this year's bounty at the stones we casually drove around the country as the sun rose, admiring the mist riddled landscape, gawking at the sheer number of pheasants and carefully looking for even more roadkill.

This is mist rising from the local loch (a man made feature created hundreds of years ago) during sunrise. If you have a super great memory you might remember me mentioning "THE LOCH" when pointing out the glimmer of water in the distance in pictures taken at the new cemetery (as opposed to the old cemetery where we go to leave offerings and gifts and help tend the graves of complete strangers since I'm unable to care for the resting place of my family and ancestors).

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The loch and village containing both cemeteries are named after an infamous magician that lived and practiced the black arts just a mile away (the "Wizard Laird"). He spent part of his youth in Italy, supposedly studying magic, and upon returning home continued his "satanic" practices here. He's buried in the very graveyard we visit - the same cemetery where he allegedly stole corpses of unbaptized babies for his nefarious deeds - although the exact location of his burial site has been "lost" and a modern marker in the shape of a headstone was created to commemorate him and his family.

(I have a kind've sort've maybe idea of where he is. Occasionally I leave a treat for him when we visit the graveyard, knocking on the totally nondescript monument to "wake" him up. The first time I did that I requested that he send me his magic birds - crows, rooks, magpies and jackdaws (I already had the crows and magpies, I eventually got the rooks but I'm still waiting for the jackdaws) - and that very night I had an unsettling dream where I found myself standing in a very specific location in the cemetery, practically choking on the overwhelming, blinding presence of something with big heap ju-ju.)

Harvest Home Altar (Dark)

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The picture above is my ancestral altar where I'll be plying my recently - and not so recently - deceased ancestors and relatives with food and drink throughout our harvest celebration. (Because I'm somewhat estranged from my family I don't have any pictures of anyone except for my mother, and even THAT image is the only one I have of her.)

Tonight's menu? Leftover yogurt soup (I made fresh stock using frozen bones from last year's Christmas goose and dumped in carrots, baby corn, potatoes, rice, roast duck and grilled sirloin steak marinated in miso soup), cubes of cornmeal spoonbread (it's a Ukrainian thing) and homemade garlic bread.

The bowl to the right contains Mabon's first meal - an oatmeal breakfast using PROPER pinhead oats, whole milk, a shredded apple, nuts, plums from outside, whole milk and honey. (Everyone in the house - including the rats - had a bowl before we began harvesting on the equinox.) On top of it is an offering of a glazed donut (REDUCED TO CLEAR GLAZED DONUTS? YES PLZ!) and an Italian cookie. (<- I continuously add whatever we're eating to their altar so they don't miss out on anything.)

Below are a few blurry candlelit shots of our main harvest home altar, thanks to baking bread all day (FOUR RISES? WHY DOES UKIE BREAD ALWAYS NEED EXCESSIVE RISING?!) I'm dead tired so I'll skip out on explaining shit until I have better quality pictures. (There are A LOT of skulls and A LOT of food and A LOT of Slavic kitsch.)(It'll look a billion times more impressive with some light. Honest for real.)

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(Almost) Jointed Roadkill Pheasant

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From THIS to THIS (<- above!). I hung the pheasant for one night, butchered it the following night, washed it, dried it, wrapped it up in a cotton tea towel and stored it in the fridge. (OH, PLASTIC TUPPERWARE BOX WITH LID, <3!) And there the gutted, partially jointed roadkill sat for another day or two thanks to me being 100% engrossed with the creation of our harvest altar yesterday.

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Things scavengers with opposable digits might not tell you (you can thank me for my frankness later):

* Death smells like bile - acidic, sour, acrid, awful, off-putting and rank. Death? Death smells like sauerkraut even Ukrainians won't eat.

* It all doesn't ALWAYS come out in one go (or the second, or the third, but by the time you're scooping for the fourth time you pretty much ruptured the last of the organs into a pureed mess of offal leaving you with an unidentifiable cocktail of insides which may, or may not, be a visual improvement depending on how delicate your sensibilities are).

* Fuck the feathers, you're never going to get them all. (THERE COMES A POINT - AFTER MANY A FRUSTRATED FAUCET RINSINGS - WHEN YOU REALIZE THAT THE TEENY, TINY BLACK PLUMAGE FLUFF STICKING TO YOUR PARTIALLY JOINTED PHEASANT WAS PUT THERE BY THE DEVIL HIMSELF. DON'T CONTINUE NEEDLESSLY ROLLING THAT BOULDER UP THE HILL ANY LONGER THAN YOU NEED TO, TRUST ME ON THIS.)

* That sour, defrosting dead Yeti whose last meal was a barrel of 1000 year old sauerkraut smell will go. Honest. I know the meat smells like vomit NOW, but after rinsing, patting dry...well, actually, after the first round of rinsing and drying it'll still smell like ass (just like your hands). But it'll go away. The processed bird I pulled out of the fridge today? Smells a whole helluva lot more appetizing than the majority of store bought poultry.

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After dredging the jointed pheasant and 300g of venison in seasoned flour I added the game to a waiting casserole (butter beans, black-eyed peas, pancetta, tomatoes, chicken stock, balsamic vinegar, thyme, oregano, white wine, garlic and mushrooms), and the meal's currently cooking away in the oven. (Since this is a crock pot recipe and I don't have a crock pot I'm leaving it in the oven overnight on a low temperature to emulate a slow cooker. By the time I wake up I should have fork tender game casserole. <- LONG LIVE FREE FOOD IN THE FORM OF ROADKILL!)

(Holy shit I'm so tired I can barely think. IF NONE OF THIS MAKES SENSE LET'S BLAME IT ON THAT, OKAY?)

A Bit of Cheesecake

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Lammas Bread

Despite not being pagan (<- IF YOU'RE GOING TO WORRY ABOUT WITCHES, THIS IS THE SORT'VE WITCH YOU'VE GOT TO BE MOST WARY OF!) I still observe the majority of neo-pagan festivals that celebrate the shifting of the seasons (from the super big solstices to the smaller, quieter dates in between).

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At the heart of it I know the REAL reason (WHO DOESN'T WANT AN EXCUSE TO GET INTOXICATED, CELEBRATE AND HAVE MAD SEX WITH THE ONE(S) YOU LOVE?) but the older I get the more my foot eases off the gas pedal in a deliberate attempt to appreciate and understand the subtle changes throughout the year and how they, in turn, affect not only me but my relationship with my husband, the world, Universe and all that's Divine.

(That, and there's also the ANYTHING GOES element to grocery shopping when it comes time to creating the sabbat menu. "BUT, BABY, IT'S THE FIRST OF THE HARVEST FESTIVALS! HOW CAN WE //NOT// GET A VENISON HAUNCH AND SEVERAL BOTTLES OF ELDERFLOWER CHAMPAGNE?! IT IS OUR SEMI-DIVINE DUTY TO CELEBRATE TO ENSURE HAPPINESS, GOOD LUCK AND HEALTH IN THE FOLLOWING SEASON!")

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I bake homemade bread for every sabbat - regardless of my state of health (WOE BE UNTO THIS HOUSE WHEN THE WOMAN IS TOO SICK TO GIVE THANKS FOR THE GRAIN THAT SHE USES TO FEED HER FAMILY!) - certain breads and dates set in stone (for Christmas/Yule I bake a kolach and at Easter/Hieros Gamos I bake paska - two ancient, traditional Ukrainian breads baked for ritual use to either give thanks or feed the dead) but I freestyle with other celebrations provided they reflect the season/event we're observing in our own off-roading way.

Thanks to Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, being away for the majority of June and July my container garden was spared of the dreaded BLACK SPOTTED POX which, up until this summer, plagued my plants every fucking year. (<- Long story short? He has a stagnant partial pond that's sat unfinished for nearly twenty years. Instead of letting me water my own plants (which I've politely requested NUMEROUS TIMES for SEVERAL YEARS) he splashes them with the fetid, diseased water and, within a few weeks, black patches of blight would appear on everything rendering it unfit for consumption.)

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My favorite parts of the day during (this past) summer vacation? My early mornings (whenever they happened; we tend to be nocturnal for half the month and then have a more normal sleeping schedule for the rest of the month) and late evenings when I'd make my first (or final) check of the day, naked, pattering around the warm concrete of the patio while stroking and whispering to my trees, bushes, vegetables, flowers and herbs.

Sometimes Italics would come out with me, trailing behind in his blue bathrobe as I cooed and loved, pointing out the small changes to my beloved garden. "LOOK HOW HEALTHY AND HAPPY MY HERBS ARE!" I'd proclaim, satisfied and proud, my hands on my naked hips (perfumed with Moroccan mint or golden marjoram or lavender or oregano or...) as I surveyed the miniature orchard, berry patch, vegetable, flower and herb garden, the twice daily activity never getting boring or old.

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To capitalize this year's blemish free bounty I thought it was only fitting to include the herbs I've otherwise been unable to use (or even harvest for any purpose) up until this point, specifically my oregano and marjoram which sat happy and lush on the patio steps without even a trace of a black, damning speck ("OH MY GOD HAVE YOU EVER SEEN THEM LOOK SO AWESOME BEFORE?!").

Serendipity said YES, IT WOULD BE FITTING, WOULDN'T IT? as I gingerly flipped through my The Herb & Spice Book looking for raspberry, blackberry and elderberry recipes and stumbled across a recipe for Oregano Salt Sticks (which called for both fresh oregano and marjoram). And with THAT decision made for (and by) me the recipe got earmarked for the upcoming Lammas celebration.

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With the in-laws away for the weekend I had a blissful Lammas morning in the kitchen - high and partially naked, apron on and music playing, drifting in and out of the culinary trace of restful, content meditation as the sun streamed through the window and gently rested on ritually harvested produce on my makeshift window altar.

I bled, very slightly, despite not expecting my period so when time came to add a little of myself to the bread I dipped my fingers in warm full milk and ran my moistened fingers along my cunt, gently grazing between my labia to collect traces of (sort've) menstrual blood before submerging my wet fingers into the dough and kneading.

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And when time came to knead in the fresh herbs and grated Parmesan I carefully plucked one of my Virgin Hag Hairs (<- two dark hairs grow just beneath my chin, and they take FOREVER to regrow so I use them sparingly since there's a bit of magic when using hair from "the beard of a virgin") and dropped it in amongst the other ingredients so a bit of the Virgin and a bit of the Hag were both represented (since the scale is slowly tipping from one to the other; one still in play, the other getting ready for Her turn).

This recipe turned out to be THE PERFECT recipe for the day. I originally liked it because it starred and celebrated the fresh herbs I had growing in the back, but I liked it even more when I realized the short time needed to create a batch from scratch meaning we could spend the entire day in town at the local farmer's market.

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(Only 30 minutes of resting time? With another 10 before baking? HOLY SHIT, DUDE! DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW LONG PASKA TAKES TO MAKE? Try THREE FUCKING SEPARATE RISES in addition to BAKING SEVERAL DIFFERENT BATCHES BECAUSE ALL OF THE LOAVES WON'T FIT IN THE OVEN AT ONCE. This was totally - TOTALLY! - the fast food version of bread making, but still homemade!)

Lammas 2009

This year's Lammas celebration in 54 pictures. (<- WITH EXPLANATIONS TO FOLLOW!)

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Lammas Cheesecake

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Homemade Lammas gooseberry cheesecake decorated with fresh gooseberries, hyacinth and borage flowers.

Lammas Gooseberries

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600g of organically grown gooseberries from containers outside. (Just enough for a celebratory Lammas cheesecake and a granola bar recipe.)

Nothing Else's Acceptable

So I say to Italics "I NEED CORIANDER SEED. PLEASE EXPLAIN TO YOUR MOM - IF SHE'S THE ONE GOING GROCERY SHOPPING - THAT I NEED CORIANDER //SEED//, NOT GROUND CORIANDER OR POWDERED CORIANDER, BUT THE SEED BECAUSE I NEED SIX SEEDS TO PUT IN THE RASPBERRY BRANDY ALONG WITH THE VANILLA POD AND NOTHING ELSE WILL DO. AT ALL. MAKE SURE SHE UNDERSTANDS I NEED CORIANDER IN SEED FORM AND NOTHING ELSE IS ACCEPTABLE."

This morning? I wake up to find a jar of CILANTRO IN SUNFLOWER OIL sitting on the counter for me next to vanilla pods.

...oi vey.

Egg Wash

I've just finished washing my hands and face with an egg yolk. I DON'T KNOW, DON'T ASK ME; I'M REALLY, REALLY HIGH RIGHT NOW.

(For whatever reason I "wash" my hands with ingredients when MAGIC cooking; when the egg broke crazy and the white (I DIDN'T SEE A WHITE, ACTUALLY, BECAUSE THE YOLK WAS STUCK TO THE INSIDE OF THE SHELL, WHICH IS WHY I GOT SOME ON MY FACE BECAUSE I SMELLED MY HANDS, AFTER, TO SEE IF IT WAS OFF) disappeared I had slippery, liquid gold in my hands and I thought OH SHIT! CAN'T LET THIS GET AWAY, BETTER WASH AND RUB IT ALL IN! and before I knew it I had massaged it into my hands, my forearms and my face. After striping off every gelatinous layer (LIKE AN EASTER CHICK, BABY, FRESH AND NEW AND FLUFFY AND YOUNG) with warmish water I buried my face into a starched kitchen towel catching, just for a second, a scorpion emerging from its watery home and crawling onto land underneath the light of a crescent moon.)

  
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#18, Moon
"Lobster: Also depicted as a crayfish or a crab in other deck renditions, crustaceous creatures are a symbol of hidden psychic power. These creatures live in water (which is a symbol of the subconscious) and when they emerge from the depths of the water it is an expression of coming out of the dark or coming out of hiding. Further, these creatures are usually equipped with a hard exoskeleton which is a symbol of armor which protects the tender, beauty we all carry inside our souls. As mentioned in the introduction above, the lobster is a representation of us on our pilgrimage to carry out our higher (most often hidden) divine purpose. Additionally, it's worthwhile to investigate the astrological aspects of Cancer as the moon is its ruler. "

Source: Moon Tarot Card Meanings

(OH, LORD, IT'S GOING TO BE ONE OF //THOSE// NIGHTS, ISN'T IT?)

The Laughing High Priestess

TIRED, CHARRED and ACHY; welcome to battered and burned world of Ms. Graveyard Dirt, nudist gardener in training and "the laughing high priestess" extraordinaire. (<- When I was worried that my LOLOLOLOLOL! view, take and communication with LIFE AND THE UNIVERSE shoved me under the "Trickster" category Italics saved me from the label and described me as "you're more like the laughing high priestess who sees the joke in everything." PHEW; STILL UNDEFINABLE BY CLICHED ARCHETYPES, YESSSS!)

(I see punch lines everyday, they're the undercurrent of life. If you look hard enough and discard your narrow view of what's significant (LOOK, IT'S NOT GOING TO BE LIGHTENING BOLTS EVERY SINGLE TIME, OKAY? THE BEAUTY OF THIS GAME IS THAT IT'S ALWAYS BEING PLAYED, YOU JUST NEED TO PAY ATTENTION TO THE LITTLE THINGS THAT GET OVERLOOKED) you'll find all the validation and confirmation you'll need is already present, waiting for you to relax the stringent rules and checkboxes you created.)

(I like "the laughing high priestess." In my mind I see #2 sitting between her B and J (LOLOLOLOL! BJ! GET IT? GET IT?) pillars, partially obscured and veiled, the moon at her feet and head, her solemn expression betrayed by a single kink in the hard line of her lips as she attempts to BE SERIOUS and NOT RUIN THE PICTURE BY LAUGHING. Christ, if you can't snicker, can't giggle, can't laugh what sort've priestess are you? How are you connecting with the Divine? I mean, in the end, isn't this all really a joke worth laughing at?)

(But maybe that's just me; just me and my miswired, autistic brain. I laugh a lot, sometimes when I shouldn't - most times I don't know why, it just happens. Maybe on a subconscious level I understand the absurdity, the ridiculousness. Maybe on a subconscious level I represent Woman, laughing at Man and his eternal struggle with understanding Woman and what (and why) She is. Maybe on a subconscious level I accept that I'm Human and Monster, and pity the futility of the Hero slaying the Monster to save the Human because He doesn't see that We're one and the same. Or maybe I'm just retarded, and I'm reading too heavily into things, BUT THEY MAKE SENSE, DAMMIT, AND LIFE IS ABOUT MAKING SENSE OF THINGS.)

(You know all of those stories where a human man takes a supernatural wife? And their life is mostly perfect and wonderful, but she has a bad habit of reacting inappropriately during certain social situations? She laughs at funerals and cries at baptisms? More than ever I find myself remembering bits of folklore I read as a child, sifting through snippets of memories and text and finding parallels between old fairy tales and myself. I now wonder if the supernatural wife was autistic, if her charmed existence was just an innate understanding of the world and people through shards of her broken brain.)

(OH, WOW, THIS IS HELLA HEAVY AND THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF MY ORIGINAL INTENT. UH, WHOOPS?)

So I'm tired and fatigued and exhausted and burned and sore and achy and every other fucking adjective and adverb that falls in between. I haven't really mentioned it here because I prefer to JUST IGNORE THE PROBLEM (like, LOL, it's going to magically GO AWAY, or something) but...I'm sick. A stupid, infuriating chronic sort've sick. After several years of pretty extreme symptoms and a year of specialist consultations and a myriad of invasive testing the medical community's deemed me as being "atypical" and, also, A HUMAN COW.

DOCTOR: "You know how cows have multiple stomachs? Well, sure you do, you're a Midwest girl! And in order to move food from one stomach to the other they need to bring it up, and that's why their stomach valve has a hair trigger - to facilitate bringing food up and down."

YES, REALLY, THEY SAID I WAS A COW WOMAN. (AND, LOL, MY HATHOR COW STATUTE ARRIVED A DAY BEFORE I SAT DOWN WITH THE SPECIALIST TO GO OVER MY TEST RESULTS.) AND, ALSO, THAT I'M "ATYPICAL":

MS. GD: "WAIT, WAIT, LET ME GUESS...MY SYMPTOMS DON'T TICK ALL OF THE BOXES SO YOU DON'T HAVE ANY CONCLUSIVE EVIDENCE TO TELL ME WHAT, EXACTLY, IS WRONG WITH ME."

DOCTOR: "OH GLORIOUS AND DIVINE MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT?"

MS. GD: "BECAUSE THE ONLY THING TYPICAL ABOUT ME IS THAT I'M ALWAYS ATYPICAL".

Rather than going into little details I'll just say - being sick affects every fucking awesome thing about being human (i.e., eating, having sex, taking drugs, enjoying a beer, exercising, sleeping and the list goes on and on and on...). Some days are good, some days are bad. Some days I can't leave the bed, or couch. (LOL, "SOME DAYS" - I SPENT ALL OF 2008 CURLED UP ON SOME SORT OF MATTRESS OR CUSHIONED SURFACE WHILE WAITING FOR APPOINTMENTS AND VARIOUS TESTS.) Some days I forget that I'm even sick.

"Moderation" is one of my big problems (and not even in a dangerous or reckless or sexy way; I'm overly cautious about drugs, less concerned about food serving sizes, heh!). I have a hard time physically moderating myself when I'm feeling well; I always over do it, but don't know until the day after, and the day after that and, LOL, usually several more days after those days. I sometimes treat being sick as a DO OR FUCKING DIE battle; I throw myself in, teeth gnashing, screaming, swearing, brandishing bloodied weapons and fight against the constraint of my illness, but it's a monster that can't be vanquished. (OH, FUTILE HERO!)

So I overdid it a few days ago when engaging in HARDCORE EXTREME (PARTIALLY) NUDIST GARDENING and I'm currently paying the price. One of these days I'll finally learn YOU CAN'T FIGHT SOMETHING THAT CAN'T BE BEATEN. Until I wise up and accept that the only way to best my adversary is by employing a more cerebral approach I'll always be an ARIES WITH A LEO ASCENT racing into battle. (HEY, AT LEAST I'M READY AND WILLING, RIGHT? RAWRR!)

I wanted to take some time off of THINKING (LOL, THINKING? FUCK THINKING, GIVE ME EXPERIENCE(S)! I'LL THINK LATER, WHEN I'M OLD AND GREY AND REMINISCING; LET ME BE WISE AT THE END OF MY DAYS, BUT LET ME BE WISE FROM EXPERIENCE, RIGHT NOW I JUST WANT TO TAKE MUSHROOMS AND ROLL IN MUD WHILE COMMUNING WITH THE DIVINE, THANKS) but I was worried about damaging my writing momentum. Middle ground was originally intended to be the recipe for a rhubarb pie I've been flashing all over the internet but then I started talking - OH, LORD, THE TALKING - and, well, all I'll say is - LAUGHING HIGH PRIESTESS. (Ahem!)

The "cookbook" aspect of this diary is embarrassingly underdeveloped. It's hard, though, to keep so many balls juggling in the air - when I'm hardcore gardening I'm not hardcore cooking, and when I'm hardcore cooking I'm not hardcore writing. Something, inevitably, needs to be dropped from time to time in order for me to fit MOST of it. (I know I'm capable of balancing it and the lesson here is FINDING A WAY OF DOING IT.)

I REALLY, REALLY want to explain how significant cooking is to me, all magic-style, but I'm afraid it'll lead to an epic tangent which'll conclude with wild assertions ("HOLY SHIT, DOES SHE FUCKING SMOKE CRACK?" LOL, NO, I ONLY SNORT A SYNTHESIZED VERSION OF METH!) and no pie recipe. So, for now, let's just accept that fact that I cook (see my THE BLACK ARTS diary/journal category (YOU CAN LAUGH, IT'S MEANT TO BE FUNNY) and my FLICKR COOKING SET) and the motivation'n'drive to cook and provide for my husband falls between MAGIC and QUASI-SEXUAL FOREPLAY.

    
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Rhubarb Pie w/Summer Fruits & Orange Flower Water
This pie recipe has been adapted from the first cookbook I ever cracked open - my mom's red-covered Betty Crocker's Cookbook. (I think my first forary into the culinary world was BAKING POWDER BISCUITS, but that's a story for another day...)

8-INCH
* pastry for 8-inch two-crust pie
* 1 to 1 1/4 cups sugar
* 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
* 1/4 tsp grated orange peel (optional)
* 3 cups cut-up rhubarb (1/2-inch pieces)
* 1 tbsp margarine or butter

9-INCH
* pastry for 9-inch two-crust pie
* 1 1/3 to 1 2/3 cups sugar
* 1/3 cup all-purpose flour
* 1/2 tsp grated orange peel (optional)
* 4 cups cut-up rhubarb (1/2-inch pieces)
* 2 tbsp margarine or butter

METHOD:
Heat oven to 425F. Prepare pastry. Mix sugar, flour and orange peel. Turn half of the rhubarb into a pastry-lined pie plate; sprinkle with half of the sugar mixture. Repeat with remaining rhubarb and sugar mixture; dot with margarine (or butter). Cover with top crust that has slits cut in it; seal and flute. Sprinkle with sugar if desired. Cover edge with 2- to 3-inch strip of aluminum foil to prevent excessive browning; remove foil during last 15 minutes of baking. Bake until crust is brown and juice begins to bubble through slits in crust, 40 to 50 minutes.

MS. GD NOTES:
I offroaded a bit by substituting two cups of frozen fruit (a "summer berries" selection with blackberries, blueberries, raspberries, black and red currants) for two of the four cups of cut-up rhubarb. (You can use two cups of anything, really, provided that it's an even ratio of rhubarb to other fruit.) I didn't have any oranges, so I tipped in some orange flower water but found that 1/4 tsp wasn't enough. The crust was sprinkled with a generous handful of vanilla sugar before being cooked. And, finally, a belated shoutout of props to Italics who actually put the pie together as I hovered behind his shoulder barking instructions.

Now, pies and cookies are two branches of the culinary world that Mademoiselle Graveyard Dirt rarely ventures in. Italics isn't too keen on fruit-based pies or desserts*, so it's a rare occurrence to find me paring with my paring knife. But once in blue moon I get an intense CRAZY AMOUNTS OF FRUCTOSE NESTLED IN A FLAKY, GOLDEN CARBOHYDRATE craving and when THAT happens things like castle pie (see below) and homemade rhubarb pie with summer fruits and orange flower water are the end results.

(WELL, USUALLY. THIS RHUBARB PIE IS SEVERAL MONTHS IN THE MAKING THANKS TO MY FATHER-IN-LAW AND A DAY OF AWESOME; NO, I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT, THEY'RE COMING BACK HOME TONIGHT AND I DON'T WANT TO FIND MYSELF HIDING BEHIND A DOOR WITH A PARING KNIFE IN HAND.)

* Castle pie (I & II) was a V. rare exception, and Papa's sweet potato pie (I & II) doesn't count.

Accidental Altar

You know how sometimes when cleaning you throw everything you don't know what the fuck to do with in one room with the grudging acceptance that you're creating a new mess, but at least it's contained in one room that you can kind've sort've ignore?

(OH, I KNOW YOU DO. THE VERY BEST, VERY ANAL OF US DO IT. <- UH OH, I THINK I JUST SPOILED THE ANCIENT SECRET OF WOMEN'S MYSTERIES. IF THE GREAT CHTHONIC CREATRIX AND DESTRUCTORIX ASKS, IT //WASN'T ME//, OKAY? I'M ALREADY ON PROBATION FOR ONLY HALF FINISHING HIEROS GAMOS.)

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It started with Papa's incense burner. (IT ALMOST //ALWAYS// STARTS WITH PAPA, RIGHT OLD MAN? *nudge nudge, wink wink*) When roasting marrows and cooking the lamb-tomato-spices filling for dinner I thought "OH, HEY, IN-LAWS ARE GONE FOR A FEW DAYS, MIGHT AS WELL ROCK THE HOUSE WITH INCENSE AS MUCH AS I CAN" and dragged the doorstop of an incense burner through to the kitchen.

(I SLEEP WITH A MACHETE NEXT TO THE BED IN CASE WE EVER GET ATTACKED BY ZOMBIES, I SLEEP WITH THE RESIN INCENSE HOLDER NEXT TO THE BED IN CASE WE EVER GET ATTACKED BY A BURGLAR. <- BECAUSE THE LAST THING A CRIMINAL WANTS TO SEE IS THE MATRIARCH OF THE HOUSE (THE MATRIARCH WITH A V. V. V. SHORT FUSE; I AM ARIES, HEAR ME ROAR TEAR OUR YOUR THROAT WITH MY BARE TEETH), BUCK NAKED, SWINGING A HEAD SHOP BOUGHT SKULL BURNER LIKE A NEOLITHIC STONE AXE.)

Too lazy to return it to its rightful place (I'M ANAL AND LAZY, WHORE AND VIRGIN, CHILD AND OLD WOMAN; BLAME GEMINI IN MY VENUS) I dropped it off on the coffee table in the backroom.

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Later on Italics pruned our, uh, houseplants in the bathroom and left the leaves on the cutting board so I could dry them out and store them. (They aren't psychoactive, but still useful in a symbolic/representative sort've way and I've been meaning to grind up our dried leaves to add to incense and things.)

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While he was hacking away I was outside in the back doing my nudist gardening thing in the sun (I TAKE IT BACK; I WORE ONE ITEM OF CLOTHING, CAN YOU GUESS WHAT IT WAS?) moving container vegetables around (sub-arctic tomatoes went outside into the bonsai house, so I tossed their plastic coasters onto coffee table), planting newly arrived seeds (cucumbers, parsley and thyme), sweeping the patio floor with a small dust pan brush, weeding my herb containers, planting out seedlings from trays (sweet peas and sunflowers), moving acclimated trees'n'plants to get better sun and arranging everything in a visually pleasing manner.

(TRANSLATION: SYMMETRICAL, UNINTENTIONAL OUTSIDE ALTAR CONSISTING OF CONTAINER TREES, PLANTS, VEGETABLES AND FLOWERS.)

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The glass cutting board and leaves got absently moved into the backroom as I got ready for a shower (post gardening, pre-realization of how red this partial red man...er, uh...woman, red WOman really was) but before I could climb into the tub Papa began a-pattin' my shoulder to remind me that OH, HEY, YOU PROMISED ME A PIECE OF THAT HOMEMADE PIE, BABY GIRL. So, still sweaty, light-headed and covered in dirt I cut him the promised piece and left it on top of the leaves on top of the cutting board which was on top of the table.

(When I'm not making a big production of offering food to ancestors, deceased friends and relatives or our incorporeal housemates I usually leave a plate of food in the backroom which Italics and I use as our private lounge area and greenhouse. <- GARDENING, BOARD GAMES, TURNTABLE, RECORDS, BOOKS, TV AND VIDEO GAMES; I THINK EVERYTHING "VISITING" HAS SOME INTEREST COVERED. <- AS IF "FREE, HOMEMADE FOOD" WASN'T ENOUGH.)

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Once it dawned on me how badly I had been burned I bee-lined to my recently deceased aloe plant (someone - "SOMEONE" = NOT ME, NOT ITALICS, NOT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW, BUT MY FATHER-IN-LAW, MR. AWESOME, NOT TO NAME NAMES, OR ANYTHING - moved my aloe into the dark and rather than start WW III I didn't say anything or do anything and it cost me my goddamn plant) and shook out a handful of plump leaves to cut open and apply to my skin. I only needed one, so the rest got dumped on the last uncluttered corner of the table.

  
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Because I find straight-up aloe vera gel a little sticky I concocted a massage oil (an organic baby oil with an addition of rosehip seed oil) in my communion cup for Italics to rub me down with before applying aloe. I took my paring knife through so he could cut a small portion from a leaf rather than bruise it by breaking one off. Once anointed (LOL!) I threw the knife, used section of leaf and oil filled cup onto the (now V. familiar, no doubt) backroom coffee table.

(LOOK, THE KITCHEN'S ON THE //OTHER SIDE// OF THE HOUSE, THE BACKROOM RIGHT NEXT TO OUR BEDROOM - I'M HUMAN, AND EVEN BEING PARTIALLY DIVINE I HAVE MY HUMAN TRAPPINGS AND FAULTS TO WRESTLE WITH. <- SOMETIMES THE PARTIAL DIVINE JUST WANTS TO GET INTO BED ASAP WITH A LAPTOP TO CATCH UP ON THE DAILY SHOW AND COLBERT REPORT, OKAY? I'M A WEAK THING CONSTRAINED BY THE WEIGHT OF HUMAN EMOTIONS...OR SOMETHING, HEH HEH.)

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At day break, the morning after, I found three feathers at the foot of the mostly-practically-done outside container altar. Seeing as how I consecrated the place with an offering of flesh (sunburned) and blood (scraped my knuckles against concrete and bled onto the patio) - OLD TESTAMENT FIGURATIVE? OH WHY NOT! - I thought there was something significant about the three perfect, downy white feathers sitting on on a surface that I had sweated, bled and exerted control/energy over the day prior.

(Three white feathers - three wishes, three curses? Who knows, only time will tell. They'll get squirreled away with everything else and added to my growing collection of dehydrated animals parts (blackbird feet and wings, hedgehog skins, rabbit skulls with teeth...), rusted junk found while walking through the countryside and various graveyard dirts.)

(OH, HONEY, YES, I'M //THAT// SORT'VE WITCH - THE KIND THAT MAKES THERMITE FROM OLD FARMING EQUIPMENT. <- LOL!)

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You know how something can just appear out of NOTHING? First it wasn't there and then, by a miracle of God and ALL THAT IS HOLY ZOMG, it suddenly exists. (OKAY, OKAY, SO IN THIS INSTANCE IT WAS ROUGHLY 48 HOURS IN THE MAKING, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. <- I THINK WE'VE ALREADY ESTABLISHED THAT YOU ALREADY KNOW WHAT I MEAN BY PARAGRAPH TWO.)

Before the white feathers rolled out of my palm and onto the tiled surface of the table it was just the backroom coffee table filled with "OH, GOD, I'LL JUST DEAL WITH IT //LATER//", but the second the feathers fell into a neat pile on 70s ceramic? "HOLY FUCKING SHIT, DUDE, THIS ISN'T A...HOW THE HELL DID IT...MAYBE I'M JUST SEEING THINGS FROM THIS ANGLE..."

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"...OR MAYBE I'M NOT."

(Hellooooooooooooooooooooooooooo accidental altar born from my subconscious and lack of motivation! HOW ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? CAN I GET YOU SOMETHING TO DRINK, OR MAYBE SOME CANDLES? <- LOL!)

I'm pretty hawk-eyed about shit but, somehow, this one managed to slip beneath my radar. Now to turn this mystery around on its axis - all Rubik's Cube-style - to see if I can solve this riddle I left for myself.

New Offerings

There's no greater source of temptation than the clearance aisle located within the kitchen and housewares section of ASDA (the UK's equivalent of Wal-Mart, owned by Wal-Mart). I know there's carbon footprints to consider, the low quality of materials used, the slavish labor of Chinese factory workers producing the item, the - HOLY FUCKING SHIT, DUDE, ARE THOSE LITTLE PLATES SERIOUSLY ONLY £0.38 EACH?! FUCK, AT THAT PRICE WE BETTER GET //TWO//!

(And so it goes.)

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In my defense, they're PERFECT. (CASE CLOSED! THAT'S ANOTHER VICTORY FOR MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, MORAL LAWYER AT LARGE!) I have a problem with proportions. Cooking, serving, eating - you name it. My Dad, a once lean giant of 6'6", ate for three. The three of us ate for one. Dinner had a requirement of six servings, just to get us through the meal and have some leftovers for my dad to take to work.

Needless to say, my perception of "serving size" has been permanently warped, and despite not living with either parent since 18 I still cook for six, even though there's only two. (And, uh, the dead relatives, friends and ancestors that get fed. And, also, all of the friends, entities, incorporeal roommates and whatever else is currently loitering around the house. (<- IT'S A HOT PLACE TO BE, YO, IF ONLY FOR THE RIDICULOUS SERVING SIZE OF MY AVERAGE "OFFERING".) Oh, and, sometimes, when I'm feeling generous, there's also my in-laws.)

I can eat my husband under the table, and then eat him under the table with no problem. (AND NOT BECAUSE I'VE HAD A SALAD INSTEAD OF A BURGER, OKAY? IN FACT, LAST TIME, IT WAS A //DOUBLE FUCKING BURGER//, TWO COCKTAILS AND FRIES. I DID, HOWEVER, THROW IT UP - BUT THAT'S TOTALLY DUE TO MY BROKEN STOMACH VALVE (IT CLOSES AND OPENS WHEN -IT- WANTS TO, SO LIFE'S AN EXPECTED BAG OF BURPING, THROWING UP, AND REGURGITATION - YAY!) AND NOTHING ELSE.)

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(I'd like to take a second and offer a PSA to any oral sex practitioner: when you vomit a recently consumed meal (ESPECIALLY IF IT COMES UP LIKE MOSTLY DRY DOG FOOD - CHUNKS, BITS, AND HEARTY PIECES) neatly into a towel, DON'T FUCKING TOSS IT (AND THE CONTENTS CAREFULLY KEPT WITHIN) STRAIGHT INTO THE WASHING MACHINE OTHERWISE YOU WILL BE PICKING OUT LAUNDERED PIECES OF PARTIALLY DIGESTED LETTUCE AND BURGER PATTIE FROM AN OTHERWISE EMPTY METAL BARREL.)

(No, you AREN'T being clever, and NO, the food WILL NOT DRAIN BY ITSELF if you run the rinse cycle.)

(DON'T ASK ME HOW I KNOW.)

Serving sizes are an issue here, so what better way to begin a new campaign of "LESS IS MORE" (actually, in this case, less will be literally "less" and not "more") than to inflict it on friends, relatives and ancestors first? Did I mention the tiny circular impression stamped into the rectangular plate? You can PERFECTLY fit a shot glass in it! (Dinner AND a drink!) SO WHAT IF THE OFFERING SIZE IS SMALLER, RECENTLY AND NOT SO RECENTLY DECEASED, IT LOOKS //CLASSY//!

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We christened the set of plates by having a Sunday roast on Thursday morning. (EARLY, EARLY MORNING - WE'RE CURRENTLY SLEEPING MOST OF THE DAY AND WORKING MOST OF THE NIGHT.) I had a three pound boneless rib-eye roast (prime rib) sitting in the freezer that I managed to excavate out of a pile of REDUCED-TO-CLEAR meat that was begging to be made. (I, uh, often don't hang out in clearance FOOD aisles, but it's hard to ignore a delectable piece of PRIME-FUCKING-RIB marked down from £13.00 to £3.00 with still a few days left to go before passing its "use by" date.)

So the roast was roasted (medium rare; Italics is coming around more and more to pink/red meat) and served with homemade Yorkshire puddings (I poured the batter into two cupcake tins rather than a huuuuuuge cake tin). A head of savoy cabbage was shredded and sauteed in butter with roasted pecans and smoked bacon lard-ons and a bottle of Belgian strawberry beer was cracked open. Dinner was served, and, despite the smaller size, I didn't hear one complaint.

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.

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Cornmeal Pancakes w/Oatbran

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

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

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".)

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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.)

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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...

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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.

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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.)

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(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.

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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?)

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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.)

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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?

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(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.

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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?

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

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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.

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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.)

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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.)

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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.)

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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

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.

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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.

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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.)

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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.

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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.)

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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.

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(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?)

That Sort've Witch and More

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

I just realized, while in the shower, that the bread I gave to the postman yesterday WAS NOT THE 100% VANILLA AND SAFE ENGLISH MUFFIN BREAD I ORIGINALLY THOUGHT IT WAS. (It was the honey'n'oatmeal Samhain bread I baked with leftover PSYCHOACTIVE PLANT MATERIAL.) (LOLOLOL, AND HERE I THOUGH "LABEL IT? WHY? I FUCKING //BAKED// THE FUCKING THING, I THINK I'D KNOW WHAT MY //OWN BREAD// LOOKS LIKE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!")

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LET'S JUST PRETEND THAT I'M YOUR AVERAGE 28 YEAR OLD DOTING HOUSEWIFE AND OCCASIONAL BREAD BAKER AND //NOT// THE VOLATILE 28 YEAR OLD SEX PIG STONER WITCH AND OCCASIONAL BREAD BAKER WHO USES HER CULINARY HOBBY TO PUT ON A HUMOROUS AIR OF NORMALCY AND DECENCY FOR THE UNKNOWING BENEFIT (LOL, "UNKNOWING BENEFIT"? WHAT A NICE WAY OF SAYING I'M ALWAYS DELIBERATELY SCHEMING BEHIND CLOSED DOORS FOR MY OWN AMUSEMENT!) OF THE PEOPLE AROUND HER THAT I REALLY AM.

ALL I'M SAYING IS HE'S LUCKY THERE WAS ONLY LEFTOVER PSYCHOACTIVE PLANT MATERIAL; USUALLY MY RITUAL BREAD FEATURES SOME VERSION OF MY DNA. (Oh, honey, I'm that sort've of witch and more.)

(...AND MORE, SAYS THE VOLATILE 28 YEAR OLD SEX PIG STONER WITCH AND OCCASIONAL BREAD BAKER WHO USES HER CULINARY HOBBY TO PUT ON A HUMOROUS AIR OF NORMALCY AND DECENCY FOR THE UNKNOWING BENEFIT OF THE PEOPLE AROUND HER WHO ACCIDENTALLY, ONCE, DROPPED HER PUBIC HAIR IN THE BUFFALO WING HOT SAUCE INSTEAD OF THE BREAD BATTER SHE WAS WORKING ON FOR THE SABBAT.)

(YES, INDEED, ONE OF //THOSE// SORT'VE WITCHES.)

This and That

This? This was so amazingly, insanely gorgeous that it seriously made me want to fuck every single fucking time I walked into the kitchen while it was boiling. (I BELIEVE THIS NOT-SO-HYPERBOLIC-HYPERBOLE (<- I DID, ACTUALLY, GET HORNY; I'M NOT GOING TO LIE TO YOU, OKAY? IT HAPPENS AND WE'VE LEARNED TO JUST //DEAL WITH IT//) STATEMENT AT LEAST PARTIALLY COVERS THE POETRY AND FREE VERSE THAT WAS A-SINGIN' IN MY HEART EARLIER THIS EVENING AROUND DINNER TIME.)

Homemade Corned Beef: Flake w/a Spoon Tender
by Graveyard Dirt, on Flickr

And this? This is something damned near special, too. It's a shame that you guys can't see what I can see without a camera lens. (You can't translate snow, not with a not-so-shitty digital camera pressed up against the window on the warm side of the glass. <- I LOVE YOU GUYS LOTS, BUT JUST NOT ENOUGH TO TAKE PICTURES ANKLE DEEP IN SNOW AT SIX IN THE FUCKING MORNING. PERHAPS NEXT TIME WHEN THERE ARE MORE DRUGS IN THE HOUSE AND/OR IN MY SYSTEM.)

She Comes Home II
by Graveyard Dirt, on Flickr

On schedule

You do realize there are solar eclipse sabbat cakes you should be baking right now - the day of the solar eclipse - otherwise you're never going to get it done, right?

(Happy year of the Earth (<- chthonic) Ox (<- bull!), baby.) (Chthonic bull? Fuck me, this //is// going to be a "crazy, but fun" year; Negro knows what he's talking about.)

(LOL @ CHTHONIC BULL, BTW, AFTER SPILLING THE BULL'S BLOOD IN THE WHEAT FIELD LAST YEAR. <- LOCAL FARMER OWES US -BIG TIME- FOR THIS YEAR'S HARVEST.)

"Facts are Facts"

So, we're fucking with the window vents. He knows we are. Christ only knows for HOW LONG he's known we've been playing with them, but he's had to suffer in silence. He's had to endure; every day is a struggle just to //survive// in this house, every day is a new day of hardship, of cruel and deliberate mind games that are only noticed by his keen, watchful eye.

He lodged a formal complaint yesterday with his wife, Italics's mother/my mother-in-law. Unfortunately, he was a little TOO eager to lodge his formal complaint and it came tumbling out before Italics even had a chance to properly close the door behind himself.

(LOL, DUDE, I'M GOING TO TRY AND KEEP "AND THIS IS WHAT I'D LIKE TO DO YOU TO, YOU FUCKING INCONSIDERATE CUNT..." TO A MINIMAL IN CASE THIS SHIT EVER DOES GET BACK TO YOU SO ALL I'LL SAY IS THIS, RIGHT NOW -- YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY SHIT AT BEING SUBTLE, AND YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY SHIT AT MAINTAINING A LOW VOICE. YOU'RE SHIT AT TALKING ABOUT PEOPLE - LYING ABOUT PEOPLE - BEHIND THEIR BACK. YOUR LIFE WOULD PROBABLY BE 70% EASIER IF YOU LEARNED THE FINE ART OF SUBTERFUGE AND TACT, BUT, AT THE AGE YOU'RE AT, NO ONE IS EXPECTING ANY SIGNIFICANT, POSITIVE CHANGES OR IMPROVEMENTS FROM YOU. <- THAT'S NOT MEANT TO BE A COMPLIMENT, BTW. JUST IN CASE, YOU KNOW, IT READ THAT WAY.)

So we're fucking with the window vents. He knows we are. His allergies have been horrendous, and have been triggered by Italics and I randomly opening and closing the vents. (Apparently he's tried to combat the problem by OPENING WINDOWS AND LEAVING THEM OPEN FOR HOURS AT A TIME DURING THE DEAD OF WINTER. <- LOL, THE FUNNY PART? THE PART THAT MAKES ME LOL AND WANT TO ATTACK HIM WITH MY NEW DEEP FRYING SLOTTED SPOON? I CANNOT, FOR THE FUCKING LIFE OF ME, KEEP WINDOWS OPEN DURING SUMMER. YOU KNOW, SUMMER. WHEN IT'S BALMY, AND SULTRY, AND THE SUN IS AT ITS ZENITH. IF I LEAVE OPEN WINDOWS IN THIS HOUSE DURING A FUCKING HEATWAVE THAT SCOTLAND HAS NEVER BEFORE SEEN IN ITS RECORDED HISTORY HE'S ONLY 10-15 MINUTES BEHIND CLOSING THEM, SWISHING AROUND IN HIS SPEEDOS. <- OH, HONEY, YES. IT DOESN'T MATTER HE'S NEARLY 70. IT DOESN'T MATTER HE DOESN'T HAVE THE PHYSIQUE FOR IT AT MORE. WHAT MATTERS IS HE IS A /MAN/ AND /MEN/ WEAR SPEEDOS.)

His allergies are out of control, and he's barely hanging on...but then She - mother/mother-in-law - points out that he's standing next to a bouquet of flowers, flowers that he's allergic to. (Since he's developed a rather severe allergic reaction to my favorite sort of flower (NOTHING TO DO WITH ME, SAYS THE WITCH WHO SPITS) there aren't as many blooms as there used to be in this house least I get blamed for biological warfare. But there are flowers in the house, right now, because Italics's mother's birthday is this coming Sunday. <- SO IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ME, OKAY? THE FLOWERS HAVE -NOTHING- TO DO WITH ME!) He didn't appreciate her response. He ALSO didn't appreciate her reminding him if he actually TOOK his allergy medication he wouldn't be in the state he is.

And when she V. obviously wasn't buying the blame (LOL, BECAUSE, YOU KNOW, I HAVE //NOTHING// BETTER TO DO EVERY FUCKING DAY OF MY LIFE THAN DEDICATE MYSELF, MY ENTIRE BEING, TO THE CAUSE OF MAKING HIS LIFE A LIVING HELL, ONE AIR VENT AT A TIME) it's the third strike and he goes into fussy-bitchy-prickish mode. She politely requests that he not act that way (be that way? Christ, who knows, all of this shit was learned second hand via Italics), please, because it was her birthday weekend and she wanted to enjoy it. He more or less told her to SHOVE IT, but with as little words as possible.

(I've been pretty laid back and taken shit he's done in the past few weeks - OH, MR. AWESOME HAS BEEN SPECTACULARLY AWESOME FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS, OR SO - with as much patience as I can. <- EVEN ITALICS HAS NOTICED I HAVE BEEN TRYING EXTRA CRAZY HARD RECENTLY. I think my golden running streak would've gotten tarnished last night if I had been in the same room where a husband made out to his wife - who, in so many words, has had a hard time coming to grips with this particular birthday, and has been in tears several times recently about it - that he could give a fuck about trying just a little harder so they could have fun and enjoy what's turned out to be an otherwise hella stressful, hella emotional birthday weekend. I don't step into other people's marriage, but I would've stepped into that - with stilettos on. WITH CUT-THROAT RAZORS TAPED ONTO THE STILETTOS, OR SOMETHING.)

I was too tired to be upset, too tired to be angry, or pissed off. I rolled my eyes and mentally gave my mother-in-law a hug. What am I supposed to do, anyway? A near 70 year old man we live with is now intentionally, consciously, knowingly, willfully lying about us and what we are (or aren't) doing.

I nearly blew a gasket last year when Italics informed me that he overheard his father tell the plumber - who was working on the heating which was broken - that it was //our// fault that the heater broke because we insisted on have "25 minute long showers". I mean, that's lying about us PLUS lying about us to a complete stranger who doesn't know any better, who doesn't know the history or circumstance or anything because he - Italics's father - just wants to momentarily feel vindicated about a situation THAT NEVER HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE.

(AND I'LL BE UPFRONT AND SAY THAT YES, ITALICS AND I, ON OCCASION, TAKE SEX SHOWERS. BUT WE'VE NEVER, EVER TAKEN A SEX SHOWER FOR NEARLY A HALF-A-FUCKING-HOUR. (BUT WE DID, ADMITTEDLY, HAVE A HAND IN THE OLD TUB CRACKING DURING A BOUT OF ANAL SHOWER SEX. <- OLD TUB, OKAY? PLASTIC OLD TUB NEARING 20 YEARS OLD WITH TWO PEOPLE STANDING ON THE WEAKEST POINT. IT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN EVENTUALLY, DUDE.) AND WE'VE NEVER, EVER TAKEN A SEX SHOWER - NOT IN THE PAST THREE OR FOUR YEARS - WHEN EITHER OF MY IN-LAWS WERE HOME. SO HOW MY FATHER-IN-LAW CAME UP WITH "...AND THEY INSIST ON HAVING 25 MINUTE LONG SHOWERS ALL THE TIME" IS BEYOND ME.)

Look, the guy's a liar - how do you get AS upset like the first time you found out? You don't, because FINDING OUT THAT SOMEONE IS DELIBERATELY LYING ABOUT YOU IS OLD HAT. All he's proven - at least to me - is that he's a living, breathing liar, and the fact that the 25 MINUTE ZOMG SHOWER thing wasn't a one-off. I live with a liar, now excuse me as I feign surprise and shock and dismay that A LIAR FUCKING LIES ABOUT SHIT, HENCE THE DESCRIPTIVE LABEL OF "LIAR". (OH, BABY, HE'S TAKING THAT NOUN AND MAKING IT A VERB!) For once I just rolled my eyes, shrugged my shoulders and got on with it (better off just getting use to second hand hearing about what you are or aren't doing around the house, especially when you aren't doing what you are - or aren't - being accused of).

The internet died two days ago, just a few minutes after Italics woke up. I managed to scribble off one epicly disjointed (LOLOLOL, MORE SO THAN USUAL! NOW WITH 50% MORE "OBNOXIOUS" AND "DISJOINTED"!) email to a friend and then? And then...nothing. Dead. (Terrific wonderful news for me (one less thing that day to demand a slice of my time), and awful horrible news for Italics (not only did it mean he had to figure out what was wrong and fix it, but it also meant he couldn't work - you know, work, the shit you do in order to GET MONEY AND LIVE).)

We were supposed to go out to the movies and grab something to eat. (NEW YEAR'S COUPLE RESOLUTION: EAT OUT ONCE A MONTH. EVEN IF GRABBING A BURGER AT REVOLUTION, EVEN IF JUST SNEAKING IN A CHIPPER OR BURGER KING TO A MOVIE. WHATEVER YOU - COLLECTIVELY - DECIDE TO DO, MAKE SURE YOU DO /IT/ ONCE A MONTH, TOGETHER.) We still did, despite everything.

(If you don't know me, or don't know me well - I'm sick. I've been sick for edging on three years now. The first year was spent trying to convince doctors I was actually sick ("HEY! WE'RE PROFESSIONALS! AND WE'RE TELLING YOU YOU -AREN'T- EXPERIENCING THOSE SYMPTOMS, AND EVEN IF YOU ARE THEY DON'T MEAN ANYTHING!"), the second year was spent being insanely, crazily sick interspersed with waiting 18 weeks for a single consultation with a specialist and another 18 weeks just to get an appointment for medical testing I was prescribed (LOL, YOU THINK I'M JOKING?). I'm not terminal, it isn't fatal, but it's chronic, and since the problem lies within my stomach (so far they've found a hiatal hernia, a smooth muscle in my stomach that's significantly weaker and not working like it should, and symptoms that point towards a severe case of GERD) it affects every area of my life - eating, drinking, exercising, moving, sex, going out...the list just goes on and on.)

(Even when I'm feeling super awesome I'm still sick, and it comes up to bite me with SUDDEN EXTREME FATIGUE. WHICH IS TOTALLY NOT COOL, BECAUSE I ONCE WAS A VERY PHYSICALLY ACTIVE PERSON. And when I mean SUDDEN EXTREME FATIGUE I mean brushing my teeth, taking a shower, shaving my legs, styling my hair, putting on make-up, and picking out something to wear is enough to put me out of the game for the rest of the day. In fact, you probably lost me after "shaving my legs". I hate it. It's bullshit. I'm 28 fucking years old, I should be climbing mountains. I WANT TO BE CLIMBING MOUNTAINS, DAMMIT. But having a shower and dolling myself up is my mountain, at least right now.)

One thing I've never really told my husband, Italics, is how thankful I am at how he makes going out one of the most number one priorities in our life. (Mostly because I'm lucky if I can leave the house once a month. I've been able to temper myself so I have the energy I need to exist and coexist in this house, but anything that requires me to cross the threshold into the outside world usually requires a reservoir of energy that I may or may not have.) Sometimes I feel, especially when I'm sitting in the computer chair fully dressed and strapped into my shoes and watching him run around, like I've gone into labor, and the single most important thing is TO GET ME OUT OF THE HOUSE AND TO THE HOSPITAL, STAT, WITH NO EXCUSES FROM SECOND OR THIRD PARTIES.

("Going out" is somewhat complicated because neither Italics nor I can drive. I mean, I CAN drive, but I can't drive stick, and that's the only sort've car parked outside. So, since moving here in 2001 at the tender age of 21, I haven't driven. Not once. If we want to go out we have to rearrange it with my in-laws. Sometimes my father-in-law forgets to pick us up. Sometimes my father-in-law forgets to pick us up and isn't carrying his cellphone and isn't at the house to pick up the house phone. Sometimes my father-in-law forgets to pick us up and isn't carrying his cellphone and isn't at the house to pick up the house phone and we've both been up for nearly 20 hours (our sleeping patterns are a bit weird; half the month we're up during the day, and half the month we're up at night so sometimes when we catch a 11:30am movie we've actually been up since 7 or 8 pm the previous night) and we're both feeling varying degrees of sick (between me and my stomach problems and Italics and his back problems) and we don't know when or how we're going to get home. Since getting seriously sick, as you can imagine, we've limited "going out" so a "situation" isn't created when someone forgets to pick us up or assumes, without asking us, that since it's a "nice day today" we wanted extra time out (but since he didn't take his phone we can't correct that assumption he made on our behalf.))

As expected Italics's father takes off just as I'm shoving a foot into the shoe, and we exchange "OH SHIT" expressions since neither of us had a chance to request his chauffeur services, AND OH MY GOD WE HAD SCHEDULED GOING OUT - BETWEEN US - FOR DAYS AND WE NEVER GO OUT AND WE'RE REALLY FUCKING LUCKY IF I EVEN MAKE IT OUT OF THE HOUSE ONCE A FUCKING MONTH AND WHAT ABOUT OUR RESOLUTION AND -

- Italics's mom came home early and took us. Normally I'd feel guilty about putting any sort of pressure on her, but Italics said she was OVERJOYED to hear that I was feeling up to LEAVING THE HOUSE so FUCK WORK, SHE WAS COMING HOME EARLY. (See? CLEARLY I'VE GONE INTO A METAPHORICAL STATE OF LABOR.) Although by the time we managed to get in the car I had already spent an hour nodding off at the computer (SUDDEN EXTREME FATIGUE) and Italics was worried about dragging me out of the house BUT NO, I SAID, I WILL NOT LET FATIGUE GET THE BETTER OF ME, I WANT A SEMBLANCE OF A LIFE, PLEASE, AND IF THAT MEANS I HAVE TO FUCKING SUCK IT UP AND FALL ASLEEP IN SEVERAL DIFFERENT PUBLIC PLACES WHILE WE'RE OUT THEN SO FUCKING BE IT.

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Besides, it was time to send off DAS HEXENHAUS (our gingerbread house) to the tentacle creatures of the deep (which we do annually). (MOST OFFERINGS ARE EITHER TAKEN TO THE CEMETERY OR COMMITTED TO THE PLASTIC TERRACOTTA BUCKET KNOWN AS "DEAD CROW DIRT", BUT, ONCE A YEAR, WE TAKE THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE WE ASSEMBLE TOGETHER DURING THE YULETIDE SEASON TO THE OCEAN (THE NORTH SEA) AND LET THE TIDE TAKE THE HOUSE AND THE ICING AND THE GUM DROPS AND SUGAR PRETZELS AND CANDIED WITCH WITH HER MAGIC MUSHROOM DOWN INTO THE DEPTHS OF MY/OUR CHTHONIC WATER.)

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The pitch black water touched the pitch black sky, and the only thing that separated one endless expanse into another were the citrine lights from North Sea ships dotting the horizon. Somewhere in that inky darkness, as the tide came in, a small gingerbread house went out to sea. Somewhere just a pin prick of white floated on black, and then disappeared beneath a wave of salt water and sand. ("TENTACLE MONSTERS OF THE DEEP, COME AND TAKE YOUR GINGERBREAD HOUSE!) The Deep Ones, the Tentacle Ones, have been sated for another year. (Unsuspecting sailors and captains? You can thank me later for not capsizing and meeting your ancient, watery grave when a hungry ass Kraken decides your ship looks like a floating meze.)

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The Wrestler was shit. Expected more, got less. I didn't feel anything either way (I anticipated choking up once, or at least LEARNING SOMETHING ABOUT MYSELF while watching the movie, or taking away something poignant and meaningful), and was significantly less than impressed with getting fed artistic intent with a shovel. (Maybe you can blame that on one too many "bros" in the dialogue?)

I ate a small box of popcorn which, in retrospect, was one of the stupidest fucking things I could've done. (Corn - especially popcorn - is the kiss of death. It's already hard enough to digest for the average person, let alone someone who has mysterious stomach/digestion ailments. When I eat popcorn it's the equivalent of having something nuclear go off inside of me that stays tightly contained between my stomach and my hernia, so there's a tight ball of explosion (implosion?) that doesn't expand, doesn't emanate, but burns like a dead star.)

I forgot I wasn't on my medication. (I have another round of testing on the 27th of this month, and in order to get a sense of what's wrong with me I have to be off my prescription for at least two weeks so it isn't in my system.) I forgot I wasn't home. (YOU KNOW, AFTER NEARLY THREE YEARS OF HAVING A BODY THAT DICTATES WHAT YOU CAN EAT AND WHEN YOU CAN EAT SOMETIMES YOU BRASHLY DECIDE TO TAKE THE REIGNS AND EAT WHAT THE EFF YOU WANT AND FUCK THE CONSEQUENCES. ADMITTEDLY, THOSE TIMES ARE A LOT EASIER WHEN YOU'RE -AT HOME- AND NOT OUT FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A MONTH WHILE DEALING WITH THE REPERCUSSIONS.) And the popcorn? It smelled like popcorn. And we were at the movies. And we hadn't been out for over a month. And...well, "and".

I thought I'd be okay since I managed a half-bag of popcorn when at home during Christmas, but I //forgot// and in doing so - even after chasing it with two extra strength antacids - I got sick. I got so sick that there was no chance we could stay out for dinner. I got so sick that there was no chance we could go grocery shopping (I needed ingredients to bake two birthday cakes). I got so sick that I honestly, truly believe that I've already ruined the one resolution I made for us - go out to eat once a month, regardless of dress, regardless of menu, just go out and eat something, somewhere, once a month, together - because I don't know when or how I'll be able to leave this house again by the end of the month.

And, so, I did the most mature, rational and logical thing a woman could do in my situation - I sat on the bench in front of the theater we came out of and cried. (Okay, so I tried NOT to cry, but, still, there was some sniffling involved, and there was some hoarseness of voice, and, uh, a little bit of moisture.) I tried to keep shit in perspective (i.e. "You have a digestion problem, you know you can't eat certain foods but you chose, out of your own freewill, to eat one of those foods while out. It's popcorn, for Christ's sake. There are people out there with DIABETES and CRAZY FATAL FOOD ALLERGIES; you aren't one of them.") but it's always hard to rope in the horses once they start galloping (i.e., "BUT I'M FUCKING TWENTY-FUCKING EIGHT YEARS OLD AND I CAN'T EVEN HANDLE EATING A FEW HANDFULS OF POPCORN AT THE MOVIES. I CAN'T EVEN FUCKING HANDLE LEAVING THE FUCKING HOUSE. I AM TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS OLD AND I FEEL LIKE I HAVE SOMETHING //COSMIC// GOING ON INSIDE OF ME AND THERE IS NO MAGIC PILL I CAN TAKE, NO SPECIAL OPERATION THAT'LL MAKE THIS BETTER!").

My woe-ing was kept to a minimal (for someone with such a volatile personality and temper -that- was a miracle within itself). I did feel sorry for myself, though, and I let myself pitifully wallow in it while doubled over and gasping for breath - except for the time I had to physically move to another bench when another cinema patron and his chilli dog with fried onions sat right next to me. (SORRY, DUDE, BUT THE SCENT OF -YOUR DINNER- ALMOST INSPIRED AN EXTRA TOPPING THAT YOU DIDN'T PAY FOR, IF YOU CATCH MY DRIFT.)

There is something bizarrely exhibitionist about crying in public when you're sitting next to your partner. The entire time all I could think of - well, LOL, other than "WHY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?" and "FUCK POPCORN, FUCK IT, FUCK IT AND ITS PIED PIPER AMBROSIA SMELL" - was "FUCK, PLEASE DON'T LET THESE PEOPLE PASSING US THINK WE'RE FIGHTING, PLEASE DON'T LET THESE PEOPLE GLANCING OVER TO ME THINK THEY'RE WITNESSING THE STALEMATE OF A RELATIONSHIP, PLEASE DON'T..." as if me curled up into a speck of a being was reflective of our relationship, or the state of it.

I lost an entire day after that. Not that it was MISPLACED or OH FUCK THIS SHIT KEEPS POPPING UP AND I HAVEN'T EVEN STARTED THE SCHEDULE I SET MYSELF TODAY - but lost. Gone. Didn't even stand a chance of even having it. You get sick, really sick, and it takes a day to recover. Sometimes two, sometimes three. It's time that isn't yours; time that doesn't really belong to you, but your illness.

I forgot how many times I nodded off when sitting at the computer, when sitting at the couch, when sitting at the kitchen table eating leftovers. There just wasn't -anything- there. The internet wasn't working, but was, but in order to access it I had to use my father-in-law's new laptop because it'd only connect to the net in the lounge. I hate laptops, I hate small keyboards and I really fucking hate small keyboards that arbitrarily decide to drop letters. I hate the internet not working so I have to use a fucking laptop with a small keyboard that arbitrarily decides to drop letters while shuffling and moving files from different computers just to be able to upload entries here to Graveyard Dirt.

(I hate the bamboo wallpaper of the new laptop which is a fucking EYESORE TO ANYONE WHO ACTUALLY USES A COMPUTER WITH ANY SORT OF REGULARITY, but, LOL, Italics's parents fucking //love// it WHICH, REALLY, PROVES MY POINT, DOESN'T IT?)

So I said "SELF, YOU SHALL CALL KATE, BECAUSE SHE BROKE HER ARM A FEW DAYS AGO AND COULD PROBABLY USE A SYMPATHETIC FEMALE VOICE RIGHT NOW" and flipped open my address book. Much to my shock, dismay and amazement Kate's number wasn't there, which meant I had to turn on my mobile and figure out how to display my address book.

That would've been -perfect- had I actually known how to bring up anything but a contact's NAME in my address book. When trying to display her number I accidentally called, and once it started ringing I felt obligated to follow through (I was, originally, going to call her using the house phone because I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT FUCKING CELL PHONES AND, ALSO, SMALL KEYBOARDS AND LAPTOPS, AS YOU ALREADY KNOW). Our conversation spanned from a whole "HELLO?" to me shouting "OH SHIT!" as the battery of my phone inexplicably died within seconds of use.

I scrambled for Italics's new BLADE RUNNER phone knowing that her number would've been locked up in his sim card, but LOL, I SOMEHOW MANAGED TO CRASH HIS PHONE. (It might've had something to do with me RANDOMLY PUSHING UNMARKED BUTTONS HOPING THAT ONE OF THEM WOULD BRING UP SOME SORT OF CONTACT LIST OR SOMETHING.) I ran to my computer to find my text document of numbers but FOR JESUS'S FUCK SAKE IT WASN'T THERE WHICH MEANT I HAD TO GO BACK INTO THE EFFING LOUNGE, REBOOT THAT FUCKING NEW LAPTOP WITH THE EYESORE BAMBOO WALLPAPER, RECONNECT TO THE GODDAMN INTERNET AND USE A MOTHERFUCKING KEYBOARD THAT RANDOMLY DECIDES TO DROP CONSONANTS AND VOWELS JUST SO I COULD ACCESS MY FUCKING EMAIL ACCOUNT TO POP OPEN AN OLD EMAIL FROM LAST YEAR TO GET KATE'S NUMBER.

As it turned out I FUCKING THREW OUT THAT FUCKING EMAIL AND IT'S BEEN 40 FUCKING DAYS, OR WHATEVER, BECAUSE IT WASN'T FOUND IN THE TRASH WHICH MEANT ALL I COULD DO, AFTER ALL OF THAT, WAS EMAIL KATE TO APOLOGIZE FOR THE SHORT, POSSIBLY CONFUSING CONVERSATION OF "HELLO/OH SHIT". BUT THEN, IMMEDIATELY AFTER, I HAD -JUST- ENOUGH POWER (SINCE I HAD PLUGGED IN MY PHONE TO RECHARGE) TO TURN MY MOBILE BACK ON, AND IN DOING SO I SAGELY LEARNED THAT SIMPLY BY PRESSING THE "#" KEY IT DISPLAYED A CONTACT'S NUMBER WHICH I QUICKLY SCRIBBLED DOWN IN A TEXT DOCUMENT BEFORE CATASTROPHE STRUCK, AGAIN.

AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHY I'M EVEN WRITING ANY OF THIS DOWN, IN CAPS LOCK EVEN, BUT I AM. BECAUSE, HONESTLY, I FEEL SLIGHTLY DELIRIOUS BY THIS POINT OF WRITING. (OH, HONEY, I STOPPED TRYING TO MAKE ANY SENSE ABOUT SEVERAL PAGES BACK, SERIOUSLY.) LET'S JUST WRAP UP THE REST OF THAT PARTICULAR DAY IN A NON-COMMITTAL WAY BECAUSE I SERIOUSLY DOUBT ANYONE WHO SERIOUSLY READS THIS SITE HAS EVEN GOTTEN THIS FAR. (WAIT, WHAT, YOU HAVE? LULZ.)

Due to the entire DEVIOUSLY PLAYING WITH WINDOW VENTS FOR OUR OWN NEFARIOUS PURPOSES incident grocery shopping got pushed back an hour. And then another hour. And then another hour. And then my husband finally took pity on me and went shopping because I was waiting for several ingredients to bake my mother-in-law one of two birthday cakes and by that point in the evening I was only partially conscious, slumped over my computer desk after an entire day involving MERCURY RETROGRADE PHONE ACTIVITY and BRAND NEW LAPTOPS WITH SHIT KEYBOARDS AND SEIZURE INDUCING WALLPAPER.

By 11:30 PM the Fruits of summer buttermilk coffeecake with orange flower water was baked, a loose interpretation of "coulis" was cooling (I used the remainder of the frozen fruits of summer bag to make a compote using pomegranate juice and Cointreau.) (TOO BEAUTIFUL FOR WORDS. UNFORTUNATELY, I WAS TOO TIRED FOR PHOTOS SO YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO TAKE MY WORD ON THAT.), and Italics's parents were in bed after a night of uncomfortable atmosphere (YOU REMEMBER ABOUT THE WINDOW VENTS AND BIRTHDAY WEEKEND THING FROM WAY AT THE START, RIGHT?)

New Year Resolution #1:

Eat more cornmeal.

(POSSIBLE COURSE IN CELEBRATION OF CORNMEAL MENU? HMM. ALSO, LULZ.)

New Goals & Aspirations

Two things I am absolutely one million percent sure of:

1. I want to become a professional, certified butcher.

2. I want a Bundt pan.

(The certified butcher thing goes way, way back like...several months...or something. (LOL, OR SOMETHING!) The tin? That's a little more recent.)

("Bundt" is one of those words YOU JUST WANT AN EXCUSE TO SAY OUT LOUD.)

(BUNDT! BUNDT! BUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNDT!)

She Sells Sanctuary

It’s 7:30 AM and I’m in the kitchen walking on clouds as The Cult plays in the background. Somewhere in the day dream I’m wearing this year’s wedding dress/the Hag’s apron and mixing honey and brown sugar together while sunshine streams through the kitchen window, touches my back and spreads over the surface of the golden batter. Somewhere in the day dream I’m drinking a forbidden cup of coffee in my Halloween bat mug, having forgotten I promised Papa the first sip, but I know by the time I remember he’ll understand. Somewhere in the day dream I’m lost in the heady daze of pot and brilliant morning sunshine and my body moves by itself, my hips move by themselves, my arm moves by itself, and before I know it I’m all PRACTICAL MAGIC (or whatever that shit film was called) with a cup of instant decaf in my left and Ukrainian honey cookie batter in my right, and I’m both Fire Woman and The Witch and am - almost a billion million trillion percent sure - that they’ll enjoy this anniversary offering.

(The witch, she need a lover, boy - maybe it could be you.)

Ukrainian Honey Cookies
These are more like miniature cakes than cookies and keep crazy well if stored properly. This recipe was yanked from my Ukrainian Christmas book which was written/compiled by Mary Ann Woloch Vaughn. NO NEED TO CREDIT ME FOR THE IDEA OF USING BROWN SUGAR INSTEAD OF WHITE. (That's a joke. NO, REALLY, IT'S A JOKE.)

- 4 eggs
- 1 cup sugar
- 1 cup honey
- 1/2 cup oil
- 4 cups flour
- 2 1/2 tsps baking soda
- 1/2 tsp baking powder
- 1 tsp cinnamon

Beat eggs until thick. Add sugar, honey, and oil and mix well. Add the dry ingredients, blending well. Place in refrigerator 3 to 4 hours to chill. Drop cookie mixture by teaspoonfuls onto greased cookie sheet. Bake at 400F for 10 minutes. Watch carefully to avoid scorching.