Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Sviata Vechera Headquarters

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To-effin'-do list(s)? Check. Ukrainian cookery books? Check. One mug of calming tea? Check. Ukrainian music fusing the modern and traditional? Check. First of the best table linens set for Sviata Vechera? Check. 2011's rising Kolach beneath a secondhand Rushnychok? Check.

Longest Night

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"Na rukakh trymaye (In her arms, she holds Him)
I Yemu spivaye (And she sings to Him)
Vsemohuchym Stvorytelem (The Supreme Creation)
Yoho nazyvaye. (She names Him.)" - Dyvnaya Novyna

Regardless of the light that illuminates your path, may you find peace, happiness and understanding at the end of your longest night.

Pictured above: The kolach is lit for Sviata Vechera ("Holy Supper") acting like an invitational beacon for our ancestors, relatives and deceased friends to join us in holiday festivities. See also 2008 Kolach.

By Spit, Blood and Smoke

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Consecration; two parts Old Testament, one part Ms. Dirty.

Days of the Dead

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Man, this writing shit is some hard motherfucking work. I've been circling my dinky little laptop for days, eyeing the case warily while half-pretending that house chores are infinitely more important than resuming my cardinal fire-fueled campaign to take over the effin' internet. (<- I start with a ram and end with a pair of fish; fear me and my Alpha & Omega astrological bookends!) And there's nothing I can do - or have done - that's managed to distract me from one unavoidable real world truth: my ass is seriously out of practice.

It's not just the lack of practice reeking saturnalian havoc in my journal life (could havoc be anything OTHER than saturnalian in this house?); nothing's familiar. I mean, at all. My carefully crafted decade-old Rainman routine bit the fucking dust the second Peck-Man became a permanent member of this household to the extent that, for the first time in 10 motherfucking years, I'm working on an unfamiliar computer (dinky little laptop) in an unfamiliar room (the kitchen).

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For someone who's got revolution running in her veins I'm autistically incompatible with change. Any disruption to routine kick starts a butterfly effect that tsunamis its way through every fucking aspect of life. There's room for spontaneity in autism's habitual nature, but it's structured and fragmented into neat little Tetris compartments carefully arranged around great expanses of familiarity. (In other words, I'm totally capable of running a wild card round, but only because I found a way to view the element of randomness as a fixed feature in a fixed routine.)

This groove, this rhythm, this life I'm leading right effin' now is so fucking foreign and alien to me that I'm a half-heartbeat away from an Oscar-winning FOUR MINUTES TO WAPNER! freak out.

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I guess what I'm trying to say as I blow through all of these older Fet Ghede pictures without addressing what's being depicted is that if I sound sorta off, or only make a quarter of sense (instead of my usual half, although I'm willing to make 100% sense if your ass is paying for that secret pleasure) it's because I'm caught in a tide pool of motherfucking rabbits...and because I'm probably high.

(It's a little known fact that if I wasn't high all the goddamn time natural disasters of cataclysmic proportions would occur leading to the extinction of the world as we fucking know it.)(<- See? Beneath my cloven hooves and forked tongue there's an honest-to-fucking-God humanitarian; look upon the bleeding heart of your ovarian Christ, world, for She smokes AND inhales because of Her love for you.)

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While it's been all kinds of swell wading through rabbit-populated shorelines, it's time to decisively navigate towards terra-fucking-firma to get my work on before next year's serpent-tinged onslaught. (Hello and welcome, year of the motherfucking dragon! <- It could either be a really good fucking year for St. George in this house, or it could be absolutely disastrous. 2012, you're a giant fucking question mark only slightly overshadowed by the fat-assed reptilian monster hovering above you.)

Getting my work on, though, is easier said then done when I'm hella fucking rusty and writing in an entirely new environment on an unfamiliar computer. (FOURMINUTESTOWAPNER!) I mean, how the fuck do I go back to baring some of the most intimate parts of myself when I've been hiding behind photos for most of the year?

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Out of necessity I allowed Graveyard Dirt to slip into a formulaic existence (i.e., image, two or three mostly on-topic sentences, image, two or three mostly on-topic sentences...) because it was the easiest fucking way to provide consistent content throughout Harvest. Six months later that journal-saving device has become an automatic routine, and my Taurus midheaven is more than reluctant to let that productive formula go.

As much as I hate the thought, fear the thought and down-fucking-right loathe the thought, I'm going to have to sacrifice that detrimental familiarity on the high altar of Asperger's otherwise my ass ain't progressing no-effin'-where. Cause let me tell you, I've spent a third of my fucking life chasing after spectral perfection to no avail, and it's taken me this effin' long to realize that you're not moving the fuck forward if the scenery around you never fucking changes. (<- Look at me making those motherlovin' rabbits proud!)

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But now's not the time to be radical. In fact, now's the time to be uber-radical but not being radical at all. (<- Hey now, this is some seriously gutsy shit coming from an autistic Aries animal.) Up until now all of my changes have been volatile fucking processes, obliterating everything - and, occasionally, everyone - in their path. What if, just for once, I took a deliberate step back from my natural inclinations to find a new method of creation from change? What if this time I didn't push over the mothereffin' Tower in one monstrous go to create something new? What if I continuously changed one small aspect of it until it eventually became something new through measured means?

So maybe the answer to serious journal writing isn't balls-fucking-out blocks of text in the vain hope that I'll somehow net myself some older entry sparkle. Maybe the real fucking answer is building on something successfully preexisting that accommodates change (much like our old Christian friends!). It's not about dropping pictures (yeah, I considered), Godzilla-ing metaphorical towers (although it's tempting), or Lady Godiva-ing some of the most intimate parts of myself prematurely - if I'm really effin' serious about returning focus to the diary aspect of Graveyard Dirt then I just gotta write more. (Novel, right?)

Fuck! Guess who just pissed away six Fet Ghede photos from 2009 on a blog-gazin' tangent. (<- Guilty as mothereffin' charged!) Now any attempts to steer this journal entry in the right fucking direction will seem like a bolted-the-fuck-on addendum...

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I work the dead. No, sugar, you didn't read that wrong, and I didn't accidentally forget to jam a "with" between "the" and "dead"; I work the motherfucking dead. As far as I'm concerned, if you wanna be on this team you better be willing to pick up an effin' shovel and get your sweat on. (<- Ain't nothin' free in this life, or in the after.)

Almost every effin' facet of my feral witchcraft has roots in traditions and experiences that both our ancestors - Ukrainian (me), Native American (me) and Scottish (him) - would've been familiar with (i.e., hunting, gathering and growing), so the biggest contribution the dead make to this house is providing the reassuring knowledge that I'm not the first fucking one in the line to personally encounter the trials and tribulations, agonies and ecstasies of living with - and off - the land. (Admittedly not to the same extent they were forced to.)

As retarded as it might sound, I actually feel closest to my predecessors when I'm crying about and/or freaking out over shit that I know they experienced and dealt with in their own lifetime(s).

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November is winter's spring, and it's really fucking hard not to have a slight bounce of joy in your step when your ass works the dead because the last and final harvest of the agricultural year is celebrated as a sort of necro-homecoming. Over here in NE Scotland hard frost signals when it's time to haul the dubious Ms. Dirty & Co. carnival indoors for five to six mothereffin' months of hardcore merrymaking. (<- The ancestor gig? Has its perks.)

Halloween, in all of its John Carpenter glory (I was born in 1980 and was lucky to have experienced the vintage crepe paper'n'cardboard version of the holiday before it went all decals'n'plastic in the 90s), is the opening ceremony of our necro-homecoming that ignites winter's indoor revelry. Our observance of All Hallows' Eve is a tribute to everything childish and sinister wrapped up in a nostalgically creepy death-themed bow.

Gaping skulls and whitewashed bones then psychopompically lead the skeletal trail to Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead), when we thank, honour and remember those who've already taken the big fucking leap into the unknown. Fet Ghede - Papa's super-special feast day on November 2nd - has a different spin in this house since my relationship with The Old Man is a double shot of unorthodox. (Despite their tough guy appearances even spiritual sugar daddies need an annual Father's Day to feel appreciated.)

Pictured above: 2009's Full Moon of the Dead Día de Muertos/Fet Ghede kitchen altar. For more Ghede-centric adventures, altars and stories simply plug "Fet Ghede" into Graveyard Dirt's search engine, and be sure to hit up my Fet Ghede Flickr tag for pictures. Similarly, you'll find all of my Halloween shit the same way: through my Flickr altar set, my Flickr Halloween tag and by combing through older entries using the search engine.

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There's no effin' way I can succinctly address wheat's significant role in our lives and religious practices in several paragraphs, so I'm just gonna gloss over the finer details of its importance and save my mental bullet points for a different journal entry. What I can probably cram in this tight space is that wheat represents two major aspects of my spiritual beliefs: the body of God (which is ground down into meal as a form of sustenance - you know, flour), and my ancestral heritage (Ukraine's known as "the breadbasket of Europe" thanks to its famously fertile steppes).

So baking bread, for me, isn't just a kitchen witch role-play of domestication, it's an ancient, ritualized art that involves growing, nurturing and inevitably "killing" one of God's tangible forms before physically manipulating it into something that's then consumed. We view the act of consumption as a sort of holy communion, which is why I hold all of God's forms - whether flesh (meat) or blood (hooch) - as sacred; they were all derived from one of His once-living manifestations.

The act of baking bread is one of sacrifice and compassion. One of my metaphysical obligations is to create and destroy; with one hand I hold His body upright (I plant and care for His seed), and with the other I ceremonially cut Him down (I reap, protect and distribute His seed). Wheat, as I've defined in my Choose Your Own Adventure spirituality, is my husband, my lover, my king and God, and His death - by the hand of His wife, His lover, His queen and God(dess) - ensures that others (including myself) live. So it only makes sense that the first offering I ply our collective ancestors with during the Days of the Dead is a loaf of homemade bread reverently made from the body of my beloved.

Pictured above: One of 2009's Pan de Muertos. While I don't have a drop of Hispanic blood in me, I do have fond memories of my Ukrainian grandparents feeding me quarters of fresh oranges in their retro-as-fuck prefab kitchen. Those experiences established a significant connection between me, the dead and orange-flavored bread, so it's no effin' surprise I eventually created a tradition of baking Pan de Muertos for All Souls' Day (aka as Fet Ghede, and day number two of Día de Muertos) to commemorate the lives of those we love who've passed the fuck on.

Necro-Squared Motherfuckers

ETA: Sold out!

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It's been a helluva couple of days at Casa dels Ossos (House of Bones). After a six week sabbatical my father-in-law returned home from Florida and immediately began fucking with shit. Within 12 hours of stepping off the goddamn plane the motherfucker managed to mess with some of my altar work, single-handedly compromised the controlled environment we keep the mushrooms in, nearly lost our ticket-receipt for our Christmas goose and immediately returned to "hiding" potentially gluten-contaminated dishes, cooking utensils and cutlery.

(The long-short? Wheat and gluten are intestine-destroying poisons that cause Italics's body to attack itself. Any trace of either - whether stuck on metal filaments of toasters, or dusted across used plates and dishes - is enough to make him seriously sick. Despite knowing how severe his symptoms are his parents never seem to clean up after themselves (I tried getting them aboard on the gluten-free express to make our kitchen more safe, but they won't buy into it), so I'm constantly sanitizing the kitchen because they don't even sweep their food crumbs off the fucking counters.)

(Our #1 gluten-free problem? Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, doesn't normally use detergent when washing dishes by hand. (Yes, we DO have a dishwasher, and no, I don't know why he refuses to use it.) Which, obviously, is pretty fucking problematic when you have one person with a crazy-serious medical condition triggered by a food group that 1/2 the house indulges in. Worse yet, he's begun "hiding" the unwashed dishes amongst the properly cleaned ones so he doesn't get caught out. To ensure Italics doesn't get sick I actually have to clean every fucking plate, fork, pot and cup before using it because I don't know if it's safe.)

But wait! There's more! (<- Almost all of Ms. Dirty's dealings come with an extra helping of WHAT THE FLYING FUCK and/or ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?.)

In addition to my father-in-law returning home and completely destroying the rhythm of the house, we were forced to give away our Tori Amos tickets because we just couldn't afford the travel cost (our two concert tickets were equal to the cost of a single one-way train ride), I'm so fucking far behind with shit that I have no idea how I'm going to finish up all of my promises, obligations and duties (everything from working on packages for people to making our Last Harvest offerings at various cairns, standing stones and graveyards) before the holiday season hits, let alone hold a motherfucking Harvest sale at the end of this fucking month and - LOL! YES, THERE'S MORE! - yesterday we learned that I might've potentially lost everything I had on my fried computer because, for whatever divinely comical reason, my files didn't transfer properly to our external drive.

(As in, every-motherfucking-thing; my entire effin' life to this effin' point. Projects, notes, my baby pictures, all of our pet photos, recipes I've created from scratch, unseen homemade porn I made for "Santa Claus" and years worth of fucking work (I mean, like, actual career work-work). Everything I ever saved, created, scanned or noted in my 31 years of life was on that fucking computer.)

So things have been a bit...intense...here recently, and because of that some of my goals for this week (i.e., write some VIP emails, finish a few projects and sell all 11 jars of Papa's rum-infused plum sauce) got unexpectedly jostled around. One minor luxury of working for yourself, though, is having the ability to take a step back for a day or two to get your mind correct. After a long ass crying session - and a good night's sleep - I'm feeling a lot fucking better about everything*, and I'm totally ready to hustle some motherfucking sauce.

(* Although I'd really like my computer shit back, Universe. Christmas - you know, the season of peace'n'love'n'good-effin'-will to all (especially those who've worked REALLY FUCKING HARD this year despite those pesky motherfucking rabbits) - is just around the corner, and I know you don't wanna disappoint Santa's favourite reindeer.)

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If you've been rubbernecking my foul-mouthed adventures on Facebook, you'll know that we harvested 24 effin' pounds of plums from our two backyard trees back in September. A third of the crop was used to make my winterspiced plum liqueur (it's the holy amongst holies in my hedgerow hooch collection), another third was was used to create a rum-based libation for Papa (my attempt to make a ritual His'n'Her set) and the last third was deliberately scattered throughout the countryside to return a portion of the fruit back to the earth.

It'd be utterly retarded to just throw out the rum-preserved plums, and since there's no way I'm going to eat eight fucking pounds of hoochtastic sauce in two weeks I thought I'd offer a wee taste of Harvest goodness to you guys. This necro-culinary delight (necro squared; in addition to being a by-product of a psychopomp-themed libation, half the fruit was harvested from the plum tree growing over my roadkill altar) is a simple puree made from only three ingredients: fairtrade sugar, dark rum and death-enriched homegrown plums.

Before you whip out your wallet to make it rain you need to know one thing: I can't send this shit internationally. It's not that I don't want to; I'm just really worried about the lids of these jars. I saved, sterilized and reused a bunch of baby jars not knowing that the tops wouldn't seal again. These fuckers should travel a-okay within Europe, but I doubt they'd survive longer transits. I feel so effin' bad about fucking this up that I've already promised you non-EU folk the ability to pick my next super-special Harvest project in the hopes you'll forgive my sorry ass. (<- Mushroom ketchup made with my Wild Woodland Mix seems to be winning.)

And now for the nitty-fucking-gritty:

* There are exactly 11 undecorated jars; once they're gone, they're effin' gone.
* Jars are £1.50 GBP each; you can buy as many as you like.
* There's approximately 128g worth of sauce in every jar; jars roughly weigh 221g once filled.
* Postage costs are determined by number of jars being sent; sending one jar within the UK is roughly £2.50, sending one jar within the EU is roughly £3.00.

If you're interested in snagging a jar - or two, or six (ahem) - all you've gotta do is send an email to graveyarddirt@gmail.com with the following information: your paypal address, how many jars you want and what country the jars are getting sent to (it makes figuring out postage a helluva lot easier). First-come, first-served and, like I said above, once these necro-squared motherfuckers are gone, they're gone.

Pampered Psychopomp

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An already pampered psychopomp being deviously plied with offerings of homemade pecan pie, pot-infused rum cocktails, homegrown chilli peppers, miniature bottles of hot sauce (both Italics and Papa thank you, Cosy!) and two carefully selected Ms. Dirty pubes for a very personal - very pussycraft - touch.

All Souls' Day

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Chilli Chocolate Espresso Cake (Gluten-Free)

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A devil of a cake for an angel of a friend.

PS: Thanks for traveling 6+ hours today just to see my sorry ass, Purple Wife. I hope Allah approved of my cleaning job; please tell Him that I tried really fucking hard to find all of the stray pubes on the bathroom floor.

PPS: I totally promise to get the you-know-what so I can legally you-know-what whenever you come up for a little you-know-what. XO.

All Effin' Fronts

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The angelic hosts would weep in divine despair if they had an inkling of how motherfucking behind my earthly ass is right now. We're talking on all effin' fronts: journal writing, photo editing, replying to emails, responding to comments, answering direct messages, sending snail mail, fulfilling promises, working on trades, finishing projects, decorating gifts, bone working, gardening, performing funerary rites, baking homemade offerings and observing my personal Harvest festivities'n'rites.

Fuck, I'm even behind on foraging despite putting in full-time hours every effin' day of every effin' week since mid-July. It's not that shit isn't getting done, because I've never been so goddamn productive in all my motherlovin' life. It's that I'm attempting to give a billion things my undivided attention, and anyone with a rudimentary understanding of mathematics will see that my attempts to force division and fractions to ignore basic Universal rules just isn't working. (Ah, well, back to my areas of expertise: sex, death and perfectly boiled rice.)

Usually when one aspect of work slips I throw more fuel on the fire to help raise an extra dose of energy. It's a panic move, but it shocks my ass to the next level and I find I can close the distance between myself and the belated deadlines that are tormenting me. There's a cost for that expedition, though. Dipping into emergency reserves usually means I experience a burnout period that lasts anywhere from two or three days to two or three weeks. It's a tradeoff I'm more than willing to make (and often do), but one I can't afford to exercise during Harvest since my priorities are solely focused on my sovereign duties.

Normally I don't labor this shit, but recently quite a few folks have dropped my ass a friendly email and most haven't gotten a reply (yet). And because I'm of the pessimistic persuasion I've convinced myself that every-effin'-one of them has come to the very wrong conclusion that I'm deliberately ignoring them. (I'm not. Honest to all that is motherfucking holy, I'm not.) So I'm taking a quick second - er, eight paragraphs - to assure anyone who's still waiting for a reply that 1.) I'm totally not avoiding you, 2.) I'm really sorry I haven't been able to find time to respond to your email and 3.) I really fucking appreciate that you took the time to contact me because receiving a friendly email is like getting a giant fucking internet hug whenever I feel down and unmotivated.

I knew that 2011 was going to be a challenging year because it was the year that we decided to finally go pro. ("We" because I couldn't do this shit entirely by myself. Italics has funded all of my projects, kept me company during foraging sessions/roadkill sweeps, helped pick, process and prepare the majority of the non-gross shit I do, acted like a 24/7 springboard for all of my half-baked ideas and, most importantly, kept me going with regular offerings of support, serenity-inducing shots of sativa and cup after motherfucking cup of freshly prepared calming tea.) What I didn't know, though, was how those challenges would manifest because neither of us have any experience with opening a business.

We're aiming for our first post-Harvest/pre-Midwinter sale in November (save those pennies, guys, and be sure to join the announcement-only mailing list so you don't miss the event!), and I'm on the verge of being able to provide private roadkill services for people interested in adopting one of my resurrected animals. I try to promptly answer any questions regarding my work (i.e., rescued roadkill, Hedgerow Hooch, wild Scottish mushrooms and/or any items featured in Second Hand Sundays), but, right now, I can't afford investing time into journal entry-sized responses, so don't take it personally if my reply lacks its usual epicness.

So, in conclusion: it's totally cool to email my ass and say hi, I absolutely love getting email and I'm sincerely fucking sorry I'm so work-focused right now that I can't find the time to reply to personal correspondence (I'm working on that, though).

Pictured above: fresh toadstools (Amanita muscaria), a partially eaten pomegranate surrounded by more fresh toadstools, dried toadstools just out of the dehydrator, a homemade oil made from edible plants (chives and a single dandelion) growing out of #01's buried remains, two bottles containing the recently strained Simple Strawberry Wine and, lurking to the very right of the picture, the dehydrator that's dried more than 100 toadstools just this year alone (and that's only the agarics; I'm still weighing all of our dried boletes and chanterelles to get an idea of how much we've managed to find and preserve.)

One Goddamn Picture

Two days ago I: made an edible anointing oil from herbs growing out of the garden container with #01's remains, used one of my in-laws' crystal vases to macerate some pheasant bones (if you don't tell them they'll never notice), finally pulled out all the motherfucking fireweed and ragwort that's been driving Italics's allergies in-fucking-sane, made an executive decision to prune all the effing patio shrubs Mr. Awesome's been ignoring, tackled five years worth of invasive ivy that's slowly destroyed our fucking fence, seriously contemplated the possibility of pulling Mr. Awesome's non-hedge hedge out and planting something actually useful (i.e., elder), recklessly bounced way too enthusiastically for far too long on an epic mountain of garden debris (to compact the shit into a bag...well, mostly to compact the shit into a bag), freed one of the plum trees from being completely swallowed by a neighbor's tall line of monster fucking cedars and then watched the setting sun illuminate portions of the backyard for the first time in fucking years.

And I didn't take one goddamn picture.

Yesterday I: dragged my sore fucking ass outside to examine and flesh the heads of #08, #09 and #10, shallowly buried the decomposing remains I removed from their skulls so our fox(es) have access to a quick meal, packed the three flayed deer heads into my upgraded roadkill altar to begin the process of rot, checked on the assorted pieces of #01, #02, #03, #04 and #05 macerating in one of the outside rooms, potted on some home-fucking-grown comfrey seedlings, excavated the skeletal remains of Love & Sorrow's mature rabbit from one of my gardening pots, transplanted one of my container lavenders using some of the decayed rabbit dirt, dressed my sage, bay tree and tiny little gooseberry plant with leftover rabbit dirt, paid a visit to the roadkill graveyard situated beneath our office window (where fleshy remains are buried until they become bone), clipped small coniferous tufts from huge motherfucking juniper branches (pruning casualty; why let good magic shit go to waste?) and spent the next eight motherfucking hours in the fucking kitchen rubbing my hands raw by squeezing juice out of seven motherfucking pounds of wild necro-gooseberries - by fucking hand - to make four different motherfucking types of Hedgerow Hooch.

And I didn't take one goddamn picture.

Today I: swore my supremely sore fucking ass that I'd take the day off until I remembered the last time I performed any sort of mushroom sweep was last Friday (work is work, Internet), cackled madly - and even paused to call Italics mid-picking - at the completely unexpected porcini harvest, stumbled across a new bolete-tastic hot spot situated between two other bolete-tastic hot spots, indulgently savored the first mothereffin' brambles of the season, paused to admire the late evening sun reflecting across the ripe blackberries' latex shine, briefly returned home for Italics so we could toadstool hunt together near the banks of the Black Laird's loch, crawled through low-hanging boughs of birch and pine, and scrambled over crumbling, lichen-encrusted walls filling a second magic wooden basket with cherry-red agarics, a birch bolete explosion of massive fucking proportions and the incomplete remains of a carrion crow, single-handledly cleaned - and processed! - 1085 grams of porcini, 1194 grams of mixed boletes and 8 effing toadstools for dehydration, stirred every fucking 2011 Hedgerow Hooch (all (lucky) 13 of them), made a helluva meal which included homemade holubsti (Ukrainian stuffed cabbage) inexcusably smothered with leftover Poulet Marengo sauce and a quick chorizo-smoked pancetta-homegrown sage chicken thing, prepped #11's body for its future funeral and watery interment, and preened vainly in the mirror all evil sorceress-style when I caught the secondhand stains of midnight sex smeared garishly across my lower face.

And I didn't take one goddamn picture.

Ms. Dirty's Day Off

A day off - Ms. Dirty-style! - in ten pictures:

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First item of order? Exhuming the skeletal remains of #01 (body), #02 (skull and body), #03 (skull), #04 (skull and body) and #05 (skull) from the roadkill altar, and submerging the lot into water-filled buckets to begin the process of bone cleaning.

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Second day off duty: shaking up the contents of my Hedgerow Hooch. (<- Sticky, but satisfying work.) Pictured above is my plain wild necro-raspberry gin, the other batch of gin's been flavored with a vanilla bean and spices.

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After soiling myself with dead deer - and accidentally anointing myself with homemade hooch - it was time for my favorite chore: cooking. In this case, it was a very special meal made with homegrown and locally foraged ingredients for a Mercury-talented husband.

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Since Poulet Marengo is a braised dish I swapped the chicken for our first guinea fowl (from Gressingham Food's; if you're in the UK be sure to check this welfare-concerned company out, most major grocery stores seem to carry a portion of their catalog, and I can personally vouch for the quality of their products), but before I could braise anything I had to pan fry guinea fowl portions in olive oil and butter until crisply golden.

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Even though I was involved in some serious cooking my ass couldn't resist a quick break to admire the rainbow cresting over our crossroads rowan tree through the kitchen window.

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Something dark and sweet to mop up boozy dinner juices*: a gluten-free quick bread made with buttermilk, brown sugar and molasses.

* Both Marsala and brandy are featured in this dish, along with fresh mushrooms, tomatoes and homemade vegetable stock. The end result? A sauce that'd ecstatically inspire the heavenly motherfucking host.

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Another day off duty: prepping even more recently picked chanterelles for the dehydrator while the guinea fowl braises and the Boston Brown Bread bakes.

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The braised guinea fowl's become so tender that it's begun pulling away from the bone.

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A special dinner requires a special atmosphere, so the kitchen lights were turned off, the stars were turned on and I further illuminated the room with the soft glow of candlelight.

Our ancestors, friends and roommates with benefits (you know, the folk that never leave: Papa, Chippy, et cetera) were invited, but their setting wasn't as grand as the ancestral altars I usually build during special feasts and holy days. On more low key occasions their table setting is just as fancy as ours, but I always situate the bread next to them because I know where I get my ravenous bread appetite from. (<- Ukraine? Is known as "Europe's Breadbasket". In fact, our flag has only two colors: blue for the sky, and yellow for our fields of wheat.)

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And the last day off duty of the day? Sitting down with 30+ cookbooks to yank out every motherfucking recipe that involves gooseberries and black currants since both of those have recently come into season at my graveyard garden.

Finding Perspective

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What the fuck do you do when your computer's so fucking screwed that it won't even start up? You hand your baby - and years of unsaved mothereffin' work (look, I always MEANT to back the shit up, okay?) - over to very capable hands, and force yourself to get lost in the woods for an hour (or three) to find some fucking perspective.

By the time I returned home with a basket full of birch boletes, chanterelles, penny buns and toadstools? Italics had worked his Mercury-ruled magic. When I heard the good effin' news I swore with a hand on my magic motherfucking basket that I'd make that savior-king of mine something truly fucking special for his trouble: a recreation of the first dinner I ever made him* using homegrown garlic, humanely reared and slaughtered guinea fowl, two types of fancy pants booze and a huge selection of wild mushrooms found when my ass was lost in the woods looking for some perspective.

* Poulet Marengo; we were both just 17, and it was my first attempt at right-proper cooking.

A Growing Collection

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2011's collection of Hedgerow Hooch continues growing as new fruits come into season.

Starting with the largest Kilner jar while moving counterclockwise: strawberry & geranium vodka, wild necro-raspberry gin, a different batch of wild necro-raspberry gin, wild necro-raspberry vodka, cherry vodka, wild necro-raspberry liqueur (vodka-based with vanilla bean and spices), two jars of Simple Strawberry Wine and a wild necro-raspberry ratafia (brandy-based with vanilla bean and spices).

Mercury-Ruled

What happens when your partner's Mercury-ruled? You get to fight fire air with motherfucking fire air. Three cheers for Italics and the two sleepless nights he spent working on my computer to make it virus-free, and to anyone who felt momentarily bad for me. (<- Pity TOTALLY counts as prayers in my book!)

Now that this week's retrograde crisis is over Graveyard Dirt can return to it's Harvest-driven schedule. Normally I don't hint about future content, but since this is a Site Shit post it gives me a rare chance to step out of journal entry mode.

With that being said, I'm: prepping for Bolete Lesson #3 (how to preserve), getting ready to announce GD's first ever giveaway (hint: it involves homework; have you been doing yours?), selecting a few more wild edible recipes to share (mushrooms, raspberries and maybe even gooseberries) and clearing space in my crazy fucking week to finally sit the fuck down and finish up a parade of delayed promises and projects (i.e., dressing up jam jars and hooch bottles, decanting and decorating some of last year's toadstool oil, sending away packages and a stupid amount bone cleaning).

Cracklin' Rosie

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Nothing but me, 4 ½ lbs of necromantic wild raspberries*, a bottle of brandy, a bottle of gin, a bottle of vodka, the blessings of Papa's hard fucking cock and Neil Diamond's greatest motherfucking hits. (Oh, we gonna ride till there ain't no more to go...)

* These fuckers? Were picked at an old Scottish graveyard situated near a pair of effin' cairns. Necrotastic, or what?

Bolete Lesson #2

Now that your ass knows what the fuck a bolete is - and where to find those spongy motherfuckers - you're totally ready for lesson #2: how to clean and store your bolete bounty*.

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You'll need your mushrooms (I'm using a youngish Boletus edulis specimen; aka penny bun, cep & porcino), a slightly stiff paintbrush (fan brushes are better for cleaning gilled fungi; mine's out because I was also cleaning some chanterelles), a small knife (preferably geared for mushroom and/or vegetable work; those have a curved blade reminiscent of a sickle), a larger knife (if you'll be slicing and using your mushrooms immediately) and, not pictured, a clean piece of paper towel or cloth (to be complete fucking honest? I just use my effing shirt).

The number one rule of cleaning mushrooms is that you never fucking wash them. Water should never be introduced at any point in the cleaning process. If your mushrooms are dirty - and with that being said, please remember these are wild edibles you'll be consuming; your ass probably won't be the first thing that's enjoyed them (translation: get use to worm holes and critter love bites, quick) - you'll want to dust debris off with either your cloth (shirt, or paper towel), and/or your brush.

I always start at the top and work my way to the bottom. With the dirty base facing downward I hold the bolete mid-stem with one hand while brushing/wiping away any dirt or debris with the other. I begin with the cap, and then clean the sponge beneath the cap. Once the upper half's been tidied I then move to the lower half focusing on the mushroom's stem (always pointing the soiled end down so forest shit doesn't fall back on any recently cleaned parts).

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To cut, or to pick? I've read arguments from both sides of the camp, and I've read enough to convince me that I'm not doing any harm in picking. (In fact, I've read in a few places the practice of cutting boletes actually leads to a serious case of rot that negatively impacts the mycelium.)

I pick because nature knows what the fuck it's doing, and I've seen evidence of that my entire fucking life: anything that bears fruit also releases fruit. Fruiting-bodies are created to be taken and consumed easily, that's their job. When I gently unearth toadstools and boletes it feels right; the bases eagerly lift from the soil with just a little twist. Having haunted the same hot spots for nearly three years I've experienced no adverse effects; "picking", in my book, is a-okay.

With that being said, you wouldn't rip an apple off a branch using extreme force, or wrench an onion bulb out of the fucking ground just by its stem, so don't fucking tear mushrooms out of the motherfucking ground like they're free money no one's noticed. Respect the fucking organism beneath your feet that you're harvesting from. Treat mushroom hunting like any other foraging practice; pick gently, harvest carefully and always keep in mind that the "fruit" you're collecting is attached to a living, conscious thing.

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When your bolete's been brushed clean you only have the soiled bottom to work with. I peel the base like any vegetable, taking superficial layers off to expose the creamier flesh within. A quick once-over usually leaves me with a vampire stake of a mushroom stalk that reveals the internal condition of the stem.

See those tiny indentations? Worm holes. (I know what you're probably thinking, and you're so wrong: this penny bun? Is still a super badass specimen one billion percent safe for human consumption, worm holes'n'all.) By peeling the bottom you're simultaneously cleaning your fungal treasure while exposing any worm-eaten sections for closer inspection.

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Once the debris-ridden bottom's been peeled you're left with one last cleaning job: heading those goddamn worms off at the pass. (<- Unless stopped those mushroom-eating motherfuckers will continue to burrow up through the stalk and into the meaty flesh of the cap.) Remove any part of the base and/or stem that'd make a piece of Swiss cheese cry; several holes is cool, but don't bother with anything that remotely resembles your grandma's crocheted doilies.

Don't aim for perfect, aim for reasonable.

A note on wild mushroom "garbage": in this house offcuts, peelings and whatever's been deemed inedible is returned to nature. Trimmings are left outside at offering spots to either be eaten by visiting wildlife or decompose naturally back into the earth. We leave spore-ripe caps beneath trees that have a symbiotic relationship with the mushrooms since it helps spread the mushroom-producing mycelium. (Heard of flowerbombing? This is its fungal equivalent: mushroombombing.)

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...and that's it! No water, and minimal - biodegradable! - mess.

As you can see this clean motherfucking bolete is ready for immediate use (or immediate storage; see below). You can use your bounty how you'd use any mushroom (boletes in particular are known for their autumnal warm-dry-fur-and-smoked-leaves flavor; perfect for carnivores trying to up their vegetarian game), or you could be a very good Tweezle the mouse and preserve them for later.

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If you're planning on drying your boletes, get that shit started as soon as fucking possible.

If you're planning on using your boletes fresh - but just not that day - I've found that disconnecting every effing cap from every effing stem is the best line of defense against stowaway worms. I store the sorted pieces in the fridge, but in their own separate Tupperware containers. That way, if you still have a worm or two present in your stalks they have no fucking way to get to the real prize of your bounty: the mothereffin' caps. (<- This is a crucial fucking step in storing your mushrooms; one I had to learn the hard fucking way, so just trust me on this, okay?)

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Whoa, whoa, whoa! Where the fuck are you going? Class ain't done; sit the fuck back down. Your ass is dismissed when I say it's dis-fucking-missed (unless you're looking for a hardcore dose of corporeal punishment all Victorian schoolhouse-style).

One more thing: remember how I said The most prolific of the bunch [boletes] can usually be found beneath pines. A whole host of boletes love long-needled conifers, but you got to get those fuckers young because they tend to be the ones that get slimy quickly. in Bolete Lesson #1? Those motherfuckers are a family called Suillus in the larger order Boletales.

They're still boletes, they're still edible but their distinguishing feature - the weirdly sticky-but-not-sticky and slimy-but-not-slimy textured cap - should be peeled off during the cleaning process. While not poisonous the cap does contain a mild purgative that can affect people with super sensitive stomachs. Don't let that put you off harvesting these fuckers - especially Suillus luteus (aka slippery Jack & sticky bun); picture above - they're beautifully fruity with a teasing hint of earthy sweetness.

* All this mushroom bullshit news to you? You must've missed lesson #1, which means you've got extra homework today - congratu-fucking-lations! You're only one assignment behind, though, so you'll have no fucking trouble catching up with the rest of us.

Same Old Magic

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New (used) wooden basket; same old magic.

Pictured above: chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius), fly agarics (Amanita muscaria), birch boletes (Leccinum scabrum), penny buns (Boletus edulis), miscellaneous bones found in my toadstool hot spot and two halves of discarded wild bird eggs (wood pigeon, I think).

Simple Strawberry Wine

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I fucking loathe the practice of sharing a recipe through a personal journal without cushioning it with some sort of story or narrative. Capping the shit with a single paragraph makes it worse (those several sentences ain't foolin' no one, babe), and without some variation of hook, line and sinker - whether visual or anecdotal - I find myself feeling like a random cookbook page is getting aggressively shoved in my fucking face in lieu of actual content.

Normally I keep my judgmental bullshit to myself unless someone's dangerously close to treading on my territory, but I'm on the verge of being a fucking hypocrite about one of my major blogging pet peeves so I thought honesty, in this effing case, is probably the best policy. (<- I was baptized and took my first holy communion under the protective care of St. Nicholas in an Orthodox Ukrainian cathedral; I think my ass is just Catholic enough to allow me to participate in repentant acts of public self-flagellation.)

Since I'm being completely honest with y'all I guess I should be super honest and say that, really, I'm not being 100% honest. It's not that I don't have an anecdote, or entertaining narrative, or even a simple fucking purpose behind sharing this recipe, it's that I don't have any fucking time to hammer that shit out. I don't have the time to convince you to hunt down a fucking punnet of local strawberries while they're still deliciously in season, or how enormously tempting this was within the first 24 hours of creation, or how three simple ingredients ritually mixed at the appropriate time with a little devotion and love can create an incredibly satisfying personal libation.

So, in lieu of actual content, I'm going to aggressively shove this recipe out of a not-so-random cookbook into your motherfucking face and cushion this thinly disguised "journal entry" with four or five measly paragraphs to convince you to get off your fucking ass and engage in some simple - but meaningful! - homemade hoochery. Why? I wish I had time to explain, but I've got a mother of a fucking nightmare waiting for me in the backroom, and one flightless crow that needs attention. Besides, the best reason will be the one you experience firsthand when straining albino strawberries out of a jar of wine (or sherry) in six weeks time.

One word of advice: don't waste your time with unseasonal fruit. Seriously. Your end product will sorely lack the flavor you're trying to lock in. Get your strawberries locally if you can, either by visiting pick-your-own farms, haunting farmers' markets/fresh produce events, growing your own (strawberries are something that happily grow in containers, and you only need a few fruit-producing plants to make a small batch of homemade hooch) or by checking the provenance of grocery store punnets.

(I try and buy organic Scottish strawberries instead of organic British strawberries; I know that the UK's a small island, but there's a discernible difference between a strawberry grown 30 miles away and one grown 300, and that doesn't even take account of the extra resources needed to maintain and transport long-distance fruit.)

Stone Throne Pheasant

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Last week's Stone Throne pheasant was a gift from the land after I finally executed the very last of my spring-flavored obligations. "Harvest's come early this year," I kept telling Italics, and the Universe promptly confirmed all of my seasonal suspicions in one unexpected roadkill find.

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Normally we don't find pheasants until the local gaming estate releases their new stock in September. The first few birds we bring home always turn out to be inexperienced juveniles totally unsavvy to the dangers of the outside world. It's a brutal massacre; most of the dead aren't fit for human consumption, so I spend a lot of time moving mangled remains to ensure hungry scavengers don't share a similar fate.

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This pheasant, however, wasn't an inexperienced juvenile (they haven't even been released yet); she was a mature hen. I very rarely find an old gal like this (the majority of the roadkill pheasants I bring home are either newly released hens or unlucky cocks), and I've never found one this early in the year. She was a fucking treasure, and when it came time to ritually reduce her body into usable parts I gave my heartfelt thanks while stroking her feathery chest.

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A broken wing with mostly undamaged feathers.

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Feathers overlapping feathers.

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One of her thighs sustained superficial damage.

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The injury to one of her wings was bone-shatteringly traumatic.

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The pheasant's crop contained remnants of her last meal (bilberries; a kind've sort've wild cousin of the blueberry), which was set aside for planting. The berries - along with a portion of the bird's body - will be sown in the hopes that they'll germinate into fruit-bearing shrubs; a living legacy of the pheasant's life (and death).

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A pheasant first: underdeveloped eggs! They - along with the heart, gizzard and liver - were extracted from the body, cleaned and frozen for future witchcrafting. The salvaged organs were appreciated more immediately by our black magic cat, Mr. Mistoffelees.

What we couldn't use of the roadkill pheasant - the entrails and bruised meat - was left outside for the newest generation of corvids (certain families have been using our property as a fledging playpen for years since it's safely situated on a quiet dead end - admittedly, the rich pickings are a huge incentive to visit daily). Everything else - the feathers, feet, bones, meat and head - was saved, and will eventually be used for something, or serve some sort of purpose.

PS: I realize that the entire roadkill thing is a niche interest, and that not every visitor to Graveyard Dirt is going to understand or accept my practices. That's cool, I totally get that. But if you ARE interested in learning about how I incorporate roadkill into my feral version of witchcraft (what I do, why I do it, etc.) two good places to start are my roadkill Flickr set and my Asphalt & Entrails journal category. More pheasant stories - just in case you're interested - can be found here and here. Happy scavenging!

One Last Treat

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On the menu today: cream of cep soup made from recently picked wild mushrooms, homegrown garlic and local produce. Normally I dry every goddamn penny bun that comes into the house, but I figured one last treat was in order since the in-laws return home tomorrow afternoon. (<- Summer vacation? Officially over. Not that we had much of a vacation...)

Cold Winter Nights

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Homemade strawberry & geranium vodka, cherry vodka, simple strawberry wine and, seductively stretched out before the lot, a bottle of recently strained pineapple vodka to help warm the body'n'soul on those cold winter nights.

Late Night Hooching

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Preserving the heart of summer for the heart of winter.

Gluten-Free Honik Lekach

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Internet, we are crazy fucking beat. Somehow I managed to convince myself that I'd hit the ground running the second we got home from Glasgow (SEND PACKAGES! WORK ON TRADES! WRITE THOUGHT-PROVOKING, SPIRITUALLY MEANINGFUL JOURNAL ENTRIES! <- LOL! Just kidding. I mean, me? Thought-provoking and/or spiritually meaningful? Good fucking grief!), but I soon discovered the grotesquely warped Dorian Gray pictures of those optimistic aspirations locked up in the ATTIC OF MOTHEREFFING TRUTH and had to eventually accept reality for what it was: a force unwilling to yield to the list of my more than reasonable Aries demands.

After two days of traveling, an evening of goth-flavored exhibitionism beneath the world's biggest rotating disco ball (think I'm joking?) and several fucking weeks of constant worry about leaving TC for a whole 24 hours* we've come to the collective conclusion that all our asses need a long weekend off. And, for once, I'm grudgingly accepting the fact, but there's still a teeny tiny part of me that absolutely fucking loathes leaving Graveyard Dirt untouched for more than 48 hours so I've decided to continue posting less mentally taxing entries until I've fully recovered from last week's GO! GO! GO! rush.

* Which, okay, doesn't SEEM like a super big deal, but the crow has a tendency to trip over its lame wing - it hangs more than the uninjured wing - and when it does it can't right itself. We need to physically flip Peck-Man like a turtle otherwise it just lies on its fucking back playing dead with its little corvid feet in the air.

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The story of this particular gluten-free Honik Lekach (a Jewish New Year honey cake) doesn't begin with culinary intent, but with a gag-inducing mistake. While exploring our favorite "Afro-Caribbean, Mediterranean & Middle-Eastern Halal Continental Food Store" a few weeks back I was bewitched by a squat little glass of honey, and without even looking at the ingredients - I'll be honest, Internet, I totally wanted the glass more than the honey - I tossed it into our basket not knowing that it was mostly glucose syrup.

I expected a golden tongueful of luxurious middle eastern honey brimming with exotic, unfamiliar sweetness, but got an unappetizing mouthful of bland, watered-down sugar syrup lamely disguised with a drop or two of unflavorful honey. I won't lie; I dry heaved over the sink. It was only after I choked down the colloidal mess oozing around my mouth that I read the back of that squat little glass and discovered the horrific truth behind the jar that had bewitched me: "glucose-fructose syrup, honey".

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My first instinct was to flush the fucking "honey" down the drain, but that would've been several different types of wasteful I didn't have the fucking heart to consider. I wasn't hot on the idea of using it cosmetically (since it didn't have any real holistic benefits), ritually (I'm all about working with what you got, but even I draw the fucking line at glucose-fructose syrup unless I'm making a goddamn point and/or being terribly clever) or as an additive for any of my homemade liqueurs (high-fructose corn syrup in my hedgerow hooch? not in a million motherfucking years).

So what the fuck do you do with imitation honey if you really don't want to taste it, let alone use it? You deviously hide the monstrosity within a homemade cake (in this case, a gluten-free Jewish New Year honey cake) by covering it with a neutral - but intriguingly nutty tasting - oil, an indulgent trickle of Madagascar vanilla, the aromatic woodiness of autumn spices and a shot or two of Papa's super fucking fine cognac. Then you present the finished product to the #1 psychopomp in your life because you know that motherfucker could fucking care less if real honey wasn't used if it resulted in a very fucking real cake sitting on his Ghede-pleasin' altar.

I have to grudgingly admit this cake was good. In fact, it was so fucking good it bordered on being suspiciously good. (Just some lucky black arts magic?) As if it being incredibly edible wasn't bad enough (I was just supposed to make it palatable, not create a top 10 masterpiece!), it also paired perfectly with the pistachio gelato we needed to use up, and when it finally began the process of staling it turned into a chewy breakfast bread that was easily eaten over a hot cup of tea without the need of a fork or plate.

Another Morning After

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Honik Lekach

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Today's One A Day? A cherry-topped teaser.

Ghede-Pleasin'

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Altar photos from a recent weekend session of Ghede-pleasin' pussycraft. I'm way too fucking tired to write anything remotely coherent, so I'll save all stories, explanations, anecdotes and recipe (oh, honey, yes I'm super sharing!) until later.

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Pussycraft

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Motherfucker's getting a very personal - very homemade - dose of hot'n'heavy pussycraft* tonight. (My Ukrainian ancestors? Rolling in their motherfucking graves. But, like, proudly.)

* Pussycraft; the Ghede's favorite sort of witchcraft.

Taste of Summer

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Remember the locally grown strawberries bought on our June 4th excursion? Those insanely sweet motherfuckers were ritually offered to Chippy on his birthday (strawberries are one of his favorite foods), and then they were washed, quartered and thrown into a giant Kilner jar with a fistful of scented geranium leaves, a mound of granulated sugar and two bottles of gluten-free vodka*. This strawberry liqueur - the first homemade hooch we've made this year! - should be ready by Midwinter, which means by Christmas we'll be able to drive away the bitter cold with an intoxicating taste of summer.

* Most vodkas use grains in the fermentation process, but Smirnoff uses maize (corn) making it safe for people who need to exclude wheat from their diet.

Taste of Grampian

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Once a year in early June a one-day food and drink festival is held close to home that showcases the natural talents and products of regional farmers, craftsmen, bakers, butchers, fishmongers, distilleries and other culinary-themed businesses. Despite our restrictive diets (we need to eat gluten/wheat-free, and - if not reduced-to-clear - our meat has to be locally sourced with absolute satisfaction of the animal's welfare) we still came home with a ridiculous amount of locally produced food made by folks with a sincere interest in working harmoniously with nature, life and the environment.

Pictured: a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling elderberry drink, a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling elderflower drink, a balsamic, honey and rapeseed oil-based salad dressing, a bar of homemade lemongrass and rapeseed oil soap, two punnets of fresh strawberries, two containers of organic crowdie (it makes a terrific European cheesecake), one organic clava round, a tiny, snack-sized venison pie (stashed in the back of the freezer for when the Old Woman visits later this year), a traditionally dry-cured ham shank, two packs of half-price rose veal mince, a huge ass beef and lamb boerewors, one beautifully colored venison tenderloin, a half-price pack of rose veal cutlets, a pack of dry-cured streaky bacon and a pair of half-price rose veal rib-eyes.

Promises, Gifts & German Cabbage

Later today we're fucking off to Edinburgh for a short break (two nights) before Easter/Hieros Gamos, and even though we booked this mini-vacation over a fucking month ago it still feels hellishly impromptu. Knowing that'd I'd be out of the house for several days I spent all of yesterday in the kitchen catching up with promises (a gluten-free sweet potato cheesecake for my mother-in-law), preparing for a special dinner in our near future (roasted wild mallard without German sweet and sour red cabbage?), making homemade gifts for friends (scented geranium and rhubarb jam) and baking a loaf of gluten-free banana bread for one of Scotland's greatest philosophers (he's buried just across the street from our Edinburgh hotel).

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The very beginning of my geranium and rhubarb jam: organic rhubarb sliced thinly, and a handful of fresh leaves from my scented geranium houseplant (it's a rose-lemon variety).

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To the 1kg of sliced rhubarb and handful of fresh geranium leaves I added 1kg of granulated white sugar, and then I covered the pot (I put everything from the very fucking start into my non-reactive, enamel coated casserole pot) before moving it to a cool room.

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After a night of sitting enough liquid's been coaxed out of the rhubarb to make a batch of jam. The geranium leaves almost completely disintegrated during the boiling stage, so I just left the motherfuckers in for varied texture. I'm crazy-pleased with the results (I couldn't wait for the fortnight of aging so I dug into one of those fuckers first thing this morning), so expect a recipe for this jam soon(ish).

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Homemade cheesecakes - and I'm talking about a real, baked-in-a-motherfucking-water bath cheesecake - were always a pain in the fucking ass to make, but now they're a fucking gigantic pain in the fucking ass because I need to bake an entire fucking batch of gluten-free cookies beforehand to create the cheesecake's crumb base. (<- I've tried store bought gluten-free cookies, and trust me, Internet, they just don't fucking work.)

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Because it took my ass three motherfucking months to bake my mother-in-law her birthday cake (a gluten-free sweet potato cheesecake) I spent an extra thirty minutes in the kitchen reducing maple syrup and whipping cream to create a roasted pecan glaze to top the cheesecake.

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German sweet and sour red cabbage, to be eaten with wild duck once we get back from Edinburgh. (I made it in advance to let the flavors marry while we're away.) I tucked the spices - peppercorns, allspice and cloves - into a tea bag (cardamom & black tea), and then simmered it with red cabbage, apples, duck fat, water and cider vinegar.

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Gluten-free banana bread for David Hume, made with overripe bananas (I wanted the scent of the fruit to be hella obvious since the 18th-century Scottish philosopher wouldn't have been familiar with it), roasted pecans and sour cream. (How can you tell when my ass is courting the dead? I begin bringing them homebaked goods. <- Cake and cock, baby; both are inevitable, but sometimes the order changes.)

Just Go Along with It

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Fresh leaves from my scented geranium houseplant, organic rhubarb from the grocery store (no car means no access to the rhubarb growing near the local stone circle) and one enamel coated casserole pot blessed by a celebrity chef rat with a comically debilitating anxiety disorder. (<- If I were you, I'd just go along with it.)

Birthday Offerings

Just a few pictorial offerings from April 11th (my birthday):

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My birthday cake; a homemade, gluten-free German chocolate sheet cake. (<- I was too goddamn lazy to bake three separate 9" rounds and do the entire layered thing.) If you can believe it (and you should, because my ability to pack food away borders on being a divine motherfucking gift from God), only a tiny corner remains.

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To include everyone in the birthday festivities offerings were made to my ancestors, companions and the roommates-with-benefits comedy team cohabiting with us. This makeshift altar in the backroom was for my indoor companion animal spirits: Chippy, Tiger and The Shango Man.

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All I can say about this picture is: the less said about it, the better.

Well, maybe one thing - if you really fucking dig German chocolate cake and haven't had it in motherfucking years having your ass eaten out as you dive face first into your piece of birthday cake while under the influence of nitrous is probably the way to go. (I should know.)

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The quiet before the "stoned off my fucking ass and crawled around on the flour at 5:45 AM wearing nothing except my new Sunday school goth dress and an antique wooden goat's harness" debacle: homemade sole'n'almond gin (a gift from a friend), and a spring hedgerow-themed jigsaw puzzle.

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Birthday gifts wrapped in Christmas paper for a mostly benevolent goddess made incarnate. Hidden beneath Yuletide greetings? Vintage jewelry, new altar pieces, some clothing and a handful of other miscellaneous items that fall beneath a Ms. Dirty persuasion.

Birthday Cake-To-Be

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A birthday cake-to-be for the birthday girl-to-be. (<- I get to eat homemade German chocolate cake as he eats my ass; how the fuck could my birthday not be happy?)

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

I start each of my roadkill animals with the best photographic intentions, but by the time I'm elbow-deep in muscle, fat and skin I forget to reach for my trusty camera to document each stage of skinning and - if the meat's safe for human consumption - butchery. So one thing you'll notice with most of my processing-themed images is that the set's never the whole production, just a slight tease of a few steps before I obviously became too engrossed with my work to continue snapping pictures.

While I wouldn't consider this particular set of processing images "complete" (it's missing the all important gutting stage), it does give you a good idea of what skinning an animal's like and how ungross, unbloody and ungrotesque it really is. (I'll be honest - it can be a messy affair. It all depends on how the animal died and where it received the hardest trauma. But a complete, unruptured, fresh animal usually yields a clean and almost effortless job provided you have a sufficiently sharp object (I work with a pair of kitchen scissors and a medical grade scalpel) and comfortable amount of space to work in.)

Over the next 16 images you'll be able to see how I reduced the pair of badgers we found on March 7th from abandoned roadkill to pelts (for tanning), meat (for consumption) and bones (for use in our personal practices) while wasting nothing in the process (unless you count the small amount of bruised, overly bloody badger meat that I offered to my corvids and visiting scavengers as "a waste"). These images aren't gratuitous; in fact, I barely consider them "graphic". If you can stomach eating meat, working with meat, visiting a butcher's shop and watching culinary-based TV shows where entire sides of animals are whittled down to roasts, chops and ribs then you can definitely digest this entry without feeling queasy.

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The night of the badger funeral. I've now conducted roadkill funerals (which involves everything from altar creation to ritual butchery) in the bathroom, kitchen, backroom and directly on my roadkill altar outside beneath The Shango Tree. This was the first time I used the bathroom, and it would've been fucking perfect - a toilet, sink, and bathtub only a stretch away, not to mention the ability just to wipe laminated floors and tiled walls clean in an instant - if the room wasn't so goddamn small.

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Bee (sometimes known as Beh) was one of our pet rats who had an overwhelming compulsion to dig up the fucking carpet. ("BEE! FOR FUCK'S SAKE! STOP TEARING UP THE MOTHERFUCKING CARPET!") When she passed on we chose a badger toy to represent her, a sort've magical effigy, or spirit doll. Within fucking months I discovered that someone - or something - was repeatedly digging up my goddamn outside altar and tossing heavy shit like Stone Cock aside. And then we caught that thing red-fucking-handed; a badger, on our tiny little subdivision property, digging up the fucking yard. ("BEE! FOR FUCK'S SAKE! STOP TEARING UP THE MOTHERFUCKING GARDEN!")

Not every pet rat became a woodland toy animal, and not every roadkill animal has a correlating rat spirit living in a stuffed toy. Bee's a little special in that way, and that unique connection was hard to overlook. So instead of invoking Chippy - who normally helps me with ritually processing wildlife - I called on our Busy Bee to act as a psychopomp for our March 7th pair. It must've been an exhausting fucking job, because the stuffed badger actually looked wrung-the-fucked-out after the ritual and she kept falling over without anyone knocking into her. After an offering of fresh water and a peanut butter'n'pumpkin seed sandwich Bee looked less ragged and finally stopped tipping over without provocation.

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This was the first badger we found on March 7th, the female. She was in worse shape than her possible mate (we found the other badger, the male, within eyesight the female), and was much larger, dustier and more battered (she had been hit multiple times).

She had exaggerated teats and extensive mammary tissue, which lead me to believe that there was probably a den of orphaned pups that had been left behind. (Whenever I pick up a female that was obviously lactating I always make an extra offering of rich cream to her offspring, because I know that their food source - their mother - won't be returning home to nurse them.) Her absence will ultimately result in their death, and that's something I always try to keep in mind when working with my roadkill animals: death doesn't just take the hit animal, sometimes it takes its mate and/or children as well.

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This was the second badger we found on March 7th, the male. Rigor mortis hadn't set in, so when I lifted his skank ass - and, Lord, it was fucking skank (three potent and intense "M" words: male, mating season, musk) - he rolled into my arms like a cuddly teddy bear, all soft limbs and bristly, pliable fur. He was visibly smaller than the female, and weighed less which meant I carried the motherfucker around the house like my baby for as long as I could. (Or, uh, bear. I mean, even the fucking MUSCLE of the male badger naturally stunk to high heaven, and not because he was so old he was "off".)

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Badger feet, they get me every fucking time. (Aren't they fucking adorable?) Whenever I see them I immediately think of Flower, from Bambi. (Although we don't have Flowers here, or raccoons, or possums, or even chipmunks. We're also very, very lucky to live in an area where wildlife diseases don't run rampant, so, for me, the risk of running into something is very low. Rabies, for instance? Practically non-existent here.) When I skin most roadkill I leave everything intact, so along with the face, head, tail and external reproductive features I also leave things like the paws attached so the animal's entire body is present in the flayed skin.

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...if you have a better fucking suggestion of how to weigh large roadkill animals I'd like to hear it. Until then, though, I'm sticking with "old plastic trash can sitting on top of the house's communal scales". The female clocked in at 2 stones ("stones" is a legitimate weight system here in the UK, medieval or what?) and since a stone's something like 14lbs that roughly made her about 30lbs. The male weighed around 10lbs less, and didn't seem as at home in the trash can. (I didn't get a picture of it, but when he went in to get weighed his arms stuck up and out of the container and beseechingly stretched to me like a toddler desperate to get out of a playpen.)

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For me, blood's inevitable at some point of flaying large roadkill because I can't bleed the animal before skinning it (I don't want to ruin the pelt, either by staining it or introducing marks, cuts or holes that'd detract from the fur's eventual appearance), and because it has a tendency to pool around the site of massive trauma (i.e., where it got hit) and form pockets on the side bearing the animal's weight (the parts of the body touching the ground). If you work carefully with a crazily sharp object (I use a pair of kitchen scissors and a medical grade scalpel) you'll find that skinning an animal - even one as big as a badger - doesn't necessarily have to be a Bathory bloodbath affair.

(If you look really fucking closely you can see a dark stripe running along the male badger's neck - that's blood. It's still neatly contained because I didn't puncture the artery, which is why working slow and with a seriously sharp instrument is highly recommended when skinning unbled animals. You can literally skate around some of the major blood vessels in the body if you just take your time.)

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Like I said earlier, skinning in the bathroom was almost fucking perfect but there was only one drawback: not enough leg room. I processed the entire male badger in the bathroom, but when it came time to work with the female I set up camp in the backroom. It was far more comfortable - and relaxing, I plugged our MP3 player directly into the turntable's speakers and listened to The Moors while flaying, gutting and cleaning - but the lighting wasn't as great, so the pictures below look darker and less detailed than the ones above.

I tried taking a few pictures of the mostly skinned female badger to give people a sense of anatomy, but flash photography isn't the best way to show off the intricate weaving of nature and evolution. A badger's jaw is hinged in a way that can't be dislocated unless physically broken, so the skull and upper vertebrae get a tremendous amount of support from an insane amount of muscles (which is clearly visible in this picture). The abdominal cavity isn't open, although you can see some of her internal organs just peeking beneath the disrupted mammy tissue towards the back legs and tail (the muscle holding them in split in one or two places along the inner thigh).

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While the female badger's skull looks undamaged, it was actually in fractured pieces. (The only thing holding the skull together was muscle.) The male sustained much less damage, although his jaw was severely dislocated. In this picture you get a good fucking idea of how goddamn robust a badger's neck is; it doesn't taper down gracefully, and the thick, muscular layers extend straight from the skull to the shoulders.

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The flayed pelt of the female badger. What you see is the entire animal: her fur, feet, ears, whiskers, nipples, asshole - everything. I haven't yet taught myself how to tan hides and furs (that's one of my 2011 goals), but when it's time to preserve her I'll be working with her complete skin. In fact, out of respect to the animal I won't be "grooming" my furs for symmetrical appearance, but that's just my personal feelings as the caretaker of my animals.

(In addition to selling the bones and feathery remains of my roadkill animals I'll also be selling their preserved pelts, although the decision to pop in lower jaws or groom furs will entirely be up to the animal's caretaker. Any pieces trimmed away would be kept - either by myself or the caretaker - to ensure that all of the animal's preserved remains were properly honored.)

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One of the female badger's beautiful little paws, studded with five super long nails that once ripped through the earth to find food and create homes.

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Meat is fucking meat, and we're carnivores, so I don't expect anyone to be blown away by the fact that we eat roadkill (provided that the animal's safe for human consumption). There are certain animals that we won't eat for spiritual or legal reasons, but everything else is fair game. And to be completely honest? If given a choice between hunted food and roadkill food I'd always prefer the roadkill option. (I've eaten hunted game and had to spit out fucking shots; there ain't no bullets to accidentally break your fucking teeth on when eating a roadkill animal.)

People might not believe it, but eating roadkill has drastically changed our diets and personal beliefs of how an animal - one destined to be eaten - should live and die. We've always been concerned about animal welfare, but I've always felt - at least until recently - that two people couldn't really make that much of an impact on industrial farming.

I'm now entering my second year of scavenging and we no longer eat full-priced meat from battery operations (we only purchase the reduced-to-clear shit that's on the verge of being thrown out - our feelings are that letting the animal go to waste by being dumped in a landfill would be the bigger crime), we've drastically reduced our intake of pork and beef, we've instigated vegetarian-only days (which is really fucking hard when you're a flesh-eating troll like me) and drastically raised our intake of local, welfare-assured meat and indigenous game (not just roadkill).

Even though I'm not responsible for the roadkill animal's death, I feel like I make peace by using the dead body. And that's what this picture's all about: communion.

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In these last four pictures you'll see how I reduced the female badger's body down to bone and meat. She isn't 100% complete; her body was so badly damaged I had no choice but to take off her lower legs and bury them with her internal organs. To the right of her partial carcass is a section of her spine, one of her arms (she sustained serious injury to her head, one of her shoulders, her back and one of her hips) and a sheet of fat I managed to rescue off her otherwise inedible lower third.

If you're a meat eater (and, most importantly, a cook), you might be able to pick out familiar cuts in the image above. The most obvious are the ribs which flank the spine on either side, and the two fleshy medallions of meat hugging part of the vertebrae are the tenderloins. Tenderloin is also known as "fillet steak" (here in the UK), or "filet" (French); it's the most tender - and most expensive - cut of meat you can get. Filet mignon comes from tenderloin, so, essentially you're staring at what was eventually removed and made into badger filet mignon.

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Before I could extract those two prized strips of tenderloin I had to remove the excess fat hiding the meat, which is a prize within itself. Pure animal fat is gold in a motherfucking jar to a witch and cook, so I take my adipose harvesting really fucking seriously. Once I have enough reserves from a certain type of animal I gently warm the solid lumps until they've melted, and then strain the liquid fat clean into glass jars which are kept in the fridge. One of my goals is to be able to offer rendered fat from roadkill animals to the witchcraft community through my store-to-be, but first I have to find a supplier of tiny jam jars to see if the idea's even viable.

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By this point I've removed the fat, extracted the tenderloins and removed most of the edible meat from the bones. Because I wasn't sure how to separate the ribs cleanly from the spine (we're totally having BBQ badger ribs) I left the spinal column intact for later butchery.

Her fractured head sits in the middle of the photo, and to her right are her practically meatless bones which will be cleaned for divinatory purposes (I'll be digging up her leg bones once the flesh has rotted off). The two bowls crowning the towel hold fat for rendering and meat for eating, and the clear bowl at the bottom of the towel holds the small, inedible portions which was offered to fellow scavengers. (Picking up roadkill means taking a prospective meal away from carrion eaters, so I like to right the balance by sharing remains with them.)

The ritualized funeral'n'butchery process is hella involved, but it allows me to make most of the unfortunate deaths I come across and, as you can see, nothing - not even a scrap of membrane - gets wasted.

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...and here's most of the female badgered butchered, cleaned, portioned and vacuum sealed. Her head and bones were kept together for cleaning, her fat gathered up into one neat pile for rendering and her spinal column and neck were left whole for future BBQing. The other air-tight plastic envelopes contain meat, and they was separated by cut. (Thin, fleshy flank steaks and thick, chunky casserole bites.)

For the curious, I haven't had badger yet, but I can tell you that it smells like any other red meat. I wouldn't describe the scent as "gamey", but I did detect a faint lamb-like aroma when my mouth began watering. (And, holy fuck, it watered. It watered often.) I'm keeping the tenderloin pieces for something special (badger stroganoff, anyone?), so our first foray into roadkill badger eating will probably be shish kebabs using the chunkier grade of meat flavored with a Mediterranean-style marinade.

Badger Butchery

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Badger meat is gorgeous, with sheets of creamy, dimpled fat and the most subtle - but not gamy - wild lamb scent. March 7th's male was unsuited for human consumption, but the female was a prime candidate for roadkill butchery so I spent the better part of this afternoon processing her carcass until she was nothing more but meat (to eat), fat (to render) and bone (to clean and use in my personal practices). Everything reduced has a purpose-to-be, and nothing - not even a scrap of membrane - went to waste.

Roadkill Roast

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A special birthday dinner for a friend.

Bride's Brisket

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It's taken nearly 96 fucking hours, but we've finally rejoined the ranks of the living and mostly conscious. (If your partner has a quick toke in a public bathroom before having lunch in town, and they ominously tell you they got an instant bad feeling that they caught something from that bathroom do not: kiss them, let them fuck you in the ass, rub your face into their genitals, share a bong with them or let them cough in your fucking face for two fucking days straight. <- Just trust me on this.)

Today's only priority was hauling ass to the local butcher's to pick up 6 motherfucking pounds of beef so I could begin brining Bride's brisket this evening for the 2nd (Bride's Day). The only problem? No fucking salt to create the preservative marinade. (It's always fucking something, you know?) Now tomorrow's only priority is haul ass to the grocery store to pick up some sea salt and a turkey bag, which means this year's brining experience will be 6 days instead of 7.

But 6 days is still good. In fact, even 5 days is good. If you were thinking about also preparing a brisket all corned beef-style for Bride (my recipe here), you still have another 48 hours to make up your mind and pick up a piece of suitable meat. (Cause, really, all you need is the brisket, kosher salt, black peppercorns, ground allspice, dried thyme and bay leaves to start. You can totally wait to worry about the boiled vegetables until the 1st or 2nd of February.)

Corned Beef Recipe

I have a fuckton of shit to do today, and I won't even make a dent in my TO EFFING DO! list if I dedicate any part of my morning to a proper journal entry.

(Sorry, but there's a rotting crow to attend to (I try and burn it incense every other day when spending some quality time with it), a whole flayed pheasant hanging in the garage that needs to be turned outside in, the body of a roadkill pheasant that I need to casserole, a Christmas tree that still needs disassembling, a trillion (approximately) projects, charms, gifts and feather'n'bone decorated packages to take pictures of and one sick husband to fuss over even though the motherfucker fucked me in the fucking ass one day before displaying symptoms of a cold* and now I'M coughing, wheezing and flailing about with a temperature.)

(* What the fuck does that have to do with anal sex? Your body absorbs shit more quickly through your bowels, hence the use of suppositories. As someone who's engaged in anal sex for more than a decade of her life, I can assure you that I do end up catching a cold off Italics more quickly if he deposits his load in my ass. <- Am I candid, or what?)

Uh, anyway...

I know it might SEEM like I'm trying to force-feed my "if you're celebrating a fucking season, then, for fuck's sake, celebrate it with things that are actually associated with the effing season!" agenda down the internet's throat, but honestly? Even before I took it as my divine duty to scold a specific group of people for not legitimately engaging in the sound bites they parade around I had planned to share the corned beef recipe I use just in case anyone else wanted to brine Bride a brisket.

(I highly recommend it. Seriously. I know it might sound involved, but all you really do is rub some spices into a piece of meat and then, for a week, turn the hunk'o'beef once a day. How simple is that? Crazy fucking simple. Especially since all you do at the end of the week is boil the fuck out of the brisket and then cook your vegetables in the same liquid. It's a one-pot, in season dinner wonder.)

My head's starting to get a bit cold-fuzzy, so I'm going to end with this one last thing: if you can afford it, please, please pick up a piece of organic, free-range, cruelty-free beef. If you can score some from a local farmer or butcher (make sure to ask him/her where their meat's coming from, what the farmer's practices are and what conditions the animal was slaughtered in - you won't offend the butcher by asking, in fact, I've found that they react positively when a customer shows interest and concern for the welfare of the animals they consume), that's even better. Yeah, it's the more expensive option (think of it as a sort of sacrifice; a financial sacrifice!), but it's the most humane, earth-lovin' one.

Spring Menu, 2011

Here's the exciting follow-up to yesterday's heretical journal entry: our annual Bride's Day-Candlemas-Imbolc menu. Before anyone else has another knee-jerk reaction let me just say - no, I'm not trying to subtly* influence and manipulate people into eating what I think is right ("...AND HERE'S THE MOTHERFUCKING FOOD YOU SHOULD BE FUCKING EATING, RETARDS"). What I AM trying to do, though, is give an example of how I'm attempting to eat seasonally when observing a season-based festival or sabbat.

* It's a scientific fact that I'm completely incapable of being subtle.

Four things are always taken into account when creating a menu that's eaten on a holy day that celebrates a turn of the agricultural year: what my ancestors were eating at that time of year, what Italics' ancestors were eating at that time of year, what the land we live on provides at that time of year and any non-traditional food or dish that has a personal - or significant - value to us as a household at that time of year.

(There's potentially five things you can take into account, but because I don't subscribe to any sort of religion I don't have a culture to fall back on. If you don't feel connected to your ancestors or the land you're living on, you always have the option of looking into what the people of your religion ate at that time of the year.)

I'm Ukrainian, with a splash of nomadic plains Indian (Hunkpapa, Lakhota). Italics is, more or less, Scottish (there's Irish and French in there somewhere, but in small amounts). We both live in his homeland, Scotland, so we observe Imbolc - Spring - at the very start of February due to being in the northern hemisphere. Because Bride's Day-Candlemas-Imbolc is so very fucking British Isles I give the Ukie shit a rest for once (but only because Easter is totally Slavtastic) and focus on what the land actually provides during this time of the year, and what it's provided for countless effing generations.

Wheat, barely and oats are the three "grains" I associate with Scotland, and traditional Scottish cookery. But because Italics suffers from coeliac/celiac disease we don't eat wheat or gluten, so we focus on oats instead. (Oats, by the way, are a-okay for celiacs as long as they're prepared and packaged in a wheat/gluten-free environment.) I still bake bread for Bride, but I also bake a loaf that both Italics and I can break in communion together.

At this time of year in Scotland the only fresh vegetables are winter vegetables, and those are primarily greens and chthonic, root-based plants. I know that might sound limiting, but it's not. Think bulbs, vegetables that are at their best once frostbitten, anything that stores happily throughout the cold months and the very new, very tender hardy shoots that are already appearing outside: apples, beets, cabbage, cauliflower, celeriac, chicory, fennel, garlic, horseradish, kale, onions, parsnips, pears, potatoes, rocket, shallots, sprouts, squash, swede (known as rutabaga in the USofA), turnips and wild plants'n'herbs.

The heavily pregnant ewes begin dribbling milk around this time, so a huge focus on Imbolc's meal - at least to me - is the return of milk and dairy products to the diet. (That gets celebrated in dessert, when I make a homemade batch of crème brûlée using organic, full-fat cream.) Because we're carnivores flesh comes in the form of preserved meat (I personally brine a brisket for Bride), but if corned beef wasn't set in stone - which it is - we would probably eat game (pheasant, grouse, duck, partridge, rabbit, venison) because that was what was available during this time of the year.

(PS: I'm only not mentioning fish/seafood as suitable options because I fucking LOATHE fish, and because - like I said above - we always eat homemade corned beef when celebrating Bride's Day. <- Once something gets recognized as an annual tradition it's hard to be cavalier about mixing shit up, ESPECIALLY when you're autistic. I mean, fuck, you've seen Rainman, right? Brined brisket for Bride on Bride's Day is totally Judge Wapner, People's Court at 4 fucking PM in this motherfucking house.)

Taking everything I said into account, this is the meal we eat to celebrate the return of Spring using what's actually available and in season during that time:

* Corned Beef; Did Scottish crofters eat corned beef for Imbolc? Probably not. We eat it because I like the idea of eating "preserved" meat at a time when, traditionally, the pantry and cold room began looking scarily lean. (And, also, because I really fucking love corned beef and unlike the motherfucking United States you can't walk into any grocery store here and pick up a bag of pre-brined shit.)

Beef is also sacred to the Bride, and I like the fact that there's a ritual element infused in the act of brining: creating the herbal mix that'll help preserve the meat as it sits, physically rubbing the mix into the flesh and spending the rest of the week turning the hunk'o'cattle daily. In a bizarre way it sort've feels like you're praying/giving thanks on a daily fucking basis, which brings a satisfying closure when it comes time to boil and eat the corned beef you spent up to seven days preparing.

* Corned Beef Vegetables; Part of the corned beef experience is boiling your winter vegetables in the leftover stock. Normally I add locally grown cabbage, potatoes, carrots and turnips, but, really, you can add whatever the fuck you like as long as the vegetables aren't delicate or fragile. (Carrots and potaotes and turnips are all "hard" clunky vegetables that need some time to soften, and those sorts of vegetables are usually the best for retaining their shape and texture when cooked.)

* Dill Potatoes; Whoops, I take back what I said about the lack of Ukieism during Imbolc. For me, no corned beef meal is complete without a pan of dill potatoes. My version's a little more complicated than my mother's because I tend to add fresh bay, a touch of white wine, butter and bacon lardons. Although this year there may be a distinct lack of bacon since we've made a concious decision to drastically reduce the amount of pork we eat. (We love and respect pigs so goddamn much that we can barely bring ourselves to eat even the super free-range pork that comes from farmers who actually care about the welfare and mental state of their animals.)

* Skirlie; Oats fried in fat until toasted. You can use roughly ground meal straight from the bag, but both Italics and I perfer the type you make out of oatcakes. (Like a cracker but, you guessed it, made out of oats.) I normally use animal fat (goose, lamb or beef) to crispen the broken down cakes (the meal absorbs the grease), and then stir in a knob of proper butter through the mix since the dairy lends a slight creaminess to the fat.

* Swede; Swede - known as "rutabaga" in the States, I think - is a winter root vegetable. It's a lot like turnip, but unlike their white counterparts (swedes are typically a golden orange) they're pleasantly sweet, tasting a bit like carrot-y mashed potatoes once boiled. I consider them part of the holy trinity of old timey, peasant Scottish cooking because any large, traditional meal is often served with some sort of oat dish, potatoes and swede.

* Oatmeal Soda Bread; No old skool attempt at a traditional Scottish meal is complete without some sort of bannock. Last year's oatmeal-based gluten-free bread was just a touch too sweet to eat with dinner (it was perfect for an Imbolc breakfast, though), so this year I'm going to have to plant my ass down and sniff out a new, more savory recipe before the big day.

* Bride's Braid Bread; Bread baking for a ritual meal is an entry within itself, so I'll save the topic for another day and just emphatically state that the act is probably one of the most important aspects of preparing a spiritually significant meal (at least to me). Every year I bake two braided loaves of bread for Bride celebrating the grains that kept our ancestors alive during the long, cold winters: wheat, corn and oats. (The basic dough is divided into thirds, and then to each third something different is added - wholewheat, cornmeal and oatmeal. That way each is represented in the loaf when you braid the separate doughs together.)

* Frangelico Crème Brûlée; Milk, and all things creamy, thick and white (ahem) 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: crème brûlée. (Do I know how to celebrate lactation, or what?) I use Frangelico (a hazelnut liqueur) because Italics loves the stuff, but to make the dessert more Celtic-Irish-Scottish you can always use Baileys Irish Cream, Drambuie or your favorite whisky instead.

I fucking DREAD having to write "AND IN CONCLUSION..." closings to cinch shit together in a neatly presented package (in fact, I've been avoiding it all fucking day long), so you'll have to excuse any last paragraph awkwardness. The inability to smoothly finalize a series of thoughts and examples aside, I sincerely hope that I've managed to at least shine some fucking light on the idea of eating seasonally when observing a season-based festival or sabbat.

I know it might SEEM trivial, but our actions on those days - 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 those celebrations, then you really aren't connecting with what the festivities were/are all about. "Living with the earth" and "living with the seasons" isn't just a fucking bumper sticker you slap on your paganmobile, it's a way of living, and if you're toting that fucking badge you better be doing shit to back up those words otherwise your actions are nothing but a fucking meaningless theatrical production.

"Living with the Earth"

Internet, we need to talk. I saw something last night that appalled-confused-disgusted-infuriated me and there's no fucking way I can move on with my life - or any other journal entry topic - until I've finally addressed the bug up my ass.

I know it's somewhat hypocritical of me to cast any sort of judgment on pagans doing their pagan thing (mostly because I don't actually consider myself pagan despite my practices), but when you're a pagan recommending motherfucking Cocoa-Peanut Butter-Banana Smoothies as a suitable Imbolc course for your ritual feast to other pagans it's my goddamn duty to step in and call a time-fucking-out.

Sorry, but I totally fail to see how Cocoa Puffs, peanut butter and chocolate milk relate to Imbolc. (Maybe I'm not as gastronomically sophisticated as I thought?) I spent a whole night thinking and dissecting and ruminating over the non-existent connection between the ingredients and the holy day (non-fat yogurt and chocolate milk aren't proper dairy, so don't even think about arguing those points with me), and the only real conclusion I came to is that the pagan community would really fucking benefit from more people spending entire fucking nights thinking, dissecting and ruminating over connections between ingredients and holy days.

What gets me the most is the undeniable lack of thought that goes into observing seasonally specific festivals/sabbats. If you're celebrating a holy day, you're celebrating a fucking concept, and that shit should be influencing your activities. Even if you're doing nothing else but having a nice fucking meal on the day, the food should at least reflect and embody the core of the observance.

I get rabid as fuck about this shit because I loathe watching pagans parade around their motherfucking GUYS, I'M TOTALLY ~LIVING WITH THE EARTH~ superiority while simultaneously ignoring the campaign they're enthusiastically promoting. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but if you're eating a fucking Cocoa Puff smoothie for Imbolc you aren't living with the motherfucking earth. I mean, Christ, you aren't even making a fucking attempt to eat seasonally for one fucking day.

Look, I know people know what Imbolc is all about, so I'm not going to bore you to fucking death with wombs and lactating teats. But what people don't seem to know is how to incorporate the idea of the festival/sabbat into the food being prepared to mark and observe winter's almost end and the very beginning of the agricultural year. (I'll give you a hint: peanut butter and sugary children's breakfast cereals aren't it.)

For a second just ignore what your grocery store has stocked and really fucking think about what was available around Imbolc in the past. I mean, serious past. One hundred, five hundred and a thousand years ago. What did the land you're living on provide the indigenous people? What did the land your ancestors lived on provide them?

It's the very start of February in the northern hemisphere, winter's been at your throat since late October and your peasant ass isn't comfortably walled up in a aristocratic tower eating roasts studded with buckets of imported spice - what the fuck are YOU eating on Bride's Day-Candlemas-Imbolc? What you grew, what you harvested, preserved and dried. You're eating what's available, and by February rations are starting to look sort've meek since there isn't anything fresh yet to add to the fucking pot.

I'm not saying that to be a good pagan you need to make soup out of frozen earth, rocks and weeds, but for fuck's sake - at least ATTEMPT to make some sort of connection to the food you're eating, and try using seasonal fucking ingredients as the backbone of your dishes. Part of living with the earth is making the most of what your land provides at that time, if you aren't actually living in that moment then why the fuck bother observing the celebrations that do?

Boiled Motherfucking Swede

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Last year's menu is this year's menu, although I think I'm going to add BOILED SWEDE to the familiar mix. (In this damn house what festival/celebration/holiday ISN'T observed by eating boiled motherfucking swede?)

Scotland Sunset

Another Scotland sunset...

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2010's Harvest Meals

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January 14's roadkill pheasant find (and what a fucking find!) reminded my ass that I never got around to writing a formal entry about our special Harvest meals of 2010. (Food, if it already isn't obvious, is my favorite sort've daily magic.)

The majority of my fall-winter/winter-spring celebrations and holy days have a menu set in stone. (We'll always have Brunswick stew and bread on Halloween, either gumbo or a glazed ham for Fet Ghede, turkey on Thanksgiving, Ukrainian shit on Sviata Vechera, goose for Christmas and homebrined corn beef for Bride's Day.) It's the complete fucking opposite for spring-summer holidays, though, and our Harvest meals - neither summer or winter - fall somewhere between those two opposing camps.

I can't permanently chisel a course into my yearly menu because I never know what the land's going to offer throughout the warm months leading up to Harvest. Our celebratory autumn meals focus on what we've grown, gathered, foraged, picked and butchered, so it's very much dependent on my relationship with the local land that year. (The more time I spend outdoors working in the wild, the more opportunities I get to find mushrooms, berries, fruit, roadkill and edible plants'n'herbs.)

2010 was a bumper fucking Harvest thanks to finally having a car. Up until last year nothing was accessible to me; everything was just one or two or three miles away too far to walk. (The trio of standing stones I recently mentioned? A five to seven minute drive from the house, but to pilgrimage to that shit on foot? Nearly two fucking hours.) Last year I finally had the ability to really get to know the land I'm living on, and it seemed to reciprocate my excitement by ensuring I never came home with an empty basket.

In fact, on Harvest Moon (which fell on the autumnal equinox last year) I actually found one of our meals: a roadkill pheasant hen. After performing a funeral, and ritually butchering the wild bird I plastered homegrown bay leaves to the breasts, wrapped the carcass with strips of fatty pancetta and roasted her over Scottish grown root vegetables (it's very important to me to use as many local ingredients as possible).

Once she was cooked I added the contents of the roasting pan into my soup pot and made stock from the pheasant and vegetables, and once THAT was cooked I strained the stock, shredded every bit of meat, cleaned off the bones (a gift for a friend) and offered the remains - the vegetables, with some token pieces of meat - to the wildlife that visits our back garden. (If I take a meal from my scavenger brethren I make sure I compensate them somehow, which is why we have foxes and a variety of corvids reeking havoc in the back fucking yard.)

We made a risotto out of her lovingly prepared body (along with homegrown garlic, homegrown herbs and wild mushrooms - porcini, the queen of feral fungi! - we had picked and dried ourselves), and it was the best goddamn risotto we've ever fucking eaten. (Seriously. We're STILL talking about it several months later.) My in-laws wouldn't touch it, though, so a small portion ended up rotting in the fridge because neither of them had the balls to tell me that they were apprehensive about eating "wild food" even though they watched both Italics and I enjoy the meal without so much as a burp of fucking indigestion.

Our second major Harvest meal involved another roadkill pheasant, although Mr. Two Cocks was actually a January find. Because he was so beautifully large (and fatty since he was killed during winter) my hoarding instinct kicked in and I ended up stashing him in the freezer for "something special". I sat on his vacuum sealed pheasant ass for 8 to 9 fucking months before I finally decided that I was giving the Universe the wrong fucking signal.

(Surely the best way to get MORE of what you want is by actually using and appreciating what you were given, right? So far, so good. Since deciding to use him back in fall we've stumbled across 10+ roadkill pheasants, 3 of which were fit for human consumption (4, actually, but I lost one due to being sick, so I buried his body in my little roadkill cemetery to retrieve his bones at a later date). While I'm planning on freezing one of the two currently hanging in the garage, the other one is destined for an imminent casserole grave.)

So, during the peak of the Harvest season I finally defrosted Mr. Two Cocks, and both Italics and I paused for a minute to give thanks for all we were blessed with before making a meal out of herbs from my container garden, garlic that I grew in the dirt yard, wild mushrooms picked by Italics and I, locally grown, organic vegetables and one roadkill pheasant we found on a windy fucking day in late January. (I have a horrible fucking stoner memory, but one thing I don't fucking forget? Where I pick up my roadkill animals.)

It was a dinner so fucking perfect - so fucking delicious; everything tasted ~MAGIC~ and all of the flavors (from the sweetness of the swede to the nutty crunchiness of the skirlie) melted together perfectly - that I actually began crying while eating, and I had to take a minute to compose my damn ass in order to continue. (It wasn't just me! Italics said, without any emotional blackmail or manipulative prodding, that it was one of the best effing meals he had eaten in a long time.)

Maybe I'm just being sentimental (because I love this land, Italics and our endless adventures), but it was a gratifying experience to be able to sit down to a meal that I found, I cleaned and I prepared. Sure, the lemons and balsamic vinegar weren't local, but what really counted - the backbone of each dish - I discovered myself. That dinner happened because I dug my fingers deep into the earth to pull out bulbs and mushrooms, because I stopped my car to lift the dead body of an animal off asphalt, because I allowed myself to be covered in dirt, blood, feathers and death. As a being who lives on consuming, it was the most profound, most personal experience of communion I ever had the honor of participating in.

Pictured above: red wine-braised roadkill pheasant casserole with porcini, herbs and balsamic vinegar, porcini & white wine gluten-free bread stuffing, boiled swede topped with toasted gluten-free breadcrumbs, skirlie; a traditional Scottish dish of broken oatcakes fried in fat, and lemon & rosemary roast potatoes.

Pheasants of Love

What? You didn't know Kate Bush's Hounds of Love album and ritual butchery go hand in hand? Well, you do now.

Jan. 14th Pheasant

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While there are definite roadkill seasons (we're currently rocking the game season which is primarily pheasant in this area), it doesn't always mean I'm going to come home with an animal. One thing I have noticed, though, is after a long period of absence I'm often gifted with something on the first or second day of returning to my regular roadkill rounds.

(In summer our shifting nocturnal habits don't influence going out in any way because we only experience 3-4 hours of darkness, but in winter - when it's only light for something like 5-6 hours a day - my ability to go out is nearly non-existent if we're up at night, and we can be up at night for sometimes a month, or a month and a half.)

As morbid as it might sound, I view the offerings of roadkill as a welcome back gift. I think sometimes my longing to be back in my element is so palpable that the land reciprocates the lonely pining, and when I announce OH, HEY, NATURE, I'M ~BACK~! it makes sure I'm not psyching it out by enticing me to stay.

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Usually on my first outing I find something; it wasn't any different on January 13th. After not having done any sort of roadkill sweep or state of the kingdom drive since late October I was desperate to get out and refamiliarize myself with all of my favorite haunts, all of my favorite spots that I've never physically visited, but've lovingly appreciated every fucking time I drove past.

At the end of our epic drive (I still need to post the other pictures, but I did manage to post one a few days ago) we stumbled across the remains of a young deer. Its head was crushed (no skull to retrieve), and its abdomen had apparently exploded on impact. There wasn't much of a mess because a scavenger had obviously come along and eaten their fill, but what I couldn't understand was why the carcass hadn't been dragged away.

And then, when trying to remove the body from the side of the road, I finally understood why: the fawn was frozen to the ground. I mean, frozen fucking solid to fucking asphalt. I'm a strong motherfucking woman - Italics says I'm an obvious Slavic power lifter - but I couldn't budge the fucking thing. With mixed emotions all I could do was rest a hand on the dead deer's body and apologize for what was done, and for what I couldn't do.

(I very rarely delve into the darker, more emotional aspects of being a steward of the land, but there's this crazy, rabid need to "make things right". Someone came along and killed something I love, something that brings me joy and inspires a sense of maternal protection (which, in itself is an amazing feat since that sort've response isn't something autistic people are known for) and I'm the one who has to pick up the fucking pieces.)

(I pick up the equivalent of wild pets, and sometimes - when I'm sobbing and cradling a broken fox to my car - I hate with a vengeance. (My first roadkill animal ever was my black dog, who I found at the side of a crossroad intersection on the day of my senior high school exams.) I'm responsible for a kingdom and everything that resides in it, but I'm powerless when it comes to protecting the inhabitants from people who are speeding to get home five minutes earlier than usual.)

(I try and ease the ache by working with the animals, but not every roadkill animal I discover I can bring home (too decomposed to safely handle and transport in the back of the car), or even move off the road (not enough left to be able to physically remove any real remnants). While I feel like I'm making a difference, it's still an emotionally draining job that has serious drawbacks like having to euthanize an animal yourself because it was road-broken-beyond-repair rather than roadkill.)

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So, on the 13th we came back empty handed, without really coming back empty handed. (There was a gift, I just didn't have a magic fucking ice pick to free the body from its roadside prison.) On the 14th, though, we didn't. Less than a quarter of a mile from the frozen deer - just meters from where I found #5 (the broken antler crossroads buck) last year - was the most glorious fucking pheasant cock I've ever fucking seen.

I WISH I had a picture at how fucking ridiculous his body looked lying on a grass mound; it was as if someone dropped something garishly colored out of a grocery bag on the most predominant spot in the landscape. And because he was fresh - so fresh, in fact, that he was still hot to the touch - he looked more like a narcoleptic pheasant than a roadkill animal. I won't lie; I totally banged a fist off the fucking steering wheel and shouted the most enthusiastic THANK FUCKING YOU! into the air.

(Fine, I admit it. I do love watching pheasants doing their wild bird thing in the fields, but, to me, there's a difference between a pheasant and a fox. I see game birds as free-range food living as it should, and knowing that their hit'n'run deaths are pretty fucking instantaneous compared to larger animals makes their passing a little easier to swallow. (Ahem.) That doesn't mean I respect them any less than any other living creature, it just means their death serves a different purpose for me: food and, ultimately, survival.)

I've been so fucking busy I haven't had a chance to ritually butcher him and prepare the remains for my casserole pot. Today's the day I'm finally going to have to bite the effing bullet and MAKE some goddamn time because we found a second pheasant yesterday (a female; no pictures of her yet, though) and I seriously need to attend to the pair before they get too gamey for my tastes.

In fact, instead of going on about what I need to fucking do, I should really be getting started to do what I need to fucking do...

Today, We Didn't

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Yesterday we came home empty-handed. Today, we didn’t.

Sviata Vechera, 2010

It's Christmas Eve tonight in Ukraine, which means I have blood relations sitting communally around a kolach-decorated table celebrating Sviata Vechera only a time zone away. (If you've been following Graveyard Dirt since early December you already know that we celebrated Holy Supper on Winter Solstice's evening.) And even though I SHOULD be in the motherfucking kitchen getting a new batch of pyrohy ready (we decided to informally observe today's Julian calendar date as well) I thought I'd take a few minutes to share the pictures I took of the ritualized evening.

I'd be lying like a fucking dog if I didn't admit that this was my most ambitious Holy Supper to date. A huge part of the pressure I experienced came from intimately sharing the custom with folks who read this journal; I shared, I educated and in doing so I provoked some major enthusiasm which ultimately meant I had to fucking deliver, and I had to fucking deliver spectacularly because I knew people would be watching.

Our Winter Solstice celebrations began with a total lunar eclipse, and as the rest of Scotland was rising for the day ahead both Italics and I were getting ready for bed. (We've spent a significant amount of November and December in nocturnal mode.) We waited until the full moon's luminous, rounded body was swallowed by shadow, and then in that morning's night we crawled into bed and solstice spooned ourselves to sleep. (And in doing so we actually missed ALL of the 21's light; we went to bed in darkness, and we woke up in darkness. <- Longest night or what?)

Before we could even contemplate celebrating anything the entire house had to be cleaned, the kitchen table had to be set, the hay had to be scattered, the ancestors' setting needed fine tuning, the animals needed to be fed, the house had to be fumigated with frankincense, we had to ritually bathe, Light needed to be brought into the house and our ancestors had to be formally invited for the ancient Midwinter feast. And until we welcomed that single flame indoors we kept the house as dark as possible - no Christmas lights were turned on, and only the most fucking crucial lamps were switched on (to their dimmest settings).

In an apron, gold earrings and crowned with traditional Slavic braids I carefully followed Italics' slow and even pace as he lead us through the pitch black house - room by room, starting with the backroom's open patio door and finishing at the same spot - holding a solitary candle, the tiny, burning flame our only illumination as we welcomed Light back into the house with incense and fire as the Russian Orthodox Church's Christmas mass service played eerily in the darkened background. (Inviting our collective ancestors, relatives and friends was a little less solemn and involved carols, ringing bells and blowing through a cow horn.)

Sviata Vechera officially began with a toast of homemade plum liqueur (since Italics can't eat wheat I performed the kutia ceremony privately with my Ukrainian ancestors), and it was when our solstice-chilled drinks clinked together (I decanted some of our homemade hooch into a fancy pants container and partially buried it in the snow on the 20th) I knew we had created something really fucking special together. Holy Supper 2010 was a tre-fucking-mendous success, and I've never felt more in tune with my past, present and future. It was the sort've experience that seconds, thirds, fourths and fifths the motion that you're doing the right fucking thing, even if you're essentially making up shit as you go along.

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The Sviata Vechera altar on my kitchen window ledge seems a little naked because it should've had some evergreen filling up the empty spaces. We were hit with two fucking monumental blizzards in early and mid-December, so the insane amount of effing snow kept us from being able to clip fresh foliage to bring indoors for Midwinter decoration. (We did eventually manage to bring greenery into the house, but that wasn't until New Year's Eve when I built a 2010 altar on top of the threadbare Sviata Vechera altar.)

The long, tapered golden candle in the middle of the ledge was the one that Italics carefully carried throughout the house to bring Light back indoors. It doubled as an invitational beacon for the Wandering Traveler (both living and dead, mortal and divine) to show that we practice(d) the old ways, and that anyone without a home or meal that night was welcome to join us for food, warmth and companionship. (I'm amazingly bad for feeding strays. Even the unsavory sort that isn't welcomed into this house still get a plate and lit candle placed outside on the patio step. <- Sometimes all it takes is a single act of kindness, y'know?)

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It's customary to feed the dead on Sviata Vechera, whether you fix a plate/setting specifically for them or leave the Holy Supper table dressed with all of the traditional courses all night long. We do both in this house, but the ancestor setting is a semi-permanent set-up in the lounge (where the Christmas tree is, where our stockings are hung and where our Winter altar is located) and our invited guests are continuously feed throughout the Yuletide season, not just on Holy Supper.

I use Ukrainian linens to create the table setting, some which I inherited from my mother when she passed on, some which I created and some which I scored off of Ebay for crazy cheap prices. The seed pot featured in this photo is actually Native American in origin, but it has special value because my mother, a professional potter, created it. (We're Ukrainian AND Native American; my Mom went the Indian route and I ended up embracing my Eastern European roots.) When the place isn't set with a plate of food her handmade pot sits in the center of the ancestral altar acting like a bridge between the world I live in and the world she - and the rest of my family - resides in.

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Sviata Vechera is dictated by the evening sky, the meal isn't allowed to start until the first star of the night - representing the bright light that guided the three wise men to Bethlehem - has been spotted. (That's usually the job of the kids; I still remember rushing into my grandparents' house in southeast Wisconsin to announce the arrival of the star.)

Back in the old days you didn't just sit around and wait for the star, though. There were a lot of agricultural rites and rituals that needed to be exercised before your ass settled down at the dinner table. For starters, you had to ensure that all of your animals were generously fed (I've even read that it was customary to mix in everything you ate that evening in the animals' feed), and the table holding the festive spread had to be decorated a certain way.

Holy Supper's table is meant to be decked out with your finest. A hand embroidered cloth with traditional designs is set down, the ritual bread - the kolach - is placed in the center on fresh-cut evergreen and the braided loaf is meant to be flanked by a pair of candles.

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You're supposed to scatter hay beneath the table to remind everyone of the humble setting of Christ's birth, but I like to think of the hay as an offering to all of the animals we've eaten or consumed the products of throughout the year to ensure we never forget how crucial their presence is to not only our life, but the lives of our ancestors.

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Sviata Vechera usually consists of twelve dishes spread out through four courses: kutia, borsht with pickled condiments and bread, the main dishes and then dessert - and they're always eaten in that order. It's considered very bad form not to have a token amount of everything, but because Italics has coeliac disease he's got super special permission not to take part in the annual kutia (which is a glorified cereal made out of whole wheat kernels) ceremony. Which, you know, is sort've fitting since wheat, for me, is a representation of the divine male; it's my job to grow it, nurture it, harvest it and then keep the sacred seeds safe until it's time to plant again.

The serious shit happens right at the start with the first course, where blessings, prayers and ritual divination takes place using the kutia. After the semi-solemn ceremony the head of the house booms "Khrystos Rodyvsya!" (Christ is born!) and all of the peons (heh) joyously respond with "Slavim Yoho!" (Let us glorify Him!). It's at that moment when everyone finally relaxes and begins enjoying the long evening ahead of them.

This year's Sviata Vechera menu followed the traditional Ukrainian Holy Supper formula - 12 dishes (18, in total, this year (it was supposed to be 19 but I couldn't get my hands on any pickled herring), and 15 of those had to be made from scratch) spread through 4 courses, but it also paid homage to Italics' ancestors and the last course (dessert, aka "the only course that REALLY counts") reflected our addition to the annual feast.

(A proper dessert was never really presented to the family after dinner, and it always seemed a little anticlimactic. On our first Christmas "alone" (the in-laws take off for two weeks to Spain so the 21st, 24th, 25th, 31st and 1st are very quiet, intimate affairs between Italics and I) we baked ourselves a chocolate-chestnut Yule Log, and we've made one every year since.)

Pictured above: kolach (ritual bread centerpiece), kutia (wheat-based cereal), borsht (beet soup), bread (gluten-free and sauerkraut'n'rye), dill pickles, pickled mushrooms, holubtsi (stuffed cabbage leaves), kapusta (sauerkraut), kartoplyanyky (potato pancakes), mashed potatoes, mushroom sauce, pyrohy (pierogies), skirlie (toasted oats), swede and a homegrown garlic bulb (my grandfather fucking LOVED raw garlic). For more in-depth information about any of the food be sure to read my Sviata Vechera Menu, 2010 journal entry which breaks down the menu dish by dish.

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We toasted longer days and the return of the sun with a homemade liqueur made from our backyard plums. I decanted a small amount from our maturing reserves into a decorative glass container and buried it outside in the snow where Stone Cock once proudly stood. It sat outside for the duration of the full moon and total lunar eclipse, and by the time it was brought indoors for Holy Supper it was deliciously winter-chilled.

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Ignore Wuzza, she just wants attention. (Trust me on this one.)

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Our Winter altar (which I still need to take proper pictures of). We traditionally exchange a gift on Midwinter, so those've been tucked near the altar's black rabbits. My mother's seed pot was carefully relocated on top of our new church hassocks ("KNEEL TO PRAY") since the ancestor setting had begun steadily filling with offerings of food and drink.

One aspect of Sviata Vechera I haven't had the time to explain is the ceremonial procession of the didukhy (decorated wheat bundle) indoors for the festive season. The didukhy is the last bundle of wheat to be cut during harvest, and the solemn ritual is executed gravely. The bundle represents our ancestors, whom we invite into our homes for the Yuletide season.

Much like my Ukrainian ancestors I also perform a reaping ritual during Harvest, although my personal rendition is slightly more pagan than the already unsubtle pagan practice. After marrying and nurturing the King throughout spring and summer I sacrifice him in fall for the better good, mourn his death and safekeep his divine seed until spring when I resurrect and remarry him which heralds a new agricultural year.

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Because I view our Christmas tree as one of the major Midwinter altars we have a custom of placing all of our spirit dolls - or dolls at least representing spirits/companions/helpers we work and live with - beneath the tree amongst our presents and non-perishable food bought especially for the Yuletide season.

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To formally invite our ancestors over for Sviata Vechera we threw open the backroom's patio door and made an inconsiderate amount of noise (we weren't ready to celebrate until near midnight) to provide a noisy path to the house.

We both took turns on a cow horn fitted with a silver mouthpiece (which makes the most exquisitely bizarre sound since it doesn't have the length to make the trumpeting bellow deep and grand), and I played a beloved Ukrainian carol that would've been recognized by both Christian and pagan ancestors while enthusiastically ringing a bell. (The infamous Christmas classic "Carol of the Bells" is actually based on an ancient pre-Christian Ukrainian chant.)

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...and one fantastically blurred picture of 2010's edible Yule Log just before we cut into our annual chocolate and chestnut tradition, marking the end of another Eastern Orthodox-themed evening of witchcraft and the celebration of Light, family and ancient customs that've never died.

Farewell Sendoff

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A monu-fucking-mental year deserves a farewell sendoff in style: homemade vodka* created earlier this year with locally foraged wild berries and backyard-grown fruits, a dab (or two) of my fly agaric oil that's been infusing since Halloween, a bag of imported pot with a hallucinatory slant and sweaty, friction burn sex on a sheepskin rug that Italics once lay on as a baby.

Pictured Above: plum liqueur, wild blackberry brandy, wild blackberry vodka, gooseberry & cinnamon vodka, wild raspberry vodka and strawberry & geranium vodka.

Kolach, 2010

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2010's Sviata Vechera kolach, post-baking. Even though Italics can't consume gluten - or any wheat product, for that matter - he still spent the evening helping me knead, shape and glaze our annual ancestor bread. In fact, he actually braided the long loaf above, and free-styled a design with the other large portion of dough.

(I was less creative and produced a miniature pair of soup bowl-sized loaves, which were both partially gutted so I could fit a small tealight in each one. <- You'll see this shit in action once I post pictures of this year's Holy Supper.)

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If I told you that Italics' very favorite part of the divine female was Her ass, would you be surprised? (No, I didn't think so either.) Whenever we have bakeable dough leftover (as opposed to boiling dough, or frying dough) he always uses the very last to fashion a shapely derriere which is then cooked and left as an offering.

(He's a smart guy - he glorifies, venerates and worships the ass by giving it sugar ladened gifts, and by doing so - and doing so often - he ensures it doesn't have a chance to get any fucking smaller. <- Ladies and gentlemen of the internet, I give you the curse my shoulders - and, uh, ass cheeks - must bear: the motherfucking rear of a goddess.)

I totally kicked myself for not taking a picture of his goddess loaf; he braided the other portion of dough, but then drew the ends inwards to create a bottom heavy, heart-shaped ass. Because it was plaited it gave the rising bread a hardcore Celtic knot vibe. Unfortunately, the intricate tucks and folds that lent the kolach its woven appearance disappeared when the bread rose during baking, and what you see above is what we pulled out of the oven.

Russian Tea Cakes

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Up until our family began unraveling at the seams the days leading up to Christmas' imminent arrival were filled with joy, excitement and a motherfucking boatload of homemade cookies. My mother - God bless her crazy effing soul - would indulge the entire household with several days of marathon baking that resulted in catering trays full of baked goods that lasted us throughout the festive season.

But that wasn't the best part of her binge baking. The BEST part of the annual avalanche of holiday cookies was that NO ONE WAS JUDGMENTAL ABOUT HOW MANY COOKIES YOU ATE. (Any other month in the year? Good fucking luck palming several sugar cookies before fucking breakfast.) In December we ate with abandon, and nothing signaled the rapidly closing date of Christmas like a mound of powdered sugar-encrusted Russian Tea Cakes.

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My mother's personal recipe calls them "Mexican Wedding Cookies", but the only real difference between the two are the choice of nuts. (The Mexican version calls for toasted pecans, while the Russian version calls for toasted walnuts.) In fact, I've ditched using my mother's recipe since everything's in hardcore American measurements and that's a clumsy ass way - not to mention overly fucking messy - to cook. (Sorry, guys, but my anal Aries nature finds something soothingly perfectionist in using grams or ounces.)

Don't let the powdery crust of icing sugar fool you - these are hella easy to make. In fact, this is a terrific recipe to test drive if you're somewhat apprehensive (or inexperienced) when it comes to baking cookies. The ingredients blend together without any real effort (I never need an electric mixer, just a wooden spoon), the raw cookie isn't sticky (bonus points, especially since you'll be rolling these motherfuckers into balls by hand) and the dough is happy to sit in the fridge overnight (just be sure to wrap it up in cling film/plastic wrap so it doesn't dry out).

Now if you'll excuse me, there's over a dozen Russian Tea Cakes sitting in the fucking kitchen just waiting to be today's breakfast...

#27

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From December's Golden Ticket:

In this house, Christmas Eve is the new Palm Sunday. (The only fucking thing in the world whose imminent arrival was more heralded and rejoiced? Jesus, sashaying into Jerusalem on an ass.) I wait with frankincense and expletive-tinged hosannas at home as Italics lumbers back from the butcher's, on foot, carrying our Yuletide dinner like a personified deity.

Italics said he could smell the burning frankincense all the way down the street. (Which is nice of him to say, since I deliberately opened the window to help draw out the scent to "welcome" him home.)

Kolach, 2008

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The kolach is lit for Sviata Vechera (Holy Supper) acting like an invitational beacon for our ancestors, relatives and deceased friends to join us in holiday festivities (and food). (<- THE FOOD IS THE MOST IMPORTANT, NATURALLY).

In 2008 I embellished the kolach (the braided bread centerpiece*) with evergreen from outside, holly (cut from the disturbed children's home and orphanage), chocolate truffles, apples, pears, limes, and lemons. Throughout the Yuletide season I burn candles in the bread, and at the beginning of the New Year we take the candy, fruit, and bread to the graveyard to leave as offerings.

* Typically the kolach is made of three circular, braided loaves of bread stacked on top of one another. Because I'm difficult and HARD TO LIVE WITH I left mine straight and represented the holy trinity by three candles.

Sviata Vechera Menu, 2010

Right. So. Sviata Vechera; a topic you're an expert on now. (If you have absolutely no fucking clue what I'm talking about you'll need to dip back a day and read the previous journal entry, Sviata Vechera (Holy Supper).)

Since yesterday's Ukrainian-themed adventure laid the foundations of Holy Supper's what and why, I can move onto this year's menu (fresh off the press!), break it the fuck down and explain what the courses are, why they're on the effing menu and what significance they have. (Although you may be sorely disappointed to find out that "swede" isn't a magical powerhouse eaten to commune with the dead - it's just a Scottish winter root vegetable that goes well with mashed potatoes and skirlie.)

For the most part the descriptions below will be suspiciously brief, but only because I plan on dedicating entire entries to certain courses. (Oh, I have buckets - Flickr buckets! - full of pictures, stories, recipes and tricks of the trade you should know if you feel brave enough to follow in my footsteps.) Right now I just want to get everyone acquainted with the CRAZY UKRAINIAN NAMES you'll be encountering throughout the Yuletide season, so when I come on-line to bitch about ethnic cooking on Tumblr or Twitter you just might understand what I'm damning to ancestral hell.

If you really follow Graveyard Dirt you'll know that my Midwinter archnemesis is the fucking Christmas tree. (Don't tell it I said that, though, because I seriously don't want a strand of fucking lights blowing out on the fucking thing two motherfucking days before Christmas...like LAST year. Instead of throwing a tantrum - which is my totally suave reaction to things - I actually sat down, poured homemade vodka shots and got drunk. <- See how adult I can be about things if I don't let my anal Aries autism get in the way?)

But runner-up to that prestigious, insanity-inducing title? Festive Ukrainian cookery. Actually, I take that back. Holding second place to the damn tree is trying to get a billion gifts out into the postal service and to my international friends BEFORE the 25th. (Which is EXACTLY why this year I've decided to not even bother. With an exception of my godchildren and their parents everyone's getting their Christmas-Midwinter-Yule gift from me AFTER the New effing Year.) Third place, then, undoubtedly goes to holiday cooking of the ethnic kind.

There are two major problems with traditional Ukrainian food (or any traditional food from the culture of your ancestors):

1.) Because it's so specialist you don't often find full courses available at your local grocery store (and if you do, the quality's probably gag-inducingly below par - I've been forced to eat Mrs. T's pierogies and I'd rather not relive the trauma, thanks), so the majority of the shit you find yourself craving needs to be made from scratch.

2.) The food's so goddamn good it fucking defies reason to the point you find yourself in the kitchen at three in the fucking morning blanching three heads of cabbage in an orange bucket that you normally use to wash blood and dirt out of flayed roadkill pelts. (It's a MAGIC fucking bucket, okay?)

And the shit you didn't like as a kid? Suddenly becomes a culinary mind fuck to your adult taste buds and you find yourself going "HOW COULD'VE I POSSIBLY NOT LOVED THE FUCK OUT OF THIS WHEN I WAS EIGHT?!" while eating mouthfuls of bacon-flavored sauerkraut straight out of the damn pan. (<- True story! I personally wasn't so hot on kutia, holubsti and kapusta when I was younger, but now I occasionally make those dishes EVEN WHEN IT ISN'T CHRISTMAS. My grandparents? Would be SO proud.)

This year's Sviata Vechera menu follows the traditional Ukrainian Holy Supper formula - 12 dishes (19, in total, this year, and 15 of those still need to be made) spread through 4 courses, but it also pays homage to Italics' ancestors and the last course (dessert, aka "the only course that REALLY counts") reflects our addition to the annual feast. (<- A proper dessert was never really presented to the family after dinner, and it always seemed a little anticlimactic. On our first Christmas "alone" (the in-laws take off for two weeks to Spain so the 21st, 24th, 25th, 31st and 1st are very quiet, intimate affairs between Italics and I) we baked ourselves a chocolate-chestnut Yule Log, and we've made one every year since.)

* Kolach (Ancestral Offering Course): The Kolach is a celebratory ritual bread baked for very special occasions. Typically it's braided, and then the ends are joined to form a circle. This is the decorated loaf of bread that becomes the centerpiece of the Holy Supper table. The kolach is my personal offering to my ancestors, so I often build an altar around it and, after the festive season ends, I offer the whole loaf to visiting wildlife. This is a course that I'll definitely be writing an expanded entry on, so you can look forward to an in-depth explanation to the significance behind it.

* Kutia (1st Course): Kutia is probably the most "pagan" of all Sviata Vechera dishes. It's an ancient, ancient dish made up of soft, whole wheat kernels (you soak them overnight and then boil them until al dente; just like beans), poppy seeds, nuts (walnuts, usually), honey and cream. It's eaten cold, but leftovers are amazing warmed up in the microwave for breakfast. This is another course that I'll be returning to in fuller detail.

* Borsht (2nd Course): Borsht is the infamous beet soup of Eastern Europe; the blood of the Slavs! Traditionally you're meant to eat the vegan version for Sviata Vechera, but I didn't grow up with that practice. My borsht - THE BEST EFFING BORSHT, THANK YOU - take three fucking days to make, but it's totally worth the effort. I'll be writing about this soup again, so you can look forward to the recipe and some accompanying pictures, but it doesn't have any real significance like the kolach or kutia.

* Bread (2nd Course): Ukraine's known as "THE BREADBASKET OF EUROPE", so it goes without saying that we Ukies know bread. I mean, really fucking know bread. (Fuck, bread is made from the broken, dead body of God. Wheat and my ancestors are inseparable, which is why it plays such an important role in my spiritual duties, practices and beliefs.) The kolach is ceremonially made for the dead, so I normally bake something that the living can eat. This year I've decided to make a batch of sauerkraut & rye bread (I think it'll go crazy-awesome with the borsht), and Italics will be looking forward to a pack of store bought gluten-free rolls. (<- I haven't yet mastered yeast-based gluten-free bread, but it's on my TO EFFING DO! list.)

* Dill Pickles (2nd Course): Ukies have a tremendous hard on for preserving shit. Pickling is one of the very favorite ways to store savory foods, so you'll often find a basement - one that usually reeks of sour cabbage - brimmed with filled mason jars. My ass isn't educated in the fine art of pickling - but I'm totally, for really real going to work on that in 2011 thanks to my sugar mommy and her Amazon wishlist generosity - so I'll end up nabbing a jar from the grocery store. (At least I can count on Tesco carrying dill pickles, pickled herring and jars of sauerkraut!)

* Pickled Herring (2nd Course): Sviata Vechera is meant to be a predominately vegan feast, but fish - and only fish - is allowed. This is, uh, kind've awkward for me to admit because I know I have a lot riding on this cooking thing I do, and I'm known for being somewhat fearless when it comes to tasting and experiencing something new (for fuck's sake, we eat fucking roadkill in this house!), but...I really, really, really hate fish. Like, seriously hate it. I can't stand the smell, or the taste. Insanely fresh stuff isn't offensive, but unless the fish is considered "meaty" (monkfish, for example) I can't abide the taste, which is sort've crazy since I actually enjoy a lot of seafood (squid, for example, was one of the first things I ever ate). Typically a Holy Supper spread will have MANY dishes comprising of fish, and to keep up with tradition - and because, GAG, my grandparents were really into it - I usually buy a jar of pickled herring as my token "fish dish".

* Pickled Mushrooms (2nd Course): Mushroom hunting is a national fucking sport in Ukraine, and it's been that way for thousands of years. When I was a kid I really effing hated eating mushrooms (don't ask; I have no idea why), but the Ukie was so strong in me I felt the drive at a very early age to go out with my grandmother to hunt down the elusive Slippery Jack. Other than drying, pickling is the other favorite way to preserve foraging treasures. This'll be the first year I attempt to pickle any mushrooms (it's a quick recipe that only requires something like 24 or 48 hours of sitting) with the hope that next year Italics and I can pickle locally harvested wild mushrooms.

* Holubtsi (3rd Course): Holubtsi are little cabbage parcels stuffed with a filling (typically a mixture of rice, ground beef, ground pork, bacon and spices) and then baked in a thin tomato sauce. Back in the olden days the vegan filling would've been different sort've grains and spices, but now adays most people serve meat-filled holubsti for Holy Supper. While this dish doesn't have huge, sacred significance to the meal, it's a Ukie staple so you can look forward to me bitching about how long it takes for motherfucking cabbage leaves to become pliable enough to wrap.

* Kapusta (3rd Course): Sviata Vechera is not fucking Sviata Vechera unless the entire house smells like fermented cabbage and smoked ham hocks. Kapusta is, basically, sauerkraut, but other flavors are added to make it fuller and richer. Normally bacon, a ham hock, shredded carrots, onions and sometimes sliced mushrooms are thrown in. Leftovers of the mixture can be used to stuff savory doughnuts (pampushky), or fill pyrohy.

* Kartoplyanyky (3rd Course): Kartoplyanyky are potato pancakes. They aren't a traditional dish normally associated with Holy Supper, but Italics really, really likes them, they go well with everything else and they provide a perfect excuse to eat an insane amount of sour cream.

* Mashed Potatoes (3rd Course): The most traditional of all Sviata Vechera dishes: leftover pyrohy filling! A lot of hardcore Ukie food requires the creation of a meat, rice or vegetable filling, but because you never know how much you're going to need you always end up making way too fucking much and then you find yourself stuck with a stupid amount leftover. To ensure nothing goes to waste the filling is then either served as an independent dish (mashed potatoes) or used as a stuffing for something else (kapusta).

* Mushroom Sauce (3rd Course): What can I say? We Ukrainians really fucking dig mushrooms. Some sort of mushroom sauce or gravy is traditionally served at Holy Supper; it does have a special name, but I don't know what it is. (Probably because it'd be based on what sort've mushroom's being used. It was only this year that I learned that the word I always assumed meant "mushroom" actually was the word for a very specific type of mushroom, the bolete.) This Sviata Vechera we'll be making a sauce out of fresh mushrooms, our dried mushrooms, fresh dill and sour cream.

* Pyrohy (3rd Course): If there is any Ukrainian dish you know, it'll probably be this one. These mashed potato filled "dumplings" are known as pyrohy and varenyky, but to the rest of the world they're known by their Polish name: pierogies. They're sort've like ravioli in the sense that you cut out a pasta shape (in this case, circular), fling in a filling, pinch the parcel shut and then boil it until cooked. Normally after boiling, you sautée them in a frying pan with butter and onions (the fat helps them from sticking to one another). If I had to choose one traditional Ukie dish to eat for the rest of my fucking life, it'd be this. I do plan on dedicating a much larger entry to the creation of these tasty motherfuckers, but this'll be the first year I attempt making them gluten-free, so don't be surprised if I sound all demoralized if it doesn't work out.

* Skirlie (3rd Course): Skirlie (fried oats) is probably my favorite traditional Scottish dish. Which, okay, probably sounds sort've weird but it's amazingly gorgeous, and goes mind-blowingly well with swede and mashed potatoes. I cheat by crushing up a pack of gluten-free oatcakes (instead of making my own), but I make up for it by toasting the baked oats in a skillet with butter and fat (usually goose).

* Swede (3rd Course): Swede - known as "rutabaga" in the States, I think - is a winter root vegetable. It's a lot like turnip, but unlike their white counterparts (swedes are typically a golden orange) they're pleasantly sweet, tasting a bit like carrot-y mashed potatoes once boiled. I consider them part of the holy trinity of old timey, peasant Scottish cooking because any large, traditional meal is often served with some sort of oat dish, potatoes and swede.

* Chocolate Yule Log (4th Course): Like I mentioned previously, we like to end our Holy Supper on a special note, so our modern, personal touch on the ancient feast always involves a homemade Yule Log. I've been using the same recipe for years - a gluten-free chocolate sponge cake roulade filled (and frosted) with a Frangelico-spiked chestnut whip cream. Here's a picture of last year's Log half-dressed: ta dah!

* Better than Jizz Sauce (4th Course): In this house I'll find ANY excuse to make Better than Jizz Sauce. (Why BtJS? Because it doesn't really have a name, cools down to the consistency of semen and, as the title would suggest, is slightly more tasty than your average load of spunk.) It's basically a sweet champagne and cream sauce that pairs beautifully with anything (especially a clean spoon and your mouth at one o'clock in the fucking morning). I normally make a giant batch for Sviata Vechera's edible Yule Log so there's enough leftover to dunk cookies in, or smother Christmas morning's homemade crepes with.

* Egg Nog (4th Course): Egg fucking Nog is so prevalent in American culture that you can buy it EVERYWHERE during the fucking Yuletide season. But here in Scotland? They don't even know what the fuck it is. So to sate any Midwinter cravings we experience (because even Italics is sort've sweet on the festive drink) I make a jug the night before Holy Supper so it's perfectly chilled for Sviata Vechera. Most years I make a rich chocolate version, but this year I think I might keep things all White Christmas. Our "adult" additions to egg nog usually includes Frangelico (a hazelnut liqueur), Hennessy (cognac) and this year it'll feature the homemade coffee/vanilla bean-flavored rum liquor I made for Papa on Fet Ghede. (Remember? Sharpie voodoo?)

Goose-Deer

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Part of making the most out of the animals we consume involves making stock out of "inedible" parts*. I normally leave the roasted carcass in tact and then carefully pick through it the day after to remove as much of the meat as possible while breaking it down into smaller pieces to throw into the soup pot. (<- It probably sounds like a pain in the goddamn ass, but once you know what the fuck you're doing I find that I enter a pleasantly calm mediative state - a frame of mind that my autistic brain doesn't often allow me to naturally enter (without the help of pot, anyway).)

Because repetitive, absent-minded work often pulls me into a trance-like consciousness I often find that I "see" things a lot more clearly while involved in seemingly mundane culinary work. Sometimes physically, from the corner of my eyes (you'd THINK they'd be more interested in me showering, or slathering on body oil to seduce Italics, but you'd be wrong - they love to watch me in the kitchen), but I mostly experience profound realizations that seem, once understood, painfully fucking obvious (so I always end up simultaneously rolling my eyes (at myself) while crying).

(I know it sounds weird, but crying - ecstatic crying; that overwhelming sensation of epiphanous joy that can only be expressed by a burst of tears - is sort've like my personal magic meter. I know that I'm onto something special when my initial reaction to it is so fucking powerful that all I can do is weep in response.)

* Bones, mostly, but the skin, fat and organs I don't eat - which, admittedly, is not a lot because I'm part Slavic troll so my first pickings are always the pieces nutritionists and dietitians warn you about eating - are added to enrich the flavor.

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Last year, when peeling off layers of flesh from our Yuletide goose, I saw something emerge beneath my fat-slicked hands. "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, DO YOU SEE IT? DO YOU SEE IT?" Italics, not expecting the greasy carcass of a roasted bird to be non-negotiable shoved in his face, jumped back when I thrust the mortal remains of our Christmas goose into his vision.

"IT'S A DEER...OBVIOUSLY," I informed him before he could guess. I THINK he agreed with me, but then that's the game played in this house - just go the fuck along with whatever I'm doing and PRETEND that it makes sense. (It all makes sense. Eventually. It's just easier to see this shit when your brain's broken and is constantly powered by THC.) I mean, it does sort've abstractly look deer-like, right? ...RIGHT?

Normally I hang the roasted / picked over / boiled frame of our goose on the Shango Tree as an offering to the Old Woman, but when I saw one of Her deer push through meat, fat and bones I knew that being bleached clean by nature wasn't in its future. So instead of being "impaled" on a winter-bare plum branch it was salted down to preserve the appearance (as much as possible, anyway), and it's sat in the garage since - along with my crow feet, a mummified shrew and various pinned wings and tail feathers - waiting for that one cooking session when I suddenly realize what the fuck I should do with it (even though that shit should've been painfully fucking obvious before the golden, epiphanous tears).

December's Golden Ticket

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In late November I send Italics away to the local butcher's - regardless of weather - and he walks down to the former mason's lodge on my behalf; sometimes returning with a pound of smoked bacon, or a glorious piece of fillet steak, but always returning with December's golden ticket: our reservation for the largest Yuletide goose the butcher can provide.

Goose is synonymous with "Christmas" in my family; it's all I've ever known*. As far as I'm aware, it's not a traditional food eaten by Ukrainians during the festive season, so I think my mother must've introduced the practice when she assumed control of Christmas Day dinner.

(In a lot of European countries Christmas Eve is a much bigger deal than Christmas Day, so huge attention was paid to Sviata Vechera (Holy Supper) which is eaten on the night of the 24th. But because it's so damn ethnic you can't pick up the courses and side dishes at any grocery store. Everything - down to the pickled fucking mushrooms - had to be prepared at home, in advance.)

(My grandmother, being the matriarch of the family, was responsible for Holy Supper, and then my mother would step in on the 25th to give her a break from cooking by presenting the family with a traditional roast goose meal. And now that my mother and grandmother have passed on, both jobs haven fallen to me, which, admittedly, isn't as stressful as you'd think since I'm only cooking for Italics, myself and our ancestors.)

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The geese I grew up eating came home vacuum sealed and frozen as fuck from the nearest available grocery store. The geese Italics and I eat are free-range, organic birds who were born, raised and butchered humanely by small, independent farms whose top priority is the happiness and welfare of their animals. The birds are carefully hung to allow the flavor of the meat to develop, and when it comes time for Italics to bring our goose home (Christmas Eve) it's fresh - not imprisoned in an air-locked bag - and has the majority of its offal and fat.

I'm not going to lie: it's an expensive fucking tradition (hell, it's fucking expensive enough just picking up one of those sealed motherfuckers from the grocery store!), but it's tradition, and Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without a goose on the table (along with roast potatoes, homemade black pepper and candied ginger plum sauce, sweet'n'sour red cabbage and bread dumplings).

* Well, sort've - I had the V. good fortune of sampling my father-in-law's signature lunch for the 25th: roast turkey (still raw) and sausage stuffing (no comment). Italics and I were both 17 and I was spending my first holiday away from home with him and his family. Needless to say, that particular Christmas was the first - and last - time either of us ate anything OTHER than goose. (<- I didn't even have to campaign to convert him; with his very first taste he was hooked. Instantly.)

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Unlike my mother - who simply roasted the bird like a chicken (WTF?) and threw out the fat by pouring it over the dogs' dry food (WTF?, SQUARED) - I wring as many meals as I can out of our beloved Yuletide goose, ensuring nothing gets wasted and the bird is used to its maximum potential. I personally process the bird, render the fat, roast the crown, preserve the legs (to make confit), transform leftovers into secondary meals and create brown stock from roasted bones, skin and other unsavory viscera.

What we can't eat - the bones, basically - is offered to the Old Woman and her beasts of winter, but everything else has a purpose whether it's a bowl of homemade soup, a covetable vat of creamy, white fat (looks like ice cream, doesn't it?) for cooking, or a small, secret stash of pure fat (rendered without seasonings) for "winter activity" use. (Ahem.)

Pictured above: Goose legs and thighs sitting in a brining mixture of bay leaves, thyme, garlic and sea salt flakes. After brining, these legs will be fried to extract the fat, and then poached - completely covered - in goose fat. (Due to the blanket of fat covering the meat entirely it'll remained preserved until we're ready to dig them out, fry them up (again!) and eat them with a mountain of fries from the local chipper.)

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In this house, Christmas Eve is the new Palm Sunday. (The only fucking thing in the world whose imminent arrival was more heralded and rejoiced? Jesus, sashaying into Jerusalem on an ass.) I wait with frankincense and expletive-tinged hosannas at home as Italics lumbers back from the butcher's, on foot, carrying our Yuletide dinner like a personified deity.

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The annual ritual of adoration begins! After executing the V. SRS welcoming rite (aka "MS. DIRTY CRUSHES THE BIRD TO HER CHEST AND RUNS AROUND THE HOUSE SCREAMING LIKE RAINMAN") the honored guest is removed from it's loose swaddling, bathed in frankincense smoke (LOLOL, GOOSE EXORCISM, LOLOL!) and aired until it reaches room temperature.

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One of the lesser known annual rites: comparing the size of the goose to a can of soda. (Tizer, by the way, is one of Scotland's national drinks. I can't stomach Irn-Bru (too bubblegum and flat orange soda for me), but Tizer is one of my weaknesses, along with the occasional Tunnock's Chocolate Caramel Wafer.)

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The Blessed Virgin ain't the only one giving birth on Christmas Eve. (The offal and parts - neck, liver, heart and gizzard - are walled up within the empty internal cavity by huge fistfuls of solid fat, which are pulled out and eventually melted down for projects, pleasure and cooking.)

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The traditional Christmas piñata has been opened, revealing a treasure trove of internal organs, fat, flesh and bone.

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Goose fat is one of the most precious things in my world, so great pain goes into stripping whatever I can off bones, skin and organs. Every scrap is then rendered down - melted gently to remove any impurities - into pure fat, which is then used for cooking, moisturizing and lubricating.

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Last year our goose came with a very special gift: one of its toes, complete with claw. (As you'd expect, the second I discovered the "mistake" I went mental. <- You don't often get such an unusual keepsake from your Christmas Day meal.)

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Speaking of claws and nails, my nails are normally never this long. My mom was a potter, so there was zero attention paid to her nails and that attitude trickled down to me (especially since I also work with my hands). I've never been able to reconcile length and productivity; although, once in a while, I do find myself fantasizing about owning a set of fairy tale talons painted scarlet.

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Last year's Christmas goose, disassembled. (Because goose legs have a tendency to get a bit dry I cut them off - along with the thighs - and confit the fuck out of them.)

The pan of assorted parts are waiting to get roasted (for the brown stock), the goose's crown has been scalded, the toe's been cut off, every shred of fat has been picked over and added to the pile, the apron of skin that covered the lower cavity has been saved (I was going to throw it over a pheasant - because they're quite lean birds and need an external source of fat to keep them moist while cooking - but I ended up melting the skin with wild pheasant fat and duck skin to make "winter fowl fat"), the liver set aside as an offering to Shango Man and Tiger and the massive legs/thighs have been cleanly removed from the body for confit brining.

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Brown stock parts seasoned with sea salt, herb salt, garlic salt and garlic pepper.

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Like any true carnivore I know where it's at: skin, marrow and fat. To ensure a perfect goose I always skewer the crown (the fat, not down into the meat), scald the body with boiling water and then allow the skin to get super dry in a cool place until it's time for roasting.

Summer, Captured

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Fresh bay leaves and chives from my organic container garden infusing in two bottles of organic, extra-virgin olive oil; gifts made for friends, family and loved ones to help celebrate the rebirth of light on solstice night.

Sweet Potato Pie

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This shit? Was supposed to be written up and posted two days ago, but then the accident prone Aries (that's me; Aries sun, Leo ascent and Pisces'n'Mercury moon) stabbed herself in her motherfucking thumb while carving a leg of fucking lamb (I'm willing to admit that my track record with lamb isn't good, I suspect it's divine punishment for cannibalistic betrayal of my sheep brethren), and THEN she decided, since she couldn't type worth an effing damn, to weed out everyone who USED to follow her on Twitter but, for whatever reason, doesn't anymore. When already depressed and moody. With no fucking ability to type worth a goddamn fuck to emote Chicago-born angst.

(It's a strange, emotional mix of amusing and disheartening to find you've been silently designated the leper role in your social internet niche. Last night I removed scores of people who once followed me on Twitter - along with all of my witch friends - but then discreetly unfollowed me. The thing is, they didn't remove anyone else from that little social niche - just me. And when shit like that goes down - because it does, in weird phases that have no distinct patterns or warnings I've yet recognized - I'm always left wondering: "what the fuck am I doing wrong?" which then naturally evolves into "what the fuck am I doing RIGHT?" because, LOL, you can't keep a good, messianic complexed woman down.)

It's just...I felt like I had to SELL it, you know? I had to convince the world that this recipe made the best "pumpkin" pie I've ever fucking eaten. But I couldn't express my admiration, attraction and complete and utter devotion to it with a wounded thumb and ego, so I forlornly shuffled the entry's components into a figurative drawer and forgot about them. (Yes, for a whole 48 hours.) It then occurred to me this morning, between my first cup of tea and a shower, that the pie was so goddamn good the recipe didn't NEED to be sold; you'd just take my word for it. (Is "GUYS, THIS IS THE ONLY PUMPKIN/SWEET POTATO PIE RECIPE I'LL ACKNOWLEDGE THE EXISTENCE OF" recommendation enough?)

This fucking pie? So goddamn good that when I spoon-fed Italics the first piece we didn't move, speak or sit until the shared slice was gone. With the ecstatic memory slowly fading on the palate, I turned to Italics and finally said "THERE ISN'T ANY REASON TO USE A DIFFERENT RECIPE EVER AGAIN". I hope one of you guys end up feeling the same fucking way; make me proud this Thanksgiving.

Harvest Home Pheasant

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A word of warning that's totally unnecessary, but I'm feeling unusually nice today so I'm stamping a disclaimer on this shit just in case someone wakes up screaming in the middle of the night because they couldn't handle what food looks like before it appears shrinkwrapped at their grocery store: this journal entry involves a dead animal; specifically, a roadkill pheasant I found and then ritually butchered for one of our celebratory Harvest meals. This is probably one of the tamest, least gratuitous entries that falls under my Asphalt & Entrails category. There are zero fucking pictures that involve blood and/or gore, so readers with a sensitive nature should be mostly okay with the content within provided they can handle feathers, raw meat and a stainless steel dog bowl full of internal organs (in the non-grossest way possible).

Right. So. Now with that out of the way, allow me to introduce to you my Harvest Home hen. Come to think of it, you guys are already acquainted. Back around the autumnal equinox I posted Funeral for a Pheasant which incorporated a short video clip and an explanation on why the fuck I was posting a video where nothing (seemingly) happened.

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Not every roadkill animal I pick up has the pleasure of being ritually processed in the kitchen (rabbits are a non-negotiable "NO", but I MIGHT be able to wrangle a pensive "WELL...OKAY" for something less bioterrorismtastic), but every roadkill animal that I pick up is given the same treatment regardless of their physical condition, what they are and how they died: a period of getting to know one another (I visit them frequently while they "lay in wake" on an altar, petting, stroking and taking to them so they recognize I'm not a threat), offerings of food and water (usually a sandwich; deer get lettuce sandwiches, badgers get peanut butter'n'honey and foxes get smoked ham on whole wheat - you think I'm joking?), ceremonial cleansing via a smoke bath (frankincense, usually) and then, finally, release (of the spirit) through physical dismemberment.

Pictured on the altar: my favorite kitchen knives (which I ended up not needing since I rely so fucking heavily on my ritual scissors), locally grown pinhead oats (oats in whole form that haven't been flattened into flakes) and water for the pheasant, my ritual scissors (consecrated by my own effing flesh and blood), one of Chippy's outside offering bowls (I needed something to read entrails in, and since Chippy was already involved he suggested using one of his stainless steel dog bowls), a piece of thin roofing slate that came off a ruined building we discovered earlier this year (with a glowing charcoal block on top of it) and, finally, the hen.

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See? No effing gore, just like I promised. (Unless you count the "flesh wound" on Chippy's nose; we learned Choney liked to bite-play thanks to that particular run-in a few years back.) In under an hour I was able to hold the pheasant funeral, butcher the wild bird and reduce it to six usable pieces (entrails, body, feathers, feet, head and seeds) without wasting one part of the animal. I kept the entrails to read (haruspicy!) and the body to roast (dinner!), but everything else - feathers, feet, head and seeds - were set aside for a friend. (I actually need to get on drying the feet and head for her because everything else is ready to go.)

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Her head, which is currently sitting intact - feathers, beak and all - in the freezer until I can get my hands on a bag of fucking cornmeal. Sometimes I pick up roadkill with no visible wounds, but, on most occasions, I find big and little reminders that the animal didn't die a natural death (i.e., broken antlers, crushed skulls, split skin and scuff marks on beaks (above) and feet). I'd be lying if I didn't admit that the smaller, almost unseen injuries always affect me the most.

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Her feet, which were bound with ordinary white string so I could hang her in the garage until I was ready to process her. I've always suspected that I liked my game fresh, but it wasn't until she accidentally hung* for almost a week to confirm my suspicions. The scent was...intense. Not rotting, or sick, or "like farts" (I know it's incredibly childish, but that's really the best fucking way to describe the internal scent I get from the combination of organs - it's like sour/bitter farts); just intensely robust with a sneaking waft of smoke.

* Long short? I caught a fucking cold the day I picked her up. Normally I hang the birds for only 2-3 days, but in this particular case I had no choice but to leave her until I was well enough to handle her properly.

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She looks elegantly swan-like, doesn't she?

Within the glass bowl are grain seeds I removed from her crop, and feathers that fell out during the butchering process. Pheasants initially store food in their crop before digestion (you know that pocket space between the start of the bird's breast? just in front of what remains of the neck? that's where food's deposited and momentarily kept). Depending on how much your bird has (or hasn't) eaten you might have A LOT of fucking seeds to scoop out, or, in this case, not many at all.

I always save the grains - along with any feathers or particles of skin and meat that are too small to cook with - and plant them the following year (seeds, feathers, skin and all) so the grains germinate from the physical remains of the dead bird. (<- Death and rebirth, baby.)

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Her internal organs and entrails that were read in Chippy's bowl. Once I finished the positively fucking medieval dead of haruspicy I offered the contents of the bowl to my crows. To say they "tucked into the leftovers" would be putting it delicately (which, admittedly, isn't usually my style, but I'm kind've sort've eager to get this entry written in entirety in one fucking day because this sort've shit can drag on and fucking on).

They took everything but the stomach - and part of the intestine still attached to it, but for simplicity's sake let's just say "stomach", okay? - and left that delectable blob of dead tissue sitting in the fucking rain on the motherfucking patio for three fucking days. I eventually had to admit defeat and respectfully dispose the unwanted remains via container garden burial. (Thanks, crows, because Christ knows I already don't have enough to do.)

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Her body, which was then plastered with fresh bay leaves, seasoned and snugly wrapped in smoked, fatty pancetta strips. I roasted her over a bed of sweated rooted vegetables and fresh herbs, and then made brown stock out of everything. The stock was strained (and then frozen), the carcass was stripped of all of the meat (and then frozen; the meat, I mean) and then the leftovers - cooked vegetables and pheasant bones - were either left as offerings to visiting wildlife (vegetables) or cleaned off and dried for gifting purposes (bones).

Because she had matured longer than I originally intended I had to trim a few pieces of discolored meat from the body (only because it smelled just too damn strong for my palate), but those pieces were added to the organs and entrails. In fact, I caught one of our magpies happily making off with one of the blue-green tinged pieces of meat, so even if I couldn't get any use out of those small bits it still managed to feed another life.

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One of her wings, prior to being pinned to a piece of cardboard to dry. I clip them ridiculously close to the body - essentially giving up one of my favorite eating parts of a bird; the wing - so if you end up buying a preserved specimen from me you'll be getting the complete deal. I was a total retard and forgot to take pictures of everything pinned down prior to cornmealing (although I do have a set of fixed wings and feathers from another pheasant); I'll try and remember to take a few photos when I finally remove them and dust them off.

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Pheasant's such a lean fucking meat you generally need to cover it with a source of fat to keep it moist as it roasts. Because the skin's going to be hidden beneath a layer of smoked pork fat there's almost no point in retaining the skin (which is blasphemy, I know, because crispy skin and fat is, hands down, my absolute favorite part of eating meat), so when I butcher pheasants I don't really bother plucking - I flay them like any furry creature.

Pictured above is the hen's skin - with all her feather's still attached (except, of course, the pair of wings) - which I peeled off in one piece. I then turned it feather-side down (to expose the inner flesh), pinned the Leatherface atrocity down and covered it in a stupid amount of cornmeal. That way my friend now has all of the pheasant's feathers without the threat of them snowglobing her house upon arrival.

Papa's Fet Ghede Pie

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I totally intended to take one of my hallmark arty photos of our homemade, gluten-free sweet potato pie with some of Papa's Fet Ghede shit, but the (natural) light was fading fast and I had a whole day of cooking waiting for me in the fucking kitchen.

Fet Ghede's Checklist

Things I need to accomplish in the next 48 hours: create a coffee liqueur out of a bottle of rum bought and dedicated to Papa, give the Old Man his Fet Ghede gifts, bake Pan De Muerto (soul cakes this year need to be made for Shakey Bear, Wuzza and the Chooch), visit the local graveyard to make an offering, lay some cards down and create a gluten-free southern-themed meal from scratch (gumbo, crab cakes, hoppin' john, cornbread and sweet potato pie).

Things I've actually done: make a pot of coffee.

Harvest Bites

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Five fucking pounds of wild, Scottish blackberries that were eventually turned into vodka, brandy, syrup, vinegar and a gluten-free, homemade pie. These motherfuckers were so goddamn big that it only took Italics and I an hour of picking - IN THE SAME FUCKING SPOT - to fill half my foraging basket. (I have a feeling that the giant free-range/organic egg does a poor job in belaying the sheer quantity of berries.)

Thanks to "THE WORST WINTER IN 30 YEARS!" everything's late this year. (My patio container garden? Still fragrant with sweet peas, lupins, borage and sunflowers and we're rapidly approaching November.) The blackberries weren't ready this year until AFTER Michaelmas, so to exercise folklore-ish precaution I fought fire with fire.

(The long short? They say Old Scratch claims blackberry ownership by pissing on them after Michaelmas. That might've been the perfect solution when dealing with everyone else, but when a feral, urine-marking witch is involved all bets are off. I called SUPER shotgun by pissing into a spray bottle before gently "misting" the berries with watered-down urine. But I was a good sport and gave the Devil a generous piece of apple, plum and blackberry pie.)

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"In ancient Scottish woodlands no one can hear you scream." (Ridley Scott, I'll be waiting for your call; I've got ideas.)

Someone decapitated this particular porcini and its stalk split into three creating the Alien-like egg.

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This is that monster of a porcini that I mentioned in my previous journal entry (Oct. 2nd, 2010). It was a flag - an older, larger specimen that signals you're in prime mushroom-huntin' grounds - but unlike most flags this particular mushroom was in prime condition.

I noticed the Goliath of a cep growing along a semi-busy country road while castle hopping, but we couldn't stop the first time around due to traffic and road works. On the way home we pulled into a hidden lane et voila, cep heaven. (This wasn't the only one we found; the entire area was COVERED with them. We evidently stumbled across a porcini site no one else knows about.)

This fucker alone weighed 503g (that's a half a fucking kilo, just over an effing pound!) and had practically zero blemishes. I can't remember the super grand weight total - in addition to this large one we managed to find a respectable handful of others (which can be seen in the background) - but suffice to say, it was impressive.

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Every year in September a local castle holds a produce sale over the course of several weekends hocking the fruits and vegetables grown within the castle's walled garden. We've dubbed the event "Castle Pie Day" (Italics buys me apples and plums so I can bake a homemade pie, and in return he gets a piece of - ahem - "pie" beneath a specific tree whose branches are just long enough to keep his pie-eating privately decent) and incorporated the sale into our Harvest festivities.

This year we missed all three dates due to being sick. (Sometimes I think I'm better off getting whacked with the fucking flu. Several days of intense bed lounging and I'm quickly on the mend; the same can't be said of a low-key seasonal cold that annoyingly clings to your ankles for fucking weeks.) Needless to say, I wasn't thrilled. But - BUT! - I still managed to create "Castle Pie" using special ingredients - plums from our backyard, apples from another walled garden sale and the Devil's blackberries.

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Lessons learned, porcini edition #1: if you've going to spend over a fucking hour carefully picking and brushing off debris, for fuck's sake, trim the motherfuckers before you "forget" about them for two days.

In the course of 48 hours the few worms that were in the base of the mushrooms managed to eat their way through all of the stems rendering them useless. If I had circumcised - heh! - the ceps before leaving them for a few days (which I've done before without any problem) the larvae would've never had a chance to work up towards the caps.

Porcini lesson #1 learned.

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Bolete triplets fused together at the stalks, but seamlessly slipping into one another via caps. These guys were past their best, but we picked them anyway to dry out for this year's Yule Log. (We decorate our log with things found throughout the year and that includes mushrooms, berries, foliage and - to the mundane eye - rusty junk.)

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Backyard plums, wild blackberries and apples grown in a walled garden tucked into homemade gluten-free pastry and then liberally covered with a spicy-sweet blanket of brown sugar streusel. I was initially worried about using gluten-free flour - it HATES being overhandled; the more runny your batter/dough is the more likely it'll bake to perfection - but the vegetable fat (I've used all of my "neutral" lard; the only thing left is a sacrosanct jar of lard rendered from a piece of smoked pork fat) rubbed into the mix beautifully and with the addition of xanthan gum everything came together smoothly and softly.

To ensure no one got their slice of "pie" (ahem) before the other I had my first bite while barebacking Italics' cock, masturbating myself with my right hand while holding the ceramic dish up with the left. Some work was required to keep everything balanced ("BITE, MASTURBATE, CHEW, MASTURBATE, BOUNCE, MASTURBATE, SWALLOW, MASTURBATE, BITE..."), but the effort was totally worth the orgasm. (<- I had one of my trademark screaming climaxes, although this time with a mouthful of homemade pie.)

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Agarics and boletes go hand in hand, where you'll find one, you'll always find a variant of the other. (They both share favorite trees: birch, fir and larch.) Once you get an idea of the sort of woodland they like (toadstools don't seem to mind much longer grass and heather, but boletes can sometimes be a bit fussy and like shorter, grassy terrain - especially if moss is involved) it's possible to come home with several baskets worth of fly agarics and bolete-based mushrooms.

Pictured: bay boletes (orange-y stalk and brown caps), birch boletes (large mushrooms), Slippery Jacks (peeled mushrooms; the slimy coating which makes them "slippery" should be peeled back since it causes gastric upset in some people) and itty bitty little larch boletes (I really fell in love with these tiny motherfuckers this year).

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Up until this point of wild mushroom harvesting (I think this was around the autumnal equinox) I had been excruciatingly good about not dipping into my stock for personal use. (My original intent for all of this foraging was to create homemade Christmas gifts for friends - flavored oils, vinegars, booze and jams made with local fruits and herbs from my container garden, and dried wild Scottish mushrooms picked by yours truly.)

When it became increasingly clear that the majority of my friends didn't share my insane love for feral fungi I got, uh, frustrated. ("HOLY SHIT, NOW WHAT THE FUCK AM I GOING TO DO WITH THESE SEVERAL POUNDS OF FUCKING MUSHROOMS?!") Actually, I got militantly frustrated and decided that the entire world needed to be educated about why you don't need to breathe into a paper bag when offered a stash of wild mushrooms (from me, anyway - you know, the girl who is petrified with the very thought of death and would never put herself in a position where that outcome could be a likely possibility).

Even though we're now out of mushroom season - hard frost kills signals the end of foraging, and this landscape's been iced over several times this week - I have folders worth of pictures I'll be posting to help readers familiarize themselves with the bolete family. (<- One of the safest wild mushrooms to pick, even if you're a super novice. And probably one of the easiest families of wild mushrooms to identify.)

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Sugary wild blackberries being funneled into an old wine bottle to make gluten-free blackberry vodka. (<- Smirnoff uses corn instead of grain to make their spirit, so it's one of the only vodkas that's considered "gluten-free".)

Something tells me that my friends won't suffer the same fear of the wild when offered a bottle of this homemade hooch. (Although these berries DID get "gently misted" with diluted urine before being picked. My friends? Damned either way.)

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I spent all of August, September and October picking wild fungi. Day after fucking day I'd return home with the same goddamn mushrooms, and day after fucking day my mother-in-law would ask the same questions ("ARE THEY SAFE? CAN YOU EAT THEM? ARE THEY OKAY?") even though they were THE SAME FUCKING SPECIES SHE SAW ME PICKING EVERY FUCKING DAY.

Did it help that I knew the names of the boletes I was picking? No. Did it help that she heard the same effing names over and over again, revealing that I ONLY PICK WHAT I CAN ONE BILLION PERCENT IDENTIFY? No. Did it help when I explained to her - again and again - that my family and I have eaten these mushrooms all our fucking lives and no one's ever gotten sick or died? No.

Fed up with the constant second guessing - and frustrated with the overly cautious attitude towards wild foods - I finally set aside a handful of fresh woodland mushrooms (bay boletes, birch boletes, larch boletes and Slippery Jacks) for a special meal. (Lamb shanks braised in fresh herbs, wild mushrooms, plum tomatoes and red wine.)

That was about a month ago. Both Italics and I are still living (as is his mother), and no one got sick. In fact, my mother-in-law said it was one of the best goddamn lamb dinners she had ever had. (Not exactly verbatim, but close...sort've.)

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Lessons learned, porcini edition #2: never kiss a motherfucking porcini when a goddamn European's around.

Some Swiss asshole trailed Italics and I when he saw my foraging basket and IMMEDIATELY BEGAN PICKING THE SAME FUCKING MUSHROOMS WHEN HE SAW WHAT WAS GETTING PLACED IN MY EFFING BASKET. Since that fateful afternoon we've visited that particular spot several times, but someone's beaten us every single fucking time only leaving whole chunks of cut porcini bases scattered around the mushroom site.

(Which, by the way, were completely a-okay to eat.)(Apparently, plundering a mushroom site and not leaving anything for anyone else isn't bad enough, some people have to leave evidence of their retardation and inability to share all over the fucking ground.)

Porcini lesson #2 learned.

Giving Thanks

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...for all that grows, for all that lives, for all that gives.

Pictured: a roadkill pheasant I personally butchered and cleaned, organic celery and carrots grown in Scotland, porcini mushrooms Italics and I gathered from local castle grounds, fresh herbs from my container garden and garlic that I grew this year in the front yard.

Harvest Festivities & Rites

itmoons asked: Hello! I've emailed you before and I am a great admirer of what you do. My boyfriend and I have been discussing the old ways and pagan holidays and such things and decided we'd like to celebrate them correctly (we did an informal ritual for mabon). With samhain coming, i was wondering what you did for mabon and what you will do for samhain. also, any sources you can direct me too would be helpful. apologies if these questions are too forward/personal/presumptuous. just two lil pagan boys lookin to give the goddess her due.

Ever since I received this question I've been hella excited by the prospect of answering it, but I've been so knee-fucking-deep in various observances and celebrations (and work - will the mushroom season EVER FUCKING END?) that I haven't had a chance to address it. (I'm actually pushing this question to the top of my list because 1.) it's seasonal and 2.) it provides an explanation as to where my AWOL ass has been for the past few months.)

At this point in my life my Gregorian year is split into halves. In the first half, the Light Year (spring and summer), I'm the virginal Bride who marries the divine king and throughout the growing months we reign together ensuring fertility and new life. The second half, the Dark Year (fall and winter), I'm the great Whore who sacrifices her husband, consort and king (wheat, vine and bull) and harvests his blood, flesh and seed for consumption and resurrection.

(This is a really quick, basic breakdown to give you an idea of where I'm coming from. I've addressed the Virgin/Whore dynamic and perpetual tug-of-war far better in previous diary entries. If you hit up the categories BRIDE and CAILLEACH you'll find more thorough explanations that I'm much happier with.)

Because we live in a mostly rural setting and I work with the idea of female-based sovereignty the majority of my Harvest (from Lammas to Mabon to Samhain to Fet Ghede) is agriculturally themed. Rather than just focusing on our little patch of property I've incorporated this entire area that we live in as my land, and I routinely drag Italics across the local landscape to perform various rites and rituals in the Scottish countryside we see every day out our windows.

The following is a list of activities, rituals, celebrations, observances and traditions that we try and nail every year. Some, it goes without saying, are more important than others, so we prioritize things and keep our schedules flexible for unplanned disasters (i.e., bad weather, catching a cold, family drama) to ensure that the most important shit is executed. (<- Like Italics/the divine king, har har.)

* Reap wheat; Every year I ritually reap wheat from local fields and from containers in my backyard patio garden that I've personally grown. The wheat is then gathered into a bundle and decorated with a blessed cloth embroidered with traditional Ukrainian designs. The venerated bundle - also known as didukh in Ukrainian (pictured here) - represents my ancestors, this land, my sacrificed king, consort, and husband. Throughout the Dark Year the bundle's featured in every major ritual and altar until spring, when I dismantle it and plant the king's seed I've been protecting and holding since Harvest. (See Cereal Mariticide and The Widow is Born.)

* Change the guard; Our companion for the Light Year is Chile Bird, but when it flies the coop for winter it's replaced by Cobweb Spider. Around the time of the equinoxes I remove everything from our office/computer room windowsill altar, wash everything (the objects sitting on the space, the window (inside and out), the frame (inside and out), the ledge (inside and out) and even the hinges, handles, blinds and areas of the wall touching the window), return the permanent altar shit and swap to the appropriate "guard". (See Changing of the Guard.)

* Clean bedroom; Before I drag out our vintage coffin cover to keep our asses warm throughout winter I have to thoroughly clean our bedroom to remove traces of the Bride. I've jokingly referred to the ritualized act as "cleaning up after the Bride" since I have a tendency to leave incomplete projects scattered across any flat surface. But this is serious, crazy magic cleaning that involves blood, sweat, urine and protective washes. (See Cleaning Up After the Bride, Cleaning Day I and Cleaning Day II.)

* Plant garlic; I use a lot of garlic in my cooking and magic work (not that cooking isn't magic), so I've started to grow my own which allows me to add "special" ingredients to the soil for themed bulbs. Garlic's the only thing I plant as the Whore that the Bride harvests.

* Turn down the yard for winter; During the Dark Year my major altars are located within the house, but during the Light Year my major altars are located outside of the house. When it's time to begin moving indoors I "turn down" the yard for winter which involves planting garlic, cutting the grass (for the final time), raking leaves, collecting seeds, emptying pots, straightening up sacred spaces (i.e., the Shango Tree roadkill altar and the patio altar) and covering vulnerable plants from extreme weather.

* Move Stone Cock; At first snowfall Stone Cock (and his black pebble balls) is brought indoors (this year He sat at the base of my peach tree as my patio altar's centerpiece), where he'll stay until the first day of summer. On May Day (Beltane), He'll be paraded out with blessed ribbons (that decorated the "maypole"; nudge, nudge, wink, wink) which will then be hung on branches of fruiting trees.

* Cut the grass; Which, understandably, doesn't sound hella magic, but I then rake up the grass and dry it so I can offer homegrown green (albeit dried green) to local lactating ewes on Bride's Day (Imbolc).

* Harvest from the backyard; I usually choose a single day to complete the majority of my backyard harvesting. Half-naked and high I burn incense on my patio offering pillar as Italics helps me pick plums, cut herbs and gather other backyard food we've managed to grow during the year. Everything is then washed, processed and divided into what we keep, and what we give as tribute. (See 2009 Harvest.)

* Create a Harvest altar; I created a Harvest altar for the very first time last year (pictured here) and it kicked so much fucking ass that I really regretted the fact that I was too busy this year with roadkill, mushrooms and berries to raise it for 2010. Fingers crossed that next year I'll manage my time better to give myself a chance to recreate the place of thanksgiving.

* Create a Halloween altar; The only time I've ever missed constructing a Halloween altar was several years ago when both of us came down with a serious case of influenza that lasted the entire Halloween vacation (and then some). (<- Because we cohabit with my in-laws I'm only able to have a spacious altar four times a year when they're away on holiday: Easter, summer, Halloween and Christmas. Creating altars is a huge fucking deal for me because I normally don't have the ability to dedicate spaces to elaborate setups for any real length of time.) Oops! I just realized I never uploaded any pictures of last year's altar. I have one photo, but the job's only been partially done: 2009 Halloween altar construction.

* Perform the Whore's Black Mass; At some point in our Halloween vacation we celebrate the Whore's Black Mass which involves various intoxicants (pot, MDMA, mushrooms, nitrous and alcohol) and ritualized marathon sex in front of the Halloween altar. When we celebrate Hieros Gamos (the sacred marriage), the drugs'n'sex rite is a ceremony of union, which I've always found to be gentle, loving and tender. Black Mass, though, is all about out-of-your-fucking-head screwing for the pure sake of pleasure. (Reproduction be fucking damned, let's see how far you can force your fist into my cunt!)

* Observe Fet Ghede; My Harvest ends with Papa's feast, Fet Ghede, which I celebrate on November 1st and 2nd. We bake Pan de Muerto for the occasion, using the dough to fashion offering cakes to those who've died since last Fet Ghede. (We then take the bread to the local graveyard and leave it on a cairn.) I also whip up a special meal specifically geared for Papa. Sometimes it's homemade gumbo, sometimes it's baked ham, but there's always cornbread, rum and Hoppin' John. (Not to mention pot, cigars and sexy lingerie.)(See Fet Ghede, 2008.)

* Pay tribute; It's important for me to give back what I've taken or have been given throughout the Light Year as the Bride. It's a thank you, a tribute and a celebration of everything I've done and achieved. With baskets and bags I take a fraction of the roadkill I've found, food I've grown (and gathered) and bread I've ritually baked to the nearest standing stone and leave my tribute at the base to give back to the land that's fed me, and to show my gratitude for all that I've been given. (See Harvest Home Offering.)

* Steal potatoes; The local farmers don't know it, but they pay tribute to me. When the wheat turns gold I reap from their fields, and when the potato plants shrivel up I unearth potatoes. It's a teeny, tiny price to pay to have a witch personally looking after your crops (and the land they're growing on), especially when all of the agricultural land here is either grain or potato. "Stealing potatoes" is more of a LOLOLOL tradition, though, and nothing more than a bit of fun to fluff up our celebratory Harvest meals.

* Bake Castle Pie; One of the local castles has an annual sale of produce grown within its walled gardens. Every year we go to buy plums and apples, walk the castle grounds, visit the bees still hard at work, have sex beneath the same tree and return home to bake Castle Pie together. (The yearly event must be magic because Italics isn't really into fruit, but I often find him picking at the pie when no one's looking.)

* Visit the apple and pear sale; Once a year, on one day only, a pay-to-enter heritage site holds an apple and pear sale selling fruit grown within its gardens. This is the one chance to get a hold of really old varieties I've never heard before ("cat's head" and "bloody ploughman" come to mind). We normally buy three bags of fruit and then take a long walk along a path that circles and winds around old stone walls, farming fields, hedges and beech woodlands (usually pausing to pick blackberries because, holy shit, dude, you would not believe the size of the motherfuckers that grow there).

* Bake Baba's Ukrainian apple cake; Using some of the apples purchased from the heritage site sale I bake a traditional Ukrainian apple cake for my (now deceased) Ukrainian grandmother. My grandparents fashioned themselves a slice of "the old country" in southeast Wisconsin which meant I spent my growing years running around barefoot in a fruit (pear, plum, cherry and apple) orchard, so I have a strong, sentimental attachment to autumn fruits and how they're incorporated into festive cooking and I've tried to keep that tradition alive in my own way. (See Dreading Mortality.)

* Bake bread; Wheat is enormously significant to me; it's the face of my God, my husband, lover, consort and king. With one hand I kill Him, and with another I resurrect Him. I drink His blood, I crush His bones and I eat His flesh. When He's alive and living (Light Year) I refrain from baking bread, but once I perform the reaping ritual I'm allowed to use His body until resurrection. My baking season begins with a traditional Ukrainian bread (paska or babka; babka's like paska plus, using more butter and egg yolks) during Harvest, and ends on Easter (with the same bread, although this particular loaf gets toted off to church on Holy Saturday to be blessed by a priest) when I bake my last and final loaf for the year.

* Prepare celebratory meals; The only thing more celebrated than sex in this house is food. We try to eat seasonally, and as locally as possible. (Pretty goddamn "local" when you're digging up your own potatoes, plucking berries off bushes just yards away from your house and picking mushrooms only a few miles from your rural subdivision.) We have several Harvest related feasts (not including Fet Ghede), and when preparing those I focus on incorporating as much wild or homegrown food as possible. This year, for example, we're roasting a roadkill pheasant with the "stolen" potatoes, and we'll also be making homemade wild mushroom and pheasant risotto using boletes I've picked throughout fall and a roadkill pheasant I picked up on the autumnal equinox.

* Transition from Bride to Whore; Because my hair takes for-fucking-ever to grow I only cut it two times a year: spring and fall (the same goes for Italics, although I usually cut his hair for him while my hair is trimmed by a professional). In addition to getting my hair lopped off I also get my eyebrows done (threading all the way, baby!), and thoroughly rub my ass down with a homemade purifying scrub out of salt, olive oil, honey and rosemary essential oil. (In spring I give my physical appearance a boost because I'm a bride getting ready to be married, but in fall I become a mistress, so my preparations are less wedding based and lean more towards "super extended night on the town".) During the Dark Year I use henna to dye my hair darker (Whore), but during the Light Year I use henna to dye it red (Bride).

This year's Harvest has been crazy mental, but insanely rewarding. I've never experienced anything quite like it because, up until recently, I didn't have a car. I spent nearly a decade fantasizing about a way of life I was desperate to live, repeatedly telling myself "IT'S OKAY, YOU'LL GET TO DO IT ~NEXT YEAR~, IT WON'T ALWAYS BE LIKE THIS" to keep it together. 2010 has been a breakthrough year for me; it's been the year I officially began to live and everything I've done and experienced has been a complete and utter joy and revelation.

My boyfriend and I have been discussing the old ways and pagan holidays and such things and decided we'd like to celebrate them correctly (we did an informal ritual for mabon).

If you're exercising a Choose Your Own Adventure-style spiritual journey there isn't a right or wrong way to celebrate and observe special days; it's an experimental process that evolves yearly. If you're involved in a religion with a hardcore set of beliefs I'm sure there is a "correct" way of doing things, but if you haven't committed yourself to a one specific path you aren't obligated to follow anyone else's instruction manual.

The beautiful thing about going solo and doing what makes sense (to you) is that sometimes it'll work spectacularly, and sometimes it'll end disastrously funny. But - BUT! - no matter what the outcome, it's always a learning experience that ultimately shapes the rest of the game.

My suggestion? Do shit. Do a lot of shit. Do stupid shit, do funny shit, do crazy shit, do serious shit. Just do shit, and keep the shit that makes you laugh, cry, and feel alive and work on that shit so next time around you'll laugh even harder, cry more meaningfully and feel so fucking alive that the very core of your being is on celestial fire.

also, any sources you can direct me too would be helpful. apologies if these questions are too forward/personal/presumptuous.

Man, I'm the worst person to come to when resources are involved. I've written my own mythology, created my own gods and crowned myself a divine queen in my world. And the worst part? The Universe is playing along. (I guess that means my "script" has been optioned?) I can tell you what I believe, what I do and the meaning behind everything, but I'm not a quotable resource.

What I can do, though, is direct you to the blogs, diaries and journals of witches, pagans, spiritualists and rootworkers that I follow who are a LEETLE less out there that might be able to provide different views and approaches to celebrate this time of year. (Hit up the index page of Graveyard Dirt; you'll find those links on the left under the "READING" category.)

I'll also point you towards my Amazon wishlist so you can get an idea of the reading material that most interests me. (I always feel weird providing the link, but I've had a lot of people ask for it to discover new material to add to their own personal wishlist.)

Right! I hope I've been slightly helpful (or at least moderately interesting). Whatever you guys do, just make sure it's coming from the heart (and/or gut), because that's the shit that sculpts your beliefs and transforms your life. Good luck with Halloween/Samhain, and thank you for prompting me to finally sit my ass down and write about our Harvest festivities and rites. (I actually began drafting an entry along those lines to explain my absence, but with all of these new activities, all of the old traditions and taking care of our tumor-ridden pet rat, Choney, I just haven't had a chance.)

PS: Just FYI; when you're the type of person who posts a picture of yourself barebacking the New Year roast, naked, there's no question that's "too forward/personal/presumptuous", *winks*.

Wild American Roses

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At 12 I picked pale pink petals from wild shrubs growing where the fox roamed, took the flowers home and made a dog rose sugar syrup (which I ate with frozen waffles).

At 17 I took a 17-year-old Scottish boy to the wild roses, showed him how they towered beneath rustling cottonwood trees and told him, after zippering up my pants, how, at age 12, I had made a pancake syrup out of the delicate petals.

At 30 I stood, just yesterday, at the mouth of a golden grain field, a roadkill pheasant in one hand, a basket of ripe wild rose hips in another, remembering the 12-year-old girl and 17-year-old girl that eventually made this 30-year-old woman (now married to that Scottish boy who was especially interested in wild American roses 13 years ago).

Gluten-Free Buttermilk Gingerbread

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Since the gingerbread was baked as an offering we can't have any until AFTER our ritual supper with the Cailleach tomorrow night (might as well get on Her sweet side early). In a few days we'll take the remains - along with some deer bones and the mummified hide off my first roadkill deer (the stag with a sexy skull, remember?) - up to Her home on Mither Tap (the tallest point in this region) to return them to Her until their vessels (skulls, bones, body parts and hides) are ready to house their spirits.

The Money Shot

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Ms. Graveyard Dirt's way of "taking it easy": creating, from scratch, a two course (one main, two sides, one dessert) roast chicken supper for the entire family (after baking a batch of Ukrainian buttermilk cornmeal muffins - to eat with the strawberry jam - for breakfast).

Breakfast

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Homemade strawberry jam delicately infused with Scottish blackberries and rose & lemon-scented geranium leaves.

German Baby

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After spending a misty morning in a damp Scottish wheat field symbolically sacrificing a representation of your spiritual better half to signal the beginning of the end (of the agricultural year) you're bound to work up an appetite (and catch an unholy chill if your natural default is "sans clothes").

What do you do after the growing year's spectacular climax of the ceremonial killing and cannibalism of your husband and sacred king? You take your still living husband and sacred king home (who's damp, questionably stained and just a touch fatigued from his recent spiritual death) for a long soak in a hot bath, several rounds of Paperboy (and San Francisco Rush 2049) and a lazy breakfast that extends shamefully past two in the afternoon.

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(The King's dead, the Bride's widowed and you've just spent an hour running around a grain field naked as the day you were fucking born having sex against neolithic standing stones, getting smeared with semen, saliva and red wine and ritualistically slitting your divine consort's throat so your hungry ass is fed by the flesh of your beloved throughout the dark and barren months of Winter - brunch, anyone?)

I'll be honest, I had super huge impressive grandiose plans, but after thirty minutes of knee mingling in the bathtub I so wasn't prepared to spend more than several rounds of Tapper in the kitchen. I went straight for my breakfast recipe folder's jugular; German motherfucking Baby (it needs only four ingredients, bakes in about 25 minutes and takes only 5 minutes to throw together despite looking way more complicated than it actually is).

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Think of it as a breakfast souffle combining crepe (pancake-like goodness) and funnel cake (deep fried cake-like goodness) elements. It takes no time to put together, but once you've sifted over the powdered sugar it LOOKS like you spent all goddamn morning chained to the oven (which, admittedly, is probably a way of life if you're involved in a Gor-themed relationship, and if that's the case you might have a chain link bra that matches your swanky oven shackles).

The pièce de résistance of the recipe isn't the dish itself, it's what you serve WITH the German Baby. Cheap will taste cheap when paired with something this simple, if you're trying to impress - I mean, REALLY trying to fucking impress - I'd serve it with a homemade compote or fruit sauce (canned's fine, one of my best "goes with anything" sauces involves a tin of plums, black pepper and ginger) spiked with a fruit liqueur (Crème de cassis, Cointreau, that sort've thing).

One last thing - one of the recipe reviewers mentioned warming the pan/skillet/whatever BEFORE adding the butter (to melt). Do it. Seriously. Take it from someone who's been making this recipe regularly for about two years. Warm your baking dish first and THEN add the fucking butter.

Cake Breakfast

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When your mother's dead, there's not one person left in the fucking world who could possibly make you feel guilty for eating cake for breakfast.

Streusel Rhubarb Bread

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So, like, I was bad yesterday. Really fucking bad. I had my pot of coffee (decaf, but that's okay since Papa's black ass has begun to appreciate the wide world of flavored coffee) but I didn't email anyone. I mean, I did, but I don't think the incomplete correspondence totaling five whole paragraphs still sitting in my drafts folder to my girl E really constitutes as "writing and replying to email".

I got off track before even starting. (Fuck, if you're going to do something, do it spectacularly?) I knew if I settled my ass in front of the computer and properly wrote in my diary I'd bleed my reservoir of concentration dry. So, instead, I split the rabbit skull images from the crow photos thinking I'd more or less scribble down an expletive-laden paragraph or two and finish off the exquisite piece of journaling - heh! - by stamping the entry with the skull photos.

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Yeah, I know, that didn't happen. I wrote the effing entry, got emotional, then Italics woke up, we got A LITTLE high (I was still under the false impression that I was actually going to manage tackling some email that day) but instead of turning my attention to my inbox, I tearfully regurgitated what I had just written to Italics and I ended up retiring early in front of the TV to watch a movie with him. ("IT'S ONLY TWO HOURS INTO MY DAY, I CAN TOTALLY RECOUP TIME AFTER WATCHING SOMETHING...")

Today I need to exercise more restraint, and the only way to do that is publish a picture (or two) that doesn't really require a bit of storytelling to put into context. An image that doesn't necessitate an explanation? Sounds like The Black Arts fodder to me...

Things I've learned about working with a gluten-free flour mix: always use an extra egg (g-f flour sucks up moisture like you wouldn't believe), buttermilk always works a dream (it really helps the g-f flour remain super airy and light) and the best possible outcomes always involve a runny batter/dough (I've found that g-f flour HATES being physically worked into shapes, the less I fuss with it the better it rises and appears).

And the super best most awesome thing about gluten-free flour? It still makes damn good streusel. I might not be able to knead gluten-free flour to bake yeast-based bread, or create perfectly crispy buffalo wings (I'm still experimenting!) but, dammit, I can still enjoy my special quiet time that comes with the repetitive, rhythmic action of rubbing cold butter into flour, sugar and spices to make streusel topping. Therapeutic bliss.

Homemade Antidepressant

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Fulfilling a V. old promise for a friend who could use a hug right now. And, also, ruining a surprise. Oops.

Dip for the Stars

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I've been doing too much, which wouldn't be so much of a problem if "doing too much" was more of a chronic issue (thereby raising the personal bar making me a resilient, unstoppable demigod). When I find a workable rhythm I work that reservoir until it runs dry, and it's only when the last trickle of energy and dedication finally evaporates do I realize my recurring mistake - I never fucking pace myself. And - AND! - I inevitably forget that despite feeling one million percent better (from two or three years ago), I still have to contend and work with a broken body.

(For those of you who don't know: in addition to a bust stomach valve I also suffer from a hiatal hernia, GERD, acid reflux and weak stomach muscles. Life was virtually unlivable a few years back - I was burping uncontrollably which caused breathing attacks (and when I mean burping, I mean more than 100 times in an hour), I couldn't keep any food down (everything was either thrown up or regurgitated), I couldn't exert myself physically (exercising, cleaning and even sex was impossible), I couldn't consume a huge variety of food and liquids and I was so fucking physically weak from the constant burping/vomiting that I spent a year bedridden, wondering if death was really as bad as I had initially feared. (Man, you know shit is bad when your paralyzing fear of mortality vaporizes leaving you with romantic notions of nothingness.) I've since spent the better part of 2-3 years relearning how to live - how to breathe, how to eat, how drink, how to fuck, how to exercise, how to sleep - in this downgraded body of mine.)

Ever since Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, left for the States in mid-June I've been running at full capacity to get as much done as I could while he wasn't here to complicate things. And it's been terrific, great and amazingly awesome - I SO get off on the completion of personal projects and goals - but I kind've sort've forgot to take breaks, and after an entire month of GO, GO, GO! I officially ran out of steam about a week ago and I've been all moody, blue and down since.

This is the first fucking morning I've woken up with anything closely resembling "resolve" and I totally want to capitalize on the feeling before it disappears. (I mean, I have managed several fantastic feats in the past few days - gutting out the bathroom cabinet, sorting through out-of-date products and disinfecting the unit, emptying the backroom of junk, newspapers and boxes - but all of that was born out of desperation. This feeling? A mood high of epic proportions.)

My thoughts, Internet, continue to wander back to dusting - super heavy serious dusting, like, LET'S PULL ALL OF THE COMPUTER CABLES OUT AND PULL THE CABINETS AND COMPUTER DESKS OUT AND WIPE //EVERYTHING// DOWN UNTIL IT FUCKING ~GLEAMS~ - so any attempt to ignore the autistic call for cleaning would be utterly futile. (GIVE THE BEAST WHAT IT WANTS - THE ANTI-STATIC, EXTENDABLE, MULTI-COLORED DUSTER.)

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Instead of the evisceration of roadkill, heretical Choose Your Own Adventure-styled spiritual advice (like I'm some sort of motherfucking agony aunt, right?) and obsessively detailed explanations behind otherwise mundane seeming items and/or actions you guys get something even MORE satanic and black magic-tastic: the recipe for our 4th of July dip.

I'm deliberately canning most of my 4th stories for another entry, so you'll have to wait to hear all my ancestor anecdotes. (Long short? Ancestors wanted a summer gathering, we had some gluten-free hot dog bugs - and hot dogs! - so, for the first time in over a decade, we celebrated Independence Day. In, uh, Scotland. At 1:30 AM. Watching Side Out. Yeah, Italics' parents aren't the only ones that have to put up with our bizarre shit - even our ancestors (including the ones we've never fucking met) are along for the ride.)

The cheese mixture was sort've lacking in taste, so I filled the blank space with some homegrown dill. We didn't have any dry vermouth, but we DID have a bottle of gin. (Fuck, I haven't even told you guys about our bottle of beech gin, have I? The one we made using graveyard beech leaves that were gathered on the day Wuzza unexpectedly died? I'll rectify that. Soon.)

The recipe wasn't specific about what kind of sun-dried tomatoes to use (i.e., dehydrated or preserved in oil); I used the dry variety - I mean, I soaked them first, obviously - without a problem. I suspect leftovers of this dip will taste absolutely fucking amazing stuffed in chicken breasts, or gently melted into a sauce for fresh pasta.

Midsummer 2010, II

Decided to do something "productive": went outside, harvested fresh chives and bay leaves to make flavored olive oil. Made said oil. Cleaned kitchen. Diced 1lb of pork fat. Stopped halfway, CRAMPING PAIN OH MY GOD, switched over to ritual scissors. (<- NEVER USE A KNIFE WHEN FUCKING SCISSORS WILL DO). First rendering pig fat (into lard) foray? A+ successful.

"NOW WHAT? MAYBE I SHOULD DO SOMETHING OUTSIDE? LIKE REARRANGE PLANT CONTAINERS, OR SOMETHING?"

Grey, dull, listless sky. Felt despair at post-apocalyptic patio. ("FUCK ME, WHERE DO I FUCKING START WITH THIS FUCKING MESS?") Decided to focus on hammock corner. (<- MOST IMPORTANT CORNER.) Moved plants off steps. Moved plants off palette. Moved spring bulb containers to bottom of patio. Swept steps, swept palette. Moved REPOT ASAP! vegetables and flowers to steps and palettes. Framed REPOT ASAP! garden with herb containers. Swept steps again.

Visited by familiar female blackbird. "SURE YOU DON'T WANT THESE?" Mentally assured bird not interested in upturned worms and grubs. Mama bird? De-fucking-lighted. Came close, V. close, within two feet. (Lady blackbirds = courageous crazy ass bitches. Female-to-female props.) Cocked head at me. "YOU COOL? YEAH, YOU COOL." Worked around one another. Brave little bird.

Moved strawberry containers and poppy/narcissus box away from palette. Swept area. Squatted and weeded/pruned strawberry plants. Silently acknowledged return of female blackbird. Gently danced around one another. Returned box and strawberry plants next to palette. Reswept. Stepped back with hands on hips; patio looked better already.

"WELL, THERE'S NO FUCKING WAY I CAN DO ALL OF THIS SHIT IN ONE DAY, BUT MAYBE I SHOULD TRY EXTRA SPECIAL FOR REAL HARD IN THIS ONE CORNER AND PICK UP THE WORK TOMORROW OR THE DAY AFTER..."

Swept stone pillars clean. Swept brick patio fence clean. Moved Chippy's offering dishes aside. Moved plastic patio chairs aside. Moved two dehydrated peat cup trays aside. (SORRY, MAGPIES, I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU LOVE FUCKING THAT SHIT UP.) Pulled every effing weed, plant and clump of grass between concrete patio slabs (except for borage). Swept patio, incrementally. (<- LITTLE BIT OF WEEDING, LITTLE BIT OF SWEEPING. REPEAT, DON'T GET BORED, REPEAT.)

Sun struggled. Worked harder, more dedicated. Figured sun would eventually follow suit. ("THIS IS HOW YOU GET SHIT DONE, MOTHERFUCKER!") High; head rush high, floating on air high. Noticed, after time lapse, somehow managed to weed'n'sweep 60% of patio instead of 25%. (Whoops?) "FUCK IT, LET'S SEE HOW FAR I CAN GO WITH THIS SHIT." Grey skies broke. Sun, inspired by work ethic, decided to join Midsummer effort.

Hauled spring bulb containers to wooden beams. Hauled rusty BBQ grill (not ours) into bonsai house. Hauled father-in-law's plastic box of dirt into bonsai house. (<- I DON'T KNOW, AND DON'T FUCKING CARE PROVIDED I CAN'T FUCKING SEE IT.) Stopped, rested and conversed with female blackbird. (<- STEADY MIDSUMMER VISITOR.) Swept patio steps leading down to bonsai house.

Moved foxgloves next to garage door. Moved two boxes of lavender, three apple trees, two dwarf apple trees, one dwarf pear tree, two pussy willows, one unidentified shrub, one unidentified flowering container, box of sorrel and box of peas next to foxgloves next to garage door. (PHEW.) Swept OTHER side of patio. Swept steps leading down to bonsai house (again).

"WAIT, IS THAT AN ICE CREAM TRUCK I HEAR?"

Weeded kitchen sink with bay tree. Weeded barren kitchen sink next to kitchen sink with bay tree. Weeded wheat (first pot). Weeded dill. Weeded gooseberry bush (first pot). Weeded peach tree. (<- SHE LIVES!) Weeded gooseberry bush (second pot). Weeded rowan sapling. Weeded wheat (second pot). Weeded lavender. Weeded several ceramic containers. (<- TECHNICALLY NOT MY TERRITORY, BUT IT'S HARD TO LEAVE A THOROUGH JOB PARTIALLY UNDONE.)

"OH MY GOD, IT //IS// A MOTHERFUCKING ICE CREAM TRUCK PLAYING MUSIC! ICE CREAM! ICE CREAM! ICE CREEEEEEEEAM!"

Weeded, then moved two similarly sized apple trees behind wheat containers. (<- SYMMETRY IS V. IMPORTANT AND SACRED, OKAY?) Weeded, then moved larger apple tree onto barren kitchen sink. Pruned, weeded, then moved unidentified shrub next to apple tree on barren kitchen sink. Opened strawberry beer. Sat down on patio step leading to bonsai house. Drank beer, pruned lavender plants, weeded lavender containers. Ice cream truck played music again.

"OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! IT'S HERE! IT'S HERE! OH MY GOD, ICE CREAM! ICE CREAM!"

Raced through the house, raced through the kitchen, picked up loose change left by Italics, raced out of the house ("SHOULDN'T YOU PUT ON SHOES?" <- LAST THING I HEARD ITALICS SAY AS I BOLTED OUT THE KITCHEN DOOR), raced down the driveway, raced down to street. Waited at opening of subdivision.

Waited barefooted, waited wearing traditional African shirt (dashiki), purple shorts and black kitchen apron. (<- FORGOT TO TAKE OFF AFTER MAKING LARD) Oops. Realized not normal clothing combination for grown woman to be wearing standing at side of busy street. Oops. Realized, only after standing on gravel barefooted in not normal clothing combination, how bizarre must've looked. ("I'M JUST WAITING FOR THE ICE CREAM TRUCK, DON'T MIND ME!")

Ice cream truck? Never appeared. Dejected, took barefooted/aproned self and loose change back home. (SIGH.)

Came home to partially drunk strawberry beer, partially cleaned patio and partially pruned/weeded lavender containers. ("FINE! I'LL MAKE UP MY OWN ICE CREAM TREAT! I'LL MASH UP TWO OF THOSE CHOCOLATED COATED VANILLA ICE CREAM BARS WITH SOME FROZEN PEANUT M&Ms AND WHIP CREAM AND MAKE MY OWN GODDAMN SUPER ICE CREAM SPECTACULAR." <- TRUE STORY.)

Moved pruned lavendar containers back to patio. Weeded, then moved foxgloves, two dwarf apple trees, one dwarf pear tree, two pussy willows, one unidentified shrub and one unidentified flowering container back to patio. Meticulously rearranged containers into symmetrical spread. (<- ALTAR CREATING = V. SRS BUSINESS, OKAY?) Swept patio (again), swept patio steps leading to bonsai house (again).

Weeded box of peas. Weeded box of sorrel. Created frame for peas. Moved both peas and sorrel back to patio. Moved plastic chairs back to patio. Returned gardening tools to bonsai house. Cleaned, then moved Chippy's offering dishes back to patio. Swept steps leading from garage to patio. Swept patio steps leading to bonsai house. Swept along concrete corridor passing bonsai house. Weeded as swept, swept as weeded.

Dirt and gravel swept into grass, organic material swept into compost bags. Celebrated inadvertent altar creation/Midsummer by finishing beer. Retired broom at dusk, but couldn't stop. ("MORE, DO MORE! JUST KEEP GOING, JUST DON'T STOP!") Little things, tiny things, finishing touches needed. Wanted cosmic closure; decided to check off all boxes with fine print. (<- ANAL ARIES WITCH REIGNS SUPREME!)

Paraded Stone Cock out onto super magic clean patio. (Stone Cock? V. pleased: loves outdoors, loves attention.) Proudly displayed cock at base of Shango Tree? No. Proudly displayed cock at base of peach tree? Yes. (STONE COCK ("HIM") + SURVIVOR PEACH TREE ("HER") = MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN) Wondered what mother-in-law would think, then wondered what mother-in-law thinks on daily basis. (Same old, same old with Ms. Graveyard Dirt.)

Done? No, not yet. Hung up Walpurgisnacht/Summer (aka Beltane, May Day) ribbons on plum trees. (Immediately fell in love with long blue ribbon rippling above fat, cheerful Buddha. <- GOOD ENERGY. GAY, BUT TRUE.) Filled Chippy's offering bowls with water and food. Searched for hammock swing and frame, couldn't find. (FRUSTRATED.) Done? Almost. ("JUST KEEP GOING, JUST KEEP GOING!")

Washed shit off wooden patio fence. (Sayonara, white streaks!) Got splinter. (Fuck you, white streaks!) Watered. Watered EVERYTHING. Watered container garden/Midsummer altar. Watered REPOT ASAP! garden. Watered herb containers. Watered strawberries. Watered sorrel. Watered peas. Watered sinks. Watered Shango Tree. Watered other plum tree. Watered lupines. Watered bonsai trees in bonsai house. Everything? Watered.

Done? Almost; bird feeders. Unexpected inward groan. Second thought, fuck bird feeders. (Too sore, too achy.) Swore to refill feeders first thing in morning. Felt guilty, but felt more tired than guilty. Line? Drawn. Done? Yes, done - six hours later. Patio? Flawless, immaculate. Mother-in-law V. impressed (mother-in-law also pointed out hammock frame in corner of bonsai house - score! but hammock swing...?), Italics V. impressed. Ms. Graveyard Dirt? Exhausted, but also V. impressed.

Midsummer? Not yet over. Still needed to clean, still needed to cook, still needed to finish last lard step. Washed hands on autopilot. Conscious, but not. Present but gone. Found self moving by instinct. ("DON'T STOP, DON'T SIT, JUST KEEP GOING, JUST KEEP GOING...") Briefly existed in place between worlds. Moved like vessel, like instrument commandeered by God. Throbbing feet only anchor to reality.

Strained cooled fat into glass container. Refrigerated lard. Made boiled rice (full absorption method). Unloaded dishwasher, loaded dishwasher. Cleaned kitchen. Made Korean beef marinade. Sliced rump steak into tiny strings. Tossed steak into marinade. Prepared vegetables (ginger, garlic, mushrooms, broccoli, string beans, baby corn, and carrots). Stir-fried beef. Stir-fried vegetables.

Sat down, gave thanks and consumed non-traditional Midsummer "feast". Followed through with SUPER ICE CREAM SPECTACULAR promise. (AKA, "DIY BLIZZARD") Dishes? Fuck dishes, too tired. Simpsons? Fuck Simpsons, new episode. Italics? Retired, too goddamn full. (LOL @ WIFE BEING ABLE TO OUT EAT HUSBAND.)

Stupid crazy tired. Zero idea why still up. (Stimulated by feelings of deep satisfaction?) Went through "getting ready for bed" motions: straightened up computer room, gave Chooch treat, put Chooch away for night, straightened up living room - bird feeders. One job left undone. Felt less satisfied (also felt like collapsing).

"FUCK IT, I'LL FEED THE GODDAMN BIRDS AND THEN I CAN GO TO FUCKING SLEEP IN FUCKING PEACE."

Padded back outside, walked across clean patio and opened detached room. Filled ceramic Halloween pumpkin mug with seed. Stumbled out of room and into backyard. Filled feeder in non-Shango plum tree. Stumbled back into room, refilled mug, stumbled out of room, crossed backyard, crossed side of house. Filled feeder in sycamore in front of computer room/office window.

Stumbled for third and final time to backroom. Accidentally walked into box pile. Box pile collapsed revealing missing hammock swing. (SCORE SCORE SCORE SCORE SCORE!) Learned valuable Midsummer lesson - haul ass, get rewarded. Thanked God, birds, feet (for still moving). Done? Yes, done. All boxes checked, nothing leftover - Midsummer success.

Came back into quiet house. Turned off computer. Flossed, brushed teeth. Felt sticky. Shower? LOL, whatever - could barely keep eyes open. Shower? Imagined falling asleep 100% clean on cotton sheets. Showered, pumiced aching feet. Got more high. Watched Tribal Wives (Mexico) on laptop in bed. Italics? Passed out. Ms. Graveyard Dirt? Barely conscious.

Maybe too tired to masturbate? Never too tired to masturbate. Masturbated. Stretched out happily, then curled next to Italics. Fell asleep without fearing death or dreading mortality. Fell into gentle Midsummer sleep as entire body hummed with life. (Woke at 5AM thanks to effing magpie tapping on bedroom window begging for food. <- NO JOKE!)

Playing Pretend

Today's super big adventure: rendering pig fat (to make lard) for the very first time. Not an entirely glamorous way to spend Midsummer (and not an entirely sexy fat to work with; you still own my heart, soul and sexual fantasies, goose fat), but I can ~pretend~ it came from an unbaptized child.

Winterspice Chocolate Espresso Cake

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Look, here's the thing - I really, really, really need to record some V. SRS magic shit (everything from breathing plague into my father-in-law's lungs (and his subsequent coughing/breaking attack), the three deers that crossed our path while we hunted the ever elusive pussy willow at the base of Bennachie, the first sacrificial wasp of the season, sanctifying our marital yew cup (ME: "IT'S A //RELATIONSHIP// GIFT!") by anointing it with post-anal sex ass juice, how Italics and I celebrated 13 years of being together (see previous writing topic), belated 4/20 gifts and how I had to strip my beloved peach tree of its fucking leaves due to motherfucking leaf curl) but it's snowing here in Scotland AND I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD THAT IT WON'T FUCKING STOP UNTIL I FINALLY CHANGE THE MOTHEREFFING GUARD OF OUR COMPUTER ROOM/OFFICE ALTAR.

(Technically? Technically the spider and web hanging on the widow CLEARLY INDICATES that we're in Fall/Winter mode.)

Internet, it's going to snow in fucking August if I don't get off my lazy fucking ass and deal with this shit. In lieu of a proper journal entry (PROPER JOURNAL ENTRY MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT-STYLE, I MEAN) I give you the recipe for our Summer (Beltane / May Day) dessert:

Magic in the Kitchen

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Homemade butter? Cocoa butter? Whipped shea butter? None of the above, but just as nourishing - goose fat, rendered from our Winter goose. (Even better than a huge ass vat of solidified fat from our traditional Christmas dinner? Up until a few days ago a pair of legs - confit d'oie (confit of goose) - were buried beneath the flawless sea of white. <- Yeah, I know, goose isn't exactly traditional Spring fare, but I'm not exactly a traditional witch, so...)

Admittedly, I haven't done an exactly stellar job in expressing my love and admiration for the heavenly nectar known as "goose fat". Our torrid affair started years and years ago when I came of age and roasted my first Christmas goose for Italics and I. (Long story short? Eating goose for Christmas is traditional in my family, eating undercooked turkey for Christmas is traditional in Italics' family. It only took one Christmas with us for him to defect from an entire life of tradition. <- If you've never had goose, THAT'S how fucking good it is.)

Goose fat needs just a slightest hint of warmth to start melting - an appreciative caress (of the bird's raw body), a gentle exhalation (after breathing in the aroma of Winter richness). It doesn't take much effort to coax liquid gold out of the warming flesh of a goose. Within seconds of handling the bird begins to weep invisible tears of divinity, and the slick, moisturizing trickle of oil releases a subtle, just barely there scent of Winter celebration and debauchery.

It's a contradictory experience - it feels innocently pure and holy, like you're being purified through the anointment of a sanctified oil but it's also overwhelmingly carnal as rivulets of glistening, golden fat run between your fingers and trail down your arm. It's when my skin's lubricated with a coating of tantalizingly slippery goose fat I find myself plunging into unadulterated bacchanalia fantasies involving Italics' fist and my cunt (and all of the things we - Italics, goose fat and I - could get up to on those long, Scottish winter nights).

Sexualized sensationalism aside, how much do I love goose fat? Well, you know how on May Day you're supposed to wash your face with morning dew? This year? This year I dodged the dew and smeared a handful of my rendered Winter goose fat directly onto my face, and massaged the shit in like it was the fountain of fucking youth.

(I failed to remember that it was rendered fat containing confit d'oie which meant all of the seasonings and herbs were still present. I spent the entire fucking weekend walking into doors because I got SEASONING IN MY MOTHERFUCKING EYES AND I COULDN'T FLUSH IT THE FUCK OUT. ("OH, GOD, CALL THE DOCTOR, I'VE BEEN STRUCK DOWN WITH ~SEASONING EYE~!") Bathing your face with goose fat? Good, in theory, but requires SOME thought and consideration before execution.)

Next goose fat-themed experiment on Ms. Graveyard Dirt's list? Working UNSEASONED rendered fat into a salve/ointment that can be rubbed into the body. (<- TAKE A WILD GUESS WHERE THIS IS GOING...)

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If you're ANY amount into honey a jar of this shit is like an extended orgasm. Pink rose buds, saffron and a host of spices are ground into a fine powder and added to honey which is gently simmered and then bottled up to age.

I made a batch of Bridal Honey last year (using local heather honey) during our Easter holiday (we celebrate Hieros Gamos / the Great Rite / Sacred Marriage around Easter since that's when the in-laws are out of the house for two weeks). Some of it got used to make cookies, some of it got used to bake a Ukrainian honey cake for Midsummer (2009), and some of it magically disappeared with absolutely no explanation whatsofuckingever (other than the honey-covered spoon dripping on the kitchen counter).

The aphrodisiac properties were invoked on Walpurgisnacht (April 30th) when it was used during "flying potion" creation. (<- We made three different types of homemade booze for ritual consumption on Witch's Night: an apricot cordial, a coffee liqueur (for Papa) and two different types of weed extraction - Strega (Italics bought me a bottle for my birthday last month) and raspberry vodka (using one of the bottles we made last year with berries we foraged near the cemetery). The Bridal Honey was used in the cordial and if everything goes right it should be ready for Midsummer consumption.)

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Chocolate Espresso Cake made with a bar of Winterspice Chocolate ("a cozy blend of organic gingerbread spices and organic dark chocolate") for post-Walpurgisnacht celebrations.

Man, I'm so on the fucking fence about this. Do I extol the virtues of this glorious, flourless cake right now? Or do I give you just enough to tempt you all Pied Piper-like, and then make you wait for even more hyperbolic praise (and the recipe)? OH, GOD, DECISIONS...

(How about I check the cake reserve, and if there's enough to photograph I'll try to take a better picture to post alongside the recipe later this week?)

(No? WELL TOO GODDAMN BAD, THAT'S JUST THE WAY IT'S GOING TO BE. <- SAYS THE PMS-Y WITCH WHO JUST STARTED HER PERIOD AND IS WORRIED TO HELL ABOUT GARY BALLS - AKA WUZZA / DENNY'S - WHO IS ACTING HELLA SICK AND WEIRD AND, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, DIDN'T WE //JUST// WRAP UP A SICK RAT/DYING RAT EPISODE RECENTLY?)

(WHAT WAS IT I SAID ABOUT BEING RELUCTANT TO MOVE THE FUCK FORWARD BECAUSE IT FELT LIKE THE UNIVERSE WAS GOING TO TRY TO PSYCH MY MOTHERFUCKING ASS OUT? //THAT//, HOWEVER YOU/I WANT TO PARAPHRASE IT. CHRIST AL-FUCKING-MIGHTY.)

Ramson Foraging

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We spent a lazy afternoon foraging ramsons (better known as wild garlic) at a local castle for tonight's supper. (<- Homemade wild garlic and pancetta risotto served with ramson Irish soda bread.)

For some fucked up reason I thought we needed "at least 100 grams for one recipe and several large handfuls for the other", but when we came home I discovered we only needed five smallish handfuls in total for dinner, which means I'll have enough leftover to either make flavored oil or a wild garlic paste.

MAINS:
* Grilled Scallop Salad w/Wild Garlic
* Ramson alla Carbonara
* Wild Garlic & Pancetta Risotto
* Wild Garlic Ravioli

SIDES:
* Potato, Leek & Wild Garlic Gratin
* Skordalia
* Wild Garlic & Mustard Sauce
* Wild Garlic Pesto
* Wild Garlic Soda Bread

SOUPS:
* Cream of Wild Garlic Soup
* Nettle & Wild Garlic Soup
* Potato & Bread Soup w/Wild Garlic
* Ramson Spring Soup
* Wild Garlic Pancake Soup

This forum post provides useful information on harvesting wild garlic, including a foraging trick that allows the plant to regrow cut leaves. (The trick? Cut at the BASE of the leaf, not at the stem.)

Paska Invocation

Before I bake any ritual bread I always start the process by invoking my ancestors (WHEN YOUR ANCESTORS ARE FAMOUS THE WORLD OVER FOR THEIR BREAD BAKING ABILITIES, IT ALWAYS PAYS TO HAVE THEM ON YOUR SIDE - EVEN IF YOU HAVE TO CONTEND WITH BACKSEAT BAKING FROM YOUR GREAT-GREAT-GREAT GRANDMOTHER), and once they've been invited over for their expertise I sanctify the bread making bowl by fumigating it with sacred incense.

PS: If you live in northeast Scotland and woke up hearing Jesus Christ Superstar blaring from some house at 4:30 AM on April 1st I deeply, sincerely apologize (even if it's the BEST MUSICAL EVER and remains THE PERFECT SOUNDTRACK FOR HOLY WEEK). I was really, really high and accidentally smoked out the house with pinon incense to the point that I had to throw open the kitchen door to let the room air so I could continue with Paska baking. (April Fools?)

PPS: In hindsight, starting the video at 25 seconds into taping (I cropped it to make the file shorter) was probably not the best choice. Just in case you were wondering, that wasn't an out-of-tune banjo string breaking at the very start of the embedded video, it was my shitty editing skills.

Still (Probably) Not Enough

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42 free-range happy bird eggs, and I have a feeling that they're still (probably) not enough for my Ukrainian Easter needs.

I need enough to cover boiled/decorated eggs, Paska (Easter bread), Bukovinian Nachynka (a Ukie version of Yorkshire Pudding using cornmeal), Malay (a Hutsul (the specific type of Ukrainian I am) cornbread), Country Kartoplyanyky (potato pancakes), Easter Syrnyk (a savory cheesecake), Easter Syrnyk (a sweet cheesecake) and, maybe, a batch of either Easter Babka (much richer and spongier than Paska, very brioche-like) or Poppy Seed Bread (a dessert yeast-based bread with a large swirl of sweetened poppy seed filling running through it) to give to/send to friends.

The Easter Babka alone? Requires at least a dozen eggs, not counting the ones you need to glaze the dough before baking. If nothing else, Easter Babka surely is a culinary celebration of Spring. (<- Hens require something like 12 hours of sunlight a day to stimulate egg production. Back in the olden days there weren't any fresh eggs during winter, hence the egg-rich celebratory breads baked by Ukrainians in the spring when the Hens began laying once again.)

Experimental 8:30 AM Dinner

Me, a few mornings ago on Tumblr:

TUMBLR, TODAY I STUFFED A BONELESS TURKEY THIGH WITH A FETA FILLING (FETA CHEESE, GLUTEN-FREE TOASTED BREADCRUMBS, TOMATO PUREE, GARLIC PUREE, OATMEAL (1 INSTANT PACKAGE) AND ITALIAN SPICES), SLAPPED A LAYER OF SALAMI OVER IT, ROLLED THE MOTHERFUCKER UP LIKE A SWISS ROLL, TIED IT UP LIKE A WHIMPERING GEISHA AND THEN BASTED IT WITH SMOKED BACON GREASE AS IT ROASTED.

IN THEORY IT //SOUNDS GOOD//, BUT I’M NOW WONDERING IF MAYBE IT’S A BIT ROBUST AND/OR EXPERIMENTAL FOR AN 8:30 AM DINNER. WHAT DO YOU THINK?

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Why I doubt my culinary prowess is fucking beyond me. Christ, I can't even remember the LAST TIME something I made went awry. (The gluten-free yeast-based buttermilk rolls don't count. <- That was an experiment to see what g-f flour would do when combined with yeast.)

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A turkey thigh roulade with a savory stuffing (and a thin layer of salami) swirled through it.

I was afraid that the strong flavors would clash making the evening-morning meal (I woke up at 9 PM the previous day, hence the 8:30 AM dinnertime) a little TOO robust, but the feta was tastily tempered by the oatmeal and breadcrumbs (rather than tasting like a cheese filling it tasted like a cheese and herb-flavored cracker bought at a stupidly expensive delicatessen), the salami's fat helped baste the bird joint internally keeping the stuffing moist and without the bacon grease I doubt I would've got such a beautiful color on the flesh of the bird.

Ostara Cream Puffs II

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On the first day we made the pastry. On the second day we created the filling, and then liberally stuffed the gaping choux clams with homemade custard and cream. On the third day we toasted almond flakes, boiled up the liquid gold toffee sauce and smothered the cream puffs with the sticky glaze, topping the glazed domes with handfuls of warm, slivered almonds.

Ostara Cream Puffs I

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Celebratory Ostara dessert? Homemade, gluten-free cream puffs. We made - and baked - the choux pastry yesterday (NOTE TO SELF: DOUGH FELT TOO DRY DUE TO GLUTEN-FREE FLOUR; ADDED EXTRA EGG, WORKED PERFECTLY), but kept filling (custard cream), stuffing and topping (toffee almond crunch) making until today.

(The cheap ass plastic piping unit worked PERFECTLY until Italics and I shared a cream puff - ala Lady and the Tramp - but immediately after our passionate custard cream-flavored kiss everything came tumbling down Babel-style. <- At least it was a TASTY kiss of death and destruction?)

Making Hawthorn Syrup

Cooling recently boiled hawthorn berries (to make hawthorn syrup) while a cover of Purple Rain plays in the background.

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

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

The Laughing High Priestess

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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.

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"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 MEPH!) 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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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 - A MOTHERFUCKING SPORTS BRA) 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.)

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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.)

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Outside the computer room/office window just before 6AM on Feb. 4th, 2009. (Looks a bit like Legend, doesn't it?)

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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.)