Well hello, childrens. I know it's been some time since I've posted a new blog, but I've been spending most of my time these days working at an actual job for money, so I haven't had much time for folderol and frippery. However, with the holidays well upon us, I do get some time off, and I get to do a lot more of two things I like: cooking and drinking.
This year's Thanksgiving was one of the best I've had in years. My husband and I got to spend time with family and friends, and I got to go completely apeshit in the kitchen. Some truly magical stuff happened there, I gotta tell ya, and Paula Deen would be proud of the amount of calorie-bombing goodness I crammed in there. Let some trendy women's magazine scold you about healthy holiday alternatives, if that's what you're into; if you're reading this blog to collect recipes, chances are you don't give a shit.
So here you go. Installment One of a slew of recipes guaranteed to give you The Itis. Today, we start with the topping.
Mama's Fat-Ass Duck & Mushroom Gravy
What Y'all Need:
About 1 1/2 cups of duck fat. Delicious, delicious duck fat, root of all that is tasty.
About 1 cup of bird drippin's from a roasted turkey or chicken.
Around 2 cups of all-purpose flour.
3-4 cups of hot bird stock.
1 carton of mixed mushrooms, diced. I used white button and portabella.
1/2 of a nice-sized sweet onion, diced.
Some white pepper.
What Y'all Do:
Get out your 5-quart Dutch oven (or if you don't have one, a big pot or pan, but seriously, get a Dutch oven. TJ Maxx, like 60 bucks!) and warm it up on the stove-top at medium-low heat. Drop about 2 tablespoons of duck fat in that bad boy and let it melt, then toss in your onions and fry 'em up for a couple of minutes. Then add in your mushrooms. Let the onions and mushrooms cook together for another minute or two, then add in the rest of your duck fat and start stirring.
Once everything's evenly coated and glistening, start slowly adding your flour. You want it to integrate with the fat and form a dense paste. You can reserve back some of your flour, because if you're like me, you don't measure anyway and you just eyeball everything. Anyway, you want that paste to get just this side of golden-brown, and you should be kinda struggling to stir that delicious mess. At this point, pour in your bird drippin's, dust it with a little more flour, and stir until everything's pretty much evenly mixed. Then slowly add in your stock and keep stirring. Do not stop stirring; you don't want this stuff to stick. Keep adding stock and cooking it up until it's nice and thick, but do not let it boil. Add white pepper to taste.
This will make almost a half-gallon of gravy. You can hook you up an I.V. bag and just mainline it if you want to go straight to coronary-town, but I recommend ladling it tenderly over your holiday feast, and the leftovers you'll be eating for the next week, and spreading the damage out a little.
Keep checking back for more holiday recipes, and start prepping that nap couch.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
A Novel Suggestion
Let me just say this first: I like Stephen King's work. I really do. I pick up a nice, thick tome of his every now and again when I'm ready to embark on a nice, long journey with the printed word. And he does have a way with words, quite frequently; I'll make a case for IT being one of my favorite books of all time, and one of the best I've read.
HOWEVER.
After having recently slogged, often joyfully, often painfully, through The Dark Tower with Detta/Odetta/Susannah, and having recently started watching the TV adaptation of The Stand, and being familiar with Mr. King's work in general, it is blatantly obvious that the poor man does not currently, probably never has, and perhaps never will, know any black people at all. None. And certainly not with any kind of intimacy.
Stephen King does not have any black friends. Otherwise they would likely have taken him gently aside and explained to him, in kind and soulful terms, with the patience and folksy wisdom displayed by all of the Super-Duper Magic Negroes present in his works, that, well...we don't sound like that.
So here's my pitch: Stephen King, if you're ever open to it, and if you haven't already gotten a million similar suggestions, I will be your Black Friend*. If you feel you've got enough friends already, and don't want to add another to your roster (I know how you like your privacy, and I agree with that wholeheartedly), I will, for a modest fee, at the very least be your, I dunno, "Urban Marketing Consultant."
Just...please, stop making us sound like that.
* It should be duly noted that I am willing to also provide this service to any and all random melanin-challenged, Anglo- and/or Euro-American, or otherwise "Caucasian" folks on a case-by-case basis, with an hourly rate applying, willing to barter.
HOWEVER.
After having recently slogged, often joyfully, often painfully, through The Dark Tower with Detta/Odetta/Susannah, and having recently started watching the TV adaptation of The Stand, and being familiar with Mr. King's work in general, it is blatantly obvious that the poor man does not currently, probably never has, and perhaps never will, know any black people at all. None. And certainly not with any kind of intimacy.
Stephen King does not have any black friends. Otherwise they would likely have taken him gently aside and explained to him, in kind and soulful terms, with the patience and folksy wisdom displayed by all of the Super-Duper Magic Negroes present in his works, that, well...we don't sound like that.
So here's my pitch: Stephen King, if you're ever open to it, and if you haven't already gotten a million similar suggestions, I will be your Black Friend*. If you feel you've got enough friends already, and don't want to add another to your roster (I know how you like your privacy, and I agree with that wholeheartedly), I will, for a modest fee, at the very least be your, I dunno, "Urban Marketing Consultant."
Just...please, stop making us sound like that.
* It should be duly noted that I am willing to also provide this service to any and all random melanin-challenged, Anglo- and/or Euro-American, or otherwise "Caucasian" folks on a case-by-case basis, with an hourly rate applying, willing to barter.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
WTF? Why Is My Body Trying to Sabotage Me?!
Jeezy Petes, I hate my latest birth control. Also, why is it that I always manage to go to Planned Parenthood when I'm PMSing, hard?
Here is a list of things that have moved me to tears today:
Here is a list of things that have moved me to tears today:
- A fitness magazine
- My blood pressure numbers
- A vast array of choices in hormonal birth control methods
- Biltmore Avenue
- A photograph of the Queen of England
- Driving downhill whilst listening to Fresh Air with Terry Gross
- The lack of padded-cup bras in my size at the local Belk...or... any bras in my size, really
- A display of Keurig coffee makers and the corresponding selection of K-cups
- Wal-Mart. Just...Wal-Mart
- I-240
- A number of songs by The Killers
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Don't Like My Tattoos? Screw Ya: A Body Acceptance Rant
Seems like every time some chick shows a picture of her new tattoo, I end up hearing the same damn comment from somebody: "Yeah. That's gonna look just great when she's 50." This cheeses me off to no end, people. Why? It assumes a number of things that I find just fucking ridiculous.
"That's gonna look great when she's 50." Yeah, because when talking about people who decide to get tattoos or other body mods, you just know that the first thing they consider when deciding to alter their body is whether it's going to conform to conventional beauty standards. Particularly at some arbitrary age someone else has decided equals "old and gross and un-fuckable." Yepper. First thing on the checklist.
"That shit is permanent. It's going to age!" HOLY SHITBALLS, YOU GUYS! You mean something decorating my body is going to sag, wrinkle, fade, and discolor? Well that sounds a whole lot like something else I'm quite familiar with...what is it called...right on the tip of my tongue...oh yeah, THE HUMAN BODY. None of us are going to look 19 forever. None of us. We will gain weight, lose weight, get sick, sunburned, dehydrated, sprout hair in weird places, lose hair in weird places, and be subject to gravity like the piles of oily goo suspended from a rigid bone structure that we all are. WERE YOU AWARE? People age. All the time. Big fuckin' whoop.
"That's gonna look great when she's 50." To whom? To you? Maybe she doesn't give a flying fuck. Maybe what she does with her body is her business, not yours. Maybe her ink is her way of claiming her body as her own, signing it as her property, letting other people know that she's in charge of it and loves it enough to decorate it with things that are meaningful to her, or commemorate experiences that made her the woman she is. Or maybe she's the trashy skank you think she is, Officer Body Police, but that probably means she still doesn't give a flying fuck. Even if she's "just doing it for attention," who gives a shit? It's still her body and her choice. If you don't think she should get attention for her tattoos, don't give her any. Problem solved.
Or...you could disparage people's body choices when they don't align with your idea of what they should look like. Some people really respond to that. And you know what happens then? They get tons of plastic surgery to keep their bodies and faces taut, tight, and un-aged. I wonder how the Body Police feel about those mods, eh?
"That's gonna look great when she's 50." Yeah, because when talking about people who decide to get tattoos or other body mods, you just know that the first thing they consider when deciding to alter their body is whether it's going to conform to conventional beauty standards. Particularly at some arbitrary age someone else has decided equals "old and gross and un-fuckable." Yepper. First thing on the checklist.
"That shit is permanent. It's going to age!" HOLY SHITBALLS, YOU GUYS! You mean something decorating my body is going to sag, wrinkle, fade, and discolor? Well that sounds a whole lot like something else I'm quite familiar with...what is it called...right on the tip of my tongue...oh yeah, THE HUMAN BODY. None of us are going to look 19 forever. None of us. We will gain weight, lose weight, get sick, sunburned, dehydrated, sprout hair in weird places, lose hair in weird places, and be subject to gravity like the piles of oily goo suspended from a rigid bone structure that we all are. WERE YOU AWARE? People age. All the time. Big fuckin' whoop.
"That's gonna look great when she's 50." To whom? To you? Maybe she doesn't give a flying fuck. Maybe what she does with her body is her business, not yours. Maybe her ink is her way of claiming her body as her own, signing it as her property, letting other people know that she's in charge of it and loves it enough to decorate it with things that are meaningful to her, or commemorate experiences that made her the woman she is. Or maybe she's the trashy skank you think she is, Officer Body Police, but that probably means she still doesn't give a flying fuck. Even if she's "just doing it for attention," who gives a shit? It's still her body and her choice. If you don't think she should get attention for her tattoos, don't give her any. Problem solved.
Or...you could disparage people's body choices when they don't align with your idea of what they should look like. Some people really respond to that. And you know what happens then? They get tons of plastic surgery to keep their bodies and faces taut, tight, and un-aged. I wonder how the Body Police feel about those mods, eh?
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Happy Mamas Day
In honor of Mothers Day, and particularly the wonderful lady who made it possible for all y'all to have the pleasure of my company, I thought I'd put something up here. Way back in 2008, I wrote an essay about something that has been a constant source of humor, frustration, and bonding between me and my mom: my hair. Y'all enjoy.
Love you, Mom!
That Good Hair
Love you, Mom!
That Good Hair
I just read a blog/article on The Root (a sort of Pan-African web community) about a biracial girl, her relationship with her white mother, who had no idea what to do with her hair, and politics.
It made me think. And it made me feel.
Being multiracial, many of your relationships with the rest of the world revolve around that quirky bush that crowns your head for most of your life. The author described a childhood memory of running through the house every morning, trying to escape her Irish mother and the "Green Monster"--the hairbrush.
I have similar memories of squirming, squealing and outright outpourings of tears as my mom laboriously worked a brush through my misunderstood frizz, and I'm sure my sister sympathizes. Most of the photos of little me, up until almost the millennium, involve some kind of poof, tangle, or fuzz on my tiny head. I remember one of my brother's friends affectionately calling me "Bushweed" all through the sixth grade. I remember the horrors that ensued when my crazy white grandma would take us to the beach for a week, letting the salt and sun tie my, and my sister's, hair into impossible knots because she "liked the way it looked when it got all wild like that." And then, of course, my mother would throw a complete fit because she would have to undo the damage.
My hair has a unique texture. My mother's hair is thick--each individual strand is thick in and of itself, and there are an awful lot of them as well--and coarse, and bright red. It's actually a lot like "Black people hair," even though she's white on the outside. My dad's hair is mostly not there these days, but the old pictures of him and his high-top fade attest to the fact that it is Black People Hair for sure. I haven't met any of our Native American relatives with hair, as my great-granddad didn't have any by the time I met him, but I can only assume it's probably dark and silky. Somewhere in all that you get me.
My hair is what my melanin-blessed folk call "That Good Hair." It's thick but soft and springy, with a smoothness and strength to it. Some of my melanin-challenged folk still think of it as coarse, but they're used to that fine, swooning silk they've got atop their own domes.
My hair and I have had a difficult relationship; it's been like a forced marriage between two people who don't speak the same language. We've communicated poorly, and it's been a long process learning to do it better. Sometime in high school I discovered short hair, which worked immensely well--it gave my curls a chance to shine, without all the dry length and damage to frizz it out. And in college I discovered Black People Hair Products, with which I have attacked and made sticky several of my melanin-challenged brethren.
Black People Hair Products tend to come in but a handful of categories: Greasy, Sticky, Caustic, Jiggly, and Candy Shell. They are EXTREMELY STRONG, whatever form they take. But that's what it takes. Styling white people hair is like folding satin napkins: you have to be careful and gentle with it. Styling Black people hair is like carving a hardwood table: you gotta use some elbow grease. Black people hair is also typically dry as hell. I know from anecdotal evidence and visual confirmation that white people hair tends to get quite oily and stringy-looking if they don't wash it every coupla days. Black people hair doesn't tend to come with its own oil, so it has to be purchased separately.
But with the magic of relaxers, non-pH-balanced shampoo, heavy conditioners, oils aplenty, heat, and satin wraps, I have managed to cultivate the delectable locks you have seen pictured.
Many people may ask, "Why? WHY?! You had such interesting, ethnic hair! The curls, the CURLS!!!" Many people have indeed asked that, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Relax. I can have the curls any time. I do in fact enjoy them a great deal (as evidenced by the college years when I was rockin' the Blaxploitation 'fro). But hot damn have I been waiting all my life to be able to toss my head and have my hair COME BACK DOWN for a change. To have the wind actually pick up the strands of my hair and tug at them, rather than just bouncing off and going "What the fuck did I just hit?" To not have a perpetual up-do. It's just about options, yo.
And all of this makes me think, makes me wonder. Sure, my mom knew more than the average cracka about Black hair. But I wonder what it's been like for her to have a child who looks so much like her...and yet so not. Seeing us apart, people would probably never guess we're even related. But put us next to each other and watch us smile, and it's like "You mean I can get that in Ivory AND Khaki?" I wonder how my mom feels about the fact that I have, by default, been identified more with my dad's people? About the fact that, much like a certain Magic Mulatto in the not-so-White House, people don't always count her in my genetic makeup.
I think she probably feels a lot like many other parents of multiracial children feel: she loves me, and she's proud of me and the fact that my skin is a different color than hers doesn't matter a bit. I'm her little girl, regardless of how old I get, or how poofy my hair is.Sunday, April 24, 2011
It's Okay That I'm This Excited, Because I'm Also Embarassed
YOU GUYS.
OH MY GAH, YOU GUYS.
SERIOUSLY!
You know what I'm this flippin' excited about?!
TOWELS!
...
...
Yep, it's that ridiculous. And I know you're at least a little disappointed in me, but hear me out. About four years ago, I got these really cute towel/washcloth sets for my bathroom. Fluffy white towels with a striped border of one plum stripe and one hot-pink stripe. I had my very own twee little apartment for the first time in EVER, so I had liberty to decorate as fluffy-pants girly as I wanted, and boy howdy was I going to go all the way. Hence the pink-and-purple towels and the hot pink bath rug. I had visions, folks--visions of setting women's rights back two, maybe three hundred years with the sheer vapor-having, corset-wearing, lace-betrimmed, tacky-ass fluffery of my bathroom. Oh, it was going to have hot pink shit all over the damn place, and little Eiffel Towers and pictures of teacups with stupid shit like "Le Tea" printed on them, and potted African violets, and everything was going to match my pink and purple towels.
Needless to say, my visions did not come true, as we still maintain the right to vote. Part of the reason is because, after I acquired said towels, they stopped being in stock. Anywhere. I searched high and low in bath decor for things that would match those colors, but it's a futile effort, lemme tell ya. So I gave up and got some lavender towels and went on with my life, sort of. Every time I was in a Target or TJ Maxx or Bed, Bath & Beyond, I'd surreptitiously meander through the towel section, just to see if they had anything in those magical shades of pink and purple--particularly more towels, because something in my Southern belle nature just won't let me rest until all my damn towels match.
I'd given up. I'd started contemplating other color schemes, even. Until today.
I was in the K-mart looking for a pair of cheap, slutty shoes because my husband and I have actually started going on dates every now and again and you gotta keep that romance alive but still mind your budget. After being disappointed that K-mart, of all places, had nary a cheap, slutty shoe on the shelf, I wandered past the bath section on my way out. And there, right there, staring me in the face, were MY EXACT TOWELS.
THE VERY SAME TOWELS. STRIPES AND ALL.
THE ENTIRE SET, YOU GUYS.
FULLY STOCKED.
They had the bath towels, the hand towels, the washcloths, the bath mats, the toilet rugs, the whole frackin' shebang, in striped, in pink, in plum, in plain white--friends, they had it all! I just about fell over in sheer cottony delight. I would have done a victorious song and dance right there in the aisles, but there were people around, buying marked-down marshmallow Peeps, and I thought they might call someone to come take the crazy lady screaming, "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! THEY'RE TOWELS!" off to the loony bin.
So instead I very quietly selected a few bath coordinates and nonchalantly sauntered to the checkout line, hoping no one else noticed how perfect and awesome my towels were (stay away from my frickin' towels, denizens of K-mart; I'll be back on payday). My inner Martha Stewart can rest easy for now.
And yes, I know this has all sounded completely, mind-blowingly silly. But at least I know where my towel is, a'ight? (And if you don't get that reference, drop what you're doing right now and go read this book. I don't care if you're in traffic; they'll wait. Plus, you'll be a better person for it.)
OH MY GAH, YOU GUYS.
SERIOUSLY!
You know what I'm this flippin' excited about?!
TOWELS!
...
...
Yep, it's that ridiculous. And I know you're at least a little disappointed in me, but hear me out. About four years ago, I got these really cute towel/washcloth sets for my bathroom. Fluffy white towels with a striped border of one plum stripe and one hot-pink stripe. I had my very own twee little apartment for the first time in EVER, so I had liberty to decorate as fluffy-pants girly as I wanted, and boy howdy was I going to go all the way. Hence the pink-and-purple towels and the hot pink bath rug. I had visions, folks--visions of setting women's rights back two, maybe three hundred years with the sheer vapor-having, corset-wearing, lace-betrimmed, tacky-ass fluffery of my bathroom. Oh, it was going to have hot pink shit all over the damn place, and little Eiffel Towers and pictures of teacups with stupid shit like "Le Tea" printed on them, and potted African violets, and everything was going to match my pink and purple towels.
Needless to say, my visions did not come true, as we still maintain the right to vote. Part of the reason is because, after I acquired said towels, they stopped being in stock. Anywhere. I searched high and low in bath decor for things that would match those colors, but it's a futile effort, lemme tell ya. So I gave up and got some lavender towels and went on with my life, sort of. Every time I was in a Target or TJ Maxx or Bed, Bath & Beyond, I'd surreptitiously meander through the towel section, just to see if they had anything in those magical shades of pink and purple--particularly more towels, because something in my Southern belle nature just won't let me rest until all my damn towels match.
I'd given up. I'd started contemplating other color schemes, even. Until today.
I was in the K-mart looking for a pair of cheap, slutty shoes because my husband and I have actually started going on dates every now and again and you gotta keep that romance alive but still mind your budget. After being disappointed that K-mart, of all places, had nary a cheap, slutty shoe on the shelf, I wandered past the bath section on my way out. And there, right there, staring me in the face, were MY EXACT TOWELS.
THE VERY SAME TOWELS. STRIPES AND ALL.
THE ENTIRE SET, YOU GUYS.
FULLY STOCKED.
They had the bath towels, the hand towels, the washcloths, the bath mats, the toilet rugs, the whole frackin' shebang, in striped, in pink, in plum, in plain white--friends, they had it all! I just about fell over in sheer cottony delight. I would have done a victorious song and dance right there in the aisles, but there were people around, buying marked-down marshmallow Peeps, and I thought they might call someone to come take the crazy lady screaming, "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! THEY'RE TOWELS!" off to the loony bin.
So instead I very quietly selected a few bath coordinates and nonchalantly sauntered to the checkout line, hoping no one else noticed how perfect and awesome my towels were (stay away from my frickin' towels, denizens of K-mart; I'll be back on payday). My inner Martha Stewart can rest easy for now.
And yes, I know this has all sounded completely, mind-blowingly silly. But at least I know where my towel is, a'ight? (And if you don't get that reference, drop what you're doing right now and go read this book. I don't care if you're in traffic; they'll wait. Plus, you'll be a better person for it.)
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Oh Snap, Where I'm at Now?
Ahhh, the joys of interstate relocation.
That's right, folken, my husband and I have once again abandoned our former domicile for greener pastures; in this case, moving back to Asheville. And I have to say, as complicated and harrowing as moves can be, this one was cake. We've got this thing pretty much down to a science, as much as we've done it since we moved in together (woo-hoo, livin' in sin!), and a good bit of planning ahead and steady follow-through will turn pretty much anything into a much easier experience.
Speaking of planning ahead, I'm so relieved that I remembered to pack my thermal leggings. Over the couple of days we spent loading our truck and moving our stuff, Atlanta had its first bout of 80-degree weather for the year. It was truly beautiful, my friends, after a snappy (but not as devastating as last year) winter and breezy early spring. To just be able to go out in a tee shirt and shorts and not run back into the house desperately seeking a hoodie was pure bliss. Despite the beautiful weather we had, though, I remembered how Asheville gets around this time of year. Oh, she's a temptress. "Come on, it's 75 outside! Isn't it beautiful? Put those sweaters away; unpack your linen pants and go saunter around downtown all day! Let the sweet scent of patchouli and lady armpits wash over you, aaaaaaaaannnnnd BOOM, MOTHAFUCKA! 44 DEGREES AND HIGH WINDS! HOWDOYA LIKE ME NOW?"
But you can suck it, fickle mountain weather! I've got my longjohns, my leg-warmers, my fuzzy socks and my Fugg boots! I've got sweaters and jackets and hoodies galore! BOOYAH!
Still, I am looking forward to the gorgeous spring weather no doubt coming just around the corner in fits and starts. I know it'll show up soon, and then I'll wax my legs and shave my armpits and everything, and get outside and enjoy it.
What's on the agenda these days? House hunting, putting in some part-time hours on the old retail circuit in between coloring my comic pages, figuring out what I'm going to do with my hair next, and looking for a cat to adopt. Busy times, y'all, and I'll likely write entries about each of those things as they come up. But for now, I'll just be chillin' in the mountains with the fam, drinking excellent coffee again, being able (and willing) to walk places, and not taking my damn life into my hands every time I decide to drive. Ahhh...it's good to be home.
That's right, folken, my husband and I have once again abandoned our former domicile for greener pastures; in this case, moving back to Asheville. And I have to say, as complicated and harrowing as moves can be, this one was cake. We've got this thing pretty much down to a science, as much as we've done it since we moved in together (woo-hoo, livin' in sin!), and a good bit of planning ahead and steady follow-through will turn pretty much anything into a much easier experience.
Speaking of planning ahead, I'm so relieved that I remembered to pack my thermal leggings. Over the couple of days we spent loading our truck and moving our stuff, Atlanta had its first bout of 80-degree weather for the year. It was truly beautiful, my friends, after a snappy (but not as devastating as last year) winter and breezy early spring. To just be able to go out in a tee shirt and shorts and not run back into the house desperately seeking a hoodie was pure bliss. Despite the beautiful weather we had, though, I remembered how Asheville gets around this time of year. Oh, she's a temptress. "Come on, it's 75 outside! Isn't it beautiful? Put those sweaters away; unpack your linen pants and go saunter around downtown all day! Let the sweet scent of patchouli and lady armpits wash over you, aaaaaaaaannnnnd BOOM, MOTHAFUCKA! 44 DEGREES AND HIGH WINDS! HOWDOYA LIKE ME NOW?"
But you can suck it, fickle mountain weather! I've got my longjohns, my leg-warmers, my fuzzy socks and my Fugg boots! I've got sweaters and jackets and hoodies galore! BOOYAH!
Still, I am looking forward to the gorgeous spring weather no doubt coming just around the corner in fits and starts. I know it'll show up soon, and then I'll wax my legs and shave my armpits and everything, and get outside and enjoy it.
What's on the agenda these days? House hunting, putting in some part-time hours on the old retail circuit in between coloring my comic pages, figuring out what I'm going to do with my hair next, and looking for a cat to adopt. Busy times, y'all, and I'll likely write entries about each of those things as they come up. But for now, I'll just be chillin' in the mountains with the fam, drinking excellent coffee again, being able (and willing) to walk places, and not taking my damn life into my hands every time I decide to drive. Ahhh...it's good to be home.
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