terribleturnip

In talking with The Consort a couple of weeks ago, we were talking about Heinlein, and I mentioned how damn cringe-worthy his books are now. He didn't know what I was talking about. I said "the rampant sexism, women as objects, most of the time, the only women of value being smart AND hot." He literally hadn't noticed until I mentioned it.

Several months ago, got in a conversation with a friend over an old book that he wanted me to read and I said I had to quit after a couple of chapters because the women were so poorly written, that there's no way a woman would really think that way (the main character was a woman) and he said "no, I think that the author's really good at writing female characters."

And just got in an argument with random dude who, in response to a young woman saying that 1984 was rapey, proceeded to explain the entire book and how it wasn't, in fact, rapey. Despite the fact that Winston literally says that he wants to rape Julia.

Now, I'd argue with the young woman that one line doesn't make the whole book rapey, and that while I could tease some misogyny out of the text easily, compared to similar books of the time, it's not that bad and the other themes in the book are powerful enough to make it worth the read.

But similar books of the time...does make me realize that this is not something relegated to the past.

I read a book a couple of years ago, written by a man -- and it wasn't great literature, but a fun read, zombies in a Middle Eastern war zone, pretty much. But I realized at the end that I didn't actually know what the women looked like. No idea if they were pretty or not. No idea about the size of their breasts or shape of their bodies. A woman was leading a team of mercenaries, mostly men, and there was ZERO explanation of how a woman came about to be leading a team of bad-ass men -- like you could just assume that she was a bad ass AND a good leader. It was such a joy and REALIZING how refreshing it was made me realize just how RARE it was in the books I tend to read.

And now, of course, I can't help but notice. (The actual definition of "Woke", as opposed to slur it seems to have become.) And it really pisses me off.

But in many cases, I don't think the author even realizes he's doing it! Just like I could be writing stuff that's subtly racist, or misandrist and because I'm a white woman, I don't even "see/hear" it until someone points it out.

So, to that aim, here begins the series: where I drop examples of writing that is...however you want to see it -- harmful to women, pisses off your women readers, makes you seem like some dude mired in the '50's still, whatever. I'm not outing the authors or the book, unless it's endemic, because I truly believe that these authors, most of them anyway, are good men who have just beeen raised in our culture and it leaks out from time to time. That if an editor or reader brought it to their attention that most of them would have changed. (Okay, most of them might argue a bit. ;) )

But still, this is more preventative, shedding light, on stuff that might sound fine to you as you're sitting there reading, but to a woman's eyes/ears is so effing tiresome, if not downright offensive or harmful.

So, here's one:

"Laurie was a good match for Tyler, bright and outspoken -- the kind of girl who wore almost no makeup, but was naturally attractive."

OMG, can't we just be bright and outspoken and that be good enough? Do we also have to look good with almost no make-up? (Men, in case you don't know, women/girls get judged if we don't wear make-up because we're not attractive enough, or if we do, we get judged because we wear TOO much make-up. Apparently there's a PERFECT level of make-up which we all should aspire to - the kind that makes us just a little sexy, a little better looking, but doesn't "false advertise" or make us look like we're looking for a hook-up.

And also, average looking people can also be good matches.

(If you doubt me, go ahead and google things like women wear too much makeup or women who don't wear makeup)

I know, you're thinking "that's not a big deal, you're going to take the author for task on just that?" And I will answer #1, wait as the series grows. #2, that's literally just the book I'm reading currently - I didn't search for an egregious example, I didn't pick this book on purpose. I'm a quarter of the way through the book and had zero concerns about the way women are portrayed, sure some stereotypes but honestly some people ARE stereotypes, that's how the stereotype arose. This was just a "going good so far and goddamit, he trips." Sigh.

So, my colleague, who’s from South America, hears me coughing, second cold in two months and she’s usually pretty quick on the home remedies – I should coat myself in Vicks and then wrap myself in plastic wrap, for example, or mustard and plastic wrap or…now I know why her daughters are never sick for very long: the treatments are such that you’ll totally get better just to avoid them. I’m in the same boat! Because I do all I can to duck her “treatments”.

Which, in me, leads to guilt, like she's trying to give, trying to help, and I'm like eh, I got Mucinex. So, now she comes to my cube with “how she cured her daughter’s lung issues, and also energy and everything. And she seems weird about telling me how, but then says “well, you would have to eat a bug”. Now, I have a stepdaughter who’s an entomloglist who’s worked on entompaghy (bug-eating) projects. And also, I do have a rep for being a bad-ass at work, not afraid of the weird. So, I’m like “oh, I’d totally eat a bug on a regular basis if it would fix this!”

Which is how we got to me holding a tupperware container full of peanut beetles. They’re a South aMERICAN, folk remedy for things like lung issues, asthma, cancer, immune, whatever, in Latin America. Eat a live beetle (or very recently dead) once a week and bam, better energy, less sickness, everything.

So, on the one hand, I actually am starting to get that desperate. What the hell, I’ve done gluten free, dairy free, alcohol free, no nightshades, 8 or more hours sleep, all of the things. And none of them have worked. So, sure, eat a bug. Now, to be fair, I already eat bugs. No prob. So, here’s my colleague, thinking that I would think eating a bug would be insane. And I’ve got to flaunt my entomophagy chops, with, yeah, would totally love to eat a peanut bettle once a week. And then we moved on, conversationally speaking. And I didn’t think anything else of it.

Until after lunch, when she hands me a plastic container full of…peanut beetles. And peanuts. And peanut beetle larvae. She went home for lunch and collected me some breeding stock.

And now I’m the mother of a colony of peanut beetles. And my colleague who gave them to me is all like hey just throw some carrot shavings in every three weeks, and snatch a beetle to eat once a week.

But she doesn’t know me. To her, it's no big deal. But I'm me, so, I’m on the intrawebs, how best to care/cultivate them and I’m like nooo….they must have a substrate of oats and wheat bran, with raw peanuts, of course, and then fruit/veg for moisture. And then there’s the best temperature for breeding, and how much light they need and …suddenly I’ve got a special container, in a container of my warmest room, specially protected from too much light, just enough fruit/veg…and now I’m all daily “are they happy, are they having babies, do they need enrichment activities."

ENRICHMENT ACTIVITIES. For what’s the conjunction of food and medicine? I don't know...because I go right to zoo-keeper.And now I’m all concerned about their mental health and well-being. Even though I’m going to grab one each week and just freaking eat it.

I mean, I haven’t eaten one yet…I need them for breeding stock, right?

Don’t judge me, I haven’t named them. Yet.

So, I love olive oil cakes. They're simple, flexible and a surprising texture. Plus they keep well. Are easily made gluten free. Can be easily changed, flavor-wise.

I'm going to make it easy for you. The hardest thing: you need to own a springform pan and you need to have a mild olive oil you like. Once you get into it, you can get into more exciting olive oils. Spanish is a good place to start. Also, you should consider buying parchment circles - already cut. Which, if you bake at all, will save you a ton of time. I get mine from King Arthur Flour. Do it.

So, you're going to grease your ideally 9" springform with the olive oil. Put a parchment disk on the botton, oil that as well. Then sprinkle the inside of the pan with granulated sugar, the way you would flour a cake pan after greasing. Part of the appeal of an olive oil cake is its crispy edges and the sugar helps create that. Put your oven at 400.

Measure your dry ingredients into a small bowl: 2 cups of cake flour or gluten-free flour mix. You could use regular flour but it won't be as tender. 1/3 of a cup of almond flour or finely ground cornmeal or not so finely ground cornmeal. The latter will make a sandier texture, which I love, the former two options will make a more cake-like texture. Also, 2 tsp baking powder, 1/2 tsp baking soda, 1/2 tsp salt. Whisk them together to mix.

In a measuring cup or small bowl mix together the liquids: 3 tbs of amaretto or Grand Marnier or Cointreau or Limoncello, 3 Tbs lemon juice. 2 tsp of vanilla extract and 1 tsp of lemon extract.

In the primary mixing bowl, put 3 eggs, 1 Tbs lemon zest, 1 cup + 2 Tbs sugar, beat on high with whisk or paddle attachment for 3 minutes, or 5 minutes if you're using hand beater. You're looking for the mixture to be pale, thick and fall off the beater in ribbons.

While on high, stream in 1 1/4 cup of olive oil, beat to incorporate completely.

Reduce to low, mix in dry and wet in alternating amounts, beginning and ending with dry. Scrape bowl well, and fold to incorporate completely.

Pour into pan, smooth top, sprinkle top with another 2 Tbs of granulated sugar. Put in the oven, shut door, reduce to 350. Wait, before you do that, slide a sheet of aluminum foil onto the rack below the pan. Because if there's some excess oil that drips out of the pan, you want to catch it and not have it land on your oven floor...because that's going to be some serious smoking next time you use your oven.

Bake 40-50 minutes until a toothpick comes out clean. Let cool in pan 15 minutes. Optional and recommended, poke holes with a skewer, drizzle 2 Tbs of olive oil over the top so that it goes into the holes. Remove from pan, let cool completely.

If not serving that day, wrap in plastic. It's actually best if it sits for a day, although still damn good the same day. It will keep up to 4 days. Right before serving, you may want to sift confectioner's sugar over the top, or more granulated sugar, to hide the holes.

Now, here's the fun part. You can substitute orange for the lemon zest/juice. Almond flour, amaretto, lemon or orange. Grand Marnier/Cointreau, lemon or orange with the cornmeal. Totally mix it up. Find some lemon olive oil or blood orange olive oil and use that as your finishing drizzle.

Today I had my second yoga experience. It was pretty normal.

My first yoga experience: not so normal.

It started simply enough. I was head of the local chapter of our personal chef association. One of our members suggested bringing in a friend who taught yoga. She could teach us all some exercises and stretches that would help limber us up, release negative energy before we started cooking. Insert some expletive about how our negative energy could flow into our clients' food. If that were true, I'd be poisoning my clients on a regular basis. But hey, I was desperate for fun and interesting things to do at our meetings, so sure, why not!

The meeting itself was held in someone's house in a small working class suburb of Baltimore. Our hostess and myself were the youngest people in attendance, let's say early forties. We were also clearly the fittest. I mean, I'm not an athlete by any means, but looking around the room, it was a vision in overweight, creaky, and loving food and hating exercise more than even I do. Boy, they sure could use some limbering up, I thought.

We had our business meeting and then it was time for the yoga. Only, instead of the instructor that we'd thought we were going to get, it was her associate, a tall hard muscled, greyhound thin, fierce woman. She suggested that we go out onto the lawn. To this day, I have no idea how we wound up on the front lawn. There was a lovely back yard, enclosed by a fence, all nice and private...with shade. Instead we're on the front lawn, 20 feet from the road in a residential neighborhood. On yoga mats.

Did I mention that it was 85 degrees and humid? I mean, we were supposed to be learning simple stretches...but apparently our instructor thought we were there for a actual class. Not just yoga, but "fast yoga" for which I'm sure there's a name, but I'm going to go with drill sergeant yoga. She started barking positions, taught us a couple and then it was wham, Down Dog, wham, Happy Warrior, wham, Dying Duck wham back to Down Dog then Wilting Flower, Happy Tree, hold it...wham, Down Dog.

Well, needless to say, my fellow aged, chubby chefs started dropping out rapidly. But as the leader of the group, I felt I needed to hang in there. The hostess, since it was her idea, also felt the need to keep up. And hot as hell. I was sweating so much, my hands and feet and knees slid out from underneath me like I was doing yoga on a buttered skillet. But there was NO WAY I was letting this chick, this instructor who had the personality of an irritated chihuahua. I was going to outlast her, even if it killed me. I could see that my friend, the hostess, was similarly bloody-minded. In retrospect, if we hadn't been so pigheaded, we could have just thrown in the towel and stopped it. But NOOOOOOOOO.

To make it even better...let's not forget that we're on the front lawn of a working class neighborhood. Cars are going by, honking, waving, guys making all sorts of lovely comments.

Oh, did I mention that we were wearing shorts and shirts? Not yoga pants or even sweat pants. So, I'm trying to do a position, Dead Pigeon, Broken Bird, I don't know. I've got one arm doing a broken wing thing, my legs are all twisted around each other and I'm concentrating on not just flying off the mat like I'm on the world's worst Slip 'n Slide of Sweat. And the instructor comes by and says "good, but let's get your hips lower." And she pushes my hips down, sliding the crotch of my shorts so far up my vagina that I squeaked, in unison with the crotch seam of my shorts which also didn't appreciate the maneuver. So now, I'm doing yoga with the seam of my shorts lodged firmly in places where the sun never shines. Because you know, I'm so covered in sweat, those shorts aren't coming back out until I do some major undoing.

But in the meantime, I WILL OUTLAST MY ENEMY. Thankfully, it was just another three poses and she let us end with Corpse pose. And by corpse, boy howdy, I was the sweatiest, breathiest corpse ever seen. But we won, my friend and I - she did not break us. Although I then had to head to the bathroom to...readjust things.

That was nearly 15 years ago. It's taken me that long to give it another try. You'll all be glad to know, I was dressed appropriately, in air conditioning, and in a fairly private location, with a very sweet instructor. My vagina was grateful.

So, how're we going to explain away the latest round of mass shootings? Here's the thing: all of your excuses -- but that won't stop these guys, it's a mental health issue, we should arm everyone, I need my guns in case the government tries to force me...

For fuck's sake.

News Flash: if the government really wants you (like they could be bothered) they will just take you out. The only thing protecting you from being just wiped off the face of the earth, should the government decide you should be, the only thing giving you a fighting chance, giving you time to get in touch with a lawyer, etc, are the very rights to due process you're working so very hard to dismantle for others, for example immigrants, the foreign born, the brown skin born, the non-Christians. So maybe, you want to lay off that bullshit. But seriously, the government you seem to want to be building - they're going to have zero patience with your stash of guns, your ammunition, your last-stand mentality. They'll just send in a drone and disappear you. AND YOU KNOW THAT. So let's stop pretending that you need guns to defend yourself from the government that you elected. I dunno, maybe you're playing the long game - building this armory and letting the planet go to shit so that when it all falls apart you're big man on campus because you have guns a plenty and five years worth of macaroni and cheese in a bucket.

Arming everyone -- that's a great idea. That's what I want in an emergency -- two dozen people who have zero training and can barely hit the side of the barn when they're concentrating all shooting at once. Super. Police officers and the military undergo all sorts of training to make sure they can keep a level head in an active shooter situation. But sure, you with your 20 hours a week video game habit will do a great job and are much less likely to shoot an innocent bystander. Hang on, I gotta wipe the sarcasm foam from my lips.

Mental health -- look, for starters, crazy people will still do crazy stuff, yes, absolutely. But a fraction of crazy stuff per minute my friends. Two people killed instead of 20. That'd be just fine in the books of those 18 people...their parents, their partners, their children. Maybe if you gave a shit about mental health and fixing that, you wouldn't have elected a president that's cutting all of the social support and programs that could be helping these people. A president whose minion is cutting education, science and research that could actually help these people.

Maybe you shouldn't have elected a president who incites hatred and othering of people on a daily basis. Maybe you could say "Look, GOP, you run him again and we lose, we're going to totally lose our guns. Why don't you run a candidate that eschews hatred and actually gives a shit about his constituency, doesn't give all of the racist, sick fucks a hard-on for shooting up people that piss them off?"

Because, news flash: this keeps happening, and this, more than any thing else, will lose the election for you, will lose your guns -- and lose them hard.

Make a compromise, repudiate the Fomenter-of-Hatred-in-Chief, and you stand a good chance of keeping 90% of what you've got. I mean, hell, we liberals have guns too -- I might have to hunt, I might have to put something out of its misery. Most of us have no problem with people having guns -- but it'd probably be okay to have to jump through some hoops. And maybe that class of guns should have bigger, harder hoops, be able to be used/kept in only certain places, at certain times.

Oh, we know. It's not going to stop all of it. But some of it. Maybe only 10% of it. Isn't that enough? There have been 8,737 mass shooting deaths so far this year, as of right this minute. If it only stopped 10%, that'd be 873 people going home to their families today -- alive, going to church, going to the birthday picnic, chilling on the couch with their loved ones. Are you really going to stand there and say "yeah, I'm okay with those 873 people dying in order to ensure there's no more regulation on my guns." You going to look at their widows, their widowers, their parents, their children and say "yeah, well, sorry, price of freedom and all."

Please. You don't even have the courage to stand up to a party and president that are making it clear that unless you're a white American, you're not actually a person.

Step One: embrace the concept that it's totally okay to put all of your effort into one element of the meal and none into the rest. Rotisserie Chicken and you make a vegetable from scratch. Pasta sauce from a jar, pasta from a box, and you make a salad from scratch. Or from a bag -- god, cut yourself a break!

Step Two: embrace the concept that if the pre-made thing basically has the same ingredients you'd use if you were cooking from scratch, you might actually be a masochist if you insist on making it from scratch.

Step Three: feel good about using "helpers" but learn how to judge whether the time savings is worth slowly killing you with more fat, sodium, bullsh*t ingredients.

Step Four: try not to throat punch anyone who says "what you use jarred pasta sauce?" or "rice cooker, who needs a rice cooker, it's not like it's hard to make rice!". Look, Tiffany, I'm having pasta because I'm tired and in need of some comfort and probably had a shitty day at work, so yeah, you know what chopping onions and garlic, opening a can of tomatoes, adding seasonings IS BEYOND ME TONIGHT. And also, you will pry my rice cooker out of my cold dead hands, Jennifer, because I can just dump the rice and water in, turn it on and then take care of some shit and even if I get distracted by something, that cooker will stop on time and keep it warm until I'm ready, so get off my ass already. Ahem, Step Four may be just for me, but seriously, I'm telling you that if a chef uses an expletive deleted rice cooker, you can totally feel okay about using one. And the cheap $29 one from Target is JUST FINE.

Let's start with step three because I'm an anarchist. My pantry is filled with packets of simmer sauce type stuff. Especially Indian, but now they're coming out with all kinds. Because you can just throw rice in the rice cooker (or thaw out some frozen naan, or whatever), put the sauce in a pot, empty a can of rinsed beans into it, or leftover meat or even a chopped raw chicken breast or pork chop, or tofu cubes, and let it heat up while you're getting out of work clothes (is there anyone out there who comes home from work and stays in those clothes? I am not one of those -- it's soft clothes asap for me, but feel free to use the ensuing "while it heats up" time to do whatever.

BUT, you do have to look at the nutritionals, because there's an awful lot of extra sodium and fat going on. Note, I have nothing against fat on its own. But prepared food manufacturers will load their stuff with fat, sometimes saturated fat, as a shortcut for making it flavorful. So, it can really throw your fat intake into stupid-land on a cumulative basis. Let's face it, if I want indulge in saturated fat, I'm going to go to Five Guys or have macaroni and cheese or something that makes that fat worthwhile, rather than just have it thrown into something to make it more palatable. So land on the numbers you find acceptable and try to keep your "helpers" below that amount. I won't buy anything with a sodium number that's higher than 20% per serving. Because let's face it, I'm probably going to eat more than one serving and/or I might be putting salt on a side veg or the rice. So think on that. Same thing with the fat. Nothing against fat or salt inherently, but they are shortcuts to flavor that manufacturers use and I'd rather be eating my fat and salt where it brings joy.

Fewer ingredients tend to be better. Read the list and say to yourself, does that need to be in there, or is that another BS manufacturer short cut. Try to aim for "clean" labels, not because it's trendy, but because the whole point of what you're doing is to eat as healthy as possible, as quickly/labor free as possible. Otherwise you could just eat out, right?

So, I talked above, about the packet shortcuts (they come in jars as well). Beefing them up with beans, meat, tofu. Now, pasta sauce (where again, watch that sodium and expletive that high fructose corn syrup. A little bit of sugar is fine, but HFC means they're likely taking other shortcuts and other ingredient shenanigans) you can just crumble some ground beef, thaw out a couple of sausages in the sauce while it's heating (buy sausages, open the package, wrap each sausage or pair of sausages in plastic wrap, foil and throw in a zip lock bag in the freezer so that you can use one or two at at time - using them as flavor and an addition, rather than making them the main meal) or toss some frozen vegetables in there. Trader Joe's has a bag of frozen grilled zucchini, peppers and zucchini that's killer easy to chop while frozen and toss in a sauce to increase your meal's veg content. Or warm them up and serve the pasta sauce over the veg instead of pasta. Toss some frozen or raw spinach (or power greens, or baby kale) into the sauce and heat it up until they thaw/wilt.

Don't be afraid to use a rotisserie chicken - dinner one night, the leftover meat can be added to sauces, simmer stuff, or simply tossed with frozen veg/leftover rice/easy to cook grain dish. But learn your rotisserie chickens -- most of them are injected with brining solutions to keep them moist and sometimes the sodium is off the chart. A better way - you can just stick a whole chicken in a slow cooker, on low 6-8 hours and while the skin won't be as crispy, it's perfect for eating, adding to meals, enchiladas, etc. (If you can get a good air chilled chicken, then it can go right in the pot as it wasn't soaked in a water bath, so it will most release fat while cooking, so it poaches in its own fat, yummy. If not, put foil balls, a rack, or chopped veg (good ones, that you can eat as well, or just a tired onion or two, cut in halves/quarters) so that it sits above the water that's going to get released. There's nothing wrong with that water, now broth, so feel free to pour it over the leftover chicken to keep it moist, you just don't want the chicken to get water logged.) This will also work in a pressure cooker and instant pot. Season it with salt, pepper, spice mix, whatever.

Speaking of spice mixes, don't be afraid to use seasoning blends! Although, as usual, read the ingredients -- it should just be herbs and spices ideally. I will point you toward Penzey's, where you don't have to read the ingredients. Sure, I have all of the ingredients that make up their blends right there in my cabinet. But on a weeknight, it's a boon to just pull out a blend and use it. Spice blends can elevate those frozen vegetables, liven up that plain old rice or potatoes, make it seem like you did something to that chicken breast or piece of fish that was way more complicated than just sauteeing or baking it. Some of my Penzey's favorites: Bavarian for pork, potatoes, veg; Turkish for beef or lamb, Foxpoint for veg, Ozark for chicken, Cajun and Jerk for anything.

And please, oh, please, don't be afraid of "dump and cook" recipes, or taking shortcuts. I mean, sometimes I look at slow cooker recipes and think, well, hell after all that work and dirtying that many pans, I might as well just stick it in the oven and finish it here in half the time. The point is to get you cooking. Sure, the recipe might be improved if you browned each piece of that beef first before putting it in the slowcooker but you know what? It does not suck if you didn't. Yes, homemade stock is wonderful! But jeebus, Swanson's makes a pretty good low-sodium chicken broth and stock that aren't bad and it's just a can opener or cap twist away. Chop up some raw chicken, toss it with seasoning, put it in your rice cooker or instant pot with the rice and voila, dinner. Pour a jar of decent salsa over chicken, pork or a piece of fish, cover it with foil, toss it in the oven (google how to bake the protein you chose and that's how long and at what temperature. The salsa might insulate it a little so it's okay to give it a couple of extra minutes) and ta-da, dinner.

It may not be instagram-worthy, but it's dinner, you made it and it's way healthier than the alternative.

There are a couple of articles making the rounds -- wait, knowing how media works, I'm sure it's just one article, but because that article has been excerpted and quoted and re-posted, now it seems like a groundswell. Anyway the gist of the article is that it's unfair to make people feel badly about not having family dinners because not everyone has the time to cook, or the skills/resources to do so, or everyone's going in so many directions that there's no way they can sit down to a table on a regular basis. And that sometimes just keeping everyone fed is enough.

I will freely admit that keeping everyone fed is a worthy goal. And if you're a single parent, or a household where both parents have two jobs...well, everything's difficult. And I'm not looking to shame people who can barely breathe because they lose one shift and they're in danger of getting evicted.

But the rest of you lot? Seriously, one night a week for family dinner is within the realm of possible. I would also argue that maybe there would be serious value in limiting the number of activities that everyone is involved in if it's just impossible for everyone to sit down and have a meal. That there is actual real value in teaching your kids that the family has expectations and contributions that need to be met and that they actually cannot do/have everything that they want. If we have failed this generation, it is in not teaching them that you may have to set limits on stuff. Sometimes I wonder if we could have reduced the levels of anxiety and depression a hair by saying to them in high school (as my parents did): you're allowed to participate in no more than two after school activities -- one physical and one mental, or sports and something else. And you'd better find friends with parents who can take shifts driving you back and forth.

But that's a soapbox for another time.

Here's the thing: The problem is not that we're putting pressure on people to cook at home instead of relying on takeout or eating out all of the time. The problem is that everyone's forgotten how easy cooking a family dinner can be. Somehow we've developed this expectation that cooking a dinner has got to involve all sorts of prep work, all sorts of Instagram-worthy meals.

I can remember, oh, 25 years ago (gah, I've been alive long enough that 25 years ago was not the beginning of my career!) being in a meeting with a bunch of consultants and food industry experts. And we were trying to design some concepts for the grocery industry that were "meal solutions" because people didn't have the time or expertise any more to make meals from scratch. And as these people were talking about "meal assembly", the idea of taking already prepared foods and simply putting them together to heat and eat, like potatoes that were already shredded and just needed to be heated up with a little oil, or a sauce that you could just put meat in and heat it up, as opposed to cooked from scratch...that these expletive deleteds had never cooked a meal in their lives. Or maybe they had, but they'd certainly never made dinner, night after night.

Or I dunno, maybe they were from some midwestern cult where their mothers and wives spent every day cooking all day. And someone else cleaned the house, took care of the kids, and had a social life for them. Because yes, I was the only woman in a roomful of men, which 20 years ago was not that uncommon, even outside the tech industry, especially if it was a room WHERE DECISIONS ARE BEING MADE. And it became clear to me, with their talk of meal assembly that they had never even thought about how that food got to their table when they came home from work.

And thankfully, by that time of my career, I'd already blossomed into a fearless woman of opinions, which was the only way you get into rooms WHERE DECISIONS ARE MADE, although certainly back then, it could also get your ass kicked out on the street for "being difficult and challenging to work with".

So I told them that the term meal assembly might be new to them, but newsflash, growing up that was exactly how my mother cooked. Sure, there were some nights where she made a meatloaf. But the potatoes gratin came out of a box. And the vegetables came out of a freezer. That our favorite casserole was chopping onions and peppers, but otherwise the ground beef, the pasta, the can of tomatoes, the seasoning mix, was all dumped in a skillet to cook together. That some nights it was fish sticks, french fries and frozen or canned vegetables. Spaghetti sauce from a jar, pasta from a box, and yes, it was pre-bagged salad, so she had to chop a cucumber and a tomato and put in a bowl with the lettuce leaves. And pour salad dressing from a bottle on it. Cakes were from a box and frosting was from a can. The pork chops were Shake and Bake, with a side of frozen vegetables and Rice-a-roni. Hot dogs, a can of baked beans and a wedge of iceberg.

You guys know that that's how most women get dinner on the table right? That the homemade stuff happens on weekends, typically, especially if a woman has a job outside the house, right? (Yes, of course there were women who did cook from scratch every single day, but by the seventies it was already becoming an anomaly.)

And I think that's what's happening today -- people like Mark Bittman and others are all "we can address the obesity epidemic and other societal ills" if everyone started cooking more often instead of relying on fast food and take-out. Which is a good and true point! But actual, serious, from scratch cooking, all the time? Nah, that ain't gonna happen. We have jobs, we're exhausted -- and yes, those high expectations of scratch cooking are simply unrealistic and do turn off people who know they cannot pull that off on a regular basis.

And grocery stores are trying, with their heat and eat selections, although reading the list of ingredients and the fat and sodium content makes me want to say "oh, yeah, never mind, just go to Chipotle, because you might as well be eating take-out and not dirtying a pan."

Recently, some chef friends of mine were making fun of recipes they'd found online for fish cooked in an Instant Pot. Like it takes no time to cook fish, why would you put it in the Instant Pot, OMG, what is this world coming to? Well, Karen, it's already arrived -- you know what's brilliant about that Instant Pot fish recipe? You get home from work put all the things in the pot, turn it on, and then go get into your soft clothes, feed the dog/cats, start a load of laundry and then it's done...and stops cooking and stays warm until you're done cleaning up the cat puke or whatever chore got you distracted, so that distraction doesn't equal burnt food.

THAT'S the unfair part -- judging people for taking shortcuts. If we were all more supportive, if more food blogs were about "here's this really time consuming faboo recipe for weekends or parties but here's how you can add four shortcuts that will give you a weeknight dinner that is not as faboo, but perfectly serviceable." Anyway, let's get people cooking at home again, yes, but let's just get them started, even if it's frozen veg, a rotisserie chicken and rice in their Instant Pot. Part II of this post -- I'll actually give you some shortcuts that are both healthy and chef-approved.

I’m sure it must seem tedious a bit, if you’re a guy, all this feminist shit, all of these woke women all loud and shouty and aggrieved.

But it’s going to take a while for it to be over, because here’s the thing: just when we think we’ve reached the end of it. Just when we think that we have a grasp on just how expletive deleted it’s been and how much needs to change…

We find another thing. We have another realization, another awakening, one more goddamn straw, one more JFC, one more slow dawning revelation of how insidious this patriarchal toxic bullshit is.

The other day I had noticed that a friend’s boyfriend had been posting on social media. I could tell he was well in his cups. We’ve had a contentious relationship, he and I, but she loves him, and he’s not a bad person, so I try to be supportive.

So when he posted a comment on something I’d written, I thought about my reply. What can I write that acknowledges what he wrote, but also makes him feel good? Which I then did, a little tease, a little laugh, supporting his greater knowledge/access to things.

But as often seems to be the case with him, he took it the wrong way, with zero humor, with slight insult, as if I’d asked something of him and now he had to explain why he couldn’t do it and seemed put out by it. I’m being purposefully vague with the details because it really doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter if we just misunderstood each other, doesn’t matter if I was reading more into comments than what was really there…because what was important was that with the second interaction, I doubled down, my immediate response was: Oh, I’ve got to fix this. I’ve got to make him feel like the big man, make it clear I didn’t want anything from him, got to make sure he feels good about himself, need to double down that I’d never meant to offend him, that I had him in good esteem, that…and that’s when the wave hit me.

The thousands and thousands and thousands of times I’ve done that same tiptoe, that same softshoe, that same APPEASE, APPEASE, APPEASE, because I’d said or done something that made a man upset. The verbal/written equivalent of a dog pressing itself on the ground, tail wagging, ears down, submissive, non-threatening and appeasing.

It came rushing in, just how second nature that response was. Just how little I had realized I was following a pattern, not consciously, not purposefully, just automatically, unquestioning. THIS – from a woman who quite some time ago decided she was done with that submissive, non-threatening crap. Who several years ago, decided to full-on embrace her taking-up-space, being-heard, will-go-head-to-head-with-anyone self.

Now don’t get me wrong – I will totally do that whole appease/ego-stroke thing on purpose if there’s a very good reason. I mean, I might have done it in this case because hey, I love my friend, she loves this guy and everyone will be much happier if her boyfriend and I get along.

It wasn’t the doing it, it was the memory of how many thousands…no, expletive that, perhaps billions, of times I, and likely most women, have done that to a guy. Because we don’t want to get hurt – actually physically hurt. Or hurt because we then got passed up for that job opportunity, or tenure, or needed the mechanic, plumber, whatever to just do a good job and not be bitchy, even though we know what a goddamn failing headgasket looks like. Or because we remember the time we didn’t do the appeasement and the repercussions were ongoing or awful. Because we then got branded that bitch. Became difficult. Became unlovable, unfuckable. All of the bad things.

Hell, look at how long it takes me to attach to a male partner…how long they really remain “potential”. If only it were only TWICE-bitten, twice-shy! How many times do you wind up in a relationship where your partner applauds your boldness, is turned on by your take-charge, take-no-shit attitude…but expects you to leave that on the doorstep? Makes it very clear that you are not to apply THAT to him. Sulks and tantrums and grows cold because you made the mistake of thinking you could be that same self, your true self inside your relationship? Be actually genuine. How many times do you have to find yourself back in appease, appease, appease, before you learn, are lucky enough to find someone who understands the only way you can be whole is to be wholly free to be yourself? Too many expletive deleted times, probably, unless you’re really, really lucky. Spoiler alert: Luck and I don’t really hang out, although I've now spun around the sun enough times, thought long and hard enough about my choices and yes, found those men.

Is it just women who have that appease reflex? Of course not! But I’m guessing that if you polled men who felt they do, you’ll mostly find men who were victims of domestic violence or abusive parents. Or maybe not – maybe men do feel that same pressure to appease, to be small, to be non-threatening. Or maybe they’re just starting to feel like that now, in the wake of #metoo, maybe getting a taste of what it’s like to not quite ever be sure what’s going to set someone off. I can’t tell a man’s story, but I think my theory’s not completely off the wall.

But back to my original point – it’s that wake-up, that realization that no matter how far I think I’ve grown as a strong woman, as a feminist, no matter how cavalier I am about taking-no-shit, about taking up the space I deserve, about elbowing up to the table and being part of the conversation. No matter how much I feel appreciated and recognized by the significant men in my life…it’s still there, still a ghost, still rises up unbidden. Still reflexive, still automatic. And yes, that realization makes me, us, angry all over again. Reminds us that in high school we were fighting for equal access to the weight lifting equipment, and
now 30 plus years later that it often doesn’t feel like it’s gotten all that much better.

So, I know, I’m sure it’s a bit tedious, but until privilege is based purely on economic, on social, on education, something you have some power to change – rather than on gender or skin color – you may just have to suck it up and deal with the anger.

So thought I’d share this with you guys, to make you feel better about how your day is going. I decided it was time to have my snack of blueberries. I managed to hit the edge of the Tupperware container and flip the blueberries, pretty much in my lap, but also on my desk and some on the floor. Guys, SO MUCH blueberries. It’s like they multiplied once exposed to oxygen. The freaking Tardis of blueberries.

I congratulated myself for having worn all blue today, and painstakingly collected them from between my legs, hoping that a colleague would not walk by while I was fishing blueberries out of my crotch. Carefully, because you don’t want to burst those f***ers. Which I did, sort of sitting on one or two, but okay blue jeans and I’ve got spray cleaner for the pleather chair.

Then I push back my chair to collect the ones on the floor. Which I do, bumping my head on my desk several times because my cube is the size of a portapotty, albeit one that smells better and lacks a urinal.

Then I sit up and realize my fatal error. In pushing back my chair, I managed to roll over several blueberries, smearing them all over the carpet. Thankfully, I have hand sanitizer (did you know that hand sanitizer or hand wipes are pretty good at cleaning stains off fabric? It’s true) and paper towels, so scrub those stains out.

Utterly failing to realize that the blueberries are now mushed into the roller balls of the chair, and that in pushing my chair back to deal with trail of blueberry mush number one, I just created more blueberry mush trails.

Oh, yeah, and there's one smushed on the bottom of my shoe, now leaving a spot anywhere I put my foot down. And when I get up out of the chair to get the ones at the edges of my cube that aren’t mushed, that’s when two more mushed ones fall out of my crotch, leaving two more blueberry stains where I just cleaned the carpet.

I started my day unable to log in because they updated our system and I got kicked out. Now I’ve just spent 20 minutes cleaning up blueberry carnage, exhausting my supply of paper towels and hand sanitizer. It’s not even 10am and all I’ve done is make a mess. For everyone’s sake, it’s probably best if I just go home. But I mean, yay on me for wearing an entirely blue outfit! How prescient was that?

So, I've had this conversation dozens of times, because, despite my advanced age, apparently being involved with "theater", having friends that eat fire, and knowing how to use Urban Dictionary make me an expert on things not completely conventional.

"Well, the problem with people who are trans or genderfluid is that I don't know what to call them."

Okay, that one's easy, my precious poppets. Call them by their NAME.

"Well, but it's just hard to know what pronouns to use. I mean, her brother introduced himself as Roberta and he was wearing make up but had men's clothing on, but also a bra, so I mean I just had no idea what pronouns to use."

Okay, so just ask Roberta which pronouns Roberta uses. Roberta is very used to that question. Roberta may well be thrilled that you, old white lady living in the country, would think to ask. (Please note, for the record, that it actually wasn't all THAT hard to not even use pronouns in that sentence.)

"Oh, I don't know, that seems so awkward."

Awkwarder than using Roberta three times in a row? Okay, then use use the person's NAME.

"Well, yes, but I don't know whether Roberta is a man or a woman. I mean he looks like a man, in his cargo shorts and polo shirt. But he's got make up on and a bra and is going by Roberta."

So, the default is to just use they/their/them. If they prefer something else, they'll likely tell you.

"But still, it's still so awkward, not knowing whether THEY are a man or a woman."

Mabel, seriously, it's not a binary thing. Let it gooooooo, as the chick from Frozen sings.

"But still, I want to know, I mean, it just makes it easier."

Mabel, are you sexually attracted to Roberta?

"Wait, what, no, I mean..."

Because the only possible reason I can see to obsess over exactly what someone's gender is, is if you want to have sex with them and you really prefer a given gender, whether physical or presentational.

"No, no, I'm not interested in Roberta that way!"

Okay, Mabel, then explain to me again, why it matters. Either get to know Roberta as a person, learn his/her/their/zhir pronouns, either by asking or just by casually overhearing in conversation. Or just stop giving a rat's patoot, because honestly, it's weird that you're obsessed with a near stranger's gender. You need a hobby, Mabel.

I need to go in and go to sleep, but I'm outside and it's not hot and it's too late to do something productive and the wind is blowing in the trees, and I sort of want to get chased inside by weather, either rain or cold.
\
Or maybe by an empty drink glass.

Every year, I say to myself, wow, that was insanely stressful...next year it won't be this bad. Yet, every goddamn year it is. It's worse. I run a renaissance faire. And work full time. So, that's hard, because it means 11 weeks of 7 day workweeks. It's made harder when your company's been acquired at the M-F job so now you're doing two people's jobs. And then you're finally getting great staff and crew at the renaissance faire, but they've got questions. And want guidance. And instead of saying "fuck it, I just can't get that done" now I've got good people depending on me to make it happen anyway.

Oh, and also, you decided to buy a piece of property with the rest of your poly family and of course it's complicated because the property's weird, and all of the work you did to get it financed is now thrown out and you're starting over because "insert title/deed/whatever/sewer hookup/heating fiasco" here.

Oh, did I mention that my car decided to show its age and $4K later, it's now found new things to fail? Locks, electrical, something now with tire pressure and why does it smell like its burning oil? Oh, but wait, there's more: also, my Hashimoto's has decided to doubledown, the broken heel isn't healing properly, and I'm in early stages of glaucoma. My knees need to be replaced, which is weeks of being laid up, a ton of money, and while I refuse to admit it, I probably do have fibro.

I'm fucking things up because I'm just stretched too thin and the worst thing in the world for me is to feel that I've let people down. Right now that seems like that's the only thing I'm good at. Oh, did I mention that this has been the worst faire season ever, weather-wise and it's either rained or been hellishly hot every single day? Oh, except for the day of such torrential rain that we couldn't even open?

I periodically joke about being a modern day Job, except that there will be no God to apologize to me. I can't even make that joke right now. Guys, seriously, a mosquito just flew up my nose. I wish I had faith right now so that I could give God the finger.

Hells bells, my friends. A baby flicker was on my front steps this morning, just learning to fly. I tried to help it out (since the front steps is where MommaCat comes for breakfast). And it was having a hard time gripping with its right foot...and when it tried to fly, it just face planted and due to its big flicker bill, it literally was impaling itself on the ground. And I knew then, I knew, but I got a shallow box anyway, and put a towel in it to keep it dry and warm because the ground was cold and soaked, so that the strangeness of the box would fend off the cat, but not its parent, who was probably out there waiting to feed it. But it was too weak to even chirp. And I knew when I left for work what would happen and I repeated the thing I've said to so many people over the years: a pair of birds only needs two of its many offspring to grow to adulthood and reproduce, so yes, most of them are destined to be food for something else.

But oh, when I came home and it was cold and stiff in that box, I cried anyway. I bawled like a baby. All of my sadness and upset and weariness and overwhelmedness out in a flood of ugly, salty deluge. I cried for a thousand things. For women who are hated by men, for people of color and non-binary gender people who are hated for just existing. For people whose day to day life makes mine look like a cakewalk. And also, for me. Because your broken leg doesn't hurt any less just because someone else broke both.

I tell this story not for pity, not for seeking comfort, not for validation. I'll fucking get through it, I always do.

I tell this because: you can get through this too, whatever "this" is. Most people who know me would never imagine that I'd struggle with self doubt. That I'd be hanging onto the delight of fireflies like a goddamn liferaft. Yeah, well, it happens to the most capable of us. So don't you dare feel weak. Maybe you feel alone, maybe you don't have supportive partners, or enough friends. But you still have the wind rushing through the tree branches. Or fireflies. Or a yard full of bunnies. Or a cat that depends on you. Or that houseplant that thrives despite your neglect. Or a homeless person for whom your five dollars makes their entire day turn around. Maybe your compliment to that complete stranger, your letting that person cut in front of you in traffic was the thing that made them be able to hang in there one more day. Whatever you can find, you hang on to that. Hang on to that, my friend. Sometimes fireflies need to be enough.

( You're about to view content that the journal owner has advised should be viewed with discretion. )

We all know that someone, maybe multiple someones. The "I'm a drama free zone" people. The "I had to quit "whatever" because of the drama. I can't be friends with this person because they're such a drama queen. If you hang out at Renaissance Faires, maybe you've seen the pins: "Drama-free Zone" or some variation on that. (Of course, if you hang out at Renaissance Faire, by definition a multi acre site occupied by actors and wanna-be actors and then declare yourself a drama free zone...you're sort of betting against the odds, there.)

You on facebook? if you're lucky, this hasn't happened to you. If you're normal, then you've had a "friend" announce that they're DONE, they can't handle it, they're leaving Facebook (or insert social media of your choice). Or, they can no longer be friends with/be in the same space, even look at someone else because that person is nothing but drama.

Here's the thing. When you wear that pin? When you publicly shut someone out of your life, when you declare that you DON'T DO DRAMA?

You're actually being a drama queen. You are FLOUNCING. See, you could just not tolerate drama, you could not have someone as a friend, you could just block their posts. And not tell anyone. That's actually just being an adult. Making a point, making a scene...um, that's actually being dramatic.

I mean, what is drama? It's having an audience. You can't do drama on your own. You need someone to see it. You need to involve someone, ideally someone not intimately or naturally involved. That's drama.

So, when you decide that someone in your life is creating unnecessary drama and you just stop seeing them, stop replying to them, stop inviting them, just gently and effectively cut them out of your life (because I'm all about setting effective personal boundaries) but are still polite and coolly cordial when you run into them in a social setting, that's actually just being an adult.

Dude, I get it. You want a clean break, you want people to know that you...wait, no, now you're looking for an audience. And that, my friend, is the very definition of drama.

Adult means doing the right thing and not caring whether someone sees you do it, because you're doing the right thing. Look, everyone needs some affirmation from time to time, but good heavens, try and be self-sufficient when it comes to maintaining your personal comfort zone. And when it comes to leaving behind people who create drama, that is a perfect time to be self-sufficient. Don't be like the very people you're trying to cut out!

I have zero drama in my being life - despite managing a renaissance faire, despite being surrounded by lovely people who have just a bit too much of a flair for the dramatic. How do I manage it?

Well, for starters, don't feed it. When people come to you with drama, just refuse to hear it. Smile, hold your hand up flat in front of them (oh, poppets, you cannot underestimate the power of the gesture. Smile, but hold up the stop sign, do the wave off...make the pfft noise, the rolling of the eyes, the shrug of the shoulders) and then tell them you just don't want to hear it, you just don't care. I don't want to hear it.

It's remarkably effective. Making it clear that you don't give a rat's patoot. They want sympathy, they want you to care, too! Just don't. Refuse the agitation. There are a times when people deserve sympathy and empathy -- ask yourself "is this really the time?" I pretty much always answer "no". And yet, the people I adore still seem to love me. So, seriously, try this.

Also, you have another tool, if you're more extroverted and assertive. Solve their problem. Hard, fast. They start to describe the issue...and you just jump in with "Well this is what you need to do." There may be sputtering. Don't let it distract you. Push your solution (delete their e-mails, stop taking their phone calls, move on, tell them how you feel, give less fucks, whatever it is, demand a hard stop). Smiling. You know what drama queens hate? Solutions. Because it ends the drama. Because they either need to do it, or stop bitching about it. Right? When you've told them how they should fix it, and they don't and then they want to talk to you about it... ask "did you do the thing?" and they're going to say "No, Reasons" and you're doing to hold up the stop hand again and say "do the thing and then we'll talk, otherwise, I got shit to do." I wield this like a boss.

Oh, Poppets, it's game over, then. You've effectively become a drama non-conductive zone. They get no affirmation, only instruction. Oh, drama queens HATE that. Solutions and non receptiveness are the drama killers.

You don't want it? Then don't feed it. Smile, stop hand, solution. They're not bad people. Just bad habits. Help them to be better, help yourself to be happier.

Yep, it's that time again, hearts and flowers and chocolates, oh my!

Did I leave out the pissing and moaning about how it's all commercial bullshit designed to make single people feel like losers? Yeah, that's going to happen, too.

I originally titled this "Tough Love Day" because that's what I like to dispense, especially around this holiday, but I thought I would reach deep inside my compassion pouch (which is narrow, hard to get into) although, as usual, it was empty, so I had to justify "Love Yourself" on a technicality, which is that I'm dispensing the Tough Love in advance of February 14th.

Which means you've got a couple of days to get your shit together and act like a fully functioning adult.

Here's the thing: You are an adult now. You are responsible for your own joy.

"But Valentine's Day is just a reminder that everyone else has someone to celebrate with and I don't!" "Everyone else is happy and I'm not!"

And some of you are going to make a point of "today I'm going to protest by celebrating singlehood!" While I applaud you celebrating your singlehood...I urge you to restrain your desire to shit all over someone else's holiday. That's like me declaring "fuck all of these women getting cards and dinner and gifts for being a mother, I'm going to celebrate my malfunctioning ovaries and useless raisins of eggs!" By the way, you might think that the "so THERE!" is silent on that, but it's not, we can totally hear it. Try not to be a third grader, okay? Let everyone else enjoy their holiday and stop trying to make a damn point. You celebrate your Egg Raisins on some other day -- THAT'S cool. Rule #44: By all means, celebrate your thing, but don't shit on someone else's celebration when you do it.

Maybe you've never been in a relationship or maybe your past relationships were nothing but heavenly until they abruptly came crashing down around your ears like Trump University. But, newsflash, some of those people going out to dinner, getting cards, flowers, chocolates, jewelry are not necessarily happy. Some of them sort of wish that the person sending them would die in a fire. Some of the people sending them sort of wish that the person they're sending it to would drown in their bath. So console yourself with that.

You wish you were getting chocolates and flowers? You're an adult now. Treat yourself to chocolates/flowers that are just a little bit above what you think you should spend on them. Why the hell shouldn't you have them? You are indeed loveable. I have flowers delivered to my office every year. (Yes, I have three partners. But apparently, my "type" is brainy, balding and complete rubbish at gift giving.) And I know that if I want a thing, I should make the thing happen. I get them delivered because it's a treat to not have to go buy them and then drag them into the office. And yep, I get some fancy chocolates because it's the one time of year where I can have them completely guiltfree. I'm celebrating my overall loveableness and man oh man my loveableness deserves me some fine chocolates and my body image can just shut the hell up for a couple of days.

And let's stop making this a "shower the chick with gifts" holiday. Think it feels weird to send your guy flowers or chocolates? Okay, it's not, that's actually just you being weird. But my guys are getting bacon this Valentine's Day, so feel free to break with tradition in more than one way.

Aromantic? Single and an orphan? Don't have anyone to send anything to? Shame on you. You do so. Now's a great time to thank a friend, a mentor, someone who's supported you over the past year. You don't have to make it a Valentine's Day thing, but since V-Day's happening whether you like it or not, use it as a positive force to remind you that there are people in your life who deserve a little love back from you. Just send them a funny card, a heartfelt thank you card, a felt heart in a card, whatever.

Look, I feel you, single people who really want to be a in a relationship. Despite having a veritable wallow of loving partners right now, I've been there. But here's the thing: if you don't love yourself, if you can't find some measure of peace and fulfillment within yourself without being reflected in the mirror of someone else's eyes...you're not likely to find it in a relationship. A relationship should amplify your happiness because you're putting two happy fulfilled people together. Otherwise, you've got two half empty shell people looking for someone else to fill their shell with happiness. Which means that not only will you be struggling to fill your own happy/fulfilled, you're going to have be constantly draining some to fulfill your partner's happy/fulfilled bucket. You're still going to wind up half empty at some point if you expect someone else to drain off their happiness to fill your emptiness.

Fill yourself. Buy chocolates, send yourself flowers, treat yourself to an expensive steak, have a lovely bottle of wine, dress up and go to the theater, stay in a fancy hotel with a spa, shower love on other people in your life. Go out to dinner with a friend -- and don't celebrate your singlehood...celebrate your friendship. Celebrate being a loveable person who might want someone else in their life, but is pretty damn okay all on their own.

It somehow feels so self-indulgent and even wrong to write about anything that isn't "WTF is going on in this country" but sadly I think this is going to be going on for a while and I gotta pace myself.

So, indulgently, while my country was going to hell in a handbasket, I spent yesterday preparing for a Burn's Night Dinner. My ex-husband and his wife host one every year and it's such a joy to show up at someone else's house, with them having done all of the work. I don't get off scot-free (ha, see what I did there?) as I've been going for 9 years now and am generally on the hook for making dessert and with the exception of one year, been asked to give the Lassie's Reply.

There's a long history of celebrating Robert Burn's birthday with a very traditional, formulaic dinner. Generally speaking, there's whisky and poetry reading and haggis and speechifying and toasting. We say the Grace he wrote before we eat, we pipe in (or in our cases, since no one plays bagpipes, we all do a very, very bad imitation of piping) the haggis as it comes out to the table, then read Burns' Address to a Haggis before serving it, we randomly read Burn's poems during dinner, each toasted from one of the 7 or 8 bottles of whisky on the table, there's a Toast to the Lassies - a speech written by one of the male attendees, that is a gentle roasting of the ladies, referencing Burn's body of work. And then the Lassie's Reply, which is me. When I say speech, or technically toast, you need to understand that we're talking about a good 8-12 minutes long, so it does require some prep. The Lassie's reply is not as gentle as the men's toast to the women and meant to be bawdier and meaner, before circling back to why men are wonderful and toastworthy.

I have to admit that I'm fond of recycling material from one year to the next - pulling bits from several previous speeches. After all, it'd been a year and lots of whisky so who would know...except a lot of the other folks have been coming for years as well, so it really was time to start fresh and write some more original stuff.

So, here, in its entirety, is this year's Lassie's Reply. There was definitely some more ad libbing and a couple of other bits that played off the Toast to the Lasses but there was also a lot of whisky going on, so that material's sort of lost.

This year, for the first time, I really had a hard time trying to write this. I’d be fine and then I’d come across a reference to Burns standing up for women’s rights

"While Europe’s eye is fixed on mighty things, the fate of empires and the fall of kings.
While quacks of state must each produce his plan, and even children lisp the Rights of Man.
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Women merit some attention"

and I’d think “fuck me, it’s been 200 years how is this still a thing?”. But let’s not talk politics, for I’ve had whisky and I’m already feeling a bit fractious.

Luckily for you guys, I’m a New England WASP so I will channel my fury into humor. There may be more swearing.

So, my neighbor works for the Smithsonian and she was giving me a tour of their storage facility out in Suitland and she was showing me all sorts of cool stuff, freezers full of decomposing dolphins, closets full of elephant tusks, drawers full of whale penises. Did you know that the blue whale’s penis is ten feet long, a foot in diameter? At least when it’s not all dried up in a drawer. I can’t even make a joke about that. It’s that amazing. Anyway, we were moving into the storage area for hominids and on one shelf there were two brains in two jars. One was smaller and sort of tired looking, the other was big and plump and shiny. My feminist ire fired up when I saw that the shrunken one was female and the bigger one was labelled male. Kerry put her hand on my shoulder and said “hey, let’s face it, only one of them got used a lot in its lifetime.”

But back to Rabbie Burns who wrote “Mither Nature, her prentice hand she tried on man and then she made the lasses.” And we know that Rabbie loved the lasses. I know that most of you, certainly those who’ve been here before, are familiar with the list of women with whom we know that he had relationships, never mind all of the possible ones we just don’t have evidence for. So I ask you to think on this: Rabbie Burns on Tinder.

He wrote:
To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!

Seriously, that Dude NEVER swiped left. "Never made anither"Rabbie, darling, c’mon Nature made a lot. And you tried out as many as you could. You yourself wrote, "The sweetest hours that e’er I spend are spent among the lassies". And there was definitely an “s” on the end of lassies. If Burns had been born during the time of Tinder, I have no doubt he’d be wearing a wrist brace from all of the swiping right.

Although with 13 children in 11 years, and well over 700 poems, essays and songs, Burns could be one of the few men throughout history that could successfully multitask.

Now I’d already be fond of Burns because he gives us an excuse to get together once a year and have fun and he gets some of you men into kilts, which is always nice eye candy. But in addition to writing poems in honor of all sorts of women, he wrote a poem in honor of food. And not just fabulous food, which is easy, but to Haggis, of all things.

Hey, when is a man like a Haggis? After a Burns dinner when he’s a stuffed paunch reeking of whisky. Raise your hand if you were worried I was going to reference the stabbing it with a knife and it was going to be all “Trenching your gushing entrails bright”.

Speaking of which, I don’t understand why some people think that a woman’s place is in the kitchen. The place that houses knives and fire.

But back to Burns and his women. I say I’m fond of him, but probably more fond of him because he’s dead and I’m not dating him. Although, who knows, maybe all of his women knew about the others and was okay with it. After all, he wrote:

Let not Woman e’er complain of inconstancy in love;
Let not woman e’er complain – fickle Man is apt to rove.
Look abroad through Nature’s range, Nature’s might law is change…
Mark the winds and mark the skies, oceans ebb and oceans flow
Sun and Moon but set to rise, round and round the seasons go
Why ask then of Silly Man to oppose great nature’s plan
We be constant while we can.

Oooh, I can’t help it, it’s nature’s way!

Yeah, that sort of makes me feel stabby again. But wait, let’s talk about nature for a minute, Rabbie. I mean, you’ve got black widow spiders where the female regularly eats the male after copulation. Heck, most spiders worth this way, although some male spiders are smart enough to bring a little packet of food, tide her over, keep her from being hangry. (Valentine’s Day is coming, gentlemen, so if you haven’t ordered your mate a packet of lovely chocolates, word to the wise, be a smart little spiderboy)

And praying mantis. Once they’re done...sometimes not even finished...munch, she’ll just eat his head while his poor little body keeps going. Although actually, true fact, they only do that if they’re being observed by a human, and rarely in the wild. Can you imagine, a mantis says to her partner “oooh, there’s that damn peeping tom entomologist again. I have an idea, this is going to be great, he’s totally going to freak out, let’s just start doing it and then I’m going to...oh, just roll with it, it’s going to be hysterical, I can’t wait to see the look on his face.”

Even Octopus females will often eat a couple of the male’s arms, sometimes just dragging the poor dude off to her cave like a female Blackbeard.

Komodo dragons don’t even need a male, they can fertilize their own damn eggs, thank you very much.

Topi antelope only come into heat one day a year and on that day, the female becomes extremely aggressive and spend 24 hours hounding all of the males in the area into exhaustion.

Female anglerfish are much bigger than the males which are just inches long. The male finds a female, attaches himself to her body and then just atrophies until all that’s left are his sex organs hanging off her that she uses whenever she wants fertilized eggs.

Sorry, clearly I’m enjoying this too much. And poor Rabbie didn’t have the benefit of Animal Planet and the internet, otherwise he never would have leaned that hard on Nature’s Plan.

Look, the man was a fine poet. “I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet until I got heartily in love. Then rhyme and song became the spontaneous language of my heart.”

We may not be poets at this table, but we know love. And tonight we honor a man who gave us such wonderful words, and toast to the men in our lives who have brought so much love into our hearts. To Burns and the laddies!

So, in the aftermath of the election, there are going to be a lot of really upset people; people who are concerned that they're embarking on four years of hell, in danger of losing everything that they consider the best of the United States.

And if you're on the winning side, you probably think they're idiots. If you're on the losing side, you probably think the people who voted for the winning candidate are idiots.

Here's the thing though: most of them really aren't.

The other day I was listening to the radio and one of the on-air personalities (I'm old enough to still think of them as DJ's, although that's something completely different...remember that, children, when I'm in the Home and trying to communicate through the curtains of dementia) was talking about how that morning, one of her dogs got loose while on her morning walk and ran out into traffic. And there she was, freaking out on the side of the road, trying to figure out how to get the dog back, how to get the traffic to stop, while still maintaining control of the other dog.

And a bunch of people, about ten, she said, on their way to work, stopped their cars, got out, stopped traffic, corralled her dog and got the animal safely back to her. By the time she'd fixed the dog's collar and gathered her wits about her, everyone had gotten back into their cars and driven off. You know, they had places to go and had done their Good Samaritan bit and were on their way.

Now, I can guarantee you that some of those people were Clinton supporters. Some of them were Trump supporters. (There's a possibility that there was a Johnson or Stein supporter as well, but let's not stretch statistics too far on this one.) And maybe they all had different motivations -- cared about the young woman freaking out on the side of the road, cared about the dog, were worried that the damn dog would cause an accident and foul up traffic -- but they were all motivated to help make the world just a little bit better.

I just did our big Halloween event, where the houses on our street decorate and host thousands of trick or treaters. Every house spends money, time and effort on decorations, spends about $150-$200 on candy to give away. And I can guarantee you that some of them are Clinton supporters, some Trump supporters, and yes, in this case, I'm not stretching statistics, there's at least one Stein supporter. But on the days leading up to Halloween, that night, the next day cleaning up...each of them pitched in to make the world just a little bit better for a bunch of kids and their parents.

Each of us fears that we'll lose something that we value in this election - rights, a way of life, freedoms, progress, whatever. And you think the other person is completely wrongheaded about it. I get that.

But let's remember to separate the IDEAS from the PERSON. Politics aside, you may well have a lot of things in common...your humanity and your desire to have a better world. Understand that fear does indeed make us stupid -- that it's easy for wrongheaded, stupid ideas to lodge in a brain. That social media, regular media are all doing their best to froth up that fear...make us more stupid...corral us into us and them, making each of us feel victimized...making us gullible and accepting of bullshit. And if you think only the OTHER side believes some bullshit...if you think only the other side is capable of believing some stupid shit...well, I hate to tell you this, but you're wrong. And you KNOW that, deep in the cockles of your wrinkled little brain.

Critical thinking is all well and good on a frictionless surface...sitting around the table, glass of bourbon in your hand, free of fear (wait, that might just be me, the bourbon, fine, imagine your own damn prop) with plenty of breathing room and headspace.

But it's a hell of a lot harder when you're scared and when people are pumping out all sorts of lies and fake news and you've now defriended or been defriended by people who believe differently from you, so you just hear the same bullshit over and over again, surrounded by people who agree with you, search engines now editing your information to help support your current beliefs even more, rarely showing you the opposite viewpoint, a whole goddamn cycle of supporting and perpetuating the ideas you already have.

::Deep breath::

Now, I get it -- you want to, and you have a certain right to, protect yourself from people who are dangerous to you, hurtful to you. I'm aware that in this case, I'm rocking some serious privilege -- white, middle-aged, tough and to a certain extent, a little bit inurement to misogyny. And there are indeed awful people on both sides of this particular fence...and over there, standing in the Johnson/Stein/Write-In/Whateveruselessprotestyou'remaking paddock. And yes, someone who's motivated by hate? Expletive them. Belligerent assholes? I'll do what I can, but you shouldn't feel badly about distancing yourself.

But remember that a lot of THEM are very, very much like you -- just wanting it all to be better. Heck, if it weren't for social media, you probably would have spent the rest of your life being friends with them and might not ever have noticed that they had some ideas diametrically opposed to your own. And you can be all "oh, man, I never knew that person was such a raging asshole" now that you've seen their twitter/facebook posts. Although you could be thinking "huh, we've been friends for years and worked on all sorts of stuff together but NOW I HATE THEM." Newsflash: That last one? You're thinking that? You might be a belligerent asshole yourself.

You want to get those wrong-headed ideas out of their head? Calling them an idiot is not going to do it. Separate ideas from the person; they're not necessarily the same thing. Recognize their humanity, figure out what you do have in common, try working side by side on less contentious things...you're far more likely to get them to move to your side of the fence than if you just build that fence higher and cover it with barbed wire.

Or you could shove them all away, let them be surrounded by people who think just like them, a social circle filled with people who hold the exact same stupid ideas/beliefs and they can spend the next four years reinforcing all of the bullshit and we can go through this again.

I organize a neighborhood event for Halloween -- we shut down the street to car traffic, decorate all of the houses on the block, host about 3,000 trick or treaters and people who just show up for the scene or to show off their own costumes. We collect some donations, which pay for some of the streetwide decorations/supplies, and have some stock decor that people can borrow, but really, each house funds its own display, buys its own candy, works really hard to set up something cool, so we can host a three hour party for 3,000 strangers.

It's a lot of work, but the looks on the faces of the kids and visitors usually makes it seem worth it. (I say usually, because by about 3pm on Halloween, having been up and decorating since 5am, I often have a crisis of conscience and think that I'm an idiot who should develop a hobby that involves more sitting around. But that passes. It always does.)

We've gotten a vanload of kids who live in an inner city neighborhood, who've never trick or treated because their own neighborhood isn't safe and think that our street must be what Disneyland is like. We've had foreign exchange students who reported at the end of their stay that this event was the thing that most represented the United States to them -- only here would people, on their own, with no government or social program, with their own money, just do something like this for the enjoyment of others. (I don't know that that's true, necessarily, but it's a nice compliment.)

People say to me all of the time, oh, I wish my neighborhood was that social and united. Look, I can't take credit for starting it -- the event was going on when I moved here, I just sort of got involved and then wandered into being in charge. (I've said in the past that like Tyrion Lannister "I drink and I know things"...which is true, but MORE true is "I drink and I make things happen") When I moved in, we had to buy 400 pieces of candy per house. We're now up to 2,000. I have a tendency to escalate things. And I'll take credit for keeping it alive through some rough patches when people wanted to cancel or bail -- 9/11, a local sniper attack, random rounds of apathy.

But here's the thing:
( There is always a thing )

Here, let me give you another way to be a happier person.

Be gracious.

Yep, that's it. I don't mean "practicing gratitude" as it's often referred to -- where you consciously think about the good things in your life, the things you're grateful for. I mean, okay, that's not at all a bad thing. But it's pretty expletive self-centered. I'd prefer you think about the good things that are in the WORLD, like just being glad that things like chimney swifts and olunguito and grimpteuthis exist. But, okay, baby steps, and if you're mired in all of the things in your life that are going to hell in a moldy handbasket, conscious recognition of what's NOT in that handbasket can be helpful. So, you go do that. And then come back, because I've got some wisdom to deliver.

( Read on, my darlings )

Let's talk about how you treat your vegetables. Side dishes in general, but vegetable side dishes in particular.

Go ahead, take me to a restaurant that serves up giant horsecarrots and zucchini slices, cut on the bias like that's going to help, barely blanched or practically raw with a random grill mark on them, with a little bit of salt and pepper. I won't make a scene because I'm genetically predisposed to not making scenes in restaurants, but there will be heated muttering and moues of disgust.

Note: I'm fine with raw vegetables. Really. I will just eat a bowlful of cherry tomatoes, or snap peas and be happy as a clam. But a lot of people are confusing "al dente" with "not bothering to cook" and it's pissing me off.

I will be less disappointed with a restaurant that does something lovely with the veg, but then buries it underneath the protein treating it as just another flavor note to complement the protein. Then again, composed dishes always irritate me. I like to taste each component on its own and then in different combinations. I will allow that that's a personal quirk, but still...

Show the vegetable some love! Let it shine! Elevate it!

If I were enough of a masochist to start my own restaurant, the menu would be composed of vegetables and sides. I'd suggest some combos, but you could mix and match as you please, or have them all as small plates. There would be a couple of protein choices, but they'd all just be high quality, very simply prepared, so that they could complement all of the sides. Because seriously, it's not that hard to cook a good steak if you start with a good piece of beef and then don't fuck it up. But to make people swoon over broccoli or zucchini? That's what I'm proud of.
( Here's how )

Hey, you want to be happier person?

I have some hints. Hard to believe, especially if you know me, that a misanthropic curmudgeon like me could possibly be happy, much less school other people in happiness. But seriously, I totally can.

Despite my growly attitude, I find things that make me deliriously happy every day. And I wallow in those like a a pig in mud. Although to be fair, a pig would actually prefer a fly free environment and clean bedding. But let's not get distracted by animal husbandry.

Hey, there are plenty of people who have it way worse than I do. Playing "whose got more troubles" it is a pointless exercise. Of course someone's got it worse. However, let me assure you that the fact that the guy on the other side of the emergency room has two broken arms does not actually make your broken arm any less trouble. So, yes, I am armpit deep in misery and woes and obstacles and the only saving grace of working and volunteering so hard is that I only have so much time to wallow and feel sorry for myself.

So, whatever. But all of the shit I'm struggling with, and more, plus a personality that is basically irritated at the very existence of humanity, I'm still actually a very happy person.

Because you know that work I put into everything else? I also put that into the happy making as well.

It doesn't come naturally to some of us, my friend. Oh, some people are just naturally happy. Fuckers. That is not me. Maybe it's not you. You should feel okay about that, but seriously, you might have to work it, just like me. I've got more than three hints, but since I honed my merchandising skills working at Conran's Habitat, it's three or five, always. And I don't have time for five today.
( Come inside, poppets... )

#1.
Create a happy place. A safe place, a sanctuary. My thing is my deck. Which honestly, is a shithole. Seriously, I'm afraid to powerwash it because I think the mold and dirt are the only things that are keeping the whole thing from collapsing. But I've filled it with planters that have colors and textures that make me happy. I've a plant that makes flowers that look like vampire bat faces, a jasmine whose scent makes me swoon, a baby olive tree because I think olive leaves are stunningly beautiful. A fig tree so that I can occasionally steal a fig from the wasps and squirrels. All sorts of plants that feed the birds, bees and butterflies. I can sit there and just be intrinsically happy because colors/textures and fufilling needs are things that make me happy.

I kept feeling inadequate about the crappy deck, which is attached to the crappy addition and bordered by the rusty chain link fence, all of which need to be dealt with, until I had an acquaintance over one evening and she said "Oh, you'e created a beautiful little sanctuary here." It helped me see beyond the work that needed to be done, the warping picnic table...that I should feel happy and proud of what I created, even it it wasn't perfect.

Hey, you could be into gaming -- and you've got a corner of a room or a room and you create the perfect setup. What do you want to see, what do you want to be surrounded with. Your roomate, spouse, SO does NOT have to like your stuff. If that Frazetta poster rocks your world, than save up, use a coupon, go get it framed and hang it in your space. If a cozy bedroom to retreat to, to read in bed, nap, whatever, then yeah, what are the colors and texture that make you happy -- dark colors, sunny colors, splurge on a pillow or new sheets. Stop worrying about all of the other things that need to be done/fixed and have at least one corner that makes you happy. Personally, everytime I see Stubb's Whistejacket painting, I'm gobsmacked. So I found a good reproduction, saved my spare change and am nearly ready to throw down some doss to get it framed. And I'll hang it in my bedroom where I can see it before I got to bed and when I wake up, because every time i look at it, I'm happy.

Make a happy space and then give yourself permission to enjoy it -even if you have to set a bloody alarm and commit to just 15 minutes of enjoyment.

#2.
When they say slow down and stop to smell the roses...that's actually brilliant advice. Although don't be me, lose your balance and fall into the damn rose bush. This is why I try to grow things that don't have teeth. But seriously. You get caught up in the big stuff and forget that there's little beautiful, enjoyable stuff all of the time. This afternoon I looked up and the clouds were so white and fluffy, the sky so blue, the air so clear that it was breathtaking. And yeah, of course I had something "better" to do. But just sitting there and looking at it, making a point to enjoy it? That's a NEEDFUL thing. Find a small thing that you find pleasure in and indulge it -- a special tea, a vase of cut flowers, find a mug for your coffee that's a beautiful glaze or shape. Your life might suck right now in myriad ways. But look at that coffee mug...someone poured their heart and soul into making it, the depth of color is amazing and it's in your hand. Worry about the rest of the stuff later. For now, look what you've got. Look at that mug, isn't it fabulous? Look at the intricacies of that bunch of lilies. Isn't it cool that flowers like that exist? You've got art hanging on your wall, when was the last time you sat and really looked at?

Stop thinking that achieving the big goal is the thing that will make you happy. If you don't learn to appreciate the little gifts, if you can't ring joy out of those...the big accomplishment probably won't make you happy either.

#3.
Here's a harder one: Take joy in other people's joy.

Now, I'm not talking about taking joy in making other people happy. If you're not already doing that already, you may be an asshole. Maybe you are, but you're phoning it in. Step up your game, my friend. You don't have to be a joy vampire like I am (hat tip to

thatliardiego for introducing me to that term) but seriously, you need to pay that shit forward. But now I'm talking about someone else's joy that you had no part in.

Okay, so it's definitely human nature to judge. That's why reality television is so popular -- you can watch those people doing a thing, being horrible, or being a screw up or being dumb and feel better about yourself. My take-away from the Real Housewives series (I will admit to having watched three different episodes) is that well, okay, they might have more money than I do, and they may look better than I do, but I'm clearly a nicer person, plus my face still moves because it's not all jacked up with Botox.

But seriously, how superior do you need to feel on a daily basis? Try and kick that addiction. The other day I was at the gas station and a older man got out of the car behind me and he had on these crazy floral print shorts. And by crazy, I don't mean fun crazy. I mean like the kind of floral pattern you'd see on your grandmother's couch maybe, chintz or something. And the cut was...I dunno, they really didn't look like men's shorts. And there was my brain, starting to all knot up in judgment, dude, those look a little ridiculous. And then I thought "you know what, he got up this morning and decided to wear those shorts. He LIKED the way they look." And then I thought, why the fuck not? You rock those shorts, sir! Good for you for doing what you want. And you know what - I felt a great sense of relief, followed by the happy. It made me smile all day.

It's a natural reaction to push away the thing we don't understand, to diminish or ridicule. The music, the fashion - pretty much anything kids are doing some geezer disapproves of. "It's all utter crap...in MY day we had real music." Oh, seriously, is your memory that bad? Because when you were a teenager that music that you now treasure, yeah, your elders thought was crap. You think walking around with your pants hanging down around your butt is dumb? Go page through some old magazines, my friend, because I don't know that kids today have a corner on dumb trends.

Here's the thing: You don't have to like it yourself in order to appreciate that it other people do. If it's making someone else happy, quit raining on their parade. It's THEIR thing, not yours -- take joy in their joy. I used to think that fan fiction was sort of dumb - like, how could you be so obsessed, move on, get a life, you know those are imaginary characters, right? But here's the thing: when I got to know people who were into it, I found that they were creating beautiful works of art, and poetry, and fiction. (And some utter crap, to be honest -- but you know what? They felt inspired and were creating a thing. WHO THE FUCK AM I TO JUDGE?

Look I haven't lost all of my curmudgeonhood -- I will still judge your bad decisions, your bad choices, your stupid attitudes. And sometime I have to judge someone's performance. But ask yourself, if criticism, or sneering or belittling starts to rise in you -- am I tearing this person down to make me feel superior? Does whatever they're doing affect me or harm someone else? Are they happy in this thing? Happier than I am?

Then maybe I should just take joy in their joy.

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Recent Entries

Dear Male Authors, Intro to a Series

Peanuts, Beetles, a compelling husbandry geas

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Dinner doesn't have to be hard: Part 2, how to make it less hard

Dinner doesn't have to be hard: Part 1, how we made it hard

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Where's your bar for Happy?

Less Flouncing, more Adulting

It's almost Love Yourself Day!

Burns Night 2017

Hang on, Slim, there might be a baby in that bathwater

Communities get built from within, my darlings.

Be the pebble, my friend.

In which I command you to eat your vegetables

Be Happier.