I am all things to all people. As long as people are looking for a mom with diverse interests and a homebound tendency to look through the window of life and wish (or imagine) something just a little bit different.
I am like the Tardis on Doctor Who. I am much bigger on the inside.
View all posts by kirizar →
As a novelist, one of your main jobs is to keep the story moving. And if your story deals with law enforcement, you probably don’t want to get too bogged down in the minutiae of police procedure. But you also want to present a narrative that rings true to life. It’s a bit of a balancing act. So to assist in this endeavor, I have put together nine key differences between fiction and reality as it pertains to cop stuff. Where applicable, I have also added a possible explanation, or an “out” if you really need that fictional element for the sake of a dramatic story arc. Because, after all, reality can be downright boring.
1. Fiction: The private investigator works closely with the local police force to help them solve the big case.
Reality: In thirteen years as a cop working in two different jurisdictions, I have never once…
Another submission to Friday Fictioneers: Roasted Wood Gnome
Photo copyright: Madison Woods
While hunting for mushrooms recently, I came across an unusual specimen: the Wood Gnome. A rare gastro-gnomic delicacy, the small creature was hunted nearly to extinction by German foresters; Wood Gnomes came to the New World along with other unsavory immigrants: pox, diphtheria and the Welsh*. French fur trappers made Quebec famous for its gnome fur exports. (It takes several thousand gnomes to make a decent coat.) To prepare, simply remove lederhosen, wash gnome thoroughly and skin before spitting and roasting over hickory fire embers. Gnome is done when the tiny nose pops. Sprinkle with gruyere and serve.
*
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:
*Please, no hate mail from the Welsh. It just sounded funny to me.
Picture courtesy of FreeDigitalPhoto.Net/praisaeng
Sometimes, life just is one big, flaming bag of poop. This is probably not a traditional start for a food review, but it is an appropriate one.
* * *
In search of experience as a food critic, I have finally run up against the burning question which every Culinary Columbo must face: “Is it right to totally tank a restaurant’s reputation because of a bad day?” I’ll let you be the judge.
Following a whirlwind vacation in Chicagoland, I decided I need to do my bit for local tourism. So, Friday ,I took take my very special guy downtown for lunch. It was only after getting on Monroe Street that I discovered construction has turned the downtown area into an M.C. Escher nightmare. Streets went nowhere or suddenly became one-way in the opposite direction. (I am fairly certain I drove up the side of a building at one point.) Eventually I nudged my flame-red Toyota Echo into the perfect parking spot on Monroe Center, chortling at my good fortune.*
Image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net/Stuart Miles
*Cue the irony fairy.**In this case: pretzels and projectile cheese. (Call it what you will, the force with which the aerosol propels cheese from a can is nothing short of rocket booster-esque. In a hold-up, I’d take a can of Easy Cheese™ over mace any day.)
I filled my pocket with quarters for the meter and then got distracted by the effort of coordinating my date—who will eat nothing at a restaurant that isn’t covered in syrup served with a side of bacon—and his haversack of emergency snack food**, and as a result, I entered the nearest restaurant without performing that one task that, if forgotten, can turn your sunshiny day upside down in the blink of an eye.
This is the part of the food review where I am supposed to wax poetic on the innovative use of space, the side of the room which housed a wall of no doubt, high-end wines in their impressive angular, shoebox-sized cubbies and the other side which was part deli, part corner store rummage sale. I ought to be waxing about the novel, handwritten artsy signs which made trying to read with bifocals the pretty, but distant, menu an exercise in near-sighted humiliation: “Do you have this printed anywhere in Pica 16 I can hold two inches from my nose?” Instead I will raise a pointed question: “If one, hypothetically, bites down on something and a tooth goes ‘crunch’ on un-chewable matter, is one obligated to inform the restaurant their food is booby-trapped?”
Now, in my opinion, that answer is a resounding, ‘Yes’. I was happily masticating my very delicious salad when I heard a horrifying sound reverberate through my skull—a sound which I can only image is what glass sounds like when it goes through a trash compactor. Now, I like hyperbole as much as the next girl, but let me tell you I am not kidding when I say I was entirely surprised that, when I spat that mouthful into my napkin, that there wasn’t a sparkling diamond and/or a trail of bloody spittle following.
Hazardous: eat with caution.
I dithered, as I checked my mouth for open wounds and picked whatever rock-like thing it was I’d gnashed with overly fragile molars. Should I tell the management the salad bites back? Should I just finish up and leave? Then I came up with what looked like a large-sized grain of something hard. Possibly a piece of my tooth, possibly whatever it was I’d bit down on. I decided this was worth informing someone.
This is the point of the story that gets kind of disgusting—but only to people who actually expect the restaurant to care whether they are serving sanitary, safe food. I went to the counter where I was met by a suspicious and hostile clerk who interrupted my explanation to go get a manager.
A young lady came over and asked what happened. I explained that I bit down on something in the salad and I showed her the piece of whatever it was—no doubt gifting her with my molar dna to replicate later, in private, for her alien overlords. She asked, “So, was it something plastic?” I whispered, as if I was afraid the health inspector had bugged the joint, “It sounded like glass.”
I heard the following when she walked back to the food counter to determine what it was I’d been served (paraphrased since I was ten feet away):
“What was it she ate?”
“A mixed salad with a lot of different ingredients.”
(Inaudible muttering which I took to be the decision that I was a con-artist who no doubt had eaten 90% of my meal and then complained in order to get my lunch for free.)
“…It wouldn’t be worth the trouble to go through everything.”
This last sentence I heard very clearly. They weren’t going to bother to check the food that, while delicious, apparently was working on commission for the tooth fairy.
I objected when the manager offered me a refund. “I don’t want a refund. I enjoyed the salad, it was delightful, right up until I broke a crown.”
Another underling came over and retrieved my credit card, when I protested again that I didn’t want a refund, he said, “No, my manager insists you get one.”
The thing is…they took my salad away. They took the bite I spit out away. It wasn’t until afterward that it occurred to me they wanted the evidence. They were apparently concerned about a frivolous, or fictitious, lawsuit. Perhaps the manager apologized at the time, but what I felt most of all when I left the restaurant was a burning embarrassment. That I was treated as if I was a plague upon their establishment. “The one who dared complain.”
Will there be anything else?
Leaving the place, red-faced and feeling like I was somehow at fault for trying to prevent a rash of tooth-related catastrophies, I was confronted by the final inequity: a parking ticket slapped on my windshield. My free lunch had cost me more than my dignity. It also cost me the absentminded-parent penalty tax.
One Star: If you overlook the dental damage, the meal was really good. (Irritating wait staff not pictured.)
So, I have decided that, as a food critic, I will refrain from judging a place based on an isolated incident. It might have been an overlooked stone in my lettuce. It might be that my dental hygiene has slipped and I need my enamel checked. I won’t name the restaurant. I will say, however, that treating a customer as if they were to blame for faults with your food pretty much guarantees you are not getting a four-star review. The nicest thing I can do is to omit naming the place and simply advise you to chew with caution at deli’s located on Monroe Center between numbers 56 and 58…oh, and don’t forget to feed the meter.
Now, you tell me, what would you have done? Please comment below. Thank you.
Okay, I am not sure this is how you are supposed to create a link to someone else’s work. But I admired this poem so much, I decided to claim it’s brilliance, if briefly, and share it with you. This is a work adapted and written by Helen Midgley. If you ever forget what poetry is supposed to be, besides an exercise in novel rhyme schemes, this shows you how it’s supposed to be done and makes it look easy.
There is a house, hemmed by hundred-year-old forests. It sits wedged at the crack where the mountain and the trees argue about property lines; each takes a small step here or there, reclaiming what was lost. The crenellated highway cuts through and, playing referee, takes no sides. From the uppermost window you could see traffic zoom by. Only birds know this was once a palace of an impoverished people. Zigzag stairs dash haphazard footpaths—dizzying, transitory indecision leading nowhere. And flower pots wait at the end of the world for owners who are never coming home.
Cairns are found all over the world. People agree–stacking rocks is cool!
Some days all you need to clear your head is to drop a really heavy rock on your foot. Or several.
* * *
Summer only half-way over, I sorely needed rejuvenation. I signed my son up for a week of overnight camp. (Cue the Hallelujah Chorus.) I looked forward to this vacation with all the desperation of a convict ticking off the days to parole. The minute he was abandoned left at camp, I took off to Mackinac Island for two days of renewal. It was glorious, even with the influx of international sailors celebrating their arrival following a weekend racing from Chicago-to-Mackinac Island. (And by ‘celebrating’ I mean consuming enough rum to float their boats back home.) Later, I would have my own celebration on the rocks—just not the kind floating in alcohol.
In search of serenity, I biked up hills, some so steep I found myself getting off and walking rather than popping a lung attempting to peddle. I navigated the 8.3 mile circumference of the island, stopping to take pictures for families and ordering people to ‘smile like you mean it’. I was caught in a downpour and laughed while my glasses became kaleidoscopes of raindrops I couldn’t wipe off because nothing left was dry. Biking the island was so freeing; it felt like finally breathing deep after a lifetime hyperventilating. And everywhere I went, I saw cairns, piles of stones that could have been there for centuries or be gone in seconds, monuments to timeless impermanence.
Cairns encircle the island like unwieldy beads on an invisible string—representative of the human impulse to leave a sign saying: ‘Killroy was here’. Some people went for a minimalistic approach: three rocks tiered like granite layer cakes. Others incorporated driftwood or multiple towers, improbably balanced. They made tempting targets. Children delighted in hurling smaller rocks at the delicate structures and shrieked with glee whenever one toppled. I watched a father and son build their perfect stone fortress and, when asked ‘what was his inspiration’, the man joked he had been thinking of a sandwich he dreamed about. Apparently all that hard work builds an appetite. After contemplating the universe in piles of stone, I decided that I needed to construct one of my own.*
Building a cairn takes a lot of patience, perseverance and, apparently, steel-toed shoes. First, I carefully selected my ‘perfect rocks’. I came up with the rule that I wouldn’t destroy someone else’s tower for materials. It would be like peeling the gold leaf off Madonna’s** halo—just not done. I also decided to build it at the edge of the water—symbolic of nothing more than the fact I didn’t want it in easy reach of kids with projectile weapons. Heaving rocks from their various loci, I waddled over and chucked them down to the growing pile near the water’s edge below. I loved the cracking sound the rocks made as they hit the giant boulders left behind the last ice age. I should have thought about how much force one of those heavy rocks had to make the gunshot cracking sound when only tossed from about five feet. But I was never good at physics. Materials compiled, I set out to create an outer structure that encapsulated the inner peace my trip had brought me. Cue the irony.
My first attempt involved the brilliant decision to build a bridge between two large boulders abutting the water. They were far enough apart to make this a challenge. Stack, nudge, stack….splash. Repeat. No matter how I stacked them, the rocks did not want to obey. I frowned. “Hmm, maybe I need a bigger rock?” This is one of those thoughts that should be accompanied by scary music. Duh Duh DUH!
For my second attempt, I climbed back up and scoured the area until I found a nice, long, I-could-barely-lift-it specimen. I can still feel the gritty edges as I tentatively pulled it up. (Tentative due to the overabundance of spiders on the island.) Once I huffed and puffed my way back, I tossed it down to the pile. It made an ominous ‘THWACK’ as it hit the rocky shore. The stones beneath squealed in protest…or warning.
I bet you can see where this is headed…
I merrily scurried back to building my fortress of solitude and reflection. I got one, two, three rocks in place. I precariously balanced my new-found ledge on top just like a toddler might place a heavy book on tiny blocks. It wobbled a bit, but then settled. I grabbed my next two questionably-stackable objects and attempted the second story walls. And this is when the drum roll you can all hear but I am oblivious to crescendos. I place one rock. (Audience holds breath.) I place the second rock. (Still holding.) The tower threatens but does not fall. I consider grabbing my camera, but I decide to place just one…more…rock. Lifting the almost-perfectly-flat slab, I gently place it like a leaf floating on water…and CRASH. You’ve never seen such a rock slide. I scrambled to get out of its way. I almost made it.
Before you imagine fountains of gushing blood, chill. It missed me. Most of me anyway. My fortress of serenity did try to smash my left foot. The big toe trembled in shock, counted its tinier neighbors to make sure everyone was all right, then declared itself fit for duty. My toes are awesome that way. It was about now that my tranquility was sorely tested. I gritted my teeth, promising: “I will build my tribute to serenity if it kills me.”
After several disastrous attempts—a few requiring water rescues—I started to question how necessary this was to my mental health. Staring at the uncooperative materials, I was struck by how easy it is to fold in the face of failure. (Cue sappy, introspective music. Probably something by Yanni***.) I give up too easily. It is rare that I look at an obstacle-laden path and say, “Yep. This is the road for me.” I recently watched a young woman tackle an impossible course on a program called American Ninja. If you haven’t seen this, you really should, Kacy Katanzaro’s performance is sheer poetry of motion: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XfZFuw7a13E. Faced with my own challenge, I admitted that, while I will never conquer mountains, perhaps I shouldn’t give up on building my molehills before I give it my very best effort.
Ta Dah!
Arms trembling and toes quivering, I constructed my Zen Temple to reflect inner peace. True to the nature of the subject, it was finely balanced, fragile and not expected to last. I managed a few photos, all the while wondering if a stiff breeze would tumble my edifice, burying me under a concrete-hard layer of hubris. But no, I climbed back up the hill, pausing for one glance back, appreciating the calm I managed to achieve despite the setbacks. It was a good moment. I walked away, knowing such moments are not meant to last. Someone or something would come along and destroy my symbolic peace, but, for once, I was okay with that. That which is torn down can always be rebuilt.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:
* Because who doesn’t want to climb around on hairy, slimy rocks lugging very heavy stones?
**By the way, this is a biblical reference—not a ‘like a virgin’ one.
***No offense meant. I actually like Yanni. But he does have a spectacularly silly first name.
Serenity achieved! All right…now to go buy some fudge!
Image courtesy of GlobalSources.com. Let’s see if their lawyers are paying attention.
(This is in response to a writing challenge from the Writing Essential Group to ‘Write a set of step-by-step instructions detailing how to do something (prose or poetry). It is also a reminder that I need to shave.)
***
After getting dressed in a pair of shorts for the first time after winter, go outside in good lighting and determine what grade of razor you require to level the growth attained:
a. Just peachy fuzz – Single-edge ladies razor (available only in pink)
b. Low nap carpeting – Double-edge safety razor
c. Impending jungle – Norelco ‘Weed Wacker’ Shaver*
d. Sasquatch-esque – Save your blade, use a DOW-approved chemical depilatory cream. Have burn unit on speed dial.
March back into home, select hair-assault tool of choice and grab the manly shaving cream you use because, dammit, why do they charge women more for half as much product?
Strip down to a layer of clothing comfortable with doing gymnastics in a porcelain tub. Keep in mind that if you have a terrible accident, your bra and panties should match, because that’s important when the ambulance comes to pick you up.
Determine, in advance, the line you won’t cross and, using a permanent marker, draw the stopping point of the razor. If you have committed to full limb nude-ification, then clear your calendar and set your razor for stun.
Before you proceed, ask yourself this question: “Do I really want to do this? Am I willing to do this every week this summer and suffer the burning, itching annoyance as the tiny army of hairs returns?” If the answer is “No”, put down the mini scythe and walk away. Be hairy, be proud.
Turn on shower to a medium warm setting and get your extremities moist. NEVER dry shave.** Take my word for it.
Once your legs have been zoned for construction and pre-moistened for your convenience, squirt an excessive amount of shaving cream into your palm. (It is impossible to squirt just the right amount and squirting too little is annoying and leads to dry spots on the back of your ankle. (See: Step 6 above.) Slather cream up and down in thick blankets. Then you get to pretend your razor is a mountain skier in the Alps. Feel free to yodel.
Contorting yourself in painful mimicry of a blade-wielding Cirque Du Soleil performer, extend your implement as far as it will reach and commence hacking. Immediately nip a section of flesh just over your ankle bone right where the strap of your sandal will rub it as you walk. Swear in several languages and watch pink, foamy swirls circle the drain. Proceed with greater caution but, as you move ever upward, forget that you have to run the blade sideways when you hit the knee cap—for god-only-knows-what reason—and chop a successive slice across each furrow of skin. Bleed profusely. Swear even more so.
After you manage to finish one leg (meh, good enough) tackle second leg. Never, ever allow a phone call, a whiny child, or a house fire prevent you from finishing—no one likes a lopsided fashion statement. Shaving the same leg twice doesn’t count either.
Now that your razor is nice and dull from hacking through the forbidding forests, you are faced with the unenviable prospect of shaving your pits. May god have mercy on your soul.
Image courtesy of Witthaya Phonsawat at FreeDigitalPhotos.net.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:
*Watch out for blowback.
**Dry shaving is on the list of acceptable torture methods used by the CIA—right alongside waterboarding and cranking up death metal music beyond ear-bleeding levels.
(Warning: the following contains a detailed description of bite-sized food. Make sure you are fully sated before reading.)
The plan was to dress up fancy so I could attend High Tea in all its splendor at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island. That was the plan. After a two-mile walk, and gusts of 30 knots coming off Lake Michigan, I arrived wind-blown, sweaty and looking forward to sitting down to a lovely repast. I was intercepted by the hotel greeter whose job it is to waylay interlopers visitors. Imagine my surprise when I learned that, in addition to paying $31.80 for the tea, it was necessary to pay for admission to the hotel. After an entire day without access, the $10.00 entrance fee seemed a small price to pay for Wifi. The second surprise came when I realized the room where high tea was served was part of the long lobby that faced the lake. Most of the preferred seating was reserved, so the concierge—an actual concierge—found a spot where I could plug in and remember what the 21st century feels like. Then I discovered my spot was apparently Wifi free. “Well,” I reassure myself. “That’s what I came for—the old world charm.” I braced myself to be charmed…
I at least had a good view of the room.
The phrase ‘High Tea’ suggests to me something out of the Wild West—where gunfighters draw down in the dusty center of town. Instead of six shooters, however, the weapons of choice would be fine manners and elocution. I anticipated a room filled with white covered tables and genteel, murmured conversations among straight-backed women wearing gloves and hats. Instead, the first impression one gets at the Grand Hotel is of too many people sitting in a crowded room with a harpist trying valiantly to accompany the chatter of several loud conversations. Perhaps that is why I was initially somewhat disappointed in the marriage of yesteryear with modern amenities. Reality fell short of expectation.
Plopped on the small sofa, I waited for a menu (or table) to appear, for something—anything—to happen. In the end, I never actually ordered. A young woman simply appeared with a shaky tv table draped with a white napkin. She brought me the standard meal—with slivers of salmon and other ground-meat salad sandwiches. Thus I was forced to become that most irritating of customers—the one who sends food back. “Do you have a vegetarian option?” I ask meekly. (Okay, I was not meek, but let’s pretend I was.) My savory dish was whisked away leaving the dessert plate, tea and flute of champagne abandoned on the tray. Then I waited…and waited…and waited for the vegetarian option to appear so that I could photograph it. Meanwhile, my tea cooled and my effervescent champagne struggled to maintain its enthusiasm. I too began to wilt.
Isn’t this just adorable? Try not to think about the cost while you nibble.
My salvation arrived in the form of tiny vegetable bombs exploding on a variety of breaded surfaces. The geometry of the plate kept things interesting. Small, round white rolls looking a bit like the caps of button mushrooms were alternately stuffed with chilled sweet lentil salad and an eggplant and basil medley. Asparagus tips nestled in a butter spread on a slender rectangle of bread. Cooked, finely diced yellow and orange peppers sat on a triangle of white bread with butter. There was little spice so you could enjoy the fresh flavors of the ingredients. The only disappointing thing on the plate was the deviled egg—which is usually one my favorite indulgences. Instead of a cool white oval filled with the spicy, yellow mustard and egg yolk filling I am used to there was an odd, lightly green filling of questionable origin. After one bite, the mystery egg sat forlornly until I could find out what it was. Besides odd.*
Heaven on a Plate – Totally made up for the Be-devilled Egg.
The dessert tray delivered a myriad delights – seven if you include the miniature pot of strawberry preserves, which I decided would make a lovely souvenir. From the chocolate-dipped strawberry circling clockwise, the desserts include a powder-sugar choked cookie reminiscent of a Mexican wedding cake—sans the almond bits. Next came a fudge-frosted, walnut brownie bite. Sinfully moist with a hint of coconut—it tasted like a mini German chocolate cake. The next confection was a coconut-crusted truffle with a chocolate outer coating and an inner creamy, rum-butter center—mild but delicious and very smooth. Next came a tartlet dominated by the fruit and crust. The filling barely registered but was a nice crème anglaise custard—I think. I would need a bigger portion to be sure. Perhaps a cup or two. The boldest dessert exceeded the confines of its gold foil. It was a clever demitasse made of molded white chocolate cuddling a strawberry crème inside. Dead center of the plate was a whipped cream swirl that had a slightly coconut or almond taste but so faint it was ephemeral. I saved the milk chocolate-dipped and white-chocolate-striped strawberry for last. It was the perfect palate cleanser. The strawberry came at the end of the season, but was delicious for all that.
After eating sweets, the champagne was bitter, but the bubbles managed to survive the wait and I mellowed as I sat there. Instead of the inconvenience, I noticed families communing around low tables. Children were sitting and listening as their parents and grandparents talked. Not a single iPad or smart phone was in evidence. Perhaps the harp caused interference? Whatever the reason, be it mellow music or the slower pace, I relaxed and enjoyed the moment. And this is when the old-world charm began to work its magic.
All around me, friends and family chatted and chewed in wing-backed chairs—enjoying the pleasure of convivial company with savory and sweet delicacies. Perhaps the laughter became a bit boisterous at times. But, after the second glass of champagne, I didn’t seem to mind. I realized, we haven’t entirely lost the ability to slow down and appreciate the moment. We just need to be reminded that it is an option.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*If you ever visit the Grand Hotel and pester the poor wait staff for information on the ingredients of the vegetarian dish, in desperation, they will hand you a second plate of food.** I felt mildly guilty about this until I remembered that the meat-heavy ingredients probably cost three times as much.
**Second deviled egg was at least not green. It however, still had a barely discernible taste of mustard and mayo. If there was egg yolk involved, it was only in passing.
There are not enough words in the English language to express exactly how screwed up I have been for the past few weeks. I will simply reduce the experience to a Haiku:
Family visits suck. Obligations do bite. Pour more Moscato.
I will now round off this august moment with a solemn vow to never, ever write poetry at you again.
At the tail end of my male progenitor’s deca-annual (how would you write every-ten-years?) visit, I caught the plague. Or some other totally nasty virus. I am finally able to breathe again (through both nostrils, thank you very much) and now am frantically scrambling to get ready for camping. Good thing I bought an extra bag of glue sticks!*
Just before bedtime, I decide to download some directions so I will find the campground in under two hours this year. (In my defense, it is a particularly hard place to locate. People have been known to spend the weekend desperately seeking Wifi and muttering to trees for companionship in lieu of Facebook.) In my sincere attempt to be proactive and get the directions before I am half-way out the door, I get distracted by email. (Yes, I still have email. Sue me.)** I am trolling my email when one reply in particular catches my attention. It’s from my son’s summer camp. “Ahh,” I think to myself…which is generally how I do it. I rarely think to anyone else. “Ahh, I have a reply to my silly question about the ridiculous idea that I have signed my son up for a day of camp tomorrow which can’t possibly be the case because it isn’t on my calendar!”
“Yes, your son is signed up for Friday. Do you need to see the confirmation we have previously sent you?”
The subtext, if you missed it, is that I am a complete idiot. I believe the message they wanted to write went a little bit more like this:
“What the h*ll? How can you not know that your child is scheduled to come to camp tomorrow? You signed him up for nearly two months worth of camp! He’s your child. Aren’t you supposed to be responsible for him. You moron.”
Or words to that effect.
So, if in the next week or so, you don’t hear from me…I am likely trying to come down from the stress of my own ineptitude. Feel free to send me Moscato to support my recovery. Oh, and more glue sticks. You can never have enough glue sticks.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*And, no, I am not going to explain that one. I will leave it to your imagination. **Please don’t sue me. I have enough problems with imaginary car noises that cost me $179 to determine there is nothing wrong.*** ***I wish I were joking.
TheDustSeason 