OLD HAT

Yesterday I believe I found the missing link to World Peace. Beauty Pageant hopefuls, listen up.

As I was in the car leaving the Safeway, I spotted a person coming out of the automatic doors about to make his way into the white striped cross walk. I lawfully paused. I was in a rush, and slightly irritated because I feel it always takes me longer to get out of the parking lot of the supermarket than to do the actual shopping. (Note: I really love food shopping. It’s a privilege & a pleasure.) Thankfully I looked up at the man striding across the pavement in time to realize he was a dapper older gentleman in a vest and tie. We locked eyes, and with a slight nod of his head, he lifted his hat, and walked on.

THE HAT TIP.

All irritation gone. All worries for how late I was going to be to work because I got lost in my crossword that morning vanished. The coffee stain in my pants seemed to have disappeared. All considerations for the fact that rhubarb was out of season and hence unavailable ceased.  Honestly, the gesture really struck me.

Why did it affect me so? My hunch is to say because it is a lost art (And I do mean art—there was pizzazz and fluidity in his motions). First off, No one really wears hats out, thought it would greatly behoove them in places like Arizona. Another thing to consider is that you really cannot wear stylish hats without a dapper outfit to match. Are the people nowadays able to handle such hounds tooth, tweed, and seersucker? Secondly, we are not taught it in school. I can pledge allegiance to the flag, was forced to read books like Jude the Obscure, but I am 60 years too late for the lesson on hat tipping.

 Having a hat tipped in your direction would have been common courtesy to someone like my grandmother, but when it happened to me yesterday it stopped me dead in my tracks. The tipping of the hat is a sort of blind courtesy displayed to a stranger, an acknowledgment of their presence, even if for a fleeting moment. A person feels validated, and pleased as punch. Indeed, a person starts using phrases like being pleased as punch.

Thoroughly convinced of its powers of placation, here are a few situations I would like to introduce a Hat Tip into; the outcomes will be sure to amaze:

Woe, that  Mercutio Tipped his Hat, rather than bit his thumb at Tybalt.

Simon and Garfunkel might get back together.

Black Friday may have fewer greed-driven casualties

Ban Ki-moon, just Tip that Hat.

Brett Michaels' hair would fall out.

If the Sharks would have included a solid Hat Tip in the general direction of the Jets somewhere within their routine of pirouettes and prances, we may of had a happy ending there, replete with an encore dance scene of bee bop/Latin fusion.

If Bono would have Tipped his Hat at that fateful tree?

A Tip of the Sombrero on the Arizona border? 

If Tiger Woods would have…nope. Not even a Hat Tip could have helped him out.

Dr. Phil. That guy could use a good Hat Tip like he could use a good shave of that mustache.

There would be fewer bar brawls/deaths over the contentious argument of Ketchup v. Mustard.

The 99% and the 1% would merrily join hands. (...)

Supermodels would all gain 10 lbs. 

Everyone on The Real Housewives of New Jersey would share a laugh, a cannoli, and only one gaudy mansion among the lot of them.

Scrooge would have bought a whole lot more fatted geese in the window a whole lot sooner. 

Airlines would pay you to check your luggage.

Chocolate would have zero calories.  

Humans would achieve the power to fly.

We would live forever. 

Simple as that, folks. Tip that Hat.

My Dinner Party with the Characters of Moonstruck

First off, I was careful not plan it on a full moon—too risky.

To set the mood, I have Italian Opera playing in the background, making sure to steer clear of La Boheme, lest the lovers become once again enraptured.

The table is set with no sharp objects, opting for plastic instead of glass and butter knives in lieu of anything sharper, in the likely event the table will be flipped over in a hormonal rage or for simply emphasizing a point.

I planned to have no bread on the table, as it a touchy subject. However, I don’t want to appear like a skimpy host, so I relented and put some out—pre-sliced.

I supply Nick Cage with an additional napkin for his chest hair.

The seating chart caused me many a sleepless night. Pop don’t like Johnny, Johnny don’t like Ronny, Grandpa is likely to bring his bundle of feral dogs—there is only so much bad blood you can smooth over with good bruschetta.

So. I know Pop would want to be at the head of the table, though it was my house. In efforts to avoid his piercing narrowing eyes behind those thick square frames, I obliged. (I also feel like he is the type of guy who carries spare copper piping with him everywhere in case the going gets rough. He’s an Italian plumber after all.)

I put Grandpa at the other end of the table, out of respect. I wanted to show him extra kindness because he himself has proclaimed, “I am old, and the old are not wanted.” Secretly he is my favorite, so I make the clever effort to contradict him. I went to FedEx and had a customized “WANTED” sign made with his face on it and a $1,000,000 price on his head. (You’re worth it Grandpa!) He actually nearly had a stroke when he saw it, perhaps rousing old memories, so I reluctantly took it down. Poor planning on my part, I will admit.

He fed the sign to the dogs.

Cher sat on one side, because she is enough woman for an entire side of a table. I crammed on the other side along with Rose Casterinni, who was sandwiched between Ronny and Johnny Camarerri. She acted as a powerful and calming presence between to the two feuding brothers. I felt confident she would keep the brawling to a minimum, as she is the caliber of woman who can shout, “i'll kick ya 'til your dead!” and mean it.

For the main course I obviously serve Chinese. There was no way I was going to try and compete with Casterinni cooking, a sure-fire way of making myself a sitting duck to the backhanded complements so scathing and subtle. I for one thought it tasted great. I think it was the Chinese flag that I stuck in the Lo Mein for flair that really set everyone off— I just felt credit should be given where credit is due, is all.

As the glances and hand gestures were exchanged, I began to wish I had served something simple, like Canadian food.

Grandpa’s eyes watered. “I’m confused,” he said.

I offer more Chianti. They are all takers.

The Lo Mein really was another bad call on my part. I press on.

A good host knows how to direct lively table conversation among her guests. I knew I had to tenderly navigate away from the subjects of (among others):

Marriage

Wolves

Slicers

Bus accidents

Tart’s named Mona

Bad Luck

City Hall

Death

Longevity of a certain mothers health
Cosmo's moon

Sicily

Pinkie Rings

The dinner went off rather well, all considered, despite the fact that one of Grandpa's dogs got ahold of Ronny's wooden hand and gnawed it to pieces. Regretfully, the whole disaster could have been averted if words, instead of hand gestures, were utilized.

Pop notices that some brownish greyish dog from the pack is chomping away on Ronny's hand, a rather ghastly sight. Pop makes forceful movements with his eyes and hands; he was obviously puzzled.

Ronny, unaware, “What's going on, Pop? I don't know what you're trying to tell me.”

Pop says, “I know you don't. That's the point. I'll say no more.”

“You haven't said anything!”

“And that's all I'm saying.”

By then the dog had all mauled all five digits.

Wood chips were everywhere, and they did a number on my vacuum cleaner, thank you very much.


 I tell everyone to save some room after their fortune cookies for a night cap. Nick and Cher seem to become loose cannons when whiskey is in the picture. 


Everyone's eyes roll as the table flips. I should have known.


Alla Famiglia!

                              VB Family Reunion 2011. Holla.

       City Museum. Before we were kindly asked to leave the roof.

                      Where my Dad grew up. The red brick, oh the red brick.

You Can Find Me in St. Louie

The Van Brunt clan mobilized in St. Louis this past week for a family reunion. It was a great trip filled with appropriate balances of meeting cousins I have never met before, good times, and stress. (sadly, no Nelly sightings)  Over the 5 day period, I had the opportunity to observe a few things about myself that I feel compelled to share now:

1. I am not an easy flier. I absolutely love to travel, so this is an unfortunate discovery. I used to LOVE to fly, actually preferring connecting flights over direct so that I could get double the take off/landing thrill. I think I can trace the genesis of my phobia to a Ryanair flight from Barcelona to France, where the turbulence spilled my drink, caused a few mid-flight screams to burst out about the cabin, and induced a couple passengers to kiss the ground once we finally smacked back down to the tarmac. I have gone up and down with my extremes of fear (which arises from a just such a source) depending on the flight, but now  it appears I have digressed into frantically grabbing an obliging arm when we begin to bounce. (My mom, I am told, does the same. I was filled with mixed emotions upon hearing this news.) My mind goes in all sorts of directions—At certain points, I am even ready for the appearance of Snakes on the motha ‘effing Plane. This is a disturbing realization, and vow to seek help. And please don’t tell me the whole “just imagine the bumps are the bumps on a road” bit. Air is not a road. I can’t walk on it. 

2. The reliance on the shiny world of iphones was in full force for our maps/directions throughout the trip. Technology has given us so much, seemingly fool-proofed the methods of getting one from A to B, but somehow that could not keep the VB caravan from flipping numerous U’s at terrifying intersections. Suffice to say: Stubbornness—she get it from her Daddy.

3. My Grandma Chick is/was a peach. Years ago it would be hard to imagine a more tender side of the red-headed lady who raised 8 kids (7 boys!) and struck terror into my heart as a child. Yes, the woman who was constantly chiding me to “brush your hair!” “sit like a lady!” “don’t drink your water so fast!” just could not understand that as I child I was a boy who liked to gulp down water and spill it down my front. It could be that I have changed (am no longer ragged boy child) or perhaps the both of us, but I genuinely enjoy my Grandma Chick. I saw several pictures of the Irish Italian Gloria Chickey with glossy black hair in a cute two-piece get up playfully swimming with my grandpa Rut in the Ozarks while they were “courting.” She has achieved so much, traveled all over the world, still eats steak, encourages red wine for health, and can swing a golf club with the best of them.

4. I assume the countenance of a monster when low blood sugar hits.

5. I have seen the Promise Land in the form of a world class manicured croquet course, but was unable to taste of its fruits. This is going to take a while for me to get over.

6. Going down a 10 story slide when you are 5’9 is a slow, painful experience.

7. Being modest about ones athletic abilities is surely always a lie. I donned the White’s necessary to play tennis at G Chick’s club, being very clear about my tennis skills, “I am not very good. I have never really had a lesson.”  Family members responded, “Oh! That’s fine. I have not played in ages!” Only to be pelted by spicy mustard-style serves minutes later.

8. I have a huge thing for red brick houses. I caught myself about every two minutes envisioning/practically tasting the lemonade I would be sipping on the porch of my would-be absolutely stunning house. In retrospect, I  see no impediment to me actually doing so. I should have just supplied my own glass and set up camp. 

9. I made a pit stop to Schnucks at 11:30 p.m on a friday night with my parents. Our purchases? A rotissere chicken and grapes. It's really not what you think.

10. I love love my family.  And things have gotten so much easier since the days of loading up our van and using a spray bottle in lieu of AC. 

                               Lemon Ricotta Pine Nut Tart                ...Yummmmmmmmmmmmmm

Buddy, Fondant, and the Indisputable

When I say I don’t really watch TV I mean it. It’s mainly because I don’t understand my new television, and cannot figure out which of the 7 remotes I need to use to make it give me a moving picture. I am aware this statement savors strongly of a geriatric-style rant and puts the feather in my Luddite cap, but I wish to redeem myself by stating that I do have one show that I just really enjoy. The quality, the thought provoking, the inspirational,

The Cake Boss.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. If it were to be made a drinking game, and a sip was in order each time Buddy shouted the word "Fondant!" everyone would be delightfully sloshed on cheap Italian wine within minutes. For bearing the name Buddy with so little visible symptoms of self-angst and shame, you have my esteem. For maintaining that high level of intensity and pitch in your voice, you have my amazement. For using pounds and pounds of edible sweets to make unorthodox figurines on cakes, never to be actually eaten, you have my astonishment. And anyone who can make a life-sized cake in the image and likeness of your own wife and stomach the sight of it, has my congratulations.

People think it is easy to be The Cake Boss. People think his hair just looks like that when he gets out of the shower, and that the Jersey accent flows naturally. People think that making a cake that looks and flushes like a real toilet is old hat. Work, it all takes unimaginable amounts of work. Let me tell you, the only unrehearsed thing about the show is the nature of Italian drama. If Moonstruck has taught me anything, (and don’t even try to tell me it hasn’t) it’s that Italian hands move independent of the brain, if you are not yelling about something you are lying, that families are tight-knit, and bad-blood can rip your heart out and your hand off—and that Nick Cage, at one point in time, had real promising talent.

People used to think that cakes were for eating, and that asking for “chocolate” was more than enough of a sufficient description. The Cake Boss astutely maneuvers through all of the antiquated ideas of sweets, shattering them with a rolling pin and an Italian Momma-style cheek slap, and recreates the norm to a level of pyrotechnics and fresco paintings.

If you are still in doubt about the unique talent of this TV Show, let me finish convincing you with a few choice episode titles and descriptions:

“Museum, Mistakes, and Mother Mary”

“The shop goes to the American Museum of Natural History to acquire reference for a prehistoric mammal cake; a sweet 16 cake proves to be more work than anyone planned on; Frankie makes and decorates a cake all by himself for Mary's daughter's dance recital.” 

“A Blindfold, A Bikini, and Breathing Fire”

“A customer orders a tiki cake that emits fire and a cake for his sister-in-law's bridal shower. Also, Mauro challenges him to ice a cake blindfolded, lest he be forced to come to the bakery dressed in a grass skirt and coconut bra.”

"Aquarium Adventures and An Announcement"

“Buddy adds live fish to an underwater-themed cake ordered by an aquarium to celebrate its birthday. Lisa and Remy make a special announcement to Buddy, who can't wait to tell the rest of the family.” 

"Tournament of Knights and a Tasty Tiramisu”

“Buddy's Italian speaking skills are put to the test as he has to make an authentic tiramisu  for a client who has family visiting from Italy. In addition, a knight from Medieval Times comes to the bakery to ask for a cake for his king and queen, and challenges Buddy to a joust .” 

"Chopped Head and a Crazy Cravings Cake"

“Buddy has to make a cake for a  Marie Antoinette party, a "cravings" cake for his sister, Lisa Gonzalez, for her baby shower. Mauro faces a short health care crisis. The rest of the clan is concerned while Mauro claims it to be ‘no big deal.’”

"Hieroglyphics, Hearse and Happy Parents"

“A funeral hearse is made for a surprise cake. A mother and daughter cannot agree on a theme for a Sweet 16 cake, with one desiring an Egyptian theme, and the other a more girlish fashion-oriented theme. An animal-themed cake is made for an Indian baby shower.”

"Barbers and Bulls"

“Buddy wants to make a cake for the barbershop where he has been getting his hair cut since he was a kid in honor of their anniversary. Also, Buddy and the team are asked to create a mechanical bull cake, complete with movement.”

“Toilets and Textiles”

“A plumbing supply company asks Buddy to make a toilet bowl cake with one special condition -- the cake must actually flush. A nightclub owner who's a fan of denim requests a baby shower cake -- that looks like denim. Meanwhile, someone in the bakery has accidentally made a tiered cake with uneven tiers; with the cake on a deadline, Buddy demands who's at fault.” 

I rest my cake?

In the Gadda

I have long associated gardening with failure. The few attempts I made as a kid in Arizona withered and died the minute I put the seed in the ground or second I took them out of the black plastic holder. It’s like I almost heard the plants say to me, “are you kidding me? I’m not meant to survive here. And neither are you, really, you freckled thing!” Ours was not a caring relationship, plants and I.

The only gardening success I have ever been involved with, I was only involved in the enjoying part. My roommates in college planted a garden in our backyard. They tended to it, and it grew beautifully in the unlikely setting of an under-utilized yard behind a sub-par house in the middle of a college neighborhood. I maybe helped water once or twice.  Even more beautiful was the time I spent picking off cherry tomatoes by the dozen and eating them up.

When my mother asked me to accompany her to Lowes today, I had instantaneous flashbacks of the last time I was at that store, in Fairfield, Connecticut, with my green-thumbed roommate. I impatiently followed my indecisive companion all around the store. He would pick up a type of flower and put it in the oversized carts they have at those places, we would circle through the aisles, and then he would take the flowers out of the cart and replace them with another. This happened every two minutes. Offering no real help, I only made strong comments about what color of pots I liked best. He did not listen. I was happy when we could finally leave, even though our exit included me lugging a 30 lb bag of manure-ish stuff in my arms.

My trip with my mom was decidedly different. I was so amazed to see all the various types of plants that could apparently grow in AZ. (with loads of borrowed water and TLC, obvi) In her typical fashion, my mom knew exactly what she wanted, got it, and we left. As we were unloading all of our newly acquired plants, I for some inexplicable reason got giddy with excitement. The next thing I know, I have slathered on SPF 60, changed out of my dress and sandals into work clothes and tennis shoes, and have a shovel in my hand. I am digging holes with vigor a la John Henry’s railroad race with the steam powered machine. (In the scenario in my head, I cream the hole-digging machine, and remain living victoriously, shovel in hand. I kick the lousy defeated machine over, and bury it in the big amazing hole I just dug, resolute to never water it, and deny it even a drop of Miracle Grow.)

I remember when I was younger I loved to get unnecessarily messy when doing projects. When baking bread with my mom, I used to smother flour all over my face like in the movies. When helping my dad paint, I used to make sure that I got splatters all over my “paint clothes.” And I am pretty sure my feet have consistently been dirty ever since the day I discovered I really don’t care for shoes. Gardening and working in the dirt rekindled that messy urge. I had dirt everywhere, as I made no effort in the least to stay clean. I even had that mulch stuff that I know has organic materials that might include animal excrement caked on all over. (The swarms of flies were having lunch on my legs. ‘Twas poop.) It felt great.

It also felt like my mom and I were performing some great civic duty by planting. Neighbors who drove by honked and waved, and we even got a few thumbs up. No joke, a police man even stopped, got out of his car, and complimented our work. He even went so far as to ask candidly “how everything is going for you?” and, “if you have any concerns, here is my card.” Thank you, officer. I'll name this rosemary plant after you.

Then, a parade come thundering down the street, with dancing bushes and bagpipe playing shovels.  Scantily clad vegetables strut down the street shaking what the dirty dirt gave ‘em. (my mom covered my eyes) Various other gardening tools were twirling batons to the beat played by watering cans. As they passed our house, a fight broke out because apparently one called the other a “hoe.” Really?

Okay, but there really should have been a parade.

The test will really be to keep those plants alive. It’s a tough world out there, in AZ. I’d like to think that I have instilled them all with the fundamentals: courage , self respect and furtile soil. I guess all I can do, I guess all  any gardener can ever do,  is just to watch my babies grow.

pretty poppies in my neighbor's yard

The Good, the Bad, and the Pup

No one would ever assume that my father is a man who loves his truck, especially because 9 times out of 10 when you see the man he is grinning in his spandex with a glob of sunscreen on his nose, either beginning or ending one of his lengthy bike rides.  Yes, that truck is the one variance from his usual “I don’t care about cars” mantra. Is it because it makes him feel manly and Ford Tough? An accompaniment to his proverbial shot gun and flannel? Maybe he takes it off road to traipse around in the mud? Or is it because he can haul huge loads of rocks, timber and steel planks in the back?

I cannot say definitively, because I have never asked him, but I am going to go with No.

Why? Because it is a 1989 Isuzu. It is small, powdery beige, and completely the opposite of Macho. It cannot make it safely over 45 miles an hour.  The first gear is practically non-existent.  You can literally hear it coming from a half mile away; it is so very, very loud (evidenced by heads turning in concern). Inside the car, there is a cacophony of noises coming from various parts of the engine and odometer—seemingly   all over (A recent confusing addition is the sound of swishing water?). Oh, and a very important defining detail: the trucks name is “the Pup.”

We continually get offers from people (via messages written on scrap paper left on the windshield) trying to by it, presumably for parts. My father takes each and every proposition as a compliment, and would never consider selling it.

“The whole neighborhood uses it!”

Well, the last time a neighbor tried to put it to use, pulling out a tree stump, the Pup huffed, puffed, roared and squealed, trying to get it to budge. Not long after it began its battle, the Pup relented, lurching backwards at the stump, causing a scene of great concern. We have not gotten too many requests since.

Currently, the Pup has a pale blue license plate from the Bahamas on the front. That very same license plate used to be on the wall in my room. I bought off a woman on the side of the road when my family visited the Bahamas on a cruise several years ago. One day, literally out of nowhere, I saw it attached to the front of the Pup. When asked about it, my Dad simply responded, “Oh, yes! Sort of fun, huh?”

We never lock the car, knowing that if somebody did have the gall to try and steal the Pup, they would soon figure out they would not be able to drive it. You simply have to have the touch. It requires a sort of seasoned sensitivity to a very hard to please clutch. Incidentally, once the keys got locked in the car. My mother prayed to the “Good Thief” as I easily jimmied the lock with a bent hanger. 

The good times in the Pup are unquestionable; it would have one hell of a memoir. I used to play in it as a kid, seeing how long I could tolerate standing bare foot on the black lining of the bed that had been baking in the Arizona sun all afternoon.  My nieces and nephews now play in it, taking advantage of its old and poorly inflated tires, jouncing the car like it was a trampoline. Legend has it my oldest sister Sarah accidentally took out a tree in front of Ted’s Hotdogs in the Pup.  I also have heard it has driven over a few parking blocks. There are telltale signs  that it has had a few unsavory encounters with foreign objects, its body is riddled with dents. I personally once backed it into a wall.  There is no mirror on the passenger side (it’s just not there), and I have never gotten a clear story as to why. 

All six of the VB kids have learned to drive stick in the Pup, (I can clearly recall the horror of my own experience) and yet somehow it has managed to be one of our only cars to escape some disastrous fate. The Pup is a landmark to the VB house, and I daresay, our whole neighborhood. It’s been working hard for 20+ years at bringing down the property value. 

The Pup even makes a cameo on Google Earth.  Count it. 

It's in the Bag

Let me let you all in a lucrative secret: Plastics. 

Totally kidding. That's rubbish.The real secret: bags of change. Nickels, dimes, pennies, you know the like. It's fairly easy. When told the cost of something, whip out a sack of change, fumble to count out the dollars one hundred pennies at a time, and the salesperson will tire and let it slide.

Right now I am 2 for 2, a 100% success rate. 

I should specify: This tactic should be utilized only when time is sensitive and/or the person looks exasperated by the prospect of carrying the load of 3 extra lbs. of change.

I came upon this discovery quite by accident. Last year, at a time in my life when small change literally counted as a substantial part of my almost nonexistent income, my friend Elizabeth and I were Boston bound, driving through the beautiful state of Maine. We had to stop what seemed like every 5 minutes to pay a toll. Being from the West, the land of open and unmitigated roads, I find tolls as a sort of personal insult. "Bourgeoise!" "Let me manifest my destiny!" "Jefferson's rolling in his grave!" and so on, and so on.

We got to a point when our toll funds were running low. However, Elizabeth allayed fears by pulling out her sack of coins that were her tips from work. We laughed as Elizabeth dutifully tried to count out change in the passenger seat. When we approached the booth, I attempted to hand the man two handfuls of small change, and assured him that he has 35 cents coming, but to please wait my friend is still counting it out. The guy expressed some words of disgust (in an entertaining Maine accent) and just waved us through. We drove off, feeling some how that we damned that proverbial Man. Yeah, that's $2.10 that the state of Maine is NOT getting from us! You bet we'll spend that small fortune elsewhere…like on splitting a coffee in Boston. Or investing it into something more substantial, costly and worthwhile, like a cupcake. 

I was actually telling that story today to my friend Rachel while we inched along in line for parking at a Diamondbacks spring training game. Guys were going window to window collecting $5, then waving them on to park is some crowded lot. Rachel had in her lap a pretty legitimate bag of change. It's intended purpose was to go meet it's maker at the bank, but a time crunch postponed the trip. (Fate. It was all fate. I see that now.)


 The guy approached our window, with a sizable wad of cash in hand, and asked for our money. I asked, "Do you accept change?" He replied, sort of half-smiling saying, "I prefer cash." (I could sense fear in his voice; his face showed signs of terror as he intuitively sniffed out the mounds of change located mere feet from his pocket.)  I start reaching for my wallet as Rachel (genius!) starts counting out a dollar in change. (they were quarters---really? Who turns down quarters!?) With a a tap-tap on my car door that was both pastoral and grandfatherly, he said, "You girls are fine," and waved us on.  

We are more than fine. We are high-rollin'. 

So you see, I have personally saved $7.10 with the sack-of-change technique. If you really think about it, the possibilities are limitless. Bring on the drive thru! 

A Gem

This is just too rich not to share:

A text received today from my beloved former roommate, Jeff.

“Random text: do u remember one day just me and u were sailing
together, and for some reason the conversation led to us trying to
figure out who was the god of war? Well, I have been on the toilet for
about 20mins reading the toilet bible to random facts of life, and
according to this book the god of war is Mars. Just an fyi. Miss U!!!”

Stand By Your Band

The concept of earbuds struck me as fascinating  this morning as I boarded the lighrail to work and my ipod, on random, started playing Seal.  There I was, weaving in an out of ASU's blonde and buff, jamming to "Fly Like an Eagle." I kept a calm demeanor, though I desperately wanted to laugh, and no one had a clue. I noticed several people around me with earbuds in and I became incredibly curious to know what they were listening to, or perhaps, what they were concealing. 

No one can deny the existence of guilty musical pleasures.Yes, we have all done something along the lines of belting out to “I’m Your Lady” by Celine Dion while speeding down Rural road. (I can feel you nodding in agreement.)  However, this takes place in the comfort of our cars, safely separated from the judgment of the rest of the world. If it is a nice day and you have the windows down, it goes without saying that the windows go up at the stop light. The worst is when you are so enraptured in your solo that you neglect to roll up the windows before you stop at the light. What ensues is a Sophie's Choice:  Roll up the windows?  Painfully acknowledging that Barbara Striesand  is wailing away in your car? Or the second option: stare stone faced forward at the light while Barbara sings, “life’s candy, and the sun's a ball a’ butta!”  It's just painful.

Nevertheless, most of us would stand by our musical preferences, even our guilty pleasures; especially with the quick hipster-like succession of whats cool; "Thursday is the new Friday", "Tuesday is the new Thursday;" "empanada is the new cupcake,"  "global warming is the new empanada,"... and so on. However, I wonder how many of us would actually physically stand by our musical loves. I would like to offer a scenario, that may cause us all to stop an pause: the artist that your are listening to on your ipod accompanies you on the lightrail to work.

Sure, Seal  may get some love, maybe a fist bump or two because he is married to Heidi Klum and has crazy awesome Halloween costumes--but would he play well with others? Moreover, would others play well with him? It's been my impression that Jeff Tweedy does not get along with anyone. And I am pretty sure Keith Richard's already weak social skills have plummeted; it is unclear at this point if he even has the facilities to hear. Bono would talk your ear off, leading you to rethink you opinion of tinted glasses and feel quite guilty about third world debt. Ray LaMontagne's painful shyness would compel you to break the awkward silence by talking too much, and then you end up classically oversharing about the pain you felt after the loss of your first house pet. I also imagine that Meatloaf would sit just a bit too close. 

So here we are, on the train. First, some niceties are exchanged. A few compliments are thrown out, such as, "love your work," and, " I preformed a synchronized swim routine to your very first hit song.' This feeling of good will is transient; and of course, as if on cue, the party doesn't start 'til Kei$ha walks in. This is where things get interesting. Kei$ha says to Adam Duritz, who is donning shades and obviously nursing a hang over, "totally loved that 'paved paradise' song. Parking's always a b*%ch!." Joni Mitchell chimes in words of protest, but she climbs too many octaves at too rapid a speed that everyone almost immediately tunes her out. (I have been told, though, that dogs down the block were howling in agreement.) Damien Rice attempts to interject with a few dulcet words of his own in regards to the song, but unfortunately his words go mostly unheard due to people either starting to cry or falling asleep; most notably Adam who at this point has actually taken up residence on the floor. 


"Leave, leave, leave, leave me alloooooooone," he wails.

An unexpected character in the fray is Steve Martin, who repeatedly is forced to explain that yes, he is a musician pursuing a career in Bluegrass. And yes, Bluegrass counts as music. Everyone assumes it is a joke, because after all he is quite a funny man, everyone except for Steve Martin. His interactions quickly devolve into threats, as real as his Grammy nomination. A pluckin' and strummin' mans hands are strong, and no one wished to meet them in the form of a punch. He was unanimously granted the final say on the song, similar to the child who gets to pick the game at the birthday party because he threw a tantrum. Steve recoils to the back of the train where he begins to serenade a handrail with his own version of "Big Yellow Taxi." Joni joins in, offering a performance of the song that even Keith Richards could hear. Keith gets off at the next stop. Actually, we are all a little worried about Keith right now, we saw him get into a strange brown van. 

Believe it or not, Jimmy Buffet is present on the lightrail--though to me it seems unnatural to listen to Jimmy anywhere else but in a backyard while drunk. Jimmy is strolling throughout the train cars wearing a rip off Jack Sparrow outfit, making passes at young women, and ending his comments with bizarre things like, "…and I am still searching for my lost shaker or salt," and several other with equal or less relevance. For example, when the ticket man comes and asks for his, Jimmy replied, "I can't find my ticket, man. It's anywhere you want it to be." The ticket man is not amused, as he has a devastating allergy to tequila, and Jimmy is shown the door.  However, Jimmy refuses to leave until he finds his salt shaker; he won't budge.

Incidentally, Seal has a salt shaker in his personal bag (he wishes that I specify for the record that it is NOT a purse) and begins to feel extremely uncomfortable. He wraps his hands around the purse (woops!) and tacitly stares out the window at the riveting scenery that is Washington Ave. Beads of nervous sweat gather on his forehead. "Jimmy's got a lotta rage," he worries to himself.

By the time that Seal and I approach our stop at  3rd Street things are reaching a boiling point. Chris Brown and Enya are actually playing Cat's Cradle together and sharing a juice box. Bruce Springsteen punched out a window in an effort to escape Meatloaf's advances. Sting and all of the Beastie Boys are engaged in a staredown over what appears to me a dispute over an isle seat. Steve Martin has left his seclusion to perform card tricks, scaring children, and angering a man who he hustled out of his lightrail day pass.

I take the obviously nervous Seal by the hand, and we exit to safety. I am off to work, resigned to bring a book the next day instead. 

It should be noted that amongst all of this raucous, Barbara Striesand, standing in the center isle, eyes fixed and chin slightly lifted as if staring into a spot light, never ceased singing. A class act, Barbara. I'm never rolling up my windows again. 

butter in action; oatmeal raisin whoopie pies with orange buttercream filling

First Thought, Explanation

It seems to me that I have entered a more "calm" period of my life--that is that I am involved in nothing structured, without any major commitments, and there is no definitive end/start date to what I am doing. I am in a period of Strangelove. Meaning, I am enjoying it, I think. It would seem logical that I would choose to write during the sections of my life that were daily chock full of stories, interesting experiences, and revelations. But I was way too busy being involved in said revelations to pause and write. And lets be honest, when I did pause, I fell asleep. Now that I have more than enough time to write, the challenge is to find something I feel is interesting enough to write about, without spiraling down into the overly personal. I have ruminated over themes and clever prompts, and after feeling unsatisfied and slightly discouraged that I was losing my love of writing, I have decided to saunter forward without and real direction. I am wide open to whatever whim wanders through my mind. I have promised myself to explore any resonating thought.

The first thing to come to mind that stuck was butter. (greased my wheels?) Yes, butter. Hence, the title. My mother, a Spanish teacher, taught me that the Spanish word for butter is "mantequilla;" and the pneumonic device she taught me to remember it with was "meant-to-kill-ya." It should then be no surprise to you that I  was reared on margarine, and more recently, a non-dairy product which claims to have all of the important attributes of butter without the artery-clogging fat.  A cursory glance at any information regarding margarine would lead anyone to discover it's nasty. I don't even want to go over its slim separation from plastic, its origins in plumping up poultry, and its oddly bright color--I ate that stuff for years. I have actually been told I was the kid that ate butter--ahem, margarine-- right off the dish. (I do not recollect this, an obvious yet to be discovered side affect of margarine--selected memory loss). My health conscious family wised up a bit to "M" and moved on to something healthier….another butter substitute.  This substance (which shall remain nameless) is a "buttery spread" made with non-hydrogenated somethings. (It was endorsed by Regis Philbin, for crying out loud.) Each time my mother brings it home, it seems to be a different variety: "olive oil," "added calcium," and "reduced fat." Butter has never engaged in such nonsense. It has never had to masquerade as something to try and prove what it is--tasty, natural, and simply necessary for good baking. It was actually my recent rekindled love of  baking that solidified my love for butter, and has since caused me to reject the Non-Hydrogenated. 

The problem with baking with anything that tries to be "butter" in sheep's clothing is that it lets you down. For years I pointed the finger of blame for mediocre cookies back at myself. Flat, lifeless, bland;  all for the sake of being slightly less fattening. I can clearly recall the distinct day of my liberation, my coming of age,  the event that if in a movie would have been heavily soundtracked by climactic cult rock. I had a recipe for pumpkin Whoopie Pies that I simply did not want to mess up. Something in the back of my head always knew it would be better with butter, vaguely recalling a rendition of  my friend Elizabeth's, "it's betta with feta!" But in this case I replaced the last word with "butta!" (You follow?) The problem being we never had any of that fattening substance in the house! At the grocery store, I looked for the butter that I gathered to be the most fattening--if I am going real, I am going real. I selected something that said it was European. They know how to get real. 

I approached baking with butter in mystified wonder. Handling it with care, I took it delicately out of its wrapping. Placing it on the counter, I stood staring at it and wondering, "what in the hell is considered 'room temperature?!'" Panicked to do it right, I check periodically on the butter, as if it were going to tell me the information I wanted; "Yup Clare, 'bout five more minutes and I will be at my most optimal temperature. You are doin' just fine, sweetie." I smile lovingly at the butter, thanking it for its reassurance; we high-five, then I throw it into the batter, at appropriate intervals. 

The result was a baking success. An amazing rise, texture, and taste. I was converted. I am stepping out in a new direction. Butter, for the win. It is now present in my every baking venture, and shall henceforth inevitably and merrily join me on my hips. Despite the fact that I probably glow in the dark due to the irreversible years of margarine consumption, my days in the dark are over.

This caused me to think of all the other pseudo stuff we eat and create to avoid the fact that we as a nation have a problem controlling ourselves. To eliminate one perceived problem, we create another. The result is more chemically modified foods, misconceptions and ignorance, and countless health problems. Just a thought. 

Butter, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship…