The deluge of rain has finally arrived. My
drive across town this morning to work was like driving through an aquarium.
I frequently check out an interesting
website called Foodista. They had a recipe on here that
sounded easy and fun. You have to be open-minded about fake meat though. Yes,
Imitation Crab Puffs. Now,
I love imitation crab meat. It’s just fish, that’s all. I used to eat it a lot
when I was dieting, right out of the package, drenched in fresh lime juice. It
wasn’t bad. These crab puffs sound fabulous. Mother and I were talking the
other day about trying to make something like pilmeni, the Russian dumplings
the kids love so much. Mother suggested we get won ton wrappers from the
grocery store. Those simple words “won ton wrappers” strike fear into my heart.
It’s not as serious as the fear of “puff pastry” but it’s close.
Now, I can bake a cake or make a pie, no
problemo. I can make cookies all day. However, any sort of complex baking, like
a tort or something Julia Child might make, and I go spiraling into a tizzy.
[In the south, a “tizzy” is much milder than a “hissy fit” but it’s still
something you don’t want to see or experience. I think Yankees call it “anxiety.”]
In denial of my abilities to use won ton
wrappers, I bought the kids some Buitoni ravioli at Kroger the
other day, and it was really yummy. We had one package of mushroom and one
package of spicy beef. The kids didn’t gobble it down like they do pilmeni, but
they ate well. It’s a meal we will definitely do again.
Another website I really like is Epicurious . If you like to cook, it’s a terrific place to browse.
Michael told me with great disgust last
night that in PE now the kids are folk dancing. I asked if he liked it. “No!”
was the vehement reply. I was sympathetic. “I was forced to folk dance in 6th
grade. I am so sorry, son.” I empathized. I asked him if it was horrible to
touch the girls. He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. I am actually glad to
know he feels that way, after he told me how much he liked his sister’s
magazines and all the photos of pretty girls.
Folk Dance Torture. I remember it well.
I was taller than all the boys. I was
chubby. I would get so nervous I could hardly think of my own name, much less
recall complicated dance patterns. The boys, the cute ones anyway, managed to
dance with me as though I was NOT THERE. Yes, as a dance partner I ceased to
exist in time and space, as they looked right through me, their eyes never
meeting mine.
When I went to the Environmental [torture]
Camp in 6th grade we were forced to folk dance every day, often out
in the parking lot, after dark. It got to where I heard the words “Virginia
Reel” and broke out in a cold sweat.
There were two kinds of girls in the 6th
grade – foxes and dogs. I was a dog, a loser, a fat, ugly, awkward,
pimple-ridden girl with goofy glasses. Most of the time I fervently wished to
simply be invisible. The mean little boys would bark at me every time they saw
me. No boy was ever nice to me unless he wanted to copy off my paper, because I
was smart and usually had the right answers.
One little boy in particular was my chief
tormenter – Steve Tudor. That was his name. He rode my bus, which was really
awful. He continued to bark and say mean things about me for years. Finally,
one time on the school bus, he went too far. My brother punched him in the
face. After that, he didn’t bother me any more.
I don’t advocate violence as a
problem-solving strategy. However, it worked for me.
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I
ran to Old Navy on my lunch hour (in the pouring rain) and bought some jeans
for Michael. They had no shorts in his size. It’s so frustrating. He wears a
boys 14 husky and Old Navy has the best selection but even they had nothing. I
got him two pairs of jeans, both 14 husky, and one pair was very loose, the
other very tight. The tight pair had to have been a 12 and were mislabeled. I have to take them
back and exchange them. Grrrr…..
We
went out to dinner at a Japanese restaurant in Toco Hills, a great shopping
area 15 minutes from the house. We were trying to tell Michael he had been
there before and he couldn’t think what we were saying. Finally, he said “Is it
the restaurant where the guy throws up the food?!” Uh, yes, but not quite that
way…
I
know it’s silly but I love food cooked over a hibachi. The other family at our
table was very nice and we chatted with them. The father works at a local
college and his wife is Chinese, and they have a little 8 year old boy. Nice
folks. The Daddy is from Boston. I just had to forgive them for being Celtics/Red
Sox people.
We
watched Diary of a Mad Black Woman for our movie. I have to say, I really like
Tyler Perry’s movies. He films in Atlanta and I always recognize a lot of
locations. He may be a transplant but I like a filmmaker who keeps the jobs in Georgia.
He also has good stories, with morals.
We
are supposed to get more rain tomorrow. I’m thinking I will see the animals
marching down Peachtree Street, two by two…
