The Hedonistic Pleasureseeker

(Kitty likes her meat RAWR!)

I used to hate to cook. Just thinking about cooking made me feel tired and depressed; even when I was a stay-at-home mom I couldn’t bring myself to do more than the minimum.

“What’s for dinner?” My ex would say.

“I dunno, whatcha making?”

I had a mental block against cooking because I always had the feeling my mother hated it. I don’t know if it’s true; it just seemed such a repetitive chore. Same with my hardworking grandmothers who spend their whole lives in their kitchens and their gardens: By the time they cleaned up from one meal it was time to start the next. Had I lived a life like theirs I think I might have stuck my head in an oven set to “broil.”

(Kittyprint prep bowls found at a kitchen outlet)

But outdoor cooking is different, right? It’s fun, like camping. Believe it or not I went to survivalist school as a kid; in Minnesota this is what they call a “school trip.” I’m glad I did it: I can start a fire in the rain using only one match (hint: use birch bark).

Also, my first long-term boyfriend, whom I’ll call Tipi Guy, taught me how to catch and scale fish. He was a Norwegian lumberjack who wanted to be a Lakota native in the worst way, and through our work on the local reservations I learned how to cook “Indian style,” which in the 1980’s meant frybread with canned blueberries, grilled walleye, and wild rice soup.

(Marinated London Broil)

Tipi-guy hated that I loved my meat rare, and by rare I mean RAW. Once I spent almost fifty dollars on two antelope steaks and ate mine with my bare hands before he even lit the campfire. I got really bad marks on that day. Submissive “native wife” was a job I didn’t want and failed the interview for anyway, especially after the flyfishing “incident” that I won’t go into. Suffice it to say he married the girl who didn’t try to kill him.

That was the last time I cooked on a regular basis. Bunny got her dietary variety from living in three places: Mine, her father’s and her grandmother’s. It’s a good thing because otherwise Bunny’s idea of cooking would be instant oatmeal.

But I digress! I fired up a grill tonight for the first time in five years! Usually I leave the grilling to whatever manly man crosses my threshold. I tried to light my gas grill once on my own and I practically blew up the neighborhood because I left the lid on when I pushed the ignition. I got rid of that menace in favor of a little Coleman charcoal grill (a gift from my stepfather). It sat around for over a year gathering dust. But looky! My first try, with a London Broil I’d been marinating in a red pepper rub for two days. I didn’t time it or anything and it STILL turned out perfect. I paired it with a mess of greens pulled right out of my garden. Mmmm yummy

The heather blooms in my front yard are covered in snow. What a beautiful day! Bunny’s school called a snow day, and it’s my day off from work. Our decadent breakfast: Fresh squeezed tangerine juice and REAL hot chocolate.

Ingredients:

4 cups whole milk
10 ounces semi-sweet chocolate, finely chopped

Optional ingredients for garnish:

Whipped cream
Chocolate shavings
Ground cinnamon
4 small cinnamon sticks

Instructions:

1. Place the milk in a medium saucepan over high heat. Bring to scalding, and then remove from heat.
2. Optional: Add a cinnamon stick, and allow to infuse for 15 minutes. Carefully remove the cinnamon stick.
3. Bring the milk back up to heat. Add the chocolate, and stir until the chocolate is melted and the milk is frothy.
4. Pour into mugs and garnish with the whipped cream, chocolate shavings, cinnamon and cinnamon stick. Serve immediately.

It was 10:30 when Bunny woke me up. “Can we go shopping today? I need a dress for the cotillion.”

It was a little bit too much for me to deal with first thing after opening my eyes. A cotillion? Bunny a debutante? In New Jersey? Whose lame brained idea was that, my ex-mother in law? Do they even have those things anymore? I sighed. “Bring me some espresso and the rest of the berries and we’ll talk.”

In the car I began to oppress her with Mom Fashion Sense. Fortunately for Bunny I had shucked off my family’s Calvinist stingy prudishness when I was thirteen , and had already decided I would be The Cool Mom.

“Let’s find something elegant for you. Nothing with a petticoat, ok? I don’t want you to look like a cake topper.”

“Ew. I want something long and black.”

“Black? For a cotillion? I thought you said it was a cotillion. You wear all white at cotillions.”

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam, it’s not THAT kind of cotillion. It’s got a theme. Evening at the Oscars, practically everyone will be wearing black.”

“Oh.” My how things have changed. “Cotillion” in this town means a formal dance.  A school dance? Maybe I should have asked, ya think? Fortunately Bunny was born with good taste, which meant no fighting over the dress. Mission accomplished.

1892

1964

60’s/70’s theme, date unknown

So long as I’m allowed to have my way a typical Saturday involves my sleeping until noon. If Bunny wants me up earlier she brings a double espresso upstairs and passes it under my nose until I wake up. This morning she was so engrossed in her instant messaging on the internet so I was free to snooze.

When I woke up it was time to shop. Time to spoil the child again! We went to the local teenybopper boutique and spent her Christmas gift certificate on trendy knits. The child spoilage is deliberate: I had a dorky childhood and swore that no matter what, my child would always have enough “cool” clothes so that she’d never feel the way I felt the day my mother insisted the plaid corduroy pants were “practical.” Today Bunny is very, very cool. She’s tall and very mature and has been hanging out with seniors (now college freshmen) since the day she started high school. Since she’s an A/B student on the bowling team, and has never given me a lick of trouble she’s allowed out on Friday nights with a midnight curfew. She wears whatever she wants, and gets whatever she wants within reason. Today I said no to the $80 jeans.

“Mom?”

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“Mom?”

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“Mom. Mom. MOM!!!!!”

I stirred a bit. My GOD I was out of it. “Mmmmm?”

“It’s, like, 3:30.”

“Shit.” I was supposed to be at work. I thanked GOD I was a government employee with 20 years tenure and a boss who liked me. I rolled over and looked at Bunny standing in my bedroom doorway. “Mummy doesn’t feel very good.”

If Bunny said something after that I don’t remember it.

1 bag of frozen raspberries
1 cup sugar or sugar syrup (adjust to taste)
1 blender

This is so easy to make that it’s almost laughable that it never occurred to me to try this myself. Why do I buy this stuff at the supermarket, again?

Bunny invented this little concoction and it’s insanely good. Very tart, which I like. No funny ingredients to decipher. There are only two ingredients, if you’ve not already noticed. If you don’t have sugar syrup (do NOT us corn syrup!) you will need a small double boiler to melt your granulated sugar without burning it.

Toss the ingredients in a blender, set it on medium high and start blending. Pour into a covered dish and freeze for an hour or so before eating. Viola!

I was in a bad way and couldn’t take the pain and embarrassment any longer. Scorpio had recommended two of his GI doctors to me, but they couldn’t take new patients until January. I made an appointment with one of their partners at an office almost an hour away. He seemed nice enough.

“So! What brings you here today?”

“My tummy.” (braaaaaaaap)

He laughed. “Of course; I’m a GI doctor. Work with me here.”

“I’ve had some rapid weight gain (burp) my stomach is sticking out and it hurts when I press on it.”

“Okay, NOW we’re getting somewhere. Talk to me.”

I belched again, and winced because it was actually painful. “The last time I had a belly like this there was a baby inside. (Belch) And I can’t stop belching. And I . . . can’t . . . “go” . . . without a laxative. I’ve never been this way before.”

“Don’t worry, guys like women who belch. How much weight?”

Embarrassed, I was tempted to lie. “Fifteen pounds since last summer. I was at my primary doctor last Friday and got weighed and I’d gained 11 pounds. I’ve already gained four pounds since then and there is NO WAY I could have eaten that much. It’s just weird.

“Do you drink?”

“Not much, not these days.”

“Smoke?”

“No.” (urp)

“Ever?”

(Braaaap, shake head)

“What have you tried?”

“Everything. I bought every kind of antacid and laxative on the market. Right now I’m using straight senna from the health food store.”

“OK let’s take a look at you. Where does it hurt?”

“EEP! OW!” (urp)

“Okay, we’re going to send you in for a pelvic sonogram and have your ovaries checked out. Did your primary order a blood test? Can I see it? . . . Boy she covered everything, even the CA-125. Okay. Have her send me a copy of the results. How old are you again?”

“Forty one.”

“We’ll do a colonoscopy on you too. You’re at that age.”

(Groan) “Great.” (belch)

Bunny wanted to be a redhead like her mom so I bought her the kind that will eventually wash out.  I hope.

(Every night is kind of like this)

There hasn’t been much of a point to arguing over who gets the computer this week . . . so I’ll read a book instead. Happy HNT everyone!

(”A mother’s love” by Pino. Bunny is sick today.)

What did y’all have for thanksgiving? I grilled a grass-fed buffalo steak rather than bake a whole turkey breast for myself. I also made garlic mashed potatoes and pumpkin pudding, and topped off with a pumpkin Martini! Wearing a full slip of course!

The weather was sunny and balmy, then turned cloudy and damp later on in the day. Meanwhile, Bunny is with her father, the folks are in Minnesota, and my sister has pneumonia. But the football game is on!

Have I mentioned Bunny and I get PMS at the same time?

I suppose it’s a blessing in disguise that we didn’t get home from the emergency room until after the trick-or-treaters had left. What would Bunny and I have eaten if we had given all the Halloween candy away? Neither of us can cook anything: Bunny has only one working hand and feels clumsy, and I can’t balance on one leg long enough to give up my crutches, and am not able to carry anything anyway, so phhbblt whatever. Scorpio’s yummy spit-roasted chicken didn’t last very long between the two of us, so it’s been Twizzlers, Milk Duds and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups keeping us alive! Oh, and leftover chips from last week’s party. Don’t ask me how I just lost two pounds.

One would never guess this, but my (reproduction) silk and feather-stuffed Victorian sofa is very comfortable. The Percocet pills make me dopey and inattentive and bring me in and out of consciousness, but least they make time go by without my noticing. Which reminds me: It’s time for another one.

(Hey, at least I wasn’t drunk this time)

Bunny and I shared an ambulance and an emergency room today. It was some time after lunch that my office phone rang:

Hello?

Hi, is this HPS? Good. This is the school nurse.

“Oh nooooooooooooooooo not again!”

“She’s not sick this time; she just took a hard fall. She tried to jump a net and got her foot stuck in it and then came down head first.” I made a weird groaning noise while she elaborated. “She really smacked her head on the floor and she has a huge bump on the side of her head. I really think she needs to see a doctor.”

(shit.) “I’ll be right there.”

I didn’t make it all the way; Fate decided I would wrench my ankle and and plant my knee in the school sidewalk instead. I hit it so hard that the contents of my bladder ejected. There I lay, literally in my own piss, while high school freshmen walked around me to get on the bus or in their parents’ cars.

A few kids came to my aid and offered to get the school nurse. ” Yes, perfect,” I said. “Tell her to bring Bunny with her; I’m here to pick her up.” Except I couldn’t.

I’ll spare you my dreary description of the classic 5 hour hospital emergency room experience.  No internal bleeding in Bunny’s head and hopefully no broken bones  (still waiting on her Xrays), just a lot of tissue damage and a lot of pain. I’m on crutches and Bunny has her arm in a sling. “Hey, we add up to one functioning human,” I said.

“Okay, you do the arms stuff and I’ll do the legs stuff.”

“Deal.”

(Bunny won’t let me take her picture with her arm in a sling, but Gabby is a ham!)

This is what I do while Bunny hogs the computer. The martini is optional, and atypical for me during the work week. I didn’t get home until 7:00 pm and was too exhausted to do anything besides lay on the sofa like a sloth, something I’ve been doing a lot of lately.

Then I got a hankering for cherries. I must admit I do make a fabulous cherry martini!

Very Cherry
2 oz Three Olives Cherry Vodka
1 oz cherry liqueur
1 oz triple sec (I like it tart, you can use less)

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Pour ingredients in a shaker with ice. Shake until very cold.