Take heed my readers, and you shall all know
How to have three steak dinners without too much dough
Oh jeez, I just reread this. Is it really as uber-dopey as it looks? Sorry.
Over the winter our Anatolian shepherd Riker was fighting a skin allergy. He was put on steroids.
My poor mother.
Growing up, I tormented both parents. Criminally lazy, I did my very few chores only after the threat of bodily harm. I took evil delight in pushing my brother’s buttons (most of which I’d installed). I’d try to see how many kids I could drive with in my 1971 Dodge Dart Swinger, Lancelot (the record stands at 11). My religion was “Question Authority.”
He was quiet, wore glasses and was the kind of redhead that ran a real risk of bursting into flame when exposed to the sun. He was also one of the smartest, and most talented kids in our class.
Ladies and germs — we have an authentic Christmas miracle.
I’ve mentioned before how impossible is it to get Petey to choose our evening meal. I get bupkis, neither by spontaneous utterance, nor when he’s prodded by a spouse who shall not be named.
Perhaps you’ve noticed my email handle at the end of the column every week; it’s ‘Momsequitur’.
When I write a column, it’s a careful dance.
My kitchen sensai, Chef Chrissie, has taught me many things.
I’ve done it a total of three times.
The first time was like being flung out of a giant slingshot. The next two were more gentle and gradual. The final time it lasted six hours.
Many people do it alone, but being a novice I always did it with another person.
“They’re either going to be amazing or a horrible, horrible failure”.
Yeah, I could act like a grownup and stoically deal with the summer heat and humidity. But whining and moaning like a big sweaty baby is how I live my truth.
When I told Petey that I thought I’d write this piece about my new preparation for potatoes, he said they definitely deserve their own column.
Some things just aren’t worth the darn effort.
It’s something that happens, but no one ever talks about: we do have favorites. It’s true, people in retail have favorite customers.
Years ago, when The Kid was in preschool, and everybody was doing the Macarena, I worked at a small neighborhood bookstore for my friend Bosco.
We had lots of regular customers. Some of them we dreaded. Most we did not.
If our house ever caught fire, after I made sure Petey, The Kid, and our pooch Riker were safe, I’d go after a few material things.
I’d grab my computer, my awesome gray suede boots, and a very special bag.
It’s not a Kate Spade, a Burberry, or even a Birkin bag. This bag may not be as pretty as any of those dream purses, but its versatility can’t be beat. It’s actually a plastic bag that I keep in the fridge.