Before Sleep 8: The Ritual

Mrs. G's pup Gus is never allowed to sleep on Mrs. G's bed, what with all the flouncing and French kissing. Gus only settles down and gets some shut-eye in his crate. Not one to play favorites, Mrs. G. would like to share a recent picture of Gus with you, but whenever she brings the camera anywhere near him, he shows his ass. Just trust her -- he's cute, still puppified.

Due to canine seniority, Chewie has free reign of the house at night and Mrs. G. lets him sleep on her bed only if she's not exhausted and in need of uninterrupted sleep, because he periodically snores, groans and yips while bird dogging otherworldly rabbits in his sleep.

But Chewie is a hoper and a dreamer and each night when Mrs. G. is finished brushing her teeth, she walks in her dark room and encounters this:

Chewie undercover, on the sly pretending to be an empty corner in the room. He doesn't move or make a sound. 

In case you can't see him above, here is evidence of his presence when Mrs. G. uses the enhance feature on her photo program her night vision goggles. 

If Mrs. G. is tired and in a mood, she flips on the light and shoos him out. He stands there like she can't see him for 2 to 3 seconds and then slides out like his whole existence in the room is a complete mystery to him.

If she can't bear to insult his dignity as a secret agent, she flips on the light and pats the bed and he jumps up on it like it's the first time he's ever been invited.

Dog gratitude is so raw and unfeigned.

And just like the stars, he shows up each night.

Under cover of darkness, foward-looking, faithful and eager, his chances always good.

Before Sleep 7: Just the Basics

Full Confessional Friday

Be it Venial or Mortal (there's no escaping Original), we've all got secrets -- light, dark, funny, sad -- worth bringing to light. The act of confession can be liberating, mollifying and entertaining. Contrition? Repentance? A shot of Tequila? That's your call, sister. 

Photo: Police Dog, Tess, 29/1/35 / by Sam Hood

Clint

A true story of questionable taste and some mild language...

Click to read more ...

Slow Cook Thursday...Brought to You by Kelly

¹slow adjective \ˈslō\ a : lacking in readiness, promptness, or willingness b : not hasty or precipitate <was slow to anger>  a : moving, flowing, or proceeding without speed or at less than usual speed <traffic was slow> b : exhibiting or marked by low speed <he moved with slow deliberation> : requiring a long time  <a slow recovery>

1)Where are you from?

I am Cascadian. I was born in the  high Sierra mountains of California. I moved to Alaska at the age of two. I grew up in Juneau and then in Portland, Oregon. Apart from a few years in Eugene for college, broken up by a short detour to San Diego to recover from ennui, I have lived in PDX. It feels like home. It is where my children were born. It is where my library card is valid. It is where my Mama is most of the time.

Kelly in her favorite dress

2) What is your idea of a perfect Sunday morning?

It starts at noon and involves hollandaise sauce.

3) What is your favorite facial moisturizer and laundry detergent?

I moisturize with “free samples” a lot, but my favorite moisturizer for eyes is Alpha Hydrox Eye and Lip Cream. I also really like the Retinol Rescue from this line. I keep the eye cream on hand all the time. At $8.49 per ample tube it is a bargain.   I found out about it on makeupalley.com  a site that has wonderful reviews by a large community of product junkies. If you've ever wondered what the best mascara in all the land is you can look that up on makeupalley. That community will not steer you wrong when it comes to product.

I love ECOS lavender laundry detergent. I am also a  fan of Country Save Powdered Oxygen Powered Bleach. It is similar to Oxy Clean, but cheap and more effective in my opinion. It keeps my sheets and towels white white white.

4) What is the last book you read?

I read my father's copy of Feast Day of Fools by James Lee Burke while sitting by his hospital bed. I love Mr. Burke's characters. I'm also reading my way through the Persephone Books catalogue. Barbara Pym's Excellent Women is a favorite. I'm currently reading The Village by Marghanita Laski.

5) What is the last movie you saw?

Hysteria with Maggie Gyllenhaal and  Hugh Dancy. I was not familiar with the Victorian “treatment” for  hysteria. Amazingly, I also invented a similar treatment at about age 12! It is a light film with some great laughs. Here's a  review from Netflix:

So how do you make a movie about the history of the dildo*?You cast Rupert Everett and Maggie Gyllenhaal and let the hilarity ensue... I find it astounding that women's sexuality was such a mystery (to men) for so long, it's a wonder women had orgasms at ALL.

*The movie is actually about the advent of the vibrator which should not be confused with a dildo. 

6) Who is your secret boyfriend?

Like many a good Derf, Mancake is my business. So hard to pick just one which is why Mrs. G is the vanguard of progress with her bigger love lifestyle. Right now I adore Jason Momoa. He is 6'5, looks dangerous, and ticks all my boxes.

7) What are two things you would like to be doing in your life right now and why aren't you doing them?

I am not getting enough exercise. I have bad knees and am overweight. I've made great changes in my diet over the last couple of years (despite what you will believe after reading the following recipe!). Veggies are my friends, but I know my body needs to move more. I tell myself that it is because I am busy being a care giver for my dad. But in truth, it is probably a combination of laziness, self-esteem issues, and the ridiculous notion that I don't have the wardrobe for it so I'll look stupid.

Thing two is work related. I am not working much. Life has dramatically changed since my father decided to drink and drive and now requires full-time nursing care. Just before that went down I had to say goodbye to my job managing a boutique.

I loved my job and it fueled my design business which I ran on the side. My boss wanted to retire with some of her savings and the recession was playing hell with our profits, so we closed the store which had been in business for almost 20 years. It was a very sad time.

After I adjusted to this, I was really excited about the opportunity to work full-time on my own business. I had tons of energy and ideas and, at last, the time to execute my plans. And then things changed again as things do. I went to live in Colorado for a while to pack up my father's home and arrange to have him life-flighted to Portland and on and on and on.  Now I am adrift in a weird state where I am part-time caring and full-time organizing my father's life. I feel out of gas and a bit hopeless about what comes next. 

Heavens to Betsy dear Derfs! If you've read this far, I thank you for bearing witness to my neuroses. This feels like a really great therapy session. Could I just go on for a few more pages? Maybe not.

~

Here, I offer this delicious poem. It reminds me of my beloved daughter. When I first read it, it stirred up a bunch of things, but ultimately it was her incandescence I saw between each line.

Grammar

Maxine, back from a weekend with her boyfriend,
smiles like a big cat and says
that she's a conjugated verb.
She's been doing the direct object
with a second person pronoun named Phil,
and when she walks into the room,
everybody turns:

some kind of light is coming from her head.
Even the geraniums look curious,
and the bees, if they were here, would buzz
suspiciously around her hair, looking
for the door in her corona.
We're all attracted to the perfume
of fermenting joy,

we've all tried to start a fire,
and one day maybe it will blaze up on its own.
In the meantime, she is the one today among us
most able to bear the idea of her own beauty,
and when we see it, what we do is natural:
we take our burned hands
out of our pockets,
and clap.

by Tony Hoagland
from Donkey Gospel, 1998
Graywolf Press, St. Paul, Minn.

The words: “she is the one today among us most able to bear the idea of her own beauty...” are a talisman for me. I am, at last, working on bearing the idea of my own beauty.

~ 

And finally, we arrive at the reason you need to break out that crock-pot immediately.

Photo "courtesy" of the Food Network

Pulled Pork Sammies with Slaw!

I was a bit obsessed with a pulled pork sandwich made at our local natural foods grocery store deli one summer.  After sampling several recipes, I found one that consistently produces a close copy of that crazy yummy feast. It is simple, wacky, and easy enough for even the most distractible cooks like me (I am famous for wandering off while hard boiling eggs only to wander back just in time to catch them  catapulting skyward - then I repaint the kitchen ceiling). 

So, all the carnivorous ladies in the Manor  (Gary, I understand you are of the vegetarian persuasion so look away), excavate your slow cookers and wrangle a pork butt!

You will require:

a 3 to 4 pound pork shoulder roast (also known as a Boston Butt)

a litre or two of root beer (I've heard from Texans that Dr. Pepper is actually best, but I haven't veered from this perfect recipe yet)

your favorite homemade or store bought BBQ sauce (in keeping with the “down home” nature of the recipe, I use  a bottle of Sweet Baby Ray's Honey)

buns

coleslaw

Make that good stuff:

1.Plop that butt into the slow cooker.

2.Cover with the root beer.

3.Turn cooker to low and cook for 6 to 7 hours or, if you are impatient like me, to high and cook for 3 or 4 hours. You will know the meat is done when you can shred it easily with a fork. I've left it at low for up to 10 hours and found very little difference in the finished product as long as the roast is still covered in liquid. Check to see if you need to add more root beer once or twice.

4.Drain the liquid. I take the pork out and put it in a big mixing bowl. Then pour out the liquid in the crock. Now shred the pork with 2 forks -thus the “pulling”involved in the dish's naming I suspect.

5.Return the now pulled pork to the slow cooker and mix in your BBQ sauce. I use about 2 cups but preferences vary. My son prefers it with just a touch on top , none mixed in. It is delicious as is, so taste away and decide. Let the mixed pork and sauce get to know each other on low for half an hour or so.

To compose the perfect sandwich you will need delicious buns of your choosing (I love brioche buns, giant potato hamburger buns, and the buns featured on Jason Momoa in Game of Thrones) and some coleslaw.

I make my own slaw by slicing a cabbage thinly and tossing it in some mayo, a dash of apple cider vinegar, a pinch of sugar, and some celery salt which I whisk together before adding the cabbage. The idea is to make the slaw just before dishing these up so that you get that snappy contrast between the juicy pork and the crunchy cabbage. Pile the pork onto the bun, top with the slaw, and for goodness sake put a napkin 'round your neck because you are fixing to make a mess!

This is perfect party food easily serving 8 to 10 hungry people. If you have fewer eaters, put the leftovers in individual muffin tins and freeze. When frozen, pop the pork discs into a freezer bag or box and whenever you crave a taste of summer BBQ you can defrost a pork puck in the microwave or oven and enjoy! Also  fantastic in a tortilla with veggies. Why is it fun to make up pork words? Pork puck. Haha!

Please don't tell my mother I cook like this.

Original Recipe Source: AllRecipes.com with modification of the pork roast from tenderloin to Boston Butt thanks to one of the comments.

 

Thanks Kelly!

Wednesday 5...No Reason, No Motive. Just Curious.

1) Where was the last place you went on vacation?

2) What is your favorite pizza topping?

3) Did you have a favorite stuffed animal when you were a kid? If so, what was it?

4) Do you speak any other languages?

5) What is one of the best pieces of advice you have ever received?

Before Sleep 6

Last night Mrs. G. lay awake considering all the goals she should set for herself. Whenever Mrs. G. sets goals for herself they usually take the form of self-improvement. There is something about Sunday nights that slyly coerce her into taking a self inventory of her cerebral larder and she inevitably comes up short of fundamental, crucial staples: bread, eggs, milk, Oreos. Metaphorically, she lacks the essential ingredients of a bestelling, prosperous life.

Of course Mrs. G's heart skirmishes with her brain, calling bullshit on Sunday night and it's attending deliberations. She tossed, she turned, she flipped her pillow for the cool, cotton relief, she journaled, she read and, finally, she played her river card: a guided sleep meditation on YouTube where an Australian guy lulls her to relaxation, ocean waves lapping the shore in the distance. She fell asleep, her pantry fully stocked.

Take that, Sunday.

Mrs. Hornaday

Mrs. G. was never good at team sports. Besides her genetic predisposition to teetering, tripping over air and, then, bursting into tears, her desire to please her fellow teammates eclipsed any eagerness to win. She shuffled across the competition continuum in order to secure her spot at the next slumber party. Mrs. G. would chuck the softball way past first to make sure Stephanie Simon was safe or ram the basketball underhanded into Charlie Peters' kidneys to snag the foul for the girls' team. She was a loose cannon, her only strategy to get out alive and well liked. In sixth grade she gave up team sports altogether.

So she was surprised and skeptical her junior year in high school when the cross country coach, Mrs. Hornaday -- a tall, skeletal woman with a dyed black pageboy haircut and a slash of red lipstick across her heavily creased mouth -- approached her about joining the team. Mrs. G. explained she wasn't into team sports but Mrs. Hornaday, frantically rubbing the nap on the left arm of her midnight blue velour track suit, explained when you were running, you were only competing with yourself. Competing with herself, unless it involved plowing through and shrinking the stack of library books on her night stand, sounded uninteresting, pointless to Mrs. G. This, combined with her congenital fear of falling, led her to tell Mrs. Hornaday thank you, really, but no thank you. "I'll see you tomorrow. Practice is at 4:00," Mrs. Hornaday said, unfazed by Mrs. G's polite refusal. "It will look good on your transcript." Mrs. Hornaday, a frail, sickly looking woman who could have been 45 or 65, twitched down the hall like a hyper thyroid without saying goodbye.

Still a pleaser, Mrs. G. showed up the next day. Mrs. Hornaday, a stopwatch in one hand and a cigarette in the other, introduced her to the team and explained the drill, which was to simply to run behind everyone else as fast as she could...after she ate two hamburgers. Each practice, Mrs. Hornaday, a big believer in iron and meat, would show up with a bag of Krystal hamburgers, mini square burgers which tasted like food warming lamps and sweat and insist each runner chow down. By week four of practice, Mrs. G. felt more confident -- she hadn't fallen once -- though she was consistently the last runner in. The minute Mrs. Hornaday saw Mrs. G. clearing the wooded path, she would shout, "That's my girl, Copeland, haul it on in." Mrs. G. would haul it on in only to discover, once again, the large orange thermos of Gatorade empty. Slowly realizing the satisfaction of being less of a pleaser, Mrs. G. would address the injustice of the lack of hydration to her faster, bastarding bastard teammates. "Get over it," Mrs. Hornaday, swallowed up in smoke and Taboo perfume, would say, offering Mrs. G. a swig of her cold coffee. "There's always someone a step or two ahead of you. Just keep going and deal with it."

Mrs. G. dealt with it until she graduated, roused and galvanized by a brittle boned, phlegmy-lunged woman of indeterminate age who she could probably break in half.

You can't predict who is going to move you (or make you move). Watch and listen carefully. Mrs. G. never ran again but she keeps hauling it on in, a step or two behind, and deals with it. The only difference, now she brings her own drink.