“The light of genius expressed in literature does not fail with the death of the author. His galleries are still displayed for our instruction and enjoyment. But the magic key which could have opened new ones to our eager desire has gone forever. Let us, then, guard the treasures which he has bequeathed.”
Sir Winston Churchill, tribute to Rudyard Kipling, 17 November 1937, quoted in Never Give In! The Best Winston Churchill Speeches.
Continuation of L.A. with Dred. Read that first!
It was just my luck (my bad luck) that Jason was at my Wicked-Step-Aunt’s house when I arrived. I’ve always hated that guy!
Dred had just left for L.A. that morning and I still hadn’t been able to reach him to figure out what Plan B was. How was I going to get there when Dred had all the money for our trip? There I was, knocking at my Wicked-Step-Aunt’s front door on the day I was supposed to be heading to L.A. with Dred, when who should answer but Jason.
“Hey there!” He was wearing blue coveralls with these big stains, a brown stain was on right leg and a white smear on left shoulder. There was a splotch of white paint on his forehead and his mousy hair was all a mess. He looked so dumb, as usual. Did he have any idea? He didn’t invite me in or anything, he just stared at me, holding the door with his right arm and holding a dirty rag in the other.
“Didn’t you move out?” He scratched his head, like a monkey would, of course. But then he stepped aside as I charged in. As he should. It was my step-aunt’s house, not his. Even if I don’t have a key anymore.
I almost said, “Duh, why else would I knock?” Instead, I took the disdainful approach that always worked when we were in high school. “Why’re you here?”
It’s just my luck that Jason would see me on a day when I overslept and spent hours walking in the Chicago snow. I admit, I’d even cried a little bit. Just my luck that I hadn’t seen a mirror in hours. I’ll bet my mascara had smeared. That would be just my luck.
“I’m painting the kitchen,” Jason said, nodding toward the room. “Gotta get back.” He started walking away from me. “Your aunt and uncle are out of town, so you won’t catch ’em.”
I almost corrected him, as usual: step-aunt. I want to make sure he remembers that she is not a blood relative. But I didn’t.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” I followed him, dropping my backpack on the ground in the front hall on the way. The kitchen was a mess: the cupboards were edged with masking tape, the table was pushed away from the wall, and newspapers were everywhere. Jason grunted, as usual, and didn’t respond. He picked up his paint brush and crouched by the wall next to the pantry.
I opened the fridge, but it was just my luck that it was as empty as my own had been.
“I missed my bus to L.A.” I explained, grabbing the half-eaten jar of dill pickles. Jason didn’t answer. I pulled a chair from the hall and sat at the newspaper-covered kitchen table.
“Dred must’ve gone without me.” I fished for a pickle. Jason looked up at me and grunted again, as usual. Just my luck that he won’t even talk to me on a day I needed it. Isn’t that what neighbors are for?
When Jason still hadn’t said anything and I’d already finished the second pickle, I started telling him all about Dred anyway: how he laughed at just about everything I say, how he always listened to me, how he had this great plan for us in L.A., how his eyes danced when he laughs – really, it was so cute, it shouldn’t be allowed. It was when I was telling Jason about Dred’s curl around his ear that I saw the illustration on the scrap of newspaper in front of me. The hair was just like Dred’s.
“Like this,” I said. I lifted the newspaper and, pointing to the curly hair on the page, I turned it toward Jason, but he kept painting. He’d moved on to another part of the wall. I turned the paper around again and stopped talking for a moment while I fished for the last two pickles in the jar. The sketch really looked like Dred.
“Composite Sketch of Fast Food Chain Robber,” said the caption. Wow, just my luck that my boy friend looks just like a robber! I thought. I didn’t say this aloud, of course, because I didn’t want Jason to get the wrong idea about Dred.
I was finished with the pickles, so I actually read the article that went with the sketch. Just my luck that the end of every line was cut off because the page had been ripped.
This robber had hit a few times, and every fast food joint he’d hit was near my old apartment. The longer I looked at the sketch, the more I knew: that was Dred.
I rubbed my arms to try to warm them from the sudden chill that went over my body.
I glanced at the date on the newspaper. It was two weeks old, the day he’d told me we should go to L.A. Just my luck, I thought: Dred, my boyfriend, was a robber.
“You’re actually reading?” said Jason from over my shoulder. I jumped and tried to hide the scrap of newspaper.
“Um, no…” I said. I swallowed. The pickle aftertaste was now disgusting.
“What’s up?” The taunting edge had disappeared from Jason’s voice; it was now smooth and gentle. I looked up at him. For the first time, I noticed that his eyes were a California-sky blue. They seemed to whisper “It’ll be alright.” I knew it would be. Just my luck, my new good luck, that I didn’t have to worry: I hadn’t gone to L.A. with Dred!
Fictional response to Fiction Friday prompt.
My oldest brother, aged 5, was playing with a friend when the friend declared, “Let’s be superheroes!” My brother, living as he did in a 1970s American home without a television, wasn’t sure.
“What’s a superhero?”
“It’s someone with a special power,” his friend responded.
“Oh,” said my brother after contemplation. “I’ll be Betty Crocker.”
By the time I could remember, there was a television in our home, and I don’t recall the power of Betty Crocker dominating my mother’s cooking. But then, despite my mother’s best intentions, I left home without ever learning how to cook. I survived college eating Rice-a-Roni and Life cereal. Somehow, despite my lack of culinary skills, I got incredibly lucky: I married a man who loves to cook.
We got by for a while on my husband’s weekend masterpieces, leftovers, and my mediocre Rice-a-Roni dishes. Then I got pregnant just as we were moving, so I quit my job. In our new home, I suddenly had a lot of time on my hands. A baby was coming, but what do I do in the mean time?
Swallowing my pride, I decided that my role as a wife and mother-to-be was to cook dinner – a “real” dinner – for my family. I collected my husband’s recipes and I started searching the web for cooking tips. And then I tried to cook.
With each meal, I dreaded the next 60 years of nightly cooking. I placed the dishes in front of my husband with an apology on my lips. My cooking was pretty bad. But my husband always thanked me and told me I was a great cook. I didn’t believe him. Sometimes he suggested salt or spices or herbs or “something in the soup other than leeks and potatoes.” But he said it with love, and I knew he made suggestions because, to him, cooking was a riddle to be solved.
My son joined our family. I was a bit distracted and I didn’t cook. My husband was home for a week and he may have cooked, but I honestly don’t know what we ate for the four weeks after he returned to work.
One afternoon, in the midst of baby cuddles with my newborn, I had a weird desire: I wanted to cook.
I found a recipe, and I cooked dinner. I don’t recall what I made, but I cooked, and the end result was satisfying. I knew it could use more salt or spices or herbs or something, but for that night, it was fine. I’d figure it out next time. I had cooked dinner for my husband, and I didn’t apologize for it either.
Somehow, in the months that followed, I found the riddle my husband had found: cooking is a problem to solve. For each problem, there is a solution: I just needed to learn the tools of the trade.
Now it’s just a few more months down the line. Chicken piccatta, chicken parmesan, steak gorgonzola, fettuccini alfredo, risotto: I can make the dishes I want to eat. They aren’t fancy, but I like them. And, to be honest, home-made anything tastes better than a restaurant. I can make it how I like it. And if it’s not good, I’ll do it better next time.
My husband’s praise hasn’t stopped. Every night after dinner, he tells me I’m the best cook he knows. I tell him he’s the best cook I know. Regardless, I feel confident that when I make him a meal, I don’t need to put an apology on the table with it. It’s okay, and most days it’s pretty darn good.
I can be a “Betty Crocker” Wonder Woman for my husband, one dinner at a time.
Oh, and one other thing: my son is growing up in a home without a television. I hope he doesn’t mind the “Betty Crocker” variety of superhero for now.
To my husband, my culinary inspiration
True response for the July Write-Away contest at Scribbit
I wrote the other week about a few things I’ll miss about living in Australia. Now that we are here longer than we thought we’d be, I’m starting to look forward to the conveniences of the USA. Just like I didn’t intend my “things I’ll miss” posts to sound like complaining, I certainly don’t mean this to either. I love my home here, and I know I’ll love my home there, where ever “there” is.
Parking Spaces: I think there must be a different law in the USA about how many available parking spaces there are for supermarkets and malls. I am always searching for parking, even at 10 a.m., even at 4:30 p.m., even at 7:30 p.m. Monday-Saturday, I’m searching. It was so bad at Christmas that we left the mall without ever finding anything after driving for 30 minutes, giving up our schedule family portrait time. It’s bad every day.
Drive Thru: I’d love to be able to stop at an ATM without getting out of my car. I’d love to be able to pay for gas at the pump without going in to the station. I’d love to give my car a carwash without having to go into the station to pay for it. There are so many conveniences that just aren’t in Australia. Is it wrong for me to not want the grocery store checker to check my card signature? It’s much faster if I don’t have to keep my wallet out. …
Consumer Goods: I needed some more make-up ( foundation): $18 for a small tub. Is it that much in the USA? I stopped to browse at the bookstore: $26.99 for Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin. A few weeks ago, I bought jars of baby food: $1.99 for 170 grams (about 5½ oz). Because everything is expensive, there aren’t as many options for consumer goods. I’m looking forward to affordable prices again.
Books: See note above about Consumer Goods.
A New Car: I get to buy myself a car, my car, to last for 5+ years. I’m very excited to go for test drives! (My husband probably won’t get a car until he gets a new job, which we hope is soon, but might not be for a few months yet; we’ve been a one car family for more than a year now and I never thought we could do it.)
Service: Tips are not expected at restaurants. It was nice at first, but I’m really looking forward to some actual service from waitresses or waiters: it’s like they make an effort to ignore us and only come if we look annoyed. It would also be nice to be able to order pizza and have it delivered. I haven’t actually ordered pizza since college, but it’s the fact that I can’t that bothers me!
There are a number of other reasons I’m eager to move back to the USA (namely, family!) but this’ll be all for now.
We may get a departure date soon!
Paul is almost completely weaned. I decided to start last Tuesday night because his five-tooth biting was bloody and it was not fun. (He did it again Thursday and my decision was reinforced.) I was going to go slowly (i.e., eliminate one feed a day for a week and then eliminate the next feed for a week, etc.; I’m only giving four feeds anyway), but I think my body is ready to wean because as soon as I cut one feed, I was out of supply for two feeds. That makes me think that my supply has been low for a while and Paul’s biting was a way of saying, “I’m still hungry, and there’s nothing else here!” Now I’m giving him one feed a day (one week later!), and it also will soon be gone. Paul also seems ready. He likes the bottle and gets excited when I’m preparing it. He knows he is separate from me now, and I think holding the bottle himself is more fun than special cuddles with Mommy. *Gasp!*
I’m sad that the special baby cuddle moments will be gone, but Paul is obviously eager to be a bigger boy now. Sigh. Nine months has gone so quickly!
I’d thought I needed the motivation of a blog to write, respond to prompts, etc. But there are so many prompts out there, and they don’t inspire me so much. Much of what I want to write is intensely personal; how do I find it within me?
Recently, I decided to follow the example of other writing bloggers and read an inspiring writing book. That would be a good way to get a “jump start” into my writing, right?
I decided to start with a book most writers quote, Stephen King’s On Writing.
So I read it.
I hated it so much I couldn’t come back to this blog for a week. I couldn’t bring myself to even think about writing. Read my review on my book blog to read my thoughts on it.
How did I get the desire to come back to writing, to this site? Well, I’m still pretty disgusted, but I’m healing. The healing process continued as I read again.
I was reading Never Give In: The Best Winston Churchill’s Speeches. These are political speeches, written by the Nobel Prize in Literature winner, Sir Winston Churchill. And as I read these political speeches, I came across the most beautiful explanation of why I want to write. I posted it on this site.
Write on Wednesday asks: Do you ever feel the need to jump start your writing? What drains the energy from your “writing mind”? What do you do when your creative battery dies?
What drains the energy from my writing mind is poor writing. I’ve decided that when I need a jump start on my writing, it won’t be by reading other writing blogs. It won’t be reading the memoirs of “best-selling” authors. It will be by reading inspiring, well-written words of good writers. Quality, not quantity.
I’ll still read blogs; I’ll still read “best-sellers” (sometimes). But I won’t find the inspiration I need from those sources.
That leads me to the question, “Why do I have this writing blog, a collection of mediocrity?” I don’t know anymore. I may be back and write something here again. But it’s not really what I need.
We can get him dressed and ready to go to church on time. But we can’t keep his shirt tucked in and we can’t get him to stop eating his tie. It’s OK with me: he’s so cute, and I don’t think he’ll chew on his tie when he goes on his mission.
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Here are some pictures of Paul playing in his playpen last week, just before bedtime. His new pajamas say “I’m so SLEEPY.” He doesn’t look it in the pictures!
Then there are two pictures from the next day.
Paul’s fifth tooth appeared today. Not sure when. I just noticed it when he awoke early from his afternoon nap! That is three that came in the past two to three weeks!
I have more pictures. I’ll try to post them tomorrow.
Whether a man writes well or ill, has much to say or little, if he cares about writing at all, he will appreciate the pleasures of composition. To sit at one’s table on a sunny morning, with four clear hours of uninterruptible security, plenty of white paper, and a Squeezer pen – that is true happiness. The complete absorption of the mind upon an agreeable occupation – what more is there than that to desire? What does it matter what happens outside? … Never mind, for four hours, at any rate, we will withdraw ourselves from a common, ill-governed and disorderly world, and with the key of fancy unlock that cupboard where all the good things of the infinite are put away.
Sir Winston Churchill, from speech entitled “The Pen: Liberator of Man and of Nations” given 17 February 1908, Author’s Club, London (quoted in Never Give In: The Best of Winston Churchill’s Speeches, selected and edited by Winston S. Churchill, page 29-30)