Dreams can wait

Pretend to Sleep

Peas in a pod, Ryon and I are.  The doc came to see him today and gave him a shot for his infection as well as some antibiotics.  "Apple-flavoured" the label claims.  Fat chance.  We'll have to sneak it into his food to get him to take it.  I'm proud of the boy though.  Didn't flinch once during the shot and it was a biiiiig needle.  Myself, I'm bone-tired.  The past few weeks have been long ones and I've been noticeably more quiet in the office (although maybe a little more outspoken here).  It's the kind of tired that asks for only coffee during the day please, no food for fuel necessary.  Someday I'll rest, someday when I'm dead and buried or scattered and not even the wisp of a memory of me remains.  Until then, books to read, people to see, horses to love on.  Because that's the point isn't it?  Of living?  To do, to run things until exhaustion and then to push a little further beyond that.  How will you know the limits until you test them?

This isn't meant to be a pity post or even really a tired post.  It is what I've chosen and no whinging about that.  I'll bury my face into a feather pillow some day.  But today is not that day.

Recent Reads: February 2014

Instead of shrinking that stack of books that grows next to my nightstand, like some sort of vampire tree, I've only managed to feed it and make it larger over the last few weeks.  My Amazon wish list?  Also growing like Rapunzel's unruly hair (there's no way it's as nicely braided as it looks in all of those fairytale illustrations, no flipping way).  More suggestions from friends, like Sotheby's: The Inside Story from Erin at Like / Want / Need, but also book lists.  Those book lists are my kryptonite.

Ooo boy, there were some goodies in February though.  I have done book reviews for Red Sparrow (here) and Agent for the Stars (here) over on Amy's book blog The Bibliophile's Adventurers Club.  One is an intriguing, double-crossing, Russia-based spy novel and the other is a sci fi self-published piece by a now NYT Best Selling Author and both are highly recommended.  Also, Unwritten is the latest graphic novel series that I've discovered with a little twist on the wonderful world of a Harry Potter-ish type tale.  I know you guys are thinking - another graphic novel?  Hasn't she had enough?  The answer to that is a resounding NO.  And I'm journeying back to the comic book store just to discover more every week.  I really hope to do a book review for The Panopticon soon as well so I don't want to give too much of that away but suffice it to say that it's one of the most decent Coming of Age books that I've read in a very, very long time.  And I hate that genre so you know it's got to be something.

2013 Reading Record - you better watch out because I'm coming for you!

Pop on over

Our taste buds are quite different.  Sure, blame the wham, bam, thank you ma'am of American food with its fizzy sodas, teeth-shockingly sweet candies, and kaleidoscope of artificial colouring.  Ketchup and mustard - those have got to be fake flavours, right?  When I have dessert or pastries, I like for them to be sweet.  Sweeter than the daily coffee I have, sweeter than a sunny Sunday, and sweeter than sweet potatoes, carrots, or even fruit as well.  But my parents, for them just a teensy tiny hint of sweetness will do.  And when you have someone with such sensitive taste buds, that's when you break out the brown sugar cinnamon popover recipe.  These were a hit as a snack and oh so easy peasy to make.

Brown Sugar Cinnamon Popovers

Adapted from Circle B Kitchen

Ingredients:
1 cup of all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 eggs, beaten

Preheat your oven to 450 F.

In a bowl, combine flour, cinnamon, brown sugar, and salt.  In a microwave safe cup or bowl, heat milk until just lukewarm, approximately 30 second in the microwave.  Whisk in butter, then vanilla and eggs.  Gradually whisk in the flour mixture.

Place popover pans or muffin tins (I used muffin tins because who has special popover pans anyhoo?) in preheated oven for 5 minutes.  Then remove from oven and spray liberally with cooking spray.  Divide batter among cups, filling until half full.  Bake 10 minutes; reduce heat to 350 and bake 15 to 20 minutes or until golden brown.  If you are using muffin tins, bake for 10 minutes after reducing the heat to 350.  Remove popovers from pans and serve.  If you're into making things interesting, fill the inside with something tangily sweet - or salty for that matter.

Makes 6 full-size popovers or 12 muffin-size popovers.

Give your heart a break

Jarek Puczel

In the words of Ms. Demi Lovato, give your heart a break.  Or don't actually - things always end up much more dramatic that way.  And how come things are always so much more obvious, black and white actually, when you're not the one sitting in the chair?  It's so simple, you think to yourself, while your friend squirms, fidgets, so much so that you can actually see her thoughts / his actions ricocheting inside of her head.

"He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not."

You jump straight to the logical, rational conclusion.  "It makes perfect sense," you proclaim.  You've run the math in your head, checked it twice.  It's sound.  Meanwhile, she's on her fifth time explaining the situation to you, another twist to the angle, another vantage point perhaps.  "He likes / doesn't like you," you patiently repeat yourself and think about another way to say the same thing without saying the same thing.  Maybe if you say it enough, she'll understand.  And when you leave, unsuccessful in your endeavour, she'll tell the same story five more times, even to perfect strangers in line at the grocery store.  "What do you think he means by that?" she'll ask and they'll all shrug in unison and move on to the next checkout counter.

If she's lucky, she'll have a therapist to talk to, or an aunt, mother, sister, mentor, somebody else who will validate what you've thought to be true.  But how can an interpretation of someone's actions ever be validated by what someone outside of the situation thinks?  At best, we're all guessing.  And trying to keep her from talking to herself / her plants / her cat / her ex.  Until finally, until what?  It's resolved?  It's over or just begun?  Someone's heart lies shattered on the pavement, tossed out the apartment window by a barrage of harsh words or regretful actions.  Someone's heart lies cradled, nestled in someone else's palms and flutters and blushes a deep deep red.  No, it's typically less dramatic than that.  A slow oozing out of everything until the repetitions become less and less frequent and one day completely drop away.

"My turn," you think and seize the lectern.  And then it's rinse and repeat all over again.

All dressed up with no where to go

Glittering, sparkling diamonds littered the ground on Sunday - a bit of the glitz and glam of Hollywood's Oscars paying us a visit in Dallas by way of freezing rain and snow.  I slipped and slid in my car all the way back from the barn, where three teeny tiny, rough and tumble ponies had escaped from their stall and were gallivanting around the property like a pack of wild dogs.  Not sure if they were just frisky out in the cold but they seemed to enjoy kicking up their heels and dodging their "jailers."  Unfortunately,  Ryon didn't share the same feelings about their new found freedom and they honestly just freaked him the F out.  Pretty sure he though they were direwolves...

But back to the glitz and glam, this jewel-box of a home is all decked out for award season.  The indoor / outdoor living concept brings all of the raw, natural Texas elements in (although I hope it's well protected against the summer heat) and there is little necessity for art when you've got windows for walls.  If I were hosting an Oscar's watching party, I'd insist on you all dressing up in black-tie fashion and keep the bubbly flowing until rosy-fingered dawn made her appearance over the horizon the next morning.

Song to Onions

Judith Huth

Because sometimes you need a poem like this, to run through your head, then read aloud, and then chuckle at.  Aaaand now I'm hungry.


Song to Onions by Roy Blount Jr.

They improve everything, pork chops to soup,
And not only that but each onion's a group.

Peel back the skin, delve into tissue
And see how an onion has been blessed with issue.

Every layer produces an ovum:
You think you've got three then you find you've got fovum.

Onion on on—
Ion on onion they run,
Each but the smallest one some onion's mother:
An onion comprises a half-dozen other.

In sum then an onion you could say is less
Than the sum of its parts.
But then I like things that more are than profess—
In food and the arts.

Things pungent, not tony.
I'll take Damon Runyon
Over Antonioni—
Who if an i wanders becomes Anti-onion.
I'm anti-baloney.

Although a baloney sandwich would
Right now, with onions, be right good.

And so would sliced onions,
Chewed with cheese,
Or onions chopped and sprinkled
Over black-eyed peas:

Black-eyed,
grey-gravied,
absorbent of essences,
eaten on New Year's Eve
peas.

Warrior one

Mishmashim's etsy Shop

This warrior princess may be a little more warrior and a little less princess.  Okay a lot less princess.  Between mopping up runny green snot from a spigot of a nose, sopping up and disinfecting bloody wounds (that was yesterday), scaring off coyotes, sweeping out brown recluses and black widows, and shoveling steaming piles of poo, I think I have the warrior part under control.  And that's just my hobby.  Disrespect a friend, cheat on a girl friend, you better believe that I will come charging at you, full steam and sword a-blazing.  With my sh*t-kicking boots on, no less, no high heels for this warrior.

Which is why I have a devoted number of friends (and family) who have seen to it as their goal (or maybe even life calling) to make sure that I retain some minuscule portion of the 'princess' part of my title.

They are the ones who recommend that I apply, reapply, and then apply the hand cream yet again.  Thank you Emmy for the wonderful recommendation of O'Keeffe's Working Hands.  Ladies and gents who are rough on your hands - get it and never feel chapped skin ever again.

They are the ones who, for my birthday and just random off days, send packages with face masks, Smith's Rosebud salve, bath salts, nail polish, and jewelry.  All those lovely, pink, girly-smelling items that I never can be bothered to actually pick up for myself at the store.  They are the ones who then call me afterward and explain the proper usage.

They are the ones who plug the gaping wounds of my heart, encourage aggressively productive behavior, and never judge when I have a moment of weakness and softness.  They teach me how to apply self tanner and applaud my attempts to fancy myself up in a dress and slather makeup on this disaster area of a face.

Thank you for keeping this warrior princess two parts warrior and one part princess.  For you, I'll always do battle.