My motto.

I do not have road rage, I have mild road irritation. The worst I'll say is,

"Learn to drive."

Which I said tonight, in front of the X-Man, because some moron was blocking the way out of a parking lot in his big, dumb dualie.

"Is that your motto?"

The X-Man likes to know the score.

"I guess it is," I answered.

"SWEET! I have to learn to drive right NOW, because you have to obey your Mom's motto!"

"NOW!," growled Baby J.

I like my motto. Learn to drive. It has a nice ring to it, n'est-ce pas?

Namasté, y'all!

Hypothesis: Anything you put between a pizza crust and melted cheese will taste good.

My kids inherited their sense of taste from me. I always like polarizing foods, such as licorice, the smoked oyster, clam and Gouda dip from a restaurant where I worked, fish jerky..I'll stop, since about half of my dear readers are probably gagging now. Anyhow, last night I was itching to use one of the bags of pizza dough my husband brought back from a recent trip to Trader Joe's. I made clam pizza. The kids went nuts! If you share our strange tastes, please read on.

Clam Pizza With Pesto

Roll out your dough. Or put your freezer crust on a pizza stone or baking sheet. I have a pizza stone, but I'm not convinced that it's all that big of a deal. I mean, I don't have a wood burning pizza oven, so what the heck is the difference? I like the stone because it looks fancy. I do think you should buy a Zyliss pizza slicer. I have one and it has changed my life. I got it at Mary and Martha's, which is a brilliant store staffed by nice and smart ladies.


Spread basil pesto on the crust. I made a lot of pesto this summer, froze it in ice cube trays and popped the cubes into a container. I used four cubes for this. Incidentally, lots of things can be frozen in cubes for convenience: tomato sauce, buttermilk for baking, egg yolks when you only need the whites for something else*.

In a pan, sauté two 14.5 ounce cans of chopped clams, drained, and a teaspoon or three minced garlic in a little bit of butter and olive oil. Spread that on top of the pesto. Use a slotted spoon so you leave any remaining liquid behind.

Sprinkle sliced black olives on top of the clams.

Now add a healthy bit of shredded Parmesan and Mozzarella cheeses.

Cook it according to the directions for your crust. The Trader Joe's crust said to cook for 6-8 minutes. That was a big fat lie. It was more like 15 minutes.

My kids liked it so much they had seconds. They would have had thirds, but I was saving the rest for my husband and sister. I didn't even have seconds, but I wanted to. I told the kids to "Eat a piece of fruit if you're still hungry." I sounded just like my mother when I said that, which scared me, so I cut up two mangoes for them, which is something my mother would not have done. She knew how to cut fruit, but I don't think they had mangoes back then.

Namasté, y'all!

* The only thing I know of that uses only the yolks is custard. Oh wait, I forgot about Hollandaise sauce. Save your egg yolks for those.

Baby!

Today is a beautiful day. One of my friends has been kind enough to let me come to her last two births, one of which was last night at her house, just before two am. I won't share the details, because that seems kind of rude, but there is nothing in the world like the moment a brand new, warm, squirmy baby enters the world. But y'all knew that, right?

Thank you, dear friend, for letting me be there with you and your sweet family. I'm honored. And here's a picture for those of you who need a visual of new baby. This is me and Baby J, the last time he was calm and not trashing stuff. I think he was about five hours old. And, yeah, I am wearing lipstick, but in a tasteful color. It looks like cedar liner* by M.A.C., with maybe just a teensy bit of clear gloss.

Namasté, y'all!

* This Just In: The color formerly known as Rosewood, now known as Cedar, is no more. Angela, an online makeup artist from M.A.C., recommends "creamstick liner in Softwood, to create a similar look." Why, oh, why must I be so persecuted?

There are a few things wrong with my city, but only three that infuriate me.

1. Why on earth can I not buy Kiehl's in this town? Three other cities in my state have it. Why. Not. Mine! Damnit! I must admit, though, that it's kind of nice, because when my dear husband goes to one of those cities for work, it's perfectly reasonable for me to ask him to pick up a few things. Kind of like having a personal assistant. Hooray! These are the things I can't live without:

• Amino Acid Shampoo. Oooohhh. Smells like coconut and makes my hair purty!
• Lip Balm #1. Duh. In the jar, please, not the tube. I like the tinted ones in the tube for the beach.
  
• This stuff. Now that I'm old, I get dry patches of skin. This stuff rocks.
• Hair Creme with Silk Groom. Don't understand it, but when my hair looks gross, this stuff magically transforms it.

2. Why don't any of the bartenders here know how to make a Mendelssohn? This is the best last drink of the night ever. Bailey's Irish Cream, over ice, with a splash of club soda. It's like Yoo-hoo for grown-ups. In fact, I might try to turn it into a brunch drink. Mendelssohns are the new Mimosas. You heard it here first.

3. As far as I know, I can't get Chie Mihara shoes here. I can get them in Charleston, at Worthwhile, an absolutely brilliant store, but not here. Why not? Wah! To make me feel better, perhaps you would like to buy me these or these. Perhaps. Or maybe these? I wear a 38. Just sayin'.

I know there are many other problems in my town and it might seem that I'm being glib, but I'm all about glib, and I'm far too shy to get into discussions about the real problems, m'kay? If we could fix the aforementioned three, I might be willing to tackle the others.

Namsté, y'all.

Business with a heart.

The other day I went to Rosewood Market, macrobiotic cookbook in hand. I was in the produce aisle, trying to figure out which yucky looking root was burdock. One of the most excellent and informed employees came over and asked if I needed help. I asked her a few questions about macrobiotic cooking and various ingredients. It is so nice to ask questions in a store and actually get the answers. Last week, I went to the big box office store where my husband bought his laptop. I needed a new charger thingy. The manager had no idea if they carried one that fit. As luck would have it, the two of us were able to sort it out, but what should have taken two minutes took fifteen. Grrr!

So, I'm not naming the employee, because I wouldn't want to get her in trouble for simplifying macrobiotics for me so well. She said it was really just a bunch of whole grains and fresh, seasonal produce. When I expressed my dismay that most of the soups were made with water instead of stock, she assured me that cheating was allowed. She showed me the burdock root and explained several different ways to prepare it and informed me that I should probably skip it, because it tastes gross. When I said I was interested in it for the healing properties, she told me how to make it as palatable as possible. Since we'd been chatting for a while, I felt the need to explain myself.

"I have to admit that I actually have no interest in macrobiotic cooking. Most of it seems really nasty and you know how much I love food."

Someone I love is sick with pancreatic cancer. Although I wish I had more faith, I don't believe that macrobiotics will heal him. I wish it was that easy. I do know that he needs to eat and I was hoping to find a way to make it a little bit healthier. Cheating at macrobiotics seems the way to go. And this is what touched me: I don't know the employee who helped me very well. She knows my name and I know hers, we have a few mutual friends and we see each other around town sometimes. I like her. She said that, knowing my love for food, her first thought when she saw me with the cookbook was, "Oh no! I hope someone isn't sick!" And that is one of the bazillion reasons to shop local.

She also showed me which cookbooks were best for tofu, because I have all these pesky pescetarians in my house*. She even went to the trouble of looking up and writing down the name of an out of print vegetarian cookbook she thought I'd like. I'd say it was a much better experience than the computer store, but I didn't ask the manager there about food, so I guess I shouldn't compare the two.

I bought the burdock and a bunch of other stuff that was vaguely macrobiotic-y. When I got home, I decided to make cabbage stew, because I read that round vegetables are considered to be good for the pancreas by macrobioticists**. And I didn't use plain water, I used some turkey stock I had made and frozen a while ago. The vegetables I used to make it were organic, though. Do I get points for that?

Namasté, y'all!

* My kids. We are not vegetarians, but they are. This came about gradually, but the deal was sealed when O read Chew on This, by Eric Schlosser, author of Fast Food Nation. The slightly less puritanical X-Man soon followed in his much admired older brother's footsteps, but has recently declared himself "the kind of vegetarian that eats saucisson." That's my kind of vegetarian.

** Did I just make a new word? Oh, it would appear not, as a quick Google provided me with a few hits, thirty eight, to be exact.

Politics and fashion are like apples and oranges.

The other night, I ran into someone I've known since high school, which was a long, long time ago. I happened to be wearing my black Bass Weejuns. My friend not only noticed I was wearing them, but claimed that he always associated them with me. I was flattered, even though some of you may think they are less than cool. I happen to think they're pretty fashion-y. I've been wearing them, in different sizes, since the second grade. Several years ago, they were discontinued, at great cost to my personal style. I have to find them on EBay now which is a total pain. I explained all this and more in a letter to Bass; they haven't responded and I hate them. None of that, however, is my point. My point is that I like being remembered for my clothing choices, because I don't have a message. I'm sort of a fun little piece of fluff.

Politicians, on the other hand, have a higher purpose. I won't say I don't care what they wear, because I do, but not in the way you might think a harmless piece of fluff like myself would. I don't want to have any recollection of what they wore, because I don't want to be distracted from what they said. I want their clothes to be as unremarkable as possible. I've made less than kind jokes in the past about a lot of women in Washington wearing what appear to be black or navy Ann Taylor suits from the early nineties. Frankly, I think that's just fine; nothing could be less memorable.

Not surprisingly, female politicians catch more flack for their clothing choices than men. Of course we all heard about John Edwards' four hundred dollar haircut, but that's the exception, not the rule. Men have a nice uniform, for every occasion. They rarely violate the code. I did notice, at a recent debate, that Senator Edwards chose a pale blue, flowered tie. Why? To go with his frou -frou haircut? The fact that I remember the tie at all proves that it was just too flashy.

Women don't have uniforms, yet. There have been attempts in the past, like the recently revived blouse with the attached scarfy-thing at the neck. It failed as a uniform and seems to have been revived as a retro fashion statement. I guess the black or navy Ann Taylor suit from the nineties comes close, but it's not very well cut, is it? I'm not sure if we women could ever settle on a uniform. After all, different body types call for different clothes, n'est-ce pas? I think Senator Clinton comes as close to giving us a prototype for a woman's business uniform as possible. I have no recollection of most of what she's worn. I think the way she dresses is perfect, neither in nor out of fashion, neither too flashy nor too staid. I'm thrilled to see that she doesn't waste time reading magazines about clothes. It chaps my you-know-what that people even mention the clothes of politicians. If she wants to show a teeny, tiny bit of cleavage every now and then, can you blame her? She is a beautiful woman after all, which is hardly her fault. And she doesn't even have to spend four hundred dollars on her hair.

Namasté, y'all!

Honesty is such a lonely word.

The night of my wedding (ten years ago last Thursday...awww...), a lot of our guests went to Pavlov's, which was across the street from where we were staying. One of those guests was my sister, who didn't quite meet the age requirement. I wasn't there, nor was my husband*. One of our town's finest approached her and, ready for his big moment, asked for her i.d. At eighteen, my sister looked sixteen, maybe. The cop knew there was no way she was old enough to legally drink the beer she was holding. Knowing she was busted, my sister saw no reason to lie.

"Okay," she grinned, winsomely I'm sure, "You can see my i.d., but I'm not 21!"

I love her for that. I love her for other stuff, too, but that answer was the pinnacle of cool. She managed to take the fun out of it for her accuser. She maintained some level of dignity and all she ended up with was a ticket, which I believe has since been expunged. Or maybe not, but who cares? By accepting that the jig was up, she also saved herself several moments of heart-pounding stress and a little embarrassment. Most importantly, she stole the cop's thunder. All she had to do was look him in the eye and tell the truth. As they say at the X-Man's school, "easy peasy, lemon squeezy."

Honesty is simple and relaxing, but it takes practice. I'm kind of a slacker and I have ADD. That combination has made me less reliable than I should have been at times. I regularly handed in papers late in college, so I got pretty good at it. I learned early that honesty and minimalism were the least infuriating to my professors. Instead of offering elaborate excuses for my tardiness, I would say,

"I'm sorry this paper is late. I hope you can still accept it."

If at all possible, I tried to drop it in their mailbox with a note rather than handing it to them. That way, they could save face, too; they never had to discuss the lateness. I never even got marked down for being late, because I made it easy for them. Excuses are only good for humorous effect, by the way. One time, I was over a month late turning in a paper, for a lecture I had attended maybe three times. I slunk into the department office, planning to drop and run. I should have done it during the class, when I knew he wouldn't be there. Instead, I walked into the office, paper in hand, only to be greeted by all of the teaching assistants and my professor. They were having a meeting about the class. Someone asked me who I was looking for. I answered, as breezily as possible,

"I'm dropping off a paper for Professor So-and-So."

Someone looked up and said,

"I'm Professor So-and-So."

We didn't recognize each other, which should tell you something. I apologized and admitted that I didn't really have an excuse. I asked if it would help my grade if I made one up. He graciously said,

"No, but we might find it entertaining, so give it your best effort."

I reeled off every excuse I could think of, from "My dog had cancer" to "There was a sale at the Gap that I couldn't miss." At the end, I asked if it would help my grade if I cried a bit. The kindly professor said,

"Maybe, but you don't have to actually do it, I'll just mark here that you did."

And he made a very official notation on my cover sheet. I think I got an A-.

Telling the truth was much easier than trying to lie. I'm not a good liar and I suspect that most teachers know when students are lying and find it either infuriating or boring. And being bored when you have other things to do, like grade papers or drink beer, is infuriating.

Most of us lie when we're embarrassed by the truth, usually if we believe we're at fault. While I'm not proud of the fact that I'm less organized than I should be, I don't think it's a major character flaw, either. We also lie when we're trying to be tactful, which I endorse. Nobody likes people who insist on being brutally honest, at all times. I can usually avoid that sort of lying, too, because it's easy enough to just not offer an opinion. When someone asks for my opinion outright, I'll try to say it nicely, but I'll tell the truth, vaguely if I have to.

There's one time I'm pretty sure you should lie, but I'm not sure how. Thanks to my hapless husband, I don't have to deal with this one any more. How is a young woman supposed to turn someone down, without hurting their feelings and without opening the door to more invitations? Not that I was all that sought after, but there were times when someone asked me out and I liked them. Just not that way. Certainly it's important to give everyone a chance, because you never know how it'll turn out, but what if you're sure? There's always the, "I'm on the other team" option, but no one wants to start that rumor about themselves in a small town like this, because it might deter other suitors. There's the "Sorry, I'm seeing someone," but the possibility of getting busted is middle to high. When the goal is not to hurt someone's feelings, you need an ironclad excuse. "I'm just not that into you" can lead to, "Why don't you give me a try?" The only response to that is, "No, seriously, I'm not into you at all." Not so nice.

In a perfect world, people read ever-so-subtle signals and understand that the answer is "no" before they ask the question, but dating is hard and you have to ask a lot of frogs out before you find the right one. I hated the sinking feeling I would get when someone was about to ask me out and I knew I'd have to say no. I'd try to change the subject. If that didn't work, I'd try to pretend I didn't understand the question, so they could save face.

"What am I doing Friday night? This Friday? Oh, same old, same old, hanging out with friends, just like always! We like the Art Bar. Do you ever go there? Sometimes we go other places. I bet you hang out with your friends on Fridays, too. Aren't Fridays fun? We can all hang out with our own friends."

I admit, it wasn't a great technique and it never rarely worked. Even though I don't need the information, y'all know I love to give advice, so hit me with your best line. Email Me or, if you wish to remain totally anonymous, make an anonymous comment. If you aren't anonymous, and submit the best response, I'll give you a prize, à la one of my favorite bloggers. These are the requirements:

• It must be brief.
• It must indicate to the potential suitor that he or she must never speak of a potential date again.
• It must not hurt feelings.
• It must not be humiliating to the speaker.

Good luck and namasté, y'all!

* I would have been there. I was lying in the hotel room debating whether or not I should go without my new husband. He was passed out upstairs (must have been the multiple bottles of champagne excitement of a noon wedding...) and I was downstairs, mad at him, hungry and getting over it very quickly, because Sixteen Candles was on television and I had a jalapeño and pineapple pizza on the way from the Village Idiot, which I planned to pay for with one of "our" checks, which I found in my brand new husband's discarded pants pocket.

Kids are so weird. They get it from their mothers.

The other day, I was driving along and I involuntarily thought of an infected toe I had a while ago. I shuddered. The X-Man asked me why.

"I just thought of something gross and it made me shiver. Does that ever happen to you?"

"Yeah. Like every time I think about O's toenail on his bedside table. And I think about it a lot, because I SEE IT EVERY DAY!"

Which prompted me, good mother that I am, to ask O why he had a toenail on his bedside table and how long it had been there. The toenail, he explained, had fallen off of his toe, but he couldn't remember when or how, so I guess it had been there a while. And the X-Man felt like throwing up every time he saw it. No wonder he had seemed kind of pale for a few months. O also informed me that he now had (and had had for some time) an empty space on his toe where the toenail had been. Frankly, I was too disgusted to continue the conversation, so I changed the subject. I'm interested in my kids, but only to a point.

That was maybe a month or two ago. Today, I was thinking of the toenail. Those things have a way of sticking with you. I remembered that I hadn't actually asked O to get rid of it and, knowing him as I do, thought a reminder might be in order. I asked if he still had it, which of course he did. And it was still on the bedside table, horrifying his poor little brother and probably our housekeeper, too*.

I didn't really need more information, but I'm a curious sort of person, so I asked why he was saving it.

"I'm saving it to scare people."

Like your brother?

"I'm going to put it on my other toenail so it looks like I have a really long toenail."

He plans to accomplish this with tape. And he believes it will scare people, which he wants to do. I don't understand any of it: the saving, the belief that a taped on toenail would be scary, the desire to scare people, none of it. A lot of things scare me. A really long toenail attached with tape does not, although it might make me shudder if I thought about it too long. I forgot to ask him when he plans to do this, but I'm thinking it'll have to wait until the weather is warmer. I just hope the toenail doesn't disintegrate by then, because he'll have to start all over.

Speaking of saving things that fall off of our bodies, it was pointed out to me recently that there is absolutely no reason to save my children's lost teeth. I have no idea why I save them, they gross me out and I constantly worry that the children will find them and the Tooth Fairy myth will be ruined. And I have no central place to keep them, so they're all over: in my jewelry box, in one of my evening bags, in coat pockets. Yuck! My sister-in-law said that she and her brothers found a jumbled bag of their baby teeth that their mom had saved. It was of no use whatsoever and it was gross. I guess we mothers just have trouble letting go.

When I was still a newlywed, we were visiting my mother-in-law and she pulled out a plastic gallon bag of orange-ish hair clippings. She wanted to show it to me. She had been saving it to give to A's wife; it was all the hair he had from every haircut he got until he was about eleven years old. I guess that was when he got totally embarrassed by the fact that his mother swept up his hair and started riding his bike to the barber. Why she thought his future wife would want such a thing is unclear. It wasn't enough for an afghan or anything. I suppose I might have stuffed a small throw pillow with it, but that's gross. I offered to dispose of it for her, but she declined and promised to save it for me for when I wanted it. That will never happen. It looks like a dead cat, shoved in a bag.

I'm not one for making big resolutions, but I do have one. Over the course of the next year, every time I come across a tooth or other piece of human waste, I will throw it out. Join me?

Namasté, y'all!

* Speaking of our housekeeper, I don't want to complain, I really don't, but why hasn't she thrown it out? I know it might be a bit much to ask, that she dispose of things that came off of our bodies, but wouldn't it get swept away while she was dusting? The table isn't dirty, so I can only assume she dusts around it or...shudder...has a stronger stomach than I do and picks it up to dust and replaces it when she's finished.

A Tasty Soup, Made of Leftovers

While I was out of town, my husband made himself some steak. Occasionally, I'm a nice wife and leave him nice things to eat, like some strips of filet mignon marinating in Italian dressing in a zip-loc bag. For Christmas, someone gave us four huge filets, so I cut off a bit and marinated it for a salad the next day. Instead of eating the steak with stuff we already had, he bought a box of mushrooms to add to it. This was nice, but I knew he had no plans for the remaining five mushrooms. We also had a little leftover fresh baby spinach, some heavy cream and an onion on its last legs. This is what I made:

Start with a roux (I love to say that!) Stir equal parts flour and butter together in a pot, about 2 tablespoons each.

Add a chopped onion, sautéeing it in the roux.

Add the baby spinach (I had a couple of handfuls) and five leftover baby portobello mushrooms, sliced.

By the end, you'll add 2-3 cups vegetable stock. You may want to add a splash now, so the vegetables don't stick to the bottom of the pot.

When the mushrooms are brown and the spinach is wilted, add the rest of the stock. I need to make some for my little pescetarians, but I used Trader Joe's brand this time.

Add a few shakes of lemon pepper and dried thyme. If you have fresh thyme, add a bunch of that instead. I only had dried.

Add a heaping teaspoon of sugar. Yup. A little sugar makes everything taste...fuller or something. You remember that map of the tongue from ninth grade biology? The map that showed which parts of the tongue tasted different flavors? Well, I hear that's a myth. And maybe it is, but I still think you need a little bit of sweet to make your savory, sour and spicy stuff taste bigger.

Heat the whole thing and, at the last minute, stir in a heaping tablespoon of heavy cream. I had heavy cream left over from something, but I suppose milk or half and half would work too.

My kids and I loved it. Baby J recently got himself a booster seat so he can sit with the rest of us. He's not quite coordinated enough for soup yet, so I put a piece of baguette in a bowl and soaked it with the soup. He ate it with a fork and it was still pretty messy, but not as messy as straight up soup would have been.

Namasté, y'all!

Give Me a T!

What starts with a "T," is awesome and, but for one syllable, rhymes with "lederhosen"?* That's right...TRADER JOE'S! A few of my lady friends and I made a short shopping/talking/eating/drinking trip to Charlotte this weekend. On the way out of town, we stopped at Trader Joe's to stock up on low-priced treats. I'll spare you my list, but I think the four of us spent about a thousand dollars all together. That isn't an exaggeration. If you love TJ's like I love TJ's, or if you care about me and want me to be happy, please email them and let them know how much you would like them to open a store here in my town. Thanks.

One reason TJ's is able to keep the prices so low is by cutting out the middle man (or woman, as the case may be) whenever possible. Guess what! You, too, can cut out the middle entity, right here at home! How? By going to the All Local Farmers' Market! It happens twice a month, on the second Saturday at Gervais and Vine and on the fourth Saturday at Yo Burrito. I may have mentioned it a few times before... The fourth Saturday of this month falls on January twenty sixth, the day of the Democratic Primary in South Carolina. But I digress.

Oh, wait, no I don't digress, because the primary is on my mind. Yesterday afternoon, my children and I got to see Senator Hillary Clinton address a group of local women. Baby J was not interested and left after several minutes. O and the X-Man, on the other hand, were riveted. I was thrilled to see them feeling so involved in an election. The Brave O got in trouble for weaseling away from me through the crowd Hillary's autograph and a handshake. She asked him his name and looked him in the eye.

Ladies and gentlemen, this may or may not be the moment you have all been waiting for. The Daily Digress has decided to officially endorse Senator Hillary Clinton for President of the United States. I rarely admit so openly which candidate I support, mostly because I hate discussing politics. If you want a long conversation with me, ask me about the dress I bought at Coplon's big sale in Charlotte (It is so totally awesome that I might have to have a party for it). I won't bore you with all of the reasons I've decided to place myself firmly in Hillary's camp, because I'm pretty sure no one reads this for the political insight.

The woman I hope will become president talked about a lot of things yesterday, including several that are close to my heart. She talked about health care, how we fall short and how we can do better. She talked about teen pregnancy and the need to prevent it. She talked about the need to support local and minority-owned businesses by including them. She specifically talked about small, organic farmers and how we can make sure they survive and thrive. I think she'd really like our twice monthly market. Maybe she'll stop by the day of the primary for an all-local breakfast: Anson Mills grits, Wil-Moore Farms eggs and Caw Caw Creek sausage with a side of hot coffee. She'll need a good breakfast for the long day ahead!

And that's all I'll say about that, but for a short Public Service Announcement for South Carolina lawyers:

The South Carolina Bar Association conference in Charleston will be going on during the primary. If you plan to be at the conference and will be unable to vote locally, please make sure to get an absentee ballot. Democratic absentee ballots must be received by January 25th, I think.

Namasté, y'all!


* It comes closer to rhyming with the singular version, lederhose, but who refers to lederhosen in the singular? Nicht ich, mein Freund, nicht ich.

Some people want to be unhappy.

My Grandmother is not one of those people. I was having dinner with her one night after one of O's piano recitals. We were with the children, my parents, my husband, my mother-in-law and maybe a couple of other random relatives. I was telling everyone how excited I was about having both boys stay for a full day of school the next year*. As my Grandmother's eyes lit up, my mother-in-law's face fell.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, very French-ly, "This is 'orrible! Now you will have to prepare two lunches!"

My side of the family started to laugh. I, however, knew she wasn't joking. The French love a tragedie, and Maman is about as French as they come. After we finished laughing and making lots of sarcastic remarks about how much more difficult it would be to make not one, but deux sandwiches every day, I tried to explain to Maman**.

"I always try to be like Grandmother," I said. "She always sees the positive. I've never heard her complain."

"Ah!" responded Maman, very French-ly, "This is not possible!"

She looked at my Grandmother in horror. I suspect that Maman thinks that people who don't whine aren't smart. She turned to my Grandmother and asked how it was possible that she never complained. My Grandmother's response was simple. Shrugging her shoulders, she said,

"I guess I just never could think of much to complain about."

And there you have it. She is one happy woman. Her life was not without stress. Shortly after she married, her husband went overseas to fight. Grandmother made the best of it and spent time traveling with her sister. When he came back, they were so excited to be together that they had seven kids. I don't care how much help she had, having seven kids is not always a walk in the park. A walk in a French park, incidentally, would probably be filled with misery: ants, puddles, bad weather, muggers (American, of course) and bad wine.

Anyhow...last night we went to Garibaldi's to celebrate Grandmother's eighty-seventh birthday. Five of her seven children , two of her thirteen grandchildren, one of her four grandsons-in-law and three of her daughters-in-law were there. And we are kind of loud. Our reservation was for six o'clock and, perhaps because of our behavior in years past, we were seated at a long table in the bar. It's my favorite place to sit, because it's where my husband and I sat on our first date. Before the meal, we were milling around and going back and forth to the bar for drinks. I think that's the way Grandmother likes it, because she didn't tell us to sit down and was doing a bit of milling herself. One of the reasons my Grandmother never complains is that she isn't shy about telling people what she wants, and they usually give it to her, because she's so sweet. Sweet, but effective. In a different time, my Grandmother might have been finishing up her second term as President of this country.

After we had been there for a while (maybe two rounds?), two ladies were seated at a table next to ours. They spent quite a bit of time not enjoying themselves, rather deliberately, if you ask me. They kept giving us meaningful, irritated looks. If one of us brushed against one of their chairs and apologized, they would respond, through clenched teeth, with one of those annoying, tight smiles,

"Oh. It's fine."

As we sat down, I decided to do the dumb blonde, nicey-nice thing, which I do quite well when I feel like it. I leaned over and said, with what I believe was a charming smile,

"Sorry about all this! My Grandmother is turning eight-seven today and she has seven children!"

One of those ladies said, lamely, if you ask me,

"Well, I just hope you're sitting now."

Or something like that. I don't remember, because I didn't really care. People like that want to suffer and they want to make everyone else feel bad. I don't like to suffer, so I don't let passive aggression put a damper on my fun. I'm sure they wanted to suffer, too, because if I had been sitting there, I would have asked to move to one of the other available tables. There were quite a few, including some of the booths in the bar area, which are great for chatting. There was an empty table right next to them that would have been more out of the way. Why be miserable when all they had to do was ask the waiter if they could move? Because they want the world to know how horrible everyone is to them. Or maybe they just like spending two hundred dollars on a meal and not enjoying it.

I would bet my last fifty dollars that most of their dinner conversation was about how awful we were. And we weren't, by the way, because we're all incredibly entertaining and good looking. And we never, ever drink too much. Do you believe me? No? Eh, I don't care. I had a blast! More importantly, Grandmother seemed to really enjoy herself. She's the master of ignoring things that are unpleasant, like the sourpusses at the next table. They were wearing sweatshirts, by the way, further proof that they just weren't feeling "fun" to begin with, n'est-ce pas?

Namasté, y'all!

* I was really looking forward to all the child-free time. I loved it so much that we decided to conceive another child. Ha! When he goes to school, will you all make sure we're using proper birth control?

** Yeah, I was being passive aggressive. Wanna' make something of it?

Their Creativity Knows No Bounds

"I HATE YOU! I WISH YOU WOULD DIE," bellowed the X-Man to his brother.

Given that my dear children will one day go to public school and be subject to Zero Tolerance, I feel compelled to remind them that wishing someone dead (out loud) is not a good idea. I told the X-Man to apologize and added something totally annoying, along the lines of,

"Sweetheart, I know you're very, very angry at your brother. It's okay to be angry, but you can't say you want him to die. You might wish he was very far away, but you'd be sad if he died."

"Unnnhhhhh...o-KAY!," he groaned and, turning back to his brother, "I WISH YOU WOULD GO TO ANTARCTICA!"

And that wasn't enough, because he added,

"IN NOTHING BUT YOUR BOXER SHORTS!"

If a death threat is very silly, is it still a death threat? I wasn't sure, so I let it go.

Namasté, y'all!

Sometimes I wish I was nicer.

And I think my mother-in-law wishes I would be nicer, too. That's something we have in common. After a recent conversation with my dear friend "Hester*" though, I've stopped spending so much time wishing I was nicer. She was talking about someone we both know, who shall remain nameless for reasons that will be clear momentarily. After a swig or three of beer, Hester said,

"You know, I hope this doesn't come out the wrong way, because I like her and all. She's smart and gorgeous and really funny. I love hanging out with her, but she's kind of an a**hole, isn't she?"

This was said with a smile and a huge dose of respect. It was a light bulb moment for me. I realized that Hester has more fun than a lot of people I know, because she doesn't rule someone out as a friend just because they're "kind of an a**hole." Hester understands that a**holes can be the most fun. They usually have great ideas and great jokes. And you can't really offend them. She went on to explain that she preferred that they weren't a**holes to her...too often.

I think my mother-in-law shares her philosophy. I'm probably not her ideal daughter-in-law: I'm not French, I don't feed her son well enough, I'm not French, I don't let her keep my children for weeks at a time, I'm not French. I think she might prefer a French partner for her son, but what can you do? One thing I do that she loves is cook leftovers. Leftovers drive her nuts. She doesn't like them taking up room in the fridge and she can't bring herself to throw them out, so she eats them, even if it's something she despises. And the French despise a lot of things. I share Maman's distaste for leftovers. I don't want to eat them or throw them away. Over the years, I've learned to turn leftovers into all new food.

Last night, we had an impromptu fondue party...which was "fon" to "due." Did you like that pun? I did. I highly recommend the impromptu fondue party**. When I was getting ready, I found leftover cream cheese and sour cream, which I used to make dip for potato chips, as an appetizer. Dip is fun to make and easy. All you need to make dip is some white creamy products, like mayo, cream cheese, sour cream or yogurt. As far as I can tell, it doesn't make a difference what you use or how much. This time, I added cumin, turmeric, cayenne and garlic salt, I think. I was out of curry powder, but no one complained. It was yummy with all of the chips we had: sweet potato and beet, cheddar jalapeño, and plain old. I was hungry when I went shopping, so I bought a lot of chips. I like chips, okay?

There was a lot of asparagus left over the next day. I also had some whole milk we had needed for an oven pancake and an onion of unknown origins. I also have a ton of turkey stock that I made after Thanksgiving and can't use because sixty-six and two-thirds percent of my children have become vegetarians. So I made soup, for me! I sautéed the leftover chopped onion and blanched asparagus in butter. I added a few cups of turkey stock and a lot of lemon pepper. I let that boil, then puréed it with the pbrrrt. I stirred in some of the milk and squeezed the juice from two key limes into the soup for added flavor. The key limes were left over from a bag I bought and used part of for a floral arrangement. The soup was good and it was composed entirely of leftovers! Hooray! Maman would have been proud.

Namasté, y'all!

* Names have been changed to protect the truth tellers of the world.

** And here is my secret. Impromptu is easy because, after years of grating all the cheeses and making my own, I discovered that the boxed fondue has the exact same ingredients as mine. Who knew? I serve it with asparagus, sliced apples, baby carrots (my kids are into those) and chunks of bread. I like the multi-grain Take and Bake from the Piggly Wiggly.

Je t'aime et je soufflé.

Are filthy jokes filthy if you have to speak another language to get them? Just asking.

My children love soufflé and they like to eat early. Ergo, no one above the age of nine is ever home to see the soufflé before it falls. And, you know what they say, if no one is there to see the risen soufflé, did it still rise? So, I have to take a picture. I firmly believe that when you are taking a picture of food, it should look as much like a seventies cookbook as possible. The colors should be garish, the floral arrangements loud or holiday themed and liquor should be prominently featured. Everyone loves a glass of Dewar's with smoked salmon soufflé, right?

Incidentally, I like how the Poinsettia looks as if it is both lovingly cradling the Scotch and preparing to devour the soufflé. It looks so alive! It's like a metaphor for the soufflé, which is sort of alive, because it falls as soon as you stab it. I just love violent food imagery, don't you?

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. The only reason I'm not giving you the recipe is because it's not mine. I used the exact recipe from Epicurious.com. Here it is. It was really good and easy, even though I had to use dried dill instead of fresh. By the way, I've found that stick blenders don't work so well for whipping egg whites. A good old-fashioned hand blender works best. I use this one, a wedding gift to my parents:

I like how the mixer seems to be coming out of its Poinsettia hiding place.

You want to make the man in your life nervous?

I like making my husband nervous and it's really exciting when I find something that's sure to make him start belly button diggin'. And this one is easy...and fun! All I have to do is invite friends of ours who don't happen to know each other to the same event. Our friends have a few things in common; they're all smart, funny, nice and insanely good looking*. I know that sounds vague, but aren't those all good qualities? And they all seem to like us, so they must be tolerant. Given their evident tolerance of odd and sometimes uncouth behavior (ours, of course), I never worry about mixing them all together. My husband, on the other hand, is not so sure about cross-socializing.

I suppose it could have something to do with those old theories about the way men and women socialize. Traditionally, men are supposed to define themselves by group association (church member, fraternity brother, stoner) and women self-identify based on their relationships with other people (mother, sister, slut). Maybe my husband is afraid that if he mixes his groups, he'll get ousted from one of them. But it's not like he's a member of both Born Again Christian Glee Clubbers and Cussin', Drinkin' Vandalizers**. This isn't middle school. I can hang out with other Pilates teachers and not be shunned by my Monday Night Ladies' Drinking Club. In fact, most of my circles ooze into each other. Many of the moms I know also go to my church. Some of the moms from my kids' school are in my Bunco group. So are a couple of my friends from "back in the day." And I've run into some Pilates teachers at parties also attended by the Monday Night Ladies' Drinking Club members. I guess I'm also part of the great blogger universe, a group that doesn't include any of my "IRL***" friends. But some of my IRL friends read my blog and I read other moms' blogs. The fact that someone who used to be a priest at my church has read my blog is another story. That's like running into your boss in a bar, when you're still young enough to care. But! Even though she knows a little more about me now, she doesn't seem to have shunned me.

My social life is one big happy Venn diagram. My husband's is more like a list. He has work friends, tennis friends, old school friends (divided into subsets: college, law school and the in between years), wife friends (those would be mine), family friends, etc. I'm sure there are others, but I can't think of them off the top of my head. It does seem that his groups are intersecting more often these days; he plays tennis with people from all of his groups and doesn't seem to mind. In that case, though, he's not directly responsible for the interaction, so he's not afraid of anyone getting mad at him if they don't like each other.

When A gets together with his friends, there's a point to it. They come together in the name of some activity. My friends, on the other hand, come together to...come together. Last Saturday, I was left alone with Baby J. I don't like to be responsible for Baby J on weekends; I will actually call A from another part of the house to change his diaper, because I don't change diapers on weekends. Anyhow, A had been out with his tennis friends and, when he got home, as much as I wanted to hang out with him, I wanted to get away from the (cutest, sweetest, loviest, clingiest) baby even more. Since A was the most available caregiver at the moment, I left the two of them. I got in the car and pealed out of the driveway, almost hitting a dog, a mailbox and two joggers reluctantly headed for the bookstore. I don't mean to whine, but why is it that mothers are so unoriginal in our solo time? How much coffee can you drink? How many free magazines can you read before you feel like a thief? And how many screaming toddlers will you have to listen to while you try to relax? Too many. It was 4 o'clock in the afternoon and I'm too old to drink coffee after noon. And I prefer to read magazines in the tub. Tout d'un coup, it dawned on me that I could go for a drink, just like old times.

I was wearing the perfect outfit for afternoon drinking, too****: a brown Lily Pulitzer v-neck sweater with red and pink acorns on one shoulder, white corduroys and tan patent leather flats, with ruffles on the toes. Wheee! I called three friends, the ones I knew were most likely to drop what they were doing to have a drink. I couldn't reach one of them, but found out later she was already headed to a bar when I called. L. had a date with her husband, but sounded intrigued. I hit pay dirt with J, who was putting on her shoes to go for a walk when I called, but immediately took them off and put her jeans back on. I think all of my friends would agree that going for a drink is more fun than exercising.

I picked J up and we went to Saluda's and sat outside on the porch. I made her pledge to drink 2/3 of it before agreeing to order a bottle of sparkling. After I had a glass, L called and said she and her husband had decided to start their date by meeting us. That inspired me, so I called A and convinced him (didn't take much) to get a sitter, ditch the cutest baby ever and meet us for dinner. J had to go home, so I also told him to catch a ride with L and her husband, so he could drive J home when he got there and me home later. Then I had another glass of wine. And a great time. I know it wasn't necessary to tell that whole story, but I wanted to take a moment to recommend the porch at Saluda's. It's upstairs, so you can watch people, from a distance, just like I like it. The food was just fine, too; I had fish. There are some places that are best when you can eat outside, like Terra and the Gourmet Shop. The porch at Saluda's is covered, so you can eat outside when it's raining. Cool.

Maybe I don't mix groups after all. Maybe I'm just a member of one really big group: People Who Like to Hang Out and Talk Without Involving a Specific Activity. Most of my friends will agree to come hang out and talk, over lunch, drinks or coffee or at the pool or the park or even at the bookstore. A lot of my friends, while hanging out and talking, said their husbands were the same way about mixing groups. I think it might be that they aren't as comfortable as we are admitting that they just want to sit around and accomplish nothing for a bit. They need an excuse to...hang out and talk. They ramble as much as we do, too; A always comes back from tennis or lunch with work friends with plenty of stories, many of them more gossipy than mine.

In conclusion, any time you just want to hang out, call me. And if you want to hang out with A, tell him to bring a tennis racket. Or tell me to talk him into it.

Namasté, y'all!



* Call me shallow. You won't be the first. You won't even be the first today. But I like hanging out with good looking people. I developed this theory in high school: you don't have to be good looking to be seen as good looking. People associate you with your group of friends. Plus, you can borrow their clothes and get good hair and makeup tips from them. Aren't I charming?

** He's not actually in either of those, but I bet they exist. And I bet you can find them on the internet.

*** Dad, "IRL" stands for "in real life" and refers to actual flesh and blood friends you can see, as opposed to people you only know from internet interaction.

**** Yeah, I know this is probably one, or two, too many footnotes, but this is important. PSA: If you are old-ish like me, wear a nice outfit to drink in the afternoon, so you don't look like a crazy person. I know wearing Lily Pulitzer makes anyone look a little crazy, but in an endearing way, not in an I-need-to-go-to-rehab-again-because-my-kids-got-taken-by-DSS-way.

Hoooo-wheeeeee!! Happy New Year!!

Happy New Year, y'all! I know you don't really care about how we celebrated, but you should know that we had a rocking good time. Some great friends had a party. All the things I liked were there: ping pong, sparkling wine, good food that you could eat with your fingers, and kids that we didn't have to see too much of. We took our big kids and left sweet Baby J at home with his friend, Mrs. Babysitter. The kids played in the yard and weren't really supervised until it was time to set off fireworks, which is how it should be.

Now, I know what you really wanted to know: What Was Ms. Annie of the Daily Digress Wearing? Ever since the Morrissey show, I have had this burning need to re-rock the New Romantic style. So...I wore my skinny black jeans, a black silk, ruffled blouse (Rebecca Taylor, bought at Van Jean during one of their awesome sales!), and three things that made the outfit, all given to me by people I love. It's important to feel the love on New Year's Eve, so here it is:

1. An aquamarine and diamond ring my Nana gave me for high school graduation. I went to visit her right after I graduated and I noticed that she was wearing this over-the-top glamorous ring. It was out of character for her to wear something so flashy in the daytime (she was from Chah-leston), but I didn't say anything. I didn't want to compliment her, because if you tell old people you like something, they might give it to you, then you have to feel guilty. When I was leaving, she said,

"Oh! I almost forgot! This ring is your graduation present."

And she took it off and gave it to me. Just like that! Lest you think she noticed me staring at it, please know that she was completely blind. Cool, huh? Not that she was blind, but that she knew my taste so well.

2. A black, raw silk-ish jacket my friend K found recently at Goodwill. It wasn't her size, but she was so shocked to find an actual vintage thing in a thrift store for four dollars that she had to buy it. And thought of me. Hooray! Consignment shops and EBay have really ruined the fun of searching for cool vintage stuff. Hmph.

3. A pair of super high heeled shoes that my husband gave me for Christmas. They're gray and black herringbone with turquoise and pearl medallion-thingies on the toes. I love, love, love them, because I never would have bought them for myself. I would have wanted them, but talked myself out of getting something that didn't match at least ten outfits. I lurrrrve these shoes. And my husband. And my kids. And my friends. And family. And life. Mwah!

Namasté, y'all!