Smokey Mountain Breakdown

You know, when I was a make-up artist I used to like to take pictures of people like me with our dreadful injuries. Research. Anyway--that's the lower part of the bleed--it goes all the way up to my shoulder. I'll be glad when it's finally well enough for me to fix the lawnmower and mow my grass. My yard looks like a hay field and the goat can't keep up with it.

Anyway, I was back at UT today to see the eye surgeon. No, the sight's not coming back, but at least the swelling in the retina is going down. This visit was much better than the last trip.

Been very busy getting ready for the stuff being published next month. Catching up on submissions, collecting rejections--same old stuff.

So, Saturday I go pick up spaghetti dinners to share with my friend. Her son bought us tickets. It's okay--the standard sort of spaghetti dinner one expects from a charity event. It's not vermicelli, it's those big ropes of pasta. The decision is made for me to go earlier than later.

"It's sort of hard to mess spaghetti up."

"I've seen it done."

But it's nice to share a meal and it was good. Particularly since I went early.

There, down the cliff in the road are the guineas. This is where they disappeared to. The locusts started up right around the time they disappeared. Locusts are what we call cicadas here. I think the guineas went in search of them--imagining in their tiny brains buffets of fat juicy cicadas emerging from their shells like oysters.

What they found was potato beetles and larvae. They'd been in the neighbor's garden gorging themselves. I despaired of seeing them again. I felt certain they'd just keep on chattering their way to Del Rio--aimlessly wandering and every once in a while wondering where they left their car keys.

"If you have to shoot them, that's fine. Just bring me a carcass. There is a dish I want to try."

"They've got blue meat, you know?"

"Really? I knew it was dark. Blue? Really? Gotta see that."

Sunday, I wake up and they are perched on the roof of the house like turkey buzzards. I wanted to give them some feed to reward them for miraculously figuring out they belonged here. But Max and Shadow harassed the two who were not on the roof and the entire lot flew up to the safety of the chicken shack. They've been up there eating bugs. I really need them here in the yard eating ticks. But the dogs just don't know what's good for them.

It seems to have been the potatoes that did it. I'm not a huge potato eater. I like one now and again, but I got a bag of them to make some curry with and had the leftovers stored in a cabinet. It takes me a while to eat that many potatoes.

Anyway, I saw evidence of a mouse in my kitchen--hanging out around the potatoes. I don't know why it wants potatoes, but that seems to be what it is going for. But it's too late, the mouse is here and this is war.

So, I take three hours to do a cleanup yesterday that would normally take 30 minutes. What I really need to do is take everything out of the cabinets and figure out where the little bugger got in--but it takes two functional arms to do that.

I've set traps and put Havoc under the house and in places the dogs can't get to. But it really likes potatoes. Not sure if it's going to go for the Havoc. Getting rid of the potatoes today. At least it hasn't figured out how to get to the upper food storage shelves.

Here's a new installment of Porn and Donuts. Enjoy.

He met her a month ago at the dentist’s office. Their eyes met across the cracked linoleum of the waiting room under a sofa-sized portrait of a hunting scene. She smiled, revealing a sexy space between her front teeth and the dark place on the edge of her smile.

“I’m Kellie, Do I know you?”

“No, but you sure should.”

A cheerless technician called Lucius’ name and he went to pay in blood and pain for what he had come for.

The dental profession referred to Dr. Jeffers’ favorite tools as extraction forceps. Everyone else called them pliers. His second favorite tool rocked teeth loose in their sockets before the extraction forceps came into play. They called that a wedge. His clinic specialized in extracting teeth in an assembly line operation. He did not ask questions. He pulled teeth. For fifty dollars, he extracted one tooth and charged twenty-five dollars for each additional tooth. He gave his patients a script for thirty #10 hydrocodones and the antibiotic of their choice when they left.

Lucius came for the hydrocodone. He sat down in the dental chair, upholstered in cracked vinyl. The rusty metal fittings of the equipment and spit-flecked chrome creaked as he settled. Dr. Jeffers strode in, applying the Novocain injections with such speed that Lucius did not have time to flinch.

The dentist ripped off his gloves and delivered his parting shot before marching off to his next victim.

“Meth mouth.”

“E’s ‘ot!” Lucius protested as his face went numb and he lost the ability to blink his right eye.

Lucius had bad teeth, but they were bad from chewing assorted narcotics like they were Flintstones vitamins. This, combined with a steady diet of Mountain Dew, Pink Snowball cakes and Milky Way Bars rotted his teeth prematurely. The tooth pulled today had nothing wrong with it. He had run out of bad teeth to pull.

He looked across the hall into the next room. The girl, Kellie, was there and he could see her legs from the thighs down, resting on the dental chair. She kicked and twisted, tensing in evident pain. Her heels thumped against the footrest rhythmically.

“Aaargh--Aaar--Aaargh!”

Lucius became aroused and moved his coat to cover his lap. He tried to lick his lips but his tongue had gone numb. Her feet stopped drumming and Jeffers rushed out of the room, snapping off a pair of gloves.

Jeffers pried open Lucius’ mouth and retreated in a matter of moments with a tooth. The taste of iron and salt hit the back of his throat and gauze padding slammed into the socket. Jeffers was gone from the room by the time Lucius sat up.

Kellie stood in the doorway with a handful of bloody gauze pressed to her mouth. She flushed and her eyes glinted a bit too bright. They made their way up to the checkout desk together, with their frozen faces and bloody gauze wads.

They collected the hydro scripts and went to the pharmacy, glancing shyly at each other.

No food today. Sorry. My repertoire of one-armed dishes is very limited. The only thing working on my left arm is my fingers and only by propping the arm up am I able to type.

But I've turned the corner for now. Some of the swelling has gone down and I have a whopping 6 inches of ROM in my elbow--no function yet so I can't move it without help, but it is at least slightly movable.

I'm sorry to have been so whiny this week, but it's been really bad. Really bad. I've not at all lived up to the expectations of my hero, The Black Knight.

It's just a flesh wound...

BLACK KNIGHT:

I move for no man.

ARTHUR:

So be it!

ARTHUR and BLACK KNIGHT:

Aaah!, hiyaah!, etc.

[ARTHUR chops the BLACK KNIGHT's left arm off]

ARTHUR:

Now stand aside, worthy adversary.

BLACK KNIGHT:

'Tis but a scratch.

ARTHUR:

A scratch? Your arm's off!

BLACK KNIGHT:

No, it isn't.

ARTHUR:

Well, what's that, then?

BLACK KNIGHT:

I've had worse.

Thank you all for the comments and sweet thoughts you've sent my way. I appreciate it and when I'm feeling better I'll try to go around visiting everyone. For those of you who were wondering what this thing was about--without showing you my gall bladder scar--the short version is: I have lupus complicated by a rare clotting disorder. I can bleed and clot at the same time. My arm is bleeding internally and it hurts like a sumabitch. The issue is with my doctors who disagree on how much suffering they would like me to endure before referring me to a specialist specifically for this issue.

I hobbled up to the guinea enclosure and left the door open for them. I can't risk another fall and am limiting my outdoor activities for the time being. So--I can't haul their water and feed to them. They marched past the house this morning--waking all and sundry at the crack of dawn and then went down the mountain. Not sure if they were here long enough to bond. Hopefully they'll be back to roost this evening after filling up on ticks in the woods. Or they may just stay down there, slaves to their tiny tiny brains, wondering where they came from and how they got there.

The sling on my arm is navy blue and I worry briefly about the fact that my dress is black because, you know, you never wear navy and black together. I get up at six to make it to my appointment with Dr. Cooper at 9:45, knowing it will take me an hour to get that dress past my arm and the sling back on. I leave on my sixty-mile drive at 8:00.

I cannot take anything for the blinding pain because I must drive. I draw from a stable of mostly useless techniques learned over three years of therapy in pain control and hope I can maintain the level of concentration needed for them.

I arrive 45 minutes late for my appointment because they have shut down I-40 through Knoxville. I know this but am not worried because they supposedly put signs up. I couldn't find any signs. I get terribly lost.

The office staff at Dr. Cooper's office decides a punitive approach is called for to deal with this overweight woman who had the temerity to show up late in her badly clashing dress and arm sling.

Mind you, by this point, because of being lost my ability to ignore the pain in my arm is greatly diminished.

I apologize and explain that the signs and billboards were not there at Strawberry Plains.

"Yes, they were."

"No they weren't--or at least they weren't where I could see them."

I know this because I slowed down there to scan the billboards looking for the directions.

"Well, you just didn't see them. They were there," she snips nastily at me.

They talk among themselves behind the glass before threatening me with rescheduling. I can tell that they are indignant in the way office workers can be with the stupid people they have to deal with every day. I am that stupid person. Their stupid person of the day.

They tell me to sit down.

At this point my composure breaks as the last shred of control over my pain evaporates. I am too fragile and hurt to deal with their punishment. I grab a box of tissue and begin to do the thing I fear most. Weeping in public. I'm terribly embarrassed by it but I can't help it and I can't stop it. The pain in the arm is now completely out of control.

But they have not had their fill of punishing me yet. They call me over and tell me the doctor will see me but it will be the last appointment of the morning. I am fine with this. They refuse to give me any sort of time frame--at this point I'm wondering about how much worse the arm will get.

I go back to my chair and my crying. I still can't stop it even though I try pressing my thumb and forefinger hard into my forehead--so hard it leaves marks. I am unable to cause a pain equal to or greater to the pain in my arm. I would need a knife to do that.

An elderly woman comes up to me with a box of tissue. The waiting room is full of elderly people because Dr. Cooper is an internist.

"I know you already have some tissue..." she starts, having exhausted all other excuses to approach me, "but you seem to be having a hard time."

She is sweet and generous and lovely and I cannot possibly regain my composure when someone is reaching out to me. You see, all I really want to do is stop hurting and crying.

But now I feel I must console this lady because she is upset for me.

She's done something quite brave since, for all she knows, I may not be an overweight woman in a black dress and mismatched arm sling having a bad day--I could be a dangerously unbalanced overweight woman in a black dress and mismatched arm sling about to have a psychotic break.

I try to explain that I'm late and my arm is so painful I can't concentrate--it makes no sense at all what I blurt out to her. So I thank her for her concern and there we are--me, sitting and crying and her standing there looking concerned but not knowing what to do. We are at an impasse.

At this point the office staff becomes concerned that I'm upsetting the old people. They hurriedly hand me a piece of paper and send me back. I tell them it's okay and I'm sorry for crying. I don't want to take anyone's place. I get it. Really I do. I was 45 minutes late and I deserve to be punished.

It was a short visit. They didn't want to see me again. I'm sure it's going to be a dreadful black mark on my record. They write up these things called patient encounter forms. I'm sure this one will be entertaining reading.

And it's all my fault for being late, lost, in pain, unable to stop crying and wearing a black dress with a navy blue arm sling.

I tried to sleep, but couldn't last night. My arm was on fire and my state of mind not good. So, I called 911 and asked that an ambulance come and get me.

The pain was the worst I had ever felt. I am on very intimate terms with pain. It was worse than pancreatitis, worse than appendicitis--worse than having my chest split open. I began to fear that I would lose the use of that arm, my left one.

They gave me a shot of dilaudid and it took a long time to work. For a moment, I thought I would be left with that burning, but finally I stopped yelping and crying and rested there in the cubicle of the ER. This morning they did an ultrasound. No clots, but big pockets of blood just sitting there under my skin.

Betsy came and picked me up. Went to the pharmacy and got medicine more efficacious than the last. I'm home now and about to lay down. I'm tired.

More doctors tomorrow.

I will be taking it very easy on the blogging this week, folks.

I took a very bad fall on Sunday morning and messed my arm up really badly. They aren't actually sure it's not broken. Spent all day yesterday at the ER. The pain is actually very severe. Like seriously considering my exit strategy severe. The meds they gave me at the ER aren’t doing much to control it and other than making me aware that I’m blogging under the influence—well, I’m needing to spend a great deal of time using behavior modification techniques—which are sort of sucky for this level of pain anyway.

I go to UT on Wednesday and hope I can hold out till then. The ER guys in Newport were really great, but I got to tell you--these east Tennessee doctors have asked me to put up with more agony than my MUSC or Emory teams ever did. This is not a good place to have intractable pain. I've been begging these guys for years now to get me into a pain management program so that when this moment came, I wouldn't have to dust off the effing exit strategy. I've got more stuff to do, damnit.

Anyway, I can only write in the 45 minutes or so that the drugs pull the levels down from 9 to 7.

If anyone wants to guest blog this week for me—I’d be eternally—or at least for a good while—in your debt.

I think the guineas were the last straw for the tiny Jack Russell terrier.

He lives on the verge of the property and up to this past week or so has stayed on his own turf. But he ventured down onto the property a few days ago, prompting the cockers to run willy-nilly to chase him back. My guys never leave here, but they are finding it harder since Monsieur JR insists upon taunting them from his high-up there place.

I call him Monsieur JR because he reminds me very much of the taunting French guard in Scene 8 of Monty Python's The Holy Grail. Shadow and Max don't quite know what to make of him. Their exchanges go something like this:

JACK RUSSELL:

You don't frighten us, English pig-dogs! Go and boil your bottom, sons of a silly person. I blow my nose at you, so-called Arthur King, you and all your silly English k-nnnnniggets. Thpppppt! Thppt! Thppt!

MAX:

What a strange person.

SHADOW:

Now look here, my good man--

JACK RUSSELL:

I don't wanna talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper! I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!

MAX:

Is there someone else up there we could talk to?

JACK RUSSELL:

No. Now, go away, or I shall taunt you a second time-a!

[sniff]

I just hope he doesn't have a cow up there to catapult, because I'm not really up for building a wooden rabbit right now.

Ni!

I've decided to serialize Porn and Donuts here on the blog. It's not finished yet and I sort of need some reason to pick it back up. It's very long and unlikely to be published because of its novella length. And--if anyone wants to publish it--I'll only be doing it in installments here. And it still needs work. It's at 7500 words and still going at this point. I've got a feeling it's too long for most places to consider. Maybe in an anthology down the road. It will be here every Saturday. You will have to look for it on Saturdays, because it will be tucked at the end of a journal posting like this one so to fool the sploggers. It's an oddball sort of romantic comedy so it fits well in the space I wanted to do love stories. I'll be getting to those during the week quite soon--flashes.





The traffic zinged by like skeeters on crack. Lucius felt pavement, all grit and tar under him and rubbed his cheek against his pillow. The remaining teeth in his mouth felt like they wore little sweaters and when he smacked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, it stuck to the dryness. The sunlight burned through Lucius’ eyelashes and he blinked to clear the sand sticking them together. It took a few tries and he reached a dirty finger up to dig in the corners of his eyes. He sat up on the verge of the interstate at an exit ramp. His crotch itched, so he scratched it.

Lying on the ground beside him was his pillow, The Lola Delight Inflatable Pleasure Doll with five convenient orifices. He still did not understand why there were five. Three seemed plenty to him. Lola regarded Lucius with her surprised gaze and gaping oval mouth. Lucius thought he detected recrimination in her eyes, so he punched her in the belly. Her eyes bugged out at him.

“Shut up, bitch.”

He grabbed Lola around her middle and struggled to his feet. Walking up the exit ramp towards the Citgo, scuffing his feet along in the gravel, he knew what he needed. A Big Gulp and two Mrs. Freshley’s Pink Snowball cakes would ease the sweating and shaking. He offered his middle finger in salute to the hooting truckers who stared down at him and his doll. Soon he would be in a plastic booth with Kellie and all would be right in his world again.

Yang is getting much more active and annoying. I swear last night it was like having the Ballet Trocadera on the back porch. He does seem to enjoy running at full tilt then launching himself on or off the porch.

Guineas are evidently feeling at home enough to make a great deal of noise now and again. Each time they sound off, Max takes a turn around the yard.

I finished Murakami's Kafka on the Shore this morning. I'm so in love with this writer's work. I think it's the first time in a very long time I've actually wanted to own all a writer's books. For now, I'm getting them through interlibrary loan, but I'm thinking of making space on my bookshelf for him. Dashed it into the library and asked for The Wind-up Bird Chronicles.

I'm busy today. I'm now getting ready to write the conclusion of the changeling short story I've been writing. Dreamed up a way to end it. Finally got the title. It's Sugar Baby. This is the story prompted by the story fragment of the woman who gated her baby up in a cave and fed it a piece of candy a day till it died. But, I'm sort of putting a magical realism spin on it. It's an evil baby story. The mom's no great prize, but I loves me some evil babies.

Anyway, I gots nothin'. Bunch of stuff getting ready to come out in print soon.

So, I use part of my "stimulus" payment to buy a new vacuum cleaner. I've been vacuum cleanerless for many months since my trusty old upright gave up the ghost. Me and the broom have been tight ever since. S'okay since I have hardwood floors.

I choose the Eureka 4D bagless idiot wonder. I confess to being swayed by the cherry red color and powerful looking design. It's the second time I've given bagless technology a go. And once again I am underwhelmed. Right out of the box, it refuses to work in the upright position. It works fine from the attachments but given that it is an upright vacuum cleaner, one would expect the uprighted primary feature to be the one that works best. Anyway, it manages to smear dirt around and picks nothing up. It also weighs a ton.

My experience with bagless vacuum technology has become rather like the classic comedy sketch One Leg Too Few in which Dudley Moore and Peter Cook act out a casting call in which a one-legged man shows up to audition for the role of Tarzan.

Cook: Mr Spiggott - you are, I believe, auditioning for the part of Tarzan.

Moore: Right.

Cook: Now Mr Spiggott, I couldn't help noticing - almost at once - that you are a one-legged person.

Moore: You noticed that?

Cook: I noticed that, Mr Spiggott. When you have been in the business as long as I have, you come to notice these little things almost instinctively.

So, I call the Eureka people and the conversation goes something like this:

Rosie: Mr. Eureka - I bought a Eureka upright and it won't work in the upright position.

Mr. Eureka: Right.

Rosie: Now Mr. Eureka, I couldn't help noticing - almost at once - that an upright vacuum cleaner should most likely work in the upright position, but this does not.

Mr. Eureka: You noticed that?

Rosie: I noticed that, Mr. Eureka. When you have been sucking as long as I have, you come to notice when something doesn't suck almost instinctively.

We go around like this for a while. My argument is that it cannot possibly have a blockage unless one was placed there in the factory especially for me. His argument is that I have flushed tampons down it or some such nonsense and all I have to do is take a phillips head screwdriver and remove whatever was magically crammed up there the moment it was unboxed. Never mind that the screws are some weird star shape a phillips head won't fit in or that the refer to page 17 in the troubleshooting guide directs me to a Spanish language page.

Fortunately, Walmart has agreed to take back the offending vacuum cleaner so I don't have to take the thing to Morristown for service.

Anyway, I'm completely against bagless vacuums at this point. I'm not sure what Dyson is smoking that they think they can charge 400 bucks for one of these things. I'm convinced even the high end of these would be inferior to a vacuum with it's bag properly where it should be.

That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

She liked dogwood flowers and sunning herself until her skin was hot. You could smell the baby oil and iodine rising in the summer heat as she turned ever so slightly orange and freckled. She liked to fish and sat with her eyes closed holding onto her rod as if she could charm a fish to biting. My father patiently untangled the endless snarls she created in those Penn reels.

She laughed and accepted his rod to continue fishing, saying, "Gordian knot, again."

It was his way of tenderness though he sputtered and cursed about wasting tackle on her.

Then she would close her eyes again with that half smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She lived on the verge of laughter.

She made pineapple and mayonnaise sandwiches on Sunbeam bread that became cold and mushy in the cooler. They were like sandwich pudding by the time we broke them out over the cobia hole in Port Royal Sound, but nothing was better in that blazing sun with the sharks circling our eels. She would hand me a Fresca before popping the top of her Schlitz Malt Liquor--so cold it had turned to beer Slushie.

Her humor and wit is what I remember best of her. Even at the end, with the cancer and the pain and the dying, she looked across the road from our house where a house trailer had been put and said, "See? I told you I would die if they put a trailer on our street. Now look at me!"

The main thing my mother left me was by myself.

He passed ownership of the Golden Dynasty Buffet Discount Card to me before driving off in his white pick-up truck.

"Just four more dinners and you get one free," he said.

That was sort of a tradition with us. Scott called the Chinese the "Newport Country Club". The first time I went there was with Scott. I'm not sure how many of the red stamps on the back were from our shared meals, but I'm guessing most of them were from the two of us. I'd go in by myself once in a very great while if I had something to read, but honestly, it's not as fun eating alone as it is with a friend.

We hugged hard and he teared up. I have a delayed response to grief so I didn't feel that hungry hurt in the pit of my stomach until after the truck disappeared. But that is how I've always been. I nurse my wounds in the dark and silence.

We spent yesterday in town. We both got haircuts at Rubles. Scott ran into politico, Charlotte Leibrock who had heard about what happened. She told Scott she was sorry and that losing him was a loss to Cocke County. We went by the bank so I could give him the money all of you donated to him.

Scott wanted me to tell you all how much he appreciated your kind thoughts, wishes and donations.

"Yeah, my peeps is the bestest," I told him. He agreed. If you'd like to email him directly, his email is Biggen9257@aol.com. I'm not sure when he's going to find a computer to use, but he'll be able to check it eventually, I'm sure.

I'm going to miss him an awful lot. There is a quiet here now I wasn't aware of before.

I’ll sing and I’ll dance,
My laugh shall be gay;
I’ll cease this wild weeping –
Drive sorrow away,
Tho’ my heart is now breaking,
He never shall know
That his name made me tremble
And my pale cheeks to glow.

I’ll think of him never –
I’ll be wildly gay,
I’ll charm ev’ry heart,
And the crowd I will sway,
I’ll live yet to see him,
Regret the dark hour
When he won, then neglected,
The frail wildwood flower.

He told me he loved me,
And promis’d to love,
Trough ill and misfortune,
All others above,
Another has won him;
Ah, misery to tell;
He left me in silence –
no word of farewell.

He taught me to love him,
He call’d me his flower
That blossom’d for him
All the brighter each hour;
But I woke from my dreaming,
My idol was clay;
My visions of love
Have all faded away.

I've been doing some research connected with a graphics gig and thought I'd share this song with you. It's the original version from 1860. It's purty.

Poor Scott. I tell you what, the banjo music just won't stop playing for him.

Anyway, he crashed here last night so we could orchestrate him getting out of Tennessee altogether. I think he got a lot accomplished today. He should be back in South Carolina by this weekend--with an apartment--and a job. I suggested he put in for an emergency transfer, explaining the situation, and they found one for him in a few hours. Flowers Bakeries ROCKS!!! It's part-time, and he'll have to build back up to benefit status again, but it's at his same rate of pay.

I really believe this is for the best for him and it makes me feel good that he leaves here in better shape than if he had stayed. The itty-bitty, tiny little petty stupid people who did this to him will never have it so good. Life only gets worse for such people. I just really hate to see them give the Appalachian folk such a bad name--they perpetrate every negative stereotype of this place by their very existence. They are a shame and an embarrassment.

I just wish they would think before showing their asses. It makes it very hard for writers like me to write positively about them. The world can't help but think them backward and ignorant. How about lets try to show the world what is so wonderful about Appalachian folks for a change? Because there is quite a lot that is beautiful.

Anyway, had a sleepless night due to the guineas. They weren't the problem--Max was. Also, Max loves Scott and really wanted to sleep in the downstairs bedroom with him. But the snoring scared him. He barked all night. So this morning, guineas went up the hill to their own little guinea condo.

I installed the new security system today. Guineas. Betsy gave me six.

If you aren't familiar with these birds, they are sort of prehistoric looking. They are from Africa. They are known for a number of things. They lay lovely spotted eggs that make great French toast. They have loud raucous cries that can be heard over long distances--they make these when anything in the slightest bit new appears in their vicinity. They will clear your entire farm of ticks. If you have pheasant in a restaurant, you are most likely eating one of these--they are all dark meat. Their young are called "keets". Unlike many domestic fowl, they do fly.

The other thing they are known for is their monumental stupidity.

These guys will be caged up here for six weeks since it takes that long for them to register a place as "home".

Max is so wildly happy about them that he's had to be tied up. He is already imagining lots of fun games to play with them.

Bebe Goat and I went to Betsy's for his "tutoring" with her burdizzo. She disbudded him for me too. He's pretty pissed but at this age he won't remember anything by tomorrow. Like most Nubians, he's pretty whiny so it's taking him a bit to get over it.

He now has a name. It is "Yang", for the perfectly formed Yang symbol on his forehead--his only white marking.

At some point in the wee hours of the morning, the sitemeter rolled over to 50,000. Most of those hits have happened in the past 18 months. So, even if TTLB demoted me from a marsupial to a reptile, the state of the blog is good! And TTLB has never been able to get it right on my site anyway.

There is this family cemetery near where I live. For some reason, they've parked their junk car collection around it. Not sure what that's about. Perhaps a memorial. I took a shine to this VW mini-bus.

Outsiders come here and are horrified by the sheer volume of dead cars. A collection of rusting old gentlemen will stretch for acres in some places. I like them in summer when the kudzu covers them and they peek out like senile children all headlights a-kilter and crazed windshields begging for rocks.

As far as I can tell, they are a form of wealth. Look at us, they say, wonder at the sight of our rusting heaps of autos! The Masai have their cattle. We gots dead cars. Lots of them.

Today I received a Chinese curse in my fortune cookie. I didn't eat it in hopes of it not coming true. I don't want my life to be any more thrilling than it has been. Scott almost got into a fist fight in the middle of the Chinese. Not his fault, the guy just wouldn't leave him alone and seemed determined to start something. Luckily, a sheriff's dept. employee was there to keep the idiot off of him.

On the way home, I saw a whorehouse they had painted then turned into a church. The placard on the outside said, "Jesus redeemed us from the scourge of the law." Am I the only one who sees the irony in that?

Happy Sunday.

It has been a busy week this week. I’m facing a weekend of tired.

Yesterday I had three stories accepted by Keyhole Magazine for their issue # 3. They requested I also send a handwritten story in for their handwritten issue. Not sure if they will like that—despite my parochial school education, my handwriting is somewhere between Victorian cursive and doctor scrawl. I am a good doodler. Anyway, I’m very pleased to be accepted by a Tennessee publication. Go over and have a look at them—I think you will like what you see. There are some awesome writers in Issue # 2.

Earlier this week, one of my Southern spec fiction pieces went live on Static Movement. You might remember Carolina Special from last October's scary story cycle. It's a trip with a character based on my grandfather from Spartanburg, SC to Knoxville, TN in 1919. Along the way we encounter some of the ghostly denizens that populate the Southern Appalachians. If you haven't read it recently, the version up on Static is the final, polished version. I find myself in quite good company there, as well.

Scott came by yesterday and I printed off all of the comments from the blog. He asked me to hold the donations for him in my paypal account until he got into his new place. He has a lead on a farmhouse near his job. He’s just overwhelmed by the support, not only from all you guys, but many people here in the community have rallied behind him. This has done much to restore my faith in this community. There ARE angels here fighting the Three-Toe.

I’m hoping for him to do a guest post here on the blog. He wants to also do a letter to the editor at the Newport Plain Talk thanking all of those who have come forward to help him.

Yes, it is still a very dangerous place to live—it’s legendary for that—but the people who really count are good kindhearted folk. I worry a bit that my loyalty towards my friend might once again see me assuming the mantle of the Salman Rushdie of Grassy Fork(not for my elegant, complicated, sometimes enigmatic prose, mind you—but for the hillbilly fatwas laid on my head over the past year). But not speaking out against this terrible injustice and crime would not only be cowardly, but completely unlike me.

The investigation is in the hands of the FBI’s Federal Hate Crime Unit by my understanding. The local authorities do not seem to wish to be involved. That’s all I really know. I’m more interested in getting Scott the support he needs following this atrocity.

Bebe Goatie is doing fine. He’s starting to try out his jumping shoes.

Deep Frying 101

I have a confession to make. Until last week, I have never deep-fried anything. That’s right, Southerner to the core and have never used a deep fryer. It’s embarrassing.

Last week I purchased an inexpensive deep fryer because I wanted to try out my tempura skills. I now get it. Deep-frying is addictive. I’ve been picking up food items and thinking, gee, I wonder what would happen if I deep-fried this? I suspect this is how deep-fried Mars Bars came into being. The dogs are beside themselves with approval since I can’t actually eat this stuff beyond a bite or two.

It may not be surprising to other Southerners, since we use pan frying more often than not. I suspect many of us learned this working in fast food restaurants in high school. I was fired from Pizza Hut and never got to work at McDonalds. Food service was not my forte.

So, my deep-frying experiment has been something of a revelation and I thought I’d share what I learned—just in case there are some of you out there like me, who have been interested, but haven’t attempted this.

The best coating I found was self-rising flour mixed with ice water. I actually put crushed ice in the batter to keep it icy cold.

Tips

1. The oil needs to heat up very hot. Do not cover the fryer with a lid.

2. Dredge your food items with flour before dipping them in the icy cold coating.

3. Have lots of paper towel to drain.

I still don’t have the draining bit down. I’d like my tempura to be even lighter, but even so—they did turn out rather nicely.

...that it's way past time for some...

Okay, a few "unforseen" things have happened this past month, so I'm going to give myself a week or so before beginning the promised story cycle.

I've had some really interesting ideas floating around about stories but I need to center myself after the most recent nastiness. It's really hard to get in a positive headspace to write positive or poignant love stories while there is ugliness around you.

Anyway, I did write this very interesting story called 48 Years the other day. It was prompted by a chance encounter I had in Asheville. It's up on EditRed if you are on my reader list. It's unlike anything I've ever written and it is the sort of story I was thinking of concentrating on this month. I always love my stories right after I write them--well--almost always, but this one feels sort of special.

Bebe Goatlie is doing fine. He's beginning to toddle around and discover the world. It's driving Rose nuts because she really believes he should never be more than 5 inches away from her. I brought him in last night because it was so cold. Max loves to lick and nibble his tiny hoofies.

Again, thank you all for your support of Friend Scott. I'll try to get him to guest blog one day to let you all know how he is in his own words.

The paper made it sound like some sort of domestic dispute--pointing out prominently that Scott and the suspect were related and had words. Words in which the suspect threatened to burn his house to the ground. Never mind that everyone here is related to each other. Pointing out that they were related is rather like pointing out that they had a mouth and a nose. But make no doubt--this was a hate crime. Just as the attack when Scott was coshed over the head was a hate crime. Just as when his house was vandalized was a hate crime. And honestly, the shunning of him at church was a hate crime--just not one that was a federal crime.

And of course, Satan's whisperers are out in full force. Saying things like, "He deserved it," or "It's God's punishment for him being gay." That they don't feel the cloak of evil suffocating them as these words form in their brains speaks only to how lost their souls must be. Even I, with my crippled faith, can see that.

The thing is--this was a really beautiful spot. The Pink House in the Holler was set back off the road deep in a holler off of Granny's Branch. It's a tiny little holler--just big enough for one cabin. Friend Scott's great great grandmother was born there.

The place had its own monster called a Three Toe--sort of a Smoky Mountain chupacabra. Friend Scott used to get freaked out about it at night. He could hear it snuffling around and crying. It seemed to like and tolerate Scott most of the time. Perhaps it will wreak a dreadful vengeance on Scott's persecutors. Perhaps it will come to their houses and breath its foetid breath down their necks. Perhaps Scott was the only thing appeasing the Three Toe. Perhaps now with Scott gone, the Three Toe will finally be free to rampage across the community, gnashing its dreadful fangs and shredding with its razor claws.

But of course, there's no such thing as a Three Toe, is there? Right? Just tell yourself that over and over and maybe everything will be just fine.

Of course, I have a perfectly logical and reasonable explanation for the Three Toe. I thought it up as I walked around the ruins of Scott's house, wondering about the strange dinner plate sized tracks I saw there. They had three deep indentations such as would be made by curved knives.

This is what I think.

The Three Toe is the evil thoughts, words and actions of the people in this community made real. It is the hulking specter of their own intolerance and hatred. It screams like a banshee in the night and seeks its victims on the breath of gossipers. It stalks the dark places where people complacently allow evil to happen, unseen by those who avert coward's eyes.

You, my fair community, are the Three Toe.



I want to thank everyone who has come forward to help Friend Scott. As promised, here is a list of his sizes. If you have any hand me downs you could send in his larger than life size, just email me and I'll give you the address to send them to.

Friend Scott sizes:

Height: 6'9"

Shoes: 13 Wide
T-shirts - XL
Dress shirt: Neck- 18.5 Arm-37
Other Shirts - XLLong
Pants: 40-44-Waist 36-Inseam
Sports Jacket- 46XL or L

I was still asleep when she started hollering. But I'd left the balcony door open for just such a reason, so she woke me up. It's her first time freshening so she was pretty indignant about it.

So, Rose Goat ends up having this hugantic buck. He's basically Leonard with a white topnot. He did absolutely nothing to help--I did have to give a few tugs to get his enormous head out. Betsy stayed on the phone with me to talk me through it, since I sort of thought for a moment there that we would have a hard time of it.

But everything was okay. He's got all his parts. Rose has plenty of colostrum and he's been filling up. It was a nice morning for a kidding.

No Food Porn today.

I’ve been stuck here on goat watch and trying to catch up on some of my writer business stuff.

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Friend Scott.

They burnt his house to the ground last night. He lost everything except the clothes on his back, his vehicles and a change of clothes. His cat got out with singed paws.

Scott is okay. He was at work. He’s in shock.

The cops have a fair idea who did it.

Anyway, I’m very upset for him. He didn’t have much to start with and now he has nothing.

If this sort of intolerance doesn’t lead to damnation, then I don’t know what does.

People are evil. My faith is shaken.

I haven’t been talking much about Rose Goat’s pregnancy. We are indeed expecting, but I’m not entirely sure it is going to be a happy event. She’s the only one who got bred out of the girls and is the one who least needed to be. She was the runt of last year’s kiddings. She’s still very small for a goat. Short and squat like her mother, Blinkin’, she may be okay—maybe not.

The only reason she is still here is because she disappeared when the goat rapture happened. Since no one else got bred, I sort of assumed Rose Goat wouldn’t be as well. As I've watched her udder fill out, I've continued to think maybe she wasn't bred.

Anyway, it’s getting near time. I’ve got her tied up to the porch. She made a nest in a weird place up on the hill and was “talking” to her babies. They make this funny little whickering noise at their stomachs. I also saw her have a contraction. Of course, her mother led us on like that for six weeks.

But I can feel them. I think there are two—probably an enormous buckling and a small doeling. I pushed against the right side of her belly and somebody pushed back. That’s such a weird feeling.

Anyway, she’s settled herself on the porch for now. Let’s hope she lives through it. That’s a big head or something I’m feeling in there.

I will say that her goat lady parts are enormously large and out of scale for a goat her size. So, maybe she won’t have a bad time of it.

I've been pondering the disappearance of culture.

As a child, my mother told me stories. She told me all the stories. On quiet days, near sunset, I remember going into her room. She would pull out her jewelry box and we would go through each piece. The jewels became anchors for me. Little shiny bits of the past. Each having its own tale to tell. Things are like that. Trees and rocks and land are like that. It's never been a stretch for me to see the souls of the inanimate.

I'm not sure how Mother knew that I had the memory to hold all of these things. I'm certain she did not suspect those stories would end with me, since I have no small ones to whisper the histories to. No small ones to sing the old songs to. I write to leave them here--but honestly, most of that knowledge will die with me. There was just so much of it, you see.

I see the same thing all around me here. But it's a willful death caused by the dearth of close listeners. I didn't realize I was special. I never thought myself so. But I must be, for I don't see many willing to hold the stories in their souls--to bear that responsibility. Jimmy is like me. I think that's why we get along so well. But we are unusual people.

It's not an evil thing--it just is. The lore written down by the Firefox project in the 1960s is for the most part, extinct knowledge. It is now the stuff of legend and no longer recognized and practiced. The generation following that generation kept much of that lore--but much of it is still strange to them. That generation is in their 70's and 80's now. Those of my generation hold even less of the knowledge and it is fuzzy. The youngsters are caught up in the modern world in a way that makes it difficult to imagine or incorporate the old stories. This is how culture dies. It fades away like a lost god weeping for worship.

This is sad, I think. I so admire Japanese culture for its ability to keep old and new together. I think we could use a bit of that reverence.

If you have little ones, consider spending some quiet time--away from the soccer practice, away from the sports and all the things that make this life so hectic--and curling up in a dim room with the relics of your past to tell the stories. Pass on the lore. Honor the ancestors.

I am a strict dog mother. Oh, yes I am----Oh, yes I am. Really.

Cocker spaniels are well aware of their cuteness. The genetically modified generations of long floppy ears and big sad puppy eyes that last way beyond puppyhood. Like spoiled beauty queens, they manipulate us, using their assets to get what they want.

They are masters at this.

Early on I started the “nothing for free” program. You want a cookie? Okay, do something. Sit. At the very least you could freaking sit.

I’m not sure when or at what point Max turned this around on me. But he has indeed done exactly that.

Now, Max demands a cookie for the simplest of actions. At bedtime, he needs bribing to go to bed. In the morning, he needs another bribe to leave his crate and another to walk outside. To come inside, even when he had scratched on the door to come in, he waits for a cookie before coming in the house. He even requires a cookie for that most desired of treats, a ride in the car to the mailbox.

How did this happen?

I’m not living with a cocker spaniel. I’m living with a corrupt South American bureaucrat.

It was late on Thursday when I drove down the Fifteenth toward Del Rio. I hadn’t made that drive in a while, but I was making sweet bean jam and I needed to get honey from my local beekeeper. I was enjoying a splurge of driving. Driving is a real treat for me now with gas prices being as high as they are. It’s better and more luxurious than going to the movies—something I almost never do anymore without feeling dreadfully guilty.

My beekeeper lives about eight miles down the one lane, gravel and tarmac road. This is the road where the Christy mission is located. When I first moved here, it was all gravel and you really needed a jeep on all but the finest of days. That road made me fall in love with this area.

I drove into the beekeepers yard, which is immaculate in ways my yard never is. It is a commentary somehow on the orderly life a beekeeper must surely lead. His hives stand in rows and the bees lazily swarm around the tops of them. It is late afternoon, around seven o’clock and that light—you know—that honey colored light is flooding my vision, making everything beautiful and fragrant.

The beekeeper and his wife are not there. For some reason, his wife is always taking a shower when I’ve arrived in the past. It doesn’t matter what time of day—her hair is always done up in a towel. But they aren’t here right now.

No matter. The card table is set out in the carport with quarts and pints of honey, a cash box, ledger and a calculator. They do that here, just as the doors are often unlocked to the houses. This is a place of contradictions. They are the most trusting people in the world, while being the most suspicious of outsiders.

I leave my name and my money and take three quarts of the thick raw amber liquid. It tastes of mountains and flowers I will never be able to climb to. Secret flowers only the bees know. It is my second favorite honey—my absolute favorite being tupelo. I leave a paper bag with some bars of soap I made with this same honey and the wax from these bees.

I stand on his carport and breath in the air, scented with honey and bees and flowers. In the distance, I hear the cries of coyotes and answering yips of foxes. They are frisky somewhere out in those woods, playing. I wonder what it must be like to enjoy the love of coyotes and foxes. I think of them out there in those secret places only the bees know, nipping each other’s ears in lust and showing their bellies. What a wild sort of joy that must be. The dreadful love of coyote and fox.

This is Pippa, Betsy's one-eyed doe kid. She was born without the left eye and also no tail. I would have probably named her something heinous like "Odinetta". Pippa is way mo better.

Us one-eyed goats gots to stick together.






**********************************************************



Note: Someone tried to leave a writing critique for a journal post on the blog. I didn't pass it. There are more than enough venues should one wish to critique my writing in a professional manner. I'm on EditRed and do my serious workshopping on Zoetrope. Those are the appropriate places to do this and I am very receptive to peer review. You may also send me a private email, though there isn't really a way to figure out exactly what I'm going to harvest from the blog. Sometimes I'm just nattering. If you see something you think needs developing--email me and tell me.

Critiquing on a blog, is rather like walking into someone's home, accepting their hospitality and saying, "Your fried chicken tastes like ass." Sort of marks you as a cad and a boor--which is why I saved you the embarrassment of having the comment posted. Because that's what good hostesses do.

Sorry if this comes off a bit snippy "Miss Manners", but for crying out loud people--it's not like I made any secret of the fact I had a stroke last week and lost half my sight. I think I'm entitled to a little fragility. Be nice to me, damnit.

Betsy and I went to Carver's for lunch. The orchards are blooming. Very pretty.

I've been following the Pope's visit to NYC with interest. It occurred to me that being German, he's no doubt a sausage eating fool. I hope some of the Tennessee Catholics have made sure his Holiness has been able to sample some of our excellent whole hog sausage. I'm partial to Swaggerty's, myself.

I've run out of miso and that is a fairly urgent need, but I'm not scheduled to make a run to the Asian market for another thirteen days. I guess I could make a trip in specially but that doesn't feel right with gas prices being as they are.

So. I must go into the passive-aggressive health food market. Hopefully they will carry it. My Korean market only stocks chu miso and I actually prefer the stronger aka miso. I was going to check at a new place in Asheville. But in the meantime, I must gird my loins and go to this market that is closer.

The people who run it are preachy and sort of scare me. Their bones poke through their sallow skin and their eyes are overly bright. I think they practice calorie restriction--you know, the people who eat like famine victims because it makes you live longer. I'm never really sure where to draw the line between that and anorexia. I think I scare them too. I think they think my steroid puffiness and fatness may be infectious.

When I lived in other places, I always found the health food stores to be very restful places. I liked how I felt when I left there. I liked the smell and the people who worked there--young women with wildly curly hair, india print dresses and hairy armpits. Clear faced, earnest boys in tie-dye and Birkenstocks. These places felt healthful--even though I knew 80 percent of what was there was snake oil. But some of the snake oil smelled pretty, so I didn't mind.

This place--this place is just not like that. I've been in houdou shops that felt more welcoming. Honestly, I've been a bit weird about the place after going in there and asking for something that would otherwise be standard health food store fair, but that they didn't "believe" in. I was treated to a lecture. Proselytizing.

You know, I used to regularly eat at the restaurant attached to the Hare Krishna Temple in Dallas. Amazing vegetarian food. Delicious. Best advertisement for giving up meat is good food. It's not something we do very well in the US--really good vegetarian food. Not once did a Krishna try to chat me up and convert me. And the food was so good that I took bunches of leaflets, bought their incense and a cookbook.

I think what bothers me about this place and why I avoid it so much is the over-weaning weight of obligation that hangs in the air there. It's not that the scary, skinny people are unfriendly or fail to smile--it's the sense that they find no joy in what they do. That what they believe and practice is as rigid and judgmental as some of the religious groups with similarly burning eyes and proselytizing speeches.

Sure, we all want to live longer--but let me live dancing, laughing and eating. If you can't infect me with the bliss you feel--if all you have to offer me is your reproach--then I'm not interested.

Big clots of snow came down in the rain that fell throughout the day. They called it Dogwood Winter. I suppose it might as well be Redbud Winter—since the redbuds are blooming too. I don’t think it was cold enough to freeze anything, but it was chilly.

I’m hoping to get a few good days—at least enough to dry sheep out. They stand out in the rain and snow looking stupid. It’s what sheep do best. Anyway, if I can get them dry, I need to shear them. It’s that time again.

I don’t have a picture of these for you but I did want to tell you about them. They are just too yummy. I may make a mess of them tonight and will try to take a photo for you.

We are huge on sweet potatoes here in the south, particularly where I’m from back in South Carolina. They do sweet potatoes here but almost always they are of the candied yam variety. Big chunks of sweet potato glazed with sugar. I really haven’t seen any of the many variations on sweet potato here that I grew up with.

I think I first had sweet potato fries at a health food restaurant in Atlanta. They had an amazing veggie burger there. A little know fact about me is that I spent half my life as a vegetarian. What else would you expect from a girl with a tail?

I’ve made them in a variety of ways over the years but I think the way I fixed them last night was perhaps the best. I have yet to invest in a fry-baby to do tempura and I think that will be my next experiment with them.

You first peel and cut up your sweet potato into fries. It’s sort of hard the way I do it with a knife. You may have a tool that does it better. Rinse them in cold water, then dredge them in self-rising flour and sesame seeds. Fry them in a pan with the bottom just covered in vegetable oil until they are golden brown then transfer them to a cookie sheet covered in paper towel. Stick in a low oven until they finish cooking. While still hot, shake a generous amount of Cajun seasoning on them.

These are really good! Give ‘em a try!

Which in sheep-eese means, I gots nothin'.

You can tell Mutton is the thinking sheep. See, sheep elect one member in a group to do all the thinking. It's a terrible fate, being a thinking sheep. It means everyone else has to follow you and do as you do. Blindly without question. Sheep are poorly suited to responsibility and it weighs heavily upon them. You can see that in his face. At least I can. He didn't ask to do all that thinking. It's just not fair.

The eye thing is still processing. I think I'm going to need to find a way to replace my trusty old Optiquest monitor. Got it for free through Freecycle. It's been great. Big, chunky and bright and best of all--free. Not so good for my new visually impaired state of being. It feels like it's burning holes through my bad eye. So, I guess I need to look for something that doesn't do that. My laptop isn't nearly as painful to look at.

Of course, if I put something up on Freecycle for that--I will look like all the idgits asking for wide screen TVs.

I miss so much staying here so much on the farm. On the way to the hospital with Betsy, I saw an elderly couple in a car. She didn't have her teeth in. It was quite a nice car.

They were feeding each other ice cream. It was the most adorable thing I've seen in--like--forever.

When I see something like that, my heart soars and I feel so warm inside. Even though I know I'll most likely not ever experience that, I just can't feel a lick of envy. I just think--that's adorable. What must it be like to be that much in love and that comfortable with one another that you can take your teeth out and feed each other ice cream in the front seat of your car?

On the way to Knoxville there is a huge billboard. It is red and in the middle of it it says in big letters something to the effect, "Hell Exists." And then, just underneath it, in tiny little fine print that my one eye could hardly make out, "And Heaven Does Too." I mention to Betsy how I can just ponder the dreadful irony of the placement and size of those letters for hours.

Betsy had triplets born--damn, was it Friday? Anyway, one was a perfect buck, one was a transgendered kid--neither one sex or the other and the third doe kid was born without a tail and with only one eye. I can't wait to meet the one-eyed tailless baby. She's my little omen.

Me? Well, Intrepids--I had a stroke in my eye. The sight will most likely not return. The lack of blood to the eye killed off all the little thingies that make me able to see properly. My optic nerve is really swollen. It's a bit scary since I was on maximum blood thinners when it happened.

So--I'm now one-eyed and was born with a tail. I think me and that little goat are gonna have lots to talk over. Both of us need "do-overs".

This was what I woke up to this morning. Took this off of my bedroom balcony. Pretty eh? Thought I'd treat you to a Sunday pix since I didn't get one in yesterday.

Been on the phone all day with doctors. Yeah. It's a big deal. Acute vision loss. It's worse today. So, Betsy is going to drive me into UT tomorrow so they can see me and figure out why I'm going blind in that eye. The good news and what makes me feel better is that the MRI was negative back in December. That was after an episode like this but not quite as bad. So, they don't think I have a clot back there.

I've been thinking a lot about what I would do if I lost my vision. I mean, if this happened in both my eyes I wouldn't be able to see at all. I wonder if I would be able to write. Writing is such a visual thing--and I've always been such a visual person. It's how I learn things. I don't only write to write stories, but there is something about the arrangement of words on a page that is beyond just the craft. It's a visual-design thing. There are nuances on the page of how certain punctuation looks. Like, emdashes look muscular and semicolons are much more feminine--it's about how they look as much as what they do. How will I function if I can't see that?

I didn't really understand what was happening until I looked at a printed page. The letters look like they've been typed with an overused typewriter ribbon (for those of you too young to know what this looks like--a laser printer that has run out of toner will do the same thing). How ironic is that? The writer loses the ability to see print.

I'm being really brave about this, but you know what? I'm really scared.

Day before yesterday, I awaken and one of my eyes isn't working properly. It still isn't. Anyway, I had an MRI about this issue and they didn't say anything on the last Dr. visit so I'm assuming it is just some sort of anomaly. But it is very inconvenient at the present time since I'm in edit and polish mode. I can't seem to focus on the screen. I'm trying to work as much on the laptop, which doesn't seem to strain my eyes too much.

Congrats out to Val, whose story, Liturgy for the Abandoned, won 2nd place in Tattoo Highway's "Stories worth 500 Words" contest.

Things have been greening up nicely and I've wanted to go out and take some photos but the rains just don't seem to be stopping. Not that I'm complaining--I just hope we don't have a week of 20 degree temps in April or May this spring. My neighbor's tree is full of pear blossoms and I'm dreaming of making my pear chips again this year.

Anyway, I was going to run around and visit blogs today but it looks like I need to save my eyes for other stuff. Just know I'm thinking of you.

Where I am from, the Lowcountry of South Carolina, benne seeds have a long tradition. They were brought over by the slaves from west Africa. The name “benne” is the Nigerian name for sesame seeds. But if you say “benne” in Charleston or Savannah, everyone will know what you are talking about.

They are a good luck food, and have various superstitions attached to them. I always heard to throw them over your left shoulder from the porch and your true love will hunt you down. They also say that once you start planting them, you must plant them every day until you die to keep the good luck you receive from them.

I think many people think them to be a sort of grain, but they actually grow on very attractive leafy plant. The seed pods are like those on touch-me-nots and you have to be careful gathering them. They are one of the oldest edible seeds known to man and have been used world wide since pre-history. The Chinese have been using them for 5000 years and were used by the Egyptians and Romans.

I usually buy large bags of them from the Oriental grocery store rather than fooling with those itty little spice bottles. If you toast them in a dry skillet, they are superb sprinkled on everything from soup and salads to meat and fish dishes. They can be used both sweet and savory. They are so amazingly versatile that I find it unusual that we Americans don’t do more with them.

Many of you are familiar with Tahini, which is basically benne butter. It’s the key ingredient for hummus along with chick peas.

The recipe I am passing on to you today is from the famous Charleston Receipts cookbook. If I were only allowed to have two Southern cookbooks, one of them would be Charleston Receipts. The other would be the River Road Recipes. Between those two books you have all the jewels of Southern food culture.

Give these a try. I think you will be very pleased. They are excellent with tea or coffee and are an elegant little cookie to display for guests. Because they are thin and crisp, they are excellent served with ice cream. Very pretty to just stick in the top of a scoop of sherbet or some peach ice cream.

Okay, so I'm sort of being slack and just doing a post every other day. Honestly, though--I've got stuff I'm doing offline right now with the writing thing that's going to have me occupied for a bit. But hang on, because the spring story cycle will begin on Thursday, May 1st and will continue through the 31st. It will be another story a day event, and barring unforeseen catastrophe--that's what I'm planning. I haven't completely decided how I'm going to do this, but I'm thinking the majority will be flashes and drabbles with one or two serialized short stories.

Let me know what you think of this and if you have any "requests". You know...some story idea you don't feel comfortable writing but would like to see written in 1000 words or less. I'm also thinking about keeping one day a week for a guest blogger/writer to do a story. So, If you'd like to sign on to do some guest fiction--drop me an email. I think it would be sort of neat to have a bit of participation. So far, the theme I'm thinking about is "Love Stories about Nothin'". Absolutely no death elements allowed--unless there's some R & J or eternal lurve angle I'd like to explore. But a minimum of death elements.

Sheep came home yesterday. Chops, who basically lives to follow Mutton around and do as he's told, was very upset that he was required to figure out what to do. It took him 24 hours. All I can figure is that it must have been the sheep equivalent of losing your keys or your glasses for an entire day. He lowered his head at me, snorted and stomped his foot. Extremely petulant sheep.

Oh, and Popcorn Sutton was released from jail pending whatever they are going to do to him next. He's under house arrest.