The Bell Doth Not Toll, Not For Me

My phone is on the fritz. For the last 48 hours I have been unmoored. Disconnected from the larger reality.

It was nice in the beginning. Tranquil.

Now, not so much. Now I'm getting twitchy.

Oh well. Hopefully the bag of rice is working its magic and maybe -- knock on wood -- I'll have better news tomorrow.

Veteran's Day

My father was a Marine. He and two of his friends lied about their ages, so they could enlist.

This was just before World War Two.

My father was serving at Pearl Harbor when that happened. He once (only once) spoke of what it felt like when the bombs fell and everyone was blown into the water.

Later, he was serving at Guadalcanal when that happened. He never spoke of it, except to give me his copy of Guadalcanal Diary, which was inscribed by every member of his platoon. Before he handed it to me, he made me promise never to read it. I kept both the book and the promise to this day.

I was named after one of his two friends, the one who survived the Bataan Death March. I never found out what happened to the third friend, but I suspect he didn't survive the war.

Today, I remember them all, with respect.

Perchance Penuche...

The testing phase continues. Last Thursday's quiche turned out adequately. It wasn't superb, but I wouldn't be embarrassed to offer it as a side dish. Since that's all I wanted, I can tick it off the list.

Today, I'm following through on a truly controversial concept: pumpkin cookies.

Not that pumpkin cookies are controversial in themselves, I still have a recipe a coworker gave me in 1985. I think that counts as antique.

What's controversial is that I'm thinking of making pumpkin cookies instead of pumpkin pie this Thanksgiving.

Was that a gasp? At least now you know that I don't toss the word "controversial" around lightly.

Anyhow, I made pumpkin cookies with white chocolate chips and glazed them with penuche. I added the chips because I always find plain pumpkin cookies to be a little banal, but I didn't want to add nuts because that would mess with the flavor profile. White chocolate is just a bit of texture, and it doesn't interfere with the taste.

But damn, once I glazed them, they are sweet. I mean, the kind of sweet that makes your head tilt and one eye scrunch.

I'm going to give them away to a bunch of people and get some reactions before I make a decision. Watch this space for updates.

It's The Law

There's a reason why it's called Murphy's Law, not Murphy's Suggestion, or Murphy Thinks This Happens Occasionally.

It's a LAW.

Laws are not supposed to be broken, including this one. Keep that in mind.

Now the story:

I wanted to drive through a car wash because my car had gotten really dusty.

(Shut up, those of you who know what my car looks like. It's called patina. I'm talking about dust, which is removable.)

Anyhow, Robert and I ended up being far far away in an unfamiliar neighborhood for reasons which don't pertain to this story. We saw a drive-through car wash. I wanted to stop, but there was a line of five or six cars so we didn't.

That was yesterday.

Today I thought I'd go to our local drive through car wash. There was only one car waiting, so yay. Of course, by the time I paid and pumped my gas, I was the fifth car in line.

It's the law. Murphy's Law.

A Lyric Quandary

My mother is well into her nineties and forgets all sorts of things. Weird things, like the fact that she loves Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. I had to remind her of that the last time I brought her some.

She also remembers all sorts of things. On Sunday, she told me a story from my childhood that I'd forgotten. Hell, she'd forgotten it for over fifty years. It was a great story, too.

Yes, yes, I know. Long term memories versus short term. I get it. I read the same articles.

But the thing is, you can't count on it. Not even on the long term. I won't mention what happened when I roasted some beautiful asparagus for her not too long ago, although I'd like the record to show that throughout my adult life, asparagus was the only vegetable I could get her to eat without complaint.

So now I'm in a quandary.

(Is one "in" a quandary or does one "have" a quandary? Whichever. There is a quandary and it's mine.)

Do I remind her about her wedding anniversary to acknowledge the occasion and risk triggering sorrow, or remind her in the hope that it will remind her of happy memories, or just not mention it at all?

There were years when I just "happened" to visit and she figured it out and said something. There were years when I mentioned it and made her sad. Sometimes, I'd point out that when my father was alive, neither one of them ever remembered to celebrate unless I reminded both of them in time for them to plan something. That didn't go over well even though it's true.

Like I said, a quandary.

Wouldn't it be amazing if "quandary" was the Merriam Webster(tm) Word Of The Day?

Let's check.

No, it isn't. Today's word is "Lyric; expressing emotion in a songlike manner".

So much for dictionary-mancy.

I'm not singing Happy Anniversary to her, nor anything else. Your Auntie doesn't sing.

The quandary wins.

Pie R Not Square

Auntie has a love-hate relationship with pie crust.

Love, because who doesn't love pie crust? It's my favorite form of bakey goodness.

Hate, because your Auntie makes truly sucky pie crust. To be fair, this comes under the heading of "better than no love at all" but still.

So far this year, I've watched two different videos and tried two different recipes. No, make that two videos and three recipes. I did 3-2-1 as well.

The problem is that once upon a time, pie crust used to drop in exquisite buttery flakes from my fingers. I was really good at it. This isn't incipient dementia, or false memories. There were witnesses.

But since I only make pie at the holidays, at some point in the last ten years, a spring or a summer of forgetfulness made me lose the knack. Maybe I was hit on the head or something, and it damaged the pie crust lobe of my brain.

So now, every year, I start early and practice. There's a fresh crust blind-baking in our oven right now. This very minute.

If it comes out, it will become my fourth or fifth quiche in two weeks. I'm trying a new kind of filling, too.

Cross your fingers and wish me luck.

Ctrl A Delete Delete

You're welcome.

I just deleted a long and whiny draft because Auntie loves you and wants you to be entertained. A weak heh is better than a frowning "Yeah, that's true, but what's the point?"

So where shall we find our weak heh today? Let's randomize.

Today's Merriam-Webster Word Of The Day(tm) is... drumroll, please, while I find my phone and load up the app:

Chilblain; A swelling from exposure to the cold.

Right. Okay, not quite a heh, except insofar as today's weather forecast for Los Angeles is in the 70's. I think they're based on the east coast, though, so it probably wasn't meant facetiously.

Let's switch technologies and consult the Magic 8 Ball(also tm) for a comment. I often find that my Magic 8 Ball(tm) is more reliable than an app:

"You may rely on it."

Heh.

Two Birds, One Irony

Today's post is a bit of irony.

Someone asked me on Quora (yes, yes, I know, more Quora):

What was the most agonizing way some bad news was delivered to you?

I wrote this:

I once got an email from a friend blasting me for not telling her that my aunt had died two months earlier. There was a link to the obituary. Obviously, no one had told me. It wasn’t “agonizing”, but it wasn’t nice.

To be fair, I only spoke to this aunt a few times a year, but we did speak. If I had known she was ill, I would have traveled to see her.

I sent sympathy notes to her adult children (who are at least ten years older than I am) explaining that I just heard the news and offering my condolences. I got one note back thanking me. That was it.

Oddly enough, I was more insulted that my friend didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t know, than I was not to have been told in the first place. Then again, I know what my cousins are like.

The thing is, I'm not going to post it there. Too many people will see it.

(Which is a continuation of my thoughts from two days ago)

Instead, I'm putting it up here, where I talk about personal stuff and no one will see it. It's still online, though, which is ironic.

And I'm getting my posts-a-day done.

Two birds.

Ba ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Thanksgiving Reruns

Well, children, this is Auntie's first copy and paste offering from Quora, mostly because I love this story. I wrote it two days ago, so it was in November, which ought to count.

What’s your biggest Thanksgiving dinner fiasco story?

Funny rather than fiasco, but it was memorable. It was the first Thanksgiving I ever cooked and I wanted it to be a magnificent feast. This was in the late 1980’s. I made everything from scratch, stuffing and rolls and pies etc etc. I tested recipes and practiced for weeks in advance.

The point is that the food came out fine and there was a lot of it.

Enter my relatives. Of course they were horrible. Functional (as opposed to dysfunctional) families don’t make for hilarity. Or maybe they do. I wouldn’t know. My father had a duodenal ulcer, which was under control at the time. My grandmother (his mother) was a queen bitch of the drama variety. There were several adult cousins, and an aunt who washed down Valium with scotch, but like I said, it was the 80’s. I think she brought a boyfriend.

Everyone ate and ate and ate. They had seconds. Many of them had thirds. Eventually, my father was so full he couldn’t sit comfortably. He got up, walked over to the fireplace and stood in front of it.

Then he burped.

My grandmother screamed and started to sob.

When asked why, she wailed, “It kills me to see him suffer like this!”

Honestly, it was just a burp. His ulcer was fine. He was fine. The scene played out, everyone eventually calmed her down. That’s the story.

Except…

The next day, I asked my father what he thought of the meal. I was fishing for a compliment. He said, “It was okay, but you should get your grandmother’s stuffing recipe.” That’s all he said about it, then or ever.

When I saw her again, I dutifully asked my grandmother for her recipe. She said she buys whatever instant stuffing is on sale at the supermarket. Sometimes she adds a bit of onion.

You have to laugh, right?

My father, grandmother and aunt are all gone now. The cousins drifted away decades ago. I still make a magnificent Thanksgiving feast every year, but I do it because I love to cook, not to impress anyone. My table is filled with wonderful people who have a good time and enjoy the food. They even like my stuffing, which I still make from scratch. Not a box.

It’s my favorite holiday now.

The Empty Roller-Coaster

It's what, the third day of this experiment? Already, the temptation to copy and paste one of my Quora answers is strong. Not just because they're already crafted and proofread and occasionally pretty good, but also because, frankly, I know I'm posting into a void here.

That's not a complaint. I'm old enough to expect to accept reality. The fact that you're reading this humbles me, even though I don't know who you are.

Thank you. I mean that.

But...

It's hard to come up with something new to say. I started Scarycookies in 2008. Eleven years is a long time. Granted, it's been years since I posted with any regularity (except for the semi-annual November experiments), but I know I blathered myself dry long before the posts themselves dried up and I moved to Quora's lusher terrain.

There, before I answer a question, I read the other answers to be sure I have something salient to add. I'm not reading through eleven years of Scarycookies posts to be sure I have something salient to add. For one thing, most Scarycookies posts aren't salient to begin with. It was always an exercise in drivel and stream of consciousness. Which are separate things. Oh, I could write about that.

I had a point. Where was I?

Oh yeah.

If I'm not going to read through my old posts to be sure I'm not repeating myself, why should I expect you to want to look at anything I write?

Which of course I don't. See previous about posting into the void. That's what the semi-annual November experiment is all about.

It's still a roller-coaster even if you and I are the only ones in the car. Even if I'm the only one.

Day three, done.

Ding Dong

Our doorbell died today. A moment of silence, please, or else knock because we can't hear you.

Actually, it may have died a while ago and we wouldn't have known. Who rings doorbells anymore? Our nice neighbor always knocks. Any other visitors are expected, so I'm usually listening for the sound of a car door. They never get a chance to ring.

Still, the doorbell is dead. Long live the new doorbell.

No, it wasn't the battery. We replaced the cheap doorbell with ten count'em ten sound options which we stopped using within a month because they were annoying.

Wait.

What?

How did the various seasonal novelty tones become annoying in the first place if no one ever rings the doorbell?

Chalk up another mystery for the ages, or else there were more door to door salespeople a few years ago, whenever that doorbell was new.

The replacement doorbell offers only two options: ding dong, and dong.

I've already forgotten which we chose. Now I have to wait for someone to ring it.

P.S.

P.S. In case I forget, remind me that I thought of spinning the Merriam Webster(tm) Word Of The Day. Thanks, lovey.

The One Of November

Hello, my darlings. Your old auntie popped in because it's November first again and that used to mean something, once upon a time.

In case you forgot, November = NaNoWriMo

My friends who romanticized the writing life used to really get into it. Back then, I was living the writing life, so I looked at them with fond tolerance and counted the days most of them lasted on two hands.

Then I tried it.

Damn.

Turns out that hitting a daily word count no matter what is hard.

Oh, I tried all sorts of things. I started writing that one book I always wanted to read, the hilarious action pastiche with a cranky menopausal protagonist. I did the 50 jokes a day thing, which I used to do whenever I needed to break writer's block. I even tried a stream of consciousness journal-y thing. The less said about that, the better.

Then I hit on the idea of doing a blog post a day every November. No worries about word count, just one thought each day. I can do that. It will keep Scarycookies alive. This will become a November blog. It was a brilliant idea. It could work.

So imagine my consternation when I loaded this up and found that I didn't do it in 2018.

Oh well. None of my former NaNoWriMo buddies even mentioned it this year, and nobody looks at blogs anymore so I don't think any of you will actually see this.

But Auntie is here anyhow.

We'll see what happens -- or at least, I will.

Time Flew

A year and a half is a long time, if you watch it go by. If you're not looking, it's nothing.

I was just thinking about this old blog, so I thought I'd load it up. I typed the address (yes, I got it right. Auntie isn't that old yet) and up popped a very strange looking, hellfire and brimstone apocalyptic tabloid-esque thing.

So I tried it again.

Hellfire again, with an odd sort of almost Lovecraftian look to it.

This was my third try. I was almost afraid that the blog itself, all those years of careful thought and not so careful thought, wouldn't be there anymore.

Then it loaded, and I saw the date of the last post and here I am writing this.

Time, it flies when you're not looking at it. Nice to see you all again.