Unprepared

Margaret Hamilton as The Wicked Witch of the West
in the 1939 "The Wizard of Oz."

Witch hats
we have, but no
pirate patch, knightly sword,
pumpkins to carve. Where's Mummy gone?
Shopping.


A wickedly quick recipe.

Witch Hats
Feeds: A classroom

Fudge striped shortbread cookies, like these.
Kisses
Frosting

Unwrap a Hershey's Kiss. Squeeze a blob of frosting on cookie. Press the Kiss into the frosting.



Happy Halloween!

Slate's loss, your gain

This 75-cent jar was the inspiration for a short story contest
co-sponsored by Slate and Significant Objects.

I found the small, glazed pot in the back of the cupboard where I’d placed it five years earlier when we bought our home. Now the house is in foreclosure and I’m packing again. We’re not moving until the bank forces us out, but I want to be prepared so I pack one or two boxes a day. We won’t miss the brown pot from my first job after high school, but before I could wrap it in newspaper, my four-year-old daughter found it and asked to paint. The knobby handle fit her small hand perfectly as she dipped the brush into the paint. I returned to packing.

The pot was given to me by my boss. He was a ranger and I was an aide at a state park. He taught me how to drive a garbage truck, mend a barbed-wire fence, clean an outhouse, use a chainsaw, and kiss. Kissing was the most useful thing I learned. Garbage pick-up produced the best stories.

The job involved hauling trash from fourteen beaches. The bags were heavy and the flies quickly found them, so the bottom of every can held a toxic tea. I wasn’t strong enough to lift a bag straight out of the can, so I’d tip it on its side and drag the bag out. Wriggling maggots slid off its sides. Next the bag had to be thrown into the back of the truck. And, again, weak arms forced me to use chest and knee to heave the bag in, sometimes sliming myself with maggoty juice in the process.

The weekend of Bocce and Barbecue -- an annual competition that drew hundreds to the beach where they’d play ball and roast a pig in the sand -- meant eight hours of nonstop trash pick-up. The bags were so heavy it required two of us to send one sailing into the truck. We drove our way across the beach, hopping out to grab and toss. But at one stop I lost my grip. The bag snagged and innards spilled out. Pig parts, sticky and red, smeared my uniform and splattered my arms and face. Pig blood, I thought, and opened my mouth in horror. I steeled myself for the metallic taste of blood, but tasted tangy and sweet instead. Barbecue sauce.

The next day I found the pot on the lunch table with my name taped to the lid. And because I was just 17 and in love with my boss, I loved the pot and took it home. But summer ended, the job ended, and so did we. The jar stayed. Eventually, it became a handy spot to dump change. Later a boyfriend used it to hold his stash of pot. And finally it served a small artist. My daughter’s painting is of two stick figures, holding hands. I packed the painting. It's time for the
the pot, like the house, to go.

My story was one of more 600 submitted in the Significant Objects Story Contest. The challenge was to write a short story in which a barbecue sauce jar plays an important role. The winning story can be read (and bid upon) here.

The idea behind Significant Objects is: "a talented, creative writer invents a story about an object. Invested with new significance by this fiction, the object should — according to our hypothesis — acquire not merely subjective but objective value. How to test our theory? Via eBay!"

Significant Objects is filled with many stories about once worthless stuff, all quick reads, well written. I loved R.K. Scher's "Indian Maiden." The comic by Betsey Swardlick, "Dilbert Stress Toy," is fabulous. And "Spotted Dogs Figurine" by Curtis Sittenfeld is bittersweet. Go treat yourself.

Autumn manifesto

Photo courtesy of ul_Marga.

A new habit
Tea, biscotti and my writing notebook while the littlest naps.

Am loving
Wrapping up another soccer season
The Uniform Project
Leaves to jump in
(as suggested by Buttons Magee)

Inspirations
Significant Objects
Lunchtime walks with my husband
Cashmere-silk yarn in Henna

Am craving
Apple cider donuts

Am celebrating
Two fewer For Sale signs on my street

My autumn manifesto

We met in line at the fabric store

"DiscountFabrics" by scallywagsf.

He looked like a Vietnam vet, bald with a roll of fat at the back of his neck and a paunch. He was in the fabric store, alone with ten bolts of fleece in a riot of colors and motifs: giant watermelon slices, over-sized holly berries, polka dots, tie-dye, sunflowers, polar bears.

He took off his hat, a floppy fleece-y thing that bunched at the top, and showed it to the employee. It reminded me of something ... a head cozy, the blob of frosting on a cupcake ... I couldn't put my finger on it.

"I'll have 27 hats when my wife finishes these. One for almost every day of the month. My wife says I sweat a lot and the hats stink."

The employee cutting the fabric nodded. I smiled weakly.

"I have a pink one for Valentine's Day and an orange one that looks like a pumpkin for Halloween."

"Where will you wear the polka dots?" I asked.

"New Year's or my birthday."

"Or the circus," I suggested.

The employee slid the stack of cut fleece across the counter and he walked away. But we met again in the cashier's line, where he shared more about his hats: The wife sells them in Apple Hill; they're modeled after the old-fashioned ice bags.

"Of course!" I said.

And beamed at him for solving the niggling question of the hat's familiarity.

The ice bag has a new occupation.

Petrichor

pet-ri-kuhr
noun

Bring on the rain! Photo by Dance in the Kitchen.

Darkening clouds and a breeze carrying petrichor sends Sam into the house for an umbrella. When the rain arrives, he's ready.

1. The scent of rain on dry earth.

In 1964, two Australian researchers were the first to use the word to describe the smell of rain. The oil from plants, absorbed into clay soil and rocks during dry spells (and there are many of them in Nevada), is released into the air when it rains. The word petrichor originally referred to the fluid that flowed in the veins of Greek gods.

A morality tale

Ivan, curious. All photos by Dance in the Kitchen.

Update: I've discovered Steady Mom written by Jaime Martin, who challenged mama bloggers to write a post in 30 minutes or less. Since I find myself spending more time in front of the computer than I'd like, I decided to participate. Check out how other mothers write with children underfoot. I particularly liked "New Orleans Misadventure," "Sorta Teaching 911" and "Worms, Worms, Worms." -Rachael

Oh, what a difference a year (and three older siblings) makes. Here's my small son peeking into last year's "spider pumpkin" carved by an older brother. And here's today's boy guarding the chocolate chips inside his muffin.

Ivan, dangerous.

Ivan recently walked up to me, kicked me in the shin and then stomped on my foot. As I suppressed a smile and hauled him off to the bedroom to cool off, I could think of no one else to blame for his behavior than a pirate, a dead girl and a cockroach.

When the three arrived home from school, I bared the bruise on my ankle and explained how the punches and kicks they inflict on each other were setting a poor example. They looked a bit sheepish, apologized and promised to be better citizens.

Harmony prevailed. The pirate poured cider and offered it to the dead girl; the cockroach requested help with his robot costume and received it; the dead girl shared a favorite book. Five minutes later the timer went off, pumpkin-chocolate chip muffins were pulled from the oven, and peace fled from the house. The cockroach and the dead girl began to fight over who had the biggest muffin; cider spilled on homework and a chase ensued. Meanwhile, the pirate raided the unattended muffins for chocolate chips.

Pumpkin-chocolate chip muffins
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen and Gourmet, November 2006

1 1/2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup canned solid-pack pumpkin
1/3 cup vegetable oil
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice or 1/8 teaspoon each of cloves, ginger and nutmeg
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup bittersweet chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Put liners in muffin cups.

Whisk together pumpkin, oil, eggs, spices, sugar, baking soda, and salt. Add flour mixture until just combined. Add chocolate chips.

Divide batter among muffin cups. Bake until golden brown and wooden pick inserted into center comes out clean. About 25-30 minutes.

Alternative: Omit chocolate chips. Mix 1 teaspoon cinnamon with 1/4 cup sugar. Sprinkle on top of batter. Then bake.

Melon soup

Grandy and me.

My Great Grandma Peggy was a woman with no verifiable past.

She once told my mother that she had a twin brother, and that she was one of eight children, among them were two sets of twins and a set of triplets. When my mother related this to her mother, the response was silence followed by hoots of laughter. No one had ever heard of the twin, nor name him. No one had met any of the siblings. Nor her parents, for that matter.

Grandy's past may be as wind-swept as the desert in Stagecoach, Nevada, where she lived, but I remember her vividly:

She was a round little woman with a face wrinkled and cracked as the desert floor she lived on.

She was a fast, sloppy seamstress, and her gifts were received with hidden hesitation because a shirt may have sleeves that dangled to the knees or a nightgown come with cuffs that pinched circulation at the wrist.

She was an excellent baker. Her rolls disappeared off the Thanksgiving table, and everyone clamored for her pie. But as a cook? Well, born in Boston, she boiled everything.

And when my family gathered for a night of silent, flickery home movies, a favorite was watching Grandy in her garden, in reverse. Oh, how we'd laugh as she re-attached melons to their vines, shoved carrots back into the soil, and then waved goodbye, walked backward into her trailer and shut the door.

The ingredients.

I was thinking about this tiny woman the other day as I composted my melon vines and planted an autumn crop of carrots. I thought about her some more as I turned the last melons into soup and dropped off duplicate ingredients at the neighborhood food bank. You see, it wasn't until after I'd started Stone Soup that my mom shared with me that when my Grandy lived in northern California she fed every hobo who knocked at her backdoor.

This soup is my own creation, named in memory of my great grandmother, Marguerite Butt Campbell Craft.

In the bowl:

Marguerite's Melon Soup
with yogurt and mint

Marguerite's Melon Soup
Serves 4

2 cups of melon such as juicy, sweet cantaloupes
1/4 teaspoon cayenne powder or to taste
squeeze of a lime or two
Thick plain, whole milk yogurt such as a Greek yogurt
Mint, chopped

Whirl it in a blender. Chill. Top with yogurt and mint.

Breakfast

"Woosh" courtesy of Rowan Atkinson.

It was morning and the hip hop blasting from the tan Buick's trunk was cheery as a bowl of sugar cereal:

Thump! Thump! Ka-Shhhh! Clink!
Thump! Thump! (Box on counter)
Ka-Shhhh! (Milk poured)
Clink! (Spoon hits side of bowl)

The Buick yawned and the man reached deep into the trunk's recesses to futz with the woofers or something. Music shook the windows of the sleepy house next door and a yellow school bus turned onto the street. Leaves as crunchy and brown as Frosted Flakes danced in its wake.

Girl power

The Slow-Cooked Sentence is doing a double post today because we just can't get enough of soccer around here. Round 2 features some fine sports writing by my husband, Marcel Levy, as he gives a blow-by-blow account of the Chili Peppers' path to victory.

Photo and text by Marcel Levy

There were four teams in the U11 category. The other three teams seemed younger, or at least shorter. The Peppers' first game was Saturday morning against Nevada Elite, which is a competitive team. Nicer uniforms, matching duffel bags all lined up in a row, and a coach with a British accent. A tough game, but the Peppers eked out a 2-1 win against a really focused and skilled team. They really targeted Jessie -- at one point it seemed like they were playing American football out there.

In the afternoon came the match against the Panthers, who seemed to me like a swarm of angry little hornets. They hustled like nobody's business, and had some amazing defenders. They scored early, and then in the second half the Peppers scored to tie. Sigh of relief all around.

Sunday's early, early morning match against the Pride was looking pretty good even before it started. Both Nevada Elite and the Panthers had crushed the Pride the day before, and they didn't have any subs on Sunday. I still think they played really well, and even managed to score on the Peppers. But still, they got crushed 4-1. One of their keepers was hilarious -- the game had barely started and she already started yelling at her coach to switch.

So after that game Lou says we definitely have one more match, unless something weird happens in that morning's Elite-Panthers match-up. They tie 1-1, so later that day the Peppers face the Panthers again for the U-11 Sagebrush Friendship Tournament championship....

Things start out well. Jessie scores twice in the first half, with these amazing chip shots that sail right over the keeper's head and into the goal. Just perfect and almost impossible to stop, even if the keeper hadn't been so short. The Pepper's parents were really fun to watch -- especially Baylee's (the keeper) dad, who yells out "You're a wall! A chick wall!" several times. Much mirth and merriment during halftime, and the only way to explain the two Panther goals that they score in the first five minutes of the second half is that the girls got a bit cocky and lazy.

The score is 2-2, with most of the half left to play. You can tell the mood has changed. The anthers have all their spirit back, and the Peppers are focused again. It didn't seem to me like either side dominated the other. There was lots of action near both goals -- I was stationed near the Panthers' goal, but I could hear some very loud stops by Baylee all the way across the field. Samantha, Gillian, Lauren and Annie are constantly in action to keep them away from the goal. Jessie and Sarah kept trying to get a shot in, but the Panthers' defenders were all over them.

Then Jessie scores with another chip shot. The Peppers' parents explode. But the ref invalidates it -- turns out the Panthers' goal kick that started it off hadn't been legit, and no one heard the whistle. Back to nail-biting.

But now you can tell the Peppers are putting on more pressure. The midfield is out-hustling and out-playing them, and the ball is down near the Panthers' goal more often than not. And then with a minute left to play, Sarah nails it and scores. The parents totally go nuts -- I should really have been taking pictures of them at that point. Panthers kick off, but shortly after that the ref calls the game, and it's down to the pavilion to get the trophy.

Carom

kair-uhm
noun

Chaja at the weekend soccer tournament. Photo by Dance in the Kitchen.

Like a ball on the soccer field, we caromed from home to field for five games this weekend. After seven hours of soccer, kids' eyes were glassy and crazed, and parents' judgment failed: We rented "The Wiz." But before we became punch-drunk from bouncing about town all weekend, here are a five things we learned:

1. The driver digs RJD2's song "Ghostwriter."
2. Girls run differently. Some are tough and solid as bears, some are so graceful they take my breath away. Some look fierce. Others as if they're on the receiving end of that pain. But they're all beautiful and strong on the field.
3. Ponytails are wonderful to watch and photograph.
4. $725 can buy cool uniforms, matching duffel bags and a coach with a British accent, but not a championship.
5. Which makes our girl's victory that much sweeter.

Video by Marcel Levy.

1. A rebound following a collision; a bouncing off.
2. A shot in billiards in which the cue ball successfully strikes two other balls on the table.
   

For another parent's take on the soccer-soaked weekend, visit Earthy Crunchy.

How do you like your coffee?

"Coffee and Beignets" courtesy of navycrackerjack74.

Leave room in my cup for cream and space in my posts for pictures.

I appreciate your comments and shape The Slow-Cooked Sentence in response to them, so will continue serving up illustrated words. Pictures "magnetize the eye to the page and create an atmosphere for the rest of the piece," according to Skelliewag. The site, dedicated to helping freelancers, bloggers and entrepreneurs excel at what they do, has an excellent article on how to find great images for free.

Unless my images are self-generated, I find almost all of them through Flickr's Creative Commons page or Compfight, a Flickr search tool. All legally mine to use. All free.

Me.

And while on the topic of the connection between word and picture, you must check out this amazing puppet show told in 35 photos. Really. You must. It's at The Big Picture.

Have a happy weekend. I'll see you Monday, coffee in hand.

What's cookin?

So, let's talk about it.

Do you miss the photos?

What?

You didn't even notice.

Ooookay. Go back and look. Three posts with just words.

Love it?

Hate it?

Doesn't make a damn difference to you 'cause you're just here for those slow-cooked sentences?

I don't wanna give the visual up entirely, just thinking of using it less.

Come on. Let's converse. Whadda ya think?

Judgments

On Sunday, the church's Crying Room contained:

One hungry baby whose bottle was left at home
Two mothers chit-chatting
Three Goldfish crackers on the floor
Four picture books, none religious
Five children coloring with markers

And because these two mothers needed to convince each other that their kids' inability to sit quietly during church was perfectly normal and not at all related to their own inability to shut up ...

"I used to think I was a bad mother because my kids weren't quiet."

"Oh, no. You're not a bad mother. What's not normal is all those parents out there with kids who are quiet. We're the normal ones."

... I missed the best line in church. Which was the priest urging people who felt sick, maybe with the swine flu, to take only the bread, and not drink from the communal cup of wine.

"You don't get more Jesus if you do both" he said.

The tastes of sickness

Bitter
The ache of an arm from holding a child that will not otherwise sleep.
Salty
A runny nose and the box of soggy, crumpled Kleenex on the floor.
On the coffee table. On the couch. On the bed.
Sour
Scratchy towels laid on top of vomited sheets.
Sweet
Cool skin that earlier burned.
Umami
The whine of a sick child tired of being sick.