The end (of the beginning)

Courtesy of Gilles Chirolou.

At 5:30 a.m. Sunday, I crossed the 50,000-word finish line.

There were fireworks, cheers, mimosas, and at the winner's table I picked up:

My novel.
All ninety-nine (unfinished) pages.

Five extra pounds.
Thanks to the copious amounts of chocolate I consumed, and the elimination of all exercise that couldn't occur at my desk.

A copy of the First Law of Exuberant Imperfection
"The quickest, easiest way to produce something beautiful and lasting is to risk making something horribly crappy," wrote Chris Baty, founder of National Novel Writing Month, and author of "No Plot? No Problem!"

Grit
To continue.

Bleach
To attack the mold that's set up house in the bathroom, which hasn't seen a scrub brush in the past thirty days.

Thank you for your support during this (ongoing) adventure!

Returnee

ri-tur-nee, -tur-nee
noun

Thanksgiving. Courtesy of the Chivers family.

My sister Molly greets her husband, a returnee from Afghanistan. Welcome home, Luke!

1. a person who has returned, as from travels or a long absence.
2. a person returning from overseas duty in the armed forces.

Origin: Americanism, 1940-45.

Rituals

Over the hills and through the desert to grandparents' house we go ... Today's guest post by my ma, Linda, gives you a peek into how my children will spend Thanksgiving day. How do rituals work into your Turkey Day celebrations? Happy feasting, everyone!

Courtesy of unfoldedorigami.

The minivan pulls into the circular dirt driveway, stopping as a cloud of dust covers the car. Doors fly open and four eager grandchildren run to our front door, thrilled to begin their visit at Nana and Opa’s.

First they check out the chickens. Running to the backyard and opening the door to the hen house, they search for the prized egg. Over the years the number of chickens decreased until we now have one lonely hen. I think she anticipates their visits too so she can show off her hard work to exclamations of delight.

Then they move on to Bailey, our dog, who lives in a pen east of our front door and is always eager for a walk. With the purple leash in hand, the tug-of-war begins, all signs of control lost in the struggle.

Moving into the house, they pour over the children’s book shelves, searching for their favorite books, many of which their mother discovered when she was little. Recently, we packed away most of our books to do a home-improvement project, and when they came to visit they couldn’t find their favorite titles and felt concerned that I donated them to the thrift store. Not to worry! The books are now back on the shelves waiting for their next visit. These shabby books barely survived our six children and now our grandchildren are leaving their fingerprints on the well-worn pages.

Fur family. Courtesy of Linda Conlin.

Chaja has a collection of wooden dolls -- similar to paper dolls -- which she keeps in a metal tin in my office. She also cherishes a spiral basket made in Mexico which holds a couple families of little animals with tiny pants, shirts and dresses. Even though she doesn’t always play with them, she never forgets to check on them, making sure they are where they belong.

Max and Sam are eager to try out the games, which we house on a shelf in the hallway above the washer and dryer. They climb up on the machines and pull out a game of Battleship. They stage war on our high bed, towering above Ivan’s grabby little hands. For days after, I find tokens of their battle -- little white pegs hiding in various places throughout the house.

As time passes, they plea for their favorite adventure -- driving the Volkswagen. Sitting on Opa’s lap with hands clutching the steering wheel, Max careens about the alkali flat, leaving a plume of dust in his wake. Mario Andretti has nothing on this race car driver!

Sam and Opa on top of the world. Courtesy of Linda Conlin.

Once, when they had solo visits to our home, they got to climb the windmill tower with their Opa. Sitting side-by-side on top of the world, they had a bird’s-eye view of the valley below. It reminded me of my own kids -- challenging one another to climb the tower and sit on the platform as the earth continued spinning far below.

After we wash and put away the dinner dishes, daylight eases into dusk and they put on their pajamas. That’s when the search begins -- shoes, sweaters, hats, books, toys -- all must be tracked down and all must be packed up. After hugs and kisses goodbye, they line up and climb back into their van, tired from a day of playing and exploring. The van pulls away and we sink into the couch, breathing in the solace of a home, quiet once again, and the sweet memories of a day with our grandchildren.

Linda Conlin blogs at The Nevada Piecemaker and is a contributor to The Quilting Bees and River Wranglers.

Transformation

Photo courtesy of margolove.

It's been three weeks of intensive writing, of getting up most mornings at 4:30 a.m. and sitting down at the computer with nothing but a cup of coffee and my sleepy imagination. By the time I approach the second hour my head's spinning, whether it's from plot confusion or a caffeine buzz or the thumping of Sagebrush Blues in my headphones it's hard to tell. But something magical is happening to this thick, foggy alphabet soup I've been simmering. Words, once sitting flat on the page, are getting up and shaping themselves into a mountain here, an alkali flat there, a dirt road leads to a shack and an old man walks out of it. I'm loving it!

In the process of writing a 50,000-word novel in one month, I'm learning what kind of writer I am, the how of writing, of what my brain does when it's cooking up a story on the spot. The Wall Street Journal interviews a bunch of top writers on this topic in this fascinating article.

Unmasked

When I learned I would be breastfeeding a fourth (and final) child, I wanted just one shirt emblazoned with these words: I make milk. What's your superpower? Today's guest post by my wonderful friend Kyndale is a one-two punch for multitasking moms. Come on, ladies, let me hear you roar!

Courtesy of bbaltimore.

I am a superhero and I have super powers.

I can jump over and ignore piles of laundry in a single bound. WHOOSH!! I can heal real and imaginary wounds with just a kiss and a hug. ZAP!! I can whip up a meal plan and grocery list in mere seconds. POW!! I can read the same book 100 times in a row without getting dry throat. BOOM!!

Flash back 11 years ago, before kids. I was just a mortal. A pupa of a human being waiting to undergo my metamorphosis. How can anyone know what their life will become after children? It's a door that cannot be opened before it appears.

Eleven years has passed so quickly, as if I've been in a time warp. I have given birth to three children, breastfed for more than 9 years, and cleaned up more spilled _______ than humanly possible. I can live for days, weeks, months and years without proper sleep and still operate a toaster oven or drive a car while maintaining my lane. It even amazes my superhero self.

I am dumbfounded and bewildered that the love for my children is boundless even in the face of unthinkable sassiness, rambunctiousness and mischievous behavior. I attribute my ability to get past these and other daily doings to my super powers. How can it be explained otherwise?

I have accepted my super powers as a gift -- privilege -- and choose to live in obscurity, blending in to society under the disguise of stay-at-home mom. At times, someone will slip kryptonite into my smoothie. That's when self-doubt creeps in and my super powers fade. I have learned to breathe again, pick myself up and put my uni-tard back on.

Just the other day, I was laying in bed watching my littlest sleep, breathing in his sweet and tangy boy smell (with my super smelling powers of course), a delightful smell that only I can appreciate. As he woke , he smiled and said, “I love you Mommy.” Seriously, that was the first thing that came out of his little lips! It's moments like these that my purpose is clear.

Yes, I am a superhero!

About the writer: Kyndale aka Supermom is a stay-at-home mom of three super kids. She enjoys knitting, sewing, gardening, and crafts. She writes about her adventures as a Supermom on her blog, Earthy Crunchy. She lives in Sparks, Nevada.

Diverted

Courtesy of obo-bobolina.

A niggle of worry has rooted itself in my brain and sprouted out of my ears. Tendrils of doubt wrap themselves around shoulders, snake down arms and twist around fingers, my oh-so-very important writing fingers.

I'm half-way to my goal of 50,000 words -- and my fingers, which couldn't keep pace with the words that were tripping over each other in their eagerness to appear on the page, are slowing, stiffening. Click. Pause. Delete. Click. Click.... Click. ... Cli... ck. The fingers complain about these worrisome vines, the shade they're now working under, how it's making them turn cold and stiff. I flex them, rub them, cup them and breathe warm air on them.

I know just what I need.

Gloves!

Fingerless gloves to wrap around these hardworking fingers that are chipping away at my half-written, poorly planned novel. And because I think knitting is nice, I hop onto Raverly and find many, many pairs of gloves. Too many. I'm overwhelmed and decide to search for hats instead, because really, it isn't the fingers but the old noggin' that's sprouted this doubt. I need a new hat to replace my old chili pepper one, a new hat as orange as the leaves, the pumpkins, the flames in our fireplace, something that will burn away the vines of doubt and worry and hesitation that have wrapped around this half-baked novel of mine.

Courtesy of striatic.

I wander deeper and deeper into the Internet, drooling over balls of wool and silk and start tossing them into a shopping basket. I am minutes away from buying more than $70 worth of yarn before I remember that I own mittens, blue fingerless mittens. I sigh, close one, two, three windows. I shut down email, turn off the Internet and pull the old gloves on. My hands are warm and I kiss the tips of my fingers and return to my story.

Cli... ck ...Click. Pause. Delete. Click. Click.... Click ...

A bus exchange

The Slow-Cooked Sentence kicks off this month's group of guest posts with one from my sister Kyna, who writes about geting a second shot at vanquishing a childhood ghost that's returned to haunt her small son. Enjoy!

"illusion" courtesy of Lauren Marek.

The woman sitting across from us on the bus is old, so when she leans forward and shouts, "Is that your boy?" I raise my voice to answer, too. "Yes." I nod and smile.

"Well, he sure is a SKINNY one!"

My smile quickly turns to a grimace and I pull my son into my lap, looking to see if he's following this conversation.

"He's got the BONIEST little KNEES..."

I look at her for a long moment and say nothing. She leans forward and points a finger at his legs.

"I said, he's got the BONIEST -"

"You know, he can understand you," I interrupt.

My face feels hot. It seems the whole bus is listening (and no wonder, this is exactly the kind of exchange I love to watch).

"WHAT?" she shouts.

I know she's just looking to have a conversation, but my irritation grows. I'm thinking of all the hurtful things people said to me growing up. Toothpick. Bird legs. Stick girl. How much worse will it be for my son, since he's a boy?

"You are being very rude."

"Oh! Well..."

She rearranges her belongings and purses her lips. Thankfully the next stop is mine. Once we're on the sidewalk Dagan asks, "Who's that lady?"

"I don't know. I just don't think she was being very nice."

"Why?" Dagan asks.

I stop and look at him. He's watching me carefully. If he's upset, it's only because I am.

"What did that lady say, Dagan?"

He stretches his arms to the sky.

"She said I have looooong legs."

We laugh a little and set off down the street.

About the writer: Kyna Conlin Moser works at Literacy Source, a nonprofit center in Seattle. She's supporting her family while her husband attends Bastyr University to become a naturopathic doctor. She's pregnant with their second child. She blogs at Our Seattle and Blue Sky Sketches.

Predawn

Courtesy of John Steven Fernandez.

4:30 a.m.

I'm at my desk with a mug of something hot ... tea, hot cocoa, coffee, chai. The furnace hasn't kicked on so I'm wearing a bathrobe, wool slipper-socks and a fleece snow hat with chili peppers. The hat's band squeezes my head softly, and my brain needs that hug, that massage, early in the morning to get the juices flowing. I write until 6 a.m.

Things I'm learning in the dark hours before dawn: That I can wake and write with sleep in the corner of my eyes, because my head is warm and my brain is yawning and stretching with that first cup of caffeine and forcing stiff fingers to write down what it's thinking, remembering, imagining. So, there's not a lot of good writing going on, and much of it's stiff and awkward or is written in fragments, just fits and bursts of stream of consciousness. But participating in National Novel Writing Month has allowed me to accept that my first draft will be crap, that it should be, and to not worry about it, to not go back and read it, but to just keep shoveling out more and more words knowing that if I do so this month, then I can spend the next 11 months turning all of that raw stuff into a great story.

"The best way to have a good idea is to have lots of ideas. ”
-- Linus Pauling

"round and 'round" courtesy of Darwin Bell.

What am I writing about so early in the morning? Many of the ideas come from memory, from dry deserts and star-studded skies. I chase after tumbleweeds of tangled story threads, unraveling, recording, and trying not to worry about the thorns being planted because there's no plot or central character out there, just me wandering blindly and happily across the blank page.

Courtesy of Pensiero.

Failure or Alas, I cannot get published

"The blossoming of your words" by psyberartist.

Rejection excerpts:

Thanks so much, but we weren’t able to include this in the November issue. -- Skirt!

Thank you for sending "Creation" to us. Unfortunately, we won't be able to use this piece for Literary Mama. Please know that we receive a tremendous number of submissions, and can only take a small percentage of the fine stories that are submitted. But we are thankful for your readership, thankful that you thought of us and value us enough to submit your work. -- Literary Mama

I was really touched by your piece, and I think a lot of mothers would be helped by it. I don't think it would be retained by the Mothering editorial staff but I do think you should send it to Brain, Child. It reminds me of a lot of pieces they have published, although not on the same topic. -- Mothering

I enjoyed reading your essay and admired your smooth prose. However, I must report that we’ve decided to give it a pass. Please note that this doesn’t necessarily reflect on the quality of your work (we receive about 750 submissions for every seven we publish). I wish you the best of luck placing this piece elsewhere. -- Brain, Child

"La tristeza del silencio: Tears" by lord cнernoвιll.

I received five rejection letters last month, three in the final week. I read the last letter at 10 p.m., then I switched off the lights and walked head-on into a wall. Bam! Nose and ego both smarting, I crawled into bed, pulled the covers over my head and cried.

This is (generally) what happens when I receive a rejection letter:

I shut down. Hope closes, curls, crumples inside of me until it's nothing more than a small, hard fist that punches me in the stomach. Pow! Oomph!

I cry. Lip trembles, tears spill while my small son looks on. The toddling mime tries to mimic his mama, but uncertain whether she is laughing or crying, emotions flit across his face like clouds in a windy sky.

I remember. The clenched fist inside me finds scars left by editors who were too harsh, who cut too deep. Pow! Oomph! More bruises, this time self-inflicted.

I search. I open cupboards, find chocolate and eat the equivalent of two candy bars. I drink two cups of scalding tea.

I play a song. "Failure" off Laura Marling's album Alas I Cannot Swim. I pledge to play it every time my writing is rejected.

I read. The rejected piece of writing. Other pieces. Tinker. Email something to a new editor.

I stand. In sunshine, melting like butter.

The fist opens. Hope unfurls.

"Her Hands" by Slaff.

"A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, how they say it. Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight. By using words well they strengthen their souls. Story-tellers and poets spend their lives learning that skill and art of using words well. And their words make the souls of their readers stronger, brighter, deeper."

-- Ursula K. Le Guin: A Few Words to a Young Writer

I spent this weekend thinking about why and what and where I write, and decided that I need to shake things up a bit. So The Slow-Cooked Sentence won't be publishing three times a week during November. I'm going to be busy writing a novel.

"What?!" you ask.

Yep. I've signed up and am participating in National Novel Writing Month, a "fun, seat-of-your-pants approach (that values) enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft." The goal: To write 50,000 words in 30 days, which works out to 1,667 words a day.

The Slow-Cooked Sentence will publish (hopefully) on Mondays and Wednesdays in November. There will be a guest column or two and the occasional update on how the novel writing's going. So keep dropping in. Meanwhile, the gun's been fired, the race begun. I'm off and writing!

Ghostly goulies

Photos courtesy of heymarcel.

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.