Trailer Park Karma

White Pickets or Hogwire: Relishing Disillusionment

Many years ago, before the Internet even, I cavorted with a good friend in an 'out-of-bounds' sorta way. We're both otherwise diligent and caring folks, albeit still human animals, so we cleaned up our mess rather quickly and moved on with life.

We kept in touch by way of e-mail when that became The Thing To Do. Eons (okay, like, 12 years) later, my friend and I were catching each other up on our myriad life events (mostly related to my Job Search du Jour, I think) when he casually typed that he "relished" memories of the time we'd spent together back in the day.

I was a single-for-too-long, work-at-home (more than a little insane from the 24/7 Toddler Talk) mama by then, and man, did I jump on my friend's comment. Throwing the metaphorical door open wide, I was ready to do some rekindling.

Problem was that my friend – one of the most dedicated marital hold-outs in the history of smart and attractive males – was prepping for his impending nuptials. Surprise!

Par for my course.

A few heated e-mails later (my tantrums are legend) I finally understood what he meant.

From my dear Merriam-Webster:
rel•ish
noun \ˈre-lish\
a : enjoyment of or delight in something that satisfies one's tastes, inclinations, or desires <eat with great relish> 
b : a strong liking : inclination <has little relish for sports>

It's a real good thing that I finally figured out that relishing the memories certainly did not mean that my friend felt inclined to relive or rekindle the past. It's a good thing because I truly like his wife, for one thing. She is The One for my friend. It's a good thing, too, because he and I can continue to be friends. Real friends, the kind that can say not only that there's spinach between your teeth, but that while
we're at it, did you shower today? And no love is lost.

But that's what we tend toward, isn't it?
If we love it, if it makes us feel good, well, hell YEAH, we want it. Now. For real. In our face. Right?

Relishing is the digging of something. Not the doing.
Score one huge point for the wordsmith – but had it not been for my friend’s boundary-laying, it's a lesson that might still be hanging, uncaught.

Forward a few more years to now. My friend – let's call him The Editor Too – has a thriving marriage, a burgeoning music career (c'mon, let's just say it, Al), and a real zest with words. And he is bartering skills with me. I blab about his band's music and he reins me in literarily. My words, I mean.

Just in time, too, because The Editor that we've all come to know and love is taking a science sabbatical from sighing with resignation over guiding my attempts at prose. I see a white picket fence in his future, just like the one in his dreams.

So – meet The Editor Too.

One of the nicest things about being able to relish friends and other things for just who or what they are – and not for what you hope or scheme – is that you can continue to watch their glimmering light bouncing, at least until the point when you watch the prison bars dissolve.

And I may get a hogwire fence outta this one. (With permission granted by his excellent wife who has a lot of other household chores for The Editor Too to follow through on...)

And now for a little relish of a different kind...
______________________________________

Disillusionment Relish
aka White Girl Salsa


1/4 cup olive oil
3 garlic cloves, chopped fine

1/4 cup comino
1/4 cup chili powder 

1/4 cup fine diced green bell pepper
1/4 cup fine diced onion

1 to 2 tsp kosher salt

1-14oz can diced tomatoes, undrained


Brown garlic in olive oil.

Stir in comino & chili powder to make Mexican roux.

Add 1/2 of the onions & peppers.

Stir in about 1/2 cup of juice from canned tomatoes, 2 tablespoons at a time, stirring constantly.

You should have enough watery liquid to bring to simmer (if not, add more tomato juice from can).
Stir in about 1/4 of the canned tomatoes. Simmer uncovered about 5 minutes, stirring frequently. Don't let it simmer all the way down to nothing (add more juice if necessary).

After 5 minutes of simmering, add salt, rest of onions & peppers and tomatoes. Bring to simmer point and turn off.

Serve warm or chilled.

Breaking News: Scout Stew Photo Found

Whew. That's a relief. I know you guys have been holding your breath for weeks!

Here, in living color, is a photographic representation of the best Scout Stew in the universe, created by Laura Connelly for our Trailer-Treasure-Not-Trash Contest:

Today I Watched the Vultures Dance

On a cool morning, the air clear enough to allow my hand-me-down radio to pick up signals, finally, from beyond the nearest hills, the local winged harbingers of death were partyin' over my neighbor's place.
 
As my ever-eager canine towed me down the dusty road that brightened with the sun's advances, about twenty vultures circled above the ranch.

They were beautiful. That's not something you often hear about turkey vultures.

Depending on how you look at things, vultures are downright ugly or amazing. Their appearance is far from what we think of as cute. They feed on dead things. We usually interpret their circling as a sign that some creature has died or is well on its way.
 
When I saw them I wondered if the dear and annoying young beagle who visits my porch had succumbed to her more neglected existence on the ranch. But then I noticed, as my own dog and I trudged closer to the fly zone, that not a wing was flapping.

The birds were simply enjoying a thermal -- coasting, circling, soaring -- and the biggest clue that they weren't vying for a chance at a decaying specimen: The whole group drifted over a span of about a mile, all the while continuing to float high above. Wings spread wide, effortless, and weightless. Cavorting over ranchland and road, but not to meet the usual survival needs.

Thoughts of my own past attempt at flying, with a parachute, from a perfectly good plane, come to mind. If you've never done it, do it. There's no good reason, but there's no experience like it. Trying to explain the feeling is a lot like taking snapshots of the Grand Canyon. I did that, too, and I don’t recommend it.

Today I watched as the local aerial dance troupe performed, for their own pure enjoyment, to lift their hearts, soothe their souls, recharge their batteries, refresh their tissues. They can do all these things on their own, but today they wanted to play together.

I got lucky. 

The Totally Unfair Advantage: Alcohol

Okay, so this contest had some very specific aims:

•  to make use of my plentiful peach trees
•  to make something tasty I could use to repay my helpful neighbors
•  to do the above without using fire

And we have a surefire winner.

Kristin Michelle Ongeri apparently knows the Bodhisattva's darker side. In fact, I know she does. She's seen the TPKB in weekend parking lots during the wee hours. Enough said.

Now, what Kristin doesn't know is that long, long ago, there was a little girl who got ripped on rum. Ever since that first episode of tossing her spaghetti-o's, the scent of rum -- even from across the room -- makes the multitude of Swedish-heritage hairs stand up on the back of that gal's neck.

But tequila... that's a different story altogether.

When I blended up this little brunch beverage during a quick jaunt down to the Gulf coast, I knew. I just knew.

The Editor, who was kind enough to do the peach-cuttin this go'round, exclaimed, "Maybe you shoulda tossed the peels out before blending these..." Not because of the flavor, he clarified, but for appearance's sake.
Libras. Always so concerned with appearance.

Trailerpark-ism is all about making-do. The two most frequent buzzwords in my world: creative and resourceful. Ain't got those? You best be paying other folks to do a whole slew o' stuff for ya.

I explained to The Editor that this drink is no hoity toity daquiri. It's evident by the darker chunks of skin that this is a smoothie. One with tequila in it.

What the HELL could be better?

So as I finish up my this here good stuff smooooothy, i wanna send my kisses and hugs out to Kristin for submittin this tasty little o.m.g.easy drinky that my neighbors at the next happy hour -- every Wednesday at the Grocery & Grill down the road -- are gonna happily lap up.

OH, and Kristin, you get my grandma's jam/jellly googah, too! You lucky girl, you...

Kristin's Un-Titled-So-I'm-Callin-It-a-Peach-Buzz
Smoothie Recipe

"I don't have any fancy peach recipes. It is hotter than Hades and I think frozen beverages are the best cure. Cut up some peaches and stick them in the freezer. When they are good and frozen, throw them in a blender with some rum. You can even try a flavored rum to change it up a bit. No need for ice if your peaches are frozen. It will be extra peachy and you shouldn't need to sweeten it."

Praying for Owls & Other Loved Ones

On another breathtaking evening walk down the road, the dog and I spotted the creature who'd been making a ruckus for the past two nights. T'was an owl.

It was too far away for my aging eyes to discern its type, but the bird seemed about two-feet in length. It stared back at us, perched on a tree branch, squawking every minute or so. It's feathers were ruffled, and I wondered if it was a youngster crying out for food from a hunting parent. Perhaps the bird's disheveled state was due to its being wounded, from battling a snake or a hapless encounter with some other creature. Maybe he was just messed up from partyin with a girl owl.

As I do -- and always outside earshot of my neighbors -- I spoke to the creature, quietly, with as much warmth as I could muster without feeling like a complete eyelash-batting airhead. I mean, I know they don't understand me, and I'm keen on the fact that the main reason animals sit as if listening to me is because they're sizing up whether or not they need to split the scene fast or lunge in my direction. I get that. I still talk to them. It's for me.

Eventually, I had to leave so the creature who's truly dependent on me could get his exercise, smell the wild scents, and otherwise feel like there's more to life than a bowl of kibble and our front porch.

So to help me separate from the owl -- something I have a hard time doing, ya see -- I uttered a prayer.

I've been praying a lot lately out here.

A staunch agnostic, I don't often pray to a deity, but sometimes I do. Can't hurt. Like The Editor says, it's all magic. I ain't scared o' magic.

I'm clear, even in the midst of prayer, that this is an activity I do for me. Sorta like talkin to animals. Whether or not my utterance has any impact at all on the world, and specifically on the loved one in mind... that ain't up to me.

If there's anything I'm very clear on, it's that I am not god. Happily. It's all I can do to raise a kid and a few pets and plants. The rest ain't on my shoulders, mercifully.

But if there is a god -- and as a devout agnostic, the only thing I really believe is that anything is possible -- I toss my two cents up there now and then in hopes that the magic works. For the owl. For my loved ones. For folks I don't know. When I can't be around to nurture in person, I figure it's the least I can do. Often, even when I'm around, it's all I can do.

Then I can go on my way.