Girls' Night In

Tomorrow is the church Men’s Retreat, so Mr. Man will be spiriting Frick away for an overnight and a cookout. While they’re shivering in a pup tent in 30-odd degree weather, Frack and I will be getting our X chromosome on.

Admittedly, mimi doesn’t stray far into the female end of the spectrum. I somehow missed the Cute Shoes and Darling Accessories alleles in my genetic profile. Pink has never been a favorite color--unless it’s on something from Lilly Pulitzer, and then I’m all over it. But that’s my latent preppy side emerging, not my inner Barbie. mimi loves to argue politics and geeky stuff and once humbled a room full of male Mensa members by correctly identifying and applying the infield fly rule. mimi was so determined not to cripple her daughter with gender stereotyping that she pitched a hissy in three different stores until she could find a little girl’s two-wheeler that wasn’t hosed down in estrogen, i.e. pink with white tires. Basically, we don’t do girly at Chez mimi.

mimi will admit, however, to loving two hugely feminine indulgences (some would say necessities): massages and pedicures. So while the boys are freezing their collective hineys off and shooting at things, we gals will be relaxing in the foot spa and planning a movie trip to something that would make my son gag. Then I’ll go watch my sporty girl kick some butt in softball. We’re Southern, after all. There’s plenty of steel in our magnolia.

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Orange Blossom Special

The key scene in Marcel Proust’s À la recherce du temps perdu, or Remembrance of Things Past, is the madeleine episode, where the smell and taste of a cookie transports the narrator back to his childhood. (You can see a cartoon version of this famous French scene in the Pixar film Ratatouille). This happens to me every spring when the orange trees bloom.

When we first moved to Central Florida, we moved into what was left of an orange grove. The houses on our street had been carved out of a larger grove, as had all the houses in the subdivisions on either side of us. Every house had a tree or two (ours were a Parson Brown and a Valencia), but the best thing about our unfenced yard was that it nudged up against an undeveloped lot. That tiny remnant of grove became a playground. One tree, fitted with seats by neighborhood children long gone off to college, filled with friends as we chatted away humid summer afternoons. Windfall oranges became the ammunition in grove wars that would break out, boys vs. girls. The boys nearly always won, since one of them would invariably pick up a half-rotted specimen that exploded in a smear on some unsuspecting opponent, driving us all out of the trees and into the nearest swimming pool.

Orange trees are unique because they are the only fruit trees which bear and blossom at the same time. The winter citrus harvest coincides with the arrival of the orange blossoms, and there is no scent quite like it on earth. We’d walk home from school in a haze of fragrance, the smell would hang so heavy in the humid air. In mid-spring, you could catch a whiff of hot orange once the packing plants in Apopka and Zellwood began their work for Minute Maid.

These days, the groves have given way to office parks and subdivisions. You can no longer smell the heavy warmth wafting from the juice-processing plants in north Orange County, for they have all closed down. U.S. Highway 441, the Orange Blossom Trail, reminds us of all we’ve lost now that its shoulders are crowded with strip malls instead of rows on rows of trees. Still, our little backyard groves--the ones that survived the Christmas freeze of 1989, at least--still burst into blossom in the spring, transporting me to a time when my biggest worries were grades on a report card and a perfect day was spent perched in the boughs of a tree.

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Housewifely

No school today (thanks, Presidents Washington and Lincoln!), so you know what that means...chore time! Days off like this come so infrequently that they often devolve into catch-up-on-errands free-for-alls. You know, compulsive counter wiping, or cooking, or laundrygasms. That sort of thing.

Want to know a dirty secret? We kinda likes it, Precious. mimi rolls out of the house at 6:45 every day to get to work, so having a day where I can sleep in until about 7 am feels slightly naughty. That’s probably why I spend the rest of the day in a housework frenzy.

Today was not much different. Accomplished: nearly all the laundry, grocery shopping and a Target run, recycling out, locating horizontal surfaces under all that paper, packing school bags for tomorrow, and even making dessert (this never happens on a school day)--Key Lime pie with homemade Nilla Wafer crust, if you must know.

On days like this, I honestly think I can do it all...and then I spot the bulging school bag of papers I’ve been ignoring while all this domestic bliss has been going on. Alas, back on the grind in the morning. June Cleaver called, and she wants her shirtwaist and pearls back.

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Happy Valentine's Day

It’s de rigeur for those of us who write for women to also write something about the girly holiday of Valentine’s Day. Why girly, I hear you ask? Because most of the noise surrounding this day issues from men who are not only expected to show up with roses and dish out major bucks for a romantic dinner á deux, but also being guilted into buying jewelry or making other grandiose gestures to somehow prove their love. On this day, or else the whole love thing just goes down the toilet, apparently.

To which I heartily throw the bullshit flag.

Number one, there’s very little in the cultural noise that lays out what the women are supposed to do for their partners. There aren’t any men swooning over diamonds in those screechy Jared ads (and may I just, as an aside, register my ick over chocolate diamonds in general and those Open Heart-cobra looking pendants in specific?). Nope. The men are supposed to FULFILL THE FANTASY, and woe unto him who grabs the last wilted bouquet from the bucket outside the Publix and has to settle for either the a) overwrought glitter card or b) inappropriately salacious cartoon card because he just remembered he probably ought to do something on the way home. Hope you bought a parka, ’cause it’ll be mighty frosty when you get there.

The time to tell someone you love her (or him--key part of the equation here) is the other 364 days of the year. If that part isn’t coming through loud and clear, all the champagne in the world on February 14 won’t convince you otherwise. I’d rather have my high-quality dark chocolate some other time, like when I’m feeling really awful, than as a token on Valentine’s Day. Bring me flowers just because, not because you think you have to. And cook me dinner on a day when everything’s gone wrong and the thought of one more thing to do is really more than I can handle at the moment.

Tonight, Mr. Man and I will be going out for barbecue. No roses will be harmed in the making of this Valentine’s Day (Mr. Man knows I prefer tulips anyway), and I have a stash of chocolate in reserve. When it comes down to it, the person is the point, not the date. And especially not the geegaws.

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The Bed List

Who would have thought the geeky handyman on The Facts of Life would have turned out this pretty? Although there’s something cosmically unfair about any one human male being this handsome, it would be far worse if all that handsome came in a dumb package--and this one is certainly not dumb. He’s a passionate advocate, a smart businessman, and a clever director (did anyone see Syriana coming after Batman in the infamous nipple suit?). And did I mention he’s handsome?

I’ll have the George, with a side of George, and a bit of George for dessert. And you know what else.

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Kitchen Smackdown, Family Style

Today the church music ministry held its annual cookoff. This year’s twist? Take a firefighter favorite recipe, make it your own, and submit it for judging by actual firefighters. Mama, sis, and yours truly all entered--different categories, as it turns out--and brought home two wins! My mother is an excellent cook, so I was not surprised at all when her version of Low Tide Chicken won first place in the main dish category. I was a little surprised to hear my name called for best side dish, though, considering the number of people who chose the same recipe to fix. Sis didn’t win for the chocolate awesomeness that was her dessert--with hand-whipped cream, no less--but she said if she had won, people would have suspected a fix.

Enjoy this one, but be advised that mimi uses real butter and lots of it.

mimi’s Italian Mac and Cheese

1 pkg. mild Italian sausage, casings removed

8 oz. baby portobella mushrooms, sliced

2 sticks butter

1/4 cup flour

1/2 tsp. salt

1 pint half and half

1 cup milk

1 can cream of mushroom soup

1 can cream of mushroom soup with roasted garlic

1 tbsp. minced garlic

1 tbsp. dried minced onion

1/2 tsp. dried red pepper flakes

Italian seasoning to taste

1 can diced Italian-style tomatoes, drained

1 lb. pasta (I used corkscrews)

2 cups shredded Italian cheese blend

1 cup Italian bread crumbs

Crumble and brown sausage in a large, deep frying pan. Drain and set aside. Sauté mushrooms in a little extra butter until browned; set aside. Wipe out pan. Over medium heat, melt both sticks of butter and make a roux with flour; when smooth, begin adding half and half and milk about a half-cup at a time, stirring after each addition to completely incorporate. Stir in soups until smooth. Add salt, garlic, onion, red pepper flakes, and Italian seasoning; stir and adjust seasonings as desired. Add sausage, mushrooms, and tomatoes; stir to combine and reduce heat to low.

While sauce is simmering, preheat oven to 325°. Cook pasta according to package directions; drain and place in a 9x13 baking dish. Pour the sauce over the pasta and mix evenly. Cover with cheese and top with bread crumbs. Bake for 15-20 minutes or until cheese is melted and casserole is bubbly.

WARNING: This is a very effective butter-to-hip delivery system, so try not to hurt yourself!

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How Not to Write a Novel

Thanks to agent Kristin Nelson for this gem! Actually, I don’t mind that insanity abounds like this--makes actual writers like me look like we know what we’re doing!

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