GOOSE DAY REDUX: Traditional Christmas Dinner

Last year The Boy and I roasted a goose for our own little Christmas celebration before flying to California to spend actual Christmas with my family. The goose looked like a dinosaur and tasted like grease on a stick, but this year we're amping up the CHEER by making a traditional Christmas dinner with flaming plum pudding and everything. Actually, I'm considering serving the entire meal on fire to make it the Most Exciting Christmas Dinner Ever.

THIS MEAL IS ON FIIIIRE

(Topical, I know.)

Our pre-California Christmas is on Saturday, and this time around you're getting an account of preparations for the entire week! HOORAY!


Monday: The Menu

-Roast Goose. Neck still attached. 
-Bread Sauce. Because sometimes "traditional" and "gross-looking" mean the same thing.
-Pigs in a Blanket. Bacon wrapped around sausage. Mélange à breakfast meat.
-Roasted Potatoes. Roasted in goose fat. Soo hip.
-Caramelized Carrots. Obligatory vegetable, swimming in a puddle of butter.
-Roasted Brussels Sprouts. Pretty much a table decoration.
-Mince Pies. Not entirely sure this is actually food.
-Plum Pudding. Served with brandy butter and set on fire. Like all food should be.
-Hard Sauce. Five points for the best guess as to what that is, ten points if you've eaten it before. 
-Maybe some Wassail? WHO EVEN KNOWS.

This doesn't even include the traditional raw oysters and clear turtle soup.

We invited some friends to help us eat all this, but the three inches of snow predicted and an unexpected trip to the hospital (shout-out to Owen, infant who cannot read!) might mean we're on our own. We may have eaten our way through all the courses by the time the snow melts.


Tuesday: No Baking.

Winter descended upon us with an unceremonious snow dump, so I stayed home and watched White Christmas over and over until the neighbors downstairs complained about my singing and ungainly tap dancing.

Well. They leave a tiny Christmas tree and a pair of big snow boots outside their front door, presumably for Sinterklaas to leave candies in, even though no decent human should eat candy out of a boot (couch cushion or car floor is fine). Late one night I'm planning to sneak downstairs and trade the snow boots for these:

It's hard to tell without any feet in them, but those are baby boots.

I'm hoping they're not very bright, so they'll just stand there in wonder, trying to figure out whether their tree grew or their boots shrank.

But I'll also get them something nice. Like a copy of White Christmas so they can learn the songs and harmonize with me next year instead of getting all uppity and sending me fake eviction notices.


Wednesday: THE SHOPPING TRIP

To give you an idea of how this holiday season has gone, I went to three stores to buy ingredients for a traditional Christmas dinner that's also gluten-free, dairy-free, and egg-free. BECAUSE I WILL NOT SACRIFICE CHEER FOR ANY DIETARY RESTRICTION. I fought a lady over some Brussels sprouts and wandered up and down the aisles shouting, "HAVE YOU ANY SUET FOR A POOR GEHL AT CHRISTMAS TIME?"

The checkout lady examined the canned mincemeat before she scanned it and asked, "Is this any good?"

I straightened my collar and gave a little laugh. "As a mincemeat connoisseur," I told her, "I would have to say this brand ranks about a 3.5 for me. Of course I would prefer to make it from scratch from my personal recipe tweaked after years of mincemeat trial and error, but I really just haven't the time this year. Why, I still have to butcher the goose I've raised from a gosling and find homes for all the children at the orphanage. NOT TO MENTION THE PLUM PUDDING."


Thursday: The Plum Pudding

This pudding is a three-day process. Today the prunes, currants, and raisins soak in Madeira and make my fridge smell like an old person doused in booze. Tomorrow, who knows! Recipes are for chumps!


Friday: Pudding, Day Two + Mince Pies

Fact: Most English food has the color and texture of week-old porridge. I am fondly calling this Christmas dinner "50 Shades of Beige."

You'll see when it's all on the table.

The pudding is worrisome. From all the pictures I've seen, plum pudding is supposed to be a dark, glossy mound that looks like chocolate but then you find out it's all raisins and prunes and you realize life is just a slow, painful process of disillusionment. I'm pretty sure that's the reason people started setting it on fire.

However, mine just looked like oatmeal. I'd hoped it would turn plummy and delightful once I added the dried fruit all plump with Madeira, but instead it just looked like oatmeal with raisins. I'm not sure where I went wrong. It's steaming away, and maybe that will darken it somehow, but my hopes aren't high.

The original recipe calls for suet, which is hardened fat with a high melting point. Also it looks like housing insulation and apparently isn't sold in any grocery stores in the United States.

British people: Please explain.

Nigella Lawson said vegetable shortening could be used instead. But first I had to freeze it and then grate it into the pudding. Which I did - or tried to do, anyway. It worked about as well as the time I froze some Jell-o and took a cheese grater to it. On the bright side, my arms are completely waterproof now.

I did remember to add a coin to the batter, though. Whoever finds it without choking to death will find prosperity in the year to come! Which means you get to keep the sticky pudding quarter. Congratulations!

THEN CAME THE MINCE PIES!

For those of you who've never tried mincemeat, you may be surprised - like I was - to find out that there is no meat in it. Way to be intentionally confusing, old-timey Brits. Instead, it's all citrusy and jellified and surprisingly tasty. I went the easy way this year and used store-bought mincemeat and frozen pie crusts, because I tried making a gluten-free pie crust.

Once.

These little guys actually turned out better than I expected - sweet and zesty, so tiny and cute - all in the traditional English color scheme of Various Shades of Brown.

Since tonight is our Christmas Eve, The Boy is picking up Chinese food and later we're going to bake cookies and drive around to look at Christmas lights. Both at the same time - won't that be a feat! Meanwhile, the goose is prepped, the pudding is bubbling away, and we're all bundled up for the snow storm. Seems like the perfect time to watch White Christmas.

Much to the downstairs neighbors' dismay.

Stay tuned tomorrow, won't you, for the Second Annual Goose Day Live Blog!

*               *               *

Saturday: Goose Day

9:30 am - No snow. Have never been more disappointed. Am standing at the window with my nose squished on the glass, letting out a long, high-pitched whine of sadness.

10:30 - Coffee is made, presents are opened. But am I happy? No. Because there is STILL NO SNOW.

1:50 - Watching the 1938 version of A Christmas Carol and stringing cranberries and popcorn onto floss (waxed, unflavored) to make garland. The Boy is having problems with the admittedly complicated pattern of popcorn-cranberry-popcorn-cranberry. Mostly because he's eating most of the popcorn, and I guess it's throwing him off. This wouldn't be a problem if he ate an equal number of cranberries, but he said they were "too tart" or something. Whatever. I bet starving people in Dickens novels would be happy to eat raw cranberries, with or without the floss. Way to keep the Christmas spirit.

1:53 - Garlanding finished. The string is about a foot and a half long and is now draped over one section of the tiny Christmas tree like it was just named Miss Tannenbaum 2013.

2:43 - Extremely tense kitchen atmosphere because of some heavy whipping cream. I'm using a janky stand mixer to whip it, whip it good, but if I turn the dial too high the kitchen becomes speckled with white dots, so I've been hovering for ten minutes watching the mixers turn ever so slowly, hoping it will still whip. Would I be better off using a whisk and my own raw power? Will the cream get too warm? The last time I whipped cream that was less than chilly, it turned into butter. Please advise.

2:55 - The cream is in the freezer to cool down for a while. It will be beaten. As God is mah witness, Ah'll nevah make buttah agayun!

3:00 - Pretty sure this is the longest post ever.

3:07 - Potatoes have been tossed with goose fat and paprika, and the goose fat has been drained from the roasting pan, which required taking the goose out. So, I confidently stuck a barbecue fork handle-deep in from the neck and scooped up the rear with a big ladle. Then, my elbows all akimbo and my sad little arms straining with the weight of the 10-lb bird, I quickly transferred it to a platter, dumped the fat into the sink, and wobbled the goose back into the pan. Only need to do that three more times.

3:10 - I DON'T KNOW WHY I EVEN CARE. THE ABILITY TO WHIP CREAM DOES NOT DEFINE ME.

3:12 - It whipped! Cooking is magic, you guys.

4:00 - The pudding is back on the stove and bubbling away. Things are getting pretty merry up in here.

4:12 - Snow! Big, fat flakes of it. Am standing at the window with my nose squished on the glass, letting out a high-pitched whine of joy.

5:00 - One hour until guests arrive and everything has been planned down to the minute. Goose comes out in half an hour, gravy is going on now, and at 5:30 the Brussels sprouts, carrots, bacon-wrapped sausage, and potatoes start cooking. I feel an odd sense of calm amid the chaos, like the moment in disaster movies when the characters pause to turn back and watch in awe as the gigantic tidal wave crests over whatever city's being destroyed that day. Not that I think this meal will be a natural disaster, just...you know. I'm so zen.

5:35 - The carrots are being abandoned! The Boy is making cranberry sauce! It's bubbling over in orange foam but is no longer my problem!

5:48 - HOT DAMN these bacon-wrapped sausages are delicious right out of the hot oven, but also my taste buds have been singed right off.

5:49 - "YOU GUYS! IT'S - ARE YOU COOKING OR SOMETHING?! IT'S LIKE SO HOT IN HERE FROM...LIKE, THE BURNERS AND STUFF, I GUESS. THE OVEN IS SUPER HOT TOO, LIKE A MILLION DEGREES OR SOMETHING. SO, I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW THAT. I'LL CHECK IN WITH YOU AGAIN EVERY TIME YOU OPEN THE OVEN DOOR. TAKE IT EASY."
-the fire alarm

5:51 - The Boy asked about the bread sauce I mentioned earlier, and I just laughed and laughed and laughed.

5:56 - WE ARE ALL OF A DITHER AND IT'S SO HOT IN THIS KITCHEN

6:02 - Doorbell rings. I assume my best Katharine Hepburn voice to offer mixed nuts and crudités and cheese. The Boy entertains until it's time to carve the goose, which he picks up in his pot-holdered hands like a football and manhandles into submission. I collapse on the ground and die.

6:20 - "Now, we can beginnn the feeeed!" -The Walrus

7:48 - The pudding is on fire (and yet the fire alarm didn't go off when there were actual flames in the apartment). The boy was a little too enthusiastic while pouring on the brandy, so it's more like a moat of fire around a soggy lump of dried fruit. Let me know if you want the recipe.

7:51 - Tastes great! If it were possible to squeeze Essence of the Elderly out of grandparents, I think it would taste just like plum pudding. The one person who made it through all the snow to share our weird Christmas meal insisted that it's not that bad and ate an entire plateful of pudding. He's a good man - a brave man.

Nobody found the coin.

10:13 - Completely forgot to take pictures of the meal, but that doesn't matter. The table looked pretty much like this:

Delightful!

And now the kitchen looks like that episode of the Brady Bunch where Mr. Brady helps Marcia with her cooking badge. After dinner we played Settlers of Catan, my Christmas gift for The Boy, and Snapdragon, which involves snatching raisins out of a bowl of flaming brandy. I forgot to bring out the hard sauce at all, so I'll be taking a big spoon to that whipped cream later tonight.

AND MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, ELEVEN DAYS EARLY!

Flutterby

This morning when I walked out to my car, a little monarch butterfly was waiting for me on the sunroof. From the agitated way his wings were clamped together, it seemed that I had kept him waiting. I reached out my hand to show I was sorry, and he stayed still and let me pet the edge of its wing.

"Oh no...Are you just dead and petrified, little guy?" I whispered. "Am I just standing here petting a dead bug?"

Indignant, he swept off. To settle on the hood. Although to be fair, I guess that's a respectable distance for a butterfly.

"If you wanted a ride, you could've just asked," I said. "I would've let you sit on the steering wheel and everything. As it is, I'm late and have no time for your moods. Oh--good morning, Mr. Henderson!" I wish I could say this is the first time my neighbor has caught me in the middle of a one-sided conversation.

I shut the door and started the engine. The butterfly stayed where he was. I turned one corner, and then another, and he clenched on with his little butterfly feet (Do butterflies have feet? Grippers? I have no idea how he stayed on, honestly) and his entire body flapped in the breeze until it was almost horizontal. Finally as I was waiting to turn onto the main road, he took off back the way we'd come.

"You're welcome!" I shouted. That butterfly carried way more drama than I had time for, but it would have been fun to sneak him into work with me.

The moral of this story is that butterflys are ungrateful and also I don't know the plural form of butterfly because it's so early.


Image via Comic Vine.

Fairy Tale Lessons: Beauty and the Beast

The story about the beggar lady in the introduction still confuses me. It's all about the importance of charity and hospitality, but nowadays kids are warned not to talk to strangers. The prince may have seemed selfish, but to be fair, if an old beggar woman came up to your house and asked to stay the night, you probably wouldn't even open the door.

"Go away, old woman!" you'd shout. And even if the woman began to cry, and rolled about on the lawn, and intercepted your mailman, chewed up all your mail and then spat it out onto your begonias, you still wouldn't show her the least bit of hospitality.

 But the prince did talk to the old beggar woman, and he was turned into a beast for his trouble.

Whenever someone comes knocking on my door, I creep away into the bedroom until the door opens and it's the maintenance guy and I holler, YOU CAN'T JUST BARGE IN HERE, and he says, "But I had a key. I'm here to fix your window. You called like an hour ago." So I shout, I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO BURGLE ME. NEXT TIME MAYBE ANNOUNCE YOUR INTENTIONS. And then he asks why I'm not wearing pants.

"That's rude," I say. But I still offer him a bite of my grilled cheese and a sleeping bag, just in case he considers cursing me.

The moral of that story is: Get a padlock for your front door. Can't nobody open those bad boys from the outside.


Image via Desktop Nexus.

Thanks, Facebook Ads.

There's a fetus - INSIDE YOU

Recipes from Auntie Carrie's Kitchen: Soft Shell Crab

If you've never seen one, soft shell crabs are all blue and spidery, and I wasn't entirely convinced that they were dead. 

"Are you sure that one's not just old and sleepy?" I asked the man at the seafood counter.

He gave me a look, but I couldn't tell if I was the weird one or if he was trying to cover up his guilt.

A nice, warm bath would be just right for these old freaky claws of mine, those crabs were probably thinking as they tried to get comfortable on their bed of ice.

They never saw the hot oil coming.

Because their eyes were gone.

I had to Google how to eat one. When I did, I found out that people also eat soft shell turtles. Since we went to the park earlier today and saw some turtles paddling around all plump and juicy, I surreptitiously checked the town's laws on removing animals from a local pond for human consumption. As far as I can tell, it's a no on fishing, but turtling isn't even mentioned.

I guess it's no coincidence that the Mayor of Lancaster's nickname is TURTLE SLAYER.

I'm not really sure why I feel okay about frying up turtles and not crabs, but that's beside the point. You come to me for fine culinary information, and I'm here to give it to you. Fortunately, there really isn't much to making soft shell crabs, which is good because I don't want to think about it any more than I have to.

1. Dredge 'em.
2. Fry 'em.
3. Set 'em in front of your squeamish girlfriend along with a big bowl of hot sauce.
4. Sit back and watch as she starts to cry a little bit. Adorable.

It wasn't all that bad when I was just poking at it with my fork, nodding my head and trying to look super adventurous and totally game while The Boy ripped an entire claw off his crab like some feral beast. I put my head down and daintily cut off the tip of a leg, dipped it in hot sauce, and set it on my tongue just as The Boy said, "Okay, I don't know what this green stuff is that just shot out, but I don't think it's bad." 

Here's an artist's rendering of my face, drawn on a used paper towel:

Just look at those eyebrows.

I made it through one claw and a bite of meat before I had to give up. So while I ate a lovely, light summer salad with sliced strawberries and vinaigrette, The Boy finished up three crabs by himself, then tried to to make me feel better by showing me pictures of all the gross sea creatures he didn't try to feed me for dinner.

But now, one of us is bent over the toilet, and it isn't me.

The crabs always get their revenge.

Image via Sober in a Nightclub.

How to Survive Wedding Season

I love weddings. Weddings are my sports. Sometimes I wish I had made more close friends during high school and college not because I wanted to spend time with other human beings, but because Wedding Season is coming up, and it seems that all my acquaintances are getting married. I knew lots of people well enough that I should congratulate them on Facebook, but not well enough that I get an invitation.

But I'm a really good wedding guest! I shout. I never cry loudly during the ceremony, and I will ask your grandpa to dance! As long as he doesn't get fresh on the dance floor!

Clearly, all my close friends need to pick it up a little so I can attend some more weddings. Like the one friend who bought a house with her boyfriend? That backyard would be perfect for a simple ceremony in a couple weeks. I'll take a leave of absence from work and help you plan it. IT'LL BE FUN!

Or the one who's been going out with her man for half a decade? Let's just put that year-long trip to Japan on hold until after you get hitched. Wouldn't it be nice to have a husband waiting for you back in the States?

And my single friends can just match right up. I'll arrange it all, don't you worry about a thing. Come over for dinner tomorrow night, you'll have a ball.

Notice that I'm not stepping up to the plate. That's because I don't want to risk developing a patronizing tone as an old married woman who's seen this all before. I want the celebration of my friends' nuptials to be fresh and joyful and a total delight, not old news.

I'm going to a wedding next weekend, and I am a hot mess about it. I'm guessing at least some of you must be anxious little freaks like I am, so here's a guide to getting through any wedding with grace and poise:

1. Start looking for an outfit online as soon as you receive the Save the Date.
2. Find out who else is going so you can book hotels with them. 
• This is a delicate maneuver. If you aren't sure whether they were invited or not and don't want to risk hurting feelings, try this approach:
  You: Have you talked to that mutual friend we have lately?
  Them: Not very lately.
  You: Yeah, me neither. Sooo, ya got any plans June 20th?
  Them: I don't think so, why?
  You: Oh. Just...it's my quarter-birthday, plus three days. (act hurt that they didn't remember)
  Them: That's...weird. Oh, wait - actually, I am going to our mutual friend's wedding that day, were you invited?
  Works every time.
3. Freak out when you get the invitation because you still haven't found a dress to wear.
4. Look through their registry. Buy the gravy boat and a punch bowl. Tell your date, "IT'S A CLASSIC GIFT! THEY'LL THINK IT'S FUNNY! Plus, they registered for it, so."
5. Regret buying them a gravy boat and punch bowl when you find out your friend got them a hot air balloon trip for two over wine country. Shrug and mumble, "Well, they registered for my gift, so." Tell them the groom is afraid of heights, whether or not that's true.
6. Redouble your outfit-finding efforts. Surreptitiously browse at work. Only rein yourself in when your searches drift toward flowy, sequined jumpsuits. Nobody else will know it's a joke and everyone will think you're weird.
7. Oh no! The shoes you ordered - the perfect, beautiful shoes that you would give your life for if they were in trouble - have been canceled! The seller on ebay advertised the shoes in your size, and then turned around five days before the wedding and told you he actually didn't have them in a size 6, after all.
8. REMAIN CALM. 
9. Definitely don't roll around on the bed in despair and utter the words, "BUT THOSE SHOES WERE SO BEAUTIFUL. THEY WERE THE PERFECT SHOES AND EVERY OTHER SHOE IS UGLY." Or if you do say that, at least make sure your boyfriend isn't around to write down what you said and read it back to you from time to time in a serious voice, like he's in an experimental play.
10. Wear an outfit you already own.
11. Go to the wedding. Dance your little feet off. You wouldn't have kept those beautiful shoes on for longer than twenty minutes, anyway.

Image via Hungeree.

News from the Weather Channel

Before you scroll down, you should know that the caption is, "They Found THIS on Radar":

BATS.

The Weather Channel never disappoints. Take this little gem:

I didn't actually read either article, so I'm not sure if the second one goes on to say, "Nope, that would be absurd. But thanks for boosting our traffic!"

On the other hand, let's examine the facts: 

1.  I'm using more colons in this post than I ever have before.

2.  This cat is either in the snow, or it's been badly Photoshopped and also has extreme dandruff.

3.  Those eyes are magnificent. Hypnotic. He's like the Daniel Craig of cats. Or he's wearing colored contacts to conceal his identity. Nice try, Murder Cat.

4.  Hiding in snow would be the perfect ruse for a dolphin-killing feline. Dolphins can't swim in solid water! They'll never get away!

5.  Cats are notoriously evil. Snow Cats are the most dastardly of all. 

6.  Cats eat fish. But ordinary fish present no challenge to Snow Cat. Murder Cat. I've used too many names. Snurder Cat. 

7.  Snurder Cat sounds real stupid. I'll just switch off, because you know what I mean.

8.  A feline as villainous as Murder Cat, its heart cold as its wintry habitat, would only be satisfied hunting the cleverest prey: THE DOLPHIN.

9.  You know, to go back to the first picture, those bats probably knew where the radar was the whole time. They probably plotted to all flock together and freak us out, and now they're screeching at the hilarity of humans trying to use their own tactics against them. "ECHOLOCATION, BITCHEZ," they chatter, before dispersing to their various attics. Like so many old people.

10. Dolphins also use echolocation. 

11. The Weather Channel is almost definitely run by Snow Cats. Now the real headline should be, "SNOW CATS: HUNGRY FOR DOLPHIN, OR JUST JEALOUS OF SONAR?"

12. Late spring is clearly a slow time, weather-news-wise.

Images via The Weather Channel. I keep it up on my screen all day at work, refreshing it every hour like a countdown to the end of my day.  ...My job isn't very interesting.

Decorating Tips

Since I have my own apartment but no friends that I want to come visit it, decorating hasn't really been my top priority. Luckily, some friends got married and gave me their second set of kitchen stuff; otherwise I'd be eating off of the bathtub ledge (because it's easy to sterilize, and afterward I can just shower the crumbs away. Don't pretend you've never done it).

Here are the things I have in my apartment currently:

• A bed
• A table
• Two chairs
• A desk still in the box, waiting to be assembled by tools I don't own
• A fully stocked kitchen
• Old yogurt in the fridge, among other foodstuffs
• Stackable plastic drawers for my clothes
• A trash can
• A shower curtain and some very fluffy towels
• Candles
• Cardboard boxes stacked up so that I can't even see the back door anymore. I keep them there to deter burgling. And in case I want to build a fort.

I'm like a less-charming Holly Golightly, in that I can't find anything, although that's most likely because I probably think I own a bunch of things that I don't. So I just wander around my apartment yelling, "WHERE DID I LEAVE MY GROWN-UP WARDROBE/HAIR DRYER/SOFA/DOG?" And then my downstairs neighbor shouts up, "CARRIE. YOU ONLY HAVE A BED AND THREE PLATES AND LIKE FOUR OUTFITS YOU BOUGHT WHEN YOU WERE TWELVE. STOP DOING THIS EVERY DAY."

Maybe I'm just a minimalist. Not because I particularly need my life streamlined, but because it's too hard to bring anything bigger than a lamp up the three flights of steep, narrow stairs. Plus, I prefer to spend my paycheck on more useful things, like fine cheeses and silly string. 

I do, however, have an impressive collection of mugs. I moved to a third-floor apartment so that on the worst day of my life, I can stand on the rickety back stairs and smash them all onto the ground. But I'll wait until the Amish are passing by, and scare them.

Anyway. I have lots of decorating ideas now that it's spring and I can shop at the thrift stores downtown and then just haul my new stuff home without worrying about breaking my body on ice and slush. Check in for regular installments of Auntie Carrie's Decorating Tips, including:

• Match Your Home: Using textiles to blend in with your surroundings
• Hobo-Chic: Tin cans and old shoes make any lean-to feel cozier instantly
• In the Belly of the Beast: Throw out your zebra print ottoman; animal innards are what's in today!

Image via The Bohemian Luxe Life.

The Regular

I've joked about how often I eat at Taco Bell, but you should know that I'm not exaggerating. Today I pulled through the drive-thru and the lady at the window pointed at me and said, "No sauce, right?"

"Hot sauce."

"Agh! I knew it," she  said. "I was just telling them that I recognized the lady who always gets one bean burrito."

And all of my dreams came true.

Image via Shade One.

Recipes from Auntie Carrie's Kitchen: Tamales!

Being from Northern Mexico*, I know all the secrets of Authentic Mexican Cuisine - the main one being that there are only three ingredients in all of Mexican cookery, and those are just rearranged and given a new name, like when the nerdy girl supposedly gets a life-changing makeover, but really she just takes off her glasses and brushes her teeth for once. But everyone's still like, Whoa! Enchiladas! Those were tacos a minute ago.

To fill your Mexican pantry, you need only the following:

1. Beans
2. Corn
3. Meat (a pig will do)

From those ingredients, you can make any Mexican dish you choose, like Easter Tamales, which is what we are making today. I do realize it's a week after Easter, but we had leftover meat, so we're making them again because they're that good. Plus, if I post this now, you'll have just enough time to grow your corn, dry the husks, and grind the masa for next Easter.

This excerpt from La Cocina de la Familia explains the origin of this festive meal:

The tradition of Easter Tamales comes from a little village called Oaxaca, where the days are hot and so is your sweat rash. One year, foxes killed all the chickens in the village a week before Easter. With no eggs to hide, one clever senorita (La Bruja, as she was known in Oaxaca) made fake eggs using soft dough as the white and a bit of meat as the yolk, all wrapped in a corn husk shell. Early on Easter morning she hid the little bundles all over the town, singing her wispy witch-songs all the while. It had rained the night before, but the sun was hot that morning and the water evaporated quickly, steaming the little "eggs" until the dough was cooked through. All the little children had to do was follow their noses to find the delicious Easter treats!

Of course, before long all the children had fallen ill with food poisoning, because you really shouldn't eat food that's been cooked on the ground.

[Disclaimer: This may or may not be entirely accurate. My copy of the cookbook is in Spanish, and I don't remember enough from elementary school Spanish class to understand the description under the tamale recipe. But it makes me look super legit to all my other chef friends who only have French cookbooks - suckas!]

When making authentic tamales, it is imperative that you grow your own corn, grind the masa, and collect the husks for wrapping the tamales. I think it goes without saying that you should butcher and roast your own meat in a hole outside, so we can skip that part. One tip for any beginners - right as you cuddle up to slit the animal's throat, sing this traditional Slaughter Song softly in its fuzzy, little ear to ease its suffering and lull it into a false sense of security:

O! this pig is fat,

This pig is fine,

His belly will be

Food for mine!

He roots around 

In muck and mud,

But fried up nice

He'll taste so good!

As crispy bacon

Or roasted rump,

There's not a meat

This pig can't trump!

So don't you cry

My little sow,

Just close your eyes 

As I gut you now!

This song is also commonly used as a lullaby for children who don't eat their vegetables.

Now, on to the recipe:

1. Roast the animal in a large hole, making sure to retain a generous hunk of the fat for your dough. Shred the pork and combine with a hot sauce made of ground jalapenos, garlic, onions, and salt. If you want, go ahead and add some fat to the sauce, as well. Many people serve a bowl of fat along with the tamales for dipping. Pig fat also makes a nice hair pomade, a tasty lip gloss, and a perfectly fine slip-and-slide when slicked across the grass and sprayed down with water.
2. Mix some masa with warm broth. Whip up the pig lard and add it to the dough. Smoosh it all together with your fingers until it stops making a gross squishing sound. Now it's ready to wrap!
3. Spread a thin layer of dough on a corn husk that's been soaked in water and drained. Place a bit of meat in the center, along with any other filling you'd like: queso, the eye of the pig, or another tamale. Then close up the tamale like so:
   
   
4. Line the little guys up in a steamer and place on the stove to steam away. Make sure not to turn the heat too high, or all the water will boil away while you're off eating leftover cheese, and you will burn the bottom out of your pot and then cry because dinner is ruined, and your hungry friends will get mad and rage-order a pizza.
5. Drizzle with hot sauce, add a hearty dollop of pig fat, and enjoy!
6. Oh, also - don't forget to unwrap the corn husk before you eat it. Those silk threads are a bitch to get out of your teeth.

* Or Southern California, as you Americans call it.



Images via Slice of Midlife, Tumblr.

Happy Easter, You Guys

Hooraaaay.

Image via Buzzfed.

10 Ways to Ruin Ladies' Night

It's Good Friday, you guys.

. . .

Okay, good. I assumed all the Catholics would be like, "Oh shit!" and run off to  scourge themselves or something. Maybe eat some fish. But, now that they're gone, we can talk about them.

. . .

So, Catholics, huh? Amirite?

I used to be Catholic,* but now I'm The Kind of Person who Goes Out with The Ladies at Work on Good Friday. Not sure what you'd call that. Jewish? Whatever.

The point is, I have always wanted to work at a place where Ladies' Night is a thing. Actually going to Ladies' Night isn't that appealing since I don't like other human people, but I'm also not great at thinking up excuses, so when the other ladies are like, "You haaave to coooome," and I just stammer and tell them I should really stay home and give my eyelashes a perm, they see right through it. And call me names. And throw staplers at me until I agree to go with them.

So instead of fighting it, I've devised several ways to make sure I'm never invited back. Then when somebody asks if I'm going to paint pottery, I can say, "Oh, honey. Ladies' Night can't handle me."

All part of my clever plan.

10 Ways to Ruin Ladies' Night

and ensure you'll never have to hang out with anyone, ever

1. Take five shots of tequila and take your shirt off. On the drive over.
2. Go to karaoke. Only sing the backup parts. Oohs and shoo-wops all night long.
3. Play mini golf. Show up in argyle with a caddy and swing like it's regular golf.
4. Start a fight with the bachelorette party at the dueling piano bar. (This will only ruin Ladies' Night if someone actually gets hurt. If it's only a light tussle, the dueling piano background music will make it seem like you're an old-timey Western.)
5. Talk about your feelings. Cry.
6. Go see a musical. Talk loudly about how fake the set looks. 
7. Start gossiping about one of the ladies with you. When she confronts you, say, "Oh, I thought your name was Miranda." Keep talking about her.
8. Bring your kids.
9. "Forget" your wallet.
10. When it's your turn to pick what to do, suggest volunteering.

* At Catholic school we always had a half-day on Good Friday, because apparently Jesus was on the cross from noon until 3:00. We weren't allowed to speak during those three hours, out of respect - but what about the time difference? Jesus wasn't on the cross at noon California time, so really those three hours probably should have happened at night, when we wouldn't have to develop a strange sign language to use on the jungle gym until our mom made us go inside to pray.

Image via All-Star Skates.

IDES OF MARCH LIVE BLOG: ROMAN FEAST

Every March 15, there are those seven people in your office (or that one weird dude on the street) who greet you with a creepy smile and whisper, "Beware the Ides of March!" I always wonder if they're genuinely concerned for me, or if they just like to be creepsy. I guess they're trying to be festive, but the Ides of March just isn't good for much - we don't stab our friends or set booby traps for passers-by or anything. It's worse than Flag Day. I think we should give each other a reason to beware, like a lethal April Fool's Day. That would at least be exciting, but in all my twenty-three years, not once has anyone tried to knife me on March 15.*

I guess there's always next year.

IN THE MEANTIME:

If you happen to know someone who spends his days cataloging ancient coins ("Oh yeah, that guy," they all say knowingly), you may celebrate this day by making an authentic Ancient Roman feast.

If, however, you don't hang around with giant dorks, you can join us! On the

IDES OF MARCH LIVE BLOG! 

PART 6

Menu:

Teff bread with olive paste, served with olive oil and herbs

Cantaloupe with vinaigrette

Roasted pork shoulder with cooked sauce

3:40 - Carrie should be working. 

3:41 - The feast won't actually start for several more hours, but the cooking began last night with the garum.

[Boring historical bit: Garum was apparently used all the time in Ancient Roman Cookery, like soy sauce in Asian cuisine, or Frank's Red Hot: they put that shit on everything.]

I didn't get any pictures of the garum process, but I can paint you a WORD PICTURE:

It was March. The air was cold. A baby cried. I went to the store to buy a massive amount of anchovies, and the checkout lady was all like, "Eh...yum...?" to which I replied, "YOU DON'T KNOW ME. SHUT YOUR HOLE AND SCAN MY REWARDS CARD." But only in my head. Outside I just blushed. And cried a little.

If you've never made garum before, here's how it goes:

1. Boil two pounds of tiny, whole fish with some herbs and salt until the fish dissolve, leaving only their bones behind.**
2. Strain the fish-guts soup through a coffee filter until the liquid is clear. And all over your counter. And floor. And body.
3. Fry up some bacon to get rid of the fish smell.
4. Your house now smells like fish bacon. It's very confusing.

It also turns out that the ancient Romans would have used fresh smelt, whereas we used anchovies packed in oil and salt. On top of that, we added 2/3 cup of sea salt.  Then The Boy tasted it.

"That's the saltiest thing I've ever tasted. And I once at a big bowl of salt!"

And on top of all that, our city's water supply was contaminated! (That could've taken our story in a much more dramatic direction, but all it really means is that to water the garum down, we had to hoist up a five-pound jug of water and tip it daintily down into the pot. It also meant that I couldn't take a shower so I came to work all fishy.)

Huh.

4:02 - I had no idea George Clooney and Ryan Gosling were in a movie called The Ides of March until just now. The poster is extremely vague, but I'm guessing Ryan Gosling kills George Clooney and then steals his face.

5:54 - Turekns ourt thalkt Romsan foofd is s sssuiper oilyu//.

6:04 - Since The Boy can't eat gluten, dairy, or eggs, we've made some teff bread, shown here with some Wine With a Lady On It and a knife. For cutting bread.

Look closely: The stabbing knife is hiding in the shadows.

6:09 - The Boy thinks I should use the Latin names for all the food we're eating. I said nothing, but as he walked away I muttered, "Wait till Bigus Dickus hears of this."

6:17 - HERE IS OUR MORTAR AND PESTLE. WE GOT THEM TODAY. IN THE MAIL. FOR ROMAN FEAST DAY.

AND HERE IS THE MEAT WE HAVE SLICED UP AND MARINATED UNTIL IT'S ALL PURPLE AND PLUMP:

The picture is blurry because technically, the meat is still alive. The Romans liked their meat bloody and throbbing and just off the animal, or tristis animalis, which means "sad animal" in Latin. So we plugged in a phone charger and left the other end in the marinade, which brought the meat sort of back to life. It's vibrating a little bit, which I hear makes it really tender but also not great for pictures.

Plus, if you listen really carefully, you can hear it moo very quietly.

Which is weird, because it's a pig.

6:36 - YOU GUYS. THE TEFF BREAD SHOULD BE CALLED TOUGH BREAD, BECAUSE IT'S LIKE A LITTLE BRICK. I HEARD THE ROMANS GOT THIS RECIPE FROM THE EGYPTIANS, WHO WERE JUST TRYING TO PLAY A LITTLE JOKE ON THE ROMANS, SO THEY GAVE THEM THE FORMULA FOR THEIR PYRAMID BRICKS AND SAID IT WAS BREAD.

6:58 - Carrie finds out her older sister knows way more than she does about ancient Rome. Also that she is a staunch Caesar supporter, while Carrie prefers the dashing young Brutus. We are a family divided.

Cantaloupe has been cut up int stabbed into little pieces.

7:08 - If this were ancient Rome, Twitter would be divided into #teambrutus and #teamcaesar.

And also if ancient Rome had Twitter.

7:26 - The meat is cooked, the melon is dressed, the bread is sliced and the sauce is . . . a little bit pukey. But the meal is ready, which means TIME TO RECLINE AND BEGIN THE FEAST!

9:49 - We have so much leftover garum. Everyone can expect little jars of salty fish juice for Christmas.

You're welcome.



* But OTHER DAYS...!
** Which is also how most pirate recipes start.




Images via Krystal Cooks, The Hairpin, reddit.

I Should've Been a Bachelor

Here's something the stereotypes don't tell you: Sometimes girls are messy.

Not endearingly untidy or adorably scatterbrained, but deeply, patholigically dirty, in a way that makes you clasp your hand to your bosom and whisper, "How can you live like this?"

It's disgusting, but messiness usually means the girl is brilliant, beautiful, and/or wildly talented.

It just so happens that none of those applies to me. I am just gross.

I am also hungry, most of the time. Sometimes when I don't eat for over half an hour, I start to cry - brave, blubbering tears over the punishment I put myself through to maintain this fantastic bod.

Stop laughing.

Whenever The Hunger comes upon me, nothing can stop my path of destruction through everything  even remotely edible in the general vicinity.

Not even an expiration date.

When I first moved to Pennsylvania and hung out in The Boy's apartment all day while looking for a job, there wasn't much to eat. The Boy can't eat eggs, gluten, or dairy, so I didn't have many options for edible food. I bought a loaf of bread and made tuna sandwiches most days, but after a week or so I finally realized that the mayonnaise had expired in 2011.

I read the date mid-bite, but instead of spitting it out and throwing the rest of the sandwich away, I figured I might as well finish it. If I was going to die anyway, it seemed foolish to die hungry.

After I finished, I put the relish away and reached for the mayonnaise.

And paused.

And thought about my actions.

The garbage wasn't full; it wasn't as if throwing this old mayonnaise away would require a trip to the dumpster. But I kind of thought I might want tuna the next day, and throwing the bottle away today meant a trip to the store tomorrow. Besides, the trash was behind a closed cabinet, and the fridge door was already open.

Really, the decision was made for me.

I recently bough a new jar of mayo, after finishing the last one about a month ago. New expiration date: May 2014.

Well. We'll see.




Image of Marlene Deitrich by Eugene Robert Richee, via tumblr; “La Naine Dona Mercedes” by Ignacio Zuloaga, via Where is Pierre.

HAND TWIN

Tonight, while I was looking for some jewelry online (which is weird enough in itself), I noticed a hand that looked familiar.

As you do.

It looks a little like my sister's, I thought, but not as skinny. 

Then I realized where I'd seen that hand before. Right at the end of my own arm!

Spooky, isn't it? Bonus: A SINK!

I stumbled into the living room, my fingers stuck together to take that very picture, and The Boy stared at me as I stopped, dazed. I shouted, "I've found my hand twin!" and then turned back around because I realized the camera wasn't in there.

"That's still not the weirdest thing I've seen you do," he said, and went back to his book.

So, Mary from Perm, Russia. Let's get together. I'll fly over there, track you down, and high five you on the street - and as our palms touch, you'll just know. Like magic.

10 Valentine's Day Gifts for Your Enemies

It's Valentine's Day Eve. Are you ready?

If I don't get enough chocolate to make me puke, I'll kill myself.

Not for the sappy celebration of Enthusiastic Tolerance for Other Human Beings, I mean. Everyone seems to have forgotten the real reason for this season. It hasn't always been about jewelry and chocolates and the desperate attempt to bribe your beloved with enough giant stuffed animals to make sure you'll never be lonely.

In the olden days, long before any saints wandered about getting soldiers hitched, there was a late-winter festival - a dark, macabre festival - to honor that most noble and primal passion: hatred of one's fellow man.

Oh, how I do loathe you.

Long ago, people used to spend the entire year seeking out the perfect victim for their Valentine's Day trickery. As spring arrived, all the young boys and girls picked out a special someone they found particularly repulsive. Then, all year long, they would give their target little gifts and compliments, bat their eyes and whisper sweet nothings. Slowly, the victim would begin to trust the suitor, flattered into thinking they might be lovable to someone - anyone.

Then, in the middle of a cold, gloomy February, these sad fools would receive a Valentine's Day surprise - perhaps a dead weasel, or a gently used condom. The truth would slowly sink in, just like the sticky liquid that was now all over their hands. And oh, how everyone would laugh! Such fun! they'd all shout. Hooray for Valentine's Day!

But now, no more. Nobody knows exactly when this most "romantic" holiday stopped being ironic and actually became about real sentiment, but most believe it happened roughly around 1910, when Joyce C. Hall started a little greeting card company in Kansas City, Missouri.*

I SAY ENOUGH!

This year, get back to the real roots of the holiday and celebrate the most repulsive people in your life! Here are a list of ten perfect gifts to give that special someone you secretly despise:

1. An angry snake in a basket.
   
   

   

   The Egyptian valentine of choice.

2. A mix tape.  Because no one listens to tapes anymore! And everyone will make fun of them! "Such cruelty," they'll whisper. And their tears will warp and destroy the tape so that not even an eraser-side-of-the-pencil can fix it.
   

   

   But just in case, fill it with Whale Songs layered over the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

3. Durian fruit, which is banned on planes because it smells so rancid and makes people sick. The perfect gift for someone who makes you want to throw up, too.
   

   

   Plus, it looks like a tiny, dead fetus. Romantic!

4. Speaking of nauseating, how about a Grow-Your-Own-Mung-Beans Kit!
   
   

   

   "Very nutritious, but they smell like death."

5. Or a bloody, severed finger with a note that says, "YOU'RE NEXT."
   
   

   

   I really regret searching for that now.

6. Some dirt.
   
   

   

   No need to wrap it!

7. Gloveless fingers, left over from all those hobo gloves. This is especially effective if your target is, in fact, a hobo.
   
   

   

   Hobo street cred, lost forever. (But what a meet cute!)

8. A blow-up chair. REMEMBER HOW FRUSTRATING THESE WERE?
   

   

   It's already deflating!

   
   
9. An old person.
   
   

   

   They're quite a responsibility.

10. Poison. Simple and elegant. Tie a little bow around it with a note that says, "TAKE ONE TSP. WITH EVERY MEAL.  DO NOT OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY."
    
    

    

    HOORAY FOR VALENTINE'S DAY!

* "What an informative blog!" said everyone. 

Images via My Feelings Only, The Hairpin, Kaboodle, The Beat, Ricovines, Domestic Observances, The Monkey Rodeo, Dogs Eat, Kristin's Eye, Fab, Soda Head, Tampa Govt.

HEY YOU GUYS

HOOT REVIEW FOUND IT IN THEIR HEARTS TO ILLUSTRATE AND PUBLISH SOMETHING I WROTE ON ONE OF THEIR CUTE LITTLE POSTCARDS:


It's autobiographical.

 
THE ARTWORK IS DARKLY ADORABLE AND DELIGHTFULLY MORBID! A PERFECT VALENTINE FOR THAT SPECIAL SOMEONE WITH HIGH CHOLESTEROL! OR, HANG ONE ON YOUR OWN FRIDGE AS A REMINDER TO YOURSELF: YOU EAT BACON AT YOUR OWN RISK (but you still eat it, of course).

SUPPORT HOOT REVIEW'S TINY LITMAG! SEND A POSTCARD TO YOUR FRIENDS (if you like it) OR YOUR ENEMIES (if you don't).

Ice Capades

The first eighteen years of my life were spent in Southern California, where earthquakes are an everyday occurrence not worth a Facebook status, yet a single rainstorm shuts down a city for days. After that, I went to college in Ohio, walking everywhere I needed to go in the small town. Whenever it snowed, I tromped around in rain boots, because that was all I had. I still don't know what those snow-wiping-brushes are called. When The Boy gave me one in November, I thought it might be a large grooming device, part of a weird insult about needing a bigger brush. For sloughing, or something.

Clearly, I am not a winter person.

Bundle up out there - temperatures have dropped below sixty-five.

So when I moved to Pennsylvania, I approached winter with more naive enthusiasm than actual knowledge.

"How hard can it really be to drive in a little snow?" I thought, as December and January passed away, all bright and mild. "I'm sure it'll be easier to pick up than . . . crabs. Either kind."

Friday afternoon it snowed, settling in a powdery layer perfect for crunching through in my dainty, ankle-high "boots."

"Easy peasy!" I said as we walked along. "I am the Queen of Snow! You know, in California, it can be really dangerous, when the rain brings up all the oils in the road? Gets pretty crazy. Not like this."

The Boy just smiled and held my hand.

Monday's forecast called for a Wintry Mix, but I wasn't too worried. Most of the snow had already melted over the weekend, and the weather here is always milder than predicted. Hurricane Sandy was basically a drizzle. I'd just take the main roads to work, and it would all clear up by lunchtime.

When I woke up Monday morning, all was white and slippery; but I would not be deterred from my phone-answering, letter-mailing, paper-shredding office duties by a little bit of snow. I checked the forecast one more time, brushed the snow off my car with the Big Slougher, and started out.

Driving a little slower than usual, I turned onto the main road. And turned. And turned. And stepped on the brake, which ground onto itself with an awful crunching noise. The car didn't slow.

And that was when I panicked.

My brain started shouting out every bit of advice I'd ever heard about driving on icy roads, but not in any helpful order:  STEERING -- PUMP -- SLIDE -- BRAKES -- FLASHERS -- CALM -- CRASH -

Then somehow, after drifting diagonally through the intersection, I was not only on the right road, but facing forward in the proper lane. I still couldn't see well, but that was because even my eyeballs were sweating.

"WELL THAT WASN'T SO BAD," I said out loud to no one. "IT CAN'T GET WORSE THAN THAT, RIGHT?"

As I continued driving, much slower now, the snowflakes, which had started off so charming as they starred my hair and dotted my gloves, turned to freezing rain. The windshield slipped feebly over the layer of ice, and I clutched desperately at the wheel.

IT IS ALRIGHT. EVEN THOUGH MY WINDSHIELD WIPERS HAVE BETRAYED ME AND APPARENTLY I SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT TO STRAP RUNNERS ON MY TIRES AND JUST SKATE TO WORK ACROSS THE FIELDS: STICK THE CAR IN NEUTRAL, GIVE IT A GOOD PUSH, THEN SIT ON THE HOOD TO STEER, LOUNGING LIKE CLEOPATRA IN HER PORTABLE COUCH-BED AND - AND WHAT THE HELL SORT OF RAIN IS THIS?!!

I switched on the defroster, prepared to stick my head out the window to see the road if I had to. For some reason, the idea of pulling over or turning around seemed beyond my capabilities. I could only go on.


Never. stop. driving.

The crust of frozen droplets slowly chipped away like old nail polish, bit by bit with every jerky swipe of the wipers, and I hunched down to see through a crack in the ice sheet.

WELL, THIS IS TURNING OUT JUST FINE, I thought, taking comfort in the fact that the sedan in front of me was also sliding the tiniest bit. Still, as I neared the second turn of my drive, I thought back to what my friend had told me a few weeks ago when I visited him in Ohio and parked in some mud, so that my car had to be pushed out when I left:

"Carrie, your tires are almost bald. You're gonna die in the snow. But seriously, though. You are going to die."

I am going to die, I thought with the calm clarity that only adrenaline and a thick layer of sweat can give. On a Monday morning. Listening to Passion Pit.

I braked to stop at the corner, but again I was met with the grinding whine. FOR WHOM THE BRAKES GRIND - THEY GRIND FOR ME.

I didn't really think that. Because I had switched into Action Mode: If I couldn't stop, I could at least turn, so I began wildly honking my horn to warn any oncoming cars of my presence. And with the slow certainty of a shipwreck, I drifted around the corner, a riotous parade float of pure terror.


It was horrible!

The man I was sure I'd crash into swerved easily around me. As he passed he gave me a confused look because, as he saw it, a tiny woman in a Toyota was making quite a production out of crawling around a street corner. Then I think he noticed the California license plate, and he understood.

After that, the roads cleared up a little, but I still put on "America" at the next stoplight, just in case. Because that's a song to die to.

I told one of The Ladies at work about my trial, and she gave me a little sneer and said, "Oh. You're one of those drivers."

*           *          *

Today it's been up in the 50s. I saw people tanning at lunch. The Boy and I may go for a picnic.

But I hear it hailed in California.



Images via Etsy, Tumblr, UWStout.

Willpower

Last night I made a lasagna: beautiful, rich sauce, a double layer of noodles, whole-fat ricotta with herbs and Parmesan mixed in, and about ten pounds of cheese on top of that.

Just as I put it in the oven, I received this text from my best friend:

"This weekend I'm doing a three-day detox cleanse that only lets me eat like . . . veggie soup, smoothies, and raw salads. If I text you for willpower, don't let me stray!"

I glanced into the oven, where the lasagna layers were just starting to meld together and the shaved bits of Parmesan cheese on top were melting into a bubbling, gooey mass of cholesterol.

"You can have all of my willpower if you want," I texted back. "I never use it."

All this indulgence is exhausting.

Images via Tumblr.

Assisting the Elderly

Because the firm where I work handles elder law and estate planning, we have a lot of old people coming in all the time. They start to look the same after a while, all smelling faintly of baby powder and sort of see-through, like fish.*

Of course, old people are wonderful when they're cute and giving out sassy advice and wearing ironic sweaters without the irony and being just a little bit racist in everything they say. However, our old people are not often like that.

When people decide that the time has come for an elder law consultation, it means they have death on their minds. And it shows. I can feel it from the moment they open the door - the winter air sweeping in like those old icy hands of Death.

I hear him before I see him: the slow, deliberate shuffle - the wheezing, rankling gasp for breath - that awful, wet lip-smacking -- SMACK! SMACK! -- it's the sound of my nightmares - and as the stench of decaying flesh surrounds me, choking me, I stand to shout DON'T TAKE ME YET! ---

but then it just turns out to be Mr. Henderson here for his two o'clock, and can we please hurry this up because it's past his bedtime.

But all that's only if they can actually make it to the door. One lady pulled into the parking lot at 11:50 for a noon appointment. I watched her struggle to open the car door, feeble arms straining like Sisyphus'. She hauled herself out of the car, turning to make sure no limbs had dropped off during the drive and been left behind on the seat. Even though I knew she had straightened up already, it still looked like she was sitting down.

"POSTURE!" I always scold them.

They never listen.

Then came the long trek up the front path, all stilted and unnatural because old people seem to forget that they have knees.

There's no way she'll make it up the steps, I thought, leaning forward to get a better view through the window. Most people would probably have rushed out to help her, but I don't believe in infantilizing the elderly. She is a grown-ass adult. Of course, I wouldn't help a baby up those slippery steps, either. HOW ELSE WILL THEY LEARN?

Somehow, she made it. Twelve minutes after she parked her car.

"Irma Livengood," she warbled, looking at her watch. "Goodness! I was early when I got here - what happened?"

Really, the elderly need to learn to fend for themselves as they get all soft and floppy-skinned. It's for their own good.

"Where is your bathroom, young lady? I'll be needing some assistance."

GET OUT.



*This is why I don't tell you the name of the firm where I work. Also why I should probably write with a pen name.



Image via Nursing Home Care.