Shadows on the Wall

Shadows on the Wall

How delicately the candlelight flickers on the wall

A careless dance of light and dark with the rise and fall

Of shadow ghosts that tell their tale without a single word

Of lives and loves and haunting dreams they have overheard.

And with the rise of sunny light the shadows disappear

Blocked by the new arrival of our futures far and near

With the coming of the light the brightness clears our mind

To overcome the fading shadows and leave the past behind.

And with the falling of the night, the shadows once again

Bid goodbye to the future of what might have been

But being soft and sleeping well we let the shadows play

And let the future join our rising in the coming day.

Woman in the Magazine

I’m invited to a wedding.  Former love.  Not recently, although that might be fun in a perverse way.  For me, when it’s over, it’s over.  No looking back.

The day before the event, I find myself with a quiet moment, snapping through the pages of a magazine at a downtown coffee house.  Sipping, dreaming.  I catch a flash of color and I stop and flip back several pages.  A woman.  Not a real woman, but an artist’s rendition.  Beautiful.  I’m spellbound. I’m a dreamer by nature and this is worth a long dream.  What makes me notice the curve of her body, the position of the hands, the far away look?  Is she a dreamer, too?  A fellow romantic?

What’s sexy about the woman in the magazine? She’s not real.  An irresistible allure captures me.  She’s not naked.  Nothing so blatant.  I’m romantic, not blurry-eyed.  Some have whispered, “foolishly romantic,” behind my back.  I hear them.  Noted.

The wedding is a glorious success.  The weather turns a tad cold for late May, but no rain.  After the ceremony, guests retreat from the garden into the spacious, high-ceilinged ballroom.  Long tables are laden with noshes.  Round tables, white linen covered, are spaced around the room.   I scan the crowd and see no one I know.  Along the way, I chat with a few guests.  Shake a few hands.  Compliment the bride and groom.  The bride looks at me a little wistfully, or at least I think so.  She adores roses.  I sent her a dozen yesterday.  I like motiveless gestures.  Very freeing.

Across the huge dance floor, close to the cream colored wall and apart from the crowd, I catch a glimpse.  The woman I spy is something like that magazine drawing.  When she cocks her head and brushes back a lock of hair, I notice her slender neck.   A body with gracefully soft curves.

Her hair is on the short side, much like the drawing.  Just long enough to move a bit when she speaks.  She’s chatting with another woman.  The red lipstick on full lips carves an image on my tender imagination.   There’s a rather suave man standing nearby.  Well cut gray suit.  Regimental striped tie.  Expensive black wingtips, well polished.  He’s good looking, but with a stern finish.  Power, if I had to guess, which I do.  The power of the boardroom.  The twin faces of Janus, aphrodisiacs, power and confidence. Half a head taller then I am, yet about the same as my 160, he exudes both.  But, the curl to his lips is somehow off-putting.  Chiseled features, like a male model, but not quite to that standard.  He yawns and doesn’t cover his mouth.  Bored and gauche.  Now he looks around the room.  Our eyes meet briefly in passing.

So much for her date.  What’s the first thing I notice about a woman?  Her age.  That’s not a judgment and not exact.  This woman I’d place about mid-thirties.  Her escort is maybe twenty years older.

Next?  Her eyes.  Comes as a shock, n’est pas?  Well, ok, I stand corrected.  I can’t see her eyes from here, or not the color.  But, I can tell they’re lively.  And, when it’s a woman whose breasts arrive a couple of minutes before the rest of her, the eyes are overlooked and everyone in the room, including the marble statues gives a stare.  But, really, how often do you see that?  Anyway, women pay much more attention to their breasts, and everyone else’s breasts, than men do.  Fact.  Men are simple.

Women seem obsessed with their bodies.   Much more than men.  I mean it.  They know every vein, every bulge, everything that in their eyes shames them with imperfections.  This woman doesn’t seem to share that handicap.  She’s relaxed, comfortable.

Men are also obsessed, but not in the same way.  I find myself noticing bulging waists, sunken chests, skinny necks, anything that could give me a clear advantage in the hunt.  But, I’m the first to admit, I could never guess what’s on a woman’s mind, or how she might judge a man.  We’ve all seen gorgeous women with lesser partners.  My guess is, attraction is seldom as physical for a woman as it is for a man.

The look that gets to me is the promise of surrender, but easy does it.  Romance.  Don’t be in a hurry.  Tease me, please me.  The woman in the drawing is like that.  Shows nothing.  Promises everything.

From across the room, the woman glances my way.  Was I staring too much?  Bad habit.  A stare is ok.  A lengthy stare screams perv.  I look down at my shoes, then refocus on another part of the room.  Nice party.  Da. Da. Da.  Count of three and I steal another glance.  I quickly scan another direction, then down at the empty ice cubes in my glass. They tinkle just a bit when I swirl them.

Time for another bit of Scotland.  The ballroom bar overflows with the thirsty minions.  No matter.  Drink or no drink is all the same.  Someone sidles up beside me.  I barely notice.  I’ve tried the 10 year old unpronounceable.  The Scots and the Celts use too many freaking consonants. Don’t even mention the Welsh.  It was watery to begin with.  The ice made it worse.

“What are you sipping?” the voice beside me purrs.  She.

‘Haven’t the faintest.  Single malt, or so they tell me.” 

“I’m drinking a Gimlet.  Ever had one?”  Her voice is musical.

“No….don’t believe I ever had…have…no.”

“Gin.  Sweetened lime juice.  Sugar. Ice.  Simple.”  She smiles and the stars come out of the dark night.  “My mother’s favorite.”  She leans forward when the bar keep asks for her order.  The bosom of her dress falls ever so slightly forward.  I can’t quite see her nipples, but god knows I try.  She looks toward me.  “Aren’t you going to have anything?”  As if she doesn’t know I was looking.

“Another of these,” I say and let it go at that.

“Are you a friend of the bride or groom?” she asks.  She’s casually slipped her arm through mine and we’ve moved away from the crowd at the bar, back toward a corner.  The good-looking, tall guy is nowhere to be seen.  She lets her arm drop and glances around the room, then back at me.

“Groom,” I say.  “He’s in the same office and married the woman I dated for three years.”

She laughs.  “Really?”

“No, it was closer to two.”  She laughs again.

“Looks like we have something in common.”  She winks.  “My fiancé ran off with his ski instructor.”

“Was she cute?”

“He,” she deadpanned.  “Unlucky all ‘round.”

“Well, you’re in luck this time.”  I smile.  She takes a sip of her Gimlet and I focus on the slim fingers and bright red nails lightly holding the stem of the glass.

“Want to dance?” she murmurs, putting her drink politely on the small, white-linen covered table and reaching for my hand.”

The band, which happily plays everything from hip-hop, to fifties rock, to Mozart’s Klein Nacht Musik, is currently on a waltz theme. 

We waltz.  We chat.  The music changes to a very slow version of ‘ Save the Last Dance for Me,’ and her cheek almost touches mine.   I can feel the warmth.

The music stops.  “Well,’ she says finally, “This has been nice.”

From behind me I feel a tap on my shoulder.  I turn.  It’s the tall guy with the chiseled chin.

“Oh, hi, darling,” she says. “Time to go already?”

He smiles and nods.

“It was really good to meet you,” she says and shakes my hand, lightly.  Her fingers linger just a touch longer than they should.   He doesn’t seem to notice.

I watch them leave.  Just before she walks through the double doors, she pauses and doesn’t look back, but places her gently folded napkin on the round, waist high table.

The band is playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”  The Platters did it better.  There’s ice in my glass, but the liquor’s only a memory.

I wait a decent amount of time, to see if by some miracle she’s headed back into the ballroom.  Then, I wander toward the double doors and casually pick up the napkin and put it in my suit pocket without looking.

Tease me, please me.

No wonder she reminded me of the woman in the magazine. Shows nothing.  Promises everything.

Expressions to Avoid, says Mildred von Stickler

Today’s guest Blogger is Mildred von Stickler, a retired grammarian, bravely bearing up under the plague of stilted syntax in today’s clichéd conversations.  Mildred, as she likes to be called, in a bow to egalitarianism, has problems with what she sees as all too common American English.  By common she means plebeian, uneducated, faulty, and worthy of a blast of buckshot.  Her questions and statements spear the heart of the matter.  Enough introduction, and now on to Mildred von Sticker’s thoughts:

Failure is not an option.  What are the other options?  And why is failure not on the list? Shouldn’t it be?  Is failure always a bad thing? Failure to forget your wife’s birthday, failure to spend all your money, failure to thrash your neighbor’s dog when he poops on your lawn, failure to thrash your neighbor when he refuses to pick it up!  Are those not good and reasonable failures?  I say we stand tall for the benefits of failure and put failure back on the list!

Taking it to another level.  How many levels are there?  List them in order and please tell me what level I’m on. If I’m on the fifth floor and take the elevator to the third floor, am I not taking it to another level?  And how about levelheaded?  Perhaps a surgeon should take you to the next level.

The exact opposite.  I’ve never heard of an inexact opposite.  John is the exact opposite of Jerry.  But, how can John be the exact opposite of Jerry, if John is missing a few critical elements.  Perhaps the baldness and missing a few teeth, not to mention his vasectomy, may give you a few clues to ponder.   The exact same thing is an offshoot of tangled, unnecessary American English. The exact other thing? The same thing does very well by itself, or do you toss it in there because you stutter. John may the opposite of Jerry in many ways, but certainly not exact.

Free gifts.  Here’s your birthday present. I’ll send your bill in the mail.  And what if you don’t want the gift, free or not, Chlamydia being a prime example.  Acme Department Store and Dog Shelter wants to send you a free gift.  Why do they want my physical and email address.  If it’s free, just send me the damn gift.

The best cheery pie I’ve even eaten in my life.  Now if you’d said, that was the best appendectomy I’ve had in my life, I’d sense a good story coming my way.  Mine is the best wife I’ve had in my life is another good tale waiting in the wings.  Sometimes, even without the unneeded and over used in my life accompaniment I’m willing to listen to a good yarn, well told: “ It was the best sex I’ve had!”

Over the top.  Over the top of what?  Is under the bottom the exact opposite?   Can’t be.  Opposites cannot be the same or exact! Maybe it’s snowing over the top. Maybe I’m happy where I am. Over the top of what?

Have a good one!  All the ones I’ve got are pretty good, if not perfect.  Obviously you disagree, so where do I begin my search for better ones?  Please be more specific, but no fondling.  Just point me in the right direction!

Raising the bar.   What’s wrong with the bar just as it is?  Good drinks.  Reasonably priced.  I say lowering the bar makes much more sense, especially considering some of the patrons are handicapped. 

Serve up. Why do we say serve up with some things and not with others?  He served up a great hamburger.  And why won’t served or serve suffice?

However, Mildred von Sticker makes an exception for:  He served up a wonderful champagne and a voyage to Tahiti as a free gift. 

Where I’m at.  I hear this annoyance all the time, even in my own family. Where I am, works just fine and doesn’t sound like English wasn’t your first language, or your power of speech was taken down a level, or is under the top.

Last, but not least,” Mildred says, is the casual hyperbole, To die for!  It fascinates me the things people are willing to die for. Kitchen cabinets, a big television screen, broccoli casserole, and Depends. I raise my sights a bit higher than my waistline and someone else’s kitchen cabinets.  But, Depends might catch my attention.

I understand my friend, Mildred can be a little stiff and taxing, but I offer you the free gift of her comments, which are both over the top and taken to another level.  For Mildred, failure is never an option.

Old Bones of Poseidon

Old bones of Poseidon 

Bleached by sun,

Worn thin by sand and salt

What say you now, 

Long buried god of the sea?

Replaced by gods and 

Prophets whom you never knew.

Do salty tears cry from the grave?

Or do you mock those

Who cast down your spirit,

And left you unknown,

Unloved?

Does the sea still obey your

Harsh commands and express

Your rage in angry waves

That lash the shores and

Molest the arrogance

Of unbelievers?

Do you crush steel ships, 

As you did the ships of wood,

And carry sailors to their 

Deep and watery doom?

Are the white and brittle

Bones I see, yet more disguise

To hide your living soul?

Or have you lost your 

Grip on tides,

And only live in memories 

Carried on the salty wind?

Pork Chops and Tomato Gravy

Pork Chops and Tomato Gravy

Being a southern by birth and by nature and by God’s grace, I look on gravy as the crown jewel of cooking.  But, let’s look at it another way, as not just a southern thing, but a southern rendition of what the French call sauce, the Indians call curry, and the Latins call salsa.  Why should southerners have to take a back seat and damn near apologize for a delicious blend that adds flavor to any meal.

If you’re from the south, you grew up on your momma’s rice and gravy and if you’re not from the south, your taste buds need a get-up call!

Gravy is not just a concoction of fat, flour, milk, salt and pepper.  There’s redeye gravy, a simple blend of the juice and fat from pan-fried ham, and strong coffee.  But, the recipe for tomato gravy is going to take your taste buds on a joy ride!  And to top it off, it’s easy.

Ingredients:

4 Strips of bacon

1 Can diced tomatoes, undrained

1 Diced onion

4 Cloves garlic, thinly sliced

1 Heaping tablespoon flour

3-4 Pork Chops

Salt and pepper

Fry the bacon until crisp and set aside.  Pour off all the bacon fat but two tablespoon, but save the remainder.

Season the chops, then brown them in the same pan.  They do not need to be fully cooked.  After they are browned, set them aside.

Season the flour with salt and pepper.

Add more bacon fat if needed, and sauté the diced onion and sliced garlic. Push the onion and garlic to the edges of the pan and brown the flour until golden.

Add the diced tomatoes, juice and all and stir until well mixed.  Add the crumbled bacon and stir.

Nestle the chops in the tomato gravy and cook a few more minutes.

Serve the gravy over rice or mashed potatoes, accompanied by ears of corn and a salad or fried vegetables.

Voilà!  I’ll make a southerner out of you yet!!

A Single Spy by William Christie

A Single Spy

The New York Times called A Single Spy, “A panoramic, smart, hugely enjoyable thriller.”  Even so, it sat on my ‘to read’ list for quite a while.  These days I go for quick, spicy reads and at almost 500 pages A Single Spy threatened to keep me occupied through the spring and into the summer.

But, I do like World War II spy stories, so eventually I plowed in and found I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough.  It’s one of those well told tales that grip you so hard, that when you’re starving and your significant other calls “Soup’s on,” you beg for a few more minutes to finish the chapter, but then you lie and sneak in another chapter.

The author, William Christie, must have done an amazing amount of research to authentically reach into the life of a boy from the desert, both an orphan and thief, being threatened and recruited by the Soviets to be infiltrated into Nazi Germany as a spy.  Alexis Ivanovich Smirnov must accomplish mission after daring mission, while wading through the dark and muddy waters of suspicion and intrigue, with his life at risk with every step. 

Christie captures the intense action of the underbelly of war, with chiseled, indelible characters and a never ending string of secret plots and fast paced action, with Alexis living on the edge at every turn.

Stalin and Hitler, two of the most vicious and destructive creatures in human history, created tightly controlled regimes, build on cruelty, lies, and egocentric ambition.  Imagine being placed in the middle, where no one can be trusted and mere suspicion can end your life. Christie places Alexis in the midst of these almost unimaginably tumultuous societies.  His sense of detail and authenticity is so razor sharp that the reader is no longer reading, but living in the midst of danger, with every decision testing your courage and your humanity.

I suddenly found that 500 pages was not too long, but too short.  The pages flew by me like leaves in an autumn wind.  Twists and turns and a streaming plot kept me entranced from start to finish.  I didn’t just read about Alexis, I was right there beside him for every moment of mind numbing action.

Like World War II novels and well told spy stories?  Try on A Single Spy; you’ll find it’s a perfect fit.

Chili in a Hurry

Chili in a Hurry!

Everyone has got a chili recipe, some carried over from longtime family traditions.  I never mess with arguing against family traditions, in fact my family has a few….well, more than a few. Some of them I refuse to discuss. 

But, chili is special.  Sometimes chili-disagreements result in angry words, fisticuffs and gunfire. Cooks in Texas, claiming to be the home of ‘real’ chili, tell me chili does not have onions or beans, and when they say it, I hear the sounds of pistols cocking.  If I don’t argue, they continue to tell me that real chili is made with chunks of beef, cooked until the chunks fall apart and dang near melt.  I tell them, I’ve made chili exactly like that and it was heavenly!   Sometimes they offer to buy me a Lone Star Beer and sometimes they squint and say, “You ain’t from around here, are ya?”  It’s not really a question; it’s an accusation. 

Unfortunately, I did not have the honor of being born a Texan, and can’t be expected to faithfully abide by all the rules enforced between the Red River and the Rio Grande.  I beg forgiveness that my delicious quick chili is not only made with beans and onions and tomatoes, but I also make it with…..please don’t shoot me…..hamburger.

If this ticks you off as much as finding another man’s underwear in your wife’s closet, please do not read farther.  It ain’t my underwear and furthermore, this chili is delicious!

This chili is a Quickie-In-The-Kitchen, not a lingering romance with the cuisine south of the border, but sometimes a quickie does the trick.

Chili in a Hurry

2 lbs medium lean hamburger (82-90%)

1 large onion, diced

5 cloves of garlic, sliced and diced

4 tablespoons chili powder (or more)

1 can beef stock (or more if the chili gets too thick)

2 died chipotle chilies (or pickled jalapeños, chopped)

   (chipotle has a smoky flavor, so if you don’t use chipotles, add a      dash or two of smoked paprika.)

1 can diced tomatoes with basil, garlic or other seasonings - undrained

1 can Mexican style diced tomatoes, or regular diced tomatoes and add

   more jalapeños – undrained

1 can dark kidney beans (or other beans of your choice)

1 heaping teaspoon masa or finely ground cornmeal

Several splashes of apple cider vinegar

Fry hamburger in a large pot, breaking up the meat as much as possible.  When the pink is gone, add the onions, garlic, and chili powder.  Stir and cook for two minutes or until onions are slightly wilted.  Now add beef stock, chilies, tomatoes, beans and a splash or two of vinegar.  Cook for 30 minutes over medium heat.  Careful not to let the chili boil dry. Add more beef stock if needed.

For presentation and taste, I sprinkled grated cheddar and chopped onion that had been marinated a few minutes in seasoned rice vinegar.

Served with crunchy fried tortillas.  I also oiled, salted, and baked fresh carrots and sliced green and yellow bell peppers. (400ºF)

For a final touch, I served peach cobbler for dessert, using my blueberry cobbler, no stir recipe, substituting chopped fresh peaches for blueberries: No Stir that's my cobbler

Now, grab a Mexican beer or two – I think I mean six packs.  This chili goes against several centuries of Mexican and Texan tradition….OK, call me a rebel.  But, this chili is so good, you’ll join the revolution!