The Write Way Home

Thursday, August 31, 2006

Tick On My Torso

Ticks were foreign to me until I moved to the South. Not that they don't have ticks up North; I'm sure they do. It's just that the little boogers enjoy a swelled population down here, a large percentage of which lives in the woods behind our house.

So in all these years I've never had one on my body. I've pulled them off of Eric and the children, sprayed various chemicals on them when they dared to hatch on the screens in my windows, and watched my kids pluck them off of each other like a pack of orangutan.

Then, yesterday morning, I discovered a Dark Round Circle on my torso. I ran to the bedside, where Eric was just emerging from his nightly coma.

"Eric! Theresatickonme!"

Somewhere from the depths of his barely conscious brain, Eric knew that I needed him to de-tick me. He actually got out of bed immediately, squinted at my torso ("Yeah, that's a tick..."), and loped into the bathroom after me, ready for tick extraction duty.

Honestly? I had to steel myself mentally. It doesn't hurt to have a tick removed, and it doesn't take long. The problem is that I know too much about ticks. I know how they work, burrowing their nasty little vampire heads into living flesh in order to suck the blood from larger, much more important organisms that don't deserve such an affront.

I had to tell myself not to get sick, pass out, or drop dead. I could feel those tenacious tick legs fighting against the tweezers; I could see, in my mind, the Bug From Hell, unwilling to give up his parasitic feast. Eric had no idea how tightly I was holding onto that towel rack.

Fifty-seven dreadful seconds later, it was all over. I was tick-free.

"It's about the same size as the one that was on me the other day," Eric said, holding up the tweezers for my inspection.

"I don't want to look at it! I'm not looking at it!" I had barely survived the procedure without puking; I wasn't going to risk going over the edge by actually examining the ugly little creature.

Holy cow, tick bites are itchy. And ugly. I'm glad this one is hiding beneath my shirt. I was up in the middle of the night last night scratching the stupid tick bite.

Okay, I'm only mildly traumatized. But if Eric thinks this little incident is going to in any way endear me to his dream of taking a Family Camping Trip, he is deluded. Ticks are only one example of the thousands of reasons (all of them sporting more than four legs) why I refuse to go camping.

I'm a weanie and that's all there is to it.

Monday, August 28, 2006

Love Is...Having My Own, Personal Hairstylist

I have no intention of embarrassing my husband; in fact, I've been vacillating all day between the "should" and "shouldn't" of posting this article.

Yet my heart begs its sharing.

You see, my darling Eric decided he was going to take me out last night -- except he wasn't going to tell me where.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said, "and then we'll leave."

"Well, where are we going?"

"Somewhere." He had that cute, irresistible smile, so I didn't press him.

"Change your shirt," he said as he was preparing to hop into the shower.

"Change my shirt?" I had to remind myself not to shriek because, after all, my darling was taking me out on a surprise date. "Why do I have to change my shirt?"

"Well, you might want to put on something fresh," Eric said.

"Something fresh??"

And then it dawned on me. I was wearing The Brown Shirt That Eric Hates. You remember the one -- his mouth dropped in silent disdain when I took my jacket off at his office Christmas party and he saw what I was wearing underneath. Yeah, that shirt.

"You really hate this shirt, don't you?" I said. But I laughed -- and changed my shirt.

"What if you take your hair down?" Eric said as he dried himself.

Okay, this was getting to be a bit much. I didn't remember Eric's ever being so particular about my clothing and hair.

"Well, I've had my hair up all day," I said. "It's not going to look right if I take it down."

"Give it a try," Eric said.

Fine. I unclipped my hair and let it fall. It looked absolutely, positively horrible.

Eric sized up the situation. Then came the best part of all.

"Here," he said, taking my brush in hand.

I stood in mute disbelief as he began to brush my hair. Now, perhaps hairbrushing is a regular part of some people's relationships -- but not ours. Eric has never been the hair brushing type. I, on the other hand, could sit in a chair all day long while someone brushes my hair.

I'm sure that must signal some deeply-buried psychological quirk, but I'm not going to go there.

My hair was being uncooperative, so Eric wet it down -- gently, as though I were a three-year-old waiting patiently for a smooth ponytail.

Then -- and by this time, I was sure that someone had either drugged Eric or swapped brains with him -- he reached for the hairdryer and started styling my hair.

I didn't mind that my hair wasn't parted the way I like it. I didn't even mind when my earring got caught in the brush and almost tore my earlobe from its place. The whole experience was Too Good To Be True, and I was soaking it up like a dehydrated sponge.

"Do you like it?" he asked when he'd finished.

I giggled. Maybe it was because my husband had just styled my hair for the first time in eighteen years of marriage, or maybe it was because I suddenly felt like a twenty-year-old.

"Yes, I do," I said. It wasn't so much that I liked it because I liked it; it was more that I liked it because Eric had done it for me. He actually got my naturally-wavy-and-fairly-unmanageable hair to look sleek. To me, that was nothing short of amazing.

I could have gone to the moon and back that evening without batting an eyelash. My sweet husband had just set the stage for a magical date -- and he knew it.

We went to The Cheesecake Factory and had a glass of wine and some spinach-cheese dip. (Despite its name, The Cheesecake Factory has the worst excuse for cheesecake that you will ever encounter; but since we didn't order any, I suppose that's rather moot.)

It was a lovely evening. Enchanting, even.

Call me weird (most people already have), but there was something indescribably precious about having my hair done by my True Love.

Who knows -- maybe next time he'll give me a pedicure. Or shave my legs.

Or scrub the shower stall. Yes, that would definitely send me.

Ain't love grand?

Friday, August 25, 2006

Quotes For the Weekend

1. SPENCER, whilst driving down the road in our minivan:

"I'm so glad that God never gets sick." Pause. "God doesn't even have any bones!"

2. MAGGIE, at the dinner table:

"Daddy, why do you breathe so much when you chew?"

I'll spend my weekend pondering these for sure.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Housedresses and Granny Panties

Okay.

I fully understand how the "sell your name to thirty-seven other companies as soon as you've placed your first order with us" works. In fact, most of the time I can offer a fairly good guess at why, exactly, I've received the latest, unsolicited catalogue.

La Redoute, for instance, is owned by the same company as Chadwicks. Their catalogue ended up in my mailbox because I've ordered numerous times from Chadwicks over the years. That's a no-brainer.

L.L. Bean arrives every Christmas season because I'm a long-time customer of Lands' End. I've yet to place a single order with L.L. Bean, but every year I receive their catalogue, notwithstanding.

Today, however, is a stand-alone day in the History of Mystery Catalogues. For today I received a catalogue with pages full of clothing and shoes designed for Very Old Women.

No, I'm not exaggerating. In fact, I actually checked the mailing label to make sure it had my name on it, instead of the address of the nearest nursing home.

There it was: Mrs. Jill Boehme. And I'm still trying to figure out why the heck I received it.

We're talking Clothing For the Eighty-Plus Lady With a Large Pension. These aren't five-dollar mumus and K-Mart castaways; no, indeed. It's more like $29.95 for a Paisley Tunic Blouse and $24.95 for a Rainbow Stripe Shirt.

This is not just my clothing snob emerging -- really, it's not. I've just received a catalogue of clothes that I might be inclined to wear about forty years from now, if I'm desperate and half blind.

Want proof? Here are some of the offing, straight from the pages:

Pull-on Pants: Stretch polyester gabardine holds its shape, resists wrinkles.

Moon Boots: Flexible, skid-resistant sole helps you walk safely indoors or out.

Comfort-Leg Panty: Its easy-fitting leg is 100% elastic free -- even has side vents.

Therapeutic Support Knee Hi: Graduated compression nylon-Lycra has easy-on two-way stretch.

Geometric-Print Lounger: Amply gathered for comfort galore.

Flannel Check Snapcoat: Cozy as can be in your choice of four beautiful colors.

Nylon Culotte Snip-It Slip: Great with split skirts.

'Nuff said.

You know, it's just not fair. Turning forty wasn't fun, but I came to grips with it and embraced the fact that I have just entered My Prime. Then I get slammed with a geriatric mail-order catalogue.

I'm not ready for granny panties and support hose. In fact, Lord willing, I'll never be ready. Who says grandmothers can't wear low-rise briefs? Where is it written that all women past the age of sixty must start wearing housedresses?

My mother wouldn't be caught dead in a housedress, and she's pushing seventy.

I mean...moon boots?

I think I'll keep the catalogue tucked away somewhere, to remind myself what not to turn into a few decades from now.

And if I start showing up at the breakfast table in a Floral Patio Dress and Ashland Stretch Shoes...well, Eric has my permission to put me out of my misery.

Immediately.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Congratulations, Mrs. Boehme, It's a....

NOVEL!

(What did you think I was going to say?)

Having arrived at its completion on August 22 and weighing in at a healthy 76,000 words, my First Draft is now going to sleep for a while. All First Drafts, you know, need time to "age" -- like a good cheese or a fine Merlot.

I'm not going to sleep, though. It's on to other things for a week or two. Then I'll pull out my beloved First Draft, start reading, exclaim, "EWWWW!" and immediately begin the first round of revisions.

Sounds fickle, but it's absolutely necessary.

Poor Spencer. This morning he proclaimed, "I won't be bored anymore, now that you've finished your book." As if I'm personally responsible for the child's level of enthusiasm on any given day! I had to break it to him gently that Mommy is actually going to keep writing...that Mommy is a writer, don't you know.

Honestly. The child is HOMESCHOOLED. We spend a lot of time together -- honest! Yet he tends to feel oh-so-neglected right when I'm in the middle of an astounding independent clause or breathtaking final sentence of a chapter.

I don't think he understands the concept of being published, either. When I told him that he would be able to read my novel all by himself in a couple of years, he said, "But you will have to print out a new copy. One of the chapters got coffee spilled all over it."

Writing wouldn't be half so fun if I weren't the mother of four amazing, amusing children.

Time to grab a chocolate chip cookie and get to work. Thank you for sharing my happiness!

Monday, August 21, 2006

Clothing on Clearance and Boxes of Books

Nothing makes my day like a package on the front porch.

Mind you, this doesn't happen too often in my life. And most of the time, it's not a surprise gift or unexpected delivery; it's something I ordered myself -- usually not for myself -- and for which I've been counting down the days until its arrival.

Well, this is going to be the Week of Arrivals in my life. The money that we blessedly received back on our vacation downpayment was largely put to use for much-needed homeschooling supplies. I've already received two full grammar curricula and an Algebra CD-ROM. But the fun-on-the-front-porch (or in the mailbox, as the case may be), has just begun.

This morning my Lands' End, dirt-cheap-on-the-overstocks-page order arrived via UPS. I love the particular ring of the doorbell that means the UPS man is throwing something by the doormat. I love the "UPS brown" of the big, noisy truck that's parked by my driveway. So naturally I was brimming with glee as I called my three elder children to the foyer to receive their pre-season winter items: a long-sleeved "T" for each girl, a striped sweater for tall, tall Maggie, and the coolest corduroy jacket for Jonathan (yes, he loves it -- how good am I, buying stuff for my fourteen-year-old that he actually likes?!).

For the remainder of this week, I'll be keeping watch at the front door for a spelling book, a Latin course, a tankini (that one's for me), a ninth grade Bible curriculum, and two all-natural palm wax pillar candles.

Oh, and one huge-n-heavy box containing our drawing and construction paper for the year.

How will I contain my excitement?

Seriously, things like this make me feel like I'm experiencing a mini-Christmas. I hate "stuff;" you know, the things that waste your money and clutter your life. But this isn't "stuff." Aside from the odd bathing suit and candle, we're talking about BOOKS! And there is little in life that compares to the sight and smell of a brand new book.

I'm really not as "high maintenance" as my dear husband enjoys making me out to be. Simple things in life bring me great pleasure. Really, they do.

Okay, so my coffee has to be freshly ground and my sheets need to be one hundred percent cotton. But that's not a lot to ask in the grand scheme of things. Is it?

Time to check my inbox for another delivery confirmation email. Happy Monday!

Friday, August 18, 2006

Tada!

The printer is whirring...the chapter is finished.

I'm off to refresh my glass of Chardonnay and hand out the two fresh copies of Chapter 26 to my eagerly-awaiting daughters (yes, it's true -- neither one can wait for the other to finish first, so I often print two copies of each new chapter for them).

Then, it's two episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. If you've always assumed that fantasy authors are inherently geeky, well.......you're right.

Of course, I'm married to a geek who doesn't even like fantasy, so the correlation is weak at best.

Thank you for your support. You'll all be there at your local book signings, right? Even if we're all senior citizens by then, yes?

Good. I knew I could count on you.

Have an oustanding weekend!

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Organization 101

No, I didn't make the sign; nor did I put the basket there.

Can you guess which one of my children did this?

Wonders never cease, I suppose. I mean, ours is one of the most divergent households you could set foot in. Normally the "holding it all together and actually checking to see what time it is" falls to me. But when it comes to returning library books...well, I fall piteously short.

Actually, I hate library books. They smell bad and they have to be returned, for goodness sake!

Last week I took all four chickens to the Friends of the Library Annual Used Book Sale at our local branch. The selection was as poor as I'd expected it to be, but you never know when you might unearth a treasure at one of these things, right? So I persisted in perusing the rows of castoff books.

Spencer was not impressed. After we'd been there for, oh, five minutes or so, he announced in a particularly loud voice, "I like Borders better."

Well, yeah, so do I! But I didn't really want to broadcast that to the poor Friends of the Library volunteers sitting at the "pay here" table.

We ended up hitting the library shelves instead; hence, the Golden Library Basket in our second floor hallway.

Just a bit of a blog diversion while I continue to wrap up Chapter 26.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for all of your wonderful, encouraging comments (and cheers!!). All of my comments come directly to my inbox, so it's been lovely receiving such a steady trickle of "warm happies" while I'm writing.

You're the best!

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

This Is It, Folks: The Big Climactic Scene

I meant to spend some time on a thoughtful blog entry today, but I can't. You'll have to forgive me.

You see, I'm in the midst of writing the Big One; namely, the climax of my novel that causes the reader to grip the edge of his seat, stay up past his bedtime, and exclaim, "Oh! Ahh! Yikes! Zowie!" throughout the entire thing.

After this, it's simply the denouement and a tidy ending. Whew. I can hardly believe it.

What started as a fleeting vision for publishing an online serial fantasy has turned into a Grand Passion -- a young adult novel for which I can barely contain my excitement.

Big Climactic Scenes are not to be taken lightly. Everything has to build toward that final gasp; all the loose ends need to be knotted securely together; it all has to make sense and take your breath away.

No small feat, that.

I can't believe I'm attempting this without any chocolate on hand.

At any rate, I could use your cheers, your pats-on-the-back, your happy thoughts, your support. I know, I know; you have no idea what it is you're cheering for. Some day, you'll hold the first edition in your hand (signed, of course), and you'll say to yourself, "Ah, yes. I cheered for this. I was part of its birth!"

Thank you all. I hope your day is as passion-driven as mine has been.

Back to Chapter 26...

Labels: writing

Monday, August 14, 2006

And To Think I Was Actually Grumbling...

And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose. -- Romans 8:28

Eric has reminded me over and over and over again that I really need to learn to view the glass as half full. That's always been a stretch for me. Despite my faith in God and my overall exuberance for life, I'm too much of a realist (or, in Eric's view, a pessimist) for my own good.

Granted, sometimes it's worked in my favor. Years ago, when Jonathan was just a year old, I suffered a miscarriage. I knew I was losing the baby; I knew there was nothing we could do. Yet Eric, always the optimist, looked at the doctor and said, "But her temperature is still up, so doesn't that mean maybe...?"

Dear Eric. He wanted everything to be okay, despite every possible bit of evidence to the contrary. My realism, on the other hand, told me that it was over; the baby was gone. I knew my temperature was still up become the hormones were dropping slowly, not suddenly. It was my depth of knowledge about the situation that gave me that assurance -- not a bout of pessimism.

At any rate, I will admit that, for the most part, Eric's sense of "the glass is half full" is certainly more of a blessing than a curse. This weekend is a prime example.

You listened to me bellyache about our spoiled anniversary plans. Several of you reminded me that Eric and I would be able to enjoy our special day no matter where we were or what we did together. (And Ken, the offer to babysit-if-you-were-closer is deeply appreciated.)

Well, you were right.

Eric and I decided that, in lieu of our night-in-a-bed-and-breakfast, we would celebrate our anniversary all weekend long with a series of "little outings." We kicked it off with a Friday night date at our favorite pub in downtown Franklin. Saturday included a trip to the furniture store and subsequent purchase of the Very Last Remaining wine cabinet that we'd been fawning over for months. Sunday began with worship at church -- just the two of us -- and included shopping, glasses of wine, and, later, candlelight and champagne on the screened-in porch.

Know what? We had a really special weekend. No, it was more than that: it was awesome.

Something happened even before our official "Anniversary Weekend" began, though. Eric received a check in the mail from the owners of the condo that we had put a downpayment on at the shore. We already expected to receive half our deposit back. What we didn't expect was the check itself, which was for the entire amount of the downpayment, minus the realtor's fee.

Funny how I'd forgotten my earnest prayer to the Lord just a couple of weeks earlier, for favor and grace. Funny how He answered the prayer, despite my having forgotten uttering it. What had I prayed? Two things: One, that the owners would be blessed with someone to rent the week that we had given up, so that they wouldn't lose money; and two, that we would receive our money back.

Yep. It's been a weekend of a complete outpouring of love and blessing...and the turning of two "bad situations" into good ones. We didn't get to take a trip to the ocean this year, but we received a precious reminder of God's love for us. We didn't get to spend a night in our favorite local bed and breakfast, but we had endless hours of Splendid Time Together, simply reveling in the "being together" that has been the hallmark of our marriage for the past eighteen years.

It was my husband's optimism about the weekend's potential that brought me to a place of, "Okay, we can do this -- and it will be wonderful." How thankful I am that his glass remains half full.

Want to hear about my favorite moment? I'd already brewed the coffee on Sunday morning, when suddenly Eric announced to the nearest child, "I'm taking my bride out for breakfast." His bride! I felt about twenty-two years old just then.

I think I will always be Eric's "bride." And I think I'll add a little water to my glass the next time it's looking empty.

Friday, August 11, 2006

A Sign

Office doors don't do any good if everybody keeps barging in, anyway.

I tend to get a little...um...frustrated when strings of children interrupt my afternoon writing time. Most of the time they remember to knock, but the sound of their little knuckles rap-rapping on my door doesn't do much to endear them to me. I'm known for snarling at these times.

The other day I was to the point of desperation. I was on a roll, plunging passionately ahead with the novel, and the interruptions were driving me to distraction. Jonathan received the brunt of my irritation, but he rose above his own frustration and said,

"Do you want me to make a sign for your door?"

Wow -- what a neat kid! I immediately accepted his offer. I've had child-written signs on my door in the past, and they work. Maybe it's because the signs are made by my children, with sweet little smilies or cute messages that announce how busy Mommy is. But whatever the reason, I'm all for them.

Jonathan grabbed a sheet of paper and a red marker and left my office. A couple of minutes later he announced that the sign was up. He wanted me to come and see it, of course, so I popped into the hallway to read the sign that had been taped to my door:

Do not disturb! Violators will be punished!!!

Not exactly the sentiment I'd had in mind. Still, what did I expect from a fourteen-year-old? The grin on his face was priceless, and I knew the sign had to stay right where it was.

It's still there.

And you know what? I've finished two entire chapters since then. I think the sign may become a permanent fixture on my office door.

I love teenagers. I really do!

Thursday, August 10, 2006

No Ball For Cinderella

I never read blogs that are nothing more than a series of bellyaches about the trials and disappointments of somebody's life. Who needs to hear the constant complaints of a discontent blogger who has nothing positive to say about anything? Not me.

Okay, now that I've gotten that off my chest -- I'm going to bellyache.

It's been a bummer of a summer. We had to cancel our vacation -- that means two years in a row with no sight or smell of the ocean. It also means that it will be a minimum of nine months until I see my parents again.

Yes, we got half our deposit back on the condo. Actually, that was a tremendous blessing, because I needed that money for homeschooling purposes.

But the feeling of having invested even a small amount of money on a vacation that never occurred has left Eric and me feeling a bit, well, high and dry. Deflated.

My dear husband did an amazing thing, though. He booked a room at a bed and breakfast for our anniversary this Sunday. He lined up an overnight babysitter and set the whole thing up -- secretly. I can't tell you how I shrieked with delight when he revealed the surprise. Things like this just don't happen a lot, you know? Don't get me wrong -- if we had the means, Eric would take me everywhere he could at any opportunity: San Francisco, London, the Caribbean. But we have neither the means nor sufficient childcare for such ventures. So a surprise, overnight date at a beloved bed and breakfast that's only fifteen minutes from our home is a treasure, to say the least.

Last night, our babysitter backed out. Our plans are, once again, foiled.

No doubt we'll have a nice dinner somewhere and maybe laugh together at a few stupid wedding photographs (yes, they're stupid). But, oh. What a disappointment.

We've talked about the possibility of going anyway. Jonathan is fourteen, after all, and we trust him. It's not like our kids are in Pull-ups and toddler shoes. But I don't know. Going on a date is one thing, but leaving the chickens overnight without an adult? I don't think I can do that. Not yet.

So, my Fairy Godmother's wand exploded, and the pumpkin turned into soup instead of a fine coach. This Cinderella's not going anywhere on Sunday night.

But she still has her Prince Charming. And he's by far the best part of the deal.

Monday, August 07, 2006

Mac-n-Cheese, Raw Baby Carrots, and a Nightcrawler

It really did happen.

I opened the refrigerator and reached for the glass bowl of raw baby carrots that was sitting on the top shelf. Before my hand actually made contact with the bowl, I noticed a dark...something...in with the carrots.

I leaned forward and squinted through the etched floral design on the bowl's surface. There was definitely something very-not-orange in there. It was brown. And long. And slender.

And moving.

Yes, indeed. There among the feisty little carrots lay a live nightcrawler (a.k.a. butt-ugly earthworm).

Now, housing nightcrawlers in my refrigerator is not an unusual occurrence. We often buy the little buggers at Wal-Mart so that the kiddies can feed them to their toads. And, of course, nightcrawlers are a staple for any avid fisherman.

And yes, there was a container of nightcrawlers in the refrigerator when the carrot invasion occurred.

But the lid was on. And the worm container was two shelves down.

Of course I immediately figured that Jonathan had played one of his oh-so-charming pranks, and I called him in for questioning.

He found the situation highly amusing, but he was not the culprit.

The girls were horrified; they had played no part in it, either.

So how the heck did a six-inch nightcrawler get into my bowl of raw carrots?

No, don't answer that. I don't really want to hear about the characteristics of mutant earthworms that can squeeze beneath plastic lids and end up inside plastic-wrap-covered bowls of raw vegetables.

Maybe he was just hungry.

The carrots flew directly into the garbage disposal. And as far as I know, the nightcrawler flew directly into the stomach of the nearest toad.

Ugh.

The whole reason I don't garden is the bugs-n-worms out there. It's so not fair that I have to deal with creatures nestled among my store-bought produce.

I'm never eating raw carrots again.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Big, Exciting, Tax-Free Shopping Trip

I've lived in Tennessee for eighteen years, and this is the first time I've ever heard of the "tax vacation."

Tennessee doesn't have a state tax, you see, so we pay nine-and-a-quarter percent on everything -- everything -- that we purchase. Food, clothing, tickets to the movie theatre...everything.

So once a year, for three days, we're granted "tax free" shopping on clothing, school supplies (including computers!) and shoes.

Guess who wrote it on her calendar and planned ahead for a big school supply and sneakers-for-the-girls shopping trip on August 4th?

Guess who's exhausted?

It was bad enough that our minivan wasn't finished with its break repairs before closing yesterday, so I started the day out with no car. Eric and I squeezed three children into the back seat of his BMW and drove to the Toyota dealer to pick up a nifty little Corolla for the day.

If driving a brand new car didn't make shopping fun, nothing would.

We hit Target, WalMart, Hobby Lobby, and the dance store (where I was informed, after my purchase, that ballet shoes were not included in the tax break). The "new car" smell was beginning to really bother us as we headed toward home.

Silly me. It wasn't a "new car" smell at all. It was the smell of an entire bottle of Windex that had spilled in the trunk while we were driving.

Hear me. An entire bottle -- all over the trunk of a brand new rental car.

"What are you going to do?" Maggie shrieked.

Actually, I'm going to return the Corolla this afternoon and act like nothing happened. What else can I do? I'm not going to stand out in my garage with a hairdryer and blow the Windex out of the trunk. And it's colorless -- there's no actual stain. It's just...wet. Wet and a little...soapy.

I'm too tired to care.

Oh, and it just got better. It's storming out there. I'm now going to go return my Windex-soaked rental car in the middle of a torrential downpour.

Somebody had better hand me a glass of very nice Chardonnay this evening.

Still, I'm awfully happy with my eighty-eight-cent markers and tax-free sneakers. I get so used to mentally adding ten percent to everything I purchase that today was certainly a nice break.

I'm off to trade in a Windexed Corolla for a smelly old Sienna. Enjoy your weekend!

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Since When Do Lima Beans Molt?

I thought I'd be an Earth Mama and cook up some lima beans the old fashioned way. The bag of dried beans cost only sixty-nine cents, and I figured it couldn't be any more difficult to cook limas than it is to cook black beans or split peas.

At 7:00 in the morning, I sorted and rinsed the lima beans and whapped them into a large pot of cool water. (Everyone knows that you have to soak legumes so that they don't make your intestines explode.) Eight hours of soaking, two hours of cooking, and we'd have an earthy, homemade side dish.

About ten minutes after I'd placed the beans on the counter, I took a quick peek at them. The outsides of the beans looked as though they'd been exposed to a mild acid -- they were crinkled, peeling a bit from the bean bodies. Not only that, but the beans themselves appeared to be in the process of splitting open.

Odd, thought I. But then, what did I really know about dried lima beans? I'd just let them do their thing, and cook them up according to the directions on the bean bag.

Later that afternoon, I approached the pot of beans in preparation for a final rinse before cooking. It looked as though they had been partially digested. Now, I've never particularly liked lima beans in the first place, and this bean metamorphosis was beginning to make me feel slightly nauseated.

Not to be daunted by mutant lima beans, I flipped the little boogers into a colander, gave them a good shower, and returned them to the pot with some fresh water. A few minutes later, they were bubbling pleasantly on the stove.

That's when I noticed the molting.

Rising to the surface of the boiling water, along with the bean foam, were dozens of clear, empty lima bean skins. Having been liberated from the heavy beans, the skins were dancing around like nobody's business, begging for my attention.

It looked like a potful of cicada shells.

By now, my throat was beginning to close. I grabbed a fork and a spoon and began to lift out as many of the nasty skins as I could catch. It's no small miracle that I didn't scald myself. When I was finished, there was a three-inch-high pile of dead lima beans skins on my kitchen counter.

If I had come upon them in a dark room, I wouldn't be here to tell the story.

It was clear that I hadn't captured all of the molted skins, but a few quick stirs with a wooden spoon kind of hid them among the boiling beans. I turned down the heat and went upstairs to check my email. Anything to get away from those lima beans.

Later, my return to the kitchen was seasoned with a distinctly scorched odor. Yep, you guessed it -- the skinless lima beans had congealed and burned themselves to the bottom of my best pot. The unburned part had turned into a sort of lima bean paste. With skin bits sticking out.

I threw the entire mess into the sink and doused it with hot water. The relief of knowing I wasn't going to have to serve those molted limas to my family was immeasurable.

The glass of white wine helped, too.

As for me and lima beans -- our fragile relationship is now broken beyond repair. The canned ones are disgusting; the frozen ones are unbearable; the dried ones molt.

If there are any Lima Bean Experts out there who can tell me what the heck went wrong, I'm all ears. But don't expect me to try cooking them again. Ever.

Foods that molt are not welcomed in my kitchen.

: Name: Jill; Location: United States

I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....