Homemade pinto beans, lightly mashed and cooked in an entire bulb of Georgian Crystal garlic, poblano peppers, sweet corn, and roasted Amish paste tomatoes, stuffed inside corn tortillas with jack cheese, smothered with a cilantro cream sauce and creme fraiche, then baked for half an hour. Served with real Spanish rice, baked in my big cast iron skillet.
I don’t think I have words for how delicious this mess on my plate tasted.
of how many posts, emails, status updates, and texts I’ve written and deleted before posting or sending today.
Cause: Read well-thought out, original, controversial post
Effect: Brain stimulated and challenged
Cause: Read comments to said post
Effect: Everyone is an idiot and humanity must die die die
Yep. That’s about the way it goes.
The river of humanity is so polluted.
So, which high-fructose corn syrup, GMO wheat, and hydrogenated oil outfit should I order our pizza from tonight? I’m too tired to cook now.
What I don’t get is that people complain all the time that folks using food assistance don’t buy the “right kind of food,” what they deem “healthy.” You’re trying to change that and suddenly buying whole, healthy food is wrong? WHAT?
And you know what? If one more hillbilly conservative white male says to me that he doesn’t feed his family expensive organic food, so what gives somebody on food stamps that his tax dollars pay for* the right to buy expensive organic food, I’m…
…oh right. I’m not allowed to do that because I represent the market. I’m only allowed to present the facts and try to disengage without a scene.
I mean, dude. Nobody is stopping you from making healthier choices for your family except you. If you can afford to eat well and still choose to put chemical and hormone laden prepackaged food on your children’s plates, then I don’t even know what to say to you except for the first thing I wanted to say, which is wow, you really are as stupid as you sound.
I can say that, right?
It doesn’t matter what I say though, because people like this just hate poor people. Period. They don’t want them to get any kind of a hand up. They think that if one person abuses the system, then everyone abuses the system. They think that any kind of social justice is a dirty concept. They’d better pray they never need to stand in that line to fill out those papers so they can put food in their stomachs is all I’m saying.
*and why is it always assumed that anyone who receives SNAP benefits has never paid a dime of taxes in their lives?
I really don’t care to listen to anything more you have to say because you lost me the minute you let me know that you don’t believe in food justice.
You apparently can’t imagine a world in which you might need assistance in order to feed your children. I’m pretty sure a huge portion of our population thought the same thing just last year, but I’m also pretty sure they’re damn grateful they were able to receive the assistance they qualified for when they lost their jobs, their homes, their vehicles, and their middle class status.
Don’t worry, pride goes down real well with a glass of red wine.
Oh, wait. You can’t purchase that with SNAP benefits.
do-over replied to your post: A kiss for my inner child
What did Chris say?
Hahahah so funny you should ask. I was going to add this piece to that post, but it just didn’t fit the tone, you know? He was sweet and comforting and gave me a wonderful long hug and told me he’s proud of me for following my heart. Then he said I should prepare for the possibility that my dad’s already dead and that his wife just hasn’t told any of us because she wants to keep collecting his pension.
Ladies and gentlemen, my husband, the world’s greatest conspiracy theorist ever.
Last night I told Chris about the card I sent to my father. I don’t know why I told the internet before I told him. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did that because it wouldn’t involve an actual conversation. I wouldn’t have to answer questions or explain my thinking. I could just say it out loud, have a little acknowledgement and move on. Except it’s really hard to move on.
I think a big piece of this underlying anxiety this weekend stemmed from the fact that this message that I sent might never elicit a response, and that for all my bluster about having no expectations, there’s still this little kid inside of me who is devastated that her daddy left her. He’s been leaving her since the day he found out she existed. He is still leaving her, over and over and over again.
She and I have been spending quite a lot of time just sitting and facing each other over the last few days. I’m trying to invent ways to wrap my arms around her so I can pull her close and rock us both gently. She’s really such a great kid. I’m so lucky to have her.
but I’m having a hard time shaking the bad feelings I absorbed at yesterday’s market. I took a gamble on something and it turned out to be a mistake. The way people (customers and even some vendors) reacted, you would think that I’ve just been running the market into the ground all season. On top of that, a few folks are really angry with me about a new program at the market, as if it’s this new thing I’ve sprung on them, even though we’ve been talking about it for over a year, and I’ve been giving them all updates monthly.
After the market I came home and tried to take my usual cat nap, but even though I sort of dozed off, I saw angry faces in my mind’s eye. Those faces have been in the background all day today, too.
I have this sick feeling in my stomach and I can’t seem to dissolve it. It doesn’t belong to me. I’ve just sponged up a bunch of people’s (mostly strangers) misplaced emotional gunk. I need someone to squeeze me out and hang me up to dry.
This is ridiculous.
If you have the chance to see David Wax Museum, do it. Those kids play their hearts out. Man, this night. Wow.
Waiting to see The Low Anthem five rows back at the Kent Stage. Podunk city my ass.
Waking up at 4:00 every morning in the grips of a hot flash that feels as if molten, salty mud is seeping out of every single pore on my blazing hot - and not in a good way - body.
That’s just gross. I’m 44, which is much too early for that, isn’t it?