The Vegetarian Epicure

In a moment of motherly brilliance, my mum came over two years ago bearing the most thoughtful gift: an antique vegetarian cookbook from a hipper age called The Vegetarian Epicure.  If the illustrations of wavy-looking people bedecked with flowers and embroidered tunics aren't an automatic tip-off as to what kind of lifestyle the author endorses, then perhaps the chapter denoting after-dinner "grass" smoking would be a clue. 

(Webmistress's note:  Though I admit to being fascinated with most things bohemian-flavored, I see the drug phenomenon loping alongside hippie culture like a slow, slobbery neighborhood dog that likes to trip up morning joggers.  Ugh.  To quote Neil Young, a lot of good art goes down the drain. What a waste of gray matter.)

All Californianism aside, I love this book still.  And on days like today when the pressure in my sinuses outweighs the pressure at work, the only things I find remotely palatable are vegetable soup and bread.  There's something about the repetitive action of kneading and chopping that releases tension like a balloon. :)

Wednesday morning Smell-a-Thon

I possess an incredibly nuanced sense of smell -- this is likely due to the fact that my other senses are, even in my youth, in rapid decline.  From absorbing fifteen years' worth of high-octane monitor output singing everything from Andrews Sisters' harmonies to a high/lonesome bluegrass whine, my ears are somewhat lacking.  Just ask my co-workers.  Everything they say to me from across the room sounds like Ozzy Ozbourne...I mistakenly think every sentence ends with "Sharon". 

My eyesight is another disaster altogether.  As a -1.75 case of blaring nearsightedness, I stubbornly refuse to wear corrective lenses or eyeglasses.  The former remind me of those spiny-looking inserts they place in the eyes of deceased people in the prep room (thanks to my few in-house sessions with my husband at the local funeral home, I know way too much about this kind of stuff).  Wearing the latter makes me feel like I will never, ever, ever be a rock star when I grow up.  All is vanity, King Sol.  Fo' sho'. 

So this morning, my house was less than fragrant.  I make no apologies to anyone other than myself and its other residents for allowing it to fall into such disarray; with two deaths, a sprinkle of quietly bubbling family drama and a splash of over-commitment, husband-dear and I have hardly been present there long enough to tweak the domestic ambiance.  All of the Glade Plug-Ins (Harvest Spice, of course) have long ago turned into crispy little fire hazards, the pugs' room smells like beef sweat, and the distinct aroma of eau de kitty had wafted along the upstairs hallway.  The nasal dissonance was overwhelming. 

Aromatherapy to the rescue!!!

My recipe for scentual rescue...

Drop into an oil warmer:

8 drops Mandarin essential oil
6 drops Lavendar
6 drops Orange
4 drops Rosewood

Viva la difference!!!

It's a gas, gas, gas.

Yesterday, I caught some poor reporter's interview with newly-minted author Keith Richards (yes, the fallen-from-a-coconut-tree Rolling Stone Keith Richards) on, of all mediums, National Public Radio.  The dialogue went a little something like this:

Unfortunate reporter:

"So, what would you say has been your main musical influence?"

What's Left of Keith:

"Erll, treble clef teddy hair saint Mick a bar and a baby octopus."

/ Lengthy silence edited due to time restraints /

Sometimes God just reaches down from heaven and hands you a pure, perfect pearl.

You Pugly. Bad Pugly.

I suppose that admitting to an animal mania is a bit like having "PATHETIC" chiseled into your forehead, Manson-style.  It's a fault I'll have to own.  My pugs-in-residence, Churchill and Stinkerbell, are simply the wrinkly little lights of my life.  Anyone who truly understands me knows that when the going gets tough and ain't no sunshine, don't send flowers.  Pug images and cashier's checks only.

Therefore, after two especially difficult weeks, two emails appeared in my inbox bearing a parade of pugs in halloween costumes, pugs in compromising positions in the lavatory, and pugs simply bearing the general indignities of their pugliness.  They're googly-eyed.  Their involunary facial expression is one of constant confusion.  Not to mention that their whole physical being looks like something that should be circumcised.  Egads, I adore them. 

Two people slapped a humongous smile on my face this morning.  Just wanted them to know.

When the chips are down....

....the buffalo is, indeed, empty.

Let's call a spade a spade.  I'm an absolute buffoon when it comes to oral banter.  On paper, not so much.  Maybe the world and I can be friends this way.