This Red Moon Leaving the City

Staring at the blank page.

Staring. Staring. Geez Louise, sometimes I have nothing to say and sometimes I have something to say that is going to burn down the house, baby. My mother now emails me each time she encounters a libertarian propagandist with a cursory knowledge of YouTube - not that she believes in that reheated crap. She just wants to know if I am familiar with the individual mouthbreather. I should just delete these emails. They make me want to scour my cerebral cortex with Scrubbing Bubbles. This morning, I told her today's frother was inciting viewers to commit federal offenses. She thanked me for this analysis. Then I had a squinty headache all morning.

Lately, my co-workers and I are having a misunderstanding. They come to my cubicle and tell me about themselves without taking a breath. I listen. They tell me things I can hardly believe and stories they probably shouldn't. Sometimes, I try to steer the conversation to less revealing, more work-safe topics, but I am not always successful. Because I choose to say little about myself, my co-workers now assume my internal life isn't worth talking about. I realized this the other day when Tabby, another woman in my office with hip problems, asked me a question about my hip, then talked for twenty minutes about hers.

At the moment, I'm struggling with my feelings for the bar. I love the bar. I hate the bar. I loved every brilliant show I remember and forgot. I wish I had known when to leave. I am sorry I learned the hard way who my friends really were, but I'm glad I know now. And the bar needs help, again. In November, we had a nervous few days when everyone searched under couch cushions for change to help the bar pay back taxes before someone came up with a certified check. Now there's a benefit to pay back the good Samaritan, and the cycle begins again.

What is it worth to have your punk rock bar? Tickets went on sale last week and I did nothing. I looked at the website and did nothing. Yesterday, someone asked me about the bar and I told him what I knew and I did nothing. Today, I bought tickets. These are my people. As much as I would like the bar to be less fucked up and the people to get over their co-dependency, neither is going to happen. Good thing I love Patti Smith.

What to say? What not to say? I'm considering starting a Facebook group called IF YOU ABSOLUTELY CAN'T STOP YOURSELF FROM FORWARDING UNFUNNY RACIST, SEXIST, HOMOPHOBIC, XENOPHOBIC, CLASSIST CRAP, UNFRIEND ME RIGHT NOW. Then again, that'll burn down the house and you don't want to do that by accident.

That you do when you're good and ready.

Love Will Come But Like A Refugee

Seriously, I have a house guest hangover. Sabrina's on a train to Secaucus. I'm draped over my desk, blurting, "I'm awake!" each time a co-worker trots past my desk. Pete, Sabrina and I talked all Saturday evening, all day Sunday and I wish I could have stayed home but I was afraid someone would talk to me, so I came to work, where people are used to me growling and baring my teeth.

Omigod. I'm exhausted! My hair, while really nice, is pointing towards magnetic north. I put on makeup this morning but it's like my face soaked up color and demanded more. I'm wearing a pink shirt. Why do I own a pink shirt?

This is better than when I used to wake up with strange people and mysterious tattoos - but not by much!

All Made Out Of Ticky-Tacky

Yesterday, I was elbow-deep in a wild gift-wrapping extravaganza at the family store when Pete's friend Sabrina called from Newark Airport to say she was at the car rental counter and her driver's license expired in February. Oh sure, we'd chatted about her flying in for Pete's birthday weeks ago, but time passed and I forgot all about it. I spun around behind the counter and observed three facts: the customers kept wanly saying Take your time, the gifts sat in a field of festive ribbon curls and the airport was more than 40 minutes away. I said, "There's a train right to New Brunswick. We'll pick you up by the bridge."

Since then, no one has used his or her inside voice.

Don't Be Blind To the Big

We interrupt this blog to point out that playing with your food is funny. For me. If I were you, I'd be dialing the pizza place right now.

Miss Sasha, my sweet:

A couple weeks ago, we were talking about edible cupcake papers and I brought up egg roll wrappers. You are probably right that spring roll wrappers, properly prepared, are the kind of textural nightmare dessert enthusiasts might find disconcerting, but I haven't given up hope. In the meantime, I bought a $1.49 stack of dumpling skins, dug out the mini muffin tins and persuaded the cats to take a powder.

1. Spritz pans with release.
2. Fit dumpling skin into muffin well thingy.
3. Spritz dumpling skin.

Bake at 350 for 8-10 minutes, depending on how half-assed your oven is. They came out of the oven crisp and golden brown. The second time:

4. Sprinkle on cinnamon and sugar. Lightly. I mean that.

Dude, these things are tasty, crunchy, subtle and you immediately shout about things you will be stuffing these cups with, should you stop what you're doing and make more. Which you will.

So I was foraging in the basement for the regular size muffin tin when I came across a bag of my dad's mini fluted pastry forms. After a good soak, the forms still look like murder weapons. That's how you can tell they were well used, not that we'll ever know on whom.

The dumpling skins fit beautifully into the forms but you have fit the skins with a firm hand. Once baked, they slip from the form or pan without any effort on your part, yay!

Baked dumpling skins are pretty. You can flavor them with anything. I wouldn't try serving anything wet in these shells - or any shells, for that matter - but Pete promised me smoked trout salad with goat cheese and chives. Naturally, I will make the great sacrifice of eating that. You know. For science.

My sweet, if you think you could use the fluted forms, you can have them. Let me know what you think.

Knishes,
Mom