Kim Addonizio

I love you but I'm married.
I love you but I wish you had more hair.
I love you more.
I love you more like a friend.
I love your friends more than you.
I love how when we go into a mall and classical muzak is playing,
you can always name the composer.
I love you, but one or both of us is/are fictional.
I love you but "I" am an unstable signifier.
I love you saying, "I understand the semiotics of that" when I said, "I
had a little personal business to take care of."
I love you as long as you love me back.
I love you in spite of the restraining order.
I love you from the coma you put me in.
I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, except for this one
guy.
I love you when you're not getting drunk and stupid.
I love how you get me.
I love your pain, it's so competitive.
I love how emotionally unavailable you are.
I love you like I'm a strange backyard and you're running from the
cops, looking for a place to stash your gun.
I love your hair.
I love you but I'm just not that into you.
I love you secretly.
I love how you make me feel like I'm a monastery in the desert.
I love how you defined grace as the little turn the blood in the
syringe takes when you're shooting heroin, after you pull back
the plunger slightly to make sure you hit the vein.
I love your mother, she's the opposite of mine.
I love you and feel a powerful spiritual connection to you, even
though we've never met.
I love your tacos! I love your stick deodorant!
I love it when you tie me up with ropes using the knots you
learned in Boy Scouts, and when you do the stoned Dennis
Hopper rap from Apocalypse Now!
I love your extravagant double takes!
I love your mother, even though I'm nearly her age!
I love everything about you except your hair.
If it weren't for that I know I could really, really love you.

- Kim Addonizio, from Lucifer at the Starlite. © W.W. Norton & Company, 2009

Jane Austen's Fight Club

Yes!

I loved Fight Club, but I have to admit that one thing I kinda disliked about it was the role it relegated women to: objects to fight over or fuck.

I love Jane Austen, in a love-to-hate kind of way.

The idea of a mashup of the two... PRICELESS! Yes! Simpering females left to either marry or die, rascal males... pish tosh, I say old boy. Girls going at it, living fiercely, with lust and vivre de joi? Right up my alley. I think this is the same thing I love about Roller Derby girls. There's something so attractive in the idea of a physically unafraid female, a woman able and eager to get dirty and fight, to live really out loud!

Pilates? Yoga? pah. Derby. Fight Club.

Rawr!

Pie Crust for the WIN!

Yesterday I recycled leftovers into a tasty stirfry. Well, I say tasty... it was a bit bland, because I didn't spice it much. The kids have a tendency to not eat anything spicy. I get to cut loose with the spice when they're at their dad's house, which is good because I LOVE spicy foods. mmm-mmm!

Today the stirfry was recycled yet again, this time into a casserole! I used instant mashed potatoes as a bottom crust, then dumped in the stir fry. I added a can of Chicken Gravy and topped the whole thing with some whole wheat pie crust. Poked some holes in the top and shoved it in the oven at 350 degrees for an hour or so. It came out much tastier, most likely because of the gravy (pie crust didn't hurt anything, either.)

I use the Betty Crocker Cookbook recipe for pie crust. I don't use the two crossed knives version of how to get the Crisco worked into the flour: instead I use a fork. My grandmother would use her fingers. I remember her standing over the bowl, her fingers covered in flour and flying through the flour and fat.

In this house we keep the temperature set around 80 (keeps the bills lower, and when we go outside we don't instantly melt), so if I were to try to use my fingers in the fat and flour, my own body heat would tip the scales and melt the fat faster than I could incorporate it. Yes, I tried. I learned my lesson, too.

Speaking of lessons... When my mom and dad had just gotten married, way back in the mid-70's, my mom decided to make a custard pie. The house they were renting didn't have central air. (And they say global climate change is a myth! Imagine a house in East Texas today with no central air...) That particular day, in the middle of summer, was especially hot. Unusually hot. Scorching. My dad comes home from school only to see lumps of something stuck to the chain link fence outside the kitchen window. He goes inside, to ask my mom what that stuff was and finds her, beating a rolling pin against the counter and crying.

My mom learned the lesson: if it's hot enough, the fat will melt before you can get it mixed into the flour. Instead of a pie crust, you'll wind up with a raw roux all over your rolling pin.

I took her lesson to heart, and now I don't even think of trying to make a pie crust if it's over 85 in the house.

There are a couple of kitcheny gadgets that can help with the pie crust melting issue. Stone or marble cutting boards kept in the refrigerator are one; hollow rolling pins that you fill with ice water are another, as are metal rolling pins or marble rolling pins.

Once I had my casserole assembled, I had a little pie crust left over. So, in some teeny tiny baking dishes I made teeny tiny pies. I didn't have enough of any single fruit on hand to make one big pie... so I improvised. Cooling on the counter right this moment? Four pies: blueberry, apricot, raspberry and peach. The after nap snacking will be epic!