Tag Archive: joy


21 Recipes, Infinite WTF

So, let’s start with one fun fact: 21 recipes. 6 of those do NOT have gelatin(e) in them. 6. And that’s including the EXTREMELY QUESTIONABLE final recipe whose original text is lost in the bowels of the intertubes, which I am counting as “does not contain gelatin(e)” because I cannot prove that it does, and I hesitate to level such a serious accusation as containing gelatin(e) without ROCK SOLID PROOF. So my first question is: how much gelatin(e) is one person supposed to eat in a day? Because, frankly, this seems a little excessive.

Secondly: the list of ingredients that one is expected to mix with, blend with, mold with, arrange with, layer with, and/or garnish with gelatin(e) is even more suspect than the ubiquitous gelatin(e) itself. VERY SUSPECT INDEED. Not to be trifled with. But if you want to suet with it, by all means… In any event, here are some highlights:

Uhhh… What? (Bronze Medal of WTF, automatic admission to the next round of competition): These unexpected ingredients were listed 3 times each, proving plucky in their determination to pair with such a surprising bedfellow as gelatin(e).

  • Cream
  • Pepper
  • Pimiento
  • Stuffed olives
  • Worcestershire sauce
  • Sugar (notable in its achievement of being listed ONLY 3 times in the entire list)
  • Green pepper (as distinct from “pepper,” above, which is presumably dried, ground black pepper powder)

No, Really, What? (Silver Medal of WTF, desktop printed Certificate of Achievement, automatic admission to the next round of competition): These dedicated contenders stayed the course and shone through to a place of ignominious distinction, being listed 5 times each.

  • Vinegar (I’m not making this up)
  • Onion (we’re just getting started)
  • Celery (wait for it, seriously, it’s about to get weird)

You’re Just Fucking With Me Now (Gold Medal of WTF, lifetime supply of WTF-brand car wax and 30 lbs untreated feedstock, automatic admission to the next round of competition): They’re here. They’re there. They’re everywhere. They’re in everything. They’re never gonna give you up, gelatin(e). They’re the most commonly listed components in this stunning and memorable list of recipes.

  • Lemon juice (8)
  • Salt (9)
  • MAYONNAISE (10 YES YOU HEARD ME 10 FUCKING TIMES WHAT IN THE SWEET SHITFRIED TURKEY SAMMICH IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE HOW MUCH MAYONNAISE DO YOU REALLY NEED IN YOUR FUCKING JELLO SERIOUSLY THERE WAS ONE RECIPE WHERE IT WAS LISTED 3 SEPARATE TIMES AND NOW I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO FORGET THAT “JELLIED MAYONNAISE” IS A FUCKING THING DAMN YOU ALL)

(DIS)Honorable Mentions (Congratulatory Post-it written in crayon, lifetime supply of air, lifetime supply of I’m Judging You For This): Though most of these are listed once, or at most twice (oh thank sweet fuck there is mercy in the universe), they are notable for their sheer audacity and nerve at bellying up to the bar with gelatin(e). Mad props to them for being fierce and unafraid to horrify my (hypothetical) palate.

  • Tomato juice/sauce
  • “Seafood salad” (Please don’t explain this.  Just don’t.  I don’t want to know.)
  • Lard
  • Canned cherries (stoned) (Yes, that’s really what it says, and I’m actually a little sad I only saw this one once)
  • Cabbage
  • Bologna (When it tells you to hollow out the center of a bologna loaf and fill it with salty gelatin(e) slurry, just run. Just fucking run.)
  • Bananas (Okay, yeah… if this hadn’t appeared in the same recipe with FUCKING MAYONNAISE I wouldn’t give a shit.)
  • Boiled ham
  • Lobster meat
  • Shrimp
  • Canned tuna
  • Cooked mashed peas
  • Shredded “ATORA” (“The Good Beef Suet!” …I give up.)
  • Liverwurst (Yes, you read that right, liverwurst. As in, “Liver Sausage Pineapple”. They made a goddamn fake pineapple out of liverwurst and gelatin(e). I swear to you I am not making this up.)

 

LAST MINUTE ADDITION:

I found the mystery dish! It’s called Salmon-Avocado Mold (how apt) and it’s got a plethora of charming features! It’s got:

  • Gelatin(e)!
  • Mayonnaise!
  • Canned Salmon!
  • Olives!
  • And So Much More!

For fuck’s sake. I may never cook again. So, final tally:

  • Recipes: 21
  • Gelatin(e): 16
  • Mayonnaise: 11
  • Questionable “meat products”: 5
  • Fucks now given: -7

It comes on slowly, creeping up like crackling frost fingers blooming in slow motion across a windowpane. Just a few careful skeletal fronds at first, adding a pleasant accent to the view outside. White dancing patterns frame the bare branches of the trees outside, just barely brushing against the depth of the field and woods disappearing over the hill. Moonlight makes those fingers glow, and lures you into believing that they’re an addition, not a mask.

The hours pass. The fingers curl around more and more of the glass, deliberately and unstoppably greedy. They begin to caress the larger branches, crawling up and over the grass stubble at the bottom of the window, a measured crackle that whispers “mine, mine, mine” as it encroaches. The clear glass in the center gets smaller and smaller, all the fringes being nibbled away one “mine” at a time.

As the fingernail sliver of moon rises over the ridgeline, there’s more and more hard silver glitter making the whole outside world look different – ethereal, unreal and hyperreal, and all of it covered in “mine, mine, mine.” After a while, it’s easy to hear the things you can no longer see, because they’re all joining in the whispers of possession. It’s a rising susurration of desire and ownership. It claims as it clutches, and it throttles as it loves.

It’s beautiful, still. It will always be beautiful, even as it strangles. It is a thrilling, fascinating death.

You would never know anything had ever been any other way, coming in when the window is all covered over with greedy beautiful fingers and fronds. The only thing to be seen is the glow of the moon – you would never know there is a field out there, and woods, and a ridge. The only thing left is the glow, refracting off the prisms of clutching frost fingers, making shards and slivers of what used to be a lush, warm landscape.

It’s beautiful. It’s fascinating. It’s death, one “mine” at a time.

It bears no resemblance to what it was, what it could be. In the fallow season, the ice changes everything, even how the land breathes underneath its cold mask. It kills as it hides. It destroys an inch at a time, and it doesn’t understand how to regret the destruction it wreaks.

Eventually, the fronds and fractals will cover even the moon’s glow. Watch long enough, and you can see it move. It’s a beautiful death, fascinating even as it cloaks.

You will never know which was the first inch, where the first “mine” was whispered, hungry in the silver glow. If you’re very, very lucky, you may be able to see which one was the last.

Let them be afraid

“They’re afraid of rumors and tall tales.  And I let them be afraid.  It makes my job easier.”  – Richard Kadrey, Butcher Bird

“We wear the mask that grins and lies, / It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes” – Paul Lawrence Dunbar, We Wear the Mask

 

When I look in the mirror, I flinch.

I should never have put it on.

This is all my own fault.  I should never have put it on, because now it won’t come off.

All I wanted was to be strong, and to be scary, just so I could get them to leave me alone for a minute.  And now it won’t come off.  I’ve tried everything I can think of, and I don’t know how it stays on.  Trying to take it off hurts, now, and feels like trying to pull off my own face.

But my face doesn’t look like this.  Please, don’t let this be what my face looks like.  I can’t be this… this thing I see, now.  It was only supposed to be for a minute.

I can’t live like this.  This can’t be who I’ve turned into, over one stupid decision.  Nothing that split second can be permanent.  That’s just not fair.  I can’t have turned into something like this, just from that one second’s fear and anger and shame.  One decision can’t make me a different person.  It just can’t.

But, I mean…

It’s not that bad, not really.  I can get used to it, if I give it a little while.  And it sure as shit does what I wanted it to do.  It makes them leave me alone.  It makes them leave me right the hell alone.

There are advantages to a face that makes people flinch, even if one of those people is me.

Who am I to turn down something that useful?  I mean, really, this whole thing has done me a favor.  I can be anything I want to be under here, and nobody will be able to tell the difference.  All they’ll see is this new face, and they’ll be afraid.

Well, let them be afraid.  They ought to be.

This might be the best stupid decision I ever made.  I hope it never comes off.  Let them be afraid.  Everybody knows monsters don’t get lonely.

Companion

The power of the companion is this: they walk beside you, for a little while.  It is an immense and awe-inspiring power, and one that is hard both to quantify and to notice, except in its absence.  Companions are the people who understand, even in pieces, the pitfalls and joys in the path you are traveling.  They have turned their ankles on the same rocks, and seen the same vistas of wonder and grace.  They empathize, in the most intimate possible sense, with your experience.

Companions are the company you keep.  Companions are the strong hand in the dark.  Companions are the laugh that harmonizes with yours.  Companions are the reason to keep to the path, or the landmark to indicate where the path doesn’t fit anymore, or both.  Companions are the descant to the melody of your life.

Cherish your companions, because they are all irreplaceable.  Tell them they are beautiful, because they bring out the beauty in your self, and let you see it from the outside.  Do not fear the love of companions, given or received, because it is living art.  Do not mourn overlong when they pass away from your path, because the beauty and love and art is impossible to steal, impossible to lose in any permanent way.

Companionship is one of the greatest gifts of being a thinking, social, empathic creature.  Companions are angels and demons in a human skin, flexible and fallible and fixed and fickle, just as you are.  Their lessons are indelible, and their faults are lessons too.  Learn what they have to teach, hear what they have to say, learn their song and add the parts of it that fit to your own.  Create and engage with them, taste the colors of their hearts.  The beauty you will gain from them, and they from you, is worth every risk.

And remember, in all of that, that you are a companion, too.  Companionship is your gift to offer, to anyone who resonates with it.  Do not forget the power of the companion, in yourself as much as anyone else.

Let me never be complete.

Let me never be compliant.

Let me never be content.

 

Let me never be a person, whole and finished, who is happy to be whole and finished.  Let my jagged edges scrape, and my unfinished margins have scribbles in all kinds of tools.  Let my footnotes have footnotes, and let my footnotes’ footnotes go out and drink in bars and bring back in-line citations that have no manners and wreck all the previous pagination and fuck the formatting until it cries and goes running for a new editor.

Let me never say “Enough!” because I am afraid I cannot take more.  Let me never run from my boundaries before I run face-first into them.  Let me never be satisfied with my limits.  Let my fears be challenges, adversaries to face with a hipshot grin and a sharp word, a sharp point, a sharp edge.  Let me never be held down, held back, held up or held over by anything I can drag into the light and eat, one bloody and satisfying bite at a time.

Let me never fall down, fall back, fall out or fall over when it is time to stand up.  Let me never put convenience before principle.  Let me never fail by refusing to commit.  Let me never excuse my own failure with “I tried.”  Let me never accept the failures of others quietly, when they limit me.  Let me never be tired enough to stop fighting.  Let me never give up being myself, fiercely and fabulously.  Let me never sell myself short.  Let me never keep myself from being.  Let me never slide into mediocrity.

Let me never be complete.

Let me never be compliant.

Let me never be content.

Let me never forget that I will fail at all of these things, time and time again, and that is no excuse to stop.

Walking with a bowl

Once upon a time, O Best Beloved, there was a woman with a bowl.  It was a wide, round stone bowl, and it was her dearest possession.  This was a very once upon a time indeed, and she lived in a hard and rocky part of the land, where nothing would grow but gnarled little weeds and hard and twisted trees that gave no fruit.

There was, though, a small and lively stream beside the little shady building where she lived.  It had the clearest water you could dream of, and she carried that water out to the road every day in her beautiful, wide bowl.  It was a long walk to the road, but once she got there, she could trade the water for food and news and clothes.  The road always had traders, headed to the larger city, and she could trade her water to them, without having to go into the loud and dangerous city herself.

But of course, walking with a beautiful, wide stone bowl is difficult, day after day, many times a day.  The path was neither smooth nor flat.  And of course, you know what is going to happen, O Best Beloved, because it is such a beautiful bowl, and because her whole life depends upon it.

One day she falls, and the bowl breaks.  Her foot turns on a stone she cannot see, past the bowl full of clear water in her arms.  She and the bowl both go tumbling into the path.  She fares better than the bowl does, and is only scraped up a little.  The bowl, the beautiful stone bowl, is shattered beyond all hope of repair.

She has walked this path every day, many times a day, her whole life.  She has worked hard, her whole life.  She will not give up easily.  So she returns to her little house, and gathers up everything she has that might be worth something to a trader.  Then she goes and sits by the side of the road, and waits.

It takes two days, but eventually she meets a man who has what she wants to trade.  He has a waterskin.  He has never needed her bowl, but he has traded for a drink from it anyway, and always been kind.  He trades her for a waterskin, so that he can still stop for a conversation with her (for he thinks her pleasing) and a drink (for the water is cool, and always a blessing).

The skin doesn’t work.  She doesn’t understand why, until she drinks from it, and then she has a fight with the man who traded it to her, and he beats her badly for the words she screams at him.  She believes he has traded her a rotten skin, something poisonous and foul.

The skin is fine.  The water is different.  It doesn’t feel the sun on its skin for hours walking to the road.  It doesn’t hear her voice singing as she walks.  It doesn’t lap against the sides of a beautiful stone bowl in the breeze and taste the air of a thousand miles around as it makes the journey from spring to road to throat.

Instead, it is trapped in the waxed hide of a dead animal, bound up in the dark, blind and deaf and dumb.  It is neither the living spirit of the spring nor the soothing medicine of the bowl, and it tastes of darkness and binding.  It is no wonder the traders will pay nothing for it.

With nothing to trade, the woman is starving.  She is alone, she has nothing left to bargain with, no trade left to ply.  So she begins to walk to the city, hoping to find an answer from the king there.  They say he is very wise.

She goes into the very center of the city, and asks an audience to see the king in his temple.  She is told that he is not seeing anyone today, and that she must go away and wait.  But she is starving, and she cannot wait, so she does a thing that is not good at: she lies.

She tells the guards that she had a dream.  She was a water-seller, and that she had a dream that her bowl broke, but that the king could fix it, and the next day her bowl broke.  She tells them she has walked to the city to see the king, to tell him this dream, because she is afraid.  She tells herself that it is mostly true, and that she is only trying to survive.

It is very, very frightening when the guards grab her by both arms and drag her inside, straight into the center of the temple to see the king and his priests.  Except there are no priests.  There is only the king, a man standing in front of his throne, staring at nothing.

The guards push her to her knees before the king, and walk from the room without looking back.  It is not quite a run, but the difference is very fine.

“Are you a dreamer?  I told them I needed another dreamer.”  His voice is a cracked drum, a whispering echo.

“No, lord.  I am not a dreamer.  I only told them I had a dream.  What happened?”

“I killed them.  They dreamed terrible things, and I killed them all, because I could not bear the madness of what is coming.  And now there are no dreams at all.  I do not know if that is better.”  He drops, boneless, to the beautiful stone floor.  It sounds like a bowl breaking.  He begins to sob, ragged and rhythmic, as if it is something he has done so much that it has worn a rut into him.

“I broke my bowl, lord, and now I am starving.”  The sound of him falling has reminded her.

“Good.  Starving is better than what is coming.  Go home.  Stay away from here.  Starve.  It is better than what is coming.”

The guards beat her, partly because she lied, but mostly because they were afraid of what was happening to their king and their world.  She did not make it home before she died.  Many of the people who lived to see what happened to their lands in the years to come wished they had not.

Once upon a time, a woman was walking with a bowl, and broke it.  A king could not bear the voice of his dreamers, and had them silenced.  But remember, O Best Beloved, that stories are music.

In the same land, where there was so much madness and pain that a king ordered a woman to go home and starve rather than see a dream come to pass, there was a voice from a hillside.  It waited, that voice.  It waited for a man named Diego, and it waited almost 500 years, but the blood of every dreamer in the land could not wash it away.

“Have you forgotten?  I am your mother.  You are under my protection.”

 

And now let me remind you, O Best Beloved, that all storytellers are liars.  No voice waits.  All voices want to be heard.  When the altars are broken, when the dreamers are killed, we do not gather at altars, and we do not speak our dreams to kings.  We drink from unlabeled bottles around fires in the wilderness, and we do not wait for the altars to be rebuilt.

We cannot follow the steps of your dance, Lady.  Our hearts tremble at the pattern of your making and unmaking.

Burning Mother, hear our prayer.

We trust in the shadows of your song, knowing its melody is beyond us.  Our days are metered by the clack and hiss of your loom.

Burning Mother, hear our prayer.

Be gentle with us, your children.  Hold us warmly in your hands.  We beg you for light, for shelter, for understanding.

Burning Mother, hear our prayer.

Be kind with us, your acolytes.  Teach us when we err, guide us when we stumble, show us how to follow your world-shaking steps writ small.

Burning Mother, hear our prayer.

Be fierce with us, your disciples.  Bring us order in chaos in order, demand that we burn with you in the dark places, expect no less of us than we expect of ourselves.  Grant us discipline.

Burning Mother, hear our prayer.

To each of us, your children, grant the blessed, burning love we plead for.  We are yours.  We see you, and we ask only to be seen by you.

Burning Mother, hear our prayer.

To love a person is to learn the song that is in their heart, and to sing it to them when they have forgotten.
Arne Garborg

 

Come sit by my fire, and I will sing you a song, so that you can sing it with me while we sit together, and sing it without me, when the time for you to sit by this fire with me is done.

I know a woman whose heart sings a beautiful song.  It is a song made of hope, and dreaming, and not a little sadness and pain.  It is a song made of all the things a complex life is made of, and it is a song that you already know the pattern of, because it is a song not very unlike your own.

It is a little more full of sadness now than it was, because her heart forgot how to sing it.  Not for long.  Just for a little while.  Just for long enough for the part of her that is her to decide it wanted to be somewhere else instead.

I will miss the woman I know.  Most days, I will talk about her in the past tense, because it is easier for everyone that way.  But we know better, you and I.  Because we are singers, and storytellers, and we will not stop singing her song.

We know that even if her heart forgot for a little while, the song doesn’t stop.  We know that some songs do not have a true beginning, or a true ending.  They only have changes, and movements, and patterns.  Music repeats.  It never truly stops.  We never stop singing.

My friend and I will never have coffee again.  We will never have that long catch-up conversation that we’ve been saying we would have for so long.  She will never graduate college, as she was so close to doing.  She will never see England.  She will never be married.  She will never do so many things that were songs of hope and joy and dream in her life.

That is a song of pain for me.  But her song is not over, because we are still singing.  I refuse to stop.  And I am grateful for your voice, raised with mine.

Last words

(Author’s note: y’all know I’m not a verse kind of person, but this challenge spoke to me, so I will speak back to it.)

 

Last words

razor keys
revolving keys

You wrapped my fingers
around them
tight, so tight

Keeper of shadows
the last shadows
of words
ever spoken

I will keep the faith
I will keep the faith
I will keep the faith

by blood and bone
and pain and shadow

I will keep the faith

I will hide the shadows
your words cast

and protect the light
your life has left

you are missed
your faith is kept

Bare your teeth.

It’s Friday the 13th, O Best Beloved.  So today is homework day.

 

Go expose yourself to something that drives the beat under your skin.  Go listen to music, watch something, read something, taste something, smell something that raises your pulse and reminds you that you are a creature who can touch and change the world, in ways so big you never could have imagined them.  Remember that you are a deity living in a flexible skin, and find something that pushes and calls to the places in your brain that are certain of that fact.

 

Go find something that draws you out, so that you can be you, just as hard as you can go.  Saturate yourself with it.  Bathe and drown in it until the feeling of being invincible overtakes you, and then take that out into the world.

 

Go change something.  Go be the person you would never otherwise be, but wish you had grown into.  Go DO.  Bare your teeth and dare the world to stop you.

 

I will look forward to seeing what happens.  Godspeed, in the most literal sense of the word.  I am with you, and the you that you are afraid to be is loved.  Someone needs you to be that person.  Go be it.

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