Sales and the Shine: Part II

There is something about teaching that is a little like sales. I haven’t chased down all the things they have in common, but they do work together in certain ways. I have come to this conclusion from watching Cadillac Man (as promised).

First of all, though an attractive appearance can help, it is not ALWAYS necessary. Good looking people can sell things because they are pretty and because they can sell things. Not-so-good-looking people can also sell things, not because they are pretty but because they learned to compensate, to charm, to begin the conversation. This is how sales work like a classroom.

The quality of a teacher has little to do with how the teacher looks. Certainly it can be pleasant to be in a room with a lovely looking person who has grace and style, but so little of teaching really springs from that. Entertainment sometimes does. Teaching is more about building a productive exchange, like sales. When I work with a writing student, I am beginning a conversation. In some cases the conversation is remarkably short, maybe an hour, but occasionally the conversation is LONG, years long. If it’s a good conversation, both people benefit. If it’s a good sale, both people benefit. AH! This line of thought has possibilities, no?

Sales works like teaching in another way. In the film, Joey (a sleazy car salesman) is trying to work out a deal for the release of captives from an unpredictable kidnapper named Larry. In a moment near the end of the crisis that can could lead to death or release, Joey jumps up and says, “I’ve got it. I’ve got a plan. Not A plan. I’ve got THE PLAN.” Larry asks, “What it is?” Joey answers, “Let everybody go.” He proceeds to have Larry revise the plan, change it so he likes it better, but in the end Larry lets everybody go. Originally Larry did not like the plan. He proposed revisions, but really his revisions were only hesitations, and even though Joey is not altogether honest or trustworthy, the plan works out for the best for all people involved. Everybody gets out alive. Some unhealthy affairs are ended, suffering takes place, but so does healing. Is there a better description of an English class than this.

I know there have been times when students have felt like captives, miserable captives, in my classroom, especially on days when I am returning their work (or giving them tests), but many students have been kind enough to have real writing relationships with me, and some have even gone on to become peers.  There are two teachers in my department who have been my students, and there are even more people on the campus who have been my students as well.  There are people in town who were once my captives and are now my friends.  Some never became my friends, but that’s okay, too.  Not every product or service will do for every customer. 

Maybe we teachers should think a little more about the art of the sale.  Maybe that would help us enjoy the work more. Then again, maybe teaching is MORE than sales…

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Sales and the Shine Part I

When I started teaching, too many years ago, I used to make the joke, “I’m so bad at sales, that if I were a prostitute, I’d starve.” Yep. Not all that funny.

In my life I have had a number of jobs aside from teaching. I have been a baby sitter, a custodian, a welder, an assembly line worker, an assistant cook, a waitress, a lab assistant, and a clerical worker. None of these jobs had anywhere near the appeal of teaching, and only one of them involved sales in any way. I was terrible at table service. I couldn’t tell who could be trusted or who could read or who had any money in his pocket. My only other experiences with sales were as a Brownie and a member of the marching band. At various times I had to sell cookies, posters, soap, hard candy, enchiladas, and gargantuan milk chocolate bars.

Now I face the challenge of starting my own publishing house, small though it be. In the past year I have had the chance to observe people working in the publishing industry, and I realize that I am only now beginning to understand what sales are.

My first truth of sales has to do with the product. You can’t miss with good material. If the product is worth the money, it will sell itself, the second time. So, this is especially true with things like wine and soap and exercise pants. I will admit I have done repeat buying, at premium prices, for these items. I need them, and I use them, and I am willing to pay a little extra for the good stuff. Here are some things I put on this list–Imperial Kir at the Pecos Flavors Winery, Thymes Lavender Soap at Tinnie Merchantile Store, and Starfish exercise pants from Land’s End.

As a publisher, I see the value of good product, but how does one sell books? People are changing the way they buy books, and books aren’t wine. You can’t use them up. Finally, how do you sell anything the FIRST time?

I think it may involve a RELATIONSHIP. Sales is more about meeting people where they are and giving them encouragement to try something–something new, something unknown, something…(dare I suggest this) pleasurable. The first time someone buys a product, it may be as much about the sales rep as it is about the product. The moment of a sale is the establishment of a conversation, and the great sales people consider it only the BEGINNING of the conversation.

This week I’m going to watch Robin Williams in Cadillac Man, again.  I have a feeling it will give me useful advice about how to sell.  I just thought it was a funny movie, but there may be more to it.

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Not in the Recipe

My Grandma Jones and my mother gave me all the basic cooking training I have used throughout my life. People uninitiated to cooking seldom realize, until they try to do something in the kitchen, that there are certain given truths to the techniques involved in cooking. When I was little, three or so, I started my cooking life, and those little truths of cooking came from the kindly training these two women gave me. My Grandma McCollaum was a FANTASTIC cook, and I am told I cook much like she did, but she never taught me cooking. Though a professional teacher, cooking was one of her vanities, and an art form reserved to mighty and grown women. It was not the province of “snot-nosed” children, and for that reason the only work I remember doing in my Grandma McCollaum’s kitchen is dish washing twenty plates in three ounces of water, but that’s a story for another day.

Today I tell the story of “Popcorn Balls.” Does anybody remember these? Does anybody make them anymore? My Grandma Jones made them. My mom did, too. People used to give them out on Halloween, but no more. Too much fear of “unsafe” treats. Yep. Halloween used to be an exploration of home cooked specialties–caramel apples, sugar cookies shaped to look like Jack-O-Lanterns, fudge, and popcorn balls. It wasn’t until after my few years of going door to door that all families began to opt for the safe version of factory produced sugar-shock wrapped in plastic. I feel sorry for kids today, sometimes.

For Christmas, Grandma Jones would send us popcorn balls. She would dye them red and green. It had been so long since I had popcorn balls, I began to feel nostalgic for them the other day. I looked in my old recipe box, and I found Grandma Jones’ very recipe.

Written in pencil on a yellowed index card.

Written in pencil on a yellowed index card.

Today I made my own version of these popcorn balls.  They aren’t quite what I remembered, but they are good.  They are tasty. 

First, I popped the corn.  Now, in Grandma’s day, we popped a couple of pans full on the stove top.  For this recipe I popped three bags of the Pop Secret Extra Butter popcorn.  I picked through it to take out the “old maids.”  That’s the term people once used for the un-popped kernels of corn, and I only thought today about what a gross term that is for un-popped kernels of corn.  Old maids?  Just consider what it’s intended to refer to!  Old maids…  Anyway, take them out.  I added to this about cup of toasted pecans.  I added the pecans because we have them, and I like the flavor of them.  You have to keep the popcorn warm in the oven in a lined roasting pan until you have the candy to pour over it.  There’s something not in the recipe.  You should not pour the hot candy over cold corn.  It will cool too fast to shape into balls.  Seriously, old maids?  Why?  Because they were “never popped.”  See what I mean.  Gross.

Keep warm in a 200 degree oven.

Keep warm in a 200 degree oven.

The recipe calls for one cup of sugar, a cup of Karo (or molasses), a tablespoon of vinegar, 1/2 teaspoon of soda, a teaspoon of salt, and about two tablespoons of butter.   (Throw the salt over the popcorn.)  Combine the first three items in a pan and heat to soft ball stage.   I have actually done this many times in my life, tested candy in cups of cold water.  That’s how my Grandma Jones did it.  You put the mixture over medium heat and wait until it’s bubbling for about five minutes.  DO NOT STIR IT WHILE IT IS COOKING.  You will need to test the candy several times to make sure it’s at the right stage.

Here are my brands.

Here are my brands.

    The truth is candy making is a B****.  Several years ago I bought a candy thermometer.  It was worth every penny.  It has the soft ball stage marked right on it. 

When it reaches the right temperature, turn the heat off and add the soda.

When it reaches the right temperature, turn the heat off and add the soda.

The soda will make the stuff cloudy and fill it with air.  You pour it quickly over the popcorn and fold the candy over and around the popcorn.  It’s hard to describe.  Butter your hands next.  Grandma Jones let me help with this part.  She got my hand and COVERED them with butter then warned me quite clearly that the hot candy was still VERY HOT, and I needed to be cautious as I handled the mixture.  Plenty of smother mothers today would probably avoid doing this.  It IS a risk, but I watched Grandma Jones do it, and I learned to respect the process without getting badly injured.  She was that kind of woman.  She watched over us, but she did not keep us out of life.  She did not lock us inside if there were rattlesnakes in the area.  She taught us how to chop their heads off, cleanly and with courage.  That’s what real living is all about.  You have to get in the game. 

Anyway, here are the popcorn balls I made.  

Twenty-one in all, they're about three inches in diameter.

Twenty-one in all, they’re about three inches in diameter.

This would be a fun challenge if you were ready to risk it with kids.  It takes about thirty minutes start to finish.  They taste good.  Next time I might add some red pepper just for laughs.  I might also try molasses instead of Karo.  I think that’s the way Grandma Jones liked best.  She did not add nuts or candy or anything else.  She kept it simple.  I don’t mind the complication.  I wonder how they would be with crunched up candy canes added, or toffee, or raisins…

There are lots of details of cooking that are often left out of recipes.  The assumption of the author is that the cook reading will KNOW certain things, even before she begins.  I am truly thankful for all the certain, secret things my Grandma Jones and my mother taught me.  The knowing has a value beyond what shows here.  As Edna says, “Luck favors the prepared.”  I feel lucky to have the ability to turn to the pantry and make something historic and fun, sweet and salty and good to eat. 

 

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Just Some Notes: Part I

I moved to Roswell nearly twenty years ago.  I started out teaching Freshmen and Sophomores at dear old Goddard High.  One of the veteran teachers, Francis Taylor, told me about how when she was a Freshman teacher they used to require every student to learn the school song.  I liked the idea, for tradition’s sake and because I always liked music.  So, every year I had a new crop of Freshmen, and I bellowed the song for them “We honor you dear Goddard High…”  Eventually they all bellowed it back to me.  It was pretty satisfying.

At NMMI I decided I wanted to continue the tradition.  NMMI has both a fight song and school song.  Part of the ritual for every Friday is I have my high school students sing one of these two songs before we leave for the weekend.  They complain about it, but I try to hold steady to it.  I have a feeling it may be one of the most important things I have ever given my students, a song to sing, even if I didn’t write it, and it’s not all that gorgeous.  It’s a song we sing together, a song that unites us with each other, and with those who have gone before us.

I have learned to love a goodly number of people while singing with them.  Singing together, really singing, has a certain effect on the body and the spirit.

In high school we would sometimes sing at camp, and the songs that really affected us were the ones with harmony.  There’s something about the way two voices singing two different notes create one sound that offers a thrill unlike any other.  Our sum is mysteriously beautiful, gorgeously profound.  Two relatively mediocre singers who can harmonize achieve more artistic glory than one great singer alone.

I now realize that’s what I miss about the church music of my childhood.  When I was a kid, there was almost no amplification of singing in church.  People sang as a group, the choir and the congregation, and it made a difference that everyone was singing.  Making that joyful noise TOGETHER made it a weekly miracle, a prayer greater than any other.  Now, we don’t do that.  I can remember special music, a weekly tradition, when couples, friends, families would prepare harmonized pieces of music, and they would sing so beautifully.  It would make me cry.  I sang “Farther Along” with my mother in church.  Imagine that.  This was during my teen years when my mother and I fought nearly every day.  Still, when we had to do the special music, we made peace long enough to sing that song.  “Tempted and tried, we’re oft made to wonder…”

I don’t mean to imply that every special was great music.  Many, many of them were not,  but the WERE full of heart, of sincerity.

That’s in short supply.  We could always use a little more heart, a little more sincerity.  If you can’t sing, dance.  Clap your hands.  Snap your fingers.  Buy a uke.  Sing whether anyone else wants to hear it or not.  Sing until someone joins you.  Make up the words if you don’t know them.  If churches no longer want to hear the congregation sing, then they’re excluding the voices of passing angels, and it’s their loss.  I’m convinced that even terrible songs sung with a joyful heart can be songs of praise.  “Every rose has it’s thorn…”  “Boogie on, Reggae woman…”  “I’m sexy and I know it.”

 

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A Clumsy Start

January 1 as New Year’s Day strikes me as a clumsy and irrational arrangement.  How is the dead of winter a new beginning?  I suppose it’s a tolerable rehearsal for Lent without the problematic spiritual and theological overtones when resolve dissolves.  The fact that I spent most of my youth living miles (and miles) from anyone else who was celebrating has influenced my method of celebration.  I usually stay up until midnight and think about the years when my little brother Brian would run into the inky winter night and yell “HAPPY NEW YEAR” to the indifferent stars. 

Worse than feeling left out by the celebrations we would see in grainy miniature on the TV, was the creeping misery over the approaching traditional New Year’s Day dish–black-eyed peas.  Thanksgiving has roasted turkey.  Christmas has rib roast, or Cornish game hens or even lobster Thermidor.  New Year’s has a bean that tastes like dirt.  Worse, you got one lousy day of good luck for every one of the things you ate.  My Grandma Jones used to pretend it was a month for every one, but she was just humoring her grand kids. 

This year I decided to do things with a new attitude toward the tradition.  First, I made my mother’s favorite dish, and we watched TV until we heard the pop-pop-pop of happy little fire works. 

Mom, the food and the TV!

Mom, the food and the TV!

In case the question occurs, we had shu mai dumplings with dipping sauce and sesame cold slaw.  We also had tea and bubbling wine–Imperial Kir (two big thumbs up).  Here’s how it looked on the plate.

Dumplings down front

Dumplings down front

This leads me to the NEW YEAR’S DAY tradition.  Last year I made a version of them called Hoppin’ John.  It was pretty good, but it involved putting the black-eyed peas over rice.  This year I decided to do a variation on that.  I began with the peas.  First, I brought a pound of them frozen to a boil then I took it down to a simmer.  They had to simmer for an hour.  For those who try this later on, the softer you want these peas, the longer they have to simmer.  To these I added chopped crispy bacon, sauteed onions, green chile peppers and garlic.  For those of you who know Cajun cooking, it’s the New Mexico version of the cooking trinity.

Peas simmering--Note the bacon!

Peas simmering–Note the bacon!

While the peas simmered, I made a pan of cornbread. Now, this is a traditional cornbread mixed in the fry pan then baked in a 400 degree oven for twenty minutes.  I used the fry pan for the fun of it. 

Pretty cornbread

Pretty cornbread

With peas simmering and cornbread baking, I chopped green onions, cilantro, and one last strip of crispy bacon.  These will go over the peas. 

Green adds life!

Green adds life!

To make the dish uniquely mine, I also made a dish of guacamole.  The recipe is on the blog.  I added this to make the dish what my mother always referred to as balanced.  For a meal she believes you need to have variety in color, flavor, texture and temperature.  She learned this in her Home Economics course in high school.  The guacamole gave me a new temperature and texture.  I also shredded some cheese.  My father used to say that if you added enough cheese to anything, it would taste better.  There’s something to live by.

It's Havarti cheese.

It’s Havarti cheese.

To assemble all these, I put the peas over the cornbread then top with cheese, onion, cilantro, and bacon.  I put a dollop of guacamole on the side.  Here’s how it looked. 

I had two servings!

I had two servings!

Okay, so it’s not THAT photogenic.  Though I never really liked black-eyed peas before, this I would have again and again.  As the cap on my New Year’s Day, I went for a walk.  To all those out there who are looking for I reason to love Roswell, I give you Cielo Sunset. 

Photo0393

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Sexy V. and the All Girl Solution

Now that all the packages are unwrapped, and we’re all experiencing the anticlimax of Christmas morning, I can share when my anticlimax started.

For me FINALS WEEK is the real start of Christmas.  Except for one horrible year in my early twenties, I have always loved tests.  As a natural born show-off, tests played to my strengths, and because I loved finals week as a student, I doubly love it as a teacher.  I have always considered it an opportunity to see my students show all they have acquired.  It should be mentioned that very few of my students enjoy finals week in the same way I do.   Still, I try to make it fun for them.  I always provide each student with a tailor-made essay question prompt.  By “tailor-made” I mean that I choose each prompt so that the strengths and interests, the particular personality and style, of each student shows in what he or she writes.  It is really a fun way to end the semester, writing to express the self.

This year I had a nice crop of responses.  One student was asked what was the best gift he ever received, and he wrote about Salvation.  That one was gorgeous.  As the season progressed, I reflected on the various outstanding responses I’ve read.  One in particular has been uppermost in my mind.  I change the names here to protect all involved except myself.

One year a girl in my class (I’ll call her Clover) stood out as THE social butterfly.  She was bright, funny, pretty, and popular.  Clover laughed easily and often.  Her fellow students admired her clothes and her confidence.  Early in the year she began referring to one of the students as “SEXY V.”  His name began with the letter “v” and thus the nickname.  The surprise of the reference was that “V” was shy.  He sat in the back of the class and said little during discussion.  He was a remarkably talented writer, and so he expressed volumes in weekly writing assignments, so his reserve in the class concerned me little.  When Clover referred to him as sexy, she did it with such sweet playfulness, that everyone else took it up, and eventually “V” accepted the name with nonchalance.  When finals rolled around, I asked Clover to explain her name for this quiet boy in the room.

She wrote in her essay about when she was in elementary school.  The shootings at Columbine took place when she was nine or ten years old.  She explained that the incident changed her.  She decided to never allow anyone she knew to be left out, ostracized, abandoned, or bullied.  She resolved to draw in the outsider, to love the excluded.  Even in high school she still held to the decision to prevent the kind of suffering, as much as was in her power to do so, that had lead to the carnage of that terrible time.

Understand, I am certain in my mind that Sexy V. would never have felt the need to destroy anyone.  His shyness was not the sign of a disturbed or abused person.  Clover’s decision to be sure he was welcomed and accepted in the room reflected more on her naive solution to a daunting, almost unsolvable problem.

I do not know what solution there could be to the problems we now see in our culture.  I think perhaps first responders and beat cops would be safer if the civilian population did not have access to military style weapons, but they would still be in terrible danger.  I do not think the extreme psychotic pornography of violence in some video games can be very healthy for any of us.  I do not even know if Clover prevented one unkind word, let alone a rampage or spree or whatever the news people are calling these things this week.

However, Clover’s intention to love and be kind to those who seemed to need it meant something to me.  It means even more now.  It’s a cold world out there.  I hope I’m a little like her.  I hope I have drawn in those who might have felt excluded if I were not there to tease or tolerate or challenge them.  And if not me, I hope another Clover sprung up to sweeten the world where she is.  Cheers to those who love with purpose, and to all a restful and fulfilling winter.  Let the blessings snow!

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American Fat: Part II

I am not a doctor.  I am not a dietician, or a nutritionist, or an over-reaching politician.  I am, however, fat.  I have YEARS of experience with fat.  I have my Ph.D. in Feminine Chubbiness.

My journey through the world of American fat began when I was nine, and one of the mean kids in my class called me “Porky” to hurt my feelings and to make me cry.  It worked.  When I started my fat life, there were two other girls in my class who were fatter than I was.  I did not notice this until I got my fat tag.  Since that first experience I have consistently compared my girth to that of others in different groups of which I was a member, including groups waiting to board planes.  I do not focus on clothes or hair or skin color or even height.  I suspect this habit of mine may not be uniquely my own, or even limited to fat people, but I will make no absolute assertions concerning it.

From my experience of fat, I have decided there are certain things that have little to do with fat, and one of those is food.  I know that sounds counter intuitive, but wait a little.  I’ll explain.  Some people pretend they think that family history has nothing to do with fat, but they know better.  Look back along my family line, and you’ll see a rich assortment of sturdy women.  It’s true that there is more flesh in my generation, but down through the ages rail-thin delicate types are as rare as star sapphires. 

Saying that food has little to do with fat does not mean it has nothing to do with fat.  It is a factor, but I suspect it may be far less important than other factors.  One other factor that is more powerful than food is exercise.  Exercise does more than just burn calories.  It makes a person feel better.  The sweat helps purify the body.  The increased heart rate releases some combination of hormones that improve mood.  A significant number of fat people find they gain weight when depressed.  Yep, the elevation of mood from a hard workout (or actual hard work) helps the body maintain greater health regardless of the body’s size or shape. 

Another factor of weight is not calories at all.  It’s hydration.  Lots of fat (and thin) people know drinking water and allowing the kidneys plenty of easy work actually improves their function.   

Exercise and water are more important than food in regulating healthy weight, but they are not the most important factors.  The main problem leading to American fat is lack of proper rest and sleep.  I’m serious.  Look at the way the fat America scenario has been working.  With each passing decade, reporters and skinny folks are working themselves into a frenzy about the fat epidemic, and it hasn’t made for fewer fat people.  Even those who are most worried about it have to admit that worrying about American fat has done absolutely NOTHING to reduce it. 

So, if it isn’t McDonalds that’s making people fat, what is?  With each passing year people have more and more reason to stay up late at night and to stay inside.  When I was very young, I went to bed at 8:30 and my parents turned off the TV.   We moved and I went from living in a small town near lots of friends who all played outside to living outside town and having no friends to play with near me at all.  I started my TV habit after that move.  I exercised less.  I started staying up later and my weight…well, I gained.     

The only times I have SPONTANEOUSLY lost weight have been when I have fallen in love, but the love diet never lasts.  Eventually the rose fades; the pounds come back.  Ask a career fat person about this, about his or her experiences with fat, and I’ll bet at least one experience involving the elevating powers of romantic love will be linked to weight loss.  But, Cupid is fickle trainer.  He never lets the feeling LAST.   

What are we doing that is different than earlier generations?  What are we doing that works AGAINST the natural inclination of our physical selves to seek health?  We are all working longer hours, staying up later, watching screens of various sizes and brightness.  That’s the difference.  Our metabolisms are turned on their heads.  Our hormones are out of whack.  We’re not just fat.  We’re exhausted.  What do we do when we feel tired–sugar fix, carb fix, pizza fix. 

Want to lose weight over the holidays?  Go to bed at 9:00 p.m.  No TV.  No computer after 8:00 p.m.  Don’t use an alarm.  Turn off all the lights and just snuggle under the blankets.  When you wake up naturally at dawn you’ll have enough time for a nice walk and even a shower before you have to get to work.  Drink plenty of water.  Enjoy the treats people bring you.  Work out a little each and every day.  Break a sweat at least four times a week.  Urinate often. 

Who can do all this?  Who has the will to do all this?  I’m telling you, the food is the least of fat America’s problems.  It’s not the food.  It’s the rest.

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Guacamole from Scratch

Recently one of my Sophomores (initials–R.M.; alias–Evelyn) gave me three avacados from her family’s property in sunny California.  They were remarkable avacados, and I promised to make the class guacamole.  I almost let them get too ripe, but just in time, as with all things on the edge, I made the dip as a treat for the kids.  Here is the recipe. 

The sun room before the sun rises.

The sun room before the sun rises.

First, get up really early since you have to be at work by 0700 and you have to stop by the grocery store to buy some decent corn chips and some humus and some cheese dip because fifteen-year-old people are notoious “fussy” eaters.  (Look up George Carlin to know what this title truly means.)  It helps if there is a Christmas tree somewhere in the house to remind you of why you are doing this crazy thing. 

Nearly too ripe

Nearly too ripe

Next, get some really RIPE avacados.  It does no good to rush this.  There is a thirty hour window in which they will do.  If you try to use them when they are not ripe enough, they will never achieve the creaminess that sets really good guacamole apart from the dreck that has sour cream in it.  YES!  I said “dreck,” and I mean DRECK! 

The amonts are all dependent on the moment and cooks preferences.

The amounts are all dependent on the moment and cook’s preferences.

This is a simple recipe.  It takes confidence in the product more than it does subtlty.  You must have limes, minced garlic, green chile, chopped cilantro (optional) and good salt. 

I like to use the brand name “505” when choosing the green chile, but any roasted green chile that has been peeled and chopped will do.

Truly, I like them just a little less ripe than this, but the size of it is impressive.

Truly, I like them just a little less ripe than this, but the size of it is impressive.

The biggest problems with making guacamole come from the avacados themselves. Cut them in half. Spoon out the flesh. Discard the skins. Wear an apron. The flesh of this fruit has tremedous staining power. You never want it on a nice piece of clothing. One way to deal with the pit is to let it fall out after spooning the flesh from the skin. Some people save the pits and put them back in the dip to “keep it from getting brown.” I find the limes do that. Further, mine never hangs around long enough to get very brown.

Best when served with FRESH tortilla chips.

Best when served with FRESH tortilla chips.

Some people will add onions, jalapenos, tomatoes, tomatillos, and lemon. That’s all a matter of taste, but if you want pico de gallo, why not just make that? Guacamole is all about the green pear of the West. Let it have the spot light.

Cheers!

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Writing in Circles

I am at war with my pants.  This may not sound surprising to people who are required to wear factory made uniforms, but I suspect those who have never had to wear tight-fitting polyesters will not understand.  I cannot really blame my pants that they are old, and I even enjoy their deep pine color.  The problems I have with my pants are more properly blamed on the moronic, insensitive brute who designed them.  That b—— is on my list.

Yes, I admit I have a list.  Doesn’t everyone?  There are people who are destined to receive justice, and I hope to be God’s instrument for a few.  I suppose my love for my list springs from my love for revenge tales and plot twists, little story lines that have attracted me from the start.

One of my first delightful explorations of big twists came in my fourteenth summer when I first stumbled on Jane Eyre. That book is built on twists.  It begins with a little girl being bullied by a big boy, but suddenly she charges him, and by instinct she hits him where it hurts.  This amazed me.  Instead of sniveling, she punishes her tormentor.  Thus began my love of revenge tales.

Punishing the tormentor is the motivation for all revenge tales, and I always loved the idea of wrong-doers justly suffering at the hands of some avenging bad angel.  In Flagg’s Fried Green Tomatoes, she imagines Towanda, who makes young people PAY for disrespecting their elders.  “Let’s face it, honey.  I’m older and I have more insurance.”  Her husband is less amused than I was when I read it.

The problem is revenge tales are loaded with mixed messages.  Revenge, the pursuit of it, eventually poisons the soul of the one seeking it.  The blood lust rots the decency of the once innocent hero.  That element of revenge tales used to frustrate me, but eventually I began to accept the truth of this.  How can we avenge cruelty without ourselves becoming cruel?  If we were made of sterner, more disciplined, cooler stuff perhaps we could avenge, but our passions are bound to force us to exponential reaction.  “You took my dollar.  I’ll take TEN of yours!”  “You made me cry.  I’m make you BLEED!”

What would I do if I found the designer of the pants?  I would strap him into a girdle two sizes too small then shoot arrows at him while teenagers pointed and laughed.  Yeah, I’m not ready to dole justice, so let him go (notice how I assume it’s a him).  Let him live in peace, and let me get some more comfortable pants.

 

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American Fat: Part I

I have been fat for longer than America, at least it feels that way.  I may someday hold forth on why putting America on a diet will NOT work, but before I do, I want to discuss that freak show phenomenon The Biggest Loser.  I always call the show “That one where they make the fat people cry” or “Torturing Fatties.”  I find the whole project humiliating.

First, they make fat people weigh themselves in front of all the world, a thing that the vast majority of people (yes, I recognize the pun) would never agree to do.  Worse, they make these poor subjects strip.  I know people with perfectly attractive bodies who would be humiliated by such an experience, so to take a person who commits the ultimate American sin–fatness–and strip that person so that every fold, roll and dimple is brightly lit then force this individual to stand on a scale built for LIVESTOCK in front of all the world, and (just for added grins) have the readout on the scale spin like some nightmare slot machine…  This is the DEF-IN-ITION of torture.  If that isn’t enough, they pit these fat people against each other in physical challenges.  Once they’re exhausted and confused and miserable, they have one-on-one interviews which probe their psyches until they break, break like little, baby girls.  The scarring is finally complete.  Just thinking about this show would enrage me.

Imagine how I felt, then, when my preacher confessed (from the pulpit) that he liked to watch that show while eating ice-cream.  Talk about a faith-shaker!  How could a person who is supposed to embody (or at least teach) the love of Christ like a show that is one of my top three visions of HELL?

I mentioned this whole nightmare to a slender friend of mine.  This friend said, “Yeah, but have you seen what they do for those people.  It’s amazing!”  Poor skinny fool!  I thought.  You think what they do works.  Later I thought more carefully about my friend and about my preacher.  It came to me that both these men enjoy the show for another reason.  It’s THE STORY!

Sinners confess they have sinned, that they are enslaved by their sin.  They seek forgiveness.  They repent.  They struggle.  They suffer.  They learn to live a new way, and they emerge transformed, as if resurrected from underneath all that flesh.  There is no way to top such a story.  It’s the best one of all.

Of course, this transformation is superficial.  It does not change the essential, and that’s what really changes everything, the transformation of the essential.  The transformation on Biggest Loser is not permanent in almost all cases.  It only offers a visible metaphor of a transformation that IS worthwhile.   This narrative is the ultimate resolution, a vision of an earned paradise.  If only losing fifteen pounds or fifty pounds or thousands and thousands of pounds could bestow real joy!

So, I forgive my preacher and all those slender friends of mine who like that show.  I can even appreciate what they see in it, but I will never be able to watch it.  It reminds me too much of those old circus side shows, the ones where people paid a nickel to walk past the calf born with two heads and the world’s smallest man and…and…oh yes…the fat lady.

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