Saggyboobosity lonesome Playtex blues

Over in Illinois there are some very tired 18-hour bras working a double shift.  In the preschool room my tiny French student notices the Bandaid over my hot glue burn and says, "Boo boo."  From this small step she suddenly expresses the big idea, "I like your shirt. Do you like my shirt?"

 I do.  I like that party shirt! Go, Dog, Go!  We are cooking.

Here in Texas I put a Chicken Davenport ala Doris casserole into my preheated newlio trulio functioning oven. Doris was my sister-in-law way back in the before time.  She made a gourmet dish of chicken, frozen broccoli, frozen hashbrowns, cheese, and cream of chicken soup for a bridal shower a quarter century or so ago. I can't remember "divan", and I can't exactly google "Doris", although I miss her and wish her well after all these years, and her husband, too. Another former sister-in-law lived in Davenport, Iowa, a swing state. Somehow Chicken Divan got mixed up with davenports, couches, sofas,sleepers, settees, divans, loveseats, futons, and sectionals. The secret is having plenty of buttered bread crumbs baked on top of the casserole.  Enough might even prevent divorce.

I am so far behind.  I zip and dart from Halloween tie-dye experiments to Hurricane Sandy fretting. Sitting in the waiting room for my blood pressure checkup, I pass the time writing fall student progress reports. This creative endeavor seems to calm the blood pressure.  My doctor pronounces my blood pressure "beautiful".  Not bad for a divorced couch casserole boo-boo art teacher.

It had been a bad day.  I couldn't even wear my own shirt.  There was so much poop in the preschool that I had to scrounge up a new outfit to wear to the doctor appointment.  My little French student would have looked at my shirt and said something other than "Boo boo"!




© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Craving poverty suppers

My oven is broken therefore it's no surprise I really want a baked potato and 4-H meatloaf now that fall has nipped the air.  Limited to stove-top prep I'm remembering suppers from the Sixties. My mom put supper for five on the table every evening and believed in the beneficial force of a round table to promote egalitarian conversation. 

May Fritzi dine at the celestial Outback for all eternity!  She deserves it.  Some of her Sixties suppers I now realize were poor family desperation basement pantry concoctions. And they were among my childhood favorites.  

Mom used to toast "open-face" left-over hamburger buns in the oven topped with salted slices of American (not Velveeta) cheese.  I'm craving one right now.  

Another deeply satisfying meal was Creamed Salmon on Crackers.  That was basically a can of salmon, a can of mushroom soup, and a lot of Tabasco sauce heated together in a double boiler, then ladled onto saltines.  The thrill was in arranging the cracker squares on our plates. 

Bread-and-gravy was one of my childhood favorites.  We each got a piece of white bread (bordering on stale) to tear up into pieces.  We competed to form the tallest heap. Served with thin slices of leftover rump roast and warmed-up "scram" gravy.  The cornstarch gravy was flavored with brown sauce. One good rump roast could make up for a lot of cheese buns and canned beans.

In those Ed Sullivan GI Bill years a carrot stick, a canned pear half, and a Flintstone jelly glass of skim milk were considered a balanced meal.  If you were living large you might have a Duncan Hines cake or some Jello instant pudding for dessert.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Fewaffu

Resolution #7 : To refrain from refilling the birdfeeder.  Sorry birds, but the sight of a rat pigging out at the feeder is giving me nightmares.  And, no, I probably won't listen to "The Nutcracker" for quite awhile.

Fewaffu is today's security word, which sets off all sorts of inner pinballs.  It so sounds like a quicki-ethnic counter in a failing shopping mall's fast food court.  Part loofah and part Luby LuAnn platter perhaps.

Falafel became so popular that McDonald's now serves a "McFalafel" in some countries. I get falafel mixed up with injera, that spongy Ethiopian flatbread.


I written elsewhere about the year we had our Thanksgiving at a Waffle House in Oklahoma.  Ooh.  I fee waffu sorry for you.  This feline waffle is borrowed from link.

Resolution #8 : To actually read the tales of E. T. A Hoffmann for free [frewaffu] on my Kindle.  But for now just put the opera dvd in the player for Neil Shicoff and Bryn Terfel.


Resolution # 9 : Learn to make pie crust.  Apropos of nothing except maybe a potpie with pretty slits on the golden brown crust would be fewaffu satisfying on a chilly evening.

apropos of nothing

1. Without reference to anything.
2. Without any apparent reason or purpose.

Fewaffu it up to warf speed, Whoopi!


© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder