Wednesday, December 14, 2011

haiku: pie

Mom’s vinegar pie:
Has it gone out of fashion?
Bitter travesty.


Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Butter Churning and Page Turning

This was the year that I suddenly became obsessed with Little House on the Prairie.

I've read at least four nonfiction books related to the series and am finally now re-reading the actual novels for the first time since elementary school. (Thanks to her sweet teacher connections, my mother was able to get me a free set of all the books. They looked so glorious, I could hardly bear to remove the plastic wrappings. But I did. Oh, I did.) I feel that my sudden devotion to all things Laura Ingalls Wilder must say something about the way my life is heading, perhaps some inner call to a simpler life, or some need to learn needlepoint or learn to spell in a one-room schoolhouse.

Or maybe I just like long descriptions of how to build log houses.

Anyway, a few nights ago, I finished reading Farmer Boy, which is a year in the life of a young Almanzo (Laura's future hubby, whom she later nauseatingly refers to as "Manly"-- please. Only Pa Ingalls could pull off that nickname, amiright ladies?). By the way, who names their kid Almanzo? Mr. and Mrs. Wilder do. I digress. I only really remembered the chapter where Almanzo, in a fit of Laura-esque rage, throws the polish brush and it hits the parlor wall (gasp!).

Here's what I didn't remember: ALL THE FOOD. Seriously, this book is NOTHING BUT FOOD MANIA. Food, food, and more food. ALSO, FOOD. It. Is. Awesome.

It also makes you hate Almanzo and his family a little, but in a very enjoyable way, because you've just read about Laura and Co., who are almost obsessively grateful for their cornmeal and lone tin cup and pathetic Christmas gifts of a piece of candy and a penny ("the best Christmas ever!"), and how the Ingalls fall asleep to the sounds of war cries from the Indians who want to slaughter them (ALLEGEDLY*) AND scrimp and save and then eventually have to abandon everything because of the durn government and so on. Meanwhile Almanzo's on his fifth slice of pumpkin pie.

*Little House on the Prairie is chock full o' racism. I tell you, there must be dozens of graduate dissertations out there on this topic, and I am absolutely filled with spite that I didn't write one myself.

Also, spoiler alert, at the end of Farmer Boy, Almanzo is given two hundred bucks because he found a dude's wallet. TWO HUNDRED AMERICAN DOLLARS. Back on the prairie, Laura and Mary nearly die of malaria and then have to give their Indian beads to Baby Carrie, who wouldn't appreciate an Indian bead necklace if it slapped her in the face. Life on the prairie is rough.

Next up, On the Banks of Plum Creek. I have to find out what happens to Laura. I've heard she grows up to become a writer but right now all she does is help Ma churn butter and not speak unless spoken to because children must be seen and not heard. So I'm waiting for the big twist.

Note to self: Research vinegar pie. If it's good enough for Almanzo, I must have it.


Thursday, December 1, 2011

small good-byes

Rest in Peace, Tandi (the Best Dog Ever)
1997 - 2011

Even when you know what's coming just around the corner, saying goodbye sucks, plain and simple. There's something bittersweet about the fact that your relationship with your pet can be one of the closest in your life, but your lifespans don't match up, not even a little bit.

But for the record, Tandi was 14, or 98 in dog years. That's a lucky dog, I'd say. There have been some tears and some smiles and all in all, there are worse ways than old-age-and-illness to lose a pet. I can't help but think how strange it will be at Christmas to open presents with the family without a pug snorting her way out the piles of wrapping paper and ribbons. Of course, we still have my sister's dog, who is a puggle (half pug, half beagle), but her countenance is, shall we say, a bit different. I think Darcy gets more pug-like as she gets older, though; that is to say that she grows a bit fatter and more apt to snort and snore. But no doubt she'd still say she's her own man, by Jove (I imagine Darcy to speak a bit like a Victorian gentleman), and we must admit to that truth: there's no replacement for Tandi herself.

To quote my dad, she's in eternal doggy rest, and to paraphrase a friend, regardless of your beliefs, we know all dogs go to heaven. I'll fondly brush this bit of fur off my coat and remind myself of that. Farewell, puglet.