This is about that great high school tradition, the yearbook. Or the annual. Whatever. Anybody know where yours are? All of mine are in a box in the attic. After I received my senior yearbook I collected autographs as if it was a judgment on my popularity. What a coup it was to get the cutest guy in my class to sign. Despite the fact that the alopecia fairy visited him sometime between then and now, I think most women in the 35 and up range would still find him hot.
So now the kids at my school are experiencing this sacred rite of passage. They have received their yearbooks and some have asked me to sign them. Do I DARE tell the TRUTH? Let's see...
Student 1, what I write:
Dear Nice Girl,
It has been so nice getting to know you these past three years. Your great sense of style and gentle nature are endearing. As you move forward, beyond high school, you will achieve great things. Keep reading!
Sincerely,
Librarian to the Stars
Student 1, what I want to write:
Dear Emo Limp Dishrag,
For three years I've watched you slither around like an earthworm, as if the world is just too much for you. Good god, child, can you not get your medications balanced so that you can actually attend an entire week of school? Have you noticed that your classmates are all high on energy drinks? Try one. It might boost your energy level, which is about equal to the sofa cushions you lie on every time you're in the library.
And as for the very strange outfits you wear, I applaud you. You can carry it off right now, but when you're my age everyone will cross the street to avoid you and that rusty shopping cart full of castoffs you call a closet. Get your shit together now. I have one word for you: Garanimals.
Sincerely,
The Queen of Helpful Advice
Student 2, what I write:
Dear Pretty Girl,
I have enjoyed having you visit the library every day. Your determination and independent spirit will serve you well as you move beyond high school and take on the "real" world. I wish you all the best.
Sincerely,
Nice Librarian
Student 2, what I want to write:
Dear Conceited, Don't-Talk-To-Me Girl,
I can't believe you're letting me write in here in PEN. So often our encounters have been negative. I have to tell you to stop eating, to get off e-mail, and to put on a jacket since you're violating the dress code as usual. And when I remind you again of the very few, very basic rules in the library, you pull that angry princess bitch face on me, huffing like you're having an asthma attack. Let me tell you what the future holds for you, my dear.
Keep eating all that junk food. When you hit 30 and your metabolism starts slowing down, you're going to puff up like a toad frog. And have bad teeth. Yep, I hate the fact that you subsist on chips and soda and are still like a size two with no hips at all. Get back to me after you've birthed a couple of ten pound babies. I earned these hips.
Those guys you're e-mailing are probably retired fartheads sitting in their single-wides in Florida, yanking their crank while they look at those pictures you are posting. But you are smart and you'd be able to tell if they weren't the hot guys you think they are. I'll see you on the evening news.
The dress code? Yeah, it's the same one for grades K through 12. You're a senior but you haven't realized yet that shirts with spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline are verbotten? OK, fine, you win this round. Go ahead and display those grapefruits while they are still round and wedged up under your chin. In no time at all you'll be sporting a couple of overly ripe bananas, tucking them into the top of your size 16 underpants every morning when you get dressed and waddle to the bathroom to brush your one tooth.
Love Always,
The Mean One
By the way, a yearbook now costs $60 or more. Oy!
Disclaimer: Just in case by some miracle a student or students wander onto this blog (as IF - since I'm ancient and clueless and couldn't have a blog, right?) I want to say that neither of these "students" is a specific individual, but represents a composite of the traits several students. Because I'm really not quite that mean, and I do in fact genuinely like most of the kids at my school. The vast majority are, if not respectful and nice, at least capable of holding their teen disdain and superiority in check.
Or maaaaaybe each is one of these entries is really a student. Me to know and you to find out! Pffffttt!!!
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Just to Prove I Know of What I Speak
Regarding the previous post, if you think I'm just guessing about what 'nads look like, then you are wrong. I had this dog named Goober. As a puppy, he looked for all the world like a possum. A cute possum, of course. I found him beside a neighbor's mailbox when he was maybe 8 or 9 weeks old and he followed me home. The fact that I stopped every three feet, calling, "Come on, puppy. Come on." had nothing to do with it, I'm sure.
I did not realize I had brought destructo-dog into my home. That pup would chew up anything. He chewed the arms of the sofa, the coffee table legs, and half a rocker off a chair I got from my grandma. Which means I am truly off my rocker. (groan - bad pun). For some reason, Goober was particularly attracted to the heels of shoes...countless pairs of shoes. He sealed his fate when he destroyed my favorite lizard and patent leather pumps (this was 1991, the shoes were cool then, I swear!).
Thinking this puppy was just a bit to enthusiastic, I dragged Goober to the vet to have his love lumps removed. Being the curious type (remember that A in biology?) I told the vet I wanted to see Goober's goobers after they were removed. When I picked him up, the vet had the nuggets (How many different words will she use in one post to describe manparts? Stay tuned.) in a jar of formalin. She was very considerate and took time to explain to me what each bit was and how it worked. Yummy. I took the jar of cocktail onions home.
And then what? What do you do with pickled dog oysters? Thinking I might have a daughter some day, I kept them. How great would that be? My daughter starts dating and a real winner shows up to take her to the Sonic for a #1 meal with tater tots and a lime slush. Mom puts the jar on the coffee table. Without any explanation, the boy knows exactly what he is looking at. He feels an involuntary clenching in his boxers. Mom says, "About the last boy who dated my daughter..."
Alas I had no daughter. Somewhere in a move, the Goober seed pods went in the trash. But Goober himself lives on. He is deaf, nearly blind, and can hardly walk. He just stumbles around in his quiet, dark world, looking for his walnuts. Or some shoes.
(I lost custody of Goober in a divorce, hence the use of the past tense early in the story.)
I did not realize I had brought destructo-dog into my home. That pup would chew up anything. He chewed the arms of the sofa, the coffee table legs, and half a rocker off a chair I got from my grandma. Which means I am truly off my rocker. (groan - bad pun). For some reason, Goober was particularly attracted to the heels of shoes...countless pairs of shoes. He sealed his fate when he destroyed my favorite lizard and patent leather pumps (this was 1991, the shoes were cool then, I swear!).
Thinking this puppy was just a bit to enthusiastic, I dragged Goober to the vet to have his love lumps removed. Being the curious type (remember that A in biology?) I told the vet I wanted to see Goober's goobers after they were removed. When I picked him up, the vet had the nuggets (How many different words will she use in one post to describe manparts? Stay tuned.) in a jar of formalin. She was very considerate and took time to explain to me what each bit was and how it worked. Yummy. I took the jar of cocktail onions home.
And then what? What do you do with pickled dog oysters? Thinking I might have a daughter some day, I kept them. How great would that be? My daughter starts dating and a real winner shows up to take her to the Sonic for a #1 meal with tater tots and a lime slush. Mom puts the jar on the coffee table. Without any explanation, the boy knows exactly what he is looking at. He feels an involuntary clenching in his boxers. Mom says, "About the last boy who dated my daughter..."
Alas I had no daughter. Somewhere in a move, the Goober seed pods went in the trash. But Goober himself lives on. He is deaf, nearly blind, and can hardly walk. He just stumbles around in his quiet, dark world, looking for his walnuts. Or some shoes.
(I lost custody of Goober in a divorce, hence the use of the past tense early in the story.)
Friday, June 01, 2007
A Pain in the Neck
Literally.
See the back of Rob's throat? You don't? Really? Well neither do I. That's because his tonsils are bigger than his 'nads. They are HUGE. Poor kid. I had my tonsils ripped from my throat when I was five. Ah, yes, I remember it well. My mother told me that after the surgery I could have all the ice cream I wanted. What nobody told me is that I WOULDN'T WANT ANY. Because it hurt too bad to swallow. Trickery! Treachery!
And then...and THEN, I told the nurse in the recovery room that I had to tinkle. She brought me a bedpan. Welllll OK-alrighty then. I don't think so. Even at age five I wasn't big on public urination. I crawled from my deathbed and started walking the halls, looking for a bathroom. What did I find? A men's room. Apparently my shyness did not extend to cross-gender issues.
So, back to the boy with golf balls in his mouth. I thought that he might be able to keep them since he hadn't experienced the constant problems I did. But at his last check-up the doctor was all, "Holy crap on a stick! This boy has 'NADS at the back of his throat! It is double-nad disease! I've only read about cases like this!" Then she asked if he snored (yes, bad), said he also has a deviated septum, and wrote out a referral for an ENT. That stands for Extra Nasty Tonsils. Or maybe Each Nostril is Tiny.
Since I have not yet taken him to the ENT, the gods frowned upon my parental slackitudeness and now Rob has strep throat. At least he handles it well. He still played baseball tonight. I didn't tell the five coaches or any of the players that he hasn't yet started taking antibiotics. Ooops.
When I get strep I feel like I have the King Mack Daddy of all hangovers, which causes me to roll up into a ball and cry for days. My kid? He went to the game. They lost, but he played hard. Because he's Super 'Nad Neck.
Footnote: The silver line on Rob's teeth is his new retainer. Which cost an extra $150 after he lost the first one. At least they got the color right this time: green with glitter. Fancy.
See the back of Rob's throat? You don't? Really? Well neither do I. That's because his tonsils are bigger than his 'nads. They are HUGE. Poor kid. I had my tonsils ripped from my throat when I was five. Ah, yes, I remember it well. My mother told me that after the surgery I could have all the ice cream I wanted. What nobody told me is that I WOULDN'T WANT ANY. Because it hurt too bad to swallow. Trickery! Treachery!
And then...and THEN, I told the nurse in the recovery room that I had to tinkle. She brought me a bedpan. Welllll OK-alrighty then. I don't think so. Even at age five I wasn't big on public urination. I crawled from my deathbed and started walking the halls, looking for a bathroom. What did I find? A men's room. Apparently my shyness did not extend to cross-gender issues.
So, back to the boy with golf balls in his mouth. I thought that he might be able to keep them since he hadn't experienced the constant problems I did. But at his last check-up the doctor was all, "Holy crap on a stick! This boy has 'NADS at the back of his throat! It is double-nad disease! I've only read about cases like this!" Then she asked if he snored (yes, bad), said he also has a deviated septum, and wrote out a referral for an ENT. That stands for Extra Nasty Tonsils. Or maybe Each Nostril is Tiny.
Since I have not yet taken him to the ENT, the gods frowned upon my parental slackitudeness and now Rob has strep throat. At least he handles it well. He still played baseball tonight. I didn't tell the five coaches or any of the players that he hasn't yet started taking antibiotics. Ooops.
When I get strep I feel like I have the King Mack Daddy of all hangovers, which causes me to roll up into a ball and cry for days. My kid? He went to the game. They lost, but he played hard. Because he's Super 'Nad Neck.
Footnote: The silver line on Rob's teeth is his new retainer. Which cost an extra $150 after he lost the first one. At least they got the color right this time: green with glitter. Fancy.
An Ode to Silence
Exams have begun! Exams have begun!
(the librarian spins in circles of joy, shelving books in a counter-clockwise direction)
Yeah, the students aren't too happy about it. Poor kids (snark). But me? The QUIET. Lovely, lovely quiet.
Perhaps you went to your high school library once or twice? Yes? And there was a mean librarian there who insisted on all kinds of restrictive rules, right? There was in mine. His name was Mr. Litchfield and he had really looooong eyebrows. That he brushed straight up. And they met his hairline. No, I am not kidding. It made him look like a werewolf. A werewolf who had been cursed for all eternity to guard books, scare teenagers, and refuse to be helpful at all costs.
Not so here. We are all OPEN, man. My library (oh, let me be all PC - my media center) is a social center before school, during lunch and after school. Which is nice, because we enjoy getting to know the kids, and for the most part they are great. But they are also like a litter of golden retrievers: all bouncy and stumbly and barking.
Now they are trapped in the sticky web of EXAM WEEK and we have have quiet. *sigh*
Thank you LOLDOGS on flickr.com for the above image, which belongs to rockcreek.
(the librarian spins in circles of joy, shelving books in a counter-clockwise direction)
Yeah, the students aren't too happy about it. Poor kids (snark). But me? The QUIET. Lovely, lovely quiet.
Perhaps you went to your high school library once or twice? Yes? And there was a mean librarian there who insisted on all kinds of restrictive rules, right? There was in mine. His name was Mr. Litchfield and he had really looooong eyebrows. That he brushed straight up. And they met his hairline. No, I am not kidding. It made him look like a werewolf. A werewolf who had been cursed for all eternity to guard books, scare teenagers, and refuse to be helpful at all costs.
Not so here. We are all OPEN, man. My library (oh, let me be all PC - my media center) is a social center before school, during lunch and after school. Which is nice, because we enjoy getting to know the kids, and for the most part they are great. But they are also like a litter of golden retrievers: all bouncy and stumbly and barking.
Now they are trapped in the sticky web of EXAM WEEK and we have have quiet. *sigh*
Thank you LOLDOGS on flickr.com for the above image, which belongs to rockcreek.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Shopping with a Caterpillar
I have this....this...thing living in my house. Usually I can him Mac, but today let's call him Caterpillar. See, he is a newly minted teenager. All of 13 years old and soon to complete the eighth grade. You know what that means? Next year he is in HIGH SCHOOL. I am way too young for this.
So why is he a caterpillar? Because he is somewhere between an egg and a butterfly. Once he was small and easy to control, and someday (please) he'll be really nice to be around. Still waiting for him to go into a cocoon, though. That would be cool. I could just lean his cottony pod in a corner somewhere; let him gather dust. Maybe decorate him for Christmas with a festive strand of colored lights and that silver tinsel that takes me right back to childhood.
The best part of this scenario? Cocoons can't talk. This boy? He has a MOUTH on him. Truly I have no idea where he gets it. It's crazy. Anyway, the mouth. Constantly in motion, usually spilling words laced with sarcasm or disgust at all things familial. His baby brother is a bacterium. His stepfather is an ogre. His mother is a prison guard with a cattle prod. Sucks to be him. Of course, I cannot relate at all. Because I was never 13. Ever. I was born when I was 30. Pissed my mother off, me being so big and all.
Back to the issue of shopping with a caterpillar. Since caterpillars are in a state of transition, shopping is not just difficult, it is amazingly, painfully, horribly impossible. Today we set out with a mission: find pants, shirt, shoes for the upcoming eighth grade end-of-year dance. He needs to look hot for all the wimmins. They are attracted by the shininess of his braces, and that sweep of hair that completely covers one eye.
Anyone care to guess how many stores we went to before we found pants that fit? This boy got his mother's long legs and short waist, so pants with a normal "rise" tend to go halfway up the ribcage. Not a good look on me; not a good look on him. And shopping for pants in late May? Not so easy. Old Navy? No luck. Marshalls? As if. TJ Maxx (oooo, the jewelry counter...snap out of it, mom!). Forget it. Goodwill? (yes, I tried there) Not a chance. Finally, pants at Belk. Forty percent off, no less. The shirt was easier - 75% off at Dillard's. Woot!
Here comes the tricky bit. Shoes. The caterpillar is in the early stages of puberty, so right now he is about 5 feet tall, but he wears a men's 8 1/2 shoe. Since September his feet have grown THREE sizes. Put a black dress shoe that big on a boy that short and the result is...not comical, exactly. (thinking, thinking...) Well, it just looks wrong. As if he might be part hobbit. Although he liked a couple of pairs of regular leather slip-ons, they resembled snowshoes on his feet. I had to move into the next aisle so I wouldn't laugh at him. Caterpillars are very touchy. And if you step on them, that green goo comes out. Nasty.
Finally I convinced him to buy a pair of solid black Chuck Taylor high tops. At least he can wear them again. And if he doesn't, I will.
Pictures. Isn't he cute? Kind of like Cousin It: The Middle School Years. Or a cyclops.
So why is he a caterpillar? Because he is somewhere between an egg and a butterfly. Once he was small and easy to control, and someday (please) he'll be really nice to be around. Still waiting for him to go into a cocoon, though. That would be cool. I could just lean his cottony pod in a corner somewhere; let him gather dust. Maybe decorate him for Christmas with a festive strand of colored lights and that silver tinsel that takes me right back to childhood.
The best part of this scenario? Cocoons can't talk. This boy? He has a MOUTH on him. Truly I have no idea where he gets it. It's crazy. Anyway, the mouth. Constantly in motion, usually spilling words laced with sarcasm or disgust at all things familial. His baby brother is a bacterium. His stepfather is an ogre. His mother is a prison guard with a cattle prod. Sucks to be him. Of course, I cannot relate at all. Because I was never 13. Ever. I was born when I was 30. Pissed my mother off, me being so big and all.
Back to the issue of shopping with a caterpillar. Since caterpillars are in a state of transition, shopping is not just difficult, it is amazingly, painfully, horribly impossible. Today we set out with a mission: find pants, shirt, shoes for the upcoming eighth grade end-of-year dance. He needs to look hot for all the wimmins. They are attracted by the shininess of his braces, and that sweep of hair that completely covers one eye.
Anyone care to guess how many stores we went to before we found pants that fit? This boy got his mother's long legs and short waist, so pants with a normal "rise" tend to go halfway up the ribcage. Not a good look on me; not a good look on him. And shopping for pants in late May? Not so easy. Old Navy? No luck. Marshalls? As if. TJ Maxx (oooo, the jewelry counter...snap out of it, mom!). Forget it. Goodwill? (yes, I tried there) Not a chance. Finally, pants at Belk. Forty percent off, no less. The shirt was easier - 75% off at Dillard's. Woot!
Here comes the tricky bit. Shoes. The caterpillar is in the early stages of puberty, so right now he is about 5 feet tall, but he wears a men's 8 1/2 shoe. Since September his feet have grown THREE sizes. Put a black dress shoe that big on a boy that short and the result is...not comical, exactly. (thinking, thinking...) Well, it just looks wrong. As if he might be part hobbit. Although he liked a couple of pairs of regular leather slip-ons, they resembled snowshoes on his feet. I had to move into the next aisle so I wouldn't laugh at him. Caterpillars are very touchy. And if you step on them, that green goo comes out. Nasty.
Finally I convinced him to buy a pair of solid black Chuck Taylor high tops. At least he can wear them again. And if he doesn't, I will.
Pictures. Isn't he cute? Kind of like Cousin It: The Middle School Years. Or a cyclops.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Yes, I'm a Hussy
A different blog asked for submissions of the worst scheduling nightmare ever. I shared mine there, then thought I'd copy it here. Because I crave humiliation.
So here it is. This happened years ago. I am old now. The shame lingers.
As a recent college graduate, I was lovin’ life. Had my own apartment, a decent -albeit boring- job, a nice boyfriend. But there was this other guy. For me, this other guy was just a friend. I was up front with him and he understood that although I would go out with him on occasion, we were not dating. He said he was fine with that. Still, I knew he had a horrible, huge crush on me.
It was all I could do to not tell this guy that his orange car clashed with his red hair and he should consider trading it for something green or blue. Hopefully I'm a bit more mature now. And as poetic justice would have it, my hair increasingly matches my silver car.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Don't tell PETA!
Get a load of my summer boarder. His name is Chico and he is my stepdaughter's chinchilla. He is cute and soft . Did I say soft? I meant SOFT. SOFT! I sooooo understand why people make coats out of these things. Come to think of it, I'd rather have a chinchilla blanket. That way I could roll up in it while I watch TV shows that cause my husband to make strange noises and leave the room.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Root Canal
I had my first root canal today. Hooray. I made it to the ripe old age of 41 before enduring this fabulous experience. I am falling apart one bit at a time, yet according to my calculations I'm not even middle aged. The women in my family tend to be long-lived, with most making it well into their 90s and a few passing 100. The men don't fare so well: their hearts tend to give out in their early 70s. (mental note to take out a larger life insurance policy on husband)
Anyhoo, back to my root canal since I know my molars are of interest to simply everyone (hey, initially I typed "toot canal" but that is something else entirely...snicker...junior high humor). My paternal grandmother died with all her teeth; my maternal grandmother with none. I want to keep my teeth. This one (points to offending tooth), was iffy. After finishing the root canal, the dentist thinks that with a crown it will be fine.
ASIDE: Yeah, a crown makes everything better. I know because I have three of them. Crowns. Well, actually tiaras. Shiny and sparkly. I like to wear them on road trips. Or when I clean the house. Nobody can be bored or depressed when wearing a tiara.
But we aren't talking about that kind of crown, are we? Words like "crown" and "root canal" make me feel old. I am dealing with the normal vagaries of age: cellulite, less skin elasticity, losing my ability to eat an entire box of Twinkies at one sitting without a single ounce being added to a frame once referred to as "skinny." But the possibility of losing a tooth? Old. Old and pitiful. Soon I'll be a crotchety crone, chasing children out of my yard while screaming at them in a drooly slur because my lips have sunken in around my two remaining fangs.
Anyhoo, back to my root canal since I know my molars are of interest to simply everyone (hey, initially I typed "toot canal" but that is something else entirely...snicker...junior high humor). My paternal grandmother died with all her teeth; my maternal grandmother with none. I want to keep my teeth. This one (points to offending tooth), was iffy. After finishing the root canal, the dentist thinks that with a crown it will be fine.
ASIDE: Yeah, a crown makes everything better. I know because I have three of them. Crowns. Well, actually tiaras. Shiny and sparkly. I like to wear them on road trips. Or when I clean the house. Nobody can be bored or depressed when wearing a tiara.
But we aren't talking about that kind of crown, are we? Words like "crown" and "root canal" make me feel old. I am dealing with the normal vagaries of age: cellulite, less skin elasticity, losing my ability to eat an entire box of Twinkies at one sitting without a single ounce being added to a frame once referred to as "skinny." But the possibility of losing a tooth? Old. Old and pitiful. Soon I'll be a crotchety crone, chasing children out of my yard while screaming at them in a drooly slur because my lips have sunken in around my two remaining fangs.
Bleacher Butt
Yes, boys and girls, it is BASEBALL season! I loooove Little League. There, I said it. I love watching little tiny boys in baseball pants trying their hardest to learn the great American sport. So with a sigh of contentment I settle on the dusty aluminum bleacher on a warm spring evening.
Around age 10 or so, Mac threw down his glove and refused to play any longer. Truthfully, it was probably the best decision for him. The other kids were sprouting up like weeds and, thanks to the genetic crapshoot of life, Mac is a late bloomer like his mom. Additionally, group sports just aren't his thing; he is much more an individualist. He prefers art, writing, skateboarding, riding his shiny new bike with trick pegs on the wheels, and making small electrical devices out of miscellaneous hardware he finds in the incredibly cluttered garage (that garage will be the topic of another post, I'm sure). As irritating as he is much of the time, I want to respect the person he is, not the person I think he should be.
Rob is a bit different. He is a people person. Seriously. He likes to have people around ALL THE EFFING TIME. This means there are constantly little boys in my yard. Stealing popsicles out of my freezer. Missing the toilet. Running around the house and screaming. Playing dodgeball with my yoga ball (which is the only use it gets). As a result of his sociability, Rob enjoys sports if for no other reason that that he is with a dozen or so of his peeps.
I love the fact that Rob's pants, handed down from Mac, have holes in the knees from sliding into base, even when not necessary. Because sliding is fun, of course. And because he knows how much I enjoy doing laundry. (the pants are double thick at the knee, so don't be thinking that my child is wearing holey pants) Did I mention that the baseball field is red dirt and pants must be white? Why doesn't the town athletic association just switch to black pants and save me some time? My son is going to grow up thinking that you have to yell "Daaaammnit!" several times whenever you wash clothes.
I love the way Rob refers to his...ummm...cup and jockstrap as his "special underwear." I love that when the boys are in the field, I can't pick out my son unless they turn around so I see the jersey numbers. OK, maybe I don't like that part. I've been known to cheer for the wrong kid. More than once. In the same game. I love buying sunflower seeds in the shell from the snack bar because eating them eases the tension of a tight game and keeps me from throwing full bottles of Gatorade at the other team's coaches.
Rob's team played their fourth game this week. They lost, 19-15, but who - tell me - WHO was the star of the game? Yeah, you saw him make that awesome play at third, didn't you? And that second awesome play at third? And that third awesome play at third? That was number 11, my boy. See him in the picture at left, demonstrating what his coach calls the "sit on your toilet!" position. Probably not a Cal Ripkin-in-training, but maybe he'll hang with it a bit longer. Because sitting on the bleachers all spring does great things for the width of my behind.
UPDATE: We won our last game 21-16. So far this season: 2 wins, 1 tie and 1 loss. Not too shabby.
UPDATE, Take 2: Things are getting shabby.
Around age 10 or so, Mac threw down his glove and refused to play any longer. Truthfully, it was probably the best decision for him. The other kids were sprouting up like weeds and, thanks to the genetic crapshoot of life, Mac is a late bloomer like his mom. Additionally, group sports just aren't his thing; he is much more an individualist. He prefers art, writing, skateboarding, riding his shiny new bike with trick pegs on the wheels, and making small electrical devices out of miscellaneous hardware he finds in the incredibly cluttered garage (that garage will be the topic of another post, I'm sure). As irritating as he is much of the time, I want to respect the person he is, not the person I think he should be.
Rob is a bit different. He is a people person. Seriously. He likes to have people around ALL THE EFFING TIME. This means there are constantly little boys in my yard. Stealing popsicles out of my freezer. Missing the toilet. Running around the house and screaming. Playing dodgeball with my yoga ball (which is the only use it gets). As a result of his sociability, Rob enjoys sports if for no other reason that that he is with a dozen or so of his peeps.
I love the fact that Rob's pants, handed down from Mac, have holes in the knees from sliding into base, even when not necessary. Because sliding is fun, of course. And because he knows how much I enjoy doing laundry. (the pants are double thick at the knee, so don't be thinking that my child is wearing holey pants) Did I mention that the baseball field is red dirt and pants must be white? Why doesn't the town athletic association just switch to black pants and save me some time? My son is going to grow up thinking that you have to yell "Daaaammnit!" several times whenever you wash clothes.
I love the way Rob refers to his...ummm...cup and jockstrap as his "special underwear." I love that when the boys are in the field, I can't pick out my son unless they turn around so I see the jersey numbers. OK, maybe I don't like that part. I've been known to cheer for the wrong kid. More than once. In the same game. I love buying sunflower seeds in the shell from the snack bar because eating them eases the tension of a tight game and keeps me from throwing full bottles of Gatorade at the other team's coaches.
Rob's team played their fourth game this week. They lost, 19-15, but who - tell me - WHO was the star of the game? Yeah, you saw him make that awesome play at third, didn't you? And that second awesome play at third? And that third awesome play at third? That was number 11, my boy. See him in the picture at left, demonstrating what his coach calls the "sit on your toilet!" position. Probably not a Cal Ripkin-in-training, but maybe he'll hang with it a bit longer. Because sitting on the bleachers all spring does great things for the width of my behind.UPDATE: We won our last game 21-16. So far this season: 2 wins, 1 tie and 1 loss. Not too shabby.
UPDATE, Take 2: Things are getting shabby.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Pet Peeves (Not Pet Peeve's)
Working in a high school provides ample opportunities for this English major to be tortured by bad grammar. Truly, I worry about some of these kids. Not that I am Miss Perfect Grammar Queen 2007, but I hope I have a grasp of most basic concepts related to the written word.
My pet peeve of the day: the overuse and misuse of possessive apostrophes. Is it really so difficult to understand the concept of possession? Not Linda Blair, head spinning around, spewing pea soup possession, but the simple act of indicating ownership.
You're riding down the road, enjoying a fine day and there it is. Stupidity on Display. Hanging from a rusty mailbox is a lovely wooden sign, carefully carved, which reads, "The Smith's." The Smith's WHAT? The Smith's house? The Smith's mailbox? The Smith's grammatically incorrect sign? In order to save what little sanity I have left, I mentally insert a final word in order to complete the phrase. Say, maybe, The Smith's Hacienda. Or, if I'm feeling particularly snarky, something more like, The Smith's tacky concrete donkey holding brightly colored plastic flowers in its saddlebags.
Notice that I didn't type "it's saddlebags." Because its/it's is the tricky one. Maybe I should say, it's the tricky one. This is the case where you don't use an apostrophe to indicate possession. Only when indicating a contraction of "it is" or "it has." Not fair, creator of English grammar. Not fair at all. How can you expect me to love you when you are so inconsistent and unpredictable?
Apparently the possessive apostrophe bothers other people, too. My sister recently e-mailed me about a sign on the bathroom at the beauty salon she frequents. It reads, "Employee's Only." She said next time she goes, she will take along some Wite-Out. Maybe this particular peeve is genetic, but I don't think so.
My pet peeve of the day: the overuse and misuse of possessive apostrophes. Is it really so difficult to understand the concept of possession? Not Linda Blair, head spinning around, spewing pea soup possession, but the simple act of indicating ownership.
You're riding down the road, enjoying a fine day and there it is. Stupidity on Display. Hanging from a rusty mailbox is a lovely wooden sign, carefully carved, which reads, "The Smith's." The Smith's WHAT? The Smith's house? The Smith's mailbox? The Smith's grammatically incorrect sign? In order to save what little sanity I have left, I mentally insert a final word in order to complete the phrase. Say, maybe, The Smith's Hacienda. Or, if I'm feeling particularly snarky, something more like, The Smith's tacky concrete donkey holding brightly colored plastic flowers in its saddlebags.
Notice that I didn't type "it's saddlebags." Because its/it's is the tricky one. Maybe I should say, it's the tricky one. This is the case where you don't use an apostrophe to indicate possession. Only when indicating a contraction of "it is" or "it has." Not fair, creator of English grammar. Not fair at all. How can you expect me to love you when you are so inconsistent and unpredictable?
Apparently the possessive apostrophe bothers other people, too. My sister recently e-mailed me about a sign on the bathroom at the beauty salon she frequents. It reads, "Employee's Only." She said next time she goes, she will take along some Wite-Out. Maybe this particular peeve is genetic, but I don't think so.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
I Like Them...Too Much
This isn't a food blog, but when I find something that I lllloooove, it is incumbent upon me to share. These cookies qualify. Recently the PTSA (Parent-Teacher-Student Association) provided a potato bar for us, and these morsels were offered for dessert. They must have been made by angels.
Yesterday the PTSA had an end-of-year luau. Don't even get me started about all the food. They fed us shrimp that would have jumped from the ocean voluntarily onto the grill had they known they would taste so good and make so many so happy. There were these fancy salads wrapped in long, thin sections of cucumber. And, again, there were these cookies. I had a brief urge to grab the tray and lick them all to prevent others from having any. Unfortunately, rationality reigned and I only ate my share. And maybe someone else's, but just one person's, truly. What exactly would be a fair number per person? Hmmmm....
COCONUT MERINGUE MACAROONS
2 egg whites
Dash salt
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1 1/3 cups flaked coconut (bag or can)
Beat egg whites with salt and vanilla until soft peaks form. Gradually add sugar, beating until stiff. Fold in coconut.
Drop by rounded teaspoon onto greased cookie sheet (or line pan with non-stick Reynolds Wrap). Bake in slow oven (325 degrees) about 20 minutes or until light brown. Makes about 1 1/2 dozen.
Bring them to my house.
Yesterday the PTSA had an end-of-year luau. Don't even get me started about all the food. They fed us shrimp that would have jumped from the ocean voluntarily onto the grill had they known they would taste so good and make so many so happy. There were these fancy salads wrapped in long, thin sections of cucumber. And, again, there were these cookies. I had a brief urge to grab the tray and lick them all to prevent others from having any. Unfortunately, rationality reigned and I only ate my share. And maybe someone else's, but just one person's, truly. What exactly would be a fair number per person? Hmmmm....
COCONUT MERINGUE MACAROONS
2 egg whites
Dash salt
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1 1/3 cups flaked coconut (bag or can)
Beat egg whites with salt and vanilla until soft peaks form. Gradually add sugar, beating until stiff. Fold in coconut.
Drop by rounded teaspoon onto greased cookie sheet (or line pan with non-stick Reynolds Wrap). Bake in slow oven (325 degrees) about 20 minutes or until light brown. Makes about 1 1/2 dozen.
Bring them to my house.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
I'LL show you a cute dog...
OK, I know that there is this blogger who is famous. I love her blog and read it. And yes, her dog is cool and will balance things on his head. But CUTE? I wanna show you a CUTE dog. With no further ado, I present Pepper Coyote Half-Ear, sassiest terrier mix on the East coast.
Sometimes I go to the animal shelter just to look around. People are like, "How can you do that? Go there and look at those animals?" Because I like to torture myself, maybe. Or perhaps I think that stooping down to pet a dog or cat makes their day a tad brighter. So I do, I go to the animal shelter when I have no intention of adding to my home zoo.
On a nice July afternoon, my niece and I cruise the animal shelter in my parents' hometown. And there is this thing; this thing in cage number one. I see a butt. I can't tell the size, breed or color. All I see is what I assume to be dogbutt. She has turned away from the world, because the world turned away from her. I go to the desk and say, "I'd like to see the dog in cage one, please." Without looking up from her computer, the kind and gentle public servant growls (Working with dogs a bit too long, dear? You growl and bark rather than speaking?) "Is there an 'A' on the door?" I am perplexed. "A what?" Bark, "AnA !"
I wander over and look. Yes, there is an A. Does it stand for "adoptable"? I don't know and I'm not going to ask the growly lady. She huffs, and slowly prises her behind from the desk chair,
where apparently it has fused with the stained canvas. She goes into the dog room - visitors must look through the glass at the dogs, like a hospital nursery - and gets the dogbutt.
We are handed the world's ugliest dog. She shivers. Her bald body resembles that of a hog, with a few wild, bristling hairs scattered on black and grey speckled skin. What fur she has is no definable color: individual hairs are randomly part black, part grey, part tan. Her ears are squared off at the top and heavily scabbed, a result of biting flies the animal control meanie says (and the vet later confirms). She is sickly thin, yet proceeds to vomit all over the floor. Twice. And she smells horrible. Far, far beyond "dirty dog" and into the realm of "pork chops left in the sun for a week in August."
It is, of course, love at first sight. My mother gene kicks in. Or my rescue complex. Or maybe I just want the animal control meanie to know that she did not rise from the chair in vain. My sister arrives and names this miserable beast "Pepper" because of the speckled skin. We later add "Coyote" because she looks like a wild animal. And "Half-Ear" because...you figure it out. Luckily the fur on her ears grows past the chewed off tips and this particular abnormality is no longer obvious.
I sign the papers, pay $95 ($75 is refundable if the vet determines that the dog is already spayed - she is), and ask if I can PLEASE wash the dog before leaving. If I take her in my car the way she is, the smell will work its way into the upholstery and make me gag forever. Suddenly the animal control meanie is the animal control angel. She gets two different kinds of doggie shampoo, a couple of towels, and tells me the dog's life story.
Pepper's life story is thus: a deputy found her on the road and brought her in. That's it. That's all we know. Pepper's body tells the rest of the story. She is spayed so someone once cared for her. She is in horrible condition, so she hasn't been loved in a long time. She is desperate for affection, so she still has hope. We take her home.
For months she is skittish. We move slowly around her. Touching her side or trying to pick her up usually results in a nasty reaction and sometimes a bite. It may be that she was injured during her vagabond time; possibly there were some cracked ribs. One
afternoon she bites Rob badly on the leg and almost gets a ticket back to the slammer for that.
Our patience eventually is rewarded. Pepper is still a bitch, but she doesn't bite at all. She is bossy and loud and we love her. The kids like to form the wiry hair on her head into various wild styles and Pepper puts up with it. Sometimes she chases the cat and he plays along like he is really scared of a dog that weighs less than he does. She is prancy and proud and proof that the best dogs in the world are the ones that find US.
Sometimes I go to the animal shelter just to look around. People are like, "How can you do that? Go there and look at those animals?" Because I like to torture myself, maybe. Or perhaps I think that stooping down to pet a dog or cat makes their day a tad brighter. So I do, I go to the animal shelter when I have no intention of adding to my home zoo.
On a nice July afternoon, my niece and I cruise the animal shelter in my parents' hometown. And there is this thing; this thing in cage number one. I see a butt. I can't tell the size, breed or color. All I see is what I assume to be dogbutt. She has turned away from the world, because the world turned away from her. I go to the desk and say, "I'd like to see the dog in cage one, please." Without looking up from her computer, the kind and gentle public servant growls (Working with dogs a bit too long, dear? You growl and bark rather than speaking?) "Is there an 'A' on the door?" I am perplexed. "A what?" Bark, "An
I wander over and look. Yes, there is an A. Does it stand for "adoptable"? I don't know and I'm not going to ask the growly lady. She huffs, and slowly prises her behind from the desk chair,
where apparently it has fused with the stained canvas. She goes into the dog room - visitors must look through the glass at the dogs, like a hospital nursery - and gets the dogbutt.We are handed the world's ugliest dog. She shivers. Her bald body resembles that of a hog, with a few wild, bristling hairs scattered on black and grey speckled skin. What fur she has is no definable color: individual hairs are randomly part black, part grey, part tan. Her ears are squared off at the top and heavily scabbed, a result of biting flies the animal control meanie says (and the vet later confirms). She is sickly thin, yet proceeds to vomit all over the floor. Twice. And she smells horrible. Far, far beyond "dirty dog" and into the realm of "pork chops left in the sun for a week in August."
It is, of course, love at first sight. My mother gene kicks in. Or my rescue complex. Or maybe I just want the animal control meanie to know that she did not rise from the chair in vain. My sister arrives and names this miserable beast "Pepper" because of the speckled skin. We later add "Coyote" because she looks like a wild animal. And "Half-Ear" because...you figure it out. Luckily the fur on her ears grows past the chewed off tips and this particular abnormality is no longer obvious.
I sign the papers, pay $95 ($75 is refundable if the vet determines that the dog is already spayed - she is), and ask if I can PLEASE wash the dog before leaving. If I take her in my car the way she is, the smell will work its way into the upholstery and make me gag forever. Suddenly the animal control meanie is the animal control angel. She gets two different kinds of doggie shampoo, a couple of towels, and tells me the dog's life story.
Pepper's life story is thus: a deputy found her on the road and brought her in. That's it. That's all we know. Pepper's body tells the rest of the story. She is spayed so someone once cared for her. She is in horrible condition, so she hasn't been loved in a long time. She is desperate for affection, so she still has hope. We take her home.
For months she is skittish. We move slowly around her. Touching her side or trying to pick her up usually results in a nasty reaction and sometimes a bite. It may be that she was injured during her vagabond time; possibly there were some cracked ribs. One
afternoon she bites Rob badly on the leg and almost gets a ticket back to the slammer for that.Our patience eventually is rewarded. Pepper is still a bitch, but she doesn't bite at all. She is bossy and loud and we love her. The kids like to form the wiry hair on her head into various wild styles and Pepper puts up with it. Sometimes she chases the cat and he plays along like he is really scared of a dog that weighs less than he does. She is prancy and proud and proof that the best dogs in the world are the ones that find US.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Gritting My Teeth
Two months ago Mac got braces. Yippee! Happy teenager! He has braces! Yeah, I'm not kidding, he was excited to get braces. Already the change has been dramatic. They wires could come off today and we'd all be happy. But then the orthodontist wouldn't get to charge me a bajillion dollars and might even have to refund 42 cents.Mac's mouth is now worth more than my car. Couldn't they have just melted down my 1992 Honda and made the braces from the scrap metal and wires to save me a little bit?
The scary thing is that his brother also was referred to the orthodontist. His eight year old brother. Apprently the fact that Rob's top tooth (the only one he has so far, which allows a nice gap for spitting and holding chopsticks) hits the bottom tooth directly is a problem. A problem that could result in either or both cracking and having to be pulled. And me, being the great mom that I am, didn't notice that this alignment already has caused the top and bottom teeth to wear at an angle. Significantly. *sigh*
Since these are permanent teeth and I don't want to consign Rob to a life as a redneck at such a young age (despite the genetic predisposition - he already has a lifetime hunting license), off to the orthodontist we went. When Dr. C reviewed Rob's panoramic X-ray I could almost hear the cash register "CHA-CHING!" sound bouncing around in her head. The film looked like a handful of Scrabble tiles dropped on a table . Rob apparently is slow to lose teeth and therefore has all kinds of big boy teeth jumbled up in his gums, just waiting for their chance to shine (and get cavities, no doubt). For now he has a retainer, and Dr. C wants him to have 6 (six...SIX) teeth pulled after school gets out. Did I mention SIX? TEETH? PULLED? Oy vey. Two of them are loose, but they could be loose for months because
he is not the obsessive-tooth-wiggler his mother was.By the way, he has already lost his first retainer by utilizing the classic "put it on your lunch tray and then toss it in the trash" trick. I really enjoyed spending that additional $150. This one I will superglue in place. But, really, why bother? Because I may be putting a Mercedes in this boy's mouth before he is old enough to drive.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Really Good Diet Food
Here is a very easy recipe that is yummy and doesn't involve fat or sugar, my two best friends that I can't hang with anymore. Because they were bad for me. You know how some friends seem great, but are really going behind your back and screwing up your life? Well, that's what fat and sugar have done to me. They've gone behind my back...and settled on my ass and thighs. So they are verbotten. Except for that tiny, tiny sliver of coconut pie I ate last night.
Corn and Black Bean Salad
2 cans black beans, drained and rinsed (Because that gooky stuff in the can is GROSS. What *is* that? Looks like what I have to wash out from between Rob's toes after a baseball game.)
1 bag frozen corn, thawed or microwaved and cooled
1 large jar of chunk salsa, whatever hotness level you so desire. Me? I'm mild. Ask anyone.
1 medium onion, diced. Vidalia or another sweet onion is super yummy.
Fresh cilantro. I'm thinking about a tablespoon. But this stuff smells so good I can't stop chopping it. I like to rub a bit behind my ears.
Powered garlic - as much as you'd like. I like it. Come over here and smell my breath.
Some cumin if you want. I want.
Salt.
Mix, refrigerate, eat. Serve to your friends and they will rant and rave and not believe that this is soooooo easy.
Corn and Black Bean Salad
2 cans black beans, drained and rinsed (Because that gooky stuff in the can is GROSS. What *is* that? Looks like what I have to wash out from between Rob's toes after a baseball game.)
1 bag frozen corn, thawed or microwaved and cooled
1 large jar of chunk salsa, whatever hotness level you so desire. Me? I'm mild. Ask anyone.
1 medium onion, diced. Vidalia or another sweet onion is super yummy.
Fresh cilantro. I'm thinking about a tablespoon. But this stuff smells so good I can't stop chopping it. I like to rub a bit behind my ears.
Powered garlic - as much as you'd like. I like it. Come over here and smell my breath.
Some cumin if you want. I want.
Salt.
Mix, refrigerate, eat. Serve to your friends and they will rant and rave and not believe that this is soooooo easy.
Zoo Trip
OK, here is a quiz for you. Two pictures at left. Which one is an ape who is likely to spit at you and throw his poo? Which one is a pubescent teeanger who hides in his room, refuses to cut his hair, and rolls his eyes?Friday was a teacher workday. Boy howdy did I need the break. The kids at school are really getting antsy as the end of the year approaches, and I have exhausted my ten month supply of patience for high school drama and backtalk.
So, teacher workday = I ain't working today. Off to the zoo with the neighbor and our collection of boys. Weather was overcast and quite cool, which is actually great zoo weather. There is so much walking involved that it can be miserable on a hot day. The animals were all mellow; the kids were all wild.
My favorite animal of the day was this, the Red River Hog. I'm trying to drop 15 pounds, so being this close to bacon was just exciting for me.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
New Trend - Gerbil on a String
Is this a dog? My sister thinks it is. Nevermind that it weighs less than my plate at dinner last night. Nevermind that it doesn't bark, it squeaks. I present Maggie May, a gerbil on a string.
Have to say, though, as cute as this thing is, gerbils on strings may be the next big thing. Like the pet rock I had in fifth grade.
Or the marble I named Glory because it was red, white and blue. Glory and I went to the mall all day one Saturday. I walked around, nudging Glory with my toe and having a lovely time. Until Glory rolled under the ice cream cooler at Baskin Robin. Yeah, I was heartbroken. Maybe if my mother had let us keep pets I wouldn't have needed to develop bizarre anthropomorphic relationships. Or maybe, as I am often told, I am just weird and have too vivid an imagination.
Have to say, though, as cute as this thing is, gerbils on strings may be the next big thing. Like the pet rock I had in fifth grade.Or the marble I named Glory because it was red, white and blue. Glory and I went to the mall all day one Saturday. I walked around, nudging Glory with my toe and having a lovely time. Until Glory rolled under the ice cream cooler at Baskin Robin. Yeah, I was heartbroken. Maybe if my mother had let us keep pets I wouldn't have needed to develop bizarre anthropomorphic relationships. Or maybe, as I am often told, I am just weird and have too vivid an imagination.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Shrimp and Grits
I know, I know, shrimp and grits sounds disgusting. Really. Truly. Gross. Grits are breakfast, right? Well, they are if you're Southern. And if you are not Southern, then, gosh, I'm sorry. Better luck in your next life.
OK, apologies to my Yankee nieces and nephews. But since you are only one generation removed, and 75% of you have moved South, then we will let it slide. I love you anyway. Even if you talk funny.
So try this. It is fabbity-fab-fab, I swear. On my hamster's life. A word of caution: with the pepperjack cheese and the canned tomato/green chile combo, this is spicy. I use 1/2 as much pepperjack as the recipe calls for and Monterey Jack for the other half. And I use mild Rotel.
Cheesy Shrimp-and-Grits Casserole
4 cups chicken broth
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup regular grits
1 cup (4 ounces) shredded sharp cheddar cheese, divided
1 cup (4 ounces) shredded pepperjack cheese
2 tablespoons butter or margarine
6 green onions, chopped
1 green bell pepper, chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
1 pound small fresh shrimp, peeled and cooked
1 (10-ounce) can diced tomatoes and green chiles, drained
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
Bring 4 cups chicken broth and 1/2 teaspoon salt to aboil in a large saucepan; stir in grits. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer 20 minutes.
Stir together grits, 3/4 cup cheddar cheese, and pepperjack cheese.
Melt butter in a large skillet over medium heat; add green onions, bell pepper, and garlic. Sauté 5 minutes or until tender.
Stir together green onion mixture, grits mixture, shrimp, and next 3 ingredients.
Pour into a lightlygreased 2-quart baking dish. Sprinkle top with remaining 1/4 cup shredded cheddar cheese.
Bake at 350° for 30 to 45 minutes.
Yield: Makes 10 to 12 servings
Southern Living, JANUARY 2003
OK, apologies to my Yankee nieces and nephews. But since you are only one generation removed, and 75% of you have moved South, then we will let it slide. I love you anyway. Even if you talk funny.
So try this. It is fabbity-fab-fab, I swear. On my hamster's life. A word of caution: with the pepperjack cheese and the canned tomato/green chile combo, this is spicy. I use 1/2 as much pepperjack as the recipe calls for and Monterey Jack for the other half. And I use mild Rotel.
Cheesy Shrimp-and-Grits Casserole
4 cups chicken broth
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup regular grits
1 cup (4 ounces) shredded sharp cheddar cheese, divided
1 cup (4 ounces) shredded pepperjack cheese
2 tablespoons butter or margarine
6 green onions, chopped
1 green bell pepper, chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
1 pound small fresh shrimp, peeled and cooked
1 (10-ounce) can diced tomatoes and green chiles, drained
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
Bring 4 cups chicken broth and 1/2 teaspoon salt to aboil in a large saucepan; stir in grits. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer 20 minutes.
Stir together grits, 3/4 cup cheddar cheese, and pepperjack cheese.
Melt butter in a large skillet over medium heat; add green onions, bell pepper, and garlic. Sauté 5 minutes or until tender.
Stir together green onion mixture, grits mixture, shrimp, and next 3 ingredients.
Pour into a lightlygreased 2-quart baking dish. Sprinkle top with remaining 1/4 cup shredded cheddar cheese.
Bake at 350° for 30 to 45 minutes.
Yield: Makes 10 to 12 servings
Southern Living, JANUARY 2003
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Spring Break
Here we have two examples of a rare species usually only seen in south 
Flordia during a brief week in April. Yes, they are the winterus overus verywhiteus flying boys. Notice that one is of the subspieces teenus needus ahaircutus.
The water was warm and clear enough that I even got in. And the (heated) pool was a divine 87 degrees. And the weather? Perfect.
Flordia during a brief week in April. Yes, they are the winterus overus verywhiteus flying boys. Notice that one is of the subspieces teenus needus ahaircutus.The water was warm and clear enough that I even got in. And the (heated) pool was a divine 87 degrees. And the weather? Perfect.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Shrimp and Corn Chowder
OMG!!! This is slap-your-grandma good!!! But the recipe makes enough to feed about a dozen people. I halved it and it fed three big eaters for two days.
Shrimp and Corn Chowder
2 tablespoons kosher salt
6 cups frozen corn kernels
¼ cup unsalted butter
2 large sweet onions, finely chopped
½ cup all purpose flour
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
½ teaspoon Old Bay seasoning
10 cups chicken broth
1 ½ pounds potatoes, peeled and diced
1 cup half and half
½ pound shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1 ½ - 2 pounds shrimp, peeled and deveined
*Melt butter in large stockpot over medium high heat and sauté onions 10 minutes or until tender. Stir in flour, salt, pepper and Old Bay and continue to stir 3 minutes.
*Add chicken broth and potatoes. Bring to a boil and cook 15 – 20 minutes or until potatoes are tender.
*Stir in corn, half and half, cheese and shrimp. Cook 10 additional minutes or until shrimp are pink.
Shrimp and Corn Chowder
2 tablespoons kosher salt
6 cups frozen corn kernels
¼ cup unsalted butter
2 large sweet onions, finely chopped
½ cup all purpose flour
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
½ teaspoon Old Bay seasoning
10 cups chicken broth
1 ½ pounds potatoes, peeled and diced
1 cup half and half
½ pound shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1 ½ - 2 pounds shrimp, peeled and deveined
*Melt butter in large stockpot over medium high heat and sauté onions 10 minutes or until tender. Stir in flour, salt, pepper and Old Bay and continue to stir 3 minutes.
*Add chicken broth and potatoes. Bring to a boil and cook 15 – 20 minutes or until potatoes are tender.
*Stir in corn, half and half, cheese and shrimp. Cook 10 additional minutes or until shrimp are pink.
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