Just a Country Girl

I’ve had the worst time this week remembering things, including the password to my blog account.

On another note…

When I was a child, I had a mind like a steel trap. Mama learned the hard way never to promise me anything. The words would barely leave her lips and immediately I became a pint-size public service announcement, reminding her several times a day of her obligations.

Several years have past, and things have changed–dramatically.

1. In the mornings I can’t even spell a word as simple as “cat” until I’ve had coffee.

2. People (doctors and school administrators) asking my children’s birth dates sends me into a tailspin, making me feel as if I’m a game show contestant facing the million dollar question. There’s no doubt in my mind that if I reply with the wrong answer, they’ll revoke my parenting license and put my children on layaway until I answer correctly.

3. Yesterday my husband announced he was taking the kids and I out for my birthday. I raced around the house like my tail was on fire, dressing Robert, putting on makeup, and convincing my teen that, yes, it was important to wear deodorant. As we were leaving the house, Seth stopped me. “Are you gonna go like that?” he asked, looking me up and down.

I was furious. How dare he (whose idea of formal wear was a Jets football jersey and jeans) criticize what I was wearing. “I think I look pretty good,” I retorted, .

Seth smirked and shook his head. “You’re going in your underwear?”

My cheeks reddened as I looked down. There I stood in my shoes, socks, shirt, and polka dot panties.

A memory is a terrible thing to lose. :o)

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i was sent this by my wonderful friend, Magnolia.

The Me Survey

I am: happy (especially when there’s coffee), easy-going, clumsy, a little reserved.

I think: about creating new recipes, and writing

I know: they’ll have all the answers about autism someday

I have: a good life

I wish: times were simpler, as they were when I was a child.

I hate: prejudice and injustice.

I miss: the times when we could sleep with doors unlocked, not worrying about being carjacked in parking lots, knowing our children were safe when they went to school

I fear: a lot of things

I feel: like I’m sometimes in a rut

I hear: David Cook singing “The Time of my Life”.

I smell: the new Emporio Armani perfume (Diamonds) my hubby gave me.

I crave: solitude, chocolate

I search: for answers to unanswerable questions

I wonder: when my children’s book will be published.

I regret: leaving some loose ends untied

I love: my friends, family, life, my profession

I am not: fake.

I believe: in dreams. That you can do anything you put your mind to.

I dance: when the mood strikes me
I sing: when I’m happy or to irritate the kids.

I cry: too little. I have a habit of keeping things to myself.

I don’t always: trust.

I fight: for my children.

I write: when I have a chance

I win: most of the family arguments.

I lose: my sanity when I misplace keys.

I never: give up.

I always: try to be positive

I confuse:my children on a daily basis

I listen: to my gut instincts

I can usually be found: writing.

I am scared: 0f being stalked, again.

I need: to write every day.

I am happy about: my life.

I imagine: what it’ll be like to have grandchildren (many years from now).

My grandmother taught me that in cooking (and in life) simplier is always better. This recipe seems to be an exception. Though it’s lengthy in ingrdients, each flavor compliments each other . I haven’t thought of a name yet. Any suggestions?

½ cup brown sugar (packed)

½ cup white sugar

½ cup margarine

1 egg

½ teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 ½ cup flour

1 cup oatmeal

½ teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon soda

1 teaspoon cinnamon

½ teaspoon ground allspice

1 tablespoon orange zest

1/3 cup pecan pieces (toasted)

1/3 cup walnut pieces (toasted)

½ cup dried cranberries

¼ cup semi-sweet chocolate chips

¼ cup white chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350° F.

In a large bowl combine both sugars, margarine, egg, and vanilla. Mix until creamed together.

Add the flour, baking soda, salt, baking powder, cinnamon, and allspice.

Fold in the oatmeal, dried cranberries, semi-sweet chocolate chips, pecans, walnuts, orange zest, and white chocolate chips.

Roll dough into 1-inch balls and place 3 inches apart onto a greased cookie sheet and bake at 350° F for 10-12 minutes, just until lightly golden.

Remove from oven and let cool for 2-3 minutes on the cookie sheet, then transfer cookies to cooling rack.

Makes approximately 3 dozen.

Like a bad penny, I’m turning up again.  A couple of weeks ago we journeyed to West for a cook-off.  I got 8th place (out of 26 entries) with my Turtle Cheesecake.  Tickled me to death because I made the recipe up the night before and hadn’t even tasted it.  Risky huh?  Life’s about taking chances, and I do enjoy flying by the seat of my britches.  Seth entered his first bbq competition while we were there and scored a tenth place (out of 34) with his Honey Glazed Pork Chops.

On another note, here’s the essay which appeared in the July issue of Sasee.

Chasing After Aprons

By Debbie Roppolo

Copyright 2008

I’m a TV food show junkie. I find the female cooks interesting, but let’s face it, if I wanted a quick and nutritious meal in less than thirty minutes, I’d chip Lean Cuisine out of the freezer and toss it in the microwave. No. It’s the male chefs who grab my attention.

I don’t know what it is about them. Perhaps it’s because it’s men wearing aprons, or the way they wield a knife like a circus performer, and the fact they have a direct line to my soul with food.

 My fascination didn’t begin recently.  It started when I was four and a half. I remember watching Sesame Street one morning. Cookie Monster appeared onscreen wearing an apron and chef’s hat. Eyes bugging out, I rose from my seat on the floor and walked closer, gaze never wavering from Cookie Monster’s face, a thin river of saliva running out the corner of my mouth.

“Isn’t that cute,” my mother whispered to Daddy. “Our daughter really wants to learn her letters.”

Learn letters my Aunt Fanny. Even at that age I was probably envisioning mine and Cookie Monster’s wedding. Our registry would have been listed at Nabisco, our house made of snicker doodles, and he would’ve never taken off that darn hat or apron.

My senior year in high school, I dated a young man (Alec Rolatini) who had a lot going for him: looks, a nice house, and (joy of my heart) a father who was a master chef at a popular restaurant in our town and sometimes appeared on a local morning news show.

Imagine my excitement when after only three months of dating, I was asked to
join Alec and his family for supper one night.  I breezed through the door, head held high, acting slightly disinterested when Alec introduced me to his father, but inwardly I was a bowl of melting gelatin.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Chef Rolatini said, tying on an apron, “but making meals together is a family tradition, and we like to involve guests so they can benefit from the experience as well.”

Mind? Of course I didn’t mind.  They could have turned into a family of cannibals at that moment, and I would’ve died a happy person.

Chef Rolatini calmly gave out instructions while he cooked, Alec and his
mother sliced and diced, and me, a nervous rabbit on a caffeine high, tried not
to spill anything or fall on my face. Thankfully, I was assigned to salad detail.  That seemed safe enough.  I never dreamed that if I yawned, my breath mint would fall out of my mouth and play hide-n-seek among the lettuce leaves.

Beads of perspiration formed on my lips as I pawed through the salad.  Damn.  Why did I decide to use a wintergreen Tic-Tac?  My heart leaped into my throat when I heard a voice behind me say:  “When you toss a salad, you really toss one.”  I hung my head, not wanting to turn around.  I hoped the person behind me wasn’t who I thought it was.  I prayed it was Mrs. Rolatini.  That she’d had a sudden onset of male hormones, making her voice much deeper.  Of course it wasn’t—it was the chef. 

“Did you lose something, or do you always throw lettuce all over a counter?” he asked lightly.

I expected him to explode, to banish me from his kitchen and his house forever.  Instead, he took the bowl to the sink, and with nimble fingers sifted through the greens.  “Is this what you’re looking for/’ he asked, showing me a half-melted breath mint.  “It’s okay, no harm done,” he said kindly, then rewashed the bowl of lettuce.

My stomach lurched and I felt on the brink of a panic attack when  (a few minutes later) Alec and his mother left the kitchen to prepare the dining room. I was alone with the Chef Rolatini.  I found it hard to breathe as I watched him, still apron clad, stirring sauce on the stove.

“Y-you want me to help Mrs. Rolatini?” I asked, wringing my hands nervously.

“No,” he said not taking his eyes off the sauce. “But you can poke my buns to see if they’re done.”

I jabbed his buns—unfortunately, he meant the freshly baked rolls on a cooling rack, not his rear end.

After that night, I was never invited over again, and shortly after that, Alec
broke up with me.

My fascination with cooks and chefs has plagued me most of my life.  So, isn’t it logical that I married a man who’s highly skilled in the kitchen? 

Some women like men in uniforms. I chase after men who wear aprons.

Nope, I haven’t vanished like a bad magic act, been kidnapped by a band of swarthy, sweaty, half-naked pirates, or fallen into an abyss.  But this has been the busiest summer I’ve had in a long time.

My house has seen as much business as a Motel 6 (because of friends and family), and  every day has been filled with camps for Seth, and speech therapy sessions for Robert.  My baby is again becoming more vocal, and flourishing under all the extra attention he’s getting.  He’s less aloof, and more apt to initiate play with strange children.

Catering, bake-offs, and cook-offs take up a large chunk of  our time.  The competitions are stressful, but the atmosphere is spectacular.   BBQ smoke fills the air, embedding itself in hair and clothes, but no one seems to mind.  Children play games of horseshoes and bounce in air castles not too far away for parents’ watchful eyes.  As the sun sinks below the horizon, gas lights are turned on, family and friends gather in their respective tents, and reminise until dawn.

And, when I can, I’ve been working on a few of my stories.  My essay “Chasing After Aprons” is in the July issue of Sasee magazine.

Ad how’s your summer?

Along with the rising cost of living, there’s something else that’s rising–my blood pressure. Where I live, the housing market is taking a nose dive and good luck trying to buy gas for under four bucks. I remember when gas was under a dollar. Back then I thought that was an expensive price, but now, just to be able to get enough petro to get to town, I have to offer the gas station my first born as a down payment, and sign the receipt with my own blood.

The local supermarkets can’t be left out of the loop. Just to buy a box of cereal, one almost has to take out a second morgage. Four dollar boxes, adorned with bright colors and bold lettering promising complex (but flimsy) toys inside sit on shelves, eye-level with children. I’m sorry, but unless the box jumps into the basket voluntarily and promises to clean my house, there’s no way I’ll pay that price. Instead I buy oatmeal, and deal with my brooding children who claim they’re underprivileged because they have to eat cooked cereal.

Prices do seem overwhelming, but believe it or not, there are still ways to save.

1. Fill up your gas tank either during the early morning hours or late at night. It’s believed the vapors settle in the pump during these times, and you get more gas than vapor in your tank.

2. Light touch. The slower you fill the tank, the more gas and less vapors you’ll have.

3. At the grocery store, take advantage of in-store and manufacturer’s coupons. Just recently, I bought twenty bucks of groceries. Using the in-store and manufacturer’s offers, I paid only $1.86.

4. Befriend your local vegetable stand owner. More often than not, the owner buys directly from the grower, so there’s no middle man prices to be paid by the consumer.

These are just a few ideas. Happy saving!

The nationwide events in the past month has left me shaking my head.

When I began telling people Robert was autistic, I knew there’d be consequences, and there has been.  Individuals I’ve known for years have stopped emailing, stopped calling.  Some have given the excuse that they feel uncomfortable, they don’t know what to say.  I can understand that, but let’s be honest, I haven’t changed.  If anything, this has made me stronger, more determined not to let this destroy my child, and my family.

I can understand their fear.  But they need to understand that: 1.) Autism is NOT MENTAL ILLNESS, it’s a MEDICAL disorder.   2.)  It’s not a death sentence for the affected child and it’s not contagious.

Recently, it made national news when a teacher and her class voted a student out of the classroom.  I can understand using peer pressure to “straighten out” the rowdy child, but in my opinion the actions of the teacher was inexcusable.  The child was five years old and autistic.  By having the class vote the child out, the teacher was making it seem okay to ostracize someone because of their disability.

I don’t usually use this blog to rant, but I’m exhausted emotionally.  I’m tired of being in public and people making rude comments when Robert sings out spontaneously.  I’m fed up with people asking “What did you do during your pregnancy to cause this?”

I didn’t do anything wrong.  I’m not a drug user, not an alcoholic, took my prenatal vitamins and ate healthy.

I’ve been down the road of self-blame, and after a very thorough self cross-examination, I know it’s not my fault.

We forgive crooked politicians, robbers who’ve “gone straight” and many other immoral acts, but yet a large part of  society deems it okay to ostracize children who are thought to be different.

I wish someone would explain the logic in this.

No. That’s not a Siberian Husky doing a Poodle impersonation. It’s our dog Blue recovering from his surgery.

Two weeks ago, Blue walked Seth to the bus as he normally does, but this time as he was crossing the road to come home, a speeding car hit him, smashing his femur through the pelvis and destroying the right hip socket.

Thankfully Seth was already gone, but the neighbor boy saw the whole thing and told my son at school. The car hadn’t stopped or even tried to keep from hitting the dog.

Long story short…

The dog was taken to the vet, and Blue’s doc gave us the grim options: surgery or putting him down. All that day I contemplated the options and considered the quality of life he’d have even after the surgery. Blue was more than just a dog. He was a pillow when my preschooler fell asleep on the patio, a guardian when we went out in public, an ear when I needed someone to talk to, my walking partner who romped at my feet, dancing beneath the stars with me every night. But most importantly, he was a member of the family.

Years ago there’s been another dog in my life, a white German Shepherd named Snowflake. She accompanied me on all my horseback rides and was a willing participant in all my teenaged adventures. She loved my mom and dad, but her heart was mine. Quite honestly, she had mine too. When she died, I swore I’d never love another dog like I did her. I didn’t, until we got Blue.

The fact he too had left paw prints all over my heart ticked me off. I cried all that day and night.

By dawn I’d made the decision. His quality of life wouldn’t be good. It’d be selfish to keep him alive. No one ate breakfast. We sat around, staring at the clock, waiting for the vet’s office to open so we could say our last goodbyes. All the way to the office I prayed for a miracle, something to prove my thinking wrong.

We were amazed when we walked to the kennel and Blue stood up and walked over to the door. The answer to my prayer.

We had the surgery done and the vet was amazed when three days later, my dog stood up and walked toward me in the kennel.  Normally, after such a surgery, a dog lays on their side for a solid week.  I wasn’t surprised.  Huskies are known to be survivors.  But more importantly, it’s the bond we have  that won’t let him  hive up.   Soon we’ll be taking  walks again, dancing in the moonlight, just he and I.