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Welcome Home Inigo!

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Months ago I googled up “Inigo Montoya painting”
and found this thumbprint image…
little did I know he was the real deal

If by chance you should ever write about your love of black velvet paintings and Mandy Patinkin, and, you just so happened to post your wish to commission a portrait of Inigo Montoya on your blog, well, don’t be surprised if out of the blue you get an email that says, Hi. Your wish has come true!

Fast forward to last Friday, to me, standing in the crowded downtown Chicago post office tearing apart a giant cardboard box with my teeth —no literally, with my teeth—only to behold the latest member of my household: Inigo Montoya has come home!

The guy next to me stopped filling out his postage forms and exclaimed, Praise Jesus!

While the woman behind the counter smirked, Crazy white lady.

I said, HOLY CRAP JUST LOOK AT THIS THING!

Y’all. This is good. I mean, real good. Obviously I am a fan of the subject but the quality of the painting wasn’t something I was expecting. It is superb. These photographs don’t do him justice. I wish you could see him in person. He looks real. His eyes follow you around the room. It’s kind of amazing.

The artist is Bruce White, North Carolina native, tattoo artist and painter extraordinaire. If you are in the market for a one-of-a-kind work of art that is guaranteed to start a conversation, you need to check him out! Bruce’s portfolio is filled with just about every movie icon and cult hero you could ever hope for. Star Wars fan ahoy!

I plan to get him properly framed after I move, but until then I have him temporarily hanging on the faux velvet wallpaper above my bed. And just to make it even more weird, I put a frame of twinkle lights around it. Awesome much?

Between the lights and the dark velvet and the eyes that follow you around the room, Inigo has become pinnacle of some sort of diabolic shine. Friday night I went to bed I felt like I should have brought an offering of goat’s blood. Now he’s had a few days to settle and I find more and more to love about this painting every time I look at him  it him it…him or it? I can’t decide. But perhaps thats the hallmark of a true art – the piece takes on a presence and personality far larger than the confines of a canvas. He It feels like a real person.

Welcome home Inigo!

Thanks again to Bruce White for making my wish come true! You can check out Bruce’s work or follow him on facebook and twitter.

Buried Treasure

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I was cleaning out some old storage containers last weekend when I found these wooden chairs and boxes that my Uncle Joe made for me many years ago.

Cool Uncle, huh?

They got packed away the last time I moved only to be unearthed now, after years in hiding. It’s funny, I used to look at these as everyday objects but now that they have been away for a while, it’s much easier to appreciate their value. His artwork is all over my house, and even though it’s special to me, sometimes it becomes so familiar that I fail to stand back and admire and appreciate it as much as it, and he, deserves, 
 
Uncle Joe started selling his artwork long before I was born, but despite his success and artistic chops, he has never been pretentious about how we treated or displayed his work. I think he liked the idea of my Barbies sitting down for tea time in these chairs. I think he liked the idea of using his boxes to store my stickers and clip-on earrings. I think he was, and is, uncomfortable with the idea of his work being put on some sort of pedestal, which is funny because he was always the first person to put my own work on a pedestal, crayon doodles and all.

When I turned nine he gave me my first set of oil paints… 

Unrelated Tangent: unless you are exceptionally confident in the child’s artistic abilities and *you* are directly responsible for stain management in the home, NEVER GIVE A NINE-YEAR-OLD OIL PAINTS.

…my Dad eventually had to hide them from me for fear I would paint that cat Cerulean Blue, but not before I finished a simple 8×10” canvas of a street light. It wasn’t much to look at, but as I recall there was an excess of texture, something that makes just about any piece impressive looking to amateur painters. I called it Rapunzel Fire Hair.

Sadly I do not have a photo to share, as Uncle Joe was so impressed with my artistic skill that he wrapped up the canvas in brown paper and sent it to one of his gallery contacts in Santa Fe to see if they would be interested in carrying a “young and upcoming artist.”

Two weeks later a letter arrived at house addressed to me. It was on formal letterhead (a first in my book) and included a check for $25.00 made out in my name (another first). The note indicated that the gallery was not carrying oil paintings that season, however, they wished to keep Rapunzel Fire Hair as an addition to their private collection, and as “down payment on future opportunities together.”

As you can imagine, I was over the moon and envisioned a lengthy career as an oil painter, in Paris of course, wearing blousy white shirts and eating croissants day and night.

Sadly, a few years later, in the middle of an adolescent tantrum, as I threatened to run away to Santa Fe to become a wildly successful painter of street lights, my Dad informed me of the truth: Uncle Joe had put the gallery up to it. He sent a letter to his friend the curator, and $25 check of his own, requesting they send me an encouraging rejection letter and a check for the same amount. Uncle Joe knew that a single letter would encourage me and validate my work for years and years, long after the check was cashed, and even after I found out the truth.

Cool Uncle, huh?

One of my favorite pictures of him, working away at make-shift studio set up in my parent’s dining room, surrounded by paint brushes and scrap wood.

An Open Letter to Neil Diamond

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Dear Mr. Diamond,I am mad at you. Impressed, befuddled, blubbering on the living room floor and trying to explain the significance of a song like Shilo to my cat…because of you, Mr. Diamond.

This is all your fault. I have decided you owe me. And now I have a request.

See, a few weeks ago, while under the influence of prescription cough syrup, I made this necklace out of pearls and fingernails. Fierce right? Then I went and wrote an unreasonably long post about why I made the aforementioned necklace. Why? Because, frankly, the cough syrup went to my head and who else is going to listen to me spill my guts on these things? Blogging is free and cheaper than therapy. You should totally try it sometime.

My post was the story of a raging former beauty queen and her children’s lemming like capacity for common sense. It even included a “pre pubescent Texan stripper” reference that generated a lovely email from a real-life not-so-pubescent former Texan stripper named Jacqueline (hey Jax!), who, I might add, has promised to teach me to dance something called the rocket ship if I come to Fort Worth and show her how to make crepe paper flowers. I am really looking forward to it.

I also got some other emails, including three about you, Mr. Diamond. See, somewhere in the middle of my epic and Tolstoy-esque eloquence, I mentioned that my Mom loved your music. It played non-stop in our house for years. When she got sick, my dad installed speakers and stereo wires all over our house so she could hear your music playing in every room. Even the bathroom. Have you ever listened to the Jungletime in the shower? No? Let me tell you something: it’s Friggin Rad.

Thing is, Mr. Diamond, that line about your music was scarcely more than a mention in a very long story. No one gave a hoot about that fingernail necklace. It’s all about you, you, you.

Then, last week, again I mentioned your song Porcupine Pie and got more emails, all about you. Don’t get me wrong, I love your music almost as much as I love getting emails, but dude, Mr. Diamond, you stole my thunder.

I am mad at you.

Fast forward to tonight. It’s nearly midnight and and I’m watching your recent appearance on Jimmy Kimmel Live chumming it up and talking about your new album of cover songs. Must admit, I prefer your original work, but who am I pass up a new version of Desperado? Thought I would take a quick glace at your stuff on Itunes…new, old, and otherwise.

Big mistake.

Fast forward ten minutes later, to me, right now, on the living room floor, listening to your version of Midnight Train to Georgia, blowing my nose in my shirt, blubbering to the cat about a simpler place and time.

Now the cat is mad at you too.

Mr. Diamond, sir, knock it off. I have work to do. I could be doing something important like glue-gunning sequins to a hippopotamus Christmas tree topper, but instead, now I’m cruising ITunes for songs I haven’t listened to in years and drudging up all kinds of angry, festering emotional dust bunnies. Twenty seconds scanning this list, thinking of all the times and places in my life where you have played a part….

Whoa.

When I scan this list and look at your catalog of work and the course of my life, it becomes plain as day: you, Mr. Diamond, are everywhere.

neil-diamond-all-time700You were there in the back corner of my elementary school auditorium when I saw people making out for the first time. And by people, I mean 13-year-olds. The whole school was singing Song Sung Blue in a round, lead by Mr. Bukema the music teacher. And by music teacher, I mean the world’s hottest obo player. Holy crap I love that song.

You were there playing Kentucky Woman in the lobby of the restaurant where I saw my ex-fiancé out with his new girlfriend NOT EVEN THREE WEEKS after we broke up. I hated her. She was a size zero and made a casual reference to Kierkegaard in the first five minutes. You would hate her too. I didn’t eat anything at the restaurant that night, or for the next week, for that matter….blah blah blah….now I’m over it, but, Mr. Diamond, if you ever decide to write a song called Up Yours Kentucky Woman, that would be really awesome.

You were there in an army bar in Bishkek, Kyrgystan on New Years Eve 2004. I know, I had never heard of Kyrgyzstan either. It was impressive. Most of the bar patrons smelled like camels and grain alcohol and no one batted an eyelash when the bar keeper hired an exotic dancer to drop by for a live show. So there she was, wearing a bikini made of scrap leather and fur, shaking her tail feather, making freakishly strong eye contact, carrying a boom box with her song of choice: We’re Coming to America.

You were there the one time I ever saw my father cry. It was a random morning when I heard him go out to the car and play Hello Again louder than that car stereo had even been played before. From the corner of my window I could see he had his elbows up on the steering wheel with his head in his hands. When the song ended, he grabbed the cassette tape and turned it back to AM radio like nothing ever happened. He never saw me through the window. I never asked him about it. I really wish I could go back and ask him.

You were there with me on my first real baby sitting job as I sang Sweet Caroline to the 16-month-old little girl whose diaper I was changing at the time. Sweet Caroline is just the sort of upbeat, bouncy song that is good for distracting babies when they are having their private parts cleaned by a strange new babysitter. The crescendo peaked with the line about …reaching out, touching me, touching you… and a sudden explosion of butterscotch sludge. An explosion. I’m not even kidding. It got in my hair, Mr. Diamond. I heard you wrote that song about Caroline Kennedy, but did you know that song has that effect on babies?

You were there when Miss Kimmy, Washington County’s most enchanting 23-year-old tattooed tap dancing teacher, chose the music to the annual recital. Have you ever seen a pack of chubby eight-year-olds shuffle-ball-change to Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show? Yeah, me neither. And neither did Zynetta Hughes’ Mom. She didn’t know your music and thought you were making fun of Christians. Don’t be offended, she was one of those snake dancing church goers. That’s a lie. Mrs. Hughes didn’t dance with snakes, it’s just an expression. Actually, come to think of it, there was a real snake dancing church two counties over but Mrs. Hughes was not a member. Mrs. Hughes was very normal, just uptight. Although, she named her kid Zynetta, so, not that normal.

NeilDiamond-HotAugustNightFront2You were there when I had too much to drink at a wedding reception and danced my butt off to Thank the Lord for the Night Time…one thing lead to another and I told a good friend I hated her dress. She felt so self conscious about her appearance that she left the party before the bride and groom cut the cake to another favorite of yours, Red, Red Wine. I sat there listening to you sing about your blue, blue heart and thought Oh my God, when did I get to be such an insensitive piece of sh*t?

Well, it’s hard to pin point that exact moment in time, but I’m guessing you were there too.

I could fill a book with memories of your songs and their attachments to people and places that you have never heard of…but I digress. There is work to be done and a hippopotamus tree topper to sequin. I cannot stumble down memory lane with you and your Two-Bit Manchild music any further this evening, Mr. Diamond.

However, before I go, I would like to make a small request. Since it is now abundantly clear you will be writing the soundtrack to my life, past, present, and future, I for one would like to hear more harmonicas. You hardly ever incorporate them in your music and they are my favorite instrument. Don’t get me wrong, you know how to write a song just dandy without my two cents, but, if I’m going to be hearing you at nearly every pivotal moment in my life, I feel that I am entitled to some input.

More harmonicas please.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Peaches

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Big Alice’s Apple Kuchen

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Big Alice’s Apple Kuchen: Another Dead Aunt Story

I was standing funeral home’s parking lot playing hacky-sack with some family members when Franny asked “whatever happened to that deaf lady? You know, Old Rubber Face” to which Herbert replied “don’t you remember, we buried her years ago” to which hitomeone else replied “oh yeah, with the apple cake!” to which everyone replied in unison “OH YEAH. THE APPLE CAKE!”

Big Alice had already been gone nearly a decade, more than half our lives, and we were still talking about her apple cake. It was that good.

For a woman who could not hear and rarely spoke, Big Alice could communicate across an ocean with her facial expressions. In fact, it was not until Herbert’s mention in the parking lot that day that I realized she was deaf. In my mind, we had spoken dozens of times. Heck, we were pals! She played in my blanket fort. I fetched her unfiltered cigarettes from the patio. She saw me hide brussel sprouts into my napkin and didn’t tattle. I didn’t say anything when I saw her taking a swig off a wine bottle in the kitchen just before she took it out to the table. Herbert’s news that she was deaf came as shock. In vain I searched my memory for the sound of her voice.

Isn’t it strange how the very young and the very old have no problem communicating without words?

Big Alice was born somewhere in western Austria. I’m not entirely sure where, but I know she spent most of WWII in a work camp in Eastern France. The fractured stories conveyed across various members of my paternal grandmother’s family are not pretty, nor are they my stories to tell in this forum. Sufficient to say, Big Alice survived on little more than her sense of humor. She lost her hearing at the age of 23, when a respiratory infection went untreated and spread to her ears and nose. Although she could speak just fine, you rarely heard a word cross her lips. After the war ended and she came to America to live with my Great Aunt Long Shirley and Uncle Karl, she was discouraged from speaking German in effort to assimilate. She learned to read and write in English just fine, but without the ability to hear her own voice, never became comfortable speaking in English with others. Unfortunately, the others did not feel comfortable speaking German in post-war America. Things are different now and we all go crazy celebrating our Germanic heritage, but back then, Big Alice had to rely on her hands and facial expressions as a mode of communication, hence the nick name, “Old Rubber Face.”

Her other nickname, Big Alice, was misleading. The woman weighed as much as a wet hamster. The name came only after she had a daughter, dubbed Little Alice, whose daughter then became known as Tiny Alice. As fate would have it, Tiny Alice recently had a baby girl named Emma, which is a lovely name, but I was really looking forward to one day adding an entry to my address book under the name Infinitesimal Alice.

There’s always next time.

A trio of Alices was not unusual. Most of the members of my father’s extended family share the same 6 or 7 first names, all named after a handful of people who died long ago and far away. One Thanksgiving at Baby Shirley’s house (note: Baby Shirley was pushing 50 at the time), someone called out from the kitchen, “Hey Joe, you have a phone call” and five men and two women stood up.

And that’s not even counting the kiddy table. And by kiddy table, I mean a locked basement covered in tarps, duct tape, and a dozen buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken. The visual of 20+ children without adult supervision, screaming and squealing and playing Pilgrims and Indians while sucking on drumsticks might strike you as something out of Lord of the Flies, but to me, it just seemed like a normal family activity.

Tangent: When I tell you my Dad has a big family, I don’t mean he had a lot of brothers and sisters. It grates on my nerves when I hear people define “family” as a circle of immediate blood relatives. Family, at its best, is so much bigger and more wonderful than just a tiny group of people with a common gene pool. Some families are related by birth, some by circumstance, and some by love. When I was a kid, my grandfather would meet me at the bus stop and walk me home and ask me about my day. One day I came home and reported that there was boy on the playground teasing my friend Michelle and saying she didn’t have a family because she was adopted. My Grandfather asked me what I did about it and I told him, rather proudly, that I ran and got the teacher who immediately stopped the teasing. He looked at me disappointed and made a tisk-tisk noise with his tongue. I asked him what I should have done instead and he said “Beat the tar out of him.”

That’s family.

My dad’s family defines its members by an elaborate and extensive phone tree where three people call three people and so on and so on. It was initially started back in the 50’s as a typical cold war precaution, but it is still alive and kicking today, used mostly to pass along news of  births, engagements, and unfortunate passings. Email could do the job, but what is the fun of that? This way, when someone dies, the phone tree starts off and three people call three people and so on and so on, and before you know it, everyone knows and everyone is cooking. This means that within two hours of someone’s death, their living room will contain no less than 12 casseroles, 10 cakes and pies, 8 trays of cookies, 5 pickling salads, 3 bottles of wine 2 cheese trays and 1 tomato aspic. Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, there will be a roast turkey on the doorstep come morning, courtesy of Baby Shirley’s eldest daughter, Hairy Frances.

Everyone has a special dish. It never changes. For example, Baby Shirley’s middle daughter, Baby Roberta, has been making pinwheel cookies for forty years and no one makes them quite like her. If you see pinwheel cookies, you just know they came from Baby Roberta because no one would dare step on her territory. Don’t even bother asking for the recipe. She makes them the best and it’s not even worth trying anything else. If I lived in the area and someone died, I would be in charge of bringing over a veggie tray. It doesn’t matter that I don’t eat raw vegetables, there is no room in the baked goods department where I rightly belong. I’ll need to wait until someone in charge of cakes and pies dies before I get a crack at delivering something good and tasty. This territorial land war over dessert cobblers is how the legend of Big Alice’s Apple Kuchen was born.

Prior to her death, Big Alice would always bring a delicious and wildly popular apple kuchen (fyi: kuchen is German for cake). Regardless of how much food was around, it was always the first dish to go. She only made it when someone was born or when someone died. Big Alice was high up on the phone tree and the kuchen didn’t take long to make, so she was usually one of the first to arrive. This meant  if you wanted some kuchen, you needed to get your butt over to the house faster than everyone else. It brought out strange and competitive behavior. One time I saw Uncle Sloppy Joe sneak some in his pocket and nibble on pieces as they carried Old Rusty Uncle Karl’s casket out the door. That might seem rude to you, but it’s probably what Old Rusty would have done if the situation was reversed. The kuchen was just that good.

The afternoon Big Alice died of a sudden aneurysm, everyone said “what a shame” “what a pity” “at least she didn’t see it coming” and agreed it was a good thing to be taken without great suffering or pain. They went on their way and said “see you shortly” before hanging up the phone.  By 6 p.m. Little Alice opened the door to see Aunt Shirley carrying a glass Pyrex dish covered in foil. It was kuchen. The gesture was sweet and passive aggressive. By making apple kuchen for Big Alice’s funeral, she would secure it as her signature dish for decades to come. She wanted to win the popularity contest. Can you blame her? I couldn’t. And neither could Aunt Roberta when she showed up carrying an aluminum tray of her own rendition of what else, apple kuchen. Then the Rauches showed up with more kuchen. And the Millers. And then Big Franny. And then Hairy Frances (she was tired of making turkey)….and so on until 7pm there were THIRTEEN APPLE KUCHENS spread out on the dining table. Each were delicious and slightly different, but none were quite the same as Big Alice’s Apple Kuchen. Everyone agreed to hold back on claiming the sacred kuchen spot. No one made it for many years. Until now. I have taken it back!

Before she died, Big Alice gave her recipe to Little Alice, who gave it to me here. And now I’m giving it you! It’s no great secret and I’m positive she left out something special, but it comes pretty close. It’s easy to make and easy to customize to suit your family’s taste. the end result is somewhere between coffee cake and apple pie. It keeps well and goes great with ice cream.

CAKE
1 Box of yellow cake mix
1 Cup of light sour cream
1/2 Stick of melted butter
1 Egg + 1 egg white
1/2 Teaspoon salt
Pinch of cinnamon

Mix well and spread over the bottom of a 13″x9″ pan. Bake at 350 for 15 minutes.

APPLE MIXTURE
While that’s in the oven, mix together with your fingers:
3 cups of peeled apples thinly sliced (or something around 3 cups, that’s around 4 apples decent sized apples)
1/2 Stick melted butter
1 Tablespoon lemon juice
1/2 Cup Brown Sugar
1 Teaspoon Cinnamon
Pinch of lemon zest

+2 Tbsp of Brown Sugar for sprinkling

BAKE
After the apple mixture is tossed and the cake is in the oven 15 minutes, remove it but leave the oven on. Arrange the apples in rows across the top of the warm cake and sprinkle with 2 Tbs of brown sugar. Return it oven and cook 30-35 minutes, until toothpick comes out clean. Serve warm with fresh cream or ice cream!

Happy Kuchen Y’all!

A Peachy Necklace from Aunt Dooney’s Prom Dress

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People have been calling me Peaches for many years, but Aunt Peaches is new. When my niece Abigail was born last December, it felt like I had been waiting for her since I was a child. Isn’t that strange?

Being an Aunt is a big deal for me. I’m sure a lot of you are Aunts and Sisters and Mothers and Grandmothers and Caregivers and Brothers and Daughters and Sons and Spouses…the list goes on as long as you like, but the point I make is that everyone is special to somebody. You are special to somebody. I am special to someone else. That 19-year-old guy who cut me off in his Ford Bronco yesterday afternoon, that Buttmunch with Attitude, is somebody’s baby. Somebody’s brother. Somebody’s friend. To somebody, he is special.

In the world of somebodies and specialness, the relationship between Aunt and niece is particularly sacred to me.  In my life, Aunts have always been a source of comfort, guidance, encouragement, and, sometimes, a swift kick to the rump when I needed it most.  And Aunts certainly don’t need to be related either. As soon as title is issued, the relationship is sealed: Y’all are family.

They say it takes a village to raise a child…truer words have never been spoken. My Mom died when I was pretty young and it was a village of Aunts who picked up the pieces. Some of them were my parent’s sisters, but most where good friends and neighbors who became as close as family, if not closer. These women would swoop into my life one afternoon at a time and teach me life’s most important lessons; everything from driving instructions, to cooking lessons, to sewing projects, to embarrassing visits to the doctor and the ladies underwear department.

Most of these women were busy with lives and families of their own. I rarely saw any one of them more than once every few weeks, but, whatever time we spent together, they packed in as much love and learning as possible. They knew I didn’t have a mother and wanted to pack their motherly wisdom into every minute we shared. In this regard, I consider myself extremely fortunate. Don’t get me wrong, losing your Mom sucks, but the way I see it, my life lessons came to me like one of those Church fundraiser cookbooks…you know, where every member of the congregation contributes two or three of their very best lessons….Mr. Johnson’s Famous Crab Dip and Sheriff Trotters House Seasoning and Amy Caldwell’s Banana Bread…a diverse collection of the very best formulas for success. There’s no back-of-the-box recipes in those cookbooks, just thoughtful, time-tested, quality stuff. Yes, those books are always scattered, and sloppy, and sometimes the spelling is laughable, but I tell you one thing; the food is Damn Good.

But I digress. One day I’ll write a post on Why People are Like Cookbooks …another time…back to the Aunts….

Some of the Aunts never had time, or maybe they felt too awkward to hang out one-on-one. Instead they would drop stuff off on our doorstep, usually with a lovely note.
I was baking nut bread and thought you might enjoy some. Call anytime.

Random gifts of food are a pretty normal thing when someone dies, especially when it comes to a new widower/single father…but after months passed, the gifts turned from food to more random items; jumbo packs of socks, hand soap, school supplies, etc..
There was a double coupon in the paper on plastic forks this morning so I picked up extra. We won’t use them, I’ll just save you the trip. Call anytime.

It’s not like my Dad couldn’t afford to buy us stuff, it just made them feel good. They slept better at night knowing our household paper towel supply was taken care of.  As I got older, the Aunts started dropping stuff off specifically for me. Teenage years are awkward for all girls, and they wanted to be sure I didn’t end up confused and misguided. One time my dad opened the front door to find a small shopping bag on the stoop. It was tampons. Think that’s embarrassing? You should have seen the note Aunt Laura left on it.
Wanted to be sure you had some of these around the house. Let me know if you need any help with instructions. Call anytime.

FOLLOWED BY A HAND DRAWN DIAGRAM.

The way my dad dropped that bag you would think it contained a severed head. God Bless Aunt Laura.

My favorite doorstep gifts always came from Aunt Dooney, a generous and eccentric woman with a penchant for story book sweaters two sizes too small. Even in her 50s she could stop traffic with her good looks. The lines around her mouth and eyes indicated a history of happiness, struggle, and a fondness for tanning beds. She grew up dirt poor and married her high school sweetheart at age 15, Boon. They lived on a shoestring for many years, until one day in the late seventies when Boon found the shell of a Motel 6 Jacuzzi tub down at the dump. He strapped it in the back of a flatbed truck, filled it with water and his beautiful wife, then drove around town with a sign that read $5 WATER RIDES ON WHEELS.

Ten years later they owned a fleet of limousines and the biggest house on the block. The American Dream.

Aunt Dooney quit working 60+ hours a week as a waitress and stayed home as a lady of leisure. She took up tennis down at the country club and watched soap operas as if it were her job. As the World Turns was her favorite. She was never seen without lipstick and pastel pearls. Despite their new found wealth, Aunt Dooney still shopped like she was living hand-to-mouth. It was Aunt Dooney that taught me how to clip coupons and only buy on sale. She filled their massive home with second hand furniture and thrift store finds. She didn’t have any kids of her own and was quick to spoil me and the many other children lucky enough to know her. Because she knew how much I loved playing dress up, she started buying me $5 bridal gowns in kindergarten. As I got older the thrift store dresses kept coming. Even when I was way-too-mature for Halloween costumes. She’d find a stained quilt or a tattered leather coat and drop it off with a note…
This was too good of a deal to pass up! Tear it apart and put it back together. Now go make something pretty!

When I was 17, Aunt Dooney left a package on our door that looked a little different. Her gifts came from the thrift store and usually came delivered in a paper bag, clean but rumpled with little ceremony or expectation. This one was in a handled shopping bag with lavender tissue peeping up. It was unusually large. I recognized the handwriting as soon as I opened the note;
I know you are used to secondhand, but prom is coming up and I wanted you to have the very best. I saw it in the store and knew it was made for you. It will look so beautiful. I can’t wait to see you in it!

It was a dress. A giant, peach, ruffled prom dress. We are talking Melanie Hamilton-Wilkes Style Big Ass Dress.

Now, Peaches is my family nickname, and plenty of people, even those who don’t call me Peaches directly somehow associate me with the color peach. Today I love it, but then, I hated it. Passionately. And even if that dress had been a different color, there is no way in hell I was going to be seen wearing it to my prom. I would like to tell you that if I had to do it over again, I would be mature enough to suck it up and wear it, but no. I don’t think I could do it. Some things are just never going to change.

Aunt Dooney was such a sweetheart and I knew it would break her heart if I didn’t wear it. I told my Dad and cried and pretended it was eating me up inside, when really, I just wanted to make sure I got the dress I wanted. You know what he did? He made the ultimate sacrifice. He lied for me. He called Aunt Dooney and told her he had already bought me a dress a long time ago, and as lovely as this dress is, he could see it cost a pretty penny and should probably go back to the store.

I guess he just assumed she would drop by and pick it up, but she didn’t. A week went by, that dress stood in the hall. Made me sick with guilt every time I saw it. I hid it in the closet. When nearly a month had passed, my Dad started pestering me to take it over before it could no longer be returned. I ignored him. One day he picked me up at the mall and I saw that shopping bag with the lavender tissue sitting in the back seat. I knew we were making a stop on the way home.

This was a big deal. My dad never told me to do anything I didn’t want to do. Prior to that moment, I can only think of two occasions when he said no to me and both involved dessert. And he wondered where my crazy sweet tooth came from?

But today wasn’t about dessert. It was about doing the right thing. This woman had been looking out for me for years and I was not going to be rotten towards her, not if he could help it. He couldn’t force me to wear the dress, but he was going to make sure I didn’t sweep the dress under the rug, my relationship with Aunt Dooney going with it.

Aunt Dooney’s house was old colonial. Very traditional, except for two cement bunny statues on either side of the door. Like long eared foo dogs with teeth. She named them, and I can’t remember what, but it had something to do with evil twins on As the World Turns.

My Dad pulled up in the driveway and turned off the motor, reached across to my door to pull the handle. I knew that move. This was his way of saying, Sorry kiddo, you are doing this one your own.

Of course, my plans to leave it on the doorstep was dashed when she saw me on the steps. She greeted me with the same, warm, loving hug she had always given me. One of those hugs where you squeeze the other person like a teddy bear and sway from side to side for a minute and say when did you get so big?! Ooooooo you smell so good, I just want to bottle it up!

While bottling one’s smell was creepy, the hug helped. The pit in my stomach dissipated. All was good.

We talked for a minute or two and then I said I had to run, Dad was in the driveway, I just wanted to drop off the dress. It was so generous of you to do that, and I’m so sorry I’m not going to get a chance to wear it.

I’ll never forget the look on her face. It deflated like a punctured pool toy. Her voice changed as she looked down on the ground and muttered something about Don’t worry, I’m just glad you got it covered, it’ll get used another time, no big deal.

Have you ever talked to someone when the words in their mouth don’t match the look on their face? It’s awkward. It’s especially awkward when you know someone is doing that to appease you. Yes you, the 17-year-old Buttmunch with Attitude. I puttered around for a minute then excused myself and walked to the car, my tail between my legs.

Prom came and went and I don’t even remember what I wore. I think it was black with feathers. Does it matter? No.

I recently got wind that Aunt Dooney past away following a lengthy battle with cancer. Apparently she had been teetering on the edge for months, but was determined to hang in long enough to watch  the final episode of As the World Turns. You know, I hadn’t seen her in ten years, maybe more…but in the back of my mind, I think of her every time I go into a thrift store. I think of her every time I see a soap opera or clip coupons. I think of her when I see ladies wearing sweaters two sizes too small and when someone gives me a good long bear hug. I think of her when a young, exhausted waitress takes the time to look me in the eye and smile. I think of her and I smile too.

Now she is gone and I will never get a chance to show her that peachy prom dress. This necklace isn’t going to make up for what has past, but it’s a lovely, happy reminder of a lovely, happy lady.

1. Salvage some silk scraps from an old blouse you picked up at the thrift store 5 years ago that’s all stained and too small, but you still love it something rotten. Yeah, I know you have one too. Or better yet, take an article of clothing someone gave you years ago that you have never worn, but don’t have the heart to get rid of, for fear it will hurt their feelings.  Use this project to make something new and special.
2. Make yourself some Luzianne Iced Tea. Technically, one should avoid ice tea anywhere north of Memphis, but you can make an exception for home brewed Luzianne.
3. Soak the silk scraps in leftover tea for at least an hour. Overnight is better. If you added sugar and lemon to your tea that’s just fine. If you want, you can infuse some scent to your necklace by adding a drop or two of essential oil in your tea about now. I like eucalyptus.  
4. Cut a paisley shape out of polar fleece or felt, and cut the silk scraps into 20 circles, roughly the same diameter as a coke can. I like to encourage fraying by rubbing the edges together and pulling loose strings with my fingers.
5. Pinch the center of one silk circle, forming a tuffet shape.
6. Sew your tuffet to the center of the paisley, fray side facing the outer edge. Repeat around the perimeter of the paisley shape.
7. Sew a few pearls in the center/exposed portion of the paisley shape. Aunt Dooney was never seen without her pastel pearls!  Make a simple bead chain out of remaining pearls and there you go: a peachy keen necklace in all it’s ruffled glory.

Whoooooooweeeeeeee…for such a simple necklace this sure was a long post. Thanks for letting me ramble. Sometimes, when someone leaves us, it’s a small comfort to channel our sadness into something creative. It also feels good to take a minute to sing their praises from the mountain tops. Guess this blog is my new mountain top. Thanks again 🙂
 

Now go make something pretty!

Friday Flowers: Coffee Filter Bouquet

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One day I’m going to write a post called 100 Unusual Ways to use Coffee Filters. They are absurdly useful. The fiber quality on these suckers is so amazing it’s hard to believe they are Dirt Cheap. And I just love making flowers because, besides being beautiful, this is one of those projects where messiness only enhances the final result. You don’t have to be nimble fingered to be proud of what you made.If you have little ones at home, I suggest you check out some of the many similar tutorials aimed at kids. This is also a great project for  parties or as baby/bridal shower centerpieces. Years ago, three of us got an assembly line going and knocked out 15 centerpieces in an afternoon for an event that eventually became known as “The Purpleist Bat Mitzvah in East Jersey.”….but I digress.This project is not new. First time I made coffee filter flowers was with my Grandnanna in the early eighties. They were yellow, to match her all yellow living room, of course. We also made pink ones out of pink toilet tissue to go in her pink kitchen, but that’s a story for another time. All I know is that when we finished those yellow flowers, she put them in her fanciest crystal vase and they went straight up on the mantel.
That’s right: The Mantel.

Right there next to the ash tray and the wax grapes and the painting of a Parisian bridge on black velvet: My Flowers. I never felt so special in my life. 

They stayed there up on that mantel several glorious years, until one winter day in 1987 when Grandnanna discovered “a crazy mustache man with long fingernails and a tambourine!” living in her basement.

Y’all, I’m not even joking. If you have a crawl space, go and check it for people with mustaches right now. You’ll feel better.

Anyway…Mustache Man had been there for months. Totally undetected. Neighbors later reported hearing a tambourine late at night, but by then Grandnanna had taken off her hearing aid and never heard a thing…until one day she ventured down for holiday decorations and found him there in the crawl space, eating pork rinds and reading Kafke (seriously, Kafke?)….so she screamed, he screamed, someone threw an Easter basket, and then Mustache Man went crazier than a blind dog in a meat house, running all over, knocking over furniture, screaming and shaking his tambourine.  He grabbed two things before he reached the front door; Grandnanna’s purse and the crystal vase with my yellow flowers. 

Yeah, in retrospect, I know he grabbed the vase because it looked easy to pawn, but when I heard the story, my ten-year-old ego assumed it was a sign my flowers were in hot demand. Obviously.

To my logic: People who like mustaches + People who like pork rinds + People who like tambourines + People who like Kafka = People who will buy my flowers. Clearly.

An empire was born. 

I  entertained visions of people across the nation, sitting down on their elegant sofas, eating pork rinds, gently tapping their tambourines in praise of the flowers up there on their mantels. I was going to start a decorative movement! The plan for this craft-tastic empire was simple: get Hallmark to sell them in their stores and offer a free brownie with every purchase. All I needed to start the movement was time, coffee filters, and a whole lot of brownies. Twenty years later, I’m still working on it.
Hallmark: call me.

Y’all: grab your tambourine and join in the movement!

color your coffee filters 
1.  Gather your coffee filters (5 per flower), mid-tone marker (orange), light-tone paint (pink).
2.  Use the marker to darken the edges of your filters. Sloppiness is fine. Save time by stacking a few filters as you use the marker.
3. In a plastic cup, add 1 teaspoon of paint to 1/4 cup of water.
4. Crinkle up a wad of filters and dunk in the paint. Let it sit there a minute and take a load off. The longer you leave them in there, the more paint they will absorb. I like to stagger my timing so I get variations on the same color (you’ll see that come in handy in a sec)
5. Remove from paint, wring thoroughly, hang dry in the sun.
 
If you prefer a more muted, ombre effect, check out this alternative method.
assemble the flower

6. From here on in, think of your filters in 3 separate groups
* Tier A, one filter, darkest color
* Tier B, two filters, medium color
* Tier C, three filters, lightest color
7. For a jagged edge like a peony, fold your filters and snip away at the edges. No need for perfection here.
8. Keep them in line!
9. Take Tier A (the darkest filter), scrunch and twist. You’ll want a good inch of twist at the bottom. Notice that the filters stay in place without glue. Magic.
10. Take Tier B (the two medium filters and snip a pea-size hole in the middle.
11. Insert the pointed twist of Tier A inside the tiny-hole of Tier B, and twist it all together. Again, you will want a good inch of twisted stump at the bottom.
12. Yup, repeat the same process with Tier C.
13. Bind with a pipe cleaner and fluff to your heart’s content!

variations
14. Jagged edges.
15. Smooth, ink/marker on edges.
16. Scalloped edges.

make a bouquet
17. Take the heads off a bunch of silk flowers (I found this one at the dollar store)
18. Wrap the base wires around the stem
19. Secure with green floral tape. OK, so I was out of green floral tape and masking tape worked just fine.
20. Bunch them all together in a cool vase or martini shaker. If you made your flowers with little-ones, I suggest you display them in that fancy vase you inherited or got at your wedding that stays in a box in the cupboard. You know the one. These flowers won’t get messy or wet, and your child will feel so proud when they see you making a fuss to display their work prominently.
 

I’m in Love with Liberace

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I should probably be outside eating hot dogs and setting off fireworks, but for a number of reasons, including a scary policeman at my door, I’m inside chillin with Liberace.

I’m one of those people who gets the holiday spirit in July. Just when it is hot as a hair shirt outside, I’m inside, getting my jingle bells on. Never lasts long, just enough to trigger a craving for cold weather and the smell of gingerbread. Since neither one of those things is available to me at this time, I’ll settle for my favorite holiday album, Liberace Christmas.

Confession: that Christmas stuff is misleading. Truth is, no matter what time of year, I can’t get enough Liberace. So what if I’m not his type. So what if he’s dead. I adore him.

Just look at this man! Do you see an insecure gay polish kid from Milwaukee? Didn’t think so. Why his music doesn’t play from every store and restaurant in the Western Hemisphere, 24/7, is baffling. The man was a genius. A massive, witty, giggling, fruit-filled, rhinestone-studded genius. And it’s not just that the dude could play the piano wearing cocktail rings the size of tangerines (not even kidding), the core of his talent came from his unapologetic happiness.  He didn’t just sing or speak or preach the word; he lived it. He flaunted it. He dismissed (or sued the crap out of) anyone who judged him for it. He was an entertainer in an era when people were heavily discouraged from being themselves. He was ahead of his time.

Yes, he lavished himself with material riches. Yes, he makes Donald Trump look tasteful. Yes, his music was overshadowed by the circus of his lifestyle. No, he never apologized for any of it.

I’m in love with Liberace.