Aunt Peaches

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My Life

I like to keep it classy.

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My childhood neighbors, the Robersons, liked to dip things in gold. Brass, actually. Shoes, watches, army hats, pieces of machinery…even a guitar pic from a guy who played backup for Elvis. Nothing was too good to get the dip.

The Robersons, a lively retired couple, were known across the neighborhood for throwing impromptu Samba parties in their driveway complete with Perry Como music and custom cocktails with exotic names like Swamp Gas and Singapore Sea Breeze.

Mrs. Roberson would don a sequin cocktail frock and wheel out the bar cart, while Mr. Roberson flirted with the neighborhood females, regaling war stories from his days in Korea. “See this scar? Man doesn’t get a scar like that at the beauty parlor, no sir, that’s a bohica burn that’s what that is. Battle of Old Baldy, that’s what that is. They never saw us coming.” And everyone would shake their head and click their tongues as if to say, I know. I know. I saw it all go down on M.A.S.H. last week.

Folks would bring their own glass, sometimes a bottle, and sometimes, on special occasions, Mr. Elfman from down the road would bring his world famous whiskey milk punch. I am not proud to say that, at age nine, my first experience with alcohol consisted of ten feeble sips of Mr. Elfman’s milk punch followed by a mighty spray of vomit across the side of Roberson’s garage. I don’t remember much after that, but one of the neighborhood boys later described it as, “The raddest spew ever!”

The next morning at breakfast, my father informed me that me that I would be going back to Roberson’s house to apologize for 1. Vomiting all over the side of their garage and 2. Drinking their booze without bringing any for the host. The issue of underage drinking never came up.

Mortified and still slightly whoozy from the milk punch, I ran over straight away, going so far as to offer to weed their garden or scrub down their garbage cans, anything they wanted, just so long as it didn’t involve another drink. Mr. Roberson, who also looked a little whoozy from the night before, slapped his knee and declared, “Charlene, let her polish the brass. I hate that sh*t and you’re too old to see straight.” Then led me to the library where I proceeded to spend the day polishing brass knick-knacks with a tube of Close Up cinnamon tooth paste.

Mr. Roberson was partner in a tool and die factory that made parts for heating and cooling systems—not what you might call glamorous work but made him a lot of money. So much so, every time a new cog or gizmo made him a dollar, he had that dipped in brass and mounted on a piece of wood to put on display in their home library. Business flourished and the collection never stopped growing. That afternoon alone, I polished enough brass pieces to fill the shelves of their wall-to-wall library bookshelves, plus Mr. Roberson’s highly intricate war-themed chess set, complete with brass canons with real cannon balls. “There’s real gun powder in them cannon balls. Don’t polish too hard, less you want to the amo to go and blow off your hand.”

I polished slowly.

It was hard work, but at the end of the day, I stood back, impressed with my work and declared to no one in particular, “One day I will be the sort of grown up who has a room full of golden knick-knacks.”

And here we are.

Last week my apartment was posted in a house call from Apartment Therapy, wherin I mentioned my “solid gold garden gnomes” which prompted an email from Alice, who asked, where are your gnomes and where can I get some of my own.

Well Alice, these are not only garden gnomes, they are naughty garden gnomes: one is pooping, the other is mooning. If I could have found one in mid-vomit, I would have purchased it too. SUBTLE NOTE TO FAMILY AND FRIENDS: MY BIRTHDAY IS AROUND THE CORNER.

The gnomes started out as traditional plastic garden gnomes—a gag gift. I always wanted to put them in my garden but feared they would get stolen or offend someone. Then I though, well, if I am going to offend someone, why not do it in solid gold. Tastefull. Trump-like. I always wanted a room full of solid gold knick-knacks. No time like the present.

The pooping gnome was painted in antique liquid brass, and the moon gnome was done in 24k gold leaf, because, you know, I like to keep it classy.

Moving is going to be awesome.

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Slowly packing up the house is drudging up all sorts of crap. Physical and emotional dust bunnies abound, not to mention a skeleton or two. This is typical with moving, especially for someone with  hoarding tendencies like mine.

This morning I was clearing out a junk drawer and found myself debating whether to throw out an unused roll of super-sticky fly tape. Simple enough, right?  Toss it, right? Then I remembered the time there was a roll of fly tape above the trash can in the alley when I dropped in my garbage bag and accidentally flipped up my elbow-length hair, successfully taking down the gluey-tape and several dead flies in one fell swoop.

And it wouldn’t come out.

And then I had to go to work.

And then my co-worker Jeannie had to rub my entire head with ice cubes because she called her mother for advice, who said, ice gets gum out of hair so it should work on fly paper, but you know what? It sure didn’t. So then Jeannie just started cutting out chunks of my hair with a razor blade envelope opener, and then that weirdo bearded guy in shipping came by and said you look like you just came out of a can, so then  I had to go to the beauty salon and get ALL MY HAIR CUT OFF up to my ears, only to take some solace and said to the hairdresser, I’ll gladly donate my hair to Locks of Love, but she snapped her gum said, No Hun, those cancer kids don’t want flies in their hair either.

So now I’m standing over my junk drawer, feeling horrible just thinking about all the sick, bald headed children I denied a new wig because I got sloppy with the fly tape.

Good news: I recently learned that smothering your hair with peanut butter will remove fly tape and any other sticky substance, including hot glue. Who knew, right?
Bad news: Now that I know the peanut butter trick, how can I possibly throw out the fly tape?

This is how my mind works: Keeping the unused roll of fly tape + One Jar of Peanut butter = Doing my part to help kids with cancer. Throwing out the fly paper would be the equivalent of snubbing an ill child and would derail my path to Sainthood. The whole But-Peaches-You’re-Not-Even-Catholic-Thing will be overlooked if only I keep the fly tape. So clearly, I’m keeping the tape. 

Moving is going to be awesome.

So who’s bringing the salsa?

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The world is divided into two different types of people:

  1.  People who buy bags of tortilla chips.
  2.  People who make their own.

The rift is wide. Deep. Controversial, you might even say.

Some folks would never dream of frying things in their home because it’s messy and gross and makes them feel like they are living in a fast food restaurant; while some folks wouldn’t be caught dead buying a six-month-old bag of chemical laden and crispified chips in the store when they can make their own with a 39cent bag of tortillas and a quality, heart healthy oil.

It’s not hard to tell which group I belong to.

Question is, who’s bringing salsa?

 

The Donkey Display

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It’s a very creative donkey display, don’t you think?

Hard to believe they have been dead since before you were born.

That’s the hallmark of quality taxidermy you know—they look younger than you.

It’s depressing.

Actually, I once had a job working for a taxidermist.

And by job, I mean eight hours spread over two days in a basement full of freezers while wearing a gas mask and listening to Fleetwood Mac.

And by taxidermist, I mean an artist who specialized in bodily restoration.

That’s what he called it: bodily restoration.

It sounds like something on a spa menu but the reality is closer to a plate of sloppy joes…

Working for a taxidermist probably strikes most people as gross, but I didn’t mind. Embarrassing? Sure, but I was young and the money was good and I figured I had seen plenty of dead stuff in my day. What was one more raccoon?

And besides, the taxidermist was a very nice man—not like these weirdo taxidermists you see on TV who live in their parents’ basement and get off on collecting body parts—quite the contrary, he was quiet and gentle with soft voice and an immaculate work space. Lots of coasters. Cleanest mustache you ever saw. Sometimes he would talk to the animals as he worked and say things like “are you sure you want to twist your neck to look to the right? The squirrel in the tree is on the left. See here….that’s better, isn’t it?” and of course, everyone agreed the left would be a much nicer place to gaze upon for all eternity.

On the downside, he smelled strange and listened to way too much Stevie Nicks. This one time, he told me he could only install glass eyeballs while listening to Sara because it “inspires an inner serenity” which was major creepy, yet, oddly complimentary, no?

I liked to think when Stevie Nicks sat down to compose the piece, she thought, I want to write a song that entrances a man into state so serene he is fit to install glass eyeballs into the head of a bird carcass.

You know, apparently Sara was actually written about Mick Fleetwood’s first wife, but I’m pretty sure Stevie is going to change her story when she hears my theory.

Anyway, this job, with the taxidermist, would be the first of two jobs where I was hired entirely based on the appearance of my hands. The moment the taxidermist saw them he flipped them over, held them to the light and declared they were “the hands of jeweler!”

He was getting up in years and his hands were not as steady as they used to be. Stuffing and sawing were not a problem, but he needed someone with steady hands to glue individual hairs and feathers around the facial features of the deceased. See, (and feel free to skip ahead if you just ate), if you have ever seen a dead animal, you know the areas around the eye sockets and mouth are the first to decompose, and since making a dead animal look alive again relies heavily on the appearance of realistic hair, my job would be of critical importance. He made a big deal about valuing my time and my talent, which was a first for me in the workplace. It’s hard to say how much I appreciated it at the time. Hallmark just doesn’t make cards for these things.

This post has already gotten more gruesome than I intended, so I’ll spare you the details of my eight hours of bodily restoration boot camp, sufficed to say, I quit shortly after a phone call with a client in Missouri who wanted me to color match the innards of a fox to see if they would be appropriate to use in his fishing gear. It didn’t matter how much I needed the money, a girl has standards.

Blah blah blah, where was I going with this? Oh yes, the taxidermied donkeys. So last weekend, Kiki and I went to the Field Museum, which is sort of like Chicago’s natural history museum—an essential library of taxidermy species, plus a basement of archived creatures that the public never gets see. The taxidermist I worked for was always very proud to say he had several birds on display at the Field, but I won’t show you pictures of them because I cannot remember which ones belong to him. I think there was an African partridge or two. Or something. Oh, I’m a bad employee…

Photo Caption Wanted

Anyway, while we were at the Field, I saw these donkeys on display. The taxidermist was highly critical of how subjects are positioned and thought they should mimic their natural environment. I’m guessing the people at the Field Museum are of similar ilk, so I wonder, honestly; what the hell is going on here?

These donkeys—are they kissing? Are they greeting? And that one in the middle looks shocked. It sort of looks like a scene from Three’s Company with Jack and Janet smooching on the couch and Krissy just walked in from the Regal Beagle.

Or maybe it’s something else.

I can’t decide. But it’s a very creative donkey display, don’t you think?

Snacking with Nancy Reagan

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Am I the only person under 80 who keeps a candy-nut dish?
Don’t answer that.
Suppose it’s an old fashioned thing to do, but I genuinely like to keep a little something to nosh on. Especially dainty, festive little snacks like these salted nuts and candied chocolate eggs. 
And, really, just keeping it out on the coffee table makes me feel like Nancy Reagan –ready and willing to entertain the ladies of the Junior League in a moments notice. 
Ahem, of course, Nancy Reagan never kept a sports car sized pile of laundry in her living room either.  But if she did, I’m pretty sure it would be because she neglected her folding duties because her fingers were dirty from noshing on all that festive candy. 
Legit excuse, No?  
Screw the Junior league, Nan! Let’s have some chocolate!

Madame Rhinoceros

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Madame Rhinoceros collage shadow box I made, oh, err 2004? Look, sequins!
Yesterday I found myself killing time in the cosmetics section at an upscale department store. I don’t generally loiter among the lipstick but I was early for lunch with a friend and was running low on mascara.
Ten minutes in, a chipper young sales clerk with a dolphin tattoo successfully deployed a sales technique that I learned years ago while training for my first retail job. I’m sure there are lots of variations on the technique but I know it as CCI (Compliment, Comment, Introduce).

   Step 1. Clerk compliments the Customer = Customer feels good.
   Step 2. Clerk comments on the Customer = Customer feels insecure.
   Step 3. Clerk introduces a product = Customer buys it.

The basic concept is that if you can make a woman feel insecure in a “friendly” way, she will buy anything. I wish I could tell you that the technique is wrong and it never works and we are all too smart for that…but alas, sadly, it works all the time. We are a manipulative bunch. Yesterday, the conversation went something like this:

   Clerk:  “Oh my you have such lovely skin!”
   Customer: “Well thank you very much. I try my best.”
   Clerk:  “You know, you have such unique coloring. I can see how it would be difficult finding the right color pencil to tame those brows. Have you tried one of these?”
    Customer slumps her shoulders, lifts right hand to eyebrows to smooth them out while left hand reaches for the pencil.
    …

Five minutes later, Customer walks out with one eyebrow pencil, three eye shadows, foundation primer and countless packets of product samples.

Thing is, Customer went in looking for mascara.

Oh dear me, I feel just like Madame Rhinoceros!

Madame Rhinoceros and Her Dress
From Aesop’s Fables by Arnold Lobel

Madame Rhinoceros saw a dress in the window of a shop. It was covered with polka dots and flowers. It was adorned with ribbons and lace. She admired it for a moment and then entered the shop.
“That dress in the window,” said Madame Rhinoceros to a salesperson, “I would like to try it on.”
Madame Rhinoceros put on the dress. She looked at herself in the mirror. “I do not think this dress is at all attractive on me,” she said.
“But Madame,” said the salesperson, “you are completely wrong. This dress makes you look glamorous and alluring.”
“If only I were sure,” said Madame Rhinoceros.
“Ah, Madame,” said the salesperson, “everyone who sees you wearing this dress will be filled with
admiration and envy.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Madame Rhinoceros, turning around and around in front of the mirror.
“Absolutely,” said the salesperson. “You have my word.”
“Very well,” said Madame Rhinoceros, “I will buy the dress, and I will wear it now.”
Madame Rhinoceros left the shop. As she walked up the avenue, she saw that people were smiling and laughing at her.
“Admiration,” thought Madame Rhinoceros.
She saw some people who were shaking their heads and frowning.
“Envy,” thought Madame Rhinoceros.
She continued up the avenue. Everyone who saw her stopped and stared. Madame Rhinoceros felt more glamorous and alluring with every step.

o-o-o-o-o



Prehistoric Garden Gnomes

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Spotted these in the fern room at the Lincoln Park Conservatory the other day. I think they are there to illustrate that these plants date back to the time of the dinosaurs, which is indeed impressive, but dude, seriously, IS THIS A COOL IDEA OR WHAT?!

I’ll tell you something–soon as my postage stamp garden plot pops up next month, I’m planting a couple of dinosaurs.They are like prehistoric garden gnomes.

The Old Tomato Wreath

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Ten years ago I lived upstairs from The Old Tomato. Her real name was something like Veronica Pommerossi or Verachi Pomodesa or Villanova Panchinelli…whatever it was, it sounded like vecchio pomodoro, which roughly translates from Italian into old tomato. It was an acuarte description too –she was wrinkled and acidic, small and round, squishy and strangely sweet like a roma tomato that had been left out in the sun.

Her tan was impressive. All summer long she could be found in front of the building, sitting in a folding lawn chair and listening to Frank Sinatra on her portable radio. She didn’t speak much English but managed to express disgust and/or worldly advice at nearly every passing person. Teenage boys would walk by wearing baggy jeans and she would yell Why you don’t put pants on your ass? You try to catch you the raccoon? Put pants on your ass and you catch TWO raccoons!

Raccoons?

One time there was a string of robberies in the building next door and she took to sitting on the stoop waving a giant metal spoon at every suspicious person who past the building. I sort of wondered what she would do with the giant spoon, but alas, the opportunity never arose, as the robberies stopped. We took to calling her The Old Tomato: Crime Fighter at Large.

Sadly, the summer passed and so did she. Shortly after Halloween The Old Tomato suffered a massive stroke and died a few days later. Her family came and cleared out a few prized possessions then hired a flock of teenage boys to clear out the rest of her belongings and set them by the dumpster. It was a sad sight: her whole life in boxes laid out in an alley, discarded by raccoon chasing boys in baggy pants.

One of them saw me walking up the stairs and said Hey lady, want some Christmas stuff? I don’t feel right putting Jesus in the garbage, and handed me a box the size of a stove, filled with ornaments and wax evergreens.

It was her Christmas box. How could I say no?

Now, it’s not like I needed a bunch of funky Seventies Christmas stuff, even back then. In fact, I didn’t even keep a Christmas tree in those days. It just broke my heart to think of throwing it away. The box sat in a closet with the water heater for years.

One day the water heater broke and the repair man came in and moved the box, tipping it over and the contents fell out. Instead of apologizing, you know what he did?  He made fun of me. He said I was hoarding someone else’s memories. He said I should get rid of the box.

Perhaps he had a point. Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut. I ‘m not sure, but I got so crazy defensive that I became determined to take every single one of those ornaments out of the box and put them on display. Good bad, ugly, broken down, I was going to take them out and let them shine.  I still didn’t have a tree at that time so I settled on clustering them together and tying them onto a wreath. It’s like a whole Christmas tree clustered together in a single circle.

I love it.

There are glass balls and satin bells and needle point poinsettias…gold bows and green icicles….even a one-eyed angel. Why, the only thing missing is a raccoon.

The other two smaller wreaths have specific affiliations too; the one on the left is made from candy I picked up on a wonderful vacation, and the one on the right is made from ornaments on a tree that used to be on display at a previous job. There are more scattered around the house. My goal is to make one wreath a year, affiliated with one person or place or event.  They are accumulating quickly.

I’m still deciding what this year’s wreath will be. I’ll have to clean my cupboards out after Christmas and see what comes out to play. It’s a good post-Christmas pre-New years activity.

I’ll keep you posted 😉

It’s Cookie Time Y’all!

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Noeleen’s Nutella Thumb Buttons and various cookies from D’Amato’s Bakery, courtesy of Dan and Yasmin.Thanks Y’all!

Holiday cookies are my favorite tradition. I heart them so. I heart all cookies. I’m pretty sure if I were a muppet, Cookie Monster and I would be getting busy down on Sesame Street. It’s not like I have a thing for furry blue monsters, it’s just a cookie thing. 
Don’t judge.
At least, don’t judge me until you tasted these cookies. I’m talking about my Grandnanna’s Pecan Sandies. They are nothing short of magnificent. 
The best part about them is that Grandnanna’s recipe (like a lot of her recipes) is done in parts. This means you can adjust it as small or as big as you want. It also means they come out slightly different every time, but somehow, they always turn out AMAZING. The formula is guaranteed. Good for making a quick snack or feeding a whole boy scout jamboree.

 Grandnanna’s Pecan Sandies 

  • 1 part butter
  • 1 part powdered sugar
  • 1 part pecans
  • 2 part flour
  • 1 spoon vanilla
  • 1/2 spoon salt
  • ½ dash of cayenne pepper

  • Combine butter, half the powdered sugar and vanilla. Mix with a beater til fluffy like ponds cold cream (that’s a direct quote)
  • Add flour, salt and barely mix until blended.
  • Taste the dough, adjust as needed.
  • Shape into 3 logs and put in fridge for one hour to overnight.
  • Slice the dough into ¼” slices and shape into crescents.
  • Bake cookies at 350 for 15 minutes or until lightly browned on top. Remove cookies from the baking sheet immediately and roll them in the remaining powdered sugar.
  • Eat and enjoy!

*Note: this is a no-fail base dough. You can add jam or dip in chocolate or any number of other amazing things. Have fun. Your welcome.

*Note: Pecan is pronounced PEEcan, rhymes with he can or we can. If you pronounce it  peKAHN you’re doing it wrong and the wrath of the nut is inevitable. If your cookies come out poorly, don’t look at me. It was your fault and all those years of saying that poor little nut’s name wrong.

So, before I begin my cookie baking extravaganza this weekend, I wanted to ask; anyone out there have another good recipe written in parts (as opposed to cups and teaspoons)? 
I know there are folks out there who scoff at the flagrant inaccuracy of recipes written without exact measurements, but then those folks taste these cookies and shut the hell up. These cookies are that good. Some recipes stand the test of time! 
Anyone out there have some pointers to share? I’m all ears  🙂