When I was wee my parents up and moved me to Florida, where I at once became a depressed and lonely little girl, wandering up and down the docks we called home, no one but the manatees to take any notice of me. But mercifully came the first day of school, and nervous me I arrived to Mrs. Richardson's kindergarten class trembling like palm fronds in the ocean breeze. (By the way, Ocean Breeze Soap will get you clean.) I took my seat silently and listened while all around me tiny girls and boys brightened and squealed as they reconnected with their pre-school compatriots, while I discovered for the first time that one need not be alone to feel alone.

AND THEN.

David Abate smiled my way and said he knew me from Miss So-and-So's, and though he mistook me for someone else I smiled back and was alone no longer. But David Abate was not my first crush, oh no he wasn't. My first crush was in Mrs. Boatwright's kindergarten class next door, and the first time the wall between our rooms was accordioned back for group storytime I saw him, fair-skinned and blue-eyed, little more than moptopped blonde curls everywhere. And every week when the wall between us vanished, I pined. Boy, did I ever pine.

And though as a general rule I do not like to tip my hat about things IN REAL LIFE, I'll make an exception and out myself to anyone who may be looking. Here he is, my first crush, all growns up:

My first memory of "liking" a boy was the third grade (or maybe sooner). Alistar was my mom's best friend's son and was the in the same year as me. We were totally BFF, but I don't think it veered into crush territory until Family Camp when adults started meddling. One of my clearest memories of this phase of my life was sitting on the toilet in our cabin at camp, going twosies, and my dad coming to the door to tell me that Alistar was here to get me. His voice was suggestive, I told him to tell Alistar that I would just meet him at the lake, and then he jokingly asked if maybe he should tell Alistar what I was doing. I was so embarrassed and worried that he might actually do it. I think that's when it becomes a crush. Later that week there was a square dance. Alistar and I danced and our photos were taken. People tittered about how cute we were.

Our moms didn't stay friends for long (turns out his mom was kind of an asshole), and we moved to a different city. I faced the pressure of finding a new boy to like at my new school and totally forgot about Alistar. I'm hardly ever jealous of children, but I'm jealous about that part: they can forget crushes instantly. They don't have to whimper about it, they don't have to watch him flirt with another girl and feel like dying, they don't have to obsessively wonder. They just get to forget.

Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I can intimately connected with many of my former crushes via a little social networking site called Facebook. I have several rules about who I will and won't be Facebook friends with, but I tend to only apply those restrictions to people in my "current life." This means that I won't accept your friend request if we met once while I was working, but if I ever knew you pre-2002, I will totally accept. I want to know what you're doing now! I'm so curious.

I also like to play a little game called, "Could We Ever Date Now??" Don't tell me you don't do that. Let's journey into Alistar's Facebook and see if we can answer that question.

Interests include: cubs baseball, the train, banana bread, the lake, and garlic

HOT.

Favorite music includes: The Decemberists, Bon Iver, Spoon, The National, Frightened Rabbit, etc., etc.

HOT.

Favorite movies include: Annie Hall, Crimes and Misdemeanors, Rushmore, Y Tu Mamá También, The Big Lebowski, Trainspotting, Swingers, The Blues Brothers, Lost in Translation, Little Children, There Will Be Blood

Okay, so i haven't actually seen any of those movies, but I can appreciate an appreciator of them.

Favorite books include: Collected Flannery O'Connor, The Coast of Chicago, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, EB White's essays, Amy Hempel's stories

HOT. Plus, I've even written about Hempel on this blog!

Could we ever date now?? I'm going to go ahead and say that yes we could. Unfortunately, he's not single at the moment: he's been dating the same girl since college. However, her name is Abigail. I'd say things bode well.

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Roumania.

Filling in for Heather! Anne! today is her dad, Greg! Hogan! This week's topic is first crushes.

---

While Heather Anne was growing up, more than once one of her classmates’ parents inquired, “You’re Heather’s natural father and your name is Greg, so why does Heather call you ‘Chuck’?” The answer to that question is the same as the reason I’m writing this: I have no idea.

Shortly after Heather was born, I moseyed (technical term) down to the local hunting and fishing emporium and inquired of the proprietor as to the most intimidating firearm that might be used to ward off pimply faced, squeaky voiced, young men with immodest intentions toward one’s first female offspring. Given the beauty of this little baby, I knew that it wouldn’t be long before the wolves were at the door. (Spoken figuratively of course. I mean I knew she wasn’t Romulus, and we lived in the thriving metropolis of Flowery Branch Georgia not ancient Rome, but who wants to take chances with wolves at the door whatever stripe of metaphor they happen to be). But I digress -- while spitting nasty streams of foul smelling brackish colored snuff juice into a Waffle House coffee cup, carefully lined with a folded paper towel, he winked with a disturbing twinkle in his eye, smiled where I could see all nine of his teeth and offered this pearl of wisdom, “ You gonna need sumptin with a big ol’ barrel dat’ll be entimedaten ta dem little sons o’ bitches. You ain’t afraid of blastin em in the ass er ya?”

I thanked him for his progressive and most illuminating perspective and decided to go a different direction. I would be the friendly, cool dad who befriended Heather’s young suitors, and while they were confused by the welcoming reception I would use psychology to twist their pliable minds. It wasn’t that I had the desire to permanently damage their young psyches. I just wanted to temporarily maim to the point where they could not function. But only to the point that they would require moderate amounts of psychological assistance in the future in order to have satisfying sexual relationships. (All father’s should have thanked me.)

Honestly, I don’t remember Heather’s first crush. She was all over the place. I’m sure it was someone in a boy band: BozIIMen, or NSYNC, or Hanson or New Kids on the Block. It could have been Zack, Slater or, heaven forbid, Screech. Or it might have been a girl – i.e. Michael Jackson or Sheryl Swoopes. Or maybe it was Mr. Rogers. Hell, who knows. It could have been Mr. Green in the library with a candlestick.

Or maybe it was Craig who lived down the street and played basketball with her all the time. I think she liked to shoot hoops with Craig because she could beat the pants off him, and he’d go into the woods with the snakes and get the ball when it rebounded down the hill. And Craig didn’t mind getting beaten by Heather because he did have a huge crush on her. I think she may have been oblivious to it. Some things don’t change. And it was Craig who helped Heather understand that, like Bill Clinton, she is black.

I knew Heather was susceptible to a crush when she indicated that she had discovered that there was a significant difference in the sexes when at the dinner table one evening she declared, “I’m not afraid to say penis.” And with great delight she proved that she was not afraid by repeating, “penis, penis, penis, penis, penis.” “That’s great. I’m happy for you,” I said, “Could I get another pork chop?” Her mother just groaned from the floor where she had struck her head against the potato box when she fell from the table.

The better story is the long list of young men who had crushes on Heather. She was like Tristan Ludlow in Legends of the Fall. “As much as he (she) tried to protect them he (she) was the rock they broke themselves against.” (Rent it if you haven’t seen it). Another great quote from the movie that applies to our Heather Anne, “Some people hear their own inner voice with great clearness and they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy, or they become legends.” (No charge for that one). I’ll leave it to your judgment as to which act of the play we’re witnessing today.

The list of would be suitors is long, distinguished and disparate. There were the jocks, the nerds, the “I’m with the band” guys, did I mention the jocks and the wannabe jocks. It wasn’t that she wasn’t interested; it’s just that they were so inept in their displays of affection. They rolled our yard, destroyed our mailbox, and of course nothing says I love you like writing on the hood of your mother’s car with lighter fluid.

But the story of a journey isn’t about where we start but about where we are in this moment, and where we plan to travel from here. So here’s how I end this story of Heather Anne’s first crush. (Both my kids hate my stories.) Crushes and loves are an important part of the journey to where our life ultimately leads. We have crushes and loves because we dare to dream. We dare to dream of what might be. While we are strong and independent we also want to belong. There is an old cliché that people come into our lives for a reason or a season or a lifetime. A cliché becomes a cliché because it has proven itself true over time.

So my precious Heather Anne, celebrate your crushes and your loves. Whether they have been your crush or your love for a season or a reason. Celebrate the one that is yet to be found for your lifetime. Celebrate the one’s you’ve had. The one’s you lost. The one’s you’ve wished for and missed. The one’s you’ve been too busy to see. Embrace and celebrate them all. Every love teaches us more about ourselves and who we are. Each love takes us one step further down the path along our journey to our dream. Don’t stop dreaming. Love is worth it.

I love you,
Chuck

my other hobby is phoning it in

Here's my problem when it comes to hobbies -- I love to start them but I never stick with them very long. I decided to learn how to knit about four years ago and have yet to finish the scarf I started at the time. And I only used one kind of stitch because I wanted to keep it simple and finish it as quickly as possible. I figured eventually I'd be spitting out full sweaters in no time, and sooner or later some hotshot designer would see them, call me a genius, and I'd be rich and/or famous.

Another time, I tried to teach myself sign language. I even signed up for a class at the community college FOR NO RAISIN, other than I really wanted to learn sign language. I saw myself working in a school and becoming a translator. Well, I remember how to say "my name is Jennie," but that's about it. I don't foresee any schools needing my translating skills in the near future.

I bought a guitar in high school, thinking I'd automatically be really gifted and I'd write songs for famous people. I didn't want to sing the songs myself because A) I can't sing very well and B) I have horrible stage fright. Not a good combination. Just ask Ashlee Simpson. Zing!

Anyway. I also used to draw in high school. I found my old sketchbook the other day. It's not bad, but it's not great, which probably explains why I quit. If I'm not good at something, I quit immediately. That's the responsible thing to do, so you don't waste resources. Yep.

I wouldn't consider running a hobby because I don't like it all that much, plus I quit running like every other week. I'm still doing the Couch to 5K program, and I'm on Week 5, AND that's probably the longest I've ever stuck with any running program. True story.

The only hobby I've ever had, that I will never, ever give up, is reading. I don't really consider it a hobby, though, because it's a necessity. When I think of a hobby, I think of something that would fall by the wayside should other priorities and responsibilities creep up, as they are wont to do. But reading? That is a priority. Most of the time, I prioritize it over things like cleaning and cooking and writing and um, going to work. I would read ALL THE TIME if I didn't have to go to work or, you know, sleep. I tried to figure out a way to read while driving when one of the Harry Potter books came out. I sometimes read while I'm brushing my teeth or vacuuming or waiting for files to download on my computer or during commercials. I carry a book with me AT ALL TIMES just in case(s) I have five minutes to kill.

So, there. My favorite hobby is reading. Even though it's not really a hobby, but something that is TOTALLY NECESSARY FOR ME TO LIVE.

All work and no play makes Homer something something something.

Have you heard? I do stuff. I read and write and 'rithmetic. I make balloon animals and origami Star Wars characters and baby booties and pirate ships and tank tops. But no matter how much stuff I try and make, more often then not I fuck 'em up. I pop balloons and tear paper and drop stitches and pour glue all over the place and knot up embroidery floss like you wouldn't believe. So yeah, I do stuff--a lot of stuff even--poorly.

EXCEPT.

If I had to pick the one of the stuff I do most competently, and I have to because Jennifer in our Facebook group asked, I'd say the one hobby I would ever even attempt to yell LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! about would be the hobby I have that is called cooking.

I can cook alright.

And so, since Schilbo put herself on the line yesterday, so I will put myself on the line tonight, and attempt to walk you through a typical Monday night dinner in our home, typical if for no other reason than it was just this past Monday. Ladies and germs (wait, is that how that joke goes?), I'd like to present my Chicken with White Wine and Mushrooms. It ain't no SpaPeggy and Meatballs, but we'll make do.

Lets start with the shopping list, hmm? To serve two, because Winston doesn't eat people food, you'll need:

* 2 chicken breasts or thighs, skin preferably on. (I generally use thighs, because hubba hubba.)
* A package or so of mushrooms, cleaned and sliced. (Monday I used creminis, but man oh man, if I had access to San Francisco's Ferry Market on a regular basis you'd better believe I'd be using handful of about a billion different wild mushrooms.)
* 2 large shallots, minced. (For the record, I use shallots in just about everything. They're so boss.)
* About a tablespoon each of chopped fresh tarragon and thyme, preferably from your garden. (Or AeroGarden, if you're an 8th-floor apartment dweller like me.)
* 3/4 cup of low-sodium chicken broth. (I made mine from scratch the night before. I'm just sayin'.)
* 1/2 cup of dry white wine.
* Salt and pepper for seasoning, and flour for dredging.

To start, gather your mis en place. (Which is fancy French for "get your shit together.") Also, preheat your oven to 400 F degrees.



You'll see I rather heavily salted and peppered both sides of the chicken thighs for FLAVA. Heat up a tablespoon or so of olive oil in a pan over medium-high heat (every stove is different, and since mine is super hot I use a 6 out of 10), and while that's heating up, dredge your thighs in flour to coat and shake off all the excess. (You want a very thin dusting, sort of like a freshly diapered baby's bottom. This is not only important to build the fond, but also too much will burn and give your sauce a scorched taste.)

Once the oil looks all shimmerey like a wishing well and is starting to smoke like a really pissed off genie in a bottle, add the chicken to the pan. Let it sear on that side for about 6 minutes. It's important that you DON'T TOUCH IT during that time, because once you start fiddling with it before it's ready it starts sticking all over the place. Kinda like... never mind. ANYWHO, once you're all brown and crispy flip your bird pieces over and sear off the other side, another 5-6 minutes. Then remove to a plate.



This is important: your chicken isn't actually cooked through yet. AND THAT'S OKAY. You'll get there soon enough, and no, you won't get food poisoning letting your chicken sit there for a few minutes. And if you don't believe me, I suggest you never ever eat at another restaurant ever again. Also, I feel bad for you for missing out on all of the awesomeness this awesome world has to offer. ANYWHO, there may be some excess oil accumulated in your pan; carefully spoon out all but about a tablespoon of this, and then add your sliced mushrooms, minced shallots, and chopped herbs.



Saute that all up for about 10 or 12 minutes or so, until your mushrooms release all their liquid and brown up, and the shallots get all caramelized and gooey, and the herbs smell SO GOOD.



And now, we deglaze the pan! (This is my favorite part.) First add the wine and scrape the bottom and sides of the pan real good so you get up all those lovely brown bits. (Brown bits = flavor.) Then add the chicken broth. Stir it all up and let it come to a boil.



Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, This? Is supposed to be a rich, velvety sauce? This is nothing but mushroom water! But like all good things, you, uh, gotta wait. Or whatever. ANYWHO, just let that keep boiling down for a while until about half the water in there has done the thing it does over heat, namely, vaporize. You should notice that it's thickened up considerably, but that it's also still a bit runny. Kinda like this:



Well this is the perfect stage to nestle your chicken back in to all that mushroomy goodness. So do that, skin side up. (I assume you want your skin to stay all crunchy and delicious.)



Then stick it in the preheated oven for as long as it takes for your thighs to reach 163F and your breasts 158F. (I use a probe thermometer to keep track of the internal temperature of my meats while they are in the oven, but an instant-read will work as well. Just start checking after about 8 minutes.)

MEANWHILE, get some salted water a-boiling, and throw a couple handfuls of egg noodles in there, and boil them so long as the package says to boil them for.

MEANWHILE, chop up some more fresh herbs (this time I used tarragon and parsley) and throw them in a bowl with a blob of melted butter.



STAY WITH ME HERE, because this might get busy. When your meat has hit temperature, pull the whole pan out of the oven and remove the chicken to a separate plate. Loosely tent it with a piece of foil. This accomplishes two things: (1) The carryover heat allows the internal temperature of the chicken to rise a bunch of degrees and fully cook without drying out, and (2) the loose juices redistribute themselves about so they don't go running out all over the place as soon as you cut into your piece of chicken, thereby drying it out. In case you couldn't follow along with me, DRY CHICKEN SUCKS.

ANYWHO, take a look at the remaining sauce. Is it thick enough? If yes, let it be. If not, pop it back on a burner over medium heat and reduce the liquid until you get not-nearly-the-consistency of jarred Thanksgiving gravy.

POSSIBLY AT THE SAME TIME, your egg noodles will be just about done, so drain those in a colander and then toss them about in your bowl with the melted butter and chopped fresh herbs.

Now it's time to plate, and if you're anything like Jennie this is where I kill you a little. Basically it goes like this: buttered herb egg noodles, topped with a piece of chicken, and doused with the mushroom and wine sauce. OH MY GOD YOUR FOOD IS TOUCHING EACH OTHER.



Man, that is so brown. But remember, brown is good. But so is green, so here, have a salad:



(Baby greens and cherry tomatoes dressed in freshly squeezed lemon juice and Spanish olive oil, and garnished with shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano.)

Bon appétit!