Barbara Chepaitis's Blog: http://aliterarylunch.blogspot.com/2015/07/frying-mad.html, page 8

THE FLAVOR OF TIME

Cats Savor Slowness
     This week is the last long intake of breath before the holidays begin in earnest, and I’ve been thinking about the nature of time, and slowness.      Time is something writers play with, godlike, regularly.   I’ve summed up months in a few sentences, and stretched a few moments out for pages and pages. In The Green Memory of Fear , the few minutes it takes for Jaguar to try and save a little boy lasts for 5 pages. But in Learning Fear , a month of time is consolidated into three sentences.   Though my characters often have their own ideas about events and personal choices, when I write I’m the Master of Timing, in matters both large and small.        The cadence of dialogue and the rhythm of narrative are the small.  The pacing of action, the placement of events here or there are the large.  They’re are all something I have to consider as I walk my way through a novel.   And I get to choose whether it’s a restful interlude for the reader, or a chase scene on dangerous streets, emotionally and/or physically.   I know that readers need both.       They need the thoughtful moments, the slow and quiet times of reflection, because the novel is one of the few forms of media where we still get the opportunity to indulge in quiet internal monologue, meditative narrative on person, place and thing. Within this art, we can create perceptions of time according to our whimsy, or the needs of the story if you want to be nice about it.          And in the world?   Of course, events race by like mad and we’re thrown into daily busyness that can leave us breathless, especially as the holidays approach.   But you know, we can also slow it down.   Even if we can’t stop our biological clocks from ticking ticking ticking, even if we can’t make our schedule go away, we can steal moments and stretch them perceptually into centuries.          We can do this by reading.  Or by cooking something that needs time to mature.  Bread.  Sauce.  Ribs.   A turkey.     And we can do it by taking my primary observation and reflection exercise and practicing it now and then.   Just 5 minutes where you do nothing but observe your environment in all its fullness, and then 5 minutes where you do the same for your internal state.   No judgements are necessary.  Just observation, and then a reflection on what it felt like.         Trust me, it will change the clock for you.        Ilan Ramon, an astronaut on the ill-fated Columbia Space shuttle, spoke about microgravity on his last flight.   He said the slowness it imposed on his motion connected him to the motion of the universe.  As they sped along in their shuttle, he was going slow, and that reminded him of how very odd our relationship is to the pace of things.  “We go very fast,” he said, “But the universe, it rolls slowly.”      Take a moment today to think like a writer, watching how time expands and contracts around you. I’ve spent an hour on a paragraph, and written a chapter in half an hour, depending.  Spend an hour considering one sentence, or one leaf.  Spend five minutes considering the whole of the universe.  Before the great kefuffle begins, play with time, and slowness, and see what beauty you find.   


      You can get a sense of time in the Jaguar Addams novels in ebook or paperback form through Wildside Books.   You’ll see what I mean.   

GO SLOW BABY BACK RIBS
This recipe doesn’t need you to stand over it and fuss the way risotto or polenta does.  Your actual part is quick, but the ribs have to sit in their rub and cook slooooooow.   That’s what makes them tender and most delectable.  Time.   So you’ll actually start this the night before you cook them, though most of your work will be dreaming.   

RIB RUB
This is my version.  You can change up spices and herbs or play with quantities because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!   The Flavor of Slow.  Yum.
2 slabs of pork baby back ribs
About a cup of brown sugar2 1/2 tablespoons kosher salt1/2 tablespoon smoked sea salt1 tablespoon ancho chili powder1/2 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning1/2 teaspoon garlic powder1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika1/2 teaspoon sweet paprika1/2 teaspoon black pepper

SAUCE FOR BRAISING
drippings from ribsabout 2 tablespoons worcestershire sauce1 tablespoon maple syrup or honey2 tablespoons cider vinegar
(If you prefer,you can use your favorite brand of barbecue sauce, and mix about a quarter cup of it in with about half a cup of rib drippings)
NOTE:  Do this first bit at night, before you go to sleep. 
Mix your dry ingredients all together.   
Put the ribs on a baking tray (one with sides) and  rub your dry ingredients on them.  Coat them thoroughly, really patting and rubbing until the ribs go ‘aaaah.  that’s nice.” You might have some rub left over, and you can store that in the fridge for the next time you crave ribs.  
Cover the tray with aluminum foil and put it in the fridge.  The ribs will settle down to sleep right away, and so should you.  Dream about the most favorite five minutes of your life, all night long.   
The next day, take the ribs out of the fridge and let them wake up slowly, coming up to temperature.  Go about your business.  They don’t need you for this.   
In about an hour you can set your oven on very low heat - about 250 degrees - and put the ribs in.  They’ll stay in for about 2  1/2 hours.  Continue going about your day.  Use at least five minutes to stand still and enjoy the slowness of the universe.   
When you take them out, pour about a half a cup of rib drippings through a strainer into a small pot.  Add your other wet ingredients or your bottled barbecue sauce and simmer until it’s a thick syrup consistency.    
Brush this glaze onto the ribs and then you can either grill them until the glaze caramelizes to your liking (or licking), or broil them for a few minutes on each side until you’ve got just the right balance between brown and crunchy and soft and smooth.    
Eat them slowly, savoring all the flavor of time.   

HONEY FROM THE BONES

Ziggy Also Loves Bones  This week is the halfway point betweeen equinox and solstice, traditionally a time of cross-currents, a time when the veil between this and other worlds is taken down and shaken out. We call it Halloween and we dress up as those characters who live inside us and give and receive candy and have parties.  Others call it Day of the Dead or Samhain.  My Lithuanian ancestors, who use this time to speak with their ghosts, call it Ilges, which means pangs of longing, or Velines, which refers to the souls of the visiting dead.      Today, as I wait for Frankenstorm to make landfall in our area, creating its own crosscurrents, I’m thinking of bones.    That’s right.  Bones.      Skeletons and Halloween go together, right?  And on the Day of the Dead, you make sugar skulls as candy. Other cultures think of bones this time of year as well.  If I was in Naples, I might go to the churches and rub the bones of the nameless dead, praying their souls out of purgatory, so that when they got to heaven, they’d pray for me.  My Italian ancestors are practical as well as mystical.   Personally, I’ve always loved bones. There’s plenty of them around my house - skulls, animal paws and claws, and so on.  One year at Christmas, the year my mother-in-law happened to be visiting, my son and my husband and I all gave each other bones.  A petrified bear claw, a buffalo skull, a beaver skull.  Mom-in-law was a bit taken aback, but we were all pretty happy with our gifts.       Here’s what I love about bones.  They have beautiful lines, and give the impression of revealing the truth beneath the skin, of uncovering the hidden, straightforward frame that holds the complexities together.        I want to write just like that, peeling away the skin of characters and events to show what lays beneath them.  I also want a good, strong skeleton to hang the flesh of my story on, a narrative structure that can jump up and dance, with or without skin.  Often, when I’m working on a book, I’ll step aside from details of dialogue and narrative poetics for a kind of mental x-ray to view the spine, making sure it’s solid and true.  I’ll run my hand over it, feel the interconnections, the smoothness of it all.      When you write, you want to feel the bones beneath your hand.        I think that applies to our lives as well as our writing.  It’s a good thing to occasionally step back and ask yourself what frames you, what holds you up beyond the surface of your life. The people in Naples who rub the bones understand that.  So do the people In Madagascar, who have a ritual where they periodically disinter the bones of their ancient kings, cover them in honey, and lick them clean.       A wonderful shivery kind of image, isn’t it?  And it’s also useful in everyday life. If we want to know our own bones, the frame of our lives, we must periodically disinter our dead, take our ghosts out for viewing.  If we’re both wise and courageous, we’ll honor them with honey and lick them clean, our mouths taking in both the sweet and the strange they’ve bequeathed to us. Only in that way can we become the next chapter in the long story our ancestors want us to tell.      This Halloween, consider your bones.  What’s your spine made of?  What central beliefs, ethics, and core values hold you up, provide a framework for the surface you show to the world?  If you can, dance in your skeleton alone, unafraid to show that to the world.   If you can, choose your costume, your mask, accordingly.  Or, as Jaguar Addams would say, see who you are.  Be what you see.   Down to the bone.    And if you want something to do with bones in your kitchen, below is a recipe for Roma Broda, a broth that needs bones more than anything.  


      If you’d like to know how Jaguar and Alex honor this holiday, you can check out Learning Fear, either as an ebook , or as hard copy .  

BONE SOUP (AKA ROMA BRODA)You’ll need two days to make this.  Not that you’ll be standing at the stove all that time, but it has to sit overnight, so you can skim the fat away.   
FOR THE BROTH:
About 1 pound lamb bones (I use stew bones, or ones I get from my butcher)About 2 pounds chicken pieces (wings or necks and backs will do just fine.)! marrow bone1 or 2 veal bones Simple Soup.  Embellish At Will2 medium tomatoes2 bay leaves2 carrots, scraped1/2 onion, peeled2-3 cloves garlic, smashefA bunch of thyme sprigs, parsley stems, and 1 rosemary spring, all tied togethersalt and pepperFOR THE BIG FINISH
6 egg yolksjuice of 1 lemonCroutons (You can make your own, or buy.  Of course, home made is more fun because you can DO things to them and you know the rule  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!)About a quarter cup of chopped fresh parsleyAbout a quarter cup of fresh grated parmesan (get the good stuff and grate it yourself!) or fresh grated locatelli romano, depending on your preference.
OPTIONAL:  You can cook up some jumbo shrimp and add one to each cup, or add spinach or chicken as well.  I’ve tried each, and like them all.  
Put all the broth ingredients in a BIG stockpot with water to cover.  Bring to a boil, reduce heat and allow to simmer for about 3 hours, occasionally skimming the surface.  Admire the bones as you do so.   Say ‘Ahh, what a marvelous thing life is.‘   
Remove the stock pot from the heat and let it cool.   Then take the bones out and put them in a separate bowl, because you’ll want to pick the meat off to give treats to your dogs and cats.  
Strain the stock, and refrigerate overnight.  Go to sleep and dream of dancing bones.
The next day, remove the surface layer of fat.  Strain the broth again and measure out about 6 cups to serve 6 people.  Put that in a pot, put the pot on the stove and bring to a boil, then take it off the heat.  (If you’re adding spinach do so now and let it cook a bit.  If you want to use chicken, what I do is cut some thin slices off of one skinless, boneless chicken breast and cook it at this time as well)
Beat the egg yolks thoroughly in a bowl with the lemon juice.  Gradually whisk in some of the broth, a little at a time, continuing to whisk as you pour.  This is called tempering - meaning if you let the eggs cook you’ll be in a bad temper and so will they.  You want the mixture to remain smooth and even tempered.  You see?       Pour this mixture back into the pot, again working slowly and whisking as you go.     Add the parsley at this point.     Get your bowls ready and put cheese and croutons in the bottom of each.  Pour the hot soup over the top, and taste the honey in the bones.  
He Followed Us Home.  We Call Him Didier

WRITING WOMEN

Luna Walks the Talk
     As October winds to a close, today is the last installment of Blogging for Breasts, and right here and now I’ll come out as someone who writes the stories of women. And I do it for a reason.     You may gasp now, if you feel it’s necessary.        My biographers might trace such intransigent proclivities back to my storytelling trio, The Snickering Witches , which started when I was at a performance of the all-male Adirondack’s Liar’s club, and a woman in the audience said to me that women just can’t tell stories as good as men.       She actually said that, out loud, and I said to myself,  “Oh yeah?  Watch me. I fight like a girl.”     I immediately started my trio, with writers and performers Cindy Parrish and Lale Davidson.  Like, the next day.  We gleaned the untold folktales and mythologies of women through the ages, and for ten years we presented them to our audiences with lots of attitude, and lots of fun. Shifts in geography and work ended that particular collaboration, but we still work together in other ways.  In fact, Cindy’s the editor for the upcoming short film about Berkshire Bird Paradise , which I wrote.       After I started the Witches, I went on to write Jaguar Addams, my protagonist in the ‘Fear’ series. And let me just say that one of the greatest complements I ever got about her was from a reader who said  “What I love about Jaguar is that she’s not just a man with breasts, or a sex toy.  She loves her work, and her friendships with other women are deep and complex.  She’s a real woman.”      I mean, what else can a writer ask for?  I was doing what I set out to do.  Then, of course, the question is, why would I do that?  Why does it still seem important to me here and now, in the 21st century, when surely we’re beyond all this gender stuff.
     Let me tell you a little secret.  We’re not.       You may have sussed that truth out from recent news stories, but if you haven’t, you should know it’s still too easy to make women’s stories less plausible, less important, more invisible, in many ways. Now we do it with more subtlety, perhaps.  I mean, nobody says women can’t write.  They just say women’s stories deal with imaginary or unimportant things like love and peace, instead of concentrating on the really important matters of war and violence and money, and the ultimate reality of pain, which we all know is so much more real than love.  Right?  Right?        And since our stories are less real, that must mean we’re less real, too, an attitude which shows up in some interesting ways. I’ll give you some examples.     For instance, while pharmaceutical companies were developing Viagra and Rogaine and simple blood tests for prostate cancer for men, nobody was paying much attention to breast cancer.  It took female scientists to begin making that story heard.  And for instance, women writers are told if they write male protagonists, then men as well as women will buy their books, because men don’t buy books with female protagonists, while women will buy books with male protagonists.      Is that true?  I don’t know, but publishers seem to still believe it, and that certainly makes a difference in lots of ways.      And for instance, in 81 years, only 4 women have gotten Oscar nominations for Best Director.  And for instance, when I sought out the lists of the ‘best 100 books of forever,‘ the average count of female writers on all the lists combined was around 10.    That’s 4 women out of 81 years.  10 women writers out of 100, for all of time.  There you go.  We’re 51 percent of the population, and we’ve still got work to do, stories to tell, breasts to protect.        Last Sunday, I went for a walk in the park with my sister, my dog Luna, and about 13,000 other people to raise money for breast cancer research, treatment assistance, and more, through our local Making Strides organization.  In that sense, we were walking our talk, our texts contained within our flesh.  I’ll do that walk again, just as I do the annual Take Back the Night Walk, giving my body as well as my words to make sure our stories keep being told.      In the meantime, I’m still writing about women.  Women who carry knives, women who believe in peace and forgiveness and love.  Women who enjoy the full array of the human journey.   And I’m still cooking.     My recipe for this week’s Breast Blog is an ancient one, with a little twist here and there.  It’s Capezzoli di Venere.  The nipples of Venus.   A tasty reminder of the goddess in all women, well worth worshipping.          
      You can find out more about Jaguar Addams at Wildside Books.  You can see if you’re eligible to participate in a very big study about breast cancer at Making Strides.

CAPEZZOLI DI VENERE
This recipe makes about 30 servings, perfect for bringing to holiday buffets where people should talk about gender issues.   
6 oz. really good dark chocolate, chopped up1/2 lb. whole chestnuts - either ones you’ve cooked yourself or canned and drained.3 tblsps. butter, nice and soft1/4 cup white sugar2 tbsps. chambord, brandy, or Frangelico, depending on the flavor you want because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!Either some reserved chambord or red food coloring1/2 tsp. Vanilla6 oz. high quality white chocolate
What's Not to Enjoy Here?
DIRECTIONS
Melt your dark chocolate in a double boiler or a microwave, then let it cool.
Puree the chestnuts until they’re smooth and lovely as a heaving bosom
 Beat together butter and sugar with an electric mixer until it’s smooth and lovely as a heaving bosom, then stir in the bosomy chestnuts, your choice of alcoholic ingredient and vanilla until it’s all smooth and creamy as romance novel breasts.  Stir in the melted dark chocolate.
Pinch the material (It’s okay.  No harassment suits for this) into 1 inch balls.  If it’s too soft to handle (Ha!) chill it in the fridge for a bit.   
Melt your white chocolate in a double boiler.   Put about an ounce of it in a separate bowl, and add either red food coloring or some chambord to give it that special pizzaz.  
Take your balls (ahem) or rather breasticles of chestnut mix and dip them in the white chocolate.   Place each piece on parchment or waxed paper to cool, about 15 minutes.  
When they’re cool, rather than warm and heaving, dot each piece with a bit of the red colored white chocolate, and allow it to set.  
Serve them as you wish you be served, and enjoy. 

WORDS OF POWER

Luna, Powerful in Pink
    As a writer I’m probably more aware than others of the use of words, and their implications as well as their meanings.       For instance I’m always yelling at my students not to use Man or Mankind to mean anything other than the male of the species.  I know about general usage and all that, but really.  If you read the word Man or Mankind, the image that appears in your mind is not going to be female.  So if you want a word that includes both genders, use people, or humanity.  You have to consider the image you want to create, and write accordingly.        Then there’s all those terms that associate the female with weakness.  Sissy, for instance. Surely you’ve heard me say that being female isn’t easy, and it ain’t for sissies. We have what scientist and author Natalie Angier refers to as an expensive biology.  Meaning our reproductive system alone asks a lot of us.  So give it a break.  Find a different word for weak.  Like - weak.       Then, there’s the P word.  You know. The one that also mean cat.  Once, when I was at a sports bar watching a football game, one of the guys shouted out that word at a player who fell down.       “Hey,”  I barked at him.  “Think about what that word means to you, and then tell me it’s something weak.”     He couldn’t answer. Of course he couldn’t.  Either he was too drunk, or he realized the truth.  That P thing was a driving force in his life, full of another P word - Power.  Might as well admit it.   Ziggy Recognizing Power      In order to balance out the deficit of female terms denoting power, the surfeit of those denoting weakness, I think we need some new terms, and I’ve got at least one, which happens to relate to the theme of the month - breasts if you remember.  It is October, after all.      I have a friend, Sue Derda, who’s an amazingly strong woman in her profession and her personal life.  Once, when she’d accomplished a particularly difficult power move at work, a co-worker sought the right word to express what she’d done, “Wow.  That took balls.  No.  Not that.  What you have is  - it’s - Breasticles!”    Yeah.  Breasticles.  Among our cauldron of women it’s become the word to describe women who don’t back down, women who know how to get the job done, women of power.   And just so know, women who had to have their breasts removed because of cancer have them even more, because Breasticles are a frame of mind rather than a physical state.  They're about endurance and strength beyond brute force.  About the personal power of emotion and the spirit as well as power in the world.  About speaking your truth, regardless.         Certainly Jaguar Addams has them, as she works her way through a still male dominated system, doing what she sees as right beyond politics, beyond expedience.  Certainly many women I know have them, as they do their jobs, raise their children, fight for what they believe is humanly right beyond the agendas of politics or economy.     So Not a Sissy    So in the month of October, honor the women you know who have Breasticles by supporting their continued health and well being.  Men as well as women should do this, and there’s lots of opportunities out there.  Go on a walk to raise money for breast cancer research.  Go to a hair place and have a pink extension put in your hair, with the money donated to breast cancer research. I see lots of women with them, and I have one.  I’d love to see a slew of men doing the same.      However you do it, make a visible gesture, let your doing create new words to support what you love.  That’s how we get it done.   
      For more on Jaguar Addams and her world in ebook version, you can visit  Wildside Books To find out more about supporting the fight against breast cancer, visit the site for National Breast Cancer Awareness Month   


CHICKEN BREAST - ICLES    This rather persian dish reminds me of some of my favorite women because it has strong, complex flavors - savory, a little tangy, with some heat.   How much heat you want to put in, of course, is personal preference because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!    Though the marinating time is long, the cooking is fast, and you can use a grill or your stove to get that job done.  
1 pound of boneless chicken breast or thigh tenders.  (If you’re cutting your own, make them about 2-3 inches long, about an inch wide)
1 cup plain yogurt
Juice of 1 lime
Salt and pepper
2 cloves garlic, crushed or fine diced
salt to taste
1 good teaspoon black pepper
pinch of cayenne pepper or to taste  (or you can substitute hot sauce, to taste)
1 teaspoon hyssop or thyme
a pinch of fennel pollen (if you have it. If not, ground fennel works)
1 teaspoon ground sumac

Put the chicken in a big bowl.  Mix all your other ingredients and pour it in the bowl over the chicken.  Mix it all together with a big spoon or your two clean hands. Cover the bowl and refrigerate for at least 6 hours, or overnight.   
When ready to cook, get your grill or your stovetop griddle hot.  Put each piece of chicken on a skewer and them onto the griddle/grill, turning as needed so they don’t burn and so they color evenly. This will take around 15 minutes to cook through.  

If you like, season some small tomatoes and put them on separate skewers, griddling or grilling them at the same time.   
When it’s all done, you can serve them on their sticks, or take them off and pile them onto a place with a lovely saffron rice.   Yum.    

THINKING PINK

Norma and Max, Still Leaping!
   Yes, this month is all about breasts.  Jaguar has them, I have them, our mothers, sisters, daughters and many friends have them. We love them, hate them, want them to be bigger or smaller.  We dress them up, show them off, hide them, flash them, feed babies with them, snarl at men who make rude comments about them, examine them monthly with trepidation, get them squished between mammogram plates, fret about them.  Every breast has quite a few stories, and today I’ll tell you one from my sister, Norma, the Girl with the Golden Breast.      Four years ago Norma’s annual mammogram came back ‘suspicious’, and she needed a biopsy.  As I’m guessing is true for most women, those words are a cold plunge into nightmare you want to utterly refute.  No.  Just no.  It can't happen, because Norma and I have a deal.  I’ve got her back, and she’s got mine.  Always, unconditionally, regardless of faults and foibles.  That’s a rare and precious thing in this wicked world.  Bad cells will not be allowed to interfere.  Just no.       But my feelings didn’t matter.  What mattered was supporting Norma.  Our friend Debbie and I took her to the biopsy, and when it was done we went to a bar that will ever after be known as The Biopsy Bar.  We drank fuzzy nipples and told breast jokes.  We got Norma good and drunk.  Then we waited for the results.     Norma said she already knew it was cancer because she’d spent hours researching, seeking the best information available.  She didn’t want sappy reassurance.  She wanted medical detail.  She got 8 years of her mammogram films and laid them out in her home, inspecting each one with a magnifying glass like an episode of CSI.  She saw all the proof she needed. The doctors concurred.    The biopsy showed something called DCIS, stage 0.      She said the afternoon she got the news she walked in the woods with her Sheltie, Max, a wild doggie spirit, full of tricks.  She cried and cried, expecting Max to be like TV dogs, cuddling and consoling.  But no.  He pulled on his harness, as if to say, “What’s the problem?  There’s squirrels to chase, coyote poop to sniff, meadows to leap!”   But that was its own lesson, she said.  A lesson in living the leaping rather than the fear.  She did what she could to follow his example.    In the world of breast cancer, DCIS is the best you can get, if there is such a thing.  The treatment was to remove it, do local radiation, and put her on tamoxifen. She amused the hell out of the cute technicians who had to draw on her breast with fragrant magic markers - something she now recommends for more, um, recreational purposes.  The tamoxifen made her sleepless, so she’d get up in the night and buy shoes on the internet.  She has lots of them, which we call her Tamoxifen shoes.  When she found out that they marked the spot where the cancer had been with flakes of gold, we dubbed her The Girl with the Golden Breast.      Throughout, Norma remained honest in her fear, her hope, and her sense of humor, and very practical in her attitude.  Like the more than 200,000 other women newly diagnosed last year, she didn’t care to be seen as brave or special. She just wanted to stay well, to move on through the storm.  And I'm thrilled to tell you that four years later, she's been without recurrence.  I like that story best, and it happens to be true.    She still worries, of course, but she continues to leap.  And she still views the experience in very realistic terms.  “Was it a journey?” she says, “No.  A  journey is a trip with my best buddies to Jersey Shore.  Am I blessed?  Only when I go to Mass.  What I think I am is lucky.  Lucky to have good health insurance and fine health care. Early diagnosis and effective, affordable treatment is what women need most in this fight.”  That, I think, is the bottom line for all of us.   In red, but thinking pin

     October is a month to think pink.  For too long this disease that can rob us of our health, our peace of mind, our lives, was ignored by the medical community, and most stories were tragedies.  Increased attention to it has changed the story for many women, including my sister.  So let’s keep that attention going. Let’s honor the power and allure of the breasts we all love by taking action on their behalf. Let’s rewrite some more stories.     This month, think pink, talk pink, support the effort for treatment and cure in any way you can.  Next month, whether you're blue or red, vote pink.  Because our lives depend on it.                      


      You can learn how to change more stories at  the National Breast Cancer Foundation, and Komen For the Cure , among other places.  If you want to see how I write breasts, and the women who have them, you can check out my novels at  Wildside Books or   wildreads.com

CHICKEN BREAST SALTIMBOCCA
  This month will feature breasts of all kinds, served up with hope and love.  If you can, buy organic because chicken with hormones aren’t necessarily good for our breasts.  Also, you can scan over past blogs (such as How to Write a Love Poem) for more breast focused recipes.  
Ingredients1-2 cups all purpose flourSalt and pepperAbout two teaspoons of crumbled dry sage   About a quarter cup of reggiano parmigiano cheese, grated (This is optional.  Or you   can use other good cheese - locatelli romano or asiago - because you know the   rule  - PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD.) These breasts are good
4 pieces boneless chicken breast or thighs8 thin slices prosciutto10 large sage leaves2 slices provolone cheese3 or 4 tablespoons really good extra virgin olive oilA bottle of good Marsala or Madiera1 clove garlic, crushed
DirectionsSeason the flour with salt and pepper.  Add the dried sage and grated cheese.Heat the oil in a pan and throw the sage leaves in when it’s good and hot.  Let it sizzle just a little under it wiggles with delight, then remove it and let it rest contentedly on a plate.  TURN THE STOVE OFF OR YOUR OIL WILL BURN!  With a meat mallet, pound the chicken thin - about 1/4 inch, so it’s like a stained glass window you can see some light through. (This might remind you of what it feels like to get a mammogram, so keep a glass of wine handy to sustain you.) Season each chicken piece with salt and pepper and put 1 or 2 sage leaves on each (depending on size, which we might as well admit does matter).  Add 1 slice prosciutto, and 1/2 slice provolone on each piece. Fold it in half like a book and press it down. (If you’re still thinking about that mammogram thing, have some more wine) Secure the two sides with a toothpick and dredge each piece in the seasoned flour.Now go back to your heated oil, and get it hot again.  Add the chicken and saute until golden brown on both sides - about 3 minutes per side.  Remove it and let it rest on a plate, but this time KEEP THE OIL HOT!  Add the extra leaves and let them fry a bit, then remove them.  Quickly chop some of the proscuitto and toss that in, letting it sizzle just enough to tease it, (less than a minute) then throw in about a cup of the Madiera or Marsala.  Scrape up all the good brown bits from the bottom of the pan, and toss in the garlic.  Let it all simmer for a bit while the various flavors get acquainted  (How do you do, garlic?  I’m sage, and so on)Then put the chicken back in and let it simmer along with the others until it’s cooked through - about ten minutes.  Serve it up, with the juices poured over the top, and decorated with the proscuitto and sage leaves, because we do like to decorate our breasts, don’t we?  

FUSION FICTION

Fusion Felines
     I decided I’m going to rename the genre of fiction Jaguar Addams belongs to, because I tried to make meringues today, and ended up with wafer cookies.      Let me explain.  First the wafer cookies.  They’re very tasty because I added chambord and chocolate to the recipe, but the tastiness is also why they’re wafers and not meringues.  Changing ingredients also changed the structure.       That’s true in writing, too.  Add a demon, and you’ve got paranormal.  Add some love, and you’ve got paranormal romance.  Substitute a robot form the demon and you’ve got Science Fiction.  If you’ve got both a demon and a robot, you’re cross genre.      Now, let’s look at the Jaguar Addams novels.  They were actually written as a series of mystery novels, where the ‘detectives’ happen to be empaths and telepaths, seeking the fear that leads to crime.  It also happens to be set in the future, in a mildly SF setting.  At one point it was called ‘cyperpunk suspense, and I wondered if that meant I had to something interesting with my hair.  But then A Lunatic Fear made finalist in a romance fiction contest, so now what?  Bouffant hair painted blue? Cross cross genre?  Double Cross?        While writers continue to make trouble, publishers likes to make categories through which they can easily market a book.  As in, these puffy things are meringues.  These flat things are . . . .well, a mistake.     Ah.  There’s the problem.  If it doesn’t fit a known and named category, it’s easy to categorize it as a mistake instead of saying it’s something tasty and new that needs a name.  If I call my meringues wafer cookies, they aren’t a mistake any more.      Back to Jaguar.   As I was contemplating my wafer cookies, I wondered what, really, I should call that series.  Cross-genre doesn’t work because I’m not simply adding a slice of cheese to the burger.  I’m integrating elements to create a whole. Nor does cross-genre have a shelf in the virtual or physical bookstore.  Then what?  Metamorph?  Psychopunk suspense? Not really.  It’s more like . . . . like fusion cooking.     Fusion fiction.  I like that.  It’s descriptive, alliterative, and easy to remember.  I’m bitextual, and I write Fusion Fiction.       There you go.  A name.  And we all know the power of naming.  Naming creates possibilities that didn’t exist before.   It opens doors and eyes that were closed.  Turns errors into intent.   Naming is at the heart of magic in writing.       So let me get back to writing some Fusion Fiction.  You go PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD.  And if you make a mistake, name it something cool.  
If you want to read some fusion Fiction, Jaguar Addams style, you’ll find her at Wildside Books , in both ebook and regular book form.  If you want to read my other fiction, you’ll learn about it on my website, wildreads.com
Ziggy wanted someCHOCOLATE CHAMBORD WAFER COOKIES
Really, I’m not going to give you a recipe for this.  Instead I recommend that you grab a regular meringue recipe (French style, not Italian, which makes a syrup instead of using just sugar.)  As the eggs are fluffing up nicely in the bowl, throw in about a quarter cup of ground up chocolate (70 percent is good), and three teaspoons of Chambord.  Bake them according to directions.   Let me know how it works out for you.
PEACH BASIL SORBET
Since I cheated on the cookies, I’ll add this in.  It may be more cross-genre than fusion because it doesn’t combine different cultural flavor profiles, but it’s yummy, so try it.  You’ll like it.  

4 cups peaches, peeled and sliced3/4 cups sugarpinch of salt1/2 cup water1 tablespoon rum  (optional, but it helps with the freezing thing)2 tablespoons red wine vinegar (really)1 cup fresh basil, chopped fine

Puree the peaches, sugar, salt, water, rum and vinegar. Refrigerate until completely chilled.
Transfer the mixture to your ice cream maker and start it churning.  As it churns, drop the basil in, in a leisurely way, as if you do this every day.   La-dee da.   
Churn until it looks like sorbet.  Then either get bowls and spoons and dig in, or put it in a container for your freezer.  The flavors will FUSE!  

FISHY LEARNING

Chaco, Like Jaguar, Teaches Telepathically     September is Rosh Hashanah, the start of  the Jewish New Year.  Shana Tova!   September is also start of a new year for teachers, and that’s a group I have a lot of affectionate attachment to. My mother, my sister and my brothers are all teachers, my son is going to marry a teacher, and I teach as well as write.  And my character, Jaguar Addams’, official job title is Teacher. She works in a prison, making criminals face and overcome their fears in order to grow.        I’m sure my mother, the consummate teacher, inspired that idea.  She raised me and my siblings to see learning as one of our most important life-tasks, at the heart of being human. Because of that, we knew that our fears should never be as powerful as our curiosity.        I think our fears of failure were lessened because she understood intuitively that learning is a messy process, never error free.  She let us draw in crayon on the underside of the kitchen table, and inside cabinet doors.  She said it was good for us to shift perspective.  When my sister and I were 2 and 3 were allowed to poke at the trout my father caught, while they lay soaking in the sink.  To us, they were things of slime and wonder.  “Wishwatwu” my sister and I called that water.  Fish water.  We loved it.      And we were encouraged to PLAY WITH OUR FOOD, making volcanoes from mashed potatoes, gravy and peas.  Volcanos taste better, and it got the peas into us rather than the family dog.        No surprise that learning is still, for me, a hands-on experience, messy and eternally fascinating.  In my writing a lot of plot development revolves around asking questions.  If we mine the  moon, will that affect women’s cycles?  (A Lunatic Fear).  What does fear of God look like, anyway?  (The Fear of God).  And, inevitably, what if Jaguar was in charge of a college classroom, with a killer after her?      That’s Learning Fear, and it was fun to write, since she’s such a primal energy stalking the Ivory Tower, taking bites out of the bloodless legs of Academia.  Her students don’t listen to lectures.  They rip up standardized syllabi and dance, or do field research, or make masks, getting their hands and hearts into the learning.    That’s  true in my classroom as well.  In fact, when I was writing Learning Fear, my undergraduates were very much a part of the process, asking questions, offering advice, getting updates on my progress.  One thing they requested unanimously was a scene with a bar room brawl.  Of course they did.  And they got it.        I have also been known to make my students purchase live fish and bring them to class, as part of an assignment about the difference between analytical and kinetic learning.  As in, what's the difference between dissecting a fish, and interacting with it live?  There's lots of lessons in that one, and some apply to teaching, too.        Educators never forget that we’re not teaching a subject.  We’re teaching humans.  That makes the system dynamic, chaotic, nonlinear, a living fish.  It's more like cooking than baking. You have to put your hands in the Wishwatwu and poke around to develop the intuitions necessary to your craft.  That may be why I return to cooking after a writing binge.  Kitchen work rests my verbal mind, but continues to instruct my intuitions in how you learn, how much fun it is to do so.         This week, after a lot of writing, I took a day for kitchen experiments.  Some were wildly successful  (peach and basil sorbet!).  Some didn’t work (that shisho mango chutney needs revision), and one was good enough to play with it more.  It’s a fish dish, brain food, so I’ll include it here, with my options for amendation.  Consider it a first draft, with notes.  Writing and cooking are both like that.  No reason to be afraid of it at all.     Be more curious than fearful, I tell my students again and again.  Play with the fish in the water.  Jaguar, I’m sure, would agree.

    If you’d like to learn how Jaguar teaches, and gets in trouble, check out Learning Fear .  You can also find her on Facebook .   Chaco learns about fish     

        SHISHO WRAPPED BARAMUNDI
   I’ll admit that I developed this recipe both because I love the complexity of the Shisho leaf (aka Perilla), and because I loved the sound of the name.  Shisho Wrapped Baramundi.  Say it three times fast.   Baramundi is a firm fleshed white fish with a sweet taste.  You can substitute other fish if you prefer.

About 6 large shisho leavesAbout 1 pound Baramundi, or fish of your choiceSalt and pepper for seasoning2 tablespoons rice vinegar1 tablespoon mirin1/2 tablespoon sesame oil

Cut the fish into smallish pieces - about 2 inches long and one inch wide.  Pat them dry (this is important) and season with salt and pepper.   Let them sit and soak it in at least 15 minutes.  They like to think about things.  
Combine rice vinegar, mirin and sesame oil in a small bowl.  Brush or pour it onto the fish after they’ve had their time to think.  
Pretty pretty foodWrap a leaf of shisho around each piece of fish, poking the end of the stem through the leaf to make a little package.   If you have leftover fish, either get more shisho leaves or use something just as interesting.  I experimented with sorrell leaves as well, which created a really yummy lemony thing happening.  You might try arugala, too, because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!
Oil a small oven tray or dish and put the fish in it.  Cook at 350 degrees for about 10-15 minutes.  Remove, plate and eat.   Admire the complexity of it all.
NOTES:
I loved the taste of this, and the way it looked.  The Shisho shimmers like fairy wings.   I wasn’t sure about the texture, because the shisho was a little stretchy to get through.  Of course, I was eating it with my fingers, because I was raised by wolves.  If I sat at a table and used a knife and fork it might have been easier to cut the shisho properly.  
On the other hand, I wonder if crisping the shisho through deep frying would create something different altogether.  I’ll try that next time.  Alternately, I might try chopping the shisho up fine and putting it in with the rice vinegar mix, shmearing it on the fish and pan frying the lot. 
I’ll let you know how that works out.  Meantime, I’m still wildly in love with the taste of it all, and the name.   

SINGING WATER, SIZZLING OIL

Chaco, Listening
     It’s been a busy week.  The 6th Jaguar Addams novel (A Strangled Cry of Fear) is with my publisher, and I’m picking over possible covers for it.  The short film for Berkshire Bird Paradise needs my attention, and so do my students at Western College University.  So does the text for my next nonfiction book, Saving Eagle Mitch, because the copyedits are due this week.     All that is running around my brain like hamsters on wheels, squeaking away, and at the same time I’m emotionally embroiled on the next round of edits for The Voice of Fear, which will be the 7th Jaguar Addams novel.  That one has Jaguar dealing with a rock star who shot a large chunk of his audience.     Can you hear me sigh?
     When things get this noisy inside my brain, there’s really only one thing to do:  Listen to the silence.      I take a moment away from all else - no TV, no internet, no texts or music - and embrace silence, waiting for what might emerge from it.  That’s not as easy as it seems.     In general, listening is a specific skill that takes up a lot of brain space.  It’s different than hearing, which is reactive.  Listening is strategic and effortful, and asks the prefrontal cortext to engage in its magic of sorting, decision-making, filtering and deciphering.  That particular kind of listening is familiar to both writers and cooks.     Cooks use it to hear what’s happening to the food, to know when the sizzle is too high or low, when the boil is a good simmer and when it’s gotten out of hand.  Food in the making has its own song, and we know what it sounds like.       Writers use it in lots of ways.  We develop instincts about when it’s important to keep all the listening doors open so we can enter an experience fully, when to lay back and take a break.  And we know that listening to silence is crucial, because silence creates the space necessary for new ideas to grow, or for existing ideas to blossom into fullness. We listen both to what’s outside us, and what’s within, which may be the hardest task of all.        Of course, this dance between silence and listening is really important for everyone.  Really.  How do you know your spouse, your children, your lover or friend unless you embrace your own silence so their words can reach you?   And I’m not just talking about the meaning of their words.  I’m talking about the emotional import.  In Jaguar’s terms, that’s the difference between being a telepath and an empath.  A telepath hears what you’re thinking.  An empath listens hard enough to feel what you feel.      But we live in a culture that places a lot more value on talk than silence or listening.  We’re bombarded with noise, we argue a lot, do a lot of cross-talking, talking over each other in our anxiety to get ourselves heard.     So today, I recommend that you consider other cultures, like the Mohawk, who believe it’s respectful to leave space between what someone says and your response.  Practice this with someone you love.  Let them talk, and wait while the words sink into your soul before you respond.  Feel what they mean, and answer from there.       Or try this - go to a quiet place and turn on your listening brain. See what enters it, and what it means to you.  Then listen to the inside of your own soul, and see what it has to say to you today.   As the Zen masters say, stand in the center and listen.  Then forget that you are there.     That’s a good recipe for writers and all other humans, something we should remember how to do.   And for the cooks out there, here’s a recipe to listen to because it has both singing water and sizzling oil.       Listen.  Eat.  Enjoy.  

    This week’s recipe has mint in it, a plant Jaguar listens to a lot.  If you want to know why, you can ask me on Facebook, or read about it in her novels on Wildside Books.


ROMA BEANS WITH MINT AND GARLIC AND MORE
Jaguar would love thisThis recipe is from my mother, who learned it from her mother.  When I eat it I think of two women I love.  Mom, and Jaguar.  

About 2 cups Roma beans  (These are an Italian green bean, flat and yummy.  If you can’t find them or you don’t grow them, use regular green beans, fresh not frozen.)1 can black olives, crushed through your fingers.  (That part is fun.)3 cloves garlic, put through a garlic pressAbout a cup of fresh mint, chopped fineOPTIONAL:  About three quarters of a cup of small cubed potatoes, boiled.    This is optional because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!Salt to taste, and good pepper, which I’ll explain about in the recipe.Really good Extra virgin olive oil for the pan - about a quarter cup
Put a saute pan on high heat, about half full with water.  Throw some salt in.  When you hear it singing that it’s boiling, toss the green beans in.  Let them cook for about 4 minutes.  You want them al dente, because they’ll soon be sizzling rather than singing.
Put your olive oil in another saute pan - a cast iron skillet if you’ve got one.   Set the stove on high and let the oil heat up. Toss in the olives and mint and let them sizzle about a bit.  Then toss in the beans and garlic - and the potatoes if you’re using them -  and let them sizzle more.  Use a wooden spoon to keep it all moving about.  
Let it cook for about four minutes, then take it off the heat.  As it settles down, get a bowl ready, and a fork.  It will smell so good, you’ll want to eat it right away.  

OFF PLANET

Cats Occupy Planet Dog Bed
     Sometimes it’s important to leave the planet.  
    Cats and writers do that regularly because it’s one of our Superpowers.  You know cats have left when they stare at the wall, and there’s no fairies in the house.  You know writers have done it when they stare at the wall, and there’s no fairies in the house.        Really.  I mean that.  Writers often take time to stare blankly at something that’s not a computer screen or TV, and when they do, usually there are other worlds seething inside them, and they are there, not here.  If you tap them on the shoulder, they might hiss or scratch, so it’s best to approach slowly and quietly, with cookies.       But people who are neither writers or cats should also make it a habit to leave the planet now and then.  Doing so gives you perspective on your own life, compassion and understanding for the lives of others.  And there’s plenty of ways to take a quick trip and be back in time for supper.   Try a creative visualization that takes you flying first above your house, and then your neighborhood, and then your country and the planet.  Once you’re past the atmosphere you can float and swoop over any other planet you like, and in and out of galaxies as well.         Or go to a mall and sit somewhere.  For ten minutes, simply observe the humans moving around you, imagining all the while that you are from another planet.  Listen to what they say.  Look at how they move.  Take it all in and see what kind of report you’d bring back to your extraterrestrial kin.        I tried something similar this weekend, entirely by accident.  I was at ChiCon , the World Science Fiction Convention in Chicago.  Of course, that convention is off planet in its own way, especially on Masquerade night, but in the middle of it I sat outside and watched people as they gathered in clumps to smoke or talk or wait for taxis or friends.  For a short while I was apart from them all, and in that space I marveled at the complexity surrounding me.      That man in the business suit, next to the tall, thin boy in the Game of Thrones costuming, and the generously appointed woman in corsetted dress with a sword dangling at her side.  That woman in the wheelchair and the child fidgeting on her father’s arm.  That man and woman locked in intense conversation, and that guy in the Jesus costume. All the six thousand attendees of the convention and astonished regular hotel occupants.  Each one of them is a world unto itself, so complex as to never be fully divined.  And each one is complex in its own particular way, different from all the other complexities around them.  To top it off, all those complexities are interacting with other complexities in a great swirling mass of never-ending conversation.     Phew.  Humans.       A part of me wanted to be able to reach inside one after the other, and touch their souls.  Another part of me wanted to go back in the hotel and have a good strong drink.        The final part of me was just glad to have a moment of deep appreciation for the complexities, because it means my job as a writer will never be complete.  There will always be yet another character waiting to be written.   And since each one is their own world, whenever I need to leave the planet, all I have to do is turn to someone else, and start exploring.     If you need to leave the planet, keep that in mind.  But make sure you have something good to eat while you’re away, and bring something back to share.  
     If you’d like to know what worlds seethe in me and what planets I visit regularly, you can go to my website, wildreads.com , or visit me on Facebook .  

BREAKFAST OUT OF THIS WORLD
    When I’m off-planet I don’t cook.  I let the locals feed me.  While I was in Chicago, Bernard, Crepe King of LB Bistro at the Sheraton Towers gave me the best breakfast of my life.  I mean, the best.  The buffet had food such as shot glasses of watermelon and mint juice, or spinach and celery juice, along with shirred eggs with corned beef hash and mushrooms, two kinds of chocolate croissants, great great bread.  And then Bernard made a crepe for me and I was elevated to another galaxy.     If you ever go to Chicago, get to LB Bistro and have Bernard make you a savory buckwheat crepe, with smoked salmon, onions, tomatoes, spinach and capers, and dill cream cheese.  He scrambles an egg over the crepe, which makes it extra yummy.  
    When I got back to the planet, I happened to have some duck eggs and fresh peaches on my tree, so I decided to try for another off-world experience, in my own kitchen.  It worked out okay.
SCRAMBLED DUCK EGGS
This is a double boiler method, which is a bit of a pain, but makes scrambled eggs into something new.  If you don’t have Duck Eggs, which are richer because they have both a higher protein and fat content, use regular jumbo chicken eggs
3 Duck eggsAbout 3 tablespoons half and halfsalt and pepper for seasoning1 teaspoon of  your favorite herb, chopped up. (Notice I’m not telling you which herb I used because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!)3 tablespoons unsalted butter
Get some water in a pot - just about two inches at the bottom of the pot will do - and set it to boil, then reduce to simmer.  Put your egg pan on top so it fits like a cover.  Put the butter in the pan and let it melt.
Quack the eggs in a bowl, add the rest of the ingredients and fork whip them until they honk.  (Yes, really.  Quack them.  You can quack, can’t you?)
Plate GalacticaWhen the butter is melted and a little bubbly paddle it around the pan some, then pour the egg mixture in.  Make sure the heat is medium low, and cover the egg pan.  Leave it alone for a minute or two.  No BEAKING!  
After a minute or two remove the cover and start scrambling the eggs about with a wooden spoon or spatula.  Be gentle.  Cover them again and wait another minute or two, then repeat the process.  
Keep this going until they’re cooked to the moistness you like.  Let them cook maybe a minute more with the cover off.  Let them rest another minute.  (They might fall asleep and snore, but that’s okay.)   Then get them on a plate with toast.

PAN-GALACTIC PEACHES AND BASIL
Yes.  Really.  It’s a combination I’ve been wanting to try, as I waited impatiently for the peaches on my tree to ripen.  And it’s really simple.  Here’s a two peach version.  You can expand to as many peaches as you like.
2 peachessalt and pepperabout a tsp. of honey or sugar1 finely chopped tbsp. of fresh, fresh basil  (best if you just went out in your barefeet to the yard to pick it)Olive oil for the pan

If you want, peel your peaches.  If you don’t mind the fuzz, I don’t, and you can leave it on.   Make slices to your preferred size.  Mine are about one to two inch chunks.   Get them in a bowl.  Add everything else and toss it around.  (Don’t toss so high that it sticks to the ceiling.  Your mommy won’t like that)
Add just enough olive oil to a saute pan to coat the bottom and get it good and hot. Throw the peach mixture in and let it sizzle for about four minutes.
Get it on the plate with the rest of your breakfast and go relax, for heaven’s sake.

A LEGITIMATE RANT

Chaco, ranting


  All the news about issues of ‘legitimate’ rape is very disturbing to both me and the protagonist of my novels, Jaguar Addams.   What follows is my rendition of a letter Jaguar might write to politicians who cavalierly co-opt the female body so they can bolster their falling polls.  
Mr. Akin, Mr. Ryan, Mr. Romney, and Mr. Fischer;
    In recent days every one of you has either said something appalling and ignorant about rape and pregnancy and women, or made it clear you support those who do.  By now you must know that the women who heard your fetid gak are horrified at the world you’d like to create in your own image. Bu you probably don’t know that we’re also relieved, maybe even kind of glad, because you’ve finally shown your true colors. Now we know who you really are.  Phew.    Before this you looked just like - well, just like human beings.  You actually present quite nicely, with smiles that sparkle from years of really expensive dental work, your careful hair and clothes.  You’ve never had to worry about feeding a hungry child, or been afraid to cross a dark parking lot alone as you leave your night job in a grocery store or hotel. That means you look relaxed, confident, self-assured. Like good and happy people.      Then, suddenly, you let a septic tank full of words spew from your mouths.  Wow.  Not human beings after all, because compassion is part of being human, right?  And certainly you’re not real men. Real men have an overriding impulse to protect others from harm. Real men have an interest in lowering the rate of rape instead of punishing the women who survive it.  And real men don’t need to create political platforms to preserve their personal wealth and their illusion of dominance.       But if you’re not men, well then, what are you? No other animal behaves as badly as you, so I guess we’ll have to come up with a new name. Petty fascist pig dogs who substitute politics for the deficit of teeny tiny - um - minds?   Hmm.  That sounds right.  It’s a description rather than a name, but it works for me.      You may have noticed that I’m not playing nice.  Of course, I do hope the light finds you, and soon.  I wish only truth and beauty for your lives, because nothing else on this green earth can possibly change you.  But I also know there’s a lot of light in fire, and the fiery anger, the boiling tears of many women may be just what you need.  As one of those women, let me remind you of certain fiery facts.      Fact One :  Remember us?  We’re women. We’re smart and strong and we know something you don’t:  From menstruation to menopause and beyond, it ain’t easy being a girl, and it ain’t for sissies.     We’re not sissies.  Not one of us. We don’t buy bridges from strange men, or palaver from prevaricating politicians.     Fact Two :  Remember us?  We’re women, and while you slid into your white man’s voting power after one war, we fought for another 150 years to get ours.  We didn’t give up, did we?  Nope. We’re  survivors of the Domestic wars, and while we never get medals for the battles we fight, our memories are long, our capacity for endurance miraculous.  If you think we’ll forget what you’ve said or what you’d like to do to us, your fantasy life is clearly more interesting than ours.        Fact Three :   Let me remind you one more time.  We constitute 51 percent of the population, 1 in 6 of us have experienced sexual assault, and we vote.      We will make it clear to the rest of the country that there is absolutely no room in our government for creatures like you, who lie to themselves as easily as they lie to us.  Creatures who value your own petty power ever so much more than the safety and sanctity of our bodies - which includes the bodies of your mothers, sisters, wives, daughters and friends.       Those are the facts.  Now here’s one more thing you need to keep in mind. What you’ve said and what you hope to do to us has caused great pain and fear to millions of women.  Millions.   Many of us who are survivors of rape wake from nightmares because we’ve been violated once more, this time by men who get paid with our tax dollars and then pretend to represent our interests.       Tonight, as you lay your heads down on your pillows, I want you to think of us.  All of us.  Let the pain of millions of women dance in your dreams.  If you wake in the night, know that we are also awake.        We’ll be weeping.  So should you.         


     You can talk to Jaguar about all this on Facebook and read more of her opinionated views at Wildside .   
      If you need some strong food to bolster your strength, here’s an appropriate recipe.

STRONG WOMEN CHOCOLATE FRITTERS
These fritters give the illusion of lightness, but between the cheese and the chocolate, they’re very sustaining.  And of course we all know that chocolate helps warrior women win all battles. If you want them more chocolatey, after you cook them you can dunk them in melted chocolate and let it harden because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD.   And if you want to change the world, get involved.  Vote.  Rant.  Be noisy and difficult, because you know the rule:   PLAY WITH YOUR POLITICS.   

Strength on a PlateOil for frying
¾ cup unbleached all-purpose flour2 tsp. baking powder¼ tsp. salt2 large eggs
1 cup whole milk ricotta cheese, drained in cheesecloth over a bowl overnight if wet2 Tbsp. sugar1 Tbsp. cocoa
1 tsp. vanilla1/2 cup mini chocolate chips1 -2 tbsp confectioners sugar and 1 tbsp cocoa for dusting
To prep your space (important in all things!) lay out some paper towels and/or brown paper for draining your hot fritters.  Start preheating vegetable or canola oil in a large (14”) skillet.

Now you’re ready.  So stir flour, baking powder, salt, and cocoa in a medium mixing bowl.  
In another bowl, crack up the two eggs (tell a joke.  That usually works.  If not, you know what to do)  Beat them lightly and add the ricotta, sugar, vanilla, and mini chips, mixing until the batter is smooth. 
Add the dry ingredients and fold them in - gently, gently - until everything’s wet.  DON’T OVERMIX!  
Drop just a bit into the  oil to see if it’s ready.  It will sizzle and cook the bit pretty quickly if it feels prepared for its task. If not, wait, then try again.  
When oil is ready, drop batter by tablespoons (I use my small ice cream scoop) into the skillet.  Don’t crowd the pan.  They like their space.  
Cook one side until just golden, then then flip it over.  It may go Whee! because they like that.  Keep flipping, cooking them for about 3-4 minutes.  When you take them out of the oil put them on your paper to drain.  Sprinkle LIBERALLY (they’re liberals) with powdered sugar and cocoa.  Eat and grow strong. 
Makes 16-24 fritters