Jess Riley's Blog, page 8

At the Girlfriends' Book Club...

I'm blogging today at the Girlfriends' Book Club about one of my stranger, more unsettling childhood memories and the books I loved way back when...Subscribe with Feedburner

Could it be....Seitan?

Just checking in ... we are still up to our eyeballs in home renovations, although at least we are at the painting stage. All ceilings and three rooms down--2 more to go. Lighting, flooring, trim, and dear-God-can-we-really-stop-sleeping-on-the-futon-soon?

Tonight J's parents stopped by on their way through town for a quick visit, and I fed them dinner. I stuck to the game plan from my weekly menu: oven-roasted acorn squash with pesto pasta and sun-dried tomatoes, peas, and seitan. It's pronounced "Say-TAHN," but you can call it "Satan," like my mother-in-law did, because then you'll know whom* to blame when the gas kicks in later.

Yeah, I forgot about that part--I formally apologize to my in-laws for subjecting them to my weird meal AND the deleterious side effects. Some daughter-in-law I am!

In case you were wondering, seitan is vital wheat gluten mixed with broth and boiled for an hour--it sounds gross, and it kind of is (unless you grill it and season it and toss it with something else). A chicken analogue, of sorts. Best chopped up and tossed in a pot pie or soup, actually. Neither of which I did, resulting in a sub-par Meatless Monday.

Okay, I've got more painting to do, so I'm off. I can't wait to post the full before- and after- blog, with photos.

*Does it sound pretentious to say "whom" here? Is it even warranted?Subscribe with Feedburner

I Can't Believe I'm Posting These

After living in the same house for 16 years, J and I thought it was finally time to seize the day and buy that house in the country we've dreamed of. With a garden! Fruit trees! A chicken coop! Maybe even room for more than two people to eat in the kitchen!

But most importantly: [image error]
Somebody once thought this was a good idea.
A toilet that isn't stuck in the wall!

This photo may one day make its way into one of those "shit rednecks cobble together with duct-tape and gum" photo montages, but you saw it here first, kids.
So after attempting to sell our house for six months last year with ZERO offers, I am convinced that our bizarre walk-through, haphazard, dangerously not-up-to-code bathroom is to blame.

Can you believe I used to clean this room? Who did I think I was fooling?

I know, I'm as surprised as you. I mean, who DOESN'T love squishy walls and exposed PVC piping that appears to have simply been jammed into the wall, where it molds and rots and incubates and emits funky smells and you can fall asleep to the relaxing sound of the grody faucet dripping, because your bed is just eight feet away?

J and I took advantage of a recent loan sale at our credit union, sucked it up, and decided to bring our 125 year-old house into a safer, more hospitable state. Preferably something that wouldn't give my four year-old nephew nightmares, rashes, or asthma when he comes to visit.

Living in a house with ample, code-safe electrical outlets and an actual bathroom vanity is a prospect that excites me to no end. Did you hear that? An ACTUAL bathroom vanity! On which I can set my toothbrush without gagging or grimacing! Be still, my beating heart.

While this work is being completed, J and I are living on our first floor. I suppose we could sleep in this—

But I may lose 60% of my lung capacity and end up with the sooty face of a character featured in a Dickens novel. So, futon-behind-a-sheet it is for the time being. I am also doing my hair and makeup in the same chair in which I wrote my last novel, and the dog eats and drinks four feet from the pillow I sleep on every night.

Nonetheless, I am still finding a way in the midst of this chaos to do some fall baking, because I'll be damned if I have to bid farewell to summer AND miss out on recipes featuring pumpkin, cinnamon, squash, and sage. (Mmmm, pumpkin-ricotta lasagna ... I think it's the lead paint dust that gives it that spicy, piquant flair.)

Last night I baked a caramel apple cake (averting tragedy when I remembered just a minute after I put the cake in the oven that I'd forgotten to add an entire stick of butter… "Why is this batter SO DRY?!") It's my mother-in-law's birthday today, so it's actually for her—so, Happy Birthday if you're reading this, Mama Riley! You take the cake!"* But first we'll take you out for dinner to celebrate.

*Don't worry, there isn't any lead paint dust in it. And by "any," I mean "much (I hope)."Subscribe with Feedburner

Mama's got a (holy water) squeezebox

J and I have been busy removing every personal item and piece of furniture from our second floor, which is about to undergo a major renovation. We're talking moving walls, cutting new doors, new wiring and outlets, new sheetrock, new ceilings, new flooring, and--most importantly--a new bathroom. (Do you hear that? It's the sound of an angelic choir celebrating with me. They're singing Kool and the Gang: "Celebrate good times, come on!")

The absolute bane of my existence shall be gutted! And replaced with something that actually makes sense. After things are finished, I'll post a before and after photo. You will be horrified by the before. I guarantee it. When we had them visit to take measurements for the estimate, even our contractors were horrified, laughing and scratching their heads. "Now this is special," one of them said. The other was speechless. I got the impression that were he alone, he'd curl into a ball and start rocking in the corner.

As we pack and displace our belongings (everything must go!), it's been fun discovering personal artifacts we'd long-since forgotten about. A diary I kept when I was nine, accompanied by a creepy lock of hair...misshapen ceramic art projects J made in high school. And! A handful of rosaries and a small squeeze bottle of holy water.

I must have received it during some religious exercise in my youth (a better person would call them 'sacraments'). I can't remember if it was my confirmation, or my first communion, or simply because the nuns were worried for our souls and handed them out like candy one day after catechism class.

There is a sticker affixed to the back of the bottle which reads: "Holy water is a sacramental. Any deliberate misuse or disrespect of it is a serious sin of sacrilege."

Now, calling me a "lapsed" Catholic would be putting it mildly. I'm so lapsed that on the occasions I DO return to church, I worry about my skin smoldering. Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit, but I no longer am a member of any sort of organized religion for my own very private, personal reasons. I know what I believe and what I no longer believe, but most of all, I know that there is so much I do not know. YET--

Certain habits and long-ingrained beliefs tend to linger. Take the bottle of holy water. "What should I do with it?" I asked J.

"Water your plants with it."

I figured I'd go straight to hell if I did, so I tried giving it to my mom, who still goes to church. "Can you pour this back in the holy water fount?" I asked. She laughed and politely declined.

"Water your plants with it!" my Dad suggested.

"I can't do that!" And then I paused. Am I REALLY this superstitious??!! What would happen if I dumped it in a potted fern...would I be struck by lightning? Be attacked by a plague of locusts? Be forced to eat pork and wear a shirt of mixed fibers?

In the end, the holy water came back home with me. On the way, J said, "Maybe having this in the house is why it's not haunted." Granted, our house was built in 1885, but my husband is NOT the superstitious type.

Clearly, some of his childhood religious education and superstitions also lingered. It's a tenacious thing. Or maybe we'd just seen The Exorcist too many times.

Either way, the holy water remains in my living room, tucked near some photo albums on a shelf. Just in case.Subscribe with Feedburner

It Ain't Me, Babe

Well hello there! I am pleased to report that the novel is FINISHED, pending a few small remaining revisions...and then I cross my fingers and ship it off to my agent. And then lie on the floor trying not to hyperventilate.

I have a new post for this very blog all planned--it's totally written in my head--I just need to get it on here. In the meantime, I am blogging with the Girlfriends' Book Club, about basing characters on real people. Come say hi so I don't feel lonely!Subscribe with Feedburner

Consumed by the NIP

Last night, after a full day of dicking around and fretting and tweaking, I finally crossed page 200 in my novel-in-progress. I'd suggest we call it my NIP, but some people might get the wrong idea, so let's actually call it my "work-in-progress." My WIP. I'd prefer VIP, but I can't think of a word that starts with a "V" that would refer to the most frustrating, complicated, messy novel I've ever had the balls to write.

Don't get me wrong—it's coming together. Every day I begin what's come to feel like an agonizing marathon in clogs, with people along the route holding orange slices and Dixie cups holding bad, demoralizing news instead of water, but every day I meet the page goal, somehow, and say to myself. "That wasn't so bad. Off to bed, have to do it all over again tomorrow!"

After I got about 50 pages in, I began to sail, and like calendar pages flying by in an old movie, the pages rapidly multiplied. Now I'm floating on a warped, water-logged board in the middle of the ocean, parched and sunburned, desperate for a breeze to push me toward the right shore.

I have essentially eleven days until I am back at work full-time, at which point my fiction will be back-burnered, at least until I adjust to the new schedule. So I push through the empty space, nearly racing to beat the clock.

Darn stomach, demanding to be filled with food I must purchase with a paycheck.

So that's where I've been these last few weeks. Cranking out the prose, trying to knit subplots together and keep track of the crazy characters who've come to seem like real people to me.

Also, this is going on:

This recently finished:

And the monster that's eaten my front flowerbed shows no signs of abating:

I'll be scarce around here until September, but if you need me, you know where to find me. Unshowered and highly caffeinated, hunched over my computer keyboard.

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Oh, the Humanity!

I'm blogging at the Girlfriends Book Club today. About anxiety as it relates to writing. And how I'm never anxious. Ever. Nope. Not me. Cool as a cucumber. In Tehran. During a ban on cucumbers.

Stop by and tell me to relax a little.Subscribe with Feedburner

More Evidence that I am Going Straight to Hell

We recently attended Summerfest, which is the experience for you if you ever wondered what it might have felt like to be separated into panicked, gender-segregated lines potentially leading to cattle cars en route to Treblinka.

Okay, it wasn't that bad, but that was what I thought every time I found myself at the front of a chaotic line just to enter the damn park, when that line would suddenly "close," and I'd be directed to join a nearby line "for women only." The women-only lines were 32 miles long and full of sweaty, tattooed strangers. I should emphasize that I was alone, because my husband and friends had left me behind, flagrantly barging past the groping / purse searching Summerfest staff shouting, "Males only! Males only!" in our faces, while I obediently followed directions.

I'll never do that again.

Once in the park, I tried to relax, but a whirling press of drunks sloshing beer on your shoes and pretending to steal your fried eggplant while you desperately search for a bathroom that doesn't smell like a dead prostitute doesn't exactly create an aura of calm.

Beer helps. While in line for one, I spotted the most magnificent, Ode-to-the-Eighties hairdo I've seen in years. It was a perfect specimen—nearly every end split, teased and curled into a perfect helmet of wind-blown, feathered frizz. I took a picture of it, which I'd hoped to share with you here, but my dear husband dropped my phone and I lost all of the photos on my SD card.

Not that I'm still peeved about this …

Anyway, the woman's haircut. It was a thing to behold. Just a glimpse of that hair could set a Poison album loose in your head, float the ghost-scents of Aqua-Net and Exclamation perfume on the breeze.

"Who wears their hair like that anymore?" I asked J, amazed.

"People who like to bowl," he answered.

It was the kind of response that reminded me why I still loved him, despite his dropping my camera and accidentally erasing dozens of adorable photos of my nieces and nephew.

In other news, the first 100 pages of my new novel have been submitted to my editor. My agent loved it, but this doesn't mean it's "in the bag," because my editor can still decide it's worse than a trip to Summerfest and take a big fat pass. I'm hoping this one's the charm, though. It's got a tranny in it, for God's sake.

And if you're looking for a fun, breezy page-turner to read on your Kindle at the beach, check out my friend Malena Lott's e-novella Life's a Beach. I didn't read it at the beach, but it made the time waiting for my oil change and tire rotation that much more enjoyable. Malena's a master of fun plot twists, and it's a steal at just $2.99.

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Garden Mania

Summer is in full-swing now, and the yard is popping. I have been out at night, wearing a headlamp as if I'm going to do a little coal mining in my front lawn, to battle earwigs and prove to my neighbors once and for all that I am slightly insane when it comes to my garden. More specifically, when it comes to preventing the zinnias and sunflowers I started by seed back in early April from being completely skeletonized by a swarm of disgusting brown bugs with PINCERS. (Yeah, I had to look up how to spell that. It looks weird, doesn't it?)

So let me take you on a tour of the garden. First we have little green clusters of cherry tomatoes. I am counting the days until I can harvest these babies, most of which are destined for slow-roasting and freezing so I can taste some sunshine in January.


Here we have the blossom of a Delicata squash plant. If you haven't tried Delicata squash, you must--it tastes a bit like corn on the cob: sweet, fragrant, creamy, and perfect with sage, brown sugar, and butter.


I don't know what the hell is going on in the next photo other than it's completely out of control. I have to lift this shit up with a heavy-duty stick so my husband can mow the 0.5 inches of lawn you see...when he gets to this section he calls, "Stick girl!" and I come running. I think next year I'm ripping up the lawn and replacing it with a creeping groundcover. I retire the stick and the jungle wins.

Below are the two hanging baskets that have been absolutely infested with aphids. I have hosed them off, sprayed them with clove and garlic oil, and hand-squished aphids until my fingers were sticky. I am currently awaiting shipment of a magical product called "Aphid Chaser," which consists of pheromone-treated rubber disks that attach to the plant and send an alarm message that scares the aphids enough that they stop eating and move on. Makes me wish someone would invent "Nacho Chaser," which I could snap onto my wrists like little bracelets so I'd be alarmed into putting the chips down.

Also, in case you think this sounds like magical nonsense, I used them last year and THEY WORKED.

The basil below will be turned into a delightful pesto by next week, after I buy a new food processor because my last one crapped out on me. It's hard to tell in this photo, but the basil bush is two and a half feet tall.

My first Mexican sunflower bloom! In another month this plant will be two feet taller, bushier, and covered in dark orange daisies. It's a bona-fide butterfly magnet.

And last but not least, one of the bunnies from the explosion of rabbits inhabiting my yard. One of them is so small he could fit in the palm of my hand. That little guy lives under my daylilies, and he's become quite fond of my ornamental peppers. I've lost a few plants to these adorable buns, but I can't stay mad at them for long. It's like the universe is laughing at me for the $100 baby bunny I drove to the rehabber two summers ago.

To protect my perennials, I have been sprinkling a disgusting product called "Rabbit Scram" around the perimeter of my beds. This product is made of blood meal, pepper, and ground, dehydrated meat. The last time I sprinkled it some poofed up and I accidentally inhaled it. I have been a vegetarian for nearly ten years, and all it takes is a few adorable but ravenous rabbits threatening my garden and there you have it. I'm snorting meat dust.

I'll have to do some before-and after photos in the next post, because I am completely amazed at the progress things have made in just three weeks. Until then, I'm revising my novel proposal. I hope to ship it off to my agent soon...fingers, toes, and eyes crossed!Subscribe with Feedburner

Alright, Alright

Oh man, the neglect! Let's just hope I never have to put you in a nursing home.BUT! I have been feverishly writing, about to round the bend on 80 pages in the new novel. I'm obsessing about the characters, which is a good sign. I can't chop onions or get the mail without being struck by a snippet of dialogue or a turn of phrase that I must record IMMEDIATELY, dropping everything else I'm working on before I forget it.Let's see...other things....picked up the first CSA box today (rhubarb, asparagus, early garlic, a decent portion of popcorn). We're also planning to gut and totally remodel our upstairs Bathroom of Horrors. Holmes on Homes could have a field day with that bathroom, and I promise a detailed "Before and After" photo essay on this blog when we get to that point.My BFF asked if I'd be interested in running a 5K with her this August, and I had a candid conversation with my shins afterward: "Look. I'd really like to run this 5K, maybe shrink the waist just enough that I can fit into the capris I wore last summer. So you're going to have to suck it up and deal with the splints." But now that I think about it, maybe it can be avoided. Does anyone know a good preventative for shin splints? I seem to recall reading something about good running shoes, maybe some stretches, maybe drinking tart cherry juice before exercise.Today while grocery shopping I ran into a guy I had a mild flirtation with in college. My cart was filled with fruits and veggies, and his cart contained a gallon of whole milk and two loaves of Wonder Bread. What kind of 40 year-old man still eats Wonder Bread? And still expects painless, regular bowel movements? I really dodged a bullet there.Happy Father's Day to all you dads out there! May all your ties be attractive. If not, may they at least be returnable.Subscribe with Feedburner