How I am angry: Mass Murder Edition

    I am really mad about the elementary school shooting that occurred today in Connecticut. I am mostly mad at the man who committed this senseless, incomprehensibly evil act. But there is nothing I can do about him or say to him.

    I am also mad at the people who cry foul as soon as anyone tries to discuss gun control after incidents like this. Many say it's not the right time, and that the focus should be on the victims of today's tragedy. Well, I don't know of a better way to honor those victims and others like them than to contribute to a rational, long overdue discussion about the roots of the violence in this nation.

    Policy makers should have been trying to understand and discuss the roots of America's murder culture for... well, forever. When a news outlet posted online today, asking when the Obama administration should discuss gun laws, my immediate response was, "four years ago."

    The rate of death from violent crime in the United States is astronomical compared to other developed nations. Guns are not necessarily to blame. Other countries have gun ownership rates at least as high as the U.S.'s without even a fraction of the gun crime. However, there is evidence that American states with stricter gun control laws experience less gun crime than other states.

    Does this necessarily mean that gun control directly lowers gun crime? No. Am I saying gun control will necessarily prevent mass murders? No. But it has to be a part of the conversation.

    There is information available to us about a correlation between gun control in the U.S. and lower gun crime rates. That is a fact. To immediately refuse to consider that information in discussing how to combat America's culture of murder is, in a word, insane. In another, ignorant. In another, myopic.

    What I really wrote this to say is this:
All information is valuable, even if it has the potential to conflict with YOUR particular world view. In contrast, NO information is valuable unless is it used to seek WISDOM. In order to seek wisdom, all of the facts must be considered. In this case, facts about gun control must be discussed. To refuse to even entertain the thought of exploring the potential for safer gun laws in the wake of the year we just experienced is, in another word, asinine. And it is making me angry.

That is all.
  

My No-Bake To-Die-For Dessert Secret

     Those of you who know me know that I'm a bit of a bakeaholic, but I'm aware that not everyone is as fond of baking as I am. With the holidays coming up, everyone probably has all kinds of family and company events to attend, and many of these events are probably pot-lucks. I have a way for people who hate baking to call dessert duty and impress the pants off of everyone at the party.
    I have been making this recipe for a few years, but I have been trying not to tell everyone how freakin' easy it is because I wanted to keep it for myself. Alas, I cannot keep up the charade any longer. There are a lot of these recipes on the internet, but the one I use is the easiest and best.  So here it is,  Three Ingredient No-Bake Oreo Truffles:

You need:
1 pack Oreos
1 8 oz package cream cheese (I prefer Philadelphia)
6 oz chocolate
(Optional) toppings

    You can use whatever kind of chocolate you enjoy. I am partial to Baker's semisweet squares, but anything that melts smoothly is fine. Dark and white chocolate also suit this recipe.

The prep:
1. Blend the Oreos and cream cheese together. The easiest way to do this is in a food processor. I have a Cuisinart 14-Cup Food Processor (Google Affiliate Ad) that I adore. A blender also works. In a bind, throw those suckers in a big, sturdy ziplock bag and bash them with a mallet. In the end, you want the mixture to be smooth.

2. Roll the Oreo mixture into 1-2 inch balls

3. Refrigerate for half an hour. The balls should be sturdy enough to withstand being rolled in your palms

4. Melt chocolate over low heat until smooth.

5. Roll Oreo balls to desired roundness, and roll in chocolate until coated. Remove the coated balls to a plate or baking sheet and refrigerate until hardened.

*Optional: Before refrigerating chocolate-coated balls, sprinkle with desired toppings. Decorative sprinkles and toasted almonds work well. You can also put aside a few Oreos and crumble the chocolate part to be sprinkled on top. If you're feeling fancy, melt another kind of chocolate and pipe designs onto your truffles. (A plastic bag with a small part of the corner cut off works just as well as a professional piping bag.)

That's it. These things are seriously delicious. Everyone will be asking you for the recipe! Bon appetit.

A Letter to my Almost-two-year-old Son

Dear Almost-two-year-old,
   
     Everyone warned me that the terrible twos would start around this age, and they have. Lord, have they. I don't think they should be called "terrible", though, because I understand.
     I understand that, when you wake up screaming bloody murder at 4:30 am after I managed to trick you into sleeping in your own bed for a few measly hours, and you are furious at being duped, it's because you like the Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and pillows and plushies and comforters that we bought you to try to cajole you into your own bed, you just don't like like them.
     And when you crawl into bed with dad and me, I understand that you try to push my head away from you with all your might while clinging to my body like a genetically enhanced leech because you need the warmth and comfort of my body, just without the meddlesome presence of my face.
    I get that, when you are crying and begging for something that you are already holding in your hand, it is because you need me to hide it behind my back for three seconds to fifteen minutes before presenting it to you in order to restore your sense of wonder.
     I understand that, when you are lying on the floor, kicking and screaming simply, "Again! Agaaaaain!" it is because you want to have or see something you have had or seen before in your lifetime, and you are too distraught to specify what exactly that might be.
     I get that the absence of trains is unacceptable.
     I know that sometimes you like to pull the dogs' tails for no reason because it just feels good be a straight-up jerk from time to time.
     More than anything, I understand that you are completely overwhelmed by the grown-up emotions you are sprouting.

   I think the terrible twos should be called the "question-why-you-wanted-to-be-a-parent-in-the-first-place twos." Trust me, I have, but I have an answer; I can see past the towering mountain of "TWO", to the slightly less-craggy peak of "three", all the way to the sloping foothills of "four", and beyond. And I know that you will come out on the other side a real, functioning little person, and I will feel privileged to have loved you all along; mind, body, and face.

Love,
Mommy



If you enjoyed this, you might enjoy my slightly-more-serious Letter to the Grown Up Version of My One Year Old Son
   
   

Why I Cried a Little When The O's Lost Game 5

I cried a little bit when the Orioles lost game 5 of the ALDS to the Yankees tonight, and it had very little to do with baseball. I don't care very much about baseball. I find the season to be too long to give any kind of gravity to games in general. Baseball is my husband's game. He loves it.

That said, I followed, at least in some abstract way, the Orioles' "magical" season this year. Baltimore was fired up. Maryland was fired up. My HOME was fired up.

A lot of people move away from home to live their adult lives, and there is nothing tragic, or pitiful, or particularly interesting about it. I don't ask, in the day-to-day, for people to recognize me as a non-Orleanian. I've no problem with embracing at least the superficial culture of this place I have adopted.

At the same time, I'm not sure there is anywhere else in this country that is as outside-culture-sucking as New Orleans. New Orleanians, and particularly New Orleans transplants with a hard-on for the culture down here, are eager to discredit the uniqueness or flavor or, goddam it, validity of other American cities. Of regions. Of other countries, for godssake. I wish I could count on my fingers the number of times someone from New Orleans has explicitly said that Nola is the only American city with any culture. I cannot.

So, Growing weary of people telling me that Marylanders can't cook or are a bunch of yanks (SOUTH of the Mason Dixon line, motherfucker, though I'm not sure it's something to be proud of), I feel just a tad attached to Maryland phenomena that unite my home people. Particularly in an election year full of just the most annoying shit, The Orioles, with their miraculous extra innings wins were a bright spot.

I recall the last time I watched Orioles playoff games. I was an awkward moody little thing. I remember home. I remember my mother being there fixing me an after school snack while I guess Mike Mussina pitched? I don't know, I remember cheering Moooooose. Like I said, this isn't about baseball.

This is about seeing people I love from home uniting over a sports thing, and it's about feeling valid and normal and human for missing the people I grew up with, and the hills, and my family, and the culture, the real, valid, actual culture that informed my childhood and that still informs me today.

I was sad to see that O's season end, because it had equated to all those feelings for me for a while, and, you know, baseball is pretty great, too, when it matters.

Quiet Moments Before a Storm

    Today was one of those uniquely New Orleans days where much of the city was glued to television sets and radios while the rest planned parties and binges. With the approach of Tropical Storm (and soon to be Hurricane) Isaac, everyone had some choices to make. As of now, most residents seem to be planning to stay, which is not unusual for a category one or two hurricane. Unless the city issues an evacuation order, many people will probably remain and ride out the storm with cases of booze and bottles of water.

    I will most likely leave. The prospect of being without power for any extended period of time with a 20 month old is not one I relish. Assuming old Ike reaches hurricane strength and continues on his path towards the Big Easy, I will flee to the safety of my in laws' house on the North Shore tomorrow morning. Tony will not be coming with Charlie and me, at least not at first, which is a stressful concept.

     This storm is relatively weak at the moment and probably poses little threat beyond some wind damage and potential power outages. Still, splitting up my family during the approach of a hurricane, particularly on the anniversary of Katrina and with certain Katrina parallels being batted around, is not my favorite thing. All in all, it has been a less than comforting day.

    All of this made the cuddly, serene moments before Charlie's bed time tonight all the more precious. Every night when I put him to bed, we sing perhaps a dozen rounds of Old McDonald before really snuggling in deep and singing our nightly lullabye, "Hush, Little Baby." It is an extremely outdated and quite bizarre-to-begin-with little song, but my mother sang it to me, and I sing it to my baby.

    While I sing, Charlie wraps his arms around my neck and nuzzles my cheek. Sometimes he lifts his head to kiss me on the mouth right in the middle of lyrics. He is extraordinarily affectionate when he is tired. Normally, when the song is over, I cradle him in my arms and walk to his crib, where I lay him down and tuck him in. Tonight, as the song approached the end, he began to pout and whimper. When I stopped singing, he pleaded, "Again, again."And so we sang "Hush, Little Baby," again, and again, and again, four times, until finally he would relent and allow me to say goodnight.

     When I carried him into his room to put him to bed, I had a million things on my mind. I needed to pack a bag for our potential evacuation, I needed to take the trash out, and I needed to check the weather just one... more... time! Our extra rounds of lullabyes gave me time to put all that aside. Sitting in a gliding chair with my child's arms around my neck and his breath on my cheek melted my stress away.

    I know these are the moments I am going to look back on with teary eyes when my baby is all grown up and off to college or another state or some lady's marriage bed. Even more than that, they are the moments that keep me sane now. Thank goodness for tiny people!

Be safe, y'all.

 

A true/false thing

   We picked M up on the side of the road on our way into Ocean City, because when you're 17 everyone is your friend. She was on dope of some kind, but we didn't dig deep, we asked her for coke, and she provided. In parking lot traffic leading up to the bridge, we cut lines on someone's AP history binder and held them to the driver's face while he kept his eyes on the road. The summer safety seminar had not been lost on us.

     When we finally made it to the hotel, M said she was gonna split, but somehow she was still there in an hour and she had mixed drinks from someone's stash, and she was sitting cross legged on the bed and telling us about her step brother who had fucked her mom's mom. She told us about her first step father's brother who had told her when she was just a baby that penises worked like baby bottles. She laughed. She cut lines. We inhaled.

    We had to cross the street to get to the boardwalk, and we had to get to the boardwalk because that is where things happened. We ran into some of M's friends on the wrong side of the road. They invited us up to their condo to take a break, and we went. We peed with the door open with guys in their 20's watching. They fed us drugs and we repaid them with door open peeing, and M slipped me some tongue. She was gentle and sad and more full of longing then anyone I had ever been intimate with before. I suddenly wanted to take her home and scrub her face and maybe share my boyfriend with her. Then she laughed and took a swig of tequila from the bottle. "This bitch is hot," she laughed, and she fell onto a couch with her tongue down a 25 year old's throat.

    I left her alone there. I had known her for 6 hours when I heard that she had been murdered. She had acted expendable, boys whispered, but she had been soft and moist and sweet when you got close enough.

     We were on the boardwalk when I heard, and I was momentarily shaken because it could have been me, in a way, but could have been me only lasts so long when you're in a place where everything can be yours. I got another hole punched in my right ear's cartilage and paid with a kiss, and we laughed and danced on the dusty planks by the beach.

    I heard she died naked and fighting, which makes it worse, somehow. One of the guys she was with was hospitalized for a few weeks with a nasty stab wound. Another turned up dead the next season. They say he tried to jump from a hotel balcony into the pool, but other people who know people who know people said he landed on concrete on purpose. Everyone agrees he was deep in a horse hole anyway and wasn't likely to come back. His sister blames that girl who had to go and get herself murdered in his hotel room.

     I dedicated close to none of myself to thoughts of the sad girl we had picked up for an evening during that week. I got drunk with my friends and flirted with men and took showers with strangers. I accepted pills and hugs and swam in the ocean. But when I got home at the end of the week and sat in the dark with just my computer's light shining on me, I could see every line in my fingers, and they looked older than they should be, and I could smell that girl somehow, and I wept.

The death of authors

Someone I've never met who feels to me
Like an oldest friend
who saw me naked
And touched me in places that aren't ok
Reading words black on white
when He can't say them anymore
And bleeding red on cream
Deprive myself of food until
I am nothing but skeletons and hatred
and a longing for someone
I never knew
But who knew me