Sow There!

Sometimes its hard to let things go. I have a ratty stuffed turtle at the back of my closet that I had when I was five. When I buy T-shirts as a keepsake from a trip, I don’t wear it so it doesn’t fade in the dryer.

There’s many more things like that I don’t want to mention, lest Tommy decide to hunt them out to make room for all my clothes.

Right now we’re shopping for a comfy couch.

I have an heirloom 1920s couch which has been in my family since I was 7. It’s a gorgeous piece of furniture and reminds me of my childhood. Mom must have had a past life in Victorian days because she always collected antiques. This was the ‘70s when antiques were “finds� at garage sales. Mom would take the dilapidated piece of furniture, put a bunch of nails in it, sand it in the back yard with paint thinner and then painstakingly stain it back to glowing splendor.

We had one room in the house which we called the “parlor.� She had the piano that badly needed to be tuned. There was the aforementioned couch. A Queen Anne chair, an ancient rocking chair. Throughout the rest of the house were other prize items. The “whatnot� made to hold gloves and umbrellas and hats. I used to pretend I was a character on “Little House on the Prairie� and take out the gloves and dance around.

Man, to be 7 again. How much fun we had pretending.

So now, I am the proud owner of the 1920s couch. It’s been re-upholstered once, about 20 years ago.

Mom said there was horse hair in there when she had it redone. I remember making out with my boyfriend on that couch in high school. Obviously the sentimental value of the couch is high.

Mom, sagely, decided I loved it so much that it was given to me. But you know, it’s so uncomfortable now, it’s just not a cuddle couch. Tommy and I rarely sit in it together. I sit in the Queen Anne Chair and he sits on the slouching cushions. On those rare occasions we might have a house guest, we tell them the couch is a mess and they would have to sleep on the cushions on the floor, and the potential house guest usually gets a hotel room.

Winter is coming and I want a snugly couch. I think we might snuggle more with a comfortable couch and maybe save on PG&E bills.

I’ll probably store the antique couch in the shed for a while, but should probably really find someone who has the room and money to bring it back to its splendor and keep it on display.

Posted by Heather Hacking at 05:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

One day a week the 9-year-old next door comes over for the evening when his mom has a night class.
This week I asked him if he wanted to play a card game or did he want to carve one of the pumpkins that has been a source of fun recently.

We laid out newspapers on the floor and gathered up a bunch of carving knives.

A loyal reader recently sent me a comment on the Sow There! blog (www.norcalblogs.com/sowthere) about a pumpkin she had gleefully carved. You carve the eyes and other optional features as usual and then carve a huge, gaping mouth. Instead of composting the pumpkin guts, you arrange the guts on the porch, coming out of the gaping mouth as if the pumpkin is heaving its guts out.

This was not my original idea. But of course I took full credit when introducing the idea to the boy.

His eyes lit up and I felt somewhat like an Auntie action figure. I can only hope I can keep improvising and appear original and fun when he is 15 and starts to think I’m as dull as Melba toast.

My niece went through that phase when she would draw black dots on her forehead and mope around the house saying “you don’t understand me.�

Diving in
Tommy carved the first eye, but I was hesitant to give Leif the knives. So I let the 9-year-old draw the outline of the remaining eye, nose and mouth with a felt pen. We carved off the top of the pumpkin and were in heaven, scooping out the slimy guts and putting them into the colander.

After separating the pulp from the seeds we enjoyed placing the slimy strands so they billowed out of the mouth of the pumpkin.

We decided there needed to be more guts and took some of the white flesh from cutting out theeye-holes and mouth and mixed them up in the Cuisinart.

When his mom got home she knew something was up because we had placed a candle in the puking pumpkin and flashed off all the house light when she pulled up in her truck.

Leify was happy and mom cracked up when she came up to the porch to bring him home.
I was happy too.

Thanks to the reader who gave this suggestion.

Of course, you can only display the pumpkin like this for a short time or you’ll get fruit flies.

We kept some of the goop in a plastic bag in the fridge so we can do it again before the pumpkin turns into a rotted mess.

On a related topic
At a barbecue we had recently, Leif’s best friend Joseph started hurling. We thought the kids were just trying to gross us out, but it turns out he was actually sick.

That Monday I got the bug and stayed home from work. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when Tommy came down with it.

This week friends and I were driving home from a day-long meeting at the Board of Supervisors. We had all sorts of things to catch up on, nothing of which had to do with the meeting, and decided to grab a bite to eat and gab.

I made a courtesy call to Tommy to tell him I was back in town and would be coming home a little late.

“Oh, OK,� he said, his voice sounding gravely and that tone that sounds like your puppy just got hit by a car.

“I’ll be here,� he said. “How long do you think you’ll be?�

“You sound weird,� I said. Did you just get up from a nap or something?�

“No. I’ve been sick all day. I haven’t been able to keep anything down.�

“Oh, boo-boo,� I said, a little embarrassed I was talking baby talk to my boyfriend with my friends in the car.

“Do you need me to pick you up anything from the store? Some 7-Up or some crackers and soup?�

“I got some gingerale from Bonnie next door. She didn’t want me to come get it because of germs and just placed it on our front porch.�

“Well,� I hesitated. “Do you need me to come home? I won’t be long. We just want to gossip a bit.�

There was a pause, that sort of pause that clearly conveys that yes, I was supposed to come home. I was supposed to come home, pat his head, fluff the pillows and stand witness if his stomach churned and he needed to run to the bathroom again.

“No. That’s OK. You just go and have fun. I’ll be here,� he said, as if choking out each word was the equivalent of labor pains.

“OK,� I said as quickly and as brightly as possible. “I’ll be home as soon as I’m done.�

My friend Jasmine and I were chatting about this, how men like to be mommied when they’re sick. She said she has a friend with a 4-year-old who she visits frequently. When the little boy is sick she makes a big deal over him, hugs him and coos and pats his head.

Lately when she has visited, she says hello to the boy and he rubs his tummy and pouts.

“How are you feeling? Are you feeling OK,� Jasmine asks.

“No, not really,� he says until she comes over and checks his forehead and gives him a few coos.

Sometimes, I like when grown men act like little boys.

Posted by Heather Hacking at 04:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I’ve decided that I am an “action news reporter.�
Why not? A lot of other people are doing it right now.
Putting that label on myself makes me feel like I have my own soundtrack and am constantly looking over my shoulder and striking a heroic pose.
If those TV reporters can call themselves “action reporters� every five minutes, certainly I could qualify to be among that self-proclaimed group.

I have the credentials. I’ve stomped around in brown boots along the Sacramento River, flown in a helicopter over groundwater recharge areas, tromped through wetlands and restoration areas, driven down dusty roads, dodged falling walnuts during harvest and listened through hundreds of hours of political wrangling.
What’s not action about that?
I think of real “action reporters� as people like Marlin Perkins on “Wild Kingdom,� racing around in helicopters and shooting tranquilizer darts at large animals. The term makes one think of those guys rolled up in parkas with hurricanes raging behind them, or camouflage-clad journalists giving their reports while gunfire erupts behind them.
This all makes me pause to think about the real “action heroes� in this community. It makes me think of Jennifer Oman, who is trying to educate people that all the gunk we put into the storm gutters runs into our creeks.
I think of Bill Such, who runs the Jesus Center. He crusades to help homeless people while encouraging the community to see them as people and not just something to avoid with your eyes.
One of my newsroom buddies brought up Tami Ritter, who worked for the homeless for years and now heads Habitat for Humanity. Another said John Nopel, who shares his fascination with history and helps us look back at our world.
I, on the other hand, will remain a self-proclaimed action figure, battling tomato hornworms and snails.

Seeing green
Weather is changing and the green tomatoes are in abundance.
About a month and a half ago I was lamenting that my tomatoes weren’t setting fruit. I had many blooms, but they would all just die off. So I contacted Cass Mutters at the Cooperative Extension office and he said to tickle the tomatoes to help pollinate them.
I taught Tommy as well and we’ve been tickling fools.
The tomato plants have responded, but now the leaves are falling from the trees and the tomatoes are big, but green.
When I first started gardening, I read that you can bring tomatoes in and have them ripen indoors. The University of Minnesota Extension Service gives some tips:
Select good-looking fruits, gently wash and store them in a dark place. The counter, a box or a plastic bag with holes in it is recommended.
They won’t be as tasty as the summer tomatoes, but they should be better than what you can buy at the store.
I tried this one year, but found it just turned into a mess. It attracted fruit flies and the fruit got all wrinkly.
Some people delight in fried green tomatoes, such as Jessica Tandy’s character in that Southern chick-flick.
The “Style� section editor was quite excited about green tomatoes when we talked recently. She said that anything, even green tomatoes, when deep fried and dipped in bread crumbs would be yummy.
Of course she is correct.
I found some simple recipes online at http://southernfood.about.com.

Baked up
Take about four green tomatoes and cut into half-inch slices. Arrange in a greased baking dish and season with salt and pepper. Add a half cup of brown sugar, about 3/4 cup buttery cracker crumbs and butter.
Bake at 350 until they’re tender, but still firm, which should be about half an hour.

Fritters
Here’s another one that sounds just a little different than your standard fried style.
Take two cups peeled and chopped green tomatoes. Combine with two cups of corn scraped from corn on the cob. Season with sugar, salt and pepper. Add two eggs and a cup of milk and enough for it just to hold everything together. Deep fry.
Another recipe calls for simply dipping tomatoes in cornmeal, adding salt and pepper and deep frying.

Posted by Heather Hacking at 05:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

About a month and a half ago I was lamenting that my tomatoes weren't setting fruit. I had many blooms, but they would all just die off. So I contacted Cass Mutters at the Cooperative Extension office and he said to tickle the tomatoes to help pollinate them.

I taught Tommy as well and we've been tickling fools.

Alas, the weather is changing and now I have all these green tomatoes, which surely will not survive a couple of cold nights and/or some rainstorms.

Do any readers have recipes or ideas for green tomatoes. I know they have the movie "Fried Green Tomatoes," and I know you can make jam out of them and whatnot, but I'd love to have some fun, new ideas to share with readers in the newspaper.

Lemme know.

H

Posted by Heather Hacking at 10:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It's rare and beautiful when a person feels "understood."

Dot first started e-mailing me about three years ago when I went to Hawaii and offered in my column that I would send a postcard to any readers who sent me their address.

She requested a postcard with a nice looking Hawaiin guy not wearing a shirt. I think I obliged.

When you have a wacky sense of humor like I do, it's nice to know there is some wacky person out there who understands it. Friends, family and significant others can provide much comfort, but its nice to know there are people who understand you outside of your close proximity.

Re: my recent post about pumpkins, Dot sent the following, bless her.

For more wacky pumkin fun, check out: http://www.extremepumpkins.com/

DOT WRITES:

Now, as to pumpkin fun. I'm sure you've seen the attached picture making the rounds on the Internet. A few years ago I decided to try that. I saved the pumpkin guts in a bag in the fridge and carved my pumpkin in the classical way with the 'saw blade' grin and triangle eyes. The day after Halloween I recarved the face to make the eyes look rounder and kind of sad, and the mouth wider and more like the one in the picture. I put out newspaper on the porch and set the pumpkin on an overturned bucket and had him 'spewing' from there. The kid across the street thought that was the coolest thing he'd ever seen. The mailman, however, thought I was insane. No accounting for taste, eh?

Dot

Posted by Heather Hacking at 10:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

My best friend next door and the nine-year-old went to the Book Family Farm. They went with my sister and niece. It was a weekday, so I’ll consider that the reason that I wasn’t invited.

The nine-year-old, Leif, proudly pointed out the three enormous pumpkins they had placed on the front porch. Bonnie can be really picky. She looks over every button when she buys a shirt to make sure that one has not been sewn poorly.

Bonnie said she and the nine-year-old spent an inordinate amount of time picking out the pumpkins. Unlike the pumpkins you buy in the big bins at the grocery story, their pumpkins were perfectly smooth, with no nicks or gashes. The stems were long and created perfect handles for carrying them. The color was the perfect Halloween orange.

These are the kind of pumpkins you would use for a photo shoot in “Sunset Magazine,� where everything looks perfectly homey and one can almost imagine the smell of warm bread wafting from the kitchen.
The nine-year-old was bragging a bit about the perfection of the pumpkins, and how good he maneuvered the corn maze.

Of course, this sounded like an invitation for me to sneak over to their house where they were watching TV and steal one of the pumpkins.

We live so close to one another that I had to muffle my laughter when I heard the screen door slam next door and heard the little guy scream: “Auntie!!!!! You took our pumpkin.�

I walked outside to see what all the fuss was about.

“What are you talking about? Oh no,� I said with just a glimmer of a smirk so he can recognize that I am teasing him. “I was thinking you shouldn’t leave those pumpkins on the front porch because some neighbor kid might steal them.�

“Nuh uh,� he said, seeing through me, of course.

Funny how fast a little kid can run. Before I could grab him to tickle him, he had raced into the house and found the pumpkin just inside the kitchen doorway.

The way that he fussed and made a tantrum, you would think I had just dropped his Gameboy in the toilet.
Of course, his reaction just made me want to steal his pumpkins again.

That night, the nine-year-old was winding down for bed and we stole two pumpkins. This time we hid them well. Tommy also hid his own bicycle so that we could pretend like someone had come by our homes and stolen both the pumpkins and Tommy’s bike.

The nine-year-old called over to our house demanding “Give me back my pumpkin,� in that kind of voice that leads one to firmly believe that his career path will not be international diplomacy.

This went back and forth for several phone calls, the kid calling us up again and again.

I called up and tried to fake a male voice and said: “This is the pumpkin police, and your Auntie said you had a report of a stolen pumpkin.�

“This isn’t the pumpkin police. This is Auntie. I can hear you talking from the front porch.�

Jovial Jim to the rescue
Desperate measures were needed. I phoned up my friend Jim and asked him to call up the nine-year-old and tell him he was with the pumpkin police and a pumpkin was found down the street that fit the description his aunt had phoned in.

Jim obliged, which set the two next door off kilter for half a second, until we could hear them giggling through the bedroom window.

The next day I spent a great deal of time at the big bin at the grocery store picking out the best pumpkin I could find. It was scratched only on one side.

As soon as Bonnie and the nine-year-old drove up Wednesday night, I could hear Bonnie whispering for him to grab my pumpkin, which he promptly placed on the front porch with a giant grin.

We plan to carve at least one each this week.

Sow There! World Headquarters pumpkin experts suggest that you draw out the fun of the Halloween season by carving several pumpkins one at a time to stretch it out. First off, carving is difficult and most of us are not skilled. But the real point of pumpkin carving is to eat the pumpkin seeds.

Rinse the pulp from the seeds in a colander. Mix with salt and butter and bake at 300 degrees until golden brown. For variation, try garlic or other favored spices.

Actual useful information
I looked up some tips on the Internet about pumpkin carving.
There are details at the Web site www.pumpkincarving101.com.
The self-proclaimed “Pumpkin Wizard,� not to be confused with the pumpkin police, can be found at www.carvingpumpkins.com.

He had some cool preservation tips. Nobody likes a moldy pumpkin on their front porch or in the bay window.

The Pumpkin Wizard points out that it’s bacteria that makes the pumpkins rot. So wash your hands with anti-bacteria soap before carving. After all the “guts� have been scooped out of the “punkin,� spray the shell with Lysol.

He also suggests carving the opening at the bottom of the pumpkin, rather than the top. This makes it easier to place the candle at the bottom and also does not create as much air-flow, which adds to rotting. Petroleum jelly can be rubbed around the cutting, to keep it from drying out. Also, keep the pumpkin in a dark place, or preferably in the refrigerator, when not being illuminated.

Pumpkin love
Last year Tommy and I had a pumpkin sitting on the front porch for a few weeks. We had already carved one with the aforementioned nine-year-old, who was then known as the “eight-year-old next door.

When I got home, Bonnie and the eight-year old were standing outside in the yard that separates our front doors. I was unloading my purse and was kinda tired after work. It was dark and the porch light was not turned on as usual.

It took me a second to notice the bay window, where Tommy had placed his gift. Bonnie and the eight-year-old gave it away actually, by being too obvious about looking toward the window.

There was the “punkin,� illuminated with a white candle and the words: “I love you� carved in the orange flesh.

Hmmm. I wonder what he could do to top that this year?

Hmmm. Maybe stop watching “CSI.�

(See Oct. 12 blog "Time to turn off the television).

Sow There! loves thinking about dressing up for Halloween and snacking on “punkin� seeds. Happy Birthday today my sister Sunrise. For feedback, send to P.O. Box 9, Chico CA 95927 or hhacking@chicoer.com.

Posted by Heather Hacking at 11:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

For the longest time I didn’t allow the television to be turned on, except for renting movies. When Tommy and I first started dating I told him that the clear sign that it was “the beginning of the end� when a couple resorted to sitting around watching television instead of talking, taking walks or playing games.

He must have really wanted to woo me, because last year he didn’t even watch the baseball playoffs.

When he was out of work for a while because he almost lost his finger in an accident, he was a bit crabby. I was less than my normal loving and adoring self. We had a spat one night and just to be rude, I defiantly clicked on the television. He knew eggzactly what statement I was making.

Funny thing is, after not watching it for a while, watching those silly television commercials was kind of funny. Television commercials can be clever the first time you see it, before you have seen the same commercial 15 times in a single hour-long program and become numb like a teenager tuning out a nagging mother.

At first Tommy was really excited to watch all those “CSI� shows that he loves, and I was excited to use that time to yak on the phone with my girlfriends.

I even got into that reality show “Rock Star, Supernova� and was seriously sad and a little lost on Tuesday nights when it ended.

But after awhile television has started to become really annoying again.

There’s not just “CSI.� Now there’s “CSI, New York� and “CSI, Miami.� I’m waiting for them to go full-board and have “CSI, Pocatella, Idaho.�

Don’t get me started on the rest of them, such as “Cold Case� and “Without a Trace.�

Promo photo for “CSI, NY�

I hate the blood and gore of these shows and if I do watch them (because no girlfriend is reachable by phone) I’ll groan when all the beautiful people somehow sleuth through the cases as if they are psychics.

The women wear tight shirts with the top buttons undone. The guys look like they’re in GQ Magazine. I’ve interviewed detectives at the Chico PD, and believe me, none of them look or dress like that.

Also, even in a relatively small town like Chico, with really good investigators, complicated cases don’t piece themselves all together in two days. When watching one of the “CSI� shows, I know that if I look at my watch 10 minutes before the show is due to be over, we’re due for an impassioned confession by the criminal.

For once, I’d like to see the guy not confess and the show continued. Maybe they could even have a really good court drama on directly after the “CSIs.� The incredibly gorgeous attorneys would have to try the case and piece together the evidence we just saw on the crime show the hour before. They could even intertwine the stories. The crime from the “CSI, Des Moines� could somehow be linked to some crimes on “CSI, New Orleans.�

But I have an even better idea. I think I’m going to ask Tommy to go back to the days when we played a lot of pinball and made up stories about our neighbors while we were taking walks at night.

Posted by Heather Hacking at 01:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Tommy pulled a Lucy Ricardo.
We've all done that in our lives, a moment when we are a total dork and manifest a silly scenario worthy of 1950's sitcoms.
We were staying at my mother's house in Redding. Mom left us a key and said we could have the run of the house. She has a hot-tub and a beautiful garden, not to mention the "white room" which is filled with white lace and a comfortable mattress. If mom doesn't open a B&B upon retirement it will be a travesty.
There is lattice on her back porch with white Christmas lights and little tree frogs slightly larger than a quarter that climb up the wall of the house. They peek up from the little trays that set under her outdoor house plants.
We've named them all after Russian dancers.
What's not to love?
Tommy and I pretended like we were staying at a bed and breakfast. It was all very authentically bed and breakfast style except for the moment where we write a big-fat check.

An added bonus was that mom did not mind that we brought eight loads of laundry. What a great person I was born from.
We went to the center of the Sundial Bridge, in the middle of the Sacramento River, and danced to the swing band that was playing landside. We weren't the only ones dancing, so the feeling of being big-time dorks was lessened.
At one point Tommy wanted a picture with me and the chicken and the security guard.
I toyed with using my fake Swedish tourist accent, but after practice on some German tourists I decided it wasn't authentic enough. So plan B was to tell the security guard we were traveling from Colorado and I asked him to pose with me.
Of course, he was from Colorado. Hmmmm. I told him I was from Boulder.
But that's another story.

After the night was over at our pseudo B&B, we turned into house maids to repair some damage we had done to Mom's house.
While I was showering in the outdoor shower near the alstromeria, Tommy was securing the dishes in the dishwasher.
We were about to switch places and I was cleaning up the counter when the soap started bubbling up out of the dishwasher.
I couldn't help but crack up and let it continue to bubble over the bottom of the machine. I can't remember if it was an "I Love Lucy" episode, "The Brady Bunch" or Michael Keaton in "Mr. Mom" where they had a scene where soap in the washing machine and bubbles filled up the laundry room. Possibly it was all three. Everyone has had a mishap with liquid soap in a washing appliance.
The soap bubbled up all over Mom's floor, gurgling and hissing like a rabid dog.
I must admit, thankfully, that I have never actually been a witness of a rabid dog.
Tommy came out in a towel and ran around for about a minute with his hand on his forehead.
I said words of encouragement such as: "Lucy, you have a lot of 'splaning to do."
He had used Ivory soap because Mom was out of dishwasher soap.
Note to everyone, if you need to, substitute dry laundry soap.
Tommy stated simply: "Next time I'll let you do the dishes."

Divide and conquer
Of note at mom's house is the lack of irises.
My neighbor Curious George inherited a bed of irises from the previous tenant that are woefully in need of dividing.
I consider it a public service to help him with his dilemma.
Irises do well in Chico and tootling about town on my bicycle I have seen entire yards dedicated to them.
It makes one wonder about people who would devote their entire yard to one plant, which blooms during one season and then is done. Here I am trying to find some magical balance between perennials and seasonal bloomers. Now I've been focusing on 'mums.
George is out of town so my plan is to liberate him of some of his under-needed irises under cover of darkness.
I have permission, of course.
The Iowa State University Web site has some tips for dividing irises, to which I have added some Sow There! wisdom.
Gather up your tools: Sturdy trowel, garden hose, plastic bag, cute boyfriend, preferably whom is not wearing a shirt, optional -- flashlight. Soak irises the day before so ground is damp, but not soggy, or wait for October rain.
Have boyfriend (or other significant other or relative) carefully dig up the rhizomes. There should be a thing that looks like a dried carrot on the surface of the soil. Attached are roots that go down 4-6 inches. Shake the dirt from the roots and carefully lay the rhizomes into the plastic bag.
It's pretty simple, so don't stress out. Plus, if a few die in transport, you're still doing a good thing for the irises as irises quit blooming if not divided after 3-4 years.
If you don't have any friends, or a mom to give the plants to, travel by night and plant them in an empty lot or at someone's house whose lawn has been ravaged by gophers and moles.
Iowa State suggests adding well rotted manure or compost into the soil where the iris will be replanted.
Space 12-24 inches apart.
Give cute boyfriend or significant other an "atta-boy."
Don't expect most excellent results the first year. The second and third year should produce more appreciated blooms.

For info. on dividing perennials, another noble garden autumn task, check
out. www.garden.org.

Posted by Heather Hacking at 02:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

When my niece was young, maybe 12 years old, we would play a story-telling game on car trips. We call it the "AND" game. The way it works is the storyteller gets to tell a story, but if she says the word “and� her turn ends and someone else continues.
This is invariably frustrating because just as you get to some important turning point in the story, you get excited and say the word “and,� ending your turn.
The next person continues the story and takes it in an entirely different direction.
Sometimes the beloved character so painstakingly developed would be bitten by a rattlesnake and tragically die. Other times space aliens would rip apart the Native American village you had constructed, putting your fictitious characters in a space ship headed for Roswell, N.M.
Over time everyone had become bored playing the game with me. I had learned many alternatives for the word “and,� so I could tell a story for 45 minutes and never give anyone a chance to chime in.
My niece, Cassie, however, liked hearing my stories. I’d craft romantic epics with a teenage girl in 1905 who fell in love with a pioneer who had become separated from his caravan. Despite a misunderstanding with her father early in the epic, the young man would prove his love and become accepted by the village dwellers.

Last weekend Tommy and I visited my mother in Redding. The next day Mom traveled to Paradise to spend time with my niece and sister.
I phoned up to say hello to the three of them, and was told my mother was taking a nap.
HEATHER: “Hey,� I said to my niece who is now 22, “Did Nani (grandma) tell you about the wild night we had last night?�
CASSIE: “No. What?�
HEATHER: “No way, I can’t believe she didn’t tell you.�
CASSIE: “What? What?�
HEATHER: (Laughing). “Tommy and I went to the grocery store and we ran into this guy, Vladimir, who is a Russian dancer.�
CASSIE: “Oh yeah?�
HEATHER: “Yeah, I did an interview on this guy about five years ago when he was dancing with his troupe at Laxson. I liked him a lot and I guess they had a gig at the Redding Convention Center or something.
“So I invited him over to dinner at Nani’s house and he said sure. I guess there was a problem with the translation because when he showed up he had his whole Russian dancing troupe with him, like eight guys.�
CASSIE: “That’s funny. I bet Nani was happy."
HEATHER: “Yes, she was amazing. Somehow she found enough food to whip up this really great meal. The guys could barely fit at the dining table. Everyone was waving their arms around, since it was difficult to understand them since we don’t speak Russian and they barely speak English.�
CASSIE: (Laughing). “Wow, I bet she did have to hustle to pull that off.�
HEATHER: “Yes, it was pretty wild. Even though they are Russian, for some reason they were all drinking Ouzo, which is Greek.�

CASSIE: “Is that the stuff that tastes like licorice?�
HEATHER: “Yes. That’s the stuff. They got pretty wild and did a big dance demonstration in the back yard. Apparently one of the traditions with Ouzo is that you’re supposed to break plates.
"So Nani had a bunch of plates in one of the boxes in the garage and she said it was OK to break them because she would do some craft project later and make mosaic stepping stones.
(This is entirely something my mother would do if she happened to have some broken plates lying around).
CASSIE: “That so sounds like Nani.�
HEATHER: “I know.
“So, the lead guy, Vladimir, even gave mom his phone number. He’s kind of cute actually, but he was pretty drunk on Ouzo and forgot to write out the country code.
"Mom won’t call him I bet, but if she wanted to she could just look in the phone book and find the country code for Russia.
"It doesn't matter anyway, Mom won’t call anyway.�
CASSIE: “Do you want me to wake up Nani, she’s taking a nap.�
HEATHER: “No, that’s OK. She's probably exhausted. Just tell her I called and tell her I put all the bottles in the recycling bin.�

Later that night I got a call from my mother. Apparently she had woken up and my sister and niece were angry at her. Why had she had not told them about the wild night she had had with me and Tommy and the Russian dancers?
Mom was just waking up and was caught a little off guard. She kept denying that anything like that had happened.
My sister and niece thought she was lying and was denying it to protect me so that they wouldn't get mad at me for corrupting her and/or putting her at risk with a bunch of drunken, dancing, plate-breaking visitors.
My mother gave me a stern lecture that if I make up a wild story I should always end it with the words: “I just made that all up.�
I guess I took for granted that my family knew I had a wild imagination.
My niece later got on the phone and cracked up because there were so many details in the story that rang true. Cassie has a set of dishes she has stored in my mother’s garage. Recently they had the discussion that my niece had bought a new set of dishes and that mom would take the old set to the Salvation Army.
Who knew?
Also, it seemed so much like my mother to use something like broken plates to make mosaic stepping stones.

I guess my mother is right. You do have to end a wild yarn with the words: "I just made all that up."

Posted by Heather Hacking at 03:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)