Bunny Gone Wild

Mr. Starlet loves Halloween. Almost as much as corndogs. In the Starlet household, that’s saying something.

Naturally, Mr. Starlet was a little dismayed when I informed him that we would not be dressing in costume this year in deference to Punk’s sensibilities and yet undamaged psyche. No black cape. No face paint. No fangs. No scary utterances. No blood-stained battle ax. No plastic Uzi. No skull-topped staff.

And no, we will not dress Punk as a devil.

It was even with great trepidation that I agreed to take Punk to Party City in Gastonia, where gore and ghouls abound. But we did.

We had a plan. Mr. Starlet was going to distract her from the ‘Wall O’ Horrors’ while I retrieved Punk’s costume. He was not going to make a beeline for the makeshift “Chop Shop” and let Punk gum a roughly severed hand. But he did.

The fact that Punk was none the wiser only spurred him on--directly to the “Armory Gone Awry” where he introduced her to various torture devices and blood-stained instruments.

When I turned around to find Punk gleefully wielding a battle ax, I knew that Mr. Starlet’s paternity could never again be denied.

Is there genetic counseling available for this?

Eventually, I disarmed Punk through distraction—“confuse and conquer” as my grandmother would say—and wrangled on her costume.

She may have Mr. Starlet’s affinity for all things terrifying, but she still makes a pretty cute bunny. We only briefly considered pacifying her intrigue and Mr. Starlet’s gruesome obsession by making her an ax-wielding bunny. Only briefly.

After shuffling ourselves, two sizes of costumes, and one out-of-place battle ax out of the dressing room, we found a Punk-sized treat bucket in which to collect our—er, her—Halloween candy.

While I may still have my doubts about contributing much to Punk beyond one chromosome and a womb in which to gestate, I have a sneaking suspicion that this tiny barbarian in training may be mine after all.

Starlet women always hold out for the candy.

Dashed Dreams

Mr. Starlet and I have almost always found the "City of Pleasant Living" to live up to its name, save for some unique culinary preferences that have on at least one occasion forced us to prematurely flee a restaurant. (Trust me, it was necessary in a "Stand By Me" pie-eating contest kind of way.)

While we've developed quite an affinity for homemade sweet potato fries, hush puppies, cornbread, and Paula Deen, there are some local delicacies that you'll never see in the Starlet Kitchen. Food items containing the name of a major organ, the word "fat," or listsing its main ingredients as carbonated water, high fructose corn syrup, and citric acid are considered the eighth, ninth, and tenth deadly sins.

Similarly, I think "Smoked Salmon and Chives Cheesecake," sounds completely unpalatable. Still, I would have enjoyed seeing it prepared. I might have even braved sampling a slice if offered. And I would have if "teachmgood" hadn't also entered a contest giving away two tickets to this year's Taste of Home Cooking School.

Less than 25 people entered to win by leaving a comment on The Star's website.

My own comment was short, honest, and a bit neurotic. In other words, it was a perfect self-reflection.

Less than two hours later, "teachmgood," posted a lengthy, albeit humorous description of how her 10-year old daughter's cooking skills dwarf her own. Immediately I knew had no chance of winning the tickets.

And I didn't. And I didn't attend the Taste of Home Cooking School. Again.

While I sincerely hope "teachmgood" is not an English teacher, I do hope that she gained some practical tips that will elevate her skills to a level of which her daughter can be proud, as much as a pre-teen can be proud of her mom without risking mass social embarassment.

Which isn't much, as I shamefully recall.

Especially when reindeer antlers are involved.

On your high school campus.

So, "teachmgood" and daughter, cook on. I cannot pretend to be affronted by a decision I wholeheartedly agree with.

Put out, maybe. Dejected, certainly. But affronted? No. Not really.

OK, maybe a little. But it's not as if I'd wish you curdles in your cheesecake, bones in your salmon puree, or lumps in your crust. Or anything like that, you know.

But if it happened...

In Stitches (Still)

Sadly, Punk is still sick. So while I attempt to scrub off the dried snot on my chest, shoulders, and arms, here are more images of the stunning efforts of the Foothills Quilters Guild (FQG).

The show was much larger than it was in 2007, with quilts of all sizes, designs, and colors truly filling the entirety of the Cleveland County Arts Council. And while I wasn't the only one there with a camera, I was the only one there who used it---every five feet---much to the chagrin of all those I blocked, photographed, and elbowed. Eh, I was on a personal tour with Leah Day!

Speaking of which. I told you she was this year's ribbon stealer.

There were a lot of earthtones in this year's quilts. This one, in particular, caught my eye because unbeknownst to the artist, it captured my two favorite things in a quilt--earthtones and stars. Who wouldn't love to wrap up in this quilt with a cup of hot cocoa in hand?

And then there were show-offs, like the woman who pieced this teeny, tiny thing. The hexagonal pieces were smaller than a dime. I paused in front of this one for quite some time, trying desperately to figure out how piecing such a quilt was possible. While I still haven't figured it out, I've concluded that a lot of Valium was likely involved. And she probably has a new eyeglass prescription to go along with her first-place ribbon.

One of my favorite Shelby residents and professional quilters, Mary Henry, hand-appliqued this adorable wall-hanging. Not only were her colors perfectly selected, but they're eggs! I love eggs. They're so versatile. So healthy. So vital to a good meringue.


In addition to quilts submitted by FQG members, quilts from a traveling exhibit, "America the Beautiful," were also on display. Each quilt represented a unique interpretation of the theme. Some were extremely poignant. Some were just plain odd, such as the quilt featuring a chicken coddling a puppy. You can see it in the lower left. Yes, a chicken and a puppy.

When you stumble across such a piece, you can only wonder if perhaps the (gulp!) artist is genius on a level you can only hope to someday understand. Um, yeah.


Then there was this piece. Simple. Significant. Heart-wrenching.


The story below detailed the quilt's creation and several hundred recreations, inspired and sent to untold numbers of soldiers wounded in the Middle East.


But by far, the quilt that drew the most smiles was this depiction of "Shelby North Pole," featuring some familiar businesses.

Such as "The Beaded Flamingo," a cute little nook inside Alley Quilts, the "ooh"- and "aww"- inspiring studio of Mary Henry and Paula Barringer. Both are as cute as a button and incredibly talented.

It won Judge's Choice and my vote for Viewer's Choice. OK, I didn't take the time to vote. But if I had, this would have been it. (Sorry, Leah!)

But the quilt show would not be complete without vendors, whose goods delight the senses and hurt the wallet. My favorite is always Brenda Arrowood's School House Quilts. She has an overwhelming amount of books, mouth-watering fabrics, and every tool and notion ever invented. Ever.

Such talent. Such beauty. Such inspiration. Sigh.

In Stitches (Not Really)

When Monday saw me hiding behind a colleague’s large coif to avoid Shelby’s finest reporters instead of peacefully devouring a day-old sandwich while flipping through a well-worn Robin Maxwell novel in the darkened recess that is my office, I knew I had an hour coming to me.

I knew few better ways to spend it than at the Cleveland County Arts Council, viewing the Foothills Quilters Guild quilt show, “In Stitches,” Friday afternoon.



The hour was made even more perfect by spending it side-by-side with my dear friend, quilting guru, and this year’s ribbon stealer, Leah Day.


Leah is both brilliant and certifiably insane. She recently challenged herself to design a new quilting filler stitch every day for a year. A year. The blog she uses to chronicle her journey is attracting a lot of attention.

And as offers pour in for all-expenses-paid trips to teach workshops in Bermuda—in November!—I am reminded how jealous I am of Leah’s creative genius. And her cleaning lady. Yet, she is forgiving of my comparable idiocy, never bats an eye when I call her to troubleshoot a sewing machine ‘malfunction’ that is always user error, and generously flatters by giving me advanced copies of her myriad of quilting products.

She is a pioneer in her field not just because she is transforming the way quilters use their stitches but because she is young. So young in fact that at the North Carolina Symposium, where her stunning quilt, “The Duchess”, earned a first-place ribbon for machine quilting, she was told by an ignorant fellow quilter, “You must just be getting into quilting.”

Yes, Leah’s just getting into quilting like Ford is just getting into mass assembly.


Her show-stopping quilt (literally--it created quite a crowd at the entry), "Release Your Light," was inspired by a dream and speaks to the release of creativity.

As she is exceptionally humble and at times self-depricating, Leah will only casually reference the 300+ hours to handpaint this wholecloth masterpiece.

300. Hand paint. See, I told you. Leah is certifiably insane.

And there were times during the quilt's creation that Leah thought she was losing it as well. But, she still has both ears attached. Or at least she appears to. She is a remarkable handpiecer as well. Hmm.

The quilting, as always, is impeccable. The quilt a showcase of a myriad of intricate filler stitches. The back of the quilt just as breathtaking as the front.

Yet, Leah is just one of many exceptionally talented members of the Foothills Quilters Guild. And they all outdid themselves this year.

Later, I'll post some of my favorites from the show. But don't wait for me! The show continues this weekend and only happens every two years. Admission is only $3.00 at the door and a beautiful raffle quilt still awaits awarding.

Plus, I have it on good authority that Leah just might make another appearance today. Just look for the quiet, unassuming young woman who most pass by without knowing that a rising quilting star is in their midst...

Anything for Punk

Long ago, I discovered that motherhood is walking a fine line between two camps of thought: “Knowledge is power,” and “Ignorance is bliss.” For this very reason, a mother invented the 10-Second Rule and all enthusiastically subscribe to it.

While we know that a fallen pacifier is less clean than it was seconds earlier, we don’t know that it fell into a cesspool of salmonella exactly. And if it did, surely the ear-piercing screams of our now empty-mouthed child--or our own for that matter--have momentarily stunned said bacteria, delaying launch of its primordial offensive for at least 10 seconds.

Besides, we have a plethora of counter-offenses at our disposal. Some even involve alcohol. Ooh.

But then cold and flu season arrives and with it the reality that, “The less we know, the more we suspect.”

Our maternal senses become keenly attuned to the signs of viral invasion. A sneeze. A cough. Flushed cheeks. Love of liver mush. An unexplained nose twitch. We alter shopping routes to avoid aisles 8 through 12 because we hear someone sneeze in aisle 10. We cancel play dates because we learn a sister of a friend’s third cousin twice removed had a runny nose last week.

This is all to say that I got a flu shot last week.

Which I haven’t done since 1992 when I recall the needle was 3-feet long, ½” in diameter and hurt. Really, really hurt.

They still hurt, but I love Punk. And as a mother, you can’t put a price on being healthy.

Although Walgreen’s can--$24.99 to be exact.

As I waited, I calculated how much I’d saved by not getting a flu shot for the past 16 years. $399.84. Then I estimated how much I’d not saved by tempting the viral fates and quickly asked to be moved to the head of the line.

But I was the head of the line.

My 16 year rebellion came to an end at 4:45 p.m. that afternoon. If the pharmacist was slightly shocked when I pulled a camera out of my purse, she was absolutely beside herself when I asked for a sticker.

Yes, I love Punk, but I’m also a sucker for gimmicks. Especially heart-shaped stickers upon which Punk’s name is boldly emblazoned—OK, quickly scrawled by an annoyed pharmacist—announcing to all who saw it that it was for her that I got my flu shot.

Punk was most appreciative.

In return, she gave me a cold. And then thrush. At least we can say she knows how to share. Every night, we play “Rock, Paper, Scissors” for use of the humidifier.

Punk always wins by a smile.

Ode to a Dead Crockpot

When asked to name the five things they’d save in a house fire, most people include pictures, people, and pets. But why doesn’t anyone say, “the house”? After all, the question doesn’t imply that the house is ill-fated, just on fire.

But for foodies like me, a more intriguing twist on this thought-provoker would be, “What five things would you save in a kitchen fire?”

Major appliances are out. As are small kitchen tools. (Spatulas are a dime-a-dozen.) Beloved recipe books might make the list. An inherited serving dish perhaps. The KitchenAid mixer, of course.

But what about the crockpot?

Yes, the crockpot. That unwieldy beast that’s taking up far too much room in your cupboard.

I hate lifting my crockpot. I hate programming my crockpot. I hate cleaning my crockpot. Or at least I did until one day its underappreciated programmable panel refused to light.

Suddenly and without warning, my crockpot died. Oh, I tried to resuscitate it. When I grew weary, I called Mr. Starlet in for a consult. We even performed emergency surgery. In the end, my crockpot lay in pieces, the meal inside festered in its salmonella-laden juices.

As Mr. Starlet and I grieved over our now ruined dinner plans and considered taking legal action against whomever had so poorly prepared it for our recent move, I realized that I had not just lost my crockpot. No, I had lost my faithful friend. My sous-chef. My go-to on a busy day. My silent supporter of culinary sloth.

With great reverence, we moved its pieces to our garage and then, a few days later, to the garbage can. All the while, we wondered how we could ever replace this beloved appliance.

By going to Target, of course. Which we did that afternoon.

And while I’ll spare you from drawing comparisons between pulling the new crockpot out of its box to a rebirth of my love for all things crock, I’ll just say that my crockpot is on my list of five thing to save in a house fire.

But only if there’s time to run back in after carrying my KitchenAid mixer to safety.

Discovering the Fetal Position

Moments in which I’ve felt like a domestic diva are few and far between.

I’m only mildly embarrassed when a visiting friend’s toddler picks up a dust bunny from the kitchen floor and asks her mother with great concern to identify the strange object. And green, gelatinous sludge from the avocado pie that went to rot in the garage refrigerator made the move with us.

However, there are some glorious moments in my past that have, at least temporarily, defined me as a homemaker extraordinaire. Such as when my husband marveled at the “Rocky Road Mallow Blooms” I concocted one evening. With extreme deference, he asked, “Are you sure you want me to eat one?”

Saturday saw yet another proverbial feather added to my diva apron when by 9:00 a.m. I had baked two dozen Chocolate Chip, Pecan, and Coconut Cookies and cooked a stack of nearly perfect Sour Cream Pancakes.



While my KitchenAid mixer was mixing the batter, I was whisking together the pancake ingredients. While I was dropping mounds of cookie dough onto the baking sheet, the pancake griddle was warming. While the cookies were baking, I was flipping pancakes precisely 1 minute after first pouring the batter on the hot, buttered griddle.

I was in my element.

After devouring the pancakes and speculating that they were possibly better than IHOP’s specialties, we delivered the cookies to our new neighbors, The Wraps.

My stride was confident. My chest puffed with pride. My smile bright. I was confident that they would enjoy the cookies as much as had. (We had to sample a few to make they were edible, of course.)

Until The Wrap's eldest tried a cookie, made a face, and stood at the side of the driveway, pulling out all of the chopped pecans. He then declared that the cookies were too hard for his younger brother to eat. And he didn’t ask for another.

As much as I wanted to defend my cookie to this future Gordon Ramsay, I decided it was best not to get into a petty argument with someone a third my age. Instead, Mr. Starlet tried to make light of the situation by assuring me that if they truly didn’t like the cookies, “they can just throw them away.”

Soon after, I discovered that the fetal position is quite comfortable.

Going Giddy

Few inanimate objects make me as giddy at my KitchenAid mixer. I coveted it for years. I publicly and frequently swore that if Mr. Starlet and I were to ever become engaged, a KitchenAid mixer would be the first item added to our registry. We did. It was.

But the obsession didn’t end there. Oh no.

When Mr. Starlet and I prepared to buy our first home in Shelby, I critiqued every house we toured with one question in mind:

“Will the color of the kitchen counter tops complement my Empire Red KitchenAid mixer?”

Eventually, we purchased a home with brilliant black granite countertops. Then we sold it. Now my mixer sits on nondescript Corian. My mixer and I are a bit depressed by this.

We’re seeking therapy.

Together.

Today’s session was homemade whipped cream. It’s quite simple, actually.

Two ingredients: whipping cream and sugar.

Add them together. Whip until peaks form. My mixer performed beautifully.

And then I needed an intervention. What to do with all that light and airy whipped cream?

4:30 p.m. is definitely too early for Rocky Road ice cream. We haven’t any cookies in the house. And just when I considered dipping prunes—desperate times do call for desperate measures—my eyes settled upon one of Mr. Starlet’s favorite food groups: Vanilla Wafers.

Add a dollop of cream to the backside of a wafer. Put another wafer on top and voila: Vanilla Wafer Cream Sandwiches. Simple, sweet, and without the guilt of Rocky Road ice cream.

If Mr. Starlet wants to see his Vanilla Wafers, he should hurry home soon. My mixer and I are making great progress…

When Cookies Go Flat

When Mr. Starlet decided that he could not palette ice cream for dessert for the umpteenth day in a row, he asked for cookies. Normally, this request would send me gleefully running to the kitchen.

This particular evening, however, I turned the tables on him. If he wanted cookies, he had to make them. I had a promise to fulfill within the next 12 hours, most of which I intended to spend sleeping.

A few dilemmas arose, all of which I expertly solved. He softened the butter in the microwave, capped off the measuring cup with Splenda after the sugar ran out, and even began dropping the finished dough by teaspoonfuls onto the cookie sheet.

I was only slightly alarmed when those teeny tiny mounds of cookie dough looked like curdled soup. But when the cookies came out of the oven flatter than Wylie Coyote, the questions started flying.

Mr. Starlet: Why are these cookies so flat?

Me: I don’t know. Did you remember to add the baking soda?

Yes. Of course I remembered to add the baking soda.

Did you melt the butter or just soften it?

I softened it.

What is just soft or mostly melted?

It was softened.

[Silence as we look at each other askance .]

Maybe it’s because the baking soda is two thousand years old.

What?! The baking soda is not two thousand years old. I just bought it.

When?

Um, sometime this year.

In the spirit of Dr. Seuss, we decided that a “cookie is a cookie no matter how flat.” And we ate them.

Later, I learned that there are a number of ways he—er, we—went wrong. Apparently, softening the butter in the microwave is a big no-no. As is using all butter. (Best to use half butter, half shortening.) And our cookie sheet is not even a cookie sheet. No, a cookie sheet has only one raised side. A baking sheet has four. (Imposter!)

This is why some people only eat cookie dough.

Dinner with The Quicks

In our last home, Mr. Starlet and I entertained very little. Very little.


We had the best of intentions when expressing to friends that we'd enjoy having them over for dinner, but rarely did we follow through with an invitation. I can count on one hand the number of times we entertained family and friends.


Make that half a hand. (Although can you really entertain .5 times? Maybe if the food is only half eaten. Or if only half your guests show. Or if said guests stay only half as long as expected. But then, you clearly haven't entertained them, have you?)


When we moved into our new house, we vowed to fill our it with food, family, and friends. And tonight we upheld that vow with a dinner invitation to The Quicks.


Mrs. Quick and I are recently made friends, our bond forged by a common interest in surviving motherhood. Our children are our pride and joy, and their births our breaks from sanity.


Mr. Quick is a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. Mr. Starlet has an inherent aversion to most things healthy. There was no question that tonight's menu had to feature "Marlboro Man's Favorite Sandwich."


It's not just a meaty sandwich. It's sloppy. It's perfectly seasoned. And it takes at least 1/2 cup of butter to prepare. It's the kind of sandwich that will clog your arteries, but tastes so good that you don't mind that the average 80-year lifespan is no longer in the cards for you.


You'll just have to live it up more than some. OK, more than most.


Unless you counteract it with intense physical exercise. Running a marathon after dinner might help. Or, chasing housebound cats in circles as The Quicks' eldest did.


If only I had known how entertaining our otherwise lifeless cats were. I wouldn't have spent 30 minutes covering the dining room table in leftover packing paper so that this not-so-itty-bitty could color on the table while the adults got lost in Heart Attack Heaven.


On second thought, I would have. Crayons are fun. And there are few things more entertaining than watching a child correct her father that the "blue" crayon he intended to teasingly steal from her isn't blue but grey. Take that crayon stealer!


(And because I personally thought it was "black," I'm reminded that I desperately need some new eyeglasses...)


Like I said, motherhood is to be survived.

Pretty Things

Mr. Starlet and I have a punk(in). She's tiny. She's beautiful. She drools. She often stinks. And she's infinitely curious.

When we had occasion to visit Uptown Shelby yesterday, I promised Punk an afternoon of art and local culture. Nevermind that to her a stationary ceiling fan is a piece of art worthy of lengthy admiration.

With Punk strapped securely in her stroller and along with her 50+ pounds of baby-caring "essentials", we made our way to the Cleveland County Arts Council.

And that's where our afternoon of admiring "pretty things" nearly came to a halt.

Despite the lack of signage, I found what I could only assume was the handicap ramp, yet it was littered with an uncollected newspaper, an old broom, and some planters that made it appear unnavigable (and it nearly was). I apologized to Punk and resigned to window shopping around the Courthouse Square.

Moments later, we found ourselves in front of Buffalo Creek Gallery. Inside, we made the acquaintance of one very talented local potter, Tricia Woodland.

Buffalo Creek Gallery is a cooperative art gallery, run by the same artists who display in it. It was merely good fortune that brought Punk and I into the gallery while it was under Tricia's care.

Normally when in art galleries, I try to appear unassuming. Achieve a level of invisibility. Avoid engaging in any conversations whatsoever. After all, I am still rueing the day when in another local gallery I confidently inquired about the price of a painting I admired and was told a figure that was easily three times my then checking account balance.

However, when you're loudly wrangling an overburdend stroller over the threshhold of a very quiet art gallery, you're bound to be noticed. And notice us Tricia did.

To my surprise, however, Tricia proved to be equally unassuming herself. It was only toward the end of our visit that she informed me that she was a potter. It was only when I asked about her work that she pointed out her display.

Brilliant blue vases and plates. Whimsical wide-mouthed frogs. A brown and white glazed dish with a ruffled edge. The best of nature captured in each piece.

We talked about her inspirations. She described a haven of a studio in Cherryville. When I asked if she envisions what each piece she makes might be used for, she said she doesn't--beauty and function is the eye of the beholder. If you want to hang a piece, she'll happily tell you what type of equipment you need to do so. If you plan to use a piece as a serving dish for shrimp, she'll grin in appreciation.

Just don't immediately declare of her wide-mouthed frogs, "That's what you put a sponge in!" This elicits from her a sigh and a grimace. Like me, Tricia has a personal vendetta against germs, especially bacteria-ridden sponges. No, her frogs are trained for much greater things. Perhaps as a candy dish. Or even better, a planter for a Venus Flytrap. (How appropriate!)

Tricia is an artist worth watching. Her art worth adorning any home.

Plus, she saved Punk's and my afternoon outing by calling over to the Arts Council to ensure that someone would be able to assist us if we tried accessing the building again. We did. There was.

And in that moment, I learned to not only appreciate art, but the artist behind it.

Never Eaten

Mr. Starlet and I recently entertained four house guests who traveled no less than 4,000 miles to help us move approximately 15.

Moving is an evil necessity. This move was made even more so when one houseguest's insulin went missing for 30 minutes, another suffered an animal attack, and a third nearly passed out from heat exhaustion.

To reward--er, beg for their forgiveness--Mr. Starlet and I treated each to one of our favorite local restaurant's, Chen's.

I believe that Chen's is one of the many reasons why Shelby is called "The City of Pleasant Living." Their Honey Sesame Chicken is delectable. Their Spicy Ginger Shrimp divine. And Mr. Starlet's standby, Sweet and Sour Chicken, has not received a bad review yet. (A true indicator of just how good Chen's really is!)

Their portions are huge and their servings of steamed rice quite generous. Mr. Starlet and I do not particularly care for steamed rice. We're fried rice kind of people. Sadly, because steamed rice comes with every entree, it almost always goes to waste in our house. Indeed, we rarely ever consider the heaping pile of steamed rice we are sure to receive with each dish. In our fried rice world, steamed rice is a forgettable 'freebie'.

So imagine our dismay when we realized that our embarassingly large order for just six people was accompanied with seven cartons of steamed rice. That nobody opened. That nobody would open. That all met their demise tonight in the kitchen garbage. As if deserving ceremony, I said a few words about the potential of each as they loudly landed against the bottom of the bin.

OK, I could only think of one recipe. Maybe two.

If only I had known about Rice Recipes a week ago. Not that "Rice Cake" sounds particularly appetizing, but cake is cake. Right?

Oh, and if you place a rather large order from Chen's and they ask, "Are you having a party?" Agree, but then lie. Lie, I tell you, because inevitably the question they'll ask next is, "How many people at your party?"

If you don't lie, you'll get the response Mr. Starlet did: "You order too much food!"

Yeah. Tell us about it...