Half Broke Horses; Jeannette Walls

It's a damp, dark, drizzling day today but rather than staying warm and dry inside my home, I am about to head out with my friend Cynthia to go up to Troy University where I will help her sort out data she had compiled for her doctoral dissertation. So, instead of writing something brand new, I'm going to share with you a book review I wrote earlier this morning.



>Half Broke Horses; Jeannette Walls

I was a little hesitant about this one because I read the reviews were not as good as they were for 'The Glass Castle.' You know what I have to say about that? I say, "Shame on those reviewers!" I think they said that because they wanted to jump on a band wagon filled with self proclaimed literary aficionados, who seem to believe that a great first book cannot possibly be followed with an equally as great second book! In this case, that is exactly what happened however; 'Half Broke Horses' is not only as good as 'The Glass Castle,' it compliments it. It fills in a background of the family and we learn that the spirit of the family members is an inherent thing.

'Half Broke Horses' is the story of Lily Casey Smith, the author's grandmother, whom we first meet in 'The Glass Castle.' What a woman! Without people like Lily, the west would never have been settled. She was beyond feisty; she had a spirit that was beyond any possibility of ever being 'broke.' In fact, she was the tamer of wild horses, the one who knew how to take a fall and get back into the saddle, who knew you don't sit around moping when the odds are against you but instead, you just find a different way to saddle up.

Lily was a horse trainer by nature, possibly one of the first horse whisperers ever. But 'Half Broke Horses' does not really have much to do with the wild mustangs but more to do with people, people who do not profit from broken spirits but who fly the fields with fire and gusto.

After reading this, we know why an elderly Rosemary Walls, Jeannette's mother, was perfectly comfortable living on the streets of NYC, why unconventionality was simply, well, conventional for her.

This was quite a book. I was a bit put off because it's called 'A True Life Novel.' But Walls explains that in her Author's Note. She says, in part:

"I wrote this story in the first person because I wanted to capture Lily's distinctive voice, which I clearly recall. At the time I didn't think of the book as fiction. Lily Casey Smith was a very real woman, and to say that I created her or the events of her life is giving me more credit than I'm due. However, since I don't have the words from Lily herself, and since I have also drawn on my imagination to fill in details that are hazy or missing - and I've changed as few names to protect people's privacy - the only honest thing to do is to call the book a novel."

When I read that, I immediately thought of James Frey and all the hoopla that erupted when it came out that his memoir, "A Million Little Pieces," was in fact, not all true. and I wondered if that is why Walls labelled her book the way she did.

Regardless of that, I was as enamoured with this book as much as I was with Walls first.

The Man Cave

My daughter loves to watch television in her brother's room. I don't know why this is because she has a beautiful bedroom, complete with her own tv set and cable. But he doesn't mind so I guess it's okay.

The real reason I don't understand this is because it's hard to find his television amid the mess. We know it's there somewhere because he likes to blast it. No, he's not hard of hearing, I think he blasts it because often he has his ear plugs inserted in both sides of his head and he needs to be able to hear the television over his tunes.

Last weekend, she went into his room and a few minutes later came downstairs to find me in the kitchen.

"Ma," she began," I had to move his pile of socks so I could find a place on the floor to sit."

"So? You ought to be used to that by now." I said.

"But mom. I stood his socks up on their own. Mom they were so stiff they could have walked away with no feet in them."

I tossed her the bottle of hand sanitizer.

"Oh! So that's what the stench is!" I had been trying to find the source of the blue haze emanating from there for a long time now.

Now, I would take a photo of his room to show you what we're dealing with but even I cannot be that mean. But let me tell you, we made a real man cave for this kid. Not only does he have has nice tv, stereo, computer etc, We gave him a dark blue sofa and set it mid room so it almost has a bachelor apartment effect. (I did draw the line, however, at the black satin sheets he requested. A man cave is one thing, a bordello is another. I cannot and will not promote his sexual prowess. It's a mom thing.)

Anyway, his sister, kind soul that she is, without a word ,set about cleaning her brother's room, much to my dislike.

So this morning, I asked my son what he wanted for Christmas.

"A car." he didn't hesitate.

"No." I didn't hesitate.

"Well, how about a 55 inch telelvision?"

"Son! Where would you put it? We can't find your walls!"

He didn't think this was funny and the conversation ended.

I suddenly had a brilliant idea. "Hey, Would you like me to rent you a bulldozer for Christmas? I'm sure we could find a little one that would fit through your bedroom door."

"Ma, I love you but you're nuts sometimes."

"Oh well, it was just an idea son."

Maybe I'll just give him a few dozen new, clean socks. And if he's real nice to me, some black satin sheets.

Why Men Marry Bitches

So, I'm at the bookstore doing my work thing when this young, attractive, albeit meek looking, young woman comes up to my register to purchase her book. I glance at the title and read 'Why Men Marry Bitches.'

I have been married a couple of times. Does this mean I am a bitch? I never thought so, but according to this author, I must be! No no NO! It can't be! She must be wrong.

After reflecting on this, I can honestly say I really don't know a lot of bitches. I mean, there was my aunt (who was also my godmother.) Now there was a real bitch. Mean? This woman's middle name should have been 'Beware.' I'm telling you, she took no flack from nobody. She was the queen of nasty comebacks. She also made her living in politics, which suited her to a Tee. However, as bitchy as she was, she treated my Uncle Tony like gold. he was the exception to her bad treatment. And he adored her.

But back to the book. Could it be true? Do men prefer bitches? I don't think so. I think they prefer women who are confident. I think they prefer strong women. Or maybe they consider bitchy women to be a challenge.

Then I let my mind wander; Would we women want a man who had the attributes of what we commonly consider a 'perfect wife?' Think about it; A perfect wife would wait on her husband hand and foot. She would cook and clean and her heart's desire would be to spend all her free time doting on her mate. She would be ready for sex at the drop of a hat..or pants..or whatever. She would hang on her mate's every word and agree with whatever he said..

Okay, okay, I laid it on thick. But would we really want this in a husband? Yes! Yes yes yes yes! I would not prefer a bitch for a husband. Not a chance. EXCEPT! I would probably start to believe I was so worthy of all that adoration that I might figure I could do better than this milk toast man. Eventually I would want a challenge. I would want to match my power against a worthy 'opponent.' in other words, I would search out a bitch!

Maybe I should read this book, not that I need any help whatsoever in the husband business. The last thing I need is another man. but I do have a daughter. And I need to know if I should convince her to be a bitch.

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Italian Express

I cook. I cook big. Don't put me in a kitchen and expect me to revel in frying up a hamburger. Set me in a kitchen with a recipe that calls for multi ingredients and mega time and I am in my glory. I will whip you up a feast that will make you weep with joy. I mean it. It is one of my God given talents. I came from a long line of Italian mamas who spent their lives creating culinary delights for their families.

My specialty is sauce. Any kind of sauce. I make a rose sauce that is a sensual experience to create. With a base of high quality cream, it really is a sensual experience to hold a fist full of crushed tomatoes and slowly squeeze them through my fingers into a simmering pot of the cream base. Add a lot of crushed basil and stir and not only does it delight the sense of touch, but also the senses of sight and smell. It is wonderful.

Besides the known Italian sauces, and trust me, a great one is near impossible to find in an American restaurant, I also make a fricasse sauce that is incredibly good. I always make my own broth for this with chicken, carrots, celery, whole cloves and an unpeeled onion whose skin adds the golden hue. This is strained and a smooth sauce is made with it. Add the chicken, add lemon juice and surround the platter with thin lemon slices. Top with trimmed fresh parsley pieces, and wow wow wow.

I know what good food is, and particularly good Italian food. And as I said, it's near impossible to find in a restaurant. But I have found one that comes close. We came upon this little, out of the way place, called Italian Express. From the outside, it doesn't look like much. Its doors are open only five days a week, and for only three hours, from 11am to 2pm. And it's not easy to find a seat in there.




Every now and then I will go and purchase a gallon of their sauce. Heaven. Absolutely heaven. I don't have the courage to ask what they put in it to make it so good. The place open a few decades ago as a mom and pop pizzeria and evolved into what it is now. If you ask the owner, Lisa, if she's Italian, she will answer honestly and somewhat sheepishly, "No."

Lisa

Yesterday I went and bought sauce there. As usual, it was packed and hard to find an empty spot on the lawn in which to park my car. But when you do that and enter the place, you will not find much embellishments; there are no candles on checkered table cloths. No Pavarotti plays through well hidden speakers. There are no towel wrapped bottles of wine waiting to be brought to your table. It's bare in there. The only thing that attacks the senses is the smell of sauce. And it is enough.





After lunch time is over.

Last night I served this sauce over spaghetti and ate a huge plate of it. I was a happy camper. And a full one.

Peppermint Bark

I'm not a huge sweets eater. I just don't like to fill my body with too much sugar or anything not all that good for me. But this is my big weakness:





This is Ghirardelli peppermint bark. It's a bit expensive (I just noticed amazon.com sells just over 9 ounces for just under $15.00) and only sold for a few weeks before Christmas. And it is heaven.

If you've never had this, let me describe it. Its peppermint bark, soft and delicately flavored, in a white chocolate which has a wonderful milk chocolate on the bottom. I bought a bag of this yesterday and I only allow myself two pieces at a time. Problem is, I am so zealous over it, that I share with everyone who will accept an offering. I've even given it away to shoppers at my bookstore. So a bag quickly diappears. And I share it because it's soooo good I can't keep it to myself. It's soft to chew and filling, so a little goes a long way. I love Ghirardelli chocolate anyway, but I can live without it. This peppermint bark stuff is another story.

My curiosity got the better of me when I wanted to know what exactly makes a peppermint confection 'peppermint bark.' I did find this somewhat lacking definition:

'Peppermint bark is a form of candy which is made in flat sheets; when broken up, the sheets resemble small chunks of bark, which explains the name. In addition to making peppermint bark, it is also possible to make candy barks with ingredients like nuts, fruit, and chunks of other candy materials, for a wide range of textures and flavors. Candy bark can be eaten plain or used to garnish desserts ranging from mousse to elaborate cookies.'

wiseGEEK.com

This didn't tell me much so I did another search and rather than finding a better definition, I found this:


Peppermint Bark

Recipe courtesy Paula Deen



Ingredients

Crushed candy canes, to yield 1 cup
2 pounds white chocolate
Peppermint flavorings, optional
Directions
Place candy canes in a plastic bag and hammer into 1/4-inch chunks or smaller. Melt the chocolate in a double boiler. Combine candy cane chunks with chocolate (add peppermint flavoring at this point if desired.) Pour mixture onto a cookie sheet layered with parchment or waxed paper and place in the refrigerator for 45 minutes or until firm. Remove from cookie sheet and break into pieces (like peanut brittle.)


Whoa! Now I can have it year round!! But I won't do that; instead I'll make some at Christmas time, take a photo and tell y'all about it.

Marguerita Concetta

My mother's birth name was Marguerita Concetta Petruzzi. There was only one word to describe how she looked; beautiful. At barely over five feet in height and never weighing as much as 100 lbs, she was still a shapely lovely woman. Her hair was nothing short of glorious. It was that pure black that shone with blue highlights. She had that Mediterranean olive skin, with a natural moist sheen to it. Her eyes were dark dark brown, and large. Beautiful. And I indirectly caused her death at a very young age.

Mama developed a rarer type of gestational diabetes when she was pregnant with me. At that time, it was more difficult to detect, and after giving birth to me, she was left with a permanent diabetes. By the time they found it, her kidneys had been eaten away. For months she had complained of feeling poorly and after several hospital stays, they finally discovered what was going on. By that time, the damage was untreatable. She lapsed into a coma and for nine days my father, sisters and I stood for the allotted 15 minutes each hour at her bedside. I was the youngest and didn't really understand. Once I cried out, begging her not to die. A nurse chastised me, saying mama might be able to hear me and ordering me not to take the chance of upsetting her. then, at 9:10 on a Tuesday morning, ten days before Christmas, mama rolled her head slightly to the left and quietly died.

I stood by my dad as the doctor told him she had given up the good fight. I became furious. Furious! How could she do that? How could she give up when she still had me to finish raising! My anger continued for months. I hated her for it. I thought she loved me more than that. Simply put, I did not understand.

For a while I lost both parents. Dad became withdrawn. And as such, he was lost to me, too. Eventually he came around, and he even dated some after a few years (that's another story; I did not want him to date and I let it be known to any woman who I felt dared to try and replace mama. But date he did, in spite of his bratty youngest daughter.

my mama had been engaged to aother man, not my father, but once she saw my dad, who was a guitarist and vocalist in a band, she broke off her engagement and made an all out (successful) attempt to capture my Father's heart. This did not set well with my grandparents, particularly my grandmother.

Grandma's name was Maria Teresa Vaccaria DeGoia Petruzzi. That's a big name for a little lady! She might have been little but her spirit was tall and she was a powerful deterrent to any sort of marriage between my mom and dad. But my parents eloped and within a year, mom gave birth to my oldest sister. Grandma decided she had better reconcile with my mom. So things were patched up.

Mom was a traditional European woman. She raised me to take care of myself physically. I remember being about 10 years old when she started me on skin care!
She wouls say, "You need to suffer to be beautiful!" And I soon learned how true that is.

She had these little sayings. We called them 'Margieisms.' (Dad called mama 'Margie.') I have repeated these o often to my own kids, that they probably could be called 'Beejisms' at this point.

I had my favorites. One was "You have to be charming to be a good thief." She used that one whenever my older sisters became infatuated with a bad boy, charming but devious. Another was, "When money flies out the window, love walks out the door." That's a good one, don't you think? She was a pistol, my mom. There were many, many Margieisms.

Mama and dad's house was filled with company. They loved a good time. Dad was a drinker but mom was not. however she never complained when he imbibed. In fact, I remember once when my dad went on one of his week long fishing trips with his friends and their wives stayed at our house while they were gone. One of these women, an aunt of mine, was a nasty, shrilly complaining hag who spent the entire weekend bemoaning the fact that she knew my uncle was going to be sourly influenced by my dad and be drinking all week. All she did was piss and moan about him, and made sure to let the other women know that my uncle was going to get an earful from her when they got back. Mama made some punch and decided to spike it. She nervously handed this aunt q glass. My aunt sipped it, thought a second, sipped more and then gulped it down. "Why, Margie, that's the best punch I ever had! What's in it?"

I remember mom giggled. "A secret ingredient." she answered.

By the time the men returned home, my aunt was totally schnockered. I remember watching her scream with laughter over nothing, swagger on her frequent trips to the restroom, exclaim over and over how she loved mom's punch and generally act happier than I have ever seen her act. Mom never told her what she did but it became quite the family story.

Now I am a mama and I find myself using some of her mannerisms. I also see this in my daughter who never was lucky enough to know her beautiful grandmother. I do not know what its like to be an adult in a relationship with her own mom. And it is one of my life regrets.

She might have died young but she left me with so much. She was five feet of vinegar and love. a beautiful woman in every way.

Praise God, I'm Not an Elephant

My cousin sent this to me. He usually sends me crap and I delete most of this crap without even watching or reading it. But the topic line, Live Elephant Birth, intrigued me so I opened it.

This is not for the squeamish. But it is truly fascinating. It is indeed the live birth of an elephant. Elephants are not like us. Well, it's sort of like us but multiplied 1000 times. Lordie, I am delighted that I'm not an elephant!



I would wager to say, if human deliveries were like this, there would not be a father in this world who would be bedside for his wife. Heck, if it were possible, I'd reckon to say even the mothers would run and hide.

I listened to the narrator as he described the mom, Nikki, beginning to pass the embryonic sack. He quietly say, "Nikki is very calm."

Now, my dear friends, watch the video, especially where Nikki is passing this sack. Calm? CALM!!!!! Only a man would see this as calm. Look at Nikki's face. Her mouth is wide open in a silent scream. Her body is rocking back and forth and she is desperately trying to grab a fence post with her trunk. You call this calm??? This guy should try to poop a barn and see how calm he would be! Mister, her scream is silent because her voice box is being pushed out of her rectum!

Now after the birth, the good part really begins; Baby is not breathing. She appears to be dead. But, alas, apparently this is normal for a newborn elephant. What does mom do? She shoves it, she beats it with her trunk, she all but throws it in the air like a slightly deflated football. In fact at one point, she appears to be thinking of doing just that.

Does the baby survive? You'll need to watch the video.