The Kindest Cut

If you are going to cut, use a sharp knife.


Some people are so afraid of the truth and hurting other people, that having a discussion with them is like cutting your throat with a butter knife. They try to be nice and still tell you that you are stupid, or ugly, or should be out of their lives. You can always tell when the knife is going to cut. I think that you are really a nice person, but… What follows the “but” is the truth. Women are notorious for this approach for breaking up relationships with men. Hey Charlie, you are really a nice guy, but let’s just be friends. Every guy with half a brain knows that means he is lousy in bed. No wonder my male friends come to me whining: But, I don’t want to be a nice guy.

I am not blaming my girlfriends for not being turned on by nice guys. We all want a little bad boy in our lovers. We want something in our men that makes them uncontrollable and exciting. A well-trained husband can be a blessing when it comes to taking out the trash but a total bore on Saturday night.

I want a man with a wit as sharp as a well-honed dagger. There is nothing worse than a battle of wits with someone who is half-prepared. When Mark and I have our “discussions” I make sure my knife is sharp and I get the first cut. And, it had better be deadly and deep or I am in for a night of repartee that will be intense and passionate. Of course, that is probably why sometimes I just do the little pricks with the point so that the energy builds. Of course, if I really want to get him, the butter knife is actually the most annoying cut of all. Honey, you are really a good husband, but I have a headache.

Signing the Register

He didn’t do anything as tacky as signing in as Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Bernie signed in under his own name as I waited in the car. I don’t know why it bothered me tonight. We had been seeing each other at least once a week for about six months. I just felt different for some reason. I felt something strange was going to happen.





After he put his bags in the room, we went to the dinning room where we ordered prime rib with all the trimmings. A bottle of Merlot accompanied the meal. He ordered escargot. I looked at them and I went to myself yuck! Snails! As I sampled the deep musky Merlot the rich garlic odor kept bringing me back to look at the little silver tray in front of him. He took this tongs that looked like something from a midwife’s nightmare and held the shells while he picked out the meat with a small fork. I winced again as he lifted it too his mouth. Slugs! He tore off a hunk of steaming French bread and dipped into the butter, garlic and wine sauce and held it up to my lips. I opened. My God! This is delicious. Taking another big swig of Merlot – nothing delicate going on here – I closed my eyes and opened my mouth as he took that sharp little fork and pierced the snail and lifted it to my lips. The odor of garlic, wine, and butter was intense. The taste was even more divine than the soaked bread I had savored before.




Something strange truly had happened. The sensuous night turned into a lifetime of delight.




I now keep a can of escargot in my pantry and a bottle of Merlot is always ready.




My husband when I have a craving cannot understand it. He will say: Snails! Yuck!




I will just smile; remember Bernie, and my introduction to another realm of the senses.

Life on the Farm

I woke up to the smell Aunt Gracie’s biscuits baking in the oven. I could hardly wait to get out of bed and rush into the kitchen to pile on the butter and home made blackberry jam. I was in heaven on this little scratch farm in the back hills of West Virginia.




Grandpa was already out in his old rocker under the apple tree sitting, whittling on a stick and making nothing in particular. His 80 some years of working this farm left him little energy to do more.




The sun had not yet taken the cool off this August morning and there was a freshness in the air and in the fresh-churned butter that I can’t find anymore even though I have moved to my own little piece of land. Except, there are wild blackberries growing at the back of our land where the deer like to come and nibble on fresh sprouts on the new fruit trees and with a few ripe, rich bites I remember Aunt Gracie’s biscuits and jam.




Until Mother died last year, she lived with us. My husband Mark was always doing things to make her feel the comfort that she felt growing up as a child of the country. He even raised chickens. He would pick one of those chickens up and hold it up by its legs where it would go into a state of hypnosis and just hang there like a stuffed toy and bring it into mother’s hospital bed and she would smile. Then the stories would begin about growing up on that farm with Grandpa and Grandma on Flat Top Mountain in West Virginia.




Yesterday Mark was cleaning out the barn on a very hot and sweaty August afternoon. He came in and told me he had found an old nest with eggs still in it from when we had chickens here for Mom’s fresh eggs and memories of days gone by. We shared a smile and went on with life without Mother and other family gone.


http://lifewithmother.com

Snowball Fight

As I enter my cronage, I find that winter has taken on a different meaning to me. I want to snuggle up under an afghan, drink a hot cup of coffee, and gaze out upon the snow in quiet contemplation. I don’t want anything to destroy my peace except perhaps a gentle wing against the air by a cardinal.



But school is out because the roads are covered in ice and snow and all the little hellions are trudging up the hill pulling their sleds and then zooming down screaming and laughing all the way. It is maddening and I am tempted to pour a shot of bourbon in my coffee more to calm my nerves than to warm my cold feet.



Watch them out there, screaming, laughing, driving me nuts.



Drew, the leader of this motley crew, bends over packs some snow into a ball. I can feel my hands curl up with the feeling of the cold. Wham! He hits Zeke on the back of the head. Zeke stands still. He slowly looks over his shoulder, bends down and seems to take forever as he gathers and forms his weapon from the snow. A 180 degree turn and Drew is downed in one throw.



The noise increases in pace as these winter warriors prepare to do battle. Behind my fledgling apple tree asleep till winter one tribe stands and builds their arsenal of icy revenge. While up the hill behind Yvonne’s porch, the other tribe prepares for battle.



I sigh. My quiet winter reverie has been destroyed by youth and snow. I have lost the joy of a winter day. I pull the curtains, pour that bourbon in my coffee, and turn on the Four Seasons and think of spring when my crocus will poke up through the snow and promise better days.