Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

Broccoli Lo Mein - Vegetarian Style

Here is a great vegetarian recipe I came up with while wandering through the supermarket one night after work without a clue of what to make for dinner.  This clueless state is even more emphasized due to the fact that my oven has been broken for over a freaking year now and my husband is a vegetarian (which has nothing to do with the oven being broken.  Regardless, the vegetarian wants to postpone getting a new oven until we redo the kitchen which has been in the "talk about phase" for two years now).  All I can say is it's a good thing I am ME.  Otherwise, he'd have been on the curb long ago with the old stove and a new, better, brighter, younger, easier to use model would be in their place.  One being called General Electric and the other Lieutenant Armand.

Here is the recipe I came up with which is probably already in some book somewhere or at Allrecipes.com because it's that simple and takes less than 30 minutes to make:

1 pound of vermicelli pasta
1 head of broccoli florets chopped to bite size pieces
1 bunch of green onions a/k/a scallions
1/4 c. sesame seeds
1/4 c. sesame oil
2 eggs, beaten
1 12 oz bottle of La Choy Garlic Ginger Stir Fry/Marinade Sauce

Cook about 3/4 lb. of the vermicelli according to the package directions.  While that is cooking:

Saute' the broccoli florets and green onions in the sesame oil on medium heat for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Add eggs and stir into mixture until cooked.

When the vermicelli is done, drain, rinse and add to the pan of broccoli, etc.  Stir in 3/4 bottle of the Garlic Ginger Sauce and add the sesame seeds.  Toss well.  Serve.  Absolutely delicious.

I added the egg for protein because my husband will eat dairy products.  You might want to add a flank steak or chicken (sliced into bite sized pieces) and saute' that with the broccoli and onions if you are a carnivore.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

What's Henry Got to do With It?

Look, I'm not going to mince words here.  If you've been following my blog, you know a few things about me.  I like to cook, I love my family, I color my hair a lot, I have too many wardrobe malfunctions, and I am extremely hormonal right now.   Emphasis on the last six words of that sentence. 

If you are a woman on the younger side who hasn't yet gotten to this point in her life, read on.  Because you get PMS, right?  Well, magnify that 10,000 times and you'll know what you're in for.  If you're a guy in a relationship, married or otherwise, with a woman, read on.  Maybe this will help you when you get served with divorce papers and you're all, I THOUGHT EVERYTHING WAS OK.  So did she.  Until 5 minutes ago.  And 5 minutes later, she'll be ok again.  Until 5 minutes from then. 

Today started out a good day.  I arrived at work in a good mood.  I even solved what appeared to be a huge problem for my boss who is apparently getting ready for the TRIAL OF THE CENTURY.  As we sat together in the conference room, assembling trial notebooks, he sat back in his chair and let out a loud sigh.  "I just don't know what to do about this one issue.  Let me throw this at you.  I'm not sure you're qualified, but I'm gonna ask anyway." "Okaaaaaay," I reply.  "It's not that I don't think you're smart," he continued, "it's just that this is a question possibly for another trial attorney" (which I'm not). 

As it turned out, after he posed his problem, it took all of 3 seconds for me to tell him what I thought he should do.  He sat there, staring at the floor, looked at me and said, "I like it.  That will work.  Let's do it."  And so we continued until everything was ready.

A few minutes before 5, I started packing it up.  Arnie came into my office and said, "What'd you do with those Requests to Admit?" (on another case).  "I put them on your chair before I left last night."  "There was nothing on my chair," he insisted.  "I gotta have that."  We went into his office and tore everything apart which is not uncommon and does not ruffle my feathers one bit because this is who he is.  He is defined by chaos.  Clutter.  Disorganization.  And, no, I will never tell anyone who he is.  I want to keep my job.  For now.  But even when I don't want it anymore, out of respect, I will never tell.  Unlike Carly Simon who went and confessed who she sang about in "You're So Vain." Granted, it was only one person, and he had to sign a statement that he'd never tell another soul and then pay lots of money to some charity, but unless someone pays me at least a million dollars, I'm not doing that. 

After searching through everything but the trash, Arnie looks at me and says, "You couldn't have put that on my chair.  I would have seen it."  I look him directly in the eye and say, "I put it on your chair." 

"Maggie.  Maggie.  You didn't put it there."  He sighs and continues flipping through papers.

Upon feeling something click/snap/vibrate in my neck, I said, "Excuse me.  I have to visit the ladies' room."  Once there, I place my hands on the counter and lean way in.  I look at my eyes, bloodshot from insomnia, and try to decide whether to rehearse my acceptance speech for the Oscar I'm gonna win when I go back in there and put on my best performance as actress in a drama where she acts like everything is just fine and dandy, or the speech I'm going to give when I throw myself to the mercy of the Court during my torture and murder trial. 

When I return to the office, Arnie is standing there with his trophy as he takes an Emmy for best supporting actor in a sitcom and is all smiles and says, "I found it!"  Like nothing ever happened. 

"Oh really?  Where?  In your . . . office???" (SHRIEK).

"Yep!" 

I get my things, say a weak good night, walk to my car and drive home - where I chop the crap out of green onions, broccoli and garlic, and sob hysterically because, for some reason, I am angry with men this evening, and I am suddenly super pissed at Henry the Eighth.  "Like who in the HELL did you think you were?  Chopping off heads like that.  It was your sperm that couldn't produce a son, moron!"

Moral of the story:  Never challenge a woman in her 40s.  Ever.  Because for all you know, she's either a starving actress who just wants to get that Oscar she's always dreamed of, or she's a raving lunatic who thinks doing 30 years to life might not be so bad.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Lazy Days of Summer a/k/a Avoiding Cooking As Much As Possible

There are just some days when I come home from work and I do not want to cook.  And, if you knew me, you'd respond to that statement with a big, "SAY WHAT?"  Because knowing me, you know I love to cook.  And feed people.  Feeding people is probably the most satisfying thing I have ever experienced besides loving my husband, kids and grandson.  And I guess that's part of loving them.

During the summer months, though, the weather is so great and, often, I just want to come home and unwind by sitting on my patio awhile.  Or for a long while.  And that means the longer I relax, the less chances of a great meal. 

Last week, I morphed a meal into three days' worth of meals by adding ingredients, watering down, simmering. 

Day One:  I made a simple marinara sauce with lots of garlic.  Cook the pasta, add some italian bread as a side and voila!!!  Dinner.

Day Two:  I sauteed some onions and zucchini, threw that into the sauce, added a can of stewed tomatoes, tomato sauce, more garlic, a can of garbanzo beans (for protein), crushed basil, and now I had a different sauce.  Which I put over penne this time.  Set out the rest of the italian bread and, well, yes, pasta two nights in a row.  Oh well!

Day Three:  I sauteed a small onion, green pepper, a little more garlic (can you tell I love garlic?), added a can of tomato sauce, a small can of tomato paste, red kidney beans, turmeric, crushed red pepper, smoked paprika, a can of chilies, topped with fresh cut cilantro and shredded cheese, and I had a delicious vegetarian chili.  Did I mention that my husband is a vegetarian? 

Each meal took me less than an hour to prepare and I was able to enjoy time on my patio. 

Mid-Life

Druck and I are almost 50.  Does that tell anyone anything? For the last several years, I have been going through that pre-change of life thing.  Ups and downs, fatigue, mood swings, night sweats.  And for you male readers out there, sorry, but reading this might make you realize that while you always thought your wife's world revolved around you, it's not the case - at least not in my household anymore.  Because now your wife is dancing with a complete stranger called Man O'Pause and he's getting on her nerves.  Stepping on her toes. 

She didn't ask for this dance partner.  It's one of those things allegedly owing to Mother Nature.  And why is Mother Nature to blame for this?  When we live in a patriarchal society, worship a male God and male basketball teams (there is women's basketball too, by the way), why blame a woman for this?  It's always the woman's fault.  If something's going to go awry, blame the woman.  Blame the woman for getting thrown out of the Garden.  Blame the woman for not feeling so great because she's dealing with menstrual cramps.  Or she's got morning sickness when she's carrying your baby.  Or, zoinks, the pain of labor and delivery that would probably knock Mike Tyson out on the first contraction. 

OK, so I got a little off track here.  My point is that a woman's journey is a process.  Filled with lots of joy, love, happiness, beauty.  And hot flashes.  I mean, seriously, why hot flashes?  And why menopause?  It's a known scientific fact that most men can father children well into their 90s. Look at Larry King, for crying out loud. 

So men get to keep their hormones (at some level) and we don't.  Instead, we lose our estrogen levels, lose our progesterone levels, which causes loss of bone density, osteoporosis, and a variety of other things that I will not go into here because I like to still consider myself somewhat attractive despite the odds.  Why be a downer.

The reason I am writing this is that, despite the dificulties of this "process," I find some occasional humor in it.  Like the fact that I met a friend and her husband for breakfast the other morning and, during her conversation which I absolutely cannot remember because I was fantasizing about human flight, without the use of mechanics, I went into a major panic attack.  Finally, when she stopped talking, I excused myself and went to the ladies' room where a boy of about five was in one stall and his mother in the other.  "Mom!  Is someone in here?  Mom!  Are you still in here?!"  My fantasies changed from human flight to that of super human strength where I would rip that door off its hinges and shriek, "How many times does your mother have to tell you she's in here!  Can't you see her feet under the stall, you little idiot?"

And last night, when I was coloring my hair for the second time in two weeks, I realized that even though Druck is not going through menopause, he IS.  Because while I color my hair, he stains things and does all kinds of home improvements.  Last night he was staining the trim around the sliding glass door.  And, based on our conversations, it sounds like tonight he's going to be ripping out some ceiling and doing some rewiring. 

I color my hair.  Druck does home improvements as a way of keeping me in a state of heavy sedation.  Talking to your wife about home improvements and actually doing them can lull even a rabid woman to some level of normalcy.  Until that new dance partner dips her the wrong way or surprises her with a new step.  Then the fangs come out.  Or she colors her hair a different shade of brown.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Name Dropping

When the officer pulled me over, I was in a hurry.  "Did you know you were speeding?" He leaned and gave me a sideways glance.

"I was not speeding."

"Ma'am, you were speeding."

"I was going 5 miles over, if that."

"That's speeding."

"Would it help if I told you I know Doug Wiley?"  I held my breath.

"What?"

"Doug Wiley.  He's my friend's brother.  He works for the same police department as you.  The short, balding guy.  I think he works the night shift.  But he's been around for awhile.  I know him."

He shifted and smiled.  "I know Doug.  But what does that have to do with you?"

"I know him because I'm friends with his sister."

"And?"

"It works for his sister.  I guess not for me, huh?"

"License and registration."

I handed him my papers and he returned to his vehicle for an eternity.  All I could imagine was a SWAT team surrounding me and Harrison Ford stepping out of one of the cruisers, hand on his gun.  I relaxed somewhat by reminding myself that Harrison Ford would never step out of a cruiser on my behalf, let alone approach me.  My arresting officer would be Dom Deluise.  

When he finally returned and handed me back my papers, he smiled.  "Look, if you just show up for court and object, it'll be dismissed.  I won't be there."

"So what's the point?  Why even give me this?"

"You were speeding."

"I was not speeding.  What's my defense?"

"Pardon?"

"In court.  What's my defense?"

"Doug Wiley."  With that, he sauntered back to his vehicle.

"A favor?" I called out before he got back into his car and paused, hand on the door handle.  "Don't tell Doug what I said about him?  Please?"

A flash of teeth broke into a broad grin, and he was gone. 

Now don't even tell me you don't know where this went. 

Fashion Sense

Not long ago, I videotaped myself in a prone position which, in itself, speaks volumes because these days, usually when I am in a prone position, I am either severely injured or suffering from insomnia.  The latter was true when I made this video talking about fashion. 

Since I am still trying to learn the ins and outs of my camera, the one my husband bought me for Christmas which was not the one I asked for but, he claims, is just as good as the one I did ask for, and somehow, I am not believing him, I haven't had any photo shoots yet.  It's also somewhat difficult photographing one's self.  There is a timer on the camera, yes.  But it's not the same as taking time, getting the perfect lighting, pose, etc., and snapping a photo knowing that the clothing is being shown right.  My goal, you may recall, is to photograph "fashion sense" for women 50 and over.  Granted, I won't be 50 until November, but I'm close enough. 

Be patient and we'll get there.  I have to find an amateur photographer willing to take 20 minutes here and there to do my bidding.  I can't ask my daughter to be that person.  She'll tell me to get over myself.  That it's not about me.  That I'm not so hot and that people really don't care anyway.  Like I didn't already know that about myself.  And like that isn't why I haven't been in therapy for the last 10 years?  Well, and also to talk about YOU, dear child, and how to handle you without the kid gloves.

For now, the best piece of fashion I came across was a t-shirt I saw when I was sitting on the roof of a very popular, very busy beachside bar/restaurant in South Carolina.  My friend, Laura, actually pointed it out to me.  A woman, seemingly  confident in herself, sat at a table with friends, laughing and engaging in loud conversation.  It takes confidence to wear such a t-shirt as hers.  I want that confidence. 

When I glanced over, my lips curled into a smile and in that aha moment, I realized that I had to have one of those t-shirts.  Because it described my life in six small words:  I BRING NOTHING TO THE TABLE.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Maggie's Irresistible Southwestern Black Bean Salad

I thought I'd post this salad recipe I came up with one day a couple of summers ago when I was looking through the cupboards and the frig trying to come up with something palatable for dinner.  I thought of this recipe when I was rummaging once again in my pantry closet because I hadn't been to the store and we were hungry. 

Anyway, while rummaging, I found a can of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup with an expiration date of November 2002.  No, that wasn't a typo.  2002.  As it would appear, I used to cook with the soup - often.  Because I had about 5 cans of such soup in the back of the closet, all with expiration dates ranging from 2002 to 2007.  Moral of this particular paragraph:  rotate your stock or clean out your closet occasionally instead of shoving more stuff in there without taking inventory of what you already have.  

Now, on to the salad.  As an aside, if you don't like "southwest," you can always remove the cilantro, cumin and chili powder.

1 can black beans, rinsed and drained
1 can corn, drained
1/4 c. chopped purple onion
1 clove fresh garlic, diced
1 small green or red pepper, chopped
1/2 c. pine nuts, toasted
1/4 c. fresh chopped cilantro (optional)
1/4 tsp. ground cumin (optional)
1/4 tsp. chili powder (optional)
1 pkg. Good Seasons Italian salad dressing

1. Prepare Good Seasons according to pkg. directions.  Set aside.
2. Combine all other ingredients in bowl and pour dressing over contents.
3. Chill for about an hour.  Serve.  Delicious.

I Ask You: Is This the Face of a Deranged Woman?

I snapped this photo of myself tonight after a near meltdown, the likes of which can only be compared to the China Syndrome - or worse: a 4 x 4 room, severely lacking in ventilation or proper lighting, containing Al Sharpton, Sarah Palin, James Carville, Sinead O'Connor, John McEnroe and 19 not-yet-napped pre-schoolers with no means of escape.  I snapped the photo because I felt that I had become, in a matter of about 30 minutes, The Changeling.  I was sorely disappointed when I realized that I couldn't frighten a flea in that moment and was somewhat freaked out by the look of calm across my face.  Almost clinical.  Sterile.  Frontal lobotomy-ish. But showing definite signs of foundation cracks in that otherwise tough veneer called Oil of Olay (or Oil of Old-Age as my sister-in-law calls it).

So I'm a mother.  But I'm also a grandmother.  And while I totally dig this grandmother thing and feel as though I can handle it way better than I handled motherhood, I have my moments.  

This weekend, Druck and I spent a considerable amount of time watching/babysitting/parenting/grandparenting Liam.  On Saturday, Liam and his mama stopped over.  And that was our Saturday.  While Grammy entertained Liam with singing, dancing, cartwheels, and a solo ballet performance from the Nutcracker Suite, with only a minor assist from the cat, Liam's mama managed to disappear into thin air, better known as silently retreating up the stairs, to the bed, and falling asleep for 3 1/2 hours.  

On Sunday, Liam and Catherine a/k/a "mama" were over for lunch and, when mama left to go see a movie at 4 pm for 3 1/2 hours, Liam stayed behind as Grammy and Poppy took turns playing co-pilots to Liam as the captain of a parked car, lifeguards of Liam in his role as an Olympic Medal swimmer of the kiddie pool, and impressive triathlon competitors as Liam disappeared around the side of the house, past garden hoses, through bushes and making a surprisingly quick Louie to the backyard again.  

When mama came back for dinner and mealtime conversation, family pleasantries were exchanged, until it was getting to be about that time. Grammy wearily said, "Time to go!  No visitors tomorrow.  I need a break." 

Grammy arrived home from work today at 5:45 to SURPRISE!!!  Liam and mama here.  Again!  What Catherine doesn't realize at her tender age of 25 is that her mother is experiencing what is known as perimenopausal symptoms. And why they don't just call it pre-menopausal symptoms is beyond me. Everything would be so much easier to understand if they would just name things right.  Like menopause. Why menopause?  Why not womenpause?  Is it a forewarning to men to just not go there?  To not even set foot in a room with a menopausal woman?  Why do they put men in the middle of everything that has to do with a woman - there it is again. Menses, amenorrhea, dysmenorrhea.  I could go on, but this is not the point of this particular blog. Although I will say that the only appropriate usage of men in a medical term would be mental because last I saw my husband, he was cowering in the corner in a fetal position, sucking his thumb, asking if all women were like this during menopause. There it is again.  Seriously.  But again, this is not the point of the blog.   

So in my hormone-induced, kid-agitated frenzy to feed my cats who, although they are all neutered, can yowl up a storm come dinner time, I headed to the garage to feed/placate/shut their freaking pie holes and caught my heel on the rug just outside the door.  Without reliving it, suffice it to say, it wasn't pretty.  When I finally emerged from the garage, I was a changed woman...wearing dainty hair ornaments/morsels of Friskies Tuna with Beef and kitty litter up my right arm, stuck there luxuriously by the gravy of the FRISKIES TUNA WITH BEEF.   

After washing and cleaning up as best I could, because my employee was calling me from her cell phone from her car while she sat in the driveway because I told her to call me when she arrived and I'd run a check out to her, I went out and all that darling woman said to me was, "I love your jewelry.  Is that lia sophia?"  To which I smoothed my hand gently over a hair full of gravy and a few pieces of meat that I apparently missed when I shook it out over the kitchen sink, and responded with "thank you" and "YES.  It is lia sophia."  And then she said, "And I love your skirt!"  I glanced down and saw that there was gravy on my lovely colorful peasant skirt.  "CRAP," I said.  "I've got cat food all over me.  And I've got sauce cooking on the stove.  And Liam just left with his mama but is coming back.  I gotta go."  With that I turned and raced back into the house.

And that was that.  

So what is your point?  You ask.  

I don't know.  I'll write about that later this week.....

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma