How to Roast a Small Pumpkin

Don't.

The end.

HaHaHahahahahaHahaHaha... (hysterical, edge-of-sanity laughter continues for quite awhile).

I like roasted veggies and fruits. I've roasted just about everything that can be roasted, to mostly good results (except for the watermelon incident. Who knew?).

So when I saw the little pumpkin pie pumpkins at Trader Joe's, they seemed like a natural for roasting. Sturdy, not real watery, and they can be prepared either savory or sweet. Sounded good. I bought two. Mind you, these were not the little decorative gourds that look like little bitty pumpkins. These were pumpkins for cooking. The big, jack-o-lantern pumpkins can be cooked, too, but they can be a little tough. These little pumpkins, though, are supposed to be excellent for cooking. I've got a checkered past when it comes to cooking, so, just to be sure, I asked the cashier, and she confirmed that these were cooking pumpkins. When I got home, I called my aunt, a veteran in the kitchen, and she agreed that I had a great idea in roasting these little pumpkins.

However, I was still a little nervous about this new endeavor, so I put it off for a week or two. When I went to do the deed, one of the little pumpkins had rotted and completely collapsed. Ewwww. The other was just fine, though. Well, I waited another week, checking the remaining pumpkin daily for firmness, and it was always fine.

So tonight I finally set out to roast this little pumpkin. It was about maybe eight inches in diameter. I may have never roasted a pumpkin before, but I have carved many a Halloween jack-o-lantern, so I got a good knife, and set to work. I sawed, I attempted to stab, I hacked, all to no avail. The shell on this thing was like iron.

I went to the Internet. Can this, in fact, be done? I asked it. Yep. I went to a site that showed the pumpkin cut into rings--horizontally--which hadn't occurred to me before. The recipe said “Prep time: 10 minutes.” I went back and reapplied myself to that pumpkin with a new vigor. But my family has a long, dark tradition of horrible accidents involving kitchen knives, and I became truly fearful that I was going to injure myself. I went back to the Internet. Did it mention anything about a chainsaw? About softening the pumpkin by soaking it in lye for 24 hours first? No. It merely said, “Cut pumpkin into rings of about one inch thickness....” It might just as well have said to cut through a coconut. Using only a sharp rock and your teeth. This pumpkin was impossible. I had managed to penetrate it with two one-inch stab wounds, which gave me the idea that, now that I'd managed to vent the pumpkin, I could try roasting it whole for awhile to soften it. At least, with those two narrow cuts in it, it wouldn't (I hoped) explode in the oven, which I set on 450 and inserted the pumpkin into for a good 45 minutes.

After letting it cool for quite awhile, I carved the stem out so that I could scoop out the steaming insides. This was much easier done this time, so I had great hopes that I had outsmarted this simple gourd.

But no. When I went to trim it into one-inch-thick rings, I once again had to saw and saw—so vigorously that I again could envision one slip of the knife taking me down a notch on the evolutionary scale. Again, I chopped, I hacked, I stabbed and cut and sliced. The inside was soft enough, but the outer shell was like a clam shell. Ten minutes! Ha! After almost 30 minutes, I was finally done, soaked in sweat and covered with pumpkin slime. I sopped up water, stray seeds, and blood. My back was killing me, but I took the time to sprinkle some herbs and spices on my mangled bits of pumpkin, put the whole mess into the oven, and then went to crash on the couch while it roasted.

I once again let it cool after it was well roasted. I just ate some. It has to be eaten like oysters on the half shell, scooped out of its hard little shell “cups” with the teeth. I wish I could say that it is well worth the struggle. It's okay, but it could be improved upon. If I can work up the strength to do it again.

The BDP

So as not to interrupt my own post, I will explain here that the BDP (for BrokedownPalace, a song by the Grateful Dead) was a century-old cabin that my brother lived in from sometime in the mid-1970s until sometime in the mid-80s. To say it was rustic would be putting a nice face on it.

And now, the actual, verbatim, phone conversation between my sister and me yesterday. We’ve been taking turns this week, staying with our teenage niece at our brother’s house while he is out of town.

Sister: When you spend the night at [our brother's] house, you should bring a blanket with you. I think that the one that’s on his bed now is from the BDP. It may be the same one we used when we stayed there when we were in high school [quite some time ago].

Me: Yeah, I remember lying on that mattress on the floor, staring at the hole in the floor where he’d shot the possum. Do you think the blanket has been washed since then?

Sister: Oh, yeah, I’d say it’s been washed since then.

Me: Do you think it’s been washed this year?

Sister: [long pause] Bring your own blanket.

[It was all I could do to contain myself to just this. I actually ended up writing a much longer piece, but I made myself cut it back. A longer version may appear soon in Long, Involved Stories.]

Are you SURE it's not Monday?

Today is Tuesday. The day-after-a-Monday-holiday Tuesday. Which means, for those of us who follow a five-day, Monday through Friday workweek, today was Monday. Well, you know what I mean. You get Monday off, so the following day, your first day of work that week, becomes Monday in your mind. You believe firmly that it is Monday. Sometimes this effect will last all week, making you feel like Friday is really Thursday, which becomes a very pleasant end-of-the-week surprise. 

This morning, I got a call from a person with whom I have a standing 7:30 a.m. appointment. On Tuesdays. It was 7:48, and she wondered where I was. I was, of course, at home. Getting ready for work. Because it was "Monday." It was a bad start.

So, without going into all of the details, I'll try to just hit the highlights (or lowlights) of the rest of my day.

1. Planning to spend the night at my brother's house for the next two nights to stay with my niece while my bro' is out of town. Had packed last night, but I had a few last-minute things to gather up before I was ready to go.
   
   
2. This also meant that I wouldn't be back home until after our first back-to-ESL class since the summer break. Having not yet thought about what I'd teach for that first class, I needed to do so now and pack some materials accordingly.
   
   
3. As I put my things next to the front door as I got them ready to go, I finally began to realize that the carpet was very, very, very wet.
   
   
4. My apartment had "flooded" slightly last week in this same area and in the cats' bathroom. I'd cleaned both up as best I could on Friday, before I had to leave town for the long weekend. It had smelled quite mildewed when I returned last night, but I chalked it up to last week's incident and made a "note to self" to deal with the mildew. But when? It would just be worse when I came home Thursday night.
   
   
5. This is when I discovered that the carpet had obviously gotten wet again sometime over the weekend. 
   
   
6. Began trying to sop water out of the carpet for the second time in four days. Without much luck. Decided to just leave it till Thursday night. Ick.
   
   
7. I was ready to go now. But then remembered that I hadn't set up cats' self-feeder and self-waterer so they'd be taken care of for the next two days.
   
   
8. Went to bathroom. Guess what? It had also flooded again. Spent more time, cleaning up that mess. 
   
   
9. Set up cats' food and water, and was finally ready to leave house. 
   
   
10. On way to work, decided that I was so late that I might as well stop at cell phone office to pick up my phone, back from manufacturer for repair, and return loaner phone. Took much longer than I thought it would because all of my info was not properly transferred back to my phone. 
    
    
11. FINALLY got back on interstate and headed to work. It was now well after 3:00 p.m.!
    
    
12. Getting onto I-40, I thought that the car's alignment was way off. Strange, since I'd just had the tires rotated and balanced last week. 
    
    
13. As I changed lanes, some five or six miles later, I could tell that I definitely had a flat tire. Crossed back over to right shoulder. Tire looked like it had been bitten by a gator. 
    
    
14. Went to call AAA. Had my own phone back. Battery was at 3 percent. Couldn't find car charger because I'd taken it on trip yesterday and didn't know where it ended up afterwards. Found phone AC charger. Took life in hands to get out of car and get my little box of car electronics out of trunk. I had a power inverter that I could plug AC cord into. Had to keep car running to get enough of a charge to be able to call AAA. Took awhile, which is when I noticed that the gas was very low.
    
    
15. Called AAA. 
    
    
16. It was 4:40 p.m. My office closes at 4:45 p.m. 
    
    
17. Got towed to place where I bought tires about a year ago. Michelin no longer makes the tires I bought in the size I need.
    
    
18. I DO have a spare (doughnut type)  and should have had it put on, but didn't, for a variety of reasons.
    
    
19. A bright spot: I was able to arrange a ride with Angie and Harold, who were going to be passing by the tire store soon after I called them. 
    
    
20. Now I'm home but still haven't figured out what I'm going to do about replacement tire tomorrow. Also not sure what I'll do for transportation tomorrow. 
    
    
21. I also still need to work on wet carpet/mildew in living room. 
    
    
22. And it's still Tuesday.

You Goin' to the Game Tonight?

Our dear niece E (age 17, senior at WHS) from middle Georgia has come to live with us in East Tennessee. And by "us," I mean, specifically with my brother M who is now her legal guardian (and perhaps the most generous and sensible-seasoned-with-compassion guy around), with the rest of us as a support team.

E plays soccer. By "plays soccer," I, of course, mean that she lives, eats, dreams, and thinks soccer day and night. She plays soccer the way that velociraptors hunt for food.

During this morning’s round of e-mails to determine who would stay with E during M’s upcoming two-week absence, M asked whether either my sister, S, or I were coming to E's game tonight.

It had been an away game. Back when my sister and I played soccer (my sister: an excellent, enthusiastic goalie; me: a mediocre, half-hearted forward), "away" game meant "at a high school fairly near yours, or at least in the same county." However, "away" game seems to have taken on the meaning, "a high school that is not far across the state line from yours."

My sister, who does plan to attend tonight’s home game, asked in the next e-mail, "7:00, right? At WEST."

I, sensing that S was not requesting enough information to clarify the situation, sent the following list of questions, which I wish we’d had the foresight to do before yesterday’s game.

1. At WEST High School of Knoxvegas. Tennessee, that is.

2. And, when they say it’s at West, they mean on the actual premises of the school? Not some community soccer fields several miles away.

3. And there’s not a West High School South and a West High School North? Some miles from one another?

4. And by 7:00 p.m., we mean 7:00 in the evening in the Eastern (U.S.) Time Zone? And both high schools are still on regular--not daylight savings--time?

5. And the GPS has heard of this high school, right? And won’t take you 13 miles in one direction when the high school was actually .2 miles in the opposite direction?

6. And the 13 misdirected miles do not go, in a meandering fashion, through the lonely, abandoned, rural parts of Outerwestfumblebuck, Tennessee? Far, far from things like high schools. And gas stations.

7. Let’s see…what else? Oh, and everyone has plenty of gas in their cars, right?

8. And people in the community near the high school

• Have heard of the high school and understand that they live near it.
• Have attended some high school, even if they didn’t graduate.
• Have heard of sports fields and have a general idea whether the local high school has them.
• Have heard of soccer, even if they’ve never seen it played before.
• Have heard of girls, even if they didn't know that girls are now allowed to be athletes.
• Will not give you directions when they cannot answer the previous questions in the affirmative.

But I’ll not beat a dead horse. We did, after all, make it for the final three minutes of the game.

I am sooOOooo tired!

Dear Sis,

I’ve given a lot of thought to the opinion you expressed the other day about my feeling exhausted all of the time. In case you don’t recall, you said that you think that my mantra, "I’m so tired. I’m soooooo tired. I’m so, so, so, so tired," chanted pretty much any time I’m awake, becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. You think that if I’m getting enough sleep ("enough," of course, being a relative term; but I am getting more sleep than I used to), I really shouldn’t be tired all of the time, and therefore, I am tired only because I tell myself I’m tired.

Having given your remarks a lot of consideration, this morning I tried to make a change. I was ready for work. Well, I mean, I was dressed for work and pretty much ready to leave my house. I was not ready in the larger sense of the word. Oh, and I was already pretty late, so I needed to get a move on. This led, naturally, to me giving into the inexorable pull of the couch. I slumped onto my side, half prostrate, but with my feet still on the floor, and began the internal chant. 

After repeating the "I’m tired" chant for awhile, I thought about you, and I decided to give it a try. I changed my chant to "I’m so energized! I’m so eager and excited to go to work. I feel so energetic! I’m going to just bounce right up from this couch and go to work. I feel so...[I was trying to find a synonym for "energetic," but couldn’t]...energetic! I feel [pause for another word again]...bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy. Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun! I’m just so excited about work today! I hate all of this lying around. I’m getting off the couch...NOW! [Still lying on couch.] Yes, I’m going to get up right...this...minute! [Not so much.] Because I’m so full of energy! I just feel great! I can’t wait to go to work. I’m the essence of pure energy! I’m getting up right now!"

This went on for quite some time, finally ending with, "I can't wait to go out and greet to-DAY!" This was so ludicrous and so over-the-top that I then croaked, out loud, "Oh, god,’ with such resignation that I sounded much more like Eeyore than like Tigger. Which made me laugh out loud. A dull, hollow laugh, mind you.

I did finally get up. I left for work. It was not one of my better arrival times. Oh, but hey! I went about 65 mph the whole way and stayed out of the fast lane. So that was good. Right?

[Except for the two driving incidents that I *didn't* tell you about. And you don't want to know. The ending was, "I lived."]

Have a blessed day!

Love, 

Sis

I need to turn off the TV more often and...

Read.
Write.
Draw.
Color.
Play.
Go outside.
Sit quietly.
Drink iced tea.
Lie in the hammock.
Think.
Look around me...

...and enjoy beauty

...at the reflections in the pond

...at the fading light of the sunset

...at the clouds

...at the lights of the last few fireflies of summer.

Pray.
Walk.
Breathe.
Tell myself a story.
Go say hi to the horses.
Listen...

...to the brook

...to the cicadas

...to the still, small voice of God

...to the tree leaves rustling in the breeze

...to the frogs as they come out of hiding and join the cicadas

...and after that--finally--to the silence.

Watch dusk turn into dark...

And the lights of the few houses visible from our farm blink into being.

Appreciate more.
Gripe less.
Enjoy being here.
Enjoy being.
Enjoy.

And so I did.

I love the Olympic Games! I can't wait till they're over!

Dear Olympics:

I love you. Really, I do.

Jumping, diving, spinning, running, grunting, bouncing, punching, spiking, sweating, throwing, splashing, bench-pressing, lifting, rowing, you make for a frenetic companion as you “verb” your way through life, yet you never seem to tire. I, though, over the years, have slowed down. Much like the characters in J. M. Barrie's classic tale (set, of course, in London--when not in Neverland), you, Peter, have remained young, while I, Wendy, have grown up. And though I won't yet say that I've grown old, I've become middle-aged. I'm tired, Olympics. I'm really tired. I just can't take your youthful pace anymore.

The last two weeks have been absolutely magical. Thrilling. Exhilarating. You have grabbed my attention and never let it go. I'ts been a heart-stopping, breathtaking adventure. That's why what I have to say next is going to come as a shock to you.

Please go away. Now.

You have wrecked my physical, mental, and emotional health. I have stayed up way too late ever since you came back into my life. I am in physical pain from sleep deprivation. You know how they say that 300 million cells in our bodies die every minute? Well, I can actually *feel* them dying. I didn't know that was even possible. They actually scream as they expire. I think that other people can even hear them. It's kind of embarrassing. I can also feel dying neurons as they crash into the walls of my brain, much like X-wing fighters leaving a trail of sparks as they are annihilated as they bounce off the Death Star and then into the darkness of space. You are--quite literally--killing me. When I was younger, I looked forward to your visits. But I could take it then. I could withstand a couple of weeks with no sleep. Not so anymore, dear Olympics. I am older. I've been worn down by years of sleep deprivation, worry, late-night study sessions, and all sorts of other foolishness.

Now, as I try to stay awake to watch one more dive, one more race, one more match, my body screams in pain. I've heard the expression before but only rarely experienced it: “Too tired to sleep.” I lie there, with the TV on, lest I miss one record-breaking moment of you, but willing myself to fall asleep. However, even when I can quiet my thoughts for a moment, I still hear a noise. It's a steady buzzing sound. And then I realize what it is. It's an alarm that is built into our brains as we form in our mothers' wombs. Most people will never hear this alarm. That's because it signals when we have reached our Lifetime Maximum Allowable Level of Sleep Deprivation. It's a frightening sound, my dear Olympics, because once that alarm goes off, it means that each minute of further lack of sleep in my life will bring dire consequences.

So, as much as I love you, it is time for you to go. Come back in a couple of years. I'll be well rested by then, I hope. I'll be waiting for you. But for now, please, just go. Let's meet one more time, perhaps tomorrow afternoon, for a goodbye celebration. And then we must part, neither of us looking back. You, Olympics, will go with a bounce in your step, looking toward a bright and energetic future. I...I will be in a coma.

With much love,

A lifelong devotee