"I want to live a life and love in such a way that if circumstances dictate that I know when I'm passing away, [...] that there are people that love me so much that they drop whatever they're doing to fly from across the world or across a nation to see me one last time." - Charles "Link" Neal, Ear Biscuits. July 2, 2018.
This beautiful quote, spoken at a time of intense grief (his grandfather was dying), has been churning in my heart since it was spoken over the airwaves.
Since moving to Colorado last year, establishing friendships and building a support system has been extremely difficult. Going nearly 6 months with no vehicle didn't help much either. However, the question of loving and being loved pained my heart a long time before coming West.
Seeing others find love gives me joy, not bitterness. As for me, I'm perfectly fine with never experiencing the love of a husband or a child of my own; it's just not in God's plan for me. What I'm not good with is the perpetual isolation and absence of face-to-face loving interaction with friends. Maybe I'm not doing it right. Maybe I'm not loving well. Maybe I'm not living a life worthy of the kind of love I need. Maybe I don't deserve it.
I appreciate the fact that food companies often print recipes on the labels of their products. However, I think these should be thoroughly tested, not just slapped on a label for us poor saps who don't cook well.
Ragu, the name conjures images of plates of pasta piled high, covered with meat and a yummy sauce you didn't have to make from scratch. Never overly expensive, I've eaten Ragu pasta sauce since I was a kid. As I was reading the label (yes, I actually do that sometimes) on a jar of Alfredo Sauce, I saw this:
Doesn't this sound like crispy, cheesy, tomato-y goodness?
Well...
The first order of business was to get a pan big enough for this recipe. As you will recall from this recipe, my 9 x 9 glass baking pan is too small for most recipes that feed more than one person. So, off to the Wal-Mart I go for a standard size glass baking dish.
The next order of business was to follow this recipe to the letter, except despite cutting the chicken breasts in half butterfly style, it took longer than the last 10 minutes for the chicken to be thoroughly cooked, plus it takes more than a quarter cup of sauce to coat that much chicken.
The smell coming from the oven was yummy. The finished product looked as good as it smelled.
However...
Every bite was worse than the last one: Instead of a crispy filet blanketed by tomato cheesiness, it was flavorless, textureless, and nausea producing. Being quite hungry, I ate most of what was on my plate. My thinking was that maybe it would taste better the next day--what we southerners call lettin' it set. It did not help; this mess tasted just as bad as the day before. I hated to do it, but I threw the majority of it in the trash.
Might as well cut out the middle man.
Hold up! How the Sam Hill can a southern woman mess up chicken? By following this recipe, apparently. To be fair, I've gotten some really good recipes from food labels. This just wasn't one of them. The difficulty is that I can't figure what went wrong. My only correction is to toss the recipe permanently.
When I was in graduate school, I participated in a Group Counseling class exercise where we were to give our hair history. This exercise revealed both fun and interesting facts about my classmates. It also brought out some of my own long forgotten memories.
God bless the 80's...
I think
As a young girl, my hair meant a great deal to me. There wasn't anything particularly special about it, but it was the only part of me that I felt was pretty. I had the typical ponytails or plaits (we pronounce it "platts."), plus the occasional cornrows. I have what's known as "course, resistant" hair--what we call "nappy." Early on, my mom straightened my hair with a metal comb she heated on the stove top. Later, we learned about chemical straightening. Then the 80's came...and the invention of the Jherri Curl. I kept that style off and on until the mid 90's.
Unfortunately, my history does include a couple of negative entries:
The first time I was ever teased at school was over my hair. They got to the glasses and the fat body later.
I've had a couple of hair tragedies. Once, I had a Jerri Curl put in and neither I, nor my parents knew that my scalp hadn't healed from having Chicken Pox. We figured that since my face had completely healed, my scalp had as well. Nope. The treatment left my scalp a blistered, bleeding mess. My dad ended up taking me to our cousin's barber shop to have all my long locks cut off. The second hair loss was more of a financial tragedy than a mishap with scissors or chemicals. I had been
My "Broke" Haircut
getting my hair done at the local salon, but couldn't afford to continue doing so, plus at the time I didn't know how to do it myself. Again, I trucked off to a barber (a couple from church owned a barbershop, not my cousin's place again) and get an $8 cut with the #2 guard on a set of clippers (they explained it so I could cut it myself). Again, I watched my long tresses hit the floor and be swept into the trash. That haircut not only traumatized me, but my preschool class. It took them a couple of days for them to adjust to it; I never did. Dave Ramsey once said that when he was struggling financially, his wife made him tuna sandwiches every day for lunch. So, when he eats tuna, he feels broke. Every time I broke out my clippers or saw my hair, I not only felt broke, but also defeated.
Through the years, I've tried to keep up with my own hair; all to mediocre success. I could only pull off two styles consistently:
The French Twist.
The "part it and comb it the best you can."
Honorable mentions (no pictures) are (1) Sleeping in about 12 pounds of curlers, giving myself a headache while hoping the curls held for more than a day and (2) trying to curl my hair with a curling iron that will burn the snot out of my hand or ear, but won't curl my hair worth a crap.
My new cut (back)
Fast forward to today and my new home in the arid climate of Colorado. My Alabama hair did not take to the climate well at all. I've slathered my hair with conditioners and different oils and moisturizers, yet they simply sit on the surface of my hair and wear out in a day. My shoulder-length tresses morphed into the consistency of a hay bale. I've continued the fight for nearly a year. Then, the thought hit me: Why am I fighting this? What do I win? Can I win? For me, winning this battle is letting it go. Winning the battle is to stop trying to hang on to some past beauty that never existed. So, last Sunday with stomach churning and sample pictures on my phone, I headed to the Super Cuts across the street from work and told the stylist to go for it.
From the front
(Sorry it's blurry)
It's been more than a week now since the shearing, and I'm still liking it. Yes, it's short, but it's a feminine style. It's long enough in the top that I can spike it when I'm in a silly mood. I'm still on the hunt from products that will work with my hair texture and the dry air. I may grow it out again someday, but right now, I'm happy.
Well, let's see what my next Mythical Merit Badge will be?
By the way, I'll post the picture of my badge later. It's been stuck in Texas somewhere for more than a week and the estimated delivery date has changed at least once. Thanks, DHL!
UPDATE: After nearly a month (!!) my badge and Ear Biscuit jar finally came in:
