If NaNoWriMo isn’t motivation, I don’t know what’s left. The goal is to write a novel in a month–albeit a short novel. The last time I read a book clocking in around 50,000 words was probably middle school.

Anyway, if you’re so intrigued, or inspired (and hopefully, you are), check it out:

http://www.nanowrimo.org/

It’s not too late to make the effort.

My true passions in life are writing, cooking and photography–in that order. So how did I come to working on the Internet? Broken dreams, my friend. And we all have them. Things happen, you’ve got to pay the bills, and one day you wake up and realized that you kept making excuses when it was time to roll the dice. That guy in Vegas making a last ditch effort to double his money may be throwing it all away, but he’s taking more chances than I ever did–probably more than most of us ever have.

Anyway, eleven thousand words. That’s got be better than binge eating, and a heck of a lot more rewarding.

Lard is a key ingredient in a great pie crust. But it seems it’s not something that’s purchased regularly in Miami. The local Publix store only sells lard they trim themselves, and I’m told there’s a few pounds put out every morning. Always missing the deadline, I head off in the other direction, to Winn-Dixie.

Now, I’ve always complained (nay, whined) about living in an area with such a language barrier. I’m from New York, I took French in high-school (they didn’t even offer Spanish), yet I’m living among Latinos. In fact, I’m the fairest skinned gal in my neighborhood.

I was prepared for the challenge - simply asking a stocker where I might find this ever-so-important ingredient. Nearly 5 minutes later, I was standing in the refrigerated foods section, in the center of a circle. I was surrounded by 8 Latinos - all Winn Dixie employees. Normally I’d just huff a few words and take off, but I appreciated that these folks were actually trying to help me (and that’s a rarity in just about any business these days). I went so far as to write the word L-A-R-D on a piece of paper one older employee handed to me. “Please, write it down,” he requested. I did, and they still had no clue…

Another five minutes passes, and I’m exhausted of all possible explanations… “Um, southern fried chicken, um, grits, um, the best black grandmothers use it all the time.” Oh no, I just stereo-typed (okay, I felt bad, but it is true; I spent many years in neighborhoods surrounded by black kitchens and had dinner with plenty of blacks in the south, and yes, all their pantry’s carry this fine ingredient). Well, as soon as they heard this, they summoned another employee. Actually, they ran for him.

So, I’m standing there and here comes this 6-foot-something, well built black gentleman. He hears the employees say in unison, “Lard.” He just shrugs, walks down an aisle, shoves aside some cannisters of Crisco, and pulls out a box.

So, I’ve got it, and it’s thanks to NINE people. (I’ll note that not one of the shoppers knew what it was either).

Then I hear a lady gasp, “Oh, Manteca!” And I’m thinking, well, yeah, that’s the brand. Then another gentleman explains, “this is manteca de cerdo - that’s what you say next time.”

I smile, say thank you, and walk away thinking, you gotta love these stores. You see, one thing I refuse is to learn a language to communicate in America. Sorry, that’s just a principle.

I used to have the problem with the employees, until Bill O’Reilly set me straight - it’s actually the employer. See, if I had asked for manteca de cerdo, I would have been hoofing it back home in no time. Then I pull the box out of the bag, and I see, in large, red block type, LARD. So I’m thinking, hang on, they stock the shelves, do they not know the product?

Upon further inquiries I find that they know the product, but only by it’s “subname” on the box, and sure enough, there it sets in green: manteca de cerdo. And the brand is Manteca.

So, now I know what lard is in Spanish. I wonder when that would ever again come up in conversation…

Photo © Pamela Hazelton. Image presented is untouched.
Flowering Pink
July 19, 2006
I found this single flower lingering amongst pads in a pond at Disney World’s Animal Kingdom. I had to take a ten-minute break, attempting to get a nicely framed shot. It’s rather amateur, but I just love the colors. 

She doesn’t bake, but that doesn’t matter. Rachael has found ways to inspire millions to take a little time out of your day to create a real family sit-down dinner, and for that, I give her more kudos than she can handle.

For decades we tuned in as Julia Childs became part of our kitchens. At the time it was more about teaching us how to cook. But with the urge to stop off at KFC or Burger King on the way home from work, because we’re just too tired to pull a pan off the hook and turn on the stove, I say anyone who can tempt us to eat better has got to be a Queen of the kitchen.

From the aspect of culinary arts, I can understand why many well-known chefs call her shortcut methods taboo, but let’s face it. We don’t all have the time to make our own pasta and red sauce every night of the week. Maybe some of the drive to bash her techniques is because, just maybe, some of these guys think less people will appeciate a fine meal. I find this absurd. I cook any chance I get (and there are many shortcuts I won’t use because I prefer more authentic tastes), but let’s face it - the number of people who can afford a 5-star restaurant more than a few times a year is slim.

Or, maybe, they just don’t like seeing the “art” destroyed. It hasn’t been. We can still reserve Saturday afternoons for a fully blown gourmet meal.

There needs to be a happy medium among the art of cooking, and I say anything that promotes a home-cooked meal over a trip to IHOP has got to be a good thing.

Filet Mignon??? (aka Fatty Filet)
January 3, 2006

It’s amazing what you’ll get in a highly priced box of “gourmet” filet mignons. Nowadays I just go to my local grocery store and watch them cut it right in front of me. We actually thought these were wrapped in bacon prior to removing them from the packaging.

My husband and I pulled into the restaurant about 8 p.m. Saturday. They were moderately busy, but short staffed. They sat us anyway, right by the kitchen. The waitress tended to us promptly and we were prepared to order right away. Me? A milkshake (figuring the food would be awhile I needed something before I fell over), grilled cheese w/ bacon and tomato; my husband a Diet Coke, Philly Cheesesteak and as mozarella sticks as an appetizer.

The food arived in less than 10 minutes. My husband’s sandwich was perfectly prepared. Mine, on the other hand, was two slices of toast, two slices of cheese, two slices of bacon and a slice of tomato. All cold. It wasn’t a grilled cheese at all, but rather condiments slapped on two pieces of dry, cold toast.

When I posed my problem about the sandwich, the waitress looked confused, hesitate to take it back to the kitchen. So I cut my losses and avoided any further hassle. “Okay, I’d really like nothing, then.”

She was dumbfounded, and proceeded to attempt to convince me to let her take it back to the kitchen. I just wasn’t in the mood for any more hassles, so I replied. “No thank you. My husband will just eat his. I really would not like another.”

“Okay,” she said as she walked away. Ten minutes later, while my husband was nearly finished wih his meal, the manager walks over, a sandwich in tow (holding the bottom of the plate with his fingers and the top of the sandwich with his thumb). “Mam, I have sandwich. I fix for you.” I explained that I did not want another sandwich (and especially not the one he had his hands all over), but being that he spoke very little English, he didn’t understand. Finally, I just looked at him and said, “I don’t want it. Please bring us the check.”

Ahh, the check. We were wondering what the bill would be, considering we never got the cheese sticks…

After ten more minutes of being ignored, I asked another waitress for our table number, so I could just go to the register. She was quite nice and promptly ran my check out of the machine. Of course she had to adjust it for items ordered, but not received nor accepted.

The manager catches us and asks if there’s any problem. Problem? Huh? He was just working with us. He escorts us to the register, then says (I had to struggle like mad to understand), “I am manager, if you have problem, you ask for me.”

“We were just working with you.”

“I on floor. I can’t see all of restaurant. If you have problem, just ask for me.”

“But we did ask you for the check, ten minutes ago.”

“I help you.”

“Help me what? Our waitress abandoned us, you didn’t bring us the check, so we asked someone else.”

“What did you have?”

“You have the new check, that’s what he had.”

“But what you have?”

“Look at the check…”

He takes my Amex and a few minutes later the machine spits out a slip.

“You have discount, so you have new bill.”

“What?”

“You have discount, no?”

“No, we don’t have a discount. Please just charge us for what we had.”

“But I see discount.”

“Will you please charge the card so we can leave?”

Tick, tick, tick. I finally get a slip to sign - $5.93 (apparently he was saying he gave us a discount).

Upon leaving we noticed Denny’s asking for our help. If we call a number and take a survey, they’ll give us a code which will garner a free drink upon our next visit. Wow, $1.80 for taking time out of my life…

Instead, I’ll be sending a letter to the corporate office, with a simple link to this entry. That should suffice in explaining my latest experience.

Sunflower
August 5, 2005

One of my best photos after a year of virtually nothingness, I took this at friends’ home in Virginia. Being my first real vacation in nearly 10 years, I snapped about 40 pictures of the flowerbeds around their home. This one captured the sunlight perfectly, as it nurtured an insect. More so, it captured my emotions during the visit. Though my mind was heavy with tormenting thoughts, the flowers were an escape for me.

Me, I’m blogging for life. I’m blogging because I need to realize my own dreams, and pay tribute to those who molded me. In the past few years I’ve lost many mentors - people who taught me that living for today is what makes tomorrow’s dreams come true, even if those dreams belong to someone else.

Last night I flipped through my old photo albums (I’m scanning family photos for one of my aunts, who is creating a database). I cried as I scanned across image after image, half of which had captured the joy of those who have past. My aunt Marian (my aunt by blood, but my true friend because of the relationship we had), Velvet (my best friend from high school), Teckla (my second mother, who introduced me to the love of cooking and taught me that I could survive with little more than two nickels to rub together), and others, graced the pages. These inspirational people lived their lives, and taught me more than any school teacher.

They were intermixed with the living, who also teach me. My parents, my siblings, my former friends. It had been a while since I’d looked at the photos, and last night, they told new stories. That life, itself, is a true journey. And that my dreams, no matter how large or small, are worth pursuing.