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    Hi, I'm sending you my favorite recipe as per requested.  My family loves my carrot cookies, and it was my dad's favorite cookie...
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Saturday, March 17, 2012

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Friday, March 16, 2012

Mystery Man -- Charles Eugene Williams

Charles Eugene Williams, the name unfamiliar to me in the beginning, is now becoming "the mystery man" in my life.
        In February while attending the Oscar Party at the Double Tree Hotel, everyone was hushed and silent during the commercial for the coming remake Titanic in 3-D. Strangers surrounded me, yet we were all fascinated by the familiar scenes from the blockbuster film that would be released just in time for the 100th anniversary of the tragedy. As the music rose and faded away at the end of the ad, a single voice to my left spoke earnestly but softly, "My great-great grandfather survived the sinking of the Titanic." I heard that much clearly before other voices clamored over hers. She wasn't speaking to me, but to another person between us, but her words grabbed my attention. Here was a story, I wanted to know more.

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Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Comparison Prompt: Deep in my Hope Chest


This week Write On Edge asked me to write about a time I found myself my comparing self, unfavorably, with someone else, to focus on the emotions involved and the outcome of your comparison, using 400 words.

When I was in my twenties, I dug deep into the depths of my cedar chest, just like every girl of my generation had. My daughter laughed when I explained why it was called a “hope” chest, “Young girls were expected to make and gather items that we would hope to use in our new home when we got married.”

We unpacked dozens of embroidered pillowcases and table linens that my mother and grandmother had forced me stitch. I pulled out my wedding veil and honeymoon dress and coat neatly folded on top of the many boxes of photographs. Underneath the last box I turned over a cheap reprint of Norman Rockwell’s “Girl at the Mirror.” At that moment I felt the air punched out of me; it so symbolized my self-reflection of how I felt when younger.

I grew up in a small town where girls were given the conflicting, unrealistic role movie and TV models of either sexual Marilyn Monroe or bikini-clad Goldie Hawn. Thus, putting my awkward 14 year-old-ego in conflict with the “always perfect hair and makeup movie stars” that I idolized.

Running around the hills of Oklahoma I was a tomboy who didn’t even wear makeup or know the reality of Hollywood. I just wanted to be admired and loved, confident and posed. So I would gaze into the magazine pictures then search the mirror for any signs of change in my looks or confidence.

Each time I would be pulled away from all that wishing and dreaming to do my chores or school work, I would say to myself, “I bet Jane Russell never had to feed the pigs and calves.” Or “I bet Judy Garland or Petula Clark never had a bad hair day when they were singing.” Finally I became too busy with my friends, who admired me, my sweetheart who loved me, and my career which gave me confidence that I forgot the “Girl at the Mirror.”

But the Rockwell print brought back all my insecurities of adolescence. That was what I thought I hoped to be, and I had packed away my wishes and dreams deep in my hope chest when I started to become the real me.
(P.S. I’m still working on the poise.) 
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TASTY Recipe Club invitees--are you out there?

             As of this date I have not heard back from anyone about the Tasty recipe club donation I was sent last week. So if you are the 20 people I sent the club invite to, hurry up and send me a recipe or regrets. I'm anxious to share to talk about food.
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Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Recipe Club out of the blue

Hi, I'm sending you my favorite recipe as per requested. 

My family loves my carrot cookies, and it was my dad's favorite cookie as well.
These are nothing like carrot cake at all, so don't moan and groan if you are not a carrot cake person.
It's more like a sugar cookie with carrots in it. This is a quick dessert that I have to make several times a year: January for my husband's birthday; February for Valentine; March for St. Patrick's Day (don't add green food coloring, it looks gross. I know from experience); April for Easter; May for our anniversary; in the summer months I don't bake; so come the fall, my husband grumbles that I haven't made Carrot Cookies in "forever," so I have to bake them for the holidays.

CARROT COOKIES from Brenda Evers' mom's recipe.
1 c shortening
1 c sugar
2 beaten eggs
2 c flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 c mashed cooked carrots (more if you really like carrots)
3/4 c chopped nuts (we always use pecans because I like them the best)

Mix everything thoroughly in this order or any way you like to put them in.
Use a melon scoop or an ice cream scoop to drop the batter on greased cookies sheet.
Bake at 350 degrees until brown on edges. Because we live in Colorado high altitude, it takes about 18-20 minutes.
      You may have to vary that time.
Cool and ice with Orange icing:

1/2 box XXX (powdered) sugar
1 Tbsp butter
1 Tbsp grated orange rind (opt.) 
Enough orange juice to mix all ingredients into a smooth creamy consistency.
The frosting is optional (in my mind, but my husband will not eat as many if there is no frosting), so your choice.
I put on a light spread of the orange icing, but if I leave out the left over frosting, my husband double dips his cookies in it.
Enjoy for two or three days; after that they begin to take a turn in taste. I never have to worry about that. In two days they are gone.
Hope you like them.
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Monday, March 5, 2012

Something Broken Prompt? Glass memories


A glass shattering crash woke us. My heart knew what had broken, but I prayed my children weren’t hurt. On the hard vinyl floor In their bedroom I saw my treasured Gone With the Wind lamp of Fenton glass destroyed beyond repair.
The children looked okay, no cuts or blood.  Their faces frozen in disbelieve and fear of what I would say or do. My seven-year-old daughter knew the importance of that lamp to me. The 14-month-old stood balanced with one hand on the side of the dresser, his other hand still held the cord that pulled the lamp down.
As though trapped in a freeze frame home movie, no one spoke or moved until my husband stepped behind me asked, “Is everyone ok?” I dropped to my knees, crying as I tried to gather each glass sliver. With each piece of the distinctive yellow roses design that had graced the globes, I would sob harder. Rebecca tried to comfort me, hugging me and saying, “It’s okay, Mommy. Don’t cry. It will be okay.”
Baby boy L.J. screwed up his face and wailed with gigantic drops falling off his chin until his dad stepped in, scooped him up, and soothed him while taking both kids to the other bedroom.
I couldn’t stop my flood of emotions or tears. This lamp was my first wedding shower gift. It was the only object I had left from my first marriage. We were childhood sweethearts, wed before high school graduation. We had this lamp in our first home; we took it wherever he was stationed in the Army. When I moved back to my parents’ home, it was my light as I waited when he went to Viet Nam and he never came home to see his new born daughter.
Consumed with memories, I didn’t realize that my new husband of three years was back in the room until he made one long sweep of a broom readying all the glass shards for the trash can.
“No, no. Don’t do that. They’re mine. That’s all I have left!” I yelled and cupped my arms and hands around the lamp remains as I huddled over them with my entire body.
Byron took my hands away and pulled me up into his arms. He held me close and kept repeating until his words broke through, “Brenda, it’s gone. The lamp is gone. You can’t put it back together again. I’m sorry. L.J.’s sorry. He didn’t mean to do it. We’ll get you another one, I promise. Just like this one.”
 “ You can’t get me another one just like this one. It’s gone. Ronnie’s gone. I can’t get him back. He’s never coming back,” I moaned at him.
“I know. And I can’t bring him back either. No body can. But you’ve got Rebecca, and you will never forget Ronnie. Now you have L.J. and me who love you, and you will have another lamp to remind you of all of us.”
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Thursday, March 1, 2012

REMEMB(RED) writing prompt "Rainy night in Dusseldorf"


It was a rainy night in Dusseldorf.  My first night, I smiled. I lifted my hand outside the edge of the umbrella and waved my fingers in the light mist. No one was here to greet me; no one knew that I had caught a plane and left the USA early this morning. I was happily, deliriously free—just me, myself and I. Where was I going? What was I going to do? I don’t know and I don’t care. My future was beginning now.

            Fearless, Teresa walked down the block away from the hotel she had chosen from airport advertisements. She didn’t know the language, the locale, or the landmarks. Why had she bought a ticket to here? Why not, she answered herself. I have never thought of coming to Dusseldorf, so no one—family or friends would think of looking here.
           
            The rain was coming stronger covering her footprints just as she had covered her tracks as best as she could: withdrawing half of her retirement annuity in her individual checking account, changing it to buy her ticket, and two pieces of technology—a disposable cell phone and an electronic translator device. Teresa had signed up with a tour group that flew to Frankfort, but when they landed she slipped away to be alone. She was traveling solo to wherever she wanted to go.

She had grown accustomed to being alone after the kids grew up, moved to other states and rarely visited or called. Teresa was too busy to be afraid when she was working, but after she became unable to work the long hours she retired, ready to travel and see the world, her kids and grandkids, but Jim did not want to travel with her.   He was happy to stay home, up at his cabin or hunting seven months out of the year. He had told her, “It’s fine if you want to travel on your own. Go, fly, see the kids.”

I stopped my thoughts to glance and enjoy the foreign scene before me.  Various street signs shimmered in a language I couldn’t read or pronounce. The few people passing me gave weak smiles of hospitality as they passed. I smiled back, then I felt something trailing down my cheek. I reached up my hand. Startled, I realized it’s my tears.  (396 words)

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Westley's Graduation - One Year later

Westley's Graduation - One Year later
Westley gets a hug from his mom the minute after he receives his diploma from Fruita Monument High School, Class of 2010.

He's BACK! Billy Crystal is 2012 Oscar Awards Host

Remember Bohemian Rhapsody Mountain Dew parody Ad

The Help: the film dividing America

By Philip Sherwell 7:30AM BST 23 Oct 20115 Her book has sold 1.3 million copies in Britain and 10 million in the States, the film adaptation has already earned $160 million as the movie hit of the summer in America, and now Oscar buzz is mounting ahead of its release in the UK this week. These should be heady days for Kathryn Stockett, author of bestselling debut novel The Help, a publishing phenomenon that earned the devotion of book clubs and legions of predominantly female fans on both sides of the Atlantic. The Help is the emotive story of black maids in the segregated world of Sixties Mississippi at the height of the civil rights struggle – their narratives recounted by a sympathetic, young white woman who rejects the virulent inbred racism of her old school friends. There are clear autobiographical parallels with Stockett, 42, herself, a blonde Southern belle raised by a beloved African-American nanny in Jackson, the Mississippi state capital where the story is set. And her success is all the more remarkable, as the manuscript, five years in the writing, was rejected by some 60 literary agents (she stopped counting at 45). The Disney film version is being marketed as an inspiring mixture of chick lit and civil rights, based on a heart-warming sorority between the races. And there is growing speculation about Oscar nods for Viola Davis (who plays the central character, Aibileen Clark), Octavia Spencer (her feisty friend, Minny) and newcomer Emma Stone (as white socialite Skeeter Phelan). But not everyone in the US is feeling so good about the “feel-good” juggernaut that is The Help. Certainly not Ablene Cooper, the black housekeeper for Stockett’s brother, who brought a lawsuit against the writer, claiming she was the unwitting and humiliated model for the similarly named lead figure. Nor a leading black actor, or the commentators – many of them also African-American – who view the book and film as patronising portrayals that sugar-coat one of the most violent eras in modern history. Those visceral responses reflect deep and enduring fault lines about race in a country where the horrors of segregation, a painful living memory for many, were not washed away by the election of Barack Obama as the first African-American president. In Mississippi, the scene of some of the most brutal acts of the freedom struggles five decades ago, those sensitivities are particularly raw. And that violent past reared its ugly head again recently when a black man was viciously beaten up by a gang of young whites and then mowed down and killed by a pick-up truck in what prosecutors claim was a racially driven hate crime. Against that turbulent backdrop, Stockett was perhaps always courting controversy. Most poignant among the objecting voices is that of Mrs Cooper, who sued the writer for $75,000, a humble sum by America’s litigious standards, for using her likeness without permission. She said she was distressed that in the book Aibileen lost her son – just as she had – and that in one exchange the maid said her skin was blacker than a cockroach. The case was thrown out under the statute of limitations, as Mrs Cooper failed to lodge it within a year of being sent the book. Still, she was not alone in her complaints. Wendell Pierce, New Orleans-born star of The Wire and Treme, launched a blistering attack on the film after watching it with his mother, who told him afterwards for the first time that she too had once worked as “the help." In a series of scathing tweets, he called the film “passive segregation lite that was painful to watch”, said his mother thought it was an “insult”, that it was a “passive version of the terror of the South” and a “sentimental primer of a palatable segregation history." Mr Pierce was at pains to praise the cast, particularly Davis and Spencer, but added that Hollywood often seeks films with black actors as long as there is also a “great white saviour." The most damning verdict on its allegedly saccharine version of reality was delivered by Max Gordon, an African-American, New York-based writer, who described his outrage as he watched the film. “The phenomenon of The Help is so depressing, as it undercuts the real heroes of the era by ignoring the real horrors,” he told The Sunday Telegraph. “This is not the South of lynchings and beatings, it’s the comfortable Hollywood take of the civil rights era. “I don’t think you can compare suffering and oppression, but what would people say if there was an executive decision to make a movie about the Holocaust and the Nazis without brutality, featuring only German officers’ wives and Jewish women, with no concentration camps or trains to Auschwitz?” But the two black stars are defending the film. Spencer, a friend of Stockett, was particularly combative. “We’ve gotten so PC and we’ve gotten so weirded out. We start labelling. You have to be a black person to write about black people, you have to be a white person…” she bemoaned in one interview, not needing to finish the thought process. “I have a problem with the fact that some people are making that an issue.” The book also received the imprimatur of Oprah Winfrey, the Mississippi-born talk- show queen whose views carry great weight with her overwhelmingly female and African-American audiences. The Help was described as a “favourite book” on her website. Stockett, a recently divorced mother of an eight-year-old daughter who worked in the magazine industry in New York before moving back to the South, is now working on her second novel, another tale of women, this one set during the Great Depression. The writer addresses some of the criticisms of The Help in a newly published version of the book. She denied that, despite the coincidence of names, her brother’s housekeeper was a model, saying she had barely met the woman. Rather, she wrote that the inspiration for the character was Demetrie, her beloved childhood maid who largely raised her after her parents divorced when she was six. “The Help is fiction, by and large,” she continued. Yet as she wrote it, she wondered what her family would say – and also what Demetrie, by then long dead, would have thought. She acknowledged that she was breaking what some have seen as a cultural and literary taboo. “I was scared a lot of the time that I was crossing a terrible line, writing in the voice of a black person,” she said. “What I am sure about is this: I don’t presume to think that I know what it really felt like to be a black woman in Mississippi, especially in the Sixties. I don’t think it is something any white woman at the other end of a black woman’s paycheck could ever truly understand.” But, she concluded, “trying to understand is vital to our humanity”. Loyal readers and cinema-goers might agree with these motives. Her critics, as adamantly, do not. As British box offices prepare for a lucrative new release, the polarisation shows no signs of abating. 'The Help’ is released on Wednesday in Britan.