Daisy’s Pork Stew with Honey

Daisy McPherson Morris was born in Santa Rosa on Flag Day, 1906. Her father installed light bulbs in airplane cockpits. Her mother kept a clean house and wore her hair in a bun every day of her adult life. By the age of eighteen, Daisy had seen little of the world beyond her own hometown, but her mother always encouraged her to believe she should never desire for more than what she had. The first time Daisy left California was when she accompanied her mother to Pittsburg to visit her dying grandmother. On her deathbed, the fragile old woman, regarding the young girl’s turnip-like figure, her thick glasses and her large masculine hands, looked into Daisy’s eyes and uttered what would be her final words: “Daisy, you be anything you want to be in life, except picky. Take the first proposal you get.”

Two years later, Daisy married Albert Morris, an ex-boxer who worked at the local shipyard and had the face of a beaten Indian. Daisy’s parents were relieved that Albert came along when he did. Already, Mrs. McPherson had begun delicately suggesting Daisy look into a career as a phone operator or “perhaps in service to the Lord.” Daisy felt more love for Albert than she believed she was ever entitled. On the day of their wedding, Albert sent her a dozen red roses – and a single white one – with a card that read, “For the woman who stands out from all the rest.” He would repeat this gesture periodically during the first months of their marriage. Daisy wept each time, though she would forever be embarrassed at the sight of the lone white rose and repeatedly told her husband she didn’t deserve to be treated so well.

Albert bought Daisy a yellow two-bedroom house in Bodega Bay. The day after they moved in, Daisy’s mother gave her a housewarming gift – a heavy pine box containing hundreds of handwritten recipes. When Albert worked his night job at the wharf, Daisy would stay up late and memorize each recipe so as not to let her poor vision hamper her cooking. Within months she had perfected everything from corned beef and cabbage to huevos rancheros. By their first anniversary, a pregnant Daisy had gained twenty pounds. Albert had gained twenty-five.

Daisy proudly displayed Old Glory outside her home every day of the year, and she encouraged women on her block and in her Church group to do the same. During the war, she would bake her rosemary bread for servicemen leaving for Europe. Each week, she typed a one-page “Local Homefront Memo,” in which she gave helpful hints to the other neighborhood homemakers on how to conserve for the war effort by doing simple things like greasing cookie sheets with margarine wrappers instead of rationed butter.

On nights when Albert was home, Daisy would play piano for him, and sometimes she would sing. Her favorites included “Rock of Ages,” “P.S. I Love You,” and “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” She always smiled while she played though she was tone deaf and never realized how it pained Albert to hear her sing. Whenever he felt this way, he would eat one of her homemade butter cookies, smile privately and remind himself there was no reason to ever tell his wife that her talents did not extend beyond the spice rack. Years later, after Albert had died and Albert Jr, moved with his wife to Colma, Daisy continued to play, though she no longer sang.

Daisy died of a stroke two months before her eightieth birthday. When packing up the house, Albert Jr. found the old pine box which now held aged sheet music, a sandalwood crucifix, an engraved silver anniversary mixing spoon, and a small perfume-scented envelope. Inside the envelope, he found wrapped in a clean handkerchief and pressed between two pieces of wax paper a dried, brittle flower. There was no way for him to ever know that it was a white rose.

Click here for the recipe! Daisy’s Pork Stew with Honey

Grown-Up Homemade Hot Fudge Sauce OR “Cloak and Dagger Ding Dong Duty”

I like to tell people how my mother used to hide Ding Dongs around the house when my sister Kelli and I were growing up.  Then, because the real reason she did it isn’t very exciting, I’ll make up more fantastic explanations, such as “My mother had ‘Night Eater’s Syndrome!’ If there weren’t Ding Dongs in every room of the house, she’d swallow the nearest thing she bumped into.  We lost so many cats!”  Or, “She really likes the shiny paper wrapped around Ding Dongs.  She makes fancy jewelry and takes it back to the state hospital after her weekend visits with us.”  I’m convinced these stories are at the top of the list of reasons I’m so popular now, and why I’ve had so many calls from producers at Dr. Phil.

The truth of the matter is that my mother was more or less forced to hide Ding Dongs around the house when we were little because my sister Kelli and I were a couple of ravenous child sugar bandits who could suck down all the sugar Willy Wonka’s Oompa Loompas could churn out in a single shift.  If the two of us had ever found an entire box of Ding Dongs just lying around in the kitchen, we would have immediately whisked it outside to the back of the house and gnawed our way through it with our faces like two raccoons who’d had their hands chewed off by an owl.  Then Kelli would re-fill the empty box with socks or paper towels, close the top and slip it back in the cupboard.  Eventually my mother would discover it, and when she confronted us with the evidence, Kelli would claim consumer fraud and demand my parents call Ralph Nader.

Kelli and I orchestrated a variety of schemes to maximize our daily sugar intake in ways that would leave my parents and our two older siblings completely dumbfounded.  Maple syrup bottles would be drained and re-filled with Black tea when no one was looking.  Seemingly unopened boxes of Lucky Charms would ultimately reveal themselves totally lacking all colored marshmallow bits.  While the rest of my family sat at the breakfast table, eating charm-less bowls of toasted oats and wondering why their pancakes tasted like Christmas trees, Kelli and I would giggle knowingly and high-five, or whatever 1970s kids did to celebrate their superiority… I can’t really remember… Hustle Bumps? Farrah Fawcett Head Flips?

Kelli was the one who discovered that when the Green household was out of Hershey’s Syrup for pouring out over ice cream, powdered Ovaltine could be used as a substitute.  So we would shovel six or seven spoonfuls out of the jar and dump it over the tops of our vanilla scoops, then churn it feverishly for several minutes, taking a minimum of two breaks to switch hands or shake out our wrists.  The resulting concoction resembled used motor oil mixed with cream of mushroom soup, and had a consistency strikingly similar to volcanic ash.  We gobbled it up with the treasured, single, extra long “ice cream” spoon we’d share 60-40 (in Kelli’s favor, of course), then we’d go in search of some baker’s chocolate or bottles of corn syrup we might have missed in the back of the pantry.  And if Kelli ever ran out of ways for us to ferret out new sugar sources around the house, we might switch to melting Barbie heads on the stove or bursting open glass thermometers and sliding the mercury around on paper plates

As for the ongoing troubles she had successfully hiding desserts in our home, my mother ultimately gave up the quest to outsmart her two youngest kids and handed over “Cloak and Dagger Ding Dong Duty” to my dad.  He immediately started slipping the boxes into the bottoms of the dirty clothes hampers in our bedroom, and we never found them again.

Click here for the Recipe for “Grown Up Homemade Hot Fudge Sauce”

Cayenne Chicken and Roasted Brussels Sprouts

Say hello to the Dinner of the Devil!

If you’re looking for a meal that will quite literally bring tears to your eyes, a meal that could help you lose friends and alienate people, a meal that will not only stimulate your taste buds, but your nasal passages and your digestive tract as well, THIS is the meal to make.

MG had to stop eating it midway through because it was just too much for his sinuses to take. As for me, I didn’t seem to have the same problem, and finished both my portion and his as well. Some that know me may attribute this to the fact that I have no detectable soul.

So be it.

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Chipotle Chicken and Apple Pizza… and Christmas

Pizza with apples is both surprisingly tasty and also a daring “rule breaker,” like when you were a kid and made a sandwich out of wheat bread and Fritos and it brought you closer to God.

I’m a crazy Christmas whore.  At least that’s what you might label me if you were a mean person.  And even if you did, I’d be okay with that.  I’m no stranger to being called names, you know.  In fact, regularly in elementary school, mean kids would scratch out the R’s in both my first and last names on my lunch bag, then turn the “N” into a “K,” transforming me from Gary Green into “Gay Geek.”

And they didn’t stop there.  They also called me “Gary Green Bean” “Gary Green Eggs and Ham,” “Gary Gary the Human Fairy,” and my personal favorite, “Faggot!”

Kids really can be cruel, but if I was pressed to admit it, I really don’t see much of a difference between “Faggot” and “Crazy Christmas Whore,” so in this particular case the kids I went to school with were less cruel than they were right on the money.

Even as a full grown man it would be hard for me to argue it, as just today I was sharing with friends at Pinkberry how I had been dieting for a week so I’d look good for the upcoming premiere of The Bachelor. Meanwhile in my head, I was silently booking thirty minutes later in the day to stand in front of the mirror and see what I’d look like with my hair parted on the left instead of the right.  Let’s be honest… a Crazy Christmas Whore is just a Faggot who’s out of season.

I’m almost positive I’m a giant grump outside the month of December. For the rest of the year if you tried reading the sentiment I was presenting on my face, you’d come up with only three options: 1.) “I’m not interested in hearing more from you,” 2.) “Why the hell would we do that?” or, 3.) “Well well well, look who thinks she’s God’s gift to Starbucks.”

Of course, I’ve never gone so far as to ask anyone if I’m coming off as tyrannical and disagreeable as I think, though sometimes MG calls me out for being unpleasant when we’re in public.  If I’m pretty sure he’s going to pick up the check, I agree with him.  We Gay Geeks are always thinking ahead like that.

But I’m most definitely someone you want to know in December.  I might even say hello to you before you can do it to me.  And if I’ve managed to get in at least a good eight hours of sleep, it’s possible I’ll allow you to tell me what you think is currently interesting about your life and the lives of those with whom you interact.  Yep, in December I’m a real cuddle bug.
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Aunt Emily’s Lip Smacking Strawberry Sauce

This is a recipe for my Aunt Emily’s Lip-Smacking Strawberry Sauce.  Aunt Emily is not exactly the warm, inviting face of home and hearth you might imagine on a jar of desset topping, but she is definitely worth a few minutes of your time.  She met my Uncle Raybon on a blind date at a mini-golf and pirate-themed adventure park just before the bicentennial.  They were married six weeks later, the second time for both.  The first piece of furniture they split fifty-fifty was a tiki bar with light up palm trees and wooden, half-pineapple ashtrays.  It was the focal point of their sunken den, and the home base for all their football parties.  Raybon would mix the drinks and Emily would sit on one of the stools, sipping and barking out raunchy jokes with set-ups always involving someone who farted at the worst possible time.

While she was married, Emily worked as a cocktail waitress in a hotel bar.  Her bouffant Brenda Vaccaro hair was almost exactly as wide and exactly as red as the short, ruffled skirt that was her uniform.  In between the hair and the skirt was a crowd of hilly cleavage and a deep, weary tan. Emily liked to twirl in her waitress skirt before she left the house and say, “It’s the preferred look for today’s cocktail gal… Mexican square dancer with super titties.”  Then she would run her fingers in circles around her blouse where her nipples were underneath and stick her tongue out sideways like a rock star, while my mother shouted out her name with reproach and the rest of us fell on the floor.

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