SMALL BUT FIGHTY

My bitches, Ashley Thalman-style:

Lo, Me, Whit, Mal, Cat, and Hay

While I'm the oldest of my parents' six daughters, my mom says I’m the runt of the litter. Peterson girls are all small people, but when doling out height, God got to me and said, “Eh, she’s got enough mouth on her to make up for a lack of size. Bite-size'll have to do.” So I’m both the big and little sister. 

I was always the most diminutive kid in class. I don’t only wear heels to work because I like them; I wear them because I can’t make reasonable eye contact with anyone unless I add on three or four inches. I’m short. And ‘cept for my thighs and booty, I’m scrawny. One look at this girl says that she’s no threat.

Until I open my yap. Then I’m a potent, crazy-ass bitch not to be trifled with.

Growing up, I pointed my sass at everything. Mostly family. It’s not like that any more, and I feel pretty rotten for how I treated my peeps growing up. Hopefully though I make up for it now with dedicated and lethal defense of that family. You attack my parents, sisters, or brothers-in-law and their spawn and I will react in one of three ways: 1) promptly cut you off altogether, 2) let loose the kind of verbal/written assault that can only result in your tears or shame, or 3) grudgingly—if temporarily—keep my ire to myself and let you get away with your offense in order to preserve my sisters’ relationships and reputation with people they can’t get away from (e.g, in-laws).

My sisters know that they can count on me completely to fly to their defense—whether or not that’s what they want. If I spot crime aimed at my family, well, the victims don’t so much get to choose whether or not I’ll handle it using the only real tools at my disposal: words and guts, things I’ve got in spades when it comes to defending my most loved ones. Most of the time I’m spineless and inarticulate, but supporting my family brings out my more reckless and vocal side.

You want to be on my team. You want to be on my sisters’ team. Otherwise, I’ll lurk in the tall grass waiting for the right moment to let loose on your sorry ass.

FAMILY FLAVOR

Here you have the facts, thought they might be uncomfortable—in my family, we have too many talents. If you know us, you know it's true. We're not your ordinary family of six girls with a kid here and a husband there. Anyone can be that. But we are more.

We are sisters with game.

And today it's Whitney's game that will make you wish you were one of us six. See . . .

. . . Whit had a dream. It was a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. She had a dream that her recipes would one day rise up and live out the fullest of their potential—to exist in a print book—for not all recipes are created equal. 

She had a dream that one day in the Rocky Mountains of Utah and the red hills of Georgia, sons of mothers and daughters of fathers would be able to sit down at the family table and enjoy badass recipes that she wrote. She had a dream that even the state of Nevada, where her cooking-defunct older sister lives, would be transformed into an oasis of flavor and spice . . . 

Okay, enough with my bastardization of Dr. King's speech. 

Let's just say that years ago the little sister wrote a food blog, and from there came a dream—she wanted to write a cookbook. Sister Whit knew her food was good enough.

And Sheena knew it too. Sheena is a photographer, and not your average "Hey! I got a camera with switchy-out lenses! Let me shoot your wedding!" photographer. She is bonafide. Sheena told Whit that if ever she decided to write a cookbook, Sheena wanted to shoot it.

They collaborated. They did it beautifully. And a few years after the dream's conception, a baby has been born.

Buy it on Amazon. 

It's presently on sale for half-off. I bought five copies. I won't encourage you to do the same. Just one should be sufficient.

YOUNG TO OLD

Mama Sue and Daddy Jack's last chick has flown the coop.

We've got a beautiful third in this here house. Little Lola's said farewell to Utah and moved herself to Sparks!

It's lovely.

(When my friend was snapping this photo, I politely requested (demanded) that Lo scrunch down. It looked weird, her additional inches so dwarfing me. Graciously, Lola complied and voila! we look to be abouts the same size.)

BLOGSTORMING

Whitney and Jessica get the credit for where I am today. (Weep. Wipe.) I'll leave it to them to decide whether or not they should be proud of themselves.

Where I am: nestled in a green beanbag in my office with my MBP balanced on my outstretched legs. I'm hopping from one Space to the next. A little Photoshop here. A little facebook there. Some calendaring. A dash of emailing. I'm avoiding the Space where my word processing program is open. It's mocking me with it's blank stare. I'm supposed to be filling those blank pages with writing of some kind.

Dude, I got nothin'. Again.

Still.

Where I am: in graduate school.

Whitney and Jessica are to thank/to blame for where I am right now.

•••

Without this here blog I would not be working on my MFA in Creative Truth-telling. I wanted this degree years ago. I've been whining about wanting for a while now. But. But. But I wasn't ready. A thing I did not know and find myself very mature for being able to now admit. What I needed in order to be ready to pursue what I was wanting was this blog. It lubricated my mind. It was three years of intermittent brainstorming. Blogging is brainstorming. ('Cause I'll be damned if someone [smart] actually thinks that the bulk of blogs have what I'd call "writing" as their overall structure.)

And now, in working on pages to turn into my faculty advisor every month, I perpetually find myself blocked. (So much for the mental lubrication, right?) So I come back to the archives of this blog looking for an idea to flesh out and turn in. Very useful for that, this blog. I needed it to get me ready to go to school and I need it now as I try to craft essays for critique. I come back here to remind myself what I think. 'Cause of course I can't just, like, remember.

So how is Whitney involved? She's the one that started a blog and suggested that I do the same. Without her encouragement to do this thing I'd certainly not have found myself blogging. If not blogging there would be no schooling at present.

Thanks, Whitney.

And Jessica? How is this her fault too?

She was the quiet cheerleader through example. In hearing about her progress in her graduate studies and in her encouraging that I do what I'd been wanting to do for years, I felt a little more confidence in the concept and applied to some universities. (And then punished her with the task of being one of my readers for my application submission writings. No good deed goes unpunished, yes? Yes.)

Thanks, Jessica.

I'm glad to be where I am. On this beanbag going cross-eyed. It means that I'm checking a to-do off my life list. But couldn't it please just be a little bit easier?

PETERSONS A LA ASH

Friends are a tough thing for me. I'm unusually particular when making them and stupidly noncommittal when keeping them. But I do have a few that honor me (honestly against their better judgement) by letting me call them friend for years.

Sometime last year I was sitting in Buffy's house--I don't remember exactly who was there or what we were doing--but I remember thinking how neat it is that my close high school friends have become who they are. They've cultivated unique talents and--I beg your forgiveness for using this word--blossomed into sparkling, spectacular, capable, and skilled women.

I recalled this thought when Ashley did the Peterson family photos a couple weeks ago. She is crazy talented. And she's my friend. Though we lost touch for years and live far from one another, I do know who she was ten+ years ago--which makes her skills and predilections that much more intriguing--and, for a reason I can't quite put my finger on, I feel entitled to be proud of her abilities. I am proud of my friend.

Well done, Ash. You did what you do: you captured my family.

(Sample photos stolen from Ashley without her permission; but I figured that since the post was about her mad skills, she'd give me a pass.)

If you've got the time on your hands and have some emotional investment in my people, I encourage you to visit Ashley's instaproofs site to peruse her cache of Petersons.

NEPHEW

I have a family rife with talent. My parents and my sisters--and my brothers-in-law, come to think of it--have serious skills, things that they do exceptionally well. Honestly, all of them. And not just one thing for each; they all have many things that they specialize in. We're a family blessed with above average abilities. We're like The Incredibles.

One thing that my Whitney-sister is especially great at is making sure that her kids have relationships with family far flung. For myself-- parents and sissies aside--I generally have a tough time keeping out-of-sight folks top of mind; my brain is one that relishes compartmentalizing and isn't any good at mixing the peas with the carrots. Whit makes sure that her kids don't fall into that trap.

I have always received unintelligible phone calls from her boys. I latch into words like "kitty" and do my best to run with them. Her boys know who Aunt Megan, Uncle Mark, and "Phosie" are even though we see them so rarely.

And they remember things. When I see Van he has to show me his yoga and I'm ever flabbergasted that since he was how old his brother is now, Jack has remembered that my computer is a tablet and he asks to draw with me. It helps me to craft individual relationships with them so that my love isn't arbitrary but cultivated instead.

I just got this email from Whitney:

Just now, I clicked over to your Zazzle shop and Jack was standing next to me when it pulled up. And he said, "Oh! That looks beautiful!" And I told him that you made all those prints and he said, "Mom! You need to get some of those!" And I showed him the ones we have and he said, "Does she do any Star Wars or army guy ones?"

Rock on. A 5 year old likes you.

And I like him right back.

LITE BUDDHISM

Ever walk through a store and stop dead in your tracks when you see something truly incredible, something so seemingly once-in-a-lifetime? That happens to me sometimes. Mostly with shoes. I'll halt and emit a little gasp of awe. Seriously. I think there's something innate in the way some women feel about shoes. I see the great ones as wearable art.

This stop-and-awe happened a couple months ago when I was walking through a home decor store and laid eyes on a chartreuse ceramic Buddha figure (that Jessica picked up on in my Special Delivery post).

Oh my gosh. I have to have this. And for six bucks, I'd have been a fool not to buy it.

When my sister, Mal, was visiting a while back with the purpose of helping me do some house dejunking and reorganizing and restyling, I was taking her through the house telling her what I liked and didn't like. When we reached my office door I stopped before opening it and said, Ever purchase a piece so spectacular that you can hardly believe it's yours? She said she did. Well, when I open this door you're going to just die over how great something is.

I opened the door, she looked in, and she cried out, Oh please tell me you mean the Buddha!

Well, of course.

When the husband was doing my bidding last night with the hanging and such, we placed a shelf sconce thinger just inside the front entryway very near my Fam Proc poster. I'd designated something very special for that little shelf. Upon it I placed my perfect purchase.

•••

As a side note, in a few minutes our doorbell is going to ring. It will be my coworker and her two teenaged kids. I've invited them over for dinner. To you that might seem ordinary, but here, in this house, it's momentous.

When I tell you that I'm not at all social, I am not exaggerating. Illustration: we have lived in this house for a bit over three years now and these are the first non-visiting-from-out-of-town family (or Rabid) that we've invited to our home for a meal. A meal I made. Just before moving here we bought a terrific dining table--solid wood, round, seats eight--and I sat down at it for the first time ever today when I was putting out the plates and such.

I'm so defunct in the cooking for company department that I had to talk with Whitney about just what I was going to feed these friends of mine.

Here's what we'll be eating:

• pesto pasta with cherry tomatoes and olives

• Whit's Summer Fruit Salad

• Italian white bean salad that I found online

• roasted garlic peasant bread with a lemon-sage butter I made (whoa)

• and an Apple Betty (sort of like an apple crumble only way better) for dessert

I am excited to have them come over to hang out (and it was terrific incentive to finally get all that stuff up on the walls). We have a nice and good sized house that gets absolutely no play from anyone that isn't me and el husband.

However, I can't believe that I had the outlandish idea to actually cook. I was on my feet for four hours, chopping, mixing, peeling, blending, and on. I spent most of that time thinking that my cooking sister is a complete idiot to make this cooking nonsense her hobby--and I didn't even have her chaotic environment while I did my thing. The Rookie's insane.

A RECEPTIVE AUDIENCE

Of course I haven't figured it out completely, but I've got the beginnings of an answer.

I have never liked babies, O Best Beloved. And I can name the basic reasons—the stuff that no one really falls for—they smell bad, they're needy, they are noisy, and such. And additionally, for me, it's probably my lack of overall patience. However, I have just now figured out what I think the unique root of my distaste might be.

Yesterday morning while I was getting ready for the day I was thinking about my sister, Haley's, kiddo Addison. Ladies and germs, this miniature human is absurdly cute.

She's so cute that it makes me want to tie off the ole fallopians; 'cause no matter what—I mean really, no matter what—whatever Romo and I spawn in escapades producin' fruit o' the loins couldn't possibly be that adorable. And we wouldn't want our little thing to feel bad about itself from day one, now would we? (Even if no one tells you, you know if someone's 10 levels better looking that you are; it's innate methinks.) We could't produce anything to parallel that kid's adorableness, so why even try? Addie mastered cute in the Peterson gene pool. We Romos may as well try to do something else of note. (Leave me all the way alone on my logic here, okay?)

Something that may be key in all this: that adorable piece of flesh is the spitting image of her mother as a little 'un.

Anyway, back to the original thought: I was thinking about my sister's kid, and here's what I was thinking . . . I talked with Haley a couple days ago, and when we were getting off the phone I said, Kiss your kid hello for me. And we hung up. And then I thought, What the hell? I've never said that before. And, weird of all weirdness, I meant it. What's the deal? 'Cause, let's be honest here, though at the heart of my soul I love Addison because she's my blood, by no fault of hers I've never been all that interested in her.

Wait, don't go! I have to explain—

My life's experiences so far have shaped me into someone who coos like a maniac over dogs, but nods politely (mostly) when someone displays their newly-produced baby. Whatever. Seen one, seen 'em all.

I realize that it can be off-putting, but like I said, this is the result of my life's experiences. I own the world's most attractive dog. No, again—really! this is God's honest truth. I have no idea how we got so lucky and landed the most adorable animal ever created, but because Sophelia is so damned cute we can never get her a Yorkie companion. We wouldn't want the addition to have poor self esteem, but it would be bound to happen, for though we'd never tell her, this new Yorkie would be "the ugly one." No matter how adorable the new dog might appear next to other canines, she'd be ugly compared to Soph. It's a sad truth that we've come to face. I mean, good grief, look:

So thanks to my baby beastie's good looks and her spunky personality, I am a dog person. She has enchanted me.

Babies, they haven't enchanted me, O Best Beloved. They're just something that everyone seems to be able to have (for the most part). Unique? Hardly.

And it has occurred to me just now what the root of my lack of interest in babies might be. They kill my self-esteem.

People, I'm funny. It's true. In real life, in person, I am funny. Quick-witted and silly, I can make just about anyone laugh. But babies, they don't fall for my act. They just sit there staring. They don't get me. Toddlers, however—which Addie has been blossoming into—they are moving into the beginnings of responsiveness. No, they don't get my joke about the NASA administrator, but if I play around with a toddler on a toddler-like level, they respond. We can interact. They're seated in a pleasant in-between stage—just starting to become interesting and not quite to that 8-year-old-so-annoying-that-I-wish-it-weren't-frowned-upon-to-stuff-you-in-my-car's-trunk stage.

Babies don't thrill me because presently I require a certain kind of interaction and they just aren't pickin' up what I'm layin' down. I need an engaged audience. And now that Haley's child is becoming someone who can do a better job of feeding my ego, I have more interest than just staring and wondering how anything human could be so good looking. (Not enough interest to want to go buy one of my own or kidnap her, mind you, but this is progress—and not feeling compelled to kidnap her is probably a good thing, yes?)

It's sick. It's sad. It's pathetic. It's whatever adjective you'd like to apply to it, but it's also what came from some serious introspection while I primped and flat-ironed my hair.

(If you caught on to the irony in that last bit there you'll see just how funny I really am. And if the irony floated right past you, remind me to interact with you on a toddler level. I can charm you that way too.)

CIRCA, OH, 1987 OR SO

Whitney • Megan • Caitlyn, the one who became a hair stylist

VIOLA SORORIA

There is a seed.

Someone plants it. And then they water it. And the seeds gets an idea.

It decides to grow.

So it sprouts. Something small and green springing from a dot that looks like wood.

Time passes and the thing grows. First it's a small green thing. Then it's a more-than-small thing. Green all over.

But then, there is something else. Something atop the green. Something not green. Something purple. A purple bud.

The thing from the seed--it's a flower. A violet.

Our family now has a violet too--a Violet Ingram. I was there to witness her arrival, and I intend to tell you about it sometime soon. No time now though; no time to write anything. But I did have time to design this:

The purple bud's mother wanted a poster of a Violet seed packet to hang over her crib. Turns out I have the necessary tools to create things like that.

FOOD.

So my sister Whitney does the Rookie Cookie food blog. And her husband, Ethee, does the Rockwell Catering company.

R.C. R.C.

And they swear they didn't do that on purpose.

Right.

Want to know the real reason I don't go to Utah as often as I used to? It's them. It's them and their food. Whitney runs a popular food blog filled with tantalizing whatnot and tips on how to make healthy things easier, and Ethan has been catering his entire life. If I go to The Tah often I get fat, fat, fat because it's impossible to spend time with Ethan and Whitney and not leave with a belly that's twice the size it was when I arrived and infinitely more happy.

It's especially bad because they think of me when it comes to certain recipes. Oh! I made an asparagus pasta that is so up your alley! Oh! We catered this fruit bruschetta that would be perfect for you! Stuff like that. You'd think it's nice, but it's actually terribly rude when someone's watching their girlish--but not too girlish--figure.

Anyhow, why I write this (for we know it's not news): Rockwell Catering just refreshed their website and it appears (to me, but I could be wrong for I'm not so much one for the details and I haven't been to their site in months) that there are new food images. And, well, food images do it for me. Why lie?

So if you live in Utah (which many of you do; I know--I get reports on your activities here) and you have an event, large or small, consider Rockwell. The food is to die for (honest! It's really not in my best interest to say food is good when it isn't; that makes me look like an idiot), and Ethan might even be able to get you Rookie's autograph, if you ask very, very nicely.

•••

A note on "large or small": many people think that in order to consider having something catered you need to have a huge function. Such is really not the case.

Many of us are Mormons and we have families the size of which fulfills the stereotype. And that means that we have family get-togethers. Which are stressful. Not only do we have to host our siblings and their rotten children, but we have to feed them as well. Sometimes, that's just more hassle than it's worth and we just give up on the thing altogether.

That's where knowing of an efficient caterer comes in handy.

Catering doesn't mean that you have to have an event of a hundred people. It could be much less. Much, much less. And it doesn't mean you have to do dinner. You could have them do breakfast or a dessert buffet or lunch or whatever. And it doesn't mean that you have to have a formal event planned for which your guests got engraved invitations. You could be doing a big birthday dinner or an anniversary dinner for your parents or a luncheon for friends or whatever. And it doesn't mean that you have to have minions in black and white shuffling around with silver trays of crudites. You could just order the food and have your caterer drop it off if you'd prefer. Then it's just you and your annoying relatives and no extra people making you feel awkward.

Why use a bona fide caterer instead of just having Jason's Deli delivered? Quite simply: your reputation. Sure, Jason's Deli is great. I've used them for work and for personal in-home functions of my own. But they're not unique. Use a unique caterer that serves fresh fruit bruschetta and you're something special. Hell, you could even lie and say you made it yourself if you want. I do that kind of thing. It makes me look awfully cool.

Why write this? Why promote like I'm some caterer's whore? Because I'm the girl who pays people to do stuff. I pay people to clean my house and to install dog doors and and to bring food to parties I host. I'm all about things being easier for me so that I can enjoy my life a little more. You certainly don't need to pay people to clean your house. And you can have the neighbor or your husband or your mom install your dog door. But if you're looking to enjoy a little event, I strongly suggest you consider having someone else do the cooking.

SÜP • THE TESTIMONIIAL OF A KITCHEN IDIOT

or YOUR CHRISTMAS GIFT FROM ROOKIE COOKIE

Okay, it’s not so much that I can’t cook. It’s that I really hate doing it. I’m using the word hate and all it’s force to describe how I feel about cooking at this point in my life. Nevertheless, people gotta eat, right? So from time to rare time I turn on some music in the kitchen and make a big mess in the name of crafting something that tastes good. Though, due to my disdain, my practice sessions are infrequent and it shows in my ability to do things like cut a tomato and, oh, boil water.

Whitney has been working on a soup-from-anything guide, and because I'm culinarily inept, I had the pleasure of taking it for a test drive this last Thursday.

Okay, not so much the pleasure as the opportunity to be the first one to give it a whirl.

So I did my sisterly duty--because, if nothing else, those who know me very well know that I am loyal and supportive.

Because it was just my spouse and me for Thursday dinner, and we generally ignore leftovers, I halved everything.

My selections from each category:

Aromatics • 1/4 yellow onion and 3 stalks celery sautéed in olive oil
Seasonings • the curry blend
Vegetables/beans • 1 cup garbanzo beans and 1 cup cannellini beans
Liquid • vegetable stock
Additions • 1 cup brown rice

The result: a simple soup tasty enough for The Husband to assure me that had it been served in a restaurant, he wouldn’t have sent it back. Well that’s something, at least.

The point of my telling about this particular foray in the kitchen: after a little feedback from me, a kitchen novice (I have to ask questions like, What’s the difference between diced and chopped?), the soup guide is done and ready for download.

Folks, this thing is brilliant. If I can follow it to the point of a successful homemade soup without the need for bandaids or a takeout menu, anyone can.

For ease of access, Whitney had me make the guide into a downloadable PDF that you can print out and put on the fridge or tape to the inside of your cupboard.

Head HERE to download and profusely thank my sister for making your life so much easier. It's soup season, folks, and with Whit's help you can easily have different soup every night of the week. 20 minutes for prep and then you can blog, clean, read, do whatever while it simmers itself into a delicious medley of gut-warming goodness.

Tell your friends about it. Tell your family. Tell a coworker. Send 'em all to download The Guide. Its ease is revolutionary and we oughta spread the word.

When it comes to having confidence in the kitchen, I’m severely lacking; but with the simplicity of this guide, if I invited someone over for dinner at the last minute, I know I could take what’s on hand in my cupboards and fridge and make a soup worthy of compliments. Or at least the assurance that it won’t be sent back.

'DO TO-DO

I did something I've had an inkling was impending but I've been dreading nevertheless.

I made an appointment with a new hair stylist.

For the last five years or so I've been seeing the same brilliant hair technician, my sister Cat. Logistically, it's been quite the commitment, for we haven't lived in the same state since 2000. However, she's been worth every single hour in driving across Nevada's hideous terrain. Thanks to her skillful snipping--from bob to pixie, I've always had a hair style that elicits compliments from strangers. Depressed strangers when they learn that my hairstylist is out-of-state

Thing is, I'm getting old. At 27. And the 16-hour round trip from Sparks to Provo, UT, is becoming too much for me. Especially since every six weeks isn't frequent enough anymore with this new shorter 'do. I need at least every four. Like I'm going to drive that never-ending, ugly trip every four weeks.

So I approached a gal with a great short haircut that works at Gap here in Reno and asked her for her stylist's name and number.

And then I called and made an appointment for Nov. 21.

The sister-stylist is doing my hair this weekend; it will be the close to a whole lot of fun. I have terrific memories of time in her chair; so good that I'm laughing as I type this. That's right kiddos: LOL. I'd tell you one or two, but the best ones are unprintable.

I'm incredibly nervous about the new stylist. I've no doubt she's skilled, but I'm awfully particular and not the easiest client; just ask Caitlyn about me bossing her around regarding my color mixtures.


That's right people, for various reasons, I sometimes use my iMac's Photobooth as a mirror to do my makeup and flat iron my hair. And yes, my mouth actually is that small. Lucky, I know.

TAKEN SIDES

If you've already read this post and are just back to peruse the commenting, as I know some are prone to do, I'd encourage you to catch the UPDATE on your way down to the comments; it adds a little je ne sais quoi to the whole affair . . .

When it comes to my family, I'm fiercely defensive. Fierce to the point of ferocious. Like a tiger. Or a lion. But not a lioness. They don't look as scary without the mane, and I'm definitely the scarier cat.

Allow me to provide evidence.

Whitney wrote this post. A humorous post on how her son, Jack, misbehaved (rather badly), such that Whit and Ethan felt compelled to frighten him into remorse. (For context--and entertainment--I recommend you read the post; won't take you but a minute.)

Whit knows when she writes something like this she's going to get at least one comment or email from some reader reprimanding her for being something akin to a rotten mom. Sho' nuff, for here's what I found on that post this morning:


And here was my response:


(Please forgive the few out-of-character typos; when I leave comments while on my iPhone, the droppings are always a tad wonky.)
Harsh on my part? Oh, sure. Over the top? Very likely. Was Devra pretty stupid? In my opinion, yes. I know a social worker or two. And I even like them. (You two know who you are, don't you?) And I am quite sure they don't wander around the Internet tossing out instructive comments to people they don't know.

Do you want to cross me or mine? "Righteous" intentions be damned: probably you don't.

•••

UPDATE

Because Remarks from Sparks is more suited for controversy than my sister's food blog, she put an update on the post, deleted the comments from Devra and me along with the subsequent ones--including one from our Rabid, and closed off further commenting.

But, lucky you, I took screen shots of the comments now eradicated and have posted them here for your entertainment and tasty, calorie-free snacking (check it out: snacks courtesy of Rookie Cookie). You should know that I'm not doing this against Whit's will; she knows and encouraged it. Because, like I said, her blog is about what to eat. Mine's the one built on opining.

Comment immediately following my response to Devra:


My response to Squid:


And Rabid's helpful analogy, which, of course, I love:

YORE CHUBBY

Found this in my iPhoto. From where I know not.

Ma has often commented that her teenage girls grew out before they grew up. Wider before taller. Unfortunately, according to this image, snapped when I'd long stopped gaining height and was hovering at the 5' 2" I maintain today, the Wider likes to stick around longer than is welcome.


Yes, I'm the one on the far left.

I knew you'd be shocked.

(I'm praying you're shocked.)

DOUBLE, DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE

Main entry: pot-stirring
Pronunciation: \'pät\ \'stər-iŋ\
Function: verb

1. a) to combine food through agitation
2. a) to rile up b) to turn one party against another c) to influence a situation and then step back to watch d) to make things just a little more exciting

In my family of six sisters, five husbands and two parents (plus three grandkids and one on the way--not mine; you wish in vain), we take turns starring in the role of pot-stirrer.

The Husband is an ignorant pot-stirrer, saying things he absolutely should not, oblivious to the fact that whatever he said was uncalled for, inappropriate, or sacrosanct. Whitney behaves a pot-stirrer because she loves being the one to divvy out information and is a notorious exaggerator. Haley stirs the pot through concerned tattling. I stir through snippy critique and the mere act of speaking my inflammatory and all-encompassing opinions aloud or online.

Within my familial experience, the results of a pot well-stirred include events such as tears, swearing, slurs, slander, libel, gossip, whispers, yelling, and laughter. It can be awfully entertaining and emotionally charging to watch unfold.

We all have our own way agitating a situation. Our Hen Mom is a righteous pot-stirrer, mixing things up for our own good.

Most recently, my ma noticed what she was told could be discord between a couple of her kids, and to deal with it she got her poem on, went blogtastic, and did a job. She made an effort to get her dueling daughters to direct their ire at her instead of one another, perhaps bond together against a common enemy, and find themselves allies and blissfully wrapped in the love they once knew.

However, so far as I've been informed, the problem mother was told was festering is actually on the mend. (The pot-stirring of another daughter is to blame, I'd say). The two tallest of her daughters still exchange clothes, chat while one colors the other's dreadlocks, share basil leaves, and send text messages. Was there a moment of angst? A second of unhappiness? Perhaps. I know not for certain. But being what they are--made of what their mother made them--these two have overcome.

I, for one, admire and encourage it. Sisters should love one another and bond against their mother.

Just kidding. I think the mother's a bit of a meddling genius.

WHIT WITH A SIDE OF WIT

Could it be her readership as a whole or just those who comment that exist without a sense of humor?

My sister, Whitney—the Rookie Cookie herself, is a barrel of laughs. A darn funny broad. In person and online. Her blog boasts gems that make me giggle when I recall them; and for me to recall them at all, let alone laugh upon recollection, is noteworthy. It's not every day. Not every post. But when she busts it out, the goods are good.

And all that splendor is wasted on her audience.

Just last week when describing her Greatest Guacamole Ever experience she wrote:

. . . The fresh ingredients are good all on their own, but when they hook up, they have the hottest, sexiest one night stand EVER.

Clever and just naughty enough. (Bear in mind that the bulk of her readership is a bunch of prudish mommies.)

The way I see it: Whitney served up a laugh with a recipe chaser—not the other way around, but everyone who deposited something for her to read skipped right over the tryst only making mention of the gloppy, green goo. They neglected to leave juvenile e-laughs, compliment her on a sordid but witty metaphor, or at least scold her for a vile comparison. Nothing! I was the only person who said a word about her concoction’s sex appeal. That sickens me. Much like I mourn withering potential, I hate to see a good guffaw go unshared.

I’m quite sure that had I written the same one night stand one-liner on this blog, two or three of you would have at least indicated its existence it in some way. But Whit is better at that kind of thing than I am—the saucy metaphor. I’m certainly more acerbic, but she can be a little raunchier. We work as a top-notch team when a blogging bump, set, spike! is in order, but she doesn’t need me to produce pearls.

And there they lay at the feet of swine.

It burns me up.

Is this Guac Incident isolated? Absolutely not. It happens time and time again. For example, when Rookie whipped up some body scrub and compared the wet sticky experience to a porno The Bird was the only reader to respond. Completely pathetic. At least rebuke the dame!

More often than not, the comments I peruse on the Rookie blog contain crumbs like, Oh, I made this last week and it was incredible! or I’m so making this tomorrow night! I can’t wait to get cooking! or Peach season is my favorite time of year; thanks for giving me a way to use up all the treasures from my trees! (Okay, that one wouldn’t have included a semi-colon.)

Yes, good people—yes!—my sister writes a food blog, but a good portion of the people who show up do so to read her little life-bits: the things Jack says, what she does in her spare time, her cooking anecdotes. You like the recipes but show up for the show.

I'd be more receptive to the always-trite comments if all she posted on the blog were recipes; but she leaves wit as well, and it gets ignored.

My blog amasses higher-quality comments than hers does. The comments you leave on my Remarks are much more substantial; they're actually worth reading. A few recent examples of the many:

Julie: She shared a tale that caught my husband's attention. And actually caused me to utter, Wow while reading.


Tom: Well, Tom never fails to provide the kind of entertainment people charge for. Do yourselves a favor and hunt through my past posts for bits of Tom. With comments like this, who needs a USA Today app?

Jessica: Always insightful. She left me some words to consider and received a big fat comment as response. I am a responder; leave a comment that causes thought or emotion, and, providing I have the necessary time (a commodity there seems to be less and less of these days), I'll get back to you.

Errin: She let me in on a little introspection. I couldn't be more flattered. And she granted the gift of gag.

Erica: The Ask-n-Gab comments are always a party. I wish I had more time to snatch a few to feature. And when Erica answered this question, she enriched my day with an image of Grover that I'll never be able to eschew.

Good grief. Gold, I'm sayin'. Stand-alone posts within their own right. Why doesn’t Whitney get the same thing? She’s smart. She's funny. And she puts a ton of time into this blogging nonsense. She deserves better.

Now, Dear Remarks Reader, think not that you must leave a hearty, well-composed, life-altering comment each time you have something to say. My aim here is to point out that my blog is rife with great responses while my sister's blog is gifted with great comments like these only once every other month. (And generally you or I left them.) Also, I plead with you not to assume that what I've posted here are the only Remarks comments worth repeating. It's late. I'm tired, and a small sampling of the gifts I get is going to have to do.

I am thoroughly flattered that you readers I have never met, people with whom I've never lunched, will take the time to toss me engaging responses like the lengthy ones above that serve as fodder for a dialogue. It's as rare as a worthwhile comment on Whitney's blog that I receive a comment I scan and think, Well why the heck did you leave that? It was a total waste of Internet. But I constantly find myself mired in thoughts like that when I read the typewritten banalies visitors leave on my sister's blog.

You could say that Whit's e-space is not my space, thus I ought maintain apathy toward the droppings readers leave behind; but she's my sister, her humor is too entertaining to be ignored, and, well, I do feel a sense of ownership over that blog—yeah, I'm only in charge of the looks, but it's an investment nevertheless.

If you're a Rookie reader, for me—forget about her, please react and respond to the pearls she leaves with the plums. There's stuff there that's just too tasty to get tossed with the pits.

•••

The disclaimer you knew had to follow: I didn't tell Rookie I was writing this. She takes no issue with her readers. She actually likes them quite a bit and has gone so far as to call them her homies. (Don't worry, her husband has answered the call to mock her for that.) Thus the above lambasting was without permission. If you find offense, don't blame her. Blame me. I take a nefarious sort of pride in the fact that I have the ability to agitate.

CIRCA '98

This group shot was captured in Pizza Bob's in Haleiwa, Hawaii, circa 1998. It was on this trip that I was coerced to tour the BYUH campus. It was on that tour I decided that it would be the school I'd attend. This during the very long period of my life that I didn't so much like my family. At all. Not the sisters. Not the parents. (Okay, not the mom. Somehow the dad never fell from my good graces.)

Eleven years can do so much in the way of change and progress. I did go to that school. I left with a B.A. in English, some like-minded friends, and a very unintentionally-stumbled-upon husband. I now not only like my family, I adore them. I love my sisters. I feel fortunate to consider my mom one of my very best friends and am appropriately ashamed of how I treated her. Unchanged: my dad still sits squarely in my good graces.

When this picture was taken this was all there was to the family. Dad, Mom Megan, Whitney, Caitlyn, Haley, Mallory, and Lauren (who is unbearbly cute in that photo, isn't she?).

Now the family has blossomed into Dad, Mom, The Husband, Megan, Ethan, Whitney, Jack, Van, Tadd, Caitlyn, Jon, Haley, Addison (arriving within the next few weeks, we 'spect), Nicholas, Mallory, and Lauren. Eleven years ago we were eight. Since then, though not at the speed I believe my mom wishes we would have, we have grown. Eleven years later, we are sixteen.

From the above, we have doubled.

CHICKEN CHEST

My sister has a thing for boobs.

The Rookie Cookie sister. (And to be honest, I'm not sure about the other four sisters.)

As you know I'm Rookie's blog slave. Recently I was slogging through the latest addition to her site--the ingredient index. And when putting it together I use Blogger's search feature to locate the appropriate recipes for each category. Strawberries. Mangoes. Semi-sweet chocolate. Chicken legs. Chicken breasts.

When searching, I ditch the modifiers and just type the noun: "chocolate" "legs" "breasts." I typed "breasts" into the search field and felt a little naughty. A glimpse of what it's like to search for porn. (Though I'm thinkin' the anatomical word is a less likely search term than the many zesty euphemisms out there.)

The results were a gold mine. So many references to breasts. Breasts. Breasts. Breasts. On every page. Sometimes she even gets sordid and calls the ingredient Chicken Boobs.

Racy breast-loving lady.

WEDDING DAY: CAPTURED

When I returned from Mal's wedding, I sent you to take a look at the photog's sneak peek. Well, we don't have to be so sneaky in our peeking anymore; she's posted the images, and that slide show'll knock your socks clean off. Give yourself a 3 minute, 40 second gift and go enjoy the show: a wealth of images documenting Nick and Mal's day.

If you know what's good for you, you'll go see.