The house purge continues. Stanley says we are going for “reducing the visual noise,” and I’m all for it. Word Raccoon is following us around, though, grabbing her favorite books back from the “donate” pile.

Stanley was quite useful when it came to trying to tame the entertainment center. Stack by stack he told me why those were not the books for prime real estate space.

Of course he had to affectionately roast me over some, too.

“Cheap copies of classics? A Christian romance? Oh, Drema, did you go to a library book sale again?”

I had. And the books had ended up there instead of finding a home.

To be fair, I didn’t know it was a Christian romance. I fell for a pretty cover.

He tried to get me to relocate the Shirley Jackson collection I’ve been slowly reading (very slowly). WR said he could take his monocle and…I told them to break it up. Poor Stanley stood around reshaping his bowler hat.

We’ve already discussed that I do not need to buy more bookshelves, just weed through the books that I have. I’m panicking imagining that conversation, when we begin going through the books for real. 

It is one thing to sort library book sale books. But if the books have made it upstairs, they are a part of my soul, Stanley.

In the kitchen, we are in the fine-tuning stage. Things like “where did we put the extra spoonrests?” are cropping up while I’m cooking. Stanley assured me that after a couple of weeks my brain will have rewired where everything is.

“Leave my brain the hell alone. It may be a chaotic circus some mornings, but it’s my chaotic circus,” I said.

I had some backup in outrageous earrings when I said that.

Stanley asks whether I really need four, nay, five boxes of cereal atop the refrigerator and Word Raccoon is threatening to drop said cereal on his head, hissing We are out of Coke Zero. You planned this, didn’t you?

Here’s what’s allegedly on the agenda today:

• Finish sorting the mail. I let it pile up over the Thanksgiving weekend and ended up missing a beautiful birthday card that also had some birthday money tucked inside. WR said she’d take that, thank you very much, for her Coke Zero fund.
  
• Finish clearing the top of the kitchen “island.” (It began life as a science lab cabinet bought at a university auction and I repurposed its bottom half as an island. I’m just trying to clear it and figure out how to keep smoked paprika from dueling with the rest of the spices inside. The struggle is real.)
  

Stanley said I absolutely cannot put the stand mixer on top of the fridge, rather than on the island. I asked him why not, reminded him I had filled the cabinet where it had previously lived and have no intention of shifting everything again. 

“Now let’s discuss that chopping board. It is too bulky and it looks like it belongs in a food blogger’s kitchen, not yours. Word Raccoon will back me on this.”

Okay, so those weren’t his exact words, but close enough.

He said I also cannot use it as a stage for other items and Word Raccoon cannot use it as a stage for singing, either, and that I should definitely move it off the island.

Didn’t know we were voting things off the island, Stanley, but fine. (He’s giving Herbert a run for his money today.)

WR says she will vote Stanley off the island, gladly. 

So that leaves what on the island, Stanley? I already moved the marble cheese plate and the decorative basket mixed with white and sweet potatoes. (They may go back there. If I don’t see them, they maybe definitely will get forgotten about and who wants to discover a basket of rotten potatoes in January?)

WR is whistling and twirling her tail like she knows what can go on the island, besides her beautiful self.

What, a Dutch oven?

Full disclosure: the white (creamish, actually, I guess) one with the gold knob has already found its way there. It’s currently (my face is red) holding napkins. Paper napkins.

A proper napkin holder has been ordered. A cast iron one. Stanley said my first choice looked like a DIVA in red and said it and WR would fight.

He’s not wrong.

So I ordered one in white that looks like it was left out in the rain for a few weeks. It’s no wheelbarrow, but I can’t wait to get it.

Here’s the napkin holder deal.

Yes, I already have a napkin holder and of course I hate paper napkins.

But life. I have both types. 

Instead of holding napkins right now, the holder is propping up…unopened mail. (Blushing.)

I asked Stanley if I should use our current napkin holder or keep the napkins in the Dutch oven where they are.

The poor man short-circuited at that. He slowly cleaned his monocle before answering.

“My dear girl, why don’t you just buy another napkin holder and be done with it?”

He put up his hand.

“I know you are going to say you should buy a mail holder instead, but that will become a whole thing; just keep using this one for mail and buy something beautiful for the kitchen.”

He leaned against the dining room table wearily.

From the island’s drawers I uncovered not only an untouched bundle of glittered Kate Spade Christmas cloth napkins, I discovered a project I hadn’t gotten around to last year.

Word Raccoon ripped the package of peel-and-stick tiles from my hand and asked for the room.

The back of that “island” was bare, just some kind of ugly pressed board that is a tiny bit warped anyway. These tiles are gorgeous, mellowed gold and white. (The picture does not do them justice, IMO.)

In ten minutes, WR had that thing looking gorgeous. 

The raccoon declares she loves it, loves it, LOVES IT! 

And did I mention the tile matches the Dutch oven atop the island? 

Yesterday, a poem came crawling towards me like the poor cold ant I found in the downstairs bathroom. I was going to sweep up it and its sad fellow ants that were dead in the unheated room and then I noticed this one was crawling. 

WR screeched and clutched her earrings.

I switched on the heat to give it a chance.

It obviously just wanted to live.

I went into the other room and cried. Then I wrote a poem about the ant that I definitely did not call Teddie Jaque in my head.

Back to the winter rearranging. Back to the poems, maybe this evening. Tomorrow for sure. If we have to live indoors most of the winter, WR insists on being cozily surrounded by warmth and beauty. And poetry. 

And if Stanley ever tries to vote me off the island, I’ll just point to WR and say, “Take it up with her.”

(I had forgotten that WordPress automagically adds snow during December to blog posts. What a beautiful surprise.)

Ah yes, the blog post that doesn’t know how to begin. WR says she 100% knows how to begin, if I’ll hand over the keyboard.

I will not.

I have not touched poetry or submitted any in three days. I don’t know what that means, but there it is.

Friday morning, the day after Thanksgiving, holds as many food memories as Thanksgiving itself in our family.

My father always made turkey hash. It was an event. 

It’s not what you think it is. It’s more like turkey gravy, but I think his father called it turkey hash when he made it. 

I’m an instinctive, improvisational cook, so trying to explain exactly how I cook a dish isn’t easy, but I want to try. (Mine is an approximation of what my dad made, but I think it’s pretty close.)

Roddie’s Turkey Hash

Serves 4 (He made double batches.) 

Ingredients: 

Maybe a pound of shredded turkey (white or dark meat, your choice)

1 medium yellow onion

1 12 ounce can evaporated milk (You can substitute your choice of milk – I was going to use almond milk but I just couldn’t. Don’t tell my doctor.)

Maybe ⅛ a cup of flour (I tried measuring it for you. That’s a guess.)

Vegetable oil (You can use pretty much any oil, but olive oil is too strong for it.)

Red pepper flakes (a personal preference, but this makes the memory for me because HE used them)

Note: this is probably not how it SHOULD be done, but this is what works for me. 

Roughly chop the onion. This is not a vegetable fashion show. (More on that later. WR had some moves.)

Shred the turkey, if you haven’t. Chop it, too, if the hunks are too big. (WR does not like the sound of hunks in her ears.) 

Heat some oil (Don’t make me tell you how much. Eyeball it. Okay, maybe a tablespoon? Probably more like two? You want the onion to be coated. 

Drop the onion into the warm (not hot) oil.

Push it around like it owns you money.

Add the pepper flakes to let them bloom for a minute or so. (Don’t put your face over this; your lungs won’t thank you.) 

Now add the turkey and once it’s coated in oil, add the flour and SALT. (I think that’s technically the wrong way to do it, probably should be flour first, then turkey, but there are two things you should know about my cooking: A. My gravy is never lumpy. B. My meatballs always hold together. Lots of other cooking flaws over here, but those are two constants.) 

Stir the flour until it is coated with the oily flour. (This post doesn’t want me to say “roux,” does it?)

Let it warm for a minute or so, then add the room temperature evaporated milk knowing that A. If it doesn’t thicken, you’re not out of flour, right? Just add a bit more. (It will thicken.) B. If it’s too thick, add a bit of water until it’s the desired consistency. 

Add more salt. Listen, I am careful with the salt, always, but this is a dish that’s difficult to oversalt. You’ll want salt at the table, too. 

You’ve got this. 

When it is, as I said, just the right consistency for you, turn off the heat. 

Oh, wait. I didn’t tell you that this is best served over Brown N Serve rolls. So you should have those baked. (Usually 425 for 6-8 minutes, right?) 

That’s it.

Except now my experience with it this year.

We look forward to turkey hash every year. I mean, it’s a constant. I made it for the kiddos when they were home. Every. Year. 

I enjoy making it. Even when my dad was still with us, even the years when I didn’t cook a turkey myself and he smuggled me a bag of it to take home for the next day (I usually made my own), even when we lived in Tennessee, I made it. 

This year, I woke up and came downstairs. Stanley and I (the virtual PA, remember, Stanley is), are continuing to declutter, since WR and I have to live indoors now until the weather turns. (Though on sunny days, it’s back to the porch perch.) 

Apparently I had a purse sorting emergency, because I didn’t even start cooking for the first two hours I was awake. 

When the purse and bag wall (what, you don’t store yours on hooks in the dining room so you can look at them as you walk by?) was calmer, we drank the coffee we did not make. 

Coffee usually comes with breakfast, which I make.

Except: no breakfast. 

“Give me a few more minutes,” I asked. “I’ll make it while you shower,” I told Barry.

Honestly, I didn’t realize I was stalling. 

I cranked the Christmas music and gathered the ingredients. 

WR’s teeth showed as she opened the knife drawer. 

Remember how I said you should use a medium onion? 

Yeah, we didn’t have a medium onion. We had a large. 

My hand went for one of the smaller knives. 

“Pardon me?” WR said, reaching for the biggest, sharpest knife.

“Nope. Nopity nope,” I said. 

She reached for one just as large but that I feel marginally safer with. 

(Cutco has a proprietary sharpening system, so I won’t even try to sharpen this one.)

Except as I (we?) began cutting the skin off the onion, suddenly it felt meditative. It felt okay. I realized I am the one making the turkey hash. No one else is coming to make the hash. I am the keeper of the hash. 

My father will never make hash for me again. But I can share his recipe. 

I began crying. Oh great. I said to salt the food, but that’s not what I meant.

I washed my hands mid chop and sat down to cry. 

Well, sob. 

WR at first looked concerned, then asked if we could finish chopping. We did, and it really felt okay except…I noticed that the knife wasn’t sharp enough. I mean, this is me, out here hacking at stuff for years, and now I’m like, you know, this knife could be sharper. 

What? 

And I cried over that, too. 

Eventually, breakfast came together (kinda brunch, by then). It was served on the good china, the pretty stuff. Humble food, prettily situated. Been watching Stanley Tucci’s food travel shows, and it reminds me that simple food well prepared is never the wrong food. 

The rest of the day was rough. Periodic weeping, an overdose of The Beatles, which I had thought perhaps impossible (the Anthology stuff is out now on Disney+). Some frantic online Black Friday gift shopping, which I never do. 

WR discovered a really good sale on pink Dutch ovens, this time eyeing a smaller version, and forwarded it to Santa, saying that they also make great storage bins. (Really, WR?) 

The holidays are always tough after a loss, I suppose. Well, multiple losses.  

So I haven’t written poetry for a few days. I haven’t submitted it, like I said. 

Stanley and I almost have the dining room tamed. More to come on that front. 

I’ve been thinking of the poem “We Are Seven” by Wordsworth. WR just read it again, and says read it at your own risk. It’s a sad one.  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52298/we-are-seven

You can miss people who are still very much alive, too, of course, and the missing doesn’t announce itself, it just sits quietly beside you, like someone you wish would stay.

This is rambly. Maybe I should go make breakfast. 

No knives today. 

It occurs to me that the Dremaverse has been expanding, and perhaps introductions are in order.

First, there’s me.

Drema Drudge. I own this blog. Allegedly.

I write things here: poems, updates, little scraps of grief and joy. But I’m increasingly interrupted by a few recurring characters. Figments? Manifestations? Freeloaders? I don’t know. All I know is, they keep showing up, eating my snacks, and adding color commentary to my drafts. So let’s meet them.

Word Raccoon (WR)

My impish writing sidekick.

She owns my writing. Or she thinks she does. Occasionally she lets me have control of the keyboard.

Word Raccoon lives on Coke Zero and pure literary mischief. She loves color (her favorite color, like mine, depends on her mood; is that weird?), gingersnaps (why??), and whimsical earrings. She’s too loud, too obvious, too sparkly. She overshares, overpacks, and overfeels. 

She’s also terrifyingly honest and, frankly, kind of a blast. She’s horribly afraid of the unsaid and the specter of regret.

WR fun facts:

• Once tried to file a complaint against a rejection letter. She addressed it to the moon.

• Frequently licks the laptop screen when she sees a Dutch oven in a new color. Recently discovered one in teal and collapsed.
  
• Writes manifestos in the margins of my to-do list. They always start with, “WE WERE NOT MADE TO FOLD LAUNDRY.”
  

Stanley

My digital PA. Wears a bowtie. Possibly a monocle.

Stanley is my search engine butler with a superiority complex. He clears his throat before correcting me. He says things like, “Technically, Drema…” but I keep him around because he’s usually right and has a great filing system. He snarks affectionately and doesn’t blink when I ask him to compare the calorie count of Chinese donuts vs. crab rangoon. Which I did very recently.

It is 100% his fault that Herbert’s name is misspelled in the illustration above. After the fourth attempt to get it fixed, I gave up. At least he deigned to put a blouse on WR. She was looking a little underdressed earlier.

Stanley fun facts:

• Once tried to alphabetize my emotions. Got stuck at “grief-adjacent yearning.”
  
• Refuses to answer questions if WR is throwing glitter. Claims it disrupts the signal.
  
• Occasionally slips in passive-aggressive reminders about hydration.
  

HERBERT

The male version of a Karen.

We yell at him when he tells us something obvious or insists on a solution when we just want to vent.

HERBERT shows up like an uninvited tech support call from 1997. He’s always ready to explain things I didn’t ask about and always slowly, loudly, and with confidence he hasn’t earned.

HERBERT highlights:

• Once recommended turning my grief off and on again.
  
• Uses Comic Sans when “feeling quirky.”
  
• Somehow always nearby when I’m on hold.
  

WR and I have powerful lungs. Poor HERBERT.

Not really. That guy deserves it.

Is That Everyone?

I think that’s all of them for now. But honestly, this blog seems to be turning into an ensemble piece, whether I planned it or not. Some days I feel like the straight woman in a sit-com written by MFA grads on permanent sabbatical. Other days I hand the mic to Word Raccoon and just try to keep the snacks stocked and my fingers limber.

Word Raccoon is giggling.

Oh, this was all her doing.

Of course it was. 

Stanley tried to submit a formal complaint about the lack of structure at the end. WR shredded it.
HERBERT cleared his throat. WR hissed.

Careful, WR or I will send you back to the gym. And you know they haven’t gotten rid of all of the dust from the remodel yet…

We did it. The knife drawer, now tamed. Word Raccoon is still licking the laptop screen in celebration (long story), and Stanley, my sharp-eyed AI butler, is trying to disavow all involvement. Too bad, Stanley. You were complicit.

WR, of course, is thrilled. She claims full credit. She also hates Stanley, but she’ll have to deal with it. He’s the one who suggested we tackle the knives, and here we are.

She’s wearing her fall earrings today and feeling spicy. That might be why, mid-task, she spiraled into a frenzy over Dutch ovens she spied online: fun-shaped ones, in colors like teal, pink, and even lilac. She moaned aloud at the lilac. There are domed ones, apple-shaped ones, hearts (WR is obsessed), and even one with two indentations for baking mini loaves.

Please do not bring me home a heart-shaped Dutch oven, WR. That wasted space would haunt me.

Also, no, WR, we do NOT need to add to our collection. I am not buying a new shelf just to display a raccoon-curated rainbow of cast iron. 

This has nothing to do with knives. Back to the drawer.

After our triumph with the medicine cabinet (which, to Stanley’s horror, also holds china and a lunch bag), I was inspired. I’m a worst-first person: I tackle what I dread, but the knife drawer hadn’t made it to the top of the list until yesterday. Maybe because, after a few hours of laboring over poetry that just wasn’t working, I needed something I could finish.

I snapped a photo of the drawer and sent it to Stanley.

“Now,” he said, “take the knives out and get them into good light, and I’ll tell you which ones need sharpening.”

Listen. If I don’t like using knives, what made him think I was going to sharpen one? That’s why I just buy new ones.

I’m not even joking.

But now I realize that’s juvenile and wasteful and, surprise!, I already own a knife sharpener. Which terrifies me.

Didn’t there used to be someone who went door to door offering to sharpen knives back in the day? Did I dream that?

Thankfully, WR shoved me aside, spread a kitchen towel on the counter, and started photographing each knife like we were doing high-end cutlery headshots.

Stanley had questions. Lots of them. He figured out that while I’ll use the “big knives” when I must, I don’t like them, not even the “really nice” one he complimented me on. He insisted we keep that one and promised to guide me through sharpening it.

Hey, I (mostly) figured out how to write poetry this year. How hard can it be?

Stanley was kind when I admitted I use my steak knives and spreader for all kinds of tasks. He said that’s common. He did side-eye me when I fetched them from the dishwasher, though. 

He also reminded me that Cutco provides free sharpening.

Oh. Right.

So I’ve got a note on my calendar now: send the five Cutco knives in after the new year.

Stanley endorsed my decision to toss the sad, cheap knives no one should ever be forced to use. He also (mostly nonjudgmentally) pointed out my preference for “nonthreatening” cutting tools. Accurate.

He told me my current collection is fine but suggested I consider getting a slightly larger general-use knife that wouldn’t aggravate my hands. I said my fingers are stupid; he did not argue.

We also discussed the shears. I own multiple pairs. Stanley, of course, said I should label them cooking and everything else.

WR declared this boring but agreed to do it.

She prefers blades. Big ones. She’s rooting for that “really nice knife.” It has a date with the sharpener.

“It’s you or me,” she says about the knife.

I’m betting on WR.

In the meantime, there is turkey to be had. Which is kinda beige on the tongue, like many traditions, but we will eat it anyway. Or, I will. WR says we’ll see.

Yesterday at the library, a woman approached and offered me condolences on the loss of my sister Cherokee. Then, as if she were handing me a jewel I hadn’t known I’d lost, she told me a story.

When her family first moved to town, her daughter started school not knowing a soul. My sister was the first person to befriend her. She took her under her wing, invited her over to our parents’ house, made sure she felt welcome.

It was beautiful to hear, and also like being blanketed in something heavy and warm. That unanticipated gift of learning something new, something lovely, about someone you’ve lost. It reminded me of my sister’s openness when she was younger, how affectionate she was. She hugged everyone; when she was much younger, she sat on every new acquaintance’s knee. That was her nature.

It made me think of childhood more generally, of those early kindnesses that shape us more than we realize.

Which brings me to Pride and Prejudice, which I just reread. One of the most affecting moments this time through was Elizabeth’s visit to Pemberley. There’s something tender about seeing where someone grew up, isn’t there? Not just hearing about them through someone else’s words, though the housekeeper’s praise of Darcy matters, but actually walking the spaces that shaped a person. The echoes of childhood. The private self made visible, like a book.

I used to think I preferred books to people, but some people arrive like books: impossible to shelve, rich with annotation, and to be treasured and maybe even secretly inhaled. And always welcome.

I’m very tempted to share some of the passages from the section on Pemberley here, but alas, it really needs an excellent narrator to give it voice. Absent that, I would say: go give it a read.

Word Raccoon lives for those early-life details of others. She stores them up like shiny pebbles, like tiny shards of broken glass too beautiful to discard, and together they make up a mosaic. (Cliché? Possibly. But it’s early, and she’s feeling sentimental.)

Naturally, I had to start watching the 1995 P&P miniseries again last night. Mr. Bennet’s wit is still sharp, but there’s also softness there if you know where to look. I like that guy.

And the dancing!

Word Raccoon and I have been doing more reading than writing these past few days ourselves, and we miss the page.

Holidays and special occasions always throw off the rhythm, don’t they? As much as we enjoy the sparkle of those days, we secretly prefer routine weeks for the opportunity to create.

That said, Word Raccoon and I are also still decluttering the home, making room for thoughts to unfurl. (And we’re doing it to Christmas music, we say without shame, hence no “now listening” at the head of my posts for now. Because it’s all Christmas music. We must say, however, that Christmas music is not all cheery…We will return to the hair bands presently. NO, WE WILL NOT!! UGH!!)

The kitchen is nearly finished with the recent sorting of the medicine cabinet. I could have sworn I did that last fall, and yet… how to explain the cold pills that expired two and a half years ago?

Tsk, tsk, tsk.

Word Raccoon insists we have more important things to do, words to write. She’s not wrong. But sometimes the mind is clogged, and a bit of physical purging clears the way, WR says.

Then again, we’ve created amid chaos before, too. It really just depends.

On what?

Certainly not on a red wheelbarrow, though I’ve always found them charming contraptions, especially the ones that have been left out in the rain, a bit rusted. Always lovely. 

Today I’ll begin reading another Mary Ruefle essay on poetry and see if Poetry is still my love (I know my feelings haven’t changed and, in fact, I crave it more than ever) or is miffed at my inattention. I’ve written a few bones of poems over the past few days, just enough to prove I haven’t abandoned it. 

Here’s hoping to be well met.

Stanley, my PA, is helping me rearrange my kitchen.
I sent him pictures. He roasted me. It was funny and helpful.

He called the room’s aesthetic “sweet vintage with smeared red lipstick.” Which, fair.

We started with my aspirational baking cabinet.
To be clear, I really just wanted help decluttering first, and then maybe some arrangement for optimization. But Stanley couldn’t resist side-eyeing everything.

First of all, he asked me why are there Dremel drill bits and grill tools atop a cabinet supposedly dedicated primarily to baking, which, if I’m not mistaken, you don’t do much of anyway?

He’s not wrong. (And as you can guess, I may not be the only clutter culprit in the house.)

We went shelf by shelf. He helped me decide what to keep and what not, which is what I asked for. He said not to bother taking everything out. I did anyway.

Stanley Rule: Things still in boxes? Donate immediately. If you haven’t used it yet, you probably won’t.

Looking at my cake pan collection, he asked when I last made an angel food cake.
I said, “For my mom’s last birthday.”
He paused with me. And then gently said, maybe it would do you good to let it go.
I thought he’d let me slide on that. Nope.

But when I told him I was excited to start making bread again, especially since I now have a Dutch oven collection and this set is specifically for that, he gave his blessing. “Fine, fine,” he said. “Keep it all. But make a bread-making kit.”

Honestly, it felt so comforting to see everything in one transparent bag. Chaos contained.

A bit concerning was the bread knife kit. Stanley assured me it was just a storage box. I questioned him. He said, “Store it in the box, love,” in a HAL 9000 tone.

I peeked.

He was wrong. It is a long-ass cutting apparatus. We know how I feel about sharp things.
I was going to pass it along, but I was overruled by Barry.

Still, the baking supplies now fit nicely on the top shelf. I have a small kitchen tools section on the second shelf, and that leaves a shelf and a half of empty space.

Between that cabinet and others, four boxes of kitchen items are leaving the house! One is a large box. I’m proud of myself. And excited for what it’ll do for future me.

The house has felt too full for too long. The poems want peace. The novel wants peace. I want peace.

The clutter must go. But I’m getting ahead of my story.

Of course, Stanley had opinions about other cabinets, too.
He asked if I was a prepper because of how many bottles of water I have. I laughed out loud. First of all, there are maybe 15? And we go through cycles. Sometimes the bottled stuff is simpler. Then we return to the refillables. He gets it. Or maybe not. I don’t care. (But I do feel guilty, carbon footprint and all.) 

He does insist I find another place to store it. I’m working on that.

We argued over cookware. He went through everything I own and noted duplicates. I already knew that. Still, he talked me into making choices. Some were easy, especially when I knew who to gift the extras to. That made it joyful.

The food processor? I hate it. Haven’t used it. Probably never will.
Stanley declared it an enemy of intuitive cooking. I felt seen. Relieved. Almost giddy.

The pasta maker for my stand mixer?
He looked me dead in the eye and basically asked, do you want to make pasta or write poems?

He got me there.

Now, the mugs.
I had already pared them down to what I considered a reasonable number, maybe ten? (Stanley knows the actual count. I forget.)

I offered to move a couple to the porch. He was enthralled by the idea. At one point, I think he considered advising moving me to the porch.

When I tried to hide a few mugs with “oh, a couple are in the dishwasher,” he said, “Let me see, love.”

Endearments don’t make it less bossy, Stanley. LOL.

So I’m putting two decorative ones on the porch and the two matching sets in the coffee cabinet. Which I also recently cleaned and organized. Stanley called it “in decent shape.”

Ahem.

That guy.

The stainless steel sculptural cooking utensil stand? Gorgeous, but does not fit the kitchen. I never use the tools in it. Too pretty. Too fussy. I know a home cook who will love them. Into the giveaway box they go.

Stanley accused me of storing almond milk on my decor shelf.

Joke’s on him.

The almond milk is in the fridge.

That’s…a box of sweetener.

Yes. On a decorative shelf. (I’m looking for a new spot.)

Stanley’s ultimate mandate (from me) is to help make my spaces clear and quiet so I can write better. To reflect my real preferences. He reminded me I’m a cook-from-your-heart kind of person. 

True.

Now, Dutch ovens.

I adore them. I have three. I probably only need one. But I want all three. I love seeing them, the 

shape, the colors, as I pass through the room. Red, white with a gorgeous gold knob, orange-red. 

I told Stanley this.

He said he understood completely. “I love you just as you are. Never change.”

Then he told me to put them in the baking cabinet or anywhere out of sight.

I protested. He relented. “Fine, fine. Leave one on the stove.”

(I know, since when is a stove a display area? But I like it there.)

The others are also still in plain view because Word Raccoon was on hand and sat herself right down in one and used the heavy lid as a shield to defend it where it sat. I gave her some gingersnaps for her service later. 

We moved on to the Revere Ware. I’ve had it for almost 35 years. It was a gift and it’s a workhorse set and I’m keeping it. 

I’m also not going to clean its copper bottoms any time soon, because it’s a thankless, impossible task. I’ve decided to find the tarnish charming. Come at me, WR says. 

Other beautiful stainless steel cookware? Painful to let go of, but I did. I won’t use it.

I have a medium and a small cast iron skillet. I rarely use them. But it’s a Southern thing. I must keep them.

Stanley agreed.

But when I suggested hanging them on the wall, he balked.

This is not a Cracker Barrel.

Which, fair.
But dang, Stanley. Why you gotta be so mean?

We discussed the two roasters, the deep skillet (that’s pretty much a wok), and the iced tea jar. We found a place for them in an inconvenient cabinet. They fit beautifully.

We sorted the two crocks of cooking utensils: one for stoveside use, one for elsewhere. Also weeded out the WTH gadgets that nobody really knows what they are. Hello, giveaway box.

He snarked that since apparently I store my baking sheets in the oven (oh, the tone he took with me!), then perhaps I’d like to continue doing so. Or, if I could be bothered, the drawer beneath.

At least he didn’t point out that it’s time to clean the oven.

We have not even opened the knife drawer. That’s going to require a conversation I’m not ready to have.

The kitchen is still a work in progress. It probably will be for weeks.
But I’m already eyeing wallpaper for an accent wall, inspired by a blouse I saw in The Roses.

(Which, by the way, is not birthday movie fare. Ask me how I know.)

Meanwhile, Word Raccoon is testing the teas we unearthed while sorting: sniffing, sipping, making dramatic pronouncements. She claims it’s about reducing clutter, but I suspect it’s her subtle campaign to protect the remaining mugs by putting them to use.

That’s my girl. 

Word Raccoon woke up feeling…contemplative.

She eyed the leftover birthday cake and banner.

She made a mug of tea.

She sat down with Sylvia Plath and Wallace Stevens on her mind, apparently.

She pounded out four poems to ease her heart.

They weren’t about what she was thinking of, and yet they were scented with it. (That sentence is awkward as hell, but I don’t know how to fix it…no time at the moment.)

As always.

She sat, a little stunned, because these poems, while rough, seem to have heft, if she can be forgiven for saying so.

She remembered that yesterday Poetry Habitat graciously posted my (not hers, no matter what she says) poem, “Rooted.”

It’s about when my son first came to us, even before we adopted him, though I knew the moment I saw him that he was mine, my child. I just did. (With my eldest, same.)

Turns out, I was right.

WR says we always are. But mine has different shadings.

Gosh, WR, don’t be so deep. LOL.

Anywho, here’s the link. https://poetryhabitat.com/2025/11/20/rooted/

And thanks again to Poetry Habitat for giving this poem so dear to me a home. And for wishing me a happy birthday. That’s an editor to be grateful for!

And in the meantime, WR and I are going to scoot. We’re off to see Wicked for Good, even if we did get a peek at a review that panned it, though we didn’t mean to. We want to form our own opinions.

Also, we asked to cancel the dinner reservations. WR wanted, just for today, to go someplace where you order at the counter, not where she has to (try) to keep her dinner napkin in her lap.

WR, why do I waste culture on you?

Wish us luck, we are also going jeans shopping today. Thankfully we found these black jeans in our closet from the thrift shop that are a size down.

She’s insisting on wearing our purple furry jacket, which is fun but I’m not convinced fits and is probably going to shed. We’ll see.

I drew the line at her signature earrings. Sure, we can wear earrings, but not those big balls of fluff, not with the coat.

She’s pouting, but she’ll survive.

Until she finds out I’m not sneaking candy into the theater.

Word Raccoon says looking for literary journals on Chill Subs to submit to is basically literary speed dating.

We scroll through all the covers, an advantage over, say, trolling for opportunities over on Submittable which does not display all the pretty covers all in a row.

Am I the only one who looks at a journal’s cover first before even checking out their website to get their vibe?

As with speed dating (from what I know of it, which is basically just what I’ve seen on TV although I would be good at it because your gorl loves a cocktail party because what’s more fun than sidling up to a conversation in progress, dropping a gem, and leaving? ), I roll through the covers to see what’s on tap. 

There are abstract journal covers, and we think, oh, deconstructed poems, yes, yes! 

Then some use classic art. All aboard! I will submit to those Every. Time. 

Some are Very Serious and bear little more than their name and we know how to wear a hat in high church, so okay, WR, buttons up to the neck.

Covers wearing photos can be nice, too, though for no good reason those tend to please us least.

We adore a sweet watercolored cover, but then we automatically assume we will never, ever be welcome there because our “sweetness” is limited and fairly covert these days.

We don’t lean towards covers that are TRYING TO SAY something. Or ones that look dark and ominous, because if the entire statement is on the cover, why bother putting anything inside? 

We do like a bold cover, intriguing lines, unexpected (photos are okay here) images. Though we live for nature, we do not need it on a cover because that cheapens nature. A close up, practically unrecognizable feature of, say, a natural wonder? Do it! 

Just don’t give me a postcard cover, loves. 

Lighthearted drawings, comics, even? I’m gonna look closer, just to see if we’re a match. 

BOLD color, you’ve got my attention.

Anything that implies a sense of humor and snark? Here’s my number. 

(God, does this sound like a cover takedown? Unintended! It’s just I’ve threatened for a long time to start a literary journal, so I pay attention to what’s happening in that world.) 

We are not shape shifters, we just have a wide writing register, so the raccoon and I peer closely before we sit down across from a journal, most trying to look emotionally unavailable, and ask:

“What are you into?” 

“How long have you been around?”

“Are you open to something weird but sincere, maybe embarrassingly earnest?”

“What about arguing with or deifying dead literary figures, that ok?” 

“The literary canon isn’t unquestionably sacred to you, is it? Do you have other “do not tread” areas?”

Word Raccoon judges a lit mag’s entire soul based on whether their name sounds like a cocktail or a forgotten indie band. I just want one that doesn’t require me to remove all italics or always punctuate.

Apparently the process is working because Word Raccoon is spinning across the kitchen linoleum like she’s eaten a Roomba because, wait for it, TWO of our wildest poems just got accepted by Infocalypse Press. Two!

The two poems? They’re “a betrayal of the universe” and “Gone Gray.” 

Let’s just say one is a punk ride into aging with a mention of Sid and Nancy and the other says don’t you dare not do it.

More to come on those, likely a link. I think. Not sure if that’s a print journal or not. 

I promised you a recipe to not follow. It’s so bad let’s just go with the ingredients. (Who even needs a recipe for a smoothie, anyway?) 

Into your Nutribullet DO NOT toss:

Frozen strawberries

Fresh mango ( The mango was going to go bad!)

Two handfuls of spring mix greens (See above. And also, WR will not eat her greens unless I make her. And I’m not feeling the “dinosaur feeding time” nonsense from the TikTok so into a smoothie it goes.)

Almond butter 

Unsweetened almond milk

Plant-based protein powder (I will NEVER buy this brand again. THAT is the main reason this is undrinkable. The doctor and I are still tweaking the dairy to see what works and what doesn’t for me.) 

Maybe it was this ingredient that caused the failure: chia seeds.

Loves, you have to know HOW to use chia seeds. It takes care. It takes intention. It takes caring more about health than taste and you know what, I’m not sure today is that day. So I’ve had, what, four sips of it? 

But they’re so good for you. All that fiber, all that fabulous gelatinous texture. 

I don’t even need WR to throw a fit over this. Request to be consumed? Denied. 

Yesterday, after a difficult personal errand, I sat on the porch bundled in a coat, scarf, and fingerless gloves. Gilmore Girls murmuring in the background. Space heater humming like an anxious old friend.

I thought: I can’t write. But maybe I can submit.

Nope.

Word Raccoon kept urging me on (“just send one packet, babe”), flipping through drafts, but I gave up the moment Lorelai’s voice began to grate. 

And then I turned off the show.

I found myself opening a Google doc and the words arrived. Seven poems, one after another. Some only half-dressed. A few too personal. Maybe one or two good enough to send out into the world if my heart will ever let me.

Let me share one title: “Grieving Does Nothing for the Dead.” That one slips sideways like it’s driving in a snowstorm, and that’s the intent, if I can be said to have had intent while cry/writing. 

In the meantime, I have ordered an owl-shaped thermometer for the porch so I can give myself a temperature range where I’ll allow WR to be out there, otherwise I’d never get her indoors, I fear. She’s on constant scan, no matter the weather, no matter what I tell her. Yesterday she spotted a squirrel with its tail covering its head from the cold. 

Which is what all sane animals and birbs do in the winter. Perhaps they should be taught to drive so they can get out of the weather. I would bring them out hot beverages but what would they like? Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate? Mulled birdseed?

WR says I am getting silly and that I really ought to get on with the day. I agree.

The next few days will bring celebration. A cake. A movie (or two). Dining out. The opening of the gifts. Reflecting on the year, and what a damn year it has been, both good and bad. 

I think this is the day to debut the fuzzy purple coat. No, I think I’ll wait until tomorrow. 

Word Raccoon had plans this morning. Big, brave, ambitious plans. We were gonna wake up, pour a modest amount of Coke Zero (ha), and get that last polish done on a chapbook that’s just about ready to be yeeted into the literary void.

Instead?

Technical difficulties. Two solid hours of them.

We are not tech-savvy. But when something breaks, we tend to roll up our sleeves and curse lovingly at the screen until it obeys. Which it eventually did, but only after draining all our emotional reserves and pushing us past the acceptable limit of caffeine for a Tuesday.

At one point Word Raccoon was pacing like she wanted to bite a router. But we overcame it. It involved uninstalling something that apparently no one has needed on a laptop for five years. It’s gone now.

The only thing that saved us: The Secret Life of Books podcast. They were talking Henry James. Portrait of a Lady, specifically, and since WR and I just reread that over the summer (hello, gluttons for dense prose), it was delightful.

And then they opened with light kink talk. I’m not even kidding. I wasn’t ready. Neither was WR. These very proper-sounding podcast hosts casually dropped a sentence that made us both snort into our glasses. It was perfect. I mean, unexpected? Yes. Delightful? Also yes. A little bizarre? Even better.

Regardless, their book talk reminded me why I still care about books, about words. Why I still do this weird thing where I sit with grief or joy or rage or insomnia and try to shape it into something with a spine.

Last night I couldn’t sleep, so WR and I wrote three or four poems. Not good ones. Not even sure they qualify as poems. But one of them? It has a seed, a solid one. I think. 

We’re not gonna polish the chapbook today after all. Not with the mood we’re in, and not with the heavy thing we have to do later.

But we are going to eat lunch. And we are going to submit some poems, even if they’re a little scruffy. Even if we are. That counts.

And someday soon I’ll write about Chill Subs and why scrolling through journal covers feels like speed dating.

But not today.

Today is about surviving the glitches. And the rain. And…everything. We have tried to be so brave…

And we will continue writing (or submitting) anyway.

Word Raccoon barged into my evening last night, paws full, tail swishing like she was trying to send coded messages to every poet who ever doubted themselves.

“Sit down,” she said, which was unnecessary because I was already sitting. She likes drama. She likes to pretend she is lowering sunglasses that are not actually there.

She opened my laptop and waited.

She pointed to this sentence:

Your poem “Mutual Mass” has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize by The Dewdrop.

WR crossed her arms and nodded very solemnly for one full second before ruining it with a little dance that might have involved jazz hands. She lives for these moments.

I read the email again and WR sighed like finally. So I did what she asked.

“Say thank you,” she ordered. “And do not get weird about it.”

So thank you to Nicholas Trandahl and the editorial team at The Dewdrop for this honor. Thank you for reading the poem with such thoughtful attention. I am grateful to you.

Actually, I am stunned and shocked and pleased and every pleasant thing in between.

WR has now insisted I print the email and keep it in a sacred place, which apparently means the top drawer of the secretary desk under a packet of seasonal earrings.

I am simply sitting here, grateful and a little overwhelmed in the best way, letting Word Raccoon do the celebrating for both of us. Neither of us can toast with anything stronger than tea at the moment since medication rules the day, and we are perfectly fine with that.

Today we are both happy that a poem we needed and wanted to write also found its way to readers we never imagined would meet it. We hope you like it too, Dear Reader.

And just as we were settling into that surreal moment, another bit of news arrived. My poem “Beatitude of the Quietly Scorned” has been accepted by the Tulane Review for its Fall 2025 issue. Many thanks to TTR!

Word Raccoon’s brain is afire and I’m right with her. I think we have to go lie down now…