friends and family

A Conversation with Teenagers About Belly Piercing

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This was written January 25, 2011 and reposted here for giggles. 
At the time I was working at an emergency shelter for teenagers. 

SuzieQ:  Um, Connie?  <shuffle feet, poke friend in ribs with elbow, push hair behind ears>

Me:  UM What?

SuzieQ:  <hanging on to dear life to CutieQ>  I heard you had your belly pierced.

Photo by Courtney Cook on Unsplash: cropped by Connie Kinsey

Me:  <false-shocked look on my face> WHO TOLD YOU THAT?

SuzieQ and CutieQ:  looking at fingernails, tugging on socks, letting hair fall over face>

Me:  Tell me, girls!

THEM:  <in unison>  Steady Ed

Me:  HOW WOULD STEADY ED KNOW IF I HAD A PIERCED BELLY BUTTON?

THEM:  <trembling, no answer>

Me:  <can’t help it anymore and laughing>

THEM:  Connie!  You had us scared.

Me:  Good.  I was the first female Navy Seal, you know.  It keeps me in practice to be scary now and then.

THEM:  Well? Do you?

Me:  Do I what?

SuzieQ – <peals of giggles>

CutieQ – Have a pierced belly button?

Me:  I do.

THEM:  LET US SEE!

Me:  No.  <baring my teeth and looking fierce>

THEM:  Why not?

Me:  I don’t show it to anyone.

THEM:  You showed it to Steady Ed.

Me:  I DID NOT.

THEM:  Let’s go ask him.  <conversation in background.  Steady ED saw the impression of the ring when my t-shirt pulled across my body while putting stuff in upper kitchen cabinets.>

Me:  <girls come back> Oh good lord, what do you want now?

THEM:  When did you get it pierced?

Me:  <staring at the ceiling and ciphering on my fingers> I think in 1998.

THEM:  THEY HAD BELLY RINGS BACK THEN?

Me:  Let me just fetch my shawl, sit in my rocker and y’all can rub my bunioned feet while I tell you about hand hammering the ring out of bronze at the Blacksmith’s after churning the butter and hauling wheat to mill grinder, and how I almost died when it got a little bit infected because penicillin wasn’t invented yet and the old Wise Woman in the hut at the edge of the forest told me to use salt.  Hell’s bells! Salt was expensive in those days, but it works.

THEM:  It sure does.  When I got my nose pierced they said to snort salt water.

Me:  <Sigh. They never know when I’m joking.> I’m wounded.  Y’all are turning me into an old woman.

THEM:  Naw, you’re already old.  I wish my *mawmaw* was like you.

What made you start cooking? A guest blog by Jeremy Leinen aka Chef Boy ‘R Mine

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments

I’m sure many chefs get asked the question all the time of how they found their way into the kitchen. There are a few of the usual stories that get shared but it’s not always the cookie-cutter story of helping mom or grandma.

For me, it’s half typical and half not. At a pretty young age, I was helping my mom make bread- I think I was six years old. It was the Betty Crocker Cookbook and I recall using a standard white bread. A side story is that this bread got an unlikely nickname as “the bread with the hole in the top.” To explain, my mom was apparently in a hurry one time she made it and didn’t form the dough firmly enough when placing it into the loaf pan, leaving a pocket of air where the dough was folded. This resulted in a hole in each slice of bread, and thus the name. Despite its technical shortfall, it was very tasty bread. In addition to that recipe, we also made a recipe from the book for a potato dough called “Refrigerator Roll Dough.” I still use this recipe from time to time, as I find it very easy to work with and it’s very forgiving with its overnight proof in the refrigerator. After a couple of years of helping her, by the time I was nine or ten, I made the bread myself for Thanksgiving. The following year, I was probably too ambitious for my own good and failed at attempting to make croissants. There were tears and some butter angrily thrown into the trash can when I couldn’t get it to cooperate, but making bread with Mom is otherwise one of my fonder childhood memories. I also helped Mom with making pies, which were sometimes simple with store-bought pie shells, but not always- Mom got pretty serious about pie sometimes. She also made a yearly batch of what she referred to as “killer chili,” which is based around a more traditional “Chile con Carne” and not this ground beef and beans nonsense that gets sold in a can. Mom made chili that took a couple of days and $100, and that’s when $100 was actually worth something.

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Chinese Food in London

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TripAdvisor wouldn’t let me leave a zero-star review. Pity that. This restaurant deserved it. Hence the one star. Abysmal, awful, horrible, and every other synonym for bad. About the only good thing I can say is it was clean. As far as I could see.

Yes, we were a large party, but I think that we were American was the bigger problem. Our sojourn in London began when we were overwhelmed by the choices and wary due to the reputation of English food. We were hungry. So, what does a large group of hungry people decide on? Chinese. It suits everyone.

We were the only clientele. That should have been a warning, but we were jetlagged.

Photo by Elena Koycheva on Unsplash

Nobody seemed to speak English–not even the language that passes for English in Great Britain. I have never been to a foreign country before where I had such a hard time understanding people. I think Mark Twain described it as two countries separated by a common language.

Anyway.

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Hillbilly Risotto

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Growing up, we called it hamburger and rice.  Hamburger browned in a skillet.  Uncle Ben’s Converted Rice made according to the directions on the box.  The two ingredients are mixed together and served with salt, pepper, margarine, and a squeezable plastic lemon full of concentrated juice.

My dad grew up impoverished and hamburger and rice, often without lemon, was a staple.  Once he became a private in the Marine Corps, the meal became standard end-of-the-month fare.  We continued to have it throughout my childhood and early adulthood.

When I left home, I continued to make it.  It’s a favorite.

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